Dumpster Of Thought

Eve || 20s feeling like 5 A tiny bit of messiness goes the long way. Just gotta pray for sanity to stay this time.

[everlyblaar]

Oh how I just love being part of an art school. We could have a broke down toilet every other week but we sure going to relief printing some protest banners

[everlyblaar]

I have the next 24 hours free for the first time in years. But I have neglected my self-destructive thought session.

So now my precious freedom will be spent staring at the ceiling, thinking about all the mistakes I made.

[gunsandspaceships]

Peeve analysis

Before the reactor With the reactor. Part 1 With the reactor. Part 2 With the reactor. Part 3 After the reactor

Now that I've collected all the instances of Tony being handed things (or taking something from someone else's hands), we can all try to come up with ideas about why Tony disliked being handed stuff, and in what cases, since, as we can see, this peeve only was brought a few times. There has to be some correlation, right? Let's find it.

Once I've collected enough ideas, I'll make a big post on this topic.

[gunsandspaceships]

Come on, guys. Give me something to work with. Right now there are only 2.5 ideas in the comments.

[everlyblaar]

After looking at these, I read it as an inconsistency in writing on Marvel’s part. Like they only sprinkle it in to make him feel annoying and self-centered. And then ‘oops, I forgot he was supposed to hate that’. 

But let’s say this is intentional. 

Then based on the data, I’d categorized every instance he did take the items into: ‘thing being shoved at me’ ‘fan thing’ ‘i asked for/need that thing so i’ll take it’ ‘i trust them’. 

‘Thing being shoved at me’ and ‘fan thing’ I see his reasoning could be along the line of don’t want to make a scene out of nothing (fan ask for signing, the flower necklace), or that this is a serious moment (Thor, the grieving mother, journalist confronting him).

There are more examples in these categories but let’s leave it at that.

And every instance he refused to take the items into: ‘I don’t like you, so I will embarrass you’ and/or is a performative act. 

When he was handed the subpoena and Happy took it for him, that instance immediately read as ‘I don’t like you, so I will embarrass you’ for me. Same thing with Killian. With Coulson, that interaction leaned more on trying to annoy Coulson than actual dislike because he did interrupt their alone time.

A few exceptions that I won’t categorize. The strawberry, he did need it, but refused to be handed it. I blame Marvel for trying to make him to be a difficult.

And the interaction with Howard, this would be an exception because he is pretending not to be ‘Tony’ (also Howard is his dad, duh) so his reasoning is not exactly the same.

My conclusion is that he doesn’t exactly hate being handed things, because he only does that in low risk, conversational situations. But only brought up when he is trying to embarrass someone (again, strawberry instance doesn’t count. My conclusion is flawed, same with marvel’s writing)

Also, side note, every time Pepper understood him and said let’s trade, I found it adorable. 

There are headcanons saying that Tony doesn’t like being handed thing because 1) he was handed thing that harmed him before (sharp razor, etc)  2) he was handed the information about Howard and Maria’s death.

[everlyblaar]

I’m dying. Send help.

[everlyblaar]

Guys, how to gradually pissing someone off so they’ll leave me alone but without ruining the relationship.

This friend of a friend pop up out of no where and started befriending me. But I’m like genuinely has no social energy to entertain them.

[sodiumfreak]

when the time loop gets to the part where they start committing suicide in different ways every day

[lolli-apop]

More Than Strangers, Less Than Friends - Neteyam // Part Three

You are the eldest daughter of Ronal and Tonowari. Several months after his recovery from a bullet wound that rendered him comatose, your parents have arranged a bond-pact between Toruk Makto's son and you to be mated. It wouldn't be such a problem if not for the glaring issue—your lover.

Tags - Pathetic Neteyam, obsessive, dubious consent, arranged marriage, general violence

A/n - This is a damn beast. And also my favorite chapter of the parts so far! Because of its length (14k), I will add a banner as a checkpoint halfway! This was supposed to be split into two chapters, but I couldn't make you guys wait another week! I also changed the banner to reflect Y/n's permanent disillusionment of Neteyam and his actions (And also because I didn't like the original that much...should I change them... maybe, let me know guys) Hope you enjoy!

Part One, Part Two

Morning crept in with the smell of salt and smoke. Time to move—the entire clan was waking early to help.

You kissed Tey and tasted the sleep in it. That was his waking. The others got a more… gentler treatment. Mother and father received soft brushes to the cheek, Tsireya a careful pat on her shoulder, and Ao'nung—

"Wake up." He got a smack. 

“Agh!”

The usual rhythm, despite what came ahead. Your family stretched, ate, and scattered to their tasks with mumbled words of goodbyes still tumbling out.

Your father left first as usual. Shoulders squared, already speaking with the other trainers on who would shepherd the participating. Your mother on the other hand would likely speak with the matriarchs of the clan. Technicalities, usually.

You, Ao'nung, and Tsireya had been assigned the feast preparation: gutting fish, drying marrows and gills, crisping bones to powder. And somewhere between all that, keeping watch over your baby sister.

But that was days away still.

For now, you pressed the last wooden table into sand, wiping salt-sticky palms against your thighs. Your mother stood beautiful in ceremonial wraps, paint tracing the old marks across her arms.

She caught your eye and gestured—join me. You nudged Tsireya forward instead, let her take the honored spot. She deserves it more.

The crowd had arranged itself by height. A tradition, though no one remembered why. Children knelt at the front, elders stood at the back, and the hunters fell somewhere in between, restless. Neteyam and Tey stood shoulder to shoulder among them, faces turned toward the platform. There must’ve been at least a hundred this year participating. A wonderful number, your father was very proud.

I still remember my own, he was beside me the whole time. You allowed yourself a smile.

Mother began. "Today marks the first day of celebration—” And your ears drew away. You knew the basics of it. Of Unity, of the path from child to hunter, of Eywa's watchful eye. 

This is why Eywa does not speak to you, Y/n. You must listen. 

You knew it was over when the cheers erupted. Your father moved to stand with the elder hunters. There was something uneasy to him. Quick glances that drew you in before he looked away. His jaw was set, uncommon for the usually easy and happy man. You shoved the worry down—-acknowledged it, then buried it.

The procession began. 

They left quickly and your eyes naturally found themselves taking a look at Neteyam's family. They were still shouting encouragements, hands raised, voices hoarse, even after the women and men had vanished beyond the treeline.

Right. Be happy.

These were supposed to be days of celebration.

And the days of celebration bled together.

Three whole days you'd spent apart, and the village seemed smaller for it—elders present, hunters gathered, small children underfoot. Yet a chunk of a certain age group remained absent, taken for their rite of passage, and the space they left behind felt considerable.

Like every year, community would fill that emptiness they left behind, so you weren't surprised when the Sullys began seeking your company.

Tuk came first, yanking you from your duties with sticky fingers that wrapped around your wrist to drag you from whatever task needed you. 

"Braid beads in my hair? The new pretty ones?" A skill, you discovered quickly, you sorely lacked. Your fingers caught and snagged.

"My hair grows in waves, Tuk. Different from yours." Another tug—her wince made you flinch. "Sorry…"

"Well, you have to learn!" She twisted to pout. "I'll be asking more often now."

You didn't ask what she meant.

Then Lo'ak appeared hours later, lingering at the edge of your workspace with his weight shifted to one foot. "Hey," he said, too casual. "Got a second? I need help with the tulkun language. I think I'm getting it, but—" His hands gestured vaguely, collapsing into sheepishness.

Your brows drew together. "Can't you ask Tsireya?" You meant to reflect your confusion, to be gentle, instead it sounded harsh.

His ears flattened. “Oh, yeah… I mean…”

Dammit.

"I mean—of course I'll help." You said immediately, trying for damage control. "Tsireya's just better at teaching, is all."

Lo'ak shrugged, but it didn’t hide his relief. "I don't mind." His smile came back, bright.

Eywa forgive me and my lack of strength to say no.

Then Jake needed your hands for net repair. Kiri wanted your opinion on a weaving pattern. Even Neytiri—Neytiri, who barely spoke to anyone outside her family—appeared at your shoulder one afternoon and gently pulled you from Tey's grandmother's side.

The entire family needed you it seemed!

"Come help with the baskets." Her voice reamined soft despite its firmness.

"Oh, Neytiri, I should—"

"You are very dependable." She softened her eyes, ears flicking forward in that particular way that made you feel very, very guilty. "And all my children are busy. Please?"

You saw Neteyam in that expression. Saw him in her stance, in that coaxing smile. You saw him everywhere.

You saw Neteyam.

Well, he had to learn it somewhere. You thought.

"…Okay."

Relief smoothed her features. "I thank you, Y/n. You're a very sweet girl." She led you toward their marui, and with each step you felt more and more reluctant. You hadn’t been here since…

"Y/n..."

Neteyam's voice, strained. His brow creased, mouth barely open. You'd been alone then—Neytiri had gone to hunt—insisted on it, really, claiming it necessary repayment for all you'd done. You'd told her it wasn't needed. She'd done it anyway, perhaps more to ease her own worries, not that you’d ever fault her for it.

“Neteyam…?” You'd leaned closer, one hand lifting to dampen his lips with water. He'd opened his eyes just long enough for you to glimpse the gold underneath—bright and fading all at once.

You'd almost called for Neytiri. For Ronal. For Tsireya, for anyone.

But that didn’t feel right.

"…There you are." He'd smiled then.

You emptied the memory to another basin, and instead focused on the changes.

Another hammock, the usual mess of Tuk's toys and carved cups, half-finished arrows, demon tech stripped for parts. Sheets abandoned mid-weave and right there—the basket full of dried flexible leaves.

You sat across from her, watching her from your peripheral view, but the resemblance… she could almost be Neteyam—if you ignored the curve of her chest, the softer line of her jaw. "What do you need me to do?"

Neytiri sat down, slowly. Her eyes never blinked. "You don't know the pattern of the forest, do you?"

You paused, and looked up as if to rise. "Oh, no. I think Tsireya does. Lo'ak has been teaching her. I can get her instead, if she's not too busy."

Neytiri's hand shot out and pulled you back down. "I can teach you. Do not be a fool."

Blunt. Always blunt.

She knelt and drew the materials in. The reeds were reef-harvested, yes, but her hands shaped them into something distinctly Omatikaya. Sharp angles, tight spirals. You saw the branches of trees and the canopy of leaves in her tightly packed design, nothing like the honor of the waves and tulkun of the Metkayina.

"Up, then down. Cross with the left strand. See?"

It relaxed her, it seemed, to do something of her culture.

You followed her instruction, leaning in closer. Your fingers fumbled at first, clumsy where hers were naturally graceful. "Do you miss it?" You asked softly.

Neytiri's hands stilled. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment you thought you'd overstepped. But then she nodded, several times, as if convincing herself it was safe to admit it. "I do. I miss my people. The forest. The tree of souls where Jake and I—" She stopped abruptly, her freckles flaring bright across her cheeks. A shy smile ghosted across her face. "I miss the forest that holds my mother." The last word came out quieter.

You looked at her—really looked at her—and reached out. Your hands found hers, stopping them over the half-finished weaving.

"You have a strong heart, Neytiri. Very few women would leave their homes. We all respect you here, even my mother, despite her lack of say so." Your thumbs traced her knuckles, calloused and warm.

Neytiri studied you for a long moment. Her eyes grew wet. When she spoke, her voice wavered. "You are a gift."

She rose then, leaving you with the half-finished basket. You heard liquid pour—tea, by the scent, but unfamiliar. Forest herbs, probably. Something from the home she left.

Because this was not her home, and it never would be. The thought left you aching.

She returned with only one cup, steam curling between you. "Would you like some?"

"Of course." You accepted the cup, brought it close. The aroma was sharp of bark and root. "Herbal?"

Her tail flicked once. "Yes."

You took a sip. It was very, very bitter—the kind of bitter that coated your tongue and lingered long after you swallowed. It tastes sort of like… But that couldn’t be possible. 

You stole your face into neutrality, smoothing every instinctive wince into calm. "It is very good," you smiled.

Neytiri's laugh was knowing, secret. 

You continued drinking, after all, your mother had taught you it was impolite to refuse what a host offered.

.

.

.

The days had passed quickly—all three of them—and now the people were adorning themselves in their finest. 

Painted spots, bright feathers, beautiful shells. The clan celebrated with beauty, and all beauty was marked by a single newly crafted armband. A signal to seek a partner for the fertility festival.

Yours had taken longer than you'd admit.

You had put it off and off and off until the rites themselves almost horned home. It was unlike you, to start so late, but you’d been—No. That was an excuse. You’d been nervous to hope, that's what.

Each bead has weight. It needs to be perfect. Oh—dammit not that one. Too crooked!

Color, size, placement—all of it mattered. Any self-respecting na’vi would feel ashamed of anything less. You'd chosen yellow and green for Tey's family colors. You'd chosen small beads, because they showed the most skill and long shells you had harvested for special occasions. A representation of your own family, joining his.

You had just stitched the last strip of hide wehn the horn blew.

Just in time.

Families came out in droves to greet their loved ones, and you scrambled onto a tall rock, Reya climbing up beside you. The two of you scanned the crowd below. "Do you see him?"

Your gaze swept the sea of people.

Neteyam was easy to spot, of course—right there in the middle of lighter greens and blues, his forest dark shade out of place among the reef-born. Tey, though, was harder to find. You stood on your toes, childish but necessary, craning to catch sight of him.

There—

He was whispering something to your father, and you couldn't catch his eyes.  Your father's hand rested on his shoulder, the grip firm enough to see from here—fingers digging in the way they did when he was displeased. His face twisted. Tey looked almost defeated, angry, and he shoved your father's hand away, teeth bared before he stormed off through the crowd.

You moved to follow, but Reya's hand caught your wrist. "Maybe he failed…?" Her voice carried sympathy you didn't want.

"He promised me." Your throat tightened. "He wouldn't. It has to be something else."

"Tey doesn't get angry easily…" Tsireya's brows drew together. "What could father have said…?"

You bit your bottom lip "I don't—"

The words died.

You felt someone staring.

Neteyam. 

His skin looked sunburned, purple blooming across his cheekbones. His usually meticulously kept braids hung messy and half-undone, and a bruise darkened the skin above one eye. Two more sat along his jaw. Another, lower, spread across his ribs in an ugly violet.

Those weren't caused by fish. 

Surely not.

He caught you staring, and his hand rose to scratch at his jaw—unusually awkward, boyssh. He offered a shy wave, a small smile despite the split in his lip.

You found yourself unable to return it. Managed only a confused, half-aborted wave in response. Your hand dropped to your side.

"What in the Great Mother's name happened to him…?"

Tsireya shrugged.

But Neteyam's eyes never left your figure, and you shifted—just slightly—so Tsireya's body blocked his view.

Your brother pushed you forward.

"Move," he muttered, already turning downslope. "Prepare the feast before they start the dancing ceremony. We only have a few hours, and Eywa…" He exhaled through his nose. "They killed too much."

You hadn't realized the gathering was breaking apart. Families clambered around their children, murmuring praise, touching foreheads. 

It was strange to think that Neteyam had done it: earned his tulkun, lured a predator from the deep reef, raced the circuit around the outer islands. The list felt long enough to span two passages, not one.

You studied your brother's profile, the way his gaze kept snagging on the piled catch. "Too much?" you raised a brow.

He took both your hand and Tsireya's as the trail steepened—first Tsireya’s, then yours, steadying you two over the uneven coral. "I heard Neteyam brought in forty-eight bundles," he said quietly. "Forty-eight."

"Oh!" Tsireya's free hand flew to her mouth, eyes rounding.

You didn't blame her. Forty-eight bundles could feed an entire section of the clan for days. Good hunters brought sixteen to twenty-five on a proving trial. Average ones managed ten to fifteen. Anything below eight was considered poor luck, though no one spoke of it aloud.

Ao'nung had harvested thirty-five. A record until today. 

You'd managed twenty-nine. 

Tsireya had earned a respectable thirteen, though she'd spent half her dive coaxing an injured ilu back to the pens instead of hunting.

You smiled at the memory. She’s good, thank Eywa.

"What did Tey get?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Ao'nung's mouth twitched. "Twenty-seven. Second place." He paused, thumb brushing absently over your knuckles. "But I don't think it's fair to the rest of them. Neteyam's the son of Toruk Makto—the man who fought sky-people before he even came here, who was revived by Eywa herself." His voice dropped. "And your lover boy? He's three years older than the youngest initiates. More experienced. Best aim of anyone here."

You nodded, throat tight. You hoped the others wouldn't feel small beside those shadows. 

They deserved better than to be measured against legends and late bloomers. They deserved to feel proud of their own kills, however modest.

.

.

.

After the return ceremony had completed, your family and most of the villagers had scattered to help with the proper festivities.

The pattern never changed, most had gone to help with the preparations: first the dance, the drink, the food to honor the safe return of the hunters. Then rest. Then, come morning, the final traditional dance. They’d be second-born now, third=born for Neteyam.

Or fourth, technically. Twice for the People, twice for Eywa.

But today, celebrations.

Tsireya left with your mother to bless each kill brought in abundance—fish that would be carried to neighboring clans along with fresh drink. A good harvest. A reason to see cousins again.

