whore the squeakquel @cigdelrey - Tumblr Blog

Jan 12

ʙᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀɴɢs

Neteyam x Omatikaya!Reader 16.7k words

I got so insanely carried away, but again, I just cannot write a short story. I also never write smut so stfu (ᵕ≀ ̠ᵕ ). There will absolutely be mistakes, this isn't entirely proofread, and I cba rn so I'll do it later.

Summary: Duty weighs heavy when the clan expects you to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the one you’ve spent years convincing everyone you loathe. Your father is the clan’s greatest warrior, closest friend to the Olo’eyktan, and their bond sealed your fates together long before you could draw a bow. You grew up running wild with the Sully children but the flawless eldest son always seemed to shadow your every step and you’ve perfected the scowl reserved only for him. The clan believes it and they accept your envy. Everyone except the parents who watch with quiet amusement, because they see what you both still refuse to name. Or in which; you’re the warrior’s daughter, bound by expectation to the perfect future leader you claim to hate. You insist it’s true and everyone believes you. Except, parents always know their children best.

enemies to lovers, holy slowburn, slight soulmates (but not really?), childhood rivals, forced proximity, aged up Neteyem, so much smut!!! as always, my terrible gramma

Your composure is a facade. He knows it.

He knows it because he sees it.

In the way your scowl falters just a fraction as you swirl colorful insults through velvet words and he finally bites back. In the way you push against him when he even tries to offer his help – because the basket you’re lugging looks absurdly full, and yet you still let him walk you the rest of the way to the village.

You snarl at him when he even attempts to correct your bow arm, and it used to make him flush with something sharp and ugly – envy, maybe? – because you didn’t have a problem with authority, he knows because you seem to take his fathers criticism’s just fine. When anyone else rectified you, you adjusted.

It was only ever a him problem.

Because when he corrected you, you hissed at him like his correcting hand was tipped with arrowheads and poisonous herbs.

You had a problem with Nateyam.

As a teenager, it used to irk him to no end. Because as the firstborn son of the Olo’eyktan, he was meant to carry himself like the leader he would one day become, like an authority the clan respected without question and trusted to guide them through storm and calm alike. Yet the one thing expected of him above all else, the one duty his father never let him forget, was simpler and far more aggravating.

He was supposed to get along with you.

You – the daughter to the clan's most formidable warrior, his fathers right hand man.

You – who did not listen. Who did not trust him. Who always – always – questioned him.

It may as well have been written in the stars by Eywa herself that the two of you were fated to fold neatly into the same position as your father’s. And yet you resisted with every breath possible.

You rebelled, and scowled, and cursed at the mere mention of his name. You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with the Olo'eyktan's first born despite your role, and that made it so exceedingly hard to get along with you. It left his skin flushing that embarrassingly dark purple colour which made his mother chuckle whenever he spoke of you.

He tried to make sense of it. Of the way you rolled your eyes at his advice, or scowled when the two of you were paired in training once again and he couldn’t recall doing anything wrong. Not really.

You fought as normal children had, argued and competed as two eldest children to high-ranking parents would, but never with anything sharp enough to leave a lasting wound.. Nothing that should have haunted him like this.

However, he wasn’t a young boy anymore and time had an ironic way of sanding things down. He noticed what once felt like a raw hatred you wore like a book written in some foreign sky-language, suddenly became much more legible as his years grew to start with a two, almost as if he learned how to annotate his memories of you with the clarity he lacked as a teen.

One in particular he remembers most vividly. That evening by the central fire, where you were seated opposite him, and the air still carried the echo of that afternoon’s argument. He sat closest to the basket of ripe utumauti fruits, something he always recalled being your favourite through the years of shared meals, and he remembers the way it sat just beyond your reach on the woven mat.

When you asked for it low and casual, he didn’t think twice. Of course he picked it up and of course he leaned forward to pass it, because why would he not? He sat the closest, and both your siblings and his own had been too occupied in animated conversations with each other to notice.

He also remembers the way you had slapped his hand away with a guttural scoff, almost as if he was utterly ridiculous for even offering. The sting on both his knuckles and his pride had his brows furrowing instantly and that familiar anger, the kind only you could kindle so effortlessly, surged hot beneath his skin once more.

But it was only when the soft snickers rose from nearby – his mother and yours, seated side by side and watching the exchange with far too much interest –that he noticed.

You had still taken the basket.

“Hey!” He remembers the way your fathers voice cut from just to the left, “Play nice.”

And he’d assumed, as always, that your father was less than impressed at his daughter’s rude manners toward the Olo’eyktan’s son. But the reprimand softened almost immediately, chased by a low chuckle that started only after Jake failed to hide a snort of his own beside him.

The two men were already leaning into one another, shoulders touching, Jake’s head tipped low as one hand, holding a piece of half bitten meat hung limply by his mouth, trying and failing to hide his laughs through a mouthful of food.

The nudges of your sister's elbow into your side was the last thing he remembered noticing, sharp and mocking but quickly followed by the look you shot her. It was a silent warning in that strange language he’d never understood as a boy – the one you did with your eyes alone, but one he was now, uncomfortably, starting to. Because you ate your fruit without ceremony, eyes trained forward and stubbornly refusing to drift his way, yet the basket sat firmly in your hands all the same.

That was when Neteyam stopped letting it irk him. When he realised why everyone else around him seemed to find that mean spirit you reserved only for him so humorous, despite his distress. You were composed, yes, but he finally understood why.

Your composure was a lie.

And once it stopped irking him, once it settled into something he thought he understood, all the memories of you persistently adorning that scowl that seemed to exist only for him suddenly lost their bite. For a moment he felt like he had maybe started to figure you out.

But recently, something had changed, subtly at first, then all at once. What was once harmless irritation had suddenly sharpened into something more volatile. You didn't just brush him off anymore, you snapped before he'd even opened his mouth, and flinched away the moment he so much as reached to steady the basket. It was as if every breath he took was a disruption, and his presence had become something you could no longer tolerate in silence.

That mean spirit wasn't funny anymore, because now it was relentless.

Which was why, standing across from you now, he didn’t brace for your signature fang baring scowl. He expected it in a way that made him sigh with knowing fatigue, and yet a little bit of smugness all the same.

“Why must you always be so difficult?” The words surfaced in that defeated tone he reserved only for you and your impertinence for him.

Your body shifted back and you leaned against your heels to glance over your shoulder at where he stood behind you. You were still kneeling over the stump of braided vines you had been meticulously shredding into winding fibres with your knife.

“I am not.” And there it was – that scowl he expected. It twisted your face into that familiar snarl, upper lip curling to flash the set of fangs he saw more than his own. “You just insist on hovering.”

“We were sent out here to collect fibre together. You ‘insist’ on making it a one man job.”

You didn’t look at him again, instead, turning back to the vines where your blade already resumed its steady work, as if his presence were nothing more than a distraction.

“I do not need a partner to cut fibre,” Your response was flat as if it were such an obvious observation, and then you sighed, a long drawn out exhale to yourself. “So ridiculous.”

The scoff that followed was harsh and hidden under your breath.

Despite its low delivery, the sound didn't slip Neteyam’s ear, and he raised an unassertive brow at what he thought he heard, the corner of his mouth tipping low in confusion. “What is?”

His confusion hit you like a sudden gust of wind, and with a growl that spoke as if you couldn't believe he dared asking, you quickly shot up with a whirl, tail whipping fast with a force Neteyam had to step back to avoid. You were facing him completely, now.

“That our fathers insist on sending us out here together like we are still little children. I do not need a partner and I certainly do not need any partner of mine to be you.”

The words landed harsher than the scowl ever could. For a moment he only stared at you, really observing your features twisted with perplexed anger, yet comically softened by what he could only describe as a pout in your lip. He took in the way your stance squared and the way your grip curled around the knife with agitated force.

You may not think you acted like one, but great mother, you looked like a child right now.

“Right, you are not a child.” He said at last, voice level. “But maybe our fathers would not feel the need to treat you like one if you stopped acting as one.”

“Excuse me?”

The grip on your knife tightened, handle creaking under the pressure of your grasp that almost splintered the wood. The corner of your mouth twitched up once again in that scowl that bared the top of your right fang to his watchful eyes, and your tone was so even it almost made him falter.

Neteyam held his ground, though. And instead, he replied carefully in an attempt to diffuse that constantly building tension just a little.

“You make an enemy of me in everything we do, as if we haven’t been paired together since we were barely old enough to hold a blade. If you wish to be met as an adult, you cannot bare your teeth at every word spoken to you, Fang.”

That age old nickname rolled like honey off his tongue but struck your ears and curdled into venom. Your fists curled so tight your claws bit crescent marks into your palms, and the muscles along your jaw tightened until you felt the throb of it.

Fang. You despised when he called you that. The way he reduced you to nothing but the sneer he so often deserved.

With a slow drawn out breath that carried no warmth, you bared the edge of a laugh that held no humour, letting your mocking reply land bitter and sour on your tongue.

“Perfect Olo'eyktan's son, always so composed and responsible. Maybe I would enjoy my time with you more if Eywa hadn’t shaped you so stiff in the tail you forgot how to bend, Tawtute.”

For a heartbeat, the words hung between you like a knocked bowstring waiting to snap with release. Then Neteyam’s jaw tightened, because he always hated when you commented on the human in him, as if it made him less Navi. Less than you.

A Tawtute, a sky-person, as if it were an insult. Spoken like a curse, when all he’d ever done was try to prove it wasn’t.

He let the silence stretch a moment longer, before taking one deliberate breath to regulate his reeling thoughts, choosing to ignore your bait. Low hanging fruit as his father would call it.

“You forget how many times that stiffness kept you from getting hurt.”

You turned back toward the vines with a scoff, knife biting down harder than before. The fibres split unevenly, curling away beneath the force of your hands. “I do not need to be helped by someone who can barely hold their bow arm high enough to knock an arrow. I do not listen to you.”

“Yes,” Neteyam scoffed a humorless laugh, “you never do.”

He sank down into a squat then as well, finally turning his attention to the pile of finished fibres you had shoved aside. His hands were quick to gather a few filaments between his pointer and thumb, testing the strands between the fingers as he twisted the two together, before giving them a short, sharp tug. They held for one, and held for another as he stretched them further, then finally faltered with a snap as he pulled them taught enough.

His mouth twitched down.

“You cut angry,” He observed with a growl. “Uneven. Wasteful.”

You spun once more, this time in your squatted position to meet him at eye level, the knife still gripped between your four fingers almost as a threat. “You waste them with your stupidity! Of course they break when you only weave two fibres!”

“They need to be thick enough for bowstrings, to hold knocked arrows in new bows.” He countered.

You sneered with a slight hiss, leaning further into him. “Then don’t use them.”

“Oh no, I will.” He smirked, as he finally began his job, looping the fibres together, securing them with practiced ease. “Someone has to make sure we don’t come back empty-handed.”

You shot him a glare. “I said I do not need your-”

“You do not need my help,” He finished for you, clearly way too amused now. “I know. You have said it at least five times since we left the clearing.”

He leant closer as he spoke, not directly into your space, but just enough that you had to shift your stance to keep working without him intruding. His looming shadow falling over the stump you worked on, over your hands and the blade that suddenly seemed to falter under a different kind of pressure now.

“And yet,” he continued, eyes never leaving the strands as he calmly coiled the fibres, “you keep cutting while I bind. Funny how that works.”

You stopped your movements, sending him a glare out the side of your eye, one that had your lashes feeling heavy and jaw slightly agape.

“Get out of my way.” You spat, but it was as if you couldn’t convey the weight of anger you meant to land. Your tone was weak and almost a little desperate.

“You always rush when you are angry,” he ignored your demand - if it could even be called that - with a tone that was almost conversational. “Your tail gives you away.”

Your eyes flashed with the realisation that he had even been looking long enough to notice your tells, and your cheeks suddenly flared with something warm and hot that turned you purple.

