#lol no but as an aircraft mechanic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

starvine · 1 year

Text

☾ ⋆* kiss it better

pairing: neteyam sully x fem!omaticaya reader

genre: fluff, angst

synopsis: all you wanted to do was serve your people. however, when you get injured, your mission is cut short. neteyam insists upon patching you up and decides to explain his concerns for your well-being and future together.

warnings: battle stuff, guns, blood, battle injuries, medical jargon, stitches, minor swearing (?), allusions to mating/sex ig, aged-up neteyam

word count: 7.9k

notes: IT’S HERE! i’m very excited to have started writing again, and although i’m very casual about when i write, i hope to be somewhat consistent lol. enjoy this for now, i have more planned for the future! i hope you all enjoy, pls reblog/comment/etc if you feel so inclined <33

The air was tense today, thick with disciplined focus as you keep your ears alert for any incoming airships. Reeking of smoke and burning metal, a scent that is foreign and unpleasant to your nose, you remain aware of everything and anything. Gray clouds billowing and a pungent smell that cling to the back of your throat like a hand with a vice grip—nothing was natural.

Tilting your forehead forward, you hope your visor, decorated with teeth and interwoven pieces, will shield your eyes from the wind. You hold your bow tightly, the wood smooth against your fingers as you use your other hand to guide your ikran swiftly through the air.

“Calm, calm,” you soothe her, tapping your fingers along her strong neck.

You’re anxious today. Not because of the imminent arrival of the Sky People, their ships ready to fire metal bullets at you at any second; you’ve dealt with that many times before. No, the reason you’re nervous is because of Neteyam.

Today is Neteyam’s first day participating in the raid—well, his first raid on the ground with his father’s permission—rather than being a part of the aerial surveillance team. You tried to insist that you should accompany him, but, due to his wishes, you remained in the air beside his mother.

“Do you see anything yet?” Neytiri’s voice asks over the intercom.

Bringing your fingers to your throat to press the responding button, you reply, “Nothing yet.”

“I’m going to fly down to help gather some of the gear. You stay here,” she orders, raising her bow to signal that she and her ikran were descending.

“Let us know if you spot any bogeys. We’ve got some heavy-duty gear and need as much time as possible,” Jake informs you over the intercom.

“Roger that, sir,” you say, steering your ikran closer to where the enemy would most likely be approaching.

Ears twitching back and forth, you attempt to pick up the whir of an aircraft amongst the orders commanded, the creaks and minor explosions occurring from the Meg-Lev train your people have intercepted, and the wind blowing past you. You hope that maybe you could track a scent, sniffing the air a couple of times to no avail. It’s all smoke and metal. The skies were calm, except for your ikran’s screeching, however, they couldn’t be for long. There was no way those demons would allow your people to escape that easily.

“Hey,” Neteyam breathes over the intercom, a slight huff of your name. You could hear the smile on his face. “How’re things looking up there?”

“What happened to using my code name?” you question, peering over your ikran in an attempt to find him along the ground. “I’ll tell you if I see anything. I know how to do my job, you know.”

“Just double checking,”

You scoff, guiding your ikran to the right. “Maybe you should focus on gathering all of the gear instead,”

“Oh, really? Maybe you should-”

Suddenly, your ears flex forward, focused on the faint whirring of something mechanical and man-made; something that was not naturally occurring within your world.

“Airships spotted! Everyone, move!” you shout over the intercom. You yelp out into the open air, pumping your bow in tandem with the three shouts you release to alert your fellow brothers and sisters in battle.

Just as people begin clambering for their ikrans and direhorses, the two Scorpions start firing. The relentless pop of military guns fills your ears, causing your tail to swish frantically and your ears to perk forward.

Using a high pitch, you signal for your ikran to dive, swooping up and under the two fighter pilots.

“Do not engage! I repeat, do not engage! I want minimal casualties today,” Jake commands over the intercom, the background full of shouts and grunts.

“Jake, I’ve got to take out these two airships. They’re already taking down ikrans,” you spoke, peering up at the airships as you stealthily soar below.

Just then, Neteyam responds.

“No! Listen to my father, do not engage. I can lead the people to safety,”

“There won’t be any people to lead if I don’t take these airships down.”

Neteyam groans your name in warning, the sound of shouts heard from all around. “Would you listen for once?”

Jake barks your name, frustrated and frantic. “Get out of there! Get back to the High Camp!” he orders. You begin mapping out the plan of your attack. “That is a direct order!”

“I’m sorry, Jake,” you respond, ignoring all that comes after.

Your ikran shoots straight up into the air, coming close to the tail-end of the Scorpion gunship. You arch over the top of the gunship, upside down and looping over to the front side. The sun high in the sky and its beams creating a glare on the glass makes it difficult for you to spot the pilot. Upon finding his location, you draw the string of your bow taught, ready to fire.

