The holidays at Gojo’s place were always a mix of chaotic and strangely comforting.
This year he’d insisted both you and Megumi stay over for a few nights during winter break — “family bonding,” he called it with his signature blindfolded grin.
You knew better. He just liked having his favorite formal students under one roof where he could annoy them.
The first night he laid down his personal rules with mock seriousness:
“Door stays cracked at all times. I’m not raising grandchildren yet.”
Megumi had turned bright red. You’d just laughed nervously.
Now it was the second night. The house was quiet except for the low sound of the heater and the occasional creak of old wood.
Snow fell heavily outside the window, casting a soft blue glow into Megumi’s old room. The door was open just a few inches — enough that a slice of hallway light cut across the floor.
Snow piled up outside, turning the world into a muffled white blanket. You and Megumi were curled under the heavy comforter, the cracked door letting in a thin stripe of hallway light that stretched across the wooden floor.
Gojo’s “door stays open” rule hung over you both, but right now it felt distant. You were lying on your side, back pressed to Megumi’s chest in a loose spoon. His arm draped over your waist, warm and solid. Neither of you had planned for anything more than cuddling after a long day of holiday “family activities” (mostly Gojo forcing everyone to watch terrible Christmas movies).
Megumi’s thumb moved in slow, absent circles over your stomach, right where your oversized sleep shirt had ridden up. The gentle pressure felt soothing at first — just the warmth of his palm rubbing soft circles over the soft pouch of your lower belly.
“Mm… that feels nice,” you whispered, smiling into the pillow.
He hummed quietly in response, pressing a light kiss behind your ear. “You’re warm,” he murmured, voice low so it wouldn’t carry. His hand kept moving, slow and rhythmic, occasionally dipping a little lower before sliding back up. The touch stayed innocent for a while, just comforting affection.
You shifted slightly, pressing back into him more. A tiny giggle escaped you when his fingers brushed a ticklish spot. “Careful, I’m sensitive there.”
Megumi’s lips curved against your neck, you could feel the smile. “I know.” He did it again on purpose, a little lighter, and you both had to muffle quiet laughter into the blankets. His chest vibrated with a rare, soft chuckle of his own. These little moments were your favorite: when the usually reserved Megumi let his guard down and just existed with you.
His hand eventually wandered lower, still over your shirt at first, tracing the waistband of your sleep shorts. He paused there, fingertips slipping just underneath the fabric to brush the skin of your hip. “Is this okay?” he asked softly, always checking even when your bodies were already tangled together.
“Yeah,” you breathed, reaching back to thread your fingers through his messy black hair. You tugged gently, playful, and he rewarded you with another kiss on your neck, this one slower, lingering.
One thing didn’t just happen — it unfolded. His palm slid fully under your shirt again, rubbing wider circles across your stomach, then dipping down to the very edge of your shorts. He teased the hem for a minute, fingertips tracing the line where fabric met skin, before finally slipping underneath. No rush. Just warm fingers gliding over your mound, still gentle, exploring.
You let out a shaky exhale when his middle finger finally brushed between your folds. You were already getting wet from the slow teasing and the closeness of his body. Megumi noticed immediately, and you felt him twitch against your ass through his sweatpants.
“Quiet,” he reminded you in the softest whisper, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice, like he knew how hard that was going to be.
He circled your clit lazily at first, then dipped lower to gather your slickness before returning. Your breathing grew heavier. You turned your head, seeking his mouth, and the two of you shared slow, quiet kisses — more breath and little nips than anything loud. Every time one of you smiled into the kiss, it turned into another shared giggle, noses bumping, hearts racing from both affection and the thrill of the cracked door.
Megumi’s fingers eventually pushed inside you — one at first, then two — curling gently while his thumb kept rubbing your clit in those same unhurried circles he’d started on your stomach. The wet sounds were faint under the thick blankets, but they still felt risky. You rocked back against his hand, thighs trembling.
“Megumi…” you whimpered, barely audible.
He pressed his forehead to the back of your neck, breathing ragged. “I need you,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “Can I…?”
You nodded quickly, already pushing your shorts and panties down just enough. He did the same with his sweatpants, freeing himself. You felt the hot, hard length of him slide against your ass first, teasing, before he angled himself lower.
You lifted your top leg slightly. He pushed in slowly — so slowly — inch by inch, stretching you open while both of you fought to stay silent. When he bottomed out, buried completely, he wrapped his arm tighter around your waist, palm returning to rub soothing circles over your stomach again, right above where you were joined.
For a long minute you just stayed like that, connected and breathing together. Then he started moving in shallow, lazy rolls of his hips that barely made the bed creak. Every thrust dragged against that perfect spot inside you. Your hand reached back to grip his thigh, nails digging in as pleasure built in thick, warm waves.
The footsteps in the hallway came just as the rhythm was starting to speed up.
You both froze instantly, Megumi still deep inside you, throbbing. His hand flew up to cover your mouth gently. The shadow paused outside the cracked door.
Gojo’s voice floated in, casual as ever: “You guys need extra blankets? It’s getting colder.”
Megumi’s voice was impressively steady, though strained. “We’re good.”
A knowing pause. “Alright. Door open, remember~”
The footsteps faded.
The second they did, Megumi let out a shaky breath against your hair and started moving again, deeper this time, a little faster, the risk turning both of you desperate. His hand slid back down between your legs, rubbing your clit while he fucked you from behind in careful, controlled strokes.
You came first, clenching hard around him, biting his palm to muffle your moan. The orgasm rolled through you slow and intense, legs shaking. Megumi followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside you with a low, broken groan he pressed into your neck.
Afterward you stayed tangled together, his hand once again rubbing gentle circles over your stomach under your shirt. Soft kisses, quiet giggles, whispered “I love you”s exchanged in the dark while snow continued falling outside.
you both lay there catching your breath, bodies still connected and slick with sweat under the heavy comforter. Megumi’s hand kept up those slow, soothing circles over the soft pouch of your stomach, like he couldn’t stop touching you. Your breathing gradually evened out, but the warmth of him inside you, the way his cock gave a lazy twitch every few seconds, made it impossible to fully relax.
You shifted slightly, turning in his arms until you were facing him. In the dim light from the cracked door, you could see his flushed cheeks and the dark, half lidded look in his eyes. He was still hard.
“Again?” you whispered, a small smile tugging at your lips as you brushed his messy black hair out of his face.
Megumi swallowed, nodding once. “Only if you want to.” His voice was low and rough, the kind that always sent heat pooling in your belly. He leaned in and kissed you softly — slow and sweet at first, then deeper, tongues brushing as you both smiled into it. A quiet giggle escaped you when his nose bumped yours, and he let out a rare, breathy chuckle of his own, forehead resting against yours.
You pushed gently on his chest until he rolled onto his back. Keeping the thick blankets pulled high over both of you, you swung a leg over his hips and straddled him. The position felt intimate under the covers, its hidden, safe, but still risky with the door open just enough for trouble.
Megumi’s hands settled on your thighs, rubbing up and down slowly as you reached between your bodies. You wrapped your fingers around his cock, stroking him, smearing his leftover cum and your slick a few times before lining him up with your entrance. You were still wet and full from before, so when you sank down it was easier with a smooth, slow glide that had both of you biting back sounds.
You settled fully onto him with a shaky exhale, feeling every inch stretch and fill you again. Megumi’s head tipped back against the pillow, jaw tight, hands gripping your hips under the blanket.
“Fuck…,” he whispered, barely audible.
You started moving In slow rolls of your hips at first, grinding more than bouncing so the bed wouldn’t creak. The blankets stayed draped over your bodies like a tent, trapping heat and the faint wet sounds of him moving inside you. Megumi’s hands slid up under your shirt again, one returning to rub gentle circles over your lower stomach while the other cupped your breast, thumb brushing your nipple.
You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and kissed him deeply to muffle both your moans. Every roll of your hips dragged him against the spot you loved the most. Your breathing grew heavier, little whimpers slipping out despite your best efforts. Megumi’s fingers on your stomach pressed a little firmer, grounding you as pleasure built in thick waves.
“You’re doing so good,” he murmured against your lips between kisses.
That made you clench around him. His hips bucked up instinctively, pushing deeper, and you had to bury your face in his neck to stifle a moan. The two of you moved together like that. Soft giggles broke through whenever one of you shifted too much and the blankets rustled loudly, or when Megumi’s fingers found another ticklish spot on your stomach.
footsteps came without warning.
You were riding him a little faster now, chasing a edge, when a shadow fell across the floor. The door creaked open wider.
Gojo stood there, holding a glass of water like he’d just been innocently walking by. His blindfold was off, bright blue eyes taking in the scene under the dim hallway light: the obvious movement under the blankets, your straddling position, Megumi’s hands clearly gripping you, the way the comforter shifted with every roll of your hips.
For a split second, even Gojo looked surprised.
Then that signature shit eating grin spread across his face.
“Oh wow,” he said, voice loud enough to make you both freeze. “I was just coming to check if the heater was working… but it looks like you two are generating plenty of heat on your own.”
You stopped moving instantly, but Megumi was still buried deep inside you, throbbing hard from the sudden spike of embarrassment and adrenaline. You yanked the blanket higher, trying to hide as much as possible, but there was no hiding the fact that you were literally on top of him.
“Dad—” Megumi started, voice strained and hoarse. His hands tightened on your hips like he was debating whether to pull you off or keep you there.
Gojo leaned casually against the doorframe, not even pretending to look away. “Door was supposed to stay cracked, remember? I could hear the bed from the hallway. I am super angry, yknow.” His eyes sparkled with pure amusement.
Your face burned. You buried it in Megumi’s chest, mortified but still clenching around him involuntarily. Megumi groaned quietly, hips twitching once despite everything.
“ get out,” Megumi hissed, trying to sound threatening but mostly sounding wrecked.
Gojo chuckled, low and teasing. “I meannnnn, you guys had no respect for me, should I open the door fully, will that help?” He winked. “Or I can just stand here and supervise. Make sure the door stays open like I said.”
“Out,” Megumi repeated, face burning crimson.
Gojo sighed dramatically, but he was clearly loving every second. “Fine, fine. I’ll leave the water here. I want to have a conversation in the morning, megumi.” He set the glass on the dresser, gave you both one last lingering, mischievous look, and finally stepped back, pulling the door to its usual cracked position.
“Sweet dreams~” he called cheerfully as he walked away.
The second his footsteps faded, Megumi let out a long, embarrassed groan. You lifted your head, both of you staring at each other with wide eyes before breaking into quiet, breathless laughter.
“I hate him,” Megumi muttered, but his hands were already sliding back to your ass, squeezing.
You rocked your hips experimentally, still giggling. “He’s never letting us live this down…”
Megumi’s eyes darkened again. “Don’t care right now.” He thrust up into you harder, making you gasp. “Keep going. We’re finishing this.”
You started riding him again — faster this time, less careful, the adrenaline from almost getting fully caught making everything feel ten times more intense. Megumi’s hand returned to rub your stomach in those familiar circles while the other guided your movements.
You came first, clenching hard around him and biting his shoulder to stay quiet. He followed right after, pulling you down against him as he spilled deep inside you with a muffled groan.
Afterward, you collapsed on his chest, both of you breathing hard under the blankets, trading lazy kisses and soft giggles.
“Does satoru think I’m a slut now, or does he hate me now?” you whispered.
Megumi kissed your forehead. “Of course not… We’re adults, he’s probably just irritated, babe.”
You never thought that the 10ft Navi Neteyam could ever like you
The rain fell in heavy sheets over the floating mountains, turning the bioluminescent moss into a slick, glowing carpet under your boots.
You huddled inside the makeshift lab outpost, fingers trembling as you adjusted your oxygen mask. Another failed sample.
Another day pretending you weren’t breaking.
Neteyam had smiled at you again this morning in his polite but distant way, the same careful curve of his lips he gave everyone.
You’d spent months telling yourself that was all it was. Kindness. Curiosity toward the tiny human who tagged along with the science team.
You were pathetic for hoping it meant more.
A Na’vi prince, future Olo’eyktan, and you… soft, clumsy, barely reaching his chest.
But you didn’t know he watched you constantly.
From the treeline, hidden in the ferns, Neteyam’s eyes tracked your every movement.
The way your small hands pushed damp hair from your face. The frustrated huff when your equipment slipped. The soft curse under your breath that made his tail flick hard against his thigh. He’d memorized the scent of your skin, your sweet human sweat mixed with the sterile tang of your masks.
Sometimes, he’d stroked himself in the canopy more nights than he could count, imagining those tiny fingers wrapped around him instead of his own.
Neteyam told himself he was protecting you. That getting too close would only hurt you. Humans were fragile. Breakable. But the obsession had grown teeth. It gnawed at him until he couldn’t breathe without thinking of you.
He started following you.
Not in the open, never where others could see. He moved like a shadow through the canopy, tail low and silent, golden eyes locked on your small form trudging through the undergrowth with your heavy pack and ridiculous breathing mask.
Every time you slipped on wet moss, his muscles coiled, ready to drop down and catch you. Every time you laughed at something your human companions said, a hot spike of jealousy twisted in his gut. That sound was his. It belonged to him.
One afternoon you nearly collided.
You were hurrying back to the outpost, arms full of glowing samples, mask fogged from the humidity. Neteyam had stepped out from behind a thick root at the exact wrong moment. Your shoulder slammed into his thigh—barely reaching his hip—and the impact sent you stumbling backward. Vials clattered. One shattered.
“Shit—!” you yelped, dropping to your knees to salvage what you could.
Neteyam froze, heart hammering so hard he was sure you could hear it. The scent of you hit him, your smell of sweat, soap from the lab, that faint sweetness that haunted his dreams. He crouched instantly, one massive hand steadying your shoulder. His fingers spanned nearly your entire back.
“Are you hurt?” His voice came out rougher than he meant. Too low. Too hungry something… anything….
You looked up at him through the clear visor, cheeks flushed. “I—I’m fine. Sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
He should have let go. Instead his thumb brushed the nape of your neck, just under the strap of your mask. You shivered. He felt it. That tiny tremble went straight to his own nerves.
“You’re always rushing,” he murmured, helping you gather the unbroken vials. His braids brushed your arm. “One day you’ll fall and I won’t be there to catch you.”
You laughed, soft and self deprecating. “Wouldn’t want to trouble the mighty warrior.”
Trouble. The word burned. If only you knew how much he wanted your trouble. he wanted to be with you, in many ways, he wants to wake up to your sweet smell, your small fingers, be with you until you get an avatar body, travel with you not only that… he’d do lewd things that he’s not proud of admitting, he’d lie awake stroking his throbbing length to the memory of your voice, coming with your name choked between his teeth while he pictured your soft human cunt stretched around him and After that, the encounters multiplied.
He started “accidentally” appearing wherever you were. At the river where you collected water samples, he was already there, washing blood from a hunt, water sluicing down every ridge of muscle. You’d stared. He’d pretended not to notice, but he’d flexed just a little more, tail curling invitingly.
In the village, when you visited with your team to trade tech for herbs, he always found a reason to stand close. Close enough that his heat bled into your space. Close enough that you’d have to tilt your head all the way back to meet his eyes.
He’d catch the way your pulse jumped in your throat and have to excuse himself before he did something reckless like ask you out to dinner, from the meat he hunted earlier that day.
You, meanwhile, were unraveling.
Every polite smile from him felt like a something sharp. Every lingering glance made your chest ache worse.
You were sure he saw you as nothing more than a fragile sky person. A curiosity. The thought that he might want you back was laughable, painful laughter that always ended in tears.
He had been everywhere.
At the river, water sliding down the cut lines of his abdomen, those amber eyes flicking to you just long enough for your breath to catch.
Later in the village, he’d leaned over you while you examined a bundle of medicinal roots, his chest so close you could feel the heat rolling off his skin, the low rumble of his voice vibrating through your ribs when he asked what the “tiny machine” in your hands did. His braid had slipped forward and brushed your collarbone. You’d nearly dropped the scanner.
You pressed your forehead against your knees, trying to breathe through the ache. He’s just being nice. He’s like this with everyone. But the way his fingers had lingered on your shoulder earlier, the way his tail had curled behind you like it wanted to wrap around your waist… it was driving you insane.
From the branches above, Neteyam watched.
The sight of you curled up like that, small and vulnerable, made something twist in his chest.
He wanted to drop down, pull you into his arms, peel that ridiculous human clothing from your body. He imagined how tight you’d feel around him—how you’d whimper and stretch, your little cunt fluttering as he worked himself inside you inch by inch.
Oh! also yes, he really wants to comfort you!
He’d cum to that fantasy so many times now. Teeth sunk into his own arm to stay quiet, hips jerking into his fist while he whispered your name.
Tonight he was done pretending.
The branch barely creaked as he descended, landing silently on the platform behind you. You didn’t notice until his shadow fell over you—massive.
You startled, twisting around so fast you nearly slipped off the edge. A large blue hand caught your arm, steadying you. Neteyam crouched, bringing his face closer to yours. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide.
“You’re shaking again,” he murmured. His thumb stroked the inside of your wrist, feeling your frantic pulse. “Why do you always tremble when I’m near?”
Your mouth went dry. Up close he was overwhelming—broad shoulders, the intricate pattern of his stripes, the musky, earthy scent of him.
“I… I’m not—” you started, but the lie died when his other hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting your face up to him. His fingers were so long they nearly wrapped around your entire head.
Neteyam’s gaze dropped to your lips. “I watch you,” he admitted, the words rough, almost pained. “All the time. I can’t stop. Your scent follows me... Your voice…” His tail lashed once, hard. “I want to show you around… when you’re free… if you let me ”
Heat flooded your face. Your heart hammered so hard you were sure he could hear it. “Neteyam… are you sure?”
His ears flicked back, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “I have tried to stay away. You are human.. But I am tired of fighting it.” He leaned closer, forehead nearly touching yours, breath warm against your maskless face. “I want you. I want to hunt for you, protect you.”
Your breath hitched. You should have been terrified. Terrified of the obvious size difference, species, everything—but all you felt was liquid heat pooling low in your belly.
His hand slid down, fingertips tracing your throat, then lower, brushing the swell of your chest through your thin shirt. “Tell me to leave, and I will try,” he whispered, voice strained. “But if you want me even half as badly as I want you… then I will pursue you.”
You swallowed hard, staring up at the Na’vi who had haunted every waking moment. Your hand—tiny against his—reached up and pressed against his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart.
“I don’t want you to leave,” you breathed.
Neteyam’s eyes flashed with something feral and triumphant. In one smooth motion he scooped you up, cradling your small body against his chest as he stood to his full height. Your legs dangled, barely reaching his hips.
“Good,” he growled softly, lips brushing your temple. “Because I don’t think I could anymore.”
He carried you into the shadows of the floating forest, the bioluminescent lights painting your skin in soft blues and purples, his hands already beginning to explore what he had dreamed about for so long.
It started the way most things did with the Sully kids with chaos, laughter, and you right in the middle of it.
You were barely past your first braiding ceremony when you met Neteyam.
Jake had brought his family to the village gathering, and while Lo’ak was already causing trouble by trying to climb the highest spiraling root, Neteyam stood quietly beside Neytiri, tail flicking with nervous energy. You, being the curious daughter of one of the best hunters, marched right up and offered him half your fruit.
“Want some? It’s sweet.”
He blinked those big golden eyes at you, then smiled very slow and shy. From that day on, you were inseparable.
You grew up chasing each other through the floating mountains, racing ikrans once you were old enough, whispering secrets under the glow of the Spirit Tree. Lo’ak was always there too, the chaotic third wheel who loved teasing you both mercilessly.
“Bro, you stare at her like she hung the stars,” Lo’ak would whisper when you weren’t listening. Neteyam would shove him so hard they’d both tumble into the river.
You never noticed. Neteyam was just… Neteyam. Your best friend. The one who braided your hair when your fingers got tired, who brought you extra portions of yerik meat because he knew you liked it spicy, who held your hand during thunderstorms because he remembered how they scared you as a child.
Everyone else saw it.
Neytiri would smile softly when she caught you two asleep against each other after a long hunt. Jake would clap Neteyam on the shoulder and mutter, “Kid, you’re denser than a thanator skull.” Even Tuk would giggle and draw little hearts in the dirt with your and Neteyam’s names.
But you? You thought the fluttering in your stomach was just excitement. Neteyam? He told himself the way his chest ached when you laughed was normal. Best friends cared that much. Right?
Years passed. You both became young adults—strong, skilled, beautiful in a effortless Na’vi way. Neteyam carried the weight of being the eldest son with quiet grace. You trained as a healer under Mo’at, your hands gentle but sure.
