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✦ emoji navigation

૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა = Fluff

૮₍ ˶´ ˘ `˶ ₎ა♡ = Soft/Light mature

૮₍ ˶•́︿•̀˶ ₎ა = Angst

૮₍ ˶•⤙•˶ ₎ა ❥ = Hard/Dark mature

૮₍ ˶¬⤙¬˶ ₎ა = Neutral

✦ boundaries

I WILL NOT WRITE....

— incest (excluding stepcest) — minor × adult relationships — scat / piss content — forced themes (excluding dub-con) — OMEGAVERSE — vomit — intense bondage — intense BDSM — pain kink — intense degrodation

please respect these boundaries ♡

✦ extra

I write for all characters requests are ALWAYS open — don’t be shy, i don’t bite! feel free to ask away. replies may be slow at times (ONE-SHOTS ARE MORE MY THING, BUT IF I REACH CREATIVE FLOW STATE I WILL DO MINI-SERIES TOO!)

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✦ My works

— Jake sully / Tsyeyk te Suli The jake sully-sized hole in your heart ૮₍ ˶•⤙•˶ ₎ა ❥

Snack! ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა — Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk'itan Porcelain Doll ૮₍ ˶•⤙•˶ ₎ა ❥

— Lo’ak te Suli Tsyeyk’itan Purple-faced & Completely yours ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა

— Tsireya te Tsika'u Ronal'ite Purple-faced & Completely yours ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა

— Tonowari te Tsika'u Arvak'itan Sumtysip ayawne (1) ૮₍ ˶¬⤙¬˶ ₎ა

Sumtysip ayawne (2) ૮₍ ˶¬⤙¬˶ ₎ა

Sumtysip ayawne (3) ૮₍ ˶¬⤙¬˶ ₎ა

Sumtysip ayawne (4) ૮₍ ˶¬⤙¬˶ ₎ა + ૮₍ ˶•́︿•̀˶ ₎ა???

— Tsu’tey te Rongloa Ateyitan “Happy Birthday, Tsu’tey” ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა

— Teylan Fingers in the wind (1) ૮₍ ˶¬⤙¬˶ ₎ა

Fingers in the wind (2) ૮₍ ˶¬⤙¬˶ ₎ა

Fingers in the wind (3) ૮₍ ˶¬⤙¬˶ ₎ა

Fingers in the wind (4) ૮₍ ˶¬⤙¬˶ ₎ა + ૮₍ ˶•́︿•̀˶ ₎ა???

— Miles Quaritch Little Bunny ૮₍ ˶•⤙•˶ ₎ა ❥

— Tamtey

Douceur (1) ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა

— So'lek

Douceur (1) ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა

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It’s… peaceful. Cool, too—the kind of gentle chill that only exists before the heat settles in.

By the time your eyes finally opened, the world was already awake in quieter ways. The distant calls of early-morning forest birds wove through the silence, filling the dawn without disturbing it. Further out, the soft rustle of the great trees, their leaves whispering secrets to the wind.

You blinked, still hazy from sleep, and tilted your head up to see Jake already facing you. His eyes are still half-closed with sleep and you can see it written all over his face that he’s only just woken up.

There’s a faint crease on his cheek from where he’d been laying, a hint of drool catching the light, hair completely tousled and falling into his face in uneven strands. His eyes won’t stay open for long, fluttering shut every few seconds like he’s still deciding whether to wake up or fall back asleep.

It’s… ridiculous.

The usual sharpness is gone, stripped away with sleep, leaving something softer behind. Without the weight of the clan and his duty to it resting on his shoulders... He's just jake.

Your jake.

A slow, stupid smile spread across your face before you could stop it.

And when his eyes properly focused on you, his lips tugged into one just as dumb. “Baby girl… you’re awake.”

His voice was rough, low, still caught between sleep and morning, a gravelly sweetness that was uniquely his. And then, before you could answer, his hands found your waist and he pulled.

You let out a small laugh as you were dragged on top of him, bracing your hands against his chest as he settled you there like it was the most natural thing in the world. The warmth of him beneath you was a solid, comforting anchor.

“Jake—” you started, still laughing softly.

He just grinned up at you, completely unbothered, eyes crinkling at the corners. For a moment, neither of you moved. Just looking. Just… existing. His hand shifted slightly at your side, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your skin through the thin fabric of your sleep wrap.

Then his gaze drifted—slow, deliberate—tracing a quiet path from your eyes to the curve of your cheek, and further still, to the line of your neck. It wasn’t hurried, nor careless. There was something almost thoughtful in the way he looked at you, as if committing each detail to memory.

You caught it immediately. “Oh no,” you said, narrowing your eyes, though there was laughter already slipping into your voice. “Don’t even—”

His grin widened, slow and knowing. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re thinking about it.”

At that, he tipped his head slightly, putting a display of faux innocence. “Thinking about what?”

You held his gaze, unamused. He met it easily, like he had all the time in the world. “…Jake.”

“Relax,” he murmured.

You groaned immediately, dropping your forehead lightly against his shoulder. “You said that last time.”

“And?” he prompted, far too casually.

“You bit me.”

A quiet huff of laughter escaped him, his chest rumbling beneath where you leaned. “Just a little.”

You pulled back to look at him, unimpressed.

“You always say that,” you muttered, exasperation slipping into your voice, “and then suddenly you’re—” you gestured vaguely in his direction, searching for the right words, “—trying to eat me like I’m a snack.”

“I am not trying to eat you,” he said, like that settled it.

“You had my finger in your mouth.”

“That was—”

“—not an accident,” you cut in, laughter already breaking through your words.

He rolled his eyes at that, though there was no real annoyance behind it. just that same easy warmth that seemed to cling to him no matter the hour.

“You make it sound worse than it is.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you replied, your tone turning sweet in a way that was anything but sincere. “Should I ask my mother what she thinks?”

That got him.

It was subtle. easy to miss if you weren’t already looking for it but you caught it anyway. The faintest tightening at the corners of his eyes, the briefest hitch in his composure. It was enough. Your smile sharpened, satisfied.

“She thought you were actually going to kill me, Jake.”

“She overreacted.”

“She walked in on you biting my neck that one time”

The silence that followed wasn’t long, but it lingered just enough to make a point. He didn’t look embarrassed. Not even remotely.

“You smelled good,” he said again, as if that alone justified everything.

And, frustratingly, it almost did. Or at least enough that you couldn’t find it in yourself to argue any further. His strange, affectionate habit—those absentminded nips and grazing bites—had long since stopped being alarming. They were simply part of him now, another odd way he expressed closeness, even if it still left you exasperated more often than not.

Your laughter softened as the moment stretched, fading into something quieter, more subdued. When you looked down at him again, you found him already watching you, his attention unwavering. He was close. closer than you’d realized and when his hand shifted at your waist, it was only to draw you that little bit nearer, until there was barely any space left between you at all.

His nose brushed along your jaw, slow and deliberate, unhurried in a way that made your breath catch.

You stilled. “Jake.” It was meant to be a warning, but it came out softer than intended. less certain.

He hummed in response, low and thoughtful, like he’d heard you and was considering it, weighing it somewhere in the back of his mind. “…I don’t bite,” he murmured, his voice warm against your skin. “Much.”

Your breath caught. And then you pushed at his shoulder before he could try anything. “Absolutely not!”

He laughed, allowing himself to be nudged back this time, though his hands lingered like they always did. “What?” he asked, feigning innocence.

You only shook your head, stepping back a little, one hand rising to your cheek as your laughter spilled over, light and disbelieving.

“No—no, you always do this,” you managed between breaths, grinning despite yourself. “Always try to eat my hands, my neck, my stomach and it always bewilders me!”

“I do want to eat you,” he said, with such earnest sincerity that it caught you off guard.

You blinked at him, then laughed again, swatting his arm. “Not yet, ma’Jake. It’s almost hunting time. you should be getting ready.”

At that, he pouted, ears flicking as his lips jutted out in a way that was entirely too endearing for his own good. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” you teased, giving his chest a playful shove. “Your bow won’t wield itself.”

He let out a soft, dramatic whine, but the grin tugging at his mouth gave him away as he finally reached for the strap of his bow, where it hung neatly from a peg near the entrance.

“You’re going to pay for that,” he murmured, the promise in his voice equal parts teasing and certain.

You only shaked your head as you waved him off. “Go. Now. And try not to get eaten by a viperwolf.”

He paused just before leaving, casting you one last lingering look before ducking out through the kelku’s entrance, the bead curtain rattling softly in his wake.

You let out a soft sigh, the sound quiet but content, before turning back to begin your own morning.

The dwelling was simple, but it was yours. You moved through the familiar routines. folding the sleeping mats, checking the water vessel, gathering the few tools you’d need for the day’s tasks.

As you worked, the heat began to climb. The cool morning evaporated, replaced by the dense, humid warmth of the Pandoran jungle. Sweat gathered at your temples, but the work was satisfying. The rhythmic motion of weaving, the feel of the fibers under your fingers grounded you. It connected you to your home, to your people.

By noon, the shadow of the kelku had shifted, and you were finishing the last edge of your weaving when you heard him return. The bead curtain rattled, and he stepped inside, triumphant and brimming with stories. His bow was slung across his back, the quiver heavy with arrows. A satisfied grin played on his lips, and his eyes sparkled with the thrill of the chase.

“Found a good one today,” he said, dropping his gear by the entrance. “A nantang, a big one. But it didn’t see me coming.” He began recounting the hunt, hands moving as he spoke, illustrating the stalk, the tension, the release of the arrow. You listened, smiling, admiring the passion in his voice. This was his purpose, his skill. It was a part of him you loved just as much as his silly, affectionate bites.

“And then—” he gestured broadly, then paused, noticing your hands dusted with fibers. He looked toward the back of the kelku, where a small, hidden path led to a cool stream. “I need to cool off. Come on, baby girl.”

You laughed. “Fine… but I have to clean these first.” You waved your hands, showing the fine dust.

He shrugged, cheeky as ever. “We’ll do it together.”

The path was narrow, shaded by thick foliage. Jake led, his steps sure and quiet. You followed, the cool earth beneath your feet a relief from the growing heat. The stream wasn’t far, a gentle trickle of clear water ran from a higher spring, cutting through a small rocky basin before disappearing back into the forest.

The water was icy and refreshing, a shock against the humid air. You both stepped into the shallow basin, the coolness instantly seeping into your skin. Jake sighed, a deep, contented sound, and splashed water over his face and neck.

You knelt, rinsing your hands, letting the stream carry away the dust. The water was clear, showing the smooth stones beneath. Then—a splash hit your shoulder.

You looked up. Jake was grinning, his hand dripping.

“What?” you asked, mock-innocent.

He shrugged. “Thought you might need help.”

You laughed, flicking a handful of water back at him. He ducked, but not fast enough. a few droplets caught his cheek. He retaliated immediately, scooping a larger handful and sending it toward you. You squealed, scrambling back, but the water hit your chest, cool and shocking.

Laughter echoed off the trees around the small clearing as droplets flew, soaking both of you. It was a childish, joyful moment, free from the weight of clan life and the responsibilities waiting back at the settlement. Here, it was just you and him, playing in the water.

Suddenly, he lunged. Not a full tackle, but a quick, darting movement. His hands caught your arm, and he leaned in, giving your shoulder a quick, playful nip—just enough to make you squeal.

“Ha! I won!” he laughed, triumphant, eyes glinting with mischief.

You rolled your eyes, splashing him back more earnestly, but you couldn’t stop the grin spreading across your face. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet… you still love me,” he teased, nudging you gently with his shoulder as he released you.

You laughed again, letting the cool water wash over both of you. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, catching in the droplets around your tangled, soaked forms, creating tiny prismatic flashes of light. You looked at him. His hair damp and clinging to his neck, skin glistening, expression open and happy.

Jake’s gaze drifted again, but this time it wasn’t toward your neck or your arms which were covered in both old and new bite marks. He looked at your face, studying you with a soft intensity that was different from his usual playful teasing.

“You’re beautiful,” he said simply, without a hint of a joke.

Your breath hitched. He wasn’t one for overt romantic declarations. his affection was usually shown through action, through proximity, through those strange little bites. Hearing it so plainly, so sincerely, made your heart flutter.

“And you’re… soaked,” you replied, deflecting with a soft smile.

He grinned, seriousness melting back into familiar ease. “From the hunt. And from you splashing me.”

“You started it.”

“I won it.”

You sighed at that, knowing this was an argument you simply weren’t going to win. You squeezed the water from your hair and watched in amusement as he shook his head from side to side, spraying droplets everywhere.

“Today was good,” he said quietly after a long silence.

You nodded. “The hunt was successful.”

“Not just the hunt,” he murmured, thumb brushing your arm. “This. Being here. With you.”

“I like being here with you too,” you said, the words feeling small compared to the warmth spreading inside you.

He smiled, before slowly leaning down and pressing his lips to your skin—not a bite, just a soft, lingering kiss.

The gesture was so tender, so unlike his usual playful nips, that it startled you. You remained still, feeling the warmth of his mouth against your cool skin.

He looked up at you, eyes holding yours. “I don’t just want to bite you, baby girl,” he said, voice low and serious. “I want… all of you. Every part. In every way.”

“I know,” you whispered, because you did. In his strange habits, in his protective presence, in his laughter and his silence, you knew.

He nodded, “But I still might bite you later.”

You laughed, “I expect it.”

You closed your eyes, leaning against him. The day had been perfect, and tomorrow would be just as good.

Because it would be with him.

★————★————★————★————★

@junebugonjupiter This has made me realize that i need a fic where reader is biting jake! because im sure everyone dreams about biting his tummy and arms.. ^~^

reblogs, likes and comments are appreciated!

Lo’ak snorted. You could hear the grin in it. “Sure. Totally awake. Your eyes are open, but your spirit’s still swimming with the ancestors.” There was a rustle of movement as he crouched by the entrance of your marui, his silhouette blocking some of the gentle light. “Listen, come with me. Beach. Walk. Now. Before the sun gets angry about it.”

You push yourself up on your elbows, the woven mat beneath you crinkling. A long, slow stretch traveled up your spine, because mornings were for stretching. Every muscle protested the movement, singing a almost pleasant chorus of stiffness. You opened your mouth to offer a weak protest, to bargain for five more minutes of this perfect, heavy peace.

Except then he added, casually, almost smugly, “Neteyam’s going to be there.”

And suddenly you were not sleepy.

Not for one second.

Your body moved on a command your brain hadn’t finished processing. One second you were horizontal, the next you were upright, feet hitting the cool sand. Your heart, previously a slow, lazy drum, kicked into a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

“Okay-okay-okay,” you muttered, a string of incoherent agreement as you stumbled toward the entrance, nearly tripping over your own feet. You ducked past Lo’ak, who had to lean back to avoid a collision, and emerged into the full glow of the morning.

“Whoa—” Lo’ak laughed, falling into step. “Didn’t know you loved mornings that much.”

