neteyam x fem!human!reader
synopsis: you're a university student assigned to gather data on a rocky planet. when your spaceship crash lands on pandora, neteyam's the one to find and take care of you.
Part 1. | Part 2. | Part 3
warnings: semi-smut. helllaaa touchy feely, nipple play, handjob, human can breathe pandora's air, omatikaya!neteyam, neteyam's a little freakaye
As Neteyam tugs you along by your fingers, the air around you starts to change, shifting from humidity to something sharper, cooler, crisp. Misty in a way that sticks to your eyelashes. You round a cluster of towering trees, and practically jawdrop at the view.
He pushes aside some branches of what are reminiscent of the weeping willows from back home, and it’s almost as if a new space opened up. Like stumbling into a secret sacred room of a castle.
It’s secluded, a gorgeous body of water, a creek, a cove? Sheltered by overhanging branches, yet the water is seemingly endless, the little tinks of a waterfall spills from a high lip in the nature’s stone. The water is clear, but it’s not. It reflects the purples and greens and blues of the night, seemingly generating its own source of light. Everything is bathed in twilights of indigos, magentas, cyans. You can smell the comforting nagging scent of mint and wet stones and feel the comforting chill nip at your skin.
“Wow,” you breathe, genuinely a little bit breathless, ironically. “It’s so gorgeous here.”
He watches your reaction for a bit, not saying much, a soft, doting look back in his eyes. He lets go of your hand, which makes you feel a weird, instant pang of ‘come back’. He steps a few feet away, the blue light of the outdoors playing over the musculature of his back and shoulders.
“No one comes here when the sun drops,” he says, turning to you, stepping back a few paces. “It’s private.”
The way he says private sends a little flutter straight to your stomach. You look at the water, glowing, turquoise, seemingly bottomless, and back at him. “Private is good,” you mumble, feeling that icky feeling again as a bead of sweat rolls down your neck despite the cold. Your nerves are practically vibrating.. You’re really doing this.
You watch as begins to unburden himself. He reaches up to his neck, thick fingers working the clasp of one of the beaded necklaces he always wears. The way he moves so casually makes you feel even more like a clumsy, sweaty mess. His ears flick as if he’s listening to the distant sounds of nature, but his eyes stay tracked onto yours. It’s so intense, his stare, especially in the dark, when the stars on his skin glow, when the sharpness of his bone structure is highlighted so obviously.
He sets the necklace down carefully on a large rock, and then he moves to his wrists, unlacing his woven bracers one by one, the leather creaking softly. One off, then the other, his muscles flex each time as his pile of accessories grows.
He looks so unshielded when he’s finally bare, save for his loincloth. All that blue skin, unmarred by material. All that blue skin, decorated by the constellations of his freckles. All that blue skin that’s a physical pain to not be all over.
"'Can feel the water from here, It’s warm.” he notes, eyes scanning your face, catching on the way you’re probably biting your lip. A small, wry smile smirk lifts his lips, telling you wordlessly he knows exactly what you’re thinking and he finds it adorable. “Are you afraid of a little water?” he asks, the bone of his brow quirking.
“Not even,” you retort, wriggling your toes against the softness of the ground beneath you. “I’m just appreciating it. It’s a lot prettier than where I usually wash.” you admit, shifting your weight from one foot to the other in nerve.
“It is better than tile, I think,” he agrees, taking a few steps forward. He beckons his fingers invitingly, turning when you don’t take his hand for 2 seconds too long for his liking. “Come. You will remain sweaty if not.”
You huff at his teasing words. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” You look at his palm, warm, inviting. Look at him, then the crystalline water. Half stripped of his finery, he looks like some kind of god in the moonlight. You’ve never wanted to jump into a pool of water more in your life. Pandoraland, man. You really outdid yourself tonight.
He takes his first steps. The shore isn’t so much of a shore- it’s more like a foot or two deep dip, progressing deeper as the water reaches a central point and beyond. He turns to you again, taking one small step backwards, hand still outstretched.
“Come on,” he says again, a little more coaxingly. The sureness in his stance is so him. Confident, and just a little bit bossy, exactly the way you like it.
You take some pitiful, teeny steps closer to the surface. “Would now be a bad time to tell you I can’t swim?” you ask, clearly joking, even more clearly trying to get a rise out of his stoicism. You reach out to finally grab his hand, letting your five fingers coil around his pointer only.
The look he gives you is absolutely priceless. His ears react before his face can catch up, shooting up and tilting outward. When his features do catch up, ‘Are you for real?’ is written all over his expression. His yellow eyes search your face to see if you’re being serious before he catches the gargled giggle bubbling in your throat.
“You cannot swim?” he asks, egging the bit on despite knowing damn well you can. “Did you not study the water in your schooling?”
“Studying it does not equate to being in it,” you giggle, but you still take that first tentative step into the water. You hold his hand like it’s a literal floatie as your toes meet the warm surface.
The temperature is perfect, like a warm hug that immediately starts to melt the grit of the day off your skin. He shifts his grip, his large fingers curling around your hand to provide a much more secure anchor. He begins to back into the pool slowly, drawing you with him.
As the water rises past your ankles and climbs toward your knees, you feel the sweat, pollen, and the rest of the day’s grime start to dissolve off your skin. It looks almost as if the bioluminescence reacts to your movements, swirling in glowy circles around your legs.
It rises past your calves, then your thighs. For Neteyam, it’s not even past his knees yet. “‘Won’t let you sink, I promise. I’m a good anchor.”
“Modest, too,” you mutter, but you’re inwardly more than grateful for the grip. He leads you further in, walking as if he belongs in the water- completely unfazed. When you’re finally deep enough that the water is swirling right at your chest, he stops. The warmth is incredible, making your muscles loosen like jelly.
He gazes down at you. He looks so raw without his necklace or bracers. From the top of your view, he’s bare. So, so blue.
“Is the water okay?” he asks softly, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the back of your hand. “Not too hot?”
“No, it’s perfect,” you whisper, letting your eyes flit up to his. You feel so freaking tiny compared to him in here, especially with the water level so much higher on you. “I feel a lot better already. You were right.”
“I am usually right,” he teases, bumping his arm gently against your shoulder. He looks around at the quiet, shimmering water, then back at you, his expression turning a bit more thoughtful. “Less icky?”
"A little," you admit, your voice sounding small in the vast cathedral of the trees. You look around the secluded spot too, at the weeping vines and the silver falls… at the way the stars seem to be watching you through the trees. "It’s... it’s okay. I guess," you add, suddenly prickling with a flow of nerves.
He scoffs softly, his ears flicking with amusement, back and forward. "Just 'okay'?"
He shifts, taking a few more steps forward, lightly dragging you along with him. He looks back at you after a moment, displaying the sharp line of his profile before his eyes. “I could stay here,” he confesses, slowing to a light trudge. “Just here. Away from the talk of the elders. Away from the duties.” he stops again, your arm stretched a bit at his distance. He lets out a relieved sigh, seeing you in the face again, framed by the shimmery light. “With you.”
His vulnerability almost stings. Likely, this is probably one of his few times of relaxation. Letting the water lap at him and wash the day away. Something he likely did alone, many times before. Now, something he can share with you, someone new. Your nerves settle into something more warm, more certain.
“Me too.” you tell him with a light nod. And you mean it, you do. You’d want nothing more than to stay with him like this all day, all the time.
You take a cautious step deeper into the water, your fingers still curled tightly around Neteyam’s large hand as if it’s the only solid thing left in the world. He begins to walk backward, his movements fluid drawing you further into the middle of the pool. Beneath your toes, the floor transitions from silken silt to smooth, rounded river stones that feel like warm marble or the stones masseuses place on well-to-do women’s backs.
The depth increases, raising to your collarbone. Just so, the buoyancy starts playing tricks on your balance. You feel a lightheaded floatiness, and for a moment, your foot skims over a particularly slick stone, causing you to wobble and flail and arm out slightly. “Whoa-” you choke out with a giggle.
Neteyam catches your wrist before you can tumble, his other hand hovering near your waist just in case you decide to take a dive. “Easy,” he chuckles, waiting for you to find your footing again.
You steady yourself, digging, almost clenching your toes into the soft sediment between the rocks until the water settles back down to chest height. You take the last few steps toward him, with the resistance of the water making every movement feel like it's happening in slow motion, or against your will. But getting closer to him? That’s definitely in your will.
You finally get close enough to your liking, knowing he’s likely following you with his eyes and watching how much of a slow poke you are. You stop when the heat of his chest begins to compete with the warmth of the water. The droplets on his skin look like pearls in the sapphire light. You look up at him, your hair damp at the ends and the mist from the falls clinging to your eyelashes. You feel small, wet, and incredibly giddy and even more happy.
“Hi,” you whisper, the sheepish grin tugging at your lips.
He lightly, comfortingly scratches his nails against your wrist. “Hey,” he replies, a little raspy from his laughter.
“We’re showering together.” you note, shifting from one foot to another, enjoying the way the water is forced so slosh around at your movements.The word showering feels kind of small and inadequate, though. Showering, that’s recycled water falling from a metal pipe in a sterile stall. This is so, so much more, with the air kissing your skin and the submersion into the land grounding you.
“Mhmm,” he murmurs. You watch as his eyes zero in on a bead of water falling down your cheek.
His nonchalance is almost offensive. You’re a whole ball of apprehension, wanting desperately for things to progress. And he’s acting like this is so normal. He finally lets go of your wrist, only to bring his hand into the warm water. He scoops up a palmful, letting it pour slowly over his opposite shoulder, the liquid shimmering like crystals as it cascades over the smudge of pigment he hadn’t quite managed to scrub off earlier.
“You were icky,” he reminds you, a little bit teasingly. “And I was told by my sisters that I was being grumpy. Maybe the water will fix both.”
You nod in agreement, mumbling a noncommittal yeah. You’re too distracted, watching mesmerized as he reaches up to his braids, running a large hand through them, wetting the strands a little more. The muscles in his shoulders bunch, belying the strength that he doesn’t dare use on you, in fear of harming you in any fashion. “You’re sure you are comfortable?” he asks, letting his eyes flit again to yours. You swear your toes curl against those pebbles. “Are things aesthetic enough?”
You surprisedly scoff. He’s definitely making fun of you now, specifically the word you’d spent 10 minutes explaining to Kiri and Tuk the day before at breakfast. His accent weaves around it, making it sound more like a foreign exclamation instead of something girls hashtag under their mundane nature photos. He reaches out again. You think he’s going to grab your hand again, but he contrastingly uses the side of his hand, splashing a small arc of water toward your shoulder. It dribbles down into your top.
“Stop!” you giggle, splashing him weakly with a wave of your hand. “You’re gonna get it,” you grumble, the lightness breaking through your nerves. You scoop up a double handful of the glowing liquid, ready to retaliate. You furrow your brows disapprovingly at the way he’s all shits and giggles, chest heaving in a delighted laugh at his own antics.
“Say you’re sorry,” you threaten, though the effect is somewhat dwindled by the way that half the ammunition is already leaking though your finger in clumsy, glowing drips, splashing back into the pool of water harmlessly.
He watches the droplets slip through your palms with a slow, feline tilt of his head. He makes no moves to defend himself, letting his hands rest loosely at his sides beneath the surface. He’s looking at you like you’re the most entertaining thing he’s seen in all his years on Pandora. The quiet, ambient noises of the nature around makes the soft plip-plop sound louder than a jet.
“I am sorry,” he says, so amused that it’s a total lie.
“That your pitiful feet can’t hold you upright.” he chuckles, making a show out of shielding himself after his oh so gut-wrenching, oh so heart shattering insult.
“You’re a brat!” you huff, finally just tossing the remaining palmful at his chest. It barely makes a sound as it hits the blue of his skin, merging instantly with the moisture already there. He widens his eyes a dramatic amount, laughing even more at your feeble attempts. A drop of water falls from your hair onto your lashline, annoyingly making you close an eye, leaving only one available for you to scowl at him.
His hand cradles your face in an instant, letting his thumb wipe the moisture away, coaxing your eye back open. "Good now?” His thumb circles lightly at your temple.
