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.
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.
He was the youngest of the Omatikaya to ever do it. His fathers expectations of him pressing him to become better, to be the best he can be, to be the symbol of the strength of the people.
When he had told you that he was going to attempt his iknimaya, you were surprised. It was not that you believed he couldn't complete it, but he was so young, had so much time left in his life and there was no need to rush things.
Nonetheless, you were excited. Over the moon for your best friend. Before he ventured out you had crushed him in your arms, pressing a swift kiss on his cheek to wish him good luck.
You weren’t surprised to see him arrive home unscathed. The celebration that night was loud, the clan's excitement at an all time high for the Olo’eyktans son. It was then that the young hunters approached Neteyam.
They were a few years older than the two of you – slightly jealous at the fact that Neteyam had accomplished so much when he was so young. But instead of teasing him, pushing him, even bullying him into submission, they took to praising him.
There was no doubt that Neteyam would become Olo’eyktan. No doubt that he would lead the people when his time had come. So it was best to start making friendships now, to start fostering their relationships and secure their future positions in the clan while Neteyam was still young.
You and him had been dancing when they approached. Moving your bodies to the beats of the drums, laughing freely, simply basking in the celebration. But then Teylun taps on Neteyam's shoulder, dragging his attention away from you.
Over the music you can faintly hear something about ‘join us,’ and ‘welcome you,’. You miss most of what Teylun says, but from what you did catch it seems as if he and his friends want to congratulate Neteyam personally.
The two of you were attached at the hip, everyone in the clan knew you both were inseparable. So when Teylun begins to lead Neteyam away you move to follow. But for the first time, possibly ever, you aren’t allowed to go.
Teylun pushes Neteyam’s shoulder blade urging him forward, before turning back to face you. “I’m sorry ‘eveng, we will be discussing warrior things. It is best if you stay back, converse with people your own speed.”
He is calling you a child? Just because you didn’t want to rush your iknimaya, did not mean that you were a weak child. That you couldn’t complete it if you really wanted to. Before you get the chance to retaliate, to say your piece, Teylun has already guided Neteyam the rest of the way to where his friends reside.
You wouldn’t disrupt. It was Neteyam’s night, his celebration, and he could be in whoever's company he wished. You would see him in the morning anyway, then you could tell him how rude Teylun was to you.
When morning arrives you begin your way towards the Sully kelku. Normally Neteyam would meet you halfway, then the two of you would head towards the training grounds or the forest together. He didn’t today though, maybe he was just tired. So you keep moving, you could just meet him at his home.
Maybe you could even steal some fruit or meat under the guise that your parents hadn’t fed you. Yes, that would be nice. A second breakfast to set you up for the perfect day. As you poke your head into their kelku, you don’t see Neteyam.
It still doesn’t phase you. Pushing past the hides that cover the entry way you make your way towards where Neytiri and Lo’ak sit. “Good morning auntie, Lo’ak.”
The human word felt odd coming from your throat, but Jake had taught it to you when you were young. He said that the word meant close, almost motherly figure; and Neytiri was always like that to you.
Lo’ak stands, crashing into your chest with a tight hug. He acts as if he had not seen you just yesterday, had not danced with you after Neteyam left with Teylun.
“Would you like something to eat, child?”
When you nod, Neytiri hands you a leaf holding fresh fruits and roots. The perfect way to start your day. You begin picking at the meal with your fingers, picking the best pieces for yourself, and giving the slightly less best pieces to Lo’ak.
After swallowing a few bites you begin to look around. Where is Neteyam? He is usually an early riser, and you had expected him to be up by now even with the late night he had.
As if sensing your curiosity Lo'ak speaks. “Big bro left.”
He doesn't acknowledge the look on your face, doesn't even look up from where he's deciding what piece of fruit he wants from your leaf. You only come out of your stupor when he points at a particularly juicy piece of fruit and asks if he can have it.
“Where did he go?” You hand Lo'ak the fruit, leaning your head against his as you ask.
You can feel him shrug, feel his jaw work as he chews before he responds. “Dunno, I think he said something about going with Teylun.”
Neytiri snaps at Lo'ak, telling him to mind his grammar. She didn’t like how much English he included in his daily life, much less when he began creating Na'vi slang that matched with words his father had used when he was a human.
You tune her out. Instead focusing on how Neteyam is off with Teylun again. You could understand last night, it was important to show camaraderie. That must be what this is.
Allowing Neteyam to follow along with their hunt, or training, or whatever it was that they were getting up to. Allowing him to establish himself with the others who have completed their iknimayas.
So you thank Neytiri for the food, ruffle Lo'ak's braids, and head out to train yourself. You don’t manage to catch a glimpse of Neteyam for the rest of the day. It’s odd, and it places what feels to be a rock in the center of your chest. But you knew you would see him tomorrow. These new friends would ebb and fade, and even if they didn’t Neteyam wouldn’t abandon you for no reason.
The next day as you approach the Sully kelku, there is distinct chatter. You can hear Teylun’s voice, is he ever going to leave Neteyam alone? Then Li’ral’s voice filters in too. Neteyam’s voice is the first clear thing that you can hear.
“Are you sure that I cannot join you later? I have not seen ma txeylan in nearly two days.”
Teylun laughs. You assume it is because he sees you as a child. Li’ral pitches in, confirming your thoughts, “The girl who has been attached to your side since the two of you were toddlers?”
“Yes, that is her.”
“She is a ‘eveng. You are a warrior now.”
Neteyam sighs, “She is not a ‘eveng. Just because she did not complete her iknimaya yet doesn’t mean-”
“But has she not trained as long as you?”
“She has. What does that have to do with her being a child?”
Thank Eywa he was standing up for you. You knew you could trust him.
“It means she should have trusted herself, her training and attempted her iknimaya as well. It is childish fear that held her back.”
Most Omatikaya didn't complete their iknimayas until they were a minimum of fifteen years of age anyway. You were not behind, Neteyam was just leagues ahead of everyone.
You think Neteyam would retort again. Come to your defense as he always had – but instead you can hear the familiar patter of footsteps. A faint conversation discussing the best way to roast a yerik, wafts over to your ears before you lose the ability to hear them.
Maybe he had defended you again when you were out of earshot. There was no way he allowed the conversation to change so easily, still wanting to defend the person he spent so many years beside.
The opportunity to confront him never comes. To ask for some comfort about the situation, for him to quell your fears that he truly did see you as a child.
Just a short week after his iknimaya, Neteyam was to complete his dream hunt. You would not let him evade you before this event. The possibility of him dying was too great to not at least wish him luck.
Not because he needed it, you knew how strong and determined he was. But because you wanted to show that you still cared, still considered him your best friend even with the distance of the past week.
When you approach the small group he's settled in, they go silent. Their eyes flit from Neteyam to you hastily.
“Ma txeylan, do you have a moment?” You keep your voice light, trying to block the nervousness from seeping into your tone.
Neteyam's ear flicks. The young hunters he's began to associate himself with eye him, smirks and grimaces adorning their features. His beads clink as he allows his head to nod slightly, “Of course.”
He lets you drag him a few feet away from the group. Positions himself with a view of the group he was sitting with over your shoulder.
“I've missed you.” A polite smile graces your features as you speak.
Once again he only nods to show any sign that he has heard you. But you don't let him get away with it; instead taking to staring into his eyes with your bright ones. So he grants you a small, noncommittal sound from the back of his throat.
When you realize that you won't be getting a vocal response you continue, “I just wanted to wish you well. To tell you I am hoping for good luck on your dream hunt.”
“Why?”
Your eyebrows raise in surprise at his odd question, then they furrow, “What do you mean why?”
Neteyam’s eyes flick over your shoulder, making contact with the new friends he’s solidified himself with. Then he breathes a deep, annoyed breath, “Why do you feel the need to wish me luck. I am not a ‘eveng, like you,” For the first time in days his eyes meet yours, “I can handle myself.”
Oh. So that’s how it was going to be. You stuck with him for years, and now he wants to cast you aside because he has some new and shiny friends.
How unfair.
Laughter bubbles up behind you. When you look up you can see Neteyam’s lips quirk into a smile at the sound, can see the way his chest puffs slightly in pride. You don’t need to look at the group to know they were staring at you, that their amusement was due to your embarrassment.
The sound burns into your memory. Sears painfully into the deepest parts of your brain. It must have changed the chemistry in your brain with the way that it now triggers your fight or flight response.
That same laugh drags your attention from your friends. It brings a twinge to your chest – one that quickly places a scowl on your face. It’s bringing the urge to fight. To cross the cookfire and pour a full waterskin over Li’rals’s head. To shove Teylun over the log he’s sitting on and cave his nose into his face. To grasp Neteyam’s tail and attempt to dislodge it from where it rested on his spine.
But you take a deep, steadying breath. Take a loving glance at the friends you’ve surrounded yourself with; the ones who adopted you after Neteyam abandoned you. And you decided to take it out on him tomorrow during training, there no one could judge you for seeming bloodthirsty.
The adults of the clan haven’t seemed to get the memo that you and Neteyam are not friends.
Well, more that you cannot stand him. Anytime he speaks, you grunt to reply. When he looks in your direction, you make sure to avoid your eyes. If he approaches your friends to discuss what they’re weaving or how the hunt went, you make it a point to act as if he does not exist.
When you’re in the same hunting party, not much is achieved. Formations are broken, twigs are snapped, prey is lost. No one can decide who to blame; Neteyam for putting you in the most useless part of the formation, or you for storming off and hunting by yourself.
And sparring together always leads to more scrapes and bruises than when you spar for anyone else. So you’d think that Jake and your father would avoid placing you two together. That they’d want two of the clan's best warriors to stay in formidable shape.
Their wiseness should have been able to influence their decision. To prevent them from ever even thinking that the two of you could be applicable partners. That you could ever go back to how it was.
Instead, at least once a month, the two of you end up partners.
Unfortunately it is the most entertaining part of the session. Watching the two of you be forced into the circle; him smiling as he scratches the back of his neck, you huffing before shoving yourself off the tree you were leaning against. They’d watch in anticipation as Neteyam watched you, assessing your stance, trying to make eye contact.
Then their eyes would flick to you. Watching how you’d toe at the ground, roll your knuckles till they crack, bite your lip as you stare at your father like he personally offended you. It was obvious that you were wound up, like a cord ready to snap.
You’d wait until the last moment, until your father or his would call for the start of the spar, to even glance in his direction. Rarely looking at his eyes, instead learning the movements of his muscles so you could determine his movements from that. Anything so that you wouldn’t have to look at his stupid face.
At the beginning of the spar, everything would be cordial. Proper stances, dancing around each other before taking light jabs, ducking and dodging until you were inevitably told to ‘push your opponent!’. It was then that Neteyam would start lunging a bit more seriously, reaching his hands out to grab at your thigh or push your shoulder; something to tip your center of gravity, allowing him to pin you down.
You’d retaliate with shoves of your own, letting your nails scrape a lot more than necessary. It was low, a bit dirtier than should be allowed in spars, but it wasn’t explicitly against the rules. Plus, who's to say the scrapes didn’t come after the two of you had started rolling around?
It didn’t matter how it happened. Didn’t matter who shoved who, who’s hips pinned the others down, who celebrated their victory a bit too early; the two of you would always end up tousling on the ground.
Provoked, enraged, by the others misplaced confidence, whoever was pinned would buck and thrash until they had regained a bit of control. Then the two of you would be wrestling, throwing insults back and forth among the punches, grabbing braids, tugging tails, hell you’d even taken to some below the belt kicks a few times.
With how last night had gone, today was shaping up to be one of the worse spars the two of you have had. Neteyam had pinned you, somehow still in top shape after all the rumaut wine he had had yesterday. It would be fine, everything would be okay, but then Li’ral had to open his big fat mouth.
It wasn’t loud, not wanting the elders, especially the Olo’eyktan, to hear him. But it was loud enough to drift over the edge of the circle to where you laid beneath Neteyam. You heard his voice float over you as your ears were just recovering from their ringing, ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if he mounted her like that again after eclipse one of these nights.’ Just who, on Eywa’s green planet, did he think he was talking about?
And if that wasn’t insulting enough, you could hear the faint laughter follow from Neteyam’s friends. On a better day, you’d take your eyes off Neteyam, angle your head back so you could tilt the yellow orbs to assess who specifically was laughing. You’d catalog them into your brain, prepare to treat them a little harsher the next time you sparred. But today was not a better day, and it was just in Neteyam’s luck that he also heard the joke, and was allowing himself a few huffs of laughter from where he rested above you.
Your vision fades black at the edges, sole focus being on the boy atop you. With sudden, aggressive thrusts, you launch him from the seat he was claiming. He falls, landing on his back with a rough exhale. While he’s disoriented, you rotate off your back and hastily crawl towards him.
Before you can settle yourself into a position that allows you to hold Neteyam down, you swing. Your fist collides with his cheek, the force splitting his lip and sending you falling over until you’re laid out on top of him. From there you swing your leg over his torso, taking a firm seat before you continue your onslaught.
Surely, this had led to another joke to bubble from his friends. Something about how eager you were to mount him. You couldn’t hear it though, too busy thrusting your fist towards Neteyam’s face. Too busy ripping his arms away from where they came up to block your assault. Too busy pulling at those damn braids that he loved to swing around.
At some point Neteyam had tried to push back. Thrusted his hips up hoping to displace you, but you were too far up on his chest for it to do anything. Tried to grab your arms when you swung, yet you managed to dislodge them. Attempted to even roll his body under yours, to lay on his stomach and get some leverage to stand and force you off. But nothing worked, something had snapped in you – something that gave you insane strength that you were using to the fullest.
The rage you had felt forcing your blood to boil, for it to rush so fast through your veins that you were rendered unable to hear anything else. You couldn’t hear the gasps. Couldn’t hear the concerned murmurs. Couldn’t hear Neteyam saying he yielded. Couldn’t hear the Olo’eyktan telling you to get off of his son, nor your father reprimanding your sudden rampage.
Suddenly – well suddenly, for you, – you’re hoisted off of Neteyam. As you raise into the air you get a perfect view of him. Laid out on the dirt, chest rising in heavy breaths, lip busted and bleeding down the side of his face, cheek already gaining an indigo tint, braids misplaced from the wrap he had them in; it brings a maniacal grin to your face.
Yeah, his friends and him could make fun of you all they wanted. But at the end of the day, you’d be the one laughing. That was one thing you’d made sure of ever since that night so many moon rotations ago – they’d never be able to call you a child again.
Slowly a voice fades into your head. Vowels and consonants forming into syllables that you can finally piece together into words. It’s your fathers voice, he’s whispering a scolding, ‘I cannot believe you did that’, ‘ma’ite, I know he aggravates you, but he is still the Olo’eyktan’s son’, ‘How will it look to the elders’, ‘You’ll scare off potential mates if you keep up with this,’. You weren’t embarrassed at your actions, but being hauled away while everyone knew you were getting scolded brought a slight flush to your cheeks.
You’re sure to be scolded more intently when safely tucked into your kelku. Sure that your mother will force you to spend more time with the weavers and the gathers, saying that it’ll soften your demeanor. Sure that your father will remind you of how he fought with Jake Sully and Neytiri, how their union was strong and Neteyam and yours should be similar especially with your mature ages.
So when the conversation happens you let it. Nodding dutifully as they chatter; agree to chaperone the gathers as they forage, agree to weave with the elders so you can soak up their wisdom, even agree to stay in formation next time you go for a hunt.
It’s only when they mention apologizing, that you deny. A grimace overtakes your features, brows creasing as you speak, “I will not do such a thing. I cannot do such a thing.”
“You will. We must be united as a clan,” Your father speaks, tone harsh, “Today you showed everything but unity. You showed the fierceness of the clan, and our unwavering determination. So you must tie the whole thing together with our camaraderie, this can only be completed with an apology.”
You frown, ready to plead, to beg for any other punishment, “Father please. I cannot do it.”
“You must.” He frowns back, not wanting to debate the matter any longer.
“If you were to have heard what his friends were saying about me, then you would understand!”
“It does not matter. We must take the high route.”
You stand, slightly moving towards the entrance flap of the kelku, “It was disgusting, bordering vile, father! And he – Neteyam, he was laughing right along with them!”
“What did they say?”
Fantastic.
You weren’t going to repeat their words. It would only make the situation worse. Your father wouldn’t stand for it, ready to defend your honor even if it put your family at risk of shame.
“Can I not just avoid him? You and the Olo’eyktan do not have to place us to spar any more, and we can coexist just fine as long as we aren’t forced to interact.”
It must have gotten to him. Your father seems to be pondering the idea. It’d be much simpler that way, changing schedules and ensuring that the two of you don’t spar together would prevent most of their issues. But it would also mean that two of their best warriors wouldn’t have their best competition, and it would risk their skills dulling.
A small grin graces your face. You could do this, could avoid Neteyam and his group of friends for the rest of your parents' days. And you’d never have to apologize for something you weren’t sorry for. But then your mother speaks, “You must apologize.”
“Mother! I cann-”
“You must! I will not have the elders shame our family at the weaving circle, will not have others whisper our names with disgrace on their tongues. Please daughter, swallow your pride this time, after you may avoid him, yes?”
Your head falls. Sure you may not have minded what the elders had to say, didn’t mind when people spoke ill of you; but that was because you knew they didn’t know the full story. That they would probably have your side if you had voiced your side too.
So instead of rebuking again, you allow your head to nod. A soft hum of agreement leaves your throat before you depart through the flaps of the kelku. You storm through the clan, rushing to the ikran rookery; a nice flight to clear your head before your inevitable apology.
It’s a calming mechanism you’ve used since you passed your iknimaya. The clear air and loads of open space allow you to think through all your problems easily. Small tricks and flips bring you confidence. Your skills in the air remind you of your skills on the ground; and a smile is brought to your face as you remember Neteyam flat on his back earlier today.
You fly for hours, watch the sun reach eclipse atop your ikran. Observe as the bioluminescent glow overtakes the forest. Eventually, your racing heart slows, and your breaths come more regularly, and it’s then that you decide you can apologize.
The Sully kelku has its entrance flaps open when you arrive, typical as the Olo’eyktan is expected to be available until the last clan member goes to sleep. You don’t walk straight in however, instead sing-songing a soft “Kaltxì.”
It is Lo’ak who comes to the entrance, “Oh shit.” He laughs out your name, “Dude, the way you beat Neteyam’s ass today was crazy!”
“Yes,” a tight lipped smile adornes your features, “I am here to apologize. Is Neteyam around?”
Lo’ak gazes at you curiously, even though you put distance between you when you stopped talking with Neteyam, he had never let you fully seal the door. Normally when he’d praise your skills, you’d at least laugh a bit with him. Nonetheless, he nods, “Yeah. Yeah he’s on the sleeping mats.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to where you could find him.
“Where is everyone else?”
“Mom and dad are out, and Kiri and Tuk are weaving.”
Good. This was good. You didn’t want to have anyone in the family hearing the conversation, but you also didn’t want to have it outside where anyone could hear. “Can you just come back in a little bit Lo? I must apologize to your brother in private.”
“In private?” Lo’ak’s eyebrows waggle, “Aloneee?”
You shove past him before turning and lightly pushing his shoulder to urge him into taking a few steps out the kelku. “It is not like that and you know it.”
As you move deeper into the home, you call out to Neteyam a few times. Eywa forbid he was improper when you finally saw him. When you finally hear his voice ring back, you allow yourself to duck into the area that held their sleeping mats.
Letting your eyes rove over him you can see the damage you did. You look at the way he winces upon sitting up, how his lip is still swollen, the indigo finally setting on his cheek, even the faint scratches that rest upon his pectoral muscles. He looked bad, it takes everything in you to not allow a smile to grace your features.
You allow yourself to kneel, not wanting to seem higher or more important by towering over him.
“I am here to apologize. My earlier actions are inexcusable and I hope you can forgive me.”
Neteyam nods a bit. Lets your words linger in the air before he responds, “It is fine. We all get overcome by our emotions sometimes.”
“It is not fine.” Your head shakes, beads clinking to accentuate your point, “Please accept my apology, do not brush it off.”
“Okay.” His tongue darts out over his lips, bringing the bottom one between his teeth before he hisses from how tender it is, “I accept your apology.”
Good. He will no doubt tell his parents about your change of heart, and it will spread from there. Your family will be cleared from any possible shame and you can go on with your lives. As you move to get up Neteyam’s hand wraps around your wrist.
Your eyes flick over to his, “What is it?”
“I’ve just been thinking. I miss you, we used to be so close, you know?” His hand falls, but his eyes keep peering into yours, “What happened to us?”
“What do you mean, ‘what happened to us,’?” You scoff, all semblance of being friendly disappearing, “Trust me when I say this. You are not important to me. You may have been, but you never will be again.”
Fast, jerky movements lead you out of the Sully kelku. How dare he say something so preposterous? How dare he act as if he’s not the reason the two of you are here?
Unbelievable.
At least you wouldn’t have to interact with him again. Thank Eywa.
Neteyam did not know what had gotten into you today.
Last night you had seemed pleased, happy to drink rumaut wine with your friends as the cookfire reduced to embers. He’d been watching you, allowing his eyes to roam over the people, but lingering on you for a bit longer than everyone else.
This morning however something was off. You were on edge, nearly strung your bow too tight before archery practice. When the time for sparring finally rolled around, instead of meandering near the edge, you were bouncing on the balls of your feet – like a thanator ready to pounce.
It was his luck that the two of you were paired together today.
The dance you’d fall into was familiar, he was prepared for it. Ready to dance around and trade dominance until one of you became too tired to continue. But today, you’re hyper-aggressive; your moves are harsher, punches are harder, jabs are faster.
He hisses the first time your nails make contact with his chest; it’s almost as if they’ve been sharpened, prepped to cut just for this. The sting urges him to take you down, to put some real use to his larger muscles thanks to his father's avatar DNA.
He ducks down, using his right hand to grab at your left thigh. His hand slides down the smooth skin until he can grab at the flexion of your knee. Then he tugs it towards himself, tilting you backwards.
Instead of letting you fall alone, he follows. Neteyam lets his left hand move to the back of your head, preventing it from hitting the ground too roughly. But once you’re settled on the ground, he clambers over you, settling most of his weight on your hips.
At first you try to hit him, fruitlessly using your arms to displace him. It doesn’t work, but it does get annoying. Neteyam moves to pin your arms, now he can secure his win without any other lesions to his body.
He smiles, huffing a little laugh at how angered you are today. He wants to ask what was up with you, wants to ask what crawled up your tewng today. But then something happens – something otherworldly takes over you.
Unnaturally bucking overtakes your hips, your whole body is being used. Shoulders pressing into the ground beneath you, legs bent at the knee to grant extra force, even your arms slide across the ground to displace his grip.
The shock overtakes him, forcing him off your body. His back roughly hits the ground, and the breath is knocked from his lungs. And before he can even acknowledge that he’s off from where he once sat victoriously on you, you’ve launched a punch into his cheek.
From there it’s only downhill. You’ve taken a seat upon him and begin laying into his face, his chest, his arms, really anything you can.
Neteyam tries to fight it at first. Tries to defend his face, to force you off of him, to flip the two of you over, but nothing works. He tries to ensure your win, to yield, but his voice goes uncared for or unheard.
It’s only when your father hauls you off of him that he gets some room to breathe. The break allows the ache to set in his jaw, and his cheek, and his lip, and his scalp. Eywa, did he hope that his grandmother would use the yalna bark salve today.
His father hauls him up from the ground. Gives him a once over as he questions, “You good boy?”
Neteyam nods, braids falling over his face when he doesn’t move to raise his head again.
“Good. Go get patched up.”
With a pat and light shove to his shoulder, Neteyam is off. When he arrives to the Tsahik’s tent, he’s pleasantly surprised to see that it’s only his mother and grandmother inside.
He can hear them chattering about something. The words ‘of age,’ and ‘best time to train a tsakarem,’ float to his perked up ears before he realizes they’re speaking about him.
So he delays making his appearance known for a little longer, taking post behind the tent where the hides are thin. Their words come softly muffled through the hide, his grandmother’s voice ringing through first, “Many will seek him out during the upcoming mating season.”
“Yes,” His mother hums, “I can only imagine how many gifts will swarm our kelku.”
The two of them chuckle and it brings a smile to Neteyam’s face. But then he remembers how soon the season is, just a few short weeks away. Sure his siblings had teased him plenty about how many girls would throw themselves at him – but that was useless teasing, this was his mother and grandmother. If they’re speculating it must be serious.
“It will all be for naught if he does not reciprocate. Has Neteyam spoken of anyone who has piqued his interest?”
“No, he has not. There are many near his age this season though.”
His mother was right, there were many who’d be his age this mating season. Even though Neteyam could think of the prospects himself, his mother and grandmother began to list off the girls that would be participating this season, allowing him to mull over their attributes himself.
“Pxule…” She is one of the singers. Soft spoken until she needs to voice the hymns of the ancestors and she finally allows her voice to raise. A kind girl, but not one he could see himself being mated to for eternity.
“To’lei…” A gatherer. Her nimble fingers always grant her perfect harvests. It would seem as if Eywa herself loves when To’lei heads into her forest, always granting her the best materials from whatever area she’s decided to forage in. Her skills would eternally be useful to the clan, but she engages in constant babbling as she gathers, rarely taking moments to embrace the natural noises of the flora and fauna.
“Mekani…” One of the hunters. She was able to flawlessly lead a hunt among the younger bunch; her stern tone leaving no room for discussion or pushback. Her shoulders were never bare when she arrived back at hometree, making sure to share the burden of such a success with her fellow hunters. A formidable mate, someone who knew how to lead and the importance of being strict, but she never seemed to let up, never showed a softer side that would be important for raising children.
Maybe Neteyam would need to take some time to sit and think when he got home. All of the options that were being listed were good options; just not for him. He needed someone who matched him, someone who questioned when he was making a bad decision, someone who could be soft when he didn’t know how to be.
If he could take a trait from each of the girls listed and place them into a mold, he’d end up with the perfect mate. The one who would make him confident when he took the role of Olo’eyktan over. But that wasn’t possible, he couldn’t force any one of them to fit whatever mold he’d created in his head. Just as he’s about to push out of his kneel and approach the entrance of the tent his mothers voice cuts in again.
