poloroid

N/A: the story is set after the events of Avatar: The Way of the Water, and will develop in Avatar: Fire and Ash.

Ao'nung x Na'vi!reader

Chapter 1: The storm that listens

The storm does not announce itself.

It never does.

It gathers first in the water — a tightening of currents so subtle only those born to listen would feel it. The Tìkara reefs lie sharp and dark beneath the surface, their jagged stone teeth rising from the deep like the spine of some ancient beast. Mangroves claw at the shallows, roots twisted and exposed, refusing the gentleness of sand. Above, the sky is a low, colorless stretch, heavy with unfallen rain.

This is home.

You stand at the edge of the reef where stone drops suddenly into open sea, toes curled against wet rock, bow resting loose in your hand. The wind brushes past you, salt-heavy, carrying the distant scent of lightning. It moves differently today — not stronger, not faster, just… aware.

You tilt your head, eyes half-lidded.

Listening.

Below the surface, life shifts. Fish scatter without predator. Larger shapes sink deeper, abandoning the upper currents. The reef should be loud with movement at this hour, with color and pulse and rhythm.

Instead, it hesitates.

So do you.

“Again,” comes the voice behind you.

You don’t turn.

Your instructor — if that word still applies — stands several paces back, spear planted firmly in the stone. He has been watching you since dawn, like the elders asked, like they always ask now. Not openly. Not with accusation. Just with that quiet, measuring attention that crawls along your spine.

You lift your bow and draw.

The string pulls back smoothly, familiar as breath. Your shoulders settle, muscles aligning without thought. You don’t aim at the target woven from kelp and bone across the inlet.

You aim past it.

Your arrow slips free.

It vanishes into the water with barely a ripple — and a heartbeat later, the current shifts. Just slightly. Enough to curve the arrow’s path as it descends. The shaft corrects mid-fall, guided by instinct rather than sight, and strikes true, splitting the center of the target with a dull, echoing thunk.

Silence follows.

Not the good kind.

Behind you, your instructor exhales slowly. “You felt it again.”

You finally turn, expression neutral. “The current changed.”

“It changed for you.”

That earns him a look — cool, sharp, unimpressed. “Currents change all the time.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “But they do not usually wait.”

You say nothing.

There is no point. You learned long ago that explaining yourself only makes them listen harder, look closer, dig where they should not. So you retrieve your arrow in silence, water slicking over your skin as you wade in, every movement economical, controlled.

You feel it again then — the faintest resistance around your calves, like the sea pausing to consider you.

Annoyance sparks, brief and hot.

Not now.

You push the sensation down, grounding yourself the way you were taught: weight in your heels, breath low, thoughts narrowed to purpose. The water releases you at once, flowing normally again, as if nothing strange has occurred.

Your instructor watches all of it.

𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃

By the time you return to the reef, the elders are waiting.

They sit in a half-circle beneath the wind-carved arch that overlooks the open sea, cloaks pulled close, beads and bones clicking softly with each shift of posture. No drums. No songs. This is not a ceremony.

This is an assessment.

You stop at the edge of the circle, bow slung across your back, twin blades resting at your hips. You do not kneel. They did not ask you to.

The eldest among them studies you for a long moment, eyes reflecting the dull gray of the sky. “The sea moves around you,” she says at last.

“So it always has,” you reply evenly.

A murmur ripples through the others — restrained, uneasy.

“It moves in response,” another elder says. “The wind bends toward you. Stone steadies beneath your feet.”

You tilt your head, just slightly. “Are you accusing Eywa of favoritism?”

That earns a sharp glance. One elder bristles; another looks away. The eldest raises a hand, stilling them.

“We are accusing nothing,” she says. “We are listening.”

There it is again. That word.

You cross your arms loosely over your chest. “Then listen harder. Eywa speaks to all of us.”

“Yes,” the eldest agrees. “But not all of us answer without meaning to.”

The air feels thicker suddenly, as if the storm overhead has leaned closer.