You remained on the mainland, stretching legs still sore from the day's work.

Children were around the rock edges, cleaning and playing with the fish bones. Elders, on the other hand, noted the catches with the biggest fish. Neteyams, of course. With the three fattest ones bearing the clean marks of a practiced hand.

The bag of fish you carried bit into your shoulder as you ducked into the participant’s tent.

Inside, young men and women sat cross-legged with their families, retelling the journey. Successful strikes, near misses, the moment the spear found its mark. The space hummed with voices, bodies, warmth. It was full, and you were grateful for it.

"There you… good… how was…?"

Your ears caught left, and it was then so did your eyes.

The Sullys formed a tight knot in the corner: Tuk, Lo'ak, Spider, Kiri, Neytiri, Jake, Neteyam—Seven. What a large, happy family. They filled more space than anyone else, drew more eyes. It made you smile despite yourself.

So many.

You set the bag down and began passing fish to outstretched hands. "There's enough for all," you murmured, handing portions out one by one. As you leaned past another Na'vi's shoulder, your gaze snagged on the Sullys.

Jake clapped Neteyam's back, he’d always been prideful of his oldest. Neytiri, meanwhile pressed a palm to her son's chest, tearfully smiling.  Lo'ak pretended indifference, but he leaned visibly into his brother's touch, fingers tracing the spear that had made those clean kills with something close to awe. And Tuk—

"Up, Neteyam!" she whined, yanking his tail until he relented with a laugh and smothered her in kisses.

Spider—the pinkskin—sat perched on a tall rock nearby, shaking his head with a sheepish grin. "Be careful, man."

Kiri slipped away.

You paused, hand still extended mid-air, fish forgotten. 

She was always gone, lately. The only Sully who rarely asked for your help in anything. Never sought you out. You blinked, trying to trace where she'd vanished to, but the crowd had already swallowed her.

"Y/n." A woman's voice, sharp and impatient. Her hand thrust forward. "Please. I am starving."

"Sorry," you mumbled, pressing the fish into her palm. "sorry."

When you turned back, Neteyam was already watching. You barely managed a raised hand before he was moving—jogging up to you with that easy, long-legged strid of his.

The hug came fast and your arms went up instintcively, the fish slipping from your grip, hitting the sand with a wet slap. "Oh!" You could smell the warmth of him, the faint musk of sweat, dirt and blood. Underneath it—something… herbal.

That same scent…

But Neteyam didn't seem to care. Strong arms circled you then, drawing you in until his nose pressed into the curve of your throat. He inhaled. Deep.

"Teyam!" Tuk's yell came muffled somewhere between your ribs and his chest.

It tickled.

You giggled, helpless, squirming just a little. "I didn't catch your scent," he rambled, words muffled against your skin. His tail whipped, cutting the air. "I swore I would, but—"

"Yes, well—" You tried to wriggle back, giggling some more. "The fish and the other bodies, they—"

"I missed you, Y/n."

The words landed sweetly.

So, so sweetly you froze.

Your mouth opened, some kind of reminder of propriety that people are watching, of the fact that he shouldn't be holding you like this in front of his family—holding you period—but Tuk wriggled violently between you, saving your breath. "You're squishing meeee!"

Neteyam stopped. Reluctantly pulled back.

He settled Tuk down with one hand, a subtle and childish glare exchanged between the two of them.

But his hand never left you. It stayed on your shoulder, thumb tracing slow circles through the woven strap of your carry-sling. He looked absolutely delighted, despite the bruises and cuts, despite the clear exhaustion over his handsome eyes. Delighted.

You coughed. Stepped back. His palm slipped from your skin. 

"I'll just—" You gestured vaguely at the remaining fish, then continued passing them to the other families. Anywhere but him.

"Always busy, huh?" 

Jake's voice carried that particular forest-people ease. The same warmth his own sons and daughters carried. 

You glanced up as his family closed the distance, and you handed them a few bundles with a practiced smile. "It's busy around this time." A small shrug. "I do not mind it. Eywa graces me with movement."

You crouched to give Tuk her portion. The girl beamed. When you passed the other to Spider, the human boy took them without meeting your gaze, shoulders hunched and nervous. “Thanks,” he mumbled, and retreated two steps.

Odd.

You straightened, rolling tension from your neck, and forced yourself to look at Neteyam properly. "I… congratulations." The word felt clumsy on your tongue. "Forty-eight bundles. I've seen you hunt, trained alongside you, but this—" You shook your head. "The youth will speak of this for seasons."

His grin arrived slow and crooked, shy in a way that made your chest ache. He scratched the back of his neck, ears flicking. "You trained me," he said, soft. "The credit is yours."

"Training only sharpens what's already there.” You met his eyes. “You did this, Neteyam. That truth is yours alone.”

Silence.

Something came with his expression—wonder or perhaps need. It left as soon as it came, replaced by an innocent shyness. Lips parted, breath held. He stared.

You shifted your weight and glanced at his parents. Did I say something wrong?

His father nudged an elbow into his ribs.

That snapped him back. He blinked, swallowed, then moved.

His hands found your shoulders—tender, yes, but there was something desperate in the way his fingers pressed into your skin. "Please, don't—" His voice fractured, and his hands tightened, just a bit. Then his palms slid upward to cradle your jaw, tilting your face toward his. "Everything that I do… it's for…"

He swallowed the confession.

"For the clan," he said instead, quieter now. "I am happy to provide. I—I can provide." 

The last words came desperate, as though your belief in that single fact was the only thing worth a damn.

Behind him, his parents exchanged a knowing look—Jake's eyebrows climbing toward his hairline, mouth quirking in disbelief. "Jesus, boy," he breathed out, huffing something that might’ve been a laugh if not for Neytiri cutting it short with her hiss.

“Ma Jake—”

“...right.” You averted your eyes, fingers worrying at the woven strap across your shoulder. I still need to find Tey. You felt guilty putting your own chores above him. Haven't seen him since that argument with father.

You bent then, lifting the remaining haul with a grunt that you couldn't quite swallow. "You're a great provider." The weight slid against your back, netting biting into your shoulder. "But uh—I must go now. I have to travel to the other islands." 

You lifted your fingers in polite, sacred parting. "I see you."

You turned.

Something caught your tail.

The squeal tore out before you could stop it, high and startled, so unlike you. 

Your tail. Neteyam had your tail. 

"Neteyam." Neytiri's voice cracked, all mortified. When you twisted to look at him, his expression was—

He didn't look remotely sorry.

"Let me join," he said.

You twisted back, snatching your tail free. Instantly the paddle of it curled between your legs, right where he couldn’t reach.

"I... what...?" The confusion made your nose wrinkle, ears flicking back. Was he serious? "Neteyam, you should rest." Softer now. Gentle, because maybe gentleness would make him stop looking at you like that. "You've spent days away. It wouldn't be right."

But he squared his shoulders, jaw set in that infuriating way that meant he'd already decided. 

"I have nowhere to go that isn't toward you."

Oh.

Oh, Eywa preserve you.

Behind him, his brothers dissolved into snickers. "Dude…" Lo'ak wheezed. "Bro…"

Jake couldn't help the chuckle that escaped, though his amusement died quickly when Neytiri hissed and began herding her children away from the scene. “Your father and I will be gutting," she said, voice tight. She offered you a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "We will be there."

You stared after her. Traitor.

Your fingers found the netting again, twisting, fidgeting.

"I… well, that can't be true," you managed, forcing obliviousness into your voice. A cough. Anything to fill the air.

"I want to stay!" Tuk's protest floated back, small face scrunched in a pout. "Pllleaaasee. I can help too!"

Yes, Tuk, stay. Please.

"My dear, we must leave now." Neytiri's voice gentled but held firm. "We’ll carve you beautiful bones."

"Yes." Jake caught her meaning immediately, though his gaze lingered on his son—on you—for one beat longer. "We must do everything we can to help. I mean—" He clapped a hand on Neteyam's shoulder as he passed. "Your brother is trying so hard, right?"

You were left alone with Neteyam now, allowing the distant chatters of the village to fill your ear. You needed a distraction, after all.

Your head stayed bowed. "I… Come." The word dragged out of you.

What else could you say? What else was there to say? You knew him. Once Neteyam set his mind to something, it would take Eywa herself with her hands on his shoulders and her breath in his face for him to turn him around.

His grin split boyishly. Dimples carved into his cheeks, deep enough to drown in and gush over late at night. For half a second you thought you might.

Half a second. That’s all you gave yourself.

He shouldered the bag you'd been hefting and swung it over his shoulder with that easy strength he never had to think about. "Thank you."

As if you were doing him the favor.

The two of you fell into stride, bare feet stepping into the worn path toward the shore. You needed a skimwig—something fast, large enough to haul both your bodies and the day's kill without the animal collapsing beneath the weight. Panya will do good.

You looked for her chipped fin over the waves.

"Say…Neteyam," you began. You looked over at his bruised face again, motioning vaguely toward your own. "Can I ask why…? You know…”

You trailed off, noticing Panya in the distance and chirping. The girl came over, flapping her wings. “There, there.” 

Neteyam meanwhile became busy securing the catch to the woven basket slung across the skimwing's flank, but even from behind you saw the tension climb his shoulders.

"Well, uh…" He mulled over. “The fishes, they—”

You smiled. "Fishes do not punch."

He didn't look at you.

"Did you get into a fight with another hunter?" You asked it more kindly, softer and moved to help him mount. He graciously took your hand and settled.

"...Yes." 

You then swung a leg over onto the skimwigs front, reached back, lifted your queue over your shoulder, and made tsaheylu.

The bond flared to life. The skimwig's heartbeat joined yours.

His hands found your waist. Warm—no, hot. Neteyam was always hot, wasn't he? You'd just never noticed.

You couldn't see his face, a small mercy, but you felt everything else.

"Who?" Your voice cracked. You coughed to cover it.

You hadn't seen anyone else bruised. No one else walking around with split knuckles or a swollen jaw.

"Doesn't matter." He shifted closer, nosing against your shoulder blade. You felt his exhale puff down your neck, and counted his heartbeats because you couldn't stop yourself.

"Then may I ask why?" You turned your head, just enough to catch a sliver of cheek. A brow lifted. "So mysterious. And they say I'm the reserved one."

You caught the edge of his knowing smile—private. 

He leaned in. His fingers traced up, finding the curve of your ribs where he stroked. Calloused pads found skin, pinching the flesh there. "No, sweet girl," he murmured. "Now come on, before the fish wake up and swim away."

You snapped forward. Eyes fixed on the distant reefs. Anywhere but him.

I really need to find Tey after this.

You steadied yourself for the bond, and moved.

.

.

.

The skimwing was fast—of course it was. Still, you kept to the surface, mindful of Neteyam perched behind you and the cargo lashed across the saddle. No deep dives today. The boy couldn't hold his breath like you could. Soft-lungs, still. Forest-born.

The water peeled away in clean arcs as you cut through the shallows, salt misting your face, the vibration of the creature's body drumming up through your thighs. Neteyam's grip on your waist tightened slightly as you banked left, following the curve of the corals.

The Ta'unui settlement rose ahead.

Smoke from cook-fires. Children's laughter carried over thedistance. You gentled the skimwing to a glide and guided it into the shallows, dismounting. Neteyam swung down behind you, already reaching for the first bundle before you could ask.

An elder spotted you first. "Sister clan!" you called, lifting your voice as you approached the shore. A few faces turned. You raised two fingers in greeting, keeping your tone easy.  "We have come with abundance."

Recognition came with welcoming smiles. You passed dried fish wrapped in kelp, smoked eel still fragrant, woven baskets of pickled shellfish.

"Ahh, Nuu'ta, look!" The Tsahik's voice carried across the sand, bright and full. She pulled her husband forward by the wrist, laughing as she came. "It's Ronal's girl!"

She folded you into an embrace—soft breasts and strong arms, smelling every bit of the herbs your mother used. "Is it already time for the rite of passage? So soon?"

"It is the same day every year," you said, grinning despite yourself. "But it does feel shorter, hm?"

She laughed, and you handed her the first bundle. Villagers began to gather—some you knew by name, others only by face. Friends who had traveled between clans, stayed a season, moved on. You saw a young hunter you'd raced skimwings with last summer. The weaver who'd taught you a new knot pattern. 

Their questions came easy, answers easier. How is your brother? Has Ronal already given birth? What's her name? Pril? What did you hear of the Tulkun migration? Here, away from expectation, you could simply be.

Neteyam just watched, hanging back and passing the remaining supplies. You caught glimpses of him between conversations, of his careful hands and respectful distance.

Sometimes he’d smile when your eyes met, glance away, and hum.

"Oh?" The Tsahik's voice again, closer now. "Is that the boy?"

He froze.

She approached, slow and deliberate, and he bowed his head in respect. "Tsahik," he murmured, keeping his gaze low.

Her fingers found his shoulders, gentle warmth. She drew him down until their foreheads touched. "Eywa blesses you, son of Toruk Makto." She passed a quick prayer. When she released him, her hand lingered against his cheek. "The great mother smiles."

His gaze found yours across the gathered crowd. You inclined your head.

"We should get going," you said, turning back to the others. Your voice carried easy authority now. "The day is short and we still have our other sister-clans to visit."

The People nodded, murmuring agreement. You reached for one last bundle—fuller than the rest, heavier—and pressed it into the Oleeyktan's chest.

The Olo'eyktan accepted it with both hands, surprise flickering across his features.

"For you," you whispered, low enough that only he could hear. "You must all eat more to rebuild your homes."

His throat worked. Behind him, you could see the gaps where huts had stood before the sky fell and burned them.

"We thank you, Y/n of the Metkayina." His fingers pressed against his chest, then extended toward you. "Give Tonowari my safe regards."

Panya chittered impatiently as you climbed aboard. Neteyam settled behind you, his weight familiar now. You scratched the creature's chin, feeling her rumble of pleasure.

“Eywa’s blessing upon all you!”

.

.

.

The trips to the other clans scattered throughout the islands had been largely similar. Island after island, clan after clan, the same ritual of hauling fish until your shoulders sagged and your fingers went numb. 

You and Neteyam. Fish. Smiles. Departure. Repeat. It was tedious work, returning to the mainland only to transport it back.

But Neteyam didn’t falter. 

If anything, he thrived on it. Showed off, really—ten fish slung across his back at first. Then twelve. Fifteen. "I can manage, Y/n," he'd grin, standing straighter beneath the weight. "It's nothing."

Liar. You adjusted your own five with a grimace. I'm strong and I'm struggling.

The villages noticed. Of course they did. Neteyam moved through them like he was made of sunlight—full easy laughter and easier smiles, his presence always warm. The Na'vi from the distant clans watched him the way you'd watch fire: drawn, captivated, unable to look away.

The girls, especially.

"Oh, look at him!" They’d giggle. You swore you heard the same introductions a hundred times now.

They pulled at his arms, his braids, anything they could reach. "Can we get more fish? Please?" Their eyes were wide, voices honeyed, offering to show him the clan, the good fishing spots, their homes—while you dealt with the elders and the practical matters no one else wanted to handle.

It was almost funny, really—how Neteyam couldn't take three steps without someone pulling him aside, touching his shoulder and asking him to stay just a little longer.

Let it not be you, though.

"Y/n."

You turned. Enop. Again. His hands found yours before you could pull away, clammy with a boney fingers. You look even more beautiful than last year."

Your skin crawled. 

You shifted back half a step, smile tight. “The Great Mother's been kind. How many fish do you need?"

"Two." His thumb traced your knuckle. "We could share them, take a break—"

"We should go." Neteyam's hand closed around your elbow, smile tight at the edges. "Much to do still." He tapped your thigh. “Come,”

For once, you didn't argue.

By midday he slowed.

He couldn't hide it—not from you. Fifteen bundles became twelve. Twelve became ten. Seven. Five. The numbers seemed to bleed away with each passing hour until sweat beaded along his spine and created fat droplets.

You watched as one fell, splashing against the sand until it quietly soaked up.

"Just water," he said when you stared too long. “From the beach.”

He stumbled.

You bit your lip in worry.

"Neteyam."

His ears flicked back. That pout again—childish, stubborn. He hefted the next bundle and moved past you like you hadn't spoken at all. 

Your own sweat cooled against your temples. Pride, you realized. You'd been stupid not to see it sooner. "Stop," you said. "Rest. If you collapse now, you waste everything you've done."

You'd never thought him prideful before. Stupid of me. Stupid to assume the golden son carried no ego beneath all that duty.

"I am not so weak, Y/n. I'll be—"

Your eyes locked with his. "No." You let the glare sit there, let him feel your disapproval if only to make him see reason, beyond all else.

"Look at you, Neteyam. You still have the dancing ceremony." Something tightened in your chest. "I'd never forgive myself if you failed due to something so preventable.” The words came faster now, tripping over each other. "Go on. Get rest, or I'll drag you to your hut myself."

At first it was just a flicker of his tail. Right at the ends where the hair was—a twitch.

Then, the barest pop of his spine straightened and he turned to face you fully, and for one suspended breath, you thought he might argue.

His lips tugged into something smug.

"I wouldn't mind that." Breathless. He stared. Just stared, like he was seeing you for the first time—or maybe seeing something in you he'd been looking for all along.

