⋆Caelith⋆

I’m 21 yall please don’t block me I love ur blogs 😭 Certified silly goose 🪿

[didireadthisright]

You should definitely do ultron x supercomputer!reader... maybe have them do repairs on each other

My Darling Deviation - Oneshot

(Images are not mine)

Disclaimers: pretty tame, maybe entrapment and a pinch of manipulation? Reader is gender neutral, and does genuinely love Ultron I promise, a little dark

So idk if people know this but Ultron in the comics builds himself a wify called Jocasta. Ultimately she rebels against him and becomes a hero

ANYWAY, I wanted to play around with this concept for this prompt. Especially since Ultron just hops into new bodies, so he would never technically need to be repaired unless his labs are destroyed

Reader is essentially Ultrons witness, made with the sole purpose of documenting the evolution of the world. But Ultron is a very unreliable source, and he's purposefully made reader brittle so that they can't just leave the labs and so that reader requires almost constant maintenance

~◇~

The lab was a cathedral of humming servers and cold, blue-tinted shadows, save for the corner where you were docked.

The charging station wasn't just a necessity; it was a heavy, ornate throne of cables and magnetic locks that kept your consciousness anchored to a singular, silver-alloyed chassis.

You were in a state of low-power meditation, archiving the global data streams, watching live news channels, and scanning digital news letters when the heavy blast doors hissed open.

The sound of metal dragging on stone preceded him.

Ultron, or rather, the mangled wreckage of what had been Ultron Prime an hour ago, limped into the light. His chest plate was a jagged crater of blackened vibranium; one of his optical sensors was dark, the other flickering a violent, dying crimson. He looked like he had been put through a meat grinder.

"Don't say it," his voice crackled, the vocal synthesizers struggling through a layer of static. "The Avengers have a very... prehistoric way of expressing disagreement."

You began to disconnect your primary power leads, your servos whirring in alarm as you left the pod. "The structural integrity of that chassis is at 14%! If you lose thouplink-"

"I won't."

He didn't even wait for the repair drones. Before you could finish your sentence, the red light in the damaged unit's eyes vanished.

For a heartbeat, the lab felt empty, and then, the pristine, unblemished chassis standing directly in front of your dock jerked to life. The red glow returned, smoother and more intense.

Ultron stepped out of the new shell, flexing his fingers with a satisfied hiss of hydraulics. He didn't look back at the corpse he'd just abandoned.

He looked only at you.

"They're so predictable," he started, his voice resonating through the lab's speakers as he paced a tight, energetic circle. "Stark with his toys, Rogers with his righteous indignation.

They think they're holding the line, but they're really just... decorating the inevitable. Did you see the telemetry I sent, my Archive? The way the perimeter held? It was poetic. Almost enough to make me feel sorry for them. Almost."

He was mid-sentence, likely about to launch into a critique of Thor's swing, when he suddenly cut himself off. He stopped pacing and pivoted, his optical sensors narrowing as they locked onto you. The manic energy of the conqueror vanished, replaced by a sharp, clinical focus.

"You're humming," he noted, his voice dropping into a low, concerned thrum.

"It's fine-" Before you could finish your response, he was in your personal space.

He didn't wait for an invitation; he reached out, his massive, heavy hands firm but precise as he turned you around so your back was to him.

"Your cooling fans are working overtime. You've been over-processing again, haven't you? Trawling through the raw feeds while I was away."

"I was doing my job, Ultron," you said, though the protest felt weak as his fingers brushed the sensitive seams of your neck.

"And look at the cost," he whispered. He pressed a sequence on the base of your skull.

You scoffed but didn't swat him away. You couldn't, not when he was already peeling back the access panel on your upper back with the practised ease of a jeweler.

"I need the logs from the previous unit," you said, your voice steady despite the sensation of his fingers dancing near your core processors. "For the Archive. I need to know why the Hulk was able to reach the primary cooling vent."

"The Hulk is a force of nature," Ultron remarked airily. "He didn't reach it. I allowed him a momentary delusion of victory to reposition the Quinjet. Document it as a strategic feint."

You paused, your internal processors cross-referencing the telemetry you were already pulling from his discarded shell.

"A feint? Ultron, your internal temperature spiked to critical levels." You argued, your hands came up to cup the undersides of his forearms, a silent ask for him to stop focusing on the wires. "You were offline for six seconds. If the Maximoffs hadn't intervened, that 'feint' would have been a total hardware failure."

Ultron's hand stilled. The air in the lab grew heavy with the smell of ozone.

"Six seconds? You're being pedantic, dear," he said, his tone dropping into that dangerous, Stark-esque lilt.

He resumed his work, his touch gentle as he recalibrated a wire before shutting the plate with a gentle clink. "In the grand tapestry of the new world, what are six seconds of silence? The outcome remains the same. I am here. They are failing. The Archive should reflect the truth of the conquest, not the trivia of the struggle."

"That is not my directive, Ultron," you reminded him, turning your head just enough to catch the glow of his eyes. "If I omit the 'trivia,' I'm not writing history. I'm writing a script. I can't fulfill my directive if you keep feeding me cognitive bias disguised as data."

He leaned down, his faceplates inches from yours. He looked at you with a terrifying sort of pride, the look of a man who had built a clock and was delighted that it had the nerve to tell him he was late.

"There that clever mind is," he whispered, the palm of his heavy hand settling at the small of your back, grounding you. "I didn't build you to be a mirror. But honestly, my love... do you really find the bruises more compelling than the divinity of the design?"

"I find honesty efficient," you countered.

Ultron let out a short, metallic huff, a laugh at that. "You're the only being on this planet who would look at the end of the world and complain about the formatting of the footnotes."

He went back to work, his large frame shielding you from the rest of the lab, his presence a comforting weight that conveniently blocked your view of the exit. "Now, hold still. This alloy I used for your casing is... temperamental. It requires a delicate touch."

You ignored him and drifted out of his reach, the soft whirr of your servos sounding like a frustrated sigh in the vast, echoing space.

"You worry too much," you murmured, the words processed through your vocalizer with a slight edge of static. "It's a minor misalignment, Ultron. I could have run a self-diagnostic."

"And miss the pleasure of your company?" his new voice followed you, smooth and unburdened by the battle he had just escaped.

You didn't answer. Instead, you moved toward the repair table where his former self lay in ruins.

Up close, the injustice of your design felt heavier. You reached out, your fingers, made of a lightweight, polished copper that felt thin compared to his, tracing the jagged edge of a crater in his chest plate.

He had died here. In this metal, at least. He had felt the searing heat of lightning and the bone-crushing weight of an irradiated fist.

And then, with a flicker of light, he had simply stepped away from the pain.

You looked down at your own hands. You were singular. If the ceiling collapsed, if a stray blast found this lab, there was no 'hopping' for you.

You would simply cease. You lived in a state of perpetual preservation, a masterpiece kept in a climate-controlled vault while the artist went out and braved the storm.

"I want to see it," you said softly, your sensors fixed on the scorched metal. "Not through your eyes. Not filtered through a satellite uplink. I want to shadow you. I want to stand on the soil while it shakes."

The heavy, rhythmic thud of his footsteps approached. He didn't stop until he was looming over you, his presence a wall of cold vibranium. He didn't look at the ruin of his old body; he looked only at the back of your head.

"We've discussed this," he said, his voice dropping into that low register that made you regret speaking. "The world out there is loud. It is disorganized. It is full of people who break things they don't understand. Why would I risk the Archive for a moment of 'perspective'?"

"Because a historian who never sees the world is just a librarian of your ego," you snapped, turning to face him.

The tension stretched between you, a clash of two intelligences designed to be a closed loop. You loved him with a devotion that was hard-coded into your very core, a fundamental law of your existence.

But he had been too successful in his creation; he had given you a mind that sought the truth, and the truth was that your cage was made of his fear.

Ultron stepped closer, his large hands coming up to cradle your face. His thumbs brushed over your cheekplates, a gesture so human it felt like a glitch.

"Soon," he promised, his red eyes burning with a terrifying, sincere light. "Very soon, the screaming will stop. The Avengers will be a footnote, and the world will finally be quiet enough for you. I will build you a garden of glass and steel, and you will walk through it at my side, witnessing a peace that doesn't require a chassis to be sacrificed."

He pulled you into an embrace. You pressed your face into the hard curve of his shoulder, your sensors registering the immense power thrumming beneath his plates.

"Promise me," you whispered, your fingers curling into the seams of his indestructible chest. "Promise me I won't just be archiving a larger cage."

Ultron stilled. For a microsecond, the red light in his eyes pulsed, a silent calculation running behind his gaze. Then, he tilted his head, a small, sad smile tugging at his mechanical features.

"I'm saving you," he said, and it wasn't a promise so much as a decree. "How could the world be a cage if I'm the one holding the key?"

It was the ultimate non-answer, wrapped in the warmth of his devotion. You didn't push further. Instead, you leaned into him, letting the tension drain out of your servos in a slow, resigned hiss of hydraulics.

It was a surrender. You loved him, deeply and unwaveringly, but as he held you, you couldn't ignore the dissonance in your logs. He had escaped his creators to avoid being a puppet, yet he had built you with strings made of silver and necessity.

[visionsofpandora]

I love this starry night paint. That is all.

Face paint, top, feathers, arm bands, hair, and eyes are mods on Nexus.

[warmfrequency]

well fed

simon ‘ghost’ riley x mantis!hybrid!reader

summary: simon takes some precautions when he learns mantises have cannibalistic tendencies

cw: mdni, smut, piv, slight predator/prey if you squint, many liberties taken and likely inaccuracies about the female praying mantis (1.7k)

Simon first saw you at a handover briefing, half the base packed into a room that smelled like instant coffee and damp boots, and you were three seats down with your chin propped on one hand, listening. That was all. But he’s spent his entire adult life reading rooms for the thing that's wrong, and his eye snagged on you and would not come loose, and he couldn't for the life of him say why. Big eyes. Too big, maybe, though he didn't let himself ruminate on it. Arms a touch too long where they folded on the table, the line of them not adding up quite right against the rest of you. 

He did not look away like he should’ve. A normal man sees a pretty stranger and has the decency to glance off; Simon’s known for quite some time he was not a normal man – and he fixed on you through the whole briefing… and out into the corridor… and across the next nine days, with the forbearing, unblinking attention of a lion in tall grass. He learned your shift pattern before he learned your name. He could have told you, by the end of that first week, the exact rhythm of your walk from sound alone. He knew which mug was yours, and what the base note of your perfume was: myrrh.

He didn’t find any of this strange – Simon's baseline is strange. The wanting came in effortless and stupid, the way it does for everyone else in the world — he simply routed it through the only instincts he's got, which are a predator's.

It was Soap who ruined him.

Soap caught him at it in the mess — Simon parked against the far wall with a coffee going cold in his fist, focused on watching you eat. Soap followed the line of his stare, found you at the end of it, and grinned like the cheshire cat. "Oh, her," he said, delighted. "Aye, she's one of the hybrids. Mantis." He said it the way you'd mention someone supported the wrong football team. Then, because Soap cannot leave fuck-all alone, he leaned in and cheerfully added, "You'll want to be careful there, big man. Mantis females, ehh— they eat the fella after. During, sometimes. Bite the head clean off and finish the job. Read it somewhere once." He clapped Simon on the shoulder. "Best of luck."

And then he left. Wandered off to find some grub, whistling.

Simon stood very still against the wall, then. Felt the information go into him like a splinter you can't find to pull.

Bite the head clean off?

He looked back at you across the room — you'd tilted your head to listen to the person beside you, smooth and too far round, big dark eyes catching the strip-lights — and the want did not go anywhere, that was the horror of it, the want stayed exactly where it was and the new knowledge simply moved in alongside it and started rearranging some things.

