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Reddi?~ Neteyam Smut

neteyam x fem!human!reader

warnings: smut smut smuttt, improper use of whipped cream, whipped cream on puh, whipped cream literally everywhere. EATING!!!! MUNCH NETEYAM!!!!

synopsis: you're a researcher and neteyam loves nothing more than to slip into your tent. he catches you on just the right morning, after tension between you both's built for a while. you teach him a thing or two about whipped cream.

wc:18K

xoxo!

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You grimace as you rub the itching skin of your eyes. It’s almost as if the flora that glows the brightest, conveniently, are the most allergenic. The samples in your test tubes actually haunt you. You swallow, thickly. Mouth dry from your rest, dried drool in the corners. You lick it off the side of your lip with a little yuck sound.

Your fingers scratch aimlessly through your messed hair, your brain still half-scrambled from your wakeup. You aren't doing any science stuff right now. You genuinely couldn’t bear it today, a break is in such need. The microscopes are still dusty under their plastic caps, your charts are nothing but blank grey screens on your table, and the last thing you want to look at is the data entry that’s been backing up since Tuesday. For a big chunk of today, you just want to exist. Laze around in your tee shirt, stay tangled in your scratchy sleeping bag.

But of course, someone always has to interrupt.

The light shifts outside the vinyl, casting a sharp shadow across the floor. You shut your eyes tight, exhaling a heavy, mental groan as you prepare yourself for some annoying coworker to barge in with a stack of clipboards and a voice far too nasally for the morning. Though, as you sit there, preparing for the inevitable irritating chatter, you notice a distinct lack of finesse in the movement outside. No loud human boots stamping on the metal ramp, no high pitch greeting of any sort, at all. The hairs of your brow furrow in your confusion..

The heavy vinyl flap of the tent doesn't so much open as it just gets completely overwhelmed by a presence that has absolutely no business being inside your little house-hook up. There’s a brief, clumsy scrape, the sound of broad, four-fingered knuckles nearly grazing the outside zipper in a half-hearted attempt at a knock—but then the material is just pushed aside entirely.

Neteyam has to duck so low to clear the plastic entrance his long braids slide right over his chest, his towering frame immediately making your whole workspace look like a flimsy plastic dollhouse. He moves now, hella gracefully, your pulse doing a stupid, nervous little stutter. His broad shoulders block out most all the sun that peered in. He straightens up as much as the nylon ceiling allows, head just a foot and a half from touching it. His ears twitch once to adjust to the humming white noise of the air filters in the corner. His yellow eyes—huge and way too bright for this early—scan the cluttered room until they lock onto you, sitting there looking completely unwashed and undone and unready for his much desired acquaintance.

"Hello, Doctor," he drawls casually, as if he didn’t break in. You watch his mouth, the way his words always roll off his tongue, so deep, so sexy. So unlike your confederates.

A lazy, half-baked smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, your voice still raspy and dotted with sleep. "Not a doctor, Neteyam. Just a researcher," you correct softly, your throat clicking a little from the dryness.

He tilts his head, those big golden eyes narrowing just a fraction as he looks down at you. "You heal the machines when they break, though. And you look closely at the plants in those little glass sticks. That is a healer’s work, you know."

Without inviting him further into your space, not that you at all mind, he just starts to wander, his tail giving a lazy swish behind his calves that nearly knocks over a stack of empty plastic specimen cups. The sight of him always catches you off guard, especially here. Built so obviously for the forest, cramped in your measly living arrangement covered in wires, metal stools and discarded snack wrappers that blow out the bin.

He stops by your folding desk, looming over the grey equipment. He reaches out, his blue hand hovering over a row of glass vials containing dried root shavings. He doesn't grab them brutally, not at all. He just barely brushes the flat pads of his calloused fingers against the smooth glass, his touch surprisingly delicate for someone who could probably snap your femur like a twig. He picks up a stainless steel hammer from a tray, turning the cold metal over and over in his palm, his blunt fingernails tapping against the steel as if trying to figure out what kind of weapon it’s supposed to be.

The contrast is just ridiculous, all this metal and plastic and manufacture in the palm of his lively, wild hands.

"You are late to rise today," he remarks suddenly, his gaze snapping back to yours with a sharpness that catches you mid-yawn. A slow, far too charming smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, the stoicism he usually wears completely melting into something playful and knowing. "The sun has already climbed past the first branches. Are all 'researchers' so fond of their blankets? Or is it just you?"

He steps away from the desk, his massive stride closing the small distance between you until he’s leaning his hip against the edge of your sturdy equipment crate, right at the foot of your cot, hammer still in hand. He looks entirely too good in the dim twilight of the tent, the beads in his dark braids catching a stray beam of light that sneaks through the window flap. His presence turns your messy sanctuary into a space that feels suddenly, suffocatingly small. He reaches out and starts tapping against the side of a metal canister with his knuckles, his eyes never leaving your face, just waiting to see how you’re going to justify being so lazy.

"You keep track of my schedule now?" you ask, your voice still thick with the grainy veil of sleep. You rub your eyes with the heels of your hands once more, a small, huffed laugh escaping you. "I wasn't even asleep, Neteyam. I was just... resting. There’s a difference. A slow start, y’know?"

Neteyam watches you, his ears swiveling forward in that way they do when he’s trying to decipher a particularly strange human concept. He looks from your rumpled sleeping bag to the dark tablet on your desk, a faint, skeptical smirk playing on his lips. "Resting," he repeats, the word sounding musical in his throat. "The world does not wait for those who rest once the eclipse has passed. But perhaps your machines are more patient than the ikran."

He lets the hammer clatter softly back onto the table, his attention fully returning to you as you finally kick your legs out of the cot. The tent feels impossibly small as you stand, the humid air trapped inside suddenly feeling charged with the warmth radiating off his stature. You take a step toward him, your bare feet pressing into the cold, synthetic floor of the tent, and you slowly hold your arms out wide.

"Come on," you say, your eyes dancing with a mix of sleepiness and mischief as you look up at him. You have to crane your neck just to meet his gaze, but you don't back down. "I know you want to. Bring it in."

Okay, you’re not slick. Total front, just a flimsy excuse to get real close to him. To smell him more deeply without looking like a loon. Even from a few paces away, his scent is already drifting over to your side of the tent and God, he smells so good. It’s a sharp, crisply clean scent, like pine and fresh rain, but there’s something else overlapping it. A faint, earthy oil you imagine he must’ve rubbed into his skin, something warm and musk-heavy that makes the back of your throat tickle. You’re practically starving for a lungful of him.

Neteyam freezes for a heartbeat, his tail giving a startled twitch behind him at your proximity. For all his burgeoning confidence and the way he’s been assuredly poking through your tech, the sudden, open invitation of a human hug clearly catches him off guard. He stays leaned against the equipment crate, his eyes widening as they dart from your open arms back to your face.

"You are... very strange today," he murmurs, though he doesn't move away. He looks down at you, visibly trying to remember how his limbs work.

"Is this one of your morning rituals?" he asks, his voice dropping into a lower, more uncertain register. "To... bring it in?"

You peer up past his sharp jaw, catching the almost imperceptible crack in his straight face. You know he’s teasing you now. That absolute liar knows exactly what a hug is, you’ve given him a few but his sisters enough, and he himself has been a hugger all his life. But he absolutely loves drawing things out this way, playing dumb just to prolong the moment and force you to explain the little nuances of your world in your own tongue. He craves the sound of your voice when it gets all soft.

"You know hugs.” you explain, cutting your eyes good-naturedly at him. “For comfort. And because I missed you," you tease, wiggling your fingers in a 'hurry up' motion.

He lets out a relaxed breath, his chest heaving under the leather strap of his chest piece. Slowly, almost as if he’s afraid he might break you, he pushes off the crate. He takes a single step forward, closing the distance until the heat of his body nearly presses against your front. He hesitates for one more second, his hands hovering near your waist, before he finally relents.

He leans down, his large arms wrapping around you with a tentative, overwhelming strength. His palms are broad and warm against your back, his fingers spanning nearly the entire width of your torso. Because of the obvious height disparity, your face is pressed directly into the firm muscles of his abs, and you can hear, faintly, the strength of his heartbeat.

He sighs into your hair, leaning down to accommodate your stature. “So tiny, you are," he mumbles, his chin resting on the top of your head, his grip finally tightening as he realizes you aren't made of glass. "I could get used to this ritual." A few vertebrae in your back crack under his grasp, and it’s absolutely heaven.

"You’re just big," you tease, the words muffled slightly against his tough, warm muscles. You discreetly inhale thickly, your lip worrying its way between your teeth at his scent. So, so delicious.

You give him a playful, firm shove when you’ve had your fill, not that it moves him an inch; it’s like trying to push over a smooth boulder. He huffs a deep laugh, his chest rumbling against your palms as he finally releases you, though his hands linger on your shoulders for a little longer than needed, the heat of his skin leaving phantom prints on your tee.

You slip past him, navigating the narrow aisle of your tent like you own the place. You do, kind of sort of a little bit. For a time, you do, that’s for sure. Neteyam remains where he is, his tail curling and uncurling near his ankles as he watches you with undivided focus, as if your morning routine is something philosophical for him that he must memorize.

You glance over your shoulder, smiling a little wider as you catch him staring. “You okay?” you ask, studying his relaxed expression for any discomfort you may be missing- none apparent to your eyes. “Do you need some air just yet?”

He blinks, registering his surroundings. He looks a little surprised, his shoulders dropping from their rigid posture at your notice. He’s gone nearly an hour in oxygen rich air, perhaps his mixed anatomy accounting for his tolerance. But he looks at you, clearly touched that you’re paying enough attention to his physical needs to look out for him in that way, that you care enough.

“I think I am good,” he murmurs, though he shifts his weight. A genuine, warm softness spreads across his expression. He respects your concern too much to argue, and he doesn’t want to make you worry. He walks over to the entryway flap, pausing there to let the heavy material hang open. He takes a few casual breaths of the unfiltered, thicker forest air, chest expanding just slightly against his leather band.

You watch from the corner of your eyes, letting your gaze trail down his wide back and the long, thick braid that traces above his spine. Reaching the corner where your mini fridge hums, you open the door and pull out the mason jar of cold-brewed coffee you’d prepped the night before- dark, concentrated. Just what you need to give your brain that jumpstart. You give it a shake, the ice clinking sharply against the glass. The sound makes Neteyam’s ears give a reflexive twitch from the doorway.

He turns, watching you for another long moment before he lets the flap fall back into the place, cloaking the two of you in privacy once more.

