ೃ⁀➷ ᥫ᭡ Tu sei ciò che ami

Although it is the same moon that you stand on, the sun feels much hotter here, where the earth is dry and the trees are charred down.

Time loses its edges when every day feels the same. The heat presses down on you from dawn until long after the sun has begun to sink, clinging to your skin, seeping into your bones. There are no canopies of leaves to hide beneath, no cool shadows to retreat into. You are made to sit in the open, the sun beating down on you until your head swims and your thoughts grow sluggish. And there is always a fire burning somewhere, radiating heat.

The ground burns through the soles of your feet. Ash clings to your skin, to your braids, to the inside of your mouth. Even breathing feels heavier here.

You watch the light crawl slowly across the scorched earth, measure time by the length of shadows that offer no relief.

You grow thirsty quickly, but water comes with a price.

Lo‘ak, the younger brother of the two, would only give it to you if you’d drink it from his mouth. Each time, it felt filthy and intimate, the way he was forcing your cheeks together to pry your jaw open, before he poured the water from his mouth to yours. The humiliation that came with it was something you figured he found great pleasure in. The more you resisted, the more you fought him, the more he was enjoying himself.

Lo’ak drifted in and out of your days, loud, amused, always eager to parade you past others like a prize he’d won. He talked to you as if you were his entertainment, teased you, laughed when you refused to meet his eyes. He liked seeing your reactions. And he liked being seen.

The older one of the two, was an entirely different story.

While you burned under the sun from morning until dusk, Neteyam was rarely seen at all. It was when the eclipse neared, that he finally made an appearance. And when he did, the change was immediate.

Neteyam does not raise his voice the way Lo‘ak does sometimes. He doesn’t need to. A look from him is enough, or a shift of his hand, the smallest tilt of his head, and you move before you realize you have decided to. There is something frighteningly effortless about the way he commands space, the way obedience seems to settle into your bones even when you want to resist.

It’s been three days, and you’ve noticed that Neteyam had found a liking to your prayers, amusement mostly.

At first, you thought he might stop you when he caught you singing. Punish you. Maybe even mock you.

Instead, he watches, quiet and intent, those golden eyes following the movement of your lips as if you are speaking directly to him. There is something almost curious in his expression, something faintly amused, like he has found a habit he does not intend to break you of.

Sometimes, he pulls you down to sit in his lap, one arm heavy around your waist, anchoring you there while the fire crackles nearby. His presence is solid, inescapable, his breath warm against your ear as he rasps, "Sing for me, little birdy."

And you hate it.

You hate the way the words curl through you, the way your chest tightens, the way your voice feels smaller every time you open your mouth. You hate that your prayers have become something he asks for, when those songs are not for him.

But you sing anyway.

Because you have learned that when you refuse, Neteyam is not playful like his brother. His displeasure is cold and precise.

Today, not long after the eclipse has passed, you sit where Neteyam placed you, close and contained, your voice low as you sing the old songs he favors. Your words are steady, practiced now, even as your eyes glare sideways at him. He pays it no mind, as always.

His fingers move through your hair with idle familiarity, separating braids, smoothing loose strands, tugging just enough to remind you that he can make it hurt if you resist, but he can just as well make you feel good. If you behave. You’re always within their reach. Like a pet kept at heel. The touch makes your skin crawl, and still you sing your prayers to Eywa while sitting in the lap of a man who has long since turned his back on her.

While you do, your eyes wander despite yourself.

Beside you, Lo’ak sits close to the fire, skinning an animal. His hands are slick with blood, movements efficient, almost careless. Every so often he wipes the back of his hand across his chin, leaving dark smears along his chin before tearing off a piece of meat from where it cooks over the flames and sticking it between his lips. He looks feral like this, comfortable in the mess, almost wholly unbothered by it.

Truthfully, the sight scares you.

When he catches you staring, his mouth curves immediately and he winks.

The glare you send him is sharp, and as always it delights him. Lo’ak leans closer, tilting his head, bloodied lips parted in a grin meant to provoke you. He hovers just near enough that you can smell smoke and iron, clearly intent on teasing you further, invading your space simply because he can.

His blood smeared lips almost touch yours, but you turn your head away at once, tucking your face closer to Neteyam’s chest, hiding from Lo’ak’s attention as best you can and your voice wavers for half a heartbeat.

Normally, that refusal would cost you.

But Neteyam only chuckles softly, the sound low and brief. His arm tightens around you just enough, like a quiet barrier placed between you and his brother.

"That’s enough," he says then.

Lo’ak scoffs, rolling his eyes, but he leans back, amused rather than angered. "You’re spoiling her too much. I like when she shows me her fire," he mutters under his breath, still grinning at you, but Neteyam simply ignores him.

In a vain attempt to distract yourself from the brothers, your eyes keep wandering, pulled past the fire and the shapes of warriors moving through their village, out toward the open sky.

There is a vast shape that cuts through the air in the distance, dark and angular against the fading light. It flies too smooth and too loud to be anything of the great mothers creation. Your breath catches hard in your chest, spine going rigid and every muscle locking at once when you realize what it is.

Your song falters.

"Tawtutes," you whisper, the word slipping out thin and horrified. Humans.

Restlessness surges through you, sharp and panicked. Your hands twitch uselessly in your lap, instinct screaming at you to flee even when you know you can’t. Your heart immediately pounds so hard in your chest that it hurts.

Beside the fire, Lo’ak chuckles.

He doesn’t even look surprised. He just glances at you, clearly entertained by the way fear flashes so openly across your face.

Neteyam’s hand rises, calmly brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is almost gentle and reassuring, if you didn’t know any better.

"I told you there’s no reason to be afraid, txeptsyip [little flame]," he says quietly. "The humans aren’t a threat here. They are working with us."

You stare at him, disbelief burning behind your eyes.

Working… with them?

The metal bird lowers itself toward the far edge of the village, engines roaring, kicking up ash and dust that roll across the ground. The Omatikaya barely react. No one runs and no one reaches for their weapons. They simply watch, waiting for the humans to come to them.

Then the doors slide open and figures begin to emerge. Small, pink-skinned humans wrapped in stiff coverings, moving nervously beneath the watchful eyes of the warriors. Behind them come towering metal frames with humans sitting inside behind a shield of glass, their frames all clanking and heavy, carrying crate after crate between them. Boxes stacked high, marked and sealed, unloaded with quick efficiency.

Neteyam shifts you then, guiding you firmly to sit closer to Lo’ak. The movement is not rough, but it is unmistakably possessive, placing you where he wants you before standing.

"Stay," he says, already turning away.

You watch him walk toward the tawtutes [humans], posture straight and confident, utterly unbothered by those demons. The humans meet him halfway, speaking too softly for you to hear. One of the metal frames lowers a crate at his feet, which Neteyam opens. Your eyes follow every movement as he peers inside, his expression unreadable. Whatever he sees earns a short nod of approval.

After that, the pace quickens. More boxes are hauled down from the metal bird. Omatikaya warriors drift closer, answering Neteyam’s gestures without question, lifting crates onto their shoulders and carrying them deeper into camp, towards the Olo’eyktan and tsahìks tent. A few smaller ones are brought to the brothers tents as well.

Curiosity coils tight in your chest as you watch the exchange unfold.

What could possibly be inside them?

Weapons, you think at first. More metal, more poison. Your unease sharpens then when someone new steps forward.

He is human, unmistakably so, but not like the others. He isn’t sealed away in bulky armor or hidden inside machines of metal. This one moves easily, confidently, as if he belongs here. His gear is stripped down: dark pants reinforced at the knees, heavy boots, fingerless gloves. His upper body is bare save for straps and tubing that loop around his neck and shoulder, feeding into a mask of glass that sits on his face.

His hair is kept short and messy, blond curls framing his face. A necklace made of metal hangs around his neck, it clicks together loudly when he walks. His skin is marked with red stripes, his eyes framed with dark coal.

It’s uncanny. He is human, but he looks like one of the Ash people.

