.ೃ࿐ name's ʙᴇʟʟᴇ. she/her. uni student studying biomedical engineering and forensic science. 21↑
"she wore the moonlight like a lingerie."
currently hyperfixating on Avatar: Fire and Ash, Stranger Things, and Ne Zha 2 .ᐟ
past fandoms: Avatar: Way of Water, It (2017), Supernatural, the Umbrella Academy, Criminal Minds, Money Heist (La Casa de Papel), Society of the Snow (La Sociedad de la Nieve).
my comfort characters are: Neteyam Sully, Mike Wheeler, Richie Tozier, Ao Bing, Ao Guang, Jack Wilder, Dean Winchester, Aaron Hotchner, Five Hargreeves, and of course, the entire Losers Club.
i write the occasional angst and fluff, but otherwise it'll be blurbs of my thoughts and thirsts, nsfw drabbles and pwp .ᐟ
lights off here, it’s a dark blog.
please follow with discretion. i write heavy dark content and dark yandere. if it makes u uncomfortable, please turn around. heed the warning.
if you're here only for sfw content, block my smut tag: #.smut!
other tags to block:
#.yandere! and #.dark
#belle screams, if you don’t want to see reblogs of fics i read and love.
Beneath the velvet sky and the eye of the moon, every story is a (p)rose. Some are soft and sweet; some are silky and luscious; others are overgrown with thorns.
Step inside, leave a petal at the door, and stay as long as the moonlight or candlelight lasts, whichever one dims first.
While browsing through this masterlist, please look at the tags and warnings for each work.
Love, Belle ♡
[ The Moonlit Manuscripts ]
Complete stories and multi-chaptered chronicles.
"These are the tales written in silver ink, bound by the constellation of stars. These are the whispers from my heart I have laid bare. These are the heavy volumes, the manuscripts that required the most ink and the longest nights. Complete archives of my devotion, written while the palace slept."
— Fly (me to your heart)
⤿ summary: Lo'ak wonders if Neteyam knows that he flies the highest when he is with you
5.1k words || Neteyam x f!reader, platonic!Lo'ak x reader || Fluff, Romance, Slight Angst.
— Total Eclipse (to be posted!)
“Neteyam is the sun, Lo’ak is the eclipse. And you? You’re caught in between.”
⤿ summary: In the High Camp of the Omatikaya, Neteyam Suli is the perfect heir, the perfect warrior, and the perfect suitor. You are his future, a match blessed by the Olo’eyktan and his wife themselves. While Neteyam waits for the sacred sanctity of ceremony, his brother Lo’ak is drowning in years of jealousy and frustration that cannot wait. And he’s determined to prove that even the most perfect bond is fragile enough to break in the dark.
4.3k words || Neteyam x reader, Lo’ak x reader || Sibling rivalry/envy, Angst, Love Triangle
— the Princess and the Warrior (full fic in progress!~)
⤿ summary: Neteyam always took his role as your protector seriously, calling you his princess. But after the Sullys disappeared into the far seas and returned years later, you're determined to treat him like a stranger.
"The perfect son of the great Toruk Makto accidentally wanders too far and forgets how to breathe all over again."
⤿ summary: Years after surviving the gunshots that would’ve killed him, Neteyam has become a disciplined leader. But he has a secret: he is utterly, devastatingly obsessed with the Olo'eyktan's eldest daughter.
1.2k words || Neteyam x Metkayina!Reader || (N)SFW, Obsession, Discipline, Secret longing
— His Executioner, His Treasure (to be posted!)
"Saving his life was your first crime; keeping him alive is going to be your favorite sin."
⤿ summary: Falling into the hands of the Sky People’s recom army guy was never part of Neteyam’s plan, but neither was being "saved" by his most beautiful enemy. He learns the hard way that "protection" from Mangkwan’s Tsakarem is just a death sentence with a much better view.
Multi-chaptered, Non-linear || Length TBD || Neteyam x Mangkwan!Reader
NSFW due to graphic depictions of violence || tw: Blood, Character Death/Murder (not reader nor Neteyan), Drugging, Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics. Enemies to Lovers, Villain Reader. “I’m the only one who gets to kill you” <3
— Holding Watch 🔞
"Neteyam swore to protect you. Turns out it comes with really unexpected feelings."
⤿ summary: Neteyam, eldest son of the Oloeyktan, was given an order: protect you, the orphan welcomed into the Sully family. One night, when desire and duty finally collide, his restraint finally snaps.
1.8k words || Neteyam x f!reader || NSFW, Established Connection, Duty vs Desire
— Heavy Lifting 🔞
"Neteyam could lift the heaviest weights in Awa’atlu, but he couldn't carry the secret of his hunger a second longer."
⤿ summary: Neteyam is certain he is going to Eywa’s version of hell for the way he looks at his best friend during morning workouts. But a playful moment on the weight bench reveals that "just friends" don't ground their hips like this.
3.2k words || Neteyam x f!reader || Friends to Lovers, Workout Setting, Suggestive.
— Pruned to Perfection 🔞
"The harvest hasn't even truly begun, but Neteyam has always had his eyes for the finest yield."
⤿ summary: You are expected to be the Omatikaya’s next great huntress. Under the guise of mentorship, Neteyam is harvesting the world's most precious nectar—you—and he intends to keep you entirely for himself.
1.9k words || Neteyam x f!reader (Peyral’s daughter) || Mild Yandere, Teacher-Student rs, Power Imbalance, Manipulation, Coercion
— First of Many Lessons 🔞
"Your selfless best friend offers a lesson you'll never forget."
⤿ summary: A slightly manipulative best friend!Neteyam selflessly offers himself to be your practice partner, using the "lesson" to lure you into his bed before another man can court you.
1.6k words || Neteyam x f!reader || NSFW, Manipulative Behavior, Size Difference.
[ Scattered Petals ]
Short stories, vignettes, and moments in time.
"Fragments: of dreams and half-finished letters. Short, delicate, fleeting. Like petals caught in a midnight breeze. These are the drabbles that fell from my pen like petals from a dying rose. They are brief, perhaps, but they carry the fragrance of the reef and the warmth of the lunar sun."
— Your First Time 🔞
⤿ Imagine giving Neteyam his (and your) first oral experience.
— Olo’eyktan Neteyam 🔞
⤿ Thoughts on a future leader Neteyam—charismatic, stern, yet soft for you.
— War Party's Return
⤿ Neteyam returns from a raid, seeking his only peace: your body.
— Soft Dom Neteyam 🔞
⤿ Headcanons on a Neteyam who takes charge with gentle care.
— Mean Dom Neteyam 🔞
— Soft Spicy Headcanons 🔞
⤿ Summary: A drabble of warm, intimate moments with Neteyam, Lo’ak, Ao’nung, Rotxo.
"Where the moonlight doesn’t reach, and obsession grows in the dark. These are the the stories of the kind of love that grows wild and full of thorns: an obsession as deep and crushing as the deepest trenches of the sea. I advise you to keep your candle lit while reading these; the devotion found here rarely knows mercy."
— when they find out that you are promised to a Na’vi of a different clan.
⤿ summary: You are about to be mated to a future Olo'eyktan from another village. Jealous Neteyam and Lo'ak have no intention of letting you leave.
dark!Neteyam x reader, dark!Lo’ak x reader || tw: Kidnapping
— Neteyam found his own human captive.
⤿ summary: Neteyam finds you, a stray human. Rather than turning you in, Neteyam hides you away for his own selfish reasons.
dark!Neteyam x human!reader || tw: Kidnapping
— you can diss them all you want
⤿ summary: Headcanons of yandere ATWOW characters where the reader is held captive and uses insults as their only weapon.
⤿ Neteyam, Lo'ak, Jake Sully, Tonowari
— just some yandere!Neteyam thoughts ♡ 🔞
⤿ summary: Thoughts on how he starts to get physical with you and cross those boundaries.
— escaping from Ao'nung into Neteyam
⤿ Escaping from Ao'nung only to run straight into the waiting arms of Neteyam.
— Neteyam gets Lo'ak a present 🔞
⤿ summary: Neteyam secures a "gift" for his younger brother.
dark!Neteyam x reader, dark!Lo’ak x reader || tw: Kidnapping, Drugging, Suggestive themes.
general headcanons of yandere atwow characters
⤿ featuring:
+ chivalrous yandere!Neteyam, who knows he's the only one who deserves you,
+ impulsive yandere!Lo'ak, who will try to be as patient as he can,
+ entitled yandere!Aonung, who treats noone but you nicely,
+ stalker yandere!Rotxo, who would cause harm without meaning any.
— making sure Lo'ak sees where you belong 🔞
⤿ summary: Neteyam rubs it in Lo'ak's face that you sleep in his arms and sit on his lap.
⤿ can be read before the one right below
— Neteyam making Lo'ak watch 🔞
⤿ tw: nsfw, voyeurism, heavy dark themes.
⤿ can be read as continuation of the one right above
working on answering my inbox!!! i have to work my way upppp chronologically because hngggg its the only way thats fair and square. even though i literally salivate when i saw some of em
also i think i’ll add tags to make navigating this place easier (long overdue ik) but id been too lazy to do it until now. bc a tag came to mind and its so pretty??? i MUST start using
Even at a young age, Neteyam had always taken his role a little too seriously, down to deciding you had to be the princess he absolutely must protect. But then the Sullys disappeared into the far seas, and the childhood promises soon felt like a lifetime ago. Years later, he’s back from the reefs, and you're determined to act like he's a stranger.