She spoke your name, “For a time, when they were little, I believed that they would end up together.”
“Hm. Why is that?”
“They were always together. You cannot be that close for so long and never grow any feelings – it is how I came to see Jake in another light.”
Neteyam hadn’t even considered the fact that you would be participating this year. Sure you were the same age, and had long since passed your iknimaya. However the thought of you getting dressed up in brightly colored loincloths and chest coverings just to dance around the cookfire with potential mates made him sick.
His brain ran through the list of men who’d be eligible this year. Sure there were plenty of options, but none of them would be good enough. Korvyn was too timid. Sa’nel was too immature. Rikutu had many adventures with girls already.
The thought of you ending up with a courting gift adorning your body by the end of the season soured his mood.
He knew it was wrong – to be this protective over you, even though he hadn’t spoken properly to you in years. But that wasn’t his fault! He had tried; joined your friends as they weaved, taken the position of lead in your hunting parties, and he’d made sure to never take it easy on you during spars not wanting to undermine all the training he knew you did.
You were the one that refused to speak to him after he came into his own.
After his dream hunt, he’d begun getting more responsibilities. It was around that time that you stopped talking to him. When he called across a clearing, your head would turn in the opposite direction. He’d sneak up on you and Lo’ak as you helped him with his aim, only revealing himself to give some advice of his own, but instead of sticking around you’d mention that he could take over before leaving.
No matter what, it was a deflection, and it was you who influenced the distance. Not him. So why does it matter if you’ll probably be ending the mating season with a serious prospect courting you. Who cares that in the next few months you’ll mate before Eywa with some skxawng. It makes no difference that sometime in the near future there might be a child running around hometree with your eyes, your mates nose, and tiny loincloths weaved by your own fingers.
The thoughts wound Neteyam up tightly. As if he was twine woven around a tree to stabilize a kelku. It made his treatment rougher than necessary; his grandmother moving to massage the tensed muscles more than needed.
Even though his muscles had been worked out, stretched and prodded until they were spongy and soft again, his brain was still a mess. What could he do to prevent such an outcome? How could he implement himself back in your life in a way that would put him in a perfect position to determine who you decided to spend the rest of your life with?
Hours passed as he laid on his sleeping mat and pondered. Eventually his thoughts were interrupted by your voice calling out to him. At first he had assumed it had been a figment of his imagination – that because his thoughts were all consumed by you, his brain had decided to play a trick on him. But then the voice came again, and again, and it only stopped after he had responded.
It was you, really you! Sitting next to him, poised upon your knees as you spewed something about an apology. Truly, he did not care. Everyone has bad moments, maybe not him, but now wasn’t the time to say that.
You hadn’t liked that. Forced him to not just brush off your apology. And that’s fine, it’s the first time in nearly half your lives that you’ve said more than ‘okay’ or ‘I heard you’ to him. So he accepts your apology all while silently hoping that you’d stick around, say something else to continue the conversation. You must’ve missed him as much as he’s missed you. Must have been wondering what his daily life looked like now.
Instead, you move to rise. Hands plant on your knees as you let your center of gravity shift to allow your knee to come up from beneath you. It’s then that Neteyam realizes Eywa’s delivered you to him. Here, on a shining platter (your knees so you’re level to him), and he’d be a fool to not take the opportunity to talk.
He lets his hand rest upon your wrist for a moment. Allows his calloused fingers to feel over your pulse point until you question what he needs. It takes him a moment to find his voice, to gather his thoughts into a proper sentence.
“I’ve just been thinking. I miss you, we used to be so close, you know?” Neteyam lets his hand drop, believing that you’ll stick around without him tethering you, “What happened to us?”
For a moment he thinks that you will give him an answer. Something about how you wanted space to grow into your own, but now that you’re both old enough you’re willing to become friends again.
“What do you mean, ‘what happened to us,’?” A scoff falls from your lips, face falling into an unimpressed scowl, “Trust me when I say this. You are not important to me. You may have been, but you never will be again.”
What?
What were you saying? Implying?
He supposes that he didn’t have to be important to you. But he never thought you’d say such a thing. Never thought such a statement would leave your lips when regarding your future Olo’eyktan.
Not that he needed to mention his rank. It was something that followed him as a child, something that lingered in the back of all the friendships that he held. You had never acknowledged it though, he was ‘just Neteyam’ and he couldn’t be happier for that.
Before he can move to grab you again, to try and force you to explain your rash statement, you’re up and out of the kelku. He moves to stand but his body aches and he can’t move fast enough. By the time he calls out to you, he knows you’re gone.
How strange.
No matter. Neteyam’s sure that he’ll have plenty of opportunities to talk with you before the mating season begins. Everything can be straightened out and he can claim his rightful position by your side and influence your final decision.
If you were hard to get a hold of before, you were impossible now. Neteyam could rarely catch sight of you. When he did you were promptly out of his vision a moment later, as if you were a phantom of his imagination.
He tried speaking to your friends. Urging them to spill the secret of where you were spending your time. When that didn’t work he tried bribery, offering them an uninterrupted dance with him during the season.
They hadn’t given up where you were spending all your time, but they had told him how you never stayed in the same spot for too long. That you allowed your schedule to rotate frequently to prevent being seen. This was not useful, but he had already pressed his forearm to theirs and grabbed their elbow in the traditional signal of a deal before they gave the information.
When there was only a week left until the start of mating season, he took to more desperate measures.
Neteyam begged his father to place you in his hunting party again. Jake's reply was less than pleasing, “No can do son. Strict orders to keep the two of you out of each other's hair after that last spar.” Who cared how that ended up?! The two of you were adults and could move past that if they gave you the opportunity.
He asked his grandmother to speak to you when you went to her to be patched up. Mo’at sighed as she responded, “I will not get involved in your frivolous situation grandson.” Neteyam had scoffed, spewed something about how it clearly wasn’t frivolous to you, before he departed from the tent.
Next to suffer was Lo’ak. Despite how you had pushed him away, and refused to be seen around hometree with him, Neteyam knew that the two of you still hung out. As Lo’ak had been leaving the village one day Neteyam had stopped him, asking to tag along. “Sorry bro, not blowing up my spot for you.” had been Lo’ak’s carefree reply. What did he mean ‘blowing up his spot’? One would think that after all the heat Neteyam took for him, Lo’ak could do his big brother this one solid, but no matter there was still another path to try.
The final person he dared try was your mother. She was always nice to him, loving and caring whenever he stopped by the weavers circle. Neteyam knew it would be a long shot, but it was still important to try all his options, to just implore her to tell him what had gotten under your skin. But she denied him too, “Ma’ite’s business is her business. You will have to find out from her yourself.” At least she was nice enough to pair her words with a soft tone and a light smile.
What a shame. How did they expect him to solve this situation if you wouldn’t speak to him! How was he supposed to ward off potential mates if he couldn’t be in your vicinity!
The thoughts consumed him all throughout the first week of the season. Sure Neteyam had his fair share of suitors approaching him; plenty of young women, even some men, approaching him to converse and delve into their lives. He still made sure to keep an eye on you however, glancing over the shoulder of the person in front of him, turning his head in your direction as he itches the back of his neck, a few times even excusing himself as he sees you walk off.
The second week is when small gifts begin to be exchanged. He begins to get cuts of meat from Mekani. She delivers him the best, fattiest, pieces of sturmbeest and yerik meat. At first she delivers it raw, but as the week progresses she begins to cook it, glazing it in nectar, or roasting it with fruits.
Neteyam’s not interested. To eat the meat is to show signs of interest, but it’d be rude to just discard. So instead, he takes it to his friends, distributes it between Teylun and Li’ral; and he only slightly regrets it when they begin to sing Mekani’s praises.
Korvyn has been taking up your time. Not all of it, still allowing you to seek out other potential suitors, but he has certainly become bold in the last few weeks. He allows his tail to find your waist, to run it along the base of your own as the two of you talk. Tilts his head appropriately to show his interest in your stories.
There wouldn’t be any worry from Neteyam if you hadn’t been smiling so happily at him. Hadn’t inched closer where you sat perched against the log. Hadn’t presented Korvyn with a fresh harvest of rumaut that you had cut up yourself.
So the next morning Neteyam sets out, before the sun has risen over the horizon. He will bring back the best piece of sturmbeest meat, and then he is going to roast it slowly over the fire. When it is nearly done he is going to wrap it in a leaf with some fine roots, and glaze them both with honey, before allowing it to steam to perfection.
It would be perfect. A meal that he knew you consumed from childhood, perfected by his hands as the perfect distraction from other suitors.
Wait.
Wait.
What was he thinking? From other suitors? He was not trying to court you. Wasn’t trying to take a permanent, romantic, spot in your life.
Well. It wouldn’t be that bad.
He’d known you all your lives anyway. Been close until you were twelve. Your families liked each other, parents supporting each other in the war against the sky people. It wouldn’t be the worst scenario if he were to court you.
Plus who would challenge the future Olo’eyktan for someone's hand? It would be stupid, they wouldn’t have a chance. Who would want a simple hunter, a weaver, a gatherer, or a carver, instead of the future leader of the Omatikaya?
Teylun had said something similar to him just before mating season had started. Boasted that because of his title, he could obtain anyone he wanted, that he could probably get an older woman if he really wanted. Someone with more experience on everything, especially how to make him see stars in the privacy of their own kelku.
He was always more focused on the sexual part of things. On the physical level of affections, not on how they start, on the emotional base that makes everything more intense. But nonetheless, it was a great idea. He’d be able to ward off other suitors and maybe even encourage you to start seeing him how you once did again.
So Neteyam spends the entire day preparing the meal. Kneels over the roast until his back gains a twinge. Ensures that the glaze covers the entire meal nicely, in a perfectly even layer before setting it to properly settle into the meal.
And when he’s finally settled, finally believes that the meal is perfect, he wraps it tightly in woven cloths to seal the heat. Then he’s off to the cookfire. He steps past where his friends reside, faltering for only a moment until he sees that Korvyn has yet again taken the seat next to you, then he is back on his mission.
When he steps into the little bubble the two of you have cultivated neither of you pay him any mind. Your conversation flows, smooth despite his presence lingering in front of you both. Korvyn is in the middle of recounting how he learned to swim when his brother cast him into the river when Neteyam clears his throat.
The two of you turn towards the source of the noise. Korvyn lets a smile grace his features, always so friendly, but you just peer up at him. Your eyes go from the wide orbs that he’s used to, to half lidded at your disinterest.
Neteyam’s eyes are only on you, watching the subtle sway of your tail, the way the furry tip brushes against Korvyn’s. He observes how your chest covering leaves very little to the imagination, it makes his throat dry up until Korvyn’s voice rings out to his left.
“Neteyam, what can we do for you?”
So he clears his throat, lets some saliva coat his tongue, then speaks. “I wish to speak with her.” When no movement is made to leave the two of you alone he opens his mouth again, “Alone.”
“Oh. Right, of course!” Korvyn turns to you as he moves to get up, “I will see you later, kalintu.”
You let your hand grasp his bicep as he stands, allowing it to ghost over his skin until your hand rests in his. Neteyam can see the way your fingers flex as they hold Korvyns, can see the way his thumb rubs over your fingers before he inevitably steps away.
When he departs your face falls more than it already had. Even more so when Neteyam sits next to you. Your brow creases, frown tilting your lips downwards. And finally, he’s granted with your voice being directed at him, “What is it?”
“I prepared this for you.” Neteyam begins to uncover the food, neatly unwrapping the cloths from around it before he hands you the leaf. You stare at it, lifting it in your palms to test the weight before raising your head again.
“Thank you.”
“Open it.”
So you do, maneuver your fingers deftly to untie the twine that secured the leaf before beginning the actual process of unwinding the leaf. As you do a familiar sweet scent begins to flood your senses. You can tell what it is before it even comes into eyesight.
When it is finally revealed you can feel your mouth water. The delicious smell paired with delectable view sparks a hunger that you didn’t have before. But you couldn’t eat it, wouldn’t eat it, the implications were too great especially as anyone could see.
You mutter a soft, “Thank you,” before moving to rewrap the food. Neteyam shoots his hand out though, halting all movement from you.
“I wish for you to try it.”
It was dirty. A play that he shouldn’t be forcing right now, but Neteyam can feel Korvyn still lingering. He knows that he’s watching this whole interaction and Neteyam wants him to know that there’s competition. Worthy competition at that.
“You know I cannot. That we are not prospects for each other.”
“Just try it. I wish to know if I’ve improved on the taste from when we were children.”
A huff leaves your nostrils. Heavy and harsh, as a clear sign of your distaste for Neteyam’s methods. But the slight grumble in your stomach does just enough to convince you. You raise the meat to your lips, parting them just wide enough for a bite before tearing off a piece with your teeth.
You let it rest on your tongue for a moment. To let the glaze flutter over your tastebuds before the tender richness of the meat joins it. It’s good. Very good. Unfortunately, Neteyam had mastered what herbs and spices went best with the meat and honey.
Swallowing your pride you allow a quick, “It is good.” Before you move to wrap the meat again. This time Neteyam lets you, pleased that you’ve tried his food in front of the whole clan. Even more pleased that you couldn’t deny that it was delicious – you may not have verbally said it, but he could tell from the way your eye sparkled and the upward flick of your ear that it was just as you liked it.
The next few weeks went smoothly. Well, as smooth as they could in Neteyam’s eyes.
It had become clear to the clan that he and Korvyn were dueling for your attention. He had thought it would work in his favor, if everyone knew he was trying to court you, then they would encourage Korvyn to back off.
Instead, Korvyn's friends seemed to step up their encouragement. Neteyam heard whispers from them about how good of a pick he had made, how if the Olo'eyktans son wanted the same woman then she must've been the perfect choice. If Neteyam wanted to take a page out of Li'ral's book, then he would have used the statement to his advantage.
Ran to you and told you that Korvyn only spoke to you because he wanted to stake claim over something that Neteyam wanted. But before he could even let the thought form he heard Korvyn’s voice drift over, ‘that does not matter to me. I thought she was perfect before he decided to intercept.’ Great. He was a great, honest guy.
Neteyam really hopes that they can get along afterwards. That there wouldn't be any hard feelings when he took his rightful spot by your side. But he wouldn't be too upset if it didn't work out – the more distance between you two, the better.
As the time passed he began to appreciate you. At first it had been a distraction, to encourage others to stay away. But as he spent nights bringing you meals, rare flowers, dyes from rare fruits, even a couple of carved bone jewelry pieces, he got to know you again.
He relearned the sound of your voice – not the one he usually heard, the blunt, uninterested tone. But instead the light airy tone that you held in casual conversation.
Relearned how your outer eyelid begins to droop when you're tired. How you refuse to sleep when there's much left to do, and how your eyes begin to tear up in protest to your stubbornness.
Relearned how you'll allow your bare foot to scrape against the dirt when you find a pebble. Most would move their foot, kick the pebble away, or if they must, plant their foot on top of it and try to ignore the sensation. You instead, embrace it.
Relearned how observant you are. Even if you look to be immersed in a conversation, you're still tuned into everything around you. Your ears will flick back at particularly loud laughs, eyes will steal glances when people begin to move in your vicinity.
He feels as if he’s relearned you entirely. Cataloged every piece of you that was missing in the past twelve years.
You must have felt the same. Felt as if you came to understand him better. That every missed moment was now known and that you were as close as before.
Neteyam’s drifting thoughts led to him messing up his weaving. He had switched stitching styles midway and now the armband looked crooked and mangled. He grunts in anger before putting his fingers into motion to fix his mistake.
“What is wrong?”
His mothers voice rings out behind him. She was preparing for dinner, carving the roots and slicing the meat while Neteyam sat a few feet away. She was always so observant, her oldest son the easiest for her to read.
“Nothing is wrong mother.”
He can hear the knife she held being placed down on the stone she was cutting on. Can feel her body heat shifting closer to his. “Something is wrong. You are tense, hunching over your craft as if it must be shielded from the world.”
Neytiri's palm presses between his shoulder blades. It urges him to sit up straight.
“I want it to be perfect.”
He can feel his mother peering over his shoulder. It brings tension back into his body as he holds his breath. If his mother didn't like it he isn't sure what he would do.
“It will be.” Neytiri nods approvingly, “You do not need to rush.”
He did need to rush. Teylun told him this morning during training that he overheard that Korvyn had finished his courting gift. That could only mean that he would be presenting it to you tonight at the gathering, which meant that Neteyam had to finish his courting gift before then.
The two of you had been close last night. Closer than usual, dancing next to the fire with other couples. Body's swaying and twirling around each other, never straying far enough for someone to slip between you two. If Korvyn got to you first tonight, Neteyam was nearly sure that you would accept his gift, that he would lose you to him.
So he just smiles tightly at his mother. Nods in faux agreement that he had time to complete it, that he could be patient. He knew better though, and he knew he could complete it. Hours spent training in the ways of his people meant that he was well versed, he would complete this easily before the festivities tonight.
Normally armbands were fashioned with feathers as accent pieces. Two or three that would hang down the wearers bicep, usually of a color that meant something to them. He wants the feathers to be something that stand out; a nice rich orangy-red. Not only would it stand out against your blue skin, but it’d also draw attention, garner questions about who made it for you.
The thought brought a small smirk to his face. You, confirming the suspicions that the two of you were becoming something more, to any and all who asked.
As he approaches the fire he scans to look for you. You aren't at your normal log. You aren't settled where your friends are. Aren't nibbling on something near the edge of the forest.
Where were you?
Maybe you were late. He had heard that you were going to wash at one of the hot springs after training today, maybe you just hadn't made it back yet. That would make sense.
He takes up position with Teylun, Li’ral, and the rest of their friends. He tries not to get too comfortable, to be ready to jump up and head over to you as soon as you breach the forest.
Neteyam didn't want to seem like a prude by not partaking in the activities while he waited. So he drinks some wine and assumes a casual, loose position. He converses with his friends, shares his opinions on their prospects, answered when they question his stance with you.
The conversation almost leads him to miss your arrival. But his ears flick towards the sound of your voice instinctually. He allows his head to swerve with them, to watch as you greet your friends. You seemed happy, smiling as you caught up with them, he wondered what you were talking about.
It seemed wrong to interrupt. When the conversation died down he'd slowly meander over, politely ask your friends to excuse you, and drag you away from prying eyes. Then he could present you with the armband and implore you to give this courtship a chance.
As he ponders how the situation would go, Neteyam can see a figure approaching. When his eyes refocus he notices its Korvyn. He's approached you while you talk, urging you away as Neteyam was just daydreaming he would.
No.
No, no, no. Neteyam only has one thought coursing through his mind as he approaches – Korvyn would not ruin this for him.
“Korvyn! Can I speak to you for a moment?” Neteyam places a firm hand on his shoulder, squeezing slightly.
Korvyn nods, “Of course.”
Neteyam drags him away; away from prying eyes, away from their friends, away from you.
“I heard you are going to give a courting gift tonight.”
“I am.”
Neteyam lets his tongue lave over his bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth as he picks his words carefully. “I do not think it wise to do that.”
“Why is that?” Korvyn’s brow furrows, nose scrunching before he schools his expression back to neutral.
“I wish to court the same person. And-” Eywa is he really doing this? Yes, he was and there was no turning back now, “and it would be embarrassing for her to deny you in front of everyone.”
“She has said that she would deny me?”
Neteyam lets his lips press tightly together, “I have not asked. But it would be wise to think of all possibilities.”
With another pat to Korvyn's shoulder Neteyam turns to leave. He makes his way back to the fire, back to the music, back to you.
But you aren't there again. So he rushes to your friends, questions your absence like he should have done earlier. They tell him you were tired, that you had outdid yourself earlier and the hot spring loosening your muscles only made you more tired.
That is fine. Perfectly fine. He could see you in the morning, before training went underway. Drag you away to a more secluded area and confess his feelings then while he presents you with the armband he carefully crafted.
So he goes back to his kelku. Laid down on his sleeping mat and pulled a pelt over his body before drifting off to sleep. When he wakes up he's excited, happy to see where this day takes him. Ever the optimist.
But when he gets to the training grounds you are not there either. It is fine, you were probably late again – you said you were tired the night before, maybe you just slept in today.
Neteyam tries to keep his optimistic mood, to be the open and kind person that he should be. However it falters as the day goes on and he still does not see you.
You didn't make an appearance for the midday meal. Fine.
Didn't show up to the weavers circle to gossip with your mother and the other older women of the clan. Fine.
Weren’t up high on the ikran rookery tending to your ikran as if they were your child. Fine.
Maybe your father had sent you out to duties he was unaware of. Things that drew you away from the village. But then you weren’t at the fire later on. Not the cookfire or the celebration fire either.
And to be honest, it was still fine.
Neteyam was able to emotionally regulate himself to not fall into a spiral. To not consider that something bad had happened, or that someone else was able to steal you away in courtship before he could. You were probably resting, and if you were not resting maybe you had fallen ill.
So he lays his head down to rest another night, preparing to get up as the sun rises. He'd go to your kelku and ask for you before you had a chance to leave – not that you would be leaving, since you were sick, of course.
Upon arriving your mother greets him.
“Oh Neteyam! So good to see you – quite early though.. How is your mother? And your siblings, are they treating you well?”
A polite smile graces his face. He’d always been fond of your mother, and it’s important to answer all her questions diligently if he wanted to ensure she also liked him.
“I apologize for the intrusion. She is well, I believe she's preparing for a hunt right now. My siblings are also well – troublemakers, but they are well under my watchful eye.”
Your mother nods along as he speaks, showing her interest, “That is good. I am very happy to hear the Olo’eyktan’s family is doing well.” She wipes her knife with a cloth, sheathing it before her face lights up, “Ah - I apologize, you must be here for something important if you came so early.”
Neteyam smiles, your name leaves his lips and he smiles politely. When your mothers expression falls into something morphed from confusion Neteyam realizes his mistake and continues.
“I was hoping to speak to her.”
“She is gone for the day already, another busy schedule.”
“Do you know where I might be able to find her?”
Neteyam feels as if he can see the gears turning in your mothers head. It’s as if he’s watching her weigh the pros and cons of revealing your location. He hopes that the pros outweigh everything else and that she’ll guide him in the right direction but he’s not foolish – he knows family should stick together. It’s his fathers favorite saying anyway.
“I do not. She has taken on many responsibilities recently.”
Neteyam can feel his face fall before he can school his expression. Disappointment settles in his bones, weighing his shoulders down. But before he can fully allow himself to count today's pursuit as a loss, your mother speaks again.
“She may be with the gathers. Fishing while they gather fibers for weaving. However, I am not certain.”
A smile graces his face at that. It wasn’t a definite answer of your whereabouts, but it's good enough. There were many spots to gather fibers down the river, and the walk would give him ample time to perfectly craft his confession.
As he walks through the forest Neteyam allows himself to kneel and pick a few flowers. If all went well maybe you'd allow him to braid them into your hair. He could picture it now. The two of you sitting in an alcove of a fallen tree, the ambiance of the local fauna surrounding you, talking about any and everything that came to mind as Neteyam weaved your braided hair into other patterns to incorporate the flowers as well.
Sounds of rushing water and muffled voices force him out of his daydream. Arriving to the river means he has to attune himself to everything – he’d hate to miss you because you were on the other side of the river, or if the group you were with ended up being more inland.
When he passes groups Neteyam puts on a proper face. He smiles, greets the clan members – sometimes he helps them with picking the fibers, or hauling a catch. When he comes upon the third group, he spots you nocking an arrow a few paces away.
After you release the arrow, he calls out to you. He watches as your yellow eyes snap to his figure. You allow your head to fall into a slight nod of acknowledgement before wading out to retrieve your catch.
Neteyam steps slowly, as if he is trying to not startle an animal. His hands reach out in front of him, trying to show that he means no hard as you yank the arrow from the octofins body. When you toss the fish into a basket filled with the rest of your kills, he finally approaches.
“Can I steal you from fishing for a few moments?”
He can see the way your tongue rolls over your top teeth beneath your lips. The way your eyes narrow just slightly, before you motion towards the forest.
Good. The denser flora would better muffle your conversation from prying ears. He wanted this to be a more intimate moment, and he’s glad to see that you share the sentiment.
Neteyam feels like a child with how he brambles behind you. His feet snap twigs, his hands take ages to move the vines from his vision, and his heart is pounding in his chest. Any sense of preparation flees when you reach a clearing that you deem good enough.
“Speak.”
Not the joyous greeting he had hoped for, but it was fine, he could work with it. Perhaps you were just stressed about bringing back enough fish.
“How have you been? I missed you at the festivities the past few nights.”
You scoff, “I am fine. I have been busy – I am currently busy as you just saw. What did you come all this way for?”
“I wish to give this to you, so you can carry a piece of me with you always.” Before Neteyam can begin to dig into the satchel that rests tied to his tewng on his hip, a snarl from you halts his movement.
“Do not humiliate me. I will not allow it, not again.”
“I would never. These past few weeks have been very special to me. I feel as if I have gained ma txeylan back, as if we had never grown apart.”
Your lips tightly purse together, and you nod. This is not how Neteyam thought it would go. He believed that you would share his sentiment, that you would elaborate on how it felt from your perspective. Did someone else get to you first?
“Do you not feel the same.. Did–did you agree to pursue someone else already?”
“Oh you are just so full of yourself! Can’t you see that?” You bellow, “You toss me aside for some new shiny friends, just to act like it’s my fault that we aren’t friends anymore. And now you bring up Korvyn? After you’ve forced your rank so that he does not court me?”
Neteyam allows his brow to crease. “What do you mean?”
“The other night! He had approached me to speak before you dragged him away, and yesterday morning I hear that he's been asked to stay away by the future Olo’eyktan.”
“No. No, not that.” He waves his hand dismissively, before looking back at you, “I did not toss you aside.”
“After your iknimaya. When Teylun first approached he called me a child. Then you brushed me off until your dream hunt, and then you only laughed at me and called me a child yourself!”
Realization dawned on his face. Much had happened in the past years, so much that he had buried that memory in his head, refused to allow it to see the light of day.