He approaches Neteyam like an equal.

They exchange a few words you can’t hear, the human gesturing casually toward the crates. Neteyam listens, arms crossed, chin lifted as he nods along whatever the pink skin says.

Then the human’s gaze drifts, and his eyes land on you and Lo’ak.

A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face, sharp and knowing, the kind that makes your stomach sink. His eyes linger on the rope at your wrists, the way you’re positioned beside Lo’ak. There is amusement there, similar to the one you so often see in the brothers eyes.

Lo’ak notices the demons gaze immediately. He bares his teeth in a grin of his own, almost welcoming, as if he recognizes the human as an old friend. He calls for him then, a word that you don’t recognize as anything of your mother tongue, but he must’ve understood it.

"Come, txeptsyip [little flame]," he says and Lo’ak is on his feet before you can react. His hand closes around your upper arm and he pulls you with him, already moving. "As much as I would love for my pretty little pet to stay, I have other businesses to attend to."

You almost stumble over your own feet to keep up, heart pounding, casting one last look over your shoulder as Neteyam continues speaking with the human, utterly unconcerned.

The walk is short.

Their tent— your new home, as they call it, looms ahead, familiar now in a way that makes your skin prickle. Two warriors stand guard outside, long, deadly spears carved of wood and bone in their hands, their eyes flicking briefly to Lo’ak before returning to their watch.

He drags you inside and lets go only once you’re past the threshold. The sudden absence of his grip sends you off balance, and you drop down onto the furs with a soft, breathless sound. The air is warm, as it is always.

Lo’ak crouches in front of you and makes quick work of the ropes around your wrists. The fibers loosen, then fall away. Blood rushes back into your hands, pins and needles flaring painfully, but you barely have time to register it.

"Be good while I’m away, yes? I’ll be back soon," he says lightly. Then leans in suddenly, fast and unannounced, pressing his mouth to yours. The kiss is brief, but rough-edged, tasting of smoke and iron. You struggle against him, but Lo’ak has his hand on the back of your head, and his teeth catch your bottom lip before you can pull away, not hard enough to break skin, just enough to sting.

"Don’t miss me too much while I’m gone," he grins once he breaks the kiss, chuckling when you frantically clean your mouth with the back of your hand.

"Slu self muntxa, [fuck you/ become self-mated]" you mumble under your breath as you glare at him.

And then he’s gone.

The tent flap falls closed behind him, muting the sounds of the camp outside. Once again, you’re left alone.

Your wrists ache and your lip tingles, and you want to crawl out of your own skin when you think about what might await you now. Usually, when the brothers leave you in their tent to do, well, whatever it is that they do, they come back in the late hours of the night, eager to play with your body until you collapse from exhaustion.

Three days. It had taken them three days to learn your body and how to undo you.

Of course you’ve thought about running away and breaking free from this prison.

The thought comes to you most often at night, when the camp grows quieter and the fire burns low, or when you’re alone, when the weight of everything presses hardest against your chest. You imagine slipping out into the dark, putting distance between you and this place, letting the forest swallow you whole.

But you’re not stupid, you know there’s a risk.

It isn’t failing that frightens you most— it’s succeeding just enough to make them hunt you. Being tracked through the forest like prey. You know how this clan hunts. You’ve seen it. You’ve heard it.

If they brought you back, and you have no illusions that they wouldn’t, you know that the punishment would not go quick and easy.

Besides, even after three days of plotting and breaking your head over it, you still didn’t know how you would even begin.

You had no weapons, nothing to cut rope quietly whenever they tied your hands or feet so you wouldn’t run, nothing to defend yourself once you were outside. Two guards stand watch at all times in front of their tent, and when you’re not stuck here all on your own, the brothers have you on a tight leash, neither of them letting you out of their sight for even a second.

Of course there are things here that could be used, bones sharpened into tools, metal hooks, perhaps you’d even find knives in their kelku [home] if you only looked hard enough. You could hurt someone with them, sure.

But not two someones. At least not without the advantage of the surprise.

Whatever you could take from this place would only ever work once, and only if fate was kind enough to leave you alone with a single opponent.

Letting your gaze trace what has become painfully familiar, you suddenly notice one of the crates that the Tawtutes [humans] had carried, sitting half-hidden under a woven blanket, near the back wall. When you pull the fabric away, you see that a red X has been painted messily across the lid, the pigment uneven, as if done in a hurry.

Your throat tightens as your fingers begin to tingle, a sharp, electric itch running up your arms. You swallow thickly, heart beginning to pound as your eyes stay fixed on it.

It’s made of metal. Whatever lays inside is most likely made of metal too, but you’re itching to open it. Partly because of curiosity, and partly because of the opportunity the boxes containment could be.

And yet still, you were raised to know better. Metal is forbidden. It is poison to the heart.

But… if inside this box were weapons…

Just one pull of a trigger, and even the strongest warrior falls just the same. With a tawtute [human] weapon, you wouldn’t need to be faster, or stronger— just willing enough to touch and use metal.

Your gaze flicks to the tent flap, to the faint shadows of the guards outside. Looking back at the box, your breath comes shallow.

If there are guns inside— real ones, loaded, then this could be a chance. A slim one, fragile as glass, but real.

The great mother may forgive you, you think. If this is what it takes to leave this place, if this is what it takes to survive… she would forgive you.

With trembling hands, you lift the lid.

It opens with a soft, unfamiliar hiss, hinges creeping a little. Bracing yourself, you expect more cold metal, the unmistakable shape of a weapon. Instead, your met with… what in Eywas name is that?

The box is full. Just not of anything you could recognize.

Inside lie objects of various sizes and relatively similar shapes, packed carefully into molded compartments like ceremonial tools meant for a ritual you were never taught. Some are long and curved, others short and thick, all made from materials that feel smooth beneath your fingers. Some are firmer than others, bending slightly when you press them.

You frown.

One of them is a deep, unnatural red, glossy like fresh fruit but cold to the touch. Another is black and heavy, with a rounded end and a narrow handle, covered in strange ridges that make your fingertips prickle unpleasantly. You pick it up, turn it over, even shake it a little, but bothing happens.

There is no blade hiding and no trigger either.

There are smaller things too, rings made of stretchy material that snap back when you pull them, odd hollow shapes. One object has a cord attached to it, coiled neatly like a sleeping snake. There are things with buttons that make them wriggle in a unnatural way when you press them, reminding you of the movement of a Teylu larve. You recoil and drop it back into the box immediately.

Watching it wiggle around inside the box, you grimace, before reaching inside and pressing the button again. That turns it off.

With a sigh, you realize that none of these things are sharp. None of it looks remotely capable of killing anyone, unless perhaps by profound confusion. The only common thread is that every single thing feels intentionally shaped.

Heat creeps up your neck, equal parts embarrassment and disbelief. The box with all of its contents is entirely useless.

You let out a long, tired sigh.

It seems today won’t be the day you break out of here. Not with this, with whatever this is supposed to be. With nothing left to lose and nowhere to go, you let your hands drift back inside the crate, idly rummaging through the objects. You poke, squeeze, lift one and put it back. One is oddly heavy. Another looks far too much like something you were sure had to be coincidence, so you immediately shove it under three other things to hide it from your eyes.

You’re so absorbed in your confusion that you don’t hear the tent flaps move.

"Look what we have here, brother."

You shriek.

The sound tears out of you sharp and ungraceful as you whirl around, heart slamming painfully against your ribs. Neteyam stands just inside the tent, arms folded across his chest, eyes fixed not on you, but on the open box at your feet.

His expression is unreadable. He looks calm. Almost… pleased.

"Seems like someone was too impatient to wait for us," he continues evenly, gaze flicking from the box to your face, "and opened her surprise all on her own."

Heat floods your face instantly. You scramble back on instinct, hands lifting as if you’ve been caught stealing.

Behind him, Lo’ak leans against the tent pole, clicking his tongue as he peers inside.

