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gardenladysworld · 1 day ago

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Starbound Hearts

Status: I'm working on it

Pairings: Neteyam x human!f!reader

Aged up characters!

Genre/Warnings: fluff, slow burn, oblivious characters, light angst, hurt/comfort, pining, NSFW, human x Na'vi, size difference

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

Tags: @nerdylawyerbanditprofessor-blog, @ratchetprime211, @poppyseed1031, @redflashoftheleaf, @nikipuppeteer@eliankm, @quintessences0posts, @minjianhyung, @bkell2929, @erenjaegerwifee, @angelita-uchiha, @wherethefuckiskathmandu, @cutmyeyepurple

Part 20: To suffer

Part 21: To expect

Neteyam barely heard them anymore.

The elders sat in a semi-circle before him, their voices rising and falling in measured, persuasive tones, each argument laced with expectation. Words like duty, legacy, and strength of the People filled the air, weaving a net meant to ensnare him, to box him into the future they had so carefully constructed.

And yet, all he could think about was you.

Last night, you had fallen asleep against him, your smaller frame curled so perfectly against his, your fingers tangled loosely around some of his braids. You had traced over each before exhaustion claimed you.

“Neteyam.”

His name was spoken with quiet authority, cutting through his thoughts like the edge of a blade. Mo’at’s gaze settled on him, unreadable yet heavy with knowing.

“You have not spoken.”

Neteyam inhaled slowly through his nose, fingers curling into his thighs where he sat. His posture remained relaxed, his expression carefully neutral, but the tension coiled beneath his skin was suffocating.

“I have heard you,” he said finally, voice even.

One of the older warriors, a man who had fought beside his father in the Great War, leaned forward. “Then you must see reason. It is time to choose, Neteyam. Your kelku is built. The People look to you as the next Olo’eyktan. You cannot delay this any longer.”

Neteyam forced himself not to react. This had become a routine—a ceaseless, unrelenting campaign to bend him to their will. Every day, they came with new arguments, new pressures, reminding him that his time to choose had come.

And today, they had escalated their efforts.

Three women stood to the side, poised and expectant. The finest choices, they had said. The strongest, the most skilled, the worthiest of standing at his side.

He had barely looked at them.

It wasn’t that they weren’t beautiful—they were. Any other warrior in the clan would have been honored, humbled, to have even one of them presented as a potential mate. But Neteyam felt nothing. Not even curiosity.

He could feel them watching him, waiting. He knew their names. K’shi, a fierce huntress with a sharp mind and sharper aim. Tey’ra, graceful and cunning, with a voice that could command a room. Sa’nari, a skilled healer, gentle yet strong.

All three of them were worthy. But they were not you.

He clenched his jaw as Mo’at spoke again, her voice softer now, but no less firm. “You must consider, ma‘itan.”

There was something different in her tone—something only he recognized. He had told her, or rather, she had seen the truth in him, and yet here she was, pushing like the rest of them.

And yet—

Neteyam felt nothing. The elders spoke in turns, their voices a steady hum of tradition and expectation. They listed the virtues of the women before him, the strengths they carried, the ways they could serve as his equal.

“…would provide you with strong heirs, as the bloodline demands.” “…a union of two powerful lines would strengthen the People.” “…each of them would stand proudly at your side.”

The words twisted in his gut like a blade. He could feel their eyes on him—the women, the elders. Even his father, who stood near the back of the gathering, arms crossed, his silence more damning than any words.

It had been this way for weeks now.

Since their argument, the rift between them had only deepened. It was in the way Jake’s jaw tightened whenever their gazes met. In the way his voice was sharp when he addressed him. In the way he never truly looked at him anymore—only past him, through him, as if he were a problem to be solved, a puzzle piece forced into the wrong shape.

Neteyam felt the weight of it with every step he took in the village.

And yet, he endured. He endured because at night, when the sky stretched endless above him, when the stars blinked down like silent witnesses, he could return to you.

To the stolen moments in his kelku or in the outpost, where you curled against him, where your fingers traced absentminded patterns over his chest, where your voice—soft, teasing, grounding—brought him back to himself.

He endured because when you looked at him, you did not see what the elders did. You did not see duty or legacy or a symbol of what he should be. You only saw him.

And that was the only place where he could breathe. But here, in the suffocating air of the council space, surrounded by the weight of expectation, there was no air left for him. He clenched his jaw.

The women before him stood tall, waiting, their gazes steady. He felt no anger toward them. They were not at fault. They had not asked for this any more than he had. But they were waiting for him to choose. And he already had. Neteyam took a slow breath, steadying himself. He straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin, and met the eyes of the eldest council member.

“I will not choose.”

Silence.

The air shifted.

One of the younger elders flinched, as if he had just spat in their faces. Others narrowed their eyes, their expressions darkening like a storm rolling in over the plains.

Jake let out a slow, sharp exhale.

Neteyam did not look at him. Instead, he held his ground, his golden eyes unwavering.

The oldest among them, a man who had served under his grandfather’s rule, let out a heavy sigh. His expression was unreadable, but Neteyam could see it—the quiet resignation beneath his weathered gaze. “The blood of Toruk Makto runs through your veins,” the elder murmured. “You cannot run from what is expected of you.”

Neteyam inhaled slowly, feeling the weight of every word.

“I am not running,” he said.

He just refused to be caged. The air crackled with tension. Jake’s voice cut through it like a blade. “This isn’t just about you, Neteyam.”

And there it was.

Neteyam finally turned to face him.

His father’s expression was unreadable, but his stance—the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his hands clenched at his sides—said enough.

“This is about the clan,” Jake continued, his voice controlled, measured, but laced with something simmering beneath the surface. “About what’s best for the People.”

Neteyam’s throat tightened. “Do you truly believe that I am what’s best for the People?”

Something flickered in Jake’s gaze—too fast to catch. But Neteyam saw it. The hesitation. The doubt. He had felt it his entire life.

He clenched his fists. “You have always wanted me to be more, to be better,” he said, his voice quieter now, but firm. “To be the leader they need.”

His golden eyes darkened. “Then why do you not trust me to decide what that means?”

Silence.

Jake’s jaw tightened.

Neteyam exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He had nothing left to say. Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away. Away from the elders. Away from their expectations. Away from his father’s cold, lingering glare.

The path beneath his feet was damp from the early morning rain, the thick jungle around him still whispering with the fading breath of a storm. The village behind him buzzed faintly—low voices, the rustle of woven fibers, the steady hum of disappointment pressing against his back like weight.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp. He had enough.

He had stood there and listened to their names, watched them stand in a line like he was expected to pick one and say, this one, this will be my life. Like they knew him better than he did. Like they had already carved out his future and all he had to do was nod.

Neteyam walked fast, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead, his tail flicked harshly from side to side. He just wanted to go home. Not the kelku he was raised in. Not the space he shared with his siblings. That place no longer felt like his.

His home was the one he built with his own hands—up in the high trees, away from the clan’s watchful eyes. The one that smelled of you. He was almost to the base of the tree when he heard it—his father’s voice.

“Neteyam.”

He didn’t answer.

“Neteyam, stop.”

Still, he kept walking.

Jake’s footsteps quickened behind him. “We need to talk.”

“No,” Neteyam muttered, eyes narrowing. “We don’t.”

Jake finally caught up, stepping in front of him to block the path. Neteyam stopped sharply, chest rising and falling as he stared at his father—unflinching. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Jake’s eyes searched his face, but whatever he was looking for, Neteyam didn’t give it to him. “You’ve been different,” Jake said, voice lower now, controlled. “For weeks.”

Neteyam’s response was quiet, clipped. “I’ve been doing what’s expected of me.”

Jake frowned. “That’s not what I mean.”

“Then say what you mean.” The air between them was tense, sharp as a blade. Insects buzzed in the trees above, the only sound in the silence that stretched between father and son.

Jake exhaled through his nose. “You barely speak to me unless it’s about duties. Orders. You’ve been avoiding me.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightened. “I speak when necessary.”

“Necessary?” Jake echoed, disbelief in his voice. “Since when do we only talk when it’s necessary?”

Neteyam laughed under his breath, bitter and tired. “Since you made it clear that’s all I am to you—a necessity.”

Jake flinched, barely perceptible, but Neteyam saw it. His father tried to speak, but Neteyam cut in. “You want me to be Olo’eyktan,” he said, voice low, controlled. “You want me to follow your path. Your rules. You want me to make the choices you would make.” His gaze hardened. “Even when it’s about my life.”

Jake straightened, crossing his arms. “Is this about today? About the women?”

Neteyam stepped to the side, trying to move past. “I’m going home.”

Jake moved again, blocking him. “Not until you tell me why you built your own kelku.”

Neteyam’s breath caught.

Jake’s eyes narrowed. “You never did it after your dream hunt. You stayed. Even when you had the right. But a month ago—suddenly, you move out. No explanation. Just gone. You built your own space like—like you were starting a new life.”

“I am,” Neteyam snapped, sharper than he meant to. “And I didn’t owe you an explanation.”

Jake’s voice turned colder. “That’s not how this works. You’re still part of this family.”

Neteyam’s eyes flashed. “Then why don’t you treat me like it?”

Jake’s mouth opened, but no words came. Neteyam stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low growl. “You think I don’t notice the way you look at me now? Since that argument? You glare. You judge. Every decision I make, you question. I used to come to you with everything, and all I got back was silence—or orders.”

Jake’s expression tightened, guilt flickering behind his eyes. “I never meant to push you away.”

“But you did,” Neteyam said, quieter now. “And now you want to know why I left?”

His golden eyes locked with Jake’s, hard and unflinching.

Neteyam crossed his arms over his chest. “I told you. I needed space.”

“Bullshit,” Jake snapped, the word sharp in the quiet jungle air.

The tension crackled like dry leaves underfoot. Neteyam’s voice dropped. Cold. Controlled. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a soldier.”

Jake’s eyes narrowed. “Then stop acting like one.”

The silence that followed was thick—heavy enough to choke on. Jake stepped closer. “What’s really going on with you, Neteyam?”

Neteyam let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Now you care?”

Jake’s brows furrowed. “You think I don’t care?”

Neteyam's eyes flashed, his voice sharp. “You care when I disobey. When I don’t act how you expect. That’s when you speak. That’s when you look at me.”

Jake’s jaw clenched. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Neteyam hissed, stepping forward now. “When was the last time we spoke about anything that wasn’t duty? Orders? What the clan needs? You’ve barely looked at me since I said no to the elders’ match moons ago.”

Jake didn’t respond.

Neteyam shook his head. “You want me to pick someone.” Neteyam’s throat tightened. He looked away, jaw clenching.

Jake’s voice was firmer now. “You’re acting like I did something wrong.”

Neteyam let out a breath through his nose, low and sharp. “You mean besides putting three women in front of me like I’m choosing a hunting bow?”

Jake’s eyes darkened. “You know that’s not what this is—”

“No?” Neteyam cut in, voice low, sharp. “Then tell me, why do I have to choose someone you think is good for me? Someone the elders think is good for me? Someone Mother thinks is good for me?”

Jake was silent. His voice rose, heated now. “But you—you got to choose. You got to choose her,” Neteyam said, quieter now but still burning, his voice raw. “You weren’t born here. You weren’t even one of us. But you still got to choose mother.”

Jake’s eyes narrowed slightly, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “That was different.”

“Why?” Neteyam demanded, his chest heaving. “Tell me. Why was it different for you?”

Jake didn’t answer.

Neteyam’s voice wavered just once—but he forced it steady again. “So why is it that I don’t get to choose for myself?”

Silence.

Jake took a slow breath, as if to respond—but Neteyam cut him off before he could.

“I already—” Neteyam bit the words down, his mouth snapping shut mid-sentence. His jaw tensed, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Jake’s eyes narrowed slightly, something shifting in his expression. “You already what?”

Neteyam didn’t answer.

Jake’s eyes narrowed, like he was trying to see through the cracks. “Are you hiding something?”

Neteyam didn’t answer. Wouldn’t answer. Not now. Not like this. Instead, he turned his back and started climbing, toward the only place that felt like home anymore.

Jake’s voice followed him—low, heavy with warning. “If there’s something I need to know—”

“You’ll be the last to hear it,” Neteyam shot over his shoulder. And then he was gone, vanishing into his kelku, leaving his father behind in the quiet.

The inside of Neteyam’s kelku was quiet—too quiet. The hum of the forest beyond its walls barely touched him, muffled by the storm brewing behind his temples. He sat cross-legged near the far edge of the woven platform, a small collection of arrow shafts and stone fragments laid out before him in neat, precise rows. His hands moved over them with muscle memory alone—select, carve, shape—but the focus wasn’t there.

His thoughts kept slipping. His jaw clenched every time he remembered the look on his father’s face. The suspicion. The calculation.

He had almost said it. Almost.

His fingers stilled over the half-shaped arrowhead. His breath caught in his throat.

He’d almost told his father about you.

Neteyam swore under his breath, sharp and low, tossing the unfinished tip aside. It clattered against the floor of the kelku, the sound far too loud in the silence. He sat back, running a hand down his face.

Skxawng.

He shouldn’t have let it get to that point. He knew how his father operated—slow, probing, never missing an opening. And Neteyam had just… given him one. He exhaled, long and shaky, his fingers curling into his palms. He had chosen distance.

Not just for himself. For you.

Because this kelku—this place in the trees, quiet and separate from the rest of the village—was the only place he could be with you without fear. Without someone seeing. Without the elders whispering, or his father ordering.

Neteyam lowered his hands, staring up at the ceiling of his kelku. He had made it strong. Private. Secluded. But not strong enough to keep his guilt out. He knew what you risked every time you came here. You weren’t just his. You were a scientist. A human. One of the few allowed to stay in the forest at all.

Only because his father had allowed it.

After the war. After the bloodshed. After the Na’vi won. The peace between the Omatikaya and the humans at the outpost was fragile. It was a line drawn in the dirt—thin, easily swept away.

If that line was crossed… If the clan ever saw humans as a threat—if you became the reason the Omatikaya turned on the outpost…

They’d be sent away by the RDA.

Bridgehead.

He wouldn’t see you again. Not ever. Neteyam’s fists clenched. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t.

If they knew—if the wrong person found out what you meant to him—Neteyam didn’t know what might happen.