“Stop watching me, Tawtute.” This time your voice really did sound desperate.

“I can’t. You make it difficult.”

You were close enough to see the faint curve of that infuriating smile he loved to wear, and to feel the heat of him radiating that smug confidence he wore like a headpiece.

Years of success at keeping him as far away as one could be from someone they worked with on a near daily basis, you felt had suddenly dwindled into an endless array of interactions where he always managed to dominate the conversation. Reduced to this. To the way he always stood too close now, and spoke too smugly, as if he had suddenly decided that he finally had you all figured out.

Despite your lack of response, he broke the silence, voice dipping just enough to grate, “You know, for someone who insists she doesn’t listen to me, you react an awful lot when I speak.”

“Because you are provoking me!” You snapped in a low growl.

“You glare like you are about to strike me." He replied, entirely too amused.

“Lucky I am working, because you would deserve it if I did.” The words landed like a pathetic cry, and suddenly it felt like you were deficient of every insult you had ever known, reduced to the same childish fury you’d sworn you’d outgrown.

“Oh are you? Would not have guessed, with the way you are looking at me like a Yerik in the firelight.”

Eywa, if you didn’t look angry before.

“Neteyam!”

This time, you hissed it like a venomous mantra, fangs bared and legs snapping up to your full height as you leaned into his space, close enough to let the words bite the air. Your ears pinned sharp against your braids, and his jaw set as he met your glare without yielding, tension pulling tight between you like that drawn bowstring–

“Oh good, you’re fighting again.”

A sudden unexpected third voice had both your heads spinning towards the break in the clearing just a few yards East, where a very unimpressed Lo’ak tread carelessly down the path with a barely-contained giggling Kiri besides him. Kiri moved with a balled fist pressed against her pursed mouth, supported by an arm crossed along her chest in an attempt to hide her amusement.

“It’s more like flirting again.” The words Kiri muttered were small and meek but Eywa, if they didn’t hit large.

Both you and Neteyam froze at the intrusion, then stilled at the implication, a beat passing before you each stepped back in the same beat of time. He rose to his feet far too quickly besides you, your eyes blown wide in something too closely resembling horror, while Neteyam merely rolled his, tired and resigned, straightening back into the perfect son like it was second nature once more.

“Stop being a skxawng, Lo’ak–.”

“–We are not flirting, Kiri.”

The words collided in the air, yours to Kiri a hiss and his to Lo’ak a sigh, overlapping with a defensive tilt that had the other two chuckling harder.

Lo’ak’s mouth twitched. “Wow." He stated. “Touched a sensitive nerve.”

And Neteyam, the all mighty responsible son he is, didn’t reach for the bait Lo'ak hung so low for him, instead, he crossed his arms with a sigh at his unexpected presence. “What are you doing here?”

The answer came before either of them could speak, as a sudden fifth voice came echoing from the brush of leaves. A small, blurred figure soon came dashing out of the tree scape, making a b-line straight to the centre of the clearing in a full stumbling sprint. She was headed directly towards where you stood in a pout next to Neteyam.

“Dad said to come get you two because you’re taking too long!”

Kiri and Lo’ak's eyes grew wide. And with a quick exchanged glance of horror, at the same time they barked. “Tuk!”

But she ran right past them, as if their voices fell silent to the wind.

Lo’ak lunged forward, catching her by the arm just before she could skid to a stop at your feet. The glare he sent her sharp and immediate enough to make her shrink in on herself, ears drooping as she braced for the scolding she knew was soon to come.

“Dad told us to come get them,” He corrected, gesturing between himself and Kiri. “That wasn’t an invitation to follow.”

Tuk's round eyes glint up with that innocent reasoning you just couldn't deny, her pupils glossing over as she pouted heavy in protest and twisted her head to look at you and Neteyam.

“But Dad said you’ve been out here alone long enough!”

Tuk protested, twisting free of Lo’ak’s grip with a determined wriggle and darting straight to you. The moment she was within your range, she grabbed your forearm with both of hers, tugging urgently as she looked up with those wide, worried eyes.

“He told mom that if you and Neteyam keep fighting like this, you’ll probably end up at the Tree of Souls by tonight!” She paused, then her voice pitched higher with pure betrayal. “But you can’t! You promised you’d help me braid my new beads tonight!”

For a heartbeat, the clearing went unnervingly still. You stared still as stone down at Tuk, mortification burning hot beneath your skin at the implication that flew right over her head but knocked you right up yours instead. And besides you, Neteyam fared no better, looking as if the world had briefly knocked him off balance too, His eyes widening just enough to betray him before he could pull himself back together.

In stark contrast just a ways away, Lo’ak let out a sharp bark of laughter, doubling over with his grip on Kiri's arm, just as she finally outright lost the battle she’d been silently fighting, turning away from the set of two dazed and angered eyes with a hand clamped over her mouth.

She shook with quiet, uncontrollable cackles, restraint entirely gone, fed by the matching looks of mortification plastered across both your faces. The two of you looked ridiculous.

And Tuk, sweet innocent Tuk, oblivious to the chaos her words had detonated in the once silent clearing, glared up at Neteyam's shell-shocked face with furrowed brows and that pouty sneer.

“Stupid Neteyam.” She declared, voice ringing with righteous indignation. “You can’t take Y/N anywhere tonight. Eywa heard it - she’s with me today!”

She punctuated the proclamation with the scrunch of her nose and a quick, defiant flick of her tongue, poked in his direction.

For a split second, Neteyam only stared at her, still caught somewhere between the weight of what had just been said and the very real presence of his little sister. Then he blinked, jaw tightening as the annoyingly-older brother instinct finally won out over shock. With a sharp, almost automatic motion, he reached out and pinched her tongue between his fingers. An act that had Tuk squealing and flailing in protest.

“Oi!” Tuk yelped, recoiling instantly, clutching her tongue with a gasp.

Neteyam let the sound settle before he spoke. He shot you a brief, weary glance, as if checking whether you’d reacted at all, then turned back to his sister, composure sliding firmly back into place. His voice level and measured with a delicate care he reserved specifically for her.

“That is entirely enough out of you. Someone needs to give you a lesson about eavesdropping." He glanced back at his brother and sister, motioning a hand to the two still giggling. "Time to take you home before we all get scolded.”

Tuk’s ears drooped immediately, shoulders curling inward as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, fingers still hovering protectively near her mouth. She opened her lips as if to argue, then thought better of it, gaze flicking between Neteyam and the ground with exaggerated remorse.

That was when Kiri scoffed, the tension finally cracking as ahe straightened, still grinning as she shouted. “He's right, you’ve caused enough trouble. Come on, teylupil.”

She didn’t wait for her to comply, instead walking to grab her, planting two steady hand on each of her shoulders, then began steering her away with decisive finality, already turning her toward the path before she could wriggle free.

“But I didn’t do anything!” Tuk protested.

“Tell it to dad.” Kiri laughed.

Tuk craned her neck back toward you one last time as Kiri dragged her away, voice pitching higher with urgency. “Y/n, don’t forget my hair-!”

“I know,” you cut in quickly, the words tossed over your shoulder like a promise already made as the two disappeared down the winding path in a lingering bicker.

Lo’ak remained a heartbeat longer. His gaze flicking between you and Neteyam, something quiet and knowing glinting behind his eyes as his mouth twitched with barely restrained amusement.

You caught it quickly, and shut it down even quicker, face smoothing into neutrality as you turned away, dropping back into a crouch before the stump as if nothing had been disturbed in you.

“We will collect the threads and follow.” Your voice came out flat and deliberately ungiving, spoken without the fault or fracture he was clearly waiting to see. Whatever reaction they had hoped to draw out of you never came, instead, your expression smoothed into something unreadable, as if nothing at all had happened in the last few minutes.

When he didn't get it from you, Lo’ak redirected his attention to Neteyam with a long, assessing look. He was waiting for the reaction you refused to give, and when he found nothing but the faint quirk of Neteyam’s mouth, he huffed a quiet laugh and finally began his own descent toward the start of the winding path back to the village. “Dad’s pissed.” He called over his shoulder. “Try not to be too long.”

The brush swallowed him soon after as well, laughter and murmured whispers dissolving into the low hum of the forest. And then the clearing fell still again.

You let out a slow breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, shoulders rolling as the tension finally bled off. Remembering yourself, you turned back to the stump, your hands moved quickly now, rough and efficient, gruffly snatching clumps full of fibre from the scattered pile. You stuffed them into the woven basket Neteyam had brought, as if keeping busy might quiet everything still coiled tight beneath your skin.

For a moment, Netayem watched. It almost seemed like that armored composure of yours was taut as rigid as usual, as if nothing in the last five minutes had made you falter for even a moment. To anyone else, maybe, it did appear as so, but he knew you well enough to see the way your jaw clenched so tight he’d envisioned you cracking a molar, and the harsher than necessary grip in your fingers as you haphazardly tossed the fibre around. Not to mention the stutter in your tail’s path, the tell he’d learned long ago as the one that always surfaced when you were lying.

It left him releasing a chuckle he couldn't contain, a deep, rumbling sound which made your ears twitch sideways in annoyance. You paused in your frantic movements, head snapping to the side in a motion which left your glowing amber eyes glaring daggers at his towering form.

“What?” You spat, tired, irritated and painfully obvious to him – embarrassed.

“Still upset about what Kiri said?"

Your jaw clenched, fangs peeking as you whipped fully around to face him, rising to your full height at the implication. The basket thumped forgotten at your feet as the tension tipped to a peak beyond your capacity, and you stalked towards him with an almost predatory sway.

"I am not angry about that ridiculous–” You cut yourself off, taking a moment to collect the basket off the ground, along with a breath of humid air, allowing it to sit in your lungs before releasing in a desperate attempt to somewhat self-regulate. “Do not flatter yourself, Tawtute. Flirting? With you? I'd sooner make Tsaheylu with a thanator."

His eyes gleamed with mischief, but it wasn’t the boyish, innocent kind he wore when messing with his siblings. This one was the kind he wore only where you were involved, deliberate and cocky, slipping neatly beneath the cracks in your composure because he knew where to press.

The careful, responsible mask he wore all the time loosened just enough to reveal the tease underneath, a glimpse of something warmer and far more dangerous than his jabs at you ever were. He didn’t crowd you with his body so much as he crowded you with his unyielding certainty, leaning in just the smallest amount, voice dropping into something that felt like it belonged in the a dark room rather than under the open light of tree canopies.

“Funny,” He murmured, and Eywa, the way he said it made your spine want to curl. “Your tail is flicking like it does when you lie. And you react so much when I get close, almost as if... as if you enjoy it.”

Heat hit you so fast it was humiliating, up your neck, across your cheeks, down your chest - anger and something you refused to name twisting together until you couldn’t tell which was which. Your hand shoved into his chest on instinct, a firm press meant to reassert space, meant to remind him you were not something to be read and teased apart like the vines beneath your knife.

But his skin under your palm was solid and warm, his breath even, his posture maddeningly steady. You hated that he didn’t move. You hated that the push didn’t become a shove, that your body betrayed you with restraint and a split-second hesitation that had nothing to do with strength. Your pulse seemed to jump when he watched you like this.

“Back off,” You snapped instead, aiming for venom and getting something too light, too strained. You lifted your chin as if height alone could restore your pride. “I do not enjoy anything about you hovering like a skxawng who thinks he is Eywa’s gift to the clan.”

Neteyam didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking, the gold in them catching the filtered light until they looked almost feral. The smirk was gone and in its place was something colder as he took one slow step forward, crowding you until the basket handle dug into your hip and the scent of him, warm skin, crushed leaves, the faint sweat from the summer heat, filled every breath.

“Gift?” He repeated, voice quiet and flat, the kind of quiet that made your spine prickle. “I am the one stuck dragging your half-finished work back to the village every time you storm off. That sound like a gift to you?”

