So'lek x Trr'ong!reader // Na'vi!Reader x Platonic!Sarentu
Summary: You did not choose motherhood, it chose you.
Cherrie's Notes: My love, Z...sorry for the delay, hope you like this! This is a F!reader I hope that is okay.
AFOP Masterlist
The first time one of the Sarentu survivors called you “Ma,” it felt as though the entire forest stilled.
The sound came from Teylan—half-asleep, trembling in the wake of a night terror. He was taller than you, all long limbs and growing strength, but in that moment he folded into himself, trying to make himself smaller. Safer.
You did not hesitate.
You guided him gently down, gathering him into your arms as your own mother once had. You rocked him slowly, humming beneath your breath, an old Trr’ong song, one you had not sung in years. One neither you nor So’lek had heard in what felt like a lifetime.
Still… it felt right.
“I am here,” you whispered, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead. “You are safe.”
The word came then—fragile, instinctive.
“Ma…”
You froze. Not from rejection, but from the weight of it. What it meant.
Across the shelter, So’lek saw it happen. He said nothing. But something in his chest tightened… and then slowly settled.
After that, it became natural.
They gravitated towards you without thinking, drawn by something they could not name. Ri’nela sought you out to braid her hair, asking you to weave small decorations through it with careful hands. Nor lingered nearby, quietly asking for your voice when doubt crept in. Tamtey asked for nothing at all—only your presence beside him, silent and steady.
You gave it freely. Because you understood. There were wounds no medicine could reach. After Teylan, the others followed.
“Ma.”
“Sa’nu.”
The names came easier each time. And you never corrected them. Never told them they were too old, too strong, too anything for that kind of tenderness. Because you knew better. Survivors did not outgrow the need to be held. You hadn’t.
“You coddle them.” The voice cut cleanly through the moment, sharp, controlled, artificial in a way that never quite felt alive. Alma Cortez stood at the edge of the camp, her dreamwalker form unnervingly still. Watching. Measuring.“They do not need you to play mother,” she continued. “Not you.”
You did not look up, only pausing briefly in your weaving. “They need to feel safe,” you replied simply.
Alma’s expression tightened. “They are not children. They are not your children.”
“No,” you said softly, finishing the weave with careful precision. “But they are not yours.”
That ended it—for now. But the tension lingered long after she left.
So’lek found you later, away from the others. You sat in the stream, hands submerged as the water carried away the remnants of the day. Quiet. Guarded. He approached without sound, as always. And as always—you knew.
“You carry them as though they are yours,” he said, crouching beside you.
“They are not,” you murmured. “But they have no one who is.”
A pause. Then, softer—more vulnerable than you usually allowed: “And I remember what it was to have no one.”
So’lek studied you—the strength in your posture, the gentleness in your hands. The way both existed without contradiction. He reached out, brushing a stray bead back into place along your braid. “You are… different with them,” he said.
You huffed faintly. “Is that your way of calling me soft?”
“Yes.”
You turned to him, mock offence flickering briefly—but it faded the moment you met his gaze. There was no judgement there. Only quiet admiration.
“I like this softness,” So’lek said, his voice low.
Your breath caught. “You do?”
“It is not a weakness,” he replied. “It is… something we nearly lost.” His hand found yours, rough palm against rough palm. “You remind them what it is to be cared for. To belong.” Silence settled between you—but it was not empty. It was full. Steady. Safe.
“They call me Sa’nu,” you admitted after a moment, almost shy.
“I know.”
“It should not mean so much.”
“But it does.”
Your gaze drifted back towards camp, where distant laughter echoed through the trees. “I do not want to replace what they lost,” you said quietly. “I only want them to feel they are not alone any more.”
So’lek shifted closer. “They do not see you as a replacement,” he said. “They see you as what they need now.” His thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles. “And so do I.”
That made you look at him properly. Not as a warrior. Not as a survivor. But as himself. “You?” you asked softly.
He nodded once. “You bring life where there was only survival.” Your lips parted—but no words came.
The forest hummed around you.
Alive. Listening. Waiting.
“When the RDA are gone,” So’lek said quietly, as though testing the thought, “what will you do?”
You blinked, caught off guard. “I… do not know.”
A small, rare smile touched his lips.“I think you do.”
Your heart stumbled. “…Say it.”
He leaned closer, his voice lowering to something meant only for you. “Perhaps you will not only care for those who were left behind,” he murmured. His gaze softened—open, unguarded. “Perhaps we will have little ones of our own.”
The world seemed to still. Your breath hitched, something fragile and bright unfolding in your chest. “You would want that?” you whispered.
So’lek did not hesitate. “Yes.” Simple. Certain. Like everything he meant.
Your fingers tightened around his. “Then we survive,” you said, steadier now. Stronger.
“For them,” he agreed. “And for us.”
From the distance, a voice called— “Ma!” You smiled before you could stop yourself.
“I should go,” you said.
So’lek released your hand, though reluctantly. “I will watch over you.”
You squeezed his fingers once before slipping away. “I know.”
And as he watched you return to them—kneeling among them, laughing softly, gathering them close as though they had always belonged to you— he allowed himself, just for a moment, to believe they truly did.
He stood where you had left him, the cool water slipping past his ankles, his gaze fixed on you amongst them. You did not stand above the Sarentu. You folded into them—into their laughter, their quiet questions, their unspoken needs—as though you had always been meant to fill that space.
Not as a leader. Not as a warrior. But as something far rarer.
“Sa’nu, look—” Ri’nela’s voice carried first, bright and eager as she held up a small cluster of woven fibres she had clearly attempted herself. Uneven. Crooked.
You took it as though it were something precious. “It is good,” you said gently, adjusting a strand with careful fingers. “But here—tighten this, or it will come apart.”
Nor lingered close, watching, before speaking low enough for only you to hear. “It is quieter today,” he said. “In my head.”
You glanced at him, something soft and knowing in your expression. “Good,” you murmured. “Then we will keep it that way.”
Tamtey said nothing, only settled beside you, shoulder brushing yours. That, too, was an answer.
So’lek exhaled slowly. He had seen many things in his life—war, loss, survival carved from nothing—but this…This quiet rebuilding.This fragile, stubborn healing…It was unfamiliar.