Basically: childhood friends to strangers to "oh no he’s hot and i fucking hope he remembers me."
content warning. Childhood Friends to Strangers to Lovers™
a/n. obsessed w the idea of neteyam calling us princess, so this was born. honestly this ficlet feels more like a brain dump of the whole idea instead of a complete, full-fledged fic. sfw, slight angst but mostly fluff! <3
Childhood with Neteyam and Lo’ak was a symphony of trees, dirt and laughter. A seemingly endless cycle that included a lot of time playing warriors rather than house. You never really minded the boys’ rougher games, until one day Neteyam declared himself the Olo’eyktan. Lo’ak, excited, shouted with glee that he’ll be a brave warrior like dad, too! But when you tried to pipe up and claim your place as a hunter or a warrior (or whatever popped into your head at the moment) Neteyam shut you down.
"You are the princess!" He corrected you firmly, shaking his head disapprovingly at your protests.
Confused and with a bruised pride, you refused to back down and yield that easily. He never told you what you could and couldn't do before and you couldn’t let him start now. "But we've always been on the same team!" You demanded. "Why do I have to be the princess?"
"Because," he said simply, looking at you like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like you should've known already, "I have to save you. I am the one who must protect you."
The memory blurred at the edges over time as the seasons bled into years, but you never quite forgot the look on his face in that moment. Sometimes it would float into your mind for seemingly no reason, like a ghost that haunted your peaceful hours.
The brave warriors rescuing you from the sky people (Kiri, who rolled her eyes at to having to play the enemy every time), Neteyam accidentally stealing your first kiss (that’s a whole other story to tell, isn’t it?) , Neteyam telling you that you'll mate with him and be his wife.
Silly childhood things. Silly, golden dreams that belong only to children.
You doubt he even remembered and you certainly weren't going to mention it to him, not with the way you started to drift apart you as you got older.
You were no longer his princess. You were only a part of the landscape he was meant to guard.
Then, the world shifted. Jake and Neytiri and all of their kids had to leave High Camp for the clan’s safety, disappearing into the mist to seek residence with the Reef people for the sake of the clan because the Sky People were closing in. Communication was practically non-existent. You stayed behind, blooming into a lethal hunter of the forest, while they became strangers of the sea.
And then a brief, flickering moment.
There had been once, a while back, when Jake, Neytiri, and the others returned, physically injured and exhausted after narrowly surviving a brutal encounter with the Mangkwan raiders. Neteyam had been absent then; he remained at the reef, alive but too heavily injured for the journey, something about a healing bullet wound that was too deep for travel. Kept under his parents' and the Metkayina’s Tsahik’s strict orders to recover. Those days, brighter than your regular days since the Sullys had been gone, were spent listening intently to Lo'ak's and Tuk’s frantic stories of their survival.
Now, four long years have passed since that first departure, and the Sullys have finally returned to stay for good.
The celebration at High Camp is deafening. The forest and the stones shake with the fervor of the Omatikaya welcoming their former Olo’eyktan home. You stand at the edge of the clearing, fingers nervously tracing the intricate beadwork of your songcord.
It seems every single one of the Omatikaya was present at the gathering. This is the biggest gathering since Tarsem’s ceremony as the Olo’eyktan that Jake appointed in his stead.
You're dressed in traditional woven attire, just like you are supposed to. Everyone is in high spirits and you were enjoying yourself quite a bit, catching up with those you'd been missing, eating, drinking, and dancing. Kiri and Tuk find you first, the baby of the family tackling you in a mess of limbs and laughter. Lo’ak follows, taller now, though the same rebellious fire in his eyes and attitude remains.
You only catch glimpses of him a little throughout the night, but he hasn't even said hello, not that you've been expecting him to. Honestly, you are gracefully disappointed, but it’s a quiet ache you have long since learned to live with. You have braced yourself for this treatment from him. Whatever childhood bond you once shared has surely been washed away, dwindled into nothing across the vast oceans.
You don’t think about him anymore these days… for the most part. You have accepted that you would never get close to him again anyway.
As the night winds down and the music slows, you say your goodbyes to the others. Slipping away, you step backwards to leave. You’ve barely made it to the edge of the village, seeking the quiet ferns to process the overwhelming reality of their return, when you feel a large hand circles your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.
The grin on his face is boyish when you turn around to look at him— it’s an expression that is foreign on a painfully familiar face. You try your hardest to only focus on the pressure of his thumb against your flesh rather than how entrancing his eyes are. Or how tall he has grown. Or how much bigger and broader he is now, compared to the image you have been cherishing in your mind: of him, before he left all those years ago.
He is a giant compared to the boy in your memories.
“The party is still loud, yet you are sneaking away.” It is the first time you have heard his voice in four years. The world finally stops.
“Do you have somewhere else to be, princess?"
a/n. if time permits, if life does not get in the way, if i do get around to writing a complete oneshot of this...?? we'll fuck play around and see! i write either pure filth or prose-filled fluff,,,, i cannot for the life of me write in between even though i’d rlly rlly love to write plot-driven pieces c’;
guys i do not have a taglist, never had one to begin with. it’s kinda awkward to tag people without explicit consent from them HAHA. send me something in my askbox if yall actually wna be in one so i can list 🤍
damn i haven't stopped thinking about neteyam fucking you and making lo'ak watch
a/n. brain empty, only blue men. this is unadulterated smut filth was written in the trenches of a raging, throbbing migraine. i’m armed with Advil and the feral need to see neteyam be a territorial menace. + pls don't read if u don't like fictional rivalry between neteyam and lo'ak.
Neteyam had brought him there like a beast to a slaughterhouse, his fingers dug deep into the corded muscle of Lo’ak’s neck.
Lo'ak is a man condemned. No escape from the penance of his wandering eyes. Under the weight of his brother’s command, Lo’ak is a prisoner, nothing more than a spectator forced to watch as you, the very one he hungers for is consumed before him.
“Look at him, ma yawne,” Neteyam whispers right next to your temple, his voice a low vibration against your pointed ear. His broad, sturdy chest, built of dense muscles is a sanctuary against your back, his arms tighten like iron bands where they’re wrapped around your waist, hips flush against you. Your whimper came out whinier than you intended when his cock twitches inside you, skin slick with sweat in the humid heat.
His long, blue fingers cup your chin gently, holding you in place, forcing you to watch. And though you are the one with Neteyam’s cock shoved in you— a vessel for his desire and lust, driven deep against your cervix, it is Lo’ak who looks utterly destroyed. Wild hair sticking to his forehead and his neck, black pupils in his golden eyes blown wide beneath heavy eyelids, rivulets of sweat tracing down his chest as he watches his brother take what he’s only ever dared to dream of.
You can see the desperate throb of his length from where you are being taken. Flushed and leaking, hands clenched into fists at his sides, forced to remain in such a short, agonizing distance away from you.
A kiss to your shoulder pulls your focus back to the man holding you. A cry falls from your lips when he grinds his hips forward. That particular movement was slow and punishingly deep. But oh, does he dive even deeper into you.
“Tell him,” Neteyam breathes into your ear, his hand sliding down to your throat. His thumb strokes the line of your pulse with a kind of possessiveness anyone would mistake as tenderness. It’s like an anchor; his silent command for your total obedience. He roughly gathers your breast, first to squish the soft tissue and slapping his fingers against your nipples until they start to sting. That’s when he finally catches the peaks between his fingers and he pinches hard.
“Tell him how much better I take care of you. How much better my cock makes you feel.”
Neteyam’s hand then goes back to your throat, hips snapping into her with renewed, aggressive vigor.
“Tell him.”
A strangled moan is what comes out when you try to repeat after him, your hips bucking instinctively, spine now pushed into an arch. The grip around your neck tightens, hard enough to make your senses swim, your breathing uneven as the head of his cock repeatedly kisses that soft spot deep inside of you. “It’s— Neteyam! He’s… he’s fucking me s-so— so much better!”
The guttural growl that rips from Neteyam’s throat is downright animalistic.
His free hand reaches down, his thumb finding the sensitive heat of your center and rubbing in agonizing circles. Between the rapidly diminishing supply of air, the sting on your chest, and the relentless stretching of your core, your mind nearly fractures under the sensory assault.
“Oh my god,” you cry out, hips pushing back to meet his thrusts.
“Yeah?” he snarls, “Are you going to let me cum in you?”
Your body begins to seize as the high wave washes over you, eyes rolling back. Through your fragmented sobs, he catches the sweet, sincere sounds of you begging for his seed. Such a cute prayer of desperation tumbling from your lips for him to leave a part of him inside you.
“You want me to, don’t you, little brother?” he goads, “You want me to cum in her, watch how pretty her pussy looks when it’s overflowing and twitching for more.
gotta love the way you write dark neteyam. you really write him like no otherrrr fr. you are my go-to writer on this app now 🤩 so glad i found you!
’d love to see aged up neteyam where he’s lowkey highkey competitive with lo’ak. not that perfect brother mask everyone else sees but something more possessive and smug. like he wants lo’ak to know exactly who you belong to 🤤😮💨
so so so so glad to know that u enjoy reading them!!! because i looove writing dark/yandere if u cant already tell 🫢💙 this one’s also pretty mild since idk how dark dark u want it babes,,, bc im rlly toxic 🥹
tw coercion, jealousy, both brothers
Thinking about Neteyam and how much he likes leaving you a breathless, a shaking mess on his cock. It’s Neteyam who makes sure Lo’ak sees exactly where you belong, he’s definitely rubbing it in his younger brother's face that you sleep in his arms, will hold his hand, will sit down on his lap at the end of a long day.
