Pairing: Tarsem x Sully!reader, Jake Sully and oldest daughter!reader
Description: Jake Sully uses his skills as Olo'eyktan to play matchmaker for his eldest daughter.
Based on this request and these suggestions.
Content Warnings: None? Jake is maybe just a hair out of character. I think he would probably be more protective realistically.
Author's note: This takes place in a AU where the humans never came back to Pandora and the Sully's stayed with the Omatikaya. I have been wanting to write for Tarsem for a minute, so this was so exciting for me!! (Why are there no pictures of him at all!! Like nothing! I know he had only a few scenes, but I need more).
Playlist:
Man I Need by Olivia Dean
“Come on, grab your gear, we're going fishing,” Your dad said, clasping his hand on your shoulder as he passed by you. Your mom and Neteyam’s heads shot up at the words, as did yours.
“Fishing?” you asked, “We already have dinner.” He grabbed his spear and waited at the door as you lagged behind, confused.
“Just get your stuff, babygirl,” he sighed, but a slight smile still played on his lips.
“Can I come?” Neteyam asked, forehead wrinkled in question and Jake’s smile wavered at disappointing his son.
“There’s something we need to discuss. Sorry ‘Teyam. Next time,” he answered.
“Uh oh… you are in trouble big sis,” Neteyam teased, turning to you. Externally, you rolled your eyes, but internally your stomach dropped. Even at 18 years old, you still felt like a child being scolded whenever your parents asked to talk to you.
You grabbed your spear and a basket and followed your father outside.
“What is it?” you asked, anxiety gnawing on your gut as he led the way to the river, passing the other families as you walked through the village.
“You’ll find out when we get there,” he replied, shaking his head at your impatience.
Your gut dropped even further when you saw him. Tarsem. Your father’s protege and your nearly life long crush.
He was sitting outside his kelku (home) with his elbows resting on his knees as he braided delicate beads onto his songchord. His little sister played at his feet and made little ikran sounds as she flew a wooden toy around. His mind looked preoccupied as he reached for more beads on the bench beside him.
“Kaltxì Tarsem (Hello Tarsem),” your dad’s voice broke Tarsem’s trance and made you avert your eyes as he looked up. Your dad’s back stopped in front of you to talk to the young warrior.
“Olo’eyktan,” Tarsem said respectfully, standing up and putting his songchord down hastily on the bench. “Oel ngati kameie (I see you),” he greeted your father, signaling the traditional hand gesture to match.
“Oel ngati kameie,” Jake responded.“Kaltxì, little Se’val,” Jake added, saying hello to Tarsem’s little sister. The second his attention was diverted, Tarsem’s gaze slid to yours and you smiled bashfully, feeling like the little girl who first realized Tarsem was growing up to be kinda cute all those years ago.
“Oel ngati kameie, y/n,” Tarsem greeted you as well, his tail snaking around his knee. His eyes locked to yours so intensely it almost made you want to scream.
“Tarsem, Oel ngati kameie” you nodded, meaning the words with all of your heart. He smiled slightly, the corners of his lips curling up a fraction and it made your heart jump.
“How did the hunting party do?” your dad asked Tarsem and he tore his eyes away from you. It felt like a sudden influx of air hit your lungs.
“Good, sir. Three talioang from the East and several yerik from the North as well,” Tarsem explained, recounting the previous day’s spoils as you turned your attention to the little girl still playing on the ground. You crouched beside her, already familiar with her quirky attitude and kind heart.
“Hello Se’val, what is Yipip up to today?” you asked, referring to the purple ikran in her hands.
“He is flying to his home up in the mountains. He has been out hunting all day like Tarsem,” she said, weaving the toy through the air and making it do a loop. You tamped down a laugh as she squawked like an ikran.
“Wow, he must be tired then, that is a lot of work,” you pointed out and she nodded.
“He is very sleepy, he needs to go to bed,” she affirmed.
“Tarsem,” you heard your dad bark. You looked up to catch the young man already staring at you as you spoke with his little sister. His face flamed purple as his head shot to Jake. “Sorry sir, what did you say?”
Your dad’s eyebrows and ears were lowered as he scoffed. “Where’s your head at? I said I need your help with the ritual tomorrow night. Kalu is doing her dreamhunt,” Jake repeated and you stood up, Se’val was in her own world anyway.
“Right, I will be there,” he nodded, avoiding eye contact with you now as if it would burn him.
“Okay…” your dad sighed, “We better be off then. You two have a good night, get some sleep.”
“Tsìltsan txon (good night),” Tarsem said, eyes finally glancing over to you and there went all the air again.
“Tsìltsan txon, Tarsem, Se’val.” you repeated, gut twisting as you tore your gaze away from his and turned your back on the two.
“Bye!” Se’val called, hand waving as her eyes still stayed locked on her game.
Your dad waved back and you turned around to wave as well only to see Tarsem’s eyes on you again. You were like a magnet drawn to him, you could not escape his eyes. Your body whirled back around to follow your dad and you tried to ignore the embarrassment and hope rising in you.
-
“So, what was that?” Your dad asked, his gaze stuck on the water in front of him, but his words were directed at you. You stood side to side in the stream, water up to your knees as you watched carefully for any fish.
Your stomach dropped, “What was what?” you asked, feigning confusion. You were a bad liar, your voice was far too pitchy for someone supposedly innocent and Jake didn't believe it for a second.
“Come on, that back there with Tarsem,” Jake prodded further.
“I don't know what you mean,” you lied. Sirens went off in your head, this was a conversation you did not want to have with your dad.
“You think I don't know my babygirl? I see the way you look at him,” He said and your cheeks flamed.
“Sempu! Is it that obvious?” you asked, hand coming up to put pressure on your temple. This was giving you a stress induced headache.
“Only because he’s looking right back,” he snorted and you closed your eyes in embarrassment. Your ears flattened at the threatened feeling taking over your senses.
“Do you like him?” he asked, finally turning to level his eyes at you, wanting to read your reaction.
You sighed, “This is not something a girl wants to talk about with her dad,” you ground out, shooting him a glare.
“Well I’m not just any dad, I’m Olo’eyktan, so you have to tell me. Do you like him?” he teased and you huffed out a laugh at his persistence.
“Yes, Sempu. I like him, I have liked him for many years.” you admitted, your hand gripping tightly to your spear.
Jake hummed, “Ah, now we get into it. He obviously likes you, why has no one made a move?” he asked, a soft smile gracing his lips.
“Because we are duty bound and shy,” you gritted out.
Jake barked out a laugh, somewhat surprised that you had an actual, honest answer. “Well, that will do it. You should talk to him, tell him how you feel,” he suggested.
It was your turn to scoff, “Yeah right, what if he does not like me back? No, I would rather not know,” you said, embarrassment already clouding your mind of just thinking about that.
“If he doesn't like you back then he’s an idiot and I’ll tan his hide into a new cumberbund,” your dad said stoically and you rolled your eyes at his dramatics.
“Be serious, Sempu,” you chided.
“I am, babygirl! Who wouldn't like you? It’s obvious he does,” your dad said softly, placing a hand on your shoulder.
“I guess I’m just scared. I don't want to have misread him,” you explained, shoulders slumping at the defeated feeling in your gut.
“You’ll never know until you talk to him about it,” he reminded you and you nodded.
“Yeah, I’ll think about it,” you agreed, but you and he both knew that when it came to matters of the heart, you’d never scrounge up the courage unless an opportunity forced you to.
“He’s a good man. No one deserves you and I wouldn’t go that far to say he does, but if someone was to come close, it would be him,” Jake said, looking at his little girl with adoring eyes.
“Thank you, sempu,” you smiled, despite the shame still plastered to your face.
“You know, I could always set up an arranged marriage between you. He'd have to like you then,” he shrugged and you could tell he was joking, or at least you hoped he was.
“That would be just perfect! Why did I not think of that?” You said sarcastically, rolling your eyes as Jake laughed.
“Good, I’ll make it happen,” he teased back.
You sighed looking back down at the water, “We were never gonna do any fishing were we?” you asked as a Pekavol fish finally swam past you and neither of you moved.
“Nope.”
“Figures.”
-
You sat in the grass the next day near the cliffs edge, picking apart blades of grass and staring out into the sky, watching as ikrans dipped and veered. You had been lost in thought all day, so much in fact, that your mother had sent you away after you dropped one too many items and Lo’ak lost it laughing at you.
Your mind was on your conversation with your dad yesterday. Well, that and Tarsem, always Tarsem. He had occupied every waking thought in your mind and it was driving you crazy.
“I’m so sorry!” the very subject of your thoughts exclaimed, bursting through the tree line and scaring half the wits out of you. “I’m so sorry I’m late. I didn't know,” The words rushed out of him like a river as you gaped at him with wide eyes.
You had shot up to your feet when he emerged. “What are you talking about?” you demanded in shock.
Tarsem’s eyes narrowed, “Your dad said you were waiting for me.”
“I wasn't waiting for you, I was just… Oh. Oh no.” you stopped suddenly, eyes widening.
“What?” he panicked, stepping closer to you.
Your shoulders slumped as realization hit you, “He set us up,” you confessed, and Tarsem’s face opened into one of confusion instead of worry.
“I don't understand, what do you mean?” He shook his head.
You sighed again, “He told you I was waiting for you here so we would be forced to talk.”
“Why would he do that? We talk nearly every day," he pointed out.
You decided to grasp the last thread of courage you had and hold tight to it. You were a Sully after all. Your dad had put you in a difficult position, but you might as well take advantage of it, “Because… he says I should tell you how I feel…” you stammered, the words not coming out how you wished.
“How you feel…” Tarsem stated, staring blankly back at you. “How do you feel? Tell me,” he urged.
“That I… like you.” you continued, covering your face with your hands to hide the deep purple it was turning.
You felt rough hands grasp yours, tugging them away from your face and holding them tightly between your bodies. “You like me?” he asked, bright eyes boring into yours.
You nodded, not possessing the will to speak any longer. You could have shriveled up in embarrassment right then if the Na’vi body was capable of it.
His lips broke out into a smile, “That is convenient.” he said and your heart lept, in fear or hope, you were not sure.
“Yeah?” you asked softly.
He nodded, “Yes, because I like you too.” He smiled softly and you returned it.
“Oh!” You exclaimed brightly, “Yeah, that is fairly convenient, since you know, you will be Olo’eyktan, I am in line to be Tsahik. You like me, I like you. It is all very… convenient,” You rambled uselessly as Tarsem grinned wider.
“You are very beautiful when you blush,” he said, reaching up to trace a finger over your cheek and your breath hitched.
“Thank you,” you stuttered.
“You are welcome. May I kiss you?” he asked with more confidence than you imagined him to possess.
“Please,” you sighed as he smiled wider and hooked your chin between his finger and thumb.
He lowered his face to yours, pressing his lips against your mouth softly, barely a whisper of touch before you both relaxed, meshing together. Tarsem brought his other hand to your waist as you rested your hands on his chest, coming closer before finally separating for air.
“You’re good at that,” you chimed, a laugh running through your words.
“Thank you, yawnetu (beloved),” he smiled smuggly.
“My dad is gonna freak,” you muttered.
“We will never hear the end of it now,” he agreed.
“He will probably even threaten to kill you if you hurt me. I might take it seriously if I were you, he has done crazier things,” you explained with a worried grimace.
Tarsem nodded once grimly, “He already did, last week.”
“Oh… and you still like me? That is so sweet,” you cooed.
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prompt: how will the sully family react when they find out that the eldest is pregnant with her mate, tarsem?
pairings: Tarsem x fem!omatikaya!reader, Tarsem x eldest sully daughter!reader
wc: 3.0k
warnings: fluff, touchy feely tarsem, jake being a girl dad, sorta protective dad!jake, kinda suggestive, pregnant reader, family feels.
notes: this has been in the drafts for a while, i love tarsem he needs more fanfics okay bai
You are awakened by something you’ve never felt in your life. An unwanted, thick quest that arrives before you even open your eyes.
In the first blurred moment of waking, before the village has even shaped itself for the morning, there is a hollow weight in your chest.
You feel starved and full at the same time, then you double over and spew all over the floor. Tears fall, almost at once and your hand flies back to clutch Tarsem’s, anchoring yourself.
His heart jumps and he sits up immediately, assessing, watching. Your tail is still, stiff and lifeless, shoulders weak and tense at the same time.
He has never seen you like this.
He straightens, one hand moving around your waist and the other still holding your hand, his fingers curl in yours now, rubbing your knuckles softly.
“Stay upright, slow breaths.. you hear me?” He says calmly.
You sob quietly, the large hammock sways as you rock back and forth in slow motions. Tarsem is there, rubbing your back, massaging your shoulders—because he doesn’t know what else to do, and nothing feels worse.