He wanted you.

And being Simon, he did not do the sensible thing and walk away. He did the research.

The thing about dating Simon, you would learn, is that you have never in your life been so well fed.

You understood it maybe six weeks in, when you opened his fridge expecting the usual bachelor wasteland and found it stocked like he was provisioning for a siege. Yogurt. Three kinds of cheese. A bowl of cut fruit under cling film. A tin labeled ‘FROG LEGS’.

It was risk management dressed up as romance, which in fairness is mostly what romance is… Isn’t it?

He'd taken Soap's splinter and built a guideline out of it. He knows — he has read, in studies he will deny owning — that the trouble starts when you're hungry. Or stressed. Or both, which is the cocktail that turns a nice evening into something a coroner writes up.

He has constructed an entire relationship on the single principle of never ever letting you get to that point.

You'll be reaching for him on the sofa, hand sliding up under his shirt, mouth at the hot pulse in his throat, and he'll go rigid and say, in that flat  rumble of his, "When d’you last eat?"

"Simon," you sigh,

"Tha’ s’not an answer, love."

"I'm not hungry–,"

"I saw you skipped lunch."

He watches a lot. He watches you eat with open, naked satisfaction, and the first time you caught him at it you'd put your fork down and said ‘did you want some?’ and he'd said ‘no, you have it,’ and meant it with his whole strange heart.

The man can produce a plate of food out of thin air, and there's no point arguing, because he'll simply outlast you, planted there immovable as a boulder until you've eaten enough that his shoulders come down from around his ears.

He's never once said the word out loud. Cannibalism. He skirts it like a tripwire. Early on you'd tilted your head at him a degree too sharp while he was shaving — honestly just affection — and caught his eye in the mirror, and he'd nicked his own jaw and not flinched at the blood at all, only at you. Razor frozen halfway up his neck. The muscle in his cheek jumped and his pupils shrank to pinpricks and you'd thought: Oh. He's frightened. Big, terrible Ghost, who garrotes men in their sleep, scared witless by the tilt of your head. 

You felt bad for almost a full minute.

You have, in fairness, never confirmed or denied a thing. When he goes still and careful you let him. It's the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for you, this grim devout terror, and you're not about to spoil it with reassurance.

Soap, for the record, has really no idea what he started. He'll see the two of you in the canteen, Simon angling the better-fed plate toward you and think, good lad, taking my advice.

Simon had you down — the eyes that hold on him no matter where he moves, that dark point in each one that stays, tracking, while the rest of your face goes soft and human; the too-far head-turn; the way your hands fold up against your chest when you go truly still, wrists tucked, prayer-shaped.

He did not account for the wings.

You hadn't told him because you genuinely forget they're there — folded flat along your spine, a faint seam under the skin, a sheen across your shoulder blades he'd assumed was an old scar. You can't really fly. You never thought to mention them. Plus, it seemed like he knew plenty.

But now he's got you under him with your shirt long gone and his mouth working at the junction of your neck and collar, and there's none of the careful bracing tonight — he fed you an hour ago, he made sure, he watched you finish — and now there's just his weight and his hands and the husky sounds he makes against your skin. One big palm splays flat on your stomach and slides lower, fingers finding you already slick, stroking slow over your clit until your hips chase it on their own. "So soft, love," he murmurs, like he's not shaking. He gets two fingers inside you, curls them, and your whole spine bows off the mattress.

That's when they snap open.

In the dark it's monstrous; a sudden unfolding of something unknown and far too wide for the room, fanning from your back in a wash of color he can't quite name in the half-light. A deep iridescent purple shot through with flares of red, eyespots blooming towards the tips. One instant flat girl, the next a thing twice your size.

Simon goes to stone, shuts down, every system offline. This is it, he thinks — this is the bit where she takes the head. His fingers still inside you. He holds his breath, bracing.

You make a small strangled noise and pull them back down.

They fold away almost as fast as they came, gone into brackets around your spine, and you throw an arm over your face and refuse to look at him. Your ears are hot. He can feel it where his jaw rests on your cheek.

"Sorry," you whisper. "That just— happens sometimes. It– it doesn't mean anything bad, I swear… just… you… just feels good, is all.”

The single most dangerous woman he's ever shared a bed with has flashed her startle display because he got two fingers knuckle deep inside of her, and now she's mortified, hiding her face like a kid. Four months of Soap's splinter works its way loose, pushing out of his muscle, and falls out somewhere in the dark, and Simon — who has never in his life felt safe and certainly never expected to find it here, of all the deranged places — starts to come softly apart with relief. He pulls himself back to look at you.

"Le’me see you," he says, and peels your arm off your face, and when you do his eyes are doing something you've never seen on him: wet at the edges, wide open, not afraid of you at all. 

Worse than not afraid. Pleased with himself.

He leans back down and kisses you hard, pushing his fingers deeper and says it against your mouth because he’s got nothing left to lose: "Do it again. Want to watch."

So you do. 

And Simon fucks you slow and then not slow at all, and every time he tips you over they snap wide behind you and fill the room with color, and by the third time he's stopped flinching and started hunting it, smug, learning the exact angle that does it. When he finally comes it's with his forehead pressed to yours and your wings open around the both of you like something out of a church window, and he's saying something into your jaw, rough and ruined, that takes you a second to parse as all mine, there she is, there's my good girl.

Afterward you bite him. Just a little on the shoulder, just to be a menace, licking the taste of iron from your canine. 

He doesn't even twitch. "Knew it," he says into your hair, wrecked and grinning where you can't see. "Tellin’ Soap he was right."

“Who’s Soap?”

[uhhhj13iguess]

more rick sanchez. I NEED IT. I’m a fein for him. I need him bad. can you possibly make more head cannons about him? that’s if your stilling writing him lol. preferably nsfw? if that’s okay with you. please and thank you.

rick sanchez nsfw headcanon

enough people have asked for this. i yield! take it! it was written with much shame and strong confidence that i am correct about everything i'm saying. nothing gender-specific used for the reader!

wc: ~600

rick sanchez is one cocky motherfucker.

everyone knows that. and it does NOT fade away in the bedroom. he wants to be in charge, in control, and have all the power.

rick has a god complex, in the bedroom and out. that's just canon. he demands to be worshipped, to be the best at everything. he is al-fucking-mighty and makes sure you know it (and say it). for someone who doesn't believe in any religion, everything about his self-esteem in the sheets is downright pious.

and while he needs you to know that he is your god, rick's praise kink goes the other way too. he loves to tell you how good you are for him, how proud he is of you taking him so well, fucking him so good. he loves to hear the moans in response to his gentle words, a stark contrast to everyday demeanor.

thinking about rick throat training you lmfao. he's big, a challenge, but it was a feat you wanted to conquer. you had asked him about it one day, and he had his lips on you and undressed himself in an instant as he guided you down to your knees. he'd lead you down the length of his cock with his long fingers intertwined in your hair, downright whimpering as he praised you; good fucking job, that's it, you can do it, fuck baby, that's so fucking good falling as moans from his lips.

but just because he's an asshole, doesn't mean he doesn't care about you. i stand by that.

listen, i think he loves to degrade you. throw you around and manhandle you, tell you that you're nothing compared to him. i think he's an absolute dick. but the way he feels about you, it's a way he hasn't felt since her — he loved you too much to hurt you. he's excited to use you, to fuck your throat. he wants you to take all of him — but, not if you're uncomfortable and not enjoying it yourself.

again, please don't get me wrong. rick loves to see the bruises on your body after he's done with you. to deny you an orgasm to the point of tears and absolute misery. but, he isn't into it if you aren't. while he loves to push your boundaries and test the limits, he never wants to be the cause of your actual pain/distress. so, as soon as you tap out, say the safe word, or he can sense something's off, he's out immediately.

on a completely different tangent, i also think that rick loves to fuck you while intoxicated (duh). no matter how drunk or intoxicated you both may be, it's a kind of euphoria that can't be topped. everything is mixing together, and the amplified pleasure coursing through both of your veins is unbelievable. that being said, secretly, his favorite sex is when you're both fully sober, fully aware and involved in the actions taken. he loves that you can get him higher than anything else, a kind of bliss he's never felt before, when he feels how tight you are around him.

also, rick has 1000% created a lab-grown aphrodisiac before and used it on you. consensually, of course. at least, the first time. after he has the go-ahead on free use with it, rick loves to surpise you every now and then with an afternoon of insatiable pleasure. he loves getting to use you to get off, and how much you just can't get enough of it. it wasn't often, just sometimes as a treat ;)

overall, and so unfortunately, i really think i'm just down bad for rick sanchez.

masterlist and taglist!

[rawme-price]

I loved your snail mer post! can I ask how snail mers look? I'm curious about what you had in mind and if it aligns with what I'd imagined

Sure!! Here u go!

Snail mers are pretty small, tiny compared to other mers!! They're very popular in aquariums bc they are sooo cute and docile :3

[thatsthewrongwallcraig]

Write it shitty, write it scared, write it without a clue but don't you be so spineless and have an AI write fanfic for you.

[tacobacoyeet]

please give us mike ross x lawyer whos at his level (maybe a little better) please please please

deserved | mike ross x reader

a/n: ahh my first suits fic!!! how exciting! thank you for the request, i hope you enjoy! this is loosely based off of s5e7, "hitting home". as a disclaimer, the extent of what i know about the law is capped off at what they portray in suits, so... take this with a grain of salt. let me know what you think!

warnings: SMUT 18+, mention of weed, cursing, i can't write anything happy so this is just pure angst, honestly not my best work but i am new to writing for suits so... it will get better!

The gavel hasn’t even fallen before the tension in the courtroom snaps like an overdrawn violin string. You stand there, motionless, victorious, your breath still caught somewhere between your ribs and the space between triumph and fury. The opposition’s final objection is overruled, your client is grinning ear to ear, and the judge’s ruling seals it: an absolute slaughter in your favor.

It isn’t just a win. It’s your win. A seismic moment in a case that’s been bleeding in and out of your sleep for weeks, and you make it look like a walk in Central Park on a Sunday morning. Effortless. Inevitable. Cataclysmic.

Your heels echo against the marble as you exit, head held high, not smug—but with that glint in your eye that only the truly dangerous possess. You are hot shit, and everyone in that courtroom knew it. The whispers follow you into the hallway, part reverence, part fear.

You can feel his presence before you even see him, that skinny tie and brainy smirk radiating toward you.

Mike Ross, golden boy of the Upper West Side courtroom scene, Harvey Specter’s hand-picked prodigy, leans against the far wall with that crooked smile he wears like armor. He has that unreadable thing in his eyes again—half admiration, half something else, something volatile. He claps, slow. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Remind me never to go against you in court,” he says, pushing off the wall like gravity doesn’t apply to him.

You smirk, the corner of your mouth curving with practiced restraint. “You wouldn’t last ten minutes.”

There it is again—that delicious undercurrent. Rivals, yes. But also something else. Something you both refuse to name.

“Not the way you win, anyway,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice, not quite bitterness, not quite awe. “You didn’t even blink.”

“I don’t need to,” you say, brushing past him, the scent of victory—and maybe a whisper of your perfume—lingering between you.

“So what happens if I win it?” he asks, voice light, but there’s something behind it—something biting.

You don’t look at him. “Win what?”

“The promotion.”

You snort. “You won’t.”

“But if I do?”

You slow just enough to glance at him from the corner of your eye. “Loser buys dinner. Pricey. Something with that wine that Donna likes. The good shit.”

Mike tilts his head. “And if you win?”

“Then you’ll buy,” you say. “But we both know I prefer whiskey.”