Big, strong, disciplined Neteyam, who knows exactly how to use his strength. Who makes you push your thighs around his cock as he fucks into them from below. Whose larger frame dwarfs yours as he demands your attention.
Neteyam who slides his long fingers into your little pussy when he’s bathing with you in the river and almost making your knees give out.
Neteyam who teaches you how to kiss and how fun it is to slide his thick cock down your throat until you’re lightheaded and struggling.
Neteyam who teaches you how to breathe through it, how to stay focused on his cock even when your knees give out and his name is the only thing you know.
He’s wanted to be a husband ever since he understood Jake’s role in Neytiri’s life. And so he’s ecstatic to play the part of the perfect, protective, big and strong partner: pecking your temple and pulling you behind his body when other men look at you.
The same Neteyam who wants nothing more than to see your glossy lips: on him, around his girth, falling open with desperate whines when he fucks the raw head of his cock into you for hours until you can’t even stay conscious. The way your eyes are blown wide and unfocused or whether they are rolling to the back of your head; he loves them just as much. As long as you’re too exhausted to even think of another man.
Lo’ak, in all his rebellious glory, can keep his flings and his desperate attempts to be seen. Because Neteyam can see that his little bro is obviously jealous when you nuzzle into his neck. You can’t help but return to his strong arms and coos of his love, or when you call yourself Neteyam’s.
Neteyam has spent years guiding you, training you to accept that you are his girl. Your definition of love has been shapen and carved so deeply into your soul that the idea of being with anyone else feels like betraying Eywa herself.
belle ily please do soft spicy headcanons… which of the pandora boys who cups the back of your neck, gripping it tight enough in order to make you keep your eyes on him while he fucks deep into you, giving you kisses and telling you how pretty you are when you cum 🥺💗
just the thought of this is absolutely delicious, ur brain is so sexyyy
btw all the boys are aged up mmkay
— let’s start with lo’ak. he likes to have a few moments of complete intimacy where he wants to remind you how you’re not only physically connected because he wants you to know just how much being this close to you means to him. he’s convinced the best way to do just that is by making eye contact as he thrusts into you.
— with ao’nung, there are times where the two of you want it fast and hard, the only way to feed into this unbeseable hunger you have for each other. but on certain nights, he can’t help but crave the sight of your love and affection filled eyes. the color surrounding your iris oozing this certain kind of familiarity which gives him the ultimate feeling of safety and comfort and to watch the way they get even softer as soon as soft words of praise and appreciation fall past his lips.
— then there’s neteyam. he’s always one to maintain eyecontact as he slowly pushes his cock deeper into your tight hole, yknow? the act itself incredibly intimate to him as much as it is to you. but to him there’s something looking into your eyes when he’s having you right on the edge, so close to where you’ve been begging to be, eyes barely open as he continues to mark you in an almost animalistic way. and to watch tears stream down your cheeks every time he tells you just how perfect you look all used and marked up by him never fails to drive him crazy.
your writing is magnificent. i keep coming back to reread again and again😫 now i need to see your thoughts about neteyam but make it 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂... i need to know how he handles you when he’s busy,
thanks for reading!!! u are too nice to me 🥹🥹 i will keep trying my best to write good stuffff <33
freaky neteyam????? with a clingy/needy partner????? IM LIKING THIS. why? because
girls who are completely obsessed and devoted to neteyam?? 💙💘 he loves having you whine and beg and get all desperate for a taste of him. just for the chance to feel his hands on your skin before he has to go out to scour or to train with his dad for the day.
personally, im biased towards girls like u who won't let him leave without a mark, who gets teary-eyed when he has to be stern with u for tempting him when he’s clearly busy???
he likes being the first thing you wake up thinking about. he likes being the last thing your cunt aches for before you sleep
all in all. he enjoys having you need his attention and touch ( ᵒ̴̶̷̥́ _ᵒ̴̶̷̣̥̀ )
bet he just seems to be haunted by thoughts of his pretty mate constantly clinging to him, needing him to play with your body a bit more and make you a mess before he’s got to be gone for sooo long. He loves petting your hair and hushing you, giving those deep, rumbling throat-clicks to reassure you he’ll be back to claim you properly again soon
Or the thought of you snuggling into his chest and desperately begging for his cock, all of it, slicking down your thighs and ruining your loincloth because you can’t go a full day without thinking of him and how heavy and thick he feels when he’s breeding you.
wc. 0.7k
cw. explicit sexual content. reader on top! ao’nung is insufferable at times, but
summary. ao’nung makes you ride him and do all the work yourself.
a/n. no plot whatsoever 💧
The day had been long, spent patrolling the outer edges of the barrier reef where the currents were strongest.
Ao'nung, ever the prideful heir, had pushed the other boys to the brink of exhaustion, showing off with deep dives and aggressive ilu maneuvers. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in patches of violet and orange, his arrogance was at an all-time high.
He had spent the walk back to the village boasting about his catches, his webbed hand resting possessively on your shoulder, marking his territory in front of the younger boys.
But the moment the flap of your marui closed behind you both, the persona slipped, replaced by the hungry, restless energy of a man who had spent all day proving his strength and now wanted to be catered to.
He didn't even wait, he just dropped onto the woven mats, kicking off his supplies and watching you with those wide, pale eyes that seem to always promise trouble.
“I like this view.”
Ao'nung props his thick, tattooed arms behind his head, and the way his broad shoulders flex against the woven mat makes your jaw itch with the urge to bite.
“You could help, you know.”
Sat beautifully on his lap, your hands are splayed on the expanse of his chest as you roll your hips as best you can. The head of his cock hits a spot that makes you shiver, and your voice goes a touch softer, quietly begging, “Please, help.”
“Mm, thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll stay put.” He muses, grinning slyly up at you.
Once it’s obvious he won’t be moving, you skirt a pair of fingers down to toy with your clit. Slick coats them when you start rubbing on it how you like, pussy clenching around him once, making his pale eyes dart down to between the both of you, his tongue snaking out to wet his bottom lip.
“Fuck.” He whispers.
You roll your eyes at him, biting back a smirk, muttering affectionately under your breath, “Such pillow princess.”
“Hey! I deserve to be pampered once in a while, you're always taking it from me—” You shove the fingers that were on your clit into his mouth, and he chokes on the end of his sentence before he starts wiggling his tongue against the pads of them, giving himself a proper taste.
His eyes roll back into his head, and he speaks around your fingers even though you put them there to shut him up, “Tathe 'ike or puthy.”
You giggle at him, still talking, like always. You retract your hand and ignore the string of saliva that follows, his drool making your skin glisten, “Hm?” You prompt.
“Tastes like yer pussy, shit, give me more, please.” He swipes a hand from behind his head to start pawing at yours, bringing it closer to his mouth by your wrist, sucking your fingers back into his mouth desperately.
They’re nearly hitting the back of his throat when he starts fucking his hips up into you, taking you by surprise and making you gasp, but instinctively meeting him halfway by pushing your ass down. He uses both hands to grip each cheek, his webbed palms anchoring you, and finally, mercifully, he gives you what you want and fucks you how you asked. He could never say no to you for long.
It gets messy, his pounding, and there’s no preamble to his orgasm besides a few broken groans. His strokes stutter, and he cums in you, fingers burrowing into the fat of your ass, pulling your hips down to his own.
You only sit there, and let yourself feel it, pussy clenching around him involuntarily, growing desperate to cum along with him, the want sitting hot under your skin, scorching like you were thrown headfirst into fire. He composes himself and pushes you off with a whine, tossing you onto your back on the bed next to him and climbing over your body like an awoken beast, suddenly hungry in a way he wasn’t before.
Teal eyes roam over your skin, gaze heated, one big hand heavily palming its way from your throat all the way down your front, leaving goosebumps in its wake, not stopping until he’s cupping your pussy with it.
He smirks down at you when you keen for him, “Sorry, darling. I’ll put my mouth to better use now.”
⤷ ゛thinking of neteyam who’d manipulate you into sleeping with him ˎˊ˗
cw. aged-up Neteyam, explicit content, emphasized size difference, manipulative behavior, the existence of another Omatikaya man who is trying to court reader. can be read as yandere/dark but eh overall it's rlly mild
wc. 1.6k
summary. A slightly manipulative best friend!Neteyam selflessly offers himself to be your practice partner, who is using the guise of a helpful lesson to lure you to sleep with him.
It starts as a favor, truly. Because you’re convinced that he’s the only one you can trust with your insecurities. You had come to him to admit your hesitation regarding Ka’ani, a bold warrior-in-training who had announced (very publicly, if you may add) his eager plans to start courting you.
You confessed to Neteyam that you do not feel ready. That you fared Ka’ani would see through you, that you wouldn't be 'enough' for a warrior of his standing.
Listening with considerate silence, Neteyam feels disdain at the mention of the other boy's name, before weaving the perfect trap. That is how he lured you exactly where he wants you: pinned beneath him and thoroughly ruined for anyone else.
Only having sex once or twice in your life (clumsy, unmemorable encounters with a young warrior who has long since departed for regions elsewhere), you lack the experience that Neteyam surprisingly offers to give you as soon as he hears of your little dilemma. With a faint rush of heat pulsing along his high cheekbones, he tells you it’s only meant as a solution to wipe out any insecurities you might have when you are claimed in front of Eywa by the young warrior who has been attempting to court you for a long while now.
So after mulling it over for weeks, you give in. Admitting your doubts and expressing your worries — which he both immediately soothes of course — you ask him if the offer still stands.
You meet up with him at the cliffs, mentally and physically ready to fly your ikran deep into the mountains, to the hidden ledge behind a waterfall. It's the only place quiet enough for the 'lesson' you've planned to partake in, and you hope for the best.
