ABOUT ME . . ! Hi, my name is Junie and I write for the avatar fandom. This is a sfw/nsfw blog, and my fics that contain 18+ content will be marked accordingly. If you are a minor, please do not interact with the fics that include the ‘mdni/nsfw’ tag. Everything else, feel free. 🫶🏽
thinking ab dilf jake sully. whew. ౨ৎ {18+} nsfw, age gap, grumpy jake and bratty reader is just sooo delicious, wc: 600ish
Stubborn girl, Jake thinks to himself as your nails dig their way into his shoulders. Tiny little welts mark him up every time the girth of him drags along your tight walls, you can’t do anything but cling to him in this moment. You can’t even think.
Propped up against a tree, the muscles in his back tense and ripple with his relentless rhythm. He’s roughly tugging your hips back and forth on his cock while your ride him, large hands cascading down the very hips he hungrily watches sway at camp. Calloused palms roughly grope your plush cheeks and you mewl when he spreads you so you can take more of him.
And you’re just sitting there, straddling him in the middle of the forest. Taking every inch. Head lolled back, tongue out like a slut who bit off more than she could chew, but you’d never admit it. You took him all in one go this time, told him you could do it, that you didn’t need stretching, and now you were a drooling mess, tail lifted for him as he used a finger to prod at the puckered hole of your ass. You let your forehead fall into his shoulder with a groan.
“This what ya’ wanted, yeah?” Jake tsks at you.
“Yes yes yes!”
You keen at the sensation of him bottoming out inside you, and without warning, you lift your hips and slam them down onto his lap unceremoniously. It nearly knocks the wind out of him.
“Easy. Christ.” he hisses, pads of his finger tips pressed into your skin so hard it could bruise.
He’s too old to be dealing with this shit, really. You’re spoiled, stubborn, and you’re so goddamn noisy, like a wounded animal. Practically begging someone to find the two of you in this unexplainable predicament. A pathetic whine coaxes from your mouth everytime he so much as twitches inside you, and when he tries to slot his mouth over yours to shut you up, you suckle on his tongue then let it go with an audible pop and a devious giggle. It’s absolutely vulgar and you couldn’t care less how taboo this whole thing was. In fact, you wanted him more because of it.
He’s older. Wiser. Doesn’t play around and you like that about him.
And he should know better than to entertain your little crush on him, but with the way you look at him, eyes big and desperate for the heat in your cunt to get put out… God, he just can’t say no to you.
You cry out his first name like he’s your peer, like he’s not your Olo’eyktan.
“Jake, Jake, oh-oh my god— fuck right there Jake!”
Your hands splay all over his body like he belongs to you. You tell him how good he feels, how big and strong he is. How much better he is.
No one can satisfy you the way he can. He feels comforted in that fact. He doesn’t know why.
You writhe in his lap every time the head of his cock pounds that spongey part you swear to him your little boy toy can’t reach and he’s trying his best to focus on not spilling his load inside you and getting you pregnant but you won’t shut the hell up.
“Be quiet.”
The sound of his growl in your ear only riles you more, but you listen like the good girl he knows you can be. Your thighs spread further, hips rutting to push him deeper, your puffy little clit dragging deliciously across his hairy groin. You especially like that human aspect about Jake— it holds more of his scent. Makes your walls flutter whenever he forces his cock deep into the back of your throat after you’ve been running it all day.
He’s panting now from his efforts to please you. He just wants to give you what you so desperately need, pride swelling deep in his belly cause a pretty young thing like you is just dying to be ruined by him.
Tiny beads of sweat start to mist his forehead, and he chokes out a groan when your small hand shakily caresses down the length of his kuru. His body shivers, brows bunching with something akin to pitty when you give it a small tug and whine for the one thing he won’t give you.
“I want this, Jake…”
Suddenly you’re yanked off him, but you don’t have enough time to protest at the loss before you’re turned around and bent over— his cock plunging back into you, his heavy balls clapping against your dripping mound while he mounts you. Your tear stained cheek is smushed against the same pillowy moss that’s below your knees and you whimper at the tantalizing sting of him stretching you so fast. You can’t help but let your eyes roll as he cages your wrists in one hand behind your back, and he uses them as leverage to mercilessly thrust into you. You clench around him so tightly it makes him curse and he revels in how your voice breaks with every forward lunge of his pelvis. His hand comes down on the soft of your ass with a loud clap, reminding you who’s in charge.
are you coming back for good? i love your work and i look forward to more possibly if ur coming back!
i’ve honestly just been lurking and reading other people’s fics since watching fire and ash! I haven’t written a fic in foreverrr 😬
But like I diddd dip into my archives a couple days ago and finish this one Lo’ak smut that was just sitting there collecting dust, if anybody wants that 😗
warnings: enemies to lovers, currently ENEMIES ! / oldest sibling trauma / ankle sprain / forced proximity / venting
authors: hihi sorry for taking so long to upload this! i will post the next part on the weekend but ngl it might take a week after that for me to post the next part, because exams are next week... ahh wish me luck!! anyways i hope u guys like this and i loved writing the forced proximity ughhh
wc: 6.2k
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moonlight knows, sunlight sees.
꣑ৎ ｡°‧⭑.ᐟ
"We are NOT landing, skxawng!"
Were the last words said in the air for the foreseeable future.
The words were torn from Tseyala’s throat, a raw, guttural command that cut through the steady rhythm of the wind. She yanked hard on the leather reins, her knuckles white with the force of her grip. Mireya, her magnificent ikran, let out an indignant screech but responded instantly, banking away from the lush, green island Neteyam was angling toward.
Below them, the vast, shimmering expanse of the ocean stretched to the horizon, a canvas of deep blues and brilliant turquoise. They were still hours from the Metkayina territories, flying over a chain of uninhabited rocks and sparsely vegetated islets that dotted the sea like scattered stones.
Neteyam shot her a look of pure, unadulterated fury, his own ikran, La’aratu, faltering for a beat in confusion. "What are you doing?!" he roared, his voice nearly swallowed by the rush of air. "There is nothing out here! We need to rest the ikrans!"
"Then we will find a rock that does not have you on it!" she screamed back, refusing to even look at him. Her focus was locked on a jagged, smaller islet a few miles to the east, a desolate spit of land with a single, gnarled tree clinging to its rocky center. It was awful. So, with bitterness flowing through her, she turned back to Neteyam's original island idea.
The flight to the islet was a silent, seething battle. Tseyala flew with a rigid, unforgiving posture, every line of her body screaming her defiance.
She could feel Neteyam’s glare boring into her back, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Finally, she guided Mireya into a sharp, steep dive, landing with a jarring thud that sent a spray of sand and pebbles into the air. Neteyam had no choice but to follow, touching down a moment later with a much more controlled, but equally annoyed, landing.
As they stepped off their ikrans, the tension was a physical thing, crackling in the humid air between them. Tseyala made sure to throw the supplies bag extra roughly at Neteyam. It was a heavy canvas sack filled with dried meat, water skins, and basic survival gear, and she hurled it with all the force she could muster.
He grunted as it slammed into his chest, his arms coming up just in time to catch it before it knocked him backward. He glared at her, his golden eyes promising retribution, but she was already turning away, her back a wall of dismissal.
Tseyala walked to her ikran, Mireya, her entire demeanor transforming in an instant. The hard, angry lines of her face softened. She approached the great beast not as a warrior, but as a partner. She offered a gentle rub to Mireya’s snout, her fingers tracing the familiar patterns of the sensitive skin around her nostrils. The ikran chittered softly, nuzzling her hand in a gesture of pure affection.
"It is alright, my beauty," Tseyala murmured, her voice a low, soothing hum that was a stark contrast to the shrieks from moments before.
"Rest now. We will not be long." She gave the powerful neck one final, appreciative pat before stepping back.
With a soft click of her tongue, she sent a clear command. Mireya, along with Neteyam’s ikran, La’aratu, who had been watching with intelligent eyes, took to the sky once more. They soared away from the tiny rock, their powerful wings catching the thermal currents as they flew off to find a place to rest and hunt, leaving the two rivals utterly and completely alone.
Tseyala let out a frustrated groan that was more animal than human, a sound of pure exasperation that seemed to tear itself from the depths of her soul. It was a raw, guttural noise, born from a day of simmering anger that had finally boiled over. She stomped past Neteyam, her movements sharp and aggressive, each step a punctuation mark in her silent tirade.
She deliberately shouldered into him, a solid, jarring impact meant to annoy, to assert her presence as an irritant. The collision sent a vibration through his frame, a physical manifestation of the conflict that had been crackling between them since they left the village.
The blue boy threw his hands in the air in a gesture of pure, theatrical exasperation at her attitude. It was a motion so dramatic it was almost comical, a silent scream to the heavens.
His face was a mask of disbelief, his golden eyes wide as if he couldn't comprehend the sheer force of her willful stubbornness. He watched her retreating back, the proud set of her shoulders a clear challenge, and his own tail began lashing against the sandy ground in sharp, agitated snaps.
It was a barometer of his mood, a whip of frustration that kicked up tiny plumes of dust with each angry thrash.
The sun, a blazing orange orb, began its slow, inexorable descent toward the horizon. It bled fiery hues of red and purple across the sky, painting the clouds in shades of bruised plum and molten gold.
The light shifted, growing softer, more golden, and it cast long, distorted shadows that stretched across the small island like grasping fingers. Both of them noticed, the changing light signaling an unwelcome new set of priorities. The day was ending. The cold was coming.
Neteyam cringed slightly to himself, a private wince of regret that he would never let her see. He knew she was already bothered with having to land at all, her pride wounded by the forced stop.
And now, she would be even more so with the fact that they’d have to set up camp together on this desolate rock, a task that required cooperation, the one thing they were incapable of.
"They were getting tired," Neteyam began, his voice careful and measured as he followed her. He was trying to salvage the situation, to offer a reasonable explanation for his actions, a branch of peace in a hurricane of animosity. "La’aratu was starting to lag. We couldn't have made it much further."
Tseyala let out a gruff huff and gave a short, sharp nod in response. It was a concession, but a cold one, a grudging acknowledgment of a truth she couldn't deny. She was acknowledging the validity of his statement without giving him the satisfaction of a verbal agreement, keeping the conversation clipped and short. Her pride, a fortress she had spent years building and reinforcing, refused to let him think he had won the argument, even if he was right.
Her amber eyes squinted as they adjusted to the creeping darkness. The world around them began to transform. As the last light of day faded, the island came alive with a soft, ethereal glow. The bioluminescence was beginning to awaken, casting the sparse foliage and rocky ground in an eerie, beautiful blue light. It painted her features in shades of sapphire and cobalt, making her look like a spirit born of the night, a vengeful deity of this forgotten place.
Tseyela began to walk ahead, her movements purposeful as she scouted the perimeter of their makeshift campsite. She was determined to find a task, any task, that would keep her from having to look at him, to engage with him. She needed a purpose, a mission, however small.
Neteyam furrowed his brows, a familiar irritation bubbling in his chest. Her dismissal, her constant need to be in motion, to be in control, grated on him. He began walking faster, his longer strides eating up the ground as he moved to catch up to her. It was an instinctual reaction, a refusal to be left behind, to be dismissed.
She groans, a low, guttural sound of pure annoyance, and mutters under her breath about how he’s acting as he did just as he did when they were younger, always needing to be at her side, always crowding her, his very presence an infringement on her space. In response, she speeds her pace just as he did, her feet kicking up sand as she pushed herself to move faster.
The process between the two began again, a silent, idiotic race across the small island. He would speed up, and she would match him, then try to outpace him. He would close the distance, and she would surge ahead. It was a ridiculous, juvenile game, a dance they had been performing since they were old enough to walk, and they both knew it. But neither was willing to be the one to stop first, to admit defeat.
In her focused fury, her attention locked on the gnarled tree ahead as if it were a finish line, she failed to watch the ground directly in front of her. Her foot caught on a thick, sharp root sticking out from the dark soil, a hidden trap in the dim blue light. Her forward momentum was instantly arrested.
With a sharp cry of surprise, she stumbled, her arms flailing for a moment in a desperate attempt to regain her balance before she pitched forward, hitting the ground with a soft, undignified thud. The sound was small, but in the sudden silence that followed, it was as loud as a thunderclap.
She lands on the floor, and Neteyam’s bickering is immediately silenced. The sound of her body hitting the soft earth was a dull, unremarkable thud, but to his ears, it was as loud and sickening as the sharp, final crack of the branch nine years ago. It was a sound that haunted his dreams, a trigger that sent him spiraling back into the worst moment of his life.
His eyes widen, the pupils dilating into black pools in the dim blue light of the encroaching night. The world around him dissolves, the salty air and the scent of night-blooming flowers replaced by the memory of damp pine and the smell of rain on the Hometree's massive canopy.
The sight of her on the ground, her form illuminated by the eerie bioluminescence of the island, merges and overlaps with the image of her broken, twisted body lying in the grass far below.
He can almost see the unnatural angle of her foot, the pale, shocked look on her face as she stared up at the sky, the life seemingly drained from her.
The guilt, old and festering, rises like a tidal wave in his chest, a cold, suffocating pressure that threatens to drown him where he stands. It was his fault. He had been showing off, climbing higher than he should have, goading her with his arrogance.
He had been a skxawng, a stupid child, and she had paid the price. The memory of her pained whimpers, the frantic race back to the village, the terrified look on his parents' faces—it all comes rushing back in a horrifying, heart-stopping flood.
He immediately rushes to help her up, his movements frantic and clumsy, driven by a desperate, primal need to erase the image, to fix it this time, to prove to himself that he could. He closes the distance between them in two long strides, dropping to his knees beside her. His hand shoots out, his fingers trembling slightly as they hover just above her foot, afraid to touch, afraid to cause more pain.
"Tseyala, are you—" he begins, his voice choked and tight with panic.
She responds with a vicious hiss, the sound cutting through his panicked thoughts like a knife. It's the sound of a cornered animal, wild and defensive. Before he can make contact, her tail, thick and powerful, whips around with startling speed. It smacks his outstretched hand away with surprising force, the impact a sharp, stinging slap against his skin. The physical sting is nothing; it's the rejection that truly hurts, a confirmation that he is the last person she wants help from.
Ignoring his outstretched hand, she pushes herself up, her movements sharp and angry. She supports her weight against the rough bark of the gnarled tree, her jaw set in a hard line. She brushes the dirt from her loincloth with sharp, angry movements, her hands slapping at the smudges on her skin. She refuses to even look at him, her gaze averted as if his very presence was a physical affront.
Her gaze sweeps past him, cold and dismissive, landing on a small clearing just ahead. There was a flat patch of ground that overlooked the sheer cliffside and the endless, dark ocean beyond. It was a good spot, strategic and defensible.
"We'll set up there," Tseye’la announces, her voice devoid of all emotion. It was flat, cold, and hard as stone.
It was not a suggestion; it was a command from the war leader she was destined to become.
And for the first time since they landed, Neteyam steps forward to step up without argument. The fight drains out of him completely, the fiery anger and frustration replaced by a hollow, echoing silence. The memory of her fall has extinguished the flames of their rivalry, leaving only the cold ash of his guilt.
He simply nods, his throat too tight to form words, and follows her toward the spot. The ghost of her past fall, a burden he has carried for nearly a decade, walks silently between them, its presence heavier than any words they could ever say.
꣑ৎ ｡°‧⭑.ᐟ
It was dark now, the island swallowed by the vast, star-dusted canopy of the night. The only light came from the small bonfire they had started, its flames flickering and dancing in front of them, casting long, monstrous shadows that writhed across the rocky ground.
The glow of the embers painted their skin, the brilliant blue of their flesh washed in a warm, shifting orange hue that made them look like figures forged from fire and shadow. The silence between them was a heavy, suffocating blanket, thick with unspoken words and years of resentment.
The spell was broken by the familiar, powerful sound of leathery wings cutting through the air. The sound of their ikrans landing on the cliffside took them out of their tense silence, the soft thud of large feet on rock a welcome distraction.
