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I still feel the ghost of her lips on my cheek, a brand of fire that hasn't gone out in days. It’s not enough. It will never be enough. I want to feel that heat everywhere. I want to see if the blue of her skin deepens when I bite her. I want to know if she tastes like the sea-nectar she picks or something saltier.

Tonight, the village of Awa'atlu was a riot of sound and color, the festival drums thrumming a rhythm that matched the frantic beat of Aonung’s pulse. The scent of roasted fish and fermented fruit filled the air, but the only thing he could focus on was the way you looked in the firelight.

Your brothers had been relentless, their voices a constant, mocking drone about "fish-lips" and "the sea-prince," and he had watched the irritation boil over in the set of your jaw. When you finally reached out and grabbed his hand, your fingers cool against his feverish skin, he felt a jolt of static that nearly brought him to his knees. You didn't say a word, just pulled him into the shadows of the mangroves, your eyes sparking with a mischievous, defiant energy he hadn't seen before. He followed you blindly, his large hand enveloping yours, leading you toward the one place he knew they wouldn't find you—a hidden, jagged cove tucked behind a curtain of weeping vines and bioluminescent moss.

The way she grabbed me—so sure. I could have picked her up right then and carried her into the deep. My hand feels huge around hers, a reminder of how easily I could pin her down. She’s annoyed with them, but she’s running to me. If Neteyam saw us now, he’d kill me, but I’d go to Eywa with the memory of her palm against mine and I wouldn’t regret a single second of it.

The grotto opened up like a secret cathedral of stone and light. The sound of the festival was a distant, muffled echo, replaced by the gentle, rhythmic sigh of the tide against the cave walls. You let out a soft, audible gasp, your hand slipping from his as you wandered toward the center of the space, your eyes wide with awe. The moonlight filtered through a crack in the ceiling, illuminating the iridescent dots on your shoulders and the curve of your long, graceful neck. You looked around like you were seeing a miracle, and when you finally turned back to him, your expression was so full of genuine, raw affection that Aonung felt the last of his self-control snap like a dry reed.

She looks like a spirit in this light, something too beautiful for a wretch like me to touch. But she brought me here. She invited the ocean in. I want to see those eyes glaze over. I want to see the exact moment she realizes she’s not in the forest anymore. I want to hear my name shattered in her throat.

"Thank you for bringing me here, Aonung," you whispered, your voice a melodic chime in the stillness. You stepped back into his space, your toes brushing his, your head tilting back so you could look him in the eye. "It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen." You took a shaky breath, your hands coming up to rest on his broad chest, the heat of your palms seeping through his skin. "And I... I really wanted to do this properly."

Before he could speak, you went up on your tiptoes and pressed your lips to his. It was meant to be a simple kiss, a chaste confirmation of the crush you’d been nursing, but for Aonung, it was the spark in a powder keg.

He didn't let it be quick.

His hands shot up to cup your face, his fingers splaying across your jawline with a possessive, crushing intensity. He crashed his mouth onto yours with a heavy, demanding pressure that forced your lips apart, his tongue surging forward to claim the space you had so innocently offered. It was a sliding collision of salt and sweetness, a desperate exploration that left you gasping into his mouth. He tasted the shock in you, the way your body jolted against his, but he didn't pull back. Instead, he groaned—a low sound that vibrated from his chest into yours—and angled your head further back, deepening the kiss until your knees felt like they were made of water.

Finally. The taste of her is addicting. She’s so soft, so inexperienced, but she’s trying to keep up. I want to drink the very air from her lungs. I could hold her like this forever, just devouring her, feeling the way she shudders every time I moan into her mouth. 

The kiss went on for what felt like an eternity, a feverish blur. You were clutching at his shoulders now, your fingers digging into the hard muscle there as you tried to stay upright. Every time you tried to mimic the rhythm of his mouth, he felt a fresh wave of arousal crash over him.

