All na‘vi know their story. Of the time when the Omatikaya’s song was silenced.

When the fire came from the mountains and burned what was left of their forest, burned even their last tree of souls and left them with nothing but the ash of grief and the fire of hatred, the Omatikaya had chosen to leave the life they’ve known behind.

They say, the great mother did not hear their crying when the sky-people came to destroy their home. And she closed her eyes when rivers of fire poured through the valleys, burned down their last sanctuary and with it, all the hope that was left. And most importantly, their faith.

The Omatikaya were once proud people, respecting the balance of life and Eywas will. But that was many songs ago.

Now, all na‘vi know their story. They know of their suffering, their pain and their loss. And they know what this had made them become. That Toruk Makto had lead them through these difficult times, whilst their tsahìk spoke words no one had sung before.

She taught the people that Eywa had turned her back on them. That the Great Mother’s silence was not a trial, but a judgment. She would not come to help. She would not come to provide. Not anymore.

But the Omatikaya were not weak. Much like wood to an open flame, their hatred only made them grow stronger.

Soon, the old laws were reshaped, the balance bent until it cracked. They learned to live where nothing else grew. They took from the land of others, took from the people, took more than they could hold in their greedy hands and feed their never ending hunger. Hatred, once a warning emotion, quickly became a weapon. So the Omatikaya endured, but they were no longer what they had been.

They were feared where they had once been welcomed. Remembered where they had once been loved.

And what had once been a peaceful clan, had now become a warning to all.

You remember the stories as they were told to you, quietly, at the edge of the fire, always after the children had been sent away. These were stories meant to teach caution, to strengthen your own faith, like a reminder of what could happen if one were to disrupt the balance and violate eywas rules.

The air reeks of smoke, blood and old ash. The ground beneath you is hard and lifeless, as if even the earth has learned not to come here.

Your mother, the tsahìk, and your father, olo’eyktan of your clan, had been dragged away into Neytiris tent many hours ago and had not returned since then. Worry was gnawing at your very existence as you continue to tug and writhe against the rope binding your hands and feet together, pinning you to a charred down tree. But it’s useless. Aside from the horrible pain of your wrists and ankles being scrubbed raw by the rope, these knots did not budge.

Further away, the people of the Omatikaya moved in hectic, rhythmic circles around a towering fire. Its flames are fed too well, burning bright and hungry, casting warped shadows across their painted bodies. This is not a dance of thanks or mourning. It is a dance of ownership, of victory.

Neytiri, the tsahìk, stands closest to the fire, her silhouette sharp against the flames. Around her neck and wrists hang severed kurus, their tendrils dried and darkened, strung together like trophies.

Your throat tightens and you force yourself to look away. Among your people, to sever a kuru is unthinkable. It is worse than death. And yet they celebrate her, dance around the fire, around the blades she circles in the air. It’s hypnotizing.

Toruk Makto sits apart from the rest, close enough to the fire that its light glints off the metal weapon resting across his knees. You were taught never to touch such things, never to let their poison seep into your hands, your thoughts or your spirit. Metal was forbidden, it was one of Eywas rules. The first and most important one.

And yet, Jakesuli holds them as if they are part of him.

His posture is calm, assured. This is not a leader burdened by duty, but one who has long accepted what he has become. The great shadow of Toruk’s wings loom behind him, his skin scarred from battle.

Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you let your head fall forward until your chin rests against your chest and your braids slip forward to hide your face.

"Eywa ngahu, kìyevame srak nì’aw, slä oe tsun tivìran san oe lu… [Eywa be with me, even if you are silent, for my song still knows your name…]," Your voice trembles when you begin to sing, thin and hoarse from smoke and fear, but it does not break.

You sing on, letting the words trail into one another, softer now, the prayer dissolving into breath as tears swell behind your closed eyes. They spill anyway, tracking down your cheeks and dripping from your chin onto the hard ground below.

You’re so lost in your prayer, that you don’t even realize that you are not alone anymore, until a low, dark chuckle cuts through your voice, silencing you.

"Ah, look brother. A little birdy is singing a song for us."

Your breath catches sharply and you gasp and jerk your head up, braids falling back to reveal your face. Two figures stand before you, one of them tilts his head, studying you with open curiosity. The other smiles, slow and sharp.

"What is it?" the first asks, his voice smooth with amusement as he steps closer. "Are we not the ones you expected to answer your call?"

"Is your song not ours?" The other one continues, mockingly gentle as he crouches until his eyes are level with yours, tilting your head up with his thumb and finger pinching your chin. "You sang it so sweetly. We thought perhaps it was meant for us."

Anger boils hot beneath your skin at his touch. Before fear can stop you, you bare your teeth and snap at his fingers, jaws closing on empty air as he jerks his hand back just in time.

For a heartbeat, there is only the crackle of the fire and loud drums in the distance that sound so far away.

Then he blinks slowly, before he laughs loud enough to make you flinch.

"Oh, look at that!" He says, grinning sharply and his eyes bright with delight. "This one has fire." His laughter is genuine, almost pleased.

"Fire indeed," The other one behind him chuckles, low and approving.

Your heart hammers against your ribs. You draw back as far as the bindings allow, bark pressing painfully into your shoulders, and swallow hard.

"W-Who are you?" you demand, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat. "What do you want?"