"That is the black water that makes you move fast," he observes, stepping back in to lean back against the center pole of the tent, his frame dwarfing the space. He watches with a mix of fascination and mild disgust as you reach back into the fridge and pull out a bright red can of whipped cream. "And the mountain of white foam. You eat like a larva."

You scoff, rolling your eyes to the ceiling at his judgements, and set the red can down on the counter with a purposeful, echoing clack."It’s called a treat, Neteyam. Try to keep up.”

You grab a long-handled spoon and begin stirring your coffee, the dark liquid swirling into a little tornado-whirlpool in the jar. The sound of the metal clinking against the glass becomes the loudest thing for a fleeting moment. You look up at him through your lashes, catching the way his golden eyes follow the circular motion of your hand. You can tell it’s killing him not to make another comment, and his mouth eventually wins out over his internal fight for politeness.

"Why do you move the water so much?" he asks, taking a curious step closer. He looms over the counter, his shadow swallowing your workspace. He reaches out a long, blue finger, hovering it just above the rim of the jar but not touching it. "Does it not taste the same if it is still?"

"It’s about the texture," you explain, your smile widening as you watch his nose wrinkle in confusion. "Everything has to be just right before the finishing touch."

You stop stirring and pick up the can of whipped cream, giving it a couple of test shakes. The rattling of the internal ball makes him tilt his head so far his braids brush past his pecs. You keep your gaze on your drink, hiding your amusement. "How do you even know what whipped cream is?" you ask, a genuine giggle escaping you, not letting the fact get lost.

You lean back against the edge of your counter, holding the jar of coffee like a shield. "I know I taught you about coffee, but I definitely haven't introduced you to… whatever you called it. White mountain?”

He nods once, curtly, as if the white foam mountain is a serious endeavor between the two of you.

“You've been doing your homework without me?" You raise a playful brow at him, prodding. With a flourish, you invert the red can over your drink. The sharp psshhh of the nozzle makes his ears flatten instantly against his head, a look of pure suspicion crossing his face as a perfect fluffy heap of white cream spirals onto the dark surface of the coffee.

"That stuff is so weird," he mutters, his voice dropping into a growl of fascination. He takes a half-step closer, looming over the counter to peer into the jar. He watches the foam sit buoyantly on the liquid, his tail giving an agitated flick. "How does the small metal tube hold so much of it? It comes out like a cloud, but it is trapped?"

"Gosh, I don’t even want to get into that," you groan with a lopsided grin, shaking the can one last time before setting it down. "It’s a whole thing. Pressure, gas, physics... It’s just... science. Just trust the can, Neteyam."

He doesn't look convinced. He reaches out, his hand hovering just inches away from the peak of the whipped cream. He looks like he’s trying to decide if the ‘cloud’ is a poison or a snack. He tilts his head, pupils dilating as he focuses on a single bubble in the foam.

"Science," he repeats, the word sounding almost like a mild insult when he says it. "Your people love to trap things. The air, the water, the light.. clouds for your morning water."

You let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, setting the spoon down with a rattle. This dude. Almost racist. Basically friendly fire! You lean your hip against the edge of the counter looking up at him with a sneaky smile. You can’t help but love the way he postures—this big, noble warrior acting like a pressurized can of dairy is a profound offense.

"Oh, please. Don't act so high and mighty," you tease, feeling the familiar flutter in your belly as you test your dynamic again. You wiggle your brows at him, your eyes glinting. "Let's not forget about that twenty-five percent."

You revel in the way your words instantly gnaw at his nerves. His posture stiffens as he exhales a frustrated, dramatic huff, shoulders rising and falling in the motion. He rakes his hands through his braids roughly, agitatedly, pulling at the roots of his hair as if he could physically drag the thought of his head.

“Do not remind me,” he grumbles, though his voice is softened by his reluctant smile. He looks up from the drink, cutting his eyes at you just once, just to get across how oh so angry he truly is. “This cream. Does it taste like cloud? Or does it just hide the bitter of the black water you love so much?

"A little bit of both," you admit, taking a daringly large sip and ending up with a tiny white mustache of cream on your upper lip. You don't even realize it's there until you see his gaze drop to your mouth, his expression shifting from curiosity to angled focus.

"You have... a bit of the cloud," he murmurs, his voice slipping away from playful. He tells you this, but makes no move to tell you where. Just stands there, taking more interest in the researcher than any possible research you could provide.

"Get it off," you prod, despite feeling exactly where it is now that he’s brought attention to it. What kind of intelligent would you be, though, if you passed up another opportunity to draw him closer?

"Come here."

Neteyam doesn’t hesitate, his instinct to be helpful overriding his suspicion of the concept of whipped cream. He steps closer until he has to lean, until his warm presence is right in your personal space. But instead of letting him use his finger or grab a cloth, you lean forward and shamelessly wipe your upper lip against the smooth, firm muscle of his arm.

"Eyuck!" he yelps almost instantly, his body jolting as if he’d been struck by a stray spark from a fire. He pulls his arm back, staring at the white smudge on his azure skin with something akin to horror. “That is... it is sticky! Why would you put the cloud on me?"

You don’t even try to stifle your laughing fit, the bright sound echoing off the tent walls as you watch him try and figure out how to clean himself without making it worse. It is truly not that deep! Seeing him so ruffled is too much of an opportunity to pass up. You grab the red can again, giving it a threatening shake.

“You think that’s bad?” you tease, your eyes literally sparkling. You aim the nozzle and send a little burst of white foam flying his way with a loud pshhh. He exhales a startled guttural sound, something halfway between a hiss and a yelp, and he steps backward, tail wagging rapidly. For such a strong warrior who can track a viperwolf through pitch black, he is almost comedically outmatched by a can of Reddi-wip. Everyone has their weakness.

“Tìftiatutsyìp, stop! You are making a mess!” he calls out, voice cracking between scared, breathless chuckles. He dodges behind your heavy equipment crate like it’s a shield, peeking his head from the side to keep a keen eye on you.

“It’s just whipped cream, Neteyam! It won’t bite!” you take a step toward his hiding spot, the can raised like a weapon. He’s laughing now, a deep bark he’s clearly trying to suppress, his face genuinely bewildered.

He glares at you, ears twitching playfully. “Crazy, crazy girl. Your black water is driving you mad.” he pants, fangs on display at his grin. “I come to see if you are awake, and I get desecrated, brutally.”

He is so damn dramatic!

He starts to creep around the side of the crate, his hands up as if surrendering, but his tail continues to twitch in a way that tells you he’s already planning his counter attack if you don’t behave. “If I get that in my hair, I am going to throw you in the river… I mean it.”

“Welp. Guess I might be going in,” you say softly, your wicked grin clashing with your calm tone. You lunge forward before he can process your threat, aiming a perfect frothy dollop of cream onto the center of his toned stomach.

He freezes, staring down at his belly, where the stark white sits in ridiculous contrast against his dark blue skin and his surrounding, now slightly glowing freckles.

He mumbles your name through a disbelieving grunt, and you only grin wider as he raises his eyes slowly to yours. “You did not just do that, did you?”

“I absolutely did,” you chip, holding the can like a trophy. “And I have tons more where that came from.”

“You are going to clean this off. Right now.” he takes a step toward you, his shadow swallowing you whole. “Do I look like a dessert to you?” he queries, letting his brow ridges raise.

Well….. he is pretty delicious looking, whip cream adorned or not.

“Can’t say.” you defend, backing up weakly toward your cot as his large hands reach out for you. He’s surprisingly fast for his size, even in the cramped confines of the tent. His fingers graze your waist, and your let out a shriek of laughter, ducking under his arm.

But Neteyam is done being made a fool. Before you can even shake the can again, his hand somehow catches your wrist, wrapping firmly around the bone so firmly that it makes the metal can feel useless. He uses his strength to steer you back toward the counter.

“You think this is funny, tawtute?” His tail thumps lightly against your leg, betraying his sternness. He’s absolutely loving this. He grabs your hand, the one that isn’t holding the can, and guides it up toward his stomach. His fingers interlace with yours as he forces you to feel the cold, airy fluff against his hot, hard abs.

You shake your head no, your words failing you. You know if you try talking, you’re going to laugh in his face and rile him up even more.

"Clean it." he huffs, a little smirk finally breaking through his indifference. "Or I promise you, the river will be the least of your worries."

He sounds entirely too serious, entirely too brooding, and significantly sexier than he’s clearly intending to be.

"Okay, okay! Truce!" you gasp, trying to will your mind to less explicit waters. You drop the can onto the counter, and his hand releases yours in tandem. "Just... stay still. You're so dramatic, Neteyam."

"I am dramatic?" he repeats, standing his ground. “You are the one attacking me, let’s not forget.”

"Hold still," you giggle, knowing he’s absolutely right, but refusing to give him the satisfaction of a real apology. Your eyes flit to the wet wipes perched on your counter, and back at his belly. They are clean, they are efficient, and they would be the sensible thing to use.

You ignore them entirely.

Stepping just a little closer to him, the heat radiating off his body makes your skin tingle. You look down at the dollop, now slightly melting in a tantalizing, slow drip down the line of his muscles.

Before he can ask what you are doing, before he can even blink, you lean in. The scent of him, that mix of clean and that damn delicious oil, fills your senses, dizzying and heavy. You press your tongue against the cool, sweet cream on his stomach, the sensation of his taut, heated skin against your mouth sending flutters though your body. You lick a clean swipe right off his skin, your eyes fluttering shut as the flavor of vanilla hits your tongue, mixed with the salt of his skin.

He’s instantly affected, his inhale ragged and sharp, midsection twitching beneath your touch. His hand pinning yours to his midsection tightens around yours,fingers curling tight and hot around your skin. A startled, breathless sound tears from his throat, halfway a laugh, halfway a shuddering moan that vibrates through the packed muscle of his stomach against your lips.

"What... what are you doing?" he gasps, his voice rough and stripped of his usual composure.

"Can't have food waste," you mumble against his sleek skin, catching another bit of the foam. "It’s a limited resource on Pandora, you know. Very precious."

You look up at him through your lashes, your chin still hovering just inches from his navel. Up close, his bioluminescence glows like stars against a blue, striped sky, and you can see the muscle in his jaw clenching as he tries to process the sensation of your tongue on him again. His hand, previously hovering loosely by his side, moves instinctively to your shoulder, the warmth of his palm seeping past the thin material of your tee.

Surprisingly, he isn’t pulling back. He’s leaning into it just a hair, his hips tilting forward to keep you right where you are. His ears at the tips flush a darker purple, telling you exactly how much he’s enjoying your cleanup.

“You are…” he starts, his voice gravelly for a moment. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly. “You are very thorough…” he exhales a shaky hum of approval, a little smirk beginning to adorn his lips. For someone so scared of whipped cream, that same fear is now nowhere to be found.