"What a shame," he says, grinning wide and delighted as he saunters over to you. "I would’ve loved to be the one to show you what we bought from the humans."

Your stomach drops.

"You—" Your voice comes out thin. "I thought—"

"Thought it was weapons?" Lo’ak supplies cheerfully, crouching to pluck one of the objects from the box and weigh it in his hand. "Yeah. We figured."

Neteyam then steps closer too, until his shadow falls over you and the box.

"Sweet girl. You looked so hopeful," he says with a smile, his head tilted. "That was almost my favorite part."

Your eyes are wide now, breath shallow, as Neteyam steps closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to keep him in view. The smile fades from his face as if it had never been there at all, replaced by what you assume is disappointment.

"But I don’t appreciate this kind of behavior, txeptsyip, [little flame]."

Before you can do as much as blink, he grabs your arm and hauls you up in one sharp motion. You barely catch your footing before he turns you, forces your hands behind your back. Rope bites into your wrists again as he ties them quickly, far too practiced. Behind you, you hear his younger brother chuckle, the sound making goosebumps raise all over your skin.

"What would you have done," Neteyam asks, bending down so his voice is level with your ear, "if those were weapons, hm?"

"I— n-nothing!" The words tumble out of you, scared and desperate. "I swear—"

"I don’t believe that." He sighs, as though you have inconvenienced him. Then he pulls you forward, manhandles you so you’re bend over his knee where he sits on the furs.

The position makes it unmistakably clear how little control you have. You freeze, muscles locked and humiliation burning through you.

"You know," Neteyam says, voice almost conversational. One of his hands glides over the backside of your thighs, up, up up… "we wanted to surprise you with these gifts because you’ve been such a good girl."

In the corner of your eyes, you see Lo’ak as he straightens nearby, watching with sharp interest. His tail flicks excitingly.

"But now," Neteyam continues, tightening his grip just enough to make you gasp, "I don’t know if you still deserve them."

He pauses, letting the words sink in. You feel his hands still, thumb’s hooking under the cord of your loincloth as he drags it down your legs, despite the way you struggle against it. With your hands bound, you writhe, twist and turn in his grasp, but it’s no use.

"I think we need to teach you that touching things without permission is something that comes with consequences."

The silent promise that lays within his words makes your heart beat faster. It’s impossible to crane your neck enough to see what he’s doing behind your back from this position, but you soon realize there’s no need to.

A high-pitched yelp breaks free from your lips as a heavy hand descended onto your upturned ass, sending you sliding forward over the muscular thigh you were bent over.

The first blow of his hand landing on your left cheek comes so sudden and unexpected, you suck in a sharp gasp of air as the sting spreads through you.

"Pxasìk! [Fuck]" You curse loudly. Immediately, anger surges through your entire being, humiliation at being disrespected like this makes your cheeks flare red and hot. "You— did not just do that! I'm not your palì! [Direhorse]"

"Kehe [no], you are certainly not," Neteyam chuckled lowly, curling your tail around his hand so it would stop whipping around. "A palì is obedient."

You barely forced yourself to relax when the next one came, making you jump and duck your head down even lower in a vain attempt to scoot farther away from his hand. But his thighs kept you from moving.

"The good thing is," Lo’ak‘s face comes into view then, crouching down in front of you to be level with your eyes, "these gifts aren’t just for you. They are for us too. So when my brother is done putting some manners into you, you‘ll be happy to hear you’re still allowed to find out what they are."

The grin on his face was a mean one, even when his words were cheerfully spoken. Another blow of Neteyam hand had you choking on a whimper. Lo‘aks hand found your jaw then, his thumb brushing against your skin as if to soothe you.

Tracing the outline of your bottom lip, he used the moment his brother spanked your ass once more and your mouth fell open, pushing his thumb inside to press against the top of your tongue.

You heard the smack again, before you felt the hot prickling against your skin as one more landed, and by eywa it fucking hurt. Teeth closed around the digit Lo‘ak had pressed between your lips, and your jaw clenched with every slap.

"Bite me, come on," he urges, his eyes full of lust, his bottom lip drawn between sharp teeth, "Show me your fire."

So you did. Your teeth clamp down hard on his thumb, a sharp, instinctive bite born of pain and fury. When he pulls back, he replaces his thumb with his tongue, forcing you into a hungry kiss.

Blow after blow makes you whimper into his mouth, and you might have tried counting them if there weren’t so many— too many, and your ass was burning and you wanted to say you were sorry, you'd never do it again, and then maybe Neteyam would stop soon and you could just promise to be good. When Lo‘ak broke the kiss, a thin string of salvia still connected your lips to his before it broke apart.

You only realised you had started speaking aloud, babbling apologies and begging for it to stop when Neteyams hand finally stopped, and instead softly caressed the red marks on your skin.

"Did you learn your lesson yet, txeptsyip? [little flame]" he asked.

"Y-Yes!" You chocked out, "Yes, I’m sorry, I- I won’t do it again!"

Another slap, this time aimed a little lower, fingertips brushing over your folds at the impact and you let out a moan, less like a painful one and more in a way that was so unmistakable.

"Hmh, I think she gets it," Lo‘ak hums, kissing your cheek, before he suddenly disappears from your field of view. "C‘mon, leave her, bro. I want to play."

Fingers slide down along the crease between your cheeks then, vanishing between your glistening folds. You feel them tease your entrance, between your lips, up to your clit. Moaning, you subconsciously arched towards his touch, because everything was better than being spanked like a misbehaving animal. But then you cried out when the movement was answered with another slap.

"Seems like you are not the only one impatient here," Neteyam says, and you hear the pleased smile in his voice, as he leans down to whisper in your ear, "Shall we look at your gifts now?"

They give you no time to respond though, your bottom stings and you whine at the uncomfortable feeling once you’re pulled up by strong hands and made to sit on the furs. The sudden movement makes you gasp, the lingering sting at your bottom flaring as you shift, drawing a small, involuntary whine from your throat.

Swallowing curses, you notice that your hands are still bound. Your shoulders ache with the strain of holding yourself still, and despite it all, you still find yourself glaring at them.

Neteyam sits down beside you as if nothing had happened, entirely unbothered and seemingly unaffected by your punishment. As if unable to keep his hands to himself, one immediately drifts to your tail, not in comfort but in possession, fingers closing around it with idle certainty. He rolls the soft hairs at the end between his fingers, lifting it slightly.

You glare harder, jaw tight.

That infuriating, knowing curve of his mouth widens when he lets the tail slip through his fingers, the hairs brushing his nose. He huffs a quiet breath, amused, as if you were really nothing more than a restless animal testing its tether.

With a loud thud, Lo’ak then drops the heavy crate in front of you and you can’t help but flinch. The sound echoes in the tent, rattling bones and chains alike. He crouches immediately and begins rummaging through the contents with obvious interest. Then he pulls something out and turns it over in his hands.

It’s unnaturally pink, shorter than the rest of the objects you’ve seen and slightly more rounded. Made of that same smooth, human-crafted material that doesn’t feel like anything you know of. It has no use that you can understand and looks downright ridiculous.

Lo‘ak glances at you, then at Neteyam, then back at the object, a grin tugging at his mouth.

He arches a brow at you. "So," he says lightly, "what do you think of your surprise?"

"I- I don’t know… what these are," you force the words out, hating how hoarse your voice sounds.

"Oh, isn’t that sweet." Lo’ak laughs outright now, turning the strange object over and pressing one of its buttons. It gives a faint hum. "This… is called a vibrator. It does, well, that."

The word is still foreign to you. Vibrator. You can only guess what it means when he saunters over to you and lightly drags the humming thing along your arm.

You flinch hard, jerking away as if it stung. The sensation isn’t painful, just foreign. It buzzes against your skin like a trapped insect, sending a ridiculous shiver up your arm.

Letting it glide along your arm, Lo‘ak chuckles. "Feel that?"

"Tickles," you mumble softly, wrists tugging against the restrains. "What is it?"

