madi

20, just writing my silly little ideas down here

[mwahsullys]

𝜗ৎ welcome

20,, bisexual,, she/her,, NSFW (mdni)

this page is dedicated purely to avatar fics

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m.list (not made yet)

byf (not made yet)

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hello bbys !! this page is purely my thoughts/idea just wrote down. dont take anything too seriously. please try to keep in mind that i am in full time employment in healthcare and work 12 hour shifts and so i may not update very frequently - i will try my best to on my week off each month.

i also notice that i can burn out quickly from writing so i may take breaks here and there!

please also remember im not claiming to be this big time professional writer blah blah or wtv. im just a girl. with a creative imagination sometimes teehee. i dont proof read any pieces i release so i apologise for any typos/grammar mistakes

PLEASE interact with me !! being new i dont have many moots/people i talk to about ideas and thirst over avatar (mainly neteyam and jake). send me ideas/requests in my 'talk to me' option, tell me if you enjoyed my work, just have a little chat with me and i'll answer asap <33

[mwahsullys]

hey bbys. sorry for the inactivity. work has been so so draining and i've been soo busy. i finally have a day off because it's my birthday but i promise ill release smth soon <33

[mwahsullys]

𝜗ৎ teasing challenge

neteyam x fem! reader

SUMMARY,, a simple bet. one day without reacting to your teasing. spoiler !! neteyam couldn’t last a single day.

wc,, 1,5k

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ warnings ࿐ྂ NSFW,,  smut,, fingering,, possessive behaviour,, jealously,, rough kissing,, grinding,, i think that's it :))

a/n,, hiii bbys. i hope you're all well. works been kicking my ass so im sorry i haven't posted in a while :( hope u enjoy! not proof read oops

The bet starts because of his stares.

Not once. Not twice.

But every single time you move.

You catch him during morning training, eyes fixed on you as you tighten the leather around your forearm. The second you glance up, he looks away — jaw flexing like he’s irritated at himself.

You smile slowly.

“Can you go one full day,” you ask sweetly, stepping into his space, “without reacting when I tease you?”

His eyes narrow. “You assume I react.”

“Oh, you do.”

A flick of your tail brushes his thigh as you pass.

He doesn’t move.

But his shoulders go rigid.

“One day,” he says, voice low with challenge. “You will grow bored before I break.”

You lean closer, lips near his ear.

“We will see.”

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The next morning, you start subtle.

When he hands you a bow, your fingers drag along his palm a second longer than necessary.

His breath stutters.

You pretend not to notice.

During drills, you circle him slowly, hips swaying just slightly more than usual. His gaze tracks you like a predator tracking prey.

You smirk.

When he finally pins you during sparring, it’s controlled — deliberate.

Your back hits the floor. His knee settles between your thighs. His hand traps your wrists above your head.

“You are trying very hard,” he murmurs.

Your pulse jumps — but you tilt your chin up.

“And you are reacting.”

You let out a giggle, your eyes slowly make their way down his body to his loincloth, the tension between his thighs was no longer subtle.

His grip tightens.

Not enough to hurt.

Enough to warn.

For a second, something dark flashes behind his eyes.

Then he releases you abruptly and stands.

But he walks away stiff, like he’s restraining something far more dangerous than annoying.

Midday you escalate.

Another young warrior laughs at something you say. You laugh back, hand brushing his arm casually.

You feel it before you see it.

Neteyam’s presence shifts.

The air tightens.

The other warrior falters mid-sentence when Neteyam steps between you — not aggressively, but deliberately.

Too close.

Too territorial.

“He has duties elsewhere,” Neteyam says calmly.

The warrior leaves without protest.

You fold your arms.

“That looked like a reaction.”

He leans down just enough that only you can hear him.

“Do not test me in front of others.”

His voice isn’t angry.

It’s possessive.

Your stomach flips.

“You’re losing,” you whisper.

His eyes darken.

“I have not begun to lose.”

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Darkness swallows the forest at night.

The forest glows soft blue around you. The air is warm, thick, quiet.

You sit beside him on a high branch, legs dangling over the edge.

Close.

Very close.

Your thigh brushes his.

He doesn’t move away.

You let your head rest briefly against his shoulder.

He goes still.

Slowly, you trace one of the scars on his arm with the tip of your finger.

His breathing changes.

“Careful,” he says quietly.

“Or what?”

His hand moves to your waist.

Not playful.

Not uncertain.

Firm.

Possessive.

“You think this is amusing?”

His eyes look down to his loincloth and back to your eyes. Your eyes follow his down and back up.

You saw the erection growing and he is big.

You turn slightly, so your faces are inches apart.

“I think you are close to breaking.”

Silence.

He exhales slowly through his nose.

“Do you enjoy provoking me?”

“Yes.”

Honesty hangs between you.

Your tail flicks around his leg.

His hand tightens on your hip.

You lean closer, lips hovering near his ear.

“Then lose.”

That’s it.

That’s the snap.

In one swift movement, he shifts, pulling you into his lap.

Your breath catches as his hand anchors at the small of your back, the other sliding up your spine as he presses you harder against his growing cock.

“You do not understand what you are asking,” he murmurs.

His forehead presses to yours.

His thumb traces your lower lip — slow. Intentional.

“I have been patient with you,” he continues, voice rougher now. “While you circle me. While you provoke me. While you let others look at you like you belong to them.”

Your pulse hammers.

“I do not.”

The truth is soft.

Dangerous.

His jaw tightens.

“No.”

The word is immediate.

Certain.

“You are mine to challenge. Mine to argue with. Mine to protect.”

Your breath trembles slightly.

“That sounds like losing.”

He almost laughs — low and dark.

“I was never going to win.”

His eyes dart between yours and your lips, and finally, he kisses you.

Not rushed.

Not careless.

It’s controlled at first — like he’s still trying to prove he has discipline.

But when your hands grip his shoulder and you grind against him, something possessive surges through him.

His fingers tighten at your waist.

His tail coils firmly around yours.

He deepens the kiss, slow and deliberate, like he is claiming something he has denied himself for too long and you grind against him slower, harder.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing harder.

His forehead rests against yours.

“If you flirt with another warrior again to provoke me,” he says softly, thumb brushing against your jaw, “I will not be responsible for how I react.”

You smile, breathless.

“So you admit defeat?”

He leans closer, lips grazing yours once more.

“No,” he murmurs.

“I claim victory.”

His lips crashes onto yours again.

This time with need.

He kisses you like something inside him finally.

It’s not gentle.

It’s heat and frustration and months of restraint poured into one collision of mouths.

He picks you up, your legs wrapping around him as he slips off the branch. Your back hits the tree behind you, bark rough against your skin, but you barely register it.

