cw: dacryphilia, overstim, rough sex, vibe use (r), dom!ellie
౨ৎ
ellie’s cock is filling u to the brim. she’s holding a vibrator to ur clit while her other hand twists ur sensitive nipples
it’s been hours, ur completely fucked out, whining and gripping the sheets, which only makes her fuck u harder
she’s got u on all fours, slamming into ur used hole. she relieves ur pleasured pain for just a minute when her fingers move from ur tits to grab a fistful of ur hair, yanking ur head back
“how u holdin’ up baby?” ellie teases when she notices ur knees buckling underneath u
ur vision starts to go white, ur moans are raspy and breathy
“can’t” slam! “speak?” slam! “hmm?” slam! she’s pounding into u relentlessly
“n-no j-jus—” she shoves her slim fingers in ur mouth, smirking at the way ur like putty in her hands, “mmm, that’s what i thought baby” slam!
“aahugh-el f-fhhuuh fuck!” ur whimpering and drooling in her palm, ur muffled pleads cause ellie’s head to spin and her strokes to hit deeper
“good girl, takin’ me so well” she lets go of her grip, ur head abruptly falling. her hand moves to cup ur face, cold liquid streams falling from ur eyes
ellie lets out a throaty chuckle, “d’aww is my little slut crying? does it feel too good baby?” her tone is husky n dark. slam! she plows into u, catching ur tears in her hand
ur sweet cries only add fuel to her unforgiving fire, she ups the vibrators setting and u let out a guttural moan, “knew u could keep goin’ doll”
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, spanking as punishment, sex toys, praise kink, possessiveness, abuse of power, power imbalance, teasing, sexual tension, frenum ladder piercing, tongue piercing, prinz albert piercing, pet play, dom/sub, forced tsaheylu, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, slight kuru play, biting
Although it is the same moon that you stand on, the sun feels much hotter here, where the earth is dry and the trees are charred down.
Time loses its edges when every day feels the same. The heat presses down on you from dawn until long after the sun has begun to sink, clinging to your skin, seeping into your bones. There are no canopies of leaves to hide beneath, no cool shadows to retreat into. You are made to sit in the open, the sun beating down on you until your head swims and your thoughts grow sluggish. And there is always a fire burning somewhere, radiating heat.
The ground burns through the soles of your feet. Ash clings to your skin, to your braids, to the inside of your mouth. Even breathing feels heavier here.
You watch the light crawl slowly across the scorched earth, measure time by the length of shadows that offer no relief.
You grow thirsty quickly, but water comes with a price.
Lo‘ak, the younger brother of the two, would only give it to you if you’d drink it from his mouth. Each time, it felt filthy and intimate, the way he was forcing your cheeks together to pry your jaw open, before he poured the water from his mouth to yours. The humiliation that came with it was something you figured he found great pleasure in. The more you resisted, the more you fought him, the more he was enjoying himself.
Lo’ak drifted in and out of your days, loud, amused, always eager to parade you past others like a prize he’d won. He talked to you as if you were his entertainment, teased you, laughed when you refused to meet his eyes. He liked seeing your reactions. And he liked being seen.
The older one of the two, was an entirely different story.
While you burned under the sun from morning until dusk, Neteyam was rarely seen at all. It was when the eclipse neared, that he finally made an appearance. And when he did, the change was immediate.
Neteyam does not raise his voice the way Lo‘ak does sometimes. He doesn’t need to. A look from him is enough, or a shift of his hand, the smallest tilt of his head, and you move before you realize you have decided to. There is something frighteningly effortless about the way he commands space, the way obedience seems to settle into your bones even when you want to resist.
It’s been three days, and you’ve noticed that Neteyam had found a liking to your prayers, amusement mostly.
At first, you thought he might stop you when he caught you singing. Punish you. Maybe even mock you.
Instead, he watches, quiet and intent, those golden eyes following the movement of your lips as if you are speaking directly to him. There is something almost curious in his expression, something faintly amused, like he has found a habit he does not intend to break you of.
Sometimes, he pulls you down to sit in his lap, one arm heavy around your waist, anchoring you there while the fire crackles nearby. His presence is solid, inescapable, his breath warm against your ear as he rasps, "Sing for me, little birdy."
And you hate it.
You hate the way the words curl through you, the way your chest tightens, the way your voice feels smaller every time you open your mouth. You hate that your prayers have become something he asks for, when those songs are not for him.
But you sing anyway.
Because you have learned that when you refuse, Neteyam is not playful like his brother. His displeasure is cold and precise.
Today, not long after the eclipse has passed, you sit where Neteyam placed you, close and contained, your voice low as you sing the old songs he favors. Your words are steady, practiced now, even as your eyes glare sideways at him. He pays it no mind, as always.
His fingers move through your hair with idle familiarity, separating braids, smoothing loose strands, tugging just enough to remind you that he can make it hurt if you resist, but he can just as well make you feel good. If you behave. You’re always within their reach. Like a pet kept at heel. The touch makes your skin crawl, and still you sing your prayers to Eywa while sitting in the lap of a man who has long since turned his back on her.
While you do, your eyes wander despite yourself.
Beside you, Lo’ak sits close to the fire, skinning an animal. His hands are slick with blood, movements efficient, almost careless. Every so often he wipes the back of his hand across his chin, leaving dark smears along his chin before tearing off a piece of meat from where it cooks over the flames and sticking it between his lips. He looks feral like this, comfortable in the mess, almost wholly unbothered by it.
Truthfully, the sight scares you.
When he catches you staring, his mouth curves immediately and he winks.
The glare you send him is sharp, and as always it delights him. Lo’ak leans closer, tilting his head, bloodied lips parted in a grin meant to provoke you. He hovers just near enough that you can smell smoke and iron, clearly intent on teasing you further, invading your space simply because he can.
His blood smeared lips almost touch yours, but you turn your head away at once, tucking your face closer to Neteyam’s chest, hiding from Lo’ak’s attention as best you can and your voice wavers for half a heartbeat.
Normally, that refusal would cost you.
But Neteyam only chuckles softly, the sound low and brief. His arm tightens around you just enough, like a quiet barrier placed between you and his brother.
"That’s enough," he says then.
Lo’ak scoffs, rolling his eyes, but he leans back, amused rather than angered. "You’re spoiling her too much. I like when she shows me her fire," he mutters under his breath, still grinning at you, but Neteyam simply ignores him.
In a vain attempt to distract yourself from the brothers, your eyes keep wandering, pulled past the fire and the shapes of warriors moving through their village, out toward the open sky.
There is a vast shape that cuts through the air in the distance, dark and angular against the fading light. It flies too smooth and too loud to be anything of the great mothers creation. Your breath catches hard in your chest, spine going rigid and every muscle locking at once when you realize what it is.
Your song falters.
"Tawtutes," you whisper, the word slipping out thin and horrified. Humans.
Restlessness surges through you, sharp and panicked. Your hands twitch uselessly in your lap, instinct screaming at you to flee even when you know you can’t. Your heart immediately pounds so hard in your chest that it hurts.
Beside the fire, Lo’ak chuckles.
He doesn’t even look surprised. He just glances at you, clearly entertained by the way fear flashes so openly across your face.
Neteyam’s hand rises, calmly brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is almost gentle and reassuring, if you didn’t know any better.
"I told you there’s no reason to be afraid, txeptsyip [little flame]," he says quietly. "The humans aren’t a threat here. They are working with us."
You stare at him, disbelief burning behind your eyes.
Working… with them?
The metal bird lowers itself toward the far edge of the village, engines roaring, kicking up ash and dust that roll across the ground. The Omatikaya barely react. No one runs and no one reaches for their weapons. They simply watch, waiting for the humans to come to them.
Then the doors slide open and figures begin to emerge. Small, pink-skinned humans wrapped in stiff coverings, moving nervously beneath the watchful eyes of the warriors. Behind them come towering metal frames with humans sitting inside behind a shield of glass, their frames all clanking and heavy, carrying crate after crate between them. Boxes stacked high, marked and sealed, unloaded with quick efficiency.
Neteyam shifts you then, guiding you firmly to sit closer to Lo’ak. The movement is not rough, but it is unmistakably possessive, placing you where he wants you before standing.
"Stay," he says, already turning away.
You watch him walk toward the tawtutes [humans], posture straight and confident, utterly unbothered by those demons. The humans meet him halfway, speaking too softly for you to hear. One of the metal frames lowers a crate at his feet, which Neteyam opens. Your eyes follow every movement as he peers inside, his expression unreadable. Whatever he sees earns a short nod of approval.
After that, the pace quickens. More boxes are hauled down from the metal bird. Omatikaya warriors drift closer, answering Neteyam’s gestures without question, lifting crates onto their shoulders and carrying them deeper into camp, towards the Olo’eyktan and tsahìks tent. A few smaller ones are brought to the brothers tents as well.
Curiosity coils tight in your chest as you watch the exchange unfold.
What could possibly be inside them?
Weapons, you think at first. More metal, more poison. Your unease sharpens then when someone new steps forward.
He is human, unmistakably so, but not like the others. He isn’t sealed away in bulky armor or hidden inside machines of metal. This one moves easily, confidently, as if he belongs here. His gear is stripped down: dark pants reinforced at the knees, heavy boots, fingerless gloves. His upper body is bare save for straps and tubing that loop around his neck and shoulder, feeding into a mask of glass that sits on his face.
His hair is kept short and messy, blond curls framing his face. A necklace made of metal hangs around his neck, it clicks together loudly when he walks. His skin is marked with red stripes, his eyes framed with dark coal.
It’s uncanny. He is human, but he looks like one of the Ash people.
He approaches Neteyam like an equal.
They exchange a few words you can’t hear, the human gesturing casually toward the crates. Neteyam listens, arms crossed, chin lifted as he nods along whatever the pink skin says.
Then the human’s gaze drifts, and his eyes land on you and Lo’ak.
A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face, sharp and knowing, the kind that makes your stomach sink. His eyes linger on the rope at your wrists, the way you’re positioned beside Lo’ak. There is amusement there, similar to the one you so often see in the brothers eyes.
Lo’ak notices the demons gaze immediately. He bares his teeth in a grin of his own, almost welcoming, as if he recognizes the human as an old friend. He calls for him then, a word that you don’t recognize as anything of your mother tongue, but he must’ve understood it.
"Come, txeptsyip [little flame]," he says and Lo’ak is on his feet before you can react. His hand closes around your upper arm and he pulls you with him, already moving. "As much as I would love for my pretty little pet to stay, I have other businesses to attend to."
You almost stumble over your own feet to keep up, heart pounding, casting one last look over your shoulder as Neteyam continues speaking with the human, utterly unconcerned.
The walk is short.
Their tent— your new home, as they call it, looms ahead, familiar now in a way that makes your skin prickle. Two warriors stand guard outside, long, deadly spears carved of wood and bone in their hands, their eyes flicking briefly to Lo’ak before returning to their watch.
He drags you inside and lets go only once you’re past the threshold. The sudden absence of his grip sends you off balance, and you drop down onto the furs with a soft, breathless sound. The air is warm, as it is always.
Lo’ak crouches in front of you and makes quick work of the ropes around your wrists. The fibers loosen, then fall away. Blood rushes back into your hands, pins and needles flaring painfully, but you barely have time to register it.
"Be good while I’m away, yes? I’ll be back soon," he says lightly. Then leans in suddenly, fast and unannounced, pressing his mouth to yours. The kiss is brief, but rough-edged, tasting of smoke and iron. You struggle against him, but Lo’ak has his hand on the back of your head, and his teeth catch your bottom lip before you can pull away, not hard enough to break skin, just enough to sting.
"Don’t miss me too much while I’m gone," he grins once he breaks the kiss, chuckling when you frantically clean your mouth with the back of your hand.
"Slu self muntxa, [fuck you/ become self-mated]" you mumble under your breath as you glare at him.
And then he’s gone.
The tent flap falls closed behind him, muting the sounds of the camp outside. Once again, you’re left alone.
Your wrists ache and your lip tingles, and you want to crawl out of your own skin when you think about what might await you now. Usually, when the brothers leave you in their tent to do, well, whatever it is that they do, they come back in the late hours of the night, eager to play with your body until you collapse from exhaustion.
Three days. It had taken them three days to learn your body and how to undo you.
Of course you’ve thought about running away and breaking free from this prison.
The thought comes to you most often at night, when the camp grows quieter and the fire burns low, or when you’re alone, when the weight of everything presses hardest against your chest. You imagine slipping out into the dark, putting distance between you and this place, letting the forest swallow you whole.
But you’re not stupid, you know there’s a risk.
It isn’t failing that frightens you most— it’s succeeding just enough to make them hunt you. Being tracked through the forest like prey. You know how this clan hunts. You’ve seen it. You’ve heard it.
If they brought you back, and you have no illusions that they wouldn’t, you know that the punishment would not go quick and easy.
Besides, even after three days of plotting and breaking your head over it, you still didn’t know how you would even begin.
You had no weapons, nothing to cut rope quietly whenever they tied your hands or feet so you wouldn’t run, nothing to defend yourself once you were outside. Two guards stand watch at all times in front of their tent, and when you’re not stuck here all on your own, the brothers have you on a tight leash, neither of them letting you out of their sight for even a second.
Of course there are things here that could be used, bones sharpened into tools, metal hooks, perhaps you’d even find knives in their kelku [home] if you only looked hard enough. You could hurt someone with them, sure.
But not two someones. At least not without the advantage of the surprise.
Whatever you could take from this place would only ever work once, and only if fate was kind enough to leave you alone with a single opponent.
Letting your gaze trace what has become painfully familiar, you suddenly notice one of the crates that the Tawtutes [humans] had carried, sitting half-hidden under a woven blanket, near the back wall. When you pull the fabric away, you see that a red X has been painted messily across the lid, the pigment uneven, as if done in a hurry.
Your throat tightens as your fingers begin to tingle, a sharp, electric itch running up your arms. You swallow thickly, heart beginning to pound as your eyes stay fixed on it.
It’s made of metal. Whatever lays inside is most likely made of metal too, but you’re itching to open it. Partly because of curiosity, and partly because of the opportunity the boxes containment could be.
And yet still, you were raised to know better. Metal is forbidden. It is poison to the heart.
But… if inside this box were weapons…
Just one pull of a trigger, and even the strongest warrior falls just the same. With a tawtute [human] weapon, you wouldn’t need to be faster, or stronger— just willing enough to touch and use metal.
Your gaze flicks to the tent flap, to the faint shadows of the guards outside. Looking back at the box, your breath comes shallow.
If there are guns inside— real ones, loaded, then this could be a chance. A slim one, fragile as glass, but real.
The great mother may forgive you, you think. If this is what it takes to leave this place, if this is what it takes to survive… she would forgive you.
With trembling hands, you lift the lid.
It opens with a soft, unfamiliar hiss, hinges creeping a little. Bracing yourself, you expect more cold metal, the unmistakable shape of a weapon. Instead, your met with… what in Eywas name is that?
The box is full. Just not of anything you could recognize.
Inside lie objects of various sizes and relatively similar shapes, packed carefully into molded compartments like ceremonial tools meant for a ritual you were never taught. Some are long and curved, others short and thick, all made from materials that feel smooth beneath your fingers. Some are firmer than others, bending slightly when you press them.
You frown.
One of them is a deep, unnatural red, glossy like fresh fruit but cold to the touch. Another is black and heavy, with a rounded end and a narrow handle, covered in strange ridges that make your fingertips prickle unpleasantly. You pick it up, turn it over, even shake it a little, but bothing happens.
There is no blade hiding and no trigger either.
There are smaller things too, rings made of stretchy material that snap back when you pull them, odd hollow shapes. One object has a cord attached to it, coiled neatly like a sleeping snake. There are things with buttons that make them wriggle in a unnatural way when you press them, reminding you of the movement of a Teylu larve. You recoil and drop it back into the box immediately.
Watching it wiggle around inside the box, you grimace, before reaching inside and pressing the button again. That turns it off.
With a sigh, you realize that none of these things are sharp. None of it looks remotely capable of killing anyone, unless perhaps by profound confusion. The only common thread is that every single thing feels intentionally shaped.
Heat creeps up your neck, equal parts embarrassment and disbelief. The box with all of its contents is entirely useless.
You let out a long, tired sigh.
It seems today won’t be the day you break out of here. Not with this, with whatever this is supposed to be. With nothing left to lose and nowhere to go, you let your hands drift back inside the crate, idly rummaging through the objects. You poke, squeeze, lift one and put it back. One is oddly heavy. Another looks far too much like something you were sure had to be coincidence, so you immediately shove it under three other things to hide it from your eyes.
You’re so absorbed in your confusion that you don’t hear the tent flaps move.
"Look what we have here, brother."
You shriek.
The sound tears out of you sharp and ungraceful as you whirl around, heart slamming painfully against your ribs. Neteyam stands just inside the tent, arms folded across his chest, eyes fixed not on you, but on the open box at your feet.
His expression is unreadable. He looks calm. Almost… pleased.
"Seems like someone was too impatient to wait for us," he continues evenly, gaze flicking from the box to your face, "and opened her surprise all on her own."
Heat floods your face instantly. You scramble back on instinct, hands lifting as if you’ve been caught stealing.
Behind him, Lo’ak leans against the tent pole, clicking his tongue as he peers inside.
"What a shame," he says, grinning wide and delighted as he saunters over to you. "I would’ve loved to be the one to show you what we bought from the humans."
Your stomach drops.
"You—" Your voice comes out thin. "I thought—"
"Thought it was weapons?" Lo’ak supplies cheerfully, crouching to pluck one of the objects from the box and weigh it in his hand. "Yeah. We figured."
Neteyam then steps closer too, until his shadow falls over you and the box.
"Sweet girl. You looked so hopeful," he says with a smile, his head tilted. "That was almost my favorite part."
Your eyes are wide now, breath shallow, as Neteyam steps closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to keep him in view. The smile fades from his face as if it had never been there at all, replaced by what you assume is disappointment.
"But I don’t appreciate this kind of behavior, txeptsyip, [little flame]."
Before you can do as much as blink, he grabs your arm and hauls you up in one sharp motion. You barely catch your footing before he turns you, forces your hands behind your back. Rope bites into your wrists again as he ties them quickly, far too practiced. Behind you, you hear his younger brother chuckle, the sound making goosebumps raise all over your skin.
"What would you have done," Neteyam asks, bending down so his voice is level with your ear, "if those were weapons, hm?"
"I— n-nothing!" The words tumble out of you, scared and desperate. "I swear—"
"I don’t believe that." He sighs, as though you have inconvenienced him. Then he pulls you forward, manhandles you so you’re bend over his knee where he sits on the furs.
The position makes it unmistakably clear how little control you have. You freeze, muscles locked and humiliation burning through you.
"You know," Neteyam says, voice almost conversational. One of his hands glides over the backside of your thighs, up, up up… "we wanted to surprise you with these gifts because you’ve been such a good girl."
