Moonseye

For instance, Lohen — that little battle manic who rarely sought “friendship” unless he intended to use it for personal gain — had begun sticking to you like a slime. Weirdly enough, you seemed to reciprocate his enthusiasm, always inviting him for a spar at The Thousand Winds Temple.

At first, Varka didn't think too much of it. Whatever, maybe you were just being polite and entertaining the young captain's antics. Or, perhaps he had bribed you with that "friendship fee" of his — that was a possibility.

However, the more time you and Lohen spent together, the more you clung to one another, creating a bond Varka couldn't seem to write down as mere "friendliness":

I.

The first time Varka felt something was off with you two occurred during a rather mundane commission. The Knights of Favonius had received news regarding a massive Hilichurl camp near Windrise; concerned about its proximity to the main city, he had ordered his most capable knights to clear out the camps with him.

The commission goes swimmingly, like it always does — that is, until he hears a pained yelp belonging to his 4th company vice captain cut through the air. Immediately, Varka swivels his head 180 degrees to the point that he almost gets whiplash, but it’s worth it, because he witnesses the most astonishing sight before him: Lohen completely abandoning the massive Mitachurl he’d been sparring (probably with delight, knowing him) to rush to your aid.

“Lo,” you gasp weakly, groaning as you press a bloody palm against the gash at your waist (“Lo”? When the hell did you call that rascal such a sweet nickname?). Varka needs only to blink once before the offending monster crumbles to dust by a swift stab of Lohen’s dagger. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Lohen looked far more frightening than usual as he decimated the creature — if that was even possible, anyway.

Varka stands motionless, stunned as Lohen instantly drops to your side. The crazed look in his eyes vanishes in favor of a concerned one, and the vice captain is visibly tense as he mutters a choice of curse words before scanning your body for injuries.

“Ah…” Lohen sucks in a sharp breath, uncharacteristically quiet. “Do you feel…alright?”

You shoot him a rather unimpressed look, elbowing him in the ribs with the remaining strength you have. “Does it look like I feel alright?”

Lohen raises both hands in surrender, shaking his head with a forced chuckle. “Right, right. C’mon, let’s get you fixed up.”

The remaining knights get the job done quickly. The entire Hilichurl camp is cleared out within seconds, but Varka cannot bring himself to care when there’s a miracle occurring right in front of his eyes. It’s true that despite Lohen’s usual aggressive and battle-hungry nature, the rascal had never ceased to look out for his fellow knights — but this time was different. There was surely something wrong with Lohen’s reaction today, and Varka couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

He only snaps out of his trance when Lohen’s grating voice pierces the air again. “Hey, Varka! Stop standing there like an idiot and get this young lady some medical aid, will ya?”

Varka grunts in response, beckoning the rest of his knights to follow. “Right,” he mutters under his breath, staring at the two of you. 

The bane of the Grand Master’s existence walks off with your arm around his shoulders. As Varka catches up, he could almost swear to Barbatos he hears Lohen tease: “You seemed distracted today — thinkin' about me too much? Okay, okay, I’m just kidding! Just…be more careful next time, kay? I really don’t like seeing you hurt.”

Varka shakes his head disbelievingly. Oh, yeah. He’s absolutely keeping an eye on the both of you from now on.

II. 

And so he does. 

The second time Varka notices something off about you two, he’s already drunk, head warm and fuzzy from the combination of alcohol and overstimulating noise echoing through the first floor of Angel’s Share.

The beer works well to clear his mind of most worries, though not the one clear goal he’s had since that last commission: to find out exactly what was going on between you and Lohen. Tonight was the perfect chance to do so — as long as one of you gets a little drunk, he supposes — so he leans against the table to peer at you two.

To no one’s surprise, you’re seated next to Lohen, who was nursing an apple cider in his hands. While he seemed quite awake and aware of his surroundings (much to Varka’s displeasure), the dandelion wine in your hands had rendered you tipsy, and you were already mumbling lazily against Lohen’s shoulder.

Perfect.

Varka clears his throat loudly in hopes of catching your attention.

“Uh, vice cap!”

