thenightcallsme

[thenightcallsme]

— only love can break your heart

Prince Regent Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!Reader

Summary: Aemond does not know the limits of his own obsession.

Rating: Explicit +18 (Aemond completely obsessive and possessive, targcest, incest, sex)

Proceed with caution.

SENSITIVE TOPICS BELOW THE CUT!

English is not my first language.

There is something inside you that is repulsed by Aemond. He can see it in your face. And it's not just now, or since you were taken prisoner by the Greens. No no. Aemond always felt like you avoided him, in one way or another. He felt it in his body, as if the thing was crawling under his skin. He always hated the feeling.

From early childhood, he heard rumors about women and their gifts of seduction – cautionary tales of an ethereal and unattainable beauty, but a mask-like beauty, beneath which a terrible evil lurks. Beware of women, some guards said amid whispered conversations in the corridors during waking hours, they will deceive you with their big eyes and soft smiles, they will lead you and your ideals to ruin.

And Aemond, young and foolish at heart, agreed vehemently, too frightened at the possibility of being dragged into moral decline and tarnishing his family's good name. He rejected women like a veritable plague. He scowled, growled, rolled his eyes (while he still had both) and ignored the latent curiosity inside him.

But no matter how hard he tried, Aemond was never truly able to resist your truly beautiful face.

His bastard niece.

“It’s you, again,” you say, looking at him with blank eyes. The sheer stoicism and disdain of it all burns him. "- What do you want?"

He blinks, trying to maintain his indifferent expression - even as there's silent disappointment pooling in his gut, like hot, viscous bile. There’s a desire that’s almost childish within him to see you smile, something you’ve never fully done in his presence. He caught glimpses of this from time to time, of course, as you grew up together in the Red Keep; glimpses of white teeth and dimples in your cheeks - but he never had the whole thing.

Sometimes, though, Aemond lies awake at night and tracks it down from memory. Shaking his fingertips in the cool breeze coming through his window, he pieces together little snippets of you - the curve of your cupid's bow, the gentle stretching of your lips as you smiled at some joke your brothers had told; even if it could hardly be considered worthy of any funny, in Aemond's opinion. But if he closes the one functional eye he has left tight enough, if he retreats far enough into his own mind, there are times when he can swear he's actually touching it. Touching your beautiful, delicate, happy face.

“What do you think I’m doing here, bastard?” He says simply, turning to face you, the insult sounding heavy and sour on his tongue, obviously causing more damage to him than it does to you. In the dim light of your cell, you seem almost like a shadow. Something dark and ghostly, barely human. Maybe he really broke you, took a lot of things from you - took a lot of people from you.

He has no regrets, however. It's war, bloody and painful, but he had (has) a goal. A goal that is bigger than himself. Bigger than the family that rebelled against the throne. Bigger than you. Even if nothing really seems to be bigger than you, taking up any and all remaining space in his mind.

You make a sound that might have been a dismissive snort, but might also have been a sad sigh, and Aemond resigns himself to your silence once again. You never say much when he comes here and he assumes it's because there isn't much to say. There was never much to be said between the two of you, no matter how much Aemond silently prayed otherwise.

He moves to cup your face in his hands and you curl up a little against the wall but don't pull away, already getting used to his subtle touches after the last few weeks of captivity. He runs his thumbs over your jaw, cheeks, eyelids, mouth and you make a low, high-pitched sound that makes him sad, round, bright eyes refusing to leave his.

"Why do you keep doing this?" You ask against his fingers, your voice low and whispery, and he can tell you're scared. Even when you're trying really hard to hide it. “— You never ask me anything. You just...come here and touch me like this. I don't understand."

He hears his teeth grind together before he realizes he's doing it. A tension sets in his jaw and all he can think of is ways to kiss you, fuck you, because talking to you never seemed like an option, but now you're talking. You're talking and he doesn't know how to react.

“And since when do I owe you explanations, bastard? Do you understand that you are my prisoner here and are in no position to question me?” He speaks, choosing the path of hate as always, but the words are tense, tense even to his own ears.

Your faces are so close now, nose to nose, and Aemond has to lean over you because you're so much smaller, so much more delicate, so much less sinful. The flesh of your cheeks is paper-thin beneath his fingertips, and however much he unbearably wants to break something, he must remember to be careful, to treat you with care, otherwise you will break it - you will turn to dust among his fingers and an acidic story in his memory. A small part of him wants you to do this; may you break and crumble, all so that he can put you back together, piece by piece, speck of dust by speck of dust. Transform you into something more willing, more open, something more capable of seeing him more freely.

You snort a little, as if you're having fun (in a way that has much less to do with anything actually funny and more with some kind of acidic, tragic humor), but you don't say anything. Though your eyes betray you as a small sliver of light bursts through the bars of the tiny window at the top of the cell, reflecting off your face like tiny specks of sparkling dust. It's almost poetic how splendidly sad you look in that sight; one part of your face half shrouded in shadows and the other side softly illuminated.

He feels you trembling slightly beneath him, as if you were terribly scared. He goes ahead and holds your hands, wraps your fingers around his, but it doesn't seem to stop the tremors. The cell is silent, cold and dark and Aemond (not for the first time) feels that urgent urge to tear down the walls with his bare hands until you are in the open air – somewhere where you can actually breathe and smile; smile your white dimpled smile.

But he wouldn't do that. He would never do that, in fact. Because he could never betray his family, especially now that he finally holds the position of Prince Regent. He would never be able to turn back on his cause and on everything he had already achieved, on all those he had already lost - not even for you. That doesn't make your prison any easier for him to deal with, however. You were not made for bars, for solitude and for the coldness of dungeons. You were made for adoration, for the purest devotion and for warmth. You were made for Aemond.

He watched you as the sky fell around you, glowing fractals of a god lesser than his creation; the universe is nothing more than collateral damage in your wake. He watched as the masses fell before you, new converts to your towering beauty. Jealousy tore him apart like pestilent rats upon the dead, the despair of his adoration like a living beast within his breast. You were his holy terror back then. It still is now. You were the beginning, the middle, it would certainly be his horrible end. You are like God to Aemond.

But were you his?

Difficultly.

You weren't his when you were innocent children, without the traumas of the legitimacy of a reign. You certainly weren't his now, when the world had collapsed on both of you in a bloody mess of fire and ash.

But Aemond just couldn't give up adoring you.

He had never progressed beyond gentle touches to your face and hair. And that's why it's a surprise, even for him, when suddenly his mouth is coming down to yours. He's even more surprised that you don't stop him - silencing the nagging voice inside him that tells him that you're just inert, an empty shell, a malleable, uncaring little doll. He doesn't want you indifferent and empty. Your indifference could very well wound him beyond what any dagger could.

His touch is gentle at first, even hesitant in his movements. Gently, slowly, he opens you up and tastes you from the inside out, tasting the subtle flavor of the peaches he had ordered the guards to bring you after dinner - your favorite fruit. It doesn't last long, however. There is an explosion that occurs far away within him, in some distant facet of his heart, that makes him want you so badly. Your soft (yet shamefully inert) lips are against his and he's immediately electrified by it.

His hands begin to roam your body, cupping your curves and rubbing them. You are the perfect antithesis, so cold by your inner nature, yet so warm to the touch; so sizzling in your words and looks. He wants to unveil you completely, peel off your skin, go through muscle and bone, and look deep into your heart to see if him has any place there. Even if it's a very small one. He wants to paint you red with his own adoration, leaving no room for anything else.

He hates the feeling that he can't do this and so Aemond decides that kissing you harder will be enough - has to be enough.

It won't be enough.

He knows this is an obsession. It was an obsession from the moment you smiled your dimpled smile at others (but never at him) with big, soft eyes, warm words, and unwavering determination. There could be no other explanation for the way he wanted and still wants you so intensely and greedily.

As his mouth massages yours, he brushes his fingers against the fabric of your pants. The material is a little worn but feels good on the fingertips, expensive fabric intended for royalty. You pant into his lips and shake a little more and he can taste something salty and wet on his lips, sliding between both of your mouths. Your tears.

Aemond pulls away, only to have your small hands clasp around the lapels of his leather outfit. He is surprised as he looks at your face; your eyebrows furrowed in something very close to pain, your eyes closed, your cheeks flushed and wet with tears, your lips swollen. You are beautiful, beautiful as you always were. But it feels better now and Aemond doesn't know exactly why.

"D-don't stop. Please -" you start softly, so softly that if he hadn't been so close, he wouldn't have heard. "I don't want to be alone...I want to feel - I need to feel something...don't leave me alone, I don't want to be alone, please -" your once indifference expression is no longer there and you are asking, begging, for that. The way your little hands curl deep into the leather of his shirt, pulling Aemond to you.

He finds himself trapped in the ambiguity of his own feelings. Anger and humiliation burn in his chest with the knowledge (the certainty) that you are only asking this - for him - out of desperation, out of fear of going crazy if you remain in this lonely, damp cell. But there's also exultation coursing through his veins at the fact that you want this - want him - regardless of all reasons. Aemond thinks those guards were right after all. The control that a woman is capable of exerting over a man is dangerous.

Aemond growls a curse - equally excited and humiliated - nuzzling his nose into your neck, smelling the vanilla essence on your skin from your recent shower. One of the amenities he made sure you had, even in your condition as a war prisoner.

He picks you up in his arms with ease, finding some amusement in the surprised sound you make before wrapping your arms around his neck for stability. Aemond makes quick work of discarding your pants down your legs once you're lying on the small bed in your cell, rubbing warm circles into your damp pussy.

How beautiful you are. Sacred and yet profane.

His fingers are calloused things, deeply cut and scarred as a result of a war that seems to last a lifetime and Aemond hears you sob as they slide inside you. The rhythm he sets is steady, strong and allows him to fit perfectly inside you. With every movement, your cries, low, squeaky things, sound a little louder and Aemond feels an embarrassing pride in how good he can make you feel. No other man could know what, where and when to touch you like he does, take the soft curves of your body and create a beautiful song in their place.

He will learn to play your body like an experienced musician and you will always sing the song he expects. He knows so.

Hot, heavy kisses pepper your soft flesh – your chest, your neck, your wet cheeks – whatever he can reach. He can't help the way his dark, twisted heart pulses to life as the situation unfolds, the way your moans seem sincere. Turning a blind eye, it's so easy for him to pretend you're a normal couple making love on a normal night. There may still be a difference in blood, in shades of eyes and hair, but together in this land of make-believe – you are happy. You are normal.

“Come on…please, I can’t -”

Your voice shatters in his ears, like an ornate stained glass window that is beautiful but extraordinarily faint. Normal couples don't feel so broken in each other's arms, Aemond realizes. You look like you're in pain, and he can't tell if it's in a good way. The pleasure is clear on your delicate features, but the way you're squeezing your eyes shut, your eyebrows drawn together in pain, is also an obvious reminder of how hard you're trying to disassociate yourself from the situation - trying to deny who's touching you and whether focus only on the sensation.

"Why are you doing this?" he breathes softly into your ear. His cock is incredibly hard in his pants and you whimper when he rubs it against your thighs. “— You...you beg me as if I hadn’t already given you everything I have. If I asked you what you want, you wouldn't even know, would you, bastard? Because you just like to take, all, everything.”

He knows it's unfair to take his anger out on you, and yet Aemond can't help himself. His fingers don't relent, hammering in and out of you, and you gasp, but the sound is both pleasurable and excruciatingly painful.

"That's...not true," you answer him, tenderly sucking your bottom lip into your mouth. He smiles cruelly.

"It is not?"

“No,” you begin in a low, tense whisper, fingers trembling as they’re snaking down to stroke his bulging cock, smoothing the outline that’s straining the fabric of his pants. He hisses when you release him from his confinement, thumb sliding over his thick, wet tip. "No, it's not. You're the one who took everything from me, uncle. What more could you want? You already have everything from me. Everything."

There is a surprising amount of truth in your words, a truth that eats away at Aemond like those terrible, incurable parasites that eat you alive from the inside. And yet, it's all a lie.

"No, not everything..." He mutters darkly. He doesn't have what he really wants from you - true feelings and dimpled smiles. However, he may still have something. Something grand and infinitely precious. Something that no one else had but him, that no one else would have but him. "But I'll take what I can, niece. Absolutely everything I can."

It wouldn't happen the way he had imagined, but Aemond wasn't picky on that point. What he really wanted was for the two of you to have your first time together on top of a mountain of dead bodies, in a crowd of dead bodies. Above all your suitors. Your admirers. Even above your dead relatives. He didn't want to scare you, no. He just wanted to show how much he cares. How completely whipped he was by you, how serious he was about you.

But it's perfectly fine as it is, too. After all, you should feel comfortable with how much he loves you. He wants you to give in. Let him take care of you.

And he would do it.

He would really take care of you.

A sweet care after attacking you a little. Tender kisses pressed to your chapped lips as you nurses your broken voice from shouting his name as if he were your god and not the other way around. And your tears. Your tears, tears cried for him, tears cried for him.

If anyone saw you like this, he would have to personally dismember them. With bare hands. His niece, his bastard, his girl, his precious and beautiful song of tragedy. For him, for himself to claim, for himself to maintain, for himself to control.

His own puppet. His own little doll.

He is the only one who could truly protect you in this chaotic world. The only one you needed. The only one who would always be there, in all circumstances.

Oh. When would this obsession end?

It made him drip in ecstasy. This scary dream he created for himself. A beautiful nightmare awaiting the entrance of his bastard. He would value you if it meant he could have you any way every day of the week - at the table, in bed, on the Iron Throne, in public. Between the legs, breasts or thighs. From the front, from the back. He's on top, you're on top. With your legs pressed against your breasts so you were forced to take him all, your pussy locked with his cum.

Damn, that's hot. A fucking mating press.

God. God. God, how he wants you.

He is painfully hard.

He suffers for you, he longs for you. His body groans in agony.

He wants you.

He needs you.

And he would be damned if anyone else had you before him.

If anyone has you after him.

Of course, the most indignant part of Aemond feels that you are entirely responsible for his suffering. If not you, who else could have caused this pain inside him? Who else could have reduced him to this pile of humiliation and desire?

The sound of an obscene crunch suddenly distracts him and Aemond realizes that the sound has completely filled the air. All that can be seen, heard, smelled and breathed is sex and he revels in it. His fingers are sliding in so easily and yet your grip is so firm and he could die in your hands right now, the happiest man in the Seven Kingdoms.

He's not sure how or when it happened, but your shirt is spread above your breasts. Oh, your breasts, soft and gently rounded, only draw him closer to you. He wraps his lips around your nipples, sucking them gently. Aemond's mouth twitches with increasing vehemence and he traces your nipple with his tongue, holding them tight and firm with his hand. Your chest heaves with every movement he makes, wetness dripping down between your thighs and he decides he must taste more of you. That he deserves to taste more of you. He thinks he might be dangerously selfish after all. But all Targaryens are. Especially you - always taking everything he has without even considering giving anything in return.

No more.

"Oh!" He hears you breathe, a few disjointed sounds falling freely from your lips as he squats on the floor, pulls your body to the edge of the bed, spreads your legs and licks you. Aemond's hands, large and determined, keep you from clenching as he delights in your intense heat. He hums contently at the taste of you on his tongue - bright, sweet in a way that almost whispers about summer - and you tense and squirm instead of sighing, pushing yourself against his mouth and threading your fingers into his silver hair. He licks you like you were his last meal; slow, deliberate movements of his tongue even as a dull pain begins to spread across his jaw — but Aemond can't imagine anything better than that. And then he slides his fingers back inside you, dragging his mouth up and pressing a wet kiss to your clit, swirling his tongue over it again and again and again, until your legs are shaking and your voice be hoarse and your thighs are slippery with sweat.

"Break for me, sweet bastard. Come on, give me some compensation..." He whispers encouragement (threat?) into the dripping heat of your pussy, immediately returning to tormenting your clit.

You moan and bang your head in defiance, but cum with tears on your tightly closed eyelashes. Aemond ignores them, plunging his tongue deep inside you and fucking your spasming walls. The skin of your thighs brushes against his cheeks, your legs giving way under the pressure of your orgasm. Your voice is hoarse, almost anguished, as you cry out for him. Aemond stays silent, removing his tongue and placing wide, open-mouthed kisses on your thighs, legs, knees, everything.

“Turn around, princess” he murmurs vehemently against your thighs and you obey, for the first time in your life probably, “— Bend over a little for me.”

You are quick with instructions, climbing onto the bed and showing off your round ass cheeks. Aemond almost laughs at the fervor of it all, at the clumsiness of your limbs. You have a subtle girlish charm that intoxicates his senses like the finest wine. It's intoxicatingly invigorating against the harshness of your usual behavior.

He pulls the leather shirt off his shoulders, leaving the expanse of pale skin and muscles visible, he lowers his pants to his knees, positioning himself against your slick folds, lightly sliding against them with the entire length of his cock wet with pre cum. Up and down and up and down and up and down - it's a punishing action, one that has you grinding your hips against him with little abandon, even while you're sobbing softly into the pillow. It's a contradiction, Aemond knows and understands your unnerving duality. You hate him, probably (you always have), but you also need him now - even if just his body. Your body cries out for physical contact, for human interaction, for company. Aemond will accept what he has, he will take everything he can from you.

Pleasure rolls through him like the raging waves of an ocean tide and he wants nothing more than to drown in you forever. There's heat and wetness as he enters you, an ecstasy that fills his body and settles deep into his bones. He fills you to the brim in one movement, deeply, selfishly, so that there is no room for anything inside you but himself. You scream into the pillow and try to move away, but the sound is distant, muffled by the beat of his own heart.

He fucks you slowly and cruelly, stretching you and filling you, using your body before your inner walls have time to get used to the invasion - the sudden taking of your purity. Your own body trembles beneath the mass of his, a slave to his cares. Your hands grip the linen below in a bruising grip, your nails scratching the surface and leaving small cuts in it. You're inexperienced, unlike him, and it shows evidently now; evident in the way you're not sure what to do with your own body. In the confusion of pain and pleasure. Aemond, touched by the feeling, places his hand on top of yours, intertwining your fingers as best he can. To his surprise, the action seems to evoke some sort of subtle affection within you. Your head tilts to the side, cheek pressed into the pillow and he feels it — light as a feather, but still: a kiss on his knuckles.

“I wish you didn’t hate me,” he murmurs, intoxicated by the unexpected gesture, as he fucks you with renewed strength. You scream, arching your back so hard it looks painful, even to Aemond. “— We could have this forever.”

A heartbeat.

"Hate? Is that what you think I feel?" You grunt, breathless and desperate, but hurt, disappointed and almost disgusted.

There's something gentle and maddeningly hopeful inside Aemond that shatters into a thousand pieces at your words. Here he is, holding you tighter than ever, plunged so deep inside you, and yet he can't get you in his hands.

You broke his heart, he realizes.

One of his hands, large and warm, slides between your legs and traces your clit in furious circles, his larger body falling onto your back and pressing you into the mattress. You squeeze him so hard it's almost painful, and he wants more. He wants to break you, make you hurt as much as you are making him. Being with you is a horrible, sordid game of chess, in which the pieces Aemond must trade are parts of his own soul, and each time he reaches you, he loses more of himself.

Through the sound of skin slapping, heavy breathing, tortured pleasure, he hears you moan. The sound is terribly erotic - long and tearful - and he feels an inexplicable need to hear it again. Thrusting his hips forward, Aemond's hand leans between your sweaty bodies and forward, squeezing your throat. You stutter a little, jaw dropping from the pressure, though your sounds of pleasure never seem to break or lessen.

“A-Aemond,” you say his name like a prayer, reverent and with tears in your eyes, soaking the linen below. “— Aemond, Aemond — “

Your heat convulses around him, building with a delicious friction that leaves Aemond blind. The euphoria is incandescent, molten and burns you from the inside out. He hears a roar, guttural and long, and realizes that it's him – that an animal has existed inside him for so long and you've drawn it out. All with beautiful eyes and a cold sneer and a sopping wet pussy squeezing his dick.