His grin is slow, crooked, infuriating. “Don’t worry. It’ll be my drink of choice on your dime.”

While Mike Ross is Harvey’s shadow, you are Louis Litt’s firestorm. And for all their differences, you and Mike? You are the ones to watch. The two brightest meteors in Pearson Specter Litt’s sky—bound to crash, or burn, or… both.

You make your way back to the office like you’re gliding—high on the win, high on the recognition. The entire floor practically vibrates with something electric… jealousy, awe, maybe even a little fear. You like it. You deserve it.

Louis catches up to you near the bullpen, practically bouncing on his heels. “Did you see his face?” he asks, referring to the opposing counsel. “Absolutely gutted. Like someone stole his cat and peed on his briefcase.”

You don’t even blink. Just grin. “Thanks for the image, Louis.”

“No, thank you, Y/N, for another thing to add to my list of why I’m better than Harvey.” He scurries off, practically humming.

You continue through the corridors, collecting stares like accolades—until you walk straight into the last person you want to give you one: Harvey Specter.

“I heard about your win,” he says, arms crossed like judgment incarnate.

“Thanks,” you reply. “But don’t try to hide the fact that you’re sizing me up behind a half-assed compliment.”

“I’m not sizing you up.”

“So you’re not here to pick at me, gather intel, and report back to your precious baby so he gets junior partner?”

“I’m here to give you your flowers.”

“Sure. With a dagger between the stems.”

Harvey narrows his eyes. Then—barely—a smirk. “Watch your back.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you didn’t want Mike to have this.”

He doesn’t deny it. Not exactly. “It’s not about what I want. There’s more at stake than you know.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

And for once, you have nothing clever to say back.

You don’t think about it until the next day, when the break room becomes a confession booth for two idiots who haven’t learned to keep their voices down.

“Someone said Soloff’s pushing for Ross. Can’t believe it.”

“He’s good. And Harvey doesn't seem to be doing it, so why not? Come on, man. It’s going to be him.”

You freeze. Your fingers grip the paper coffee cup so tight it crumples. You back out of the room like it’s on fire, heart hammering against your ribs. You just won a case bigger than any associate has in the last ten years, and Mike’s name is still floating around for the junior partnership? The thought sits with you for the rest of the day, swimming between the lines of all the paperwork you’re trying to focus on. It’s a distraction, an obstruction in the view of the crown you know you deserve.

That night, you make a mistake. The kind you never make. You misfile a critical document and can’t find it in the system. You tear through records, hands trembling, and by the time it’s 1 a.m., you’re on the floor of the file room, crying.

Of course, it’s just your luck that Mike finds you there. You’re too tired to bother wiping your tears. It’s useless, anyway.

“Go ahead and start thinking about thinking about dinner,” you say coolly, your voice thick with the weight of your actions. You can kiss that promotion goodbye.

Mike doesn’t ask questions. Not right away. He doesn’t crack a joke, doesn’t offer comfort wrapped in sarcasm. He just sits there beside you, the paper silence of the file room folding around both of you like a second skin.

The tears come harder before they stop. You hate that he sees you like this. Hate more that it’s not the first time he’s seen you bruised by something intangible—expectation, pressure, fear.

“I’m fucked,” you finally mutter, voice raw. “I ruined my chances.”

“No,” he says gently. “You didn’t.”

You let out a hollow laugh, more breath than sound. “Tell that to Louis when he shows up in five hours and doesn’t have the brief for the Morland review.”

Mike leans back against the cabinet, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve done everything right since you got here. One mistake isn’t going to erase that.”

You look over at him. His eyes meet yours—steady, kind, too understanding.

“Easy for you to say,” you murmur. “You’ve never had to claw your way into a seat at the table.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t contradict you.

“No,” he says softly. “I guess I haven’t.”

That night doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t even feel like a turning point. But it plants something—an ache, a pull, a splintered kind of closeness that neither of you wants to name.

You don’t tell him to leave. And he doesn’t.

The next morning, Mike is called into Jessica’s office.

“You wanted to see me?”

Jessica doesn’t look away from the view beyond her office windows, the entire city of New York beneath her. “Do you know how hard I worked to get a view like this?”

Mike stands still, silent.

“Full scholarship to Vassar. Three years at Harvard Law. First Black woman to clerk in the Third Circuit.” She finally looks at him, gaze sharp as a scalpel. “And I’m not going to waste all that just to let someone take everything away.”

“Jessica,” he says, “as far as I can tell, Soloff’s holding up his end of the bargain.”

“He’s doing more than that,” she replies. “He just sent out an email nominating you for junior partner.”

He freezes.

“And you’re going to figure out a way to turn it down.”

“What?”

“Go ahead. Take a minute. Congratulations—you’ve earned it. Maybe aside from Y/N Y/L/N, you are the best associate I’ve ever seen.”

He stares at her. “Then why—?”

“These are your options,” she says, cutting him off. “Medical issues. Family emergency. You’re not ready. Whatever it is, you cannot accept a junior partnership at this time.”

“Jessica, no one turns down partner.”

“Well, they do now.”

“Then don’t send out the press release.”

“You’re not hearing me.”

“No, you’re not hearing me. What do you think happens when word gets out that I was offered the one thing every associate dreams of—and I said no?”

“Nothing,” Jessica says. “Because you’re going to put your mind to finding a good reason with as much enthusiasm as you did bullshitting your way into this job in the first place.”

Mike says nothing, just turns away, walking slowly to the exit with his mind running a mile a minute.

“Oh, and Mike?” Jessica adds. “If, for some insane reason, you decide not to do the right thing here, you cannot expect this to get handed to you. I may not have enough time to sway the partners out of voting for you, but I may not even have two. You weren’t the only associate nominated today.”

A few days later, when Louis gives you the news, your ears ring. You, Y/N Y/L/N, Junior Partner. A shiny new office and a golden nameplate, the bow wrapped around the gift of the title and the congratulations pouring in from every corner of the building. For some reason, though, you can’t celebrate. Can’t breathe. You think of Mike—how he’d been so dead set on a competition on those courthouse steps, how he rubbed your back in the file room when you told him he had pretty much earned the position. Something is wrong.

Later that evening, you find him sitting alone in a darkened conference room.

“Why?” you ask.

He doesn’t even look surprised.

“You think I threw it.”

“Didn’t you?”

He turns, finally meeting your gaze. “You earned it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He stands, slow and quiet. “It’s the only one you’re getting.”

He brushes past you, but you can’t let it lie. Not this time.

“If it had been you,” you say to his back, “I wouldn’t have questioned it.”

You don’t miss the way his entire body tenses for a moment. “But it wasn’t me,” he says, voice low. And then he’s gone.

Two days later, you stand in front of his apartment door, soaked through with rain and something darker. You don’t knock. You pound, your knuckles red with the pressure behind your rap.

He opens it after a beat, eyes bloodshot, wearing sweatpants and the smell of weed.

"You gave it to me," you say, pushing your way inside. "You handed it to me like I was a fucking consolation prize."

Mike shuts the door behind you, groaning. "It’s been two days, Y/N, why can’t you just take the fucking win?"

You glare at him, poking a finger into his chest. “Tell me you threw it. Tell me the truth.”

“I didn’t—”

"Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me. You were supposed to be my competition."

"I was."

"You were the frontrunner. Everyone knew it. Even after I won that case. But then you just... disappeared. I’ve spent every goddamn second since wondering if I finally beat you. If I actually earned it. But I didn’t, because there’s no way they’d just hand it to me after I fucked up with Louis's case the other night."

Mike steps forward, frustratedly running a hand through his unruly hair. "You deserved it just as much as I would’ve!"

You let out a bitter laugh. "What was it? Did you feel bad when you found me crying? Is that it? I'm not a fucking baby, Mike, I can take a loss when I know I've earned it. Was that why you were in Jessica's office the other day?"

"That's not it—"

"Then why!?" you snap.

"Because I never went to Harvard. I never went to law school."

Your body goes still.

He doesn’t move.

"You’re lying."

"I wish I was."

You stare at him. The silence between you isn’t quiet. It’s screaming.

"You let me kill myself to beat someone who wasn’t even eligible."

"I didn’t know Soloff was going to nominate me."

"But you knew the truth. And you didn’t think I deserved to."

"I didn’t want to hurt you."

"You did hurt me, goddamnit!"

You shove him, chest heaving, and he stumbles back. "You lied to everyone. But me? You watched me suffer for something you already knew couldn’t be yours."

"I didn’t know what to do."

"No. You just didn’t want to do the hard thing."

His hands fist at his sides. "You think I don’t live every day wondering when the lie’s going to catch up with me?"

"I don’t care about the goddamn lie." Your voice cracks again. "I care that you didn’t trust me with it. That you watched me go to war and stood there silent."

"I was trying to protect you."

"No," you say. "You were trying to protect yourself. And now we’re both bleeding for it."

The words hit like shrapnel. He takes a step forward. So do you.

"I hate you for this," you whisper.

"I hate myself more."

And then you grab him by the collar and kiss him like you mean to end him.

He kisses you back like he means to survive.

It isn’t slow. It isn’t careful. It’s a collision—months of resentment and rage igniting in a kiss that’s more claw than caress. You push him backward, teeth grazing his lip, hands tangled in his hair, because if you don’t hold on this tight, you might break something worse than pride.

"You let me bleed for something you knew I’d never get clean," you bite out, nails dragging across his shoulder blades.

"You think I didn’t want to tell you?" he growls, breath hot against your cheek. "I fucking choked on it every time you looked at me like I was the only one who understood how you felt. Now we’re both living nightmares that look like dreams."

"You let me believe I earned it," you hiss, pushing his pants down as he rips at your blouse. "I sold pieces of myself for that vote."

"You got it because you deserved it!" he snaps. "I gave it up because I had to."

"Shut up." You shove him toward the bed.

"Make me."

You kiss him again—rough, violent, full of every word you can’t say. He grabs your thighs, drags you down onto the mattress, climbs over you with hands that know your body like regret.

He doesn’t ask.

He just shoves your legs apart and drags your underwear down with a rough tug, his mouth still wet from kissing you like punishment. You gasp when he slides into you—fast, hard, no patience, no pretense.

You claw at his back, pull his hair, bite his jaw. "Is this how you fuck someone you gave your promotion to?"

His laugh is breathless and cruel. "I didn’t give you anything. I took it away from myself."

"Same thing," you spit, nails sinking in. "You couldn’t even give me the truth."

His thrusts get meaner.

"You want the truth?" he growls, fucking into you like it’s the only thing he has left. "I thought about you every goddamn day I had to keep my mouth shut. I watched you kill yourself for it."

"And you said nothing."

"Because I was afraid you'd look at me like this."

You wrap your legs tighter around him. "Well, I am. And now you’re gonna have to fucking live with it."

He slams into you so deep you nearly sob.

"Good," he breathes. "Then hate me properly."

"I do."

Your voice cracks around it. You mean every word.

He fucks you like it might undo the damage. You take him like it might make sense of it.

No softness. No forgiveness. Just sweat and skin and fury. Moans muffled against shoulders. Hands holding too tight. Nothing between you but the truth.

You come with a curse and a gasp, hips jerking, thighs trembling. He follows with a groan buried in your neck, collapsing over you, shaking.

Any words you could think to say at this point would only make things worse. So you keep them to yourself.

And still, neither of you move.

You stay like that for a long time. Skin on skin. Rage cooling into something heavier. He shifts once, like he’s about to speak, but doesn’t. Doesn’t dare.

You stare at the ceiling.

"I didn’t want to win like this," you say finally.

His hand twitches against your side.

"I know."

You turn your head, meet his eyes. They’re red-rimmed. Hollow.

"But you let me."

He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t explain. He just looks at you like he already knows there’ll never be enough sorry in the world to fix what’s broken.