You give him one last lick, standing a little straighter when you’re done.

“Is there more waste that needs tending to?” he asks, his accent making your knees feel like jelly. He shifts his weight, thumb tracing the line of your collarbone slowly, where your shirt hangs loosely off your shoulder. “I find I am suddenly very interested in this human science of yours. I think I’m starting to see the value in it.”

"I mean, I don’t know," you murmur, your voice a little airy as you tongue the very last trace of sweetness from your own lips. You step back just an inch, smoothing your hands over his now-damp abs as if checking your work, his other hand finding its way to your shoulder. "You look clean. I look clean." You give a casual, ‘mission accomplished’ shrug, completely downplaying your act.

He stills for a moment, looking down at his own torso, then back at you, eyes swirling with a mix of disbelief and a very obvious, newfound craving.

HIs long arm reaches past you, not even having to lean to find the red canister on the counter, behind your back. His fingers wrap around the metal tentatively, feeling its cold weight. In his hands, it looks like a miniature toy, and he gives it a shake, experimentally rattling its contents.

With a confident flick of his finger, he presses the trigger, a fresh, thick drop of whipped cream landing on the bottom of his pec, much larger than the first dollop. He sets the can back down with a quiet clink and looks at you, a far too handsome grin spreading along his face.

“Uhh, no.” he shrugs, mocking your own. “I am not.”

There is absolutely no way he is doing this. Your brain scrambles, completely frying because… what in the world? You’re surprised, and deeply, pleasantly thrilled. You really didn’t think your clumsy advances would be returned by him like this, let alone with this much confidence. He’s slick, that’s for sure. You allow your brows to furrow. “You.. you aren’t?”, you ask, stupidly, your brain turning into a pile of goo.

He hooks a long finger beneath the hem of your tee, his knuckles grazing the bare skin of your belly as he gives a firm tug, pulling you closer until your bare toes rest on top of his massive feet.

“Nope. I think you missed a spot.” his tail gives a little thump against the counter in his anticipation. “I would hate for there to be… what did you call it? Food waste.”

“Neteyam, no way,” you breathe out, a startled giggle bubbling up as you stare at the fresh cream sitting tantalizingly on his chest. You know you’re lying to yourself, you know exactly how much you want to lick it up just like the first time. The edge of the counter is already biting slightly into your lower back, leaving you absolutely no room to retreat. Not that you could escape if you wanted to.

"Why not?" he murmurs, drawing out the vowels.“You’re afraid of your own conservation endeavors?”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” you lie, the breathiness of your tone completely ruining any attempt at looking tough.

“Prove it to me.” he teases, nearly, like the brother he is. His finger fidgets under your shirt, spiraling the fabric into a coil before letting it go.

You swallow hard, your eyes dropping down to the stark white sitting against his smooth, sapphire skin. It’s melting even faster this time, warmed by the heat radiating off his chest. A tiny white droplet breaks away from the main pile, starting a lazy trail down the center of his chest, tracking right over the subtle indentation of his sternum.

You can't take it anymore, not even if you tried.

You rise on your tippy toes, small palms flattening against the sides of his ribs to steady yourself. He hisses softly through his teeth the second your palms make more contact with his bare skin, whole upper body flexing under his skin. You tilt your head upward, pressing your mouth directly to the base of his pec and dragging your tongue upward, catching the melting drip first.

You take your time with this one. The whipped cream is freezing against your lips, but his skin is practically burning, his body melting the white foam into a sweet, glossy glaze.

His grip on the hem of your shirt tightens, his three fingers bunching the fabric as his breath hitches against your hair. You swirl your tongue around the thickest part of the dollop, licking it away with slow swipes, occasionally letting your lips brush the smooth muscle of his chest. Every time you swallow, you can feel the rapid rise and fall of his breathing, chest heaving under your hands as he tries to maintain some semblance of control, completely paralyzed by the feel of your soft mouth moving against him.

By the time you tongue away the very last white speck, your lips are slick and your own heart is hammering so hard you’re certain he can hear it. You stay there for a second, your forehead resting gently against his chest, just breathing him in. His skin is damp now, smelling much of vanilla and that clean, masculine musk that belongs entirely to him.

Neteyam’s hand moves from your shirt, long fingers sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck, thumb lifting your chin until you’re forced to look up at him. He looks entirely dazed, a soft smile hovering on his expression.

"You missed another spot."

You blink, totally confused, your brain still working on a huge, five-second delay. "What? No I didn't. I got all of it."

His thumb shifts, pressing gently against your own lower lip, tracing the small, sticky smear of whipped cream you’d left there yourself. His gaze drops to your mouth, heavy and unblinking.

"Right here," he murmurs, eyes tracking the little smear.

You try to look down at it, your eyes crossing completely as you attempt to see your own bottom lip, your brows furrowing into a ridiculous, undignified squint. Pretty unsexy.

Neteyam lets out a low chuckle, thick with amusement as he notes the limitations your eyes pose. "Go on, get it off," he tells you, his voice dripping with a lazy, teasing authority.

You squint up at him, your hands still resting on his damp, solid abs, and you give him a flat, unamused look. "You get it," you counter, your voice a little raspy. "You're the one complaining about waste."

You’re sooooo not sneaky. You know exactly what you’re asking of him, and he might know it as well.

He tilts his head, his ears dipping in a perfectly orchestrated display of fake helplessness. His eyes though, they glitter with mischieve. “I cannot reach you.” he lies smoothly, just begging to rile you up. “Too short.” he notes, as if he can’t bend a few paces lower to your reach.

You groan, preparing to defend your reputable height, but it’s almost as if he wants to shut you up. A single hand slides down, settling at your waist, grip impossibly warm against the fabric of your tee. He lifts you effortlessly, as if you weigh nothing more than a stray leaf, plopping you straight backward onto the high edge of the counter.

The shift in height is stark, the metal surface cool, nipping at the warm meat of your thighs where your shirt rides, but it positions you perfectly. You’re much higher, still forced to tilt your neck, but not absolutely crane it. Your knees frame his torso almost absentmindedly, your faces perfectly distanced enough for him to reach without having to duck drastically.

Usually, you would not be so casual about having food at the side of your mouth. You’d typically be a quick one to lick it up or grab a mirror to examine your precise condition. But you know almost precisely, exactly, what he is trying to do, and you want to exactly, precisely do that same thing.

"Let me get it..." he says softly, as he steps deeper into the narrow V of your legs.

A faint, rational voice in the back of your mind tries to warn you that you shouldn't be doing this. You know you shouldn’t. Weekend off or not, backlog of data entry or not, you are a professional. You have a rigorous job to do, data points to clean, and a strict laboratory protocol to maintain. Messing around with Pandora's natives, let alone the eldest son of the Olo'eyktan, has never been, and would never be, in the description. The corporate higher-ups back at the city would have an absolute collective aneurysm if they saw the "research" happening on this counter.

But the truth is, your time to place that professional wall was long ago. It evaporated the very first week he waltzed into this tent with a broken hunting knife and an excess of curiosity.

At this distance, the staggering beauty of him is almost overwhelming. You can see the tiny, faint constellations of bioluminescent stars dotted meticulously along the bridge of his nose and dusting his high cheekbones, glowing softly even in the pale daylight. You can see the minute golden flecks swimming within the shimmery yellow of his irises, reflecting your own wide-eyed expression right back at you. Every single tight stitch of his dark braids is visible, from the heavy beads woven into the ends down to the small wisps at his hairline. You cannot possibly deny him, the beau he is. You don't even want to try.

Neteyam leans closer just a little bit more, the space between your noses vanishing entirely. His breath is warm against your cheek, smelling faintly sweet himself. His heavy gaze lowers, long eyelashes casting soft shadows over his cheekbones as he focuses entirely on the swell of your lower lip.

His head tilts slowly, his pink tongue swiping across the corner of your lip to catch the small, sticky smear of whipped cream that you’d somehow gathered moments before. The sensation is such a rush… wet, cool, and a total tease as the rougher texture of his tongue drags across the sensitive skin of your lip, lingering just long enough to make your fingers tighten together, before he smoothly pulls back.

He doesn't retreat far, just an inch or two, staying firmly embedded within the space of your thighs, his thumb still resting heavily against the side of your neck where your pulse is absolutely thudding against his palm. He works the flavor around his mouth, his brow ridges knitting together in a quiet, thoughtful concentration as his brain registers the burst of artificial sugar.

"Very sweet," he tells you as he swallows thickly. It’s a concentrated sweetness that his palate is entirely unaccustomed to, but the lazy, incredibly satisfied grin that slowly spreads across his face makes it clear it’s a human custom he could easily get behind.

“Mhmm, it is," you slur, your voice completely dazed as you flutter your lashes at him, your brain still spinning from the cool, wet residue of his touch.

Observant as he is, he doesn’t miss a single thing. His dilated eyes track the sharp way your tongue darts out just after his, tracing the exact same path to lick where he just had, tasting the lingering mix of sugar and his saliva.

"Y'like it?" you query, lightly.

He nods once, lowering his chin at you. His gaze remains anchored to your mouth, thumb smoothing a warm line up the side of your throat until it rests right against your excited pulse. "It is good," he murmurs, his deep voice sliding over the words like honey.

The warmth of his expression gives you a little extra facade of corage, emboldening you. You lean a little closer, tilting your chin up just a fraction more until the space between your lips thins. Your hands slide up from the hard ridges of his waist to rest tentatively against his smooth collarbones.

You need that, need him, real, real bad.

You can feel the hot, sweet puff of his breath against your mouth, and you’re just about to take the leap when he takes a pause.

His head tilts just an inch back, a wry, all knowing expression written all over him. “Why are you trying to kiss me?”

God, way to put you on the spot.

He asks it so casually, so cavalier, much more forward than you’d imagine him to be. You exhale a defensive hmph, cheeks instantly burning with their bloodrush. Your eyes roll in an attempt to look annoyed, despite being exactly where you want to be. You tighten your legs around him, as if you could physically punish him for being so slick.

"Just wanna," you mumble, deflecting his teasing by averting your gaze, as you try to look anywhere but at his sexily smug visage. Your fingers give him a weak shove.

He chuckles again, heavy enough to roll right into your palms. He loves it when you get this way, hiding your embarrassment behind a sharp tongue.

“You ‘just wanna’?” he repeats, accent wrapping around your words in his mockery, making them sound incredibly intimate. He leans further into your space, completely erasing the small distance you’d tried to create.