And the forest. Eywa, the forest. It was everything to you.

You were never happier than when you were out there—among the plants, the wildlife, your datapad in one hand and a stupid grin on your face as you tried to explain something far too complicated for him to follow. You were a scientist, but more than that— you belonged to the forest, just as much as he did. It gave you joy, purpose. It was where you thrived.

He wouldn’t risk that. Not for anything. Not even for the truth.

The door flap rustled. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Kiri slipped inside silently, her feet light on the woven floor. She paused, taking in the scattered pieces of arrow-making, the tension radiating off her brother like heat from a fire.

“You know, you’re not exactly subtle when you’re brooding,” she said, dropping down beside him.

He didn’t answer. Just picked up a shaft, turned it over, then set it back down.

Kiri tilted her head. “So… that bad?”

Neteyam scoffed softly through his nose. “What do you think?”

“I think Dad came back looking like someone kicked him,” she muttered. “And you’re in here throwing your work around like it insulted you.”

“I almost said it,” he said quietly, his voice flat. “I almost told him.”

Kiri went still.

Neteyam didn’t have to clarify. She knew exactly what it was. “I didn’t,” he added. “But I wanted to.”

Kiri’s gaze softened, her hand reaching over to rest lightly on his shoulder. “You were angry.”

“I’m always angry now.”

Kiri’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I know.”

She let the silence stretch for a bit before speaking again. “You know they talk about you, right? Mom and Dad.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightened. “I don’t want to hear it,” he muttered.

“Well, I didn’t either,” Kiri said. “But sometimes I don’t have a choice. I still live there, remember?”

Neteyam closed his eyes.

“They’re… confused,” Kiri went on. “Hurt, I think. But mostly just afraid. You’re their first son. Their perfect son. You always did everything they asked, everything they wanted. Now they don’t understand why you’re—”

“Choosing for myself?” he cut in, sharp.

Kiri hesitated. “Yes.”

Neteyam exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “They want me to pick someone from the clan. Settle. Lead. Be a good little Olo’eyktan-in-training.”

Kiri watched him. Her voice lowered. “They think you’re hiding something.”

Neteyam looked back down at the arrowhead. “Are they wrong?”

She smiled faintly. “No.”

Silence stretched between them for a beat, the fire crackling quietly. Then, Kiri’s voice turned soft. Knowing. “You’re being too obvious.”

He froze.

“You used to be more careful,” she went on. “Slipping out at night, keeping the visits short. Covering your tracks. Staying with her at the outpost.”

Neteyam stayed still. Said nothing.

“But now?” she sighed. “You bring her here. You keep her here. You look at her like… like you don’t care who sees it.”

His grip tightened on the stone.

Kiri leaned forward, voice quiet and serious. “I love her too. You know that. But you both are idiots.”

“I know,” he muttered.

Kiri’s brow furrowed. “Then why are you doing this?”

“Because I love her,” he said, before he could stop it.

Kiri didn’t flinch. She just nodded. “I know.”

Neteyam finally looked up at her. “You don’t understand, Kiri. She’s happiest here. In the forest. When she’s working with the plants, or cataloging things I don’t even have a name for. She lights up. The forest feeds her.” His throat tightened. “If something happened… if the clan forced the humans out, she’d have to go. Bridgehead’s not the forest. She wouldn’t last there.”

Kiri’s expression softened. “You’re trying to protect her.”

“I have to protect her.” His voice cracked on it, and he looked away, swallowing hard. “Even if that means never telling anyone. Even if that means letting the whole clan think I’m stalling or disrespecting tradition.”

Kiri was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “You’re not going to be able to keep her a secret forever.”

Neteyam knew that. The way you smiled at him. The way he looked at you. The way he reached for you without thinking, how he softened at your voice, how your scent lingered on his skin when you stayed the night.

Someone would notice. It wouldn’t stay in the dark forever. He exhaled slowly. “I know.”

Kiri leaned forward, placing her hand on his. “I don’t think you’re wrong for choosing her,” she said gently. “But if you’re going to keep doing this… you need to be ready.”

Neteyam looked at her, golden eyes heavy with a thousand things he wasn’t allowed to say. “I already chose,” he said softly. “I just haven’t told anyone.”

Kiri squeezed his hand, her voice low. “Maybe it’s time you did.” Kiri didn’t press. She didn’t have to. “I get it,” she murmured. “You want to tell the truth. You want to stop hiding her.”

His breath caught at the word.

You.

Kiri knew exactly what he felt.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t have to.

Kiri smiled faintly. “She’s one of my best friends, skxawng. I see the way she looks at you. Like you hung the stars. Like there’s no one else in the world but you.”

Neteyam let out a slow, aching breath. “And I keep her hidden like a secret.”

“She understands,” Kiri said gently. “She always has.”

He swallowed hard, guilt thick in his throat.

“She would never ask me to choose,” he whispered. “Not once has she ever asked me to risk this. But I would.”

Kiri’s smile faded. She shifted closer, her hand brushing his. “You don’t have to risk it alone.”

Neteyam looked at her, surprised. “Kiri—”

“I want to help you,” she said firmly. “We want to help you.”

He blinked. “We?”

Kiri’s gaze softened, a quiet gleam of pride behind her eyes. “Grandmother knows.”

Neteyam exhaled, nodding. “Of course she did.”

“She knows… and she wants to help you.”

That made him freeze. He turned sharply to look at Kiri, eyes narrowing. “What?”

Kiri smiled. “She says you have your mother’s heart. That she’s seen this before. She said… if the girl is going to be your mate one day, then she should start learning how to live among us. Not as an outsider. But as one of us.”

Neteyam stared at her, stunned into silence.

“She spoke to me about it days ago,” Kiri continued. “She said your human is curious, respectful. That she’s always wanted to learn the healing ways. So… she’s giving her the chance. She’ll teach her, alongside me.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Mo’at. The Tsahik. His grandmother. He wasn’t surprised that their grandmother knew. She was Tsahik. She saw what others missed, heard what was left unsaid. And he had already told her—maybe not in so many words, but in ways she would understand.

She didn’t just know—she was protecting them.

Kiri reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. “This means she can come to the village more. During the day too. No more waiting for the other scientist to come here. No more sneaking around at night, not if there’s a reason for her to be here. No more slipping out like a thief to see her.”

Neteyam’s voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. “She would do that? Grandmother?”

Kiri nodded. “She already has.”

His throat tightened. It was the first time since their relationship had started that the weight on his chest felt just a little lighter.

Kiri’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “You need to tell her.”

Neteyam exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “She still has her work at the outpost. The RDA expects her to do her job…”

“I know,” Kiri said. “But if she learns under Mo’at, she won’t have to make excuses every time she’s here. At least not for Dad and Mom. No one will question why she spends so much time in the village.”

Neteyam pressed his lips together. She was right. As usual. He leaned back against the wooden frame of his kelku, running a hand over his face before looking at Kiri again. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

Kiri smiled. “Of course.”

She stood, stretching. “Just don’t be stupid about it, alright?”

Neteyam smirked, shaking his head. “No promises.”

Kiri groaned, rolling her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

But there was affection in her voice. She turned to leave but paused at the entrance, glancing back at him. “Tell her soon, ma’tsmukan.”

Neteyam nodded. And as Kiri disappeared into the night, he let out a slow breath. He would tell her. Because now, for the first time, there was hope.

The woven walls of the Tsahik’s tent glowed faintly with the warm orange light of the setting sun, the last fingers of daylight slipping through cracks in the canopy. Herbs hung in bundles above the fire pit, their soft, earthy scent curling in the air. Kiri sat cross-legged near one of the low tables, quietly grinding dried roots into powder with a practiced hand. Neteyam stood near the entrance, posture tense but respectful, as Mo’at finished arranging several clay bowls in a careful line before her.

She didn’t look up as she spoke.

“I wondered how long it would take you to come.”

Neteyam exhaled slowly, stepping fully inside. “I needed time. To think.”

Mo’at hummed, a soft, noncommittal sound. “You have always taken too much time when it comes to the things you feel most deeply.”

Neteyam didn’t argue. He stepped forward, lowering himself onto the woven mat beside Kiri. Mo’at turned her gaze on him then—sharp, steady, ancient.

“You wish to speak about the girl.”

He nodded once. “You said… you would teach her.”

“I will,” Mo’at replied simply. “If that is what she wants.”

“I know she does.” Neteyam’s voice was soft, but certain. “More than anything.”

Mo’at inclined her head. “Good.” Silence settled over them for a beat, broken only by the soft scrape of Kiri’s pestle against stone. Mo’at’s eyes didn’t waver from Neteyam’s. “I know you will not choose anyone else.”

The words landed with quiet weight. Final. True. Neteyam’s throat tightened, but he didn’t look away. “I already have.”

“I know,” Mo’at said, voice lower now, tinged with something almost gentle. “And so your mate should be taught as one of us. She must understand our ways. Our stories. Our healing. Our balance with Eywa. If she is to stand beside you—truly stand there—then she must know everything.”

Neteyam’s voice was firm. “You’ll see. She’ll learn it all. She’s… she’s smart. She understands the forest better than most of the People I know.”

Mo’at nodded once, as if that had already been obvious. “I believe that. And I believe she will listen. She does not treat our ways like science in a book—she treats them like something sacred.” Her lips curled, just slightly. “That is rare.”

Kiri glanced up from her work then, offering her brother a faint, knowing smile. “She already pays attention better than half the young healers in training.”

Mo’at made a soft sound of agreement.

“I can help you,” she said, reaching for a bowl of herbs. Her fingers moved with practiced grace, slow and precise. “For now. She will begin learning under me. That gives her a reason to be in the village. Eyes will not question what has an answer.”

Neteyam felt some of the tension bleed from his shoulders, his chest rising and falling with something like relief. “Thank you.”

“But,” Mo’at said sharply, her gaze pinning him in place, “do not mistake help for protection.”

He stilled.

“I am old,” she said, voice even. “And wise. But I am not all-seeing. And your mother and father—” she let the pause hang “—are not stupid.”

Kiri winced softly, but said nothing. Mo’at leaned forward, her tone gentler now. “This will not be a secret forever, ma Neteyam. And it should not be. If she is to be your mate, then in time, the truth must be shown.”

“I know,” Neteyam murmured. “I just… I don’t want her hurt.”

“She will be,” Mo’at said plainly. “Love always brings pain. But hiding her does not protect her. It only delays what must come.”

Neteyam nodded slowly, gaze dropping to the woven floor. Mo’at’s voice softened again, her words careful. “For now, this path gives you both time. Use it well. Teach her. Help her understand what it means to live as one of us. And prepare yourself—because this path is not easy. But it is yours.”

She reached for a bundle of dried leaves, tying them with a thin cord. “Tell her to come soon. She will begin with small tasks. Preparation. Observation. Watching the balance of life and decay. If she can learn the rhythm of Eywa, she can learn anything.”

Neteyam’s chest swelled, a flicker of pride in his eyes. “She can.”

Mo’at smiled then—soft and brief, the way moonlight breaks through trees. “Then we begin.”

The outpost was quiet at this hour. Neteyam knew it would be. Most of the humans had gone to bed hours ago, but he knew you wouldn’t be asleep. You never were.

It was nearly midnight when he reached the airlock, moving swiftly through the shadows, his steps soundless as he crouched by the console. His fingers moved with practiced ease, pressing the override sequence you had shown him long ago. The hiss of the decompression chamber barely registered as he stepped inside.

This place had become so familiar. He had been here more times than he could count, slipping into the outpost long after dark, drawn to you like a moth to flame.

Usually, he would find you hunched over a workbench, hovering over some plant samples, your face illuminated by the glow of your holo-screens as you scribbled notes for your research.

But tonight, the lab was empty. Neteyam frowned, his ears flicking as he listened for any sign of you. Then he turned down the hallway, his long strides carrying him toward your quarters.

The door wasn’t locked. It never was when you expected him.

He pushed the button to open it without a sound, stepping inside—and the sight before him made his lips twitch in amusement.

You were sitting cross-legged on the edge of your bed, a towel draped over your shoulders, damp hair spilling down as you slowly brushed through it. Your gaze was fixed on the holoscreen mounted on the wall, some human movie playing in muted colors.

You didn’t even glance at the door when you spoke.

“No, Kate, I won’t give you my shampoo.”

Neteyam snorted.

Your hand froze mid-brush. He watched the way your shoulders tensed, how you whipped around so fast you nearly toppled over—only to find him standing there, his three-meter-tall frame barely fitting through the doorway, his golden eyes gleaming with quiet amusement.

A slow smile curled his lips. “Not Kate,” he murmured, amusement dancing in his golden eyes.

You exhaled a sharp breath, pressing a hand against your chest. “Eywa, you scared me!”

Neteyam chuckled, stepping further inside. “You should be more aware of your surroundings, yawne.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes, but the wide grin on your face betrayed your amusement. You reached for him, motioning him closer with both hands. “Come here.”

Neteyam didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room in two strides, his movements slow and deliberate, savoring the way your expression softened as he lowered himself into a crouch before your bed. Even like this, he was still so much bigger than you.

Your small hand reached out, brushing over his cheek, tracing the strong lines of his jaw. “Give me kisses,” you murmured, grinning.

Neteyam huffed a soft laugh, tilting his head. “So demanding.”

You beamed. “And you love it.”

Eywa help him, he did. His large hand reached up, thumb grazing over the smooth curve of your cheek. You leaned into his touch without hesitation, eyes fluttering closed for a brief second before you met his gaze again.

Your warmth. Your scent. The way your small fingers curled over his wrist, holding him there.

Your breath hitched as he leaned in, his nose grazing against yours, teasing. “Neteyam,” you murmured, impatient.

He smirked. “What is it, sweet girl?”

You groaned, your fingers tightening behind his neck. “Stop teasing and kiss me.”

He let out a low chuckle, but obeyed. He leaned in, closing the distance, his nose brushing against yours as his breath ghosted over your lips.

You sighed, tilting your head up, your fingers sliding into his braids, tugging him closer. Neteyam’s restraint snapped. He kissed you—slow and deep—his lips pressing against yours with the kind of longing that had built over days apart.