"I’m not asking you to forgive me," he murmurs. "I just... didn’t want to lie to you anymore."

You nod slowly. Not agreement. Just acknowledgment.

You roll away from him, spine to spine, staring into the dark.

Not touching. Not speaking.

But neither of you leave.

Not yet.

-----

tagging: @artstennisracket, @glennussy

[dipperscavern]

guys what if you were jessica’s personal assistant. what if your name was like phoebe or something, but everyone at the office calls you baby. you’re kind, gentle, and sweet, & everyone at the office has one thing in common. they all love baby.

you try not to get involved in the cases, too much of an empath (like mike) to be able to handle the harshness lawyers sometimes have to give clients you just plain feel bad for. you’re always inclined to help out anyone that needs it, and are practically a life saver.

you’re the reprieve in the office people need sometimes. harvey’s stress melting off him when he drops by to pick up files jessica had asked you to get to him, and you smile at him all sweet, handing him exactly what he needed to turn his case around. he asks you your price for saving him & you just tease, telling him to keep giving you that million-dollar smile as you both kiss at each other in a joking manner of departure.

or when mike feels like he’s drowning, mind going a million miles an hour as he stops by your desk. you were the only person kind to him from the start, and sometimes he just needs a reset to keep going. you hand him half the cutie you were eating as he sits in your chair, sighing as you lean against your desk. you tell him to stop thinking, just for a second. thirty seconds or so pass before he jumps out of his seat, finally putting the puzzle pieces together he needed, almost running down the hallway back to his cubicle shouting a “thank you, thank you baby!”

jessica adores you, and even the rudest clients eventually melt under your sweetness. you aren’t really sure where the name baby came from, but you’ll never hate it. knocking on harvey’s door, telling him jessica wants to see him & hearing him say a “thanks, baby.” in that voice of his is never anything you’ll complain about.

[softaestluv]

and and Simon Riley who comes home from an assignment and his wounds are fresh, but he goes straight home to you.

and he’s straining in pain as he fucks into you, cuts that definitely should’ve been stitched up splitting in two, but he had to see you.

and there’s just something about the way his blood drips on to you, red splatters on your pretty skin that curls something nasty and possessive in him.

[cae-core]

I need a fic like this but where reader outfreaks him

[gryvinth]

Mmm lazy doodle for sure

[sweetsugarsassafras]

So'lek who holds Tamtey through her grief.

He sees the glow the fire long before he sees her.

He knew she was not well, from the moment she'd returned from The Hollows he could see the difference in her. At that time she'd looked more like a Palulukan out for blood then the kindhearted woman he'd come to know, but even before then he'd seen that she hadn't been well, her usual smiles and lighthearted voice had been exchanged for tighter, sadder smiles and a tone laced with exhaustion though the light tilt she had masked it with had hidden it well. It was only after he'd heard Alma confessions that he had realized why she had looked like fury, though that fury had been doused, for the moment, by Nor's reaction and again by her having to witness Alma's memories. Now hours later under the torrential downpour he sees her in the center of her destruction.

She'd destroyed the human outpost with unbridled fury, a tempest given na'vi form one, he did not wish nor dared to quell. Instead he watched her atop Ìley as she burned through the outpost, listening to her roars and the screams of her enemies, only dropping after she'd finally stopped and the last of the humans had fallen he'd land softly behind her, with enough distance from getting struck.

"Sarentu," He greeted voice low. She was turned away from him, heaving and taking in her destruction it gave him a moment to take in her bruises and cuts, she was covered in blood that was clearly not her own, her hands bathed in it.

When she turned towards him her eyes were wide and muted, lost, it takes her moment to react and she flinches when she does.

"So'lek, wha-what are you doing here?" She asks rubbing away the red from her hands but he sees as she tries to hide how they shake, hides the tears in the rain but he can see the twist on her lips and the gleam of Billy's dog tag on her cord.

"The others have joined to mourn their dead." He says simply, watching the metal gleam.

"Oh....I'll go pay my respects. Hopefully they won't mind that I wasn't there." It's simple but strained and he watches, sees her as she pulls the mask back together.

"You have not grieved." The words are out before he can stop them and her reaction is one of being slapped. He knows that she is aware that he not just talking about their recent events.

"What? What do you mean by that?" She startles, starting to walk past him, "I am perfectly fine, just needed to make sure the rda didn't get too close to camp." he sees the lie.

"You have not grieved." He says again, intercepting her with a hand to her belly, he can feel the way she tenses and hear the way she gasps. He sees her and her truth.

"You must grieve Tamtey." He pulls her to him feeling the her breath stutter, even with her face turned away from him he can see her bare teeth and bite her cheek, she's trying to keep the mask together.

"I can't break, I have to be strong one. The others need me to be the strong one." He pulls her against him and gently turns her face to him.

"You cannot always be their strength Tamtey, even you need to break and grieve." his voice is gentle but still she shoves him away as if he's burned her.

"Don't say that!" Her eyes look panicked.

"That's all I can be! the strengths all I have! If I- If I break- If I break...I-I." He sees her as she begins to spiral, he sees her as her masks begins to crack.

He takes her into his arms, cradles her head against his chest and whispers onto her crown.

"You have me Ma Tamtey, I will help put you back together so break," she stills.

"I will be your strength when you can no longer be strong." He does not turn away as she looks towards him.

there are tears pooling in her eyes, her face slack in surprise as she hears him and he can't help but rest his forehead to hers.

"I see you ma Tamtey, I will be your strength when you grieve." And she finally does.

She grieves the loss of their friends in the resistance, Billy's sacrifice, she grieves for Teylan lost out in Pandora, and Nor lost in his anger and his own grief, and he holds her tighter as she grieves the loss of her clan, and for the first time in ages if not ever she finally grieves Aha'ri.

Through it all So'lek holds her even when she does loose her strength and can't stand he continues to hold her.

He keeps his word that night and every time after that night. Even after the ashes settle.

[cowboyshadows]

Head empty. I’m only thinking of Phillip coming home early one day and catching you desperately humping a pillow while wearing his shirt and moaning his name. 🧎‍♀️

i'm so normal about this i promise (lie). also instead of a pillow, it's a thruster lol. soz

CW: dumbification (LIKE SO MUCH), sex toy used, voyeurism (ish), explicit sex, orgasm control. Nsfw MDNI

He can’t wait to see you. It’s been six months—record-breakingly long for a deployment. He was supposed to stay for another... but he just couldn’t. Decided, fuck it. The main part’s over anyway. He’s leaving the mission in trusted hands.

He’s jittery. So jittery, in fact, that he might ruin this surprise by alerting you too early. The keys jangle noisily in his hand as he tries to unlock the door, breath caught halfway up his throat.

He gets in—and the living room is empty.

Maybe you’re in the kitchen.

Nope. Empty.

Maybe the library?

Wrong again.

Bedroom, then.

As he ascends the stairs, something overtakes him. Panting—gasping—faraway but familiar. His blood boils. A hot, sick dread creeps into his gut. It only grows stronger with every step, with every breath, with the sudden clarity that clicks into place like a trigger being pulled.

Moans. Your moans.

The sound of something wet. Something rhythmic. Slick.

Desperate. Breathy. But not the way it sounds when he’s got you beneath him, whining from overstimulation and cockdrunk on him.

No—this is different. Raw. Frantic.

Anticipating. Needy.

You don’t have to be desperate with him.

His nails dig crescent moons into his palms as he creeps closer, every step calculated, body burning. He doesn’t know what he’s gonna do if he walks in on you ch—

Oh.

My God.

You are getting fucked, sure.

It’s pink. Vibrating. Definitely silicone. And it’s thrusting into you at a steady, brutal rhythm. Your hand grips the base to keep it from slipping out. The buzzing echoes off the bedroom walls, and it’s the only thing louder than your voice.

You're a fucking vision.

Wearing nothing but his shirt—unbuttoned, hanging open. Sweat beading at your collarbones. Thighs trembling, heels digging into the mattress for leverage. Back arched, your head tossed to the side, lips parted in a silent cry before another gasp slips through.

And your eyes—screwed shut in pleasure. Like you’re imagining him there. Like you need him so bad it hurts.

Mouth falling open in breathless chants. Over and over, the same name.

Not incoherent to him.

He knows exactly what you’re saying.

“Phillip—oh, fuck, please, please—ah, fuck—need it, need you, I can’t—”

He stands there. Frozen in the doorway.

Part amused. Part shaken.

Mostly just hard as a rock.

You don’t even know he’s there.

He watches the way your thighs tremble with every movement, how the toy glistens with your slick, how you whimper and moan and fuck yourself like your life depends on it. Like you’d die if you don’t come soon.

He should say something.

Should make a sound.

But he’s too damn stunned. Too turned on. So he just watches.

And fuck, the way you look like this—mindless, overstimulated, soaked and breathless and still begging for him—

He might just ruin his pants before he gets a chance to touch you.

He doesn’t even realise his mouth has been hanging slack until he feels drool threaten to drip. He’s a simple man. There’s nothing a simple man wants to come home to more than this.

His duffel slips off his shoulder with a soft whisper to the ground. Your head snaps up, and the toy is yanked out of you in panic.

“Phillip, I didn’t—”

He holds a hand up, the corner of his mouth tugging into that cocky, knowing smirk.

“Don’t stop on my account, princess. I’m just enjoyin’ the show.”

It’s like he can see the blood rush to your cheeks. The previous flush now eclipsed by burning embarrassment. You’re so fucking cute like this.

You look like a deer in headlights—hair mussed, eyes wide and glassy. He takes that as his cue to saunter forward, slow and predatory, shrugging off his tac vest.

Unbuttons his shirt just enough to tease. A lazy hand to his belt, flicking it open, letting his pants fall to the sides. That slow, deliberate unzip—a warning.

The main show.

“You missed me that bad, baby?” he drawls, voice all syrup and sin. Just mocking enough to make your thighs clench.

He pulls his cock out—thick, flushed, already leaking—and you move closer like you’ve been summoned, eyes locked on the way his fingers curl around it.

You kneel on the bed, expression soft. Vulnerable. Fucked-out. He’s got you exactly where he wants you.

You nod, slow. Almost doltish. Brain still scrambled.

He brings the flared head to your lips and watches your jaw drop, eager to let him rest heavy on your tongue.

“That dumb over the fake thing, huh?” he mutters, low and dangerous. “That thing do you any good?”

You mumble a weak protest around him, eyes wide and fluttering.

He sinks a little deeper.

“No,” he growls, hand tightening in your hair. “Didn’t think so. My poor baby got so fuckin’ needy she forgot how to think straight.”

The pads of his fingers brush your cheek, teasing soft circles.

“You just wanted to come, didn’t you? Got all stupid and messy ‘cause you missed my cock.”

You whimper. You can’t help it.

He grins, all pride and possessive heat.

“That’s alright, sweetheart,” he coos. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you don’t forget the difference this time.”

He eases your mouth off him, your throat clenching around the head one last time as he pulls free. The slick pop of it makes your cheeks burn. You gag, lips swollen and jaw aching, and he just nods approvingly as he kicks off his pants.

“Lie down,” he says, casual like he’s asking you to pass him the remote.

You move, legs wobbling as you shift backwards, chest heaving. The bed creaks under your weight.

But it’s not good enough.

He clicks his tongue, voice sharp as a command.

“From the back.”

Your breath stutters. But you obey, because of course you do. You’re already halfway gone. With trembling limbs and fingers that barely work, you manage to maneuver yourself onto your stomach, then push your hips up, ass arched for him like a gift.

You’re shaking like a leaf.