And yet, he found himself unwilling to look away.
“You stare again.” The voice came from behind him this time—sharp, measured. Alma Cortez stepped lightly across the ground in her dreamwalker body, though there was nothing natural in the movement.
So’lek did not turn. “I observe,” he said evenly.
Alma followed his gaze, her expression tightening almost imperceptibly. “They are becoming dependent,” she said. “It will weaken them.”
“No,” So’lek replied. “It will remind them they are not alone.”
“They cannot afford that kind of attachment.”
“They already have it.” That made her pause.
“They need discipline,” Alma insisted. “Focus. Not this… illusion of family.”
So’lek’s jaw tightened slightly. “It is not an illusion.”
Alma’s gaze flicked back to him. “You think this will last?”
“I think,” he said slowly, “it is the only reason they will.”
She did not answer immediately. And in that silence, the distance between what she understood—and what she refused to—felt vast.
“They are not children,” she said again, quieter now.
“No,” So’lek agreed, his gaze never leaving you. “But they should have been.”
That left her with nothing more to say.
By the time So’lek approached the group, the light had shifted.You looked up as he neared—always aware, always attuned—and something in your expression softened further.
“You have come to join us?” you teased lightly.
“I have come to see if they will allow it,” he replied.
Ri’nela brightened immediately. “You can sit.”
Nor gave a small nod.
Tamtey shifted just enough to make space.
You smiled at that—soft, pleased—and reached out, your fingers brushing briefly against So’lek’s wrist as he settled beside you. A small touch. But grounding.
“They were telling me about their training,” you said.
“Were they?” So’lek glanced between them.
“Yes,” you continued, amusement threading your voice. “Though I suspect some details were… altered.”
Teylan looked mildly offended. “They were not.”
Nor muttered, “They were.” Ri’nela laughed. And just like that—lightness.
So’lek watched you again, but this time from within it. The way your laughter softened the edges of everything around you. The way they leaned into it. The way he did, without even realising.
Later, when the others drifted away one by one—drawn by food, rest, or the quiet pull of evening—you remained where you were, your gaze following them until the last disappeared into the trees.
“You worry,” So’lek said quietly.
“I care,” you corrected. A pause. “…But yes.”
He shifted closer. “They are stronger than they were.”
“I know.”
“And they are not alone.”
Your shoulders lowered slightly. “I know,” you repeated, softer.
The sky dimmed above, the forest settling into its night-song. For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then, quietly: “If we have children…” Your voice wavered—not with doubt, but with the weight of hope itself.
So’lek turned slightly towards you. “They will not know this kind of fear,” he said. It was not a wish. It was a promise.
You studied him, something deep and searching in your gaze. “And if they do?”
“Then they will not face it alone.”
That settled something in you. He could see it. The same way he had seen it that first night, when a single fragile word had changed everything.
“Sa’nu!” The call came again—faint, but insistent.
You huffed softly, though your smile returned just as quickly. “They will not let me rest.”
“No,” So’lek said, a trace of warmth in his voice. “They will not.”
You rose, brushing your hands lightly against your thighs before glancing back at him.
“Come with me,” you said. It was not a request. So’lek stood without hesitation. And this time when you returned to them he did not remain apart. He walked by your side.
Summary: You were taken, shaped, and returned—Na’vi by birth, but not by belonging. Under So’lek’s watchful guidance, you learn to survive the forest… and yourself. He corrects you, challenges you, holds the line between mentor and something more with unwavering control. But the closer you come to understanding who you are, the harder it becomes to ignore what grows between you. He keeps his distance for a reason. Not because you are unworthy— But because when you choose him, it must be without doubt.
Cherrie's Notes: This was something I worked on after work as I am obsessed with Avatar. I checked over everything while ill so I apologise for any mess ups.
Just a warning it is quite long!
AFOP Masterlist
The forest did not welcome you. Not at first.
It breathed around you, alive in a way the sterile halls of the TAP facility never were. The forest you should have felt at peace in instead felt distant, watchful. Every root seemed placed to trip you. Every sound made your pulse spike. You moved through it like something misplaced.
Like something wrong.
“Stop.”
So’lek’s voice cut through the thick hum of Pandora.
You froze instantly. Stiff, as if prepared to be scolded.
He noticed.
“You move like prey that expects punishment,” he said, stepping past you. His stride was silent, assured, each foot placed with intention, with knowing. “The forest is not your enemy.”
Your jaw tightened. “It feels like it is.”
He glanced back at you, sharp eyes catching yours. There was no mockery in them, only quiet assessment.
“That is because you were not raised in it.”
The words landed heavier than you expected.
“I am aware.” You looked away first and sighed in frustration.
Training was the obvious next step after your freedom from TAP. Finally, you had the freedom to learn the things that should have been taught in youth.
Still, you felt cautious, not wanting to part from the other Sarentu—not like Tamtey. Not quite as confident to hit the ground running like them, but still striving to learn. To correct what the Sky People broke.
The natural choice for a trainer was So’lek.
Training with So’lek was not gentle.
It was not cruel, either. It simply was.
He showed you how to listen, not just hear. The subtle shift in insect calls. The way leaves stilled before a predator passed. The rhythm of wind that carried scent and warning alike.
“Again,” he would say when you missed something.
And you missed a lot.
Your arrow flew wide.
“Again.”
You stepped too loudly over a fallen branch.
“Again.”
You misread tracks, confusing prey for predator.
“Again.”
Each correction was immediate, precise. Never harsh, but never softened.
At first, it frustrated you.
“You don’t have to watch me like I’m going to fail every second,” you snapped once, breath uneven after yet another failed hunt.
So’lek didn’t react right away. He crouched instead, fingers brushing over the disturbed earth where your target had fled.
“You are going to fail,” he said calmly. “That is why I watch.”
Your ears flattened.
“That’s not encouraging.”
“It is truth.”
He stood, turning to face you fully now.
“And truth will keep you alive.”
It wasn’t just survival he taught.
It was connection.
“This is where you struggle most,” So’lek said one evening, as twilight settled into the forest like a held breath. “Ri’nela said you struggled to connect to the tarsyu with your siblings.”