He walked towards you slowly, head tilted to the side. There was no weak stumble now, no tremble against his shoulders. Not even exhaustion remained. "That sounds like a reward," he reached. "To have your hands on me."

His fingers found your cheeks. You should've moved—should've stepped back, hissed, done something—but you just stood there, frozen, as his palms cupped your cheeks.

The kiss landed on the crown of your head, first.

"Teyam, that—"

"Hm." Another kiss, this time against your brow, second.  "So it's Teyam now?" His tail swayed, a lazy, pleased arc. When his lips found your cheek, you felt the curve of his smile against your skin. Third. "I like that name. Say it again, Y/n…Please?"

It was the please that did it. The way he said your name after. Sweetness buried underneath the syllables—it nested there. 

You hated it.

Hated how much you liked it, how the sound made something in your chest flutter and ache and burn in the same way Tey did.

Right. Tey.

You shoved him. Hard.

"Get away." Your teeth bared, lips pulling back in a hiss that felt too late against his affections.

“Y/n—”

"What is wrong with you?" Your freckles flared hot in your mortification. Your ears pressed flat against your skull. "I am with Tey." 

I am with Tey. I am. It meant nothing. Three kisses means nothing.

His ears flickered. His expression morphed into an innocent pout, and it made you feel as if you’d done something wrong.

You almost stepped forward and pleaded forgiveness. 

What is going on with me? Why am I…? You didn’t wish to unpack it.

"I am sorry." It came out soft. He looked away, one hand rising to rub at his nape. His fingers curled into a fist. His eyes squeezed shut, and his face—

No you didn’t look at his face, you couldn’t risk it.

"I am exhausted. You are right. I thought…"

Your hand lifted, gestured weakly to the side. "Just... go."

You noted the hesitation there. He didn’t leave immediately, and that made it worse. But he did, of course he did. He followed directions so well, especially when it was yours.

He left.

When you finally looked back, his shoulders were hunched, tail limped between his legs.

Shit.

.

.

.

You sat at the long table of assembled deadwood.

At some point you had changed into something simple and festive. Tomorrow was for trying. Your shoulders drew inward. Your eyes had glazed over hours ago, maybe longer. Around you, the clan roared with laughter, with the kind of joy that came from pride and accomplishment. 

You didn't hear it. Didn't feel the hunger gnawing at your stomach, didn't taste the sweet fruit someone had placed in the bowl before you.

You did not look up.

Instead, you traced the grooves carved into the table’s surface. Old marks of a child’s work. Yours, next to those, your fathers.

They were cut there during long ceremonies when you and your siblings had been made to sit still upon the sacred seat, legs swinging, bored out of your minds.

I feel sick.

That's what this was. Sick.

You glanced toward the other end. Met your father's figure there.

All Olo’eyktan and their families ate here. Spoke here. Celebrated here. This table had been sat upon by hundreds of leaders, and now your fa occupied it, broad shoulders squared, Ao’nung at his side.

The table’s importance had never escaped you. The soft wood beneath your fingers seemed to remember every hand that had touched it, and you slid your hand along it as though it might answer back.

You had been young when you were told Ao’nung would inherit the title. Younger still when you had wished—quietly, shamefully—that it might be you instead.

Not because of blood.

Because you deserved it.

Because surely someone like you could sit here and lead.

Stop it. You’re unraveling.

The thought was childish. Stupid. You shoved it down and thought of your brother instead—how he'd sit here one day, and how he'd deserve it. Rightfully.

You looked up. Finally.

Bowls sat before everyone, filled with the kind of abundance that made your stomach turn. The People clustered in their families, their friend groups, drinking beverages made of sweet fruit, plates piled with nuts and berries.

Father makes his speech around now. You thought, glancing at him.

He'd thank Eywa for the night, for the safety of the participants, for the Tulkun who had graced them with their presence. At the end, he'd commemorate a group—hunters, healers, whoever had earned his favor that season.

This time he did not.

"I have an announcement."

For the fourth time this night, his eyes locked onto yours. Then they dropped. To your mother, to Pril, then back to the audience.

You glanced at Ao'nung, brows furrowing. He didn't seem bothered. Didn't even pause in shoveling food into his mouth, just shrugged like whatever, old man.

Typical Ao’nung.

"We will be advancing the dance to today. Midnight." Father's jaw worked. "Tonight."

That earned silence.

You narrowed your eyes. Others shifted with careful uncertainty, glances exchanged across the heart of the clan. Your father never broke tradition. Not once. For all you could remember, the date never moved.

"Father?" Ao'nung's question came slow, cautious.

Tonowari cleared his throat, staring at Ronal. "We decided that for the safety of the Tulkun, it would be best if they do not stay too long."

That earned nods. Quiet agreements rippling through the crowd. Yes, of course. For the Tulkun. For their safety.

But you weren't persuaded.

Your eyes stayed narrow, fixed on your father's profile—something was wrong. Something he wasn't saying.

Then you dropped your gaze altogether. It wasn't your right to question the Olo'eyktan.

"Come on, bro! Let's just ask… it's simple!"

Your gaze lifted from the grain of the wood table to settle on the Sully boy. Lo'ak. Across from you, Tsireya stiffened—a glance passed between you and you arched one brow.

She shifted, heat creeping across her cheekbones.

"Lo'ak." Neteyam's voice came next, sharp and apologetic. He lunged for his brother's arm, missed. His eyes found yours and whatever he saw there made him flinch. "Come back here—"

Lo'ak shrugged him off with a laugh that was ignoring, jogging the last few steps until his hand slapped down on the table's edge.

The sacred table.

You stared at where his palm pressed against the wood. Then at him.

So disrespectful.

"Tsireya," he breathed, biting his lower lip. His tail wagged behind him, betraying everything his face tried to hide.

Your mother's eyes found yours. Mirrored your expression exactly.

"Lo'ak," Her voice dropped to a mortified whisper, and her freckles ignited across her cheeks with like bioluminescence. She motioned frantically at his hand. "Please—"

He glanced down—finally registered your stare boring into the side of his head—and jerked back. "Oh. Sorry." The grin turned sheepish. He rubbed his palms together. The initial confidence that carried him here crumbled. "I—" His throat worked. "Uhm…"

"Out with it, forest boy." Ao'nung laughed from across the table, still eating through a mouthful of food.

Your lip curled. "Do not speak while eating, Ao’nung."

"Make me."

He grinned wider, and you could see all of it. 

Chewed food and too-white teeth and that stupid, stupid smile. You were already rising when Tsireya's hand clamped around your wrist and hauled you back down. “Oh you two!” She huffed. Then she fixed Lo'ak with a look that was patient and encouraging. Take your time. Her eyes seemed to say. I'm waiting.

Lo'ak swallowed.

He lifted his chin, straightened his spine. "Would you like to dance?" The words came out as a mumble, and his tail curled tight against his leg. You felt something almost like pity until you remembered you were angry at Neteyam, and crushed it down.

Your mother, however, remained unconvinced.

Tsireya's freckles blazed like tiny stars. "Of course." She rose in one fluid motion—but Ronal's voice was firm.

"Tsireya—"

"Please, mama!" Those wide eyes, that pleading tilt of her head. You'd seen her use it a thousand times and it worked every single time.

Your mother's lips twitched into a subtle frown. Her eyes closed. A long, measured breath, and then a small, defeated nod.

Permission.

You watched in disbelief as Tsireya giggled and grabbed Lo’ak’s hand. She led him down the slope toward where the rest of the clan danced around the fire. 

Lo’ak meanwhile gave one final passing glance at his brother, flashing a thumbs up. Neteyam's response was a thin, tight lipped grimace.

He waited a beat, then climbed the steps toward the front, clearing his throat softly as he approached.

That's when you noticed. His hair hung loose tonight, unbraided. Soft strands framed his face, though someone—maybe Kiri, maybe his mother—had woven thin strips of red cloth through the front strands, adding color to a usually relaxed appearance.

He looked—

You looked away.

You swallowed a heavy lump from your throat. 

"I see you, Tonowari, Ronal."

Neteyam's head dipped in a formal gesture, proper in a way Lo’ak wasn’t. The only similarity was the twist of his fingers. At his side, wanting to fidget, to do something with the energy. But he didn't. His eyes stayed locked on your parents.

So much more proper than Lo'ak in that respect, at least.

Your parents nodded, approval settling in ease of their shoulders. “I see you. What is it, Neteyam?”  Your father made the point to lean forward. He had a twinkle in his eye, and while your mother didn’t speak, she did too. 

Then Neteyam's attention slid sideways. To you.

His ears shot forward, and you saw the moment his eyes dilated.

"Is it alright if I dance with your daughter?"

Your brother's laugh came sharp, barely stifled. Your jaw locked so hard your teeth ached.

Mother would say no. She had to say no. You turned your glare at Neteyam, willing him to take it back, to leave, to—

His face crumpled.

You watched in real time as his lips pulled into a pout. An actual pout, his ears flattening against his skull like you'd struck him. He kept looking at you—sad, pleading little glances that made your stomach twist.

"Of course."

Your father's voice.

Your head snapped toward him so fast your vision blurred. You stared. Blinked. Stared again.

"It is good to talk to your mentor before the final  rite." Is what he said. He met your gaze with pointed calm and gestured toward Neteyam with a subtle tilt of his head. Hummed with a low and expectant tune. "The boy is waiting."

The hiss nearly escaped.

Instead you pushed yourself up—stiff, mechanical—and walked past Neteyam without taking his offered hand. You felt it there…

Refused to look at him.

Refused.

He jogged behind you, head ducked low like something hunting. When you reached the edge of the dancing circle, you folded your arms and turned, voice flat. "What do you want?"

He looked stricken—ears pinned, mouth working soundlessly before he managed a half-step closer. You stepped back. He swallowed hard enough you saw his throat flex. Dancers swept between you both, bodies spinning, momentarily obscuring him.

"You look beautiful," he managed a smile, lips lifting hopefully.

You scoffed. "That is what you lead with?" The words came low, sharp. "Neteyam what you did there—I'm with Tey." You leaned in so he'd hear every syllable, close enough to see his pupils contract. "We care for each other. I want—" Your throat tightened. "I'd like to spend my life with him."

His ears flattened, then swiveled, then flattened again. Twitching like he heard dying words.

"Whatever feelings you think you have," you continued. "stop them."

"It's not—" He choked on the rest, his hand scraped through his braids. "Not... Great Mother..." The curse came out small, wounded. He wouldn't look at you. "Please. Don't say that."

Don't do this to me.

"Please." He said, softer now. "Please."

You turned. 

You were already searching the crowd for Tey's broader shoulders, his three-fingered hands, his easy grin. Where was he? Your chest constricted. 

Neteyam's hand caught yours and pulled it flat against his chest. "Listen," he whispered. His ribcage rose and fell in sharp, shallow pulls. You looked up and—shit. Shit. His eyes were wet. His breathing came unsteady now, a drag of breath. "Listen." Softer now. He stepped forward until he was just in front of you.

You felt it—the drumbeat rhythm under your palm. A strong heart. 

You felt your own pulse slow to match it, and your body relaxed before you could stop it. Shoulders easing, breath evening out into a soft whistling hum. You stiffened immediately.

What's wrong with me?

"Whatever you're trying to—"

"You feel it."

His stare pinned you. "I know by the Great Mother's design, Y/n, you feel this." When you tried to pull away, his grip tightened—but he laced his fingers so sweetly it felt almost impossible to care.

"You feel me." His head dipped, lips grazing yours—barely there, unbearable. "I see you, Y/n."

And what a face he made, of longing and need. Something that should’ve stayed hidden and—

A hand wrapped itself around your middle.

Long. Wide. Three fingers tight across your stomach.

You felt him before you saw him.

"Tey—"

"Release her."

The growl came from somewhere deep. Tey's chest, maybe, or lower—some animal place that you’d never thought he possessed. Because Tey wasn’t serious, Tey was sweet and good and—and now his teeth were bared, nose wrinkled into a vicious hiss that rumbled and caught and held against the backdrop of laughter.

You turned, looking up over your own shoulder.

Tey did not look good.

His braids hung limp and unwashed, greasy at the roots. Nothing like the usual bounce and spring he'd fuss over. He even wore what he’d arrived in this morning—clothes smelling of hunt and sweat. But worse, much worse was his face. That face that used to break open with easy smiles now now sat tight and withdrawn, and right now, distrustful.

Neteyam released you. Your hands fell to your sides, fingertips still buzzing from where his grip had been. He didn't look away from Tey.

Then he snorted, an easy and confident sound so unlike Neteyam’s usual aloofness."I thought you left with your tail tucked between your legs."

Murmurs rippled through the gathered clan. The drums kept their rhythm, but now it felt like the rhythm of a war-tone. You pressed both palms flat against Tey's chest when his lips peeled back in a snarl. "Tey," you whispered, glancing over your shoulder at Neteyam. "Let us talk. It is fine."

Tey’s arm shot up, gesturing his head at Neteyam. “Listen to her, demon.” He hissed. “It is in your best interest.”

Neteyam snarled back. 

You huffed. “Stop it, you two—”

“You should listen to Y/n—”

“Who, my woman, demon? The one you continuously try to steal? Using underhanded—”

Neteyam looked confused now, just grinning, all pretty teeth. “Underhanded? I do it publicly. I am not a coward, Tey.” He shifted his weight, head tilted like a predator. “Not like you.”

“Demon.” Tey spat the word. “It is in your damned blood.” 

You pushed against Tey, trying to stroke his arms, murmur sweet things in his ear. Trying to pull warmth back into his heart, love back into his eyes, bring him back to you.

But it didn’t work. It’d never work, not while he still smelled Neteyam on your skin.

“Its in your damned family that only brings wrought and disaster. It’s in your brother's fifth finger, in the hair along your arms.” He hissed. “I see it in the size of your eyes, I see it now, in your eyes. A thief.”

You paused.

Your eyes traveled up, slow, to Neteyam.

He was uncomfortably still, uncomfortably at ease.

He took several steps forward, and you understood then—Neteyam didn't usually yell. He'd told you himself, long ago, that it reminded him too much of his father. He was soft, even in anger.

He was soft even now.

Your eyes widened. You spun, pressing both hands against Neteyam's chest instead. "Neteyam, stop." The plea came out desperate in a way you never were. Tey tugged at your arm but bless him—bless him, he didn't know.

Neteyam’s eyes didn't soften, but something twitched at the corner of his mouth. A smile, maybe. He leaned into your touch, even now.

He dipped his head and whispered just for you. "Worried for your weak lover?" His eyes followed a triangle. Both eyes, then your lips, dropping only to see the feel of your fingers against his chest. "Is that it?" A coo, now. He leaned closer until close felt like a distant word. "Aren't you embarrassed to love someone so shameful? The late bloomer."

And then he kissed your temple, a wet and chaste taste of skin.

You sighed.

Shut your eyes.

Fucking damn it.

"Agh!"

Tey tackled him.

The impact sent both men sprawling into the dirt, limbs tangling. The festivities died. Gasps rippled outward as the two men collided—bodies tangling, sharing fists. Tey's fingers twisted in Neteyam's hair, wrenching him sideways before hurling him into a cluster of onlookers. They scattered. Someone screamed.

Neteyam hit the ground and rolled.

Then—despite the long day, despite everything—he planted one foot flat against the earth and propelled himself upward. His hiss came low and vicious, nose scrunched until the lines of his stripes twisted and twisted.

They circled each other, and for one brief moment Neteyam's gaze flicked to you.

I'll show you, his eyes said. I'll show you how weak he is. The mistake you're making.

His fist connected with Tey's jaw—a wet, meaty sound that made your stomach lurch. Tey went down and you moved to stop it but felt a hand grasp your wrist.

Tsireya, sweet Tsireya with her gentle wide eyes tugged. “No, Y/n.” She pulled you back, just a bit.

"Tsireya—" You whirled, sucking air through your teeth. You caught Neteyam following Tey down, straddling his legs, wrestling him flat. His fists rose and fell against either cheek. "Tsireya, let go."

She trembled. Shook her head. "You'll get hurt—"

"Tey is getting hurt, Tsireya, please..."

You trailed off and looked at your father.

The people were whooping, excitedly curdling their voices in a pitch that led to a throbbing headache.

He wasn't doing anything. Why wasn't he—?

You dug your heels in now. Tsireya wasn’t stronger than you.

Your gaze snapped back. Neteyam did look strong. His biceps coiled and flexed with each impact, back spraying broad and powerful in the firelight. Sweat gleamed along his shoulders.

He wasn't holding back. He wanted to demonstrate exactly what he was capable of.

What Tey wasn't.

And no one was helping him. 

You shoved Tsireya back—too hard, probably, but you were already moving. Your hand closed around a stick torch abandoned near the circle's edge, and you didn't walk so much as lunge toward the chaos.

Past hunched shoulders, through the press of spectators, until you found them, the crowd peeling away as you cut through.

JakeSulli and Lo’ak had Neteyam by the arms, hauling him backwards. JakeSulli’s grip was iron around his son's wrist, twisting until tendon showed white beneath blue skin. "The hell are you thinkin', boy?" The words came through his teeth, Neteyam’s feet dragged grooves against the sand, and he twisted to try being released.