Neteyam immediately sprang to his feet, his movements fluid and efficient as he walked over to La’aratu, his hands already reaching for the straps of the riding equipment.
Tseyala sat tense by the fire, her body rigid. One leg bounced uncontrollably, a frantic, rhythmic motion that betrayed the turmoil beneath her stoic facade. She prodded the inside of her cheek with her tongue, a nervous habit she had never managed to break, her eyes fixed on the flames as if they held the answers to all her problems.
Neteyam glanced over at her after a moment, his brow furrowed with a concern he couldn't quite suppress.
"Mireya needs her equipment off, yaknow?" he called out, his voice gruff but not unkind.
Tseyala groaned, the sound full of the weight of the world. She pushed herself up, the movement painstakingly and deliberate. She tried to hide her limp as she hobbled over, attempting to distribute her weight evenly, but the sharp, shooting pain up her ankle betrayed her. Much to her dismay, her efforts were futile as Neteyam almost immediately noticed. His eyes narrowed, his gaze dropping to her uneven gait.
"Don't," Tseyala warns, raising a hand to his face as if to physically block his words or his approach.
She turns her back to him, her focus entirely on Mireya as she begins fumbling with the thick leather straps of her equipment.
"I'm fine. Nothing you aren't used to, is it?" The words were meant to be a jab, a cruel twist of the knife, but they came out laced with a weariness that surprised even her.
Again, Neteyam feels a punch to his stomach at her words, the old guilt twisting his insides. The reminder of his childhood antics, of the fall that had nearly cost her everything, was a fresh wound. Without another word, the fragile truce shattered.
Neteyam walks forward, his stride long and determined. Before she can even register his intent, he closes the distance between them, grabbing Tseyala firmly by the hips. In one fluid, powerful motion, he hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
A spew of curses fell from her lips, a torrent of vicious, creative insults that would have made a hardened warrior blush. She punched at his broad back, her fists hammering against his muscle with all her strength, though it was no avail. He was a wall of unyielding flesh, his grip like iron. He carried her a short distance, ignoring her thrashing and screaming, and sat her down unceremoniously on a nearby boulder.
Before she could launch herself at him again, he turned and scanned the ground, his eyes finding what he needed. He used his teeth to rip apart a thick, fibrous vine, the sound of tearing fibers sharp in the night air. Then, he found a sturdy, straight stick, and with a focus that was almost unnerving, he began tying it around her ankle with the vine, creating a makeshift splint.
Tseyala tries to protest once more, her mouth opening to deliver another verbal assault, but as he looks up at her from his kneeling position, her protests immediately falter and die on her tongue. His gaze was the most serious he’s ever given her. It wasn't angry or taunting. It was raw, filled with a depth of regret and a haunting sorrow that stole the air from her lungs. In his eyes, she saw the ghost of the nine-year-old boy who had watched her fall.
He looks back down, focusing on tying the vine with meticulous precision, his fingers working deftly. "I don't want to put you through the same thing again," he mutters, the words so quiet they were almost carried away by the wind. He pulled the knot tight on the makeshift splint and then stood up, turning his back to her.
Unsure of what to say, Tseyala studies the splint around her ankle. It was crude, but effective. The pressure was firm, already dulling the sharp edge of the pain. Her anger, which had been a roaring fire just moments before, was now just a bed of cooling embers, replaced by a confusing, hollow ache in her chest.
Neteyam crosses his arms, looking off into the distance, his jaw tight as he stared out at the dark, endless ocean. The silence returned, but it was different now—less tense and more heavy with the weight of the past.
"Where'd you learn how to do this?" Tseyala asks, her voice barely a whisper. The question was soft, stripped of all its usual venom, and laced with a genuine curiosity that surprised them both.
Neteyam hesitates, his shoulders tensing for a fraction of a second. He seems to wrestle with an answer, his lips parting slightly before closing again. In the end, he simply bites his tongue, turning away from her without a word. He walks back toward the fire, his steps slow and deliberate, though his eyes remain locked on the breathtaking, lonely view in the distance, leaving her to her thoughts and the strange comfort of the vine around her ankle.
Slowly, Tseyala pushed herself up from the boulder, her movements stiff and cautious. The makeshift splint held, a strange, foreign constraint on her ankle. She tested her weight on it, wincing slightly but finding it bearable. With a quiet sigh, she stepped forward, her bare feet silent on the cool, packed earth. She made her way to the fire, her eyes never leaving Neteyam's rigid back.
She chose a spot on the opposite side of the log he had dragged closer to the flames, a gnarled piece of driftwood bleached by sun and salt. She sat, keeping a careful distance. They were a good three feet apart, though it felt like centimeters. The heat from the fire was a physical barrier between them, and the silence that stretched across the small space was more profound than any argument they had ever shared.
After a few moments of this heavy quiet, Neteyam broke the silence. He didn't turn to look at her, his gaze still fixed on the hypnotic dance of the flames.
"I learned.." He began, his voice low and rough, as if he hadn't used it in hours.
He paused, gathering his next few words, each one seemingly heavy with a weight he had carried for years. "I learned because I was scared I’d hurt someone again. Hurt you."
The confession hung in the air, raw and vulnerable. Tseyala’s brow-bone furrowed, her head tilting as she turned to face him fully. Neteyam?
The golden-boy, the Olo’eyktan’s son who she had despised for his effortless arrogance and careless know-it-all attitude, was admitting to fear? To thinking of others like this?
It was a crack in the flawless facade she had spent a decade constructing and attacking. The image of him she held in her mind—a monster of pride and malice—shifted, revealing something far more complex and human underneath.
She struggled to process it, her mind racing to find a foothold in this new, unfamiliar territory. Her old instincts, sharpened by years of rivalry, kicked in.
She couldn't let him see her disarmed. "Yeah, well, good thing you did, skxawng," she retorted, her voice lacking its usual bite, "or else we would’ve never made it to the Metkayina."
The insult was more of a reflex than an attack, a shield she threw up to cover her confusion.
At this, Neteyam let out a short, breathy laugh. It was a startling sound, unexpected and genuine. It wasn't mocking or triumphant; it was just… a laugh.
For a fleeting moment, the air between them cleared. The years of animosity seemed to melt away in the warmth of the fire, and they were just two people, stranded on an island, sharing a moment of absurd, fragile peace.
It was odd, not being at each other's throats. It felt wrong and strangely right all at once.
꣑ৎ ｡°‧⭑.ᐟ
Time passed in a way that felt almost unreal, as though the forest itself had decided to pause and breathe with them. The fire crackled softly between them, its warmth pressing against Tseyala’s legs while the rest of the night remained cool and watchful. Her gaze stayed lifted, following the silhouettes moving across the sky above.
Her ikran and Neteyam’s flew together in wide, looping patterns, wings slicing through the eclipse-darkened air. Though the two banshees had hatched a season apart, the difference meant little now. They moved with easy familiarity, calling to one another, diving close before pulling away in bursts of reckless energy. They reminded her of young kenten—too big for their own awareness, too confident in their strength, unburdened by anything beyond the moment.
Tseyala tilted her head back further, neck exposed as she watched them, the firelight catching on the faint markings along her skin. The cries of the ikrans echoed faintly, then softened as they climbed higher, their shadows stretching and warping against the clouds above.
For a long moment, she allowed herself to simply watch, to exist without expectation, without judgment.
Across from her, Neteyam sat still, his posture rigid despite the way the fire warmed his front. His eyes remained on the flames, tracking the slow collapse of burning wood as embers glowed and dimmed. He told himself that was all he was doing—watching the fire, listening to the night, staying alert.
But his focus fractured.
Without meaning to, his gaze drifted. Just briefly, he told himself. Only long enough to register movement.
The firelight reflected against Tseyala’s skin, giving her an almost unreal glow in the darkness. When she shifted, the light traced the line of her collarbone, the curve of her throat, and Neteyam felt something tighten in his chest before he could stop it. His brows pulled together, irritation flickering across his expression.
Why was he looking at her?
Why did it feel so difficult to stop?
He forced his attention back to the fire, jaw tightening as he shook his head slightly. It had to be nothing. Habit, maybe. They had grown up side by side, trained together, argued more times than he could count. He had spent most of his life watching her movements—measuring, matching, competing. This was no different. Just his mind lingering where it shouldn’t.
Still, the awareness remained, quiet but persistent.
The silence between them stretched, long and unbroken, until Neteyam finally spoke.
“You think our parents are worried?” he asked, voice low, almost tentative.
Even as the words left him, he already knew the answer.
Tseyala let out a scoff, the sound sharp against the quiet night. She didn’t look at him. Instead, her eyes dropped from the sky to the dark line of trees surrounding their camp. The thought of family settled heavily in her chest, unwelcome and familiar.
Neteyam’s parents—Tsakarem and Olo’eyktan—were undoubtedly occupied. Training warriors. Securing supplies. Preparing for the long journey ahead, for the moment when everything would change. Worry was a luxury rarely afforded to those carrying the weight of an entire clan.
And her parents?
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
They had likely already moved on, attention redirected to the next task, the next responsibility, the next child who needed guidance. The mission they’d sent her on felt distant even to her now; she could only imagine how small it must seem from where they stood.
Neteyam glanced toward her at the sound of her scoff, reading the answer in it without needing further explanation. He nodded once, slow and understanding. Somehow, that quiet acknowledgment felt heavier than any reassurance he could have offered.
The fire popped softly.
“You know,” Tseyala said after a long moment, her voice quieter now, stripped of its edge, “you’d think the eldest children would be the ones parents love the most.” She shook her head, fingers curling into the dirt beside her.
“They spend the most time with us. Learn through us. Make their mistakes with us.”
She exhaled slowly, the breath trembling despite her effort to keep steady.
“I love my siblings,” she continued, almost as if she needed to say it aloud to believe it. “I really do. But sometimes it feels like I’m carrying everything for them. Like if I don’t do enough, if I don’t succeed, then none of it matters.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and unguarded.
“Is that why you’re always one-upping me?” Neteyam asked, the familiar edge of teasing threading into his voice. It was a defense, she knew. A way to soften what he was really asking.
Tseyala didn’t smile. She didn’t deflect.
“Yeah.”
The single word settled between them, heavier than the fire’s warmth, heavier than the silence that followed. It was honest in a way she rarely allowed herself to be. She had wanted her parents’ attention. Needed it. Craved it in ways she never spoke aloud.
After all, who wouldn’t?
It wasn’t easy feeling like a stranger in your own family. Like an outsider looking in. Like no matter how hard you tried, you were still standing just beyond reach.
They didn’t speak much for the rest of the night.
The fire slowly burned down to embers, its light dimming until shadows swallowed the space between them. Above, the ikrans eventually drifted downwards, their calls quieting until they landed on the ground and prepared to sleep. The forest settled, alive with quiet movement and unseen eyes.
Neteyam remained seated across from her, close enough that she was aware of his presence, his breathing, the warmth he gave off—but neither of them reached across the distance.
And in that shared silence, the unspoken weight of everything they were, everything they weren’t, lingered long after the fire began to die.
But of course, the moment was quickly ruined.
They were both hungry, the long flight having drained their energy. Neteyam reached for the last piece of dried meat from their dwindling supplies, a thick, succulent strip of jerked prolemuris that they had both been eyeing. He meant to toss it to her, a clumsy gesture of truce. But as his hand moved, his fingers, still tense from their conversation, fumbled. The piece of meat slipped from his grasp, tumbling through the air in a slow, tragic arc before landing with a pathetic hisssss directly in the heart of the bonfire.
It landed right on the hottest embers, instantly blackening and curling, the scent of burning protein filling the air.
The fragile peace shattered like glass.
"Are you serious?!" Tseyala shrieked, her eyes wide with disbelief. "You had one job! One!"
"I was trying to give it to you!" Neteyam shot back, his voice rising in defense. "It was an accident!"
"An accident? Everything with you is an accident!" she yelled, gesturing wildly at the fire, at her ankle, at the entire disastrous situation. "You are a walking, talking catastrophe!"
"Oh, I'm the catastrophe? You're the one who threw us off course and made us turn all the way back to the original rock I wanted to land on!" he argued, his face flushing with anger. "If you had just listened to me, we would be eating a proper meal right now instead of staring at a piece of burnt meat!"
"I would rather starve than take directions from you!" she screamed, her voice echoing across the empty ocean.
The argument ensued, a familiar, comforting dance of anger and blame. They were back on solid ground, back in the roles they knew so well. The moment of vulnerability was gone, buried under a fresh pile of insults, and the silence that returned was once again filled with the familiar, simmering hatred they knew so well.
꣑ৎ ｡°‧⭑.ᐟ
Their resting place for the night was a testament to their hasty, begrudging cooperation. It was a makeshift tent, a crude A-frame structure constructed from thin, sturdy logs they had lashed together with vines. The roof and walls were a patchwork of thick, ginormous elephant-ear leaves, overlapping in a desperate attempt to create a barrier.
But the wind was rough and unforgiving, a constant, howling presence off the ocean. It was a living thing, sometimes finding a chance to sneak in through the gaps of the leaves, sending icy tendrils that ghosted over the skin of the two Na’vi and made them shiver.
Tseyala had her cape wrapped tightly around her torso, an extra layer of warmth over her thin tunic, but it did no good against the deep, penetrating chill that seemed to seep into her very bones. Neteyam and she lay on opposite ends of their small shelter, on a thin bed of dried grass and leaves.
They were both curled into tight, defensive balls for warmth, their backs turned to each other in a silent, mutual rejection. Both were freezing, their bodies trembling with suppressed shivers. And both were stubborn. Extremely.
Finally, after a particularly harsh gust of wind that rattled the entire structure and sent a flurry of loose leaves skittering across the floor, Neteyam groaned. It was a sound of pure defeat. He sat up, the movement stiff and reluctant.
"We need to stay close for warmth," he said, his voice raspy with the cold and exhaustion. "Otherwise we’ll freeze out here."
Tseyala shook her head sharply, the motion violent even in the dim light. She pointed a finger toward the cliff edge, where the two great beasts were settled. "Look. They’re not close and they’re perfectly fine."
Neteyam kissed his teeth in frustration, rubbing his temples as if to ward off a headache. "That is because their skin is like armour, skxawng," he bit out, his patience worn thin. "Our skin is not. You know this."
Noticing her flawed argument, Tseyala still chose to remain silent. She refused to grant him the victory of her agreement. Instead, she shuffled even further away from Neteyam, pressing herself against the cool, rough wood of the tent's wall in a childish display of defiance.
He had it. He was sick and tired of her antics the entire day, especially now when the hair on his neck was raising from the icy wind pricking at his skin and the very real danger of hypothermia was setting in. Logic had failed. Reason had failed. There was only one option left.
With a singular, fluid tug, Neteyam reached across the small space and grabbed her. He hooked an arm around her waist and, with a grunt of effort, pulled her bodily into him, dragging her across the bed of leaves until she was flush against his side. He settled his arm firmly around her, trapping her in a circle of his body heat.
She began to protest, her body instantly stiffening. "Hey, get off–" but she was cut off by the sudden, overwhelming warmth she felt.
It was an immediate, shocking relief. The chill that had been seeping into her marrow was pushed back by the radiating heat of his body, a furnace in the frigid night. The fight drained out of her in a rush, replaced by a primal, undeniable need for the comfort he was providing.
So, she stayed in their position, though making it clear she certainly did not want to be in the situation by crossing her arms stiffly over her chest, her muscles locked in rigid protest. She was a statue of resentment, leaning against a mountain of warmth.
Neteyam let out a long, weary sigh, his breath warm against her hair. "You're so stubborn," he murmured, his voice a low rumble in her ear. "You would rather freeze to death than be near me?"
Tseyala scoffed, a sharp, dismissive sound that was meant to cut through the warmth between them. But the effect was ruined as she shifted, turning to face him directly. The movement was slow, deliberate, and brought them impossibly closer.