In the corner of your eyes, you see Lo’ak as he straightens nearby, watching with sharp interest. His tail flicks excitingly.
"But now," Neteyam continues, tightening his grip just enough to make you gasp, "I don’t know if you still deserve them."
He pauses, letting the words sink in. You feel his hands still, thumb’s hooking under the cord of your loincloth as he drags it down your legs, despite the way you struggle against it. With your hands bound, you writhe, twist and turn in his grasp, but it’s no use.
"I think we need to teach you that touching things without permission is something that comes with consequences."
The silent promise that lays within his words makes your heart beat faster. It’s impossible to crane your neck enough to see what he’s doing behind your back from this position, but you soon realize there’s no need to.
A high-pitched yelp breaks free from your lips as a heavy hand descended onto your upturned ass, sending you sliding forward over the muscular thigh you were bent over.
The first blow of his hand landing on your left cheek comes so sudden and unexpected, you suck in a sharp gasp of air as the sting spreads through you.
"Pxasìk! [Fuck]" You curse loudly. Immediately, anger surges through your entire being, humiliation at being disrespected like this makes your cheeks flare red and hot. "You— did not just do that! I'm not your palì! [Direhorse]"
"Kehe [no], you are certainly not," Neteyam chuckled lowly, curling your tail around his hand so it would stop whipping around. "A palì is obedient."
You barely forced yourself to relax when the next one came, making you jump and duck your head down even lower in a vain attempt to scoot farther away from his hand. But his thighs kept you from moving.
"The good thing is," Lo’ak‘s face comes into view then, crouching down in front of you to be level with your eyes, "these gifts aren’t just for you. They are for us too. So when my brother is done putting some manners into you, you‘ll be happy to hear you’re still allowed to find out what they are."
The grin on his face was a mean one, even when his words were cheerfully spoken. Another blow of Neteyam hand had you choking on a whimper. Lo‘aks hand found your jaw then, his thumb brushing against your skin as if to soothe you.
Tracing the outline of your bottom lip, he used the moment his brother spanked your ass once more and your mouth fell open, pushing his thumb inside to press against the top of your tongue.
You heard the smack again, before you felt the hot prickling against your skin as one more landed, and by eywa it fucking hurt. Teeth closed around the digit Lo‘ak had pressed between your lips, and your jaw clenched with every slap.
"Bite me, come on," he urges, his eyes full of lust, his bottom lip drawn between sharp teeth, "Show me your fire."
So you did. Your teeth clamp down hard on his thumb, a sharp, instinctive bite born of pain and fury. When he pulls back, he replaces his thumb with his tongue, forcing you into a hungry kiss.
Blow after blow makes you whimper into his mouth, and you might have tried counting them if there weren’t so many— too many, and your ass was burning and you wanted to say you were sorry, you'd never do it again, and then maybe Neteyam would stop soon and you could just promise to be good. When Lo‘ak broke the kiss, a thin string of salvia still connected your lips to his before it broke apart.
You only realised you had started speaking aloud, babbling apologies and begging for it to stop when Neteyams hand finally stopped, and instead softly caressed the red marks on your skin.
"Did you learn your lesson yet, txeptsyip? [little flame]" he asked.
"Y-Yes!" You chocked out, "Yes, I’m sorry, I- I won’t do it again!"
Another slap, this time aimed a little lower, fingertips brushing over your folds at the impact and you let out a moan, less like a painful one and more in a way that was so unmistakable.
"Hmh, I think she gets it," Lo‘ak hums, kissing your cheek, before he suddenly disappears from your field of view. "C‘mon, leave her, bro. I want to play."
Fingers slide down along the crease between your cheeks then, vanishing between your glistening folds. You feel them tease your entrance, between your lips, up to your clit. Moaning, you subconsciously arched towards his touch, because everything was better than being spanked like a misbehaving animal. But then you cried out when the movement was answered with another slap.
"Seems like you are not the only one impatient here," Neteyam says, and you hear the pleased smile in his voice, as he leans down to whisper in your ear, "Shall we look at your gifts now?"
They give you no time to respond though, your bottom stings and you whine at the uncomfortable feeling once you’re pulled up by strong hands and made to sit on the furs. The sudden movement makes you gasp, the lingering sting at your bottom flaring as you shift, drawing a small, involuntary whine from your throat.
Swallowing curses, you notice that your hands are still bound. Your shoulders ache with the strain of holding yourself still, and despite it all, you still find yourself glaring at them.
Neteyam sits down beside you as if nothing had happened, entirely unbothered and seemingly unaffected by your punishment. As if unable to keep his hands to himself, one immediately drifts to your tail, not in comfort but in possession, fingers closing around it with idle certainty. He rolls the soft hairs at the end between his fingers, lifting it slightly.
You glare harder, jaw tight.
That infuriating, knowing curve of his mouth widens when he lets the tail slip through his fingers, the hairs brushing his nose. He huffs a quiet breath, amused, as if you were really nothing more than a restless animal testing its tether.
With a loud thud, Lo’ak then drops the heavy crate in front of you and you can’t help but flinch. The sound echoes in the tent, rattling bones and chains alike. He crouches immediately and begins rummaging through the contents with obvious interest. Then he pulls something out and turns it over in his hands.
It’s unnaturally pink, shorter than the rest of the objects you’ve seen and slightly more rounded. Made of that same smooth, human-crafted material that doesn’t feel like anything you know of. It has no use that you can understand and looks downright ridiculous.
Lo‘ak glances at you, then at Neteyam, then back at the object, a grin tugging at his mouth.
He arches a brow at you. "So," he says lightly, "what do you think of your surprise?"
"I- I don’t know… what these are," you force the words out, hating how hoarse your voice sounds.
"Oh, isn’t that sweet." Lo’ak laughs outright now, turning the strange object over and pressing one of its buttons. It gives a faint hum. "This… is called a vibrator. It does, well, that."
The word is still foreign to you. Vibrator. You can only guess what it means when he saunters over to you and lightly drags the humming thing along your arm.
You flinch hard, jerking away as if it stung. The sensation isn’t painful, just foreign. It buzzes against your skin like a trapped insect, sending a ridiculous shiver up your arm.
Letting it glide along your arm, Lo‘ak chuckles. "Feel that?"
"Tickles," you mumble softly, wrists tugging against the restrains. "What is it?"
The younger brother glides the object over your arm and along your chest. You suck in a shaky breath when it reaches your breasts, and Lo‘ak begins to circle your nipples with it. The touch is light and teasing, the vibrations enough to make your nipples form into hard pebbles.
"It’s a toy," Neteyam whispers, his tail curling around your thigh as he speaks. When you frown, he adds, "A toy meant for adults."
A toy meant for adults? You want to ask him how that would work, but then Lo‘ak let’s it wander lower, over your stomach, until he’s reached the soft swell of your mound. Instinctively, your thighs snap closed around his hand. Shaking his head in disapproval, Neteyam pries them right back open. He keeps his hands secured on the underside of your knees so you can’t close them again, while Lo‘ak moves the toy down until he‘s reached the sensitive little nub that sits on top of your slit.
"Oh!" You exclaim in a gasp that comes out far louder than you intended.
When the vibrator begins circling your clit, it’s almost too much for comfort. The sensation is foreign and incredibly intense, and you suddenly feel this overwhelming heat under your skin at the contact. Pleasure surges up your spine, making your back arch, and a painful embarrassing whimper leaves your lips. Nothing has ever made you feel like this.
With your mouth open, you stare as the pink toy as Lo‘ak glides it around your clit, chuckling when your knees jerk whenever he moves too close to the bundle of nerves.
"S-Stop," your voice comes out all breathy and soft, "I feel… feel weird."
"Hmm, I don’t think you do," he grins, pressing the toy directly against your clit. "I think you feel good. Pretty good, actually."
The sensation cursing through your body is like a wild fire that you can’t tame. No matter how much you try for it to not feel this way, it’s still so infuriating good. Amazing even. You feel yourself unable to describe how quickly the vibrations are pushing you towards the edge of your orgasm, so all you can do is moan and writhe and twitch in their grasp, as Lo‘ak pushes the toy harder against your clit.
"I- I‘m— I‘m—" you gasp, unable to finish the sentence as you feel your legs begin to tense and shake.
All words are suddenly swallowed by Neteyams kiss as he presses his lips against yours and forces his tongue inside your mouth. He groans against you as you moan into his mouth, failing to keep these noises back. Your orgasm comes suddenly, violent and intense, so much so that your ears are ringing and you momentarily don’t even hear yourself as you fall apart.
Your entire body is buzzing in similar way to the toy between your thighs, and you want to gasp and whine, but Neteyams kiss is never ending. It’s not until you’re running out of breath that he finally detaches himself from you.
"That was quick," he chuckles, licking his lips. Blinking your eyes open, they still struggle to regain focus. You feel warm all over, and don’t even recognize at first that the ropes around your wrists have been loosened enough for you to slip your hands out, until a four fingered hand frees them.
"Don’t even think about doing anything stupid, txeptsyip, [little flame]," Lo‘ak says, and it’s then that you realize that it was him. He kisses your wrists in way that is almost tender, before you snatch your hands away and he leans back on his feet to smile at you.
"Let us use something else, see how you like it." Neteyam suddenly adds, the hands on the underside of your knees instinctively tightening before you can snap your thighs closed.
"No!" You gasp, attempting to sit up, "I don’t know if I—"
A hand against your chest pushes you right back.
"You can."
Your eyes move from Neteyams infuriating smile, to his younger brother, who’s handing the vibrator to Neteyam before he’s back at rummaging through the contents of the box. The sight makes you shiver with the endless possibilities of what he might pull out of it next.
With the way his tail begins to sway and curl in excitement, it seems he’s found exactly what he was looking for. When he turns around, all color suddenly drains from your face.
"No," you whisper shaking your head. Then, more sternly, "No, no that’s not gonna fit!"
You don’t have to know anything about tawtute [human] things to know what the toy Lo‘ak holds in his hand is supposed to be or where it’s supposed to go. It‘s obvious shape tells you enough.
It’s pink, but not the same shade as the vibrator. Pink like the pink skins, slightly curved upwards and even in the hands of a na‘vi— big. Lo’ak holds the flanged end in his palm and the sheer size of it makes your breath come out quicker.
Stepping closer, he tilts it slightly as if examining something foreign, clearly enjoying the way your eyes widen.
"I‘m impressed," he mutters. "The humans really outdid themselves with this one, huh?"
Before you can shift away, Neteyam’s arm slides around your waist. The movement is sudden but controlled as he lifts you just enough to reposition you, setting you down firmly on his lap. His grip is steady and unyielding, so you don’t even try to wriggle free. Your bottom still feels tender from his punishment earlier, and you’re not quite ready for round two just yet…
Still, your pulse jumps into your throat when Lo’ak lowers himself to kneel in front of you, the object still in his hand as he studies your reaction with open amusement. His pierced tongue swipes over his bottom lip, and you clench your jaw hard.
Neteyam on the other hand doesn’t even glance at the toy.
Instead, he leans forward slightly, his head dipping toward your shoulder. His breath brushes your skin a moment before his lips graze the side of your neck. He hums thoughtfully.
"You still smell like the forest," he murmurs, voice low. "Sweet, though."
Your muscles tense immediately, every instinct screaming at you to pull away even though his arm tightens slightly around your middle, holding you in place.
Lo’ak notices, of course.
"Careful," he says to his brother with a grin. "She’s about to bolt again."
Neteyam exhales a quiet breath against your neck, unconcerned, "She can try."
Then he finally lifts his head, dark eyes settling on Lo’ak and the object in his hand.
"Well?" Neteyam asks, warm palms gliding over your thighs to spread them further.
Lo’ak’s grin widens slowly.
"Well," he says, glancing back at you, at the arousal you’re sure he can still see glistening on your lips. "I think our little spitfire can handle it. If she can handle us, she can certainly handle a toy. Right?"
No, you want to say. Instead, you’re shaking your head viciously from left to right as he lowers the toy enough so it’s tip slides between your folds. It’s cold enough that your legs jerk, but it heats up quickly the more Lo‘ak rubs it against you.
"This is… unnatural," you murmur, "I-It’s wrong."
Behind you, Neteyam chuckles, "Would you prefer the real thing instead?"
Raising his hips to grind against your bottom, he makes you feel the hard length of him. Even through his loincloth, you could clearly feel the outline of his cock, every thick inch, every throbbing vein. Even his piercing, all eight of them, all of him just waiting to be sheathed inside you.
"You will like it, just wait," Lo‘ak added, pressing a kiss to your ankle before propping your foot onto his shoulder. "And if not, I’m sure we can find something else in there for you…"
The smooth surface of the toy glides easily through your folds, slowly lubing itself with your arousal. It moves over your clit, wet and warm from body heat now and you can’t help but let out a breathy whimper every time a surge of pleasure sizzles through your core. Soon, the toy is almost too slippery for Lo‘ak to hold it steady, and each time he comes close to your entrance, he teases you with the round tip, not quite pushing in, but rather testing the limits of how far you’re able to stretch yet.
"Relax," Neteyam whispers, lips and teeth grazing your ear when it lays flat against your head. "I‘ll help you loosen up, txeptsyip, [little flame]."
The hand under your knee moves to somewhere besides him, and then comes back into view holding something familiar and pink. The vibrator turns on with a low buzz, not as intense as before, but still enough to make a moan tumble from your parted lips. You’re still sensitive from your previous orgasm, and the direct contact with the vibrator against your clit makes more arousal gush from between your thighs. You feel it leak from you, before Lo‘ak catches it with the tip of the other toy and begins to push.
Truthfully, it slips in easier than you had thought it would. You’re wet enough and it’s surface is so smooth that no real force is needed to work the first few inches inside of you with ease.
"Such a good girl," Neteyam purrs, "look how perfect you’re taking it."
Circling the vibrator around your little nub, your toes soon begin to curl as more and more of the toy slides inside. Lo‘ak grins as he gives it a little twist, pushing in, then back out and in again, harder. He repeats the motion a few times, before he gives a single, hard thrust that hits so deep, you know without having to look down that he just shoved its entire length into you.
Your eyes roll back into your head and you fucking keen— let out such a high pitched noise that you didn’t think it was you at first. Your inner walls are clenching around the false cock as if it were a real one. The stretch it brings is nearing painful, but Lo‘ak withdraws it just enough so your body can adjust, before he’s pushing back in again. Your toes curl with how good it feels, despite your concerns about the tawtute [human] thing. But deep down, you know it’s wrong. You know you shouldn’t enjoy this, shouldn’t find pleasure in something crafted by the very vrrteps [demons] that destroy the land and abuse the laws set by the great mother.
A particular deep thrust makes your back arch, and Neteyam uses that moment to press the vibrator down harder against your clit. You moan, loud and wanton, and both brothers groan in unison at that.
"I want to feel you, txeptsyip, [little flame]." Neteyam breaths. "Let me feel how good you’re feeling."
Your brows draw together when he lets his other hand slip away.
Neteyam reaches back over his shoulder, fingers finding the base of his braid. Slowly, he gathers the thick strands and brings them forward. At the end, where the braid narrows, those soft tendrils fan outward, greedily reaching for something.
Your breath catches.
This is not a casual gesture, not something you play with. What Neteyam implies to do is the most intimate connection the People know— one meant for lifelong mates, for those who choose one another beneath Eywa’s gaze. It is not something done lightly and… it is certainly not something done by force.
The faint hum of the human device still buzzes somewhere in Lo’ak’s hand, and you realize that Neteyam must’ve given it to him so he could use both of his hands to do this.
Your stomach twists as Neteyam lifts your own braid with careful fingers, bringing your kuru forward to rest beside his. The delicate tendrils twitch faintly in the air, reacting to one another instinctively.
"N-No!" You want to snatch it back, but Lo‘ak thrusts the toy into you hard enough that your eyes momentarily flutter close. "No, please don’t…" Your voice comes out weak, "you can’t, the great mother will—"
"You’re mine. I can do whatever I want."
The combination of both toys playing with every sensitive nerve you possess while Neteyam connects the ends of your kurus is something words could not describe, not even if you tried. You feel so many things at once that it’s hard to focus on one at the time, until you realize you’re coming hard enough that your legs are shaking from the sheer force of it. Behind you, Neteyam groans deeply and you know, that he’s feeling it with you.
Your orgasm crashes over you so violently, you fear it might break you in half.
"Fuck," you hear Neteyam breath heavily, trying to catch up with your racing heart. You feel him underneath your skin, your veins, your heart and in your head, in all these places strictly reserved for the male to be your mate. Not him. "Who would’ve thought that your pretty little head is filled with such filthy thoughts?"
You can’t help it. Lo‘ak is still thrusting the toy into you and Neteyam has gotten his hands back on the vibrator that he presses down hard against your oversensitive clit. Your mind is filled with images of them, the feel of their hands on you, their cocks filling your holes, every single one of them. You don’t know wether its Neteyam forcing these thoughts or if that is all your own doing. Not that it mattered in this moment.
With your kurus still connected, Neteyam grabs the other toy from Lo‘aks hand and begins thrusting into you in a rhythm that felt almost too good to be true. You whine, high and desperate, head falling forward with sweat droplets that raced off your burning forehead, pupils blown with lust as he angled the toy upwards, hitting your sweet spot. It was the bond, you were sure of it. He could feel every bit of your pleasure, could tell exactly what felt best to you now that you shared mind, body and soul. And you should hate it, if it weren’t getting you worked up so quickly again.
"I-I‘m gonna—" you choke on a moan when the toy thrust into hard and deep, "a-again!"
But before you know what’s happening next, the vibrator is shoved into Neteyams hands as well.
"My turn," Lo‘ak says and he detaches his brothers kuru from yours with a swift movement of his hand. Your eyes are wide open and you watch, unable to stop him, as Lo‘ak connects the tendrils of your braids with those of his own.
In that moment, you come hard enough you think your heart might beat right out of your chest.
"Fuuck, baby," Lo’ak groans. "That good, huh?"
You can feel him, deep inside of you. You can feel his hands on your hips as he thrusts into you, driving you deeper into your orgasm. You can feel his tip hitting your cervix and at the same time his lips around your clit, his piercing rolling over it, until you realize those are just what he makes you feel through the bond. It’s not real. What is real, however, is the way your legs are shaking, how you are holding your breath and then release it in a moan that’s almost a scream. Everything between your thighs is so, so wet and slippery, your poor clit is overstimulated and feels raw.
Words are falling freely from your lips, but not all of them are coherent. Just a wild mix of please, please, please and coming, I’m coming, and also stop, I can’t, I can’t come anymore!
When Neteyam finally, mercifully, lifts off the vibrator and withdraws the other toy from your sopping wet hole, you want to cry with relief. You’ve never, never in your life, have ever had an orgasm so intense before. So many of them, too. Your chest is still heaving, forcing deep breaths of air into your lungs as you try to get the trembling of your legs under control.