He doesn't let you call for your own mount. Instead, he coaxes you toward his, claiming the winds near the high waterfalls are 'too sharp' tonight for a distracted flyer. It’s a lie, of course, but his voice is so steady that you believe him. He pulls you onto the saddle in front of him, your back flush against his broad chest, muscular thighs bracketing yours as he takes the reins.
The flight to the Hallelujah Mountains is the true beginning of the lesson. Every dive of the ikran forces your hips back against him, and every steadying grip of his scarred palm on your waist feels like a claim. You can feel the vibration of his low hiss against your spine, it’s a sound he claims is just to soothe the beast, but you feel it rattling your very bones.
By the time you land on the ledge behind the waterfall, your breath is already hitched, your body already primed by the friction of the ride.
And Neteyam, well, he finds it hard to hide his smile as soon as the real lesson begins.
The dark glint in his eyes grows as the woven songi that hangs over your chest comes off. He is looking at you like you're the finest kill he's ever tracked. The narrow gap between your bodies closes the moment he pushes you back onto the thick, mossy bedroll and soft furs, and the proximity becomes nearly non-existent. He is a mountain of blue muscle and heat, his skin slightly rougher than yours, radiating feverish warmth.
As you angle your head to the side and let him kiss your neck before dragging his mouth over your pulse point, laying his tongue flat and feeling the frantic beat of your heart. Then he inches upwards to claim your mouth instead, even if he doesn't have to make to teach you what you want to know.
But he wants to. Wants you entirely, that is. You just don’t know that.
So by the time you’re left completely pliant for him to devour, and your lips are swollen from all the kisses he’s placed upon them for what he calls a 'warm up', Neteyam looks outright ecstatic. He tells you how beautiful you are, despite your doubt if he can actually see you from how heavy his eyelids have become: weighed down by full-blown lust and something else you can’t quite pinpoint yet.
Being the naive girl you are, you suppose he’s just being nice to make you feel better — he’s always been like that. Constantly so thoughtful and protective, Neteyam is the epitome of the selfless generosity, the dutiful, beloved grandson of the late Eytukan.
Or so you think.
After all, how can he be considered selfless, when he now starts to whisper the dirtiest, most possessive shit into your ear as he at long last slips between your legs and pins your body underneath his much larger frame? His voice is a syrupy rasp as he at long last slips between your legs, his much larger frame pinning you down, making you feel delightfully small and fragile beneath him.
How can he be considered generous, when all he thinks about is himself and the horny, primal greed he holds for you?
Perhaps it’s the warmth in his gaze. Or the way he coos at you with a voice so syrupy sweet that every word might just rot your teeth down to their core.
The way he presses his forehead to your own, his forearms twitching with restrained energy as he starts stretching you out; you feel the terrifying, wonderful width of him first, pushing your velvety walls apart inch by inch to make room for the entirety of his length, whilst never breaking eye contact once. Watches your pupils blow wide as he colonizes the space inside you.
Or perhaps it’s the overwhelming breadth of his warrior body that makes every previous touch you’ve known feel like an empty imitation. The way his length consumes you so completely that the stinging pressure is quickly drowned out by this odd, thick need to be filled by him.
Maybe it’s how he is so much bigger than the boys you've known; his frame is solid muscle, his length a daunting weight that makes your previous experience feel like a distant dream. Maybe it’s how you are stretched so wide it almost hurts, but the way he groans your name into your mouth makes the discomfort melt into a desperate need.
Or maybe it’s the way he swallows the little moans that you start to let out the moment he sinks into you fully, bottoming out and lingering right next to your cervix because of his staggering size.
How he tells you what an incredibly smart girl you are for doing this: for taking him like a fucking champ, just like he knew you would.
How you’ll be able to woo every single male that gets lucky enough to score you after he’s finished with you, because, Great Mother; if you can take on a cock big as him, it surely won't be a problem to handle anyone else, right?
But you won't do that, won't you? You'll stay right where you are; drooling and squirming on his dick, getting ready to be put into a mating press by those big, scarred hands that just know how to stroke you so well... right?
When you start nodding in dazed agreement — head tipping back into the furs — his teeth nip at your shoulder slowly just so that he can hide the selfish smile that’s pushing forward again. You’re clenching around him, lower belly overflowing with heat as he paves a trail of warm saliva along the column of your neck that hides your pulse and that has long since become coated with sticky sweat.
He makes sure to place a mark there, a deep violet bruise, so that he can feel your erratic heartbeat dance on his tongue as he lures it out to play.
And eventually, it does come out to play, and it plays hard.
Minutes pass, and the roar of the waterfall outside is drowned out by the rhythmic thud of his hips against yours as he loses his cool. He’s everywhere all at once; pushing your limits, filling you up, pulling you taut. And fuck, speaking of being pulled taut — your poor body is about to be absolutely wrecked because of his monster of a cock and the way it stretches you.
Eyes crossing from the mind-shattering orgasm to hit you all of a sudden, you have no clue what he’s so worried about as you cream on his dick. I mean, how in the hell are you going to fuck someone else, when he has literally ripped you into million little pieces?
Neteyam has torn you apart and rebuild you in one single try: you are a stranger to yourself, you are a new person who can only reach a feeling of satisfaction by the mercy of his touch.
"You did so well," he murmurs against your ear, his lips practically kissing the shell of your ear. The heat of it all introduces your body to a fresh wave of sensitivity. The low, satisfied vibration sends a final shiver down your spine.
His thumb drags across your bottom lip, and then he’s pulling it downward as if to inspect the swollen, bitten flesh. "But I think we need a few more sessions before you're ready for anyone else. We wouldn't want you to be... disappointed by a lesser man, would we?"
In your dazed stupor, you find yourself too thoroughly spent to notice the way his eyes gleam with a dark, permanent victory.
This is the lesson all along, that anything less than this will never be enough. Any other man’s touch will feel hollow.
⤷ ゛The harvest hasn't even truly begun, but Neteyam has always had his eyes for the finest yield ˎˊ˗
content warnings. slight age gap (neteyam is older than reader by a few yrs), teacher-student rs, power imbalance, manipulative behavior from neteyam bc he wants you all to himself, yandere / dark!neteyam if u rlly squint but its very mild, trust. lingering tension. suggestive.
summary. As the daughter of the legendary hunter, Peyral, you are expected to be the Omatikaya’s next great huntress, but Neteyam has other plans. Under the guise of mentorship, he is harvesting the world's most precious nectar, you. And he intends to keep you entirely for himself.
wc. 1.9k
a/n. neteyam = such a good boy, so responsible. but what if all of that is turned into an unhinged type of possessiveness? we have the perfect formula for Neteyam to play mentor while actually just being hopelessly and manipulatively in love. in all srsness, i just needed an excuse to write dark+possessive neteyam.
..... also y'all tbh, this was born because i couldn't stop replaying the "Peyral is a good hunter" scene in my head, wondering, what IS miss good hunter up to now?
Everyone knows your mother.
Peyral is a name whispered with awe among the Omatikaya. She is a huntress whose tracks are as silent as the falling mist, but it is her mastery of the bolas and the long-knife that truly sets her apart. While others rely solely on the bow, she is known for the deadliness of her close-quarter combats, pinning prey with a flick of her wrist before they would even sense her presence.
To live as the daughter of Peyral is to live within a legend; your mother’s name is a sharp, silver blade whispered in the wind.
Growing up as her daughter means living under a microscope of expectation. You are a fine huntress, one of the best of your generation. To the clan, you represent a legacy of strength.
You were born to inherit her shadow.
But this kind of burden is not unique to you. You often find your gaze drifting toward the sons of Toruk Makto, who are laden under much heavier pressure. While the younger ones still have the luxury of play, Neteyam, the eldest, was forged for his role since he was born.
He moves through the world with the kind of richness that is purely Omatikaya. A feline-like shadow drifting through the dappled emerald light of the rainforest canopy.
Unlike Tarsem, who fought for every scrap of recognition as a young warrior before Jake had even allowed him to lead hunts, Neteyam exists in a state of casual, infuriating excellence.
He does not seem to try; he simply becomes. Miles ahead of every boy his age, possessing a frighteningly natural command over the natural elements of Pandora.
It’s impossible to ignore the way he carries his steps: with the weight of a future Olo’eyktan and the sophistication of a creature born for the forests, the mountains, and the sky.
Even though you are well into your own adulthood, Neteyam has effectively claimed you as his personal responsibility.
It began as a gesture of mentorship, a "responsible" choice that looked honorable to the elders. Started after a hunt where you had struggled with a particularly stubborn yerik, Neteyam stepped in with a quiet, authoritative suggestion.
The Olo'eyktan and his wife, as well as the Tsahik, all agreed. Claimed that a hunter of your lineage shouldn't settle for anything less than perfection. Since then, they made it his mission to refine your skills.
He calls you one of his "best students". Keeps you tucked under his wing where he can monitor every shift in your posture and every breath you take.
The elders see a future leader honing the talents of a legendary huntress’s daughter. But in the quiet of the forest, far from the prying eyes of Jake or Neytiri, his mentorship is a gravity you can not resist.
"You’re overthinking again," he murmurs. His voice is low, humming vibration through the humid air. It sends a prickle of heat through your skin.
You are stalking through the thick brush, your bow half-drawn, and he is hovering just behind you. He has been there for long. A looming presence that makes the air feel thick and difficult to pull into your lungs.
Snap.
He is frustratingly perfect. A few years your senior and possessed of a calm competence that makes your heart hammer against your ribs.
