yes please❤

Fingers digging through your backpack, you combed through everything you packed for the nth time in the last hour, marking off a mental checklist as you went.

Snacks? Check.

Water? Check.

Spare mask? Check.

Sketchbook? Pencils? Watercolors? Check, check, check.

Bandages, ointments, pain killers, yep, all good…

Amidst the scattered items were a radio to contact the group with should you get separated, a mini field guide on safe, dangerous, edible, and non-edible flora and fauna, and a change of clothes. You could promise to be safe all you wanted, but one wrong step, and you’d end up in a muddy puddle of water. Never hurt to be safe, even if your tour guide ensured your group wouldn’t be traversing any difficult or uncertain terrain.

He had a tried and true trail that he took every group down, every week for the last twenty years. The path was beaten in by hundreds and hundreds of feet, soil compacted into a stable course. Nothing to worry about.

Huffing and hoping that you didn’t forget everything, you zipped up your backpack and heaved it on, clipping it across your chest and tugging on the straps to test their tightness against your shoulders. Beside you, your sister snorted, arms folded as she observed you prepare.

“It’s not that serious, hon,” Zara informed you.

You stuck your tongue out at her. “Better safe than sorry, y’know.”

“Nothing is gonna bite you out there, acorn,” She assured. “Not ‘less you give it a reason to.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

Her eyes rolled all the way back. “I’ve been on that trail dozens of times and have never come across anything dangerous. Mike goes through great pains to make sure it’s safe. The group’s safety is his responsibility, after all.”

Sighing, you faced her, absentmindedly fiddling with the filter of your exo-pack. It’d only take 20 seconds of Pandora’s air to knock you unconscious; you’d be dead in 2 minutes without a source of oxygen.

“Zara…”

Your older sister smiled at you, reaching out to grasp and squeeze your shoulder comfortingly. “You’ll be fine. Mike knows what he’s doing, you’ll be with a group, and you’re not going far from the bubble.”

It was hard to let go of your anxiety, but harder to fight against her soothing words. She always had a way of calming you down, laying your paranoia to rest. She was right; you’d be within running distance, and the path had been worn in over the course of much, much time. Mike wouldn’t lead your group further than the nearby cliffside that offered an incredible view of the ocean and the mangrove roots that emerged from its waters.

You’d seen the photographs and dreamed of going there yourself ever since you were too little to wear an exo-pack properly. To be able to draw and paint it was an honor you simply couldn’t pass up, nor squander with endless streams of what-ifs.

Everything will be okay, you recited, coaxing yourself to believe it was the truth, that the nervous energy roiling in your gut was mere excitement and not an ominous warning.

A deep, deep breath filled your lungs, as deep as you could make it. You sucked in air until your trachea ached, then blew out. Zara patted your shoulder proudly and gave you a reassuring nod.

“Go, before they leave without you.”

That kicked you into gear. You hurriedly said farewell and sped through winding halls. It took several doors before you got out of the building, shoes landing on the dirt trail worn into the grass that twisted and turned and led all over the bubble. Mike was standing with a group near the double-hatch entrance of the bubble, one of only two ways out.

Spotting you, he waved you down, and you ran to catch up with the 5 person group already waiting for you. Seven in total, now that you arrived. Mike tossed you an exo-pack mask, and you scrambled to shove it over your head and seal it into place.

“Good?” He asked, and you gave him a thumbs-up. “Wonderful. Before we head out, I’ve got some rules to go over with you bunch. Don’t worry, they’re very easy to follow.”

You took your place in the line of other tourists, for lack of a more fitting word, and listened closely. It was a struggle to tamp down your excitement, but you knew better than anybody that safety ruled over all.

“First and foremost, don’t wander off the path. It’s not easy to lose, but if you do, it’s very hard to find again. Simply stick together, stay on the trail, and you’ll be solid,” he started, pacing back and forth. “Second, don’t touch anything. I’m serious, there’s plants out there covered in a layer of super fine fibers that are riddled with toxins that’ll take you down in minutes. The path is relatively safe, but just… don’t touch anything, ‘kay?”

A chorus of agreements responded.

“Great. Finally, if you do run into trouble or somehow get separated from the group, you all have radios. Use them. I don’t care how benign the issue is, of if you think you can handle it, you use that radio. Heard?”

“Heard,” your group agreed, your reply staggered behind theirs. The warning had your heart pounding in your chest, and you had to take a moment to count to ten to calm down.

Everything will be fine.

“I mean it,” he reinforced, leveling you all with a stare. After deciding you all understood the severity of his words, his expression softened into a warm, eager grin. “Let’s head out, then!”

Your group visibly relaxed, chatter exploding between them as you followed Mike to the chamber, stuffing yourselves into the small space. The door behind you shut, and the pressure shifted with a hiss, causing your ears to pop. It took a moment, but the second door opened, allowing you all to file out of the bubble and onto Pandora proper for the first time in your lives.

