Collecting Imagines

Conquest rolls back so that he was on top now. Thick hands sliding up you triceps past your forearms to your wrists. As soon as he grabbed them he pushed his lagre knee between your thighs, breaking your hold around his waist.

You bit your tongue in thought, raising your knee to your chin, planting your foot on his sternum pushing hard and sending him back.

He pulled you with him, deep chuckle getting knocked from him as his back hit the floor again. You grinned, swinging your body to the side, rolling on the floor with him.

Soon both of you left the ground, he ascended into the air, the two of you approached the ceiling fast. You squeezed your wrists from his grasp, using his thick arm to swing around to his back. You float behind him, lifting your fists above your head before bringing them back down to collide with his shoulder. Sending him plummeting down.

Before you can feel good proud you feel him grip your ankle. Dragging you down with him.

"Quick thinking girly." He smiles before holding you out in front of him, surging to the floor below. "Just not quick enough, huh?" He tisked gently.

You dug your fingers into the coiled muscles of his forearms, using all the strength you had to throw him back.

Both of you crashing into the ground with a loud rumble. The wind was knocked from both of you landing on your backs.

This didn't feel threatening....this was fun. A twisted dance of violence and tantalizing pain. The two of you could be heard exchanging breathy laughs as you threw punches and kicks and to be honest, you felt like Conquest was merely playing around.

Once you were back on your feet every punch you threw was caught by him. One skimmed his chin, throwing his head back slightly.

Conquest grabbed his jaw, smiling darkly. "You're kinda good at this."

"I try." You reply smugly.

Throwing a sharp elbow to his brow, you took a second to breathe as his fingers grazed the split in his now bleeding brow. He licked his two fingers quickly before surging toward you. All too excited to get his hands on you again.

You nod at him, almost tauntingly. Both your fingers interlocked as if trying to see who could break each other's fists faster. His crooked teeth clenching hard in excitment. You couldn't even help the grin that etched it's way onto your face.

Since your hands were busy you started to throw kicks. Kicking the side of his knee. Conquest hissed lightly, nodding in encouragement.

"There you go." Conquest barked.

His own leg wrapping around the back of yours. Pushing you back, trying to trip you up, needless to say it worked.

You swept your leg under his heels causing him to fall. He landed with a hard grunt.

"Testy." His mustache turned up mockingly.

You felt a heat build in your lower stomach at his gravely voice. Rolling over quickly you met his jaw with a hard punch, drawing blood.

Conquest forced himself to stand, gripping both your arms in his hands. He perked you up till you were standing, your faces so close you could feel the ragged breaths heaving from his lungs hit your lips. You stared into his eyes before your gaze drifted down to the bleeding cut on his jaw. You pulled your arms in, bringing him closer. Your plush lips could feel his stubble poking at them before you licked the blood dripping from his fresh wound.

Long and warm and wet, you drug your tung up till it met the corner of his mouth. Pulling back to look into his eyes went you brought you tongue back into your mouth. Conquest stared intently, watching like it was the most interesting thing he'd seen in millenia. His lips parted in fascination.

That straining in his pants throbbing painfully now. You hummed at the taste only making the current situation that much worse for him. He needed some sort of contact, more fighting, more friction. Anything as far as he was concerned. He'd take whatever you gave him. So long as it was from you he'd accept eagerly.

You took notice of this, the distraction. A smile slowly spreading on your face. You twisted in his loose grasp. His thick chest now at your back. His large arms still wrapped around you, rough hands still gripping your forearms.

Comquest watched you with unwavering interest. You pressed back into him. Rolling your hips back into his lap. That had Conquest's legs stuttering slightly.

You could feel the problem he was having and in all honesty, you just wanted to help. His fingers spasmed around your wrists as you continued. Rocking your hips back into his lap, almost rhythmically now.

"That's it....." Conquest nods, hot breath hitting your neck.

You grin to yourself, his hardening member becoming more obvious the longer you moved against him. You felt the weight of his head drop to the crook of your neck.

"That's good." He encouraged softly. "Just like that."

Conquest's voice was practically a low rumble now, making your knees feel weak. Soon enough you'd backed him into a wall, the only thing keeping him steady. It was probably pathetic looking from the outside. His face burried in your neck, hips moving slowly with yours, all pressed against the cold metal wall.

Slowly his grip slipped from your wrists, once they dropped you turned in his arms. Your hands gripping his shoulders to push him harshly against the wall then sliding him down to the floor below. Comquest just let you, too invested to really care about what you did to him. He looked up at you who was now standing over him.

You peered down at him, some of your hair falling into your face. Your shadow cast over Conquest's eagerly waiting form. So different to see a man his size gazing up at you with a look that was nothing short of pining. Your foot pressed to his chest, his hand instantly going to grab your ankle, drifting up your flexed calf.

Conquest's hand traveled up the back of your thigh, fingers grazing the bottom of your ass. You just watched him, too high on the feeling of being in charge to stop him anytime soon.

Conquest didn't care either, not one bit. You could feel his chest move slowly, deep breaths trying to fill the expanse of his chest.

"You wanna keep fighting?" You ask quietly.

Rex shakes his head, his pudgy thumb wiping away the smears of strawberry ice-cream before looking back towards Mark.

Before shrugging his broad shoulders.

"Doesn't matter. I'm basically her fun uncle." Rex boasts before looking down at Winnie, dimples deep in his honeyed cheeks, green eyes sparkling. "Ain't I, tubby?"

"Dlickwee!" Winnie giggles.

"Don't call me a dickweed, you dyslexic shit."

"Rex, she's a baby!" Mark defends, hands hooking underneath Winnie's chubby arms, tugging her up into the air before ultimately settling her on his thigh, chonky fists immediately moving to tug on the collar of his shirt.

"When are you gonna tell him?" Eve's voice is quiet, turning away from where Rex has Winnie cradled and she stares at you, shovelling spoonfuls of ice cream into your mouth.

"I kinda wanna watch him figure it out himself." You speak through a full mouth, before looking back towards Rex.

"He'd make such a good dad if he wasn't....you know..."

"Slow?" Kate interjects, gaze lifting from her book and you purse your lips, reluctantly nodding your head.

"So, are you like, around all the time?" Mark questions, attention divided between where Winnie toys with the chain around his neck, and where Rex is lounged, one muscular leg extended over the armrest of the sofa and the other foot planted on the carpeted floor.

"Mhm." Rex hums. "I basically live there. You know, cause the kid's dad's a fucking deadbeat."

And Mark scratches the back of his neck, almost awkwardly, gaze shifting.

"Yeah, well, you know, he might... Not know he has a kid." Mark mumbles and Rex shifts, green eyes regarding Mark with a scrutinizing gaze. Before looking between him and Winnie.

The way how she's always been so affectionate with Mark, excitedly clapping whenever she sees 'Unca Mar'. And Rex sucks on his teeth, brows furrowing with suspicion.

"Real fuckin weird thing to say. Defending a deadbeat." And Rex shifts, elbows resting on his knees and he leans forward.

"You got a confession, dickhead?"

"Wha— No. No. She's not my k— I've never even had sex with anyone other than Eve."

And Rex snorts.

"Real sad confession, buddy."

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨💥୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

There's no way to explain the demonic horniness that shrouds you like a thick mist when you see the way Rex gently brushes Winnie hair, bristles gentle against her soft strands and she simply keeps her gaze focused on the toy in her hands.

Beside him, lay an assortment of different hair accessories. Glittery hair ties, elastics, bows, and an assortment of clips, all decorated with various yellow things. Plastic gummy bears, bananas, stars, hearts. Everything that came from a superhero salary in her favourite colour.

"Okay, Pooh, what's the look for today?" Rex questions Winnie, brilliant green gaze focused on her, her small body settled between his muscular thighs, the sleeves of his T-shirt rolled up to the apex of forearm.

Veins bulge beneath the surface of the skin, scaling all the way up to wear the bunched fabric rests, wrists decorated with an assortment of jewellery. Namely black bands, brown beads and one very yellow friendship bracelet. Big, chunky beads that look jelly-ish, puffy letters that read 'WINNIE'.

Winnie babbles incoherently, pitch varying as her chubby hands continue to twist and turn the cube in her hands. Trying to assemble the colours in order.

"Hm.. s'thinking pigtails too. To minimise your mom's forehead genes." Rex snickers. "Dome headed."

And Rex divides the hair, carefully putting her hair in pretty pigtails like he's done many, many times before. Yellow decorates that gingery hair, green eyes obscured by yellow star-framed sunglasses and he waits until she lets out that squeal at her reflection before setting her down on the floor.

And she scrambles out of the room, excitedly, and Rex lets out a groan, arms stretching overhead before glancing towards you.

"Fuckin creep." He mocks, barely ducking the folded towel that's meant to collide with the back of his head.

"Fuck you. My forehead's normal sized." You defend, before shuffling properly into the bedroom, arms crossed over your chest and like clockwork, Rex's warm, warm hands move to grasp your hips, tugging you onto him unapologetically.

Your knees dig into the mattress on either side of him, your ass planted on his lower belly and your hands move towards bracing yourself on his chest. And Rex snorts.

"Muscle memory, huh?"

And you suck your teeth, rolling your eyes as you grab for the excess clips, sliding them into Rex's hair, your fingers carding through the tangerine strands, watching the way the silky tresses slip from your grasp with ease.

Rex swallows, gaze locked on your face. Taking in that wide eyed expression, perfect lips pursed in concentration as you continue to fuss with his hair, gorgeous eyes framed by the prettiest and longest lashes. And Rex's tongue brushes across his bottom lip, before he shifts beneath you.

And he just keeps staring.

Not only because you're just... So pretty to him, but he's looking. Really, really looking. He can see where Winnie gets her expressions. Pretty lashes with your eyes, that same... Thoughtless look behind them. God, it's like the lights are on but there's no one home.

His thumbs brush over your hip bones, the soft skin exposed by where your shirt rode up and Rex inhales sharply when he feels the way your thighs twitch at his sides.

And he's trying so hard to not look at your tits, pressed flush against the fabric of your shirt. God, pregnancy did you good.

"There's something we need to talk about later." Rex murmurs, swallowing down and he watches the way your movements halt, brows scrunching in confusion.

"Why can't we talk about it now?" You question.

"Because you might get mad and I don't wanna argue in front of the kid." Rex breathes out. "Not good for the developmental shit."

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨💥୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

Immediately when Winnie's with Mark and Sam, Rex is letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding and he's setting you down on the sofa.

Taking the seat across from you, and he crosses his arms over his chest, thick thighs spread and he leans back, doing the hip thing. You try to not focus on the bulge in the front of his sweatpants, and instead, on his face.

"What'd—"

"I wanna adopt Winnie."

It feels like a weight in your belly. Heavy, pointy edges poking into your intestines and you swallow, fingers fidgeting. And honestly, you don't know what's worse.

The fact that you'll have to admit the obvious truth, or the fact that either way, you'll be stuck with Rex indefinitely.

"I'm basically her dad already. I sleep here, I get her ready in the mornings, I feed her, I buy her that stupid Lab— what the fuck even is that?"

"It's a Labubu." "Well, it's La-expensive as fuck. Why can't she just play with socks like I did when I was a kid?" Rex huffs, and your brows raise.

"Was CPS ever called?"

"This isn't about me." And Rex inhales sharply. "I wanna... Officially co-parent Winnie. Like... As her dad and not her... fun uncle."

And you swallow.

"Rex... " You speak so softly, your fingers fiddling and you keep your gaze lowered.

"You remember... That one time in Cecil's office?"

"Which one? There were," He snorts, "quite a few times in Cecil's office."

"When... You were like, really depressed and you were kinda desperate, even though we were mad at each other. And like, you called me and I came and—"

"Oh, you came. You came three times." Rex boasts, before shifting in his seat. "But what about it?"

This is nerve wrecking. You'd think a former assassin would be a smart guy but no. Rex is dumber than a bag of rocks.

"Well... We didn't use a condom. And you didn't... Pull out either, because I didn't wanna make a mess and—"

And Rex's expression darkens. Brows form a deep frown, his jaw clenches and you're preparing for him to... Well, blow. Especially when you see that low, almost angelic glow beneath his skin and Rex takes a deep breath.