The bond between you only deepened. Late nights talking about everything and nothing. Shared glances across the communal fire. The way he’d instinctively pull you behind him when danger appeared, even though you were perfectly capable.
Lo’ak tried. Really, he did try.
One evening by the river, after you’d stormed off because some visiting hunter had flirted with you and Neteyam had gone strangely quiet, Lo’ak cornered his brother.
“Dude. Just tell her.”
“Tell her what?” Neteyam asked, sharpening his knife with too much force.
“That you’re in love with her. That you have been since we were kids. That every time she smiles at someone else you look like you swallowed something not too good.”
Neteyam’s ears pinned back. “She’s my best friend, Lo’ak. I’m not going to ruin that.”
Lo’ak groaned, flopping dramatically onto the moss. “You two are going to make me lose my mind.”
The night, the forest was quiet except for the soft bioluminescence and distant calls of night creatures.
You and Neteyam had slipped away after the evening meal, like you always did. Just the two of you, sitting on a thick root overlooking a glowing pool. Your legs dangled, shoulders brushing.
“I’m tired of the expectations,” Neteyam admitted quietly, tail curling behind him without either of you acknowledging it. “Father says I must be the example. Always perfect. Always ready.”
You leaned your head on his shoulder. “You are perfect, Neteyam. To me, anyway.”
He went still. The air thickened. You felt his heartbeat pick up against your cheek.
You lifted your head. His eyes were already on you—dark, intense, pupils blown wide. Something in you cracked open.
“Neteyam…” you whispered.
One thing led to another the way it does when years of unspoken want finally spill over. A hesitant touch to your cheek. Your hand on his chest. Then you were in his lap, knees bracketing his hips, his large hands spanning your waist.
Your mouths met—soft at first, testing, then deeper. Hungrier. His tongue brushed yours and you whimpered into him. His hips rolled up instinctively, and you gasped at the hard heat pressing against your core through the thin loincloths.
“Yawne,” he breathed against your lips. Beloved. The word he’d never let himself say.
You rocked against him, slow and experimental, chasing a friction that made sparks shoot up your spine. His hands slid down to grip your ass, guiding you, grinding you down onto him. The cloth between you was soaked—yours with slick, his with the evidence of how badly he wanted you. Every roll of your hips dragged your clit against the rigid length of him, and you both moaned.
It got heated fast. His mouth moved to your neck, sucking marks into your skin. You tangled your fingers in his braids, tugging until he growled. One of his hands slipped under your loincloth, fingers teasing your entrance but not pushing in—just rubbing, circling, driving you higher while you rutted against his cock like you’d die if you stopped.
“Neteyam—oh, fuck—” you gasped, trembling.
He buried his face in your neck, hips jerking up harder. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t—”
You came first, clenching around nothing, crying out his name as pleasure crashed through you. He followed seconds later with a choked groan, spilling hot against your thigh and his own stomach, hips stuttering.
After, you stayed in his lap, foreheads pressed together, breathing hard. The reality of what you’d done settled slowly.
Neteyam’s eyes were wide, almost scared. “I… I shouldn’t have—”
You looked him once more, confused and trembling, then climbed off shaky legs. “ what do you mean….”
You both fled in different directions.
The next three days were pure torture.
You threw yourself into healing duties with Mo’at, grinding herbs until your hands ached. Every time you heard Neteyam’s voice outside the tsahìk’s marui, your stomach flipped. When you finally stepped out for fresh air, he was walking past with a patrol group. Your eyes met. His ears pinned back. He looked away first, jaw tight. You fled back inside.
That night you couldn’t sleep. You kept replaying the way he’d said “yawne,” the way his hands had felt on your hips, the broken sound he made when he came. Your body ached with want and confusion.
Neteyam spent the day on extra patrols. Lo’ak found him sharpening spears with unnecessary violence.
“Bro. You’re going to break that thing.”
Neteyam didn’t answer.
Lo’ak sighed. “You finally made a move and now you’re both hiding? Classic.”
“I don’t know what she wants,” Neteyam muttered. “What if I ruined everything?”
You avoided the Sully marui completely. When Tuk came looking for you to play, you made excuses. At communal dinner you sat with the other healers, back turned to where Neteyam usually sat. You could feel his gaze burning into you the whole time.
He volunteered for a night hunt just to stay busy. When he returned at dawn, exhausted and covered in mud, he saw you helping an elder with bandages. Your hands were gentle, your smile soft. His chest hurt so badly he had to walk away.
Lo’ak cornered you that afternoon by the river while you were washing clothes.
“You’re really gonna pretend nothing happened?” he asked, arms crossed.
You scrubbed harder. “It was a mistake. We were emotional. He probably regrets it.”
Lo’ak laughed, he actually laughed. “He’s been in love with you since the fruit incident, you absolute skxawng. He calls you in his sleep. I’ve heard him.”
Your heart stopped. “He… what?”
But Lo’ak just shook his head and left you there, reeling.
The avoidance had become unbearable. You caught glimpses of him everywhere — braiding little Tuk’s hair, laughing with Jake, flying overhead on his ikran. Each time your eyes met for half a second before darting away. Your tail wouldn’t stop twitching. Your appetite was gone.
Neteyam looked just as wrecked. Dark circles under his eyes. His usual calm confidence cracked.
That evening you sat alone at the edge of the forest, knees drawn up, staring at nothing. The same pool where everything had changed glowed softly below.
Footsteps. Lo’ak dropped down beside you without asking.
“You two are idiots,” he said flatly.
You stared at him, stunned. “Shut up.”
Lo’ak rolled his eyes so hard you thought they might stick. “He’s down at the pool right now, looking like someone stole his ikran. Go. Before I drag you both there by your tails myself.”
He gave you a gentle shove toward the path.
Neteyam was exactly where Lo’ak said he’d be, sitting on the same thick root, elbows on his knees, staring into the glowing water like it might give him answers.
You stepped into the clearing. He stood up so fast he nearly lost his balance.
For a moment you just looked at each other — ears flat, tails low, hearts pounding.
“I can’t do this anymore,” you said, voice shaking but sure. “These three days have been hell. I can’t pretend I don’t love you. Not the way a friend loves a friend. I’m in love with you, Neteyam. I have been since we were children sharing fruit under the trees. I love your quiet strength, the way you always protect everyone, how gentle you are even when the world expects you to be hard. I love how you look at me like I’m something precious. I’m so in love with you it hurts.”
His breath caught.
Then he crossed the distance in three strides and cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks.
“I have loved you my entire life,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion. “Every single day. Every laugh, every hunt, every quiet night under the stars. You are my heart, my home, my mate. I was terrified that if I told you, I would lose you. But these days without you… I can’t breathe right. I love you. Eywa, I love you so much.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks. He kissed them away, then kissed your lips — soft at first, then deeper, pouring years of longing into it.
Somewhere in the trees above, you heard a very distinct, triumphant “Finally!” followed by Lo’ak’s laughter as he swung away on a vine.
You both started laughing as Neteyam pulled you even closer and kissed you again, slow and sweet.
After years of slow burning love, stolen glances, and everyone else knowing before you did, you were finally exactly where you belonged.
Neteyam is the nicest mate until it comes to fucking you
Neteyam is a great father and protector. Everyone in the clan sees it.
The evening fire crackled warmly in the center of the village as Neteyam moved among the clan with a calm, steady presence everyone relied on.
He listened patiently to an elder’s concerns about the next hunt, his hand resting reassuringly on the old man’s shoulder while he offered quiet but firm guidance that settled the matter without raising his voice.
Then he crouched down to help two young warriors adjust the straps on their new bows, his big fingers carefully tightening the leather while he gave them encouraging words that made their chests puff out with pride.
Everyone saw the same thing: the mature, responsible future olo’eyktan who always put the people first.
Later, back at your kelku, the scene was softer.
Your fifteen year old son wrestled playfully with his younger siblings on the woven mats, laughing loud as the little ones tried to pin him down.
Neteyam sat cross legged nearby, your youngest daughter curled in his lap. His large hands moved so gently as he braided a bright bead into her hair, twisting each strand with care while she giggled and tugged at his braids.
His voice was low and warm as he told them a story, pausing every few sentences to kiss the top of her head or ruffle the boys’ hair when they interrupted with questions.
“Dad, tell the part where you saved Mom again!” one of the younger ones begged, climbing into his lap too.
Neteyam chuckled softly, golden eyes flicking over to you with a private little smile full of love. “Maybe later, little ones. Remember what I said this morning about how tonight your mother and I are going for a walk. You’re in charge, ma’itan,” he told your eldest, reaching out to ruffle the boy’s braids with obvious pride and affection. “Keep them safe. We trust you completely.”
Your son grinned wide, already pulling the younger kids toward their sleeping mats. “We know the routine, Dad. Go have your ‘date.’ Just don’t stay out too late this time.”
Neteyam stood tall, taking your hand in his warm, calloused one as the two of you slipped away.
but when it’s just you and him, everything changes.
“mh!”
you mewl softly as neteyam’s big hands grip your hips tight and pull you flush against him, his thick cock sliding through your soaked folds before he pushes the fat head inside you in one slow, heavy stroke.
your walls stretch around his girth, fluttering and squeezing as he sinks deeper, every thick vein and ridge dragging along your sensitive insides until his hips press right up against yours and you feel so full you can barely breathe.
“shhh, yawne…” he coos against your ear, voice low and rough just for you, one of his large hands sliding up to cover your mouth gently while the other squeezes your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he holds you in place.
his hips roll forward again, grinding slow and deep so his cock rubs right against that soft spot inside you over and over, making your thighs shake and your pussy leak around him. “quiet for me, baby. can’t let anyone hear how pretty you sound when i’m this deep in you.”
your eyes flutter, a broken whimper vibrating against his palm as he starts fucking you with these long, steady thrusts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in so his heavy balls slap wetly against you. your juices coat his cock and drip down your thighs with every move, creamy and slick.
“neteyam—mmm—” you moan into his hand, your nails digging hard into his broad shoulders as your back arches, pressing your hard nipples tighter against his chest with every deep thrust.
“fuck, listen to how wet you are,” he pants breathily right against your neck, his lips brushing your skin as he snaps his hips harder, bouncing you on his cock. “been aching for this pussy all evening… watching you smile at the clan, so sweet and patient with them. wanted to bend you over right there in front of the fire and fill you up.” his free hand slides between your bodies, thick thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight, messy circles that make your hips jerk against him uncontrollably. “take it deeper, yawne—yes, just like that. squeeze me—fuck, good.”
you cry out against his palm, legs wrapping tighter around his waist as he pounds into you faster, the wet, filthy sounds of your pussy sucking his thick cock filling the air between your heavy breaths. your walls flutter and clench around him, gushing more slick every time he grinds against that spot inside.
“neteyam—ahh—too deep—mmm—” you whimper shakily, tears of pleasure wetting your lashes as your pussy spasms around his throbbing length.
“i know, baby, i know,” he groans, voice breaking with how good you feel, forehead pressed to yours so you can see his golden eyes dark with lust and love.
he kisses you messily through his fingers, tongue sliding against yours while he keeps thrusting deep and greedy, hips rolling in those filthy circles that stir his cock inside you. “you feel so fucking good… my perfect mate. i love you so much. gonna cum deep inside you… then keep fucking you until you can’t walk. all night, yawne. all mine.”
Hi ml, I just wanted to let you know that you’ve been tagging my account wrong. I was too shy to say it in the beginning but I don’t wanna miss out on what you upload. Can’t wait to read the new Neteyam stuff you dropped :))) 🫶🏼 besos 🫶🏼
I WMMM SOOO SIRRYYYY!!! WHY DIDNT U SAY ANYTHKNG 😩😩😩😩😩
i truly am my parents’ child; now i see your face in the mirror.
Prompt: What happens when a talented, but overlooked Na’vi! daughter struggles for her family’s recognition? The eldest Sully daughter, longing for her father’s gentleness—after the war rekindled her entire family’s dynamic.
wc: 5.8k find part two…here!
Pairing: female!Sully reader x Sully family, female!Sully reader x dad!Jake, female!Sully reader x mom!Neytiri
Warnings: angst; family feels; angst!!!; use of Y/n (???)
Setting down the equipment you were carrying, you crawled slowly to the entryway of your family’s dwelling—just to catch a glimpse of your family. Your father seemed to be scolding Neteyam and Lo’ak for something that had happened whilst they were gone.
“Kiri, go help your grandmother with the wounded. Please! Babygirl. please!” You heard your fathers exasperated voice, his anger was evident, but for her, his voice was soft.
You’d never seen him get angry with Kiri, maybe with you and your brothers… but never your sisters.
A long sigh escapes from your lips, the air leaving you in a long, shivering exhale. Carrying away the jagged edges of the day. Suddenly your mind goes to the times when you were younger.
The first born daughter of Jake Sully.
Where did I go wrong?
You were once everything to your parents, their first baby, a carbon copy of your mother.
At the first communion with Eywa, Mo’at saw great strength in your heart. You were destined to be a mighty woman. But your training was… cut short?
Everything was perfect until the family just kept growing. It felt as if you were slowly forgotten. Your father spends all of his time training Neteyam and Lo’ak. When they’re not training, they’re spending time with Kiri, Tuk, and Spider. Your mother is always busy with hunting, training, and… Kiri.
You’d felt you and your father’s connection slipping through your fingers over time; when he began to treat the family like a squad. It made you furious, and you let him know it. That’s one quality you took after him, his stubbornness, always snapping back.
Despite you being the oldest, Kiri was chosen as Tsakarem by your grandmother because of her very strong connection to Eywa. Everything was easy for Kiri. Even her Iknimaya, she did not have to fight for her Ikran. It simply chose her.
Yours was good, and fast due to your skills. You just wish that now, today, your talents were looked at for more than high-performance potential. You hated that word. Potential.
Neteyam and Loak’s were fast paced and celebrated greatly throughout the clan. Everyone had a big role in the family—but yours was always overlooked. Hell, even Tuk seemed bigger.
In the face of being one of the strongest young warriors amongst the Omatikaya, your parents just didn’t acknowledge these qualities in you anymore, not your strong heart, or your fierce determination, just your faults and mistakes.
You snapped out of it, got out of your head and went back to weaving. Everyone began to shuffle in at that moment, crowding the hut and taking their seats on the floor, bickering and mocking one another playfully. It’s what siblings do.
Tuk was the first to see you, but she didn’t say anything. Lo’ak thought you were boring, always sulking, in your own world. But what nobody cared enough to understand was you. Your skills were already good enough. Nobody ever really noticed.
You understood what had happened now, having overheard Lo’ak telling Kiri about his duties; tending to the Ikran for a month. Relief washed over you, you’re usually the one who hangs and cleans their saddles.
Your mother and father sat outside, talking quietly. Your father held that revolting steel in his hands, the stuff that the sky people use, their fire. It was nauseating to even look at.
They noticed you coming over from the inside of the hut, watching as you sat before them carefully, continuing to weave your armband. “How was the raid?”
Your parents exchanged obscure looks, it’s not really like you to sit and ask them questions about things you “didn’t really care about.”
But that's not true. You do care, a little too much about everything.
You cared because you are a warrior, why wouldn’t you care? Your father just didn’t allow you to go on raids—you never understood why.
“Good. Successful.” Jake said briskly, almost remotely.
“Oh! Look at this armband I'm weaving, I got a nice catch last week so I'm using the…”
Your excitement was perceptible. Your smile bright, hands stretched towards them, showing them your progress.
It didn’t take much for them to return to their own conversation, so you lowered your voice, slowly walked back into the hut, eyeing your grandmother's work as she smothered healing paste on Neteyam’s injuries.
“Move!” Kiri snapped, shoving past you and handing your brother a drink.
Your hand is around her arm in seconds, even though you’re quiet, and relevantly easier to get around, you have never just accepted your siblings’ disrespect, or your fathers. Perhaps that’s where things went wrong with him, always snapping back, never leaving his complaints unanswered.
You understood your position, oldest sister, respected warrior, blah blah blah. You loved your siblings, you just wouldn’t tolerate their disrespect all the time, especially when you’ve done nothing. “Don’t you tell me to move. Ask nicely.”
“Let go of my arm.”
“No.”
“Let go, Y/n!” She shouted loud enough for dad to hear, making you let go with a snarl.
Your father stormed inside. glaring daggers at you. “Hey! That’s enough!”
“She started it!” You waved your arms dramatically in frustration. Of course he’s taking her under his wing again.
“I don’t care who started it. She’s not the one hissing and grabbing.”
Everyone’s attention was turned to you and your father at this point, and even if they wouldn’t show it, you knew that they were disappointed in you.
“Apologize to your sister, Y/n. Now.” Your mother sighed, standing beside your father, her hands resting on her hips.
“I didn’t even…”
“That’s enough! Apologize.” Fathers voice bellowed past your defiant words. He knew you wouldn’t hesitate to finish that sentence, that’s what riled him up so much.
You turned reluctantly to face Kiri, taking her stupid hands and sighing, “I’m sorry.”
“For?…” Dad commented, earning a look from you.
“Whatever.” Kiri replied to your apology snarkily,
Is she serious?
Oh, but dad made no comment on that, you shook your head and sat back down, your lively braids bouncing with each movement, your delicate top swinging against your chest.
Your dad exited with your mother, half relieved that you didn’t make a scene. “That girl is ruthless.” He peeked through the entrance from outside, glancing at your crouched form.
“MaJake… I don’t know what to do with her. She doesn't spend time with anyone anymore.”
“That’s her own fault.” Your father sat, cleaning the metal and sharpening his arrowheads.
Neytiri glared at him before taking her own look at you, inside, alone. Watching your siblings with a curve of a smile at your lips.
It didn’t matter what happened, how far apart you’d all drifted, your love for them ran deeply. You’d do anything for your younger siblings. Anything.
It’s what got you in so much trouble at times, your will to put yourself in danger when it came to protecting them.
A week of adventure passed, you’d often leave and walk around the forest when your family was too busy to notice—but today, you decided to stay inside.
You lay silently on the woven mat in your family’s home, weaving like usual.
“Let’s go to the forest.” You heard Lo’ak’s voice but your head didn’t move up, assuming he was just talking to somebody else. “Sister! Let’s go!” He took your weaving supplies and helped you up.
“I’m supposed to be watching you guys, not going into the forest.”
“Who cares? Mom and dad are hunting, Neteyam’s not here to hold us back. Let’s go.”
You reached for your bow instinctively, delicate hands clasped around the firm, smooth grip made from bast and animal horns.
“Leave it, sister. You won’t need that.”
“Lo’ak…”
He dragged you after him anyway, into the deep, vast forest. Your bow left behind. Tuk tailed both of you while Kiri walked beside you, Spider with Lo’ak.
You’d never understood your siblings when it came to Spider, maybe it’s because you grew apart from him as well. You remember small details—playing together in the ponds, he’d chase your tails, wrestle with you all, but everything just fell apart at some moment.
“Tuk,” You called out gently to your youngest sister, making sure she kept up with you all.
Loak groaned, stopping for a moment. “Tuk! Keep up!”
“Okay, okay!” She shouted, arms hanging loosely at her sides. Taking her hand, you continued to skip after the group.
“Bro, why’d you bring her anyway?” Spider shrugged, his head shaking slightly.
Your tail swished in annoyance, who is he to question our youngest sister’s presence?
“She’s such a cry baby! She’s all, “I’m telling, i’ll tell mom if you don’t let me come”
“Don’t pick on her.” Kiri retorted, the young girl took her place beside her, holding her hand and jeering at Lo’ak.
It was immature, and unlikely for you to be so jealous of Kiri, but it’s almost like she’d stolen everything from you.
Your siblings continued their voyage, you walked quietly behind them, observing the wilderness, observing them. The forest would always be your home and you knew it.
Somehow, you all ended up at the old shack. Dad would skin you if he’d known that you allowed your siblings to see this forbidden scene, that never stopped your brother.
It didn’t take long for you all to notice commotion, commotion from the shack, so you moved quickly to hide behind the trees, dragging your siblings with you.
From the secluded area you guys had gathered around, you could see the Avatars. Five of them. “Skxawng, you should have let me bring my bow.” You whispered harshly, shoving your brother's arm.
He hissed quietly, watching them closely before feeling for his collar mic.
You couldn’t exactly make out what your father was saying to Lo’ak through his comms, you didn’t even have yours on. Not even your earpiece. All you heard was get the hell out of there and you were on your heels.
They all began to run, you halted, something in the bushes distracting you—but you kept going, slowly, assuming it was just a creature. You were wrong. Tuk dragged your arm, “It's almost eclipse, come on!”
There were two very large hands which suddenly wrapped around your youngest sister, you snarled sharply—eyes wide and confused. The other avatars pounced, their rifles, the metal…it all reminded you that in this moment, your heels are dug in for nothing.
