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Cook more fanfic about neteyam…
☾ ⋆* kiss it better
pairing: neteyam sully x fem!omaticaya reader
genre: fluff, angst
synopsis: all you wanted to do was serve your people. however, when you get injured, your mission is cut short. neteyam insists upon patching you up and decides to explain his concerns for your well-being and future together.
warnings: battle stuff, guns, blood, battle injuries, medical jargon, stitches, minor swearing (?), allusions to mating/sex ig, aged-up neteyam
word count: 7.9k
notes: IT’S HERE! i’m very excited to have started writing again, and although i’m very casual about when i write, i hope to be somewhat consistent lol. enjoy this for now, i have more planned for the future! i hope you all enjoy, pls reblog/comment/etc if you feel so inclined <33
The air was tense today, thick with disciplined focus as you keep your ears alert for any incoming airships. Reeking of smoke and burning metal, a scent that is foreign and unpleasant to your nose, you remain aware of everything and anything. Gray clouds billowing and a pungent smell that cling to the back of your throat like a hand with a vice grip—nothing was natural.
letsranten
𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 Neteyam x Reader
𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 Neteyam and you had grown up togther, played and trained like dangerous thanator cubs until his iknimaya came and he suddenly began to believe himself better than you. So why, now that it is mating season, does he suddenly take an interest in you again?
ᶜʷ cannon divergence, aggressive(?)reader, smal misunderstandings, sexual comment made towards reader, angst?(happy ending)
ʷᶜ 13.7k
You remember the days when you were little, as if they were yesterday.
You remember when you first began to acknowledge Neteyam's presence. His face started to form features, instead of just being glossed over. His body began to take a shape, instead of being a blue blob in your periphery. The high pitched gurgles and giggles that he let out now reached deeper parts of your brain, and hearing them made you release your own in turn.
You remember when the two of you began to explore the forest. Learning of Eywa's beauties and strengths. Deciding upon your favorite creatures and flowers. Becoming unafraid of the ambiance that it held, and learning awareness of what sounds led to danger and what was alright to stay around.
You remember when your fathers began teaching you the ways of the warriors. Teaching you how to track, to nock an arrow, to achieve a clean kill, and to sharpen your knives. The two of you were always sparring partners in these early days – you learned the traditional ways of battle, before adding your own flares to it.
But then Neteyam completed his iknimaya.
A simple massage from neteyam gets out of hand.
aged up!neteyam x fem!omaticaya!reader
warningsˎˊ-smut, aged up!neteyam, obsessive!neteyam,
noteˎˊ-a little blurb for my baby neteyam since i’ve been neglecting him also i don’t know what age you’re supposed to tame an ikran so this was my best guess at a young age
wc:2.9k
It had been a long and strenuous week, stretching your patience thin.
You had no real obligation to fulfill the duties placed upon you, but you were not one to shrink away from such responsibilities, a desire to prove yourself to the clan whispering in your blood, passed down from generations.
You had first begun to feel the whisper when you were eight years old, when you believed that everyone doubted you. They didn’t, of course, but nobody told you that.
So, you did the most logical thing to do.
You tried to prove yourself.
In the dumbest way possible.
You decided you would tame something no one your age had ever touched.
Not a direhorse.
An ikran.
You had watched the older hunters return from the floating mountains with their braids woven with fresh beads, their shoulders marked with ash and pride. You had watched the way the clan looked at them differently after they bonded. And you wanted that look.
So you climbed.
You climbed higher than you were allowed. Higher than your father ever took you. The air thinned and the rocks bit into your palms, but you told yourself pain was proof. Proof that you were strong. Proof that you were worthy.
When the first ikran shrieked above you, your heart didn’t race with fear.
It raced with hope.
You leapt.
You don’t remember anything after that, except for the painful throbbing of your head as you made contact with one of the jagged rocks, quickly losing consciousness.
Your vision blackened at the edges like a vignette, and the last thing you had seen was Neteyam—Toruk Makto’s son’s-–face.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
The world returned in fragments.
The scent of crushed medicinal leaves.
Low murmured voices.
The soft crackle of a nearby fire.
Your head throbbed when you had tried to move, and a sharp hiss left your teeth before you could stop it.
“You should not do that.”
The voice was his.
You forced your eyes open.
Neteyam was sitting beside you, legs crossed, hands resting loosely over his knees. He looked older when he was serious. Too serious for someone your age.
“You fell,” he added unnecessarily.
You blinked at him.
“I leapt,” you corrected weakly.
His mouth twitched despite himself.
“That was not leaping.”
Heat crawled up your neck. “I would have bonded.”
“No,” he said, not unkindly. “You would have died.”
Silence settled between you.
You stared at the woven ceiling above. “They all think I am small.”
“No, they do not.”
“You do not know that.”
He hesitated.
Then, quieter: “I do.”
You swallowed. “I did not mean to make you climb after me.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
Then he reached over and nudged your shoulder lightly. “Next time you try something foolish, tell me first.”
Your brows pulled together. “Why?”
“So I can stop you.”
You huffed a weak laugh despite the pain.
He smiled then.
small, but real.
And that was how it began.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Anyways, there was no use lingering on that embarrassing day, but your friendship has blossomed into something more.
Something you would never admit.
Dusk came slower than usual.
Or maybe you were just more aware of it.
The week had been relentless. Patrols along the outer forest where the humans’ machines had been heard again. Extra training with the younger hunters. Helping reinforce woven barricades near the recent attack spots. Listening to elders argue in low, worried tones when they thought no one else could hear.
You had barely slept.
Neteyam had slept even less.
You found him where you both always ended up when the day felt too heavy, halfway up the old tree that leaned over the hallelujah mountains, its bark worn smooth by years of climbing. Not too high. Not dangerous.
Just high enough to breathe.
He was already seated on the thick branch, back against the trunk, one knee drawn up. His bow rested beside him. He looked tired in a way he would never admit to.
“You are late,” he said without opening his eyes.
“You said dusk,” you replied, settling beside him. “It is still dusk.”
“It is almost night.”
“You worry about time now?”
A faint smile. “Someone must.”
You let your legs dangle over the edge, toes brushing the air above the water. For a while, neither of you spoke. The sounds of the forest carried around you — distant calls, the rush of the river, the soft rustle of leaves shifting in the evening wind.
It was different from when you were children.
Back then, your conversations had been loud. Competitive. Full of teasing and daring each other to jump farther, climb higher, run faster.
Now the quiet felt earned.
“You took the western patrol again,” you said eventually.
“Yes.”
“That is the third time this week.”
He shrugged lightly. “It needed to be done.”
You gave him a look. “So did the southern route.”
He glanced sideways at you. “You volunteered for that.”
“You did not have to let me.”
“I did.”
A small pause.
You nudged his knee with yours. “You do not always have to carry everything.”
His jaw tightened slightly; not defensive, just thoughtful. “I am the eldest.”
“And I am not fragile.”
“I did not say you were.”
“You did not have to.”
The tension wasn’t sharp. It never was with him. It was softer than that. A push and pull that had grown alongside you both.
After a moment, he exhaled and leaned his head back against the trunk.
“You were tired today,” he said quietly.
“So were you.”
“You did not eat enough.”
“You noticed?”
He gave you a look that said of course.
You tried not to smile too much at that.
“I was busy,” you said.
“You always are.”
There it was again — that careful concern he disguised as mild scolding.
You reached over without thinking and adjusted one of the beads in his braid where it had come loose from training. Your fingers brushed his hair, grazing the side of his neck for a fraction longer than necessary.
He went still.
You pretended not to notice.
“There,” you murmured. “You look less like you fought three people at once.”
“I did fight three people at once.”
“I know.”
Your hand dropped back to your lap, but the air between you felt warmer now.
“You were good today,” he added after a moment.
You blinked. “At what?”
“Training. You corrected Lo’ak without embarrassing him.”
You huffed softly. “That is a skill learned through experience.”
A quiet chuckle left him.
The river below reflected the first hints of starlight.
“You do too much,” he said again, softer now. “You try to be everywhere.”
You stared out over the water. “If I am useful, they worry less.”
His shoulder brushed yours deliberately this time.
“They do not worry less,” he said. “They just worry differently.”
You glanced at him.
“And you?” you asked.
His eyes met yours, steady as always.
“I worry,” he admitted.
Not dramatic. Not heavy.
Just true.
Your chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion.
“You do not need to,” you said quietly.
He didn’t look away.
“I know.”
Another pause.
Then, gently—almost teasing to lighten it—“But I will.”
The corner of your mouth lifted.
“You are impossible.”
“So you have said.”
You leaned back beside him, letting your shoulder rest fully against his now. No space. No pretending it was accidental.
He gently maneuvered you, laying you down atop the soft grass, the ferns comforting like Eywa’s embracing just you.
His hand lingered against the skin of your upper, warm and steadying, slight calluses roughening certain spots, testament to his hard work.
The ferns cushioned your back, their fronds cool against your heated skin. Above you, the canopy shifted, leaves whispering in the evening breeze. For a moment, all you could see was him — framed by twilight and the first shy stars.
“Neteyam,” you murmured, not as a warning.
Just his name.
His brows knit slightly, as if he were debating something with himself. His hand flexed once, then relaxed, grounding rather than possessive.
To you, at least.
“You looked like you were about to fall asleep sitting up,” he said quietly.
You huffed a soft breath. “So you decided to throw me to the ground?”
“I lowered you.”
“That was not gentle.” a biiiiig lie.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth.
“I can be gentler.”
The words hung there, light in tone, heavier underneath.
His hand shifted slightly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. His knuckles grazed your temple, tracing absentmindedly near the faded scar from years ago, the skin there now a soft blue instead of your deep sapphire.
You exhaled reply, feeling the tension slipping away from your body, exhaustion lacing each vowel that came out of your mouth. “Everything aches,” you murmur, feeling your eyes flutter shut.
His fingers linger against your shoulder, warm and steadying. The slight roughness of his calluses grazes your skin as if testing how much pressure it takes to ground you, and the warmth seeps deeper than your muscles, curling through your chest.
His response it’s words, just a hum of acknowledgement you can hear vibrating in his chest.
He shifts closer. The space between you is almost nothing looking down at you from his spot against the trunk. Every inch is alive with a subtle, electric weight. Your breath catches. The scent of him—cedar, sweat, and fresh air—floods your senses, distracting you from everything else.
His hand slides slowly down your arm, thumb tracing idle circles over your skin. You feel the pull of him, magnetic and steady, and for a moment, you can’t tell where your body ends and his presence begins.
The ferns beneath you cushion your back, but it feels like the world itself has narrowed to this small patch of grass, this quiet evening, this tension coiling between you. You’re acutely aware of the heat radiating from him, the sound of his breathing, his hand against your skin. Your eyes flutter open. You were just so exhausted..
Your body tenses instinctively at every small brush, the feather-light touch of his fingers through your hair, the stroke of his other hand on your arm, the tilt of his head as he hovers above you, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips that only you notice.
It feels like every movement is blurred, like the frame rate of your eyes cannot keep up with the pace of everything.
He made a soft noise of guilt—then affection—and gently adjusted you so you were lying on your stomach across in front of him, your forearms cushioning the side of your face.
"Let me take care of you," he said, voice low. His hands moved to your shoulders, strong fingers pressing into the tense muscles.
The moment he started kneading, a quiet moan escaped you.
Neteyam hummed. "Oh? That good?"
You could only nod again—the movement slow and lazy.
He chuckled. "That's what I thought." Another moan, louder this time—you couldn't help yourself. His hands felt so good.
He took his time with you—nails scraping over your lower back, thumb stroking the dip between your shoulder blades. Every bit of tension seemed to melt away under his touch.
"You have no idea…" he murmured, almost to himself. "The things I want to do to you."
You were not focused on a letter that fell from his lips; your pleasure consuming your mind fully.
His hands moved lower, working out the knots in your lower back. You practically purred under his touch, eyes closed and limbs loose.
"So goddamn pretty," he murmured, voice thick with adoration. "Like… you’re everything to me, you know that?"
His thumbs skimmed along your spine, tracing the dip of it. When he reached the curve of your ass, he couldn't help but squeeze.