His body presses against yours — solid, unyielding, caging you in without trapping you. His fingers slide up your spine, tangling in your braids, tilting your head just the way he wants.

A low sound rumbles in his chest when you kiss him back harder.

That sound does something to you.

You grip his shoulders, nails digging slightly into muscles. He exhales sharply through his nose, and the kiss deepens — slower now. His lips move against yours like he’s learning you, memorising you, claiming every breath you try to steal.

His tail coils around yours instinctively, tightening when you shift closer.

Possessive.

His thumb drags along your jaw before sliding to your throat, squeezing slightly — resting there, feeling your pulse race beneath his touch.

His hand slides down your stomach, playing with the strap of your loincloth before sliding it off of you.

He deepens the kiss, like it would be the last one he would ever have as he slides a finger inside of you.

You moan at the feeling, him taking advantage of that and poking his tongue into your mouth, exploring it.

You moan into his mouth, hips starting to rock into him, meeting his thrusts as he adds another finger.

“You are impossible,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, barely controlled.

But he doesn’t pull away.

He quickens his pace and kisses you again — slower this time, but deeper. Like he’s savouring the fact that you’re finally here, finally his, and he’s done pretending otherwise.

His fingers curled inside of you, hitting that one spot making your knees nearly buckle underneath you but he held you upright.

“Ne-Neteyam, please,” you breathed out, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“What?” he chuckles. “Use words, baby.”

His pace inside of you became almost unbearable as your nails dug into his skin and your head rolling against the tree behind you.

“Please-“ you moaned out. “Need to cum.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” a smirk crept onto his lips as his pace became almost tortuous.

A few more thrusts of his fingers and your knees gave way as your orgasm took over.

He held you up with his free hand as your legs shook violently, unconsciously closing around his hand as moans and whines left your lips.

His pace didn’t slow.

He continued until his hand was dripping with your release.

Just as you were seeing stars, his fingers left you, your hole now feeling more empty than normal as you gain the strength back in your legs to hold your own weight again.

He keeps you close, hands no longer gripping — just resting, warm and steady at your waist.

“You alright?” he asks softly.

“Yes,”

Relief flickers across his face, He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead and exhales against your skin.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

His arm wraps around you, tail loosely entwined with yours as the forest quiets.

[mwahsullys]

Girlyyyy feed your chicks we are hungry 😋🥹😞

Love yaaaaa🤍

i've just finished night shifts!! im off for a few days so done you worry i'll post something <33 ;p

[mwahsullys]

𝜗ৎ i notice you

neteyam x fem!metkayina reader

SUMMARY,, you never see what he does. you only feel safer. quieter. more alone with him. why?

wc,, 2k

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ warnings ࿐ྂ borderline creepily obsessed neteyam. stalking?? i guess. very tiny brief mention of making someone 'disappear'.

a/n,, hey bbys !! i put a post out about this idea of neteyam x reader in the style of the netflix serious you (yk joe goldberg who's obsessive and kills people) so i hope you enjoy if you also love that series!! this is wrote in neteyams pov. please lmk what you think cause idk if i wanna carry it on if you guys dont enjoy this

I notice you before you notice me.

That isn’t arrogance. It’s pattern recognition.

People arrive together. You don’t. You drift in once the noise has already settled, like you’re checking whether it’s safe to exist here today. You always pause before stepping fully into a space. Just long enough to listen. Just long enough to prepare.

You choose the edges, not because you’re shy. Because edges have exits.

I catalog things like this. I have to. It’s what I’ve been trained to do. A missed detail becomes a mistake, and mistakes cost lives. So when I remember where everyone stands during gatherings, no one questions it.

You don’t look at faces first. You look at hands. I notice that because it’s how I was taught to scan for danger. You do it like instinct. Like you learned early what to watch for.

I see the moment your shoulders loosen when the voices around you turn familiar. I see the way you smile before someone finishes speaking, like you’re offering reassurance in advance. You laugh quietly. Even your joy tries not to take up too much space.

These are not intimate details.

They are observable ones.

Anyone could notice this.

You leave early. Always before the story ends, before the fire burns down, before anyone can decide you should stay. No one stops you. They assume you’re tired. They don’t notice how carefully you time it.

I do.

You walk towards the water when the air gets too loud. I don’t follow you. I’m already there.

I like the quiet places. That’s not new. What’s new is that I now know exactly how long it takes you to arrive after the others leave.

You don’t look surprised when you see me. That matters. You nod once, polite, unafraid. You stand at a distance that says you trust me not to cross it.

You don’t realise how much I respect that.

I learn your habits the way I learn currents. Not because I’m curious. Because knowing where something will move keeps it from being hurt. Because unpredictability is dangerous. Because the world does not slow down for people who hesitate.

You hesitate.

I tell myself this is nothing. Just awareness. Leadership. The responsibility of seeing what others overlook. If I didn’t notice, that would be the real failure.

Still, when you don’t appear where I expect you to be, my attention sharpens. Not concern. Readiness.

You come eventually. You always do.

You never notice that I was waiting.

You stay longer than usual.

I notice because the water has already gone still, because the sounds of the reef have settled into their night rhythm, because this is when you normally leave. You don’t. You remain at the edge toes brushing the surface like you’re negotiating with it.

I don’t speak.

That’s intentional. Words change things. Words invite response. I want to see what happens when I do nothing at all.

The quiet stretches. Not uncomfortable. Not yet. It reshapes itself around us, like it’s learned our outlines. I adjust my breathing without thinking about it, slow and even, and a moment later you do the same.

We exhale together.

That catches my attention.

You don’t look at me, but you tilt slightly in my direction, as if proximity alone is grounding. You’re closer now. Not enough to touch. But enough that I can feel the disturbance you make in the water.

We stand like this often, I realise. Not like this, exactly — but side by side, aligned, sharing space without agreement or discussion. It feels so natural. That’s the part I examine carefully.

I’ve learned not to trust things that feel natural too quickly.

Still, when you shift your weight, I shift too. When you settle, so do I. Our reflections blur together on the surface, impossible to separate unless you’re looking from the distance.

You sigh — quiet, almost private. The sound slips under my skin before I can stop it. You glance at me then, just briefly, like you’re checking whether the silence is still allowed.

I give you nothing. No expression. No invitation.

You stay.

That matters.

We prefer the water at night. We like when the world stops asking questions. We don’t need noise to feel real.

You don’t leave when I expect you to.

When you step back, it feels like something disconnects. That’s odd. Minor, but fixable.

You nod to me — polite, familiar. You trust me not to follow.

I let you go.

That’s important. I need to know I can.

The space feels misaligned now.

We don’t like that, I think.

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You come back the next time.

Right on time.

I’m already there.