“Incoming! Enemy on-”

You shriek upon release. The arrow flies straight through the glass, nailing your target right in the chest.

The gunship begins to tilt forward, preparing for its decline. As a hunter and warrior, it was your duty to pay respects to the creatures you killed in order to sustain the way of life. Kneeling over them, declaring your thanks, and wishing for their safe return to rest amongst the Great Mother was a sacred practice. However, as the gunship crashed and blew up in flames, hot and angry, you felt no thanks or remorse. They did not deserve to rest peacefully, and they didn’t even deserve to die on the Great Mother’s sacred soil. Their spirits deserved to walk alone, isolated and cold from the warm glow of the afterlife.

“You skxawng! What the hell are you doing?” Neteyam screams.

Looking around, you see the green back of his ikran, its rider perched on top with no visible concerns except for the fury etched on his face.

“I got this! It’s just one more,” you insist, positioning an arrow on your bow, eyeing the last gunship.

“May the Great Mother help you when I knock-” and with that, he’s easily ignored.

The wind whips past you, high and soft, almost like a whisper from Eywa that she too felt the tensions of battle. You would do anything to soothe her pain. She could not endure the suffering of this war much longer.

Tightening your grip on your ikran, her blues providing a stark contrast to the grayness of the military equipment, you attack from the rear yet again. Guns firing, you duck, placing yourself as flat as you can get against her back. However, once you approach the opening of the ship, where all of the massive guns were placed, you sit up, firing quickly.

The scream and weak grunt you heard confirms that it was a successful hit. Loading your bow with another arrow, you soar underneath the aircraft, looping around until you have the high ground. Securing your aim, your fingers release the string until the arrow flies straight into one of the Scorpion's propellers. A small explosion soon turned into a large one, the ship dipping to its left and falling from its dominant space in the sky to the dirt.

However, so were you.

You must’ve underestimated how close you were to the ship, your eagerness to protect your people and the Great Mother clouded your judgment.

The sound and burst of light, as well as the force, must’ve spooked your companion as she, too, seemed to have lost her place in the sky. She tumbles towards the ground, shrieks and roars released into the open air. Jaw clenched, you tried to convince her to gain control to no avail.

“Come on!” you shout, knuckles turning a pale blue with the tight grip you had.

As you neared the ground, panic began to set in. Your ears lay flat against your head in an attempt to not become overwhelmed by the wind, you tried to think quickly.

You could stay with your ikran, but you would both get injured; you could also disconnect from her and leap from the group, in hopes of only injuring yourself.

Deciding on the latter, you had one plea for the Great Mother:

“Please don’t let Neteyam kill me.”

Disconnecting your kuru, you leap the rest of the way to the ground, the shock of the force of your fall causing you to fall instead of landing perfectly on your feet. The ship crashes a couple of yards in front of you, the force of the blast propelling you forward.

Rolling and skidding along the dirt, pieces of gravel and discarded glass and metal tear at your skin. Red begins to bubble up along the surface, the violent opposite of your blue skin.

Tumbling down a hill, you lose your grip on your bow, the wood being left behind in your trail. The burning sensation of your flesh being scraped away keeps you alert, blindly clutching at anything to break your fall.

Eventually, you slow to a stop, landing on your stomach with a mouthful of dirt. Spitting and coughing up the soil, you take a minute to catch your breath. With a slight raise of your head, you look at the ship as the flames crackle and cause a film of sweat to break out on your skin. That hunk of metal was truly ugly against the backdrop of the forest.

You begin to slowly sit up, a sharp pain coming from your side. A cut, not deep enough to need stitches, slowly oozes blood down your left rib, crimson staining the skin. It looks swollen, screaming to be disinfected immediately. Reaching behind you to check for any more severe wounds, you arch away from your nimble fingers just upon a light graze. The heat from the explosion must’ve irritated the skin, causing soreness and slight bubbling in some places.

Minor scrapes along your knees and elbows from what you could see and feel, makes you thank Eywa for her protection and the benign wounds. Stumbling onto your feet, you catch sight of something unnatural.

A small piece of metal protrudes from the side of your thigh, embedded into the flesh. Staring at the shrapnel, you’re reminded that your world doesn’t just belong to you anymore. Even if the Sky People were to disappear and return back to their planet, the scientists would remain here. Their clunky gear and massive structures would continue to reside amongst the nature of Pandora.

Something about that notion makes your heart sink.

You lightly touch the silvery metal, trying to gauge how deep the foreign object must be. It felt stiff and unwilling to relent to your touch, confirming that it was not something you could brush off. Taking a step forward, a broad, aching pain festers throughout your leg. It hurt less if you put less pressure on the limb, however, that would be hard to do on your journey back to the High Camp.

Picking up your bow from the ground, arrows broken and scattered around, you slowly mount your ikran, muttering expletives to yourself at the pain that dwelled throughout your entire body.

Neteyam was surely going to kill you.