The taller one straightens, folding his arms over his chest with an unsettling calm. In the firelight, you can see the markings of an Omatikaya warrior etched into his skin, newer scars layered over old ones, pieces of sharpened bone pieced through his skin, worn like decorations under red paint and black coal.

"Our mother has allowed us to look at our latest prisoners," he explains evenly, as if this was something casual to them. "Before they are sacrificed."

Your stomach drops.

"The others were…" He pauses, searching for the right word, then shrugs. "Less interesting. Nothing worth our attention."

The crouched warrior’s grin widens as his gaze drags over you, lingering far too long. "But you…," he says softly, voice lowering.

He’s purposefully not finishing that sentence, trying to make you uncomfortable, but to you it matters little anyways. You’re too occupied with thinking about what the other one had said earlier.

Mother? But that means…

Your eyes widened as you realized that these two weren’t just anyone. These were not just any warriors of the Omatikaya. They are the sons of Toruk Makto and their gruesome tsahìk. Feared warriors among their clan, brutal and cruel.

You’ve heard of them before.

The elder one is Neteyam. It’s been told, he is as skilled with the bow as his mother. He builds his arrows himself. The heads are carved to break bone and split muscle, dipped into poison to make survival impossible. He knows exactly where to place them so the most damage can be done with a single, precise release. And he could hit a target from any distance, moving through the forest without a sound. Neteyam does not waste shots, he does not miss and he does not need to watch the body fall. You are dead, the moment he aims at you.

The people say, the Sullys eldest hunts palulukan for fun, not for food or glory, but because he can. They say that the great apex predator of the forest, the one even seasoned hunters avoid, knows his scent and turns away from it.

Lo’ak, the younger brother, is another thing entirely.

You’ve heard that he dips his knife in poison too, not ultimately to kill, but to paralyze you. Everyone knew, that Lo’ak took enjoyment from playing with his prey.

But even from a distance, he was just as deadly as his brother. He had been trained by his father in wielding sky people’s weapons from a very young age, metal pressed into his hands as if it were just another toy for a child.

Apparently, he could name a gun without ever seeing it, just from the sound it made when it’s fired. They say he could take one apart blind, fingers moving from memory alone, and then put it back together again without ever opening his eyes.

It’s said, the brothers have learned to hunt side by side before they had even learned to speak.

Where Neteyam ended things with scary precision, Lo’ak made the pain last. One controls, the other destroys. And they don’t need to look at each other to know what the other is about to do.

Together, they were an unstoppable force. A dangerous duo.

And right now, their entire focus was on you.

"Look at her," Lo’ak calls to his brother. He grins, sharp and pleased, and reaches out again to cup your face and trail a thumb along your cheek. His touch is warm and possessive. "She’s so pretty, isn’t she?"

Your breath stutters at his words. Your entire body goes rigid, every instinct screaming at you to pull away, but there is nowhere to go.

"She is," Neteyam agrees softly.

That, somehow, is worse. His voice carries no hunger, no excitement, only quiet certainty, as though he is merely stating a fact.

"I want to play with her first." Lo‘ak whispers, licking his lips. He talks about you as if you aren’t even really here.

Play? Your eyes widen before you can stop them. Horror flashes across your face as you make up all possible scenarios of what his words could indicate in your head, which the brothers notice immediately.

They chuckle, low, amused sounds shared between them like a private joke. Lo’ak’s grin deepens, clearly delighted by your reaction, while Neteyam watches you with an unreadable expression, head tilted slightly, as if committing the moment to memory.

Then Neteyam steps forward. He places a hand on his brother’s shoulder and when Lo’ak glances up at him, he nods once toward the fire. No words. None needed.

Lo’ak clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes like a sulking child denied a toy, but there’s no real resistance in him. He pulls his hand back from your face at last and straightens to his full height.

Before turning away and following Neteyam, he looks at you one more time and winks.

Then, their silhouettes melt back into the firelight, swallowed by shadows, and you’re left staring at the empty space in front of you, heart still pounding hard enough to hurt.

For a brief, fragile moment, you let yourself believe that this was it. That they were just trying to scare you.

Later, when the fire outside has burned down to something lower and steadier, exhaustion finally begins to win.

Your head dips forward once, twice. But each time you jolt awake, forcing your eyes open again. You do not trust sleep here. Still, your body betrays you, muscles trembling from the long strain of fear. You are just slipping again, just for a breath, until you hear footsteps approach.

Immediately, you snap awake.

Two warriors stand in front of you, but not the same brothers from earlier. These ones are much older, their limbs thinner due to the lack of human genes in their blood, heads shaved bare and marked with thick scars that run over scalp and jaw alike. Their faces are hard and unreadable, eyes dull in a way that tells you they did not come to you on their own. Someone had send them.

Your pulse spikes.

Before you can speak, one of them reaches for the bindings at your wrists. Your breath comes fast and shallow as rough fingers work the knots loose. Hands roughly close around your upper arms and haul you to your feet.

You stumble, legs weak, barely able to keep pace as they pull you forward.

No one speaks and you do not dare ask what is happening.

They lead you through the camp, past dying fires and smaller tents. The night is silent, safe for the sound of feet on the dry ground. At the far edge of the clearing stands a tent larger than the rest, looming in the dark.

Your steps slow despite yourself.

Skulls hang from its entrance, some small, some far too large to belong to any Na’vi. Giant teeth are lashed together with sinew, forming crude arches above the doorway. Feathers, bones, bits of metal, decorations pulled straight from a nightmare sway softly in the night breeze, clicking faintly against one another.