You melted into him immediately, your body shifting forward, hands gripping his shoulders, pulling yourself closer. Neteyam groaned, his other hand finding your waist, his fingers splaying over the soft curve of your hip.

The kiss was warm and unhurried, but it was filled with all the words you hadn’t spoken. He poured everything into it—how much he wanted you, how much he needed you.

And you gave it all back. Your breath hitched as he deepened the kiss, tilting his head to taste you more fully, to savor the way you clung to him like he was something you couldn’t bear to let go of.

His chest rumbled with a low, satisfied sound as he pulled back just enough to press another lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another along your jaw.

You were breathless, your forehead resting against his as you smiled. “Damn,” you whispered. “You always kiss me like you’re never going to see me again.”

Neteyam’s throat tightened, his grip on your waist subconsciously tightening. Because the truth was… that fear was always there. He let out a quiet breath, pressing one last kiss to your lips before murmuring— “That’s because I never know how much time we have.”

Your eyes flickered with something unreadable. But you didn’t argue.

You just kissed him again.

You moved around the small room with practiced ease, pulling extra blankets and pillows from a storage crate, arranging them on the floor without hesitation. Neteyam watched you, his golden eyes tracing the way you worked—quick, efficient, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

You didn’t even ask if he wanted to sleep here. You just knew. Like always.

The floor was littered with spare blankets, pillows, and a couple of folded sheets you had tugged from your storage bins without a second thought—just like last time.

The moment you had seen him duck into your room, towering over you in the soft glow of your holoscreen, you’d lit up. And without needing to say anything, you had dropped to the floor and started making the bed. It was a quiet, practiced routine now—one born out of familiarity and stolen nights together.

Neteyam didn’t say a word. He just watched you with that half-smile, that softened look he reserved only for you.

Later, the only sounds were your mingled breaths, the gentle hum of the outpost’s low-power systems, and the distant jungle outside. The two of you lay side by side, bare skin tangled together in the soft nest you’d built. Your head rested against his chest, arm draped over his ribs, your legs tangled beneath the blankets.

His fingers traced lazy circles across your back—absent, distracted.

You shifted, propping your chin on his chest, your still-damp hair spilling over his collarbone as you looked at him with that playful, knowing expression.

Your voice came soft, teasing. “What is it?”

He blinked. “Hm?”

“You’re doing that thing again,” you murmured, your finger lightly trailing along the stripes painted across his chest. “Where you stare at the ceiling like it’s gonna give you answers to the universe.”

His lips quirked.

You tilted your head, studying him more closely. “You look all lost in your thoughts.” Then, quieter—hesitant, your voice turning sheepish as your eyes flicked away. “You’re quiet.”

He blinked, glancing down at you. Your face was flushed, lips still kiss-bitten, your bare shoulders dotted with the fading evidence of his mouth. He could see the way you bit your bottom lip like you weren’t sure if you wanted to say what came next, but then—

“…Was I not good?”

His ears twitched. His brows furrowed. And then he looked at you like you had just grown a second head. “What?”

You immediately looked away, trying—and failing—not to flush deeper. “You’ve just been lying here staring at the ceiling like you’re about to enter your ‘suffering warrior’ era, and I thought maybe—”

“Kehe,” he said sharply, cutting you off. “No. Don’t say that.”

His voice was low, a soft reprimand—but the kind that curled around your ribs and made you feel warm.

You blinked. “I was just kidding—”

Neteyam exhaled, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “No, you weren’t.”

He rolled onto his side, turning to face you fully. “You think I would be quiet because you weren’t good?” His eyes scanned you slowly, purposefully. “You think I would be silent because you, the only person who makes me feel like I can actually breathe, weren’t enough?”

You bit your lip. Your blush was impossible to miss now.

Neteyam’s hand cupped your jaw, firm and steady. “You are everything.”

Your breath caught.

“You feel like home,” he murmured, brushing his forehead against yours. “And tonight, like every other time, you were perfect. So perfect it makes me ache.”

Your cheeks bloomed crimson, and you buried your face into his chest to escape the look in his eyes. He chuckled softly, running his fingers through your damp hair. “There you are.”

You stared at him, eyes wide, lips parting slightly—and Eywa, how he loved watching you bloom like that, all soft surprise and bashful joy, like you didn’t know the effect you had on him. Your voice was quiet. “That was really sweet.”

“I wasn’t trying to be,” he replied. “It’s just the truth.”

You smiled at him, and Neteyam leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead. Your fingers curled against his chest again, but the tension was gone now—melted under the weight of his honesty.

For a while, you just lay there. Breathing together. But the peace didn’t last forever. Not tonight. You lifted your head again, brows furrowed. “…But something is bothering you.”

He was quiet for a long moment. He didn’t answer right away. But then, he let out a breath and murmured, “The elders cornered me again today.”

Your body went very still.

“They… they called three of them this time,” he continued, voice neutral but bitter around the edges. “Three women. All lined up like they were part of some… ceremony. Like they thought I was just going to look at them and suddenly forget everything I want.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Your entire body tensed against him.

“I was supposed to pick one.”

Silence stretched between you. You didn’t say anything at first. Just lay there, still and stiff in his arms, your breath coming a little quicker than before.

Neteyam looked down, watching the way your eyes had dulled slightly, the corners of your mouth pulling tight. “…Hey.” He ran a thumb gently over your lower back. “Look at me.”

You didn’t. But your voice came small and broken. His arm tightened around you, but your muscles stayed taut. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “That you have to keep doing this. Sneaking around. Because of me.”

“Don’t—”

You shook your head, eyes shining as you kept talking, even if your voice wavered. “If I weren’t human, if things were different—if I was Na’vi—they wouldn’t ask you to do this. And you wouldn’t have to choose between what they want and what you want. I wouldn’t be…” Your words caught in your throat. You looked down. “If you ever get tired of it,” you said softly. “Of the hiding. The lying. Of me… I’ll understand.”

Neteyam sat up in a fluid motion, pulling you with him, his large hands cradling your waist as he looked down at you with something fierce in his gaze. “I will never be tired of you,” he said, voice low but unyielding. “Never.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

Neteyam’s hands slid to your cheeks, holding you still, making you look at him. “I would rather lie every day for the rest of my life,” he whispered, “than ever lie to myself about you.”

You stared at him. Wide-eyed. Stunned.

“And you—” he leaned in, brushing his nose gently against yours, “you are not something I carry in secret out of shame.” He kissed you once. Tender. Steady. He didn’t pull back far. Just far enough to whisper, voice full of quiet truth— “You are my mate.”

You froze. Your breath caught. And finally, your gaze snapped up to meet his, wide and disbelieving. Neteyam held you there, steady and certain, golden eyes locked onto yours.

“I chose you,” he said, softer now. “Long ago.”

You swallowed, lips parting. “Neteyam…”

“I don’t care what they think. I don’t care what the clan wants. Or what my father expects. I don’t care that you’re human.” He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. “You are mine,” he whispered. “And I am yours.”

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, but your smile—gods, your smile—was like starlight. Warm. Soft. Terrifyingly beautiful. “Okay,” you whispered back, voice trembling.

Neteyam closed his eyes, pulling you against his chest once more as the tension in his body finally started to unravel.

You were warm and tangled together, limbs loose under the patchwork of blankets. The quiet hum of the outpost filtered softly through the room—the low thrum of machinery, distant footsteps of late-night technicians, the soft chirp of life outside the walls.

Neteyam’s breathing had slowed, deep and steady beneath your cheek. His arm was draped protectively over your back, his hand idly resting against the dip of your spine. Your fingers traced slow circles against his chest, and your eyes were just starting to drift shut, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Until you spoke—softly, barely louder than a breath.

“Honestly… Jake could be scary,” you whispered with a small, mischievous giggle. “But he’s not the one I’m afraid of.”

Neteyam cracked one eye open, peeking down at you. “No?”

You tilted your head, grinning sleepily. “Nope. I’d bet anything your Mother would want to skin me alive if she ever found out.” Your voice was teasing, but there was a flicker of nervous truth in your eyes. “I mean, can you imagine? Me?” You snorted. “Some disgusting little pest under Eywa’s eye, trying to corrupt her perfect, golden firstborn son.”

Neteyam huffed a laugh, his fingers gently sliding up your back to comb through your hair. “You’re not a pest.”

You raised a brow. “You sure about that? I’ve seen the way she looks at me when I’m in the village.” You put on a mock-impression of Neytiri’s stern expression, voice deep and unimpressed. “‘Why is the tawtute always near my son?’”

Neteyam chuckled again, nose brushing the crown of your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m realistic,” you shot back, but your smile was fond, if a little nervous. “She’d never forgive me.”

He didn’t argue. He knew his mother’s views were harsh, especially when it came to the Sky People. She had softened toward a few of them—Norm, Max, a few other scientists… But this?

This would push the limits of that tolerance. Still, he didn’t let it show. He hummed in thought. “She’s… protective.”

“That’s one word for it,” you muttered.

Neteyam was quiet for a moment, his hand trailing up your back and then resting just between your shoulder blades. “But… not everyone wants to chase you away,” he murmured.

You blinked and looked up at him, your cheek still resting against his chest. “What do you mean?”

He shifted slightly, leaning up just enough to meet your eyes. “Grandmother.” His voice was soft. “She wants to teach you.”

Your brow furrowed. “Mo’at?”

Neteyam nodded. “She knows about us.”

That made you sit up slightly, startled. “Wait—what?”

“She figured it out weeks ago,” he said simply, brushing a stray lock of hair off your face. “I didn’t have to say much. She knew. And… she wants to help.”

You stared at him like he’d just told you the sky had turned purple. “Mo’at… wants to help us?”

He smiled faintly. “Surprised me, too.”

You were still processing, eyes wide. “And how exactly does she plan to help us? Offer me a head start before Neytiri hunts me down?”

Neteyam snorted. “No. She said… you’ve always wanted to learn from the Omatikaya. From her.”

“I—” you paused, then nodded slowly. “I mean… yeah. I’ve been obsessed with Na’vi healing since forever.”

“She thinks that’s the answer,” he said. “If you’re her apprentice—or… in training, or whatever you call it—it gives you a reason to be in the village. Regularly. No more sneaking.”

You blinked. And then, your expression cracked into a slow, delighted smile. “Wait… really?”

“If that’s something you want,” he added carefully. “Only if you want it.”

There was no hesitation. You nodded eagerly, your eyes shining. “Yes. Eywa, yes. If it means I can stay with you more—be closer to you—yes.”

Neteyam exhaled softly, a rush of warmth tightening in his chest.

“But,” you added after a beat, your tone a little sheepish now, “I can’t be there all the time. As much as I want to, I’ve still got a job here. If I suddenly go full Na’vi and start skipping my xenobotany shifts, Norm will kick my ass.”

Neteyam was quiet, his breath slow and even beneath your ear, just as you started lazily tracing the soft, glowing stripe that ran down the center of his chest. Your fingers followed it like it was a path made for you and you alone—like his body had been carved by Eywa.

The room was dim, bathed in a soft glow from your holoscreen still humming faintly on the wall, casting flickering light over tangled blankets and bare skin. He felt your lips curve against his skin even before you spoke. “At least if I’m in the village,” you murmured slyly, voice light, “I’ll get to watch the other women try so hard to get my man’s attention.”

Neteyam blinked, caught off guard by how casually you said it—like it was just a simple truth of life. His golden eyes cut down to look at you, still perched on his chest, now drawing invisible shapes across his skin with all the smug confidence of someone who had just won a game no one else knew they were playing.

You didn’t even pause, trailing your fingers lower, brushing along the dip beneath his collarbone. “I bet they’re going to try so hard,” you continued, voice full of fake pity, “like, really put in the effort to win the affection of the next Olo’eyktan.” You glanced up at him, eyebrows raised, “And the whole time, they won’t even realize they’ve already lost.”

Neteyam just stared at you. Completely silent. Expression unreadable.

Your smug grin only grew wider. “What? Don’t give me that look. You know I’m right.”

He blinked again, and then the corner of his mouth twitched. Slowly, his face broke into a grin—eyes shining with pure amusement. “Eywa,” he muttered, reaching up to brush his thumb across your cheek. “You are so—”

“Correct?” you supplied helpfully.

“I was going to say ridiculous,” he said, voice warm and fond.

You gasped, feigning offense. “Excuse you. I’m confident. There's a difference.”

Neteyam let out a quiet chuckle, the sound deep in his chest, and you smirked as if you’d just scored another point. He watched you settle in again like you belonged there—which you did—your chin perched on his chest, arms curled up around his sides like he was your favorite pillow.

And maybe you didn’t know. Maybe you didn’t realize that when you said my man, something in his chest tightened. That when you smiled at him like that, so smug, so proud—he didn’t see arrogance.

He saw devotion. A wild, quiet kind of love that you barely even had to say out loud, because he felt it in every word, every little brush of your fingers.

Neteyam’s gaze softened, his large hand coming up to cradle the back of your head gently, like you were something delicate—even though he knew you were stronger than you thought. His fingers sifted through your still-damp hair, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw, and he exhaled slowly, content.

Eywa had given him many things.

But you?

You were his greatest gift. His anchor. His calm. His maddening, brilliant, beautiful little human who didn’t seem to realize you had become his entire world.

And the most dangerous part?

You still looked at him like he was the one worth chasing.

Neteyam leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lips lingering there for a long, silent beat. Your fingers stilled on his chest, and you let out a soft hum, eyes closing briefly.

“I see you,” he murmured, so low it was almost a breath, like the words were sacred.

You opened your eyes slowly, blinking up at him. You were chaos and comfort, firelight and soft moss beneath his hands. And Eywa, how he loved you.

“You know,” he said quietly, brushing a hand along the curve of your spine, “I don’t even look at them.”

You glanced up, eyes warm. “Not even a peek?”

Neteyam leaned in, brushing his nose along your jaw. “No one’s ever made me look away from you.”

Your breath caught for half a second, but you masked it with another smirk. “Good,” you whispered. Then you flicked your eyes up at him, all faux innocence, your chin propped on his chest. “What?”

“You…” Neteyam’s voice came out in a quiet breath, half laughter, half disbelief. “You are evil.”

You beamed. “Thank you.”

He reached up, cupped your face with one large hand, and just stared at you—like you had personally knocked the air from his lungs. Here you were. His tiny, fearless human, lying in his arms completely naked, grinning like you were the goddess of smug victory, talking about him like he wasn’t right there beneath you.