Something in his words snapped the tension in a way that almost had a stifled laugh escaping you. The image of perfect Neteyam, future Olo’eyktan, the ever-responsible son, trudging behind you with a basket full of your messy fibers and a everpresent moping frown to match struck you as absurdly funny considering he was the one who always offered to do it anyways. That short, sharp laugh escaped before you could stop it, low and mocking, cutting through the thick air between you.

“Poor you.” You sang, voice dripping with false sympathy as the anger flipped into something crueler and entirely more enjoyable. “All that dragging must be so exhausting for such meek shoulders to carry.”

His eyes narrowed, the feral glint sharpening into irritation, but you were already moving. You jerked the basket from where it pressed against your hip and shoved it hard into his front, the woven edge leaving him doubling slightly from the sudden jab to his ribs, a smack that landed with a satisfying thud.

A few loose fibers fluttered to the ground as he stumbled back a few steps and caught the basket on reflex, fingers curling tight around the rim. The motion finally giving you the space you longed to breathe once again.

“Except, you came here knowing you were going to do it anyways. So, there,” You said, stepping back with a grin that showed too many teeth. “Problem solved. You can carry it all the way home anyways, like the dutiful son you are. Try not to strain yourself complaining about it later.”

Neteyam’s jaw clenched hard enough that you could see the muscle jump beneath his skin, his ears pinning back flat against his skull. The feral edge in his eyes flared hotter, and for a second you thought he might actually snap, toss the basket aside and give you the fight you both pretended you didn’t want.

Instead, he gripped the handle tighter, knuckles paling and barked, “Fnawe’tu skxawng!”

The insult landed far too humorously for you to care, Instead you tilted your head back with an overly delighted smirk, very amused by his irate slurs and the way his facade cracked. “You call me the stubborn idiot? But you carry the basket anyway. Funny how that works?”

He exhaled through his nose, blood boiling at the way you managed to throw his earlier words back at him. The sound was almost a growl, and he took one deliberate step onto the path after you. “Start walking, Fang. The sooner we get back, the sooner I am rid of you for the day.”

“Perfect!" You grinned, but the grin quickly dropped. "Twelve whole hours before you find another excuse to follow me around tomorrow.” You barely glanced back to see if he was following when you took off towards the village, because you already knew he was.

The clearing was loud with voices and laughter, bodies packed close as food and weapons were passed around in uneven circles, and it felt like the whole village had decided to breathe in the same place at once.

Someone had dragged a fresh kill in not long ago and the smell still hung in the air, mingling with roasted meat, crushed herbs, and the faint sting of smoke from the fire that kept getting fed as if it might swallow the night. Nets of fruit were being unknotted and handed off, cups passed between hands, blades checked and re-sheathed in the same idle rhythm people used when they were safe enough to relax but still too wound up to sit still.

You were wedged between a few of your friends near the edge of one of the many circles, packed close enough that their shoulders kept bumping yours when someone laughed too hard or shifted in their seat. Ki’tiri had been retelling an exaggerated recall of her day on patrol, her eyes gleaming with irate exasperation as she animatedly spoke of the moment Lo’ak decided to start throwing stones out of boredom, nearly nailing Mo’at on the head from the overhang.

Tuk sat too. She had found you the moment you settled onto the woven mat, darting straight to your side to claim her usual spot and spend her evening meal with you instead of her siblings or friends. It's something that had become so common during communal mealtimes that your friends had come to expect the young Sully girl attaching herself to your side like a second tail. It was as if the decision had been made somewhere in her head and the rest of the world simply had to accept it, and now she perched happily at your side like she belonged there.

Her small hand gripped your wrist with the possessive certainty only children had, and she fidgeted with the jewels decorated across your fingers, twisting the woven strands carefully as if she were inspecting treasure. The beads you’d braided fresh not even a few weeks before clinked softly each time she moved, and every now and then she would lean her head against your arm and sigh, pleased with herself like she’d taken down a Thanator.

“Will you make these for me too?” She asked – more like stated – for what had to be the third time tonight, thumb brushing the tiny knotwork with awe.

“When you stop trying to steal mine..” You murmured back, and she grinned, utterly unbothered by the threat.

You let yourself settle into it for a moment, letting the noise wash over you because it was easier than thinking after long days training, because nights like this were meant to feel simple and unwinding. You were halfway through listening to your friend complain about yet another act of stupidity Lo’ak had attempted on their patrol together, when Tuk’s fingers suddenly stilled on your ring, halting and tightening hard enough that the movement forced you to glance down at the girl with a concerned furrow of your brow.

“What?” You muttered, eyeing her of an answer before she spoke it.

Tuk’s eyes flicked past you toward the centre of the clearing, eyeing something in the distance that left you searching the vicinity in hopes of catching the focus of her gaze. Her mouth fell slightly, an almost angered look settling across her face before she scoffed, turning back to you in a huff that had her drawing closer.

“Neteyam is with that noisy woman again. An’aya.”

She spat the name in that high-pitched mocking tone children did, and at first, you didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. But something in your chest tightened all the same, small and sadistic, as if it even mattered at all.

You followed Tuk’s gaze without meaning to, your eyes slipping past the firelight and moving bodies until they found him almost instinctively. Neteyam sat just beyond the centre of the clearing, leaned back against a stack of supply crates, relaxed in the way you only ever saw when he was amongst people he trusted, his shoulders were loose and his attention tilted toward the woman beside him.

An’aya was speaking animatedly, hands moving as she spoke and laughed so easily, and Neteyam had angled himself toward her without thinking, one knee bent beside his chest, head dipped slightly so he could hear her better over the noise.

It irked you. And it irked you more that it even irked you in the first place. Because you hated him. You told yourself it irked you because you hated that he was enjoying himself. Right. Of course.

But the irritation still sat heavy and ugly in your chest, coiling tighter the longer you watched, and you hated that too, hated that your attention wouldn’t let it go, and that your mood had soured so fast despite being so fine just a moment ago.

There was no reason for it. None that made sense. You hated that stuck up tawtute more than anyone else and you argued with him so much you made a sport out of it. So why did your chest tighten when he didn't brush away the hand she put on his shoulder?

Tuk noticed the shift in your mood right away. Her nose wrinkled as her grip tightened again and she leaned in closer, glaring openly now.

“I don’t like her,” she muttered, voice fierce and final. “She talks too much. And she sits too close to Neteyam. And she laughs at his jokes even when they’re not funny.”

You attempted for even a minuscule moment to draw yourself back, to brush it away and forget it ever made you feel anything by resorting to your usual self regulation habits – insulting the man.

“Nothing Neteyam says is funny.” But not even that seemed to work to calm you because that irrationally confusing feeling still clawed at your chest.

“That’s not true,” Tuk called out immediately, tilting her small face up at you with those wide eyes. “You laugh at him all the time! Just not when he’s looking.”

She leaned in closer, voice dropping into something hurt and almost bordering a whine. “He’s supposed to sit with us.”

“That is not how this works.” You snapped the reply too quick, eyes diverting from the scene to pick up another piece of utumauti fruit as if it never bothered you.

Tuk’s eyes rolled at the response she should have predicted. She never understood why you acted so weird about it, when it was obvious to her that you liked her brother - because that was just what people did when they liked someone. They got weird and sharp and pretended they didn’t. She didn't see it elswhere often, but she knew it because that was what you and Neteyam did.

Your friends had gone quiet at the sudden stir occurring just beside them. Ki’tiri quickly noticed the shift in your mood and tilted her head, studying you now with open curiosity.

“Why are you angry?” She cut in plainly. “Did he do something again?”

“No." You replied stark. “How could he? Neteyam is all the way over there.”

Ki’tiri exchanged a quick, knowing glance with the friends beside you. “I didn't even mention his name." And the corner of her mouth lifted as a chorus of light giggles sung around the circle.

You answered with a quick, harsh warning glare, a motion that had the laughs slowly dying but the smiles still lingering in a knowing gleam. Ki’tiri leaned in again, allowing you the dignity of ending her teasing, feeling almost a little bad at how astoundingly purple you looked.

"You’re getting upset,” She stated simply and not unkindly. “You do that only where Neteyam is involved.”

“I am not upset.” But you were too far maddened for that to be convincing. “And he is not involved. I have been sat here, and he has been there this entire time.”

The lie hung heavy and brittle as you clicked your tongue. Tsk.

"Yeah, sat with that healer girl." Mikatxi interjected low and humoured.

Your chest tightened, sharp and sudden, like the threads Neteyam pulled too taut in the woods and before you could bite it back, the denial tore out of you, louder than intended and edged with fury.

“I do NOT care who he sits with!” You hissed, voice cracking on the volume. “He can sit in her lap for all the stars in the sky care! I would not notice if Eywa herself told me!”

“Seems like you do…”

“—What is going on!?”

The voice carried across the fire, calm but accusatory, and edged with something that made the fine hairs along your arms rise. In your bladed fury, you let your voice spike too high and missed the one pair of eyes that had locked onto you from beyond the fire.

Neteyam hadn’t stood, he hadn’t even moved from his spot. But he had leaned forward with a watchful, almost concerned eye, braids swinging low and hand hanging off his elevated knee as he observed with what you knew was that stupidly disingenuous concern.

The way he intervened like he was already rehearsing for Olo’eyktan burned you, as if he believed he could snuff out any simmering flame with his big, proud words simply because his blood said so.

And that wasn’t even half your problem. The problem was that An’aya followed his gaze immediately, curiosity sparking as she turned to see what had drawn his attention, blinking and glancing between the two of you, clearly lost by why he interrupted her mid sentence.

That alone was enough to make your teeth grind. Because what was your relationship with that skxawng any of her business?

“We’re fine.” You called back, sharper than necessary, your eyes not even bothering to glance his way once. “Try having your own conversations instead of monitoring everyone else, tawtute.”

Neteyam’s mouth tightened just slightly at the insult, a breath leaving him slow and measured as if he were counting to three in his head. He didn’t rise, not yet. Only tipped his chin and let a quick “Eywa help me,” fall to the air before pushing himself to his feet at last.

He crossed the space between you in a way that had your fist tightening in anticipation for yet another argument, only fueled by the image of An’aya hot on his heels like a second tail of his own, close enough to the boy that it felt intentional whether it was or not. Tuk sat up, planting herself more firmly at your side like a guard animal half her size.

“I said we are fine,” you warned as he stopped in front of you.

Your friends ogled at the two of you, already bracing for the next round of your endless bickering.

“And I said I was just asking.” His voice was calm but firm, and his eyes began searching your face for something, as if he could find whatever it was if he looked hard enough. “You are upset.”

You sputtered a short sudden laugh but your tone held no humour. “Right, I forgot I am only allowed to feel some way once you have approved of it first. I forgot I need my warden to tail me through the village and make sure I am behaving. Shall you go report my mood back to our fathers now?”

Neteyam’s jaw flexed, his calm finally straining at the edges.

“That is not what I am doing. You know I do not–”

“You do!" Your outburst came hard against his sentence, not having the patience nor heart to hear his excuses. “My tail flicks to harshly, and it is enough to call council with our fathers! Tell them to rest easy, golden son. I am not about to reign war over one evening meal.”

Neteyam sighed, rubbing a hand over his face like he was bracing himself. “Well, you don’t have to turn everything I say into a fight.”

“And you don’t have to turn everything I do into your problem to solve. The mantle still sits on your fathers head, you are allowed to have a personality until then.”

An overdramatically long groan suddenly sounded to the left of you, and both your eyes snapped over to Tuks exaggeratingly agitated from, as she sighed in that childish way she did.

“Stop fighting!” She begged, voice whiny with pure childish exasperation. “You guys always pretend like you don't want to talk, and then Neteyam comes and you fight forever because he won’t leave you alone, but then you don't tell him to go away, and it's annoying!"

“Tuk!” Both you and Neteyam barked simultaneously, horror gleaming in both of your eyes because that was so obviously not true!

“That is what happens." She insisted stubbornly. "You do it all the time.”

"No!" You rejected. "We argue because he hovers!"