Your siblings’ screams echoed in your mind, Spider had a bow this entire time and you hadn’t even noticed.
“Tuk!” You heard Kiri screech, your siblings holding up weapons to the enemy’s.
“Put it down! Down! Put it down or I’ll shoot you!” One of the recoms yelled.
Lo’ak dropped his weapons, holding his hands out to Spider and the others. “Keyn tsat, keyn tsat.”
“Mawey, mawey.” You tried to reassure your siblings, despite being petrified yourself.
They kneeled, some more hesitant than others, the dreamwalkers holding you all by the kuru, tugging harshly.
They held Kiri’s hands up, her five fingers flexing involuntarily. “Hey colonel, look at this. We got a half breed.” The man smirked, pulling your sister's hair back.
Their treatment made your blood boil, your sisters cries, her fast breathing—your eyebrows furrowed, eyes big and wet.
“Tsap’alute si, Kiri,” You shook your head, “I’m sorry.”
Their leader went around the group, asking to see hands, he went from Kiri, to Lo’ak…then stopped in front of you.
Loak's attitude amused you, his snarky comments, his body language—you had to stifle a laugh as this man stood before you, his eyes narrowed in recognition.
Carbon copy of your mother. The man’s eyes darkened, he stepped back, recognizing your humongous, golden eyes, and your four fingers.
“Kill her.”
Eclipse fell. The forest was silent, only the soft rustle of leaves and the small chirp of creatures resonated.
Your siblings eyes widened and before they could retaliate, the yips—unmistakably your mothers sounded through the forest canopy.
Everyone paused, Kiri muttered soft prayers to herself, the recom holding her pulled her head back roughly. “Shut up!”
Arrows flew, gunshots rang. The last signal you needed was your mother shouting Loak's name, you were on your feet then—griping the arms that were wrapped around your neck.
You grabbed Tuk, holding her against your hip and leaping away, shielding her with your body, stopping somewhere—hoping, just hoping someone would come to your rescue, there were too many nearby, and you knew.
“Tuk…” You whispered, a small caress. “It is okay.” Your sister cried softly beneath you, hands clenching around your shoulders.
When it was safe, you ran again. A startle response hitting like a rock when it was your family that leaped from the bushes.
“Tuk!” Your mother held her, taking you in her arms and then Kiri. “Thank you great mother, thank you!” She cried, kissing each of your sisters foreheads, letting you go subtly.
You don’t remember when, but Spider had gone missing, it came to your surprise earlier when you were all captured, the blue colonel was in all of the stories your parents told about their past. Has he returned?
You watched silently as the ship hovered overhead, the avatars disappearing into it.
Your father pulled his sons close, “It’s okay, it’s okay. We're okay.”
“Where’s Spider?” Lo’ak realized, his gaze moving over Kiri.
She pulled away from your mom, glaring at Lo’ak, then at Jake. “They took him! They took him.” Kiri sobbed, looking at her father for some sort of succor, everyone knew that he couldn’t do much at this moment. Always focused on keeping the family safe.
You beheld them covetously as he pulled Kiri close, whispering soft reassurances into her hair as she cried—worried for her friend. “It’s gonna be okay. We’re all gonna be okay.” He cradled her head, at this point you couldn’t watch anymore.
“Y/n, come. Get on the Ikran, you’re flying us out.” Neytiri took your arm, your father straightened up, guiding Kiri to where they’d landed the creatures, everyone followed.
“Okay…” Your ears were flat against your head, hands twisting your songcord which was woven into your loincloth. Mounting the Ikran steadily.
You soared through the sky, your mother holding Tuk behind you, one hand on your shoulder to steady you, and herself.
Your loud yips echoed via the vast night sky, signaling where your family should follow. With each breath, you got closer to high camp.
Glancing at your father, you wondered why he hasn’t muttered a word to you since they found you. Perhaps he couldn’t be angry, he looked deep in thought anyway.
Landing at high camp was the easiest thing to do, dismounting and immediately moving to the food baskets and having a meal, sharing with your siblings.
Your parents disappeared into the hut a bit earlier, you caught a glimpse of your siblings spying on them through the small gaps beneath the tent, you made your way over, kneeling down to listen—it was an argument, it had been ages since you heard them argue, it was unlikely at this point.
“Maybe we shouldn’t…” You whispered, already pulling Tuk into your lap.
“Shut up, skxawng. Listen.” Kiri said, waving her hand dismissively. You couldn’t fight the urge to listen either, so you did.
“I cannot. You cannot ask this.” You heard your mother say, leaning down to peek through the crack just like Tuk had done earlier.
“He’s hunting us. He’s targeting our family.” Your father was awfully quiet, hands hanging at his sides, his face—a bitter sadness.
“You cannot ask this!” Your mothers voice raised as she stood, facing your father, her body language is calm—her voice, not so much. A heartbreaking desperation in it. “The children! Everything they’ve ever known, the forest! This is our home!”
“He had our children. He had 'em under his knife!”
Neytiri exhaled sharply, moving slowly towards her fathers ceremonial bow and arrow, passed down to her—perched on a wooden weapon stand. “My father gave me this bow as he lay dying! He said protect the people! You’re Toruk Makto!” Her voice cracked.
Your father seemed to flinch at that reminder of his title. Toruk Makto. Looking down before glaring at your mother again.
“This will protect the people! Quaritch has Spider. That kid knows everything! He knows our whole operation.” Jake’s voice was sharp, hands gesturing wildly. “If the people harbor us, they will die. Do you understand?”
Your mother backed away slightly, her chest heaving, eyes dropped to the floor, ears flat.
“Look, I got nothing. I got no plan.” Jake continued, his voice soft. “But I can protect this family. That I can do.”
You stopped listening then, leaning back, hands resting lazily in your lap. The night passed, neither you or your siblings spoke a word to your parents, other than small good nights and sweet smiles.
You were more isolated, not completely understanding this whole situation. Unsure of where you’re going next, what they were even talking about.
The next morning, the camp bustled with activity, the people—preparing for a ceremony. One you had no idea of.
You walked beside your brother, adjusting the clothes you’d just changed into, fixing the hair you slept in as you both made your ways through the crowd of people surrounding the spirit tree.
Taking your stand beside your mother, you kept a hand on her shoulder, her sobs barely heard amongst the cries of the people surrounding us. Your father knelt before Tarsem…he was relinquishing his role as Olo’eyktan.
“Neteyam, what is this?” You whispered quietly.
His head snapped towards you. “Be quiet. I’ll tell you later.”
“Okay, okay.”
Jake stood down from the higher ground, leading your family through the crowd, the cut on his chest dripping in blood.
“Ma’sempu…” You called quietly, moving faster to stand beside him. “What is happening?”
“We’re going somewhere else.” He said blankly, walking solemnly.
You’d never seen your father so…sad before. Maybe a couple times, sure. But never this much. Where? Where are we going? You had so many questions, just no way to get the words right.
You all changed into your shawls, to keep you from the cold, packed your baskets and bound them to your Ikran.
You mounted then, your riders mask just above your eyebrows, hands gripping the saddles harder than ever. As you flew after your family, each of you looked back at the forest you were now leaving.
Your eyes welled with tears. A new life. A new home. Your family had already been overlooking you—a whisper in a storm. Now the memories of your childhood have been left behind in the only home you’d ever known.
You flew over the slamming tides, your ikran taking sharp turns and pivoting back, you were tired, but you had to keep yourself safe, safe from falling off this creature.
At dawn, everything was beautiful, the sight of the sea beneath you was marveling, shining in shades of white and blue.
“Are we there yet?” Tuk said, just waking from her sleep. We were just arriving.
Even in the face of this beautiful sea beneath you; you knew that you’d miss life in the forest. Your face was empty as you removed your shawl, slowly, steadily storing it into the basket on your Ikran’s left side.
Your beaded top, adorn with the soft leaves and feathers of the forest was now free with the wind, dancing around your chest as the breeze hit softly. You wore your warriors' raspu’ with your loincloth, the patterns mirrored your mothers clothing.
Shell horns bellowed, the yips of the Metkayina reef people sounded, the flap of your ikran’s wings loud as you followed Jake’s calls.
Then you landed.
Your mother reached instinctively for her bow, her lips pursed together.
“Hey, leave it.” Your father said quietly, leading the family in front of the crowd that was forming—hands raising at his sides.
Conversations died instantly. Heads turned. The Metkayina gathered quickly—warriors, elders, children. Until the shores were lined with watchful eyes.
Your father murmured softly, reminding you all to be calm, and to be nice, glaring at you for a heartbeat .
Two strange boys came through the crowd, eyeing your brothers, teasing them for their thinner tails.
Neteyam and Lo’ak tried to be nice, even gesturing the usual I see you with their hands, these reef boys only kept circling them.
Your eyebrows pinched together, fingers twitching at your left side—not in anger, but confusion. Your brothers’ heads whipped around suddenly, their eyes lingering on the ocean, or, really, a girl emerging from the ocean.
You smirked faintly as Loak's eyes widened at the sight of her. She was beautiful. The reef people were strikingly different, their turquoise skin, a breathtaking testament to their symbiotic relationship with the ocean. You appreciated this view, found it extremely interesting—the way their skin reflects the place which they come from.
“Hey.” Lo’ak said quietly, pathetically.
You almost snickered, the girl looked down nervously, huffing feebly.
The aura changed in milliseconds, warriors, several of them returning from a hunt.
Tonowari, the chief of the Metkayina, dismounted the tsurak he’d been riding. Your father had mentioned him in some stories, the ones about the past—the battle of the hallelujah mountains, when all the clans had been united.
He greeted you and your family casually, respectfully. The Tsahik, Ronal, his mate, parted the crowd, her hips swaying as she walked through, standing before the Sully’s, eyes sharp like ice, her expression serious, unyielding.
“I see you, Ronal.” Jake greeted, touching three fingers to the area between his brow ridges, and extending it towards the Tsahik. Your mother and siblings did the same.
“I see you, Ronal,” Neytiri said calmly.
“Why do you come to us, Jakesully?” Tonowari questioned, his arm sweeping inclusively, us referring to the entire clan.
Your dad looked around at your other family members. “we seek uturu.”
“uturu?!” Ronal exclaimed, glancing at your father as her ears dropped ever so slightly.
“Yes, sanctuary for my family.”
Ronal stepped forward then, circling your family and eyeing your siblings down.
Tonowari sighed, his eyes traveling awkwardly. “We are reef people. You are forest people. Your skills will mean nothing here.”
“We’ll learn your ways, am I right?” Jake said, turning to his mate, who replies with a simple “yes.”
You watch closely as this woman circles your brothers and sisters, she grabs their tails, touches their hands, and seizes their arms. “Their arms are thin.” She says, nabbing Tuk’s small forearm.
“Mom.” She inches closer to Neytiri.
Ronal stands there for a second before moving towards Kiri and gripping her tail. “Their tails…”
“Ow!” She mumbles, snatching her tail back.
“are weak. You will be slow in the water.” She continues, glaring at your parents, her gaze shifts back to Kiri who is standing before her. She takes her wrists in her hands, holding them high enough for everyone to see. “These children are not even true Na’vi!”
This observation earns loud gasps from the crowd, your lips part, releasing a small scoff, this earns a sharp look from Jake, then from the Tsahik.
“Yes we are!” Kiri declares, her hands snapping away from Ronals grasp.
The woman moves slowly towards you. She stands directly in front of you, holding your arms up and studying you before moving to Lo’ak.
“They have demon blood!” She yells, holding up his hands.
It takes everything in you to not step forward and say something. Crossing your arms, you leave it to the adults reluctantly.
The people hiss, backing away and raising their weapons.
“Look. Look!” Jake holds his own hand up, “Look, I was born of the sky people, and now I am Na’vi, all right you can adapt. We will adapt. Okay?”
“My husband was Toruk Makto. He led the clans to victory against the sky people.” Neytiri snaps, she glances at the Olo’eyktan, who gives her a curt nod of acknowledgement.
“This—you call victory? Hiding, among strangers?” The woman retorts, her ears flat, “It seems Eywa has turned her back on you. Chosen one.”
Toruk Makto himself. She is saying this to Toruk Makto.
Your ears perk up slightly as your mother clashes with Ronal, both of them hissing and snarling at each other. Jake quickly interrupts, his hand raised between them. “I apologize for my mate, she’s…”
“Do not apologize for me, Jake!”
“She’s flown a long way, and she’s exhausted.”
“Jake.” She hurls, stepping aside, Ronal does the same, sighing heavily.
There is an awkward silence that follows, “Toruk Makto is a great war leader. All Na’vi people know his story.” Tonowari announces, stepping up and placing a hand on your fathers shoulder. “But we Metkayina… are not at war. We cannot let you bring your war here.”
“I’m done with war, I just wanna keep my family safe.”
“Uturu has been asked.” Mother says, her eyes closed, grasping onto Kiri’s hand, Tuk holding her other one.
Ronal’s lips are parted, her eyes still cutting daggers through your family, newcomers. When her mate steps in front of her, her gaze lifts to his eyes, he lets out a long sigh, his face full of conceptualization.
She closes her eyes, nodding gently, a clear expression of reluctant acceptance.
“Toruk Makto and his family will stay with us. Treat them as our brothers and sisters. Now, they do not know the sea, so they will be like babies, taking their first breath.” The thought of being pondered as a baby makes you feel sick. Your ears flatten, lips pursed and thin. “Teach them our ways, so they do not suffer the shame of being useless.”
Jake huffs, a small smile creeping from the corners of his lips. “Okay, what do we say?” Your siblings thank the adults quietly, some more hesitant than others.
He turns towards his children, “My son, Aonung, our daughter, Tsireya will show your children what to do.”
“Father, why do…” The boy tried to question his fathers assignment.
“It is decided.” Tonowari cut him off.
“Come, I will show you our village.” Tsireya lead your family through the bouncy, woven platform which made up the village grounds, Tuk bouncing happily—grunting excitedly as you walked behind them, quietly observing the reef people and their ways.
“This is for you,” Tsireya’s voice cut through each thought you had as she stopped in front of a huge pod, abandoned, but not a complete mess. “Your new home.”
Your father stepped inside, taking a look around “Yeah, this’ll work.” He turned to face you all, hoping you’d all be content. “This is great, it’s nice right?”
Your mother dropped the mat she’d been holding with a loud sigh, everyone’s attention turned to her. We all knew she wasn’t very fond of this idea—none of us really were.
The day was spent cleaning and organizing the brand new dwelling until dusk came, everyone storming in for a family meeting.
“Remember? Family meeting?” Neteyam was angry, his eyebrows furrowed—pulling you and Lo’ak down roughly to sit beside him.
Kiri was stubborn like her birth mother, Grace. Refusing to sit even when your father told everyone to fall in.
“Kiri.” Your mother whispered—a warning.
“What?” She grumbled, sitting cross legged, reluctantly.
“Okay,” Your father sighed, facing you, Neteyam, Lo’ak, and Kiri. “I need you kids, on your best behavior. I mean it. Learn fast, pull your weight.” He paused to face you and Lo’ak. “Don’t cause any trouble. You got it?”
Your eyes trailed off at some point until you finally focused again, “yes sir.” Lo’ak said, looking at you expectantly.
“Yes sir.” A soft, coy mumble left your lips as everyone looked at you expectantly.
The passing weeks went by slowly, playing up the happiness you left in the forest—even though you were lonely.
Learning the ways of the water was more challenging than you thought, excruciating even. You couldn’t do anything right, slipping off of the Ilu, swimming too slow for anyone’s liking, you couldn’t even hunt properly.
Learn fast, pull your weight.
Your fathers words rang in your head every time you made a mistake, Aonung was not a good teacher, always teasing, never taking you seriously. Tsireya was patient, and hasn’t given up on you.
“Y/n, it’s like this. Hold here, make the bond gently.” She spoke quietly as you were seated on the ilu, careful hands adjusting your position, as you prepared to set off.
And you did, the creature moving with great agility, flowing gracefully through the ocean. You did it, You did it. The ilu resurfaced after a moment to breathe, Your smile was big, hands rubbing its sides. “Yes!”
“You did it!” Tsireya caught up, “You are learning to breathe.”
The sun sets beautifully, the atmosphere a canvas of shifting colors as you leaped to your marui pod. “I can finally ride the ilu! Soon I'll fight the sky demons on one! And hunt really well again!” You exclaimed, hands clapping as you spoke to Kiri who was inside with the rest of the family, folding teylu, seeds, and nuts into the waxy skin of a pandoran leaf.
Your father, sitting with your mother at the side looked up from his own leaf, he scoffed—amused and your head turned to him. “We’ve been here for weeks and all you can do is ride the ilu?”
Your ears dropped, tail swishing in vexation—hands resting at your hips. “Well…yeah.”
“I said learn fast.”
You shrugged, rolling your eyes and shaking your head. “That’s easy for you to say, Toruk Makto.”
It wasn’t the mention of his title that made everyone around you freeze, it was the way you said it. Like it meant nothing.
“Watch your tone, missy.”
You stayed quiet, crouching finally to help with the food, turning away and handling Kiri’s stash.
“Should’ve known you weren’t ready.” Father mumbled, his own head shaking as he went back to operating the contents of food he’d hunted.
“What?” You stood again, spine straight, eyes wide, lips curled. “What did you just—Are you calling me weak?”
That pitiful word, weak. Not you, never you. You are a warrior, a powerful huntress. His words only fueled your anger. “I am a powerful huntress, a warrior. I am not weak.”
“Not mentally. Look at the way you act. You won’t catch anything but a lecture with that attitude.”
“Yeah well—” You staggered forward until you felt strong hands hook around your arm, you turned to see your mother.
“That is enough daughter.”
“No! Tell me, dad. Why don’t you acknowledge my talents, my hard work, my accomplishments. Always focused on everyone else…hm?”
Lo’ak sneered, pushing himself up from where he’d been half listening. “maybe if you stopped trying to prove something all the time, you wouldn’t have to beg for attention”
Your head snapped toward him. “I don’t beg.”
“No.” He shot back, shrugging. “You just whine.” He cooed, whipping his tail around as he jeers.
“Lo’ak.” Neytiri warned.
Jake’s eyes never left you, “you want acknowledgement?” he said, his voice low, controlled. This; to you, was worse than yelling. “Then act like a warrior. Warriors don’t stop around because they don’t get attention.”
Your chest tightened, you’d never felt more cramped…airless, in your entire life. “I don’t want attention. I need you to see me.”
“I see you,” Jake’s jaw flexed, nodding like it meant nothing. “I see a kid who thinks riding an ilu makes her ready for war.”
That did it. Where did this come from? All you tried to do was celebrate your accomplishment. Your fathers coldness ruined every inch of the happiness there was in your eyes.
“You think I'm not ready?” You laughed—dry, hollow. “I’ve outshot half the young hunters. I’ve stayed up later than anyone tracking tides. I try, every day.”
“And you still don’t listen. You outshot omatikaya hunters. This is our home now.”
“So that’s it? I’m just a problem child now, right?”
There was silence, the worst kind. Kiri stopped folding the leaves, Tuk looked between you and Jake, Neteyam glanced down, minding his business, but still listening.
Your father exhaled through his nose, “maybe you’re not as ready as you think you are.”
there it was again, not enough, not ready.
You swallowed, ears flattening. “You don’t talk to Neteyam like that.”
Your brother's ears perked up from his spot, Jake stiffened, it was like everyone stopped breathing.
“You don’t look at him like he’s a disappointment every time he breathes.”
Lo’ak was quiet now, scratching his head awkwardly. You were too far gone to care.
“But me?” Your voice cracked despite your fighting it. “You don’t look at me at all!”
“Daughter—” Neytiri stepped closer, her fingers tightening around your flexing tricep.
“Noo!” You pulled your arm away from her grasp this time. “You all only see what you want to see!”
“Or what?” Your stubbornness has you challenging him. “You’ll tell me that I'm not ready again? That I need to learn faster? That I'm weak?”
“I never said you were weak.”
“You didn’t have to!”
Tuk’s lip quivered, she didn’t entirely understand why you were so angry, pacing around, your hands clasped around your head. Your words hung heavy in the large marui as your siblings watched you pace and heave.
Your fathers face hardened, not cruel but more commanding.
“Until you can control that temper, you don’t fight beside me. You don’t go on hunts. That’s an order.”
An order? He cannot be serious.
It hit you then, this wasn’t a conversation, your father hadn’t been your daddy since you began to grow up. He was a commander now.
“You want the truth?” He continued, stepping closer. “You’re not ready. And if you went into battle like this—”
He stopped, his eyes narrowing a tad, hesitating... But his fear took over, and fear always leads to anger. “—you’d be the first one dead.”