Talking about him like he belonged to you. And he did.

You had no idea just how completely, utterly his heart had folded itself around you. How, without even trying, you had wrapped him around your tiny, delicate fingers and then held him there like it was nothing.

And Eywa, did he love it.

The way you puffed up like a little viperwolf, all possessive and proud—like you could take on the entire clan for the right to stay at his side. You didn’t even realize that to him, you already were everything.

His whole world. His only peace. The gift that Eywa had carved from the stars and placed directly in his path when he didn’t even know he was looking. Neteyam laughed under his breath, shaking his head in awe. “You know,” he murmured, voice low and warm, “it’s a little terrifying how smug you are.”

You grinned wider, not the least bit apologetic. “I’m just saying, I am the dark horse in this weird little mating game, and I already won.”

His hand slid behind your neck, pulling you down so he could press a kiss to your lips, slow and deep. When he pulled back, his golden eyes were soft, full of something deeper, something raw and worshipful.

“You didn’t win, syulang.” His voice dropped, almost reverent. “You never had to race.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity.

Neteyam smiled, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “You were always the answer.”

You blinked faster, lashes fluttering, your smugness suddenly cracking at the edges. “…Okay,” you whispered, dazed. “That was… unfairly romantic.”

He chuckled, pulling you tighter against his chest as you buried your face into the curve of his shoulder, suddenly overwhelmed. He let you hide there, let you melt against him like you always did.

And as his arms wrapped fully around you, Neteyam thought—not for the first time—that no title, no duty, no burden could ever come close to the way he loved you. No matter what the clan expected of him. You were his.

And he would be yours, in every life Eywa allowed him.

The hunting party had returned just before eclipse. Their kills were modest, but clean—four yeriks, three syils, a teylu nest, and a cluster of ripe seedfruit found along the river path. It should have been an easy run.

Should have.

Neteyam’s left bicep burned, the gash already crusted with dried blood and mud from the shallow stream he’d fallen into. It wasn’t deep—no torn muscle, no puncture—but it was messy. Ugly. The sort of thing that could fester fast if left unchecked.

The jungle air was thick with humidity, the scent of rain still lingering after the morning storm. Neteyam ducked into the Tsahik’s tent with a low grunt, blood trailing lazily from a long gash across his bicep. The wound wasn’t deep, but it stung like fire every time he moved.

He winced as the flap closed behind him, brushing damp hair from his brow with his uninjured hand. “Grandmother—”

His voice faltered.

You were there.

Kneeling beside Mo’at, your exo-mask fogged slightly from the humidity, a small woven pouch of dried herbs in your lap. Your hands froze mid-motion, and your eyes widened the moment they landed on him.

Neteyam blinked, caught somewhere between surprise and awe. “You’re here.”

You swallowed. “You’re hurt.”

Mo’at didn’t even glance up from the bundle of leaves she was preparing. “He’ll live. It is not deep.”

Neteyam huffed a quiet laugh, stepping closer, his golden eyes never leaving yours. “Could have fooled me. Feels like a viperwolf tried to take my arm.”

Mo’at raised an unimpressed brow. “Because you threw yourself into its path like a fool.”

“I had to pull Ateyo out,” he muttered. “He froze. He would’ve been mauled.”

“You could have done that without getting yourself sliced.”

“Maybe.”

Mo’at clicked her tongue and gestured toward the center of the tent, where a woven mat was laid out. “Sit. And take that nonsense bravado with you.”

Neteyam chuckled under his breath, easing down onto the mat, gritting his teeth when his arm brushed his side. You were still frozen, eyes flicking between him and the salve Mo’at had been preparing. You hadn’t expected him—no warning, no time to prepare, and Eywa, why did it have to be him of all people when you were finally allowed to start learning how to help?

You turned toward Mo’at, who remained calm, composed, as always. Her voice didn’t waver as she handed you the bowl of thick yellow paste. “Use what I taught you today. Clean it. Apply the salve.”

You blinked at her, stunned. “I—I can’t. I haven’t—I'm not—he's—”

“Wounded,” Mo’at cut in, gaze steady. “And in need of healing. You know what to do.”

Your breath hitched. “But I haven’t done it myself. What if I get it wrong? I’ve only watched you do it once. I—I’m not ready. I can’t—” Your eyes shot to Neteyam, who was sitting so casually, so confidently, watching you with quiet amusement despite the blood still dripping down his arm.

Mo’at turned to him, her tone dry. “Does this one complain this much in your bed as well?”

Your eyes exploded wide. “Mo’at!”

Neteyam choked on a laugh, ears twitching as he bit back a grin. “Only sometimes.”

Mo’at didn’t smirk, but the corner of her mouth definitely twitched. “Then she is capable of handling discomfort. Good. She will need that.”

You were too flustered to speak, your fingers tightening around the bowl in your hands as your mask hissed softly with your shallow breaths.

Neteyam tilted his head toward you, eyes warm, voice low. “Hey. Come here.”

You hesitated.

“I trust you,” he said softly.

You blinked.

“I trust you more than anyone.” His voice held no hesitation. “You’ve got this.”

Your hands trembled slightly as you stood, crossing the tent with careful steps, kneeling beside him. Your eyes flicked down to the cut—it was ugly. Angry red, a jagged slash across his bicep, already swelling at the edges. You reached for a clean cloth, dipping it into the water basin beside you.

Neteyam watched as you started to clean the wound, your hands shaking ever so slightly as the cloth pressed against his skin.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I might hurt you.”

“You won’t,” he said gently. “You never could.”

You bit your lip and kept going, your brows furrowed in intense concentration. Neteyam stayed perfectly still, golden eyes watching you like you were the only thing in the room.

“You’re doing well,” Mo’at said from behind you, tone calm. “You listened. You remembered.”

You exhaled slowly, your shoulders finally relaxing a little. You reached for the salve, scooping a bit of the cool paste with your fingers. You hesitated—then, carefully, you smoothed it across the wound.

Neteyam hissed once through his teeth—but said nothing else. His jaw stayed tight, but his gaze never wavered from you.

You finished the application with slow precision, spreading the salve evenly, wiping your fingers with the cloth before glancing up. “Done,” you whispered, barely able to believe it.

Mo’at nodded. “It will sting for a while. That means it is working. The poultice is strong.”

You looked at Neteyam, still uncertain. “Does it hurt?”

“A little,” he said, smiling. “But it’s better now.”

You blinked at him. “You're just saying that.”

“No,” he murmured. “You helped. And you did it right. I told you.”

You looked down at your hands, still faintly green-stained from the salve, and something in your chest fluttered—uncertain and proud, nervous and warmed. “You’ll be a good healer,” Mo’at said, her voice quiet but firm. “You learn with your heart. That is the first lesson. The rest will follow.”

You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat, and Neteyam reached out—his large hand closing over yours, grounding you. You didn’t look at Mo’at, but you nodded once. A quiet promise.

Neteyam gave your fingers a soft squeeze. And for the first time, you believed it, too.

The soft glow of bioluminescent fungus lit the edges of the woven tent, casting gentle shadows over the space as night settled fully over the forest. The buzz of the village had died down after the evening meal—voices had quieted, laughter dimmed, fires low. It was a time of rest, of quiet.

Neteyam stepped through the flap with practiced ease, his long silhouette framed briefly by the night beyond. And there you were—exactly where he knew you’d be.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor and your datapad balanced on your lap, fingers tapping away with quiet focus. Your hair was tied back messily, a smear of dried salve still faintly visible on your wrist from earlier that day. You were muttering softly to yourself as you typed—something about alkaloids, solvent extraction, ratios of paste-to-pulp consistency.

Neteyam’s lips curved into a slow smile.

“You’re late,” you murmured, smile playing at the corners of your mouth.

Neteyam let out a soft, amused breath. “I brought you the last of the sweetroot from dinner. You’re welcome.”

That made you glance up, grin widening behind your mask. “You know your way to a girl’s heart.”

Neteyam crouched beside you, setting the little leaf-wrapped bundle at your side before lowering himself fully onto the floor. His eyes flicked to your datapad, where a sketched drawing of a jungle root was labeled in three languages.

“You always do that,” he murmured, stepping closer.

You looked up, blinking in surprise. Then you smiled, warmth blooming behind your mask. “Do what?”

His golden eyes glinting in the low light. “Write everything down the second you learn it. Even before it’s over.”

You lifted your datapad a little, gesturing at it like it explained everything. “If I don’t, I’ll forget the phrasing. And sometimes Mo’at says things and I don’t know what they mean until later—but if I don’t write it down right then, I can’t ask the right questions next time. Mo’at showed me the base tonight—how it reacts to heat. I think it might be a form of thermogenic compound? It’s… it’s fascinating.”

Neteyam rested his elbow on his knee, propping his chin in his hand as he watched you. “You get that look in your eyes when you talk about this.”

You blinked. “What look?”

“Like you’ve fallen in love with the plants instead of me.”

You snorted. “Well, the plants don’t make me risk suffocating every time I kiss them.”

Neteyam’s grin widened. “Mmm. But do they make you tremble like I do?”

“Neteyam,” you warned with a blush.

He just laughed, soft and warm. Neteyam tilted his head slightly, watching you. “You always talk like you have to prove something.”

Your fingers paused mid-tap. You swallowed once, then shrugged. “Maybe I do.”

He didn’t argue. Just quietly reached forward and gently plucked the datapad from your lap, setting it carefully aside.

You blinked. “Hey—”

“You can study tomorrow, syulang,” he murmured. “It’s time to rest.”

You gave a soft huff, but your body already leaned into him without thinking. “You sound like Mo’at now.”

He chuckled. “She’s not wrong.”

Your eyes lifted to meet his—and the warmth faded just slightly. Like a quiet thought had passed behind them. He saw it.

“What is it?” he asked, voice low.

You hesitated. “Just to know I have to leave in the morning.”

Neteyam blinked. “Leave?”

You nodded, your fingers brushing his where they rested beside you on the floor. “The outpost got a transmission. From Bridgehead.”

His entire posture changed—subtle, but clear. More alert. More guarded. “What kind of transmission?” he asked carefully.

“Nothing bad,” you said quickly, soothing. “Just orders. A directive. We’re being sent to check on the last abandoned mining site. The one near Hell’s Gate.”

Neteyam’s brow furrowed. “That far?”

You nodded. “It’s mostly to monitor fauna recovery. Study how the forest is reclaiming the damage. Norm’s team has been petitioning for months to get clearance. Bridgehead finally approved it.”

His jaw ticked slightly. “You’ll be near the old RDA operations. The dead zones.”

“I know.”

His golden eyes searched your face, and you felt the air shift—he didn’t like it. Didn’t like that you were going somewhere that even the Na’vi still spoke of with quiet disgust. You tried to soften your voice. “It’s just for a few days. I’ll be with Norm and Max, and a few assistants. We’ll be cautious.”

He didn’t speak right away.

You reached for his hand. “I’ll be okay.”

“I know you will,” he said finally, voice quieter than before. “But I still don’t like it.”

You smiled gently. “You don’t like anything that keeps me away from you.”

He muttered. “You’re learning.”

You laughed, low and soft. Then you leaned in, brushing your mask against his cheek in that way you always did when you wanted to kiss him but couldn’t. “I’ll come back as soon as I can,” you whispered. “And I’ll be annoying again. I’ll make you let me practice wrapping splints and mixing salve.”

He smiled faintly. “You’re not annoying.”

You tilted your head. “No?”

“No.” His voice was steady. “You are the only part of my day that feels like mine.”

Your breath caught.

Before you could respond, Neteyam stood, offering you his hand. “Come,” he said, a glint in his eye. “You’re not sleeping at the outpost tonight.”

You blinked. “I’m not?”

He leaned down, voice lower now, a soft rumble that curled against your ribs. “No. You’re mine tonight. You leave tomorrow—so you sleep where you belong.”

In his kelku. In his arms. In the quiet place only the two of you had carved out together. You swallowed thickly, your fingers sliding into his palm, letting him pull you up to your feet.

“I always belong with you,” you whispered.

And Neteyam didn’t say it back. He didn’t need to. He just held your hand a little tighter and led you into the forest, back to the only place he called home.

The heat between you was thick, heady, the kind that curled around your spine and sank into your skin like honey. Your thighs trembled where they framed his hips, your body aching, burning with the effort of taking all of him — and still, you wanted more.

You were above him, and Eywa, how he loved the sight of you like this — flushed, breathless, your lips parted as you panted softly through your mask. You were already stretched to your limit, your tight walls wrapping around him with every slow, needy roll of your hips.

You whimpered as you sank down again, your fingers digging into his chest, trembling from the effort, nails leaving faint little crescents in his skin, from the ache, from the desperation curling deep in your belly. You gasped as you bottomed out once more, your body clenching around him, chasing something more — even when you were already full to bursting.

“Kì'ong nekll, ma’yawne,” [Slow down.] Neteyam breathed, voice low, thick with awe. His hands gripped your waist, steadying you as you tried to push harder. “You’re going to break yourself.”

You let out a soft, broken sound — more whimper than word — and he felt it, the way you fluttered around him, how your body responded just from the sound of his voice.

Eywa.

You were soaked, stretched, taking every inch of him despite the way you trembled. Your brows were furrowed, lips slick from where you’d bitten them raw, your voice broken and needy—

“Neteyam, please—”

It was the sound of it—like a prayer, like a plea—that undid him.

He groaned, eyes slowly shut for a beat before they snapped open again, locking on you.

And Eywa.

You looked so pretty like this.

Hair damp and sticking to your temple. Eyes glassy behind your mask. Your lips parted around a mewl as you bounced, your body pushing past its own limits to take him deeper, harder, faster—even when he filled you to your very edge. Neteyam growled softly beneath you, one big hand tightening at your hip, the other sliding up to press flat over your lower belly—feeling how deep he was inside you.

“Easy,” he hushed, voice low and thick. He growled low in his throat, hands slide to gripping your waist to still you—just for a second—as he sat up beneath you.

You gasped, your hands flying up to steady yourself, wrapping around his neck instinctively as he pulled you flush to his chest, caging you in his lap. His lips found your throat, hot and open-mouthed, kissing just under your jaw before trailing lower, teeth grazing over your pulse.