An’aya, from the shadow of Neteyam’s shoulder, suddenly appeared forward, finally establishing her presence with a smile that was not wide nor warm, but enough to show she was not very fond of the girl her friend had been talking to.

"Maybe, if we did not worry about what you might do next, Neteyam would not be expected to hover and act like Olo’eyktan already."

Your head turned slowly toward her, blood finally boiling beyond that point that only Neteyam’s presence could push it to. Because who was she to imply you were a burden he had to shoulder, a mess he had to trail behind and fix every time you existed too loudly for her liking?

And especially who did she think she was inserting herself into Neteyam’s problems as if they were her own. ‘If we did not worry’ — as if she had any right to speak for the frustration he supposedly felt?

You let your eyes trail to her far too self-satisfied form, sneering with the scowl you usually only reserved for that gawking fool besides her. But if she insisted on acting as his equal, she could be handled like him too.

“Oh, is that your healer’s wisdom speaking, or are you only borrowing the golden son’s voice while he is too busy ogling to use it himself?”

Her smile faltered and her chin lifted a fraction as her eyes narrowed in something mimicking offence. And then your gaze snapped to Neteyam, fury bright and uncontained now that the girl he had dragged to your circle had suddenly felt all too comfortable insulting you in front of all your friends.

“Maybe our fathers should stick her as your new training partner since she is already so good at handling me."

"Fang—" Neteyam's voice was eerily low.

"—Now that my guard dog has a guard dog.”

And then he stiffened. “Enough.”

But you didn't stop. “Is this what you tell people about me?”

Neteyam opened his mouth to speak, visibly caught off guard by the sudden accusation.

“That is not–” He started for the umpteenth time but again you didn’t let him finish.

“I would think you respected me even a little, enough, considering all my father has done for you and your family. Enough considering you always like to remind me that 'we are partners.' But you let your women speak to me like I am beneath you.” You scoffed softly, the sound carrying just far enough to be heard.

“A leader, they say you will be.” You continued, words mocking. “Tell me how this is keeping the peace. Seems your peace is built on my silence. Both your peace and our fathers.”

You rose without haste, the motion deliberate enough that the space around you seemed to shift with it. The ground felt steady beneath your feet, solid in a way your chest had not been for the last several breaths, and for the first time that night you welcomed the clarity that came with deciding to leave rather than be dismissed.

“Y/n, no– please don’t be mad,” Tuk whined, the plea tumbling out of her in a rush as she reached for you, fingers brushing the edge of your wrist but failing to catch hold. Her face pinched with genuine worry. "I didn't mean to make it worse."

“You did not.” You said shortly. “This is not on you, Tuk.”

And then you turned and left without a word, the sudden absence of your presence cutting through the clearing sharper than any insult you had ever sent him, and for the first time Neteyam did not know whether you were just angry or actually hurt by what had happened.

It was confusing because you had never let any interaction between the two of you get to you like this, yet now that you had chosen distance in place of where you would usually just choose name calling, he couldn’t help the feeling like he’d missed something far too important while it was happening.

The noise resumed all too quickly behind you, laughter reclaiming the air as if nothing had shifted at all, but he stayed where he was, unease settling low in his chest as he watched your retreating form saunter away, hips swaying with jolting anger and body tempting his eyes to never shift.

He didn’t know when he started noticing things like that. The way your hips rolled as you walked, the flex of the muscles along your thighs with each step, and the way the line of your back shifted as you moved.

It sat wrong that he noticed these things about you, because he didn’t notice them on anyone else. More than anything else, the fact that you hadn’t looked back sat even worse. And the fact that he felt that hollow pull, tight and wrenching in his chest because of it, sat the worst of all.

“At least you don't have to worry about watching her anymore." An’aya’s voice cut in beside him, light and coaxing, like she was trying to pull him back by the wrist.

Neteyam nodded absently, already half elsewhere, the hollow feeling in his chest refusing to settle. Even as he turned back toward the fire, his attention lagged behind, tethered not to the laughter or the conversation resuming around him, but to the quiet space you’d left behind. To the quiet, unwelcome understanding that this time, you hadn’t walked away to cool off – you had walked away because he had apparently crossed a line he didn’t even realise he was dancing.

One delicate, purposeful step after the other. Neteyam watched your sultry hips as they worked against the motion of your legs, swaying against the gracefully deliberate rhythm of your strut. Every step was intentional, not a single wasted motion and certainly no hesitation, each one drawing a slow, tightening circle around him. You eyed him like prey and circled him like a predator.

He, too, circled your figure. Less graceful in his approach, his steps heavier and more grounded, but just as analytical with his eyes all the same. He told himself he tracked your figure because he had to, that he noticed how dangerously alluring you looked in your stride because he was being tactical, certainly not because he found it mesmerising.

Partnered again. You almost rolled your eyes had it not been for the undivided attention you locked onto his solid figure.

You suspected that they were doing it on purpose now, because whenever given the opportunities, your fathers paired the two of you as if it was something written into the roots of the forest itself. As if Eywa refused to separate you.

Jake’s voice cut through the air before either of you could make a move.

“Enough posturing,” he barked from the edge of the ring, arms crossed, gaze sharp and unimpressed. “This isn’t a mating dance. Someone's going to have to make a move soon enough. Engage.”

The command barely left Jake’s mouth before you jolted.

You didn’t rush him all at once because that was never your style. You shifted your weight and pivoted to your right instead, just as your tail came down with a sharp snap to the left, a deliberate ploy to feint him around you with sound.

Neteyam stuttered for a moment, nearly diving left and falling for the bait, but caught himself immediately, because of course he did. His jaw tightened as he corrected, blocking you by widening his stance, shoulders settling into a space much larger than you had accounted for.

You collided with his chest, steadying yourself with a tight hand clamped around his forearm that flexed under your grip. It was a successful motion that kept you upright, but your proximity to Neteyam left you vulnerable to an open hand palm against your shoulder, knocking you a step back. It was a warning shot, not meant to land hard, but it angered you all the same.

“Good feint, Y/n. Nice recovery, Neteyam.” Jake called out.

Your eyes never pivoted from Neteyam, but Jake's words riled you further, knowing he got praise for the first hit.

"Is that all you have?" You taunted, circling again, your breath steady despite the fire igniting in your veins. "Afraid to hit me for real, golden boy?"

Neteyam’s ears flicked at your taunt, but his expression stayed infuriatingly calm. He rolled the shoulder you’d nearly landed on earlier, circling with you, mirroring your steps like he’d memorized every rhythm you’d ever moved to.

“Well, would not want to mess up that pretty face.”

You flared your teeth in a hiss at his words, fangs bared and all, as the implication of them did not evade you. The idea that you were too feminine to fight. Bullshit.

It was bait, you knew it deep within, and yet you lunged for it all the same.

You dropped low, striking dirty with a sweeping leg that made contact with his ankles while your hands aimed for his torso. He leaped back to counter, but you were faster, leaping with a twist and raking your manicured claws down his ribs just to watch him hiss.

You landed in a crouch behind him, tail lashing with triumph at the hit but he countered instantly, arm hooking yours, using your momentum to flip you over his hip, but you held tightly, and this time you both went down. You snapped right to the ground, landing with a splat and a breathy groan, which he followed taut behind with, and soon you were caged beneath him as his braids fell around your face like a curtain.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice rough, eyes dropping to your mouth, “keep rubbing up on me like that and people may talk.”

Damn his Sully tongue and their dirty human minds. Only they – only he, were rash enough to say such vulgar words.

Heat flared in your face, nothing else but pure rage, and you answered with a growl, driving your knee up sharp between his legs. Not hard enough to hurt, you think, but just enough to make him block instinctively and give you room to twist.

You both rolled again, a tangle of limbs and snarls across the dirt, kicking up dust around you until you came out to a stop, this time you were on top, straddling his waist, thighs clamped tight, hands slamming his wrists into the dirt beside his head.

“I will kill you!”

Neteyam’s eyes blazed up at you, all traces of amusement gone. His ears pinned flat against his skull, jaw clenched so tight you saw the muscle jump. He bucked hard beneath you, trying to throw your weight, muscles straining as he fought your hold.

“Get. off. of. me.” He snarled, voice low and dangerous through his squirms against you, wrists twisting against your grip. “Why must you always turn it into this?”

You dug your nails in deeper, refusing to budge, chest heaving with anger. “You started it with your filthy mouth. Think you can say whatever you want and I will just take it?”

He arched again, harder this time, nearly unseating you from his lap and you slid to settle on his chest. His breath came in harsh pants now, struggling under the weight of you on his lungs, but his eyes still burned up at you with pure defiance.

The shift gave him a perfect view of you, sweaty and furious as you loomed above him, your braids wild, chest heaving and skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat. A deep flush crept up his neck and face at the sight, dark purple blooming across his cheeks and he prayed to Eywa it looked like it was from a lack of air to everyone watching.

“I’m trying to win a damn spar, not deal with your tantrum. Yield!” He said through short breaths.

“Force me, Tawtute,” you hissed, grinding your knees harder into his sides.,“or keep dancing for your sempul like the skxawng you are.”

His face darkened at that, a fresh wave of fury rolling off of him. He surged up with a grunt, flipping you both violently in a cloud of dust that kicked as you grappled. It was a flurry of elbows and knees jabbing at whatever body parts they could reach, claws scratching, fangs baring, and hisses sounding out like a tussle of five years olds.

He landed a sharp elbow to your ribs and you responded by snatching at his long swinging kuru braid and tugging at it, pinning him for a split second before you broke free with a snarl.

The spar had turned ugly so fast, no one had time to register what it was until it already had become it. There was no technique or poise left, just primitive fighting and petty aggression mixed with ragged breaths and dirt covered bodies, every strike fuelled by years of building resentment.

And Jake was done watching it.

"That's enough!" he barked again, the sound cracking through the clearing like a whip. He dragged a tired hand down his face, exhaling through his nose before turning on you both with an outstretched arm that sliced downward in a sharp, commanding arc. "Get off!"

His voice was so demanding and final, it had you cowering in your skin and scampering clumsily off and away from Neteyams similarly heaving figure. You subtly brushed the dirt clinging to your arms in an attempt to salvage even an ounces worth of dignity, but it wasn't working, because your hands still shook and beneath it all, that ugly vulnerability lingered heavy as Jakes eyes beat down on you.

Jake continued.

"It was funny at first, cute even, when you two were teens and it didn't matter. But by Eywa, you're adults now. You have responsibilities and the clan is going to depend on you."

The authority in his voice pinned you both in place.

"I'm sorry, sir," Neteyam spoke with a breathy compliance, eyes trained downwards in a way that almost left you scoffing at how pathetic he looked - at how quickly he folded under the pressure of his father despite talking so big against you moments ago. It took everything in you not to roll your eyes while being lectured by his father about acting mature.

So, you muttered through gritted teeth, "Yes, sir," forcing the words out while fighting every instinct that screamed at you to glare at Neteyam instead of Jake.

Jake’s gaze flicked between you. “You two are going to be the leaders of this clan some day.”

As he spoke the words, there was a pause as he immediately noticed the sudden way the two of you began shifting apart, blue faces crawling into flushed purple ones. It only took him another moment to realise the implication of his words, and he saw it. Of course he saw it. Eywa, the two of you couldn’t even look at each other at an implication he didn’t even mean!

Realization dawned on his face, and he let out a long, exasperated sigh. "And this – this right here – is exactly what I mean. Every little thing between you turns into a problem. You don’t know how to keep things contained when it’s the two of you.”

He jabbed a finger toward Neteyam, ready to correct your misunderstanding.

"You will be Olo'eyktan one day." Then the finger swung to you. "And you will be the clan's head warrior. His right hand. His most trusted." Jake pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sooner or later, you have got to get along. The People need to see unity, not... whatever the hell this is."

He said the line so defeatedly, as if his two greatest proteges had become his two biggest failures in that moment, and it left you deflating in embarrassment at the notion that your rivalry with his son had turned into something beyond comprehensive words. Instead, reduced to “hell” - to some weird sky people word.