The air left your lungs, not immature, but gone.
Even your mothers head snapped towards him. “Jake.”
He could only stare at you, realizing.
Your ears lowered slowly, not in anger, but in hurt. “You think I'd get everyone killed.”
“That’s not what I—” He paused again, his own ears falling as well. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to!”
Lo’ak shifted uncomfortably, even Kiri seemed shaken.
“Your father reached out instinctively. “Kid, listen—”
You said nothing, stepping back, grabbing your bow, then your knife, not even sure why, pride—maybe. Your vision, blurring as tears burned the corners of your eyes. “Kid” You scoffed, mimicking his term.
It used to be “sweetheart,” "babygirl,” or even just “baby.”
You really were no longer daddy’s little girl.
You turned towards the exit, your knife carried on your hip, arrows stored in a cylinder attached to the bow.
“Y/n.” Your mother called, sharper now.
You turned back one more time, frowning deeply. “All this time,” your breath was shaky, hands twitching at your sides. “I thought you didn't see me.”
You pointed an accusing finger at Jake. “But you do. And you see failure. Something you don’t believe in.”
He watched you go, striding towards the ilu pens with angered steps. Taking a step forward but halting just then.
Neytiris voice cut through him, low, and sharp. “MaJake…you speak from fear, and you wound our child.”
Your legs grew weak as you ran, but you dug your feet deep—calling the creature and riding fast, diving into the ocean. The moon casting a long path of silver light.
The ocean is not playful at night. It could cradle you gently, or swallow you whole.
"so...wife did your hair today?" sokka asks, feigning nonchalance as he takes in the intricate braid zuko's hair is in. it's a gorgeous piece of work, decorated with small flowers that match the red and orange of his robes.
"she did," zuko answers easily, his lips curving into a fond smile. "isn't she so talented? i told her not waste her efforts on me but—"
"she glared at you with the wrath of a thousand men?" sokka finished, his own smile soft and any teasing remarks vanishing off his tongue. "well, i'm glad she glared you into submission because it looks really good on you, man."
zuko blinks before his eyes narrow. "if you're making fun of my wife's handiwork—"
sokka snorts. "i don't have a death wish." he pats zuko on the back, grinning. "you do look nice and tell her that i'd love for her to braid my fabulous hair one of these days."
"i don't think so," zuko snipes but he's grinning too, his fingers brushing over the braid with the love and attention it deserves.
The healer’s hands were gentle but clinical as she parted your legs in the healing tent.
Bioluminescent moss cast soft blue light across your skin. You winced as her fingers probed the tender flesh between your thighs.
“Yeah… it’s pretty bruised,” she murmured, her tail flicking in mild disapproval. “Swollen, too. You two have been going at it like mated pairs in their first heat. I’m surprised you can even walk straight.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. You pulled the woven blanket higher over your hips.
The healer straightened, wiping her hands on a clean cloth. “Take a break. At least a few days. Or slow way down—If you must touch, keep it light. Otherwise this will just get worse.”
You nodded, embarrassed but grateful. When you limped out of the tent, Neteyam was waiting just outside, ears perked anxiously, golden eyes full of worry. The moment he saw your face he stepped close, large hands cupping your elbows.
“What did she say?” His voice was low, rough with concern.
You told him. His ears flattened.
“I’m sorry, yawne,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ve been too rough. Too greedy.”
“It’s not just you,” you admitted, looping your arms around his neck. “I want you just as bad.”
That night the forest hummed around your shared hammock, distant calls of night creatures filling the air. You lay facing each other, bare skin warm under a thin blanket. Neteyam’s cock was already half hard against your thigh, heavy and hot. He hadn’t even tried to hide it.
“We should listen to the healer,” he said, even as his hips twitched forward.
“We are,” you breathed. “We can just do the tip.”
His pupils blew wide. A low growl rumbled in his chest.
You rolled onto your back and spread your thighs carefully. The cool night air kissed your sore, puffy folds and you hissed at the slight sting.
Neteyam settled between your legs, so big he blocked out the stars. He gripped the base of his cock—thick, ridged, flushed deep blue—and dragged the broad head through your slick.
Even that made you whimper. Your entrance was swollen and sensitive, every brush of his smooth, leaking tip sending sparks up your spine.
“Easy,” he murmured, voice strained. “Tell me if it hurts.”
He notched the fat head against your opening and pushed—just enough for the very tip to slip inside. The stretch was shallow but intense. Your walls fluttered around him, already trying to pull him deeper. Neteyam’s jaw clenched so hard you saw the muscles jump.
“Fuck… so tight,” he groaned. “Even just this—yawne, you feel incredible.”
You rocked your hips, trying to take a little more, but the ache flared immediately. “Just the tip, Neteyam. Please.”
He nodded, sweat already beading along his collarbones. Slowly, carefully, he began to rock. Only the first two inches of his cock slid in and out, the thick head popping past your entrance with every shallow thrust. The ridges dragged deliciously against your most sensitive spot without ever going deep enough to bruise further.
Your clit throbbed untouched. You reached down to rub tight circles over it, gasping at how wet you were. Neteyam’s eyes locked on the sight—his cockhead stretching your puffy lips, your fingers glistening.
“You’re dripping down me, baby,” he rasped. “Even though I’m barely inside you.”
“Feels so good,” you moaned, head tipping back.
He kept the rhythm torturously slow, hips rolling in tiny, controlled movements. Every time he pulled out, the head caught on your rim and sent a jolt through both of you. His tail lashed behind him. His breathing grew ragged.
“I want to bury myself so deep,” he confessed, voice breaking. “Want to feel you squeeze all the way down my cock. But I won’t. I won’t hurt you.”
The restraint only made it hotter. You clenched around his tip and he snarled, hips stuttering.
“Again,” he begged.
You did, milking just the head of his cock while your fingers flew over your clit. Pleasure coiled tight and fast—sharper than usual because everything was so sensitive. Neteyam’s thumb joined yours, rubbing your clit in firm strokes until your thighs started to shake.
“Cum on my tip, baby,” he growled. “Let me feel you.”
You shattered with a broken cry, walls pulsing hard around the shallow intrusion. The orgasm rolled through you in heavy waves. Neteyam groaned like he was in pain, pulling out at the last second to spill thick ropes of cum across your mound and lower belly. The warmth of it felt obscene against your bruised skin.
He collapsed beside you, chest heaving, and immediately pulled you into his arms. Gentle kisses rained over your forehead, your cheeks, your lips.
“Was that okay?” he whispered, voice still husky.
“More than okay.” You nuzzled into his neck, already feeling the pleasant ache settle into something warm and satisfied instead of painful. “We can do this again tomorrow. Just the tip… until I’m healed.”
Neteyam’s low, wicked chuckle vibrated against you. “I’m going to go insane, but I’ll take every second of it.”
He kissed you slow and deep, tail curling possessively behind him.
“Just the tip,” he promised against your mouth, already hardening again. “For now.”
You never really had parents. Not in the way most did.
Your mother and father—Navi resistance fighters—died when you were barely walking.
Norm Spellman, the awkward scientist with the kind eyes and endless patience, became the closest thing you had to a father. He raised you in the labs, taught you English and Na’vi side by side, let you ride on his avatar’s shoulders when you were small. He was your constant.
Until Jake Sully showed up one day with a serious look and said, “She’s coming with us. Her father saved my life more than once. She belongs with the People now.”
Norm had argued at first. You were fifteen, terrified, and clinging to the only stability you knew. But Jake’s word was final.
“Treat her like your own,” he told his children that first night on the reef as you stood there shaking, eyes on the woven floor. “She’s family. She will be with us.”
But.
You and Neteyam were never supposed to be “siblings.”
It started innocently enough at sixteen. Norm had brought you along on one of the supply runs to the Omaticaya camp—something about helping catalog medicinal plants.
Neteyam, then also sixteen and already shadowing his father as a warrior, was assigned escort duty.
Your first real conversation with him happened at the forest edge while the adults talked logistics. He noticed you struggling to pronounce a particularly tricky English plant word and corrected you gently, ears flicking in amusement.
From there it snowballed with secret meetings whenever Norm’s team visited.
The eventually, it became stolen pecks of kisses behind glowing fan palms. Late night talks where he told you about the pressure of being the oldest son and you confessed how lost you felt without real Navi parents.
By the time you turned seventeen, you had given each other everything. Your first time was slow and nervous in a hidden clearing, his hands trembling as he undid your top, your voice shaking as you whispered his name. The bond hadn’t been made yet, but your hearts already were.
he’d murmured sweet nothings against your skin afterward, tail curled around from happiness.
But.
The day they brought you to the Sully marui on the reef, you were still with grief and mainly confusion. Jake crouched in front of you, voice steady. “She’s one of us now. Treat her like your own. She will be with us from tonight onward. Family.”
Neytiri pulled you into a warm hug. Lo’ak grinned and immediately started teasing you to make you smile. Kiri offered quiet understanding. Tuk latched onto your leg.
Neteyam stood a little apart, golden eyes unreadable. The boy who had kissed you breathless just weeks earlier now looked at you like you were glass, almost like you were untouchable.
When Jake clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Look out for your new sister, son,” something in Neteyam’s expression cracked.
That was the beginning of the silence.
The first month was the hardest.
You tried to keep the secret alive. Quick brushes of hands when passing in the marui. A lingering look across the beach. One desperate kiss behind the ilu pens when no one was watching. But every time Jake called you “daughter” with a proud warmth, or Neytiri included you in mother-daughter braiding sessions, the guilt for Neteyam thickened.
Neteyam started pulling away first. He volunteered for extra patrols. Trained longer. Sat on the opposite side of the fire during meals. When you caught his eye he’d look away, with his jaw tight.
You mirrored it. Laughed louder with Lo’ak. Spent more time learning healing from Kiri. Pretended your heart wasn’t shattering every single day.
By the first year, the distance was routine. You spoke when necessary—“pass the nets,” “good hunt today”—but nothing more. The family noticed the change but chalked it up to “growing pains” or “teenagers being teenagers.” Jake even pulled you aside once: “You and Neteyam used to be close. Everything okay?”
You lied. “Just busy. He’s got a lot on his shoulders.”
Neteyam gave the same answer when asked.
Now, at twenty one, the silence had calcified into something unbearable. years of pretending the person you loved most was nothing more than a brother.
However a breaking point came two nights ago.
You were weaving a new top by the fire when Jake sat down beside Neteyam. Their voices were low, but the reef carried sound.
“You’re twenty three now, son. Past time to think about a mate,” Jake said. “There’s a strong hunter from the northern Metkayina outpost. Good family, skilled with the tsurak. I could arrange a meeting. You okay with that?”
Neteyam’s answer was quiet. Too quiet. “If it helps the clan… yes.”
You didn’t wait to hear more. You set the half finished top down, muttered something about fresh air, and fled to the walkways. Your chest felt like it was caving in. He was really going to do it. Marry someone else. Play the perfect future Olo’eyktan while you stood on the sidelines as his “sister.”
That night you barely slept.
The following evening, after another painfully polite dinner where Neteyam sat across from you and never once met your eyes, you couldn’t take it anymore.
You slipped away after the meal, legs carrying you automatically to a hidden cove—the one with the small waterfall that masked noise and the glowing anemones that lit the water like stars. The place that used to be yours when you got sad. You hadn’t been back in almost two years.
Neteyam was already there.
He stood at the water’s edge, arms crossed, staring out at the lagoon. His tail flicked sharply when he heard your footsteps. For a long moment neither of you spoke. The awkwardness was a living thing between you.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he finally said, voice flat.
“Neither should you.” Your own voice came out smaller than you wanted.
He turned then. The moonlight caught the tension in his shoulders, the tight line of his jaw. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” The words poured out, months—no, years—of hurt. “Don’t remind you that we were together before any of this? That I was yours first? That you agreed to let Jake arrange a mate like what we had never mattered?”
Neteyam crossed the sand in three strides. His hands gripped your arms—not hard, but desperate. “You think it doesn’t matter?” His voice cracked. “Every single day I watch you laugh with Lo’ak and sit with Kiri and let Dad call you daughter and it kills me. I agreed because I don’t know how to fight this without hurting the family. Without losing you completely.”
Tears burned your eyes. “Then stop ignoring me like I’m nothing to you.”
“I’ve never been able to ignore you.” He pulled you in, crushing his mouth to yours.
The kiss was three years of starvation. Messy. Angry. Teeth and tongues and broken sounds. His tail wrapped around behind him, yanking you closer. You clutched his braids like a lifeline.
He walked you backward until your back met the cool rock behind the waterfall. The mist from the falling water cooled your heated skin as he untied your top with shaking fingers.
“I missed this,” he rasped against your neck, kissing and biting down to your collarbone. “Missed you so much it hurts.”
Your hands shoved his loincloth aside. He was already hard, thick and leaking. You stroked him slowly, savoring the way he shuddered and groaned your name.
Neteyam dropped to his knees in the shallow water, peeling your loincloth down your legs. He hooked one of your thighs over his shoulder and licked into you like a man dying of thirst. Long, slow drags of his tongue, sucking your clit, two thick fingers curling deep. The waterfall drowned out most of your moans, but not all.
You came hard, fingers tangled in his braids, hips grinding against his face. He didn’t stop but he kept licking you through it until your legs trembled.
Then he stood, spun you around, and bent you over the smooth rock ledge. He dragged his cock through your slick folds once, teasing, before thrusting in deep. The stretch stole your breath.
“Still so perfect for me,” he growled, setting a slow, rolling rhythm at first, deep and deliberate, letting you feel every ridge. “This body remembers me. Only me.”
The pace gradually built. Harder. Faster. One hand fisted your braids to arch your back, the other wrapped around your tail and stroked it firmly, sending sparks through your whole body. The wet sounds of him fucking you mixed with the waterfall.
You came again, clenching around him so tightly he cursed. He followed right after, burying himself to the hilt and spilling deep inside you with a broken moan of your name.
But he wasn’t done. He pulled out, turned you to face him, lifted you onto his cock again, and fucked you against the rock, slow and deep this time, forehead pressed to yours.
“Bond with me,” you whispered, voice wrecked.
His queue found yours. The tsaheylu clicked into place.
Years of pain and love flooded both of you. His terror of losing you. Your loneliness even surrounded by family. The nights he’d touched himself remembering your voice. The way you’d cried into your hammock after hearing Jake’s marriage talk.
The shared pleasure crested again. You came together this time, trembling and glowing, the bond pulsing between your hearts.
He lowered you gently to the soft sand afterward, staying buried inside you as he curled around your body. His tail draped possessively over your hip. For a long time there was only the sound of water and your breathing.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he whispered against your hair. “I can’t marry someone else. I won’t.”
You traced the stripes on his chest. “Then tomorrow we tell them everything. How we loved each other. How this ‘sibling’ label is destroying us.”
Neteyam nodded, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Together.”
The next morning the marui felt heavier than usual.
Breakfast was quiet until Jake finally set his food down. “Alright. You two have been acting strange. Spill it.”
Neteyam took your hand openly right there in front of everyone. His voice was steady but thick with emotion. “We were together before you adopted her, Dad. Secretly. We were already in love. Then… everything changed. We tried to stop. We’ve been ignoring each other because we didn’t know how to exist in this new reality.”
Jake stared. Neytiri’s ears flicked forward. Lo’ak’s jaw dropped. Kiri looked thoughtful, like pieces were clicking. Tuk just blinked in confusion.
Jake rubbed his face with both hands, letting out a long sigh. “… I had no idea. I asked you about a mate because I thought you were holding back out of duty to the clan. Not because you’ve been carrying this.” He looked at you both, then really looked. “You’re not blood. That’s true. But she’s my daughter in every way that counts now.”
Neytiri spoke gently. “The heart does not always follow the paths we draw. If Eywa joined you before she joined our family… that matters.”
Jake pointed at Neteyam. “You hurt her and warrior or not, I’ll kick your ass. Understood?”
Neteyam’s grip on your hand tightened. “I’d sooner die than hurt her.”
The conversation stretched long into the morning—questions, explanations, a few raised voices, a lot of stunned silence. But no one told you it was wrong. Complicated, yes. But not wrong.
That night, for the first time in three years, Neteyam pulled you into his hammock openly.
He made love to you slowly, reverently—soft kisses, whispered praises, pulling you close to his body.
Neteyam finally getting his girl back after years of torture? Yes please.
The ride back was quiet in the way that meant everyone had things to say and nobody wanted to start.
Jake flew ahead. His riders fell in around you both without making it obvious they were doing it, the way soldiers do when they’re not sure if they’re escorting or guarding. You noticed. Neteyam noticed too, from the way his jaw shifted whenever one of them drifted a little too close.
You didn’t say anything about it.
You just watched the trees below and let the wind take whatever was left of the last few days with it.
When the camp came into view, your stomach dropped the way it always did when something familiar became something you weren’t sure you were welcome in anymore. The shapes of the structures. The movement of people below. The smell of smoke and food and something green underneath all of it that your body still recognized even when your head wanted to forget.
Neteyam’s hand found your arm before you could think about it, not grabbing, just there. Like he knew.
You didn’t pull away.
The landing was worse than you expected, which was saying something because you hadn’t expected it to be easy.
People stopped what they were doing the second they saw you. Not all at once. One by one, the way bad news spreads, the stillness moving through the camp in a slow ripple until it felt like the whole place had turned to look at you. You kept your chin level and your eyes forward and told yourself it didn’t matter.
It still mattered.
Jake spoke before anyone else could. Something short and firm, the way he always talked when he wanted people to accept something without giving them time to argue about it. You didn’t catch every word but you caught enough — something about the situation having changed, something about decisions being revisited, something about trust being earned.
That last part landed somewhere unpleasant in your chest.
A few people dispersed. Most of them didn’t.
Neytiri was standing near the edge of the crowd, and you felt her eyes find you the second you stepped off. She didn’t move toward you. She didn’t look away either. You held her gaze for exactly as long as you needed to before looking somewhere else, because this wasn’t the moment for that conversation and you both knew it.
Someone pointed you toward a space at the outer edge of camp.
Not a real dwelling. More like a place they’d cleared out, covered overhead, just enough to make it functional without making it feel like you were welcome enough to stay. You looked at it for a second and then looked at Neteyam.
He looked like he wanted to say something about it.
“It’s fine,” you said, before he could.
“It’s not.”
“I’ve slept in worse.”
He stared at you. “That’s not the point.”
“I know what the point is,” you said quietly. “But fighting about where they put me on the first night isn’t going to help anything.”
He didn’t like that. You could see it in the way his shoulders stayed tense even when the rest of him went still. But he also didn’t argue, because you were right and he knew it.
He helped you settle in anyway.
He didn’t make a production of it. He just came with you and moved the things that needed moving and didn’t leave until he was sure the space was at least livable. At one point he found a gap in the side where the wind was getting through and packed it without being asked, pressing the material in with his thumb until it held.
You watched him do it and didn’t say anything.
When he finally straightened and looked at you, the camp noise a low hum around you both, neither of you spoke for a second.
“You’re not going to be alone in this,” he said.
You looked at him. “You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep acting like you don’t believe it.”
You opened your mouth and then closed it again, because that was the kind of thing that didn’t have a clean answer. He wasn’t wrong. You didn’t fully believe it. Not yet. Believing things like that took time you hadn’t had, and trust you were still rebuilding from the bottom up.
But you also weren’t running.
That had to count for something.
“Go eat,” you said finally. “You look terrible.”
He blinked, then huffed out something that was almost a laugh. “You too.”
“I know.”
He left, but not without looking back once. You pretended not to notice, the way you always did.
That night, the camp settled into its usual rhythms around you. Fires lit. Voices quieted. The dark came in slow and heavy the way it always did out here, full and warm and deeper than anything you’d grown used to in the Mangkwan camps where the night always felt like it was waiting for something to go wrong.
You sat outside your space and listened to it and tried not to think too hard.
You were almost convinced you could sleep when you heard footsteps coming toward you that weren’t Neteyam’s.
Jake stopped a few feet away. He didn’t crouch. He didn’t sit. He just stood there with his hands at his sides and looked at you the way people do when they owe you something and haven’t figured out how to start.
You looked back at him and waited.
He said, “I’m not going to ask you to forgive me tonight.”
“Good,” you said. “I’m not going to.”
He nodded once, like that was what he’d expected.
The silence sat between you. Not comfortable. Not clean. Just real.
“There are things you don’t know yet,” he said finally. “About why it happened.”
“I figured.”
“When the time comes,” he said, “I’ll tell you.”
You studied his face in the firelight, the way it looked older than it used to, the way it looked like a man who had made too many calls he couldn’t take back. You didn’t feel sorry for him. You weren’t there yet. But you also recognized the shape of it, the guilt that had nowhere to go, the apology that didn’t know how to be enough.