“I don’t hate mornings,” you said, your voice still thick with sleep but now also laced with a defensive panic. “I just… appreciate them at a slower pace.”

“Uh-huh.” Lo’ak’s pace was an easy lope, his bare feet silent on the path. “So when I wake you up, you’re all sleepy and slow… but when Neteyam’s name comes up—"

“Shut up,” you muttered, refusing to look at him, focusing instead on the path ahead where it opened onto the dazzling white crescent of the beach.

Lo’ak’s chuckle was loud and knowing, a sound that carried on the salt-tinged breeze. “Eywa has given me eyes, you know. I see how it is.”

“There is no ‘it,’” you insisted, picking up your pace again. The sight of the ocean, vast and impossibly blue, usually calmed you. Now it just seemed to mirror the tumultuous, churning feeling in your chest. “He’s your brother. You’re supposed to be… I don’t know, protective or something. Not a nuisance.”

“Protective?” Lo’ak scoffed. “From you? You’re about as dangerous as a baby palulukan. Besides, it’s funny. You get all… twitchy.”

“I do not get twitchy.”

“You’re twitching right now.”

You forced your shoulders down, willed your hands to relax. Twitchy. Of all the words. You were not supposed to be a twitchy, flustered mess because a certain warrior was going to be on a beach.

But Neteyam… Neteyam was different.

It wasn’t just that he was objectively stunning. It was the stillness in him. Where Lo’ak was a contained storm of jokes and impulsivity, Neteyam was a deep, calm pool. He moved with a quiet certainty, his awareness of everything around him seeming effortless. He was responsible, respected, kind in a way that never felt condescending. He’d been patient when teaching you how to properly hold a fishing spear, his large hands gently correcting your grip without a trace of mockery.

The beach was wide and mostly empty at this hour. A few Metkayina were already out in the shallows on their ilus, their joyful calls echoing over the water. The tide was out, leaving a vast, wet canvas of sand reflecting the sky.

And there, standing where the gentle waves just barely kissed the shore, was Neteyam. He was facing the water, his back to you, tail swaying gently in a relaxed rhythm. The early sun caught the beads in his braids and the subtle bioluminescent freckles across his shoulders. He looked like something carved from light and sea.

Your breath hitched. The drum in your chest upgraded to a full tribal war beat.

Lo’ak elbowed you, none too gently. “See? Told you. Go on. He doesn’t bite.” He then raised his voice, shouting, “Brother! Look what I found! Had to drag it from its nest, but it’s alive!”

Neteyam turned. It was a simple movement, fluid and unhurried. His eyes found Lo’ak first, a flicker of amused exasperation in them and then they shifted to you.

And he smiled.

It wasn’t a big smile. Just a slight, soft tilt of his full mouth, a crinkling at the corners of his eyes. But it was directed at you, and it felt like the sun had focused all its rays into a single, warm spot right in the center of your chest.

“You’re awake early,” he said. His voice was deeper than Lo’ak’s, smoother. It wrapped around the words, making the simple observation sound like a shared secret.

Your brain, the traitorous organ, immediately attempted to formulate a response. It pulled together three potential sentences: ‘Lo’ak is a menace,’ ‘I wanted to see the tide pools,’ and ‘Your hair looks nice in this light.’ It then tried to fuse them into one.

What came out was a choked, strangled noise, followed by: “Yes. Uh… early.”

Genius. Absolutely brilliant. You wanted to melt into the sand and be washed away by the next wave.

Neteyam’s head tilted slightly, his gaze studying you. Not with Lo’ak’s teasing scrutiny, but with a gentle, patient curiosity. Like he could see the words tangling themselves into knots inside your skull and felt a little sorry for them. “You okay?” he asked, taking a few steps closer. The distance between you shrunk, and you became hyper-aware of everything: the way the breeze clinked the beads in his hair, the faint, clean scent of salt and something like ozone that always seemed to cling to him, the sheer, towering presence of him.

You nodded. Too quickly. Too forcefully. “Fine! Great. The beach is… beachy.”

Lo’ak, who had plopped down in the dry sand and was already digging for sand-bubbler crabs, let out a loud, dramatic snort. “She’s like this every time you show up, Neteyam. It’s hilarious. Turns into a startled viperwolf pup.”

The heat in your face became a conflagration. “I am not!” you protested, but it was weak, drowned out by Lo’ak’s cackling.

Neteyam’s smile didn’t vanish, but it softened further, his eyes holding yours. There was no mockery in them. “Do not let him bother you. His humor is simple. Like a child’s.” He glanced at his brother. “And loud.”

“I am a delight!” Lo’ak called back, not looking up from his crab hunt.

Neteyam turned his attention back to the ocean, giving you a merciful respite from his direct gaze. You sucked in a shaky breath, trying to will your body back under control. He’s just a person. A very tall, very beautiful, very competent  person. Just a person.

“The tide is far out,” Neteyam observed, gesturing with his chin toward the expansive wet sand. “Good for walking. The sand is firm. We could go to the eastern point. Sometimes akula pups play in the channel there when the water is calm like this.”

“Walking. Yes. Walking is good,” you said, latching onto the suggestion like a lifeline. An activity. A direction. Something to do besides stand here and internally combust.

“You coming, skxwang?” Neteyam asked Lo’ak.

Lo’ak waved a dismissive hand, a tiny, iridescent crab clutched carefully in his other. “Nah. You two go on your boring, quiet walk. I’m building an army here.” He held up the crab, which wiggled its claws. “See? General Pinchy. We have plans.”

Shaking his head, Neteyam began walking along the water’s edge, his stride long and easy. He didn’t look back, assuming you would follow. And you did, falling into step beside him, though it took two of your steps to match one of his. The silence that settled between you was different from the panicked silence of moments before.

For a few minutes, it was peaceful. You focused on the horizon, on the cool water washing over your ankles every few steps, on the simple act of breathing. The initial shock of his presence began to ebb, leaving behind the usual, low-grade hum of awareness.

“Lo’ak means well,” Neteyam said finally, his voice quiet against the backdrop of the sea. “He teases because he sees you as… part of the family. In his way.”

The idea was so startling, so profoundly touching, that it momentarily overrode your nervousness. “He does?”

Neteyam nodded. “He does not tease the others like that. Only you. It is his way of saying he is comfortable.” He glanced at you. “It can be… annoying.”

A real laugh bubbled out of you, surprising yourself with its genuineness. “A little bit, yeah.”

“I will tell him to stop, if you wish.”

“No!” you said, too quickly again. You cleared your throat. “I mean, it’s okay. It’s… fine. I’m getting used to it.”

The eastern point was coming into view, a rocky outcrop draped with vines and moss. The water here was deeper, channeling between the point and a distant reef. And just as Neteyam had predicted, you saw sleek, dark shapes darting playfully in the turquoise water—akula pups, their juvenile fins cutting the surface as they chased each other.

You both stopped at the edge of the rocks, watching the display. It was a moment of pure, uncomplicated wonder. You laughed as one of the pups did an awkward, rolling leap, splashing its siblings.

“They are clumsy now,” Neteyam murmured, a fondness in his voice. “In a few moons, they will be swift. Silent. The most dangerous hunters in these waters. But now… they are just children at play.”

You watched them, and you watched him watching them. The line of his profile against the bright sky, the relaxed set of his shoulders, the way the sun warmed the blue of his skin. The panic was gone, replaced by a deep, swelling feeling you didn’t dare name.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

He turned his head. “For what?”

“For this. For the walk. “

The moment stretched, filled with the sounds of the water and the pups. You were acutely aware of how close he was. The space between your arm and his felt charged, like the air before a storm.

“Neteyam!” a voice called, shattering the bubble.

You both turned to see Lo’ak jogging toward you, sand flying from his heels. He wasn’t alone. Tsireya was with him, her expression characteristically serene.

“Father is looking for you,” Lo’ak said, skidding to a stop. “Says the hunters are back early from the northern reef. They have news. Wants the family at the Marui.”

Neteyam’s posture shifted instantly. The relaxed warrior was gone, replaced by the dutiful son and heir. The calm in his eyes sharpened into focus. “What news?”

Lo’ak shrugged, but his usual levity was tempered. “Didn’t say. But he looked serious.”

Neteyam nodded, a single, decisive dip of his chin. He looked at you, and the warmth was still there, but it was now layered with apology. “I must go.”

“Of course,” you said, your voice thankfully steady. “It was a good walk.”

“See you soon?” he asks, his tone unreadable. “…yeah?....yeah.”

Lo’ak’s voice cuts through the moment before it can settle into anything softer. “You know Tsireya and I are right here, yeah?” he says, glancing between you with a grin that’s far too knowing. “Or should we just—leave you two to finish staring at each other like—”

“Lo’ak.” Neteyam’s tone is sharp, a quiet warning that does absolutely nothing to stop him.

“—because I swear, it’s getting painful to watch—”

He doesn’t get any further. Neteyam catches him by the arm in one swift motion, already turning him away, his grip firm as he starts dragging him back toward the others, cutting off whatever else he was about to say.

Lo’ak protests, of course, but it fades quickly as he’s pulled along, his voice disappearing into the distance.

Tsireya only shakes her head, a small, patient sigh escaping her like this is a scene she’s witnessed far too many times before.

The laughter slips out before you can stop it, soft at first, then brighter, spilling over as the tension finally breaks, light and a little breathless in a way that feels unfamiliar and easy all at once.

Neteyam glances back once as he’s pulled away, just for a second and when your eyes meet—he’s smiling.

~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~

With lo’ak around "soon" comes quicker than you’d expect.

The first mistake was agreeing to this.

The second mistake was thinking you’d be fine.

You’d ridden before. Not perfectly but enough that you didn’t immediately embarrass yourself the moment you climbed onto the ilu’s sleek, waiting form. Lo’ak had announced the plan with his usual theatrical flair yesterday evening, as you all sat around a communal fire, sharing roasted fish. “We should totally go ilu riding tomorrow,” he’d declared, grinning at Tsireya. “I asked Tsireya, and she said yes.” He then turned his smirk directly on you. “You should join us.”

The words lingered in the air, like an invitation you couldn’t quite refuse. You knew what he was doing. trying to draw you into his mischievous plans, testing your boundaries, seeing how far you’d go. And yet, despite your better judgment, you’d agreed. Because maybe, just maybe, you wanted to prove something. to yourself, to him, or maybe to someone else entirely.

And now, that feeling was a living thing, coiling tight in your gut. The ilu shifted beneath you, its skin cool and smooth against your legs, body fluid and restless in the water. It was a creature of pure motion, and it demanded balance, focus, control. You gripped the simple handholds (lol idk what they are called) a little tighter than necessary, trying to settle into its rhythm, trying to remember everything you definitely knew how to do.

“Relax,” Lo’ak called from his own ilu a few yards away, his tone entirely unhelpful. He was already in perfect sync with his mount, looking as natural as if he’d been born on it. “You look like you’re about to fall off before we even start.”

“I’m not,” you snapped back, even as your posture stiffened further. You consciously forced your shoulders down, trying to mimic the relaxed, flowing posture of Tsireya, who was checking the bindings on her ilu with gentle, practiced hands.

“You are,” Lo’ak insisted, chuckling.

You inhaled slowly, trying to ignore him, trying to center yourself the way you’d been taught. The rhythm of the water helped, the gentle rise and fall of the ilu’s breathing, the soft current nudging the dock. For a moment you thought you’d found it. A sense of connection. You nudged the ilu forward with a slight press of your heel.

It responded smoothly, gliding away from the dock with a graceful push.

See? Fine. Completely fine. You’re doing—

And then you felt it. That shift in the air. That awareness prickling at the back of your neck. You didn’t even need to look. But you did anyway.

And there he was. Neteyam, standing at the edge if the shore, watching. He wasn’t even doing anything. Just standing there, observing the preparations with his characteristic calm intensity. He was dressed for the water, his usual adornments simpler. He looked… prepared. Capable. Centered.

That was all it took.

Your focus, that fragile thread of concentration you’d managed to spin, fractured instantly. Your grip on the handholds faltered. Your balance—already questionable—completely abandoned you as your brain decided now was the perfect time to notice everything about him all at once: the way the light caught the tanhi sprinkled across his shoulders, the confident set of his stance, the quiet expectation in his gaze.

Oh.

That was a mistake. A terrible, catastrophic mistake.

The ilu shifted beneath you again, a sharper, more impatient motion this time, and you reacted a second too late. Your body tilted, compensating for the movement but overcorrecting wildly.

There was a brief, horrifying moment of clarity where you understood exactly what was about to happen and then you were gone. You fell. Not gracefully. Not impressively. Not in any way that could later be salvaged into dignity.

You hit the water in a sprawling, undignified splash, limbs completely uncoordinated. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs for a split second before you resurfaced, gasping, saltwater stinging your eyes.

Silence hung over the water.

Then, Lo’ak burst out laughing. “Oh, that was terrible,” he managed between breaths, grinning. “That might be the worst dismount I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen Tuk try.”

“I merely slipped!” you shot back, pushing wet hair out of your face, heat already creeping up your neck.

“You looked at him,” Lo’ak corrected, jerking his chin toward Neteyam.

Neteyam had stepped closer to the reef. His expression was… concerned, maybe. Slightly confused. Definitely aware of you now, floundering in the shallows. “Are you alright?” he called, his voice cutting through Lo’ak’s laughter.

“I’m fine!” you said quickly, too quickly. You were not fine. Not even a little.

Lo’ak was still laughing, now joined by a softer, melodic chuckle from Tsireya. “I swear,” Lo’ak added, shaking his head, “she forgets how to function when-.”

“I swear your dead when I get my hands on you!” you snapped, which only made him laugh harder.

Your ilu circled back lazily, nudging your shoulder with its snout as if mildly confused by the situation, completely unbothered by the chaos it had caused.

You sighed before climbing back onto it, and this time, when you nudged it forward, you didn’t look at Neteyam. You looked at the horizon. You felt the push of muscle, the glide through water.  And then you kept going.

By the time you circled back, Lo’ak had already bounded up beside you.

“Not bad!” he called, clapping you on the shoulder. “For a second try that didn’t end with you swallowing half the bay, I mean.”

Shoving his arm away, a reluctant smile tugged at your mouth. “Thanks for the overwhelming support.”

A breath escaped you as you pushed wet hair from your face, their laughter still carrying on. “yeah yeah, Laugh it up,” you muttered, sitting more firmly on your ilu this time.

You don’t look back at the shore again. You especially don’t look at him.

~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~

By the time the afternoon settles in, the sharp edge of it has faded.

The light shifts, turning the woven fibers in your lap from bright strands into something warmer. The rhythm of the circle is comfortable, a steady hum of activity punctuated by Lo’ak’s voice.

He’s moved on from the fish story, thankfully, and is now debating the best way to climb a particular rock formation with Kiri.

“You’re forgetting the overhang,” Kiri says, her fingers moving deftly through her own work.

“I’m not forgetting it. I’m saying you can swing around it.”

“That’s a good way to get your braids caught.”