Nothing could compare.

Sure, the bubble provided a fine view of your surroundings, of the forest, but it was not the same as being in the forest yourself.

The bubble provided a sense of safety, but it was stuffy after a time, especially if that time had been your entire life. Here, in the open, you could feel danger rocket up your spine, but so did the sheer beauty of everything.

Plants you could only spot through glass or in photographs were so much more vibrant, so alive, when you could see them in person, pick out all their colors and trace their veins with your own fingertips. You had to squeeze your hands to curb the urge to touch them, already battling to obey Mike’s second rule. Don’t touch anything. You don’t know what can kill you from just a graze out here.

Child you would have forgotten the rules the instant you stepped out, but you were grown now. You could handle following three simple instructions. Stay on the path, don’t touch anything, call if in need of help. Easy.

Easy.

The towering trees did make you want to ignore them a bit, though.

They reached the sky with ease, grazing fluffy-looking clouds, cotton bolls you desperately wished to touch yourself, to feel slip between your fingers, cold and damp. You wanted to climb the trees, see the world as they did from the very top.

Some had giant shelf mushrooms growing on the sides of their trunks, the flesh a vibrant pink hue. You imagined that they’d feel bouncy if you stepped on one. Of maybe so soft that you’d sink into it, feet cushioned by the delicate fungus.

Bulbous, green pods littered the forest floor in groups, glowing faintly and full of a substance that smelled pretty rank, from what you heard. You also knew they were keen to explode at the lightest touch. Apparently, they absorbed methane, and when burst, they stank of sewage waste. Avoid at all costs.

Mike’s voice floating to you snapped you out of your trance, your group all seemingly caught up in their wonder of the world outside the bubble as you saw several heads turn towards Mike.

“The trail isn’t difficult. It’ll bring us to a nice clearing, where we can hang out for a while, then head back,” he said. “I’ll introduce you to various plants and any animals we might see. Remember to stick close together; viper wolves don’t usually venture this way, but it’s always possible they might be hungry enough today to wander nearby and decide one of you is a tasty snack.”

Instinctively, the group squished closer together, prompting Mike to laugh boisterously.

“Good, I like that attitude. C’mon, let’s get going.”

True to his word, as he led, Mike would point out various plants on either side of the dirt path, listing their names — colloquial, scientific, and Na’vi — and their function in the ecosystem. Moss, lichen, fungus, flowers, all of it was up for (hypothetical) grabs. Any questions your fellow tourists had were answered with enthusiasm and infectious wonder. Mike really loved his job, loved Pandora as a whole.

And who could blame him? The moon was stunning in every way you could think of and more. Your hands itched to retrieve your sketchbook, but you willed yourself to wait. Patience was key. There was a perfect spot for drawing waiting just up ahead, and—

You came to a halt.

A little off the path, something glimmered.

It caught the light filtering through the treetops, glinting brightly, enticingly. Your head tilted and eyes squinted as you tried to make out what it was, exactly, but you couldn’t discern from so far away.

You glanced back at your group as they continued further, none-the-wiser to your pause. You could see Mike in the front, gesturing animatedly with his arms as he explained something you were too far to hear clearly.

Don’t leave the path.

The warning blared in your head, practically shrieked like alarm bells, yet you remained frozen in place.

Don’t leave the path.

It was too dangerous, who knows what was out there that would be more than happy to take advantage of your solitude? Gobble you up?

Don’t leave the path.

There were so many things that could harm you. You needed to stick together, needed to run back and catch up with your group, pretend you never saw anything.

Don’t leave the path.

You stepped off the dirt, dense grass flattening under your boot.

Despite how your stomach churned, you tried to reason with yourself. You weren’t going far, it was right there. You’d peek, satisfy your curiosity, and run back. The path wouldn’t leave your sight for more than a few seconds, then you’d return.

Everything will be fine.

Heart in your throat, you took another shaky step, then another, eyes constantly jumping to the mass of people that continued to disappear further and further from sight, descending a timid slope.

One second. You’d allow yourself one second.

With that, you turned and rushed toward where you saw the glinting object, lungs trembling, your pulse barely moving at all. You last saw it in a bush, but as you approached, you could no longer see what it might have been. Still, you leaned forward and lightly nudged some leaves out of the way, praying that they weren’t harmful.

Nothing. There was nothing.

You exhaled through your nose in defeat, shoulders slumping. Disappointed in both the disappearance of what caught your attention and in your own behavior, you turned to walk to the path again, already shaming yourself for breaking the very first rule. The easiest one. Hell, the second, too.

You’d go back and hope nobody noticed your short disappearance. Accept that you’d forever have that curiosity in the back of your mind, an unanswered question of what was that.

Only—

Something knocked into you.

Hard.