Both you and Lohen turn your heads to face him simultaneously. That synchronism only makes Varka even more suspicious (yes, you were both vice captains, but he doesn’t care. That definitely meant something), so he decides that he must start an inconspicuous conversation in an effort to dig deeper. What counts as inconspicuous, Varka doesn’t really know — especially when he’s this buzzed from the beer in his tankard. Still, he knows he must try, so he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Ah, I’ve gotta confess — I kinda miss the days when Jean was Acting Grand Master!” he starts, words already slurring into an aimless ramble. “I swear to Barbatos, I’ve been bombarded with reports these days! It makes me want to mysteriously disappear again…uh, not that I’d want to dump all the paperwork on somebody else, of course…”

You and Lohen glance at each other, unable to hide your snickering. It makes Varka frown a bit — what was up with kids and their disrespect these days??

He does feel a bit better, though, when the two of you turn around to pay him attention once more.

“Hah, I get you, Grand Master–” you start.

“Oh, she really does–” Lohen adds, tone reeking of amusement and mockery.

You smirk, slapping the little rascal’s arm to shut him up (serves him right, Varka thinks). “No, no, I really do. I mean, I think I’d probably die if I had a mountain of paperwork on my desk every day. Y’know, Grand Master, I see you hiding away in the most random places to escape your work and take a nap.”

Varka huffs in indignation, face going a bit red at being discovered by his vice captain, but you cut him off before he can say anything.

“I’m a bit envious, though,” you sigh. “I wish I could sneak away to take a nap, considering I haven’t been sleeping well these days–”

Before you can finish your sentence, though, Lohen cuts in. His words are knowing and concerned, something Varka has probably witnessed from him maybe twice in this lifetime.

“Nightmares about the Wild Hunt again?” the vice captain murmurs, eyes softening in sympathy. “Was that why you were shaking in your sleep?”

You begin to nod in response, except a few seconds later, a look of realization flashes in your eyes. Varka follows your gaze as it anxiously scans across the table of fellow knights — all either too drunk or too engrossed in their own conversations to pay you and Lohen any mind.

Varka narrows his eyes. Everyone else may have missed that slip up, but he absolutely did not. He takes another swig of his beer before slamming the tankard down with a large thud. The Grand Master watches in satisfaction as you glance at him with wide eyes, visibly surprised at the sudden action.

“Lohen”, he huffs, suddenly getting a rush of liquid courage. Varka points a finger accusingly at the ranged company’s vice captain, a victorious smirk on his lips. “Tell me, how do you know what kinda dreams she’s been having, huh?”

Unfortunately, Lohen merely returns his question with an infuriatingly innocent smile, shrugging oh so casually in response.

“Heh- Great question, Grandmaster! You see, it’s simply because we’ve camped together during expeditions,” he drawls. “Our 4th company vice captain talks quite a lot in her sleep.”

Before Varka can protest, you mirror Lohen’s stupid innocent smile and cut in. “He’s right, Grand Master. Alas, I do talk out loud in my sleep — I have some pretty vivid dreams.” You glance toward Lohen, winking at him. “Thanks for putting up with my sleep talking, vice captain.”

Varka feels his right eye twitch at your unbelievable response. He looks between the two of you, opening his mouth in an attempt to complain, yet nothing comes out.

There’s no way he’s been conned. Again.

III.

After losing his only lead in the tavern a week ago, Varka had decided to give up and chugged 10 more beer bottles out of frustration.

If you and Lohen wanted to evade the truth, then so be it. He had far more important matters to attend to anyway — like the never-ending requisition forms currently spilling across his desk, or what to do with the poor new recruits Lohen was supposedly “testing” (more like torturing) with his increasingly dangerous poisoned drinks. 

Varka sighs, shoving his chair back and beckoning Lohen to gather the stack of forms and follow him out of the office. No matter — he would deal with the little rascal later. First, there were probably four more tasks he needed to complete before sitting his vice captain down for a more serious talk about his "tactics."

He’s mid-stride across the headquarters lobby, Lohen half a step in front of him, when he notices two familiar figures by the staircase. Varka squints. The Cavalry Captain is leaning against the railing, one arm braced on the wall beside your head. His face is far too close to yours, and Varka can't seem to put a finger on why the two of you together feels wrong.