Together, you ride out your orgasm, your bodies rocking in perfect harmony against each other. Your breathing is so ragged that your body shakes with each inhale beneath him. He would be scared if you were a weaker woman, a woman who could not resist the cruelty of slavery.

The air is still and silence and against Aemond's own flesh you burn. You don't move to free yourself as he expects, instead relaxing your head into the linen. Aemond kisses the smooth expanse of your shoulder, breathing against the goosebumps on your skin. It's strange how concrete you feel beneath him, how tangible his obsession with you is.

“I don’t hate you,” you say after a long, thoughtful silence. Your words are shaky, even hesitant. “I just can't look at the darkness inside you. I can't accept who you've become..." There is hurt and pain in your words, words suffocating in sincerity. "— But you...you hate me. You always hated me, for who I am, for what I am.” You end with a blank stare into space.

It's strange how you seem afraid of Aemond, despite the practiced bravado in your voice. He feels your muscles tense inexplicably beneath him, your shoulder blades tightening beneath his chin. You don't feel like yourself (the memory of soft voice and sparkling eyes), but Aemond realizes that this is the truest version of yourself he's ever encountered.

"Sometimes yes." He murmurs, accent thick in your neck. It's subtle, but he feels you shudder, as if his words had hurt you. You wait a moment, opening your mouth to speak but closing it quickly. Your head hangs low in what Aemond realizes is thought but looks a lot like lament. He moves off your body and turns you around, looking directly into your eyes as he props himself up on his elbows.

"Do you hate me now?" You whisper. Your eyes are softly rimmed with a kind of weary sadness that Aemond often sees in his own reflection. But there is a clarity in your expression, something that begs for the truth of this sordid attempt at rapprochement. Under the shadow of your cell, it almost seems like you care. About him.

“Hmm, a little,” he murmurs in consideration. “—I think I adore you a lot more.”

Confession is a monotonous thing, uttered with silent pain. It's not romantic, it's not even particularly sincere — instead, it's an open, spoken-loud secret. It's common knowledge. The sky is blue. Winters are cold. Aemond is in love with you. It's true, in its most obvious and blatant state.

All the colors in your face: the blood-red stain of your cheeks, the clear glow of your eyes, everything disappears with his words. Aemond watches your features carefully, closely, and thinks you almost look haunted by him.

He slides his thumb over your clit and rubs, leaving you panicking - panicking - with your nerves on edge to the point where pleasure and pain are indistinguishable. Your small body trembles and your eyes widen, the unspoken question is clear: 'again?'

Aemond ignores you.

“I don’t care about anyone else but you.“ Violet eye narrow as he examines you, watching the way you squirm, pussy pulsing and wetting his fingers in rivulets as he teases you with slow strokes. "I will destroy anything and anyone that comes between us if that's the only way I can have you. I would burn this world down for you. And I will have everything I can from you. Do you understand?"

And then, he rips his fingers out of you as you're on the verge of another orgasm and he's not sure if the loud sigh you let out is one of relief or anger, but he quickly decides he doesn't care, adjusting himself on top of you, supporting your hips and pushing the tip of his weeping (and once again hard) cock against your entrance.

Aemond leans in until the apple of your cheek is pressed against his, his breath tickling the damp skin of your jaw as he speaks, dark and pained. "I will take you out of this cell, little bastard. Tonight. I will keep you in my chambers, like a guarded thing. Pretty, safe, and mine."

When he thrusts his hips until he's buried deep in your heat, the only sound that leaves your lips is his name - exactly as it should be. It steals your breath - it steals his breath, fucking you as the pleasure builds, freeing you from those pesky, useless little thoughts (of other people) and forces you to live in the present with him as your only guide and anchor.

Even as you tremble, muttering nonsense and dripping with desire, Aemond doesn't slow down, doesn't even falter. He simply presses a kiss to your cheek, his silver hair sticking to your sweaty body, the sticky sweetness of his kiss staining your skin slick with tears, and he sighs, a little breathless at how attractive you look - absolutely beautiful, so cute - and Aemond promises to never let others lead you astray again.

You are his God, it is you he owes devotion. And that's exactly what he would do. He would adore you with care and protection, he would kiss your body and make love to your mind...he would consume you completely until, with dedication and persistence, you would one day be able to give him what Aemond wanted.

What he had longed for since he was a foolish child...

Just a dimpled smile.

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[thenightcallsme]

Guys go follow my Pinterest visualisingthedesired or whatever if ur into maladaptive daydreaming and deeeeeefinitely nothing more that that (ifykyk) anyways here’s some of my boards pookie love u all 😘

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[thenightcallsme]

ATWOW | Neteyam Sully, pt. 6

"Beneath the palm of my hand, his heartbeat thumps at a pace that is entirely uninterpretable, but not unnoticeable. Thump, thump, thump. I wish it to go faster, to skip a beat, to dance at an irregular rhythm. To tell me something, anything. Tell me what I desperately wish to hear."

Synopsis: Upon being accepted into the Metkayina clan, the Sully's and Gi'anya must learn the ways of the water.

Pairing: Neteyam x Fem!Ometikaya OC (Gi'anya, or Gi for short)

Contains: established OC POV, Neteyam POV!!!, Lo'ak just being so in love with Tsireya, more Neteyam moments I promissss we're gonna get to the smut soon. Just don't quote me on that (also I wrote a portion of this high and thought I ate so hard so if there are sections that seem a bit funky that might be why - I'm too lazy to perfectly proofread lol)

Word count: 7,034

find the rest of the chapters in my masterlist here :)

• • • • •

Neteyam wasn’t sure how to feel about any of this. He was incredibly grateful that the chief had understood their situation and accepted their presence, but another part of him felt incredibly disrespected. However, it wasn’t that Metkayinan boy’s remark about his tail and the ensuing snickers of the chief's son, Ao’nung, that irked him. No. Neteyam never thought of himself first. It was the treatment of his family that angered him.

His father was seen as a coward, his mother belittled in her attempts to maintain some status. How another female sharing the same rank as her could look down on her like some peasant was beyond him. Lo’ak, who had been nothing but respectful, had been hissed at that he had demon blood. He knew his parents and brother could handle the humiliations, and realistically, he knew the rest of his family could, but that didn’t stop the utter rage at the treatment of his sisters and closest friend.

Tuk was too young and too sweet to be targeted by the Tsahik’s judgements. Thankfully, that interaction was brief. Then it was Kiri and Gi’anya. Ronal had no right to put her hands on Kiri, and no further right to forcefully take Gi’s hands in hers, throwing them with unnecessary force towards the sky for all to behold. The growls and insults from the crowd were relentless. With her back turned to him, Neteyam could not see the expression on Gi’s face, but the flattening of her ears and the shameful dip of her tail was enough.

Neteyam had stepped forward then, completely unaware of anything but his anger. It was unlike him to lose his grip on any courtesy. Striding up to the girls and shielding them away from the Tsahik would have been entirely out of his mind. And yet, he was about to do it, if not for the arm thrown in front of him.

Usually, it was Neteyam who had to restrain his brother, Lo’ak, from doing stupid things. For the first time, it was Lo’ak’s turn to do the same. His look was half angered at the sight of the girls, and half confused at Neteyam’s attempted advance.

The scene runs through his mind on repeat as he follows the rest of his family across the woven walkways of Awa’atlu. The sensation of the ground depressing beneath each footstep still throws his senses for a loop. Ahead, Tuk takes leaping strides, giggling at the extra spring in her step.

Tsireya and Ao’nung, the children of the leaders, have been tasked with showing the Sully’s around. He thought he liked Tsireya. She was fairly kind, the first and only to show any willing welcomeness. The Metkikena girl walks ahead with Gi, the two carrying bundles of supplies. Both are deep in what looks like a humourous conversation, all girlish laughs and snorts and bright smiles. Calming the lingering anger is a sort of contentment at the sight. He couldn’t remember the last time Gi had been like this with anyone but Kiri. Good. He knew it was something she needed.

So, yes, he was confident in his like for Tsireya. Her brother, on the other hand, evoked opposing feelings.

Ao’nung takes up the rear, a few steps behind Neteyam. He has been sulking in silence the entire time, picking up baskets and satchels with palpable indignation. The judging stares were that of his mothers, but some other looks… 

Ao’nung betrayed his uncaring nature for the Forest People by the looks that followed Gi. They were curious, devouring, interested. Some of it was thrown straight in her face, only for it to strengthen when her back was turned. It wasn’t surprising; Gi was a thing to behold, the personification of all things beautiful, a trait that had already caught Ao’nung’s attention.

It drove Neteyam insane.

Tsireya stops at a large woven hut, the flax walls resembling crashing waves that meet in a spire at the roots above. It’s bigger than the hut his family had shared at the makeshift home of High Camp. From the arching entrance, he could see smaller rooms connecting to one larger one. Interesting. Ometikayan homes usually consisted of one communal room. He wasn’t used to much privacy. According to Tsireya, there are three rooms extra rooms: one for his parents, one for him and Lo’ak, and one for the girls, all sectioned off by draping, woven blankets. With a promise to return in about an hour to collect the kids, Tsireya and her brother leave them to find some comfort in their new home.

Right off the bat, Lo’ak and Gi’anya love it. Lo’ak’s interest surface level, relieved for something different. Gi’s is entirely in the craftsmanship and artistry of it. She stalks around the room with wide, curious eyes, grazing the flax walls with delicate fingers, tracing the patterns of dyed blue fabrics incorporated into the walls. Neteyam couldn’t say he cared for the set-up, but if she was satisfied, so was he.

After dumping their things in their respective rooms and creating some order, his father calls for a family meeting.

“I need you kids on your best behaviour,” he begins once everyone has settled around him. “I mean it. Learn fast, pull your weight…” His hard gaze lands on Lo’ak before raising his brows at Neteyam, telling him to take note. “Don’t cause trouble. You got it?”

“Yes sir,” Lo’ak answers. Neteyam nudges him with a grin, knowing his promise will be in vain by tomorrow. Lo’ak snarls at the taunt.

“I want to go home,” Tuk suddenly wails.

His mother’s face falls. “Oh, Tuk.”

“Tuk, this is our home now” his fathers in that soft voice only ever meant for the youngest daughter. “Now, we’re going to get through this. We’re going to get through this if we have each other’s backs. All right?”

“What does your father always say?” his mother adds.

“Sully’s stick together.”

The words are mumbled by all the Sully siblings. Neteyam can’t help but pick up on Gi’s silence. She sits in the space between Kiri and his mother, settled on her knees. Her gaze goes downcast at the saying to find sudden interest in the clasped hands on her lap. There is a slight pang in Neteyam’s chest at the sight.

“That’s right, Sully’s stick together. Now this time, with some feeling.” His head turns to regard the silent girl sitting beside his mate. “That includes you.”

Gi looks up, surprised. “Me?”

A nod. “You’re a Sully now, as far as I’m concerned.”

At first, she’s unsure of his father’s words, as if wondering whether they were meant for her. But after a moment she seems to accept them. A smile creeps at her lips. It appears reserved; she fights the overwhelming joy she finds in the revelation. It was about time his parents acknowledged what everyone already knew.

The Sully’s repeat the saying, this time louder and more enthusiastic, echoed by Gi’s shy addition.

The hour is up, announced by Tsireya, Ao’nung and his shorter friend, Rotxo, who appear at the entrance. The Sully kids are led towards the edge of one of the walkways surrounding their new home. The glittering water ebbs gently in invitation as the three Metakayina make no hesitation to dive in. Skilled and practised, their bodies cleave through the water in perfected arches. Tsireya beckons the Sully’s to join. Lo’ak looks entirely ready to throw himself in, Kiri more reserved as she inspects the water in fascination. Tuk worries at her lower lip in hesitation. Neteyam steps forward to jump in first with his brother, only for Gi to beat him to it.

*

Shockingly, yet somehow comfortably, the water swallows every fibre of being into a chilly cocoon. The subtle ebb and flow from distant waves rock my body as if I were a babe in the arms of its mother, who soothes me into serenity with gentle hums. It takes me a moment to adjust to my vision, eyes stinging at the salty waters, but after a few blinks, everything settles and I examine the secret world nestled within the bay of Awa’atlu.

Jagged, arching rocks protrude from the glistening sand floor, ligaments exploding with life. Down here, the fauna is as diverse and bustling as the forests of Pandora. Lush shrubs are traded for swaying, leafless corals, vibrant limbs resembling vein systems. Fan-like structures protrude from the grainy floors and surrounding rock, housing smaller flourishing plants of impossible colours. 

Between rough branches and softer ligaments flit sealife like I’ve never seen before. Schools of fish dart here and there, hyper-aware of every kick of my feet and swish of my tail. A creature with entirely translucent skin glides before me, its body a series of wavy fins on a bubbly figure. After each gentle flap of its cape of fins, its heart beats within the glassy confinements. Curious, I reach out a tentative hand, ever gentle as its slimy underbelly brushes against my fingertips.

Muffled splashes echo through the watery suspension as the others jump in. They all share my awe with wide eyes, closed-mouth smiles, and curious hands. A family of minuscule fish circle around Tuk, who floats close to the surface.

Despite the seconds that pass, the urge to resurface and replenish my air never comes, almost as if it no longer serves any purpose. Tsireya beckons me forward with a pearly white smile of pure delight. I imagine it’s unlike Na’vi our age to find such wonder in the world they’ve always known. She seems ecstatic to share it with us. She waits patiently as I swim after her, the others in tow. 

We’re slow to follow with our land-built bodies. The three Metkayina glide through the water with envious ease, angling their limbs in a fluid side-to-side motion. Every so often, Tsireya brings them to a stop and turns around to supervise our approach. I’m inclined to continue after her, but when I catch sight of Lo’ak and Neteyam resurfacing, it's them that I follow.

Sound comes rushing back the second my head breaks the surface and I’m bombarded with the laboured breaths of the two boys. They bob with each vigorous kick.

Neteyam gives me a quizzical look, panting, “Are you not…out of…breath?”

I shake my head. “I was going to keep going, actually. I was wondering what you two were up to.”

“We’re surviving,” Lo’ak breathes out.

I grin, unable to shoot something back before he gulps down air and lowers his head beneath the water. Instead, I raise my brows at Neteyam. “So what do you think?” 

“About…?”

“About anything, really. Do you like it here?”

“Too early to say.” His eyes scan our surroundings for a moment, taking it all in while considering the question. “The people here don’t like us.”

I shrug. “Except Tsireya. I think I love her.”

He gestures to his brother with a grin. “I don’t think you love her as much as he does.”

“Jesus, I know.” I laugh. “I’m going to be real mad if he steals her away.”

“You think he could manage that?” Neteyam retorts.

“Hey, have some faith in him,” is all I say before dipping back beneath the water.

Tsireya, Ao’nung and Roxto have come to a stop a few feet below, watching us expectedly. Once Neteyam dips his head beneath, Tsireya waves her hands in gestures I cannot understand. At our empty looks, she gives a humourous smile and shakes fo her shoulders before beckoning us to follow.

The further we go, the lower the sea floor drops from the surface. Rays of pale sunlight swim through the mass of endless blue. As we descend further into the ocean, the rays of light thin and disperse, illuminating less, causing distant shapes to blend into blurs of murky blue. After another minute, a hand on my forearm tears me from my awestruck observations of the reef. Neteyam has pulled me to a stop. Behind him, Tuk and Lo’ak are slowly advancing back to the air. I raise a brow at him. He points to the surface. Does he have something to say? At my further misunderstanding, he gently pokes at my chest, then at his, flexing his pecs to resemble a breath. We need air. 

I have yet to succumb to the painful demand for air. In fact, I’m not aware of any pressure in my chest at all. At this point I’ve forgotten the need for it. However, while half of me wishes to continue, the other half worries about air at the sudden remembrance. With a nod, he tugs me upwards, and we glide towards the surface.

“Keep doing that and you’re going to drown,” Neteyam breathes.

I roll my eyes. “Someone’s just jealous that I’m better than him at something physical for once.”

He makes a face at me as Tsireya resurfaces with the other boys in tow. “Are you all right?”

“You’re too fast! Wait for us!” Tuk whines as she wipes the water from her eyes.

“Just breathe,” she urges gently. “Breathe.”

“You are not good divers,” Ao’nung interrupts. “Maybe good at swinging through trees—”

I watch with great satisfaction as Tsireya swats the back of his head. The shit-eating grin disappears from his face beneath the deathly stare of his sister. Lo’ak smirks. Even Roxto finds it in himself to snicker.

“We don’t speak this…” Neteyam waves his hand in the air. “Finger talk, guys. We don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Where is Kiri?”

Roxto’s question takes the Sully’s and I entirely off guard. The light smirks and smiles die down at the reality he imposes. I look around, and sure enough, Kiri is nowhere to be found. Tsireya worries at her lower lip.

“Did you see her?”

For a moment, my heart sinks. She should be fine, she must be…

“There she is!” Tuk raises her head from the water with a joyful cry. I sigh, following her pointed figure beneath the rippling surface to see Kiri lingering a few feet behind. She floats with her face towards the sky, hands weaving through a school of fish that survey her.

Beside me, Neteyam closes his eyes in a moment of relief. I give him an accusing stare. “Oh, but she won’t drown?”

He mutters something beneath his breath that goes unheard.

“You know what,” Tsireya interjects. “Why don’t we go back and start with something that will help you all keep up, hmm?”

“Start with what?”

She grins. “Taming Ilu’s.”

*

Gentle waves caress the small of my waist as we crowd along to shore of Awa’atlu. A few Metkayina boys have joined Ao’nung and Roxto. The group send wry glances and smug smirks our way as they trade remarks with low voices. You’d think they were a bunch of young girls and not warriors on the cusp of adulthood. How ironic. 

Ao’nung has separated himself from the circle of gossip to stand before us, yipping and clicking his tongue in a series of calls. Tuk, Lo’ak, Neteyam and I wait patiently as the Ilu’s follow his calls. Kiri has managed to get out of the initiation process with the promise of not straying too far from the shore. I was too proud to excuse myself. Now…I’m not so sure.

“You’re nervous.”

Neteyam’s voice ushers away the worry that drowns out a handful of sense. Within seconds, the present settles. Those snickers and unintelligible comments return to my ears, echoed by the calls of Ao’nung and his sister.

I shake my head. “I’m not nervous.”

“You’re wringing your hands.”

“Am not.”

“I can hear and feel you splashing the water.” With a defeated sigh, I look at him. He cradles Tuk on his hip with one arm to save her the energy of treading water. She pays no obvious mind to our conversation as she rests her cheek on his shoulder to watch for any signs of surfacing creatures. The sight is incredibly and unfortunately attractive. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Easy for you to say,” I mumble. 

He raises a brow. “As if you haven’t had a better run with bonds than me.”

“That was just luck—”

“You’re direhorse chose you, you got brought to the village on the back of a viper wolf that offered you help, hell, the Ikran notorious for never choosing anyone chose you and didn’t put up a fight.” He shrugs. “I’d say that’s more than luck.”

“Doesn’t make it any better than all their little friends are watching…” I look over my shoulder at the small gathering. A few avert my sudden gaze.

“You’ll feel a lot better when Lo’ak fucks it up in front of them.”

“Thanks, bro,” Lo’ak pipes up sarcastically. “Real chivalrous to give her confidence at my expense.”

Suddenly, Ao’nung and Tsireya’s calls are repeated back to them with more echo and more depth. The sea parts as the sleek heads of Ilu’s peak above the surface on long necks. They twist and glide through the water with the skill of an Ikran in the embrace of foliage.

“These,” Ao’nung says with arms flourishing wide, “are Ilu. If you want to live here, you have to ride. Who wants to go first?”

Unsurprisingly, Lo’ak steps forward first, stance dripping confidence that I suspect is mostly inflated beyond what he really feels. He’s the fake it till you make it type, even when half the time he doesn’t exactly make it. Tsireya beams at him, clicking her tongue in the back of her throat to summon one of the creatures. It surfaces at her side expectantly and she decorates it with riding gear. Ao’nung looks to Neteyam and me as Tsireya orders Lo’ak to mount the Ilu.

“Want to have a go now?” Neteyam asks.