You went tumbling, spinning before you hit the ground and rolled. In the brief uproot of your surroundings and awareness, your mask detached from your head, pulled off your person along with its canister. All it took was one breath for you to realize your fatal mistake.

You gasped and nearly choked as the rush of air that flooded your lungs lacked what you needed, too full of Xenon, hydrogen sulfide, things too heavy for your organs. It weighed densely on your chest, thick doses instantly stuffing your brain with stretched-apart cotton. Thin; vision blurred by the fibers, blocked altogether in some places.

The air you once fantasized would smell sweet and fresh in a way the bubble’s air never could only smelled of suffocation to you now.

In twenty seconds, you go unconscious. In two minutes, you’re dead.

You trained for a situation like this, it came with all the other drills that school children went through when growing up on this hostile moon. As it often was when it came to training, though, it all fled out the window the moment the space depressurized. In your panic, your mouth opened wide and you tried to suck down any semblance of something breathable instead of holding your breath and searching for your mask. Your senses dampened further, a vignette creeping over the edges of your vision, overtaken by hypoxia.

Then, something was slotting onto your face with a hiss, pressure in a ring around your skull—

With a ragged, croaking inhale, you began coughing, gulping down lungfuls of human air, filtered and processed for your feeble little body.

Your heart raged in your chest, pounding so hard that you feared it’d break clean through your ribs and escape. You clutched your chest, swallowing as you attempted to regulate your hyperventilating.

Fuck, you almost just died.

Fuck. You almost died! Oh, gods, what would Zara say if she found out? What would she do?

You couldn’t tell her. You couldn’t tell anyone that your mask came off and that someone put it—

Everything ground to a sudden, jarring halt when the realization struck you.

It wasn’t you that put the mask back on.

There was someone else with you.

Slowly, you lifted your head, expecting to maybe see another group member, or a very pissed off Mike.

But you knew when you saw blue, it was over.

A huge body was squatting in front of you, sapphire, striped arms resting loosely on powerful thighs. A broad chest, wide shoulders, torso decorated with woven and beaded adornments.

It all led you to a face. His face.

Two wide, striking eyes were staring right back at you. They vibrant amber hue pierced through your being, seeing past your defenses and splaying you open before you had a chance to guard yourself. To prepare.

A Na’vi.

Compared to you, he was colossal. His limbs stretched long, and his figure seemed to consume everything around you, despite him being crouched. You couldn’t fathom how large he’d be if he stood up to his full height, how he’d loom over you, how his shadow alone would reduce you to nothing.

You held your breath unwittingly, stock-still, waiting for him to do something — anything.

If you were lucky, he’d make your death quick.

But he merely tilted his head to the side, his thin braids falling over his shoulder. The wooden beads woven into them clacked together, a tiny percussion.

“Tawtute,” he spoke, startling you. His voice was a deep rumble, a growl from the depths of his core. “Pelun lu nga fìtseng?”

His words made no sense to you, and you initially believed it was because you hit your head when falling over, until you figured out that he was speaking Na’vi. Fuck, of course he didn’t speak English. Why would he?

You wished now, more than ever, that you’d actually paid attention in your language class when you were younger, practiced enough for the native tongue stuck in your brain. You had nobody but yourself to blame for not understanding him.

Your mouth parted, but nothing came out. You had no idea how to reply, unsure of what he said, or potentially asked.

All you could think of to say was, “I’m sorry.”

It was barely a whisper, but you saw his ears twitch forward. A frown tugged his plush lips downwards a hint. “Peseng lu ngeyä pongu?”

That received a similar reaction from you. Nada.

His frown deepened, and he looked over your head, likely at the path. His tail lashed side to side, the Na’vi man evidently thinking. Then, he edged closer, but stopped when he saw how tense you got. Slowly, he raised his hands, palms facing you, empty.

Surrender.

“Kehe kxu,” he said, enunciating each word. “Kxuke.”

Kehe. You knew kehe. It meant no.

With his hands bared to you, unarmed, and him saying no… was he trying to tell you he wouldn’t hurt you?

At that, you let your muscles unwind minutely. Maybe he was friendly? He hadn’t killed you yet, nor shown any intentions to…

He placed a hand to his chest, and spoke again. “Ikmey.” Next, he motioned to you. “Fyape syaw fko ngar?”

Your brows furrowed, at a total loss. He clicked his head, then tried again, treating you almost like a child.

Eventually, it connected in your mind. Ikmey. He told you his name, and was asking for yours in return.

Hesitantly, you offered him your name, watching how his eyes lit up with glee. A wide smile broke across his face, and you felt sweat drop down your temple at the sight of his sharp canines. He repeated your name, and it sounded a little silly in his accent.

Ikmey crawled up to you, almost hopping with his hands and feet, comfortable in his body. With the forest. His movement was fluid, invading your space sooner than you could process it. He hunched over to get face-to-face with you, sparkling eyes taking in all of your features. Unexpectedly, it made you self conscious.

His nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply, taking in your scent. For a moment, his eyes fluttered closed, and you wondered what you smelled like to him — hopefully not bad. Though, you weren’t sure why it’d matter. If you were lucky, he’d let you go, and you’d scuttle back to the bubble with your tail between your legs and never leave again.

But something about you must have caught his interest.

In a flash, he was right up against you, sniffing your hair, your mask, your arm.

“Whoa!” you shouted. Surprised, you tried to scoot back, but he followed. “Wh— hey, what are you doing!?”

Evidently, Ikmey was too busy to answer your concerned yell. He shoved his face into the crook between your neck and shoulder, the slope where they connected, and inhaled as much of your scent as he could. You flushed, floundering at the invasion and embarrassed by the immensely personal act.

You could guess that you likely smelled a bit like the salt from your sweat, the bland soap from your shower if you pushed it, but there shouldn’t have been anything particular about you that invoked that sort of feedback.

Something wet, a little rough, left a damp stripe from your collar bone to behind your ear, and your stomach sank to the forest floor.

He— did he lick you?

Your hair stood on end, and you promptly decided that it was time for the meeting to come to an end.

You stumbled a bit as you pushed away from him and got to your feet, your entire body visibly trembling as you stepped back. Adrenaline pumped through your veins, fast enough to make you lightheaded.

“Um,” you stuttered, hands clenching and unclenching nervously. “It— it was nice to m-meet you, but I should get back. My group is waiting for me.”

You didn’t have any hope he’d understand you, but you didn’t care. All you knew was that you needed to get away from him. Now.

You spun on your heel, making a run for where you thought the path was.

You didn’t get far.

A vine-like rope looped around your ankle and yanked, tearing your footing out from underneath you. You landed with an oof, the impact winding you, making you dizzy.

Before you could try getting back up, there was a hand pressing against your skull, keeping your head down. You began to flail and cry out, but stiffened when Ikmey hissed at you.

“’Ì’awn mi,” he ordered harshly, all of his friendliness from earlier gone. Replacing it was something vicious and feral, something that made his pupils blow wide as he glared down at you.

Your lower lip trembled, prey instincts causing you to go limp under him, and he mellowed fractionally.

“Mawey,” his tone diffused into a croon. An attempt to soothe you. “Mawey, ma’yawntu.”

All you could hear beyond the gravel of his voice was the pounding of your heart and unpleasant the rush of blood past your ears. You were hot everywhere, panicked and afraid, an arrowdeer looking down the open maw of a thanator.

“Don’t hurt me,” you pleaded in a broken rush. “Please. Please, don’t hurt me.”

Ikmey cooed at you. The hand he had on your head lightly stroked your hair, his thumb rubbing back and forth over your scalp. You sniffled at the motion, nails digging into the dirt beneath you.

“Tam tam. Nga lu kxuke.”

You bit your lip, quivering and refusing to move a muscle. It seemed to deeply upset him last time you did.

Seeing this, he cautiously removed his hand, waiting to see if you’d dart away again. When you didn’t, he hummed contently, giving you a satisfied nod.

“Tsìltsan ‘eve.”

He sat back on his haunches, leaving your line of sight. You didn’t dare try to shift to get him back into it.

In exploratory motions, his hands found your calves and slid up them, exploring the exposed skin above your socks and beneath the hem of your shorts, clearly fascinated by the plush give of your flesh, the hairs that covered your body compared to his lack thereof.

As he felt you up, he muttered things to himself, noting your features. He traced patterns into the ticklish spot at the back of your knees, causing you to jolt and tighten your jaw, breath leaving you in heaving hisses between your teeth.

This… this was fine. It was fine. You’d just let him sate his curiosity, and go home.

Everything will be fine.

And it was fine, until he slipped his hands under the legs of your shorts.

You squealed and jerked forward, away from him, but he growled at you — an unspoken warning that you heeded.

If only you’d heeded Mike’s warnings.

What could you do other than let Ikmey explore to his heart’s content? Let him grope the fat of your ass, fingers digging into the sides of it? There was no way you could fight off a Na’vi as big as him. He was so much stronger than you, proven in the way he hardly needed to exert any force to keep you pinned down.

He’ll get bored eventually. He has to.

Oh, please, let this end soon.

I just wanted to paint.

I just want to go home.

The thoughts played on loop in your head, silently begging whoever would listen that Ikmey would lose interest in you soon. Surely, he had better things to do than feel up some random human he found? Right?

Unfortunately, nobody heard your prayers. Or desired to acknowledge them.

The relief you experienced when he finally removed his hands was replaced with dismay when they instead hooked into the top of your shorts and yanked fruitlessly. They didn’t move, held securely in place by a belt, but you still reached back to swat at his hands.