As Kaeya notices the two men approach, the corner of his mouth quirks up, amused and expectant. He doesn’t turn to look, though, gaze still trained on you.

“I never see you off duty, vice captain,” he says smoothly, regarding you with a pleasant smile. “It’s a shame, really.”

Varka hears you laugh, a sweet sound falling from your lips. In front of him, Lohen instantly stops in his tracks.

He nearly walks straight into the little rascal — Varka’s sure he would have, if it weren’t for his amazing reaction time. He shoots Lohen an exasperated look, about to tell him off, but when his eyes land on the vice captain, he realizes that Lohen isn’t looking at him at all. Instead, Varka traces his icy stare to the staircase, where you were still chatting happily with the Cavalry Captain.

Ah.

He reaches out to place a soothing hand on Lohen’s shoulder, ready to stop him from whatever impulsive decision he was going to make, but the idiot was already striding toward you and Kaeya. 

“Vice captain,” Lohen greets you, voice paper thin. There's a shadow cast across his face, one that reminds Varka of the same unsettling expression he wore after returning from that underground auction. “These requisition forms require your countersignature. It’s urgent.”

Varka blinks, mouth falling open at the scene unfolding before him. Those forms were not urgent, relative to all his other paperwork. In fact, they weren’t even meant for the 4th company. But for some odd reason, Lohen was lying to your face, right in front of the Grand Master whom those papers belonged to.

You tilt your head questioningly, as if beckoning him to explain, but Lohen doesn’t bother to wait. He casually steps between you and Kaeya, making sure to completely block the Cavalry Captain from your view, before handing you the stack of forms in his hands.

Varka doesn’t miss the way Lohen’s fingers brush against yours for a second too long.

The sound of Kaeya’s chuckle snaps Varka out of his trance, and he finally manages to pick his jaw back up. He watches as the Cavalry Captain pushes off the wall, hands raised in mock surrender. 

“Ah, business calls. Expected nothing less from the ever busy young lady."

It isn’t until Lohen has herded you up the stairs, palm pressed insistently against your lower back, that Kaeya spares Varka a glance. There’s an amused glint in his eyes, as if he knows something the older man doesn’t.

“Forms,” he chuckles to himself, tasting the word on his tongue. The captain’s tone reeks of mockery. “How dreadfully urgent.”

Varka opens his mouth — to say what exactly, he didn’t know — but Kaeya was already strolling up the stairs, throwing a couple of words over his shoulder. 

“She’s very lucky. Don’t you think, Grand Master?”

Varka exhales slowly, not knowing whether to feel absolutely infuriated or exhilarated. There was no way in Teyvat he was getting any paperwork done after that — but perhaps his lead from last week hadn’t disappeared after all.

IV. 

In the next few days, Varka forced himself into work. For the sake of productivity, he desperately tried not to recall Lohen’s icy stare at the Cavalry Captain, or the way you’d let yourself be led away by the man without a single protest. Anyone could tell he had failed, though, by the stacks of unfinished papers still spread across his desk.

At least he’s learned something useful from the ordeal: it seemed that if Celestia wished to grant him more evidence of you and Lohen’s weirdness around each other, then it would do so during the most random, mundane, and totally unsuspicious moments of the day. Alas, there was no further point in lurking around the 4th and 5th company’s offices. He’s sure he would’ve accidentally walked in on you and Lohen making out, anyway.

Varka shakes his head in horror. Yeah — he’d rather not imagine that.

-

Ugh. 

The Grand Master groans, pinching the bridge of his nose as he walks into the mess hall. It’s only dawn, yet Jean had sternly insisted that he begin today’s work early. Varka supposes it was his own fault. After all, he clearly wasn’t disciplined enough to stop thinking about the past days’ events, resulting in more than usual leftover work. Still, he thinks he deserves some leniency considering the things he has witnessed.

Varka reaches for the coffee pot, grumbling to himself about how unfair everything was. He’s about to pour a cup for himself until suddenly, he hears familiar voices drifting from the kitchen.

He pauses. That was your voice. It was a tad sleepy and exasperated, yet no doubt belonged to his 4th company vice captain.