You look up at him a bit more. You know you should probably back away, but the warmth of his palm against your chilled cheek renders you a moth to a flame. "I think you missed a spot." you mumble, shaking your hair a bit, willing more droplets to slide down your cheeks.
God, you are so easy, it's actually funny. Just flirting it up.
A knowing smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. "I will be sure to find them all," he promises, letting his thumb sweep a wider streak along your face to catch all of it.
You really don’t know what way he meant his words to be interpreted, but the way you chose made your surroundings feel scorching. You reach up to scrub at your arms as his hand falls from your face, trying to reclaim some sense of normalcy. Of course, your movements are clumsy and uncoordinated. Your fingers slip and slide over your own wet skin, and your eyes keep traitorously drifting to the way the turquoise of the light catches the beads of water on his collarbone, tracing the sharp lines of his frame.
He really does have to help you with everything, doesn’t he? So helpless. His hand disappeared above your for a moment, in the wild flock of the vines above. He plucks some sort of plant, translucent with an almost lilac hue. Glowing, of course, like everything else in the vicinity. He squeezes it slowly, without much effort at all. Crushing it, a thick, floral scented sap oozes out, blooming into a rich lather between his palms. “Let me,” he muses, the scent of jasmine and lavender notes drawing closer in tandem with his fingers.
Sillily, you’re about to protest, wanting to at least have that for yourself. Being able to wash your body without his help. But you know you want him to, and you know you’d work much harder to bathe on your own if that’s truly what you desired. So you let him bring his hands to his shoulders, spreading the lather over the expanse of your skin. Although the bubbles are cool, his palms feel almost scorching in contrast. He lets his thumb trace the structure of your collarbone before he begins working the soap into your skin.
You mumble a strained, restrained thank you, unable to let your eyes tear away from him. You feel him everywhere yet nowhere near enough. Over the slope of your neck, your adam’s apple. His ears slump comfortably, though he is not listening to you any less. He can hear you down to the way your diaphragm frantically moves to accommodate the shaky breaths you’re trying to hide.
He moves his hands down your arms, his fingers sliding over the crook of your elbows with utmost care. You feel yourself jolt every time he touches a new place, places he’s never touched you before. Your upper arms and lower. Back to your wrists, finally. Something familiar that doesn’t make your nervous system cry out. He’s so much more vital, a unit, yet he moves with an amount of gentleness that’s almost more effective than his strength could ever be.
He lets his fingers, the four of them, circle each of your wrists, stroking the soap into the grooves of your skin. You hold them out yourself, like you’re some kind of ragdoll or poppet that’s completely at his mercy. Your eyes, so trained on the hardness of his chest, don’t notice he’s looking again at your face until you hear that accented voice once more.
“I have missed you all day,” he confesses, the words sounding ragged. As if he was fighting to hold them down and lost to his own body. “I-The family, the clan. They were so lively, yes.” His fingers continue their slow, grounding movements at your pulse points, as he continues. “But I could not manage to get you off my mind. I heard their laughs and longed for yours.”
Hearing his words is like a mirror being held to your own thoughts. You know there’s so much about him you don’t know, that you desperately want to learn. And despite it all you missed him. A lot more than you would a stranger. It feels, to you, that he was never a stranger. Not even when you first opened your eyes to his face. Not a stranger. Not even a little bit.
“I missed you too,” you tell him, the admission feeling sweet as it leaves your tongue. “A lot.”
His ears, once slanted neutrally, relaxed, perk up as if the words were music to his ears. “Really?” he asks in a pleased grunt.
Behind him, you hear a soft slish-slosh in the water. You peek around his arm just a taste, seeing his tail wagging underneath the surface of the water, totally giving away the stoicism he likes so much to uphold. The movement displaces the cyan water in ripples that tease your legs. His soft smirk turned into a full fledged smile, boyish and entirely too handsome.
“Do tell me how much,” he prods, his tone shifting into something playful yet deeply expectant. He’s really fishing for it now. He knows the ache he felt for you while he was away. Wants nothing more than you to put a measurement on yours for him.
But in doing that, you’re put terribly on the spot. Your breath is a little more shaky when you smile back. You feel a little urge to guard your heart just a bit longer. Hold out a little more.
“Shh, no,” you say, dismissing his smug inquiry. “It’s.. a secret. I’ll make your head big if I tell you.” you reason.
“I think I can handle a little more pride.” he assures, letting his hands run up and down your wrists in a stroking motion. “If it comes from you.”
His hands are doing funny, funny things to your resolve, and his words don’t help. Seeking some kind of shelter from the tension, you reach for the only label that feels safe, even if it fits like a garment three sizes too small.
“I’m happy we became friends,” you settle to say. The words sound fragile, like glass that’s waiting to shatter.
You feel his hands start to move again, sliding up from your wrists to your forearms, then higher to focus on the bend of your arms. You look up at him, your head tilted back, and the lie of the word tastes bitter in your mouth.
You know damn well he isn’t a friend, and you quite truly can’t think of a moment since you opened your eyes that you ever only wanted to have him as a companion.
He isn't a friend. He hasn't been a friend for a long time. He is the heat in your blood and the reason you look at the stars and feel like you're finally home.
“Me too,” he replies, but the words fracture at the ends, his voice cracking almost imperceptively. The label of friendship is a thin, translucent veil between you, stretched so taut it’s become obsolete.
His hands reach the apex of your shoulders again, washing in soothing circles, the suds collecting all the pollen and dust from your skin. The feel of his palms moving against your skin is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, the smooth friction seemingly reaching beneath the surface of your flesh, soothing your very bones. It feels good in a way that makes your thoughts scatter, and you find yourself leaning into the pressure, surrendering to his hands.
As he continues to work the silken lather over the curve of your shoulders, his movements become slower, more contemplative. He seems fascinated by the texture of you, the way your human skin reacts to his touch, flushing a deeper color at his manipulations.
"How did you do this... at your home?" he asks softly.
The question pulls you back to some days ago. You look down in thought, watching your feet as they appear slightly blurred under the glow. The smooth stones shift between your toes, organic, yielding, unlike the memory of the cold tiles you’ve been so used to. You shift your gaze back forward.
"It was... different. It was always indoors," you say, your voice calm but tinged with a slight realization of how much has changed, how much you’ve changed. "The water comes from a metal spout. It fell in a straight line. I’d use soap from a plastic bottle, a towel to lather or to dry off, and just... my own hands. It wasn't like this."
You don't say the rest. That it was lonely, that it was mechanical, that it lacked the intimacy and connection of the world you’re now engulfed in. Neteyam can connect the dots, his expression softening with an observant empathy at your tone.
"It sounds quiet," he murmurs, his thumbs ghosting over the tops of your shoulders. "And very cold."
"It was, a lot of the time." you admit.
Instinctively, you lean further into his touch, seeking the heat of his chest. Your eyes flutter shut, the darkness behind your lids turning into swirling violets and indigos. Without the distraction of sight, your other senses heighten. You hear the melodic chime of the distant, trickling waterfall and inhale the clean, flowery scent of the soap. Most of all, you feel the way he’s touching you.
His slick hands glide upward, moving slowly over the slope of your shoulders, tracing the tendons of your neck, the length of your throat. He works the soap into your skin, splaying his fingers out to cover as much of you as possible. Lets the pads of his thumbs graze the sensitive skin beneath your jawline with a slow pressure. Gradually, his hands migrate further. When he reaches the nape of your neck, his fingers tangle gently into the wet, baby-fine hair at your hairline, massaging the base of your skull in a way that makes you feel like putty.
He lingers there, letting his large palms cradle the back of your head as if you were something precious. Something invaluable.
He whispers your name, tentatively. “Have you ever bathed with someone else before?"His tone was curious, hesitant, but the question was almost in a way possessive.
You tilt your head back a little more against the cradle of his hands. “Well, yes,” you answer, trying to keep your voice steady. “My family… when I was very young. It’s what we did before I could do it myself.”
His fingers flex, his grip tightening just a fraction as he rubs deeper into your hairline.
“I do not mean your kin.” you can feel his breath ghosting faintly over your forehead. He bowed his head to look at you better, to study your close-eyed, relaxed expression. “I mean… recently. With a man? Have you?”
It’s blunt, his question, but he’s never been one to beat around the bush. He’s looking for a history, or the lack of it. Something to quell his uncertainties.
You open your eyes just a sliver, meeting the dandelion yellow of his. You offer him a wry grin as you twiddle your thumbs beneath the water. “No,” you whisper in absolute truthfulness. “I haven’t.”
You can almost see the relief wash over his face. You can see a dip in his cheek from where he’s biting it, trying to stifle his smile.
“Good,” he drawls, almost with a sort of authority that you’re not at all mad at.
He uses the anchor of his hands to gently tilt your head back further, to your comfort. “I do not think I would have liked the answer to be otherwise.” he admits to you. You let your lids fall closed again, the stupid smile just slithering onto your lips at that. “Your men face a loss.”
"More for you, then," you murmur lazily, the words coming out soft and sleep drunk. You lean your head back more languidly against his palms.You feel heavy, your limbs turning to leaden silk in the warmth of the pool.
“Mhmm.” he hums, thumbing your neck. “Much more for me.”
He likes that. He likes it far too much.
“And you?” you ask softly and a little slurred. “Have you showered with a girl before?”
Your eyes are closed, yet you can still feel his burning into your eyelids. His expression softens a little more thoughtfully. “Only you.” he promises, simply.
And you like that. Farrrr too much.
His hands, still slick, shift their focus from your nape to your scalp. His long fingers slide upward and disappear into the wet mass of your hair. He begins to massage, slowly and methodically, working toward the center.
It’s a sensation unlike anything you’ve ever felt. His touch is firm yet remarkably sensitive, kneading into the tension pounds at the crown of your head, letting his fingertips scrape lightly at your skin. Feels so good, going down your spine to the tips of your toes. Almost like he’s smoothing out the rough edges of your thoughts into something more malleable he can fit into.
A wave of heavy relaxation washes over you, a feeling so nostalgic that it awakes an ache. You haven’t been cared for like this, so wholly, since you were a little girl, sitting on the floor while the tangles were brushed from your hair. You felt like you were truly, in every way, surrendering. You felt little, not in a way that diminished you, but that made you feel protected and cherished by something so much greater than you.
He lets his fingers move in soothing circles, and without meaning to, a soft mewl of satisfaction escapes your throat. A sound so quiet it should have been lost in the pattering water, but to Neteyam’s pointed ears, it was as clear as a shout.
Yeah, so much for being relaxed. Your eyes snap open, your face as if on cue filling up with blood. The muscles in your neck tense, lifting you ever so slightly from his hands. You’re terrified that you’ve made things weird, likely scaring him away in the process. That you had crossed a line that you didn’t even know existed.
Neteyam, to your surprise, didn't do as much as flinch. He slows his fingers, watching the play of emotions on your face. His ears went erect again, almost like he was savoring the sound. “Mawey,” he coaxes, running his nails lightly along your sensitive skin again. Be calm. “Your body knows when it’s being tended to. You don’t have to hide from me.”
Your brow quirks, and you still scan his face for any sort of discomfort or judgement. Nope. None.
Shizzle. Did he maybe, not hate that?
The realization makes a little giddiness blossom in you. You nod wordlessly and let your eyes flutter shut again, before he can catch the sparkle of affection in them. The way you lean into him made a bit of pride bloom in his chest, and you clamped your jaw shut, fighting back any compromising sounds even at his permission. Even so, you can’t stop the way your breath hitches at his touch.
His fingers migrate from your scalp to the length from your hair, washing it swiftly yet still thoroughly. He guided your head back with a gentle pressure, angling you into the clear current, rinsing away the soapy suds. As the last of the lather swirled away, he swept the strands back from your face quickly, ensuring not a drop of stray sap stung your eyes.
“Than-” you start as you open your eyelids, the word catching in your dry throat.
“You’re welcome,” he interrupts smoothly, his voice overlapping yours knowingly and all smug.
A started giggle bubbles up from your chest, the sound bright against the quiet. You kick a little water at his ankle, trying to regain your footing in this shifting landscape of intimacy.
“Wow, such service,” you tease, your voice still shaky as you shift in his arms. You gaze up at the towering unit of a man, blue man, looking through your lashes. “How much do I owe you?”