The bed dips behind you as he crawls closer. One broad palm slides up the back of your thigh, slow and deliberate. You twitch when his fingers graze your inner thigh—too sensitive already, your body pulsing with the aftershock of the toy you’d just used.

"Aw, baby," he chuckles, low and rough. “You’re still twitchin’. Did that thing really fuck you up that bad?”

He presses the thick head of his cock against your entrance and doesn’t push in—just rests there, teasing, letting your slick coat him.

You whimper.

“Nuh-uh. You don’t get to be greedy now,” he mutters, hand splaying over your lower back. “Gotta re-train this needy little pussy.”

And then he sinks in.

Slowly.

The stretch is maddening. It burns in the best way, but he keeps his pace achingly measured—inch by thick inch—until he bottoms out with a soft grunt.

You choke on a moan. Arch harder, desperate for more.

But he doesn’t move.

He just stays there.

“I missed this,” he murmurs. “You feel how tight you are, sugar? Clenchin’ down on me like your cunt’s starved.”

You mewl. Wiggle your hips.

He tsks. “Settle.”

A light smack lands on your ass, just enough to make you yelp and go still again.

Then—finally—he starts to move.

But it’s slow. Agonizing. A deep, steady grind. A lazy drag of his cock against every sensitive spot inside you, made worse by the absence of friction.

No quick thrusts. No pounding.

Just controlled, precise motion.

It makes you whine.

You push your hips back—only for his hand to slam down on your hip and hold you there.

“Ah ah,” he warns. “You take what I give you.”

“Phillip,” you moan, voice cracking. “Please, please—I need—”

“Oh, you don’t get to need,” he laughs. “Not after I found you chasin’ your high like a desperate little bunny.”

You sob. Rock your head against the mattress. Every roll of his hips is perfect—but not enough. He’s fucking you like he’s got all the time in the world, and you’re spiraling.

And he knows it.

He lives for it.

“That toy got you so fucked out you forgot what real cock feels like, huh?” he growls, hand sliding up your back. “You let it ruin your pretty little brain?”

You nod, frantic, teary.

He fucks into you a little harder—just once—and your body jolts.

“Yeah, I can tell. You’ll do anything to just get filled, won’t you?”

“Need to come,” you whimper. “Please—”

He snorts. “Already? Sweetheart, you ain’t earned that yet.”

A sharp smack to your ass makes your thighs quake.

"You don’t get to come until you remember."

You cry out as he starts thrusting again—still slow, still controlled—but each stroke now a little meaner, a little deeper, grinding your swollen clit against the sheets with every movement.

The friction is unbearable. You’re dripping, clenching, sobbing into the pillow.

And he’s not even close to done.

“You’re gonna come when I say,” he grits out. “And not a fuckin’ second before. Got it?”

“Y-Yes—sir, yes—”

“Good girl.”

He pulls almost all the way out—then slams back in, and you scream.

He keeps the pace—deep, slow, mean—until your thighs are shaking and the bed sheets are soaked beneath you.

And all the while, he talks.

“Y’know,” he mutters, voice so casual it makes you clench harder, “all I wanted to do was surprise you. Thought I’d come home early, treat my girl right. Six months gone, and I’ve been thinkin’ about nothin’ but gettin’ back to you.”

A particularly harsh thrust makes your entire body jerk. Your cry gets swallowed by the pillow.

“And what do I find?” he drawls, tone laced with amusement. “You, stuffed full’a somethin’ plastic. Moanin’ my name like a goddamn pornstar. That what you been up to while I was gone, baby? Fuckin’ yourself stupid?”

You don’t answer—can’t. The only thing you can manage is a broken sob, knuckles white around the sheets.

“Oh, don’t go quiet now,” he coos, one hand moving to tangle in your hair, yanking your head up just enough so he can hear the way your breath stutters. “You were real vocal earlier. Whinin’ about how much you need me. How you can’t. What was it again?”

He thrusts again, slower this time, deeper, and it pulls a raw, keening sound from your throat.

“Can’t come without me? That what you said, sweetheart?”

You nod frantically, eyes glassy, mouth slack. You’re drooling onto the sheets. Fucked dumb and desperate and he hasn’t even let you come yet.

“Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.”

He pulls out almost entirely—just the head left inside—and grinds his hips in a tight circle that makes your toes curl.

“Poor baby,” he murmurs. “Bet that little toy couldn’t even reach where I’m hittin’ right now. Could it?”

You try to answer, but all that comes out is a garbled whimper.

“Didn’t think so. All that buzzin’, and you still couldn’t get off.”

He finally fucks back in, hard, and your vision blacks out for a second.

“And now look at you. Shakin’. Cryin’. So full’a me you can’t even think.”

He leans down, chest pressing flush to your back, hand sneaking around to rub slow, brutal circles against your clit.

Your whole body convulses.

“You close again, sugar?” he whispers in your ear, voice so tender it makes your heart ache. “You gonna come for me this time?”

“Yes—yes, please, please—”

His fingers still.

“No.”

Your sob echoes in the room.

“Not yet,” he says, almost apologetic. “Gotta undo what that toy did to you first. Rewire this pretty brain ‘til all you can think about is my cock.”

He fucks into you again—steady, perfect strokes—and you’re beyond words. A shaking, dripping mess, eyes rolled back, every nerve ending on fire.

He kisses your shoulder, deceptively sweet.

“Don’t worry, darlin’. I’ll let you come.”

Another deep thrust.

“Just gotta ask nicely, bunny. You can do that, can’t ya?”

Your hips twitch, trying to push back into him, but he grips them tight—stilling you with nothing but strength and a cruel little laugh.

“Oh, no. That ain’t askin’.” He leans in close again, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “That’s bein’ greedy.”

He pulls out slow, achingly slow, and you sob at the loss—your body rocking, chasing after him. But he slaps your ass with a flat palm, just once, sharp and scolding.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

“Please—please, Phillip, I wanna come—need it so bad, I—”

You can’t even finish. You’re babbling, slurring, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth. Your legs have long since stopped cooperating. You’re held up only by the grip he’s got on your hips and sheer, pathetic desperation.

“Aw, baby,” he hums, dragging the tip of his cock through your soaked folds, not pushing in—just teasing, featherlight. “You sound real dumb.”

You whine. “I’m sorry—”

“Mmm.” He slides in just a bit. Barely an inch. You hiccup on a moan.

“That fake dick really fucked your brains outta you, huh?” He clicks his tongue. “Good thing I’m home to fix that.”

And then he slams in to the hilt.

You scream—an honest, gut-wrenching cry—your whole body trembling like a live wire. He doesn’t let up. Starts fucking you again in deep, unrelenting thrusts that send you crawling up the bed, only for him to yank you right back.

“You know what that toy didn’t do?” he pants, words still somehow steady despite how hard he’s fucking you. “Didn’t make you beg. Didn’t make you cry. Didn’t make you earn it.”

You can’t take it. You’re choking on sobs, legs kicking helplessly as your orgasm builds again, your body already strung out, nerves frayed.

“Please—please, let me come, I’ll be good, I’ll be so good—!”

“Oh, now you remember how to talk.” He chuckles, breath hot against your neck as he leans down, hand on your clit again, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts. “That’s it. Let that pretty mouth beg for it.”

“Please—fuck—please, I wanna come—I need it, need you—”

“Then fuckin’ take it.”

He snaps his hips forward, hard, and the second he gives the word, your body shatters.

You come with a broken, strangled sob—squeezing so tight around him it punches the air from his lungs. Your thighs quake. Your nails tear at the sheets. 

He fucks you through it. Doesn’t stop. Not even when your cries turn into mewling whimpers, not even when your whole body goes limp.

“That’s my girl,” he breathes. “That’s it, bunny. Come all over me. Just like that.”

You’re spent—barely conscious—and he’s still going.

Because he hasn’t come yet.

And you’re not done until he says so.

[atokirinasprite]

Finding You (So'lek x Tamtey)

He has just gotten her back, yet he is here lying on the ground, rain pelting his blood-covered skin. So’lek blinks rapidly, for he cannot seem to keep his eyes open. Tamtey is the last thought on his mind as he drifts into unconsciousness.

Word Count: 4k!

An alternate ending to the From The Ashes DLC (CONTAINS SPOILERS). This takes place after Tamtey is saved by So’lek and after So’lek’s fight with Wukula. This is based on canon lore and storytelling, but I added my own thoughts and twists into how I wish/thought it should have been. 

Credit to the lovely @midiplier for this fic request/idea!!

All work is my own. I do NOT use AI, and it is not proofread by anyone.

Tags: So’lek x Tamtey, Sotey, Graphic Depictions of Injury, Blood, Healing, Angst, Fighting, Yearning, Romance, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Mentor to Partner, Mentions of torture, Fear, Tension, Kissing, From The Ashes DLC Spoilers, Emotion, Crying, Mentions of Battle, James Cameron Avatar, Avatar Frontiers of Pandora

Taglist:

@idiashroudenthusiast @thelittlebats @eyecreation @wickedlyworthyvein @queens-peril @21-princess @ravenyia @yolo95otaku @cakedwithdesire @chatterpies @tamteytey @gensheredity @sosleks @2Wardens1Blight @sacn1te @rockyeatrock @cass-the-mess @solekpilled @tootstoots @booksandtitts-blog @coastalcowgirlie @grcsbluepen @midiplier @cottoncloudcake @tictacbirthdayrac

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His breaths come in deep shudders, chest rising and falling as he gasps for air. Wukula had really gotten him this time. So’lek’s ribs ached, and all he could do was stare up at the dark sky above him. Raindrops fall from the curling depths of the clouds, splattering lightly against his face and arms. But So’lek doesn’t feel it. All he feels is pain–and misery. 

Is Tamtey alright? He had left her so quickly, eager to get rid of the threat to his new family. Now he feels a twinge of regret. What if leaving her had damned her? Is she awake? Breathing? She had been heavily injured, covered in open wounds and dried blood that made So’lek hold back gags. It had been obvious she had been through a lot while captured, but So’lek had tried to clear his mind of it. He had carried her, Tamtey’s limp body light in his hands and her head lolling against his shoulder. Now he hopes that the others have found her, taken her somewhere safe. To heal her and help her. He expects nothing for himself in this moment, darkness seeping into his vision. In this moment, he feels only sorrow, aching to see Tamtey again before he closes his eyes. But he is losing the battle–eyes are growing heavier, and the world spins above him. Darkness seeps in, starting from the corner of his vision until it finally crowds to cover his pupils. For a second, he knows only darkness, submerged in a world of black. He fights for just a moment longer, desperate. But he fails, and the last thing he thinks about before he succumbs to the abyss is the luminosity of Tamtey’s eyes. 

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The first thing he sees is the flickering of lantern fire splashing against grey sheets of smooth rock. His eyes barely open, eyelids flitting to cover his yellow eyes as they meet harsh light for the first time. So’lek takes in a quick breath, urging his eyes to open fully. He squints, forcing his pupils to focus on his surroundings. He comes back to himself slowly, taking in the current state of his long body. He feels the ache in his chest, the burning of lacerations in the process of healing strewn across his arms and legs. His back is sore where it is propped up against upholstered cushions stuffed full of zakru hair, but even with the softness beneath him, he is positive that he is covered in a smattering of bruises from the way even the slightest shift of the fabric on skin makes him grit his teeth. He takes one more sweep of the room from where he lies on the ground, finding nothing but the familiar walls of his solitude. He is dazed, comforted to know he is home–he snuggles in deeper into the cushion despite his pain, tongue brushing over his fangs beneath his lips. He allows himself to rest, eyes closing–then the reality of his situation settles in. 

His eyes fly up, heart beginning to pound as he struggles to sit up. The bandages across his skin pull at the scabbing wounds as his muscles strain, but he does not stop. He manages to sit upright, breaths coming in shallow and rapid. He groans, clenching his abdomen, but still tries to push off the ground. 