You’d carried that yourself.
“Alright,” you said.
He looked at you for one more second, then turned and walked back toward the main camp without another word.
You sat there for a while after that, the fire small and steady in front of you, the dark pressing in from all sides, the sounds of the camp winding down around you like a tide going out.
You didn’t know what tomorrow was going to look like.
You didn’t know how long it would take before people stopped watching you like you were something they hadn’t decided about yet.
You didn’t know when the thing with Neteyam would stop feeling like something fragile you were both trying not to drop.
The first few days back in camp were a kind of uncomfortable that settled into your bones and stayed there.
Not violent. Not cruel. Just constant.
People watched you the way they watched weather — not expecting the worst necessarily, but ready for it, the way you always are when something unpredictable has moved into the space around you and nobody’s decided yet what to do about it.
You’d walk through camp and conversations would dip a little. Eyes would slide toward you and then away. Nobody said anything directly, which was almost worse, because it meant you couldn’t argue back. You couldn’t push against silence. You couldn’t explain yourself to a look.
So you didn’t try.
You kept your head level and your movements small and you didn’t give anyone a reason to point at you and say they’d been right to worry. That was the whole strategy, the only one you had, and you were tired of it before the first week was out.
Neteyam made it harder to be miserable about it.
Not on purpose. He wasn’t the kind of person who tried to fix things by being relentlessly cheerful or by pretending the tension wasn’t there. He just kept showing up, the way he’d done in the forest, the way he’d done at the river, the way he’d done every single time you’d tried to push him far enough that he’d finally leave and prove you right about people. He didn’t leave. He just adjusted.
He’d find you in the mornings before the camp fully woke up, sitting near the edge of your space with food he’d gotten from somewhere, and he’d drop it next to you without making it a thing. You’d eat and he’d sit close enough that you could feel his warmth without him actually touching you, and neither of you would say much because the morning didn’t ask for words.
In the afternoons, when the tension in camp got too loud to ignore, he’d find something useful for you to do. Not in a condescending way. Not in a way that felt like he was managing you. he’d come by and say something like “there’s a section of the outer wall that needs work” or “the healers are short on dried herbs if you know where to find them,” and you’d go, because moving was better than sitting still inside your own head.
You’d come back with your hands dirty and your chest a little lighter and he’d be there when you got back, sitting outside your space because he’d been waiting even though he’d never admit to that directly.
The clan noticed.
Of course they did.
You could feel it in the way people started watching the two of you together instead of just watching you alone. The way conversations shifted when you both walked through camp at the same time. The way a few of the younger ones stopped looking at you like you were a threat and started looking at you like you were a question they were still working out the answer to.
Neytiri said nothing. But her eyes tracked you every time you passed, and you’d gotten good enough at reading people to know the difference between someone who hated you and someone who was deciding if they should.
You didn’t push it.
You just kept showing up every day and not giving anyone a reason to tell you to leave again.
It was about ten days in when things between you and Neteyam shifted in a way neither of you said out loud but both of you felt.
It started small. The way most things did with you two.
You’d been helping patch a section of the outer structure, the one he’d pointed you toward earlier in the week. The work was physical and repetitive and you liked that about it — liked that it didn’t ask you to think too hard, liked the way your arms ached after and your mind went quiet for a while. You’d been at it for most of the afternoon when he appeared beside you without warning, picked up the tools without asking, and just started helping.
You looked at him.
He looked at the wall.
“You don’t have to,” you said.
“I know,” he said, the way he always did when he meant the opposite.
You worked side by side for a while without speaking. The light was going amber and low by then, hitting the tops of the trees and making everything look softer than it was, and you were too tired to keep your guard all the way up. At one point you reached for the same tool at the same time and his hand covered yours before either of you could stop it.
Neither of you moved.
His hand was warm and bigger than yours and he didn’t pull away, and neither did you, and for a second the whole camp felt very far off and the only thing that existed was the small point of contact between your skin and his.
Then you both moved at the same time, you pulling back, him letting go, and neither of you said a word about it.
But for the rest of the afternoon your hand felt different. Like something had been pressed into it that wasn’t going to lift clean.
That night you couldn’t sleep.
You lay in your space and stared at the dark overhead and listened to the camp breathe itself into quiet, the fires banking low, the voices fading one by one, until all that was left was the insects and the wind and the soft creak of the trees settling into the night.
You were still staring at nothing when you heard him outside.
Not footsteps exactly. Just the shift of weight near the entrance, the way the air changed when someone stood close to a thin wall.
“I know you’re awake,” he said, quietly enough that it wouldn’t carry.
You closed your eyes. Opened them. “Go sleep, Neteyam.”
“You first.”
You made a sound that was mostly annoyance and sat up, and a moment later he appeared in the entrance, his silhouette against the low glow of the embers outside. He looked like he hadn’t been sleeping either, which made you feel marginally less stupid about your own inability to shut your mind off.
“Come outside,” he said.
“Why.”
“Because you’re lying in there thinking too hard about things you can’t fix tonight.”
You stared at him for a second. “You don’t know what I’m thinking about.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I know that look.”
That annoyed you, mostly because he was right. You grabbed your wrap off the floor and followed him out anyway, because the inside of your own head had been bad company all night and the dark outside was at least honest about what it was.
He led you away from the main camp, not far, just to the edge where the trees started and the firelight didn’t quite reach. There was a fallen tree there, wide enough to sit on, and he settled onto it and waited while you stood for a second deciding whether to be stubborn about it.
You sat.
The night was warm and the sky above was doing that thing it did out here, where it looked so full of stars it seemed almost crowded, like the dark couldn’t hold all of them properly. You looked up at it for a while and felt something in your chest go slightly less tight.
“You were watching the sky,” he said after a while.
“I always watch the sky.”
“I know.” He paused. “You did it when you first got here too. Back in the forest. When you thought I was asleep.”
You looked at him. “You weren’t asleep.”
“Not always, no.”
You shook your head and looked back up. “Creep.”
He smiled, just a little, and let the silence settle back around you. It was the comfortable kind now, the kind you’d built between you in the forest without meaning to, the kind that didn’t need to be filled.
After a while, his shoulder pressed against yours.
Not dramatically. Not in a way that asked for a response. Just the weight of him shifting slightly until you were touching, the warmth of it immediate and easy, and you let it happen because you were tired and the night was wide and you’d stopped pretending this wasn’t something real.
You stayed like that for a long time.
“I keep waiting for something to go wrong,” you said eventually, not really meaning to.
He didn’t answer right away. “Something will,” he said. “Eventually.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“You don’t like comfort.”
“I like honesty more,” you admitted, and felt him nod beside you.
“Something will go wrong,” he said again. “And we’ll deal with it. Same way we dealt with everything else.”
You thought about the forest. The mud. His hands on your ribs in the dark. The way he’d dragged himself forward with one arm just to put his hand on your wrist when you were unconscious, like even half dead he needed to know you were still breathing.
“You’re annoying,” you said softly.
He turned his head and looked at your profile, the
the starlight caught the side of your face, and said nothing for a moment.
“I know,” he said finally. Then, quieter, “I’m not going anywhere.”
You turned to look at him and found him already looking at you, close enough that the space between you felt too deliberate to be accidental. His eyes were steady in the dark, the way they always were when he wasn’t pretending about anything, and the look in them made your chest feel too full for the size of it.
“You keep saying that,” you said.
“You keep needing to hear it.”
You wanted to argue with that. You wanted to push back the way you always did when something hit too close. But you were tired, and he was warm, and the sky was full of stars and you were so sick of spending all your energy keeping him at a distance that had already closed anyway.
So instead you leaned your head against his shoulder.
It was small. Barely a thing. But you felt him go very still for half a second the way people do when they’re afraid if they move something will break, and then he exhaled and his arm came up and his hand settled against your side, his thumb tracing a slow line just above your ribs like he wasn’t even fully aware he was doing it.
Neither of you said anything.
The stars kept burning overhead, unbothered by any of it.
Jake called Neteyam in the next afternoon.
You knew something was wrong before he even came back. You could feel it in the way the camp tilted slightly, the way a few people looked in the direction of Jake’s dwelling and then looked away. You kept working on what you’d been doing and told yourself it was nothing and didn’t believe yourself.
When Neteyam came back, his face told you everything before he said a word.
He found you near the outer edge of camp and he didn’t say anything for a moment, just stood there with his jaw tight and his eyes doing that thing where they were looking at you but also somewhere past you, somewhere inside his own head where something had just broken and hadn’t finished falling yet.
“What happened,” you said. Not a question.
He exhaled through his nose. “He told me.”
You went still.
“About the deal,” he said. “About why he left you.”
The words sat between you in the afternoon air and you let them, because this moment had been coming for a while and there was no point pretending it hadn’t.
“Okay,” you said.
He looked at you sharply. “Okay?”
“I figured there was something.”
“You figured—” He stopped. Started again. “He traded you. He stood there and made a deal with Varang and left you on her land and then came home and lied about it for years, and you’re saying okay?”
You crossed your arms. Not in a defensive way. Just because you needed to do something with your hands. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to be angry.”
“I am angry.”
“You don’t look it.”
“That’s because I’ve been angry about this for a long time,” you said, your voice flat and even and carrying more weight under it than you let it show. “I just didn’t know the reason yet. Now I do. It doesn’t change what it felt like.”
He stared at you. His hands were at his sides and his shoulders were tense and he looked like a person who had just been handed something too heavy and didn’t know where to put it down.
“He said I was sick,” he said finally, quieter. “When I was younger. He said I was going to die and the cure was on Mangkwan land and Varang already had you and she offered him the cure if he promised to leave you and say nothing.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
“How sick?” you asked.
“Bad enough that he said he didn’t have time to think.”
“So he didn’t think,” you said. “He just chose.”
Neteyam’s jaw shifted. “Yeah.”
The silence between you stretched long and uncomfortable, the kind that held too many things that didn’t know how to be said cleanly.
“You were a child,” you said finally. “He chose his child.”
“That doesn’t make it—”
“I know it doesn’t make it right,” you said. “I’m not saying it does. I’m saying I understand the shape of it.” You looked at him carefully. “Do you?”
He looked away. Ran a hand over the back of his neck. You could see how hard he was working to hold it together, the way he always did when something hit him somewhere he hadn’t armored up properly.
“I keep thinking,” he said slowly, “about how many times I looked for you. After. I kept thinking you’d chosen to stay, the way they all said, and I kept thinking about that and telling myself it was your choice and trying to respect it and the whole time—”
He stopped.
You waited.
“The whole time you were there because of me,” he said, and the words came out rough and low and like they’d cost him something real to say.
You crossed the space between you before you thought it through, the way your body decided before your head caught up, and you put your hand on his jaw and made him look at you.
He did. His eyes were dark and unhappy and full of something he’d been carrying since Jake opened his mouth that afternoon.
“Listen to me,” you said. “This is not yours. You were a sick kid and your father made a choice that wasn’t yours to make. You don’t get to carry it.”
“I’m already carrying it.”
“Then put it down.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“I know,” you said. “But start with putting it down right now, in front of me, and we’ll figure out the rest after.”
He looked at you for a long moment. The afternoon light came in low around you both and the camp was moving at its usual pace somewhere behind you and none of it felt as loud as the small space between your hand and his face.
Then he leaned forward and pressed his forehead against yours and closed his eyes and just breathed.
You stayed there like that, your hand still against his jaw, his breath warm on your face, the world continuing on at a respectful distance around you.
After a while his hands came up and wrapped around your wrists, not moving your hands away, just holding them, his thumbs tracing small slow circles against your pulse points.
“She planned it,” he said quietly, his forehead still against yours. “Varang. My father said she’d had her eye on you long before that. That she wanted you specifically. That the whole thing was already in motion before he ever came to her.”
That settled into your chest differently than the rest of it. Colder. The way information does when it reorders things you thought you understood.
You’d known Varang was patient. You’d known she was calculating. But the idea that she’d looked at you — young and untested and barely surviving — and decided she wanted you before you even knew what you were capable of, that was something else.
“She built you,” Neteyam said. “That’s what he said. She saw what she wanted and then she made the conditions where she could have it.”
“She didn’t build me,” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him properly. “She used what was already there.”
He opened his eyes and looked at you. “There’s a difference?”
“Yes,” you said. “A big one.”
He studied your face for a second, the way he always did when he was trying to understand something fully before he let it go.
“She’s going to come back,” he said.
“I know.”
“She’s not going to just let this be.”
“I know that too.”
His hands tightened slightly around your wrists, barely perceptible. “I’m not going to let her take you again.”
You looked at him. “I know,” you said. And for the first time in a long time, knowing felt like something you could actually trust.
Spider found you that evening.
You almost didn’t recognize him at first, time does that to people, reshapes them in ways you don’t expect until you’re looking right at them and your brain is catching up to what your eyes are already seeing. He was taller. Broader. He carried himself differently, the way people do when they’ve been through things that took something from them and left something else in its place.
But his eyes were the same.
He stopped when he saw you, the two of you facing each other at the edge of the treeline while the camp wound down toward evening behind you. He looked like someone who had rehearsed this moment and then immediately forgot everything he’d planned to say.
“Hey,” he said finally.
“Hey,” you said back.
The silence sat there for a second, heavy and strange, all the years of it pressing in from every side.
Then he let out a breath that sounded like it had been held for a long time and said, “I thought you were dead. For a while.”
“I know,” you said. “I heard.”
“I tried to—” He stopped. Started again. “I tried to get back to you. When they took us. I kept telling them you were still there and nobody wanted to listen.”
“Spider.”
“I should’ve—”
“Stop,” you said, not unkindly. “You were a kid. We both were.”
He looked at you like he wanted to argue with that and couldn’t find the angle.
“You look different,” he said after a moment.
“You too.”
“Bad different or—”
“Different different,” you said. “I don’t know yet.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes moving over your face like he was checking for something specific. Then he glanced past you toward the camp, and something shifted in his expression.
“Neteyam’s been looking for you,” he said.
“I know.”
“The whole time, I mean. Not just recently.” He looked back at you. “He never really stopped.”
You didn’t say anything to that. You just let it sit there because it was the kind of thing that didn’t need a response so much as just space to exist in.
Spider scratched the back of his head, the gesture so familiar it made something soft and aching move through your chest. “I have things to tell you,” he said. “About Varang. About what she’s been doing since—”
“I know some of it,” you said. “Jake talked to Neteyam today.”
Spider went still. “He told him?”
“About the deal. About what she planned.” You watched his face. “You knew.”
It wasn’t a question. You could see it immediately, the way his eyes shifted and the line of his shoulders changed, the guilt that moved through his expression before he could school it.
“Not all of it,” he said. “Not right away. I found out later. I didn’t know what to do with it.”
“Spider.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I know. I should’ve told you. I should’ve found a way.” He looked at you and he looked genuinely miserable about it, the way he always did when he’d failed at something that mattered. “I’m sorry.”
You looked at him for a long moment. At the familiar face wearing unfamiliar guilt. At the kid you used to know standing inside someone older, someone who had also been dragged through things and come out the other side not entirely sure what shape they were anymore.
You understood that better than most.
“Tell me what you know,” you said finally. “All of it.”
He exhaled, relieved and nervous at the same time. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, yeah.” He glanced at the camp behind you. “Should we get Neteyam?”
You thought about it for a second. About Varang planning you like a move in a game that had started before you knew you were playing. About the deal Jake made. About the Mangkwan, quiet in the forest somewhere, patient the way they’d always been patient, the way Varang had taught them to be.
“Yeah,” you said. “Get him.”
The three of you sat in the dark at the edge of camp and Spider talked for a long time.
He told you about the things he’d heard while he was with Quaritch. About Varang’s reach being larger than anyone in the Omaticaya had accounted for. About the fact that she had people moving in from the eastern ridge, slow and careful, the way the Mangkwan always moved when they were taking ground and didn’t want anyone to notice until it was already done. About the fact that she hadn’t just wanted you as a soldier. She’d wanted you because of what you knew — the Omaticaya’s patterns, their land, their movement, the hiding places you’d grown up learning.
She’d been patient because she’d known you would need time. Time to become what she needed.
And now that you were gone, Spider said quietly, she was going to want that knowledge back. Or she was going to want to make sure nobody else had access to you either.
Neteyam sat beside you through all of it with his knee pressed against yours, the contact small and steady and grounding in a way you were grateful for even if you didn’t say so.
When Spider finished, the three of you sat with it for a while.
“How long?” Neteyam asked.
“Before she moves?” Spider shook his head. “I don’t know. But the scouts I’ve been tracking have been getting closer. She’s not waiting much longer.”
Neteyam looked at you.
You looked back at him.
“We need to tell Jake,” you said.
Neteyam’s jaw tightened. “Yeah.”
“I know,” you said quietly. “But we need to.”
He looked at the ground for a second, then back at you, and something moved through his expression that wasn’t anger anymore. Something that looked more like determination, the kind that came from having already made the hard choices and being ready to make the next ones.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
“Tomorrow,” you agreed.
Spider looked between the two of you and wisely said nothing.
After he left, you and Neteyam stayed at the edge of camp a little longer, the night full and quiet around you. The embers were low and the stars were out and somewhere in the trees something moved and settled and went still again.
His hand found yours in the dark.
Not reaching. Just there. Like it had always been there and had simply stopped pretending otherwise.
You turned your palm up and let his fingers close around it and sat with the weight of his hand in yours and the warmth of it and the way it made the night feel a little less like something you had to survive and a little more like something you were allowed to be in.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No,” you said honestly. “You?”
“No,” he said.
“Okay,” you said.
His thumb moved slow across your knuckles, the way it had that morning on the fallen tree, like he wasn’t even thinking about it and that was exactly why it meant something.
You sat there together until the camp went fully quiet and the dark settled in soft around you and neither of you moved, because moving would have meant the night was over and you weren’t ready for that yet.
So you stayed.
And the night held you both there, the way it had in the forest, the way it had by the river, the way it always seemed to do when the world got too loud and the two of you needed somewhere quiet to just exist.
the morning jake comes to find you, you already know what it’s about.
you’re sitting outside your space with your hands wrapped around a cup of something warm, watching the camp move through its early routines, when you hear his footsteps and feel the shift in the air that always comes with him now. heavy. deliberate. the walk of a man who has been putting something off long enough that he can’t anymore.
you don’t look up when he stops in front of you.
“sit down or don’t,” you say. “but don’t just stand there.”
he sits.
for a moment neither of you say anything. the camp moves around you, people crossing back and forth, voices low in the early light, the smell of food and fire and green things mixing together the way it always does out here. you keep your eyes on the middle distance and your hands around your cup and wait.
“i owe you the whole thing,” he says finally. “not pieces of it. all of it.”
“okay,” you say.
he tells you.
all of it, the way he promised. neteyam was seven years old and running a fever that wouldn’t break. three days, then four, then five. the healers had done everything they knew how to do and it wasn’t enough and jake had watched his son get smaller and quieter and further away and he had done what he always did when something threatened his family, he moved.
varang had already had you for a season by then. he’d known you were there. he hadn’t come for you yet because the situation was complicated and the timing was wrong and he’d told himself he was waiting for the right moment, and then neteyam got sick and suddenly the only thing that mattered was the cure on mangkwan land and the woman who controlled access to it.
she didn’t ask for much, he says. that was the thing that made it feel possible. she just wanted his word that if you stayed, he’d let you stay. that he wouldn’t send anyone after you. that he’d tell the clan you’d made your choice so nobody would push.
he’d told himself you were safe there. that it wasn’t a death sentence. that you were resilient and you’d find your footing and someday, maybe, there’d be a way to fix it.
neteyam’s fever broke the next morning.
jake went home and told everyone you’d chosen to stay with the ash people and he’d had seven years to sit with what that cost.
you listen to all of it without moving. the cup goes cold in your hands. when he’s done the silence sits between you like something physical, like you could reach out and press your hand flat against it.
“i’m not asking you to forgive me,” he says. same thing he said the first night. “i just needed you to have the truth.”
you look at him then, really look at him, at the lines in his face and the weight behind his eyes and the way he’s sitting like a man who has stopped trying to look like he has it together.
“you chose your son,” you say.
“yeah.”
“i understand that.” you look back at the middle distance. “i don’t forgive it. not yet. but i understand the shape of it.”
he nods once. it’s not relief exactly, more like the specific exhaustion of someone who has finally put something down after carrying it too long.
“she’s not done,” you say. “varang.”
“i know.”
“she’s going to come.”
“i know that too.” he looks at you. “when she does, i need to know that Neteyam still needs that medicine… and if you’re here… he will never have access to that..”
you look at him and something in your chest settles into place, quiet and certain.