"I have a fucking kid and you didn't think to tell me?" Rex grits, blunt nails digging into his biceps as he tries to reign in the anger that's settling at the pit of his belly.

He's just mad that you didn't tell him.

"I thought you'd know by now." You murmur. "You sleep over a lot, she looks like you, she acts like you."

"I thought it's like fucking cats!" Rex groans, hands moving to card through his hair, muscular fingers tugging his hairtie off and he takes a deep breath.

"Rex, you haven't not been here, for the last two years. Are you even fucking?" You question.

"No, because— oh shit, I'm a dad." Rex mumbles, the reality sinking in. "...and I'm not beating her."

"I think you're still eligible for me to call CPS."

Rex doesn't really know how he didn't put it together as soon as Winnie popped out of you.

Literally.

He was in the delivery room, fingers laced with yours, wiping away the sweat from your hairline and making sure you didn't pass out from exertion.

He should've known when you tested her name out on your tongue, murmuring 'Winnie Sloan' as she nursed from you. And he definitely should've put two and two together when he found himself attending Daddy & Me classes.

Fuck. You'd even hummed 'she has your eyes' offhandedly as you fell asleep, in his arms.

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨💥୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

"I'm gonna watch a movie. You wanna watch?" Rex leans against the doorframe, arms folding across his chest, muscles bulge and green eyes watch you avidly as you pull a T-shirt over your head.

"What're you watching?" You question softly,

"The Mummy." Rex hums. "Brendan Frasier's one."

And it isn't even long before you're curled up, Rex's arms wrapped around your waist, his face pressed against the curve of your neck and his eyes are basically shut.

Even breaths leave him, his body warm against yours, your legs entangled and his palm remains splayed across the soft flesh of your belly, tucked away behind the fabric of your thin T-shirt.

"You want me to turn the movie off?" You ask softly, shifting a bit closer to Rex and he shakes his head.

"Hm-hm... m'listening, baby."

His voice is a low, sleepy rumble, body pressed so firmly against yours only for his lips to ghost the curve of your shoulder, the ball of his nose pressing against your pulse.

"..you smell good..." Rex mumbles lazily. "...really good."

And he shifts behind you, his free hand moving from being tucked beneath you, and instead, moving to your inner thigh. He guides your legs to part, calloused fingertips pressing into the soft flesh as he shifts your body, until your thigh's tossed over his legs.

And his hand nestles between your thighs, warm palm pressing against your even warmer cunt and he coos sleepily. Flimsy panties do nothing to tamper with your sensitivity, and Rex lets out a sleepy breath.

"I haven't had sex in two years."

Rex's voice is lazily, a sleepy murmur that's nearly drowned out by how fast the blood is rushing in your ears, your breaths just a bit uneven as his fingers press against your clit. Softly, gently. Circling the bud as his half-asleep brain pieces together the words.

And you nod your head, trying your hardest to keep your mind easy and clear, your chest heaving.

"You're gonna let me fuck you right?" Rex breathes out, pressing lazy kisses against the skin of your neck, his fingers tugging your soaked gusset aside, before dragging along your cunt. Slick fingers trace your slippery slit and he lets out a breath.

"Right, baby?" He murmurs softly. "You gonna let me fuck you nasty?"

And two fingers plunge into your cunt, warmth blossoming in your belly and if feels like electricity's crackling just behind your mound with each flutter of his fingers. And you nod your head, weakly.

"Uh huh?" Rex coos softly. "You gonna let me?"

There's nothing that's preparing you for the way that his fingers are fucking into you, curling against all the right spots while his other hand cups your chest, thumbing over your nipple until it pebbles beneath his thumb.

"Mhm... m'gonna let you..."

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨💥୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

And by God, do you let him.

Nothing prepares you for the way his cock bullies it's way into your cunt, your back arched like a fucking cat, cheek pressed against the pillow and your hands grip the sheets.

And Rex's hands move to palm the fleshy globes of your ass, spreading them just so he can watch your drooling pussy swallow him whole, inch by inch. Nothing separating you, and Rex's plump bottom lip is wedged between his pearly teeth as he watches that unexplored hole clench and flutter.

And he rolls his hips against yours, cock sloppily kissing your cervix and smearing precum against your walls, his gaze remaining locked on that pretty, furled target.

"God, you're so fuckin sexy..." Rex breathes out, hands moving to grasp your hips instead, pulling you back to meet each brutally slow thrust of his hips.

You're so warm, gooey walls fluttering around every inch and vein, slick oozing down your inner thighs and you're breathing heavy. Sounds muffled by the pillow, the fat of your ass bounces off his hips and he watches as one of your hands weakly attempts to reach behind you, fingertips ghosting over his lower belly to push him away.

"Rex...." You whine. "S'too deep.."

"Move your fucking hand." Rex grunts, one of his hands moving to pin your hand at the small of your back, and he watches your other hand move, reaching out towards the headboard instead.

And the glimpse of faint scratches against the headboard makes his head spin in that way that has him letting out a weak whine, leaning over you to grasp at the headboard. The muscles in his forearm flexes with his grip, his hips snapping unforgivingly against your ass until your cheeks burn red.

His other hand presses down in the centre of your back, forcing your back into an even deeper arch, listening to the way your moans are muffled.

Your cheeks are deeply flushed, skin glistening with a thin sheen and Rex pants, brows knitting into a frown when he feels your walls flutter and spasm, almost uncontrollably.

And he pulls back, until only his fat, mushroom-y tip remains buried in your warm cunt and your holes flutter when you feel the way he spits on your cunt, before pushing back inside.

And before you know it, you're coming around his cock, a frothy ring forming around the base of him, and he moans.

"That's it, baby. Come for daddy." Rex groans. "Be my nasty girl."

Rex has you in a fucking headlock before your brain's come down from your orgasm.

Your throat nestled in the crook of his elbow, bulging bicep against the side of your face and his weight is pressing you into the mattress, hips rutting wildly and his teeth are sinking into your shoulder.

And Rex is fucking you like an animal.

Groaning against your shoulder, weighing you down until your knees are weak and threatening to give out beneath you and he presses a kiss to that spot just behind your ear.

His voice low and just a bit hoarse.

"Let's see if I can make you remember..." He takes a deep breath, hips grinding against yours and you feel the way his cock twitches,

"who's your daddy."

The rope weighed heavily in Tarsem’s hand. It was woven from a blend of thin, fine bark fibers and the thickest vines near the Omaticaya village. The materials were braided together firmly in a pattern that would not unravel on its own even if one of the individual wrappings came loose. It had taken Tarsem a month and a half to properly craft this rope. It was imperative that it was well-made. This rope, hefty as it was from both the physical mass and the worry and stress pulling it down to the ground, could save his life.

It was a foggy day. The ikran in the rookery overhead screamed out, the sound cacophonous even from down on the ground, and it was only because of those sounds that Tarsem knew where he was. 

He was fourteen. He had chosen not to complete his iknimaya the year before. He hadn’t thought himself ready for it back then.

But he was ready now.

“We climb with you, ma’itan,” Ko’ay breathed behind him. She tugged gently on the rope. “Tie it—”

“Around me,” Tarsem finished with a curt nod. “I know.”

Still, he didn’t move from his position, standing at the base of the mountain, head craned up to look at the low cloud coverage that blocked his view of the rookery up ahead. The rock face in front of him was jagged and rough. His hands and feet would undoubtedly burn when he made it to the top and he knew for a fact that he would end up with scrapes every time he stumbled or hesitated to catch his breath. 

He wondered if Y/N had stopped to catch her breath, to fill her lungs with the air she needed before forcing herself to keep climbing. He doubted it. Whatever hysterical state she’d been in probably didn’t allow her even a moment of respite through the pain. It had cost her her life.

Tarsem would have been the second best warrior in the clan if she’d been around. Now that she was gone, he would be the very best.

He would learn from the mistakes that got his best friend, the girl he loved, killed. He would not replicate those errors. He would honor her.

He would survive.

Tarsem gently wrapped the rope around his body. He folded it around his waist and over his left shoulder, fastening the two loose ends in a soft knot that he could easily untie when he got to the top and needed to use the rope for its real purpose. The ikran that chose him would try to kill him, after all, to test his strength and his worth. He needed the rope to muzzle it. 

But for now, it was coiled snugly around his body. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. Tarsem had dreamed of his iknimaya since he was a child, when his first toys were carefully carved wooden ikran courtesy of his father, painted vibrant colors. He’d always had the red one, and he’d gifted Y/N the pink one. When he met Spider for the first time and began to befriend him, he’d given him a purple one. The wooden ikran toys had held such a special place in his heart, and now he stood at the base of the floating mountain where the real ikran lived in a cave up above.

He’d fantasized about this very moment as a little boy.

The weight around his body was like that of a small child. Like he was carrying his younger self up the mountain with him. Like he was showing his past what the future would look like.

“I’m ready, Sa’nok,” he decided.

“Don’t get a green one!” Va’ru commanded behind him, standing beside Arun. Neither of them would make the climb today. Arun could not do so safely anymore, and Va’ru was still too small for his own iknimaya. They would watch and wait.

Tarsem’s lips quirked at his little brother’s words. “What if I want to?”

Va’ru roared in mock outrage behind him before cutting himself off with a small, “Hey!” 

Arun had probably knocked on his scalp gently to silence his complaints.

“Yeah,” Tarsem mockingly declared, stepping towards the mountain. His palm pressed against the rock. “I’m gonna get the biggest green one there is. And I’m gonna name him Ra’vu.”

Ko’ay laughed quietly behind her son. She flicked at Tarsem’s ear. “Do not bully your brother.”

“He started it,” Tarsem defended with a real grin, the first true smile he’d had since the day began.

My family is here with me, he reminded himself. My sa’nok climbs with me. My sempu and brother watch me. He took a slow, deep breath, feeling his chest rise and fall. I can do this. I am prepared. I am ready.

Tarsem closed his fingers around a piece of the rock that jutted out. He stepped up with one foot and planted it upon a smooth surface within the mountain. These were the footholds and grips his older peers had used, the footholds and grips his parents had used, the footholds and grips his ancestors and their ancestors before them used. The old Omaticaya Hometree was gone but the rookery remained and even if the village was not the same as the Hometree the rookery was the very same one they had used for generations upon generations.

Some traditions were old and, to Tarsem and the rest of his peers, a bit outdated. Some were meaningless now. Some were to be remembered and respected but not repeated.

But this was not one of those traditions.

This was a part of the Omaticaya clan’s history that would not be erased. The Sky People hadn’t destroyed this when they came. They hadn’t stolen it before leaving. This remained. It was crucial, one of the most important rites of passage for the People. 

Tarsem would not be a grown man once he completed it. But he would never again be a mere child. He would be one step closer to his and Y/N’s dream of being the greatest warriors of the Omaticaya clan’s history.

Y/N was gone. He would live her dream for her. And he was right about to take the biggest step towards that.

I am Tarsem te Kumon Arun’itan. He tightened his grip on the rocks. I am strong. I am brave. I am prepared. I am ready.

And he began to climb.

When Tarsem had been thirteen, his parents were not the ones to broach the subject of his iknimaya with him.

It was Spider.

“I know why the People don’t really want to talk about it,” Spider had mumbled. He was crouching next to Tarsem, stretching his legs with his palm hovering just above the ground in case he needed the support or balance. He didn’t. He didn’t press his hand to the grass even once as he arranged his legs into a front split with ease. He was more flexible than Tarsem. “But the way Norm and Max and them explain it isn’t… right. I don’t think it is, anyway.”

Tarsem, who was trying with great difficulty to copy Spider’s position, wavered. “Explain what?”

“The iknimaya.”

“Oh.” Tarsem’s eyes dropped to the dirt. “What do you mean they don’t explain it right? What do they say?”

“I mean that they don’t get the, um, the emotions right,” Spider tried to convey. “Is that how to say it? I dunno. They talk about it in a really scientific way. Like they’re reading a textbook. Not like a parent telling their kid, ‘This is what mine was like.’”