“Yes, Neteyam, shut up,” you complain, shifting your weight on the counter to try and regain some dignity, but you’ve moved not an inch. He won’t allow it. “You’re the one who put me up here. If you didn't want me to, you shouldn’t have made it such an easy reach.” Your eyes helplessly trace his, entirely focused on you, adorned with mirth.

“I did not say I did not want it.”

His long arm reaches right past your side again, and you hear the small, muffled spurt of the nozzle, blinking, completely missing what he’s playing at until he pulls his hand back. His large thumb is coated in a fresh drop of the white cream, and he casually swipes it right across the center of his own, plump lower lip. He lets it rest there, a stark, fluffy line against his deep skin. He keeps his eyes locked on yours through his lashes, so unbothered, almost daring you to keep up with him.

Well, you are absolutely not going to pass up a chance like that.

A giddy grin breaks from your pout, and you lean a little closer, eyes zeroing in on his lips, the tiny gap between your mouths.You tilt your head, tongue darting out to lick up a little bit of the cream, catching the airy sweetness on your tastebuds. It’s just as good as the first time, a rush of sugar atop his undeniable heat. You start to pull back, fully intending to keep up the little back and forth the two of you have been running all morning.

"No, come back..." he grunts softly, forcing you still at his command

His long fingers shift from the side of your neck, sliding backward to bury securely into the hair at your nape, anchoring you right where you are. You take the hint, leaning back into him, tongue sliding out again to lick away the cream fully from his lip.

But before you can pull your tongue back into your mouth, his larger, darker lips close firmly, capturing your tongue right between them. A tiny gasp hitches in your throat at his initiative, but he’s already moving, his mouth incredibly soft as he gently nibbles on the tip of your tongue with his fangs, the sharp edges of his teeth playfully grazing you in a way that renders you shivering.

The whipped cream slides right between the two of you, the cold foam melting instantly under the combined heat of your mouths, turning into something slick and sweet that erases any lingering friction.

You kiss him back instantly, your body reacting before your brain can catch up, even as your mind blanks. Your lips part as you try to guide his much larger into a shape that’s a little more familiar, something easier for your smaller stature to digest. He follows your lead seamlessly, tilting his head further to deepen the angle, to get more of you.

Wanting him closer, your hands slide off his ribs and creep lower. You sleep your fingers right beneath the thick leather strap of his chest band, using the study material as leverage to pull his heavy torso firmly against yours, ‘til your chest is flush against his.

He exhales a sharper, more breathless sound against your mouth when your fingers slip closer, his chest expanding fully as his muscles bunch up beneath your palms. He deepens the kiss, his larger mouth shifting over yours with a clumsy but entirely consuming focus, swallowing up your small gasps as you work together to find that sweet spot where your different sizes actually fit.

You let out a muffled whine into the back of his throat when his thumb presses firmly into the soft skin right behind your ear, a shudder running straight down your spine. He’s breathing harder now, getting more affected now. He nuzzles his flat nose against yours as he kisses you, slowing a little, trying to savor this the best he can.

When he finally catches his breath, he pulls back just a couple of inches, chest heaving against your front, eyelids heavy and half-shut.

“Doctor… stop..” he pants, the words all drawn out in the sexiest, groaning tone you have ever heard in your life, his deep voice cracking just a little bit from his breaths.

Second time today!

You huff. “I’m not a–”

He completely shuts you up, pressing his mouth right back down onto yours, muffling the rest of your sentence with another deep kiss. He doesn’t even want to hear the correction right now. His hand falls away from the back of your head entirely, dropping down because he knows with a certainty that you aren't going anywhere, that you want to kiss him just as bad as he wants to kiss you.

But to make sure of it, that you’re staying put, you feel a smooth pressure winding around your leg. His tail snakes upward, wrapping tightly around your knee, tugging you with a casual strength you had no clue it even possessed. The pull drags you further toward the edge of the counter, forcing your thighs to widen, sliding your hips even closer to his hot body.

Your hands grip his chestpiece for dear life as his now ample hands begin to wander, warm palms finding their way right under your tee shirt, the sudden heat making your muscles instantly contract. They dig firmly into the bareness of your waist, holding you incredibly tight against him, caressing the soft curve of your flanks. His fingers flex and caress, slowly discovering the foreign shape of you desperately.

He pulls you forward by your midsection, until your ass is nearly hovering above the edge of the counter. You shudder beneath his fingers, every nerve ending alight in their stimulation. You realize just how much bigger he is than you when his fingers span around your sides. But you’re not afraid, not even close, not even a lil. If anything, it makes you want him more, want to see how much more of you he can hold.

“You are so warm," he murmurs directly against your mouth, breaking your kisses for a fleeting moment. His hands slip a few inches higher along your ribs, bunching the thin fabric of your tee between fingers from the inside. “You should let me take this off you."

Halfway, it’s an attempt to be helpful, acting as if he’s just trying to save you from the humid air building up inside these tent-walls. But the other half of him is simply trying to take you in completely, let his hungry eyes eat you up.

He cannot possibly be dense. Surely he can feel your lack of undergarments. Is he not familiar with how women sleep? Gosh.

“I don’t have on a bra…” you whisper, your torso squirming almost on instinct in his grip.

He doesn’t even as much as blink, his ears perking in amusement at your sudden coyness.

“Then we’ll match, yeah?”

Yeah, like he has tits to cover.

He bites his lower lip, his sharp fangs sinking slightly into the flesh as he pulls back just enough to let his amorous eyes lock fully onto yours. He keeps his large hands steady on your bare waist, his thumb tracing a gentle, reassuring circle against your side.

"Only if you are comfortable," he adds tenderly, giving you every opportunity to place the wall back up if things are moving all too fast for you. Your pace is the only one he’s interested in following.

You’re quiet for a second, which only allows the vulnerability of the moment seep even further between the two of you. But looking at the devotion and genuinity written all over his face… it makes it hard to hesitate at all. You let go of his leather and slowly hold your arms up toward the ceiling, giving him the leeway to strip your top.

His eyes crinkle at the corners as he watches you submit. Noncommittal, he reaches to the strap of his own adorning, slipping it off his torso, letting the dark fibers slip down his arm before tossing it over his shoulder. It hits the floorboards of your tent somewhere in the cramped corner, and you know you’ll spend minutes looking for it when things are all said and done.

He’s not even half as hasty when he returns his attention to you, his hands the epitome of gentle as he begins to guide the fabric of your shirt upward. He stops for a second when the collar reaches your skin, eyes focused on ensuring your nose and face don’t catch against the neckline. He maneuvers the shirt over your crown, crumpling the fabric and settling it onto the counter beside you with a quiet rustle.

He stands back up to his full height, taking in the sight of you. A huge smile breaks across his face as his gaze lowers, fixating with unshielded adoration on your bare breasts. There’s zero judgement in his eyes, simply raw, beautiful fascination with your frame.

Before you can even grow self conscious under his heavy eyes, before you could even make a peep to break the sudden quiet of the room, his long arm reaches past your side. You hear that same familiar pssshttt of the nozzle, only it lasts much longer this time. You’re not even processing the sound when a cold heap of white slickness is smacked directly onto your chest, landing over and between your breasts with a soft plop

Obviously you’re gasping at this blue man’s audacity, upper body jumping as the icy dairy hits your warm skin. You look down, eyes wide with disbelief at the ridiculous mess covering your chest, already beginning to soften and liquefy from your basal heat.

He’s only grinning bigger, almost barking out a laugh at your distaste.

“Sully!” you groan, pretty damn outraged, using his family name to try and sound authoritative. Your brows knit in an undignified squint. “There’s deadass no way you’re playing me this way.”

He holds his hands up, ducking his head slightly in an entirely fake display of innocence. “Sorry…” he drags the vowels out. He’s not. “I am sorry. It was a mistake, I accidentally dirtied you.”

He’s absolutely horrible at sarcasm, that’s something sure. He can’t even hold back that smile if he tries. To make his case even less believable, he shrugs his shoulders much too casually to be remorseful.

He changes his stance though, crouching a little, frame dropping lower until his striking face is level with your chest, completely inviting the personal space between your knees. His breath is warm against your collarbone as he leans in close.

With a tilt of his head, his lips part as he presses his mouth right to the soft skin of your neck, pink tongue lazily dragging upward wetly, catching some whipped cream that splattered there. He slides downward, tracing the curve of your collarbone before moving to the top of your shoulder, his rougher, feline papillae scraping lightly against your much sensitive flesh. Your breathing shakes, your legs shake. The concept of being annoyed at him is much forgotten.

He pauses for a moment, his chin resting lightly against the curve of your chest as he looks up through his long lashes, his eyes locked onto yours from only inches away..

"It is not as fun when you are the messy one, yes?" he teases softly, a low, thumb gently tracing the side of your bare ribs to keep you right where he wants you.

Hoooooly shit. What is he trying to do?

You’re taken aback by his proximity, nearly sliding straight off the counter if it weren’t for his grounding hands. Your skin tingle right where the heavy line of his chin rests on your chest, every muscle in your body wound tight in your anticipation. God, you are so incredibly excited.

"I’m gonna tell your dad you’re being this freaky," you threaten, but the wide, giddy smile splitting your face shows snitching is the last thing you’d ever do.

Neteyam doesn’t even look remotely startled. He knows just as well as you do that Jake would probably stand there all confused, rubbing his temples. Everyone knows that his mother’s the one who possesses all the wrath. But he humors you, anyway, playing along with your jab with that infuriatingly attractive wit of his.

"Please, please do not, Tìftiatutsyìp," he pleads softly, still dragging out his vowels as if he’s at your mercy. He flops his ears down, not breaking eye contact with you for a second.

He lets his lips press a warm, wet kiss right against the skin he rests on, at the very top of your cleavage. You shiver at the feel, which only makes him more eager.

He moves, placing more slow, messy kisses across the slope of your breasts, the smooth motion of his mouth intentionally spreading the melting white cream across your skin until your even more covered. He allows his hand to trail up your side until he reaches your breast, cupping it instantly. The size of his hand swallows the soft flesh while he squeezes, a much more helpless gasp escaping you.

The rough pad of his finger casually rubs over your nipple just once. His head tilts as he notes the immediate, tight reaction of your body.

“It feels nice here, right?”

“Mhmmmm,” you slur out, your fingers instinctively burying themself into his coarse braids to keep him right there. You don’t want him to stop. Not now, not ever.

His wet lips trail lower, tracing the sticky, white path, leaving a slick line as he kisses his way down the slope of your skin. He lowers until he presses his mouth directly over your now hardened nipple. He kisses you right there, his larger lips parting as he shallowly works his mouth over the sensitive peak, letting his tongue spread the sugary mess in slow swirls until you are tastily, slickly covered in the melting cream. Your fingers tighten into his hair, your head dropping back as a wave of pure pleasure crashes through you. You wouldn't have expected him to play with you this way in a million years, so stoic, completely melting away into someone so shameless.