And right after that was definitely Lohen’s low rumble in response, though Varka couldn’t exactly make out the little rascal’s words.

Carefully, Varka sets down the coffee pot and begins creeping toward the kitchen doorway. He feels like a criminal about to commit atrocious sins — he really hopes there's no one else in the mess hall witnessing the embarrassment he's making of himself. Back pressed against cold marble, his head peeks out from behind the wall. 

You were at the stove with a spatula in hand, hair still a little mussed from sleep. Lohen doesn’t seem to mind, though, as he leans against the counter beside you. He’s slouched over, shoulder brushing against yours as he greedily takes up your personal space. You don’t seem to mind that, either.

“Stop staring,” you huff, without sparing Lohen a glance. “Go make yourself useful and grab the plates.”

However, Lohen doesn’t move an inch. If anything, he seems to shuffle even closer to you, voice lazy and amused as he responds: “Hey, don’t be so mean! I just like watching you.”

You fake gag at his response, but there’s an evident smile tugging at the corner of your lips — Varka could see that much from the doorway. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

You shake your head and lift a spoon from whatever was sizzling in the pan, holding it out toward Lohen. The vice captain leans down, making a show of slowly taking the silverware into his mouth. You look at him weirdly, but he only flashes you a cheshire grin as he pulls back to lick his lips.

“Very good, as always! But more salt.”

You sigh, raising an eyebrow at him. “You always say that. Do you just like the taste of overwhelming saltiness or something?” you deadpan. “Actually…don’t answer that, you freak.”

Lohen laughs. “Yes. But I also say that because you always undersalt.”

“I do not–”

“You do,” he replies smoothly. The ease and certainty with which Lohen insists on this makes Varka suspect that the two of you have had this argument more than just once or twice.

You turn to glare at him, raising your spatula like a weapon. Lohen looks obviously amused at your crazed appearance, not at all concerned about your supposed threat.

“You bastard, I’ve never undersalted your food–”

Lohen smirks, reaching up to wipe something from the corner of your lip. Varka can’t tell what it is exactly, but what he can tell is that you freeze mid-sentence, voice faltering to nothingness. Instead of dropping his hand back to his side, Lohen shifts it down, cupping your jaw gently. He tilts your chin up so you’re forced to meet his gaze, already looking way too happy with himself.

“What were ya saying, now?”

“...stop trying to distract me,” you mumble, but your voice had gone noticeably breathier, like the movement had completely stolen the air from your lungs.

“Well, is it working?”

You don’t reply, instead turning back to the stove, but there’s an obvious flush creeping up your neck from where Varka stands. Lohen’s hand casually falls to your lower back as he leans around you to grab the salt shaker himself. 

“No worries, I’ll just do it myself,” he hums.

“Whatever,” you sigh. “You always end up doing it yourself, anyway. Picky, aren’t you?”

Varka bites hard on his tongue, forcing himself not to make a noise somewhere between awe and frustration. Oh, you liars. He was so going to station you in Brightcrown Mountains, as far away as possible from Dornman Port.

V.

In the following week, Varka continued to witness a rinse and repeat of these much-too-friendly interactions. By this point, he was 99.99% sure that the two of you were together — how could you not be? Sure, the Grand Master had nothing concrete, but he’d collected all the circumstantial evidence possible throughout the past month.

It was rather irksome.

He has to remind himself that you two are fully competent adults by now. If you wanted to keep your lives private, it was absolutely your right. Still, having known you and Lohen for the years that he did, Varka couldn’t help but suspect that you two were doing this on purpose — mocking and taunting him with these displays of affection while offering nothing absolute. It was you and Lohen, for Barbatos’s sake. If the two of you weren’t intentionally irritating him, then pigs could fly.

The matter was so irritating that after a particularly long meeting with Jean at the headquarters, Varka decided to take a walk through the garden courtyard. It was the perfect chance to clear his head before bed after that dual headache, he tells himself. A beautiful view and no one to pester him about the never-ending paperwork and two lying vice captains.