"Just want to touch you…”
‘..everywhere." He finished, voice rough. "All the time…"
God, you were so pliant right now. So sleepy and soft and perfect in his hands. It was taking every ounce of willpower not to manhandle you the way he really wanted to.
He could practically feel your tension melting, slowly—almost lazily—under his touch. And as he continued to massage the knots out, he began to notice something...
"You know," he murmured, voice low like velvet. "I have another idea of how you can... relax."
Your eyes opened slightly, the action sluggish but interested. He chuckled, the sound dark and promising.
"Just… lay there," he whispered. "Exactly like that."
His hands moved lower, fingers skimming your backside, untying your loincloth. "Let me do all the work."
Your eyes were half-lidded, but you nodded. Something about your obedience made his chest tighten. You were so trusting right now, so vulnerable. He felt the overwhelming urge to possess you, to mark you, to—
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay focused. "Close your eyes."
You obeyed without hesitation, and for a moment, he could only stare. You looked like... well, like the prettiest thing he'd ever seen in his life. The last streams of light streaming over your face; illuminating the golden swirls of your irises.
"Keep them closed," he murmured, voice raw. He couldn't tear his gaze away from you. the softness of your face, the flutter of your eyelashes, the gentle rise and fall of your chest.
Eywa, you were beautiful.
Finally, he forced himself to speak, voice rough. "Keep them closed and don't move."
The command was quiet but firm. And you didn't question it.
He moved, shifting behind you. You lay there, body loose and relaxed. You didn't even twitch; like you trusted him completely.
It made his chest hurt. in a good way. A way that made his head spin.
When he placed his hands on your hips, your breath hitched. "Shhh," he whispered. "Just relax."
His thumbs brushed the dip of your lower back, tracing the swell of your hips. You shivered under his touch, almost unconsciously tilting your hips up toward him.
"Perfect," he rasped, voice thick. "Just... stay exactly like that."
Your breath was coming in short, quiet gasps now. He could practically hear the blood thrumming through your veins.
"God, you're so beautiful," he whispered, fingers skimming the curve of your ass. He took a deep breath, trying to gather some control.
"Can I do one thing?"
You nodded, not opening your eyes. "Mhm."
The sound made his cock twitch.
He groaned softly, his fingers tightening minutely around your hips. "I… need you to spread your legs a little more. Just…" He took another shuddering breath. "Trust me."
You hesitated only for a second—then, slowly—you did as he asked.
Neteyam let out a breathless groan at the sight, his fangs glinting in the dim light. "Perfect," he murmured, voice thick with need.
He leaned down until his lips brushed your ear. "Don’t move… don’t open your eyes… just feel."
And then, his hands slid forward.
His thumbs parted you gently, and when his tongue finally made contact with your clit—slow, warm, so deliberate—you were seeing stars.
"A—neteyam!" you gasped, fingers clawing at the grass. The sensation was too much—his tongue slow and sure, circling just right—and yet it wasn’t enough.
He didn’t stop. Didn't even flinch at your cry. Just held your hips down with firm hands and kept going.. licking deeper now, savoring every twitch of your body.
"Fuck…" he growled against you, sending vibrations against your slit, voice muffled but hot. "Taste so good."
You whimpered, completely undone—all thought erased by the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter inside you.
There was a damp patch forming against his own loincloth, simply from eating you out.
His tongue lapped at you like a dehydrated ikran finding a stream, and it seems that your fluids kept him going.
His dick was heavy against his leg, throbbing in its negligence, but he paid no mind to it.
He pulled away, a single millimeter to catch his breath, but the warmth of his breath fanned over your clit, and he watched as your pussy tightened around nothing needily.
His thick lashes brushed his undereyes as he debated something.
And then he dove back in, sliding a single digit in, feeling the tight warmth of you surrounding him, greedily pulling him deeper as his tongue swirled your clit.
You moaned at the feeling of something finally being inside you, your eyes rolling back into your skull.
He continued plunging his finger in and out of you in time with his swirling around the sensitive bundle of nerves that was your clit, he could tell you were getting close from the way you tried to
strangle his finger.
That's when he slid in a second digit, moving them both in time as he sucked your clit, his cheeks hollowing as he did so.
The sound of the chittering of the animals all around mixed with the lewd squelches of your pussy, and he loved it.
He scissored the two fingers he had within you, pulling away to your pussy gape, and you shivered at the breeze that caressed your insides.
“Ah! Oh my–” you began, but the words died quickly in your throat when he suddenly latched back onto your clit.
That was enough to make the band in your lower stomach–once stretched taut–snap.
Your orgasm ripped through you, causing you to gasp that morphed into a silent scream, clawing at the grass once again, creating bare lines where you stripped the grass to reveal the soil beneath.
Neteyam felt you pulse around his two fingers, and throb between his teeth.
Which caused him to cum.
In his loincloth.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
oh my gosh the ending is so bad i’m insanely sleep deprived i might remake this.. first neteyam work?? anyways.. suggestions for a better ending would be appreciated!!
⋆ | a/n: 𝗛𝗲𝘆, 𝘀𝗼 𝗜 𝘄𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗲 𝗮 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 (𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲), 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗮 𝗳𝗲𝘄 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗲𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆, 𝘀𝗼 𝗜 𝗱𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘀𝗲 𝘁𝘄𝗼 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘀!
⋆ | wc: 8.1k ( sorry )
⋆ | what it like falling in love with Neteyam pt1 ( pt2 here )
You hear the horns before fully you understand them.
A deep, resonant sound that cuts through the air and sends everyone around you into motion
feet hitting the ground, voices rising, bodies pushing past you in waves of excitement.
The Sullys are back.
You catch the words in pieces, pulled from the chaos like threads. Happy yelps. Relieved laughter. Children sprinting toward the cliffs.
And then your heart does that thing.
That stupid, traitorous thing it always does when you hear his name.
Lo’ak.
You’ve loved him for longer than you’ve had words for it. Born into the same season, your birthdays folded together every year like they belonged that way.
He was your first memory of safety. Your first memory of laughter so hard it hurt. Your best friend in every sense of the word — before the reefs, before the distance, before this.
Before he left, he had looked at you with those gold eyes and said he’d come back.
And you had believed him. You had held that promise like something sacred.
You make it to the edge of the cliff.
You find him immediately — you always find him immediately, like your eyes were made to — and for one perfect, breathless second, everything is okay.
Then you see her.
She’s a little lighter in blue, and she is, without question, the most beautiful girl you have ever seen in your life.
And she is laughing. Bright and easy, her hand looped through Lo’ak’s arm as he jumps down from his ikran.
He turns back to help her.
You watch his hands.
You wish you hadn’t.
One settles at her waist — sure, familiar, gentle —
she drops into his arms like she’s done it a hundred times, and they laugh together the way people laugh when they’ve built something between them.
Something real.
Something with history in it.
You understand everything in that single moment.
You leave before anyone can see your face.
You go anywhere that isn’t there, isn’t him, isn’t the image of his hand on her waist that has already burned itself somewhere permanent behind your eyes.
Your stomach turns with every step. Your throat aches.
It wasn’t like you were dating.
You know that. You repeat it to yourself like it should help.
You never said it out loud. You never made it real. You can’t be angry. You can’t be this.
But you are.
You find a quiet place and you cry until you have nothing left.
Hours pass.
Somewhere in the grief, you realize where your feet have taken you.
The old spot. The one tucked away from everyone else, half hidden by roots and river sound. The place you and Lo’ak used to find each other on the bad nights — after his father said something disrespectful, after the world felt too heavy for one person to carry. You’d sit here together and fall apart a little, and it always felt like permission.
Like being known.
You didn’t consciously come here for him.
But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t waiting.
The sun moves. The river keeps going.
He doesn’t come.
You’re finally, finally pulling yourself to your feet when you hear footsteps.
Something in your chest unknots all at once.
There he is.
You let yourself think it as you sink back to the spot you were sitting.
You let yourself feel the small, embarrassing flood of relief.
You turn with a soft smile already forming —
And stop.
It isn’t Lo’ak.
It’s Neteyam.
He looks just as surprised as you are, eyes wide like you’ve startled something out of him. His ears do a complicated thing — up, then down, then uncertain. His tail has gone completely still.
Of course.
Neteyam. Older, serious, always in training Neteyam, who you’ve exchanged maybe thirty words with in your entire life, most of them secondhand through Lo’ak.
You weren’t even in the same age group so It made sense.
You’d never disliked him exactly.
He just wasn’t for you. Too structured, too responsible, too much like a Jake Sully in training.
Your expression falls before you can catch it.
His ears drop again.
“Hello.” His voice is low, and it moves through you in a way you’re too exhausted to analyze.
And that — somehow that — is what breaks the last of it.
You stop trying to hold anything in.
“Why are you crying?”
He crouches down slowly, carefully, like he’s trying not to startle something fragile. His movements come in small increments, almost hesitant, which is strange on someone who carries himself the way he does.
You don’t answer.
Instead, you stand. You reach for your wrist. You pull off the bracelet Lo’ak made you — the one you’ve worn so long it’s shaped itself to your skin — and you throw it into the river without looking where it lands.
Then you walk.
“Hey—” His hand closes around your arm, gentle but firm.
You pull free. “Please.” Your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “Just leave me alone.”
It isn’t cruel. You just have nothing left to offer anyone right now. Not even patience.
And maybe he hears that, because he lets you go.
You go home.
Your parents look at you the way parents do when they know something is wrong and also know better than to ask. You appreciate it more than you can say.
You lie awake and think about Lo’ak. About the girl. About whether you have any right to feel like this. About how he didn’t come looking for you — not once, not to find you in the place he knew you’d be.
It’s selfish, maybe, to want that.
You think about it until you can’t anymore, and then you sleep.
Morning comes with a different kind of feeling.
Not better, exactly. Just quieter. The raw edges of it have settled into something duller, something you can function around.
And then you think about the bracelet.
He made that for you. Sat somewhere with cord and patience and made it with his hands, and you threw it in a river because you were heartbroken and not thinking and then
You’re out of bed before you finish the thought.
You throw back the covering at your door and walk directly into a wall of solid chest.
“Lo’ak—”
The name comes out automatically, a reflex, and you’re already smiling when you look up.
Neteyam blinks down at you.
“…No,” he says, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. “It’s me. Neteyam.”
The smile fades into something smaller, more embarrassed. “Oh.”
Maybe disappointment would be the best word.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
“No, I’m sorry, I just walked into you—” You’re already shaking your hands, backpedaling.
“Oh yeah. About that too,” he says, looking away.
Has Neteyam always been like this?
You don’t really have much to say.
He glances to the side. Reaches into his pocket.
And holds out your bracelet.
You stare at it.
Then at him.
Then at it again.
“You did not.”
“I had a feeling,” he says, and there’s something almost careful in his voice, like he’s been thinking about how to say this, “that you might want it back.”
You reach out and take it slowly. “What happened to you out there?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s strange,” you say, not quite meeting his eyes, “seeing you when you’re not angry.”
He actually looks caught off guard by that. “Am I always angry?”
“You’re always like—” You drop your voice, square your shoulders, put on your best disapproving face. “‘Lo’ak. I’m telling Dad. Lo’ak, it’s too late, Lo’ak—’”
He laughs.
Not a polite one. Not a controlled one. A real one, the kind that takes up space, and it’s so unexpected that it pulls something out of you — the first real smile since they came home.
Small and a little watery, but real.
“I apologize,” he says, pressing a dramatic hand to his chest. “I did get shot. Maybe that is why.”
“Is this your coping mechanism?” You let out a laugh despite yourself.
He looks at you for a moment before he answers.
“Maybe.”
“It’s not healthy. Just saying.”
“And what would you know about trauma?” He raises a brow, teasing, and it’s so strange — this version of him.
“I have some of my own.”
“Like crying over Lo’ak?”
It lands like it was meant lightly. You can tell by the way he’s still smiling.
But it settles somewhere tender, and you drag your eyes away from his face and study the ground.
“No,” you say, after a moment.
A pause. Then, quieter: “I don’t have much. But I’ve helped others who do. Men who carry things they won’t name.” You press your heel into the dirt. “I know what it looks like.”