The warriors at your side do not hesitate. They roughly shove you inside, past the animal hide that marks the entrance.

You stumble forward, barely catching yourself before falling, and then the flap drops shut behind you.

The first thing you notice is that the tent is warm. Outside, goosebumps had raised on your arms from the cold night air.

But inside, a small fire burns low at its center, casting a soft, flickering glow over furs spread thick across the ground. They’re dyed deep red and black, layered carefully. For a moment, the contrast is disorienting. It almost looks… cozy.

Then you notice the rest.

Skulls arranged along the walls, staring with empty eyes. Bones carved and painted, strung together in careful patterns. Metal chains hang from the high ceiling, catching the firelight when they sway, heavy and cold looking. There is no part of the space untouched by something taken from death.

Your stomach twists.

You take a hesitant step further inside, bare feet sinking into the furs. The tent is silent except for the crackle of the fire and you come to realize that you are alone.

Not for long, though.

The animal hides at the entrance rustle softly, then part, and two figures step inside.

Neteyam enters first.

Firelight rolls over him, catching on the broad plane of his chest, painted deep red. Streaks of grey ash follow the hard lines of his body. His loincloth hangs low on his hips, woven with painstaking precision, the patterns tight and symmetrical to match those of his cummerbund. Everything about him looks intentional and controlled.

His ears twitch and his tail flicks the moment he sees you.

Your eyes immediately catch on the marks littered across his body, bone and carved ornaments lining his torso and arms, heavy but balanced. From one earlobe hangs a thin metal chain, dark feathers threaded through it. It sways gently as he moves, brushing against his braids that are adorned with bones too. His gaze settles on you without surprise, as if he had been expecting this moment.

Lo’ak slips in behind him and the contrast is immediate.

The sides of his head are shaved clean, the rest of his braids pulled back into a low ponytail that is decorated with spines. Two loose braids frame his face, beads carved from bone and bullets clicking softly as he walks. His skin is painted much like his brother’s, red and ash, but where Neteyam’s markings feel ceremonial, Lo’ak’s look careless, almost playful, as if he smeared them on without patience.

Your eyes begin to wander despite yourself.

One of his ears is chipped, but both are lined with piercings too. But they’re are not bone. His are made of steel. You could tell by the way they reflect the firelight. Across his chest hangs a belt of bullets, resting against painted skin, and you wonder if these are part of his decorations too or if these are there to be used.

Your gaze flicks back to Neteyam, who walks with his chin lifted, shoulders squared. He looks like a man meant to be honored and feared.

Lo’ak sways as he follows, grin already pulling at his mouth, eyes bright with amusement, as if this is all just a joke, and a good one at that.

Fear claws its way up your spine.

You retreat instinctively, backing up as far as the tent allows until your calves hit the furs piled near the wall. Your heart hammers, breath coming quick and shallow, eyes darting between them as they move farther inside.

"Welcome, txeptsyip [little flame]," Neteyam says, as though this is a meeting long overdue.

His voice is calm. Pleasant, even. He folds his arms across his chest, rolls his shoulders once as if settling into himself and then looks at you with open interest. You can’t help but shiver as his eyes roll over you body before he holds your stare with warm intensity.

Lo’ak, on the other hand, moves immediately.

He takes two long, quick step toward you, too fast and too close. You flinch, but Neteyam’s hand comes out just as quickly, pressing flat against his brother’s chest. It stops him cold.

Lo’ak clicks his tongue, irritation flashing across his face as he stares back up at Neteyam. He leans back a fraction, shoulders loose, posture anything but obedient, but ultimately stays where he is. When your eyes finally meet his, the scowl melts into a slow, knowing smirk.

"What do you want from me?" you ask immediately, forcing the words out before your courage could fail you.

Neteyam’s gaze sharpens, just slightly. "We’ve come to propose a deal, txeptsyip. [little flame]"

Your brows furrow. "A… deal?"

Lo’ak laughs under his breath, rocking back on his heels like he’s enjoying this far too much, while Neteyam continues, "You have two paths ahead of you."

He lifts one finger.

"You will be sacrificed, like the rest of your clan. No one will mourn or even remember you, and your kuru will adorn my mothers necklace like all the others before you."

You swallow thickly. Then, he lifts a second finger.

"Or," he says evenly, "you can live."

Lo’ak’s grin widens as he adds, "with us."

Your chest tightens as understanding sinks in, and it’s almost nauseating.

"You mean like a prisoner or… a slave," you say quietly, already shaking your head.

Fear trembles through you, yet your hands curl into fists at your sides.

"I’d rather die," you whisper, then louder you say, "I’d rather join the great mother than live like this!"

The brothers laugh at your answer. Not cruelly. It is the kind of laughter that carries disbelief, as though you have said something naïve rather than brave. Embarrassed, your ears fold flatly against your head.

Lo’ak lets out a short breath through his nose then, shaking his head and Neteyam’s mouth curves into a smile as their laughter dies down.

"Slave," he repeats with a chuckle. "That might be the wrong word for it."

Lo’ak moves then, but this time, his brother doesn’t stop him. You suck in a sharp breath as he begins to circle you, feet soundless on the furs, his presence pressing in from behind, from the side. You track him with your eyes until he slips out of view, until you feel him more than see him.