“I will get Mo’at.”
“Please,” you gasp, head falling onto the hammock, body curling when his warmth is gone.
Tarsem moves straight to Mo’at’s kelku, not stopping to greet any villagers who may still be awake, his focus is entirely on you and getting you the treatment that you need.
He returns minutes later with your grandmother, Mo’at’s eyes narrow slightly when she sees the emesis just beneath your hammock.
“Tarsem, place her on the mats.” She says.
He doesn’t hesitate, he slips one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you from the hammock as if you might shatter in his hands.
Your body feels too heavy and too light all at once and you groan softly, fingers curling in his chest.
“I’ve got you, yawne.” he murmurs, unsure if he’s trying to steady you, or himself.
He lowers you onto the woven mats, one hand covering your shoulder as if afraid to let go completely.
Your breathing is uneven, shallow, and your eyes squeeze shut against another wave of nausea that twists through you.
Your grandmother kneels beside you immediately, her presence is different from Tarsem’s, where his is warmth and urgency, she is stillness.
Her hand hovers near your abdomen first, not touching, just feeling, reading.
Your grandmothers eyes close, calculating, listening to something deeper than what is seen. “Breathe, my grandchild.” She says quietly, though it is not a suggestion—just a command rooted in calm.
You try and your chest stutters for just a second, then slowly obeys.
Mo’at finally places her palm against your stomach. It’s warm, steady in a way that cuts through the dizziness just slightly.
“This is not sickness of the body alone,”
Tarsem’s jaw tightens. “Then what is it?”
Mo’at’s gaze shifts to your face, studying the tears that haven’t stopped, the way your body curls inward instinctively—as if protecting something you don’t yet understand.
“This is change.”
Tarsem glances at you, then back at her. Confusion flickering across his face. “Change?”
Mo’at does not answer him immediately. Instead, she presses a little more firmly against your abdomen, and something in your body reacts, subtle, but unmistakable.
Her ears tilt back slightly, and she smiles. “You are not empty,”
Even through the nausea, the weakness, and the strange fullness, you feel it. Something shifts in your chest that has nothing to do with pain.
Tarsem freezes. “Tsahik, what do you mean?”
Mo’at finally looks at him completely. “She carries life.”
Tarsem’s hand finds yours again, this time it is different, he his holding you. “Are you certain of this?”
“Yes.” Her hand never leaves your abdomen, she places a soft kiss to your temple. “You will see me again when I call for you.”
“Yes, grandmother. Don’t tell dad yet, or mom.”
She smiles mischievously. “I will not.”
You nod softly, then your eyes drift to Tarsem, low and tired. Your fingers tighten slightly around his.
“How do you feel?” He asks quietly, leaning to kiss your temple. His eyes search yours like the answer might change everything.
Tarsem doesn’t rush you.
He doesn’t move his hand away, even as the moment stretches, even as the weight of what was said settles deeper into both of you. His palm stays warm against your stomach.
Your body still aches, still feels unfamiliar, but something inside you has shifted. The nausea, the weakness.. they’re still there, but no longer frightening in the same way, just overwhelming.
Your eyes drift half-shut, lashes damp, and your voice comes out softer than you expect. “I feel strange.”
“We will figure this out, my love.”
“I don’t know how my father will react..”
Tarsem freezes for a second, offering you a side glance. “He won’t react before we are ready for him to.”
“No. he won’t.” You smile.
Later, you and Tarsem sit surrounded by your family in their kelku. Jake passes around tiny bowls of teylu, Neytiri organizes portions of meat and paskalin.
Neteyam displays portions of drinks, and Kiri helps with the roasting. Lo’ak and Tuk laugh about something stupid in their corner of the hut and you…
You and Tarsem remain seated in complete silence. Tense and unmoving.
The fire crackles between you and your family, Jake hands you the food, your mother plates it for Tuk—it’s a happy mess.
You eat a bunch, Tarsem occasionally wipes your mouth with a cloth and makes sure to remind you that you should slow down.
Of course, your family notices the silence—but they don’t comment on it. Dinner drags on for what feels like hours until the food is gone, the only sound left being the fire, and your family’s conversation.
You stand to assist your parents in cleaning bowls and utensils. “Papa,” you say, “can you pass me that bowl there?”
Your father passes you the bowl immediately, kissing your head as he passes. Jake pauses suddenly, turning to look at you.
“What’s that smell?” He says.
“Hm?” You ask without looking at him.
“You smell like your mother when she was- you pregnant?”
You turn sharply, the bowl almost slips from your fingers. “Dad!”
“What?! I’m just asking! I mean it’s, it’s normal- it’s okay to be pregnant.”
“I am not pregnant!” You almost hiss, brushing past Tarsem and shoving the bowl in his chest a little too hard.
He catches it instinctively, glancing at you over his shoulder. He turns slowly to face everyone, they’re all staring at the entrance where you left.
Tuk and Lo’ak are no longer laughing, just staring—eyes wide in confusion. Your mother shoots your father a pointed glare, he shrugs.
“What did I say?”
You and Tarsem continue to visit Mo’at secretly, she determines that you are seven weeks along—a likely result of your mood swings and morning sickness.
You are in the training grounds when your mother comes by—Tarsem, pressure flaking a newly crafted bow, straightens when he sees her.
Neytiri watches you train for a moment, the way you intake more breath than usual, and the way you very often glance down at your belly before releasing an arrow.
What she watches the most is your chest, your breathing pattern, and the way your breasts have curved into something larger.
She steps closer, her hands smooth through your hair—it is moist, moist with sweat. “ma’ite,” she sighs. “You are breathing heavier than usual, are you hurt?.. or tired?”
“No.” You say, shifting again.
Tarsem moves closer, very subtly. Neytiri smiles then, “you are carrying new life.” She says not a question, just a truth.
Your eyes skim over her expression for a second before moving back to the target. “Yes.” You whisper.
Her smile grows, a hand moving down to your belly. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Tarsem and I have only just mated… it felt too soon. We were careful, I promise.”
“It does not matter. You are my eldest. The life you carry is a blessing, not something to hide. You are not standing apart from this family, you are growing it.” She reassures, one hand cupping your cheek. “You are loved, always. Did you think your father and I did not face the same fears when we first had you?”
You smile softly, wiping tears you hadn’t realized were falling. “Don’t tell dad yet.” You laugh.
“You wanna repeat that?” His voice cuts through the space, not loud, but sharp enough to still everything.
“Yes,” Jake nods once, jaw tight. “I did, just makin’ sure I didn’t imagine it.”
Your eyes finally lift to him, “dad-“
“I was right,” he interrupts. “How long?” There is no anger in his words.
“Seven weeks..” you admit quietly.
Jake runs a hand over his face, pacing once, and then another time—like he needs to move or he might explode. “Seven weeks,” he repeats under his breath.
His eyes flick to Tarsem. “And you didn’t say anything?”
Tarsem straightens, shoulders squared despite the tension. “It was a mutual decision, sir.”
Jake studies him for a long moment, measuring. “Nobody thought to tell me?” His eyes go back to you.
You swallow. “I was going to.. I just needed time.”
Jake huffs a breath, shaking his head slightly. “Baby girl, you don’t get seven weeks of ‘time’ on something like this.”
“I only found out two weeks ago.”
Neytiri finally turns fully toward him. “Jake. She does if she needs it.”
Jake glances at her, something unspoken passing between them, before his shoulders drop, just a fraction.
Silence stretches, then he looks at you again. At the way you’re standing, the slight tension in your body. The way your hand hovers—without realizing—near your stomach.
Something in him shifts. His voice, when he speaks again, is different. Softer. “C’mere, you okay?”
You edge nearer and he pulls you in, your forehead against his chest.
Your lips part, and for a second, you can’t answer. “I’ve been sick,” you admit. “Tired.. everything feels strange.”
Jake nods slowly, “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That sounds right. Your mom was the same, knocked her flat some mornings.”
That seems to calm something in him.
“I love you, we’re here for you.” he mutters into your hair.
You let out a shaky breath, gripping his arm. “I know.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you again, hands still on your shoulders. “You’re gonna be a mom, my baby’s having a baby” he says, like he’s still processing it himself.
A small, disbelieving huff of a laugh escapes him. “Damn.”
His gaze shifts to Tarsem again, lingering a second longer this time. “You and I are gonna talk later,” he adds, not unkindly, but definitely meaning it “just focus on takin’ care of yourselves.”
His hand squeezes your shoulder once more, steady and sure. “Let’s get you home, you need rest.”
Jake guides you gently, Tarsem holding your arm at the opposite side.
You can barely make it inside without everybody noticing, not because anyone says anything, but because of your father’s protective gestures; a hand on your arm, one on your back.
Tarsem being around longer than usual, holding you, helping you with everything, barely going on hunts any more.
Lo’ak is the first to speak. “What’s going on?” He asks, glancing between all of you.
Kiri looks up from where she’s sitting, head tilting slightly. Tuk pauses mid-sentence, eyes bouncing between faces.
Neteyam doesn’t say anything but he’s watching.
“You wanna tell ‘em?” Jake asks exhaling through his nose, squeezing your shoulders briefly.
You hesitate, kinda, then.. “I am with child.”
Silence falls, absolute. Lo’ak blinks, when his eyes open, they are wide. “What? You’re what?”
Tuk gasps, loud and dramatic, hands flying to her mouth.
“You’re joking? Nah.” Lo’ak says.
“I’m not.”
“Oh..”
Kiri goes still, eyes softening almost instantly. Neteyam straightens slightly, processing, eyebrows raised.
“There’s a baby here?!” Tuk pokes your stomach.
“Yes-“ you laugh weakly.
“Let me touch!”
Jake’s lifts a hand. “Easy.”
“It’s okay.” you murmur.
Lo’ak drags a hand down his face. “No way. no way.” Slowly, his head turns to Tarsem. “You?”
Neytiri’s ears flick. “Lo’ak.”
The next day, you’re sitting near the fire, picking slowly at food while Jake watches as if you’ll fly away if he doesn’t.
“Eat a little more, babygirl.” He says, nudging the bowl back toward you.
“I am,” you mumble.
Tarsem sits close behind you, arms locked around your waist, head resting against your shoulder—almost asleep, tired from the long morning hunt.
Neteyam is across from you, sharpening something, Kiri is nearby, half listening, half somewhere else entirely.
Lo’ak is lounging, which is bad in itself. He glances at you and Tarsem, a grin slowly forming like he’s been holding onto something all morning.
Neteyam notices and nudges his shoulder subtly, but he doesn’t care. “So, I've been thinking, right?”
Jake doesn’t even look up. “That’s new..”
Lo’ak smirks, “about how fast this all happened.”
You freeze, listening. Tarsem pauses behind you.
“You are talking about my mate.” Tarsem says, muffled against your shoulder.
“Lo’ak,” Neteyam follows, but he doesn’t stop, just saying things without thinking.
“I mean, what? I’m just saying, seven weeks is-“
“Lo’ak.” Jake warns
Like a complete idiot, Lo’ak keeps going. “they’ve been mated for two months, they had to be busy..”
His eyes widened as if he wasn’t the one saying it, a hand slapping against his mouth.
Tarsem fails at holding you back, despite the small giggles escaping your lips, you launch yourself at Lo’ak, pinning him down and punching his chest.
“Off!” he yells, pushing you away, laughing.
“Stop teasing him.”
“Fine!”
Your family doesn’t stay away, you sit inside, weaving with Kiri. “How do you feel, ma tsmuke?”
“About the baby?”
“Yes,” she sets down her equipment, taking your hand.
“Nervous. Tarsem is ready, I can feel that he is.. I’m more nervous about myself.”
“You will be the greatest mother. My only tip is to never leave your child with Lo’ak.”
“Yeah.. that was never really an option.”
“Good..”
Neteyam comes in, hands clapping your shoulders. “You feel okay?”
“Yes, just tired.”
“We’re going on a hunt. Kiri, come.”
“I am not hunting.” She says.
You crawl closer to her. “Then go roll in the riches of the forest like you love to do.”
She giggles when you ruffle her hair.
The rustle of the doorway catches your attention, it is Tarsem.. “My love, I am staying here with you.” He breathes, crouching beside you.
“Good.” You murmur, half teasing, half appreciating.
Your siblings leave and relief floods your body, you immediately turn to face your mate.
“We have not had any alone time in so long. My family is glued to me because of this baby.” You take his hands, guiding them to a comfortable place on your thighs.
“I agree, but I like to see them happy.”
“Me too, I just miss you so much, sometimes it feels like I’m forgetting to ask how you are feeling about all of this.”