In the cramped space of their shelter, her forehead was nearly touching his. She could feel his breath, warm and steady, against her cheek. She could see the faint, bioluminescent freckles that dotted his nose and cheeks, constellations in the deep blue of his skin.
"Yes," she whispered, the single word a challenge, a promise. It was a declaration of her unwavering, illogical hatred, a final stand against the creeping comfort of his presence.
Neteyam rolled his eyes, a gesture she knew well, but this time it was different. It wasn't laced with anger, but with a deep, bone-weary exasperation. In the darkness of the eclipse, his piercing gold eyes seemed to glow brighter, flickering with the reflected light of the stars.
They were impossibly close. To many, they would see another Na'vi. One who makes mistakes like them, who learns and grows.
Even after their conversations tonight, all Tseyala could see was a stupid skxawng who was more enemy than tribe member.
"Only the moonlight knows why, right?" Neteyam mocked, his voice a low, quiet murmur.
He was reminding her of her mother's words, a poetic phrase often used to describe unanswerable mysteries or fated destinies. He was twisting it, using it to frame their lifelong feud as something cosmic and unchangeable, a joke played on them by Eywa herself.
The reminder of her mother's gentle wisdom, usually a source of comfort, now felt like a weapon in his hands. But she would not let him have the last word. Her own mind, sharp and quick even when exhausted, immediately found a counter. She was thinking of his actions throughout the day—the bickering, the race, the fumbled meat, the sheer, unending frustration of his existence.
"Yes," she rebutted, her voice just as soft, just as intimate as his. "And the sunlight sees why." The words were a perfect mirror to his, a reminder that while the moon might hold the mysteries, the sun was the great revealer.
He had no answer for that. The logic was sound, the poetry of it undeniable. He could feel the truth of her words settle over them, a heavier blanket than the one he had thrown over their bodies earlier. He was tired of fighting. He was tired of the bickering and the one-upmanship. He was just… tired.
"Let's just.. Get rest," he huffs, the words a quiet surrender.
He shifted slightly, moving his arm from around her waist to rest more gently against her back. The gesture was no longer a cage, but a support. He closed his eyes, breaking the intense, soul-searching gaze that had held them captive.
The silence that followed was different from all the others. It wasn't filled with anger or resentment. It wasn't heavy with unspoken words. It was simply… quiet. The wind still howled outside, a lonely beast, but inside their small shelter, there was only the sound of their breathing, slowly falling into a shared, steady rhythm. Tseyala lay there, stiff and unmoving for a long time, her arms still crossed over her chest.
But slowly, imperceptibly, the tension began to bleed from her shoulders. The heat from his body was a constant, undeniable presence, and against her will, her own body began to relax into it. She didn't uncross her arms. She didn't move closer. But she didn't move away, either.
And for the first time in their entire lives, as the eclipse passed and the twin moons began their slow journey across the sky, Tseyala and Neteyam fell asleep just inches apart, yes, still as enemies, but also simply as two people, just trying to survive the night.
warnings: parental validation seeking / mutual hatred / SLOWburn / enemies to lovers, currently ENEMIES / broken foot / falling from a high point / teasing / mentions of war
authors: hii guys this is the long awaited new neteyam series! i've decided to do what i wish i had done with the last one. which is making it a slowburn!! i really do like slowburns. fair warning, this will be a SLOWWWW burn. i don't like when slowburns happen and then they kiss in the third chapter. i expect to write a lot of chapters for this one since this one is more fleshed out than my previous story! sorry this chapter is short, im gonna be honest i plan on making each chapter after this 6-10k words
wc: 4.1k
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this is part one!
꣑ৎ ｡°‧⭑.ᐟ
The animosity between Tseyala and Neteyam was so sparse and fraught with tension that one could count their cordial meetings on a single hand—and even that generous estimate felt like a stretch. To the clan, the source of this friction remained an unsolvable riddle. It was as though the Great Mother had spun them from the same cosmic dust on the exact same day, birthing them into the world merely minutes apart, only to curse them with a destiny of eternal rivalry. Theories were traded like gossip around the fire pits.
Some whispered that Tseyala harbored a deep-seated jealousy, bitter that Neteyam, who had breached the womb four minutes before her, seemed to steal the spotlight simply by existing. Others argued the opposite, noting that it was undeniable to the Omatikaya that Tseyala possessed a preternatural gift for near everything she touched. It was only natural, they presumed, that Neteyam, the son of the Olo’eyktan, might harbor a grudge that he wasn't the indisputable best at every turn.
Tseyala's mother would tease often as she braided her daughters hair, or walked through the woods with her. She would jest, stating that only the moonlight knew of the feud between the two young Na'vi, as the night is when secrets creep up your shoulders.
But in the minds of the two young 'evi, the reality was far less simple. Their hatred wasn't born from a single slight or a simple comparison; it was a chaotic storm brewed from everything all at once—jealousy, pressure, and an unnamable instinct to clash.
"Neteyam, stop! This isn't funny!" Tseyala’s squeaky voice cried out, piercing the humid air of the forest.
She sprang up from the ground, her small muscles coiling with effort as she attempted to snatch her small bow out of Neteyam’s grasp. At four and a half years old, she was barely five feet tall, her limbs still lanky and coltish. Neteyam, however, had hit a growth spurt that left him towering over her at a whopping five-foot-five. He loomed like a giant, his silhouette broadening even at that young age.
He smirked down at her, his golden eyes dancing with cruel amusement as he waved the precious weapon just out of her reach, teasing the air above her head.
"Come on, just grab it. Nobody’s stopping you," he taunted, his teasing relentless and brutal in its simplicity.
Tears brimmed in the young girl's wide eyes, stinging with the heat of her frustration. Her tail lashed behind her, snapping through the leaves like a whip, betraying the calm she was trying to fake. Desperation clawed at her chest. With a squeal of determination, she jumped again, pushing off the ground with everything she had.
But gravity was not her friend. Inevitably, her coordination faltered. She stumbled in mid-air, her foot landing awkwardly atop of his.
A sharp hiss of pain escaped Neteyam’s lips as her weight drove down onto his instep. "Gah!" He groaned out, his hands releasing the bow instantly to reach down and clutch his throbbing foot.
The bow slipped from his fingers, tumbling through the air in what felt like slow motion. Tseyala desperately reached out, her fingers brushing the wood, but to no avail. It sailed past her outstretched hand and landed squarely on a jagged, sharp rock.
Snap.
The sound was sickeningly final. The wood splintered, the bow crashing into a million pieces against the unyielding stone.
The forest fell silent for a heartbeat.
Neteyam turned toward the remains of the bow after a moment, his face pale as he registered what his carelessness had wrought. He looked at Tseyala, then back at the broken wood, and let out a bland, uncomfortable "Sorry." It lacked conviction, a hollow word offered to fill the silence.
Even still, Tseyala bit back the venom that rose in her throat. She could scream at him; she could cry and strike him. But she didn't. She swallowed the lump in her throat, squared her shoulders, and simply nodded. She was more mature than this, and she knew it. She would not let him see her crumble.
She turned on her heel, picking up her chin with a dignity that belied her years, and began to walk the other direction.
It irked Neteyam to no end. He watched her retreating back, his brow furrowed in confusion. He couldn't understand why she hadn't exploded. Maybe it was because he had only grabbed her bow to get her attention in the first place, or maybe it was because, deep down, he didn't want her to leave. Her silence was worse than her screams.
꣑ৎ ｡°‧⭑.ᐟ
Nine years had drifted by, transforming the children of the Omatikaya into figures poised on the precipice of adolescence. Tseyala moved with a newfound grace across the long, thick branches of the Hometree, her feet bare and silent against the textured wood.
She was no longer the tiny, clumsy girl who stumbled over roots; she had just begun her Iknimaya training, the sacred rite of passage that would determine her worth as a warrior. For the first time in her life, she felt as though she was standing on top of the world, her spirit buoyed by the promise of the skies and the mountain banshees that awaited her.
But the weight of her lineage pressed heavily against her shoulders. Her mother and father were not merely members of the clan; they were revered warriors, standing at the pinnacle of their years. They were the pillars the people looked to when the Olo’eyktan and Tsahik were occupied with the governance of the clan. To Tseyala, they were the definition of perfection, an unassailable standard of excellence that she was desperate to emulate. She was proud, of course. How could she not be when their blood ran through her veins?
Yet, that pride was constantly crushed by an overwhelming, suffocating need to satisfy them. To be their daughter meant she had to be the best. Anything less felt like a betrayal of their legacy.
The disappointment that she feared felt like a pending doom, a dark cloud hovering on the horizon whenever she made anything less than first in her training exercises. Every missed shot, every stumble, was amplified in her mind into a catastrophic failure.
Seeking solace from the pressure that threatened to crush her chest, she climbed to the very top of the Hometree that night. The wind was cooler at that altitude, brushing against her skin as she gazed up at the beautiful, sprawling starry sky. It was the night before her second day of her Iknimaya, and she had hoped to find clarity in the constellations, to commune with Eywa in silence before the trials continued.
However, the universe had a cruel sense of humor.
Her eyes adjusted to the moonlit gloom, and her heart sank. The silhouette was unmistakable, tall and broad-shouldered against the backdrop of the floating mountains. Neteyam was there. As the eldest son of Jake Sully, he was also undertaking his path to becoming a warrior.
It was all too annoying to see him, the one person who seemed to embody the effortless perfection she killed herself to achieve, intruding on the only moment of peace she had hoped to claim.
With a dramatic, exasperated roll of his golden eyes, Neteyam shifted his weight. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and wrapped his tail securely around the thick wood of the branch beneath him, anchoring himself with a lazy confidence.
"What are you doing here, skxawng?" Tseyala hissed, the insult rolling off her tongue with practiced ease. She didn't wait for a response; instead, she moved to go further up the branch, putting distance between herself and the source of her irritation.
Taking the movement as a direct challenge, Neteyam didn't hesitate. He pushed himself upright and moved further out along the limb, matching her stride for stride. So she went further, her jaw set in determination. They repeated this childish process, edging closer and closer to the precarious end of the bough, until they were barely dangling off the edge of the massive Hometree. The wind whipped around them, buffeting their loincloths and hair, but neither was willing to back down.
"Give up. I’m always gonna be better. Go farther," Neteyam bit out, his voice cutting through the rush of the air below. He watched with a mix of anticipation and arrogance as she hesitated to take a step further.
The branch was thinning rapidly here, the wood narrowing until it was barely wide enough to support her feet one in front of the other. The leaves were sparse, offering no cover from the terrifying drop that awaited below. Logic screamed at her to stop, to turn back and retreat to safety. But his words churned something deep inside her, igniting that volatile piece of her soul that desperately needed to win, that couldn't stand the thought of him claiming victory over her once again.
So, swallowing her fear, she stepped forward.
Neteyam’s ears flattened instantly against his head, his playful expression evaporating in a heartbeat. The sound of a deafening crack! ripped through the night air, sharp and terrifyingly final.
And just like that, the support beneath her vanished.
Tseyala let out a piercing cry as the branch gave way, her body tumbling backward into the void. She hit protruding branches on the way down, the impacts brutal and jarring as she fell toward the Pandoran surface hundreds of feet below.
"Tseyala!" He called out her name once, panic seizing his throat. "Tseyala!" He screamed it a second time.
All to no response. The forest swallowed her cry, leaving only the rustle of leaves she had disturbed in her descent.
His stomach dropped, gravity pulling it into his throat as he realized what he had done. He abandoned his post immediately, scrambling down the trunk of the Hometree as quickly as his claws would allow. He slid down the rough bark, ignoring the burns it left on his skin, driven by a singular, terrifying purpose.
He hit the ground running, searching the dark grounds surrounding the Hometree with frantic eyes. The bioluminescent flora cast eerie blue shadows, making it hard to see. But then, he spotted her.
She was a heap of blue limbs amidst the glowing grass, her body curled in on itself. Her skin was pale, reflecting the light of the plants around her, but it was her leg that made him freeze. Her foot was twisted in an unnatural way, the bone clearly shifted, the angle wrong and sickening to look at.
He rushed to her side, falling to his knees in the dirt. He shook her shoulders, his grip desperate. "Wake up," he commanded, his voice trembling. He shook and shook and shook, willing her eyes to open, to hear him. But she remained limp, her head lolling heavily against his hands.
Once Neteyam came to the crushing realization that she wasn’t waking up anytime soon, the reality of his nightmare set in. He didn't think; he acted. He scooped her up as gently as he could, cradling her broken body against his chest, and rushed back toward the Hometree with breathless speed.
Tears blurred his vision as he ran. "Help! Please, help!" His voice came out in broken screams, raw and ragged, echoing through the village as he burst into the clearing. He didn't stop until he reached the healing shack, rushing to his grandmother with her limp body in his arms, his heart breaking with every step.
When the elders and her parents inevitably descended upon him with questions, demanding to know how their promising daughter had taken such a catastrophic fall, Neteyam would lie. The falsehood slipped from his lips with a practiced ease, woven with a silver tongue that was maturing far too quickly. He claimed she had slipped, that the bark had been mossy and deceptive, that it was a terrible accident. He lied so smoothly, his eyes holding a steady, mournful gaze, that he almost believed it himself. Almost.
But in the quiet, solitary moments that followed—when the noise of the concern faded and he was left alone with his thoughts—the illusion would shatter. Whenever he picked up the courage to turn and look at her broken foot, the heavy guilt would swim back up and into his mouth like bile that he could just barely shoot back down. It burned his throat, a reminder of the catalyst for her suffering.
He didn’t know why he had done it. Why he always did it. It was a sickness, a compulsion to push her to the limits he knew all too well, because he had practically studied her. He knew where her insecurities lay, he knew the precise height of her pride, and he knew exactly how much pressure it took to make her crack. It was practically obsession. Though, of course, it was simply so he could become better than her.
When she finally awoke a few nights later, it was late into the shift. The healing hollow was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bioluminescent moss. Neteyam was stopping by to check on her (of course, meticulously timing it when everyone else was gone). His heart hammered against his ribs as he stepped into the alcove, hoping and praying that the impact had rattled her brain enough to make her forget. He hoped that Tseyala would have miraculously no memory of that night, of the branch, or his words.
Much to his dismay, you remembered everything.
Everything.
Her eyes snapped open the moment he stepped into the light, sharp and clear, unclouded by the haze of injury. "You did this." She hissed, her voice raspy from disuse but dripping with venom. She tried to push herself up, sitting up in the hospital bed, but her angry demeanor instantly shrinking at the pain that shot through her foot and radiated up her entire body. She gasped, falling back against the pillows, but her glare never faltered.
"I can’t train because of you," she choked out, the tears of frustration welling in her eyes—not from the physical pain, but from the ruin of her schedule, her potential.
Neteyam stood frozen near the doorway, his hands hanging useless at his sides. He didn’t know what to say. The words were there, heavy and regretful, sitting on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to apologize, really, he did. He wanted to fall to his knees and beg for her forgiveness, to take back the stupid challenge and the arrogance. But he was too stubborn for that. The defense mechanisms of the Olo’eyktan’s son were too strong, walls built too high to be scaled by something as simple as remorse.
"I hate you, Neteyam!" she screamed, the sound echoing in the small space, raw and broken.
And she meant it. It wasn't the hollow insult of children playing in the dirt, nor the frustrated cry of a girl whose bow was broken. She meant it from that day forward, carving the sentiment into the bedrock of her heart. She hated Neteyam.
꣑ৎ ｡°‧⭑.ᐟ
Tseyala had matured beautifully in her years, shedding the lankiness of her childhood to reveal a woman of striking grace and formidable presence. She was taller now, of course, her limbs having elongated and filled out with the muscle memory of a hunter. Yet, old habits died hard, and her teeth would often clash and grind together at night, knowing that Neteyam was still taller. It was an irritation that gnawed at her—a persistent itch she couldn't scratch. Not by much now, certainly. He stood at an imposing height, almost nine feet, while she was only an inch or two shorter. They stood nearly eye-to-eye, a physical parity that should have satisfied her. But to Tseyala, winning barely was still winning, and that inch he had on her felt like a mountain she had yet to conquer.