“Only if you’re slow.”

You half-listen, your focus divided between the pattern you’re trying to replicate and the quiet presence to your left. Neteyam hasn’t said much since he fixed your thread, but his attention feels like a physical thing. a gentle, steady warmth you’re hyper-aware of.

You pick up a shell bead, a tiny, iridescent blue one, and thread it. It’s fiddly work. Your fingers, usually capable felt clumsy and oversized.

“You’re holding your breath,” Neteyam murmurs, so low only you can hear it.

You let out a sharp exhale you didn’t realize you were holding. “I’m concentrating.”

“I can tell.” There’s the faintest hint of amusement in his tone. “Your shoulders are up by your ears.”

You consciously force them down, rolling them back. A moment of silence stretches, filled with the sounds of the others. Then he speaks again, still in that private, low register.

“The pattern is in the repetition. Don’t fight each thread. Let them lie where they want to go, then guide them.”

You glance at his hands. His weaving is perfect, even, the beads spaced with a precision that looks effortless. You look back at your own, which is… less perfect.

“They don’t seem to want to go where I want them to,” you mutter.

“That’s because you’re telling them. You should ask.”

You blink, looking up at him. His golden eyes meet yours, calm and serious, though the corner of his mouth tilts up just a fraction. He’s not teasing. He’s stating a fact, as fundamental as the tide.

Ask the thread.

You look back down, trying to shift your mindset. You loosen your grip, letting the fibers slide more freely. You adjust the tension, not by pulling, but by easing. The next knot forms more cleanly.

“Huh.”

You feel more than see his nod of approval. It’s a small thing. A tiny, insignificant moment in a quiet afternoon. But it settles in your chest, warm and solid.

Of course, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Are you two having a secret meeting over there?” Lo’ak calls out, his work forgotten in his lap.

“We are weaving, brother,” Neteyam replies, his voice returning to its normal, patient volume. “You should try it. It requires focus. It might be good for you.”

Tsireya hides a smile behind her hand.

“I am focused,” Lo’ak retorts. “I’m focused on why you’re only giving weaving lessons to one person.”

The heat is back, crawling up your neck. “He’s not giving me lessons.”

“It sounded like a lesson. A very quiet, personal lesson.”

“Lo’ak,” Neteyam says, a single note of warning in his voice.

“What? I’m just pointing out the obvious! … At this rate, you’re going to be her personal shadow.”

Kiri snorts. “Jealous?”

“Of being a shadow? No. Of getting all the special attention? Maybe.”

“You could have special attention if you ever sat still long enough for someone to give it to you,” Tsireya offers kindly, though her eyes are sparkling.

Lo’ak puts a hand over his heart, feigning injury. “Betrayed. By my own ilu partner.”

You just sigh, the sound slipping out soft and long-suffering as laughter ripples around the circle.

~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~

he days pass easily, slipping into a rhythm you don’t quite notice forming.

There are always things to do—mending a torn fishing net, gathering herbs at the forest’s edge, learning new weaving patterns under Tsireya’s patient guidance. Neteyam is often nearby, sometimes helping, sometimes observing, always present.

It’s during one fateful afternoon, when the heat is high and the group decides to cool off in the shallows, that things shift again.

You’re sitting on a rock at the water’s edge, watching as kiri and Tuk play a game of chasing each other through the gentle waves, splashing near the shore giggling. Neteyam is in the water too, but he’s not playing. He’s swimming.

And you don’t notice it all at once. It happens slowly, the way your attention drifts when you’re not guarding it properly, too unprepared for your own traitorous instincts.

One moment, you’re half-engaged in whatever nonsense Lo’ak is going on about, offering absent-minded hums and the occasional nod, and the next… your gaze slips. wanders and lands somewhere it absolutely should not. And stays there.

Neteyam moves through the water like it was made with him in mind, like it recognizes him as something familiar and yields accordingly. There’s no resistance in the way he swims. no wasted motion, no struggle. just smooth strokes that cut cleanly through the surface.

You should look away. You don’t.

Your eyes trace the movement of his shoulders as they rise and fall with each stroke, the subtle shift of muscle beneath skin that gleams under the sunlight. There’s something almost disorienting about it. like you’re watching something rehearsed and yet entirely natural at the same time.

You swallow, suddenly aware of the dryness in your throat. It’s ridiculous. You’ve seen him swim before. Of course you have. This isn’t new. And yet your thoughts begin to unravel anyway.

His shoulders look broader like this. Or maybe it’s just the way the water frames him, the way it gathers and slips around his form, outlining instead of obscuring. Either way, the effect is… noticeable. Distractingly so.

You shift slightly where you’re sitting, as if that might ground you, as if it might pull your attention back to where it belongs. It doesn’t.

He dives under. The motion is seamless, barely a ripple left behind, and for a brief moment he disappears entirely beneath the surface.

And you find yourself staring at the empty stretch of water like it’s lacking something now. Like something important has been taken out of the frame. the thought comes uninvited, slipping in before you can stop it.

I’m jealous of the ocean.

It’s so absurd you almost laugh, except the feeling lingers in a way that makes it hard to dismiss. The water touches him without hesitation, without consequence, gliding over every line and curve like it belongs there, like it has a right to exist that close.

You press your lips together, trying to shake the thought loose.

Get a grip.

He resurfaces. And whatever fragile sense of composure you were attempting to rebuild dissolves immediately. Water slicks back his hair, darker now, clinging slightly before falling away in uneven strands. Droplets gather along the curve of his jaw, his throat, trailing downward in slow, deliberate paths that are far too easy to follow if you let your gaze linger even a second too long.

You make the mistake of following one. Just one.

It traces a line from just beneath his ear, down along the side of his neck, catching briefly at the dip of his collarbone before continuing—

You look away so abruptly it almost hurts.

No. Absolutely not.

That is not where your attention is going today.

You fix your gaze somewhere saferbut it doesn’t last. Because even in your periphery, he’s there. Still moving, still existing in a way that feels entirely too… vivid.

His skin looks different in the water. Brighter, maybe. Not in color, exactly, but in clarity. like the blue deepens, catches light in a way that makes it seem almost luminous.

It’s unfair. Unfair that someone can look like that without trying. Unfair that something as simple as existing can feel so deliberately distracting.

You exhale slowly, forcing yourself to look away again, this time more firmly.

You will not stare. You refuse to be that obvious.

“Are you even listening?” The voice cuts cleanly through your thoughts, and you jolt slightly, pulled back into yourself so abruptly it leaves you disoriented for a second.

Tsireya is watching you. So is Lo’ak.

Your stomach drops. “Yeah,” you say quickly, far too quickly to sound convincing. “I am.”

Lo’ak’s gaze flicks past you, following the exact direction yours had been pointed only moments ago. And then he grins. a slow, knowing grin.

Oh, no.

“Oh,” he drawls, the realization settling in with far too much satisfaction. “That’s what we’re doing?”

Heat creeps up your neck instantly. “I don’ know what you’re talking about,” you reply, aiming for indifference and missing it entirely.

“Mmhm,” Tsireya hums, not even attempting to hide her amusement.

“You were staring,” Lo’ak adds, far too delighted with himself.

“I was not—”

“You were,” he cuts in. “I’ve seen Aonung check himself out with less appreciation, and that skxwang is obsessed with his face.”

“I will actually drown you.”

“Promise you won’t cry when I do?”

You open your mouth to retaliate but the words stall before they can form.

Because Neteyam is walking out of the water now.

Your thoughts spiral instantly... something about how the water clings to him, how unfair it is that anyone can just look like that, how—

Something warm hits your lip.

You blink, confused, heart hammering. Your hand flies to your face, half in shock, half instinct. When you pull it away, your fingers are red.

Oh.

Oh, no.

“No—no, no, no—” you whisper under your breath, clamping a hand over your nose like that will somehow undo what is very clearly happening.

Of all the ways to embarrass yourself today This? Really?

You turn sharply away, back to the water, to literally anything else, heart racing now for an entirely new reason.

Behind you, there’s a pause.

“…are you bleeding?” loak questions, incredulous.

You don’t turn around. “I’m fine,” you say quickly, voice far too tight to be convincing.

You press your hand more firmly against your nose. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Nobody look at me.”

There’s a snort behind you. “It is literally still bleeding,” Lo’ak says.

“Stop talking.”

There’s the sound of the water shifting, and then suddenly Neteyam is beside you.

“You’re not fine,” he says, and now he’s right there, and this is somehow worse than everything that came before. “What happened?”

You press your palm tighter against your nose, mortified beyond recovery. “Nothing.”

“I’m not—” you start, then stop, because it is very obviously blood.

“…it’s just the water,” you add weakly, hoping the words themselves could make it so.

Lo’ak snorts again. “Yeah, the water’s famously red.”

You snap, “It just happens sometimes, okay?”

“Sometimes?” There’s a flicker of confusion in Neteyam’s voice that makes your stomach twist.

You hesitate. You could lie. You should lie.

Instead—

“It’s your fault,” you mutter, almost under your breath.

Silence.

“…my fault?”

You risk a glance at him which was a big mistake because now he’s looking at you and your brain immediately threatens to short-circuit again.

“You’re—” you start, but the words die in your throat. How do you even say this out loud?

“You’re just… standing there,” you try again, helplessly, the words falling over themselves. “Looking like that.”

he pauses and then he smiles. actually smiles. it makes your chest tighten and your knees go slightly weak.

“Oh,” he says softly, as if a puzzle has just clicked into place. “So that’s why.”

You feel your entire soul leave your body. “I’m going to walk into the ocean,” you mumble.

He huffs quietly before offering you a soft piece of woven cloth from his waist, still just a little amused. “Here,” he says “Careful.”

You take it without meeting his eyes, muttering something that could be a thank-you or a threat. You aren’t really sure which, and maybe that uncertainty is the only thing keeping you upright, because the rest of your dignity has evaporated.

“This is not funny,” you add, pressing it to your nose as if proximity could somehow mask the absurdity of the situation, though of course it doesn’t.

“It’s a little funny,” he says.

You glare. Or at least, you try. It loses nearly all of its intended effect because you’re still half-turned away, shielding your face, hiding in the movement itself.

When you finally look at him, his gaze is still there, waiting, patient. Not confused or teasing. Just looking.

And this time, it feels different. Sharper, somehow. Certain. Like he’s seen past the surface of everything you’ve been hiding and has grasped something just out of reach before, some secret part of you that you didn’t realize was so obvious.

“You do that every time,” he says quietly, the weight of it twisting your stomach in a way you aren’t ready for.

“I do not,” you blurt, too quickly.

“You do,” he insists, calm, measured, unyielding. “Every time I come near you.”

“That’s not—” you start, faltering immediately because the words sound absurd even in your own head. “That’s not what’s happening.”

“It isn’t?”

“No,” you whisper.

He pauses at that before continuing; “Did I upset you?”

The concern in his voice lances straight through you. Because it feels real, like it matters to him in a way that pierces everything else.

You look at him properly, finally, letting go of the instinct to hide, letting go of the reflex to deflect or shield yourself. “No,” you say, too quickly, too eagerly. “No, you didn’t do anything.”

“Then why—”

“It’s just—”

You stop. Because putting it into words makes it tangible. Saying it aloud makes it real in a way that feels dangerous and thrilling all at once, like standing on the edge of something you might fall off of.

He waits, of course he waits. Patient, steady, watching you unravel in ways he already knows how to read. “That’s not an answer,” he says quietly.

You exhale, the air trembling from your lungs, heat rising in a rush that has nothing to do with embarrassment this time. Everything is the impossibility of explaining yourself without sounding utterly ridiculous.

“It’s you, okay?”

“…me?”

“Yes. You.”

“What about me?”

You look at him, then away, then back again, as if the act of looking could somehow make the words easier to say, or easier to take back. “I like you, you skxwang.”

The world tilts sideways. Everything goes still. Your heartbeat pounds loud enough to drown out water, wind, even your own scattered thoughts.

Then he laughs. Soft. Warm. Not startled. Not mocking. Just quietly amused, and your chest aches. “I know,” he says.

You snap your head up. “You—what?”

“I know.”

“How… how do you know? I just—”

“You’ve been choking on fruit, falling off ilu, bleeding because of me,” he says, calm, eyes just slightly amused. “I had a suspicion.”

You make a strangled noise somewhere between frustration and disbelief. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You open your mouth to argue. You think better of it. You stop. Because he’s smiling at you again. looking at you in a way that makes you forget how to breathe.

“I like you too,” he adds, and it’s like the final pieces of a puzzle in your chest click into place, letting the air back in where it had been trapped.

“…oh,” you manage.

He laughs, small, unhurried, shaking his head gently as if to clear away the tension lingering in the air.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Then, almost imperceptibly, he reaches out, fingers brushing lightly against your wrist, grounding, steady, familiar.

You don’t pull away.

~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~

A collective sigh rises from somewhere behind you, loud enough to make you jump.

You whip around. Lo’ak is practically slumped over, as if he’s just survived some ordeal far worse than anything you can imagine. “Oh, thank Eywa,” he groans, shaking his head. “I thought you two were going to keep doing that weird thing forever.”

“What weird thing?” you snap, heat creeping into your cheeks despite yourself.

“The staring. The choking. The falling off things,” he rattles off, counting on his fingers. “It was painful.”

Kiri nudges him with an elbow. “You’re just upset you weren’t the center of attention.”

“I always am the center of attention,” he protests, though his voice is half-laugh, half-grumble.

“Not today” she says sweetly, and you catch the warmth in her eyes as she glances at you and Neteyam.

Lo’ak shakes his head, finally smiling, and you can’t help but laugh along. “About time,” he mutters, like he’s resigned himself to relief.

You laugh with them, shake your head and try to pretend this is normal but when your eyes find his again, everything stumbles just a little.

You're not shy really.

Just shy when its him. Around him.

~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~

His gaze remained fixed on the distant path leading from the village, though nothing moved there yet. The ocean shifted steadily at his side, familiar and constant, a contrast to the growing irritation tightening in his chest.

Thia was exactly the probelem. A lack of discipline, awareness and worse, a refusal to care.

His jaw tightened slightly as the minutes stretched, each one reinforcing the same conclusion he had already reached the day before. She resisted instruction, argued where she should have listened, and carried herself with a carelessness that had no place here.

Tonowari exhaled slowly, steady and controlled, though the irritation lingered beneath it, sharp and difficult to ignore.

Eywa must take some amusement in his misfortune, he thought, to place such a burden in his care.

His gaze flicked once more toward the path. Still nothing.

When she arrived—and she would—there would be no repetition of instruction. No allowance for delay.

She would learn.

⋆｡°✩ 𓇼 ₊ ⊹ ✩°｡⋆｡°✩ 𓇼 ₊ ⊹ ✩°｡⋆｡°✩ 𓇼 ₊ ⊹ ｡

It was that dream again.

The same golden beach, endless and sun-warmed, stretching in every direction, the kind of place that feels impossibly perfect, like the world had been made to hold you just here. The sun rested on your shoulders, soft and insistent, and the breeze carried the scent of the sea, curling around you like it knew your name.