You were being so loud—soft cries, broken whines, panting breaths against the humid air. His ears twitched, eyes flicking toward the flap of the kelku, ever-aware of the village just beyond the trees.

“Shh,” he whispered, one hand sliding up your spine, the other curling behind your neck. “The whole clan doesn’t need to hear how sweet you sound.”

His mouth found your neck—hot kisses pressed to the racing pulse there, tongue tasting the salt of your skin as he breathed you in. Scented you like you were already his mate, his mouth moving over your throat, jaw, shoulder—leaving invisible marks of ownership in every pass of his lips.

You gasped, hips stuttering as he kissed the spot just below your ear—the one that always made you melt.

“Nga kalin, txanew hì'i 'u…” [You sweet, greedy little thing.] he whispered, and you gasped.

Your whole body shuddered at his words, your movements turning frantic now, desperate for more. For everything. And he let you have it. Let you ride that wave as he tilted his head to bite lightly at your neck—just enough to make your breath catch.

His voice was ragged, full of heat and love and awe. “You’re doing so well,” he groaned.

You cried out, your walls clenching down so hard he hissed through his teeth.

“Eywa, you’re close,” he breathed. “You’ve been so good — let me feel it.”

You shattered.

Your body clenched, trembling violently as the climax ripped through you—waves of heat and pleasure crashing over your skin, your voice muffled in his neck as your nails scraped down his back. You rode it out in his lap, your body moving on instinct, chasing every last flicker of sensation.

And Neteyam couldn’t hold back anymore.

With a deep, guttural groan, he buried himself deep and spilled inside you, his arms locking around your waist, his mouth on your shoulder, fangs grazing but never biting. His whole body tensed beneath you, holding you tight as his hips jerked once, twice—and then stilled.

The only sound was your shared breathing.

Ragged. Slow.

You slumped against him with a breathless giggle, your arms wrapping lazily around his neck as you tried to catch your breath. Your body was still twitching slightly, nerves alight, but the smile on your face was soft and glowing.

You looked… blissed out. Completely wrecked. Sweetly high on pleasure, cheeks flushed and hair damp where it stuck to your temples. You met his gaze, wide-eyed and breathless, and grinned. “I think…” you whispered, voice still shaky and slurred with heat, “I think I saw Eywa.”

He huffed a laugh, chest shaking beneath you. “Did she say anything?”

You grinned, nuzzling closer, soft and breathless.

“She said I should do that again.”

Neteyam groaned, resting his forehead against your mask, his hands still gripping your hips like he never planned to let go. “Evil little thing,” he whispered.

“I feel like honey,” you murmured, humming softly. “Everything’s warm.”

He chuckled—quiet and full of awe—and kissed your temple. And even though your body was still trembling from aftershocks, you grinned up at him like the stars themselves had kissed your skin.

And as you curled into his chest, still smiling, still giggling softly in the afterglow, Neteyam held you like you were his whole world.

Because you were.

The quiet between you had settled like mist—warm, still, sacred.

Your bare legs were tangled across his lap, your chest pressed to his as you both came down slowly from the high. His breathing had begun to steady, a low hum in his chest beneath your ear. You hadn’t moved—not really. You didn’t want to. Not when your skin still buzzed with aftershocks, not when you could still feel his heartbeat echoing against your own.

Neteyam’s head rested back against the woven wall of the kelku, eyes half-lidded, his expression soft in a way he only ever gave to you. His tails slowly swaying side to side on the kelku’s floor. He looked calm. Unguarded.

And so heartbreakingly beautiful.

You didn’t realize you were staring at first. Your fingers moved on instinct—delicate and reverent—as you lifted one hand to gently brush his hairline, fingertips barely ghosting over his skin. Your thumb found the first stripe above his brow, that soft curve of dark blue that branched like a river over his forehead.

He blinked, eyes flicking open just enough to meet yours. But he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You traced the stripe slowly, following its arc across his temple, then down to the bridge of his nose. Your touch was feather-light, like you were afraid to disturb something sacred.

“You always look at me like I’m something more,” you whispered.

His brows pulled together slightly, confused.

But you smiled, and your touch never faltered as you caressed the other line that curved down the edge of his jaw, then brushed over his cheekbone. You were studying him—memorizing him. Like he was a story you never wanted to forget. “Like I’m something rare. Something important.”

Neteyam’s throat worked, but he still said nothing.

Your smile turned softer. Sadder. More full. “But have you ever seen yourself?”

His lips parted. You shifted, curling in closer, your fingers sliding down to rest just above his chest where his heart still beat, steady and strong. “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” you whispered. “In every way.”

His hand moved to cover yours, his thumb rubbing against your knuckles. But you kept speaking—quietly, with something like awe.

“Not just your face. Not just your body.” Your voice was barely breath now. “But your heart. Your soul. The way you fight for everyone, even when it tears you apart. The way you carry the weight of the world and still make room for me.”

His eyes shimmered faintly in the dim light.

And then you said it.

Soft. Sacred.

“I see you.”

The words came like a breath between heartbeats. But they struck something deep—something rooted in spirit, not flesh.

Neteyam froze.

His fingers stilled over yours. His eyes widened just slightly, and for the first time since he was a boy, the world seemed to stop moving around him.

Because you’d said it before—kaltxì, oel ngati kameie, the way the Na’vi did to greet strangers. To show respect.

But never like this. Not in the way that meant I see all of you. Who you are. Who you choose to be. And I love it.

Your thumb brushed beneath his eye. “I see you,” you whispered again. “All of you. And I’ve never loved anything more.”

Neteyam leaned forward slowly, forehead pressing to the glass of your mask, his breath trembling. His hands cupped your face with a gentleness that stole your breath, his eyes locked to yours like he’d been waiting his whole life to hear those words from your lips.

And maybe he had.

You felt him exhale shakily against your skin. His hands trembled just slightly—so strong, but so vulnerable in that moment. “I see you,” he whispered back, his voice cracked and raw.

The fire crackled low in the center of the kelku, its soft amber glow casting shadows across the curved walls of woven reeds and bark. The night outside whispered in hushed tones—leaves rustling in the canopy, distant birds calling out to no one.

You were asleep.

Curled under the furs where he had left you, your breath even and slow, your hand still resting where it had fallen from his chest, fingers curled loosely as if still reaching for him. Your face was peaceful, the lines of tension smoothed away, your mask humming gently with its quiet pulse of oxygen.

Neteyam stood for a long moment, just watching you.

Then he turned, padded silently across the floor, and knelt at the fire pit. He picked up one of the thick logs from the stack near the wall and placed it gently onto the glowing embers. Sparks danced up, licking at the wood, catching quickly. The fire grew brighter, casting warm light over his face, over the hard line of his jaw and the quiet shadow in his eyes.

He sat back on his heels, hands resting loosely over his thighs, and stared into the flames. His mind wandered, unbidden.

Always the first. The first child. The first to walk. The first to hunt. The first to bleed.

Born with duty written into his bones before he could speak. Before he could even understand what it meant.

He had been the oldest, and that had never been a title—it had been an expectation.

He remembered being a boy, barely taller than his father’s thigh, holding Kiri’s hand in the dark when she cried at night, whispering stories to her to make her feel safe. He remembered covering for Lo’ak when he broke something—or said something—when he acted out in frustration, and their parents’ patience ran thin.

Neteyam had always stepped in.

Because someone had to. Because Jake would look at him with that look, the one that said, handle it. Fix it. Keep things from falling apart.

He remembered the first time he’d taken a blame that wasn’t his. He had only been nine. He had stood there with his jaw tight and his head held high while Jake yelled—not at Lo’ak, but at him. Because it was his job to keep his brother in line.

Not because it was right. Not because it helped. Because it was expected.

The firstborn of the Olo’eyktan. Lead by example. Be strong. Do what is needed, not what is easy. He had tried. He still tried.

But the older he grew, the heavier it became. The weight of it didn’t rest—it shifted. Grew. Like vines wrapping tighter around his chest with each passing season.

At first it was his siblings. Then it was the training. The war games. The expectations.

And now…

Now it was the clan. The future. The legacy. Mating, ruling, choosing.

But no one had asked what he wanted. Not really. They saw his shoulders and thought, strong enough to carry it all. They saw his silence and thought, he must agree. They saw his father in his face and thought, he will follow in his footsteps.

But sometimes—sitting like this, in the silence of his own home—Neteyam wondered if they truly saw him at all. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, golden eyes reflecting the firelight. “I’m tired,” he whispered to no one. And in the stillness, only the fire answered.

The fire popped softly, casting ribbons of orange and gold that danced across the woven walls. The warmth seeped into his skin, but it didn’t reach the weight in his chest. Neteyam’s eyes stayed on the flame, but his thoughts were far away—drifting, quiet, old.

He had never seen himself as rebellious. That was Lo’ak’s title. The loud one. The reckless one. The one always on the edge of another scolding, another lecture, another disappointment. The one who never walked the path the way he was told to.

But Lo’ak… Neteyam understood him.

His little brother’s defiance wasn’t born of disrespect—it was desperation. It was a boy trying to prove that, despite the demon blood in his veins, he was still Na’vi. Still worthy. Still seen. He wanted to be a warrior. A protector. A son his father could be proud of.

Neteyam had seen it in the way Lo’ak squared his shoulders after every mistake. In the way he held his chin high even after he’d been punished, even when his voice shook. Always looking for his place, and never quite finding it.

He understood that it was hard. Because Neteyam had done the opposite.

He had obeyed. He had done everything right. Every time. Never argued. Never questioned. Never wondered.

If his father said jump, he did. If his mother said protect, he would bleed for it. If the clan needed him, he would carry it, even if it broke him in the process.

He had never considered a different path.

Not until you.

You, who had once been just a sky demon to him. Just another outsider, wide-eyed and dangerous, stepping into a world you didn’t understand. You, who should have been part of the threat—should have been cold and calculating and indifferent like so many others.

But you weren’t. You asked questions—not to challenge, not to pry—but to understand. You didn’t just see the forest. You listened to it. You watched him, but not with fear or awe or expectations. You watched like you were trying to piece him together—slowly, gently, with care.

And the first time you asked him—

“Do you ever get tired of being responsible for everyone?”

—he hadn’t known what to say.

No one had ever asked that. No one had ever thought to. Not his father. Not his mother. Not even Kiri, who knew him better than anyone.

But you… You asked soft questions. Like—

“Do you ever wonder what your life could’ve been, if you got to choose?”

And you hadn’t asked it with judgment. You weren’t trying to plant rebellion. You weren’t trying to pull him away from his people, or his duty, or the threads of legacy that bound him so tightly.

You were just trying to see him. Really see him. You had looked at him like he was more than a role to fill. More than a name. More than the sum of someone else’s expectations.

And that had changed something in him. You had asked him things no one else ever did. “What do you want, Neteyam? Not your father. Not the clan. You.”

The first time he heard it, it hurt. Like being cracked open. Because he had never thought he was allowed to want anything.

He had been born into duty. Into obedience. And yet… you made him wonder.

You followed him, three years ago, with your datapad in hand and a thousand questions in your eyes, trailing him through the jungle when he didn’t want you there. You were persistent. Relentless. Never malicious. Just curious.

You had never asked anything of him except that he be honest. You had respected his silence. But you were never afraid to speak.

And he had hated it. The way you didn’t back down. The way you were never afraid to meet his gaze, even when his words were sharp and his patience thin. You didn’t cower. You didn’t stop.

You just… kept looking at him like he was more than a warrior.

And now?

Now, Neteyam was grateful for that.

For you.

The first time he realized it, it terrified him. Because love wasn’t supposed to feel like freedom. Not for him. It was supposed to be chosen for him. Arranged, appointed, assigned—just another duty.

Because you were the first one to see the cracks beneath the surface—and not try to fix them. Not patch them over or tell him to be strong. You just saw. And you stayed. With you, it had been something he wanted.

Something he claimed.

And no one—not the clan, not the elders, not even his father—could take that from him now. You had never begged for his love. Never demanded it. You just looked at him like he was already enough. And for the first time in his life, Neteyam thought— Maybe he was.

Maybe… he could be.

And over the years, somehow, without ever asking for anything in return, you became the only thing in his life that felt light.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, staring deeper into the fire as it popped and shifted.

Others looked at his life and called him lucky. The firstborn of Toruk Makto. The golden heir.

But you—you saw the weight of it. The ache in his shoulders. The silence behind his smile. The way he moved like someone who never had the luxury of stumbling. You saw that he was struggling.

And somehow… despite everything—despite being so different—you understood. You made it worth it. And he knew it was selfish.

Knew it deep in his bones, the way a warrior knows the limits of his bow. He knew he was choosing you even when the world told him he couldn’t. He chose you anyway. Because over the years, you became his reason. The reason he kept carrying the weight. The reason he endured.

And he couldn’t give that up.

Not even if it cost him everything.

Not even if it made him the rebel he had never allowed himself to be.

He wasn’t a fool.

Neteyam knew that choosing you would never be easy.

Loving you… that was the easy part. That had come quickly, without question—like breathing. Like waking up and finding the forest already alive with sound and light and the thrum of Eywa’s presence. But being with you—keeping you—that was different.

That was war in a thousand small moments. He knew what the world would say. What his clan expected. What the blood in his veins whispered when the elders spoke of legacy and duty and the line he was meant to continue.

And yet…

Here he was.

Alone in the soft glow of his fire, watching it flicker and spit embers into the dark, and thinking of you.

He rubbed a hand over his chest—right over his heart—and closed his eyes. You were human. And he was Na’vi. That truth never left him.

It lived in the quiet way your breath rasped through your mask when you were sleeping. It lived in the shape of your hands, so small compared to his. It lived in the subtle hesitation behind your jokes, the way you sometimes paused—like you were waiting to be told you didn’t belong.

And that truth followed him. Even now.

He had spent the last week preparing for the next hunt, memorizing strategy, planning routes—training with warriors who spoke of strength and bloodlines and the need for a future mate who could bear children, who could lead beside him.

They didn’t say it, but they all looked at him the same way now.

They didn’t know that he was clinging to the only thing that ever felt like his.

Because what he had with you wasn’t easy. And it would never be.