The younger brother glides the object over your arm and along your chest. You suck in a shaky breath when it reaches your breasts, and Lo‘ak begins to circle your nipples with it. The touch is light and teasing, the vibrations enough to make your nipples form into hard pebbles.

"It’s a toy," Neteyam whispers, his tail curling around your thigh as he speaks. When you frown, he adds, "A toy meant for adults."

A toy meant for adults? You want to ask him how that would work, but then Lo‘ak let’s it wander lower, over your stomach, until he’s reached the soft swell of your mound. Instinctively, your thighs snap closed around his hand. Shaking his head in disapproval, Neteyam pries them right back open. He keeps his hands secured on the underside of your knees so you can’t close them again, while Lo‘ak moves the toy down until he‘s reached the sensitive little nub that sits on top of your slit.

"Oh!" You exclaim in a gasp that comes out far louder than you intended.

When the vibrator begins circling your clit, it’s almost too much for comfort. The sensation is foreign and incredibly intense, and you suddenly feel this overwhelming heat under your skin at the contact. Pleasure surges up your spine, making your back arch, and a painful embarrassing whimper leaves your lips. Nothing has ever made you feel like this.

With your mouth open, you stare as the pink toy as Lo‘ak glides it around your clit, chuckling when your knees jerk whenever he moves too close to the bundle of nerves.

"S-Stop," your voice comes out all breathy and soft, "I feel… feel weird."

"Hmm, I don’t think you do," he grins, pressing the toy directly against your clit. "I think you feel good. Pretty good, actually."

The sensation cursing through your body is like a wild fire that you can’t tame. No matter how much you try for it to not feel this way, it’s still so infuriating good. Amazing even. You feel yourself unable to describe how quickly the vibrations are pushing you towards the edge of your orgasm, so all you can do is moan and writhe and twitch in their grasp, as Lo‘ak pushes the toy harder against your clit.

"I- I‘m— I‘m—" you gasp, unable to finish the sentence as you feel your legs begin to tense and shake.

All words are suddenly swallowed by Neteyams kiss as he presses his lips against yours and forces his tongue inside your mouth. He groans against you as you moan into his mouth, failing to keep these noises back. Your orgasm comes suddenly, violent and intense, so much so that your ears are ringing and you momentarily don’t even hear yourself as you fall apart.

Your entire body is buzzing in similar way to the toy between your thighs, and you want to gasp and whine, but Neteyams kiss is never ending. It’s not until you’re running out of breath that he finally detaches himself from you.

"That was quick," he chuckles, licking his lips. Blinking your eyes open, they still struggle to regain focus. You feel warm all over, and don’t even recognize at first that the ropes around your wrists have been loosened enough for you to slip your hands out, until a four fingered hand frees them.

"Don’t even think about doing anything stupid, txeptsyip, [little flame]," Lo‘ak says, and it’s then that you realize that it was him. He kisses your wrists in way that is almost tender, before you snatch your hands away and he leans back on his feet to smile at you.

"Let us use something else, see how you like it." Neteyam suddenly adds, the hands on the underside of your knees instinctively tightening before you can snap your thighs closed.

"No!" You gasp, attempting to sit up, "I don’t know if I—"

A hand against your chest pushes you right back.

"You can."

Your eyes move from Neteyams infuriating smile, to his younger brother, who’s handing the vibrator to Neteyam before he’s back at rummaging through the contents of the box. The sight makes you shiver with the endless possibilities of what he might pull out of it next.

With the way his tail begins to sway and curl in excitement, it seems he’s found exactly what he was looking for. When he turns around, all color suddenly drains from your face.

"No," you whisper shaking your head. Then, more sternly, "No, no that’s not gonna fit!"

You don’t have to know anything about tawtute [human] things to know what the toy Lo‘ak holds in his hand is supposed to be or where it’s supposed to go. It‘s obvious shape tells you enough.

It’s pink, but not the same shade as the vibrator. Pink like the pink skins, slightly curved upwards and even in the hands of a na‘vi— big. Lo’ak holds the flanged end in his palm and the sheer size of it makes your breath come out quicker.

Stepping closer, he tilts it slightly as if examining something foreign, clearly enjoying the way your eyes widen.

"I‘m impressed," he mutters. "The humans really outdid themselves with this one, huh?"

Before you can shift away, Neteyam’s arm slides around your waist. The movement is sudden but controlled as he lifts you just enough to reposition you, setting you down firmly on his lap. His grip is steady and unyielding, so you don’t even try to wriggle free. Your bottom still feels tender from his punishment earlier, and you’re not quite ready for round two just yet…

Still, your pulse jumps into your throat when Lo’ak lowers himself to kneel in front of you, the object still in his hand as he studies your reaction with open amusement. His pierced tongue swipes over his bottom lip, and you clench your jaw hard.

Neteyam on the other hand doesn’t even glance at the toy.

Instead, he leans forward slightly, his head dipping toward your shoulder. His breath brushes your skin a moment before his lips graze the side of your neck. He hums thoughtfully.

"You still smell like the forest," he murmurs, voice low. "Sweet, though."

Your muscles tense immediately, every instinct screaming at you to pull away even though his arm tightens slightly around your middle, holding you in place.

Lo’ak notices, of course.

"Careful," he says to his brother with a grin. "She’s about to bolt again."

Neteyam exhales a quiet breath against your neck, unconcerned, "She can try."

Then he finally lifts his head, dark eyes settling on Lo’ak and the object in his hand.

"Well?" Neteyam asks, warm palms gliding over your thighs to spread them further.

Lo’ak’s grin widens slowly.

"Well," he says, glancing back at you, at the arousal you’re sure he can still see glistening on your lips. "I think our little spitfire can handle it. If she can handle us, she can certainly handle a toy. Right?"

No, you want to say. Instead, you’re shaking your head viciously from left to right as he lowers the toy enough so it’s tip slides between your folds. It’s cold enough that your legs jerk, but it heats up quickly the more Lo‘ak rubs it against you.

"This is… unnatural," you murmur, "I-It’s wrong."

Behind you, Neteyam chuckles, "Would you prefer the real thing instead?"

Raising his hips to grind against your bottom, he makes you feel the hard length of him. Even through his loincloth, you could clearly feel the outline of his cock, every thick inch, every throbbing vein. Even his piercing, all eight of them, all of him just waiting to be sheathed inside you.

"You will like it, just wait," Lo‘ak added, pressing a kiss to your ankle before propping your foot onto his shoulder. "And if not, I’m sure we can find something else in there for you…"

The smooth surface of the toy glides easily through your folds, slowly lubing itself with your arousal. It moves over your clit, wet and warm from body heat now and you can’t help but let out a breathy whimper every time a surge of pleasure sizzles through your core. Soon, the toy is almost too slippery for Lo‘ak to hold it steady, and each time he comes close to your entrance, he teases you with the round tip, not quite pushing in, but rather testing the limits of how far you’re able to stretch yet.

"Relax," Neteyam whispers, lips and teeth grazing your ear when it lays flat against your head. "I‘ll help you loosen up, txeptsyip, [little flame]."

The hand under your knee moves to somewhere besides him, and then comes back into view holding something familiar and pink. The vibrator turns on with a low buzz, not as intense as before, but still enough to make a moan tumble from your parted lips. You’re still sensitive from your previous orgasm, and the direct contact with the vibrator against your clit makes more arousal gush from between your thighs. You feel it leak from you, before Lo‘ak catches it with the tip of the other toy and begins to push.

Truthfully, it slips in easier than you had thought it would. You’re wet enough and it’s surface is so smooth that no real force is needed to work the first few inches inside of you with ease.

"Such a good girl," Neteyam purrs, "look how perfect you’re taking it."

Circling the vibrator around your little nub, your toes soon begin to curl as more and more of the toy slides inside. Lo‘ak grins as he gives it a little twist, pushing in, then back out and in again, harder. He repeats the motion a few times, before he gives a single, hard thrust that hits so deep, you know without having to look down that he just shoved its entire length into you.