You were safe. Completely and utterly safe. Strong arms held you close, wrapping around you in a way that felt impossibly right.

You turned, desperate for a glimpse of his face, some hint of the person behind the arms, but as always, the figure remained frustratingly elusive. Nameless. Faceless.

Your lips parted slightly, unconsciously, and you let your tongue brush against them, tasting salt and something indefinabiblly (idk spelling guys?) his. The hold he held on you wasn’t rough but rather protective. You could have melted there forever and never felt anything more complete.

“What is your name?” you whispered, heart catching somewhere between hope, curiosity and that impossible pull you could never name.

“You already know,” he murmured, and the words were familiar, his voice familiar and yet impossible to place, just out of reach.

And then you woke up.

｡°✩ 𓇼 ₊ ⊹ ✩°｡⋆｡°✩ 𓇼 ₊ ⊹ ✩°｡⋆｡°✩ 𓇼 ₊ ⊹ ｡

You did not wake gently. You woke up choking.

Cold water struck your face all at once, dragging you out of sleep with a violent gasp that turned immediately into coughing as you jerked upright, sputtering hard enough to prove you were, in fact, still alive.

“What the—”

Jake is already stepping back, empty cup in hand, looking perfectly unbothered, like he has done this a thousand times and somehow finds the whole thing hilarious.

“I swear,” you managed between coughs, wiping water from your eyes, “I am going to kill you when I get my hands on you—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupts, already half smiling, the sort of infuriating grin that makes your blood pressure spike. “You can schedule that for later. Wake up. It is almost six.”

The words hit harder than the water ever could. You freeze mid-cough. ” …six?”

Jake tilted his head toward the entrance as if the answer were obvious and you were the only one failing to keep up. “Tonowari said sunrise. You really don’t want to find out how serious he is about that.”

Panic set in quickly, sharp and immediate. Your stomach tightened as your hands moved without coordination, digging through the small pile of clothes you had been given, tossing aside the wrong pieces, muttering under your breath as frustration built.

“Where is it… where is my—no, that’s not—”

Jake leaned against the wall, watching with the detached interest of someone enjoying a show. “Lose something?”

“My suit,” you snapped, your voice still uneven from coughing. “I am not going out there in whatever this is supposed to be.”

“You’ve got thirty seconds before I leave you to deal with him alone,” Jake replied, calm and entirely serious.

You shot him a look, half disbelief, half warning. “You wouldn’t.”

He raised an eyebrow, and that was enough. You did not test him.

Your hands moved faster, though not better. You dragged your tactical gear from the pile and pulled it on in a rush, ignoring the way the straps twisted and the fabric bunched in all the wrong places. Nothing sat right, nothing felt right, but there was no time to fix it. You settled for functional, even if it was barely that.

The walk to the beach was miserable. The hour itself felt unreasonable, the air still carrying the cold of night, biting enough to make your skin prickle and your movements stiff. The sky was only just beginning to lighten, pale streaks of orange and grey spreading thinly across the horizon.

You muttered the entire way, your teeth threatening to chatter, though whether from cold or irritation was unclear. “This is ridiculous. No one should be awake right now. This isn’t morning, it’s pre-morning. This should be illegal.”

Jake walked beside you at an easy pace, hands relaxed, his expression openly amused. “You finished?”

“No.”

“Good. Keep going. It’s the most personality you’ve shown since you got here.”

You glared at him, but you did not slow down. By the time the shoreline came into view, something in your chest had already tightened. You could feel it before you saw him, a quiet certainty settling in your gut.

Tonowari was there. He stood near the water, arms crossed, posture rigid, as if he had been waiting long enough for patience to wear thin. The moment you stepped onto the sand, his gaze fixed on you. “You are late.”

You stopped a few feet away, your breathing still uneven from the rush, irritation rising fast enough to push back against the nerves. “It’s barely morning,” you shot back, sharper than intended. “No one should be functional at this hour.”

Tonowari did not react, instead his eyes moved over you once, taking in every detail, and his expression darkened. “…what are you wearing?”

You glanced down at yourself, suddenly aware of the twisted straps and uneven fit of your gear. “My gear,” you said, defensive.

“Your sky-people gear,” he corrected, his tone flat. “We gave you the clothing of the people, and yet you arrive dressed like this, and expect me to believe you intend to learn.”

“It’s practical,” you muttered, tension tightening your voice. “And I’d rather not end up naked because your clothes fall apart.”

“Practical,” he repeated, as though testing the word and finding it lacking. “When the sun rises, you will regret that decision.”

Jake turned away slightly, clearly trying and failing not to laugh. You shot him a glare before turning back.

Tonowari exhaled slowly, “I have other responsibilities,” he said, his voice controlled but edged. “Yet I am here to teach you the most basic skills, and you arrive late and unprepared.”

“I am here,” you argued, even knowing how you looked. “That counts for something.”

“That is the bare minimum.”

“Then congratulations,” you replied, your voice lifting despite yourself. “I’ve met your expectations.”

Jake shifted, clearly invested now, watching with open interest.

Tonowari stepped forward. Not quickly, not aggressively, but with a deliberate certainty that carried more weight than either would have. “You will listen,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Because as you are now, you are a liability. To yourself, and to anyone forced to keep you alive.”

You had no response ready for that, and the absence of one felt like a loss.

After a moment, he continued. “We begin simply. You will learn to swim. At the very least, you will not sink like a stone.”

Jake lost any attempt at composure, laughter breaking through as he stepped back. “That’s accurate, actually—”

“Whose side are you on?” you snapped.

“Not yours,” he answered immediately.

You turned back, offended. “I can swim.”

Tonowari regarded you with clear disbelief. “You were drifting like a dead fish when I found you.”

“That was different,” you insisted quickly. “I was thrown overboard. I just—wasn’t ready.”

“Then prove it.”

You forced your shoulders to loosen, though the motion felt false. “Fine.”

He gestured toward the water. “Go.” The single word settled heavily. You stepped forward anyway.

The water stretched ahead, too wide, too open. You knew that feeling, even if the memory came in fragments. The sense of pressure, of breath failing, of something closing in where there should have been space.

You swallowed and kept moving. The first touch of water against your feet was cold enough to make your body tense. You forced yourself onward. Ankles, then shins, then knees. You stopped.

“That is not swimming,” Tonowari said from behind you.

“I’m fine here,” you called back.

“Further.”

Your jaw tightened. You took another step, then another, each one heavier than it should have been. The water climbed higher, soaking into your suit, clinging awkwardly, dragging slightly with every movement.

Your breathing had already changed. Too shallow, too fast.

“Do not hesitate.” You turned sharply at that. “I’m not hesitating.” But his expression had shifted. Certain now. “You are.”

“I said I can—”

“Then swim.”

The words struck like a challenge, and you reacted before thinking it through. You pushed forward too quickly. The ground shifted under your foot, dipping just enough to throw off your balance. Water surged higher, and your breath caught hard in your throat.

For a moment, it was not the shoreline anymore. Your body locked, every instinct pulling tight as the memory surfaced in pieces you could not fully grasp. You did not move. You simply stood there, rigid, the water moving around you while your breath came uneven and sharp.

“…you do not know how,” Tonowari said at last.

“I do,” you snapped, though you remained exactly where you were. “I said I can.”

Tonowari stepped closer to the edge of the water. “You have been in water before,” he said. “That is not the same as knowing how to swim.”

You said nothing. Because he was right.

“You will learn,” he continued, more quietly now, though the weight of his words did not lessen. “Or you will drown.”

“That’s not fair,” you muttered. “I didn’t have a choice before.”

“You always have a choice,” he replied. “You chose to lie.”

“I didn’t lie—”

“You said you could swim.”

You opened your mouth to argue, then stopped.

“Again,” he says cutting of the silence.

You blinked. “What?”

“Move.”

Your stomach dropped slightly. You hesitated, just for a moment.

“You hesitate,” he said. “You fight the water instead of moving with it.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“You are.”

The word settled cleanly between you. You turned back toward the water, unwilling to let that stand unanswered, and stepped forward again. Slower this time. More careful.

The uneven ground shifted beneath your feet, but you adjusted, forcing yourself not to freeze. “Do not lock your body, breathe properly” he instructed.

Every instinct told you to get out, to retreat, to avoid the open stretch ahead that felt far too large.

But you stayed.

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From the shoreline, Tonowari watched.

At first, he said nothing.

He had given clear instruction. Simple, direct, impossible to misunderstand. There was no need to repeat it. If she had any sense at all, she would adjust.

She did not.

Every movement was wrong. Too sharp, too frantic, driven by panic rather than control. She fought the water as if it were something to be overcome, not something to move with, and it showed in the way her balance failed her again and again.

She stiffened. She flailed. She forgot everything the moment it mattered.

A poor student. A dangerous one.

His gaze narrowed slightly as she lurched again, catching herself poorly, breath uneven even from a distance. There was no rhythm to it, no control. Only reaction.

Behind her, Jake Sully attempted to correct it.

Tonowari watched that with equal displeasure. His instructions had been clear, and yet Jake softened them, repeating them with patience that bordered on indulgence, stepping in too quickly, steadying her before she was forced to correct herself. It was ineffective. Worse than ineffective. It allowed her to rely on something other than her own ability.

She reached for him again. Predictable.

Tonowari exhaled slowly through his nose, the irritation settling deeper now, heavier, more difficult to ignore. This was not progress. This was delay. Time he did not have. Responsibility he had set aside for this. And still, nothing improved.

Another misstep. Another uneven breath. Another failed attempt to hold herself steady in water that should not have been a challenge at this level.

Enough. The decision settled cleanly.

If she would not learn through instruction, then she would learn through correction.

Tonowari stepped forward without another word, the sand giving way beneath his feet as he moved toward the water, already done with watching what should have been resolved far sooner.

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It had been hours.

The sun had climbed steadily overhead, burning away the last traces of morning coolness. Heat settled into everything, into the water, into your clothes, into you, making each movement heavier than the last.

Your arms ached. Your legs felt slow and unreliable. And your lungs still refused to settle into anything resembling a steady rhythm.

“Okay, no, don’t fight it,” Jake said, his voice close enough to grate, insistent in a way that made it difficult to ignore. “You’re tensing up again. Just float.”

“I am floating,” you tried to argue, but the words broke apart as your balance tipped the wrong way. The water rose too quickly, brushing higher than it should, and your body reacted on instinct, jerking to correct itself. It only made things worse.

“Relax,” Jake insisted. “You’ve got to trust the water—”

“I don’t trust the water,” you snapped, your voice tight as your footing slipped again. Your balance faltered, and you dipped slightly beneath where you meant to stay.

The reaction was immediate. A sharp spike of panic shot through you, quick and overwhelming. You forced yourself upward again, arms moving too fast, too hard, every motion driven by urgency rather than control.

It was a mess. An exhausting, frustrating mess that only seemed to spiral the more you tried to fix it.

Jake reached for you again, his hands steady as he tried to anchor you. “Alright, okay, I’ve got you. Just—”

“I don’t need—” you started, but the protest collapsed the moment your footing slipped again. You grabbed onto him without hesitation.

Your pride took the hit but you did not care. Not with your chest tightening like this and certainly not with the constant shifting of the water making it feel as though it might pull you under if you stopped moving for even a second too long.

Somewhere along the shore, there was a long, measured exhale, the kind that carried more meaning than sound. You did not hear it over the water and your own uneven breathing, but Jake did, and the slight wince that crossed his face was enough to suggest exactly who it had come from.

“Alright,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you, his tone dipping into something cautiously resigned. “That’s… probably not great.”

“What?” you demanded, still struggling to keep yourself steady, your focus split between him and the constant, shifting pull of the water.

“Nothing,” he replied, a little too quickly.

It was very clearly not nothing.

A moment later, the sound of movement cut cleanly across the shoreline, sharp and deliberate, followed by the unmistakable break of water. The splash that followed was controlled and precise, nothing like the uneven disruption you had been making for the past several hours. It carried a kind of efficiency that made the difference between you impossible to ignore.

You barely had time to turn before he was already there.

Tonowari moved through the water as though it belonged to him, as though it recognized him and chose not to resist. Each motion was smooth, unbroken, the surface parting around him instead of pushing back. Within seconds, he had closed the distance, his expression set, irritation etched plainly into the rigid lines of his posture.

“This is ineffective.” The judgment came immediately, and you were not given the opportunity to respond before he reached you.

His grip was firm and absolute, leaving no room for argument. You jolted at the sudden contact, instinctively trying to pull back. “Hey, what are you—”

“Stop moving.”

“I am not—”

“Stop.”

The command cut through everything else with a force that had nothing to do with volume. Your body reacted before your thoughts could catch up, stilling just enough for him to take control.

He adjusted you without hesitation, one hand steadying your shoulder while the other corrected your arm, shifting your posture, your balance, the angle of your body in the water. Every movement was efficient and practiced, as though he had done this countless times before and you were simply the latest in a long line of problems to be corrected.

“You are fighting the water,” he said sharply. “That is why you fail.”

“I’m not failing,” you shot back, though the words lacked conviction even to your own ears.

“You are.”

He did not even look at you when he said it. The dismissal stung more than it should have, settling somewhere under your skin in a way that made it difficult to ignore.

Your breathing remained uneven as he adjusted you again, pushing your shoulders back slightly, forcing your body into a position that felt unfamiliar and precarious.

“Your body is wrong,” he continued. “Your balance is wrong. Everything you are doing is wrong.”

“Then explain it better,” you snapped, frustration bleeding through despite your effort to keep it contained.

“I did.” The simplicity of the response left no space to argue. For a moment, you had nothing to counter with.

“Jake Sully has been repeating the same instructions for hours,” he went on, his tone edged now with clear impatience. “And you ignore them.”

“I’m not ignoring—”

“You panic,” he interrupted, cutting cleanly across your words. “And then you lie about it.You are afraid.”

Your body stilled without your consent, not in defiance, but in that same involuntary way it always did when something struck too close to the truth. For a moment, the only thing you could hear was the quiet movement of the water around you and the uneven rhythm of your own breathing, too fast and too shallow to be controlled.

Tonowari adjusted your arms again, guiding them into place with steady, uncompromising hands.

“Do not flail,” he instructed. “Move with intention.”

You tried.

The motion was still awkward, still uneven, lacking any real grace, but it was not the same as before. Your arms moved with intention, however slight, and your legs followed without immediately breaking into panicked, erratic kicks.

It was not good. But it was less wrong.

Behind you, Jake let out a quiet breath, something almost like relief. “There you go.”

You ignored him, focusing instead on maintaining what little control you had found, on holding onto the fragile balance that felt as though it might slip away at any moment.

For a brief stretch of time, you did not sink.

Tonowari said nothing. He did not offer praise, did not immediately correct you again, but he did not let go either. His presence remained steady, his hands still guiding just enough to keep you aligned.