This time, when you stop at the edge, I speak.

“Too loud tonight?”

My voice startles you — just a little. I didn’t mean to.

You turn, eyes finding me faster than they did before. That matters.

You hesitate, then nod.

“Yes,” you say. “I think so.”

I step aside without thinking, making space where the water is calmer, darker. An invitation disguised as courtesy. You watch the movement, then follow it.

Good.

We stand closer now. Close enough that the quiet doesn’t stretch between us anymore. 

“You come here often,” you say, not accusing. Curious. Like you’re trying to place me in a pattern you’ve already half-formed.

“I like the quiet,” I answer.

You smile at that. Not wide. Not practiced. The kind that slips out before you can decide whether it should.

“Me too.”

Of course you do.

We stand like that for a moment, sharing something unnamed. I don’t look at you when I speak again. I’ve learned people open more easily when they’re not being watched.

“You don’t like crowds,” I say.

You blink. “Is it that obvious?”

“Not to them,” I reply. “You hide it quite well.”

Your shoulders ease at that — not at being seen, but at being seen accurately. Most people mistake attention for judgement. You don’t.

“I just get tired,” you say, softly. “Of explaining myself.”

I turn then. Slowly. Enough to let you decide whether to meet my eyes.

“You don’t have to explain anything here.”

You hold my gaze longer than before. There it is — the moment where trust starts to lean forward before it knows whether it should.

We like this, I think. Being understood without effort.

You tell me small things. Nothing dangerous. Where you like to sit. Why you leave early. How the water feels safer than the air some nights. I offer pieces in return. Enough to feel reciprocal. Enough to feel real.

When your hand brushes mine — accidental, you’ll tell yourself — you don’t pull away.

Neither do I.

The contact is brief. Barely anything.

“You’re easy to talk to,” you say.

I almost smile.

“I listen,” I answer instead.

That feels more honest.

When you leave this time, you hesitate. Just for a second. Like you’re considering staying. I don’t rush you. Pressure breaks delicate things.

You go eventually. You always do.

But now, you leave something behind.

Expectation.

I stay where I am, the water lapping softly, replaying your voice, your pauses, the way you leaned in without realising. This wasn’t a coincidence. This was alignment.

We’re closer now.

There’s no reason to rush. You’re already moving towards me.

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I notice him before you do.

That’s how it always starts.

You’re laughing - not loudly, not carelessly, but enough to draw attention. Enough to invite proximity. He steps closer than necessary. Too familiar. Too confident for someone who hasn’t earned your ease.

You don’t flinch.

That’s the problem.

I watch the way he speaks to you, how his body angles inward like he’s testing how much space you’ll give up without protest. You offer it, politely, unconsciously. You always do. You tilt your head to listen. You smile when he finishes a sentence, like you’re rewarding him for reaching you.

I don’t move yet.

Jealousy would be inefficient. Emotions cloud judgement. I prefer clarity.

I catalog instead. The tone of his voice. The way his hand gestures too wide, too careless. The moment your attention wavers — just slightly — when the noise around you swells. You shift your weight. You’re already looking for an exit.

Good girl.

You won’t take it on your own though.

I step closer, just enough to register. Not territorial. Familiar. I don’t look at him when I speak.

“You were looking for me.”

It’s a lie. A small one. A useful one.

You turn immediately. Your eyes find me with relief you don’t try to hide. That matters more than anything else. You nod, as if the thought had already occurred to you, as if this makes sense.

“I was,” you say.

You weren’t.

But you could have been.

That’s close enough.

I position myself between you and him without touching either of you. He hesitates. People do when they realise they’ve misjudged a dynamic.

“I didn’t realise—“ he starts.

“You didn’t,” I agree.

I keep my tone even. Neutral. There’s no challenge in it — just finality.

He looks at you, searching for confirmation. You don’t give it. Your attention stays with me. Anchored. The way it does when you’re tired of explaining yourself.

He leaves soon after. Not angry. Confused. That’s better — confusion lingers.

You exhale once he’s gone. Slow. Like you’ve been holding your breath longer than you realised.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say.

I tilt my head slightly. Not apologetic. Curious.

“You looked uncomfortable.”

“I was fine.”

I let the silence stretch just long enough for honesty to surface.

“You were going to leave,” I say.

You pause.

“…Probably.”

That’s enough.

We walk together after that. Not enough to draw attention though. Your steps adjust to mine without thought. The alignment settles easily now. I don’t comment on it.

You talk. About nothing important. About how loud things have been lately. About how the quiet feels harder to find. I listen. I always do. I always will. 

“You always know where to go,” you say eventually.

I glance at you, “So do you.”

The water is calm tonight. Dark. Reflective. You stop at the edge and sit without being asked. I sit beside you. Not touching. Never touching unless you decide first.

We sit like this for a long time. Long enough for the world to shrink. Long enough for me to imagine what would happen if I stopped paying attention.

That guy earlier was too friendly. Too comfortable.

What could have happened if I didn’t step in when I did?

What if he just... disappears?

When you finally stand, you wobble slightly — tired, distracted. I steady you without thinking. My hand closes around your wrist. Gentle. Brief.

You freeze.

So do I.

I release you immediately. Too quickly.

“Sorry,” I say.

“It’s okay,” you reply, just as fast.

But something has shifted. The air feels tighter. Charged. You don’t step away. You don’t step closer either.

I make a choice.

“You can lean on me,” I say. “If you want.”

You do.

The weight of you is light. Trusting. Dangerous. Your head tilts just enough to rest against my shoulder. Your breathing slows. I feel it regulate. Matching mine.

This is a mistake.

I don’t move.

I think of him again. Of how easily he thought he could stand where I’m standing now. The idea makes something sharp twist in my chest.

You murmur something — my name, barely audible.

When you straighten, you look embarrassed. I don’t comment on it. I don’t tease.

“I should go,” you say.

I nod. I always let you go. That’s important.

You hesitate at the path this time. You look back. Just once.

I’m still watching.

I always watch.

You smile — small, certain — and leave.

I remain where I am long after the sound of your footsteps fades. I replay the night, the interruption, the way you leaned into me like it was instinct.

You don’t need to understand tonight.

All you need to do is keep coming back.

And you will.

Because I’m paying attention.