I shake my head. “I’ll watch you and Lo’ak first. Here, give me Tuk—”

My offer is cut short by a sharp gasp as something slick traces the inward curve behind my knee. Per reflex, I jump forward, my outstretched hands that were meant for Tuk a moment ago now grasping onto Neteyam’s forearm. He allows me to invade his space with a hand on the small of my back. I barely pay it mind as I throw my gaze back in shock, only to be met with eager, inky eyes. I sigh; it’s only an Ilu who has wandered away from the rest. Neteyam laughs, deep and amused.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. A faint mauve blush burns my cheeks as I retract my hands from the taut, defined muscle of Neteyam’s arm. Tuk giggles. “Sorry.”

“Should have seen the look on your face,” he teases with a grin. His hand remains to gently graze my lower back. 

“Yeah, whatever.”

“She likes you.” Ao’nung has approached the three of us. He regards the Ilu with a nod of his head.

When I look back at the Ilu, unmoving in my surprise, Neteyam gently urges me forward. “See? You’ve been chosen already.”

With a cocked head and wide, expectant eyes, the Ilu wades in the shallows as I approach. She has a more sinister look about her, but nothing about her aura warns be to back away. Unlike the rest of the Ilu’s I’ve seen, her colouring shies away from the pale greens and murky blues. Her white underbelly stems into a coat of black dancing with dainty patterns of gold. She reminds me of my Ikran, different from the rest. I find confidence in that revelation. It’s that confidence that has me reaching a tentative hand forward to trace the curve of her long neck. She hums and clicks, leaning into my touch. I smile.

“Still calling it just luck?”

I grin over my shoulder at Neteyam. “I’ll call it what it is once I actually ride her.”

“You’ll need reigns first.” Ao’nung steps forward to approach the awaiting Ilu with riding gear in hand. He binds the bases of her black antenna to create a handle. “Get on and hook your legs in front of the minor fins.”

I heed his instructions, taking the handle and hoisting myself onto the base of her neck. It’s a creation of thick leather holding an arched bone in the middle. With my knees hooked over the minor fins, I’m suddenly filled with newfound eagerness. Ao’nung must see it, as he shakes his head before I can even think of making the bond, pointing to Lo’ak with a sly grin. 

“Ah, ah,” he warns. “Why don’t you watch your friend, first?”

Ahead, Tsireya guides the bond between Lo’ak and the Ilu he’s chosen. She murmurs to make the connection gently, to feel his breath, to feel his strength. Once the contact is made, the creature rears its head and squirms beneath Lo’ak’s weight and Tsireya’s gentle hold.

“Look at his legs,” one of Ao’nung’s male friends snides.

Ao’nung smirks before saying aloud, “Hold on.” It’s more taunting than encouraging.

Lo’ak takes a deep breath, jolts the handle, and sets off the creature. With a shriek, it shoots forward, and I barely catch a glimpse of him fighting to keep on top before they both sink underwater. Ao’nung and his friends elbow each other and place quick bets before ducking beneath the surface to watch. Out of spite, I hope for him to show them up, but realistically, I know a lost cause when I see one.

“How long do you give it?” I wonder aloud.

Neteyam purses his lips. From his hold, Tuk reaches out to pet the creature I mount. “Mmm, maybe ten more seconds?”

Only five seconds later, the males stand from the shallows with bellowing laughter. Soon after, Lo’ak comes clawing to the surface, gasping for air as the Ilu growls at him, turning away to splash a handful of water in his face. The laughter grows louder.

“Take it from him,” Ao’nung says, “and hold on, lest you embarrass yourself just as much.”

I roll my eyes. “Right, of course, I’m sure I know what he did wrong.”

“First of all,” he challenges, “you’re position is off.”

I raise a brow, urging him to be a little more helpful. “And?”

I’m taken by surprise when he reaches forward, three-fingered hands finding my hips without hesitation. His gaze remains unbreaking, purposefully unbreaking, as he alters my position, dragging me a few inches forward. I open my mouth as if to say something, though my brain hasn’t caught up yet. What would be most appropriate? Thanks? No need to be so handsy? A simple instruction would have sufficed. 

“And making the bond would be helpful.” He holds up one of her antennae, a gesture more appreciated than being all hands-on. 

The inner tendrils of my queue unfurl as I draw it forward. Taking a deep breath, I allow the connection, letting the air escape my lips once it is complete. Every sense heightens and rearranges, becomes unknown and relearned all within one heartbeat. Passed through the bond is a sudden yet unexplainable understanding of the surrounding ocean. 

Beneath me, the Ilu remains unwavering, only letting out a few ticks and clicks to signify any awareness. That eases some of my worries; she may be willing to understand my boundaries, work around them and expand them. Unlike the Lo’ak’s Ilu, who rode forward as if he had no mount.

“Now angle yourself towards her,” Ao’nung continues. I’m less surprised this time to feel his large hand presses between my shoulders to gently guide me down. Before stepping away, he lingers his touch on my thigh, unnecessarily despite the instruction that comes with it. “Try to keep at least one leg hooked here.”

I nod along. “Is that all?”

Ao’nung’s icy blue eyes leave mine for a purposeful moment, melting and moulding between curious, undescribable thoughts as they trail down. I’d suppose it was a look of precaution, to make sure his fly-away comments hadn’t yet escaped my form. Yet I wonder if anyone else could see it for what it truly was. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Neteyam so scarce I should mark it down to a framing of something incomplete. He is completely ignorant to my puzzled question of, ‘you saw that, right?’; to Tuk, who is captivated by the sparkle of her braid beads. Instead, he watches Ao’nung with a look I seldom see.

On the rare occasions that I have found myself on a hunt, I have become familiar with the predatorial hold of a hunter's eyes on their prey. It’s a look of strategy, a look of darkness in the midst of natural instincts, and sometimes, a soul-deep burn of anger when something slips from their grasp. It’s that look that I see now, trained like a hunter’s on their prey, shot directly behind me like a knocked arrow.

“We’ll see,” is all he says, tone toeing between unbothered and ironic. We’ll see if you need more help after you fail. I’d be damned if I fell short now.

The stretch of water before me should be inviting in its absence of obstacles. There should be a promise of success. Instead, it feels incredibly offputting. The careful caress of a hand against the slopes of my shoulder has me tearing my eyes from the annoyingly tranquil beyond to meet Neteyam. He inclines his head in a hopeful nod, regarding me through his brow. 

“You don’t need luck.” The statement is handed off with a grinning look. 

It’s meant to be, he means. While all Na’vi want a connection with life, life wants a connection with you. He’s been spurting those words since I passed my first rights on the same day as him entirely by accident, being chosen by my Ikran, Vaana. She was infamous within the tribe for being uninterested in all Na’vi. Yet, she abandoned her post of discontentful observing to choose me, reversing the rules of our culture. Neteyam earned the title of youngest Ikran Makto that night—that is, he earned it first, holding it for two minutes before I stole the show. The year he had on me stood no chance.

Closing my eyes and white-knuckling my grip, I take a deep breath. Work with me as I try to with you, I will into the abyss, praying the creature beneath me understands our connected senses. I sharply tug back the handle and suck in a breath—

Harsh currents pelt my face as the Ilu draws me under, shifting its body through the liquid mass at a speed I have not yet known. It takes a few blinks to adjust to the onslaught of senses. While she moves fast, she moves more mercifully than what I saw of Lo’ak’s attempt, as if she considers me as a new limb. The water holds up a strong to fight to rip me from her back. My newfound confidence keeps me stronger.

With a squeeze of my thighs, a gentle ease of the handle, and a hope to heed my word, the Ilu glides into a graceful reverse of direction, aiming to duck between arching rocks and lush corals. The shapes and colours turn into an indecipherable mass as she returns me to the shallows in a flamboyant display that reflects my pride and inflated ego. No one would have had faith besides the Sully’s and maybe Tsireya out of possibility; my success has proven their faith to all who had none. 

I resurface to the sudden sound of an ecstatic round of applause as I near the shallows. It’s Tuk, beaming from the shoreline. It seems she has abandoned Neteyam’s arms. The male in question straddles the back of an Ilu, resting his hands on his thighs as Roxto tightens the handle. His eyes scan the horizon, halting as my figure emerges, and a prideful smile blossoms. Tsireya shares it. Lo’ak’s more reserved smile and bowed head of acknowledgement has the slight glimmer of envy.

“Perfect!” Tsireya exclaims with clasped hands as my Ilu inches towards the small gathering. “Beautiful, even. I’m surprised you did so well. Not that I had no faith, but if I didn’t know better, I would have thought you and the Ilu’s bond was years in the making.”

“She’s always been a prodigy with tsaheylu,” Neteyam interjects, raising his brows at me. “Youngest to ride an Ikran, brought to us on the back of a viperwolf that offered her tsaheylu.”

“Brought?” There’s a question in the word she echoes.

I laugh. “Oh, I’m not a Sully by blood or name.”

“Then why come here?” adds Roxto.

“I have no family.” 

My simple answer is met with Tsireya’s fallen face. Even Roxto has it in him to nod slowly in understanding. Ao’nung remains considering in his searching gaze, his friends entirely indifferent.

“Are they with Eywa?” Tsireya asks.

“They have been, for a very long time.” It feels strange for the old wounds of time to be re-opened. It has been nearly a decade since my story needed repeating; travellers are rare, their interest in me rarer. There is no sadness in it anymore. Just acceptance. “I was raised in a lab by some human scientists who…slipped under the radar. Hid behind false morals and whatnot. I can only assume that my parents were either killed when I was a baby or lived on in some place far away.”

“What’s a lab?” Her look of sympathetic sorrow and genuine interest turns suddenly sheepish. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry—”

I wave my hand with a shrug of my shoulders. “Don’t be. Lab is short for laboratory. It’s a place where humans conduct scientific experiments with all these fun little trinkets and machines. It’s to better understand our environment and give them answers to, well…the happenings of life. I was kept in one because I was bred to be a weapon against the Na’vi. Me and the other kids made an escape before we could truly be indoctrinated to their cause… I was the only one that survived.”

Her face falls. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“No need,” I reply with a gracious smile. “It doesn’t weigh me down anymore.”

“And she’s got us,” Lo’ak adds. “She’s been a part of the family ever since in this unspoken way.”

“I see,” she says slowly, grasping the new revelation and piecing it together in the puzzle that is her perception of us. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Understandable. We have some…” I wiggle my fingers in the air with a grin. “similarities.”

*

No one was surprised when Neteyam mastered his Ilu first try. Though it wasn’t exactly with the grace of flight he inherited from his mother, it was with more success than Lo’ak, who managed his second try. Kiri managed to find herself an Ilu as well, much to the Reef People’s surprise. It chose her, she told me. Taught her how to ride in a language that is shared through the body and understood by a higher, unexplainable conscience. 

Tsireya, while it was her idea to give us something to maneuver through the water with ease, has decided it is a must to take out training even further back.

Breathing.

The oldest three Sully’s and I have been led to a flat expanse of rock jutting just out from the shoreline. Its rough surface is dimpled by the work of erosion, small craters and cracks festering with smaller sea flora. The plants lay limp in the low tide as they wait for the waters to creep back up. All seven of us sit cross-legged in a circle.

“Breathe in,” Tsireya instructs for the tenth time. The hand that she had held at the peak of her ribs gracefully falls away as she exhales a deep breath. “…And breathe out.”

Roxto and Ao’nung mimic her movements, the latter with less enthusiasm. He sits to my right between Lo’ak and I. This time around, he keeps his hands on his own stomach, on his own chest. He had tried to ‘help’ me in the beginning, placing one hand on my stomach, the other on my chest, fingertips ghosting the plush tops of my breasts. In my woven bandeau top, my breasts are held together in an inviting display of flesh and cleavage. Inviting to Ao’nung, it seems. I was unsure how to deny his aid, as it did appear half genuine. In the end, my input was unneeded. It was Neteyam, positioned at my right, who had assured him I was a fast learner. The gesture was unnecessary. He didn’t say it with much kindness.

“Imagine a flickering flame,” she continues. Kiri looks beside her to Roxto, subtly mimicking the way he holds his abdomen as he breathes.

“You must slow down your heartbeat. Like this.”

Unfortunately for Lo’ak, there is no warning when she reaches her hands to him, placing one on his stomach and one over his heart. His ears twitch noticeably, tail tightening and eyes widening at the sudden contact. I have to hand it to him; he reigns in his thoughts well…just not well enough. Already, Roxto is smirking.

“Breathe in.”

He breathes in, avoiding his eyes.

“Breathe out.”

As he does so, his curiosity gets the better of him. Heavy lidded eyes shift to the Metkayinan girl before him, taking in the planes of her face. Focused on the rise and fall of his stomach instead of his chest, Tsireya remains unaware. The moments pass for what feels like a minute too long, with her watching his form and him entirely entranced by her. Suddenly, she frowns, moving her head before her eyes to regard him, unknowingly allowing Lo’ak time to look.

“Lo’ak… Your heartbeat is fast.”

It takes everything to bite down my amused grin.

“Sorry,” he mutters, looking away.

Soon, it’s not just Roxto; an unapologetic grin pricks at the corners of Neteyam’s mouth, finding hilarity in his brother’s ridiculously obvious qualms. It only takes a quick shared glance before their shoulders are both shaking in silent laughter. Jaw slightly agape at their rudeness, I smack Neteyam’s knee, earning a surprised stare and then flattened ears of sheepishness. I mouth at him to shut up—his sister gives him a look of equal disproval.

Again and again, Tsireya urges Lo’ak to breathe. Breathe, imagine the flame, hold it steady in your chest, keep it alive with the air we store. The small stolen glances do not go unnoticed by anyone, especially the two who find immense hilarity in them. Loutish hilarity. Eywa forbod the poor boy found her even the slightest bit pretty. They forget who they were at that age. At least, I don’t forget Neteyam at that age. When he began to show interest in other girls. That look Lo’ak has now, transfixed, hungry in a way he does not yet know how to handle, directed at another girl… That I could never forget.

Tsireya has us take turns demonstrating our forms We are to hold one hand on our heart, one hand on our stomach, breathe in deep so that our chests do not expand, and then hold for as long as we feel comfortable. In the end, she announces that I have learned the quickest, that the others should set me as an example. 

“You make it look easy,” Lo’ak complains when I taunt him over how easy it actually is.

“Maybe you just need to try harder,” Neteyam butts in.

Lo’ak sneers. “Ever thought that you’re no better, oh he who is ever perfect.” He rolls his eyes, dropping the comical voice. “You’re getting shown up by a healer.”

I make a face at him, unable to find the right riposte.

An amused glint sparkles in Tsireya’s eyes. “A healer is just as capable as a hunter, but… I can’t say you’re any better, Neteyam.”

Smirking to myself, I hum a quiet agreement. In light of his support, I’ve playfully betrayed him, earning a deadpan look. Neteyam’s lips part and purse into some silent jab. Defiantly, I return the look through heavy lashes with a devilish simper.

“Alright then,” he challenges, straightening the curve of his spine. “What is it that I’m doing wrong?”

“Breathe in through your nose, first of all,” I begin. “No need to gulp in the air. Do it slow. And don’t move your chest even a little.”

“I haven’t been.”

“I beg to differ.”

He frowns. “I swear I wasn’t.”

When I look to Tsireya for support, she gives me a kindly dismissive shake of her head. “You are perfectly qualified to teach, I assure you.”

The Reef girl gestures to the male beside me encouragingly. You teach. You demonstrate. You give him what he needs to learn. Admittedly, her approval nurtures my ego, helping it draw a deep breath and rise from a state of dormancy. With it comes confidence. Strangely invigorating confidence, even beneath the stares, some holding the jungles of Pandora, some holding the mystical world that nestles within its oceanic depths.

Weirdly, as I stare back at Neteyam, the picture of Tsireya with her hands on Lo’ak’s chest and stomach stirs my thoughts. The look on his face, intoxicated by her every aspect. Taunting me, enticing me. She makes it look so easy, to coax that reaction from a male, to be the personification of their desperate, filthy wants. An image of all things seemingly unattainable. I’ve never known how to be that image, how to entice those wants. The possibility has only ever existed as that: a possibility.

The naked planes of Neteyam’s chest are all of a sudden incredibly inviting. More than usual. The sun settles low in the sky behind him, askew. Just enough to trace the chiselled edges of taught, hard-earned muscle in a divine halo. The blinding white lines sing to me, begging me to come near. To touch and trace and learn every inch of skin. My movements appear casual, desperate not to betray the dizzying flutter of my heart as nimble fingers make contact with his skin. I could be simple, could be uninterested, but I defy that face-saving urge, instead drawing out the contact, sliding one hand across his chest to find his heart instead of placing it there. Even though he watched the approach of my hand welcomingly, he still sucks in a breath, stomach muscles tensing beneath my other hand.

Beneath the palm of my hand, his heartbeat thumps at a pace that is entirely uninterpretable, but not unnoticeable. Thump, thump, thump. I wish it to go faster, to skip a beat, to dance at an irregular rhythm. To tell me something, anything. Tell me what I desperately wish to hear.

“Breathe in,” I murmur. He complies, drawing in a slow intake of air through his nose, courtesy of my earlier command. My lower hand moves with the intake of air. When he nears his capacity, I feel his chest expand a fraction for the final mouthful. I drum my fingers in warning above his heart. “See, you keep doing it.”

He huffs out the air. He tries again, this time more successful. I watch where my hand monitors the beat of his heart, my peripheral allowing a view of Tsireya trying to correct Lo’ak, of Kiri, still perfecting her posture by analysing Roxto…and Neteyam, who has suddenly decided to look at me. The glance is brief, somewhat stolen in his sudden interest in the distant waves. I look his way to return it out of instinct, but in the half second it takes to reroute my line of sight, he’s already looking away, throat bobbing. Beneath my fingers…his heart momentarily falters, tripping in its otherwise confident stride.

“You need to slow your heart, too.” My comment is one of simple instruction, an unneeded one at that. I know he’s aware of it. That I’m aware of it, though? It’s thrilling.

Across the circle, Lo’ak barks a loud laugh, meanly. “Look who’s laughing now, huh?”

Neteyam ignores his brother. Even Kiri, who had looked disapproving at the exact scenario reversed only a moment ago, seems amused. Her brows raise as our eyes meet. Knowingly. Now it’s my turn to ignore.

“Clear your mind,” I continue. “Whatever you’re thinking about, put it on hold. Otherwise, all your oxygen is going to be wasted on pumping more blood.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not that simple.”

We share a look. His heart hammers against his chest, as if trying to meet my fingers, to nestle into the palm of my hand without the confines of his ribs. Irises of silken syrup glowing golden with the vibrance of life train on my face, set with intention. There’s something there. Something I try desperately to grasp. 

“The best way to test your knowledge is to put it to the test.” Tsireya’s interruption and clasp of her hands takes both of us by surprise. She’s on her feet before the sentence has left her full lips. “Come. Let us swim!”

Gently, Neteyam’s hands settle over top of mine, soft as they pry my palms from his skin so that he may stand. I’m about to pull them back, looking to the rock below in shame as if caught in a damning act, only he’s helping me to my feet. I’m drawn into his personal space at the guidance of his strength. Every aspect of him floods my senses. The feel of his hands, his scent. I’m not sure where to look; all I can see is him.

We stand so close. So close that I could incline my head and rest it on the slopes of his shoulder. Deep mauve tones prickle at my cheeks against my will. Eyes dance over my face, sure to pick up on the hint of my racing heart in the way my face glows. But all he does is smile. It’s the ghost of a smile, the slight upward quirk and the short raise of his brow. An acknowledgement. Of my help? Of my sinful blush? Of just…me? 

Eywa was the only one to know.

• • • • •

Did it take me ridiculously long to finish this? ...Yes. Am I going to blame it on exams? Absolutely. Exams are over now so I'm going to try to write what I can, but my God I just finished House of the Dragon and all I can think of is Aemond Targaryen as of late he's so hottt

#avatar #avatar the way of water #atwow #neteyam #neteyam avatar #neteyam sully #neteyam x reader #neteyam x oc #fanfiction

[thenightcallsme]

Me when Aemond Targaryen 🫢😮‍💨

*being obsessed with fictional blonde psychopaths is a crime*

me:

#just stoped procrastinating and finished watching hotd #new obsession alert #I want aemond Targaryen #in fact I need him biblically #in a way that is concerning to feminism #bae fr

[thenightcallsme]

Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan 💙

[thenightcallsme]

[thenightcallsme]

GUESS WHAT AVATAR NATION

WE’RE GETTING 12 EXTRA SCENES FROM THE MOVIE!!