Upon your arrival, after an arduous flight back home, you slowly slid off your companion onto the uneven rock. Blood oozed out from around the metal, the object having dug deeper into the surface the more you moved. With one hand clutching your rib and another trying to steady the object, you hoped to stumble into a healing area before you were noticed by a Sully.

Turns out, you’re not as stealthy as you thought.

“She’s back! She’s back!” a high-pitched cheer sounded, a small girl bouncing towards you. Tuk’s big grin slowly faded into a look of concern and worry as she sized up your injuries. “Mom! Kiri! She’s hurt!”

The younger girl prances over to you, lifting your arms and examining your body from front to back. You feel the small girl brush against your tail, which was agitatedly flicking back and forth.

With a sigh of your name, you see Tuk’s mother and elder sister approach you, war paint still decorating Neytiri’s face in vibrant greens and yellows. She gasps upon spotting the dirt, blood, and bruising that has blossomed across your skin, tucking a stray hair behind your ear as her eyes fill with worry.

“We must get her to grandmother,” Kiri announces to her mother, clutching your upper arm as softly as she could without hurting you.

“There’s no need. I can do it myself,” you try to assure her, taking a fumbling limp forward.

“There is a piece of metal sticking out of your leg.”

You glance down, almost as if you hadn’t noticed it at all before. It was a futile attempt, especially as you used your fingers to brace the object, preventing it from moving too much. “There is?”

“Damn, bro!” Lo’ak exclaims, waltzing up beside you and trying his best to not laugh at your given failure. “Looks like someone got their ass handed to them by some Sky People,”

Hissing at him, you weakly push at his chest to show him that you weren’t interested in his jokes right now.

“Lo’ak!” his mother scolds, hitting him upside the head.

“What?! What I’d do?!”

Then, the two people you desperately wanted to avoid came into view: Neteyam and his father. Jake had a stern, militant look on his face—a facade that seemed to follow him everywhere he went. Neteyam’s face was set into a deep frown, a look that was a delicate cross between his mother’s and father’s disappointed faces.

“Well, would you look at the time? Looks like I better start tending to-” you attempt to walk away, only to be kept in place by Neytiri’s firm hand on your shoulder. It’s not like you’d be able to escape them as quickly or swiftly as you would typically be able to. You–apparently–had a piece of metal sticking out of your leg.

“What the hell were you thinking?!” Jake scolds still dressed head to toe in his fusion of Omaticaya and Sky military gear. “Disobeying direct orders? That isn’t something I expected from you.”

Casting your eyes downwards, you hope your flat ears and limp tail would get you out of this scolding quicker than it would’ve if he was scolding Neteyam or Lo’ak. Typically, avoiding his gaze would show that you felt regret—which, in this case, you didn’t really—and he’d let you move on. However, it’s hard to keep your eyes fixed on the ground when someone gets into your line of view.

Neteyam crouches down, face coming into view as if he’s trying to catch your fake performance. Instead, he places two hands, worn and calloused from all of the years of fighting and defending his people, onto your cheeks. He tilts your face upwards so he can view you from his natural height, allowing him to view each scrape and bruise in proper lighting. His lips twitch into a grimace, thumbs grazing over a small cut that must be on your cheek because, although there’s a faint sting, there’s no leaking blood.

Now, everyone knew about you and Neteyam. It’s not like it was kept a secret. Wherever you went, he followed; whatever he was doing, you were right there beside him. In the years to come, you would become his mate and that was an unspoken decision between you and him. Well, there was also an unspoken rule between Neteyam and the rest of the boys his age to not even glance at you, or else he’d have their tails. However, no matter how much people smiled softly whenever you’d exchange fond glances or spare looks when you two ran off alone, it wasn’t like you publicly displayed much physical affection. Nonetheless in front of his parents.

He unloops your visor from behind your ears, handing it to his brother without his gaze leaving your face. As soon as his hands leave you, they return just as quickly. His fingers smooth over your face, confirming that you’re breathing and here in front of him—something he’s very grateful for. Your stupidity—not so much.

“You’re such a skxawng,” he chides, tilting your face towards his.

“Yeah, yeah whatever. It’s not like I’m the one who took down—not one—but two whole- ow!” you yelp, stumbling forward towards the young man.

Tuk looks at you guiltily, one finger outstretched as if she was prodding at something.

Kiri steps forward, pushing Tuktirey out of the way in order to re-examine your back.

“We should take her to grandmother,” she insists, “now.”

You roll your eyes, trying to continue with your act of not being nearly as injured as you appear, but the longer you stand, the more it becomes not true. As the adrenaline wears off, the soreness and incessant throbbing grow throughout your muscles and bones. Your rib and leg are still oozing blood, warm and tacky against your skin. Neteyam loops an arm around you, careful to avoid the blisters and welts that decorate various places on your back.