Your eyes roll back into your head and you fucking keen— let out such a high pitched noise that you didn’t think it was you at first. Your inner walls are clenching around the false cock as if it were a real one. The stretch it brings is nearing painful, but Lo‘ak withdraws it just enough so your body can adjust, before he’s pushing back in again. Your toes curl with how good it feels, despite your concerns about the tawtute [human] thing. But deep down, you know it’s wrong. You know you shouldn’t enjoy this, shouldn’t find pleasure in something crafted by the very vrrteps [demons] that destroy the land and abuse the laws set by the great mother.

A particular deep thrust makes your back arch, and Neteyam uses that moment to press the vibrator down harder against your clit. You moan, loud and wanton, and both brothers groan in unison at that.

"I want to feel you, txeptsyip, [little flame]." Neteyam breaths. "Let me feel how good you’re feeling."

Your brows draw together when he lets his other hand slip away.

Neteyam reaches back over his shoulder, fingers finding the base of his braid. Slowly, he gathers the thick strands and brings them forward. At the end, where the braid narrows, those soft tendrils fan outward, greedily reaching for something.

Your breath catches.

This is not a casual gesture, not something you play with. What Neteyam implies to do is the most intimate connection the People know— one meant for lifelong mates, for those who choose one another beneath Eywa’s gaze. It is not something done lightly and… it is certainly not something done by force.

The faint hum of the human device still buzzes somewhere in Lo’ak’s hand, and you realize that Neteyam must’ve given it to him so he could use both of his hands to do this.

Your stomach twists as Neteyam lifts your own braid with careful fingers, bringing your kuru forward to rest beside his. The delicate tendrils twitch faintly in the air, reacting to one another instinctively.

"N-No!" You want to snatch it back, but Lo‘ak thrusts the toy into you hard enough that your eyes momentarily flutter close. "No, please don’t…" Your voice comes out weak, "you can’t, the great mother will—"

"You’re mine. I can do whatever I want."

The combination of both toys playing with every sensitive nerve you possess while Neteyam connects the ends of your kurus is something words could not describe, not even if you tried. You feel so many things at once that it’s hard to focus on one at the time, until you realize you’re coming hard enough that your legs are shaking from the sheer force of it. Behind you, Neteyam groans deeply and you know, that he’s feeling it with you.

Your orgasm crashes over you so violently, you fear it might break you in half.

"Fuck," you hear Neteyam breath heavily, trying to catch up with your racing heart. You feel him underneath your skin, your veins, your heart and in your head, in all these places strictly reserved for the male to be your mate. Not him. "Who would’ve thought that your pretty little head is filled with such filthy thoughts?"

You can’t help it. Lo‘ak is still thrusting the toy into you and Neteyam has gotten his hands back on the vibrator that he presses down hard against your oversensitive clit. Your mind is filled with images of them, the feel of their hands on you, their cocks filling your holes, every single one of them. You don’t know wether its Neteyam forcing these thoughts or if that is all your own doing. Not that it mattered in this moment.

With your kurus still connected, Neteyam grabs the other toy from Lo‘aks hand and begins thrusting into you in a rhythm that felt almost too good to be true. You whine, high and desperate, head falling forward with sweat droplets that raced off your burning forehead, pupils blown with lust as he angled the toy upwards, hitting your sweet spot. It was the bond, you were sure of it. He could feel every bit of your pleasure, could tell exactly what felt best to you now that you shared mind, body and soul. And you should hate it, if it weren’t getting you worked up so quickly again.

"I-I‘m gonna—" you choke on a moan when the toy thrust into hard and deep, "a-again!"

But before you know what’s happening next, the vibrator is shoved into Neteyams hands as well.

"My turn," Lo‘ak says and he detaches his brothers kuru from yours with a swift movement of his hand. Your eyes are wide open and you watch, unable to stop him, as Lo‘ak connects the tendrils of your braids with those of his own.

In that moment, you come hard enough you think your heart might beat right out of your chest.

"Fuuck, baby," Lo’ak groans. "That good, huh?"

You can feel him, deep inside of you. You can feel his hands on your hips as he thrusts into you, driving you deeper into your orgasm. You can feel his tip hitting your cervix and at the same time his lips around your clit, his piercing rolling over it, until you realize those are just what he makes you feel through the bond. It’s not real. What is real, however, is the way your legs are shaking, how you are holding your breath and then release it in a moan that’s almost a scream. Everything between your thighs is so, so wet and slippery, your poor clit is overstimulated and feels raw.

Words are falling freely from your lips, but not all of them are coherent. Just a wild mix of please, please, please and coming, I’m coming, and also stop, I can’t, I can’t come anymore!

When Neteyam finally, mercifully, lifts off the vibrator and withdraws the other toy from your sopping wet hole, you want to cry with relief. You’ve never, never in your life, have ever had an orgasm so intense before. So many of them, too. Your chest is still heaving, forcing deep breaths of air into your lungs as you try to get the trembling of your legs under control.

"Oh, sweet girl," a voice coos from somewhere behind you, pressing kisses to your neck and shoulder. "That was a lot, huh?"

You nod, because that’s all you can manage.

"You’re so fucking pretty like that, all wrung out and well-fucked," Lo‘ak adds, grinning down at you like you’re a piece of fruit he’s about to devour and you wonder when this man is ever satisfied. Distantly you remember that his kuru is still intervined with yours. When you look up, he shares a knowing look with his brother that makes goosebumps raise on your skin, before he glances back down at you, grin sharp enough to cut steel.

Behind you, Neteyam rests his chin on the curve of your shoulder as he gently pulls you and his brothers braid apart. His breath is warm and his voice low as he says, "Let’s try another, shall we?"

Your breath stutters.

"A-Another?" The words come out as a whimper, soft and quiet. Your eyes follow the movement of his hand as he brings your kuru close to his mouth. A full on body shiver goes through you when he blows a soft breath of air over the wriggling pink tendrils.

"It’s our gift, remember?" Neteyam chuckles. "And we still have plenty of toys for you to try, txeptsyip [little flame]."

Chapter 1 / Chapter 3

Honorable mentions of artworks that inspired this fic:

Credit: @zestys-stuff

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach drops.

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

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

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

Mother? But that means…

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

You’ve heard of them before.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And right now, their entire focus was on you.

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

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

"She is," Neteyam agrees softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Immediately, you snap awake.

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

Your pulse spikes.

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

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

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

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

Your steps slow despite yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

Then you notice the rest.

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

Your stomach twists.

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

Not for long, though.

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

Neteyam enters first.

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes begin to wander despite yourself.

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

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

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

Fear claws its way up your spine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your brows furrow. "A… deal?"

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

He lifts one finger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The brothers see the hesitation flicker in your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goosebumps raise all over your skin at his words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your pulse is racing. Your thoughts are tangled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But…t-the great mother will—"

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

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

"O-Oh!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His words made you feel dizzy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neteyam’s entire focus is on your pussy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their hands are everywhere at once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 2

Honorable mentions of artworks that inspired this fic:

Credit: @xyla1181

Credit: @porpunta

Credit: @fisheyea16

Credit: @liam_nae2

Neteyam steps forward, his large, four-toed feet silent on the damp moss of the bridge, and plants himself firmly in your way. The space between you narrows until you can feel the radiant heat of his blue skin and the earthy scent of the forest that follows him everywhere.

He tilts his head, his bioluminescent markings glowing faintly in the shadow of the mountain. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, revealing the sharp point of a fang. He crosses his muscular arms over his chest, his broad shoulders blocking the only way forward. He knows you cannot go back, and he knows you cannot pass him without making physical contact—a contact he is clearly hungry for.

Your breath hitches, the air in your lungs suddenly feeling insufficient. Every time he looks at you like it feels as though he is peeling back your skin to see the fluttering of your heart beneath. You try to step to the left, but he mirrors the movement with fluid, feline speed. You try the right, and his tail snakes out, lightly brushing against your hip, a warning and a promise all at once. The bridge lurches slightly in the wind, forcing you to reach out and grab his forearm for balance. His skin is rough and warm, the muscle beneath as hard as the stone of the mountains.