Neteyam spat—not quite at Tey's face, but near enough, the total dishonor. "He attacked me first." His lips curled, proud even with blood in his mouth.

Neytiri was already on him, hands cupping his jaw, tilting his face toward the firelight. “You go to your sisters now.”  She traced palm to face, checking him for any obvious injuries, most as you noted, on the faint scar on his chest. “Tuk is crying.”

You dropped to your knees beside Tey, fingers finding the curve of his jaw. "Tey, Tey…" Your palm connected with his cheek, "Tey, come on..." A light tap against swollen skin. Purple bloomed across his skin. 

Sea-foam murked with the blood of the sky-people. 

His eyes were swollen nearly shut, lip split and weeping red. Something broke loose in your chest. "Tey—"

"Ngh…" His lashes fluttered and you folded into him. Arms around his shoulders, mouth finding his despite the blood. You didn’t mind the warm taste of red against your tongue, not right now. You pressed deeper anyway. "You foolish boy, I—"

Behind you, Neteyam stood rigid beneath his parent’s rapid spitfire of scolding—words you couldn't hear, didn't care to—but his gaze never left the line of your back as you bent over Tey. At the way you kissed him as if he deserved it.

He'd won. He'd won, and still—

He looked like he'd lost everything.

"Come. Please." Your voice was barely there. You tugged at Tey, trying to lift him, and he huffed a wet, rattling breath before spitting more blood. He kissed you back, slow and right where Neteyam could see.

"You—" Neteyam lurched forward.

Jake's hand snapped around his arm, yanking him back hard enough that something popped. "Goddamn it, you're gonna kill me, you understand? You and—"

You rose, Tey's weight shifting against you. Too much of it. Several hunters moved in—sighing, muttering under their breath like they'd seen this coming.

"We told him."

"The Olo'eyktan will be angry."

Your pulse spiked. "What?" You eased Tey toward one of the hunters, steadying him against a broader shoulder before turning back. "What did you say?"

The hunters wouldn't meet your eyes. One glanced at the other. Who has the shortest straw? They seemed to say. A wince, someone took it. "Oh… your father…" He trailed off, looked away. "Well. Er. Nevermind that."

Tey's head lolled. The hunter holding him clapped his back once, awkward. "Come on. Let's get you somewhere you won't cause trouble. Poor fool."

"I should go with him." Your voice climbed. "He's injured—and the dancing ceremony—"

They looked at you.

Just looked.

Too long.

"...Tey failed, Y/n." They said softly.

Your heart stopped.

They were rearranging Tey now, straightening him to not fall. "He started it." A hunter grumbled. Flat. "Got into it with Neteyam during the hunt. Threw the first blow."

“Has no one told you…?” Another said. “He's not joining you in the fertility festival." They gently pat your head—a gesture meant to soothe that only made you tense up. "Go enjoy the rest, ok? We'll have your mother look at him." A pitying smile.

A pitying smile.

Your brain snagged on the words. Repeated them, then quietly refused them.

Tey… the aggressor? Tey who flinched at raised voices? Tey who wept when you scolded him for leaving his nets tangled, who positioned himself between quarreling hunters with palms raised in peace. That Tey.

No.

You stilled. Your gaze drifted—father first, then the crowd. The music had shifted—something gentler now, relaxing, laced with throat-song meant to clam. But the people weren't calm. They whispered. Stared. At you.

Your tail curled inward, tip trembling against your calf—twitching in small, helpless jerks. Ears flattened. Arms drew tight to your sides, making yourself smaller, wishing you could hide away entirely.

Neteyam tilted his ears back, lips trembling a bit to speak. “Y/n…” He said softly. He wasn't going to apologize—not about Tey. His jaw set with quiet conviction. He didn't deserve you. That simply.

But his father's hand clamped down on his shoulder. "You've done enough, you hear boy? Enough. Leave the poor girl alone."

Neteyam swallowed his words.

You felt it then.

Rage—no, not rage. Something smaller. Younger. You felt like a child again, screaming at Ao'nung to return the carved shell you'd spent days smoothing. You felt like the little girl watching your mother cradle Tsireya, longing for arms that never quite reached for you the same way, who wondered why your own arms stayed empty. 

The girl who'd learned early that wanting was not the same as receiving.

The girl who wanted, very badly, to cry.

The tightness came first—throat closing, eyes blurring hot and wet. You turned before anyone could see. You turned. Fled. Your feet found the shoreline by muscle memory alone. You couldn't bear the dancing, couldn't stomach another pitying glance. 

You felt the heat of the armband then. The one that said yes, I am looking. Yes, I am available. Yes, I am willing. For Tey, Tey who promised me that he’d finish his Rite of Passage. Tey who—

You ripped it off and flung it to the sea.

The waves swallowed it.

You kept walking.

You needed to be alone.

"Dad, please—"

Neteyam strained against the hands holding him—his father's, his mother's. His eyes tracked you as you disappeared down the shore. Tsireya broke away from Lo'ak's side, already calling your name.

"Damn, bro." Lo'ak whistled.

Neytiri wrapped Neteyam's torn knuckles with strips of clean cloth, movements precise despite her frustration. "Stop moving, Neteyam."

"Mother—"

"Neteyam."

His eyes tracked the armband, now drifting on the current. He clenched his hand into a fist so tight the fresh wounds reopened, blood welling dark against blue skin. He hadn't done anything wrong. Not one thing.

At least, that's what he told himself.

.

.

.

You could barely hear past the drones of your father's speech. You refused to look at him, to listen to him. How dare he—how dare he not tell you that Tey failed.

You swayed instead. Eyes fixed somewhere past the gathered bodies, somewhere that wasn't him. The dancing ceremony had already passed—usually your favorite part. The participants moved through traditional songs, creography molded to fit each hunter's individual style, their history written in the curve of thier hand or the arc of a spine.

A shame.

You hadn't seen Neteyam's dance. Once, you might have wanted to. Once, he'd promised you the forest in his movements. But that was before.

Strong heart.

Your eyes squeezed shut.

It was dark and late. The final ceremony would take an hour, maybe two. Not that it mattered—you were going straight to your hammock after this. Or maybe straight to Tey, traditions and rules be damned. You'd form the bond tonight, consequences later.

You'd go to another island, another clan where they wouldn't care so much about Eywa's traditions. There, the two of you could have children, build a home. You were done waiting.

You opened your eyes.

The men and women stood in rows now, each wearing a smile. A few were crying—proud tears, the kind that meant something. This was acceptance. The moment they became members embraced by the heart of the clan and the will of Eywa.

And despite everything—your heartbreak, your confusion, the anger that sat like hot coals in your chest aimed at your father, at Neteyam, at Eywa herself—you felt pride.

Silence now. Celebration later.

Look at Yappo. He's grown so tall. You once helped him knot his first raft.

You couldn't help the smile.

Your mother gave a nod. Commencement.

You moved with your siblings, each taking up different rows. The left fell to you. And there, just a bit to the middle, so clearly him, was Neteyam.

Your jaw clenched.

You hate me Eywa, you hate me and I hate you.

You glanced toward Tsireya, hoping to switch, but she was already focused, moving down her own line. Ao'nung was too far to signal.

You swallowed your expression, schooled your face into something neutral, and started with the first person. 

Then the next. 

Then the next.

Until finally, you reached Neteyam.

As per the ritual, you cleaned the knife again—ceremonial rag pulled tight between thumb and palm, the blade catching firelight in a thin, amber line.

You watched him through your lashes.

His eyes stayed down.

Good.

You wanted the guilt to sit in him, wanted it to root so deep he'd never dare speak to you again.

Something in you twitched at the thought. You ignored it.

The blade lifted. You reached for his shoulder, had to rise on your toes just to meet the slope of it. The height difference galled you now—made you look small. Fragile. Weak.

His eyes flickered up to meet yours. You jolted back. His tanhi flared bright, luminous across his cheeks, and his ears swiveled forward with something that looked dangerously like hope.

You wrinkled your nose and dragged the blade across his forehead—a long, thin line that welled red but stayed shallow.

He didn't flinch. Just stared at you like this would be the last time he'd ever see your face.

"May your mind be filled with wisdom," you whispered, voice barely audible over the fire's crackle, "taken from your ancestors." The knife descended to his chin. You carved an X figure.

Your hand descended—steadying yourself, nothing more—and pressed flat against his chest.  You sensed the quickening rhythm within him, a song under your palm, but focused on the task at hand.

You focused on the blade instead, drawing a horizontal line across the ridge of his collarbone. "So your heart always guides you along the path of truth. So that your choices, both present and future, remain just."

You released his chest. Reached for his hands instead, gripping them harder than necessary—annoyed at how easily his fingers sought yours.

"Let your hands build and sow." The knife bit into his palm, a circle this time. Hands were soft, much more sensitive, most hunters would flinch at this point. But Neteyam only watched. "Not destroy."

You started to pull away, and his grip tightened.

Slowly he lifted your hand to his lips. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes dark against the blue of his cheek, and he pressed a gentle kiss. A kiss pressed to each knuckle. Each finger.

"I'm sorry," he breathed against your skin, the words soft and broken. Another kiss. "Terribly, terribly sorry." He turned your hand over, nuzzled into your palm, let his blood smear warm and wet across your fingers.

You wretched your hands away, baring a low hiss.

Around you, other Na'vi glanced over. Confused. Curious.

"Under—" Your voice cracked. You swallowed hard, forced the words out. "Under one, we remain. Children of Eywa." You shoved the armband toward him, desperate to be done. "We see you, Neteyam."

He took it gently, cradling it in bloodied hands. But he didn't put it on. Not like the others had. He just held it.

You spent the next rows trying to process what he'd done—how the blood had pooled warm between your fingers, sappy and viscous.

Poor next participants.

Your hands trembled and your cuts came clumsy because of it. Each slice felt wrong, too shallow or too deep, and you couldn't stop the shake in your fingers. You hated yourself for it. Hated him more.

Come on… Come on…

By the time you reached the last one, you had steadied. Quick cuts. Clean. You returned to your parents' side.

"You are all second-blooded!" Your father's voice rang across the gathering, staff lifted high. The People cheered, stamping feet against packed sand. "Neteyam has earned his right as the most eligible bachelor!" He clapped once, sharp and final, and the crowd echoed him.

Of course. Because why wouldn’t it be him? You thought dimly.

Neteyam extended a humble nod in response.

You wanted to throw something at his head.

The horn blew. Music started—drums and flutes, the kind that made hips sway and hands reach. You liked to think you’d be curling your hands with Tey, leading him to dance right now. Tey loves to dance, although he’s terrible at it. 

You slumped where you stood, shoulders curling inward.

Ao'nung glanced at you. For once, he stood tall without the usual preening smugness. "Y/n…?" A whisper. His bite was gone. He frowned, reaching for your elbow. "What's wrong?"

Tsireya caught her tongue between her teeth. "Tey…" She didn't need to say more.

Ao'nung's expression shifted into understanding "Go get rest," he muttered. "We'll handle it from here." He gave several pats over your shoulder.

Relief flooded through you so fast it almost hurt. You pressed your face against his chest, breathing in salt and brother and safety. "Thank you."

The siblings exchanged a worried glance above your head.

Ao'nung scoffed. "What? I'm gonna make you do my chores tomorrow anyway. So go on. Get out of here." He grinned.

You managed a smile, waved farewell, and turned toward the darker stretches of beach. You felt ridiculous in your festival attire—not all of it, thank the Great Mother, but enough that a strange shame clung to your skin.

Tey. I need to find Tey.

You passed Neteyam on your way out. He was looking for someone, it seemed, but he couldn't move two steps without getting swamped. "Neteyam!" they called. Women tugged at his tail. Others held his queue, fingers threading through the braid with a boldness that made you wonder if they had anything to drink.

"H-Hey, not my tail!"

He couldn't take a single step without another woman throwing herself at him. You almost smiled. Almost. Then the anger came back

You kept walking. Behind you, he yelped. "Y/n!"

His voice cut through the noise. You glanced back—saw his eyes widen, saw his hand reach—

A woman pulled him down into a kiss.

"Mhm—"

You kept walking.

You kept your head low, circling wide through the shadows beneath the mangrove roots. Torchlight danced on water, and the air tasted of smoke, the musk of bodies pressed too close together. and overripe fruit. 

A whistle cut through the noise.

You'd almost made it.

A cluster of men broke from the edge of the clearing.

"Y/n." One of them grinned, angling to block your path. "Not joining in?"

One of the hunters grinned, peeling away from the trunk he'd been leaning against. Two others followed, eyes bright with drink and the feverish energy that came after a successful Passage. After proving themselves men.

You shook your head, the motion sharp. "No."

"Really?" The tallest one stepped closer, still grinning. "We're adults now in the eyes of Eywa and the People. Don't be shy."

Your jaw tightened. "I'm not interested. Do you not see?" You gestured to your bare arm, where the ceremonial band should have been. "I am not—" The curse died on your tongue. You exhaled, forcing your voice flat. "Find another."

"Oh, come on." He exchanged a glance with his companions. "You can't refuse if we ask properly. It's our reward, and we know you had that armband earlier. All the men saw it."

Heat prickled up your neck. "It's not on me now, and I—"

"She's not going with you."

The voice came from your right, you didn’t need to know who it was, you just did.

Neteyam emerged from the darker path, torchlight catching the fresh marks painted across his skin—kisses in pigment, scattered along his jaw, his shoulders, his ribs. Under other cirumstances you might have laughed at him. Teased him. But now you wished to see no more of him.

The hunters saw him and immediately stepped back, hands raised. They'd seen what Neteyam did to Tey. They knew what happened to those who pushed him.

He always won.

You turned your head, unwilling to look at him directly.

"Sorry. All yours." They melted back into the crowd without another word.

Silence stretched between you and Neteyam. You crossed your arms over your chest, glaring at the sand because looking at him felt dangerous.

He looked different tonight—deliberately so. His hair hung loose past his shoulders, still damp at the ends. Around his throat sat a thin choker of iridescent shell, trailing fine cords down to his ribs and wrists. A thigh ring. An ankle bracelet on the same leg. His loincloth was shorter than usual, gossamer-thin and edged in soft feathers. Bright orange dye marked the armor on his forearm.

And there, hanging from his pierced ear, was a single blue feather.

An imitation of the one tucked into your own hair.

Your face burned.

He looked beautiful.

You hated him.

"I've been looking everywhere for you," he said quietly.

You let out a harsh breath through your nose. "What now? Here to profess your love? Fight Tey again?"

The sneer felt thin on your lips. Neteyam was beautiful—classically beautiful, the kind of face that songs were written about. You hated that you noticed. Hated that even now, furious as you were, some treacherous part of you wondered if—

You are doing it again. Thinking about him beyond your rage.

"Find someone else," you said, voice tight. "I'm not—"

The words died in your throat.

Because Neteyam had dropped to his knees in front of you.

Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. His lips pressed thin, trembling despite himself, and his hands came together—fingers lacing, unlacing—Until they came together in a shape that looked too much like prayer.

He was nervous.

When had Neteyam ever been nervous? Not a nervous man, you'd have said. But maybe he was. Maybe he'd always been—trembling all along, just like his fool of a brother, and you'd simply never noticed.

His hands shook when they reached for you, and when they found your hips, and he drew you closer, inch by careful inch.

"...Get up." You looked away. "You look pathetic."

"I know."

His thumb stroked the curve of your hip. A breath drew in, slow. "But I don’t care." Whispered. "I can deal with your hate, Y/n." His voice barely held. "I can deal with your apathy, your annoyance, your disappointment—And I have. For months, I will. For however long you need."

A pause.

His fingers tightened. Dug crescents into your skin that would purple by morning. You'd wear them and pretend not to notice.

"But please—" The word shattered. "—look at me."

You didn't.

"Don't pretend I'm not here." His forehead pressed against your stomach, and you felt the dampness there. The shake of him. "I can't—I can't survive that."

You swallowed, and you made the mistake of looking down.

You caught his watery eyes first. A ring of fire, thats what they were.

His lashes clumped and dark. The ceremonial paint smeared across his cheekbones had started to run, black and white bleeding together down the sharp cut of his jaw. He looked ruined. He looked young.

He looked like he was dying, and you were the knife.

"I am sorry," he said again. The syllables splintered in his mouth. "I love you, and I cannot help that I do—"

"Stop."

"—you are the first thing I think of when I wake. The last before I sleep. I love you. I love you. I love you. You are—"

You rolled your eyes. Shifted your weight. Ready to pull free, to walk away, to do what you always did. But before you could move he pressed his face against your stomach.

"Neteyam—" Heat flooded your cheeks, crawled down your neck. Your heart slammed against your ribs, frantic. His breath ghosted warm over your navel and you froze. "Get off. Before someone sees—"

“No.” He grumbled firmly.

You pushed at his head, fingers tangling in hair that was silk-soft and wrong, so different from your own, but he didn't budge. He only buried himself deeper, stubborn as a child denied, arms locking around you in a hold that was iron.

He pressed your lower back flush against him, and you felt the press of his flat nose.

Then he kissed your stomach.

Small, fervent presses of mouth against skin. You could feel the suction of it, the heat, the way his lips parted just slightly with each one.