"You think in extremes," he murmurs. "You forget there are other ways to belong."

Lo‘aks hand reaches out and a finger gently traces the curve of your spine, making you jump.

"You would have everything you could dream of," Neteyam continues, eyes sharp as they watch your face for any kind of reaction. "No more hunger. No more running from the vrrteps [demons]."

He steps in closer, voice lowering, almost intimate. "You would be protected. No one would touch you without our say. No one would take from you ever again."

Truthfully, he made it sound like safety. As if this was an act of kindness.

And for a brief, dangerous moment, your body betrays you, because it remembers what it is like to be cold, to be hungry, to sleep with fear curled tight in your chest. It remembers empty days and long nights and prayers whispered to eywa for protection.

The brothers see the hesitation flicker in your eyes.

Lo’ak smiles immediately. "See?" he says from behind you, his voice much closer than before. "You’re thinking about it."

You do. But deep down you know, everything they offer comes with an unspoken price. May that be obedience, gratitude or something else. A life wrapped in comfort, yes, but lived on your knees. Fed by the very poison Eywa forbade.

Before you could pull back, Lo’ak reaches for your hand.

His grip closes tight around your wrist, firm enough that you know fighting it would be useless. Your breath stutters, but you do not give him the satisfaction of struggling. He tugs once, guiding you toward the center of the tent.

The furs beneath your feet are impossibly soft, thick and warm. You’re so tired, only kept awake by adrenaline and fear, you knew you’d melt into them the moment you were allowed to rest on them.

Lo’ak releases your hand only once you are where they want you, fingers lingering just a moment too long. He grins at your tension, at the way your shoulders are drawn tight, your jaw clenched like it is the only thing holding you together.

"You would be no slave, txeptsyip, [little flame]" Neteyam says quietly.

He steps closer now, finally closing the distance he had allowed you. He stops at your other side, not touching, but near enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him.

"You would just be…," he brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear, "ours."

There’s warmth on your backside too, and you gasp softly when you turn your head and find Lo‘ak this close to you. He leans down, until his lips nearly touch the lobe of your ear.

"Ours to kiss. Ours to touch…", something warm and wet touches your ear, before you realize that’s his tongue teasing your lobe, "and ours to fuck."

Goosebumps raise all over your skin at his words.

Their bodies radiate heat, caging you in, and for the first time since they‘ve entered the tent, you understand something with sick clarity.

They are not trying to frighten you. They are trying to persuade you.

"No," you say, breath shallow but voice firm. "I can’t— I won’t!"

Neteyam’s expression doesn’t harden. If anything, it softens.

Lo’ak’s fingers brush your hip— barely there, a featherlight touch meant more to distract than to claim. It’s infuriating how gentle it is. He’s not brutally grabbing you, how you expected them to. Not forcing. Just enough to make you aware of where you are. Of who stands behind you.

Neteyam steps closer then, close enough that you could feel his breath on your skin. He lifts his hands and carefully cups your face in them, thumbs resting beneath your cheekbones.

"We’d take good care of you," Neteyam tells you, voice calm, almost reasonable. "We protect what is ours."

"And we never let it go," Lo‘ak adds, his smile sinister.

Your heart hammers painfully against your ribs. Every instinct screams at you to pull away, to bite and fight them. But another part of you, traitorous and tired, feels the pull of their attention. The certainty with which they speak, as though the world outside this tent no longer exists and it’s just the three of you.

"If you need proof of this," Neteyam says, tongue flicking over his bottom lip, "then we can show you."

The words are barely spoken before the space between you disappears. He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away— time you do not take. His forehead brushes yours first, breath warm against your lips, and then his mouth meets yours in a way that steals the very air from your lungs.

The kiss is firm, claiming and unyielding, but also controlled. Like everything else about him. The world narrows to the press of his mouth, the heat of his hands still cradling your face and his tongue as his slips between your lips. A small, helpless sound escapes you before you can stop it, but Neteyam greedily swallows it down.

Behind you, Lo’ak inhales sharply, a sound that borders on a groan. As if he were the one kissing you, sucking on your tongue, tasting your salvia.

"We’re gonna show you just how good you would have it with us," he murmured into your ear. "Belonging to us is a privilege not many have been allowed to."

Your pulse is racing. Your thoughts are tangled.

Lo’aks hands are still at your hips, squeezing soft flesh before they wander up higher, cupping your breasts. They’re so big and warm, and you feel each little scar on his skin as they impatiently rip away your top. Your too busy meeting Neteyam eager lips to do something against this, so you just gasp into the kiss when Lo‘ak begins to tease your nipples, rolls them between his fingers until they turn into hard pebbles.

"Mmmh, these would look so good pierced," he purrs lowly, kissing your shoulder and letting his canine rake over the nape of your neck. "I will put my mark on them soon, txeptsyip [little flame]."

As Lo‘ak kneads your breasts in his hands, Neteyam’s slowly move from cupping your face to squeezing your hips, gliding over your backside.

You don’t know who’s doing what or where anymore, but your limbs are becoming unstable and weak as both pair of hands explore your body. Heat was quickly spreading through your core, slithering deep in a place where you suddenly began to crave them.

Their low hums vibrated against your skin, surrounding you like a subtle lullaby. They were slowly caging you in between their bodies, more and more, until you began to squirm.

