#avatar reader insert

[k-nayee]

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩K-nayee's ✩ Stardust (teaser)✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

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ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀✧₊∘∘₊✧

✩‧₊ ̗̀✧₊∘∘₊✧

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✩‧₊ ̗̀✧₊∘∘₊✧

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀✧₊∘

✩‧₊ ̗̀✧₊∘∘₊✧

Siren; Avatar: The Way of Water

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

“Wait...what is she exactly to you guys? It's rare for outsiders to join your tribe right?” Lo’ak asks causing Rotxo to puff his chest out.

“She’s my sister!” Pride seem to radiate off him as he lifts his chin high with an air of smugness.

There was a beat of silence.

Neteyam and Lo’ak shared a look again.

“But…” Neteyam started, his voice trailing, unsure on how to phrase it.

Rotxo’s smile dropped, his gaze sharpening as he eye them. “But what?”

Seeing his older brother was too polite and hesitant Lo’ak pushed ahead. “She’s a human. A Sky Person.”

The air turned icy in an instant.

Rotxo’s prideful expression had vanished, instead it was replaced with a sharp glare as his tail lashed the water.

“Don't you ever call her that,” Ao'nung hisses with a glare. He wades closer, his teeth bared in a menacing grin. “____ will never be what those pests—those demons are.”

[verybadatwriting]

I just !!! AAAH!!!

i love your works! could i request a zuko x reader scenario where the reader and zuko first meet at the northern water village (reader saves zuko from drowning during that full/blood moon) and sees zuko again when he joins the gaang? they’re training and the reader heals a cut on his face and they kiss👀? thank you!

oooooo I haven’t gotten a water bending reader request yet 👀 this’ll be fun

also thank you! I’m definitely enjoying myself

When you saved Prince Zuko’s life, you’d had no idea who he was.

Okay, to clarify, you did know he was a firebender. That much was obvious, from the fact that he was under the ice of the northern water tribe, melting his way through it.

You’d been wandering down toward one of your favorite hideaways, a little platform closer to the water’s surface that doubled as a pipe’s drainage point. You’d been sitting there, legs dangling so that you feet almost touched the water, when you heard a thump behind you. You turned, and saw nothing, and so ignored it. But a moment later you heard sizzling, and turned to see red-hot hands pressed up against the thick ice.

At that moment, it didn’t matter that he was a firebender. It mattered that he was trapped under the ice.

You shot to your feet and skidded to your knees over top of him, just as you watched his hands detach from the surface of the ice. He’d lost his air- and was sinking downward.

Immediately you split the ice open and used water bending to create a current upwards, spitting out enough of his torso that you could drag him from the water. He was lucky, and hadn’t yet taken a lungful of water, and so when you dropped him on his back he took a big, gasping breath.

“Are you okay?” You asked him, concern in your eyes for a moment before you asked something else. “What in Tui’s name were you doing under the ice?” You demanded, honest concern for the safety of this clearly insanely brave individual in your tone. But he looked up at you with a cold expression, and you sat back with a sigh as realization clutched your heart.

He was a firebender. The city was under siege. There were likely soldiers like him everywhere, crawling in like elephant rats through any holes they could find.

“Oh. Right.” You looked over his shoulder and with a hand motion, resealed the hole you’d pulled him from. He made no attempt to move, and made a few puffs of flame to try to warm up.

“You don’t look like a soldier,” you told him, and his fire began to turn from the cooler red flame to the hotter orange.

“I’m not,” he answered, which soothed your fears a slight bit. The night was eerily silent, but the movement of the water at the mouth of the pipe echoed through its length and past the two of you. There was an odd sense of peace- a firebender and a water bender, at a truce, within a pipe. His nation was laying siege to your capital city, but you wouldn’t hold that against him. Forgiveness, and unconditional love. That’s what you loved about your people, and you would let it guide you. You wouldn’t let someone drown- not even a fire bender.

You only hoped that you wouldn’t discover that he killed Princess Yue or something, you decided, as you watched him sneak off into the streets of the city. But you had faith in him. After all, he could’ve killed you.

When three months later you were a part of Team Avatar, you still hadn’t known that the boy you saved was indeed Prince Zuko. You’d joined Team Avatar late, only for the eclipse invasion, and so had only heard tales of the angry banished prince who caused so much harm. The two were definitely not the same person, it hadn’t ever even occurred to you that they could be.

So when Zuko turned up at the Western Air Temple, your first response was unbridled joy.

“It’s you!” You’d shouted before he could say a word, and rushed forward to hug him even as he stood stalk still in surprise. You turned back to Aang with a huge smile, relieved with this turn of events.

“Guys, this is perfect! He’s a firebender, but he’s good. I met him back at the Northern Water tribe, on the day of the lunar eclipse. He’s good, he’s-“ you turned to Zuko, a sheepish look of embarrassment on your face.

“I’m sorry, I never knew your name,” you said, before Katara spoke from behind you.

“That’s Zuko,” she spat, and your shoulders dropped. “Y/N, step away from him. I don’t know what you know, but he’s not what you think.”

You found it easier to accept him then a lot of the gang did. You had only ever seen the good side of him, and even though you’d heard of the bad, you just remembered that shivering teenager you’d rescued and the honest thankfulness in his eyes when he saw you.

You saw the relief on his face every time you sent him a smile, because you wanted him to know that you were supportive of his change of heart. He began to gravitate toward you, knowing that conversation with you wouldn’t feel awkward or forced.

You’d seen the good in him, and now you were sure of it.

When he wasn’t training Aang, he’d gotten into the habit of sparring with you. Hand to hand combat, without bending, had been a focus of yours ever since the lunar eclipse back at the North Pole, and even moreso after the Day of Black Sun. Both eclipses made you realize that it was easier than you expected for a bender to lose their ability, and illustrated just how much your fighting relied on your bending.

So the two of you started sparring together. You’d learned how to convert some of your waterbending into close quarter combat, and he began to do the same with his firebending. It made you better fighters, benders, and made you a better team.

Sometimes, though, it got a little rough.

On the beach in front of the Fire Lord’s vacation home on Ember Island, you both stood with bare feet in the sand. He’d taken off his shirt, and you any layer you could spare, as the physical activity warmed you both up. The sun was setting, turning the sea all sorts of blood red, and Katara was in the process of making up dinner, which was why the two of you were free to do this. You were both standing with your fists up, tense and ready for the other to make the first move.

As soon as you did, he ducked his torso out of the way and attempted to jut his fist into your sternum, which you caught with your wrist and shoved it downward. Your opposite hand made use of the opening left by his fist and you tried to get a jab into his chest, but he blocked it out to the side, opening up your torso for a kick that thrusted you backward. You stumbled but got your balanace, giving him a soft, playful snarl before rushing back toward him with a flurry of hand movements that he skillfully blocked. You grew frustrated and, without thinking, slashed with your left hand, palm up and open, away from your chest. It sent water up and to his face, centralized into a small enough stream that it gave him a shallow cut along his left cheek.

The sparring match stopped dead as you covered your mouth with your hands.

“Oh spirits I’m so sorry,” you said, one hand gently reaching out to cup his face. “I’m going to heal it, it’ll be fine, you won’t even notice. I’m so sorry.” With a light laugh he wrapped his hands around your wrist, his eyes locked on to you.

“It’s fine, I’m okay,” he said, and yet still you felt horrible.

“I didn’t mean to, I swear,” you said, your right hand drawing water from the ocean and quickly you purified it by letting the salt fall out. Your left hand pulled from his cheek for just long enough to cover it in water, and slowly you pressed your hand back onto the cut. You didn’t quite touch his skin, but let the water soak onto his face, and though you focused on making the water glow with healing, you vaguely noticed that he’d closed his eyes, and let out a small puff of air.

The water’s glow faded, and you lifted your hand to check that the cut was gone. Once you’d confirmed it was, you took your right hand to discard the water, leaving your left hand still cupping his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, this time whispering. The waves crashed on the shoreline, but he’d heard you. His eyes opened slowly and your breath caught, for a moment astounded by the gold that shimmered behind his eyelids.

You told your whimpering heart that he hadn’t been this pretty when you first met him.

His left hand slowly detached from your wrist and reached out toward you, first tucking back a strand of your hair that had fallen into your face, then letting it fall to the back of your neck. From there, he slowly brought you in, as though giving you time to pull away.

You wouldn’t.

As much as you wanted to keep your eyes open, to watch him, for as long as you could, instantly you’d closed your eyes and let him guide you into his lips. He was warm, beyond the warmth of exercise, and you realized you’d heard somewhere that firebenders were naturally warmer just as waterbenders were naturally cooler. Zuko was exceptionally warm- you felt almost as though you could fall asleep with his arms around you the way they were, the comfort of his heat and his contact soaking into your bones.

And his lips. Though they were chapped, they still managed to feel so soft, and he tilted his head in just the right way so that the two of you fit together, perfectly.

“Hey, Y/N, Zuko, Katara’s got-“ Sokka, who had appeared over the hills, stopped dead in the middle of his scentence to turn around and walk back to the house. “Dinner,” he called over his shoulder, giggling a bit, and as you pulled from Zuko’s lips with a smile you could already imagine the kind of comments the two of you would get during the meal.

With a single look to Zuko’s face, his expression soft and caring, you decided you didn’t mind.

-🦌 Roe

[floatyflowers]

The second wife| Dark! Ozai x Wife! Reader x Platonic Dark! Zuko and Azula

Ozai murdered your husband and your baby to take you as a second wife.

Of course, he has done it secretly so he doesn't appear like the villain in your eyes.

You were the handmaiden and younger sister of his first wife, and the one he wished to marry in the first place.

So, when Ursa runs away, he marries you against your will.

Even though the marriage was forced, right after your husband and child's death, yet you held no ill intention towards your nephew and niece.

Zuko is quick to accept you as you are his aunt whom he trusts.

While Azula didn't know how to act around you, thinking that you viewed her in the same way her mother did, a monster.

But you made sure to include her in everything along with Zuko.

The healthy relationship you had with Ursa is the same one you wish for Zuko and Azula to have, one full of love and respect.

But Azula always tried to push Zuko out of some activities, she claimed 'it is a girl's thing'

"Mother should only brush my hair because I'm a girl"

Meanwhile, Zuko clings to you, telling you everything he knows, or sought knowledge about it.

Meanwhile, you hate Ozai, he is just unlike...your first husband.

Ozai is beyond redemption in your eyes.

And many days, you avoid him.

However, one day, you and Ozai were fighting about political matters and Zuko intervened to defend you.

"Stop yelling at mother, she has done nothing wrong!"

You only placed your hands on Zuko's shoulders, fearing that Ozai might hurt him.

But the glaring competition between the son and the father only ended in Ozai leaving.

Unfortunately, Ozai did not let that slide when Zuko cut in one of the political meetings.

He challenged him to an agni kai.

Something that Azula was excited about.

You tried to plead for Zuko's case.

But that made Ozai more determined.

And on that day of Agni Kai, Zuko was left defeated with a scar as a reminder.

And then banished from the fire nation for not wanting to fight his father.

But you kept sending him letters from behind your husband's back.

At first, Zuko swore to capture the avatar so he can be accepted back as an heir and into the arms of his aunt, you.

But after joining the team avatar, he swore to defeat his father and save you.

[notyourhetloki]

cardio (recom!Miles Quaritch x fem!Reader)

Reader: she/her (fem!Reader)

/NSFW Miles Quaritch x Reader/

Summary: Colonel Quaritch needs to get off some steam, and he knows exactly who could help him with that.

A/N: I'm alive and I'm horny for this alien... I know he's a terrible person and I DON'T support his actions but hey, it's fiction and I can pretend he did nothing wrong, right? Anyway, took me DAYS to write this and I hope you like it! Reblogs are always appreciated!

Tags: smut, mdni, age gap (reader's obviously an adult), Quaritch being Quaritch, but probably ooc ngl, oral sex (f receiving), piv sex (yes I know), unprotected sex, petnames (kid, sweetheart), degradation and praise, dacryphilia, daddy kink, big size difference (human x na'vi), belly bulge, casual sex.

Word Count: 5k

—

Colonel Miles Quaritch; a name you couldn't forget. His impetuous reputation followed him wherever he went, scaring away those who dared to get close. Such a legendary status granted him a sort of fear and admiration combo from his peers and even from you, a scientist who had never even properly met him.

Most of your admiration for him was purely experimental, now that he was a recombinant, after all. You wanted to get close and see for yourself all the wonders the new Na'vi body could provide him.

But you had to settle for watching him from afar. Whenever you crossed the same corridors or observed him in the gym (lifting those stupid oversized weights) you just couldn't help but stare a little, good thing he never noticed... until he did.

"And what do we have here?" You got caught ogling too hard at the blue man's biceps while he stretched. "Like what you see?" He said smugly while flexing his arm at you.

You turned all red and stepped away as quickly as you could, but you could still hear his laugh echoing through the halls. You felt humiliated, and you were sure he would know you as a joke from then on.

One day, one of your colleagues asked if you could cover them on the medbay and do some checkups on the recoms. It wasn't really your area, you worked more in the laboratory but you accepted out of curiosity.

When you entered your designated station you almost gasped in surprise. The Colonel was there, sitting on a stretcher (big enough for his body but low enough so you could reach him). He seemed bored, expression unreadable while he bounced one of his spread legs.

"Alright, let's get this over with–" Quaritch started to speak, but he stopped mid-way after seeing you. He sat up straight, ears up in alert while his tail wagged leisurely. His eyes examined you up and down, mouth slightly agape as he licked his fangs. "Well, hey there..."

The way he slowly pronounced his words sent shivers down your spine, his low gravelly voice echoed through the room and you found it difficult to keep calm. Gosh, your crush on him was bigger than you had imagined.

"Hello, Colonel. My name is (y/n) and I'll be performing your checkup today, any questions?" You tried keeping it professional, but the way he looked at you felt so predatory... you felt like a lamb in a lion's presence. Besides, he was so freaking tall, taller than you had anticipated now that you were so close to him.

"Yeah, I know your name." The memory from your previous encounter made you even more nervous, but he didn't seem to be disgusted by you. He seemed... interested. "And nope. I'm all yours, princess." He leaned back on his hands and puffed his chest, clearly too comfortable.

You couldn't help but blush at his comment, giving him a soft smile while you approached him. Carefully, you prepared some of the equipment you would use, deciding to let your shyness aside.

"Someone here is feeling well-humored enough. Have you had a good night's sleep?" You said, and he never took his eyes off you while chuckling.

"Slept like a baby." His sharp grin and intense gaze had an effect on you, one you tried to deny and repress... but the reality was, you were attracted to him, and it was more than just scientific curiosity.

"Glad to hear that." You asked him to lean down and he obeyed, you checked on his ears, his eyes, and now needed to check his mouth.

"Open up." You proceeded, but Quaritch hesitated.

"Y'know, I'm not used to receivin' orders." He looked down at you, and you couldn't quite decipher his expression. It was a mixture of smugness and severeness, you knew he wasn't completely joking.

"Well, you're under my care now. So you have to listen to every word I say, right, Colonel?" You didn't know what had gotten into you to feel comfortable enough to tease him like that, and you immediately regretted it after the sentence came out of your mouth.

But for your relief, all Quaritch did was laugh. He crossed his arms and stared right into your eyes, lids halfway closed in a relaxed way,

"Yes, ma'am..." He whispered, sending electricity down your body.

To have such an authoritarian figure be so cooperative with you was already a turn-on, but that was none other than Colonel Quaritch. The man exuded so much power and yet there he was, calling you pet names and behaving so well...

"Now, open." You repeated yourself, and he darted his tongue out mischievously, still not breaking eye contact.

Trying to not let his gaze distract you, you performed your examinations and let him close his mouth after a while. He used the pause to take a quick breath from the respirator hanging around his neck and as you got close enough to measure his blood pressure, Quaritch decided to speak into your ear.

"What a pretty blush... is that all for me or do your other patients get you like this often?" He remained still, but his tail brushed the side of your hip as you tried to maintain composure.

Your heart was hammering in your chest, you couldn't possibly believe that was happening... was the Colonel really flirting with you?

"I-I don't have many patients... I'm usually in the lab, actually. I'm just covering for a colleague today..." You tried to explain but all words came out too soft. As you looked up to meet his gaze, he seemed satisfied with his effect on you.

"Covering for a colleague, huh? Such a good girl." The last couple of words came out teasingly slow, dragged out so you could feel every syllable going straight to your sex. The motherfucker knew what he was doing to you.

"I-I think we're done here today, Colonel. You're free to go." You turned around to put some information into the datapad but immediately felt him standing up behind you, his shadow looming over you as you gathered all your equipment.

"Well, guess I'll see you around, kid." Quaritch sighed dramatically before saying, then put one of his large hands on your shoulder as he walked out. "When's our next checkup?"

You looked up, then up again... until you met his gaze. "Hm... in this initial phase, the checkups should be pretty regular, so... maybe next week?"

"Nice. See you there." He squeezed your shoulder before exiting the room.

"But–" You couldn't finish your sentence before Quaritch was out the door, and you knew you probably wouldn't have an opportunity quite like that again... so you decided to just relish the moment and allow yourself to blush even harder at the interaction you just had.

A week and a half had passed and you still couldn't get over your encounter with the Colonel, it had messed you up entirely yet served the purpose of enlightening you on your true feelings. Your little admiration had developed into a full-blown crush and the following nights after the checkup you couldn't help but touching yourself, remembering the way he looked at you and called you a 'good girl'.

You felt insane, victim of your own desires and you just couldn't control it. The thought of him never ceased to appear in your mind, yet fully aware of the taboo weighing on you... he was currently in a different species' body, that alone made you feel like a freak.

But imagine your surprise when one of the nurses came into your lab, all scared face, asking you if you could go the medbay. "Colonel Quaritch demands your presence for the checkup, ma'am..."

Fuck. Why did he want you specifically? Did Quaritch actually want to see you again? That thought never crossed your mind before, but now... it thrilled you.

You strutted your way to the medbay and confidently entered his station, and there he was in all his glory. Seated in a comfortable position, legs spread open and tail slowly wagging. He reminded you of a cat, observing his prey.

"Took your time, huh?" Quaritch's voice resonated through your body, low and severe. He didn't seem as content as the other time you saw him.

"I can assume you didn't sleep so well this time, Colonel." You said as you closed the door behind you, slowly approaching the blue alien.

"I'm all wound up lately, princess. Needin' to get off some steam." The grin he gave you was full of mischief, but he still looked stern and very stressed.

"May I suggest more exercise? Some cardio, maybe? Running on those personalized giant treadmills must feel nice." You innocently proposed, but the look in his eyes turned deep and dark.

"Oh, you could help me with some cardio, alright..." His demeanor transformed into something more playful, turning his head sideways like a puppy in order to get your full reaction.

You gasped lightly at his words, turning completely red at the implication. "You pervert!" You whispered, looking up at him.

The Colonel laughed loudly while holding both his hands up in defense. "Hey, I didn't say a thing! You're the one assuming!" He continued laughing for a bit before you finally decided to avert the situation and take one of your medical instruments to his mouth.

"Open." You said plainly, and he obeyed with a bit of hesitance. "Your throat is sore, have you been screaming a lot?" You hoped the question would throw him off the previous conversation.

"Oh, you have no idea, kid." It worked, and you could see the exhaustion in his eyes as he spoke.

"I'll give you some syrup for that, you'll be good as new in no time." You offered him a smile despite feeling so small in his presence, his intimidating size always getting on your nerves.

"Does it taste like shit?" He prodded.

"Oh, c'mon. Can't handle a bit of medicine?" You teased while measuring his blood pressure.

"Watch it." His voice came with a warning, but you only smirked at him.

As you were finishing the checkup, you turned around from him to update the datapad. Suddenly, you felt something lifting the hem of your dress up from behind, so you looked down and caught the sight of his tail trying to expose you.

"Fuck, that little sundress you' wearin' looks good on you." Quaritch said, looking at your exposed thighs.

You quickly slapped his tail away from you, smoothing down the hem of your dress neatly while gasping in exasperation.

"Oh, you–!" You tried to measure your tone to a low whisper but ended up not being able to control your words. "You absolute bastard!"

His low chuckle only served to turn you on and piss you off at the same time. "Don't call me names, darlin'... I might like it."

You sighed in defeat, opening up the door as an invitation. You didn't know if you should feel harassed or horny... or both. "You're free to go now, Colonel."

He chuckled at you, rising up from his seat and towering over your frame.

"See you next time, sweetheart." Quaritch said while ruffling your hair lightly. The way the pet name rolled off his tongue made your heart beat even faster, and you knew you were going to remember it later that night.

You couldn't concentrate for the rest of the day, feeling the ghost of his presence crawl under your skin. It ignited you to even think he could want you... made you feel seen, desired.

As you got ready to go to your quarters, you remembered the throat medicine you promised to give him... and you had an idea. It wouldn't hurt to try, right? Besides, you just wanted to see him again, maybe gain another compliment so you could touch yourself later thinking about it.

So you removed your labcoat and went with just your sundress, fixing your hair on the way to his chambers.

You hesitated before knocking on his door, but your crush was so intense it filled you with crazed bravery.

Your eyes widened at the sight of a shirtless Quaritch answering the door, who looked quite unhappy until he realized it was you. "Oh, wow. What gives me the honor?" He leaned on the doorframe and crossed his arms, looking down at your face.

"I-I brought the syrup I mentioned earlier... for your throat." Gosh, he was handsome. Blue, tall and muscular, you wish you could climb him like a tree. His big green eyes flickered between your face and the big recipient you were holding, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

He chuckled in response, taking the medicine from your hands. "You're the sweetest thing, ain'tcha?" He seemed to look down at your body before stepping aside and leaving a gap in the doorway. "Come in, kid... don't worry, the filtration system's out so the air is good enough for ya."

Besides your better judgment, you just couldn't simply deny an order from the Colonel. You entered his room and quickly noticed how everything was oversized, big enough for his comfort... you found that endearing.

He closed the door behind you and suddenly realized how crazy that whole situation was. You were in his quarters, alone with the legendary Miles Quaritch... and he was shirtless.

"So... h-how can I help?" You tried maintaining calm, but deep down you were so nervous you couldn't help but stutter at your words.

"Oh, I know somethin' you could help me with." His canines showed in his sharp grin and the vision made you swallow dry, nearly panicking when he trapped you against the wall with his body. He was ducked enough so his face was just slightly above yours, and he seemed even more intimidating than before.

"I don't understand..." You didn't want to seem weak, so you maintained eye contact even though it was proven to be quite difficult.

"Don't act a fool, you know damn well why you're here. I’m tense and I need a hand. I thought a pretty thing like you could help me out." Quaritch looked at you with hungry eyes, the implications of his advance combined with his closeness to you made your panties wet.

But even though you were completely horny at that point, you just didn't want to give in so easily. "I-I don’t think this is appropriate, Colonel..." Your voice came out in a mere whisper, not being able to convince him.

"Oh, cut the crap. I’ve seen the way you look at me in the corridors, the way you blush whenever you’re near me… it’s adorable." He took the opportunity to lift your chin up with his big fingers, forcing you into a more direct stare. "Or do you want me to believe you came all the way here just to give me some medicine?"

You swallowed again as you felt completely exposed, but surprisingly, you weren't ashamed. Instead, you felt even more encouraged to pursue what you had been fantasizing about for weeks now.

"Then, what do you need from me, Quaritch?" You fiddled with the hem of your dress playfully, and he looked down at your body to accompany your movements. "What would you like me to do?" You said softly.

He slowly raised his gaze to your face again, smiling widely while licking his lips.

"I would like you..." Quaritch's tail once again tried to lift your dress up, grazing the skin of your thigh and giving you goosebumps in the process. "to take your clothes off."

Your eyes widened a bit at his request, but you wanted to behave for him. As you slowly removed your dress, you noticed his eyes roaming on your skin, hungry for the sight of you.

"Ah... such a good girl you are." Quaritch's voice was low and raspy, full of desire. He only stood there, arms propped on each side of your head as he observed your every move with much interest.

The way he called you made you blush even harder, not being able to control a low satisfied hum in response.

"You like it when I praise you, huh?" Once your dress was gone, he took it from your hands and tossed it across the room. "You gotta earn it if you wanna hear more... so keep moving."

You nodded your head and decided to try something out while you undid your bra. "Yes, sir..." You said lightly, barely audible.

Letting your bra fall to the ground, you massaged your exposed breasts only to show them off, allowing a playful grin to appear on your lips.

"Oh, you dirty little thing." Soon the Colonel's hands replaced yours, his big palms completely covered your breasts as he squeezed them not so gently. "How many times did you touch yourself thinkin' about this, huh? Thinkin' 'bout me?"

Heat rose to your cheeks and traveled down your belly, the sensation of his hands on you clouded your thoughts. "Ah... m-many times, sir... so many..."

Quaritch appeared really satisfied with your answer, twitching his ears in excitement and wagging his tail. "Oh yeah? You've got toys or somethin'?"

He wanted to know the details and you were going to give it to him, even though it made you blush.

"Y-Yes, I..." You slowly lowered your panties, feeling them slide down your legs. "I got a dildo I use..."

"Really?" His condescending tone only made the ache between your legs grow. "What's the size of that thing?"

"Hm... pretty average, actually." You eyed him with false innocence before he grabbed your ass hard, almost lifting you up.

"Ha, let me tell ya, kid... I think I might be bigger than average." Quaritch inclined his head, inviting you to look down. As you did, you finally saw the bulge in his pants... the thing was huge.

"Holy shit..." You said under your breath, making him laugh. "I-I don't think it will fit, Colonel..."

His laugh was harsh and patronizing. "Nah, we'll make it work." He looked all casual about it, smug as always.

Quaritch took your arm and guided you to his enormous bed, lifting you up and laying you out in front of him.

"Fuck, look at you..." He carefully kneeled in front of the bed, massaging your thighs encouragingly. "Open them for me, sweetheart."

You opened your legs delicately, exposing your slick sex to him.

His pupils widened at the sight of your pussy, and only for a brief moment he looked at your eyes before finally devouring you, diving mouth-first into your sex. The sheer surprise of his action made you jolt a little, granting you a slap on the side of your thigh. "Ah!"

"Behave." He said against you, just a quick pause before he continued. Quaritch licked your entrance up to your clit, kissing his way around your labia and making an absolute mess.

You whined and moaned at his movements, grabbing the sheets around you and caressing the back of his head. Your reaction only encouraged him to tantalizingly insert a finger inside you, making you shake from overstimulation.

"Ah! Quaritch!" Moaning his last name made him smile against you, chuckling to himself and pausing for a quick comment.

"I have a finger up your cunt, darlin'... I think you can call me 'Miles' now..." He used the break to nip at the inside of your thighs, his sharp canines leaving marks as he bit into your supple skin.

"P-Please, Miles... don't stop..." Was all you could say before you felt another finger easing in you, his big digits spreading you open.

"Shh... so needy, ain'tcha?" He moved his fingers in and out carefully, aware of the size difference between you. "Don't worry... daddy's feelin' generous today."

Daddy. That word was your weakness, sending you deeper into a spiral of need and desire you didn't know possible. It was all you needed to send you to the edge.

Miles continued eating you out then, sucking on your clit while fucking you with his fingers. He licked and sucked and drooled all over you, meanwhile, his fingers curled up inside hitting the perfect spot.

"Ah! Please, d-daddy!" You could feel him smiling against you again as you got closer and closer to your climax. "Fuck!"

Waves of pleasure washed over you as your orgasm bloomed, sending electricity all over your body. But even after you came Miles didn't stop, forcing you to pull your hips away from him. "T-Too much..."

Quaritch wasn't exactly pleased with that, but he also wanted to move things along so he allowed it. "Okay, okay..."

He took the opportunity to take a breath from the respirator that laid next to you on the bed, closing his eyes and letting the air revigorate him.

Only then he crawled on top of you, his predatory demeanor causing you to feel even smaller than you already were in comparison to him. Miles bit his lip while lowering his pants, letting his dick spring out free from his boxers.

You couldn't help but gasp at the sheer size of it... could be compared to the size of your forearm, even. The glowy patterns of his skin extended down to his length, and the purple-rosy tip already dripped with pearlescent precum.

"It's rude to stare." He had a ridiculous smile on his face, clearly satisfied by your shocked expression.

Quaritch was slotted between your legs, stroking his dick slowly while admiring your body. "I'm gonna fuck you up, pretty girl."

Shivers went down your body at his low whisper, and you hummed in approval as he started to grind his length against your pussy. The veins and dots served as texture and stimulated your sensitive clit.

When you felt him positioning his tip at your entrance, you looked up at him and saw his concentrated face. Quaritch was intensely staring at where your bodies met, watching as every inch of him stretched you open and penetrated you.