His free hand reaches for the hand that hangs limply over his shoulder, intertwining your fingers and giving them a light squeeze. “It’ll all be okay,”

“Yeah, I know. Just ‘cause I’m walking a bit funny doesn’t mean I’m dying,”

You could say that then, but you sure as hell can’t say that now.

If there was one thing about Mo’at, it was that she couldn’t care less if her remedies stung like a bitch as long as they cured you thoroughly. So now, as she smears a paste along your back—the sensation as bitter and frigid as the Northernmost part of any mountain—that bites at your skin, you kind of wish you were dead. Or at least knocked out.

This isn’t even the worst of it.

Once the stinging fades more into a relaxing cool, Mo’at instructs you to lean backward so she can assess your torso. The older woman crouches next to you, hands hovering over the wound as if Eywa was sending her a direct message on the best way to heal you. Neteyam sits on the other side of you, clutching your hand with a grip that seems more like it’s to reassure him than you, his other hand brushing your hair away from your face.

Neytiri stays close to her mother, observing or advising what she believes to be the next course of action—just as a tsakarem should do. Kiri stays by your feet, grinding and mashing up various plants and syrups that could be used to aid with disinfecting your wounds. Lo’ak and his father stay near the door, ready to leave if someone else should need assistance with anything to do with the war effort. However, as everyone stays well within their place, performing their necessary task, Tuk couldn’t seem to sit still.

“Is she going to need stitches?” Tuk asks, peering over her eldest brother.

Neteyam removes his hand from your hair, slightly readjusting the younger’s weight so she doesn’t put too much pressure on him, in turn, putting pressure on you.

The Tsahìk doesn’t look up from your wound, eyes brightening as if Eywa had finally delivered her guidance to the woman. “No, she will just need to rest. I would advise very minimal movement for at least seven days,” the woman says, being handed a bowl of yellowish sap.

“Seven days? But I need to be out there, it’s my duty to fight,” you plead, growing restless and inching upwards.

Neteyam pushes you back down, delicate but firm fingers pressing against your sternum. “Down,” he murmurs.

“It is not my fault you did not listen to orders,” the older woman retorts, using a brush-like leaf to observe the consistency of the paste before lowering it toward your injury.

“Yeah, well it’s not my fault that I just happened to save- oh, Great Mother! Holy sh-” you yelp upon Mo’at contact.

Neteyam presses a hand over your mouth, sending you a stern glare. “Not in front of the Tsahìk,” he hushes, palm warm against your lips.

You groan against his hand, face twisting and back arching in pain. Unlike the gel thinly spread across your back, there was no relief from this paste. Mo’at continued to slather it all across your skin, insisting that the more you move, the more it will hurt. You squeeze Neteyam’s hand, feeling the bones shift with how strong your grip is. If you’re hurting him, you can’t tell. The look of pain on his face seems to be linked to his feelings about your injuries, your pain. Always the doting lover.

Once Mo’at wraps the injury, using both Na’vi and human medical wraps, she places a palm over the injury, thanking the Great Mother. Then, she looks at your leg.

Your leg was held down by Kiri throughout the excursion, as she didn’t want the shrapnel to lodge itself deeper into the skin and muscle. At the base of your leg, a piece of twine is firmly wrapped around the skin to lightly restrict blood flow. The skin was not pinched, nor did you lose feeling in your leg as you would’ve if the twine was used as a makeshift tourniquet, however, your thigh still resisted against the band.

You haven’t cried yet, however, just with her eyes boring into your leg you feel as if you’re about to sob.

“Please don’t take it out. I don’t- I don’t want to have to do this anymore,” you begin to blubber, looking at Neteyam as you try to sit up.

“Shh, shh,” he placates, stroking your cheek. “It’s okay. I’m here, I promise I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“I’ve been hurting this whole time,” you groan, “what the hell have you been-”

Then, the last two people you want to see walk into the room: Norm and Max.

“I grabbed them as soon as I heard,” says Spider, following close behind.

“No. No, no, no. Get the hell away from me,” you say, instantly shooting up and trying your best to scoot away, even as Kiri still holds down your leg.

Neteyam says your name so sweetly, so full of fondness that a chill is sent up your spine—a chill that isn’t caused by the cooling medicine or a shock of pain. “He’s here to help.”

“I don’t want him here,” you spit, speaking Na’vi to the boy sitting beside you.

“We have no choice,” he reasons, his voice dropping an octave. “They will be much quicker with their equipment than with ours. I promise that my grandmother will heal and treat you, but we need their help to make sure that there’s no extra damage that is beyond what the eye can see.”

You shake your head, refusing to listen to him and averting your gaze.

His lithe fingers reach for your chin, turning you back towards him. There he goes again; always making you feel like the blushing fool, especially in front of his family.

“I will not let them hurt you.”

What a fucking liar.