Today, the rhythm of her training was interrupted by a summons. She was called to the meeting room located high within the Hallelujah Mountains. The old Hometree was long gone, a memory of wood and smoke lost to the war, but the clan had found new refuge among the floating peaks. Her brows furrowed in deep confusion as she stepped into the carved-out hollow of the room. The air was thick with tension. She assumed she and the other young warriors were being called in for a standard patrol meeting, perhaps to discuss the boundaries of their new territory.
But, to her utter confusion, the room was not filled with the usual crowd of trainees. Only her family and the Sully’s were present. The gravity in the room was palpable, the elders sitting in a semi-circle with expressions that betrayed serious deliberation.
Before she could retreat or ask a question, her mother stepped forward. With a firm hand on her shoulder, her mother guided her, pushing her to stand in a specific spot in the center of the room. Tseyala’s lips parted, letting out an audible, sharp ‘tsk’ of annoyance as she realized exactly where she was being placed—right next to Neteyam.
He stood there, rigid and stoic, looking every bit the future leader he was raised to be. As she shuffled into the space beside him, he glanced toward her. For the first time in years, the pair finally looked at each other properly.
The air between them seemed to still. The childish animosity, the screaming matches, and the petty sabotages of their youth seemed to hang suspended in the space between their faces. There was a silent understanding now, a shared look that passed between their eyes. Neither of them had any idea of what the hell was going on, and for the first time, they were united in their confusion.
"The two of you are being sent to the reef clans."
Neytiri’s voice was blunt, devoid of the gentle cushioning usually reserved for delivering bad news. The words shot into Tseyala like a physical arrow, striking her chest with enough force to knock the wind from her lungs. For a moment, the room spun, the gravity of the statement pulling the floor out from beneath her feet. The reef clans? The Awa'atlu? It was a world away, a different element, a different life.
Beside her, Neteyam let out a short, incredulous chuckle, the sound bouncing off the stone walls. It was a reflex, a defense mechanism against the absurdity of what he had just heard. But the humor died instantly in his throat as he looked from his mother’s stony face to his father’s grim resolve. This was no joke. The silence that followed was heavy enough to drown in.
Then, the protesting began. It erupted like a volcano, chaotic and loud.
"WHAT?!" Tseyala shrieked, her voice cracking as she took a step back, her tail lashing violently behind her.
"Why US?!" Neteyam barked, his brow furrowed deep in confusion. "I am needed here. I cannot just leave the clan!"
"Send HIM, not ME!" Tseyala yelled, pointing an accusing finger at Neteyam’s chest. "He is the heir! Let him go swim with the Metkayina and leave me to do my duty!"
"WHAT? Send her, we don’t need any more strays!" Neteyam shot back, his voice rising to match hers. "She will only slow us down or start a war with her attitude! Send someone else!"
The argument against the families quickly dissolved into one between the two of them, as it always did. They hissed and spat, their faces inches apart, years of pent-up aggression spilling out in a torrent of insults. Their foreheads pressed against each other, teeth bared in primal snarls, the tension in the room skyrocketing until Tseyala’s father had seen enough.
With a heavy grunt of exertion, he stepped between them, using his substantial strength to push them away from each other, physically forcing them apart.
"Enough!" her father roared, his voice silencing the bickering instantly.
Jake Sully stepped forward then, his presence commanding the attention of the room. "You are the best warriors of your generation," he recalled, his tone serious and weighty. He looked at them not as children, but as soldiers.
Tseyala began to smirk proudly, her chest puffing out slightly at the rare, high praise from the Olo’eyktan. It was validation, the one thing she craved most.
"Neteyam is the next Olo’eyktan," Neytiri reminded, pointing a slender finger toward her son, emphasizing the burden he carried. Then she shifted her gaze to Tseyala, her eyes softening just a fraction. "And you are the next war leader, kanu 'eve."
The title hung in the air. War leader. It was a position of immense honor, one that Tseyala had fought for in the training rings every single day.
Neytiri walked over, closing the distance, and placed her large, warm hands onto both of their shoulders. It was a gesture of unity, forced as it was.
Tseyala looked toward Neteyam with a huff, crossing her arms over her chest. Neteyam glanced back at her, his expression mirroring her own mix of annoyance and resignation. They both knew one thing, deep down where their rivalry couldn't touch the truth. She was right.
With the RDA—the Sky People—returning and breathing down the necks of the Omatikaya once more, the threat of extinction was real. The safety of the clan depended on dispersion, on hiding the seeds of the future so the tree could grow again. The only way to keep the rest of the clan safe was for the two strongest families, the two bloodlines most vital to the future leadership, to leave.
"You two must go first to ensure your safety and ours," Tseyala’s father declared, his eyes stern and unyielding as he looked down at the two young leaders. "If anything happens here... if we fall... the next generation must carry on. You two are the future."
The reality settled over them like a heavy, wet blanket. This wasn't a punishment. It was a salvation mission.
So, that night, the air was thick with the scent of damp moss and impending farewells as they climbed on their respective ikran. The beasts chittered and snapped, sensing the tension in their riders as they mounted the saddles. The wind whipped through the high perches of the Hallelujah Mountains, cold and biting.
Tseyala sat tall, her cape draped elegantly over her shoulders, fluttering in the gale. Her battle band was wrapped securely around her temples, the leather worn and familiar against her skin. She looked every bit the warrior she had trained her whole life to be.
The golden-eyed girl smiled toward her family one last time, her heart aching with a sudden, sharp intensity. She couldn't leave like this—not without a moment of warmth. She slid off her ikran’s back, dropping the short distance to the ground, and rushed to her younger siblings. She wrapped them in a tight, crushing hug, squeezing them as if she could transfer her strength to them through her touch.
"Be strong," she whispered into their ears, pulling back to look them in the eye. "No mercy."
A devilish smirk played on their faces, mirroring her own fierce determination. They were her blood, after all.
She stood up once more, composing herself. She walked to where her parents stood, her spine straightening until she stood rigid in front of them. The smile vanished as the nerves began to creep up her shoulders, crawling down her arms like icy spiders. She was terrified. She wouldn't admit it to Neteyam, not even to herself, but the fear of the unknown was a heavy stone in her gut.
"Do not disappoint us, daughter," her father warned, his voice gruff but laced with an emotion he rarely showed. He placed a rough, calloused hand on her shoulder, squeezing it firmly. It was a benediction, and a command.
Her tail curled instinctively between her legs in a display of submission and anxiety she couldn't quite suppress. She nodded swiftly, unable to find her voice. Turning on her heel, she marched back to her ikran, grabbing the leather reins and hauling herself up with a grunt of effort. She didn't look back again; she couldn't.
She was afraid, of course. There was no denying that. The place she had spent her years in, the beautiful forest, was slowly shrinking to a dot behind her as she flew forward, Neteyam flying next to her. They shared a glance, one filled with something other than hatred. With fear. With nerve. With uncertainty.
Tseyala was desperate to know what was to come. To her, to her clan.
are you coming back for good? i love your work and i look forward to more possibly if ur coming back!
i’ve honestly just been lurking and reading other people’s fics since watching fire and ash! I haven’t written a fic in foreverrr 😬
But like I diddd dip into my archives a couple days ago and finish this one Lo’ak smut that was just sitting there collecting dust, if anybody wants that 😗
Summary: After rescuing you from the RDA, So’lek is forced to fight instincts he can’t afford to lose control of.
Disclaimer: I haven’t played AFOP (yet) so forgive me if things aren’t as…cannon so to speak. But @zestys-stuff and I have been brain rotting over So’lek non-fucking-stop. He’s lowkey so Ralak coded, but obviously very different in his own way. I hope I do him justice honestly. Yes, this is a collab (we have been blessed), and the illustrations created by this amazing and talented artist — @zestys-stuff — will be linked!
Content Warning: smut, !MDNI!, drugging (?), physical violence, murder/death (lightly described), an ungodly amount of sexual tension, age gap (reader’s around 20 & he’s almost 40), power dynamics, heat cycle, scenting, blowjob, gagging, forced proximity, dubcon, cliffhanger I’m so sorry
Author’s Note: Guysss. When I tell you how excited I was to do this collab with zee…i’ve been feral this entire time. Y’ALL THE ART IS INSANE. I stare at it regularly before bed. Jesus, help me. Anyways, this man is my new fixation. My new obsession, if you will. Naturally when I have a new one of those my immediate reaction is to write a heat/rut fic. So yes, there will be a part two to this, and possibly more.
W/C: 7k
You never gave it much thought. Being bait, that is. You’ve been everything up until this point—a pawn in this sick war, a subject for their experiments, a punching bag for their anger, an object with no value other than the war machine they could train you to be.
But bait? That’s a new one.
They like to call him the ‘Dog Tag Warrior’. That’s the name they’ve been using while you’ve been imprisoned between four glass walls, confined to a metal bench by chains that grow heavier by the minute. Days pass by like a thief in the night—silent, unknowable. With no windows, there’s no way to tell if it's night or day—to see what the great mother has created. No reminder of life or hope.
What’s worse is that every so often one or two of the pink skinned storm inside with their assault rifles and handguns concealed in their boots, threatening you in an attempt to drive fear into your heart. But no matter how much they torture you, whatever the punishment inflicted, the pain doesn’t come close to what you feel when they speak of him.
And your biggest mistake is letting them figure that out.
“I should’ve blown off his head while I had him.” The male shouts angrily, huffing as his loud footsteps pace up and down the concrete floor.
You keep your gaze fixed to your bruised ankles as your heart pounds from the terrifying, yet oddly comforting, confirmation that So’lek is alive. You can’t allow them to see your fear.
No fear, Sarentu, is what he’d say.
“Then next time, don’t fuck around.” A rough female voice. Next time? “You’re lucky you still have your tag, corporal.”
Your ears flick towards the distinct sound of metal and glass dinging together. You’ve heard this before—the sound alone is enough to bring you back many years ago, to the experiments, to the trauma you endured in TAP.
You peek up through your lashes, careful not to make any sudden movements, and see her holding a familiar large, glass syringe a foot away from her face. She flicks the tip with her middle finger until some thick liquid spurts out.
What are they going to do to you now?
“We’re just gonna have to treat these fuckers like the animals they really are.” She says in a sick, twisted tone. “Let’s see how long he can hold out after he gets a whiff of her.”
The male’s finger settles on his trigger as he moves in front of her, towards the door to your enclosure. Your chains drag against the concrete beneath you as you ready your stance. If you could manage to take the gun from the male, you could get out of here.
You could find So’lek.
The plan comes to you quickly. Once they’re close enough, you go for the male's mask, then take his gun and shoot the female.
Easy, right? So’lek’s voice echoes in your head.
You watch intently as his hand swipes across the biometric reader, causing the seal on the thick, reinforced door to break. Human air gusts in and the pressure in the room changes, briefly disorienting you. Before you can focus, the male aims, pulls the trigger and you feel the impact in your chest.
The room spins and you look down to see a bright feathered dart lodged into your right breast. You’ve never seen that before. Suddenly, you have to command your lungs to work, your eyes to stay open—your heart to keep beating. But despite it all, you feel yourself slipping away, vision blurring, sounds muffling together.
Is this death?
“What…What is this?” You slur your words as you reach for the dart, only for the female to slap your hand away.
She leans in, her face level with yours—her head impossibly large, her body impossibly small—and thrusts the needle into your thigh. You wince, just barely, trying to maintain what dignity you have left as you inhale, then exhale, and inhale again.
“Ah—d-don’t…touch—What are you…w-what the fuck…is that?” Your low voice echoes in your ears, your vision splitting into two.
“They said it’ll take effect in about two hours.” She speaks with feigned innocence, emptying the syringe into your spasming, burning muscle, “but we just don’t have that kinda time.” She withdraws the needle from you and steps back as your head lulls side to side. “So I gave her double.”
“Fuck you.” You garble the incoherent words, commanding every muscle in your body to stay upright, to keep your chin up.
“Brutal.” The male chuckles, his vile, pink hand laying softly against your cheek. “Such a shame, she really is a pretty thing.”
A hiss erupts from your throat, only to sound weak and small. Your body feels like dead weight, as heavy as these chains, dragging you down. You can’t move, you can’t get up.
“Tranq her.” She gives the order, using her scrawny finger to shove your swaying frame until you make contact with the floor.
“Are you sure? Didn’t they say one is enough?”
“And what? You want to keep her awake enough so she can be your personal toy when we’re finished with her? I said tranq her, Corporal. That’s an order.”
Another silent shot and your eyes roll to the back of your head.
“Good. Load her in.”
–
So’lek has been tracking you down for what feels like months. After a close call with the RDA that left him wounded, he was able to get a good idea of your location from scent alone. He wasn’t going to let anything, not even his own injuries, stop him from finding you.
Branches whip past him as he prowls through the forest, his bare feet making harsh impact with the flora beneath him. Every dash, every step is precise, measured. He’s been tracking your scent for a little over an hour now, yet it’s leading him off course. Why does your scent become almost overwhelming the deeper he goes into the forest? His pace lags when the realization dawns on him.
They’ve moved you.
But why?
He takes a moment to think, to calculate. To make sense of it all. Why would they relocate you? To throw him off? Is this a decoy? What if you aren’t really there? But, what if you are? He won’t take that chance. Your scent is too strong. You must be there.
So, how could they have acted so quickly? That means there’s less time than he thought. He scowls, frustrated, conflicted. It’s a trap. Exactly what kind of trap, he’s unsure. But it’s one that requires you to be bait. Just the thought ignites a fire inside him. You, out here, possibly alone, injured and weak.
Easy prey for a hungry predator.
So’lek won’t allow it. He quickly weighs his options—track your scent into a potential trap, or abandon the mission to regroup. What else can he do? He can’t gather his thoughts, he’s overwhelmed. Your scent is blinding—it’s grown stronger and he’s barely moved. You need him, he senses this in a way he’s never been able to before. He breathes you in, filling his lungs to capacity, letting himself have this one thing, just for this one second.
There is no choice.
So’lek wastes no more time, making quick, tactical strides in the direction of your scent. The horrifying, looping thought of what they’ve done to you, or worse, doing to you, drives his feet forward. He’s crouched low, keeping out of sight, camouflaging himself as best he can. He has to approach this perfectly, he can’t afford to make a mistake. He won’t. Not when you’re involved.
When his nostrils almost burn from the scent of you, he slows his tracks once more, observing, plotting. Silent, and lethal. He counts at least ten RDA troops, scattered sporadically amongst the trees. No, never sporadically. They’re in position. He stalks through the shadows of the approaching eclipse, recounting and revising. They’re surrounding a clearing, which is suspiciously empty. It takes a moment for his eyes to focus.
Then he sees you.
Oh. You. Naked. With what looks to be a strange, miniature arrow—a dart, impaled into your breast. Your head and body slump forward, arms limp behind you, bound to the tree. The flame inside him roars. You look dead, but your welling scent and heaving chest tell him otherwise.
These pink skinned will pay, he thinks as he decides who will die first, and who will follow in what particular order.
He unsheathes his knife, preparing for the most meticulous, silent melee of his life. He swallows, forcing himself to regain focus, to chase the lingering, savoury taste of you from his tongue. It’s imperative he isn’t distracted.
Is that a part of their plan?
Focus.
He makes his first kill. Clean, and silent. But not satisfactory enough. The fire inside him is hungry for more. He moves quickly onto the next, cutting deeper for his Sarentu. He takes special pride and joy in killing your foes. He steals a glance at you and notices your ankles, how the shackles have eaten away at your supple skin. He snaps another thin neck like a twig—easy. His inner fire flares, pleased with the sacrifice.
But it’s never truly satiated.