Something shifts in his expression. He reaches over — slow — and his hand taps briefly on your arm.
“I am okay,” he says. Like he means it. Like he’s saying it for you, not for himself. “I promise.”
You open your mouth.
“Neteyam!”
Jake’s voice, carrying from somewhere behind him, cuts the moment clean.
He straightens. His hand drops. He looks at you for just a second longer than he needs to, then pats your arm once — friendly, warm, final — and turns to go.
You watch him leave.
You look down at the bracelet in your hands.
You slide it back onto your wrist.
You’re still not okay.
But somehow, that felt like the beginning of something.
-
The forest feels different when you land.
Same trees. Same light coming through in columns, same smell of earth and green and something ancient underneath it all. Your ikran settles beneath you and you sit there for a moment longer than you need to, letting the canopy close over your head like a hand.
Home.
You slide down and don’t look back toward where the others are landing. You already know what you’ll see if you do.
You go home instead.
The first week is the worst one.
Not because anything dramatic happens — if anything, the opposite. Life keeps moving at its same pace, indifferent to whatever is happening inside your chest. You help with the healers. You eat. You sleep badly and wake up and do it again.
You see Lo’ak twice, both times at a distance. He’s with her. Of course he is. She moves through the village like someone who belongs there already, bright and curious, and everyone seems charmed by her, and you understand why because you can see why, and that almost makes it worse.
You don’t cry again. You already emptied yourself out at the river, and there doesn’t seem to be much left.
You just carry it. The stone of it. Heavy and smooth and quietly yours.
You see Neteyam more than you expect.
Not by design — you’re fairly certain it’s proximity more than anything else. The village isn’t large, the paths cross, and he’s suddenly visible in a way he wasn’t before. Or maybe he was always there and you just never had reason to notice.
He’s usually in motion. Training, walking somewhere with purpose, talking to one of the other warriors with the kind of expression that means he’s taking something seriously and everyone around him knows it.
He doesn’t acknowledge you when he passes. Neither do you. This seems to be a mutual understanding — you existed on the edges of each other’s lives for years without intersecting, and there’s no particular reason to change that.
Except.
You keep thinking about the bracelet.
It comes back to you at strange times. He must’ve swam for hours trying to find it.
You’ve been carrying that around somewhere you can’t quite locate.
You don’t know what to do with it so you don’t do anything. You just let it sit there.
The month moves slowly and then all at once.
Somewhere in the middle of it, you notice the stone is lighter. Not gone — it’s still there when you catch Lo’ak laughing across the village, still there in the quiet moments before sleep — but lighter. More manageable. Like your body has quietly started restructuring itself around the fact of him and her, the way bone grows around an old break.
You stop watching for him.
One morning you realize you didn’t think about him at all the day before.
You stand in the middle of the path and take stock of that feeling.
It doesn’t feel like losing something. It feels, strangely, like setting something down.
Then one day, a bad storm comes through in the afternoon — sudden, the kind that turns the paths into rivers and sends everyone scrambling. You make it partially to shelter before it fully opens up, which means you end up ducking under the wide overhang of the old storage structure at the east end of the village, and you are already there, wringing out your hair, when Neteyam comes around the corner.
He stops.
You stop.
You both look at the rain.
“Hello,” he says.
“Hello,” you say.
He comes under the overhang.
And you respectfully make room.
You stand there for a while, watching the rain come down in sheets, and neither of you says anything, because there isn’t much to say. You’re not friends. You’re not enemies. You’re two people who are stuck waiting for the same rain to stop.
Eventually he says, “how have you been?”
“Good,” you say.
He nods, like that accounts for something.
The rain keeps going.
“He talked about you,” Neteyam adds. “On the water. Sometimes.”
You look at him. “Good things?”
The corner of his mouth does something. “Mostly.”
You almost smile. “That sounds right.”
After that it’s a little less strange when you pass each other.
Not warm exactly. Just — acknowledged. A nod sometimes, or the small raise of his chin that seems to be his version of a greeting when words are more than the situation requires. You start doing it back because It costs nothing.
You don’t go looking for more than that. You’re not sure what more would even look like.
It’s another accident that changes things. Or maybe not an accident. You’re starting to suspect the universe has opinions.
You’re sitting in the upper branches of one of the older trees near the training grounds — a habit you developed as a child, when you needed to be above everything for a while — when Neteyam comes to the base of it, clearly not expecting anyone to be there. He looks up. You look down.
“What are you doing up there?” he asks.
“Sitting.”
He considers this. Then he puts his hands on the first branch.
“You can come up,” you say, because it seems rude not to. “If you want.”
He comes up.
He doesn’t take the branch closest to you. He takes the one above, where there’s more room, and settles there with the ease of someone who grew up in a forest and has never not known how to move through trees. Which, you remind yourself, is exactly what he is.
For a while you’re both just up in a tree for no particular reason.
“Does this help?” he asks eventually.
“What?”
“Being up here.”
You think about it. “Sometimes I just need to be somewhere that isn’t at eye level with everything.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “I understand that.”
Something in the way he says it makes you believe him.
It becomes a thing.
Not a planned thing. Not something either of you names or decides. More like a habit that forms on its own — the way water finds its own path, not because anyone directed it but because the ground allowed it.
After training, sometimes, he appears. Not always. Not so often that you start expecting it. But enough that you notice his absence on the days he doesn’t come, which is its own kind of information you try not to look at too directly.
He’s still not easy to talk to, exactly. He doesn’t offer things the way Lo’ak does, all surface and speed, everything visible. He gives you smaller pieces more slowly, and you have to meet him there — stay quiet long enough, not rush to fill the space — and it takes you a few weeks to figure out that the waiting is worth it.
When he finally makes a joke you understand it.
He makes you laugh for the first time on an afternoon that starts badly.
You’ve dropped a full morning of prepared medicines. You’re crouched on the ground trying to salvage what you can, jaw tight, not in the mood for anything, when Neteyam crouches beside you and begins helping you gather them without being asked.
You look at him.
He picks up a bundle, examines it. Sets it aside. “This one’s done.”
“I know it’s done.”
“Just making sure you knew.”
“Thank you so much,” you say flatly and full of sarcasm
“This one is fine.” He passes it to you.
“Thank you.”
“This one—”
“Please.”
He looks at you, and there’s something in his expression — completely controlled, completely serious — except for the very slight thing happening in his eyes.
“—is fine also,” he finishes.
You look at him for a long moment.
Then you laugh, helplessly, at nothing except how exhausted you are and how strange this is and how he managed to do that with a completely straight face.
He doesn’t laugh. But the thing in his eyes gets more pronounced.
“Better?” he asks.
“Marginally,” you say.
“Good,” he says, and hands you another bundle.
Lo’ak finds you first.
You’re at the river, and he drops down beside you like no time has passed — because with Lo’ak, no time ever really passes, he just picks things up wherever they were — and says, “Hey.”
You look at him.
Something in your chest does the thing it always did, except smaller now. More like recognition than ache.
“Hey,” you say.
And then slowly, over the course of an afternoon, he tells you everything.
He tells you about Tsireya the way he tells all the things that matter to him — sideways, doubling back, starting in the middle. She nearly knocked him out of his feet the first time they met and how she taught him how to ‘breathe’. She wasn’t intimidated by his name or his father or any of it, and that was the moment, Lo’ak tells you — that was the exact moment, when she looked at him like he was just a person and waited to see what kind of person he’d be.
You listen to all of it.
And somewhere in there you feel the last of it release. The thing you’d been carrying. Not in a dramatic way — more like finally putting your arms down after holding something heavy, and realizing your arms were tired.
This is what was supposed to happen.
“I’m happy for you,” you say, and you mean it completely.
He looks at you for a moment. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You bump his shoulder. “She’d better be good to you.”
“She’s kind of terrifying,” he says, smiling.
“Even better.”
He laughs. You laugh. And for a while you’re just where you always were — beside each other, easy, the specific comfort of someone who has known you long enough that silence doesn’t need filling.
Then he says, tilting his head, “You and Neteyam have been spending time together.”
You look at the water. “We run into each other.”
“Mm.” Lo’ak draws the sound out. “Every other day.”
“The village isn’t big.”
“Right.” He’s quiet for a moment, but you can feel the grin building from six feet away. “I’m just saying—”
“Lo’ak—”
“Because the idea of it—” He’s already starting to laugh, the helpless kind, “—you and my brother—”
“Please stop.”
“I would have to leave,” he says. “I would have to physically leave. I would walk into the trees and not come back. The image alone—” He shudders, dramatically. “I love you both but that is genuinely the most disgusting thing I have ever pictured.”
“There’s nothing to picture,” you say firmly. “Ew. No. I could never.”
“Good,” Lo’ak says, still laughing, “because I would actually lose my mind—”
You don’t hear the pause in the path above you.
You don’t hear anything at all.
You notice something is wrong the next morning.
You cross paths with Neteyam near the center of the village, and you give him the small nod that has become your language, and he…
Doesn’t reciprocate.
He looks at you for exactly one second and looks away and keeps walking, and you stand there for a moment trying to understand what just happened.
You tell yourself it was nothing. He was distracted. He was thinking about something else.
By the fourth day, you’ve stopped telling yourself that.
He’s gone. Not physically — you still see him, still cross paths — but whatever had been building between you has been taken down so completely it’s like it was never there. He looks through you. He volunteers for extra training shifts, and you hear about it secondhand, and when you try to get close enough to speak to him, he finds a way to not be there.
You try. Twice, you try — once in the morning near the healers’ stores, once in the evening near the training grounds. Both times he gives you a few seconds of surface courtesy, enough to be polite, not enough to be real, and then he’s somewhere else.
You go over everything. Every word, every conversation, every moment you can find. You can’t locate it. You don’t know what you did.
The worst part is the room.
When you’re with Lo’ak and Neteyam comes in. The shift in the air, the particular silence that descends, how everyone around them quietly starts looking at other things. Lo’ak keeps talking, because Lo’ak always keeps talking, but even he has started giving you small sideways glances that mean he’s noticed and doesn’t know what to do about it. Kiri watches everything and says nothing. Spider pretends to be very interested in the far wall.
Neteyam doesn’t stay.
And you find yourself looking at your hands.
After the fifth attempt lands nowhere, you stop.
It isn’t a decision you make consciously. More like your body makes it for you. You’ve offered the door enough times. He’s made his choice.
You start to think that maybe you read it wrong. Maybe you imagined whatever was growing there — the tree branch, the rain, the way he waited sometimes before he said things, like you were worth the pause. Maybe you took something ordinary and made it mean more than it did, and he realized it and took a step back, and you were the last one to understand what was happening.
Maybe he just outgrew you.
The thought is quiet and small and it settles somewhere deep.
Your feet take you to the old spot without you deciding to go there.
Of course they do. It’s where you go when things get too heavy for everywhere else. The roots and the river sound and the way it sits apart from the rest of the village, far enough that you can breathe differently.
You don’t cry. You’re too tired for crying.
You just sit in the dark and let yourself feel the specific loneliness of losing something you didn’t even have a name for yet.
Kiri finds you there in the afternoon.
She sits without being invited, which is very Kiri, and looks at the water for a moment before she says, “Walk with me somewhere. I want to show you something.”
You look at her.
Her expression is too even to be natural.
“What are you doing?” you ask.
“Showing you something,” she says simply.
The clearing she takes you to is east of the main path — quiet, good light, the kind of place that clearly exists but most people don’t think to find. You’re looking at it and thinking, dimly, that it’s beautiful, when you hear footsteps from the other path.
You already know.
Neteyam stops when he sees you.
You watch him look for Kiri, who is no longer there. You watch the realization move through his face, and then you watch it shut down into something carefully neutral, and he turns.
You cross the space before you’ve finished deciding to.
Your hand closes around his arm.
He goes still.
“Hey,” you say.
He turns to look at you but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to — it’s all there, right under the surface of him, unmistakable. He’s been carrying this for weeks and it has not improved with carrying.
“Tell me what I did,” you say. “Because I’ve been through everything I can think of and I can’t find it.”
His jaw shifts. His tail moves, slow and tight.