He moved his hands from your face, one sliding down to the small of your back to arch you against him, the other tangling into your dark, forest-scented hair to keep you locked in place. He was relentless, his lips bruising yours, his tongue tracing the roof of your mouth with a focused hunger. He wanted to memorize the texture of you, the way you tasted, the way you sounded when you let out those tiny, broken whimpers that were half-shock and half-pleasure.

She’s melting. I can feel it. Her heart is hammering against my ribs like a ikran trying to escape. I don't want it to escape. I want to cage it. I want to feel the exact moment she gives up and just lets me take whatever I want. I bet she has no idea how much I want to flip her around and see if she’s this soft everywhere.

Aonung slowly began to walk you backward, his lips never leaving yours as he maneuvered you toward the jagged stone wall of the grotto. When your back finally hit the cool, damp surface, you let out a sharp huff of air, but your arms only tightened around his neck. He broke the kiss just enough to breathe, a thin, glistening string of saliva connecting your swollen lips in the light. You were beaming at him, your eyes glazed and bright, your chest heaving in a way that made his vision swim.

"Aonung," you breathed, a tiny, happy laugh escaping you. "I like you. I like you lots."

He let out a laugh of his own, his forehead leaning against yours as he tried to stabilize his breathing. 

"I like you too, forest girl," he whispered, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth because 'like' was a word for children, and what he felt for you was something far more ancient and dangerous.

She likes me. She’s so sweet it makes my teeth ache. She thinks this is a game, a little festival romance. She has no clue that I’m currently imagining her pinned under me on the floor of this cave, her legs wrapped around my waist while I show her exactly how 'lots' I like her. 

He didn't give you time to think. He dipped his head again, but this time his target wasn't your lips. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his nose inhaling the scent of you. He began to press heavy, wet kisses along the sensitive line of your throat, his tongue swiping against your pulse point. He felt the vibration of your voice as you let out a high, airy moan that echoed off the cave walls.

"Aonung? What... what are you doing?" you asked, your voice hitching as you arched your back, your small hands fluttering uselessly against his chest.

He didn't answer. He couldn't. 

His mind was gone, replaced by the white noise of desire. He slid his hands down to your hips, his large fingers digging into the flesh there, and pulled you firmly against the hard, aching length of his body. He began to grind his hips against yours in a slow motion, the friction of your loincloths the only thing between him and the skin he so desperately craved. You let out another moan, louder this time, your head falling back against the stone as you felt the unfamiliar pressure of him between your thighs.

Aonung's lips found the skin over your jugular. He latched on, his teeth grazing the surface before his lips created a firm, demanding seal. He began to suck, the sensation of your soft flesh being pulled into his mouth sending a jolt of pure fire directly to his cock. You let out a high-pitched squeal that was half-shock and half-giggle, your hands flying up to grip the hard, woven edges of his chest guard.

She’s squealing. Like a little forest bird. I can feel her pulse jumping against my tongue, terrified and excited all at once. I want to leave a mark so dark it looks like a bruise from the deep sea. I want everyone to see it and know that I was here, that I tasted her, that I own the very air she breathes. 

He pulled back just enough to see the darkened, purplish patch of skin he’d claimed, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. You were breathless, your eyes wide and shimmering with an adoration so pure it made him feel like he was burning from the inside out. He teased the edge of the mark with his thumb, watching the way you shivered. 

"I want to try something," he whispered, his voice a low-frequency vibration that seemed to rumble through the stone wall behind you. "Something that will feel even better. Do you trust me?"

"Of course," you breathed, your voice barely a thread of sound. You reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, your touch so light it made his skin crawl with need. "I trust you with everything."

Aonung’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm—a tribal drum in the silence of the grotto. He gave you a quick kiss, his lips bruising yours one last time before he stepped back just a fraction. His hands moved with a sudden, focused intensity to the front of his loincloth. With a sharp tug, he pulled his length out into the cool, damp air of the cove. You looked down, your eyes widening, a small gasp escaping your lips as you took in the sight of him—the thick, heavy weight of his cock, the deep cerulean hue of the skin, and the way the veins pulsed with a life of their own.