So’lek moves on to the next offering, smothering him as he pins him to the ground, watching as he writhes. He doesn’t look away as the struggle fades. The flame curls, pleased, and despite himself, a grim satisfaction pulls at his lips. This is the part that he can’t always fully control. The part where the fire consumes him, too.
It’s when he’s most dangerous. Most distracted.
But for you, it’s almost natural. It’s like a switch flipping. One second he’s here, and the next, he’s somewhere far away. An observer in his own body, watching himself finish off the next six soldiers in a blur of violence and pure instinct.
It’s not the hushed sound of the shot, no, it’s the heat pooling in his shoulder that brings him back momentarily. The same bright feathered dart, comically tiny in comparison to his arm, lodged in his upper bicep. A menacing growl rumbles from his chest as he looks in the direction of where it fired from. In the shadows, the silhouette of a metal suit stands in front of him, in front of you.
Wrong bullet of choice.
So’lek plucks the dart from his arm, his two fingers effortlessly snapping and crushing the frail glass into mere fragments. The metal suit immediately fires another dart straight into his chest. So’lek pants, his ears flickering as he releases a guttural hiss, heated by the flame itself, before he pounces on his prey, unleashing the rest of his wrath. By the end of it, all that’s left is unrecognizable.
All except for you.
So’lek’s vision clears once he sees you again, granting himself a moment to take in your condition. When his eyes rake over your bare body, he can’t help his thoughts no matter how hard he tries. The thoughts of admiration.
“Tamtey.” He breathes heavily as he stumbles back, his head spinning.
He glances down and rips the dart from his own chest with a grunt, before falling to his knees to pluck the dart from yours. He forces himself to look away from your puckered, dark nipples. It’s off limits. These thoughts, these feelings, are. off. limits.
The sound of oncoming machines and the buzz of electricity solidify his self-discipline, and So’lek moves fast, cutting you free and hoisting you over his shoulder. He takes off into the thick foliage, using it to his advantage to keep you both out of sight.
So’lek pushes himself to his limit, stride after stride, getting you both as far into the forest as possible. As far away from those demons as possible. Until he can no longer ignore the falter in his step. Whatever they shot him with, it’s slowing him down. He’s losing momentum—focus, and he’s losing it fast.
No. This won’t do. At this rate, he’ll collapse before he can make it to the mountains and that won’t be good for either of you. He ponders his next move, but there’s this cloud in his head that he can’t clear. Double vision sets in and he blinks a few times in an attempt to fix it. He shakes his head from frustration and readjusts you on his shoulder.
With a deep breath, he starts scoping out the nearest shelter. He spots a rather large rock not too far off, half swallowed by the roots of nearby trees. If he didn’t look hard enough, he would’ve missed the broken mouth at ground level, just big enough for him to fit through. It’s a chance. It could be nothing. Or it could be everything you both need right now.
Warily, So’lek approaches the cave, carefully tucking you among the safety of the roots. Now that you’re hidden, he can focus on scouting out the cave. Rifle in hand, he enters the darkness, discovering that it slopes gently downward, putting you out of his sight. He feels a sense of unease and looks back up at you, hesitating.
He doesn’t like you out of sight.
He huffs a sigh and grits his teeth, hauling himself further into the cave. He understands it’s the most logical choice. The air shifts, it’s cooler, and a little damp. He scans the cave, even through the haze, checking sightlines, listening for echoes. The deeper he gets, the more the darkness shifts into color. The bioluminescence of the glowy moss and small creatures bloom, revealing a thin stream that trickles from a narrow crack in the rock. A small waterfall that pools shallowly before disappearing into the stone.
Good, he nods to himself. Water to drink.
But more importantly, it's empty.
It's safe. For now, at least. It’s somewhere to disappear for a few hours and let his body fight its way back. Immediately, So’lek turns back, entirely too uncomfortable with the fact that he can’t see you. Had your scent not followed him into the cave he probably wouldn’t have even gotten this far. When he resurfaces, that same scent floods his senses. It’s overpowering. To the point that he’d be a fool not to acknowledge what it really is.
Your pheromones.
You’re in heat.
He breathes hard, eyes closed, trying to push back that fog creeping through his limbs—his body. Your pheromones are only aggravating his state of mind. He scoops you into his arms, using what strength he has left to carry you inside the cave. He’s careful of your head—of your entire naked body—taking his time as he navigates through the cave.
Once he reaches the soft moss, he is satisfied enough to put you down. He drops to a knee as he does, gentle with his touch, ensuring your head is cushioned by the thickest part of the moss. You curl into a fetal position on your own, the beads of sweat beginning to ball at your temples, your face screwed with discomfort.
So’lek takes a moment to gather himself, to gather the strength to move away from you and towards the thin stream. He cups the water, splashing it over his face, letting it run down his jaw and neck. It’s there, in the way his blood stained hands tremble as he pulls them from his face, that the realization settles.
In here, he might be the danger.
If he can’t get a hold of himself now, what will he do when you wake up? How will he resist…you? He exhales, long and shaky, eyes half-lidded now. He retreats to a nearby ledge, far enough from you, but not too far. His instinct won’t allow it. He lowers himself onto the rock, acting as the shield between you and whatever’s outside of this cave. His back presses against the cool cave wall, and he positions his legs just enough to keep himself steady. He settles his rifle on his lap, head slumping back against the rock, finger near the trigger.
Even in this state, he’s ready for whatever may come. No one will ever take you from him again. He lets himself rest, for now, stealing glances at you every time your sweet scent wafts towards him. Being in an enclosed space certainly doesn’t help the effect it’s having on him. But he can only hold his breath for so long.
He’s got no other choice but to breathe you in.
It feels like he’s got the reins in his hands but he can’t grip them tight enough. Like they’ll slip through his hold if your pheromones get any stronger. And they are. They most definitely are. Especially now that you’re starting to wake up.
Your groans start low, and small. More like little whimpers, but they’ve got him watching you none the less. Those glances are no more. He simply didn’t have the discipline to look away at this very moment. He feels ashamed to stare, and he knows it’s the last thing he should be doing. You’re bare. And he’s your mentor. You trust him implicitly. This would be a breach in that trust. But your nipples are puckered so beautifully, dark and flushed. So’lek’s gaze moves downward, your legs are so tightly closed, yet your arousal is so pungent he can practically taste it.
His tongue swipes his bottom lip before he swallows, his eyes daring to wander a little further down. Heat pools in his stomach and his brows jump when he sees the single, glistening drop of slick slowly roll down your inner thigh, onto the green bed of flora. He shuts his eyes, a harsh breath expelling from his nostrils, his jaw tight.
In all honesty, he’s never felt jealousy toward moss before, but there’s a first for everything. So’lek bites his tongue, tasting blood. Anything to snap himself out of this trance he’s in. This is a line he won’t cross—can’t cross. No matter how much he may want. He can’t bring himself to turn his head, so keeping his eyes shut will have to do.
“Mmmn…”
The groggy sound dislodges from your throat before you can even register it came from you. It’s like there’s a lag between your body and mind. You know you want to open your eyes, but they don’t listen to your command right away. You need to see, or how else will you know what they’re plotting next? You force them open and things are a blur at first.
Blobs of colors sprinkle your vision and you try to blink them away. Soon enough they merge and things sharpen until you see that you’re in a place you don’t recognize whatsoever. Panic blooms in your chest, and adrenaline pumps through your veins at a frightening rate. Your eyes, once heavy as sandbags, bulge from your head as you spring into a seated position.
You scramble back until you hit something rough and hard, and reach for your knife which isn’t there. The worst comes to mind. They’ve dragged you to this place where no one will ever find you and left you for dead. And even worse, they’ve found him and killed him. You look down in horror—you’ve got no top on, no tewng, nothing. You begin to hyperventilate, clutching your chest with one hand and hugging your knees with the other.
“Mawey.” A familiar, comforting voice coos, and when you look up you realise it’s So’lek. Relief cascades over you. “Mawey, Tamtey. You are safe, I have you. Breathe.”
He’s towering over you, hand cupping your cheek, concern etched into each wrinkle and scar on his perfect face. But his eyes—they’re hazy and glossy.
“So’lek? Ma’So’lek!” You sob, fat tears streaming down your cheeks as you throw yourself into his arms.
“Breathe, Tamtey.” He coos as he cradles you close to him, counting down the seconds he has to savour how you feel in his clutch before he reluctantly lets go.
You look around, and you’re so, so confused. But if So’lek is here, that means everything will be alright.
“Where are we?” You ask, chest heaving, body burning. “What…what happened?”
So’lek’s expression hardens as he skitters back, away from you. His eyes flick down to his feet. “I am…not entirely sure.”
Suddenly, you’re hyper aware of yourself. The sweaty hair stuck to your neck. Your hard nipples. The faint throb between your legs. What’s happened? You close in on yourself even more, embarrassed. He probably doesn’t even want to see you this way, yet you’ve thrown yourself on him.
Silence passes. The air is thick with tension, an awkwardness filling the space between you and him. You wrap an arm around your chest and cross your legs. You feel utterly exposed, even though he refuses to look at you.
If anything, that actually makes it worse.
So you turn inwards, to your own muddy thoughts, trying to run through the last memories you have. They shot you, twice. And gave you an injection. And then…that’s it. That’s all you can remember. An unsettling feeling blankets over you. Why are you naked? And…what did they do to you? Worry cramps your stomach, and suddenly you’re nauseous and clammy.
“You live, Sarentu.” So’lek’s sarcastic tone brings you back from that dark place. He’s finally looking at you now, eyes filled with concern, a light smile on his face.
You laugh and wipe your tears with a trembling hand. “You came, chicken.”
“Hmm.” So’lek hums weakly. He looks spent. Like he can barely keep his head up. Like when they shot you.
“What happened…to you?” You ask quietly, you’ve never seen him like this before. “You look like shit.”
So’lek’s head rolls towards you and his brow bones jump, one side of his mouth curling into a smirk.
“Me?”
“Ha-ha.” You say faintly, a soft smile pulling at your lips. Yeah, you do probably look like shit, all things considered. At least you feel that way. Like you’ve been caught in the middle of a titanothere stampede.
But in the same breath, your body feels…strange. Similar to when you’re sick with a fever. That sort of sluggish, air-headed feeling.
“My head…mmm—” You mumble to yourself as your eyes flutter shut. There’s a muffled ringing in your ears. “…I don’t know.”
“Tamtey?” So’lek’s calls for you, but he sounds far away. That ringing in your ears is getting louder.
A bead of sweat crashes onto your chest, and it’s enough to make you look down. Your skin glistens, your tahnìs blinking haphazardly in the dark. There’s a heaviness down there, a pull that makes your legs open to get more comfortable.
In a flash, a fog claims your mind as you hazily watch your knees part, exposing how swollen and flushed you are. Your puffy folds glisten, and you go to touch them, curious to see how it feels—how it would feel. Your fingers touch, parting slightly, playing with the stringy, clear slick.
Just as quickly as the fog comes, it clears. And you’re left with this mortifying sense of clarity of what you just did. Of the fact that he’s just seen you, spread wide. Your legs snap closed and you look up, meeting the glowing eyes of your mentor.
“I…I don’t know—I don’t know why I just did that. ‘m sorry…” You stumble with your words, looking away in shame, further retreating into the wall. He must be so disappointed in you.
So’lek doesn’t move. He can’t. If he does, it won’t end well. He just holds his breath, embracing the way his lungs scream for air, focusing on that tight feeling instead of the tightness of his tewng. He acts as if it did nothing to him, like his cock isn’t as hard as it was during his first rut. Like he’s entirely unbothered.
But the truth is…
Your pussy is perfect. She’s more beautiful than he’s ever imagined. Shiny with your arousal, so inviting. As if she’s calling for him. And he’d cut his own tail off so he could answer. But he doesn’t entertain the thought. Instead, he reminds himself not to breathe. Because if he does, then he’ll really taste you on his tongue.
“It cannot be helped. It is fine.” He manages to get out of his screaming lungs, inching further away from you. But there’s something inside him that’s physically stopping him from completely leaving your side.
“It’s not—haaah…” You moan shakily as you feel the fog seep back in. You burst out into a shiver, tiny bumps sprinkling your skin. “It’s coming…again. Th-they gave me…something. I don’t—I’m, I feel weird, So’lek.”
His head snaps towards you, ears tall and alert. “What did they give you?”
“I don’t know. S-Something.” Your lungs tremble as a wave of heat covers you like a sheet. “An injection.”
You moan again, that heavy sensation in your lower tummy grows into a sharp ache and you can’t help but cradle that part of you.
So’lek growls, displeased by the mere thought. And your body responds to the sound alone, producing more of that slick between your legs. His nostrils twitch and you swear his eyes darken when they fall on you protecting your empty womb.
He will protect it once it’s full.
“It’s hot, it’s so fucking hot…” You mumble, smacking your dry tongue.
“You and that mouth.” He rasps, finally taking in a deep breath and immediately regretting it. It’s like the air has gone straight to his head, a pressure swelling there until he can’t form a rational thought.
You’re dangerous like this. No. You make him dangerous.
The wave passes and some sort of coherence settles, leaving you feeling the most vulnerable you’ve ever felt in your life. Not only that, but the daunting realization dawns on you that this is entirely out of your control. Like there’s something wrong with your body. Anxiety flashes across your face and sympathy floods So’lek’s.
“Hold still.” He’s speaking to you like your mentor as he makes cautious, calculated movements towards the small pool of water. He cups it in his hands and brings it to your lips, and you drink from them fervently. It’s more than refreshing, it’s reviving.
“Better, now?” His voice rumbles, his face just inches from yours. When you’re finished, he drags his calloused, wet hands down your throat, cooling you off.
The feeling is divine. His touch is right. And he’s so close to you that you can feel his hot breath against you. You can smell him. You hadn’t noticed until now, exactly how good he smelled. And it seems to be coming from somewhere a little further down. You don’t realize that you’re looking there, but there's a notable bulge in his tewng.
“Eyes up, Sarentu.” He rumbles. “Focus.”
“So’lek…” You moan as that formidable fog looms back over your entire body. “Ma’Solek.”
“Do not say it…like that.” His brows furrow and his jaw flutters.
“Ma’So’lek…” His name drips from your lips again, thick as tree sap, your hand brushing against your heavy breasts. Your nipples tighten, a tingly sensation zinging through you like electricity. You’re an open nerve, all of you. And it makes you squirm.
“I said, rä’ä rikx [do not move].” He bares his canines as he speaks, his voice is deep and thick with restraint.
“Don’t think I…can—I can’t…” You pluck at your nipples, over and over, it’s annoying how itchy they’re getting. You feel blood rush to your face as another wave of heat crashes over you, leaving you panting and clammy. “Oh, Ma’So’lek…Touch…touch me, please.”
“You are not in your right mind.” So’lek strains his words as he stumbles back, his head turned away from you, yet his eyes still locked on your every move.
He scorns himself for the lack of discipline he’s showing, for looking at you in your most vulnerable state. He mounts the ledge with a gruff grunt, slightly spreading his legs to make space between his thighs. He leans back, abs tensed, his body unbelievably heavy.
Then your womb throbs. A yearning sensation, something instinctual flares inside you. It’s not pleasant, but it’s not unpleasant either. It’s just different. An entirely new feeling. You clutch your belly, curling over yourself, trying to understand this all.
“What’s happening?” You whine, crossing your legs tight to quell that bothersome pulse.
“They put you in heat.”
“H-Heat? I’ve never…I really, I-I don’t like it.”
“You never…?” So’lek hisses softly, sinking his head into his hands.
Of course you’ve never had your heat cycle. You’re half his age. Between that and cryo, it makes complete sense as to why you’re so confused. It’s why you’re so innocent to him to begin with. You’re young, and a little naive. Inexperienced. Untouched. Oh. You’ve never been touched, which means…he’d be your first.
No. No, he won’t.