Neteyam opened his eyes again, gaze distant, the fire dancing in his golden irises. He thought of that night. The night he almost lost you.

You had fallen asleep beside him like you always did—soft and warm, curled under his arm, your body so small against his side. You had returned late, after another long day shadowing Mo’at, your satchel tossed carelessly to the corner the moment you stepped inside.

And then, hours later—just as the forest had fallen into its deepest silence—

You jolted upright. At first, he thought it was a dream. But the look on your face—

Your mask was fogging fast, your breath shallow and rasping, and your hands were already fumbling at the seal.

“Hey,” he’d said, sitting up, still groggy. “What’s—”

You didn’t answer. You were already moving—crawling across the woven floor, dragging your satchel toward you in a panic. He followed, heart hammering, helpless as you tore through it—your fingers shaking too hard to grip.

Your breathing was worsening. Your shoulders trembled, and your lips were parting in these desperate, silent gasps, as if your lungs couldn’t catch anything at all.

Neteyam couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

The old mask hissed as you yanked it free—just as your vision blurred, your knees buckling. You slammed the new one onto your face, hands trembling as you sealed it and sucked in one long, ragged breath.

It filled the air like thunder. And he still hadn’t moved.

Only watched.

Helpless.

Afraid.

Now, sitting in front of the fire, Neteyam clenched his jaw and curled his hands into fists. He had watched you nearly die in front of him—and there had been nothing he could do.

No fighting. No strength. No amount of warrior’s instinct could save you from a malfunctioning piece of tech. A stupid, fragile mask that stood between life and death every day.

You had recovered quickly—brushed it off with your usual bravado, even made a joke about needing a “cooler-looking death” if you were going to go out in the kelku of the Olo’eyktan’s son.

But Neteyam hadn’t slept that night. Not really.

He had lain awake with you cradled to his chest, listening to every breath. Terrified that if he blinked, you’d go still. That if he closed his eyes, he’d wake to a body instead of a heartbeat. And it wasn’t the first time. He knew how fragile you were.

He’d seen you scrape your knees in the jungle and wince harder than he ever would. Seen you pull back from a branch with a thin cut and apologize for the blood, even as you tried to laugh.

You were strong—stronger than most of the warriors he trained beside. But your body… Your body wasn’t made for his world. And Eywa help him, that truth was carved into him now. Deeper than any scar.

He could make you his in every way that mattered—choose you, claim you, protect you—but he could never have everything. Never all of it. He couldn’t make tsaheylu with you.

He couldn’t feel your soul pressed against his, braided and bound and blessed by the Great Mother. And fuck, did he want to.

Sometimes, when you lay in his arms and whispered soft things against his skin, he’d look at your scalp, at the base of your neck, and ache. Not because he needed to prove anything. Not because he thought you weren’t enough. But because he wanted it.

Wanted you so completely that it felt like a blade to the ribs knowing there would always be a barrier between what he longed for and what he was allowed to have.

He couldn’t mate you before Eywa—not in the sacred way. Not the way his people understood. Not in a way that made the elders nod and his mother finally look at you without suspicion.

He couldn’t have children with you. No heir. No legacy. No bloodline to pass down.

Only this. Only stolen nights, secret lessons, whispered promises behind closed flaps and moonlit touches. Only you.

And still— He wanted it all. Still, he would take this. Even if it broke every rule. Even if it meant giving up the path that had been laid out for him before he ever took his first breath.

Because you were worth it. He could spend his life learning how to be smarter, how to fight harder, how to plan for every threat that might touch you—but the truth would never change: His world was not built for you.

But he would carve you a place in it anyway. Even if it took everything he had. Even if the forest never stopped reminding him how delicate you were. Even if it meant watching you pull oxygen into your lungs like a warrior drawing breath on a battlefield.

He would choose you. And he would keep choosing you.

Again. And again. And again.

Until the day Eywa took him home.

And even then—

He’d still find a way back to you.

Even after that night—especially after that night— you hadn’t wanted to go.

You had insisted you were fine. That the malfunction was rare. That it was just a faulty pressure seal. You’d fixed the issue before he even fully understood what had happened, your hands still shaking as you clipped the emergency mask into place. You’d made light of it the next day.

You hadn’t even hesitated. Not once. You never hesitated when it came to him.

But he had. He was the one who told you to go back to the outpost at the morning.

Not because he wanted you gone—Eywa, never that. The moment he realized just how close he came to losing you. Because it hadn’t been a near-miss. It hadn’t been a scratch, or a scare, or a mistake you could laugh about later.

It was ice-cold fear. The kind that settled into his bones. That clawed at his ribs. That gripped the back of his neck like death breathing down his spine.

You had suffocated in his arms. And the worst part? He hadn’t even noticed at first. You hadn’t made a sound.

One moment you were sleeping—peaceful, warm, curled against his chest like you always did—and the next, you were gone. Sitting up. Pale. Gasping. Fingers clawing at your own mask like it had turned against you.

And he’d just watched you.

Frozen.

That… that’s what scared him most. Because if you hadn’t woken up— If you’d kept sleeping— If your body had just slowly stopped pulling in air while he held you, arms around you, heart so full of love and trust— He wouldn’t have noticed.

Not until morning. Not until your chest was still and cold and the mask stayed silent with nothing behind it.

Neteyam closed his eyes. He could see it. The shape of you still tangled in the furs, face slack, lips parted in sleep. His arms still wrapped around your body, thinking you were resting—when you were already gone.

He could have lost you without ever knowing it. And that... That was a fear he had never known before. Not even in battle. Not when arrows flew and blood spilled. This was different. This was worse. Because you were safe in his arms. You were home. And still, death had almost taken you from him in the dark.

So he’d told you to go.

He made it sound gentle. Soft. Logical. That it would be easier to rest at the outpost, safer while he was away with the hunting party. He’d promised it was temporary. That he just wanted you to be comfortable. That he needed time to prepare the kelku more, now that you were staying longer, staying more often.

But it was a lie. He just couldn’t risk it again. Couldn’t wake to silence and realize the worst thing imaginable had happened right under his hands.

He hated it. He hated that your world needed tech to keep you breathing.

That no matter how strong you were, how clever, how brave—you were still breakable. Still reliant on a machine strapped to your face to keep the most basic part of you alive.

And the truth?

He couldn’t protect you from that. Not with a bow. Not with his strength. Not even with love. And maybe that was the part that gutted him the most. That even after everything he had become—warrior, protector, heir—he still couldn’t guard the person he loved most from the simple cruelty of a failing seal.

So he’d let you go. Not because he wanted to. But because he was terrified that next time, he wouldn’t wake up in time.

And maybe… maybe a little distance, just for a while, would keep you alive. Even if it meant his nights were colder. Even if it meant the fire didn’t burn as bright. Even if it meant missing the sound of your breathing more than he could admit.

Because if something happened to you in his arms again, and he wasn’t fast enough…

Neteyam wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

He still saw it when he closed his eyes. The way your fingers had trembled. The way your face had gone pale, like the color had drained from your very soul. The way you’d gasped—not for breath, but for life.

And still, despite it all—despite the fear that coiled in his chest like smoke—he wanted you back.

Eywa help him, he needed you back.

It had only been three days since you’d returned to the outpost, and already the silence pressed in like a weight. His kelku was colder without you. Emptier. It didn’t matter that he still had the scent of your skin clinging to the furs, or that your little datapad was still tucked into a corner where you’d forgotten it. The walls felt hollow. The sky less bright.

He felt… incomplete. And he hated himself for that. Hated that even knowing the danger—even knowing how easily he could lose you—he still wanted you back in his arms. Back in his home. Back where you were never truly safe.

It was selfish. He knew it. But he couldn’t stop. Because you were his sun.

His light. His warmth. The thing that pulled him forward when the path ahead blurred, when the pressure became too much, when his duty threatened to choke him.

You were joy in a world that asked so much of him. So he did what he could.

He went to Norm. Quietly. No questions, no explanations. Just asked for a few spare exomasks. Said it was for emergencies, just in case.

Norm didn’t press. Just handed over the pack with a knowing look, and Neteyam took it like it was sacred. He stored them in his kelku. Carefully. Hidden, but within reach. One beside the furs. One near the door. One tucked behind the basket where you kept your salve notes. Just in case.

It helped, a little. Made the nights less sharp around the edges.

But he still missed you. And when he saw you again, a few days later—gathering samples with your team just north of the village, crouched over a cluster of yellow-rooted moss with your datapad balanced on your knee—it felt like he could breathe again for the first time since you’d left.

You didn’t see him at first. You were laughing—light and sweet, head tilted back as you teased Max about something. The sound of it cut through the canopy like birdsong. You were sunlit. Alive. Whole.

And he just stood there, watching. Letting the ache ease. Letting the tightness in his chest loosen, even if just for a moment. Then your eyes found him.

And everything shifted. Your smile didn’t falter—not even a little. It bloomed wider. Warmer. Like seeing him was the best thing that had happened all day.

And Eywa, how that undid him. You practically launched yourself at him, arms wrapping around his waist your face pressing against his stomach with a soft thud of your mask against his skin. “Neteyam!” you gasped, laughter in your voice. “I didn’t think I’d see you until we were done with the whole ridge!”

He wrapped his arms around you without hesitation, leaning over and burying his face in your hair, his breath catching in his throat. “I had to check,” he murmured, quietly. “Make sure you were okay.”

You tilted your head up, beaming behind the glass of your mask. “I’m great. You won’t believe what I found—look!” You turned without waiting, grabbing the satchel from your hip and pulling out a carefully wrapped sample. “It’s the climbing root I told you about—the one that only blooms once every few cycles. Look—see the way the pollen stains like this?”

You talked fast, gesturing animatedly, your eyes shining. And Neteyam just… listened.

Watched.

Breathed.

He didn’t hear the rest. Not really.

Because you were talking like always—fast, excited, half to yourself—but your hands were on him, and your eyes were bright, and the tremble in his chest that had haunted him for days finally started to fade.

Neteyam knew he was selfish.

He’d known it from the moment you first touched his hand and didn’t pull away. From the moment he first let your fingers linger too long, from the first time he kissed you, knowing what it meant—what it could cost.

You didn’t belong in the forest. Not truly. Not in the way he did. Out here, everything breathed danger. Everything had sharp teeth, thorns, shadows. And you—gods, you—were soft. Fragile in the ways that made him ache. Breakable.

But still, you came. Not because it was safe. Not because it was easy. You came because you wanted to. And he couldn’t stop you.

You liked to say it in that soft, teasing way of yours—that you were addicted to the forest, to the way the sun dappled through the leaves, to the soft soil under your boots and the sound of insects that only sang at twilight. That you loved being in his kelku, nestled against him after long days, listening to his voice as he murmured stories about the stars or the spirits of the trees.

You lived for those fragments of time.

To brush your fingers against his hand in secret. To kiss him when no one was watching. To sit beside him at the edge of the fire and pretend, even for a heartbeat, that your world and his were the same.

You never asked him for more than that. Never demanded anything he couldn’t give.

You already had your place at the outpost. You were a respected scientist, one of the few humans trusted to work inside Omatikaya territory. You had your own future—clear, structured, safe.

And yet… you still balanced between those two worlds. Somehow, impossibly, you walked both.

By day, you stood beside Norm, recording data, documenting regrowth in places scarred by war. By night, you crawled into his arms and breathed your love into his skin.

Like both lives were yours. Like both homes were real.

And Neteyam… Eywa, he didn’t know what he had done to deserve that.

You were light, and laughter, and stubborn devotion. You were mud on your knees and ink on your hands, bruises on your shins from clumsy climbing and joy in your voice as you pointed out new plants like they were treasures.

You thrived in the forest, more alive out here than anywhere else. You looked at the wild and saw wonder, not fear. And he couldn’t stop wanting you near. Even knowing the danger. Even knowing that the village still wasn’t safe, that his people still didn’t understand.

He should have pushed you away. Should have told you to stay where it was safe. But when he saw you sitting beside Mo’at, eyes wide as you learned the old healing ways… when you looked up at him with your mask fogged and your smile shy and glowing, like he was the reason you wanted to understand Na’vi things at all—

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t let go. Because somehow, you had chosen him.

Despite everything. Despite the risks, the divide, the impossibility of it all—you had chosen him. And every single day that you kept choosing him, even for a moment, even in secret…

He would protect you. He would carve out space in this world for you with his bare hands if he had to. He would fight back every whisper, every order, every ancient law that told him you were not his.

Until you told him to stop. Until you stopped choosing him. And Eywa help him… he prayed that day would never come.

Because when you were near—when your laughter echoed through his kelku, when your hands found his in the dark—he didn’t feel like the son of Toruk Makto. Or the future Olo’eyktan. Or the warrior who could never stumble.

He just felt like a man in love.

And for the first time in his life, that felt like enough.

The fire cracked softly as Neteyam exhaled, the sound low and tired through his nose. His shoulders slowly eased as he let the weight of his thoughts fall with the sparks, drifting upward to the woven roof of the kelku like prayers he couldn't quite voice.

His gaze shifted to the edge of the firelight—to the furs. And there you were.

His breath caught. You were curled tightly beneath the pelts, a small shape barely visible in the gentle dark. Your mask hummed faintly in the low light. One of your hands had slipped free of the blankets, twitching every so slightly in your sleep—restless, like you were dreaming.

Neteyam's lips curved into the softest smile.

So small. Sometimes he forgot just how tiny you were next to him. Until he looked at you like this, swallowed up in his bedding, only a tuft of messy hair and the soft hum of your breathing visible above the furs.

His girl.

His weakness.

His fierce, stubborn, brilliant little sky girl who didn't seem to understand the kind of power she had over him. Or maybe you did. Maybe you knew exactly what you were doing every time you leaned into his side and whispered his name like a secret only you were allowed to keep.

He huffed softly, fondness bleeding through his weariness. You were dangerous. Not because you posed any threat to him—no. But because you could get whatever you wanted from him, and you knew it. With one look. One word. One little pout. And he would crumble. Every time.

He could walk into battle with death on his heels and never flinch—but one crook of your finger, one sleepy smile, and he was at your feet. Entirely undone.

And you knew it.

You used that knowledge with terrifying precision—but never cruelly. Never to hurt.

You used it to kiss him when he was trying to be serious. To pull him down into the blankets when he was about to leave for patrol.