"Neteyam, move," you hiss, your voice strained with a mixture of frustration and a blossoming heat you refuse to acknowledge. "Your father is waiting. Lo’ak will start making jokes if we linger here too long."

He doesn't budge. Instead, he leans down, his face inches from yours. He is so close that you can see the intricate patterns of his iris and the way his ears flicker at the sound of Lo’ak’s distant shouting. He is playing a dangerous game, one that thrives on the thrill of nearly being caught. 

"Let them wait," he whispers, his voice a low vibration that resonates in your own chest. “I see the way your pupils grow wide when I walk into the hometree. I see how you touch the bone-whistle I carved for you when you think no one is looking. Why do you hide it? Is the son of the Olo'eyktan not worthy of a confession?"

He is relentless. He reaches out, his large hand cupping the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the sensitive skin behind your ear. The touch sends a violent shiver down your spine. He is claiming you, weaving a web of intimacy that grows tighter with every shared glance. He wants the words. He wants to hear you admit that his pursuit hasn't been in vain, that the courting gift—a delicate necklace of obsidian and sea-glass he left on your sleeping mat—had touched more than just your curiosity.

"I am not letting you pass until I hear it," he says, his expression turning mock-serious, though the twinkle in his eyes betrays him. "Tell me you liked the gift."

From above, the sound of heavy footsteps on stone echoes. Jake’s voice carries through the mist, calling out Neteyam’s name. The urgency of the situation should make you pull away, but the way Neteyam is looking at you makes the rest of the world fade into insignificance. 

"Fine!" you whisper-yell, your face flushing a deep, embarrassed purple. "It was nice, alright? The necklace... the way you carved it... it was beautiful."

The transformation in his expression is instantaneous. The smirk breaks into a triumphant, radiant grin that lights up his entire face. He doesn't let you pass yet. He surges forward, his hands framing your face as he pulls you into a sudden, resounding smooch. It is loud, messy, and tastes of victory. His lips are firm and warm against yours, a bold seal on your confession that leaves your head spinning.

Just as he pulls back, his tail giving a delighted flick, the heavy thud of feet hitting the vine-bridge signals the arrival of the others. Lo’ak swings down from a higher vine, landing a few paces behind Neteyam with his usual lack of grace, followed closely by the steady, imposing presence of Jake.

Neteyam doesn't miss a beat. He immediately assumes a posture of perfect, military readiness, his hands dropping to his sides as he turns to face his father. Only the slight heaving of his chest and the way his eyes dart back to you for a fraction of a second hint at the disarray he just caused you.

"Everything clear ahead, Neteyam?" Jake asks, his eyes scanning the horizon, oblivious to the fact that his eldest son just spent the last five minutes trapping you in a romantic deadlock.

"Perfectly clear, sir," Neteyam responds, his voice steady and devoid of the rasp that had been there moments ago.

Lo’ak, however, narrows his eyes, looking between your flushed face and Neteyam’s suspicious grin. "You look like you just ate a hexapede, bro. What’s with the face?"

Neteyam simply claps a hand on Lo’ak’s shoulder, shoving him forward with a laugh. "Just enjoying the view, little brother. Move out."

You are pressed back against the rough, cork-like bark of a massive podocarpus, the ridges of the tree digging into your shoulder blades as Neteyam crowds into your personal space. His feet are braced on either side of yours, grounding him as he leans his full weight forward, trapping you in the small alcove of roots and shadows. Above, the canopy is a riot of shifting greens and deep purples, but your entire world has narrowed down to him.

Neteyam tilts his head, a slow smirk spreading across his face that reveals the sharp, ivory glint of his fangs. He doesn't wait for permission, he never does lately. He reaches out, his hand cupping your jaw, his thumb dragging firmly across your lower lip to pull it down, exposing the pink dampness of your mouth. When he leans in, his nose brushes against yours, his warm breath fanning over your face.

The first kiss is a possessive claim. He presses his lips against yours with a firm, rhythmic pressure, savoring the way you gasp into his mouth. It is deep and exploratory, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips before sliding inside to tangle with yours. You let out a soft, involuntary whine, your fingers curling into the leather of his loincloth as you try to pull him closer. He responds by deepening the contact, his other hand sliding down to grip your waist, his fingers slogging into your hip with enough force to leave a faint bruise.

"Neteyam, report," Neytiri’s voice crackles suddenly through the comm-link fastened to Neteyam’s ear. The sound is jarringly professional, cutting through the haze of desire like a blade.

Neteyam doesn't pull away. Instead, he shifts his angle, his lips sliding toward the sensitive corner of your mouth as he reaches up with one hand to press the activation stud on the device. His eyes remain locked on yours, dancing with a wicked, unyielding mischief. He looks entirely unbothered, his breathing steady even as he continues to feast on your skin.

"Perimeter is clear, Mother," Neteyam says, his voice coming out smooth and crystalline, devoid of any hint that he is currently pinning his future mate against a tree. He punctuates the sentence by nipping hard at your bottom lip, a sharp tug that earns another muffled sound of protest from you. He snickers quietly against your skin, the vibration of his laughter rumbling through your own chest. 

"The tracks we found earlier were just a stray sturmbeast. Nothing to worry about. I’ll keep sweeping toward the eastern ridge."

You glare at him, your face flushed a vivid, embarrassed shade of violet, but he only rolls his eyes. He lets go of the comm-link and immediately captures your mouth again, this time with more urgency. The kiss becomes a frantic exchange of heat and friction. He sucks on your tongue, the wet, sliding sounds of the embrace echoing in the quiet pocket of the forest. He is relentless, his teeth grazing your lips as he groans low in his throat.

"Yo, big bro, you there?" Lo’ak’s voice bursts through the radio, loud and annoying. "I found some weird fruit over by the creek. Is this the stuff Dad said not to touch, or can I eat it?"

Neteyam lets out a huff of amusement, pulling back just an inch, his lips glistening with your shared saliva. He watches the way your chest heaves, your breath coming in short, ragged bursts. He seems to take a sadistic delight in how much more affected you are than he is. He reaches out, tracing the line of your collarbone with his index finger, his touch light but lingering.

"Don't eat it, skxawng (idiot)," Neteyam replies into the comm, his tone perfectly flat and brotherly, though he is currently sliding his hand up your thigh, his palm hot against your skin. "Dad said those cause a rash that lasts for three sun-cycles. Unless you want to spend the next week itching like a viperwolf with mange, put it down and get back to your post."

"Ugh, fine. You're so boring," Lo’ak grumbles before the line goes dead.

Neteyam drops his hand from the comm and leans his forehead against yours, his ears twitching with satisfaction. He treats you as though you are already his, a settled fact in his mind. He leans down again, this time burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. 

"You make such sweet sounds when you're frustrated," he whispers against your pulse point, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He begins to trail wet, hot kisses up the length of your throat, his tongue flickering out to taste the salt on your skin. He finds the soft spot just behind your ear and bites down gently, sending a bolt of electricity straight to your core. "Do you want me to stop? I could go join Lo'ak. I could leave you here all alone with your thoughts."

You shake your head frantically, your hands moving up to clasp behind his neck, pulling his head back down to yours. You are desperate for the contact, your body humming with a restless, frantic energy that he has spent the last hour cultivating. He laughs, a soft, triumphant sound, and gives you one last, lingering kiss—a deep, soul-searing pressure that leaves your head spinning and your lips swollen.

"Tìmweypey (patience)," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. "The sun will set soon, and then we won't have to listen to my brother's voice at all."

He steps back, his posture instantly shifting back into his disciplined, untouchable sona of his. He begins to move away, blending into the shadows of the forest with the grace of a ghost, leaving you leaning against the tree, trembling and breathless, while he whistles a casual, airy tune.