[mwahsullys]

can you pls do reader walking in on neteyam masturbating and instead of him stopping when he sees her standing there he continues and she just watches.???

i'll probs do this as a separate req instead of adding onto the last one i just posted !! cause then i can create a wholeee new scene and story for this. LOVEEE the idea though :oo

[mwahsullys]

next fic idea ??

pls lmk what you think of this idea and if u want me to write it!

so i loveeee the netflix series you (yk the one w joe goldberg being like creepily obsessed for people/killing people for the one he loves???) so yeah i have something drafted up for neteyam x reader but it is all in neteyams pov because i kinda want readers to see the obsession from his perspective. its gonna be like a slowww burn kinda thing multiple chapters probably??

idk if you have any ideas so i can expand it lmk <3

[mwahsullys]

𝜗ৎ crossing the line

neteyam x fem!metkayina reader

SUMMARY,, neteyam knows his obsessions thoughts about you are wrong. but why do they feel so good?

wc,, 0,8k

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ warnings ࿐ྂ obsessed neteyam like really obsessed he's a perv !! loincloth stealing (dont steal !!) and sniffing, masturbation (m), lmk if i missed anything

a/n,, this was partly wrote whilst i was working to kill the 12 hour shifts after reading a request of a hornball/pervy neteyam (thanks for the beautiful req) i KNOW its rushed at the end. writers block kinda just came over me like halfway through it. (sorry) but there shall be a second part someday maybe???? cba to proof read so ignore spelling/grammar errors.

Neteyam tells himself he stays close because you ask him to.

Because the reef is dangerous. Because he still has much to learn.

None of it explains why he doesn’t move away.

You move through the water like it belongs to you, confident and sure while he still hesitates. Every time he surfaces, you’re there, hands settling at his waist to steady him. He doesn’t need the help—but he lets you give it anyway.

“You’re rushing the dive,” you murmur, drifting closer to correct his posture. Your body brushes his as you demonstrate, close enough that your voice hums through the water between you.

Then you reach for him.

“Here,” you say quietly, guiding his hand. “Feel my heart.”

Neteyam stiffens as his palm presses to your chest.

He was raised better than this. Taught restraint. Taught respect. Every instinct tells him to pull away—to thank you, to put distance between you, to regain control.

Instead, he stays.

Your heartbeat is slow beneath his hand, steady and calm. His own slams hard enough that he’s sure you can feel it.

The scent of you is distracting. Grounding. And overwhelming all at once, and he becomes painfully aware of how close you are—of the curve of you, of how little separates him from doing something he knows he shouldn’t. 

His fingers flex slightly. Not gripping. Just lingering.

“It’s… not slowing,” he murmurs before he can stop himself.

You glance up at him, confused—unaware he’s speaking about his own heartbeat.

That’s when he realises how far he’s gone.

Neteyam pulls away abruptly, water rippling between you as he forces distance where there should have been some all along.

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Your loincloth hangs outside your tent, drying in the sun. You stay inside, busy with something else, unaware anyone would even notice.

Neteyam does.

As he walks past, his eyes lock onto it and something tightens in his chest. He knows he shouldn’t. Knows it’s crossing a line. You probably have dozens, hundreds, he tells himself, surely one missing wont matter.

With a swift, silent motion, he balls it up and hides it in his hands, careful that no one sees.

He pauses only once, heart hammering as he debates putting it back.

He doesn’t.

He makes it back to his tent without anyone stopping him. The sounds of the camp fade as the flap falls shut behind him, sealing him in with his thoughts.

Only then does he look down at what he’s taken.

It’s ridiculous, he knows that. It’s just a piece of cloth. It shouldn’t feel this heavy in his hands—shouldn’t carry this much weight. But it does. Because it’s yours. Because it still smells faintly of sun, salt, and you.

He sits on his hammock, then stands again, running a hand through his hair.

“This is so stupid,” he says quietly.

He doesn’t put it down.

Instead, he grips it tighter, breath uneven now, the image of you uninvited and unavoidable in his mind. Guilt flickers—too weak to stop him, too loud to ignore.

As he sits back down, he unties his own loincloth, freeing his growing cock as he brings your cloth to his face.

He inhales the remaining scent of you left on it, letting it fill his lungs as he slowly strokes himself. His eyes closed as he imagined it was your hand on his cock, teasing him, edging him.

His moans were muffled into the cloth as he fastened his pace, his eyes still closed as his mind filled with memories of you wearing revealing clothing, touching his hips, his hand on your chest.

“Fuck,” he laughed into the clothing, his hand stroking relentlessly, trying to reach orgasm.

He inhaled your scent once more, before removing it from his face, now bringing it down to his cock, wrapping it around him gently.

He threw his head back at the first stroke, his brain nearly convincing himself that it was really you in his tent with him.

He massaged his tip with his thumb, not wanting to finish so soon, but the scent of you still lingering in his nostrils made that almost impossible.

His hips started bucking forward, his cock throbbing painfully, begging for release.

His pace didn’t slow, he continued stroking himself as whines and grunts left his mouth. Realising he was getting loud, he bit down on his lip hard, nearly hard enough to draw blood as he got faster.

Knowing you had touched the cloth not long before he had stolen borrowed it, knowing you had worn it, knowing you owned it sent him over the edge.

His orgasm hit harder than any before, his hips bucking as he spilled into the cloth as a choked moan escaped.

Guilt settled in before he could catch his breath.

What the hell was he doing?

[mwahsullys]

you should do hornball pervy neteyam x fem metkayina reader smut!!

I've been writing this here and there the past few days so hopefully i can finish it tonight!!! ive kinda made him like obsessed+pervy because duhhh he would js be obsessed. eeeee i can't wait for you to read !!

[mwahsullys]

Oh my goddd that neteyam fic was so juicy babes!!

omggg stoppp ur making me blush !!! I've got 2 days off from work so i will try and post maybe a few things??? depends if i get some writers block or not :(( fingers crossed not!!

mwah

[mwahsullys]

𝜗ৎ dangerous intelligence

neteyam x fem!mangkwanreader

SUMMARY,, they should have killed each other. they didn’t. now they won’t let either of them forget it.

wc,, 3k

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ warnings ࿐ྂ obsessed neteyam and also reader?? violence,, threats of death,, mention of blood briefly,, enemies to ??? (hell yeahhhh),, slow burn i guess?,, that's it i think ?? lmk if I've missed anything mwah

a/n,, not proof read!! i hope u enjoy this oneee. im trying to drag out the 'enemy' part to it as long as possible because i hate them fics where they're enemies and BOOM they're in love and no longer want to kill each other?? i promiseeee there will be smut soon!

PART ONE (read first)

Neteyam did not sleep that night.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw your mouth lathered with blood, your tongue swirling around to drink every last drop and could smell ash as it lingered in his lungs.

Slipping away from his tent, he found himself at a river close to where you two fought.

Neteyam told himself it was nothing.

That was the lie he repeated as he washed his body in the river, freeing himself of any ash that fell off of your body and onto his.

Nothing happened.

And yet—

His throat still felt warm.

Not from blood. From memory.

He had killed many before. He had stared down sky people that could tear him apart without hesitation. None of that lingered the way you did—your eyes locked onto his without fear, without submission.