Tarsem sort of understood, though he still wasn’t exactly familiar with textbooks. He knew what they were, certainly. That didn’t mean he’d ever read one to know what sort of language they employed.

“Norm and Max give me the technical explanation,” Spider reiterated. “They say it’s when a young Na’vi climbs up to the rookery and chooses an ikran. If the ikran chooses them back, it tries to kill them. So Na’vi bring rope to tie their mouth shut and climb on their back and make Tsaheylu. And then first flight seals the bond, makes it last their lifetimes.”

“That is all true,” Tarsem said with a nod. “I see. It sounds impersonal.”

Spider’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, exactly.” He transitioned into a right split with ease that Tarsem envied. “You obviously haven’t done yours. But what do your parents say it’s like? How did they describe it?”

Tarsem was quiet for a time as he considered Spider’s question. 

Since the tragedy of Y/N’s fall from the rookery, neither Arun nor Ko’ay were all too willing to speak on the concept of iknimayas. In fact, Tarsem wondered if they were willing for him and Va’ru to entirely forgo the rite of passage. Not all clans had them. Not even all rainforest clans had them. 

But before then, when Tarsem was a wee child with wide, innocent eyes and eager-to-listen ears, his parents would sit him and Va’ru down in their laps and they would watch the ikran rookery from the top of their marui, having to sit in very specific spots to catch the faraway glimpses at the floating mountain through the gaps in the treeline. Back then, Arun would speak of his ikran, the one he had now and the one who had died during the Great War. Ko’ay would tell them of how her ikran had spotted Arun falling from the sky and lurched down to catch him before even Ko’ay knew what was happening, how her ikran had snatched Arun up by the arm and Ko’ay had pulled him up to safety but the arm was too damaged to keep. 

They didn’t speak much about that, though. That was only because Va’ru had asked.

Most of their stories were lovely. They spoke of the feeling of soaring above the canopy, of the wind blowing through their hair, of how at first it would detangle but then they would change the angle of flight and the wind would create new knots in their locks. They talked about how the air tasted fresher and wilder up so high, how the soil of Pandora had a sort of subliminal scent and once they were in the open sky it was gone and it was unnerving at first but then it became exciting, a joy that they said never really left. It was different and it was a great different. 

And when they spoke of the Tsaheylu, it wasn’t explained with the bright-eyed, vibrant joy of the flight itself. This was told of in small voices, like anything louder than a gentle whisper was both too much and not expressive enough. It didn’t convey the importance if they spoke too loudly. 

“You feel it in your everything,” Tarsem spoke slowly. “Not in your head. Not in your heart. They told me you feel it everywhere.”

Spider was silent. He switched to a left split but watched Tarsem carefully, waiting patiently.

“And you feel the ikran’s everything, too,” he continued. “Because Tsaheylu is connecting both bodies. They feel all of you and you feel all of them. Like you both get new limbs. And you can also hear them all the time.”

Spider nodded slowly. “That’s how you can call for them and they’ll always hear it. No matter how far away they are.”

“Yes,” Tarsem breathed. “I… I think.”

“Right.”

“Because I haven’t felt it.”

“I know.”

They didn’t speak for a moment.

“Do you want to feel it?” Spider asked quietly.

Tarsem said, “Yes,” before Spider even finished the question. 

Because yes, he really did want to feel it one day. He knew his parents would not push. He doubted anybody in the clan would push after Y/N’s fall. Perhaps only Tarsem knew he had loved that girl in the way that he did but everyone knew the bond there had been stronger than anything imaginable. Some of the adults had teased, all in good faith, that the only thing that could end that friendship was death. 

Those adults hated themselves for saying so when Y/N fell. They went very quiet and avoided both the Sully and Kumon families like the plague even still, and that was a feat and a half given that Jake was the Olo’eyktan. 

But the fact of the matter was that Tarsem wanted to bond with an ikran. He wanted that relationship that his parents had with their own steeds. He wanted that friendship, that trust that came from literally being able to feel and hear and know that other creature in a way that superseded an ordinary friendship.

Tarsem partially wondered if it would feel like his and Y/N’s friendship—if Tsaheylu was just a physical manifestation of that same connection he had had with her—then he wanted to have it. 

He didn’t want to replace her. 

But he wanted to experience that connection again.

He wanted to so badly.

He needed it.

Because Spider was a good friend. Si’sayla and Anapi and Ko’tua were good friends. Piina and Oru and Oko’li were good friends. Va’ru was his baby brother, forever and always.

But he didn’t love them in the same way. He doubted he’d ever love anyone that same way. Bonding with an ikran might be the closest Tarsem would ever experience again.

Spider stood up then and stepped towards a nearby tree. With no semblance of difficulty whatsoever, he lifted his leg up to his chest and pressed his foot against the tree, folding his body easily into a standing split.

“So do you want to have an iknimaya?” he prompted.

Tarsem picked at a blade of grass. “There is a lot to prepare beforehand. Special training. The climb is very dangerous. It’s steep and tiring. Then we need to make the rope. Some Na’vi die if they make shoddy rope. They get killed.”

Y/N did not even have a rope.

“Then you’ll just have to make a really good rope,” Spider said simply. “And train really hard. That’s just two things to prepare.”

Tarsem stared at the human boy for a long while. His brain was a bit slow to process the words.

“Just—” His voice faltered. “Spider. The training takes moons. And if the rope is improperly made—”

“It won’t be improperly made.” Spider said it with such conviction that Tarsem went entirely silent. “You have your parents to teach you. You have the rest of the clan to teach you. And you can train for as long as you want. But those are still just two things. Train hard. Make a good rope. Two big things, but two things.”

“Two big things,” Tarsem echoed.

“Still just two things,” Spider repeated.

“Still… still just two things.” 

Tarsem looked at the grass. The blades were longer, taller here. Farther away from the footpaths of the Omaticaya village. They must’ve been mountainous for the tiny bugs crawling about in the dirt. He wondered what it would be like to be that small.

A red insect caught his attention. It slowly trekked up the side of one of the tall blades of grass, its hardened exoskeleton glistening in the sunlight filtering in through the canopy overhead. The journey was slow. It slipped a few times before it finally reached the top, the edge of the grass.

And then it spread its wings. They were translucent and iridescent pink. 

And then it flew off and away.

It had climbed. It had flown.

Just two things. Two big things, especially for a bug so small. But still only two things.

“Just two things,” Tarsem mumbled again.

Spider smiled at him. “You can do two things.”

And Tarsem had nodded.

The rookery was getting louder.

Or perhaps Tarsem was just getting closer. In all honesty, with all the fog obstructing his vision, he had a rather difficult time determining which was the actual truth. He didn’t risk looking down to check how far he’d climbed. The panic would make him fall, and the climb was oftentimes the most deadly part of the iknimaya. Plenty of children had fallen and been too far for their parents to catch them.

He wasn’t going to take that chance.

Even if he was exhausted. Even if sweat was dripping down his forehead. Even if his arms and legs were shaking.

“Sa’nok?” he called.

A few paces below him, Ko’ay replied, “Yes, sweet boy?”

Tarsem inhaled deeply. “S… Sa’nok, I’m getting really tired.”

“You are rooted into the rock?”

Rooted in the rock. That was how Arun phrased it during training for this exact moment. “You’re tired? Find a spot where you’re rooted in the rock; where you can rest comfortably for a moment.”

So Tarsem looked around for a larger notch in the mountain, for a wider rock to stay on and take a break. He spotted something akin to a little cliff a few meters up above and he exhaled with relief.

“In a moment,” he told his mother, “I will be.”

Ko’ay must’ve seen the very same space. “Go. I am right here, sweet boy.”

Tarsem obeyed. Slowly, taking a deep breath before he began to move, he hauled himself up the side of the mountain. His hands and feet were wet with sweat and it took every last bit of his strength to push himself up the rocks until he got to the cliff.

He promptly collapsed against the stone, gasping for air. His palms burned like little flames were clinging to the skin, searing at the flesh as he lay limp on the rocks.

Ko’ay must have climbed up shortly after her son, but Tarsem didn’t notice her presence until he felt her take his wrists and twist his hands to examine the skin.

She kissed her teeth. “Oh, sweet boy. You are bleeding now.”

Tarsem managed to croak, “Is that bad?”

“No,” Ko’ay promised, releasing his hands. “I am honestly surprised it did not come sooner. The climb to the rookery is more jagged than the mountains we took you to practice.”

A defense mechanism; that was why the ikran rookery was atop this particular floating mountain. The rough, harsh stone face of this particular mountain was more dangerous. It was less likely that anything would climb up and jeopardize the lives of the young ikran.

But it also made it rather dangerous for the Omaticaya people.

Still, knowing that it wasn’t a bad thing for Tarsem to be bleeding was a tiny bit reassuring, even if his hands throbbed from the pain. 

He wiped his hands blindly against his skin, feeling the slick of his blood as it stained his sides.

And then he went very still. His eyes cracked open slowly and, without moving his head, he looked down at his body.

He had wiped his hands along his sides. They had left messy stripes of red down from the height of her sternum down to his hips, just above his loincloth. 

Like the red war paint from the vision. The red that had colored his body when the world Eywa had shown him was ashy and gray and dead and burnt. When his skin was pierced and coated in a thick gray substance to dull the color of his flesh.

When he wasn’t Omaticaya. 

He swallowed thickly and forced himself to look away. He was not in the gray, dead world. He was taking rest on a small cliff face jutting out from the ikran rookery, the floating mountain hovering above a lush and vibrant rainforest. He was in a colorful place. He was not in Eywa’s prison. He was in the real world. He was Omaticaya. He was completing his iknimaya.

And he was going to succeed.

But first, he needed to give himself a break.

Ko’ay watched her son in silence for a moment. Her eyes trailed over the way his chest rose and fell rapidly, the breaths deep and gasping. Her jaw clenched at the sight.

“I did not have my iknimaya until I was fifteen,” she finally said, cutting through the silence. She glanced down the mountain, eyeing how far they had climbed so far. “My parents were too worried. And they did not want for me to be a warrior anyway. They thought having an ikran would distract me.”

Tarsem was practically drinking in air. His breathing was finally starting to even out, albeit slowly.

“Dis… tract you from what?”

Ko’ay smiled thinly. “Being a dancer.”

That drew a breathless laugh from her son, and Ko’ay’s muscles relaxed at the sound.

“Sa’nok,” Tarsem teased, “you are a bad dancer.”

“I know,” she agreed, “but you cannot say that! I am your sa’nok.” She swatted at his leg gently. “But, oh Eywa, I was always so dreadful. I hated it. But my sa’nok was a dancer. As was hers and hers before her and so on and so forth and I didn’t feel like I had any choice but to do the very same.” She sighed heavily. “But I hated it. And I was terrible at it. And I felt… like a failure, really. For not being able to do what every other girl in my family did so easily. I was always too aggressive. It was never graceful.” She pointed to her face, to her soft and round features, to her precise and symmetrical stripes. “And I am the reason you are so beautiful. Do you know how hard it is to not be graceful when you look so pretty?”

Tarsem laughed again. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and paused there, catching his breath even still. But then he straightened until he was seated upright.

He met his mother’s gaze. “Why did you change paths?” Then, before he could stop himself, and because it seemed like the most obvious answer, he clarified, “Was it Sempu?”

Ko’ay replied, “No. I hated your sempu back then.”

Tarsem blinked. “Oh.”

“He was stupidly short at that age,” Ko’ay went on, “and I was stupidly tall. And he bothered me because he’d see me and then make a whole show of craning his neck as far back as he possibly could to meet my eyes.”

“Was he bullying you?” Tarsem gasped.

“No. He really did need to crane his neck that much. It just annoyed me.”

“Oh. And because he annoyed you, you hated him.”

“Yes.”

Tarsem nodded slowly. He hoped his expression didn’t betray how badly he was trying not to laugh. But then again, he was fourteen. He knew what boys and girls his age acted like. He could easily imagine his parents being his age and having the dynamic they had.

“So what changed your mind?” Tarsem asked. “Not about Sempu. About having an iknimaya.”