"M-Miles..." You were about to tell him it was too much, but he soon slipped even further into you, causing you to gasp.

"Shh... attagirl." He eased in and out, inch by inch, slowly and precisely. You were pretty wet already but he occasionally would spit down on his dick to lubricate it even more.

You felt so full... his girth stretched you open so deliciously it hurt, making you teary-eyed.

"Daddy... please, ah!" When the first word came out of your mouth, you felt his grip on you tighten even further and you knew you were going to get bruised.

"You like that, huh? Let me see those tears, then." He was kneeling upright on the bed, grabbing your hips and raising them up to his crotch, completely controlling the movements.

The tears you were holding back started to cascade down your face in an instant, the relief of crying easing down the slight pain. You were overstimulated, but you didn't want to stop.

"Yeah... good girl, (y/n)." The sound of your name combined with the praise was divine, making you even more driven to continue such a crazy endeavor.

"I-I can take it, Miles... please." Was all you needed to say. He looked at your eyes for a lingering moment before thrusting his hips onto yours once, then twice... still slow but comparatively harsh.

You gasped at his every move and noticed that the pain slowly faded away, turning into delicious pleasure. Miles noticed that too, you began to moan louder and louder... so he started to thrust deeper, faster.

Soon he was fucking into you with the maximum length he could, making you mewl his name in return. He hovered over you, ears twitching in excitement and tail wagging.

"Such a tight little cunt, ah... taking my cock so well..." He groaned and hummed occasionally, the sounds vibrating in his chest.

You stayed in that position for a while, just taking him like a doll... until he stopped. You looked at him in confusion before feeling him lift you up completely, manhandling you until you were on top of his laid-down frame.

"You do the work now, princess." Quaritch said while inhaling on the respirator, chest quickly rising and falling trying to regulate his own breathing.

"Oh, you lazy bum." You whispered while aligning the tip of his cock into your entrance. You were facing him, cowgirl style as you slowly lowered your hips down onto his big dick.

"Hey!" He smacked your ass a little harder than intended, but didn't apologize. "You're lucky your cunt's been making me real jolly right now." And he smiled that stupid smile of his.

You decided to ignore him and just continue hopping on his cock, making a mess on the sheets as you rolled your hips in circles, up and down.

"Agh... fuck, look at you... such a good little whore." Quaritch's hands traveled your body without a certain destination, squeezing your tits and caressing your back before grabbing at your waist. "Go faster, I wanna see ya jiggle."

Obeying without much thinking, you started to fuck yourself into him faster. After a few thrusts, you felt yourself lowering even further onto him, taking him even deeper than before. Your eyes rolled back in ecstasy, moaning loudly while holding him for dear life.

"Fuck, doll... I'm gonna make you pop like that..." To your surprise, there was a sense of urgency in the Colonel's voice, was he... worried?

"Hmm, I hope I pop..." You said without thinking, too fucked out to even form coherent thoughts.

Miles laughed at that, seeing your expression and hearing your lust-filled voice... he knew you were enjoying yourself way too much. "Wow, you're such a fucking freak, huh? Such a dirty little slut."

The insults just fuelled you into a frenzy, bouncing on his dick faster and deeper and taking him almost all the way up. That's when you noticed his hand resting on your stomach, and you realized he was trying to feel the bulge his cock made in your belly.

"Can feel myself inside ya, kid... fuck." His enormous hand lingered there for a few moments before lowering his thumb to your clit, rubbing circles on the sensitive bud.

You rolled your head back in so much pleasure your vision went dark, moaning obscenely along with the squelching sounds your bodies made. Feeling your second orgasm growing inside, you hopped up and down until he was completely buried inside you. Once you took all his length, you simply started rolling your hips without taking him out. "Ahh...! F-Feels so... so good..."

"Goddammit, (y/n)... keep going." Demanded Quaritch, and you didn't even need the encouragement because you couldn't stop if you wanted to, searching your high frenetically.

For your luck, his thumb didn't stop either, rubbing your clit just right. You were so full and stretched and sensitive that all you could do was mewl for him. "Miles! Daddy... fuck, I'm gonna..."

"Y-Yeah, me too, princess..." He looked at you through half-shut eyes, not being able to hide his own pleasure. His hands squeezed your hips keeping them as close to him as possible, forcing you into him. "Ugh, gonna cum all up inside ya."

And then you felt him twitching inside your walls, spilling his seed and filling you up with his cum as he growled like an animal. You could feel his jizz dripping out of you, slowly oozing from your entrance onto his skin. That feeling alone, of being filled to the brim, made you finish in no time.

You came with a loud moan, throwing your head backward and arching your back. Your orgasm took over you, making you tingle in pure ecstasy... you had never felt anything like that before.

As you came down from your high, you opened your eyes to see Miles watching you attentively. His pupils were blown out while he heavily breathed through his respirator, and he smiled smugly at you.

"How you doing, kid?" He said after tossing his mask aside, rubbing soft circles on your bruised skin, surprisingly tender in his movements.

You slowly moved your hips up inch by inch, removing his now softening cock from inside you. It plopped onto his belly comically as you rolled to your side, climbing up the bed in order to face him. You felt incredibly empty without his girth stretching you, but you were proud of yourself for being able to take him so well.

"I feel amazing..." You confessed, not able to suppress a wide smile.

Quaritch laughed at that, inviting you to lay on his chest. You could hear his rapid heartbeats as he teased you. "Me too, me too..."

You both stayed there for a while, eyes closed while caressing each other until you remembered the air filtration system would start working at any minute. So you quickly got up, cleaned yourself and started to make your way to the door.

"Hey, where d'you think you're going, hm?" A stern voice could be heard from the bed.

"I thought you were sleeping..." You said, coming back into the room.

"Without saying goodbye? Heartless." He said pretentiously, knowing damn well he would do the same. "See you around, sweetheart."

"See you around, Miles." Without much thinking, you leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. He didn't smile, but his ears flickered adorably and you took that as a win.

Before you could reach the door, you heard Quaritch call while standing up to reach you. "(y/n)?"

"Yes?" You turned around, looking up to meet his gaze.

"When's our next checkup?" He fumbled on his feet as he tried to pull his underwear up, making you chuckle.

"Honestly? I have no idea. As I said, checkups aren't really my thing." You tried not to stare too much at his body, the memories from the recent events already taking over your mind.

"Right..." The Colonel seemed disappointed at that, but his bright green eyes lit up the moment you started to speak.

"Don't worry, just call me whenever you need some cardio." You said as you winked, gaining a sharp grin from him.

"Yeah, that ain't a bad idea."

—

divider link

[nmyphomania]

╰┈➤ ❝ [Kinktober Day 3: Breeding]❞

Summary: Some advisors piss Zuko off about a baby, and he decides you’re the only one who can fix this situation.

Warning(s): F! Reader, breeding, mating press, messy kissing, rough sex, snowballing, mouth-spitting, minor dirty talk, dub-con if you read in between the lines, creampie, multiple orgasms

WC: 1.6k

•𑁍•

You never really understood how you and Zuko could possibly go from one situation, to an entirely different one in seemingly mere minutes. More appropriately, an hour or two ago. His advisors were talking to him about how they oh so needed an heir to the throne to be conceived at once. How they preferred a boy to become the next to hold the title of the Fire lord, another preferred that he should be taught extensive firebending training to become as powerful as Zuko was by sixteen. Zuko came back to his quarters pissed as ever just listening to the advisors, he couldn’t believe half of the shit that ran loosely from their ignorant mouths.

The more thoughts of the meeting streamed through his head, the harder he plowed his hips down into you. Thinking about the situation never made his temper falter from any less upset he was in those moments, the bed underneath began to thump against the solid walls unforgivingly. Zuko’s hands went to grip at your fleshy hips, hammering himself forcibly into your salivating folds that could only go basically numb from his assaults. She submitted to his every will during his bout of anger, wails somewhat muffled out due to the thickness of the duvets on the bed, eyes going straight to the back of her head each time Zuko would slam dead on her g spot.

“You want a fucking heir, I’ll give you one, maybe even fucking three.” He spat, more to himself than out loud. You, however, heard this and wholly melted into the mattress with a significantly louder sob than the rest. The man above you lifted his leg up to stamp flatly in the mattress to support his impossibly deeper movements, they sped up smoothly with all his preceding thrusts, greatly affecting the ability to intake a proper lung-full of air. It's like he was a different person when he was upset, there was no negotiation on power play, no playfulness, nothing. He just raw-dogged your insides into a thick pulp with your fucking third orgasm of the night.

His hips spanked fat red marks into the underside of your ass, the rough contact didn’t even hurt anymore. The pain had grown so great that now every time he slapped painfully on your skin, the harsh sting was reduced to a dull, numbed out soreness. From your fingers flying all the way down to your toes felt like pins and needles prickling the surface of your naked body, even your throat started to burn from all the screaming your vocals could barely even support. He finally groaned longingly once your walls came in on his dick, spewing out another trail of juices from the couple’s connection. A strong hand gripped until fingernail marks dug into your flesh, aiding him to propel you back onto his length to intensify his hips’ jolts forward.

A burning sensation now stinging at his pelvis from the reckless use of his toned hips along with his propped up leg, the ecstatic crescendo of his orgasm peaking just behind a couple more thrusts. Drilling the head of his cock so deep he was sure he made it to her heated womb desperately asking for his cum to breed her to the brim and beyond. To plant whatever he could produce from his depths in the midst of her beaten up insides. Heaving his angry arousal along the embrace of her gummy walls around him.

“‘m gonna, do it in you. I hope that’s alright..” He muttered out almost apprehensively. You choked out whatever intelligible words you could form, “Y-yes…Zuko.”

Zuko abruptly flipped you around to stay put on your back, legs being pushed back until her knees hit the mattress beside her head. Standing slightly above her, he moved closer to re enter inside of her in such a crude position on the surface of the bed. From over her own body, he planted deeply inside of her messy pussy, roughly molding out his dick inside of her pitiful sex like some hungry animal. Tears accumulated at the corners of your eyes from the physically demanding position you were now forced into, your legs felt like they could give out from being pushed beyond their flexibility limits. All liquids being forced out of you splashing on his face, creating a wet sheen over his body.

Long, drawn out keens from the both if you sounded into the atmosphere of the room from your mutual stomach-caving finish. Zuko fucked his orgasm inside of her even further, plunging whatever wasn’t already balls deep inside of her. It's like his cock touched the very part of her soul that made something snap in her mind, continuing his jarring pushes downward. So deep, so big, so amazing, you could virtually feel the thickness of the base of his dick in your throat, never letting up fucking you as passionately as he did.

“Give me another I know you can do it f’me love.”

Everything went impractically faster leaving you a filthy mess, you couldn’t even think straight without thinking about how his dick is currently beating down your guts at the moment. Drool seeped steadily from the corner of your mouth, eyes twitching from the immense amount of pressure and jerks from the overwhelming senses of their sex. You could barely wrap your arms around him as he had you mostly pinned down in this foreign position, so deciding it was best to just lay there and take it like some desperate bitch. Sputters, some bubbles and your eyes glued to the back of your head, your mouth left gaping as he leaned over to kiss you gently on your exposed neck.

“Good angi, give it to me Zuko!”

The breathed-out comment sent something rushing through his veins, he couldn’t decipher it but god, the way she looked him into his eyes taunting; hell even daring him to get her all sorts of knocked up. As knocked up as he could even get her, filling her up until her stomach bulged even more prominently. He grew dizzy, legs failing to keep him up through the process of gaining one more blissful finish, his voice nothing more than hoarse whispers of sighs, pants, all telltale signs of him getting so much closer.

Zuko strokes decelerated gently, allowing him to continue to delve inside her deep, relaxing his body so that he can place a firm hand to wrap itself on the base of her neck.

“Open.” She listened wordlessly, he conjured up a petty strand of saliva to spit into the warmth of her open mouth. Letting her lap at his dribble by sticking her tongue out wide, and flicking at anything that came from him. This urged you two into a languid kiss, breathing frantically against each other’s mouths whilst Zuko resumed his previous pace from before. Their lips would meet every now and then, but not for long. You sucked in his bottom lip, licking up into the unexplored space of his mouth. He took the chance to wrap his lips around your tongue, bobbing his head unhurriedly, almost methodically.

As the night dragged on, the both of you were nearly drunk off each other’s lips, hands, skin even. Another couple of orgasms came out of the time and effort both of you put into loving on each other all of his cum only reserved for going inside of you, now working on the final one of the night, the two of you were pressed on the wall rutting into each other like some hormonal teenagers. She threw her head back on the wall with a thud, swallowing thickly, a slightly painful climax ripping through her sobbing pussy. Zuko pulled out of you entirely once he finally came, making you drop on your knees to catch his cum in your mouth. His whole figure tenses and jerks erratically in the heat of the climax, clouding his mind and any thoughts that seemed to run rampant. He huffed, bringing his hand up to bite down on a fist while he blew his literal bodily capacity inside your tight mouth.

As you took all of the stripes of white flinging all over in both your mouth and throat, his abs convulsed and rolled under his pale skin. You watch as he furrowed his eyebrows, dropping his fist out from between his teeth in awe at how hard he came.

“Don’t swallow, c’mere”

Going to pull yourself up with the use of the nearby nightstand, he brought both of his hands to snake around your neck before pulling you into a deep kiss. He swirled around his own essence with his curious tongue, wiping away the stray trail falling from the side of your mouth. It was thick, sloppy, and almost sweet tasting; and the two of them shared how ever much could be evenly distributed between each other.

His right hand went to trace around your figure that outlined your body he knew all too well, traveling across the stuffed swell of your stomach. Maybe, and hopefully so, that a few healthy babies could be conceived from your bred and worked out body. Some of it dripped along the plushness of your thigh, running out from between your naked folds from the overfill he bestowed on her from the events of that evening. Just beautiful, he never said this aloud but he thought it, sliding his hand down even further to fully palm possessively at your throbbing heat he could most definitely lose his mind over.

•𑁍•

Tags:

[verybadatwriting]

Beautifully written! Especially the part where you start to think "after almost losing Sokka" but instead redirect to be more vague ("The day's events"). It emphasizes the emotional load this event had.

:D

safe | sokka

Please.

Sokka is heavy against your side as you help him back to the campsite, carrying most of his body weight on your own. “C’mon, just a little farther, okay?” you speak through gritted teeth. “We’re almost there, just stay with me.”

He responds with a quiet groan, and you feel yourself on the brink of tears. Panic is rushing through your veins and all you can focus on is moving forward, getting back to Katara, saving Sokka. When he starts to fully collapse, it takes every ounce of adrenaline within you to lift him into your arms.

You’re almost there, you’re almost there, you’re almost…

“Katara! Toph! Aang!” you scream at the top of your lungs. “Help!”

Suddenly, the three of them are rushing into view, and Katara takes in the sight of you with fear in her eyes. She’s at your side in an instant, helping you set Sokka’s body onto the grass below.

You scramble backwards to allow her better access to the wound, looking on with tears in your eyes. The gash across Sokka’s torso is bad, terrifyingly so. The fact that he even stayed conscious for so long…

You’re not sure how much time goes by, surrounded by worried friends as Katara heals him the best she can. It feels like an eternity.

Keep reading

[kazekagevi]

Bonds Beyond Words: If Eywa Wills It

PART ONE -- PART TWO -- PART THREE

Pairing: Aged-Up!Neteyam x Fem!Human!Reader

Word Count: 5k

Tags: dark themes, but this chapter is actually very fluffy and silly, Lo'ak and Kiri and Spider becoming reader's besties, many attempts at comedy, eventual NSFW, aged-up! Neteyam (and Lo'ak, Spider, and Kiri), reader has PTSD, Neteyam dislikes humans (except for you), eventual jealous/possessive Neteyam, future Olo'eyktan! Neteyam, enemies-to-lovers, interspecies slow burn, angst, fluff, probably OOC, POV’s all over the place, forgive the inconsistencies. 

Summary: You're not allowed to join the community until Jake Sully decides you're ready. Spider, Lo'ak, and Kiri teach you Na'vi.

A/N and Disclaimer: I tried my best to use some Navi language translators and the LearnNavi website to write this chapter, but there are bound to be language errors. I also know time works differently there. Sorry for all the inconsistencies!

This story contains explicit content and is only appropriate for audiences 18+. MDNI. Please do not repost my work. 

The science shack isn’t so bad. 

Your initiation begins after your first sleep that night. The next morning, Max and Norm put their research projects on hold to give you an actual, legitimate tour of the facility. The place is full of bells and whistles. Tiny buttons, translucent screens, and telecommunications. Technology is abundant; but your knowledge of how to use it is not. 

“Here is the airlock control panel,” Max explains. He hovers his palm over a sensor—when it flashes sage green, the user interface appears. “Once you’re ready to interact with the community, we’ll scan your handprints and give you full clearance,” he futhers. 

You’re helplessly eager. “Do you know when that will be?” you inquire. 

Max presses the controller in the center of the panel. The glass door to the inner chamber slides open. You peek your head inside the airlock space—there are respirator masks for both humans and Na’vi, as well as a broom in the corner. 

“I put that there,” Max says, referring to the broom. He’s stealthily ignoring your previous question. “Told Spider he needs to sweep after himself. He refuses to use the doormat outside. I think the only person who’s touched that broom has been me.”

You look at the ground. The floor of the airlock space isn’t as bad as you’d expect it to be. Admittedly, it’s filthy. There are mud stains of both human and Na’vi footprints on the vinyl floor. The size difference is jarring. 

You have an idea. You smirk to yourself. “What if I cleaned this mess for him?” you offer. “I’ll sweep, then mop. I need to start pulling my weight, too.”

Max sighs. “What? So you can put on one of those masks and sneak out before the Olo'eyktan says you’re ready?”

Your expression sours. “You didn’t have to say it like that,” you reply. “I wasn’t going to sneak out,” you admit aloud. “I was going to accidentally open the front door or something with a mask conveniently in place. It’s not as deceitful that way.” 

Max sighs again. “Well, I have no say in when you’re ready,” he confesses. “That decision is only Jake’s to make.”

You have no choice but to yield. Max taps the censor again. The airlock door falls shut into place. 

---

It takes an entire day to simply show you how everything works. It takes two more for you to demonstrate you were paying attention and know how to use everything. The only intuitive mechanisms are the knobs to the showers and the dials on the washer and dryer.

Like in any society, the science shack has its own set of rules, regulations, and norms—quite literally, since Norm transfers between his human body and Avatar frequently. The showers are closed once every twenty-five days for necessary maintenance. Humans aren’t to leave when the Na’vi are sleeping or on significant Omatikaya holidays. Don’t talk to Max before he’s had his first coffee. Spider is supposed to sweep after himself in the airlock room. You can’t use Mia’s handleless mug, but you’re allowed to wash it if you’re extra careful. 

By the end of the week, your head hurts. 

You know the only way to become proficient in something, like speaking a new language or utilizing advanced technology, is to thrust yourself into it. Take the plunge—don’t fear it. Embrace the nosedive. Freefall. 

So, after dinner on your seventh day, you get as close to doing that as possible. You sit on a small perch by a tiny window, nestled in a corner of the science shack. You’re hungry; for one, Norm’s cooking tastes much worse when you’re not famished, so you couldn’t force yourself to go back for seconds, let alone finish everything on your plate. 

But also, you’re hungry for something else. Now that you’re safe from the RDA, you can actually consider doing what you came to Pandora to do all along. You can practically taste it.

You know Jake Sully is right. Life in the science shack is complicated enough, and you need adequate time to acclimate. But you’re starting to feel like you’re trapped.  

The window allows you to see a slice of life at High Camp. You come here around the same time after a meal, just like clockwork. You haven’t seen Jake Sully since your conversation, but you’ve seen many others. 

Just right now, you see a group of young women shuffle past, laughing and gossiping about who knows what. You see two kids, presumably siblings, one chasing after the other, before they’re stopped by one of the village’s elders. You see injured warriors limp towards the tsahìk’s tent. You see a woman in her homestead, weaving a basket. You feel nothing but sonder; the profound sensibility that these people are all living complex lives of their own, and you’re simply witnessing these complexities unfold right before your eyes. 

You begin to recognize a few faces, like that of the shaman healer, otherwise known as the tsahìk. You also take note of which warriors visit her tent most frequently. 

You routinely see a Na’vi female with short, straight jet-black hair. She tends to pass by the science shack every evening of every day, stare at the door, frown, then leave. On two occasions, your eyes met before she wandered off. 

You’ve learned a few more common phrases, which Norm, Max, Spider and Mia teach you at meal times. Kaltxì is a standard greeting. Rutxe means please, and irayo means thank you. Ngafkeyk pefya? means ‘how are you?’ 

You also learned that the lines you recited to the Na’vi in the forest, Neteyam, were of a standard dialect. They weren’t incorrect, just slightly different from that of the Omatikaya’s. And, allegedly, your pronunciation was off. 

In your extensive travels on Earth, you learned quickest when you immersed yourself in a new, unfamiliar environment. It was the rush—the thrill, the trepidation—that drove you to adapt. It was as just as you told Jake Sully: so I will. 

Immersion is the only way. Norm knows this too; as an exceptional xenolinguist, he learned more from interacting with the Na’vi for a few weeks than he did from reading any book. He really understands. He wishes he had more time to help with your studies, but he must return to his work. His newest botany project is time sensitive. 

As you sit by the window, you use an electronic tablet programmed with a basic flashcard feature to get yourself acquainted with the Na’vi language. It’s not particularly helpful, since spoken practice is more beneficial than anything written. You’ve been skimming some of Jake’s old journals, too. But at the time of their conception, he wrote only in English, and misspelled many Na’vi words and phrases. 

The flashcards do nothing besides test your aptitude for memorization. It doesn’t help that your attention span is elsewhere, like you left it on a far, distant planet.

Everytime someone passes by the window in your peripheral vision, you have no choice but to look up and see who’s there. It’s usually another Na’vi face you’ve never seen before. You don’t realize it initially, but the more you turn your head, you’re helplessly aware that you’re looking for someone. It never is, but you’re hopeful it might be Neteyam—you still owe him for saving your life. You have an inkling however, that he’s probably avoiding this place for one reason or another. That very reason might just be yourself. 

It’s obvious that this method of study is inefficient. You power off the tablet and continue people-watching with your knees tucked against your chest. 

Any moment now, you know you’ll see that girl with shoulder-length hair. You want to know why she frowns, but you don’t know how to ask ‘what’s upsetting you?’ in Na’vi. 

Now that you think about it, though, you’re unsure if that’s a wise idea. Even when you are allowed into the community, you know that you will have to keep a distance. Know your place. Although the humans and Na’vi residing here coexist in apparent harmony, you don’t want your presence to disrupt the peace. 

There’s a quiet knock on the other side of the airlock door across the main room—it’s so faint you almost miss it. 

When you sit up, you hear footsteps thudding against the vinyl flooring. You see Spider look around then over his shoulder as he approaches the door. 

He begrudgingly places his hand over the scanner. He presses a button and the front of the airlock opens. 

He quietly shouts something in Na’vi—skxawng. You’re not sure what this word means yet.

From your window perch, you can’t see what’s going on, but Kiri and Lo’ak enter the space through the main door. They each grab a respirator. 

Spider continues to say things you don’t understand. From his tone of voice, he seems slightly agitated. 

“You can’t be here,” Spider says to both of them in Na’vi. “Not until the new girl gets introduced to the community.”

Lo’ak takes a deep breath—the respirator in his hand looks so small. He’s almost as tall as his father now. As the years pass, Lo’ak just gets bigger and bigger. It makes him feel like Spider is shrinking. 

“C’mon man,” Lo’ak says. “Let us in. We’ll only take a minute,” he adds, wearing a devious smirk on his face. “I uh, forgot something when I was here last?” he tries. 

“Yeah, right,” Spider replies. 

“Lo’ak, you’re not helping my case,” Kiri says, glaring at her older brother. 

Lo’ak’s jaw drops. He scoffs at her. “You told me to come with you!”

“Yes, and it turns out you’re not helping!” Kiri hisses. 

Spider groans. “Can you two just leave? I don’t want to get any flak for this.”

Kiri grits her teeth. She places both of her hands on the glass separating them. “Please, Spider. I haven’t seen Mom in forever,” she says. Her eyes water. “It hasn’t been this long since the time we lived in Awa'atlu… I miss her.”

The crease between Spider’s brows disappears. From what you can see, he looks apologetic. “Oeru txoa livu,” he says to Kiri. “But I’m not supposed to let anyone in besides your dad.”

Lo’ak’s expression falters. He looks at his feet. His ears fall flat. “You know, I haven’t seen Tsireya since we left Awa'atlu,” he says just loud enough for Spider and Kiri to hear.

Spider rubs his nose bridge. Kiri sighs and flicks his temple with her fingers. Once Lo’ak starts talking about Tsireya, he can’t stop. 

While this interaction continues to transpire, you stand from your perch and tiptoe over. Your footsteps are padded by thick, cotton socks. You advance slowly, like you’re approaching a crime scene covered with caution tape. 

“Lo’ak, go home and go to bed,” Kiri says, poking his chest. She then spins back around. “Spider, let me in, please.”

 “I’m sorry, Kiri,” Spider replies. “You know I would if I could.” 

Kiri places her hands on her hips. “You can, very easily, actually. Just press the button,” Kiri says. She points to the spot where she knows it is on the other side of the door. “It’s right there.”

Spider sighs. The crease in his brow returns when he realizes Lo’ak is suddenly smiling. “Why are you doing that?”  

Lo’ak waves to you from the other side of the airlock. “Hi!” He greets you in English. “What’s your name?”

Spider jolts when he realizes you’re standing there right behind him.

Kiri gasps. Her eyes go wide—they practically sparkle when she’s excited. ��I told you, I saw her!” she says to Lo’ak in Na’vi. 

You smile at the male and female Na’vi before you. They seem so friendly, and the male Na’vi’s English sounds great. “Hello there,” you reply. You formally introduce yourself. 

Spider presses a palm to his temple. He knows he’s going to get in trouble. 

“It’s nice to meet you!” the female Na’vi says, also in English. “I’m called Kiri. And this is my older brother, Lo’ak.”

That’s his cue—Lo’ak waves again, flashing his vibrant smile. 

Spider scoffs. 

“My good brother here, Spider,” says Lo’ak, “this skxawng,” he adds, more quietly, “was about to let us inside.” 

“I was not,” Spider protests. 

“C’mon,” you say. Spider rolls his eyes—you’ve just met Lo’ak but he’s already infected you with whatever ailment he has that makes him the way that he is. At the same time, however, Spider knows it’s one of the best things about him. 

“Why can’t we let them in?” you ask. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to you in five days. 

“Exactly,” says Lo’ak. “Let us in,” he chants quietly. 

“The door isn’t broken, is it?” you further, keeping a serious demeanor. “I’ll just check to make sure it works,” you tell Spider. 

“Wait–”

The airlock’s inner chamber door opens, allowing Lo’ak and Kiri entry. 

“Would you look at that,” you profess. “I know how the door works.” 

Lo’ak chuckles as he strolls inside like he owns the place. Kiri rushes past the three of you, making a beeline for the large container in the middle of the main room. She presses her palms against the glass and whispers to the Avatar stuck inside. Your brows furrow in confusion. 

“You were right,” Lo’ak mutters to Spider in English. “She is short, even for a human.”

Your jaw goes slack. A surprised chuckle falls from your lips. “If you call Spider skxawng, then what are you?” you can’t help but retort. 

He grins. “If there was a clan of a hundred skxawng’s,” Lo’ak says, “they would have no choice but to make me their leader.”

You laugh again—harder than you were expecting to. This Na’vi might be an ass, but at least he’s got a sense of humor. 

Spider groans again. “If you two knuckleheads stay, you have to keep it down,” he says.

Lo’ak puts his hands up, defensively. 

“Can I ask what she’s doing over there?” you say aloud. 

Kiri now has her face pressed against the glass. It fogs from her breath. 

Spider and Lo’ak look at each other. Lo’ak rubs the back of his neck before speaking: “it’s a long story, but that’s the Avatar of Kiri’s biological mother. Kiri is my adoptive sister.” Lo’ak then hums to himself. “Maybe it’s not such a long story, after all.” 

That’s why she looked so sad. She simply missed her Mom. 

You blink once. “Oh, alright.” You nod, looking at Spider. “All of that information about Mia’s coffee mug was really important, but this,” you say, gesturing to the tube in the center of the room. “Not so much.”

Spider shrugs. “It’s important,” he says. “But, this is just commonplace for all of us.”

“She’s been doing this since we were kids,” Lo’ak reaffirms. 