“i’ve been with you,” you say. “you just keep acting surprised by it.”
something moves across his face that might be the closest thing to relief he has left.
spider finds you that afternoon, moving fast, his eyes doing the thing they do when something is already wrong and getting worse.
“they’re here,” he says, low and urgent. “eastern ridge. i’ve been tracking the scouts all week and they just stopped moving, which means—”
“they’re not scouting anymore,” you finish.
“yeah.”
you’re already moving before he finishes talking.
the camp reacts fast, faster than you expected, which tells you they’d been waiting for this too, that the tension had been building in everyone not just in you. warriors move to the perimeter. families pull inward. weapons come up and the air goes tight with the specific kind of focus that comes before a fight.
neteyam falls into step beside you without a word, his hand briefly at your back as you move through the crowd, and you don’t slow down but you feel it, the warmth of it, the steadiness.
“stay close,” he says.
“you stay close,” you say back, and he almost smiles.
varang comes herself.
you knew she would. that’s the thing about her, she never sends someone else to do the thing that matters. she arrives at the edge of camp on foot, alone, her riders visible in the treeline behind her but not moving. she’s dressed the way she always is, like someone who has never once needed armor because the world has always moved aside for her. her eyes find you immediately, the way they always did, because you were the only thing worth looking at.
the camp has gone very still.
she stops at the boundary line and looks at you and says nothing for a moment, just takes you in the way she used to when you’d come back from a mission. like she’s checking the work. like she’s proud of what she made.
“you look well,” she says finally.
you say nothing.
“better than i expected, honestly,” she continues, her voice carrying the same calm it always had, like she’s discussing something mild and unimportant. “i thought they’d run you out.” her eyes move briefly around the camp. “maybe they tried.”
“they did,” you say flatly. “i came back anyway.”
something flickers in her expression, brief enough that most people would miss it.
“this isn’t your place,” she says. “you know that. you’ve always known that.” she takes one step forward, slow and deliberate. “they tolerate you because the boy wants you here. that’s not belonging. that’s charity.”
you feel the camp shift behind you, the low murmur of people who didn’t expect her to go straight for the throat.
“you know what i gave you,” she says, quieter now, and this is the part you’d been dreading, the part where she’s not wrong exactly, just using the truth like a knife. “i gave you purpose. i gave you skill. i gave you a place where what you were actually worth something.” she tilts her head. “they’ll never see you the way i did.”
“you didn’t see me,” you say. “you saw what you could use.”
her expression doesn’t change but something behind it does, something small and cold.
“i’ve been patient with you,” she says. “longer than i’ve been patient with anyone. i planned for you. i waited for you. i built you into something real.” her eyes move to neteyam, brief and deliberate, then back to you. “don’t throw that away for people who left you in a cell.”
“you’re the one who kept me in it,” you say.
the clearing goes quiet.
she looks at you for a long moment, something shifting behind her eyes, and you recognize it because you’ve felt it yourself — the moment when patience runs out and becomes something else.
“come home,” she says, and it’s not a request.
“no,” you say, and it’s not a negotiation.
what happens next moves fast.
her signal is small, just the lift of two fingers, and her riders come out of the treeline in a line. the camp responds instantly, weapons up, bodies moving to fill the gaps, and for a moment everything is just noise and motion and the specific chaos of a fight that hasn’t fully started yet but is already inevitable.
varang moves toward you and she’s fast, she was always fast, that was the first thing she ever taught you and the first thing you ever learned from watching her. she covers the ground between you in seconds and you move to meet her because you know better than to wait, you learned that from her too.
you’re good.
you’ve always been good.
but she made you good, which means she knows every angle.
you fight the way you were both trained, fast and low and without wasted movement, and for a while it’s almost even. you land hits and take them, the ground under your feet uneven and familiar, the sounds of the larger fight around you something you have to block out because the second you look away from her you lose.
you almost have her.
almost.
then you don’t, and the world tilts wrong and you’re going down and you can’t stop it fast enough and varang is above you with something in her hand and for one sharp second everything slows the way it does in the worst moments, all detail and no time—
and then neteyam is there.
he takes the hit that was meant for you.
it’s not clean. it catches him high across his side, bad enough that you hear the sound it makes and feel it in your own chest like a secondary impact, and he goes down hard beside you, one hand pressed to his side, his breath coming out wrong.
varang stumbles back from the force of his movement and that’s all you need.
you’re back on your feet before you’ve finished thinking about it and you end it, the way you were taught, the way you know how, quick and certain and without hesitation.
varang goes down.
not dead.
but done.
her riders stop when she falls. there’s a moment where it could go either way, where the line could break into something worse. then jake’s voice cuts across the clearing, sharp and final, and it doesn’t.
it’s over.
you drop to your knees beside neteyam while people are still moving around you.
he’s conscious, which is the first thing you check, his eyes open and tracking, his jaw clenched against the pain. but the wound on his side is bad and he’s pressing his hand over it like he can hold it together by force of will alone.
“i had it,” you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you mean it to.
“i know,” he says, through his teeth.
“you didn’t have to—”
“yes i did,” he says, looking at you, and the look on his face makes your throat close up immediately.
the healers push in around you and you have to move back, you have to let them work, and you do because you know better than to get in the way of that. but you stay close, close enough to see his face, close enough that when his eyes find you through the movement of people around him you’re still there.
you don’t move away.
you don’t even try.
you just sit with your hands in your lap and watch him breathe and feel everything you’ve been holding back for months press up against the inside of your chest like it’s finally run out of room.
someone puts a hand on your shoulder, gentle and brief, and when you look up it’s one of the clan women, one of the ones who’d voted against you, and she doesn’t say anything but she doesn’t look at you like a threat anymore either.
you look back at neteyam.
the healers are saying things to each other in low voices and his face is still tight with pain but his color is better than it was a minute ago and his breathing has steadied slightly and you know, logically, that he’s going to be okay.
it doesn’t stop the shaking that’s started somewhere in your hands.
they let you back in once he’s been moved to somewhere more comfortable, once the wound has been cleaned and packed and wrapped and the immediate danger has passed. jake is there for part of it and then he’s not. spider hovers near the entrance for a while and then disappears to give you both space without being asked, which is the most perceptive thing you’ve ever seen him do.
neteyam is propped up against the wall, pale and a little hollowed out from the pain but awake, his eyes on you the second you come through the entrance.
you sit beside him and you look at his side and you look at his face and something in your chest just keeps going and going and won’t stop.
“stop looking at me like that,” he says, quiet and a little rough.
“like what,” you say.
“like i’m about to disappear.”
your jaw tightens. you look down at your hands. the shaking has mostly stopped but your chest still feels too small for everything inside it.
“you took a hit for me,” you say.
“yeah.”
“you could’ve—”
“i know.”
“neteyam.”
“i know,” he says again, softer. “i’d do it again.”
something cracks open.
not dramatically. not loudly. just that feeling of something that’s been held too tight for too long finally letting go, and you can feel your eyes going hot and you hate it, you hate that you’re about to cry in front of him after everything, but your body has apparently decided it’s done asking permission.
“i don’t know what to call it,” you say, and your voice comes out smaller than you want it to. “what i—” you stop. start again. “i don’t know how i see you. i’ve been trying to figure it out for months and i can’t put a name on it. but it’s not—” you look at him, your eyes burning. “it’s not like a friend. it hasn’t been like that in a long time. maybe ever.”
he looks at you.
you look back, eyes wet, jaw tight, feeling about as graceful as you did the first time you fell in the mud in front of him and couldn’t get up.
“i don’t know what that means yet,” you say. “i just know i can’t keep not saying it.”
he reaches up slowly, careful of his side, and his hand comes to your face. his thumb moves across your cheek and catches the wet there, gentle, the way he does everything when he’s not pretending, and you feel your breath stutter.
he tilts your face up slightly, his eyes on yours, and then he presses his lips to your forehead and just holds them there for a moment, warm and still.
then your nose, brief and soft.
and then your lips.
it’s slow. it’s quiet. it doesn’t ask for anything more than it is — just the two of you, finally, after everything. his mouth is warm against yours and his hand is still cradling your jaw and you feel it everywhere, in your chest and your throat and behind your eyes, the kind of feeling that doesn’t need to be described because there are no words that fit it properly.
when he pulls back he doesn’t go far. his forehead drops against yours and his arm comes around you, careful and deliberate, pulling you into him the way he’s been wanting to since the forest, and you go, you just go, because you’re tired of holding yourself at a distance from the one thing that has felt like safety for months.
you press your face into his neck and feel his hand on your back and feel him exhale, slow and long, like he’s been waiting to do exactly this and his body is finally catching up to the relief of it.
“i don’t need a name for it,” he says quietly, into your hair. “i just need you to stay.”
you close your eyes.
outside, the camp is rebuilding itself back into its usual sounds. voices and movement and fire and the normal rhythm of people who have come through something and are choosing to keep going. the sun is low and the light is soft and somewhere out there spider is probably telling someone an exaggerated version of what happened and jake is probably standing somewhere looking old and tired and trying to figure out how to be a person again.
and you’re here.
here, with your face in the curve of his neck and his arm around you and the smell of him filling your chest like something that has always been there, just waiting for you to stop running from it.
“okay,” you say.
his hand moves slow across your back.
“okay,” he says back.
after he drifted to sleep you drifted away from the clan.
not because you wanted to. that was the part that made it harder than anything else you’d done, harder than leaving the mangkwan, harder than walking back into a camp that didn’t want you, harder than saying the things you’d said with your face wet and your chest cracked open. you wanted to stay. you wanted to stay so badly it felt physical, like leaving was something being pulled out of you rather than something you were choosing.
but the medication neteyam needed came from mangkwan land.
that was the thing nobody said out loud but everybody knew. the healers had been careful about how they worded it, the way people are when the truth is inconvenient and the timing is bad, but you’d heard enough to understand. the compound they were using to treat his wound, to keep infection out, to make sure what varang’s blade had started didn’t finish the job slowly — it came from plants that only grew on ash people’s territory. plants the omaticaya didn’t have access to. plants that required someone who knew that land, who knew how to move through it without being seen, who knew which roots and which leaves and which growing conditions produced what the healers actually needed.
you left a note for spider because you couldn’t face neteyam awake.
you left before the camp was fully up.
he searched for you for months.
spider told you later, after everything, the way spider always told you things — slightly too much detail, slightly too much feeling, like he wanted you to understand the full weight of it and not just the outline. he said neteyam didn’t stop. he said neteyam went out almost every day, sometimes with people and sometimes alone, following leads that went nowhere and trails that went cold and coming back each time looking worse than when he’d left but refusing to stop.
he said jake tried to talk him out of it once and neteyam looked at him in a way that ended the conversation immediately.
you heard all of this later.
while it was happening you were deep in mangkwan territory with your head down and your hands in the dirt, moving through land you knew too well, taking nothing you hadn’t earned and leaving no trace that could be followed. you were careful. you were quiet. you were everything they’d taught you to be, using every skill varang had drilled into you for the purpose of dismantling everything she’d built.
it felt right, in a way that nothing else had for a long time.
the work took longer than you wanted it to.
you weren’t just collecting what the healers already knew about. that would’ve been enough for now, but not for later, and you were thinking about later. you were thinking about neteyam needing this for the rest of his life, about the clan depending on territory they didn’t control for something this important, about what happened when varang or someone like her figured out the leverage that created.
so you did more than collect.
you studied.
you had no formal training, not the kind that came with titles or ceremony. what you had was time and stubbornness and the kind of attention to detail that comes from spending years in a place where getting things wrong had real consequences. you watched how the plants grew. you mapped the conditions. you took samples and made notes in the margins of whatever you could write on and tested and failed and tested again. you sent what you had back through spider in small careful batches, coded so nobody could trace them, and you kept working.
it took the better part of a year.
by the time you came back, neteyam was waiting at the edge of the treeline.
you didn’t know how he knew. spider, probably. spider had never been good at keeping your secrets when they involved neteyam specifically, which you had accepted as a character flaw you were going to have to live with.
neteyam looked like the months had been long for him. not bad, just long. like someone who had been waiting for something and had gotten very tired of waiting but had kept doing it anyway because stopping wasn’t something he knew how to do.
he didn’t say anything when he saw you.
you didn’t say anything either.
you walked up to him and held out the case you’d been carrying, the one with everything inside it — the samples, the notes, the mapped growing conditions, the compound broken down into something the healers could actually work with and eventually replicate without needing mangkwan land at all.
he took it without looking at it.
he was looking at you.
“i figured it out,” you said, your voice coming out rougher than you intended from disuse. “the medication. they won’t need to go back for it. i wrote down everything.”
he looked at the case in his hands and then back at your face and his jaw shifted the way it did when he was feeling something he didn’t have words for yet.
“you could’ve told me,” he said.
“you would’ve come with me.”
“yeah,” he said. “i would’ve.”
“i know,” you said. “that’s why i didn’t tell you.”
he stared at you for a second and then he laughed, just once, short and incredulous, the way he did when you’d done something that was completely unreasonable and completely you at the same time.
then he put the case down on the ground and crossed the remaining distance between you and wrapped his arms around you before you could say anything else, and you let him, you just let him, because a year was a long time and you were so tired of distance.
his face pressed into your hair and your arms came up around him and you stood there at the edge of the treeline while the camp moved somewhere behind him and the light came in low through the trees and everything felt very still and very real.
“don’t do that again,” he said into your hair.
“i won’t have to,” you said. “it’s done.”
his arms tightened slightly.
“i mean in general,” he said. “don’t just leave.”
you pressed your face into his shoulder and felt his heartbeat against your cheek and thought about the year of cold camps and dirt under your fingernails and sending small packages through spider and lying awake wondering if you were going to get this right.
“okay,” you said.
“okay,” he said back.
the trees moved in the wind above you both, slow and easy, like they had nowhere to be.
you didn’t either.
not anymore.
Thank you so much for reading! Let me know if u enjoyed it!
You’ve been dating Megumi for almost two years now, and the man is still convinced he’s supposed to have outgrown this.
He’s twenty one. He’s faced down curses that could level cities. He’s a jujutsu sorcerer with a reputation for being calm, collected, borderline emotionless.
And yet.
Every single day, without fail, you make him so hard it hurts.
The first light filters through the blinds of your shared apartment and Megumi wakes up with your back pressed to his chest, your ass nestled perfectly against him like it was made to fit there.
You’re still half asleep, humming softly, stretching like a cat. The tiny tank top you wear to bed has ridden up; he can feel the warm skin of your waist under his palm.
He’s already rock hard.
He bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood and carefully shifts his hips back, trying to create even an inch of space between his aching cock and the soft curve of your body. You make a sleepy noise of protest and push back against him again.
“Megumi… five more minutes,” you mumble, voice raspy.
He swallows a groan. “Yeah. Five more.”
He spends the entire five minutes mentally reciting the names of every shikigami he owns so he doesn’t cum in his sweatpants.
Later that same morning you’re in the kitchen making pancakes in nothing but one of his oversized black shirts and low socks. The hem barely covers the bottom of your ass when you reach up for the syrup on the top shelf.
Megumi is standing at the counter pretending to scroll through his phone, but his eyes are glued to the way the shirt rides up, the flash of lace panties, the smooth skin of your thighs.
His cock twitches so violently he has to cross his legs under the counter.
You turn around with a bright smile, spatula in hand. “Want chocolate chips in yours, baby?”
He nods, voice tight. “Yeah. Thanks.”
You don’t notice the way he keeps his hoodie pulled low over his lap the entire time you’re eating. Or how he volunteers to do all the dishes just so he can stand at the sink with cold water running over his wrists until the ache finally eases.
Movie nights are the worst.
You always end up with your head in his lap, legs stretched across the couch, completely relaxed.
Tonight you’re in tiny sleep shorts and a thin bralette. Your cheek is pressed right against his thigh, dangerously close to the bulge he’s been fighting since the opening credits.
Halfway through the film you shift, nuzzling closer, and your breath ghosts over the front of his sweats. Megumi’s hand tightens in your hair before he can stop himself.
You glance up at him innocently. “You okay? You’re really warm.”
“I’m fine,” he lies, jaw clenched so hard it clicks. His cock is straining painfully against the fabric, a wet spot already forming at the tip. He wants to flip you over and bury himself inside you so badly he can’t think straight, but he just keeps stroking your hair like the respectful boyfriend he’s trying (and failing) to be.
Showering together is straight up torture.
You love it—love the way he washes your hair, love how his hands feel sliding over your soapy skin. He loves it too, which is exactly the problem.
You’re standing under the spray, back to his chest, humming while he runs a loofah down your spine. The soap suds slide over the curve of your ass and between your thighs and Megumi has to physically turn away, pressing his forehead against the cold tile, cock throbbing angrily between his legs.
You notice the sudden distance and peek over your shoulder. “Megumi?”
“Shampoo in my eyes,” he mutters, voice hoarse.
He doesn’t turn back around until the water runs cold.
He never says anything. Never complains. Never asks for relief.
Because he’s grown now. He’s not some horny kid who can’t control himself just because his girlfriend exists. He’s supposed to be better than this. So he hides it. Every single time.
Until the hike.
It’s a rare off day. You dragged him out to one of the trails outside the city because “the leaves are so pretty right now, Megumi, please?” and he can never say no to you.
You’re wearing the shortest hiking shorts he’s ever seen in his life. The ones that ride up with every step and show the soft underside of your ass. On top is a white ribbed tank top. Your wearing no bra. The morning air is cool enough that your nipples are visibly hard, poking against the thin fabric with every breath.
Megumi is dying.
He’s been semi hard since you bent over to tie your shoe in the parking lot. Now, three miles in, he’s fully, painfully erect, the thick outline obvious against the front of his dark cargo pants no matter how many times he adjusts himself.
You’re walking ahead of him, pointing out a bird or a flower or whatever, when you suddenly stop and turn around.
“Baby, are you—oh.”
Your eyes drop.
He freezes.
You’re staring right at the very obvious, very hard bulge in his pants. The one he’s been trying to hide by keeping his hands in his pockets for the last twenty minutes. Your gaze flicks back up to his face, then down again, then back up. Your lips part.
“Megumi…”
He feels his face burn. “It’s not—fuck, I didn’t mean—” He drags a hand through his hair, mortified. “You just… your shorts are really short. And your shirt. And I—shit. I’m sorry. I know it’s stupid. I should be able to control myself by now, I’m not a kid anymore, but you just… you breathe and I—”
You step closer.
The trail is empty. Sunlight filters through the trees and lands on your skin, on the hard little peaks of your nipples, on the way your thighs press together under those tiny shorts.
You reach out and gently cup the front of his pants with your palm.
He hisses through his teeth, hips jerking forward before he can stop himself.
“Megumi,” you say softly, eyes wide and dark. “Have you been like this… every time?”
He can’t look at you. “Sorry...”
“Even when I was cooking?”
“Maybe.”
“Movie night?”
“Kinda.”
“Shower?”
“Every single time.”
You bite your lip, and he sees the exact moment you decide to ruin him.
You squeeze gently.
“Then why didn’t you ever say anything?” Your voice drops to that sweet, dangerous tone you only use when you want him desperate. “I could’ve helped you, baby. I love helping you.”
He groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. His cock twitches hard against your hand.
“I thought it was pathetic,” he admits, voice wrecked. “Getting this hard just because you’re… you.”
You laugh softly and press a kiss under his jaw.
“It’s not pathetic.” Another kiss. “It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.” Your fingers trace the thick length of him through his pants. “You’re so in love with me you can’t even function. That’s mine.”
He shudders.
You pull back just enough to look him in the eyes, cheeks flushed, nipples still straining against your tank top.
“So what do you want to do about it, Megumi?” you whisper, thumb brushing over the head of his cock through the fabric. “Because I’m not walking another step until you stop hiding how much you want me.”
He stares at you—your tiny shorts, your hard nipples, the love in your eyes—and finally, finally stops pretending.
His voice is rough when he answers.
“I want you. Right now.”
You smile like you’ve been waiting years for him to say it.
“Good.”
And then you’re pulling him off the trail, deeper into the trees, his hand tight in yours and his cock aching for the first time with permission to want you as badly as he does.
Because Megumi Fushiguro may be grown now.
But he’s never going to stop getting hard for you.
And you’re never going to let him hide it again.
This is is optional, I just really like writing smut so I did 😭
The trees are thick enough to hide you both. Megumi’s hand is still tight in yours as you tug him off the main trail, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. His face is flushed, eyes dark, that painfully obvious bulge in his cargo pants leading the way.
You stop in a small clearing where the sunlight barely reaches, soft moss underfoot and the distant sound of birds.