His fingers rake through his hair as he breathes hard and fast, his hands covering his ears to muffle your sounds. It’s like listening to an ikran in distress. He wants to help, to make it better. But he can’t, so he won’t. Not like this.
“Nggh–h-how…why’d they…why?” You can barely speak, just let these humiliating sounds come from some primal part inside you.
“So I will come.” Constraint tenses his deep voice, but it's laced with something else, too.
Hunger.
You don’t understand, you just want. You crave, you need, you yearn. For him. It still doesn’t make sense to you. There is no point in trying to understand, to fight this. It’s going to happen no matter how much you resist it, so it only makes sense to just let go. To let it happen, right?
“Would it be…haah…s-so bad?” You ask hazily, settling on your knees, letting your hand slip down between your thighs.
“Yes.” He’s sharp with his answer, giving you that tone he usually does when ‘it’s final’. Dismay bursts through your ribcage.
“But why?” You let out a frustrated sob, sounding like a child who didn’t get their way. “Why not!”
“Tamtey.”
He uses your name like a warning, finally looking at you, just to meet his biggest temptation yet. You’re touching yourself, your inexperienced fingers fumbling, your eyes half lidded and cloudy. Inside, he burns with shame—the internal battle of conflict ensuing.
“I have lived nearly twice your life already.” He sounds weak. He is weak. Whatever they shot him with is still coursing through his bloodstream.
“Ke tare [it doesn’t matter].”
“It does.” He snaps at you, overwhelmed by a new, stronger wave of your pheromones. Your heat is peaking. So’lek narrows his gaze on you, his mouth turning downwards. “You are still young. It is your first heat. I will not hurt you.”
The tears come, and you can’t stop them. They’re only confirming what he’s said. “…it’s already hurting.”
“Shushh…Mawey. I do not like when you cry.” His breath shakes from restraint, from the struggle between what he wants and what he should do. “You are strong enough for this, Sarentu.”
You whimper as you fall forward on your hands and knees, sinking your chest into the moss until your hips lift into the air—your tail swishing wildly behind you. This position feels better, it dulls the ache, it satisfies the pull. It’s the position your body should be in.
So’lek watches you through lidded eyes, groaning when you rock back and forth a little. He wants to come behind you and settle on his knees. He can see himself so vividly, curving over you, his pelvis flush to you, pressing into that soft, sticky slit you're presenting to him. Instinct rides him, and he shifts his hips.
He wants to take this bait.
The scent of your pussy is driving him mad, he can’t take it. He can smell how ripe you are from where he sits. He wishes you’d move to the side a little so he can get a better look, like you did earlier when you mindlessly played with your puffy folds. He craves to know how it feels inside.
You don’t mean to move. It just happens. Your palms press into the moss, one in front of the other, your knees following effortlessly behind. This distance between you and So’lek feels wrong, his scent isn’t strong enough anymore.
Why is he so far away?
So’lek doesn’t dare take his eyes off you, every muscle in his body is flexed—eerily still. Because you look like a palulukan stalking him, hunting her prey. He’s yours. And it’s doing something to him, something dangerous. He presses his pelvis forward, chasing the throb down there that he can’t ignore anymore.
You start at his calf, nudging at it with your cheek. You drag your flushed face up his muscular leg, past his knee. You're inhaling his musk, deep and long, pressing your nose into his thigh.
“Sarentu…” He exhales shakily, his hands gripping relentlessly onto the stone. “What are you doing?”
“It’s coming…from here.” You mutter into his inner thigh, rubbing your face against him as you breathe in his musky scent. It’s stronger the further up you go.
“You are scenting me.” He whispers through gritted teeth, “…like I am yours.”
“Yes, ma’So’lek.” You moan, your hands wandering up his thighs. You push them further apart, your face burrowing right between them. “You belong…to me.”
So’lek’s restraint is palpable. It’s in every loud breath he heaves, to each small spasm of his muscles.
“Tamtey.” He warns longingly, his throat tight. “You are going to send me into rut.”
“You want me.” It’s not a question, it’s defiance—insistence. You know it in your bones. You feel it radiating from him, his containment, the way he’s peering down at you between his legs.
So’lek’s jaw tightens. His lips press thin as he intentionally slows his breath, each movement measured.
“Yes.” He speaks through his teeth, quick and breathless. He will never lie to you, not even about this.
“Then let me.” You breathe open mouthed against his inner thigh. Your sensitive lips drag upwards, right across that bulge inside his tewng.
“No…Sarentu.” He speaks quietly, brows tensed, ears slicked back.
“Smell s’good.” You mumble, rubbing your face against it. It’s hot, and it strains hard against the fabric. You want to see what’s inside.
“You…” He groans from the friction, his breath heavy as he fights the pleasure. “You do not know what you are doing.”
“Want…please.” Your tongue darts out for a taste, but it doesn’t taste like much. You need to get rid of this thing stopping you. Frustrated, your hand lugs higher, weak fingers tugging at the taut material.
He’s the male. He’ll help you.
“Help, Ma’So’lek, help.”
Hearing you plead for help triggers something inside him, that part that screams protect. Provide. His hand jolts, instinctively going for his tewng, but he stops it at the last second. He can’t think straight, not when your innocent, flushed face looks so perfect between his legs.
“You will regret this, Sarentu.” His voice is strained, his eyes closing.
“No, please. Please.” You beg, out of your mind, going for his tewng again, tugging it a little harder. “Want to see…what’s inside. Let me. It smells…s’good.”
“Eywa.” He hisses through gritted teeth, opening his eyes to see you nipping at his tewng with your little canines. “Give me the strength.”
“It's what I want…I need…I hurt, ma’So’lek.”
Well, that pains his heart. Heavily. He can’t have you hurting like this. His hand moves, guiding yours, hooking your fingers underneath the side of his tewng, shifting it slowly. He’s in a trance, moving on impulse as he watches your tail swish excitedly, your body vibrating with eagerness.
His chest swells with pride, he’s satisfying you, doing you right, as he should. It is right—whatever you want. His duty is to give it to you. Your ears flicker and then pin to your skull, your mouth seeking the source of his scent. You whine longingly, shifting your knees, shuffling closer.
Eager to see. Your hands slip to his thighs, holding them there so they don’t move, one hand gripping just underneath his muscle. Your fingers sink into his skin, your heart beating its way out of its cage.
So’lek’s breath is so heavy it’s audible, he’s never seen you so eager. His tewng finally shifts to the side, and his cock springs out, painfully hard.
Immediately, you rub against his length with your face, enjoying how hot it feels on your skin.
“Tamtey…” So’lek rasps your name in a haze, mesmerized by you entirely. His hand seeks out the ledge once more, gripping it with all his strength when your wet nose brushes against his tip. His cock twitches away from your face, slapping against his stomach.
“...what are you—?”
He watches as you shove your nose into that space between his thigh and cock, filling your lungs to capacity. Your tail thrashes wildly behind you as you shuffle even closer, your achy breasts brushing against his calves.
“Ma’So’lek…Ma’muntxatan….”
Yes. So’lek purrs at the sound of you calling him yours. He is your mate. He feels that is so. That’s also right. His hips buck, the tip of his cock leaking with slick, beading down his length.
You want to taste it properly, and your mouth opens, tongue lolling out, wet and inviting. You look up at him through damp lashes, dazed. He’s watching intently, like his life depends on it.
Glancing down, you really see it. It’s big, really big. And hard, so hard it’s straining. His tip tapers into a point, garnished with small spikes, his slit oozing and leaking. He’s throbbing too, just like you. You want to lick the veins protruding down his length, to the base of his cock that's turning deep purple.
You want to know how it feels against your tongue.
So’lek draws in a sharp breath when you rest his tip against your hot tongue. Sweetness bursts on your tastebuds and you moan, closing your lips around the head of his cock so you can swallow the taste. It pulses in your mouth, his balls pumping more of those delicious beads into your cheeks.
Your pussy tightens, slick dripping down your thighs—your belly swirling with anticipation. Your eyes flutter shut as you take more of him inside until that swollen, pointed tip hits the back of your throat and your shoulders heave when you gag.
A guttural groan rumbles from him, and his hips stutter, making you gag again. He’s never experienced anything like this in his almost forty years of living. How do you look so innocent doing something so filthy? He doesn’t know what to make of it, pleasure and guilt tighten his stomach. It feels too good, his body is reacting quicker than his mind.
His hips drive forward again, rougher this time, but you don’t gag—drool just oozes from the corners of your mouth, your nose getting snotty. His ears grow hot and his swelling balls pull tightly to his core. He’s going to shoot his load down your throat if he doesn’t find the strength to stop you soon. He can’t do that to you. He shouldn’t even be doing this with you now.
Fuck. He’s losing it, really losing it. He wanted to do this right, to ask you to be his mate.
But the little self control he had left is gone. Like it was never there to begin with. He’s on the cusp of it now, he feels it creeping up on him. Threatening to take the reins straight from his hands. That fire inside him is waking up again, and it’s not demanding spilled blood.
It’s demanding you.
That plump slit between your legs. It wants him inside, deep, touching the opening of your womb. The womb he’ll fill with his seed that you will bear for him. He’s longed for it for some time, to see you round and swollen, carrying a part of him inside you day and night. Now he can make it happen, he can make it real, right here, right now. He can hold you down as you squirm and breed your cunt, over and over. Then he’ll knot you, deep enough to hear your sweet sounds of pain and pleasure, keeping you stuck to him—from running away.
He’s staring at your expression, hot and bothered, your lips stretched around his fat cock perfectly. He thrusts his hips, driving his cock a little deeper down your throat. His hands fly to your head, fingers weaving through your hair, and he firmly holds you there as you gag repeatedly. With every gag, his knot swells and his cock throbs. He’s going to come down your throat.
Shit. He’s going to come down your throat.
The realization hits him like a punch to the face and he springs to his feet, his cock popping out of your mouth as you fall to your behind. You gasp for air, unable to catch your breath properly as you stare up at him expectantly. Your hands reach down for the heat between your legs, rubbing and tickling and the sight sends his cock frantically jumping.
“Tamtey.” He growls low in his throat, his rut riding him hard. “Run.”
Hyperlinks are attached to specific paragraphs that when clicked on will lead you to its illustration by Ralak's insanely talented creator @zestys-stuff. Thank you so much for allowing me to play around with your character!
Content Warning: smut, filth, heat cycle, non human biology, knotting, knot play, first persons pov, teacher/student rp, heavy breeding kink, mentions of nursing
I’m in heat.
Well, I think I might be in heat. I’m getting cramps again, and my breasts feel really heavy and my nipples are so tender. And lately, Ralak has been smelling a little too good. I wonder if he can tell. He hasn’t been acting like he does. Actually, he acts the same most of the time. Reserved, but close. He hasn’t really left my side for the last two days. Like right now, he’s just around, watching me feed our four month old. He’s relaxed yet still—he’s observing.
Waiting.
Like I’m a sitting bomb about to detonate.
A shiver bursts through me. Hazily, I look up and meet his gaze. His sharp eyes are trained on me. His lips twitch, like he’s about to say something but decides against it. His gaze flicks down to my chest, and I watch his eyes slowly soften when he sees his sleeping, cooing son against me. His attention is suddenly drawn towards the door.
“Your mother is here.”
I look to my left, stretching my neck until I can see through our window. Oh, yes. Mom’s outside, walking up the stairs to our marui. I can’t really remember why she’s here. But I do know that she’s supposed to be here though.
“She is here for Rak’ani.”
Ralak answers my thoughts. When I look back at him, he's kneeling in front of me with his arms out to take the baby. I guess I must have looked confused. My head feels really fuzzy, like there’s cotton stuffed deep in my ears. My lower tummy tingles.
I feel Ralak take my son from my arms, and I don’t bother to fix my top. Everyone here has seen me already, and it’s really hot in our marui. Mom silently enters, a crooked smile on her face when she sees the baby fast asleep. She looks at me and her smile beams as she comes to me first and wipes the sweat from my forehead. Her hands are cold.
“Ralak will take good care of you, as I will take good care of your son.” Mom (Neytiri) says, tucking a braid behind my ear and kissing the crown of my head.
I can’t muster up much of a reply, so I nod and smile and lean all the way back into my chair.
“Yes, it is time…” Ralak’s deep voice fades into a murmur and the pressure in my ears worsens, “…Irayo [thank you].” Ralak carefully hands mom the baby, smiling as he gives his own son a quick kiss on the head.
I want to give him a kiss too. But every limb on my body feels like the thickest part of hometree, and there’s an itch somewhere deep inside me that I can’t ignore anymore. I squirm around in my chair and squeeze my legs together, but it doesn’t do much.
Ralak notices, glancing over his shoulder as he walks mom out and helps her with the sling. The look he gives me makes that place between my thighs pulse. I feel so puffy down there, so swollen that I can feel it when I close my legs all the way.
I don’t like that it’s pulsing. It’s like that itch deep inside me, but on the outside. And I can’t scratch it, can I? Only Ralak can help me with this. That I know, deep, deep down.
“Mate.” Ralak speaks to me softly as he kneels in front of me. In front of my legs. His hands find my knees and his thumbs mindlessly rub the scarred skin there. It doesn’t feel right, his touch is too far off. He needs to go higher. “You need to eat.”
“Why?” I croak, my throat is dry. It’s a dumb question too, but it felt like the right thing to ask. But he doesn’t scorn me. He just smiles, and presses a cup of water to my lips. “Drink, tanhì.”
So I drink it all, gulping it down. It feels so good going down my throat. So cold and crisp. I sink further into the soft chair and he plucks the cup from my grasp.
“Food, tanhì.” He says, tenderly placing a wrap of some sort into my hands like a newborn baby. It looks like my mom made it.
I sigh and nudge it back into his hands before allowing my heavy arms to drop to my sides. I can’t bother. He already made me eat, I don’t know why he’s forcing me to eat again. I just want to get into a more comfortable position and relax. I shake my head as I hoist my feet up onto the chair and hug my knees.
“No more…food.”
Just saying that took too much energy.
Ralak doesn’t reply, he just looks. But not at me, he’s looking down. He’s looking between my legs. I look down without much thought, other than—I want to see too. I part my knees and pull my tewng [loincloth] out the way.
I’m so, so swollen. My pussy is flushed, and my clit is really hard and big, poking upwards as it pulses slightly. I glance up at his tewng [loincloth], and there’s a big bulge there. My clit throbs hard and there’s a sudden rush of warmth and sliminess dribbles from my pussy.
I finally meet his eyes and his face is tense and he’s breathing hard.
“Y/n.” He says my name like a warning, “I want you pregnant again.”
A fire bursts in my chest and the thought of his thick cock breaching my fat pussy floods my mind. I can just imagine it sliding its way inside me, forcing my pussy open, stretching me to my limit as it sprays inside me. The truth is, I want to be pregnant too. It’s like a craving, something instinctual and deep. I want to be full of his seed, heavy and achy as my body nourishes and flourishes.
“I want...” I mumble, not able to finish. He knows what I mean. He knows what I want. He’s looking at me again. But this time, he’s tugging at his tewng like it’s too tight.
“Tell me.” He says as he inches closer to me, laying his cool, large hand over my hot pussy, putting an intoxicating pressure onto my clit. “Say what you want, tanhì.”
“Want…you,” I huff, my hips rutting against his palm, “to put a baby inside.”
“Are you sure?” He asks calmly, yet his voice feels almost deadly. Like he’s not playing around. He’ll do it, and he’ll do it right now if I just say the word ‘yes’.
“Yes.” I whisper through a heavy breath and let my legs fall open.
His jaw bone flutters as he swallows, and I feel his hand cup my pussy entirely, softly squeezing the swollen flesh as restraint visibly strains his face. I moan and squirm against him, frustrated. I don’t know why he’s always trying to keep himself on a leash, especially not now when I feel this way.
When I need him to just do it.
“You are in heat.” He says, his voice controlled and tight. I glance down and see him tug at his loincloth again so he can adjust his cock. “You know that?”