His hands still linger near your temples as he catches your joke. He looks up as if he’s really considering what to put on your ledger. “A great deal.” he tells you, all dramatically. “I will think of a suitable payment,” he promises. That little devil on your shoudler’s whispering in your ear, telling you that he might not be referring to any form of currency at all.
“I’ll get my pockets ready…” you mumble, voice trailing off. “Okay,” you start, tip toeing over your ask. “You have to turn around now.”
Of course, he made no moves to shift. His head cocked to the side in the way you’ve come to adore, slowly and curiously. “Turn around?” he echoed. “Why?”
“Because,” you stammered, gesturing toward the woven straps of your top. “I need to take this off to actually wash. Y’know, properly.”
“Why can I not see?” he asked blankly, as if there was a genuine cultural disconnect. “We are bathing, are we not?”
You take a moment to weigh that in. From what you can assume in about 10 seconds, nudity for his people may not be such a grand reveal as it is for humans. Even so, 19 years of conditioning to see it that way doesn’t just go away because the blue man acts as if it’s no skin off his back.
“It’s just a thing. One of those dumb human things.” you explain, watching his expression. His eyes look at the dip of your clavicle, and back to yours, nodding his head understandingly.
“Mmmm,” he mused, seeming to consider it for a moment. “Okay. If it makes you feel better.”
He shifted his weight, his tall, muscular frame rotating slowly until his back was toward you. You feasted your eyes on the map of freckles dotted over his rigid muscles, some hidden by his long, thick braid. He fixed his gaze on a cluster of glowing ferns across the bank, and his tail flicks lightly in his restlessness.
You reached for the ties of your damp, beaded top, working the knots quickly. The cool air kissed your skin as the fabric fell away, the shock and vulnerability making your breath hitch. You cupped some water, rinsing your shoulders once more, the liquid smooth against your bare skin.
"You are very quiet," Neteyam noted after a moment. He hadn't moved an inch, but his ears were pinned slightly back, tuned to every ripple and splash you made.
"I'm washing! Be patient," you replied, acting like you don't love that he’s waiting on you hand and foot. You’re kind of rough with yourself, splashing your belly and chest with enough water and suds to clean and clean only.
He complains playfully of how long you’re taking just as you rinsed the last of the soap off.
You waded two quiet steps closer to his back. With a soft, wet splash, you lifted your beaded top and slung it right over his broad, blue shoulder.
You saw the muscles in his neck tighten, and he reached up slowly to catch the damp material before it could slide down his chest. True to his word, he didn’t turn, but you could see the side of his face. He was biting his lower lip, a concentrated frozen of effort crossing his features as he stared intensely at the dark rocks ahead. He traced a bead for a moment, before wordlessly tossing the garment with a flick of his wrist. It flew neatly, landing silently on the soft, dry grass of the shore.
"Was that necessary?" he asked, voice gravelly and adorned with an obvious smile.
"I thought you were bored with the rocks," you teased, leaning back into the water until it reached your collarbones. "You can turn around now."
He didn’t move immediately, continuing to face the rocks for a moment. As if to prove he was still the one in control of his own curiosity. He finally turned with an exaggerated slowness, his head tilting back as if to mock the very idea of your human modesty.
His eyes flicked downward, fully prepared to be met with the bareness of your shoulders and the soft swell of your chest, a sight he had been carefully imagining while staring at the foliage. Instead, he was met with the smooth expanse of your back. You had mirrored him, pivoting away just as he turned.
He wouldn’t admit it. Not under penalty of death, not even to Eywa, but the lack of you left him feeling a strange, restless itch. A flash of boyish disappointment flickered across his face before he could even mask it with his usual collectiveness.
“The moss on these rocks is thicker than it was last season,” he remarked as he settled behind you, his voice returning to a mundane tone that felt hilariously out of place, given the tension. “The rains have been kind to the forest.”
“Hmm, yeah, I see.” you mumble as your arms reach back, scrubbing the blades of your shoulders. After 10 seconds of bored, circular ministrations, you were over it.
You looked back at him over your shoulder, your wet hair clinging to your skin, and caught his gaze. Well his chest, first. You had to tilt at your neck a bit to meet his eyes. He angles his chin downward, wordlessly telling you he’s listening.
“I can’t reach the middle,” you lied smoothly, “Can you get it off for me? Please?”
You’re actually such a liar!!!!!!!!!!!
With a little more effort, you could honestly reach just fine. But he’s way too far away for your liking now. The idea of his hands on you is much more tempting than being self sufficient.
Even so, Neteyam doesn’t even suspect a ruse. You feel his eyes on the span of your shoulders, then down the length of your arms, which indeed look impossibly short compared to his own lengthy reach. He’s already been surprised by the things your human frame can do, so he isn’t surprised at all by what you can’t. To him, it’s a simple matter of physics.
But he would be a liar too, if he denied the fact that he’s beyond happy to touch you again.
“Of course,” he hums, reaching up to create another lather anyway, despite your earlier efforts. He runs his hands together until the blue of his skin is frothed over by white bubbles. His hand rose, less hesitantly than before, meeting the rear of your shoulder, between its blades.
You’re still adjusting to the feel of hands other than yours on your bare skin. Your sides tingle each time he makes contact. He worked the soap into the skin between your shoulder blades, so incredibly slowly and even more thoroughly. His fingers are light, but he presses his thumbs a little more roughly into you, kneading a few kinks out of your musculature.
His digits traced down the line of your spine, his movements repeating over your lower back. You sighed softly at the sensation, and he could only wear that stupid smile, not having to worry about how wide it is. He is behind you, after all.
“Is this right?” he asks, the sound of his gravelly voice flitting down to your ears.
“Yes,” you breathed, your eyes fluttering shut again. “Just like that.”
He didn’t stop until your skin shined brighter than previously. You felt the warm trickle of water over your shoulders, his hands cupping it to rinse the soap away. Your lower back was already tended to- the soap drifted away into the water just after his hands did.
He cupped a bit and let it fall in the center of your back one more time, ensuring you’re soapless.
There was silence now. Heavy, but not uncomfortable. It felt right. You feel a new, solid weight against the crown of your head, and you realize he’s rested his chin there. He’s crouched a little now so he can be closer to your level. You feel safer that way, with more of him surrounding you.
“Hey,” he murmurs against your hair.
“Hi,” you whisper back, echoing the start of your evening, though things are miles more charged than they once were.
A pair of hands snake around your waist from behind, his large fingers splaying wide across the soft skin of your stomach. You suck in a breath, your muscles jumping under the head of his palms. You will yourself to relax, your muscles following, your back arching slightly into him.
His hands move upward, thumbs tracing the soft indentation of your ribs appreciatively. Almost as if he’s counting each bone beneath your skin.
You take a peek down, tracing the movement of his hands against your neutral skin. All you see is his shimmering blue draped all over you. The veins in his forearms thicken with his bloodrush. Tendrils of his braids tickle your shoulders.
You blink, your mind momentarily scrambling to figure out what he means. You didn’t have to wonder for very long at all. His cautious palms slider higher along your midsection, the heat of his skin searing miles hotter than the water. Higher, higher, until the edges of his hands graze the underside of your breasts, the pads of his fingers catching on the soft, sensitive swell. You feel his touch everywhere, much lower than where his hands lay.
“Neteyam...” you whine, needily. You’re halfway begging him to stop, and half desperate for him to never, ever pull away.
His hands only go heavier, letting his thumbs hook just slightly under the curve of you, maintaining that featherlight contact that makes your knees feel like they’re apart of the water. He tilts his head, and you can feel the slight curl of a smile against your hair.
“Are you?” he coaxes, his voice deepening a note.
You tilted your head back instinctively, your shoulders slacking the closer you moved to him. He looked like a god from this angle, the sharpness where his jawline met his neck ample. The glowing dots on his neck taunting you, begging you to cover them with your kiss marks.
“I’m not sure,” you settle. It’s a lie, but it’s right. The only answer he would have accepted, believe it or not.
His hands force you gently forward, tucking you under his chin once more, where he wants you. Wrapped up in him.
His hands. They were servants and conquerors at the same time. They gathered a fresh pool of the turquoise water in cupped hands and poured it over your chest. His fingers followed the bath of the water, sliding down the slope of your collarbones and settling intentionally on your breasts.
You hadn’t even noticed there was soap left until you feel him sliding slickly against you. His hands are slick and gliding, cupping the swell of your breasts in slow circles.Almost kneading, his palms are heavy and warm as they work the floral bubbles into your skin.
You feel like you’re dying. Dying to know how he feels about you, dying to not scream out on account of how good it feels. Your nails leave small red marks on the surface of your thighs, where you dig them in. Every nerve ending in your body feels as if it’s standing on end, waiting for his fingers to stroke each one. He was cleaning you, yes, his movements possessed the steadiness of a ritual, but the way his palms lingered where you’re move curvy suggested there were undertones that had nothing to do with hygiene. He seemed to prioritize the feeling of your skin over the actual task of cleansing.
You feel his digits move closer to the middle, his ministrations growing tighter and more concentrated. The friction of the lather and the heat of his palms become an overwhelming focal point, and you’re forced to dig your toes into the smooth pebbles below as the sensation becomes almost too much to bear. Your breath hitches, caught in the back of your throat, as his reach narrows.
His thumb, rough and warm, dragged directly against your nipple, just once. Just enough.
You quietly whine, high and thin, the sound mixing with the crisp air. The touch settles straight to the base of your spine.Your back instinctively arches, forcing your chest to press harder into the palms of his hands.
You can feel the way his jaw tightens against your hair. Can feel the way he lets his thumb linger far too long to be friendly, feeling the way your body blossoms under his touch.
“Still not clean?” he muses, allowing his thumb to circle around your sensitivity.
“I am clean…” you trail off, the words losing their shape. It’s almost a plea to regain some semblance of control.
His chin brushes up and down the crown of your head in a slow nod, one he makes sure you feel in acknowledgement. He slides the both of his slick hands back down the length of your torso, squeezing once when he reaches your waist.
“Would you like me to stop?” asks softly, borderline rhetorically. He knows the both of you are certain in the answer.
"I'll genuinely die if you stop," you whisper, the words breathless and whiny- your pride is long, long gone. You’re trembling, body wordlessly imploring you to get his hands back on your chest any way, anyhow.
Neteyam chuckles lightly, the sound deep and masculine against your back. "We cannot have that," he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your hairline."I worked too hard nursing you back to consciousness. It would be a waste of my efforts to have you slip away now."
Even in his playfulness, you can hear the gravellyness in his voice that wasn’t so apparent before. His hands glide back up, fingers splaying wide to catch the weight of you once more. This time, there was no pretense of cleaning. His touch was raw, curious, light. Trying to memorize every slope and dip your body contains.
His thumbs ghosted over the tops of your breasts before dipping into the shallow valley between them. He seemed fascinated by the softness of you, letting his touch linger.
Acting with a mind of their own, his fingers closed around the softness of your chest in a firm squeeze. His strength was unmistakable, even in his restraint. You yelped, pleased, the sound almost echoing.
“Be gentle,” you choked out, shakily.
You didn’t say it because he was hurting you. Because he wasn’t not at all. In fact, the pressure of his hand was exactly what your body was screaming for. And because of that you were terrified. You were terrified of the door he was kicking open inside of you, something so hungry that you knew you wouldn’t be able to push back down once it was awake.
His hands went perfectly still. Took a breath, the expansion of his lungs pressing hard against your back. “I am,” he assures.
He let his digits move in lazier, softer circles again, barely skimming the surface of your skin. You felt his chin move from the top of your head to the crook of your neck. The head of his face, the dampness of his skin, the sharp, clean scent of him that seemed to emanate from his pores. All so close to you, so ample.
“You are so small,” His nose dragged slowly along the sensitive line of your shoulder, inhaling more of your own pheromoneous scent. “I forget.. How delicate you are.”
He teased the tip of your nipple again, with a pressure maddeningly light. You let out a wanton sound, your body falling further back into him, your entire weight supported easily by his frame.
He nuzzled into the hollow behind your ear in response.”I have you.” His hands continue their gentle journey along your body. “Always gentle, I promise.”