You sat beside him near the base of a massive tree, its roots curling like protective arms. In your hands rested a small, glowing seed—one of Eywa’s countless quiet miracles.
“I don’t feel anything,” you admitted, staring at it. “Everyone says it’s… there. A presence. A connection. But…”
You clenched your fingers slightly.
“It’s just… light. She does not sing for me.”
So’lek watched you for a long moment.
Then he reached out—not for the seed, but for your wrist. His grip was firm, grounding.
“You are trying to force it,” he said. “Connection is not taken. It is given.”
You huffed softly. “That doesn’t help.”
His thumb shifted slightly against your skin, subtle but enough to steady you.
“Close your eyes.”
You hesitated.
“Trust me.”
Something in his voice made you listen—low and certain, warm. You closed your eyes.
“Breathe,” he instructed.
You did.
“In the facility… you were taught control, yes?”
You nodded faintly.
“Here, you must learn release.”
The forest seemed louder without sight. Alive. Surrounding.
“Do not reach for Eywa,” So’lek murmured. “Let Eywa reach for you.”
You tried.
You really did.
But all you felt was yourself—your heartbeat, your breath, your doubt. How you were too influenced by the Sky People. How Nor was right: Eywa does not want what was tainted by metal.
“I can’t—”
“Stay.”
The word wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t a command.
It was… steady.
So you stayed.
And for just a moment, something softened.
Not a voice. Not a vision.
Just… a feeling.
Faint.
Warm.
Gone almost as soon as you noticed it.
Your eyes snapped open, looking at So’lek with wide eyes and an even wider, excited grin. “I did— you… wow.”
So’lek was already watching you.
“You felt something.”
It wasn’t a question.
You swallowed. “Maybe.”
A small pause.
Then, quieter, “Yes.”
Something in his posture shifted—not pride, not quite. But close.
A trait you shared with your Sarentu family was your inability to sit still.
You pushed boundaries.
It became a pattern.
“Don’t go alone,” he told you.
You went anyway.
The forest seemed less hostile now, less suffocating. You wanted to prove—to him, to yourself—that you could handle it.
That you weren’t just TAP-raised. That you belonged.
The word echoed bitterly in your mind.
You tracked a small creature through dense undergrowth, movements quicker now, more confident. Your arrow was drawn, ready to fly.
Before you could release it, the forest changed.
Too quiet.
Too still.
Your breath caught.
Too late.
A snarl split the air.
You barely had time to turn before something lunged at you.
Crouching and curling into yourself, you dropped to the ground and braced for an impact that never came.
So’lek moved like a strike of lightning.
The creature hit the ground hard, his blade already buried deep. The struggle ended almost as quickly as it began.
Silence returned—or at least, you assumed it did. All you could hear was your pulse roaring in your ears.
“You disobeyed.”
His voice was low.
Dangerously calm.
You swallowed and looked at him challengingly. “I had it under control.”
“You had nothing under control.”
You flinched.
He stepped closer—not to threaten, but still intense. Grounded in a way that made your instability feel glaring.
“You ignored the signs,” he continued. “You let your confidence blind you.”
“I just wanted to prove I could do it!”
“To whom?” he snapped.
The question hit harder than anything else.
You opened your mouth to speak, then quickly closed it again.
Because you didn’t know.
His gaze softened slightly—but enough.
“You do not need to prove your worth by risking your life,” he said.
Your chest tightened.
“You don’t understand,” you muttered. “The others… they belong more. Ri’nela has the certainty of a Tshaìk, Nor knows how he needs to be strong—not to even mention Tamtey. They belong. They are Sarentu. I’m not.”
There it was.
The truth you hadn’t wanted to say. Still you refused to bring Teylan into this. He is different, he is allowed.
“I’m not like them,” you continued, quieter now. “I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. I don’t feel what they feel. I just—”
Your voice faltered.
“I’m not really Na’vi. More Sky Person… alien.”
The words hung between you.
Heavy.
Wrong.
So’lek stepped closer again, but this time slower.
Deliberate.
He reached up, his hand coming to rest against your cheek.
The contact startled you.
“You are Na’vi,” he said firmly.
Blinking up at him, you shook your head. “No, I—”
“You are Na’vi.”
His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.
It carried certainty like weight.
“TAP did not change what you are,” he continued. “It only delayed what you could become.”
Your breath caught.
“You think the others are stronger because of how they adapted,” he said. “Perhaps that is true—for now.”
His thumb brushed lightly against your skin.
“But strength is built, Sarentu.”
His gaze held yours—steady, unwavering.
“And I see yours growing.”
Something in your chest cracked open.
You hadn’t realised how much you needed to hear that.
“How can you be so sure?” you whispered.
A pause.
His lips quirked into a small smile, a look you had not yet seen on the older man’s face.
“Because I have watched you choose to try,” he said.
Your breath hitched.
“Again. And again. And again.”
The faintest hint of something softer touched his expression.
“That is not weakness.”
The forest no longer felt so distant.
After that, something changed.
Not suddenly.
Not dramatically.
But subtly, like roots growing beneath the surface.
So’lek still corrected you.
Still pushed you.
Still expected more.
But there were moments now—brief, quiet, but yours.
Where his hand would steady yours on a bowstring a second longer than necessary.
Where his voice would lower, just slightly, when speaking only to you.
Where his presence felt less like observation and more like something… closer.
You didn’t name it.
Neither did he.
Not yet.
But it was there.
Growing.
Just like you.
Pain, you had learned, came in many forms.
There was the sharp kind—the kind So’lek trained you to endure. Scrapes from bark, the sting of a bowstring snapping against your forearm, the dull ache of muscles pushed too far, too fast.
That pain was simple. It passed.
This was different.
It started small.
A misstep.
You had been moving too quickly again, too focused on keeping pace, on proving that you could keep up with So’lek without correction.
Your foot caught on a root hidden beneath the undergrowth.
You went down hard.
The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, a sharp crack of pain flaring up your side as you hit the forest floor. For a moment, the world narrowed to nothing but the rush of air you couldn’t pull in.
So’lek was beside you instantly.
“Stay still.”
His voice was controlled, but there was something tighter beneath it.
You tried to push yourself up anyway.
“I’m fine—”
“Stay. Still.”
The command landed firmer this time.