Varka rounds the corner, sighing softly as his gaze catches the familiar sight. The small courtyard is bathed in silver moonlight, fountain murmuring quietly at the center. The low hedges cast soft shadows against the stone walls, providing a sort of comfort to the exhausted man.

A beautiful view and no one to pester him. At least, that’s what the walk should have been — because he suddenly recognizes two very familiar people in the garden.

You’re pressed against the base of the windmill just beside the fountain, Lohen’s body caging you in. Neither of you seem to notice the Grand Master — considering that Lohen’s faced the opposite way and completely obstructing your view of anything else but him — but the two of you probably wouldn’t have noticed him anyway. Not when the little rascal was kissing you like a man starved, your hands tangled in his hair and pulling his body flush against yours.

Varka’s first instinct is to turn 180 degrees and run for his life, but his feet stay stubbornly rooted to the ground. His eyes take in details he’d rather not remember, like how Lohen has one hand braced against the wall beside your head, the other wrapped firmly around your waist. He’s pulled you in so close that there's not a breath of space between you two — Varka doesn’t remember the last time he’s seen Lohen look so starved for anything that wasn’t battle or bloodshed.

Boldly, you pull at the roots of his hair. Varka’s sure the little freak groaned at that, but even if he did, the Grand Master wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t know because it would’ve been covered by the rather loud and startled noise that leaves his lips at the sight.

Lohen goes completely still against you. Varka has to swallow his pride as he awkwardly shuffles in place, grimacing when the vice captain turns to meet his gaze.

“I–” he starts, voice uncharacteristically meek. “This isn’t– I wasn’t–”

Lohen’s expression doesn’t change, remaining completely unreadable. Varka thinks his vice captain is probably about to chop him to bits with that dagger, until he hears another voice ring out.

“Ah, Grand Master.”

It's your voice, light and amused and clearly not angry with him. You peek out from behind Lohen’s shoulder, shooting Varka a delighted grin.

“Grand Master," Lohen echoes, lips twitching into the barest hint of a smirk.

“Don’t ‘Grand Master’ me like that,” Varka grunts, pointing a finger at his ranged company vice captain. “Y-you knew I was here?” He doesn’t even wait for a response, gaze snapping to yours. “And you? You knew I was here too?"

You bite your lip, expression far from guilt or embarrassment. In fact, you were trying not to laugh, cheeks puffing out and stomach twitching in an attempt to hold back the high-pitched noises already seeping through your lips.

“We heard you,” you admit, a giggle escaping despite your efforts. “Your footsteps are quite loud, Grand Master.”

“You’re really not as sneaky as you think you are,” Lohen adds helpfully.

Varka’s face goes redder than it does after drinking a tankard of beer. He’s sputtering, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water.

“Ugh...don’t tell me the two of you knew I was going insane and were taunting me on purpose,” he groans. “Though I have a suspicion I’m right about that, unfortunately..."

The two of you glance at each other, amusement written all over your faces. Lohen’s smirking ever so casually, scanning his surroundings as if this situation is of zero importance to him — it’s so infuriating that it makes Varka want to punch him and wipe that smirk off of his face.

“Oops,” you reply, clearly not very sorry about the month of torture you’ve given him. 

“It was just too good of an opportunity to pass up,” Lohen shrugs. “Might even be better than seeing you fall into the traps I dug, Grand Master.”

If Varka were a tea kettle, he’s sure he would’ve had steam rising from his head by now. He’s at an utter loss for words, mouth opening and closing but nothing coming out — Barbatos, what did he do to deserve such horrible vice captains? The Grand Master huffs in exasperation, turning on his heel and walking away as fast as he can.

“I’m stationing you two on opposite ends of Mondstadt,” he throws over his shoulder indignantly. “And don’t even think about going on an expedition together again. I know you rascals are sneaking into each others’ tents at night!”

“Wha- Grand Master!” 