There was no crudeness in his touch, no lechery born of the world you’d left behind. He was still navigating the nuances of his own feelings, trying to reconcile his protective instincts with the blossoming need he feels every time you’re near.
Even a protector has his curiosities.
He noted the airy sounds you made, now more than ever. He let his finger flick a little more firmly against your nipple, catching the sensitive tip with a quick friction.
He felt your tremble, a satisfied hum drawing from his throat.
“Is that something you like?” he asks, right in your ear.
“Yes,” you breathed, immediately, needing him to continue- more of a confession than an answer. “Neteyam, yes.”
You knew you were done for. Any shred of your remaining modesty was long, long gone. Washed away with the suds. You felt completely exposed to him, physically, and emotionally. And you didn’t even have to see his eyes on you to feel it. To know he knows it too.
He deepened his contact at your words. In his mind, the touch wasn’t inherently sexual. He was discovering, caring for you. Deepening the bond he felt thickening between the two of you. Even so, he was a creature of instinct, and he couldn't ignore the physiological reaction his touch provoked. He felt the way your nipple pebbled into a hard. sensitive point under the casual brushes of his fingers, and the way your heart valves were opening and closing faster than usual.
He wanted to do what made you feel good, to see how many different sounds he could coax from your throat. Wanted to understand your body as thoroughly as he knew the trails of his home, eager to provide you happiness in every single form he can.
He cupped the sides of your chest, the heels of his palms dragging upward to lift and squeeze exploratorily. He was watching you now, over your shoulder, absolutely mesmerized. His hands were under the surface of the water, absolutely where they shouldn’t be. Decisively, he cuffed his hands beneath you, lifting your chest upward so that your breasts broke the surface of the water, glistening and wet in the dim violet light. The cool air made you pebble impossibly even tighter, and all he could do was stare, his tongue darting to lick the side of his mouth.
“You have very nice breasts,” he murmured, sincerely in admiration. To him it was a biological fact- an observation of something breathtakingly beautiful that he truly wanted all for himself.
You felt the rush to your face, your cheeks heating with their embarrassment. Breasts. Such a proper word. “Ew, quit.” you squeak softly, trying and failing to duck under the water.
He blinked looking momentarily confused at your response, his is twitching back. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he corrected quickly, his brow furrowing as he searched his mind for the ‘right’ way to say it. The way he heard Lo’ak talk about women with the other young warriors. “Nice tits.” he corrects firmly, biting back his laugh as he hears the crude, unfamiliar word come from his own mouth, much to his surprise. “That sounds more natural,yes?”
“So much better.” you giggle a little more, some of the tension diffused. That’s more like what a young male would say to you when describing your body.
He tsked at your laughter, letting himself chuckle lightly himself. “Look down,” he directs you gently. You obey, of course, there was no saying no to that tone.
You watched in awe. You saw the way his hands looked around your waist, but now, all over your chest, it’s something so different, so lewd you couldn’t look away from. He made you watch as his blue fingers, lightly still white with the frothy lather, settled over you, rubbing over your nipples over and over again, slickly.
You couldn’t help but let go of some of the breaths you were holding, and he encouraged you with his touch for you to be louder, let go more.
“You are so quiet now,” he noted after a moment, your legs shaking with your restraint at his touches. He wasn’t anywhere near done touching you, lifting and kneading your soft skin.
“Where did your sharp tongue go?” he asked, a hint of his familiar teasing coloring his tone. “Usually, you have many words for me.”
“Shut up,” you breathed, drawing the vowels out. You couldn’t even find the energy to be witty, you’re trying not to faint right here. The water rippled as you reached down, your smaller hands settling over the broad blue expanse of his. You could feel the heat of his palms even on top of them.
“Make me.” he challenged, softly, urging you to try him, to bicker with him when he has you like putty in his hands the way you are.
“Yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you?” your voice gaining a little bit of bravado. You leaned lazily back against his shoulder, watching his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.
“I would,” he admitted easily.
He’s almost nearly as easy as you.
His thumbs, still trapped beneath your own fingers, didn’t stay still, still circling you. “I would like you to shut me up.” he proposes. Even with your hands covering his, he managed to shift his grip, quickly giving your nipple a firm pinch with his thumb and pointer.
You laugh a little louder, because you know the only alternative would be a loud, loud moan that would be heard through the entire village. “You’re gonna make me weak in the knees, gosh.”
You feel him smile against your neck. He brought your hands down with his deeper into the water, pinning you gently against your thighs as he hauled you backward, swallowing you whole in his arms. He hooked his chin more firmly over your shoulder, resting its weight there.
“Better?” he asks, letting his cool breath fan over your warm cheek, relishing in the way you went even more limp in his arms.
“Mmm, no,” you hummed, shaking your head widely in a way that bumps his pink-tipped nose. You tilted a little to catch his eyes, making a showy unamused expression.
He let his eyes roll at you good naturedly, clicking his tongue in a way he usually reserved for his siblings' antics. His hands left their spot at your thighs to close around your waist. With a low grunt of effort that was more of a habit than necessity, he hoisted you up into his arms, standing again to his full height with you in his grip. He lifted you like you weighed nothing more than a feather, and of course you’re squealing like a surprised swine in protest.
“Oh my God!” you halfway gasp, halfway giggle as he began to spin lazily. For him it was lazy. For you, you felt like a perpendicular yoyo.
The water kicked up in glittering arcs around your feet. You felt the spiral pull tugging at you as the cool air hit your wet skin, and your hands instinctively flew up, crossing over yourself to shield your chest as you were ragdolled.
His laughter boomed against your back as he finally slowed to a stop, the water settling back into ripples against his thighs as he held you there, suspended against his chest.
“Put me down now!” Your knuckles were locked tight over yourself, knuckles white against your skin. You felt absolutely ridiculous, as if you were back in high school around a boy you had the hots for.
His laughter didn't fade one bit as he lowered you, large hands sliding along the sides of your waist as he let your feet finally find the rocky terrain of the floor. The water rose back up to your sternum, a familiar glowing embrace that finally allowed you to drop your arms.
“You are so annoying,” you huff, brushing a strand of hair out of your eyes. He’s not. You know and so does he. “You could have dropped me!”
“I have never dropped anything I intended to keep,” he countered, tracing the lines of your waist where he held you.
“I missed your face.” He let his eyes loom over your features as if he was seeing you for the first time again. “When you were turned away… I couldn’t see you. I prefer you like this”
He reached up, crushing more soap between his palms, his movements sharp and efficient. You found yourself missing that flowery, citrusy smell. He stepped a little closer to you before you could protest, the water sloshing and displacing around your arms. His soapy hand met the other around the vulnerable curve of your belly.
“Neteyam, I already washed there,” you started to protest, your hands rising instinctively to rest on his forearms.
Of course, the hot head he is, he didn’t listen as he began to work the soap into your skin with slow sweeps. His hands were so warm against you, even still, and his height forced him to bow his head a bit to focus on you. Thumbs traced the delicate lines of your hipbones, returning to the area around your navel. It was thorough-too though to simply be only a cleaning.
He was looking down at his work, yellows of his eyes fixed on the way the white foam contrasted with your skin, his expression unreadable.
The butterflies deep seated in your belly lurched and treaded as you felt his focus move further south. Fingers found the course, braided fibers of your loincloth’s waistband. He let his fingertips hook beneath the string, the softness of his digits replacing the grittiness of the material at your hipbone.
You could feel the slight tremor in his fingertips as he brushed the pad of his thumb against the knot at your hip. “The water has not reached beneath this. It’s not functional anymore, here.”
Okay, standing topless in this gorgeous sea-creak waterland thing is one thing. It was daunting, but it turned into something sickeningly sweet and dreamy. But being fully, completely, all the way nude? For him? Nah uh.
You know logically that’s how a proper cleaning works. Who the hell bathes with their clothes on? Even so, it felt like a huge leap without a safety net.
Yet, as you looked up at him, the swirls of your hesitation slowed to flatlines. His eyes were all over you, but he wasn’t ogling you. Even despite the openness of his cultures, and despite the fact from the top up, you are most definitely exposed, his eyes remained respectfully onto yours. Like a magnet was holding them there. He was looking at your soul through the windows of your eyes, offering you a trust you can rely wholeheartedly on.
“I guess it hasn’t,” you exhale, your eyes tilting side, to side, then central, on him.
And his were on you. They didn’t leave. You felt his dexterous thumbs work at the ties, which give way almost like a switch of a light, the knot slipping apart. Eyes still trained on yours.
The fabric drifted slightly, heavy with water, snagging momentarily against your thighs before the slow current willed it away. With a flick of his wrist, he snagged the sodden material, tossing it nonchalantly toward the grassy bank. It landed with a soft thud on top of your discarded top, his aim perfect even without looking. It formed a neat little pile of your modesty on the shore. Or, what it was, rather.
It really did feel incredible to be completely bare in the warm, glittery water. You felt more weightless, and even more connected to the gorgeous terrain.
As if sensing the spike of vulnerability that came with your nakedness, one you wouldn’t admit with words, his other hand went to the flare of your bare hip. His palm spanned the entire distance from the curve of your waist to the top of your thigh, and he slowly stroked the skin there comfortingly, thumb drawing long lines back and forth.
“You want me to wash you?”
Do you want him to wash you? Inwardly, the answer was a total, screaming mess. Yes, yes please yes. Your imagination was already miles ahead of your dignity. Painting a vivid picture of those textured fingers sliding between your thighs. You could practically feel the bubbles of the foam meeting the most sensitive parts of you as he washed the day away. The thought alone of him tending to you there, with the same care he’d shown your hair, your back, your shoulders was enough to make your balance woozy.
But the traces of your Earthliness, the world of slutshaming, promiscuity, the ‘don’t touch’ mindset. It clutched at you. Your heart was yearning for him, yet your mind threw up a stubborn barricade.
“No,” you breathed, shakily like the words were fragile. They were reflexive, a deflection born out of habit from you, someone who didn’t know how to handle being so vulnerable so easily.
His expression softened even further, ears tilting forward in a gesture of patient understanding.
“That is okay,” he reassures, circling your pelvic bone soothingly. ”I won’t do anything you do not want. We go at your pace.”
He continues to trace your skin in comforting arcs. He looked at you tenderly, waiting for your heart rate to settle. “Do you want me to turn around?” he asked softly. “I can face the trees while you finish. I do not have to see.”
“Well, no,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could overthink them. The thought of him turning his back would equate to your connection being severed. And that felt worse than being vulnerable. Much, much worse. You wanted him close to you. You just didn’t know how to bridge the gap between your desires and your nerves.
Neteyam tilted his head a touch, before he exhaled a glimmer of a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners with a syrupy sweet fondness.
“Well,” he copies you, his tone encouraging. "Then tell me what you want. Whatever you need, however you want me to be…” he tails off, squeezing the flesh of your hip once.
He knew exactly what he was doing with those eyes of his. It felt like he was pulling you to him without the physical force of it at all.
“Maybe I do,” you conceded, finally. You looked up at him a little more firmly, tilting your head stupidly back. You want it, want him, so bad. But those hands….too much. God, too much. You’d go absolutely, completely feral.
"But your hands..." you continued, your words thinning as you searched for the right words. You looked down at his long, blue fingers, splayed around your body. "It would be a lot, Neteyam. It’s just... a lot."
You didn't say too much for me to handle. You didn't say that the idea of him touching you there, with that level of intimacy, made you asylum level crazy. You were hoping he understood the invisible boundary you were trying to describe.
His eyes narrowed in his observancy.
“A lot?” he repeated, studying your expression with his eyes and your pulse with his ears. “I get it, that you’re not used to being seen this way.” He shifted his weight, lazily kicking up a clean stone from the water’s floor, a single hand leaving your hip to catch it.
“I can be gentle,” he assures, lowly. “I know you’re fragile, not from here. But you’re here now.” He dipped the moss-covered stone into the water, sudsing it up after.
"You promise?" you look at him through your lashes, searching those golden eyes for the steadiness you know resides there, even when things turn to this.
He returns your gaze, so tender it hurts. His fangs flash with his grin. "If it were Eywa’s will for me to have a pinky, I would pinky promise you, small girl. I swear it."