"Oh," you whispered, your face flushing a deep, embarrassed purple. "I... I didn't know men's things looked like that."

Aonung let out a short, fractured laugh, the sound echoing off the glowing algae. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he gently moved the soft fabric of your loincloth aside, exposing the delicate entrance of your cunt. 

You scrunched your eyes shut, your breath hitching in a series of sharp, shallow stutters. You looked like you were waiting for a blow, but instead, you felt him press the broad, blunt head of his length against you. He didn't enter; he simply pressed himself against your slickness, the friction of skin on skin sending a violent shock of pleasure through both of your bodies.

She’s so small. Eywa, she’s so tight and warm. Just the touch of her makes me want to bust. I can feel her heart jumping in her chest, and I’m barely touching her. I want to slide inside and never come out. I want to feel her walls clenching around me until I forget my own name. 

You let out a choked, broken moan of surprise, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his forearms as you looked down at the point where you joined. "Aonung... what... what are you doing?" you gasped, your hips instinctively rolling forward to meet his pressure. "It feels... it feels really, really good."

Aonung couldn't answer. 

The words were trapped in a throat that felt like it was lined with hot lead. He was too lost in the sheer, overwhelming sensation of your pussy, the way your natural lubrication was acting as a balm against his aching skin. He began to move, a rutting motion that pressed him deep into the folds of your thighs without ever breaching the final barrier. 

A pathetic, high-pitched whimper escaped his throat, a sound he would have been ashamed of if he weren't currently seeing stars. He buried his face in the crook of your neck again, his forehead resting against the stone as he moved his hips with increasing desperation. He was panting, his breath coming in ragged, sobbing hitches that felt like they were being torn from his lungs. Every time his pelvis crashed against yours, you let out a soft moan that only pushed him further over the edge.

He was a daze of blue and shadow, his mind reduced to the sensation of your soft thighs squeezing him and the way your hands were now frantically raking down his back. He felt like he was drowning in the shallows, the pleasure building into a sharp peak that he couldn't escape. His moans turned into broken cries as he felt the pressure in his loins reach the breaking point. 

With one final thrust against your folds, his body stiffened, and he let out a long, shattered groan as he came on you, the warm, thick fluid spluttering against your stomach and thighs.

You let out a tiny, surprised squeal, your body trembling in the aftermath of the sensation, your legs feeling like they were made of smoke. Aonung slumped against you, his head heavy on your shoulder, his chest heaving as he fought for air. 

"That... that felt really, really good," you whispered into his ear, your voice thick with a post-orgasmic haze. You reached down, your fingers tentatively brushing his softening length, your touch making his skin twitch. "I liked the way you made those noises. You sounded like you were... in pain? But the good kind?"

Aonung let out a shaky, wet breath, his eyes slowly fluttering open. He was about to speak, about to tell you that he would do anything to hear those sounds from you again, when a voice cut through the damp silence of the grotto like a serrated blade.

"Sis? You in there?"

It was Lo’ak. His voice was close—terrifyingly close—just on the other side of the weeping vines that hid the entrance. The sound of his footsteps on the wet sand was unmistakable, heavy and impatient.

Aonung froze, his heart stopping in his chest. He was still exposed, still slick with his own release, and you were pinned against the wall with your loincloth askew and your eyes glazed with the evidence of what you’d just done. If Lo’ak stepped through those vines…

Aonung didn’t care though. 

His lips curled into a dark, triumphant smile that defied the impending violence. He didn't hide the mess on your skin or the way his hand still possessively gripped your hip; he simply watched the entrance, his eyes gleaming with the arrogant joy of a man who had already stolen the forest’s greatest treasure.

I have sinned against every law of my people, and I would do it again until the ocean runs dry. 

As Lo’ak’s shadow fell across the grotto, Aonung felt only a pulsing, unrepentant greed. He had tasted your innocence, left his mark on your throat, and he would gladly face a thousand deaths just to feel your body melt against his for one more heartbeat.