"Oh, sweet girl," a voice coos from somewhere behind you, pressing kisses to your neck and shoulder. "That was a lot, huh?"
You nod, because that’s all you can manage.
"You’re so fucking pretty like that, all wrung out and well-fucked," Lo‘ak adds, grinning down at you like you’re a piece of fruit he’s about to devour and you wonder when this man is ever satisfied. Distantly you remember that his kuru is still intervined with yours. When you look up, he shares a knowing look with his brother that makes goosebumps raise on your skin, before he glances back down at you, grin sharp enough to cut steel.
Behind you, Neteyam rests his chin on the curve of your shoulder as he gently pulls you and his brothers braid apart. His breath is warm and his voice low as he says, "Let’s try another, shall we?"
Your breath stutters.
"A-Another?" The words come out as a whimper, soft and quiet. Your eyes follow the movement of his hand as he brings your kuru close to his mouth. A full on body shiver goes through you when he blows a soft breath of air over the wriggling pink tendrils.
"It’s our gift, remember?" Neteyam chuckles. "And we still have plenty of toys for you to try, txeptsyip [little flame]."
Chapter 1 / Chapter 3
Honorable mentions of artworks that inspired this fic:
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]."
Chapter 2
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!!)
𑣲⋆｡˚ synopsis: neteyam loves the thrill loves of being the perfect olo'eyktan-in-waiting while secretly teasing and flustering you under everyone's noses.
𑣲⋆｡˚ content warnings: very suggestive, aged up characters, cheeky & cocky neteyam, flustered reader, secret courting, heavy flirting, detailed makeouts, dryhumping, risk of being caught
𑣲⋆｡˚ word count: 3.1k
𑣲⋆｡˚ author's note: based on this request! i was laughing the entire time writing this :,)
The mist of the Hallelujah Mountains clings to your skin, a damp shroud that smells of ozone and crushed ferns. High above the jungle floor, the air is thinner, cooler, and hums with the distant calls of mountain banshees.
You carefully navigate the narrow vine-bridge connecting two floating islands, the thick, braided vegetation swaying gently under your weight. Ahead of you, the path is blocked by a tall, lithe figure. Neteyam stands mid-bridge, his silhouette sharp against the blinding white of the clouds. He is waiting, his tail twitching with a rhythmic grace that tells you exactly who is in control of this crossing.
His golden eyes lock onto yours, shimmering with a mix of duty and a mischief so thick it’s nearly tangible. To Jake and Lo’ak, who are currently scouting the ledge just fifty meters above, Neteyam is the disciplined soldier, the perfect heir-in-waiting. To you, he is a relentless tease acting as though the Great Mother herself had already braided your lives together.
Neteyam steps forward, his large, four-toed feet silent on the damp moss of the bridge, and plants himself firmly in your way. The space between you narrows until you can feel the radiant heat of his blue skin and the earthy scent of the forest that follows him everywhere.
He tilts his head, his bioluminescent markings glowing faintly in the shadow of the mountain. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, revealing the sharp point of a fang. He crosses his muscular arms over his chest, his broad shoulders blocking the only way forward. He knows you cannot go back, and he knows you cannot pass him without making physical contact—a contact he is clearly hungry for.
Your breath hitches, the air in your lungs suddenly feeling insufficient. Every time he looks at you like it feels as though he is peeling back your skin to see the fluttering of your heart beneath. You try to step to the left, but he mirrors the movement with fluid, feline speed. You try the right, and his tail snakes out, lightly brushing against your hip, a warning and a promise all at once. The bridge lurches slightly in the wind, forcing you to reach out and grab his forearm for balance. His skin is rough and warm, the muscle beneath as hard as the stone of the mountains.
"Neteyam, move," you hiss, your voice strained with a mixture of frustration and a blossoming heat you refuse to acknowledge. "Your father is waiting. Lo’ak will start making jokes if we linger here too long."
He doesn't budge. Instead, he leans down, his face inches from yours. He is so close that you can see the intricate patterns of his iris and the way his ears flicker at the sound of Lo’ak’s distant shouting. He is playing a dangerous game, one that thrives on the thrill of nearly being caught.
"Let them wait," he whispers, his voice a low vibration that resonates in your own chest. “I see the way your pupils grow wide when I walk into the hometree. I see how you touch the bone-whistle I carved for you when you think no one is looking. Why do you hide it? Is the son of the Olo'eyktan not worthy of a confession?"
He is relentless. He reaches out, his large hand cupping the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the sensitive skin behind your ear. The touch sends a violent shiver down your spine. He is claiming you, weaving a web of intimacy that grows tighter with every shared glance. He wants the words. He wants to hear you admit that his pursuit hasn't been in vain, that the courting gift—a delicate necklace of obsidian and sea-glass he left on your sleeping mat—had touched more than just your curiosity.
"I am not letting you pass until I hear it," he says, his expression turning mock-serious, though the twinkle in his eyes betrays him. "Tell me you liked the gift."
From above, the sound of heavy footsteps on stone echoes. Jake’s voice carries through the mist, calling out Neteyam’s name. The urgency of the situation should make you pull away, but the way Neteyam is looking at you makes the rest of the world fade into insignificance.
"Fine!" you whisper-yell, your face flushing a deep, embarrassed purple. "It was nice, alright? The necklace... the way you carved it... it was beautiful."
The transformation in his expression is instantaneous. The smirk breaks into a triumphant, radiant grin that lights up his entire face. He doesn't let you pass yet. He surges forward, his hands framing your face as he pulls you into a sudden, resounding smooch. It is loud, messy, and tastes of victory. His lips are firm and warm against yours, a bold seal on your confession that leaves your head spinning.
Just as he pulls back, his tail giving a delighted flick, the heavy thud of feet hitting the vine-bridge signals the arrival of the others. Lo’ak swings down from a higher vine, landing a few paces behind Neteyam with his usual lack of grace, followed closely by the steady, imposing presence of Jake.
Neteyam doesn't miss a beat. He immediately assumes a posture of perfect, military readiness, his hands dropping to his sides as he turns to face his father. Only the slight heaving of his chest and the way his eyes dart back to you for a fraction of a second hint at the disarray he just caused you.
"Everything clear ahead, Neteyam?" Jake asks, his eyes scanning the horizon, oblivious to the fact that his eldest son just spent the last five minutes trapping you in a romantic deadlock.
"Perfectly clear, sir," Neteyam responds, his voice steady and devoid of the rasp that had been there moments ago.
Lo’ak, however, narrows his eyes, looking between your flushed face and Neteyam’s suspicious grin. "You look like you just ate a hexapede, bro. What’s with the face?"
Neteyam simply claps a hand on Lo’ak’s shoulder, shoving him forward with a laugh. "Just enjoying the view, little brother. Move out."
You are pressed back against the rough, cork-like bark of a massive podocarpus, the ridges of the tree digging into your shoulder blades as Neteyam crowds into your personal space. His feet are braced on either side of yours, grounding him as he leans his full weight forward, trapping you in the small alcove of roots and shadows. Above, the canopy is a riot of shifting greens and deep purples, but your entire world has narrowed down to him.
Neteyam tilts his head, a slow smirk spreading across his face that reveals the sharp, ivory glint of his fangs. He doesn't wait for permission, he never does lately. He reaches out, his hand cupping your jaw, his thumb dragging firmly across your lower lip to pull it down, exposing the pink dampness of your mouth. When he leans in, his nose brushes against yours, his warm breath fanning over your face.
The first kiss is a possessive claim. He presses his lips against yours with a firm, rhythmic pressure, savoring the way you gasp into his mouth. It is deep and exploratory, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips before sliding inside to tangle with yours. You let out a soft, involuntary whine, your fingers curling into the leather of his loincloth as you try to pull him closer. He responds by deepening the contact, his other hand sliding down to grip your waist, his fingers slogging into your hip with enough force to leave a faint bruise.
"Neteyam, report," Neytiri’s voice crackles suddenly through the comm-link fastened to Neteyam’s ear. The sound is jarringly professional, cutting through the haze of desire like a blade.
Neteyam doesn't pull away. Instead, he shifts his angle, his lips sliding toward the sensitive corner of your mouth as he reaches up with one hand to press the activation stud on the device. His eyes remain locked on yours, dancing with a wicked, unyielding mischief. He looks entirely unbothered, his breathing steady even as he continues to feast on your skin.
"Perimeter is clear, Mother," Neteyam says, his voice coming out smooth and crystalline, devoid of any hint that he is currently pinning his future mate against a tree. He punctuates the sentence by nipping hard at your bottom lip, a sharp tug that earns another muffled sound of protest from you. He snickers quietly against your skin, the vibration of his laughter rumbling through your own chest.
"The tracks we found earlier were just a stray sturmbeast. Nothing to worry about. I’ll keep sweeping toward the eastern ridge."
You glare at him, your face flushed a vivid, embarrassed shade of violet, but he only rolls his eyes. He lets go of the comm-link and immediately captures your mouth again, this time with more urgency. The kiss becomes a frantic exchange of heat and friction. He sucks on your tongue, the wet, sliding sounds of the embrace echoing in the quiet pocket of the forest. He is relentless, his teeth grazing your lips as he groans low in his throat.
"Yo, big bro, you there?" Lo’ak’s voice bursts through the radio, loud and annoying. "I found some weird fruit over by the creek. Is this the stuff Dad said not to touch, or can I eat it?"
Neteyam lets out a huff of amusement, pulling back just an inch, his lips glistening with your shared saliva. He watches the way your chest heaves, your breath coming in short, ragged bursts. He seems to take a sadistic delight in how much more affected you are than he is. He reaches out, tracing the line of your collarbone with his index finger, his touch light but lingering.
"Don't eat it, skxawng (idiot)," Neteyam replies into the comm, his tone perfectly flat and brotherly, though he is currently sliding his hand up your thigh, his palm hot against your skin. "Dad said those cause a rash that lasts for three sun-cycles. Unless you want to spend the next week itching like a viperwolf with mange, put it down and get back to your post."
"Ugh, fine. You're so boring," Lo’ak grumbles before the line goes dead.
Neteyam drops his hand from the comm and leans his forehead against yours, his ears twitching with satisfaction. He treats you as though you are already his, a settled fact in his mind. He leans down again, this time burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply.
"You make such sweet sounds when you're frustrated," he whispers against your pulse point, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He begins to trail wet, hot kisses up the length of your throat, his tongue flickering out to taste the salt on your skin. He finds the soft spot just behind your ear and bites down gently, sending a bolt of electricity straight to your core. "Do you want me to stop? I could go join Lo'ak. I could leave you here all alone with your thoughts."
You shake your head frantically, your hands moving up to clasp behind his neck, pulling his head back down to yours. You are desperate for the contact, your body humming with a restless, frantic energy that he has spent the last hour cultivating. He laughs, a soft, triumphant sound, and gives you one last, lingering kiss—a deep, soul-searing pressure that leaves your head spinning and your lips swollen.
"Tìmweypey (patience)," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. "The sun will set soon, and then we won't have to listen to my brother's voice at all."
He steps back, his posture instantly shifting back into his disciplined, untouchable sona of his. He begins to move away, blending into the shadows of the forest with the grace of a ghost, leaving you leaning against the tree, trembling and breathless, while he whistles a casual, airy tune.
The air at this secluded rock pool was heavy, clinging to your skin with the scent of damp earth, crushed mint, and the sharp, musky heat radiating from Neteyam’s body. He had you backed against a smooth, submerged shelf of stone, his hands gripping your hips with a possessive, grounding strength that anchored you against the gentle lap of the lake.
Your legs were locked tightly around his waist, your ankles crossing behind the small of his back, while your arms draped over his broad, blue shoulders. Every time he shifted, the friction of his skin against yours sent a jolt of lightning through your nerves, yet you couldn't stop the melodic, breathless giggles bubbling up from your chest.
"You are trouble," Neteyam rasped, his voice low, vibrating against the sensitive skin of your neck. He pressed forward, his weight pinning you more firmly against the stone as he moved with a slow, rhythmic persistence. "I heard you. In the communal circle. You told your mother that your heart was still 'as open as the sea' and that no one was currently seeking your hand."
You threw your head back, a loud, taunting laugh escaping you as his tail gave a sharp, agitated flick in the water. "Did I? I must have forgotten. My memory is so short these days, Neteyam. Perhaps it is because the 'perfect heir' is so subtle that I haven't even noticed his efforts".
He let out a sharp, indignant huff, his golden eyes narrowing with a mix of genuine frustration and the playful, cheeky spark that he rarely showed anyone else. He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his breath hot and smelling of the sweet fruit he’d shared with you earlier.
"Subtle?" he countered, his hands sliding up to frame your face, his thumbs dragging across your cheekbones with enough pressure to make your breath hitch. "I left a necklace of obsidian and sea-glass on your mat. I have brought you the choice cuts of every hunt for three sun-cycles. I have practically breathed for you".
"It was a very nice necklace," you teased, nipping playfully at his lower lip before pulling away just out of reach. "But until I see a formal declaration before the Tsahik, I am technically a free woman. This? This is just payback for trapping me on that vine-bridge last week".
Neteyam groaned, the sound raw and phonetic as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing the tendon there in a warning nip. He continued the steady, agonizing rhythm of his body against yours.
"You think this is a game," he muttered against your skin, his hands moving down to squeeze your thighs, pulling you even tighter into his heat. "I am the future leader of this clan, and you are making me look like a fool who cannot even claim his own mate."
"Then maybe you should try harder," you challenged, your voice dropping to an outrageous whisper. "Because honestly, Neteyam, I heard Lo'ak saying he might start bringing me weaving fibers soon. He’s much more direct than his 'perfect' older brother."
The lie was so absurd, so blatantly designed to rile him up, that Neteyam’s entire body went rigid for a fraction of a second. He pulled back, his expression a mask of mock-outrage, his ears pinned back against his head.
"Lo'ak?" he echoed, a sharp, disbelieving bark of a laugh escaping him. "That skxawng wouldn't know a courting ritual if it bit him on the tail. You are mine. You know it, I know it, and the Great Mother herself knows it".
Before you could retort with another jab about his brother, Neteyam lunged forward, his mouth crashing onto yours to effectively silence you. The kiss was messy and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongue that tasted of victory and salt. You melted instantly, your fingers tangling into the braids at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer until there was no space left between you.
The silence of the grotto was suddenly broken by the running feet on the soft loam nearby, accompanied by the bright, unmistakable sound of Kiri’s melodic laughter and Spider’s raspy voice.
Neteyam’s ears flicked toward the sound instantly. With the fluid, feline speed of a warrior, he broke the kiss. Before you could even draw a breath to ask what was happening, his large hand landed firmly on top of your head. With a sudden, forceful shove, he plunged you beneath the surface of the lake.
The water was cool and dark, bubbles dancing past your eyes as you sat on the submerged stone shelf, your lungs burning with the suddenness of it. Above you, you could see the distorted, blue silhouette of Neteyam standing tall, his posture shifting in a heartbeat from a lover’s embrace to a casual, bored stance.
Kiri and Spider burst through the ferns, both of them looking disheveled, their skin flushed a deep, embarrassed purple. Spider was rubbing the back of his neck, and Kiri was pointedly adjusting a necklace that wasn't out of place.
Neteyam quirked a single, judgmental eyebrow at them, his arms crossing over his broad chest. "You two look like you’ve been chased by a thanator," he said, his voice smooth and steady, betraying none of the heat that had just been radiating from him. "What are you doing this far from the village?"
Kiri jumped, her eyes darting around the pool before settling on her brother. "We... we were just scouting! For rare moss. For grandmother!"
Spider nodded vigorously, his dreadlocks swaying. "Yeah. Moss. Very important moss. What are you doing out here, Neteyam? Alone?"
Neteyam didn't miss a beat. He gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, his expression unreadable and calm. Beneath the water, you felt his toes lightly brush against your submerged knee, a silent command to stay still.
"Just enjoying the peace," Neteyam replied, a faint, teasing smirk touching his lips as he looked at the two of them—clearly aware they had been caught in their own secret moment. "It’s a shared secret, isn't it? The best spots in the forest are always the ones people don't know you're visiting."
Kiri narrowed her eyes, looking at the ripples in the water, but Neteyam simply stared her down with the practiced authority of the eldest brother until she huffed and turned away, dragging a red-faced Spider back into the trees.
Only when the sound of their footsteps faded did Neteyam reach down, his fingers hooking under your arms to haul you back into the air. You emerged sputtering, wiping water from your eyes and glaring at him with pure murder in your gaze.
"You drowned me!" you hissed, though you couldn't hide the smile tugging at your mouth.
Neteyam just laughed, pulling you back into his arms, his forehead resting against yours. "I saved your reputation. Now, where were we? Something about Lo'ak and weaving fibers?"
you guys literally have me in neteyam purgatory. the way i write him cannot be that good.
summary: neteyam keeps coming to your tent; first with wounds, then excuses, then nothing at all. teasing and care turn to trust and unspoken feelings. it isn't until he returns with a serious injury that the truth finally unfolds.
warnings: pure yearning. mostly fluffy and a bit of pining, but there is also some angst.
word count: 1.9k
tsakarem - tsahìk-in-training.
paysyul flower - water lily.
The first time he limps into your healing tent, he’s all arrogance and sharp edges.
A gash runs down his thigh; deep enough to need stitching, shallow enough that he insists it’s nothing.
"Sit," you command, voice steady despite the way his towering frame fills the space.
He smirks, blood dripping between his fingers, but obliges. "Didn’t take you for the bossy type, tsakarem," he teases surveying your features for a reaction.
You ignore him, gathering yalna bark and spider silk. When you kneel beside him, his breath hitches, just once, as your fingers skim his skin.
"This will sting," you warn.
He leans in, voices a low rumble. "I like it when it stings."
You swallow hard.
With practiced care, you smooth the thick paste along the wound, nimble fingers gentle against his skin. Taking the thread, you begin stitching the edges closed, each careful pull precise and steady, your focus unwavering as you work to ease the pain and ensure the wound heals cleanly.
He barely moves beneath your touch, jaw clenched as he watches you from beneath his lashes. You murmur soft reassurances as you work, reminding him to breathe, your thumb brushing lightly over his skin whenever his muscles tense.
When the last stitch is tied off, you press a clean cloth over the wound, checking your work with a quiet nod, before sending him off.
⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹
Three eclipses later, he’s back – this time with a bruised rib.
"Fell off a branch," he mumbles, wincing as you prod the swelling.
You arch a brow suspiciously. "You? The great warrior… fell?”
His laughter is warm, and closer than necessary. "Maybe I just wanted to hear you scold me again."
Your hands hesitate over his ribs. His heartbeat thrumming beneath your fingertips. “You need to be more careful, Neteyam,” you chastise, unimpressed at his new-found clumsiness.
Your hands still, clicking your tongue. “One day I won’t be here to patch you up.”