Your breathing was still uneven, your movements still rough, but something shifted. There was a moment, fragile and uncertain, where your body did not immediately resist the water, where the instinct to panic did not take over the second your balance wavered.

One second passed, then another, and then your footing slipped again, the sand shifting beneath you as it had so many times before.

This time, you did not flail. You adjusted just enough to keep yourself from losing control entirely, your movements messy but deliberate.

Behind you, Jake let out a quiet, surprised laugh. “Okay… yeah. That’s better.”

You did not respond. Your focus remained fixed ahead, on not undoing the small progress you had managed to carve out of hours of failure.

Tonowari remained close, his presence constant, his grip still there but lighter now, ready to correct if you faltered.

You expected him to speak, to point out what was still wrong, what still needed fixing, to dismantle the small success before it could settle.

He did not.

Slowly, his grip loosened. Not enough to abandon you, but enough to test whether you could hold yourself there without him.

Your body is still braced for the drop, for that sudden slip beneath the surface, for the panic that comes with it. But it doesn’t happen. Your head stays above the water, your mouth just clear enough to pull in air, your arms tense at your sides instead of flailing. It isn’t graceful. but atleast it worked.

Tonowari exhales sharply through his nose, the sound cutting through the quiet. It’s not approval.

“This is unsatisfactory,” he says, his voice flat, almost dismissive.

“I am floating,” you manage, your voice rougher than you want it to be.

“Poorly.”

Behind you, Jake lets out a quiet snort, clearly entertained, and under normal circumstances you’d snap at him for it. Right now, though, you don’t have the energy. Every bit of focus you have is going into keeping yourself where you are, keeping your body from tipping too far one way or the other.

Tonowari’s gaze stays on you, sharp and measuring. like he’s deciding whether you’re worth the effort.

“For someone like you,” he says after a moment, “to remain above water without thrashing like a dying ilu…”

You tense immediately at the comparison, irritation flaring even through the exhaustion.

“…is acceptable.”

That’s it. Acceptable.

You blink at him, unsure whether to feel insulted or strangely relieved. It’s not praise but coming from him, it’s the closest thing you’ve gotten.

“…wow,” Jake mutters from behind you, low enough that it’s almost to himself. “High praise.”

You shoot him a look, but it lacks its usual sharpness. Your arms are starting to shake now, the effort catching up to you, and holding yourself steady is getting harder by the second.

Tonowari notices. “You will return tomorrow,” he says.

“…what?”

Your expression drops immediately, disbelief pushing through the fatigue. “Do I not get a break?”

“No.”

You stare at him, frustration rising fast now. “Are you serious—”

But he’s already turning away, the conversation dismissed as easily as if it had never mattered. He steps out of the water with the same controlled ease he carries in everything else, not looking back, not waiting for a response.

“Hey—” you start, incredulous, shifting just enough that the water wobbles around you and your balance nearly goes with it. “You can’t just—”

He can. And he does.

“…I hate him,” you mutter under your breath.

Jake lets out a small laugh beside you, “Get used to that.”

You glance at him, too tired to argue, and in that split second your leg shifts the wrong way. The balance you’ve been fighting to keep falters, and you reach out instinctively, grabbing onto him before you can stop yourself.

“Hey,” he says, a little lighter now, “atleast you didn’t drown.”.

It’s not much. It’s not a win you’d brag about. But it’s not a loss either and right now, that’s enough.

⊹ ✩°｡⋆｡°✩ 𓇼 ₊ ⊹ ✩°｡⋆｡°✩ 𓇼 ₊ ⊹ ✩°｡⋆｡°✩ 𓇼 ₊ ⊹ ｡

The second your feet meet solid ground, the world crashes into you all at once, like a wave you didn’t see coming.

The cold clings to your skin like the refuses to let you go. Exhaustion settles deep into your bones and your muscles tremble in the aftermath, breath uneven in your chest. By the time you’ve made it only halfway up the stretch of sand, you’re already shaking, despite the warmth the air is supposed to carry.

Jake doesn’t move to help you. He doesn’t rush forward, doesn’t steady you when your footing falters, doesn’t offer anything beyond his presence a few paces behind. Which is irritating. Because it means he’s watching. And worse than that, it means he’s enjoying it.

You make it a few more steps before it spills out. “I hate him.”

Jake snorts. “Yeah, I got that.”

You shake your head, frustration surging “No, you don’t understand.”

“I hate him. Not just a little. Not just in a normal way. I mean deeply. Personally. On a spiritual level.” you continue, voice picking up despite your exhaustion.

“Mmhm.”

“He woke up this morning and decided, ‘You know what would be fun? Making someone’s life miserable before sunrise.’ That’s what that was.”

“You were late,” Jake points out, the calmness in his voice almost offensive.

You stop just long enough to shoot him a look, incredulity flashing across your face. “It was six in the morning,” you argue, your voice rising. “That’s not a real time. That’s a suggestion. a vague concept at best"

Jake laughs under his breath as you keep going, gaining momentum now.

“And then—then—” you continue, your hands lifting as you gesture emphatically, nearly losing your balance when your foot slips against the uneven sand. You catch yourself at the last second, irritation flaring hotter. “—he has the audacity to stand there and judge me. Like I’m the problem. Like I asked to be thrown into the ocean like some kind of—of experiment—”

“You kinda are,” Jake mutters under his breath.

“I nearly drowned,” you shoot back immediately, rounding on him.

“And yet,” he replies lightly, “you didn’t.”

You glare at him, holding it for a moment as if sheer force of will might make him reconsider his stance.

“That’s not the point.”

You turn forward again, picking up your pace despite the way your body protests, your steps uneven but determined. The sand shifts underfoot, but you push through it, your frustration lending you momentum where energy fails.

“He called me a rock,” you go on, your voice climbing again. “A rock, Jake. A rock. Do I look like a rock to you?”

"kinda? yeah..."

“I am going to push you into the ocean.”

“i’ve been in the ocean all morning.”

You glare at him with what you are absolutely certain is the rage of a thousand suns—Jake doesn’t even flinch.

It ruins the effect completely.

Your glare falters, just for a second, before you huff sharply and turn away, feet dragging a little more now that the adrenaline is wearing off.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath, though it’s loud enough that he definitely hears it. “I’m suffering. Actively suffering. And you think this is funny.”

“Still standing, though,” he points out after a moment.

You frown, the words catching you off guard just enough to slow your steps. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Jake says, a little more plainly now, “you didn’t quit.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you settle on finally, though it sounds weaker than you intended.

Jake hums, unconvinced. “There’s always a choice.”

You don’t like that answer So you ignore it. Instead, you push forward again, shoulders still tight, arms crossed like you can hold yourself together through sheer stubbornness alone.

“I’m still not coming back tomorrow,” you say, with far more certainty than you actually feel.

Jake doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah,” he says. “You are.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

You stop again, turning to face him fully this time, narrowing your eyes. “Oh, really? And how exactly do you figure that?”

He shrugs, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Because you’re mad.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does,” he says. “If you were done, you wouldn’t care this much.”

For a second, you don’t have a comeback. “…I still hate him,” you say again, but there’s less fire behind it now. More stubbornness than anything else.

Jake nods once, like that changes nothing. “Good,” he says. “Means you’ll listen.”

You stare at him, trying to figure out if he’s serious. “…That makes no sense.”

“It will,” he replies, already turning to head back, like the conversation is over whether you agree or not. “Tomorrow.”

“…I hate both of you,” you call after him.

Jake doesn’t turn around but you can hear the laugh anyway.

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Tonowari should have been focused. That was the problem.

The council space was active, voices low but constant, people moving in and out as matters were brought to him that actually mattered—fishing routes, patrol shifts, boundary concerns. Things that required his full attention, his judgment, his presence. Leader work. Important work. Work he was not fully giving.

“…and the eastern reef has been—”

“Yes,” Tonowari cut in, a touch sharper than necessary. “Adjust the rotation. Do not leave it unattended again.”

The villager nodded quickly and moved off, clearly not inclined to question the tone. For a moment, it seemed as though the interruption might pass unnoticed, swallowed by the steady rhythm of responsibility that surrounded him. But the brief lull that followed stretched just long enough to invite something else.

A quiet snort broke the silence from somewhere behind him.

Tonowari did not turn immediately, though he knew exactly who it was and what would follow. If anything, his stillness only encouraged them.

“I have never seen you this distracted,” one of the warriors remarked, amusement threading too easily through his voice.,“It must be serious,” another added.

Tonowari exhaled slowly through his nose, already feeling the edge of his patience wear thin. “It is not serious.”

“Oh, it is,” the first insisted. “You have been glaring at nothing for the past quarter hour.” “That is not nothing,” the second said lightly. “That is your guest, is it not?”

At that, Tonowari turned, slow and deliberate, his expression already settled into something flat and unimpressed, edged just enough with warning that most would have let the matter drop. Most.

His friends did not.

“The one you were seen dragging into the water this morning,” one continued, his grin widening at the reaction he was clearly trying to provoke. “Word travels quickly.”

“Very quickly,” the other agreed. “Especially when our future olo’eyktan postpones his duties to—what was it—”

“Babysit,” the first supplied, entirely unhelpful.

Tonowari’s jaw tightened at that, irritation surfacing despite his efforts to keep it contained. “I did not abandon my duties.”

“No,” the second replied easily. “You merely postponed them. For a human. An enemy.”

The word settled heavier than the rest, and Tonowari’s expression hardened, if only slightly. “Do not mistake this for leniency,” he said. “This is obligation.”

A low hum answered him. “You sound very convinced.”

“I am.”

They exchanged a glance, subtle but telling, and that alone was enough to push what remained of his patience.

“Believe me,” Tonowari said, his voice dropping, the irritation now clear despite his control, “the displeasure is entirely mine.”

That dimmed the amusement, but did not erase it. If anything, it shifted, curiosity threading through it now.

“Oh?” one of them prompted.

Tonowari let out a short breath, something closer to frustration than he would have preferred to reveal, and this time he did not hold it back.

“They are incompetent,” he said flatly. “Reckless. They do not listen. They argue with every instruction given as if defiance will somehow replace skill.”

There was a faint flicker of agreement, small but present, though it did little to interrupt him now that he had started.

“They do not know how to swim,” he continued, irritation sharpening with each word, “and yet they insist that they do. Even when it is obvious. Even when they are in the water, proving otherwise.”

A quiet huff of laughter slipped from one of the warriors, quickly stifled when Tonowari did not so much as glance in his direction.

“I pulled them from the sea once already,” he went on, his voice tightening just slightly, “and still they learn nothing from it. No caution. No awareness. Only stubbornness.”

“That sounds familiar,” one muttered under his breath.

Tonowari’s gaze snapped to him immediately, sharp enough to cut the comment short before it could go any further. The warrior lifted his hands at once in surrender. “Not my place.”

“Clearly not,” Tonowari replied.

Tonowari exhaled sharply, done with the line of conversation. “They are a distraction,” he said, more firmly now. “An unnecessary one. I have no time to waste on someone who refuses to learn properly.”

“Yet you will meet them again tomorrow,” one pointed out.

Tonowari did not hesitate. “Yes.”

“Same time?”

“Yes.”

A brief pause followed, deliberate enough to be noticed, before the inevitable—“Sounds like babysitting.”

Tonowari fixed him with a look, cold and unimpressed. “Say that again.”

The warrior lifted his hands, unrepentant. “Training.”

“Correct.”

“You are very committed for someone who dislikes them so much.”

“I am committed,” he said evenly, “to ensuring they do not become a liability.”

This time, the silence that followed held. No one challenged it, no one added to it, and the conversation folded back into the steady rhythm of duty as if it had never happened at all.

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as always reblogs, likes, feedback and constructive criticism is appreciated.

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You don’t stop moving. You thrash harder beneath your attacker, twisting, shoving, your hand reaching blindly for anything within reach—your blade, your kit, anything but when your fingers come up empty, your fist swings instead.

It connects again, harder this time, and warmth spreads across your knuckles almost immediately.

“Damn,” he breathes, and there’s something your attackers voice that doesn’t belong in a fight. something almost impressed, almost disbelieving. “You still hit like that?”

Your body stills for half a second.

That voice—

No.

Your heart stutters, sharp and uneven, but your body doesn’t stop. It can’t. You twist again, trying to throw him off, to break free, but he adjusts with you too easily, his weight grounding you instead of shifting away.

“Get off—” you snap, breath uneven, frustration flaring fast and hot.

He doesn’t.

Instead, his arms tighten. not pinning or forcing but rather just holding.

“Took you long enough,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, rougher in a way that has nothing to do with exertion.

Your thoughts finally catch up to your body.

“Tey—”

The name almost slips out, catching in your throat like something dangerous, something you refuse to let free.

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Took you years,” he says, the words landing heavier now, something cracked open beneath them—relief, disbelief, something he hasn’t tried to hide.

Before you can react, before you can push him away he shifts.

Suddenly you’re not pinned anymore. You’re pulled in.

His arms wrap around you, tight, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip even slightly. His tail curls instinctively around your waist, anchoring you there, holding you in place with a familiarity that feels like it belongs to another life.

There’s nothing careful about it. Nothing hesitant.

It’s everything he didn’t get to do.

“Idiot,” he breathes against your shoulder, the word half a laugh, half something far too close to breaking. “You’re actually here—”

You go still.

Not returning it. Not softening into it. Just still.

And then the anger hits. “Get. Off.” Each word is sharp, deliberate, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

He doesn’t notice at first—of course he doesn’t. He’s too caught in the moment, in the fact that you’re here, real, alive. “You disappeared,” he continues, his grip tightening just slightly, like saying it out loud might make it real again. “I thought—you were—”

“Get off me,” you snap, louder this time, the edge in your voice cutting clean through everything else.

That makes him pause. Because that isn’t the voice he remembers.

Before he can respond a screech tears through the air.

Mr. Pau.

The impact is sudden and uneven, wings beating hard as claws catch against fabric instead of skin, close enough to warn without striking. Teylan jerks back on instinct, his grip loosening just enough for you to shove him hard and scramble free, your breath sharp, your eyes blazing.

He barely registers the sting of it. The scrape of claws, the blood still dripping from his nose.

He’s too busy staring at you.

Now he sees it. Not just that you’ve changed—but how.

The distance in the way you stand. The tension coiled through your body. The way you angle yourself away from him instead of toward him, like proximity itself is something you’re managing, controlling.

“…Hey,” he says, softer now, slower, taking a careful step forward like you might break if he moves too fast.

You let out a short laugh, sharp and humorless.

“Don’t,” you snap, dragging the back of your hand across your mouth like you can wipe the moment away. “Don’t do that.”

His brows pull together. “Do what?”

“Act like—” you cut yourself off, jaw tightening. “Like this is normal.”

Mr. Pau lands between you, wings half-spread, a low rumble building in his throat as he positions himself squarely in front of you.

Protective.

Teylan’s gaze flicks to him briefly before returning to you. “…He’s still alive,” he says quietly.

Wrong thing to say.

“Yeah,” you fire back immediately, your voice sharp. “Funny how that works.”