“I could not be happier,” he says, hands riding up and down your thighs now.
Your cheeks flush, hands moving up to rest against his shoulders.
He pulls you in, fingers squeezing the bottoms of your thighs, guiding you onto his lap. “Tarsem-“ you try, but his lips catch your words.
“mm,” you hum, one hand curling in his braids.
You’re completely lost in him when he deepens the kiss, fingers tightening in his braids, body moving slowly against his.
“Be careful,” he murmurs, but his own actions betray his words.
He moves slow, and you lean into it without thinking, your breath catches, a soft, involuntary sound escapes from your lips. “Tarsem-“
It’s quiet, barely more than a whisper—sounds that he’s obviously heard before. But that always does it for him.
His hands cup your breasts, kneading gently. Another, unplanned, small sound pulls straight from your chest.
Tarsem pauses mid kiss, panting heavily, head cocking back. You don’t notice the sound of the hut’s flaps moving, or the stillness around you until you hear a sharp inhale from the doorway.
Your eyes snap open too late, Neteyam, Kiri, Tuk, and Lo’ak stand there frozen for one second and then Lo’ak breaks. A wheeze escapes him, and his shoulders tremble violently. “No way I just heard that.”
You jerk back from Tarsem so fast you nearly fall off of his lap. “Lo’ak—“ you start, horrified.
“Ohh my eywa…” he gasps, straightening just enough to look at you. “Tarsem-“ he repeats in a painfully accurate, breathy imitation.
“Stop!”
Kiri turns away immediately, biting her lip to keep from laughing. Shoulders trembling.
Tuk just stares. “What noise was that?”
“Nothing!” you snap, face burning
Lo’ak clutches his chest like he’s been personally attacked. “don’t lie. that was not nothing!”
Tarsem is still behind you, watching your tail flick. “Lo’ak. You will stop speaking now.”
Lo’ak points at him immediately. “Bro she said your name.”
“Lo’ak!” You scream, “stop! I am trying to have some alone time with my mate and that I cannot even do!”
Tarsem is suddenly more alarmed than he was before, standing and pulling you against him.
Lo’ak’s eyes widen and Kiri just rubs your arm. “She is hormonal.” She says.
“Oh yeah, we can tell.” Lo’ak is still teasing and Neteyam slaps the back of his head.
“Get out!” You yell, pushing him away, guiding Neteyam and Kiri away after him.
They leave in a couple of hurried steps, Tarsem pulls you into him within seconds. “It’s okay,” he murmurs.
“I am so embarrassed.”
“I know.” He laughs. “You said my name.”
“Tarsem,”
“yes?”
“be quiet.” You warn, but you stay calm against his chest.
“They will love this child,” he murmurs.
“I know,” you reply, your voice steadier now. “I feel that they already do.”
For a moment, neither of you speak.
The fire crackles low. The forest hums beyond the walls, your family’s chaos carries on just outside. but in here, wrapped in his arms, with his hand over yours and both over something new.. something growing, everything feels exactly where it should be.
Description: After learning that your family needs to leave the forest, you and Tarsem make a last-minute decision.
Warnings: Slight mentions of violence. Angst with a happy ending.
Word count: 1.2k
A/n: I know I haven't posted in a bit. Here's something short I've been working on! It can be read as a standalone or as part two of this post. I am hoping to get part four of Hidden Feelings out this week!
Courting Tarsem was the best decision you ever made. Every day better than the last, you often found yourselves running through the forest, sharing brief, stolen kisses. Kisses that took your breath away every time. It still felt as if the courtship was fresh. Your father had eventually come around to the idea. Tarsem was one of his finest warriors; along with being strong, he had a good heart. He had proved himself to your father, the Olo'eyktan.
Your courtship was coming to an end. This was a good thing; you are to be mated soon. Your head filled with nervous excitement as the weeks drew closer. Tarsem was just as bad for you. All he could think of was how soon you would be mates.
However, this became a problem when Jake started to notice him slacking off during training.
“Tarsem, where is your head at? You’re slacking off,” Jake said to him, a stern expression on his face.
“I- I’m sorry, sir, I’ve been distracted.”
Jake scoffed at this, looking up as he ran his hand down his face. “Look, I get it, you're going to be mated soon. I need you to get your head in the game before you get yourself killed, and I have to be the one to tell my daughter.”
Tarsem nodded his head quickly, letting the weight of Jake's words lie heavy on his shoulders. He was right, of course. Now was the worst time to slack off, and you needed him.
So, from that moment forward, Tarsem focused harder on training. He needed to be the best warrior he could be, for the clan, for you.
You often spent nights together after training, gazing up at the stars, or lying comfortably by a river's edge. It was always perfect, something that could go undisturbed, peaceful. Tonight, it seemed Eywa had different plans.
The moment between you and Tarsem was cut short by the familiar voice of your father breaking through the comms.
“I need you to come home now,” He said roughly, like there was no room to argue; it was final.
Begrudgingly, you moved to stand, not before catching Tarsem's lips in a kiss goodbye.
“I promise we will spend more time together tomorrow.”
With that, you were off, off to see what was so important that it needed to be discussed right this instant.
It definitely was important. As you approached your family's kelku, you saw your siblings kneeling on the ground, ears pinned forward, straining to hear what your parents were discussing privately. Quickly, you kneeled to join them. You could not make out much, but you did hear enough.
Your mother's words sliced through you like a blade just sharpened. “You cannot ask this, I can not leave my home.”
Your body went cold, your mind filling with thoughts. You turned to your siblings for answers, to which they answered with the truth. Quaritch had returned; he was hunting us, hunting our father. Not able to listen any further and not speak up, you stormed into the kelku. Your parents looked up at you in surprise. Before they had the chance to speak, you did.
“We cannot leave,” your words came out as a painful, broken whisper.
“Babygirl, we have to; it is not safe for us here. The people's lives are in danger the longer they harbour us.” Your father was right, but you would not hear his reasoning.
“I will not leave. Tarsem and I are to be mated soon.” You could not believe this was happening. How could he suggest such a thing?
“I know, I know, but we must do this. Tarsem will be Olo’eyktan, and when we return, you can be mated to him. It will just have to take more time.” With wet, hot tears flowing down your face, you turned and ran out of the kelku. You needed to find Tarsem. You would not allow this to be the end.
After some searching, which did not take very long, as Tarsem had been lingering nearby, you found him.
“Tarsem! It is just awful, they cannot do this!” You cried out, falling into his arms, weeping into his chest.
He grasped the back of your head, shushing you softly. Your body felt as if it were filled with lead, the weight of what is to come bearing down on you, like an unstoppable force.
“Yawne, breathe for me, tell me what is wrong.” His voice was much calmer, grounding you, bringing you out of your despair.
“My father says we have to leave, that it is not safe for us here. He says you will be Olo’eyktan.”
Tarsem's ears pinned back at this, clearly taken by surprise. Out of all the things he expected you to say, this was far from any of them.
“We- we are to be mated soon. Surely he does not expect you to leave with them?”
You shook your head sorrowfully at his words. “He says that we are to wait for our return before we make the bond.”
His face drained of all color at this. He gripped you tighter as he held back tears. This could not be the end. You were so close, so close to becoming mates. It could not possibly be ripped from you now.
“We must do something, Tarsem. We cannot let this happen.” You looked up into his eyes, searching for any answers he may have.
“What are we to do? You and I both know your father will not back down from this.”
Suddenly, an idea bloomed in your mind. It seemed stupid, reckless, but it did not seem as if there was any other way.
“What if we make the bond tonight. If we are mated, my father cannot separate us then. I would stay here with you.”
Tarsem's face held no doubt, no uncertainty, only unwavering devotion. He nodded, reaching for your hands to hold in his own.
“Are you certain? Your family would leave without you.”
“I choose you, Tarsem.”
With that, it was final. You made your way to the tree of souls, kneeling on the moss below, facing one another. With shaky hands and pounding hearts, you both reached for your kurus. You locked eyes with Tarsem, looking for one last sign that he wanted this. You found no doubt. When you made tsaheylu, you gasped and fell forward into him. You both clung to one another as you felt each other through the bond. You felt his devotion, his love, his bravery towards the impending role as Olo’eyktan. He felt your fear, your unwavering love for him, for your family.
You spent a long time like this. Feeling each other, body, mind, and soul.
“We are mated for life now,” You whispered to him as you lay in his arms. He pressed his lips to your hair in response, tightening his grip on you.
Now, nothing could separate you, not war, not fear, and not your father.
contains — just a sappy smutty drabble, love making, oral f recieving, he is an eater idc, p in v, praise, dirty talk, fluff, aftercare, tarsem and reader are mated
word count — 1.0k (excuse any typos)
Tarsem, who despite his soft innocent face, could be incredibly passionate and bold when he wanted to be. Even when making love to his mate, there were moments when his intensity would overwhelm her, his eyes reflecting the unwavering desire that consumed every inch of his body when watching her during their acts of love.
He would offer hot open mouthed kisses slowly along her neck, between her breasts and down her stomach, taking all the time in the world as his eyes never tore away from her face. Tarsem would drink in the twitching of her lips, the furrowing of her brows and the fluttering of her lashes, large firm hands sliding up her sides, leaving goosebumps to scatter in their path. Resting his palms against her ribs, he would relish in the feeling of the deep flaring of her lungs with every shaky inhale she took. She would look down at him as he kissed her stomach and he’d catch her gaze with sharp hooded eyes, sharing an all-consuming look he could only give her in the privacy of their own space.
Not only does Tarsem use his mouth to pepper his mate’s skin in kisses, but he also puts it to good use between her legs. As she lays bare on top of soft and silky blankets in their shared kelku within High Camp, a small and slowly dying fire sputters and whispers close by as it dimly lights the space and their bodies, Tarsem wets his lips with his tongue before pressing them against her inner thigh with a grumbling exhale. He keeps his eyes on her face as his warm slick lips kiss along her thighs, hands gently rubbing and mindlessly caressing her hips, hipbones, stomach and upper thighs.
He doesn’t like to tease or deprive her for too long, feeling guilty pretty quickly, but he gets her close to that point of audible begging. The moment she lets out a small breathless plea or his name falls from her pretty lips in a hushed desperate voice that makes his heart skip a beat, he is quick to divert his kisses straight to her cunt.
Wasting no more time, Tarsem drags his tongue through and up her wet slit circling her clit with the tip of the soft muscle, his fingers curling into the front of her thighs and forcing them down on top of his shoulders making sure they stay still there. As his tongue works mostly on her clit, lapping and circling at the bud, he takes in her body; absolutely infatuated with how her abs tighten and tense, how her hips buck and twitch, how she doesn’t seem to know what to do with her arms or hands as they fist the blankets, cover her own noisy mouth or - his personal favourite - rake their shaky stiff fingers through his braids and push down against his scalp.
When she finishes against his mouth, Tarsem can’t help the choked and throaty moan that comes from his mouth, which only causes his mate to come harder. He comes back up to hover above his lover, his puppy dog eyes completely glued to her own — a stark contrast to the bedroom eyes he gave earlier, and he waits as she catches her breath. When she does, she cups the side of his face and hums, “you’re so good, Tarsem.” A long exhale leaves his lungs at her sweet sweet words and he tilts his head to kiss her wrist, before leaning down to press his face against her neck and jaw, scenting her affectionately utterly devoted.
Praise is something Tarsem likes to give just as much as he likes to receive it. He purrs out the words directly from his heart, speaking his true passion against his mate’s skin, “you are so beautiful, ma yawntu, so so pretty.” “Your body is so warm, I don’t ever want to let you go.” “Did that feel good, tìyawn? Hm, let me make you feel good some more.”
However when he’s finally inside of her, Tarsem can hardly string together coherent sentences, starting off with a broken gasp and a trembling strained groan as her snug warm walls wrap around his length. He ends up panting and grunting in her ear, guttural and wanton, “hah— mm, you feel so good— too good.” “There? You— you like it there? There you go— tell me how that feels.” “You’re doing so well, ma yawntu— so so well.” “Here— put your leg up, yeah— like that— that’s all I need, all I need.” “Relax, hng—hah— let me make us feel good— let me do it for you.”
After they both finish — which he tries his absolute best to make sure they do together (however he sometimes finishes too early, getting ahead of himself or she mewls out his name in such a needy way that without warning makes him instantly come. Right away Tarsem will murmur apologies, flustered and almost distraught, wanting to make it up to her. He does, waiting until he’s hard again which for him is incredibly easy with a view of a restless flushed goddess beneath him. When hard he will give it to her however she wants, whatever makes her eyes roll back and renders her speechless and choked up. And if she finishes before him, if she’s up for it, he’ll make her come again, doubling down to make her understand how sorry he is) — he will then turn over onto his side instantly, not wanting to collapse and squash his mate, gently nudging his nose beneath her jaw and breathing in her smell.