You reach for the salve anyway, smoothing it over the bruise with gentle pressure. He hisses, then relaxes, leaning subtly into your touch as if the pain is worth it just to be here; under your careful hands and watchful gaze.
His smile falters, just a fraction, at your words. “Yeah,” he murmurs, quieter now. “But you are now.”
A soft smile tugs at your lips. You glance up at him, warmth settling in your chest as your thumb traces a soothing circle near the bruise.
“You enjoy this too much,” you mutter, face falling serious, trying to sound stern.
“Maybe,” he replies softly, eyes fixed on your face. “But I trust you.”
⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹
The next time, his excuse is thinner than mist. You have to suppress the urge to roll your eyes.
A shallow scratch across his palm; barely deserving of the poultice you press to it.
But when your fingers linger, he turns his hand, his touch grazing yours, almost – almost – intertwining. The contact sends a quiet jolt up your arm, unwelcome yet undeniable.
“Tell me, healer,” he murmurs, fingers brushing over your knuckles, voice low and deliberate. “Do you tend to all the warriors… or just me?”
Your pulse stutters. “Just the reckless ones,” you scoff, forcing a lightness into your tone as you dab the salve more firmly than necessary.
He doesn’t pull away. Instead, his grin widens, all trouble and fangs. “Lucky me.”
You finally look up at him then, catching the way his eyes linger – soft, searching, entirely too familiar. For a fleeting moment, neither of you moves, the air between you taut with something unspoken, before you clear your throat and tug your hand free, pretending your heart isn’t racing.
“All done.”
He gives you a knowing look, head tilting slightly. Your gaze does not meet his, and your fingers writhe gently in your lap. He rises silently uttering a careful ‘thank you’ before disappearing behind the flaps of your tent.
⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹
Then comes the night he arrives with no wound at all.
Just a single, perfect paysyul flower – rare, delicate, glowing softly in the dark.
"For you," he says, uncharacteristically quiet.
You stare at his outstretched hand offering you the delicate bundle of petals. Your body is enveloped by a warmth akin to the sun-soaked shallows of the forest, where the water holds heat long after the day has faded; it paints your face with a faint violet tint, and causes a familiar fluttering sensation in your chest.
His fingers brush yours as you take the flower, his touch too deliberate to be accidental. The petals glow softly between your hands, casting shimmering reflections across his face, illuminating the quiet intensity in his golden eyes.
"You… brought me this?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, and can catch the scent of earth and morning dew clinging to his skin.
"Couldn’t think of a better excuse to see you," he admits, voice rough at the edges. His thumb grazes your wrist before he adds, softer. "Missed you."
The confession lingers in the air between you, fragile as the flower’s glow.
And then –
His hand slides up to cradle your jaw, tilting your face toward his.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, lips hovering so near yours you can taste his breath, sweet with the nectar of the forest.
You don’t.
The moment hangs, heavy with anticipation. His thumb is tracing circles on your jaw, his gaze locked on your lips. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and just slightly desperate.
And then, from outside the camp, the sound of footsteps and a familiar voice rings through the night…
"Neteyam!"
His head snaps up, eyes flashing with irritation, before he lets out a sigh, almost annoyed. "Damn it,” he mumbles with a small huff.
"What is it?" he calls back, not taking his hand off your cheek. Your skin burns where he holds you, blush deepening into a plum hue.
A few moments later, a figure appears behind the tent flap. Lo’ak peers curiously, his gaze flicking between you and his brother for a beat. He arches a brow, taking in the sight of Neteyam’s fingers now shifted underneath your chin, before an amused smile creeps onto his face.
"What’s this?" he asks, feigning surprise. "Am I interrupting something here?"
Neteyam shoots him a warning glare. "What do you want, Lo’ak?"
Lo’ak doesn’t miss your reaction, or the way Neteyam’s grip tightens slightly, his thumb pressing into your skin like he’s silently staking a claim.
A slow, shit-eating grin spreads across Lo’ak’s face.
"Ohhh," he drawls, crossing his arms. "So this is where you’ve been sneaking off too lately." His eyes flick to you, mischief dancing in them. "Funny how you only seem to get hurt when she’s on healing duty, bro."
Neteyam’s jaw clenches – hard.
"Lo’ak," he growls, voice low and dangerous.
But his little brother just laughs, backing away with his hands raised in mock surrender. "Alright, alright! Sorry to interrupt... whatever this is." He wiggles his eyebrows. "But dad wants you for something."
And with that, he ducks out of the tent, leaving behind only the sound of his fading laughter and tension thick enough to choke on.
⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹
Weeks pass.
Neteyam stops showing up with flimsy excuses. The playful tension between you fades into something quieter, made of lingering glances, fleeting brushes of fingers – but nothing more.
Then, one night, the tent flaps burst open.
Lo’ak stumbles in, panting, Neteyam slumped heavily against him. Blood soaks through his chest wrap, his breaths ragged. Your stomach plummets.
"What happened?" you demand, already moving, hands steady despite the panic clawing up your throat.
"Stupid ikran hunt," Lo’ak grits out, lowering him onto the mat. "Tried to show off – got clipped mid-dive."
Neteyam’s eyes flutter open, hazy with pain. But when they land on you, his lips twitch weakly. "...Missed you," he slurs, delirious.
Your hands tremble as you peel back the fabric, revealing the deep gash across his ribs.
"You idiot," you whisper, pressing a dapophet pad to the wound. "You could’ve died."
His fingers brush your wrist, barely a ghost of touch. "Worth it… to see you… scowl like that."
Lo’ak groans. "Oh my Eywa, half-dead and he’s still flirting."
You ignore him, focusing on the way Neteyam’s breath hitches when your fingers trace his skin; gentle, but firm.
"Don’t you dare bleed out on me," you murmur, voice thick.
His hand finds yours, squeezing weakly. "...Wouldn’t dream of it, baby."
Your heart pounds out a desperate rhythm as you work, trying to stay focused on the task at hand, but he keeps making it worse. Every ragged breath, every brush of skin, every stolen glance sends adrenaline surging through your veins.
Lo’ak watches quietly from the side, his amusement replaced with concern. He knows better than to distract you, but his eyes flit between you and his brother with growing curiosity.
Neteyam’s gaze is hazy, fever-bright, but still filled with an almost reverent fascination. His fingers find your wrist again, a little firmer this time. The salve stings, but Neteyam doesn’t flinch. His eyes stay locked on yours, even as sweat beads at his temples, even as his fingers twitch against the mat.
You lean closer, checking the stitching. "You’re lucky it didn’t puncture your lung," you mutter, trying to ignore the way his breath hitches when your fingers graze his bare ribs.
His hand suddenly catches yours, pressing your palm flat against his chest, right over his pounding heartbeat.
"Feel that?" he rasps.
You freeze.
"That’s you," he continues, voice rough with pain and something else entirely. "Every time you touch me – every damn time – it does that."
Your breath catches.
Lo’ak, still hovering near the entrance, makes a strangled noise. "Okay, I’m out. I’ll just– go tell Dad you’re not dead."
The tent flaps swish shut behind him, a silence following.
Neteyam’s thumb strokes your wrist. "Stay," he murmurs.
"I’m your healer," you whisper, trembling. "I have to."
He shakes his head, wincing at the movement. "Not… what I meant."
And then – weak but determined – he tugs you down until your forehead rests against his, his breath mingling with yours.
"Stay after," he clarifies, voice raw. "When I’m not just… another wound to fix."
Your pulse thrums where your skin meets his.
Outside, the wind rustles the leaves. Inside, something fragile and long-avoided finally snaps.
You let out a breath shakily, his words settling deep within you. He had stumbled his way into your tent – your life – and had made a home out of your heart.
"I could never leave you," you begin. "You know that. I've always been here– waiting." You take another breath, letting it fill your lungs before you continue, "I will always be with you.” Another breath.
“I see you.”
His grip tightens around your hand, desperate and reverent, words feeling as though they are caught in his throat.
“Say it again," he breathes, voice cracking.
You don’t hesitate.
“I see you.”
A shudder runs through him – half pain, half relief –before he tugs you even closer, your lips hovering just above his, sharing the same air, the same heartbeat.
"Took you long enough," he rasps, but there’s no bite to it, just warmth; just yours. “I see you.”
And when his eyes finally flutter shut from exhaustion, his fingers stay tangled with yours.
Summary: A Sully always protects their own, but the cost of standing between your brothers and a Recom’s rifle is a silence that terrifies them.
✨ Based on this request! ✨
The metal floor of the Sea Dragon is vibrating under your cheek, a cold thrum that tastes like salt and ozone. Everything is a blur of neon yellow emergency lights and the sharp, stinging smell of RDA fuel.
"Get up! Sis, look at me!"
Lo’ak’s voice is raw with a desperation you’ve never heard before. You try to push yourself up but your arms feel like water. The last thing you remember is the heavy crack of a rifle butt against your temple—a white-hot explosion of pain when you tried to lunge for the knife at Quaritch’s belt.
Now, the world won’t stop tilting.
"Don't touch her!" Lo’ak snarls, his shadow falling over you as he tries to shield you from the recoms, even with his hands bound. "You touch her one more time and I—you skxawng, if she doesn't wake up—"
"Lo'ak..." you whisper but the name feels heavy, sliding out of your mouth like lead. Your vision is doubling; there are two Lo’aks, both of them wearing the same expression of pure terror.
Then, the world dissolves into chaos.
The high-pitched hiss of arrows, the thump of bodies hitting the deck, and the unmistakable sound of a banshee diving close. Through the haze, you see a blur of blue and stripes.
Neteyam.
He drops. He’s a whirlwind of motion, cutting Lo’ak’s ties in a single fluid stroke before turning to you. The moment his hands touch your shoulders, the warrior mask he’s been wearing since the forest began to burn just... vanishes.
"I’ve got you. I’ve got you, tsmuke." he murmurs, his voice a low, grounding vibration against the ringing in your ears.
He slides one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you as if you weigh nothing. You let your head fall against his chest, the steady, frantic thumping of his heart the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.
"Neteyam, she's not staying awake," Lo’ak chokes out, hovering at his shoulder, eyes wide and glassy. "She tried to fight him and he—"
"I know, baby brother. Move. Now."
The flight back is a fever dream of wind and the smell of Neteyam’s skin—forest rain and dried herbs. Every time your eyes slip shut, his arm tightens around you, a sharp "Stay with me" echoing in your ear. He’s just a big brother who is terrified he’s losing a piece of his soul.
-
The shift in the air is what hits you first. But the sound that truly pierces through the concussion-induced fog it’s a broken sob coming from right beside your ear.
"Is she okay? Neteyam, why isn't she waking up?"
Tuk’s voice is high and reedy, trembling with a terror that sounds too heavy for her small frame. She’s standing against Lo’ak’s side. Her eyes are fixed on your limp body.
"She's okay, Tuk," Neteyam grits out, his jaw so tight it looks like stone. He shifts his grip, tucking your head more securely. "She’s just sleeping. She had a hard hit. Look at me—she’s breathing, see?"
"But she won't wake up!" Tuk wails and comes next to you.
She’s sitting at the foot of your bed, her tail wrapped tightly around her own ankles, watching your chest rise and fall with an intensity that’s heartbreaking.
Every time you groan or shift in your sleep, she flinches, her big eyes darting to Neteyam for permission to move. "Can I touch her?" she whispers, her voice barely audible over the waves.
Neteyam looks up, his expression softening. "Softly, Tuk-Tuk. Just her hand."
She reaches out, her small hand trembling as she covers yours. Your skin is cool but hers is burning with a nervous fever.
"Wake up," she breathes, leaning over to whisper right into your ear, her braids brushing your cheek. "I’ll give you my best glow-shells. I won't even get mad when you take my favorite fruit. Just wake up so we can go swimming."
Your fingers twitch. It feels like dragging your soul through deep mud, but you manage to squeeze her hand back. It’s weak, barely a ghost of a pressure, but Tuk gasps as if you’ve shouted.
"She felt me! Neteyam, she squeezed!"
Neteyam is across the mat in a heartbeat, his hand hovering over yours, a breath of pure relief escaping his lungs. He looks at Tuk, then back at you
"I told you," he says, his voice thick as he pulls both of his sisters into a cautious, protective huddle. "She’s a Sully. We don't stay down for long."
-
The glow worms in the family pod are dim, casting soft teals and greens across the woven mats. The silence of the reef is heavy, broken only by the rhythmic lapping of the ocean outside.
You wake up to a dull ache behind your eyes. When you try to move, a hand immediately settles on your forehead.
"Easy," Neteyam whispers. He’s sitting cross-legged beside your mat, a bowl of medicinal paste in his lap. He looks exhausted, his braids messy and his shoulders slumped. "Don't move your head. The Tsahik says the pressure needs to go down."
On your other side, Lo’ak and Tuk are curled up, their hands firmly gripping yours even in their sleep. They look like they haven't moved in hours.
"We’re home. You’re safe." Neteyam voice hitches, just a tiny bit. "You really scared us, sis. Don't ever do that again. Don't play hero when I'm not there to catch you."
You manage a weak smile. "I know you're always there."
Neteyam huffs a soft, watery laugh, brushing a stray hair from your face with a tenderness that aches. "Yeah, always. Now go back to sleep. We are not going anywhere."
And for the first time since the ship, the world stops spinning. You close your eyes, anchored by the weight of Lo’ak and Tuk’s hand and the steady presence of the big brother who always carries the world so you don't have to.
Mornings with Neteyam follow a rhythm so steady it feels woven into the very air of the forest. He rises before the light fully breaks through the canopy, before the sounds of the clan grow loud and lively, before even you stir beneath the warmth of the snonivi (hammock). There is intention in every movement he makes—quiet, practiced, disciplined. He untangles himself from your hold with care, always gentle, like even the act of leaving you for a moment requires thought. You’ve come to expect it. To rely on it. To wake to the faint absence of him and know exactly where he is.
Today breaks that rhythm.
Neteyam does not move.
Sleep fades from him slowly, but instead of slipping away from you like he always does, he stays exactly where he is, lying on his side with his gaze fixed on your face. His eyes are heavy-lidded, softened by the remnants of sleep, but there is a clarity behind them that has nothing to do with waking. He watches the rise and fall of your breathing, the slight twitch of your lashes, the way your lips part just barely against the woven fibers beneath your cheek.
Time stretches.
His hand shifts, careful and unhurried, brushing a stray braid away from your face. His fingers linger there for a moment longer than necessary, hovering like he’s memorizing the warmth of your skin. A smile pulls at his mouth—slow, unguarded, almost boyish. It spreads easily, softening every sharp edge of him until all that’s left is affection, open and bright and impossible to hide.
He does not think about his duties. Not when you are right here.
You stir beneath his gaze, pulled from sleep by the intense weight of being watched. Your brows knit slightly, lashes fluttering before your eyes finally open, unfocused at first. It takes a second for your vision to settle, for the blur to sharpen into him.
Neteyam doesn’t look away.
“…Teyam?” Your voice is rough with sleep, soft and uncertain. You blink again, slower this time, trying to understand why he’s still here. “Is everything alright?”
His ears flick forward at the sound of your voice, and that soft smile deepens in a way that makes his whole face warm. He shakes his head once, small and gentle, his hand lifting again to brush along your cheek in a familiar gesture.
“Good morning, ma yawne (my beloved),” he murmurs, voice low and thick with sleep.
He still doesn’t move.
That is what unsettles you.
You shift, pushing yourself up slightly on your elbow, studying him more carefully now. Neteyam never lingers like this. His mornings are steady, structured, guided by purpose and responsibility. He does not stay in bed once he wakes, no matter how warm it is, no matter how comfortable.
Your confusion shows clearly on your face.
“Neteyam,” you say again, a little more awake now, a little more certain. “You’re not up.”
His nonexistent brows lift slightly at that, amusement flickering through his gaze.
“No,” he agrees easily.
You stare at him.
He just keeps smiling.
Concern begins to creep in at the edges of your expression, subtle but there. You shift again, preparing to sit up fully, to press him for a real answer this time, because this is not like him. He notices the change immediately—the tension, the way your body starts to move away from him—and he closes the distance before you can get far.
His lips meet yours, soft and certain, stealing the question right from your mouth.
The kiss is slow, warm, unhurried in a way that feels planned. Your breath catches, a quiet hum slipping from you before you can stop it, your hand coming up to rest weakly against his chest. Sleep still clings to you, making everything feel hazy and heavy, your thoughts slower to catch up with what he’s doing.
When he pulls back, your eyes blink open again, dazed.
“Neteyam…” you murmur, voice softer now, confusion still threading through it. “What are you doing?”
His smile doesn’t fade.
“Can I not stay with my mate?” he asks, tone touched with amusement, something teasing tucked beneath it. “Must I leave the moment I wake?”
Heat rises to your cheeks instantly.
“That’s not—” You falter, your hand pressing lightly against his shoulder as if to push him away, even though the pressure barely exists. “You always get up early. You never stay like this.”
His hand catches your wrist with ease, fingers wrapping around it in a firm but gentle hold that stops your push before it can move him at all. His thumb brushes once over your pulse, absently, like he isn’t even thinking about it.
“I am not allowed to change my mind?” he asks, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Before you can respond, he leans in again.
Another kiss.
Longer this time. Deeper.
Your protest dissolves into the soft press of your lips against his, your fingers curling slightly against his chest as he guides you back down into the snonivi. The woven fibers press beneath you again, familiar and grounding, but the weight that follows is new.
Neteyam shifts over you, settling his body against yours with careful control, his strength obvious even in the way he holds himself back from putting his full weight on you. He cages you in without hesitation, one arm braced beside your head, the other still loosely holding your wrist.
His tail flicks behind him.
Once.
Twice.
Faster.
A quiet laugh slips from him when you gasp softly beneath him, your hands pressing more insistently against his chest now.
“Neteyam—you’re heavy,” you complain, your voice breathless, tinged with lingering sleep.
“I know,” he answers easily, the words brushing against your lips before he kisses you again.
He shifts his weight just enough to emphasize your point, a teasing press that earns a sharper protest from you. The sound only seems to amuse him more, his laughter low and warm as it spills into the space between your mouths.
“I mean it,” you huff, trying again to push him away, though your strength falters almost immediately. “Get off—”
“No.”
The answer comes without hesitation.
His grin widens, and he dips his head to kiss you again, slower now, savoring the way your protests break apart into soft, uneven breaths. His hand leaves your wrist only to find your cheek, cupping it with a gentleness that contrasts entirely with the way he keeps you pinned beneath him.
“You speak too much in the morning,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing.
Your eyes narrow.
“I do not—”
He cuts you off again.
Another kiss.
This one lingers.
Your hands remain against his chest, but the push weakens, your fingers curling instead of pressing, your resistance softening beneath the warmth of him. Neteyam notices immediately. He always does.
A quiet, pleased sound hums in his chest.
“I like this,” he admits after a moment, pulling back just enough to look at you properly.
Your expression has changed. The irritation has dulled, replaced by softness and homeliness, your earlier confusion fading beneath his attention.