"A scratch? Neteyam, you are literally leaving a trail across the floor!" You step closer, your hands hovering near his chest, wanting to touch him but afraid of causing more pain. The heat radiating off his body is immense, a furnace of adrenaline and stubbornness. "You went out with your sempul (father) and Lo'ak, and instead of reporting to the healers, you come here?”

He chuckles, a sound that quickly turns into a pained hiss as he shifts his weight. "You are very beautiful when you are angry. Your eyes... they spark like the Great Mother is looking right through me."

You don't give him the satisfaction of a blush. Instead, you grab his uninjured arm and begin hauling him toward your sleeping quarters. It is a small, secluded nook shielded by heavy woven tapestries, filled with the comforting aroma of dried herbs and the faint, sweet smell of the tea you’d brewed earlier. You push him toward a low-slung bench covered in hexapede skins.

"Sit. If you will not go to the healers, you will stay here while I fix your stupidity," you snap, turning to rummage through your basket of medicinal pouches. You pull out a bundle of crushed teylu paste mixed with heyoang leaves, known for its numbing properties and ability to knit flesh back together.

Neteyam groans as he pulls his chest guard off, letting the leather straps fall to the floor with a heavy thud. The injury is worse than he’d admitted—a jagged tear runs across the breadth of his shoulder blade, likely from a stray piece of shrapnel or a sharp ridge of rock. The wound is angry and red, the edges weeping as the cool air hits the exposed tissue. His back is a map of muscle and sinew, his shoulders broad and powerful, though they sag now under the weight of his bravado.

You sit behind him, your knees brushing against the backs of his thighs. The proximity is overwhelming; you can smell the woodsmoke on his skin and the underlying musk of him.

"Hold still," you command, scooping a generous amount of the green paste onto your fingertips. The moment you touch the edges of the wound, his entire body jolts. A sharp, guttural sound escapes his throat.

"Sss-ah! Watch it," he gasps, his fingers digging into his own knees, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief.

"Stop being a prrnen (baby)," you mutter, though you soften your touch, spreading the cool mash over the raw skin. "If you had gone to Kiri, she would have been much less gentle. You deserve the sting for being so reckless. What was Lo'ak doing? Why did he let you just walk away?"

Neteyam turns his head slightly, looking at you over his shoulder with a mischievous glint that defies his physical state. "Lo'ak was busy being lectured by my father. I took the opportunity to disappear. I knew you would be waiting. I could feel your worry from the forest floor."

"I wasn't worried. I was annoyed," you lie, your thumb tracing the uninjured skin near his spine. His skin is smooth but firm, the texture of a river stone warmed by the sun. You can feel the slight tremor in his muscles, the way he is fighting to stay upright for the sake of his pride.

"You were terrified," he counters, his voice dropping to a low, teasing hum. "You think I do not know your heart by now? It beats faster when I am near. Even now, I can hear it thumping against your ribs like a trapped ikran."

He shifts, rotating his torso so he is facing you more directly, despite your protests. The movement causes a fresh smear of blood to ruin the work you had just done. You huff, your brow furrowing as you try to push him back into place.

"Neteyam, stop! You are making it worse!"

"And you are making it better," he whispers, his hand reaching out to catch your wrist. His grip is large, his fingers wrapping nearly all the way around your arm. His palm is calloused and warm, a stark contrast to the medicinal paste on your other hand. "I missed you today. Every time we went into the brush, I thought about the way you look in the morning light."

"You are such a skxawng (idiot)," you say, your voice losing its edge, replaced by a weary affection you can't quite hide. "You go out there and risk your life, and then you come back here and try to charm your way out of a scolding. It is manipulative and dangerous."

"Is it working?" He leans in, his face inches from yours. You can see the golden flecks in his irises, the way his pupils also dilate in the dim light of the tent. His breath smells of mint and the wild air of the mountains.

You press the remaining paste firmly into the center of the cut, causing him to wince and pull back with a sharp intake of air. "No. It is not. You are going to sit here, you are going to let this dry, and you are going to sleep. No more raids for a week."