Shameful.

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. You stared at the ground, heat crawling up your neck, wishing the woven walkway would just open and swallow you whole because it was almost like your own father had just admitted that you were acting a fool.

As Jake Sully, the man who raised you almost as his own in the proximity of your father and their strict training regimes, was sighing down at you and his idiot son with weary frustration.

You knew he didn’t mean it cruelly. This was that strange sky-people thing he did, where he slipped into what was described as the “military” tone, meant to correct rather than offend. That didn’t make the cut sting less deep, though.

You were mid deliberation when you suddenly heard it, the tiniest huff of breath from Neteyam’s direction. Not quite a laugh, but close enough, and it had you glancing up at him with the scowl you reserved only for him.

Neteyam wasn’t looking at his father anymore. Now he was looking right at you, glaring through the corner of his limp braids, head still hung low as one side of his mouth twitched upward in that infuriating half-smirk he saved just for you too.

His amber eyes glinted with something resembling a shocked amusement, almost as if he couldn’t quite believe you were actually compliant. Like your mortification was the funniest thing he’d seen all day.

You knew you shouldn’t. You knew this was a horrible time. But in that moment it was like something inside you finally snapped with finality for the first time ever.

Where you usually would have met him with snark, now you were meeting him with red vision and a complete lack of respect.

Your ears flicked back, pinned taught to your hair like an animal on its prey only moments away from pouncing. Tail lashing once almost like a whip.

“What?” you hissed, so low it was almost swallowed by the breeze, meant only for him, but almost so quiet that Neteyam nearly missed the fact that you had spoken entirely. “Something funny, Tawtute?”

He caught your words all the same, the perfect, golden son act completely slipping away, traded for a smirk that widened a fraction larger at your beyond irked facial expression. “A child, Fang.” He taunted, hitting right where he knew you hurt most. “You look like a child scolded by her elder. It’s pretty damn funny.”

That was all it took.

You stepped forward, voice rising despite yourself, despite the voice telling you that only awful consequences would come from acting out right now. The worst part of you could not have cared less that his father wasn’t even through with lecturing the two of you yet, the bigger part of you so enraged, so encompassed by Neteyam and his stupidity, his audacity, that you just-

Did. Not. Care.

Your figure snapped upright, tall and menacing, body twisting to face him fully as your large blearing eyes glossed over, unblinking and fear-provockingly wide.

“Open your mouth again, Tawtute, and I swear to Eywa and everything she deems sacred, I’ll slam you down and make you swallow every sorry sound you choke in front of the whole clan.”

Neteyam’s smirk froze, then vanished almost as quickly as it came. His ears were the ones to flick forward now, sharp at the ends and persistently alert. His golden eyes that had been mocking you a heartbeat ago had darkened into molten amber pits, pupils narrowing to slits. The perfect son was gone entirely.

His tail lashed once, hard enough to slap the air as he twisted his body entirely to tower over yours. It was the first time in all your years of knowing him where he had ever intimidated you, because it was the first time in all the years you’d known him that his size truly registered. Tall, and broad, and built like the future leader he was meant to be.

Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, tracing the sharp lines of his frame all the way down until they stopped to linger on the bold stripes that curved low around his hipbones and disappeared beneath the edge of his loincloth. They had always stood out more than anyone else’s, as darker, thicker, more prominent than the others. The Tawtute genes, you told yourself, that’s why they were like that, no other reason, certainly. A flush crawled up your neck, hot and confusing, and what would have been disguised as pure rage to any onlooker.

It pressed in on you though, close enough that the heat of him brushed your skin. Because, it didn’t feel like pure rage alone. Your mind could try to convince you, but your body would do otherwise, betraying your thoughts with that persistent betraying flicker of your tail.

And Neteyam noticed. Of course he noticed.

“Keep staring like that, Fang,” he said, leaning in until his breath stirred the loose strands of hair at your temple, “and I’ll give you something real to choke on.”

The words hit low and vicious, a promise wrapped in threat and before you even processed which arm had lifted first, your hand, with pre-curled fingers was already moving toward his chest to shove him back as hard as you possibly could. A hiss so guttural and sharp tearing from your gaping mouth, decorated by the furiously purple hue that painted your face like a white canvas.

His own shot up just as yours had, catching your wrist mid-air in a grip like the metal on the ships the sky people flew. Not painful, but almost entirely unbreakable.

For one suspended heartbeat you were locked there, with his fingers around your wrist and bodies inches apart, both of you breathing hard, tails thrashing in mirrored fury. The space between you felt suddenly too small, the air too thick.

Then Jake’s voice cracked through it like a whip.

“I said enough!”

He was on you in two strides, one massive hand clamping the back of Neteyam’s neck, the other seizing your upper arm and hauling you both apart with force that made your feet skid on the woven mat.

Jake’s eyes were wild, ears pinned flat, chest heaving.

“You two are done,” he growled, voice shaking with barely-leashed anger. “Done acting like feral animals that can’t control their emotions. Grown adults and I’m still treating you two like I did when you were twelve.”

He exhaled sharply, making the decision at that moment.

"You're going out to the eastern watchpost. Tonight. Just the two of you." He held up a hand when you both opened your mouths to protest. "No arguments, not a goddamn word. It's an hour ride so that's plenty of time to cool off and you'll spend the entire night there.”

Jake was not having it. “I want the supplies inventoried, the platforms repaired, and I want every corner of every ridge scouted for any signs of human activity, and you're going to do every moment of it together. You'll eat together, sleep in the same goddamn hammock if you have to, and you'll come back tomorrow morning acting like the future leaders you're supposed to be."

He released you with a shove toward the rookery.

“Go saddle your Ikran’s.”

When the two of you hesitated, Jake snarled “Now! And if I hear one more word out of either of you before you’re out of my sight, I swear to Eywa I’ll tie you both to the same tree instead.”

Jake's voice sounded so tired and the clearing had gone deathly quiet. Neteyam’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing and he was the first to turn without even so much as a glance in your direction, stalking toward the rookery with rigid shoulders, his braids swaying with each step, and every taut line of him vibrating with a restraint he almost lacked.

You stood frozen for half a breath longer, heart hammering against your ribs, wrist still burning where his grip had been. Then you turned too, spine straight with the kind of discipline that fooled everyone but the Sullys, because Neteyam and Jake could both see the bruise that adorned your ego, they just both knew better than to comment on it this far in.

The young warriors scattered around the training grounds let their conversations die and bows lower as you both strode past. Your ikran sensed the rage rolling off you and answered your call with shrieks and flared wings, and an agitation that mimicked your own. And you mounted without glancing at Neteyam once, attaching your queues to the end of your Ikrans with what was probably a little more force than necessary. He did the same and Jake watched it all with a tired stare as Neteyam banked east first, cutting through the darkness like a blade, before you followed silently behind him without a glance back.

Jake finally let out the breath he’d been holding, dragging a tired hand down his face. The forest answered him with the soft rustle of leaves and distant night calls of your fleeting Ikrans, nature utterly unconcerned with the problem he’d just sent walking into it. He had broken up enough sparring matches to know the difference between anger and whatever that had been.

Eywa help them, he thought. Because I am officially out of patience.

Behind him, the rustle leaves and heavy approaching footsteps had his ears perking up, expecting the presence before the sound of a low chuckle could startle him. The sound of a man who had already arrived at the same conclusion and was simply waiting to see if Jake would catch up.

Jake turned to find your father standing there, arms crossed, tail swaying lazily behind him as his eyes tracked the two figures disappearing into the trees. There was concern there, yes, but there was also something else that Jake had seen displayed on his face every time your families met and you and his son fought. Something almost… entertained.

Your father watched the treeline a moment longer before he spoke, his expression thoughtful rather than amused, though the hint of it lingered all the same.

“You finally snapped.” He said, eyes not glancing at Jake, but to the sway of trees that shielded your retreating forms in the distance. “Only took till the moment they stopped trying to fight clean.”

Jake let out a slow breath and rubbed at the back of his neck, because that had been the exact moment his stomach had dropped, when the spar had stopped looking like training and started looking like something feral. “I told myself it was just their temper getting the best of them,” he admitted. “That they’d settle once one of them landed a solid hit, but I’ve never seen them go at it like that.”

Your father hummed softly in agreement. “Even anger has rules.” He said. “What I just saw forgot them. No form. No distance. Just hands… wherever they could reach.” Your fathers eyes finally glanced over to Jake, a knowing smirk leaving him chuckling at the revelation.

Jake snorted quietly, humour slipping through despite himself and soon they were laughing low in unison. “My son knows better than that.”

“As does my daughter,” He replied, and there it was, that note of worried pride that always crept in when he spoke of her. “Which is how I know they have reached a point where the body starts answering questions the mind refuses to ask.”

“You’re worried.” Jake observed.

“I am a father,” he simply replied, and then after a beat added, “And I have eyes. I know Neteyam is fond of her.”

“He wont–,” Jake moved to start comforting his friend, shifting to place a hand on his shoulder when your father let a short snort leave him.

“I do not worry about Neteyam, I worry about her,” he said, with no effort to soften the curve of his mouth. “Neteyam has always known where the line is even when he pretends not to, and I have watched him choose restraint around her provoking comments time and time again. When it would have been easier not to.” A pause, then quieter, “That matters to me. It is her who has no restraint.” He ended with a chuckle.

Jake’s smirk lingered, but it softened at the edges, tempered by something more careful in tone. “Yeah, well, they have both been very good at lying to themselves.” He let a beat pass before he chuckled. “Well, maybe not your daughter, she can’t lie to save her life.”

“It really is her we should worry about.” Your father laughed. “If I were foolish enough to wager,” he suddenly turned, clapping a hand to Jake’s shoulder, “I would bet they return insisting the night was torture, then flinch every time their queues touch because they finally know what they’re used for.”

This time, the laugh Jake let out was almost too loud for his liking, glancing around in hopes that no one had heard the less than tasteful wording.

“I’m not taking that bet,” he said, then hesitated, the amusement fading just enough to let the doubt through. “I expected you to be angrier with me for sending them off together.”

Your father snorted. “You did the same with Neytiri,” he replied. “And you didn’t exactly handle it with grace.”

Jake grimaced. “That was different.”

“No, It was not,” he said lightly, his gaze flicking back toward the trees, “and Neteyam’s trying too hard not to cross the same line. My daughter has never been good at pretending there isn’t one.”

Jake exhaled through his nose, shaking his head, rubbing yet another exhaustedly stressed hand down his face at the implication of his words. “I’m not gonna sleep tonight.”

“Good,” Your father said quietly. “Someone should keep watch. In case they burn the forest down. Let us just hope we do not share the name Grandfather and time soon either.”

Your feet hit the platform before his did, heavy with a careless thump that transitioned quickly into long strides against the creaking wood, riddled with the intention of getting as far away from Neteyam as possible, who was landing close behind you. There wasn’t anywhere far to run off too, especially in the dark of night on a foreign base you had visited not even twice before, so you settled towards the end of the platform on a pile of large crates that rattled against your weight.

Neteyam dismounted much slower than you had, gently detaching his queue, before petting his Ikran three times, signalling its dismissal to perch elsewhere. It left with a shriek, chasing your own which had scattered the moment you landed.

Moonlight filtered through the canopy above, adorning everything in a bleary silver and deep shadows illuminated by bioluminescent blues. The base was rickety and barely large enough to accommodate a few people with all the supplies stolen and housed from the sky-people around. The wooden branches sagged and the leather tarp frayed, neglected and unkept for what seemed to be decades. But it was going to have to work considering you were banished here for the night.

Neteyam didn’t look at you right away. He took the first few moments to busy himself checking over the boxes, silently counting the stock in the typical Neteyam way that forced him to be a stickler for the rules, to listen to every authoritative voice, to be the most stuck up Na’vi to ever grace Pandora's blue planet.