At that, you can’t help the small, genuine smile that finally broke across your face. Neteyam exhaled a deep, soft sigh of relief at the sight. He’d been so focused on not scaring you away, seeing you smile is like the first light of the eclipse.
"How about this?" he holds the stone up to you, dripping in that smell-good lather. “I won’t use my fingers. I won’t even use the palm of my hand,” he explains, eyes never leaving yours. “It doesn’t want anything from you but to keep you clean.” he promises you once more, letting his arm circle loosely around the center of your back.
You bite your lip, thinking it over. Your boundaries are still there, but it feels less like a wall and more like a veil. You tilt your head down in a nod that was shallow, yet incredibly sure.
"Okay," he murmured, his voice thick with a reverent gravity. "Okay."
He brought the soft, sudsy stone down beneath the surface. You felt it against the tops of your thighs, drawing slow, swirling patterns against your skin. The soap was cool, the moss was velvety soft, and the water trailing from it felt like a thousand, tiny, liquid fingers.
You could feel the slick, floralness slide between your legs, the bubbles popping softly against your sensitive skin. Your breath came in shallow hitches in your anticipation.
You feel the fibers catch against the most sensitive, hidden folds of your anatomy, plush, soft that seemed to absorb the heat between your thighs; replacing it with a cooling, tingly clean. He began to gently cleanse the outer folds of your entrance, and your eyes closed at the sensation, your mind battling with itself to try and keep its thoughts out of the gutter.
“Look at me,” he instructed softly, after a moment.
You forced your eyes open, finding him watching you with an almost worshipful expression. He wasn’t looking at what he was doing at all. He was looking at the way your lips parted, pupils swelled. He was drinking in the evidence of your pleasure as if it were the only thing keeping him hydrated.
“Is that too much?” he asks, before he truly starts, not wanting at all to cross your limits.
“Keep going.” you tell him smally, clutching his arm almost in encouragement.
He moves so, so slow, the cool lather acting as a barrier between the two of you. When the soft, spongy texture finally reaches the threshold of your entrance, it isn’t like the blunt pressure of a finger. It’s broad, cooling that brushes against your sensitivity.
He sweeps it in a circular motion, the suds bubbling against your heat. It’s so gentle, maddeningly so, the soft friction making your internal muscles clench in a confused, needy way. He’s being so careful, so intentional, his knuckles never once brushing against you, staying true to the promise he made. He can’t get enough of your expression. The way the plumpness of your lip hides between your teeth.
“Relax for me,” he coaxes, running his free hand along your sides. “Open your legs.” His authority was so grounding that your body obeyed before your mind could think to be shy. You realized then how pressed together your thighs were, and you internally laughed at yourself, widening your stance just a bit, exposing more hidden parts of yourself.
The warm water pooled in the crevices of your thighs, and for a moment all you could hear was the water’s dripping and the loudness of your breaths.
When he finally moved the sudsy stone upward, drawing it precisely between your sensitive folds, the feel was a welcome shock. The lather was thick and creamy, sliding onto your depths, replacing the scorching heat of your arousal with a cooling cleanliness that made your toes curl into the hardness of the stones below. The soft fibers caught against your clit, massaging it through a veil of bubbles with a broad, lapping pressure.
You bit down on the inside of your cheek so hard you could faintly taste blood, jaw locked to hide the pornographic sounds that were bubbling in your throat. Your entire body arched into the touch, his forearms grounding you even as you tried to remain still.
Your internal muscles, so, so confused by the contrast of the water and the hot ache deep in your belly, ache and squeeze more feverously, begging for some sort of satiation. You were milking the soft fibers of the moss as if it were him, your body instinctively trying to draw the sensation deeper, to turn this gentle cleansing into something more primitive.
Neteyam’s eyes tracked the pulse in your neck and your grip on his arms. Could see the dip where you punished the inside of your cheek just to hold yourself back from letting go.
He didn’t ask you either- to stop holding back or let the sounds out, because he knew his own limits were fraying, even despite thinking he had the maturity, the restraint, to handle the task of bathing with you. He knew if he truly heard you, raw and unfiltered, he might have stopped being a gentleman.
It took him a world of restraint to stay true to the boundary you’d drawn. He could see the way your body instinctively searched for him through the suds, and it made his jaw lock until his teeth dully ached.
His throat bobbed in a swallow as he flipped the stone over to the clean side.
“Almost done,” he began to rinse you, using the fresh, water soaked side to sweep away the lather. He was meticulous, ensuring every trace of the soap was gone, and you in tandem willed your body to return to the most homeostatic state it could bear in his presence.
When the last of the foam finally spiraled away in the sea of turquoise, he finally pulled his hand back.
He let the stone drop noncommittally, and it hit the submerged rocks with a muffled clack. Like a period at the end of a sentence you didn’t want to end yet.
You forced yourself, oh so hard, to keep your cool. God knows what that even was. That was NOT just a bath. But you couldn’t conjure a single complaint at all, not one. Your skin was tingling all over, and your head was swimming, despite your outward calmness.
“I do, thank you,” you managed. “Best bath ever.” you added with a clear of your throat, the words tumbling out in your post-touchy still very nakey awkwardness.
Neteyam squinted his eyes at you, face scrunching into a grimace sort of smile. Trying to figure out if you’re joking or just being the strange human you are.
“You speak such nonsense,” he jabs, lightly, letting his weight comfortably shift. “But I’m glad you are.. clean.”
He reached down, cupping the warm water in his palms and bringing it to the crown of his head. He let the water spill back over his shoulders, drenching his dark braids until they glistened like obsidian under the blues and purples. He ran his three fingers through the damp strands, smoothing them back away from his face when they fell in front of his ears.
“You can turn around now,” he murmured, his voice dropping a little as his hands disappeared beneath the surface of the water.
You watched, mesmerized as his fingers found the ties of his own loincloth. He was mimicking your earlier ask, but his ears gave him away in a little twitch that told you he was only teasing. You watched as if it were happening in slow motion, his undressing. You couldn’t see exactly what was happening underneath, but you knew clothing was coming off. It was a sight for sore eyes, even the suggestion of it.
He didn't look away, his gaze fixed on yours as he felt the fabric give way. He knew exactly what he was doing to you.
“Let me wash you now,” you said, the words coming out a little too fast, and much too easily. You caught yourself and tried to steady your voice. “Please? If you want?” you rambled. “I... I want to return the favor.”
You knew you sounded desperate, nowhere near as smooth as he had been when he was methodically cleansing your skin, but the need to be all over him overwrote your pride.
His chin tilted lower to meet your eyes more firmly. He didn’t even try to hide the half smile already reappearing on his lips. “Yeah?” he asked, his brow ridge arched.
He reached out under the water, snagging the discarded loincloth. Instead of just tossing it aside, he reached for your hand, his damp fingers wrapping around your wrist with a warm pressure. He guided your arm back toward the bank where your own borrowed apparel lay. The wet fabric dropped into your palm slowly.
“Throw it with yours,” he commanded softly with an encouraging nudge of his hand.
You did as you were told, the wet thud of the material landing on your clothes sounding, to you, better than your favorite song. It confirmed that both of you were completely bare, completely together, completely alone.
“Okay,” he agrees, “You can wash me.”
"Well, c’mon," you managed to say, your voice sounding far braver than you felt. "Get down. I can’t reach all that." you gesture vaguely at his imposing height, which funnily enough, you’re beginning to not be so intimidated by.
His white fangs flashed against his skin in a bigger grin, understanding and wry. “That’s fair,” he conceded. His hand enveloped your eager one. “Come,” he tugs once only to ruffle your feathers.
He began to move deeper into the pool of water, tail hanging low, swaying relaxedly. He cut through the water like it was a part of his skin. You on the other hand... little less graceful. Feet slipping, buoyancy wobbling. But hey, you’ve got a damn good guide.
He stopped at a spot where the water was a little cooler, yet still warm. Somewhere he clearly knew by heart, somewhere he knew would bring your eye level almost directly in line with his. A massive, relatively flat boulder hidden only inches beneath the surface. He sat back casually, leaning his weight onto one thick, veiny arm, legs wide to accommodate his size, manspread.
The water is a little shallower here. It lapped teasingly against the muscles of his obliques. The surface danced right at the edge of his hips, veiling and unveiling more of his v-line, leaving just enough to the imagination to turn you starving.
“That’s so so much better.” you praise, your balance bettering enough for you to not wobble at every step. Up close, he looked even more appetizing, the freckles against his pecs and abs a more apparent blue as your form blocks a bit of light.
“Is it?” he inquires, smug. “How can you claim that from all the way over there?” He raises his free hand, beckoning two fingers at you in a lazy curl.
The gap between you is barely three feet, which you make note of.
“You are so far.” he argues, still being such a tease, like the older brother he is. “Come closer.”
And duh, do you look like an imbecile? You make those four and a half steps to that blue man with not an ounce of shame. Your thighs press against the moist boulder, the grit scratching almost comfortingly against your skin.
“It was a long walk, but I made it,” you joke, smiling wide enough to show off all of your thirty two. You’re nervous, excited, ner-cited, the whole nine yards.
His expression warms at your genuinity. “I’m pleasured to be in your company.” he dotes, matching your affectionate energy. He shifts, sitting up straighter, the muscles in his torso rippling at his movement. He reaches up easily toward the draping vines, nimble fingers snagging a generous handful of the soapy plants. He lays them out gently over the flat surface of the rock, treating the plants with care despite their lack of sentience.
Smells lavendery, sweet. Neteyam-y. Right in the body odor zone you are, just above his chest. And all you can smell is his tantalizing, woodsy, syrupy scent.
You douse your hands in the warm water, reaching for one of the leaves. You rub it between your palms, working up frothy bubbles that feel soft between your fingers. Your mind drifts back to home for a fleeting moment. Back when you foraged the mall with friends, washing your hands with the fragrant soaps and slathering on the matching lotions after with the endless free samples the stores supplied.
Even so, you feel, surprisingly, okay. As if you have everything you need here. Everything and more, things you didn’t even possess on Earth. Healthy, whole foods. Peace and quiet. A chance to shut your academic brain off for hours longer than a few. Cute ass outfits that are homemade. Sweet ass friends that have zero ulterior motives. Neteyam. Handsome ass Neteyam. He gets his own group. Extra special friend.
A bubble popped in your hand, tickling your skin and taking your mind away from its tangent. The nostalgia, you realize, doesn’t ache like it used to. It feels like a movie you watched a long time ago. And the sequel’s right here, naked on a rock, waiting on only you.
“So,” you start, letting your thoughts fall fully back to Earth Pandora. “Do you start upstairs or downstairs?” you ask, trying not to be crude.
Those yellow eyes narrow at you, his angular features displaying that familiar confusion when it comes to your lingo. He clearly has no idea what a floor plan has to do with his body, but he can kind of catch your drift.
“I work my way down,” he tells you, steadily.
“Nice….cool.. Beans,” you trail off, the constellations on his chest doing little to help your nerves. A silence drags on a few seconds more than you’re comfortable with, those half lidded eyes staring you down.
You collect a dollop of foam from your hands onto your thumb, and dot it onto the pink of his nose.
His ears perk at the unfamiliar sensation before flattening back at rest. His tongue darts out, swiping the soap from his nose with a feline-like flick. He blinks once at you, as if that was a perfectly normal thing to do. As if it wasn’t as weirdly attractive as it was.“I will tend to myself if you do not behave.” he warns, despite his smile.
“No, no! I’ll be good,” you promise him, your voice a little higher than usual as you rushedly rub your hands together to generate more lather. You have to go up on your tippy toes to get the right leverage, your calves generating a welcomed burn as you reach for those broad, blue shoulders. You drop a big wet glop of soap onto the curve where his neck meets his shoulder, and it slides down the lines of his markings like ice. You quickly catch it with your palms pressing into the heat of his skin.
You begin moving your hands in circles, a little unsure at first. Your brain is still trying to reconcile the fact that you’re actually touching him like this. Underneath the smooth, wet surface of his skin, you can feel the complexity of his anatomy. Everything about him feels reinforced. You can feel the tightly wound muscles that support the weight of his crown, the dense ridge of his collarbone that feels nothing less than steel, and the way his tendons shift like the strings of a harp when he breathes.