“Neteyam.” You step slightly in front of him so he can’t look past you. “I can’t fix something I don’t know about.”
“I heard you,” he says. “With Lo’ak. At the river.”
You go still.
He keeps his voice even, which you can tell is costing him something. “I was coming to find you and I heard you talking.”
You go back through it. Lo’ak’s joke. His dramatics. You saying —
His ears drop. Just slightly. Just enough to show you something underneath the anger — something quieter, something he’s been trying not to let you see.
“Neteyam, that conversation was—” You stop. Start again. “Lo’ak made a joke. About the two of us. And I panicked.”
“You were disgusted.”
The word sits there.
“I know,” you say quietly. “I know I did. And I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I just — I didn’t know how to answer him without making it real, and I said the first thing that would make him stop asking.”
He is quiet for a long moment.
Then, lower — almost reluctant, like it costs him something to admit it: “I don’t care what Lo’ak thinks of me. I stopped caring about that a long time ago.” A pause. “But I don’t — I didn’t like thinking that you felt that way. About me.”
Something in your chest breaks open, small and clean.
“I don’t,” you say. “I promise you. It was a stupid, thoughtless thing I said because I was scared, and it was childish, and I am sorry.” You exhale. “You have never once given me a reason to feel that way.”
He looks at you.
For a long moment he just looks at you, and you let him, because you think he’s deciding something.
Then he nods. Once. The tension in his shoulders drops by a fraction — just enough to mean he believes you.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay,” you say.
The river runs somewhere behind you. The light sits warm in the clearing.
Neither of you moves to leave.
“I think Kiri is watching us from the trees,” Neteyam says eventually.
“Definitely,” you agree.
“I should go back to training.”
“You should.”
He doesn’t move. “You could come.”
You look up at him.
“To watch?” you say.
Something in his expression does a very controlled thing. “To sit in the branches. If you want.”
You almost smile.
“Maybe,” you say.
And something that had been closed opens back up between you, quiet as a door off its latch
and this time you think you’ll be more careful with it.
-
It grows slowly.
That’s the part you weren’t expecting — how unhurried it is. How it doesn’t announce itself.
It accumulates instead. Morning by morning. Afternoon by afternoon.
The tree becomes yours again. He comes after training, still catching his breath sometimes, dropping onto the branch above you with the ease that never stops being unfair given how large he is. You don’t always talk. Sometimes you just exist in the same space and it’s enough — more than enough, actually, in a way that takes you a while to fully examine.
He starts bringing you things.
Little things. Not gifts exactly — more like observations that happened to land in his hands. A river stone with an unusual marking. A feather he thought the healers might want. A fruit he found on the eastern trail that he’d never seen before and thought you might know the name of.
You always do.
He always looks satisfied when you do, like your knowing something was the point all along.
You start saving things for him too. You don’t let yourself think about what that means.
The first time he tells you something real — not surface, not careful — you’re at the river in the low dark of the evening, and it comes out of him sideways, the way the true things always do.
He tells you what it felt like to be shot. Not the pain, not the physical — but the moment after. The specific fear not of dying but of everything being unfinished. Of his father’s face. Of not having done enough.
You sit with it.
You don’t rush to fill it with reassurance. You don’t tell him he’s done plenty, that he’s so responsible, that everyone can see how hard he works. You’ve seen how those things land on him — like weights he already carries, not comfort.
You just say: “That sounds exhausting. Carrying all of it.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
“It is,” he says.
And somehow that’s the thing that reaches him. Just the acknowledgment. Just someone saying: yes, I see the weight, and I’m not going to add to it.
He looks at you differently after that. You notice it. You try not to notice it too loud.
The first time he touches you for no reason —
You’re walking back from the eastern path and the ground dips unexpectedly, the way it does after the rains, and your footing goes slightly and his hand comes to the small of your back without thought. Sure and immediate. Like a reflex that didn’t check with the rest of him first.
He keeps walking.
You keep walking.
But your whole nervous system has registered something, and you think his has too, because the hand stays there two seconds longer than it needed to.
You don’t say anything.
He doesn’t say anything.
But the next time, he doesn’t pull it back at all.
You’re with the others when you first notice it properly. Lo’ak is mid-story — the kind that requires both hands and a sound effect — and Neteyam has drifted into your orbit without appearing to notice he’s done it. His arm is behind you, not around you, close enough to be warmth without being contact. His attention is on Lo’ak but yours keeps drifting to him.
When Lo’ak gets to the part where he nearly fell off his ikran, Neteyam turns to look at you like he expects to share the reaction.
You’re already looking at him.
You both look away at the same time.
Lo’ak doesn’t notice. Lo’ak is never going to notice. You are growing increasingly certain that Lo’ak could watch Neteyam take your hand and still find a way to not register what he was seeing.
Kiri notices everything and says nothing, which is almost worse.
Neteyam has a meeting with the hunters that runs long, and you’re already at your branch before you realize you’ve been waiting — really waiting, tracking the angle of the light and calculating roughly when he should be finished.
He arrives ten minutes later. He doesn’t apologize for being late and you didn’t expect him to.
“The hunters are impossible,” he says, climbing up beside you, which is new — not above this time, but beside. Your shoulders nearly touch.
“Were they arguing again?”
“Always.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know how my father managed it when he was young. I think they respected him more.”
“Your father is terrifying,” you say. “That’s different from respect.”
He makes a sound somewhere between agreement and protest. “He’s not—” He stops. Reconsiders. “He means well.”
“I know he does. It still sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” he says, for the second time in your lives, and this time he says it easier.
Like you’ve earned the honesty.
Like you’re safe to say the true thing to.
You look at each other, and the air between you shifts into something you’ve been quietly pretending not to notice for weeks.
“I should probably stop coming here,” he says, and his voice does something complicated on the words.
“Probably,” you agree.
Neither of you moves.
“It’s distracting,” he adds.
“Terribly,” you say.
He looks at you for a long moment. His tail does a slow, deliberate thing behind him.
“I don’t actually want to stop,” he says.
“I know,” you say. “I don’t either.”
Another moment.
Then: “That’s a problem.”
“Possibly,” you say.
“I have training in the morning.”
“You always have training in the morning.”
“And yet,” he says.
“And yet,” you agree.
You stay until the stars come out.
You’re sitting close — closer than usual, which has been happening in increments so gradual you could almost pretend you didn’t notice — and he’s been showing you something on his palm, a mark from training he thought was interesting, which is an excuse and you both know it’s an excuse but you let it be one because his hand is warm and he smells like the forest after rain and you have apparently run out of the will to pretend.
He looks up.
You are already looking at him.
The question is all over his face. He is asking without asking, the way he does everything — giving you room to say no, room to step back, room to decide. His ears are slightly forward. His tail has gone still in that particular way that means he is paying very close attention and trying not to show it.
You lean forward.
And he meets you there.
“WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING.”
You both pull back like you’ve been struck by lightning.
Lo’ak is standing at the base of the tree, head tilted back, staring up at the two of you with an expression that cycles through no fewer than four different emotions in the span of two seconds.
Neteyam’s jaw tightens. He looks at a point somewhere past his brother’s head.
“Sitting,” you say.
“Together,” Lo’ak says.
“There is room in the tree for more than one person, Lo’ak.”
“You were—” He squints. Points. “Were you—”
“We were talking,” Neteyam says, voice flat as a stone.
Lo’ak stares at him for a long moment. Then stares at you. His eyes narrow. His mouth opens.
“Your father is looking for you,” you say.
The mention of Jake closes Lo’ak’s mouth immediately. He lingers for another two seconds of pure suspicion, then points at Neteyam with something that is halfway between accusation and warning, and walks away.
You do not look at each other for a very long time.
“Well,” you say finally.
“Yes,” he says.
The air between you has rearranged itself into something careful and charged and unfinished.
He climbs down from the tree shortly after. He doesn’t say much. You don’t either. The walk back is quiet in a way that has a shape to it — not uncomfortable, just full. Like something that has been set aside but not put away.
You lie awake that night and don’t let yourself think about how close it was.
You think about it anyway.
After that, it’s worse.
Or better. You’re genuinely not sure.
The almost sits between you everywhere you go. Not heavy — nothing between you is heavy anymore — but present. Like a word someone started saying and didn’t finish. Like the breath before something.
You notice him differently now.
Not that you weren’t noticing before. But there’s a specificity to it now that you don’t know what to do with. The way his braids fall over his shoulder when he tilts his head. The particular shade of his skin in late afternoon light — something warmer than you expected, something that catches. His hands, which you have now spent an unreasonable amount of time thinking about for reasons that have nothing to do with the mark he was showing you.
He’s beautiful.
You’ve known this the way you know facts about geography — distantly, abstractly, categorically. But it’s become something you feel now. Something that lands in your chest without permission.
He notices you too.
You know because he tells you, accidentally, the way he tells all the things that catch him off guard.
You’d just come back from the river, hair still damp, and he’d looked at you for a moment too long before saying, quietly and with the careful tone of someone choosing their words: “Your eyes are lighter in the sun. I don’t think I’d noticed before.”
And then he’d looked away and said nothing else, like he hadn’t just quietly undone you.
You’d stood there for a moment.
“Thank you,” you’d said, to the side of his face.
“Mm,” he’d said, to the trees.
Another time: you’d laughed at something — a real laugh, the kind that happens before you can make it smaller — and when you looked up he was watching you with an expression you’d never seen on him before. Open. Unguarded. A little bit helpless.
It was gone in a second, replaced by something neutral.
But you saw it.
You filed it away somewhere you could find it again.
He says things, sometimes, that he immediately seems to realize he’s said.
“You’re — never mind.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Neteyam.”
“I said nothing.”
You’ve started letting these go with a smile, which seems to be worse for him than pressing, and which is therefore your preferred approach.
He does this thing where he watches you when you’re talking to other people. Not possessively — it’s not that. It’s more like he drifts toward your frequency naturally, the way a plant will turn toward light, and then catches himself and looks somewhere else. You’ve started tracking it peripherally and saying nothing, because you’re not sure yet what it means to say something.
The tree continues.
Lo’ak continues to not understand anything, which you have decided is a gift from Eywa specifically.
He does ask, once, squinting between the two of you with the expression of someone doing math they’re bad at: “Are you guys — like — is something—”
“We’re friends,” you say.
“Right,” Lo’ak says, clearly not satisfied.
Neteyam says nothing, which Lo’ak takes as confirmation, which is impressive given that Neteyam’s silence could mean approximately eighteen different things.
Kiri looks at you one afternoon with an expression that says: I know exactly what is happening and I am going to say absolutely nothing about it. And then she smiles, serene as water, and walks away.
You stare after her.
You’re not sure whether to be grateful or afraid.
-
It’s a slow accumulation of closeness that neither of you names.
Not the big moments. The small ones. The ones that don’t announce themselves, that could each individually be explained away — but together, stacked up, form something that can’t be mistaken for anything other than what it is.
It starts with food.
There’s a gathering one evening — the whole family, some of the hunters, the particular comfortable chaos of too many people in one place — and Neteyam settles beside you and hands you something without being asked. A piece of fruit from his own plate. Not a separate portion. His.
You look at it.
“You haven’t eaten since this morning,” he says, like that explains it.
“How do you know that?”
He doesn’t answer. He just looks at you until you take it.
You take it.
You try not to think about the fact that he noticed. That he’s been paying that kind of attention.
He steals it back a minute later, taking a bite before returning it, completely unbothered, like sharing food with you is just a thing he does now.
It is, you realize. It quietly has been for weeks.
You share a drink one afternoon near the eastern path, passing a water skin back and forth without ceremony. You hadn’t thought about it until you watched him drink from the same side you’d been drinking from and he hadn’t moved it, hadn’t wiped it, had just drunk from where your mouth had been like the thought of doing otherwise hadn’t occurred to him.
You’d looked at the water skin.
He’d looked at you looking at it.
“Did you want it back?” he’d asked.
“No,” you’d said, a beat too late.
He’d handed it back anyway, the corner of his mouth doing that barely-there thing.
You’d drunk from it without moving it.
Neither of you mentioned it.