“Maybe we’re blind to it,” Spider offers. “It’s always there, so we can’t even see it if it’s right in front of us.” 

Lo’ak simpers. “Well said.” 

“Thank you,” says Spider. He grins.  

They nod together and rub their chins like idiots. You assume this must be a regular thing for them. 

“Skxawngs,” you say. 

Of course, they both look your way, as though you’ve called them by their birth name. 

“Did I use that properly?” you ask in English. 

They nod. You sigh woefully.

Lo’ak practically snatches such low-hanging fruit: “What’s got you all blue?” 

You can’t help but glare at him. “They say you don’t know a language unless you know how to properly insult someone,” you say. “But I don’t actually know any useful Na’vi, and I haven’t had a conversation with anyone. Half of the words I know are just insults!”

“Simmer down,” says Spider. “You learned plenty today,” he says. 

“And, last I heard, you did have a conversation with someone,” Lo’ak mutters. 

Spider crosses his arms over his bare chest and looks you in the eye. “We’ll do our best to teach you.”

“Then teach me,” you reply, glaring daggers his way. 

Spider’s eyes narrow. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. A couple of hours ago, you were enthusiastic. Now, you’re starting to get on his nerves. 

Spider then looks over at Kiri, and makes an almost silent whistling noise. In response, Kiri’s ears twitch and she peeks over her shoulder. 

“What the hell did you just say to her?” you demand. 

“Oh, that?” Spider chuckles dryly. “I didn’t say anything, yet.”

“What is it?” Kiri calls back to him.

When Spider responds, he speaks entirely in Na’vi. When Kiri replies to him, she does the same. Spider then turns to you, speaks only in Na’vi again, then laughs. He says something else. Laughter erupts. Kiri and Lo’ak follow suit. 

You have no choice to presume they’re talking shit about you in their native language. 

In reality, they’re saying things that make no sense just to get you riled up. The first thing Spider told Kiri was “let’s pretend like we’re making fun of her. Keep going along with it until I say stop.”

Needless to say, they play their roles with great conviction, like actors on a stage. They fool you. 

“You guys are dickheads! That’s enough.”

They finally stop when you fold your arms over your chest and start pouting; but they don’t stop laughing until Norm yells from down the hall to, in his words, ‘tone that shit down.’ When they’re caught, Spider purses his lips, and Kiri and Lo’ak takes deep breaths from their respirator masks in unison. 

“You’re incredibly impatient,” Spider admits, lowering his voice. Lo’ak nods in agreement. You’re all sitting around the tube that holds Grace’s Avatar. Kiri traces small shapes on its surface with her lithe fingertips. 

“And you three,” you say, pointing at each of them, “are a bunch of jesters.”

“No, you’re a jester,” says Lo’ak. He doesn’t even know what that word means, not in English anyway. 

“That’s exactly what a jester would say.” You groan in frustration. “I am impatient, but you don’t have to say it so directly,” you reply. Your expression is downcast and dejected. 

You want to learn the language. You want to be able to talk to people. You want to carry out conversations, and learn, and laugh, and cry. You want to become a phoenix, rising from the ashes of an otherwise hopeless situation. You’re here, you’re alive, yet you don’t feel that way. Not at all. 

You don’t want to feel like an outsider. You don’t want to live life from a bird’s eye view, on your little perch by the tiny window. You don’t want to feel like a canary in a cage. You don’t want to feel like a fish in a large, technologically-advanced bowl. Or like a beetle in a glass jar with holes poked in the top. You don’t want to be alone. You don’t want to be locked away in the science shack, just like how you were in the RDA’s basement. 

Your eyes water. How could it be? Have you simply gone from one prison to another?

“You may be impatient, but I think you’ll fit in with us just fine,” Lo’ak interjects. He smiles genuinely. After a few moments, so do Spider and Kiri.

You wipe your eyes. Your face feels hot. 

Kiri calls you by your first name, grasping hold of your attention. “Don’t worry. We’ll teach you to speak Na’vi, and you’ll be just like the rest of us,” she says affectionately. 

“I don’t know about that,” Lo’ak mutters. 

There’s a pregnant pause. You, Spider, and Kiri expect him to say that you’ll never be a true Na’vi, or something of the sort. You weren’t raised as such, like the three of them. 

“She won’t grow another foot overnight,” Lo’ak says finally. He looks right at you with a shit-eating grin. “You’ll never be as tall as we are.”

“Well said,” Spider remarks. 

---

Kiri and Lo’ak can’t stay for much longer—they have to sneak back to their tent before Jake Sully finds out what they’ve been up to. 

“They won’t get in trouble if he finds out, right?”

You and Spider are the last two awake. You’re sitting at the kitchen table. 

Spider waves his hand around nonchalantly. “They never do,” he says. There’s a brief pause. “Okay, sometimes Lo’ak does,” Spider adds. “But never Kiri or Tuk. You’ll meet her eventually. She’s the youngest sibling.”

“Alright, so there’s the three of them. Lo’ak, Kiri, and Tuk. And Neytiri is their mother, right?”

“Four of them,” Spider corrects you. “Neteyam is the oldest. One year older than Lo’ak.” 

You blink. “Neteyam is the Olo'eyktan’s eldest son? The one who found me?” 

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?” Spider retorts. 

You glare at him. “Yes, that’s what you said, only a whole week late!” You whisper-shout at him. “Just like with Kiri’s biological mother.”

Spider throws his hands up. “I guess I thought someone already told you,” he says defensively. “You talked to Jake, right?”

“Right,” you reply. “But he didn’t mention anything about Neteyam being his son. Didn’t mention anything about his children actually.”

“With all that you went through with those fuckers, he may have thought it could be taken as insensitive,” Spider suggests. 

You hum. Maybe, just maybe, Spider’s right.

“Kiri works in the tsahìk’s tent during the day. Lo’ak puts in the least amount of effort necessary to be considered one of the warriors,” Spider says. “He’s usually around, but oftentimes not. Either way, we will find time to help you learn Na’vi.” 

“Is Neteyam one of the warriors?” you ask. 

Spider nods. “These days, he’s become one of the best.”

Your thoughts drift back to when Neteyam found you. You were practically ambushed—he was so controlled, so swift with his movements. Spider’s words don’t surprise you.

“So, he’s busy all the time?”

Spider addresses you by name. “What are you getting at?”

“I still need to thank him,” you confide. “He can’t avoid me forever.”

Spider sighs. “He can try,” he mutters. 

“So, he is avoiding me?” you ask. Your cheeks are turning red again.

“He’s…” Spider begins. He looks distraught. “He wasn’t always like this,” Spider says. “Neteyam and I are cool, but he never sets foot inside this place if he doesn’t have to. Ever since the Sully family returned from living with the Metkayina, the Reef People, he doesn’t get along with Norm and the others like Kiri and Lo’ak… He merely tolerates the scientists here.” 

“You’re saying he hates humans,” you say bluntly. 

“Hate is a strong word,” Spider replies. “But he has many reasons to dislike them…” Spider swallows. “To dislike our kind.” 

The words fall from your lips: “you’re right.”

You begin to question whether or not you should follow through with thanking him for saving you. The interaction with Kiri and Lo’ak went so well—perhaps it gave you an ounce of hope, things might go smoothly with Neteyam too. He’s been on your mind constantly, replaying in your thoughts like a broken record. You’re certain there are other Na’vi who share similar sentiments. You have to be careful.

“Don’t think about it too hard,” says Spider. He stands from the table. “I’m going to sleep,” he says plainly. His footsteps fade as he walks to the barracks. 

Spider’s sympathies do very little to ease your mind. 

---

Spider kept his word. Kar is teach. Karyu is teacher, and Karyunay is apprentice teacher. Ayfo kar nga—they teach you. 

In the days—and eventually, weeks—to come, you fall into a new routine.

You study Na’vi during the day-time hours. The science shack isn’t so bad. Sometimes, if he’s available, Norm works with you on your phonetics and grammar. But typically, it’s just you, your electronic tablet, and your perch by the windowsill. 

When you learned other Earth languages in the past, it was easier to learn other languages in proximity to their language group with which you were familiar. Romance languages, such as Spanish, French, and Italian, bore many similarities. The same went for Germanic languages, and even some Sino-Tibetan languages. 

Na’vi, however, is completely different from any language you’ve spoken, or even attempted to learn. But your dedication is unwavering. 

Lo’ak and Kiri return to the science shack two days after your first encounter with them. 

“Okay, Spider was right. At first, he was angry,” Kiri says. She takes a deep breath through her respirator. “But then, I suppose he thought about it more and decided it was a good idea after all.”

Jake Sully has given Lo’ak and Kiri his word of approval to help with your studies at nightfall, as long as they don’t slack off their usual duties. 

“He thinks it’s a good ‘method of assimilation’ or some shit like that,” adds Lo’ak.

You nod. “He’s right,” you say. 

“Yeah, whatever,” Lo’ak admits nonchalantly. “Sometimes.” 

You all sit on the floor around Grace’s tube again. 

“Well,” you clear your throat. “Today, I studied grammatical structure and simple, common vocabulary. Maybe we could start with-”

“Nga za‘u ftu peseng?” Spider asks. He’s asking ‘where do you come from?’

You blink. It takes a moment for the cogs in your brain to rotate. But in due time, you register his question. 

“I come from Earth,” you reply in English.

“If you really want to learn,” Spider says, “you should reply in Na’vi.”

You should. The only issue is, you’re not sure how. But you have no choice but to give it a try. 

You fail the first time. The second time, you almost get it right—close enough to where Kiri pries her eyes away from her mother to give you a look of encouragement and a thumbs up. 

“You’re almost there,” says Lo’ak. He straightens his posture, no longer slouching against the glass tube. “But if you don’t want to sound like a baby learning their first words, you need to change up the word order. For myself, I would reply with ‘za‘u oe ftu Eywa’eveng.’ Which means in English, ‘I come from Pandora.’ Your reply, obviously, is going to be a little different.”

Lo’ak pauses, takes a breath from his respirator, then mimics your higher-pitched voice, speaking as you would reply in Na’vi. 

His impression of you is already spot on. “I don’t sound like that!” you protest. 

They all laugh, and you can’t help but join them. 

For the rest of the evening, the three of them ask you simple questions in Na’vi. All you have to do is reply, also in Na’vi. The longer you go, the easier it gets. You build upon the scaffolding of your day-time studies, as well as every question and response before the next. 

---

This continues for many nights. 

During the days when you’re sitting by the window and Lo’ak and Kiri pop into frame, you instinctively smile and wave to them. They always reciprocate. 

They don’t say it outwardly, but the two of them look forward to these evenings with you. They get to spend more time with Spider. And, although they’re both fluent in English, the practice benefits them, too. Plus, they’ve taken a liking to you as well. 

“Who the hell are you waving at, skxawng?” Neteyam asks Lo’ak one day. They’re about to head off on their ikrans to train. Lo’ak needs to learn a new hand-to-hand technique. Neteyam is conveniently out of your line of sight.

“I’m waving to the new girl!” Lo’ak exclaims. He continues waving. He’s practically beaming.

Neteyam huffs. 

“Her pronunciation is getting much better,” Lo’ak says. His arm falls to his side again. “But it honestly wasn’t bad to begin with,” he adds. “Do you think you were, perhaps, exaggerating?”

“No,” Neteyam answers curtly. He looks agitated—his ears twitch and his tail swishes wildly. “She’s a distraction." You're proving Neteyam's point. Lo'ak won't stop waving. Neteyam groans. "Hurry up, Lo'ak. We have things to do,” he says. When they were younger, Neteyam would’ve slapped Lo’ak’s bicep or grabbed him by the ends of his hair, but he’s a man now. He can’t show his impatience or impulsivity. 

Lo'ak disappears from your vantage point.

---

It’s already been a month. Your diligent practice is starting to pay off. 

You can hold very basic conversations in Na’vi. You’re learning more about the language and culture every day. 

They don't want to feed your ego, but your teachers have discovered you're a fast, proficient learner.

“Syep means 'to trap.' It’s a verb,” Lo’ak explains to you in English. He’s lying on the floor with his legs propped up on a chair from the dining table. Suddenly, he swings his feet from the chair, and stands to his feet. 

You don't want to feed any of their egos either, but they're all smarter than they think. Especially Lo'ak.

“Spider, peseng lu syeprel?” Lo’ak asks. 

You’re unsure what a syeprel is, but you know he’s asking where it’s located. 

“I think it’s in the supply closet, over there,” Spider replies in Na’vi. 

“What’s a syeprel?” you ask, also in Na’vi. 

“Take a guess!” Lo’ak calls from down the hall. 

You hum. You switch back to English: “Well, it must be a particular type of trap? Like a mouse trap or something?”

Kiri hums too. “It does technically trap something,” she says after a few moments. “But you’re thinking too literally,” she adds with a smirk. 

You scratch your head. You’re dumbfounded. 

“A-ha!’ Lo’ak says triumphantly. “I’ve found it.”

“Found what?” you call. 

“Ask nicely,” says Kiri. “In Na’vi.”

You try again. “Rutxe,” you say, slightly embarrassed. You do as you’re told, and ask in Na’vi. 

Lo’ak returns. He’s holding an ancient piece of technology—an extremely old hand-held digital camera with a slightly scratched lens. “Say cheese!” 

He snaps a photo of you, Spider, and Kiri lounging around on the floor. None of you were prepared.

Kiri sighs and glowers at him. “Lo’ak!”

Lo’ak chuckles. “Alright, alright. We’ll take another one.”

The four of you stand around Lo’ak, the camera operator. “Kiri, crouch down a little bit,” he says, directing your places. “Spider, lean closer to Kiri.” You hear Spider sigh. 

Lo’ak then glances at you over his shoulder. “Stand on your toes, tawtute. Or else you won’t be in frame,” he chides you with a sly smile. 

You do just that and smile for the syeprel. “You’re an ass, Lo’ak,” you say through your teeth. 

“Smile, everyone!” he sings in Na’vi. Lo’ak spins the camera around to take a photo of everyone while operating it at the same time. He smiles and snaps another photo. The flash is momentarily blinding.

You break free from your pose. “So, a camera is called syeprel?”

“Yes, it is.” replies Lo’ak in Na’vi. “It traps a moment in time, doesn’t it? Rel means like an image, or a picture,” he adds in English.

It’s clicking. Your jaw goes slack. Spider can’t help but chuckle at your expression. 

“Language learning is so cool,” you gawk.

“You sound just like Norm,” says Kiri. 

“Whatever,” you say in Na’vi. You switch back to English again. “There are lots of animal names in English like that. Anteaters eat ants. Junebugs come out in the month of June to find mates. Grasshoppers hop around in the grass. Centipedes are named after their one hundred legs.” 

“Now you really sound like Norm,” Kiri teases you. “Don’t start talking about plants too, or I’ll have to go home.” 

“What about bed bugs?” asks Spider. “I've only heard of them from the others. Never seen them here. I’m assuming they would be found in your bed?” 

You nod. 

Kiri hums, thinking. “What about butterflies then?” she asks. “I know that butter comes from milk and milk comes from Earth cows, but could they make butter too?”

You scrunch your nose at the mere thought of butterfly butter. “I don’t think so.”

Lo’ak can hardly contain his laughter. “What about cockroaches?” 

Kiri smacks his chest. Lo’ak half-groans, half-cackles. Kiri scolds him in Na'vi, but it's not long before she starts laughing too. 

You and Spider follow suit.  From down the hall, Norm calls for you four to keep it down again.

But you can’t stop. In fact, Norm’s complaints make it worse. Joyous laughter fills the room. You’re having the time of your life. For the second time since your escape, you think this must be heaven. You’re briefly reminded of your imprisonment—you remember the few times you laughed with your cellmates. You remember those slivers of euphoria. 

You also remember that you’re safe now. The science shack isn’t so bad. Not with Spider, and Kiri, and Lo’ak, and even Norm, and Max, and Mia, and all the others. 

You laugh until your ribs hurt. You laugh until tears well in your eyes. 

---

A/N: This chapter was so fun to write! I hope you guys had as much fun reading it as I did writing it. Again, please forgive any language inconsistencies.

Don't worry my darlings! Neteyam is going to be all over the next chapter. Believe in the slow burn!

And thanks again for all the kind comments, reblogs, and notes. You guys are awesome!

Taglist: @m1tsu-ki @promnightbinbaby

[fandom-smutty-shots]

The gaang kissing their s/o for the first time

Request

Masterlist

~

Characters: Toph, Katara, Azula, Aang, Zuko, and Sokka

Warnings: None!! Maybe one suggestive inner monologue sentence, but that's it!

A/N: Can you tell I have a crush on Azula?

~

Toph Beifong

Toph would kiss you so hard it would take your breath away.

It would last for minutes as she roughly devoured you, finally giving in to feelings she had for years, and showing you exactly how much she liked you.

Katara

Fuck would Katara be passionate.

She would realize she had feelings one day while you ate dinner by the campfire.

Everyone had turned in for the night, but the two of you had been blabbering on about random stuff all night, your meals forgotten in your hands as you chatted.

She would suddenly see how beautiful you were, how perfect every word you said was, how much your moving lips called her name.

She would lean in and hold both sides of your face, admiring your confusion only for a moment before catching your lips in hers, kissing you like it was the last day on earth.

Azula

Azula would be yelling at you when it happened. She was pissed about some stupid little thing that had nothing to do with you, and yet she took it out on you.

You finally snapped at her to stop, that you didn't deserve her anger.

She would pin you up against the wall, both you wrists in her iron grip as she would growl, "what did you just say to me?"

"I said, be nicer," you would shoot back.

And with that, she kissed you, her anger melting as she softened against your lips. When she finally pulls away, she'll tease you again.

"Nice enough for you, (Y/n)?"

Aang

You know you'd be the one to initiate your first kiss with Aang. He may be brave on the battlefield, but when it came to love, he was a bit of a wuss.

You knew it was because he had no experience; he spent his entire childhood fighting the old fire lord. He may have flirted with Katara, but you didn't think it had ever gone anywhere.

So when you pressed your lips to his for a quick, surprise peck, you were the one that was surprised as he blew a gust of wind at you, knocking you off your feet.

"Crap!" Aang swore, hurrying to help you up. "I'm so sorry! You caught me off guard!"

"Clearly."

"Can we try that again?"

Zuko

Zuko and she had finally broken up.

They'd been together for years, and you had been pining from the sidelines for just as long.

As he cried on your shoulder, you tried not to think about what you wanted to do to him, knowing it was selfish timing.

Despite this, during one of your conversations, as you were leaned in and telling him he would find someone who is perfect for him, he leaned in and captured your lips in his, roughly moving against you and pulling you closer.

You finally broke away, gasping.

"We can't do this yet, please. You're still in love with..."

"Oh, (Y/n). You have no idea who I'm in love with."

Sokka

Sokka would throw you the perfect dinner. He would plan your first kiss days in advance, determined to make it perfect.

Of course, Katara was the one who cooked it, but it's the thought that counts, right?

When the moment came, after a perfect night and a beautiful walk across the beach, he would gently grasp your waist on either side and pull you in.

He'd connect his forehead to yours before touching noses, and finally, leaning in for your lips. It would be slow and meaningful, and he would rub your back while he kissed you.

It would be the perfect end to the perfect night.

[letstalkaboutshtufff]

I’m sorry I wasn’t enough pt 2 final

Neteyam sully x Reader mate

Pairing: Neteyam te sully x wife Reader

Warnings: Mentions of blood and injury

**************************************************

It was like a dream, weird swirling colors, buzzing noises, nothing really making sense but somehow you knew what was going on. You were passing on…going back to the great mother. Your finger had long left your neck. The silence afterwards sealing your fate. He didn’t hear you.. he wouldn’t come…

The swirling colors increased until your vision was completely obscured. Who knew dying would look so.. so beautiful…

You didn’t feel any pain anymore, just a calm numb feeling… it wouldn’t be long now… your eyes fluttered closed, the colors morphing into swirling darkness.

You accepted your fate, welcomed it even just a bit. Your only desire was to let go.

Something was making noise making you flinch a bit as the peace was disturbed.

The noise didn’t stop, something.. no someone was yelling something… a pressure on your face and body, something pressing into your delicate skin.

You tried to push it away, wanting to be at peace again but felt something holding your hands down,

Stop- mv—- please—- help someon-!

A voice in the distance muffled but somehow familiar..

Suddenly the numbness was gone and firey hot pain tugged you back to reality. Your eyes shot open but you couldn’t see anything, only blurs of color.

You cried out loudly trying to move away whatever was pressing on your wound making it hurt more.

“I know I know I’m sorry! Just hold on, I need to keep pressure, I’m sorry!” You couldn’t believe your ears.

“N-neteyam?” You sobbed out.

“Shh don’t talk, just stay still-why didn’t you say anything before!?”

That made you hurt worse than the wound,

“I-I’m s-sorry, please d-don’t be mad” you choked out more sobs.

“I’m- I’m not mad please don’t talk, just hold still please”.

You silently cried as he tried his best to apply pressure.

You squeezed shut your eyes trying to shut out the pain.

“I need to get you to grandmother”

You felt Neteyam move your hands and he instructed you to hold down, then quickly he gathered you up into his arms.

How ironic you thought, for months all you wanted was for him to embrace you like this.

You kept your eyes closed but from the air zipping past you you could tell Neteyam was running as fast as he could.

You could feel yourself weakening again, having no strength left your head rested on his chest.

His heartbeat is so fast…

“Don’t fall asleep, stay awake please, we’re almost there!”

You hummed trying your best to keep your eyes open.

“Grandmother help! Kiri! She’s been shot-please!”

Moat had never heard Neteyam so frantic since he was a child. She quickly urged him over to a bed on the ground and wasted no time inspecting the wound.

“Neteyam hold her up I need to see her back”.

Neteyam muttered an apology when you groaned in protest.

“No exit.. the bullets still inside, we need to get it out quickly, she’s lost too much blood. Neteyam you need to hold her still, this will hurt..”

Neteyam as instructed moved behind you holding you tightly down.

“Be strong child…” you braced yourself but nothing could have prepared you for the pain.

You immediately screamed and thrashed but Neteyam held you down,

“Shh mawey mawey, it’ll be over soon, mawey mate” Neteyam spoke into your ear, heart feeling like it was being ripped apart by each and every scream.

“Hold her down!”

Neteyam nodded and held you even tighter, “shh it’s alright, everything will be alright, I’m sorry”

“There it is done..”

Neteyam let out a breathe of relief, “it’s over, breathe mate breathe..”

“Will she be ok?” You felt the arms around you loosen and guiding you back to lay down. Although the hand on your shoulder stayed..

Moat nodded, “the bullet is out but she has lost a lot of blood. She will be weak for awhile but I believe she will be fine. I will watch her closely, don’t worry child..”

“Here give her this to drink” Moat handed her grandson a wooden cup filled with a mushy green liquid.

You were almost asleep when you felt your head being lifted up, “Drink y/n, it’ll help with the pain..”

This time when your eyes opened they were able to focus on the furrowed brows of your mate. His glowing eyes focused on the cup at your lips. You choked a bit and he held you up a bit higher. A warm finger swiped at the liquid that dribbled down your lips.

Maybe you were dead…

Neteyam realized you were looking at him although words seemed to fail the both of you at the moment. With a clearing of his throat he settled you back down. You felt something cold and soothing being applied to your wound and soon you were lulled into sleep.

***************************************************

Neteyam watched as your breathing changed. He let out a sigh and leaned back. Hands running over his head.

“Neteyam!” The tent flap opened revealing his parents.

“What happened?!” Jake crouched next to his son eyes scanning over you before landing back on neteyam.

“She was shot…” Neteyams voice was tired and full of emotion.

Neytiri gasped and kneeled down on the other side and held your hand. “Will she be ok?”

“She should recover. We had to remove the bullet but it didn’t hit anything vital” Moat spoke up.

“Thank the mother…”

After some silence Jake eyed his son who looked like he’d shot her himself by his demeanor.

“You ok?” Jake placed a hand on his shoulder.

Neteyam glanced up, “I’m fine, why wouldn’t I be?”

“She’ll be ok, she’s tough ya know.”

Neteyam stayed quiet, the one thought haunting him. Why did she hide it?

His mother ever so observant asked him, “what is it Neteyam?”

His eyes flitted up to her, then his father then back to you, guilt flooding his features.

“She didn’t tell me..”

“Didn’t tell you what?” Jake furrowed his brow.

“That she was hurt…”

Jake and Neytiris eyes widened, silently his mother got up and came to his other side pulling him in.

***************************************************

When you awoke the next morning you were in a lot of pain but not nearly anything compared to before.

Your mouth was incredibly dry so you tried to sit up to find some water.

You winced at the burning sensation.

“Stop you shouldn’t move yet!” Your eyes widened and whipped to the side finding Neteyam kneeling beside you quickly supporting your back and guiding you back down.

You tried to speak then quickly remembered the reason you wanted to get up in the first place.

“Here” he poured you some water into a cup and to your surprise instead of handing it to you he held it up to your lips in one hand and lifted your head with the other.

After you were done he set it back down. “How do you feel?”

“I’m alright..”

Silence

How you wished you could disappear this very moment…

“I um…I-I…” you hated how the tears were starting to come back so fast but you couldn’t help it. You wanted to apologize for so many things.

Neteyam looked a bit puzzled.

“A-are you in pain? I’ll call grandmother” he rose up quickly but you stopped him.

“No I-I’m fine…”

“Then what’s wrong…?” He kneeled back down a bit confused.

“I-I wanted to say I’m so sorry for everything… I know what I did was… I’m so so s-sorry”

Neteyam blinked, clearly taken aback by your words. His eyes softened, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something — maybe forgiveness, maybe confusion — but you couldn’t be sure. The sincerity in your voice, the rawness of your apology, seemed to cut through the room like a sharp breath.

“What are you talking about?” he asked gently, his tone almost lost in the stillness of the room. He reached out and placed a hand on your shoulder, his touch warm and reassuring, even though the weight of your apology hung in the air between you.

“I… I should’ve told you… what I was feeling. What I was going through,” you whispered, your voice trembling. You felt exposed, vulnerable, like the walls you’d carefully built up around yourself were crumbling to dust. “I should’ve said something, Neteyam. But I kept it inside. I kept hiding it, pretending like it wasn’t happening… like it didn’t matter. And then, when everything went wrong, I… I thought it would be easier if I just…”

His fingers tightened slightly on your shoulder, urging you to stop, his gaze intense. “No. Don’t say that.” His voice was firm, but soft — the tone of someone who had lived enough to know that guilt could eat you alive if you let it. “Y/N, listen to me. You don’t have to apologize for any of it. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

“But I hurt you, Neteyam. I—" Your breath hitched again, the knot in your chest tightening.

He shook his head, a soft sigh escaping him. “You didn’t hurt me,” he said, his voice low, almost like he was reassuring himself as much as you. “I didn’t know what you were going through either. You weren’t the only one keeping things in. But I… I should’ve noticed sooner. I should’ve been there for you, in the way you needed me to be.”

The weight of his words — the unspoken responsibility he was placing on himself — made you want to shrink. But at the same time, it gave you a strange comfort, like a weight lifting from your chest, even if just a little.

He looked at you, his eyes full of concern. “Don’t carry this burden alone. Not anymore. You don’t have to.”

You couldn’t answer right away, the rush of emotions swirling within you. But before you could speak, he leaned in a little closer, his hand still gently cradling your shoulder.

“I’m not angry with you, Y/N,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but somehow so steady. “I’m just… I’m scared.” His words sent a pang through your heart. “You scared me. I almost lost you.”

Tears welled up in your eyes again, but this time, they weren’t just for the things you hadn’t said. They were for everything — the fear, the love, the closeness you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again, your voice breaking.

He shook his head once more. “No, no more apologies. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

You blinked at him, confused, a small sob escaping you. “But… Neteyam, I’m not strong like you. I’m not like everyone else. I can’t handle everything, and I don’t know how to continue on like this.. I just… I just want to be okay… for us to be ok..”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached forward, his thumb gently brushing the tears from your cheek, a small smile forming on his lips. “You don’t have to be strong all the time, Y/N. You don’t have to handle everything alone.” His voice softened, growing tender. “I’m here. From now on I’ll be here”.

Your heart fluttered in your chest, and a strange calmness began to settle over you, as if his words, his touch, were healing something deep inside you.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” you murmured, the weight of the unspoken finally coming to the surface. You could feel his breath close to yours as he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. The warmth between you was all-consuming.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he repeated, almost like a vow.

You closed your eyes, letting the feeling of his presence, his promise, wash over you. And for the first time in a long while, the gnawing fear, the doubt — the suffocating loneliness — began to fade, replaced by something far gentler: a sense of belonging.