“I… I am so sorry.” You huff a laugh, disbelieving smile adorning your features before Neteyam continues, “I was taken with the praise that was being bestowed upon me, blinded by their perceptions of who I was that I didn’t consider how rude and childish my actions were.”
“Even if that were true, you only started taking an interest in me when you saw others approach – not because you truly wanted to reconnect.”
“It started like that, but I have always enjoyed our time together.” Neteyam hopes you can hear the earnestness in his tone.
He tries to assess the non vocal signs you give him. The way your ears are slightly tilted back in annoyance, the way your tail is lashing angrily, how your fingers dig into your elbows where you hold your arms together. And despite your standoffish stance, you don't snap at him again.
“Actions must be paired with your words. Do not embarass me.”
A smile graces his lips, overjoyed that you're giving him a real opportunity, “You wont regr–”
“If you try to humilate me again the beating you recieve will be worse than the last.”
“Of course.” The smile falls a bit, but he cannot shake it from his face entirely. “May I help you bring back the fish you have caught?”
The thought dances around your mind before you shake your head, “No. You may begin with whatever you're trying to achieve tomorrow. Let me fish in peace.”
Not wanting to ruin his chances, Neteyam listens. Withdrawing from the area bidding the lingering clan members a goodbye before he begins his trek back through the forest. It hadn't gone as he planned, but you hadn't taken away his opportunity. Hadn't sealed and locked your heart away like one of the pressurized doors at the human outpost.
He hoped that his luck would play out. That he would be able to charm you into feeling the same way for him. But time would only tell.
Everyday Neteyam worked on something. Something to impress you. Something to show he cared. That he considered you as more than a prize to win.
At first they were simple things.
A nice feather to tag your arrows with.
Materials to help you craft a stronger grip for your knife.
Polished rocks that could be carved down into something to adorn your body or be used as decoration.
But Neteyam knew those things would only mean so much. Deep down he knew that anyone could retrieve those items for you – he had to distinguish himself somehow, to show how much better he was for you then any of the other candidates.
So the gifts progressively got more elaborate.
When you carved yourself a new bow, he weaved fibers together to make you a string to match its fury.
When the two of you somehow ended up in the same hunting party, he placed you in prime positions. No longer watching for unseen stampedes, but now being the one to arrive at hometree with the delight of knowing the clan would feast on your kill tonight.
He spent time making new meal combinations. Picking the ripest fruit to pair with savory mushrooms. He’d scour for ferns to crush into spices for meats. Swim out to rocks in the middle of lakes and rivers to catch the bigger fish that resided there.
Neteyam wished to make you clothes, jewelry, shawls, anything that could adorn your body. He wanted others to look at the craftsmanship and question where you found the time to make something so intricate when you were so busy. He wished for a deep purple tint to find your cheeks when you admitted that Neteyam made them for you, that he somehow found time in his even busier schedule to make you such detailed gifts. But he knew he had to wait – that he should wait, at least until you accept his courting.
So until then he continues with other acts.
He makes mental notes of beautiful hidden alcoves that he sees on patrol. Which he later begs you to accompany him to. Some are in the forest, hidden behind vines and trees but bright with glowing flowers and moss. Others are in the floating mountains, lush green spots that contain shallow bodies of water for the two of you to lounge in after a long day.
Most importantly, well most important in Neteyam's mind, he makes more of an effort to listen and also show you that he heard you.
When he asks about your day, he makes sure to delve into the little details about what fibers you're using for your weavings. Then the next morning more miraculously arrive outside your kelku.
When you state that a meal didn't come out as good as you hoped because the fruit you used wasn't of the rarest quality because you didn't want to scale the mountain for it, Neteyam makes sure that not only the fruit, but the meat and the nectar you were using show up with him the next day. You tried to take it from him with a polite apology, but he insisted that the two of you cooked together. He couldn't stop himself from getting caught up on the fact that you let him feed you when taste testing the meal.
When you complained others speaking about you, Neteyam set them straight.
To’lei said that the future Olo’eyktan couldn't have a carbon copy of himself as a mate, that he needed someone with a slightly different personality. So he politely reminded her that his mother not only matched, but exceeded in some senses, his fathers personality and their leadership has been strong and prosperous.
Ulkan mentioned how the two of you had always butted heads, that this complete change did not make sense. Neteyam informed him that people can change and mature, but also that mistakes and misunderstandings happen and those are mendable wounds.
And before Teylun and Li'ral could even think of making a comment Neteyam took the initiative to speak to them. He tried to not dwell on the past, to blame them for his past mistakes, but he did make it clear that they would have to respect you from now on, along with more of the clan's women. Specifically for you however he made it clear that it is not to be because of his interest in you, but because they can acknowledge your skills and prowess in what you do.
After weeks of changing his ways, of proving himself to you Neteyam began to think that it would not work. That you wouldn’t ever take him seriously and all of this was for naught. Sure, you had softened – allowed him to be around you more, laughed freely, and teased him as you once did. But that didn't mean you'd give him a real chance at proving how good of a mate he'd be.
But one morning as he's making his way to the training grounds he sees you already there. You’re teaching some of the children how to properly hold their bows – what stance their feet should be in, how to twist their hips, and how to line their shots. That isn't unusual, the children loved to learn from you and you didn't view it as a hindrance as long as they listened.
What was unusual was the bright orange and red feathers that adorned your bicep, upon trailing his eyes up a bit more Neteyam could see that they were attached to a very familiar pattern.
He couldn't stop the smile from gracing his face. The boyish grin bringing a sparkle to his eyes as he approached calling your name.
“You accept?”
You startle. Wave the children off dismissively, and huffing a bit when they don't disperse easily because of their nosey habits. But then you turn to him fully and nod.
“I am willing to try. It is as if you brought back the aspects of the boy I grew up with and paired them with the actions of a man.”
“That was my goal.” His hands reach towards your hips but they hover instead of landing, “May I touch you?”
When you nod again he allows his hands to fall. His thumbs begin soothing over the skin they rest on, “How about a kiss too? I promise I will not disappoint you.”
Instead of answering you allow your lips to press to his. It's brief, nothing to cheer or shout over, but it's everything to Neteyam. It's proof that all his months of trying have now progressed into something palpable, and it means that his feelings are reciprocated. When he moves to kiss you again, you press a hand to his chest halting his movements.
“There are children around.”
“It is nothing they have not seen from their parents.”
“Do not be hasty. How about we go flying tonight, and we can… continue then?”
Neteyam nods eagerly, dislodges himself from you and begins to make his way across the training grounds. If he were to stay nearby with this recent revelation hanging in the air he wouldn't be able to contain himself.
So he strides away, takes to sharpening a spear with an even wider grin than before adorning his features. He cannot wait for the future that he is so sure will happen – mating before Eywa, the ceremony with the clan, the births of your children, and eventually falling into the roles of leaders.
He should make a stop by the spirit tree to thank Eywa later. Neteyam is sure that she has had a role in this. That she had opened your heart and mind to the idea of him, and that without her he would have never been able to atone for his past mistakes, and never had won you back.
He would have never become important in your eyes again if not for her.
Maybe he would even take you - to prove that she had blessed this communion. Or maybe not, he should save that for when you consummate the union anyways.
Translation:
Eveng - child
Ma txeylan- my best friend
Rumaut - cannonball fruit
Ma’ite - my daughter
Kelku - home
Kaltxì - hello
Tewng - loincloth
Skxawng - idiot/moron
Kalintu - sweet person
a/n: lowk didn't love the ending of this but i wanted to write it instead of figuring out my ten minute presentation thats due in a few days or studying for my super important exam on monday soooo it is what it is
Dividers by @cafekitsune
tag: @skepticalvoidhedgehog
pls like/comment/reblog/come into my inbox and tell me what u think of the fic <3
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.
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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.
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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.
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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!!
⋆ | 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.
₊˚⊹♡ 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.
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.
The forest has never cared for titles, it does not fold to bloodlines or future leaders. It answers only to balance. You move through it without sound.
The undergrowth parts beneath your soles, grass brushing your calves in silent recognition. Your fingers skim bark as you pass, feeling the pulse beneath it—slow, ancient, alive. The air is thick with green and gold light, the scent of damp flora rising with every breath.
Eywa hums softly in the forest, not words—never words. Only by instinct, by the way your heartbeat slows when you draw your bow so fluently.
You kneel, pressing your free palm to the soil, warm, recently disturbed. Hoofprints ahead, small herd, moving east—one limping.
You rise, mercy is a part of balance too. When you pull the arrow back, the world narrows into breath and distance. The string presses into your fingers—the forest holds her breath.
The arrow flies true. This is strength. Not inheritance. A clean kill, right through the yerik’s airway. You kneel beside her carefully, hands tapping lightly against the succulent meat just beneath her skin.
“Oel ngati kameie, ma tsmuke, ulte ngaru seiyi irayo. Ngari hu Eywa salew tirea, tokx 'ì'awn slu Na'viyä hapxì.” You pray before her, a distant call breaks the quiet. Your name, again.
You exhale sharply, irritation flaring through the serene patience you held one moment ago. The call does not belong to the forest, it belongs to the village.
You retrieve your arrow and draw out your knife, preparing to slice these gifts into small pieces for the clan. Then the call comes again.
“Y/n!”
Your tail flicks in utter gall, snarling to yourself—pocketing the knife and lugging your kill back with you instead.
By the time you reach the tree line near the Omatikaya settlement, the air feels different, heavier.
A large council of warriors sits before you, planning something. You drag the yerik to the communal fire pit anyway, where it will be used later.
You move swiftly to sit amongst other warriors inside the circle, voices overlap in low debate. Warriors stand along edges, hunters, apprentices, watching.
And in the center, Neteyam, leading this raid—straight backed, composed, the weight of expectations resting easily across his shoulder as if it had always belonged there.
“…increase patrols along the western frontier. Defensive positioning only. We observe before we act.” He speaks, measured, controlled.
Murmurs of agreement ripple outward, you step in without waiting to be invited. The movement shifts attention like a stone thrown into unmoving water. Neteyam’s eyes find you immediately, they do not widen, or narrow, but they sharpen.
You dip your head briefly to most warriors—not him. “Observation will not stop a threat from growing,” you say evenly. Your voice does not rise, it does not need to. “If something tests our borders, we meet it before it grows teeth, before it knows our patterns.”
A few warriors exchange glances. Neteyam pauses briefly, his lips parting—then closing again, every word you speak fuels anger in him. You always think that you’re right. Everyday, he watches the villagers honor you with such reverence that it sets his teeth on edge.
On the other hand, his family has nothing but respect for you. They see you in the strength that mirrors their own. Courage, decisiveness, a vision that promises safety and prosperity to the people.
Only Lo’ak understands Neteyam’s deep dislike directed towards you. He does not hide it either—scowling when you speak, his words clipped when he must interact. He only sees you as a feeble thing who craves attention.
Neteyam finally answers without looking away from you. “And if we strike without understanding what we face?” His voice is calmer than you’d expected.
Yours is steadier, never fiery or clipped, just smooth and humble. “If we strike without understanding what we face, we will show the forest that we are not prey.”
He steps forward presently. “Leadership is not a reaction. It is restraint.”
Leadership. There it is, not his name, not the plan—just the title waiting for him.
The hunting grounds are quieter at the far edge, where the smallest of bows are kept. Tuk stands in front of you—large ears twitching in concentration, tiny fingers gripping the bow too tightly.
“Relax your hands,” you murmur, stepping behind her. “gentle…like this. The bow is not your enemy.”
She huffs. “It feels like it.”
You smile, crouching so you are at level with her. “Then you must show that you are not afraid.” You gently adjust her elbow, lift her chin, and guide her breath.
“Inhale. Allow the Great Mother to steady you. Exhale, and draw.”
The string trembles as she lets go, her eyes shut, shoulders tense.
Across the clearing, Neteyam corrects postures sharply, commands are barked. Your tail, once stilled, now flicks in irritation.
But here, where you teach—it is still. You do not rush anyone, you do not take hold of her bow, because your spiritual, placid nature keeps you from teaching children harshly.
Tuk’s arrow releases, it misses the center, but strikes the woven target cleanly. Tuk gasps like she has felled a thanator. You just grin, tapping her shoulder gently. “Again.”
Behind you, Neytiri watches from beneath a broad leafed tree, arms folded loosely across her chest. Just observing.
Tuk draws her arrow again, stronger this time, the arrow strikes closer to the center and you laugh softly with her. That is when Neteyam notices, he had been mid instruction when the sound carried. His gaze lifts from the boy in front of him to you, leading by instinct.
He perceives the approving glance from your mother, the slight bow of your head which you offer to her—and she only retaliates, inclining her hand forward. I see you.
Neteyam steps away from his group, crossing the field with measured strides. The young warriors part instinctively, respectfully.
“Tuk,” he says, voice controlled, “your shoulders are lifting when you release.”
You step back immediately, giving space. Tuk looks between you both, her mentor, and her brother. “Listen.” You mouth encouragely.
Her brother adjusts her stance, more precise, more structured. You watch silently, hands behind your back. After a moment, Tuk releases again.
The arrow lands nearly center, her delighted squeal cutting through everything. Neteyam allows a soft smile, then his eyes flick to you—an eyebrow raising, not playful, not friendly…challenging.
Your head tilts slightly. “She breathes better when she feels safe, worry about position too much and you won’t catch a thing.”
“She shoots better when she is corrected,” he replies, hands at his hips, commanding—correcting. “Fix her position now, and she will learn to shoot that way for the rest of her life. Then there won’t be any problems. She will never miss.”
“You do not get to stand here and insult my teaching.” You try to remain as calm as ever, but he makes it so, so hard.
“You both are correct.” Neytiri steps in quickly, raising a hand between you and her son. “You teach instinct,” she says to you before her golden eyes shift to Neteyam “and you, teach control.”
You step back first, Neteyam does not.
“Those are both spirits that the clan needs. instinct, and control. Our people are not led by one spirit alone.” Neytiri continues. “The Olo’eyktan decides, the Tsahìk listens. You mistake each other's paths for opposition.”
Neytiri nods to you once more before walking Tuk back to the village, a hand lingering on her son’s arm.
The clearing empties, just you, Neteyam, and other mentors remain. You kneel, arranging small arrows, quivers, and bows.
You can feel Neteyam’s gaze tearing through you, the edge in it makes your tail flick reflexively. “What?” You sigh without sparing a glance, hands curling around a small bow.
“Why must you always show off?” His voice is low, yet sharp.
“show what?” you ask evenly, rising slowly. Your simple top swinging over the swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips moving naturally as you shift your weight. Carrying with you a poise imperceptible to Neteyam.
“You dishonored my authority. Publicly. Before many warriors.”
The air between you tightens, not loud, or explosive. Just taut. You straighten fully now, meeting his stare without wavering. “I dishonored nothing,” you reply, calm but unyielding. “Authority is not so fragile that it shatters when merely questioned.”
His jaw tightens, that lands where you meant for it to. “You stepped into my council,” he says, taking one measured step closer. “You contradicted me before warriors who look to me for direction.”
“They look to the clan, not to pride.”
For a moment you think he might snap, but Neteyam has never been reckless. That is the problem. His restraint is carved into bone. The perfect son of Jake Sully and Neytiri. The future Olo’eyktan of the Omatikaya.
“The clan needs unity,” he says, voice lower now. Controlled. Dangerous in its calm. “Not division.”
“And unity does not mean silence,” you answer. “If I believe something threatens us, I will speak. Even if you do not like how it sounds. I will not yield to you simply because you are the next big thing.”
“I am not asking you to yield to anybody.” His voice is steady, even, controlled, down to the last breath.
You let out a low scoff. “You expect it anyway. And you know that.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“Oh?” Your brow lifts. “Explain.”
“You assume I haven’t thought through my decisions,” he says. “You assume I speak for effect.”
“If you don’t want it questioned,” you reply, “make it stronger.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, visibly over it. “You undermine me again in council,” he says, “and I will address it formally.”
The patrol was meant to be observation only, it’s what Neteyam instructed. You move along the western ridge regardless—four warriors trail behind you, quiet, uncertain. They had looked to him when the patrol had begun, now they look to you.
The forest feels wrong, Eywa does not hum here. The hum is more mechanical than anything, the sound does not belong to the flora, or to the wings of your ikran, it is metal. Biting into bark.
You raise a hand and the warriors behind you pause immediately, you crouch, pressing your fingers to the soil, smelling. There are no hoofprints this time, only boots. Your jaw tightens instantly.
Through the lattice of the ferns you see it, glint of alloy against green. A small extraction rig, half concealed beneath camo netting. It is not a full scale assault, they are testing, measuring, and mapping.
“Tsamsiyu, we were ordered to stay back, to observe.” The scarred warrior behind you speaks, eyes wide, tension coiled in his shoulders.
You close your eyes, allowing the forest to breathe around you, letting the winds stir the leaves. You have always been spiritual—have always hoped to someday take the role of Tsahik. “Yes. I know. I moved anyway.” you reply finally, voice low.
You nock an arrow, taking careful, practiced aim. The wind hums through the leaves, you feel the Great Mothers pulse beneath your palms, in the dirt, through the bark of the nearby trees. The arrow flies steadily, cutting straight through your jagged breath. Sparks flare and the humans freeze, panic rippling through them. Another shot, precise. The rig’s control panels shatter, wires exposed, metal dented.
The humans scatter into the foliage, the ridge smells now, of scorched earth and iron. And then you hear it, the screech of the ikran, your tail flicks instinctively at the sound of wings cutting through treetops.
Neteyam. The patrol rode with him, ikran stretched in perfect formation, the riders poised and alert. He is the first to dismount, eyes sweeping the ridge before landing on you.
“You disobeyed my orders.” he says, voice flat. “You moved ahead of the warriors I sent. You engaged without permission. Do you understand what you have done?”
“I saw a threat. I acted before it became a danger.”
Neteyam steps closer, the patrol behind him watching silently, tensely. “You put yourself—and every warrior who followed you at risk. You overstepped. You act as if you are in charge. Do not mistake your skill for authority.”
A flick of his tail punctuates the words slipping off of his tongue so easily. “Your father was a good warrior, yes. Brace, skilled. Dead. You are not your father. You are not above orders. You are not above the clan.”
You tighten your grip on your bow, glancing to the side, raising four fingers in his face. “I protect the clan,” you say, voice unwavering. “I act when I must. I will not wait for permission to protect what is ours.” You lower your hands sharply.
His eyes narrow. “You think courage is enough? You think instinct is enough? You are reckless. Dangerous. If anything had gone wrong today, it would have been your fault.”
“I did what needed to be done.”
He steps forward, so close you can feel the heat from his presence. “No. You do not get to make that choice. Orders are not optional, you are not your father, and you are not the clan. You are a woman who thinks her skill makes her untouchable, and it will not. Not with the sky people. Not now. Not ever.”
Your tail whips violently, muscles coiled. Your eyes meet his without flinching. “I do not serve you, Neteyam. I serve Eywa and the Omatikaya. If that conflicts with your pride then so be it.”
He turns, gesturing to the warriors behind you, and the ones behind him. They mount their ikran and rise above the canopy. Leaving you on the ridge with the forest humming, the charred remnants of the rig, and the echo of his words slicing through the quiet.
You sink to your knees, bow resting across your lap. Fingers brush the soil, a rhythm of life, now absent. Your tail droops loosely behind you. Alone, for the first time since your father’s death, the weight of the years presses down.
He would have known what to do, you think. He would have felt the threat without hesitation, acted without question, moved with certainty. And now… you do, you feel it, yes. But you act alone. And every time you do, the memory of his absence gnaws at your chest.
At eclipse, the walk back to the village is deliberately slow, bow leaving deep, rigid streaks in the soil. You step past the last stretch of trees—elders bow their heads in recognition, others notice your slower pace, the dark brown staining your knees, and your tense shoulders.
You do not waste time, not even bothering to enter your own home—fastening your steps, going straight to your mother.
She sits near the fire, weaving a strap of leather. She looks up, eyes large, golden. You feel the familiar mix of warmth and quiet judgment. “You’re late.” She says simply, voice calm but knowing.
“I needed to move.” You reply awfully fast, kneeling beside her.
She shifts closer, hands brushing yours as she lifts them from the bow resting across your lap. “You carried more than you should alone,” she murmurs, voice soft but firm. “Even the strongest warriors need rest, Y/n. Even the bravest must lean back sometimes.”
You close your eyes, head tilting into her touch.
“Come now, Ma’ite. The gathering is beginning now.” Your mother brushes your cheek, already collecting new weavings for you to wrap yourself in. “Dress well. The tsahik is making an announcement.”
“I will see you there,” you smile, letting her go and changing into a new loincloth, laced in deep, earthy tones—the fabric is soft, supple, and wraps low across your plump hips, the edges fraying naturally. Your top fits just right, a wrap of dyed plant fibers and fine leather riding up your sternum, the swell of your chest visible.
You rise from the quiet of your mothers tent, the soft laughter of children filling your ears, men and women discussing patrol routes and food.
The communal gathering sprawls ahead, filled with every member of the clan. The scent of smoke and roasting meat carries, layered with the subtle sweetness of forest blooms and the resinous tang of recently carved wood.
Villagers part as you and your mother arrive, recognizing the two of you with gentle bows or subtle nods. You keep your gaze forward, catching glimpses of familiar faces; Lo’ak near the edge, Kiri leaning against a tree, Tuk tucked close to Neytiri. The elders murmur quietly among themselves, eyes flicking toward the center where Mo’at stands.
Neteyam stands at her side, composed, commanding—utterly controlled. The very sight of him sends a prickle through your spine, a mixture of irritation and something sharper you dare not name. Beside him, Aysea stands quietly, serene, wearing a confidence that feels both earned and infuriating.
The gathering stills when Mo’at raises a hand. You crouch beside your mother, her hand squeezing yours gently.
Everyone’s eyes are on the Tsahik, her smile is large, yet serious. “The Omatikaya gather under Eywa’s watchful gaze to honor the bonds that guide our people,” Mo’at begins, her voice calm but resonant, carrying across the circle. “Our clan thrives because of the strength, courage, and wisdom of those who lead, and the choices made today will shape our path forward.”
Your stomach twists. You already sense the pivot of the moment, the shift in destiny that has nothing to do with your skill, your instinct, or the years you’ve spent preparing for this. Your gaze lowers, eyes shutting briefly.
She pauses, eyes sweeping across the circle, briefly resting on you and your mother. “It is time to recognize the role that Eywa has laid before our people. Neteyam will soon take his place among the leaders of our clan as warrior and protector.”
The announcement draws no gasp, no surprise from the people. It has been destined since his iknimaya, Neteyam will take after his father in every sense.
“And by Eywa’s blessing,” Mo’at continues, her gaze shifting from Neteyam to the figure standing beside him, “the one who will serve as the clan’s next Tsahìk, guiding the Omatikaya with wisdom, clarity, and vision, will be Aysea.”
You press your mother’s hand harder, grounding yourself as the weight of the announcement settles in. The role you had trained for under Mo’at’s watchful eyes, the path you had worked toward, is no longer within reach. Your tail flicks in agitation, the beads along your outfit clinking faintly.
You swallow, forcing your shoulders to relax, tail coiling beneath you. The forest hums faintly beneath your feet, reminding you that you are still a warrior, still strong, still capable.
Everything settles, you are too burdened to notice. Your gaze lifts only to see Neteyam’s steady hands guiding the future Tsahik through the crowd, finding a space to sit and eat together.
It is not his pitiful hand on the small of her back that bothers you, it is the role. That was supposed to be your role. Your mother leans down slightly, whispering, “Stay present, Y/n. The clan watches, always. Learn from this, even if it is not yours to hold.”
The next days go by slowly, only emphasizing the tightness in your chest. Eywa knows you’ve prepared thoroughly for the role Aysea has been given—perhaps it is because you and Neteyam had never connected, Mo’at needed somebody who could rule with her grandson together, not divided in the way you two are.
However, the idea of mating had never even reached you. especially the idea of mating with Neteyam. Several warriors had made attempts at courting you—did they ever succeed? No. You were far too busy for that kind of thing, but it never stopped the men from giving you their gifts, their praise, and their intense gazes.
The training grounds are crowded when you arrive, you’d been quiet since the announcement was disseminated, moving as productively as ever—just allowing the forest to guide you.
Tuk leaps to you as soon as you are in eyeshot, hands hooking around yours, dragging you to the target she’s been training with since the beginning. “Tuktirey,” you sigh, leaning down to her level and smiling.
“What?” She giggles cutely, hands squeezing yours.
“Come with me, to the ponds. It will be a hunt.” Tuk has been your student since she began learning, you thought it was about time she had learned to hunt at least one small creature.
“A real hunt?!” She exclaimed, hands letting off of yours, flying up in loud celebration.
“Shhh,” you laugh, handing her a smaller, yet stronger bow and setting off.
The ponds are alive and sounded in the early morning, fish of all kinds swimming about. Mists curl over the water in pale ribbons.
“The water is not like the soil,” Tuk observes, leaning down to touch it.
“No,” you murmur, crouching at the bank. “The water listens in another way.”
You guide her into the shallows where the currents grow thick, silver bodies flicker beneath the surface, quick and clever.
“Fish do not fear footsteps,” you explain softly. “They fear shadows. Keep your back to the sun.”
She nods with solemn intensity, mimicking your stance. You do not correct her immediately, you let her feel the water first—cool around her calves, alive against her skin.
A fish darts and Tuk jerks her bow too fast and splashes, missing wildly. You stifle a laugh, covering your lips. “Again.”
Across the bank, you feel his presence before you see him, Neteyam.
He stands leaned back against a broad tree, arms crossed lazily over his chest. Your stance is steady in the shallows, water curling around your calves. The low tweng at your hips is darker now where it’s soaked, clinging to the curve of your thighs. Your braids hang forward over your shoulders as you lean to correct Tuk’s angle, beads chiming softly. You pretend not to see him watching.
You adjust Tuk’s wrist gently. “Slow your breath. The water keeps moving even when you don’t.”
This time she waits, tongue poking at her cheek in concentration. She releases. the arrow pierces right through a mid sized fish, the water blooming red for a second. “I did it!” She gasps.
You grin, pride softening your features. “You did.”