The air at this secluded rock pool was heavy, clinging to your skin with the scent of damp earth, crushed mint, and the sharp, musky heat radiating from Neteyam’s body. He had you backed against a smooth, submerged shelf of stone, his hands gripping your hips with a possessive, grounding strength that anchored you against the gentle lap of the lake.

Your legs were locked tightly around his waist, your ankles crossing behind the small of his back, while your arms draped over his broad, blue shoulders. Every time he shifted, the friction of his skin against yours sent a jolt of lightning through your nerves, yet you couldn't stop the melodic, breathless giggles bubbling up from your chest.

"You are trouble," Neteyam rasped, his voice low, vibrating against the sensitive skin of your neck. He pressed forward, his weight pinning you more firmly against the stone as he moved with a slow, rhythmic persistence. "I heard you. In the communal circle. You told your mother that your heart was still 'as open as the sea' and that no one was currently seeking your hand."

You threw your head back, a loud, taunting laugh escaping you as his tail gave a sharp, agitated flick in the water. "Did I? I must have forgotten. My memory is so short these days, Neteyam. Perhaps it is because the 'perfect heir' is so subtle that I haven't even noticed his efforts".

He let out a sharp, indignant huff, his golden eyes narrowing with a mix of genuine frustration and the playful, cheeky spark that he rarely showed anyone else. He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his breath hot and smelling of the sweet fruit he’d shared with you earlier.

"Subtle?" he countered, his hands sliding up to frame your face, his thumbs dragging across your cheekbones with enough pressure to make your breath hitch. "I left a necklace of obsidian and sea-glass on your mat. I have brought you the choice cuts of every hunt for three sun-cycles. I have practically breathed for you".

"It was a very nice necklace," you teased, nipping playfully at his lower lip before pulling away just out of reach. "But until I see a formal declaration before the Tsahik, I am technically a free woman. This? This is just payback for trapping me on that vine-bridge last week".

Neteyam groaned, the sound raw and phonetic as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing the tendon there in a warning nip. He continued the steady, agonizing rhythm of his body against yours.

"You think this is a game," he muttered against your skin, his hands moving down to squeeze your thighs, pulling you even tighter into his heat. "I am the future leader of this clan, and you are making me look like a fool who cannot even claim his own mate."

"Then maybe you should try harder," you challenged, your voice dropping to an outrageous whisper. "Because honestly, Neteyam, I heard Lo'ak saying he might start bringing me weaving fibers soon. He’s much more direct than his 'perfect' older brother."

The lie was so absurd, so blatantly designed to rile him up, that Neteyam’s entire body went rigid for a fraction of a second. He pulled back, his expression a mask of mock-outrage, his ears pinned back against his head.

"Lo'ak?" he echoed, a sharp, disbelieving bark of a laugh escaping him. "That skxawng wouldn't know a courting ritual if it bit him on the tail. You are mine. You know it, I know it, and the Great Mother herself knows it".

Before you could retort with another jab about his brother, Neteyam lunged forward, his mouth crashing onto yours to effectively silence you. The kiss was messy and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongue that tasted of victory and salt. You melted instantly, your fingers tangling into the braids at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer until there was no space left between you.

The silence of the grotto was suddenly broken by the running feet on the soft loam nearby, accompanied by the bright, unmistakable sound of Kiri’s melodic laughter and Spider’s raspy voice.

Neteyam’s ears flicked toward the sound instantly. With the fluid, feline speed of a warrior, he broke the kiss. Before you could even draw a breath to ask what was happening, his large hand landed firmly on top of your head. With a sudden, forceful shove, he plunged you beneath the surface of the lake.

The water was cool and dark, bubbles dancing past your eyes as you sat on the submerged stone shelf, your lungs burning with the suddenness of it. Above you, you could see the distorted, blue silhouette of Neteyam standing tall, his posture shifting in a heartbeat from a lover’s embrace to a casual, bored stance.

Kiri and Spider burst through the ferns, both of them looking disheveled, their skin flushed a deep, embarrassed purple. Spider was rubbing the back of his neck, and Kiri was pointedly adjusting a necklace that wasn't out of place.

Neteyam quirked a single, judgmental eyebrow at them, his arms crossing over his broad chest. "You two look like you’ve been chased by a thanator," he said, his voice smooth and steady, betraying none of the heat that had just been radiating from him. "What are you doing this far from the village?"

Kiri jumped, her eyes darting around the pool before settling on her brother. "We... we were just scouting! For rare moss. For grandmother!"

Spider nodded vigorously, his dreadlocks swaying. "Yeah. Moss. Very important moss. What are you doing out here, Neteyam? Alone?"

Neteyam didn't miss a beat. He gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, his expression unreadable and calm. Beneath the water, you felt his toes lightly brush against your submerged knee, a silent command to stay still.

"Just enjoying the peace," Neteyam replied, a faint, teasing smirk touching his lips as he looked at the two of them—clearly aware they had been caught in their own secret moment. "It’s a shared secret, isn't it? The best spots in the forest are always the ones people don't know you're visiting."

Kiri narrowed her eyes, looking at the ripples in the water, but Neteyam simply stared her down with the practiced authority of the eldest brother until she huffed and turned away, dragging a red-faced Spider back into the trees.

Only when the sound of their footsteps faded did Neteyam reach down, his fingers hooking under your arms to haul you back into the air. You emerged sputtering, wiping water from your eyes and glaring at him with pure murder in your gaze.

"You drowned me!" you hissed, though you couldn't hide the smile tugging at your mouth.

Neteyam just laughed, pulling you back into his arms, his forehead resting against yours. "I saved your reputation. Now, where were we? Something about Lo'ak and weaving fibers?"

"Lo'ak..." you whisper but the name feels heavy, sliding out of your mouth like lead. Your vision is doubling; there are two Lo’aks, both of them wearing the same expression of pure terror.

Then, the world dissolves into chaos.

The high-pitched hiss of arrows, the thump of bodies hitting the deck, and the unmistakable sound of a banshee diving close. Through the haze, you see a blur of blue and stripes.

Neteyam.

He drops. He’s a whirlwind of motion, cutting Lo’ak’s ties in a single fluid stroke before turning to you. The moment his hands touch your shoulders, the warrior mask he’s been wearing since the forest began to burn just... vanishes.

"I’ve got you. I’ve got you, tsmuke." he murmurs, his voice a low, grounding vibration against the ringing in your ears.

He slides one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you as if you weigh nothing. You let your head fall against his chest, the steady, frantic thumping of his heart the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

"Neteyam, she's not staying awake," Lo’ak chokes out, hovering at his shoulder, eyes wide and glassy. "She tried to fight him and he—"

"I know, baby brother. Move. Now."

The flight back is a fever dream of wind and the smell of Neteyam’s skin—forest rain and dried herbs. Every time your eyes slip shut, his arm tightens around you, a sharp "Stay with me" echoing in your ear. He’s just a big brother who is terrified he’s losing a piece of his soul.

-

The shift in the air is what hits you first. But the sound that truly pierces through the concussion-induced fog it’s a broken sob coming from right beside your ear.

"Is she okay? Neteyam, why isn't she waking up?"

Tuk’s voice is high and reedy, trembling with a terror that sounds too heavy for her small frame. She’s standing against Lo’ak’s side. Her eyes are fixed on your limp body.

"She's okay, Tuk," Neteyam grits out, his jaw so tight it looks like stone. He shifts his grip, tucking your head more securely. "She’s just sleeping. She had a hard hit. Look at me—she’s breathing, see?"

"But she won't wake up!" Tuk wails and comes next to you.

She’s sitting at the foot of your bed, her tail wrapped tightly around her own ankles, watching your chest rise and fall with an intensity that’s heartbreaking.

Every time you groan or shift in your sleep, she flinches, her big eyes darting to Neteyam for permission to move. "Can I touch her?" she whispers, her voice barely audible over the waves.

Neteyam looks up, his expression softening. "Softly, Tuk-Tuk. Just her hand."