Having his undivided attention during training is a beautiful curse.
When you miss a strike with your bow, he doesn’t scold you. Instead, he just lets out a low, melodic huff of amusement.
"Impressive," he teases smoothly. It is a sound so rich you can almost feel it vibrating in your own chest. "Was your goal to alert every ikran in the Hallelujah Mountains of our position, or just to scare the trees?"
Before you can snap back, he glides around you with a precision that makes your own movements feel clumsy. He doesn't just stand in front of you, he looms.
His broad chest and the solid line of his shoulders completely eclipse your view of the prey. Large, blue hands settling firmly on your shoulders. Fingers seem to wrap entirely around your frame. They squeeze, and the grounding pressure feels more like a claim than a correction.
He forces you to look at him, the black irises in his golden eyes dilated, tracking the frantic rhythm of your pulse in the hollow of your throat.
"You thought for too long," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly hum that sends a prickle of heat through your skin. It’s a tone reserved for the hunt, or perhaps for something much more private. "In the forest, doubt is as loud as a scream."
He presses the solid heat of his chest against your back to align your shoulders, and the world narrows down to the scent of him: damp earth, Mo'at's wild herbs, and something primal.
"Stop being so tense," he whispers against the shell of your ear. You feel the heat rising to your face, your dots glowing a faint, telltale light that you cannot hide from his piercing gaze.
He knows he is flustering you.
He watches your reaction with a thirst that borders on the unholy: You are his rarest yield, a sweetness he stumbled upon and decided he alone was entitled to harvest.
You are innocent, perhaps too much so for your own good, and you find yourself swept up in the gravity of his presence.
You are infatuated, yes, but Neteyam is the one with the ulterior motives.
He sees the way you look at him, and he isn't just aware of your devotion. He is actively cultivating it. He is counting on your loyalty to ensure you never look elsewhere, driven by a quiet, simmering obsession of his own.
He finds you far too reactive and too easy to stir. And it’s not like he has any intention of letting go.
"Your mother would have heard that twig snap from across the valley," he whispers, dangerously close.
You stiffen, your bow half-drawn.
"But you thought about your footing too much," he says, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your pulse skip. "You hesitated again."
He reaches out, his hand being warm and steady as it wraps over yours on the grip of your bow, guides your arm down. His thumb traces the intricate, hand-carved grooves of the wood with a slow, distracting rhythm. "You have Peyral’s blood, but you don't have her ice. You’re too warm. Too... reactive."
He grins then, a flash of white teeth in the dappled shade. It’s a handsome, cocky look that makes your stomach flip, making you feel like a cornered prey. You feel the neural pathways of your skin glowing again, a faint, telltale that you cannot stop nor hide.
"Let’s try again," he says. Always got that velvety depth that doesn't help with the heat in your face. "And this time, try to look at the target, and not so much at me."
He knows the way your hands tremble slightly when he let his touches linger. It is a game of calculated proximity. It is a game of inches where he pushes just far enough to see you break.
He should know better, for he is a Sully and a warrior of rank.
Yet the power he has over the daughter of the clan's finest hunter is a nectar he refuses to stop drinking. He is just as caught in your orbit as you are in his, though he hides his hunger behind a mask of duty.
The evening of the great feast, following a hunt where you had held your own among both young and seasoned warriors alike, the village is a riot of songs. The jungle floor is a carpet of glowing moss, and the air is heavy with the scent of roasted plants and sweet food. You are finally relaxing. Your mind is finally drifting away from the intensity of the day's training as you laugh with your friends.
The peace is short-lived.
"Peyral’s daughter," a voice calls out. It is a traditional way to be addressed, yet from him, it feels like he’s reminding you of exactly who he thinks you belong to.
Neteyam approaches, looking breathtaking in his ceremonial beads. He walks through the crowd with the steady glow of a leader who knows he is being watched. Two gourds of fermented kava in his hands.
He reaches out to hand the drink to you. Doing so, his fingers slide against yours and linger there until the heat of his skin is all you can feel.
He leans his weight back against a tree root. His bare chest catches the flickering light of the cooking fires.
He has shed his war gear for the simple loincloth and beads of the celebration, and the way the slow reflects off his muscles makes you dizzy.
"I heard what they said," you say quietly, trying to find your voice. "They said I am finally catching up to my mother’s shadow."
Neteyam tilts his head, his yellow eyes tracking the movement of your throat as you swallow the kava. He reaches out, his hand settling on your bicep. His grip is firm, his fingers digging slightly into the lean muscle you’ve worked so hard to build. It feels possessive.
His silent reminder that your strength is something he helped craft.
"To them, perhaps," he murmurs, leaning in until the scent of the damp earth and his own clean, wild musk fills your senses. "But to me, you are still the one I must watch closest. My most precious student."
He reaches up with his free hand, his thumb grazing the bioluminescent paint on your cheek. He smears it, his thumb dragging across your skin in a gesture that is far too intimate for a public feast. You thank Eywa that the two of you are off to the quieter side of the venue, conveniently away from other people. Your heart hammers against your ribs, like a frantic and trapped bird. How do you get it to slow and calm down?
"How beautiful you look tonight," he teases. His tail flicks behind him in a slow, rhythmic arc.
"If I didn't know better, I’d think you were trying to catch someone's eye tonight."
Neteyam knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows the power he holds when he feels your pulse jump under his touch. He should be leading his people, but the way you hang on his every word, trembling under his gaze.... the way you vibrate with a mix of frustration and infatuation.
It is a game he isn't ready to stop playing. You are the nectar he refuses to stop drinking.
So he leans in just a fraction closer. "It almost feels like we’re off on our own, doesn't it?"
He’ll have his fun with you first.
His own heart is too greedy to let you step out of his reach.
The more you thrive under his tutelage, the more you belong to him. He’ll keep you right here, in the space between a mentor’s care and a lover’s greed, for as long as he finds it entertaining.
He is Omatikaya's future leader, yes, but he has become a gardener of the most patient kind.
People think he does not work hard when in fact, he has been working his hardest to prune away your doubts and harvest your devotion, ensuring that you bloom only for him.
To the Omatikaya, you are a huntress coming into her own; to him, you are his long-awaited prize ripened to perfection and oozing with nectar meant only for his soul.
The harvest hasn't even truly begun, but Neteyam has always wanted the finest yield.
⤷ ゛the heart rate monitor says that your biggest problem is the boy sitting on the edge of your hospital bed ˎˊ˗
wc. 1.9k
content warning. post-S5. kissing, making out. hospital room setting. if u squint it is implied that reader got vecna-ed and 1v1-ed, and is trying to recover from heavy injuries. reader and mike are in a situationship/fwb thing … or whatever the name was in the 80s. very little smut tbh.
summary. Thinking about your teeth clashing with Mike’s when you try to give him a hasty, needy kiss from your hospital bed.
a/n. lumax’s hospital scene got me thinking,, i wanna see mike making out with reader who unfortunately has to be hospitalized after the final battle and everything
It’s officially the aftermath. And you’ve been seeing each other, somewhat, with no labels attached, for several months now, though you’ve known him since you were both kids playing in his basement.
Despite the fact that he knows you better than anyone and you know him — not only the weight he carries for Hawkins, but also every inch of his lanky, grown frame — he remains alert and awfully wary whenever actual, quiet intimacy comes into play.
The stakes are different now; the world is standing still, but his mind is still racing at a hundred miles per hour. Constantly checking the room for threats, for any flickering vital signs that the peace is just an illusion.
To be completely honest, you’re not surprised by it. Mike Wheeler is every bit wired to be the strategist; he’s spent years prepared for the worst-case scenario, only for it to actually happen.
After the hell he’s been through since Will first went missing, you can’t even blame him for becoming stiff as a board whenever you initiate something provocatively sentimental, intruding into his personal space while he’s still in survival mode. Sometimes, he forgets how to just be.
However, despite being the one who always has a plan and owning senses honed by years of looking over his shoulder for monsters and humans alike, he somehow ends up not expecting the small affection that is your kiss while he stands by your bedside at 4AM. His brow is furrowed with a stress he shouldn't have to carry, and his clothes are covered in grime from the latest skirmish that he would always dodge your questions about. He just doesn’t want you to think about too much right now.
You have to focus on recovering and getting your body back up, was what he pleaded.
He smells like the woods, like sweat, musk, and the heavy scent of the approaching thunderstorm that’s starting to knock at the hospital window. It also smells like ozone.
It’s a hellish Hawkins summer, and it makes the air humid and outright hazy with particles. Daylight will appear soon, perhaps in an hour if the rainclouds clear up. And yet both you and your situationship, your semi-boyfriend, the former-leader of the local resistance, are still wide awake.
At least you’ve slept, unlike him. The dark circles that have gotten snug underneath his eyes are becoming more apparent by the minute, contrasting sharply against his pale skin.
You gently stroke them with your thumbs as you continue to kiss him. One swipe of tongue, two, three; the affection eventually gets so heated that your teeth audibly click together. It causes his long eyelashes to flutter as he squeezes his eyes completely shut.
He leans into the touch, his forehead resting against yours as he tracks the vital signs of your shared proximity—the heat of your skin, the shaky catch of your inhale.
Visibly unsure, he leans back against the medical monitors whilst murmuring quiet, muffled apologies, still holding the plastic cup of water he’d just brought you before you’d decided it was time to meld yourself with him. The thin, silvery strings of spit that bridge you together break, but you still follow after him because you simply refuse to let him go.
It’s not like he’s letting you go that easy, either. Not after what almost took your life.