You froze.
Not because of the authority in his tone—
But because of the hand at your side.
Careful.
Assessing.
His fingers pressed lightly along your ribs, and you sucked in a breath as pain flared sharp and sudden.
“There,” he murmured. “You feel it.”
“I said I’m fine,” you insisted, weaker this time.
“You are not.”
His gaze flicked up to yours, steady, unyielding.
“You are injured.”
The word sat heavily in your chest.
Injured meant weak.
Injured meant slowing down.
Injured meant—
A memory slammed into you before you could stop it.
White walls.
Cold light.
A voice—clinical, detached.
“Subject response inadequate. Increase stimulus.”
Your breath hitched.
Hands gripping too tightly.
Restraints.
Pain, not as consequence—but as control.
Your vision blurred.
“No—” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.
You tried to pull away.
So’lek didn’t let you.
His grip shifted—not tighter, but firmer. Grounding.
“Look at me.”
You couldn’t.
Your chest tightened, breath coming too fast, too shallow.
“I said look at me.”
Something in his voice cut through the spiralling edge of memory.
You forced your eyes up.
He was close.
Closer than before.
“There is no one here but me,” he said, low and steady. “You are not there.”
Your hands were shaking.
You hadn’t even noticed until he reached for them.
His larger ones enclosed yours without hesitation.
Warm.
Real.
“Breathe,” he instructed.
You tried.
It came uneven at first, catching in your throat.
He didn’t rush you.
Didn’t let go.
“In,” he said quietly.
You inhaled, shaky.
“Out.”
You exhaled.
Again.
And again.
Until the forest began to return.
Until the white walls faded.
Until the past loosened its grip on your chest.
You hadn’t realised how close you’d leaned into him.
Not until you became aware of it.
Your forehead nearly brushed his shoulder.
Your hands still held in his.
Your breathing still syncing with his steady rhythm.
The closeness hit you all at once.
You pulled back slightly, startled.
“I—sorry.”
The words came out too fast.
Too automatic.
Something flickered in his expression.
Gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
“You have nothing to apologise for,” he said.
But he let go of your hands.
Immediately.
The absence of warmth was sudden.
Jarring.
He stood first.
Of course he did.
Control, as always, settling back into his posture like armour.
“You will not continue training today,” he said.
Your brows pulled together. “I can still—”
“No.”
Firm.
Final.
“You will rest.”
“I don’t need—”
“You do.”
His gaze pinned you in place again.
And for once—
You didn’t argue.
He helped you back to camp.
Not hovering.
Not soft.
But present.
Always just close enough that if you faltered, he would catch you.
And once—
Only once—
When your step slipped slightly on uneven ground—
His hand found your arm.
Steadying.
Lingering for half a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Before pulling away.
That night, the pain in your side dulled to a constant ache.
But it wasn’t what kept you awake.
It was your mind.
The memory.
The way it had crept in so easily, so suddenly.
The way you had lost control.
Again.
You shifted slightly where you lay, staring up through the breaks in the canopy.
Weak.
The word came unbidden.
Familiar.
Unwelcome.
A soft sound of movement pulled your attention.
So’lek.
He wasn’t far.
Of course he wasn’t.
Sitting near the edge of the camp, half in shadow, ever watchful.
You hesitated.
Then—
“Couldn’t sleep either?”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
He didn’t turn immediately.
“I do not sleep as deeply as others,” he replied.
You huffed faintly. “Convenient.”
A pause.
Then—
“You should be resting.”
You shifted onto your side, wincing slightly despite yourself. “I tried.”
Silence stretched between you.
Then, quieter—
“Does it ever… stop?”
He glanced back at you now.
“The memories.”
There it was.
Laid bare between you.
His expression didn’t change much.
But something in his eyes did.
“They become less powerful,” he said.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No.”
A beat.
“It is not.”
You swallowed.
“I hate that it still affects me,” you admitted. “After everything. After being free. It still—”
You exhaled sharply.
“Feels like I’m still there sometimes.”
The words felt heavier out loud.
More real.
More shameful.
“I should be stronger than that.”
So’lek stood.
Crossed the small distance between you.
For a moment, you thought—
Maybe—
But he stopped just short.
Close enough to be felt.
Not close enough to touch.
“Strength is not the absence of pain,” he said.
Your eyes lifted to his.
“It is the ability to continue despite it.”
You let out a quiet, humourless breath. “That sounds like something you’ve told yourself.”
A flicker of something—recognition, perhaps—passed through his gaze.
“Perhaps.”
Silence settled again.
Thicker this time.
You searched his face.
Waiting.
For something more.
For the same grounding presence from before.
For the warmth.
For—
It didn’t come.
He stepped back.
Deliberate.
Measured.
Distance re-established as if it had never been broken.
“You will sleep,” he said.
Your chest tightened.
Not from pain this time.
From something else.
Something sharper.
“You don’t have to keep your distance,” you said quietly.
The words surprised even you.
But they felt… true.
His posture stilled.
Only for a moment.
Then—
“Yes,” he said.
He did not look at you when he added—
“I do.”
You watched him return to his place at the edge of the camp.
Further now.
Not by much.
But enough.
The space between you felt… intentional.
Carefully maintained.
Your mind turned it over.
The way he had held your hands.
The way he had steadied your breathing.
The way he had been there—
Fully.
And then—
Gone.
Not physically.
But… withdrawn.
Controlled.
Restrained.
Not because he didn’t feel it.
But because he did.
The realisation settled slowly.
Quietly.
He wasn’t distant by nature.
He was choosing to be.
And that—
Somehow—
Hurt more than if he had never stepped close at all.
You turned onto your back again, staring up at the canopy.
The ache in your ribs pulsed softly.
But it wasn’t the only thing you felt anymore.
There was something else now.
A crack.
Small.
Barely visible.
But there.
In him.
In you.
In whatever this was becoming.
And for the first time—
You understood.
It wasn’t just you learning to navigate the forest.
It was both of you—
Learning how close was too close.
And neither of you had the answer.
Yet.
You noticed it more after that night.
Once you saw it, you couldn’t unsee it.
The distance.
Not the physical kind—So’lek was still there, still training you, still watching with that same sharp awareness that missed nothing.