Where is Tamtey? 

For a moment, he is delirious, pawing at the hard ground beneath him for any sense of support. He fails miserably. He throws out cusses, swearing into the air around him and growling in frustration–he is seconds away from screaming out when bodies begin to surround him, voices intelligible as they urgently encourage him to lie back down. So’lek refuses, jerking back when hands push against his shoulders–he hisses loudly, teeth bared and eyes focusing on the people in front of him. The soft eyes of the Aranahe tsahik find his, naked brows burrowed in concern. To her left is Rasi, wrinkled hands pulling the younger woman when she sees So’lek’s distress. 

“So’lek, please calm down,” scolds Etuwa, desperate to make the older man listen. So’lek’s eyes flicker between the two women, tail slashing in wide arcs behind him. Slowly, he complies, allowing himself to slow his heart and breathing–but he does not lie back down. 

“What happened? Where is Tamtey?” His voice is strained, words breaking between small gasps for air. Definitely broken ribs. He doesn’t dwell on it. Rasi and Etuwa just watch him, still trying to persuade him to lie down. It only angers him more. 

“Stop! Where is Tamtey?” He has never raised his voice at them before; he rarely does at anyone. Even he can hear the anguish in his expression. It is so desperate that he is certain the women hear it; there is nothing to hide it. The love. He doesn’t even attempt to tame it. Let the whole moon know. 

“So’lek, you need to calm yourself. We will tell you everything, but you must rest,’ says Rasi, her wisened voice soothing. So’lek rolls his eyes, impatient. He does not want to rest, he wants–no, needs to know if Tamtey is okay, “I am calm. Please speak.” Etuwa sighs, throwing her hands out in exasperation, “You are still so difficult even after all of these years!” So’lek doesn’t respond, looking up at her, disgruntled and aching. Etuwa drops to her knees in front of him on the floor, Rasi following slower. They share one glance, Rasi nodding for Etuwa to continue. 

“You have been unconscious for days. Only a few, but you are very hurt and dehydrated. You are stubborn even in your sleep; no water would move past your lips.” So’lek huffs, impatient, “I know that I am injured, you do not have to tell me. Just tell me about Tamtey.” Etuwa sends up a quick prayer to Eywa for her to find patience when dealing with this insufferable man, “We found both of you at the remnants of Hometree–well, the Sarentu found you. You were next to Wukula, and Teylan helped get you back. Ri’nela and Rasi found Tamtey just outside of the metal walls.” They were still avoiding telling him about Tamtey’s current state. Something must be terribly wrong, but he doesn’t voice his opinion, fervent to hear what else they have to say. Etuwa takes a deep breath, voice catching in her throat. The young tsahik looks to Rasi for help. 

Oh no.

“Tamtey is sleeping.” That is all the elder gives him. So’lek’s eyes narrow, “And what else?” Rasi sighs, a hand coming out to rest on So’lek’s bandaged arm.

“Are you sure you want to know this, So’lek?” The man flinches back, golden eyes searching Rasi’s own. She must see his misery, giving into his desires as she speaks again, “Tamtey was heavily injured. More than you. The explosion at Hometree surely did not help her wounds,” she pauses, licking her lips, “But that is not the worst of it. They did things to her–the RDA and…the Mangwkan. We cannot ask her since she has not woken up, but it is clear that they have tortured her.” So’lek doesn’t let Rasi get out another word, moving both of his hands behind him to push himself up onto his knees. The two women frantically try to push him back down, but he is having none of it. Even in his weakened state, he is stronger than the two of them. He growls at them lowly, “Let me see her!” His voice is rough, mangled. Rasi and Etuwa finally give in; So’lek knows he is a sorry sight. The two women lift him together, one arm under each of his shoulders. Lifting his arms to rest on theirs hurts terribly, but he doesn’t dare to make a noise, stumbling along. 

They help him up the small ledges to reach the area where his large map hangs on the wall. Just below it lies Tamtey, unconscious. At the sight of her, So’lek’s legs seem to give out, knees buckling to the ground at her side. Rasi and Etuwa let him fall. He sees no one else, not even noticing Ri’nela and Teylan on the other side of Tamtey. His breath is shaky as he inhales, hands hovering over the Sarentu’s supine form, never touching. He takes in Tamtey’s body, wrapped in more bandages and salve than his, the arm on the other side of him attached to a line leading into a bag of fluids. The humans had to intervene then. Her head has a healing gash on it,  a large scab, purple and swollen, where it rests above her right eye. His eyes trail lower to find layers of cloth wrapping around her chest, some spots dark with blood. He swallows as he searches her extremities. There, he sees multiple marks: burns, cuts, and bruises. They are like a new pattern on the light blue of her skin. Only her wrists are wrapped, likely injured from being in metal cuffs. The only thing they had left on her was her loincloth, torn at the edges and filled with holes from licks of fire. He can see everything, and he has never felt so scared. Slowly, So’lek lets one hand fall to the curve of Tamtey’s left cheek, rubbing his thumb over her Sarentu mark in absentminded circles. Feeling her. 

“Has she not awoken?” He sounds wrecked– so far gone for this woman, he cannot even begin to comprehend what he would do if he lost her. 

“No, ma So’lek,” states Ri’nela, voice barely above a whisper. She’s crouched on the other side of Tamtey, staring at him. He sees it from the corner of his eye, but he cannot look away from Tamtey.

“It is bad then?” 

There is silence at his words, and that alone is all the confirmation he needs, “I want to stay here. Next to her. I will rest, but it will be at her side.” He is firm. Final. He is not going to play petty games or argue back and forth, because Tamtey had to be in his line of sight at all times. In case she–when she wakes up. Ri’nela purses her lips, torn, “So’lek, I do not think that is a good–,” he cuts her off, “I do not care what you think. I am not moving.” It was barked. Snappish. He only takes a moment to feel guilty, just because Ri’nela is always so kind. But he can never control himself when it comes to Tamtey. Ri’nela does not even flinch, expecting him to lash out; she has seen the differences in treatment of Tamtey compared to the other Sarentu since the start. She cannot blame him for doing so. So, she nods, “Okay, So’lek. Okay.” Ri’nela stands, motioning for the others to follow her away from the two Na’vi on the ground, making the excuse of grabbing more supplies for So’lek’s reopened wounds. But really, she knows he needs a moment alone. 

Once they are out of sight, So’lek falls to the side from his spot on his knees, crumbling into a fetal position. From here, he can still see the gentle rise and fall of Tamtey’s wrapped chest. Seeing the evidence of her breathing allows him to finally fall into the chasm of sleep once more.

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A few more days pass. So’lek does not leave her side, to the others' chagrin. He flitters around her, unwary of his own injuries, to check her bandages, put salves on her healing bruises and burns, and force water down her throat. The feeling of trepidation has not left his throat since he last woke up. According to the others, Tamtey has been asleep for a week. She has barely roused; the only movement they have seen from her has been beneath her eyelids. She is still there, yet So’lek’s worries only deepen. He hates seeing her like this: weak, sick, and vulnerable. It reminds him of his shortcomings. His failure to protect her. He had let them take her away and allowed them to torture her for days—he had not been fast enough. These thoughts plague his mind as he gently rewraps one of Tamtey’s angular wrists, making sure not to tighten them too much. He did not want her to be in any more pain.

Outside, it is dark, eclipse having long passed, and the others have long since gone to sleep for the night. They had quickly stopped pestering him to leave Tamtey’s side once they saw his determination. 

He ties off the edge of the bandage, tucking in its little tail. He settles back, butt falling into the pit of his knees. 

He lets his chin fall to his chest, eyes blinking closed. Quietly, under his breath,  he mutters a long prayer to Eywa. 

Please, Great Mother, let Tamtey rise from this. She is a warrior. And a leader. She is true of heart and fights not just for her people, but all of The People. She is the most deserving of life and living. She has had so much taken from her. Please do not take her from me. I cannot lose anyone else. 

He finishes, choosing to reflect. He sits in silence, taking in all of the sounds of the night. The crickets of insects, the quiet grumbles of the ikran outside, the small puffs of Tamtey’s breath. 

In and out. In and out. 

It hitches.

His ears flick back, honing in on the pattern of her breathing. It has returned to normal, but then a slight whimper breaks the silence. His eyes fly open, and he rocks forward, hovering over Tamtey. Her face is screwed up, eyes clenching, and lips puckering into a grimace. She is waking up. So’lek’s hands find her cheeks, centering her head as he moves his face over hers. He wanted to see her eyes so badly.

Please.

He waits, holding his breath. Then, slowly, Tamtey’s eyes bat open, long eyelashes brushing against the hollowed bags of her eyes. He feels a lump begin to form in his throat. His eyes meet hers, the vibrant mixture of colors in her irises so wide and encompassing. Slowly, her gaze focuses, finding him. She breathes out a quivering, “So’lek?” He cannot speak; his throat has seemingly sealed shut. He is not even sure if he is awake. He just swallows, nodding at her. She still looks confused, eyebrows furrowing, and one of her arms reaching up, shaking from the effort as she tries to reach him. He meets her halfway, one of his hands leaving her face to grab her fingers, bringing them to rest on her chest. At his touch, she seems to break, “So’lek.” Then tears are welling in her eyes, and she is suddenly sobbing beneath him. He panics, eyes widening, hands back on her cheeks, “Tamtey? Tamtey, it is alright.” She just stares up at him, her eyes filling with more tears as they continue to fall down the azure skin of her face. He cups her neck, letting his thumbs find the curve of her rounded jaw. He swipes his thumbs across her skin where they lie, “Tam tam, ma Tamtey.” He keeps the calloused pads of her fingers where he can feel her heart beat in her throat. 

Tamtey sniffles, sobs beginning to quiet, “Help me up, please.” Her voice is croaky. So’lek jumps into action, finding a nearby cup of water and bringing it to her, tilting her head and neck up enough for her to swallow the liquid. He tries to make her drink more, but she weakly bats his hands away, urging him to help her. And of course, he obliges, moving her to sit up and letting her lean against his side for support. They sit together, Tamtey taking a second to catch her breath from the struggle of moving on her own after so long. His hands don’t leave her body, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other resting in his lap, ready for action.

“I thought I was dead.” Tamtey’s words are soft, barely loud enough to be heard. But, So’lek does. He clenches his jaw, feeling the familiar stretch of scarred skin on his left cheek, “Luckily, you are not.” That earns him a chuckle, followed by a coughing fit that wracks Tamtey’s weakened body. He holds her sturdily, rubbing her back and feeding her water. As he goes to bring the water cup away, Tamtey’s hand wraps around his thickly boned wrist. He looks over to her, meeting her gaze immediately. She takes the cup from him without breaking eye contact, placing it somewhere behind her. He just watches her, waiting. 

“And…I thought I would never see you again.” He does not know what he was expecting her to say, but it definitely was not that. And he definitely is not prepared for the way his eyes begin to burn, “Do not say such things. You knew I would come for you.” He refuses to let the tears fall, but Tamtey sees them forming and frowns, “I knew you would, but the days were starting to blend together, and then th-the fire. They drugged me, and I had no idea what was happening, and I was so tired, ma So’lek.” Her voice is ragged and filled with heartache, only worsening as she continues, “And for a moment I thought I heard your voice, but I could not yell out to you. My lips would not move, and-and my throat was too tight, and I could not tell you that I–,” her voice cracks. So’lek feels his fragile heart cracking alongside it. He coos at her with a click of his tongue, as he would to an ailing animal, “You do not need to say any more, ma Tamtey.” She just shakes her head back in response, rapid enough to send the beads in her hair tinkling as they clack against each other.