Not after he witnessed Max finally wake up, only to find your body still so limp and cold and pale. Not after he realized how narrowly you had escaped the darkness.
When you rest your hands on his chest and pull yourself up as much as your injuries allow, his heart starts beating harder than a war drum. It’s practically dancing in his ribcage as you pet it over the muscle and bone.
Yours bears the same fate, it seems. The EKG monitor next to the bed betrays you instantly, its rhythm spiking into a frantic, rapid chirping.
Smiling like a cat at the fact that his pulse immediately turns rapid underneath the tips of your fingers, it’s not even a second later that you kiss him again and consequently hear him groan into your mouth. It’s a tired, languid sort of sound; so deep that it makes the hair on the back of your neck stand to attention from how pleased it makes you.
“I’ve missed you,” you murmur softly, gleefully. “It’s been a while since you swung by.”
There’s only a moment of hesitation before he opens his mouth a fraction wider at your genuine words, giving in and offering silent approval as he blindly sets the cup back on the tray where it belongs and wraps his big hands around your waist. He pulls you closer and closer until your bodies are flushed against one another, ignoring the tangle of IV lines.
The kiss turns from loving to passionate, devastatingly fiery as he swallows your whimpers. He tastes like the cold water and the salt of his own skin, and when your tongue licks the roof of his mouth, he hitches a breath that sounds like a sob.
He’s grown so much. Handsome and so tall. It’s dreamy.
His skin is hot even if the inside of his mouth is ice cold from the water. It messes with your senses as your tongue glides over the flat surface of his teeth and you kiss him so deep that you’re sure you’ll remember the taste of his saliva and desperation for all eternity. His hands move to the small of your back, his fingers digging into your flesh with a possessiveness that tells you exactly how much he feared he’d lost you during the final breach.
By the time you angle your head further to the side, indulging your oral fixation by grazing your teeth against his lip, you have to caress his face again so that you can keep him from pulling back. That initial instinct to be the 'responsible one,' to hide his own vulnerability just like he does in front of everyone else, overcomes him for a brief second. You feel his hands falter on your hips, mid-way to pulling at the hem of your hospital gown until your skin is no longer covered by anything but thin cotton.
“Mike—” you start with a whine.
He pauses at the sound of his name. He takes a breath that reminds you more of a pant before he looks down at you with a gaze so heavy-lidded with lust and worry, which he can’t hide from you anymore, that it makes your legs feel like jelly.
The way he’s looking at you: starving, like you’re the only source of light left in a dying town, is enough to make you dizzy.
The sight of you looking so disheveled by him, so alive despite your scars, makes his brow furrow.
“The stitches,” he chides after a couple of seconds of studious silence, dark eyes flickering across your face. “I’ve told you a million times that you have to be more careful. You’re supposed to be resting.”
Goddammit, the shaky drawl of his voice is so hot you might just risk the monitors flatlining.
“It’s okay,” you quickly coo to reassure him like you always do, inhaling deeply when he hunches his back because of the height difference and swipes his thumb across your bottom lip to get rid of the glimmer of drool he’s left there. The response is practically done on instinct by now. “I’m okay.”
“Yeah, for now,” he mumbles, before he scrubs one hand across his face, clearly unconvinced and perhaps even a little bit jittery. “Just—”
Your breath hitches in the back of your throat when he carefully maneuvers himself onto the edge of the narrow bed. He’s right between your legs in mere seconds, looking up at you with a stern expression that makes you want to roll your eyes in response. It’s always him that has to be in control, even when he’s falling apart.
“No more kissing,” he says, shusing you with a finger to your lips and a stubborn ‘a-ah!’ when you attempt to protest. “At least no more kissing like that. The nurse is right down the hall.”
He doesn’t want you overexerting your body. And your heart rate.
But that doesn’t mean that he won’t tease you, though. Because despite his scolding, Mike still tips your head back and leans in to press his mouth against your pulse point. He does it with such intensity that you can feel the scrape of his teeth when he parts his lips to lick the sweet spot there, his breath hot against your neck. All until you start squirming and the heart monitor starts beeping in a continuous, high-pitched alert.
“Should’ve let the doctors sedate you,” he playfully mocks when he finally pulls back, his hair even more of a mess than before. You feel the urge to play with fistfuls of his hair. “It would’ve at least kept you still.”
Listening to the tone he’s using with you now, it’s safe to say he’s grown comfortable in your company despite the world ending outside. Perhaps even a little bit too okay. You’ve noticed how he prefers to stay in your assigned room most evenings when he has the time and chance to visit the hospital. His lanky body at long last utterly relaxes on the too-small guest couch. How his restless brain accepts the distraction that only your presence can provide. It’s like you’ve tamed the most high-strung boy in Hawkins into something soft and malleable, even if you won’t say it to his face, nor in front of the boys.
It’s sweet. You look down at him whilst you stroke his hair at moments like these, and there’s a sense of accomplishment swelling within you. It’s like you’ve trained a stray puppy into something sweet and docile despite the barren edges of his exhaustion. You must admit, it’s rewarding as hell.
And that’s not all. You’ve also seen the way he looks at you whenever your clothes come off and you end up splayed wide open underneath him on his bed, looking oh, so vulnerable.
As your lips lock again in the hospital room, the sensation triggers a flash of memory: the last time you were alone in his basement bedroom.
You can still feel the way he was trying so hard to be rougher as he filled you, bony limbs tangling with yours in the dark. You can still feel how he eased the movement of his hips when you tipped your head back into his pillow in absolute pleasure and reached out for him, because you simply needed to touch him when he was about to make you become undone.
You’ve even noticed how he dips in, then. How he hesitantly waits for you to wrap your arms around his neck, and lets you cling onto him for dear life as he pushes deeper, deeper, deeper.
Until he’s the one that has to nuzzle his face into the sensitive junction of your neck and shoulder whilst you unbearably tighten around his cock and it forces him to cum.
Until he’s the one whose own vital signs fail him, his pulse crashing and his body in tremors as he seeks sanctuary in the junction of your shoulder, falling apart by the sheer weight of loving you.
The monitor reaches its peak: a steady, frenzied scream of electronic beep as your body reacts to the ghost of that memory and the reality of his teeth currently grazing your jaw. It just takes him a while to do that. To open up and allow himself to believe that you are back, that you’re really staying.
Luckily for him, though, you’re as patient as you are loving.
⤷ ゛A comprehensive guide to falling for certain Na'vi men, through a study featuring seven men of Pandora ˎˊ˗
synopsis. A collection of drabbles exploring the Sully and Metkayina men: how is it to love them, and how they love you.
the line-up. Neteyam: the Twilight, Lo’ak: the Eclipse, Ao’nung: the New Moon, Rotxo: the Midnight Sun, Jake Sully: the Supernova, Tonowari: Breaking Dawn, Quaritch: the Blood Moon.
content warning. SFW. romance. yearning. green flags, personified. NOT A TWILIGHT AU. no appearances of vampires/werewolves. no species other than our beloved Na’vi.
a/n. yes,,,,,the titles were inspired by the twilight saga. i was looking at my bookshelf and stopped at the sequence of titles on the book spines. and then i thought, gosh— Neteyam and Lo’ak are literally Twilight and Eclipse, personified. then what about New Moon and Breaking Dawn? they’re so… Ao’nung and Tonowari :’) of course my mind trailed off to Jake and Rotxo as well, we need a complete package of all the boys!
if ur no longer a minor, a continuation of this, the nsfw version will be posted in a few day's time <3
I. Neteyam: The Eternal Twilight
To be loved by Neteyam is to exist in a perpetual state of twilight. In that sacred, indigo peace where the stars breathe with life, where Pandora finds its temporary rest, and the harshness of the day has finally bled away.
Neteyam is the firstborn son of the mighty Toruk Makto. He is the prince of the Omatikaya, who carries a lineage of Olo’eyktans in his stride and the song of his people in his breath.
A pride of his people, he is the youngest in history to strike the heart of the rite of passage. Yet, despite his perfection and the weight of a future leader on his shoulders, he does not approach you with the thunder of a conqueror.
Though he is the "Crown Prince", he comes as your royal guard, who stands in front of you with unyielding gaze and hands that never waver.
He holds you in regard to a treasure, he looks at you as if you are given the highest grace of the Eywa.
A perfect combination of a majestic prince and tireless protector, Neteyam stands like an iron wall that shields you from the shadows that scare of the rest of the world.
When he brushes past you, he harbors the scent of damp forest floor and the silver mists of the High Camp, a fragrance of a home that predates the coming of the Sky people.
He is a hunter who never raises his voice, even when his blood burns with the fire of righteous rage. His devotion to his family and to you is not a flickering flame.
He is all selfless, eternal persistence. Like the star that remains when all others fail. His presence is an encompassing glow that watches over you from near or from afar, ensuring any unwanted shadow would not cross your threshold.
In his gaze, you feel the "safe hour" settle over your soul; he makes you feel as though you are a bloom of the forest, daring you to open your petals under his safe shade.
He is the first light of the star you seek when the path is lost. He is a steady, guiding glow, your bridge between the day and the night, ensuring you are never forsaken in total darkness.
II. Lo’ak: The Solar Eclipse
Lo’ak is not the sun that warms the ground; he is the moon that dares to cross its path, a sudden, electric interruption of the natural order.
His love is like a solar eclipse, a rare and terrifying phenomenon that renders the world a beautiful haven where only you are visible to him, only you exist.
To be Lo'ak's is to be chosen by the outcast who found brotherhood in a lonely Tulkun, the kind of kinship the world could not name. A man who knows what it is to be called a freak and finds his solace in the deep waters.