Then one day, you’re sitting together at the edge of the gathering space, a bowl of something warm balanced between you — it had been his, technically, but that distinction has stopped meaning much — and you’re leaning to point at something across the way when your elbow catches the edge of the bowl and the whole thing tips and lands directly on your chest.
You gasp. He moves immediately — not hesitating,—his hand coming up to lift the fabric away from your skin, lightly, letting you’re tit brush the air. His other hand already reaching for the cloth at his side. He starts blotting the spill with focused efficiency, and you sit very still and try to remember how to breathe because his hands are right there beside your perky nipple and his face is close and he’s concentrating so hard on fixing the problem that he hasn’t registered that the problem is you standing here not breathing.
“It’s hot,” he says, still focused. “Does it hurt?”
“No,” you say. “It’s fine.”
“You should change this.” He’s still working at the edge of the spill, his fingers brushing your collarbone in a way that is entirely accidental and entirely ruining you. “The stain will set if you don’t.”
“Neteyam.”
“Mm.”
“I think you got it.”
He stops. Looks at what his hands are doing. Looks at you.
He steps back.
“Right,” he says, in a voice that is doing an admirable job of being normal.
“Thank you,” you say, in a voice that is doing a slightly less admirable job.
He nods. He hands you the cloth. He sits back down and picks up the conversation from wherever it was before the bowl, and you stand there for a moment before sitting down beside him, and neither of you says a word about any of it.
But he sits closer than he was before.
And he doesn’t move away.
The closeness compounds quietly after that.
You don’t talk about it. That seems to be your agreement — unspoken, mutual, the same way most things between you have been decided. But the space between you keeps shrinking in small and undeniable ways.
He falls asleep once, briefly, in the tree — leaning back against the trunk, arms crossed, and then tilted sideways until his head came to rest on your shoulder with a heaviness that said his body had made the decision before his mind could stop it. You sat very still for the ten minutes it lasted. When he woke he straightened without comment and you looked at separate things for a moment and then the conversation continued as if nothing had happened except that he didn’t move his shoulder away from yours for the rest of the afternoon.
You start sitting closer automatically. So does he. It’s just where you end up.
There’s an evening where Lo’ak and Spider are being spectacularly loud about something and Neteyam leans down and says something low near your ear — an observation, something dry and private that’s just for you — and his breath is warm and close and you laugh even though the comment wasn’t that funny and he looks satisfied in a way that he tries to hide and completely fails to.
“What?” he says.
“Nothing,” you say.
He looks at you for a moment.
“Nothing,” he says, neutral as stone.
But his tail has done the slow, satisfied thing again.
You’re starting to catalog what his tail does. This is information you hold privately and do not share with anyone.
-
He tells you three days in advance.
Which is how you know it’s not an accident.
“I want to take you somewhere,” he says. Not asking, exactly — more like informing, in the way he does when he’s already decided something and wants to give you the chance to decline without making it a performance. “East of the second ridge. There’s something I want you to see.”
You look at him. “When?”
“When I don’t have training.” A pause. “Which I will arrange.”
You almost smile. “You’ll arrange it.”
“Yes.”
“You, who have never once voluntarily reduced training.”
“I’ve reduced it before.”
“When you were shot.”
He looks at you, and the thing in his eyes does something very loving. “Do you want to come?.”
“Yes,” you say. “I want to come.”
He nods. Like that settles it. You can see his fingers relax just a bit.
He comes to find you in the early morning, before the village is fully awake, and you ride out together in a quiet that feels chosen rather than empty. His ikran drifts close to yours the way they’ve started doing, like the animals have also figured something out that their riders are still navigating.
The place he takes you is worth the ride.
A clearing on a high ridge looking east, where the canopy opens up and you can see for what feels like the whole world — the forest rolling out below, the water glinting far off, the morning light coming in at the exact angle that turns everything gold and impossible. It’s the kind of view that makes you understand why people want to take pandora for their own. Like something arranged it on purpose.
You stand there for a moment and just look.
“Neteyam,” you say.
“I found it when I was tracking last season,” he says, beside you. “I kept thinking about who I wanted to show it to.”
You turn to look at him.
He’s already looking at you.
He thought about who he wanted to show it to, and the answer was you. He’s had this in his pocket for a season and he saved it for you.
He brought food too — the good things, the ones that take effort to find, arranged with the particular care of someone who was thinking about it ahead of time and won’t say so. He sits across from you and hands you things and the morning opens up around you and it’s the easiest you’ve ever felt in your own skin.
You eat together. You talk about nothing important and then things that are. He tells you about the first time he came to the ridge alone, what he was running from that day, and you tell him something true in return, the kind you don’t take out often, and he listens the way he always does — fully, without interrupting, like what you’re saying is the only thing worth paying attention to.
At some point the food is gone and you’re just sitting in the light and you realize you have been unconsciously tracking the angle of the sun and hoping it slows down.
“I have to ask you something,” he says.
He says it to the view, not to you. Which is how you know it matters.
You wait.
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he says. “I didn’t want to do it near the village.” His jaw shifts. “I didn’t want it to be someone else’s story.”
You look at the side of his face. “Okay .”
He turns to you. The gold in his eyes catches the morning light, and you think: there it is. That thing you saw on his face the first time he made you laugh. Open. Unguarded. Completely, entirely his.
“I want this to be something,” he says. “Whatever this has been — I want it to be real. I want you to be mine. I want to be yours ” A pause, careful. “If you want that.”
The view stretches out behind him.
The forest breathes.
Something settles in your chest like it’s been waiting a long time to land.
“I want that,” you say.
He exhales — just once, quiet — and something in his whole body changes. Like he put something down. Like he’s been holding it for a long time and he finally gets to set it somewhere safe.
He reaches out and takes your hand.
Not the way he’s been reaching for you for weeks — carefully, with plausible deniability. Just takes it. Simple and certain. Like you’ve already been this for a long time and he’s only just saying so out loud.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay,” you say.
You sit there for a long time, looking at the world below.
Then he leans over, slow and unhurried, and presses his mouth to yours — soft, gentle, the kind of kiss that isn’t trying to be anything except exactly what it is.
When you pull back he looks at you for a moment, and then he almost smiles.
Little did you know your sweet innocent new boyfriend would get a little too obsessed with you.
Pt2 here
So I originally wrote this a lot longer and more detailed, but it was so long that it wouldn’t even fit into one post. I had to break it up and make it shorter and less detailed, but still understandable because I didn’t want to turn it into three parts. I really hope you still enjoyed it, and if you made it this far, thank you so much for reading.
Based off this request!
SILVER SPRINGS | p.1
₊˚⊹♡ Pairings: Aged up Neteyam x Aged up Omaticaya!reader ₊˚⊹♡ Synopsis: Neteyam and y/n have known each other for a long time. close friends. Infact, so close that they can't comprehend if it was still friendship that is between them or something else. However, before they could even find out the truth about their feelings, Neteyam has been promised to marry the daughter of the Tipani Clan's chief. Now, the decision is up to them whether it is the heart or the head that should lead them in making decisions for themselves, or perhaps for others. ⋆⭒˚.⋆ Word count: 2.7k (not proof read) ⋆⭒˚.⋆ Parts: Silver Springs (2.7k wc), Chains and Dreams (9.1k wc) ⋆⭒˚.⋆ Tags/Warnings: smut, dry-humping, grinding, 18+, angst (if you know silver springs, then you know), arranged marriage ⋆⭒˚.⋆ Notes: this is my first time writing smut and angst, and I am still quite unsure of the flow. Also, this story line was inspired by the song 'silver springs' by Fleetwood Mac. I was on a ride to school, listening to this and I just had an idea. So this is it. I hope you enjoy it.
✧*。
You could be my silver spring
Blue-green, colors flashing
I would be your only dream
Your shining autumn, ocean crashing
✧*。
Before you knew the word ‘love’, it was him. Neteyam.
He was the perfect image, the embodiment, of your purest affection. The sound of his voice was enough to bring you down to your knees. His tender touch, capable enough to shape your soul into any form he desires. The way his fingers would linger around the curves of your body, tracing every mark on your skin, as if he was writing his name on every part of you like an oath to be kept. You are forever powerless against his advances, but you never try to resist.
However, none of those things can even compare to his eyes.
Those golden irises of his, that seemed to resemble the gems of most value. They shine beautifully under the rays of the sun, and you can see how his pupils dilate whenever his eyes find you. The sight of it makes your heart melt every time, but they change once it was the nightlight’s turn to rest in the sky. You can see how he craves for you during your late night endeavors. An attempt to escape the realities you both endure daily. There, his eyes become the window to his deepest desires. The longing gaze, and most of all, his hunger. An endless pit of passion, brimming with lust, that seemed to be only meant for you. You can see how his hands tremble whenever they try to reach you. How he nestles his head to the crook of your neck, taking pleasure from your presence. Every touch leaves a burning sensation for you, forever buried on your skin.
You are just completely and utterly helpless when it comes to him.
✧*。
And don’t say that she was pretty?
And did you say that she loved you?
Baby, I don’t wanna know
✧*。
But now, you are the most helpless you have ever been, as it has been announced that Neteyam is promised to marry the daughter of the chief of Tipani Clan. Efforts have to be made to strengthen the manpower for both clans. With the power of Toruk Makto and the hunting prowess of the Tipani warrior clan, the Sky People would have to re-think before striking back again. It is celebratory, as it will result in nothing but good for everyone. For the clan, at least. Not for you.
You hated it. You hated how they prioritized the needs of the clan, instead of Neteyam’s wishes. But you didn’t speak up. You couldn’t, because you had no standing. You are not Neteyam’s mate, and he never clearly stated his intentions to you. You know that you are more than a friend, but inevitably less than a lover. And every time you ask him, you are only gifted by a vague answer.
“You are special to me.” Those were his words. It didn’t sit right with you, it never did. But in truth, you are aware that you hated his answer because it is not the one you desire. It is simply not what you wanted to hear.
Still, despite everything, you are here with him. Sitting beside him on top of the floating mountains, the Ayram Alusing, your usual spot with him. He is telling you stories. One of them is when he met his future mate.
“She is pretty. Beautiful, in fact.” He muttered. You can feel your chest tighten.
“And quite funny.” He had a small smile on his lips.
“But never funnier than you.” For some reason, that made the ache on your heart even more unbearable. It reached up to your bones, to the tips of your fingers, feeling your shoulder blades tense up. It was too painful to hear those words from him. You didn’t understand why he was telling you this. Was it an attempt to torture you? To force out a confession from you, that you long for him more than you would like to admit? You could be given the chance to choose between him and the world, and you would never hesitate even for a second because you knew that the choice would always be him. It will always be him, never changing.
✧*。
So I began not to love you
Turn around, see me runnin’
I say, “I loved you years ago”
Tell myself you never loved me, no
✧*。
Tears are threatening to fall from the corners of your eyes, as you would have to choose him again. You have to be happy for him. He is going to have a wonderful future. A suitable mate, talented enough to be the Tsahik. His Tsahik. And he would have children. Wonderful children that will take after him. They will be the new wearer of your forevermore image of love. And, him. You are sure that he is going to be a strong Olo’eyktan. He would bring the people together with his leadership and compassion.
You of all people should be proud of that, you say to yourself. You should be. It’s the least thing you can do. For him.
Everything for him.
It was torture. Dying would’ve been easier.
“I am more than happy for you, ‘Teyam.” You forced a smile, preventing your voice from cracking. Your lips trembled, and you looked away. You can’t break right now, not when he is watching.
In doing so, you failed to see Neteyam’s expression. You didn’t realize that it was not only you who harbors those feelings. His jaw tightened, and his hands balled into fists. Then, in a swift motion, his hand reached over to your face, cupping your cheek and guiding your gaze back to him. Before you can even pull away, you are met by a soft pair of skin crashing on your lips. It was Neteyam’s lips.
His lips were sweet, tender, as if they were clouds coated by the taste of honey. His face smelled like the green grass of the forest. The rough texture of his braids reminded you of his calloused hands that held you, ever so gently. His hand on your cheek reached the back of your neck, while the other travelled on your waist, burying his fingers deep into your skin. Then, he pulled you closer, making you straddle on top of him. The air was searing hot, and every movement you made was sloppy, evidently soaked by desperation. A moan escaped from your lips, echoing between the kisses you both exchanged. His tongue poured inside, and all strength in your legs evaporated like droplets of rain under the harsh sunlight.