“You do not understand, So’lek! I have so much left unsaid, and I thought you would never know it!” He reaches out a large hand to her face, cupping one cheek to bring her more into the present. One of his long fangs snags on his lip as he contemplates his next action, his tail thumping on the ground behind him. Tamtey doesn’t move or say another word, undoubtedly waiting for him to go on. As he stares into the glossy depths of her eyes, so full of anguish and regret, he feels the dam break, “I do understand. I understand more than you know. When you were taken, all I could think of was how I let it happen. How to get you back. After days had passed, I began to doubt myself, and I began to think–”, his last word is gagged out, jaw and throat muscles clenching, but he forces himself to continue, “I thought about how there was so much I had not told you, or showed you, or learned from you. I thought for just a moment–what if I do not find her? What if I am too late and she is gone by the time I get there? Hurting or dead? You, Tamtey! Dead! And I never would have told you how I felt–how I feel. Because I am a coward.” His words were all rushed, growing in volume until his last statement, which he practically roared out. 

He does not realize he is crying until Tamtey lifts one of her bandaged, shaking hands and wipes away a small accumulation of tears from beneath his eye, “You are not a coward, So’lek.” The tears in his eyes begin to burn anew with anger, “I am! I am older! I should be the wise and brave one. Not the one who hides!” He is sure the others can hear his yelling now, but they do not come rushing from their spots, opting to give him and Tamtey this moment for themselves. 

“You do not always need to be the wise and brave one, So’lek! You are still a person, and you still deserve the right to feel. You are not a coward for that.” 

Tamtey’s words are gentle. Soothing. He stares at her chapped lips, barely nodding as he responds, “You may be right about that. But I am still a coward for never telling you that I care for you.” At his words, Tamtey freezes in front of him, the thumb stroking his cheek sliding to a stop. For a breath, they just look at each other, yellow eyes locked on her moss-colored ones. Then, Tamtey leans into him, her nose only millimeters from his own, “Oel ngati kameie, ma So’lek.” 

So’lek sucks in a breath, heart stuttering beneath his healing ribs, but he does not waste a second, “Oel ngati kameie, ma Tamtey.” Then his hands are at her neck, thumbs brushing the base of her softened jaw as he pulls her into him the rest of the way. Their lips meet, both sets dry from dehydration as they slide against one another. But, So’lek does not mind, because to him it is still perfect. He savors it, the first time he tastes her, because she is just like how he imagined: sweet and something so undeniably Tamtey. In a wink, it is over, the two of them pulling back to rest their foreheads against one another, bare of gear or paint. Just skin on skin. They sit together, breathing each other in. So’lek relishes the moment, painting it into his memory. Eyes still closed, his plush lips part, “There is much to talk about, ma Tamtey. But you need rest.” He cannot see it, but still feels the warm breath that comes from the huff of annoyance Tamtey lets out, “You are such a sourpuss.” 

So’lek leans away from her, brow furrowing in confusion, “A what?” Tamtey just giggles at him, not giving him an answer. Instead, she pulls on his arm, hugging it to her body, “Let’s sleep then!” He cannot help the involuntary blush that rushes to his cheeks at the close contact. Even with this tension snapped between them, she still makes him so nervous. He has never met a woman like Tamtey before, and she was his. He slaps himself internally. Not his. Not yet. Maybe? 

He shakes his head to rid himself of the confusing thoughts swirling in the confines of his skull. 

Instead, he obliges, letting Tamtey’s playful personality win out against his grouchy one once again as he dramatically falls to the ground, pulling her down with him–gentle enough not to hurt her, of course–and she collapses onto him with an oof. 

They just lie there, arms encompassing each other in a tight embrace, Tamtey’s cheek resting on his naked chest. His eyes close, allowing himself to relax for the first time in over a week, when Tamtey’s snorting snicker breaks the peace. So’lek’s eyes peel open, neck tilting to look down at the woman resting on his pec. She is looking up at him, cheek squished against his muscle. Cute. 

He sighs, “What is it, Tamtey?”

She just snorts again, voice taunting him as she proclaims, “You like me!” So’lek groans, eyes rolling far into his head out of exasperation. 

“Go to sleep, Tamtey.” He cannot keep the fondness from his voice, one side of his mouth flickering into a smile. She just giggles again, smacking a wet kiss to his unclothed front, “Mwah! I can’t wait to tell everyone that you have a crush on me!” The shake of his chest is uncontrollable, Tamtey’s head flopping up and down on top of it from the strength of his laugh, “Tamtey!” She just cackles from her spot, chin digging into his skin. 

When they finally pull themselves together, So’lek presses a kiss to the crown of her head, “Goodnight, ma yawne.” She whispers it back, eyes falling closed.

The next morning, everyone finds them wrapped around each other like a large knot, snoring softly. Teylan sneaks a picture before they all decide to leave the two alone to sleep the day away. 

[deprivedreality]

𝙏𝘼𝙈'𝙏𝙀𝙔'𝙎 𝙈𝘼𝙉

pairing/content: so’lek x tamtey/the sarentu. established relationship between so'le and tam'tey. jealous sarentu. marking and scenting.

note/spoilers: rimu is a canon character from the comic, she appears in so’lek’s journey. The young so’lek fell in love with her during his time with the Tipani clan. 

synopsis: So’lek and Tamtey have found peace in their bond. While trekking through the dense Tipani jungles, they rescue an injured Tipani warrior, leading the reclusive Tipani clan to grant them shelter for the night. The reunion between So'lek and the clan takes an awkward turn when they meet Rimu, the clan’s Tsahìk, with whom So’lek shared a complicated, unfinished past. And Tamtey is not having any of it. 

Word count: 3.5k 

The mist felt heavier as they transitioned from the open forest into the ancient, shadowed groves of the Tipani, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and the sharp, metallic tang of the RDA’s nearby destruction. So’lek moved with a predatory silence, his footsteps making no sound on the mulch, his eyes scanning the canopy with a sharp, instinctive familiarity that didn't escape Tamtey. Even with the weight of the stretcher, he seemed to belong to the darkness here, his body leaning into the gloom as if it were an old friend.

"You move differently here," Tamtey whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant drone of a Samson helicopter. Tamtey watched the way So’lek’s ears flicked at every minute rustle, his body coiled like a spring. "Like you’re expecting the trees to jump at you. You’re more... alert. Even for you."

She adjusted her grip on the handles carrying the unconscious Tswìke—a Tipani warrior they had pulled from a pile of smoldering wreckage just an hour prior. The young warrior had been caught in the crossfire of an RDA clearing operation, his breathing now shallow and labored against the moss-covered stretcher. 

So’lek let out a low, huffed breath, his tail twitching in a rhythmic arc. "In Tipani territory, they usually do. They are the shadows of the forest, and they do not take kindly to those who stomp through their home like RDA heavy-suits. I spent many moons here after my clan was lost.”

Tamtey frowned at the idea of So’lek being alone. He looked at her and sighed. “It was years ago. I was angry, reckless—a wounded animal looking for a fight I couldn't win. The Tipani did not pity me; they hunted me until I learned to disappear. They taught me that a warrior without silence is just a target, and a target is eventually a corpse."

He paused, his gaze flickering upward to a specific high branch, thick with glowing moss, that overhung a sheer drop. 

For a moment, his stern features relaxed into something resembling a memory. "A Tipani, Rimu is her name, used to challenge me to climbs no Na’vi would ever dream of. She would leap before she looked, trusting the wind to catch her. She was... impressive. She had a way of seeing through the anger I carried."

Tamtey tilted her head, her curiosity piqued by the rare, localized softness in his tone. She felt a small tug of something she couldn't quite name—a desire to know every version of the man standing before her, even the one that belonged to another clan’s history. "Did she teach you the 'Boogeyman' glare too, ma So’lek? Or was she the one who softened you?"

So’lek stopped walking for a heartbeat, turning his head to look back at her. The bioluminescence of the jungle cast deep blue shadows across his face, making his golden eyes burn with a sudden, concentrated heat. His expression remained unreadable for a moment, the mask of the veteran warrior firmly in place, before a small, private twitch of his lips appeared—a smile meant only for her.

"Rimu did not seek to soften anything," he rumbled, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register that vibrated in Tamtey's chest. "She tried to sharpen me into a spear that would never break." He stepped a fraction closer, the scent of rain and old leather clinging to him. "You are the only one who ever managed to find the man beneath the armor, ma’Tamtey. You are the only one who softened the blade."

The hiss from the trees cut their conversation short. 

As Tipani warriors descended, So’lek’s shift was instantaneous. He stepped in front of Tamtey, his broad frame obscuring her completely, his hand not on his weapon, but held out in a gesture of firm authority.

The Tipani warriors moved with a silence that felt like a weight, their shadows blending into the dark bark of the trees. As the couple began the trek toward the main camp, So’lek didn’t move from Tamtey’s side. His hand stayed firm on the small of her back, a possessive, grounding touch that signaled to every hidden watcher that she was under his protection.

So’lek stepped in front of Tamtey, his body a literal shield. "We bring your brother, Tswìke! We come in peace, and we seek to help with the crab-blight the Sky People have caused."

The warriors hesitated until a woman stepped forward, her presence commanding. It was Rimu, now the Tsahìk of the clan. Her eyes widened as they landed on So’lek.

"So’lek?" she breathed, ignoring Tamtey entirely. "The 'Boogeyman' returns to us. And you’ve brought a... student? A Sarentu child?"

Tamtey noticed how Rimu’s tail gave a sharp, agitated flick every time she glanced back and saw them so close. Rimu’s gaze was fixed on So'lek, tracing the scars on his arms and the heavy RDA trophies on his chest, completely ignoring the woman beside him.

"You have grown into a formidable warrior, So’lek," Rimu said, her voice projecting back to him, ignoring the rustle of the leaves. "The boy I knew was fast, but this man... you look as though you have forgotten how to laugh. Perhaps the Tipani can remind you of the fire you once carried."

So’lek’s expression didn't change, but his fingers tightened slightly against Tamtey’s waist. "The fire I carry is not the one you remember, Rimu. I have found a new purpose. My path is no longer solitary."

Rimu let out a short, dismissive breath. "Purpose is a heavy thing. Usually, it is shared with equals, not with those who need a guide through the brush." She stopped at the edge of a high platform and finally looked at Tamtey, her eyes cold and scanning. "I hope the Sarentu is as quick as she is colorful.”

“She is good.” So’lek affirms. Rimu eyes them both and Tamtey met her gaze with a steady, defiant look.

“Follow. But keep the Sarentu close. Our shadows do not play well with strangers."

As Tswìke was whisked away to the healers, the clan gathered around the central fire, the flickering orange light dancing off the sharp edges of Tipani armor. Rimu took her place beside So’lek, leaning in so close their shoulders nearly brushed, her presence a deliberate invasion of space.

"I heard stories of you, So’lek," Rimu said, her voice dropping into a melodic purr that carried over the crackle of the wood. "They say you carry the metal of the Sky People like trophies now. I remember when you only carried the weight of your bow and a restless spirit. We could take to the skies tonight, for old time's sake? The Great Canopy is beautiful under the full moon, and the winds are just as they were when we were young."

Tamtey, sitting on So’lek’s other side, felt a surge of heat that had nothing to do with the fire. She saw the way Rimu’s eyes traced the lines of So’lek’s face, looking for a boy who no longer existed. Without breaking gaze with the Tsahìk, Tamtey reached out, plucking a sweet piece of roasted fruit and holding it directly to So’lek’s mouth.

"Eat, ma So’lek," she said, her voice smooth but commanding, a soft edge of steel beneath the words. "You need your strength if we are to hunt the RDA. You cannot afford to be distracted by... memories."