Tarsem is touchy afterwards, caressing and tracing her stomach until she has grounded herself, which he will then guide her onto her side and himself onto his back, letting her lay atop him with her head on his chest and her leg draped over his thighs. He’ll hold her gentle and firm with pure love and care dripping from his fingertips and onto her skin, tracing patterns and swirls along her thigh, hip and waist, his other hand stroking or playing with her hair. “You are precious to me, ma yawntu,” he’ll murmur as he kisses the top of her head.
Tarsem x Reader
You and Tarsem are expecting your first child, and Tarsem ensures that you want for nothing.
Masterlist
You remember the moment you told him with perfect clarity.
It lives in your chest like something precious and fragile—a memory you turn over in your hands when the weight of now feels too heavy. When your back aches and your hips throb and you can't find a comfortable position no matter how many cushions Tarsem arranges. When you're tired and irritable and your body doesn't feel like your own anymore.
You go back to that moment.
You'd been nervous. Terrified, actually. Your hands had trembled as you'd led him away from the village, away from the training grounds where he'd been working with the younger hunters, away from everyone. He'd followed without question, concern already creasing his brow, his hand warm and steady in yours.
"What is wrong?" he'd asked the moment you were alone, his voice low and urgent. His eyes had searched your face, looking for injury, for fear, for whatever had made you pull him away mid-afternoon. "Are you hurt?"
"No." Your voice had come out smaller than you'd intended. "No, I'm not hurt."
"Then what—"
"I'm pregnant."
The words had fallen between you like stones into still water.
He'd gone completely still. Not the stillness of calm, but the stillness of shock—his whole body frozen, his breath caught somewhere in his chest. His eyes had gone wide, his lips parting on a word that never came. For a terrible, endless moment, you'd thought maybe you'd made a mistake. Maybe he didn't want this. Maybe—
Then his hands had moved.
Slowly. Reverently. Like you were something holy he was afraid to break.
He'd reached for you, his palms settling on your belly with a touch so gentle it made your throat tight. His hands had been trembling—this man who never trembled, whose hands were always steady on a bow, always sure—and you'd felt the tremor of it against your skin through the thin fabric of your top.
"Pregnant," he'd repeated, his voice barely a whisper. Not a question. A prayer.
"Yes."
His breath had shuddered out of him. His forehead had dropped to yours, his eyes closing, and you'd felt the wetness of tears on his cheeks—or maybe they were yours, you couldn't tell, couldn't breathe past the emotion rising in your throat like a tide.
"Our child," he'd whispered against your skin, his voice breaking on the words. "You're carrying our child."
"Yes."
His hands had pressed more firmly against your belly then, still trembling, still so careful. Like he was trying to feel something that wasn't there yet, trying to connect with the life you'd only just discovered. When he'd pulled back to look at you, his eyes had been bright with tears and wonder and something so fierce it had stolen your breath.
"I love you," he'd said, his voice rough and raw. "I love you. I love you both."
And then he'd kissed you—deep and desperate and tender all at once, his hands cradling your face like you were the most precious thing in all of Pandora. When he'd finally pulled away, he'd rested his forehead against yours again, his breath warm on your lips.
"Thank you," he'd whispered. "Thank you for choosing me. Thank you for this."
You'd started crying then—really crying—and he'd held you while you shook with the weight of it all. The fear and the joy and the overwhelming reality of what was coming. He'd held you like he'd never let go.
That was months ago.
Now, your belly is round and heavy with the child he'd trembled to touch. Now, his hands know the shape of you pregnant, the way the baby moves beneath your skin, the places that ache and need his careful pressure. Now, you're so close to meeting the life you made together that you can feel it in every breath.
But you remember that moment.
You remember his trembling hands and his broken voice and the way he'd looked at you like you'd given him the world.
You remember, and it steadies you.
You wake to discomfort.
It's the first thing you're aware of—not the soft light filtering through the woven walls of your alcove, not the distant sounds of the village stirring to life, but the deep, persistent ache in your lower back. The weight of your belly pulls at you even lying down, and your hips throb with a dull pressure that makes you want to shift but also makes shifting feel impossible.
You're so tired of being heavy.
The second thing you're aware of is that Tarsem is already awake.
You feel his gaze before you open your eyes—that particular quality of attention that's different from sleep, different from absence. When you finally blink into the dim morning light, you find him propped on one elbow beside you, his golden eyes soft and watchful. There's no surprise in his expression when you meet his gaze. Just that quiet, protective tenderness that's become as familiar as breathing.
"How long have you been awake?" you murmur, your voice rough with sleep.
"Not long." His hand moves to your face, his thumb brushing your cheek with a touch so gentle it makes your throat tight. "How do you feel?"
The truth is you feel like a beached tulkun—ungainly and uncomfortable and trapped in a body that doesn't quite feel like yours anymore. But the way he's looking at you, the reverence in his touch, makes you soften.
"Tired," you admit. "My back hurts."
He nods like he expected this. Like he's been cataloging every discomfort you've had for weeks and has already prepared for this one. "Let me help you up."
He moves with careful precision, rising first and then offering you both hands. You take them gratefully, and he pulls you upright slowly—so slowly—letting you adjust to the shift in weight, the way your center of gravity has changed. His grip is steady and sure, and when you're finally sitting, he doesn't let go. Just holds your hands in his, his thumbs tracing small circles against your palms.
"Better?"
"A little."
He reaches behind him without looking, and you realize he's already prepared a cup of cool water, already arranged the cushions at your back for support. He must have been awake longer than he admitted—long enough to anticipate exactly what you'd need before you even knew you needed it.
You take the cup he offers, and the water is perfect—cool and clean and exactly what your dry throat craves. He watches you drink with that same soft attention, and when you lower the cup, he's already adjusting the cushions behind you, his hands careful and sure.
"Is that comfortable?" His voice is low, almost reverent. Like you're something sacred he's been entrusted to care for.
You nod, leaning back into the support he's created, and feel some of the tension ease from your spine.
"Thank you," you whisper.
He settles beside you, close enough that his warmth radiates against your side, and his hand finds your belly with the ease of long practice. His palm spreads wide over the curve, and you feel the baby shift beneath his touch—a small flutter of movement that makes his breath catch.
"Good morning," he murmurs to your belly, his voice soft with wonder.
And despite the ache in your back, despite the weight and the exhaustion, you feel something warm unfold in your chest.
This. This is why you never snap at him, even when you're irritable with everyone else.
Because he makes you feel cherished.
He presses one more kiss to the curve of your belly before rising smoothly to his feet, and you watch as he moves to the small cooking area of your shared alcove. His movements are efficient, practiced—gathering ingredients for breakfast without needing to ask what you want. He knows. He always knows.
"You don't have to do that," you say, though your voice lacks conviction.
He glances back at you, one eyebrow raised, a small smile playing at his lips. "I know I don't have to."
"I can help—"
"You can rest." His tone is gentle but firm. "Let me take care of you."
You watch him work—the flex of his shoulders as he reaches for dried fruit, the careful way he arranges everything within reach, the quiet competence in every gesture. There's something deeply satisfying about watching him like this, in the soft morning light, preparing food for you and the child you carry.
But you're also restless.
You've been resting for weeks. Sitting. Being careful. Being managed by well-meaning hands and concerned voices. And while Tarsem's care never feels suffocating—never feels like he's trying to control you—you're still tired of being treated like you might break.
"I'm going to get dressed," you announce, pushing yourself upright with more effort than you'd like to admit.
Tarsem turns immediately, his hands stilling. "Do you need—"
"I can dress myself." The words come out sharper than you intended, and you see him blink, surprised. You soften immediately, guilt pricking at you. "I'm sorry. I just... I need to do something. I can't just sit here for weeks until I'm not..." You gesture vaguely at your belly. "...huge."
His expression shifts—not hurt, but understanding. He crosses to you in three strides and cups your face gently, his thumb brushing your cheek. "You're not huge. You're carrying our child. You're beautiful."
Your throat tightens. "I feel like a beached tulkun."
"You look like the most precious thing I've ever seen." He says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that you almost believe him.
You lean into his touch for a moment, letting yourself be soothed, before pulling back. "I still want to help with breakfast."
He studies you for a long moment, then nods. "Alright. But if you need to sit—"
"I'll sit." You manage a small smile. "I promise."
He helps you stand—because despite your protests, you do need the help—and then steps back to give you space. You dress slowly, your movements awkward with the weight of your belly, and when you're finished, you join him at the cooking area.
He doesn't hover. Doesn't try to take over. Just makes room for you, adjusts his movements to accommodate yours, and lets you work beside him. It's such a small thing, but it matters. It makes you feel like yourself again—like you're still capable, still useful, still you beneath all this heaviness.
When the food is ready, Tarsem gathers it carefully into a woven carrier. "We'll eat with the others this morning," he says, and there's something in his voice—something warm and almost... proud.
You raise an eyebrow. "Feeling social?"
"Feeling like showing off my beautiful mate." He says it so easily, so openly, that heat rises in your cheeks.
The walk to the communal area is slow. Your body doesn't move the way it used to, and every step requires more effort than it should. But Tarsem matches your pace without comment, his hand steady at the small of your back, and when you need to pause to catch your breath, he simply stops beside you and waits.
"I hate this," you mutter at one point, frustration bubbling up. "I hate being slow."
"You're not slow. You're carrying our child." He says it like it's the most important work in the world.
When you finally reach the communal cooking area, several clan members look up and smile. Säla'ite waves enthusiastically from where she's grinding herbs, and you manage a tired wave back.
But then an older woman—Tsantu, well-meaning but overbearing—hurries over with concern etched across her face. "You shouldn't be walking so much in your condition," she says, reaching for your arm like she's going to guide you to a seat. "You need to rest, child. Sit, sit—"
"I'm fine." You pull your arm back, irritation flaring hot and immediate. "I'm pregnant, not broken."
Tsantu blinks, taken aback by your sharpness.
You feel Tarsem's hand press gently against your back—not restraining, just... present. Grounding.
"She's been resting," he says smoothly, his voice warm and diplomatic. "The walk was good for her. But thank you for your concern, Tsantu."
The older woman nods, still looking slightly wounded, and retreats.
You exhale slowly, guilt and frustration warring in your chest. You didn't mean to snap. You're just so tired of everyone treating you like you're fragile.
Tarsem guides you to a quieter spot and helps you settle onto a woven mat. Then he moves through the communal area, gathering food from various sources—fruit from one family, roasted meat from another, fresh bread from the cooking fires. And as he moves, you watch the way people look at him.
More specifically, you watch the way he looks at you.
Every time someone asks how you're doing, his gaze finds you across the space. Every time he accepts food, he glances back to make sure you're comfortable. And when he returns to you, his arms full of offerings, there's something in his expression that makes your breath catch.
Pride.
Not possessive pride. Not the pride of ownership.
But the pride of a man who can't quite believe his fortune. The pride of someone who's been given something precious and wants the whole world to know how grateful he is.
He settles beside you and begins arranging the food, and you notice the way his hand lingers on your knee, the way he leans close when he speaks, the way he looks at you like you're the only person in the village.
"Everyone's watching us," you murmur.
"Good." His smile is soft, almost shy, but there's warmth in his eyes. "Let them see how lucky I am."
Your throat tightens. "Tarsem—"
"You chose me," he says quietly, his hand moving to rest on the curve of your belly. "You're carrying our child. Do you have any idea what that means to me?"
You do. You can see it in every gentle touch, every careful word, every moment of reverence.
He's not just devoted to you.
He's honored by you.
And somehow, despite your exhaustion and discomfort and the snappish irritation simmering beneath your skin, that makes everything feel bearable.
The meal is finished—the last of the fruit eaten, the water drunk, the small bowls pushed aside. Tarsem gathers them carefully, setting them aside with the same deliberate care he brings to everything, and then he turns back to you with that soft, patient expression you've come to know so well.
"A walk would be good," he says gently, settling beside you again. "Before it gets too warm."
You stare at him.
"A walk."
"Yes."
"Tarsem." You gesture at yourself—at the massive swell of your belly, at the way you're already slightly out of breath just from standing here. "I am approximately the size of a small hut. I move like a boulder rolling downhill. Slowly. And painfully."
His mouth twitches. "You're beautiful."
"I'm huge."
"You're carrying our child."
"I'm aware." You blow a strand of hair out of your face, irritation simmering. "I'm very, very aware. Because our child is currently using my bladder as a toy and my ribs as a climbing structure."
He steps closer, his hand finding the small of your back. "The movement will help. You said your hips were aching."