You turn to him, still in those tiny shorts and the thin white tank top, nipples visibly hard against the fabric. Megumi’s gaze drops to them, then lower, and he swallows hard.
“Megumi,” you say softly, stepping close enough that your chest brushes his. “You don’t have to hide it anymore.”
He exhales shakily, hands coming up to grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “I just… fuck. I want you so much it’s embarrassing.”
“It’s not.” You slide your hand down his front again, palming the thick, aching length of him through his pants. He groans low in his throat, hips pushing forward into your touch. “ you get this hard just from me. I love it.”
He kisses you then—desperate, messy, all the pent up need from every hidden moment pouring out. His tongue slides against yours while your fingers work open his bottoms. When you finally wrap your hand around his cock, hot and heavy and leaking at the tip, he breaks the kiss with a choked sound.
“Shit—wait, I don’t have anything—”
You smile against his mouth. “I’m on the pill..”
That’s all it takes.
Megumi spins you around gently, pressing your back against a smooth tree trunk. His hands are everywhere—sliding under your tank top to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing your hard nipples until you whimper. He tugs the fabric up, exposing you to the cool air, and leans down to take one into his mouth, sucking softly. You thread your fingers through his dark hair, arching into him.
Your shorts come off next. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband and drops to his knees, kissing down your stomach as he peels them down your legs along with your panties. The sight of him on his knees, eyes hungry as he looks up at you, makes heat pool between your thighs.
He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then another higher, until his tongue finds your clit. You moan his name, legs trembling.
He’s not teasing today—he licks and sucks with single minded focus, like he’s making up for every time he suffered in silence. Two fingers slide into you easily, curling just right, and you cum with a soft cry, gripping his hair tighter.
Megumi stands up fast, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His cock is flushed dark and curving up against his stomach, precum beading at the tip. He lifts one of your legs around his hip, lining himself up.
“Look at me,” he breathes.
You do. His eyes are intense, full of love and raw want as he pushes in—slow at first, stretching you open inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt. The groan he lets out is wrecked.
“Fuck… you feel so good. Always so perfect.”
He starts moving, deep and steady, one hand braced on the tree beside your head, the other holding your thigh. Every thrust makes your back scrape lightly against the bark, but you don’t care. You cling to his shoulders, moaning into his neck as he fucks you harder, chasing the months of hidden frustration.
“Megumi—ah—harder…”
He obeys, hips snapping forward. The wet sound of skin against skin fills the quiet woods. His free hand slips between you, thumb circling your clit, and you cum again around him, clenching so tight he curses under his breath.
“I’m close,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours. “Can I—inside?”
“Yes. Please.”
A few more thrusts and he buries himself deep, groaning your name as he spills inside you, hips stuttering. He keeps rocking gently through it, like he can’t bear to stop yet.
For a long moment you just stay like that—connected, breathing each other in. Megumi kisses you softly, almost shy now that the heat has broken.
“I’m sorry I hid it for so long,” he murmurs against your lips.
You smile, running your fingers through his messy hair. “Don’t be. But from now on… you tell me every time you get hard for me. Deal?”
He huffs a quiet laugh, still inside you. “Deal.”
You stay wrapped around each other until the sun shifts and the trail calls you back. Megumi helps you back into your tiny shorts, his hands lingering. His cock is already twitching again at the sight of you—flushed, marked by him, nipples still visible through your tank top.
You notice and grin.
“Round two when we get home?”
Megumi pulls you close, pressing a kiss to your temple.
A/N, this takes place like 5 years after the ATWOW
The volcanic ridge still smoked from the last battle when the three leaders made their pact.
Varang stood like living obsidian, ash streaked across her broad shoulders. Jake Sully spoke with the weight of two worlds. Colonel Quaritch gave a curt nod. A new RDA splinter faction carved through Pandora like a sky-metal plague. No single clan could stop it.
So they would become one.
“The blood of my daughter and your son will bind us,” Varang declared. She gestured to you—her eldest, silent and straight backed. Ash markings streaked your arms, fire opal beads at your throat. You had not spoken. Duty was duty.
Neteyam stood at Jake’s right, tall and steady. His golden eyes met yours. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, nor did you want to.
The ceremony was brief. Vows spoken.
The night air carried sulfur. Inside, a small fire pit glowed—your one request.
The marui felt smaller than it should have, the air thick with the scent of sulfur from your small fire pit and the faint green sweetness of forest moss.
A single low burning flame cast long shadows across the woven walls. Outside, the village had gone quiet—elders and warriors from both clans keeping respectful distance, as if their silence could bless what was about to happen.
Neteyam stood on the far side of the sleeping mats. His hands moved with deliberate calm as he loosened the ties of his loincloth, letting the fabric fall away. He was already half hard from nerves and thought of having sex for the first time – even if it’s not how he imagined –, his cock heavy between his thighs. He did not look at you with desire. He simply breathed once, steadying himself, then stepped closer.
You removed your own coverings without flourish—beaded top first, then the woven skirt—folding each piece neatly beside the mat the way you had been taught to treat important things.
The cool night air brushed your bare skin. You lay back on the thick layered blankets, knees parting just enough, arms resting at your sides. Your tail lay still. Your eyes fixed on the dark weave of the roof above.
Neteyam knelt between your spread thighs. For a moment he simply looked at your body like a warrior checking his weapon before battle. He reached for the small jar of oil the healers had left, coating his fingers efficiently.
He pressed one slick finger inside you, then two, working them in and out with careful, measured strokes. The stretch was already uncomfortable. Your jaw tightened. You stared harder at the roof and breathed through your nose.
When he deemed it enough, he wiped his hand on a cloth and positioned himself. The broad head of his cock nudged against your entrance. He paused only long enough to murmur, voice low and professional, “I will go slowly.”
You gave one small nod.
He pushed forward.
The burn was immediate and sharp. Your body resisted the thick length forcing its way in, the stretch bordering on too much. A faint tremor ran through your thighs. You clenched your jaw harder, teeth grinding, refusing to let even a single sound escape. Neteyam’s breath hitched once—tight control—but he kept moving, sinking deeper inch by inch until his hips met yours and he was fully seated.
For a few seconds he stayed still, letting you adjust. His arms braced on either side of your head, muscles tense. Then he began to move.
It was mechanical. Steady. Nothing more. His cock slid out almost to the tip, then pushed back in with the same even rhythm—again, and again, and again. The wet sound of skin meeting skin filled the quiet marui. There were no kisses, no whispered words, no hands exploring your body. His hips worked with purpose, focused only on finishing what duty required. Your own body felt nothing but the continuous burn of being opened and the faint ache building deeper inside.
“Breathe,” he said once, voice rough but still controlled, when he noticed your chest had gone tight.
You obeyed. In. Out. Eyes never leaving the roof then they flicked to his just to noticed that his eyes are tightly shut, like your body is the most disgusting thing.
His pace quickened slightly near the end—short, practical thrusts. His breathing grew heavier, more strained. Then, with a quiet, restrained exhale, he pushed deep one final time and came. You felt the warm pulse of his release inside you, the subtle twitch of his cock as he emptied himself.
He stayed buried for only a few seconds before carefully pulling out. The sudden emptiness made you clench involuntarily around nothing. A small trickle of his seed mixed with the oil leaked onto the mat beneath you. Neteyam reached for a clean cloth, wiping you gently but efficiently between the legs, then cleaning himself.
When he was done, he lay down on the far side of the wide sleeping mat, back turned to you. The space between your bodies felt wider than the forest itself. Your tails did not brush. His breathing slowly evened out. Yours did too.
Neither of you spoke.
You stared at the roof a while longer, the burn between your legs slowly fading into a dull throb, then rolled onto your side facing away from him. Back to back. The fire pit crackled once and settled. Outside, a night insect chirred. Inside, only silence.
Duty was done.
Weeks became months. The alliance held by threads. You lived in the shared marui near the forest’s edge—stone lined fire pit on your side, forest weaves on his. You spoke little. You left the marui only when necessary.
Every night the same ritual: you cooked for him—roasted hexapede with ash seasoned herbs you gathered in secret. You cleaned the marui, mended his weapons, kept the fire steady. Then, when the village slept, he would come to you. He would position you on your back, enter you with the same careful but distant rhythm—his cock pushing in, pulling out, hips working until he finished with a quiet exhale. You lay still, enduring the stretch, feeling nothing but the ache of duty. He would roll away immediately. You slept back to back, tails not even brushing, not a single touch from either of you.
At first it was obvious: you did not enjoy each other’s presence. He returned from patrols tired and tense; you stayed silent, eyes on your tasks. He tried, in small ways, to help you fit in—showing you which forest herbs soothed the stomach after your fire meals, inviting you to watch young hunters train from the marui entrance. You rarely went. The Omatikaya whispers followed you anyway.
“She is barren,” they muttered when you passed. “Varang’s daughter cannot even give the Sully line an heir. Useless ash blood.” Neytiri’s gaze lingered longest, disappointed. Jake tried to quiet them, but the resentment grew.
Your own Ash people were changing too. Warriors arrived in small groups, merging with Omatikaya and Metkayina outposts. Joint patrols, shared fires, volcanic glass traded for woven nets. Varang sent word: “The clans become one fire. Do not fail us.” You nodded to the messenger and kept cooking.
Neteyam never complained. He would sit by the fire after long days and say quietly, “The stew is good tonight.” Or he would leave a smooth river stone beside your sleeping mat—something warm from the day’s sun. You accepted it without comment. But slowly, the days stacked.
One evening he returned with a shallow cut on his arm from a skirmish. You cleaned it without being asked, your fingers steady on his skin. He watched you. “You do not have to stay inside every day,” he said softly. “The village is safer with you in it.” You met his eyes for a moment, then looked away. “It is better here.”
Another night, a storm howled. You rose to secure the marui flaps against the wind. Neteyam helped without a word. When lightning flashed, he saw the faint tremor in your hands—memories of your volcanic home. He did not reach for you, but he said, “The fire you keep lit keeps the rain from feeling so cold.” It was the first time you felt something close to not dislike.
Weeks later, an Ash scout arrived with news of a merged training ground. You went once, at Neteyam’s quiet request, and demonstrated a fire enhanced trap.
The Omatikaya warriors watched warily, but one young hunter thanked you when it worked. You returned home and cooked in silence, but that night, when the mechanical mating ended, Neteyam lingered a second longer before rolling away.
He came to you after the meal, it’s not out of the normal for him to come to you for sex every week, you really needed to give him a child, but you couldn’t.
So he tired and tried and tried. And he won’t stop, not until his duty is done.
You lay back, legs parted. He prepared you with the same clinical efficiency, then entered you in that familiar rhythm of his cock sliding in and out in steady, purposeful strokes.
You endured the stretch in silence, jaw tight, eyes on the roof once more.
This time, as his hips moved, something in his breathing changed. His thrusts grew slightly deeper, a little less controlled. His cock pushed in and out with the same steady motion, but his body tensed more with each stroke.
Then, without warning, a deep, broken moan tore from his throat as his hips jerked forward. He stopped for a moment, buried to the hilt, cock pulsing hard inside you. The sound vibrated against your shoulder where his face had dropped. He deepened himself even further with a slow push, as if chasing the last of the sensation. Then he started moving again with shallow, trembling rolls of his hips, dragging it out.
But suddenly he stopped in his tracks.
His whole body went rigid. A harsh breath left him. He pulled out quickly — almost too quickly — his still hard cock slipping free with a wet sound. A thick trail of his release followed, leaking down your thigh.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice strained and rough with lingering pleasure and sudden regret. He hovered above you, golden eyes wide, one hand braced beside your head. “I didn’t mean to… lose control like that. I should have pulled out sooner. I’m sorry.”
You lay there, chest still rising and falling, the stretch and sudden emptiness lingering between your legs. For a long moment neither of you moved. Then Neteyam slowly lowered himself to his side of the mat and turned his back to you.
You rolled away as always. Back to back. Yet the space between you felt fractionally smaller that night, the silence a little less heavy.
Small interactions piled like kindling.
He taught you the names of forest fruits that grew near the marui. You showed him how to sharpen blades with volcanic grit so they never dulled. He defended you once when an elder called you “barren weight.” His voice stayed calm: “She keeps this home. She keeps me fed. That is not nothing.” You heard it from inside the marui and felt a strange warmth in your chest.
You began leaving the marui more—short walks to gather herbs, standing at the edge of training fields. The clan’s whispers quieted when you quietly warned a patrol of an RDA drone using an Ash smoke signal you taught them. One mother whose child you had quietly mended after a fall brought you woven fabric for the marui. “You are trying,” she said. Acceptance crept in, slow as dawn.
You grew more comfortable. The forest no longer felt like enemy territory. You smiled—small, barely there—when Neteyam returned and the stew was ready exactly as he liked it. He noticed. His shoulders eased around you.
Months turned. The sex nights continued—awkward, distant, bodies performing duty. But the days changed them.
One afternoon he returned early from patrol and found you humming—an old Ash fire song—while stirring the pot. He paused in the doorway, watching. When you turned, he said, “That song… it sounds like home for you.” You nodded once. He sat and listened until it ended. For the first time, you did not mind his presence.
Another day, a joint Ash-Omatikaya hunt brought back more meat than expected. You helped prepare it for the village feast outside your marui. Neteyam stood beside you, shoulder brushing yours as you worked. No words. But when the clan ate and someone praised the seasoning you had added, his tail flicked once against yours—accidental, yet neither pulled away.
The resentment from the clan had faded. They saw you now: the quiet woman who protected their patrols, who fed their future Olo’eyktan, who merged her fire with their forest without complaint. Neytiri even nodded to you once in passing.
One night, after a long successful raid against the RDA, something shifted.
Neteyam returned with ash on his skin from the battlefield. You had waited with food and clean cloths. He let you wipe the ash away, your hands moving slower than usual. His breath caught when your fingers brushed his queue.
“May I kiss you?” he asked, voice rough.
You met his eyes. For the first time, you answered with more than duty. You leaned in.
The kiss was hesitant, then deep. His hands—usually so careful and distant—traced your body with wonder: palms sliding over your breasts, thumbs circling sensitive peaks until you gasped.
“This is okay?” He whispered against your lips.
You couldn’t give anything but a small nod as you feel yourself for the first time getting wet.
He laid you down gently on the mats, kissing down your neck, your collarbone, the sensitive skin along your queue.
He lingered there, lips brushing the glowing spots where your queue met your scalp, sending sparks down your spine.
His breath was warm against your skin as he moved lower, pressing open mouthed kisses along the curve of your shoulder, then down to the soft swell of your breast.
He took one nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling slowly, sucking gently until your back arched and a soft sound left your throat. His hand cupped the other breast, kneading with careful reverence, thumb stroking in time with his tongue.
He continued downward, kissing over the slight curve of your belly, then lower still. His large hands gently parted your thighs, palms smoothing along the sensitive inner skin.
He looked up at you once, golden eyes dark with something new and deep, silently asking permission.
When you didn’t pull away, he leaned in and pressed a slow, reverent kiss right at your core. His tongue followed—warm, tentative at first, then more confident as he tasted you, licking long stripes before focusing on the sensitive bundle of nerves that made your hips twitch.
One of his fingers circled your entrance, then slid inside, curling gently while his mouth continued its slow worship. He added a second finger, stretching you carefully, scissoring them in a steady rhythm that built a warm, aching pressure low in your belly.
Your hands found his braids, fingers tightening as quiet moans slipped from you. He hummed against your skin, the vibration sending fresh waves of pleasure through you. He kept going until your thighs trembled around his shoulders and your breathing turned ragged—only then did he pull back, lips glistening, eyes locked on yours with quiet awe.
He moved up your body again, kissing every inch he had touched, until his face hovered above yours. His cock rested heavy and hot against your inner thigh, twitching with need. Only then did he position himself at your entrance.
When he finally pushed inside, it was slow, eyes locked on yours the entire time. No awkward rhythm. Just the warm, full stretch of him and the way his hips rolled with quiet purpose.
You moaned—quiet, breathless, but real. He answered with a low sound of his own, the first time you had ever heard him like that, and the first time he has ever heard you like that.
He touched you where you needed—fingers finding the spot that made your thighs tremble, whispering, “Let me feel you.” Your tail curled tight under you.
You moved together, bodies learning a new language. Pleasure built slowly, steadily, until it crested.
When you came, it was with a shuddering cry you had never allowed before—your walls tightening around him, fingers digging into his shoulders.
Neteyam followed moments later..
A deep, broken moan tore from his throat as his hips jerked forward. He kept his eyes locked on yours the whole time, golden gaze burning into you even as his body shuddered. He didn’t stop. Instead he leaned down and kissed you hard, tongue sliding against yours while he stayed buried deep, pulsing inside you. The kiss turned slower, deeper, as the aftershocks rolled through both of you. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing the same air, eyes never leaving yours.
“I don’t want to stop,” he whispered against your lips.
You answered by pulling him back into another kiss.
The night stretched on.
He stayed inside you through the first afterglow, rocking slowly until he hardened again. Then he gently pulled out, sat back against the woven wall of the marui, and guided your head down with a reverent hand in your braids. “Please,” he breathed.
You took him into your mouth for the first time—tentative at first, then growing bolder as his low groans filled the space. He kept eye contact the entire time, one hand cupping your cheek while the other stroked your queue. When he felt close he pulled back just enough to jerk himself with quick strokes, spilling thick ropes across your tongue with a choked moan, watching you swallow every drop while he kissed you immediately after, tasting himself on your lips.
He laid you down again and slid between your thighs, cock gliding along the slick seam of your sex without entering, fucking the soft press of your thighs while he kissed you breathless. His hands held your hips steady, eyes locked, until he came again, painting your stomach and breasts with warm stripes.
Later he had you on your hands and knees, his hands gripping your hips as he took you from behind. You pushed back against him, moaning into the mats while he leaned over you, one arm wrapped around your waist, lips on your shoulder, whispering your name.
He came deep inside you that time, hips stuttering, but still didn’t stop—simply flipped you onto your back, hooked your legs over his shoulders, and kept going.
He held you completely in the last rounds—lifting you into his lap, arms wrapped around your back, your legs locked around his waist as he thrust up into you. Your bodies pressed flush together, skin slick with sweat and release, mouths never leaving each other. Eye contact was constant now—every thrust, every roll of his hips, every shared moan passed between your locked gazes. He kissed you through your third orgasm, swallowing your cries, then followed with a long, shuddering groan of his own, spilling inside you once more.
The small fire in the pit had burned low hours ago. Pale dawn light filtered through the marui flaps by the time you both finally collapsed, bodies tangled and exhausted.
Neteyam stayed inside you for the last slow, lazy rocks, forehead pressed to yours, eyes half lidded but still holding yours.
His hands stroked your back, your queue, every inch he could reach while soft kisses pressed to your lips, your cheeks, the tip of your nose.
He finally slipped free and pulled you against his chest, arms wrapped around you like he never planned to let go. Your tails twined together. His heartbeat thumped steady under your ear.
“I never knew it could feel like this,” he murmured into your hair, voice hoarse from the long night.
You didn’t speak. You simply pressed a slow kiss to the center of his chest and let yourself stay there, warm and held, the first true light of morning painting the marui walls around the two of you.
Weeks later, the sickness came in the mornings.
The healers confirmed it. You were finally pregnant.
Neteyam’s hand rested on your belly that night, forehead pressed to yours. The clan celebrated—Ash fire drums mixing with Omatikaya songs. But inside the marui, it was just the two of you.
“You gave us this,” he whispered. “Are you ready to be a mother.” He whispers as he kisses his creation in your belly.
You threaded your fingers through his braids and spoke the most words you had ever given him:
“And you taught me the forest could hold fire without burning it away.”
The alliance was no longer fragile. The clans had merged—fire and forest, ash and leaf—stronger than before.
And in the marui that finally felt like home, two once distant mates held each other, the child between them proof that slow, quiet love could grow even from the hardest stone.
A little rocky at first but it got better … hopefully!
Neteyam meets a little boy who reminds him of himself
Pt 2 of neteyam’s mate is the other woman but can be read as a standalone<3
The morning after the grove he wakes before dawn, the memory of your body still warm on his skin, and finds you waiting with a face softer than he has seen in years.
You know the war party leaves at first light. You do not tell him the secret growing inside you. Instead you stand tall in front of the gathering warriors, presses your forehead to his, and murmurs the expected words of a good mate. Then you slip away.
Later that same morning you find Kiri by the river. You press a single shimmering blue feather into the girl’s palm—one you had taken from your things long ago.
“Give this to him when he returns,” you say. “Only when he returns.”
Kiri’s eyes sharpen, but she closes her fingers around it.
The war stretches long. Months bleed into one another under smoke and blood and distant gunfire from the sky people.