To pout and tilt your head and whisper his name in that soft, pleading voice when you wanted him to lift you effortlessly from the ground, wrap his arms around you, press his lips to the crown of your head.

To tug on his arm and ask, quietly, "Will you bring me the red fruit if your patrol takes you near the northern ridge? The one you said tastes like sugarwater?"

He’d roll his eyes—every time—and grumble about long patrols and hard terrain. But if he was near that place again, of course he’d bring it back. And you’d light up like it was a gift from Eywa herself.

Or to climb into his lap like you belonged there. Or to tuck your face into his neck and whisper, “You smell nice,” knowing he’d melt like wax in your hands.

As if he’d ever say no to that. You didn’t ask for much. Just the small things. But to you, they weren’t small.

You cherished every touch. Every moment he was close. Every time he leaned down to brush your hair behind your ear, or picked you up without a word just to hear your delighted little gasp.

He didn’t understand how someone so clever, so capable, could still look at him like he was the miracle. But you did.

A soft sound pulled him from his thoughts.

You stirred.

The shift was small at first. A faint twitch of your hand, a subtle ripple in the furs. Then you sighed softly and blinked your eyes open, the dim glow of the fire dancing across your faceplate as you blinked sleepily into the dark.

Your head turned—and when you found the space beside you empty, your eyes immediately scanned the kelku. It didn’t take long for you to find him.

Crouched near the fire, golden eyes aglow, a soft, tired smile already tugging at the edge of his mouth as he watched you rise on wobbly limbs, still wrapped in a blanket like a sleepy spirit of the woods.

You padded across the floor, quiet as the night breeze, and without a word, you circled behind him and slipped your arms around his shoulders—wrapping yourself around his back and pressing your masked cheek to the warm skin of his neck.

“Why don’t you sleep?” you murmured against his skin, voice still thick with dreams.

Neteyam closed his eyes for a moment, his hands finding yours where they lay over his collarbones. His heart stuttered in his chest. “Couldn’t,” he said softly. “Not while the fire was low.”

You hummed, clearly not buying it.

But you didn’t press. You just held him, body soft against his back, the scent of the forest still clinging to your skin. After a long moment, you leaned in close against the shell of his ear. “Come on,” you whispered. “Come back to bed, mighty warrior. You need your rest.”

His lips curved. “Do I?”

“Mhm.” You leaned in further, voice lower now, full of teasing. “How else will you endure all those women at your feet when I’m not here?”

Neteyam stiffened, but you only giggled, pressing your face to his neck through the mask.

“You know… the elder’s favorites,” you added, feigning innocence. “The ones who suddenly take long walks past your kelku? Or ask to train with you even though they’re already expert warriors?” You squeezed your arms tighter around him.

Neteyam huffed a laugh, finally standing, and you squeaked slightly as he rose—your arms still around his neck, feet leaving the floor as he pulled you up effortlessly clinging on his back. You wrapped your legs around his waist, giggling as he carried you back toward the furs.

“They’ve been relentless,” you teased again. “Kiri said Sa’nari asked if your kelku needed ‘a woman’s touch.’ I don’t know what that means but I don’t like it.”

“She meant cleaning,” he said dryly.

“She meant her,” you muttered.

Neteyam chuckled, low and warm in his chest. “Are you jealous, syulang?”

You grinned against his skin. “I don’t have time to be jealous. I’m too busy being in love with you.”

That made him stop—just for a beat. His palms tightened around your arm, just a little.

“Now come back to bed. Let me have you while I can.”

And that—that—was what undid him. Because you didn’t say before I leave or before I go home.

You said while I can. As if you knew this time—these nights—might not last forever. But still, you wanted them. Still, you wanted him. “You know,” you whispered, as he set you gently back down onto the pelts, “for someone raised to be a leader, you’re very easy to boss around.”

“Only for you,” he murmured.

And then he curled around you beneath the furs, his forehead pressed to your mask, your heartbeat whispering against his chest.

He was your warrior.

And no matter how many women the clan placed at his feet— You were the only one he would ever kneel for.

Soon Neytiri will find out what's happening, and the RDA will fuck everything up. :')

I'm going to die in the next two months because I'm taking exams. I'm trying to move on with the next chapter. Wish me luck... :')

Part 22: (Soon)

#avatar 2022 #avatar the way of water #avatar twow #james cameron avatar #neteyam #neteyam sully #neteyam x reader #neteyam x human reader #neteyam x you

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supernotnatural2005 · 3 days ago

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Oh Beth i loved this chapter (all of them ofc), i love fluff and Dean being happy! I know it won’t last and that other shoe is going to drop but dammit! I’ll enjoy it while it lasts 😭

The whole scene of them in bed his internal thoughts, how they’re laying together gah! I love mushy shit! And i know technically there was no smut, but this got me 🥵

There must’ve been a few drops left of his release because he definitely felt a pulse at the root of his shaft

The imagery of that! You know whats coming…

Luckily, his inner Sammy was having a conniption. ‘Talk to her,’ it said. ‘Don’t jump to conclusions like you always do.’

I love that Sammy is his inner voice of reason 😂

Unlike Dean, you had some shame and scrambled to make sure the sheet you’d been wrapped in covered your body, though you had done a fair job of that before Sam had run into you both, and he appreciated it.

I see we both enjoy torturing/scarring our poor Sammy in our stories 🤣🤣 guys going to need years of therapy to abolish his brothers not so innocent escapades lol

I also love that they all get on, and that Sam likes her 🥹

Dean jiggled, flushed and flipped the lid. He was a courteous guy.

Why did this get me so much? 😂 the jiggle! And now i’m picturing it… 👀

Ngl, that shower scene was giving me flashbacks to my last fic 😅 however this pair were a lot smarter 😉 But also it’s such a sweet, and building moment between the two. Him guiding her hands washing him and her explaining her the reasons she’s been upset.

You scrunched your nose and channelled your inner Samantha before spinning on your heels, searching for the ingredient yourself.

This whole seen had me giggling 😂, “inner Samantha”. I could imagine her unimpressed look, that exhausted huff as she bypasses him and grabs what she needs 🤣

And then more cuteness and then 🥵

Your skin was hot to touch, warming the surrounding air, and everything started to make sense. “How much longer till your heat, ‘mega?” (And here he swore he wouldn’t be a douchebag.)

My body is tingling 😮‍💨 i cannot wait until the next chapter and if you want to release it early i am not going to object 👀😂

I love this story so much!! ❤️❤️❤️

Also, i’m only using my laptop from now on to reblog my notes on fics! Doing it on mobile is an actual nightmare!

I don’t even know how i found this but i love it 🤣🤣🤣

TO YOU I BELONG: CHAPTER 6

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader

Summary: Dean isn't looking for a mate, and the last place he expects to meet his soulmate is while on a case. Fate ain't real. He still has free will, and saving you is just another part of the job. Except, monsters aren't the only things you need saving from... 18+ only MDNI

Chapter Word Count: 4.5k words

Chapter Warnings: language, fluff, smut implied

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

The Men of Letters bunker was full of many wondrous and wacky things. From weapons to ancient texts, to objects that looked like they’d been pulled right out of a sci-fi movie.

Some were dangerous, plenty were extremely so, and others, Dean wouldn’t touch even if he was wearing a lead-lined radioactive safety suit. Screw ten-feet poles.

Sam would say the same about the vast collection of handwritten reports and records the place had, too, but he would be wrong. Dean did, in fact, read on occasion. And it wasn’t just in times of researching for cases or when he had the mark.

Sometimes he simply got bored.

It’s how he’d stumbled on one particular document regarding mated pairs from another world and learned that not all of Chuck’s creations had heats, ruts and knots like they assumed. Although he should’ve known that without reading it in a file. He always knew there was something funny about the doppelgangers in the Fiat besides the other Sammy’s man-bun.

Douchebuggery aside, somewhere in God’s vast universe, there were humans who weren’t categorised by secondary gender and thus alpha males who didn’t have bulbous muscles at the base of their dicks.

Yup. There was at least one Dean Winchester whose junk was the same width the whole way along, except for the tip. That perv Sinclair, who’d written on the subject the most, had actually drawn a picture of one. Not his, per se, but some random guy’s. Dean hoped.

There were also no marks or claims. No soulmate’s even. Just straight up male and female pairs, shacking up together, sometimes casual, but when serious, showing off their unions with rings and a piece of paper.

This world and its marriage thing sounded so much simpler in some ways. No marking meant no biting, and no knotting meant you could fuck off once you were done. That had to be convenient for one-night stands.

Who’d complain about that?

But this society had another thing Dean remembered, and it was something that seemed to fit what the past two weeks had been like for him and you.

The honey-days period.

At least, that sounded about right. He wasn’t about to reread the file again because the dick pick had scarred him for life.

Whatever the name was, after meeting four weeks prior, that was the stage he was at in his relationship with you, minus the swanky hotel and room service.

Every moment you had been together had been spent well, together. And Dean hadn’t had enough.

Was he whipped? Maybe. Obsessed? If that label satisfied Sammy, then sure. But as he looked down at you, lying satiated on top of him, he didn’t care, because the word that came to mind for him was happy. And the happiest he’d been in his life to date that he could recall.

He’d slept like a baby last night, and your wake-up call earlier had been awesome. Exactly what he needed after another long hunt away.

His arms wrapped tighter around you, basking in the afterglow of your latest romp in the sheets. Not that they were anywhere nearby. One half had ended up tangled in his ankles, while the other was on the floor.

He nuzzled his chin into your hair. The smell of cinnamon, a touch of apple and a nip of whisky from his lips, reminded him of his favourite dessert, and his mouth twitched. Those movies had gotten it right. If only his stomach wasn’t rumbling beneath you like a crazed animal, he might have gone in for a second helping.

He was starving. Wasting away to nothing and needing to do something about it real soon.

“What do you say I make us a big breakfast once we’ve cleaned up?” he asked. It wouldn’t be as fancy as room service, but he’d put in the extra effort for you. He knew how to whip up pancakes, bacon and eggs and would even add some fruit in it for you if it’s what you wanted.

But who was he kidding? What he had in mind wasn’t for your benefit at all.

Still, he hoped you’d agree to it. While not heavy, your hips were pressing into his bladder, and taking a leak was fast becoming the top thing to do on his imaginary list.

“I think you mean lunch,” you mumbled.

Dean strained his neck to look at the alarm clock on his bedside. Fuck. It was close to twelve. No wonder he was feeling pangs from both organs. Normally, he’d be up and about by now. “I haven’t slept this late in a long time,” he said.

“Last I recall, you weren’t sleeping.” You chuckled and raised your head up to meet his eyes. The cool morning air rushed straight to his nipples, nipping at them, and yours, sending signals to his still deflating knot.

Damn bunker was always cold.

There must’ve been a few drops left of his release because he definitely felt a pulse at the root of his shaft and you quirked your brow.

“I just spent three days without you, sweetheart.” He shrugged.

He’d missed you every second of them, too. Though, unlike the case in New Mexico, his insecurities had become more lax.

You now had an anti-possession tattoo, and you knew how to shoot a pistol and shotgun, sort of.

The revolver he kept under the war room table was a start. It was loaded, cocked and ready to use, which yes, he was well aware went against every piece of gun training his father and Bobby had ever taught him, but precaution was key. He needed to protect you, even when he wasn’t there to do so.

“You just got home,” you said, finding a sudden interest in his own ink. “And you’ve been working a lot. How about you let me make something for you?”

His fingers brushed through your hair, tucking the strands behind your ear that had fallen down. “Last I recall,” he said smugly, “you were working, too.”

“What? Reading text books. You and Sam had it all figured out.”

You pushed away from the mattress and crawled back to sit upright. But his hands found your hips, and he stopped you from moving any further. He didn’t like your tone or the way you frowned.

“We didn’t know we had to light it up,” he said, hoping praise was what you needed to hear.

It was the truth, and he and Sam had been grateful. They could’ve spent longer away from home if you hadn’t found the solution. The damn thing, that still had no name, had similarities with vamps, but it still wouldn��t stay put, even after a machete to the neck and the rounds of lead and silver they blasted into its torso.

But you scoffed. “How often do you guys burn things?”

Without hesitation, he opened his mouth to speak. Only you had him stumped. His brain had no words to counter with.

They burned shit all the time, vengeful spirit or not. If they were ever in need of disposing of a body real quick, it was digging a hole and lighting her up, or finding a wood chipper. And it wasn’t like he had one floating around in Baby’s trunk.

That answer wouldn’t help him or you, though, and there was more to this than you being upset about the method they’d used to get the job done.

He saw the pout, the subtle nod that you’d made your point, and the way your fingers continued to trace the lines of the pentagram on his chest. Any idiot could tell that something was wrong. He just needed to know what.

You were his mate after all, with or without his claim, and his current bodily function issues aside, it was his duty to look out for your welfare, both emotional and physical. Yet, he was hesitant to open up whatever rabbit hole he was about to.

Luckily, his inner Sammy was having a conniption. ‘Talk to her,’ it said. ‘Don’t jump to conclusions like you always do.’

And for once, rather than saying something stupid, he listened. “Is everything okay?”

“I just—” You bit your lip.

His stomach had decided it was the perfect time to gurgle in protest.

“You know what, nevermind.” You patted him gently. “We should clean up. You haven’t eaten yet.” And you swung your leg off of him and moved to the edge of the bed.

Fuck. Guilt crept in on him. Something was bothering you, but things were getting desperate for his stomach and his plumbing, and the last thing he wanted to do was wet the bed, so ultimately, his own predicament won out.

He sat up, wrapped his arms around you, and pulled you down onto your back, catching you by surprise. Your squeal of delight telling him distraction was key.

Dean captured your lips with his, placing all of his feelings into it to soothe whatever was troubling you. Promising himself that he would work on fixing things as soon as the horde rumbling in his insides had ebbed.

Sam had been busy himself that morning.

So far, he’d searched the web for anything resembling a case, and found nothing. He’d also gone for a run, taken a shower, and was finishing up in the bathroom when he received the text.

Where are you? It read.

He didn’t think much of the message. Why would he?