It took him a second of a forced and uncomfortable silence before he finally broke the tension, his voice low and failing to hide the tinge of irritation behind it despite his attempts to at least try and get something done. “We should start with inventory. Get it over with.”

You didn’t move from your position on the crate farthest south. And you almost laughed at how pathetically authoritative he attempted to sound, because you knew his blood still seared hot with boiling anger at being scolded not even an hour ago. Instead, you tugged at the string of the bow you had picked up from beside you, slowly swaying the one foot you left dangling as you fidgeted with the fraying thread.

“Do it yourself.”

Your voice – so dismissive and blunt in tone – had Neteyam’s pointy ears pinning back and deep amber eyes snapping at you in a quick, sharp warning.

“Do not start.”

You took the first moment since he entered to direct your attention away from the flimsy bow, finally looking up at him with an all too unimpressed glare. “Too late.” You sneered, your typical fang glaring snare on full display. “You started it the second you opened your skxawng mouth back at the training camp. Even children know to be silent when Toruk Makto speaks, yet somehow you can not manage to get that through your thick skull?”

“My thick skull?” Neteyam’s big eyes bore straight through your own, blown wide and non-blinking almost as if trying to read you for an answer he wasn’t going to find. He looked absolutely exasperated and a breathy laugh that held no humor escaped his lips as he shook his head. “Thats rich coming from the one who is sat on a crate of knives, doing absolutely nothing.”

“We are only here because perfect son could not bite his golden tongue long enough to remember his father was still speaking. You listen to him when we're here but not when it counts back home. I thought you were supposed to be the smart and disciplined one.”

“Kind of difficult to concentrate on a lecture when the woman threatening to make me choke is attempting to swing her claws into my chest.”

“I only reacted because you–!”

The words stuttered in your throat, dying in your mouth as heat flooded your face in a violent wave, remembering what led to your outburst in the first place. Remembering the explicit words he let slip from soft yet smug lips like he had any right saying it in the first place.

–Because you speak lewd words that should only be muttered between the most established of mates.

“–Because I what?” Neteyam’s voice was softer now, but the smirk that followed was anything but gentle. It spread slow and lethally arrogant across his face, eyes glinting with a new light that felt almost predatory, as if he’d just found the one loose thread that would unravel you completely.

“Because–” Your face was so flushed, you could hardly bring the words to the surface. “–Because you- you have a vulgar mouth! Y-You speak filth just to provoke me.”

“Vulgar?” Neteyam's eyes glinted with something completely different from the irate exasperation from earlier, it was like his entire demeanor had calmed, replaced completely by that arrogant smirk, like he was the only one able to translate the book the two of you had been trying to read your whole lives. “Me? I think I recall you mentioning something about slamming me down on my back.”

A sharp gasp tore from your throat. The words hit like a physical blow, twisting your earlier threat into something raw and unmistakable. Your face burned hotter, if that was even possible, violet spreading across your cheeks as you instinctively looked him up and down.

“That is not what I speak! Why must you keep bringing up those words?” The words tumbled out too fast and breathless to be convincing, and you almost kicked yourself for the delivery.

“Because you are the one who said them, you just don’t like what they mean.”

He began stepping closer. His strides were so deliberate, as if planned in advance, and unhurried, as if you were not another moment away from clawing out his eyes.

“They meant nothing,” you shot back, chin lifting in defiance. “You twist everything.”

The sound of Neteyam’s footsteps drew your eyes to lock on his figure, tall and looming as he strutted one slow step at a time closer, and you found your eyes doing that traitorous thing they did a lot now, wander. Wander down. And down.

It started with his face, as you watched the sway of his braids while he strode with that infuriating arrogance, brushing the sharp lines of his jaw with a clatter of his beads. Then it was his impossibly round eyes fixed right on you – which they always seemed to be when you were around – unblinking and heated through a downwards gaze. They were eyes that masked what you knew to be such a conceited personality as so deceivingly innocent.

Soon your gaze fell to the wide frame of his shoulders and the firmness of his chest, and it dawned on you that you’d only just noticed how much broader they had become over the years spent together, carved from tireless hours of drawing bowstrings and traversing the harsh landscape of Omatikiya forest, lean with muscle that shifted under blue skin with every stride he took closer.

Your eyes wandered again until they finally fell right to where they seemed to stop at a lot now; his lower body, narrow hips marked by the most vibrant stripe pattern you’d ever seen on any man – on any Na’vi you’d laid eyes on. They were darker and thicker, more pronounced and unlike any others, they trailed off and disappeared so low into his loin cloth it almost felt purposeful in the way they pulled your eyes. Like they were specifically made to draw your eyes and your eyes only, and hold them there by design.

Those lines were unnatural in their perfection and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that they made your face so hot and your heartbeat feel as if it could move to places it should not be, and it especially wasn’t fair that it wasn’t a you thing, it was a him thing. You only liked it on him.

You told yourself for the hundredth time – that it was the Tawtute genes making everything about him just a little too defined, a little larger. Not that you were staring, of course, just studying. Because he was different and you were always curious, you told yourself. But your tail flicked once, another betrayal that told you that was a lie, and you prayed the shadows hid it..

The shadows did not hide it. And of course he noticed.

Neteyam slowed, stopping just close enough that the space between you felt inconsequential. He wasn’t touching you, at least not yet and somehow it still felt as if he had pressed his entire body against yours. As if you were suffocating beneath him.

His gaze dipped and it wasn’t hurried, but it wasn’t subtle either, following the same path yours had just taken; down the line of his chest, over the sharp cut of his hips, to the stripes adorning his body next to the band of his loincloth before lifting again, eyes glinting with the most unbearably smug sense of amusement you’d imagine possible from a single man at the realisation he had just made.

It was silent for a beat, air heavy with tension before Neteyam spoke.

“You must really like my loincloth.”

Your ears shot straight up and outwards, standing tall and perky as if alerted by a lingering predator, eyes blowing wide as you shot your head up to meet his gaze head on.

“Shut up–!”

“–You know, my mother makes them–”

“ –I don’t care–!”

“ –Shall I ask her to make another? She does adore you–”

“–You do not know anything–!”

“–I know exactly when you lie.”

The words were being sputtered so fast, they crashed into each other in an overlapping, frantic mess. To any onlooker, it would have almost sounded as if you were talking in unison.

Your tone was desperately sharp, doused in mortification and hidden in anger. And his was flooded with pure, unadulterated tease, knowing very well how every word he spoke rolled down your ears and crawled beneath your skin. You blushed so often around him he could almost mistake you as a purple Na’vi now.

The overlap fell apart as abruptly as it had started. You glared at him, chest tight, ears still rigid with embarrassment and fury, daring him to say one more thing. He didn’t…

At least, not right away.

His gaze dipped instead, unashamed and bashfully amused, tracking back down to where yours had been just moments ago. His mouth curved like he’d found something amusing he was excited to explain. But you knew he was only rubbing the fact that he caught you staring in.

“My mother uses five beads on each knot,” he said smugly, and you followed his fingers as they brushed against the small carved beads on the loincloth’s cords. “She says it is the number of balance. Five for the senses and all.”

Then he suddenly looked up at you, those overly round, innocent eyes portraying that innocence all too well. “Seems it isn’t working, you don’t look very balanced right now.”

If you were in half a mind with any common sense, you would have scolded him once again and shoved him as far back as your arms would allow in hopes for a little space and clarity. Unfortunately for you, however, that sense was ripped directly out of your already fumbling grasp the moment your eyes followed his hands to where he gripped that damned loincloth you really couldn’t escape.

They were larger and longer than others, scarred from weaponry and cliff climbing, and calloused in places where the overuse was notable. His fingers grasped the thread of the cloth, and as his grip tightened, the purple veins littering the surface of his skin protruded along with it.

Watching the way his fingers curled, and the way his veins pulsed, it sent heat crawling up your throat and pooling behind your ears. Every flex of a tendon, every faint flicker of those tiny freckled lights, felt like a private taunt aimed straight at whatever composure you had left.

You swallowed hard, forcing your voice steady even as it came out breathier than you wanted. “Five is a greedy number anyway.” You muttered, eyes still traitorously fixed on his hands.

His gaze followed yours until it landed on his hands – on the way your eyes lingered there too long, and the way your breath had betrayed you before your mouth ever could. A slow smile curved across his lips, smug and knowing.

“Greedy?” He echoed softly. Without haste, he lifted those hands, the ones you couldn’t stop staring at, toward your face. “Is that what you think this is?”

His long fingers spread deliberately to parade all five fingers to your wide, helpless eyes, and began wriggling them in slow, teasing beats as if he, too, were suddenly fascinated by the anatomy you’d just mocked.

“Tawtute.” He uttered, his voice dipped low with smug delight. “That is what you call me.”

He let his hands hover close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his palms, close enough that if you stuck your tongue out just slightly, you’d be able to taste the skin. Close enough, that the fact you had even entertained that thought made you sick to your stomach with dizzying confusion.

“Txampay tawtute.” He purred, eyes half-lidded and glinting as he drank in the flush climbing your neck.

Then, unhurried and impossibly sure of himself, he leaned in. His body now crowding every inch of air yours occupied, chest nearly brushing yours, until he reached past your shoulder and caught your wrist in one smooth motion. He brought your hand up between you to display the four fingers you always had, and his golden eyes gleamed as if it was the first time he had seen it. Slowly, he lifted his own hand to mirror yours, five fingers spread to contrast the four of your own just across from his, hovering directly opposite it.

“Demon blood.” He muttered, though he wasn’t offended. It was more a statement, or amused even, awaiting a reaction.

You watched, breath caught, as he hesitated for a single heartbeat, watched in your peripheral as his eyes bore into your face, searching for any flicker of protest or resistance. A sign that never came.

And once he realized that, he dipped one long finger down between the gaps of yours. Then another, and another until he slid each one of his fingers between your own, interlocking your hands like he was claiming every unoccupied space he could find.

“Do you call me tawtute so often because you think about how my hands would feel on you?”

Then he guided your joined hands, fully intertwined, up and back, lifting them slowly until your knuckles brushed the rough-woven wall behind you. He pressed them there and the motion brought him so much closer, it was as if he had taken up all the air, because why were you suddenly finding it so much more difficult to draw a breath?

“Neteyam.” The name came out like an unsure whine, nothing like the sharp hiss you’d wielded against him a thousand times before. Because the last place you had ever imagined yourself being was here, pinned beneath the steady weight of his gaze, his body, his five greedy fingers laced so perfectly through your four and it confused you that no fiber of your being was begging to reject it.

You watched with greedy eyes as his face twisted from out of your view, head shifting down towards the crook of your neck and the frantic rate of your breath betrayed every last pretense of calm. His mouth stopped just on the cusp of your left ear, and you felt the warm, velvet skin of his lips brushing the sensitive shell of it, tied with the cherry on top by the soft sway of his braid against your cheek and the smell of him. That intoxicating scent which smelt of eclipse leaves and sweet hearth vines.

They had been your favourite scents for as long as you could remember, and it was only just dawning why that is now.

He took a beat, his breath warm on your skin before he spoke. “I know you hate me.”

You did. You hated him, the Olo'eyktan perfect first born. The boy that followed you like a shadow through the winding roots of Hometree. The child you had been measured against since the first time a blade had been pressed into your palms.

“Neteyam learns quicker,”

“Neteyam already wields a bow,”

“Neteyam never loses his temper.”

You had heard it from your father your entire life and you hated him for being the excellence you couldn’t be. You hated that he wore it so smug. And more than anything, you hated that he actually tried to soften it and make space for you beside him instead of behind. He was so good to you, and you hated that he never got mad when it counted.

And now – now – you couldn’t reconcile that boy with the man standing close enough to steal your breath, hands steady where your resolve should have been. You couldn’t fathom how you were letting him do this. How the same Neteyam you’d spent years resisting, spitting at, and training like Eywa herself had told you to do so in order to best him, had slipped past your defenses without even raising his voice. All it took was him invading your space closer than he ever tried before and your resolve dwindled.