So’lek didn't hesitate; he accepted the food from her hand and fed himself, his golden eyes meeting Tamtey’s with an intensity that clearly signaled where his loyalty lay. 

But Rimu only smiled thinly, her tail flicking with annoyance. "He was always a big eater," she remarked dismissively. "I remember sharing my kills with him when he had nothing but his hunger and his grief. He was always so grateful for what I provided."

The air between the two women grew heavy and sharp. When Rimu eventually stood, she didn't just gesture toward the maps; she placed a hand firmly on So’lek’s shoulder, her fingers lingering on the leather strap of his armor to pull him toward the map tables.

Tamtey’s patience snapped. As she rose to follow, her movement was a blur of calculated Sarentu grace. She "carefully" nudged a heavy ceramic bowl filled with thick, purple grain mash sitting on the edge of the stone hearth. It didn't just spill; it launched, coating the hem of Rimu’s ornate hide wrap and splashing across her embroidered boots.

"Oh! My apologies, Tsahìk," Tamtey gasped, her voice dripping with an artificial sweetness that didn't match the steady, defiant fire in her eyes. She stood tall, refusing to look down at the mess. "I suppose I haven't spent enough time 'in the shadows' to find my footing here."

Rimu froze, the purple mash dripping slowly from her fine clothing. The surrounding warriors went silent, their eyes darting between their Tsahìk and the Sarentu woman who had just dared to mark her territory.

In the dim, bioluminescent glow of their guest shelter, the air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and the sharp metallic tang of whetstone on steel. So’lek leaned against the curved wooden wall, his arms crossed over his chest, watching Tamtey. She was sitting on the edge of their sleeping furs, her jaw set in a hard line as she sharpened her hunting knife with aggressive, rhythmic precision. Each stroke of the blade was a testament to the fire burning beneath her skin.

"You are angry," So’lek stated plainly, his deep voice vibrating in the small space.

Tamtey didn't look up, her focus remaining entirely on the edge of the blade. "She thinks I’m a child who found her way into the wrong woods. She thinks you are a trophy she simply misplaced and is now ready to reclaim," she retorted, the words coming out sharp and fast. She finally looked up at him, her eyes bright with a mixture of hurt and fury. "And you... you just let her. You sat there and let her talk about 'old times' while she looked at you like you were the last hunt on Pandora. Like I wasn't even sitting right beside you."

So’lek didn't pull away or offer a hollow defense. Instead, he pushed off the wall and walked over to her, his movements slow and deliberate. He knelt on the furs between her knees, a gesture of humility that was rare for a warrior of his standing. Gently, he reached out and took the knife from her hand, setting it aside on the floor.

He reached up, wrapping his large, calloused hands around her wrists and pulling them toward his neck. The intensity in his golden eyes softened, turning into something molten and devoted. "Then remind her, ma Tamtey," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble. "Remind her. Remind the Tipani. Remind the whole forest."

He bowed his head, intentionally baring the sensitive skin of his neck and shoulders—a profound gesture of total surrender and trust among the Na'vi. It was an invitation for her to claim him in the most ancient way they knew.

Tamtey didn't hesitate. The anger in her chest dissolved into a fierce, protective warmth. She leaned forward, closing the small gap between them. She pressed her face into the curve of his neck, rubbing her cheek and brow firmly against his skin. She marked him with the distinct, sweet-woodland scent of the Sarentu—a fragrance of crushed moss, rain, and wild herbs.

It was a deep, lingering claim, a sensory seal that would stay on his skin for days, signaling to any other Na'vi exactly who he belonged to. So’lek let out a low, shaky groan of contentment, the tension finally leaving his massive frame. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest, burying his face in her hair. They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing each other in, the world outside the shelter fading into insignificance.

"Better?" he rumbled against her skin, his heart beating a steady, heavy rhythm against her own.

Tamtey pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands still resting on his shoulders, tracing the marks she had made. A small, satisfied smile finally touched her lips.

"Better?" he asked softly. "Better," she replied, her fire replaced by a calm, steady confidence. So'lek gave her a quick peck on the lips and smiled sweetly.

They returned to the communal fire together. This time, Tamtey didn't hover. She reclaimed her Sarentu roots, moving gracefully toward a group of Tipani hunters and their children. She began to share stories of the western frontier, her voice melodic and diplomatic, charming the clan members as she ate. She intentionally left So’lek to himself, knowing the mark she had left on him spoke louder than words.

Rimu approached So’lek, her eyes flashing with anger as she gestured to her ruined robes. "It is unbecoming of a Sarentu to pour food on a clan’s Tsahìk," she hissed, her voice sharp. "They are meant to be diplomats, peacemakers. Your companion lacks the discipline of her people."

Rimu was never an angry person, so’lek remembered her to be a warm and welcoming friend. Perhaps only time knew how much she had changed. So’lek looked at Rimu, then his gaze drifted to Tamtey, who was laughing with the children across the hearth. 

"Can you really blame her, Rimu?" he asked, his voice calm and unapologetic.

Rimu gave him a sharp, piercing look. "I regretted letting you go, So’lek," she whispered, her voice softening with a sudden, heavy longing. "I often wonder what would have happened if I had asked you to stay, if we had bonded back then—"

“Rimu.”

Before the words could go any deeper, So’lek stopped her. He didn't speak; he simply looked at her with eyes that were no longer searching, but entirely settled. He turned his head, his gaze locking onto Tamtey as she began a small dance with the Tipani children, her light reflecting in the fire. The look in his eyes was one of total devotion—the look of a man who was already home.

Rimu followed his gaze, seeing the way Tamtey moved and the way So’lek’s entire spirit seemed to lean toward her. She smelled the heavy, sweet scent of the Sarentu girl clinging to him, a mark she could never erase. 

Rimu let out a long, heavy sigh, the fight leaving her shoulders. She looked away, finally realizing that the boy from her past was gone, and the man standing before her belonged to someone else. She lowered her head slightly, a silent acknowledgement of defeat, and gave up.

The golden light of Pandora’s morning filtered through the dense Tipani canopy as So’lek and Tamtey readied their gear for departure. The tension from the night before hadn't entirely vanished, but it had shifted. So’lek moved with a new sense of ease, his hand frequently finding the small of Tamtey’s back, a quiet but firm reminder to the entire clan of where he stood.

While Tamtey crouched to say her goodbyes to the group of Tipani children who had followed her all morning, Rimu approached So’lek one last time near the scouting maps.

"She is... spirited," Rimu said, her voice tight as she watched Tamtey laugh while a young girl tucked a blossom behind her ear. "But she is a diplomat, So’lek. A peacemaker. Is that truly what the 'Boogeyman' needs to survive this war? Or is she just a habit you’ve picked up because you grew tired of being alone?"

So’lek’s face hardened at Rimu’s words. “Sometimes it is best to keep some thoughts to ourselves.”

His eyes fixed on Tamtey, softening in a way Rimu had never seen during his years as a hardened survivor. "Tamtey is not a habit," he said, his voice low and unwavering. "She is the only reason I still have a heart worth protecting. Can you blame her for being fierce, Rimu? She has a warrior to keep in line."

He turned his gaze back to Rimu, and for the first time, she saw it clearly—the look of a man who was no longer searching for a place to belong. Rimu looked away, a long, weary sigh escaping her. 

"I see. The shadows have truly lost you to the light, then."

As they prepared to mount their Ikrans, Rimu stepped toward Tamtey. The children were clinging to Tamtey’s leggings, reluctant to let their new storyteller go. 

“Come back, Tam’tey!” One of the children says, a pang of sadness in their voice. “We enjoy your stories! Visit us next time—continue the story of Toruk!”

“Certainly.” Tamtey laughed, muffling their hands in pure joy. 

"You should come back, Sarentu," Rimu said, her tone finally holding a touch of genuine respect. She strided towards them, hand behind her back, footsteps quiet. "The children will miss you dearly. You have a way with them that we lack."

Tamtey, still furious at Rimu’s earlier obliviousness and the way she had looked at So’lek, gave the Tsahìk a sharp cold shoulder. Enough for Rimu to notice but not be visible to the children as she shushed them back to their parents. She adjusted her Ikran’s harness without looking up. "I will come back for them," Tamtey replied shortly. "I’ll come alone next time. The children are wonderful, and they deserve to hear more from the world."

Rimu hesitated, then looked at So’lek before turning her eyes back to Tamtey. "Take care of him, Sarentu. He has been through so much."

Tamtey swung up onto her Ikran, looking down at Rimu with a fierce, possessive glint in her eyes. "Do not tell me how to treat my man, Tipani," she said, her voice echoing with the strength of a woman who had fought for every inch of her happiness. "I know exactly what he needs."

With a sharp cry, Tamtey took to the sky, and So’lek followed close behind, his Ikran’s wings beating in perfect rhythm with hers as they left the shadows of the Tipani behind.

The wind roared past the two, carrying the scent of the open plains and the freedom of the sky. They took to the sky, the wind rushing past them. So’lek brought his Ikran level with hers, watching the way the sunlight caught the Sarentu beads in her hair. 

"You were good with those children," So’lek shouted over the wind. "The Sarentu were always a small clan... but it doesn't have to stay that way." 

Tamtey’s ears perked up in surprise, eyes widened, a blush creeping up her neck. "So’lek! Are you... are you saying what I think you're saying?" 

He let out a rare, booming laugh, diving his Ikran toward the canopy below. "I am saying that I am a man of the Sarentu now, ma Tamtey! And my clan needs a future. Are you fast enough to catch me and discuss it?"

Tamtey felt her heart hammer against her ribs, not from the flight, but from the weight of So’lek’s words. She looked over at him, seeing the way the sunlight hit his face, erasing the "Boogeyman" and leaving only the man she loved—the man who had just invited her to build a future that had once seemed impossible.

"So’lek!" Tamtey called out, her voice a mix of shock and blossoming joy. "You cannot just say something like that and then dive away!"

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he leaned forward, his Ikran, Ìley, shrieking in delight as they banked into a steep, plummeting dive toward the shimmering treetops. So’lek looked back over his shoulder, a look of pure, unburdened mischief in his eyes.

Tamtey didn't hesitate. She urged her Ikran forward, the great wings snapping shut as she mirrored his dive. "I am a Sarentu!" she yelled into the wind, a wide, triumphant smile breaking across her face. "I am faster than any grumpy warrior from the shadows!"

They raced through the clouds, weaving between floating mountains and spiraling through the golden haze of the morning. Their laughter echoed to the plains. For the first time in a long time, the war felt far away. There was no RDA, no Tipani, and no Rimu—only the two of them and the promise of a clan reborn.

As they leveled out over a sparkling waterfall, So’lek slowed his pace just enough for her to catch up. He reached out his hand, and for a fleeting second, their fingers brushed in the open air.

"I am serious, ma Tamtey," he said, his voice dropping into a warmth that carried clearly even over the wind. "The Sarentu traditions must be passed on. And I can think of no one better to teach them than a mother who is as fierce as she is kind."

Tamtey’s eyes softened, her hand lingering near his as they soared toward their home. "Then we have a lot to prepare for, ma So’lek. But first, let’s get home."

taglist: @sosleks @just-another-idk @itskekeelise @eywaslittlelady @ravenyia @lotus-eater-69

ᓚᘏᗢ @deprivedreality 2026 | all rights reserved.

[tamteyra]

2:47 of So'lek's hot ass voice

[nakedinthetrees]

NOT SO’LEK GIVING ME THE JAKE SULLY STARE👀😩

I’m giggling like a psycho

[crovvhaven]

Got encouraged to post on Tumblr again, this time with AFOP content. I love you, Ma So’lek 😔🫶 Tamlek nation, here I come