He's right.
You hate that he's right.
"Fine," you mutter. "But if I melt into a puddle halfway there, you're carrying me back."
"I will carry you anywhere you need to go." He says it so simply, like it's the easiest promise in the world.
The walk to the river is slow.
Agonizingly slow.
Your body doesn't move the way it used to. Every step requires a conscious effort—the shift of weight, the adjustment of balance, the way you have to waddle slightly because your hips have spread and your center of gravity is somewhere near your knees now. You're sweating before you've even left the alcove, and the morning air hasn't even warmed yet.
Tarsem matches your pace without comment, his hand steady at the small of your back.
"I used to be fast," you say after a long moment, frustration bubbling up. "Remember? I could keep up with you on hunts. I could run."
"You still can."
"Tarsem, I can barely walk."
"You're doing something much harder than running." His voice is quiet, reverent. "You're growing our child. You're creating life. That takes more strength than any hunt."
You want to argue. Want to snap that it doesn't feel strong—it feels slow and clumsy and deeply, deeply uncomfortable. But the sincerity in his voice stops you.
You just exhale slowly and keep walking.
The path winds through the trees, dappled with early light. Normally it's a pleasant walk—ten minutes, maybe less. Now it feels endless. Your back aches. Your feet are already swelling in the heat. And you're so hot—a constant, oppressive warmth that radiates from your core and makes every breath feel thick.
"I hate this," you mutter.
Tarsem glances at you, concern flickering across his face. "Do you need to stop?"
"No. I just—" You gesture vaguely at yourself again. "I hate being this slow. I hate how much space I take up. I hate that I can't see my own feet. I hate that I'm always hot and tired and—" You stop walking abruptly, pressing a hand to your lower back. "And I hate that my back hurts all the time now."
He stops immediately, turning to face you. "Here." His hands find your hips, steadying you. "Lean on me."
"I don't want to lean on you. I want to not need to lean on anyone."
"I know." His thumbs press gently into the small of your back, finding the knot of tension there. "But you can lean on me anyway."
You close your eyes, letting him support some of your weight. His hands are warm and sure, and the pressure against your aching muscles is—
Perfect.
Damn him.
"Better?" he asks softly.
"...Yes."
He presses a kiss to your temple. "We can go back if you want."
"No." You pull away slightly, stubbornness flaring. "I'm not going to just sit in the alcove for the next three weeks until this baby decides to come out. I'll lose my mind."
"Then we keep walking." He takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "Slowly."
You start moving again, and he adjusts his pace to match yours—long strides shortened, his usual fluid grace tempered to accommodate your awkward waddle. He doesn't complain. Doesn't sigh. Doesn't even glance ahead like he's wishing you'd move faster.
He just walks beside you.
After a few minutes, he points to a cluster of flowers blooming near the path. "Look. Seze blossoms."
You glance over. They're small, delicate, pale purple.
"They're pretty," you say flatly.
"You like them."
"I like a lot of things. I also like not being the size of a mountain."
His mouth twitches again—that almost-smile that means he's trying not to laugh at you.
"What?" you snap.
"Nothing."
"Tarsem."
"You are not the size of a mountain."
"I'm the size of at least a very large hill."
"You are the size of a woman carrying a child." He squeezes your hand gently. "And you are beautiful."
You make a frustrated noise in the back of your throat. "You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
"I'm sweating. I'm waddling. I'm—" You stop again, pressing a hand to your belly as the baby shifts, a sharp jab against your ribs. "Ow. Great. Now the baby's kicking me."
Tarsem's expression softens immediately, his free hand moving to rest over yours on your belly. "Strong," he murmurs.
"Strong and rude."
He laughs—a quiet, warm sound that makes your chest ache despite your irritation.
You start walking again, but the heat is getting worse. The sun is climbing, and the air feels thick and heavy. Sweat trickles down your spine, and your breathing is labored now, each inhale requiring effort.
"This is miserable," you mutter.
"We're almost there."
"That's what you said ten minutes ago."
"We're closer now."
You shoot him a look. "Tarsem, I swear—"
"What?" He's smiling now, that soft, patient smile that's impossible to stay angry at.
"You're too nice. It's infuriating."
"I'm sorry."
"No, you're not."
"No," he agrees. "I'm not."
You huff, but there's no real heat in it. Just exhaustion. Just the bone-deep weariness of carrying this weight, of being so uncomfortable in your own skin.
And then you stumble.
It's not dramatic—just a misstep, your foot catching on a root. But your balance is off, your center of gravity all wrong, and for a terrifying moment you feel yourself tipping forward—
Tarsem catches you.
His arm is around your waist instantly, pulling you back against his chest, steadying you with the kind of easy strength that makes it look effortless.
"I've got you," he murmurs.
Your heart is pounding. "I'm fine."
"I know." But he doesn't let go.
You close your eyes, leaning back against him, and for a moment you just breathe. His chest rises and falls against your back. His hand splays wide over your belly, protective and sure.
"I'm sorry," you say quietly.
"For what?"
"For being so—" You gesture vaguely. "Grumpy. Snappish. Miserable."
"You're not miserable."
"I'm very miserable."
"You're uncomfortable," he corrects gently. "And tired. And doing something incredibly difficult. You're allowed to be grumpy."
"I shouldn't take it out on you."
"You're not." He presses a kiss to the side of your neck. "You're just telling me how you feel. I want to know how you feel."
Your throat tightens. "I feel like a beached tulkun."
"You've mentioned."
"And I feel slow. And huge. And hot. And—" Your voice cracks slightly. "And scared that I'm going to feel like this forever."
His arms tighten around you. "You won't. I promise."
"You can't promise that."
"I can promise I'll be here. No matter how you feel. No matter how long it takes." His voice is low, steady. "I'm not going anywhere."
You lean back into him, letting him hold your weight, and for a long moment you just stand there on the path—his arms around you, his hand on your belly, the morning light filtering through the trees.
"Okay," you say finally.
"Okay?"
"Okay, we can keep walking." You pull away slightly, turning to look at him. "But if I complain the entire way, you're not allowed to be annoying about it."
His mouth curves. "I would never."
"Liar."
He takes your hand again, and you start walking.
Slowly.
But together.
And when you reach a particularly steep part of the path, he doesn't even ask—just scoops you up into his arms like you weigh nothing, like carrying you is the most natural thing in the world.
"Tarsem—"
"Shh." He adjusts his grip, settling you against his chest. "Let me."
You want to protest. Want to insist you can walk on your own.
But you're so tired.
So you just wrap your arms around his neck and let him carry you, your head resting against his shoulder, and when he murmurs, "Almost there, yawne," you believe him.
Because with him, you always do.
By the time you reach the river, you're overheated and miserable—your skin sticky with sweat, your back aching from the weight you carry low in your belly, every step feeling like you're dragging yourself through thick mud.
"Here," Tarsem says softly, setting you down carefully at the water's edge. His hands linger at your waist, steadying you. "Let me help."
You nod, too tired to argue, and he kneels in front of you—his fingers gentle as he unties the wrap at your hips, sliding the fabric away with the kind of reverence that makes your chest tighten. Like you're something sacred. Something precious.
He stands again, his hands finding yours, and he guides you slowly into the shallow pool.
The water is cool—blessedly, perfectly cool—and the moment it touches your overheated skin, you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
"Oh," you whisper. "Oh, that's—"
"Good?"
"So good."
He wades in beside you, still holding your hands, his eyes never leaving your face. The water rises to your thighs, then your hips, and when it reaches the swell of your belly, the relief is so immediate and overwhelming that you nearly cry.
The weight lifts.
Not gone—never gone—but eased. Held by the water instead of pressing down on your spine, your hips, your exhausted legs.
You close your eyes and just breathe.
Tarsem's hands slide to your waist, steadying you, and you lean into him without thinking—your forehead resting against his chest, letting out a large sigh.
"Better?" he murmurs, his voice low and warm against your ear.
"So much better."
His hand moves to the small of your back, pressing gently, and you make a soft sound of relief as the pressure eases even more. He knows exactly where you ache. Always knows.
"Stay as long as you need," he says, his lips brushing your temple. "I'm not going anywhere."
You tilt your head back to look at him, and the expression on his face—soft and adoring and utterly devoted—makes something warm unfurl in your chest.
"You're staring," you say, but there's no bite to it.
"I know." His hand slides up your spine, his thumb tracing the line of your shoulder blade. "I can't help it."
"Tarsem—"
"You are beautiful," he says simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "You are carrying our child. You are strong and perfect and I—" He stops, his throat working. "I can't stop looking at you."
Your eyes sting.
"You're going to make me cry," you whisper.
"Then cry." He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing just beneath your eyes. "I'll be here."
And then he kisses you.
Slow and deep and achingly tender—his mouth moving against yours like he has all the time in the world, like there's nothing more important than this moment, this touch, this connection between you.
You melt into him, your hands sliding up to his shoulders, and when he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, you're both breathing hard.
"I love you," he says, his voice rough. "I love you so much it terrifies me."
"I love you too."
His hand moves to your belly, pressing gently, and you feel the baby shift beneath his palm—a strong, rolling movement that makes you both go still.
"There," you whisper, guiding his hand lower. "Feel that?"
His breath catches.
"Yes." His eyes are wide, awed, his fingers spreading across the curve of your stomach like he's trying to memorize the shape of this moment. "Is it—does it hurt?"
"No." You cover his hand with yours. "They are just... active today."
He laughs softly, and the sound is so full of wonder that it makes your chest ache. "Strong," he murmurs. "Like their mother."
"Or stubborn," you say. "Like their father."
He grins at that, and then he's kissing you again—your mouth, your jaw, your neck—his lips trailing down to your shoulder as his hands map the shape of you with a tenderness that makes you tremble.
This.
This is what you live for.
Not the grand gestures or the declarations—though those matter too—but this. His complete and utter focus. His hands on you like you're the only thing in the world that matters. His attention so absolute that you feel seen in a way you never have before.
You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging gently, and he makes a low sound against your skin that sends warmth pooling low in your belly despite the coolness of the water.
"Tarsem," you breathe.
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and the look on his face—hungry and reverent and so full of love—makes you feel like you're glowing.
"Tell me what you need," he says, his voice rough. "Anything."
"Just this." You pull him closer, your arms wrapping around his neck. "Just you."
He holds you like that for a long time—his arms around you, his hand resting on your belly, the water cool and soothing around you both. The baby moves again, a gentle flutter this time, and you feel Tarsem smile against your shoulder.
"I can't wait to meet them," he whispers.
"Me neither."
"But I'm not ready to share you yet." He presses a kiss to the curve of your neck. "Is that selfish?"
You laugh softly. "A little."
"I don't care." He pulls back to look at you, his eyes bright. "Right now, you're mine. And I'm going to take care of you for as long as you'll let me."
"Forever, then."
His smile is slow and devastating. "Forever."
And when he kisses you again—deep and claiming and impossibly tender—you give him your full attention in return. Your hands on his face, your body pressed against his, your heart open and unguarded in a way it only ever is with him.
Because this—his devotion, his love, his unwavering presence—is everything.
And you wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.
By the time you make it back to the village, the sun is high and merciless, and you're sticky with sweat despite the river's temporary relief. Your back aches. Your feet are swollen. The baby has decided that your bladder is an excellent toy, and you're approximately three seconds away from snapping at the next person who looks at you with that concerned, pitying expression.
You should rest.
You know you should rest.
But you're so tired of resting. So tired of being treated like you're made of glass. So tired of sitting while everyone else works, of being useless and heavy and—
"I'm helping with the meal," you announce as you approach the communal cooking area.
Tarsem, walking beside you, doesn't argue. Just gives you that soft, knowing look that says he understands exactly why you need this, even if it's a terrible idea.
"I'll be nearby," he says quietly, his hand brushing the small of your back. "If you need me."
You nod, grateful, and he steps away—not far, just to the edge of the clearing where he can see you but isn't hovering. Where he can let you have this without making you feel smothered.
The cooking area is busy, full of clan members preparing the evening meal. Fires crackle. Voices overlap. The air smells of roasting meat and herbs, and for a moment, you feel almost normal.
Then Säla'ite sees you.
"Oh, no," she says immediately, rushing over with her hands outstretched like she's about to catch you mid-collapse. "No, no, no. You should not be standing."
"I'm fine," you say, reaching for a basket of vegetables.
She snatches it away. "You are not fine. You are enormous. Sit down."
Your jaw tightens. "I'm pregnant, not broken."
"You're very pregnant," she insists, setting the basket down and physically steering you toward a low stool. "Sit. I'll handle this."
"I don't want to sit."
"Well, you should." She pats the stool like she's coaxing a child. "The baby could come any day now. You need to rest."