You feel it in your ribs — that subtle pressure, that almost-pull — and clamp down on it hard. Control snaps back into place, cold and precise.

“I have done nothing forbidden,” you say.

“No,” the eldest replies. “You have done nothing yet.”

Silence stretches.

The decision has already been made. You can hear it in the way they avoid your eyes, in the careful neutrality of their expressions. This is not a trial. It is a conclusion dressed as concern.

“There is imbalance beyond our waters,” the eldest continues. “Far to the east. Where the reef softens. Where the clans grow gentle.”

Metkayina.

You keep your face still.

“You will go,” she says. “You will listen. You will find where Eywa’s song strains.”

“And if I do?” you ask.

“Then you will return,” she says — and does not add if you can.

A pause. Then, quieter, “And if you cannot… then distance will protect us all.”

There it is.

Not exile. Never named as such. Just space. Just precaution.

You nod once. “When?”

“The tide turns at dusk.”

Of course it does.

You leave without ceremony.

No one stops you. No one follows. The reef watches in silence as you prepare your gear, secure your blades, check your bowstring one last time. The wind brushes your cheek, almost gentle now, as if curious.

“You don’t have to make this difficult,” your instructor says softly, lingering nearby.

You glance at him, one brow lifting. “I don’t make things difficult. I endure them.”

A flicker of something like pride crosses his face — quickly buried beneath worry.

You step into the water and do not look back.

The sea opens before you.

And somewhere far beyond the horizon, something waits.

𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃

The open sea has no patience for hesitation.

Once the reef drops away beneath you, there is nothing left to soften the world — no sheltering stone, no tangled roots, no familiar currents that know your body as well as you know them. The water deepens to a darker blue, then darker still, swallowing light until the sun becomes only a pale suggestion above.

You swim without hurry.

Speed is for those who fear what follows them.

The Tìkara have always taught endurance over haste, listening over force. Out here, where the ocean stretches vast and indifferent, those lessons settle into your bones. Your strokes are long and measured, tail cutting clean arcs through the water. Every breath is deliberate, every movement chosen.

Still, the sea watches you.

It’s subtle at first — the way the current nudges your left side a fraction more than your right, testing balance. The way pressure shifts ahead of you, as if the water itself is adjusting around your path.

You ignore it.

You’ve learned how dangerous curiosity can be.

As the sun begins its slow descent, clouds gather above, drawn together by invisible threads. They don’t look threatening yet. No thunder. No lightning. Just a thickening of gray that weighs down the sky.

You surface briefly, scanning the horizon.

Nothing but water and sky.

Good.

You dive again, letting the sea close over your head, and focus on the rhythm of your body — pull, glide, kick, breathe. The repetition quiets your thoughts, sharpens your awareness. Below you, the deep opens like a waiting mouth, endless and dark.

That’s when the first real sign comes.

A vibration travels through the water — low, distant, wrong. Not the song of a large creature. Not the rumble of shifting stone. This is uneven, stuttering, like a note struck and left to warp.

You slow instinctively.

The vibration strengthens as you move eastward, weaving through the water like a pulse. With it comes something else — a faint tug beneath your sternum, as if a thread has been looped around your ribs and pulled tight.

Your jaw clenches.

So it’s not just the Tìkara waters.

You adjust course slightly, angling toward the source of the disturbance. The sea responds immediately, current shifting to accommodate you, smoothing your path.

“No,” you murmur into the water, more irritation than fear in your tone.

The current hesitates — then resumes its natural flow.

Good.

You swim on.

Hours pass. The light dims, filtered through thickening cloud cover, and the sea grows restless. Small waves ripple overhead, their shadows sliding across the surface like restless spirits. You surface again, rolling onto your back for a moment to stretch your shoulders, eyes tracking the sky.

The storm is forming faster now.

You can feel it in the air — that charged stillness that presses against your skin, raises the fine hairs along your arms. Wind brushes across the surface in uneven bursts, sending ripples racing outward.

This storm does not feel random.

It feels… attentive.