Ko’ay’s smile softened and she looked just above Tarsem’s face, at his hair; at the way the sides of his head were shaved and just the top remained braided back.

“My brother,” Ko’ay whispered. “Tsu’tey. He was a great warrior. He was to be mated with Sylwanin, Neytiri’s older sister. And if he had, he would have become Olo’eyktan.” She took a deep breath. “He found me one night. I was practicing a song and I kept forgetting the steps. And back then, whenever I forgot, my sa’nok would pick up a branch and throw it at my feet. Fast as lightning. If I didn’t jump away”—she gestured to her ankles—“the bruises would last for days and days.”

Tarsem swallowed thickly. “That is horrible.”

“It is,” Ko’ay agreed quietly. “And do you want to know what was more horrible?”

“No.”

“Well. I am going to tell you anyway,” Ko’ay snorted, Tarsem’s honesty cutting through some of the tension. “Whenever I messed up or forgot and my sa’nok was not there, I used to hit my own ankles. Tsu’tey caught me doing it one night. He broke the stick and yelled at me for hours. And then he saw the bruises I left on myself and said, ‘If you are that strong, you should be a warrior. We need more.’”

Tarsem frowned. “Why did you need more?”

“The Sky People were still here back then, sweet boy.”

“Oh,” he whispered. 

Ko’ay nodded. “And I thought that maybe, even though I hated my brother at the time and he was a mean young man—”

“For telling you to stop hitting yourself?”

“No,” she laughed quietly, “he was mean to me in other ways. He used to steal my food and then pretend I didn’t need it. And he called me names.” She held up a hand, trying to stop that train of thought and re-board the original one. “Anyway. I decided that maybe he was right. And he and our sempu began to train me.”

“What did your sa’nok think?” Tarsem asked.

“She was furious. She did not talk to me for a long time.”

“But,” Tarsem pointed out, “you completed your iknimaya. You became a warrior.” He paused. “I think Tsu’tey would be proud. I think he is proud of you, Sa’nok.”

For a few moments, Ko’ay did not know what to say. She watched her son carefully—watched the way he still trembled faintly from exhaustion but the shaking had lessened significantly, watched the way he didn’t look at her when he spoke like he was either trying to muster the courage to continue the climb or worried he’d said something wrong, watched the way he nodded to himself regardless when he spoke of Tsu’tey’s pride because even if his mother may not have wanted to hear it, he still knew it was true. He knew Tsu’tey would be proud of the woman his little sister had become.

Tarsem was proud to say he was the son of Ko’ay. Why would Tsu’tey not be proud to be her older brother? 

Ko’ay reached out and cupped her son’s face, wiping away the sweat with her fingers.

“My sweet boy,” she breathed. “The sweetest boy I could have asked for.” She leaned closer and pressed a slow, gentle kiss to Tarsem’s brow bone. Then she whispered, “Don’t tell your brother. He comes very close.”

Tarsem grinned. He took a slow, steadying breath and looked down at his palms. The bleeding had stopped and his limbs still felt leaden but significantly better than when he’d climbed onto the ledge with bones so weak they’d practically been liquid. His heart wasn’t racing as badly. His lungs did not scream. He barely even noticed the weight of his rope.

“Sa’nok?”

“Yes, ma’itan?”

Tarsem looked into his mother’s eyes. 

“I’m ready,” he decided. 

Ko’ay smiled, eyes burning even worse. They were glossy, shimmering now.

She remembered the day she’d given birth. She remembered the pain, the exhaustion, the screaming and crying and how it had all faded into the backdrop once the boy was in her hands. He’d been so small—so frighteningly small. 

And now he sat before her. Almost her height already. His hair separated into warrior braids. A rope wrapped around his body as he made the climb to claim an ikran.

Still her baby. Just… bigger.

Ready to make the jump between a child and a young man.

Even if she was not ready for him to do so.

“I know you are,” she said. 

With that, she stood up and looked to the top of the mountain. The rookery was deafeningly loud up ahead.

“You are almost there,” she told her son. “And I will be here with you for the climb.” She looked down at him. “But once you are in the rookery—once you find the one who claims you back—I cannot help you. I can only hope to catch you if you fall. It must be you who finds proper footing.”

Tarsem stood, too, his legs no longer unsteady. He licked his lips and risked a glance upwards.

The fog was opaque white. It blinded him. He could not see anything.

And yet, somehow, that wasn’t nearly as frightening as it was before. Now it felt like a doorway he just needed to open. The fog wasn’t solid. He could pass through it with ease. He just needed to be ready for what he would see once he was through it.

“I’m almost there,” he repeated. “I’m almost there.”

He reached up for the rocks just above the cliff.

And he pulled himself up.

word count: 4.7K

Just realizing that we have, as a community, dubbed Y/N as "Sweet Cub" and I had already established that Tarsem's parents call him "Sweet Boy." That was unintentional.

Anyway.

What are your favorite romance tropes? I personally love friends-to-lovers; but I am a huge fan of friends-to-enemies-to-lovers. This doesn't really apply to the story, I'm just curious. Also, I'll be so totally honest, I have no clue if I've already asked this LMAO.

I want reader who from another dimension (the DC universe) ends up in Invincible verse. While she starts searching for a way home, She starts off as enemies at first with the Viltrumites, seeing them as just blood thirsty brutes that are in her way of getting home since they have a special material that she needs in order to create a device so she can send herself home.

while they view her as a threat / a worthy conquest so many of them approach her to fight to prove themselves. Despite repeated fights, she easily defeats those she meet but spares their lives usually, unintentionally earning their respect in a weird way and a reputation for her strength and other abilities.

Enter young! Nolan / mark and Other Viltrumite, who are eventually sent to defeat / recruit her but is quickly overpowered. Humiliated yet intrigued, he returns for multiple rematches while still trying to recruit her, and she sees it as some kind of light training for herself. over time their rivalry softens into a strange bond. As they grow closer, Nolan / Mark begins to fall for her and awkwardly tries to ( Viltrumite Style ) court her by prove his strength to her.

( she's oblivious because she doesn't know much about Viltrumite culture) When he learns what she been looking for, Nolan / Mark ultimately retrieves it for her as a sort of a weird courting gift but is reluctant to give it to her after finding out what she needs it for since he doesn't want her to leave him. At least just yet anyway.

The sickness was agonizingly slow to pass; and because Y/N was adamantly refusing to sleep anymore after the nightmare ran its course, she wasn’t exactly doing much to expedite the process.

The soreness in her throat was the first to subside an entire three days after she first felt ill. Before then, all she could do was drink water and wince as she tried to eat solid food. It had been terrible, and during one night when she’d been forcing herself not to succumb to sleep, she’d been so pitifully exhausted that she just cried soundlessly, her vocal cords entirely too weak to produce any substantial sound.

But even after her throat stopped burning and she could chew and swallow without pain, Y/N’s appetite did not return all at once. She felt so hungry and yet had no strength to put food in her mouth, and what little she did she felt she could barely keep down. Her leftovers for every meal—of which there was always a lot in those first few days—went to Ka’ota himself or the cubs.

Mostly the cubs. They were growing, and they were growing rather quickly. 

Before, Avak could crawl, but she could only really push herself to do so for about a minute before her poor little legs gave out from the strain and she would take a nap wherever she was. Now, she was running, scampering around the cave and narrowly avoiding crashing into her siblings. She still needed to develop coordination. But despite how many times she’d slammed into Y/N’s leg or trampled over her tail, the excited almost chirping sounds Avak made as she grew stronger and faster were far too adorable for Y/N to really hold any grudges.

Kitan had quickly developed a habit of chasing after her own tail. She was too young for Y/N to connect their kurus and see what was really going on inside that little creature’s head, but she and Ka’ota were rather certain Kitan knew it was part of her body. She just found great joy in it. She did not, however, find any joy in the dizziness she experienced immediately after running in tight circles, trying to catch the end of her tail in her mouth. She was very vocal about this, and had learned to growl the first out of her siblings to express her displeasure in the phenomenon. She still bit her siblings, though, so maybe the dizziness was karma.

Vakor had shot up in size the fastest. He hadn’t been the smallest of his siblings, that had been Kitan. But he ate the most between his sisters and claimed most of Y/N’s leftovers. Ka’ota had promised that this was normal, that the males underwent more growth spurts than the females tended to. But when Y/N’s migraines finally passed on the fifth day of her illness and she was able to keep her eyes open during the sunny hours and saw that Vakor was quite literally an entire head taller than his sisters, she was still shocked. He, too, didn’t seem to be used to his size just yet. He had been the chubbiest and yet now he was getting thinner as his body used up all he ate to give him height, and so Y/N gladly passed whatever she couldn’t eat over to him. 

On the eighth day, Y/N’s fever finally broke. 

That wasn’t to say she was feeling perfectly fine again; far from it, in fact. Her head wasn’t throbbing but her bones still felt heavy. Her throat was no longer sore but her nausea had remained. And, to make matters worse, she had begun to bleed again. So while she knew she needed to eat to regain her strength, her appetite was completely destroyed by the pain radiating from her lower belly up her spine and abdomen and down to her lower thighs. She couldn’t keep anything down until day eleven, when the cramping began to subside and the nausea finally ebbed and faded away, allowing her to finally eat as much as she needed to.

And she was starving.

On the eleventh eclipse, Ka’ota counted his blessings that he’d been able to procure a more vast hunt, because Y/N finished eating half of a full grown wild yerik. And even then, she’d looked like she’d have been more than willing to eat more.

“I shouldn’t have more,” she said, almost like she was reminding herself of it rather than really feeling it. “I just stopped needing to vomit.”

Ka’ota did not push. He could see the strength was faint and flickering—just like the fire—but it was still there. The recovery was nowhere near as intense as when he and Moja had first found her. She was progressing far faster. His worries were easier to suppress thanks to that.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t worrying at all, though. 

He watched her sleep, taking care to check that her chest still rose and fell. 

He watched her during meals, making sure she didn’t eat too fast.

He watched how her eyes drifted to the cubs and covered them with his tail. He didn’t need her to worry about them more than herself when her health was still in shambles.

On the seventeenth eclipse, Y/N had managed to have a full, proper, filling meal. She was able to walk just enough to digest it all. She slept easily.

On the eighteenth morning, Y/N was healthy again.

And Ka’ota wasn’t sure if he was excited that his Na’vi cub was back to her usual self or if he was terrified of what that would entail.

The moment Y/N had the strength in her arms to keep them in the air for extended periods of time, she rebraided her hair.

“It makes me feel pretty,” she said to Ka’ota.

Her palulukan father huffed a breath of air, bemused. You are already pretty, my sweet cub.

She grinned. She’d never particularly been focused on her appearance when she was young, but it certainly didn’t hurt to be complimented. To a warrior, to a hunter, the most beautiful Na’vi were the strongest, the ones who wore war paint in the patterns that designated skill level. The most beautiful Na’vi were the ones who bore the intricately woven warrior braids to denote their position in the clan. That was beauty. 

Here, Y/N did not have the war paint. Here, she did not tie the warrior braids.

And yet she still felt beautiful. She felt good. She felt herself.

“Well, yeah,” she drawled with exaggerated confidence. “But it makes me feel even prettier. And that makes me feel better and healthier.”

If you say so, he replied. 

Then he used his front paws to separate Kitan and Vakor before Kitan could bite her brother’s ear off.

It took Y/N exactly two days to fully braid her hair. Her locks had gotten rather long and she hadn’t once cut them, and so the process took a long time. Still, once the braids were finished and the shards black stone were woven into her hair, the effect was almost instantaneous.

The nightmare—that horrific terror—had left lasting marks in her mind. Her father’s disdain for her, her mother’s hatred, the blood staining the river she’d learned to fish in. It weighed heavily on her heart. She’d felt dirty almost afterwards. Filthy.

Having pretty hair wasn’t going to fix everything right away. But it made the loathing and disgust fade into the background, even just a bit. Focusing on something as time consuming as braiding her hair quieted the remnants of the nightmare.