Taking a team of three women plus Norm to hold your leg down, Max begins to lower his tweezers toward the piece of metal. With the first tug, you begin screaming. The pressure and the resistance between Max’s tweezers and the artificial shard against your tender skin and muscle caused your free leg to kick, hands tightening at your sides and clinging onto Neteyam. The fact that your whole body was tense, each muscle spasming, probably didn’t help what was already a difficult procedure.

“Damn, she’s strong,” Norm comments, adding more pressure in an attempt to hold your leg down. “Spider, help us out.”

You continue to sob, reaching for Neteyam to claw at his shoulder. If you’re hurting him or breaking skin, he doesn’t tell you. Instead, he cradles you as you cry against his leg. Ripping your hand from his, you squeeze his leg, nose pressed against his thigh to hide your face. There’s no guarantee that half of the clan hasn’t heard you by now, nor that a few people have poked their heads in to see who the hell was screaming so damn loud. You were well known. There’s no way anybody wouldn’t recognize that it was you who was being surgically tortured. However, if you could save some dignity by hiding yourself against Neteyam, you would do just that.

“I’m never letting them near my body again,” you weep, gripping tight to the blue skin beneath you.

Neteyam rakes his fingers through your hair, hands petting any inch of skin that has brought you comfort over the years. He knows you like the back of his hands. Playing with your hair puts you to sleep, rubbing his thumb across your cheek makes you keen, following the slope of your nose makes you smile, and touching your ear makes you quiet. Using this knowledge, Neteyam’s hands roam to any expanse of skin that he can reach. He must look mad, with busy fingers and frantic eyes, but he can’t help himself. His chest hurts when he sees you like this, and if he needs to kill someone to make you feel better, he’d gladly do that.

“It’s almost out. We’re almost done,” he assures you in a soft tone, getting close to your ear.

Your ears, which have been laying flat and folding over periodically finally perk up and away from your skull—a sense of relief. It’s quick-lived before they fall back against your hair, but he sees it as a small win.

“Can you dress it for me?” you plea, voice breaking painfully.

Who is he to deny you?

“All done!” Max cheers, placing the flat piece of shrapnel into an emesis basin.

The clang of the metal against metal causes you to abruptly sit up. Neteyam’s hand is on your shoulder, but for the first time, it’s not to push you back down. He lets you take your time viewing the sizable gash in your leg, an injury that without a doubt needs extra aid. You whimper at the sight, not necessarily at the pain, but because you knew what this means: you would be under strict supervision at the battle scene. You couldn’t be trusted to be alone, especially as you were a great friend of the Sully’s and Neteyam’s prospective mate.

Falling back into Neteyam, the cries you let out are softer but still cause your body to shake. Neteyam rubs his cheek against yours when you hide your face in his neck, tears causing the blue skin to become slick and tacky. He readjusts your top which has moved around during all of your painful squirming, protecting your modesty. The beads land softly against your shoulder, arms holding you snuggly against him. He tucks your hair behind your ear, giving him a view of the ear that is decorated with various pieces of Omaticaya jewelry. An orange bead, delicately dangling from your lobe, was a gift from him.

“It makes me feel wiser during battle,” you told him once before sending an arrow straight through the eye of a fish that swam around in the pond.

He touches it lightly, reminding you that everything is alright.

“No! She’s going to need stitches!” Tuk whimpers, a frown deeply set on her face. Even through your crying, Neteyam catches the faintest hint of a smile.

Mo’at begins to drip water over the wound, clearing away any blood that may have leaked down your leg despite the twine restricting your blood flow.

It’s silent besides Max, Norm, and Jake’s mumbling outside of the tent as Mo’at preps a needle and thread. Kiri, Neytiri, and Spider have since released your leg, observing you and the Tsahìk. Just as Mo’at blesses the needle and thread, Neteyam speaks up.

“I’ll do it.”

Mo’at looks at her grandson, her gaze strong but understanding. The white bone needle stays pinched between her two fingers, amber eyes unwavering.

“Neteyam, let your grandmother-“

“I said I’ll do it.” he hushes, lip curling in order to hide a scowl.

His mother looks at her own, a non-verbal communication occurring between their stares. Eventually, Neytiri acquiesces, standing up and taking a step away from you.

Mo’at hands him the needle, placing a worn but beautiful hand on your leg.

“Return here tomorrow so I can check on the wound,” she orders. You nod, eyes still teary before the older woman stands with her daughter, ready to move on to the other warriors who need their assistance.

Once his mother and grandmother leave, Neteyam grows restless.

“Everyone out, please.”

Kiri scoffs at him, still seated by your feet. “You can‘t be serious,”

“Out! Get out!” he hisses, fangs bared at his sister and the human boy beside her. “You have done nothing!”

“I wouldn’t call holding down her leg for nothing. I’ll have bruises for the next week,” Spider dismisses, standing up with Lo’ak, who is already headed towards the exit.

“Out!” he shouts one final time, his siblings leaving as his tail flicks back and forth with irritation.