Know what? I can’t remember what he just said to me, honestly. He should really take off that thing, it's too tight. I go to reach for it, but my arm is so heavy, I can barely move it. I sigh and shift my pelvis into his palm again, and his grip tightens and he holds me still.
“Tanhì.”
He’s catching his breath, chest heaving as he forces you himself to loosen his grip on my pussy. I feel him ease off and it makes me let out a sob. I can’t help it, I’m feeling too much but not enough at the same time and I don’t know how to stop this feeling.
“Please.” I manage to get out, and shimmy my hips back down onto his palm.
“Answer me.” He makes a point to keep his hand still.
“I don’t know.” I slur my shaky words as I feel them catapult from my chest. I don’t have the energy to answer whatever question he has for me. I need him to do something, anything.
“What’s happening to you?” He asks me like he would when he was my karyu [teacher].
I shake my head and lazily grab his wrist. My hips buck against his palm. His eyes quickly flick down and then back up to meet mine and he tries to adjust his cock again.
“Come now, numeyu [student].” His tone is sharp, and he finally slides his palm up my pussy, tugging the hood of my clit back. “Tell your karyu [teacher] so I can help you.”
“It’s…hot.” I complain, spreading my legs wide, shoving my pussy onto his hand.
“Is that so?” He huffs, his other hand reaching for the back of his loincloth. “And what else?”
“Mm—I don’t…I—I’m itchy.”
“Yeah? Itchy where?” His voice is thick and deep, faltering as he slides his hand back down, over my throbbing clit.
“There, right there.” I say with the utmost desperation. I glance up at him, and he’s smiling at me.
“Here?” His hand slides back up, the seam of his finger suctioning over my clit as he moves.
Fuck.
I nod, and I just barely tighten my fingers around his wrist.
“Or is it…” Ralak moves his hand back down, but his fingers breach me as he goes, stretching my pussy open. “…in here?”
“Yes.” I answer quickly. It is exactly there.
His smile turns into a grin. And then I feel his fingers curl inside me, hard. Hard enough to make me squeal and moan. Just as quick as it came, his grin drops and he peers down at me with the eyes of a predator who’s found their prey.
“I will knot you and breed you. Do you understand that?”
Yes. That’s exactly what he’s supposed to do. I nod frantically and hump at his hand, chasing that feeling, scratching that itch deep inside.
“You will be pregnant when I am finished with you.” He says, withdrawing his fingers from me entirely. Gutted, I look back down to see his huge cock in his hand, weeping and pulsing, notching at my entrance instead. “…swollen with my seed again. Understood, Tahnì?”
“Yes, yes. Now, please. Please, please, just do it. Please.”
“Good. Good girl.”
A sudden, delicious stretch steals my breath and my eyes burn as they water. I look down at my swollen pussy opening wide—really, really wide—impossibly stretching to accommodate his thick, veiny cock. He grunts and steadies himself on one knee, a hand on each of my thighs he pushes my legs all the way back to make space for him.
Yes. That’s right. He needs to go deeper, until I’m so full it hurts.
“Deeper…go deeper.”
Ralak lets out an audible huff and forces my legs even further apart until my inner thigh muscles burn. “What have I taught you about patience?”
“Karyu, karyu [teacher, teacher].” I moan, my body shaking as I helplessly watch him purposely withhold the rest of his cock from me. “I…can’t, I—I can’t do this.”
I manage to shove my hand between us, and my fingers just barely tickle at my clit.
“Your hand.” Ralak growls, shifting his stance again, really anchoring his foot this time. “Move it.”
I let out a whine and tug my hand back. And then he quickly slams his pelvis into mine with a loud smack, so hard my body jolts in my chair.
“Oh, fuck.” I cry out, looking into his eyes. They’re glowing. And he’s deep. So deep, that he’s touching that itchy part just right. “There, yeah. Ge-get me pregnant.”
“Shit.” Ralak growls, pulling out until there’s nothing but the very tip left inside me. “Quiet, mate. Or you will get the knot now.”
“Good. Yes, that’s good. D-Do that.” I look down and his knot is swelling already, the skin shifting to a deep blue, almost purple. “Knot me.”
“You like pain.” Ralak barely chuckles when his hips drive his cock back inside my cunt in a quick thrust. When he bottoms out inside me he groans low in his belly. “Is that it?”
“Knot…knot. Please, knot.”
I feel utterly delirious, like if he doesn’t do it soon I’ll lose it completely. I just need him to move a little more, a little faster. I’m so close, I’m right there at the top, about to spill over the edge.
There’s a steady growl vibrating in Ralak’s chest and he forces my legs back even more until my knees graze past my ears. Then he starts really fucking me. Working out wet, sloppy noises from my pussy, his heavy balls smacking against me with each thrust. It’s fucking divine. His rhythm is steady, his hips slamming into me repeatedly—roughly. Just right. Hitting that spot over and over until I—
“Yeah—yes, yes, yes.” I moan loud and bear down on his cock, cumming so hard my vision sparkles. My cunt throbs in a frenzy, squeezing him tight.
“Hnn—” Ralak grunts roughly and his rhythm suddenly breaks as he shuffles closer and closer, until he’s practically on top of me.
He’s putting his weight on me, using that and gravity to sink his cock deeper and deeper. I can barely breathe and all I can hear are the sounds he’s making. He’s grumbling and groaning deep, his cock twitching furiously inside me. He thrusts into me once more—twice more, until he holds his position deep inside, pinning me to the chair by my the back of my knees.
I can’t move if I wanted to, and all I can do is tremble and sputter as I come down from where he brought me. He’s growing inside—his knot—getting bigger and thicker, stretching out my canal until it burns. The burn is so good, so yummy, so right.
I let him in, I let him use my pussy how he’s supposed to. He physically can’t go any deeper, the crown of his cock is flush against the opening to my womb, pulsing, throbbing—spurting something hot and thick really deep inside there.
It’s what he needs to do.
His knot throbs wildly, moving up and down, notching just under my pelvic bone so we can’t separate. Good. That’s really good. I don’t want him to pull out. I need him to stay inside, so it sticks. So he breeds me properly. I bite my lip, bearing the burning sensation, looking into his eyes as I take it.
“That’s it. That’s my good girl. Yeah?” Ralak grunts, burying his hand between us, swiping his calloused thumb against my hard clit. I nod, whimpering and squirming under his touch. “Push, tanhì.”
What? Push? Why? Why would I do that?
I look at him, confused and disoriented. My head is starting to spin. I can’t think straight.
“Push me out.” He infuses a power into his words, it’s a command that my body can’t help but respond to.
I feel myself bear down, pushing his knot out of me. The burning sensation comes back, hotter than ever. The thickest part of his knot spears me open, but I feel him push back into me against my efforts, keeping the knot inside. A whimper splits my lips and I look down, desperate to see what’s happening.
“Ralak—”
“Karyu.” He snaps, panting through his mouth, eyes fixated on the sight of my pussy stretching wide around his knot. He’s holding himself in position, careful not to move an inch. He wants his knot right there.
“Karyu—I’m trying to, I-I’m pushing, what are you—”
“You wanted the knot, yes? So take it.” His voice is calm yet stern, and I obey again, shoving my heels into the chair. I feel him ease off of me and his knot finally pops out, and there’s a slight gush after. His cum starts dripping from me, from us, onto the chair and the floor.
“There you are.” My karyu praises me as he withdraws from me entirely, using his two fingers to scoop up his cum off me, just to shove them inside me. He leans back, really admiring his work—the mess he’s made of me, his other hand skimming over the small bump of my lower belly.
“Again.” Ralak scoops me into his arms, walking me over to our bed. “And the knot stays.”
Could you do a Tonowari x fem!Metkayina reader where she’s chosen to be Tsahik and his mate, but he thinks she only wants the title—then slowly realizes she genuinely cares in little, quiet ways?
Summary: You were chosen by Tonowari’s mother to be Tsahik and his mate but he never gave you a chance. Until he began to see the quiet ways you loved him.
Part I: The Choice
The reef glowed in the early morning light, beams of sun slipping through the water’s surface and catching on coral outcroppings, painting the village in soft cyan. You stood with your feet planted in the sand, arms at your side, the sea breeze brushing your braids back from your face.
You had never expected this.
“The Great Mother guides my choice,” the current Tsahik said solemnly, her voice echoing around the gathering space. “And she has whispered a name to me.”
A quiet hush settled over the Metkayina clan as eyes turned toward the platform. Beside you stood Tonowari, tall and composed, arms crossed over his broad chest. He didn’t look at you. He hadn’t since you’d stepped onto the dais.
Tsahik continued. “My son, the future Olo’eyktan, must walk beside a woman not only of strength but of deep heart. One who knows the sea, and its silence. One who will care for our people as surely as she cares for what is unseen.”
You swallowed, throat dry despite the salt air.
“I name her,” she said, reaching out and placing her hand on your shoulder, “as the future Tsahik of the Metkayina and as the one chosen to walk beside my son, Tonowari.”
Gasps spread through the gathered clan like ripples from a stone. Some were pleased. Some surprised. Some clearly… less than thrilled.
“She’s so young.”
“I thought it would be Neyla.”
“Tonowari will never agree.”
But it was done. The choosing was sacred.
You bowed your head in reverence, then dared to glance at Tonowari beside you.
His face was impassive, carved from stone. Not one flicker of surprise. No joy, no protest. Just a tight nod as he stepped forward and said, “As you wish, Mother.”
And then he stepped back again.
That evening, the firepit roared with celebration. Fish roasted. Elders sang old songs. Dancers wove across the sands in spirals of movement. You sat at the edge of the feast, untouched fruit in your lap, watching Tonowari.
He was surrounded by others warriors, friends, elders but somehow still apart. Like a reef too sharp to swim near.
You didn’t speak to him that night. And he didn’t seek you out.
The days that followed were quiet. At least, for you.
The clan welcomed you with the smiles they saved for duty. You were trained under the Tsahik, taught rituals, healing, the ways of Eywa. You excelled quietly, without need for praise. But whispers followed your shadow wherever you swam.
“She is clever, yes, but was she the right choice?”
“She doesn’t speak much. Perhaps she is unsure.”
“I hear Tonowari avoids her. Maybe there will be another choosing.”
You bore it all. Silently. Stoically.
Even when you passed Tonowari on the way to the reef, and he barely nodded at you. Even when he walked behind you during rituals but never beside you. Even when he allowed others to flirt and laugh and touch his arm as if you did not exist.
He was never cruel. But kindness? That was something else entirely.
You thought, once, of asking him outright: Why do you hate me so? But the words died on your tongue each time you met his distant eyes.
Still, you did what you were meant to do.
You watched. You learned. You remembered.
Tonowari liked grilled fish, not boiled. He dipped his sea fruit in crushed shell spice, never salt. He preferred silence after long swims, not chatter. His armband had three beads carved with his father’s crest he rubbed them when he was anxious.
So you cooked how he liked. Served him during communal meals without fanfare. You replaced the fraying sash of his wrap before he noticed it was worn. You wove a new loincloth for him and left it quietly on his platform, stitched with small green spirals the same pattern as the tattoo near his collarbone.
He didn’t thank you.
But he wore it.
Tonowari was a leader before he was a man. At least, that’s what the elders always said.
You watched him from afar more often than not giving orders before a storm, swimming at the head of every migration, holding the young warriors’ gaze with a kind of gravity that could pull stars from the sky.
And yet, he rarely looked your way.
The absence of hatred wasn’t kindness. It was just emptiness. A space between you wide as the ocean, made wider by every day you stood at his side in ritual but never in spirit.
You stopped expecting warmth from him. You started giving it anyway.
It began with a small basket of food.
The clan had returned from an exhausting dive, hunting large, armored reef beasts. You’d watched from the shore, preparing herbs and bandages in case someone came back wounded. When Tonowari emerged from the sea last, his face was drawn tight, and his shoulder bore a ragged slice along the deltoid.
You didn’t speak. You just approached, cleaned it with practiced hands, and rubbed in a cooling salve from sea anemone roots. He watched you in silence but didn’t flinch.
Later that evening, you prepared his meal separately. Not as Tsahik. Not as some ceremonial gesture.
But as a woman who’d watched him enough to know what calmed his nerves.
Grilled fish, citrus-glazed seaweed, fruit sweetened with crushed shells everything he favored, wrapped in soft cloth and left by his sleeping mat. No note. No fanfare.
The next morning, the basket was returned to your platform. Empty. Clean. Carefully folded.
And not a word was said.
You noticed small things after that.
He didn’t leave the communal fire as early anymore. Sometimes he lingered near where you sat with Tsahik, listening quietly.
He started walking closer beside you. Never touching, never lingering too long but no longer avoiding you either.
One night, a young woman from the weaving groups placed her hand on Tonowari’s arm, laughing brightly at something only she heard.
You expected him to allow it. To remain cold and still as always.
But he gently removed her hand. Said, “Respect the future Tsahik.”
The girl paled. Apologized. Walked away.
You were too stunned to speak. But Tonowari looked at you for the briefest of moments.
And nodded.
That evening, you sat alone by the reef, braiding sea thread into long cords for children’s charms. Your fingers moved from memory, your thoughts drifting like foam on the waves.
You didn’t hear him approach.
“You sit alone often,” came his voice, low and calm.
You blinked. Looked up.
Tonowari stood there, arms at his sides, expression unreadable. The moonlight carved soft lines into his cheekbones, his tattoos catching the blue hue of the night tide.
“It is quiet here,” you answered.
He sat down beside you. Not too close but not far, either.
After a moment, he said, “You knew I liked citrus.”
Your fingers paused in their braid. “Yes.”
“You made the fish perfectly. Even the texture.”
“I listen,” you said simply.
He turned to face you. “Why?”
The word struck deeper than it should have.
You met his eyes. “Because I care.”
He stared at you. Really looked. As if seeing you not as a duty or a name but as a person flesh and thought, desire and devotion, waiting patiently on the other side of silence.
He looked away then, brows drawn. “I thought… you only wanted the title. Like the others.”
You could’ve laughed. Or cried.
Instead, you said, “I never asked for this. But I never asked to be overlooked, either.”
The wind picked up. His fingers twitched on his knee.
“I see that now,” he said, quietly.
In the weeks that followed, the space between you began to close.
He didn’t become someone new overnight. But Tonowari started seeking your counsel more during clan meetings. Asked your opinion before the Tsahik had a chance to answer for you.
Once, he brought you a carved comb made of reefbone. It wasn’t fancy. But the teeth were wide enough for your thick braids, and it had a wave motif carved into the handle one you’d painted onto your sleeping mat as a child.
“How did you know I like this design?” you asked him, genuinely curious.
He shrugged. “I listen.”
You smiled, and this time, he saw it.
There were still bad days.
Tonowari was under pressure. From his people. From his own fears. You learned to recognize the way his shoulders tensed before a council meeting or how his jaw flexed when someone questioned his authority.
But on those days, you made sure his meal was waiting. You touched his arm briefly before a ritual. You whispered, You are enough, once, just before he walked onto the central platform.
He didn’t say anything.
But he took your hand in his when the chants began.
One night, a storm blew hard over the outer reef. Warriors were dispatched to anchor structures and bring in supplies from drifting platforms. Tonowari returned soaked to the bone, bleeding from a coral scrape on his thigh, his hair plastered to his face.
You were waiting.
You didn’t ask. You simply pulled him into your platform hut, dried his arms, and dressed the wound in silence.
He watched you the whole time.
Finally, his voice cracked the quiet. “I do not deserve this from you.”
You tied the last knot in the bandage. “Why not?”
“I doubted you.”
You met his eyes. “You’re not the only one who has.”
“But I was the one who mattered.”
He exhaled sharply. Reached for your wrist stopped. Then, slowly, he brushed your fingers with his.
“I see you,” he whispered.
You froze.
But your heart leapt. Because it wasn’t the formal greeting, the rote phrase of ceremony.