Her bleeding was over for the month as well, and so Y/N took the time to walk down to the nearby stream and wash up her clothes. Her legs shook ever so slightly still, for she hadn’t used them in quite a while, but she managed to make her way to the riverbank and wash away the blood. For those first few seconds, when the blood mingled with the water, she felt her heart stop. Her stomach lurched with terror and she almost let go of the cloth entirely. But the current was strong enough to wash the red away easily, and Y/N could see her reflection in the water again.

Her face was thinner than before. Her eyes were sunken, cheeks gaunt, the bone structure beneath the fascia far more prominent than she would have liked. 

“I need to eat more,” she decided, tearing her gaze from her face. 

And so she did. Ka’ota continued to bring larger hunts to accommodate for his growing cubs, palulukan and Na’vi alike. Y/N’s appetite grew, and as it did she watched the cubs’ own stomachs grow hungrier and hungrier. They were growing exponentially. She wagered that in only a couple months’ time, they’d be her size. She didn’t much enjoy the idea of them surpassing her that quickly.

“I want them to stay this small forever,” she sighed one eclipse, wiping the blood from her face after dinner. She watched as the cubs all lay on their sides. Kitan was separated from her brother and sister, obviously, while Avak and Vakor cuddled close together, their bodies swelling from the amount of food they’d partaken in that meal. They were nice and chubby and entirely knocked out. “You know what I mean?”

In a way, Ka’ota agreed. He was only now having his own meal, his fangs tearing into flesh and bone alike with ease. But I cannot wait to see who they will become. He glanced up at her. I cannot wait to see who you will become, sweet cub.

“I probably won’t be so sweet when I grow up,” Y/N noted. She gestured vaguely to her face. “I have these teeth for a reason. I have these urges for a reason.”

No. Ka’ota snorted. You will still be just as sweet. You will only save it for those special to you.

Y/N mulled over this. She supposed he was right—there would be no room for sweetness on hunts or in battle but she couldn’t stand the idea of treating her palulukan siblings with cruelty. She hadn’t even been able to stand treating her Na’vi siblings with cruelty.

That thought made her wince.

Neteyam. Kiri. Lo’ak. They were so small when Y/N fell from the rookery. Y/N had no clue still how long she had been out in the wilderness. She had no clue how old she was, much less how old her baby brothers and sister had gotten. What were they like now? Was Neteyam now the next-in-line to be Olo’eyktan? Was Kiri going to be Tsahik? Would Lo’ak be a hunter or a warrior? Maybe he’d be a dancer for all Y/N knew. She knew nothing about them now. She only had the memories of them as little toddlers still looking up to her for everything, using her as a frame of reference.

Now that she was gone, had been gone for so long… who were they?

And in that nightmare—though she wished she could forget it, it permeated through everything now—her mother’s belly had been round again. 

Are they replacing me?

Go to the river, sweet cub. Ka’ota’s words to her cut through her thoughts, interrupting her fright before it could grow into real and proper hurt. You should wash up before you sleep. You smell bad.

Y/N gasped in offense. “I do not!”

You reek.

Y/N stood then. She immediately tipped forward but she planted her legs apart to try and steady herself. Once her body was no longer unsteady, she pointed an accusing finger at Ka’ota.

“You’re bullying me, Sempu!”

The words left her mouth before she knew what she was saying and, for a second, there was total quiet. Before they had connected their kurus, before Ka’ota had learned to understand Na’vi language, the word would have just been more nonsense, meaningless sound to his ears. But now that he knew, now that they had shared their memories, now that he knew the weight of the word sempu, his heart felt as though it stuttered. 

And then a perfect warmth exploded in his chest and he closed his eyes as slowly as he could possibly muster.

Y/N, on the other hand, felt embarrassed heat burst across her cheeks. Her ears and face went purple. 

“Bye!” she screeched.

And then she raced out of the cave.

word count: 2.1K

Sorry for the chapter being kinda short. Just like Y/N, I got my period. And unlike Y/N, it has not subsided just yet. I LOVE HAVING A UTERUS SO MUCH.

Now for the discussion question! If you could be adopted by any character in fictional media, who would you choose to adopt you? I have a feeling Sokka from Avatar: The Last Airbender would probably be a great father figure, y'know? Like, he is surrounded by powerful women which is why he unlearned his sexist beliefs. He's intelligent and clever. He's funny. He does so much for the people he loves. I feel like he'd have been an amazing uncle to Katara and Aang's children and he would've been an amazing father if he'd been able to be one.

The Na’vi were… strange, to say the very least.

Moja had always been rather intrigued by the creatures. They were small and gangly, and they only needed to walk on their hind legs. When she was a cub, she would hear stories of the strange creatures. As a young cub, she found them to sound frightening. As an adolescent, she thought them weak and yet surprisingly persistent in their ability to survive.

As an adult with a mate and cubs growing inside of her, watching their adopted Na’vi cub stare at her mate’s sleeping face, she came to a new conclusion:

The Na’vi were hilarious.

At least their cubs were. Because each time Ka’ota’s loose upper lip fluttered when he exhaled in his sleep, Y/N ducked her head low and watched the skin fly up and then fall back down like it was some sort of game. Each time the skin fell, she straightened again, so she was rocking from side to side in time with Ka’ota’s breaths.

Moja snorted quietly. Silly, silly cub. 

And then Y/N stopped swaying. For a moment, Moja worried she had embarrassed her.

But then the Na’vi cub lifted her spindly blue fingers up to her own face, to her own lips. 

This time, when Ka’ota exhaled and his upper lip lifted, Y/N manually picked hers up, tugging the skin gently until her gums and teeth were exposed. When Ka’ota’s slip fell, Y/N lowered her lip.

Moja’s body shook with uncontrollable amusement. She turned away before Y/N could see her, but she knew her body was still trembling.

Her Na’vi cub was extra talkative today.

Ka’ota had gone out to hunt and so it was just Moja and Y/N in the cave for the next few hours. Moja’s belly was starting to grow a bit heavier and it was a challenge and a half already to move much even within the cave. She had managed a few laps just for exercise but then she’d laid back down, exhausted.

And that meant the Na’vi cub had a captive audience.

The sounds leaving her lips were foreign, unfamiliar. It was softer than palulukan sounds but deeper than the chirps and yowls of a cub. There was a rhythm to the words and though Moja didn’t know the language enough to determine where one word ended the the next began, there were certain cadences that Y/N used that Moja could somewhat use to denote meaning. Higher notes at the end tended to be questions or curiosities. When her fangs were exposed it was to show excitement or joy. She bobbed her head up and down to confirm things. She contorted her face into a strange scrunch when she was unhappy or disgusted. The nuances were entirely lost to Mo’at. She couldn’t tell what she was asking about or excited over or confirming or rejecting. But it was rather fascinating to see the way Na’vi body language differed from palulukan body language.

And then the sounds of Y/N’s voice was cut off by a sharp, high-pitched squeak. Her chest and shoulders jumped ever so slightly for a split second and her eyes went wide.

Moja blinked. Was that a word?

Y/N went back to talking. Her words went in Moja’s ear and out the other, the gibberish sounds melodic and intentional as she spoke endlessly and then—

Another sharp squeak. Y/N’s brows pinched together and she raised a hand to pat at her chest.

What is she trying to say? Moja wondered. She tilted her head to the side. Is she hurting?

A deep huff left Y/N’s lips then. She went right back to talking before she was interrupted once again as the squeak tore from her lips, cutting her off. 

The Na’vi cub made a sound of discontent.

And that was when it hit Moja; the cub was not in pain or saying a new word to her. Those squeaks, the ones that made her chest jerk and her words falter, were hiccups. Perhaps the cub had eaten too fast just a few minutes ago before Ka’ota left to hunt for dinner. The sounds were so small that Moja almost hadn’t recognized them at all, but they were hiccups nonetheless.

Y/N was bigger than a palulukan cub in size. But Moja had no clue how old she was. And she had never seen an adult palulukan hiccup. This cub was a baby, she decided. Her heart felt like it was being pulled apart from how cute it all was.

Once again, hand on her chest, brows furrowed with frustration, Y/N opened her mouth to speak.

Another hiccup came out instead and the Na’vi cub threw her head back and groaned.

Thunder echoed through the cave. The sound entered through the wide mouth, ricocheting across the stone walls and ceiling and floors and resonating through the space with such force that it vibrated in Moja’s bones.

Which was how she knew that it was absolutely affecting Y/N, even before the Na’vi cub began to slowly and quietly crawl closer to her body. It was dark in the cave. The fire had gone out thanks to the tumultuous winds from outside, and the only light came from the lightning strikes beyond the palulukan den. But Moja could see the shape of the half-asleep Na’vi cub crawling close in the darkness with ease. She could hear the faint pitter-patter of Y/N’s Na’vi paws. She smelled her clearly even with the scent of the rain and wet flora and fauna wafting into the cave.

She felt Y/N’s body—felt the slightly cold skin and the clammy palms and feet and the long and thick dark hair and the kuru braid—as the cub carefully pushed Moja’s front paws aside to make room for her body. She felt Y/N nestle close to Moja’s form, her shins pressing against Moja’s chest, feeling the beat of the palulukan heart through the thick, armor-like flesh. She felt Y/N relax, felt her warmth bleed into the cub’s body.

And she felt Y/N stiffen with fright when thunder clapped again.

Moja decided it was time to stop pretending she was still asleep.

She breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of the Na’vi cub and the rain and the wet flowers outside and even catching a whiff of some pali frolicking in the downpour nearby. And then she leaned closer to the cub’s face, opening her mouth to prod gently at the Na’vi cub’s hair with her tongue, smoothing the black locks back out of her face. She pulled Y/N closer to her body, closer to her warmth.

Y/N sighed with relief, eyes practically rolling into the back of her skull as the warmth flooded her. The fire had gone out some time ago and she had been shivering in her sleep. Now, exhaustion weighed her down.

A Na’vi word left her lips as she fell into deep slumber again. The thunder cracked through the sky, and if Moja hadn’t been a palulukan, she might not have been able to hear it. She didn’t know the meaning. She never would.

But in those few moments where Y/N was drifting into peaceful sleep, she had mumbled, “Sa’nok.”

word count: 1,272

Your boobs poking out from above your yanked shirt flatten against the wall, hitting it forcefully with each of Rex’s brute thrusts into your dripping cunt.

When your head lulls down, mouth gaping wide, letting the cries and whines spill from you freely, Rex yanks your hair hard towards his face and growls through clenched teeth, “Look at me when I fuck you. I want to see your face when you lose your mind on my cock.” He accentuates each word with a powerful roll of his hips, the tip of his length bruising your poor uterus.

Whatever intelligible mumbling gets past your pretty lips is enough for him, a cruel yet satisfied smirk adorning his features. “Yeah,” he laughs, “that’s what I thought.”

The grip of his fist in your hair doesn’t loosen, quite the contrary—he twists your head painfully low, leaving you breathless, choking on your sobs. With nowhere to look but him, you focus on his eyes, the green of his irises far gone, replaced by the vast darkness of his pupils. His stare is wild, laced with lust and hunger for more.

“Don’t you fucking dare look away. That understood?”

You try to nod, but it proves impossible with his steel hold on your head.

“Y-yes,” you manage to whisper, your voice cracking when his other hand finds your breast, his thumb and index finger rolling your pert nipple excruciatingly hard.

“Good,” he groans, his movements getting sloppier. “Let the whole base hear how well your man fucks you.”

⬅️ main masterlist

💥 rex splode masterlist

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The second rule was also professionalism. The third rule came with a twenty-minute lecture, a slideshow, and a threat that sounded suspiciously like paperwork. Rex remembered exactly none of the slideshow, but he remembered the number attached to the donation to the GDA if they let you take him as your personal bodyguard.

It had commas. Plural. So here he was. Standing outside the dressing room of the most famous pop idol on the planet, wearing a black suit that fit a little too well and an earpiece that made him feel like he should be narrating a heist movie instead of guarding a singer who could sell out stadiums by simply blinking.

He really did try to stick to being professional. He didn’t let himself get caught up anytime you called him into your greenroom before or after a show with excuse after excuse of some security breach— but he’s only a man. Even if he’s trying to be better how could anyone expect him to continually turn down your obvious advances?