@meenawrites @ao3gobi17 @dirtytransmasc @imintoomanyfandomscuzihaveadhd @cyren-myadd

[thenightcallsme]

Neteyam Sully :)

Some sketches in the meantime cause I have exams and can’t mentally commit to writing rn (also I changed my username and pfp cause one of my friends was jokingly trying to find my tumblr and the username was a dead giveaway so I was NOT having it)

#neteyam sully #neteyam #atwow neteyam #atwow #avatar #neteyam fanart #avatar the way of water #procreate #sketch #digital art

[thenightcallsme]

Experimenting with different brushes for grass, using this gouache tutorial by clolouiseart on TikTok

[thenightcallsme]

ATWOW | Neteyam Sully, pt. 5

"The further we walk along the sandbar, the further we are closed in. The Reef People stand at all sides; we are entirely at their mercy."

Synopsis: You and the Sully's have reached the Metkayina Clan at their seaside village, Awa’atlu. Their acceptance is something to be fought for, and despite your willingness, it is no less challenging. (A/N: this is just a bit of a world-building/filler chapter)

Pairing: Neteyam x Fem!Ometikaya OC (Gi'anya, or Gi for short)

Contains: established OC POV, mentions of menstruation if that makes you uncomfortable (mostly me projecting my health issues onto MC lol), less talking more thinking in this one,

Word count: 4,735

find the rest of the chapters in my masterlist here :)

• • • • •

By some miracle, the grazed bullet wound on my thigh has healed. No purplish bruises, no angry red hints of infection, no scab, not even the silvery hint of a scar. Unbroken blue skin takes its place. Cuts and bruises on both Sully brothers from the incident during their last raid have just begun to fade, all injuries that are less serious than mine for the most part. And yet I’ve healed days before they have even begun. I ran my fingers over the soft unmarred skin in wonder upon removing the bandage, and if I’m honest, it almost unsettled me. Though I’m not surprised. 

All my life this has happened. An accidental bite of my tongue heals in an hour, a graze on the knee scabbing over in two. Being called to my talents of healing and crafting, I do not often partake in hunts or any activity that entails injury. But on the rare occasion I do injure myself, nothing ever lasts. My body is untouched by scars. Even the littlest things like chapped lips and dry skin are almost nonexistent for me. Not to mention my immune system and stamina are impeccable, as if my body is in a constant state of replenishment too advanced to be natural.

I once brought it up to the human scientists who lived alongside us. One theorised that my cells work at an advanced rate, an attribute of my half-Avatar heritage (as far as we know, at least), and offered to run some tests. Already burnt out by the excessive and invasive tests for my unusual menstrual cycle, I declined. Count it as a miracle, I had reasoned. It’s best not to challenge something good. 

My conception and its mysteries have influenced a constant state of questioning. Nothing about who my mother and father are—or were. That is something I accepted to be lost in time. It's myself that I question. The five toes and fingers, the fine hairs on my brow and the queue stemming from the base of my skull were questions answered by the Sully children; having at least one Avatar parent gave the possibility of a few inherited traits. Those traits were black and white through the extensive knowledge of their creation. Perfect genetics concocted in a lab do not leave room for imperfections, and those perfect genetics did not include incredible cell sustainability. And then there’s my menstrual problems, something not recorded in Na’vi women and something not programmed into the Avatars. 

How, how, how… It’s a ruthless cycle of endless questions not meant to be answered. The regeneration doesn’t bother me as much. The menstrual problems, however…

Na’vi women experience their cycle twice a year at the height of their heat. The surge of their female hormones causes an extraordinary desire for a male counterpart shadowed by a light shedding of blood from the womb. Accompanying that is the slightest hint of pain and pressure. Nothing crippling, just noticeable enough to entice the occasional hiss and wince.

Eywa, do I envy the other women. 

Four times a year, I spiral into a week-long suffering so debilitating I wonder if the end is near. My presence from clan life is snuffed like a flame as I lay curled in my hut, a mess of tears and too much blood for me to handle. I spend most of those weeks submerged in lonely streams if I can make the journey without vomiting. Of course, I battle the same…wants as the other women. It dances with the debilitating pain in a dangerously tempting, mind-numbing tango.

The visits paid by a certain someone in those weeks are almost unbearable.

The scientists told me I display symptoms of disorders that are entirely human in nature, opening up a can of worms they were eager to explore, given my mysterious conception. They did the best they could with the limited knowledge and Na’vi adapted health equipment they had. Something was wrong, that much was concluded, but to know the extent of it would require surgeries and more of those terrible internal exams. In the end, I was left with no solid answer and extensive knowledge of the human menstrual cycle and its inherited flaws.

Oh well. There is no use thinking about it today of all days, especially with the bleeding stage of my cycle about a month away. Those four weeks are worth spending enjoying the moments I’m able to function. So I brush the thoughts away, instead testing the unbroken stretch of skin across my thigh. How strange…

Jake believes today will see our journey’s end. A flat expanse of water stretches out endlessly beneath the flock of Ikrans, reaching its watery grasp to each corner of the horizon. Soon enough, his prediction manifests.

Peaking from the endless ocean is the promise of land; spires of rocks and greenery that meld into staggering mountains dance in a misty haze on the horizon. Small islands orbit one gigantic one that reaches for the heavens with jagged fingers. A wall of arching roots exploding from the sea floor keeps the islands in a circle of calm waters, filtering out the strong currents and merciless waves beyond. As our Ikrans cross the protective boundaries, I get a glimpse of shallow pools climbing the natural walls, teeming with life. Not just the splash of a tail or glitter of scaled bodies, but intelligent life. Na’vi life.

We are here.

Greenish bodies pause in acts of play and leisure to turn skyward as our Ikrans soar past. Some point, some remain unreadable from this distance. Some dive into the waters below and disappear beneath marbling azure blues and emerald greens. 

The stretch between the wall and the main island is crossed in just a few minutes. My Ikran dives to skim the surface of the water. Small bodies of aquatic life jump through the calm ripples alongside Vaana as if in competition. It’s not long before they’re lost to the sea. Standing at attention along the approaching shore is a compact network of gigantic mangroves. Their great roots dive dramatically in and out of pale sand and crystal waters. Nestled into the root system are the woven huts and platforms that make up Awa’atlu, the settlement of the most westerly Metkayina village. We’re halfway when the deep bellow of a horn echoes across the bay.

The Metkayina dive from their platforms, abandon shore-side activities and emerge from the waters atop strange creatures as our Ikrans approach an outstretched catwalk of sand. A crowd has already gathered as the first of us touch down. Neytiri’s Ikran screeches a mighty cry. I run my hands along the stretch of Vaana’s white neck, fingers following the purple and black patterns as I silently urge her to remain quiet. Our arrival is meant to appear in some confidence, but too much may strike the wrong impression. 

I slide off Vaana, feet met with the unfamiliar scorch of hot sand. Sand beaches are not common in the jungles of Pandora and are often traded for natural pools and gushing waterfalls. Even then, the sand isn't nearly as fine, nor responsive to the heat of the sun. I share a wordless look with Kiri, who falls into step beside me as we shadow her brothers. With a nod she returns, I look ahead at the approaching people, pulling my woven shawl tight around my shoulders at the sight of them. Some brandish wooden spears, some carry children on their hips. Some appear curious, others cautious. And some…some look ready to strike. Yips and cries are passed between the Metkayina as Jake takes the lead, palms outstretched and arms flourishing in a sign of peace.

The further we walk along the sandbar, the further we are closed in. The Reef People stand at all sides; we are entirely at their mercy.

It doesn’t take a second look to see a striking difference in anatomy besides the obvious green skin and markings, which closely resemble ripples instead of stripes. In both males and females, their ribcages are wider, protruding in great contrast to their soft stomachs. A jutting form branches from elbow to pinky resembling that of a fish's fins. Thin and tufted tails are traded for oar-like ones, thicker and flat. While I try not to stare at one face for too long, I’m caught off guard by the blinks of blue eyes. Their eyes are double-lidded, one layer blinking towards the inner corners before the outer layers meet in the middle. Swirling designs cover their skin, etched permanently in black ink.

It shouldn’t take an expert to understand the difference; their bodies are built for the water.

The hushed whispers set me on edge. My ears prick this way and that as my brain attempts to pick apart every conversation. One woman leans towards her friend, whispering that she is unsure why we are here. It’s one of the more tame comments, and though I wish to bare teeth at some, I know it is not wise. They are right to be unsure, right to question what they do not know.

From the crowd, two boys that I assume are similar to my age emerge. The one in front is taller, staring us down through heavy brows. Intimidating. His black braided hair is pulled into a topknot high on his head. A leather band circles his thick bicep, stitched with small shards of iridescent paua shells and practically shouting his ranking. A warrior. Strapped to his grass loincloth is an impressive blade. Behind him, his shorter companion appears more curious, albeit still on the offence. He, too, carries a blade, but his arm is bare of a band. Neither of them is marked by the swirling tattoos.

As they advance, their gazes leave Jake and Neytiri to focus on us. Kiri and I linger a step behind Neteyam and Lo’ak, who incline their heads and draw two fingers from their foreheads outwards in a sign of respect. The gesture is not returned. Kiri and I make similar gestures regardless. Still, their ruthless stares do not soften.

The pair pass behind the brothers to reach Kiri and me, the two of us no longer able to cower behind the broad shields of Neteyam and Lo’ak’s backs. They turn over their shoulders to keep a close watch. In usual fashion, Lo’ak is distracted within seconds and his eyes travel elsewhere, melting into awe at something I cannot see. Neteyam, however, is entirely invested. There’s a sort of warning in the way he watches the Metkayina boys. The tall one seems to find it amusing.

The two are unapologetic in their dissecting stares, brows raising and lowering as they take us in. The taller one’s blue eyes remain on me longer. Too much longer. His gaze is too slow as it drags over my body, too curious. When our gazes meet, the hint of a smirk pricks at his full lips. It takes a ridiculous amount of will to school myself into indifference. I couldn’t be more thankful when his friend nudges at his arm, pointing at Neteyam’s swishing tail.

“Look, what is that?” He says with a bemused grin. “Is that supposed to be a tail?”

At his loud comment, a few curious onlookers giggle and laugh. His friend finds great amusement in it. Neteyam’s jaw clenches but, unsurprisingly, he chooses to remain silent. Not interested in childish jabs, I follow Lo’ak’s gaze to the shoreline, which has caught my attention in its intensity.

Emerging with grace so admirable it's envious, a Metkayina girl approaches. The sea of people part for her without hesitation. She’s important. Small braids stop behind her ears to unravel into a glistening shroud of black curls strong enough to resist the weight of water. Beads of water trickle down her heart-shaped face, following the curves of her soft cheekbones, the bridge of her nose, the plush of her full lips. The further it trickles, the further my eyes travel. Subtle curves, short but lean. Shells that reflect different colours upon each footstep are woven together with ropey twine to fashion the most beautiful top I’ve ever seen.

She was beautiful. Utterly beautiful. So much so that I envied it more than I envied her grace—not out of spite or self-hatred, of course. It’s impossible for me not to recognise her beauty out of awe. …An awe Lo’ak shares.

She approaches the two boys, sweet face souring as she hits away the shorter one’s outstretched hand.

“Do not. Rotxo. Aunong.”

Rotxo retracts his hand, grin falling at her tone. The other, Aunong, simply shakes his head, returning his gaze to stare me down. I try my best at faking obliviousness. 

The girl turns her gaze to regard us quietly, a vague calculation in her pale blue eyes. Nobody has shown outward kindness yet, and in a way, neither has she. All she does is regain courtesy. However, there’s an aura to her that sucks me in, catching me so off guard that I smile, shoulders relaxing. She doesn’t hesitate to smile back.

Lo’ak nods his head towards her. “Hey.”

She looks away with a flustered huff that almost resembles a giggle, as musical as her breathy voice. Lo’ak’s tail swishes.

Eywa, already?

Kiri sighs at her brother's eagerness, a sound quickly drowned out by a guttural bellow.

Launching from the calm waters come three creatures, all bones and scaled, sleek skin, fish-like and foreign. Close to the base of elongated, slim jaws clustered with razor teeth spread a pair of wings wide. Blue bodies melt into fiery wings not nearly as flexible as our Ikran’s and fin-like in structure. A smaller pair sprout further down the snake-like bodies, merging into a flat tail. Over the sand bar they fly, mounted by males who, without a second glance, appear to be decorated warriors. 

The creatures dive towards the water and submerge tail first. Spiked spines peak through the surface beneath the males. The first one to emerge onto the sandbar catches not only my attention, but the entire devoted attention of the Metkayina. They yip in response to his grunt. Tonowari.

Tonowari is the chief of the Metkayina tribe. If I had not known so already, it would have been obvious in his attire. His loincloth is impeccably detailed, with beaded swirls of purples, greens, and blues. Strapped to his chest is what must be their equivalent of a warrior belt to us; a curved, thick leather strap that comes from his left hip, crossing over his ribs and over his left shoulder. A spine-like design of shells decorates the piece, and around his neck a huge display of mollusc shells that dance in the space between purple and blue. A cloak of yellow feathers lines his broad shoulders before descending into braided orange yarn. 

With each slow, purposeful stride, Tonowari digs the head of his spear into the sand. The hostility he presents is not near as much as I had expected. He instead appears confused. Surprised. Swirling patterns inked in black stem from the point of his wide nose and the curve beneath his full lower lip. The patterns dip beneath his jaw and fall down his neck to cover his chest. Vaguely, they seem to ebb and flow like the soft lapping of waves against the shore.

“Olo’eyktan,” Tonowari says by way of greeting.

Jake bows his head, repeating the gesture his sons gave to the boys. Behind him, the rest of us bow our heads to do the same. “I see you, Tonowari.”

The chief of the Reef People returns the gesture. “Jake Sully.”

As Tonowari turns to greet Neytiri under customs was no longer required under our exile, a woman emerges from the tight-knit circle, clad in a get-up as exquisite as the chiefs. The Metkayina bow their heads and bear the spears skyward as she passes. At the sight of her less welcoming face, my stomach turns, recalling Jake’s warnings about today.

The Tsahik of the clan approaches her mate, hips swishing, sending ripples down an incredible grass skirt. There’s a fullness to her hips and roundness to her pale stomach that promises the bearing of a child. A thick netting tangled with shells hugs her throat tightly, falling down to cover her fuller breasts. Similarly to her mate, facial tattoos mark her face, stemming from her nose and beneath her lower lip, although more modest. Delicate. Where his covers all of his neck and chest, hers follows a central line from her mouth, over her throat and between her collarbones. It disappears at her sternum, reappearing beneath her breasts reaching her naval. A beautiful headpiece holding a flat shell against her forehead is tucked into a thick head of wild black hair. Her eyes are wide and aware, lips parted as if something is dying to be said.

“I see you, Ronal,” Jake says before she can question anything. Neytiri echoes his words. “Tsahik of the Metkayina.”

The Tsahik does not respond, painfully silent and painfully critical in her stare.

“Why do you come to us, Jake Sully?” Tonowari asks after a long pause.

Jake looks back at his family before answering. “We seek uturu.”

Ronal’s questioning eyes turn bewildered. “Uturu?”

Her judgment is off-putting, but I do not blame her. Uturu does not just mean a place to stay for the Na’vi, it means protection. Alliance. A welcoming into one’s way of life as if those seeking it were family. Acceptance is celebrated in our cultures but not without the allowance to question.

Jake nods. “Yes, sanctuary for my family.”

Tonowari seems torn as his mate wordlessly advances towards us, searching, judging. “We are Reef People. You are Forest People. Your skills will mean nothing here.”

Ronal levels Neteyam and Lo’ak with hard stares as she breezes behind their parents. The two of them lower their gazes out of respect, not the challenge that she seems to be searching for. I chew at the inner flesh of my cheeks as she comes Kiri and I’s way. Respect her, understand her. The first indication of negativity will have the Tsahik demanding our retreat.

“Well, we will learn your ways,” Jake reasons, turning back to give his mate a silent call for help. “Am I right?”

“Yes.”

Neytiri can barely breathe out her answer before the Tsahik’s hand wraps around her tail. It slips from her grasp as Neytiri turns. Their gazes meet, hard and demanding the other to speak first, but Ronal drifts away without paying her any more mind. Instead, she reaches for Tuk’s arm to hold it high above the child’s head.

“Their arms are thin,” she announces. Tuk backs away so fast that she stumbles from the comfort of her mother, instead thumping into her father’s thigh. Ronal continues, doing the same to Kiri as she had just done to Neytiri. “Their tails are weak. You will be slow in the water.”

With an indignant ‘ow’, Kiri snatches back her tail, holding the tufted end to her shawl-draped chest. An energy of incredulousness buzzes from my friend. I place a hand on Kiri’s shoulder, squeezing softly. Don’t bite back. Let her express her concerns. Kiri seems to heed my silent plea. When her gaze travels to me and the hand on her shoulder, I have to remind myself of the same plea. Especially when her three-fingered grasp pulls at my wrist.

Ronal is anything but gentle as turns my palm skyward, eyes jumping over each finger. She pulls at my other hand to do the same, recounting the extra digit over and over as if certain she has imagined it. Jaw hard, she raises my hands skyward so hard my shoulders ache in protest. I look to the sands below in shame.

“These children are not even true Na’vi!”

A collective gasp rolls through the crowd like a ripple in a lake, upset by the plunk of a skipped stone. This, I had expected. Beyond the forests, nowhere else on Pandora has seen the uncanny forms of the Avatars and their descendants. Na’vi are incredibly accepting in appearance, but our culture has never accounted for physical mutations, something unheard of throughout history. Instead, I’ve come to learn that acceptance lies in expression; the clothes you wear, the way your hair is done, the precious stones and woven jewellery decorating your body. All things controllable. I do not fit that narrative.

“Yes, we are,” Kiri counters, but Ronal has already had enough, prowling away as the murmurs and gasps continue.

The others look on, helplessly silent as she grabs for Lo’ak’s hand. It’s a rebuttal to Kiri’s comment, proof that we are not true Na’vi. I share a sympathetic look with Lo’ak, who runs his tongue behind his lower lip to subdue any arguments. There is nothing we can do but listen.

“They have demon blood!”

The murmurs grow deafeningly loud, horrified and angry. My ears flatten as I attempt to drown out their words. Some back away, positioning themselves on their haunches as if prepared to strike. Considering the wooden spears in their hand that happen to tilt down from the clouds…I wouldn’t be surprised.

 “Look. Look!” Jake brandishes his hand, extending his fingers and waving it before the Tsahik’s face. “Look, I was born of the Sky People and now I am Na’vi. All right? You can adapt.”

Unchanging in her display of disgust, all Ronal does is drop Lo’ak’s hand, drag her eyes venomously over his father’s face, and then prowl back to Tonowari’s side. Jake spreads his hands wide and turns to address the crowd.

“We can all adapt. Okay?”

At the ensuing silence and unsure look on the clan leader’s face, Neytiri steps forward. She regards the Tsahik with her chin purposefully high, looking down the flat bridge of her nose as if the female was her lesser counterpart instead of her equal. Unsurprisingly, it is Neytiri who is unapologetic and unafraid to display her distaste for our treatment. My respect for her is endless, but I cannot help but fear for the response.

“My husband was Toruk Makto,” she begins, voice dancing between contempt for the female and pride in her mate. “He led the clans to victory against the Sky People.”

Ronal scoffs. “This you call victory? Hiding amongst strangers? It seems Eywa has turned her back on you…Chosen One.”