But something had shifted.
Subtly.
Deliberately.
Where his hand had once steadied yours, now it stopped just short.
Where his voice had softened in quiet moments, now it remained even—controlled, measured.
Where there had been something unspoken growing between you—
There was now space.
Carefully maintained.
It was infuriating.
“You’re overcorrecting.”
The words left your mouth before you could stop them.
So’lek didn’t look up from where he crouched, examining the tracks pressed into the damp earth.
“I am correcting what needs correcting,” he replied evenly.
“That’s not what I mean.”
Now he looked at you.
Waiting.
You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “This. You.”
His expression didn’t change. “Be clear.”
Frustration flared hotter.
“You’ve been different since—” you cut yourself off, jaw tightening. “Since I got hurt.”
“I have not.”
“You have.”
The words came sharper than intended.
He stood slowly, turning to face you fully.
“In what way?” he asked.
Like it was a simple question.
Like it wasn’t obvious.
“You pull back,” you said. “Every time things get even slightly—” you hesitated, searching for the word. “Close.”
Something flickered in his gaze.
Gone almost immediately.
“You are imagining patterns that are not there.”
A short, disbelieving laugh escaped you. “No. I’m not.”
Silence stretched.
Tight.
You took a step closer.
“You don’t touch me anymore unless you have to,” you continued. “You keep everything… controlled. Like you’re afraid of something.”
“I am not afraid.”
It came too quickly.
Too firmly.
You seized on it.
“Then what is it?” you pressed. “Because this isn’t just you being a mentor. It’s something else.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
But he said nothing.
And that—
That was the final push.
“You act like I’m not ready,” you said, voice rising despite yourself. “Like I’m the one who can’t handle things.”
His eyes narrowed, just slightly. “You are still learning—”
“No,” you cut in, shaking your head. “Not that.”
You stepped closer again, closing the distance he kept trying to maintain.
“This.”
Your chest felt tight, words coming faster now, sharper.
“You act like I’m not ready—but you’re the one afraid.”
The silence that followed was immediate.
Heavy.
So’lek didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
For a moment, you thought—
Maybe you’d gone too far.
But then he exhaled slowly.
And whatever had been there—
Whatever had softened, even briefly—
Was gone.
“You are mistaken.”
His voice was quieter now.
Colder.
More distant than you had ever heard it.
“I am not afraid,” he repeated.
You frowned. “Then why—”
“This conversation is over.”
The finality in his tone hit like a wall.
You stared at him. “So that’s it? You’re just going to shut it down?”
“Yes.”
Anger flared, sharp and immediate. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is the only one you will receive.”
You let out a frustrated breath, pacing a step back before turning on him again.
“You can’t just decide that!” you snapped. “You don’t get to act like something’s there and then pretend it isn’t!”
His expression hardened.
“There is nothing there.”
The words landed like a blow.
You recoiled slightly.
Because you knew—
You knew that wasn’t true.
“You don’t mean that,” you said, quieter now.
“I do.”
Flat.
Certain.
Final.
Something in your chest twisted.
You turned away before he could see it fully settle in your expression.
“Are we done training?” you asked, your voice steadier now—controlled in a way that felt unfamiliar on you.
“Yes.”
Of course.
Efficient.
Detached.
You nodded once.
Then started walking.
You didn’t wait to see if he followed.
He didn’t.
Distance changed things.
Not all at once.
But enough.
Training became… functional.
Efficient.
So’lek still corrected you. Still watched. Still expected more.
But he no longer lingered.
No longer allowed those quiet moments to stretch into something softer. Every interaction had a purpose now—clean, precise, contained.
You adjusted.
You had to.
If he was going to treat you like nothing more than a student—
Then you would become one he couldn’t fault.
You trained harder.
Listened sharper.
Moved cleaner.
Where you once hesitated, you now acted. Where you once doubted, you pushed through it. The forest no longer felt like something watching you—
It felt like something you moved with.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
Enough that others began to notice.
The call came at dawn.
Urgent.
Sharp.
RDA.
The word alone was enough to set everything into motion.
You were already moving before the full message had been relayed—body reacting faster than thought, faster than memory.
Not the same as before.
Not frozen.
Not afraid.
Focused.
Smoke cut through the treeline.
Dark.
Wrong.
You slowed as you approached, senses sharpening automatically. The forest here felt disturbed—too loud in some places, too quiet in others.
Signs.
You saw them.
Broken branches.
Scorched earth.
Tracks—heavy, mechanical.
Your breath steadied.
Think.
Not react.
So’lek wasn’t beside you.
The realisation hit—but it didn’t stop you.
It couldn’t.
You moved forward anyway.
Voices.
Human.
Harsh.
The unfortunately familiar language cutting through the natural sounds of Pandora.
You crouched low, slipping between cover with deliberate care. Your bow was already in your hands, arrow notched but held.
You counted.
Three.
No—four.
Armed.
Distracted.
Good.
You shifted position, recalling every correction So’lek had ever given you.
Wait for the right moment.
Do not rush the strike.
Let the forest guide you.
Your breath slowed.
In.
Out.
One of them moved further from the group.
Isolated.
You acted.
The arrow flew clean.
Silent.
True.
The soldier dropped before he could even react.
The others turned—confused, disoriented.
Too late.
You were already moving.
Not reckless.
Not panicked.
Controlled.
Another arrow.
Another hit.
You didn’t stay still long enough to be seen—each movement deliberate, each step placed with intention.
Like you had been taught.
Like you had learned.
A shot rang out.
Too close.
You ducked behind cover, heart kicking hard but steady.
Different.
This time, you didn’t freeze.
You listened.
Tracked.
Adapted.
The third soldier moved toward your last position—careless, overconfident.
You shifted behind him.
Silent.
Your strike was quick.
Efficient.
Clean.
The last one ran.
You let him.
For half a second.
Then you gave chase.
The forest moved with you now.
Not against you.
Branches no longer caught at your limbs. Roots no longer tripped your steps. You wove through them, part of the rhythm rather than fighting it.
You gained ground quickly.
Too quickly for him to react.
He turned—
You were already there.
Your arrow aimed.
Steady.
Unwavering.
For a moment—
You saw it.
The fear in his eyes.