Sucked into an abyss of sensations, your head began to swim, until you were unable to focus on anything else besides their lips and hands all over you. All you could see, hear and smell was them. You were swallowed between them like a trapped bird.

Finally breaking the kiss with a gasp, your head falls back against Lo’aks broad chest as Neteyams hand sneaks it’s way lower and between your thighs. He cups your sex, feeling for how wet you are and then slides his fingers between your folds.

"You are very wet here," he groans, his finger rolling your clit easily with how slippery it was. Then he slides it lower, before he slips his finger into you in one, harsh thrust that makes you gasp. "But you are soaking here."

Your inner walls are clenching down around the single digit Neteyam thrusts into you, curling it slightly until you can’t hold back a long, drawn out moan.

"I want a taste," Lo‘ak says to his brother, his voice urgent and commanding. For a moment you fear they will start fighting over you, but then the older one slips his hand free from your loincloth and you pant heavily at the sudden loss.

It’s not for long, though, because he then spins you around so you’re facing Lo‘ak.

They work as one, starting to undress you by pulling down your loincloth and coverings. Neteyam settles himself down onto the furs first, maneuvering you so your head rests comfortably on his lap and spreading your thighs wide enough for his brother to settle himself between them.

His hands and lips are everywhere, kissing your cheek, nibbling at your earlobe, hands stroking your hair, as you watch Lo‘ak sink down to his knees.

The grin on his face is sharp and dangerous and you swallow to wet your dry throat. Raw nerves make your limbs shake, and you want to close your legs to hide yourself from them, but Lo‘ak does not allow it.

His hands glide along the inside of your thighs, keeping them apart. He kisses you there, kisses your navel and mound too. Kisses the inside of your knee as he drapes your legs over his wide shoulders. His teeth tease your skin, and when he bites into the softness of your inner thigh, you yelp in pain.

Neteyam keeps you pinned when you try to wriggle free, as if the pain had somehow managed to bring back the rational thinking part of you, the one that made you realize that this was wrong, so very wrong.

Your hands claw at Neteyam’s arms, but he coos softly into your ear, "shh, you will be fine. My brother is just teasing. We would never hurt you."

"That is, if you’re being a good girl," Lo‘ak adds from between your legs, licking the bite marks that are slowly turning purplish on your blue skin. Your tail thrashes against the furs, your chest rapidly raising and falling.

Behind you, Neteyam’s chest vibrates with a dark chuckle. You want to protest, want to tell them that you are neither their slave nor their pet, and that you would never be good for them. But then Lo‘ak grins and sticks out his tongue, ready to lick you there, yet is stopped short by the sound of your sharp gasp.

There, in the middle of his tongue, sits a small bead of steel. It reflects the light of the fire nearby, shiny and wet with spit, and your whole body goes rigid at the thought of it touching you.

"Kehe [no]— wait," you nearly choke on your own words with how hastily your force them out, "you— you can’t, it is forbidden to touch metal!"

Both brothers laugh softly at your words, neither of them giving you the impression that they were taking your pleas seriously. Instead, Lo‘ak just grins at you, his face continuing to lower until you feel his warm breath on your cunt.

"Oh baby, trust me. You want that metal to touch you," he murmurs.

"But…t-the great mother will—"

"There’s no great mother here, no eywa. Just us," Neteyam silenced you. "But you will learn to worship us all the same."

And before you could say another word, that metal is pressed harshly against your clit. The sensation of it is like no other.

"O-Oh!"

Truthfully, you expected it to be cold at first, but the steel is warmed up from sitting snugly against his tongue. It glides against your clit, rolls over and around it as Lo’ak expertly moves his tongue, and your back arches off the furs with how good it feels.

"See?" Neteyam chuckles. "We knew you would like it."

You’re so lost in the moment, you don’t even realize how hard your pressing your nails into Neteyam’s forearms, but he doesn’t seem to mind one bit. He’s just holding you, rubbing his nose along your temple, breathing in your moans and whimpers as his brother feasts on you.

Puckering his lips, Lo‘ak sucks your clit into his mouth until your thighs begin to shake from how quick you were approaching your orgasm.

"I can feel you shaking, txeptsyip [little flame]," Neteyam whispers in your ear. "You’re being such a good girl for him. Yes, keep spreading those pretty legs."

More moans where spilling free as Lo‘ak circled your clit with his piercing, before sliding it down and fucking you with his tongue. Between your thighs he was moaning, slurping up your arousal without care for how filthy he sounded. The more you spread your legs, the more he was pushing his face against your cunt, hungry for more.

It was mind blowing how skilled he was with his tongue. You had never experienced anything like this, and it almost made you forget about the circumstances that lead you here.

"If you want to come, you can just let it go," the brother behind you murmured with a soft chuckle. He was rolling one of your nipples between his thumb and a finger, lightly pinching and tugging to egg you on.

"When you are ours, we will make you come as many times as you want to," he explains, almost casually. "As many times as you deserve, txeptsyip [little flame]."

His words made you feel dizzy.

They were planning to keep you for their pleasure, but that did not mean your own would come short. They made that much clear.

Aware of every new twitch and shudder, Lo’ak was adjusting the patterns of his tongue accordingly, until you couldn’t take it anymore.

"I- I think I’m gonna come," you managed to force the words out between quick breaths.

A low, throaty groan that nearly sounded like a growl broke free from Lo’aks mouth at the sound of that.

"Do it," he growled, barely lifting his lips enough to detach from your clit. "Come for me, c‘mon. Let me taste it."