A slow clap sounds from across the bank, your smile fades. Neteyam pushes off the tree, crossing towards the waters edge. His movements are measured, deliberate—like he’s stepping into a battlefield instead of a shallow pond.
“You took her beyond the perimeter. Beyond the training grounds.” He says, not calm, but not sharp.
Tuk beams up at him, holding her catch triumphantly. “I hunted!”
His expression softens for her. “I see that.”
Then his eyes shift to you. Hard again. “The ponds are not cleared for training.”
You straighten slowly, water slipping down your thighs as you step toward shore. You do not rush. You never rush for him. “They are now.”
His jaw sets tight, “you do not get to decide that.”
“I did not bring her into danger,” you say evenly. “I brought her to learn.”
“You brought her beyond secured ground without informing the patrol.”
“You secured the ground?” Your brow lifts slightly. “Or you simply marked it and hoped the sky people would obey your lines?”
His nostrils flare faintly. He hates when you frame it that way.
Tuk steps closer to you, small hand brushing your thigh. “There was no danger,” she insists, holding up her fish again as proof of triumph.
Neteyam exhales slowly, kneeling so he is level with her. His voice gentles instantly. “That does not mean we stop being careful, Tuk..”
She frowns. “But Y/n was careful.”
“Sometimes Y/n is wrong.” He shoots you a pointed glare. “You move as if the rules do not apply to you,” he says quietly, standing slowly.
“And you make rules as if they are always right.”
His tail flicks once, controlled but sharp. “Since the announcement, you have pushed every boundary I set.”
Your spine stiffens at that. “Since the announcement, you have tried to tighten every boundary around me.”
The air between you thickens. Tuk senses enough to step back, clutching her fish and edging toward the bank.
“You think this is about the Tsakarem,” he says, voice low.
“You think it is not?” You finally let a crack show—not anger, but something raw. “I trained for years. Under Mo’at. Under my mother. I learned the songs. The herbs. The dreams. And in one breath it was given to someone who stands beside you more easily.”
“Aysea was chosen by Eywa,” he mutters.
“And I was not?!”
Neteyam does not answer immediately, his eyes running over the riverbank—not at you.
“Should I take the fish back?” Tuk asks awkwardly.
“Yes.” you both say at the same time.
Tuk scrambles off, glancing back one more time before disappearing into the trees.
“Do not twist this.” You say, tail flicking sharply. “I am disappointed in the choice.”
“Aysea is very capable.”
“I did not say she wasn’t.”
“But you think you are more so.”
“Yes.”
“Confidence is not destiny.”
“And lineage is?” you fire back.
His shoulders square, he steps closer instinctively, chest falling and rising with each deep breath. “You think everything I have is handed to me?”
“I think everything you have is expected of you.” That lands differently, the silence between you two is tense, chests heaving with anger.
“Do not…bring Tuk here again.” He takes angered steps back, whipping around and walking back to the village.
The following day begins with chaos, your mother, a mighty huntress, a warrior—helping you to your ikran, mounting her own, and flying after several others.
A raid. This time Jakesully leads it, Neytiri, Neteyam and Lo’ak following close behind as always. Several warriors surround you. Gunships roar over the canopy, rotors chewing the air into shrapnel. Smoke spills downward in gray ribbons, staining the green—gold morning.
Your mother flies to your right, posture unshaken, braids snapping in the wind. The other warriors orient subtly around her without meaning to. They always have. Even the eldest hunters defer to her aim, to the quiet certainty in her movements. She does not bark orders because she does not need to.
You dive together, arrows streaking downward. One of yours pierced a gunner's throat. Another explodes through a rotor housing. The sky people scatter, recalculating.
A concussive sound cuts through the air, a thud so violent it folds the air inward. You turn just in time to see the missile strike her ikran’s wing.
The creature streaks as membrane tears. Your mother does not scream, she shifts her weight, compensating, trying to pull upward.
Gunfire rips through smoke, three rounds, center mass. Her body jerks, the world slows into a crawl, your soul leaping to your throat.
You see the way her fingers tighten once around the reins. The way her chin lifts, not in fear, but in refusal. Then gravity claims her.
“Ma’ Sa’nok!” You yell, diving without breath, without thought. The forest canopy rushes up in a violent blur of green and shadow.
Your hand almost reaches her, almost. A hand clasps around your tricep with bruising strength. Neteyam. “Let go!” you roar, thrashing.
“She’s gone!” He shouts back, voice raw. “You cannot save her.” He holds you back despite the loud cries escaping your throat.
The battle ends in pieces, you do not remember landing, you remember only the moment your feet met the soil and you ran. You find her where the canopy broke her fall, she is not intact.
The forest is eerily careful around her. Leaves drift down like quiet witnesses. Her body lies twisted but proud. She lies cradled in ferns, as if the forest—Eywa tried softening the blow she could not prevent.
Your legs no longer understand how to move. You kneel beside her. You cannot touch her at first. Your hands hover over her chest, trembling. There is blood—too much blood. It has soaked her leather, pooled beneath her spine, darkened the roots of nearby plants.
“Ma,” you whisper. Your voice does not sound like yours. You press your palm to her sternum. It is warm, still warm. Hope detonates in your chest. “Can you stay? Stay please, do you hear me?”
Your hands run over her neck, searching for the pulse you felt at birth. The pulse she taught you to find in wounded animals. There is one, two, three beats. But no fourth.
You lean down, pressing your forehead to hers the way you did as a child when storms frightened you. Her skin is cooling under yours.
Your hands are slick with her blood when the others finally reach you. You hear them dimly—the rustle of warriors parting leaves, the low murmur of disbelief. Someone inhales sharply, another whispers her name.
You press your forehead harder to hers as if heat can be forced back into her by will alone. “Ma’ sa’nok…” It breaks this time. Not a whisper. A fracture.
“She fought well.” Jake murmurs, sitting opposite of you.
“She was not supposed to fall.”
Jake holds your gaze from across with a grief he does not try to hide. His jaw works before he answers, voice roughened by smoke and memories. “No one is.”
Branches part behind him, you raise your weapon instinctively as measured footsteps approach. Neytiri emerges first from behind Jake’s shoulder, her eyes fall to your mother’s body and something inside her fractures silently—one hand lifts to her mouth, yours falls slowly, letting your bow slip from your fingers.
Lo’ak steps into view from behind her, his expression hardens the moment he sees you kneeling there. Not sympathy, not softness. And then, Neteyam. He stops when he sees her there.
He steps forward once, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. His voice, when it comes, is low and stripped of commands. “I am sorry.”
“You had no right,” you say, it is not shouted, it is hollowed out of you. “You had no right to stop me.”
His jaw tightens. Not anger, but containment. He kneels opposite you, beside his father, mirroring the way you crouch over her. “If I let you fall too—”
“You do not decide that!” The sound tears from your throat, sharp enough that Lo’ak shifts behind him. “You do not decide who I lose!”
Neteyam’s voice lowers before he speaks. “She was gone before you dove.”
“You do not know that.”
“I do.”
“How?” Your eyes blaze, wet but unyielding. “Because you are always certain? Because you’re always right?”
His nostrils flare. “Because I watched the rounds hit her,” he says quietly. “Because I saw where they struck.”
You glance down at your mothers chest as if defiance alone will restart it. But the warmth is fading beneath your palms. The forest hums, soft and distant. Your shoulders begin to shake, though you refuse to bow your head completely. Not here, not in front of him.
Jake moves then, placing a hand gently on your shoulder, then another on your mother’s. “We’ll take her home.”
You do not move as the warriors step forward, Neteyam stands before you, offering a hand. You only stare at it before standing without taking it.
When you reach the village edge, elders bow their heads. Your mothers absence moves through the clan like a shadow. Neteyam walks beside you the entire way, not close enough to touch, not far enough to escape.
Aysea watches from the crowd, her eyes dark with something discourteous.
You do not sleep that night. You stay hidden in your home, letting the tears fall down where they won’t the next day.
And when the day comes, you stand in the crowd, your mother being lowered into the ground. Her braids have been cleaned and restrung. Her weapons rest beside her, not as trophies, but as parts of her life returning with her.
She looks as if she is sleeping, too still. Too quiet. At the center stands Mo’at—her posture is unwavering, her age carried like carved stone. When she raises her hand, the forest stills.
Beside her stands Aysea. Tsakarem. She carries the bowl of sacred herbs, arranging the woodsprites at your mother’s feet. She does not lead, but she is being shown how too. Mo’at begins the song, it is soft—carrying through the crowd and into the night.
Low and ancient, vibrating through the roots beneath your knees. She speaks of courage. Of sacrifice, of a warrior who did not falter. She presses her palm to your mothers brow. “Eywa receives what was always hers.”
Aysea kneels when instructed, placing the woodsprites along your mother’s chest. Her movements are precise, reverent, and
The soil falls over your mothers head, a piece of your soul is returning with her. When the clan disperses it is only you, your fingers press into the soil, feeling the warmth beneath them.
There is only continuation, and you sit there until the light fades completely.
Three long months pass, the change happens slowly, at first, the clan thinks grief has softened you—it hasn’t, it has refined you.
In council, when Neteyam outlines patrol rotations, you do not interrupt. You do not challenge his flanks or question his caution, you only nod.
When he assigns you to a specific perimeter—the most tedious stretch. You accept it without comment. That is what unsettles him.
He watches for the tilt of your chin, for the spark in your eyes, and for the inhale before you dismantle his strategy—but it never comes.
During training, he corrects your stance. “You are compensating too far left.” He murmurs too close to your ear.
“I will adjust,” you reply evenly, not sarcasm, no bite. You do adjust, perfectly. He studies you longer than necessary.
At the communal gathering, Aysea sits at his side, one hand splayed over his thigh. His arms are wrapped around her waist, nose dug into the crook of her neck—but when he looks up, his eyes find you, crouched over the fire, helping the elders cook.
Lo’ak nudges his side gently, whispering into his ear. “You prefer her to be angry.” He teases, laughing too loud.
The tension—you—sharpen weeks later. Aysea spends more time assisting Mo’at. Learning chants, preparing meals and medicines, walking beside Neteyam after council discussions about spiritual morale. You tell yourself it does not matter.
One afternoon, the warriors gather for coordinated target drills. The air is thick and humid, insects buzz lazily over the clearing. Neteyam moves between archers, correcting forms. He steps behind another female warrior—tsu’ren, adjusting her elbow with careful precision. “Relax your shoulders,” he murmurs.
His hands are close to her waist as he demonstrates alignment. It is nothing inappropriate, it is leadership. You know that, but your jaw tightens anyway. When your turn comes, you draw your arrow harder than necessary.
The string snaps forward and the arrow veers wide, a miss. You never miss. Neteyam’s head turns instinctively, he approaches you then. “You are distracted.”
“I am not.”
“You are.” He says, stepping behind you. his hand hovers near your elbow, not touching. Then he adjusts your arm, fingers brushing your skin.
“Stop it,” you pull away, shooting another arrow dead center. He steps away immediately, a little smirk creeping through his exterior.
The sun had barely set over the horizon when jake approached you, moving carefully along the platform where you were just weaving, several men and women surrounded. Neteyam sat behind Aysea, her head laid back against his shoulder as she weaved him an armband.
Jake paused, eyes lingering on you and then shifting to Neteyam. “You two are going to patrol together.” he said, voice firm. “It’s about time you two learned to read the forest as a unit.”
Your protests fall flat under your Olo’eyktan. Neteyam’s eyes meet yours briefly, sharp yet unreadable. You simply nod, not speaking and letting the weight of the task settle over you.
Aysea stood then, gliding up beside Jake and letting her hand brush your shoulder. “You’ll see, Y/n,” she said, voice sugary. “He can be…” she glances at Neteyam, winking slyly. “Difficult… But don’t worry, you’ll manage, I'm sure.”
You pulled your shoulders back subtly, keeping your voice neutral. “I manage just fine on my own.” Her smile faltered ever so slightly, replaced with a cool glare that she masked quickly.
The forest had received the assignment before you had even registered it. At dawn the following morning, mist clings low to the roots around your ankles as if testing whether you will move differently today. You will not. You braid your hair tighter than usual, reaching first for your warriors' raspu’—they fit close to your legs, leather hugging your skin tight from the curve of your hips to your ankles.
Your top fits sung across your chest, made for fighting. You secure your bow, your knife and walk to the ikran perch without looking at him. He is already there. Neteyam stands beside his ikran, one hand resting along the creature's neck ridge. He does not greet you. His eyes skim you once—that glance that you hate—quick, assessing, then away.
“Ready?” He asks, securing his cummerband.
“I was ready before I arrived.”
A muscle in his jaw shifts. “We patrol the north ridge first. Then sweep east toward the ravine.” You nod, no argument. It unsettles him more than defiance ever did. You mount your ikran in silence, the slice is clean—two shadows slicing through gold, morning light. Wind whips past your ears, braids snapping behind you. The village disappears beneath the canopy.
The forest below feels heavy—no metal scent, no smoke. Just leaf and life and breath.
When you land along the north ridge, you dismount smoothly and kneel without instruction. Fingers press into soil. Cool. Undisturbed. “Nothing crossed here,” you murmur.
“I know,” he replies, eyes watching over you.
“You did not check yet.”
“I watched the birds.”
Your eyes narrow faintly, you hadn’t noticed the pattern shift until he said it. “You are not the only one who listens,” he adds quietly.
You move east, chest tight, weapons ready—the ravine narrows into stone and shadow. Vines hang thick like curtains. The air dips cooler, you step first this time, not asking, simply moving. He follows—for once, not correcting.
Halfway through the descent you freeze, he nearly walks into you, but your hand lifts and he pauses instantly.
Below, faint but distinct, boot tread. Fresh, pressed into soft clay near the polluted water’s edge. His breath shifts, you look at him once he only nods, no words needed.
You slide down the slope silently, positioning left flank. He takes right without discussion. Years of tension crystallize into instinctive coordination. You draw first; he mirrors the motion half a breath later.
Through bushes you spot it, a lone survey drone wedged low between rock walls, scanning. Not a full rig, but a scout.
You meet Neteyam’s gaze across the ravine. strike or observe? This time, he waits. You inhale slowly, fighting the urge to shoot.
“If we destroy it, they know we found them. If we track it, we know where they return.” Neteyam says.
“Track,” you mumble, lowering your bow. You climb higher along the rock shelf, keeping wind at your backs. The drone hums faintly below, unaware.
After nearly an hour, a small retrieval skiff emerges downstream. Two sky people, lightly armed. Careless.
You nod, this time, you fire together. Two arrows, two clean kills. The drone sparks as Neteyam’s third blade severs its stabilizer.
When silence returns, the forest exhales. You remain still, no scattered panic, no chaos.
He steps down the rock shelf carefully, nudging one of the sky people’s weapons away with his foot. “Clean,” he murmurs. Not praise, not surprise, just fact.
You descend after him, cutting the drone’s core free with precise efficiency. “They were careless,” you reply. “That will change.”
The light thins faster than any of you had anticipated. By the time you clear the ravine and reach the upper ridge again, the sun has dipped low enough that the canopy swallows what remains of it. The forest shifts into its night breath, cooler, denser. Neteyam glances west, gauging distance. The ikran cry again, but farther now. “We won’t make it back before full dark,” he says. Not irritated. Just calculating.
You already know. The shadows here are too thick to risk flying blind. “Come.”
He follows you because of course he does. Because you always move like you already know where you’re going.
The light drains faster, canopy swallowing what remains of day. “Where are you going?”
“You’ll see.”
The edge in your voice makes something flicker in his expression, irritation, suspicion…challenge.
You push through a low sweep of fern and descend into thicker undergrowth. The air warms, the soil softens beneath your feet.
He notices the change immediately, less rock, more loam. The forest hums deeper here, you part a final curtain of vines.
The hollow opens before you—nestled between two massive roots that arc like protective arms. The ground is layered in thick moss and spring grass, lush and undisturbed. Soft enough to sink into. Hidden enough that even moonlight filters in gently through biolumescent leaves.
You step in first, kneeling to test the ground, you sigh contentedly when the moss dips around the curve of your hips—yielding under your weight.
Neteyam watches silently from the entrance, the way the moss parts around your knees. The way it cushions you when you lean forward to press your palm into the ground. Your raspu’ stretches across your thighs as you settle back onto your heels, leather hugging the roundness of you as the ground gives.
“You come here often?” He asks, finally entering and dropping his weapons—leaving them close by.
“I used to. Is there a problem?”
“No.” He forced his gaze anywhere else. You rise slowly, moss clings to your calves before springing back. The movement is unhurried and controlled. “This will hold warmth,” you say.
“…it’s concealed.” He admits.
“Yes.” You unstrap your bow, crouching to set it within reach. When you kneel again—this time lowering fully onto the moss, the ground dips more deeply beneath you, forming to the shape of your body.
He inhales, stepping past you abruptly, circling the hollow, checking sightlines, elevation, and canopy breaks. So efficient, so controlled.
But when he returns, you are still kneeling—this time adjusting the placement of your knife against your thigh.
You shift to sit back more comfortably, the movement slow. The soft ground still molds beneath you, cushioning the curve of your hips, supporting the arch of your spine.
He lowers himself opposite you, The moss compresses under him, but not the same way. It irritates him. “You chose this place because it’s comfortable,” he says.
“I chose it because it is smart.” You reply starkly.
“And soft,”
You tilt your head slightly. “Do you object to soft ground?”
“No.”
“Then stop complaining. Sleep.” You close your eyes first, your back flat against the soft moss, fingers curled in it.
He exhales sharply, watching the rise and fall of your chest. The way the moss cushions you. The way even in sleep your brow remains faintly furrowed, as if ready to argue with him in your dreams.
You hate him so much. So much that it feels like a second heartbeat. It lives between your ribs. And he hates you just as much, but he lays back tonight—not because he trusts you, but because he’s simply just tired.
You wake first, rousing him. Dawn bleeds pale gold through the village when you and Neteyam return. By the time your ikran’ touch down near the training grounds, the clan is already stirring. Warriors gather in loose formation. The air smells of damp flora and smoke.
Jake stands at the center, arms wrapped around his mate, Neytiri, who stands beside him—posture relaxed but eyes sharp. A few spaces behind them, Mo’at stands with her staff, near the woven target posts with Aysea.
You and Neteyam land in unison, Jake steps forward, nods once, and speaks. “Report.”
Neteyam begins, voice steady. “Scout drone in the eastern ravine. Two retrieval personnel, eliminated. No trace left.” Murmurs ripple.
Jake’s gaze shifts to you. “Anything else?” You hesitate half a breath, Neteyam notices.
“There was a secondary track north of the ravine,” you add evenly. “Light, testing perimeter range. We extended patrol through the night to confirm.”
Jake’s brow lifts slightly. “Extended without rotating?”
“Yes.”
Neteyam’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. That had been your call. Jake studies you both. “Risky.”
“It ensured no follow-up unit was waiting,” you reply.
Neteyam does not look at you—but you feel the flicker of irritation roll off him. You made it sound like your insistence carried the patrol.
Lo’ak shifts nearby, muttering under his breath, but loud enough. “She’s so unbelievable.”
Aysea steps closer, soft voice floating through the clearing. “It is good you were protected through the night.”
“Protected?” You echo.
She smiles faintly. “The ravine is unpredictable terrain. Thankfully, Neteyam is experienced with difficult environments.”
Neteyam exhales through his nose. “It was handled.”
Jake claps once, waving his hands to the clan surrounding you. “Good, training continues.”
You move automatically toward the small bows. Tuk is already waiting, bouncing on her heels—grinning wildly. “You were gone forever!”
“Forever is one night?” you murmur, crouching to adjust her grip. Behind you, drills resume. Commands barked. Arrows thudding into woven targets. You guide Tuk’s elbow gently. “Relax here.”
She nods seriously. Across the clearing, Neteyam corrects stances with sharp efficiency. His voice carries.
Tuk releases—her arrow strikes wide. “Again,” you whisper. A shadow falls over you, this time it is not Neteyam, it is Aysea.
“You teach her like she is fragile,” Aysea observes lightly.
You don’t look up. “She is learning.”
“Correction builds instinct.”
“Do not question my teaching when all you do is stand around and watch.” You say, hands falling to your thighs. “Safety builds courage.” A few warriors pause—listening from where they are perched.
Aysea only smirks. “Courage without discipline is recklessness.”
At that, you finally rise to stand. “Discipline without trust brings fear. You and your mate or whatever always find a reason to diminish my teaching. Leave.” Tuks small fingers press tightly into yours.
Aysea tilts her head, voice lowering. Still audible to the closest. “You always resist structure.” You know what she is doing, framing, positioning.
“I resist nothing when it makes sense.”
Her mask flickers. “And yet you always resist him. Neteyam.” There it is. Several heads turn now, Jake’s voice fades mid conversation, Neytiri’s eyes sharpen.
“This is not about Neteyam,” you say, turning back to Tuk.
“It always is with you.” She fires back, sharp and measured.
Tuk frowns, squeezing your fingers. “Why is it about my brother?”
“It is not.” You kneel slightly toward her.
Aysea’s composure cracks. “You spend an inappropriate amount of time at his side,” she says, dropping her voice.
“I patrol where I am assigned,” you say, trying to keep it even.
“You seek those assignments.”
“That is untrue.”
Her tone dips lower, sharper now. “You were not chosen. Not as Tsahìk. Not as mate. Perhaps that is why you cling to proximity.”
Your eyes flash, back straightening, hands moving to rest on your hips. “I do not cling to anyone. I do not want his shadow.”
“Then why are you always in it?”
Your voice cools. “Because I am a warrior. And he leads warriors.”
“And you cannot accept that you do not lead beside him.”
Tuk tugs your hand. “Y/n…” You squeeze her fingers gently.
“I trained for a role,” you say evenly. “That role was given elsewhere. I accepted that.”
Aysea lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Accepted? You have grown quieter, yes. But silence can be resentment.”
“You mistake discipline for bitterness.”
“No,” she says softly. “I recognize hunger.”
“You speak boldly for someone still learning to carry Mo’at’s bowl without trembling,” you say, voice low, not sharp, not raised. The warriors nearest you go completely still. Lo’ak turns first, Kiri straightens in her more secluded spot, Jake’s voice pauses mid conversation, Neytiri’s gaze is still sharp, only turned to you. Mo’at stills—only observing.
“You walk as if something was taken from you,” she says. “As if the clan wronged you.”
“I lost my mother,” you say flatly. “Something was taken. I do not blame the clan.”
“And yet you act as if that loss entitles you.”
“Entitles me to what?”
“To stand above correction. To challenge leadership. To speak as if you know better than those chosen by Eywa.”
“You questioned my readiness?” she asks.
“I question your restraint.”
“At least I understand reverence,” she snaps. “I do not parade my defiance as strength.”
“And I do not mistake proximity to power for wisdom.”
“You think your parents would approve of how you behave?” she asks suddenly.
Your shoulders stiffen, fists clenching involuntarily, The shift is subtle, but it is there. “This is not about them.”
“Everything about you is also about them,” she presses. “Your father’s reputation. Your mother’s name. You carry it like armor.”
“Do not.”
“Your father was brave,” she says, voice tightening. “But bravery without restraint is recklessness.”
In this moment, the clearing is silent, it is just you and her in your mind. You feel the silence before you hear it.
“And your mother,” Aysea continues, “she followed leadership. She did not challenge it at every breath. Perhaps if you learned from that—”
“That is enough.” This time your voice cuts across the training ground, drills stop. Neteyam arrives seconds later, drawn by the sound—not the words. He steps between you instinctively.
“What is happening?” His gaze lands on you first. Lo’ak steps to his side immediately.
“She started it,” he says. “Disrespecting Aysea again.”
“I was reminding her of boundaries,” Aysea cuts in. “She grew defensive.”
Your jaw tightens. “She mentioned my parents.” you say, voice tight.
Neteyam’s gaze flicks to you, a small hesitation creeping through. “And?”
“And she implied my mother reached too far.”
Lo’ak steps forward, “You think too much of yourself,” he mutters under his breath.
Neteyam’s eyes narrow. “You always assume the worst,” he says to you, low and firm. “Not everything is an attack.”
“You did not hear what she said,” you reply, pain threading your words.
“I heard enough,” he says.
“No,” you insist. “You heard her version.”
Aysea touches Neteyam’s arm lightly, claiming space. “The clan sees tension,” she says. “It weakens unity.”
Jake steps forward. “Enough.”
Silence falls heavy. Mo’at studies you, Neytiri watches with quiet concern, Kiri frowns but says nothing.
You drop your gaze briefly, letting yourself feel the sting of solitude. Always alone. Always the one who bears the weight quietly. You close your eyes for a second, swallow, then lift your head—steadying the tremor in your voice. “I have done nothing unprofessional,” you state.
Neteyam’s stare is unyielding. “Then it should be easy.”
Tuk tugs lightly at your hand. “Did I do something wrong?”
You kneel instantly, smoothing her braids. “No, my love, you did perfectly.”
You rise, keeping your composure, though your chest still aches from the loneliness that never truly leaves.
Arrows fly again. The clearing feels colder now. Neteyam’s gaze lingers longer than he intends. Lo’ak mutters a discontented hiss directed towards you to Aysea. Aysea stands serene, claiming her place beside him.
You do not look at them again, finishing Tuk’s lesson with quiet exactness. When she runs off towards Kiri you remain kneeling for longer than necessary—collecting scrambled arrows from the dirt ground.
Mo’at watches silently, realizing—Aysea speaks of the dead in an unlikely manner. Eywa could not have chosen her.
The night settles gently over the forest, glowing with quiet bioluminescence. Blue and violet lights flicker along vines and roots, reflecting softly across the wide communal gathering.
The clan gathers around the growing fires, a successful hunt always loosens spirits—laughter ripples between groups, children dart between legs, elders trade quiet stories. The scent of roasted sturmbeast and spiced roots fills the warm air.
You sit among the warriors closest to the cooking pit, helping to carve portions from the evenings catch. Grease glistens faintly on your fingers as you pass a strip of meat to one of the younger women.
Across the fire, Neteyam sits with his back straight beside Aysea, who leans slightly against his side, he has an arm pressed tightly against her waist. Her presence there has grown natural to the clan. too natural.
Your eyes never linger long enough to make it obvious. But his sometimes do. Only not tonight.