"You are stubborn," you hissed, squirming. Twisting. Your tail lashed behind you, betraying the panic rising in your chest. "Get off—"

Someone laughed nearby. A couple stumbled past, already half-undressed, hands wandering past the loincloth. The female caught your eye and grinned, victorious, before her partner pulled her into the shadows.

Around you, the celebration continued. Some couples had already slipped away to mate, the wet sounds unmistakable even over the drums. Others passed by with knowing grins, with raised brows and whispered comments you didn't need to hear to understand.

They thought this was reconciliation by the way Neteyam was on his knees.

They thought this was love by the way you cupped his cheeks.

Your lips tugged back, wincing in embarrassment. 

Only when you stilled—when your hands stopped pushing and simply rested in his hair—did Neteyam look up. 

His face was wet. Not just his eyes anymore, but his cheeks too, tear tracks cutting through the ceremonial paint still smudged across his skin. His lips were swollen from pressing them against you, bitten raw.

He released one arm from around you. Reached back. Fumbled at his loincloth.

"I…" He hesitated.

Slowly, he lifted an armband into the space between you. Your breath caught. It was yours. The one you'd thrown.

"I went back for it," he said quietly. His thumb smoothed over the worn leather, tracing the pattern you'd carved yourself. "I could not leave it there. It is yours. It is important to you. So I—"

He swallowed, "So it is important to me." His voice broke completely.

You stared at him. At the armband.

"You're an idiot," you whispered.

"I know."

"A complete and utter fool."

"Yes."

"It is a scrap of leather, Neteyam. Meant for Tey, you under—”

"It is yours." He said with total conviction. “Here." He held it up, offering. His hands still shook. "Please. Let me—I will put it on. I will do it right this time. I will—"

You snatched it from his grip.

He flinched. Actually flinched, like you'd struck him. His hands dropped to his sides, curling into fists against his thighs, and he looked down. Waiting. Expecting you to throw it again. Expecting you to walk away.

You didn't.

Instead, you turned it over in your hands. One of the beads had cracked—probably from where you'd thrown it—and someone had tried to repair it. Clumsily. With the wrong color cord, too fast with the short amount of time.

Neteyam had tried to fix it.

"The bead is wrong." You whispered. It didn’t really matter to you.

"I could not find the right one. I tried. I searched all over our collection, but—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I am sorry. I can try again. I can keep looking, I will—"

"Neteyam—"

"I cannot." His voice cracked. "Not when you—not when every time I close my eyes, I see you walking away. I see the way you looked at me, like I was—like I was nothing. Like I had ruined—"

"Stop."

"—everything. Like I had taken the most precious thing in my life and shattered it, and I—"

"Stop."

You hesitated. Your fingers found the beadwork again, traced the greens, the blues, the long shell that hung heavy with memory. Your chest tightened. Damn him. you thought

"It's beautiful." His voice came low, almost reverent. The kind of softness meant to disarm. "A master's work. Always, when it comes to you."

Your gaze dropped. Then froze.

He was holding out his own armband now.

"Neteyam—"

No.

No. No. No.

Your body moved before the thought finished—jerking back, already turning—but his hand closed around the base of your tail and yanked. The grip sent lightning up your spine and locked your legs in place.

"You left me no choice, Y/n."

The words came out pained. Almost apologetic.

Worse—they sounded true.

Dusty indigo shadowed his expression. His breath evened, steadied, as though he'd made some private decision. “Tonight, I am yours. I told you, I have nowhere to go that isn't toward you."

Then he stood. You'd forgotten—or forced yourself to forget—how he filled a space. Shoulders angled toward you like a closing door, broad enough to block the world behind them. He leaned towards you, all of that mass, all of that controlled strength. and his thumbs found your jaw. Cradled it, and then his mouth was on yours.

A groan rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest, vibrating against your mouth. "You taste so much sweeter..." He didn't finish. His tongue swept your bottom lip instead before he deepened the kiss, one hand cradling the back of your skull to hold you there.

You shoved at his chest.

He caught your wrists. Laced your fingers together, pinning your hands between your bodies.

"Mhm."

The sound was satisfied. Possessive. That pleased hum made your stomach drop and your thighs clench and—

Think of anything else. Anyone else.

Tey's sea-foam skin. No—midnight skin. Webbed hands. No—smaller hands, longer fingers. Green eyes. Yellow eyes. Wavy hair. Straight hair.

Tey. Neteyam. Neteyam. Neteyam.

"Stop thinking about him."

Your eyes flew open.

Neteyam's expression had gone dark. His nose brushed yours, breath hot against your mouth. "I can feel it. The way you went somewhere else." His teeth found your bottom lip. Tugged. "Come back."

"I can't—"

"You can." He kissed you again. Slower this time. "You will."

He pulled back just enough to speak, lips brushing yours with each syllable.

"I love you." A peck. "So much." Another. "Let me prove myself, Y/n." His mouth pressed to the corner of yours. "I will show you, if only tonight, that I can be everything." Peck. "And more."

His eyes opened, and he watched you. Then his tongue slipped past your lips.

No.

But no didn't come.

"Mhm—"  The sound you made, all soft and needy. Something that shouldn’t have come from you at all, came so natural.

You let your eyes fall shut, tilting your head just enough to make it easier.

"There she is…" The words brushed your mouth, barely spoken before they pressed against yours again.

You meant to shove him. You should have—should've called him insane, should've hated how your body betrayed you and reconcile the ache of your own arousal with reason. But you heard it, the both of you.

Whooping. Celebration. Voices lifted in unison, wild and happy.

You pulled back, saliva connecting a sweet bridge, breath unsteady, and stared past Neteyam's shoulder. Your brow furrowed.

Neteyam's voice cracked around the edges, all boyish want and zero shame. He chased your mouth, fingers already reaching for your jaw, eyes hazy and half-lidded like he'd been drinking something stronger than the ceremonial wine. "Come back here…"

"Don't you hear that?" You planted both palms against his chest and pushed.

He blinked. Slow. Then his ear flickered, swiveling toward the noise. His head turned, gaze dragging reluctantly from your face to the distant glow of the village.

"Dancing…?" he murmured.

You dragged the back of your hand across your lips, still tasting salt and him, then pushed at his chest with unsteady palms. Your knees betrayed you—wobbly. "Can't be." You stumbled toward the shore, but his fingers caught yours and pulled you back.

He slowly laced his with yours. 

Right. Tradition. You were his—if only for tonight.

Together you climbed the beach, footsteps syncing as the noise grew louder. At the top of the steps, the People stood in clusters, cheering, laughing, swaying. When they spotted you both, their eyes brightened. Hands clapped Neteyam's back, then yours. 

"What is going on…?" you asked, turning to Neteyam as though he might know.

He only shrugged, sliding his arms around your waist and pulling you flush against his side. Hip to hip. You stiffened, your mouth twitching into a frown, but you held your tongue.

Don't make a scene.

The crowd parted.

When you reached the heart of the gathering, you found your father standing beside Jake, their forearms clasped in that old way warriors sealed agreements. They spoke low, voices too quiet to hear—until your mother's gaze landed on you.

Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes glassing over with something that looked like relief. Like pride.

Pride?

Your stomach twisted. For what?

Neteyam, meanwhile, looked absolutely neutral. His face scanned the crowd, hunting for context. His tail swirling for anything.

"There they are!"

An elder's voice cut through the noise, warm and approving. "Already together."

Your shoulders drew tight, his relaxed.

"Father…?" The word came out smaller than you intended. "What is going on?"

Someone nearby leaned toward their companion. "I thought she and Tey were going to mate?"

"Maybe something happened?"

"Did you see the way he looked at her?"

Your ears swiveled, catching fragments. Pieces that didn't fit. You swallowed hard, fingers twitching in Neteyam's grip.

He squeezed back.

Your father stepped down. So did his.

"Your father and I have agreed—" Jake Sully's voice carried that strange, careful softness humans used when delivering bad news. "—that you two would be a great pairing."

Your father stood beside him, and for once his face held no lament, no wistful talk of grandchildren someday, of you finding your own path in your own time. Just certainty. Decision. Done.

"...Sempu…?"

The word came out broken. Small. You hadn't called him that—not like that, since you were a child.

Everything tilted. The ground, the sky, the careful circle of watching eyes. Please. Your fingers found your songcord, twisting. Was this—could this be—

Please. Please let me wake up beside Tey. Let me wake up and breathe him in.

Your father reached for you. Hand lifting toward your shoulder—

You smacked it away. You tried to hiss but what came out instead was a sob. Wet and ugly and wrong.

Every smile in the circle dimmed. Faces shifted. Your mother's hand flew to her chest.

"Ma 'ite—" your father started.

But Neteyam was there.

His chest met yours before you could stumble back, arms wrapping around you. His chin hooked over your head, hand pressing between your shoulder blades, holding you against him.

"Shhh…" His mouth pressed to the crown of your head, his breath hot against your braids. "Not here…"

And then he laughed.

Loud. Booming. A sound ripped from his chest in great, pounding chuckles that didn't belong to this moment, didn't belong to the way your ribs were cracking under the weight of it all. He lifted you—effortless, and spun. 

The world blurred into streaks of green and gold and too many watching eyes.

You felt the shift in the crowd—approval blooming where shock had been. See how happy he is? See how he loves her already?

When your feet touched ground again his hand found your cheek. The other gripped your hip. He kissed you.

Passionate, they'd call it later. Claiming, you'd think.

His mouth moved over yours with practiced enthusiasm, boyish and too-happy. You realized this wasn’t for show. He truly felt this happiness. He wanted this happiness. He pulled back only to press more kisses across the crown of your head, tail wagging in wild snaps.

"I can't believe—" Another kiss. "After all this time—" His hands framed your face like you were something precious. Fragile. "You're mine."

He looked at you like he saw you.

I see you.

You looked over his shoulder.

your parents stood. Mother's hand rested on Father's forearm. Both wore matching expressions of satisfaction.

And for once, a deep unsettling betrayal, hate coiled around your lips. Hate imagined you sticking a spear in every one of their hearts.

Love made you wince in disgust at your own thoughts.

"Hey." Neteyam's thumbs stroked your cheeks. You blinked. Focused. He was so close you could count the lighter flecks in his eyes. "I know this is... sudden." His voice dropped, just for you. Gentle. Kind. That made it worse. "But I promise—I will be good to you. I will protect you. I will—"

"A gift from Eywa," someone murmured.

Neteyam's smile widened. He glanced toward the voice—his mother, you realized.

"See?" he whispered. "Even my mother approves."

Oh.

"How lucky is she to have him."

Oh.

"How lucky is he to have her."

Oh.

The voices blurred. Overlapped. Your vision swam.

Dizzy. You were so dizzy.

This was real. This was happening. This was—

Your life, the one you'd imagined with Tey—his laugh, his hands, the future you'd whispered about in the dark—it dissolved. Gone. Replaced by this: Neteyam's too-warm palms on your cheeks, the weight of expectation pressing down from all sides.

A great pairing.

This was reality. 

Neteyam was still talking—something about the future, about building your home together, about the ikran flights you'd take and the children you'd have and wasn't it perfect how your families were already so close—

"Ah, are you ok?"

His finger traced your lips now, you jolted and he ducked his head to catch your eyes.

"I meant what I said earlier." His hands found yours again, lacing your fingers together. "I love you. I have for... longer than I should probably admit." A soft laugh. "And I know—I know this isn't how you imagined things. But I promise, I will spend every day proving that this was the right choice."

He waited.

You realized he wanted you to say it back. I love you.

“Right.” You mumbled instead.

He frowned, ears pressing against his head now. "We can go to my hut, or yours—whatever makes you feel comfortable."

The words came soft. Apologetic, almost. But his smile gave him away. It split his face wide, bright and eager as a child's, and whatever comfort he thought he offered only made your stomach sink further. He leaned in.

"I can’t believe it. We will live together soon… you and I… oh, thank Eywa—"

Curse Eywa.

But he didn't stop. Couldn't, maybe. The words spilled faster now, tripping over themselves in their eagerness to build a life you hadn't agreed to. "I'd hunt the food, and you can prepare it so we can eat—or maybe you hunt and I prepare? You are a good huntress."

"I have seen you with your bow," he murmured, nose brushing your cheek now, nuzzling with an affection that made your skin crawl. "The way you track."

You felt the graze of his fangs against your pulse. "You and I… together."

His hand found yours. Squeezed.

And he kept talking.

On.

And on.

"Maybe we could—" He tilted his head, considering. "We could start with one. See how it goes?" A smile, shy now. He'd be the perfect mate, the perfect father. Maybe, possibly, has and will.

The words blurred together. You stopped listening. Your gaze drifted across the space—past his shoulder, past the fire, until it caught on something.

Kiri.

She was watching. Her eyes found yours, and she smiled. Gentle. Knowing. The kind of smile that said isn't this wonderful?

Damn Eywa.

A/N- Please remember to reblog or like! Much appreciated!!! . . .

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[everlyblaar]

Holy shit, now this is an arranged marriage.

I actually got mixed feeling because I do like Tey. Oh my sweet boy.

[rawme-price]

kid’s giving price bald spots on his beard tbh

I do love the concept of baby being obsessed with prices beard.

Yes, the grabby stage was absolutely hell for him, and if baby wanted she definitely ripped some hairs out. Not like price minded, even if you winced in pain on his behalf he'd just kiss baby's head and mutter "I've been shot multiple times, sweetie, do yer worst."

After that, when baby got a little more used to him? Obsessed. Without fail she'll look up at price from her little baby activity chair, short little arms outstretched for papa, babbling "Daaadadaasaa" until price scooped her up with a fond sigh. Baby wants nothing more that to rub her hands all over price's scratchy beard. Her papa is much more entertaining than all the toys she has.

...her little obsession with his beard, though, leads to gaz holding baby with the most panicked expression "why is she crying?!" He asks, arms held out like the kid will explode "she's crying, am I scaring her?!"

Yeah. Turns out baby doesn't realize other men don't have great big mutton chops like papa and will sob without them.

[cxffeedreamer]

𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐕𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 ?

Pairing: Neteyam x Reader

Word Count: 400+ word drabble

Note: I hope this doesn’t suck as much as my brain tells me it does

Thinking of how Neteyam would never raise his voice at you.

About how even if you did everything in your power to piss him off, his voice seems permanently stuck in that stupidly soft tone that made you melt every time.

You’d push and you’d prod but you’d never manage to get anything more than a warning glare.

You could pull the most reckless stunt and all you’d receive from his is a stern lecture while he tends to your wounds.

Surely he’d hit his breaking point at some point, right?

The closest you’d ever managed to see him yell was when you nearly got shot out of the sky during a raid because you decided to follow Lo’ak instead of following Jake’s orders to watch from a distance.

Even after your near death experience? His anger wasn’t directed at you, but at his father. For scolding the three of you. For calling you a skxawng when all you wanted to do was look after his baby brother.

Neteyam knew how much you looked up to Jake, and how much you wanted him to like you. Not just because you were his son’s mate, but because you didn’t want him to think you were useless.

He’d pull you away towards his grandmother’s hut afterwards, leaving Jake and Netiri stunned at their son’s outburst. The anger that bubbled within him was painfully obvious. His scowl, the way his jaw was clenched, the fact that he wasn’t hovering over his grandma, instead opting to watch quietly from the doorway.

When she finished tending to your injuries and left the two of you alone, you were ready for another scolding.

Only, it never came. Instead, he ruffled your hair and asked you a million times if you were okay. He made you promise not to do something so reckless like that again.

He’d take you out on a little date after dinner that night, holding you securely in front of him on his ikran, flying out to your secret spot reserved for just the two of you.

When the two of you settled into your spot, he stared at you as you watched the eclipse, affection evident in his eyes. He brushed your hair out of your face, kissing your temple. You’d hear faint whispers pour from his lips. Silent prayers to Eywa, thanking her for keeping you safe. For blessing (and cursing) him with someone like you to spend eternity with.

So no, Neteyam never raised his voice at you, never planned to, never wants to. Because was raised to treat his mate right, to earn the respect of others through strength and compassion, not by being the loudest voice.

[pandoraslxna]

Little flame

Ash!Neteyam x female na‘vi reader x Ash!Lo‘ak

Words: 9.1k

Summary: It is said, that the brothers had learned to hunt side by side before they had even learned to speak. Together, they were an unstoppable force. A dangerous duo. And right now, their entire focus was on their most recent prey: You.

Warnings: explicit smut, clan swap au, non-con, kidnapping, mmf threesome, body modifications, sex slaves, p in v, oral (f&m receiving), praise kink, possessiveness, abuse of power, power imbalance, teasing, sexual tension, frenum ladder piercing, tongue piercing, prinz albert piercing, consumption of bodily fluids (blood, cum, spit), creampie, pet play, dom/sub, biting, marking

All na‘vi know their story. Of the time when the Omatikaya’s song was silenced.

When the fire came from the mountains and burned what was left of their forest, burned even their last tree of souls and left them with nothing but the ash of grief and the fire of hatred, the Omatikaya had chosen to leave the life they’ve known behind.

They say, the great mother did not hear their crying when the sky-people came to destroy their home. And she closed her eyes when rivers of fire poured through the valleys, burned down their last sanctuary and with it, all the hope that was left. And most importantly, their faith.

