chat do we like the way I do my request 🤔
I feel like it’s a breath of fresh air from the standard hey do this ship with this and this. Like I really put sum passion in there yk? Anyways uh I’ll be back with new requests… thinking roxto next he needs sum love lwk
Writing somethin short for Roxto cause I agree he needs some love
You really aren’t used to the size difference of his hands —broad and rough, calloused and four fingered, yet somehow impossibly gentle as they card through your absurdly long hair. The first time he touched it, you’d flinched, expecting the same impatient yanking you got from human fingers, the tug of frustration at knots built up over months of neglect. But Roxto had just exhaled through his nose, amused, murmuring something about "sky-people haste" before starting from the very ends, working loose each tangle with a patience that felt foreign, almost reverent.
He hums now, low in his chest, as his fingers weave through the strands, not quite a song, just a vibration, something habitual and absentminded that makes the base of your skull tingle. The firelight catches the gold flecks in his eyes when he leans around your shoulder to check his progress, and you catch yourself holding your breath. His breath is warm against your ear when he mutters, "Still so many knots," but there’s no irritation in it, just a quiet determination that makes your ribs feel too tight.
You don’t ask why he bothers. You’ve seen Na’vi hair— thick, wild, rarely longer than mid-back, nothing like the impractical waterfall of yours that tangles if you so much as turn your head too fast. But he’d taken one look at it your first week in the clan and declared, with that infuriating half-smirk, that it was "a warrior’s challenge." And now here you are, months later, with his claws scraping lightly against your scalp as he separates another stubborn snarl, his tail flicking against your thigh when you shiver.
The rhythm of it lulls you— the pull of his fingers, the crackle of the fire, the way his knee presses into the small of your back to keep you from slouching. You should tell him to stop when your eyelids grow heavy, but you don’t. There’s something unnerving about being cared for like this, something that claws at your throat when you think too hard about it. So you don’t. You just let him twist the last section into a loose braid, his thumb brushing the nape of your neck as he ties it off, and pretend you don’t notice how his fingertips linger.