Tonight he keeps his focus on the warriors beside him as they recount the hunt. His father, Jake, laughs loudly at something Lo’ak says, while Neytiri quietly distributes bowls to the elders, a large smile on her face.
Near the center platform stands Mo’at, speaking softly with the older women of the clan.
The moment is peaceful until Aysea notices you. You are laughing softly with one of the younger warriors, head tilted back slightly, the firelight tracing the curve of your cheek and the braids along your shoulder.
Aysea’s smile stiffens, she watches the way several hunters gather around you naturally as you help divide the food. It is effortless.
No position, no title, yet they gravitate towards you anyway. Her fingers tighten around Neteyam’s arm. “You seem comfortable tonight,” her voice carries faster than she’d intended, a few conversations pause.
You glance up from the meat you’re slicing. “We ate well today,”
“That is not what I meant.” Now more heads turn. Neteyam shifts slightly beside her, sensing the switch in tone. “Aysea,” he murmurs quietly, but she continues.
“It is admirable,” she says, eyes fixed on you. “How easily you settle back into the clan.”
You wipe your hands slowly on a cloth, rising to your feet. “I never left.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd. Aysea laughs softly, the sound is brittle. “No. But grief often isolates people.” Your shoulders stiffen faintly.
“I would not know,” you say evenly, and she tilts her head, a challenge.
“You carry it loudly enough.” A few elders exchange uncomfortable glances. Neteyam’s jaw tightens. “Aysea,” he says again, firmer this time.
But something has already slipped in her composure. “You challenge council decisions,” she continues, voice sharpening. “You undermine leadership in training. And yet you stand here tonight as if nothing has changed.”
Your gaze remains steady. “I do my work.”
“You resent your place.”
“I accepted it.”
“No,” she snaps suddenly. “You endured it.”
The clearing grows quiet. Even the children have stopped running. Aysea rises to her feet now, stepping away from Neteyam entirely. “You think everyone cannot see it?” she says, voice rising. “The way you linger around command. The way warriors still look to you first?”
You cross your arms loosely. “I cannot control where people look.”
“That is the problem,” she says.
Neteyam stands now too. “Aysea,”
She ignores him. “You act as if you deserve more,” she continues. “As if something was stolen from you.”
“Nothing was stolen,” you reply calmly.
“Then why do you behave like a displaced leader?”
The insult lands heavily, several hunters shift uneasily. Your voice remains level. “I behave like a warrior.”
“No,” she says sharply. “You behave like someone who cannot accept she was not chosen.”
Silence spreads across the clearing, Mo’at has turned fully toward the confrontation now. Your expression does not change, but your voice grows colder. “You speak boldly tonight.”
“I speak honestly.”
“You speak emotionally.”
Her eyes flash. “And you speak arrogantly!”
That word cracks through the clearing like a snapped bowstring. Neteyam steps forward immediately. “That is enough.”
But Aysea is no longer listening. “You hide behind humility,” she continues, pointing at you now. “But you believe you would have been the better Tsahìk.”
You do not answer, and your silence is confirmation enough for her. “Say it,” she presses.
You meet her gaze steadily. “Yes.”
The word drops calmly into the firelight, gasps ripple through the circle. Neteyam’s head snaps toward you. “You think Eywa made a mistake?” Aysea demands.
“No.” Your voice stays measured. “I think Eywa has reasons we do not yet understand.”
“That is convenient,” she scoffs.
You tilt your head slightly. “Faith often is.”
The clan watches, frozen between shock and fascination. Aysea’s composure finally fractures. “You think you are wiser than the Tsahìk?” she demands.
“No.”
“Then stop behaving like it!” Her voice cracks. And the crack is everything. Mo’at sees it, the lack of stillness, the loss of reverence. The anger.
You, meanwhile, remain completely calm. “You asked my belief,” you say quietly.
“I did not ask for your pride!”
Neteyam steps between you now, physically separating the two of you. “Enough.” His voice is sharp enough to cut through the tension.
Aysea’s chest rises and falls rapidly.“You defend her now?” she demands.
“I am stopping this,” he says firmly.
You glance at him briefly, then step back. “I will remove myself.”
Without another word, you turn and walk away from the firelight, disappearing into the darker edges of the clearing, no anger, no retaliation, just absence. And the silence you leave behind is heavier than any argument.
Mo’at watches the aftermath, her eyes linger, not in the direction which you disappeared, but on Aysea. A Tsahik must carry stillness, a Tsahik must hold grief, anger, fear, and transform it.
But Aysea did not transform anything tonight, she unleashed it. Mo’at's fingers tighten subtly around her staff, across the clearing she noticed something else. You had been attacked, your parents invoked, your grief questioned. And still—you never raised your voice, never insulted Aysea, never lost control. Mo’at exhales slowly. For the first time since Eywa’s supposed sign months ago…
A doubt stirs—soft, unwelcome but undeniable. Perhaps Eywa had not finished speaking.
Later that night, Neteyam stands alone near the outer platforms of the ridge, the forest breaths quietly around him, his mind refuses to settle.
He had expected anger from you, defiance, sharp words, that was the usual pattern. But tonight, you had simply said yes. Yes, you believe you could have done better, not arrogantly, not loudly, just honestly. And somehow that unsettled him more than any argument you ever threw at him.
He remembers the way the firelight caught your face, calm, unafraid, even when Aysea pushed harder. His jaw tightens, Aysea had crossed a line.
He exhales slowly, running a hand over his braids. For years, he believed you challenged him because you claimed authority, but tonight—somethjng shifted. You had walked away from it completely with quiet certainty.
He wonders if the person he misunderstood the most was you.
Far deeper in the forest, beneath towering roots and glowing vines, Mo’at kneels alone before a sacred tree as the clan sleeps. Only the soft breathing of the forest remains.
Mo’at places both hands against the bark, whispering ancient prayers. “Great Mother… guide your children.” Her mind returns again and again to the feast. Aysea’s anger. Your stillness. The imbalance.
Something about it disturbed the harmony of the moment. Mo’at closes her eyes. “I ask not for judgment… only truth.” The tendrils of the tree sway softly. She reaches forward, connecting her kuru to the sacred fibers.
The bond forms, the world dissolves. For a moment there is only light. Memories ripple through Eywa’s network—voices, laughter, battles, births, deaths.
And then a sudden pulse. Not calm, not balanced, it is disruption. Images flash across Mo’at’s vision; You as a child kneeling beside your mother during healing rituals.
Your father teaching you battle forms. Your hands glowing faintly beneath the Tree of Voices. Aysea standing before the clan tonight, anger, fear, possession. The images fracture. Another pulse surges through the connection, strong.
A whisper flows through the roots, not words, but direction. Mo’at gasps softly as the connection breaks. Her eyes open slowly, the forest glows brighter than before.
For decades she has served Eywa, she knows the difference between imagination and guidance. And what she felt tonight…was guidance.
Her fingers tighten around her braid. “If I ignored you once,” she murmurs softly, “I will not ignore you again.”
You were laid comfortably in the warm embrace of your home, the doorway pinned shut— your weapons stored away.
The long day had left your muscles heavy, and you had only just begun loosening the ties of your top. The leather cords slipped slowly through your fingers as you untied them.
The night air moved softly through the woven walls of your hut. Insects hummed outside, and somewhere far off an ikran cried into the darkness.
You were just pulling the garment over your head when a knock sounded from outside. The sudden sound against the woven wall of your hut frightened you.
No one ever came this late, so of course, your head snapped towards the door. For a moment you stayed still, just listening—then the sound came again. “Who is there?” You called quietly.
A female voice sounds from the other side. “Warriors,” Torchlight flickered faintly through the woven curtain.
A male voice followed. “The Tsahik calls for you.”
Your eyebrows furrowed almost immediately. “For me? At this hour?” A brief pause followed, then the woman spoke again—her tone respectful but certain. “Yes. She asks that you come now.”
Your mind drifts to earlier, to Aysea’s raised voice, the anger that had flashed across her face when the argument turned against her. The words she had thrown at you in front of others. And to Mo’at, who watched silently.
“One minute.” You mumble, retying your coverings, knotting them properly. You push other thoughts away and move towards the door.
When you pull the curtain aside, torchlight spills into the hut. The warriors stand on the platform outside, inclining their heads respectfully. Both are older hunters you recognize from patrol, their bows resting over their shoulders. “Tsahik.” They say simultaneously, reminding you.
“Did she say why?”
“No, she only said to bring you.”
Something in the way he says it makes a quiet tension coil in your chest. Mo’at is not a woman who acts without reason, you fall into step behind them.
You pass sleeping huts, quiet cooking fires, racks of drying fish and woven baskets, no one stops you, no one even notices. The warriors lead you deeper into the center of the village until the familiar scent of herbs begins to drift through the air. Mo’at’s kelku.
You had spent countless hours there growing up, training, learning plants, grinding roots, listening to Mo’at speak of Eywa and the old ways of the People.
The woman gestures toward the curtain. “She waits.”
They step aside, you lift the curtain and step inside. The flames burn low but steady, casting warm gold across the hut. Bundles of herbs hang from the beams above, and bowls of crushed leaves and medicinal pastes sit scattered across the floor.
The Tsahik sits beside the central fire. Mo’at looks exactly as she always does; calm, still. Yet the moment you enter, her eyes sharpen.
She gestured to the mat across from her. “Sit.” Her voice is quiet, but firm. You lower yourself onto the floor immediately. The fire crackles softly between you.
Mo’at studies your face as if she is searching for something inside of you. Finally she speaks. “I went to the tree of voices tonight.”
A Tsahik only seeks Eywa there when she needs answers. Her gaze never leaves yours. “For many years,” she continues slowly, “I believed the path of this clan was already clear.” Her fingers rest loosely against her knees. “Aysea walks the tsakarem path. She was meant to follow me.”
You nod once. Everyone knows this. Mo’at exhales softly. “But tonight… I asked that Eywa show me the truth. And she showed me something I did not expect.” She leans forward just slightly. “Two paths. One was Aysea, and the other was you. Y/n.”
You shift slightly on the mat, trying to steady the sudden wave of pressure. “Me?” You whisper, though it’s hardly a question.
“Yes, you.” Her fingers tap the edge of the mat, moving to rest on your knee. “The path… it is always inside you, Y/n. Your bond with Eywa, it is strong, steady. Never waver, even with anger, with fear. You have strong heart.”
“But…” you say. “Aysea is chosen. She is to be mated with Neteyam. People expect her to lead.”
“Yes,” Mo’at says. “But the expectations of others cannot change the path that the Great Mother has set for you. You carry more than duty. You carry choice.”
You swallow, feeling the weight of it all press into your ribs. “Choice…” you whisper, testing the word as if it were foreign.
Yes,” Mo’at replies softly. “And with choice comes responsibility. The path will not be simple. It will be tested by anger, jealousy, and fear. You will face those who doubt you, who challenge you at every step. But it is yours to walk, not theirs.”
Your fingers rest on your knees, still trembling slightly. “And Neteyam?” you ask, your voice low. “He… he will not understand this.”
Mo’at tilts her head, expression unreadable. “Neteyam is loyal to the clan, as all warriors are. But loyalty does not always see the vision of Eywa. Your bond with him is strong, but it is separate from the path you are called to. You must lead with stillness, with patience, and with courage—beyond personal feeling.”
“I feel it. Sometimes. I don’t understand this feeling. If it is acceptance or still hate, or rejection.”
“The bond?”
“Yes.” You say honestly
She nods thoughtfully, swallowing heavily. “Go. Rest now. I will seek you continuiously, my dear.”
“Yes, Tsahik.” The hut quiets when you leave, your steps are steady leading you back to your home, the night is deep, the forest alive with soft murmurs of insects and distant calls of nocturnal creatures.
A sudden movement ahead makes you pause, Neteyam stands there, just beyond the curve of the path. His shoulders are squared, his expression unreadable. “Y/n.” He says, voice quiet—but fierce.
“Neteyam.” You say, continuing to walk.
His hand hooks around your arm. “Wait.” You pause, letting him hold your arm, though you make no move to pull away. His grip is firm, measured.
“I watched you tonight.”
You scoff, your other hand resting on your hip. “Didn’t everyone?”
“That’s not—that’s not the point. I saw through the clearing. how you carried yourself. the way you handled everything.”
“I did what i needed to,”
“Yes.” He lets out a slow breath, releasing some tension, but he doesn’t let go of your arm. “I underestimated you. I thought I knew you.” He mumbles under his breath.
“And?” You ask, raising an eyebrow.
“And…you’re impossible to ignore.” He releases your arm slightly, but the tension between you is thicker than the forest itself. “Not because i agree with you. Not because i like your choices. i just see more clearly what i’ve been dealing with.”
Your lips twitch, half a smirk, half a warning—but you stay silent. “I handled tonight poorly,” he continues, voice measured, no apology in it. “I let assumptions cloud my judgment. But that doesn’t mean I respect everything you do, or that you’ve changed my opinion of you.”
“Good,” you say simply, stepping around him. “I wouldn’t want it if you did.”
Dawn paints the canopy in soft gold, bright and early the next day. You move silently through the forest with Neteyam at your side. Neither of you speak at first. The quiet is precise, disciplined—almost a competition. Your steps are measured, your eyes scanning the ground, and you feel him mirror every movement.
“You’re overcompensating." he says after a moment, voice a clipped whisper.
“I’m aware,” you reply evenly, not looking at him. The irritation in your tone is subtle but deliberate.
He grunts and falls silent. You sense the weight of his gaze, but it is neither approval nor criticism—just attention. you refuse to meet it.
Later, at council, Aysea leans slightly towards him like always, a faint smile playing at the edge of her lips. Her presence is deliberate. Every suggestion she makes seems designed to highlight your supposed mistakes.
“You persist with impractical strategies,” she says quietly, eyes flicking to you. “The clan cannot afford impulsive actions.”
“I act when hesitation would cost lives,” you reply evenly. Neteyam shifts, jaw tightening. He doesn’t speak, only watches, and the subtle tension makes you aware of his presence in a way nothing else does.
“You two are always at odds,” Lo’ak speaks from his spot.
“You are always noticing.” You say back.
“Never,” he murmurs, almost to himself, low enough that only you hear.
Hunts are no different. You and Neteyam track a sturmbeast through dense brush. You push forward, determined, and he snaps, “You’re reckless!”
“And you’re slow,” you fire back, ducking under a branch.
The sturmbeast leaps, growls vibrating through the ground. He moves fluidly to protect the group, his proximity brushing against yours in a way that sends a fleeting awareness through you—your back stiffens, lips sealed. He does not meet your eyes. He doesn’t have to.
At the feast later, the tension does not ease. You pass bowls to children, helping them navigate the chaos. Neteyam stands nearby, not speaking, just observing. Every subtle movement feels deliberate, and your chest tightens when his gaze lingers slightly too long.
Aysea notices, of course. Her fingers tighten against his arm more than usual, her eyes flicking to you with sharp calculation.
“You favor her too much, why?” she snaps quietly to him once, voice low but venomous.
“I maintain balance,” he says every time, tone even and controlled, and she stiffens as if struck.
During another council, after a rough patrol, Aysea escalates her provocations. She questions your judgment, your strategy, your loyalty, framing each comment to imply your presence is inappropriate.
“You influence him more than you realize,” she hisses, eyes flashing at you.
“I influence no one,” you reply calmly. “I do my work.”
Neteyam’s jaw tightens, a subtle flare of irritation crossing his features. He does not intervene, not yet, but his attention lingers in a way that makes her anger grow.
Her lips press into a thin line, ears flicking back slightly. The reaction is small, so small most of the council misses it. But you do not. And neither does Neteyam. Silence settles over the council circle.
Aysea straightens, smoothing invisible creases from her arm bands before speaking again, voice controlled but sharp. “If you do not influence him,” she says carefully, “then perhaps you simply enjoy standing where you do not belong.”
A few murmurs ripple through warriors close enough. As if she’s done anything during patrol. The words slip from her tongue as if you haven’t been trained for this your entire life.
You remain calm, hands resting loosely on your knees, posture relaxed. “I stand where the clan needs me,”
“The clan needs stability,” she presses. “Not someone who constantly challenges the structure that has protected us for generations.” Lo’ak shifts beside Neteyam, clearly sensing the rising tension. His gaze flicks between you and Aysea with open curiosity.
“You mistake challenge for instability,” you say calmly.
“And you mistake defiance for leadership,” Aysea shoots back.
For the first time, Neteyam moves, not dramatically. Just enough. His shoulders straighten slightly, his tail flicking once behind him. The motion pulls several sets of eyes toward him. And of course, Aysea notices it too.
Her voice softens immediately. “Neteyam,” she says gently, turning toward him as if inviting agreement. “You see the same problems I do. The clan cannot move forward while certain individuals continue disrupting—”
“That is enough.” His voice cuts through the air like a clean blade, the council stills. Aysea freezes. Neteyam rarely interrupts. When he does, people listen. He exhales slowly through his nose, eyes focused on the ground for a moment before lifting toward the circle. “I hear both sides,” he says carefully.
But then his gaze shifts to you, only for a second, just long enough for the weight of it to settle. “And I decide based on what protects the clan,” he continues.
Aysea studies him carefully. “You agree her methods are reckless.”
Neteyam doesn’t answer immediately but his jaw tightens faintly. “She takes risks,” he says. Your brow lifts slightly, a small reaction, almost amused. “But reckless?” he finishes slowly. His eyes flick briefly toward you again. “Not always.”
The silence that follows is thicker than before, Aysea’s fingers curl slightly against her thigh. Lo’ak grins faintly under his breath. You say nothing, your expression is unchanging. But something quiet and electric shifts between you and Neteyam across the council circle.
Something complicated.
Later that evening, the forest is quieter than usual. Most of the clan has retreated to their homes to spend quality time with family. You move along one of the higher walkways, balancing easily across large branches, you feel him before you see him. “You followed me,” you mutter.
“I walked,” he replies, stopping a few steps away.
You glance over your shoulder. “That path leads nowhere except for here.”
His ears twitch, tail slowing. “Then perhaps I meant to come here.”
You lean slightly against a tree trunk, arms crossed over your chest, the faint glow of bioluminescent plants reflect in his eyes. “You defended me today,” you say.
“Barely.” He corrects.
“Still.”
“For someone who claims not to influence people,” he says quietly, “you occupy a concerning amount of my thoughts.” Your breath pauses. Only briefly, then your composure settles again.
“That sounds like your problem, Neteyam.”
His gaze sharpens. “Maybe.”
Another silence, it lingers longer this time.
Then, from below the platform, two younger warriors whisper as they pass beneath.
“…they’re at it again.”
“…they always are.”
“…one day they’ll either kill each other or—”
Their voices fade into the forest, Neteyam closes his eyes briefly in visible irritation. You almost laugh. When he opens them again, you’re still watching him, calm and unmoved.
Over the following weeks, each hunt, each training session, each patrol is a battleground of unspoken tension. He anticipates your moves, sometimes too close, sometimes just far enough to frustrate or test you. His restraint is deliberate, but it hums beneath the surface like a taut bowstring.
At first it is only small things, a glance that lingers too long, a silence that stretches between sentences, the way the air shifts when you and Neteyam occupy the same space.
But there are some people in the clan who notice everything. and none of them have the guts to say a thing.
Mo’at notices first, she always does. During a quiet afternoon near the healing circle, you kneel beside her sorting dried herbs. Your hands move automatically, separating leaves, stems, and roots with practiced precision.
She watches you; not openly, just assessing, like she always does. “Neteyam has been restless,” she says after a while.
“Many warriors are.” You say without looking up.
“That is not what I said.”
You finish tying a small bundle of leaves before answering. “Then tell me what you mean,”
Mo’at hums thoughtfully, her wrinkled fingers roll a seed pod between them. “He watches you when you are not looking.”
You finally glance at her, expression flat. “He watches everyone.”
“No.” The word lands gently but firmly.
“He studies everyone,” she corrects. “But watching is different.”
Your gaze shifts back to the herbs. “Perhaps he studies longer when I am present.”
Mo’at’s eyes glint with quiet amusement. “You deflect well.”
“It keeps conversations short.” You smile, hands pausing briefly.
She leans forward slightly. “But not with him. Hm?”
Your hands stop completely. Mo’at notices, of course she does—but she says nothing more.
Jake notices next, not because he is looking for it. Only because Lo’ak will not stop talking about it.
“You should see them,” Lo’ak says one evening while helping his father repair a bowstring. “It’s like watching two thanators circle each other.”
Jake snorts. “That sounds healthy.”
“I’m serious!” Lo’ak insists. “They argue about everything.”
“Also healthy.”
“But they keep ending up together.”
Jake pauses—that part catches his attention. “Together how?”
“Like…” Lo’ak waves his hands vaguely. “Not together together. Just always near each other.”
Jake leans back slightly. Thinking. Then he mutters, “yeah… that tracks.”
Lo’ak blinks. “That tracks?”
Jake shrugs. “Boy, some people fight because they hate each other.”
“And?”
“And some people fight because neither one knows what to do with the other.”
Lo’ak squints at him. “You’re being so cryptic.”
Jake grins slightly. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”
“I am older!”
Jake pats his shoulder. “Exactly.”
Neytiri is the last to say something about it—though she probably noticed before Jake, or Lo’ak. Who knows?
But her reaction is the most intense. She stands at the edge of the training grounds one afternoon, watching the warriors spar.
Neteyam faces you across the clearing, both of you are calm. Both of you are focused. And both of you are very clearly trying to win.
Your spear strikes first, fast. Neteyam blocks it smoothly, stepping inside your guard. You twist away, pivoting with fluid precision, sweeping your leg toward his ankle.
He jumps back—barely. The watching warriors murmur quietly. The pace increases. Strike. Block. Counter.
Neither of you speak, just pant and hiss softly. But the tension between you crackles like lightning. Finally your spear locks against his staff.
The two of you freeze, faces only inches apart. Your eyes narrow, his jaw tightens. For a moment it looks less like a spar and more like a challenge neither of you intends to surrender.
Then Mo’at’s staff taps against a root nearby, the sound is soft, but final. You both step back immediately, training ends. The watching warriors disperse.
But Neytiri remains where she stands. Her eyes follow you as you leave the clearing, then they shift to Neteyam. He notices and immediately looks like a child who has been caught doing something he cannot explain.
She approaches him slowly. “My son.”
“Yes, mother?”
Her gaze sharpens, a hint of a smile creeping through from the corners of her mouth. “You fight her differently.”
Neteyam stiffens. “I fight everyone differently.”
“That is not what I meant.”
He exhales slowly, Neytiri folds her arms.
“You watch her.”
He says nothing. “You defend her.” She continues.
There is only silence, Neteyam’s soft pants filling the air, breath leaving silver as the sky darkens.
“And she challenges you in ways the others do not.”
Neteyam’s tail flicks in irritation. “She challenges everyone.”
Neytiri tilts her head slightly. “No.”
Her eyes soften slightly. “Only you.”
That lands harder than anything else. Neteyam rubs the back of his neck. “It is not like that mother.”
Neytiri raises an eyebrow. “I did not say it was.”
He groans quietly—across the clearing, you disappear into the forest path without looking back. But Neytiri’s gaze lingers on the direction you went, thoughtful and gentle.
Then she says something that makes Neteyam freeze completely. “She is strong.”
She pauses, nodding gently. her attention redirecting—slowly—towards Neteyam. “Perhaps too strong for someone who cannot decide how he feels.” Her hand pauses on his shoulder.
Neteyam blinks. “Mother—” But Neytiri is already walking away, smiling softly.
The tension in the village does not fade after the spar. If anything it grows. People talk, quietly, carefully—but they talk. And the person who hears the most of it is Aysea.
For two days she says nothing. She trains. Hunts. Attends council. Things she never used to do before, but the warmth she usually shows Neteyam becomes sharper. More deliberate.
One evening you pass near the upper platforms and hear quiet voices. Neteyam and Aysea. You do not stop, but the wind carries their words.
“You are pulling away,” Aysea says softly.
“I am not.”
“You are.” There is a small pause.
Then you hear the faint sound of beads shifting as she steps closer. “You used to come to me when things were difficult,” she continues. “You trusted me.”
“I still do.”
“Then why do you watch her?”
Silence falls between them, you keep walking.
But the conversation continues behind you. “She challenges everyone,” Neteyam says.
Aysea laughs quietly. “Do not lie to me.”
A longer silence follows, then she does something unexpected. Her hand lifts to his face, you do not see it, but you hear the small intake of breath.
“You and I understand each other,” she says quietly. “We always have.”
Then, a soft kiss, not passionate nor desperate, but intimate—familiar. The kind shared by people who have done it before. You keep walking, your pace unchanging.
Behind you, Neteyam exhales slowly. “Aysea…”
Her voice is gentle. “You do not have to choose.”
But the way she says it makes it clear—she expects him to.
The next morning Mo’at summons you, this time it is a summons. You enter her hut quietly, she is kneeling beside a bowl of glowing seeds, eyes half closed in thought.
“You wished to see me.” Your voice is soft in her quiet home.
“Yes.”
You wait, shifting as she studies your face. “The clan shifts,” she says.
“Clans always shift, don’t they?”
“This one shifts around you.”
You say nothing, chest tightening
“You provoke strong reactions.” She continues.
“That is not new.”
“No,” Mo’at agrees. “But now it touches my grandson.”
Your eyes flick toward her. “You disapprove?”
Mo’at smiles faintly.
“I observe. And I see you.”
“I see you, Mo’at.” You whisper.
She gestures for you to sit, and of course, you do. “You fight him.” She says.
“Yes.”
“You challenge him.”
“Sometimes.”
“You refuse to soften for him.”
“Yes.”
Her fingers tap lightly against the floor, head nodding slowly. “Good.”
That word surprises you. “He needs someone who does not bend,” she says calmly.
You blink once. “I am not here to shape him.”
“No.”
Mo’at’s eyes glow softly in the dim light. “But Eywa places people in each other’s paths for reasons.”
You lean back slightly. “And you believe I was placed in his?”
Mo’at studies you for a long moment. “I believe you may both be placed in something larger.”
You don’t answer, but the thought stays with you longer than you like.