“Rex? Could you come here, pretty please?” Your sweet voice rattled through his earpiece. Rex let out a sigh, a hand running down his face before turning towards your door and opening it slowly.

Rex immediately knew two things once he stepped into that room.

One: there was no security threat.

Two: he was in danger anyway.

You stood near the vanity, bathed in that soft halo of mirror lights, wearing lace.

Nothing like the bodysuits you typically wore on stage. This was much more intimate. The lace, cheeky cut panties, hugged the swell of your ass. And when you turned to greet him, rex was met with you in a bra stitched with lace material that covered absolutely nothing. The whole set matching. He could completely make out the way your nipples were perked from the cold of the room and where your areola’s laid against the completely see through material.

Rex stopped just inside the doorway, hand still on the knob like he might need it for balance, clearing his throat and immediately lifting his eyes to the ceiling, “… You called for security?”

You turned to him like this was a perfectly normal situation, like you weren’t currently dismantling his entire sense of discipline thread by delicate thread. How many times had you set him up to see you in your intimates? Not that he minded, he could put those mental images right into his spank bank— just because he’s trying to be a better man, doesn’t mean he still isn’t a man!

“I did,” you said, nodding, “I thought I saw something.”

His eyes flicked— traitorous and quick— over your form before snapping back up to your face like they’d been burned.

“Where?” he asked.

You gestured vaguely toward the far wall, “Over there. Thought I saw a blinking red light.”

He moved automatically, because his training didn’t disappear just because you looked hot as hell. His gaze swept the room, sharp and efficient.

His hands ran over corners. Checking inside vents and fixtures… and once again, nothing. Not even a suspicious hat that you’d sworn was a camera a few days ago.

“…I’m not seeing anything,” he muttered.

“Really?” you asked, stepping a little closer to him, batting those thick lashes that framed your pretty eyes.

Rex turned back to you— and immediately regretted it, because you were right infront of him.

Distance had been doing him favors. Up close, it was worse. The lace, the soft lines, the way you carried yourself like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. Not to mention your perfume. Sweet and warm.

His jaw tightened, clearing his throat nervously, “Yeah. Really.”

“Hm. That’s strange.” You say back, voice soft and just a hint of a smile on your lips

Rex narrowed his eyes slightly. Silence stretched between the two of you. Rex shifted his weight slightly, adjusting his stance but not entirely for tactical reasons. His pants were getting far too tight for his liking and you were going to notice if he wasn’t careful. He couldn’t afford to mess this up just because little Rex couldn’t keep his head in the game.

He cleared his throat, “You can’t keep calling me in here for this.”

“For what?” you asked, blinking up at him, all doe-eyed and completely not innocent.

“For—” he gestured vaguely, then immediately regretted that too, because now his hand had moved in your direction and his brain short-circuited trying not to notice everything, “—this.”

Your lips twitched, fighting a smile, “I can’t call my security head in the moment when I feel unsafe?”

“That is not what this is, unless you’re really just that crazy paranoid.”

You giggle, a sound that makes Rex’s heart stutter and you shrug, “maybe I just like watching you move around the room to keep me safe.”

Rex let out a slow breath through his nose, dragging his gaze away again. The wall. The mirror. The floor. Anything safe. Neutral. Non-revealing lace.

“Ma’am,” he said, voice tightening, “if there’s no actual threat—”

“What if there was? And you’re just doing your job and you’re sooo good at it.” You cut in, batting those thick lashes again, and dragging out your words in that cute way that does things to him.

He looked back at you, and what a big mistake that was. You stepped closer. Not enough to touch, just enough to close the space in a way that felt intentional. Pointed.

His shoulders squared automatically, like bracing for impact, “I, uh, I mean— it’s what you pay me for.”

Your smile softened, but your eyes stayed sharp. Curious. Watching him like he was the interesting thing in the room.

“You are,” you say again. “You’re very good at it.”

Rex swallowed, jaw flexing, and shifted again—subtle, careful, trying to keep everything under control. Including himself.

Which was… becoming a situation.

“You done?” he asked, a little more gruff than intended.

“With the security check?” you hummed, “Almost.”

He blinked, “Almost?”

Your gaze dipped— quick and deliberate, then lifted back to his face. And that nearly did him in.

“I just want to make sure,” you said softly, “that you didn’t miss anything.”

Rex stared at you. Long. Hard. Processing.

You were playing with him, right? Absolutely, undeniably, intentionally playing with him.

And the worst part? You knew exactly how close he was to cracking. You had to of based on that not-so-innocent smirk on your red lips.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand over the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” he muttered, “Didn’t miss anything.”

“Good,” you say, letting a couple beats pass before saying casually, “Then you can stay a second.”

Rex huffed a quiet, disbelieving breath, glancing toward the door like it was offering him salvation.

It wasn’t, “Ma’am—”

“Rex,” you interrupted gently. He looked back at you. Again. Mistake. Always a mistake. He should really know better.

Your expression had shifted just slightly. Still playful. Still warm.

But there was something else there now. Something a little more honest. A little less teasing.

“I asked for you, specifically.” you said, your lips popping a bit on the ‘p’ sounds

And suddenly this wasn’t just a game anymore. Rex’s posture stilled, the fight draining out of his shoulders just enough to be noticeable if you were looking for it.

He studied you for a second, like he was trying to solve something. Or maybe decide something.

Then he let out a slow breath.

“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “I noticed. Why exactly?”

Silence settled again— but softer this time. Less sharp. Still charged, but in a different way now.

He shifted once more, subtle, controlled, dragging himself back into something resembling professionalism before he did something incredibly stupid.

“I saw you on television a few times. I love a confident man who knows what he’s doing… and I thought a little forced proximity couldn’t hurt.” You admit casually with a little shrug, the epitome of a woman who is seldom told no.

“You like—“ Rex starts to parrot you, a befuddled look on his face, “I’m sorry, ma’am. What?”

“You’re hot. I have a thing for heroes. Thought I’d be able to shoot my shot if you didn’t have choice but to let me say hello. But you’re so different than what I read online about you.” You say, lifting yourself to sit on the vanity, pretty legs crossed as you twirled a lock of your hair around your finger, “I thought this would be an easy ‘Hi, you’re hot, I have a bodyguard fantasy cause I read too much smut online. Let’s fuck’ but you’ve just been SOOOO professional.”

You’re pouting now, legs swinging as your head tilts a bit. And Rex? He is in disbelief. This SERIOUSLY cannot be his life right now. In no way is this happening to him. He turns to scan the room for the simple fact that Ashton Kutcher must be about to jump out and punk his ass, to reboot that iconic MTV hit.

“… you hired me to… fuck you?” Rex finally asks, his mouth feels dry. He knows he’s hot, he’s slept with plenty of women over the years, but certainly none to your caliber. He knew he had game but certainly not to this level.

“Well of course not, Rex. You’re not a prostitute.” You say, that sweet little giggle leaving your lips, “I just meant, y’know, if you’re interested—“

He doesn’t let you finish that thought, stepping in closer, his large hands coming to rest on either side of your thighs on the vanity, his voice sounding practically relieved, “I’m interested, I’d be a fuckin’ idiot not to be.”

🔥✨💥✨🔥

The entire arena still vibrated from the show. Even three floors beneath the stadium, tucked away in the private underground garage, the bass lingered in the concrete like a heartbeat. Crew members rushed around loading equipment, security shouted into radios, and fans somewhere above screamed your name like a prayer.

Rex barely heard any of it. Because you were in the backseat beside him. Alone. Privacy divider up, and looking at him like you’d been thinking about this for the entire concert.

Which, judging by the way you had kept glancing toward stage left during the show, you absolutely had.

The car door had shut with a heavy thunk behind him as he climbed in after escorting you through the garage. The SUV smelled faintly like leather, expensive perfume, and the adrenaline still radiating off your skin.

You’d changed after the concert, thankfully. Or maybe not thankfully, Rex wasn’t sure. You looked sexy as hell in your stage costumes but the oversized zip-up hoodie you wore now hung off one shoulder, exposing the smooth line of your collarbone and the tiny remnants of glitter still dusted across your chest from stage makeup. Your thighs were bare beneath it, one leg folded underneath you as you turned toward him.

Rex sat rigidly beside the door. Too rigid. Like if he relaxed even slightly, he’d do something catastrophically stupid like he almost had in your green room.

You noticed immediately. A smile tugging at your mouth as you teased him softly, “You survived the show.”

“Barely.”

Your laugh lit up the dim interior of the car. God, that sound did things to him.

Rex loosened the knot of his tie with a rough tug, finally exhaling for what felt like the first time in an hour. Watching you perform after that conversation backstage had been torture. Absolute torture.

Knowing you wanted him while you danced under stadium lights in outfits that should’ve been classified as psychological warfare? Cruel and unusual punishment. Especially every time your eyes found him near the wing and send a smug little smile his way.

Rex shook his head, muttering something under his breath before leaning back against the seat. His suit jacket strained slightly across his broad shoulders, tie loosened now, rust colored hair mussed from running his hands through it too many times tonight.

You watched him carefully. Hungry, almost. Rex noticed that too. He’s had the same look countless times.

“Quit lookin’ at me like that,” he muttered.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to eat me alive.”

“Maybe I am.”

His eyes flicked toward you instantly, sharp and dark now instead of merely flustered. The tension from earlier hadn’t disappeared. If anything, it had fermented. Thickened. Become something hotter in the cramped privacy of the car.

You shifted closer across the seat. Enough for your knee to brush his thigh. Rex inhaled sharply, your perfume surrounding him like warm velvet.

Rex’s jaw flexed.

“You have any idea what you put me through tonight?” he asked quietly.

Your lashes fluttered innocently, “Me?”

“Don’t start.”His voice had dropped lower now. Rougher. Dangerously close to snapping.

“You get on stage after tellin’ me you hired me because you think I’m hot,” he continued, eyes locked on yours, “then spend two hours lookin’ at me like that in front of an entire arena.”

Your lips twitched, “You noticed?”

“Sweetheart,” he said with a disbelieving laugh, “I noticed everything.”

The pet name slipped out naturally. The second it landed between you both, the air changed.

You felt it and so did he.

Rex went still for half a heartbeat like he regretted saying it. Then your hand slid slowly onto his loosened tie and whatever regret he had vanished completely.

His eyes dropped to your fingers curling around the fabric.

“…You’re trouble,” he muttered.

“You still got in the car.”

“Part of the job.”

“Mhm.”You tugged him a little closer. Not hard by any means. Just enough to get him to move. And Rex let himself.

His hand planted beside your hip against the leather seat, caging you in without fully touching you yet. Big shoulders blocking the dim light spilling through the tinted windows. Close enough now that you could feel the heat radiating off him.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said softly, “and I’m gonna forget every single lecture Cecil gave me.”

“Who’s Cecil?”

Rex laughed under his breath, low and incredulous, forehead dipping briefly toward yours like he was gathering the last scraps of his restraint, not bothering to answer that cause honestly that man was the last thing he wanted to think about when you were sitting so pretty there under him like this.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, “how long I’ve been trying not to kiss you.”

Your breath caught slightly, plump lips quirking into a smile, “Sounds exhausting.”

That did it. Rex’s hand finally slid to your waist, fingers spreading against the soft fabric of your sweatshirt as he pulled you flush against him in one smooth movement. The sudden closeness knocked the breath from both of you.

“Yeah?” he asked quietly, eyes dropping to your mouth, “You gonna make it worth it?”

You answered by pulling him down the rest of the way, your lips pressing to his in a heated kiss. Teeth bumping and tongues exploring the depths of one another’s mouths.

It isn’t long before his hand is slipping up under your quarter zip, callused fingers trailing over ribs until his thumbs are brushing the underside of your breasts.

“What? No fancy lace to tempt me with now, huh?” Rex asks breathlessly against your lips, his hand gently gripping at your breast.

“No, those shows are so hard on my body. Nothing but this sweatshirt and comfy panties until I get back to the hotel to soak.” You explain back, your own hands slipping down the fabric of his button up, heading towards his waistline.