The same kind of fear you used to feel.
Helpless.
Small.
Controlled.
Your grip tightened.
Then—
You exhaled.
And released.
Silence returned slowly.
Gradually.
The kind that settled after something had been disturbed.
You stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling.
Alive.
Present.
In control.
“You moved well.”
The voice came from behind you.
You didn’t startle.
You’d heard him approach.
Of course you had.
So’lek stepped into view, gaze sweeping over the scene—the fallen soldiers, the disturbed ground, the path you had taken.
Assessing.
Always assessing.
“You were not reckless,” he continued. “You adapted.”
You lowered your bow slightly.
“I handled it.”
It wasn’t defiance.
Just… truth.
His eyes met yours.
For a moment, something flickered there again.
Recognition.
Approval.
Something deeper—
Gone before it could settle.
“Yes,” he said.
A pause.
“You did.”
Others arrived soon after.
Na’vi from nearby clans, drawn by the disturbance.
They moved through the area with purpose, checking the aftermath, speaking in low, urgent tones.
You stepped back slightly, letting them pass.
Observing.
Learning.
A few glanced at you.
Then looked again.
Different this time.
Not uncertain.
Not questioning.
One of them—older, scarred—gave a small nod as he passed.
Respect.
It hit you harder than you expected.
You glanced toward So’lek.
He stood a short distance away, speaking with another warrior.
Composed.
Controlled.
Distant.
But—
When his gaze flicked back to you—
Just for a moment—
You saw it.
Pride.
Something had changed.
Not just in you.
In him.
It showed in small ways first.
The kind most would miss.
But you didn’t.
Not anymore.
“Your footing is off.”
You adjusted immediately, shifting your weight as instructed.
“Better,” So’lek said.
No correction layered over correction.
Just—
Better.
You stilled slightly at that.
Before continuing.
It wasn’t praise.
Not exactly.
But it wasn’t dismissal either.
And from him—
It meant something.
Training no longer felt like being shaped.
It felt like being refined.
There was a difference.
Before, he had watched for failure.
Now—
He watched for choice.
For instinct.
For how you adapted without being told.
“You hesitated.”
You glanced at him, brow furrowing. “I assessed.”
A pause.
The faintest tilt of his head.
“Explain.”
That was new.
You shifted your stance slightly, considering your words.
“The wind shifted,” you said. “If I had released it when I first drew it, I would have missed it.”
His gaze sharpened—not in correction, but in focus.
“And instead?”
“I waited.”
A beat.
“And adjusted.”
Silence.
Not heavy.
Not tense.
Just… consideration.
“Yes.”
The single word settled differently this time.
Not instruction.
Acknowledgement.
You felt it.
That shift.
Clearer now.
You weren’t just following anymore.
You were deciding.
And he—
He was letting you.
The distance hadn’t disappeared.
It had… changed.
Refined.
More controlled.
More deliberate.
“Again.”
You released the arrow.
It struck clean.
True.
You didn’t look at the target.
You looked at him.
He was already watching you.
Not the shot.
You.
Something tightened in your chest.
Not discomfort.
Something else.
Something heavier.
“You anticipated the movement,” he said.
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then—
“You are no longer reacting.”
Your breath caught slightly at that.
Because that—
That meant more than any correction he had ever given you.
“I know,” you said quietly.
The words settled between you.
Different.
Not student and teacher. Not quite.
Something else.
The tension shifted with it.
Subtle.
But undeniable.
Before, it had felt… restrained.
Like something neither of you were meant to acknowledge.
Now— it felt inevitable.
You noticed it in the way he held your gaze a second longer than necessary.
In the way silence between you no longer felt like absence—
But presence.
In the way every step closer carried weight.
And still—
He kept control.
You stepped closer without thinking.
Just slightly.
But enough.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
The space between you narrowed.
Not accidental.
Not careless.
“You don’t correct me as much anymore,” you said quietly.
“No.”
“Why?”
A pause.
Not avoidance.
Deliberation.
“Because you do not require it in the same way.”
That wasn’t the full answer.
You could feel it.
“And in the other way?” you pressed.
There it was.
That line again.
The one neither of you had fully crossed.
His expression shifted—subtle, controlled.
But not empty.
“That is not relevant to your training.”
You huffed softly.
“It hasn’t been about just training for a while.”
Silence.
This time—
He didn’t deny it.
But he didn’t step closer either.
“There are factors you do not yet fully consider,” he said instead.
Your brow furrowed. “Like what?”
A beat.
“Time,” he said.
“Experience.”
Another pause.
Then—
“Age.”
The word landed heavier than expected.
You studied him.
“You think that matters.”
“I know that it does.”
There was no shame in it.
No uncertainty.
Just fact.
“But it doesn’t change this,” you said, gesturing lightly between you.
His jaw tightened slightly.
“It complicates it.”
You took another small step forward.
Closing the space again.
“And that’s enough for you to keep your distance?”
His gaze dropped briefly—
Not to the ground.
To you.
Closer now.
“Yes.”
Simple.
Final.
“You still don’t trust me with it,” you said softly.
His eyes snapped back to yours.
Sharp.
“That is not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
The question lingered.
This time—
He didn’t answer.
Not with words.
Told you enough.
It wasn’t doubt.
It was choice.
You started noticing things you hadn’t before.
Not about the forest.
About your people.
It began with observation.
“You are staring.”
Ri’nela’s voice broke your focus.
You blinked, glancing at her. “I am not.”
Her brow lifted slightly.
You exhaled. “Fine. I am.”
Her gaze followed yours briefly—towards a mated pair speaking quietly at the edge of camp.
Understanding dawned quickly.
You shifted slightly, suddenly aware of how obvious it must seem. “I was just… wondering.”
“About courting?” she asked, not unkindly.
You hesitated.
Then nodded.
Ri’nela paused before speaking. “There is knowing first. A recognition. Then a decision.”
“A choice,” you murmured.
“Yes.”
A choice.
Your gaze drifted across the camp.
Landing, inevitably—
On him.
So’lek stood apart as he often did, speaking with Tamtey and Nor. Composed. Focused. Untouchable.
“You already know,” Ri’nela said quietly.
You blinked. “Know what?”
She didn’t look at you.