He trembled as he arched his back in an attempt to eradicate every distance that was between the two of you. You can feel the vitality rising in between his legs, and you respond by thrusting your hips, colliding with his. His forehead was now resting on yours. He began moving in sync with yours, and you can feel the excitement build up below your stomach. He moved faster. Harder. His ragged breathing hit your skin like wildfire. You felt your body standing at the pinnacle of pleasure. You are so close to breaking under his touch.
Then he called your name. That was your breaking point.
You cried out his name, as you felt the warm sensation rush out of your body. He looked over to your face and you found yourself indulging the sight in front of you. Your bodies were damp. His bioluminescent skin glowing in the night, tracing them like constellations in the sky. His pupils were dilated, and both of your chests heaved, completely out of sync with one another. You looked at his eyes, and inside them held the emotion that you have so long wanted to receive from him.
This is all you’ve ever wished for. What you have fantasized about in your sleep and in your wake.
In the heat of the moment, you bent your neck and grabbed your kuru. You waited for him to do the same thing. But he didn’t budge. His grip on you loosens, and his gaze now focused somewhere else. You were about to ask him what was wrong, but before you could, you were struck down by his words.
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Apologies were created to soothe the pain away and to seek forgiveness. Who knew they could be used contrary to their purpose?
✧*。
Oh, no
And can you tell me, was it worth it?
Baby, I don’t wanna know
✧*。
The ceremony for the joining of the clan has finally arrived. The tree of souls glowed brighter than ever. You watched as the people gathered around to join the union of the two clans. The place was decorated with wooden posts from every corner, covered with blue and white silks and it complemented well with the glowing roots of the tree. It perfectly resembled a wedding ceremony. It was beautiful, but painful. You walked away from the sight, not wanting to worsen the tight feeling in your chest.
Then you found him. He was standing in the farthest corner, away from all the crowds.
You observed his whole form. His hair was adorned by the most elegant beads. His earring had changed, now replaced by a long white feather tied with long colorful threads. Then your eyes landed on his neck, where he had worn a familiar necklace. You would never forget that necklace, as it was the one he wore when you went out riding with him for the first time. And over his shoulder was a small coat made of feathers. It suited him so well. He looked like a real leader, an Olo’eyktan.
Your eyes traced down to his torso, where he wore a dark-purplish lion-cloth, embedded with small braided fibers. Then your eyes reached up to his wrist, where his other hand was found. He was fiddling with his bracelet. The bracelet you gave him when he confided to you, during his most miserable days. It was your bracelet.
He is still thinking about you.
You found yourself walking up to him. You had to tell him now.
“Neteyam.” His head turned towards the direction of your voice.
“Y/N? What are you doing here? You can’t be here.” His cold tone made you freeze.
“Can we talk? Please?” You pleaded. You searched for something, anything, in his face. But he remained stoic, never budging.
“I can’t, Y/N. You must go now.” He looked away, as he balled his fists.
“Then do not talk. Just let me speak, please.” You begged, desperate for his approval.
“Very well.” He sighed, then tucked his hands behind, “What is it?”
You hesitated, quite unable to find the right words. You closed your eyes tight and took a deep breath. This is your last chance. Last chance to make him yours.
“Do you remember the first time you became honest to me?” You started, nervously pinching the tips of your fingers. “Where you had told me what you truly felt about all of this? You told me that you are growing tired of it. Of all the responsibilities, and the duties. That for once, you want to prioritize yourself. Your wishes. And I believe you. I still do, Neteyam. No matter how betraying it is to see this sight unfold before my eyes. I still believe that the Neteyam I saw that night is still there, in your heart.” You placed your hand on his chest, pushing slightly.
“Please find it in your heart… to bring that Neteyam back.”
Neteyam remained quiet for a moment, before pulling your hand away.
“Is that all?” His voice remained unmoved by your pleas. “Don’t you realize how selfish your words are? Asking me to choose you over my family, my clan?”
“Neteyam, you misunderstand—”
“ —I fear that I do not.”
“Neteyam, please."
“Enough with this nonsense, Y/N. I am to attend a wedding.”
“Nonsense? I am nonsense now, to you?”
“This discussion is nonsense! It will only cause problems for the both of us if we continue further, so just stop!” He yelled at you, for the first time.
You felt your heart break.
“You’ve never yelled at me before. Not like this.” Your small voice managed to reach his ears. His eyes darted back at you, and regret washed over them. He didn’t respond.
“Tell me, did you ever love me?” Your asked with a broken voice.
“Y/N…”
“Please, Neteyam. Answer me.” You begged, holding yourself back from reaching out to him, but he didn’t respond.
“What happened there in the mountains, did it mean nothing to you?” You continued. “All the time we have spent together, have you forgotten about all of it? Because I haven’t. I never will. And even if I try to, I could never bring myself to do it. No matter how many times you shut me out, I will always long for your touch. For your lips.” His gaze fell back to you.
“I love you, Neteyam. With everything I am, and everything I have. You have entrapped my soul to yours, and I am tied to you forever." Your voice sounded like music to his ears. Enticing, but haunting.
"That’s why I beg of you. Find it in your heart to choose yourself this once, like how I would always choose you. Please.” You watched as Neteyam dropped his head, his braids covering his face. You couldn’t see his eyes.
You reached out to him, tracing your fingers on the bracelet on his wrist. He looked down at your hand, then back at you. His eyes shone like starlight.
But then he removed your grip on his arm, letting your hand drop. The air felt cold.
“I’m sorry, Y/N. I cannot.”
✧*。
Time cast a spell on you
But you won't forget me
I know I could have loved you
But you would not let me
I'll follow you down
'Til the sound of my voice will haunt you
✧*。
You watched as Neteyam and his new mate held their hands together in union. The clan sang a sweet, harmonious melody, echoing through the whole forest. It was the most perfect wedding ever. It would’ve been such a beautiful sight to witness, if it weren’t for the aching pain found in your chest. Tears continue to wash down from your eyes, and you can feel your body getting colder.
Neteyam’s words rung in your ears, accompanied by the shattering sound of your heart.
He didn’t choose you. He never loved you as much as you love him. And he will never have the chance to do so.
✧*。
I'll follow you down
'Til the sound of my voice will haunt you
Oh, give me just a chance
You'll never get away from the sound
Of the woman that loved you
Was I just a fool?
✧*。
After the ceremony, Neteyam found himself looking for you. And there you were, at the farthest part of the gathering. You looked cold, weary and.. lonely. He wanted to run to you. To wrap his arms around you, and assure you that he is there for you. He wanted nothing more than to return your feelings that you have so bravely poured out to him. He could still hear your pleas. The desperation in your voice. He never knew that you were capable of sounding like that.
And he curses himself, for forcing you to say those things.
He blames himself for everything. He shouldn’t have kissed you. He shouldn’t have touched you and let you know of his deepest desires, giving you false hope that one day, that encounter might result in something more. He wanted to own you. Your lips. Your eyes. Your hands that perfectly sat on his. He was already yours as much as you were to him.
But he could never give in to his desires. Not when he carries the weight of responsibilities in his shoulder.
Perhaps if you had pleaded once more, he would’ve knelt down and would finally find himself under your mercy. But you didn’t and he doesn’t blame you, he could never. Not when it was him that had cruelly shut you away.
And now, he is cursed forever to dream of your voice, during the silent nights he will spend alone inside his quarters, where he will be forced to yearn every part of you.
༄˖°.🍃.ೃ࿔*:・༄˖°.🍃.ೃ࿔*:・༄˖°.🍃.ೃ࿔*:・༄˖°🍃.ೃ࿔*:・
°❀.ೃ࿔* dividers are from @saradika
well that was challenging. sorry for the vague dialogue, if it sounded too different from usual conversations. I was watching Bridgerton earlier and I couldn't remove the structure of the sentences in my head. ©rinnah09 2026 — do not copy, repost or translate
ৎ୭ before the mantle takes root
prompt: in a world where spiritual bonds dictate life, neteyam struggles with forbidden desire, rivalry, and destiny, forcing love, loyalty, and leadership into a dangerous collision that could change the clan forever.
pairings: Neteyam x reader, neteyam x enemy!reader, Neteyam x you, Neteyam x rival!reader
wc: 18.1k (had fun writing this lol)
warnings: smut, enemies to lovers, slow burn, takes place in the future (in which the sully’s never left the omatikaya people and neteyam is still olo’eyktan-to-be), grown up characters, angst, tsaheylu, kissing, touchy!feely! neteyam, established relationships, reader is curvy :)
notes (please read): this was supposed to be just one, long, one shot but tumblr won’t allow more than 1000 blocks so part two is already (almost) done and will be out! lmk if i made any mistakes because this isn’t proofread.
i didn’t see you before, but i see you now.
let me be yours | N.S. (Avatar: The Way of Water)
Summary: “i do love you and always will” or the one wherein you want what you cannot have. Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan x Omaticaya!Reader (No use of Y/N)
Warnings: Angst
Words: 4k
This was not a love story, but there is love in it. A love that is looking for its way back in.
And the main character is no other than Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk'itan, the eldest son of the famous Toruk Makto, future Olo'eyktan, and you, just you.
Acabó conmigo
⋆ | neteyams mate is the other woman
⋆ | wc. 5.8k
⋆ | tw: a lil slow burn bc i got sad for neteyam lol, Neteyam crying while his cock is buried in you.
the thing about neteyam is that he doesn’t complain.
not once. not ever. you’ve watched him carry the weight of an entire clan on his shoulders like it’s nothing, like he was built for it, and maybe he was. but you’ve also watched his jaw tighten when she speaks to him. the way something behind his eyes just… goes out.
you don’t ask about her– a woman he was force to marry to merge clans–. it’s not your place.
but you notice.
you notice everything about him, which is its own kind of problem.
tonight he finds you in the grove and you can tell before he even opens his mouth that it’s been bad. worse than usual. the bioluminescence catches the lines of his face and he looks older than he is, tired in a way that sleep won’t fix.
“you look terrible,” you tell him, because honesty is the only thing you’ve ever really offered him.
something in his expression cracks open. just a little. “yeah,” is all he says.
you don’t push. you never push. you just move closer, let your shoulder press against his arm, and wait.
and he talks.
he talks for a long time, actually — about the skirmishes and the elders and the pressure that never lets up, never breathes, and somewhere in the middle of it his voice drops low and he says something about home not feeling like home anymore and you have to look away for a second because that one lands differently.
when he goes quiet the grove hums around you both.
“you know you’re allowed to be tired,” you say finally.
he shakes his head like that’s not an option. like tired is a luxury.
“neteyam.”
he looks at you.
“you’re a good man. i need you to know that i know that.”
it’s the wrong thing to say, maybe. or the right thing at exactly the wrong time. because something shifts in him — you can feel it, the moment it tips — and then his hand is at your waist and he’s pulling you in like you’re something he’s been trying not to reach for.
“you make it hard,” he says, rough and quiet. “being around you makes everything else — harder.”
you should step back. you know that.
you don’t step back.
“i know,” you whisper.
and the grove glows, and neither of you moves, and outside of this moment the whole world is waiting to need things from him. but right now his forehead drops to yours and he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months.
you let him.
Neither of you moves for a long time.
his forehead is still against yours and you can feel him breathing — slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to hold onto this specific moment before the world comes crashing back in. you let him. you’re good at letting him have things.
it’s you who finally pulls back. just enough to look at him.
“neteyam.”
“i know,” he says immediately. like he already has the whole conversation mapped out. like he’s been dreading it.
“do you?”
he opens his eyes. looks at you properly. the grove is still glowing around you both and it’s almost unfair how he looks in this light, tired and real and too much all at once.
“i should go,” he says. he doesn’t move.
you don’t tell him to stay. that’s not something you’re willing to be, the person who says stay when he should go. but you also don’t step back. you stay exactly where you are and let him make the choice himself.
he looks at you for a long moment.
he doesn’t go.
instead his thumb traces something slow along your waist and he says, very quietly — “she doesn’t — it isn’t—” and then stops. tries again. “i don’t know how to explain it.”