Your breaths grow ragged as he draws you fully into his mouth. “Neteyam, oh my-”

He doesn’t even let you look away, eyes wide and unblinking, locked on yours. He watches the way your lower lip trembles, the way your eyes struggle to even stay open. He’s so gentle, his fangs lightly grazing you in a way that makes your hips twitch against his dense muscles.

He draws back only when he has to take a small breath, lips slick and glistening. He stays close to you, close enough to let you feel his throat work while he swallows, satisfied. “You look so beautiful like this.” He reaches up with his left hand, wiping a stray splatter from your neck, touch remarkably delicate for someone who handles bows and spears for a living. “All messy.”

“Quiet.” you tut, pulling him back down by his hair before he can tease you any further, your arousal thoroughly awake at this point.

Neteyam gives you a quick, ‘suit yourself’ look, brow ridges rising in faux indifference. He shifts his weight, crowding his huge frame even deeper between the narrow crook of your legs. His braids slide cooly against your bare belly as he targets your other breast, taking you in and sucking significantly more roughly and tightly this time. He can feel the immediate jolt that races through your body, and his cheek dimples with his cheshire grin.

He absolutely loves having this much of an effect on you, essentially turning your brain to nothing more than a pile of goo. He nurses your sensitivity right between his warm lips, pulling at you deliberately. He allows his teeth to massage and nibble at the peak, digging in a little less playfully at your swollen flesh.

It’s so overwhelming, so insanely good, that a helpless squeal slips straight from your throat as you ride out the wave of sensations he is so effortlessly pulling out of you, completely lost in this side of him you had no idea he’s been hiding. Your sweet sounds only excite him more, and it isn’t long before he notices a distinct, nagging stir shifting underneath the fabric of his tewng. He finds himself shifting closer, rutting flatly against the hard edge of the counter, easing himself the best he can.

Finally, he releases your breast with a deeply satisfied pant, the cool air inside instantly smoothing over your damp skin. You can’t even believe what you’re seeing when you tilt your eyes low. The soft skin of your areola and nipple is flushed a deep, bluey-purple from his prodding.

Neteyam notices it too, not even trying to hide his glee as his eyes follow yours. “You want to be my color, ‘uh?” he chuckles lightly, blinking up at you much too innocently, considering where his mouth was just seconds ago.

“You’re ruining the merchandise,” you whine, playfully, cutting your eyes at him. You lean forward, shamelessly smushing your bare chest right back into his face.

Hey, distance is something you can only handle for so long, it seems.

Your palms grip him wherever they can, begging him not to stop.

He takes the hint instantly, swirling his tongue around your sensitivity to catch the last melting traces of sugar. He runs his tongue along your valley, licking up the melting remains, swallowing them down with a satisfied gulp.

“Should not matter,” he tells you gently. His thumbs smooth over you as he looks up into your dazed expression. There’s a raw vulnerability in his irises as they search yours, as if he is almost begging you to understand the weight of what he’s saying. “See it that this view is for only my eyes. No one else.”

"I wouldn't dream of looking down at any other eyes," you reflect, immediately, offering him the exact reassurance he’s starving for, before you can even think to be professional last-ditch and censor your mind.

At any rate, what you said definitely was the right thing to say. He begins peppering those messy kisses all over your chest again, completely dotting you with his warmth. Swiftly, effortlessly, he hooks his arm right around your lower back, hoisting you up until you’re floating against his broad torso, clinging. Your inner thighs clamp tighter around his packed waist to keep your balance. As he holds you securely, his free hand reaches back blindly onto the counter, his long fingers instantly clutching the blasted red can of whipped cream that had started this entire sticky situation in the first place. He clearly has no intention of putting it away just yet.

You cling tightly around his neck, knotting your fingers into his nape as a massive colony of butterflies erupts and disperses in your belly. You needily smush your messed chest right against him, soaking in the delicious direction of your skin against his. He carries you across the narrow aisle of the tent and places you onto your oversized cot, moving with such care as he lays your back down against the rumpled sleeping bag.

He doesn’t waste a second settling over you, straddling your legs between his knees to anchor you to the mattress. His frame completely blocks the filtering sunlight, rendering him the absolute center of your attention.

"God, why'd you bring the can! Put it down," you snigger, a breathless laugh escaping you as you furrow a little brow at his stubborn behavior.

His head shakes, dark braids following the motion with a soft click-clack. “Not a single chance.” He sets the metal canister down onto the small crate as the side of your bed with a hollow clink, keeping it much too close for comfort.

He shifts his weight to settle more firmly over your lap, but your standard human cot is hilariously ill-equipped for his proportions. His long, muscular legs and those flippers he calls feet completely run out of bedding to rest on, forcing his lower calves to dangle awkwardly off the frame, his feet planting flat onto the cold floorboards past the mattress. It’s genuinely laughable, and you snort at the sight, earning from him, a huff. He leans down, giving your forehead a sharp, playful little flick with his knuckle

"This is funny to you? I find no humor," he grumbles, still cheesing. He instantly soothes the spot he just thumped, pressing a soft, warm kiss right against your brow.

"Okay, Goliath," you retort with a lopsided grin, playfully poking your tongue out at him.

He leans in quick, tonguing you down in another sloppy, sweet kiss. You had your tongue out. You were basically begging for it. He drops his weight down, planking at his elbows with over his shoulders so he doesn’t crush you. His mouth molds perfectly with his despite the obvious size difference, and he takes his sweet time teasing your mouth.

His lips trail kisses from your lips to your cheek when he’s satisfied… down your jaw. ‘Kisses his way down the column of your neck until he is right back at your tits, his large tongue darting out to lick upward through the remaining whipped cream.

"And this Goliath is who?" he asks against the soft skin between your breasts, breath brushing against your cleavage.

You almost catch yourself shivering, and your hands find his broad shoulders to try and ground yourself. “Hard to focus… when you’re doing this,” you stammer out, weakly wriggling your hips against your bedding.

"I suppose I do not much care for the answer," he teases, sliding his lips to the side, sucking a fat chunk of your soft skin right into his inviting mouth. He lets his blunt teeth rub at the flesh before his fangs lightly graze the area, leaving a large, crazily obvious purple hickey in its spot. He is only playing with you of course, he’d be happy to listen in on any lore you provide him.

Your chest, now, after what seemed like hours is thoroughly cleaned, the skin glistening and wet under the dim morning light, purple and white love bites replacing the previous white. He shifts his immense weight with a consent sigh, dropping his jaw down until his chin rests squarely against your collarbone. He tilts his face upward just enough to look at you, large eyes fixed on yours from an angled perspective, almost as if he’s looking at what lies underneath your skin.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

You exhale a soft, nervous snicker, thumbing at his eyelashes at his ask. “Oh geez, what? Did you do something? Break one of my samples?”

“No,” he huffs amusedly, expanding his hard chest against your front. “Nothing like that.”

“Tell me anything.” you encourage, skating your fingers up to trace the stripes adorning his forehead. “I’m listening.”

Neteyam makes an overdramatic show of looking around from side to side through his peripheral vision, ears twitching as if checking the empty corners of your ‘dollhouse’ for possible spies. Clan members that might suddenly materialize from behind your equipment. He hushes his voice lower, inching toward your ear.

“My body…” he starts, trying to find the words to convey how he feels in english. “There’s a shifting beneath my loincloth.” he sighs against you. “It has been building since, truthfully, the moment I watched you wake up. I want you, very much. Right now.”

You grin, goofily largely, but you could almost laugh. Him telling you that is almost as painfully obvious as grass being green. You twist a strand of his dark braid around your finger, giving it a playful little tug.

“Neteyam, I think the entire tent,” still just you, “Could guess that secret right now.” You give him a meaningful nudge with your hips from underneath, reminding both him and yourself of the very apparent nag that still presses against your lap.

Even as your words ruffle his feathers, he refuses to look away, simply squinting his eyes, registering your accuse. “‘Is that so?” he grumbles, sliding his broad hand down from your flank, splaying his fingers against your thigh. He squeezes the warm meat of your leg, tantalizingly close to the hem of your shorts. “Maybe you should do something to help me out.”

You stare up at him, throat clicking as you swallow down the thick dryness from your mouth. And the way he’s entirely focused on you, tells you he isn’t playing dumb anymore, like at all. If anything, he’s only pushing his luck, seeing as far as he can go. And you of course, allow all the urges.

“And what exactly would you require?”

He shifts his frame, snaking his hand further up, broad palm pushing past the thin cotton of your shorts. He guides you smoothly with strength so effortless it makes you feel almost like a doll, pulling your hips up just enough to align with his. “I think you know.”

His weight pushes flat against you through the thin layers of fabric, momentarily stealing your breath. His ample hand finds the lower edge of your jaw, tilting your face higher with a soft press to your nape. “I don't think anything in this little house of yours can soothe me, other than you.”

Adrenaline feels as if it’s pouring out your kidneys at his confession. Unable to help yourself, you arch your hips upward, almost completely guided by something primal, a drive beyond your right mind. You shift, trying to gauge his huge size through the linen, and its scope surprises you, even with his overall body in mind. It feels so, so rigid, so thick, stretching as long as that damn whipped cream can itself, and then some.

To him, the shameless rubbing of your soft human body, right on his pelvis, catches him way off his guard. It’s almost a relief, feeling you riiiight there, and a supersoft groan leaves him, as he drops his weight more fully onto you.

"Ah, pxasìk ..." he pants out, his voice cracking slightly as you roll against him again. Your active friction gets him immediately, visibly so much more horny right above you, his panting breaths pressing his rock-hard pecs further into your soft breasts. You almost catch the way his freckles flicker further to life in their dim glow.

He groans around your name, unable to handle your painfully slow pacing. His hand at your thigh tightens, fingers bunching the cotton of your shorts even higher until they ride up your waist. He hitches his own hips forward, rubbing his fat length against you. So deliciously rough it feels, enough that you whimper almost helplessly, losing your cool just that fast. The springs of the flimsy cot gave a protesting creak under the suddenness of his momentum, but Neteyam couldn’t care less about your corporate furnishings at this moment.

Lips fall to your neck in response to those sounds you’re makin’ – hot, wet, panting against your collarbone, telling you wordlessly how deeply you’ve somehow managed to rile him up. He rocks against you again, faster this time, seeking out that friction your small movements had just promised him. Those four fingers become mindless wanderers, digging into your curves urgently. He hooks his thumbs firmly under the garter of your shorts, pushing the material down with an impatient haste that’s out of his usual character.