“Who you are watching.”
You didn’t answer.
You didn’t need to.
That night, you found him alone.
Of course you did.
“You avoid the others more than usual.”
Your voice cut gently through the quiet.
So’lek didn’t turn immediately.
“I am where I need to be.”
You stepped closer. “That sounds familiar.”
Now he looked at you.
Measured.
Waiting.
The space between you settled quickly into something charged.
Not uncertain.
Not fragile.
Just… full.
“I spoke with Ri’nela,” you said.
A slight shift in his posture. “And?”
“She helped me decide something.”
His gaze didn’t leave yours.
“And what did you decide?”
You held his eyes.
“That it is not hidden,” you said. “Not denied.”
A pause.
“And not avoided.”
Silence.
But not empty.
You did not need to name what you were speaking about.
He knew.
“You believe I am avoiding something,” he said.
“I know you are.”
The words didn’t spark anger this time.
Only stillness.
You stepped closer.
Close enough now that you could feel the steadiness of his presence. The quiet control he held so tightly.
“Why?” you asked, softer now.
For a long moment—
He said nothing.
Then—
“You were not ready.”
The answer landed differently than you expected.
Not dismissal.
Not deflection.
Truth.
“And now?” you asked.
His gaze shifted—subtle, but unmistakable.
Taking you in.
Not as a student.
Not as something fragile.
As something else.
“You have changed,” he said.
Your breath caught slightly.
“So have you,” you replied.
A quiet tension stretched between you.
Not uncomfortable.
Not uncertain.
Just… waiting.
“I held distance because it was necessary,” he continued. “Because anything else would have influenced your choices. Your growth.”
You frowned slightly. “You think I would have chosen differently?”
“Yes.”
The certainty in his voice made your chest tighten.
He stepped closer.
Closing the last of the space.
“And that would not have been fair to you,” he said.
Your breath stilled.
“I waited,” he added, quieter now, “because you deserved the choice—unclouded.”
The words settled deep.
Clear.
Intentional.
Real.
You searched his face.
And found no hesitation there.
No distance.
No restraint—at least, not in the same way.
“You don’t have to wait anymore,” you said softly.
Something shifted in him.
Not breaking.
Not losing control.
But… releasing it.
His hand lifted—slow, deliberate.
Giving you time to step back.
To refuse.
To choose.
You didn’t.
His fingers brushed your jaw, then settled, warm and steady against your skin.
Different this time.
Not grounding.
Not corrective.
Intentional.
Your breath caught as you leaned into the touch without thinking.
Without fear.
His gaze softened—just slightly.
Enough.
“You are certain?” he asked.
You didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
That was all it took.
The distance between you disappeared.
His other hand came to your waist, drawing you closer—not rushed, not forceful, but firm in a way that made your breath hitch.
Your hands found him just as easily, gripping lightly at his arms, grounding yourself in something real.
When he kissed you, it was not careless.
Not overwhelming.
It was controlled.
At first.
A quiet, deliberate meeting.
A question answered.
But the longer it lingered—
The more that control shifted.
Your grip tightened slightly.
His hand followed the movement, pulling you closer still.
The restraint that had defined every moment between you didn’t disappear—
Summary: Among the Sarentu, you are watched, tested, and slowly understood—though some seem to see more than others.
Cherrie's Notes: Thinking of making this into a more developed story potentially. Let me know if you want to see that!
AFOP Masterlist
The wind over the western frontier felt different.
It carried salt and something older—stories whispered through stone and tide. You noticed it the moment your ikran dipped lower, wings slicing through the mist as the coastline stretched wide beneath you. This land was not like the forests of home. It was harsher. Wilder. And waiting.
You leaned forward slightly, fingers resting against the base of your ikran’s neck, grounding yourself. Behind you lay everything familiar—your family, your clan, the towering trees that had watched you grow. Ahead of you… responsibility.
As the eldest daughter of Jake and Neytiri, you had always known this day would come. You just hadn’t expected it to feel so heavy.
They saw you before you landed. A group stood along the ridge—tall figures silhouetted against the pale sky. Their braids and markings were unfamiliar, their stance guarded. The Sarentu. You had heard the stories. Survivors. Fighters. Something in between legend and memory. Your ikran landed with a sharp cry, claws digging into the rocky ground. You dismounted in one fluid motion, straightening to your full height. And you felt their eyes.
Of course you did.
You had your mother’s face—sharp, striking, unmistakably Na’vi. But everything else told a different story. Your broader shoulders, your stance, even the subtle differences in your features… you carried your father’s origin in ways your siblings did not.
You had grown used to the looks. Still, it never stopped meaning something. One of them stepped forward. Not the tallest, not the most imposing—but there was something about him. His movements were careful, observant. His eyes lingered on you longer than the others’, not with suspicion alone… but curiosity.
“Teylan,” someone behind him muttered, as if grounding him.
So that was his name.
You speak your name, voice steady despite the unfamiliar tension in your chest. “Daughter of Jake Sully and Neytiri. I was sent to help.” A flicker passed through the group at your father’s name. Of course. The man who fought sky people. The outsider who became Toruk Makto. You wondered, briefly, which part of him they saw when they looked at you.
Teylan stepped closer. Up close, you noticed the small details—the way his ears angled slightly back when he studied you, the faint tension in his jaw like he was trying to read something beneath the surface.
“You do not look like them,” he said, not unkindly. Just… honestly. A corner of your mouth lifted.
“I get that a lot.” For a moment, silence hung between you. Then—unexpectedly—his lips twitched. Not quite a smile. But close.
The Sarentu did not welcome easily. You learned that quickly. Days passed in a careful rhythm. You trained, you listened, you proved yourself in the ways that mattered—not through words, but through action. Hunting in unfamiliar terrain. Learning their paths, their signals, their quiet way of watching everything before making a move.
And always… you felt his presence. Teylan was never far. At first, it was subtle. A glance during training. A shift in position when you entered a space. But over time, it became something else—something quieter, steadier. He began speaking to you more.
Not in long conversations. Not at first. Just small things.
“You favor your left side when you strike.”
“You move like the forest, even here.”
“You listen before you act.” Each observation landed deeper than you expected. Because he wasn’t just looking at you. He was seeing you.