Later that evening, after the storm of emotions had subsided, Neteyam stayed by your side, even as his parents left to give you both some time to recover. The fire in the center of the hut flickered softly, casting a warm glow over the room. The gentle hum of the jungle outside felt distant, almost like a memory.

You could hear Neteyam’s breath, steady and rhythmic as he sat by your side, watching over you. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt this safe, this cared for.

“I didn’t know what to do when I found you,” he murmured quietly after some time, his hand still resting gently against yours. “You were slipping away… I thought… I thought I might lose you.”

You could feel the weight of his words settle into the space between you, and you wanted so badly to reach out, to reassure him. But it was hard to find the words. What could you say?

You squeezed his hand, and when you looked up at him, you saw the raw vulnerability in his eyes. The emotion in his gaze was so pure, so sincere, that it made your heart ache.

“I’m here, Neteyam. I’m not going anywhere.” Your voice was soft, but strong, the conviction in it clearer than ever before.

He stared at you for a long moment, as if measuring the sincerity in your words. And then, as if you had finally said the one thing he needed to hear, his lips curled into the smallest of smiles.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I.. I want things to change.. I want us to be better. I’m sorry I’ve let things go on the way they have been for so long.. and I know things won’t change overnight but I promise to do better.. to be better because I do care for you…”

You smiled truly for the first in months and did something you’ve wanted to do for so long. You leaned forward and kissed him softly. A silent promise that you’d do your best too.

So sorry for the long wait! Life’s been chaotic but I’m back! Hope you enjoyed:)

@iloverhestars @hey-girl-hey @misshale21 @misscaller06 @christinechikiee @crazytacokoala @freellamabeliever @hiddenworld666 @tatahungry @levi-09

[castielscaplan]

This Day (Soldier Boy)

Summary: after a mission goes horribly wrong, you replay the footage for Soldier Boy, beaten, broken, and exhausted.

Warnings: hurt, no comfort, angst

WC: 857

Read on ao3!

A/N: Prompt: “You should have died that day.” chosen from this list

-

The compound was silent, the kind of silence that swallowed noise before it could begin. Overhead, the flickering fluorescent lights buzzed like dying insects, casting long, sterile shadows on the floor. You stood alone in the common room, framed by dusty sunlight bleeding through bulletproof glass, watching the grainy footage play out on the screen.

There he was—Soldier Boy, back when he was untouchable. Armor gleaming, smile bright and bulletproof, shouldering a bazooka like it was a toy. The flag patch on his chest flapped in the desert wind as he waded through chaos, fire licking the sky behind him like a crown.

A hero. A myth. A weapon wrapped in red, white, and blue.

You stared at the image, the way it distorted around the edges like even the camera knew it was too much to hold.

Behind you, the door creaked open.

The shift in air told you it was him before he spoke. His boots hit the floor heavy and slow. Hesitant. Unlike him. Like the past had started weighing more than the shield ever did.

“Turn that shit off,” he muttered, voice hoarse from smoke or maybe silence. “It’s not real.”

You didn’t turn around. Just lowered the remote slowly, the screen going black. “Was any of it?”

He exhaled through his nose, like he’d been expecting this. Dreading it. “You’re pissed.”

Your laugh was hollow, like a cracked bell. “Yeah. I’m pissed.”

Soldier Boy stepped further into the room, hands deep in the pockets of his jacket. You caught his reflection in the blank screen—older now, rugged in a way that didn’t feel like charm anymore. His face was tired. His eyes… even more so.

“You don’t get it,” he said. “You weren’t there.”

“I was there after.” Your voice broke at the edges. “I was there pulling myself out of rubble. Holding what was left of their bodies. Watching the smoke rise where you were supposed to be.”

He flinched. Just barely.

“I told you to stay behind.”

“And I didn’t,” you snapped, spinning to face him now. “Because I trusted you. Because I thought you’d never let anything happen to me.”

He looked away. Jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his neck twitched. “I thought I could handle it.”

“They died, Ben.” Your voice was shaking now, with fury, with grief. “You marched us in like we were invincible. And you didn’t even look back.”

Something shifted in his expression. Like guilt, but older. Crusted over like dried blood on a wound too deep to stitch.

“You should have died that day,” you said, and the words came out sharper than you’d meant. Or maybe you had meant them. You weren’t sure anymore.

He stilled completely. Every breath, every movement in his body froze.

The words hung there like smoke between you.

Finally, quietly, “Yeah.”

It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t defensive.

It was empty.

“Yeah,” he repeated. “I know.”

He looked older then. Not physically, but something beneath his skin cracked, and you saw a glimpse of what lay underneath the legend. Not the soldier. Not the supe. Just… a man who’d made too many mistakes to count.

“I saw the blast hit you,” you whispered. “I saw it swallow everything. You should’ve been gone. Like them.”

“I wanted to be,” he murmured. “For a second, I thought maybe that was it. Finally.”

You turned your face away, blinking hard. You didn’t want his confession. You didn’t want to feel sorry for the man who’d left you buried alive under the weight of your fallen team.

“I crawled out alone, Ben,” you whispered. “Burned. Broken. Screaming their names until my throat gave out. And you were just gone.”

His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for you. But even he knew it would be a mistake.

“I never meant for you to be there,” he said, voice low. “You were the only good thing I ever had. I didn’t want the filth of that place touching you.”

“It did. It still does.” You swallowed hard. “You didn’t lose me that day. You lost me when you stopped trying to be more than what they made you.”

His mouth parted slightly, breath catching like he’d been hit.

“I care,” he said, almost a whisper. “I just… I don’t know how to show it without wrecking everything I touch.”

You looked at him then, really looked. And maybe it was the ache in your chest or the way his shoulders had slumped in defeat, but you saw the man underneath the myth—the one who laughed at your bad jokes, who used to hold you too tight at night, like you were the only thing keeping the war from dragging him under.

And you hated that part of you still loved him.

“I’m tired,” you said, voice hollow. “Of ghosts. Of what-ifs. Of pretending this thing between us didn’t die with them.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t try to stop you.

He just stood there, as you walked past him and out the door—leaving Soldier Boy alone with the ghosts, the silence, and a screen that no longer played the fantasy.

Only the aftermath.

--

TipJar

[gardenladysworld]

Starbound hearts

Status: I'm working on it

Pairings: Neteyam x human!f!reader

Aged up characters!

Genre/Warnings: fluff, slow burn, oblivious characters, light angst, hurt/comfort, pining

Summary: In the breathtaking, untamed beauty of Pandora, two souls from different worlds find themselves drawn together against all odds. Neteyam, the dutiful future olo'eyktan of the Omaticaya clan, is bound by the expectations of his people and the traditions of his ancestors. She, a human scientist with a love for Pandora’s wonders, sees herself as an outsider, unworthy of the connection she craves.

Tags: @fanchonfallen, @nerdylawyerbanditprofessor-blog, @ratchetprime211, @poppyseed1031, @redflashoftheleaf, @nikipuppeteer@eliankm, @quintessences0posts, @minjianhyung, @bkell2929, @erenjaegerwifee, @angelita-uchiha, @wherethefuckiskathmandu, @cutmyeyepurple, @420slvtt, @zimerycuellat @k-s-tumbler

Part 24: To breath

Oh my fucking god. This chapter took way too long to write it. :(

I want to apologize for taking so long to write a chapter. I'm just tired all the time. Sometimes I just want to sleep all day and do nothing. I really tried my best, but even though I had ideas, I didn't have the strength to implement them. Until now.

Part 25: To thread

The fire crackled softly between them, casting long, shifting shadows along the kelku walls. The glowing datapad flickered once, then again—its fractured screen catching Neytiri’s eye as she stepped further inside.

Kiri and Lo’ak both turned toward her, frozen in place. Kiri remained still beside Neteyam. Her hand, still resting on his arm, didn’t move. But her fingers curled slightly, as if preparing to hold him together should he fall apart. She said nothing. But the tension in her shoulders was loud enough. Lo’ak’s jaw tensed. Neither of them spoke.

They didn’t have to.

Their silence said enough.

Lo’ak first didn’t even glance at his brother. He just looked at Neytiri—his eyes wary, cautious—then flicked a quick glance back toward Neteyam, like he was waiting for a signal. A command. Anything.

But Neteyam stayed silent.

Neytiri’s gaze swept over them with the precision of a huntress—first her daughter, then her youngest son, and finally… her eldest.

Neteyam still crouched by the firepit, unmoving.

He looked like a statue cracked from the inside. Like if someone touched him the wrong way, he’d fall to pieces.

His eyes flicked up. Met hers.

She didn’t blink.

Her voice came again, low and sharp like the edge of obsidian. “What did you say, Neteyam?” Her tone carried no fury yet. Just the heavy weight of demand.

He didn’t answer. Not yet. His shoulders were tight; his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

Kiri looked down at her hands. Lo’ak shifted, the knife he'd dropped still lying between them, glinting faintly in the firelight. Both of them glanced toward their brother, then toward their mother. Waiting.

Neytiri’s golden eyes narrowed, blazing with questions.

“Who is yours?” she asked again. This time, the words were quieter. But sharper. More dangerous.

She looked around the space—slowly. Methodically. As if trying to find what didn’t belong. Her eyes lingered on the glowing datapad between Kiri and Lo’ak, then at the carving tools. The unfinished pendant. The button near Neteyam’s knee, now half-hidden in the folds of his sleeping mat.

And then, her gaze returned to him. Hard. Unrelenting. “What are you hiding from me?”

Neteyam didn’t flinch. But the words pierced.

He could feel it—the pressure building. Not just from her stare, but from the weight of five days. Five days of searching. Of silence. Of fear gnawing at his ribs. His knuckles trembled where they pressed into his knees.

Five days without you. Five days knowing you might be cold. Wounded. Lost. Five days since the forest swallowed the only part of him he could not live without. And now… now this.

He finally lifted his eyes to her.

And her gaze—Eywa—her gaze was daggers. Not cold. Not cruel. Just sharp. Sharp with confusion. With pain. With the realization that something was happening to her son—and she hadn’t seen it.

Couldn’t see it. Not until now.

“You speak of someone,” she said, voice taut. “Someone you would not lose. Someone who is… yours. But there is no mate. No promise made. You have refused all who were offered. You’ve ignored every call to courtship.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why? The clan sees. The elders speak.”

Lo’ak and Kiri remained silent.

But they were looking at her now. Not startled. Not confused. Just… waiting. Waiting for the choice that wasn’t theirs to make. Neytiri noticed that too. Her mouth tensed.

“Your sister and brother—they might know.” She turned her eyes back on Neteyam, the weight of them like stone. “But I do not.” She took a step forward. “You hide something from me, my son.”

Neteyam inhaled slowly, feeling every breath like broken glass through his chest. He held her stare, even though it burned. And the weight of her gaze hit him like a storm.

Her eyes—once the eyes that had soothed him after every scraped knee and fevered night—were now sharp enough to cut. She wasn’t angry yet. Not fully. She was confused. Wounded. There was something raw in her expression. Something he hadn’t seen in years.

Hurt.

Because she knew. She didn’t know what she knew—but she felt it. That her son hiding something. Something deep. Something true. Something he had not given to her.

And Neytiri didn’t understand why. She looked at him like he had betrayed her.

Neteyam felt it all. Every line of disappointment in her face. Every unspoken accusation. Every flicker of grief—for the bond between mother and son that now felt strained, distant.

And that truth—whatever it was—was written in every inch of his body.

In the way he had refused every girl she placed before him. In the way he had pulled away these past moons.

In the way he now sat, crouched and burning, looking like the very world had come undone beneath his feet.

“What is happening to you, ma’itan?” she said again. Quiet now. Just a mother’s voice. “What are you not telling me?” Her eyes shimmered. “Why do you look like something is tearing you apart?”

He didn’t know what to say.

How to start.

How to explain that the one thing that gave him peace, the one person who made him whole—was the very thing she had taught him to distrust. To fear. To resent.

Human.

He dropped his gaze for a moment. Just long enough for the words to crawl up his throat like thorns.

He blinked. Once. Then he stood. Slowly. Carefully.

Neteyam body tense like a bowstring pulled too tight. The firelight cast his face in sharp angles—his jaw clenched, his breath uneven.

He looked at Neytiri, eyes burning.

And when he spoke, his voice came low. Controlled. But shaking at the edges. “Does it matter what’s happening to me?” The words landed like a stone in still water. Neytiri’s expression faltered, just slightly—but he didn’t stop. “You ask what I’m hiding. Why I turn away. Why I don’t chase the girls the elders place in front of me like prizes. But tell me—did you ever ask what mattered to me?” His voice rose—not shouting, but close. Strained. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

Lo’ak’s eyes darted to Kiri. She didn’t move. Her hand was still braced lightly on the floor beside where Neteyam had crouched, but her shoulders were taut. Tense.

His tail flicked once, then again, erratic and agitated. Every part of him radiated strain.

Neytiri took a breath. “Neteyam—” Neytiri’s brow furrowed, confused. Wounded. “Of course it matters. You are my son—”

“Then why do I feel like I’m drowning every time I speak to you?” His voice finally rose. Not shouting—just… breaking. Coming apart at the seams.

Kiri’s head snapped up. But Neteyam wasn’t done. He turned toward her fully, chest rising and falling in shallow, angry bursts. “You ask why I don’t want Sa’nari. Why I don’t chase K’shi. Why I don’t sit at the fire with the girls the elders pick. You act like it’s some great mystery.” He took a step closer. “But did you ever stop to ask who I wanted?”

Neytiri’s lips parted—but no sound came.

“Did that ever matter?” he snapped, his voice cracking wide open. “Or was I only ever supposed to obey? To mate when you said, with who you said? As if my heart was something that could be passed like a tool between hands?”

“Neteyam—” she started.

“No,” he said sharply. He looked to the fire between them, the scattered pieces of his life laid bare. The unfinished pendant. The datapad. The button. He was unraveling. Finally. All the pressure. All the silence. All the pain of five days without you.

It was coming loose.

“I am not some perfect son. I’m not a symbol after the war. I’m not a pawn to bond with some hunter’s daughter so the elders can nod and say ‘he follows the path.’”

Neytiri stood rigid. Her jaw clenched. “Neteyam, you don’t understand what this means—”

“I understand exactly what it means!” he snapped, voice like a roar now. “It means I have to stand here, pretending I’m not falling apart, while you demand to know why I won’t give my heart to someone I’ve never loved—when the person I do love might be dead in the forest right now!”

The last word hit the air like a thunderclap.

Silence. A thick, suffocating silence that stretched like vines. Kiri stood slowly, eyes wide. Lo’ak shifted but said nothing. Neytiri didn’t move.

She just stared.

Neteyam’s shoulders heaved, his eyes burning. His throat tight. His fists clenched at his sides.

“I don’t care about tradition,” he said, lower now. Barely audible. “I don’t care about what the clan expects, or what you wanted. I care about her.” The words barely left his mouth before the next ones followed—inevitable. Final. “Even though she’s just a human.”

Everything stopped.

Neytiri’s eyes widened—just for a moment. Then narrowed. Sharpened.

Like a blade drawn too fast from its sheath.

The fire popped between them, but the sound was drowned in the silence that fell like a sudden storm.

Neteyam watched it happen. The shift. The flicker of confusion… replaced by horror. Then betrayal. Then something deeper. Darker.

Rage.

“Human?” Neytiri whispered. The word left her mouth like poison. Like it tasted wrong. She took a slow step back, shaking her head. “No,” she said. “No, no—you’re lying.” She turned from him—her tail lashing behind her. “You would not.”

But Neteyam didn’t flinch. Didn’t back down. He just stood there. Silent. Still. Burning.

Neytiri turned back toward him with eyes blazing gold and wet with fury. “You… love a sky demon?” she hissed.

The words were sharper than anything she had ever thrown at him before. And somehow, they hurt worse than if she had struck him.

She began to pace. Back and forth, across the kelku floor. Her steps were sharp. Erratic. The kind of motion born from disbelief that was quickly curdling into rage.

Her tail whipped once, then again. “I cannot believe this.” She spoke more to herself now, pacing the space like it was the forest and she was hunting for answers. “I gave you everything. We raised you to honor your People. To protect them. To protect your blood.” She turned toward him, face twisted in anguish. “And you—you choose one of them?”

Neteyam said nothing.

“A human? A human?” Neytiri’s voice cracked with the force of it. She was circling him like a predator circling prey—or like a mother circling the grave of the son she thought she knew.

“Do you know what they did to us? What they’ve taken from this land? From me? My father. My home. My sister.” Her voice shook with old pain. She turned from him, pacing like something caged. Her voice rose—not a yell, but a snarl behind her words.

“I warned you about them. Since you were children. I taught you what they did to our People. How they desecrated the land. Our ancestors. Our god.” She spun around, eyes blazing. “And you let one of them touch you?”

Neteyam flinched—but only slightly.

“She touched your heart, your soul, your thoughts—and you let her?”

He swallowed hard, but said nothing. Neytiri moved again, circling. Stalking. Her breath was fast and ragged. She looked around the kelku—his kelku—at the datapad, the pendant, the tools that suddenly felt foreign to her.

“Where is she?” Neytiri demanded, suddenly. “Where is this… demon who poisoned my son?”

Neteyam’s fists curled tighter. “She’s not—”

“Don’t,” Neytiri snapped, her voice trembling. “Don’t you dare speak as if she belongs here. As if she is one of us.”

“She is mine,” he growled. “Eywa chose her for me.”

Neytiri’s breath hitched. Her eyes flashed with something almost fearful. “Do not speak her name to justify this,” she said, voice low, shaking. “You think the Great Mother would bless this? A union with the very blood of those who tried to destroy her?”

Neteyam stepped forward now. Something in him rising. Something that had had enough.

“She listens,” he said. “And she saw me. She saw us. And you—” His voice cracked, and for the first time, pain bled in. “—you talk about her like she’s filth. Like she’s unworthy. You talk about her like she’s a stain on me.”

“She is!” Neytiri shouted. The words slammed into the space like lightning. Neytiri’s eyes were wild now, gold blazing with fury and disbelief. “She tainted you,” she hissed. “I should have seen it. The way you changed. The way you pulled away. Refusing everyone. You would not look at them. You would not speak to them. You had already chosen, hadn’t you?”

Neytiri’s breath caught in her throat.

And now she saw it. Clear as starlight.

The mornings and nights he disappeared without a word. The solitude. The way he refused every Na’vi girl the clan paraded before him. The move to his own kelku. The coldness. The change.

Everything. Everything made sense now. And she hated it. “You lied to me,” she whispered. “All this time.”

“I protected her,” Neteyam said. “From this.”

Neytiri shook her head, tears brimming now—not of sorrow, but of fury. “She doesn’t belong here. She’s not of us.”

He nodded. “She is mine. That’s all she ever needed to be.”

For a long, cold breath—no one moved.

Then Neytiri turned her back to him. “Tell me!” she shouted. “Tell me what I did wrong—because I must have, if my firstborn son has forgotten who he is!”

Neteyam closed his eyes. “You taught me to trust in Eywa. To listen when she speaks. So tell me—if she placed this bond in my path, if she tied my soul to hers, if she is the one who led her to me and me to her—how can you call that a mistake?” His hands trembled at his sides, but his stance was solid. “How can you speak of Eywa’s wisdom, and then spit on the gift she gave me?”

Neytiri’s lips parted, but no words came.

Because there was no answer.

Neteyam breathed in through his nose, holding it. Holding everything in place.

Then:

“You may hate her. You may see a demon when you look at her. But I see the one Eywa made for me.” His throat tightened again, the weight of five days crashing over him. “And she’s out there. Alone. Maybe dying. And every second I waste here being berated for loving her…” He shook his head. “…is a second I could have spent bringing her home.”

Neytiri stepped closer. Her eyes wild, glittering. “Home? I cannot believe it. I won’t believe it.” She spat the words. “The son I carried, the son I taught—falling in love with a sky demon?” She shook her head again, furious. “What did she do to you, hm? What lies did she tell to make you forget who you are?”

And that—that—was the line.

Neteyam inhaled sharply. Then slowly—finally—his voice cut through the storm.

“Enough.”

Neytiri froze.

His voice was quiet—but it cracked through the kelku like lightning through bark.

He took a step forward. His eyes burned. Not with guilt. Not with fear. But with something fierce. Defensive. True. “Don’t you dare speak of her like that.”

“You let her inside you,” Neytiri spat, practically hissing now. “Into your heart. Into your soul. Do you even know what you’ve done?”

His hand moved to his chest, over his heart. “She is not just someone I love. She is my mate. In soul, in breath, in spirit.” He took another step forward. “She belongs to me. As I belong to her.”

Neytiri’s face twisted, her breath ragged. “No—no, that cannot be—”

“It is,” he growled. “And if you can’t see it, that’s not my failure. That’s yours.”

She recoiled like his words burned her.

But Neteyam was past the point of softening them. Past the point of begging for her understanding.

Because his mate was still missing.

And he didn’t have time for her fear. Or her anger.

He looked past her now, to the trees beyond the kelku. “Believe what you want,” he said, his voice quieter now. But deadly calm. “But do not ever call her a demon again. Not in my presence.” He breathed harshly, staring directly into her eyes, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You never understood why—but now you know. And I will not apologize for loving her.”

The room fell silent again, the only sound Neteyam’s ragged breathing.

Neytiri’s expression softened fractionally as the full truth settled over her—the distant look, the cold refusals, the withdrawn son she couldn’t reach—it all made sense now. Horrible, heartbreaking sense.

But her face hardened quickly again, determinedly set against this truth she could never accept. “You are blinded, Neteyam,” she whispered bitterly. “This path you have chosen—it will only destroy you.”

He shook his head once, sharply, his eyes burning into hers.

“You may refuse to see it,” he replied quietly, evenly. “But it does not change the truth. She is mine. And I will tear this forest apart to bring her back.”

They stood there, locked in a painful silence—mother and son, both wounded, both stubbornly refusing to yield. In Neytiri’s eyes, there was still anger, still disbelief, still grief—but now there was understanding too.

Now, at least, she knew.

But her eyes remained hard. “Then you are truly lost,” she whispered finally.

Neteyam didn’t blink.

He just stared at her—his mother, the woman who had once been the center of his world—and now, he couldn’t even recognize the shape of her love anymore. Not when it came with such cruelty. Such rejection.

His voice came out low. Icy. Final.

“Leave.”

The room froze.

Neytiri’s eyes widened slightly. Not in shock at the words themselves, but at the way he said them. Cold. Unforgiving. Sharp like obsidian. She had never heard her son speak like that—not even as a child. Not even in war.

Her tail lashed violently behind her once, twice, then a guttural groan broke from deep in her chest—half anguish, half fury. She turned sharply on her heel and stormed out of the kelku.

The flap rustled violently behind her. Silence fell like dust.

Neteyam let out a long, slow breath through his nose, then tilted his head down and raised a hand to his temple. His fingers dug in, massaging slowly, like he could somehow press the headache out of his skull. But it was no use. It wasn’t just pain—it was everything.

Grief. Fury. Guilt. And beneath it all—an unbearable ache.

Kiri stepped forward wordlessly. She didn’t say anything, didn’t try to fix it. She just set her hand gently on his arm again, grounding him. The contact was small, but steady. A silent I’m here in the dark.

But before Neteyam could say anything, it was Lo’ak—still sitting on the floor—who broke the silence first.

“You did such a great job, bro.”

His voice was soft. Honest. Maybe even proud. But Neteyam’s head snapped toward him, his expression like a blade. A sharp glare cut across the firelight—silent, precise, dangerous.

Lo’ak shut up immediately.

The younger brother’s mouth closed with a click, and he nodded once, quickly. Message received.

Neteyam’s jaw tightened. He closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. Kiri rubbed his arm once more, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders, but it wasn’t just his muscles shaking anymore—it was his whole body.

He couldn’t stop trembling. It wasn’t rage anymore. Or even fear.

It was the unbearable weight of it all. The truth laid bare. His mother’s horror. The look in her eyes when he said the words out loud—“She is mine.”

But more than that… it was her. You were still gone.

Still lost out there somewhere, and he was standing here in a kelku full of firelight and broken pieces, arguing about love instead of finding you.

He couldn’t think about Neytiri’s fury. Or her grief. Or the ancient wounds she had torn open again with every word.

He had something more important to worry about.

“Please leave,” he said hoarsely. Quieter this time. Almost a whisper. But it cut clean.

Kiri just nodded. She didn’t argue. She knew the storm that still raged inside him hadn’t passed.

Lo’ak stood first, brushing the dust from his hands. At the entrance, he paused, casting one last look back at his brother.

“We’ll start again at dawn,” he said quietly. Not a question. A promise.

Then he slipped through the flap and vanished into the night, with Kiri following close behind.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful.

It was heavy.

As if the kelku itself was holding its breath.

Neteyam’s legs finally buckled beneath him, and he dropped down to the pelts with a low thud. His elbows braced on his knees, his hands gripping his head.

He felt the sting behind his eyes.

But he didn’t cry.

He couldn’t.

He had no more tears left to give—not to this.

He never wanted it to go like this. Not with Neytiri. He had been ready—so ready—to lie for the rest of his life if that’s what it took to protect you. To protect the only thing that ever made him feel whole.

But somehow… the truth had slipped from him like blood from a wound.

And the most surprising thing?

He didn’t regret it. Not really. He should have.

But as he sat there, heart pounding like war drums in his chest, the only thing he felt was this sharp, aching need.

To find you. To bring you home.

The rest—the clan, his mother, tradition, the elders—none of it mattered now.

Only one thing did.

You.

And Eywa help anything or anyone that tried to stop him.

*

He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there.

The fire had burned low, its crackling now just a soft murmur against the silence, flickering faintly like the last breath of a dying star. Smoke curled lazily through the air, rising toward the thatch ceiling in whispers. The world outside was quiet. The rain had stopped. The clan was asleep.

But Neteyam was wide awake, eyes locked on the flame as if it might whisper the one thing he needed to hear.

Where is she?

He hadn’t moved.

His body ached, but he didn’t feel it. His fingers were numb where they pressed into his knees. His tail lay limp on the floor. The datapad had gone dark some time ago, the screen slipping into standby mode, forgotten where it lay beside the fire—black, empty. As empty as the space beside him.

He was crumbling. Quietly. Slowly. Every passing minute stole another piece of him.

His chest felt hollow—like someone had carved out everything that once filled him with purpose and left nothing behind but the echo of your name. His breath was shallow. Every inhale felt like it scraped down his throat like thorns.

He hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t slept. Couldn’t rest. Not with you still out there. Not when the forest could be swallowing you whole. Not when he had wasted hours arguing with the only person who was supposed to understand him—only to find that she didn’t. Not anymore.

All he wanted was to see you. Just once.

To hear your voice, even if it was hoarse from exhaustion. To feel your small frame pressed tight against him—warm, trembling, real. To tuck his face into the crook of your neck and just breathe. To press his lips to yours and remember what it felt like to belong somewhere.

Because that’s what you were to him.

Home.

And without you, he didn’t know how to stay whole.

He leaned forward, his elbows digging into his thighs, head hung low. The trembling had stopped—but only because he felt numb now. Hollowed out. Like something essential had been ripped from his chest.

The silence in the kelku was thick, heavy, suffocating. And the firelight cast shapes on the walls that danced too much like ghosts.

Neteyam didn’t move.

He barely breathed.

His thoughts spiraled tighter and tighter, circling the same ache. The same images. You, smiling up at him. You, laughing at something he said. You, brushing your fingertips along his jaw. You, looking at him like he was more than just a son, more than a warrior, more than a duty to the People.

You had never wanted anything from him except him.

And now you were gone.

What if you didn’t make it?

The thought slid into his mind like a knife.

He shuddered and shut his eyes hard, forcing it out. No. No, he wouldn’t allow that thought. Couldn’t. Not now. Not when hope was the only thing keeping his soul tethered to his body.

Come home. The words didn’t leave his lips, but they pulsed like a prayer in his chest. Please, come home.

He closed his eyes, only for a second.

But behind them was your face. That soft smile you gave him when you thought he wasn’t looking. The way your hand always found his in the dark as you lied beside him on the pelts. The look in your eyes when he called you ma yawne.

And something inside him shattered all over again.

His hand moved without thought—down to his hip, where his songcord hung in the woven threads of his belt.

Fingers brushed the familiar loops.

Threaded strands of memory.

He pulled it loose gently, like handling something sacred. Something fragile. And maybe he was.

The cord spilled into his lap—long, worn smooth by years of wear and prayer. He turned it over slowly in his hands, his fingers moving with practiced ease down the length of it. Each bead held a memory, a story, a moment carved into his soul.