It isn’t until they’re gone, that Neteyam leaves your right side, scrambling and pouncing over you in order to come in contact with your left leg.

The tent is silent as he begins his work. The process doesn’t hurt much, a gentle prick or pinch here and there; you’re not sure whether it’s because your nerves are shot and can’t detect pain anymore or because Neteyam is good at his work. It could be both. Before you know it, the wound is closed and a row of sutures stares back at you in a familiar Na’vi sewing pattern. The skin is even, nothing too uncomfortable, and although there’s bruising, it appears to be that everything will be okay.

You reach out to touch the stitches with a shaky hand, only to be slapped away. “Uh uh, don’t touch,” he tuts, eyes focused and mouth slightly ajar in concentration.

He grabs under your knee, bending it at the joint in order to prop it up so he can place a bandage over the sutures.

“To protect them,” he informs you, wrapping the gauze around your thigh.

He’s very quiet throughout, a reaction you were not expecting. Neteyam has always been logical, methodical; he never steps out of line or does something rash unless it’s for the means of protecting those he loves. Always quick to action, he’s usually the first to help and the first to reprimand someone (usually Lo’ak) for their stupidity. That would be the typical reaction. However, now he looked almost forlorn.

Once he’s done, he fully stands for the first time since you entered the tent. He begins to rummage through his grandmother’s remedies that sit in wooden jars and crystal vials, concoctions she’s mastered after years and years of being the Tsahìk. After selecting a small wooden bowl filled with clear oil, he grabs another bowl of water and a rag and sits down in front of you. Dabbing the rag in the bowl of water, he lifts the dripping cloth toward your face.

“What are you doing?”

He looks at you, eyes narrowing briefly before they return to their normal, large position.

“Your face is filthy.”

He gently holds your chin, tilting it up towards him so he can begin wiping your face. His hold is steady but his eyes look nerved, almost as if he has too much on his mind to bear. His breathing matches yours, and he dodges your gaze although his entire being crowds your line of sight. There’s no way for him to avoid you, really.

“What’s wrong?” you ask as he dips the rag and wrings out all of the water, approaching your face yet again.

“Nothing is wrong,” he replies curtly, his ears twitching quickly before returning to their previous state—a telltale sign that he’s lying.

“Oh, so you’re just going to pretend like I know nothing about you now?” you try to joke, smile falling when you notice how he doesn’t reciprocate your humor. “Talk to me,” you urge, grabbing his wrist so he can’t try to distract you or himself by caring for your wounds.

He sighs, looking away before he slowly looks back at you. Holding your gaze, eyes squinting and lips pursing slightly. Neteyam looks at you like you’re supposed to understand him–and you do–but it’s as if he’s expecting you to know what’s bothering him. However, the problem is that you don’t. Once he comes to that realization, he sighs, still looking into your eyes.

“I’m upset with you.”

And there it is. Your tail swishes uneasily, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by Neteyam, but he can’t bring himself to quell his emotions for your sake. He almost lost you.

“Why are you upset with me?”

He shrugs, almost as if he’s embarrassed or too shy to explain his feelings. Being the eldest son and the next heir, Neteyam often felt as if he had to hide his own inhibitions or concerns in order to be a good son, a good brother, a good leader. When it was just the two of you, you would often have to do a little extra prying in order to get him to reveal what was truly occupying that pretty little head of his. Even once he admitted it, it was even harder to get him to elaborate.

“Just drop it. You should be healing,” he dismisses, trying to distract himself by wiping your face again.

Pushing his wrist away with your fingers, you take the cloth and throw it into the bowl of water. Holding his hands on your lap, his tail swishing timidly behind him, you make him look at you by following his gaze. “I can talk and heal. The two aren’t mutually exclusive,”

“I wish they were,” he mutters, a braid swinging in front of his face.

“Hey,” you tuck the strand behind his ear. He leans towards your touch, almost as if he craves it, no matter how much he wishes he didn’t. “This isn’t how this works. You need to talk to me.”

“You’ve already been in enough pain today. I don’t want to cause anymore,”

“Quit the bullshit. I’m better now. I’ll feel worse if you don’t tell me.”

“That’s not the way it works.”

“Um, yes, it is.”

“It’s not.”

“How would you know? I can already feel my leg hurting ten times more now that you won’t communicate with me.”

“You’re not in any more pain because of me,” he scoffs, trying to escape your grasp.

“Ow, my leg! My leg!” you feign a whimper. He cracks a small smile, your cheeks spreading as smoothly as the war paint that still dons his face.

Neteyam looks so beautiful when he smiles. It’s a special smile, reserved only for you; it drips of sticky honey, so sugary that sometimes you feel as if you could fall ill from its adoration. He’s soft as he looks at you, coy and all things delightful. The hands that once tried to flee your own, now reach for your wrists, petting the skin in a pattern that speaks a million languages at once. And yet, somehow, not one of those languages can truly resemble how much he loves you. He loves you a lot.