Neteyam leads from the front the way he always has, shoulders straight, voice steady. But at night, when the fires burn low and the other warriors sleep, his mind walks back to the grove.
To the way you had whispered I love you into his shoulder. To the slow, aching rhythm of your bodies joined against the tree. To the tears he had let fall only because you held them.
He makes his decision somewhere between one battle and the next. When he returns he will end it. The political knot, the cold bed, the constant weight of pretending of loving another women and he will choose you. Openly. Finally.
He comes home victorious but the village feels wrong the moment his feet touch the ground. People look away too quickly. His mate stands among them with a new roundness to her belly she still has not named, her smile thin and satisfied. You are nowhere.
He searches. Quietly at first, then with something close to panic tightening behind his ribs. No one has answers. You had simply faded weeks after he left, slipping out of the clan like smoke.
That night Kiri finds him sitting alone at the edge of the old grove, the place already starting to feel like a grave. She presses the blue feather into his hand without a word.
Neteyam stares at it until his vision blurs. He understands. You had left him something to carry after you were gone.
He does not scream. He does not rage. He simply folds forward and cries like the man who never complains finally breaking in the only place that ever let him.
Three years pass in silence.
He leads. He smiles when the clan needs him to. He returns to his mate’s bed because duty demands it, and children come—three of them—into a house that feels like winter.
His mate grows to hate the hollow version of him that came back from the war. He grows to hate her right back even more, every cruel word she ever spoke echoing louder now that you are not there to soften the edges.
The children learn to walk between sharp silences.
Then, ten years after you disappeared, the truth claws its way out. A lover his mate had kept for years lets the secret spill in drink: none of the children are his. She had been unfaithful since before he ever left for that war party, using the pregnancies like chains.
Neteyam stands in the center of their home that night and feels something inside him finally snap clean in two. He does not shout. He simply gathers the few things that still feel like his and walks away from the clan at sunrise.
The people give him quiet goodbyes. Jake watches his eldest son leave with haunted eyes. Neytiri touches her forehead to his one last time and says nothing. He goes.
For one full year he is alone on Pandora.
He travels light. Hunts when he is hungry. Sleeps under skies that do not know his name. The blue feather stays behind his ear, faded but never removed, a small constant ache that keeps him breathing.
In a quiet river valley far from any known clan he first felt the eyes on him.
It was late afternoon, light turning everything gold and soft. Neteyam was crouched at the water’s edge sharpening a blade when the feeling prickled across his skin—not hostile, just watchful.
He lifted his head slowly. A boy stood half hidden among the ferns on the far bank. Nine, maybe ten years old. Small, with wide golden eyes and skin bare of any clan markings.
His tail twitched once, uncertain. Neteyam offered the faintest nod. The boy stared another second, then turned and bolted into the trees without a sound.
Neteyam did not chase him. He simply sat back on his heels and let the river keep talking.
Three days passed before the boy returned. This time Neteyam was fishing with a simple spear. He felt the gaze again and kept his movements slow and deliberate. He caught a fat fish, prepared half of it on a broad leaf, and left the offering a little farther down the bank before walking away. The next morning the leaf was empty. Only small footprints remained in the mud.
They fell into a careful schedule after that. Neteyam came to the river at the same time each afternoon. The boy appeared at the edge of sight, never closer than twenty paces at first.
Neteyam spoke more to the water than to the child—soft, low words about currents, about how the fish told stories with the flick of their tails.
He demonstrated how to read ripples. How to breathe with the bow so the arrow remembered your heartbeat instead of fighting it. He never demanded the boy come closer. He simply left space.
One evening, after the boy had lingered longer than usual, Neteyam sat on a sun warmed rock and began fletching arrows. His hands were steady, braids falling forward as he worked. The boy edged closer, crouching a few feet away, eyes fixed on the feathers. Neteyam held out a half finished shaft without looking up. “Try.”
The boy hesitated, then took it. His small fingers were clumsy. Neteyam corrected the grip once, gently, and said nothing when the boy flinched at the contact. They sat like that until the light faded—two quiet figures, one teaching without demanding, the other learning without trusting yet.
Weeks slipped by this way. The boy still spoke almost nothing, but he stayed longer each day. He began imitating Neteyam’s stance. He learned to watch the water the way Neteyam did.
One quiet dusk, after the boy had successfully speared his first fish, Neteyam offered something new. He mixed pigment from crushed berries and ash, then dipped a finger. “A mark,” he said softly. “For a hunter. If you want it.”
The boy watched, wary, but nodded once. Neteyam drew a simple warrior’s swirl on the boy’s shoulder—careful, respectful, the way he once did for younger warriors back home. The boy touched it afterward with something like wonder in his eyes.
The next afternoon the mark was gone, scrubbed clean. Neteyam crouched a respectful distance away, tail still, voice low. “You can speak up if you don’t like something I do, boy.”
Silence stretched, thick as moss. The river murmured between them. Then, in a voice rusty from disuse: “…My mom didn’t like it.”
Neteyam’s ears flicked forward. His heart did something complicated in his chest. “You have a mother?”
The boy nodded but offered nothing more. Neteyam did not push. He simply picked up another arrow and began fletching again, letting the quiet settle like it always did between them.
The boy didn’t come back for a while after that.
A few days later the boy tugs at his hand. “Mom is cooking. Come.”
They walk through glowing forest until the trees open on a small home grown into the roots of an ancient tree. Blue flowers climb every wall like they are trying to remember the old grove. Jars of captured fireflies drift softly along the eaves. It feels like someone built a sanctuary out of memory.
The boy lifts the woven flap. “Ma.”
You turn from the cooking fire with a clay plate in your hands.
The plate slips. It shatters against the floor with a sound like breaking years.
All you can manage is a cracked, trembling whisper.
“Neteyam.”
“ yes, mother?”
Your son beams between you, proud and oblivious to the way the air has gone still. “This is the friend I was telling you about. Can he join us for dinner?”
Your hands shake—nerves, old grief, love that never learned how to die.
You catch your breath for a moment then grabbed another plate.
You set another plate down carefully and whispered shakenly, “Only if he wants.”
Neteyam’s voice is rough as river stone. “I’d like that.”
Dinner is soft and strange and beautiful. Little Neteyam—because you named him after the man you never stopped caring for—chatters more than he has in his whole life. He shows off every lesson the tall warrior taught him, eyes bright. The blue feather behind Neteyam’s ear catches the firelight and you notice it the way you would notice your own heartbeat. Your breath catches every time.
After the boy falls asleep curled against his favorite woven blanket, you stand in the doorway and offer quietly, “You can stay the night… if you want. There is space.”
He doesn’t say much but he doesn’t leave either.
You do not talk about everything that first night. The wound is still too wide, the years too heavy. Instead you sit outside beneath the stars with your shoulders barely brushing, the way you used to in the grove. He tells you pieces of the war, the cold marriage, the final betrayal. You tell him how you realized you were carrying his child only weeks after he left, how terror had made you run before his mate could turn her cruelty on the baby growing inside you. How you have moved quietly ever since, raising Neteyam alone, always tucking a blue feather behind the boy’s ear so a part of his father would walk with him through every day.
Neteyam cries again that night, silent tears slipping down his face the way they only ever did with you. This time you pull him close the same way you did years ago, arms around his shoulders, forehead to his, letting him breathe against your skin until the shaking eases.
Outside, the forest hums softly. Fireflies drift between you like small, patient stars. The blue feather rests between you on the woven mat, a fragile bridge across ten lost years.
Neither of you knows what tomorrow will look like. But for tonight there is this: the quiet, the boy sleeping safely inside, and the man who never complains finally allowed to rest his head against the only home he ever truly had.
The next morning arrived slow and golden. You woke early, nerves fluttering in your chest like trapped insects, and found Neteyam already outside helping Nete gather ripe fruit from the low branches near the home.
The boy was chattering more freely now, pointing out which fruits were sweetest, and Neteyam listened with the same patient attention he had once given you in the grove.
When you stepped into the clearing they both looked up. Nete grinned wide. Neteyam’s expression was gentler, almost shy, his tail flicking once in uncertainty.
“I will make breakfast, soon,” you said, voice steadier than you felt. You turned back inside before either could see the way your hands trembled while you arranged the plates.
They ate together at the low table. Conversation stayed surface level—Nete asking Neteyam to show him the proper way to string a small practice bow again, you offering more flatbread when the silence stretched too thin.
Neteyam thanked you quietly for every small thing, eyes meeting yours only in brief, careful glances. No one mentioned the past. The weight of ten years sat between every word like an uninvited guest.
That afternoon Neteyam offered to repair a section of the woven wall where rain had weakened it. You watched from the doorway as he worked under the filtered light, muscles moving with the same quiet strength you remembered.
Nete hovered close, handing him strips of fiber and asking endless questions. Every so often Neteyam would glance toward you, as if checking whether he was still welcome. You gave small nods, heart aching at how cautious this once bold warrior had become.
Days blurred into a careful pattern. Mornings brought shared meals and small chores. Afternoons were for the river—Neteyam teaching Nete more advanced tracking while you gathered herbs nearby, close enough to hear their voices but far enough to give them space. Evenings were the hardest. After Nete fell asleep you and Neteyam would sit outside again, the distance between your shoulders shrinking by tiny degrees each night. One evening he asked about your life on the move, about how you had kept the boy safe, what dangers you had faced. You answered honestly, voice soft, and for the first time in years you saw something like pride flicker in his eyes when you spoke of raising his son alone.
Touch returned slowly. A brush of fingers when passing a tool. His hand steadying your elbow when you stepped over a root on a walk. One night, when a distant storm made the forest loud, he sat closer than usual and let his knee rest against yours. Neither of you pulled away. The contact felt like coming up for air after drowning.
Weeks passed. Awkwardness softened into something warmer, more familiar. Nete began calling him “the tall hunter” with open affection, and Neteyam’s rare smiles reached his eyes more often. You found yourself laughing again at small things—Nete’s dramatic reenactments of fishing lessons, Neteyam’s quiet dry humor that had always been just for you. At night the conversations grew deeper. He admitted how the blue feather had kept him breathing through the loneliest stretches of his wandering. You confessed how many nights you had whispered his name to the stars, wondering if he was still alive.
One quiet dusk, after Nete had run ahead to chase glowing insects, Neteyam stopped on the path and turned to you fully. The setting sun painted gold across his face, highlighting the new lines of age and hardship. “I thought I had lost you forever,” he said, voice low and rough. “Every day I carried that. I still don’t know how to put it down.”
You stepped closer, heart hammering, and rested your forehead against his the way you had in the grove so long ago. “Then don’t put it down alone,” you whispered. “Not anymore.”
His arms came around you slowly, carefully, as if afraid you might vanish again. You felt the tremble in his shoulders, the way he exhaled like he had been holding that breath for a decade. When he kissed you it was gentle at first—tentative, tasting of time and regret and rediscovered sweetness—then deeper, slower, full of all the words neither of you had found yet.
Nete found you like that moments later and only laughed, running over to wrap his small arms around both of you. The three of you stood tangled in the glowing forest, a family pieced back together from fragments and blue feathers and quiet, stubborn love.
Neteyam still did not complain. But now, for the first time in years, he had something worth carrying that did not hurt. And in the home wrapped in blue flowers and firefly light, the grove you had both lost finally felt like it had followed you home.
the days with you and your son slowly stitch themselves into something warmer, something careful and tentative and real.
They had grown closer in small, stolen ways. A lingering touch when passing a basket. A shared laugh over Nete’s dramatic fishing stories. But you did not kiss often—never in front of the boy. Neteyam still slept outside the hut every night, curled on a woven mat beneath the stars, as if the years apart had taught him that some distances were safer kept until everyone was ready. You always asked him to come inside, but he seemed be didn’t want to push to much.
One bright morning Nete woke with new determination in his small chest. “I’m old enough to fish on my own today,” he announced, puffing up like a tiny warrior.
Neteyam crouched to his level, smiling softly, and put him to the test—checking his spear grip, reminding him to watch the current, sending him off with a proud nod.
You watched from the woven table just outside the hut, slicing sweet fruit with a sharp stone knife, the juice running down your fingers. Neteyam stood at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, until the boy disappeared into the glowing ferns. Then he turned.
His eyes found you.
He walked over slowly, that gentle smile still playing on his lips, and lowered himself to sit on the low stool beside your table. The morning light caught every detail of him—how broad and strong he had grown, the new scars crossing his chest like pale lightning, the long braids that fell heavy down his back, threaded with beads and that same faded blue feather. You stared. Your knife slipped.
A sharp sting bloomed across your finger. You hissed, setting the blade down quickly.
Neteyam was on his feet in an instant. “Are you okay?” Worry flashed raw across his face as he jogged the few steps to you. He took your hand gently in both of his, large and warm, turning it to inspect the cut. Before you could protest he tore a clean strip from a spare cloth and wrapped it carefully around your finger.
“It’s not even bleeding badly,” you said, cheeks warm. “I’ll be fine.”
He looked up at you, golden eyes soft with concern and something deeper. “You need to be more careful. Do you know how to cut fruit?” The tease was light, familiar, the kind of gentle ribbing he used to give you in the old grove.
You laughed despite the sting. “I don’t know… maybe you would have to teach me.”
Neteyam’s laugh was low and warm. He stepped behind you, bending so his chest pressed lightly to your back. His hands slid around your waist, then guided yours, his large palms covering your smaller ones, fingers directing the knife with slow, deliberate care over the ripe fruit.
You could feel all of him. The heat of his body. The solid wall of muscle. The growing hardness of his cock pressing against your ass through his loincloth as he leaned in closer to demonstrate the proper angle.
Your breath caught. Focus scattered. The knife moved under his guidance, but all you registered was the slow roll of his hips, the thick length of him rubbing against you with each small correction. He felt it too as his breathing deepened against your ear.
The knife clattered softly onto the table as he moved it aside. His hands stayed on yours, then slid to your hips, pulling you back firmer against him. He rocked slowly, deliberately, grinding his cock along the seam of your loincloth right over your pussy. The fabric between you did nothing to hide how hard he was, how hot.
“Arch for me,” he murmured against your back, voice rough.
You did, pressing your ass back, letting the table take your weight. It rocked under you with every roll of his hips. Soft whimpers slipped from your throat. His breaths came in heavy pants against your skin as he rutted harder, thicker ridge of his cock dragging perfectly over your swollen clit through the cloth.
“Mh—gonna cum—” you whined, thighs trembling.
“LOOK WHAT I GOT!”
Nete’s proud shout cracked through the clearing like thunder. You and Neteyam jumped apart faster than thought. He spun toward the wall of the hut, adjusting himself frantically. You dropped to your knees, pretending to gather fallen fruit pieces while frantically smoothing your hair and fixing your top.
“That’s amazing,” Neteyam called, voice strained but warm, still facing the wall. “We’re going to eat for months.”
Nete tilted his head. “Why are you facing the wall, Neteyam?”
“Because I need to fix the wall,” he answered with a nervous little giggle.
You stood quickly, brushing dirt from your knees. “Nete, go take a quick shower in the river. When you come back, food will be ready.” The boy shrugged happily and ran off. The moment he vanished, you and Neteyam exhaled shaky laughs, eyes meeting in relieved, heated silence.
That night, for the first time, Neteyam slept inside.
He eased down behind you on the woven mats, curling carefully around your back. One arm slid around your waist. With the other he reached over and gently pulled Nete closer against your front. The boy snuggled happily into the curve of your neck. You reached back, threading your fingers through Neteyam’s, and pressed your back firmer to his chest. His heartbeat thumped steady and strong against you. Sleep came easy, wrapped in the warmth of your small family.
The next morning Neteyam and Nete prepared for a day trip. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Neteyam asked you softly.
“Yes. I’ve survived this long,” you answered with a smile.
“Mooommm, just come with us,” Nete pleaded.
Neteyam nodded, giving you the same pout your son had clearly inherited. “We’re gonna eat really good meat.”
You looked between them. Before you could answer, Neteyam grinned. “I’ve already packed your bags.” In one smooth motion he scooped you up over his shoulder, laughing as Nete burst into giggles and chased after you both. Your protests melted into laughter as the three of you set off together.
Hours of walking later you reached a familiar cave tucked into the cliffs. “Neteyam…” you breathed, recognizing it instantly—the place you had once shared in secret. In the center stood his ikran, massive and proud. Nete ran forward excitedly. The ikran shrieked once, then calmed as she caught the boy’s scent, lowering her head to nuzzle him gently. Neteyam smiled, stepping forward to make tsaheylu and letting Nete feel the bond. You walked over too.
Later that day Neteyam helped your son claim his own ikran—a fierce young creature that took to the boy immediately—and you bonded with a new one after yours had passed years ago. The sky felt wider with wings beneath you again.
That night they stayed with the Sarentu. The clan offered warm food, soft resting mats, and fresh clothes. Nete made friends instantly, laughing and running with a group of children his age. You stood watching them when Neteyam came up behind you.
“He’s a good kid,” he said quietly, sitting and pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder.
“Well, he’s your kid. I can tell who he gets it from.” You smiled, turning to look at him.
His ears twitched. His eyes danced over your face with open longing. Then he leaned in and kissed you—slow at first, then hot and messy, tongues sliding, breaths mingling. Soon you were in his lap, grinding down as his hands roamed your back.
“Wait—Neteyam will be back soon,” you gasped between kisses.
Neteyam kissed down your neck, sucking lightly. “He asked if he could stay at his friend’s house tonight,” he murmured, gripping your hips and rocking you firmly over the hard ridge of his cock. “Just us, yawne.”
He laid you back on the soft mats, peeling your loincloth away with reverent hands. His own followed. Naked, he settled between your thighs, kissing every inch of you—breasts, stomach, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs—until you were trembling. When he finally pushed inside, thick and slow, stretching you open, you both moaned long and low. He moved deep and loving, hips rolling in that same torturous rhythm from the grove years ago, grinding against your clit with every thrust.
“You feel like home,” he whispered against your mouth, eyes locked on yours. “So tight… so wet for me… I love you. I never stopped.” His pace stayed steady but intense, cock dragging perfectly inside you, one hand laced with yours, the other cradling your face. When you came clenching around him he followed right after, spilling hot and deep with a broken groan of your name, holding you like he would never let go again.
Months later you were very pregnant—belly round and heavy, ankles swollen, moods swinging between ravenous hunger and sharp irritation. One afternoon you finally broke the news while Neteyam was weaving a new basket nearby.
“I’m pregnant,” you said, hands on your bump.
Neteyam looked up, eyes soft and knowing. “It’s about time.”
You blinked. “Huh?”
“It’s very obvious, yawne.” He set the basket aside and stood, smiling.
“What does that mean?” you asked, crossing your arms.
“This attitude.” He laughed warmly, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close for a slow kiss. You broke it with a playful shove, but he only grinned and kissed your chest instead, gently biting the swell of your breast until you laughed and pushed him away.
Later that night Neteyam took Nete on a hike to see the glowing fish, far past the boy’s usual bedtime. You watched them go hand in hand.
At the river’s edge Nete pointed excitedly. “Come look at this!” The fish swirled in brilliant patterns beneath the surface, lighting the water like living stars. They skipped stones, chased fireflies, and laughed until their sides hurt.
Eventually Neteyam sat beside his son. “Hey… can we talk?”
Nete kicked his feet in the water. “I know she’s pregnant.”
Neteyam chuckled. “It’s obvious, right!.”
“She yelled at me because I didn’t want to cuddle,” Nete pouted.
Neteyam tickled his side gently. “You’re growing up and you don’t want your mother’s physical touch?” The boy dissolved into giggles. Neteyam sobered, pulling him closer. “You know we will all consider you as ours, even if we need to attend to another first.”
Nete leaned against him. “I know… Dad.”
Neteyam froze, heart full. Nete blushed, looking away shyly. “I can call you that, right?”
“More than okay,” Neteyam whispered, voice thick. He brushed hair from his son’s face. “I actually wanted to talk to you about that.”
Nete smiled knowingly. “That you’re my real father?” He chuckled. “Yeah… that was kinda obvious too.” He leaned back on his hands, watching the fish. “Mom gave me stories about a ‘mighty warrior’ who was my dad. He loved the color blue a lot. And I had this matching feather. When I saw yours by the lake… I had a feeling.”
Neteyam laughed softly, amazed. “Wow… you really are something.”
“I’m glad I met you,” Nete continued quietly. “Mom was very sad for a few years when I was younger. She looks more pretty and happy now. That’s all because of you, Dad.”
Neteyam pulled his son into a tight hug, tickling him again until laughter echoed across the glowing water. The blue feather in both their hair caught the light—two generations finally home.
turnnoffyourmind
origamiaround
pixelskylines
stormborns
gummygunk
titsay
areudirty