“Up, up,” he coaxes, stained, creating just enough space over your lap to move. Leans his weight back just enough, propping one meaty blue forearm against the rumpled bedding by your shoulder to give your hips their room.

You feel almost dizzy from the speed of your motions, but you don’t hesitate at all. You’d be fucking crazy to stop short at a time like this, and of course you lift your legs at the hip, and you shimmy and tilt your pelvis backward, helping him slide that fabric down the length of your thighs, letting him cast them to your side.

If he could already smell you before, your scent is completely potent now, filling the tight space between you with that unmistakable decadence. He can’t help the way his nostrils flare, his own body pleading with him, and you, for absolutely more of your essence.

A hot blush screams over your cheeks when you watch him backpedal, clutching your wettened shorts to bring them right up to his nose by the crotch. He takes an unhurried breath, smelling the damp remnants of your arousal at its most concentrated.

“Mmmh.”, accent thicker than ever. “You smell… so sweet.” He drops the shorts carelessly behind you both, his focus returning to the wide, vulnerable space between your thighs. “Sweeter than the cream.”

His eyes track lower, his pupils widening just a taste as he appraises the tiny scrap of fabric between him and what he wants. What an interesting day for you to choose grey underwear. Right in the center of the light fabric, a large, stickily wet spot has settled, forcing the cotton to cling tightly against your plump folds– outlining the obvious shape of your pussy lips.

Neteyam stares at the sight, completely transfixed. Before he can remember to be a gentleman, he’s already reaching between your legs, finger hovering for a moment before it presses directly against the dampest part of the fabric. You’re gasping, and he’s gasping at your gasp, absolutely soaking in your reaction. He hooks his long finger under the damp edge of the fabric, pulling it just a lil to the side, watching the way your puffy lips glisten. “You are soaking through your clothes for me.” Says it like he’s surprised at the fact. Pushes the material firmly between your plump lips until you’re writhing. “‘Little grey clothes cannot even hide it.”

Fingers hook under the tight waistband, warm palms flat against your hips. “Let me see you properly…”

It’s nearly a plea, so longing, so needy. Each line of his attractive face is tight with hunger, eyes searching yours for absolute permission, so dazed.

And you really, really would absolutely love for him to pounce on you, perform exactly what you guess is ravaging his mind. And even still, your stupidly coy words are what leave your mouth, ones that aren’t quite permissive. You’re screaming at yourself as your head shakes, something bratty battling with your submission.

He’s bemused, stunned even. “No?” he’s asking, all up on your neck, inhaling your scent in greedy sniffs. “Whyever not, you clever girl?” he’s chucking now, clearly enjoying the fight you’re trying and failing to put up. Heavy kisses drop onto your sensitive neck, tickling your jawline.

“Because….” shit, what do you even say to this ask without sounding stupid? “Because it’s hiding right now,” you rationalize. Absolutely stupid, nonsensical. But hey, your brain is goop right now, you’re at this point only flapping your gums, trying to keep from dissolving under his stare. Trying to do anything to quell you from completely begging him to just finger you silly.

“Hiding?” He pulls his face back just a taste. “And what could you possibly be hiding in here, from me?”

To investigate your claim, his hand shifts back down to the center of your lap, pressing down firmly as he spreads the sticky wetness that has bled onto the surface of the cotton. Your hips mindlessly circle against his palm, back arching further into him. “Net-” you trail off, trying to keep your composure.

He catches the desperation in your body instantly.

“I feel… hmm,” he mumbles, letting his thick finger nudge directly against the swollen, poking bump of your clit through the soaked cloth, circling it intentionally. He blends his grin into a look of mock-authority, so teasingly stern as he leans his frame even closer over your shoulders. “I feel a threat, right here.”

“You do?”

A nod.

You’re already seeing stars when he rubs up on your clit again. “I have a duty to protect my clan, if you do not know. I must see what you conceal from me.”

“No!” you drawl out in a singsong voice, giggling helplessly, flattening your hands against his collarbones to pretend you’re actually keeping him at bay. “Neteyam, I have a job to do, we can’t go this fa-”

“So do I,” he cuts in, giving the fabric a suggestive tug. He really could rip it away easily if he wanted, and the thought only makes you quiver more. Your boss quite literally would have your head if she knew how you’re spending your morning.

“Last chance to reveal at will.” He warns softly, eyes narrowing into a squint. You stay absolutely put, pressing your back deeper into the rumpled sleeping bag. So, so easy, you are.

He lets out a good-natured tsk against his teeth, shaking his head so that his braids shift against your shoulders. But as he tightens his hands further onto your garter, his provoke drops from his features, melting away into something… something really tender, something deeply attentive. He surveys your expression, making absolutely sure you are completely okay with where this is going.

You look at him through your lashes, heart swelling at the earnest in his stare. You whisper a soft ‘it’s okay’, and it serves almost as a switch, completely chipping away at his hesitation. He doesn’t even bother pulling the messed fabric past your knees, instead sliding your panties to the side, pressing the wet cloth into the crease of your thigh. He doesn’t care in the slightest that his fingers become instantly drenched, coating that deep blue skin in the glossy sheen of your mess.

His reaction to you is so, so hot. His dark brow markings raise sharply, obviously shocked. His mouth parts slightly, almost in a gasp, and his tongue plunges to the corner of his mouth, catching a drop of his own saliva in a heavy swallow just before he actually starts drooling right over your lap. There’s not an ounce of reluctance in his mind holding him back from touching you now– thumb and forefinger soso gently spreading your swollen lips wide apart to completely reveal your pink, weeping flesh. Eyes shamelessly lower directly to your opening, watching the way you twitch under his eyes. You can’t even think of anything to say to steer this back into ‘companion’ territory.

Those thoughts of his race, mind completely zeroing on with the intoxicating knowledge of eventually fitting his massive size into such a tight, welcoming space, inside you.

“Cannot believe you were hiding this from my eyes,” rub, rub, rub. Thumb circling the slick perimeter of your opening, spreading your wetness unobstructed. He can’t believe himself, can’t believe his hands, so perverse in their placement. “So wicked of you. To keep such a beautiful thing all to yourself.

“I’m sharing now!” you tell him, voice coming out in an almost nervous eep. Your hands tighten convulsively into his shoulders, digging into the blue as if trying to steady yourself against the vertigo of his touch.

“Sharing now, mm?” he echoes, even more amused as you fluster. “And how do I know you are not omitting anything else? You researchers… you know that a partial report is a dangerous thing, do you not? How am I sure there are not more secrets buried right here?”

Well damn. Your thoughts scatter like dry leaves in the fall. Your swallow is a cartoonish, audible gulp.

“I gue-guess you gotta check.”

“I must.” His forearm nudges your knee outward, forcing your thighs further apart, opening you up completely to the chilled air and his starved gaze. “It is my duty to be thorough.” You feel so exposed, but fuck, you like it. You like that. And you like it even more when he starts playing with your pussy. Like, actually playing with it. You love it, now. Love it.

You’re cupped fully, long thick fingers toying with your sopping opening, circling your slick around in tight spirals, all around your sensitivity. Pointer and middle fingers slide down to massage the plush, sensitive walls of your opening, pressing and prodding against your tight contours to test how soft and yielding you have become for him. Can’t even talk, you’re squealing weakly like a swine, and he answers each one with a satisfied grunt. His rough skin catches beautifully against your pink walls. Every pinch, every circle, so fuck. So delicious. Pinches your lips together just to hear your squeal again, before circling his entire large palm flatly, massaging you so close, you know you’re about to-

“Can I try something?”

Your half-lidded eyes snap to their full opened- state, an immediate protest bubbling through your fucked-out sounds. ‘God, no!” you’re crying out in a mewl, hand slapping weakly against his huge chest. Your mind instantly flashes to that damn red canister sitting entirely too close at your bedside, and you know exactly where this is going.

His ears twitch back happily, hand stilling on you, cupping you. Another protesting noise leaves you, feeling thoroughly edged. “So…yes?” he asks, as if he’s completely fluent in translating your human protests by now.

You don’t even have it in you to say no. And he takes that as even more of a yes. The pudge of your belly dips when the weight of his head hits it, laid right down on you. His soft, carved cheek scratches at you juuust right, and he tilts his face up, looking up the length of your torso with such a pleading expression, like a boy begging his mom for a hotwheel.

You’re gigglin’ again, fingers tugging his braids to try and hold him still, but he’s already moving, bringing his free hand to your side. He walks two of his long fingers straight up your sensitive side, hitting your absolute most vulnerable, tickly posts with precision, fingers dancing against your ribs until you're squirming, cackling, reduced to putty and defenseless.

“Beetles these days, huh?” While you’re still breathless and defenseless, he reaches blindly to the side, securely wrapping his fingers around the metal of the whipped cream can. The internal ball gives a threatening hiss of a rattle right beside your hip, and his thumb rests suggestively on the plastic trigger, looking at the container and back down at your exposed, glisteny folds.

“Neteyam, stop, please–” you’re gaspin’ trying to wedge your hands under his stupidly sculpted chin to push his head off your belly. Your skin is still tingling, thighs still pinned wide, you’re so so gone.

He gives way to your pushing, only allowing it to tilt his face down, granting himself a perfect view as he positions the nozzle over your exposed folds.

You feel the shockingly cold dollop of the whipped cream land on your warmth before you even hear the can’s hiss cut through the air. He’s absolutely loving the visual, shifting back onto his elbows to get a front row view of his doing.

“Ah! Cold! It’s freezing!” you’re flailing like a much prettier fish out of water, clutching his arm, the feeling so foreign and gushy all over your pussy, and your cheeks sting with bashfulness.

His completely satisfied laugh echoes off the vinyl walls- he loves this, loves the loud, messy unrefinedness of your human reactions, so completely different from the structure he’s so accustomed to from his day to day life.

“It’s cold?” down, down his head lowers, dark browed face crowding into the narrow space between your thighs. "‘Must clean it. I cannot leave you messy, no?” Your thigh glistens after he licks a pearly droplet, and you don’t know whether to go stiff or continue squirming, because you’re already about to cum just from his tongue at your thigh.

Your knees try to slam shut in pure reflex, almost against your mind’s wishes, but thankfully his frame is an immovable wall between your legs. He doesn't budge not an inch, broad palms instantly clamping down on the sides of your hips to lock your lower body flat against your sleeping bag.

“So messy.” he croons, pushing the red can further out his way with his shoulder. The thick foam slides languidly down the slope of your swelling lips, mixing with the glossy sheen of your own abundant moisture, leaving you a sticky mess.