“I know you think you hate me.” He repeated, but this time you could hear the smirk that crept up his irritatingly gorgeous face. “But you never look at me like this when you say it. And this–” his free hand drifted down, fingertips ghosting along the tense line of your hip until they found the base of your tail, “--this is the most still your tail has been all night.”

The gentle, knowing stroke along the sensitive underside made your spine arch involuntarily before you could stop it, so far into him you could feel the press of everything below his loincloth against your lower belly and it made you whine. A guttural, involuntary sound you didn’t mean to make, nor had you realised escaped you until Neteyam’s glowing amber eyes widened alongside his smile.

You struggled to find your voice, with the overwhelming feeling of Neteyam all around you, touching every inch of your skin, all consuming and intoxicating but when you did, it was breathy and weak.

“Do not–” you stuttered, pausing your words to find breath.

Then your voice came again, interrupting his thoughts in a moment where his grip faltered slightly around your fingers and tail. You sounded so primitive and defeated, it was like the entire forest in a ten-mile radius had stilled.

“–stop.”

Neteyam stilled, mind reeling and eyes searching every inch of your face in desperate search of an answer to an unspoken question you sparked within him. Do not? Stop?

Do not stop?

He gawked at you, ogling at every inch of your face in hopes of an answer. Your eyes, droopy and half-shut, turned sideways as if too ashamed to look him in the eyes. Mouth just a touch open, drawing long and heavy breaths, and your beautiful blue skin, flushed that purple colour he was becoming so fond of seeing, gleaming with a layer of warm, sleek sweat.

You looked absolutely ruined. And he absolutely detested the idea that you might have been telling him to stop – truly stop – his advances because now that he had a glimpse of such a sight, he cursed the idea that he may never see it again knowing exactly what you looked like underneath him. So he waited with baited breaths, a wait you did not make him stand long for, and then you delivered.

“Do.. not.. stop.” You spoke between heavy breaths. “Neteyam, please.”

And then he saw it. The way you had been pressing up against his right thigh, locked between both your own thighs and rubbing against your core, just close enough to create friction. The sight and the plea shattered whatever thin thread of control he’d been clinging to as he finally realised what you meant.

A low, guttural sound rumbled from deep in his chest, a half growl, half reverent thanks to Eywa herself, as he surged forward, releasing your tail momentarily, only for the hand to sweep through the air, landing right on the back of your neck as he pulled you towards him with a roughness he rarely displayed.

And that's when it finally happened. His mouth crashed against yours, hungry and possessive, swallowing the next broken gasp that spilled from your lips. His fingers curled into the sensitive skin just below your hairline in a way that made your knees weaken, and had you not still been sitting on this crate, you were sure you would have faltered and folded to the ground.

His tongue pushed at the seam of your lips, coaxing them apart with a devastating hunger, as if he had been waiting far too long to claim this moment, only clarified with the roll his body made to press into your own. The muscles of his abdomen elongated and protruded against the skin, screaming at you to touch them, to feel them, as he pushed your intertwined hands further back into the wall.

That was when his hand around your neck finally began its descent downwards. It started at your shoulders, brushing against your collarbone and lingering just a moment around your breasts. He swirled against the curve underneath the soft fat and the trail left hot tingles in its wake, sending blood rushing to every nerve the pinpoint of his fingertips lined.

It continued on, searing down the arc of your waist, against the curve of your hips and drew a curl to stop just a few paces below your belly button, and yet not even a breath above from the band of your loincloth.

Your breath hitched as those fingers paused there, so achingly close, tracing lazy, maddening patterns just above the thin strip of woven fabric – the only thing left between you and completely surrendering to the man who haunted your every waking moment. Neteyam pulled back from the kiss, only far enough to watch your contorting face, the molten amber of his eyes now nearly non-existent, replaced almost entirely by his pupils, blown wide with lust and a restraint that was seconds from snapping.

He could feel the heat radiating from you, and could tell you were trying to resist whatever thoughts were happening in your head, unsuccessfully so. He could see it in the way your thighs tremored ever so subtly, and in the way your hips shifted restlessly against him, as if seeking friction but hating who the friction you seeked came from. A low, approving, yet humoured growl rumbled in his throat as he pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged.

“You are always so responsive.” He murmured, voice gravelly, lips brushing yours as he spoke and fingers still working their patterns at the lowest part of your belly. “Every touch… you light up for me.”

“You always think you know what I feel.” The words spat harsh but breathless, trying desperately to deny him the satisfaction of winning.

But Neteyam just laughed, stating flatly. “Your freckles glow, fang.”

And your flush deepened knowing your body was betraying your mind.

“Stop talking. I still despise you.”

Neteyam took the opportunity to lean back, making enough room to have a full view of your body without disconnecting your lower bodies. Finally his hand strayed from your belly, sliding to the left of it before stopping right at the rope that knotted your loincloth into place. He glanced down at it expectantly, then up to meet your eyes, his own glinting with mischief.

“Funny way of showing it.” He commented.

Then his fingers pulled at the string, and all you did was let your head fall back against the wall in response.

The knot gave with a soft tug, the woven cord loosening until the loincloth sagged against your hips, and you felt the cool air kissing at your newly exposed skin. It left your sighing, and Neteyam actually laughed at the sight of you.

His next move was to grab at your right leg, lifting it high until it settled on top of his right shoulder. The motion had you shifting forward slightly, nearly hanging off the edge of the crate now. Once it was placed, he leaned down, meeting the slant of your body against the crate until his face met just above yours.

“No fangs now, huh?” He taunted, voice dripping with smug triumph, his breath hot against your lips as his free hand slid up the thigh draped over him with the most reverently possessive grip.

Your eyes narrowed, a spark of fury cutting through the haze of pleasure. “I’ll silence you.”

Before he could fire back another cocky word, you flexed the leg hooked over his shoulder and shoved hard. Your heel dug into the muscle of his back as you pushed, using every bit of leverage to force him downward and surprise flashed across his face for a split second before he dropped to his knees in front of you, left hand disconnecting from yours and instinctively reaching to grip your hips as a means to steady himself.

There he was – all mighty Neteyam, son of Toruk Makto, future Olo’eyktan – kneeling between your thighs, directly in front of your exposed core, with amber eyes flicking a mix of shock, defeat and drooling hunger.

You let your head rest back against the wall again, eyeing him through the brush of your lower lashes and fingers threading roughly into his braids to hold him exactly where you wanted him.

“I told you I would make you swallow your sorry sounds.” And with a sharp tug forward, the control had been shifted to your hands. “Now swallow.”

The low, involuntary groan that vibrated through his chest and into your core was the only answer he managed before his mouth obeyed. His head moved first then his tongue dragged slow and deliberate, tasting you like he’d been starving for years and refused to rush the meal. But the grip you kept in his braids, tight and unforgiving, told him exactly who set the pace.

Heat slammed through you, ugly and mixed with the pure rage of having him under you. You hated him for making your body clench like this, hated the way your thighs shook because his tongue felt so damn good, but hated it more that you questioned if the reason he felt so good was because he had done this before. Hated that the idea made you jealous.

You were a mix of pleasure and shame – that Neteyam was on his knees, eating you out like he had no choice and that he was disgustingly good at it. And when you rolled your hips forward, demanding more, he gave it without hesitation, lips sealing around you, tongue curling deep and relentless, then it dawned on you that he was worshipping your clit like he was singing a prayer.

Your thighs trembled around his shoulders, the leg still hooked there locked tighter, heel pressing between his shoulder blades to keep him exactly where you wanted him – on his knees, serving the woman who’d sworn to hate him forever. And he did it so well you had been reduced to a moaning, whining and squirming mess beneath his hands that were holding you down.

“Eywa, shit– Y/n– ” The name slipped out raw and whiny, and the vibration of his voice had you absolutely feral, snapping in an instant. But not to your end. No.

Because the only thing you could think about was why he felt so good. Why he was so talented at everything. The idea of him having experience with this, of him doing this to someone else, made something vicious twist in your chest.

So your hand in his hair tugged hard, snapping his head back and away from your core to glance up at you with daze in his eyes and your slick dripping down his chin.

He blinked up at you, lips swollen and shining, breath coming in rough pants. For once, the smugness was gone, replaced by raw, hazy want and a flicker of confusion at the sudden stop.

You stared down at him, chest heaving, jealousy burning hotter than the aftershocks still pulsing between your legs, and the words came sharp, cutting through the air like an arrow.

“Who else?” You spat, voice accusatory and ugly with envy, fingers tightening in his braids in a visceral way you couldn’t help.

“What?” He sounded so breathless, and so confused, eyes still foggy from being buried between your thighs.

“You move like this is not new to you.” You snapped, the words spilling out jagged. “People do not learn that by accident.”

“Fang, what are you–”

Then your mouth spat the words like the answer was so obvious, like you had been just waiting for the name to be mentioned. “ –It is An’aya, isn’t it?”

“An’aya!?” He said it like the name didn’t belong here at all. Because it didn’t. Because twenty seconds ago he was face-deep drowning in what he deemed to be his new favourite flavour, and now he’s thinking of a girl he’s barely spent more than 10 minutes alone with.

“You lie with her too!” The accusation came out sharp enough to feel final, as if it wasn’t something to be debated and you had already made up the answer.

Neteyam stared up at you for a beat, eyes wide, mouth still wet and open like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or groan. Then the laugh won, short and completely disbelieving as the weight of your words settled into him. He searched your eyes, stern and glazed, angry with something he knew you barely understood and it dawned on him. Holy shit.

“You are jealous.” He said it so incredulously, like it was the best revelation he made all week. A rough laugh tore out of him, head tipping back in your grip, the sound raw and disbelieving. And it was like you couldn’t even deny it, all you could do was sneer your usual fang baring scowl and snap your head away with a tsk of your tongue.

“An’aya?” he rasped, grin sharp and crooked, chin still dripping with you. “Eywa fang, you think I have ever touched her? Ever wanted to?”

He shifted forward on his knees, hands sliding up your thighs as he finally raised to his feet off his knees to meet you at eye level. His face was inches from yours, grip firm but not pushing and you watched as that aggravating amusement melted into the softest look you think he had ever sent you. His smugness fell, the cocky edge dulling into something so honest.

“I do not lie with An’aya. Just you, fang.” He spoke so slowly, voice low and steady, and almost gentle despite the filth of the moment. “I only ever think about you.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Heat flooded your face, your chest, mixing between the jealousy and the flattery until you couldn’t tell which burned more. You didn’t know if you believed him – or more so didn’t know if you wanted to believe him. So you picked your arm up to pinch the side of his ear, using it to drag his face impossibly closer. Your gaze flickered between both his eyes, searching for something, an answer to a question you weren’t even sure you knew what.

For a split second, something in your grip faltered. The idea that he might be telling the truth was somehow worse than the lie. So you tightened your fingers on his ear for a beat before yanking his head back with a force meant to hurt.

“Prove it,” you snarled.

Neteyam’s breath hissed through his teeth at the sting, but the look he gave you was pure lust, not a single trace of softness left. In one brutal motion he tucked one hand under your ass, and the other around the curve of your waist, before spinning you around so fast the world tilted for a fraction of a second. Your chest slammed against the crate, palms scraping metal as he kicked your legs wider and pressed his full weight into your back.

You heard him before you felt him, the quick tug and rustle as he worked the knot of his loincloth free behind you. Something involuntary dragged your head back, forcing you to peek over your shoulder. The fabric fell, and it was like every silent inkling you’d ever felt bite at you, every reflexive moment that told you to study his stripes despite never knowing why, finally dawned on you why it had always been so urging.

Those large, vibrant stripes were only a preview into what the loincloth hid. They tapered lower and thicker up the base of his cock, before finally crawling into a thinning stretch that ended just beyond the tip of his head, which was slick with precum and the most angry, swollen shade of red. Red. Like a Tawtute.