At the sarcastic power behind the name thrown at Jake, Neytiri’s lips curl back into a livid scowl, fangs bared. Ronal reacts in kind by mirroring the look. The two women snarl at each other. Strangely, in their clashing, the Tsahik and Neytiri are incredibly alike. It is their stubborn pride in the protection of their people that cannot coexist. Jake places a hand between the two.

“I apologise for my mate,” he says slowly, trying to appease the Tsahik without offence to Neytiri. “She’s—”

“Do not apologise for me.”

“—flown a long way, and she’s exhausted.”

“Jake.”

Jake shoots her a look. With a huff, she falls back a step to remain in line with him.

“Toruk Makto is a great war leader!” Tonowari suddenly announces. At the dizzying speed that everyone's head turns, it seems we have all forgotten his presence, entirely captivated by the unnerving clash. He steps forward, a giant hand falling on Jake’s shoulder. “All Na’vi people know his story.”

The onlookers nod slowly, humming their hesitant agreements. Tuk tugs at her father’s arm as the Metkayinan chief addresses his people. He picks up his daughter, cradling her small body to his chest tightly. The image of him holding her as if he had just carried her across a battlefield, face twisted in desperation for a godly miracle to promise her safety, is signal enough. Its time.

Slowly, Kiri and I drift to either side of her mother. We are not shy in our closeness—we have a part to play, after all. Kiri flocks beneath her mother's outstretched arm, a hand reaching up to hold the one resting on her upper arm. Neytiri’s own free hand rests on my shoulder, her thumb running over the curve at the base of my neck. The great warrior that holds us has lost all hints of hostility, eyes downcast and touch comforting. Her sons stand as our shadows, towering over us women. I look back to see Lo’ak watching his mother with convincingly sad eyes. Neteyam gives me a reserved nod.

“But we Metkayina…are not at war.” Tonowari turns back to Jake then. “We cannot let you bring your war here.”

“I’m done with war. Okay?” Jake pleads. “I just want to keep my family safe.”

His quiet, defeated voice breaks beneath the anguish. For a moment, the chief and his mate go quiet, considering his request as they take us in. Weak, hopeless, broken. That’s how we look, just as Jake had instructed us to. The Metkayina would not sway easily; he had thought right. Manipulative as it was, we had to capitalise on our desperation, drag it out and brandish it like scars of war.

“Uturu has been asked.” With great difficulty, Neytiri repeats what we have come here for. It shames her to seek help from a foreign clan. To ask twice is unbearable.

Still, they remain silent, sharing an indecipherable look.

“Do we have to go now?” 

Tuk asks the question quietly against her father’s neck. He reaches his hand to her skull, cradling it in his palm to hush his daughter with the promise of everything being okay. Clever girl. The scene captivates Ronal entirely as if she had just witnessed Eywa herself descend from the heavens. Leave it up to the innocence of a child and the threat of danger to pull on even the coldest heartstrings. 

One million words are spoken between the chief and his mate, but not one lands on my ears. Through raised brows, lowered eyes, hard jaws and pursed lips, they soundlessly speak entire conversations, going over the risks and the gains, what is morally right but what is wrong for their people. A sigh, a nod, then…

“Toruk Makto and his family will stay with us.”

My heart flutters. A breath I had not known I was holding escapes my lips. Neytiri squeezes my shoulder.

“Treat them as our brothers and sisters,” he continues, speaking to the contrasting sea of emotions that surrounds us. “Now, they do not know the sea, so they will be like babies taking their first breath. Teach them our ways so they do not suffer the shame of being useless.”

Jake chuckles softly, bewildered. To Tuk, he murmurs, “Hey, what do we say?”

Tuk looks to the chief with a beaming, utterly youthful smile. “Thank you.”

The praise is echoed between us. Kiri’s voice is an unenthusiastic whisper, barely anything more than a breath as she does the same.

“My son, Aunong, our daughter, Tsireya, will show your children what to do.” 

Tonowari gestures to his children as he speaks, first the tall boy with the wandering eyes, then the pretty girl who had told him off earlier. Tsireya beams at us, and so far the only person happy with our arrival, and I couldn’t be more relieved that she will be the one to show us our new way of life. Her brother, on the other hand, looks mortified. I’m just as displeased that he has to do the same.

“Father, why do—”

“It is decided.” Tonowari cuts him off firmly with a pointed finger and a shove of his spear into the sand. Aunong stares his father down.

“Come!” Tsireya wastes no time in skipping towards us, breezing past the boys with a welcoming smile towards Kiri and I. She takes my hands in hers and pulls me away from the confinements of the circle. At first, our arrival was unbearable, dragging out like a terrible memory on repeat to torture me. Now, the pace has kicked up, and everything moves too fast for me to comprehend. “I will show you our village.”

I smile back at Tsireya. First impressions mean nothing, I tell myself. So what if the rest of the Metkayina are hesitant to accept us? As long as I can find a friend in the chief's joyous daughter, our time here may not be so bad.

#avatar #avatar the way of water #atwow #neteyam #neteyam avatar #neteyam sully #neteyam x reader #neteyam x oc #fanfiction

[thenightcallsme]

It's been so hot lately. It gave me inspiration to draw this! Pool day and a sprinkle of spiderdads! :D

[thenightcallsme]

ATWOW | Neteyam Sully, pt. 4

" And from Neteyam… From Neteyam, I get everything, and then nothing at all."

Synopsis: In the face of danger, the Sully's must leave their clan. Neteyam is the one to break the news. Will you go with them? Who will be the one to fight your case?

Pairing: Neteyam x Fem!Ometikaya OC (Gi'anya, or Gi for short)

Contains: established OC POV, a smidge of angst???, everything is fixed in the end, little extra POV at the end from my darling Kiri

Word count: 6,617

find the rest of the chapters in my masterlist here :)

• • • • •

Dull aches of pain echo each step I take. In just one night, I have learned to find a comfortable rhythm in my stride. As comfortable as a bullet wound can get. A reality where I didn’t sport a bloodied bandage in need of changing would be worlds better, but that is not my reality, so instead, I sport the bandage with a sort of pride. It’s a reminder that I am still alive under Eywa’s tenacious guidance, and it's her caution to not find myself in stupid future situations.

Through the word of Kiri, Neteyam has asked for me. Kiri is never short of being high on life, something I envy her for, but when she relayed her older brother’s wishes, there was something dark in her eyes. Sullen, apologetic. An emotion unlike her. I mark it down to the fresh hurt of Spider’s capture, something that has hit her and Lo’ak hard. I feel it, too, the lack of his small yet determined presence saddening, the idea of what is being done to him unsettling. But even with such a plausible explanation, I am unsure. Despite my current mood of indifference and the hums that reverberate behind my lips, that look is ever present in my mind's eye, haunting an otherwise usual request.

In the past year, the Sully’s and I have made it our mission to make High Camp feel like home. To the best of our abilities, at least. Home Tree was riddled with nooks and crannies that housed our secret hangouts and held copious childhood memories. Now all of it was reduced to ash carried away in the wind. We’ve combed thoroughly through the flying mountains in search of places that would be wholly ours. The one I find my way to is more out in the open and often inhabited by other younger Na’vi. Eclipse approaches, and as I make my way up the natural steps protruding from the side of the main base, it seems all have retreated under the promise of night. Nestled at the base of a jagged overhang ahead is a small stretch of plush grass that grows from the small circle of soil. From it sprouts the gnarled, twisted foundations of a hearty tree, impossible in age and size atop its natural pot of soil, and yet here it is. 

Patches of wildflowers, mushroom heads, and glowing tangles of weeds peak through the soft grassy fingers that reach from the soil. My footsteps leave faint, glowing imprints in the ground that fade as I advance beneath a day at rest. Bioluminescent life instead lights the way to the tree. Its lush head of leaves cascades in a waterfall of fertile green, intertwining with small hair-like vines of neon pinks and blues.

Standing with his shoulder against the base of the tree is Neteyam, who idly twirls an unsheathed blade of obsidian between nimble fingers. It glides with a practised grace. Upon the sound of my approach, he sheathed it swiftly in the viperwolf hide scabbard at his narrow waist. His ears prick my way, tail swishing as he turns over his shoulder with that grin I love so much, all sharp teeth and dripping confidence. Neteyam is rarely obnoxious in his masculinity, but his lazy, lopsided grins are utterly male, and they always prod at a deep want. A need.

“Gi’anya,” Neteyam says by way of greeting.

I give him a gentle smile of my own and don’t hesitate to approach. “You called?”

He hums and returns his gaze to the sky, which yields to a wildfire of orange blazing on the horizon. “I did.”

Confirming the wary look in Kiri’s eyes is an indescribable atmosphere that follows Neteyam. His usual infectious air of ease and content is nowhere to be seen. Though he tries to not let it show, the way he avoids my gaze and his grin falls into a tight-lipped line. My stomach turns in warning.

“Kiri tells me you’ve been speaking with one of the warrior’s daughters, Eykana,” he continues. The subtle line of questioning is too casual to be his overall goal. It’s not often that he prods at my unsuccessful social life, either. “What’s she like?”

“She’s sweet,” I answer. “Very talkative, so far nice. I like her.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Good. That’s really good.”

“Mmm, but I wonder if she has another goal,” I continue. He looks over, curiously urging me to continue. “And she’s friends with Serexa and shit. They may not be close, but it still makes me think. I think her intentions are pure, but they do not hold me in mind.”

“How so?” He huffs a tired laugh. “You know you can be extremely untrusting, too much for your own good?”

I roll my eyes. “Trust me, just wait till you hear how much she talks about you. She wants you, ‘Teyam, and she’s just finding the easiest way to you.”

He shakes his head. The beads in his braids chatter against each other. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

“Come on. Really? Last week it was Naimera, before that it was Quia. Even Serexa has been nice to me. Do you not see?” At his silence, I continue. “You’re coming of age. Soon you’ll take your dad's place and you still have no other half. The girls are getting desperate.”

He sighs. “I’m not interested in them.”

“Yeah,” I murmur. “Haven’t heard that before. Very surprising.”

“Just give  her a chance.”

“I am.”

“It doesn’t sound like—”

“Neteyam.” I cut off, standing up straighter and levelling him with an exasperated gaze. “What is this for?”

He purses his lips and…cowers. Beneath my inquisitive eyes, Neteyam’s shoulders seem to inch inwards, his ears twitching towards his skull and brow pinching.  “What is what for?”

I sigh. “Asking about a girl I’ve barely had any interaction with out of the blue is strange. And I really don’t like the vibe you’re giving off.”

“Hey.” His tone is somewhat teasing, but it sounds very hollow. “Don’t insult my vibe.”

“I’m being serious.”

“I’m just looking out for you. You need more opportunities, more life.”

Despite the strangeness of this encounter, he speaks truthfully. For the Sully’s, I couldn’t be more thankful. They have given me love and somewhat of a family when no one else was willing to. I am not officially their own and am instead an emancipated orphan. But there’s this unspoken rule that speaks otherwise. When I turned up at the Mother Tree speaking an alien language and brandishing the image of the sky people, my luck was thin. Even at my younger age, you’d think most would have been sympathetic to this scarred and scared child. Jake Sully was the only one to step up. 

Jake understood the strange language I spoke and understood my fears, welcoming me into a life I should have had from the start. While Jake and his mate, Neytiri, showed me unconditional love, the rest were indifferent. The adults didn’t acknowledge me, and those my age never tried to connect. Why do you have five fingers? Why do you speak that way? Where is your family? You are not like us. These childish questions never manifested into a wish to know more about me. The Omatikaya did not owe anything to me albeit their leader's acceptance; I had no family name, no natural ties to their world.

Much of my life has been shadowed by a desire for more, and unfortunately for me, the one thing I needed desperately to be happy was not my right: connections. Yet, in all the despair, there was hope: the Sully’s. Growing up alongside them was my vantage point. We’ve been inseparable ever since. Tuk showers me with pure and unconditional love, and from Lo’ak I can always find humour in sadness. Kiri and I share a strong bond only shared between women, something I thank Eywa for every day; to not have her would be torture. And from Neteyam… From Neteyam, I get everything, and then nothing at all.

For as long as I can remember, Neteyam and I have been extremely close, being less than a year apart. Together we learned the building blocks of Omatikayan life. We hunted, we explored, we learnt to heed Eywa’s gentle guidance and connect with the world she has given. Our bond has been unbreakable from the start, and while I could never be more grateful, there’s still a dizzying selfishness that takes hold. For years, the sleazy grins, teasing words and occasional brushes of a hand have erupted a war in my mind. I want more from him, more than a friendly face.

 But, just my luck, I cannot have what I want.

“There’s something else,” I push on. “What about some friendship I have with Eykana has you asking for me to come here?”

“I just, I…” His eyes seem to land on anything but my face. “I need to know you’ll be alright.”

My frown deepens. “Alright? Is this about yesterday with Lo’ak? Look, I know I get roped into his escapades more than I should—”

“No, it’s not about Lo’ak, but I do wish you two would stop feeding into this weird echo chamber of danger…” A sigh. “Kiri told me this would be easy, the liar.”

“’Teyam, you’re worrying me.”

My heart flutters in a sickening rhythm. 

“Look, I’m not supposed to be telling you or anyone this right now, but it’s cruel not to. Knowing if you have more than us would ease my mind.” He takes my hands in his with a squeeze. If not for the horrible feeling in my stomach, I’d be a blushing, stuttering mess. “I’m leaving, Gi. Me, Kiri, Dad…all of us.”

I open and close my mouth a few times, only finding it in me to say a quiet, “What?”

“The sky people will stop at nothing to find Dad and tear him and his life apart, starting with the Ometikaya. For the safety of everyone, of all those innocent…he thinks we should leave for a long, long time.”

My breath comes hard and fast, the sick feeling accompanied by a heavy ache in my chest. I tear my hands from his. 

My whole life has been a mistake, a burden in the eyes of Eywa. It’s not often that I am treated kindly by her, but somehow, I think the Sully’s were her one gift of pity. Only now, it feels like a poor joke and everything is slipping between my fingers like solid gold dissolving into worthless sand.

“You’re kidding,” I breathe.

He shakes his head. “I am not.”

“’Teyam, I—you… I can’t—”

I shake my head vigorously, unable to understand what I hear. Jake Sully wants to remove his family for the sake of everyone else’s lives, but does that not put them in more danger? There’s power in numbers, he used to tell me when I refused the groups I was assigned to during training many years ago. I was stubborn to put trust only in myself, but in his eyes, to trust others was to be strong. Now it seems his own advice has been picked up by a strong wind and whisked away.

“You can’t leave me here,” I beg. “I can’t survive here, I can’t.”

His eyes soften. Behind the sympathy and sorrow, there’s a sign of distress. “You doubt yourself too much. You’re strong-willed, no matter what you or the others think.”

“You don’t understand.” My voice aches, a manifestation of the painful swell of my heart. “Without you and your family, I would not be here. Or anywhere.”

Pressure builds behind my eyes and nose as tears threaten to spill. I blink rapidly and look away in shame. I cannot be like this in front of Neteyam, who I’ve always held up a strong front for. Even worse, my heart is breaking right before me, ripping apart into tiny pieces and collecting at my feet. Neteyam sees nothing but a friend in me, but even amid truth, I can’t help but dream.

“Hey, hey,” he coos. “Do not cry for me.”

I sniff. Everything about this is wrong. “What am I going to do?”

“You’re going to live,” he urges, his hand falling to my shoulder with a gentle shake. “You’re going to prove yourself to the rest.”

“No—”

“You have to.”

Suddenly, a bubbling anger erupts from the pits of my churning stomach, threatening to spill. Anger towards him, or Jake, or the state of the world, I’m not sure, but it’s overwhelming regardless. I shove his hand away roughly. Unnecessarily. The look in his eyes tells me it’s a silent jab to reject his comfort. Those feline ears twitch, drawing towards his skull. Slowly, I shake my head as he silently regards me, overcome by too many things at once.

“What am I saying that isn’t clicking.” My voice has gone cold and flat, emotionless against a painful subconscious war. “I would have thought you understood me. …You don’t.”

Those words draw something from him I do not expect. His ears flatten further, tail falling to brush the back of his toned thighs. His heavy-lidded, golden eyes narrow a fraction and his brow lowers. There’s an unfamiliar vibrato in his voice, sounding not only sorrowful and desperate but frustrated, as he speaks.

“That is not true.”

Every millisecond the reality of his words closes in, boxing me into a dark corner destined for me to waste away in. Every comfort I have ever known is no longer mine. The tears are coming now, hot and angry and shameful. I shouldn’t have sounded angry, shouldn’t have pushed him away, but my destructive taste for ignoring everything wrong can only hold so long. Now it has burst, I’m even more unsure of what to do. I need to be alone. I need to think. Without another word, I step around Neteyam with ragged breath, shoving away his outstretched hand.

My tears coming harder and faster once my back has turned. Soft pinks and harsh oranges melt away on the sunset, conquered by the promise of a dark night. Luminescent freckles appear on my skin in imitation of the budding stars above. A faint and miserable call of my name chases at my heels as I descend the stone staircase, but I don’t dare look back. Moss and lichen fade blanket the rock beneath my feet. My vision has blurred dangerously, and for a moment, I warn myself to slow down; one misstep could send me tumbling over the edge. And while I listen to the survival instinct, a sad voice challenges the response.

Why slow? Why not let it happen as Eywa seems fit?

I wouldn’t be surprised if she did.

Nobody looks my way once I’ve made it back to the heart of the skyward village. By now I have managed to wipe away the tears and conceal any visible sign of sadness. However, with a close enough look, they’re still there: glossy eyes, a pinkish tint to my nose and cheeks. They’re things a friend or a mother would notice. I don’t have a mother. The closest thing I have to one is about to leave, taking my only friends with her.

It’s dark by the time I stumble into my small hut and I fumble to pull the woven entrance close. The prepared meat I had hunted earlier doesn’t even catch my attention albeit the instinctual growl in my stomach. I want to scream; I want to rip the leaves from the walls, pull my jewellery apart one bead and feather at a time, scratch at my skin and claw out my hair. Never in my life has anything ever been fair, and it sure isn’t now.

For the rest of the night, I sob quietly in my nest on an empty stomach. Some nights I eat with the Sully’s, other’s I keep to myself, though it’s more with them than not. Nobody bothers to visit and I can’t decide whether I’m relieved or not. Maybe it is for the best.

•

The next morning I am just as alone as the night. A ghostly hot sting pricks at my nose and under eyes; a reminder of the restless night I spent crying. The pleasant morning air feels like a mockery, comfortably cool and carrying birdsong. I do not attempt to eat anything so soon. So instead, I spend a small portion of the early morning isolated in my tent, weaving together a grass bracelet. Although, I do not remain alone for long.

A pair of bright golden eyes peak between the flaps of my tent, belonging to a silent body that stares at my back. After a second, a faint psst catches my attention. My ears twitch towards the sound. Turning around, I see little Tuk with a beaming, mischievous smile. An ache pangs in my heart at the sight of her, but for her innocent sake, I try not to let it show.

“Good morning, sweet thing,” I hum.

The greeting is invitation enough. She strides into my tent with purpose. “Momma wants to see you.”

My fingers fall short of the knot I’m about to tie. “…Neytiri?”

She chews on her bottom lip nonchalantly as she swings her hips, hands clasped behind her back and eyes wandering. “She said to come now to our tent. And to be quick.”

“O…Okay.” I smile a little more to hide my confusion. “Lead the way.”

Tuk skips ahead as she leads me down a path so familiar I could walk it with my eyes closed. The walk isn’t far. In Home Tree, I was purposely homed close to the Sully’s after their realisation of their children’s love for me. It is no different in our new settlement. When I do not walk fast enough, the little Sully girl falls back to match my pace, tugging at my fingers and pulling at the beaded accessories falling from my loincloth. Every step is more nerve-racking than the last. It’s not often that Neytiri calls for me.

The sudden sight of their tent makes my head swim. Will Kiri be there? Lo’ak? …Neteyam? I’m not sure I’ll be able to face any of them so soon. Especially Neteyam. Thankfully, the boys go out together on pleasant mornings like this for a fly and a hunt. As we cross the threshold of their tent, my suspicions are true. There is no Neteyam and Lo’ak. Only Neytiri, Jake, and Kiri. The latter sits on an overhead beam that holds up the supports of the communal space in their intricately designed hut. Smiles are not unusual for Kiri, but the one she wears now is incredibly big, juxtaposing the last state I saw her in. I give her a small wave.