He laughs, a rich, vibrant sound that fills the small space and makes the shadows retreat. "A week? My father would have my head. And you... you would miss me too much."

"I would enjoy the peace and quiet," you retort, though your hands remain on his shoulders, your fingers instinctively kneading the tension out of his muscles. The heat between you is rising, a heavy, electric pull that makes the air feel thick and hard to swallow.

Neteyam reaches up, his hand cupping the side of your face. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, his gaze dropping to your mouth. The teasing smirk vanishes, replaced by a look of raw, unadulterated hunger that makes your heart skip a beat.

"You talk too much when you are scared for me," he murmured.

Before you can respond with another sharp remark, he lunges forward, capturing your lips with his. The kiss is a desperate, crushing contact of a man who has stared death in the face and needs to feel the pulse of life beneath his fingertips. He tastes of salt and sweetness, his tongue seeking yours with a confidence that leaves you breathless.

You melt against him, your hands moving from his shoulders to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his dark, intricate braids. He groans into the kiss, a deep, vibrating sound that rumbles in his chest and echoes in yours. He pulls you closer, his uninjured arm wrapping around your waist to haul you flush against his heated body.

He breaks the kiss for a fraction of a second, his forehead resting against yours as you both pant for air. He is smiling—a genuine, triumphant smile that reaches his eyes.

"Better?" he whispers.

"I still hate you," you breathe, even as you pull him back down for more.

"I know," he says against your skin, his teeth grazing your jawline before he finds your lips again.

You moan in the kiss, a soft, involuntary sound that vibrates through your chest, and for a second you totally forget he’s injured. Then, his weight shifts, his wounded shoulder catching the edge of the bench, and he lets out a tiny, pained grunt.

You break the kiss with a gasp, your lungs burning, and your eyes narrow as you glare at him. He’s still smiling stupidly, that lopsided, arrogant grin that says he’d do it all over again if it meant getting another taste of you. His pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the gold of his irises.

"Stupid!" You hiss, your voice cracking with a mixture of arousal and genuine fury. You grab him roughly by the uninjured shoulder, shoving him back into a seated position. Your hands are shaking as you reach for the bowl of teylu paste. "Sit. Still. If you move again, I will leave you to bleed out on this floor and tell your sa’nok (mother) you were being a nuisance."

Neteyam ignores the threat entirely. As you lean in to inspect the jagged tear on his back, he tilts his head, catching your cheek with a quick, wet kiss. The contact is unexpected and warm, making your skin prickle.

"Watch your language," he teases, his voice a low, vibrating hum that makes the hair on your arms stand up. "Is that any way to speak to the future leader of the clan?"

"Pxasìk (fuck) the clan leadership right now!" you snap, the curse word feeling sharp and jagged in the air. "You are acting like a child. You could have lost enough blood to pass out in the forest. Do you have any idea what that would have done to your mother? To me?"

He laughs, a rich, melodic sound that bounces off the cave walls. The sound is infuriatingly carefree. "But I did not pass out. I found my way to you. And you kissing it... it makes the pain go away.”

"That is not how medicine works!" You glare at him again, your teeth gritting so hard your jaw aches. You dip your fingers into the cool, thick paste and smear it across the weeping wound with more force than necessary. "It does not matter how many times you kiss me, your flesh still needs to knit back together. You are not invincible, despite what your ego tells you."

He winces as the herb stings the raw tissue, but he doesn't pull away this time. Instead, he turns his head just enough to catch your eye. "I never said I was invincible. I said your touch heals me. There is a difference."

"The difference is that one is a lie and the other is a poetic excuse to be reckless," you counter, your fingers working the paste into the deep crevice of the wound. You can feel the heat of his blood, thick and viscous, mixing with the herbal mash. 

"You worry too much," he says, and before you can protest, he’s twisting around, his hand snaking out to cup the back of your head. He pulls you down, his lips crashing into yours again. This kiss is shorter, punchier, a punctuating mark on his argument.

You push him back, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Stop! Neteyam, I am serious. You are losing blood. The paste needs to set."