It unsettled him.

Neteyam prided himself on control. On discipline. On knowing exactly when to strike and when to retreat. But in the forest, for a moment that replayed itself against his will, he had hesitated for the first time.

Not because you had outdone him—no, he could accept that. 

But because something in you had answered something in him.

That was the part he could not forgive.

That night on patrol with his brother, Lo’ak, he found himself listening to the forest instead of standing guard.

Every snap of a branch had him turning his head.

Every noise emerging from the forest caused his ears to turn in a desperate attempt to see if it were you.

Every shift of a shadow pulled his attention.

He hated it.

Hated that his thoughts returned to the way you moved — deliberate even when injured. The way you didn’t beg when the knife pressed against your throat. The way you laughed at the tightening of his grip on your neck. The way you used weakness as a weapon.

That was not recklessness.

That was intelligence.

Dangerous intelligence.

“She is Mangkwan,” he reminded himself in whispers when you invaded his mind too much.

Enemy.

Raider.

Killer.

“What was that, bro?” Lo’ak pressed his hand on his shoulder, snapping him out of his thoughts as his eyebrow lifted in confusion.

Neteyam clenched his jaw until it ached, “Nothing, baby brother.”

Days passed.

He volunteered for every patrol near the border — told himself it was just strategy, vigilance, duty to his people.

When he finally admitted the truth, it was alone, with no one around to hear the foolishness.

He didn’t want you dead.

The realisation struck him harder than any punch.

He should want revenge. Should want you silenced, erased, punished for daring to turn the tables on him.

He began to imagine the next meeting— not as fantasy, but as inevitability.

Next time, he would not underestimate you.

Next time, he would not hesitate.

Next time—

His fingers flexed unconsciously around his bow, grip tightening.

Next time, he would see whether that fire in your soul burned just as bright when you weren’t fighting for your life.

Not to claim you.

Not to spare you.

To test you.

Enemy to enemy.

‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿

Varang did not raise her voice.

That alone was worse.

She circled you slowly, claws clicking softly against stone as you knelt in the ash-dusted tent floor, your arm bound, your head bowed — not in submission, but from exhaustion.

“You fell,” Varang’s voice was calm.

You didn’t just fall. You were shot down.

Her tail flicked once, sharp as a blade as if she heard you speaking back to her in your mind.

“You let an Omatikaya warrior see you bleed” she continued, stopping directly in front of your beaten body. “You let him—“

She trailed on and on about what you did wrong. It was stupid of you to think she even cared that you lived.

“You let an enemy decide when your life should end.”

Your jaw tightened, clenching it shut to keep you from speaking back to her.

Varang didn’t stop.

She continued to tell you how you’re a disgrace to your people and you would’ve been better off dying. 

“At least you would’ve died fighting—“

Your head shot up, looking into her poison filled eyes, “I killed—“

She grabbed your queue, “You lived,” she cut in, voice piercing, “Because he allowed it.”

Silence filled the tent, heavy and suffocating.

Varang crouched, her face level with yours now, eyes burning with something far worse than anger.

“You embarrassed your clan. You embarrassed me.” She spat.

Her fingers left your queue, her claws pressed into your arm— not to hurt you, but to remind you.

“Do you know what happens when weakness is seen?” she asked softly. “It is remembered. Passed between enemies like a gift.”

She released you abruptly, rising to her full height.

“If the Omatikaya speak your name now, it is no longer with fear—it is with interest.”

That was the real crime.

Varang turned her back on you, already finished.

“Leave,” she paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Before I change my mind and have your queue hanging from my tent.” Her face was filled with disgust. “If you remain, your weakness will rot others. I will never allow that.”

You gathered your remaining energy to pull yourself up, walking out of the tent, feet sunken in ash as you managed to make it to your own.

You did not rest.

Not truly.

Your body slept when it had to—collapsed from blood loss and exhaustion—but your mind stayed awake, pacing, circling, replaying.

Every time you drifted close to sleep, you felt it again; the pressure at your throat, the heat of his body pinning you to the bark, the way his hesitation tasted sweeter than victory.

You woke with your jaw aching from being clenched, your hand already wrapped around your knife.

Pathetic.

That’s what you told yourself as you re-dressed the wound on your arm, teeth bared as you pulled the wrap tight. The gash throbbed in time with your pulse, a reminder of the cost of carelessness.

You had let him get too close.

That was the truth you hated the most.

Not that he was strong—you had known that before the raid. Not that he was dangerous—every Sully was.

You told yourself that you were angry because he was Omatikaya. Because his clan hunted yours. Because his mother clashed with Varang in the sky like a thunderstorm.

But anger didn’t explain why his voice lingered in your head, low and rough like the tree bark you were pressed against, like a knife dragged slowly over skin.

“You’re sloppy.”

You snarled as you cleaned blood-soaked ash from beneath your nails.

You had beaten him.

That should’ve been enough.

Yet your thoughts returned to the way his body had gone rigid beneath you, not panicked—assessing. The way his eyes had tracked every movement, even when blinded by ash. The way his breath had hitched, just barely, when you tasted your own blood in front of him.

That was not weakness.

That was control.

“I should’ve killed him,” you muttered to yourself.

You imagined the next encounter with the Sully boy.

Not as fantasy—never that—but as inevitability.

Next time, he would be ready for your tricks. He would not underestimate the way you used pain as camouflage. Next time, he wouldn’t loosen his grip.

Good.

Your fingers flexed around the base of your knife, the familiar weight steadying your thoughts.

You didn’t want him dead.

The realisation came quietly, unwelcome and sharp as thorns from flowers.

You wanted him aware.

Aware that you are not prey.

Aware that you could vanish from his grasp again.

Aware that next time, if he hesitated—even for a breath—you would carve that moment into him and leave him alive to remember it forever.

You exhaled slowly, forcing the thought away like smoke.

“Enemy,” you reminded yourself, the wound firm and grounding.

“Omatikaya.”

“Sully.”

Still—when you finally slept, it was with your knife pressed against your thighs and his yellow eyes burned behind your closed lids.

Watching.

Waiting.

Just like yours.

‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿

The forest was quiet in a way that made every leaf, every snapping twig, feel amplified. You moved silently, crouched low, the weight of your nearly healed arm injury reminding you how close to death you were in the last raid.

This wasn’t a raid this time. You were scouting. Varang had sent you out, likely thinking you weren’t going to make it back when hunting so close to the Omatikaya clan.

Every step was deliberate, silent. Every breath measured in time to the sounds of the forest. You wanted, no, needed to show Varang you were still her strongest warrior.

You weren’t alone.