To be his is to be the only star visible in the surrounding darkness.
To love Lo’ak is to be thrown into impetuous, beautiful danger.
To walk with him is to be hurled into the vicinity of a thousand problems born of his reckless, albeit well-intended fire.
He means well with every drop of his demon blood, although his actions would lead you head-first into a tornado. For his heart is a wild, untamed thing that pulls you into the very eye of the storm.
He is the shadow that devours the sky only to prove that he would plunge the entire world into night if it meant he could bring you back undisturbed. His love is a total obscuration, a theft of light that leaves you shivering in the thrill of being his only priority.
He treats you with naive confidence that strikes like lightning—loud, powerful, and utterly misunderstood by the world outside. When he looks at you, the air grows thin with hopeful longing, and you always feel it in the way his gaze settles upon you.
He makes you feel like a secret shared between the high heavens and the deep earth, a beautiful anomaly only for him to have.
Lo'ak is the proof that the most profound light (and, love) is often found in the places others fear to tread.
III. Ao'nung: The New Moon
Ao'nung watches you with the inevitable gravity of a new moon. A heavy, invisible presence that pulls at the tides of your heart long before the light of his affection is revealed.
This is the moon in its hidden phase: a time when the light is not absent, instead, tucked behind a veil of shadow, waiting for the right moment to be revealed.
Once the boy who mocked any outsiders, he has grown into a formidable warrior of the Metkayina, a man who fights with the destructive ferocity of the reef people, skillfully wielding weapons underwater while guiding his beast with a single hand.
To love him is to witness the slow sharpening of his soul as he emerges from that shadow.
He is a man of hidden depths and silvered pride, and his love initially cloaked in the cold, distant shadows of the deep. Yet, you see through the salt iron of his bravado, through the emergence of his fierce, loyal friendship with the Sully boys.
To be loved by Ao'nung is to realize that the moon is most powerful when you don't seek for it. He is the shadow that follows you through the turquoise deeps. Not to haunt, but to ensure the Great Sea never claims what is his.
His long-standing devotion to you is a slow-growing, ever-expanding sliver of light. The gradual revealing of a soul that has learned the grace of softening. For his friends, and especially for you.
To be loved by Ao’nung is to be treated like the center of the vast ocean surrounding the reef. You are deeply respected, intensely guarded, and tethered to a man whose love is as unassailable as the rising tide of the sea.
IV. Rotxo: The Midnight Sun
Rotxo is the light of the midnight sun; a warm, unyielding ray of warmth that unconsciously brightens every corner of your horizon. He is the man who has decreed that for you, there shall be no night where sorrow falls upon you.
He is the observant soul, the wallflower who notices when you wander off. He is the one whose eyes scan the waves with cheerful vigilance, ensuring you are never left behind in his wake. He sees the shadow on your face before you even feel its chill.
Being in Rotxo’s presence means you are treated with his sun-like tenderness that makes the deepest trenches of the sea feel like a shallow, silver playground.
If there were a sound of light striking the great water, it would be his laughter. It is a bright, defiant joy that sustains your happiness when the surrounding tide grows far too big.
To be with Rotxo is to live in a summer that knows no autumn. He makes you feel buoyant, weightless. As if the chains of your troubles have simply ceased to be.
He does not ask you to weather the dark. He simply remains high in your sky, like a constant, radiant horizon.
Rotxo is the warmth that persists because he cannot bear to see the chill of isolation touch your skin. He is the sun that refuses to sleep, as long as you are awake.
V. Jake Sully: The Supernova
Jake is the man who would let an entire world die so that he can breathe within yours. He is the supernova, born from the wreckage of a dying human star.
His love is nothing like a gentle melody; it is fierce, protective, and newborn. His love stems from a marine’s discipline forged into a warrior’s obsession.
He loves with the frantic brilliance of a man who was given a second chance at life and refuses to waste a single breath of it. He is a man who has crossed the abyss between lives, and refuses to lose the light he found on the other side that radiates from you.
He treats you with the intensity of a man who has calculated the cost of loss and decided that you are worth every sacrifice. You are his home, his final stand.
Jake Sully makes you feel like the prize of a hard-won revolution. You are a soul so precious it justifies the burning of the sky.
He shields you with a heat so great it would scorch the heavens if he lets it.
His presence is a massive, gravitational force that holds your universe in its proper alignment.
To be Jake's is to be the fixed point in a galaxy of chaos, cherished by a man who has lived twice and loves a thousand times harder.
VI. Tonowari: Breaking Dawn
Tonowari is the break of the dawn, the strong and steady hand that ends the long night of uncertainty with a single, undeterred, clear line of light.
He is a giant of a man, feared for his unmatched strength and his prowess that commands the wave. Yet he is the leader who will not settle a decision without honoring the weight of your thoughts.
His love is rooted in a deep, abiding respect that values your voice as much as his own.
He does not love with the fleeting passion of a boy, but with the inevitable certainty of the morning. His devotion to you is as reliable as the sun rising over the eastern reefs to claim the say.
When he is roused by anger, he does not explode; he is all low, booming thunder, a scary and imposing force that can silence a room with a single gesture. But when he turns his gaze to you, that thunder becomes a low, protective rumble of affection.
Tonowari is the man who shields those he loves with a hand held firm against the world. He is a protector who demands order so that you may flourish in the peace he has maintained away from malice.
Beside him, you are safe within the magnificent structure of his heart. He is the pillar of the reef who stands between you and the horizon.
Tonowari is a father resembling the dawn, the man who restores the world’s calm morning colors and demands that the rest of the world treat you with the same reverence that he does.
VII. Quaritch: Blood Moon
Avatar Miles Quaritch is the blood moon, a heavy omen that stains the skies of Pandora with a copper-hued, predatory shadow.
Quaritch is the drastic, suffocating, reddening of the night. He is a lunar eclipse with the ruthless certainty of a man who refuses to stay dead.
He is a soul bound by the martial laws of Sky People's insanity, too hard to bend to the laws of Eywa.
He is a man who has lead the path of fire, and now returned with a heart touched by the cooling lava. His love is jagged; remnants of what was once brutal, violent core.
He is the Blood Moon, the darkness that demands your submission in order for you to see the light again. And his company is a massive unyielding presence that demands your total focus.
His devotion guarantees — should you ever be taken from him — his willingless to turn the world into copper and bone, because under his watch, there is no place for the weak to hide. To be his is to be the flag he won't even think to lower.
Quaritch is a man who dares to look into the eye of the furnace, yet he looks at you with an intensity more ferocious than those flames.
He does not offer soft, whimsical whispers of a lullaby. But his words to you are raw, his promises genuine.
To be loved by him is to be the lone pinnacle of sanctuary, an undisturbed patch of grass, in a landscape of an entire scorched planet.
(n)sfw || Neteyam x Metkayina!Reader (Tonowari’s daughter)
⤷ ゛Perfect son of the great Toruk Makto accidentally wanders too far, sees you during a Metkayina clan ritual, and forgets how to breathe all over again ˎˊ˗
wc. 1.2k
content warning. no explicit sexual content. borderline erotica but not smut. voyeurism. vaguely-made-up metkayina ritual bathing called Moon-Wash. intense pining. aged-up Neteyam being a literal menace to his own self-control. primal/territorial thoughts.
summary. Years after surviving the gunshots that would’ve killed him, Neteyam Sully has become the man his father always wanted him to be — disciplined, and destined for leadership. But he has a secret he’s kept since the day he first touched the sands of Awa’atlu: he is utterly, devastatingly obsessed with the Olo'eyktan's eldest daughter.
a/n. Trope: Neteyam Survived and He’s Thirsty. We all know he’s the responsible one, but even the best warriors have their breaking point. In Neteyam’s case, he’s absolutely losing his mind over you.
The night air in the Metkayina village is a heavy, humid velvet, smelling of salt-grass and the cooling reef. Neteyam moves along the high-woven walkways with a silence that is purely Omatikaya: a shadow drifting through the indigo light.
The bioluminescence of Awa’atlu at night is a soft, pulsing heartbeat of cyan and indigo. Neteyam, now a man grown with the broad, scarred shoulders of a warrior and the heavy mantle of a future leader, moves through the high woven walkways with the silence of a forest breeze.
He pauses, his hand instinctively ghosting over the faint, puckered star of a scar just above his ribs — a reminder of the day the sea nearly claimed him. But Eywa had been kind. He had survived the battle, and the years of reconstruction that followed.
He has lived to grow taller year by year, to see his brother find his path, and to find not only Lo’ak’s but his own heart anchored to the reefs. He has spent those years being the "Golden Son," the anchor for his family and the leading example of discipline for his siblings.
He remembers the very first day they arrived on these shores, dripping with salt and desperation. While Lo’ak had been busy playing it cool when Tsireya came to the surface, Neteyam stood rigid behind his father, his gaze locked on you — the Olo’eyktan’s eldest daughter, the one who carries the weight of Metkayina’s future with the serene, lethal grace that reminds him of a mermaid.
He had felt lightning strike his heart then, but he had actively tried his damnest to bury it deep. He had to be the responsible one. He had to keep Lo'ak in check, keep Tuk safe, and prove to the Metkayina that the Sullys were not a curse.
He had spent years averting his gaze whenever you’d arrive in his line of vision, suppressing the way his pulse jumped when you spoke. But tonight, the "responsible son" he thinks he is, is losing the war against himself.
He is the oldest son of Toruk Makto; he is disciplined, the Golden Boy who returned from the brink of death to lead.
And he really shouldn't be here.