The first swipe of his tongue is rough in the best way. He licks upward from the very bottom of your opening, his broad, textured catty tongue acting like a warm towel that sweeps away the freezing cream, instantly replacing it with the hot of his mouth. Your hands fly back to his hair, your fingers knotting into the coarse strands of his braids so tightly that the wooden beads click loudly against your knuckles, your nails scratching blindly against his blue scalp as you try to cope with the magnitude of the sensation. You’re screaming his name and he groans in answer, loving the sound of it on your lips when you’re like this. He uses his lips to suck a massive chunk of the sweet foam off your left labia, his teeth lightly nipping the sensitive edge until you are weeping openly, your hips rolling in a desperate circle to try and force his mouth closer to your needy peak.

But he isn't just cleaning, not at all. His thumb splays, keeping your lips spread wide, keeping your pink flesh ample as if it were the finest oyster, just waiting to be slurped all up.

“You taste so good… I taste you even though this.” For a fleeting moment he pulls back, wiping the corner of his dark lips with the back of his hand, eyes glazed over. He doesn’t give you the satisfaction of diving back in, opting instead to rest his cheek against your upper thigh, flashing you a grin that is literally teasing the fuck out of you.

"You want me to get one of your wipes... or keep cleaning you this way?"

"Keep going, Sully," you groan out, the empty space between your legs absolutely tormenting you. With an unstable, shaky hand, your fingers bury into his braids, guiding him the best you can back to your center.

He gives you a side eye that’s almost sassy, his prominent brow ridge raising in faux disapproval. But being here, this close between your legs… he’s realizing further and further about himself that he’s an absolute munch. He allows himself to be guided by your feeble grip– he doesn’t wanna stop either, not at all. His hands paw at your soaked panties, pulling the cotton up and down your legs, caring nada about where they land.

“Open your legs more… yeah, perfect” he tells you gently, settling his massive frame firmly between them when you oblige. His arms hook right under the crook of your knees to hoist your thighs higher, pulling your hips closer toward his big, blue mouth. Those glowy eyes look straight up into yours, feasting on your pouty, beggy expression moments before he lowers back between your legs.

He twirls his tongue wetly over your hood, using broad motions to spread the remaining mix of melting whipped cream and your own sticky arousal messily all around your center. You whimper when he hits the right spot, even more when he strays away, teasing you so, painting your outer folds and dragging all the way down to your tight opening.

It is almost animalistic, the way he devours you now, as if your pheromones have stripped away all his guarded composuses, causing him to revert entirely to his deeply ingrained instincts. ‘Presses his face closer until his nose is buried completely in your slick cleft. Kitty licks you, tickling licks all over your swelled flesh, your thighs twitching and shaking under his ministrations. He gulps down the remaining white whip with satisfied swallows that make his throat flex against your cheeks.

You’re squirmin’ and squirmin’ against his delicious assault, making the mix of your spit and his glittery slobber sliiiide further south. Attuned to absolutely everything, he’s already tilting your hips back, hosting your pelvis higher off your wrinkled sleeping back to catch the sleep drips that traveled to your other, tighter opening, seeing zero taboo in his gentle laps. He circles you once, then twice, making your whole body ridge up at the overly intimate contact. He lets up for you, despite mentally thumb tacking that place for later… somewhere to devour you next.

When he finally makes his way back up the valley of your thighs, his face rises from between, looking up at you so playfully and so, so thoroughly pervertedly, unbothered by the sheen coating his lips.

"Tell me what you like..." he trails off, bringing his damp index finger back to your center, poking and prodding firmly over the skin that hides your clit, letting it dip just a little between. "Here?"

“Mhmmm,” you reply, obviously in another pathetic moan that you can’t even try to hide anymore. “It’s really… it’s really good there. You’ve done this plenty, I’m sure.” you’re panting, stumbling over your words, his eye contact doing absolutely little to calm your nerves.

His ears perk forward, flushing a beautifully genuine violet at the tips in delight at that, even if it is polarly away from the truth. He knows damn well he’s not about to sit here and explain to you that he’s entirely new to such carnal pursuits, opting to dodge your statement without validation.

“I want to make you finish. For me, “ he tells you softly, not offering you a scrap of his past lore. His thumb joins his index finger to split your weeping lips wide open while his mouth hovers just half-inches away from your heat.

“Don’t stop watching me,” he’s instructing, anchoring you to his stare. But that’s so easy for him to say, with those moon-bright eyes. Not able to see how enthralling he is to look at, not feeling the heaven you delve into as he dives into you, sloppily and deeply making out with your pussy as if your puffy lips were a second mouth he’s absolutely desperate to fully consume. He’s relentless, absolutely relentless– pestering your clit over and over with the tip of his tongue, smearing your continuous pool of wetness all over your groin. And you’re forced to hold his squinted, focused eyes, even as you want to hide behind your lids, even when the embarrassingly loud squelches of your wetness echo in the small room.

And they squint further as he smiles, his eyes. Brow ridges softened, corners crinkled. So satisfied, watching your breasts heave and your fingers grip whatever they could find purchase on and how you jerk and twitch against his face when he harasses your most sensitive appendages.

"You're so good... thank you, thank you!" you slur out, draaaaaggging your voice and carding your fingers against his shoulders, even as they slip, the pressure building in your pelvis winding and winding up, climbing to your peak faster than you ever thought possible.

He grunts against your skin at your praise. Hands shift, sliding firmly under your ass to lift your hips completely off your bedding. Dips his fingers into the soft meat of your backside, only pulling you closer, burying your throbbing, crying pussy as deeply as possible to his big, wet mouth.

The slick ridges of his tongue become oh too much, blinding and bombarding each and every one of your body’s nerve endings. He feels the tightening of your inner thighs against his face, and he pushes himself only further between your legs, wrapping a hand around to firmly pin your lips wide open, focusing exactly where you need. Yeah, you’re absolute mush after that. Back arches completely off the cot, head tosses back, chest heaving with your shallow, panting breaths that somehow spur on your pleasured squeals.Your walls squeeze inward again, again, again, thick, slow rushes of hot arousal spilling over his waiting mouth and fingers.

He’s groaning and moaning against your skin, tightening his spanning hand under your ass, holding you hostage to your euphoria as he hungrily drinks down your ambrosia. Licks over your folds in soothing circles, basking in the beat of your femoral pulse his twitchy ears can’t help but pick up until your hips finally drop back down to the mattress atop his hand, completely spent and catching your breath.

He nurses you through the very last of your rough shaking until you fully limp. Only then does he finally slide his face up, chest heaving in time with yours. He’s hurriedly licking your cum off his lower lip before it dribbles off his chin, an absolute waste in his eyes. His forehead rests for one more lingering second against your twitching abdomen before he lifts. Presses his lips to your navel, crawling up your body with soft kisses, worlds different from the way he was just doing you in. When he reaches your sternum, he’s satisfied. Plops down right there.

“Did I do well, tawtute?” Running his hands up and down your thighs as he asks, the friction of his hands incredibly comforting.

You can barely find your voice as you try to pull air back into your lungs. You look up at the proud, deeply affectionate curve of his mouth and the eager tilt of his ears, completely helpless to the soft look he’s giving you.

"You know you did," you manage to breathe out raspily. You lift a weak hand to cup the side of his jaw, your thumb brushing over his smooth skin. “Quit fishing for compliments.”

“I am not fishing? You cannot fish on land…?”

You choose peace and decide to void explaining the nuances of that particular saying, too cummed out to break it down. He hums anyway, taking your words as a complement, clearly thrilled by the praise. His head tilts into your palm, tilts his clothed length between your thighs, still obviously, seemingly painfully hard, stretching densely against your warmth.

He leans down, slowly of course, making sure your hand follows and stays glued to your cheek. His flat nose nuzzles against yours softly, affectionately, before his mouth drifts down, teasing the corner of your lips. “Your little heart… it is still running so fast.”

"I can feel yours too, just as fast.” Your other hand drifts down from his braids, flattening your palm against his pecs to feel his matching, stronger thumping of his hyperactive pulse.

The distance between your lips is absolutely uncalled for, and that amorous look in his eyes tells you he feels the exact way. Eager to erase that lil bit of space, you both lean in at the exact same moment, a little too fast, and your teeth bump awkwardly against his, the sharp little collision taking you out of your haze.

You pull back just an inch, blinking in surprise, before a soft, embarrassed giggle bubbles up from your chest. Neteyam stares at you for a split second, his tail wagging lowly in confusion, before his own dark lips part into a wide, handsome grin. Your shared laughter fills and warms the previous soft quiet.

"Sorry..." you murmur, your cheeks flushing a fresh, pretty shade of pink.

"Never apologize," he whispers. His smile softens, melting into something so compassionate it makes you shake in your fluster. The gap between your lips thins again, tantalizingly slowly. Brushes his lips against your jawline, corner of your mouth, and then the center of your bottom lip. So sweet, so gentle, it is, making your eyelids flutter close as the affection washes over you.

Gradually, those fluttering touches deepen, and you tilt your chin up, closing the remaining distance to kiss him fully, his soft lips rubbing at yours– bringing the taste of you back to your own mouth.

Neteyam lets out a long, shuddering sigh through his nose at the contact as his frame blissfully softens at the embrace. He shifts his mouth against yours sooo sweetly, his thick tongue lazily parting your lips to deepen the kiss just a fraction, making you lightheaded all over again. His calloused hand leaves your thigh, four-fingered palm rising to gently cup the side of your flushing face, thumb tracing the soft line of your jaw to keep you anchored to the slow rhythm of his mouth, head tilting to deepen the angle as he drinks you in.

You reluctantly pull back from his mouth, exhaling a hitching gulp of air. Stupid human lungs. In that moment, you genuinely wish you could just stop breathing altogether if it meant you could stay lost in his taste, to kiss him endlessly until your lips sore and swell.

You let your hands slide down from his chest, your fingertips tracing the defined ridges of his blue ribs before settling firmly on the sides of his waist. "Let me play with you now," you murmur, not even trying to beat around the bush after all that kissin’.

“Play with me?”

Acting he has no idea what you mean by that, eyes all innocent like he’s all confused. Your eyes narrow, completely not buying his performative ass act.

He holds out for maybe two seconds before his facade cracks and he’s all chuckles again. "I am only kidding, beautiful." he relents, his dark lips parting to reveal the white tips of his fangs.

He’s grabbing you around your waist fast enough to give you whiplash. Everything spins for a dizzying second as the sleeping bag leaves your back, well the cot entirely at that, and suddenly you find yourself on top of him, your knees bent and straddling his solid thighs, just over his lap. Your bareness is allll over him, directly in contact with his loincloth and the rigidness underneath. He scoots backward, taking you with him until his striped shoulders hit one of the thick walls of the tent and rests his back against it, sitting up partially so he is looking right down at you. Possessively his hands rest on your outer thighs, legs splayed wide beneath yours to grant you the exposure you so politely requested.