He huffs into your mouth, swallowing your moan as his thumbs roll over your nipples. His hips rolling gently into yours so you could feel the strain of his manhood in his pants before your hands get there, “you ever fight aliens? Shits real hard on your body.”

You giggle at his response, tracing his lips your fingers tracing the hard planes of his abs before quipping back, “You ever dance three hours in six inch stilettos?”

He groans this time, his hands pulling away from your breasts to push up the offending material, his head dipping down for his mouth to find your nipples. Rex’s tongue swirling around the sensitive bud while his fingers roll the other between them and switching.

Your back arches off the seat, chest pressing further into his face as he pulls the sweetest sounding moans from you. His hand leaves your breast, slowly sliding down your torso before slipping under cotton panties, thick fingers brushing through your folds, “shit ma, already this wet and I’ve barely touched you.”

“Been fantasizing about you since I saw you fight aforementioned aliens on TV.” You tell him breathlessly, a gasp passing your lips as he pushed his middle finger into your tight heat.

“God you sound so damn pretty.” He moans, feeling your cunt flutter around his finger as he gently pumps it in and out a few times, curling just right to find that spongey spot inside your velvety walls.

He adds a second finger keeping a steady pace, drawing out more of the sweet sounding mewls he wishes he could bottle and save for later, “fuck, that’s it, you like that sweetheart?”

You nod, one of your pretty manicured hands rubbing over the hard bulge in his pants, making him hiss and gently rocking into your touch and when you ask for more, who is Rex to deny you such a thing?

He pulls back, chuckling a bit at the whine that passes those pretty plush lips when he removes his fingers so he can pull the damp cotton down your thighs as he moves to the floorboard. His knees press into the carpet and his tongue drags through your fat lips, moaning into your pussy like it’s the most delectable thing he’s ever tasted, “God baby, taste so fucking sweet. Gonna drown in this pussy.”

His tongue and mouth work together expertly, lips sealing over the sensitive bundle of nerves and sucking gently as he adds his fingers into your tight heat once more, curling perfectly as he pumps them in and out, making you see stars with a dizzying pace.

“Rex, Rex god— don’t stop. Please.” You beg, egging him on as your hand finds home in that pretty red hair, strands tugging between your manicured fingers.

He doubles his efforts, tongue playing with your clit as your hips buck into his mouth until he’s pulling you over the edge, your sweet release making him moan in tandem with you as he drinks down every drop of sweet nectar.

All in time for a quick couple knocks to the privacy divider and the intercom to click on from your driver, “Ms. Y/N, we’re at your hotel.”

🔥✨💥✨🔥

The hotel suite was offensively luxurious. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one wall, the city glittering below like someone had spilled diamonds over black velvet. Everything smelled faintly expensive. Fresh linen. Citrus. Vanilla and lavender from some candle already burning near the soaking tub.

Rex barely noticed any of it.

He was too busy trying very hard not to think about the fact that less than thirty minutes ago, he’d had you tangled against him in the back of an SUV while your driver politely pretended not to notice.

His mouth still tasted like you but yet here he was hearing Cecil in his head droning on about professionalism.

Cecil was going to kill him. Actually, scratch that.

Cecil was going to make PowerPoint slides about killing him and make it an example for future recruits.

The elevator doors opened directly into the suite, and you stepped out first with the kind of exhaustion only performers seemed capable of carrying. The adrenaline from stage had finally started draining from your body. You looked softer now. Sleepier. Still devastatingly beautiful, unfortunately.

Your oversized hoodie hung off one shoulder, glitter dusting your collarbone in stubborn little flecks. Mascara slightly smudged beneath your eyes. Human. That was the dangerous part, really. Because somehow, seeing you tired made Rex feel something suspiciously close to tenderness, and frankly, he preferred being horny. Horny was easier.

“Massage therapist’ll be here in ten,” you muttered, toeing off your shoes near the entryway with a groan.

Rex blinked, “Massage therapist?”

You gave him a tired look over your shoulder, “Rex. I danced for three hours.”

That was fair. Actually, judging by the way you were rubbing the back of your neck, probably very fair.

He set himself near the door automatically, in some plush chair, his instincts settling into place despite everything. Scanning exits. Windows. Entry points. Still doing his job. Mostly.

You disappeared into the bathroom area, muttering something about washing your face and a quick shower.

Rex tried not to notice your legs when you walked away. He failed spectacularly.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, scrubbing a hand down his face.

Nine days. Nine days on this tour and somehow this had become his life. He’s not fighting aliens. Not stopping supervillains. No. He stuck being catastrophically attracted to a pop star who looked at him like he personally hung the moon.

A soft knock at the suite door interrupted his spiraling. The massage therapist.

Rex checked credentials. Did the quick security sweep because he took suspicious situations seriously.

The therapist entered with practiced efficiency, setting up a portable table near the windows. You reappeared a few minutes later looking freshly scrubbed and impossibly comfortable.

Hair damp around your face. No makeup. An oversized hotel robe tied loosely around your waist.

Rex immediately looked at the ceiling. Because somehow this was worse than the lace in your green rooms.

The lace had been distracting, sure. But this? This felt intimate. Domestic almost. Dangerous if he ever had to name the feeling.

“You staying?” you asked casually, “you’re done for the day if you want.”

Rex blinked, “For the massage?”

“You’re my personal bodyguard.”

He crossed his arms, “Pretty sure nobody’s assassinating you via deep tissue massage.”

A sleepy laugh escaped you, “What if the massage table attacks me?”

The therapist snorted, and Rex sighed dramatically, “You are exhausting.”

“But charming.”

“…Debatable.”

Still, Rex stayed. Because apparently his spine had dissolved somewhere between your green room and the backseat of that SUV.

You settled onto the massage table with a quiet sigh, face resting in the cushion as the therapist began working oil into your shoulders.

And immediately—

“Ow.”

Rex looked over. You were wincing, he’d imagined from the tone of your voice.

“Jesus,” the therapist muttered gently, hands pressing into a knot near your shoulder blade, “You’re carrying half the world back here.”

“Told you,” you mumbled into the headrest.

Rex frowned before he could stop himself, “… You always this messed up after shows?”

Your voice came out muffled, “Mhm.”

The therapist worked lower. You hissed quietly, “Back, calves, hips, My feet are the worst.”

Rex’s jaw tightened slightly. Because suddenly he was noticing things. The faint bruising near your ankle. The way your shoulders sat tense even relaxed. How tired you actually looked now that nobody was watching.

There’s no cameras. No screaming crowds. No glittering stage persona. Just the softest version of you. A person whose body hurt.

Something in his chest shifted weirdly. Uncomfortable almost.

“Sexy, right?” you teased weakly.

Rex huffed a laugh from where he sat in the armchair, “Little concerning, actually.”

You turned your head enough to peek at him. His jacket was off now, tie gone entirely. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. One ankle resting over his knee.

“Aw,” you teased softly. “You worried about me?”

“No,” he said immediately, making you smile a bit as he continued, “Maybe a little.”

That smile. God. That smile was going to kill him someday.

The therapist worked quietly while conversation drifted lazily. Tour horror stories. Stage mishaps. Rex telling increasingly ridiculous stories about hero work that sounded too absurd to possibly be real.

By the time the massage ended, you looked boneless. Soft around the edges. Completely melted.

The therapist packed up while Rex walked them out, double-checking locks out of habit. When he turned back toward the suite, you were curled sideways on the couch. Still in your robe, hair messy, looking impossibly comfortable.

You patted the couch beside you, “Come sit with me.”

He hesitated for exactly two seconds. Then got up and crossed the room. Because apparently he lacked self-preservation. The couch dipped under his weight, and you shifted closer immediately.

“You know,” you murmured, head tilting toward him, “I thought this bodyguard fantasy was gonna be mostly hot.”

“Mostly?” Rex echoed.

“Mhm.” Your eyes softened, in a way that matched your voice, “Didn’t think you’d actually be this sweet.”

Something about that landed harder with him than expected.

Rex looked away briefly. Scratched at the back of his neck, “… Don’t spread that around.”

You smiled, “Your secret is safe with me.”

Silence settled between the two of you, comfortable and warm. Outside, the city glittered endlessly. Inside, your shoulder brushed his.

“You looked worried earlier,” you said softly.

He exhaled slowly, “Didn’t like seein’ you hurt.”

You went quiet for a few moments, “Touring’s rough.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Still.”

His gaze dropped briefly as he thought about his next words, “To be honest? You spend all night takin’ care of everybody else.”

He doesn’t say who, you know. The crowd. Your Crew. Fans. He shrugged one shoulder, “Feels like somebody should take care of you for once.”

Your expression softened in a way he hadn’t seen before. Less teasing. More… vulnerable.

And suddenly the space between you felt smaller. Warmer. You leaned your head lightly against his shoulder.

“Stay a little?” you asked quietly.

Rex looked down at you. At damp hair, and sleep-heavy eyes. The faint glitter still clinging stubbornly to your skin. And something in him folded instantly.

“Yeah,” he said, voice quiet, “I can do that.”

🔥✨💥✨🔥

Rex’s hips roll into yours. Deep and slow, making your lowly tummy bulge. Not that he could see that from how his large hand pressed against it, feeling himself fill you.

Soft moans fall off your lips as you take his cock, he’s not sure you’ve ever looked more ethereal than you do now. Hair splayed out in a beautiful halo on the pillow, your eyes fluttered shut in pleasure based on the way your lips pursed in a pretty ‘O’ shape. Fingers gripping into the luxurious bedsheets.

“God, Mama. You’re doing so good. Taking me so well, sweetheart.” Rex moans softly, his free hand gently massaging your tits, playing with your nipples as he takes care of you sexually.

Your velvety walls flutter around his girth with each slow roll of his hips. Rex didn’t usually take things this slow, preferring to move fast and hard. This moment with you was turning into something awful close to love making, but Rex couldn’t bring himself to put anymore strain on this perfect body of yours, his lips worshipful as he kisses on your neck, pushing you slowly over that edge of euphoria once more.

The way your cunt clenches around him has his vision blurring, going white in pleasure as you mill him for everything he’s worth. Rex’s hips stutter as he spills deep inside you, thick ropes of hot cum filling your cunt until it’s spilling out and dripping down your ass.

The room had gone quiet. The city still hummed beneath the windows, distant traffic weaving through the dark like veins of light. Somewhere in the suite, the candle near the bathtub had burned low, lavender lingering soft in the air.

But here in your big bed in this hotel room? Here, everything felt warm. Safe.

Rex laid beside you now, one arm thrown lazily across your waist, the other tucked beneath his head. His hair was even messier now, freckles dusted warm across cheeks still faintly flushed.

You looked thoroughly melted. Sleepy. Boneless against the pillows. His thumb traced absent little patterns against your side before he let out a quiet breath through his nose.

“…You okay?” he asked softly.

You smiled without opening your eyes, “Mm. Think I forgot what my own name is.”

That earned a quiet laugh from him. Low and fond before he muttered, “Good, Means I did my job.”

Your eyes cracked open then, head turning slightly toward him. For a second, neither of you said anything. Rex just looked at you. At the damp hair spread over expensive hotel pillows. At the glitter somehow still stuck near your temple. At how relaxed you finally seemed for the first time all day. Something softened in his expression.

“You always this tired after shows?” he asked quietly.

You nodded a little, “Usually just soak alone. Ice pack. Complain to myself dramatically.”

His brows pulled together immediately, “Alone?”

“Mhm.”

Rex was quiet for half a beat, fingers reaching up to brush strands of hair off your forehead, “…Don’t gotta do that while I’m here.”

The words slipped out easy, like he hadn’t even thought before saying them. You blinked at him. Something warm unfurling quietly in your chest.

“That so?” you asked softly.

He shrugged one shoulder, suddenly looking almost shy about it.

“I mean…” his hand squeezed lightly at your side, eyes flicking away for a second. “Kinda signed up for takin’ care of you.”

Your smile turned smaller then.

Realer.

“Pretty sure this wasn’t in the contract… but I’m glad you agreed.”