But his hand stopped when it found that one—the bead that shone like starlight in the fire’s dying glow.

A single bead, yellow-gold, polished smooth by time.

He had threaded it nearly four years ago.

He remembered that day—standing at the Tree of Souls, kneeling in the dirt, palms pressed together, eyes closed as he prayed to Eywa for purpose. For direction.

He hadn’t expected her to answer.

And he definitely hadn’t expected her to answer with you.

A tiny human girl with sharp eyes and a sharp tongue, with hands that smelled of soil and glass, who couldn’t even reach his stomach but managed to curl her whole body around his heart like it was made for her.

Eywa had given him you.

And now that he had you, he could not—would not—survive a world without you in it.

He turned the bead between his fingers slowly, over and over, grounding himself in that old prayer and the new truth it had given him.

His chest hurt. Not from exhaustion. Not from the fight.

But from this unbearable, desperate, aching need.

To find you. To hear your voice just one more time. To make sure the forest hadn’t stolen you from him.

His fingers trembled against the songcord. He held the bead tighter. Pressed it to his forehead. His eyes closed.

“Please,” he whispered, voice hoarse and barely audible. “Please. Just let her be alive.”

Because if Eywa had brought you to him, if she had truly chosen you to carry his heart, to walk beside him on this path—

Then surely… surely she would not take you away now.

Not when he’d only just begun to live.

Neteyam’s fingers drifted down the songcord again—slow, reverent—until they found it.

One of the last beads.

Not the one he’d added most recently. No. The one.

The one he carved after your first kiss.

It was different from the others—smoother, rounder. A bluish, iridescent pearl he had found near the river after a long patrol. It caught the light just right, shifting from sea-glass green to storm blue when he turned it between his fingers. He had never planned to use it. But something about it had reminded him of you—the quiet gleam of it, the way it shimmered in soft light but hid something deep beneath the surface. So he carved it. Not perfectly, but carefully. Threaded it onto the cord with hands that shook just a little.

He remembered that day like it lived just beneath his skin.

How he had barely dared to kiss you. How he had crouched before you, slow, cautious, like the world might shatter if he moved too quickly.

And when your lips met his—

Eywa.

You had tasted like warmth and starlight and something dangerously real. Your lips were as soft as he had imagined all those long nights he lay alone on the forest floor, thinking of you. Wishing for you.

And in that moment, holding you close, feeling your breath catch as his hands moved gently to your back, he knew.

He was never going to be the same.

You had felt so fragile in his hands—so small, so human, so breakable. But not weak. No, never weak.

You had been right. Like you had always belonged there. Like you had grown into his hands and he had grown into yours.

And now—

Now that same forest he had once thanked for bringing you to him had stolen you away.

He clenched the pearl between his fingers, chest aching, trying to anchor himself in the memory. But it was no use.

The memory didn’t ground him—it tore him open.

Because while he had sat here just days ago, carving your pendant, shaping a river pearl what was looking just like the same as the one on his songcord to match to it—thinking you were safe, maybe laughing with Norm or fixing some experiment with the new samples at the outpost— you were already gone.

Already bleeding. Already running. Already fighting for your life.

And he had done nothing.

How foolish he had been.

Neteyam pressed the bead to his lips. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against it. “I should’ve known. I should’ve gone to you sooner.”

The guilt crawled beneath his skin like fire ants. It had been eating at him since the second you didn’t come back.

He’d held it together. Pretended for Kiri and Lo’ak. Took charge. Led the searches. Gave orders. Made plans.

But Kiri… Kiri had seen through him.

He knew it. The way she looked at him. Gentle, careful, like a healer holding something that might break apart in her hands. She knew how close his mask was to crumbling.

And it was crumbling. Because he couldn’t keep doing this. Couldn’t keep breathing while not knowing.

He knew he needed sleep. That maybe—maybe—if he could find rest, Eywa would show him something. A sign. A glimpse. Like the last times. The dream-walks that weren’t dreams. The memories not his own. The pieces of the forest whispering your path.

But what if this time…

What if this time Eywa didn’t show him anything? What if she showed him a body? What if the forest glowed red? What if you were gone?

His breath hitched in his throat. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, head hanging low, the songcord clutched so tightly in his fist the beads dug into his palm.

The fear was worse than exhaustion. Worse than grief. It wrapped around his chest like vines, squeezing, pressing until he couldn’t breathe.

Because he couldn’t bear to see you dead.

Not in a vision. Not in the roots of the forest. Not anywhere.

You weren’t supposed to leave. You were supposed to stay.

You were supposed to argue with him over human things that didn’t make sense to him. Whisper stories in his ear when he couldn’t sleep. Roll your eyes when he said something too poetic.

You were supposed to live. He tried to focus. To breathe. To call on Eywa with more than grief and panic. To ask—not beg—for guidance.

Just one more thread. One more glimpse. One more path through the trees.

He whispered her name into the firelight, like a prayer, like a promise.

And then slowly, he lay back onto the pelts. Eyes wide open. Muscles tight. He didn’t know if sleep would come. He didn’t know if Eywa would show him mercy.

But if she did—

He would follow that thread. No matter where it led. Even if it led to the very edge of the forest. Even if it led to death.

Because you were out there. And he was the one meant to bring you home.

*

Sleep eventually took him.

Not peacefully—not gently—but suddenly, like being swallowed by the waves.

When Neteyam opened his eyes, he was standing in the forest. Not the calm, familiar trees near Home Tree, but something deeper—older. The trunks here were massive, their bark rough, covered in thick layers of moss. Every breath of air carried a cool, ancient weight. Silence pressed in from all sides, heavy and absolute.

He turned slowly, scanning the trees for a sign—any hint of why Eywa had brought him here.

Then he saw it. A flicker between the branches—a shadow moving quickly, carefully. His heart lurched.

Human.

Your shape—small, unmistakably human—running quietly through the trees ahead. He couldn’t see you clearly, only glimpses of you slipping through the brush, moving fast.

Without thought, without hesitation, Neteyam took off after you.

His feet hit the ground silently, swiftly, his breath even, strong. Yet no matter how hard he pushed himself, how much he stretched his legs to run faster—you never came any closer. Always just out of reach, always slipping around the next bend, behind another trunk, vanishing into the shadows again.

“Wait!” he called, voice cracking, panic rising in his chest. “Please—wait for me!”

But your shadow didn’t pause, didn’t slow. It moved steadily away, deeper into the darkness of the trees. His pulse hammered in his throat. His lungs burned. But he couldn’t stop—couldn’t bear the thought of losing you again, not when you were so close.

“Come back!” His voice cracked in the air, raw and breaking. “Don’t leave—please, don’t leave me!”

Then suddenly, the forest opened.

A clearing stretched before him, bathed in soft silver moonlight. Massive, ancient trees circled its edges like silent watchers, their twisted roots breaking up the soft earth. But the space itself was empty.

You weren’t there. No human shape. No movement. Nothing. No trace of the small figure he had chased. “No,” he breathed, heart dropping painfully in his chest. “Please…”

But as he spun around again, his body froze.

Then something growled—low, deep, dangerous. His head snapped up.

At the far edge of the clearing, near a dark shadowed alcove in the roots, stood a palulukan. A female, huge and sleek with night-black skin and eyes glowing like molten emerald. Her shoulders were hunched defensively, teeth bared, the long tendrils around her head whipping in agitation.

Around her feet huddled small pups, their little bodies barely visible beneath their mother’s bulk. Their soft yelps of fear echoed across the clearing as they quickly scurried back, disappearing into the den behind her.

Neteyam froze, muscles tensing, eyes locked onto the predator. He knew he should retreat, move away slowly—but something stopped him.

Something at the palulukan’s feet gleamed in the moonlight.

His eyes snapped to it, heart dropping like a stone into his gut.

An exomask.

Small. Shiny. Cracked and smeared in blood. Its curved glass surface caught the pale light like a beacon, mocking him.

Your mask.

The mask you needed. The mask you never went without outside the outpost. It lay shattered at the feet of the beast, splattered with red—your blood.

“No,” he whispered.

His knees buckled beneath him. He sank heavily into the tall grass, kneeling, shaking, eyes fixed on the broken mask. His chest tightened, the air searing painfully in his lungs.

This was Eywa’s sign. The message clear as blood on glass.

She’s gone.

His breath came shallow, ragged. Every beat of his heart echoed painfully in his ears.

You’d died alone. Here—in the dark forest, among roots and shadows. Without him.

Without the chance to hold your hand, without a final goodbye. He felt something break open deep inside. A grief sharper than any blade he’d known. “No,” he gasped again, louder this time, voice shaking with desperation, defiance. “No, you’re strong. You wouldn’t—you couldn’t—”

But even as the words left his mouth, he knew the truth. Without the mask, without air—you stood no chance. Something warm blurred his vision, hot and stinging. He blinked hard, vision swimming.

Tears.

For the first time since you disappeared, tears finally slipped free, burning down his face. His shoulders shook, head bowed as he sobbed quietly, alone in the silver-lit grass. His fingers tangle into his braids, like he wanted to rip them out one by one.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered brokenly to the empty clearing. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.”

The palulukan growled again, softer now, almost mournful, before turning and slipping back into the shadows, leaving him kneeling alone beneath Eywa’s silent trees.

He had asked for a sign. And now he wished desperately he never had.

*

Neteyam woke with a jolt.

His body snapped upward like it had been yanked from the depths. His chest heaved, lungs desperate for air, every breath sharp and ragged like he'd just surfaced from drowning.

The light inside the kelku had changed—no longer dim and flickering with firelight, but soft and pale. Dawn. The forest outside was beginning to stir.

And beside him, Kiri knelt—eyes wide, face pale, the deep furrow between her brows carved deeper than usual.

“Neteyam,” she said urgently, her voice low and shaking, “Neteyam, what’s happening? Are you okay?”

He turned to her like a ghost—his eyes wide and unfocused, as if the world around him didn’t make sense anymore. His mouth opened, but it took a second before the words formed, breathless and broken.

“She’s dead,” he whispered.

Kiri blinked. “What?”

“She’s dead,” he repeated, voice cracking at the edges. “She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead.” The words came like a mantra now, a litany of grief whispered under his breath as he rocked slightly on the pelts.

Kiri grabbed his arms, grounding him. “Neteyam—hey, look at me.”

His eyes finally met hers, and what she saw in them made her heart sink. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even panicked. He looked lost—like the light inside him had been blown out. Like he was watching something precious drift away and couldn’t reach it anymore.

“I saw it,” he breathed. “I saw her mask. Bloody. Lying at the feet of a palulukan. Eywa showed me. That was the sign. That must be the end. She’s gone, Kiri.” His voice cracked, barely a whisper. “She’s really gone.”

Kiri shook her head. “No. No, Neteyam, listen to me.”

“She showed me the tree branch before—the one where she was hiding from the nantang. In the storm. I saw it in the dream. And then I saw her under the hanging Samson. That was real too. We found it, Kiri. All of it. Those dreams were real.” He gripped her arms tighter, like the weight of his words might otherwise collapse him. “So this one—this dream—must be real too. And the mask was broken. She was gone.”

Kiri swallowed hard, staring at him. She wanted to believe he was wrong. She needed to believe he was wrong. She pressed her forehead to his, grounding them both, breathing slow. “Maybe… maybe Eywa wasn’t showing you that she’s gone.”

Neteyam pulled back slightly, confused and shaking his head. “What else could it mean? A broken mask is death for her.”

“I don’t know,” Kiri admitted, her voice low and gentle, but firm. “But maybe it wasn’t a warning. Maybe it was a direction. A place. Like the others. Maybe she’s showing you where to go, not what’s already happened.”

He stared at her, torn.

“Eywa didn’t just give you the end,” Kiri continued. “She gave you pieces before—clues. That tree hollow. The Samson. We followed them. We found them. And you didn’t find a body, Neteyam. You didn’t find a grave. Just a trail.”

She squeezed his hand now, hard. “So maybe… maybe that broken mask means she lost it. Not that she died there. Maybe it’s a sign we’re close.”

“But without it…” Neteyam started, his voice hollow. “She can’t breathe.”

Kiri’s voice broke with emotion, but she held firm. “Then we don’t stop. We don’t grieve until we know. We keep moving. We search that clearing. We find that den. You said it was near a glade, surrounded by ancient trees. We’ll track it. We will. But not if you collapse before we try.”

Neteyam stared at her for a long time, breathing unevenly, his body still trembling. Then he nodded once. Slowly. He wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand, forcing himself to sit up straighter. “You’re right,” he whispered, voice raw. “We follow the trail. We search.”

Kiri nodded. “We follow what Eywa gave us. Every thread. Every sign. Until we find her.”

Until we bring her home.

*

They searched until the sky bruised into dusk, until the shadows beneath the canopy deepened and spread, until the ache in their bones was as heavy as the ache in their chests. Still, the forest yielded nothing but silence—no tracks, no marks, no hints beyond the haunted vision Eywa had given Neteyam.

As they slowly made their way back to the village, the only sound was the tired plodding of their pa'li and the soft rustling of leaves beneath their hooves. The quiet stretched between them, thick and somber.

When they reached the village outskirts, Kiri and Lo'ak dismounted first, their faces hollow with exhaustion. Neteyam hesitated, sitting motionless on his pa'li, his gaze distant and heavy. The thought of entering the village, facing the whispers and glances from those around the communal fire—he couldn't bear it.

Not tonight.

Lo'ak cleared his throat awkwardly, glancing up at his brother. "Are you…?"

Neteyam shook his head quietly. "No. You two go ahead."

Kiri's expression tightened slightly, worry etched deep into her features. She reached up, touching his knee lightly. "Neteyam, you need to eat. You've barely—"

"I'll be fine," he interrupted softly, voice drained. "I'm just not hungry."

She hesitated, searching his eyes with a gaze sharp and careful, as if trying to gauge how close he was to breaking completely. Then she gave a reluctant nod.

"Alright," she said quietly. Her fingers lingered on his knee for a moment longer before dropping away.

As Kiri turned to walk toward the communal fires, her eyes caught the glow of the flames ahead, just briefly. But in that flicker of firelight, Neteyam saw something new in her expression—something he'd never wanted to see. At least not now.

Pity.

It was there for just a heartbeat—a tiny, unmistakable glimmer of doubt and sadness—and then gone again as she averted her gaze.

His heart sank. It wasn't anger or impatience or frustration—not even disappointment. No, this was gentler, crueler.

She pitied him.

Because even Kiri, the one who had anchored him these last days, who had reminded him again and again to hold on to hope—now she doubted. Now even she was beginning to believe he chased nothing but a ghost.

Lo'ak lingered a moment longer, shifting uneasily as Kiri began walking away. "Maybe tomorrow we could head back to the outpost," he suggested hesitantly. "Check in with Norm or Max. Maybe they found something. Maybe they noticed something we missed. You weren’t at the outpost since you knew she went missing."

Neteyam didn't look up at first. He didn't answer immediately. Just nodded slowly. Lo'ak shuffled his feet, clearly uncertain how to help, how to comfort. Finally, he sighed. "We'll figure it out. Tomorrow, we'll… we'll find something."

Empty reassurance, but sincere.

Neteyam nodded again, finally meeting his brother's eyes. "Irayo, Lo'ak," he said quietly, the gratitude in his voice genuine, if weary. "For everything. Tell Kiri the same."

Lo'ak offered a small, tired smile. "Always, bro." Then he turned, heading after their sister, leaving Neteyam alone in the quiet darkness at the edge of the village.

Neteyam stayed there a long moment, staring after his siblings until their shapes melted into the golden glow of the communal fire. The distant murmur of the clan was a low hum, just background noise. Something he no longer belonged to—not fully. Not without you.

He swallowed around the painful lump in his throat and finally turned away, urging his pa'li back toward his kelku.

Because the truth was, he saw their doubt clearly—both Lo'ak’s weary uncertainty and Kiri’s silent pity. Even they thought he was losing his grip. Even they were beginning to believe the worst.

But he didn't say anything. He couldn't afford to. Not now. Not yet.

Instead, he pushed it down deep inside, burying their doubt beneath layers of raw, stubborn hope—however fragile, however foolish.

Because even if everyone else had begun to believe you were truly gone, he refused. Even if he was chasing a ghost, he would chase you to the very edge of this world and the next.

He would not stop until he found you—until you were safe in his arms again. Or until the Great Mother herself tore the last breath from his body.

Neteyam slid off the pa’li slowly, his body heavy from exhaustion. He placed a gentle hand on the creature's powerful neck, stroking softly. “Go rest,” he murmured quietly. The pa’li chuffed once, nudging his shoulder gently, before trotting away into the gathering twilight.

Neteyam stood alone for a moment, watching the beast disappear into the shadows. Then he turned, his eyes settling on the warm glow emanating from his grandmother’s tent. He hesitated briefly, then moved toward it, his steps quiet but steady.

As he brushed aside the curtain and stepped into the healer’s tent, Mo'at’s sharp eyes instantly found him, and she clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “You look like a ghost, grandson,” she said bluntly, her voice a mix of concern and mild irritation.

Neteyam snorted softly, the sound bitter and humorless. “Maybe I am,” he muttered, sinking slowly onto one of the mats near the entrance. “I need something. Something to help me sleep tonight. I need energy for tomorrow.”

Mo'at narrowed her eyes slightly, studying him in silence before nodding. She turned toward her shelves, fingers brushing thoughtfully over bundles of dried herbs.

“Your father worries,” she said evenly, her voice low as she plucked a small pouch of crushed leaves. “He thinks you neglect your duties. That you no longer care for your people.”

Neteyam let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “Typical,” he murmured quietly, half to himself, half to the emptiness. “It’s always like this. If I step away, I am lazy. If I do everything they ask, it’s barely enough.” He sighed deeply, the sound weary and hollow. “But right now, I don’t care about duty. I don’t care about what he thinks is important.”

Mo'at glanced over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. She didn’t reply, just began carefully measuring the herbs into a small wooden bowl. A sudden rustle at the tent flap caught Neteyam’s attention, the curtain shifting slightly, as if someone had started to enter—but then, suddenly, the movement stopped. He glanced briefly toward it, brow furrowing slightly. Probably just a warrior needing something, he thought absently. Whoever it was, they must have changed their mind.

Neteyam shrugged, turning his attention back to his grandmother as she began mixing the herbs into a thick paste. Mo'at watched him silently for a moment longer, her eyes thoughtful, before she finally knelt before him, placing the bowl into his hand.

“Drink this slowly,” she instructed softly. “It will calm your mind. Give you rest.”

He stared into the mixture, eyes dark and tired. When he spoke, his voice was small—barely a whisper, rough with unspoken grief and doubt. “Do you think I’ve gone crazy too?”

Mo'at paused at that, her sharp features softening just slightly. She reached out, gently cupping her grandson’s face, thumb brushing tenderly across his cheek. Her eyes met his, steady and gentle in a way few had ever seen. “Wanting back your mate is not craziness, ma’itan,” she murmured quietly. “It is love. And love is never madness.”

Neteyam nodded slowly, her words seeping through some of the ache in his chest—but not all of it. He swallowed hard, his throat tight. “I feel like… I am drifting farther and farther away from my family,” he whispered. “Am I wrong, Grandmother? Wrong to love someone so different from us?”

Mo'at’s eyes softened further, deep wisdom shining quietly in them. She considered his question thoughtfully, carefully choosing her words before speaking.

“Love does not follow rules, child,” she said gently. “Eywa places it within us, and who are we to question her wisdom? Differences matter little in the eyes of the Great Mother. What matters is what you carry here—” she pressed one palm softly against his chest, directly over his heart, “—and here.” Her fingertips brushed gently over his temple. “If both your heart and your mind speak the same truth, there is no wrong.”

She paused, watching him intently, before asking simply:

“Do you truly love her, Neteyam?”

His breath stilled briefly. His gaze lifted, meeting his grandmother’s unflinching stare. And in that moment, all doubts and hesitation burned away, leaving only raw truth.

“Yes,” he said, quietly but fiercely. “More than I thought it was possible to love anyone. She is…” His voice faltered slightly, the intensity cracking his composure. “She is everything to me. Without her, I feel I am nothing. I would trade everything—my name, my position, the respect of the entire clan—just to hold her again. Just to know she’s alive and safe.” He swallowed hard as he murmured, eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears. “She’s my heart, Grandmother.”

Mo'at held his gaze quietly for a long moment, seeing the fire, the unwavering truth of his words. Then she nodded once, a gentle smile finally curving her lips.

“Then you already have your answer, grandson,” she said softly, squeezing his hand firmly. “Hold tight to it. Do not let doubt cloud your spirit. Eywa never places such bonds lightly.”

He nodded slowly, closing his eyes as the warmth of her reassurance washed over him—small, quiet comfort amidst so much grief. But he knew, as sure as he drew breath, that nothing would be whole again until you were back in his arms.

Neteyam raised the bowl to his lips and drank slowly, forcing the bitter poultice down with a grimace. The taste was sharp—earthy and biting—and it made his jaw tighten reflexively. He exhaled sharply through his nose as he lowered the bowl. “Eywa…” he muttered, lips curling in distaste. “That’s awful.”

Mo’at didn’t so much as glance at him. “It’s not meant to taste sweet,” she said dryly as she began returning her herbs to their place. “It’s meant to work.”

He pulled the bowl away, swallowing hard against the aftertaste, and stared down into it. The mixture left a dark, sludgy trail inside the curve of the wood, and he just sat there for a moment, holding it in both hands like it still carried some weight, some meaning.

Then, softly—without looking up—he said, “Sa’nok found out.”

Mo’at didn’t look up right away. She continued folding dried roots with care, placing them into small leather bundles for storage. Her voice came calm, unsurprised.

“I know,” she said simply. “She came to me yesterday. Asked if I had known.”

Neteyam exhaled a quiet, tired breath and nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching into something like a smirk. Of course she did. His mother—wounded, furious, betrayed—had stormed to the one place where answers were always demanded: her own mother’s tent. Because if anyone had helped him keep this secret, it had to be Mo’at.

He turned the bowl in his hands again, watching the firelight flicker against the smooth surface. “I guess she wanted to know if the tsahìk of the clan had covered for her son’s little affair with a human.”

Mo’at didn’t respond immediately. She bundled the last of the herbs and tied them shut with nimble fingers, then finally turned her sharp gaze back to him.

“I told her I took the girl as my apprentice in the past weeks,” she said simply.

Neteyam smiled, just faintly, eyes still fixed on the bowl. A warmth fluttered beneath his ribs, small and painful.

He remembered how proud you’d been those days. How carefully you’d stepped into the tent, eyes wide with curiosity, not hesitation. How you had listened to Mo’at’s instructions with such intent focus, soaking in every word. You’d taken notes in your little battered notebook even though the rest of the clan never did. You’d asked questions with humility, with reverence. You never assumed you knew better, even though half the time, you probably did.

Mo’at watched him with a softness she rarely showed, her sharp lines relaxing, her expression unreadable but not cold.

“I suppose she was not happy to hear that,” Neteyam added, almost absently. He didn’t need to say who. His voice was dry, tired. Not mocking—just resigned.

Mo’at said nothing for a long moment. Then, quietly, she answered, “No. She was not.” The silence that followed was not strained. It was heavy, but honest.

Neteyam stared at the empty bowl in his hands for a long while, his fingers curled tightly around it, as if letting go would unravel something inside him. The bitter taste of the poultice still clung to his tongue, but he barely noticed it anymore. His thoughts were elsewhere—always elsewhere these days. Drifting after you, even when his body stayed behind.

And then, the words came, quiet and uncertain. “Eywa sends me visions,” he said.

Mo’at didn’t interrupt. She didn’t ask questions. She only stilled her hands and turned her full attention toward him, watching him with the solemn stillness of a true tsahìk.

He hesitated for a moment, searching for the right place to begin. His voice was softer when it returned. “Every night,” he continued slowly, almost like he was afraid speaking them aloud would make them disappear. “She wraps them in dreams, but they are more than that. They feel… real. Like memories I didn’t live. Like pieces of a path I’m meant to follow.” He trailed off for a moment, his hands tightening around the bowl until the wood creaked faintly beneath his grip.

“I never find her,” he said, voice raw. “Always too late. Always behind. Like I’m just a shadow following her path instead of walking beside her. I see her in the dreams, I chase her, but she’s always ahead of me. Always out of reach.”

Mo’at’s brow furrowed, her expression quiet but intense as she listened. Neteyam’s eyes finally lifted from the bowl, his gaze locking with hers.

She inhaled softly, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she rose and walked across the tent, kneeling slowly beside him. Her hand found his shoulder, light but grounding.

“Neteyam,” she said, her voice calm but resonant, like water trickling through stone. “The Great Mother does not speak in straight lines. She does not hand answers like fruit from a tree. She speaks in threads. In echoes. In glimpses.”

Her fingers squeezed gently. “You say you arrive late. But each vision still leads you one step further than before right? Eywa is not failing you. She is guiding you, piece by piece, so that you may see for yourself—not only where your mate has been, but what she has endured. What you must understand to bring her back whole.”

Neteyam blinked, swallowing. The words soothed something deep and raw in his chest. But the fear still remained, rooted and coiled.

His grip on the bowl tightened slightly. His next question came so quietly, it was almost lost to the tent walls.

“Would the Great Mother show me her death?”

The silence that followed was deep.

Mo’at’s hand stilled on his shoulder. She didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes closed for a moment, as if listening to something beyond the wind and fire.

Then, finally, she opened them again—and her voice was soft but firm, carrying the weight of generations.

“No,” she said. “Eywa does not show death to punish. Only to prepare.”

She leaned forward slightly, brushing her fingers along his temple the way she had when he was a small child with fevers and night terrors.

“If she had passed,” Mo’at whispered, “you would not see her shadow. You would not feel her breath in the trees. Eywa does not torment her children with hope where there is none.”

Neteyam’s breath caught.

“She is not gone, Neteyam,” Mo’at said firmly now, her tone stronger, more certain. “Not yet. The Great Mother would not lead you this far only to find ashes.”

Tears stung at the edges of his eyes, but he blinked them back. He bowed his head slowly, as if the weight of that truth had finally found a place to rest.

Neteyam stood slowly, careful not to disturb the quiet stillness between him and Mo’at. The medicine was already beginning to drag on his limbs, making each movement feel a little heavier, a little slower. He reached out and gently returned the bowl to her hands, his fingers brushing briefly against hers.

“Thank you, Grandmother,” he said, voice low but sincere. “For everything.”

Mo’at gave a small nod, accepting the bowl without ceremony. Her expression was calm, composed, but in her eyes was the warmth of something deeper. Understanding. Faith.

The flap rustled as he stepped outside.

The air was cool and damp, carrying the soft scent of the forest after the rains. Night had fully claimed the sky, stars glinting through the canopy like scattered stones. His breath plumed faintly in the air, the medicine already starting to pull at his muscles, weighing them down like sand.

He barely took two steps before he saw her.

Neytiri.

She stood just outside the shadows of the tent, half-hidden behind a thick root, as if she'd been caught between staying and fleeing. Her posture was tense—shoulders high, hands slightly clenched at her sides—but her face… her face was not the sharp mask she had worn yesterday when she’d looked at him like he was someone she didn’t recognize.

It was soft. Raw. Her eyes met his, wide and uncertain.

Neteyam froze. For a breath, he thought it was the medicine—making him see things. Making him hope. But then her gaze dropped, flicked over him, the way a mother checks a child for unseen wounds. That wasn’t anger in her eyes.

It was worry. A deep, quiet worry. The kind a mother feels when she sees her child slipping beyond her reach and doesn’t know how to pull him back.

She had heard everything.

Of course she had. She must’ve been the figure at the flap earlier. Not some warrior. His own mother—lingering in the dark, listening to his heart unravel in front of Mo’at. They stood a few meters apart, neither speaking, the space between them a silent battlefield of grief and things unsaid.

Neteyam tried to keep his face blank, unreadable. He knew his mask was thin. Too thin, after everything. He didn’t want her to see what was beneath it—didn’t want to give her that piece of him again. Not after yesterday.

Neytiri took one small step toward him, her hand rising slowly, uncertain.

“Neteyam,” she said softly, her voice low, hesitant. She reached out, fingers trembling slightly as if they remembered cradling his cheek when he was still young enough to fall asleep in her arms.

But he didn’t move toward her. Didn’t speak.

He just looked at her for one breath longer—one heartbeat that stretched too far—and then turned away.

He walked without a word, his steps deliberate, quiet, heading toward the far side of the village, away from the warmth of the communal fires, away from her, away from everything.

She didn’t call after him. And he didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

Not after everything she’d said. Not after the disgust in her voice when she looked at his love like it was a stain. Not after the way she had chosen tradition over his heart.