"Then let it set," he murmurs, his eyes dark and hungry. He reaches out, his fingers tracing the line of your collarbone, his touch light as a feather but heavy with intent. "But we can talk while we wait. Tell me more about how much you hate me."

"I hate that you don't listen," you say, your voice dropping to a whisper as you try to refocus on his back. You pick up a strip of clean linen, starting to wrap it around his torso. The fabric is rough against your palms. "I hate that you think every mission is a game. I hate that I have to sit here and wonder if the next time someone comes to my tent, it will be to tell me you are with Eywa."

"It is not a game," he says, his voice suddenly grave. He reaches back, catching your hand and bringing it to his lips. He kisses your knuckles, his gaze never leaving yours. "I know the stakes. But being with you... it is the only time I do not feel the weight of the sky on my shoulders. Can you blame me for wanting to be here?"

"I blame you for being a martyr," you argue, pulling your hand away to tuck the end of the bandage into place. "You try to carry everything. You try to be the perfect son, the perfect warrior. But you are just a man, Neteyam. You bleed just like anyone else."

"Do I?" He grins again, the gravity vanishing as quickly as it appeared. He leans closer, his chest brushing against your knees. "I thought I was special. You certainly treat me like I am, even when you are shouting."

"I am shouting because you are a skxawng!" You throw the leftover bandage roll into the basket with a huff.

"A skxawng you love," he points out, his hand sliding down from your shoulder to your waist.

You are so busy formulating a scathing rebuttal, so focused on the way his brow furrows when he's being particularly cheeky, that you don't notice the subtle movement of his other hand. His fingers, calloused and dexterous from years of handling a bow, hook into the waistband of your loincloth.

"I don't—" you start, but the words die in your throat as you feel the sudden, cool draft against your hip.

You look down, eyes widening as you realize he has partially tugged the fabric down, exposing the curve of your thigh and the dip of your hip. The blue of your skin looks vibrant against the dark shadows of the tent.

"Neteyam!" you gasp, reaching down to pull the garment back up, but he moves faster, his hand pinning yours against your leg.

"You were saying?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, dangerous purr. His eyes aren't on your face anymore; they are tracked on the skin he's uncovered. "About how much you hate me?"

The air in the tent suddenly feels like it’s been sucked out. Your breath hitches in your throat as his thumb begins to trace slow circles against your hip bone.

"You... you are injured," you manage to choke out, though your protest sounds weak even to your own ears.

"The pain is gone," he lies, his smile widening as he watches the way your pulse jumps in your neck. "I told you. Your touch heals everything."

You’re about to flick his forehead due to his audacity, your fingers already coiled for the strike, but he moves with that fluid grace that makes him one of the best hunters in the clan. Before you can even blink, he slips off the hexapede-skin bench and drops to a crouch on the packed earth. The height difference puts his face directly in front of your cunt, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the view he just forcibly revealed. You squeal, a sharp, undignified sound that echoes off the stone walls, and your legs fly up, heels aiming to nudge his head away roughly.

"Neteyam! Move!" you bark, your face burning a deep violet.

His hands, large and calloused from a lifetime of bowstrings and forest climbing, reach out and catch your thighs. He anchors you in place, his grip firm but careful not to bruise, though the strength behind it is undeniable. You can see the fresh, dark blossoms of red leaking through the white linen bandages on his shoulder—a vivid, wet stain that mocks your attempt at being a healer. You whine, a low sound of distress vibrating in your throat, and try to pull your legs back together.

"Stop it, you are bleeding again! Neteyam, please, look at your shoulder," you plead, your voice cracking.

He doesn't look. He doesn't even flinch. Instead, he leans forward, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive, damp folds. The air is cool in the tent, making the sudden warmth of his exhale feel like a brand.

"You are surprisingly wet for someone who is supposedly scolding me," he murmurs, his voice a gravelly rumble that vibrates right against your clit. He looks up at you through his lashes, his expression a devastating mix of arrogance and adoration. "Your mouth says one thing, but your body... it tells a much more honest story."