You flip forward and dive just as the first raindrops strike the surface, cold pinpricks that scatter light. Thunder rolls distantly, low and restrained, as if the sky itself is holding back.

You push deeper, where the noise softens and the water wraps around you like a shield.

The pressure steadies your thoughts.

Until it doesn’t.

A sudden cross-current slams into your side, knocking you off balance. You twist instinctively, tail flicking to compensate — and the water moves with you, surging in the direction you turn, amplifying the motion instead of resisting it.

You correct harder than necessary, muscles snapping tight.

The current obeys again, overcorrecting this time, throwing you forward in a burst of speed that steals your breath.

You stop dead.

Suspended in the water, heart pounding, you force yourself to stillness. The sea settles around you slowly, like a creature calming after being startled.

Your breathing evens.

Control, you remind yourself. Control is survival.

You resume swimming, slower now, senses stretched taut.

Above, the storm breaks in earnest.

Lightning fractures the sky, white-hot and jagged, followed almost immediately by thunder that cracks so close it vibrates through the water. The surface churns, waves colliding and collapsing in chaotic patterns.

You should surface. Reorient. Find shelter.

Instead, you feel the pull again — stronger now, unmistakable.

Not toward the storm.

Toward the reef ahead.

Metkayina waters.

The closer you get, the stranger it feels. The vibration you sensed earlier sharpens into something almost like dissonance, a clash of rhythms that scrape against your nerves. The water here is warmer, clearer, alive with motion — schools of fish darting in coordinated flashes of color, larger shapes gliding gracefully through the depths.

Beautiful.

And wrong.

You surface cautiously near the edge of the reef, keeping low, body half-submerged as you take it in. Towering coral formations rise from the shallows, their surfaces smooth and luminous, nothing like the jagged stone of Tìkara territory. Bioluminescent plants pulse softly as dusk deepens, casting the reef in shifting hues of blue and green.

It should feel welcoming.

Instead, your skin prickles.

You feel eyes on you long before you see anyone.

The storm rages just beyond the reef’s protective curve, waves crashing violently against the outer barrier. Inside, the water is calm — unnaturally so, as if the reef itself is holding the chaos at bay.

You swim forward slowly, every instinct screaming caution.

The tug in your chest tightens, drawing your attention downward — to a fissure in the reef floor where the coral thins and the water darkens abruptly. Something stirs there, deep and heavy, sending out ripples that distort the light.

You hover above it, unease coiling tight in your gut.

This is it.

The wound in Eywa’s song.

𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃

The reef stretches before you, jagged spires of coral and stone jutting from the shallows like the ribs of some slumbering beast. You linger beneath the surface for a heartbeat, letting the tide curl around your form. Every ripple, every subtle vibration of the storm above, whispers secrets. You hear them.

Then you rise. Shoulder breaking the water first, droplets cascading down your skin, your breath calm and measured. The wind carries the salt of the sea and the faint scent of rain. You glide forward, bow across your back, blades at your hips, body taut with control.

Ahead, a lone figure watches. Ao’nung. His posture is firm, spear in hand, eyes narrowing as he registers a stranger emerging from the reef. “Who are you?” he demands, voice steady, edged with caution.

You lift your chin slightly. “That is not important,” you reply evenly. “Yet I am here.”

Suspicion tightens his jaw. “Your clan,” he says. “State yourself.”

Before you can answer, movement erupts behind you. Shadows twist in the shallows, dozens of figures moving with silent precision. The Metkayina clan emerges, warriors of every age and stature, gliding across the shallow surf like predators and protectors. Their presence is immediate, overwhelming, and controlled — Ao’nung stiffens, realizing the reef is no longer empty, no longer just his domain.

They circle you with quiet authority, stopping a few meters out, eyes on the unfamiliar marks that identify you. Your tattoo — above the breast near the shoulder, interlaced waves and jagged stone, faintly glowing beneath your wet skin — is unmistakable. Recognition flashes through the clan, murmurs rippling across the group.