“Don’t!” You shouted at him. You raised a leg, intending to kick him, and his hand wrapped around it tightly, holding it in place. He squeezed harder and harder, adding pressure until you were wailing in pain, terrified he’d break the limb.

Leaning over your body, you saw his lips curl into a snarl, pupils pin-prick thin. He barked at you, and you flinched at the volume. His presence was intimidating, immensely so, and it easily cowed you into place.

No matter how loudly you shouted, he would always be able to shout louder.

So, you gave in, allowing him to fuss and fumble with your clothing. Your eyes squeezed shut when he swore and pulled a knife free from the sheath on his chest, the tool making a sharp whistling noise.

Let it be quick.

You waited for it to sink into your pathetically weak form, breath fogging your mask as tears stuck your lashes together.

It never came; the pain, the darkness.

The blade hooked under the fabric of your shorts and pulled upwards, easily slicing through the woven material. The cloth gave way, cut away in precise movements, until Ikmey was able to pull it free from you.

Goosebumps rose across your body, the brush of tepid air against your bared skin unfamiliar and disconcerting.

His knife clicked back into place in its sheath, its purpose fulfilled.

Hands found your hips, hooking under them to drag you back towards him, onto your knees. Bent over and arched for him. Uncovered, save for your panties.

There was shuffling, then something pressing firmly against the gusset of them. Spooked, you yipped, and were met with the sound of Ikmey breathing you in.

Fuck, fuck, was he smelling your cunt? Through your underwear?

He let out a noise you could only call a groan, spawning from the very depths of his being. “Onlor,” he rasped, going back in for a second and third whiff.

Mortified, you turned your face down towards the earth, hiding from as much as you could.

It was naive for you to expect him to stop there, to leave you be after humiliating you, after scaring you. Of course, he wouldn’t.

You sobbed under your breath as he latched onto your panties and pulled them down to your knees, properly unveiling the part of you that was yours and yours alone, the part you hid, kept protected.

Ikmey pulled your cheeks apart, examining you. You squirmed, but otherwise remained still, allowing him to do as he pleased.

You could hear him lean forward, sniff again; grimaced when you felt him spread your labia.

The wet lap of his tongue through your folds shocked you back into your body. You sucked in air and made a warbling sound, one he answered with a trill, urging you to relax.

It was hard, to, though. His tongue was weird, rougher than yours, wider and flatter, too. It pried apart your folds, snaking between them until he could lick all of you in one go. You shuddered from it, a grunt worming its way out of you. You did not want to moan for him, nor give him any sort of gratification, not for the minuscule amount of pleasure he managed to spark in your center.

“Ftxìlor,” he said, his words tickling you where his lips touched you. “Nìftxan tsìltsan.”

Whatever that meant, he sounded pleased. So much so that he dove back in, the flat of his nose nudging you every time he licked you from clit to hole.

You ground your teeth, shoving back the moans that yearned to make themselves known. It did not feel good. It did not.

Yet, every time the tip of his tongue passed over your clit, you couldn’t help the way you twitched, nor the way your pussy squeezed. Of course, he was aware of your body’s involuntary feedback, if the low chuckle he made was anything to go by.

His tongue pushed into your hole, and you could no longer keep the noises down.

A wretched whine fogged the glass of your mask, your toes curling in your shoes at the intrusion. He didn’t hesitate to go in as far as possible, the muscle folding to fit inside you. It stretched you after unfolding, the sting fading into a pleasurable pressure within you.

You hated it.

Shame flooded your gut, warring with the hedonism that began to build as a low ember at the bottom of your stomach. You wanted this to stop, needed it to, but Ikmey kept going, entranced.

Unlike you, Ikmey had no qualms about voicing his delight, happy to let you hear exactly how much he enjoyed swallowing down your taste and venturing into a space far too small for him. Every groan and huff vibrated against your cunt, adding fuel to the fire attempting to catch.

Your body went slack as he drew away from you, your lungs struggling to get their fill of oxygen.

It wasn’t meant to last, because why the hell would it? You weren’t that lucky, not at all.

His tongue was exchanged for a probing finger, one that swirled itself in the wetness of his spit coating your labia. It pressed into you, the rough calluses on it initially causing an unpleasant burn on your sensitive pussy. His digit popped in, sinking straight to the knuckle, and the burn melted away.

It crooked downwards, and you yowled.

It took him no effort at all to find that spongy spot at the top of your pussy, the calluses you disliked at first now providing a wonderful texture as he rubbed at it. He cooed at you in Na’vi, happy to finally get a proper response out of you from his ministrations.

Spurred on, he doubled his endeavors, the massaging of your g-spot accompanied by the steady thrusting of his hand. You writhed, trying to slam your knees shut to push him out, but it did little to affect him. In fact, he sped up to spite you, murmuring — presumably — scolding words at you.