“What?” you ask quietly.
His thumb brushes along your cheek, tracing the curve of your face like he has all the time in the world.
“Staying here,” he says. “With you.”
Your breath catches, just slightly.
Neteyam’s gaze lingers on your face, taking in every small reaction—the way your lashes lower for a second, the faint shift of your lips, the heat spreading across your cheeks. His expression softens again, that same open affection settling over him without restraint.
He leans down, pressing another kiss to your lips, gentler this time, slower, unhurried in a way that feels entirely intentional.
Your hands relax against him fully now.
His tail flicks again behind him, wide and unrestrained, giving him away completely.
Neteyam settles more comfortably over you, making no move to get up, no sign of returning to the routine he follows so strictly every other morning. His forehead rests briefly against yours, his breath warm against your lips as he lingers there, close enough that you can feel every quiet exhale.
“I could start my mornings like this,” he murmurs softly.
Another kiss follows, warm and certain, his smile brushing against your mouth.
“And I would not mind it at all.”
neteyam winning the poll whose surprised. y'all are gonna get sick of my neteyam. just watch.
Lo’ak catches his friend and his brother, Neteyam fucking
WC. 3.7K
Lo’ak’s still damp from his swim, river water drying in uneven patches on his skin as he makes his way back through the village.
He throws lazy waves at familiar faces, trading a few half-hearted greetings, fingers brushing against other palms in passing.
It’s easy, mindless—until he spots Spider.
Spider’s leaned back against a trunk, arms folded, like he’s been waiting. Lo’ak lifts his hand automatically, five fingers spread.
“Hey, bro.” Their palms meet with a solid smack, fingers curling for a second before they pull away.
“Hey. Where were you?” Spider eyes the droplets still clinging to Lo’ak’s braids.
“Just taking a swim,” Lo’ak says, shoulders rolling in a casual shrug. His tail flicks behind him, relaxed.
Spider’s mouth curls. “I was on a date with Kiri.”
Lo’ak stares at him for half a beat, then makes a face so dramatic it hurts. “Ew, bro. Just—no. Ewwww.” He clamps his hands over his ears and squeezes his eyes shut, like that’ll erase the image.
Spider laughs, shoving his shoulder. “Relax, skxawng.”
Lo’ak drops his hands and blows out a sigh, still grimacing. “Where is Neteyam?”
Spider glances around too, like they might just materialize. “Haven’t seen him. Thought he was with you.”
Lo’ak shakes his head. “No idea. We should look for him or Mom’s gonna blame me somehow.”
Spider snorts. “True.” He pushes off the tree. “I’ll check by the rivers.”
“I’ll go forest,” Lo’ak says, already turning away.
It’s not really weird for Neteyam and you to disappear together like this.
You always come back with some story about flying or exploring or “just riding,” like it’s nothing.
They both swore they’d never date—too different, too much history, too much of everything.
Lo’ak has never bothered to question it.
He heads deeper into the trees, following the path he’s seen you and Neteyam take a hundred times.
The forest wraps around him, thick and familiar. The buzz of insects and distant animal calls fills his ears, a constant, comforting noise.
Then something cuts through it.
A soft, breathy, unmistakable sound. “Mh… ah…” And underneath it, a wet, steady smack-smack-smack.
Lo’ak stops walking.
For a second he just stands there, listening, brows knitting together.
It could be anything, he tells himself, but his chest tightens and curiosity curls sharp under his ribs. He shifts his weight, ears twitching as he picks up the direction. His first instinct is to turn around.
He doesn’t.
He starts moving toward the sound, quieter now. He tells himself he just wants to make sure no one’s in trouble. That’s all. That’s it.
And maybe—yeah—he’s curious. He’s never gone all the way with Tsireya. They’ve kissed, they’ve touched, but nothing like the raw, honest noise that’s pulling him in now.
A cave entrance appears ahead, half-hidden by hanging vines. On the rock beside it, two thumbprints have been pressed into the wall in red paste, dragged and curved into a rough heart. The paint looks newer than everything else around it, edges still dark.
Lo’ak’s throat goes dry.
Just a quick look, he tells himself. Just long enough to see who it is, and then he’ll leave. No harm done.
His heart is pounding harder now, so loud it nearly drowns out the moans.
He steps closer, back flattening to the wall as he edges up to the opening. He leans forward, very slowly, head peeking around the stone.
And then everything stops.
It’s Neteyam.
His brother.
His perfect, responsible brother.
With her—one of his closest friends.
Neteyam, on his knees on the cave floor, body pressed tight to yours.
Your top is shoved up carelessly around your chest, and your breasts are bouncing with every solid snap of his hips. His cock is buried deep inside you, sliding in and out in a rhythm that looks practiced, his body moving like he knows exactly how to make you fall apart.
Your wrists are pinned above your head in one of his hands, fingers wrapped around both of your wrists like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
His other hand is braced beside your shoulder, steadying himself.
His face is twisted in concentration and pleasure, brows drawn together, mouth hanging open.
You’re looking up at him with this dazed, soft expression—eyes heavy, lips parted, cheeks flushed.
Your legs are spread wide around his hips, knees bent and drawn up to give him more room, more access.
Every thrust pushes a little noise out of you.
Little whimpers.
Quiet, breathy sounds that don’t sound like pain at all.
Lo’ak’s stomach flips.
His body goes cold and hot at the same time.
Part of him wants to shout his name, pull him back, do something, but he’s rooted to the spot, hand halfway raised and frozen.
Maybe Neteyam’s forcing you. Maybe you don’t want this.
He opens his mouth, breath catching—
“Yes… oh my! nete, right there,” you gasp, voice breaking on a moan. Your hips roll up to meet his, chasing him, grinding against him like you’re trying to pull him deeper.
Lo’ak’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. The words die in his throat.
Neteyam’s head tips back, his braids shifting with the motion.
His eyes squeeze shut and a low sound tears out of him as his hips stutter for a second, then pick up again.
He leans down, his chest pressing flush to yours as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a tight, almost protective hug.
His face buries into your neck, nose and lips pressed against your skin as his thrusts speed up.
Your arms slip free from his grip, winding around his shoulders and neck, fingers immediately finding his braids and fisting in them.
You cling to him, nails dragging lightly over his back.
You sound like you’re about to cry, but nothing in you reads as scared. Just overwhelmed. Just wrecked.
“I’m cumming,” you huff, the words catching in your throat, your back arching off the ground.
Neteyam slows, but he doesn’t pull out.
His hips shift from sharp thrusts to slower, deeper rolls, grinding his cock inside you.
It’s almost worse; you whine at the change, frustrated and needy.
He lifts his head and looks down at you, a slow smile spreading across his face as he watches you squirm.
“Easy,” he says, voice low, a little smug. He leans in and kisses you—your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth—little, soft kisses like they’re habit.
Lo’ak’s chest tightens at the intimacy in it. This isn’t some random hookup. This is his brother being gentle.
“You like it, hm?” Neteyam murmurs against your skin, his accent heavier, words dragging. You nod—too fast, too eager.
“You wanna cum?” he asks, lips brushing your ear now, his teeth just grazing the shell.
Your head moves in another frantic nod, a small sound punched out of you.
“Then you’ll have to do it yourself,” he says, and there’s a grin in his voice.
He pulls out slowly, his cock sliding free of you with a slick sound.
Your body shudders at the loss, and Lo’ak can see the shine between your thighs, the way your previous orgasms have left you messy and wet.
Neteyams own cum falling out of you from his own previous orgasms.
Neteyam lies back beside you, then shifts fully onto his back, one arm relaxed behind his head, the other reaching for you.
“Come here,” he says, fingers curling around your thigh. Your leg trembles as he guides you over him, helping you swing a leg across his hips.
Your legs are shaking so hard you have to catch yourself with your hands on his stomach as you hover above him.
You let out this fragile little whine, your muscles clearly on the edge, but you steady yourself and start to sink down.
His cock pushes back into you, slowly stretching you around him again.
“Yes,” you moan the moment you’re seated fully, and this time you don’t bother easing into it.
You start moving—pushing up with your thighs, lifting yourself just enough to slam back down onto him.
The pace you set is fast, almost frantic.
Your hands dig into his abdomen for balance, fingers splaying over his skin, and your head dips backwards , chin tucking out from your chest because it’s too much effort to hold yourself perfectly upright.
Your hair swing with each bounce, and the sound of your bodies meeting—wet, sharp, constant—fills the cave.
Your ass hits his hips again and again, the impact making everything in Lo’ak’s head stutter.
This isn’t clumsy or new. This is familiar. Rehearsed. Comfortable. They’ve done this before—more than once.
Especially when he hears Neteyam’s voice, softer now, slipping out between strained breaths.
“Ma yawne,” he rasps. “My pretty girl. That’s it. Just like that.”
You fall apart again, a sharp, high whine ripped out of you as your back arches and your rhythm falters a your orgasm hits you hard.
Neteyam’s hands fly up to catch your hips, holding you steady, fingers digging in to keep you from collapsing completely.
Lo’ak thinks it has to be over. It has to be. His chest is tight. He’s sweating and can’t even remember when he started.
But Neteyam’s not done.
Still lying on his back, he starts thrusting up into you from below, meeting your movements even as they get sloppy and weak. Your moans go messy, words dissolving into broken sounds.
“I know, baby, I know,” he pants, jaw clenched. “I’m close. I promise.”
You shake your head, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. Overstimulation has you shivering, shoulders hunching forward, breath catching on every exhale.
“Take it for me, please,” he begs, voice cracking around the edges now. His hands squeeze your hips, pulling you down harder, like he’s afraid you’ll lift off and run.
Tears finally slip free, tracking down your cheeks. You’re not sobbing, but you’re clearly past your limit. Neteyam sees it. Lo’ak can see him see it.
“Don’t cry,” Neteyam says, and his voice softens in an instant. “I’m right here.” His thumbs rub circles into your skin, trying to soothe even as his body refuses to stop moving.
“I want to wipe them,” he says, a helpless little laugh breaking through, “but you feel so good.”
He keeps thrusting up into you, relentless, his grip on your hips guiding you down each time his hips rise. You finally give in and collapse forward, chest pressing against his. Your arms slide around him, your face burying into his neck.
From Lo’ak’s angle, he can see the way your fingers curl into his shoulders, hanging on.
“Am I making you feel good?” Neteyam asks, and the question comes out half-moan, half-prayer.
You nod weakly against him, a broken sound leaving your throat. It’s enough.
He slams up into you one last time, deeper than before, and goes still—body tense, muscles straining as he spills inside you with a ragged groan. His hand slides up your back, holding you there while he rides it out.
Lo’ak realizes his own hand is clamped over his mouth, nails digging into his cheek. His heart is racing so fast it hurts. He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there.
You’re still for a moment, then your head turns on Neteyam’s chest. Your eyes are closed, lashes damp with tears, breathing uneven. Slowly, they flutter open.
They land right on him.
Your whole body jolts. “Lo’ak,” you breathe, horror coloring your voice.
He doesn’t think. He doesn’t speak. He just turns and bolts, feet pounding against the ground as he runs, heat burning his face and filling his chest with a mess of emotions he has no words for.
Neteyam’s still catching his breath, chest heaving under you, his cock softening deep inside as the last shudders fade. Your whisper cracks the haze. “Lo’ak.”
His head snaps up, golden eyes wide as he follows your frozen stare to the cave mouth. Lo’ak’s gone—nothing but shadows and the fading crunch of footsteps—but the damage is done.
In the jolt, his cock slips free from you with a wet sound, a thick trickle of his cum spilling out of your pussy, warm and messy down your inner thighs.
“Skxawng,” Neteyam mutters, half curse, half laugh, though his voice shakes. He shifts quick beneath you, hands gentle but firm on your hips as he helps lift you off him completely. “He saw.”
You scramble back on shaky legs, thighs slick with your mixed releases, heat flooding your face as you feel more of him leak out.
“Oh my god—shit, Neteyam, he saw everything.” Your hands fumble for your top, yanking it down over your chest, fabric sticking awkwardly where sweat and slick have smeared.
He’s already moving, rolling to his knees and snatching his loincloth from the cave floor.
“Hey, hey—breathe, ma yawne.” His voice stays steady, even as he ties the ties with quick, jerky pulls.
But his eyes dart to the entrance every few seconds, ears twitching for pursuit. “We’ll fix it. He’s my brother—he won’t say anything. Not yet.”
You snatch your bottoms, fingers clumsy as you try to lace them up one-handed, the other tugging your top straight—ignoring the sticky warmth still dripping between your legs.
“Won’t say anything? He ran. Like he saw a thanator.” A panicked laugh bubbles out, more sob than sound.
“What if he tells Spider? Or Lo’ak blabs to everyone—your dad, Jake, the whole clan?”
Neteyam’s on his feet now, stepping close to help.
His fingers brush yours aside, deftly retying the stubborn straps on your hips with a practiced touch—careful around the fresh mess.
“He won’t. Lo’ak’s mouthy, but he’s loyal.” He straightens, cupping your face quick—thumbs swiping at the tear tracks still drying on your cheeks. “We knew this could happen. Secrets don’t keep forever.”
You lean into his palm for half a second, then pull back, grabbing your hair to twist it into some semblance of order.
Strands are everywhere, tangled from his fists earlier. “Yeah, well, we kept it secret for a reason. no teasing from those idiots, no Jake side-eyeing you like ‘you’re distracted, son—focus on training.’” Your voice pitches lower, mimicking Jake’s gruff tone. “And now? This is worse than awkward. It’s mortifying.”
He snorts, grabbing a loose vine to scrape the worst of the red paste heart off the cave wall—evidence.
“You think I don’t know that? But hiding forever wasn’t the plan.” He finishes with the wall, turns back, and steps in to help with your hair—fingers combing gently through the knots, parting it smooth like he’s done a hundred times after moments like this.
“We tell him straight. Tonight. Me and you, together. No lies—just the truth. ”
Your hands still as he works, the familiar pull of his touch grounding you a little. “And say what? ‘Sorry bro, been fucking in caves—wanna be best man?’” You huff, but there’s no heat in it, just frayed nerves.
Neteyam chuckles low, tying off the last braid with a quick twist. “Something like that. Minus the cave part first.” He steps back, scanning you top to bottom—fixes one last crooked strap, smooths a wrinkle. You do the same for him, straightening his beads, brushing dirt from his shoulder. Domestic, even in panic.
He takes your hand, squeezing firm. “Come on. We find him before he spirals. ” His finger taps your leg for more reassurance. “He’ll get it. Or he’ll sulk, but he’ll get it.”
You nod, heart still hammering, but his calm seeps in. “Okay. Together.”
You slip out of the cave hand-in-hand, frantic steps carrying you back toward the village—already rehearsing the words, bracing for Lo’ak’s wide-eyed chaos.
-
Lo’ak’s avoidance hits like a slow burn the second you all touch down back at camp.
It’s subtle at first—just a quick dodge when Neteyam claps a hand on his shoulder, murmuring “baby brother” like always.
Lo’ak doesn’t even glance back. Just yells some random name into the crowd, like the wind stole Neteyam’s voice entirely.
He weaves through hunters, tents, kids—anywhere but near you two. By evening, it’s clear: he’s ghosting hard.
Two days drag like that.
Neteyam tries everything—casual nudges by the fire, quiet pulls aside during training. Nothing sticks. The stress etches fine lines around his eyes, and it seeps into you both.
He’s canceled two dates now.
Never snaps, never frustrated in that sharp way.
Just cups your hands gentle in his, forehead resting warm against yours, breath mingling. “I’m sorry, princess. Gotta try to talk to him tonight.”
You pout, fingers tracing his jaw. “Well, he’s not talking to me either. ”
“I know, ma yawne.” His thumbs stroke your knuckles, eyes soft but tired. “Tomorrow—me and you. Promise. No distractions.” He presses a lingering kiss to your palm, like he’s sealing it.
But tomorrow doesn’t come.
It’s the same quiet cycle: chase Lo’ak, hit the wall, circle back to you with apologies and that same vow. Rinse. Repeat. You feel the ache of it in stolen moments—his hand squeezing yours a beat too tight, the way he lingers before pulling away.
Then Jake calls the shot.
Simple errand: fly to the Clouded Forest, grab fabric from the outpost. Come back.
The three of you gear up without fanfare, mounting your ikrans in tense silence.
Neteyam leads point, you tight on his wing, Lo’ak lagging deliberate at the rear.
You swear you feel his stare drilling into your back the whole flight—hot, unspoken.
The air between you feels thick, wrong.
Normally you’d fly playful alongside him, yelling dumb jokes over the wind, racing dives.
But every time you ease closer now, he guns ahead or drops low—creating space like it burns.
You hate it.
Hate how your best friend’s freezing you out over this. Over Neteyam. Your chest tightens with every evasive loop he pulls.
Your ikran keens sharp mid-flight—hunger screech.
You yell it to Neteyam, voice carrying clear beside you.
He nods once, quiet and sure, then twists back to signal Lo’ak with a broad hand wave: land.
You don’t look; don’t need to. The sarcastic huff floats up faint from behind.
They touch down in a misty clearing by a stream, wings folding with rustles.
Your ikran dives straight for fish, snapping at the water with focused splashes. You slide off her flank, leaning against a rock to watch—arms crossed, picking at a loose thread on your strap.
Anything to avoid the heavy quiet.
Neteyam hangs back deliberate a few paces away, perched on his own ikran’s saddle, gaze flicking between you and the trees.
Giving space.
Lo’ak won’t even turn your way—back rigid, fiddling endless with his gear pouch, shifting foot to foot like ants crawl under his skin. Ten minutes stretch. No one speaks. The only sounds are water, ikran gulps, distant bird calls.
Then it breaks—low, muttered, but sharp enough to cut: “If you guys wanna hold hands or whatever… just do it, man.”
You turn slow. He’s slouched against his ikran’s side, sulk carved deep—shoulders in, eyes on the dirt.
Neteyam’s head snaps up. “What’re you talking about?” It comes out edged, protective—like Lo’ak’s slinging it at you. His face tightens, ears pinning back a fraction.
Lo’ak pivots gradual, arms folding loose. “I’m just saying… you two haven’t been hanging out. Or whatever.” A beat, jaw working. “If you’re gonna fuck, just say it..”
“Watch your mouth.” Neteyam’s off his saddle smooth and fast, feet hitting ground as he closes half the distance. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Neteyam,” you say soft, stepping forward—but it’s like white noise to them, locked in.
Lo’ak’s eyes flash. “You wanna know? You’re fucking my best friend. The girl I used to ramble about nonstop—crush so bad I told you everything.” He stops, chest rising quick, the words hanging raw. Silence crashes in, thicker now. Your face burns; old memories twist awkward in your gut.
Neteyam steps closer, looming but not crowding—just steady force. “You don’t get to throw that.”
“Then why hide it like some big Eywa-forsaken secret?” Lo’ak bites back.