"The baby is not coming today," you say through gritted teeth. "And I am perfectly capable of cutting vegetables."
But she's already turned away, calling to another woman across the fire. "She's trying to work again. Can you believe it?"
You close your eyes and count to five.
From the edge of the clearing, you feel Tarsem's gaze on you. Steady. Watchful.
Then another voice joins in—Txäll, one of the older women, her tone dripping with unsolicited concern. "You should be resting, child. My sister's daughter stood too long in her last weeks, and the baby came early. You don't want that."
"It's cutting vegetables," you say flatly, reaching for the basket again.
Txäll moves it further away. "Let us take care of you."
"I don't need—"
"Of course you do." She pats your belly without asking, and you flinch. "Look at you. You're carrying so low. It's definitely a boy. Boys always sit low like that."
"Actually," you say, your voice tight, "Mo'at said—"
"Oh, Mo'at." Txäll waves a dismissive hand. "I've birthed six children. I know these things."
Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. The heat is unbearable. Your back is screaming. And these women—these well-meaning, intrusive, exhausting women—won't stop touching you, won't stop talking about your body like it belongs to them.
You take a breath.
Force a smile that feels like glass.
"I appreciate your concern," you say, each word carefully measured. "But I'd really like to help."
"Nonsense." Txäll steers you toward the stool again. "Sit. Rest. We'll bring you something cool to drink."
"I don't want something cool to drink," you say, your patience fraying with every syllable. "I want to be useful."
Säla'ite reappears with a cup of water anyway. "Here. Drink this."
You take it because refusing feels like more effort than it's worth, and you sit on the stool because your back is screaming and your feet are throbbing and maybe, maybe, if you sit for just a moment, they'll let you work.
They don't.
Instead, Säla'ite crouches in front of you, her expression painfully earnest. "So," she says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Have you thought about the birth?"
"Yes," you say shortly. "I've thought about it."
"Are you scared?"
"Säla'ite—"
"Because it's okay to be scared. My cousin said it was the worst pain of her life. But also the best? She said you forget the pain after. But also, she screamed so loud they heard her across the village."
You stare at her.
Your jaw is so tight it aches.
"That's... helpful. Thank you."
She doesn't catch the sarcasm. "And have you prepared? Do you have enough cloth for after? Because you'll bleed. A lot. My mother said—"
"I'm aware," you interrupt, your voice sharper than you intended.
Säla'ite blinks, but she doesn't stop. "It's just—I want to make sure you're ready. Because when the baby comes, everything changes. You won't have time to think, and—"
"I know." Your hands are shaking now. Your throat is tight. "I know."
Before she can continue, another woman—Kiäro, who you barely know—leans in with a smile that makes you want to scream.
"You're so brave," she says, like you've done something heroic instead of just existing. "I don't know how you're managing. I was miserable in my last weeks."
"I'm managing fine," you say.
"Are you sleeping? You look tired."
"I'm pregnant. Everyone looks tired."
"And eating enough? You need to eat for two now."
"I'm aware."
Kiäro's smile falters, but she presses on. "It's just—you're so small. I'm worried the baby won't have enough room."
Your fingers tighten around the cup. "The baby has plenty of room."
"Are you sure? Because my sister—"
You take a breath.
Then another.
The words are right there, sharp and cold and ready to cut. I think I need all of you to stop talking to me about my body like it's a community project.
You can feel them building in your throat, taste the bitterness of them on your tongue. You're about to say something you'll regret. Something that will hurt Säla'ite, who's only trying to help. Something that will make you feel like the worst person in the world.
And then Tarsem is there.
He doesn't rush. Doesn't make a scene. Just appears at your side with that quiet, steady presence that somehow fills the entire clearing. His hand settles on your shoulder—warm, grounding, unmistakably protective.
"Forgive me," he says, his voice calm and respectful as he addresses the women. "But I need to take her now."
Säla'ite blinks up at him. "Oh. Is everything—"
"She needs to rest," he says simply, his tone leaving no room for argument but carrying no reproach. "I should not have let her come here. The heat is too much."
Txäll nods immediately, her expression shifting to concern. "Of course. Of course. We were just saying she should rest."
"You were," Tarsem agrees, and there's something in his voice—gentle but firm—that makes it clear the conversation is over. "Thank you for watching over her."
He helps you to your feet before anyone can protest, his arm sliding around your waist to support you. You lean into him without hesitation, and the relief is so immediate, so overwhelming, that you almost sag against him.
"I'll make sure she eats," he continues, guiding you away from the cooking area with careful, unhurried steps. "And drinks. And rests in the shade."
"Good," Säla'ite says, standing and brushing off her knees. "That's good. She needs to take care of herself."
"She does," Tarsem agrees. "And I will make sure of it."
There's no tension in his words. No sharpness. Just calm, unshakeable certainty. The women accept it easily, nodding and murmuring their agreement, and within moments, you're walking away from the cooking area with Tarsem's arm steady around you.
No one's feelings are hurt.
No harsh words were spoken.
No guilt sits heavy in your chest.
You make it halfway across the clearing before you let out a shaky breath.
"Thank you," you whisper.
His hand tightens on your waist. "You were about to say something."
"I was." You glance up at him, and his expression is knowing, patient. "Something I would have regretted."
"I know."
"How did you—"
"I know you," he says simply. "I saw it in your face. In the way you were holding yourself." He presses a kiss to your temple. "You were trying so hard to be kind. But you were running out of patience."
You lean into him, grateful beyond words. "I almost snapped at Säla'ite. She was just trying to help, and I almost—"
"But you didn't." His voice is soft, reassuring. "Because I stopped you."
"You saved me from myself."
"Always," he murmurs, guiding you toward a quiet platform away from the village noise. "That's what I'm here for."
You close your eyes and let him lead you, his presence steady and grounding, and for the first time all afternoon, you feel like you can breathe.
The platform he brings you to is tucked away from the main pathways—shaded by broad leaves, quiet enough that the village noise fades to a distant hum. Private. Peaceful. Yours.
He settles you carefully onto the woven mat, his hands never leaving you until you're seated, and even then, he lingers—adjusting your position, making sure you're comfortable before he moves away.
"Stay," he says softly, and disappears.
You close your eyes and lean back against the trunk of the tree, letting the coolness of the shade wash over you. Your back aches. Your feet throb. The baby is pressing against your ribs in a way that makes breathing feel like work.
But here—away from the well-meaning concern, the intrusive questions, the endless advice—you can finally exhale.
Tarsem returns moments later with an armful of soft furs and woven cushions. He doesn't ask where you want them. He just knows. He arranges them behind you, beneath you, supporting your lower back and hips with the kind of care that makes your throat tighten.
"Better?" he asks, crouching in front of you.
You nod, unable to speak past the sudden swell of emotion.
He disappears again.
This time, he comes back with food—slices of fruit, roasted meat still warm, a cup of cool water beaded with condensation. He sets it all within reach, then settles beside you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours.
"Eat," he says gently. "You barely touched anything earlier."
"I wasn't hungry."
"You are always hungry." His tone is teasing, affectionate. "The baby makes sure of that."
You huff a soft laugh and reach for a piece of fruit. It's sweet and cool, and the moment it touches your tongue, you realize how thirsty you are. How hungry. How much you needed this—this quiet, this care, this man who knows you better than you know yourself.
He watches you eat with that soft, steady gaze that never feels intrusive. Just... present. Attentive. Like watching you is the most important thing he could be doing.
When you've eaten enough to satisfy him, he shifts closer, his hand coming to rest on your belly.
The baby moves beneath his palm—a strong, rolling kick that makes you both still.
"There," you whisper, guiding his hand to where the movement is strongest. "Feel that?"
His breath catches. His fingers spread wide, reverent, and when the baby kicks again, his eyes shine.
"Strong," he murmurs, his voice thick with wonder. "So strong."
"Like their father," you say softly.
He shakes his head, his gaze lifting to yours. "Like their mother."
Your throat tightens.
"You are doing this," he says, his voice low and fierce and filled with something that makes your chest ache. "You are creating life. You are carrying our child—housing the being the Great Mother made from our joining. From our love."
His hand presses gently against your belly, and his other hand comes up to cup your face.
"Do you understand what that means?" he asks, his thumb brushing your cheek. "What you are?"
You can't speak. Can't breathe.
"You are sacred," he whispers. "You are a miracle. Every day, your body does something I cannot fathom—something I could never do. You grow our child. You keep them safe. You endure discomfort and pain and exhaustion, and you do it with such strength, such grace—"
"I snapped at Säla'ite," you interrupt, your voice breaking. "I was about to say something cruel."
"But you didn't." His hand tightens on your face, grounding you. "You held back. You tried. And when you couldn't anymore, I was there. That's what we do. That's what this is."
He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours.
"You are not perfect," he says softly. "You are tired. You are uncomfortable. You are carrying the weight of another life inside you, and some days, that is too much. Some days, you will be irritable. You will be sharp. You will want to scream at everyone who looks at you."
His lips curve into a small, knowing smile.
"But you never scream at me."
"No," you whisper. "I don't."
"Do you know why?"
You shake your head, even though you do. Even though you've always known.
"Because I am your safe place," he says, his voice so gentle it breaks you. "Because with me, you don't have to be strong. You don't have to be kind. You don't have to be anything other than what you are—tired, grumpy, uncomfortable, and still the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."
A tear slips down your cheek, and he catches it with his thumb.
"You chose me," he continues, his voice trembling now. "Out of everyone, you chose me. You decided I was worthy of this—of you, of our child, of this life we're building. And I will spend every day proving that you were right."
"Tarsem—"
"Let me finish." His hand slides down to rest over your heart. "You are strong. You are capable. You are everything our child will need. And when you are too tired to be those things, I will be them for you. I will carry you. I will shield you. I will stand between you and the world if that's what you need."
He presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and lingering.
"You are doing something sacred," he whispers against your skin. "The Great Mother has entrusted you with this. And I am honored—so deeply honored—to stand beside you while you do it."
You break.
The tears come fast and hot, and you bury your face in his chest, your hands fisting in his chest covering. He holds you close, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other resting protectively over your belly.
"I've got you," he murmurs. "I've got you both."
And you believe him.
Because this—this quiet platform, this gentle care, this man who sees you at your worst and loves you anyway—this is your sanctuary.
This is why you never snap at him.
Because he is the only place in the world where you don't have to be anything other than exactly what you are.
Tired.
Pregnant.
Loved.
Safe.
By the time the sun begins its descent, painting the sky in shades of amber and violet, you've made your way to the communal fires with Tarsem's hand steady at the small of your back.
This is his time.
You negotiated this months ago, when his hovering became so constant you could barely breathe without him appearing at your side. One meal, you'd told him. One meal per day where you won't complain, won't tell him to give you space, won't insist you're fine. One meal where he can be exactly as protective and devoted as his instincts demand.
He'd agreed immediately.
And he's never once failed to claim it.
The communal area is already alive with activity—fires crackling, the scent of roasted meat and spiced vegetables filling the air, voices rising and falling in easy conversation. You spot the Sullys near the central fire: Jake and Neytiri seated close together, Neteyam and Lo'ak laughing about something with a group of younger hunters.
Tarsem guides you to a spot near the edge of the gathering, close enough to be part of the clan but far enough that you won't be overwhelmed. He's already arranged cushions and furs before you even arrived—soft, supportive, positioned exactly how you need them.
"Sit," he says gently, and you do.
He settles beside you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours, and immediately his hand finds your belly. It's instinct now. Automatic. His palm spreads wide over the swell of your stomach, and when the baby shifts beneath his touch, his eyes light up.
"Strong tonight," he murmurs, his voice filled with wonder.
"Always strong when there's food nearby," you say, smiling. "Takes after their father."
His gaze lifts to yours, and the pride in his expression is so open, so unguarded, it makes your chest tighten.
"Takes after their mother," he corrects softly.
Before you can respond, he's already moving—rising smoothly to his feet and heading toward the food without needing to ask what you want. He knows. He always knows.
You watch him go, and you're not the only one.
Säla'ite catches your eye from across the fire and grins, shaking her head in amused disbelief. You shrug, smiling back. Let them watch. Let them see how he loves you.
Tarsem returns with a woven plate piled high—slices of tender meat, roasted root vegetables still steaming, fresh fruit arranged carefully on the side. He settles beside you again, closer this time, and holds out a piece of fruit.
"Open," he says, his tone gentle but firm.
You roll your eyes but obey, letting him feed you. The fruit is sweet and cool, and when juice runs down your chin, he catches it with his thumb, his touch lingering.
"Tarsem," you murmur, half-embarrassed, half-pleased.