“Mawey, ngatutsyìp,” he said. “Tung tsal tsonta len.”

What joy. What hell.

Oh, how you wished you could scream at him in his own language, tell him off for doing this to you, for ruining you. Were it not for his threat of dealing bodily harm to you, you would have been kicking and scratching.

You’d always been a coward, though.

A second digit started to poke at your entrance, and you loudly voiced your objections, your head lifting to properly reject him.

His free hand pressed your head down, not leaving this time to ensure you stayed as he wanted you to. On the ground, completely submissive to him. Pliant and meek.

He pried you open with his fingers, plunging them far and roughly. They scissored apart, stretching your cunt to his preference. It ached, and you wished you could say the ache was bad, horrible, awful, but you were a terrible liar.

Dirt clogged your nails and cuticles, the soft soil compacting uncomfortably under your fingers, but it was so far from you.

How did this happen? How did you end up here?

Your stomach twisted, a knot you refused to acknowledge winding itself tighter and tighter. You wouldn’t admit that the way he massaged your sweet spot made your brain grow fuzzy, nor the way it caused your legs to tremble fiercely. You wouldn’t.

But it was hard to ignore how your cunt rippled around his digits, hard to not notice how far he could reach, much further than you could on your own. It was hard to pretend you weren’t about to cum when you were, when you could feel the wave of pleasure threatening to crest and crash.

As if sensing this, Ikmey pulled his fingers out of you, leaving you empty and groaning from your chest in a bizarre mix between alleviation and disappointment.

He seemed determined to not leave you in that state for long.

The touch of something hot and sticky to the back of your thigh had you snapping open your eyes, a gasp caught in your chest.

His tip glided through your folds, slippery from something — you refused to believe it was because of your body reacting to his — struggling to catch where he wanted it to. You writhed, the base of your skull aching under the pressure of his hand, bones creaking. Your mouth opened, a scream on your tongue—

In one smooth motion, his tip caught on your entrance and sank in a few inches before it got caught, thick girth spearing you open, walls spreading too quickly. Eyes wide, you could only choke on your surprise, your breaths short and ragged as you tried to process that this Na’vi, this stranger, was inside you. He hissed, displeased, but mercifully didn’t try to shove himself deeper into you.

Your second shock came when he pulled back.

Soft barbs rubbed against your walls, flaring out to catch and stimulate every single nerve. Your entire body jolted, a loud yelp falling from your bitten lips.

The sensation was like nothing you’d ever felt before, thought of before. It was nothing you could prepare for. There was no warning, no heads-up on what to expect, no way for you to prepare or brace yourself.

All that you could do was moan brokenly, back arching, torn between bliss and distress.

On the next thrust in, he managed to stuff himself in further, forcing your entrance to stretch around more of him. You clawed at the ground, tried to crawl away, but the grip he had on your hips kept you from going anywhere. He used it to move you how he wanted, leaving you at his mercy and whim.

You hated him for taking up a snail’s pace, refusing to move any quicker, refusing to hurt you. You hated him, and you hated the comfort and reassurance it brought you, knowing he wasn’t going to spear you and cause you agonizing pain. The forefront of your mind might have demanded it, but in your soul, you didn’t want to be in pain, you didn’t want this to hurt. You were only human.

You gave up trying to withhold any noises after a while, too distracted by the feeling of the squishy bristles of his cock scraping your walls oh-so nicely to care anymore. Progressively, it got easier and easier to take him, the earlier burning replaced with a heavenly fullness.

There was so much of him, too much for your little human body to take, but he was determined to break you down until nobody fit you but him.

Until there was nothing but him.

It must have taken hours — it certainly felt that way — before his hips were able to press flush to your upturned ass, his length buried in your pussy to the last inch. You both groaned in sync, and Ikmey carefully draped his chest over your back. He was big enough to cover you entirely, shield you from everything.

It made the prey-animal part of you feel safe. The other part simply began to cry.

Salt water welled up along your lashline, and Ikmey hushed you lovingly, one hand sliding under your collarbone to lift you off the ground a bit while the other wiped away the tears that slipped down your cheeks, a touch far too tender for a man as monstrous as him.

“Mawey, ma’tanhì. Awnga lu muntxa.”

His lips brushed your crown, his body needing to bend awkwardly to make sure the featherlight touch reached you, though he didn’t seem to mind.

From the corner of your eye, you caught that glint again, the same one that got you into this mess in the first place.

It took you a moment to make out what it was, your vision blurred with tears and your mind fucked out. Eventually, you were able to identify it.

It was a river stone, smooth and a bit oblong. A natural hole had been worn through the center of it, and years of residing in a creek had polished it to a lovely shine, one perfect for reflecting the sunlight. Almost a crystal, almost precious.