He exhales softly through his nose, allowing his posture to relax under your prodding. His head tilts slightly to the side, a movement that stretches the stripes along the side of his throat. It’s quietly submissive, giving you more access to his sides.
You’re too busy marveling at the feel of his skin to notice his wandering eyes. From this angle, he has a clear view of you, and he’d be a fool to waste it. He sneaks curious glances at your body, gaze tracing the way the glimmering water beads on your skin. He watches the vulnerable bareness of your breasts, notiching the way they shift with the effort of your reach, and following the feminine curve of your waist as it disappears into the water around your hips.
He feels an urge to touch you, and doesn’t try for a moment to fight it. He drops his arms from his knees to the edges of the boulder, veins appearing more pronouncedly as he scoots himself further forward. One of his hands stays resting on the stone comfortably, but the other slithers around your waist, finding the small of your back. His palm spans across the entire middle, fingers warm and wet when they splay out on your spine.
His free hand reaches up, blue fingers gently enveloping yours. He guides your touch away from his shoulder, trailing it along the muscles of his neck.
“Get here,” he coaxes, voice calming against your face. “Behind my ears.”
He guides your fingertips to the soft spot just behind the base of his ear, where the skin is thinner. He hums low and contently when your fingers find the spot. It’s been so long since he’s been cared for like this.
Your left hand finds his other ear, repeating the sweeping motions of your other hand. As you begin to massage the area, he lets out a sound that you feel more in your chest than you hear with your ears. A grumbly purr that vibrates the chords in his throat. His lashes cast shadows against the high arches of his cheekbones as his eyes fall shut.
You think you’re addicted to that sound.
“Such a kitty.” you muse, overwhelmingly fond. Your heart aches a little at the sight of him. So relaxed all because you’re rubbing at him. His eyes don’t open, but his ears flick lightly against your fingers.
“You must draw me one of these cats.” he starts after a beat, “I want to see what you keep likening me to.”
“Just look in my mirror,” you joke good-naturedly, letting your hands drop to the nape of his neck under his braids, repeating the same motion.
He exhales a happy huff that blends seamlessly back into his purrs. His fingers give you a firm, playful squeeze against your spine that makes you jump slightly on your tiptoes.
Cracking his eyes open just a taste, he sizes you up in a way that’s much too handsome for his own good. “Watch your tongue.” he chides, more than a caress than a threat. “You are on your second strike.”
You don’t back down, even with your calves screaming from staying on your toes. You’ve gotta get that work out in someway. Your hands don’t stop their work as you smooth the suds over his rock-hard pecs. You find yourself tracing the glowing stars on his skin. “What happens when I strike out?” you ask lightly, in your work, letting your eyes flit to his face to catch his answer.
You feel his chest flex beneath your palms. He bares those sharp fangs, letting out a sharp hiss. The sound cut through the air like a whip, and yeah, it did a pretty good job of getting you in line. You jump all squeamishly, heart nearly leaping out of your chest, and your hands instinctively grip him around his torso, all soapy and slippery.
“Mawey,” he chuckles when he sees your face, the sound rumbling under your hands. He seems to enjoy far too much the fact that you’re clinging to him for dear life, and you relinquish that satisfaction, going back to your washing a little more swiftly. “We eat humans, you know. We find them quite… salty.” he tells you, expression perfectly deadpan.
“You do not!” you whisper-shout weakly, half-laughing too as you realize he’s totally playing you. You swat at his shoulder, spreading more suds.
He just shrugs, hand remaining steady and warm against your back, keeping you grounded as you lower yourself back to the soles of your feet. “You never know. Perhaps we are just waiting for the right one.”
“Literal lies,” you grumble, eyes tracing the flashing patterns of his dotted torso. You’re glad the light is low, because you’re leaning his bickering makes your cheeks flush. “You’d get a toothache anyway.”
He hums a dismissive sound. “I have very strong teeth, smart girl.”
You want nothing more than to test that theory. Sooner rather than later. Or maybe later. You truly have nothing but time here.
Your hands drift lower, smoothing the lavender-scented soap over the hardness of his stomach. The second your palms make contact, the muscles there tense instinctively beneath your touch, flexing in more pronounced ridges under his blue skin.
You stare far too long, watching a bead of water run down below the surface of the water. “Insane,” you think, aloud, to yourself more than him.
“Insane?” he repeats, looking down at you lazily.
“These.” you pat his abdomen accusingly, the slick sound of soap accompanying it. “Why are there so freaking many?” you question, brows arching into your hairline as if you were a detective on the case for the answer.
The skin under your palms vibrates as he laughs again, lowly. “Many what?” his brow markings arch right back at you, mimicking your expression effortlessly.
“Muscles, Neteyam.” You drag your palms downward slowly, feeling each firm, tiger-striped line shift and cord beneath your touch as he breathes. It’s a lot of geography to cover. “This is excessive. Who needs this many? It’s a hoarding situation.”
“Hm.” His tail begins to slowly shift behind him, smugness creeping into his expression. “You seem very interested in them for someone who finds them... unnecessary.”
“I’m studying,” you defend quickly, though the wide, goofy grin on your face betrays your intentions absolutely entirely. “It’s very scientific. Foundational fieldwork type stuff.”
“Mmmm, of course.” His eyes flutter shut again, clearly unconvinced by your ‘science.’
You work the bubbles lower across his torso, your thumbs tracing the deep, sharp lines near his hips, that v-line that points toward things you’re trying very hard not to overthink, before sweeping back upward. His stomach tightens again under the motion, the muscles jumping beneath your palms. You feel the way he subtly sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, his chest expanding.
“Oooh,” you point a sudsy finger immediately, absolutely delighted. “You flexed. I felt it.”
His tail thumps more pronouncedly against the water behind him, a heavy splash that sends ripples forward around your hips. “I did not,” he defends, albeit weakly.
“You literally did. It was like a jump-scare for my hands.” you add to the blow, running your hands up and down his stomach, eyes hungrily drinking in his soapy form.
“You imagined it,” he counters, his voice smooth and maddeningly calm. “Your mind plays tricks in the heat.”
You squint at him suspiciously, your hands continuing their slow, soapy circles over his abs. “Liar. You’re such a liar.”
Hypocrite, you’re such a hypocrite. You’ve lied at least 5 times tonight, mostly to yourself. Mostly to your body. To your restraint.
Neteyam only hums, looking entirely unbothered, his jaw set in a line of patience. But the moment your nails lightly, almost accidentally, scrape downward through the foam along his side, every muscle beneath your hands jumps again. A small, involuntary hitch catches in his throat, one he can’t mask even if he tried.
This time you grin so hard your cheeks actually ache. “Aha!”
His eyes open fully now, golden and narrowing at your shit eating grin.“Do not start,” he warns, though his tail continues to wag against his will.
“You’re ticklish,” you gasp softly, dramatically, shoving the revelation in his face. Big and bad Neteyam. Ticklish. “Oh my God, you sooo are.”
“I am not,” he says immediately. He says it far too fast to be believable, his voice dropping an octave in a failed attempt to sound intimidating.
“You are, though. Ticklish cat.”
His hand slides around the front of your waist in a sudden warning, his large palm warm against your damp skin, pulling you an inch closer, leaning you over the boulder. He groans your name, low and patient. Which, unfortunately for him, only encourages you.
You drag your fingertips teasingly across the sensitive skin of his obliques again. His entire torso jerks beneath your palms, his ears pinning back for half a second while a startled, sharp breath leaves him through his teeth. He practically shudders under your touch. Oh, you like this.
“There’s no way.” you beam, your fingers curling in preparation to absolutely ambush his skin.
Your wrists are caught at once, both his huge hands engulfing yours easily before you can do it again. He’s trying to look stern, he really is, but his lips keep breaking into half-grins.
“You are becoming troublesome,” he informs you calmly, pulling your hands away from his stomach to hold them firmly in the space between you.“I told you to behave. Now I see I must enforce the rule.”
He gathers both your wrists into one of his hands, fingers wrapping completely around your bones like a blue handcuff. He holds you steady while he uses his free hand to scoop up the warm, clear water from the pool.
“No, no! I’ll be good, I promise!” you squeal, half-laughing as you try and fail to wriggle your hands free. “I was just cleaning you, honest!”
“You have fooled me once,” he counters, much too pleased. “I don’t think I will give you the chance to do so again.” He ignores your protests entirely, his focus shifting to the task of rinsing the thick lavender lather from his torso.
You watch, mesmerized as the white bubbles are chased away by the turquoise steam, revealing his sapphire skin once more. His abs glisten under the night-time glow.
“Neteyam, come on,” you whine, though you’re mostly just enjoying the view, mad you can’t touch. You give another little tug, your feet shifting on the rocky floor, but he doesn’t budge.
“There is no need,” he says, his voice losing its playful edge and settling into something steadier, deeper. He lets his gaze drop to the water line where his waist disappears into the turquoise glow. “I only have to clean one place else.”
You know exactly where he’s talking about.
Your playful jitters evaporate little by little as his words become a mental picture in your mind. You think about how he washed you earlier, how thorough, how patient he was, treating your body like something precious.
“Let me,” you say softly.
Neteyam looks at you, his eyes searching yours. For a split second, he looks tired. Not the sleepy kind, but the kind that comes with always being the one in control, looking over everyone, being an example, an influence. He looks truly grateful, then, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his angular features, but he shakes his head slowly. He gives your wrists a final, gentle squeeze before letting go, dropping his hand back to the stone.
“It is fine,” he counters, his voice sincere. “You have helped enough, I can finish.”
“I want to,” you retort, immediately.
You don’t elaborate. You don’t tell him that half of you wants to return the favor, to care for him the way he cared for you because he deserves to feel that softness, a moment where he doesn’t have to look out for someone else and fully relax into himself.
You also don’t tell him about the other half of you. The part that just wants an excuse to feel him up. You want to know the texture of him where his skin is most sensitive, to feel the way those muscles react when you’re doing more than only cleaning. Want to see if that purr comes back if you’re thorough enough, ‘let your hands wander where they haven’t been allowed to yet.
“Please,” you add, more quietly.
His ears give an inquisitive tilt. He surveys your face for any sign of hesitation or lingering playfulness, but finding none, he lets his knees spread just a bit wider in the water, offering you the access you asked for.
"Okay," he says, his voice barely more than a murmur. "I will teach you how."
He reaches for one of the remaining plants next to him, plucking the thick leaf up and dropping it into your palm. You don’t waste a second, letting your fingers work the leaf almost hurriedly to create a thick lather. Your hands are trembling a little, and you’re aware of his proximity now more than ever.
When the suds are overflowing through your fingers, he reaches out, cupping your hand in his palm, steadying its tremors. His skin warms the coolness of the foam.
"Yes," you breathe, your voice small but certain. "And I promise I'll behave."
He lowers his chin once in an accepting nod. His smugness isn’t gone, not at all, but it’s softened into something much more intimate. He guides your hand downward, keeping his fingers laced loosely with yours.
The cool air of the cove is replaced by the swirling heat of the water, which has already turned a milky translucent white from the stray bubbles of your earlier washings. Guided by the sure pressure of his fingers, you feel the water push back against your skin when your fingers move deeper. Everything feels different underwater, It’s all heightened, tactile, hidden. His thumb traces the back of your hand as he guides your palm closer.
Your sudsy palm finally makes contact with his skin, the heavy reinforced muscle of his upper thighs. His skin is so soft, like rigid, wet silk.
As the initial shock of the contact settles, your hand grows a little more curious, the initial hesitation melting into a need to understand how he’s built. You move your palm in sweeping strokes up and down the dense muscles of his lower thighs. His scale is more apparently down here- your hands feel small against the plans that support his weight. You can feel the tension in his hamstrings, the lines where his knee meets his leg.
His hand, still draped over yours, tightens. He squeezes your fingers, palm pressing your hand more firmly against his skin, effectively grounding your there.
“You are not behaving,” he tuts, though he doesn’t pull your hand away. He guides your palm an inch higher if anything.
You look up at him, your own breath coming in short, uneven hitches. “I’m washing,” you defend, even as your voice is devoid of conviction.