Neteyam’s presence lingered before you even saw him. A shadow against a tree, eyes glowing faintly in the filtered bioluminescent light. His bow hung loosely, but every muscle was coiled, alert, dangerous. He hadn’t followed yet— not openly. 

He was watching. Leaning. Obsessing.

“You’re reckless.”

You froze for a heart beat, spinning around and drawing your bow as he did the same, mirroring your actions in sync.

His head tilted, studying you like a puzzle he couldn’t solve. A predator assessing prey — except neither of you were quite willing to be either.

He made the first move.

A singular step onto the ground, slow, deliberate, bow still raised—but not fired.You hissed through clenched teeth, arm pulling back on the bow you had drawn, ready to release if he came any closer.

“Reckless,” he said quietly, voice low, almost amused. “Still injured. Still walking. Still… alive.”

“You seem surprised,” you spat back, chest heaving, the tension in your muscles barely contained.

The pause was dangerous. The forest seemed to hold its breath.

Slowly he lowered his bow, you did not.

Then, without warning, he lunged. Not to kill—not yet— but to pin you. Your bow narrowly missed his head, planting itself into an old tree behind as his hands gripped your wrists, your bow clattered to the floor.

You rolled, twisting free just in time, grabbing some ash from your pouch and throwing it in his direction, allowing some distance between you again and grabbing you knife free from the band on your thigh.

“You’re fast,” he muttered whilst he wiped ash off his tongue and face, clenching his jaw tight. “Faster than I gave you credit for.”

You didn’t answer, circling him now, eyeing a way out. But the escape wasn’t as simple as it should’ve been— his shadow blended into yours, stalking, silent. He wasn’t chasing you. Not yet. He was marking. Watching, Waiting for a mistake.

A sudden roar pierced through your ears — a Thanator breaking through the undergrowth — froze both of you. Reflex overrode hesitation. Without thinking, you dove to the side, dragging him with you as it lunged towards the clearing where you just stood.

“Careful,” he growled, flipping his body to block the creature with his own. His legs shifting to push you both out of danger. “I could just leave you here, at least this creature would take care of my problem,” he glanced over his shoulder at you, a smirk creeping onto his lips.

You shot him a glare, “I don’t need saving,” you hissed.

“You think that,” he countered, “until something larger than both of us put together decides we’re its next meal.”

For a tense few minutes, you fought alongside him. Not as allies—as necessary partners, dodging claws and bites, snapping branches and the occasional arrow left embedded in the trees or ground. Every glance, every brush of skin, every time your tails hit one another in a silent battle against yourselves, a wordless argument neither of you could win — who was stronger, who would survive, who would dominate.

The animal finally retreated, its low growls fading into the distance. You both froze, panting, sweat mixing with blood and ash.

Neteyam’s eye was locked on you, unblinking. Yellow and sharp, calculating. Not approving, not even angry — obsessed. Every movement you’ve made, every choice, every trick you’d used to survive was filed away in his mind.

You wanted to shove him, kick him, to flee, but couldn’t. Part of you wanted to see if he would hesitate, if he would let you get away again. He didn’t. He stepped back slowly, hands lowering, letting you breathe but never letting your eyes leave his.

“Enemy,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Enemy,” you spat back, jaw tight hand gripping your knife, ears pinned back in defence,

And without another word, you vanished into the trees.

Not defeated. Not claimed. But seen.

And for him, that was worse than anything.

‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿

[mwahsullys]

𝜗ৎ mine, mine, all-fucking-mine

neteyam x fem!reader

SUMMARY,, where neteyam is jealous by the fact you looked at another man

wc,, 1k

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ warnings ࿐ྂ NSFW degradation,, orgasm denial??,, jealous and possessive neteyam eeeeeeeekk,, hair pulling,, p in v,, sir kink (PLEASEEEE tell me im not the only one who thinks neteyam would love to be called sir????????) lmk if i have missed anything!!!

a/n,, all chars i write abt are aged up!! please dont judge too harshly this is the first smut I've written. im still a beginner writer!! so please refrain from any negative messages. hope u enjoy c; this hasn't been proof read soooo

You know you shouldn’t have done it.

You knew arguing back with your mate after the day he had would end up in one of two scenarios.

Scenario one: he wouldn’t sleep in the tent that night. 

Scenario two: this.

Neteyam held you steady in the shallow water as you clutched at shells and sand, fingers digging in, desperate for something to ground you as the familiar heat coiled low in your belly. Your upper body was pressed against the rock, the water still managing to splash onto your lower back with every brutal movement.

Neteyam’s pace was unforgiving. Relentless.

He gathered your braids low in his fist, holding you there and yanking them back, forcing your spine to arch as his pace only fastened, “Slut,” he growled. “This is what you fucking wanted, hmm?”

Another yank. Harder this time.

“Mine, mine, all-fucking-mine.”

He swallowed it all day - the jealousy, the rage, the need.

Then it snapped. 

And all that was left was the certainty that you were his.

His grip tightened on your hair at the last ‘mine’ that left his lips, you knowing exactly what he was implying.

His hips slowed, the change sudden and cruel - each thrust heavy and deliberate. “Do you think I am stupid?” He chuckled lowly.

The slowing of his thrusts felt like torture, each slap back into your cunt made your body jolt forward. 

“I saw the way you were looking at Ao’nung earlier,” he murmured. “Didn’t think I’d notice, hm?” 

A sound threatened to break from your lungs, but you bit down hard on your lip, fighting it back, not daring to draw any attention from the village nearby.

You glanced over your shoulder, breath shaky, as you finally found your voice.

“‘Teyam,” you whined. “‘m sorry— fuck, please”

Your eyes betrayed you, rolling back into your head despite your best efforts to lock eyes with him.

“Not yet, baby. Look at me.” he said softly.

You couldn’t.

You were too busy trying not to release right then and there with each thrust from behind and nipped onto your ear lovingly.

You were being punished. He was punishing you by not allowing you to cum. He’s never been this mean. Ever.

Normally he would make you finish multiple times before he was even close to finishing himself.

“I said— shit— fucking look at me.” He commanded between thrusts, his voice now cold, stern.

Summoning every ounce of strength, you lifted your head. He couldn’t help but chuckle, eyeing your pathetic fucked-out state, hearing soft moans seeping out of your open mouth as it hung, trying your absolute best to stay quiet.

“Yeah, you like that? Hm?” he grinned, a soft laugh escaping his lips mingling with the moans he failed to hold back.

“You like having to hold back your screams so people don’t know how much of a slut you are for me?” his grip tightened as a lewd moan left his body.

“Think Ao’nung can hit your sweet spots as good as me?” 

A whiney cry left your lips, your hand shot to cover your mouth, subconsciously clenching around his dick from fear of being caught in such a vulnerable way.