Your artist’s reflex had you yearning to grasp it, turn it over in your hands so you could memorize it, paint it. Maybe you’d take it, a little gift from Pandora, the one thing you’d allow yourself to selfishly possess. There was a spot on your desk back at home that it’d fit on perfectly, like it was meant to be.

You closed your eyes and turned your head the other way, unable to bear looking at it any longer.

Ikmey continued murmuring things to you, none of which you understood, nor had the wherewithal to try and piece together. Part of it seemed like mindless babble, the man just as caught up in the moment as you were. Each torturously slow thrust sent shockwaves through your, igniting your nerves like a flame catching a wick, or a line of gunpowder.

It burned you, left you hypersensitive to the way his hands shifted over your body, as if unsure where he wanted to touch you more. It hurt you in the way it felt so good, the way it left you whining pitifully and squirming back to meet his thrusts.

He praised you for it, smile evident in his voice as he nipped at your ear, flattened his front to your spine as much as he could with your backpack in the way and made the thin fabric of your top stick to your sweat-slicked skin. Anytime his pace quickened, you moaned loudly, and he rewarded you with sweet words.

His hand found your lower stomach, right above your mons, and pushed down into it. You yowled at the sudden increase in pressure in your pussy, the way it made his cock seem like it reached your damn throat. Pleased, he rubbed there, soothing circles that only doubled all you felt.

Then, his fingers shifted, reached to where the folds of your cunt struggled to wrap around his size. The tip of one located your clit, and the world around you went white.

Your orgasm drowned you, the unexpected intensity of it leaving your ears ringing and your breaths harsh and fast. You pulsed, cunt rhythmically squeezing and releasing his invading cock. He grunted into your ear, the noise inaudible over the rush of blood past your eardrums. Your head was spinning, lost to the world.

Ikmey wasn’t far behind; your climax pushed his over the edge. His cock kicked and jumped as thick ropes of blistering-hot cum drenched your pussy. It painted your walls and swamped your cervix, and there was so much of it that you simply couldn’t hold it all. The excess spurted out from your hole, running down your quivering, twitching thighs in rivulets.

Of all the things he rambled to you in his native tongue, there was one thing you understood well, one thing that he rasped to you in heavily-accented English.

“Mate.”

All at once, it was silent.

There was no noise save for your heavy breathing and his, as if the forest itself had stopped to witness and bless this union that you never agreed to, never wanted.

Still, he remained, and so did you. Not like you could wriggle out of his vise-like grip, anyway, not in your given condition.

He was merciful, at least. He hadn’t moved an inch since he came inside you, simply remained as he was, like he knew he needed to give you time to recover. He let your breathing even out on its own pace, kept a palm to your sternum to know when your heart had settled down from its frantic rabbiting.

A kiss was laid to your temple, one you barely responded to with a ragged hum. As delicately as he could, he pulled out of you, seemingly apologizing when you hissed at the sensitivity. Another kiss, and he was standing up. His tewng was on the ground, the woven loincloth treated more kindly than the shredded remnants of your shorts.

The moment he turned his back, walked away towards what you guessed was a stream, you got up and ran. You kicked off your panties in the process to free your legs, uncaring that you were half naked. You just had to get away.

In spite of the way your legs wobbled, aching and struggling to hold you upright, you forced them to move, running and running and running. You leapt over roots, stumbled in small ditches and dips, fell over more times than you cared to count, but you never stopped moving.

Not until you were so far that you could no longer hold yourself up anymore, dropping to your knees. You panted heavily, clutching the grass like it was your lifeline. It took too long for you to recover.

By some miracle, when you looked around, you spotted a familiar path. And by some other miracle, you still had your backpack, having really only lost your shorts and panties. You unclipped it from your front and let it slide off your shoulders. Weakly, you pulled it forward and unzipped it, digging through the mess of materials inside until your fingers wrapped around loose fabric.

A quick check of your shirt showed it was stained green and brown, and you didn’t think twice about stripping it off and throwing it somewhere out of sight. The less reminders you what happened, the less upset you would feel.

At the bottom of your backpack was a packet of wet wipes. You thanked your past self for at least having enough foresight to bring those along, even if she was the one who got you in this mess in the first place.

You didn’t have time to think about it, not right now.

As clinically and briskly as you could, you wiped yourself off between your legs, cringing at the sight of goopy, bioluminescent cum clinging to the wipes before you threw those away, too. Once you were functionally clean, you pulled on your spare clothes, doing everything in your power to not think about what happened. What Ikmey did to you. You didn’t want to remember; you wanted to pretend it never happened at all.

You brushed off your legs, absently noting you’d need to shower when you got back to the bubble. If there was any merciful being out there, you hoped they’d let you slip back into your home unseen by anyone.

Clipping your backpack into place again, you sighed, and stepped back onto the path.

Don’t leave the path ever again.

❭❭─✴︎─➣

Zara chewed you out when you returned to the bubble unaccompanied by the group.