He doesn’t mean to be near the private grottoes carved into the great roots of the mangrove trees. He knows this place is reserved for the female members of the Metkayina Clan, he learned it the hard way when he was on the receiving end of Ronal’s scolding, the Tsahik shooing all the boys: as well as Lo’ak, Ao’nung and Rotxo away when they played too close.
The scent hits him first: crushed sea-lilies and the sweet, metallic tang of oils. It’s mixed with your scent. And then his feet move of their own accord, drawn by a gravity he can no longer resist.
He stops. His breath hitches, his lungs stalling in his chest.
Through the swaying fronds of sea-fern, he sees the infamous ritual reserved only for Metkayina women of high status, the Moon-Wash.
He sees you.
You are standing waist-deep in a pool of heated seawater, the surface shimmering with glowing plankton that swirl around you like fallen stars.
Your attendants — clan sisters and healers who honor your rank — pour bowls of bioluminescent water over your shoulders, they cling to your skin like liquid diamonds.
Neteyam watches, his golden eyes dilated, as something is dragged slowly over the curve of your shoulder.
He tracks the way the water sluices down your teal-hued frame. It highlights the finned ridges of your forearms and the broad, graceful sweep of your paddle-like tail as it swishes beneath the surface.
When you turn, the moonlight catches the swell of your chest, rising and falling with deep breaths. The bioluminescent dots along your collarbone — dots he has memorized from afar for years — glow a fierce, steady green in the darkness. In the chilly night air, he sees the lighter, wave-like stripes, signature to the people of your clan, standing out against your skin.
I see you, he declares, the traditional greeting feeling like a prayer, a confession, and a sin. Eywa, I see only you.
Neteyam’s own tail twitches — a sharp, hungry flick. The air in his throat feels like fire.
He remembers how he used to scold Lo'ak for being too obvious, for letting his heart lead his head. Now, Neteyam realizes he was never any better than his brother; he’s just been better at suppressing his feelings to submit to what’s “right”.
Watching you under the eclipse-light, he doesn’t even realize that the last of his legendary self-control has snapped like a dry branch.
He feels like a hunter, locking in to stalk its prey. He inhales, a deep, shaky draw of air, committing your very scent of you to burn into his nostrils.
He remembers you as the gorgeous girl who taught him how to breathe when he first arrived. He thinks of the contrast: his deep sapphire skin against your bright reef-teal; his four-fingered hand splayed over the dip of your waist, pulling you against the heat of his body until the forest and the sea finally meet.
He knows he should look away.
Tonowari would have his head for such an intrusion. If Ronal finds him now, she wouldn’t hesitate to exile his demon blood away from the reefs for good. And Ao’nung? He only hopes that your brother — now one of his closest friends — as a man of the same age as him, would understand.
That the yearning is a physical weight, a heat that pools low in his belly and makes his blood flush with something primal.
It is no longer a crush that he harbors for you; it is an obsession, a hunger that has been aged to perfection over years of silent discipline.
As you step out of the water, your skin glistening like the very ocean you were born into, Neteyam finally forces himself to look away.
Tonight, when he retreats to his hammock, he will not find sleep.
He will lie in the dark, the crashing waves powerless in cooling the fever in his heart. He will dream of the day he no longer has to watch from the shadows. He will picture the day he finally allows himself to take what he has wanted since the moment he stepped off his Ikran.
The way your powerful tail would wrap around his own in a desperate, drowning grip.
Until then, he will paint the memory of your glowing skin behind his eyelids, a secret he keeps in the silence of his heart.
And like the great Toruk his father once rode, he is a hunter who knows exactly when to strike. He will wait, but he will have you.
p.s. should i add to this or leave it as is?? should we dip into nsfw or keep it nice and sfw?? debating so hard inside my brain. all ik is that i loveeeee neteyam sm it hurts :’)
nsfw || Recom!Miles Quaritch x Varang’s sister!Reader
⤷ ゛In Colonel Miles Quaritch’s alliance with the Mangkwans, trust is measured in expensively. One of the only currency he accepts? Your tears ˎˊ˗
wc. 1.1k
content warning. whole lotta background story, but very little plot. consider it a pwp, if u will. explicit sexual content, dacryphilia, power dynamics, Avatar: Fire and Ash canon divergence.
summary. Under Varang’s watchful eye, Quaritch is given another kind of assignment on the side: to “sharpen” the Tsahik’s sister through a breaking point. He finds that he quite likes the taste of Mangkwan discipline, and he relishes the surrender in your sobs.
a/n. i highkey wanted this to feel Mangkwan, practical + far from unsentimental. intimacy is not depicted as softness, but another form of readiness (in varang’s eyes). read responsibly, or don’t. i’m not your tsahik <3
The rain tastes in your mouth of iron and ash, as if the world itself were spitting the hunting grounds back into your face. Under the thin tar the smell seems amplified—oil, wet leather, the faint, stubborn sweetness of the forest—and the crates stamped with RDA lean in the dim like teeth that remember how to bite.
Quaritch arrives without hesitation, with a sort of practiced ease around violence. He kneels and checks you as he would a rifle: methodical, fast; checking your pulse, your breath, the flicker of bioluminescent filaments along your clavicle. His hands are large and experienced; they steady rather than soothe.
One palm at the small of your back corrals the panic into something like compulsion; the other lays along your ribs and becomes, clinically, guidance.
You remember Varang at that first meeting—the tsahik measured Quaritch with nothing short of caution in her eyes. The nod your sister gave was not gentleness; it was calculating. It meant that Quaritch may be permitted to touch you in the ways a man might touch a blade for sharpening: close, efficient, and for a purpose.
Varang’s consent is out of necessity and calculation—she is no sentimental sister—but her consent bears its own tenderness. As her tsakarem and as her sister you have been taught that training is a practice of keeping: hands that harden you for the world are also hands that will not break you.
Salt tracks a slow river down your cheek; the lashes of your eyes tremble and catch the light. You can't swipe them away—the motion only makes the sobs come faster—so the tears fall, wet and wide against the blue of your skin.
You're crying—you're crying, and you can't do anything to wipe the fat tears from your face.
Quaritch has you pinned—flat to whatever floor is under you—hips tipped up so your knees press the ground. His hands are anchors at the small of your back, palms hard where they meet the soft of your loin. Your braid brushes the rough of his forearm with every hitch of breath; the thin bioluminescent striping along your collarbone blinks faintly where it catches sweat.
Quaritch has you on your tummy, hips pulled up so you're on your knees, and both arms are in his hold, pulling you back so your cries are free to sound throughout the room.
"You're okay," he says into the hollow of your neck, voice like gravel and gunsteel. The words are blunt. You trust his certainty; that trust lets you go where you can't otherwise—letting sound spill from you raw and bright. You nod because you trust him; he knows your body and you give him the reins to do whatever he wants to you.
Your tears come anyway, hot and fat and ridiculous on the plane of your face; they track slow rivers down blue skin and catch what little light the tarp allows.
He pins you as if setting a support: your hips tipped so your knees press the ground, palms braced like heavy metal anchors at the small of your back. He moves without softness and with the kind of precision a man trained to give orders has—too strong, always too precise. The thin striping along your collarbone flutters with each hitch of breath, and your braid brushes against his forearm.
When you hiccup his name, something in his jaw loosens. He doesn't scold you; he cradles your sobs, the corners of his mouth softening for the briefest, dangerous beat.
When a bead of salt gathers at the corner of your mouth, he follows it with a thumb and tastes it, like an inventory rather than a caress, of salt and iron and rain. The motion was oddly intimate: invasive but comforting, both at once. His thumb finds the line of your cheek and drags the salt toward your mouth—unhurried, curious—then presses into the hollow at your collar and listens to the way you answer him with sound.
"Atta girl—that's a good doll," he growls at your compliance, the rough syllables an odd compliment. He yanks you up a tiny bit more, pulls you harder until the arch in your back sings; your arms burn with the stretch; aching along with your spine from the bend of your back.
You can’t stop the hot tears behind your lids, and he keeps watching, as if the shape your grief makes is something he can study and keep.
“Keep those tears coming. They’re mine,” he growls, and the words are both claim and contract. Possession, here, feels grounding to you: Varang’s permission made it possible, and Quaritch’s brutal but blunt stewardship makes it survivable.
Quaritch is weak for the way he hears you hiccup into the air, panting his name and other nonsense because you've lost it. He's fucked you so hard you can't speak, only sob openly.
You can, however, pull it together enough to let your Quaritch know you're cumming—you're cumming hard.
"P-please," is all that manages to slip out, but it's enough because he knows how good you are for him, knows how much you're trying to be the perfect little doll for him.
It's barely a prayer. He answers not with a promise but with a shove and a steadying hand and a voice that has never learned to be gentle except tonight, around this: "Good. Don’t hold back, got it?"
He watches you cry through it, not with a hunger for brokenness but with a strange softening, a wound in him that is eased only by seeing you opened and then steadied. That small mercy moves him toward a possessive tenderness; he answers your plea with direction rather than lullaby.
When it hits, your body folds into itself. The world narrows to the burn at your spine and the heavy. And he holds you through the fall, one arm braced beneath your chest, the other one cradling your jaw, with his thumb leaning against the wet smear at your lips.
He watches the way you cry through it—not because he wants you broken, but because your tears make the raw part of him softer, like a wound finally being seen. Small act mercy, moving him toward a possessive tenderness. That tiny softness makes him want to own you and keep you safe in the only way he knows: by being the strongest thing in the room.
a/n. this is just an excuse for me to write quaritch + dacryphila …. hope u enjoyed