“Please,” you whisper, “tell me what’s wrong?”

He sighs, assenting to your pleas. With one final sweep over your face, he finally indulges you.

“I’m not happy that you took down those ships.”

“Well, duh,” you scoff, rolling your eyes playfully. “I know that, but I want to know why.”

“You weren’t careful.”

This causes a richer scoff to form at the back of your throat, a sound that makes his ears press against his braids. “I thought we agreed to take down the enemy at any and all costs?”

“I know, and we did—we did make that agreement. I just,” he groans, trying to find the right words. Neteyam never had the right words when it came to expressing himself. “I was scared.”

“Okay,” you reply softly, shuffling closer to him. “Why were you scared?”

“Why wouldn’t I be scared?” he answers, tone mimicking the same quiet tone you used. “You’re mine—my girl, and- and they almost took what’s mine away from me.”

“God, I just got so scared that something bad would happen to you. And when I saw you hurt, how badly you were in pain, and I couldn’t do anything about it I just…” his eyes are frantic, searching all across the hut for something—anything—to provide him an answer. His hands start to tremor in your hold. “I felt helpless and so stupid. I should’ve been tougher on you, or—I don’t know—had Lo’ak or even Kiri stay with you so you didn’t have to be alone. And it’s not that I don’t think you’re incapable or anything—” he excuses, causing you to smile lightly, “—but I don’t trust them. I don‘t trust them with you.”

Smile turning watery, you reach for his shoulder, soon deciding to hold his face instead. He leans into your palm yet again, seeking the warmth that can only emanate from your hands alone. It’s the only warmth that can rid him of any chill.

Neteyam kisses your palm, soon rolling your hand over in his, placing his lips on each knuckle as if it provides him comfort. And it does. It provides him more comfort than he could care to admit. Placing your head in the crook where his neck and shoulder meet, you place a kiss on his collarbone, lowering your lips to place another on his pec, right above his heart. The young man draws in a deep breath, holding you close to him, savoring each second, each touch. Skin against skin; heart against heart.

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” you apologize, your soft lips grazing his blue skin. He loves the feeling. “I just wanted to protect our people.”

“I know, I know,” he murmurs against your forehead, a light kiss placed there. “I’m sorry for yelling.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t even yell,” you forgive, cheeks pillowing against his chest. When you lift yourself away from him, he tilts his head in confusion at your smirk. “Also, we both know Kiri would be awful on the battlefield.”

He chuckles, brushing his nose against yours. “True. She can’t even shoot an arrow in a straight line.”

“Exactly! I don’t know what you were thinking when you said that. Lo’ak? Sure, whatever. But Kiri?”

“I know, I know,” he agrees, voice growing softer as if his quietness will preserve this moment between you.

His eyes become velvet—smooth and warm—the longer he looks at you and it instantly makes you melt. His lips look saccharine, a buttery spread of a light smile decorating his face which is just the absolute cherry on top. If Eywa hadn’t taken you during battle, she sure as hell was going to take you now with how crazy Neteyam makes your heartbeat.

He tucks your hair behind your ear, his smile growing more and more with each expanse of skin he navigates. Dancing his fingertips over your jaw and across your cheekbones, he eventually cups your cheek and you just watch. If you breathe too hard, if you shift your weight, this moment could crumble. He’s looked at you like this many times before but it’s usually in the dark, under the bioluminescent blue and purple lights of the forest, where all you can see are the shadows of his face and the warmth of his tongue and the breeze of his breath. Now, you can see everything in pure, golden hues. The way his mouth relaxes, the way his eyes absorb all they can with each quick glance, the way the corner of his mouth tugs upwards unconsciously. You love it.

“May I kiss you?” he asks quietly, thumb swiping along a stripe on your cheek.

“Why do you ask now? You’ve done it many times before,” you wonder, eyes transfixed on the way his own mouth moves with each word he’s about to form.

He chuckles, a sweet, melodic sound, “Just wanted to make sure you’re still down even when the sun is out.”

This earns a loud laugh from you, a laugh that makes Neteyam’s heart squeeze and his lower stomach burn. He loves you. One day, he’ll say it.

Once your giggles have fizzled into a content sigh, you bite your lip lightly before you release it and it returns to its normal place. Neteyam follows the movement.

“I’m always down if it’s you.”

“Yeah?” he smiles, breathy and lips plush.

“Yeah.”

With that, he seals the deal. His kiss is soft, and you don’t miss the way his eyes dip to your mouth right before the initial contact. It makes you feel hot all over. He’s gentle—he always is at first—and he’s so, so kind. He pulls away briefly, returning not long after as if he needs to be connected to you or else he would suffer. In a way, he would.

