#sullystsicktogether

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summary As the niece of Grace Augustine, responsibility has always shadowed your every step. But this time, you choose to chase it—journeying to Pandora to carry forward your aunt’s devotion to its people and ecosystem. Welcomed into the Omaticaya’s lush rainforest home, you expect purpose and legacy. What you don’t expect is to find yourself entangled in the arms of the future Olo’eyktan.

warnings neteyam x reader, this story canonically happens between the events of Way of The Water and the first movie but the characters ages have been adjusted to fit the story. So neteyam is in his 20s and so is the reader. Some characters are also brought back from the dead bcs I wanted to <3 love my man Tsu’tey .

word count : 1.8k

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Part Three

The next day blooms blue and bright, sunlight filtering through the woven canopy of the tent and warming your skin before your eyes even fully open. This time, you are more comfortable waking up in your new body, having gotten used to it by now, the stretch of longer limbs and the gentle weight of your braid resting along your back no longer foreign.

You await your hike with Neteyam today, even though you have convinced yourself that what Neteyam feels with you is platonic comfort and nothing more, and that you should not escalate things and make him uncomfortable. The prospect of spending time with him, platonic or not, excites you in a way you refuse to examine too closely.

You wash up, cool water running over blue skin and grounding you in the present, before changing into the day’s clothes. The fabric settles naturally now. Familiar. You carry a fanny pack filled with the things you would need for today’s work, fingers moving quickly as the morning fills with the soft clatter of equipment and distant conversation.

As you are consumed in the quiet hustle of packing, Neteyam’s voice cuts gently through the static of movement.

“Hey, Dari.”

You pause.

The name he gave you feels like honey on freshly picked fruit. It tastes sweet in his mouth and comforting in your ears, lingering longer than it should.

“Excited for today?”

You raise your eyebrows. Excited? Could this mean he sees this as much more than a friendly field trip?

“Yeah,” you say plainly, a smile still plastered across your face. “Can’t wait to hike.” The sarcasm is more audible now.

A subtle shift in his posture.

“Oh, there’s no hike,” he corrects you. “Dad said I could take you on my ikran.”

Ikran.

The word settles into your chest before it fully reaches your mind.

“Ikran? No way.” Your face fills with awe as you finally turn to face Neteyam by the tent flap. His posture is a sight of grace and hardness at the same time. Sunlight falls cleanly over his sharp cheekbones. There is an expression of thrill and challenge on his face as he watches your reaction, as if he anticipated every second of it.

“I’m going to fall to my death,” you tell him as you move closer, excitement overtaking fear.

“I’ll catch you,” he says, slow and meaningful, the words leaving his mouth before he seems to consider them. “My ikran will,” he corrects himself.

“Regardless of who or what it is, I just want to be caught,” you reassure him.

That subtle giveaway does not escape you.

“Fair enough.” He nods once, composure settling back over him.

Soon after, the two of you make your way from the tent onto the higher branches where the ikran rookery rests among the trees. The air grows cooler here, wind stronger as it weaves between leaves and woven platforms.

“Wait why did you wake me so early if we’re not going to hike?” You ask him. He doesn’t reply, just tilts his head to the side—his father’s son— and gives you a knowing, mischievous smile. 

Neteyam steps forward and makes a series of sharp, practiced calls, the sounds carrying outward into open sky.

A rush of wings answers him.

A beautiful purple ikran bursts from the trees and lands before him, powerful and precise, folding its wings with a low rumble, dutiful and subservient.

Neteyam strokes its neck, gentle and almost parental.

“You’re taming your ikran,” he declares.

“What? No? No!” You’re excited but scared at the same time. If the idea of flying one had scared you earlier, flying on your own ikran scares you ten times more now.

“Dad asked that you be given an opportunity to form tsaheylu. Thought it would be fun to see you all nervous and floppy,” he says, a smirk pulling at his mouth, barely holding back a laugh.

“No way,” you tell him, eyes widening. “I’m not even trained.”

“You’ve got the kuru. That’s all you need. For now.”

You shake your head in reluctant submission. Neteyam climbs onto his ikran’s neck, sliding forward to make space behind him. You raise an eyebrow at the gesture.

“Climb on,” he says, motioning behind him. “We’re going to the roostery. That’s where you’ll find one.”

“To tame?” Your voice rises with shock. Your disbelief only seems to amuse him. He reaches back, impatient, waiting for you. You take his hand and climb on, settling awkwardly behind him, your knees bracketing his thighs as you try to hold yourself steady.

“Closer,” he murmurs.

It’s soft. Almost a whisper.

You move forward, hesitantly at first, then fully. Your bodies align, fitting together as the ikran launches into the sky. The wind rushes past you as you glide, the forest falling away beneath you.

He lands inside a hill cave layered with stone, a waterfall spilling down one side like a silver curtain. He tells you to move carefully along the ledge. You follow him into a clearing where dozens of restless ikran lie groaning and snapping their wings.

“Find yours,” he says, smiling. “Form tsaheylu.” He nods toward your braid.

“H-how do I even know which one I’m supposed to bond with?” you ask.

“It’ll try to kill you,” he says with a snicker.

He’s teasing, but he stays close. Protective. Not interfering, just watching. You move carefully between them. One lunges. Another shrieks. One sends you tumbling hard onto the stone. Each time you hit the ground, breath knocked from your lungs, you force yourself back up.

It isn’t just about taming an ikran.

You want to prove to him that you can. That you are capable. That you are something more than the girl who follows him through the forest. You don’t know why his approval feels like air in your lungs, but it does.

After a long struggle, you find her.