Three days later another hunt is called. This time the prey is dangerous. A massive forest predator has been attacking smaller herds near the eastern cliffs.
Jake assigns the team personally. Neteyam, you, two young learners, Aysea volunteers as well. Nobody objects, so the hunt begins at dawn.
Mist curls through the forest as the five of you track the beast’s path through broken branches and claw marks. The tension between you and Aysea is quiet but sharp. Neteyam notices but he says nothing. Hours pass before you find it. The creature explodes from the brush like a living storm.
Everything happens fast. You leap aside as it charges. Neteyam fires an arrow. Aysea circles left. The beast slams into one of the younger warriors, throwing him into a tree.
You lunge forward with your spear, the predator turns toward you—fast, strong. Its claws swing. You realize too late you are exposed.
Then Neteyam hits you hard. His shoulder slams into you, knocking you sideways. The claws that should have ripped through your chest rake across his side instead.
He hits the ground hard, blood spills across the leaves. Your stomach drops. The predator roars again—but now the entire team attacks.
Aysea drives a blade into its flank, you thrust your spear deep into its chest. The creature collapses with a final violent thrash. Silence crashes down over the clearing, your heart pounds—but your eyes are already on Neteyam. He’s on one knee, breathing hard, blood running down his ribs.
You kneel beside him instantly. “That was unnecessary,” you say sharply.
He grimaces.“You were about to lose your arm.”
“You miscalculated.”
“You’re welcome.”
Aysea arrives seconds later, her face tight with fear. “Neteyam—”
He waves her off slightly. “I’m fine.”
You press your hand against the wound, stopping the bleeding, your voice is quieter now. “You are not.”
Neteyam looks down at you. Something strange flickers in his eyes. “Seems I owe you a rematch.”
You glare at him. “You are insufferable.”
But your hand does not move from his side. And for the first time—Aysea sees something in your expression she has never seen before. Concern, the real kind.
The walk back to the village is slow. Mist clings to the roots of the forest, and the hunters move carefully through it. The two younger warriors stay ahead, still shaken. Aysea walks on Neteyam’s other side, though her gaze flicks toward you more than once.
You are the one keeping pressure on the wound. Blood continues to seep between your fingers along his ribs. Not enough to panic—but enough to matter.
“I’m fine,” he mutters after a while.
“You are bleeding,” you reply calmly.
“That happens when you get cut.”
You glance at him briefly. “Your understanding of injury is remarkable.”
Despite the pain, he gives a quiet huff of amusement. Behind you, Aysea remains silent.
The village smoke appears through the trees, an injured warrior never goes unnoticed.
As expected, people do notice immediately. Warriors climb down from the higher walkways, children lean over tree tops, and someone runs toward the healer’s hut. A young apprentice returns moments later, slightly out of breath, “Mo’at is with a birthing mother,” she explains.
No one interrupts the Tsahik during a birth. Neteyam exhales slowly. “Well. Good timing.”
You ignore his comment. “Bring me some boiling water.” You guide Neteyam to the healer's hut; Mo’at being absent, delivering new life in a hut farther away.
He raises an eyebrow slightly as you push the woven door aside. “You sound very confident for someone who isn’t the Tsahik.”
“And who do you think trained me?”
His gaze shifts to the floor, an amused glint in his eye. “My grandmother.”
“Yes.”
You move immediately, selecting herbs from the bundles with practiced certainty. Neteyam watches with open curiosity. “You’ve spent a lot of time here.”
“I have made this clear.” Your tail whips against the ground in exasperation.
“Mawey, I was just observing.”
The bandage is nearly finished, paste being squeezed between the wraps and his ribcage. Your hands move steadily as you wrap the final strip of cloth around Neteyam’s ribs. The herbs have already begun to stain the fabric a faint yellow.
“You are frowning again,” he says quietly.
“I am concentrating.”
“You were concentrating before.”
“And now I am finishing.” You pull the bandage snug.
Neteyam exhales sharply. “That was unnecessary.”
“It will keep the wound closed.”
“It will also prevent breathing.”
“You exaggerate.”
He shifts slightly, testing the wrap. The moment he moves, your hand presses instinctively against his side to steady him. “Do not move yet,”
“You move through this space like you belong here.”
“I spent many seasons training here,”
“And you can just talk to Eywa?”
“To a certain extent, yes.” Your careful hands store away the healing supply.
“And you feel her?”
“Don’t we all?” You smile, lifting yourself before assisting him.
“Yes.” He whispers.
You and Neteyam exit the hut together, Aysea approaches immediately, placing soft kisses along Neteyam’s cheeks.
You step away immediately, Lo’ak sees you first, his grin spreading. “ look who survived.”
“Were you hoping otherwise?”
“Depends,” he says cheerfully. “Did you two kill the beast or eachother?”
Neteyam walks with Aysea by his side, an arm wrapped carefully around her waist. He ignores Lo’ak’s comments, rolling his shoulders stiffly. “The beast.”
Jake looks pleased, Neytiri watches more carefully—the way her son leans towards you even when the tsakarem is wrapped in his arms.
The drums echo across the village platform, steady and strong, their rhythm moving through everyone. Fires flicker, coasting dancing shadows across the dancers, and blue seedlights shimmer in the trees above.
Children laugh and stumble between adults, copying the steps as best as they can. You crouch beside a small child, guiding her tiny feet. Beside you, Kiri moves fluidly, helping the other children find the rhythm. Together, you two are a seamless unit, teaching, laughing, and moving with effortless grace.
Neteyam doesn’t notice anyone else. Not Jake, not Lo’ak, not the circle of warriors or women. His gaze is fixed entirely on you. Every sway of your hips, every controlled turn, every movement of your shoulders and arms draws him in.
Tonight, you’re not in your usual training garb. Your outfit is elegant yet functional for dancing; a fitted top that traces the curves of your chest and waist while leaving your arms free, a flowing skirt that clings to your hips, fluttering with each step, and a loose sash around your waist catching the firelight. Your hair is half pulled up, half cascading down your back, straight, glossy, swinging lightly with every turn, framing your face and shoulders beautifully. Every motion feels deliberate, confident, sensual, and utterly captivating.
A male warrior steps into the circle, matching your rhythm. His hands brush your hips as he mirrors your steps. You smile, guiding him through spins and turns with ease, laughing softly, all while keeping the children moving with Kiri beside you. Every gesture is smooth, controlled, and magnetic.
Neteyam stiffens, a coil of jealousy tightens in his chest, but he does nothing. Jaw set, fists brushing his sides, eyes locked on you, but he doesn’t speak or move.
Lo’ak notices immediately, leaning toward him with a wicked grin. “Brother…look at you. Is the mighty warrior jealous? And those hips? She’s practically daring you not to notice. And that outfit? Sooo dangerous.”
Neteyam exhales sharply, sparing a sidelong glance at him. “Lo’ak, stop.” He says, voice low and clipped.
Lo’ak freezes for a moment, smirking, but doesn’t push further. Then, leaning closer again, he murmurs, “And what about Aysea, huh? She’s over there trying to get your attention, and yet your eyes are glued to… well… you know who.”
Neteyam mutters quietly under his breath. “I said stop.”
Jake, leaning against a post and watching Neytiri dance, shakes his head with a knowing grin. His gaze lingers on her, deep and appreciative. The curve of her arms, the effortless strength of her shoulders, the way her torso twists naturally with the rhythm, her feet moving precisely yet fluidly, the swing of her braids, the playful sparkle in her eyes. He drinks it in, admiration and desire mingled. Then his attention flicks to Neteyam, a smirk spreads across his face.
He chuckles low, already walking over “well, locked eyes…tight jaw,” he pokes Neteyam’s jaw. “Chest puffed, and not a single step taken.”
Neteyam groans quietly, jaw tightening even further. The warrior brushes lightly against your hips again, moving perfectly with the rhythm. You spin, guiding him with subtlety and ease, your laughter soft and flowing. Every motion, the sway of your hips, the roll of your shoulders, the fall of your hair—draws Neteyam in further.
His chest rises faster, fists clenching slightly, yet he remains frozen, passive, watching. Lo’ak leans in again, smirking. “That’s not even the worst part,” Lo’ak continues, enjoying himself far too much. “You’re doing it right in front of—”
“Finish that sentence,” Neteyam mutters quietly.
Lo’ak raises both hands in surrender, though the grin never disappears from his face.
The drums taper off, slowing into a softer, lingering rhythm. Children stumble and giggle, Kiri guiding them beside you. The warrior steps back slowly, leaving you moving alone now, every motion fluid and deliberate, commanding the circle while teaching the little ones. The firelight traces your curves, the sway of your hips, the movement of your hair, highlighting every detail.
Near the fire, you straighten from your crouch as the last child runs back toward their family. Kiri brushes her hands together, laughing softly.
“You make them dance better than the adults.”
“They are easier to teach,” you reply calmly.
Kiri tilts her head slightly, following your gaze across the clearing. Her lips twitch. “Ohh.”
You blink. “What?”
Neteyam stops just inside the circle, the firelight casting long shadows over his shoulders. The fresh bandage beneath his chest wrap is hidden, but the stiffness in his movement betrays it.
You glance at him briefly. “You should not be walking so much.”
He ignores that entirely. “You dance well.”
Your eyebrow lifts, “that is a strange observation.”
“You were impressive. what can i say?”
You dust ash from your hands, completely composed. “I was teaching the young boys and girls.”
“And a warrior.”
You look at him now, properly. “Is that why you were watching so intensely?”
Neteyam pauses—for a moment the village seems to fade behind you two. “Yeah.”
Your tail flicks once, the honesty was unexpected. “You should be resting.”
“I am standing.”
“That is not rest, Neteyam.”
“You did not answer my question earlier,” he says.
“I do not recall asking one.” You almost turn away but he steps in front of you.
“When I asked if you feel Eywa.”
Your expression softens, just slightly. “Yes, yes I feel her.”
“And what does she say?” His hands mess around with his songcord absently, you study him for a long moment, then you walk past him, shoulders brushing. “She says you should stop getting injured.”
Neteyam lets out a quiet breath of annoyance. Behind him—Lo’ak, sitting among the group of hunters, huntresses, and warriors, wheezes. Across the clearing, Aysea is still watching, composed for the sake of the people surrounding.
And near the outer ring of the dancing circle, Neytiri notices everything. Including the way her son turns to follow you with his eyes again.
She exchanges a slow, knowing look with Jake, and he smirks. “Oh yeah, I forgot to mention—but you probably noticed, right?” he murmurs under his breath.
Of course, you notice it first, others see small things, Neteyam leaving prayers early, his answers in council arriving half a breath too late. His eyes drifting upward into the canopy as though he expects something to answer him.
But you see the deeper shift, he no longer breathes with the forest, he breaths around it. The first time you approach him, he brushes you off. “I am fine.”
You watch him for a moment longer than he likes. “You are not listening.”
His jaw tightens. “I hear everything,”
“No,” you hiss quietly. “You are thinking.”
That irritates him, he turns away before the conversation can continue, but the seed is planted and you can feel it.
Several days pass, days of quiet wonder, you’re always watching him now, always feeling the shift. He is bothered more often than ever, always gone—Aysea following, not grounding.
One night, footsteps approach your home, you do not have to turn to know who it is. “I knew it would be you.”
Silence hangs for a moment, then his voice, low and rightly controlled. “I cannot hear Eywa.”
Your neck twists to see his face, now you look at him, not with pity, not with surprise, just understanding. “Since when?”
“Since the last assault.”
It has been weeks. weeks since the last assault. “And you told no one?”
“I don’t—i’m not allowed to be so uncertain. especially not now.”
You stand and step closer, “you are allowed to be alive. There is more to life than expectations.”
He exhales sharply, frustration bleeding into the sound. “You still feel her,” he says.
“Yes I do.”
“How?”
You tilt your head slightly, “because I stopped trying to lead her.”
Silence settles, then he says the words that cost him the most. “Help me.” He asks.
You bring him to the moss hollow deep in the forest, the one that remembers the shape of your body. He does not question you, he kneels where you tell him. You sit directly behind him, close enough to feel his heat. “Breathe,” you whisper.
At first, like always, he resists. He always does. Your palm presses lightly to the center of his back. “Let it go”
He does, he lets go of everything. The weight of the clan's expectations, Mo’ats legacy, the future of the clan, You, opposite him. His breath shatters.
You lower his hand to the soft moss beneath you. “Listen.”
For a long time, there is nothing. Then something does answer, something faint, but warm, alive. His shoulders tremble. “I feel her,”
You smile softly against his back. “I know.” When he turns to face you, your foreheads almost collide—he is closer than he should be.
“You brought me back,” he says quietly.
“No,” you murmur. “You let yourself be found.”
His fingers brush your jaw, the contact sends shivers up your spine, making you straighten just a little bit.
Something that the forest will hold begins then, something sacred.
After that night, things shift, subtly. Neteyam looks at you before speaking in council, he pauses when you inhale, as if waiting for your thoughts, at gatherings, he drifts closer without realizing it.
Other’s notice, Lo’ak notices first, he watches the way his brother’s gaze finds you across the fire before anyone else has spoken. The way Neteyam’s shoulders loosen when you enter a gathering.
Kiri notices too, Neytiri notices, Jake notices, and Mo’at notices everything. Aysea sees most of all. Her gaze lingers longer now, sharp, searching. But nothing has even happened.
You sit alone in the hollow again, your back to the entrance, hair cascades down your spine like satin falls. You do not expect him, but you feel him before he speaks.
“You are quieter tonight.” His voice moves through the darkness like a ripple through water. You turn slowly. Neteyam stands at the edge of the hollow, shoulders tense, as though he has walked here arguing with himself every step.
“So are you,” you answer. For a moment, neither of you move. The forest hums around you. Finally he exhales, long and unsteady.
“I am trying,” he says, “not to need you.”
The words land like a bow, they are not accusation, but they are confession. “Why?” You ask softly.
His jaw tightens, so much that you can see the muscles moving. “Because I am promised.”
You hold his gaze. “Promised is not mated.”
His eyes darken, heavy, dangerous. “You will not make this easy.”
Your voice is quiet but steady. “You do not like easy. You do not want it.”
He steps closer then, the careful distance he has kept for weeks collapsed in three strides. “You make me forget who I’m supposed to be.”
You feel the weight of that, he is the son everyone depends on—you take one step toward him, then another, until the space between you disappears.
“Then stop being who they expect,” you whisper, eyes glossing over his broad shoulders and tense, muscular arms. “Be who you are”
His restraint snaps like a bowstring pulled too tight, his hands find your waist with sudden certainty, fingers digging into your skin as if grounding himself in something real.
Your foreheads meet, for the first time—none of you are pulling away. Your breaths meet his, the world narrows to just his warmth.
“You choose this?” he asks, voice rough.
“Yes.” You breathe.
His thumb traces the curve of your hip. “Even if it changes everything?”
You do not hesitate to answer. “Yes, Neteyam.”
He kneels, bringing you down with him—your kurus brush instinctively, Neteyam freezes. The weight of what that means floods his expression, connection is not casual, it is truth, memory, soul.
You do not hesitate, hand lifting. Your tendrils seep into each other's, the bond clicks into place. The world explodes open, spirit crashes into spirit. There is no hiding inside tsaheylu. You feel him, all of him.
Your breathing deepens, his hands squeeze the ground as if longing for something to finally hold, but he can’t reach for you right now. You feel the pressure of expectation crushing his ribs every morning. The moment he first realized he might never truly be free to choose his own path.
And the quiet fear that one wrong step could fail his entire clan. His loneliness, his longing, and he feels you. Your mother’s final breath, you, a young girl who’d just seen her father gunned down by the sky people.
The way your hands trembled when you held your mother beneath the forest. The grief you carry like a bullet hidden in your ribs. Your pride, your stubborn strength, your refusal to bend. It is too raw, too honest.
For a heartbeat, none of you move. Your foreheads still rest together, your breath mixed. You feel the storm inside him through the bond, fear, relief, and want. It trembles through his chest.
Your hand lifts slowly, fingers sliding up his arm. His muscles tense under your touch, not in rejection, but in the effort it takes for him not to pull you closer too fast.
Your palm settles against his shoulder. He exhales, the sound shaky, raw, and desperate.
His nose brushes yours first, tentative, testing the space between you. The contact sends a quiet spark through the connection, heat floods into you like a wave, pooling low inside you—neteyam feels it, the true awareness that this moment cannot be undone.
“Tell me to stop, baby.” he murmurs.
But you don’t, instead your fingers curl into the braid at the back of his neck and pull him the smallest inch closer.
That is all the permission he needs, the kiss is slow, that’s how it starts. Almost careful. Neteyam kisses you like someone learning the shape of something precious—lips brushing yours softly at first, barely and pressure, as if memorizing the feeling.
But the bond betrays him. Through tsaheylu you feel the surge of emotion he tries to hide. Weeks of restraint, every time he looked away first, every time he forced himself to keep distance.
It all rushes forward at once. His other hand slides up your side, fingers spreading along your ribs as he pulls you fully against him. The kiss deepens instinctively, his control slipping as the reality of you settles in his hands.
You answer without hesitation, your hand moves from his braid to the back of his neck, thumb brushing the sensitive skin just below his queue. The reaction is immediate, a shiver that runs through his body.
Neteyam makes a low sound against your mouth, half breath, half disbelief. He shifts, guiding you gently backward until the soft moss meets your back. You sink down with him following, one knee braced beside you so he can keep your body close to his.
His fingers trace slowly along your side as if mapping you through touch. Every brush of skin sends another ripple through the connection between you. You feel how much he is holding back. How badly he wants to lose that control.
“Do you know,” he murmurs breathlessly against your lips, “how hard it has been not to do this?”
“Please, let go of your restraint Neteyam, I am ready.” You snap.
He pulls back, a small smile on his face. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
He moves closer, teasing at first—but even he knows how hard it is to resist you.
His lips crash against yours, hungry, relieved. Not the slow, careful kisses from before. The contact rips a small, involuntary noise from your mouth.
The reaction only makes him tighten his hold on you. Tongue pushing against the line of your lips, the last bit of contact that had been missing.
His hands fumble slovenly with your loincloth, he pulls away for a second to focus on untying the tight knots there, his braids swinging in your face.
“Neteyam—“ You whisper, eyes fluttering, hands moving to help his.
“Hm?” He hums, finally pulling your cloths off.
Your body tenses, you squeeze his arms tightly when the cool air hits the bare, sensitive skin between your legs.
He sits back to take in the sight before him, eyes wide and pupils blown dark.
Then, with a reverent kind of slowness, he lets his fingertips skim your thighs, the heat of his hands trailing higher, urging you open.
He lowers his mouth, breath ghosting over your skin, his voice rough as he murmurs your name just before his tongue finally touches you.
Heat blooms beneath his mouth, an embarrassing cry escaping your lips before you can stop it.
“Neteyam-“ he flicks his tongue again, steady, eager, the sensation sending shocks of pleasure prickling up your spine.
He buries his face between your legs, sucking and licking greedily until your thighs tremble around his head, each gasp drawing him deeper into the task, determined to wring every sound from you.
Instinctively, your hips cant upward, seeking more pressure from his mouth. Neteyam grunts in approval at your desperation, hands tightening to hold your hips still.
Still, he refuses to rush, slowing the movements of his tongue deliberately as your frustration grows.
“Teyam, please.” He pauses, lips barely brushing you, then finally gives in completely as he drinks in your pleas.
He glances up at you through half lidded eyes , watching your chest rise as you struggle to breathe in the heat of the moment, hunger clear in his intent stare.
He pushes two fingers inside, scissoring them to stretch you just right. He pumps them in and out, slow at first—curling them each time. You mewl softly below him, nails digging into his forearms.
He smiles softly against your clit, the curve of his mouth sending another jolt through your body as he presses a lingering kiss, savoring every trembling reaction.
Your orgasm comes with a sudden, unstoppable force, making your legs clamp around his head as everything else disappears.
“Oh, Neteyam..” You fall back into the moss, body still trembling as the aftershocks ripple through you, heart thundering in your chest while his hands never leave your skin.
He finally lifts his head, chin dripping with your juices, cheeks flushed with heat as he watches you reclaim your breath. Still catching your breath, you reach for his hand, pulling him closer until your foreheads touch.
He lays back beside you, pulling you up to straddle him. Heart pounding, you settle onto his lap as his hands roam over your hips, grounding you in the present.
His hands struggle to find their place anywhere below the hips, unsure if he can handle all of it, his pulse thrumming with nervous excitement as you lean into his touch.
You untie his loincloth slowly, easing the fabric away to reveal him fully as anticipation pools between your thighs, heavy with shared need.
He sucks in a shaky breath, the heat in his eyes intensifying as your fingers brush against his bare skin, desire thrumming loud between you both.
You guide him into you in a single, deliberate motion, savoring every second of the joining as the new sensation overtakes your senses.
A broken whimper escapes his throat, hands kneading your ass, finally. You roll your hips smoothly as he digs his fingers in deeper, helpless against the pull of your body eliciting shudders with every steady thrust.
His hips buck involuntarily, trying so hard to take over. You grab his wrists, forcing his hands flat against the earth as you set the pace.
He smirks slightly. “Let me touch you at least.”
Your eyes narrow, letting go of his wrists slowly. “Thank you,” he murmurs, immediately cupping your breasts. He kneads them gently, thumb brushing over the sensitive peaks.
Your walls flutter around him, movements slowing down, that’s when he decides to take over for you, pushing you down against the ground softly, hands clasping your thick thighs, folding you just enough to hit the sweet spot inside you continuously.
He leans over you, chest brushing yours, forearms on either side of your head as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. “I see you.”
You freeze for one second, eyes closed, your lips curve with a gentle smile, hands brushing his shoulders. “I see you.”
His fingers brush your jaw, his hips thrust just twice more and you come down first, legs trembling, hands shaking against his shoulders.
Then he does, thrusts slowing, hands squeezing the moss beside your head, low, guttural groans escaping his throat as he continues to push in.
Neteyam crumbles, sensitivity at it’s peak, sending small shivers through his body. “I love this—i love you.” He murmurs, brushing your hair from your face.
“I love you too.”
You lay together for a second before he pulls away, shoving his loincloth back on and laying beside you.
You sleep tangled together, his hand resting possessively at your lower back, your leg hooked around his.
A sharp inhale wakes you, you open your eyes slowly, morning light filters through the leaves above, pale and gentle.
Neteyam still sleeps beside you, arm still braced over your waist—your queues remain loosely entwined. Your body hums with the quiet warmth of the bond, bliss.
You shift slowly, feeling the weight of the morning and lingering closeness, then— “mm…” A soft, tired murmur escapes him. His lips part slightly in sleep. You freeze, watching him breathe.
Movement sounds at the leafy entrance. Aysea's closest friend stands there, frozen. Her gaze sweeps over you, then drops. Your bare shoulders, Neteyam’s arms around your waist, your loosely entwined kurus, her face fractures and she screams.
Neteyam stirs immediately, mumbling again. “Mm…Y/n” He jolts awake when he feels your body tense.
Hunters crash through the opening, you instinctively curl in on yourself, arms across your chest—but not in fear, just instinct.
Neteyam rises in an instant, still in his loincloth, positioning himself between you and the entrance. “Look away!” He snaps.
The hunters hesitate. “Turn around. Now.” He commands again, voice sharp, almost trembling with the need to protect.
Your ears flatten, mirroring his. “Do not look at her.” His authority makes them obey. Only then does he glance down at your scattered clothing, the top and loincloth from the night before. He picks them up quickly, holding them out to you without meeting your eyes.
“You can dress,” he murmurs softly, still low, still protective.
You take the clothes, cheeks warm. Fingers fumble as you pull the top over your shoulders, then the loincloth, shy, still humble, not timid, a fighter. Blush rises, but your posture stays firm.
Neteyam waits patiently, never turning from the hunters until you are fully dressed.
The forest trail feels heavier underweight. Some hunters still lag behind, muttering lowly about alliance, duty, and foolishness. “You went against the alliance,” one murmurs.
“The Olo’eyktan-to-be, defending her over duty… what kind of leadership is that?” another adds.
Neteyam doesn’t answer immediately. His hand brushes near yours—not touching, just close enough to ground you.
“Shut your mouths,” he says finally, low and unwavering. “All of you. Now.”
The murmurs die.
You glance at him, shoulder brushing his, feeling his calm authority anchor you, but you keep your head high. Not shame, not humiliation. Just quiet humility.
Ahead, the village clearing opens, fire burning low. Familiar faces are already gathered. Jake, Neytiri, Lo’ak, Kiri—all calm, observing, understanding.
Neteyam steps fully into the clearing beside you, shoulder brushing yours, shielding, steady. Aysea steps forward first, voice sharp and trembling with anger.
“You mated with her?” Her lips curl in disgust.
The clearing falls silent. Neteyam blinks, gathers himself, and looks at you. “Yes,” he says firmly.
A sharp gasp escapes Aysea. Her hands clench. “You lied to me!”
“I never promised you mating,” he replies quietly.
“You allowed it to be believed!” Her gaze swings toward you, fiery. You meet it calmly, humbly, but with strength.
Her hand swings suddenly. You shift, catching her wrist with ease, eyes wide, not to strike, but to block. The movement is calm, precise, controlled.
“Enough,” Neteyam says, stepping between you and her. Voice low, certain. Gasps ripple through the clan.
Aysea jerks free, eyes blazing. “You think Eywa chose you?” Before she can strike again, Mo’at raises her hand. Silence falls instantly.
“You think I did not see this growing?” she says to the clan. Her gaze settles on Neteyam. “You are Olo’eyktan-to-be. If your spirit is divided, the clan suffers.”
Her eyes move to you. “You steady him.”
Aysea stares at her in disbelief. “You allowed this?”
“I allowed truth,” Mo’at replies.
“And me?” Aysea asks bitterly.
Mo’at’s voice softens. “You were worthy. But you were not chosen.”
Her eyes move over the gathering, settling finally on you. “This one,” she announces, voice clear and measured, “stands where spirit and balance meet. She steadies the olo’eyktan-to-be, not with pride, but with humility. She is our Tsakarem. Y/n has always been.”