Varka is an observant man, after all.

you move your head to look at him with those big eyes and an innocent smile on your face, “i’m soooo hot, ‘kuna,” you pout before you start spreading your legs even more with a content sigh.

he clicks his tongue while he uses his elbows to prop himself up on the mattress next to your bare naked body, “doesn’t mean you should have your pussy on full display, woman.”

he’s only met with a judgmental side-eye and you continue to lay there unbothered as the fan blows cool wind, well— everywhere.

a surprising but delicious pain waves through your body as two thick fingers pinched your nipple before soothing the sore spot immediately after. “don’t give me attitude, ‘ya hear?” to which you can only nod all the while trying to suppress your smile.

sukuna sighs and sooner than later, he finds himself also laying bare next to you; balls out and soft. the cool wind starting to lull him back to sleep.

“can i hold it?

for fuck’s sake. “close your damn eyes and go to sleep, please,” your boyfriend’s voice cracked at the last part— silently hoping that you don’t notice the flush starting to bloom on his neck.

you stay quiet and rest your head on his bicep while the quietness consumes you both.

he knows how mean he can be sometimes, which he honestly tries to do less. so, who is he to deny his sweet precious girlfriend of what she currently wants in the moment.

his dick was starting to twitch anyway. might as well indulge in your…unique way of doing certain things?

To be fair, most jujutsu sorcerers have loud thoughts to match their loud personalities. You particularly remember when you first met Todo and you were on the receiving end of a mental barrage of images of some idol that you faintly recalled having seen in passing before and big ass after big ass. So you’ve long made your peace with the fact that loud thoughts come with the territory.

But when you first met Yuuji during your first year at Jujutsu High, it felt like you could hear everything he was thinking — even without accounting for the curse caged inside of him. It would get so bad that you ended your days during those first weeks of knowing him feeling dizzy. 

While Nobara has always been quick to project whatever irritation, excitement, or disgust she feels, her emotional flashes are quick to come but equally as quick to fade. Megumi’s unhealthy instinct to suppress everything he thinks and feels has always made him one of your favorite people to spend time with.

It’s Yuuji who thinks loudly and feels loudly around the clock. Before you learned how to filter out and block every stray thought you heard, it felt like you were constantly aware of Yuuji's status whenever he was within a few hundred meters. 

You knew when he was hungry, when he was enjoying something, when he was annoyed, when he was happy, when he was excited, when he was sad, when he thought something was funny, when he had to go to the bathroom, when he didn’t understand something, when he thought a girl was hot, when he was angry, when he was in pain, when he was winning at pachinko, when he was tired. 

But after so many years of training, and so many years of being his friend, his thoughts and emotions are still just as loud, but you only ever hear one if you need to in the midst of a fight — or if it’s strong enough. 

And for the past few months, his thoughts have been so strong that it feels like you’re 15 all over again. It’s not all his thoughts that are strong enough to reach you against your will, just…certain ones. 

The first time it happens, it’s so sudden that you feel like you’ve been hit over the head.

People assume that with your technique, you can hear every word going through someone’s mind. And while sometimes you do, people think both verbally and visually.

So, you’re not surprised when an image suddenly flashes in your head. After all, it’s a phenomenon that you’re more than used to. You are, however, surprised at the image. 

Because as you’re waiting in line at a bakery to order, leaning in slightly to look at the display case of pastries, you’re suddenly assaulted with the mental picture of yourself from behind, particularly the way your dress has slightly ridden up the backs of your thighs. It’s not high enough to be obscene, only enough to hint.

And to accompany the image is a deep desire — for you to bend over further, for your dress to ride up even higher, to know what’s beneath and for it to be a thong. 

You cut off the connection before you can see anymore and shoot back up to stand perfectly straight, your eyes as wide as saucers. Your heart is racing in your chest and you have to fight the urge to bury your face in your hands to hide your burning cheeks.

“Did you figure out what you want?” Yuuji’s curious voice is suddenly in your ear as he leans in over your shoulder to look at the pastry selection himself. “That ham and cheese one looks so good.”

He sounds so…unaffected, like he wasn’t just fantasizing about what your underwear looks like. You glance at him from the corner of your eye and none of it is on his face. 

“Th-the pistachio one,” you mumble, distractedly pointing at the croissant in the corner of the display case.

“Oh, you’ll have to let me try a bite!” he grins, moving in even closer to look at what else the bakery has to offer, entirely oblivious to the mental breakdown he’s caused. 

And that’s how it starts. 