Your hand moves without hesitation, grabbing your kit and securing it in one smooth, practiced motion. “I don’t have time for this.”

And for the first time... Teylan feels it.

That sharp, sinking drop in his chest as the reality settles in, heavy and undeniable.

Because you’re leaving.

“…You’re leaving?” he asks, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

You don’t look back. “I already did.”

"Do not follow me."

✧༺♡༻✧༺♡༻✧༺♡༻✧

Of course he doesn’t let you go.

You hear him before you see him. the faint shift of branches behind you, the soft disturbance of leaves underfoot. His steps are controlled, quieter than they used to be, but not enough to disappear entirely. Not to you. You’ve always known what to listen for.

You don’t slow.

“Took you long enough to get subtle,” you mutter under your breath, pushing through the undergrowth, your voice low but edged with something sharp.

There’s a brief stretch of silence before his voice reaches you again, closer now, steady.

“You noticed.”

You close your eyes for half a second, exhaling through your nose. Of course you did.

“Go back,” you say flatly, not turning, your attention fixed ahead. “I’m working.”

“You always were.”

Your jaw tightens at that, the words landing a little too close to something you don’t want to unpack, but you don’t respond. You don’t give him that.

Still, he doesn’t leave.

He falls into step beside you, matching your pace with an ease that feels practiced. He keeps just enough distance not to touch, not to crowd you, but his presence is there, familiar in a way that sits wrong now, like something that used to belong but doesn’t anymore.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

There’s only movement. the steady rhythm of your footsteps, the quiet sound of breath, the forest shifting around you. Leaves brush against your arms, roots press unevenly beneath your feet, and the air feels thicker somehow, like it’s holding onto the moment instead of letting it pass. It almost feels like the forest is watching, like it recognizes something in the space between you.

Then his voice breaks through it.

“You stayed.”

There’s no accusation in it. No softness either. Just a simple statement, dropped into the space between you like it’s something that’s been waiting to be said.

You let out a quiet breath through your nose. “Observant.”

“I thought you couldn’t.”

There’s something underneath that, something you don’t want to look at too closely.

“I couldn’t leave,” you admit after a moment, your voice measured as you glance at him briefly before looking ahead again. “Not without consequences you didn’t have to deal with.”

You catch the shift in his expression out of the corner of your eye.

“You think I didn’t—”

“I know you didn’t,” you cut in, sharper this time, the edge in your voice unmistakable. “You got out. You got saved.”

The words land harder than you intend them to, but you don’t take them back.

A small pause follows before you add, quieter but no less firm, “I stayed.”

That settles between you, heavy and uneven, stretching out into a silence that neither of you seems willing to break.

When he exhales this time, it’s slower, like he’s letting something go—not resolving it, not fixing it, just setting it aside because there’s no clean way through it.

“…So’lek found us,” he says instead, his tone shifting.

You don’t react outwardly, but your attention sharpens.

“He brought us to the Aranahe. They didn’t trust us at first. Not really.” A faint huff of breath leaves him, something almost amused flickering through. “Can’t blame them.”

You step over a fallen root, your gaze scanning the terrain ahead out of habit. “And now?”

“Now…” he hesitates slightly, like he’s weighing the word before he uses it. “It’s different. I have an ikran now, Bonded a while after.”

You glance at him then, giving him a brief, assessing look. “Of course you do.”

There’s something that almost turns into a smile at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t fully settle.

“They helped,” he continues. “All of them. Ri’nela especially.”

Your step falters, just for a second, but you smooth it out so quickly it almost doesn’t happen.

“She’s… still her,” he adds after a moment, quieter.

Something in your chest tightens at that, subtle but unmistakable.

“And Tamtey?” you ask, your voice more controlled now, like you’re holding it carefully in place.

“She’s stronger,” Teylan replies. “Quieter. Thinks more before she moves.” He pauses briefly before adding, “But when it matters… she’s still the same.”

You nod once, absorbing that, letting it settle somewhere you won’t look at too closely.

“And Nor?”

“He’s…” Teylan exhales slowly, the word catching before he lets it go. “Nor.”

It’s not really an answer. Which makes it one.

Silence settles again, but this time it’s different. Not as sharp. Not as defensive. There’s something more fragile in it now, like the space between you has thinned just enough that pushing too hard might break it entirely.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the strap of your kit, grounding yourself in something solid.

You don’t look at him when you ask, “…Are they happy?”

The question is quiet, but it carries more weight than anything you’ve said so far.

Teylan doesn’t answer immediately. “…Sometimes.”

It’s honest in a way that almost hurts.

“They laugh now,” he adds after a moment. “Not like before. But… it’s there.”

You nod, small and almost invisible. “That’s good.”

And you mean it. Even if something twists in your chest at the thought of it happening without you. A few more steps pass in silence before he speaks again.

“You?”

You let out a quiet breath, something that almost resembles a laugh but doesn’t quite make it there.

“I have a job,” you say, your tone even.

“That’s not what I asked.”

For a moment, you don’t respond. Then you glance at him and actually look this time, holding his gaze a second longer than before. There’s something unreadable in your expression, something you don’t fully let surface.

For a second, the silence holds, fragile and uncertain, like if neither of you moves, it might not break.

It does. It always breaks with the two of you.

Teylan watches you for a few steps longer than he should, his gaze fixed on your back as you push through the undergrowth without slowing, without giving him anything to work with.

“That’s it?” he asks at last, unable to leave it alone. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

You don’t break your stride. “I said enough.”

“No, you didn’t.” His voice sharpens, just slightly, frustration slipping through the cracks. “You keep doing that. answering without actually saying anything.”

You huff under your breath, shoving a branch aside harder than necessary as it snaps back behind you. “Maybe because there’s nothing you’d understand.”

He closes the distance easily, matching your pace like it’s nothing.

“Try me.”

You stop so abruptly he nearly walks into you.

Spinning around, you face him head-on, the suddenness of it forcing him to check his step.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snap, the edge in your voice finally breaking through. “Did the forest suddenly make you an expert on my life?”

“No,” he fires back immediately, not missing a beat. “But I know you and this isn’t—”

“This isn’t what?” you cut in, the words sharp enough to slice through whatever he was about to say. “Convenient? Familiar? Easy for you to swallow?”

His jaw tightens, something tense and restrained settling into his expression. “This isn’t you.”

A laugh slips out of you. short, sharp and empty.

“Right. Because you’d know.”

“I would,” he insists, stepping closer despite the warning in your stance, like he’s choosing to ignore it entirely. “You don’t just turn into this. Not without—”

“Without what?” you challenge, taking a step forward to meet him instead of backing down. “A tragic explanation? Something that makes it easier for you to forgive?”

“I’m not trying to—”

“You are,” you fume, “You’re trying to make this into something it’s not.”

“And what is it then?” he pushes, frustration rising to meet yours.

You don’t hesitate. “It’s survival,” you say, your voice dropping low and steady, all sharp edges honed into something controlled and unyielding. “Something you don’t get to question, because you didn’t have to make that choice.”

His eyes flash, the reaction immediate. “I did make a choice.”

“Yeah,” you shoot back, just as quickly. “You chose to leave.”

The silence that follows is immediate and suffocating, slamming into the space between you with enough force to make it hard to breathe.

“I asked you to come with me,” he says after a moment, quieter now. There’s still something rigid in it, something unbending. “You said no.”

“I couldn’t,” you repeat, more forcefully this time, like saying it stronger will make him finally understand. “There’s a difference.”

“You never explained that.”

“You never stayed long enough to hear it.”

“Do you have any idea what happens to humans out here alone?” you continue, your voice rising just enough to betray the strain underneath. “No clan. No protection. No place to go?”

“We would’ve figured it out,” he says, but it sounds thinner now, less certain than before.

You shake your head, the motion small but firm.

“No. You would’ve figured it out. Because you belong here.”

A brief pause, just enough to let it settle.

“I don’t.”

“That’s not—”

“It is,” you cut him off, sharper than before. “You had something to go to. I didn’t.”

His hands flex at his sides, frustration and something dangerously close to helplessness threading through the movement.

“…So you chose them,” he says at last.

You go still.

“I chose to live,” you correct quietly.

And that is the worst part. Because there’s nothing he can say to that. Nothing that doesn’t fall apart the second it leaves his mouth.

You take a small step back, breaking the moment before it can turn into something harder to walk away from.

“Look,” you say, your voice flattening again as you pull yourself back into something controlled, something distant. “Unlike some of us who have nothing better to do than relive ‘good old times’…”

“I need to get these samples screened before that bitch decides I’m slacking and makes it my problem.”

For a second, that almost sounds like you.

You turn before he can answer, before he can try to pull you back into it again.

“Don’t follow me,” you add over your shoulder.

“I wasn’t done,” he says, and there’s a strain in his voice now that wasn’t there before.

“You never are.”

“You think this was easy for me?” he calls after you, and there’s something raw in it now, something that wasn’t there before.

“No,” you say, not turning around. “I think it was easier than staying.”

The words land, heavy and final. You don’t wait to see what they do to him.

Mr. Pau launches before Teylan can close the distance, wings beating unevenly but strong as the rush of air cuts through the space between you. You move without hesitation, grabbing hold and pulling yourself up in one practiced motion, settling into place as naturally as breathing.

By the time you look down, he’s stopped short, held in place more by the moment than anything else.

“Don’t,” you repeat, meeting his gaze at last. “Go back to your perfect little forest life,”

You don’t wait for a response.

Mr. Pau surges forward at your cue. The forest rises to meet you instead, branches swallowing you whole as you disappear into the canopy.

The sound of wings fades quickly.

And then there’s nothing left at all.

✧༺♡༻✧༺♡༻✧༺♡༻✧

Teylan doesn’t move.

Not when the rush of wind from the ikran’s wings fades into nothing, the force of it slipping away like it was never there at all. Not when the leaves, torn loose by the sudden movement, drift back down and settle across the forest floor in soft, uneven spirals. Not even when the world begins to stitch itself back together. when the forest resumes its quiet, living rhythm as though nothing had just been broken open in the middle of it.

He stays exactly where he is.

As if moving would make it real in a way he’s not ready to face.

He just stands there, staring at the space you left behind. at the place where you had been only moments ago, like if he looks hard enough, long enough, something of you might still be there.

Everything sounds wrong now.

His grip tightens around something in his hand before he even realizes what it is. The dagger. Still there. Still clenched in his fingers like the moment never ended.

Slowly, almost absently, he lowers it, his movements no longer sharp or deliberate but dulled by something heavier settling in his chest. He slides it back into place at his side, the motion automatic like that fixes anything.

You’re alive.

The thought rises again, insistent, impossible to ignore. It should be enough. It should be everything. It should have filled the hollow space he’s carried for years with something solid, something steady, something that made sense.

But it doesn’t.

Because you didn’t look at him like you used to.

Didn’t speak to him like you used to.

Didn’t reach for him, didn’t hesitate, didn’t stay.

Didn’t—

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, grounding himself in the pressure, in the motion, in something physical that doesn’t shift beneath him.

“Survival,” he repeats quietly, the word rough against his throat, like he’s trying to force it into something that explains everything all at once.

It does. That’s the problem.

He’s seen what happens to humans out here. what the world does to them when they’re alone, when they’re unclaimed, unprotected, forced to adapt or be erased. He’s seen the way survival strips things down, reshapes them into something harder, sharper, less forgiving.

His jaw tightens.

“…I would’ve figured it out,” he says again, softer now, the certainty from before worn thin, fraying at the edges.

The memory comes anyway, uninvited and unrelenting—your hands slipping from his, the way your grip had faltered just enough for him to feel it long after you were gone. Your voice, breaking around the edges of something you didn’t say out loud.

I can’t.

He swallows hard, the motion tight, controlled, like he can force it back down where it belongs.

“…You didn’t even try,” he mutters, but there’s no real anger behind it.

The forest shifts around him, familiar in the way it always has been. the quiet hum of life, the subtle movement of branches, the steady presence of something larger than him that usually settles his thoughts instead of stirring them.

Usually.

Not now.

Now it feels off.

Because you were just here.

Standing where you shouldn’t be. Wearing something that never belonged to you. Moving through the forest like you knew it, like it hadn’t been taken from you.

Speaking like him.

You sounded like him.

Short. Controlled. Careful. Cutting things off before they could go too deep, before anything had the chance to settle into something real.

His chest tightens, something sharp pressing against his ribs.

“…That’s my fault,” he says quietly.

The words come easily.

There’s no resistance to them, no attempt to push them away or soften them into something else.

Because he left.

Because he turned away when it mattered.

Because he let go first.

His gaze drops back to the ground where you stood, searching without thinking, like there might be something left behind—some trace, some proof that this wasn’t just something his mind made real for a moment before taking it away again.

There’s nothing.

Just disturbed leaves, pressed unevenly into the soil, and the faint imprint of boots that don’t belong here, too clean, too sharp against the forest floor.

Proof enough.

His eyes lift slowly, following the path you took until the trees swallow it whole, his jaw setting as his breathing steadies, control settling back over him piece by piece.

You told him not to follow. He’s already moving.

Chasing something he refuses to lose.

“You don’t get to just leave again,” he mutters under his breath, his voice low as he steps forward, eyes scanning the ground, the branches, the subtle disturbances that most people would miss but he knows how to read.

this time, he’s not letting you disappear without a fight.

✧༺♡༻✧༺♡༻✧༺♡༻✧

Something catches the light.

It’s small. easy to miss, half-hidden beneath a thin scatter of disturbed leaves, glinting faintly where the last threads of sunlight manage to slip through the canopy above.

Teylan’s steps slow and the stop.

He crouches without thinking, pushing the leaves aside with careful, deliberate movements, revealing the object beneath.

Gold.

His breath stills, just for a second.

The chain rests in his palm as he lifts it, light and delicate, warmed faintly by the sun in a way that feels almost wrong against his skin.

He knows it immediately.

You used to fidget with it when you were thinking, the chain looping around your fingers without you even realizing it. You’d twist it when you were nervous, let it fall loose when you forgot it was there at all.

“…You still have this,” he murmurs, softer now.

There’s no surprise in it.

Just something quieter. Something that sits deeper than he wants to look at too closely.

His thumb brushes over it once, careful, almost absent, like he’s afraid pressing any harder might break it—or break whatever it represents.

For a moment, something almost like a smile touches his mouth.

He closes his hand around the chain, the metal disappearing into his grip before he tucks it securely into his pouch, the motion more deliberate this time, like he’s making a decision without saying it out loud.

“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Above him, the light begins to shift.

He glances up, eyes narrowing slightly as the sky dims, colors bending and softening as shadows stretch longer across the forest floor in that strange, quiet way that only comes before an eclipse.

Time’s up.

His expression tightens, something resolute settling into place beneath everything else.

He casts one last look in the direction you disappeared, then turns and heads back.

✧༺♡༻✧༺♡༻✧༺♡༻✧

as always reblogs, likes, feedback and constructive criticism is appreciated.