“You are exploring,” he corrects softly. He doesn’t sound angry at all, but he knows how much power you have over him, and he’s much trying to restrain himself.
“I’ll be good,” you tell him almost shakily. forcing your hands to go still against the heavy shelf of his thigh. You look up at him, your eyes pleading just a little. “C'mon. Let me.”
Neteyam lets out a short breath that might have been a laugh in a drier environment.
“Yes, ma'am,” he murmurs, the title sounding impossibly smooth coming from him. His grip firms, and he begins to guide your palm higher, moving through the warm opaque clouds of lavender suds.
He stops the ascent, pressing your hand around something. It’s solid. Thick in comparison to your own fingers, but it’s much too thin to be what your brain immediately jumped to. Your mouth pops open ever so slightly as you try to process the anatomy through the touch. You squeeze it once, experimentally, and feel a muscular twitch in response.
Neteyam is biting his lip, his shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth. An amused huff breaks that he’s unable to stifle.
“Bad joke,” he starts, his voice cracking as he lets out another snicker. He looks down at your confused face, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I apologize.”
He’s holding your hand firmly around the length of his tail.
“You’re actually a jerk.” you breathe, half laughing, half horrified that you were being serious for once, and he decided to play in your face. You splash a bit of water at his chest with your free hand, the shimmering droplets dragging down his pecs, shining in the purple light.
He’s clearly been spending way too much time with you. The humor you’ve been rubbing off on him is manifesting at the worst possible moment. Talk about using your tricks against you.
“You are starting to influence me,” he notes, his thumb tracing a slow line over your knuckles as he keeps your hand right there.
“I only wanted you to relax,” he says, now soothingly. He realizes your nerves were wound tight- enough to snap, and he used the quickest trick he could think of to relieve some of the tension. He pulls your hand away from his tail tenderly , letting the appendage fall back behind him. It hit the water with a soft slosh, disappearing under the shallow surface. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable..”
“I promise I’m right where I want to be,” you assure, your voice steadying as you meet his gaze. You lean closer into the small space left between you, willing your heart to slow into something more steady.
Neteyam exhales a short breath, ears dipping back slightly as he processes your words. He reaches for you again, squeezing your hand comfortingly, large fingers enveloping yours in a silent thank you.
“So am I,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes.
He doesn't hesitate this time. His fingers lace between yours, and your hand is intently drawn higher beneath the water. He leads you past the heavy columns of his thighs, moving through the small, swirling white bubbles toward the very center of his lap.
If the water is warm, and if his chest is warm, then his lap is absolutely burning. The heat emanating from him is like that of its own sun. Your skin tingles in anticipation.
He guides your sudsy palm until it’s resting right at the apex of his thighs. The muscle here is even denser, the heat even more concentrated. You can feel the firm thrumming pulse of his femoral artery against the base of your thumb. So alive, under his blue skin. So affected by your proximity, even when he tries to mask himself behind stoicism.
The way those eyes are on you is just as firm. A connection, a link between the two of you. You wouldn’t dare look away, and neither would he.
Deep inside, Neteyam’s head swims. He is wondering with a vulnerability he has never permitted himself, if you will like what you feel. In a way, he feels tainted. Beautifully tainted by the sudden, overwhelming awareness of himself through his eyes. Never in his life has he questioned his look, his body, or his presence. He was simply a son, a young soldier, a part of the People. And yet here you are, arousing questions and provoking thoughts he would have never conjured on his own. The feeling is entirely new, and it enthralls him just as much as it terrifies him.
His hand remains draped over yours, a steadying guide as he places your grasp over something cylindrical and very, very hot, at the center of his lap. The skin here is thinner, more sensitive than the denseness of his thighs, but its integrity, structurally, is staggering. If it weren’t for that slight change in texture, his rigidness would make you think you were still touching his leg.
His hand was remarkably steady despite the depth of his breathing. He runs your hand, encased in his, slowly upward, fingers flat. You move through the thick lather, the lavender-citrus scent mingling with the clean aroma of his skin. The movement spreads the soap across him. You can feel the rough, prominent protrusion of veins beneath that thin skin, interrupting the smooth surface of him.
When your hand reaches what you can only assume is the middle, his pace falters for a fraction of a second. His fingers shift, curling around the back of your hand, molding, forcing your grip to close around him.
The shape is unmistakable now.
Holy shit, he is big, that’s one thing for sure.
Even with your fingers splayed and straining to wrap around his warmth, your middle finger doesn’t even come close to touching your thumb. Your hand simply isn’t large enough to fully close around him.
Your eyes widen, obviously, with your unfiltered shock washing over your features as you stare at him. In your surprise, your heels catch on the uneven grit of the stones, and you feel yourself steadying yourself with your other hand, clamping it to his leg.
In an instant, his own free hand is on your hip, fingers digging firmly into your skin to anchor you, even despite you regaining your balance.
"Come. Sit with me," he commands softly. It isn't a suggestion but it’s softened by an urgent tenderness. He doesn't want you tumbling into the water of course, but to him, you are still too far for his comfort. ‘Wants you as close as you’ll let him get to you.
His hand leaves the top of yours, and your grip falls slack, your hand drifting in the warm, soapy water. He notices the hesitation, the way you seem stunned into a trance. "You can let go," he murmurs, his ears giving an amused, sympathetic flick. "It is okay."
His hand joined the other at your side. With an effortless tug, his pulls you up, hauling you out the shallow water. You seats you directly onto his… God, onto his massive, stone hard thigh.
His other hand joins the first at the sides of your hips, his large palms spanning the entire width of your waist. With one fluid, effortless pull, he hoists you up onto the edge of the boulder, bringing you out of the water and onto his... god, onto his massive, stone-hard thigh.
You find yourself straddling the heavy muscles, one of your knees bending and slotting between his spread legs to keep from sliding off, while your other leg hangs over the outside of his hip.
The friction is immediate; the soft, damp heat of your center brushes directly against the burning, wet skin of him, sending a wave of heat between your legs that makes your toes curl.
Being on the rock brings you level with him. Your face is inches from his nose, your breath mingling in the space between you. You can see the flecks in his eyes that you found yourself to miss, the way his fangs catch light when he exhales sharply. The connection is so physical it feels like a tether pulling at your navel.
You’re in trouble. You’re in so, so much trouble. Because you realize now more than ever, that you absolutely need him, in all possible ways. To be around you, to take care of you, to touch you.
So much trouble. And as his hands tighten on your hips, drawing you just a little bit closer to the heat of him, you realize further that you wouldn’t want it any other way.
“Thank you,” you whisper, the words barely carrying over the lapping water. Your eyes flit down for a second at his neck, the dots there shining tones brighter in a way that betrays the calm of his face. “I’m a klutz,” you mumble, the self-deprecation an attempt to ground yourself.
His thumb traces an arc across the skin of your hip, trying to calm the last of your nerves. “You’re fine. I will not let you fall.”
You swallow hard, your gaze dropping again, lower now, to the broadness of his freckled chest before you force yourself to look back up. The air between you hums with everything you haven’t said. You don't want to stop; you don't want the distance to return.
“I want to keep going,” you say, your voice gaining notches more surety.
Neteyam’s brow ridges rise subtly in surprise. He lets out a breath he seems to have been holding, the cool exhale fanning against your damp skin. “Okay,” he breathes.
One of his hands moves from your hip to wrap securely around your midriff, his large palm spanning the width of your ribs, holding you flush against him so you can’t slip again. His other hand catches yours where it had fallen slack. His fingers are long and warm as they lace through yours, slick with the remaining soap, guiding your hand back down through the turquoise shimmer of the water.
He brings your palm back to his hot shaft, wrapping your hands around him again. His own hand covers yours to provide the pressure.
“Take your time,” he encourages, head tilted toward yours.
You bring your other hand down, fingers slick with the last of the suds. You place it over him timidly, making an effort to not make contact before placing it back in your own lap.
He guides your hand, leading you in a slow glide upward until the texture of his skin begins to change, softening and becoming even more sensitive, before he draws you down just before you cross that threshold. He’s through, using your palm to distribute the suds, making sure every inch is slick and accounted for. Your hand feels like it's moving forever until you reach his base.
“Is it blue too?” you ask, thick with adoring curiosity. The question is so innocent, so you, that it warms the moment. A genuine, timid smile tugs at his lips.
“Would you like to see?” His hand remains over yours, ready to part the curtain of white bubbles and cyan water if you give the word.
You shake your head, pupils wide and fixed on his. “Nah-uh,”
“No?” he asks, smile softening into something incredibly tender, almost vulnerable.
“Not yet,” you add, a little less softly.
Yet. The word hangs in the between you, heavy with a promise you’ve made without even realizing it. It implies a future, a repetition, a second and third and tenth time after this. A next time. Suggests that to you, this isn’t just a fleeting moment of curiosity, but the start of something much more permanent. Makes him think of a thousand nights with you just like this one.
He looks down at where your hands are joined underwater, the sight of your neutral skin against his deep blue tone seemingly fascinating him just as much as he fascinates you. “Ah, okay. Prrnen keynven.”
“Mmm?” you hum, tilting your head closer, your fingers still curled around him under the water.
He pauses, his brow markings arching as he searches for the right English translation.
“Baby steps,” he finally says, his accent making the phrase sound much more serious than usual. He doesn't let your hand stay still for long, closing his fingers more firmly around yours. Begins to run your hand back up the length of himself. “We take baby steps.”
“So... is it?” you persist, your voice a stubborn thread in the cool, humid air. Baby steps are cool, but that doesn’t erase your curiosity.
“Tell me what you think,” he counters. He guides your hand upward again, the movement unhurried and so, so thorough, forcing you to feel every rigid inch of him through the froth.
You exhale a soft, frustrated sigh, your breath hitching when your palm grazes a new ridge you haven’t yet felt. You’re almost certain of the answer, it would only make sense, wouldn’t it? But you don’t want to guess wrong and shatter the moment. So you just answer his ask with another question.
“What color is your tip?”
Neteyam lets out a long, heavy sigh, ears pinning back for a half-second in a mix of exasperation and genuine fondness. He lets his hand squeeze around your waist, large palm and long fingers shifting you just a fraction of an inch more firmly against the burning surface of his thigh. The short friction is enough to make you arch into it.
“What a tongue you have,” he tuts, looking at you with a mix of awe and disbelief, as if he can’t quite believe you have the nerve to ask him that while your hand is currently wrapped around him.
He thinks about how to answer you, letting his eyes drop shamelessly to your mouth and back up to your eyes.
“Well,” he starts, thumbing the back of your hand. “It is not blue.”
He watches the way your pupils dilate every more, his smile turning a little more wry as he witnesses the exact moment your imagination starts to run wild with the possibilities of a color you haven’t seen yet. He stops your hand, holding it firmly at his base.
Your hand trails up again with his, his fingers tightening around yours with an anchoring strength, molding your smaller palm to him, making sure every bit of your skin is pressed flat against the searing smoothness of his.
“Let me show you how.” he starts, tone instructional, the way he’d teach a young hunter how to draw a bow. “Go slowly. Like this.”
He begins to move your hand in long, steady glides. He leads your hand from the very base, where the heat is most concentrated, all the way to that sensitive threshold where the texture begins to change. The friction of your hand, slick with the last of the lavender lather, creates a quiet wet sound. You try to quiet down your breathing just to hear it, something about it waking up your flora.
“The skin is thin right here,” he explains, leaning a little closer to you. “You must be gentle, but firm.”
You nod, continuing to allow your hand to get controlled by his. As you reach the top again, he sucks in a short breath. His grip on your hand tenses, stalling your movement just at the peak of the motion.
He shifts his weight slightly on the boulder, his large thumb pressing down firmly on yours, guiding it into a shallow, sensitive dip in the anatomy beneath the suds. It’s a subtle indentation, the warmth there concentrated. His eyes stay trained on yours, gold and searching.
“Yes...” you acknowledge, gulping down the drool pooling in your mouth. This whole thing’s making you hungrier than you’d like to admit.
“That is where the head starts,” he explains, and you sit there on his knee, nodding like a bobblehead, feeling yourself gush as he continues talking to you that way, so informatively and intimately.