"What?" His expression is innocent, but his eyes are warm. Satisfied. "I'm taking care of my mate."
"You're showing off."
"Yes." He doesn't even try to deny it. "I am."
And he is.
When Neteyam approaches a few minutes later, crouching beside you with that easy, respectful smile, Tarsem's hand moves to your shoulder—proprietary, protective, but not possessive. Just... present.
"How are you feeling?" Neteyam asks, his gaze flicking between you and your belly. "My mother says the baby will come soon."
"Soon," you confirm, resting your hand over Tarsem's where it still curves around your stomach. "A few weeks, maybe less."
"She is strong," Tarsem says, and there's no mistaking the pride in his voice. "The baby is strong. Everything is as it should be."
Neteyam grins. "I don't doubt it. You've been preparing for months."
"We have," Tarsem agrees, and his thumb strokes slow, reverent circles against your belly. "The Great Mother has blessed us."
There's something in the way he says it—something fierce and tender and deeply, unmistakably proud—that makes your throat tighten.
Neteyam notices too. His smile softens, and he nods. "You'll both be wonderful parents."
"Thank you, brother," Tarsem says quietly.
When Neteyam moves away, you lean into Tarsem's side, letting your head rest against his shoulder.
"You're glowing," you murmur.
"I am proud," he says simply. "Why would I hide it?"
"You don't have to. Not tonight."
His arm comes around you, pulling you closer, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Not ever," he corrects. "But especially not tonight."
Lo'ak is next, bounding over with that reckless energy that never quite fades, even as he's grown into a skilled hunter. He drops into a crouch in front of you, grinning.
"So," he says, eyes bright with mischief. "Any day now, huh?"
"Any day," you agree, smiling.
"You nervous?"
"Terrified," you admit.
Lo'ak's grin softens into something more genuine. "You'll be great. Both of you." He glances at Tarsem. "Especially you. You've been hovering like a mother palulukan for months."
Tarsem doesn't rise to the bait. He just smiles—calm, steady, utterly unbothered. "I will hover for the rest of my life if that's what she needs."
"Great Mother help us all," Lo'ak mutters, but he's laughing.
You laugh too, and Tarsem's hand tightens on your shoulder, his thumb brushing the curve of your neck.
When Lo'ak leaves, you turn to look at Tarsem fully. His expression is soft, his eyes warm, and there's something in the way he's looking at you—like you're the most precious thing he's ever held.
"What?" you ask softly.
"You chose me," he says, his voice low and reverent. "Out of everyone, you chose me."
"I did."
"And now you carry our child." His hand moves back to your belly, cradling the swell with both palms now. "Our child, yawne. Made from our love. From our bond."
Your eyes sting.
"I am so proud," he whispers. "So proud to be yours. So proud that you are mine. So proud of what we are creating together."
You reach up and cup his face, your thumb brushing his cheek. "I love you."
"I love you both," he says, and then he leans in and kisses you—soft and slow and full of everything he can't put into words.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and his hands never leave your belly.
Around you, the clan continues their meal, their conversations, their laughter. But here, in this small pocket of space, it's just the two of you.
And the life you're building together.
Tarsem feeds you throughout the meal—offering bites of meat, pieces of fruit, sips of cool water. He doesn't ask if you need anything. He just knows. And when you shift uncomfortably, trying to ease the pressure on your hips, he moves immediately—adjusting the cushions, repositioning you with careful hands, murmuring soft reassurances.
"Better?"
"Yes."
"Good." He kisses your temple. "Tell me if you need anything else."
"I will."
But you won't have to. He'll already know.
Jake and Neytiri approach near the end of the meal, and Tarsem rises immediately, offering them respectful nods. Neytiri's gaze is warm as it settles on you, and she reaches out to touch your belly gently.
"Soon," she says softly. "Very soon."
"I know," you whisper.
"You are ready," she says, and it's not a question. "And he—" she glances at Tarsem, her smile knowing, "—he will not leave your side."
"No," Tarsem agrees, his hand finding yours. "I will not."
Jake chuckles. "Good man."
When they move away, Tarsem settles beside you again, pulling you close. His arm wraps around your shoulders, and you let yourself sink into him completely.
"Thank you," you murmur.
"For what?"
"For this. For being exactly what I need."
His hand moves to your belly again, and when the baby kicks, his breath catches.
"Thank you," he whispers, "for choosing me. For trusting me. For giving me this."
You don't answer with words.
You just turn your face into his chest and let him hold you.
And around you, the clan continues to celebrate, to laugh, to live.
But here—in Tarsem's arms, with his hand on your belly and his heart beating steady against your ear—you are home.
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pairing: tarsem x female omaticaya reader [ her name insert is solay :) ]
summary: it had always been tarsem's plan to court you, but when he became olo'eyktan, his plans had to change. now, he must fulfill his duties as the clan's leader and endure as he's forced to love you from a distance.
genre: fluff (best friends to lovers), a lil angst
word count: 710
notes: WHAT TIME IS IT? IT'S YEARN O'CLOCK. clan, i am giving you guys a classic love trope with some jealous bits of course
Night had fallen long ago, but still you remained where you were, waiting.
Your hands were drawn up toward your chest as you held them with your arms and you looked out ahead, the glow of the Great Mother's creation consoling you in the unfamiliar loneliness you hadn't expected to feel.
Tarsem had told you to meet him there.
Hours ago.
He was never late.
He was always early.
You weren't sure why you had even waited. In your usual impatience, you would have just went looking for him after the first hour.
Truthfully, you didn't want to admit that you had hoped, felt stupid for expecting something out of him, for the question to be asked that always hung in the air when you were with him, wholly unspoken in the midst of the intimacy that made its home between your souls.
It was the first time that he had told you he had planned something for the both of you, a gesture unlike him given your odd dynamic.
You and Tarsem were the most unlikely of friends.
While he was quiet, obedient and reserved, you were the exact opposite.
As children, you were inseparable, always roping him in with your antics and shenanigans. Even the elders around you could not grasp in their minds how someone could find such kinship with someone as boisterous and mischievous as you.
"Solay, here you are again telling poor Tarsem what to do!"
That was usually what would come out of their mouths when they would find you in your usual stance, dragging him by the hand doing things he otherwise would never do by himself.
Yet still, he followed you everywhere you went, hung on your every word, and honored your every command.
And one day, when he was waiting patiently for you outside of HomeTree, it was Mo'at who had asked him, "Are you too shy to tell Solay no?"
But he merely shook his head at her, smiling, "If I do not go with her, who will make sure she is safe?"
It was then that Mo'at and the other elders understood how he regarded you, how such a gentle, kind soul could be even gentler and even kinder to someone.
You even had to remind him, on many occasions, that you were not as delicate as he treated you to be, that you didn't need to be handled like a baby before her first communion with Eywa.
Yet, that was never how he saw you.
He knew you were strong. If anything, you were stronger than him in many ways.
It was because for Tarsem, you were the most precious thing in the world and although he was that gentle and kind soul, he would sooner burn it all to the ground than let the worst of existence ever touch you.
Everyone in the clan knew that when the day came for him to choose a mate, he had no desire picking any woman who wasn't you. He had wanted nothing more than to enjoy the simplest of happiness with you, to spend the rest of his days being yours, being the one by your side.
When that day had finally come, he had planned your courting gifts, gathering your favorite flowers and even making your favorite dish, he told you to meet him atop the waterfall you frequented not too far from HomeTree.
It was there that you both had made your own camp, crafting a makeshift shelter between two adjoining trees, overlooking the lush green of the Forest.
But those courting gifts never reached your hands and that question Tarsem wanted to ask you, a question you already had an answer for remained unspoken.
It was on that day that Jake had told Tarsem he would have to be the new Olo'eyktan.
It was a duty, an honor that he could not refuse.
He was proud to be a warrior, serving his clan, and helping ensure the safety of the Omaticaya people. It was the reason why Jake did not doubt that the People would be taken care of when he left the Forest.
But suddenly becoming Olo'eyktan had taken him away from fulfilling the duty he wanted for the person he cherished the most.
You.
.
Author's Note:
oel ngati kameie,
posting the preview for you all who need the tarsem crumbs now!!
watch i t- this is literly just straight fluff bc i love him and he is a cuti. childhood friends to lovers. navi courting
there needs to be more tarsem love he is so cute and tender, and a gentleman. given the role of olo'eyktan so young, yet so wise. AHG my man
childhood friends to lovers with him would be so easy, growing up side by side, getting into trouble, climbing up the tallest tree, running home before eclipse with wide smiles. he was always the more rational of the two of you
two peas in a pod while your mothers watched on with fond eyes
"if they do not grow to love one another then i do not know who they could love." your mother had declared all those years ago
its easy for her to say. she is not the one with the heavy feeling in your chest when he walks. yearning for him so fiercely you think one day it may very well tear you apart. but tarsem would never allow harm to come to you
confessions are nerve racking, and he makes it so easy, so simple. his duties as olo'eyktan have drawn him away from you, pushing you to opposite ends of life. but he can not live a life without you, he can not love another remember?
he tells you its a routine patrol, only needs you, as a trusted hunter how can you say no to your olo'eyktan?
he takes you to a quiet edge of the forst, where the trees hum, animals chirping softy, landing on a soft canopy of trees.
"i have made this for you." he hands you a bead, carved with sloping swirls and stars. it almost glows under the sun. it hangs on a single leather thread, thick and strong. he means it for your songcord.
"tarsem." you voice catches in your throat, hands on fire where they meet his as you take it into your hands. the making of a bead is so intimate. he has chosen one of your favorite color.
"from the nesting grounds." he hums. and from your favorite place non the less.
"thank you." your face blooms, unable to hide from your own feelings.
"i have another." his ears fold, shy. was this too much? he reaches to grasp around his ikrans saddle, bringing forward what looks like tied cloth.
he opens it up to reveal a top, hand woven to fit every part of you, delicate threads to hand over your shoulders, down to your back. it would catch the wind so beautifully as you ride, beads at the end clicking together softly.
"this is too much tarsem. " you bite back a smile, opening your pals as he genlty places the fabric into them.
"it is not enough, only the beginning. if you so choose."
a courting gift, all of it. you realize. he has brought you away from prying eyes, where it can truly be the two of you under the sun. here he is letting you choose him, freely without judgement and the watching gazes of everyone else at camp
"i have chosen you in my heart many times over." your heart beats so hard you can hear it in your ears, thumping with each gaze he gives you.
"as have I." he smiles back as you, so easy and sure and pure.
"i have something for you as well." you laugh, setting down yoru gifts and calling for your ikran. you reach inside a pouch that hangs at her belly, inside a small sheath, and matching dagger.
you ment to save it for a better time, weave the sheath better, but oh so knowing tarsem has made this the perfect time.
"a dagger." he breaths out, gently running a hand over the blade.
"yes, you had lost yours in the last ride out."
he looks at the sheath, smoothing over each ridge and raised edge. "ever so perceptive. thank you."
you play with your hands in your lap, before he gently places them in his. slowing moving up up up till he cups your face with both hands, thumbs moving over your cheeks. placing a kiss gently on your lips
it feels like a star has exploded inside of you, covering you in molten hot fire. every moment has amounted to this. and you can not be happier.
when you part, a bit breathless and both laughing, you add the bead to your song cord. and he places the dagger to the missing spot in his chest.
he helps you tie your new top, gently secrung each rope around you.
"you look so beautiful, he mumbles, placing a soft kiss on yoru cheek.
"you make me so." looping an arm around his neck to bring him down to kiss again properly.
when you arrive home once more, no one is surpised.
"about time." mo'at grumbles, no bite to her words and a small smile
your mother can now sleep soundly knowing you two have in fact loved each other the whole time
"we must plan now for a celebration!" she beams.
"of course." tarsem nods, laughing as you roll your eyes.
Description: You find out that your entire family is abandoning you just as you are about to give birth.
Based on this request and this request. Thank you @lumilily for Beta reading!!
Content Warnings/tags: pregnant!reader, Sullys are leaving without reader, angst, not a happy ending, but a bittersweet one.
Author's note: This is a fic that I have a feeling some people might not read just because it's Tarsem (he deserves people lining up at his door) and because it is pregnant reader, BUT I also know that this is going to be exactly up other people's alley, so I don't care. Enjoy the read!
“They what?!” you asked your mate, eyes wide as he told you the news about your siblings.
“Yawnetu (loved one)-” he started but you pushed past him, stomping to your family's kelku with a hand cradling your pregnant belly. Tarsem hurried after you, a hand coming to support you at your elbow.
“They are fine! Your dad was not even going to tell you. It is not a big deal,” he explained in vain, but it did not slow your roll.