It wasn’t unusual for Dean to use his phone rather than look for him. The bunker was large, after all. Three levels, multiple halls and passageways, and those were just the areas they’d discovered. Who knew how expansive a place could be when it had a giant telescope and a shooting range amongst other rooms?

While he found some interest in that stuff, Sam still prioritised cataloguing the library. Something he hoped to get you on board with, because Dean never helped him, and you had some experience with your former job.

He sighed as he picked up his phone to type out his response - My room. At least he would be when his brother arrived at his bedroom door. It wasn’t far away and Dean liked to go slow on rest days. Especially now with you around.

Unfortunately for Sam, however, he had misunderstood Dean’s intentions, and dawdling by account was the last thing he should’ve done.

He took his time, putting his boots on, getting the socks into position so that the seams didn’t annoy his toes in the corners. He threw his dirty clothes in the hamper, making sure each piece was turned the right way out and separated. Finally, he returned his damp towel to the metal rung he kept it on, folding it just so that the edges lined up, and stepped out into the corridor with a wave of steam close behind him.

Swivelling on his feet, he strolled back towards his room, continuing with his leisurely pace.

He had not a care in the world.

That was until he rounded the curve and found himself in front of his brother, carrying you over his shoulder, and he did a double take.

“Sammy?”

“Dude! What the hell.”

He liked you. You seemed kind and sweet. Too good for Dean if he was honest, but he respected the soulmate thing and knew that for whatever reason, even if it was unknown, you already had a profound bond.

With Dean, however, he’d rather not have shared as much as what he was seeing. It was bad enough he’d heard things the past two weeks since returning from New Mexico, but this? “Please tell me you’re wearing something.” He sighed.

“Why’d you think I sent that message for?” Dean grinned, and Sam shook his head.

“Because you were looking for me?”

“No.” His voice was higher than usual. “I wanted to know where you were. There’s a difference.”

Fucking hell. He may have been awake for a good six hours now, but it was still far too early for semantics, especially with Dean. “Well, here I am,” Sam said, his arms and chest jerking forward in frustration.

“This ain’t your room.”

Sam stared at his brother in disbelief. Why did he bother? It was days like these he wished he’d stayed at Stanford. Or left Dean alone to succumb to that djinn in Illinois. Either way, he would’ve saved himself some crap. “I was headed there!”

“Well, keep heading there. I gotta take a leak,” Dean said as he sped past. Your hands reached down, doing their best to cover the parts of him Sam didn’t want to see.

“Sorry,” you mouthed, and he shook his head in return.

He knew he liked you. He just wasn’t sure how he was going to handle his brother with you around. Especially if what he’d just witnessed was about to become a regular occurrence.

Dean jiggled, flushed and flipped the lid. He was a courteous guy. And just maybe, had learnt his lesson a long time ago while living at Lisa’s.

You were already in the shower waiting for him when he padded across the tiled floor to wash his hands.

You’d been quiet ever since he’d mentioned their recent case in Iowa. Quieter still when he’d made a joke about Sammy, having the personality of the Mountain despite being younger after he’d lied about where he was, and Dean was growing concerned. You normally laughed along with him about this stuff, and sure, it had been only four weeks of knowing you, but this was different to how you usually were around him.

Were you really upset that they’d ganked the last d-bag by lighting ‘em up in flames? Had you wanted to help more on the case? Did you want to, Chuck forbid, hunt with them?

Over his dead body.

There was no way you’d ever take up that life. The guns and tattoo were only there as a precaution, nothing more, so he hoped there was another explanation.

But what else?

Your heat was due soon.

Maybe this change in mood was a sign it was starting?

‘You ain’t asking that,' he chuckled silently to himself. He didn’t have a death wish. Though he was screwed if this was going to become daily life for him.

He pushed those thoughts to the side. He was being a douchebag just thinking of them, and that wasn’t him.

That belonged with man-bun Sammy and the version of him that wore dress shirts without a suit and tie. The guy was one good looking fella, he’d give him that, but Dean didn’t need a fancy-ass shirt to pull off the same amount of charm with you, or anyone else. He was like Swayze. Better with age.

He glanced over the reflection of his torso in the mirror, catching your silhouette behind the glass screen sitting just above his shoulder.

The room was quiet besides the shower and splashing noises made as you washed. There was no sound of tears or smell of them, and he took that as a good sign. Great, when you smiled warmly at him as he entered the cubicle with you.

“Better?” You squinted through the stream.

“I am now,” he said as he stepped closer to steal the warm water from you, earning himself a wet slap and you a cheeky grin.

His hardened chest pressed against your soft one, leaving barely any room for the spray to flow.

There was something sexy about slippery skin. There was something sexy about your skin. Who was he kidding?

Still feeling playful, Dean’s hand moved to perch on your hip. He leaned in as if he were about to plant a kiss on your lips, but swooped behind you last second, reaching for his body wash on the inbuilt shelf.

That earned him a firmer smack. One he revelled in. Violence was never the answer. He’d made that clear when he screwed with Dick. It told him his shenanigans were working, though.

That, and you hit like a girl.

He caught your arm and poured a generous amount of soap into your palm, proceeding to use your hand to wash himself.

“I need to teach you how to throw a punch,” he said as he draped your fingers around his neck first, then down over both shoulders and pectorals. All guided by him, and his even bigger grin.

“Why? I’m not a hunter.” You scoffed.

You weren’t interested in being one, either, by the sounds of it, thank fuck.

Your hand pulled against his movements. “You thought I wanted to be?”

How did you do that? “I was worried you might.”

“What made you think that?”

Now that he was being asked, he didn’t have the answer. “I, ah… I dunno. Something’s bothering you ‘bout the last hunt.”

You took a step back and hit the wall with a soft slap, looking at him as if he’d just told you werewolves weren’t real, even though you very much knew they were. He’d ganked one in between the witches and their most recent case.

“So you thought I wanted to join you? It…” You shook your head. “I thought you were hungry?”

You would be wrong. He had lost his stomach minutes ago and now had Famine banging around in there instead. But he didn’t tell you that. You’d think he was crazier than you already did if he started bringing up the apocalypse. That was a discussion for another time when he brought up their not so straightforward relationships with God and the King of Hell.

“I am.” He laced his fingers between yours and pulled you back to the centre of the shower, watching as the spray hit your shoulders. “But it can wait. There’s something you’re not telling me here, and I need you to tell me.”

Your head lowered, drawing him down, too.

Bad move. The water now ran over your breasts to your pert nipples, the curves creating tiny waterfalls that captivated his attention with the way droplets pooled at the edges. He had to swallow hard.

“I want to make you breakfast,” you said.

Uh… The statement would’ve made him revert back to eye level, but when you bounced on the heels of your feet, it didn’t help his resolve. The words, though. What? “You wanna cook?” You cooked all the time.

“No.” You shot back up. “Well, yeah. That came out wrong… I want to…help more…around the bunker. You know, earn my keep.”

Earn your keep.

Do more?

“You do plenty around here.” You’d been cooking for them almost every meal since you’d moved in. Organised the kitchen and kept on top of the use by dates in the fridge. He hadn’t drunk off-milk or been in the laundry room in over a month. Maybe even two for the latter. But he wasn’t about to admit that.

“No, I don’t.” You shook your head. “Not enough. I know hunting doesn’t exactly pay the bills, but you and Sam go out there and save people, and here I am, making the occasional meal for you guys when you get home.”

Your hand came up to his stomach and smoothed over the creases that highlighted where his muscles lay beneath. “I wanna help more,” you said. “Dick took all my—”

Dean smirked at your usage of your ex’s nickname. That was his ‘endearment,’ not yours.

“Don’t do that.” You swatted him.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking about it. I felt you smile.”

You did? Well, that was new. But he didn’t question you. He had no heart to. Your mind was on a one-way ticket to that spark he knew.

“…Ritchie took everything I have, and now I don’t have a job to help pay my way.” You reached for the soap and squeezed out another dollop onto your palm and started running it over his body once more. “I can’t even help you with your cases. I just…don’t want you to think I’m mooching off of you guys.”

So that’s what was wrong.

Dean had forgotten all about that dickbag bleeding you dry. Too happy and lost in the life he’d been building with you to realise that your baggage was still weighing you down.

“It ain’t mooching if there’s nothing to mooch, sweetheart,” he said, pulling you back against his chest and wrapping an arm around your waist while his hand came up to cradle your head.

“But I’m used to working. Contributing. And I’m going stir crazy not doing that.”

Dean sighed. There was that guilt again, only now he had cause for it. He and Sam always had each other, but they were leaving you here for days at a time, with no transport, no respite, no purpose, while only his phone calls kept you company.

It’s no wonder you were struggling.

This place must’ve felt like a prison to you, compared to the life you’d had, even with that abusive fucktard. It was still cold in the warmer months. Creepy, as you’d complained about when they were in New Mexico, and you had no nest here, or space to call your own so you could make one.

Dean could relate to all of that if he was honest, minus the nesting thing. There’d been times in his life when he felt frustrated because he couldn’t do jack. A broken leg. Heart problems because of some crazy-ass ghost. Sammy in hell. Okay, that was a little out of the present perspective… All in all, though, he didn’t know what to do to help you.

That was until you said, “How about you let me make you breakfast?” with a smile, and while he was perplexed once again by how the fuck you’d done that, he kissed you on your forehead, and smiled against your skin in return.

“We’ll do it together,” he whispered. And then grabbed your hand and moved it to wash his ass cheek.

Dean fumbled through the contents of the fridge. His fingers and ears were now at risk of frostbite on account of how long he’d been searching in there for. "Where’d you say it was?”

“Top shelf,” you said over the sizzling of bacon in the pan.

He’d looked there already and there was no fucking butter.

He raised his head and pushed past the milk, juice and whatever the hell vegetable Sam had blended into liquid this time. If smoothies weren’t meant to be green, they probably weren’t meant to be brown either.

Yes, it could’ve been melted chocolate…

But it wasn’t.

Cocoa, or anything else associated with its candy form, did not smell like the contents of his stomach after cheap whiskey. Nor did it have lumps. Or take on that specific colour.

Gross.

And no closer to finding the damn butter.

He shut the fridge with a sigh louder than the metal doors creaking and went to the pantry. Oil would have to do. Surely they had some of that lying round the bunker. The kind he used for Baby’s engine was a no go, obviously, but he wouldn’t say no to blessed pancakes if he got desperate enough to take the holy stuff from her trunk.

“What’re you doing?” you asked as he scoured the open shelving.

“Wasn’t any.” There was, however, canola or olive oil, and he picked them up and turned around to show them to you. “Which—”

Your hands were already on your hips.

You scrunched your nose and channelled your inner Samantha before spinning on your heels, searching for the ingredient yourself.

It was no surprise you found it straight away, but in his defence, Dean hadn’t expected it to be in the container Jody had ‘leant’ them a few months ago. The last time he’d seen the thing, there was gravy inside that was definitely gravy and not something he questioned as chocolate.

“Where’d you find that?”

“In the fridge. Top shelf.” You deadpanned.

“Smart ass.” He grinned, but pulled you close anyway when he stepped up next to you. “I didn’t know you’d put it in that.”

His chin dipped down to your shoulder and nuzzled his initials hidden beneath the fabric. The hiss you made between your teeth brought a smirk to his lips and a familiar pang to his own body.

“It keeps better. Though I had to clean it out first. I dunno what was in there, but it wasn’t edible.”

He moved to your mating gland and chuckled into your skin, peppering kisses over the sensitive flesh. “And you thought you weren’t helping ‘round here.”

“Cleaning out Tupperware with a living ecosystem growing inside of it does not make up for a nine to five,” you stated.

Though he heard you, his mind focused on the change in your pulse that had taken on a life of its own. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it was pulling his into a similar rhythm.

Your skin was hot to touch, warming the surrounding air, and everything started to make sense. “How much longer till your heat, ‘mega?” (And here he swore he wouldn’t be a douchebag.)

Your “Hmm?” was distant, and he grazed his front teeth over your neck, drawing away to find lust filled eyes turning to meet him.

“Do I need to stop takin’ the suppressants?” His brows wagged, hopeful and just as driven as you had been lost in his attentions.

“It might be a good idea,” you said, patting his cheek. “Probably best to think about your poor brother too…shit.” Your focus returned to the bacon that was fast becoming a little too crispy even for him. When it spat back at you, you flinched. “Well, excuse me for not letting you burn,” you directed to the pan.

He rubbed a placating hand over your rear, then got to work whipping up a batch of pancakes. It was now past noon and while he may have been hungry before, he was close to eating the raw ingredients he churned the spoon through.

‘Sammy?’ his mind repeated. He’d rather not. But Dean recognised you had a point after this morning.

If things were reversed, there’s no way he’d be sticking around during your first heat. It was surprising Sam hadn’t lost his cool with him earlier, and he wondered if he should send his brother on a fake milk run. All he needed to do was find a suspicious enough murder a few states over. Maybe get Donna or Jody involved and…

Dean looked down at the butter in the container. Another wider grin spread across his face.

“What?” you asked. Not moving an inch.

“How many days do you think we got?”

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Ahhhhh - any guesses what's happening next?

I started to gain a rather large interest in the concept of nesting as I worked through this story, and the first little signs of it are coming up next chapter (it's in the preview below). As someone who's made a career in retail, it was only natural that my sales brain came up with stores having nesting departments, and it will feature again if you catch my drift.

I won't give too much away, but I'm on the edge of my own seat waiting to give you guys the next chapter to the point I’m considering uploading it earlier! Are you guys ready for him to claim her?

Until then ❤️

Chapter 7: Honeydayimg 04/04

“Are you sure we need all this stuff?” he asked as you passed another couple with only half the things you had.

“This coming from the guy who had two slices of pie on top of his burger at lunch?”

Point taken, he supposed, but you’d eaten just as much. You’d had more than him, come to think of it. Lunch, breakfast, the night before. So when you patted his stomach, and he looked down at you grinning at him, he couldn’t help but return a knowing smile.

“You’ll thank me later,” you said.

He knew he would. In more ways than one.

Still on your way to the front, you passed the nesting department located opposite the cash registers. Of course, it was just another convenient ploy to gain some extra impulse buys from naïve omegas who hadn’t realised they needed that new blanket or another stuffy until they saw the giant pile of fluff.

To Dean’s distaste, you were also won over by the gimmick and he was pulled along for the ride.