He didn’t need her words now. He needed you.

He needed sleep, just enough to carry him into the dreams again—into the shadows where you still ran ahead of him like a star half-lost in the trees.

*

Sleep took him like a slow tide, creeping over the edges of his thoughts and pulling him gently under. The medicine Mo’at had given him dulled the pain in his limbs, but it couldn’t quiet the ache in his chest. Still, his body surrendered—too worn to resist—and before long, the darkness gave way to light.

But not the harsh light of truth or grief or loss.

This dream was different. It was… peaceful.

The forest was gone.

There was no mist, no shadows, no chase through tangled roots or blood on the grass. No predators, no breathless panic clawing at his ribs. Just warmth. Quiet. Light.

Neteyam stood still. He knew it was a dream—he always knew now—but this one didn’t claw or tear or ache. It settled over him like a soft blanket. A memory, maybe. Or a promise.

You were at the outpost. Sitting at your desk, your back straight but relaxed, legs tucked under you as you typed rapidly on the worn keyboard in front of you. The hum of soft power from the solar battery buzzed low in the background. The screen glowed pale blue, casting light across your face, painting it in cool shadows and flickers of code.

Neteyam didn’t move. He just watched you.

His breath caught quietly in his throat, chest tightening—not with panic, but with longing so deep it carved a hollow inside him. You looked so alive. So you. Hair pulled messily back, strands falling forward as your fingers danced across the keys like it was second nature. You didn’t even glance at your hands. Just stared into the floating holo-screen, eyes moving quickly as you translated readings he would never understand.

Eywa, you were beautiful. You were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Not in the way the songs spoke of. Not like the women of his clan with their war paint and braids, lean bodies and fierce eyes. You were quiet beauty. Earthbound and glowing.

Not in the way humans sometimes meant it—he didn’t care about symmetry or softness or whatever scientific things Norm once tried to explain. You were beautiful in the way the forest was when it breathed. In the way light scattered through the canopy after rain. You were beautiful because you existed—because he could see the fire behind your eyes, the way your face tilted when you were deep in thought, the way your mouth curled ever so slightly when you solved something no one else could.

The blue glow from the screen lit your features like starlight. And his heart ached. Truly ached.

Because this was the you he missed. Focused. Calm. Brilliant. Breathing. Unbroken.

Let him see you at your desk again. Let him walk through the outpost door and hear you scold him for tracking mud into the clean lab space. Let him sit behind you while you work, legs crossed, listening to you mutter to yourself while you pulled the world apart and stitched it back together through numbers and light.

You shifted, then turned slowly, sensing him the way you always did, as if even in dreams you could feel his eyes on you.

Your lips curved into a soft, knowing smile.

And then, without preamble, you asked: “Have you ever met a thanator?” The question struck him like a branch to the face.

He blinked. “What?”

You tilted your head slightly, still smiling, your fingers finally stilled over the keyboard. “A thanator. The big black one with the scary eyes and all the sharp teeth.” You mimed claws in the air, half-serious, half-playful.

Neteyam chuckled, a sound that felt strange on his lips. “I mean… not in the forest, no. I’ve seen the holovids showed by my father when I was a child. And the hides the clan uses for ceremonial rites. But no, I’ve never actually faced one.” He paused. “They’re dangerous.”

You hummed thoughtfully, then looked away for a moment, eyes dancing in the holo-light.

“I want to see one someday,” you said.

He stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “What?”

You just laughed. Not mocking—more like you expected that exact reaction. “I know, I know. It’s crazy. I’d probably die in five seconds.” You shrugged casually, still smiling. “But they’re… incredible, aren’t they? The apex predator of Pandora. So powerful, so intelligent. The way they move, the way they protect their young…” Your eyes flicked back to him. “I think there’s something beautiful in that. Even if they’re terrifying.”

“You shouldn’t want to see one,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “You really shouldn’t.”

Your smile faded slightly into something curious, head tilted as you studied him thoughtfully. "Why are there no thanators around the outpost?"

Neteyam shook his head lightly, momentarily distracted by the soft confusion in your voice. "They live further west, toward the perimeter of the clan's lands," he explained softly. "Far from here. That's where their dens are. The prey there is abundant, easier for the mothers to hunt, easier to protect their pups. They rarely stray from that area."

His voice trailed off, and suddenly he went quiet—mind spinning as something clicked sharply into place. A pulse raced through his chest, quickening like a drumbeat.

West.

Toward the perimeter of the clan’s land. Toward the mining zone. Toward the very place you had disappeared from.

He thought again of the dream—the vision—Eywa had sent. The mother palulukan, snarling in defense of her den, fiercely protective of her young. Your exomask, lying broken and bloodied at her feet. He’d seen it as a warning, a symbol of your death. But now…

He looked at you sharply, your eyes still gentle and curious, your brow furrowed slightly as you waited for him to speak. Why were you asking about palulukan now? You, of all humans, knew more about Pandora's creatures than anyone in the outpost. You were one of the most intelligent scientists he knew—so why this sudden question?

Was it you? Or was it Eywa?

Was the Great Mother guiding him, gently nudging him forward—telling him exactly where he should go next? You must have passed near the dens if you'd headed east from the mining zone toward the outpost. The sunlight would have been your guide. Eastward, homeward, through the territory the thanators fiercely protected.

His heart thudded painfully. Perhaps you had encountered one. Perhaps the mask he saw was not a symbol of death, but merely an event on your path. Not a loss, but a clue.

A sign.

His thoughts spiraled deeper, sharp and hopeful and terrified all at once. His breathing quickened, chest rising and falling rapidly as the possibility unfurled before him, tangible and desperate.

Maybe you weren't gone.

Maybe you were just waiting, quietly hidden somewhere near those ancient dens. Eywa was not cruel—Mo'at's words echoed clearly now. She guided in pieces, in threads. And he had been too blinded by fear to see clearly.

Lost in thought, Neteyam hadn't even noticed you shifting closer, hadn't felt you move until your small, gentle hands slid over his own, softly curling around his much larger fingers.

He glanced down abruptly, startled, heart stumbling again. The contrast between you both was striking—the deep azure of his skin against the softness of yours, his hands engulfing yours entirely. You were so fragile, yet your touch was strong, steadying him with such gentle warmth that it felt impossibly real.

Your voice was quiet, tinged with a smile as you spoke again, breaking through his spinning thoughts. "You always have such a serious face when you're thinking."

He stared at your joined hands, throat tightening painfully. If only you knew how fiercely his thoughts had been racing, how desperately they were trying to bring you back.

If only you knew how much every moment without you was tearing him apart.

He squeezed your hands gently, crouching down, leaning in closer, letting himself savor the impossible softness of your touch, even if it was just a dream. Even if it wasn't real.

"Because my thoughts are always about you," he whispered, voice raw, eyes locked on your intertwined fingers. "Because I can't stop until I find you."

And even though he knew you were a dream, even though he knew you couldn't truly hear him—his heart whispered fiercely into the silence, promising that tomorrow he would follow this new thread Eywa had woven for him.

West. To the thanator dens. He wouldn't be late this time. He glanced down.

When he looked up again, you were smiling at him. That warm, crooked little smile that always tugged at the corners of his restraint. There was no fear in your eyes. No sadness. Just you. Present. Steady. And before he could speak, you reached up with your other hand.

Your small palm brushed gently along the edge of his jaw, cupping his face.

Your thumb moved slowly, tracing the faint line of bioluminescent freckles that shimmered along his cheekbone. You followed the curve of them like you were memorizing a constellation written just for you.

And then—without hesitation—you leaned in. His breath caught.

Your lips pressed to his—light, soft, a promise instead of a question. And in that small touch, the whole forest seemed to go still.

Neteyam’s ears flattened, a low sound catching in the back of his throat. His tail lashed behind him once, instinctive and sharp, before it curled tightly near his leg. His whole body was wound like a bowstring, but he didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. Would never.

Because this was real—even if it wasn’t.

Even if it was only a dream. His lips moved slowly against yours, reverent. Desperate. You pulled back just enough to breathe, your thumb still brushing his cheek. “I’m okay,” you whispered, like a secret only he was meant to hear.

And he believed you. But only for now. Because belief wasn’t enough. He needed to know. He needed to find you. And when he woke—he would. He had a direction now.

*

The morning came without color.

Neteyam was already awake before the first light crept over the horizon. He hadn’t slept long—just enough for Eywa’s thread to wrap around him once more and point him westward. He didn’t need more.

Before the first rays of sunlight touched the treetops, Neteyam was already gone.

The village still slept—quiet, still, unaware. And that’s how he wanted it. He didn’t wait for Lo’ak’s teasing yawn or Kiri’s questioning glance. He didn’t want their pity, not again. Not after last night. Not after what he saw. What he felt.

He couldn’t take another look that said we’re only here because we’re worried you’ll break.

Let them think he was broken. Let them think he’d lost his mind.

And maybe he had gone insane. Maybe he was mad now, chasing signs from dreams and whispers on the wind. Who walks willingly into palulukan territory with nothing but a bow and a knife?

But Neteyam didn’t care.

He would walk into the jaws of death itself if it meant a chance of finding you. So he rode alone.

The pa’li’s hooves hit the dirt path in long, quiet strides, and Neteyam’s bow swayed against his back with every movement. His knife sat at his chest. It wasn’t enough. He knew that. No one with sense walked willingly into thanator territory without a war party. And even then, not with any hope of return.

But maybe he had gone insane. Maybe the grief had finally chewed through whatever strength had been left inside him. Because he didn’t feel the fear anymore. Not really. Not the way he used to. It had been swallowed whole by something deeper. Something colder.

The thought of losing you. He rode west.

Through dense underbrush and vine-strangled paths, past forgotten trees with roots as wide as huts. He tracked the sun and the shape of the land, following instinct more than any mapped trail.

By the time the sun crested high overhead, the trees had grown quieter. The air thicker. The kind of silence that made prey freeze in place.

Their territory. The pa’li knew it too. “I know,” Neteyam whispered, his voice barely audible. “I don’t want to be here either.”

Shadows crept along the ground as midday passed, and finally, he saw it. Tracks. Fresh and unmistakable. Deep grooves cut into the earth, broken foliage crushed and pushed aside. Huge paw prints led toward an enormous tree surrounded by thick, dense undergrowth.

Thanator.

Neteyam halted, heart thudding painfully. He gazed ahead from the pa’li’s back, breathing shallowly. One set of prints was enormous—unmistakably a mother’s. Beside them, smaller tracks trailed after her, scattered and playful. Cubs.

The pa’li beneath him tensed, head lifting high twitching nervously. It shook its head sharply, hooves shifting uneasily. Neteyam laid a calming hand on its neck, murmuring softly, but the creature snorted in agitation. It didn't want to be here. He couldn’t blame it. Even a seasoned warrior stood little chance against a thanator mother protecting her cubs. Sky-demon weapons would barely tip the odds. And Neteyam was alone, armed only with wood and bone and desperation.

Then something caught his eye through the foliage—gleaming sharply in the sunlight. His heart slammed into his ribs.

Without thinking, he slid from the pa’li’s back, hitting the ground lightly and sprinting forward, bow forgotten on his back.

His breath caught in his throat when he reached the den’s mouth.

Three small thanator cubs tumbled playfully at the entrance, snapping and growling softly at one another. At the sound of his footsteps, they froze abruptly, amber eyes sharp and wary. They snarled quietly, retreating quickly into the shadows, vanishing deeper into the den.

But his eyes were no longer on them. They were fixed on the mask lying broken and bloodied in the dirt, glittering cruelly in the dappled sunlight.

Your mask.

Exactly as Eywa had shown him. His knees nearly gave out, a violent tremor racing through him. He staggered, then pushed himself forward anyway, stumbling closer. His heart was hammering, breath jagged as he knelt down to pick it up, turning it over in his trembling fingers.

The mask was cracked, smeared with dark, dried blood across the shattered glass panel. His vision blurred, throat closing tightly around a sudden wave of nausea.

You were here. You had to be. You wouldn't have abandoned this mask willingly. You'd never leave it behind unless—

No. He refused to accept that. And as he knelt there, desperate, eyes scanning wildly—he saw something else.

Footprints. But not yours.

These were larger. Longer. Broader. A human male's, distinct in the soft earth, leading away from the den. His mind spun rapidly.

Norm. The science team. Xenobotanists, perhaps. Maybe they'd been searching too. Maybe they'd found you, hurt and bleeding, barely alive, and had taken you back to safety—to the outpost, to Norm's med-lab.

Hope surged fiercely, blooming through his chest like sunlight, almost painful in its intensity.

But as he sprinted back toward the pa'li, heart pounding with new purpose, a cold shadow whispered suddenly in the back of his mind.

If they'd found you, if you were safe, why hadn't they told him?

He hauled himself up onto the pa'li’s back, chest heaving, mind spinning with desperate questions. Fear coiled tightly around his ribs, choking out the brief flash of hope.

What if they hadn’t told him because… because it was too late? Because you were too badly injured? Because you wouldn't survive, and they couldn't bear to deliver that news to him?

He kicked the pa’li into a swift gallop toward the outpost, barely feeling the wind rushing past him. He knew only one thing with absolute certainty:

He had to see you. Even if it broke him completely. Even if the next breath he took was the last sane breath he ever drew. He needed to know.

*

It was nearly dusk when Neteyam reached the outpost, the jungle behind him humming softly with the approach of night. The air was thick with the weight of heat and tension, the sky bleeding orange and violet as the last light dipped behind the mountains.

The pa’li beneath him was slick with sweat and trembling with exhaustion, foam gathering at its mouth. He slid off its back without a word, giving the creature a brief, grateful pat on its flank. “Go,” he murmured, voice low and firm. “You’re done.”

The pa’li didn’t hesitate—it turned and disappeared into the forest with a staggering gallop, leaving Neteyam standing alone in front of the gates of Hell itself.

Because that’s what the outpost felt like now. A place of answers he wasn’t sure he could bear.

He approached slowly, steps silent but purposeful, the scent of metal and sterilized air creeping into his nose as he drew closer to the airlock. Something was off. He could sense it instantly—movement, voices, tension in the air like an electric charge. Something was happening.

The outer doors hissed as they cycled open, and a figure stepped out.

Raj.

The man froze the moment he spotted Neteyam—like prey caught in the gaze of a predator. His hands were gripping a large crate, dragging it behind him, but he stilled instantly, body going rigid, face paling.

Neteyam’s tail lashed violently behind him. He hadn’t forgotten.

He didn’t care that Raj was just a scientist. He didn’t care that the man probably never meant harm. All he saw was the one who dared to say she’s not coming back. As if your death was an inconvenience.

Now, seeing him again—seeing him standing there, alive, breathing, dragging some goddamned crate like nothing had happened—Neteyam’s blood boiled.

Raj froze the moment he noticed Neteyam approaching. He went rigid like a cornered animal, eyes darting quickly toward the airlock as if measuring his odds of escape. The crate behind him thudded against the metal flooring as he released it, hands instinctively raising in some half-hearted placating gesture.

Neteyam’s fingers curled around the hilt of his knife before he stopped himself. Not now. Not yet. He needed answers more than he needed vengeance.

Neteyam didn’t stop. He brushed past the man without a single word, shoulders stiff, steps sharp with restrained fury.

Raj flinched as he passed.

Good. Let him be afraid.

He didn’t deserve even a sliver of grace.

Neteyam stormed through the outpost’s airlock, the door hissing open in front of him. His steps echoed through the narrow hallway, the sterile white lights above flickering slightly as the backup generator kicked on for the evening cycle.

He followed the sound of voices—heated, overlapping. The main lab. As he rounded the corner, the scene unfolded in front of him.

Norm stood near the center of the room, looking worn and resigned, his arms folded tightly across his chest. Max lingered nearby, expression tense. And across from them stood Kate  voice low but full of fire.

Neteyam’s heart began to hammer again. He stepped closer, trying to hear them. The hum of the base was loud—but not loud enough to drown them out completely.

“You shouldn’t do this,” Kate was saying, voice sharp, brimming with frustration.

Norm’s voice was lower, slower. “It’s been over a week. We haven’t had a signal. No sightings. No movement. She’s—”

“You don’t know that,” Kate snapped.

“You don’t know she’s alive,” Norm countered, his voice cracking slightly, weary. “We have to move forward. I had to make the call.”

Kate stared at him in disbelief. “You filed the closure?”

“I had to. Her file's been marked as ‘presumed lost.’”

Neteyam didn’t understand it at first. Closed… your file? He didn’t understand. What did that mean? Was it some human thing? Something bureaucratic? Some protocol?

But then he saw the look on Kate’s face—saw the way her anger masked grief—and something cold and sharp slipped beneath his ribs.

They were giving up. They were calling you gone.

He stood outside the glass, unmoving, silent. The words felt like wind blowing past him at first. Just air.

But then Norm kept speaking.

“We can’t leave her listed as active. Not after this long. It’s protocol, Kate. I know how much she meant to us, but—”

The words hit like a blow to the chest.

“You had no right,” she said sharply, her back to Neteyam.

“I have to,” Norm replied quietly, his voice almost hollow. “We searched the entire sector.”

“You didn’t search all of it,” Kate shot back, turning toward him with a glare. “You searched what the drones could cover. That’s not the same.”

You were still out there. He knew it. Eywa had not lied. The mask, the dream, the footprints—all of it pointed to you still fighting. Still surviving. And here they were. Closing your file like you were just another failed mission. Another line on a report.

A faint snarl escaped the back of his throat before he even realized it.

Norm’s head jerked toward the sound—and his eyes widened when he saw Neteyam through the glass.

Neteyam didn’t move. He just stared at them through the barrier, his entire body trembling—not with grief, but with fury.

Because they didn’t believe in you. But he did.

Neteyam’s heart began to thud, sharp and fast, his body suddenly too still. He stepped closer, lips parted slightly. “What does that mean?” he whispered aloud, but no one heard him.

The three scientists froze. Norm looked up, his expression tightening instantly as he saw Neteyam standing there, wide-eyed, breathing heavily, rage barely restrained beneath the surface. Norm’s voice was low. “I had to file the loss for HQ. For the database. For the funding review. It doesn’t mean I believe she’s gone— It means… we’ve listed her as MIA,” he said quietly. “Missing. Presumed dead.”

But Neteyam was already backing away, shaking his head. The words sounded like static, meaningless and hit like a blow to the chest.

Everything in Neteyam went still. The world, the lights, the sounds around him—it all blurred into a haze of white noise.

Presumed dead.

No.

No.

His hands clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms so tightly he felt the sting of breaking skin. He felt it—but barely. Because the rage and disbelief were louder.

They’d written you off. His hands were shaking.

Kate looked at him with something close to guilt. Max looked away entirely. A voice cracked through the tension like brittle glass shattering in silence. It came from the far side of the lab—quiet, low, but raw. “I told them not to touch anything. Kate too.”

Neteyam’s head snapped toward the sound. Brian.

He stood near the back wall, half in shadow, hands braced on a stack of metallic crates that matched the one Raj had been dragging. His shoulders were slumped, his face pale, eyes rimmed red like he hadn’t slept in days. His voice trembled—not from fear, but from grief.

“They’re… sending someone else,” Brian said hoarsely, eyes flicking toward the group, then down again. “Bridgehead. HQ. Protocol, you know? Can’t leave a position unfilled. Especially not one as important as hers.”

Neteyam didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.

Brian swallowed hard, his throat working like it hurt to speak. “They want us to clear out her quarters. Pack up her things. Prepare for the replacement.”

The words hung in the air like ash after a fire. Final. Cold. Neteyam stared at him for a moment, his breath frozen in his chest. Then slowly—almost unwillingly—he turned his gaze to the metal containers stacked in the corner.

There were three of them. Big. Square. Gray. Labeled with her initials. They weren’t just boxes. They were you. Everything you’d touched, everything you’d loved, everything that had made your world yours—crammed into crates like you were already a memory.

Neteyam stepped forward, unable to stop himself. He moved slowly, one step at a time, like the air had thickened around him. When he reached the nearest crate, he let his hand rest on the lid. The cold of the metal seeped into his fingers. His chest tightened painfully. Inside those crates was your life. Four years of it.

Your books. Your data pads. Your field kits. Your little sketches of Pandoran flora you used to pin above your bed. The scent of your soap clinging to your spare uniform. Your coffee mug with the chipped handle. Your notes—written in that half-scientific, half-messy shorthand he could never understand. The little woven trinkets Kiri had gifted you. The tiny jar of river pearls you’d been collecting ever since he gave you the first one.

All of it. Everything that proved you had lived here. That you had loved this world. His world. And now it was being packed away like evidence. His hand curled into a fist over the crate.

He couldn’t stay here. Not now. Not when the walls were closing in and every corner of this place reeked of abandonment. His voice was low, broken.

“She’s not gone,” he said again, but this time… it wasn’t to them.

It was to himself. And to Eywa. Rage flared so sharply behind his ribs it felt like something cracked.

“She is not replaceable,” Neteyam hissed, stepping forward before anyone could stop him. His voice was low and tight and shaking. “You don’t replace her. You find her.”

Kate opened her mouth like she wanted to say something—to calm him, to offer some tired rationalization—but he wasn’t interested in calm. Or reason.

He pulled something from the strap at his waist and tossed it across the table. It landed with a clatter, spinning slightly on the smooth metal.

Your mask. Bloodied. Cracked. Real. Everyone stilled.

“I found this,” Neteyam said, voice razor-sharp. “At a thanator den. Not scavenged. Not crushed. Dragged. Someone found her. There were footprints.”

Norm and Max paled. Kate’s hand shot to her mouth. Brian just stared, his mouth slightly agape.

“And you want to sit here and close files? You want to replace her?” Neteyam growled. “Then do it. But I’m not staying. I’m not waiting. And I’m not stopping.”

His chest rose and fell with hard, furious breaths.

*

He didn’t know how he got back to the village.

It was all a blur—fragments of memory without context, without clarity. The jungle whispered around him, a backdrop of muted color and indistinct shapes. The familiar trails and trees and scents faded into a dull hum, indistinguishable from the ache in his chest.

He remembered voices—his mother’s gentle murmur in the village, the concern etched into Neytiri's golden eyes. She’d tried to speak to him, reach out to him, but he hadn’t heard the words. Couldn’t hear them over the roaring emptiness inside his heart.

Kiri and Lo’ak had been there too, faces painted with worry, with uncertainty. They had called to him, but he’d walked past them without stopping, without answering. Their voices faded behind him as he moved, his steps heavy, dragging him inevitably to the dark solitude of his kelku.

And then he was alone. Numb. Empty.

He sat on the woven mats on the floor, eyes fixed unseeing into the dim light that filtered weakly through the thatched roof. The silence pressed around him like water, thick and suffocating.

Gone. They said you were gone.

The humans at the outpost—those he’d thought friends, allies—claimed he’d lost his mind. Claimed no other human would be out here, deep in the forests of Pandora. Norm’s voice echoed again and again, words like shards of glass slicing through his thoughts:

Maybe you have to accept she’s gone. Neteyam squeezed his eyes shut, breath catching painfully. Accept it? How could he accept that? How could he let her go like she’d never existed?

You were not just someone he'd cared about. You were his mate—his very heart. You were the one thing he knew he would always want, always need, forever. How could he abandon that? How could he let the pain of your absence be reduced to something as small and sterile as a closed file, a quiet memorial in the corner of a human outpost?

His chest tightened, agony twisting through him. How could he ever be so cruel as to accept your death? It would mean killing the last shred of hope that still lingered inside him—hope that Eywa had not lied, hope that the footprints had led you to safety, hope that the dreams were guiding him, not mocking him.

His gaze drifted across the kelku, empty and silent. Cold now, where once it had felt warm, filled with your quiet laughter, your careful touches, the soft way you'd leaned against him in the darkness.

His eyes caught on something small, lying half-forgotten near the sleeping mats.

The tiny, white button. He reached for it, fingers shaking, heart pounding. It sat in his palm, small and fragile.

Just like you.

His hand moved instinctively to the songcord tied securely to his hip, the thread smooth and familiar beneath his fingertips. His fingers grazed the beads—memories etched carefully into bone, into stone, into pearl.

Every songcord had a beginning and an end. Even then if knowing you were part just a few years of his life.

The first bead was the prayer he'd whispered to Eywa beneath the Tree of Souls—asking for something real. He'd prayed, and the Great Mother had given him you. Human, strange, brilliant, perfect in your differences, made just for him. His anchor. His balance. His future.

His fingers brushed gently over the beads, feeling the shapes, the grooves of memories.

His chest squeezed painfully. Because if there was a bead marking the beginning, logic whispered cruelly in the back of his mind, there would eventually have to be an end. A final bead marking the day he lost you forever.

Maybe you weren't Na'vi. Maybe you'd never woven a songcord of your own. But Neteyam knew his would always bear your story. Your name. Your heart.

Slowly, hands shaking with quiet grief, he took the white button and carefully threaded it onto the end of his cord. His vision blurred, stinging sharply at the corners of his eyes. But he blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall.

He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to accept this. But if he didn't anchor himself to something—if he didn't ground himself in the cold, stark truth—he feared he'd crumble entirely. That he'd fall apart and never come back together.

He stared at the button, small and painfully white against the darker beads. Is this all that's left of you now? He wanted to scream at Eywa, to rage against the silence in his heart. How could the Great Mother give him this bond—let him taste this love—and then rip it away?

Yet even as the anger swelled within him, sharp and fierce, there was something else whispering quietly in the depths of his heart.

A tiny, treacherous voice that said: Maybe you've been lying to yourself. Maybe those dreams were never visions from Eywa. Maybe they were just desperate things your mind created. Hope that wasn't real. Threads that never truly existed.

His breath hitched, the thought aching through him like poison.

Had he gone mad, like they said at the outpost? Had he chased shadows all this time?

His shoulders slumped forward, eyes closing, breath ragged. "No," he whispered hoarsely into the empty space. "No." He couldn’t believe that. He couldn’t.

He couldn’t accept that the Great Mother would play with his heart that cruelly. She had brought you to him—he knew that. Felt it in every fiber of his being.

Eywa had chosen you. Just as surely as he had. And the Na'vi chose mates for life. He’d known from the first moment you touched his heart that you were his mate. His forever.

Eywa had seen it, accepted it, blessed it. He couldn’t betray that.

But now, sitting alone in his kelku with your button threaded onto his songcord—this tiny symbol of you that felt so painfully inadequate—he wasn't sure what he knew anymore. He felt utterly lost. He didn’t know how to live in a world without you.

His fingers tightened around the cord, pressing the button sharply against his palm until he felt the edge cut softly into his skin. He welcomed the pain. It was something. Anything. Anything but emptiness.

"Eywa," he whispered, his voice broken, desperate. "Please—if you're listening… tell me I'm not wrong. Tell me you're guiding me. Please don't let me lose this hope."

But the kelku remained silent. Only shadows answered him.

His breath shuddered out in a slow, painful exhale, shoulders trembling as he bowed his head.

Tomorrow he would search again. He had to. He couldn't give up.

But tonight… tonight he let himself crumble. Let himself grieve. He was a warrior. The eldest son. Meant to stand strong for his clan, his siblings, his family.

But right now, here alone, he wasn't strong. He was just a heartbroken soul who couldn't bear to lose you. And for tonight—just for tonight—he allowed himself to break.

*

Neteyam sat still, crouched low in the shadows of his kelku, the white button threaded onto the end of his songcord digging into his palm like a wound he couldn't stop pressing. The weight of it felt like the end of something sacred—like a thread cut before the weaving was complete.

The air was thick and unmoving, heavy with grief and the scent of forest and ash. Night hummed quietly outside, the insects murmuring low and constant.

Then—softly, barely a shift—he heard movement near the entrance.

Footsteps. Light. Too careful to be Lo’ak. Too hesitant to be a warrior. He didn’t look up.

“Go away, Kiri,” he muttered, voice raw, dull. “I’m not in the mood to be pitied.”

Silence. Then a voice—not his sister’s. It was deeper, gentler—a voice that had soothed him to sleep as a child, that had scolded him for scraped knees and praised him after his first hunt.

“My son,”

His body went stiff.

Neytiri.

He didn’t want company.

Didn’t want comfort or reason or soft words that meant nothing. He wanted to disappear into the furs and will himself to wake from this living nightmare. He wanted time to fold in on itself and give him one more hour, one more breath, one more chance to make everything right again.

She stepped slowly inside, moving quietly, as if afraid that sound itself might shatter him further. The low flames flickered across her face, casting dancing shadows that softened her usually fierce features.

“What happened?” she asked gently, crouching just beyond his reach.

Neteyam’s shoulders shook once, a sharp breath leaving him in a brittle scoff. He didn’t look at her. He just stared down at his hands, curled tightly around his songcord.