It was heat against heat, hot mouth against hotter skin. His sharp tongue flicks over your clit a final time, metal hard and hot against it, and then you break into a thousand pieces.

Neteyam holds you as you come, sucking marks into your throat and shoulder, while you claw at his arms hard enough to draw blood. He groans with you, enjoying the pain that your pleasure inflicts on him.

You breath in shallow pants as you come down from your high, suddenly feeling entirely too hot under your skin. But there is barely time for you to process what had just happened.

Quickly, too quick for your liking, Lo‘ak grabs your wrists and pulls you away from his brothers lap.

The grin on his face is a mean one, with the lower half of his face still glistening in your arousal, ash and paint smeared so the pretty blue color of his skin was now shining through.

Your brain isn’t even functioning properly yet again, when the younger brother pulls you into a dirty kiss, making you taste yourself on his tongue, swirling the tiny metal ball around your mouth and teasing your lips with it. He releases you only when you think you might suffocate because he leaves you no air to breath, and you gasp when he finally does.

"If you already enjoyed this small piece of metal," Lo‘ak says lowly, grabs your shoulders and slowly turns you over so your head was now resting on his lap while Neteyam settled between your thighs. "Just wait until you find out what my brother will do to do."

Blinking a few times, you stare up at the other brother with wide eyes. Your first instinct is to close your legs and sit up, but Lo‘ak has you secured against him, his wide biceps caging you in. His skin is almost hot to the touch, muscles like steel as you wrap your hands around his arms, much like you did to Neteyam before.

Your thighs are spread further the closer he shuffles between them, his hands holding them up by the underside of your knees. But he’s not looking at you at all.

Neteyam’s entire focus is on your pussy.

His head is tilted slightly, the look on his face almost fond as he admires you. One of his hands comes to lay on your mound, his thumb gently circling around your clit, before he carefully slides the little hood up so he could get a better view at it.

Your breathing comes out heavier then before, and your entire body twitches every time he comes to close to that little bundle of nerves.

His thumb slides lower then, teasing you entrance and carefully pulling your lips apart as if he was examining you. It’s almost too much for you, and you try to hide your face in Lo‘aks arms.

"Still so wet," he finally breaths. "Such a tiny, tight looking body that you have. I will enjoy breaking you in."

The chest that you’re leaning against rumbles with a dark chuckle, then Lo‘ak leans down to whisper into your ear, "he‘s been talking about nothing else ever since we caught you."

His words make you shiver as realization dawns in on you. This was never a moment of impulse or a whim born tonight. You were always meant to end up here, with them.

When they took your people, they didn’t spare you because you begged well enough. You were chosen. Selected by spoiled sons of a broken clan, raised knowing that nothing was ever denied to them.

The fire crackles next to you, and then Neteyam’s hands leave your skin in favor of untying his loincloth.

When the dark piece of fabric finally falls away, you suck in a breath. The sound is loud and impolite, and you immediately want to clasp a hand over your mouth.

The warrior in front of you may be adorned with bones, leather and other natural materials that are not so different from those of any other na‘vi, honoring his heritage. But there, along the base of his cock, sits something foreign and wrong.

"H-How many…" the words come out as a hushed whisper of disbelief, your eyes wide as you try and fail not to stare at him like this.

On the underside of his length, Neteyam’s cock is pierced with four rows of small, neatly placed, shiny metal balls.

"Eight," he says proudly, letting his hand glide over each one of them.

Without thinking, you ask, "did… didn’t they hurt?"

"They did," he smiles. "That’s why I got them."

You swallow thickly. Neteyam makes a show of letting his fingers slip over the piercings, squeezing the tip and huffing out a breath. His eyes are half lidded, pupils blown as he watches you for any kind of reaction, seemingly getting off at the way you nervously bite your lip. Your own breath hitches when he moves closer, your eyes fixed on the forbidden metal that dares to touch your skin.

The soft head of his cock touches you first, making the fine hair on your neck raise as he lets it part your folds and smear your slick arousal over your clit. You hate how good it feels, until warm steel touches you too, and you don’t know whether to cry or moan because that, too, feels incredible.

Neteyam slides his cock against you in lazy strokes, letting you feel each piercing, and your imagination runs wild with how these little bumps might feel inside you.

"I want to watch you take every single one of them," he murmurs then, and your eyes widen slightly at the realization that you are supposed to take him to the last row of them.

"N-No, I can’t!" You begin to struggle, but Lo‘aks arms remind you that it’s no use. One of his hands pinches a nipple hard, like a reminder to stay put and you cry out softly. "Don’t," the younger brother says, his canine crazing your ear. "I like a woman with fire, but we’re trying to play nice because you’ve been good so far. Don’t make us regret that. I’d hate to break my new toy so early."

You bite your tongue in order not to spit venom at him, but your face must’ve given your thoughts away.

Neteyam chuckles softly, "If you want to be bad, save that for next time, txeptsyip [little flame]. But we will not hold back then."

The glare you give them wavers, and it disappears fully when he begins to push the tip of his cock against your entrance.

The stretch that follows makes you suck in a breath. He’s thick and long, and the first inch feels like you’re being split apart. But it’s a good kind of pain, you’re wet and pliant after your first orgasm, so when he pushes himself inside, warmth begins to spread in your core as your body gives way.