“That was quick.” Neytiri turns at the sound of Tuk and I’s approaching footsteps. She scurries from my side to join her sister above.

I bow my head slightly in greeting. “Neytiri. You wanted to see me?”

She clicks her tongue absentmindedly. “You are not busy today, are you?”

“No…” I answer slowly with a shake of my head. I cannot for the life of me predict where this conversation is going. Does she have a job for me to do?

“Perfect. Pack anything that is necessary to you.”

I open my mouth to speak, find no words, and then try again. “…Pack?”

She nods with a hum. “Pack, yes.”

“For…?”

Faintly and slowly, a smile tugs at the corner of her lips. It’s ghostly, as if she doesn’t want to give away the amusement she seems to find in this. “For our departure. You’ve been told we must leave, I hear. I hope I heard correctly.”

I’m not supposed to be telling you or anyone this.

My heart stops dead at her implication and I fight down the urge to weep in her arms, fearing that I heard her wrong. She is not referring to her family’s departure. She is not asking me to join them. She just cannot. But, truthfully, I know she is. For a moment, all I can do is stare up at the tall feline woman with wide, puzzled eyes. What was it that told her the decision was right? Or rather, who…

Neteyam told her; it couldn’t be anyone else. He was the one to tell me against the wishes of his parents. He was the one to witness my world crumble away. Kiri knew he planned it, that much was true. Nonetheless, the topic must have come from him. My moment caught in thought seems to amuse Neytiri further. Her smile truly begins to shine and Jake steps forward to place a hand on my shoulder with a gentle squeeze.

“We’ve seen how much you mean to our kids, and how much they mean to you,” he says with that kind, guiding voice. “Your bonds are strong and we won’t deny you it.”

“You’re okay with me leaving? With your family?” I breathe, still in disbelief.

“We want you to come.” Jake smiles. “My kids fight a hard case.”

“Thank you,” I breathe. “Really, you don’t know how much this means to me.”

“You can show us in time,” Neytiri says. “Now I suggest you hurry. We depart this afternoon.”

My heart is still racing as I make my way back to my hut, this time with Kiri at my side. She practically tackles me with a hug so big you would have thought we were saying goodbye. I hug her back and sink into the freer feeling. Although, while I am almost excited to leave High Camp in search of something else, I am not ignorant of the greater reason. The Sully’s are in danger, and wherever they go, it will follow. It doesn’t bother me one bit. I’m willing to show them how much I care for them, even if that means endangering myself.

“I’m so so so glad you’re coming,” Kiri announces for the fifth time. “I love my family, but sometimes I get tired of them. I could never get tired of you.”

I snort. “It’s not hard to find anyone less tiring than your brothers.”

She laughs her light, breathy laugh that I love so much. Then, a mischievous glint enters her eyes. Kiri circles me as we walk, tail swishing, eyes mischievous. “Speaking of my brothers… You should have heard Neteyam last night.”

I only raise a brow so as not to seem too interested. I pride myself on my ability to disguise my fears, my hopes and my desires. Letting people in sometimes scares me. But then there’s Kiri, who finds her way in against my will. I have never explicitly admitted to her my feelings for Neteyam or indulged in her fantasies; unfortunately, my closest friend is just incredibly understanding. Too understanding. She knows me best.

“He came storming in, already late for dinner, and we were all sitting around waiting,” she continues, knowing I secretly love to hear it. “Dad couldn’t even get a word in about his tardiness before he just blurted out that you were coming. He was all angry from the get-go before anyone could even argue. Mom and Dad tried to talk him down and say it was a risk, but he would not hear it. Lo’ak and I helped out—even Tuk. It only took a few minutes of convincing, by my my, everybody was shocked.”

“He shouldn’t have put that much effort in,” I say with pursed lips. “I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did last night. I cried and pushed him away when he was just trying to be nice.”

“So I heard. But don’t stress over it, Gi, he was just worried for you. Because he loooves—”

“He does not love me,” I cut her off.

She tsks. “You are blind. But seriously, don’t worry. We know why our home sometimes doesn’t feel like your home. Sometimes I see it myself. The looks, the mumbles. They think I’m strange. I’m only a Sully in name, so I’m not immune.” She shrugs away the thought. “You told Neteyam he doesn’t understand, right?”

“…Yeah.” My voice is full of guilt.

“In the moment, I can see that, but trust me, he understands. He does not feel what you feel, but man,” she rolls her eyes with a huff. “He likes to act all tough and unassuming but sometimes I think his feelings are dictated to yours. Poor thing. His heart is too big for him to handle.”

I laugh at the absurdity. Part of me finds a thrill in the possibility which I hurridly remind myself is nothing more than a girlish wish, for a man to show such care out of undying love. It’s just friendly. “Who would have thought, huh?”

“I’m bored of talking about the mighty warrior,” she says, dropping her voice to mimic her brother’s. “You know, sometimes I wish my parents just adopted you like they adopted me.”

“Well you were a baby,” I reason. “Someone had to. They also knew and loved Grace and I’m just…nobody’s daughter.”

Kiri shakes her head. “I will never understand why that matters.”

I sigh. “I just like to live vicariously through you.”

“You don’t need to live vicariously through me, you’re basically a part of the family,” she argues. It’s light-hearted, but suddenly, she’s frowning in thought. “No matter. Soon you’ll be a Sully regardless.”

I shove at her shoulder as she playfully bumps into me. “I thought talking about him was boring you.”

“Hey, I might be meaning me, not my brother, as we said years ago. Getting bored of the lacklustre males and growing old together, remember?” Her voice is a fun-loving mumble. “But fine, I see where you’re mind lies.”

“Kiri.”

“Fine! Be ignorant. Anyway, let me tell you about where we’re going while I help you pack.”

I’m both surprised and understanding to learn our destination. The Metkayina, an oceanic tribe found on the Eastern Sea reefs. To reach them is a few day’s journey by air, a journey I’m both resenting and restless for. Our ikrans are to be taken with two rucksacks per person. The scantness of my jewellery and clothes allows me to pick quite a few while making room for plentiful weapons and supplies and reliable food. 

Kiri helps me pack as she gushes about the sea people we have yet to meet. She paints their world in vibrant colours and magnificent seas full of the unknown. Each word is more elated than the last. Her enthusiasm is overwhelming, and soon enough, contagious. 

While she couldn’t sound any happier, Kiri is no stranger to sadness. My understanding of her character does not let me miss it. When she gets like this, she’s usually compensating for something, something being the home she has to leave behind. Again. I have little fondness for High Camp and let go of my longing for Home Tree a long time ago, but I have copious amounts of fondness for her. My other half, my second self. My sister not in blood or name, but through a spiritual connection that transcends this life and the many to come. In that fondness, I find secondary sadness.

The announcement of our departure and the ceremony that follows is a mind-numbing blur. It’s felt deep in the heart of the clan, invoking a shared, grateful sadness for their selflessness. ‘Goodbye’s and ‘good luck’s come endlessly. To my surprise, some of them are aimed at me. Many of them come from Eykana who hugs me and squeezes me and tells me there will always be a place in her heart for me. She doesn’t speak to or of Neteyam more than once. There is not nearly enough emotion in the goodbye he receives from her. It is sad, yet simple. What I get from her is greater. 

Did I misread her? 

The question is pointless. Of course I did. In my self-loathing and learned acceptance of always coming second in the hearts and minds of others, I categorised her as just another girl using me to get to the Sully boys. A sadness I didn’t expect to feel today is felt by that realisation. A part of it feels like another joke; it’s just my luck to finally find the promise of a real friend outside of the Sully’s, only for my world to be turned upside down in an instant, pushing that promise away. In my sadness, I make sure to hug her extra tight and whisper to her how much she will be missed. Surprisingly, it’s the truth.

At the foundations of the Spirit Tree, all of the Ometikayan clan gathered, hushed into a deathly silence as Jake knelt before one of our greatest warriors. Tarsem. He is known to be wise beyond his young years, courageously brave and headstrong for the people’s best interest. A cape of bustling red feathers strung from twisted, sharp tusks has been lifted from Jake’s shoulders and placed on Tarsem. I had stood a few feet away from the scene, Kiri’s hand held tightly in mine. The two of us watched on intently, blinking away the thin film of tears that clouded our eyes.

With a mighty cry, Tarsem raised his blade high, aiming the curved edge towards Jake’s bared heart. Neither of them broke their stare as the blade drove down, stopped by a twist of Tarsem's wrist to connect his knuckles with Jake’s chest. With a nod, the blade was pulled away, angled just enough to carve a shallow gash across the skin of his pectorals. The blood that trickled down his chest was a symbol of death in steed of his selfless exile, the spirit of the Olo’eyktan now reborn in Tarsem. The Na’vi erupted into bittersweet cries.

Silent among the cheering crowd, I had reached up a hand to squeeze Neteyam’s shoulder. At the height of the coronation, half my heart ached for Jake, the other for Neteyam, whose entire life purpose has been snatched away before his eyes and bestowed upon another. The title of Olo’eyktan is no longer his by right. It was a path once so solid, so black and white, now unsure. Though his stare never wavered from his father, his own hand reached up to rest above mine. The gentle sweep of a thumb across my knuckles told me he understood where my thoughts lay.

We remained as such for a moment as Tarsem raised his hands to the heavens, Kiri’s fingers woven tightly through mine, my other hand on Neteyam’s shoulder. Lo’ak, who consoled a sniffling Tuk, lingered at his brother’s other side. Soon enough, the celebrations call for a close, and we find ourselves accepting what is to come.

Jake is first to approach the sea of blue bodies and golden eyes, which part for him with bowed heads and whispered prayers. Neytiri falls into stride behind her mate with a quivering lower lip and soft sobs. Tuk searches for her mother’s hand. Kiri retreats next. With a squeeze of my hand, Neteyam urges me to follow. The saliva dries from my mouth as I do so.

A surrealness hangs in the air as we follow Jake and Neytiri to our ikrans. They have been prepared for us already, each perched on the cliffside beyond, bags tightly secured to their saddles with rope nets. As we emerge from the onlooking Na’vi, a tall figure falls into my stride. 

“Apparently Metikayan celebrations are unrivalled, and lucky for us, their season of celebration is now.”

Throughout the ceremony, we had not spoken much, our interactions refined to wordless comfort. Netayam speaks to me now with a calm ease as if last night never occurred. He doesn’t look at me, instead leaning his head down a little as we walk as if we’re sharing a scandalous secret. I crane my head to look up at him.

“Do you even know what they celebrate?”

“No, but if they’re celebrating, I’m all ears.”

I huff a soft laugh. “I’m not surprised.”

At first, I decide I want to forget about last night. Kiri’s understanding of my greed for information, especially about her brother, told me everything I needed to know: he cares. Enough has been said. But as we continue to walk in silence, a nagging feeling begs me to speak. I have to hear it from him and satisfy the starvation that can I never ease.

“How’d you do it?”

Neteyam looks at me then, quiet and thoughtful. He understands what I mean. After a moment, he looks ahead again. “It didn’t take a lot of convincing. The others helped. Mostly Kiri—she’s better than any of us with words.”

I smile at the thought of her. “You didn’t have to.”

“I did,” he challenges.

“Why?”

“Because…” This time, he regards me with that wide, effortlessly seductive smile. Our ikrans screech at our arrival. “Because you’re one of us. It’s simple. I should have known what to do the moment I knew we were leaving.”

I barely have time to give him a warm look of appreciation before he’s striding forward to help his mother with Tuk, braids swaying with every stride. I stare after him for a moment longer before I make a beeline for my Ikran. As she bows her head to nuzzle, I can’t help but replay his voice over and over in my head. As if sensing my wandering mind, my Ikran, Vaana, whines.

“Did you hear that, beautiful?” I coo to the beast as I hoist myself onto her back.

Vaana gives me a humbling look as if to tell me I’ve heard those words many times before. She’s right; I have. Forcing down the swell it sends through my chest, I decide it is best not to read into the little things. Neteyam and I’s friendship means more to me than my hopes. I would never let it waste away because I made a move on him he couldn’t reciprocate, driven by a deluded mind. Life can be so unfair sometimes. Its temptations are purposefully cruel. As I connect my queue with my Ikran’s, she gives a huff that echoes my sigh, as if telling me she agrees.

•

Twittering bird chatter is the sign that the second day of the Sully’s travels is coming to a close. Overhead, small feathered animals fight for the best nesting spot for the coming night, calling out for friends and family while shooing away others. The Sully’s and their companion have found a spot deep within a thick wall of trees that surprisingly leaves room for a large family. It so happened that they were a large family. With their beastly Ikran’s surrounding their camp, they light a fire and cook the day’s hunt. Talk was not rare for them, and it wasn’t now, but behind the banter and the easygoing conversations, there was an ignored tension. It emitted from Kiri’s father the most. He felt guilty to see his family taking refuge in a forest days away from their true home, she knew. She also knew there was no use consoling him.

Instead, she takes a seat beside her younger sister, Tuk, weaving beads and leaves through small braids per her request. Across from them sit her brothers, Neteyam and Lo’ak, deep in a playful argument. Though, she wouldn’t be surprised if one of them began to strangle the other. Stood to the side are her parents, vigilant despite their need for sleep. Between Neteyam and her sits her dearest friend and sister on a spiritual level, Gi’anya. 

Gi drifts between conversations with Kiri and Neteyam, unable to deny the occasional question and remark from the latter. It fills Kiri with an amusing pleasure to watch their interactions. She so badly wants to play matchmaker, and while the two of them refuse to admit what everyone knows, she tries her best. Kiri, stop. You’re delusional. We’re. Just. Friends. Whatever. The two of them made it extremely difficult for her, but deep down, she kind of enjoyed the chase if it meant she could poke and prod them here and there.

Soon the sun is setting and the fire is snuffed to protect their whereabouts. Jake urges them all to sleep, and with little Tuk nodding off within minutes, the rest follow so as not to wake her. For a while, Kiri submits to a deep, dreamless sleep. This part of Pandora’s forest is silent in a soothing way. The faint hum of nocturnal beetles sing Kiri unintelligible lullabies. However, she is soon disturbed.

Something draws Kiri from her sleep with a jolt, as if a hand had reached into her subconscious and ripped the roots of her being from slumber. Slowly and silently, she sits up to survey her surroundings. Everything around her is as it should be; Tuk fast asleep in her mother’s arms, her father turned towards wherever he thought danger would emerge from, Lo’ak sprawled out with a soft snore,  Neteyam and Gi…

Eywa!

Kiri’s breath caught in her throat.

The pair sleep with ample space between one another, much to Kiri’s disappointment. Neteyam lies on his back, one hand on his stomach and the other laid out beside him. To his right is Gi’anya, who has curled up on her side facing away from him. Between the two of them lie their queues, which is uninteresting and unavoidable. Na’vi queues in close quarters were unable to activate on their own; the desire for Tsaheylu had to be mutual, and not to mention, in a waking moment. Forcing a bond on someone or accidentally creating one by standing too close was impossible. With that in mind, what Kiri witnesses, she is sure is a dream.

A faint, purplish glow illuminates the ends of the long, braided queues as the inner tendrils snake outward. Slowly, they advance towards the other, so slow that Kiri wonders if she should do something. She is overcome by a contradicting swarm of thoughts. Part of her is awestruck by the impossibility, and another part of her selfishly wants to let the bond happen. Maybe Eywa has grown sick of their back and forth, Kiri thinks, and has decided to push them together herself. Then there is another, smaller part of her that told her to pull them away, but she disregards it. This was a sign if she had ever seen one. Kiri watches unblinking as the first few of Neteyam’s tendrils brush hers…

Suddenly, Kiri’s brother lets out a soft huff. He turns his head to the left, and after a second, the rest of his body follows. His braided queue has been thrown across his chest, so when he turns to his side, it pulls away with him. The queues were no longer close. Their glows fade as they relax. Neither of them stir.

Kiri stays upright in disbelief. What she just saw… Had their queues connected in time to solidify a bond, or could the smallest contact have left the hint of one? Was she meant to tell the two? What an awkward conversation that would be. Or had she woken in time for Eywa to tell her the matchmaking was not in vain? 

With that, Kiri reassumes her spot on the grassy forest floor, torn on what the right thing to do is. If it was not meant to be, would it have happened regardless? A mistake in their proximity? No…It was meant to be. It had to be. 

• • • • •

A/N: trying to introduce other character perspectives. Also did not proofread this well enough cause I'm lazy. But here it is!! lmk if you want to be tagged in future parts

@jackiehollanderr

#avatar #avatar the way of water #atwow #neteyam #neteyam avatar #neteyam sully #neteyam x reader #neteyam x oc #fanfiction

[thenightcallsme]

na’vi language i would love to see being used in fics:

yawntutsyìp - darling, little loved one

yawne - beloved

tìyawn - love

‘awsiteng- together

yawnetu / yawntu - loved one, lover, beloved person

atan - light, source of illumination

syulang - flower

muntxate - wife, female spouse

muntxatan - husband, male spouse

txe’lan - heart

tsamsiyu - warrior

oeyä - my (possessive)

sevin - pretty (mainly for female)

sayrìp - handsome, good looking

lor - beautiful, pleasant to the senses

yuey - beautiful (inner beauty)

narlor - beautiful visually

tsawke - sun

oare - moon

letsranten - important

tanhì - star, bioluminescent freckle

hì'i - small, little

flrr - gentle, mild, tender

tìmuntxa - mating, marriage

kalin - sweet to the taste

paskalin - honey (term of endearment)

tstew - brave

mowan - pleasing, enjoyable (physically, sexually)

manga - hey, hey you

nga - you

ngatsyìp - little you, you little

fahew - smell

onlor - good smelling

lu - be, am, is, are

vonvä’ - butthole, asshole, dickhead (requested)

nìwotx - all (of)

mei - wet

fìtxan - so

source:

[thenightcallsme]

“Do I make you nervous” with Simon Riley?? Is there a previous or a next part to that? It’s beautifully written but I feel like I may be missing something! you are very talented ✨

Why thank you :)) No, unfortunately it's just a one-shot for an OC I made up in my head, so I see what you mean. I initially wrote it down without the intention of posting it (same as all my other works) so there are definitely bits and pieces that make it sound like there's more when the background is just in my head haha. I might be interested in expanding on it at some time, tho

[thenightcallsme]

ATWOW | Neteyam Sully, pt. 2

"Every hiss and yell is echoed by the cries of Tuk. She calls to her sister in heart-breaking anguish, who begs her to remain calm. Nobody is calm."

Synopsis: An experiment to improve the Avatars as a child who managed to escape lab confinements and seek refuge among the Ometikayan clan, you are a nobody. You have no family name, no natural ties to the land of Pandora, yet the Sully's took you in. Life could not be the same without them, so when they are forced to leave to protect the clan, fate settles in, and you find yourself journeying alongside them in search of the foreign lands and ways of the Metkayina Clan. Threats of the sky people grow closer every day. Not only is everything you know tested by their advances but by the relationship you have with Jake Sully's oldest son. ...Neteyam.

Pairing: Neteyam x Fem!Ometikaya OC (Gi'anya, or Gi for short)

Contains: established OC POV, mild violence, crude language

Word count: 4,757

find the rest of the chapters in my masterlist here :)

• • • • •

In fleeting moments, amidst the chaos that has been a year dictated by intergalactic war, I find peace among nature. Pandora’s landscapes never cease to amaze me despite never knowing anything else. Today is one of those fleeting moments. Jake, Neytiri and Neteyam have left on a routine scouting mission, leaving Me, Kiri, Lo’ak Spider and Tuk to entertain ourselves. Not much is expected at High Camp today, so instead of the usual supply gathering and children watching, we take off into the floating islands.

The five of us scale a network of interlocking roots connecting the islands. Whispy clouds snake over the green landscape below, ascending between the suspended masses of rock. Shadows from the larger islands above cast abstract shadows over the forest. In the distance, swarms of birds and untamed Ikrans alike weave through trees and dangling roots, carefree in their nature.