And it was in that moment you realised that all those little characteristics that made him slightly different – the broader shoulders, the extra finger, the sheer size of him below the cloth and the way his tip skin flushed pinker than any Na’vi you’d ever seen – weren’t the flaws or accidents you convinced yourself was the reason you fixated on them. They were proof that he had Toruk Makto’s blood running through him, the son of a leader, born to be a leader. And right now that blood had him hard and leaking for you, the girl who’d spent years calling him sky-demon scum.

The realisation twisted hot and ugly in your gut, hate and want braided so tight you couldn’t pull them apart but that was so swiftly disrupted by the feeling of him pushing forward, the tip of his achingly large cock making contact with your swelteringly wet entrance, and it had you absolutely unraveling at the mere contact of it.

You couldn’t help the moan that slipped out of you at both the stretch he gave with just the top of him, barely even a quarter full, and at the sight of him ogling down at the space between you, at the way the tip of his cock looked barely swallowed inside of your warm hole, his fist gripping at the base.

Neteyam caught the sound, eyes snapping up just in time to see you bury your face in your arm and he laughed that irritatingly smug laugh that vibrated through his chest and into your back.

“Already moaning for me, Fang?” He murmured, voice thick with satisfaction and lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. “You can’t even pretend to hate me anymore.”

“Do not…,” you hissed with a breathy sigh, the words cracking despite your best effort to sound venomous, “…dare assume you know what I feel.”

He hummed, amused, like your denial was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard.

“I do not think I'll have too.”

Goosebumps rose in its wake, your hips stuttering back despite yourself before you could correct it. His hand tightened on your hip, holding you steady, while the other slid up your spine in a slow, deliberate path until his fingers closed gently but firmly around the thick base of your kuru, the long, sacred braid that cascaded down your back.

The feeling of his hand around your kuru had your entire body jolting, a sharp, electrifying shock racing through every nerve in its wake. You spun in his grip with a surprise he’d never seen on you before, eyes blown wide, breath caught, and all that sharp defiance from before suddenly fractured by something he had never seen painted so vulnerably on you.

You looked so unsure, so confused, so conflicted, staring at his hand like it was both a threat and a gateway to something new.

At your face, Neteyam’s expression softened too, the smugness fading completely as he brought the end of your braid up between the two of you, turning it so the the wispy ends of your braid went limp to expose the pink tendrils beneath. They snaked in the air, searching the air as if awaiting what was yet to come.

His own kuru hung over his shoulder, and he used his other hand to grab at it, settling it so close to yours that the tendrils already began reaching for each other, drawn like magnets, but far enough that they did not touch.

“I will not force this, and I will not continue with this if you say no. I honestly don’t think I can.” he said, voice low, rough with restraint but steady. “Tsaheylu with me… or we stop right here. Your choice, Fang. Always your choice.”

The words hung heavy. You hated him for giving you the out. Hated him for making it feel safe to say yes even though you really thought you would have said no. Hated how much you wanted him, and wanted to know what it felt like to be bound to the one person you’d spent your whole life trying to push away.

Your chest rose and fell fast. The tendrils of your kuru twitched, brushing the air toward his and you didn’t speak as you watched them try to connect. Slowly, deliberately, you reached your hand up to wrap around his forearm, watched as the hand that held his kuru faltered at the intrusion and met his eyes as he searched yours for answer.

It didn’t come as a verbal one, but your mind had been made the moment you tugged his arm forward to allow his kuru to connect to yours. And in an instant the tendrils met, wrapping and fusing, snapping the bond into place.

A gasp tore from both of you at once, backs arching, eyes fluttering as raw sensation flooded through. The pleasure was intense and overwhelming, but more than that: every buried feeling, every unspoken want, every flash of anger and longing and need crashed together in a single, shared current that left you both moaning messes.

He groaned your name like it hurt and you whined his so helplessly, fingers digging into his shoulders and the world narrowed to just the two of you.

Neteyam moved first, hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he spun you both around and sank to his knees. He laid you gently on the cool floor beneath him, settling between your legs, face-to-face now with his forehead pressed to yours, kuru still joined, the bond pulsing with every heartbeat.

He slid back into you slowly, eyes never leaving yours, letting you feel everything – his awe, his hunger, the years of wanting you he’d hidden behind every smirk and fight. And you wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, and for the first time with there being no crate, no wall, no anger between you, nothing but the bond, neither of you could deny the truth that lingered between you for years anymore.

The bond made it unbearable in the best way because you could feel everything.

You could feel every slow drag of him inside you echoed back through the link. You felt his pleasure at how tight and wet you were, your helpless clench around him, and the ache that flared harder with every inch he gave. You felt the way your body gripped him like it never wanted to let go, and he felt it too, a low, broken groan rumbling from his chest as his hips finally seated flush against yours.

“Fuck–” he breathed, voice ragged, forehead still pressed to yours. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, the golden amber almost gone. “You feel… I can feel you everywhere.”

You couldn’t answer with words. The bond carried it for you: the rush of heat, the ache, the impossible fullness of him stretching you open while his emotions poured into you

He started to move, slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that dragged the thick length of him along every sensitive spot inside you. Each thrust sent a wave through the bond, pleasure looping between you until it built on itself, amplifying, stealing your breath. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red lines over his stripes; he hissed and answered by snapping his hips harder, driving a sharp cry from your throat.

Through the link you felt how much he loved that sound, how it made him throb inside you, how close he already was to losing control and you responded by sticking your mouth to his neck, and sucking hard in an attempt to quiet yourself.

“Tell me,” he rasped, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, keeping your faces close, noses brushing, “tell me you feel it too.”

You did. Eywa, you did. The anger was still there, flickering at the edges, but it only made the pleasure sharper, almost as if the bond was burning it clean and turning years of hate into something so much more overwhelming.

“I feel you,” you finally gasped as your mouth left his neck with a slimy pop, and you noticed the angry purple mark that sat in its wake. Your voice cracked, legs tightening around his waist to pull him impossibly deeper. “All of you. Don’t stop–!”

The next thrust ended with another broken sound from you, a half-moan, half-word that slurred through your tongue almost incomprehensibly.

“Mmm– ’tayem–”

Neteyam’s rhythm faltered for a heartbeat, then picked up again, faster now with a cocky triumph you felt flooding the bond like heat. A low, smug chuckle vibrated against your neck as he nipped the skin, sucking and pinching at it with pride.

“I got you that good, huh?” He murmured, voice rough but dripping with satisfaction, hips rolling deep and deliberate. “Got the stubborn Fang stuttering my name?”

You tried again, desperate, the pleasure coiling so tight you could barely think.

“Ma– tayem–”

He laughed again, breathlessly arrogant and loving every moment of this – loving that you, always so sharp-tongued and composed, always throwing insults at him and trying to embarrass him in front of your families, was reduced to this, such a moaning, whiny mess you couldn’t even get his name correct.

“Ca not even get your words right,” he teased, smirking against your lips, eyes gleaming down at you with such amusement. “If only everyone could see you now.”

“Ma ‘teyam.” You managed it this time, much clearer and insistent of every syllable that trembled out of you on the next thrust. And he froze.

Not completely, his hips still rocked shallow and instinctively, but the rhythm stuttered hard, like someone had yanked his hips backwards and held them still. His eyes widened, searching yours through the haze, the cocky smirk smacked off his face in an instant as the meaning finally slammed into him.

Ma ‘teyam.

Your Neteyam

The bond flared hot with it, your claim, raw and unfiltered, pouring straight into him. A ragged groan tore out of his chest, half between shock and something much, much deeper, like a stirring pot of pleasure and disbelief and possession all tangled together into two bodies merged as one. His forehead dropped to yours again, losing every trace of that smug control because the words were echoing through the link like a vow, and it broke him.

A low, guttural groan ripped from his throat, deep and wrecked and his whole body shuddered as the realization hit him harder than any phrase ever uttered to him. His hips jerked forward once, hard and uncontrolled, completely unlike his usual poise, as he buried himself to the hilt inside you, and that was it. He came with a broken cry of your name, voice cracking on the syllables as he spilled hot and deep, pulse after thick pulse flooding you.

The bond amplified everything and you felt every throb of his release as if it were your own and that made yours follow soon after, the overwhelming rush of his pleasure crashing into yours, the way his heart slammed against his ribs, the dizzying mix of disbelief and euphoria that Neteyam was now claimed by you in the most intimate way possible, solidified by the way your attached kuru still hung besides you, your deep purple marks decorated his neck, and your bodies lay against each other, sleek and fucked out.

His forehead pressed hard to yours, eyes squeezed shut, breath coming in harsh, uneven pants against your lips. His arms trembled as he held himself above you, hips still twitching with aftershocks, grinding slow and shallow as if he couldn’t bear to pull out.

“Fuck… fuck–” he gasped, voice hoarse and trembling, nothing left of the smug warrior who’d been teasing you since you got to this forsaken watchpost. “You… you said…”

“That I despise you?” You murmured, eyes fluttering closed as you breathed him in, beyond exhausted, tail finally curling loose and lazy behind you. “I do.”

A broken laugh tore out of him, warm and disbelieving, his nose brushing yours as his breathing slowly began to steady. “I don’t even need to see your tail to know you lie.”

And as if to prove his point, he brought his hand around to the place where your kurus joined, stroking the exposed, sensitive nerves gently with his thumb. The bond hummed softly at the touch, sending a lazy ripple of warmth through you both and your tail flicked once, then curled deliberately around his thigh, holding him close.

He felt it, of course and a quiet, satisfied hum left his chest.

“See?” He whispered, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “Even your tail is done fighting me.”

You opened one eye, glaring weakly up at him. “Do not get used to it, skxawng. The second we are back with the clan, I am telling everyone you cried after your father yelled at you.”

Neteyam snorted, shifting his weight so he could prop himself on an elbow and look down at you properly. His braids fell forward, framing his face, and the bond carried the soft glow of affection he was trying, and miserably failing to hide behind his usual smirk.

“Then I will have to tell them how the almighty daughter of our clan head warrior begged for me to–”

You slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes narrowing. “Finish that sentence and I will bite you again.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, laughter muffled against your palm and you narrowed your eyes as you spoke once more. “I could still push you off this ledge. No one would find the body till morning.”

“Maybe so.” He conceded easily. His hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, thumb brushing the base of your kuru in a way that made your spine shiver despite your best effort to stay at least a little defiant. “But then who would keep you company on patrol anymore? You would miss arguing with me.”

You huffed, shoving at his chest. “I would finally earn peace.”

“Peace is boring.” He countered, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to the inside of it, soft and infuriatingly gentle. “And you would miss my family interrupting us every five minutes, thinking they will catch you slipping in the act. My dad likes messing with us too much to let you go.”

You snorted, but the sound lacked real venom. “Your father likes me because I am not afraid to yell at you when you are being an arrogant teylupil. That is not the same as liking me.”

Neteyam’s grin turned softer, eyes crinkling at the corners. “He likes you because you are strong. And because you force me to be stronger. Even when you are threatening to skin me alive.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, but your tail betrayed you again, curling tighter around his leg like it had decided it wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

“Flattery will not save you,” you muttered, dropping your head back to his chest so you didn’t have to look at that stupid, fond expression on his face. “When we get back at dawn, we say nothing. We walked the perimeter. Inventoried the stock. End of story.”

Neteyam arched a brow, amusement flickering through the bond as his eyes flickered around at the area even messier then it was before you two had arrived. “You think they will believe that? Nothing has been done here. And you look…” He brushed a thumb over your neck, tracing where his mouth had been earlier. “…thoroughly ruined.”

You swatted his hand away, but there was no real heat in it, not like before. “You look worse, Tawtute. Like you lost a fight with an Ikran.”

He laughed, full and unguarded this time “Then let them think what they want, I already won.” he whispered when you parted.

You rolled your eyes, but your tail tightened around his leg again, betraying you.

“I still despise you,” you muttered into his neck.

“I am aware.”

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