Her words ripple across the clearing. Every head inclines in acknowledgment, Jake’s expression softens, subtle yet certain. Neytiri smiles, her gaze steady, filled with quiet understanding. Lo’ak leans back, relaxed, a small smile of approval finally touching his lips. Kiri watches, wide eyed, absorbing the weight of the moment.
Aysea’s gaze lingers, sharp and searching, but the firelight softens her features. Finally, she exhales, lowering her hands. “This… is your path,” she says, voice tight but measured. “I will not stand against it.” Her eyes meet yours for a long moment, and though there is still tension, there is understanding, too.
Neteyam nods once to her, then he turns to you, hand brushing lightly against yours, smiling softly.
Mo’at steps forward, raising her hand again. “My People,” she calls, her voice ringing clear. “Witness this bond, for it steadies the Olo’eyktan-to-be and strengthens our people. Let all know that these two carry the future, not for power, not for pride, but for balance and truth.”
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.
And for every story, there is a beginning.
A beginning of a beautiful friendship, starting in the form of Nantang and a girlish scream. A scream that did not come from you at all, but rather from the eldest son of the Olo’eyktan.
In your hurried state to protect what you thought was a little girl, you ran full speed, the impending danger was forgotten and only holding a trusted worn-out knife that you have been using in cutting stems. You didn’t mind that your knees were scrapped badly as you jumped down in front of the voice who had screamed. At the ripe age of ten, you hissed as toughly as you could.
Swishing your knife, left and right. In your mind was a silent prayer of protection to Eywa.
“I do not wish you harm, please!” You pleaded as your hand shook, the person who had been hiding behind you placed a careful hand right on your shoulder. A sign of comfort and told them that they would be here.
That was the last thing you wanted, to hurt another creature of Eywa'eveng. You were a healer (rather on the way to becoming one), and in your mind, you’d rather be the one to get hurt rather than cause harm to another. Take the pain, and time would heal your wounds away.
And just like how your mother told you, those prayers that came from deep within your heart, Eywa would answer. She always will.
In a blink of an eye, the nantang were gone. Leaving both of you alone, the only sound that you could hear was the loud pounding of your heart and the sweet sound of the breeze. You didn’t realize you were breathing so hard, that when you slumped down to throw your knife to the ground, you almost kissed the ground face flat.
A hand had prevented you from falling further, supporting you as you regained your breath. It took you about a minute or so, to hold your arms in front of you, tapping the hand on your shoulder to tell them you’d be fine.
Right in front of you is none other than the son of Olo’eyktan, Neteyam.
You tilted your head looking side to side, wondering where the scream came from. Then the answer came to you slowly. He stood there nervously, side-stepping as he waited for you.
“Are you alright?” He asked and you nodded, the loud pounding in your heart came to a halt. You nodded, still wheezing as you sat up properly to peer at him. Daylight engulfed him like a halo, almost blinding you in the process.
You were always like this, born with a disease that makes every movement difficult. You see you were born on the most uncommon nights of Eywa'eveng. When no moons had shown, and you were engulfed in darkness when you came to the world silent while your mother held you in her arms. The reason for your illness, the Tsahik had claimed that this was the will of Eywa, and yet it would not lead to your demise but rather hinder you for all of your life.
With a final inhale, you nodded. Standing up on your own, brushing your bleeding knees with a small hiss of pain.
Looking at him from head to toe, you questioned: “Were you hurt?”
The healer in you almost bombarded him with questions and scolding, your thoughts pestered with such colorful words for such a small child.
‘Skxawng! A future Olo’eyktan screaming in fear to a mere nantang?! Ridiculous! Should’ve let him be bit, now I’m bleeding. Skxawng, I tell you!’
But you didn’t, rather you looked at him pointedly. “Next time bring your own weapon, the forest does not take it kindly to a screaming child.”
You expected him to be offended, and call you out for humiliating him but he didn’t. He laughed and you frowned, forehead forming a knot. Right in front of him, looking at him like his mother would whenever Lo’ak did something that cause trouble.
“I can tell a mile away that you are cursing me. Yet, I will let it pass.” Neteyam smiled. “The nantang you’ve threatened is my friend.”
You tilted your head, wondering why in his right mind did he befriend one.
“Then why did you scream?”
“We were merely playing.”
“What?”
“A game. Hide N Seek.”
You were silent after a while of him looking at you amusingly. But when you recall, that nantang was a small cub, unaware of the dangers and its role as a predator, still learning the ropes in nature. With that information in mind, you closed your eyes tightly and huffed a disappointing sigh.
He is ridiculous, an idiot, playing a game with a creature of the wild, unaware of the dangers. But now you are the skxawng too. Foolish for jumping into danger, when all is fine and alright.
“It’s alright, you showed bravery in a time of fear. You could be a fine warrior someday.” He excitedly noted.
You opened your eyes and stared at him blankly, “The tsahik forbid me to be one.”
Turning around, you head back to where you came from. Going back to the village where you know all is safe and sound. You didn’t expect him to follow you, but his curiosity piqued him to question you more. Bothering you with every passing minute, with statements like:
‘Why is that?’
‘Are you sick?’
‘Why would my grandmother forbid you, that’s unusual…’
‘We have a long way back, I’m positive I could listen.’
‘Come on, Don’t be shy! I won't tell anyone if you don’t tell my father I screamed.’
‘Ah… I see you don’t want to talk. That’s fine. Will you tell me your name then?’
And like the flowing waters from the rivers, he didn’t stop. You didn’t know that the future Olo'eyktan was chatty like this, your perception now differs from what you’ve seen from afar.
You thought he’d be smart, had his head right on his shoulders, following the orders and will of Eywa and the Olo'eyktan. After all, he is well-liked by your clan because he is responsible but this one is becoming a pain in your ass. Constantly prodding you with his annoying marks and stupidity. This was different, a new light to the golden boy of the clan.
Huffing to turn around, you almost smacked the back of his head when he saw the angry knot on your forehead back again. Neteyam bit his lip trying to conceal his laughter, he felt like he had succeeded after annoying you.
Now Neteyam understands what Lo’ak felt whenever he is to pester Kiri or him.
Playful, that was what Neteyam is. Motives were hidden in the pretense of righteousness and being a good child.
When you realized he had that grin on his face, you huffed once more. Mumbling your name to the wind.
“What was that?” He asked hands behind his back, swaying left to right while both of you walked back.
Rolling your eyes, you didn’t need to repeat it to him, after all his ears perked as soon as you muttered something. He caught it the first time, but he just wanted to hear it from you loud and clear.
You cleared the lump in your throat and stated your name once again.
“Hmm, that’s nice.”
That was it, the beads of a beautiful friendship with Neteyam.
And for every story that has love in it, there is always a catalyst.
A time wherein you aren’t certain it came from…
Was it your mind?
Was it your subconsciousness? Creeping in the back of your mind, giving hints and signs that this is forming into something else?
Was it every memory you have with him? Every morning, every evening, every eclipse, every hunt, every pa'li ride, every moment spent with him.
Was it the lingering touches? A slight graze in your arm, or the tight hold in hand that left your heart pounding widely in your chest, leaving all breathless.
Was it your emotions? Emotions that consisted of teasing, playful motives, and laughter.
You see… if you placed it all together then you’d know. All the pieces would fit, and you didn’t realize that through time it built and built until the emotions came unknowingly like a tidal wave.
For your catalyst, it came in the form of a healing rose and a palulukan.
At the age of 15, Neteyam always accompanied you for your walks. After all, he now knew the reason for your illness. At first, you thought it was him being protective of you and how you not being a warrior would lead you to danger.
Your walk consisted of looking for tawtsngal, one of Eywa'eveng’s flora that has healing abilities and for its nutrition. And often its tips were woven, as it is said to have its own aphrodisiac, mostly worn by the female to attract a future mate (which you would not use for the latter purpose only for healing, or so you say).
As time passed by you realized why he always went with you; it was his way out, something to put his mind at ease. A distraction some might say. In fact, you didn’t mind, let him be at peace, let him have his fun, and forget his duty once in a while. Motives were hidden in the pretense of ‘protecting the clan’ and that clan that only consisted of you.
“You know, your mother would hang me by my tail if you keep on neglecting your duties.” You hummed, as you walked side-by-side, as he moved the leaves in front of you to let you pass.
“Mhm.” He hummed, Neteyam seems distracted, something that has been happening far too frequently. You decided to tease him.
“Did you know you, an angtsìk had asked you to be its lover? Your mother and your grandmother agreed to it.”
“Mhmm.”
“And here I thought, your true love was a talioang.”
“Mhmm…”
“And by midnight, you’d wed. Don’t you agree? An angtsik would make a beautiful future tsahik.”
“Yes…yes… beautiful…”
You frowned; “Neteyam!”
He turned around to look at you, still smiling at you. Your breath caught in a hitch.
“Skxawng! Have you been listening?” Arms folded across your chest as both of you stopped in the middle of the forest.
Neteyam gave you a small smile, tilting his head up playfully as he scanned his surroundings acting innocently. A headache, that was what he is sometimes.
“That angtsìk would make for a fine tsahik?” Neteyam teased, you could not believe it, he’s been playing you for a fool while you rambled nonsense into him. You were tempted to hit him with the basket that held your trinkets, but then he laughed.
Neteyam finds it humorous that he always knows what it is to make you roll your eyes and smile at him. You couldn’t help but just let it go. After all, it was your Neteyam, he could never do anything to make you angry or hate him.
With a sigh, you pointed your arm forward; “If you had been listening then continue.”
Neteyam turned around, but stopped in fact, both of you were lost. Yet he didn’t need to say it out loud, cause deep inside you, you knew. You can see right through him, even without him saying it out loud.
“I— It seems like we had headed the wrong way?” Neteyam was unsure but you just sighed, stepping in front of him to lead the way.
“Mhmm. We are on the wrong path. And here I thought you weren’t distracted.” You tsk-tsked over his inattentiveness. Shoulders grazing against each other as he lets you pass by.
He trailed behind you and chuckled: “I think I'll take it back, I don’t think an angtsìk would make for a good wife.”
“Then what will?”
“You.”
Once again, both of you stopped in your tracks. Your head running a full mile like a pa’li who is loose. And your heart did not betray you, the only thing you could hear was his and your breath tangled in uncertainty.
Your breath escapes as soon as he utters your name, ears twitching as you turn around to look at him. Staring at his eyes, to look for the lies but you should’ve known better, Neteyam never lies to you, never.
At that moment, you felt immortal. You are desired, you are loved. The feeling sitting exactly right in your chest, leaving you breathless.
But your moment was cut short when a large palulukan hissed right behind Neteyam, your eyes shifted behind him in fear.
At first, he thought it was because you were afraid to face your feelings, feelings that he knew you felt the same too, but when his ears picked up the sound of something heavy and angry right behind him, he knew.
It was far too fast, and the large palulukan had pounced on him. He couldn’t react quickly to gather his knife instead, he got bit right in his shoulder. You immediately went towards Neteyam, throwing a flora that held spices right in its nose as a distraction.
The palulukan sniffed the air, sneezing as it tried to wiggle the smell of spice in the air. Neteyam also got hit with the spices and his eyes watered in an instant. He felt you dragging him with your hand right in his torso.
Both of you ran away, immediately jumping from terrain to terrain away, as the palulukan were free from the shackles of herb. Its eyes narrowed down to both of your figures. Adrenaline runs through your veins, weaving through the forest grounds finding a way to safety. Right beside your Neteyam groaned, his wounds were far too deep, and he couldn’t move an inch of his arm leaving him bleeding.
Right in front were an abundance of a gigantic flora, its pitcher-shaped tube supported by small prop roots right at its base. You weren’t certain if this was a yomioang, one of the carnivorous plants that resided in the forest, but the lack of the single large leaf told you it was different flora indeed; A healing rose.
In pure desperation, you dragged Neteyam toward the center of the plant; it can erase both of your scents with its nectar; praying to Eywa that the flora wasn’t dangerous. When the plant made no movement, showing no signs of it closing on both of you, you sighed in contentment.
Then you realized the person who had been hiding with you was bleeding profusely, you hoped that the singular tawtsngal you found earlier was enough to heal his wounds. You were feeling hopeless, you were supposed to be a healer, and you couldn’t afford Neteyam to die like this. You love him too much to see him gone by your hands.
Immediately pouring the liquid from the tawtsngal right into his wounds, he hissed. You apologize, concentrating on trying to stop the bleeding while you straddle him in the tight-knitted space you’ve placed both of you in.
You bit your lip in concentration focusing on the wounds at his front, but he softly held your hand to stop you.
“Neteyam, I have to please.” You begged to look at him with teary eyes.
“But I didn’t get to hear what you have to say…” He held your wrist softly, you leaned back to look at him.
You could never escape his gaze, your heart still pounding wildly from the adrenaline and his previous confession. You didn’t realize that he was waiting for your answer as he urged you with eyes to continue.
Closing your eyes tightly, you nodded.
“I do like you.” You confessed, opening your eyes and staring directly at him. His eyes were clear, telling you all that you needed to hear.
“I do adore you too.”
And for every story, there would always be complications.
This problem has always been constant right from the very beginning, it came in the form of duty. His duty.
Right from your birth you were ill, and that constant reminder was whenever you couldn’t breathe properly. And for a tsahik, you have to have a healthy mind and body. In simple words, you were never fit to become the future tsahik, that has been engraved in you from the start.
And at the age of 19, Neteyam has become a strong warrior, a great future clan leader, and everything and beyond.
And you were the best healer of the clan, even with your great abilities, Mo’at never considered you to be a candidate for being a tsahik. Neteyam needed someone who would stand beside him, someone who is as strong as him, someone who would not fall into a mere sickness.
Your birth had already been a bad omen, born when there were no moons that had not shown in the sky; complete darkness. And the clan held their beliefs tightly, woven into their bones like the illness you have.
When the tsahik had announced Neteyam’s betrothed, all you could hear was the deafening silence. You tried to search for him in the crowd. Even with the loud cheers, you could see him a mile away.
You couldn’t do anything to change it, this was your fate. Your love was cut short, way too quickly that you haven’t had the time to do it all.
Neteyam loves you, doesn't he? Wouldn’t he fight for you? Stop his duties and be with you, would he do that?
But he didn’t. He never came to you at all.
After weeks of preparation for the once-in-a-lifetime event of Neteyam and Atyìrì betrothal ceremony, you distract yourself into healing. Finding a cure to your illness to prove Mo’at you weren’t sick. Even praying to Eywa to make you healthy.
Atyìrì. A beautiful name for a beautiful face, she was polite, smart, sweet, and kind. One of the greatest dancers and singers of the clan, she came from a healthy family of warriors, had no illness, and wasn’t born in a day of bad omen. You couldn’t hate her, you knew that even if you did you’d only end up hating yourself.
And in the night, while your clan celebrated a feast; all were filled with laughter and joy. While your heart breaks from within.
You decided to talk with him, once all is settled and when all are asleep. Your heart couldn’t handle it talking to him in the daylight.
Daylight reminded you of the good times, daylight reminded you of him.
Your fingers tightened on the armband that you had was supposed to be a gift, pressing harder almost breaking the small beads in the process, trying to imprint and erase traces you had done it out of love. You were beyond nervous, breathing heavily with every passing moment.
In the middle, you can see Atyìrì dance, her hair dances in the light of the flames, and she looks ethereal. Like a deity had stepped down in a mere mortal realm to grace you with her presence, she moved in grace as she approached Neteyam who could only give her a smile.
The crowd encouraged him to take her hand. You bit your lip harshly, staring at the scene in front of you. You stood hidden by the shadows of the crowd, while they both bathed in moonlight and the embers that danced in the air. Everything looked perfect, they looked perfect.
You couldn’t help but smile sadly. Neteyam was destined for this, and you were never supposed to be a part of it.
All you could do is wait patiently, and wait for him, you did.
When all were tired from the celebration, you could see Neteyam help clean up the remnants of the festivity. You called out to him, your voice had a light upbeat tone, and he stopped right in his tracks turning around to meet you with an expression you couldn’t even paint.
“Walk with me?” You asked.
Neteyam as always nodded and followed you.
In the silence, every emotion felt heavy, the air was thick with tensions and questions unspoken. Both of you remained silent as the bioluminescence lit your way. You didn’t know what to ask first.
Why didn’t you tell me?
Why didn’t you come to me?
Did you even fight for me?
Was I all for naught?
Did you even love me?
But Neteyam beat you to it first; “That is a nice armband, who is it for?”
You looked down at your hands, the ones which had already destroyed the beads woven tightly together with your constant prodding. “It was supposed to be a gift, but now it’s ruined.”
And you thought to yourself, what a sick metaphor.
He hummed, “I’d take it, it’s still beautiful and it's made by you.”
You thought twice about whether to hand it to him or throw it far away, as it reminded you of not being enough. But Neteyam smiled at you, that smile you had grown to love. All you could do is place it carefully in his hands.
“Take care of it, it's fragile. Wouldn’t want it to be broken anymore.” He nodded.
And just like your heart, you have given the armband easily. You can say that this was one of the last gifts you’d ever give to him. Now with that out of your mind, the gnawing question crept into the back of your head.
Your heart racing as the next word you uttered was the final arrow straight to his own demise.
“Would you stay with me?”
He almost said yes, looking at the gift you’ve given to him. He was almost selfish enough, greedy to hide you where then no one would find you both, that he nearly took a step towards you and grabbed your hand to run towards the unknown.
The fear was gone as long as it was with you.
Neteyam knows, he didn’t need it to take it out of you to know that every word unspoken was that of love, but now Neteyam had a duty. A duty to the clan, and this time he couldn’t be a child and go back in time when both of you were young. When all was fine and the only worry was the nantang that had scared him that day or the palulukan that followed both of you leading towards your confession.
As much as Neteyam wants to go somewhere far, a place where he is just Neteyam and you are just you. He couldn’t.
If he said yes, then what? All would be unknown. But if he said no, then all was clear. He’d fulfilled the role of Olo'eyktan and married his betrothed like it was just another task.
And on that night, Neteyam made his choice.
For every story, there is an ending.
An ending in the form of rain. And for the tsahik, the rain symbolizes a blessing.
In front of the clan, Neteyam said his vows.
In front of Eywa, he is now mated for life with his betrothed.
And when your eyes met, the rain had washed your tears away. You took all the pain, after all, time would heal your wounds away.
You looked at him lovingly, like you always did, and always will.
Turning around you head home alone.
Through time you act like you weren’t in love.
In front of your family and friends, you pretend all was nothing but a mere simple attraction that will pass.
And on bad days you act like love is a sin, hidden by the disdain in your heart.
But at night, you prayed to Eywa. Waiting for your prayers to be answered.
You send your prayers about wanting love so heavy; that a lover would do anything to fight for you.
And in your dreams, you prayed. You prayed it was Neteyam standing right in front of you.
And without missing a beat you always make sure to keep your distance and whisper ‘I do love you and always will’ when he is not listening.
For you will be his, yesterday, today, tomorrow, and beyond.
— Na’vi Used —
Eywa'eveng - Pandora
Nantang - Viperwolf; creature
Palulukan - Thanator; creature
Tawtsngal - Panopyra ("sky cup"); flora
Angtsìk- Hammerhead titanothere; creature
Talioang - Sturmbeest, creature
Yomioang - “Animal Eater”, Chalice Plant; flora
A/N: After pondering if I wanted to post this one, but you know me, I am attracted to all living beings. And Avatar just popped up on my feed, and i told myself why not since this is the very first movie i've watched in 3D when i was a literal child. I'm blabbering but here is a one-shot inspired by a song I spent countless times on repeat (its a song called “Isa Lang”, Translating it doesn’t do it any justice but the lyrics just shouts “just fall in love with me and only me once again”)
And i just needed something angsty to write because my brain would not leave me alone unless i did this.
I tried to make figures of speech as accurate as they can for pandora, cause you know you can't just say an elephant in the room or nail to his coffin, they don’t have that.
⋆ | 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.
“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😢
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.
But there is one problem—he had absolutely no idea how to go about learning it. He couldn’t exactly ask his parents for a demonstration, and the thought of seeking advice from anyone else in the clan made him want to crawl into a hollow log and die. That left him with only one logical option, the one person who knew his secrets better than she knew her own breathing.
You.
You and Neteyam had been attached at the hip since you were barely tall enough to reach a direhorse’s knee, your bond so unbreakable that the clan members joked you were two halves of the same soul. It was a rare sight to see one of you without the other lingering close by. So, when his father finally released him from the endless grind of his daily duties, granting him a fleeting moment of freedom to ride the winds with you—he finally decided to ask you the question that had been bothering him.
The adrenaline was still buzzing under your skin, electric and loud, as you landed your ikran on one of the rocks of Ayram alusìng. You practically vaulted off the saddle, ripping your ionar away from your face and gasping in the cool air, breathless with exhilaration.
"Did you see that?" you crowed, bouncing on the balls of your feet as Neteyam dismounted beside you. "That spin? I swear I almost cleared the entire canopy! You have to admit, that was flawless."
Neteyam didn't immediately retort with his usual sarcastic quip about your ego. He was busy stroking the snout of his ikran, murmuring a quiet thanks to the animal, but his movements were stiff, mechanical.
You nudged him hard in the shoulder with your own. "Hey, don't feel bad just because I left you in the dust. If you practice more, maybe one day you'll be faster than me."
He laughed, but the sound was hollow. "Yeah. Maybe."
You paused, your grin faltering as you watched him. He refused to meet your eyes, his jaw set in that way it always did when he was overthinking something to death. "Okay, what's wrong? You're never this quiet after a flight. Did I actually embarrass you that badly?"
Neteyam looked at you then, his expression so serious that a startled laugh burst out of your throat. You expected him to crack a smile, to tell you to shut up, but he didn't. He just looked strained, his ears flicking back nervously.
The smile slid off your face. "Neteyam? You're scaring me. Just say whatever it is."
"Let's sit down," he murmured, jerking his chin toward a flat patch of moss near the edge of the cliff.
"Okay..." You trailed off, following him slowly. You plopped down cross-legged, grabbing a massive, broad leaf from the ground. You started ripping the edges of it idly, needing something to do with your hands as the silence stretched thick between you. You waited, watching him from your peripheral vision, expecting a lecture about safety or perhaps a confession about some mistake he'd made during training. But Neteyam just sat there, staring out at the floating mountains, his tail curling and uncurling anxiously against the rock.
"So?" you prompted, tearing a particularly satisfying strip of green from the leaf. "Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess? Because I'm guessing you broke one of Tuk’s toys again."
He shook his head slowly, finally turning to look at you. "No. It's not that."
"Then what?" you tossed the shredded leaf pieces aside. "Spit it out, skxawng. You know you can tell me anything."
He let out a long, shaky breath, his golden eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made you want to squirm. "I need to ask you a favor. A big one."
"If this will cause me to get exiled or something…" you joked, though your voice was quieter now.
"No," he said, then paused. "I don't think so."
"Well, that's reassuring. Go on."
Neteyam rubbed the back of his neck, his stripes flushing darker. "I need to… I need to learn something. And I can't ask anyone else. I trust you more than anyone."
Your heart gave a weird little flip, but you ignored it. "Obviously. I'm your best friend. What do you need to learn? A new flying technique? Because I can definitely teach you that."
"No," he said quickly, shaking his head so hard his braids whipped against his face. "Not flying. It's... look, I need to get better at... certain things. Romantically."
“Uh-huh…”
“And I was thinking maybe you could help me by telling me who I could go to. To practice kissing with…?”
You blinked, tossing a piece of shredded leaf over the edge of the cliff. "To practice—? Neteyam, you want me to set you up?"
He huffed, looking frustrated with himself. "I just need to be prepared, okay? For the future. And I can't ask just anyone. I need someone who knows what they're doing, but who won't go blabbing to the entire clan five seconds later."
It took a second for the request to register, and when it did, you felt a strange swoop in your stomach. You and Neteyam shared every secret, and knew every embarrassing detail of each other's lives. But for some reason, this felt... different. You had always assumed that when it came to this kind of stuff—mating, courting, kissing—he would go to Lo'ak or one of his male friends. It was weird that he was asking you, a girl, for people who could teach him how to kiss.
Still, you were his best friend first and his confidant second. You pushed that weird, pinching sensation in your chest aside and decided to just be helpful.
"Okay," you said slowly, shifting your weight on the moss. "If you want someone who knows what they're doing... you probably want someone with experience."
Neteyam lifted his head immediately, eyes wide. "Exactly. Who?"
“Well,” you started, counting on your fingers. “There’s Tala. She's sweet, patient. I heard she lets her partners lead completely. If you want to feel in charge and practice your... authority... she's the one.”
He hummed, considering it. "She is nice."
"Or," you dragged out the word, grinning mischievously, "there's Naya. She doesn't hide it either. If you want to learn technique, she’s probably the best teacher. She won't let you get away with being clumsy."
Neteyam was listening intently, his brow furrowed as if he were analyzing a battle strategy, but inside, he was screaming. He had almost done it. He had almost asked you.
It would have been so easy. You were right there, tearing up that leaf, looking at him with that open, trusting expression. He knew you, trusted you, and honestly, the thought of touching anyone else made his skin feel weirdly tight. But he stopped himself. This wasn't just about him; it was about his duty. He couldn't risk complicating the most important friendship in his life just because he was nervous about his first kiss. If he messed it up, if he made things awkward between you, he would lose his anchor. And Neteyam couldn't be the Olo'eyktan without you by his side. He had to keep this line drawn
"Naya," he repeated, testing the name, trying to convince himself she was a good option. "She seems... efficient."
"Efficient?" You laughed, shaking your head at him. "It's kissing, Neteyam, not a hunt. But sure, efficient. Those are your best bets if you want to survive this 'practice' of yours without embarrassing yourself."
He didn’t go to Naya. He didn’t go to Tala, or anyone else you had listed out for him with that teasing grin of yours.
Neteyam went straight back to the pod, his jaw set tight enough to crack a tooth, and spent the evening staring at the woven ceiling of his room. He didn't breathe a word of this to you, of course.
The next day, however, his composure was nowhere to be found.
You saw it in the training grounds. Usually, he was a picture of lethal grace, his movements fluid and calculated as he sparred with the other young warriors. But today, he was distracted. His reflexes were a hair too slow; his gaze kept drifting toward the tree line when he should have been watching his opponent's weapon. He took a hit to the ribs that he should have easily blocked, and the sight of him stumbling back, wide-eyed and breathless, was so unlike him that it actually made you stop dead in your tracks.