The Omatikaya were once proud people, respecting the balance of life and Eywas will. But that was many songs ago.

Now, all na‘vi know their story. They know of their suffering, their pain and their loss. And they know what this had made them become. That Toruk Makto had lead them through these difficult times, whilst their tsahìk spoke words no one had sung before.

She taught the people that Eywa had turned her back on them. That the Great Mother’s silence was not a trial, but a judgment. She would not come to help. She would not come to provide. Not anymore.

But the Omatikaya were not weak. Much like wood to an open flame, their hatred only made them grow stronger.

Soon, the old laws were reshaped, the balance bent until it cracked. They learned to live where nothing else grew. They took from the land of others, took from the people, took more than they could hold in their greedy hands and feed their never ending hunger. Hatred, once a warning emotion, quickly became a weapon. So the Omatikaya endured, but they were no longer what they had been.

They were feared where they had once been welcomed. Remembered where they had once been loved.

And what had once been a peaceful clan, had now become a warning to all.

You remember the stories as they were told to you, quietly, at the edge of the fire, always after the children had been sent away. These were stories meant to teach caution, to strengthen your own faith, like a reminder of what could happen if one were to disrupt the balance and violate eywas rules.

The air reeks of smoke, blood and old ash. The ground beneath you is hard and lifeless, as if even the earth has learned not to come here.

Your mother, the tsahìk, and your father, olo’eyktan of your clan, had been dragged away into Neytiris tent many hours ago and had not returned since then. Worry was gnawing at your very existence as you continue to tug and writhe against the rope binding your hands and feet together, pinning you to a charred down tree. But it’s useless. Aside from the horrible pain of your wrists and ankles being scrubbed raw by the rope, these knots did not budge.

Further away, the people of the Omatikaya moved in hectic, rhythmic circles around a towering fire. Its flames are fed too well, burning bright and hungry, casting warped shadows across their painted bodies. This is not a dance of thanks or mourning. It is a dance of ownership, of victory.

Neytiri, the tsahìk, stands closest to the fire, her silhouette sharp against the flames. Around her neck and wrists hang severed kurus, their tendrils dried and darkened, strung together like trophies.

Your throat tightens and you force yourself to look away. Among your people, to sever a kuru is unthinkable. It is worse than death. And yet they celebrate her, dance around the fire, around the blades she circles in the air. It’s hypnotizing.

Toruk Makto sits apart from the rest, close enough to the fire that its light glints off the metal weapon resting across his knees. You were taught never to touch such things, never to let their poison seep into your hands, your thoughts or your spirit. Metal was forbidden, it was one of Eywas rules. The first and most important one.

And yet, Jakesuli holds them as if they are part of him.

His posture is calm, assured. This is not a leader burdened by duty, but one who has long accepted what he has become. The great shadow of Toruk’s wings loom behind him, his skin scarred from battle.

Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you let your head fall forward until your chin rests against your chest and your braids slip forward to hide your face.

"Eywa ngahu, kìyevame srak nì’aw, slä oe tsun tivìran san oe lu… [Eywa be with me, even if you are silent, for my song still knows your name…]," Your voice trembles when you begin to sing, thin and hoarse from smoke and fear, but it does not break.

You sing on, letting the words trail into one another, softer now, the prayer dissolving into breath as tears swell behind your closed eyes. They spill anyway, tracking down your cheeks and dripping from your chin onto the hard ground below.

You’re so lost in your prayer, that you don’t even realize that you are not alone anymore, until a low, dark chuckle cuts through your voice, silencing you.

"Ah, look brother. A little birdy is singing a song for us."

Your breath catches sharply and you gasp and jerk your head up, braids falling back to reveal your face. Two figures stand before you, one of them tilts his head, studying you with open curiosity. The other smiles, slow and sharp.

"What is it?" the first asks, his voice smooth with amusement as he steps closer. "Are we not the ones you expected to answer your call?"

"Is your song not ours?" The other one continues, mockingly gentle as he crouches until his eyes are level with yours, tilting your head up with his thumb and finger pinching your chin. "You sang it so sweetly. We thought perhaps it was meant for us."

Anger boils hot beneath your skin at his touch. Before fear can stop you, you bare your teeth and snap at his fingers, jaws closing on empty air as he jerks his hand back just in time.

For a heartbeat, there is only the crackle of the fire and loud drums in the distance that sound so far away.

Then he blinks slowly, before he laughs loud enough to make you flinch.

"Oh, look at that!" He says, grinning sharply and his eyes bright with delight. "This one has fire." His laughter is genuine, almost pleased.

"Fire indeed," The other one behind him chuckles, low and approving.

Your heart hammers against your ribs. You draw back as far as the bindings allow, bark pressing painfully into your shoulders, and swallow hard.

"W-Who are you?" you demand, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat. "What do you want?"

The taller one straightens, folding his arms over his chest with an unsettling calm. In the firelight, you can see the markings of an Omatikaya warrior etched into his skin, newer scars layered over old ones, pieces of sharpened bone pieced through his skin, worn like decorations under red paint and black coal.

"Our mother has allowed us to look at our latest prisoners," he explains evenly, as if this was something casual to them. "Before they are sacrificed."

Your stomach drops.

"The others were…" He pauses, searching for the right word, then shrugs. "Less interesting. Nothing worth our attention."

The crouched warrior’s grin widens as his gaze drags over you, lingering far too long. "But you…," he says softly, voice lowering.

He’s purposefully not finishing that sentence, trying to make you uncomfortable, but to you it matters little anyways. You’re too occupied with thinking about what the other one had said earlier.

Mother? But that means…

Your eyes widened as you realized that these two weren’t just anyone. These were not just any warriors of the Omatikaya. They are the sons of Toruk Makto and their gruesome tsahìk. Feared warriors among their clan, brutal and cruel.

You’ve heard of them before.

The elder one is Neteyam. It’s been told, he is as skilled with the bow as his mother. He builds his arrows himself. The heads are carved to break bone and split muscle, dipped into poison to make survival impossible. He knows exactly where to place them so the most damage can be done with a single, precise release. And he could hit a target from any distance, moving through the forest without a sound. Neteyam does not waste shots, he does not miss and he does not need to watch the body fall. You are dead, the moment he aims at you.

The people say, the Sullys eldest hunts palulukan for fun, not for food or glory, but because he can. They say that the great apex predator of the forest, the one even seasoned hunters avoid, knows his scent and turns away from it.

Lo’ak, the younger brother, is another thing entirely.

You’ve heard that he dips his knife in poison too, not ultimately to kill, but to paralyze you. Everyone knew, that Lo’ak took enjoyment from playing with his prey.

But even from a distance, he was just as deadly as his brother. He had been trained by his father in wielding sky people’s weapons from a very young age, metal pressed into his hands as if it were just another toy for a child.

Apparently, he could name a gun without ever seeing it, just from the sound it made when it’s fired. They say he could take one apart blind, fingers moving from memory alone, and then put it back together again without ever opening his eyes.

It’s said, the brothers have learned to hunt side by side before they had even learned to speak.

Where Neteyam ended things with scary precision, Lo’ak made the pain last. One controls, the other destroys. And they don’t need to look at each other to know what the other is about to do.

Together, they were an unstoppable force. A dangerous duo.

And right now, their entire focus was on you.

"Look at her," Lo’ak calls to his brother. He grins, sharp and pleased, and reaches out again to cup your face and trail a thumb along your cheek. His touch is warm and possessive. "She’s so pretty, isn’t she?"

Your breath stutters at his words. Your entire body goes rigid, every instinct screaming at you to pull away, but there is nowhere to go.

"She is," Neteyam agrees softly.

That, somehow, is worse. His voice carries no hunger, no excitement, only quiet certainty, as though he is merely stating a fact.

"I want to play with her first." Lo‘ak whispers, licking his lips. He talks about you as if you aren’t even really here.

Play? Your eyes widen before you can stop them. Horror flashes across your face as you make up all possible scenarios of what his words could indicate in your head, which the brothers notice immediately.

They chuckle, low, amused sounds shared between them like a private joke. Lo’ak’s grin deepens, clearly delighted by your reaction, while Neteyam watches you with an unreadable expression, head tilted slightly, as if committing the moment to memory.

Then Neteyam steps forward. He places a hand on his brother’s shoulder and when Lo’ak glances up at him, he nods once toward the fire. No words. None needed.

Lo’ak clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes like a sulking child denied a toy, but there’s no real resistance in him. He pulls his hand back from your face at last and straightens to his full height.

Before turning away and following Neteyam, he looks at you one more time and winks.

Then, their silhouettes melt back into the firelight, swallowed by shadows, and you’re left staring at the empty space in front of you, heart still pounding hard enough to hurt.

For a brief, fragile moment, you let yourself believe that this was it. That they were just trying to scare you.

Later, when the fire outside has burned down to something lower and steadier, exhaustion finally begins to win.

Your head dips forward once, twice. But each time you jolt awake, forcing your eyes open again. You do not trust sleep here. Still, your body betrays you, muscles trembling from the long strain of fear. You are just slipping again, just for a breath, until you hear footsteps approach.

Immediately, you snap awake.

Two warriors stand in front of you, but not the same brothers from earlier. These ones are much older, their limbs thinner due to the lack of human genes in their blood, heads shaved bare and marked with thick scars that run over scalp and jaw alike. Their faces are hard and unreadable, eyes dull in a way that tells you they did not come to you on their own. Someone had send them.

Your pulse spikes.

Before you can speak, one of them reaches for the bindings at your wrists. Your breath comes fast and shallow as rough fingers work the knots loose. Hands roughly close around your upper arms and haul you to your feet.

You stumble, legs weak, barely able to keep pace as they pull you forward.

No one speaks and you do not dare ask what is happening.

They lead you through the camp, past dying fires and smaller tents. The night is silent, safe for the sound of feet on the dry ground. At the far edge of the clearing stands a tent larger than the rest, looming in the dark.

Your steps slow despite yourself.

Skulls hang from its entrance, some small, some far too large to belong to any Na’vi. Giant teeth are lashed together with sinew, forming crude arches above the doorway. Feathers, bones, bits of metal, decorations pulled straight from a nightmare sway softly in the night breeze, clicking faintly against one another.

The warriors at your side do not hesitate. They roughly shove you inside, past the animal hide that marks the entrance.

You stumble forward, barely catching yourself before falling, and then the flap drops shut behind you.

The first thing you notice is that the tent is warm. Outside, goosebumps had raised on your arms from the cold night air.

But inside, a small fire burns low at its center, casting a soft, flickering glow over furs spread thick across the ground. They’re dyed deep red and black, layered carefully. For a moment, the contrast is disorienting. It almost looks… cozy.

Then you notice the rest.

Skulls arranged along the walls, staring with empty eyes. Bones carved and painted, strung together in careful patterns. Metal chains hang from the high ceiling, catching the firelight when they sway, heavy and cold looking. There is no part of the space untouched by something taken from death.

Your stomach twists.

You take a hesitant step further inside, bare feet sinking into the furs. The tent is silent except for the crackle of the fire and you come to realize that you are alone.

Not for long, though.

The animal hides at the entrance rustle softly, then part, and two figures step inside.

Neteyam enters first.

Firelight rolls over him, catching on the broad plane of his chest, painted deep red. Streaks of grey ash follow the hard lines of his body. His loincloth hangs low on his hips, woven with painstaking precision, the patterns tight and symmetrical to match those of his cummerbund. Everything about him looks intentional and controlled.

His ears twitch and his tail flicks the moment he sees you.

Your eyes immediately catch on the marks littered across his body, bone and carved ornaments lining his torso and arms, heavy but balanced. From one earlobe hangs a thin metal chain, dark feathers threaded through it. It sways gently as he moves, brushing against his braids that are adorned with bones too. His gaze settles on you without surprise, as if he had been expecting this moment.

Lo’ak slips in behind him and the contrast is immediate.

The sides of his head are shaved clean, the rest of his braids pulled back into a low ponytail that is decorated with spines. Two loose braids frame his face, beads carved from bone and bullets clicking softly as he walks. His skin is painted much like his brother’s, red and ash, but where Neteyam’s markings feel ceremonial, Lo’ak’s look careless, almost playful, as if he smeared them on without patience.

Your eyes begin to wander despite yourself.

One of his ears is chipped, but both are lined with piercings too. But they’re are not bone. His are made of steel. You could tell by the way they reflect the firelight. Across his chest hangs a belt of bullets, resting against painted skin, and you wonder if these are part of his decorations too or if these are there to be used.

Your gaze flicks back to Neteyam, who walks with his chin lifted, shoulders squared. He looks like a man meant to be honored and feared.

Lo’ak sways as he follows, grin already pulling at his mouth, eyes bright with amusement, as if this is all just a joke, and a good one at that.

Fear claws its way up your spine.

You retreat instinctively, backing up as far as the tent allows until your calves hit the furs piled near the wall. Your heart hammers, breath coming quick and shallow, eyes darting between them as they move farther inside.

"Welcome, txeptsyip [little flame]," Neteyam says, as though this is a meeting long overdue.

His voice is calm. Pleasant, even. He folds his arms across his chest, rolls his shoulders once as if settling into himself and then looks at you with open interest. You can’t help but shiver as his eyes roll over you body before he holds your stare with warm intensity.

Lo’ak, on the other hand, moves immediately.

He takes two long, quick step toward you, too fast and too close. You flinch, but Neteyam’s hand comes out just as quickly, pressing flat against his brother’s chest. It stops him cold.

Lo’ak clicks his tongue, irritation flashing across his face as he stares back up at Neteyam. He leans back a fraction, shoulders loose, posture anything but obedient, but ultimately stays where he is. When your eyes finally meet his, the scowl melts into a slow, knowing smirk.

"What do you want from me?" you ask immediately, forcing the words out before your courage could fail you.

Neteyam’s gaze sharpens, just slightly. "We’ve come to propose a deal, txeptsyip. [little flame]"

Your brows furrow. "A… deal?"

Lo’ak laughs under his breath, rocking back on his heels like he’s enjoying this far too much, while Neteyam continues, "You have two paths ahead of you."

He lifts one finger.

"You will be sacrificed, like the rest of your clan. No one will mourn or even remember you, and your kuru will adorn my mothers necklace like all the others before you."

You swallow thickly. Then, he lifts a second finger.

"Or," he says evenly, "you can live."

Lo’ak’s grin widens as he adds, "with us."

Your chest tightens as understanding sinks in, and it’s almost nauseating.

"You mean like a prisoner or… a slave," you say quietly, already shaking your head.

Fear trembles through you, yet your hands curl into fists at your sides.

"I’d rather die," you whisper, then louder you say, "I’d rather join the great mother than live like this!"

The brothers laugh at your answer. Not cruelly. It is the kind of laughter that carries disbelief, as though you have said something naïve rather than brave. Embarrassed, your ears fold flatly against your head.

Lo’ak lets out a short breath through his nose then, shaking his head and Neteyam’s mouth curves into a smile as their laughter dies down.

"Slave," he repeats with a chuckle. "That might be the wrong word for it."

Lo’ak moves then, but this time, his brother doesn’t stop him. You suck in a sharp breath as he begins to circle you, feet soundless on the furs, his presence pressing in from behind, from the side. You track him with your eyes until he slips out of view, until you feel him more than see him.

"You think in extremes," he murmurs. "You forget there are other ways to belong."

Lo‘aks hand reaches out and a finger gently traces the curve of your spine, making you jump.

"You would have everything you could dream of," Neteyam continues, eyes sharp as they watch your face for any kind of reaction. "No more hunger. No more running from the vrrteps [demons]."

He steps in closer, voice lowering, almost intimate. "You would be protected. No one would touch you without our say. No one would take from you ever again."

Truthfully, he made it sound like safety. As if this was an act of kindness.

And for a brief, dangerous moment, your body betrays you, because it remembers what it is like to be cold, to be hungry, to sleep with fear curled tight in your chest. It remembers empty days and long nights and prayers whispered to eywa for protection.

The brothers see the hesitation flicker in your eyes.

Lo’ak smiles immediately. "See?" he says from behind you, his voice much closer than before. "You’re thinking about it."

You do. But deep down you know, everything they offer comes with an unspoken price. May that be obedience, gratitude or something else. A life wrapped in comfort, yes, but lived on your knees. Fed by the very poison Eywa forbade.

Before you could pull back, Lo’ak reaches for your hand.

His grip closes tight around your wrist, firm enough that you know fighting it would be useless. Your breath stutters, but you do not give him the satisfaction of struggling. He tugs once, guiding you toward the center of the tent.

The furs beneath your feet are impossibly soft, thick and warm. You’re so tired, only kept awake by adrenaline and fear, you knew you’d melt into them the moment you were allowed to rest on them.

Lo’ak releases your hand only once you are where they want you, fingers lingering just a moment too long. He grins at your tension, at the way your shoulders are drawn tight, your jaw clenched like it is the only thing holding you together.

"You would be no slave, txeptsyip, [little flame]" Neteyam says quietly.

He steps closer now, finally closing the distance he had allowed you. He stops at your other side, not touching, but near enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him.

"You would just be…," he brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear, "ours."