He knew the pregnancy hormones coursing through you would more than likely send you on a rampage when you found out your siblings had been momentarily kidnapped by the RDA. But he also knew that those same hormones would likely lead you to behead him if he kept it a secret and you found out through other means.
“Do not patronize me!” you ordered, “I am pregnant, not incompetent. I am going to see them for myself.” Tarsem winced at his headstrong mate but followed after you.
You stalked up to your parents kelku (home), stopping outside when you saw your siblings huddled by the gape in the woven material. “What did you skxawngs (idiots) do?” You demanded quietly.
You loved them well enough to not ruin their spying, especially since you were the one who taught them how to do it in the first place. Tarsem stopped behind you, hand coming to rest on your back as your siblings flinched at being caught.
Four sets of eyes slowly turned to you and you saw varying looks of horror on their faces.
“Sister!” Tuk smiled, running up to you and wrapping an arm around your hips, you hugged her back, smoothing her hair down as your other siblings started squabbling.
“It was Lo’ak’s fault,” Kiri exclaimed quietly, pointing her finger at your youngest brother.
“I was not even there until we saved them,” Neteyam defended himself, raising two hands
“Why does it always have to be my fault?” Lo’ak complained, and Kiri rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Because it IS always your fault,” she replied.
“I was following them,” Tuk said softly up at you as the other three continued to fight.
“Enough,” Tarsem demanded firmly but still gently, making your eyebrows raise at his command over the situation.
All your siblings shut up and turned to their brother in law. “What matters is that you are safe. Do not stress your sister out,” he instructed and your siblings deflated.
Tuk stepped back as Neteyam approached. “Sorry, y/n,” he mumbled, walking up to you and wrapping his arms around your shoulders, coming in for an embrace. He had to avoid your protruding belly, but you pulled him close.
“Yeah, sorry,” Lo’ak agreed, following Neteyam’s lead and joining the hug on the other side.
“Do not apologize, just be careful next time,” you muttered, hugging your brothers tightly and boxing their ears when they pulled away from you.
“Now, are we going to spy on them or not?” Kiri asked with a sigh, not being one for big shows of emotion.
“Right,” Lo’ak agreed, crouching back on the floor to hear better and your other siblings followed.
“I cannot get down there, I will have to do it the old fashioned way,” you grunted, letting go of Tuk to walk up right next to the opening of the kelku. Your parents were still arguing, so they were too involved in the fight to notice that your and your siblings were up to no good.
“I cannot. You cannot ask this. I cannot leave my people. I will not,” your mother cried.
Another voice cut through, “He's hunting us. He's targeting our family.” Your dad’s voice was angry and scared, something you had been hearing more of lately.
“You cannot ask this!” your mother exclaimed and your heart sank. What could your father possibly be asking her to do that would require her to leave? “The children. Everything they've ever known. The forest. We would miss the birth of our grandchild, our oldest cannot leave with us. This is our home!” she screamed, voice breaking.
“He had our children. He had 'em under his knife!” your dad shot back, voice now strong but still emotional.
Your mother paused, “My father gave me this bow as he lay dying. And he said protect the People. You're Toruk Makto!” Neytiri reminded him and you could mentally picture the wince he wore whenever that name was mentioned.
“This will protect the People! Quaritch has Spider and that kid knows everything. He knows our whole operation, and he can lead them right in here,” you sucked in a breath at the new information. You had wondered where the little human was, figuring he was just with the scientists, but the news that they captured the boy you considered another brother made you feel sick.
“If the People harbor us, they will die. Do you understand?” your dad pleaded. “Look, I got nothing. I got no plan… But I can protect this family. That I can do.”
You stepped forward then, making yourself known and both of your parents turned to you.
“You are leaving?” you asked numbly, a hand on your belly. Two shocked faces turned to look at you and the air left the room.
“Babygirl,” your dad started, stepping forward, but you stopped him by raising a hand.
“Are you leaving?” you repeated, looking at your mom knowing she would bite the bullet to tell you easier than your dad would.
“Yes,” she admitted, voice breaking as a tear fell down her face.
Your face screwed up at the confirmation. “You are just gonna leave us here?” you asked, turning to your dad, “Run and hide? Let us fight the battle you started?”
“No, we're taking the fight away from you. If I’m gone, then they won’t hit half as hard,” your dad promised.
You shook your head, “That’s not how this works. What happened to Sullys stick together, huh?” you asked as he stopped in front of you, arms reaching to hug you but you knocked them away. “I am a Sully. That does not sound like sticking together to me.”
“Babygirl, please.” he begged as you shook your head. “Tarsem will be Olo’eyktan, you will have your baby here, where it’s safe. It's gonna be safe, because they’ll be looking for us everywhere else, okay? They won't find any Sullys here, because you can blend in. They don’t know about you like they do the other kids.”
“How does that make any of this better, dad? You’re still leaving me,” you blubbered, tears falling down your face as emotion and pregnancy hormones took hold of you.
You heard the entrance shift as Tarsem stepped through, beating your dad out to wrap his arms around you and hold you close. “Shhhh,” he muttered in your ear. “I’m here.”
“Did you know?” you asked your mate through your tears.
“No,” he assured you, “I would not keep this from you.” he promised and it eased your mind some at the words.
“Tarsem, you know this has to be done,” your dad pleaded with his son in law, but Tarsem did not respond directly to him like he hoped.
“She needs rest,” he simply said, not meeting either of your parent’s gazes.
Your dad paused, backing up a step. “Of course,” he said, swallowed in regret as his babygirl was ushered out. It still felt so strange to him that another man took care of you now. That you were Tarsem’s responsibility to care for and not his.
-
Later that evening, you and Tarsem operated in grieved silence. He did not want to crack your barely held composure, and you did not know how to express the well of hormonal emotions inside you.
You had finished crying only a few minutes ago, and you had both decided not to join the others eating in the communal space. Tarsem had gone to collect Teylu for dinner only to find you crying again when he returned.
You had sniffled back your tears, and sat on the floor with effort as he handed you your food and sat across from you. You thanked him quietly and ate, if only for the baby’s sake.
He did the same, eating as he watched you carefully. Then he set down his leaf of Teylu, moving to sit beside you. “Talk to me, Yawnetu, what can I do to make this less painful,” he asked, not able to handle the quiet anymore.
You shook your head, lowering your hands. “Convince my dad to let them all stay?” you said, knowing it was impossible, but answering truthfully. That was the only thing that would have changed the emotions in your heart now.
He smiled sadly, “You ask too much of me. Eywa herself would have to stop him when he has his mind set to something.” he said, smoothing the hair from your face and watching with pity as you wallowed in melancholy.
“I know, but it was worth a shot,” you sighed.
You tossed and turned that night on the cushiony floor of your kelku, feeling more uncomfortable than usual. Tarsem’s arm was your pillow and he stirred every time you moved.
A strong shot of pain moved up your abdomen and out through your body every few minutes and when you involuntarily clutched his chest in pain, Tarsem shot up. “What is it?” he asked, eyes searching yours for any sign that something was visually wrong. “Is it the baby?” he asked, hands moving to your stomach as the pain finally subsided and you heaved in air.
“I think so,” You muttered, sweat forming on your brow. “I think it’s contractions. I’m in labor.” Water flowed down your legs and onto the floor and you both stared down at the puddle.
"Yes, I am definietly in labor," you gasped as he gripped your hands.
“Tsahey (ah hell),” he muttered, “I will get the Tsahìk, do not move,” he ordered.
“I couldn't move very far even if I wanted to,” you grumbled, and he hesitated as if he did not want to just leave you there, but you both knew it was better to have help.
“Go, hurry!” you demanded, waving your hand, “I’m fine.”
He gave you one last wary glance before he ran off into the night, footsteps hitting high camps’ rock ground as he ran faster than he ever had before.
You breathed deeply, trying to manage your pain before another set of contractions hit you. You glanced to the side, spotting what you wanted, a braided, thin strap of leather hanging on your wall. You rolled over, moving as well as you were able and stumbling to your feet, your balance off kilter as your swollen belly threw your weight.
You made your way to the wall, pressing a hand against it for support and grabbed the piece of leather, slowly balancing as you hastily tied your hair up and out of your face. You slowly walked around, still using the wall as support, being on your feet felt a lot better than lying down. You slowly steeled your nerves in the brief reprieve.
Footsteps approached your home. “‘Itetsyìp!” Your mother called, scrambling into the kelku with grace as she flew to your side. Mo’at and Tarsem were on her trail, all three gathering around you.
“Take this,” your grandmother instructed, handing you some herbs which you put in your mouth without question. Another round of contractions tore through you and Tarsem positioned himself behind you, pulling your head down onto his shoulder as you groaned in pain.
-
It was hours before you would give birth. A little girl with her mother’s stripes, her father’s eyes, her grandfather's nose, and her grandmother’s smile. A little girl you named Tsyaya (pronounced similarly to Zahya).
Your father had stood watch outside the kelku throughout the night, keeping an eye out for nosy neighbors and an ear out in case something was wrong. He paced in front of the door, back and forth, back and forth, until he finally heard a little cry.
He stilled, pausing as his grandchild took her first breaths. A smile spread across his face as she wailed inside. A mighty sounding roar.
Neytiri stepped out a moment later, watching his face with mixed emotions. She knew this would be all the time they would get to spend with their little Tsyaya before they had to leave. Such precious little time. They barely got to even say hello.
“Your granddaughter is ready to meet you,” she said lowly.
He looked intently at his mate, mouth pressing together in a line. “Is she…” he hesitated, not sure how to phrase his next words.
“Your daughter is fine, she just wants to see her Sempu (daddy),” Neytiri answered, knowing her husband’s meaning without him having to voice it.
“Yeah, okay,” Jake nodded, steeling his nerves similarly to the way you had and walking up beside his wife to face the inside of the kelku.
His son-in-law sat on the floor holding a tiny blue body with one arm. Jake's eyes moved to you, laying on the floor beside Tarsem and holding his other hand. Both proud, new parents watched their baby with wonder. Mo’at moved about on her feet, praying to Ewya and blessing her great grandchild.
Your eyes moved to the door, “Dad?” you muttered the English word he had taught you all those years ago.
“Hey, babygirl,” he choked out, entering the home and taking a seat on the other side of your body.
“I just made a whole person,” you croaked, tears dripping down your eyes with emotion as you looked at your baby.
“I helped,” Tarsem muttered, not looking over, eyes unable to be torn from his daughter.
Jake smiled at your words, ignoring Tarsem. “I know, I’m so proud of you. You did so good,” he praised, taking your hand and clasping it between his.
“Don’t leave me, daddy,” you cried harder, squeezing his hand.
He shook his head, unable to find words for a second. “I’m so sorry, we don’t have a choice," he croaked.
“Okay…” you said, reigning in your tears and looking at him with pleading eyes. “Then before you go, we want you to do one last thing as Olo’eyktan,” you said sniffling.
In your eyes he suddenly saw the same little girl who had once sat on his knee and cried in his arms. The little girl he was leaving behind.
“Anything,” he agreed.
-
Jake walked through the crowd holding little Tsyaya as you and Tarsem followed behind him.
Today would be his grandchild’s introduction to the clan as well as the day he passed his mantle to Tarsem. His chest was tight, full of emotions he was desperately trying to repress.
Mo’at waited in the middle of the clearing as her family approached, the village stood circled around her holding hands. Already wearing their traveling clothes, Neteyam, Kiri, Lo’ak, and Tuk clasped joined hands at the front of the circle. You started crying as you saw your siblings, knowing it could be a while before you saw them again.
You and Tarsem stopped, joining hands with the people as Neytiri wrapped her arm around you, holding you close. This was a celebration as much as it was a goodbye.
“It is with happy hearts that Tarsem te Kumon Arun'itan and his mate, Y/N te Suli Neytiri’ite, announce the birth of their daughter to the people,” Jake announced, propping the cooing baby on his forearm before he held her up to the Pandoran sky.
“Tsyaya!” he called out, and the people repeated it, breaking into a prayer led by Mo’at for the baby's health and happiness.
You gripped Tarsem’s hand, looking at him with eyes mixed with both joy and sorrow. Today would change everything. When he became Olo’eyktan, his responsibilities would change and as a father, nothing was the same. His whole life was getting upheaved in one swift movement.
And you, your family would be gone by tonight. You would have to raise your baby without your mother’s steady hand and without your father’s laughter. Your siblings would not get to play the role of uncles and aunts until they returned, if they returned.
“It will be okay,” Tarsem murmured as chants rose around you and tears fell. He always had the ability to read your mind.
“I know, just… don’t ever leave me, okay?” you asked.
His eyes softened, pulling you in so that your head rested on his shoulder. “Never. I couldn't if I tried.”