“you don’t have to.”
“i want to.” and he sounds almost frustrated about it, like the wanting surprises him. “i want you to understand. i’m not — i’m not that person. i don’t want to be that person.”
“what person?”
“the kind who—” he gestures vaguely at the space between you, at the closeness of it, at the fact that he still hasn’t moved his hand. “this.”
you’re quiet for a second.
“but you are,” you say, and it comes out gentle. “right now you are.”
something about that seems to undo him a little. his jaw works. he nods once, slow, like you’ve just confirmed something he already knew and hated.
“she’s not kind to me,” he says finally, and it’s so simple and so plainly true that it almost hurts to hear it. “i know that’s not — i know it doesn’t make this—”
“i know,” you say softly.
“i just wanted to say it out loud.” his voice has gone low. “to someone who isn’t going to use it against me later.”
the grief of that sentence sits between you both for a moment.
you reach up, almost without meaning to, and rest your hand against the side of his face. just for a second. just long enough to feel him lean into it slightly, this tiny helpless thing, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.
“i’m not going anywhere,” you tell him.
he closes his eyes.
“that’s what scares me,” he whispers.
Eventually, he walks you back.
he always walks you back, even when he shouldn’t, even when the risk of someone seeing is sitting right there between you like a third presence neither of you acknowledges out loud. he just — falls into step beside you, close enough that your arms brush with every other stride, and you don’t say anything about it because you’ve learned that this is how he loves you. quietly. in the small decisions. in the ways he can’t seem to stop himself.
“you don’t have to,” you told him once, early on.
he’d looked at you like that was genuinely the most confusing thing you’d ever said. “i know,” he’d replied, and kept walking.
tonight he’s quieter than usual, which is saying something. you can feel him thinking — there’s a specific quality to his silence when something is turning over in his mind, and you’ve spent enough time with him now to know the difference between the silences. this one is heavy. warm, but heavy.
“say it,” you tell him.
a beat. “say what?”
“whatever it is.”
he’s quiet for another few steps. the forest moves around you, soft and alive, and somewhere above you something calls out and goes still again.
“i think about you,” he says finally. “during the day. when i’m in the middle of something — a meeting, a patrol, it doesn’t matter — and you just — appear.” he says it plainly, like a confession he’s tired of carrying. “i’ll be talking to an elder and suddenly i’m thinking about something you said three days ago. something that made you laugh.”
you don’t look at him. if you look at him right now you’re going to do something stupid.
“neteyam—”
“i’m not saying it to make things complicated,” he says quickly. “i just — i needed you to know that it’s not— that this isn’t—”
“i know what this is,” you say softly.
“do you?” and something in his voice makes you stop walking.
you turn to look at him. he’s already looking at you, and there’s nothing guarded in his expression right now, none of the careful control he wears like armor everywhere else. he just looks — open. a little afraid of himself.
“i know exactly what this is,” you say again, quieter this time.
he reaches out and takes your hand. not urgently. just — takes it, holds it, runs his thumb across your knuckles like he’s counting them. like you’re something he wants to memorize.
“good,” he says.
you stand there like that for a moment, in the middle of the dark forest, not moving. and then he steps closer and dips his head and presses his lips to the side of your face — your temple first, slow, and then lower, the curve of your ear, and he just — stays there. his breath warm. his forehead tilted against yours.
it’s such a small thing.
it undoes you completely.
“neteyam,” you whisper, because you don’t have anything else.
“i know,” he murmurs. his lips curve, just slightly, against your skin. “i know.”
he pulls back eventually. he has to. you both know it. but his hand stays around yours for another few seconds longer than necessary before he lets go, and when he finally does he looks at you one more time with that expression you’re not supposed to have a name for.
you have a name for it.
you’ve had a name for it for a while now.
“go,” you tell him softly, before you say something you can’t take back.
he goes.
but he looks back once, at the edge of the tree line, and even in the dark you can see it.
-
the rules are unspoken. they have to be.
don’t seek each other out in public. don’t linger too long when you cross paths during the day. don’t let your eyes stay on him when others are watching. you’ve gotten good at it — at looking through him like he’s anyone else, at keeping your face perfectly neutral when he walks past with his shoulders set and his expression closed off and his eyes cutting briefly, briefly to yours before moving on.
two seconds. that’s all you ever let yourself have.
it’s more than enough. it’s never enough.
the meetings happen in the margins of things. an hour after the evening fires burn low. the stretch of forest between the eastern trail and the grove that nobody has a reason to walk through unless they’re you, or him, or both. he learns your schedule the same way you learn his — quietly, carefully, through the accumulation of small observations that you’d both deny if anyone asked.
he’s always there before you. you’ve never once arrived first.
you asked him about it once, and he’d shrugged with this small private smile and said “i walk fast,” and you’d laughed and he’d looked at you like that was his favorite thing you’d ever done.
—
the close calls come with the territory.
there’s an afternoon where his sister spots you both at the edge of the river, and you’re not doing anything, you’re barely even standing close, but she looks between you with those sharp eyes of hers and something in her expression shifts and you feel your heart stop completely.
neteyam says something to her in a low voice. she glances at you one more time.
she leaves without saying anything.
he comes to find you later, and you open your mouth, and he says “it’s fine” before you can even form the question.
“neteyam—”
“she won’t say anything.”
“how do you know?”
he’s quiet for a moment. “because she knows me,” he says simply. “and she’s not—” he stops. starts again. “she saw her speak to me once. really speak to me.” his jaw tightens briefly. “after that she stopped asking questions.”
you don’t push it. you never push it.
but you reach out and take his hand, and he looks down at it like you’ve handed him something precious and slightly painful, and he holds on.
—
the hardest part isn’t the hiding.
you thought it would be. you thought the sneaking and the careful silences and the two-second glances would be the thing that wore you down. but you’ve made a kind of peace with all of that. it’s just the shape of this, the particular shape of loving him, and you knew what you were stepping into.
the hardest part is the moments in between.
it’s seeing him across the clearing during a gathering, standing tall and composed and so clearly exhausted underneath it, and not being able to go to him. it’s watching her say something to him in that tone of hers and seeing his shoulders pull inward slightly and having to stand there with your face arranged into something neutral. it’s the nights you don’t see him and you don’t know if he’s okay and there’s no version of this where you can simply ask.
it’s a specific kind of ache. you’ve gotten used to it the same way you’ve gotten used to everything else. you carry it quietly and you don’t complain and when you finally do see him, when he finally appears out of the dark with that look on his face like he’s been waiting all day for this exact moment —
it’s worth it. that’s the terrible truth of it.
it’s always worth it.
—
tonight he’s already in the grove when you arrive, sitting with his back against the largest tree, forearms resting on his knees, looking up at the canopy. he hears you and his whole body changes — not dramatically, just a subtle settling, like something in him goes quiet.
“hey,” he says.
“hey.”
you sit beside him, close enough that your sides press together, and he tilts slightly into you the way he does, this small automatic lean that you don’t think he even notices anymore.
“bad day?” you ask.
“average one,” he says. which means yes.
you don’t say anything. you just settle in against him and look up at the same patch of sky he’s been looking at, and for a while neither of you speaks. the grove does its glowing thing and somewhere something moves softly through the underbrush and it’s so quiet you can hear him breathing even out gradually.
his head drops to rest against yours.
“i keep thinking,” he says eventually, “about what it would be like to just — not have to think about any of it. just for one day. just exist somewhere without—” he trails off.
“without what?”
“without all of it watching me.” a pause. “without having to be anything.”
you turn your head slightly. “you don’t have to be anything here.”
he’s quiet for a long moment.
“i know,” he says softly. “that’s why i keep coming back.”
his arm comes around you then, slow and deliberate, pulling you properly into his side, and you go because you always go and you press your face briefly into his shoulder and he presses his lips to the top of your head and holds them there, still, warm.
no urgency to it. just — this.
just him, and you, and the quiet.
“neteyam,” you say into his shoulder.
“hm.”
“i love you.” you hadn’t planned to say it. it just — comes out, the way true things sometimes do, quiet and inevitable. “i just wanted to say it out loud. you don’t have to—”
his arm tightens around you.
“I love you so much,” he says. his voice has gone rough at the edges. “So fucking much.”
a beat.
“I want to disappear with you,” he says. “you know that, right?”
you close your eyes.
“yeah,” you whisper. “i know.”
and the grove glows, and his heartbeat is steady under your ear, and outside of this small impossible world the rest of it keeps turning.
but right here, right now —
you have this.
and tonight, that’s everything.
-
the men drink late into the night.
it starts the way it always starts — someone produces something strong, someone else finds a reason to sit down, and then it’s just all of them, loosely gathered around a dying fire, the war resting somewhere just outside the circle of warmth. these are the hours nobody talks about. not formal enough to be a meeting, not private enough to be honest. somewhere in between.
neteyam drinks slowly. he always drinks slowly. it’s a habit — the kind of control that becomes so automatic you stop noticing it.
the conversation drifts the way it does when men are tired and a little drunk and not thinking carefully about what they say. someone mentions a woman from the eastern side of camp. someone else laughs. and then someone — he won’t remember who — says something offhand about avatars. about the way it works. about the body not truly belonging to anyone, how when having sex, there no scent, no why to indicate that an avatar had sex with a Navi, no bond forming because there’s no real self there to bond with.
“I’ve done it before,” the man says, like it’s just an interesting fact. “Am I mated?”
a few of them nod. most of them aren’t mated — the war has eaten up those years, that particular kind of patience. they talk about it the way young men talk about anything they haven’t had yet, with curiosity and a certain casualness that comes from not fully understanding what they’re discussing.
neteyam says nothing.
he turns his cup in his hands and looks at the fire and lets the conversation happen around him like water around a rock.
he thinks about it.
and then, despite himself, he thinks about you. which is not new. which is, if he’s being truthful with himself, essentially constant. you have a way of living just underneath the surface of everything he does — not intrusively, not painfully, just — there. present the way breathing is present. the way he only notices it when something makes him stop and pay attention.
he thinks about the grove. your shoulder against his arm. the way you’d pressed your face into his shoulder like you’d finally let yourself have something you’d been holding back from for a long time.
i love you. said so quietly. like you weren’t even sure you were going to say it until it was already out.
he takes a slow drink.
the men around him are laughing about something now, the avatar conversation already forgotten, moved on to easier things. nobody is looking at him. nobody notices the particular quality of his silence, the way it’s different from his usual quiet.
he rolls the idea over in his mind, not because it means anything ( it obviously does ), not because he’s planning anything. just — because he’s a man sitting with a drink in his hand thinking about someone he has no business thinking about this much, which is its own kind of answer, really.
he stays until it’s polite to leave.
walks back through the dark alone.
and somewhere between the fire and his bed he stops for just a moment at the edge of the eastern trail, looking out at the stretch of forest beyond it. not going anywhere. just — standing there. just letting himself look in the direction of the grove for one unguarded moment before he pulls himself back together and keeps walking.
he doesn’t sleep well.
he rarely does anymore.
-
it starts over something small.
it always starts over something small.
he can’t even remember what it was later — something he forgot, something he didn’t do, something he did wrong without knowing he was doing it. it doesn’t matter. with her it never really matters what it starts over because it always ends up in the same place, the same words, the same particular landscape of a fight that stopped being about the original thing within the first thirty seconds.
“you weren’t there,” she says. “you said you would be there.”
“i know. i’m sorry.”
“sorry.” she says the word like she’s picking it up to look at how worthless it is. “you’re always sorry. do you know that? it’s the only thing you’re consistent at.”
he stands in the center of the room and keeps his face still and lets it happen. he’s learned that engaging makes it longer. he’s learned a lot of things.
“i had responsibilities—”
“you always have responsibilities. convenient, isn’t it.” her voice has that edge to it now, the one that means she’s just getting started. “you can’t be a father, you can’t be a mate, you can barely be a leader half the time—”
“that’s not—”
“your own clan questions you. did you know that? they talk. i hear them.” she tilts her head, and there’s something almost clinical in her expression, the way she finds the exact place to press. “you want to know what they say? that you’re not him. that you’ll never be him. that jake sully’s son got the name but not the man.”
the room goes very quiet.
neteyam doesn’t move. something happens behind his eyes — a brief, barely visible thing, there and gone — and then nothing. just stillness.