Neteyam is sweet. He still tastes like the fruit you shared before the raid and also a little bit like blood—whether it’s from him or you, you don’t care; you’ll devour it desperately just like you want him to devour you. He traces that stripe on your cheek again, his new best friend, and follows it down the nape of your neck. His other hand trails up from the small of your back to the divot in between your shoulder blades. He uses his hand to pull you closer, seeking any contact from you that he can get.

Your hands are a barrier, shielding your chest from his, and in a way, it upsets you but also pleases you. Nobody knows what would happen if you could feel his chest pressed against yours at this moment—not even you know. Your hands glide across his chest, lighting scraping and molding against the fine muscle that hides under his smooth skin. When a lithe finger accidentally catches against a nipple, his mouth drops open pliantly, his tongue searching for yours.

“‘S scared they took my girl away from me,” he murmurs against your lips, his own following after yours after each word.

“Never,” you promise, kissing him firmly, one hand gripping his shoulder to ground yourself. All of this kissing was beginning to make you feel as if you could float away. “I’m yours. They could never take me or have me. You know that,”

“Mhm,” he hums, voice lilting towards the end as he presses his mouth to yours. It makes your back arch forward, seeking more of his skin, his touch.

His hands are growing desperate now. Neteyam knows he has to be gentle, avoiding the damaged skin on your back and remaining weary of the injuries on your rib and leg, but he so badly just wants to pull you close to him and never let go. He wants to hold you, to feel you, to be with you in every single way he can imagine so passionately. But he can’t. He will have to wait for another time.

You, on the other hand, may roam freely. Your hands travel down his chest, exploring the taught skin of his stomach. It seems he subconsciously flexes underneath your touch, something that is rather enticing. Reaching the plusher skin of his lower stomach, although there still isn’t much give, you trace the muscle gingerly, bordering right above the hem of his loincloth. The delicate touch of your fingers causes him to lightly moan into your mouth, a sound you gladly drink down just to feel its warmth in your stomach.

Neteyam pulls away suddenly, a loss you’re greatly upset about until he relocates his lips under your ear, traveling down your neck. He hums against the skin, tongue swiping against it as if he’s trying to taste as much of you as he can, as much as he’s allowed.

“You can’t touch me like that,” he says, using a hand to bring both of yours back toward his chest. You cradle his head instead, tracing a finger along his ear. It twitches.

“Why not?” you question, voice airy. Neteyam nearly preens at the sound, tail wild. “You seem to like it.”

“I do like it,” he insists, “I love it, even.”

“Then why can’t I touch you there?”

He places a wet, fervent kiss against the crook of your neck. Your breath hitches in your throat, a moan threatening to escape past your lips.

“Because,” another kiss, “You are not promised to me yet.”

“I just told you that I’m yours,” you reminded him.

“Yes,” he nods, trailing his kisses back toward your jaw. “However, you’re still not mine.”

Oh.

“I could be yours. All you have to do is ask,” you say as if it’s not something he already knows. You hold his head in place, halting his journey upwards so you can whisper in his ear: “Ask me, Neteyam.”

His tail swishes excitedly, something that makes you smile. Great Mother, you could eat him up.

“No,” he responds, pulling away and facing you head-on. He has a lovesick smile on his face, a grin that nobody could wipe off as long as you’re around. “I want to do it right.”

“Yeah?” you counter. “How would you do it?”

“Well,” he hums, kissing your lips. “First, I’d get all of your favorite foods. All of those fruits you like, season everything all nice,” he begins to slowly kiss your cheeks, “and get it all ready just for you to eat.”

“What else?”

“Then,” his kisses travel towards your ear, “Once you’re full and comfortable, we’ll go for a walk.” He bites your ear lobe and you press yourself against him. “We’ll go to our favorite spots: we’ll look at those flowers you like, go to the river, maybe swim a little. I like the way your hair looks while wet, you look so pretty,” he sighs. “You listening?”

“Yes,” you nod. “Go on.”

“Then I’d bring you to our sacred tree, just so Eywa can see us and I can see you under her light. I want to see you when I ask you. I want to see you if you smile or cry or decide that I’m not the one, I don’t care, I just want to see you,” he smiles, no longer kissing you but nudging your nose with his.

“And if you say yes—Great Mother, I hope you say yes—I promise, I’ll treat you so well. I’ll hold you the way you ask to be held, kiss you in all of the places I already know you love to be kissed, and learn all of the new places I can’t reach yet too. I want to feel you, and see the way you react. I want you to feel me, too. I want you to see me, and I want to see you,” he whispers, voicing each wish.

You nod, slowly and then desperately. “I want to see you, too,” you promise. He smiles that big, toothy smile. “Tell me when you’ll ask me? I can’t wait for much longer. I need you.”

His eyelids grow heavy, skin heating underneath your palm. “I need you, too,” he gasps, leaning forward to kiss you again. “It’ll be soon, just want you to heal for now.”

“Yeah?” you smile. “Soon?”

“Yeah,” he smiles. “Soon.”

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