A beautiful pink ikran with white patterns scattered across her wide body, like snowfall against flushed skin. Her eyes are a striking green. She lunges at you, you hold your ground, and when your kuru connects, the world goes silent.

You name her Hawnu. Snow. For the white that graces her pink.

You and Hawnu rise into the sky.

Neteyam flies beside you, far enough to let you find your rhythm, close enough to protect you if you falter. You let out breathless whoops of joy as you lean into the wind, exhilaration flooding you. The sky feels endless. You feel endless.

When you glance at him, he’s already looking at you.

Like you’ve done something impossible. Like you’ve hung the moon yourself.

You fly deeper into the forest together, cutting through branches and tall grass before landing in a quiet clearing far below. It’s noon. You can feel it in the warmth on your skin.

The forest had been generous that evening. Light poured through the canopy in molten strands, catching in your beads as you and Neteyam walked through familiar paths with an ease that felt newly earned. The earlier tension between you had softened into something almost companionable. You spoke of your ikrans with pride, comparing their speed, their dives, their tempers. He listened with that composed patience of his, correcting you only when your exaggerations grew too bold.

“Your ikran does not dive sharper,” he said, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “You just push her like you have something to prove.”

“She trusts me, okay.”

“She survives you,” he replied, amused.

The forest dimmed gradually around you. Neither of you noticed how far you had wandered until the shadows thickened and the air cooled.

“It’s getting late,” he said, glancing up. “We should head back.”

You agreed and turned toward the direction of the roost. The rustle came suddenly from the undergrowth to your left. It was too heavy to be wind.

Neteyam moved before thought could catch up. His arm wrapped firmly around your wrist and drew you behind him. His body shifted into place, shoulders squared, stance steady.

“Behind me,” he said sharply.

The first viperwolf emerged with a snarl, shoulders tense and eyes fixed. Two more followed, circling in widening arcs. Neteyam’s bow lifted with fluid precision. The first arrow struck clean. The forest erupted into motion.

You moved instinctively, back to his back as another lunged. He turned sharply, but one wolf broke through the side as you pivoted. Its claws raked across his chest before he drove it back with controlled force. He did not cry out. His jaw tightened and he steadied himself.

“Neteyam!”

“I’m fine,” he said through his teeth.

The final wolf retreated after your blade struck close enough to warn. Silence reclaimed the clearing in careful increments. Leaves settled. Insects resumed their distant hum.

You turned to him fully then. A long scratch marked his chest beneath the strap that crossed it. Another thin line traced his left cheekbone.

“That is not fine.”

“It’s nothing,” he insisted.

You guided him to sit upon a patch of cool grass despite his composure. He did not resist. You gathered medicinal leaves and crushed them between your palms, releasing their sharp scent into the evening air. When you knelt before him, the quiet between you shifted.

“Take that off,” you said, nodding at the strap.

He held your gaze for a brief moment before unfastening it. The leather fell away and the fading light revealed the full breadth of the wound. He was built with the disciplined strength of someone who trained not for vanity but for duty. His chest rose steadily despite the scratch that marked it.

You dipped the crushed leaves and pressed them gently against the wound. He inhaled at the cool contact. Not from pain, but from the sudden awareness of your touch. His eyes remained fixed on you, head slightly tilted as if memorizing the exact expression you wore.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not as much as you think.”

As you adjusted the leaves, your eyes caught a faint red marking near his collarbone. It was the clear impression of a small hand.

“What’s that?”

He glanced down briefly.

“That’s from No’ang. My promised. We had molds made of each others hands as kids, it is custom to adorn it every day”

“Oh.”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he added, almost sounding like reassurance.

“Oh.”The word felt heavier the second time. 

The forest seemed too still around you.You know you shouldn’t want this.

The thought rose without permission. You pressed the leaves more carefully this time, your fingers brushing the warmth of his skin. He flexed slightly beneath your touch, not intentionally, but because he felt it.

You moved upward and applied the medicine to the scratch along his cheek. Your fingers lingered there for a fraction too long.

“Thanks,” you said quietly. “For stepping in like that.”

He watched you with an intensity that made your pulse unsteady.

“I’m not going to stand there and let something touch you,” he said. “That’s not happening.”

The words were simple. Not poetic. But they landed harder than anything rehearsed.If this man really was promised, why was he speaking to you as though he were your husband?

He leaned closer, slowly, giving you time to move if you wanted to. His breath brushed your skin. His eyes dropped briefly to your lips before returning to your gaze.

The air tightened.For one suspended moment, it felt inevitable.

You pulled back abruptly and rose to your feet.

“We should go now.”

His expression shifted, confused but restrained.

“Yeah. Okay.”

You mounted your ikrans for the journey back. The wind between you felt colder than before.

When you landed within the territory of the Omaticaya, the sky had darkened fully. He approached you with careful hesitation.

“Hey. If I made that weird… I didn’t mean to.”

You did not let him finish. You turned and walked away before your voice could betray you.

Behind you, he stayed rooted to the spot. Moving forward only after you’d tread far enough to leave a safe distance between you two.

He was promised. Engaged in the quiet political way that bound futures long before feelings had space to interfere. The knowledge struck harder than you expected. It angered you despite your own engagement being equally real and equally complicated.

You resolved to avoid him after this. You felt foolish for caring and furious for feeling wounded. He dealt with you with such passion and care, all the while being promised to another woman who may love him tenfold more than you do. 

As you returned from the roostery, the clearing buzzed with unusual movement. Voices overlapped. Children ran between woven tents. Traders had arrived.

Neteyam, despite the distance you had created, followed the path you had taken, unable to ignore the pull.

The commotion parted as a procession entered the heart of the village. Windtraders draped in layered fabrics carried carved goods and rare materials.