"I... it is just the humidity! And the... the adrenaline from you being a skxawng!" You stammer out the excuses, your hands fluttering uselessly at your sides before you grip the edge of the bench so hard your knuckles turn white. "You are dirty, Neteyam. You are being filthy and you seriously need to rest. If your father walked in—"

"My father is busy. And this?" He gestures with his chin toward your opening, where a thick, glistening bead of your desire is clinging to the tip of your hood. "This will make me feel wayyy better than sleep ever could. Better than any herb you have in that basket."

Before you can protest again, he lunges forward, his tongue darting out to swiped across your clit in one long, firm stroke.

You slap a hand over your mouth to stifle the shriek that wants to tear out of your throat. You’re squirming, your hips bucking instinctively against his hold, your thighs tightening until they are practically crushing his head. Your tail is going wild, thumping against the skins of the bench like a frantic heartbeat, and your ears are pinned flat against your skull in a mix of overwhelming pleasure and acute embarrassment.

Neteyam makes a loud, wet slurping noise on purpose, his eyes tracking your reaction to further humiliate you. He wants you to hear it. He wants you to know exactly how much he’s enjoying the taste of you. He begins to eat you out like you are the last meal he will ever have on this moon, his tongue working with a clinical, relentless precision. He find the most sensitive spots with ease, his tongue curling and flattening, alternating between broad strokes and sharp, flicking motions that send sparks of white-hot lightning up your spine.

The sound is so graphic, so unrepentantly carnal, that you feel like you’re going to shatter. You can feel the vibration of his throat against your inner thighs as he moans into you, a deep, satisfied sound of a predator who has found exactly what he was hunting for. He’s thick-tongued and greedy, his nose buried in your folds, inhaling your scent.

"Mmmph," he grunts against your skin, his hands sliding up from your thighs to grip your ass, pulling you even closer to his ravenous mouth.

You can feel the shape of his mouth, the way his lips wrap around your clit as he begins to suck, creating a powerful vacuum that makes your vision blur. The suction is intense, focused, and utterly devastating. You feel the build-up starting deep in your core—a heavy, aching pressure that demands release.

"Neteyam... stop... I can't..." you sob into your palm, your eyes squeezed shut.

He doesn't stop. He doubles down, his tongue darting deep inside you, tasting the slick walls of your entrance before returning to the swollen nub of your pleasure. The bandage on his shoulder is half-unraveled now, a strip of bloody linen trailing on the dirt, but he is lost in the heat of you, his own breathing coming in ragged, wet gasps between his laps.

The smell in the tent is intoxicating now—the copper of his blood mixing with the heavy, floral musk of your climax, a scent combination that is primal and overwhelming. You can feel the sweat slicking your skin, making you slide against the leather of the bench.

"Please," you whimper, your fingers tangling in his braids, alternately trying to push him away and pull him closer.

He looks up for a split second, his face smeared with your juices, his eyes glowing with a dark, triumphant fire. "Say it," he commands, his voice a low hiss. "Tell me you want me to make you come."

"I... I want... please!" You cry out, your resolve finally snapping like a dry twig under a heavy boot.

He grins, a flash of white teeth, and then he dives back in. This time, he doesn't hold back. He uses his fingers to spread you wide, his tongue a blurring muscle of pure sensation. He laps at you with a ferocity that borders on violent, his head bobbing as he devours you.

The orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, a sudden, ecstasy contraction that starts in your toes and washes over your entire body. You arch your back, your muffled whines dying in your throat as your thighs clench around his face.  

Neteyam doesn't pull away. He stays there, lapping up every last drop of your cum, his hands holding you steady as you ride out the storm. He is a mess—bloodied, bruised, and covered in you—but as he finally sits back on his heels, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, dragging a smear of your slickness over a fresh split in his lip that begins to weep a bead of dark, indigo blood, yet he looks entirely reborn. 

"I told you," he murmurs, his voice a satisfied rasp as he stands with a fluid strength that defies his injuries, "your medicine is the only kind that actually works."