But then you feel that first touch of metal, and your thighs instinctively want to jerk close around his hips.

"Shh, relax, you were doing so good taking me," Neteyam coos, his hands spreading your legs wider as he sinks further into you. The first row of piercings slips into you and your mouth falls open with a surprised "oh!".

Those tiny beads feel so foreign against you, so warm to the touch. And eywa forgive you, they felt incredible. The sensation was like no other as he continued to push, making them roll along your inner walls.

"That’s one… and two," Neteyam says lowly, licking his lips to wet them. "Come on, count them for me."

Your head spins. You wouldn’t have been able to even tell them your name if one of them asked you right now, but then he slides in a few more inches and you manage to breath out quietly, "three…f-four."

Behind you, Lo‘ak was whispering sweet nothings into your ear, words you couldn’t really focus on but they made you so much wetter and then, "five, s..ix."

Sweat was slicking your forehead as more and more of his length was pushing past your tight entrance. It felt never ending, filling you constantly until you thought there was no room left inside you anymore. You felt so full of him, until finally the last row of piercings slid inside you.

"S-Seven…" You whimpered and Neteyam let out a deep groan, "eight."

"Smart girl," Lo‘ak teased from behind, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face as if he worried you weren’t able to see just how deep Neteyam was inside of you. But even with your eyes closed you could feel him, could feel the heat as he breached you, the weight of his cock, the smooth tip again your cervix and the eight little beads of steel massaging your body from the inside.

You tried to swallow a soft, needy sound, that would give away how bad you wanted him to move, hating how good he made you feel, but unable to hide it any longer.

"Don’t forget to breathe," he grins, and you release the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. The moment you exhale, Neteyam withdraws from your tight heat, only to slam himself right back in.

Now you know why he’s told you to breathe.

The moan he practically fucks out of you is loud and embarrassing. You’re sure the entire village had just heard you.

And then, Neteyam begins to move. His strokes are hard, deep and on point, his pace only increasing as time passes. Every time he enters you, you feel his piercings so clearly and your moans turn more desperate with every thrust of his hips. His eyes roam over you, starting from where you were connected— in and out, his cock glistening with your slickness. Then your breasts, bouncing every time your hips meet, only supported by Lo‘aks hands squeezing and toying with them. And finally your face, lips swollen red from occasional dirty kisses, cheeks flushed and eyes half lidded.

Neteyam let out a grunt whenever he pulled back, before burying himself deep again, his cock knocking on your cervix as if he was made of steel too. There are words coming out your mouth, but you don’t recognize them as anything coherent. You think they’re curses, prayers, maybe even both.

You’re so lost in your pleasure, you don’t even realize that your eyes are falling closed, until Lo‘ak gives your cheek a few surprisingly gentle taps with his hand, jolting you back into reality.

"Hey, we‘re not done with you yet, txeptsyip [little flame]." He grins. "Can’t have you passing out on us now."

Lo‘aks hand then cups your face and squeezes your cheeks, forcing your jaw to drop, "yeah, that’s right. Open up for me."

You don’t know what possesses you in this moment to obey them so willingly, but when his face leans over yours, you eagerly stick your tongue out and let him lick over yours, before he let’s a thick droplet of spit land into your mouth.

It’s filthy and humiliating, and both men groan in perfect sync when you swallow down his spit.

"Fuck, you’re making me so hard," Lo‘ak sighs. The cock that’s buried deep inside you throbs in agreement and you mewl sickening sweet at that. Whatever it is that they’re doing to you, you don’t feel like yourself anymore.

This isn’t really you, missing your usual bite, your instinct to survive. This is a woman reduced to pleasure and nothing more. Just a hole for them to fuck. And worst of all, you were enjoying it.

Your head felt empty of all doubts and worries as you watched Lo‘ak move to kneel besides your head and then push down his loincloth to free his own cock. Your vision was slightly blurred from how hard Neteyam was thrusting into you, but you could still see the thin, polished ring of steel that was piercing through the head and the small slit of his tip.

Shuffling closer, Lo‘ak caressed your jaw with his hand, while he used the other to eagerly press his length against your lips, pushing until you opened up for him.

"C‘mon, suck my cock. Get it wet for me, baby."

So you did. Your tongue was stretched out as far as it could reach, and Lo‘ak immediately began sliding his length against the wet muscle. He tasted like ash and salty musk, heavy against your tongue and you moaned from deep within your throat before you slowly took him in your mouth.

"Fuuuck, there you go. That’s a good fucking girl," Lo‘ak groans at the sight, thrusting his hips forward to push himself deeper into your mouth. Your tongue begins to swirl around his head, tasting the metal of his piercing, teasing it, before you hallow your cheeks and suck.

Simultaneously, Neteyam was thrusting into you harder, pushing you further against Lo‘ak’s cock until you were beginning to gag on it.

Everything was too much —too good, too deep, too fast, too rough. All you could do was lay there take it.

Soon, the brothers had found a rhythm both of them were benefiting from, and you were moved back and forth only by the thrusts of both of them.

"Look at her. She is perfect for us," Neteyam chuckled from above you, your inner walls clenching down hard on his cock at his words. "Such a good, obedient pet."

Every now and then your jaw was hanging slack, letting moans fall freely when hands you didn’t know belonged to which one of them started rubbing your clit in viciously fast circles. Sometimes it felt as if they were both fighting for their place to make your feel good, and it was two hands rubbing against that oversensitive little nub.