“It’s not like that, Lo,” you murmur, fingers twisting at the skin of your arms—nervous habit. “We just… wanted our own space..”
He glances your way, first real look in days. “How long?”
Your voice stays even. “Started after you got back from the reefs. We… leaned on each other about stress and stuff... A lot.”
His shoulders sag a touch, tone dipping softer. “So you’re what—fuck buddies now?”
Neteyam huffs quiet, almost a laugh—steps in to clap Lo’ak’s arm, firm but fond. “Do we look like the type to make love for no reason, baby brother?”
Lo’ak blinks. “Anyone else know?”
“Only our moms. And now you.” Neteyam’s smile breaks real, warm—tension cracking.
Lo’ak exhales long and heavy, like he’s been holding it two days straight. Weight lifts visible from his frame. “Oh. Shit… that actually makes me feel better.” He scrubs hands up behind his head, slouching carefree all sudden. “Had me thinking everyone knew but me.”
You can’t help the snort. “If we’re honest? Pretty sure everyone did know but you.”
Neteyam turns to you, grin splitting wide. Laugh rumbles out low. “Yeah—sneaking off every night. Every morning. Every afternoon.”
“Right?” You match his laugh. “‘Just riding ikran.’” He pitches his voice high, mocking the old cover lame as hell, and you both crack up harder.
“Well—” Lo’ak draws it, smirk tugging now, ice fully thawed.
“Bro, teach me how to make a girl moan like that.” He launches into it—exaggerated “ahh-ahh-AHHH neteeew right thereeee” from the cave, puckering sloppy kissy faces, arms flailing dramatic.
“Skxawng!” You lunge swatting, half laughing, but he bolts, cackling wild around the ikran. Neteyam leans back on his saddle, arms crossed easy, that quiet, sure smile fixed soft. Watching his girl—his future, mother of his kids—chase his brother like nothing changed.
𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 Neteyam and you had grown up together, had sharpened each other like two arrowheads. You thought that meant everything, until you see Ka'vina has taken your place.
Despite the high stakes, hunting always brought you a sense of peace.
There were repetitive motions that you followed for every hunt, ones that felt as familiar as breathing at this point in your life.
Every hunter must remember first scan their area, they must be familiar with the routines of the yerik packs, must be aware of where palulukan reside and hunt, must be wise to acknowledge the territory that the angtsìk claim as their own, it is also important that they be wary of the path they take home for nantang’s are known to try and steal a clean kill when the opportunity arises.
Next the hunter must track, keeping everything listed prior in mind. If the yerik tracks stray too close into palulukan territory, the hunter should retreat. If the hunter stumbles into angtsìk grounds, they must remember to show no fear.
Once the hunter has safely tracked a yerik, they should remember to watch their footing. To step lightly, and avoid sticks, leaves or other flora that can alert the yerik that something is around. It is best to find an angle that allows you to stay hidden, a clean kill from a concealed location always fills your chest with pride.
When the hunter is concealed they can then nock their arrow. A slow pull on the bowstring minimizes noise, and leads for more time to correct your aim. But a skillful hunter can nock, draw, and release an arrow before the yerik can even raise the defensive fans that sit upon their heads.
A true aim leads to a clean kill. A spoken prayer to Eywa, sending the yeriks spirit back to hers. And thanking the yerik for its sacrifice, for feeding the clan, and providing precious materials in the form of hides.
Finally the hunter must decide on if they will haul the entire yerik back to the home tree; or if they will only take the most valuable cuts of meat, and the largest spans of hide to carry back and leave the rest for other forest creatures to feast on.
You rarely chose to leave any of your catch. Years of training left you strong, you could easily haul your kills home. It did not matter if it left an ache in your shoulders, or if a twinge settled in your lower back.
As you approach hometree you begin to wonder if you should have at least taken a bit of the breast meat. You knew it was Neteyams favorite, and it would be a good way to show him not only your hunting prowess, that you are attuned to him. That you see him.
It is a nice thought. To court someone you have been pining after most of your life. But then you find yourself too close to hometree to dismount the yerik from your shoulders and you chuckle at how much your mind wandered on the way home.
You make your way through the clan, greeting people as you make your way to the carvers. They would slice the hide from the yeriks body and hang it to dry before cutting up your kill into as many satisfying, equal portions as possible to be prepared for the cookfire tonight.
Mou comes to greet you, “Thank you taronyu.” He grabs the yerik from where you’ve placed it. “Do you wish for a specific cut? Perhaps you would like some of the hide?”
It was traditional for the carvers to ask if the hunter would like a specific piece of their kill. But that would also take away the significance of offering a piece of meat as a courting display.
“I do not wish for it. You know you do not have to ask me that every time I bring you a kill, Mou.”
He laughs at you, finding your blank tone amusing, “It is tradition.”
“It is stupid. Have I ever asked you to do this for me?”
“No, but one never knows when ferocious hunters like you may grow lazy.”
Mou tosses a grin over his shoulder as he hauls your kill away and towards the group of waiting carvers. He was never one to take your brazen demeanor as rudeness, he knew you spoke your mind and let your feelings be known even in uncomfortable situations.
You scoff at him as you leave. As if you would ever become lazy. How could he have the audacity to even think of such a concept?
The clan is bustling as you shift through; children are running around with their wooden toys, singers are practicing the ancient songs, there are bigger hunting parties returning with their kills, even the weaving circle is louder than usual.
It brings a slight grin to your face, seeing the people happy makes you happy. You had more than enough time to take a quick nap, and then head to the river to wash up before dinner would be served. Maybe if you skipped the nap you could take your beloved ikran out for a flight and wash at one of the hot springs that sparsely resided in the Ayram Alusìng.
Yes.
That would be nice, it could ease the tension in your shoulders.
It is settled. Instead of heading back to your kelku, you pivot to climb up hometree. The ikrans rest at the highest level, but you’ve been climbing almost as long as you’ve been walking so you would reach it shortly.
As you arrive at the base of hometree and start to find some solid footing a call of your name comes across the clearing. Your eyes close, a sigh heaving through your lips. With a turn of your head you survey the area, you know the voice, and have heard it almost everyday since she learned how to speak.
You spot Kiri weaving her way through the clan, her hand raised in a beckoning motion. “Come search with me for some paywll.”
“They are far Kiri. We will not arrive back before the cookfire starts.”
She is face to face with you now, her tail undulates as she speaks. “You have never minded missing a bit of the cookfire.”
Your lips purse, a crease forming between your brows in mock debate.
“Please.” Kiri grasps your hand before turning around and tugging you behind her.
Laughter bubbles uncontrollably out of your chest, “Kiri – Wait! I have not said yes yet!”
“You would have said yes regardless, now come. I will carry the gourd now, you may carry it back when it is full.”
You were only supposed to be txantxewm, lingering over her shoulder to shoo predators away. Now she wants you to work too! Unbelievable.
It’s hours later when Kiri and you approach hometree again. You’ve ended up carrying not only the gourd filled with medicinal liquid, but also the leaves of paywll, which are packed into a basket that rests on your hip.
You pass the cookfire on your way to the Tsa’hiks kelku. It’s lively as ever; drums are being beaten creating a tune for the singers to perform to, there's a group of clan members dancing, and the younger members have begun to section off into groups.
Kiri is half a step in front of you, excited to drop off the items her grandmother requested and finally be done with her Tsakarem training for the day. You allow your eyes to skim over the faces, searching for Neteyams, you’d like to know where you should move to after you deliver the materials to Mo’at.
It takes you a few moments to find him. He’s settled all the way across the gathering, surrounded by other young hunters, a few climbers and weavers as well. He normally sits on the edge of the group, saving space on one of his sides for you. You’re unsurprised to see he’s flanked by Fay’ru, the other male trying to get into the future Olo’eyktan’s good graces.
You’re unable to conceal your look of shock at Ka’vina sitting on Neteyams other side. She has never joined your group before, always softly tucked into the weavers circle or sitting with her sister where the singers congregate. You school your expression before someone can see you trying to dissect Ka’vina from the inside out.
Neteyam had always rejected anyone from closing him in. He would kindly redirect them towards another seat, reminding them that he had saved his closest friend the seat they had just tried to sit in.
Neteyam was a strong warrior, a strong hunter, and as his father would say he has a ‘backbone’. So there would be no reason for him to allow her to sit in your spot.
But he was of age, in his prime years.
He was strong. He filled out his body well in recent years. He gained some of his fathers unnatural width. His old armbands no longer fit, having to become bracelets or being stored away for his future children. His cummerbund also barely fit now, but he refused to part with it until it absolutely no longer fit.
He was kind. He took on responsibilities of other clan members when he could see them struggling. He helped the elders with carrying their baskets, he had even carved them walking sticks to steady them on their paths.
He was the youngest hunter to ever get a clean kill on a sturmbeest. Very few of the current hunters had prowess that rivaled his. He frequently led the younger hunters when they went out, making time to help them hone in on their skills.
Neteyam also frequented the training grounds, not for his own skills. He had been bestowed the honor of training new warriors. Of teaching them the ways of the Omatikaya, making sure they had every required skill to complete their Iknimayas.
Ka’vina was a stark opposite.
She spent most of her time around hometree, never venturing out into the forest unless accompanied by a warrior.
She weaved many things. Tewngs, chest coverings, chokers, bracelets, armbands, cummerbunds, bowstrings, baskets, hammocks, floor mats. The list could continue on and on.
She was knowledgeable of healing herbs, the best spices to use on meats at the cookfire, aware of how to properly prepare some tough to handle roots and fruits for consumption as well.
However she was naive.
You knew she did not know how to hunt. Did not know how to skin a yerik, how to aim at a herd of sturmbeest; you were not even sure she knew what animals were aggressive and which were kind.
Her hands were soft, not even calloused with the countless hours spent weaving. You didn’t think she even wielded a bow. Hardly believed that she knew a knife could be used to do anything other than chop roots. It showed how simple her life was, how different she was from Neteyam. How different she was from you.
Then it dawned on you. Neteyam must be courting her. As they say ‘opposites attract’ and her softness would be a perfect compliment to the firm hand he would come to lead with.
A piercing feeling shot into your chest.
You’ve been following Kiri silently this whole time. She had glanced back at you occasionally, mostly to make sure you were still following her, but she could tell you didn’t want to speak based on the carefully crafted expression on your face.
Mo’at greets you as you duck into the tent, on autopilot you respond.Then you’re asking her where she’d like the gourd and the basket, placing them down with a delicately crafted care before bidding your goodbyes.
“I will join you at the cookfire shortly.”
“Ah. I will be heading home.” You shake your head, the beads braided into your hair clacking with the motion. “Let me know if you require aid harvesting more herbs. Goodnight Kiri, Tsa’hik.”
With sudden, jerky motions you duck back out of the tent. You can hear Kiri protesting, trying to encourage you to at least pick up a niktsyey before heading home. It’s pleasant to know that she cares, but you don’t think you could face Neteyam so shortly after your realization.
Unfortunately you have to walk past the cookfire again to reach your kelku, it being on the opposite side of the village from the Tsa’hiks. You were a skilled hunter, a warrior when needed, and you knew how to camouflage, how to avoid being seen.
Taking a steadying breath, you head more towards the forest, where it would be easier to blend into the flora. Easier to slip past your friends. Easier to avoid the new reality you’d have to live in.
You’re only a few steps away from rockier terrain when a five fingered hand grasps your wrist. Whipping around you come face to face with Lo’ak.
He’s grinning, clearly happy to catch you and hinder you from heading home, “Come, I need your support in an argument with Vor’lan.”
He doesn’t listen before starting to drag you towards his friends. What is it with these Sullys and refusing to wait for an answer!
“Lo’ak. I am tired, I have been out all day.”
“That is fine. It will be quick, and you can have my last niktsyey as payment.”
You scoff, “No. I have not had time to wash, I do not wish to be around people.”
“My friends do not care.” He turns to face you briefly before continuing to drag you, “To be fair, they will probably still drool over you.”
“Lo’ak!” An incredulous gasp tears from your throat.
A boyish laugh leaves him, “It is true! So do not worry about the smell, just back me up okay?”
In reality you could dig your heels into the dirt and yank your wrist free of his grasp. You were still stronger than him, your muscles more taut, more prepared to fight back than his. But the soft spot in your heart reserved for the Sully kids aches. So you allow him to drag you to where his friends reside at the cookfire.
You allow him to shove the niktsyey into your palm, along with a carved up filled with something that he definitely should not be drinking. The food and drink loosen you up, allow you to relax a little bit, to find a way to enjoy the company you’re in.
When Lo’ak retells his story about the tslikllte he caught, all of his friends doubt him. No one believing he saw one of the creatures this far inland. But then he’s looking at you, “She was there, tell them! Tell Vor’lan specifically how I bested it.”
You take another swig of your drink, swishing it around your mouth as you decide how much to talk up Lo’ak. “I was not there when Lo’ak stumbled upon it.”
“Hey! You so wer -”
“Hush. When I arrived you were already wrestling the poor thing.” You gulp down a few more sips before beginning to swirl the drink around in your cup.
You’re barely helping Lo’aks case and he has to defend his honor, “I had thought it to be dead already!”
“Any skxawng should know that they can hold their breath. Nevermind that does not matter. I have never seen a grip as strong as Lo’aks.”
His friends are leaning in closer now, staring intently at you, the expressions you make, the way your eyes flit over each of them.
“The tslikllte are coated to make them slick, and yet, Lo’ak never faltered. He managed to keep it in his grasp even as he removed a hand to retrieve his knife.” You begin to rest against the log everyone had gathered around, knowing that your job was done and you can fall into a nice limbo until you retire for the night, “The taste was like nothing I have experienced before, I couldn’t be happier to have tried it.”
Their conversation flows freely after that. They talk about climbing tomorrow, which mountains are best, where they can get the best views, or the best ones to try tricks on their ikrans around. It then flows to why they chose the colors that decorate their arrows. It ebbs briefly into relationships, and who’d they’d like to court after completing their dream hunts. It takes a turn into how some of them would rather mess around with many people before settling and that brings a chuckle to your tongue.
The conversation had been settled into which piece of a sturmbeest was best when it suddenly goes quiet. All eyes are focused behind where you and Lo’ak sit and would make you nervous if you weren’t such a strong warrior; scratch that, it would make you nervous if you did not have so much of the fermented drink settled in your belly.
You’re about to open your mouth and ask what has everyone staring when there's abruptly hands on your shoulders. The voice that follows sends a shiver of rigidity down your spine.
“What are we talking about, hm?”
One of Lo’aks friends speaks up, “The best part of a sturmbeest.”
“Ah, it is easily the thigh.” Neteyams hands begin to lightly massage your shoulders, feeling the tension that formed, “You do not mind if I steal her, right?”
It was a rhetorical question, and everyone knew it. You may have loved Lo’ak, willing to do almost anything he had asked. But you were still Neteyams closest friend, it was a no brainer that you would hightail it out of there as soon as you were asked. Still out of respect, they shook their heads, bidding you a goodbye.
“I am exhausted Neteyam, it would be best if I head back to my kelku now.” You’ve stood to make your point. Turning around to face Neteyam, hoping he did not see the cracks in your composure.
“I will be quick,” He smiles at you, one of the genuine ones that shows his true inner happiness, “ there is someone I want you to meet.”
Oh. You absolutely could not go over there. The stories you knew of Ka’vina were enough to satiate your need to ever meet her.
Neteyam begins to tug you by your hand, as both his siblings had earlier. These damn Sullys and not taking a hint!
This time you dig your feet, you don’t let him drag you towards that woman. Your reaction would ruin your reputation in the clan.
“I really am tired, Neteyam,” You turn to Lo’ak, “Did I not say the same to you before you dragged me here?”
Lo’ak nods, remembering how you had complained hours earlier. He doesn’t understand why you’re denying Neteyam though, he doesn’t think you’ve done that in all his years of knowing you.
“Then I will walk you home.”
He turns in the direction of your kelku, seemingly pleased to just be in your presence after not seeing you all day. You let him drag you a few steps, just far enough that you’re sure his brother and his friends can no longer hear you.
“I wish to walk alone.”
Neteyams tail slows to a still in front of you, his ears flick forward to catch any and everything you say, “...But I have not seen you all day.”
What are you supposed to say? ‘I know, I’ve lived this day as well?’ or better yet, ‘I have seen you, but chosen to not acknowledge your presence as it makes me sick.’ Neither option feels right so you stay silent.
“I wish to walk you home so we can talk.”
“I do not have energy for conversation.”
“You had energy when entertaining Lo’ak’s friends.” Irritation is obvious in his tone, and his tail begins to whip back and forth harshly.
“I was not saying much, just sitting in their presence.” You finally meet his eyes, trying to drive home your point, “Just let me walk by myself tonight, please.”
The disappointment settles heavily on Neteyams features as he comes to terms with the fact that you will not allow him to do this, he grunts some noncommittal reply before heading back towards his friends who remain at the cookfire.
You should have left after that, stomped your way to your kelku, grabbed a nice warm pelt, and tucked into your hammock. Instead you watch Neteyam through the crowd, eyes following as his figure settles back onto the log, and he allows Ka’vina to settle into his side a bit more than is considered friendly.
The stabbing pain settles back in your chest. It pulses a bit the longer you watch but it does not matter anymore. You would have to fall into a new routine in the morning, sure that Ka’vina would not want you close to Neteyam as they start courting.
Before you know it four eclipses have passed and you’ve successfully avoided Neteyam for all of them. You hunt early in the mornings, leaving before most of the hunting parties have even woken up for the day. You return with your kills lighter than normal, taking enough meat to satiate yourself until the next day.
When you complete your duties you take to flying. Not the usual routes that the hunters would take, or the ones that the warriors would patrol around, just drifting with the wind patterns. Your face ends up windburnt from how much time you’ve been spending up there.
If your head isn’t literally in the clouds, you take to climbing. The hobby wasn’t your favorite, and that’s what made it the perfect diversion. You could head back out to the forest, finding a good tree to observe Eywas beauty from. Sometimes, you’d just climb hometree, heading all the way to the top to give your ikran some special treatment.
Regardless of how, you strayed from your normal paths. If you avoided them, Neteyam shouldn’t be able to track you down. And hopefully he would get the point, would understand that your paths were unwinding from each other, that they were branching off in different directions for the first time.
It hurts to avoid him. But it was better than facing him. Better than seeing him with Ka’vina. Better than watching their love flourish, and hearing the gossip spread about what a perfect pair they make.
The fifth day starts like the rest. You wake, change your tewng and chest piece, eat some fruit you had foraged the day before, slide on your knife holster and knife, and toss your bow across your back.
As you emerge from your kelku a sense of loneliness sits in your chest. You missed hunting with your friends. Missed fooling around with them at the cookfire. Missed accompanying Kiri on her foraging. Missed doing stupid shit with Lo’ak under the guise of being a responsible figure. You really missed Neteyam.
Missed flying with him. Missed hunting with him. Missed training with him. Missed indulging Tuk with him. Hell you even missed rebraiding his hair.