✧༺♡༻✧༺♡༻✧༺♡༻✧

So’lek exhaled sharply through his nose at the thought, his jaw tightening as irritation flared again, fresh despite the hours that had passed. Reckless, loud, careless in a way that made his teeth grind—So’lek had spent what felt like half the day correcting him, again and again, on positioning, on awareness, on the very basic principle of not getting himself killed because he thought he could handle more than he could.

“You do not rush into a clearing without reading it,” So’lek had said, his voice flat, patience already fraying thin.

Nor had grinned.

Actually grinned.

So’lek had nearly left him there.

As if that were not enough, there had been the Sarentu to train. Eager, too eager at times, with quick hands, quicker questions, and eyes that burned with determination and something softer beneath it. They learned fast, which should have made it easier, but instead they pushed, always pushing, always asking for more, and So’lek had given it to them.

Again. And again. And again.

He had corrected stances, adjusted grips, repeated instructions until his voice had gone low and rough from use. He did not mind teaching—not truly—but today it had felt like pouring water into a vessel that would never quite fill, no matter how much he gave.

And then the hunt.

Eywa.

The animal had been stubborn. clever in a way that demanded respect and patience in equal measure. It had led him through thicker brush than necessary, doubled back twice, and nearly caught him off balance when the wind shifted against him.

By the time he had taken it down, clean but later than he preferred, the sun had already begun its descent, light thinning into evening.

Everything had taken longer than it should have. Everything had asked more of him than he had intended to give.

And now So’lek was done.

He rolled his shoulder as he walked, feeling the tension pull tight across his back, his hands flexing at his sides, claws curling slightly as if they still remembered the resistance of the bowstring. Fatigue clung to him, heavy and insistent, settling into muscle and bone alike.

All he wanted—truly wanted—was to reach his kelku, climb into his hammock, and not wake until the world decided it could function without him again. No voices, no instructions, no Nor. just quiet, just rest, just the absence of everything that had pressed against him since morning.

His pace remained steady at first, his steps sure and familiar along the forest path. Around him, the bioluminescent glow had begun to awaken, soft lights flickering at the edges of his vision as the world shifted from gold into blue, the air cooling with the slow fall of night.

And then, somewhere between one step and the next, a thought surfaced—small, simple, almost unremarkable.

But it changed everything.

His hammock.

Not just his.

Tamtey's too.

The one space that belonged to him and to her.

The image came unbidden, as it always did when his mind allowed it: her curled into the woven fabric, limbs tucked in without care, hair spilling messily across the threads, somehow managing to take up space and yet still look small. Sometimes she would be half-awake when he arrived, blinking up at him with sleep-heavy eyes; other times she would already be gone to rest, her cheek pressed into where his chest would be when he joined her.

Waiting.

Or not waiting at all—just there, as if she had always belonged in that space, as if the hammock itself had been made with her in mind.

So’lek felt something in his chest loosen. tight and coiled in a way he had not fully noticed until now, unwinding just enough to let him breathe easier. The weight in his shoulders did not disappear, but it shifted, settling into something more manageable, something he could carry.

His steps quickened, subtly at first, then just enough that he could feel the difference—the slight lengthening of his stride, the faint forward pull in his posture, as if he were being drawn toward something warmer than the promise of sleep.

The forest seemed quieter now. Softer. Or perhaps it was simply that his mind had stopped cataloguing every irritation, every misstep, every frustration of the day.

He moved past familiar roots and low-hanging branches, ducking without thought, his path carved into instinct. Ahead, the faint glow of his kelku came into view between the trees, unmistakably his.

And there, in that quiet space,

She would be.

Probably already asleep. Probably taking up more of the hammock than necessary, as she always did, leaving him just enough room to fit if he adjusted around her.

So’lek exhaled again, but this time the breath left him slower, quieter.

And for the first time that day, he found himself looking forward to something.

୨୧ ─── ♡ ─── ୨୧ ─── ♡ ─── ୨୧ ─── ♡ ─── ୨୧

Just as So’lek reached the edge of the kelku... He stopped.

Not because he was unsure, nor because anything had changed in the space before him, but because habit held him there, steady and unyielding. Instinct, carved deep into him long before Tamtey and long before even this place, rose quietly to the surface and reminded him of something simple, something ingrained.

You return. You provide.

His gaze flickered once toward the soft glow within, where he knew she would be.

Waiting. Or not waiting at all. It did not matter.

What mattered was that she would be there.

And what kind of mate would he be if he returned empty-handed?

So’lek exhaled quietly, the sound soft against the stillness of the night, and turned away from the entrance despite the pull in his chest that urged him forward. It was only for a moment, he told himself. It would not take long.

The forest welcomed him back without question, its quiet presence unchanged as he retraced his steps. The path to the cooking space was dimly lit, embers still glowing faintly from earlier preparations, casting low, flickering light across the ground. A few others lingered at a distance, their movements slow, their voices muted, but So’lek did not acknowledge them, nor did they disturb him.

He moved with purpose now—tired, yes, but steady, each action deliberate, efficient.

A portion of yerik meat had already been set aside from earlier. He checked it with a practiced eye, ensuring it was properly cooked through, still warm enough to be comforting rather than simply sustaining. Satisfied, he wrapped it carefully, his hands moving with quiet precision.

Then the fruit.

Yolvo.

His hand paused briefly over the selection before choosing one—ripe, unblemished, sweet. He knew her preference by now without needing to think about it, the knowledge settled somewhere instinctive, unquestioned.

Of course he did.

A faint, almost imperceptible shift touched his expression as he held it, something softer threading through the lingering fatigue.

Sweet.

His syulang liked sweet things.

The word settled quietly in his chest—syulang—familiar in a way that still surprised him at times. It had come naturally, somewhere along the way. Not planned, not spoken with intent to change anything, but simply… there. In the spaces between words, in the way he looked at her, in the way his hands lingered a moment longer than necessary when they rested on her.

He adjusted his grip on the food, securing it carefully before turning back.

This was simple.

This made sense.

The world beyond this rarely offered clarity, but this? Providing for her, returning to her, ensuring she was cared for in ways both small and necessary?

There was no confusion in that.

Only certainty.

By the time So’lek made his way back, the forest had deepened fully into night. The bioluminescence had grown stronger, casting soft blues and greens across the path, the air cooler now against his skin. Even the sounds had shifted, quieter, more intimate—the kind of quiet that wrapped around you rather than pressed in, settling gently instead of demanding to be noticed.

His steps slowed as he approached, not from hesitation, but from awareness—from care. He adjusted the way he held the food so it would not make unnecessary noise, his movements naturally quieter now, more deliberate, each step measured without conscious thought.

The entrance to the kelku came into view once more, that same soft glow spilling outward, drawing him in with a pull that felt stronger now, steadier.

So’lek ducked inside, and immediately, everything in him softened.

The space was small and familiar, carrying the faint scent of woven fibers, forest air and her. It settled around him in an instant, easing something deep and unspoken as his gaze moved instinctively toward the hammock.

His sarentu—safe and warm in his space, untouched by it all.

୨୧ ─── ♡ ─── ୨୧ ─── ♡ ─── ୨୧ ─── ♡ ─── ୨୧

Tamtey had lost count.

She leaned against the woven edge of the kelku’s opening, fingers tracing the fibers absently as her eyes scanned the forest beyond—again, and again, and again.

Nothing.

Only the soft glow of night, the distant flicker of bioluminescent plants swaying gently as if the world itself had already settled into rest.

The eclipse had passed long ago.

She had watched it alone.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she exhaled slowly, the breath heavier than she intended.

He should have been back by now.

So’lek was not careless. He was not late. He did not linger. If anything, he was the opposite—efficient to a fault, always returning when he said he would, always exactly where he needed to be, exactly when he needed to be there.

She drew in a slow breath, steadying it the way he had taught her, forcing the tension down even as it resisted. There were explanations. There were always explanations.

The Resistance, perhaps—something must have come up. Another arrangement, another correction, another task that only he could fix because no one else ever seemed to get it right the first time.

Or the hunt.

Something could have delayed him. He could still be tracking, still moving through the forest with that quiet patience of his, following something stubborn that refused to be caught.

He could be—

Her thoughts cut off sharply as she shook her head.

No.

He would not stay out without reason.

Her fingers curled into the woven edge, tightening slightly as the feeling in her chest shifted, sharpening. A steady, gnawing worry that refused to leave once it settled in.

Tamtey pushed herself away from the entrance, pacing once across the small space before stopping again, her movements restless, unfocused.

She should have been asleep by now.

Normally, she would have been—curled into the hammock, half tangled in the fabric, drifting off without realizing she had been waiting at all, trusting without question that he would return and find her there.

But tonight, sleep would not come.

Not when his space beside her was empty. Not when the forest felt just a little too quiet.

She sank back onto the hammock with a soft huff, dragging a hand down her face. “You are being ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath, though the words carried no real conviction.

He was fine. He had to be fine.

Her chest tightened again.

“…he’s fine,” she said, firmer this time, as if saying it aloud might force it into truth.

Still, her eyes flicked back toward the entrance.

Again. Just in case.

A long breath left her as she leaned back, staring up through the small opening where the night sky peeked through, stars blinking softly above. The hammock swayed beneath her, slow and familiar, the motion usually enough to pull her into sleep without effort.

Not tonight. Not without him.

Her fingers drifted absently to the space beside her, pressing into the fabric where his weight should have been. It felt wrong—too light, too empty, the absence more noticeable than the presence ever was.

Time stretched, quiet settling deeper around her, the stillness growing heavier the longer it remained undisturbed.

Tamtey turned onto her side, facing the entrance now, her eyes half-lidded but refusing to close fully. Her body was tired, aching for rest, but her mind would not let her have it.

A sound interrupts her train of thoughts.

The faint tangle of beads shifting against one another, brushing together in a way she knew before her thoughts could even catch up, the sound threading through her awareness like instinct.

Tamtey stilled.

And then her head snapped toward the entrance.

Her eyes brightened, wide and sharp, something warm rushing through her chest so quickly it almost hurt, relief flooding in before she could even name it.

There.

A shadow at the entrance. A presence she knew without needing to see.

“So’lek—”

His name slipped from her before she could stop it, soft but alive, relief woven through every syllable.

And just like that, the night didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

୨୧ ─── ♡ ─── ୨୧ ─── ♡ ─── ୨୧ ─── ♡ ─── ୨୧

The moment he steps fully inside, Tamtey doesn’t even think.

She moves—fast.

“MA' SO'LEKK!”

She’s off the hammock in a heartbeat, all sleepiness gone, all that quiet, gnawing worry bursting into something bright and overwhelming as she launches herself at him.

He barely has time to brace before she’s in his arms, her own wrapping tightly around his neck, her weight colliding into him without hesitation. Her face buries itself against him, nuzzling into the crook of his neck like she’s trying to make up for every second he was gone.

“I missed you! where have you been—” her words tumble over each other, breathless, half-laughing, half-accusing, “you took so long?!”

And then come the kisses.

Messy, rapid, entirely uncoordinated—his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.

“Mwah—mwah—mwah—!”

So’lek exhales, something caught between a quiet huff and the beginning of a laugh, as the full force of her affection hits him all at once.

“Sarentu—”

But she doesn’t stop.

Of course she doesn’t.

“I thought you got lost—no, actually you wouldn’t get lost—so then I thought something ate you—then I thought maybe you just forgot me, which is worse—”

“Mmm,” he hums lowly, adjusting his stance as she clings to him, one arm tightening instinctively around her waist to keep her steady.

The other arm still holding the food. Carefully.

Because despite her chaos, the way she’s currently attacking his face with affection he will not drop it. His grip remains firm, secure, the motion controlled even now.

Tamtey pulls back just enough to look at him, her hands coming up to cup his face as her eyes scan him quickly, checking in the only way she knows how.

“You’re late,” she accuses, though the edge has softened, dulled by the way her thumbs brush over his cheeks.

“You are still awake,” he counters quietly.

She gasps, offended.

“I waited,” she insists, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Obviously.”

So’lek’s gaze softens—just slightly, but enough that it lingers.

He shifts the food in his hand, freeing just enough movement before leaning in and pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of her nose. It’s soft, brief, and entirely intentional.

“I missed you too.”

It’s quiet, almost lost beneath the lingering echo of her energy but it lands.

It always does.

Tamtey freezes for half a second, her expression going completely still and then she melts.

Her entire face softens into something brighter, warmer, her forehead dropping lightly against his as a small, satisfied hum escapes her.

“…you’re forgiven,” she decides immediately.

Of course.

So’lek huffs softly again, something warmer this time, his free hand rising to rest at the back of her head, fingers threading lightly into her hair to steady her where she leans into him.

“Good,” he murmurs.

Her nose nudges against his again, slower now, softer, the earlier rush of energy settling into something quieter, more content now that he’s here.

Then her gaze flicks downward.

Pauses.

“…what is that?”

So’lek follows her gaze, as if only now remembering.

“Food.”

“For me?” Her voice lifts again, bright—but softer this time, fond rather than frantic.

He nods once.

“Of course.”

Tamtey stares at him for a moment, something shifting in her expression. something dangerously soft, entirely unguarded.

“…you brought me food,” she repeats, quieter now.

“What kind of mate would I be if I did not?” he replies simply.

That’s all it takes.

She lets out a small, emotional sound—half laugh, half something else—and immediately leans in again, pressing another series of kisses to his face, slower this time, lingering.

“Mwah—you’re the best—mwah—don’t ever leave again—mwah—”

“I left for a few hours.”

“Too long.”

He doesn’t argue.

Instead, he shifts his hold on her, guiding her back toward the hammock with steady, careful steps. She stays wrapped around him, still clinging, still sneaking little kisses wherever she can reach as they move.

By the time they reach it, she’s already halfway draped over him again, her energy dimming into something softer, sleepier, her movements slower but no less affectionate.

And So’lek still tired, still aching— but no longer weighed down.

Not when she’s like this.

Not when she’s his.

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They settle into the hammock like it’s second nature, the woven ropes shifting slightly as So’lek lowers himself first, steadying the structure with a practiced hand before guiding Tamtey down with him. The moment she’s within reach, she doesn’t bother sitting properly—of course she doesn’t—half climbing over him instead, one leg hooked over his, her arms still loosely wrapped around his shoulders like she has no intention of letting go anytime soon.

“…you are difficult,” he murmurs, though there’s no weight behind the words.

“You love it,” she shoots back immediately, already reaching for the food he had set aside.

He doesn’t deny it. He never does.

The scent of the yerik meat fills the small space as she unwraps it, the warmth and richness of it settling into the air between them. Her expression shifts instantly—softening, brightening—in that way that always seems to settle something deeper in his chest.

“You really brought this for me,” she says again, softer now, as though still processing it.

So’lek gives a small nod. “Eat.”

She tears off a piece without hesitation and then, just as quickly, holds it up toward him, her gaze firm with quiet expectation.

“First bite is yours.”

“I brought it for you.”

“And I am giving it to you,” she counters, tilting her head just slightly as if daring him to argue.