Then, from the shore and the marui, familiar figures arrive: Tonowari, the Olo'eyktan, and Ronal, the Tsahìk, accompanied by some omaticaya. Tonowari’s gaze fixes instantly on your tattoo. “Tìkara,” he says, voice low, recognition sharp. “You bear the mark of the storm-reef.”

Ronal steps forward, eyes narrowing as she takes in the scene. “I have not seen this emblem in years,” she says. “Why are you here?”

Ao’nung’s attention snaps between you and the newcomers, his confusion deepening. He does not yet know your clan. His hand tightens on his spear.

You incline your head slightly, maintaining calm. “I am here because Eywa sings of imbalance,” you say softly. “And I intend to listen.”

Tonowari studies you intently. “And yet you enter our waters unannounced?”

“I had no other choice,” you answer evenly, scanning the reef and the assembled clan. Beneath your feet, the fissure in the reef stirs faintly, a ripple of unrest that you quickly force under control.

Ronal exchanges a glance with Tonowari, and Ao’nung shifts uneasily, together with a girl and another boy. Suspicion and pride coil within him, yet beneath it all, the water itself seems aware of your presence — attentive, waiting, aware.

The marui smells of smoke, salt, and the faint sweetness of sea-fruits. The soft glow of bioluminescent coral along its edges casts flickering light over the gathered faces. Tonowari sits across from you, posture commanding, shoulders squared like the reef itself, while Ronal observes quietly beside him, calculating and deliberate. The Sully family watches from a respectful distance, eyes keen but patient. Ao’nung remains by the edge of the circle, spear still in hand, his stance taut with suspicion.

Tonowari leans forward slightly, gaze fixed on the tattoo above your breast, the faint glow pulsing like the heartbeat of your clan. “Tìkara,” he says, almost reverently. “You come unannounced into our waters. Why?”

You tilt your head, hands folded in your lap, every movement precise. “I follow the tides,” you say evenly. “And Eywa’s song led me here.”

Ronal’s dark eyes narrow, studying your face, your posture, your calm. “Eywa’s song,” she repeats, voice soft but firm. “Do you mean to say there is a wound in our waters?”

“Yes,” you reply. “Something is not right. I felt it on the journey — in the currents, in the stones, in the storm itself. It is deeper than the reef. Far-reaching.”

Ao’nung finally shifts forward, voice low but dangerous. “You bring strangers into our waters with words of imbalance. How can we trust your claim? Who trained you? What is your clan’s purpose here?”

You meet his eyes, steady, controlled. “Tìkara. I am trained to listen, to endure, to act when the song changes. My clan watches the storms. We do not bring chaos. We follow it.”

Tonowari leans back, a hint of approval in his expression, but his voice remains firm. “And yet, you acted alone. The reef has eyes, ears, and currents that speak — yet you bypassed them. Why?”

“I had no choice,” you answer simply. “The imbalance is delicate. Subtle. If I had waited, it would have grown beyond recognition. I act for the sake of the song, not for my pride.”

Ronal gestures toward the marui, inviting you to take a small piece of food offered ceremonially. “You will be fed, Tìkara,” she says, “but you will also answer more questions. We need clarity. Eywa guides us, yes, but caution protects our people.”

You accept the offering, taking it with quiet grace. The water around your feet shifts minutely, almost imperceptible, responding to your presence without revealing your full power.

Tonowari studies you again, gaze lingering on your tattoo. “You carry the symbol of your clan, yet your eyes… they carry storms of their own. What is your true purpose in these waters? And tell me — how did you come alone?”

You exhale slowly, letting the tension settle. “I did not come to fight. I came to listen. I came to act if needed. Alone, because the reef moves differently when I am present. Alone, because the song is mine to hear first.”

Ronal leans forward, voice sharper, eyes studying your face. “And your name?”

You glance at her calmly, letting the words settle in the air. “I am Y/n Seyelanu,” you reply evenly.

Ao’nung’s spear lowers slightly, though the edge of his doubt remains. He shifts, studying you with caution and curiosity. The clan around you — Metkayina warriors, Ronal, Tonowari, even the Sully family — hold their ground, waiting, listening, weighing your words.