He fake-pouted, savouring your struggle to keep your orgasm in.

A harsh tug on your hair pulled your head back — your spine arching further than you thought possible

His face lowered to your ear, his breath warm, “And make squirm like that?”

“Don’t worry, ‘m so close,” he whispered, breaths turning shaky, small whimpers escaping as he held you harshly, “You’re doing so well, baby.”

“Ne— oh, fuck— Neteyam, please, I need—“ You gasped, air spilling into your lungs as he sped up, “Need you to fill me, so bad— Please sir!”

His thrusts quickened, his movement causing the water to splash both of you now. The orgasm building inside you reached its peak, one more thrust made you come undone.

Your legs shook violently, eyes rolling back, a guttural moan leaving your lips. Neteyam clamped a hand over your mouth, silencing your moans and cries, while he rode out your release.

The clenching of your walls was the last draw for him.

With two more thrusts, his hips slammed into yours as his actions quickly halted. His seed spilling into you, coating your walls as he pushed it as far as he could into you as he continued with painfully slow, yet hard thrusts.

With your head against the rock, looking into the ocean you saw the bioluminescent cum that escaped from your cunt with each time Neteyam pulled back, only to push back into you.

A few minutes passed and he finally started pulling out his softened cock out of you, kneading your ass (he’s always LOVED your ass).

He watched his cum leak out of your cunt, washing away in the gentle waves. 

Gently slapping your ass, he brought you back from the haze of your climax.

Neteyam smiled softly at you as he pushed a loose braid that fell in front of your face behind your ear, “Look at him again, no sex for a month, got it?” 

A month? You doubted he would last two days.

“Yes, sir.”

[mwahsullys]

𝜗ৎ the enemy.

neteyam x fem!mangkwan reader

SUMMARY,, a knife held to the throat, fire in your eyes, and Neteyam realised some enemies aren’t always easy to forget

wc,, 2,2k

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ warnings ࿐ྂ use of knives, mention of blood, dark neteyam,, dom neteyam?? if you squint hard enough, enemies (to lovers one day???) choking (teehee),, nothing else i can think of. lmk if i missed anything!!

PART TWO

Ikran's were screeching in the sky, clashing into one another as both clans fought. Arrows embedded themselves into the bark of trees as short sharp fwip sounds flew past your ears. The smell of ash and fire grounded you, as you stumbled up from the mud you fell into after your ikran were shot by Neteyam, ‘the mighty warrior’ the Omatikaya called him. 

What an ass.

You managed to rip a piece of your loincloth off, screaming in pain as the gash on your arm spilled with blood. Carefully, you wrapped it around the 6 inch laceration on your arm, caused by Neteyam’s ikran when it bit down on you, meaning to probably rip your arm off.

Any deeper and you wouldn’t have an arm anymore.

With the cloth in your teeth, you sharply exhaled through the material before yanking it tight, your eyes seeing stars as you let out a muffled scream. Your body was in a battle of its own, fighting to stay conscious.

Varang. 

That’s all your mind could think of. Yes, she was Tsahik and your leader, but you were her little sister. The last thing she saw, you falling from your ikran. Plummeting through the massive leaves and vines of the trees, your body beaten by branches before the vines tangled around your body, saving you from an almost certain death.

You should be dead. That’s what you kept telling yourself, but for some reason, some extreme, unfathomable reason, Eywa saved you. Maybe Eywa…

No.

Eywa left us starved from fresh fruit and animals to hunt. Eywa didn’t hear our cries for help as our people lay dying from the volcanic eruption. All of our prayers fell onto deaf ears. Other Na’vi say that Eywa, the 'Great Mother', protects only the balance of life. Where was your protection? Where was the clans protection?

You heard Varang’s war cries echo from the sky as your clan, the Mangkwans and the Omatikaya’s fought relentlessly. 

Looking up through the green leaves, Varang and Neytiri started clashing into one another, hissing at each other whilst the ikrans seemed to copy their hatred. Neteyam hovered close by to his mother, shooting arrows at anyone getting too close for his liking. 

As much as you hated him, a tiny part of you struggled to admit he was a good warrior.

Not as good as you of course.

Even from afar, his dominance seeped into the trees, the ground and the sky. He was well built. You could see the broadness of his back as he drew another arrow to shoot, even from the ground. His abs defined, getting more sharp as he took a quick inhale to shoot.

Soon enough, eclipse approached. You couldn’t tell if it was just your body, tunnel vision setting in or the darkening of the sky. As more Mangkwan's fell back, the other clan out numbered us now, five to one.

Shaking your head, you refused to accept defeat. You must make it back home. You had to make it back home. You weren’t weak. You were a strong warrior. Never missed a day of training, never showing mercy to the weak. What would Varang say if she just found you lying dead here?

Through the gut-wrenching pain with each step you took, you pushed through the thick bushes. You draped your bow over your body, the few remaining arrows slotted into the leather leg band you inherited from your mother. With your good arm, you wrapped your hand tightly around your blade that sat comfortably in the straps of your loincloth, ready for anything that may creep in the bioluminescent forest.

Soon enough the war cries that filled the sky, came to a halt. Ikran’s could still be heard, not screeching anymore, but their leathery wings flapping against the wind.

The raid was over.

The forest lit up beneath your feet in the darkness, your long strides almost silent. Almost. Animals could be heard crying out, clicking and calling for each other. Young Thanators jumped onto a nearby thick branch, three of them staring at you like you were their next meal as they bared their razor sharp teeth.

You pulled out your knife, hissing at them and squatting closer to the ground as you closed the distance, your tail wagging behind you and a devious smile crawled on your face, your body preparing for a fight.

An inaudible threat.

The young Thanators snarled at you, their hisses the same as the ‘Sky Peoples’ animal on earth called panthers. A guttural growing noise pierced through the forest. Your ears pinned back in relief and eyes closed without you realising, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. 

The noise was far away. 

Twigs broke and leaves rustled, your eyes opening only to see the young Thanators scurrying away. The only logical reason why is the guttural growl was their mother calling them back. 

You picked yourself back up to stand tall, your hand reaching behind your back to put the knife back into the strap of your loincloth, but the faint sound of a branch breaking caused your ears to turn towards where the sound came from and you body freezing.

Before you were able to form a thought or plan about what could’ve made the noise, your knife was knocked from your hand with a sharp twist of your wrist.

It clatters to the forest floor, the floor lighting up exactly where you knife lay as you’re driven back - step by step - until your spine is roughly pressed against the rugged bark of a tree.

Neteyam Sully.

His knife was quickly brought up to your neck, pressing into you hard, not hard enough to kill you of course, but hard enough to cause a slit where a bead of red blood formed.