“Why do you care?” he said, voice small, bitter. His ears flattening back. “If you came here to mock me—to celebrate that even the humans have accepted her death—then please, just go away.”

Then, softly, Neytiri crouched beside him. Her hand reached out carefully, landing gentle and warm on his shoulder. He almost flinched at her touch—it was too comforting, too familiar, too maternal to fit with the mother who had spat hateful words about his love.

“Neteyam,” she murmured softly, her voice gentle enough that for a moment he thought he’d imagined it. “You really love her, don’t you?”

Something cracked in his chest. Something fragile, something that had been holding him together by a thin, worn thread.

His head turned sharply toward her, eyes wide, wary, filled with the raw ache he couldn’t hide anymore.

Neytiri’s gaze met his quietly, carefully. Her expression was softer than he’d seen it in days—maybe even longer. No anger. No disgust. Only sorrow. Only quiet understanding.

“I told you that,” he whispered hoarsely, voice shaking. “But you wouldn’t listen. You didn’t care.”

“I care,” she said quietly, voice strained with emotion. “I always cared. Maybe… too much.”

He stared at her, trying to make sense of the sudden softness in her voice. His brow furrowed, confusion twisting through the pain.

“I don’t understand,” he said softly, voice cracking at the edges.

Neytiri drew a slow, careful breath. Her hand tightened gently on his shoulder, holding him steady.

“I was scared for you, ma’itan,” she confessed quietly, her voice shaking slightly. “Not just angry. Not just disappointed. Scared. I feared… I feared what she would do to your heart. That she would hurt you simply by being what she is.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightened painfully. “She would never hurt me. Not willingly. Not ever.”

Neteyam looked away, jaw clenched, but said nothing. His tail slowly swaying behind him with some loew thump-thump.

Neytiri watched her son closely, her eyes tracing every line and shadow that played across his features in the flickering firelight. There was an ache deep in her chest—a familiar yet foreign pain, something rooted far deeper than disappointment or anger. It was a mother's grief, the kind born of watching the child she loved grow into someone she barely recognized.

Slowly, carefully, Neytiri reached out, her thumb brushing gently across Neteyam's cheekbone, smoothing over the fine lines of bioluminescence that glowed faintly in the dark. Her touch was hesitant, cautious—as though she feared that he might pull away, might vanish before her eyes like a misty apparition.

"You have grown so much," she murmured softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. "So quickly. Too quickly. I blink—and you are no longer the child who used to fall asleep in my lap after listening to old stories."

Neteyam didn't move. He barely even breathed, eyes lowered to his hands.

Neytiri drew a slow breath, the heaviness of it settling in her chest. "Sometimes it feels as though I have missed the moment you became a man. I look at you, and I still see the child I once knew—the child I protected. But then…" Her voice faded, eyes shadowed with sorrow. "Then you speak, and I see a man who has walked paths I cannot follow."

Neteyam finally lifted his gaze, his eyes finding hers. They were dark and raw—brimming with a grief and determination she both recognized and feared. "Then why," he asked quietly, his voice tense but even, "do you not trust in my decision?"

His question was gentle, but it struck Neytiri with the force of a blade.

Her lips parted slightly, words catching in her throat as she met his gaze. She saw the truth there—the quiet accusation, the hurt, the confusion. And beneath all of it, the burning intensity of conviction, the kind she'd once known herself, years ago, when she'd defied tradition for love.

Yet even now, she struggled to give him an answer. How could she explain the fear that had settled so deeply within her? How could she tell him about the past she couldn't forget, the loss she had buried beneath duty, beneath mothering, beneath the life she'd built from grief and ashes?

At last, her words came—softly, haltingly. "Because," she whispered, the weight of old wounds making her voice tremble, "she could never fully belong to you. She could never belong to this place—to the People. No matter how much you might wish it."

Neteyam's eyes narrowed, hurt flickering through his expression, quickly replaced by stubborn defiance. "You don’t know that," he said quietly, firmly. "Eywa—"

Neytiri shook her head, pain tightening around her heart like a vice. "Eywa might bind souls," she murmured, her voice heavy with sorrow. "But there are some things even the Great Mother cannot change. There are scars too deep. Differences too vast. She is human. She is—"

"Mine," Neteyam cut in sharply, his voice still quiet, but with an edge that cut through the air between them. He held her gaze steadily, unwavering, the words absolute. "I don't ask you to understand. Just… to trust me."

For a moment, Neytiri didn't speak. She watched her son—her eldest, her firstborn, her brave-hearted warrior—seeing clearly, perhaps for the first time, the man he truly was. Strong-willed, fiercely loyal, unyielding in the face of uncertainty.

And yet, her heart still ached. The past was still there, whispering darkly in her mind. The wounds humans had carved into her spirit could never truly heal.

Finally, slowly, she withdrew her hand, her thumb leaving a lingering warmth against his cheek. Her eyes lowered, heavy with sorrow, understanding, and the shadow of a mother's fear.

Neteyam’s face didn’t change. Not in the way someone outside would see. But she was his mother. She saw it. The way his breath hitched — the smallest shift. The shadow in his eyes that flickered, like firelight trying not to die.

Still, he said nothing. He just looked at her.

Neytiri lowered her hand from his cheek, but didn’t move away. Her voice softened again.

“Even if her heart beats like ours… even if she walks like one of us… Eywa did not shape her for this world.”

She swallowed, her gaze dropping to the songcord in his lap.

“But maybe,” she added, barely audible now, “maybe… Eywa shaped you for her.”

Neytiri’s gaze stayed fixed on his, and for a long moment, she said nothing.

She saw it now. Not just the defiance. Not just the stubbornness. But the desperation.

And the love.

It was there—unmistakable. Blazing behind his eyes like a flame refusing to die, even under the weight of grief, fear, and her disapproval. A love that had no edges, no caution, no exit plan. She recognized it—not as a mother, but as a woman who had once stood across from her own father and said, I choose him.

And just like that, the breath caught in her chest.

Because she knew her son.

Neteyam did not give half of himself to anything. Not to his training. Not to his people. Not to war. And certainly not to love.

When he gave… he gave everything.

There would be no going back.

Not for him. Not for the girl he searched for like his soul would stop beating if he didn’t find her. Neytiri had days believed there would be time to pull him back, to remind him of duty, of blood, of legacy. She saw her once strong son grow more and more abandoned and weaker day by day, as if he were just a ghost. But the look in his eyes told her the truth now.

It was already done.

This was no passing infatuation. No rebellion. No mistake.

Her son had given his heart to a sky person.

Irrevocably.

She inhaled, slow and deep, her throat tight, her fingers curling and uncurling at her sides as if holding something invisible and fragile.

And when she spoke, it was not to argue. Not to warn. Just to ask—soft, almost inaudible.

"Does she love you back?"

Neteyam blinked, startled by the question.

But he nodded. Once. Firm. Certain.

Neytiri’s eyes lingered on his face for a final breath, searching for something—doubt, perhaps. A crack. A place where she could slip through and pull him home, back to her, back to the path laid for him.

But there was none.

Only that same quiet fire. Only love.

Something in her chest gave a low, sorrowful twist. She reached out again, not to touch this time, but to steady herself as she slowly stood. Her knees felt heavier than they had in years.

Neteyam watched her, confusion flickering in his eyes. He didn’t speak—too afraid that the wrong word might shatter this fragile shift in her.

Why wasn’t she yelling?

Why wasn’t she reminding him that she had once watched her sister die at the hands of humans?

Why was she looking at him now like he’d said something simple—like he’d accepted one of the girls the Elders had picked for him, or spoken of a hunt he meant to lead?

Why did she look... calm?

Neytiri turned her eyes toward the fire. The flames crackled softly between them. Then she looked back at him one last time.

And this time, there was no anger.

Only the quiet, aching grief of a mother letting go.

She paused at the entrance of the tent, her back still to him, hand brushing lightly against the flap. She didn’t turn. Her voice, when it came, was low and worn, barely a breath in the darkness.

“If you find her… bring her home yourself.”

And then she was gone.

The flap fell shut behind her.

Leaving Neteyam alone in the firelight, clutching a human button and a threadbare cord, with nothing in his chest but the echo of her words and the thundering, defiant rhythm of his own heart.

*

The entrance swayed gently, the rustle of the kelku’s flap settling into quiet again, as if nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

Neteyam sat motionless, staring at the place his mother had vanished, his chest aching with a heaviness he couldn’t name. He felt suspended between two breaths, two worlds, two truths—and for a moment, wondered if he'd fallen asleep without knowing it. If the whole conversation, Neytiri’s quiet surrender, her unexpected words of acceptance—had all been some fevered, grief-born dream.

Maybe he had finally lost his mind, as some whispered at the outpost. Maybe his desperate, hopeless love for you had cracked him open, allowing madness to seep in through the cracks.

But if this was madness—if this was just another cruel illusion conjured by his breaking heart—then Eywa, please, let the next dream be of you.

Let the next vision be your path.

He wanted to see you again. Needed to see you again. He didn’t care if it hurt. He didn’t care if Eywa showed him shadows or nightmares. He needed something—anything—to show him where you had walked, where you had hidden, where you still breathed.

Because you had become the very core of him.

He knew it now, sitting in this dark kelku, his mother’s words still hanging like smoke in the air. He knew it without doubt, without fear—knew it with every breath, every beat of his heart.

He needed you like he needed air. Like the forest needed rain. Like life needed Eywa’s breath.

Everything else—the clan, his father’s pride, the title that had once weighed so heavily on him—it all faded into silence next to the need burning in his chest.

If the clan turned their backs on him, he would understand. If his father’s disappointment carved new scars across his soul, he would bear them without regret. If he lost his position as the future Olo'eyktan, he would accept it gratefully.

Because none of that mattered.

None of it meant anything if he couldn't find you again.

And if he found you—if Eywa returned you safely to his arms—then he would accept anything the world chose to throw at him.

The whispers, the shame, the judgments—he would welcome them, because you would be beside him. Holding his hand, breathing your calmness into him like the first sweet breath of air after a dive into deep water.

You made his life gentler.

His thoughts easier.

The relentless noise inside his head quieted when you touched him, when your human hands traced soft patterns along his jaw, when your quiet voice murmured his name in a way that made it sound new.

You gave him peace.

Something he'd forgotten how to feel without you.

Neteyam closed his eyes slowly, breathing in deep, reaching desperately toward the Great Mother. He let himself sink into the stillness of the kelku, into the silence pressing against his chest.

He lowered himself slowly onto the pelts, exhausted. His head rested heavily against his folded arms, eyes fluttering shut as he succumbed to the pull of sleep—no, the pull of hope.

Because he knew that you were out there. Alive. Waiting for him. Even if everyone else doubted. Even if they called him mad.

You were breathing.

And he would find you. He would hold you again. He would look into your eyes and promise you that whatever storms came, whatever trials you faced—

He would never let go.

As sleep claimed him, he clutched your button tighter, pressing it against his heart, the final thought in his mind a plea and a promise:

Just show me the way, Eywa, and I will bring her home.

*

Sleep overtook him reluctantly, claiming him slowly, carefully, like he was drifting down through layers of water. When Neteyam opened his eyes again, it wasn’t the dark of the kelku or the oppressive shadows of his nightmares.

It was sunlight.

Warm, golden sunlight streamed down through gently swaying branches overhead, dappling everything with dancing patches of brightness. A soft breeze whispered through the leaves, making them rustle like a gentle melody.

Neteyam blinked in confusion, momentarily disoriented.

He stood at the edge of a familiar clearing—before him, an open pond glittered brightly beneath the daylight, its still surface reflecting the clear, blue sky above. And sitting there, upon the thick, fallen tree trunk that stretched gently across the pond, was—

His breath caught painfully in his throat.

It was you.

You sat there, perched on the trunk with your legs dangling casually over the side, your bare toes barely brushing the cool, clear water beneath. The sunlight caught in your hair, lighting it like threads of spun gold. And when your head turned, when your eyes met his—

You smiled.

It was bright, breathtaking, radiant—like the sunrise after endless storms.

“Neteyam!” Your voice rang out in excitement, eyes glinting with pure, genuine happiness. You waved him over enthusiastically, your smile widening impossibly further. “Come sit with me! Hurry up, I've been waiting!”

He froze for just an instant, stunned and breathless, caught between disbelief and an ache so profound it almost brought him to his knees.

This couldn’t be real.

Yet, real or not, dream or memory—his body moved without hesitation. He crossed the grass and climbed onto the trunk, sitting down carefully next to you, his movements gentle as if afraid that one sudden motion might cause you to vanish.

The moment he settled beside you, your brows furrowed. You leaned closer, suddenly serious, examining him carefully.

“You look bad,” you said softly, your voice touched with worry. Your small, gentle hand rose to touch his cheek carefully, tracing the dark circles beneath his eyes, the hollow shadows of his cheeks. “Why aren’t you eating?”

Neteyam swallowed hard, feeling your touch—warm and impossibly soft—against his skin. His chest ached at the tenderness in your eyes, at the quiet worry that filled your gaze.

He wanted to speak, but he couldn’t find the right words. He just stared at you silently, cross-legged on the trunk, taking in every detail of your face like he might never get the chance again. Every soft line, every freckle, every gentle curve—he burned it all into memory, his heart clenching painfully.

“Why are you here?” he finally whispered, his voice strained. “In my dream? Did…did something happen to you?” His voice cracked on the question he’d been afraid to ask. “Are you here to say goodbye?”

Your brow knitted, confusion flickering across your features clearly even under the exomask, as if the question baffled you completely. “Goodbye?” You laughed quietly, as though it was the strangest thing you'd ever heard. “Why would I be dead, Neteyam?”

He watched you carefully, heart aching at the genuine confusion in your expression, the way your eyes searched his face for answers he didn’t have.

You turned slightly, gesturing at the beautiful pond around you, eyes softening again. “It’s just another day, right? Just us, here.”

Neteyam felt something shift inside him as he studied you quietly—your peaceful demeanor, your gentle, familiar smile. Suddenly, understanding pierced him like an arrow.

This was how the ancestors behaved in Eywa’s embrace—at the Tree of Voices. They lived in memories, reliving beautiful, happy moments, unaware of their own deaths.

His stomach churned, twisting in grief.

Were you already lost? Was this just your memory—a fragment of you held by Eywa, replaying endlessly?

He lifted his gaze slowly, recognizing suddenly the place you sat together. It had been before you became mates—before you had confessed how deeply your hearts belonged to each other. You’d seen a water lily in your datapad and asked him eagerly if he knew where you could find it. Neteyam remembered clearly bringing you here, how your eyes lit up, how your smile was wider than he'd ever seen it, how you’d laughed with pure, radiant joy as you examined the delicate flower with tender awe.

That day had been perfect.

But seeing you now—trapped forever in a memory—threatened to break him completely.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to break, not to crumble in front of you. But just before he could spiral deeper into grief and confusion, your voice broke through again—soft, quiet, a whisper meant only for him.

“I’m underground.”

He stiffened, a sharp ache slicing through his chest. Underground. His breath caught sharply.

“Eywa…” he breathed, voice barely audible. “So you really—”

You continued quietly, eyes distant, looking toward the water as if it might whisper your truths to him. “I want to go home, but…”

Your voice faded, the unfinished sentence hanging heavily in the air between you.

He felt his heart fracture.

But then, slowly, you turned your gaze back to him, your eyes filled with quiet, gentle sadness and something else—hope.

“I just need more time,” you whispered softly, reaching up to gently cup his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone in a familiar caress. “Will you wait for me?”

He leaned instantly into your palm, eyes closing as he drank in your touch, your warmth, your presence. It hurt—it hurt so badly—to know this wasn’t real, that this was just a vision. Yet the simple sensation of your skin against his steadied him.

“Could you do that for me?” Your voice was soft, hopeful, pleading.

His throat tightened painfully. “I’ll wait forever,” he whispered brokenly. “Forever, ma yawne.”

You gazed at him, eyes overflowing with love, affection so deep it threatened to break him again. But then you smiled softly, playfully, your fingertip booping gently against his flat nose.

“But you need to take care of yourself,” you scolded lightly, softly chiding him. “Eat something. Rest. You look like you’re falling apart.”

And that—that simple, gentle worry—almost shattered him completely. Tears burned behind his eyes, threatening to spill over as he watched you, your gentle smile, your familiar scolding.

Because even now—even in dreams, in visions—your first worry was always him.

He reached up, gently grasping your hand, pressing it tightly against his face as if it might keep you here, as if the strength of his love alone could anchor you.

“I’ll try,” he breathed, voice cracking, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I promise.”

You smiled softly, eyes glowing with warmth and tenderness, your small palm still pressed gently against his cheek.

“Good,” you whispered, leaning your forehead gently against his. “Just wait a little longer. I’ll come home to you. I promise.”

His eyes slipped shut, chest aching, heart beating painfully fast.

His little heart, his stubborn miracle, still trying to protect him even while buried gods-know-where, bleeding and hurting and alone.

And as the dream slowly began to fade, slipping away from him like mist between his fingers, one truth remained, shining clearly even in the darkness.

You were alive.

Somewhere, beneath soil and root and stone—you were alive, and you were fighting.

And he would wait for you.

Forever, if he had to.

*

The following days melted into an endless blur of desperate searching.

Neteyam returned relentlessly to the thanator den—the same spot where your shattered mask lay in fragments, silent witness to your probably violent encounter. He crouched near the entrance, fingers tracing the half-hidden footprints embedded in the damp earth, his pulse quickening with dread and hope each time.

A human man's footprints, unmistakably dragging something—or rather, someone—away from the den. Neteyam knew in the depths of his heart it had been you, limp and defenseless, dragged through mud and leaves toward an unknown fate.

But where had you been taken?

His determination burned fiercely as he followed the trail again and again, each footstep searing a mark in his soul. He parted thick foliage, scanned each leaf and stem for signs of disturbance, his heart pounding with every lost or regained glimpse of the trail.

But the jungle was ruthless. The foliage dense, tangled—unyielding. And when the footprints vanished beneath fallen leaves or blended cruelly into dense patches of moss, Neteyam felt his heart fracture a little more each time.

Yet, he pressed forward anyway, driven by your voice in his dream, your whispered plea echoing softly in his heart.

But on the second night, a fierce storm crashed through the forest, the heavens breaking open, a torrential downpour washing the world clean. Rain sluiced across the jungle floor, carving rivers from dirt paths, mercilessly obliterating the precious footprints.

He stood there the next morning, soaked to the bone, trembling from exhaustion, rage, and grief as he stared at the newly blank jungle floor—no footprints, no hints, no path.

He was left only with the ache in his chest and the echoes of your voice.

"Will you wait for me?"

As if he could do anything else.

But he wasn’t giving up. Not ever. He would find another way—Eywa would guide him.

On a misty evening, drawn by a force deep within, Neteyam found himself kneeling beneath the magnificent branches of the Tree of Souls. The air hummed softly with Eywa’s presence, countless glowing tendrils drifting like ghostly threads of pure light around him.

He knelt reverently, eyes heavy with exhaustion, heart heavy with yearning. His breathing slowed, the deepening twilight enveloping him as he reached behind, gently grasping the delicate braid of his kuru. Carefully, reverently, he connected it with one of Eywa’s softly glowing tendrils.

At once, a deep peace settled over him, wrapping gently around his bruised soul. His eyes fluttered shut, his head lowering humbly in silent communion.

Years ago, he'd knelt at the same place seeking guidance from Eywa—his path, his purpose within the clan. And now, once again, he pleaded silently, soul bare before the Great Mother, desperately seeking your path—your location, your heart, your life.

No words crossed his lips.

Because no language—no spoken prayer—could capture the depth of what he felt for you, the aching emptiness without your presence beside him.

His silent prayer reached out, powerful in its stillness, trembling gently through every thread of Eywa’s connection.

"Bring her back to me."

"Please."

His chest rose and fell softly, the breeze gently moving the braids of his hair, swaying softly around him like living threads. He allowed himself to sink deeper into the communion, deeper into Eywa’s embrace—

And suddenly, softly, impossibly clear through the whispering hush of leaves and the murmuring heartbeat of Eywa herself, he heard his name.

"Neteyam."

His heart jolted violently, eyes flying open in instant clarity.

It was your voice.

Clear as day, as gentle and real as if you stood right behind him, close enough to touch, close enough for your breath to stir softly against his ear.

He whipped around, breath hitching, eyes wide and hopeful—

But the clearing was empty.

Only the softly glowing tendrils of Eywa surrounded him, swaying gently in the breeze, untouched by any physical presence. He was alone beneath the Great Mother’s ancient tree, utterly, painfully alone.

Yet your voice resonated clearly in his heart.

"Wait for me."

He swallowed the lump that rose painfully in his throat, heart pounding fiercely as tears blurred his vision.

Eywa had answered him in her own subtle, gentle way. Not clearly enough to show him exactly where you were, not clearly enough to reveal your captor or the path he had taken—but clearly enough to reassure him you still breathed. Clearly enough to promise you were still fighting, still hoping, still reaching for him across the abyss.

He inhaled shakily, fingers gently gripping the sacred tendril connecting him to Eywa, his voice a trembling whisper, firm and determined in the deepening darkness.

“I will wait,” he vowed quietly, reverently, beneath Eywa’s eternal watch. “As long as it takes. Until she comes home.”

He disconnected his kuru slowly, letting the glowing tendril drift gently back into place. He rose silently, the weight of grief mingled with fierce hope and unyielding determination as he gazed out into the deepening twilight.

*

The morning of the fourth day was quiet, as though the village itself held its breath, waiting for something Neteyam couldn’t yet understand. Dawn broke gently, a slow ripple of pale blue and gold across the waking sky. The clan still slept, undisturbed by nightmares, untouched by his relentless grief.

But Neteyam was already awake, preparing in silence.

He wrapped his bow carefully, secured his knife at his chest. His motions were mechanical now, almost ritualistic, each step a quiet affirmation: I will find you.

He was just about to step out, to vanish again into the restless forest, when a quiet rustle at the kelku’s entrance startled him. Neteyam turned swiftly, pulse leaping, muscles coiled tight—only to relax slightly as Kiri ducked inside, her movements slow, quiet, cautious.

Something in her demeanor made him pause, senses sharpening.

She didn’t greet him. Didn’t smile or tease or scold. He didn’t even saw the pity. Just stepped closer, eyes heavy, unreadable, the dark circles beneath them a reflection of his own exhaustion.

“Neteyam,” she began softly, hesitating briefly as if unsure how to proceed. “You need to eat.”

She held out a leaf bundle, carefully folded around roasted yovo fruit and seasoned teylu, still warm from the fires. He stared at it, confused for a heartbeat before finally taking it, holding the bundle numbly in his palm.

“Thank you,” he said carefully, quietly, though food was the last thing on his mind.

Kiri nodded, eyes scanning his face in silent worry. The usual brightness, the teasing spark in her gaze was absent—replaced by something far heavier, something deeply troubled.

He frowned, heart picking up pace.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly, carefully. The air thickened, and Kiri seemed to struggle to meet his eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Kiri inhaled deeply, as if steeling herself for something difficult. Her gaze dropped momentarily to the leaf-wrapped food in his hand, then lifted again, meeting his eyes with quiet intensity.

“Don’t take the pa’li today,” she said suddenly, softly, voice barely audible in the stillness.

He stiffened instantly, pulse quickening. “What?”

She held his gaze steadily, something deep and ancient flickering in her amber eyes—something he couldn’t entirely read. “Take your ikran. Fly above. See further, faster.”

His stomach tightened uncomfortably, fingers unconsciously clenching around the food in his palm. “Kiri, why—”

“She is close,” Kiri interrupted him quietly, her voice soft yet firm, carrying the unmistakable weight of a truth she hadn’t wanted to voice. She inhaled slowly, carefully, as though each word was painful. “Mo’at feels it. I feel it. Eywa feels it.”

He stared, throat dry, breath shallow.

Close?

Close… and yet—

Something unspoken hovered heavily in her tone, hidden behind her careful words. Something darker. Something wrong.

He took a half-step closer, heart hammering unsteadily, pulse loud in his ears. “Kiri—what else? Tell me. Please.”

She hesitated, mouth opening and closing, her face taut with uncertainty. Her voice, when it finally came, was soft and troubled. “Mo’at said… something is not right. She senses a shift, a change. She doesn’t know how or why, but—”

His voice caught painfully in his chest, breath hitching. “But what? What’s changed?”

Kiri’s eyes brimmed with quiet, sorrowful compassion. “We don’t know. Just that… if you find her, Neteyam—when you find her—she might not be the same.”

Her words settled coldly in his chest, heavy as stone, suffocating in their vagueness.

Not the same.

He opened his mouth, ready to demand more—but Kiri stepped back abruptly, retreating slowly toward the entrance.

“I have to go,” she whispered, eyes never leaving his face. “Please, brother—just fly.”

Then she was gone, the flap falling shut behind her, leaving only an eerie stillness, a lingering shadow of unease that chilled him to the bone.

Neteyam stood there numbly, the food forgotten in his hand. Every quiet word she’d spoken echoed through his mind, louder with each beat of his heart.

Close. Changed. Wrong.

His heart thundered painfully in his ribs, his breaths coming shallow, quickening into panic. He barely registered the leaf-wrapped food in his palm, its gentle weight meaningless against the sudden, consuming dread that wrapped around his chest like cold vines.

He dropped it without thought, leaving the food forgotten on the kelku floor as he raced outside toward the cliffs, toward his ikran.

His heart beat violently as he climbed the cliffs, every breath tasting sharp, metallic, his chest tight and burning. He called desperately to his ikran, connecting swiftly, impatiently—desperation pounding in his blood.

They soared upward into the wide expanse of sky.

But peace eluded him.

Wind whipped fiercely across his face, tugging at his hair, harshly cold against his skin. Yet none of it reached him, none of it touched the spiraling thoughts racing violently in his mind.

Kiri’s voice echoed endlessly in his ears, her vague words cutting deeper than any blade:

“She might not be the same.”

His heart twisted brutally, mind racing. What did she mean? Was it your spirit, your heart, your soul that would return altered? Or something worse—something physical, tangible, cruelly irreversible?

Neteyam’s pulse thundered wildly, anxiety sharpening to painful clarity.

Kiri felt Eywa in ways even the tsahìks before hadn’t always understood. She touched the Great Mother’s essence with a clarity few others could fathom. If Kiri had warned him, if Mo’at herself sensed a disturbance—

A horrifying thought clawed suddenly into his mind.

Would he find your corpse?

He flinched sharply, violently shaking his head to dislodge the thought—yet it stuck like venomous sap, searing cruelly into his thoughts. A corpse. Your corpse. Broken, lifeless, empty of the bright fire that had once burned so fiercely within.

“No,” he whispered desperately, voice drowned by the roaring wind. “Please, Eywa, no.”

His ikran beneath him rumbled anxiously, sensing the violent spike of fear, anguish radiating sharply through their tsaheylu.

Neteyam fought to steady his breathing, forcefully shoving the cruel thoughts aside. He pressed one palm against his heart, feeling the delicate, hard outline of your button, the tiny proof of your strength, your resilience, your life.

“Not dead,” he breathed aloud, clinging desperately to that hope. “She’s not dead.”

He repeated the words like a lifeline, praying silently, fervently, as the ikran soared swiftly onward.

Yet still, one relentless fear tore at him relentlessly, its cruel edges biting deeper with every passing second:

Not dead, perhaps—but changed.

He tried desperately to decipher Kiri’s words. If it wasn’t death, what else was there? Different. What could it mean—injured, scarred, emotionally broken? Or something deeper, darker—something only Eywa could understand?

His breath came short, ragged, panic steadily consuming him from within. He clung desperately to hope, to faith, whispering fervently into the rushing wind:

“Please, Eywa. Let her still be herself. Let her heart still recognize mine.”

Yet even as he prayed—he couldn’t shake the lingering dread clawing viciously at the back of his mind, whispering darkly through every heartbeat, every breath.

Because deep down, Neteyam knew:

Kiri would never have warned him unless something had changed irrevocably.

And as he soared onward, searching desperately, the world around him blurred into silence, leaving only one thought, endlessly repeating in the darkest corners of his terrified mind:

What if the you he found was no longer the you he’d lost?

What if you no longer remembered how fiercely he loved you?

*

The air whipped past Neteyam's face, cool and sharp, but he barely felt it. His thoughts spun faster, a cruel whirlpool of doubt and dread pulling him deeper with each passing moment. Without thinking, without consciously choosing, his ikran  steered himself southward, guided by instinct more than reason.