You didn't ask him about it immediately, though. You assumed he was just spiraling. He was Neteyam, after all—the boy who treated a minor scratch like a fatal tactical error. He was probably overthinking the kissing thing, already running five different simulations in his head about how to approach a girl without humiliating himself. You figured he was just strategizing, his "big brain" working overtime to devise the perfect kissing protocol.
It was strange to see him so shaken, especially since you knew for a fact that half the clan was desperate for his attention. Since his shoulders had broadened, he had become the object of nearly every young woman’s fantasy. You had heard the giggles behind the woven screens, the hushed prayers to Eywa asking that the Olo’eyktan’s son look their way. He didn't need to worry. If he walked up to almost anyone and asked to kiss them, they would probably faint from sheer joy.
Watching him pace restlessly near the riverbank, a small, unworthy thought wormed its way into your own mind. Should you also be worrying about this?
It was an embarrassing admission, one you barely wanted to make to yourself in the quiet of your own head. You were the same age as him, you were supposed to be looking for a mate, or at least enjoying the courting dances. But you hadn't done anything. You had never been kissed, never been courted, never felt that rush of heat everyone talked about. For the longest time, you had told yourself it didn't matter because Neteyam was in the same boat. You were two static points in a rushing river, content to just exist together while the rest of the world mated and paired off.
But now, he was trying to leave the river. He was trying to swim.
And if he succeeded, where did that leave you?
You pushed the thought away, annoyed at your own self-pity. You were happy the way things were. You liked being his shadow, his partner in crime. Or at least, you thought you were.
That evening, you met him at the spot.
It was a hidden platform nestled high in the boughs of a massive, ancient tree, a wooden nest the two of you had built from scrap wood and braided vines when you were only tall enough to reach the first branch. It was your sanctuary. The only place in the village where the eyes of the clan couldn't reach you.
Neteyam was already there, sitting on the edge with his back to you, his legs dangling over the open air. The wind whipped his braids around his shoulders, but he didn't move.
"Hey," you said softly, climbing onto the platform and taking your usual seat beside him.
He didn't startle. He just glanced at you, his expression guarded. "Hey."
You pulled your knees up to your chest, hugging them, watching the sunset burn across the horizon in shades of violent purple and orange. For a while, the silence was comfortable, but underneath it, you could feel the hum of unspoken things.
"So?" you finally asked, keeping your voice light, casual. "How did it go? Did you survive?"
Neteyam stiffened slightly. He turned his face away, looking out at the forest canopy instead of you. "It... it was fine."
"Fine?" You raised an eyebrow, nudging his shoulder with yours. "That's it? I gave you the best candidates in the clan, and all you have to say is 'fine'? Did you go to Naya? She's efficient, right? Did she teach you the secrets of the universe?"
He let out a short, tense laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "Something like that."
"Liar."
The word slipped out before you could stop it, but you covered it quickly with a teasing grin. "Come on, Neteyam. Give me details. I'm your best friend. I need to know if my advice was crystal or garbage."
He hesitated. His fingers gripped the edge of the platform so hard his knuckles turned white. When he spoke, his voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "It was good. She was... patient. I learned a lot. I think I have a better idea of what to do now."
You listened, nodding slowly, forcing your smile to stay in place even as a sharp, pinching sensation started to bloom in your chest. It felt weirdly like heartburn, or maybe like you had swallowed a jagged stone. You told yourself it was just annoyance at his vagueness, or perhaps the wind was a little too cold tonight.
"That's good," you said, and the words sounded hollow to your own ears. "I'm glad you got it sorted out. Now you can stop walking around like you're about to face a Thanator."
"Yeah," he whispered, still refusing to look at you. "Now I can stop."
The following days fell into a rhythm that was maddeningly normal on the surface, yet fundamentally wrong underneath. You flew the formations, you trained until your muscles burned, you ate together. But the air between you felt thicker. Neteyam was still there, still your shadow in every sense of the word, but the easy, fluid lightness that defined your friendship had evaporated.
The silence wasn't peaceful anymore; it was heavy, filled with things he wasn't saying. The teasing quips that usually flew between you like arrows had vanished. He didn't make fun of your landing form when you nearly tripped over your own tail. He didn't brag when he managed to take down a target farther than you. He was just... polite.
Polite Neteyam was infinitely worse than angry Neteyam. Angry Neteyam you could handle. You could yell back, you could poke the beast until he snapped and growled. But this quiet, distant stranger who nodded at your stories and answered your questions with single syllables was driving you insane.
At first, you tried to rationalize it. You told yourself it was just the aftershock of his confession, the lingering insecurity of a boy who had obsessed over a skill he hadn't mastered yet. You figured he was just analyzing his performance to death, turning the memory of that supposed kiss over and over in his mind until it was nothing but dust. You tried to give him space, letting your own chatter fill the silence until it felt like you were talking to a wall, your voice bouncing back at you, hollow and lonely.
But as the days dragged on, your patience frayed like an old rope. You missed him. You missed the version of him who would shove you into the dirt and laugh until his ribs hurt, the version of him who would look at you like you were the only person in the clan who mattered. This stiff, formal boy with his guarded eyes and his carefully constructed distance was starting to feel like a betrayal.
You decided to confront him during sparring. It was the perfect environment—you were already sweating, already aggressive, the physical exertion making it harder for him to hide behind his mask of composure. The end of the round always left the two of you facing each other, heaving for breath, skin flushed and slick with heat.
You came at him hard that day, your hits aiming for his ribs with a little more force than necessary. He blocked you with ease, his movements efficient and flawless, but his expression was unreadable, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance.
"You're fighting like an old man," you taunted, twisting your wrist to knock his blade aside, the wood clacking loudly in the clearing. "What's the matter? Did your little practice session with Naya tire you out that much?"
Neteyam’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering beneath the blue stripe of his skin. He parried your strike, pushing you back a step, but he didn't retort. "Focus. Don't get sloppy."
"I'm not sloppy," you shot back, feinting left before lunging right, forcing him to retreat. "I'm curious. You've been moping around for days. Did the 'practice' not go as planned? Did she realize you have no game?"
"Enough," he bit out, dodging a sweep of your leg with a fluidity that was annoying. "Concentrate on the match."
"No," you huffed, circling him, watching for an opening. "I don't want to concentrate. I want to know why my best friend is acting like I kicked his direhorse."
You engaged him in a flurry of blows, the sound of wood striking wood echoing through the clearing, a rhythm that usually settled your mind but now only fueled your irritation. "Is it me? Did I do something wrong? Because you've been weird since that night on our spot."
Neteyam didn't answer. He just grunted, deflecting a heavy hit that would have bruised your shoulder if he hadn't caught it with a dull thud.
"Or what," you pressed, your voice rising with frustration as you realized he was just blocking, refusing to engage with you verbally. "Did you and Naya have a lover's quarrel? Are you courting her now? Is that why you can't tell me anything?"
The thought tasted like bile in your mouth. You didn't know why the idea of him courting someone made your stomach churn, why the image of him whispering sweet nothings to Naya made your grip on your wooden weapon tighten until your knuckles turned white.
"I swear, Neteyam," you snapped, swinging low. "If you're already hiding your child from me—"
You didn't see the opening until it was too late. You were too busy talking, too distracted by your own annoyance to notice the way his weight shifted, the way he stopped blocking and started hunting.
You lunged, expecting him to deflect. Instead, he stepped inside your guard, hooked his leg behind yours, and used your own momentum against you.
The world spun. Your back hit the hard-packed ground with a bone-rattling thud, knocking the wind out of you in a painful rush. Before you could even gasp, Neteyam was on you. He pinned your wrists to the ground above your head, his knees pressing into your thighs to keep you still.
It was a standard pin. You’d been in this position a hundred times, wrestling in the mud since you were tadpoles.
"Yield," he demanded, his face hovering inches from yours, his breath coming in sharp bursts that fanned hot against your cheek.
You stared up at him, caught off guard by the sudden intensity in his golden eyes. He looked angry, his ears pinned back flat against his skull, his pupils blown wide. But there was something else there too—something wild and frantic that made your heart stutter in your chest.
But you weren't about to lose that easily. Not when he was being this insolent.
"Not a chance," you wheezed, struggling against his hold, bucking your hips wildly.
Since you couldn't break his grip on your wrists, you decided to play dirty. It was a joke, a trick you hadn't pulled since you were kids, born of pure desperation to wipe that serious look off his face. You jerked your head up, aiming to headbutt him just enough to startle him so you could buck him off.
But Neteyam anticipated it. He jerked his head back to avoid the collision, shifting his weight to keep you pinned. The change in center of gravity threw him off balance just enough.
He stumbled, his grip on your wrists slipping. You didn't shove him away. Instead, you grabbed the side of the waistband of his loincloth and yanked, hard.
He lost his footing completely and toppled sideways with a grunt, rolling onto his back in the dirt. Before he could recover, you scrambled on top of him, laughing triumphantly as you straddled his waist, pinning his shoulders to the ground.
"Ha!" you crowed, breathless and grinning down at him, your hair falling over your face like a curtain. "Who's sloppy now?"
You expected him to laugh. You expected him to buck you off or make a snide comment about how he let you win to preserve your ego. You were waiting for the familiar spark of competition in his eyes, the warmth that always settled between you after a good fight.
Instead, he froze.
The laughter died in your throat as you looked down at him. Neteyam wasn't moving. He was staring up at you with an expression you couldn't read—his eyes wide, dark, and swimming with something that looked dangerously like panic. His chest was heaving under you, his breath hitching in his throat like he was choking on air.
For a second, time seemed to stretch, thin and taut. He looked terrified. Of you? Of this? You didn't know.
"Neteyam?" you asked, your smile faltering, your voice barely a whisper. "You okay?"
For a beat, he didn't blink. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there for a heartbeat that felt like a lifetime, before snapping back up to your eyes. The raw need you saw there was so visceral it made your breath catch, a sharp, electric shock that ran down your spine.
Then, his face crumpled. Panic seized him, raw and ugly. He squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenching hard enough to grind his teeth.
"Get off," he ground out, his voice strangled, like he was in physical pain.
"What?"
"Get off!" He shoved you, harder than he meant to, his hands rough against your shoulders, sending you tumbling backward into the dirt.
You sat up, dazed and confused, wiping the dust from your cheek, watching as he scrambled to his feet. He didn't offer you a hand. He didn't look at you. He just turned on his heel and walked away, his strides long and jagged, his tail lashing behind him like a whip.
You stared at his retreating back, your hands still tingling from the heat of his skin, completely lost. The silence he left behind was louder than any shout.
"Fine!" you shouted at the trees, irritation rising up to mask the weird, hollow hurt blooming in your chest. "Walk away, skxawng! See if I care!"
You didn't chase after him. You sat in the dirt for a long time, staring at the trees until the cool evening air prickled your skin, and then you picked yourself up and went home. You ignored him. Fully and completely.
The next few days were an exercise in cold war. You woke up, you trained, and you found reasons to be anywhere he wasn't. If he was on the flight line, you suddenly became very interested in helping the weavers gather fibers. If he was near the river, you took your meals with the young hunters who were usually too loud for your taste. You laughed at their jokes, you joined their conversations, and you pretended not to see the way Neteyam stood on the periphery of the camp, his eyes following you like a lost hawk, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
It was petty, maybe. Immature, definitely. But you were hurt, and you didn't have the energy to dissect why his rejection had stung so sharply when you were supposed to be just his friend.
Neteyam, for his part, was spiraling. He hadn't slept in two days. He was walking around in a haze of self-loathing that was potent enough to choke on. He felt like the biggest asshole to ever walk Pandora. Being cold to you was bad enough—he knew that, he hated himself for the way he’d shut you out—but the memory of you on the ground when he pushed you made him want to let himself get devoured by a thanator.
He kept seeing your face. The shock in your eyes when he shoved you. The way your laughter had died so abruptly, replaced by a confusion that cut deeper than any knife. You didn't deserve that. You had been with him since birth, literally. You were the one who held his hair back when he was sick and the one who patched his bruises when he fell. You believed in him when he was convinced he was a failure, carrying the weight of a title he hadn't even earned yet.
And you had helped him. You had helped him with the most humiliating, desperate secret he had, trying to teach him how to kiss even though it wasn't your job. You had tried to be a good friend, and what had he given you in return? A cold shoulder and a shove to the ground.
He wanted to give you the best. He wanted to be the friend you deserved, the steady presence you relied on. He wanted to scrub his brain clean of the way he had felt when you were straddling him, the way his heart had hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He didn't know when it happened. He didn't know how it started. He had chalked it up to familiarity for years—you were just there. You were part of him, like his arm or his tail. Being around you was as natural as breathing. But deep down, in the dark, quiet part of his mind where he kept his fears, he knew the truth was far more dangerous.
Normal friends didn't think about kissing their friends.
He was in trouble. He was in so much trouble.
But he couldn't keep going on like this. He couldn't keep watching you drift away toward other groups, other people, laughing without him. He needed to fix this. He needed to act better. He needed to push the feelings down, lock them away, and just be Neteyam again. Your Neteyam.
One evening, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and deep reds, he found himself climbing the vine ladder to the platform. It was a risk. You might not even be there. Or worse, you might tell him to get lost.
But luck, for once, seemed to be on his side.
When he hauled himself over the edge of the wooden platform, you were there. You were sitting with your back against the trunk of the tree, your knees pulled up to your chest, staring out at the forest with a distant look. You didn't look at him immediately, but your ears flicked back, betraying that you knew he was there.
Neteyam stood there for a moment, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He felt awkward, too large for his own skin.
"Hey," he managed to say, his voice rougher than he intended.
You didn't turn. You didn't tell him to leave, but you didn't invite him to sit either. "Hey."
The silence stretched, taut and uncomfortable. It wasn't the comfortable silence of your childhood.
Neteyam took a tentative step forward, his hands raised slightly, palms out, like he was approaching a spooked animal. "Can I... can I sit?"
You shrugged, a minimal movement of your shoulders. "It's a free world."
He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and sat down. Not in his usual spot right next to you, but a respectable distance away—close enough to talk, far enough away that he wouldn't accidentally touch you. He leaned back against the wood, mimicking your posture, staring out at the view.
"I didn't kiss Naya," he said abruptly.
You blinked, turning to look at him with a frown. You scoffed, the sound harsh in the quiet evening air. "What?"
Neteyam flinched at the skepticism in your voice. He turned his head, his expression earnest and almost desperate. "I didn't. I never went to her. I didn't go to any of them."
You stared at him, your mind struggling to process the non-sequitur. This was what he wanted to talk about? After days of giving you the cold shoulder, after shoving you in the dirt and walking away without a word, he was leading with a correction about his love life?
"Okay?" you said, your voice dripping with annoyance. "Why are you telling me this? You can kiss whoever you want, Neteyam. You don't need permission from me."
"I know that," he said quickly, his ears flicking back nervously. "But I wanted you to know. I lied to you the other night. When I said it was fine. It wasn't fine because it didn't happen."
You rolled your eyes, turning away to stare back at the sunset. "Great. Good for you. You wasted a week of my life being moody because you lied about a girl. Can we move on now?"
"No, listen," he insisted, his voice rising slightly with a thread of panic. "I lied because I couldn't do it. I couldn't go to them."
"Why not?" you snapped, turning back to glare at him. "Too good for them? Only the best for the future Olo’eyktan? Why did you even take my advice anyway?"
"Because it wasn't them," he blurted out, the words rushing out of him like water breaking through a dam. "It was supposed to be you."
The air left your lungs in a rush. You stared at him, your mouth slightly open, your brain screeching to a halt. "What?"
Neteyam looked like he was about to be sick. His face was flushed a deep, dark indigo, and he wouldn't look you in the eye. "That day. At Ayram alusìng. When I asked you who I could practice with... I wasn't asking you to set me up."
You felt your heart begin to hammer against your ribs, a slow, heavy thud that echoed in your ears. "I... what do you mean?"
"I meant..." He swallowed hard, his throat clicking. "I wanted it to be you. I was trying to work up the nerve to ask you to teach me. But I got scared. I thought it would mess everything up. So I lied."
You stared at him, your mind reeling. You felt shocked, confused, and strangely, terrifyingly flustered. The idea of Neteyam—your best friend—wanting to practice with you seemed absurd, impossible. And yet, the way he was sitting there, vibrating with tension, made it feel terrifyingly real.
"Say it again," you whispered, your voice barely audible.
He let out a long, shaky breath, his eyes squeezing shut. "I want you to teach me. I want to practice with you. Please."
You didn't answer. You couldn't. Your brain was short-circuiting. You were just sitting there, frozen, while the implications of his request washed over you in waves.
Neteyam took your silence as rejection. His shoulders slumped, defeated. "It's okay," he murmured, starting to stand up. "I shouldn't have asked. It was stupid. I'll never ask—"
"Okay."
The word escaped you before you could think better of it, a sharp, breathless sound that stopped him in his tracks. He froze, looking back at you with wide eyes.
You swallowed hard, your face burning. "Yes. Okay. I'll... I'll help you."
Neteyam sat back down, slowly, like he was afraid sudden movements might scare you off. He looked at you, really looked at you, and you saw the raw vulnerability in his gaze. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," you managed, your heart hammering so hard you felt light-headed. "But... I don't really know how either. I haven't... I mean, I haven't done this either."
He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh, relieved and anxious all at once. "Okay. That's... that's good. We can figure it out."
The silence that followed was different. It was heavy, but not with tension this time. It was heavy with anticipation. You could feel the heat radiating off him from where you sat.
You moved closer, the rough wood of the platform scraping under your legs. You reached out, resting your hand tentatively on his knee. He jumped slightly at the contact, then leaned into your touch.
"Are you nervous?" you asked, a teasing lilt in your voice despite the hammering of your own heart.
"Terrified," he admitted, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. "I feel like I'm going to mess it up."
"You won't," you said. "Just... come here."
The proximity was dizzying. You could see the flecks of lighter gold in his eyes, the way his breath hitched slightly when you leaned in. He stared at your mouth, then up at your eyes, then down at your hands, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously.
"So," he whispered, his voice cracking on the single syllable. "We just...?"
"I think so," you murmured, your heart hammering. "Just... lean in."
He leaned in, but the angle was wrong. He hesitated, his eyes wide and searching, and when he finally moved, his forehead collided with yours in a dull thud.
You both flinched, letting out startled hisses of pain.
"Ow," you laughed, rubbing your forehead. "Watch the target, Neteyam."
"Sorry," he breathed, letting out a nervous chuckle that sounded more like a wheeze. "I’m... I'm really clueless.”
"It's fine," you said, dropping your hand from your forehead to rest on his knee. "Just try again. Slower."
He took a deep breath, exhaling it shakily against your cheek. This time, when he leaned in, he didn't rush. He moved with agonizing slowness, giving you plenty of time to pull away. You didn't. You held your ground, your eyes fluttering shut as his face filled your vision.
When his lips finally touched yours, it was... underwhelming.
It was just a press of skin against skin. He didn't move, just held his mouth there, frozen, like he was waiting for something to happen. You felt the puff of his breath against your upper lip, heard the loud, rushing sound of his own breathing, but there was no spark.
He pulled back an inch, his nose brushing your cheek. "Like that?"
"Um," you opened your eyes, blinking rapidly. "I think... maybe you need to move them? A little?"
"Oh. Right. Movement."
He leaned in again. This time, his lips parted slightly, and he pressed them against yours firmly. He moved his head, a jerky, experimental tilt to the side, and the friction increased. It felt clumsy—too much teeth, too much pressure, like he was trying to eat rather than kiss.
You tried to follow his lead, but it was impossible to find a rhythm. You felt awkward, self-conscious, and strangely tall. Your nose kept bumping into his cheekbone, and your hands were hovering awkwardly in the air, unsure where to land.
Neteyam seemed to sense the discord. He let out a frustrated huff against your mouth and pulled back, his brow furrowed. "This feels wrong. I feel like I'm attacking you."
"You're not attacking me," you reassured him, though your lips felt a little raw. "We're just... figuring it out. Here, let me..."
You scooted closer, closing the gap between your legs. You reached up, cupping his face in your hands to steady him. His skin was hot, burning under your palms. "Stop thinking about technique. Just... relax."
"Okay," he whispered, his eyes on yours. "Relax. Okay."
You leaned in this time, guiding him. You slanted your lips over his, softer than before, and kissed him with intent. You felt his breath hitch, a sharp intake of air through his nose, and then, finally, he softened.
He stopped fighting the logic of it and just let it happen.
The shift was instantaneous.
Whatever awkwardness had held him back vanished the moment he committed. His lips, which had been stiff and unsure, suddenly moved with terrifying precision. He stopped the jerky, uncertain motions and instead copied the exact pressure you were using, then—maddeningly—doubled it.
He tilted his head, aligning your mouths perfectly to avoid the awkward nose-bumping, and deepened the kiss. It wasn't clumsy anymore; it was intentional. He was watching your reactions, cataloging every gasp and shiver, and using it against you.
"Oh," you breathed, barely breaking the contact, surprised by the sudden competence. "That's... that's better."
"Yeah?" he murmured against your mouth, his voice dropping an octave, sounding suddenly much more confident.
His hands, which had been hovering awkwardly, suddenly found your waist with a surety that made your knees weak. He pulled you forward, eliminating the last inch of space, and kissed you like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.
It became wet, fast. You didn't know who opened their mouth first, but suddenly the seal between your lips broke, and his tongue was sweeping into yours. It wasn't hesitant now. He explored your mouth with a slow, thorough intensity that made your head spin.
Neteyam groaned, a sound you felt vibrate through your chest, low and possessive. His hands abandoned your waist to slide up your back, pressing you closer until your chest was flush against his. You could feel his heartbeat, thudding rapidly against your own—or maybe that was yours.
He was a terrifyingly fast learner. Within seconds, he went from an unsure novice to the most overwhelming experience of your life. He nipped gently at your lower lip, soothing the sting with his tongue, and when you gasped, he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss further, angling his head to change the sensation.
"Neteyam," you gasped, pulling back for a split second to breathe, your eyes fluttering open to find him already looking at you.
His eyes were dark, blown wide with arousal, but his gaze was sharp, focused.
"Too much?" he asked, his voice rough and breathless.
"No," you whined, embarrassed by how needy you sounded. "Just... don't stop."
He smirked—a real, cocky smirk that was so purely Neteyam it made your stomach flip. "As you wish."
He leaned back in, capturing your lips again, and this time, his hands were bolder. They slid down to your hips, gripping you firmly, and before you could process the movement, he tugged you.
You gasped as you lost your balance, your legs swinging over his hips until you were straddling his lap. The new position changed everything. You settled onto him, and the friction was immediate and overwhelming.
Neteyam froze for a split second, a strangled sound catching in his throat as he realized exactly where you were sitting. But then his instincts took over.
His hands gripped your ass, pulling you flush against him, and he rolled his hips up into yours. The movement was devastatingly controlled.
You cried out into his mouth, your head falling back as pleasure shot through you. He was hard—you could feel the distinct outline of him pressing against you through the loincloth—but he didn't grind frantically like you might have expected. He moved with a slow rhythm, dragging you against him to maximize the friction.
The kiss became sloppy, open-mouthed and breathless. You were panting into each other's mouths, saliva mixing, the wet, slick sounds of your lips echoing obscenely in the quiet night air.
"Feels good," he slurred against your jaw, his mouth trailing hot, wet kisses down the line of your throat, sucking on the sensitive skin where your pulse raced. "So good... you taste so good."
"Yeah—fuck, how are you so good?" you whined, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your hips rolling of their own accord, meeting his thrusts. "Don't stop."
You were grinding against him with abandon now, chasing a feeling you didn't quite understand but desperately needed. He was guiding your movements, his large hands spanning your waist, setting a pace that was driving you both out of your minds. You felt his tail wrap around your thigh, squeezing tight, anchoring you to him.
It was lewd. It was intense. And Neteyam, the boy who had been trembling with nerves five minutes ago, was now kissing you like he had invented the act.
You felt the tension in your belly coil tighter and tighter, a winding spring of pleasure that was becoming too much to handle. You were getting lost in it, lost in the heat of his mouth and the strength of his hands.
And then—reality crashed in.
Maybe it was the drag of his fangs against your skin a little too hard, or the realization of exactly what you were dry-humping on a platform fifty feet in the air, but suddenly the haze cleared. You felt the blatant, rock-hard outline of him beneath you, and felt your own desperate movements, lewd and unmistakable.
You froze.
Neteyam froze a second later, his breath hitching in his throat. He seemed to realize the position you were in—you on his lap, his hands gripping your ass, your bodies locked together in a rhythm that had nothing to do with kissing and everything to do with mating.
Slowly, agonizingly, you pulled back.
The air between you was frigid compared to the heat of a moment ago. Your lips were swollen, your chest heaving, and you could see the dark flush of arousal staining Neteyam's neck and chest. He looked wrecked.
You scrambled off his lap, your movements clumsy and ungraceful. You practically threw yourself backward, putting as much distance between you as possible. You ended up near the edge of the platform, crossing your legs tightly, your face burning so hot you thought you might spontaneously combust.
Neteyam didn't move. He stayed where he was, his hands resting on his thighs, staring at the wood where you had just been sitting. He looked stunned.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. You hugged your knees to your chest, trying to hide your trembling, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow you whole. You had just dry-humped your best friend. What was wrong with you?
Finally, Neteyam let out a shaky breath. He ran a hand over his face, wiping the sweat from his brow. He didn't look at you.
"That was..." he started, his voice rough and hoarse. "That was nice."
You stared at him, your eyes wide. "Nice?"
He glanced at you then, a sheepish, crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah. Nice. Really... really nice."
You let out a nervous laugh, the tension in your chest easing just a fraction. "Yeah. It was... okay. I mean, for a first try."
He leaned back against the tree, looking up at the stars, though you could see his ears were still pinned back with embarrassment. "I think we're going to need a lot more practice."
"Maybe," you said, your heart still racing, your body thrumming with leftover energy. "If you can handle it."
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