You’ll be out with Yuuji and you’ll get a flash of him wondering how soft your lips are when you apply some chapstick, or of him appreciating how your neckline dips just low enough for him to see the edge of your bra when he looks down at you. 

It’s not every time you’re together, but it starts to happen often enough that you begin to prepare yourself whenever you know that you’re going to see him, just in case. And it does work. You accept that your friend seems to be attracted to you and assume that this new crush will probably go away. You’re able to shut out the thoughts as quickly as they come. 

But then they get louder — and filthier. You’re no longer seeing things that could barely be considered PG-13. 

You’re seeing your face coated in white streaks of Yuuji’s cum, your mouth open and your tongue sticking out to catch every last drop as he fists his cock. You’re seeing your ass in the air as he eats you out from behind, your own imagined whimpers and moans ringing in your ears as you grind back into his face. You’re seeing yourself from above, his hands on the backs of your knees pressing them towards your chest as your ankles dangle by his ears while you beg him to go “harder, Yuuji!” You’re seeing him yanking you into an alley to bend you over and fuck you against the concrete wall.

It’s only made worse by how casual he acts when you’re finally able to recover from whatever obscene display has been forced upon you and you can dare to look at him. He’s never flustered or lost in some fantasy. He’s never distracted. You never catch him staring at your tits or ass. You’ve never even been able to catch him with a tent in his pants. 

He behaves as if everything is normal, like he’s just your friend that you’ve known since high school. A friend who doesn’t fantasize when you’re laughing together over hotpot about spitting in your mouth or when you finally have a chance to go see Human Earthworm 6 about you swallowing his cock in a crowded theater. 

Your other friends seem to have noticed that something is off. Megumi has asked on more than one occasion if you’re coming down with something when he sees how you’ll suddenly start breaking out into a sweat. Nobara is more perceptive, immediately jumping to the conclusion that there must be a new man in your life with how flustered you’ve been lately.

There’s a sudden, sharp pang of someone else’s dismay you feel when she makes her deduction in front of your friends. 

But what you don’t know how to tell her is that this new man is Yuuji, and the reason you’re so flustered is because every time you see him, he’s been unknowingly projecting graphic pornography featuring both of you directly into your mind. And even worse, you don’t know how to tell her that you’ve started to look forward to it. 

At first, you thought the reason why you would get so wet was because Yuuji doesn’t just share what’s running through his mind, but also what he’s feeling. Your arousal is really just his arousal. 

But that doesn’t explain why you’ve found your eyes lingering over his broad shoulders when his back is to you or appreciating the sight of him shirtless and sweaty after training together or wondering what it would feel like to have two of his thick fingers buried knuckle deep in your slick cunt. 

And you’ve started to realize that he doesn’t even need to be around for you to end up yourself lost in a fantasy of your own making. 

You’ll be scrolling through your phone and your mind will drift to how it would feel to look down and see Yuuji beneath you as you ride him, your palms pushing down against his bare chest for leverage with every rock of your hips. You’ll be sitting on the couch and wish that Yuuji were with you so you could climb into his lap and desperately grind against him until you both come in your pants as you let out needy little whimpers against his lips. 

You’ll be in bed late at night with your hand buried between your legs, your fingers sliding in and out of your dripping pussy while you grind the heel of your palm against your clit, and mourn the absence of his cock. 

After months of this ongoing torture, your sanity is about to snap. It feels like every time you’re together, if it’s not his fantasies that you’re seeing, it’s your own.

But then you notice a change. Because where you’ve started to feel less flustered every time one of these images is playing in your mind — so desensitized to them by this point that they leave you turned on more than anything else — he appears to be growing more flustered in your presence. 

There are times when he can’t quite meet your eyes. You’ll look over at him and see that his cheeks are suddenly as pink as his hair. There’s one time where he starts to choke on the soda he’s in the middle of drinking for no apparent reason. You finally start to catch him staring longingly at your ass. 

You begin to wonder if he’s close to reaching his breaking point. 

It’s what you find yourself contemplating one night as you and Yuuji get caught in the rush hour crowd on the subway. He’s strong enough and thoughtful enough to have pushed a path through when you boarded, so that you can lean back against the set of doors on the opposite side. He rests his forearm above your head on the window, using his body to shield you from the rest of the crowd. 