There’s warmth on your backside too, and you gasp softly when you turn your head and find Lo‘ak this close to you. He leans down, until his lips nearly touch the lobe of your ear.

"Ours to kiss. Ours to touch…", something warm and wet touches your ear, before you realize that’s his tongue teasing your lobe, "and ours to fuck."

Goosebumps raise all over your skin at his words.

Their bodies radiate heat, caging you in, and for the first time since they‘ve entered the tent, you understand something with sick clarity.

They are not trying to frighten you. They are trying to persuade you.

"No," you say, breath shallow but voice firm. "I can’t— I won’t!"

Neteyam’s expression doesn’t harden. If anything, it softens.

Lo’ak’s fingers brush your hip— barely there, a featherlight touch meant more to distract than to claim. It’s infuriating how gentle it is. He’s not brutally grabbing you, how you expected them to. Not forcing. Just enough to make you aware of where you are. Of who stands behind you.

Neteyam steps closer then, close enough that you could feel his breath on your skin. He lifts his hands and carefully cups your face in them, thumbs resting beneath your cheekbones.

"We’d take good care of you," Neteyam tells you, voice calm, almost reasonable. "We protect what is ours."

"And we never let it go," Lo‘ak adds, his smile sinister.

Your heart hammers painfully against your ribs. Every instinct screams at you to pull away, to bite and fight them. But another part of you, traitorous and tired, feels the pull of their attention. The certainty with which they speak, as though the world outside this tent no longer exists and it’s just the three of you.

"If you need proof of this," Neteyam says, tongue flicking over his bottom lip, "then we can show you."

The words are barely spoken before the space between you disappears. He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away— time you do not take. His forehead brushes yours first, breath warm against your lips, and then his mouth meets yours in a way that steals the very air from your lungs.

The kiss is firm, claiming and unyielding, but also controlled. Like everything else about him. The world narrows to the press of his mouth, the heat of his hands still cradling your face and his tongue as his slips between your lips. A small, helpless sound escapes you before you can stop it, but Neteyam greedily swallows it down.

Behind you, Lo’ak inhales sharply, a sound that borders on a groan. As if he were the one kissing you, sucking on your tongue, tasting your salvia.

"We’re gonna show you just how good you would have it with us," he murmured into your ear. "Belonging to us is a privilege not many have been allowed to."

Your pulse is racing. Your thoughts are tangled.

Lo’aks hands are still at your hips, squeezing soft flesh before they wander up higher, cupping your breasts. They’re so big and warm, and you feel each little scar on his skin as they impatiently rip away your top. Your too busy meeting Neteyam eager lips to do something against this, so you just gasp into the kiss when Lo‘ak begins to tease your nipples, rolls them between his fingers until they turn into hard pebbles.

"Mmmh, these would look so good pierced," he purrs lowly, kissing your shoulder and letting his canine rake over the nape of your neck. "I will put my mark on them soon, txeptsyip [little flame]."

As Lo‘ak kneads your breasts in his hands, Neteyam’s slowly move from cupping your face to squeezing your hips, gliding over your backside.

You don’t know who’s doing what or where anymore, but your limbs are becoming unstable and weak as both pair of hands explore your body. Heat was quickly spreading through your core, slithering deep in a place where you suddenly began to crave them.

Their low hums vibrated against your skin, surrounding you like a subtle lullaby. They were slowly caging you in between their bodies, more and more, until you began to squirm.

Sucked into an abyss of sensations, your head began to swim, until you were unable to focus on anything else besides their lips and hands all over you. All you could see, hear and smell was them. You were swallowed between them like a trapped bird.

Finally breaking the kiss with a gasp, your head falls back against Lo’aks broad chest as Neteyams hand sneaks it’s way lower and between your thighs. He cups your sex, feeling for how wet you are and then slides his fingers between your folds.

"You are very wet here," he groans, his finger rolling your clit easily with how slippery it was. Then he slides it lower, before he slips his finger into you in one, harsh thrust that makes you gasp. "But you are soaking here."

Your inner walls are clenching down around the single digit Neteyam thrusts into you, curling it slightly until you can’t hold back a long, drawn out moan.

"I want a taste," Lo‘ak says to his brother, his voice urgent and commanding. For a moment you fear they will start fighting over you, but then the older one slips his hand free from your loincloth and you pant heavily at the sudden loss.

It’s not for long, though, because he then spins you around so you’re facing Lo‘ak.

They work as one, starting to undress you by pulling down your loincloth and coverings. Neteyam settles himself down onto the furs first, maneuvering you so your head rests comfortably on his lap and spreading your thighs wide enough for his brother to settle himself between them.

His hands and lips are everywhere, kissing your cheek, nibbling at your earlobe, hands stroking your hair, as you watch Lo‘ak sink down to his knees.

The grin on his face is sharp and dangerous and you swallow to wet your dry throat. Raw nerves make your limbs shake, and you want to close your legs to hide yourself from them, but Lo‘ak does not allow it.

His hands glide along the inside of your thighs, keeping them apart. He kisses you there, kisses your navel and mound too. Kisses the inside of your knee as he drapes your legs over his wide shoulders. His teeth tease your skin, and when he bites into the softness of your inner thigh, you yelp in pain.

Neteyam keeps you pinned when you try to wriggle free, as if the pain had somehow managed to bring back the rational thinking part of you, the one that made you realize that this was wrong, so very wrong.

Your hands claw at Neteyam’s arms, but he coos softly into your ear, "shh, you will be fine. My brother is just teasing. We would never hurt you."

"That is, if you’re being a good girl," Lo‘ak adds from between your legs, licking the bite marks that are slowly turning purplish on your blue skin. Your tail thrashes against the furs, your chest rapidly raising and falling.

Behind you, Neteyam’s chest vibrates with a dark chuckle. You want to protest, want to tell them that you are neither their slave nor their pet, and that you would never be good for them. But then Lo‘ak grins and sticks out his tongue, ready to lick you there, yet is stopped short by the sound of your sharp gasp.

There, in the middle of his tongue, sits a small bead of steel. It reflects the light of the fire nearby, shiny and wet with spit, and your whole body goes rigid at the thought of it touching you.

"Kehe [no]— wait," you nearly choke on your own words with how hastily your force them out, "you— you can’t, it is forbidden to touch metal!"

Both brothers laugh softly at your words, neither of them giving you the impression that they were taking your pleas seriously. Instead, Lo‘ak just grins at you, his face continuing to lower until you feel his warm breath on your cunt.

"Oh baby, trust me. You want that metal to touch you," he murmurs.

"But…t-the great mother will—"

"There’s no great mother here, no eywa. Just us," Neteyam silenced you. "But you will learn to worship us all the same."

And before you could say another word, that metal is pressed harshly against your clit. The sensation of it is like no other.

"O-Oh!"

Truthfully, you expected it to be cold at first, but the steel is warmed up from sitting snugly against his tongue. It glides against your clit, rolls over and around it as Lo’ak expertly moves his tongue, and your back arches off the furs with how good it feels.

"See?" Neteyam chuckles. "We knew you would like it."

You’re so lost in the moment, you don’t even realize how hard your pressing your nails into Neteyam’s forearms, but he doesn’t seem to mind one bit. He’s just holding you, rubbing his nose along your temple, breathing in your moans and whimpers as his brother feasts on you.

Puckering his lips, Lo‘ak sucks your clit into his mouth until your thighs begin to shake from how quick you were approaching your orgasm.

"I can feel you shaking, txeptsyip [little flame]," Neteyam whispers in your ear. "You’re being such a good girl for him. Yes, keep spreading those pretty legs."

More moans where spilling free as Lo‘ak circled your clit with his piercing, before sliding it down and fucking you with his tongue. Between your thighs he was moaning, slurping up your arousal without care for how filthy he sounded. The more you spread your legs, the more he was pushing his face against your cunt, hungry for more.

It was mind blowing how skilled he was with his tongue. You had never experienced anything like this, and it almost made you forget about the circumstances that lead you here.

"If you want to come, you can just let it go," the brother behind you murmured with a soft chuckle. He was rolling one of your nipples between his thumb and a finger, lightly pinching and tugging to egg you on.

"When you are ours, we will make you come as many times as you want to," he explains, almost casually. "As many times as you deserve, txeptsyip [little flame]."

His words made you feel dizzy.

They were planning to keep you for their pleasure, but that did not mean your own would come short. They made that much clear.

Aware of every new twitch and shudder, Lo’ak was adjusting the patterns of his tongue accordingly, until you couldn’t take it anymore.

"I- I think I’m gonna come," you managed to force the words out between quick breaths.

A low, throaty groan that nearly sounded like a growl broke free from Lo’aks mouth at the sound of that.

"Do it," he growled, barely lifting his lips enough to detach from your clit. "Come for me, c‘mon. Let me taste it."

It was heat against heat, hot mouth against hotter skin. His sharp tongue flicks over your clit a final time, metal hard and hot against it, and then you break into a thousand pieces.

Neteyam holds you as you come, sucking marks into your throat and shoulder, while you claw at his arms hard enough to draw blood. He groans with you, enjoying the pain that your pleasure inflicts on him.

You breath in shallow pants as you come down from your high, suddenly feeling entirely too hot under your skin. But there is barely time for you to process what had just happened.

Quickly, too quick for your liking, Lo‘ak grabs your wrists and pulls you away from his brothers lap.

The grin on his face is a mean one, with the lower half of his face still glistening in your arousal, ash and paint smeared so the pretty blue color of his skin was now shining through.

Your brain isn’t even functioning properly yet again, when the younger brother pulls you into a dirty kiss, making you taste yourself on his tongue, swirling the tiny metal ball around your mouth and teasing your lips with it. He releases you only when you think you might suffocate because he leaves you no air to breath, and you gasp when he finally does.

"If you already enjoyed this small piece of metal," Lo‘ak says lowly, grabs your shoulders and slowly turns you over so your head was now resting on his lap while Neteyam settled between your thighs. "Just wait until you find out what my brother will do to do."

Blinking a few times, you stare up at the other brother with wide eyes. Your first instinct is to close your legs and sit up, but Lo‘ak has you secured against him, his wide biceps caging you in. His skin is almost hot to the touch, muscles like steel as you wrap your hands around his arms, much like you did to Neteyam before.

Your thighs are spread further the closer he shuffles between them, his hands holding them up by the underside of your knees. But he’s not looking at you at all.

Neteyam’s entire focus is on your pussy.

His head is tilted slightly, the look on his face almost fond as he admires you. One of his hands comes to lay on your mound, his thumb gently circling around your clit, before he carefully slides the little hood up so he could get a better view at it.

Your breathing comes out heavier then before, and your entire body twitches every time he comes to close to that little bundle of nerves.

His thumb slides lower then, teasing you entrance and carefully pulling your lips apart as if he was examining you. It’s almost too much for you, and you try to hide your face in Lo‘aks arms.

"Still so wet," he finally breaths. "Such a tiny, tight looking body that you have. I will enjoy breaking you in."

The chest that you’re leaning against rumbles with a dark chuckle, then Lo‘ak leans down to whisper into your ear, "he‘s been talking about nothing else ever since we caught you."

His words make you shiver as realization dawns in on you. This was never a moment of impulse or a whim born tonight. You were always meant to end up here, with them.

When they took your people, they didn’t spare you because you begged well enough. You were chosen. Selected by spoiled sons of a broken clan, raised knowing that nothing was ever denied to them.

The fire crackles next to you, and then Neteyam’s hands leave your skin in favor of untying his loincloth.

When the dark piece of fabric finally falls away, you suck in a breath. The sound is loud and impolite, and you immediately want to clasp a hand over your mouth.

The warrior in front of you may be adorned with bones, leather and other natural materials that are not so different from those of any other na‘vi, honoring his heritage. But there, along the base of his cock, sits something foreign and wrong.

"H-How many…" the words come out as a hushed whisper of disbelief, your eyes wide as you try and fail not to stare at him like this.

On the underside of his length, Neteyam’s cock is pierced with four rows of small, neatly placed, shiny metal balls.

"Eight," he says proudly, letting his hand glide over each one of them.

Without thinking, you ask, "did… didn’t they hurt?"

"They did," he smiles. "That’s why I got them."

You swallow thickly. Neteyam makes a show of letting his fingers slip over the piercings, squeezing the tip and huffing out a breath. His eyes are half lidded, pupils blown as he watches you for any kind of reaction, seemingly getting off at the way you nervously bite your lip. Your own breath hitches when he moves closer, your eyes fixed on the forbidden metal that dares to touch your skin.

The soft head of his cock touches you first, making the fine hair on your neck raise as he lets it part your folds and smear your slick arousal over your clit. You hate how good it feels, until warm steel touches you too, and you don’t know whether to cry or moan because that, too, feels incredible.

Neteyam slides his cock against you in lazy strokes, letting you feel each piercing, and your imagination runs wild with how these little bumps might feel inside you.

"I want to watch you take every single one of them," he murmurs then, and your eyes widen slightly at the realization that you are supposed to take him to the last row of them.

"N-No, I can’t!" You begin to struggle, but Lo‘aks arms remind you that it’s no use. One of his hands pinches a nipple hard, like a reminder to stay put and you cry out softly. "Don’t," the younger brother says, his canine crazing your ear. "I like a woman with fire, but we’re trying to play nice because you’ve been good so far. Don’t make us regret that. I’d hate to break my new toy so early."

You bite your tongue in order not to spit venom at him, but your face must’ve given your thoughts away.

Neteyam chuckles softly, "If you want to be bad, save that for next time, txeptsyip [little flame]. But we will not hold back then."

The glare you give them wavers, and it disappears fully when he begins to push the tip of his cock against your entrance.

The stretch that follows makes you suck in a breath. He’s thick and long, and the first inch feels like you’re being split apart. But it’s a good kind of pain, you’re wet and pliant after your first orgasm, so when he pushes himself inside, warmth begins to spread in your core as your body gives way.

But then you feel that first touch of metal, and your thighs instinctively want to jerk close around his hips.

"Shh, relax, you were doing so good taking me," Neteyam coos, his hands spreading your legs wider as he sinks further into you. The first row of piercings slips into you and your mouth falls open with a surprised "oh!".

Those tiny beads feel so foreign against you, so warm to the touch. And eywa forgive you, they felt incredible. The sensation was like no other as he continued to push, making them roll along your inner walls.

"That’s one… and two," Neteyam says lowly, licking his lips to wet them. "Come on, count them for me."

Your head spins. You wouldn’t have been able to even tell them your name if one of them asked you right now, but then he slides in a few more inches and you manage to breath out quietly, "three…f-four."

Behind you, Lo‘ak was whispering sweet nothings into your ear, words you couldn’t really focus on but they made you so much wetter and then, "five, s..ix."

Sweat was slicking your forehead as more and more of his length was pushing past your tight entrance. It felt never ending, filling you constantly until you thought there was no room left inside you anymore. You felt so full of him, until finally the last row of piercings slid inside you.

"S-Seven…" You whimpered and Neteyam let out a deep groan, "eight."

"Smart girl," Lo‘ak teased from behind, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face as if he worried you weren’t able to see just how deep Neteyam was inside of you. But even with your eyes closed you could feel him, could feel the heat as he breached you, the weight of his cock, the smooth tip again your cervix and the eight little beads of steel massaging your body from the inside.

You tried to swallow a soft, needy sound, that would give away how bad you wanted him to move, hating how good he made you feel, but unable to hide it any longer.

"Don’t forget to breathe," he grins, and you release the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. The moment you exhale, Neteyam withdraws from your tight heat, only to slam himself right back in.

Now you know why he’s told you to breathe.

The moan he practically fucks out of you is loud and embarrassing. You’re sure the entire village had just heard you.

And then, Neteyam begins to move. His strokes are hard, deep and on point, his pace only increasing as time passes. Every time he enters you, you feel his piercings so clearly and your moans turn more desperate with every thrust of his hips. His eyes roam over you, starting from where you were connected— in and out, his cock glistening with your slickness. Then your breasts, bouncing every time your hips meet, only supported by Lo‘aks hands squeezing and toying with them. And finally your face, lips swollen red from occasional dirty kisses, cheeks flushed and eyes half lidded.

Neteyam let out a grunt whenever he pulled back, before burying himself deep again, his cock knocking on your cervix as if he was made of steel too. There are words coming out your mouth, but you don’t recognize them as anything coherent. You think they’re curses, prayers, maybe even both.

You’re so lost in your pleasure, you don’t even realize that your eyes are falling closed, until Lo‘ak gives your cheek a few surprisingly gentle taps with his hand, jolting you back into reality.

"Hey, we‘re not done with you yet, txeptsyip [little flame]." He grins. "Can’t have you passing out on us now."

Lo‘aks hand then cups your face and squeezes your cheeks, forcing your jaw to drop, "yeah, that’s right. Open up for me."

You don’t know what possesses you in this moment to obey them so willingly, but when his face leans over yours, you eagerly stick your tongue out and let him lick over yours, before he let’s a thick droplet of spit land into your mouth.

It’s filthy and humiliating, and both men groan in perfect sync when you swallow down his spit.

"Fuck, you’re making me so hard," Lo‘ak sighs. The cock that’s buried deep inside you throbs in agreement and you mewl sickening sweet at that. Whatever it is that they’re doing to you, you don’t feel like yourself anymore.