One evening, the sky burned gold over the cliffs, the ocean stretching endlessly below. You stood at the edge, arms crossed, letting the wind pull at your braids. “You miss it,” Teylan said behind you.
You didn’t turn.“Of course I do.”
“But you came anyway.” That made you glance at him.He stood a few steps back, posture relaxed but eyes sharp as ever. There was something different in his expression now. Less guarded. More… open.
“I didn’t have a choice,” you said.
“That is not true.”
You tilted your head slightly. “No?”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “You could have refused. Found another way. Followed your own path.”
You studied him for a long moment. “You don’t know my family.”
“Then tell me.” The simplicity of it caught you off guard. Most people didn’t ask. Most people assumed.
You exhaled softly, turning your gaze back to the horizon. “My father believes in fighting for what matters. My mother believes in protecting it. I…” You hesitated. “I think I’m still figuring out which one I am.”
“Both,” Teylan said. You looked at him again.He met your gaze fully this time. No hesitation. “You came here to protect,” he continued. “But you stayed. You fight. You learn. You adapt.” A faint softness touched his expression. “That is both.”
Something in your chest shifted. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t overwhelming.
Just… steady. Like the beginning of something you hadn’t expected to find here.
The wind carried salt and something older. But now it carries something else, too.
And for the first time since you arrived, the western frontier didn’t feel quite so distant from home.
The Sarentu did not change all at once. They shifted in pieces. The first to openly test you was Nor. It happened during training.
“You hold it wrong.”
You didn’t even turn. “I don’t,” you replied calmly, adjusting your grip anyway—just enough to provoke him.
A scoff.Then suddenly—movement. Nor lunged.
Fast.
You pivoted, blocking his strike with a sharp crack of wood against wood. He pushed harder than necessary, testing your strength, your balance—your patience.
“You fight like a forest child,” he muttered.
“And you fight like you’re trying to prove something,” you shot back.
That earned you a real reaction. He pressed forward again, more aggressive this time, but you didn’t yield. You met him strike for strike, your movements fluid, grounded. Not quite Sarentu… not quite Omaticaya.
Something in between. Something your own.
The clash ended with both your weapons locked between you.
Close. Too close for comfort. Nor’s eyes narrowed slightly. Then, unexpectedly, he huffed a quiet laugh.
“You don’t break easily.”
“Was that the goal?” you asked.
“Maybe.”
From the edge of the clearing, you caught sight of Teylan. Watching. Of course he was. His arms were crossed, posture still—but his eyes tracked every movement. When Nor stepped back, lowering his weapon, Teylan’s shoulders eased almost imperceptibly. You pretended not to notice.
Ri'nela was… different. She didn’t test you. She studied you.
“You carry tension here,” she said one evening, fingers hovering just above your shoulder.
You blinked slightly. “I always carry tension.”
“That is not something to be proud of.”
A small smile tugged at your lips. “I wasn’t aware I was boasting.”
Ri’nela hummed softly, guiding you to sit. Around you, soft glowing plants cast shifting light across her careful movements as she worked. “You are the eldest,” she said after a moment. “You were shaped to endure more.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. She understood anyway.
After a pause, she added, quieter— “Teylan watches you when you are not aware.”
Your head turned sharply. “He watches everyone.”
“No,” she said simply. “Not like that.”
Heat crept faintly up your neck. You looked away. Ri’nela said nothing more—but the knowing look in her eyes lingered long after.
If Ri’nela observed, Tamtey talked.
Constantly.
“You fly differently,” he said one afternoon, walking far too close beside you as you checked your gear.
You raised a brow. “That’s vague.”
“It’s not vague. It’s specific.”
“It is literally the opposite of specific.”
He grinned. “You dive steeper. Faster. Like you trust the fall.”
You paused. That… wasn’t wrong. “Is that a problem?” you asked.
“No,” Tamtey said easily. “It’s just interesting.” He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice—poorly. “Teylan noticed it too.”
You froze for half a second. Then kept walking. I’m sure he notices many things.”
“Oh, he does,” Tamtey said, far too pleased with himself. “But not about everyone.”
You shot him a look.
He only grinned wider.
From across the clearing, Teylan—who had absolutely heard that—turned abruptly and busied himself with something that did not need doing. Subtle. Very subtle.
Solek was the hardest to read. He didn’t smile. Didn’t offer easy approval. But he watched. Always.
“You hesitate,” he told you one morning, after observing a hunt.
You frowned slightly. “I succeeded.”
“That is not the same.” His gaze was sharp, unwavering. “You calculate too much. You carry responsibility before action.”
You stiffened. “That is how I was taught.”
“And yet,” Solek said, stepping closer, “this land does not wait for certainty.” His eyes flicked briefly—past you. To Teylan. Then back again. “You are not here because you are the eldest,” he continued. “You are here because you are capable. There is a difference.”
The words settled heavily. But not unpleasantly. Like truth often did.
After he dismissed you, you exhaled slowly, rolling your shoulders.
“You did not hesitate,” came a quiet voice behind you.
Of course. You didn’t turn this time.
“I did.”
“No,” Teylan said, stepping beside you. “You considered. Then acted.”
A small glance toward him. “That’s hesitation.”
“It is control.”
Your lips pressed together, faintly amused. “You’re very determined to disagree with Solek.”
“I am very determined to be correct.”
That earned a soft laugh from you. And for a moment—He just looked at you. Not studying. Not analyzing.
Just… looking.
Then, as if realizing it, he glanced away quickly, ears flicking slightly back.
You noticed that, too.
Later that night, as the camp settled into quiet, you found yourself sitting among them—not apart, not observed, but included. Nor arguing with Tamtey. Ri’nela softly corrects both. Solek silent, but present.
And Teylan—Just close enough. Not speaking much. But every so often, when something made you laugh, or when your voice carried across the circle— His gaze would lift. And linger. Just a little longer than it should.
The western frontier was still unfamiliar. Still wild. Still unpredictable. But the people here— They were beginning to feel less like strangers. And more like something else. Something steadier. Something that, slowly—Was starting to feel like it might matter.
Please feel free to request fics for any of the below characters. If you have any requests of characters not on the list please feel free to let me know and I will add them!