Spider leaps over a lap in the root path, careful not to slip on the lush plant life. Being human, he is incapable of the many athletic feats we Na’vi can achieve, but Spider is an enigma for his species. Growing up alongside us has taught him better agility and reflexes than humanity could teach him. Their dependence on machinery had doomed them. Spider was not like them. As he makes the jump, he cuts off Lo’ak, who laughs, impressed.

“Go, monkey boy, go!” Kiri calls.

“Guy’s wait up!” Tuktirey whines.

I’m unsure of where we are heading. It is not unusual for us to explore the forests of Pandora, but usually, we are exploring together. This time, Lo’ak has enticed us with a vague proposition. You have to see this, at least once. Just once. I was both intrigued and off-put by his persuasions, but upon the other’s interest, I decided to join anyway. Knowing Lo’ak, someone had to be there to ease the blame if he did something stupid, and being the oldest out of us five, who better than me?

After finding our way to the ground, Lo’ak leads us through a dizzying maze of trees and plants. Following his lead, we cross a fallen tree across a small river cutting through the rich soil, only wide enough to allow single file. Fluffy mosses carpet the bark, indicating it had fallen a long time ago. Tuk comes to a stop in front of me. She pants as she crouches down beside a large plant in the height of its bloom. Blue tendrils sprout unfurling pink petals. With a giggle, she runs her small fingers through the tendrils, which come to life and adhere to her skin. I give her a light tickle on her back and whisper for her to continue, though it’s not before Lo’ak notices the distraction.

“Tuk! Keep up!” her big brother urges, throwing his arms wide in exasperation.

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, okay.”

“Bro, why’d you bring her anyway?” Spider questions.

Lo’ak, with a shrug of his shoulders, comes to a stop. “She’s such a crybaby. She’s all, ‘I’m telling. You’re not supposed to go to the battlefield, I’ll tell Mom if you don’t let me come.’” 

“The battlefield?” I repeat in disbelief. “Lo’ak.”

Lo’ak gives me a deadpan stare as if to seem unbothered, but the way his ears twitch downwards gives him away to his guilt. “Yeah, so?”

“So? Your dad would skin us, and I don’t feel like testing him now of all times.” I sigh.

“Oh, come on, what happened to the unbothered you?” Lo’ak counters. “Neteyam is rubbing off on you too much.”

I purse my lips. The jab is lighthearted, but sometimes I wonder the same. In my youth, I was reckless. In fact, sometimes Lo’ak is so alike me, I wonder if I’m looking at a walking catalogue of my past mistakes. On the day that the sky people returned, my mindset sobered. I had become so comfortable in my life without them, too comfortable that, upon their return, an anxiety I did not know I had buried deep down resurged. I’ve spent every day since living on edge. My influence is not great in our clan, but if even the smallest thing I can do helps towards defeating them, Eywa knew I would do it tenfold. 

But she also knew that I missed being carefree.

At my silence, Lo’ak’s tone loses the hard, defensive edge. “You’re not going to turn around, are you?”

“And miss out on seeing the battlefield when I’m this close?”

A smile that is not short of relieved pricks at the corners of his mouth. “That’s what I like to hear.”

It only takes two more minutes of weaving through the jungle before Lo’ak comes to a halt, turning to face us with a proud grin. With a flourish of his arms, he points to the canopy above. Spider whistles in morbid amazement.

Suspended by the embrace of gnarled vines is an old hovercraft. The glass of the front windshield is caved in, the remaining jagged edges coated in grime and fallen leaves. Old designs are overshadowed by the flora that attempts to reclaim the hunk of metal. Rays of pale sunlight shine between the four turbine rotors on either side. From the base of the tree that the vines hang from are great, protruding roots. The arched formation allows us to reach the vines and climb. Lo’ak takes the lead and scales a rather thick one and hangs from the rail. As he does so, Kiri dismisses herself, more interested in the plant life than the ghosts of Pandora’s past.

“Are there any dead bodies up there?” Tuk asks.

Lo’ak peers into the craft, leaning out to say, “Just one skeleton in the pilot seat. The rest must have been cleared out a long time ago by the animals.”

I climb up the vine and tentatively place one foot inside the haul. The rusted metal groans in protest but holds. Satisfied, I swoop through the frame, but not without warning the other two to be careful.

Inside the metal frame of the craft are worn seats charred from an engine fire years ago. Equipment and leaves are scattered throughout and glass sprinkles the floor where windows have smashed. Lo’ak has found himself in the cockpit, sitting in the empty seat and pressing the unresponsive buttons. The array of electronics is confusing to him but makes some sense to me. In my days living with the human scientists, they taught me how to operate machinery—on a smaller scale, obviously. But there were many times when I found myself in the hauls of these things, pestering the co-pilots on its inner workings. 

The human’s ability to guide and command the craft mesmerised me. Hours of my childhood were spent inspecting the way their small fingers glided across the panels and eased the yoke, memorising the use of each one. Over the years, that information has faded, but some of it was still there.

“I haven’t been in one of these things since I was a kid…” I murmur.

Lo’ak is initially confused, then… “I didn’t mean to—”

I shake my head, cutting him off. “No, it’s fine. I had happier memories when flying.”

“Did you fly one?” Tuk asks as she peers around my leg, examining the yellowed bones of the past pilot. 

“I wish. No, but the controls make sense to me. If it still worked, first…” I reach over the pile of bones and flip a switch on the overhead controls. Unsurprisingly, the craft isn’t responsive. “…fuel cock is on. Then the ignition is turned off aaaand the throttle needs to be at about a half…” The throttle, which is found between the seats, is a trouble to move. My fingers then glide across the control panel, picking out the buttons and switches I can remember. As I do so, I mumble beneath my breath the order of startup. “Then the propeller speed lever is set forward, supercharge witched to auto… now ignition foes on—oh, wait, the carburettor air intake filter is closed before that.”

As I ramble, the three watch with interest. Most notable is Lo’ak, who watches my every move carefully as if I’m meant to instruct him. Spider seems indifferent and Tuk is half interested in the view from the shattered windshield than aircraft nonsense despite being the one to ask.

I end my display by releasing the booster-coil button and screwing down the primer pump. “And now you have a running Aerospatiale SA-2 Samson.”

“Impressive,” Lo’ak says. “You reckon you could fly one?”

I just shrug. “I could keep it airborne longer than you could.”

He makes a face as if the very reasonable answer is a challenge. Tuk brushes past me to examine the unintelligible jumble of controls.

“Hey, what does this—”

As Tuk reaches for an enticing red button, my drops and I pull her away without a second thought. “Maybe not that one, huh?”

She frowns. “Why?”

“It’s the release for the cluster bombs.”

“But it can’t do anything—the thing can’t even start.”

“I know, it’s just…” I shake my head. “After years of being unexploded the detonators and charge deteriorate and they get more sensitive. There’s no research on how our environment speeds or slows the process, so we need to be extremely careful. In fact, I think we’re done here.”

Lo’ak rolls his eyes and jumps to his feet. The craft sways. “Come on, Gi, don’t be boring.”

“She has a point,” Spider counters. I give him a look of thanks before turning back to Lo’ak with a ‘see?’.

“I’m bored anyway. Can we find something else?” Tuk asks.

Exasperated, Lo’aks only answer is to shoo her towards the exit, which we climb down one by one. Beyond the thick canopy, the brightness of the blue sky has dimmed into a haze. Midday is nearing; so is the eclipse. I chew at my lower lip in restlessness. There’s no time to find something else because we’re always supposed to be home by eclipse. Even leaving now would be cutting it short.

Our one problem is that Kiri is nowhere to be found. I’m not worried that she’s gone far, but the tightly packed plant life makes it exceptionally hard to find things. Spider and Lo’ak have clashing ideas of where she went and decide to split up. Spider and I go one way while the other two go their own. I hum softly as I follow the human boy through outstretched branches and leaves. Lively tendrils from those explosions of pink flowers suction to my legs, arms and tail as I push through, enticing me to sink into the fertile soils and lush foliage. No wonder Kiri would rather waste her time connecting with life rather than dwelling on the spoils of the past. 

“Kiri?” Spider calls out, his voice slightly muffled from the oxygen mask. He pushes past a ridiculously huge leaf that hangs down from a spindly tree. He calls her name once more, stops, comes to attention, and then advances with purpose. He’s found her.

Laying in the confinements of a quiet clearing is Kiri, curled up on the grass. The pink-tipped, leafy fingers sprouting from the ground sway around her unnaturally—there’s no breeze this deep in the forest. Instead, the grass sways in ripples around her, as if she was the source of a breeze. Woodsprites drift around her, shimmery and iridescent in the fading sun. The sight would, on some occasions, be strange—the seeds were far from the Tree of Souls. Kiri, however, seems to attract them as if she were the tree herself.

Spider drops to her side and shakes at her shoulder, repeating her name. When she doesn’t wake at first, I step forward and stroke her hair from her face in worry. With an exceptionally strong shake, Kiri is finally pulled from her deep sleep. She brings herself up with heavy breathes. You’d think she just ran a marathon.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She lowers her gaze. “I was doing that…thing again, wasn’t I?”

Spider gently brushes away a sprite that drifts before him. “Yeah, you were.”

“Kiri?”

“Kiri!”

Lo’ak and Tuk’s distant voices reach the clearing. Soon after, they become visible. They both usher us over hurridly and we are quick to comply. The dimming sun sets me on edge the closer it reaches the obscuring planet. Our pace is rushed as we make our way back to High Camp. Although, we don’t reach the ascent to the flying mountains before Lo’ak comes to a sudden stop.

“What is it?” Kiri asks.

Wordless, he leaps down from the snaking roots and onto the forest floor, coming to a crouch to examine something in the soil. Spider follows suit. Nervous at the time that is being wasted, Tuk starts to pace, reciting how much trouble we’d face coming home after the eclipse.

“It’s way too big for a human,” Lo’ak murmurs to Spider.

The comment piques my interest. Pressed into the damp is a large footprint, as Lo’ak said, too big to be human. Not only that but there are no markings of the four or five toes from the Na’vi and Avatar. Instead, the imprint is shaped to resemble the sole of a shoe. Native Na’vi didn’t wear shoes. Those who did were Avatars, and even then, most of the Avatars we knew had adopted the lifestyle down to the clothes.

“Avatars?” Spider voices the shared thought.

Lo’ak purses his lips and surveys the surrounding bush. “Maybe. But they’re for sure not ours.”

Then, wordlessly and in sync as if their ideas were telepathically shared, Spider and Lo’ak rise, carefully creeping forward. Each footstep falls in tandem. Us three girls stand to follow. Kiri tilts her head in confusion.

“What are you doing?” She asks, only to be shushed by her brother.

“We’re tracking.”

Silently, we follow the two off the root path and into a thick underbrush. The ease I’d felt on this day off has vanished, replaced by a heavy, sickening feeling in my stomach. Every sense has suddenly heightened; the smallest rustle of a leaf in the wind has my ears perking up and swivelling in its direction. I find myself with my hands hovering at my sides tensely as if ready to fight. But fight what, I’m not sure. All I know is that instinct is there.

Ahead, the boys slow at a break in the thick foliage, stopping short of a dense fern. The five of us peer through the leaves and at a clearing beyond, greenery illuminated by the blinding, but still dying, sunlight. Swallowed by the roots of a budding tree is a train car looking piece of modified metal. Beneath rust and moss and fungi, the shapes of windows and a door are briefly visible. I can’t get a good enough look, my vision obscured by a towering blue figure sporting human clothing and human weapons.

An Avatar. One unlike those I knew.

It was undoubtably a male. His closely cropped, dark hair fades into the long braided queue protruding from the base of his skull—a trait of the Avatars, unlike the queues from the top of a Na’vi’s skull. His clothes are that of human military; a tactical vest over a khaki tank top, camo trousers tucked into combat boots and a black throat mic. In his hands was a hefty gun at the ready. A second was strapped to his thigh. No doubt his person was riddled with weapons. 

As the Avatar approaches the cart, three more follow; two males and a female. Tattoos, human clothes and human weapons are adorned by the Avatars. None of them are our own…instead belong to the sky people who reinvaded Pandora a year ago.

“We are never supposed to come here,” Kiri whispers to her brother. “Dad is going to ground you.”

Lo’ak shushes her. “Can you stop?”

“For life.”

Lo’ak ignores her, instead nudging at Spider. “Bro, we’ve got to check this out.”

Despite my appaled look and hissed, “Absolutely not,” the two breeze past me as if I was nothing but a thought. I hang back with bated breath and a racing mind as the two advance, bows in hand. Being the oldest here, every mistake they make will fall on my shoulders. Just being her is enough to earn me a piece of Jake’s mind. You should know better. I can already hear the scolding echoing in the distance as if the future was calling to me. A warning. And yet here I am, frozen and afraid to cause a scene as Spider and Lo’ak close in on the Avatars. Kiri gives my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. There is nothing we can do.

Up ahead, the two linger behind the overgrowth of a fallen tree. They lean in, sharing whispers I cannot hear as one of the skinhead Avatar enters the metal shed. The female leans through a broken window to watch. After a few minutes, he exits and motions to another Avatar sporting a pair of sun visors. The deepness of his voice reaches my ears and hints at an accent similar to Jake’s, but his words are incomprehensible.

Relief relaxes the tension in my shoulders when Spider and Lo’ak retreat back to the bush, silent and unnoticed. Lo’ak’s hand hovers over his throat mic. There’s a second of hesitation as he shares a look with his human friend, and after a long, regretful sigh, he presses the mic.

“Devil Dog, Devil Dog, this is Eagle Eye, over.” There’s a faint hum from his earpiece as someone responds. “I’ve got eyes on some guys. They look like Avatars, but they’re in full camo and carrying ARs. There’s six of them. Over.”

There’s a second of pause as he listens to the response. He scrunches his face as he prepares to answer.

“Um… We’re at the old shack.” Another pause. “Me, Spider, Kiri, Gi…and…and Tuk.”

Spider grimaces. So do I. Now we’re all in trouble.

“Yes, Sir, we’re moving out.”

Lo’ak rises as he gives his final answer. The rest of us follow, taking no time to retreat as quickly and quietly as possible. Once enough brush is passed, we rise from our crouches and move at a faster pace through the forest. Tuk races a few steps ahead.

“You’re going to be in so much trouble,” Kiri says snidely.

“Shh, Kiri, stop.”

I shoot the both of them a look. “If anyone’s getting in trouble here, it’s me! I’m supposed to be responsible for you lot, and I let one thing slide, just one—”

“Guys,” Tuk interjects, swivelling to walk backwards. “Come on, it’s almost eclipse.”

I’m only half paying attention to what she’s saying, frowning as that uneasy feeling returns in full swing. It has lingered since discovering the enemy Avatars, but now my fight or flight senses are screaming at me. My gaze wanders ahead of Tuk in sudden fear. A shadow of blue catches my attention, visible and then not within a second, but enough to confirm my fear.

But it’s not in time to warn Tuk.

From behind the trunk of an ancient tree, an Avatar springs from hiding. Tuk is tackled into her grip. She screams and everything erupts into chaos.

The four of us snap into offence and from a line, Lo’ak and Spider drawing back armed bows with snarls and me brandishing my obsidian blade. If it were just us four against one Avatar, I would have no reluctance to launch forward and sever her head from her neck. When four more Avatars emerge from hiding armed to the teeth with alien weapons, I instead remain still, knowing better. Lo’ak and Spider share my concern. That doesn’t stop us from raising our weapons.

Loaded ARs are trained at our heads. In broken Na’vi, the Avatars shout at us to lower our weapons. For a moment we are all at a standstill, screaming at each other with weapons drawn. But we are at a disadvantage. The humans possess adult Avatar bodies, tall and packed with muscle, brandishing automatic weapons that would riddle us with bullets before a single arrow could land. The fight is unfair. With Tuk in their hold, it’s not a fight worth attempting.

“Put it down, or I’ll shoot you!” One of the males yells at me

With a toothy snarl to mask my fear, I slowly lower the blade, drop it to the ground, and then raise my palms in submission. Lo’ak is next to heed their words and urges Spider to do the same. The second his bow meets the grass, the Avatars are moving, launching at us with vice-like grips void of any kindness. A substantially large male takes my wrists in his hands. I cry out as his knee slams into the back of my thigh, forcing me to the ground and switching both wrists to one hand so he can grab my queue. Pain seers through my skull as he squeezes. Every hiss and yell is echoed by the cries of Tuk. She calls to her sister in heart-breaking anguish, who begs her to remain calm.

Nobody is calm.

“Nobody fight back,” I remind the others at the sight of Spider’s exceptional struggle. “Do as they say.”

The Avatar holding me gives my wrists an unnecessary shake, taking the rest of my body with the movement. I slam into his back. “Shut up and don’t move!”

With a proud and purposeful stride, the skinhead slowly makes his way through the circle of captives. His gun remains at the ready. “What have we here?”

Another Avatar comes behind me, taking one of my hands from his companion’s hold. He stretches out my arm with unnecessary strength and spreads my fingers. He then reaches for Kiri with his free arm to do the same. 

“Hey, Colonel, look,” he says in their language, “check it out. Four fingers. We got half-breeds.”

With nothing more than a thoughtful nod, the Colonel makes his way towards Lo’ak. “Show me your fingers.”

Slowly, Lo’ak brings his hands forward, uncurling his clenched fists to wave taunting middle fingers in his face. The Colonel only smiles.

“You’re his, aren’t you?” Jake’s. There’s no mistaking who he means. Lo’ak snarls, causing his grin to widen. “Oh, you’re his, alright.” The male holding Lo’ak steps back, allowing his Colonel to grab Lo’ak’s queue. He’s forced to stand beneath the pressure, groaning in pain. “Where is he?”

“Sorry, I don’t speak English…” Lo’ak says slowly in Na’vi despite knowing their language. “To assholes.”

He snarls and shakes Lo’ak, replying in butchered Na’vi. “Where is your father?”

A gut-churning cry of pain is urged from Lo’ak as the stranger Avatar clenches his queue harder. His knees buckle slightly beneath him. Kiri’s lip quivers at the sight. Tuk cries harder. Despite the look of pain etched into his face, he does not yield to the stranger. Brave. Stubbornly brave. It irks to Colonel, evidently so in the quiver of his upper lip into a short-lived snarl.

“Really? You want to play it this way?”

He unsheaths a blade and everything is thrown into chaos.

“Stop!” I blurt out. “Enough! We have done nothing for you to attack us like this! Do you not have any courtesy?!”

The Colonel’s head swivels so fast in my direction you would think it would fly right off. His grip loosens on Lo’ak and the blade lowers. “What.”

I scowl. “You heard me.”

“Oh, I heard you alright. I hear you perfectly.” His attention is entirely divided. It’s enough to have him stepping away from Lo’ak and in my direction. “You speak English very well.”

“It’s my first language,” I murmur.

He hums in some sort of agreement. “I can hear it in your accent. Impressive. Why don’t you tell me, instead…”

Knife still drawn, the Colonel approached me with interest glinting in his otherwise emotionless eyes. There’s something incredibly offputing about this Avatar. I’ve seen many before, but none of them carry themselves like he does. Otherworldy is the first word to come to mind, and of course, he is from another world, but it’s not admirable or captivating. It’s terrifying. 

“Where is your father?”

I simply shrug. “Who knows? I never met him.”

He snarls. “Don’t play games with me, girl.”

“I’m not lying!” My voice rises when his knife nears. “I was a lab experiment!”

His knife lowers. Thankfully, he believes me. “Project Hawk, huh? I didn’t know anyone survived that fiasco. Fine then, you’re no use to me.”

Without a second thought, the Colonel seizes me, spinning my body so that my back is pressed to his armoured torso. A muscular arm locks around my neck. Any more morsels of strength and my windpipe would begin to close. My breathing hardens and I beg in protest as another Avatar takes my two wrists and binds them crudely with strange electric cuffs. The hard edges rub my skin raw. Satisfied with my immobilisation, I’m spun to face the Sully’s. Tuk wails and the others watch with wide, horrified eyes as a knife is held at the ready against my stomach. A noise escapes me in fear.