Lo‘ak gave a loud groan whenever that happened, seemingly enjoying being able to just thrust himself into you until he hit the back of your throat, using your mouth in such a filthy, dirty way that it made your eyes roll into the back of your head.

"So eager to please and so easy to use," he agreed with a grin. "I don’t care what path she chooses, I want to keep her."

It was embarrassing how fast Lo‘ak and Neteyam could turn you into a trembling, whimpering mess. The squelching sounds they expertly worked out of you only added further to your humiliation, but also your pleasure. At this pace, it was impossible not to come. And both brothers knew that.

Soon, you could feel that familiar, addicting, tension building up in your core, stealing the very air from your lungs as you moaned around the cock in your mouth.

Higher and higher you felt that tension building, felt it crawl under your skin, a warmth spreading through your core. You wanted— no, you needed to come. There was no way around it. You found yourself having no control over this, just letting yourself go because it felt too good to care about consequences, or what was right or wrong anymore.

Metal and steel was beginning to poison you from the inside out, corrupting you slowly, turning you into this mess.

It was a buildup of tension that arched your back and curled your toes and just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, something in you snapped.

When you come, it’s like a wave of release and you scream.

It pulses throughout your body, making you moan, loud and lewd and you should probably feel a little embarrassed too, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Not when Neteyam was fucking you through it so good, his head falling back against his neck in pure bliss. And not when Lo‘ak was using the vibrations of your moans to get himself off of them, a fist in your hair to push you down his length.

You felt each of them pulse, and then there was nothing but heat. The heat of your own orgasm as it came crashing down on you, and then the warmth of cum flooding your insides from both ends as the brothers cursed under their breath, holding you down with greedy hands and making you take, take, take and then swallow, until you couldn’t take much more.

Lo‘ak was first to pull himself out of you, and immediately you were gasping for air. The salty taste of cum still lingered on your tongue as he bend down and shoved his own between your lips, leaving you breathless once more as he tastes himself on your tongue. There’s a brief moment of pain on your bottom lip, before he finally pulls back. You catch the glimpse of blood on the tip of his tongue, and when you mirror the way he was licking his lips, you taste copper of where he had bitten you.

"Sorry," he was grinning down at you, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip. "Couldn’t help myself."

Brows drawn together in a frown, a tiny part in the back of your head wanted you to sit up and finally do something— hiss, fight, scratch him, anything. But your limbs feel like molten wax, sticking to the furs like warm honey.

Still grinning sharply, Lo‘ak must’ve noticed, because he bend down to cradle your head in one of his strange, four fingered hands. But instead of helping you sit up, he was merely directing your gaze to what was happening between your thighs.

The older brother was still kneeling there, and only when the sight of his sweat slicked abs and his heaving chest caught your eyes, your core clenched around what you noticed was his cock still nestled inside of you.

As if he had been waiting for your attention, Neteyam then pulled out of you. He was doing it slow enough, you felt each row of metal graze along your oversensitive walls and a whimper broke free from you at the sensation. It was followed by the warm feeling of his cum oozing out of you after his cock had finally made way.

You feel wet, sticky and empty, and a fresh wave of shame washes over you as you watch Neteyam‘s mesmerized gaze, entirely hypnotized by the sight. Too tired to move, you’re forced to lay there and watch as he then raises a hand, collecting the cum that had dripped out of you, before shoving it back inside your cunt with two of his long fingers.

You nearly choke on a gasp as you feel them breach you in one fluid thrust.

"Ah-ah, I want you to keep it in there," Neteyam says, giving his fingers a twist that made you keen. "Until I have marked you properly, you will carry my seed so everyone can smell myself on you."

Once he had withdrawn his fingers, he brings them to his lips and licks them clean of you, his tail curling behind him as if pleased by the taste.

It’s the last thing you see before Lo’ak finally lets your weight sink back, your head resting against the thick furs beneath you again.

Before you know what’s happening next, they move with unsettling ease, one on either side of you, bodies closing in not to trap but to hold.

Neteyam lies down first, an arm sliding beneath your shoulders, steady and sure. Lo’ak follows a moment later, lazily stretching out behind you, his presence warm and close, like a living wall at your back.

Their hands are everywhere at once.

Cradling, stroking. Slow, absent motions meant to soothe you. Fingers trace idle patterns along your arms, your side, the curve of your waist, even your breasts. You hate how careful they are. Hate how your body responds to the warmth, the closeness, the simple fact of being held after all that had happened.

The fire crackles softly from somewhere behind you, and exhaustion presses down on you like a tide you can no longer fight. Your eyelids flutter despite your efforts, growing heavier with every slow breath you take.

"Sleep," Lo’ak murmurs. He nuzzles briefly into the crook of your neck, spreading his scent onto your skin. "You’re going to need it."

You feel a hand find your tail, fingers brushing along its length, teasing the soft hairs at the tip in a way that makes you shiver despite yourself. Neteyam leans in, his lips brushing your temple. The hand on your tail glides to its base, squeezing gently and your eyes finally fall shut.

The last thing you register, before sleep finally takes you out, is Neteyam’s voice in your ear, whispering softly,

"You belong to us now, txeptsyip [little flame]."

Honorable mentions of artworks that inspired this fic:

Credit: @xyla1181

Credit: @porpunta

Credit: @fisheyea16

Credit: @liam_nae2