He leads your hand downward again, pressing your thumb into one of the thick veins your felt earlier, the ridge filled with his bloodrush.
“I have had those since I became pubescent,” He traces the line with your thumb, forcing you to feel the incredible tension there. “They get harder when I am...”
He trails off, the sentence hanging unfinished in the space between your faces.
“You aren’t right now?” you ask smally, your voice tilting up in a moment of genuine curiosity.
Neteyam exhales, somewhere between a laugh and a groan of frustration. He squeezes your back reassuringly with the hand wrapped around your waist. “Semi,” he admits, his lopsided grin making a brief, pained appearance. He pulls you a fraction closer, so the heat of his lap is impossible to ignore.
Damn, he isn’t even all the way bricked and he feels like this. Your hand can’t even fully encompass him, and that’s him with restraint.
You stay silent, but your eyes must be wider than you realize, because Neteyam’s grin eases into something a bit more private, a bit more knowing. He watches the way your breath hitches, the way your gaze drops to the water where your hands are still joined despite the layer of bubbles that covers the two of you.
He begins an ascending motion again, dragging your palm back through the warm, soapy water, teaching you the map of him with ritual of care. Every dip, every ridge, and every rough pulse is a lesson he wants you to memorize.
“Do you understand?” he asks, thick and easy. "How to care for me?"
You can only nod again, completely enthralled by the feeling of his hand over yours and the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the most important discovery he’s ever made. “I think so,” mumble between your stupid smile.
You take the lead for a moment, letting your hand slide over him in a long, confident sweep. The lavender soap has turned into a thin, silky film that makes the friction almost non-existent, allowing you to feel every intricate detail of his anatomy. You focus on the dense muscles at the base, massaging the lather into his skin with a gentle, kneading pressure that mimics the way he handled you earlier
His hand stays draped over yours, fingers squeezing yours to encourage the pressure.
"Like that?" you ask, your voice trembling just a fraction. You tilt your head back, your gaze searching his, practically begging him for approval. You want to know you’re doing it right, that you’re giving him even a fraction of the relief he gave you earlier.
“Just like that,” he breathes, shifting his weight to hide the way his muscles jump under your hands. He’s surprisingly calm, disciplined, even as the water lapping around your hips starts to feel like it’s burning you up. He looks at your face, though, in a way that makes you feel like you’ve just passed the most important test to date.
Your hand slides over him again, more confident now that you have his blessing. The slick glide of the soap, the heat of his skin, the strength of those veins—it all starts to feel familiar, a trail you’re finally beginning to memorize. You apply a little more pressure, mimicking the firm strokes he taught you, and you’re rewarded with the way his heavy thighs tense beneath you
He exhales again, slow, controlled, through his nose. His hand, still draped over yours, doesn’t guide as much. It simply shares the sensation, long fingers trailing over your knuckles.
He stills your hand after your third stroke, the sudden cessation of movement making the quiet feel expectant. His steady hand guides yours upward, past the length of his shaft to the sensitive dip he’d pointed out earlier. He molds your hand around him, adjusting your grip until you are cupping him as fully as your smaller palm allows. Then, with a slow pressure, he guides your hand higher than you’ve dared to go before.
Under the water, you feel the shift in geometry, the weight of his tip, partially shielded by the thin, soft skin that protects it.
“You know what this is, yes?”
“Mhmm,” you murmur, your breasts rising and falling with your quick breaths. You’re lost in the golden of his eyes, but your curious streak arouses once again. “Is it blue?” You truly aren’t trying to be funny either. You really want to know all you can learn about his body, and imagining what you’re playing with without seeing it exhilarates you.
His tail swings once, affectionately."There, yes,” he answers, his gaze dropping to the water for a split second before locking back onto yours. His grip becomes supportive again, less guiding. “Pull it back. I have got you”
You bite the inside of your cheek, a small, nervous habit that he tracks intently. You absolutely love the way he’s instructing you…the patient, steady way he’s teaching you his body. Your hands splay as you try to get a better grip, and Neteyam’s large fingers instinctively fill in the gaps between yours, lacing through them to keep your hand steady. Following his lead, you gently push down his foreskin. It doesn't require much effort; because he isn't fully soft, the skin is already taut and gives way easily.
“Many, in our younger years, complained of itching,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into something a little more conversational as he tries to bridge the intensity of the moment with a bit of history. “They were not cleaning properly. I have overhead many embarrassing confrontations."
He’s trying to ground the moment, to pull you closer through the safety of anecdotes and the shared vulnerability of the body. A small, nostalgic smile breaks across his face at the memory of those awkward adolescent lessons among the other Na’vi boys.
“Oh, gross,” you say with a lopsided grin, your nose wrinkling in mock-distaste. “Smegma.”
Neteyam pauses, the unfamiliar human word rolling and bouncing around in his head. His eyes shimmer with amusement. “I like how you have a word for everything,” he notes, his thumb kissing the bones of your fingers.
“And I like how you have pictures for everything,” you counter softly, almost like it’s a fight to see who likes what more about the other. You move your hand with more confidence now, your thumb tentatively rubbing the underside of him, tracing the sensitive line where the skin is thinnest.
Neteyam’s thigh muscles bunch underneath you, his leg raising slightly in a sharp, reactive jerk. The movement presses his rigid, textured skin more firmly against your center, the friction sending pleasurable sparks between the both of you.
You both exhale at the exact same time, a shaky breath that hitches in the humid air. The feelings are swirling between you, thick and undeniable, but you’re both still just a little too shy to come out and confront them directly. You keep your focus on the water and the soap, letting the physical connection speak the words you aren't ready to say yet.
“Is that... okay?” you whisper, your thumb lingering on that sensitive underside.
“Yeah,” he breathes, the word moreso something you can feel than hear. You find yourself fixated on the column of his throat, his head tilted just enough for you to see the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows roughly, betraying the effort he’s making to stay still.
You take a fresh bit of the white, frothy lather from the water and apply it to the tip of your thumb. With trembling fingers, you begin to clean the sensitive, hidden area he’s revealed. You move in small, circular motions, your touch light as a feather against the most vulnerable part of him.
“It feels... different when you do it,” he admits, his breath hitching as you reach his base and begin the slow, upward glide once more. “I have known this body all my life, but under your hand, it feels new.”
His grip on your midsection cinches, his fingers digging into your skin as he’s trying to calm himself. His other hand, still over yours, shook once with the effort of not taking over your pace.
Knowing the soap shouldn't linger too long, you cup your free hand and let the warm, clear water run over the area. You rinse it carefully, the stream of water cascading over your skin and his, his hand still following the motion of yours fixatedly. Once the area is clean and the skin is slick only with the natural heat of the water, you let your curiosity lead you further.
You run your hand higher than before, all the way to the very tip. It feels huge in your palm—fat, heavy, and so incredibly soft that it feels like a smooth anvil. You run your thumb along the curved, sensitive edge, circling it slowly, just feeling the intricate textures and the way he twitches in your hand.
Neteyam lets out a soft hiss through his teeth, his ears pinning back flat against his head. He’s so overwhelmed by your gentleness, the way you’re venturing him in a way that’s much past a cleaning.
“It’s so soft,” you murmur, your voice tilting up in that genuine curiosity that makes him all the more fond.
Your name breaks from his lips, a low warning that sounds more like a plea. He sounds breathless, as if he’s just finished a long patrol, stripped of his usual poise. Your finger keeps circling, feeling the contrast between his rough shaft and his beady tip.
He shifts his hips, a subtle, seeking movement that presses his weight more firmly into your palm, silently begging you not to stop, even as his fingers squeeze your waist in a silent plea for mercy, one he clearly doesn’t actually want you to grant.
He bites his lower lip shamelessly, his gaze dropping to watch your small hand against his sapphire skin. With a sureness, he begins to bounce his leg, the heavy muscle of his thigh rubbing firmly against you, hitting and nudging at your sensitive clit a few times in a soothing pressure. He’s encouraging the motion, answering your hand’s curiosity with the steady friction of his own body. His hand at your waist softens, his thumb stroking the dip of your hip, coaxing you to grind against his strong thigh.
“You know you are not cleaning me anymore”
Well dang, way to call you on your bullshit.
He tilts his head, a lopsided, knowing grin fighting its way through the tension in his face. His eyes are hooded, shimmering with the indigo reflection of his own bioluminescence.
“Is that a problem, though?” you ask him, the words coming out more confidently than you expected. You let your hip rock almost imperceptibly against the hard shelf of his thigh, a tiny, defiant movement that sends more of that delicious resistance through the thin layer of water separating you.
He lets out a ragged laugh, his head dropping forward until his forehead’s warmth travels to yours. “No,” he says, his voice buzzing against your skin. “It just means we should dry off before our skin prunes. You have been in the water too long.”
You let out a small, instinctive whine of protest, your bottom lip tucking in with a pout. The thought of breaking this contact feels like a fucking ache. “Just a little more?” you ask, emboldened by the raw look in his eyes. Under the flimsy guise of simply clearing away the last of the soap, you cup your hand firmly around his tip, delivering a single, tight stroke that pulls the slick skin taut.
He humors you for a heartbeat, his composure fraying just enough to let his body take over. He thrusts once into your hand, a lazy, rough roll of his hips that forces the weight of him deep into your palm, proving just how much more he has to give. The movement is so casual yet so strong, it makes your cunt throb in jealousy against your own hand.
He looks down at you, his pupils still wide and dark, fangs flashing in a smile that's entirely too sexy for his own good. He’s breathing a bit harder now, the violet markings on his neck glowing a little more intensely than they were a minute ago.
He lets out a slow, shaky breath against your temple, his large hand tightening on your waist for just a second before he gently catches your wrist, stilling your movement. His chest puffs a little bit harder now, his markings glowing a little bit brighter now, but his voice regained its ground.
“I think you have felt enough of me for now,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your pulse point. He knows that if he allows you to keep going, neither of you will want to stop at halfway. “You are going to turn into a fish if we stay here for much longer. Out. Before you find another excuse.”
“Okay wait, can I feel one more thing?” you ask, wriggling your fingers experimentally in his grip, trying to soften him up with a look.
He exhales a skeptical grunt, tail flicking wearily. “Okay, tawtute, go ahead,” he permits, sounding half resigned and half entertained.
He relaxes his hold just enough for you to reach lower. You cup him lower down, finding that he's just as substantial there as he is everywhere else. Your curious fingers wrap around a ball, which is huge, just like the rest of him. Smooth, firm, so hot.
“Just like I thought they’d feel,” you gawk, closing your eyes with a self-satisfied smile, feeling like you’ve finally found the key to life.
Neteyam laughs now, lowly, the sound jostling you against his body. He shakes his head, his braids clacking softly against his shoulders as he looks at you with a mix of disbelief and deep dish affection.
“You are so inappropriate,” he chides, though from his lips, it only sounds like a compliment. He reaches down and pats your thigh in a disapproving way, but the lingering touch of his palm suggests he isn't actually that upset. A sharp little tap you only enjoy.
He sighs, looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky. "I do not know what I am going to do with you," he murmurs, his thumb catching your chin to tilt your face up. He gives you a small, tiredly happy smile, his pupils finally constricting before he nods toward the edge of the water body. "Come, we are going home."
Total Freudian slip. You and him, his marui. The same four woven walls, the same pile of furs, the same shared breath. A thousand scenarios awake in your mind that you don’t at all try to push away. Home, with you and this beautiful blue man, all alone, both together.
As you shift your weight to move off his thigh and give him some space to stand, his grip tightens on you.
"No," he says, his voice dropping into something authoritative. "I am not going to let you walk. You are tired, come closer."
You scoot up, albeit a little clumsy from the lingering jelly-like feeling in your legs, winding your arms around his blocky shoulders.. Neteyam watches the way your bodies fit together, sliding against his in a way that is far too intimate to be ‘‘platonic.’’ As you adjust yourself, your skin brushes against his length, the contact sending sparks between the both of you. His jaw clenches while he watches, before he looks back into your eyes with a cheeky, knowing wink that he tries and fails to mask behind a cough. He isn’t fooling anyone.
"Hold on to me," he murmurs, his breath cool against your ear.
Like you weren’t already.
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