“Don’t fight back,” Kiri begs quietly. “We just need some time.”

“Don’t hurt her!” Spider demands.

The Colonel walks me towards Spider in order to address him. “What’s you’re name, kid?”

I share a look with Spider. He’s uncertain. I simply nod. Buy time. I mouth the words. The vague movement of my lips registers, and without further instructions, Spider speaks.

“Spider,” he answers breathlessly. “Soccoro.”

I feel the Colonel’s breath pause. “Miles?”

“Nobody calls me that.”

“Well, I’ll be damned…” he murmurs. “I figured they sent you back to Earth.”

“Can’t put babies in cryo, dipshit.”

There’s a moment of silence as the two stare each other down. It’s less challenging and more…unsure. The Colonel knows who Spider is and from the confusion beneath a fogged oxygen mask, the familiarity is not mutual. Rightfully so; I’ve never seen these Avatars in my life.

“What are we doin’, boss?”

The question from Spider’s captor is only answered by a silent, emotionless glance as the Colonel is pulled from his far-away stare. Instead, he reaches for his throat mic, speaking codenames to someone none of us can see. He waits patiently for a callback. The conversation that entails is not surprising, but my heart sinks nonetheless.

“We are standing by for extract, over. Be advised, we’re bringing in high value prisoners.”

The Sully’s and I share worried looks. Our time was being cut extremely short, and with our help also on the way, there was no telling who was going to get here first—the sky people or Jake. 

The Colonel and the rest of his Avatars promptly bind the others with handcuffs and drag us carelessly through the jungle and back to the battlefield. It’s swarming with more Avatars than I was aware of. Upon direct orders, our feet are swept from beneath us, knees forced into the dewy grass. No amount of pleading even amounts to a more comfortable position. My knees quickly begin to ache. 

Fear settles in the longer we wait. The more I try talking to the Colonel, the less impressed he is with my fluid understanding and ability to speak English. Cold steel presses against the soft flesh of my stomach at my endless rambling.

“You shut it,” he hisses. “You’re English just made this a hell of a lot easier, and it would be a real shame if I had to reward your usefulness with a knife in your throat.”

“My throat?” I scoff. “You’re full of shit, you know.”

He hums. “Fine, you call my bluff. I need your throat. But your fingers? You could do with losing one. Call it a favour, perhaps, to help you blend in with the savages.”

I don’t talk after that. 

As the sun finally disappears behind the distant planet, the Colonel watches something on a tablet given to him by his comrade. It was a file extracted from the old mech body suit used to fight Jake many years ago. From the sounds of the Sully’s familiar voices and the cracking shatter of glass followed by dying wails, it’s the video file documenting Spider’s dad, Miles Quartich’s, last moments. The Colonel doesn’t speak as he watches the violence. Once the video finishes, the sun has entirely disappeared.

#avatar #avatar the way of water #atwow #neteyam #neteyam avatar #neteyam sully #neteyam x reader #neteyam x oc #fanfiction

[thenightcallsme]

ATWOW | Neteyam Sully

"Neytiri cradles her youngest child as Lo’ak’s erratic Ikran lands beside his mothers. He seems unharmed, another relief. Then comes Jake Sully, their father, our Olo’eyktan. He, too, is unharmed. Strangely, there is another figure straddling his Ikran, haunched over in pain. When the last recognisable Ikran lands instead unmounted, I realise who it is. Neteyam"

Synopsis: An experiment to improve the Avatars as a child who managed to escape lab confinements and seek refuge among the Ometikayan clan, you are a nobody. You have no family name, no natural ties to the land of Pandora, yet the Sully's took you in. Life could not be the same without them, so when they are forced to leave to protect the clan, fate settles in, and you find yourself journeying alongside them in search of the foreign lands and ways of the Metkayina Clan. Threats of the sky people grow closer every day. Not only is everything you know tested by their advances but by the relationship you have with Jake Sully's oldest son. ...Neteyam.

Pairing: Neteyam x Fem!Ometikaya OC (Gi'anya, or Gi for short)

Contains: established OC POV, vague descriptions of wounds, crude language, tension between Neteyam and reader cause he's just so sexy,

Word count: 3,001

A/N: Okay, so, a little backstory... I'm currently in the process of writing out the Avatar: The Way of Water movie in a way that fits in my own OC because my hyper-fixation is so crippling that I have to lay down my thoughts precisely (I've lost sleep over this and decided to let it happen). I really want to focus on life with the Metkayina and the more social aspects not shown in the movie. Also need to think of a name for this series

find the rest of the chapters in my masterlist here :)

• • • • •

Children laugh as they sprint through the sprawling caves of the sky islands, chased after by young healers and human help in the absence of their parents. Their carefree nature is pure. Envious. Our numbers have reduced to those unable to fight and who have more use in High Camp, including me and my closest friend, Kiri. We linger at one of the mouths of the cave on woven mats to escape the potent unease. Kiri and I try not to speak on it, especially considering who’s out in the unknown. 

“I’m definitely faster when I’m blue.”

I snort.

Kiri laughs airily at the remark made by the human sitting between us. Our fingers glide over his bare beige skin, drawing lines of blue that resemble our Na’vi colouring. We are careful not to stain his blonde dreadlocks. The human boy helps, digging into a wooden bowl of past and marking feline stripes on his arm.

The human boy is Spider, a member of our closely-knit circle. As a babe, the boy was one of the sky people, then orphaned by the great war. The friendly human scientists who remained on Pandora took him under their wing. Many of the orphaned children have integrated themselves into our communities, but it is Spider who is most lucky, finding his spot beside the most powerful family in the Ometikayan tribe. Our luck is shared.

“Skxawng,” Kiri teases.

“No, seriously.” A soft, mechanical inhale sounds from his oxygen mask. “Hear me out.”

“We’re hearing,” I sing.

“The animals respect me more,” he continues. “They don’t think of me as human.”

Kiri leans back on her haunches to hang her face before his, taunting him with a look of disingenuous wonder. “Wait, you’re human?”

“Ha, ha,” Spider deadpans before flicking blue-covered fingers in her direction. She makes a noise as she avoids the spray.

I’m about to join in the taunt, only for my airs to prick at a distant, familiar sound. Kiri is close to follow, perking up, eyes darting towards the cave entrance. A piercing shriek, the beat of something heavy… Spider notices our activated senses, and after a moment, his human ears hear it, too. Ikrans. A battle call blown through a hollow tusk echoes through the cave systems, signalling the return of our warriors. My heart both swells and sinks. It is rare that they all return untouched. Never has a raid ended in great despair for me, but who is to say that will always be the case? That being said, I am not heartless. The losses we have faced and will continue to face hit me hard. Greif is felt equally through our people.

My gaze turns skyward as people begin to call out through the stronghold. Sure enough, the low hum and shrieking cries are followed by creatures of beastly beauty. Mounting their backs with weapons raised and heads held high are our warriors.

“They’re coming! Kiri, Gi, Spider!” Tuk, the youngest of the Sully children, comes bounding over to us in glee. “The war party’s coming back!”

I’m first to my feet, Kiri pulling Spider in tow. I bend down to usher the young Na’vi girl along. She’s excited to see her brothers and parents. I share the sentiment. But even she, as young as she is, understands that the news may not be pleasant. Her hesitance is evident in the way she clenches and unclenches her fists.

I give her shoulders an encouraging squeeze. “Come, Tuk, let’s go.”

The decorated Ikran’s burst through the central, cavernous drop suspended above a sea of trees. The creatures come to graceful halts on the uneven rock floor. There are too many to look at, too many to sift through. I almost worry that I’ll miss them, but just as the worry comes, it vanishes. 

My eyes find Neytiri first, the mother of the Sully children. With a grace, she drops to the floor. It's a grace that is gifted, not learned. Eywa knows I envy her for it. Tuk breaks from my hold and launches herself at her mother. Neytiri cradles her youngest child as Lo’ak’s erratic Ikran lands beside his mothers. He seems unharmed, another relief. Then comes Jake Sully, their father, our Olo’eyktan. He, too is unharmed. Strangely, there is another figure straddling his Ikran, haunched over in pain. When the last recognisable Ikran lands instead unmounted, I realise who it is. Neteyam.

The oldest Sully boy slides off his father’s Ikran, somehow graceful in his troublesome state. Grazes and grime cover the striped flesh of his thighs, forearms, hands and chest as if he was thrown down a gravel hill. He limps after his father with a strained wince etched deep into his angular face, which he hangs in shame. At the sight and Jake’s aggravated ‘fall in’, Kiri and I hang back a moment longer.  The urge to run to Neteyam’s side is strong, but my fear of Jake clouded by the tribulations of war is stronger.

Jake rounds to face his oldest son, nearly crashing right into him. Lo’ak hangs a step behind awkwardly. “You’re supposed to be spotters. You spot bogeys, and you call ‘em in. From a distance!”

The further Jake raises his voice, the flatter Neteyam's ears fall against his skull. For a solid moment, Jake directs a firey stare at his son in silence as if testing him. Neteyam does not yield. Though he is silent and holds the stare, there is no lack of emotion in his eyes. 

“Does any of this sound familiar?” Jake then turns to Lo’ak with a scowl. The younger son quickly averts his gaze. “Get here!”

Lo’ak steps forward. No doubt he finds the outburst humiliating. At the division of attention, I let out a breath I unknowingly held and rush to Neteyam. He doesn’t look at me as my hybrid five-fingers ghost over his bare back. Although he refuses to regard me in this state, he lets me examine the damage. The grazes are frequent and deep on his protruding shoulder blades. As my fingers lightly press his right bicep, he winces. There’s the faint promise of an angry bruise blossoming beneath an armband.

“Jesus, I let you two geniuses fly a mission and you disobey direct orders.” Then, to my surprise, Jake turns his attention to me. My hands refrain from examining a bleeding gash on Neteyam’s forearm. “Gi, can you go help Mo’at with the wounded? Please?"

Jake Sully speaks to me in a voice unlike the one he uses as he scolds his sons. It is soft and sympathetic to my willingness to help, but he believes the willingness is misplaced. His standards for Neteyam are high, sometimes too high. Though he may have disobeyed orders, he was only young and clearly sorry. The denial of attention seems to be a punishment. One that I do not think he deserves. So not to appear hostile or argumentative, I give Jake a sort of puzzled pout.

“But Neteyam is wounded.”

Jake’s look is torn between the urge to command and the understanding of my worry. Neteyam turns to me, his golden gaze soft. His touch as he gives my shoulder a squeeze is even softer, a silent thank you. 

“It’s fine,” he says quietly.

“Kid, please.” Jake’s attention is then caught by Kiri and Tuk, who circle their other brother in search of harm. Tuk pulls at Lo’ak’s forearm with an intensive, seeking purpose. “Tuk, Kiri, go with her. Go!”

After a moment of looking between Jake and Neteyam, I sigh, giving the latter one last look before breezing between the two. Kiri and Tuk follow with looks as annoyed as mine.

Neteyam purses his lips. “Dad—sir, I take full responsibility—”

“Yeah, you do. That’s right. ‘Cause you’re the older brother, you gotta act like it…”

Jake's anger and Neteyam's apologies fade into the overwhelming chatter of the war party’s return. Kiri and I weave through the mess in silence, keeping a close eye on Tuk as we head for Mo’at’s tent. It’s the biggest within the healing sector. The peak of the patchwork tent is suspended by the floating rocks above, as all tents are. A gentle fire crackles away within a makeshift stone hearth. Kiri and Tuk’s grandmother welcomes the three of us with relief as she tends to a bullet wound in a male’s shoulder. Her tired gaze tells us she’s seen many of the wounded already—four more hover around the perimeter in anticipation of the great Tsahìk’s magical hands. Kiri and I are quick to help, passing around salves and bandages as we meet their needs. Tuk simply watches.

Soon enough, the last three are being treated. I am the first to finish, my patient simply needing two stitches in a short, yet deep wound. He bows his head in gratitude before disappearing into the bustling post-war activities. I lean back on my haunches and slump my shoulders with a sigh. Today has not been the busiest aftermath of a raid. I thank Eywa for that. Usually, I get tens of patients at a time instead of the two I have just seen.

Not a minute passes before three more figures approach the tent, two of them Na’vi, one of them human. I’m almost praying to the Great Mother that they are a simple touch and go before I realise who they are. Spider comes in first, followed by Lo’ak, who still looks a little butthurt. Finally, there’s Neteyam, who takes his time limping into the warmth of the tent. One of his hands cradles his ribs just below the sternum.

“Lucky you,” I say as he approaches. “You just missed the queue.”

His smile is strained. “Lucky me, indeed.”

I laugh a little before shaking my head as I take in the state of him. Beneath the hand on his abdomen, an angry bruise springs to life. I assume he broke a rib or two. “Jesus, ‘Teyam, look at you. What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

Lo’ak, who lingers at the entrance, seems to sink into his shoulders at the remark.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble. “Now shut up and sit down.” 

Neteyam does so without question, taking up the empty spot before me with no lack of struggle. He huffs and winces before finally settling with his legs crossed.  The sight is now familiar.

Our routine for the past year has been consistent. During the raids, I wait impatiently at High Camp gathering supplies, watching the children whose parents aim to protect the clan, and tending to the few wounded who did not get the luxury of a simple stitch and fix. Then, as the day drew to a close, the war party would return. Wordless and defeated, Neteyam would seek out the tent I worked in. It wasn’t often that anyone else besides his grandmother treated his wounds. Half of me was selfishly thrilled that it was me he searched for at the end of the day, relaying what had happened and the frustrations of his job while I poked and bruises and cleaning cuts. But another half of me was devastated we had found some rhythm at all.

Neteyam shouldn’t be out on those missions. He shouldn’t be returning to me clutching a wound and wiping at fresh blood. No one in the clan should be doing the same.

While nineteen was the cusp of being considered a man in our culture, he was still just a boy forced to grow up in the midst of war. All the years he was meant to spend carefree were marred by Jake’s ruthless training. A killer had been carved from his gentle nature. A lot of the time, that nature is overshadowed by his duty to protect, but it was still very much there, and I cherished any piece of it I could leach from him.

Mo’at and Kiri both finish attending to the last of the wounded. Assuming the Tsahìk would wish to survey her grandson, I refrain from starting anything just yet. Sure enough, she drifts to occupy the space I leave for her, a bowl of water and a washcloth in each hand. She hands one to me and instructs that I see to his front, while she examines the cuts on his back. He bares his teeth as she begins, not without scolding him first.

“Covering for Lo’ak again?” I ask so quietly, still earning a scoff from Lo’ak nonetheless.

Neteyam shrugs. “When am I ever not?”

I take the honed planes of his jaw in my hands and angle his face upwards once I kneel at his side. I have to hover over him to get the best view, and even when sitting, the Sully boy towers over me. My eyes are trained precisely on a gash on his cheekbone. However, my peripheral allows me to see his solid stare trained on my face. Neteyam is shameless and not easily embarrassed unless you were his father. Sometimes the intensity of his stare is unnerving, and it is no help that he could be blind and still make my brain a pining mess.

The cut on his face requires little attention, and soon enough, I am lowering myself to inspect the injuries on his chest. Still, his gaze is dead set on my face. I work for a second longer in silence, gently pushing at his shoulder to straighten his chest. When my fingers brush over his skin, something brushes over mine: his tail against my thigh. Brief and gentle is the contact, seemingly accidental, but it's still slow. Deliberately slow. Painfully slow. It still takes every ounce of my willpower not to blush.

“You’re kind, ‘Teyam,” I continue. “Too kind. Sometimes, people need to learn from their mistakes, and while they may appreciate your…distribution of blame, you’re only dragging yourself down.”

He tilts his head. “You don’t know what happened.”

My fingers pause, hovering the washcloth millimetres from his skin as I meet his eyes. “Would it make a difference?”

Silence. Then…

“No. You’re too good with words, you know. It’s very…confronting.” He lowers his brows. There’s a touch of playfulness in his voice to cushion the truth. “I don’t like it.”

I shrug nonchalantly. “I was sent here to be your rude awakening. Glad it’s working.”

“It’s always working,” he mumbles.

I swap the bloodied washcloth for a pot of salve and silently apologise for the sting it’s about to cause. The second I smear my fingers across the gashes, he lets out a hiss, his shoulders tensing. I halt for a moment, continuing when he doesn’t refuse my help.

“Aw, want a kiss on the boo-boo?” Spider teases. Lo’ak snickers.

“I would use yalna bark,” pipes up Kiri, who has been organising the balms and explaining to Tuk the use of each one. 

Tuk comes to Neteyam’s side with a cup of something given by her sister. “Here, drink.” Neteyam does so hesitantly. 

“Oh, you would?” Questions Mo’at with a challenging tone. “Who is Tsahik, hmm?”

“You are, Grandmother, but Yalna bark is better.”

Kiri sighs when her grandmother denies the outstretched pot. She defiantly continues to use whatever she already has on hand, and as she lathers Neteyam’s broken skin, he winces with an exclaimed ‘Ow!’ in protest. 

“It helps with the sting,” I add. 

Though Mo’at refrains from acknowledging my input, it’s enough for Kiri to silently slip me the mixture before retreating back to her organisation. While his grandmother is still merciless in her treatments on his back, he seems to relax a little when I use the calmer salve.

“How’d you manage this?” I murmur, running my free hand over the bruise on his ribs. It's meant to bring attention to my question, but as my fingers find the curves and inclines of taught muscle, my focus is entirely deterred. My heartbeat thumps in a joy I should not be finding. He tenses up at my touch.

“Well, I managed all of this trying to stop Lo’ak from blowing the wrong person's head off with the ARs.”

“So I was right, hm?”

“Yeah, yeah, now shush.” The rebuttal is defensive, yet humorous. “Got caught in the crossfire of an ambush and was knocked from the top of some crashed machinery onto some rocks. I guess I went ribs first.”

I scrunch my face and hum in thought. “If there are any more raids within the coming week, I suggest you don’t go.”

“I’m the Mighty Warrior, Gi. You expect me to stay behind?”

The Mighty Warrior. It’s a title placed on Neteyam by the general public; it is no secret that he is a prodigy in combat. Talented in his natural athleticism, he has excelled at all things physical since birth. Neteyam is known to be as skilled as his mother when airborne, even more skilful with a bow in his hand. Years ago he was named the youngest of the Omatikayan clan to make a clean kill on a sturmbeest hunt—I remember it to be the birth of the title. 

At first, it was in jest. A reminder of the greatness Neteyam was expected to live up to. Only, it got serious quickly. Mighty Warrior. He takes the name lightly and often jokes about it, but sometimes there’s this guileful grin on his face when he says it. He loves it, deep down. It’s a small reward for his hard work climbing the merciless ranks.

“I expect that if the Mighty Warrior goes on another raid too soon,” I counter with a voice slow enough for him to understand the warning, “the Mighty Warrior will not be so mighty in the end.”

“Listen to the poor girl,” Mo’at urges with a not-so-gentle brush of salve. “She’s worried sick in the face of your cockiness and all you can do is parrot those titles in defence.” She turns her gaze to me. “For his sake, humble him a little more.”

“Please do,” Kiri mutters.

“I like my happiness.” Neteyam glares at her. “How about she humbles you and you see how brutal she can be?”

• • • • •

A/N: finally finding the courage to commit and post this, but don't hold me to any standards of completing this entire thing, ya girl is easily distracted and caught off guard by new obsessions that demand to be written out. Take The Arcana for example. I've abandoned that ship to sail this one. Also, exams and sickness are fucking me rn so these are pre-written chapters. Enjoy

#avatar #avatar the way of water #atwow #neteyam #neteyam avatar #neteyam sully #neteyam x reader #neteyam x oc #fanfiction

[thenightcallsme]

please use "read more" for super-long posts

Help a poor girl out I'm new to posting on Tumblr what does this meannn 😭😔😔 I thought this was a built-in feature you couldn't turn on or off and it's just constantly on (like when ur reading something and it says expand, so u click on it and the whole post comes up??) any help would be appreciated 🙏

#send help #im just a girl