He studies her for a moment.

The way her mouth sets with quiet stubbornness. The warmth in her eyes. The simple, unwavering refusal to lower her hand.

Then, without further argument, he leans forward and takes the bite.

Taletey grins immediately, pleased in a way that is far too proud for something so small.

“See? Not so hard.”

So’lek exhales softly. something between a sigh and the hint of a laugh before taking a piece for himself, holding it out toward her in return.

Her smile widens at that.

“Oh, now you want to share—”

“Eat,” he repeats.

She does.

And just like that, it becomes a rhythm between them. Back and forth, the two of them sharing in quiet tandem, her fingers brushing lightly against his lips, his hand steady and deliberate as he offers her each bite in return. There is no rush in the way they move, no urgency in the moment—only care, wrapped in something familiar and deeply unspoken.

By the time they reach the yolvo fruit, Tamtey has already begun to settle further into him, her earlier burst of energy slowly softening into something gentler, something more rooted in comfort than motion.

She hums softly as she takes a bite, her eyes drifting closed for just a moment. “This one’s sweet.”

“I know.”

Her eyes open again, flicking up toward him with quiet amusement.

“…what took you so long?”

The question carries none of its earlier sharpness. No accusation. Only curiosity, gentle and open, as her fingers rest lightly against his arm.

So’lek is quiet for a moment, not because he hesitates, but because he gathers the words carefully before speaking.

“The Resistance needed adjustments,” he begins, his voice low and steady. “Routes were inefficient. Supplies misplaced.”

Tamtey makes a small face at that. “Of course they were.”

A faint flicker of amusement touches his expression.

“And Nor,” he adds.

She groans immediately. “No.”

“Yes.”

“What did he do this time?”

So’lek exhales lightly through his nose before answering. “Entered a clearing without reading it.”

Taletey gasps, scandalized. “Absolutely not.”

“He survived.”

“Well, unfortunately,” she mutters, though there’s a trace of reluctant humor in it, before nudging his shoulder lightly. “You didn’t leave him there, did you?”

So’lek glances down at her, expression calm, almost unreadable.

“…no.”

“Shame.”

“They always need training,” she murmurs.

“They push too hard.”

“That sounds familiar,” she teases lightly, though her hand settles more firmly on his arm, thumb brushing slowly over his skin in a way that grounds both of them.

So’lek doesn’t pull away.

“The hunt was delayed,” he continues. “The animal was persistent.”

Tamtey studies him for a moment, her expression shifting subtly as she takes in his posture, the lingering tension still held in his shoulders. Her hand slides up, resting against him with quiet intention, her touch firm but gentle as she presses into the muscle there.

“You worked too hard,” she says.

She sighs softly and leans in, pressing her forehead briefly against his jaw, her voice softening even further as she speaks again.

“You don’t always have to fix everything.”

“…but I know you will anyway.”

His hand shifts at her back, steadying her, pulling her just a fraction closer in response, his touch firm but careful, as if anchoring her to him in the same quiet way she anchors him.

She melts into it without resistance.

They fall back into their rhythm easily—bite for bite, slow and unhurried. Taletey hums softly as she eats, her fingers slightly sticky from the fruit, though she pays it no mind, still talking, still smiling, still leaning into him like she belongs there without question.

She does.

So’lek watches her for a moment longer than necessary.

Then reaches for her hand.

Not abruptly. Just a steady, familiar motion until her fingers rest in his grasp.

She blinks up at him.

“What—”

He tilts her hand slightly and, without ceremony, leans in to lick the trace of fruit from her fingertips

slowly and deliberately, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Tamtey freezes.

Just for a moment.

And then her entire expression brightens.

“…oh?”

“So that’s what we’re doing?” she says, voice shifting instantly into something playful.

So’lek releases her hand, calm as ever, though there is the faintest shift in his expression.

“You were messy.”

She gasps. “Excuse you—”

“You were messy.”

She narrows her eyes at him, clearly considering her next move, before leaning in closer, inspecting his face with exaggerated seriousness.

“…hold still.”

He does not move.

Not because he has to—but because he wants to see what she will do.

Her gaze traces over his features before she hums softly, satisfied.

“Aha.”

“What.”

“You have something,” she says.

“Where.”

Instead of answering she cups his face and presses a quick, precise kiss to the corner of his mouth, licking away the remnants of the sweet fruit.

“There.”

So’lek blinks once.

Then exhales quietly, something warm settling in his chest as he looks at her—really looks at her in that moment.

“…that was unnecessary.”

She grins, completely unbothered.

“Was it?”

A pause.

“You didn’t stop me.”

He doesn’t answer that.

She settles back against him as though nothing happened, as though kissing him were as ordinary as breathing, her head finding its place against his chest once more while her fingers begin to trace slow, absent patterns along his arm.

“Next time,” she murmurs, “try not to get food on your face.”

“…next time,” he replies quietly, “you try not to get your fingers messy.”

She snorts softly.

“Unlikely.”

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The food is forgotten somewhere between them.

The hammock sways gently, its motion slow and soothing as the night deepens around them, the woven fibers shifting softly beneath their combined weight.

Tamtey leans back just slightly, tugging him with her until they’re both angled enough to see through the opening above.

Stars.

Scattered across the sky like something delicate and endless, distant yet constant.

“Look,” she whispers, pointing lazily. “That one’s brighter tonight.”

So’lek follows her gaze without a word.

He doesn’t speak. But he watches.

Because she wants him to.

Her fingers find his again, absentmindedly tracing along his knuckles as her voice drifts, soft and unhurried, pointing out shapes that don’t quite exist, existing only in the quiet space between them.

He listens. Not to the stars. But to her.

So’lek’s hand rests at her back, his fingers moving in small, absent motions—grounding, familiar, as though confirming without needing to think that she is still there, still real, still beside him.

She tilts her head slightly, her voice slipping into something softer, quieter.

“…So’lek,” she murmurs.

Her fingers shift, trailing along his arm, then down until they rest at his wrist. A quiet question.

He stills for just a moment.

Then his gaze lowers to her.

She’s looking up at him now, eyes half-lidded but clear, something deeper settling beneath the softness. something that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud.

“Come here,” she whispers.

They move together without hurry, the hammock dipping slightly under the shift as they adjust, sitting up just enough to face one another.

Unhurried. Always unhurried with him.

Her hands rise first, gentle as they find his queue, her touch careful, reverent even in its softness. There is no teasing now, no brightness spilling out of her.

only warmth, steady and sure.

So’lek mirrors her, his movements precise but controlled, guiding his own queue forward.

For a moment, they pause.

Close enough to feel each other’s breath, foreheads nearly touching, the space between them thin and quiet.

Her eyes flick to his.

His remain steady on hers.

And then Connection.

The world shifts.

Not in sound, but in presence.

The forest still exists. The night still hums softly around them. The stars remain above, distant and unchanged—but everything else fades, blurring into something that no longer matters.

Tamtey exhales slowly, her shoulders loosening as something deeper settles over her, the restlessness from earlier dissolving completely into stillness.

So’lek’s hand steadies at her arms, grounding but gentle, his presence unwavering, solid in a way that holds without pressing.

It isn’t overwhelming or loud.

but rather warm and full.

Familiar in a way that goes beyond words.

Her forehead rests lightly against his when they settle again, still connected, her breath slow and even now, her entire body finally at ease.

“…hi,” she whispers, like she’s seeing him all over again.

So’lek’s lips twitch faintly.

“Hi.”

A quiet huff of laughter leaves her, soft and sleepy, her hands sliding down to rest against his chest again as she leans into him fully, letting herself sink into the comfort of him.

The bond lingers between them like a shared heartbeat.

No urgency. No rush.

His hand lifts slowly, brushing along her cheek, his thumb settling just beneath her eye, the motion careful, almost absent in its tenderness as he studies her face in the quiet.

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So’lek almost falls asleep.

almost.

“…So’lek.”

A low hum answers her automatically, his hand shifting at her back in a slow, instinctive motion that draws her closer, keeping her anchored to him even as sleep tugs at the edges of his awareness.

There’s a pause, like she’s weighing the words before she lets them go.

“I visited the tsahìk today.”

So’lek’s eyes open.

Not sharply. Not with alarm.

But with awareness, the kind that settles into his body before it ever reaches his expression. He stills beneath her, tension threading lightly through his muscles as his focus narrows, sharpening in that controlled way it always does when something feels off.

“The tsahìk,” he repeats, his voice low, steady.

“Why.”

His hand moves without drawing attention to it, brushing along her arm, then her side, checking without making the concern obvious.

Tamtey feels it anyway.

She lifts her head just enough to look at him—and then she smiles.

Soft. Sleepy.

Bright in a way that doesn’t match his concern at all.

His brow tightens, just slightly.

“You are injured?” he asks.

“No.”

“Sick?”

“No,” she repeats, a quiet laugh slipping out, light and unbothered.

His hand stills against her, his gaze sharpening as it lingers on her face, searching now with more focus, trying to understand what she isn’t saying.

“…then why.”

Tamtey doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, her hand drifts downward, resting lightly against her stomach. small, almost absent in its movement, but entirely intentional.

So’lek follows it.

And for a moment, nothing happens.

Then, it settles.

The realization doesn’t strike all at once; it unfolds, quiet and undeniable, until everything in him goes still.

as though the world has narrowed to that single point beneath her hand.

“…syulang,” he says, more softly now.

She doesn’t speak.

She only watches him, that same gentle smile lingering, her eyes warmer now, holding something she’s been carrying carefully all this time.

His gaze shifts—from her face, to her hand, and back again.

“You are certain,” he asks, his voice lower than before, each word measured with care.

She nods.

“I am.”

So’lek exhales, slow and controlled—but different than before. Something in his chest shifts, deep and steady, unfamiliar in its weight, in its quiet magnitude.

His hand moves, more deliberate than anything he’s done all day, coming to rest over hers where it lies against her stomach. His touch is careful, almost tentative in a way that doesn’t come naturally to him, like he’s aware of something fragile beneath his hands.

“…ours,” he murmurs.

Tamtey’s smile deepens, softening even further as she looks at him.

“Ours.”

His thumb brushes once across the back of her hand, grounding motions that make the moment real, anchor it into something solid.

Taletey watches him, her earlier brightness melting into something quieter, something deeper, her entire expression soft with it.

“You look like you’re thinking too much,” she whispers.

“I am.”

She huffs softly, nudging her forehead against his in a small, familiar gesture.

“Don’t. You’re going to scare it away.”

So’lek exhales quietly, the faintest hint of a smile pulling at his mouth.

“That is not how this works.”

“I know,” she murmurs. “But still.”

His arm tightens around her then, drawing her closer as he leans down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead. the contact deliberate and unhurried.

Then lower.

Just above where her hand rests.

Then she melts into him again, her arms wrapping around him as she buries her face into the curve of his neck, her body fitting against his like it always does.

“You’re happy,” she murmurs.

Not a question. So’lek’s hand settles firmly at her back, steady and sure.

“Yes.”

And now there is something more.

Not just the quiet, steady love they have built between long days and tired nights. Not just them.

Something growing.

Something theirs.

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Her voice drifts up again, softer now, the edges of her words already beginning to blur as sleep pulls at them.

“…we need names.”

So’lek answers with a low hum, his eyes heavy, his attention resting only on the warmth against him.

“We do.”

A quiet pause settles between them, unhurried and full. He can feel her breathing where she lies against his chest, slow and steady, her presence grounding in a way that makes the rest of the world feel far away.

Then, faint but certain, a smile touches her voice.

“It’s going to be something strong.”

“It will be,” he replies, calm and sure.

“And pretty,” she adds, almost immediately, as if the thought cannot wait.

Something soft flickers at the corner of his mouth.

“…and strong.”

She shifts against him, nudging her forehead into his chest in quiet protest, stubborn even like this. “Both.”

His arm tightens slightly around her, keeping her close without effort.

“Both,” he agrees, his voice gentler now.

After that, their conversation loosens, drifting into something softer. Words come slower, less precise, slipping between them like the night air.

“What if it’s loud?” she murmurs, the question barely more than breath.

“It will be.”

A small huff escapes her. “Rude.”

“You are loud.”

“I am expressive,” she corrects, quieter now but no less certain.

A low breath of amusement leaves him, warm and quiet, his hand moving idly along her arm in a slow, absent motion.

“Mm.”

Her voice begins to fade after that, stretching at the edges, her words softening as sleep takes hold.

“But… names,” she insists again, more faint this time, like she is holding onto the thought with the last of her energy.

So’lek does not answer right away.

“If it is a boy,” he says at last, his voice low and steady, “he will earn his name.”

Tamtey hums softly in response, already slipping deeper into sleep, the sound small and content.

“Mhm… okay…”

The quiet lingers again, gentle and unbroken.

Then his voice returns, softer.

“If it is a girl…”

“…we will name her Aha'ri... Like your late sister”

The name settles between them, quiet and certain.

For a moment, Tamtey does not respond.

Her breath catches, just slightly, enough for him to feel it against his chest. The slow rhythm of her breathing stutters, then stills, like something in her has been pulled backward before she can stop it. Her fingers, resting against him, curl faintly into his side.

Not pain, not fully. But the memory of it. The kind that never really leaves.

So’lek feels it immediately.

His arm tightens around her without thinking, grounding, steady. He does not rush to fill the silence. He lets her have it, lets the weight of the name settle the way it needs to.

After a moment, she shifts closer instead of away, pressing her face more firmly into his chest as if choosing this over whatever tried to surface.

When she speaks, her voice is softer than before, but clearer than sleep alone would make it.

“…she would have liked that,” Tamtey murmurs.

His hand moves slowly along her arm, a quiet reassurance.

“She would have,” he answers.

A small breath leaves her, uneven at first, then easing as she settles again. Her grip loosens, though she stays close, closer than before.

“…Aha'ri,” she repeats, barely a whisper now, like she is testing the name in a gentler place.

So’lek dips his head again, resting it lightly against her hair this time, his presence steady and certain.

“Yes.”

୨୧ ─── ♡ ─── ୨୧ ─── ♡ ─── ୨୧ ─── ♡ ─── ୨୧

The hammock continues to sway gently beneath them, mulling them to sleep.

Fingers remain loosely intertwined. Foreheads touch. There are soft, fleeting kisses exchanged in the quiet, carrying everything they do not need to say.

At some point, her words begin to fade.

“…you came back,” she murmurs, barely audible.

“I said I would.”

So’lek looks down at her. Her face is soft now. Lashes resting against her cheeks, lips slightly parted as her breathing evens out. Her cheek presses against his, warm and squishy.

So’lek exhales quietly, the breath leaving him slow and steady as the last of the day finally loosens its hold.

So’lek lets his eyes fall shut, his hold on her firm and certain, unyielding even in rest.

And beneath the soft hush of the forest, they fall asleep together.

୨୧ ─── ♡ ─── ୨୧ ─── ♡ ─── ୨୧ ─── ♡ ─── ୨୧

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