Ronal nods slowly. “Seyelanu… then the storm truly walks among us.”

After a long silence, Tonowari leans forward, voice commanding yet deliberate. “You will remain here,” he says, decisively. “The song you follow brought you to us. You will stay in a marui, under observation, until we know what this imbalance truly is. You are Tìkara. That mark is undeniable. You are not an enemy. But you are also not free to leave.”

You nod slightly, keeping your expression calm, letting your mind catalog the room, the reactions, the subtle currents beneath your feet. “I understand,” you say evenly.

Ronal inclines her head once, voice softer now, almost measured in relief. “Then you are welcome — but within the bounds of our caution. Oel ngati kameie, Tìkara. We see you.”

The words settle in the air like a chord, binding you to the marui, to their observation, to the reef itself. Ao’nung glances at the Sully family, at Tonowari, and finally at you, suspicion simmering beneath curiosity, the tension unbroken.

Beneath it all, the reef seems to pulse in quiet recognition. The fissure that disturbed the waters trembles faintly, aware of your presence, aware of the song you have followed. The storm overhead rumbles as if approving, a low, steady heartbeat echoing the unspoken truth: you are here. And the waters themselves know it.

The questioning has ended — for now. But the stay is not voluntary, and the storm within you is only beginning to stir.

𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃

The marui is quiet, but the air hums with tension. Ao’nung’s gaze has sharpened to a knife-edge, every instinct screaming caution. He does not trust you — and neither do you trust the calm he pretends to maintain.

Then, almost imperceptibly, he shifts. The spear in his hands tilts, ready, testing you, testing your patience. The guards notice too late: the stance is aggressive, even threatening.

“You think you can sit here and speak of storms while trespassing in my waters?” Ao’nung hisses, eyes blazing. “Do you understand what you risk?”

“I understand perfectly,” you reply, voice low, measured, every syllable controlled. “But it seems you do not understand me… or the reef.”

His eyes narrow. He lunges.

The movement is quick, sudden — a strike intended to unbalance you. But you are faster. Your twin blades flash from your hips, slicing the air in a blur. Ao’nung parries instinctively, the metal clashing, sparks of sound ringing through the marui.

The guards step back, cautious, their eyes wide. Tonowari and Ronal emerge from the shadows, but you hold your ground, calculating, lethal. Ao’nung’s strikes are strong, precise, but he is young, brash — and you are far more experienced, your movements fluid, almost like the water itself guides you.

“Nga tìtstew fìtsenge teya!” you snap, circling him gracefully, blades glinting. “Nga tsun oe nì’awve! Do not pretend otherwise.”

The word stings, and Ao’nung’s jaw tightens. But there is a flicker — a spark in his eyes that is not just anger. It is curiosity. Respect. And something… more.

You press closer, weaving around him, each movement a test, each strike a question. He blocks, counters, but there’s hesitation now, a tension threading through his limbs, through the air between you. Your eyes meet — wide, unyielding — and for a heartbeat, the hostility and attraction collide.

“You are reckless,” you murmur, voice low enough that only he hears. “Brash, and yet… there is fire in you.”

Ao’nung falters for a split second, chest rising and falling fast, eyes locked on yours. “Fire…” he repeats, a growl slipping into the word. “You speak too easily of things you cannot know.”

“Perhaps,” you reply, voice softening only fractionally, “or perhaps you are too young to recognize them.”

His hand tightens on the spear. Yours is steady. The air around you seems to hum, subtle currents tugging at the edges of the marui, almost reacting to the tension between you — the heat, the danger, the pull neither of you wants to admit.

Another strike, another parry. Ao’nung is fast, strong, but you are precise, controlled, every movement designed to disarm without harm… for now. The dance is lethal, electric, and beneath it all, the unspoken attraction sparks like fire in the storm.

Finally, you step back, letting your blades rest casually at your sides, breathing steady. “Enough,” you say, calm but firm. “You are strong… but not ready.”