But your heart can only take so much. The images of him with Ka’vina flow freely into your head, reminding you of why you needed the distance, of why you needed to become a ghost in your own home.
A shout of your name halts you in your tracks. The Olo’eyktan has one of the most noticeable voices in the whole clan. You take a deep breath before turning to face him
“Good Morning, Olo’eyktan.” You raise your hand in the traditional greeting, “What can I do for you?”
Jake greets you back, “None of that formal shit kid,” then he’s yanking you into a hug. Your arms wrap sheepishly around his back, uncomfortable with the gesture due to the state of your and Neteyams relationship.
“You can say no, but Neteyams a little tied up at the moment so I was hoping you could train the young ones for a little while?”
As if you could say no to the Olo’eyktan. Jealousy claws at your heart, Ka’vina has Neteyam so busy with his courting that he can’t even tend to his duties?
“Of course, I will head there now.”
This would be good. Your friends would probably be there, and it could solve your loneliness problem, maybe you could even get a few good spars in and disguise them as ‘training demonstrations’. A skip finds your step on your way to the training grounds and for the first time in many eclipses you feel excited.
A small part of you hopes that Lo’ak would be there, that he’d force you to go on an adventure with him after training. And you could ask to bring Kiri along, satiating most of your need to hang out with the Sully kids.
You can’t think about the Sully kids without including Neteyam. You want to reminisce about happy memories, want to think about all the future good memories to come, but then Ka’vina inches her way into your mind. The image of them together at the cookfire, sitting too close for comfort.
But you won’t see them, they’ll be too busy taking strolls through the forest. Or maybe they’re flying their ikrans in spirals around each other. Perhaps they were climbing through the ayram alusìng, going higher and higher until they reached the alluring hot springs.
It’d be preferable to not think about the way Ka’vina would undress.
Would she save her modesty and undress after submerging, hoping that her loincloth and chest covering would dry before they emerged again? Or would she make a show of it, slowly unclipping her chest covering, slowly dragging it down to reveal her breast. Would she move onto the loincloth and make a show of that too?
And Neteyam. Would he watch, become so enticed with the show that he couldn’t avert his eyes? Or would he be the gentleman he was raised to be, letting Ka’vina undress and submerge in the warm water, allowing the steam time to curl over her body before finally turning around and entering the spring himself.
Oh Eywa, you were going to be sick. Why would you torment yourself with such thoughts?
A few steadying breaths flow into your lungs. The nausea is still present, but you know once you start teaching that it will subside for good.
You see the familiar shape of Tal’kren. He is performing on the archery targets, taking them from odd angles and showing off to the young ones before their lesson begins. You nock an arrow and wait, deciding when the best moment would be to make your presence known.
Tal’kren takes aim and you eye his stance to figure out which target he is aiming at. You determine it must be the target woven between many trees, the one nearly 100 meters away, farther than any of the young hunters could even dream about reaching.
You let your arrow soar just milliseconds after his does. From the angle everyone is watching from they cannot see your arrow trailing his. Tal’kren’s arrow sinks into the bullseye of the target with a satisfying thump.
Your arrow splits his a millisecond later with a much more satisfying crack. Fifteen heads start turning, searching for who released the arrow.
“Pxi kan, taronyutsyìp,” Tal’krens voice rings out. Finding you much before the trainees did.
You smile, laughing, “I am not little, just taronyu is fine.”
Tal’kren claps a hand on your shoulder before bringing you in for a hug. As you pull back, he keeps the hand on your shoulder “I assume you are my partner for today?”
“I am,” You want to show camaraderie, and encourage the trainees to cultivate similar relationships so you make no move to remove his hand from your shoulder. “The Olo’eyktan has asked me to step in for the foreseeable future.”
The young trainees murmur excitedly; your name is one that is usually spoken in soft whispers so for you to join in on their sessions for a while seemed like a blessing from Eywa. They could complain, wishing it was you and Neteyam training them, that they could have both of the best future warriors teaching them.
But they normally had Neteyam, had spent months learning from him and Tal’kren. Now they could learn your ways, and they could learn how to make their own unique style based on the two of you.
Days pass like this. The trainees soaking up your knowledge. Letting you adjust their stances, pull their strings more taught, sharpen the arrowheads that dulled from constant use.
Today you’re standing face to face with Opani when you hear the familiar timber of Neteyams voice. Your ears flick in annoyance, because of course Neteyam had to show up, but then you’re focusing on the young warrior in front of you.
Looking down towards the target you can see she is off, leaning more left than she should. It may be because of your proximity so you chide her gently, “Adjust to the right, if you were to take the shot now you would not hit a kill shot.”
She exhales roughly through her nose, you believe it to be from nerves and not irritation so you do not scold her. Then she shifts, leaning slightly more into your personal space. As she releases the arrow you hear Neteyam’s voice again.
This time you flick your head to angle it over your shoulder. Where was he? Why did it sound as if his voice was getting closer?
Beside you Opani releases a shout of joy, and that forces you to face front again. She's already staring at you, jumping a little from excitement. Flicking your eyes to the target you can see she hit the bullseye perfectly.
You ruffle her braids, giving her some words of encouragement before telling her to go retrieve her arrow and try again. After she runs off you redirect your attention in Neteyams direction.
You must be off your game, any skilled hunter should be able to differentiate from all current sounds around them. Yet, you somehow managed to miss Ka’vina’s voice. Seeing her renders you motionless; Your ears press against your skull, your tail falls flat, eyes drifting over every piece of her.
It takes you a few moments to notice Neteyam is in front of her, his back to you. They assume the same positions you and Opani were just in. It feels different this time though.
With you and Opani it was obvious that you were teacher and student. With Neteyam and Ka’vina it seemed as if it was a date. Instead of their movements being out of necessity, they had a sensual tone to them.
Neteyam uses his hand to raise Ka’vinas elbow higher, he watches the arrowhead carefully to make sure her aim is true. She turns towards him, saying something that you can’t hear.
You can see how he raises his fingers to grasp her chin. He tilts it back towards the target, encouraging her to always keep her eyes where her arrow is aimed.
The feeling that settles in your stomach makes you disgusted with yourself. They’re a well suited couple. Anyone with eyes could tell you that. They would make a good Olo’eyktan and Tsa’hik.
A good couple to lead the Omatikaya.
And here you were, upset at their presence. Upset that they were falling into love in the public eye. Upset that Neteyam hadn’t even told you he was considering courting Ka’vina.
You wondered which piece she wore was Neteyams courting gift. Was it the bracelet, the deep brown twine, mixed with blue and green beads that match her skin and the tones of the forest?
Or was it the choker, lined with polished river rocks lining her collarbone?
You couldn’t let your mind linger any longer. Couldn’t allow it to make you detest your closest friend.
So you find Tal’kren, alert him of some sudden illness you’ve come down with, and leave for the day. You could rest, and allow your mind to drift to other things. It would be smarter to head to the Tree of Souls. To make an honest prayer to Eywa for her to help you move on.
She would help you, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to let go yet.
You wanted to seem more alluring, something to attract attention at the clan gatherings. Not that you were actively seeking a mate, but it would be nice to see who is interested. Nice to see how many options you had, if any.
You knew you were rough around the edges. Knew that you spoke harsher than most liked. That your hands were rough from years of use. That you had nasty scars littering your body. That you had more muscle than the typical lithe Na’vi woman.
And you knew it had to make you less desirable. That the men must have wanted someone easier. Someone who thought before they spoke, and chose their words carefully so you could fall upon them like a pillow instead of a rock.
But that does not mean that everyone would dislike you, there has to be someone in the clan who sees your beneficial qualities. Someone who you could live your life with.
If there wasn’t you would prefer to know sooner rather than later. To decide if you should seek out a mate from a different clan.
So you seek our Kiri. A skilled weaver, knowledgeable in the proper herbs to stain cloths, and good company.
You had decided on a nice deep red. It was a color not typically worn by the Omatikaya as it did not blend in with the forest fauna - therefore it would draw the most attention.
“So, I have not seen you around the gatherings much.” Kiri drawls, keeping her head towards her weaving but angling her eyes to see you.
Your fingers don’t stop their meticulous patterns, “I have been there. Just last night I ate with Lo’ak.”
“Yes, but you skip at least 4 cookfires a week.”
“I tire easily, you know of my many duties.”
Kiri scoffs, but decides against responding. Her silence allows you to pick up a new bead, weaving it onto the side of where the cloth will hang. You’ve decided on white beads, and silvery polished river stones. They compliment the red well, they will also bring more attention to your waist, clacking and clashing with every step.
You decide on a symmetrical look. Two braided strands on each side. The farthest one shorter than the one that rests closest to the cloth. It will look nice.
Will it matter? Will the males of the clan really focus on the little details or only focus on what rests underneath?
You knew Neteyam would notice, that he would mention that the symmetry helped your internal equilibrium. Helped keep you centered in the rough moments. Not that you couldn’t function if your garments were asymmetrical, but he knew you were always a hair more sure of your aim.
But you were not wearing it for him. So what he thought did not matter. However this left you with a good idea on what to focus on when approached. Knew what you wanted to hear, and what you did not.
As you tie off the last bead on the tewng a sense of accomplishment falls upon you. You gaze upon your work lovingly; proud that even though your hands are rougher than the weavers, you can still produce a good piece.
It’s during your admiration that Kiri speaks again, “I require more twine.”
“The great mother has bestowed you with two legs and two arms, you can go retrieve your own twine.”
“I will fall out of rhythm, and then who knows how long it will take me to complete this piece.”
Your sharp words never phased Kiri, never shoved her away. You guessed it was good enough reason to go and retrieve more twine from the weavers circle.
As you stand and begin to pad away, you can hear Kiri shout some sort of thanks and you lift your hand in acknowledgement.
You were aware of many women in the weavers circle. Most of them are siblings to people you’ve hunted with, some girls you grew up with, others were elders who taught you how to weave at the beginning of your life.
A polite, simple greeting would do. You could say hello as you’re reaching for the twine. Exchange niceties, as you unspool the amount you guessed Kiri needed. And unsheath your knife and cut the twine before any deep conversations began to form.
You keep your head down as you reach for the twine and greet the circle. Everyone murmurs a similar greeting back and you are content to leave it as that. They know why you are here and do not need to indulge in conversation.
“Ma’numeyu, how have you been?” Rinak is speaking, drawing your eyes up from where the rest. She taught you how to weave when you were just a babe, toddling around camp looking for things to do.
“I have been well, and you Rinak?”
“I am also well numeyu, but I am disappointed that you have not eaten with me in many moons.”
You unsheath your knife, angling it safely to tear through the taught line of twine, “I am sorry. I will eat with you tonight if you will have me.”
“Of course I would.” Rinak chuckles, as if amused by the idea that she would shun your company away.
You smile back at her, pleased with how easily this has went. You have not run into Ka’vina or any of her friends, and have not had to exchange fake niceties with them. This will be counted as a win in your book.
But then you turn, ready to stand and head back to where you and Kiri have been hanging out as you weaved. And there, at the far side of the circle rests Ka’vina. Sitting knee-to-knee with her is Neteyam. He is weaving something, what you cannot tell, but Ka’vina is intently studying it.
Neteyam is looking at you though, his head tilted as if he is curious, and his hands only loosely grip his work. It is as if he is hunting; his eyes remain wide even after he blinks, not wanting to miss any movement from his prey.
You meet his eyes, frozen in place from his gaze. It would be improper to run, but it would be too awkward to walk over and say hello at this point. The tension grows around the circle, other members slowly noticing the way that the two of you are staring at each other.
The tension snaps like a bowstring when Ka’vina tugs on the piece in Neteyams hand. His eyes bolt to hers, ears flicking forward to catch every word that she says. That is your moment to move, so you run with it.
One of your hands raises as you bid everyone good weaving and goodbye. You force yourself to maintain a normal pace, not wanting Neteyam to see you run away. For him to know how openly you despise choice.
Upon returning to Kiri, you silently drop the twine, pressing a hand to her shoulder in greeting as you pass. She does not speak however, simply tying the two pieces together so she can continue working on her piece.
You’ve tucked your knees to your chest, resting your chin on them as you stew in your thoughts. Kiri must have known about Neteyams chosen one by now. Ka’vina must have been formally introduced to the Sullys, and therefore Kiri. And Kiri was the best judge of character, if she were to say Ka’vina was a good pick, you would believe it.
A whispered call of her name leaves your lips. You hope she misses it. Hope that it blends in with the pleasured yelps of the children, or the distant roars of the ikrans, even the chatter of the passing group of hunters.
But it does not, and Kiri responds much louder than you would like.
“What is it?”
“What are your thoughts on Ka'vina?” You can feel her eyes boring into the side of your head, but you refuse to look at her.
“She is a good weaver.”
This is common knowledge, Kiri must know you do not care about it. “What else?”
“If she did not wish to weave, she could easily join the singers.”
She must be egging you on. Wanting you to expose what you really feel before she says anything. You would think that a hunter as skilled as yourself would have more patience. You snap all the same, falling right into Kiris trap, “Yes. I know this. Everyone knows this. I want to know what you think about her deeply.”
“I think she is a good person. That she has many skills to help around hometree, and is known to assist the children and elders, but is unwise when it comes to other tasks.” Kiri is still staring at you even as she finishes her piece, “Why do you ask?”
You could not tell her the reason. Even if she sensed it, it would be wrong considering that Ka'vina was to be her sister. It could be worked out, where had you seen Ka'vina? Where had she piqued your interest?
“She has come around the training grounds recently and I could not think of why.” Finally you let your eyes drift to Kiris, hoping that there are no emotions swirling in your amber pools, “It makes sense with what you said. She needs to become fluent in many skills, not just a few.”
Kiri stares at you, eyes flicking over your face. Then to your ears, and briefly to your tail. Trying to assess how you feel internally from your body language. When she senses no showing of a lie a smile graces her face.
Then she's tossing the piece she crafted into your face. You grab it before it can slide and meet the dusty ground. As it rests in your palms you notice the red, white, and polished river stones that accent it.
“I made it so you could have a matching set tonight.”
At that, you gape at her. She had gone through all this trouble for you?
“Well don’t just look at me! Do you like it?”
“Yes, very much. Thank you Kiri.” You’ve stood now, crossing the small clearing to toss yourself onto her as a full body thanks.
“You skxawng get off of me!”
The two of you tousle a bit, acting like children getting into their first scuffle. But then you are off of her, and running in the direction of your kelku to get ready for the cookfire tonight.
It is almost eclipse, which means you have enough time to change slowly, put your braids up in a different style and meander your way back to the center of hometree.
On your way back Tal’kren calls for you. He must have also stopped at his kelku before heading to the cookfire.
“Hello Tal’kren, how were the trainees today?” You call back over your shoulder, refusing to stop for him, but walking at a slower pace nonetheless.
“They were fine. No more rowdy than usual. Though they listened les-” Tal’krens voice trails off, and when you turn to look at him he is already staring at you, “What are you wearing?”
You’re approaching the cookfire now, but you still choose to indulge him, “It is new, how do I look?” You give a childish spin, showing all angles of your new outfit.
You can feel more eyes than just his as you sit and wait for a response. But it is not worth searching for who is staring at you when you have a perfectly fine archer right in front of you. If you’re lucky he will say something that will make you believe he has more going on in his head besides arrows, bowstrings, and bows.
“It is very sevin,” Tal’kren gulps, a light shade of indigo coming to his cheeks and the tips of his ears, “You are sevin.”
It was not the best compliment, but you would not deny that it made something flutter in your stomach. It was nice to be seen as something other than a txantxewm taronyu.
“Thank you Tal’kren.” You begin to walk towards where you know Rinak likes to sit, “I will see you after I have eaten, yes?”
“Yes. I will be with some of our other friends over here.” He gestures in a general direction, not moving until he sees you nod in acceptance of his words.
The night moves smoothly from then. You talk with the elders, inform them of the current happenings of your life, what new herb you decided you liked on your meat. They in turn spoke about other things you may enjoy, what fruits could enhance the flavor of certain meats, special herbs only the most skilled climbers could eat.
It was nice to speak with them, to gain some wisdom, but it was even nicer sitting around with people you knew.
First it was Lo’ak. His group sat between Rinak and Kiris groups, and he had made fast work of snagging your arm as you passed by. They indulged you in more fermented juice, happy to provide whatever you desired to keep you with them.
You missed the way that Loak's young friends eyed you. Missed how their eyes traced over your chest covering. How they seemed to stop at every bead, or rock, that dimpled the pattern. He had said they ‘drooled over you,’ but in your eyes they were just children, and there was no way they’d be interested in you.
Then Kiri and her group came to join. She had said something about how it was ‘Forbidden to hide from her’ when she crafted you such a beautiful piece. Her friends eyed your new cloths with jealous eyes. The color combination was something they had not considered to be allowed.
You still ignored their gazes. Knowing they mostly wanted to know what weaving pattern Kiri used, and what herb was used to dye the clothes and twine. Not that they cared about you as a person or the body that rests underneath the cloths.
There was a good mix of people, the feeling of the group never becoming tense or uncomfortable. There was currently an exchange of the bravest, most death defying things they had gotten away with.
You had decided that was your time to go join Tal’kren. If you heard too much about what Lo’ak or Kiris friends got up to, you would feel the need to implore them to be safer. So you asked them to top off your drink before you headed off.
As you approach, only two pairs of eyes flick to you. The first being Neteyams, it would seem as if his eyes followed you the entire way from across the fire, but that would be a silly thought. Especially considering Ka’vina was still pressed closely into his side.
The next is Tal’kren. He grins widely as you get closer to where he rests on the log. Already moving to rise before you even fully reach him, “Would you like to sit?”
“It is fine, may I brace my back on your legs though?” You did not wish to have the rough bark mar your skin.
He plants his feet a bit away from the log, steadying them before nodding, “Of course.”
Their conversation is equally as lively as the other groups. Once again discussing trick shots they have taken during sturmbeest hunts.
They first discuss the ones that do not count. This only means they got scolded for it after as it did not result in a kill, was reckless, wasted resources, disrupted the formation, or all of the above.
Once the group had ran through those, they switched to ones that did count. Ones that ended in a kill, clean or not. These were much more important, as the elders would try to scold you, but they had rarely any footing because the clan was still fed.
The only person who could not produce a story was Ka’vina, and it did not bring a sense of pity to your chest. Instead it just reminded you how different she was. Even if she did participate in the hunts, would she want to engage in such activities? What did she even consider fun?
You’ve been avoiding where she and Neteyam were sitting. It was not against them, but you were unsure of how you would act, and you preferred to keep this night enjoyable.
So when someone grasps your bicep and yanks, you are shocked. Before you even have time to identify who it is you’re being tugged backwards.
“Hey-” You stumble over a rock, nearly falling to your knees before you regain your composure, “Just wait a second!”
“I will not.” Neteyams voice is gruff, like he had to force the words through clenched teeth.