“No,” Rex said, voice quieter now. “Guess not. But I’d be an idiot to turn you down.”

The city glittered outside. Inside, warmth curled around the two of you like something alive. You shifted closer without thinking, resting your head against his chest this time.

Rex’s arm tightened around you instantly. Protective like it belonged there. His chin rested lightly against the top of your head. And after a long moment, voice gone rough around the edges, he muttered:

“…You know, you’re kinda wreckin’ my life.”

A sleepy laugh escaped you, “Oh?”

“Yeah.” He sighed dramatically toward the ceiling, “Now I gotta pretend I’m normal tomorrow.”

You laughed harder this time. Rex huffed before continuing.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss into your hair, “starting to think I’m the one in danger here.”

And somewhere between your laugh and the steady rise and fall of his breathing, sleep started creeping in. The city still glowing below while Rex stayed exactly where he was. Holding you close, like maybe he’d decided he liked the job more than he planned.

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From your peripheral vision, you could see Neteyam walking toward you two, but as soon as you’d freed him, Nevan immediately scrambled down, his little feet pattering furiously across the ground as he ran toward his father. Neteyam dropped to his knees, his massive arms catching the boy, lifting him high into the air, making Nevan let out a high-pitched, joyful screech.

You watched Neteyam press his forehead against his son’s, closing his eyes as a fierce, protective rumble vibrated in his chest. But even as he held the boy, his eyes flew up, looking past Nevan’s shoulder, his gaze locking onto yours with a look that is so heavy, suffocatingly dense with a longing so profound it felt like a physical weight in the air between you. It was the look of a starving man staring at a feast he wasn't allowed to touch.

His eyes traced the curve of your jaw and the softness of your features, desperate to find even just a sliver of hint that you’re feeling what he’s feeling. But you didn't give him one. Carefully, you looked away, focusing instead on your son’s little kicking legs and on the way Neteyam’s large hands held him safely. You chose to see him only as a father, completely shutting out the man who used to hold you the exact same way.

It hadn't always been like this. That was the cruelest part.

Your marriage hadn't been a political arrangement or a hasty union, it had been a lifetime in the making. Your parents were part of Jake and Neytiri’s inner circle since before the first war against the sky people. Through the many times your parents would bring you to visit the Omatikaya, you had witnessed Neteyam grow from a lanky boy into the man he is now.

And he had known you were for him since you were children. Neteyam was never one to waste time or play games, so he had always stake a claim on you, and the moment you both came of age, he courted you with a fierce, unwavering devotion that made even your parents sigh. You were sweethearts as teenagers, inseparable and fiercely protective of one another. When he mated with you before his and your people, his eyes had held nothing but a future filled with you.

And, your pregnancy had been a dream. Neteyam was a doting, almost ridiculously attentive husband. He would spend hours rubbing soothing oils on your aching back, pressing his ear to your growing belly to whisper stories of the forest and your childhood escapades to his unborn child. He never left your side. You had no doubt, not a single one, that you were the center of his universe.

Then, the sky people returned.

And the man you loved was swallowed whole by the war. Suddenly, he wasn't just Neteyam. He was the firstborn of the resistance leaders, the commander, and one of the unyielding pillars that kept the people from being completely overcome by the RDA. He began leaving before the first light of dawn and returning long after you and the baby had fallen asleep.

For over a year, you lived as a ghost in your own home. You sat alone in the dark, rocking a crying infant, praying to the Great Mother that the next body brought back on a stretcher wouldn’t be his. You begged him, you cried, you pleaded for just one evening. “Just for a day, Neteyam. Stay. Be with me, be with our son...”

But his face would harden, that stubborn, unyielding Jake-Sully look taking over. “I am doing this for our future, my love. If I do not fight, our children will have no world to inherit.”

And then it all just crumbled on your son’s first birthday.

It was a simple thing, really. You had spent days gathering sweet fruits, weaving small toys, hoping against hope that Neteyam would remember. You waited until midnight. When he finally walked into the kelku, covered in war paint and soot, he didn't even look at the small, untouched feast on the woven mat. He just muttered about a successful raid on an RDA supply train and collapsed into sleep.

He had completely forgotten.

And you were hit with the realization that the man you loved was dead, replaced by a warrior who had no room left in his heart for anything but strategy and casualties. You had cried all your tears by then. The well was dry. You were just so profoundly, deeply tired. So, you talked to him about going back home, citing the safety your clan’s territory could provide for you and Nevan to make him agree.

“Baby, this is your home now...” he had told you then, his arms tight around you as he fit his head in the crook of your neck.

“I know, Neteyam. But the explosion was too close yesterday. I am afraid for Nevan. This is not a place where he can safely run around and... be a child. I do not want to lose him, too...”

“Too?” he had asked, his hands maneuvering you so you’d face him but you didn’t budge. “Baby, you didn’t lose me—”

“All evidence to the contrary, Neteyam. I haven’t shared a meal with you in so long, you weren’t there when Nevan first laughed or when Nevan first uttered the word Papa, you weren’t there when he took his first steps. I am a ghost in this home. It would make no difference if we are away, because you had been acting like you had no family to come home to.”

His arms tightened around you, his nose burying in your neck. “It would make all the difference. I am coming home to my wife and child safe and sound, and that was my solace—”

You struggled to remove his arms around you, but his arms were iron tight. Your heart throbbed with pain but you couldn’t even cry. “So, then let me go home. Nevan and I will be completely safe there, if that’s what you truly care about.”

“I can’t be away from you, yawne, you’re practically asking me to stop breathing. I cannot not see you and Nevan—”

“When was the last time you’d seen your son, Neteyam? You leave before he wakes up and comes back long after he’d fallen asleep. I think you can, Neteyam, you can stand not seeing us. As I said, it would make no difference if we were here, or we were back home.”

That was that beginning of you leaving him to his war. He hadn’t known it would be a full-blown separation... But he had long before set that distance between himself and you. You’d just gotten the memo late.

“Watch, Mama! My big splash!”

Nevan’s high-pitched voice snapped you back to the present. You sat on a smooth, sun-warmed rock by the riverbank, your hand propped on the soft woven mat laid beautifully on the grass. Around you were various food, pies, and fruits Neteyam had prepared. You could barely eat it without your throat closing at the grief of this not being a permanent thing.

You’d told him Nevan wanted to celebrate his birthday here, that he misses Jake and Neytiri, and he promised you it would be different this time. You told him not to promise you anything, and just show it to his son. So far, he had kept his promise. He had cleared his entire day, which is probably an unthinkable feat for the commander of the resistance. He had brought a mountain of gifts for his boy. Beautifully carved wooden toys that he probably spent the past moons making, a small bow, and a woven arm band.

Now, he was knee-deep in the crystal-clear water, his loincloth soaked, laughing as Nevan furiously slapped the water, sending a pathetic little wave toward his father’s shins. Neteyam exaggerated his reaction, falling backward into the water with a loud splash, making Nevan howl with glee.

For a moment, the illusion was perfect. You looked like a little family. Neteyam would look up at you from the water, a soft, hopeful smile playing on his lips, trying to pull you into the warmth of the moment. You would smile back politely, a distant curve of your lips that never reached your eyes. You were here for Nevan. Only Nevan.

Nevan waddled out of the water, dripping wet, and proudly held up a crudely constructed object from the pack you brought from home. It was a woven sheath of colorful leaves, bound tightly with vines, holding a cluster of bright purple orchids. You shook your head with a smile as you fixed the pack, wiping the puddle of water he left behind.

“Look, Papa!” Nevan beamed, shoving the wet flowers directly into Neteyam’s face. “A flower sheath! Uncle Maytel taught me how... how to twist the vines. They don't break!”

You searched for a dry towel in your pack, smiling as you watched your son speak, his little body trembling in excitement.

“Uncle... Maytel?” Neteyam echoed. The playful, warm tone in his voice vanished instantly, replaced by a low, measured cadence.

You blinked, your eyes snapping to him. Suddenly, you had become aware of how ugly that sounded in the ears of people who didn’t know. You froze for a moment, the air in your lungs suddenly feeling like liquid lead as you watched Neteyam momentarily narrow his eyes, the look of a formidable hunter spotting a prey. Or a predator sensing blood might be the better description.

“Yes!” Nevan replied excitedly, entirely oblivious to the sudden, deadly shift in the atmosphere. He had just opened a cage containing a predator, and he thought he was playing with a puppy. “Uncle Maytel... He makes the best ones! He is Mama’s friend... They talk all the time. See... This is pretty. Right, Papa? Look at Mama's hair. See? I can make that, too, Papa. I will teach you!”

Nevan pointed a chubby finger at you. You had indeed used a beautiful hair decoration to pin back your hair in a half ponytail, letting the rest of your wavy locks flow loose behind you, having no idea at all how the sight of you earlier today literally stole the breath from Neteyam’s lungs. You are so beautiful, always have been, but it hits him particularly hard now that he doesn't see you as often.

He has never been used to being away from you for so long. This is probably the longest he has gone without you, such that every time he sees you now, his heart starts doing the thing it did when he first realized he loved you: flipping inside his chest and then melting into a puddle.

You kept your face as blank as stone, waiting for Neteyam to look at youjust as his son instructed. Neteyam was standing up now, but he wasn't looking at the decorations on your hair. He was staring directly at you, and the look he gave you almost choked the air right out of your throat. He didn’t look mad, it also wasn’t the detached look of a commander. It was that intensely familiar, deeply possessive, primal look he used to give you when another hunter talked to you for a second too long during his youth. His eyes darkened, his lips tightening into a straight line as his gaze finally dropped to the decorations in your hair before snapping back to your eyes immediately.

“Is that so, my boy?” Neteyam said softly, his voice dropping an octave, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Yes! He says Mama is... is very beautiful!” Nevan cheered, completely ruining any chance of a graceful exit.

So for the rest of the afternoon, you made it your absolute mission in life to never, ever be left alone with Neteyam.

When you returned to the camp, you practically shadowed Jake and Neytiri. When Neytiri pulled Nevan onto her lap to feed him sweet fruit, you sat right beside her, suddenly intensely interested in what she has to say. When Jake took Nevan to show him the ikran roost, you walked right behind them, using your son as a shield as Neteyam followed like a shadow.

He stayed a respectful distance though, answering his son's hundred questions about the beasts, even the imaginary ones, coming up with the perfect answers for it. For a moment, you were back to being a teenager, annoying the golden heir of Toruk Makto with your silly questions and having him answer you with complete seriousness, as though he really thought about your silly questions like they were points for further research.

His eyes were a constant, burning pressure on your skin the entire time, and every time you glanced up with a neutral expression, he was watching you. Eventually, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purple. Neytiri, seeing how exhausted the toddler was, scooped Nevan up.

“He will sleep with us tonight,” Neytiri said softly, giving you a knowing, gentle look that made your stomach twist. She thought she was doing you a favor, giving you and Neteyam a night of privacy. “Go. Rest.”

“Oh, I can take him—” you started quickly, reaching for your son.

“No, no,” Jake chuckled, clapping a heavy hand on Neteyam’s shoulder. “Let his grandparents spoil him for one night. Go on.”

You stood there, watching Neytiri walked away, your son already fast asleep against her shoulder. Oh, boy. You watched the rest of the camp clear out as the rest of the people retreated to their homes. You didn’t turn to Neteyam, turning instead toward the guest tents, your pace brisk, but you didn't even make it halfway before a large hand gently but firmly gripped your forearm.

It wasn’t a harsh pull,  but his grip was unyielding. “Our home’s here,” he reminded you.

You glared at him through your lashes. “I haven’t forgotten,” you said in a clipped tone, walking straight into the shadows of your old home, and seeing that nothing much had changed, only that he’d put up photos on the wall.

And from where you were standing, you’ve seen one from his unilatron many years ago. With him painted in swirling marks of white and you, standing beside him with a huge smile. Another, at your mating ceremony, and another, a photo of you heavily pregnant. The last one was a photo of the three of you, with Nevan as a newborn, cradled in your arm, both of your faces adorned with brilliant smiles.

Grief seized your heart and you had to physical turn away from it, your hands balling into fist.