“i’m sorry,” he says. quietly.
“stop apologizing.” her voice rises. “stop standing there like — like that, like you’re somewhere else, you’re always somewhere else, even when you’re right in front of me you’re not here—”
“i’m here.”
“you’re not.” and for just a moment something in her voice shifts, something almost raw underneath the cruelty, and then it’s gone and the edge comes back harder. “you’re a disappointment. i need you to understand that. not as an insult, just — as a fact. you are a disappointment. your father would be ashamed.”
the silence afterward is a specific kind.
the kind that has a shape.
“i’m sorry,” he says again. barely above a murmur.
she makes a sound of disgust and turns away from him. and that’s it. that’s how it ends — not with resolution, not with anything, just her turning her back and the conversation simply ceasing to exist.
he stands there for another moment.
then he leaves.
—
the night air hits him like something merciful.
he walks without deciding to walk, his feet taking him somewhere while the rest of him is still standing in that room absorbing the particular echo of “your father would be ashamed”. it’s not the first time she’s said it. she knows exactly what it does to him and she uses it the way you use a tool that works.
he doesn’t let himself feel it. he’s good at that — at taking something and pressing it down into a small dense thing and setting it somewhere it won’t interfere. he’s been doing it his whole life. he’ll do it now.
he just needs—
he needs—
the grove appears ahead of him and he stops, and he didn’t plan to come here, he genuinely didn’t plan it, but his chest loosens by a fraction just from being able to see it. the bioluminescence soft and constant and indifferent to everything that just happened.
you’re there.
of course you’re there. you’re always there, or maybe he finds you everywhere, he’s stopped being able to tell the difference.
you see him before he reaches you and you go still the way you do when you’re reading him, and he watches you read him — watches something move through your expression as you take in whatever it is you see on his face right now.
you don’t ask.
you just open your arms.
and neteyam, who does not complain, who does not ask for things, who has been sorry three times tonight for crimes he didn’t fully commit — neteyam walks into them without a word and puts his face against your shoulder and stands there.
your arms come around him.
you don’t say anything. you just hold on.
and for a long terrible moment he just — breathes. in and out. in and out. the tight thing in his chest not dissolving exactly but loosening, the way it only does here, the way it only does with you.
“hey,” you say finally, very softly, into his hair.
he exhales.
“hey,” he says back.
and neither of you moves.
and the grove glows.
and outside of this, somewhere, the world keeps demanding things from him.
but right now there is just your arms and the quiet and the particular grace of someone who holds you without making you explain why you need it.
he closes his eyes.
just for a little while.
just here.
he stays like that longer than he ever has before.
face buried in the crook of your neck, arms locked around your ribs like you’re the only solid thing left in the world. his breathing is uneven at first — shallow, ragged — then slowly, it steadies against your skin. you feel every shudder that runs through him, every time he swallows hard like he’s trying to keep something from spilling out.
you don’t speak.
there’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been said in the way he’s holding you, in the way his fingers curl into the fabric at your back like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip even a fraction.
eventually he lifts his head.
just enough to look at you.
his eyes are red-rimmed, a little wet still, and the bioluminescence catches in the tear tracks on his cheeks. he looks — ruined. beautifully, quietly ruined.
“i can’t go back tonight,” he whispers. the words come out cracked. “i can’t walk in there and pretend again. not after—”
he doesn’t finish.
he doesn’t have to.
you brush your thumb along the line of his jaw, gentle, slow.
“then don’t.”
his gaze flickers. something raw and hungry and terrified all at once.
“i shouldn’t—”
“neteyam.”
he stops.
you slide your hand to the back of his neck, fingers threading into the base of his braids but curtained your face. you tug him down — not hard, just enough — until his forehead rests against yours again.
“stay.”
he exhales like the word punched the air out of him.
then he kisses you.
not careful. not tentative.
deep. desperate. like he’s been starving for this exact taste and only just remembered it existed.
his tongue slides against yours, slow and deliberate, tasting every corner of your mouth like he’s committing it to memory. one hand cradles the back of your head, fingers splayed wide in your hair; the other slides down your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the thin fabric, then lower, tracing the curve of your hip.
he walks you backward until your back meets the smooth trunk of the nearest tree. the bark is cool and slightly ridged against your spine; his body is hot, pressing you there, pinning you gently but firmly.
he breaks the kiss only to drag his mouth down your throat — open mouthed, slow licks, teeth grazing the pulse point until you gasp. his hand slips under your top, palm flat against your bare stomach, fingers spreading wide like he needs to feel as much skin as possible.
“tell me to stop,” he rasps against your collarbone. his voice is wrecked. “tell me and i will.”
you don’t.
instead you arch into his touch, legs parting so he can press his thigh between them. the friction makes you whimper; he groans low in his throat, hips rocking forward instinctively so you feel how hard he already is, thick and straining against the loincloth.
clothes come away slowly. reverently.
he unties your top with trembling fingers, lets it fall. his eyes drop to your breasts, pupils blown wide in the glowing light. he cups one in his palm, thumb circling the nipple until it pebbles, then leans down to take it into his mouth — slow, wet pulls of suction, tongue flicking over the peak while his other hand works the ties at your waist.
your own hands are busy: pushing his chest piece aside, tracing the hard planes of his abdomen, dipping lower to palm him through the fabric. he twitches in your hand, a broken sound escaping him.
when you’re both bare the glow of the grove paints him in shifting blues and greens — shadows pooling in the hollows of his collarbones, the deep cut of his hips, the thick length of him curved against his stomach, already glistening at the tip.
he looks at you like you’re holy.
he lifts you easily — hands under your thighs, spreading you open — and presses you higher against the tree so your legs wrap around his waist. the head of him nudges your entrance, hot and slick, but he doesn’t push in.
not yet.
he rocks against you instead — slow drags of his cock along your folds, coating himself in your wetness, bumping your clit with every pass until your thighs tremble and you’re panting against his mouth.
“please,” you whisper.
he kisses you again — softer this time, almost tender — while he notches himself at your entrance.
then — inch by agonizing inch — he sinks inside.
the stretch is exquisite. slow. burning. you feel every ridge, every vein as he fills you, breath hitching when he bottoms out, hips flush to yours, pubic bone grinding gently against your clit.
he freezes there.
forehead pressed to yours. eyes squeezed shut. tears slipping free again.
“you feel—” his voice cracks. “you feel like everything i’ve ever wanted.”
he starts to move then.
not fast. not frantic.
deep, rolling thrusts — pulling almost all the way out, then sliding back in to the hilt, slow enough that you feel the drag of him against every sensitive spot inside you. his hips circle on every inward stroke, grinding against your clit, making sparks race up your spine.
his tears fall onto your chest, warm and silent.
he keeps the rhythm torturously steady — long, deliberate strokes that make your toes curl, that make you clench around him every time he bottoms out.
“she said—” his voice breaks again, hips stuttering once before he forces them back into that slow, punishing rhythm. “she said he’d be ashamed. of me. of what i’ve become.”
you tighten your legs around him, pull him deeper.
“he wouldn’t,” you breathe. “you’re not a disappointment. you’re — you’re good. so good.”
he sobs quietly — muffled against your neck — but he doesn’t speed up.
he keeps it slow.
achingly slow.
each thrust measured. deep. letting the pleasure build in layers, letting you feel every second of him inside you, every slide, every pulse.
his hand slips between you — thumb finding your clit, circling in time with his hips — slow, firm pressure that makes your back arch off the tree.
“neteyam—”
“let me feel you come,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “please. let me feel it. just once let me have something good.”
he keeps the rhythm torturously steady — long, deliberate strokes that make your toes curl, that make you clench around him every time he bottoms out.
his thumb never leaves your clit, circling slow and firm, matching the drag of his cock inside you, building that tight coil in your belly higher and higher.
the words hit you like a spark.
your walls flutter around him — involuntary, greedy — and he groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.
“that’s it,” he breathes against your mouth. “fuck, that’s it. you’re so tight around me. I love it … I love you.”
his hips stutter once — just once — then pick up, not frantic but faster now, deeper, the slow grind turning into something more urgent, more needy.
each thrust punches the air out of you in soft gasps.
he’s still crying — tears slipping down his face, dripping onto your collarbone along with his braids you have to hold back when you kiss him because they get in your way. — but his voice goes rough with praise, broken and reverent.
“you feel so good,” he murmurs, hips snapping forward a little harder, cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “so warm. so wet for me. like you were made for this. for me.”
you whimper, nails digging into his shoulders.
he moans — open, raw — the sound muffled against your throat as he buries his face there for a second, then lifts again so he can watch you.
his eyes are dark, pupils blown, lashes clumped with tears.
“look at me,” he rasps. “please. let me see you.”
you do.
your gaze locks with his as the pleasure crests — sharp, overwhelming.
“neteyam—”
“come on, baby,” he pants, pace quickening just enough, hips rolling in tight circles now, grinding deep every time he bottoms out. “come on my cock. let me feel you squeeze me. i need it. i need to feel you—”
your orgasm hits hard.
long, pulsing waves that ripple through you, clenching tight around his thick length, milking him with every flutter.
he chokes on a moan — loud, broken — hips jerking forward in short, desperate thrusts as he chases the feeling of you coming undone around him.
“fuck— yes— that’s it— so good— so fucking good—” his voice cracks on every word, praise spilling out like he can’t hold it back. “you’re perfect. squeezing me so tight–, i can feel.. mh—”
he’s shaking now, tears streaming freely, but he doesn’t stop moving — keeps fucking you through it, slow and deep again, drawing out every aftershock until you’re trembling, oversensitive and boneless against the tree.
only then does he let himself go.
one last deep thrust — hips flush, grinding — and he comes with a low, shattered groan, spilling hot and thick inside you, cock pulsing in long, heavy spurts.
his whole body locks up, trembling against yours, face buried in your neck as the last of it wrings out of him.
he stays like that.
still buried to the hilt.
still breathing hard against your skin.
still crying quietly — softer now, more exhausted than anything.
you stroke his back in slow lines, feeling the way his heartbeat hammers against your chest.
he doesn’t pull out.
just sinks lower with you until you’re both on the moss again, tangled and joined, his softening cock still nestled warm inside you.
one hand finds yours. threads your fingers together. squeezes.
“thank you,” he whispers, voice raw and small.
you kiss his temple. taste salt.
“always.”
the grove glows on around you — soft, indifferent, eternal.
and he stays inside you.
held.
holding.
crying the last of it out until there’s only quiet left.
just for tonight.
just here.
like always.
imagine they ran away and created their own family😢
Based off this request!
practice makes perfect
neteyam, convinced that mastering the art of kissing is essential for his future duties as olo’eyktan, asks you to help him practice. tags: smut, aged-up, fem pronouns, yearning, first times, ( awkward ) makeout session, grinding, in-denial, best friends to something (?) (7.4k wc)
Neteyam had accepted the weight of the title Olo’eyktan long before his adult fangs even came in, his fate carved into his bone the moment he was born as the eldest son of Jake Sully. With his father as his living example, he had spent his childhood curating a rigorous, strict curriculum for himself, a list of requirements he felt he must fulfill to be worthy of the title: he needed to be a lethal warrior, a sharp hunter, a wise diplomat, a patient teacher, and a protector who always put the clan before himself.
But as he grew older, watching his father’s eyes soften only when they landed on his mother, Neteyam realized there was a more vulnerable side to leadership he hadn’t accounted for. An Olo’eyktan needed a partner to stand by his side for life, a mate that would lead beside him. With that realization came a terrifying new pressure, a crucial duty he had only recently begun to obsess over. He needed to be good at keeping his mate happy.
Neteyam knew it was too early to be worrying about the heat of a mating den, but the golden child couldn’t silence the voice in his head that demanded perfection in all things. If he was going to lead, he couldn’t afford to be clumsy or inexperienced when the time came. And there was no better place to start the foundations of intimacy than learning the basics: knowing exactly how to kiss.