Almost two weeks ago, he'd stood at the edge of a clearing with his family, watching two RDA aircraft—a Samson and an assault Dragon—resting menacingly on the ground. The memory was distant, blurred by exhaustion, yet his mind drew him there now, as though something he couldn’t quite understand whispered from that place.

The clearing came into view, empty now—the aircraft long vanished, the ground below peaceful, sunlit, devoid of the threats it once housed. The ships had left long ago, the clearing now reclaimed by nature again… but something about the place felt heavy in his bones. Important.

Neteyam’s heart ached. Why had Eywa drawn him here? Why this place, so far from your last known path? He blinked down absently, eyes skimming over grass and scattered leaves.

But then—he saw it. A small figure, unmistakably human, standing in the center of the clearing.

His breath stopped. "No…" he whispered, heart slamming painfully against his ribs. “No, no—Eywa—”

A hallucination, surely—a mirage conjured by exhaustion and desperation. Yet as he watched, the figure began to move, slow and unsteady steps carrying it towards the forest, eastward—toward the outpost, toward home.

He reacted without thought, a fierce surge of hope and disbelief flooding through him. Instantly, he angled his ikran downwards, plummeting toward the clearing with dizzying speed. The beast landed hard, talons scraping soil, wings beating to steady itself.

He leapt from Tawkami’s back, barely registering his own movement. His heart hammered as he sprinted across the clearing, powerful legs pumping desperately, eyes fixed fiercely on the distant figure vanishing slowly into the trees.

Branches whipped past him as he burst into the dense foliage, each second stretching painfully. His breath came harsh, ragged, panic and hope tangled violently in his chest.

Then—suddenly—he saw you clearly.

His knees nearly buckled beneath him.

You stood a short distance away, walking slowly through the shadows cast by towering trees. Your clothing was slightly torn, exactly what you'd worn the day you'd vanished. The sight felt surreal, impossible. A ghost he desperately hoped was real.

“Yawne!” he called, voice trembling, breaking open with emotion.

Your head whipped around immediately, eyes widening impossibly as they settled upon him. Recognition lit your features instantly, and you stared at him, mouth falling softly open in shock.

Neteyam moved toward you urgently, relief flooding him in waves so powerful they nearly brought tears. “Oh, Eywa—yawne—”

But suddenly, sharply, his steps faltered, a fresh wave of cold dread slamming through him, piercing deeply into his relief like poisoned arrows.

Your face—your beautiful, precious face—was exposed. You wore no mask. He stumbled forward frantically, panic and disbelief gripping him harshly.

“Yawne—no! No—do not breathe!” His voice cracked desperately, heart hammering violently in terror. He dropped swiftly to his knees before you, hands reaching urgently toward your face. “Your mask—where is it? Please—stop breathing, hold your breath, you cannot—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t bear the thought of losing you moments after finding you again. His fingers shook desperately, helplessly, as they touched your cheeks, your jaw, eyes filled with terrified dread.

But you didn’t gasp. Didn’t choke. Didn’t fall.

You just stared down at him, eyes wide and shimmering with tears, trembling softly beneath his frantic touch. Then, suddenly, without a word—without explanation—you threw your arms fiercely around his neck, crashing into him, hugging him with a strength that stole his breath entirely.

Neteyam froze in shock, his body rigid for a heartbeat, stunned into silence—then finally, fiercely, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you impossibly close, crushing you against his chest like he would never, ever let you go again.

“Oh, Eywa,” he choked out, voice shaking uncontrollably, face pressed desperately into your neck, breathing your scent in deeply, greedily. “Oh, ma yawne, you’re alive, you’re alive, you’re—”

His voice broke into a desperate sob, relief and love flooding through him, sharp and overwhelming, shattering his composure entirely.

You clung to him, fingers gripping desperately into his hair, your smaller body trembling violently against him as a sob tore free from your throat—raw, broken, relieved.

Neteyam hugged you harder, holding you tightly as your tears began to fall in earnest against his shoulder, your body shaking harshly in quiet, desperate sobs. His tail curled protectively around your legs, anchoring you tightly against him, his lips pressing fiercely to your hair, your temple, your cheek, murmuring endlessly, breathlessly into your skin.

“You’re here—I have you—thank you Eywa, thank you—I thought I lost you—I thought—” he stammered softly, desperately, hardly breathing between his words.

You only clung harder, breath hitching violently against his shoulder, unable yet to speak, simply holding onto him like you would never let go.

Minutes passed—time lost meaning as he held you, heart slowly steadying with every breath of your scent, every quiet sob that left your lips. You felt impossibly solid, impossibly real, impossibly here. Yet confusion lingered stubbornly beneath his relief:

How? How were you breathing? How were you standing without a mask, without choking on the toxic air?

But those answers would wait.

Right now, he could think of nothing but holding you, feeling your heartbeat against his chest, knowing without a doubt that Eywa had finally, mercifully, returned you to him.

He pulled back just enough to cup your cheeks gently in his large hands, tilting your tear-streaked face upward, his gaze searching yours desperately, hungrily, as though afraid you'd vanish again if he looked away.

“You’re here,” he whispered brokenly, eyes brimming with tears he couldn’t hold back. “You’re really here.”

You nodded, tears still falling silently, pressing your cheek against his palm, eyes filled with quiet, profound relief. “Neteyam,” you finally whispered, voice raw, breaking gently over his name. “You came.”

“Of course I came,” he breathed shakily and tender. “Always.”

He pulled you back into him, unable to bear even a heartbeat’s separation, holding you again, rocking gently as fresh tears spilled silently down his cheeks, joining yours in quiet relief. You were alive. You were safe. You were home—in his arms. And nothing else mattered.

In the next chapter we will get to know what Dr. Veyren did.

Part 26: (Soon)

[themoooooonhauntsyou]

Heyo! This is my first post, something I wasn't originally planning on doing on this app since I don't know how.

@magicalbunbun has a post where reader is some kind of security or night guard that works at the museum and I just so happened to write a little story snippet of something along those lines with reader being a shifter. (Someone who goes to another reality while sleeping.)

I have my own weird experience with shifting that I used for it but I am an amateur so don't expect much.

---

—No loving arms to hold him—

Y/N woke with a jolt, blinking hard against the soft blue light flooding the room. His head throbbed faintly as he sat up, groggy and disoriented. The hum of electronics filled the air, along with the faint scent of instant coffee and disinfectant. Around him, the glow of multiple monitors flickered across his face. The room was compact and dim, cluttered with mugs, paperwork, and a rack of security tapes that looked like they hadn’t been touched since 2005.

He looked down.

Navy-blue security uniform. Black boots. A utility belt with a flashlight, keys, and radio clipped to it. His name printed in block letters on a laminated ID badge hanging from his chest.

Y/N L/N – Night Security – National Art Gallery, London.

His heart stuttered. Then he let out a slow, slightly amused exhale.

“Ah...Another one of these, huh?”

He recognized the feeling—the surreal vividness, the unshakable realism of everything. He’d experienced it before. Lucid shifting dreams where he slipped into different worlds, usually fictional and rarely reality. And this one? The details were crisp. The textures were right. He could feel the cool vinyl of the chair beneath him. Hear the slight crackle of static from the monitors. Smell the stale air.

Definitely a dream. Just a very..very intense one.

He stood up and stretched, then began poking around the room for any hints. Papers. Sticky notes. Wall calendars. Anything to tell him where exactly he'd ended up this time. But nothing was obvious. Nothing screamed sci-fi or fantasy or apocalypse. It all just looked normal.

“Alright,” he mumbled. “So I’m a rent-a-cop in a museum in dreamland. Love that for me.”

Finally, he turned to the monitors.

Most showed quiet corridors filled with statues and ancient artifacts. One camera showed the Egyptian wing—dark and eerie even with the emergency lighting on. Everything seemed still…

Then something moved.

He leaned closer.

A dark shape lurched across one of the exhibits. Low to the ground. Four-legged. At first glance, it looked like a dog. Maybe a big stray? But the longer Y/N watched, the more wrong it looked.

Its limbs were too long and bony, the fur patchy and uneven. Its back was hunched like it had broken something important and never healed. The head was elongated, almost like a weird dog or what a jackal would look like if it crawled out of someone’s nightmares. Most likely his own nightmares.

“…What the hell is thaat??” Y/N whispered, grimacing.

He squinted, trying to make out the grainy figure, but the cameras weren’t doing him any favors. No audio, of course, and the video feed looked like it was recorded on a potato. The weird dog thing paced in a jerky, unnatural rhythm—then suddenly whipped its head to the side.

Another shape darted into frame—a man. Hard to see who it was, but he seemed terrified. He stumbled and nearly knocked over a vase then ran for the opposite end of the exhibit. The jackal didn’t hesitate to follow. It howled—at least, Y/N assumed it howled; he couldn’t hear a damn thing—and gave chase, disappearing offscreen like something from a found-footage horror film he would watch in YouTube.

Y/N stared at the blank feed in stunned silence.

“What the actual fuck is going on?”

He had no idea who the guy was—grainy cameras didn’t help with identification—but clearly, whoever he was, he’d just gotten himself into a bad situation. Y/N glanced toward the radio on the desk, briefly considered picking it up and then sighed as he remembered he has free will so it wasn't his problem at the moment. At least, not until it turned into a nightmare. He hates when that happens.

Despite his better judgment and thoughts on his own safety, he found his hand drifting toward the flashlight clipped at his waist. The museum was dark, and while this was 'just a dream', he still didn’t fancy running into something that looked like it could chew through bone.

He flicked on the flashlight, watching the beam slice through the shadows.

Something about the light—how steady and bright it was—made him feel safer. Even if it was all illusion. Even if he had no idea what he was doing or where he was going.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself once again, opening the door. “Let’s go explore. Quietly. Carefully. And away from whatever Scooby-Doo-from-hell situation that was.”

The hallway was silent. Cold.

He stepped out, flashlight leading the way, and started down the corridor, each footstep echoing off marble floors. Statues lined the walls, frozen and watchful. He told himself over and over again: it’s just a dream. But the pounding of his heart, the sweat on his palms, and the way the shadows seemed to move when he wasn’t looking?

They felt real.

Y/N wandered deeper into the museum’s labyrinthine halls, his flashlight sweeping over glass displays and ancient stone. As much as he told himself it was a dream, he couldn’t help the little flutter of awe that stirred in his chest.

His dreams had never felt this real before.

The cold floor beneath his boots. The subtle echo of his steps bouncing off the marble and glass. The faint scent of aged parchment and polished wood in the air. He could even feel the weight of the flashlight in his hand like it belonged there.

Usually, things blurred around the edges in shift-dreams. Places melted into one another. Faces were fuzzy.

But here? Every little detail—the sand-worn edges of a sarcophagus, the faded reds and golds of ceremonial masks, even the old security camera silently panning above him—was painfully crisp.

He found himself drawn to a particular hallway, one lined with relics of the sun god Ra. The golden iconography gleamed faintly under the emergency lights, casting long, eerily beautiful shadows across the floor. Panels on the wall depicted Ra in his falcon-headed form, soaring across the sky on a solar barque, eternally battling darkness.

Y/N slowed, intrigued. “Damn…This is really detailed. Shout-out to my subconscious.”

He moved to read a placard near an elaborately carved bust of Ra when he accidentally bumped into a display stand behind him. The sudden clunk startled him enough that he flinched—and in doing so, fumbled his flashlight.

“oh sHIT!”

It clattered to the floor, skidding a short distance before coming to a stop—right next to a carved statue’s feet. The battery popped loose, rolling off and disappearing under a nearby bench.

Groaning, Y/N crouched down, reaching beneath the bench. “In a dream and still dropping things like a dumbass.”

He retrieved the battery, snapped it back into place, and flicked the flashlight on again.

The light shot directly into the face of a bust of Ra, casting harsh shadows across its falcon features.

Y/N jumped back with a startled yelp.

“GAH—!”

He stood there for a moment, breathing hard, then let out a laugh. “Oh, okay. Wow. Yeah. You got me. That’s fair.”

“Oh my god—I mean—Ra! Jeez—dude!” He exhaled, heart hammering. “Okay, okay. That was cheap but fair. You got me...almost kicked you to the next exhibit though.”

After a moment, he looked up at the statue again.

“Sorry for bumping into you, though. Didn’t mean to disrespect your…big bird energy. Whatever you call it.”

Heart still racing, he slowly stepped back toward the statue and gave it a sheepish glance.

“Sorry for bumping into you, my guy. Didn’t mean to be disrespectful. You look good though. Very, uh…regal.”

He kept walking, chuckling softly to himself. “God, I’m apologizing to a statue. What’s next—having tea with Anubis?”

The museum remained quiet—almost too quiet. But the more Y/N explored, the more his curiosity outweighed his nerves. Everything about the dream was stunning. Immersive. Uncanny.

Eventually, he found himself near a tiled corridor with a faded "RESTROOMS" sign overhead. A sense of mundane comfort filled him—bathrooms meant normalcy, even in a dream.

But as he stepped toward the door, something odd happened.

The flashlight in his hand began to grow strangely warm.

He paused, frowning down at it. The plastic casing was heating up—not burning, but definitely warmer than it should’ve been. The beam of light, too, was brighter now. Whiter. As if it had been infused with something more than just electricity.

“…Okay. That’s not normal.” Y/N muttered, narrowing his eyes.

He stopped in front of the restroom, staring down at the flashlight as it buzzed faintly in his palm, confused and a little unsettled.

Y/N continued staring at his flashlight, now pulsing softly with unnatural warmth, when the sound of frantic footsteps shattered the quiet.

He snapped his head up.

A blur of motion flew past him.

A man—disheveled, panicked, and unmistakably British—bolted around the corner and ran straight into the men’s bathroom.

“…Was that—?”

Before Y/N could finish the thought, another shape skidded into view behind the man. Long limbs. Twisted joints. That grotesque, jackal-dog-thing from the camera feed.

It snarled.

Y/N didn’t think—he ran straight into the bathroom after the man, just as the jackal lunged.

He slammed the door shut and threw all his weight against it.

BANG.

The jackal hit the door like a truck.

Y/N swore, bracing his feet as the entire frame buckled under the impact. The creature scratched and clawed, snarling low and guttural on the other side, as if it was peeling the metal like a tin can.

“Jesus Christ,” Y/N hissed, straining. “That thing is gonna rip this door off the hinges!”

Inside the bathroom, the other man was panicking—pacing, gasping, muttering to himself. His voice trembled, caught between terror and confusion.

“No no no—this isn't real, this isn’t happening, I can’t—”

Y/N glanced back—and froze.

He recognized that voice.

That curly hair. That accent. That panicked mumbling.

Steven Grant.

Y/N blinked, groaning internally as the full realization hit him like a truck. This isn’t just some dream. This is one of his favorite shows, Moon Knight.

Out of all the worlds he could’ve shifted into—this had to be the one with ancient gods, scary jackal monsters, and a guy with multiple personalities fighting for control through mirrors.

Don’t get him wrong—he loved the show. But watching it and living it? Two very different things. One had popcorn. The other had razor claws trying to gut him through a bathroom door.

Steven gripped his hair as he talked to marc, backing away. “I’m not letting you take over again! I can’t—please!”

Y/N turned his attention back to the door as it rattled violently in its frame. The jackal was still trying to force its way in. He reached down, fumbling with the manual lock on the door, trying to buy them any more time.

Click!

The lock slid into place.

A beat of silence—then CRASH.

A twisted claw slammed through the metal panel, swiping blindly.

One of the talons caught Y/N’s arm.

He cried out as the pain flared sharp and white-hot, stumbling backward as the jackal retracted its claw. Blood trickled down his arm in quick, hot lines, staining his sleeve.

He hit the tile floor hard, breathing raggedly.

Y/N let out a sharp, involuntary yelp as the jackal’s claw tore through the metal and raked across his arm. The impact knocked him back, and he crashed to the cold bathroom floor with a grunt.

The pain hit immediately—hot, searing, real. A white flash pulsed behind his eyes as he clutched his arm.

“Ah—damn it—!”

The wound stung, worse than anything he’d ever felt in a dream before. His fingers pressed down on the torn fabric of his uniform sleeve, now dark and sticky with blood. The pain throbbed in his muscles, sharp and insistent.

Y/N sat up slowly, back against the wall, his breath catching in his throat. He glanced down at his hand—and froze.

His palm was slick with blood. His own blood.

It stained his fingertips, his sleeve, the floor.

His heart skipped a beat.

That’s not supposed to happen.

Pain was one thing in his dreams that didn't last long, he usually woke up seconds after getting hurt in any sort of way—but seeing his own blood, thick and warm, spilling in a place that was supposed to be a dream? That was something else entirely.

A look of horror settled on his face as the realization sank in, slow and cold: this wasn’t like the other shifting dreams. Not even close.

This was real.

Too real.

Across the room, Steven spun around at the sound, eyes wide in shock.

“You’re hurt—? Oh God—!”

His gaze dropped to the blood trailing down Y/N’s forearm, and panic set in fast. “Bloody hell, you’re bleeding—you’re really—” He staggered back a step, bumping into the sinks, hands trembling.

Behind him, the mirror caught his reflection—except it wasn’t mirroring him at all.

“Steven.”

The voice was calm. Controlled. Not Steven, but Marc.

Steven’s reflection leaned forward in the glass, though Steven himself hadn’t moved. Marc’s expression was hard, focused.

“If you don’t let me take control right now, we're going to die, Steven.”

Steven’s eyes flicked to the mirror, frantic. “No—I can’t—”

Marc cut him off, voice sharp. “He'll die too.”

Steven glanced over at Y/N again, who was sitting slumped against the wall, pale, his free hand gripping the flashlight like a lifeline. Blood smeared the floor beside him.

“A civilian, Steven,” Marc pressed. “You okay with letting someone die because you were too scared?”

Steven’s breath caught. His eyes filled with conflict, horror, guilt. “But I—he’s not supposed to be here—I don’t even know who he is—”

“That doesn’t matter. He’s here. And you can’t protect him like this.”

Steven swallowed hard, hands clenched at his sides. He looked from Y/N—bleeding, confused, still bracing for another strike—to the mirror, where Marc stared back at him with grim determination.

“…You’ll stop it?” he whispered.

“I swear.”

A tense silence stretched, broken only by the snarls and pounding claws against the nearly broken door.

Finally, Steven gave a tiny, trembling nod.

“...Alright, Just don’t let him die.”

---

Hope ya liked my garbage 😍

[verybadatwriting]

Important duck PSA!!!

they are cute

NO BREAD

AHHH I am in love with ur writing u r so talented and I love how inclusive u r. I was wondering if u could do zuko and reader feeding turtle ducks and it being summer or spring and just softness and cute vibes. Maybe fixing his hair for him or having him lay in ur lap under a cherry blossom tree? I love u king u r truly ugh 💖💖 I accidentally unfollowed u and panicked when I didn’t see ur acc in my following I sprinted to refollow u.

ACSVDBSGS IMAGINE ENJOYING ANYTHING I DO

Zuko spent a lot of time under the tree in the courtyard gardens, right at the edge of the turtle duck pond. You knew that it reminded him of his mother, and so often, whenever you couldn’t find him anywhere else, you knew that you could find him there.

He’d had a lot on his mind recently. Even with Aang’s help, undoing a century’s worth of aggressive imperialization and colonization was hard work, especially when so many noble families in the Fire Nation didn’t quite agree with him.

He vowed not to let it stop him. Fire Lord Zuko was going to be different than his forefathers, he was going to bring about true change and peace. But still, the constant opposition he felt from within his own cabinet, subtle or hidden as it may have been, wore him down.

So he went back to the tree, by the pond, where his mother taught him how to be good.

You loved to join him there.

He would hear you coming, always. You supposed that even with bare feet picking softly through grass, you made more noise than he needed to give yourself away. He’d spent time on the run, after all, and needed to be able to hear an ambush. It didn’t matter, as you never meant to surprise him.

“Afternoon,” you said in greeting, the green of the grasses contrasting starkly with his dark red robes, drawing the eye to him. Not like yours wasn’t already.

“Hey,” he said back, not turning to look but instead tearing another small hunk of bread and tossing it to the turtle ducks, the little splash creating ripples a few inches from the nearest duck. It was close enough that they wouldn’t need to approach the edge of the pond to feed, but not too close, so that they wouldn’t get hit.

“You know,” you began, settling down beside him, “bread isn’t actually very good for turtle ducks.” He paused his motions and looked at you, a lightly puzzled expression on his face.

“Mhm,” you continued, “the bread isn’t that nutritional, and it swells up with water in their stomach, making them think they’re fuller than they are.” You watched as guilt took over his face, and you smiled, scooting closer to lean against his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” you said, reaching over to take the bread from his hand and popping it into your mouth, holding it to free up your hand and replace into his hand a bowl you had filled with apple skin, then pulling the bread from your mouth and taking a bite out of it. “I brought the peelings from the kitchens. They’re making a pie for dessert tonight, and the shavings are good for turtle ducks to eat.” He fixed you with a smile, tossed a shaving or two to the ducks, and leaned in to kiss you gently.

“You’re so thoughtful,” he said, letting an additional peel slip from his fingers and flutter down toward the pond. It hit the water more gracefully than the bread pieces had, and the turtle ducks were forced to tear it with little pecks before they could quite eat it. You leaned your head on Zuko’s shoulder and watched the ducklings swim around their mother, a fond smile on your face. They seemed about half grown, having lost some of the yellow feathers they’d had in the spring. Still, the two of them followed their mother, and as you fed yourself another piece of the bread you admired the way their shells glinted away the sunlight.

You readjusted your head and heard a thin inhale of Zuko’s breath, making you freeze.

“What’s the matter?” You asked, straightening up slowly.

“I think something came loose in my topknot, it just pulled-“ he leaned forward, bringing his hands up to his head, but you pulled your knees closer to you to allow you to readjust.

“I’ll fix it,” you said, batting away his hands playfully and sitting down behind him, a contented smile on your face. You loved his hair- you loved the flyaways that fell around his face, and the sophistication that he had when it was up. He looked like a leader, and that was attractive, to you.

First, you slowly removed the Fire Lord’s headpiece- fingers almost tingling. You could touch Zuko, that was one thing, but it felt different to touch the headpiece itself, worn by the Fire Lords of the past. You set it down in your lap, feeling that to be the most respectful thing to do. You did the same with the ring that encircled his top knot, the gentle pull that let his hair fall accompanying a small exhale, as whatever was tugging at Zuko’s scalp was released. You took a second to let yours hands fall and enjoy him with his hair down- not that you didn’t see it at the end of every day, but you still enjoyed this moment all the same.

You started collecting his hair from his forehead, backwards, into what would be his topknot again, trying to do it as gently as you could, and encircling it with your thumb and first finger. Then came the curl, bringing his hair up and down again, and you pinched the knot closed to slip the ring of the headpiece over it. You smiled, seeing as it held its shape, and settled the metal flame back into the ring, satisfied that he hadn’t complained of a single tug. You were getting better at doing his hair.

You sat back, and released your knees, sitting instead with your legs crossed instead of tucked underneath you. You looked up, through the leaves of the tree, the last few blossom petals hanging on or fluttering down with each gust of wind. It was beautiful here- so much more beautiful now that you could be sure that the resident leader wasn’t someone whose cruelty contrasted the flora.

In fact, as he leaned back first onto his hands and then onto his elbows to rest his head against your thigh, you noted that his beauty almost rivaled that of the gardens.

“Enjoying yourself?” You asked with a calm smile, sweeping away the short strands of hair that didn’t quite make it into his topknot.

“Yes,” he said, his voice quiet but sure. You could stay here all day, your fingers gently sweeping across his face, making his eyes close. You loved when he got this relaxed, and you’d noticed, recently, that he only ever got this relaxed with you.

“I like when you sit with me, here,” he admitted, unprompted, and you responded for a moment with only silence, and a tenderness with which you traced the figures of his face. He had lovely high cheekbones, and a gorgeous, defined jawline.

“Me too,” you said, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips again.

It was cheesy, you had to admit, as he brought one hand up to the back of your head while you hunched over just to kiss him. But cheesiness was okay- even though he was a sovereign and a diplomat, the two of you were nineteen. Still only teenagers. You needed to have the clumsiness that accompanied youth, whenever you could get it.

-🦌 Roe

the bread thing is true for real ducks!! don’t feed them bread! halfed grapes (so they don’t choke), carrot skins, apple skins, and lettuce are very good alternatives for feeding ducks!! they love grapes!!

[roriaa]

When Sun and Moon meet MASTERLIST ⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Zuko x Fem!WaterBender!Reader Enemies to Lovers

As one of the Princesses of the Northern Water tribe, you were blessed with a gift by the moon. However you were permitted to be allowed to use the gift at all costs. From many hidden waterbending usages, the aftermath of the avatar visiting the Northern Tribe had led to your beginning journey, hiding yourself as a water bender as a princess from the Northern water tribe

All warnings are displayed in each individual chapter

Season 1 - Water

☾ Prologue ☾ Chapter 1 - Welcome Avatar ☾ Chapter 2 - Encountering the Sun ☾ Chapter 3 - Dangerous Gale ☾ Chapter 4 - New Sacrifices

Season 2 - Earth

҉ Chapter 5 - Trainer Sakari ҉ Chapter 6 - Hidden in Ba Sing Se ҉ Chapter 7 - Refreshing Tea ҉ Chapter 8 - Failed ҉ Chapter 9 - Tied with the Gaang ҉ Chapter 10 - Fraud of the Warriors ҉ Chapter 11 - Trust to Betrayal

Season 3 - Fire

𖤓 Chapter 12 - Ship Attack 𖤓 Chapter 13 - First steps in the Fire Nation 𖤓 Chapter 14 - Sparky-Sparky Boom Man!! 𖤓 Chapter 15 - The Invasion 𖤓 Ch 16 𖤓 Ch 17 𖤓 Ch 18 𖤓 Ch 19 𖤓 Ch 20 𖤓 Ch 21

Season 4 - Sun

☪︎ Ch ???

Aftermath - Moon

⋆ Ch ???

POSTS ONCE EVERY WEEK (MOSTLY) None of the pictures are made by me This is based off of the avatar the last airbender world s1 s2 s3 potentially will add the legend of Korra sneaks Please do not copy, translate or repost my writing. Reblogging is acceptable My work is ONLY on tumblr, ao3, and wattpad. If anywhere else please inform me. Ao3 link Wattpad link

[floatyflowers]

Dark Platonic! Fire Nation Royal Family x Non-bender Reader Part Two

Part 1

With Ozai

You never imagined returning back to the fire nation, it felt so foreign for you.

But your father was there to receive you with open arms.

Ozai felt pure happiness to have you back home, his favorite child is back under his care.

Yet, you grew up into a young lady who came to realize that Ozai is not kind, but rather manipulative and evil.

Yet like any girl, you missed your father, being in his presence gave you a secure feeling.

You missed how he spoils you, how you get whatever you want with just one signal.

However you don't miss his creepy possessive attitude.

"I will burn the whole world down for you, my sweet child"

With Azula

Azula lied to her father about Zuko killing the avatar all just to have you return home.

Once you are back home, she is overjoyed and tries to spend as much as time with you.

However, when you go to spend vacation on Ember Island, she makes sure to terrorize anyone who comes to speak to you.

When she felt that you and Ty Lee became friends, she made sure to jab at her friend with harsh words.

Sometimes Azula take the overprotective big sister role to an extreme where she burned a guy just for flirting with you.

Zuko helped her with that.

"How dare you say that filth to my dear sister, now you shall rot in the ashes of your despair!"

With Zuko

He regrets returning home when he sees how much time you spend with Azula and Ozai.

One of the main reason why he wished to capture the avatar was so he could prove himself worthy of protecting you.

But now, Zuko feels envious and jealous.

Even during your journey to find the avatar, Zuko couldn't bear the thought of anyone close to you.

His hatred for the Gaang increased when saw Sokka try to become close with you.

Now he came to realize that Sokka is a lesser threat than his father and sister.

The shock that came is when he found that you ran away.

You ran away to help the avatar and his friend.

Which made Zuko take the decision to support you, by helping himself and his uncle to escape.

Despite Ozai and Azula who threatened to murder the avatar and his team just to have you back.

"Don't worry, (Y/n), I will always be by your side and support you"

[m1ckeyb3rry]

── THE GLASS PRINCESS // MASTERLIST

Series Synopsis: You wake up in a strange room with no memories, broken glass at your bedside, and a prince named Zuko as your only chance at figuring out who you really are.

AO3 Link

Current Word Count: 105.5k

Status: Ongoing

Pairing: Zuko x Reader

Content Warnings: complicated relationships (strangers to friends to lovers to enemies to strangers to lovers to enemies to lovers), amnesia, alternate universe, lots of secrets and lying and mystery

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