It’s an awkward situation for two friends to be in. For as much room as he tries to leave between you, people continue to get on at each station, and eventually, there’s no space left — you can feel every firm inch of him pressed against you.

He seems to be more conscious of it than you, his eyes directed nervously up at the ceiling. You’re just relieved that it’s him invading your space and not some creep who’s ready to take advantage of the close quarters. 

Thankfully, most of the station platforms are on the same side as where you entered the train, so neither of you have to worry about moving or the doors you’re both leaning against opening. With Yuuji seemingly feeling too shy to talk while you’re in such an intimate position, your mind begins to wander.

What if you turn around? Yuuji would feel every one of your curves as you reposition yourself so that your tits were pressed against the window and your ass slots perfectly against his crotch. You could take his free hand in yours and slip it under your skirt and between your thighs so that he could feel the wet spot in your underwear.

Actually, in this fantasy, you’re wearing no underwear. God, the groan he’ll let out when you slide his fingers up your legs, only to find that there’s no barrier between his touch and your soaked pussy. 

His cock would be so hard against your ass as you give a slow grind into it, able to feel every solid inch even through the fabric of your skirt and his pants. But you can’t waste any time — the doors supporting you both could open at any of the next stops. 

So, while you flip up your skirt, he rushes to shove his pants and boxer briefs just far enough so he can pull out his cock with one hand. And that one hand is then quickly slapped over your mouth to muffle your cry when he slides his cock into your sopping cunt in one smooth stroke. 

He takes you so roughly that you can’t tell if it’s the train that’s so jerky or the punishing rhythm he sets, desperate to get you both off before someone either catches you in the middle of your illicit act or you enter a station where the platform is on your side of the car. 

It’s just as you slide your hand down between your legs to furiously rub at your clit that the fantasy comes to a screeching halt with all the force of someone hitting the emergency brake on the train. Because you’re suddenly incredibly aware of something hard between you. 

You look down, but it’s pointless with how close Yuuji is — pointless because you can’t see beyond his chest and yours, and pointless because what else could it be other than his cock? You then look up at him with hooded eyes to see how red his face is.

He looks pained, his features scrunched together, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, and a bead of sweat running down his neck that you want nothing more than to catch with your tongue. You tilt your head to the side curiously, wondering why he’s so distressed. Obviously, he’s feeling embarrassed, you don’t need to be able to read his mind to know that. But this seems to be something beyond simple embarrassment. 

Feeling your gaze on him, he eventually opens his eyes and gathers the courage to look down at you. Your breath catches in your throat when you see how wide his pupils are, his warm brown irises merely a thin ring around them, and how you can see a mixture of deep hunger, desperation, and pleading. 

“I’m begging you,” he says. His voice is barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of the train as it continues to run along its track, but it’s impossible to miss the rasp to it. “You have got to stop doing that. You’re killing me.”

Your forehead wrinkles as you frown in confusion, trying to understand what he’s talking about. But then he lifts his free hand, the one you had just been fantasizing about having between your legs, and taps his index finger meaningfully against his temple, and you gasp so loudly that you know other passengers have turned to see what’s happening. 

Because over the months where Yuuji has been projecting his thoughts, unaware that they’ve been loud enough that you can’t help but hear them, it never occurred to you that a longer-lasting connection was slowly forming with every image, every word, every emotion. Your mind became so open to receiving what he was unknowingly sharing that you hadn’t realized that you were slipping into his mind the way you used to do with others when you were younger and still learning the basics of your technique. 

And what you grew to understand as you developed it was that if you don’t form a barrier to protect what’s in your mind, then the connection becomes reciprocal and your target can see everything that you’re thinking, too. 

Which means that for the last few months, it’s not only him who’s been projecting graphic pornography featuring both of you directly into your mind, but also you who’s been projecting graphic pornography featuring both of you directly into his mind. 

All you can do is stare up at him, your mouth opening and closing as you struggle to find the words. Unfortunately, while you’ve lost your ability to speak, your mind refuses to quiet and all you can think of is how you want him to stick his fingers in your mouth.

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