You’re furiously pulling your arm now, the cookfire is glowing dimly in the distance, and you cannot believe the audacity of this man. “You will!”
With that final motion, you are able to tug your arm free. And you spin rapidly to face Neteyam, appalled at his actions.
“What was that?”
“It was necessary.”
“By Eywa, in what world was that necessary?”
Neteyam does not grant you a response. He stands in front of you, huffing a little bit with his eyes towards the ground. His ears flick at every sound, and his tail lashes aggressively behind him.
“You are a grown man, and I know your tongue has not been cut out, so speak.”
His eyes meet yours briefly before softly uttering, “They were looking at you as if you were a piece of meat.”
“I cannot understand mumbling Neteyam,” When he doesn’t make any move to speak again you turn to leave.
“I said they were looking at you as if you were a piece of meat.” The last words spit from his mouth like acid, like they physically pained him to say.
“So what if they were?”
“They should not do such things.”
“Why is that?” You come close to him. Because of the height difference you still have to peer up at him, but you hope your intimidating presence is enough to cut him down a bit, “Why should they not look at me?”
“It is unbecoming of a hunter. They should know better.”
And you laugh, right in his face. “Unbelievable. You are truly, unbelievable Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk'itan.” Then you stalk off, rushing in the direction of your kelku, hoping you can make it in and tie the flaps shut before the tears run down your lashline.
One would think they would want to spare the feelings of someone they grew up with. That they would find a way to soften the blow, not make the impact harder.
If he found you so undesirable, why could he not find another way to say it?
The winds flow freely through your hair. You had unbraided it, wishing to wash it before braiding new beads and feathers into it.
You’re flying on your ikran, heading to one of the hot springs you’ve been aching to dip into for weeks now. Your favorite one rests inside a cave on one of the mountains.
There is just enough space for your ikran to land, truly hiding the space from anyone who doesn’t know it exists. However it also meant that you could never know who’s inside without entering yourself.
But you had left long after the clan had settled for the night. Only the embers of the cookfire remained, and you passed many sleeping members of the clan on the way up hometree. There was no doubt that you would be alone.
You step slowly into the space, admiring the bioluminescence that lit up the cave. Stripping quickly you almost dive into the water with your haste. The hot water instantly releases some tension in your shoulders.
There are natural ledges around the border of the pool, you find one and take a seat. You’ve been very busy recently and deserve the chance to relax.
Before you can get too comfortable you take to scrubbing your scalp. The goal is to remove any dirt, dust, or grime that may have gotten caught up in your tightly wound braids. But that quickly switches to giving yourself a scalp massage.
The motions are nice. They would be even better if it was someone else completing them however, you were not a complainer. You’re unsure how long you sit there for, but you’re sure enough time has passed that you can scrub away at your body now.
Any caked on grime or blood, has become soaked through with the warm water. It slides off your skin easily, showing the vibrant blue shade underneath. You begin to feel more like yourself again, as if you’re shedding your old skin and coming into a new one.
When you turn around, eager to retrieve your waterskin and change positions you're faced with another body. You must have mistaken the sounds of someone else entering the spring with the sounds of your own splashing.
You scoff, “What are you doing here?”
“It is a free hot spring.”
“Yes, but should you not be getting your beauty sleep?”
“Shouldn’t you?”
All the tension you felt leave your body came back. You had specifically came so late as to avoid any of this. Why couldn't Eywa give you a break, just this once. With a deep breath you shut your eyes tightly, and let you head fall against the border.
You would not allow Neteyam to bother you. You have waited many moons to come here, and you would leave when you were ready, not because you were forced out.
Soft ripples distract you from where you’ve let your thoughts drift. Your ears snap to attention, trying to discern if the ripples are moving closer or farther from your location.
Your eyes shoot open when you realize that Neteyam is moving closer to you. “What are you doing.”
You do not pose him a question. You speak the words like a warning, giving him the chance to turn back.
“I am coming deeper so the water may reach my shoulders.”
“Go to that side of the spring then. Do not come closer.”
For a moment you think he will continue moving towards you. That he will attempt to cage you in against the wall and himself, but he moves to where you told him to go. When he gets there you expect him to stay silent.
You have nothing to say to him, nothing nice especially after the cookfire a few nights ago. And whatever he has to say to you, you do not wish to hear.
Minutes tick by in silence. It is not comfortable, some may even say it is suffocating, most would leave. You got here first however, and you refuse to vacate when you came under such perfect conditions to be alone.
Let's be realistic, there were plenty of hot springs he could have picked, why did he come here? He could have left after seeing you already submerged! Quietly backed out, and climbed upon his ikran to find another spring.
The thought irritates you more. It makes you grind your teeth, the anger beginning to simmer in your chest.
“I wish to talk.”
Neteyam had said those same words to you forever ago, when this all began. They had meant less than they do now, but you still feel the same way.
“I do not.”
“Well, we must talk. There is no other wa-”
When you open your eyes, you find Neteyam already staring at you intently, “You cannot force me to talk with you. You are not Olo’ekytan yet, and you do not command me in hunting parties, therefore I do not take orders from you.”
He softly calls your name. If you didn’t know any better you would assume there is a quiver to it, a bit of unsureness. But that would be a silly thought, and you promptly will yourself to stop thinking it.
Suddenly Neteyam is moving closer again. Slowly but surely moving into your side of the spring. When he reaches the halfway point you raise your hand slightly, muttering a quick ‘don’t’ in warning.
That does nothing to deter him. His shoulders begin to glisten from no longer being submerged, droplets cascading down his arms and clavicles in rivulets that remind you how thirsty you had been just a few minutes ago.
Oh Eywa! What were you thinking?
As you get your thoughts back under control Neteyam shifts ever closer. His body comes to rest just a few feet in front of yours. Slowly inching closer, truly trying to cage you like an animal.
“I said to not come closer.”
“And I said we need to speak.”
He thinks you will just sit here? Allow him to force you into speaking? Believes that your nudity embarrasses you enough, that you will allow him to speak?
There is some space between the cave wall and the border of the pool, and if you angled yourself properly you could follow it the entire way back out to where your tewng and chest covering rested. And if you called for your ikran as you were dressing you could be back to hometree within the half hour.
It is decided.
You scooch backwards, using your arms to lift up onto the ledge. It is then that Neteyam finally stops.
Neteyams eyes flick over your body. Your chest, where your nipples have begun to peak in the cooler air, the water that drips down your navel, the way your hips look without the tewng covering them. He does not speak, but an indigo tint falls on his cheeks, rises up his neck, and also hits the tops of his ears.
You stand, wringing out your hair so it does not drip on you as you fly. Pointedly ignoring Neteyams presence, but when he does not continue in his harassment you turn your eyes towards him again.
He is flustered, that much you can tell. At first it makes you a little happy, knowing that you actually do have an effect on him. Then you remember Ka’vina, and the feeling leaves.
“Oh you are disgusting!”
Neteyam sputters out of his trance, “What?”
“Staring! At an undressed woman. Alone! Especially when you are courting another.”
“Oh, yes, yes, sorry.” Then he avoids his gaze, focusing on the water directly in front of him instead.
“Wait.” His eyes raise back to yours, “My courting?”
“Yes. With Ka’vina.”
A disbelieved laugh leaves his lips, “I am not courting Ka’vina.”
“There is no need to lie. I will not tell her about this.”
“I am not lying.” He rises a bit more, grabbing your hand, “Come back in and I will explain.”
You laugh at him, “I am not going back in there with you.”
Eyes flick back towards the entrance of the cave, remembering your earlier plan. The urge to execute that plan comes back. The urge to suddenly be tucked into your woven mat with pelts submerging you in warmth, stronger than anything else.
As you’re debating your escape plan Neteyam sneaks up on you. He places a hand on your thigh another on your waist, and hauls you back into the water. You hiss, smacking his chest.
“You cannot move so rashly!”
“I would like to know how you came to the belief that I was courting Ka’vina.”
You try to thrash a bit. To use the slickness of the water on your behalf, but Neteyams grasp is unrelenting. He does not let you move an inch.
When you try to at least sit down, he still does not let you move. “I will not speak until I can rest.”
“You must lean back then. It would be unpleasant to sit directly down.”
It is then that you realize you are on Neteyam's lap. A flush adorns your face now, realizing the predicament that you’re in. But his grasp still isn't letting up, so you lean back on your haunches. Carefully maneuvering to avoid any unwanted touching.
“Now explain.”
“I saw the two of you at the cookfire, a few moons ago.”
“Yes, I was integrating her into our group.”
“Because you were courting her,” Your hand raises to cover Neteyams mouth, if he wanted you to explain he would have to hear it in entirety before trying to contradict your words.
“I only realized because she had taken my spot next to you. And then the two of you at the training grounds, the way your hand lingered on her.” You move your palm from covering his lips to grasping at his chin, the same way he had done to Ka’vina.
Tossing his head to the side you continue, “Then you were with her at the weaving circle. You had allowed her to critique your work, allowed her to undo the knots and braids you had worked on. You don’t even like to weave.”
Neteyam is peering up at you, his lashes fluttering lightly, “May I speak now?”
You nod, not trusting your voice anymore.
“I was around her because she needed help completing her iknimaya, many of the other karyus have tried and she has failed many times.”
“Her iknimaya?”
“Yes, her other karyus were too rough, they did not attune to her learning style.” One of his hands begin to travel up and down your side, “I was involving her with our friends so she could have other people to lean on.”
Your eyes stray to the side, embarrassment creeping up your spine. But Neteyam keeps staring at you, “She needed help with archery for her dream hunt. And I needed help with weaving. I wanted to make something beautiful, that would last, that could withstand harsh weather, and harsher movements by the wearer.”
The hand moving up your side travels up, ghosting over the side of your breast, and lightly settles on the side of your neck.
“It was a mutual exchange of skill.”
Your embarrassment at misunderstanding makes you snap at him, “Yes, I understand that Neteyam.”
Your voice comes again, lighter and nicer this time, “You do not desire her, even slightly?”
“Not even slightly. What else would make you think that?”
“She is soft.”
Neteyam mulls over your words. Ka’vina is soft, her body is soft, her words are soft, her weaves are soft, the way she aims her bow is soft, so he agrees, “Yes, she is soft. But I do not want soft.”
“Why?”
“Because no one knows me like you. No one can anticipate my movements like you. They cannot hit flying targets as well, and they do not like to sharpen their arrows so they pierce their kills more efficiently. I have wanted it to be you since we were children, since my parents explained the concept of a mate to me.”
“That is stupid. You were too young to understand then.”
Instead of being upset at your misplaced anger, Neteyam just smiles. Then his lips curl into a smirk, “May I kiss you?”
“May you… what?”
“Kiss you.”
Instead of answering you lean forward and press your lips to his. You’re motionless, and it’s awkward. But then Neteyam begins moving his lips, opening them slightly and tilting his head to deepen it.
Before you know it your hands are pressing against his face, trying to memorize the feel of him after months of not being close. You finally pull away when you start to feel light headed. Your eyes are hazy darting across all of his features as you greedily suck in air.
You lean back in. This time Neteyam licks into your mouth, he tastes like the smokiness of the meat that was served at the cookfire tonight. It’s something you believe you could get used to.
This is something you think you could get used to.
You’d do it anywhere. Here in the hot springs, back in your kelku, in Neteyams kelku, out in the forest, hell you’d even do it at the training grounds if Neteyam wanted.
Truthfully, you’re a bit mad at yourself. How long could you have been doing this for if you had just spoken to him? How much farther could you have gone? It did not matter now, and you clearly were not the best at thinking through scenarios.
When Neteyam leans back again you nearly whine. The fact that such a noise wanted to emerge from your throat shocks you. What was this man doing to you?
“Would you like to see what I was weaving?”
You’re lightly panting, allowing your tongue to lave over your swollen lips. “What?”
“What I was weaving with Ka’vina -”
“Do not mention Ka’vina when you just had your tongue in my mouth.”
Neteyam laughs, “I will not, but she did direct me in perfecting your courting gift,” His grip lets up a bit so that he can begin caressing you softly, “It is over with my tewng. If you will still have me.”
“Of course I will still have you, do not make jokes.” You stand, grabbing Neteyams hand, and suddenly you’re tugging one of the Sully’s around. “I am excited to see what you have made for me.”
“It will fit you well.” He kisses you one more time, acting as if he would not get the chance to after he bestows the gift upon you, “And then everyone will know you are mine.”
A realization dawns on you. The other night, Neteyam had not been mad at you for crafting a new loincloth and chest covering. He was mad at your comrades, your friends, for eyeing you in such a way, “You were jealous the other day?”
“Very much so. They were just looking at you, not seeing you.” Another peck, “I see you, that is why I deserve to court you.”
You laugh. It is a soft sound, one of the only soft things you can identify about yourself. And you don’t allow the hard parts of you to bring you down. Don’t allow them to make you insecure about how you would fit with Neteyam. He likes you as you are, and that is enough.
Forehead nuzzling to his, you repeat his words, “And I see you.” Unable to resist, you kiss him one last time before making a demand, “Now let me see my gift.”
Neteyam laughs ever amused at your personality, but he does not voice any opposition. He would continue to feed into you for as long as the two of you shall live if it meant he got to see your grin. Got to see your fangs peek out over your bottom lip, and your nose scrunch up in delight.
Your vision blurs long before you realize you’re crying.
It starts small—just a sting behind your eyes while you stand a little too far away, watching Neteyam surrounded by a few girls who clearly have no intention of leaving him alone. They laugh at something he says, one of them leaning a little too close, and you try to tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything.
But your chest tightens anyway.
Because Neteyam smiles so easily. Because everyone likes him. Because he’s kind and patient and handsome and strong and it feels like the entire village notices it.
Your throat wobbles.
And suddenly you’re sniffling.
You turn away before anyone can see it, wiping quickly at your eyes with the back of your hand. It’s embarrassing—really embarrassing—and you try to breathe through it, blinking rapidly as tears spill over faster than you can catch them.
“Stupid,” you mutter to yourself under your breath, voice shaking. “So stupid…”
Your hiccup betrays you immediately.
You press both palms to your face, trying to hide the watery mess you’ve turned into, but the sniffles keep coming, little broken hiccups that refuse to stop. You rub your eyes again and again, smearing the tears around your cheeks more than actually getting rid of them.
Which is exactly how Neteyam finds you.
“Hey.”
His voice is gentle at first—curious—and when you flinch, he moves closer, tall frame blocking the light in front of you.
“What happened?” he asks softly.
You shake your head instantly, still rubbing your eyes like that’ll somehow fix everything. “N-nothing—I’m f-fine—”
Neteyam doesn’t believe that for even a second.
His hands catch your wrists mid-wipe before you can smear another tear across your face, fingers wrapping warm and firm around them.
“Whoa, whoa,” he murmurs, amused already. “Easy there.”
You freeze, blinking up at him with wet lashes, your breathing still hiccupy and uneven.
Neteyam tilts his head, studying your face—the tear tracks, the flushed cheeks, the pout trembling on your lips.
He laughs. Not mean. Never mean. The corner of his mouth lifting in a crooked grin.
“Oh no,” he hums. “You’re crying.”
“I’m not—” hiccup.
His grin widens.
“You are,” he says, squeezing your wrists lightly. “Look at you.”
Your face burns with embarrassment. “Stop—”
“Crybaby,” he says fondly.
You let out a small, betrayed noise that turns halfway into a giggle, and Neteyam’s eyes soften immediately at the sound. He releases your wrists only so his hands can slide up to your cheeks instead, thumbs brushing over the damp skin there.
“You’ll rub your eyes raw doing that,” he murmurs.
His touch is so gentle it almost makes you cry again.
Neteyam wipes beneath your eyes with his thumbs, carefully brushing away the tears you couldn’t stop. His gaze flicks across your face like he’s trying to memorize every tiny expression you make.
“You wanna tell me why my sweet crybaby is hiding over here?” he asks quietly.
You shake your head quickly. “I’m not a crybaby—”
“You’re hiccuping,” he points out.
You hiccup again immediately, proving his point.
Neteyam snorts.
“Oh, that’s bad,” he teases softly. “Real bad.”
You hide your face in your hands again, mortified, but Neteyam gently pries them away with an affectionate huff.
“Yawne (my beloved)” he murmurs, thumbs brushing your cheeks again. “Don’t hide from me.”
Before you can protest, he leans down and presses a soft kiss just beneath your eye.
You blink in surprise.
Then another kiss lands on the other cheek.
And another.
And another.
Neteyam doesn’t stop.
He peppers your face with warm little kisses, each one landing somewhere new—the corner of your eye, the curve of your cheek, the bridge of your nose—like he’s chasing every last tear away.
“Neteyam—” you giggle weakly, trying to squirm away, but his hands hold your face steady.
“Nope,” he murmurs between kisses. “Gotta fix this.”
Another kiss.
And another.
“Can’t have my favorite girl crying.”
Your chest tightens at the words.
You sniffle again, and he kisses that tear away too.
“Those girls—” you start quietly, voice wobbling again.
Neteyam pauses just long enough to look at you properly.
Suddenly he laughs softly.
“Oh,” he breathes, realization dawning. “That’s what this is about?”
Your face turns bright violet.
“I wasn’t jealous—”
“You were jealous,” he corrects immediately, amused.
“I was not—”
“You were crying.”
“That’s not proof!”
Neteyam grins, leaning in again until your noses almost touch.
“You’re cute when you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” you insist weakly.
He kisses the tip of your nose.
“You are.”
Another kiss lands on your cheek.
“But that’s okay.”
Another.
“Because you’re the only one I want.”
Your breath stutters.
Neteyam’s voice softens as he continues kissing your face, slower now, more intentional.
“You know that, right?” he murmurs between kisses. “None of them matter.”
A kiss to your cheekbone.
“You’re the one I look for.”
Another to the corner of your eye.
“The one I want beside me.”
Your giggles fade into something soft and warm, as his praise washes over you.
He brushes your cheek with his thumb again, smiling down at you with that teasing affection that always makes your stomach flutter.
“You’re so pretty when you laugh,” he murmurs.
Your face heats.
“And even prettier when you cry,” he adds teasingly.
You gasp.
“Neteyam!”
He laughs, leaning in to kiss your cheek again.
“My pretty little crybaby.”
You try to shove his shoulder but end up laughing instead, your earlier jealousy melting away.
Neteyam watches you for a moment, clearly satisfied that the tears have stopped, tilting your chin up slightly.
“Better now?” he asks softly.
You nod.
His smile softens.
“Good.”
And then he leans down and kisses you.
Right on the lips.
It’s loud and deliberately wet.
The exaggerated mwah echoes embarrassingly between you.
You freeze.
Neteyam pulls back just enough to see your shocked expression, his grin immediately turning mischievous.
“There,” he says proudly.
Your face goes completely violet.
“Neteyam!”
He laughs under his breath, cupping your cheeks again, thumbs brushing fondly over your skin.
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