Ao’nung staggers slightly, chest heaving, eyes dark and smoldering. He does not speak for a long moment, then mutters through clenched teeth: “Afraid… child, indeed.”

The word hangs between you, half-curse, half-challenge. And yet, even in that moment, the pull between you — something forbidden, sharp, undeniable — tangles with the tension, leaving the air heavy, almost crackling.

Tonowari’s voice cuts through the thick atmosphere. “Enough! Both of you. She stays here, under our protection. You will not fight her again tonight.”

Ronal steps forward, eyes dark with warning. “Both of you. Calm yourselves.”

You sheath your blades slowly, eyes never leaving Ao’nung. His gaze does not falter either. Even as the guards shift around the marui, the tension remains — fierce, dangerous, and electric. And beneath the anger, beneath the challenge, there is something neither of you can deny.

The storm outside rumbles low, as if echoing the current between you.

And for the first time, you sense that this clash — this collision of skill, pride, and desire — is only the beginning.

𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃

Dictionary

Nga tìtstew fìtsenge teya you fight weakly, like a child

居住. if you don’t fight you can’t win ⚔️ ◟⊹ ˚˖ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀like or reblog if you use / save !

It’s not like he deserved to see you in such a state. He was a little out of place, like he didn’t really belong in your apartment. The stools next to the kitchen island were too short for his legs, the mug of tea you had given him was too small for his hands — clearly bought without him in mind.

He ignored how much that thought bothered him. It was rare for him to dwell on trivial, insignificant things. He didn’t have time for that; and yet here he was, slowing down for you.

When he had first met you, he didn’t even remember your name. He didn’t bother to; his brother would bring girls around, but he never spent much energy on them. They never stuck around long enough for him to. He assumed you were just another bad case of Rindou’s love life. He only found out his assumption was wrong when Ran finally commented on your recurring appearance. Rindou’s face contorted with disgust — not because the prospect of dating you was a bad thing, but because your friendship was completely platonic. Ran had noticed how Rin cared for you in a way he didn’t for others — not because you were particularly special, but because you somehow managed to be pulled into their orbit without getting flung away.

Your relationship with Ran, however, didn’t have the same sparks as it did with Rindou, because no matter how Ran put it, you were just a mutual friend. You wouldn’t go to parties if Rin didn’t go; when you came over to their apartment, you spent most of the time in Rindou’s room, and you’d only ask for Rindou’s sweater when you were cold — never his.

Despite this, he had little moments with you that added up — the moments where Rindou would step aside and it’d leave just the two of you. Little moments where you’d call out his name like you knew it intimately.

You weren’t close with him, but you could be.

Is that why he found himself knocking at your door?

You didn’t really question it — simply took him into your apartment with a casualness that implied his presence was a regular occurrence. Which might’ve been partly true, but you hardly saw him if Rindou wasn’t with him. His thoughts started to swim, and he blamed it on the warm vanilla scent that engulfed him. There must’ve been a candle lit somewhere.

“Nice of you to stop by for dinner,” you said, mildly sarcastic before placing a warm plate in front of him. Ran found the gesture oddly domestic — something foreign, but not anything he wouldn’t mind getting used to. He didn’t bother saying thank you.

“Had a fight with Rin,” he replied. “It was bad.”

You laughed at the simplicity of his words, sensing he didn’t want to talk about it just yet.

“Don’t see any bruises,” you retorted, your eyes slightly narrowed to inspect his face under the yellowish light that was typically associated with childhood memories.

“Verbal fight,” Ran said, rolling his eyes at your obvious bait. He shoveled food into his mouth, and you mumbled something about his bad manners before sitting down across from him.

You let your arms naturally fall over the table, hands finding the weight of your face. You let yourself stare at him. Ran stared back. You broke the fragile silence.

“Don’t make this a habit,” you said, your words lacking the usual sharp beat they had when you were being serious.

⌕ rose wilson.

F1 au

⌕ gachiakuta • enjin.