It was real. Raw. His voice broke on the words.
“I see you,” he said again, this time steadier.
You curled your fingers into his. “I’ve seen you every day, Tonowari.”
He bent his forehead to yours.
And for once, there was no sea between you.
Tonowari didn’t kiss you that night.
But something in the air shifted between you. A thick, unseen thing. Like the pause between waves soft, expectant.
After that storm, he no longer hovered near you like someone fulfilling a duty. He sought you. Sought your presence, your thoughts, your quiet eyes.
And for the first time, he gave in return.
It began with a cloak.
You’d woven him many garments before shawls, wrist wraps, satchels. But he’d never made you anything. Not because he was selfish. Because he didn’t know how.
So when he approached you holding a seafoam-colored wrap, edges uneven and clearly stitched by someone still learning, you nearly dropped the basket of dried herbs in your arms.
“I wanted you to have this,” he said, voice low and careful. “You get cold when the wind shifts.”
You took it with trembling fingers. The fabric was rough in places, but warm. It smelled like reef and him.
You pressed it to your cheek.
“Thank you,” you said softly. “This means more than you know.”
His throat bobbed with an unspoken word. But he only nodded and walked away.
That night, you slept wrapped in it.
Time passed gently.
Tonowari began joining you during morning meditations. Once, he helped you carry herbal satchels to the tidepool children. Another time, he braided your hair while you rested from a long healing ceremony, his fingers slow and reverent.
He didn’t speak much. But when he did, his words lingered like whale songs low and warm, felt more in the chest than the ears.
You began to laugh with him. To smile more openly. To touch his wrist when he looked tired, and not worry he would flinch.
And in turn, he looked at you like you were no longer just the Tsahik who was chosen for him
But the woman he would’ve chosen himself.
The clan noticed.
No one dared say anything too directly, but you heard it in their tones.
“Did you see how Tonowari looked at her today?”
“They speak without words now.”
“She softened him.”
And perhaps you had. But more truthfully, he’d let himself be softened. Like sea rock worn down not by force but by constancy.
One afternoon, while helping a young diver with her first healing session, you felt a presence at your back.
You turned and Tonowari was watching.
He hadn’t interrupted. Just waited.
When the child left with her parents, Tonowari came closer.
“You are gentle with them,” he said. “Even when they are frightened.”
You smiled. “They are still learning.”
He nodded. “So was I.”
Your eyes met. His meaning sank into your bones.
So was I.
That night, he kissed you.
It wasn’t planned. There was no ceremony, no prelude.
You had just returned from a healing outpost on the far reef. Exhausted, muscles sore, your hands still dyed with leaf pigments.
You climbed the platform where he stood, waiting.
“I heard you returned late,” he said. “I was worried.”
You looked up at him, too tired to speak, too full of love to hide.
And he kissed you.
Not hard. Not fast. Just sure.
The kind of kiss that said, I am no longer afraid.
Your hands curled into his waist wrap. His cupped your jaw like something fragile and sacred.
And when he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, he whispered:
“You were never a duty.”
You cried. A little. Quietly.
He held you through it.
From that day on, the world softened around you.
There was still war. Still storms. Still hard days. But now there was him. And he was no longer just someone you loved in secret.
He was someone who loved you back.
It bloomed slowly like everything between you had.
Tonowari was not loud in love. He didn’t make speeches or shout his feelings across the village. But you felt it in every gesture.
In the way he warmed your meal when you came home late.
In the way he carved a small water dish for your pet ilusa.
In the way he waited for you each night, only sleeping once he knew you were safe beside him.
He whispered I see you against your shoulder when the stars were high. You whispered I see you back, with hands curled over his heart.
One morning, you woke to find him gone from your sleeping mat.
He’d left something in your hands woven cloth, carefully folded. A ceremonial sash.
You opened it and gasped softly.
It bore the mark of Tsahik but also, stitched beside it, the symbol for mate.
Tonowari had made it himself.
He’d been learning in secret from the elder weavers. Practicing when you were away. You could see the imperfections, but you could also see the care. The patience. The intention.
When he returned, salt still in his hair from a dawn swim, you rushed to him.
You didn’t speak. Just held him.
He murmured, “I want you beside me. As my mate. As my equal. As the woman I love.”
You said yes before he could finish the sentence.
The Metkayina clan gathered at the edge of the reef beneath the setting sun. The tide was low, the sand damp and warm under your bare feet, and the sky was streaked in soft rose and gold.
The waters whispered to the shore, carrying gifts of foam and fragments of coral. And before the entire clan before Eywa, before the Great Mother’s sacred eye you and Tonowari stood across from one another.
He wore the ceremonial paint of Olo’eyktan, freshly renewed, but this time his chest bore something else: a small spiral inked above his heart. It matched your own. A symbol of the tide’s endless return.
You had drawn it for each other the night before. With his hand steadying your wrist. With yours trembling when you painted his.
Tsahik, his mother, stood between you, her voice strong, clear.
“Eywa hears all hearts. She knows when love is chosen, and when it is earned. She watches over those who walk beside one another not only in duty, but in truth.”
Her eyes met yours.
“You have walked this path with patience. With grace.”
Then she turned to Tonowari.
“And you, my son, have found what it means to love not from pride, but from seeing.”
You felt his fingers brush yours.
The final chant began. The clan joined in, their hum rising like a rising tide, resonant and deep. And when it faded, the old Tsahik stepped back.
Now it was your moment.
You and Tonowari stepped forward.
And he spoke first.
“I once believed you were chosen for me. That I had no choice,” he said, voice firm and low, carrying across the water. “But I was wrong. I see now that Eywa did not trap me. She gifted me someone I was too blind to understand. And now, I choose you. Not because I must but because I cannot imagine a single day without your hand in mine.”
The clan was silent. The reef wind stilled.
You swallowed the lump in your throat. “And I choose you,” you said, voice shaking. “Because even when you did not see me, I loved you. And now that you do there is no end to that love.”
His hands took yours.
Foreheads pressed.
And the wave rolled in behind you both, warm and gentle, lapping over your feet like Eywa’s blessing.
The clan cheered.
But all you could hear was the sound of his breath against your cheek, and the quiet, precious words that followed:
“You are my home now.”
Your joining was not grand, not ostentatious.
But it was true.
And in the days that followed, you found a rhythm in your lives that was soft and sure.
You slept together now, wrapped in the same woven cloths, his heartbeat under your ear at night.
He kissed your temple every morning before diving. You left small offerings fruit, polished shell, ocean stones by his weapons rack.
He brought you shells that looked like stars. You sang to him while brushing the salt from his braids.
Once, he surprised you by carving a small talon flute one you’d told him you used to play as a child, long ago. He had asked no questions then. But weeks later, the gift arrived on your mat, smoothed and tuned.
“I remember everything about you,” he said, brushing his fingers over your knuckles.
And he did.
Every day, Tonowari showed you that love did not have to roar to be strong. It could be steady. It could be patient. It could be quiet and still move the world.
You found joy in mundane things.
Helping children mend their fishing nets. Dancing in the tide pools when no one was looking. Singing while preparing salves.
Tonowari watched you in those moments like you were a prayer answered.
He laughed more now. Full, open. A sound you rarely heard before.
When the other clan leaders visited and commented on how much more grounded he seemed, he only said, “I have someone who reminds me what matters.”
One evening, after a long training day, you found him half-asleep on your shared mat, shoulders sore from leading dives.
You sat beside him, fingers working the tightness from his muscles, humming gently.
“You work too hard,” you said softly.
He cracked one eye open. “I work to make you proud.”
You leaned down and kissed his temple. “You make me proud when you rest, too.”
He smiled, slow and sleepy, and reached for your hand.
“Then stay,” he murmured.
You curled into his side, his breath deepening as sleep overtook him.
And for a long time, you simply lay there, the reef winds outside your home, the warmth of his body against yours.
A life not of ceremony or status.
But of belonging.
Of quiet, sacred love.
The seasons turned gently after your bonding.
Not with fanfare or sudden change but with the subtle certainty of the tide. The reef warmed. The young ones grew bolder in the water. Storms came and went, leaving the coral stronger in their wake.
And so did your life with Tonowari.
You became Tsahik not all at once, but gradually. The old Tsahik never stepped aside abruptly; she guided you, corrected you when needed, and most importantly trusted you. You learned to read the currents not just of the sea, but of people. To feel when a child’s fear was deeper than scraped skin. When a warrior’s anger hid grief. When silence meant more than words.
Tonowari watched you step into the role with a kind of reverence that still startled you.
He never interrupted your rituals. Never spoke over you in council. And when others questioned your decisions, he did not defend you loudly.
He simply said, “She knows what she is doing.”
And that was enough.
You learned, over time, that Tonowari carried guilt like a second spine.
Sometimes it came out in quiet ways how he lingered in doorways watching you work, how he reached for you at night as if afraid you might vanish, how he would grow unusually silent during celebrations meant to honor you.
One evening, after a long council meeting, you found him standing alone at the edge of the water, staring out into the dark sea.
“You’re carrying something,” you said gently, coming to stand beside him.
He exhaled slowly. “I think about how close I came to losing you.”
You frowned. “You never lost me.”
He turned to you then, eyes dark and honest. “I almost did. When I thought you were something you were not. When I let my pride speak louder than my heart.”
You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “But you learned.”
“Yes,” he said. “Because you taught me. Without demanding anything in return.”
He lowered his forehead to yours. “I will spend my life being worthy of that.”
You smiled softly. “Then spend it with me.”
The first time a child ran to you instead of the elders for comfort, something settled in your chest.
The first time a wounded warrior thanked you with tears in his eyes, you understood the weight of your calling.
And the first time Tonowari introduced you to visiting clan leaders as my mate, my Tsahik, you realized how far he had come.
He was proud of you not because of your title, but because of who you were.
Your home filled with small rituals.
Morning swims together before the village woke. Shared meals eaten cross-legged on woven mats. Quiet conversations before sleep sometimes deep, sometimes silly, sometimes nothing at all.
Tonowari learned the rhythms of you the same way you had learned him.
He noticed when you needed solitude and guarded it fiercely. When you were overwhelmed, he pressed his forehead to yours and breathed with you until the world slowed.
Once, during a particularly heavy season, you broke down quietly while preparing herbs hands shaking, tears slipping free.
You hadn’t meant for him to see.
But he did.
He took the bowl from your hands, set it aside, and pulled you into his chest without a word. Held you while you cried. Kissed your hair. Stayed until the storm passed.
Later, you whispered, “I’m supposed to be strong.”
He answered, without hesitation, “You are. And strong people are allowed to rest.”
Years later, children sat at your feet during evening fires, wide-eyed as you told stories of the reef and the Great Mother.
They loved Tonowari’s stories best the ones where he pretended to be fierce but always smiled too soon.
And when one small child asked, “Tsahik, how did you and Olo’eyktan fall in love?” the whole circle leaned in.
You glanced at Tonowari.
He raised a brow, amused. “Tell them.”
You smiled. “It wasn’t loud. Or fast. It didn’t arrive like a storm.”
You reached for his hand.
“It came like the tide. Slowly. Patiently. Again and again. Until we realized it had always been there.”
Tonowari squeezed your fingers.
“And I was a fool,” he added, “for not seeing it sooner.”
Laughter rippled through the group.
But when the fire burned low and the children drifted off to sleep, he pressed a kiss to your temple and whispered, “Thank you for waiting for me.”
You answered softly, “I would do it all again.”
On the night you fully assumed the role of Tsahik, the sea was impossibly calm.
The old Tsahik placed her hands over yours, eyes warm with pride. “You were always meant for this,” she said.
Later, when the ceremony ended and the village quieted, you stood alone at the water’s edge.
Tonowari joined you, slipping his arm around your waist.
“I was wrong about many things,” he said quietly.
You tilted your head. “And right about one.”
He smiled. “Choosing you.”
You leaned into him, watching the moonlight ripple across the reef.
And there beneath Eywa’s stars, with the sea breathing steadily around you you understood something deeply, truly, finally:
No lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while I gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backward, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in the rain, in a train, on a plane, in a car, on a motorcycle, the back of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffing, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earth quaking, sheet gripping, knuckle cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling, teeth jittering, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip biting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, detectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell dissolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, splendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly awakening, devils tango ever bro could cause a nuclear bomb inside me and id still ride.
writing my English final (argumentative essay) on how Jake Sully’s arc in Avatar 1 parallels Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey simply so i can rewatch one of my favorite movies and analyze it for the millionth time 😛
thinking about jake sully and how he talks you through it ౨ৎ {18+}, nsfw, got the sudden urge to write for jake??
“Breathe, babygirl.”
Eyes screwed shut and chest stuttering; you only remember to when he reminds you.
His hands, large and rough, but gentle when they need to be, cage the form of your waist as he helps you slide down on him, slowly. You can feel every vein pulsing against the ridges of your walls as he sinks inside and it has you mewling into the stuffy air, tinged with the lingering scent of your sex.
“That’s it—Careful, hon.” With your swollen lips spreading around his thick length for the third time tonight, you find your nails digging into the skin of his forearms as you clutch onto them for stability. Somehow, the stretch is always the same. Hurts all the same. Makes you cum all the same.
“Wouldn’t want you to go ‘n hurt yourself, now would we?”Jake chuckles lowly in your ear and your walls clench at that, which earns a soft grunt from him.
“N-no, sir,” you gasp with a quick shake of your head. He plants a wet kiss to the peak of your flushed cheek when he hums, little patches of saliva coating your skin as he drags his lips down to your now outstretched neck next.
“Mhm, that’s right. Wouldn’t be much fun, huh? What do you think?”
Jake knows how much you love and hate when he talks like this while he’s fucking you. As if you can actually hold up a conversation and respond in your inebriated state. It’s so hard for you to focus on what he’s asking you, and he finds it funny how you’re never able to answer his questions coherently and always settle for dropping your head back and whining out some expletive that he should probably be spanking you for. But alas, he was a little busy at the moment, so that’d have to wait.
Big arms wrapped around your torso, his toned forearms press right beneath the cusp of your breasts as his hips snap you up and into an involuntary bounce on his cock, which only pushes him deeper into your pussy every time you land right back in his awaiting lap.
thinking about jake sully and how he talks you through it ౨ৎ {18+}, nsfw, got the sudden urge to write for jake??
“Breathe, babygirl.”
Eyes screwed shut and chest stuttering; you only remember to when he reminds you.
His hands, large and rough, but gentle when they need to be, cage the form of your waist as he helps you slide down on him, slowly. You can feel every vein pulsing against the ridges of your walls as he sinks inside and it has you mewling into the stuffy air, tinged with the lingering scent of your sex.
“That’s it—Careful, hon.” With your swollen lips spreading around his thick length for the third time tonight, you find your nails digging into the skin of his forearms as you clutch onto them for stability. Somehow, the stretch is always the same. Hurts all the same. Makes you cum all the same.
“Wouldn’t want you to go ‘n hurt yourself, now would we?”Jake chuckles lowly in your ear and your walls clench at that, which earns a soft grunt from him.
“N-no, sir,” you gasp with a quick shake of your head. He plants a wet kiss to the peak of your flushed cheek when he hums, little patches of saliva coating your skin as he drags his lips down to your now outstretched neck next.
“Mhm, that’s right. Wouldn’t be much fun, huh? What do you think?”
Jake knows how much you love and hate when he talks like this while he’s fucking you. As if you can actually hold up a conversation and respond in your inebriated state. It’s so hard for you to focus on what he’s asking you, and he finds it funny how you’re never able to answer his questions coherently and always settle for dropping your head back and whining out some expletive that he should probably be spanking you for. But alas, he was a little busy at the moment, so that’d have to wait.
Big arms wrapped around your torso, his toned forearms press right beneath the cusp of your breasts as his hips snap you up and into an involuntary bounce on his cock, which only pushes him deeper into your pussy every time you land right back in his awaiting lap.