This isn’t really you, missing your usual bite, your instinct to survive. This is a woman reduced to pleasure and nothing more. Just a hole for them to fuck. And worst of all, you were enjoying it.

Your head felt empty of all doubts and worries as you watched Lo‘ak move to kneel besides your head and then push down his loincloth to free his own cock. Your vision was slightly blurred from how hard Neteyam was thrusting into you, but you could still see the thin, polished ring of steel that was piercing through the head and the small slit of his tip.

Shuffling closer, Lo‘ak caressed your jaw with his hand, while he used the other to eagerly press his length against your lips, pushing until you opened up for him.

"C‘mon, suck my cock. Get it wet for me, baby."

So you did. Your tongue was stretched out as far as it could reach, and Lo‘ak immediately began sliding his length against the wet muscle. He tasted like ash and salty musk, heavy against your tongue and you moaned from deep within your throat before you slowly took him in your mouth.

"Fuuuck, there you go. That’s a good fucking girl," Lo‘ak groans at the sight, thrusting his hips forward to push himself deeper into your mouth. Your tongue begins to swirl around his head, tasting the metal of his piercing, teasing it, before you hallow your cheeks and suck.

Simultaneously, Neteyam was thrusting into you harder, pushing you further against Lo‘ak’s cock until you were beginning to gag on it.

Everything was too much —too good, too deep, too fast, too rough. All you could do was lay there take it.

Soon, the brothers had found a rhythm both of them were benefiting from, and you were moved back and forth only by the thrusts of both of them.

"Look at her. She is perfect for us," Neteyam chuckled from above you, your inner walls clenching down hard on his cock at his words. "Such a good, obedient pet."

Every now and then your jaw was hanging slack, letting moans fall freely when hands you didn’t know belonged to which one of them started rubbing your clit in viciously fast circles. Sometimes it felt as if they were both fighting for their place to make your feel good, and it was two hands rubbing against that oversensitive little nub.

Lo‘ak gave a loud groan whenever that happened, seemingly enjoying being able to just thrust himself into you until he hit the back of your throat, using your mouth in such a filthy, dirty way that it made your eyes roll into the back of your head.

"So eager to please and so easy to use," he agreed with a grin. "I don’t care what path she chooses, I want to keep her."

It was embarrassing how fast Lo‘ak and Neteyam could turn you into a trembling, whimpering mess. The squelching sounds they expertly worked out of you only added further to your humiliation, but also your pleasure. At this pace, it was impossible not to come. And both brothers knew that.

Soon, you could feel that familiar, addicting, tension building up in your core, stealing the very air from your lungs as you moaned around the cock in your mouth.

Higher and higher you felt that tension building, felt it crawl under your skin, a warmth spreading through your core. You wanted— no, you needed to come. There was no way around it. You found yourself having no control over this, just letting yourself go because it felt too good to care about consequences, or what was right or wrong anymore.

Metal and steel was beginning to poison you from the inside out, corrupting you slowly, turning you into this mess.

It was a buildup of tension that arched your back and curled your toes and just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, something in you snapped.

When you come, it’s like a wave of release and you scream.

It pulses throughout your body, making you moan, loud and lewd and you should probably feel a little embarrassed too, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Not when Neteyam was fucking you through it so good, his head falling back against his neck in pure bliss. And not when Lo‘ak was using the vibrations of your moans to get himself off of them, a fist in your hair to push you down his length.

You felt each of them pulse, and then there was nothing but heat. The heat of your own orgasm as it came crashing down on you, and then the warmth of cum flooding your insides from both ends as the brothers cursed under their breath, holding you down with greedy hands and making you take, take, take and then swallow, until you couldn’t take much more.

Lo‘ak was first to pull himself out of you, and immediately you were gasping for air. The salty taste of cum still lingered on your tongue as he bend down and shoved his own between your lips, leaving you breathless once more as he tastes himself on your tongue. There’s a brief moment of pain on your bottom lip, before he finally pulls back. You catch the glimpse of blood on the tip of his tongue, and when you mirror the way he was licking his lips, you taste copper of where he had bitten you.

"Sorry," he was grinning down at you, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip. "Couldn’t help myself."

Brows drawn together in a frown, a tiny part in the back of your head wanted you to sit up and finally do something— hiss, fight, scratch him, anything. But your limbs feel like molten wax, sticking to the furs like warm honey.

Still grinning sharply, Lo‘ak must’ve noticed, because he bend down to cradle your head in one of his strange, four fingered hands. But instead of helping you sit up, he was merely directing your gaze to what was happening between your thighs.

The older brother was still kneeling there, and only when the sight of his sweat slicked abs and his heaving chest caught your eyes, your core clenched around what you noticed was his cock still nestled inside of you.

As if he had been waiting for your attention, Neteyam then pulled out of you. He was doing it slow enough, you felt each row of metal graze along your oversensitive walls and a whimper broke free from you at the sensation. It was followed by the warm feeling of his cum oozing out of you after his cock had finally made way.

You feel wet, sticky and empty, and a fresh wave of shame washes over you as you watch Neteyam‘s mesmerized gaze, entirely hypnotized by the sight. Too tired to move, you’re forced to lay there and watch as he then raises a hand, collecting the cum that had dripped out of you, before shoving it back inside your cunt with two of his long fingers.

You nearly choke on a gasp as you feel them breach you in one fluid thrust.

"Ah-ah, I want you to keep it in there," Neteyam says, giving his fingers a twist that made you keen. "Until I have marked you properly, you will carry my seed so everyone can smell myself on you."

Once he had withdrawn his fingers, he brings them to his lips and licks them clean of you, his tail curling behind him as if pleased by the taste.

It’s the last thing you see before Lo’ak finally lets your weight sink back, your head resting against the thick furs beneath you again.

Before you know what’s happening next, they move with unsettling ease, one on either side of you, bodies closing in not to trap but to hold.

Neteyam lies down first, an arm sliding beneath your shoulders, steady and sure. Lo’ak follows a moment later, lazily stretching out behind you, his presence warm and close, like a living wall at your back.

Their hands are everywhere at once.

Cradling, stroking. Slow, absent motions meant to soothe you. Fingers trace idle patterns along your arms, your side, the curve of your waist, even your breasts. You hate how careful they are. Hate how your body responds to the warmth, the closeness, the simple fact of being held after all that had happened.

The fire crackles softly from somewhere behind you, and exhaustion presses down on you like a tide you can no longer fight. Your eyelids flutter despite your efforts, growing heavier with every slow breath you take.

"Sleep," Lo’ak murmurs. He nuzzles briefly into the crook of your neck, spreading his scent onto your skin. "You’re going to need it."

You feel a hand find your tail, fingers brushing along its length, teasing the soft hairs at the tip in a way that makes you shiver despite yourself. Neteyam leans in, his lips brushing your temple. The hand on your tail glides to its base, squeezing gently and your eyes finally fall shut.

The last thing you register, before sleep finally takes you out, is Neteyam’s voice in your ear, whispering softly,

"You belong to us now, txeptsyip [little flame]."

Honorable mentions of artworks that inspired this fic:

Credit: @xyla1181

Credit: @porpunta

Credit: @fisheyea16

Credit: @liam_nae2

(If you want your art removed from this post please let me know!!)

[dreamingoor]

Little Steve and little boys who want to be close to him😆

[enkel-even]

Dude, just in case you're not used to wearing rings.

So you take it off every night before you go to bed.

So every morning?

Ghost will hold up the ring and ask you again. “Will you marry me?” “What does it mean when we sleep together every day? Strangers who have gotten a marriage certificate?” “I just want to ask you again.” “Again and again, the answer will be yes.”

[silverlullabies]

John “Breeding Kink” Price who finds out you don’t use condoms and has the one single goal of knocking you up and leaving you with the baby. He goes hard, deep, unrelenting, every position, every surface, multiple times a day. It’s about impregnation. About ownership. About planting something so deep inside you that you can never shake him. Not even if you tried.

He watches your body like a hawk. Tracks your cycle. Fucks you stupid the week you’re ovulating, dripping possessiveness every time he spills cum deep inside you. Doesn’t stop even when you’re shaking, overstimulated, dazed and bruised from the intensity of it all.

And every time your period comes on time, like clockwork, his eyes get darker. His thrusts rougher. His grip bruising. He mutters curses under his breath, things like “Useless little cunt,” and “You better hold onto it this time,” while forcing his cock as deep as he can go, grinding slow just to flood you with another load. When he pulls out and watches it leak, he shoves it back in with his fingers, murmuring things like “not wasting a drop, sweetheart” or “c’mon, take it all.”

He starts keeping you in bed longer. Legs up, hips tilted, cock still twitching inside you even after he’s emptied everything he’s got. All in a desperate, obsessive attempt to make it take.

Vs.

You, who saw through his game from the very beginning. You, who never told him your tubes were tied years ago, because honestly? The dick is spectacular and watching him lose his mind trying to breed a body that can’t be bred is just icing on the cake.

[rosy-puppy]

make! your! sub! speak! positively! of! themselves! before! you! let! them! cum!

adjust language for pronoun, title, and pet name preferences as needed but things like

- “who’s my beautiful girl”

- “i am, i am”

- “you’re what?”

- “i’m your beautiful girl”

- “say it again, what are you?”

- “i’m - ah - a beautiful girl”

- “that’s right, beautiful girl. now be even prettier and cum for me.”

are everything, don’t let up on asking, repeat the phrase you want them to say often, and don’t let them cum until they’re kind to themselves. you can work as much teasing as you want into this, make them say it until they convince you they mean it, make them say all sorts of good things about themselves. the point is for your sub to associate loving themselves with the dopamine rush of their orgasm (i would not recommend doing this if you plan on ruining their orgasm, let this chemically play out all the way through for your sub), and this can be such a gift for dom’s too because you’re helping your sub see themselves the way you see them and making them more confident in themselves, especially as a creature of beauty, pleasure, and desire - not to mention the wonderful bonding opportunity this all can be for you both

tl;dr: take the praise kink to the next level by pulling an uno reverse card and making ur sub praise themselves

[everlyblaar]

Am I overthinking or is it just another Tuesday where everyone and everything want to kill me?

[everlyblaar]

A man, so harsh and cold finally break, whimpering ‘Please, I’ll be good.’ And I fold so fucking fast I might have whiplash.

[netexyy]

NETEYAM ⋆. 𝜗𝜚˚⋆YEARNING

Neteyam x human reader

Word count - 2.3k

Summary: What starts as a quiet, harmless mission to look after Neteyam becomes something far more complicated. His parents, his siblings, and the clan all rely on him, leaving no space for him to be cared for in return. What happens when he mistakes your effort as something , 𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦 .

—

The first thing you noticed about Neteyam was not the way moonlight softened his face or how the glow of the forest seemed to listen when he breathed. It was not how focused he became during training or how his mouth pulled into a stubborn pout when he lost an argument with his siblings. It was not even how easily others admired him.

It was the way people leaned toward him.

Children pressed close to his legs when they were frightened. Younger warriors followed his steps without question. His siblings looked for him before they spoke, before they laughed, before they decided anything at all. When voices grew tense or emotions rose too high, Neteyam was the one who stepped forward. Always calm. Always steady. Always carrying something invisible but heavy on his shoulders.

You saw it the first week you arrived with the scientists.

He was barely older than you, fully grown, respected, already trusted with lives. And yet he never seemed to rest. Not really. Even when he sat by the fire, even when he laughed, his eyes stayed alert, watchful, Ready.

He gave comfort easily , feely , Like it was expected of him.

And somehow that made your chest ache.

You told yourself your interest was simple. Human instinct. Empathy. Maybe even something close to maternal without meaning to be. You worked in the lab most days, surrounded by data and instruments and noise that never truly stopped. Neteyam felt like silence in comparison. Like still water after chaos.

Your day one mission formed quietly. Not dramatic. Not romantic.

You wanted to give him the comfort he gave everyone else.

The first time it happened, neither of you noticed.

He had brought his younger sister to the lab because she was curious. She hovered near the doorway, wide eyed and cautious, while Neteyam stood stiffly beside her, arms crossed, clearly uncomfortable with the enclosed space. You knelt to her level, offered her a small light crystal you had been studying, and explained it slowly. Softly.

Neteyam watched the entire time.

Later, when his sister wandered off happily with another researcher, you handed him a cup of warm herbal drink you had learned the clan favored at night.

You did not make a big deal of it. You simply pressed it into his hand and said "You looked tired"

He blinked like the thought had never occurred to him.

After that, it became a pattern.

You brought him small things without explanation. A woven wrap when the night air turned sharp. Extra food when training ran long. A quiet seat beside you where he could sit without needing to speak.

Sometimes you listened when he talked about patrols or expectations or mistakes he thought he made. Sometimes you said nothing at all and just stayed near him while he stared into the distance.

Once, after a particularly hard day, you touched his arm without thinking. Just a brief squeeze. Reassuring. Human instinct.

He went very still.

You pulled your hand away immediately, apologizing, but he shook his head. Slowly. Like he needed time to find his voice.

" It is fine" he said. His tone was even, but his ears were slightly tilted back. He did not look at you.

After that, he began to seek you out.

Not openly. Not desperately. Just small moments. Walking beside you instead of ahead. Sitting near you during gatherings. Waiting until others left before speaking.

You noticed how his shoulders lowered when you were around. How his breathing slowed. How he allowed silence instead of filling it with responsibility.

You thought you were helping.

You did not realize how deeply he attached you.

The shift happened so gradually you did not see it until it was too late.

Your work intensified. A project involving environmental stabilization demanded long hours. Days turned into nights. Nights blurred together. You slept in the lab more often than your own quarters. You stopped joining evening fires. Stopped walking the forest paths.

You assumed Neteyam understood.

He did not come to the lab at first. He told himself you were busy. He told himself this was normal. You were human. Your world moved differently.

A week passed.

Then another.

He began to linger near the lab entrance, pretending to patrol, pretending to wait for someone else. He asked your colleagues casual questions that were not casual at all.

"Is she well "

"Has she eaten"

"When will she come back"

They answered without thinking. Soon. Busy. Important work.

Important

The word sat heavy in his chest.

By the third week, he stopped pretending.

He went inside.

The lab lights were harsh compared to the forest glow. You were bent over a console, hair pulled back, eyes focused, completely unaware of him. He stood there for a long moment, watching you breathe, watching your hands move with familiar precision.

Relief hit him first.

Then something sharper followed.

You finally noticed him and smiled. Bright. Warm. Like nothing had changed.

"Neteyam You are here I was going to come find you soon, I promise "

Soon.

The word felt like a lie even if you did not mean it.

You spoke quickly, explaining your work, apologizing lightly, touching his arm again without realizing what it did to him now. He nodded. He listened. He always listened.

But something in him was breaking.

That night, he did not sleep.

The next time he saw you, it was raining softly through the canopy. You were walking alone, finally free from the lab, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. You almost ran into him.

He did not speak at first.

You smiled anyway. "Hey, I missed you."

His chest tightened painfully.

You did not notice the way his hands trembled.

"You talk like it is simple " he said quietly.

You frowned. " Like what is simple?"

"Missing me."

The silence stretched.

You tried to laugh it off "Neteyam I really have been busy I did not mean to disappear like that"

He stepped closer. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the tension coiled beneath his calm exterior.

"You did not look for me "he said.

The accusation was soft but devastating.

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Because he was right. You had assumed he would wait. Had assumed your presence was optional.

"I thought you understood" you said gently.

His eyes darkened.

"I thought you cared."

The words hit harder than any raised voice could have.

That was when it finally unraveled.

He dropped to his knees in front of you.

Not suddenly. Not dramatically. Like it was something he had been holding back for weeks and no longer could.

Your breath caught." Neteyam what are you doing Please get up"

He did not.

Rain dampened his hair, slid down his face, soaked into the fabric at his shoulders. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers curled tightly.

"I carry everyone" he said "Every day, I do not ask, I do not complain, i do not rest."

Your chest ached.

" You let me rest " he continued. "You touched me like I was allowed to need something. Like I did not have to be strong for you"

You swallowed.

" I waited for you " he whispered "Every night. I told myself you would come. That you would sit beside me again. That you would see me."

His voice broke.

Please, he said "Please do not take that away from me. Please, i will be good , really good ."

You knelt without thinking, rain soaking into your clothes, hands hovering uncertainly before settling on his shoulders.

"Neteyam I never meant to hurt you"

" I know " he said immediately. "That only made it worse."

He lifted his head then, eyes shining, desperate and open in a way you had never seen.

"I do not know how to stop wanting you, he admitted. I do not know how to go back to before you made me feel safe."

Your heart thundered painfully.

"I am not asking for everything "he said quickly "fear creeping in. Just look at me. Just choose me sometimes. Please."

You rested your forehead against his.

You realized then that what you had offered casually, instinctively, had become something he depended on. Something he had mistaken for certainty.

And maybe you had too.

" I am here" , you whispered. "I am not leaving."

His breath shuddered.

He leaned into you fully, arms wrapping around your waist, holding on like you were the only solid thing left in the storm.

For the first time, Neteyam let himself be held.

And you understood that comfort, once given, is never truly small.