She reaches out, her small hand trembling as she covers yours. Your skin is cool but hers is burning with a nervous fever.

"Wake up," she breathes, leaning over to whisper right into your ear, her braids brushing your cheek. "I’ll give you my best glow-shells. I won't even get mad when you take my favorite fruit. Just wake up so we can go swimming."

Your fingers twitch. It feels like dragging your soul through deep mud, but you manage to squeeze her hand back. It’s weak, barely a ghost of a pressure, but Tuk gasps as if you’ve shouted.

"She felt me! Neteyam, she squeezed!"

Neteyam is across the mat in a heartbeat, his hand hovering over yours, a breath of pure relief escaping his lungs. He looks at Tuk, then back at you

"I told you," he says, his voice thick as he pulls both of his sisters into a cautious, protective huddle. "She’s a Sully. We don't stay down for long."

-

The glow worms in the family pod are dim, casting soft teals and greens across the woven mats. The silence of the reef is heavy, broken only by the rhythmic lapping of the ocean outside.

You wake up to a dull ache behind your eyes. When you try to move, a hand immediately settles on your forehead.

"Easy," Neteyam whispers. He’s sitting cross-legged beside your mat, a bowl of medicinal paste in his lap. He looks exhausted, his braids messy and his shoulders slumped. "Don't move your head. The Tsahik says the pressure needs to go down."

On your other side, Lo’ak and Tuk are curled up, their hands firmly gripping yours even in their sleep. They look like they haven't moved in hours.

"We’re home. You’re safe." Neteyam voice hitches, just a tiny bit. "You really scared us, sis. Don't ever do that again. Don't play hero when I'm not there to catch you."

You manage a weak smile. "I know you're always there."

Neteyam huffs a soft, watery laugh, brushing a stray hair from your face with a tenderness that aches. "Yeah, always. Now go back to sleep. We are not going anywhere."

And for the first time since the ship, the world stops spinning. You close your eyes, anchored by the weight of Lo’ak and Tuk’s hand and the steady presence of the big brother who always carries the world so you don't have to.

🌊⋆｡⋆˚࿔°.🐚⋆❀˖°⋆˚࿔

Time stretches.

His hand shifts, careful and unhurried, brushing a stray braid away from your face. His fingers linger there for a moment longer than necessary, hovering like he’s memorizing the warmth of your skin. A  smile pulls at his mouth—slow, unguarded, almost boyish. It spreads easily, softening every sharp edge of him until all that’s left is affection, open and bright and impossible to hide.

He does not think about his duties. Not when you are right here.

You stir beneath his gaze, pulled from sleep by the intense weight of being watched. Your brows knit slightly, lashes fluttering before your eyes finally open, unfocused at first. It takes a second for your vision to settle, for the blur to sharpen into him.

Neteyam doesn’t look away.

“…Teyam?” Your voice is rough with sleep, soft and uncertain. You blink again, slower this time, trying to understand why he’s still here. “Is everything alright?”

His ears flick forward at the sound of your voice, and that soft smile deepens in a way that makes his whole face warm. He shakes his head once, small and gentle, his hand lifting again to brush along your cheek in a familiar gesture.

“Good morning, ma yawne (my beloved),” he murmurs, voice low and thick with sleep.

He still doesn’t move.

That is what unsettles you.

You shift, pushing yourself up slightly on your elbow, studying him more carefully now. Neteyam never lingers like this. His mornings are steady, structured, guided by purpose and responsibility. He does not stay in bed once he wakes, no matter how warm it is, no matter how comfortable.

Your confusion shows clearly on your face.

“Neteyam,” you say again, a little more awake now, a little more certain. “You’re not up.”

His nonexistent brows lift slightly at that, amusement flickering through his gaze.

“No,” he agrees easily.

You stare at him.

He just keeps smiling.

Concern begins to creep in at the edges of your expression, subtle but there. You shift again, preparing to sit up fully, to press him for a real answer this time, because this is not like him. He notices the change immediately—the tension, the way your body starts to move away from him—and he closes the distance before you can get far.

His lips meet yours, soft and certain, stealing the question right from your mouth.

The kiss is slow, warm, unhurried in a way that feels planned. Your breath catches, a quiet hum slipping from you before you can stop it, your hand coming up to rest weakly against his chest. Sleep still clings to you, making everything feel hazy and heavy, your thoughts slower to catch up with what he’s doing.

When he pulls back, your eyes blink open again, dazed.

“Neteyam…” you murmur, voice softer now, confusion still threading through it. “What are you doing?”

His smile doesn’t fade.

“Can I not stay with my mate?” he asks, tone touched with amusement, something teasing tucked beneath it. “Must I leave the moment I wake?”

Heat rises to your cheeks instantly.

“That’s not—” You falter, your hand pressing lightly against his shoulder as if to push him away, even though the pressure barely exists. “You always get up early. You never stay like this.”

His hand catches your wrist with ease, fingers wrapping around it in a firm but gentle hold that stops your push before it can move him at all. His thumb brushes once over your pulse, absently, like he isn’t even thinking about it.

“I am not allowed to change my mind?” he asks, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Before you can respond, he leans in again.

Another kiss.

Longer this time. Deeper.

Your protest dissolves into the soft press of your lips against his, your fingers curling slightly against his chest as he guides you back down into the snonivi. The woven fibers press beneath you again, familiar and grounding, but the weight that follows is new.

Neteyam shifts over you, settling his body against yours with careful control, his strength obvious even in the way he holds himself back from putting his full weight on you. He cages you in without hesitation, one arm braced beside your head, the other still loosely holding your wrist.

His tail flicks behind him.

Once.

Twice.

Faster.

A quiet laugh slips from him when you gasp softly beneath him, your hands pressing more insistently against his chest now.

“Neteyam—you’re heavy,” you complain, your voice breathless, tinged with lingering sleep.

“I know,” he answers easily, the words brushing against your lips before he kisses you again.

He shifts his weight just enough to emphasize your point, a teasing press that earns a sharper protest from you. The sound only seems to amuse him more, his laughter low and warm as it spills into the space between your mouths.

“I mean it,” you huff, trying again to push him away, though your strength falters almost immediately. “Get off—”

“No.”

The answer comes without hesitation.

His grin widens, and he dips his head to kiss you again, slower now, savoring the way your protests break apart into soft, uneven breaths. His hand leaves your wrist only to find your cheek, cupping it with a gentleness that contrasts entirely with the way he keeps you pinned beneath him.

“You speak too much in the morning,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing. 

Your eyes narrow.

“I do not—”

He cuts you off again.

Another kiss.

This one lingers.

Your hands remain against his chest, but the push weakens, your fingers curling instead of pressing, your resistance softening beneath the warmth of him. Neteyam notices immediately. He always does.

A quiet, pleased sound hums in his chest.

“I like this,” he admits after a moment, pulling back just enough to look at you properly.

Your expression has changed. The irritation has dulled, replaced by softness and homeliness, your earlier confusion fading beneath his attention.

“What?” you ask quietly.

His thumb brushes along your cheek, tracing the curve of your face like he has all the time in the world.

“Staying here,” he says. “With you.”

Your breath catches, just slightly.

Neteyam’s gaze lingers on your face, taking in every small reaction—the way your lashes lower for a second, the faint shift of your lips, the heat spreading across your cheeks. His expression softens again, that same open affection settling over him without restraint.

He leans down, pressing another kiss to your lips, gentler this time, slower, unhurried in a way that feels entirely intentional.

Your hands relax against him fully now.

His tail flicks again behind him, wide and unrestrained, giving him away completely.

Neteyam settles more comfortably over you, making no move to get up, no sign of returning to the routine he follows so strictly every other morning. His forehead rests briefly against yours, his breath warm against your lips as he lingers there, close enough that you can feel every quiet exhale.

“I could start my mornings like this,” he murmurs softly.

Another kiss follows, warm and certain, his smile brushing against your mouth.

“And I would not mind it at all.”