His knee pressed between your legs, his body against yours, purely to stop you from escaping. You could feel his warm breath. You could feel his muscular arm pressed against your chest, binding your breasts causing you not to be able to take a deep breath. You slowly looked up to meet his eyes. If you were to swallow too hard, the knife would cut deeper into your neck, and you couldn’t afford any more blood loss after the wound on your arm.

You could feel the tension in him like a drawn bowstring.

“You’re sloppy,” he muttered, low and rough, his eyes dragging over you in a way that had nothing to do with combat. He tilted his head, “You leave yourself open for the forest to eat you whole.”

Refusing to look away and break eye contact, you lift your chin to show the dominance you held even under the knife he had pressed to your neck. You chuckled, “Funny. You think a knife scares me? Me and my people kill just to see blood spilled.”

Bringing your hand up slowly and spread wide to show him you weren’t holding anything, you bring it to the blood that ran down your neck from the cut he made with the knife. You scrape your finger upwards, collecting the blood on your finger and bringing it to your mouth, licking every last drop from your lips before your arm went limp beside you again.

For a split second - just one - he pulls back.

His grip loosened, his knee shifted away as his eyes locked onto your mouth, watching your tongue lick up the blood that fell from your neck. His eyes darted back to yours. His expression hardened immediately - disgust, revulsion spread across his face like vines in the forest.

He realised his own mistake.

His jaw tightened. His other hand shot up, now grasping around your throat, replacing the knife, but the knife still next to your head, angling your head up whether you wanted it to or not. His knee pressed in tighter, cutting away any illusion of space you thought you had earned.

“Enough.” He growled.

The pause is dangerous. Deliberate.

He squeezed his hand, enough to cut off some air entering your lungs, but not enough to knock you out. Your eyes never left his, a small chuckle leaving your lips as he grasped harder.

“Do you know what happens when you provoke the wrong enemy?” he asked quietly.

Your heart was pounding and head feeling funny from lack of air, but you weren’t weak enough to show him.

“You think that makes you fearless?” he spat out. “You think it makes you, what, strong?” He laughed to himself.

His thumb pressed hard at your jaw, reminding you how easily he could force you to look away - how deliberately he chose not to.

Your breath starts to stutter. Small gasps left your lips.

On purpose.

You let your knees weaken beneath you as your chest heaved, your hands clawing uselessly at his chest. Your eyes began to flutter and roll, just enough to really sell it.

Your body went limp beneath you, weight sinking as it was just now Neteyam’s grip on your throat holding you up.

“I- I can’t-“ you rasped out, breathless and broken.

The tension in his grip shifts. Not in a panic - but through assessment. His grip loosened slightly, as he eases back just enough to keep you conscious.

That’s all you needed.

Your body slipped from his grasp, collapsing onto the moss coated forest floor. His body stepped back, startled, eyes looking down at your almost lifeless body to see whether you truly went limp.

Your head hung low against the ground, eyes looking through your lashes as you clawed at the soil, gasping for air.

Neteyam, too busy rolling his eyes at your pathetic body clawing the ground as if you could get air from the roots of trees. His eyes went to the back of his head and his hand rubbed his temples as his head flew back in frustration.

Perfect.

As this was the first time his eyes weren’t on you, your hand that was ‘pathetically’ clawing at the ground, closed around the familiar feeling of your knife.

In one quick motion, you reached into a small pouch attached to your loincloth, grabbing a handful of ash and blowing it into his face before he had a chance to react. You slammed into him and the momentum caused you both to crash onto the floor.

Your injured arm cried in protest of the movement, but adrenaline drowned it out.

His back struck the floor as you straddled him, your knee pressing harshly onto his arm, pinning him down before he could reach for a weapon.

Your knife is at his throat now - blade pressed close enough for him to feel an unspoken promise.

“You’re sloppy.” You tilted your head, pretending to act dumb as a faint giggle left your lips, reciting his own words from earlier. Your lips curled into a sharp grin.

His body was tense, rigid, but dangerous even beneath you.

You lean in slowly, your hand dragging his queue to tilt his head so you lips were close enough to touch his ear, “Never assume your enemy is finished or weak,” you whispered, his ear twitching at the heat from your breath. “Especially when she’s still breathing.”

You yanked his queue, making him lock eyes with you.

It seemed as if the forest held its breath for a second. Just for a second.

A voice cut through the trees.

“Neteyam!”

It’s distant - but unmistakable.

Jake Sully. Toruk Makto.

Your grip tightened instinctively, not only on his queue, but around the knife, pressing the blade in harder, just enough for his to feel the danger without spilling blood.

Another voice bellowed, closer this time. A lot closer.

“Neteyam! Where are you bro?”

A small gasp left the mighty warriors lips, “Lo’ak.” He breathed out, barely inaudible.

You silently hissed at him, jaw tightening and ears pinning back in anger. You didn’t have time for this - not right now. Not with reinforcements closing in and blood soaking through the make-shift wrap on your arm.

You leant down to him once more, voice low enough so that only he could hear.

“Looks like Eywa has sent your forest running after you.” 

His jaw clenched and fists balled up, paling, but he didn’t use them.

“Go.” He said quietly.

Not a command. Not a plea. Not a beg. A warning.

Another shout echoed - even closer now. You hear footsteps now, branches snapping, leaves breaking. Multiple people running towards your position. Too close now.

You pulled the blade back slowly, deliberately, dragging it along his throat as you slowly rise. Not cutting. Promising.

Your head snaps over your shoulder, making eye contact with the Sully boy once more.

“This isn’t finished.” You spat out.

His yellow eyes burned into yours. “No,” he agreed. “I can promise you that.”

Pushing the knife back into the strap of your loincloth, you vanished into the bioluminescent undergrowth just as multiple figures break through the trees behind him. You don’t look back. You can’t.

Left behind, Neteyam pushed himself up, his hand brushing over his throat where your blade had just been. 

Neteyam had not seen such strength in so long. Not just raw power, but the way it radiated from you - calm, feral, desire, determination, fire.

The only woman he was told who carried even a fraction of that energy was his mother. Jake had always told him he’d find someone like that one day. Someone who could move through the world and leave it unsettled by just existing.

And now… he just watched you leave a trail of defiance, cleverness, and sheer audacity behind you.

He wiped the remaining ash from his face, forcing himself to control his breathing - but his thoughts would listen. Every part of him screamed that this was someone he couldn’t know. Someone he couldn’t like.

You were something he wanted needed to see again.

Jake reached him moments later.

“What the hell happened boy?” He demanded.

Neteyam’s gaze stayed fixed on the shadows where you disappeared just moments before.

“Nothing, sir.” he said quietly.

Wiping the ash down off his face his hands reached his neck once more, and his hand lingered there for a moment - just for a moment.