You decide against staying upright, opting instead to shimmy down his body. You end up settling yourself comfortably on your belly, directly between his widely parted legs. The canvas cradles you as you prop your chin on your folded forearms. From this low vantage, the na’vi looks even more impossibly broad, his packed chest, those clustered, defined abs, striped ribs…. shoulders…. all up in your field of vision.

Even so, your focus narrows down to the heat rubbing right against your cheek. You turn your eyes to the space between his muscled thighs, locking onto the fabric of his loincloth. Right in the center, the fabric is pushed outward and peaked into an undoubtable tent. Mmm, yeah. You’re hungry. Your hands reach and grip the edges of the textured material to pull his loincloth down, and your brows only furrow in frustration when the stubborn fabric doesn’t easily give.

His rumbly chuckle serves only as a pinch on the cheek to your already irritated senses, but you can’t miss the way his eyes affectionately crinkle at your struggle. “You have got to untie it, silly.”

“Whoops… nerves.” You blush hot as you search blindly along the sides of his lean hips for the fasteners. Because you aren't used to the complex cordage, you end up fumbling with the complicated knots, your thumbs awkwardly tugging at the wrong loops while the heat of his arousal brushes against the back of your knuckles. Neteyam stays completely still for you, though his long tail thrashes a little impatiently and excitedly along the canvas wall.

Finally, with a triumphant little tug, the stubborn knot gives way and the woven fibers loosen completely under your hands.

"There you go," he praises softly, rewarding your efforts. To lighten the load off your fumbling hands, Neteyam shifts his weight back against the wall, using one of his large hands to easily hook the loosened garment, sliding it smoothly up and completely off his body to toss it aside.

You were fully prepared to go absolutely crazy on him. Like, ready to lose your mind and shove him all the way down your throat without even a pinch of hesitation. But the moment the loincloth clears his hips… you’re already mapping an escape route, or anything close to evasion.

With a thwack, his massive length is fully freed, springing upward to slap against the deep blue skin of his lower stomach. He is so, fucking rigid, genuinely, impossibly huge to your eyes. His skin down there is a smooth sapphire, and the faint bioluminescent dots along his groin glow purple at his work-up. But your eyes trail him once more. Just looking at his girth is enough to make your jaw ache, and of course his precum has to glitter too, just like the rest of him.

Absolutely there is no way.

What the hell did you just unleash???

Your throat feels suddenly, incredibly dry as you swallow and stare, and that little confident smile you were putting on is as good as gone now. Your head tilts back, tracking his torso until you can look all the way up at his face, expression almost panicked.

He’s frustratingly zen. Just leaning back against your sorry excuse of a wall, grin smug and eyes prideful.

“You are getting shy on me now?” He tilts his head slightly, his dark braids shifting over his shoulder as he looks down at you from his stature. He loves that you are staring at him like he’s a force of nature you aren't entirely sure how to handle. "Just a moment ago, my doctor was so brave. You wanted to play, hmm? Had many demands?"

Now you’re scratching your scalp, stumbling over your words and defending your timidness weakly. He shifts his hips subtly in response, the movement only making his length twitch suggestively right in front of your face. Smells so pheromonously him that you almost find the thought of choking appealing.

“Come here..”

The command is hidden beneath a gentle, encouraging tone as his hand slithers from his lap to the back of your neck, cupping, stroking, coaxing you closer to his frame.

“Gah, no way,” you breathe out, nervous laugh slipping past your lips despite your surrender. Even as your mouth protests, your body obeys, and you shift your weight on the rumpled bedding, dragging your belly forward against the mattress until you’re right there, right between his parted legs just as he tells you to.

Your fingers are trembling so hard you can barely keep them steady, but you force yourself to reach higher, your fingers eventually slipping past his warm thighs to his even hotter length. Up your fingers slide, all the way up to the blunt crown.

Sooo so incredibly smooth, yet so hard underneath, so worked up for you. You swirl your thumb just a little bit over the very top, catching the clear, glittery bead of pre cum to smear messily across the opening.

Gathering whatever courage you have left, you close your fingers around his shaft- or atleast, as much of it as your small hand can actually accommodate. Your fingers don’t even come close to meeting around his thick girth, leaving a wide gap exposed, but you tighten your grip as best you can and give a slowwww stroke upward.

Neteyam exhales a short, rough grunt at the friction, and you watch awestruck as his abs tighten into even more defined ridges under his skin. His tail can’t decide if it wants to wag or wrap around you, caught between attempting both. And just as fast as his sharp reaction ebbs, it wades as your sureness does, and his tail is slowing, and his eyes are narrowing, and his head is falling lazily backward. Your hand, overwhelmed, pauses its exploration, and his once wide eyes narrow, all but impressed.

“You do not have your heart in it.” he sighs, almost chastisingly. Eyes fall to your weak, feeble hand, which truly was doing a half-ass job at pleasing him. “Must I incentivize you?”

His free hand wanders blindly to the right, and your eyes instinctively dart after it, a familiar dread and even more familiar thrill striking your chest because you already know exactly where it’s going, again.

You watch almost in a trance as his blue fingers wrap around the cold metal canister, bringing it right over his lap. Uses barely a fraction of his strength to press at the nozzle, spraying a generous helping of white whipped cream onto his dick. The sudden cold soothes his burning skin and he flinches only slightly, dark plush lips pulling back as he bites his lip at the sharp chill.

“God, Neteyam,” you gasp out in a whine as you stare at the absolute delicacy stored right between his thighs “You.. you’re using that against me. That’s so not fair.”

“What?” he mumbles, playing his little innocent na’vi boy act all over again. Those eyes widen back to their natural doe-ness, blinking down at you in a way that makes your blood boil with attraction. “Come. Come clean me up. I am messy.”

Your jaw aches once more, just imagining what he’s asking– the wheels turn and turn in your mind. Seeing your hesitation, Neteyam clicks his tongue disapprovingly. He drops the near-empty can to his side, forgotten. His own four fingers wrap around his base.

He begins to stroke his own length, using the melting whipped cream almost as lube, as if he knows what lube is. He drags his palm all the way up to his tip, smearing the foamy vanilla evenly along his shaft until he is completely glistening, his own glimmery pre-cum mixing with the sweetness. Obviously he’s getting off on the way you watch so hungrily, and he moves just a little faster, causing the slap-slap of his wet hand against his own skin to echo.

Watching those fingers slide easily up and down himself, the way he pleases himself with such casual cavalier makes your belly fold into itself. Something akin to jealousy smacks you. You find yourself ridiculously jealous of his own hand, desperately wanting to be the one that causes those grunts to tear from his throat. Your hand, you. That feeling completely bruises away at the last of your reservations, and you fall face-first into his trap, and into his lap.

The moment your shadow falls over his groin, Neteyam’s hand instantly leaves his shaft, letting it spring back against his stomach with a wet thud. His cool hand moves directly to the back of your head in replacement, allowing his fingers to burrow deeply and soothingly into your hair. It isn't a forceful grip, but it’s sure as hell guiding, gently gently gently down toward his heat.

And so obedient you are. Opening your mouth, tilting your head to the side, licking a wet strip straight up the left side of his throbbing shaft. Your tongue scrapes firmly against his smooth skin, taking in a huge mouthful of the sweet, sweet cream. Even so, the underlying saltiness of his skin only makes the entire endeavor taste even better.

"Good job..." Neteyam grumbles, trying desperately not to moan in his eagerness. His ears tell on him though. They perk, twitching forward and back with his overwhelming satisfaction while he looks down at you through his lashes. "Clean me up, pretty."

His accent wrapping so smoothly around his praises makes your entire body flush. You feel yourself getting even more flustered as you swallow down the sweet, salty mouthful.

Determined to prove you aren't completely helpless, you shift your focus, making your way all the way up to his fat tip. You open your mouth a little wider, tentatively circling your tongue all the way around him. You track the distinct ridge of his anatomy, licking off the remaining thick dollop of white cream that has pooled around the opening, your tongue catching the sticky, shimmery dripping of pre-cum leaking from the center.

The direct, sloppy friction of your tongue against his most sensitive skin attacks his eager senses– he’s moaning raggedly before he can control himself, those broad shoulders tensing against the wall. Head snaps further back, throat flexing beautifully in his heavy breathing. His fingers tighten out of instinct in your hair while he drinks in the sharp rush of pleasure.

"Mhmmm... there," he grunts, incredibly raw. Though his touch at your nape remains incredibly careful, mindful of his own strength even as his senses overload, the bedding beside your hip snaps in protest between his tightly clenched fist. "Keep going there... tawtute, right there."

His striped thighs flex and tighten beneath your belly, the dense muscle turning to absolute stone as you continue to focus entirely on his tip. You swirl your tongue again, tracing the sensitive rim where the crown meets the shaft, licking away the glossy sheen of cream that has begun to melt further into a translucence from his heat.

Every time the wet muscle of your tongue drags over the opening, he pants out a hitched breath through his nose. He is completely at your mercy from this angle, his broad shoulders nearly shuddering. Yet even as he shivers under your touch, his hips give another helpless twitch upward in an instinctive urge to push himself deeper into the warm, wet sanctuary of your mouth, trying you, testing the boundaries of just how much of him you can possibly take. Begging you silently to take just a little bit more of his impossible size.

You let out a soft giggle against his hot skin, the vibrations of your mouth tickling his raw sensitivity as you begin dotting tiny, rapid kisses all over his tip, purposefully being a damn tease instead of giving him the friction he’s pleading for.

He gasps, his chest heaving as a helpless burst of laughter blends directly into a deep moan. "Ah—you…you are tormenting me… do not play with me now," he groans, though the wide, bright smile splitting his azure face completely betrays his stern words.

His other hand, still slick and slightly messy with the melting white whip despite wiping it, slides up from your bedding to cup your cheek anyway, completely unbothered by the sugar coating his blue skin. He applies a gentle pressure, his thumb wiping a stray streak of vanilla from your lower lip.

"Too cute, you are," he murmurs, his golden eyes crinkling at the corners with a consuming warmth as he looks down at your flushed face. "Cleaning me up so good..."

He tilts his head back against the supportive canvas wall when you go faster at his encouragement, drawing more ecstasy from him than he ever thought possible. A deeply affectionate promise settles into his hazy, yellow eyes.

"I will slip into your tent every morning," he whispers through gritted teeth, and you know then and there your sleep schedule will reduce to ruin. "I'll wake you up just like this, Doc’. Every single day. "

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