She went on and on about how dangerous it was, how you could have died, how Mike had been going crazy trying to contact you when he noticed you’d vanished. You kept your mouth shut, knowing she was right.

Your sister stopped once she noticed you weren’t defending yourself like you normally would have, your stare distant and dull. Whatever happened to you, she wasn’t able to pry it out of you, or much else, for that matter. She sat beside you, gave a long-suffering sigh, and set her hand on your thigh.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Her thumb stroked absentminded circles into your leg, a small comfort.

A knock at the door to your shared space signaled the arrival of someone — likely Mike. Zara sighed again and stood, fingers plucking some dried leaves and dirt from your hair.

“Go shower,” she murmured. “I’ll… I’ll figure out something to tell Mike.”

There was no fight left in you, so you simply obeyed.

You never took your sketchbook out of your backpack. It’d rot there along with your secret.

It started when you woke up in the middle of the night to roll off the side of your bed and scramble to the bathroom, ignoring the dull ache in your knees from the heavy landing as you focused solely on making it to the toilet in time.

Your entire body was shaking, covered in a layer of sweat as you pushed up the lid with mere seconds to spare and leaned over the edge, spilling what meager contents of your dinner from the night before remained in your stomach. Zara was there moments later, kneeling behind you to rub your back and tuck your hair away from your sticky face.

“Maybe you ate something bad,” she offered.

You gulped down bile and acid, licked your dry lips. “Yeah. Maybe.”

A month had passed like this, jumping up at all odd hours of the day and night to retch, wondering if you’d caught some particularly nasty bug while you were outside in the split moment your exo-pack had popped off your face, or if it was allergies, stress, something.

Still, as much as you avoided the mere thought, dodged it skittishly with excuses of it’s not possible and I’m not, it’s just a cold, the truth was bound to drag you back to cold, hard reality eventually. And it did, in the form of your hands on your stomach, body stood diagonally to your floor-length mirror to see the added curve of it in your reflection.

You pressed your hands to the firmness beneath your skin, measuring it with the space between your thumb and index finger. Low. Symmetrical.

It couldn’t — shouldn’t — be possible. There had to be some other plausible explanation, some subtle, niche excuse, whatever it took. Genetic mutation, tumor, anomaly. Fuck, you’d take some bizarre, anatomical deformity over this. Anything, anything but this.

Maybe it’s a parasite, is all? You tried, knowing deep down it was futile to deny it any longer.

It made you sick to think about, to even consider, let alone accept. But you’d shoved it away, ignored it and denied it, for too long, now. You had all you needed to know; your symptoms, the brief biology lessons you could recall from your childhood on the differences between humans and Na’vi. All that was left was to admit it.

You were pregnant.

Instinctively, it felt wrong to acknowledge, to claim. As humans, without testing, it’d be near impossible to discern pregnancy until at least three months into the gestation period, and that was if you would present. Surprise pregnancies, while rare, had happened before.

Unfortunately, you weren’t quite so lucky.

Of the few facts you did remember from your school days, you knew that Na’vi matured faster than humans. Their gestation periods were shorter, their kin grew faster to suit their environment, requiring rapid adaptation for survival. The forest, all of Pandora as a whole, was dangerous, after all.

But you weren’t Na’vi. Your body was built for human pregnancies, the kind that took nine months, the kind that were slow to affect your body outwardly. You weren’t nine feet tall, your bones weren’t reinforced with carbon fiber, and your womb would not be able to handle a Na’vi pregnancy.

You tried to keep it from Zara for as long as you could, but there was only so much you could do when the fetus inside you was outgrowing your appetite, your clothing, you. It was silly to think she’d ignore your symptoms, so when she sat you down, forced you to talk to her and tell her why you’d grown so distant, why you were sick all the time but wouldn’t let any of the bubble’s doctors check you out, you broke and spilled your secret.

Not all of it, no; you kept Ikmey locked away in the furthest part of your mind, compartmentalized under a hundred padlocks and in a dense, lead box. But you gave her enough information to piece together what happened to you during your failed tour that seemed so long ago, now, years and years in the past.

For a while, she just hugged you, and you cried into her shoulder.

You spent the second month much the same as the first; morning sickness and tender tits and all. It wouldn’t be that bad if you hadn’t come to the horrifying realization that your baby was growing much, much faster than your body could handle. Zara must have come to the same revelation when she gave you an ultrasound (to the best of her ability; she was a scientist, not a gynocologist) and found that the fetus was out-developing its habitat.

You thought about terminating it. You really considered the idea, spent long days and longer nights sitting on the idea. Whenever you thought about it, you’d put your hand on your growing stomach and… exist. With it. The fetus.

Zara knew before you did that you couldn’t do it. No words needed to be shared, no excuses or attempts at convincing. Her hand squeezed yours, and she promised she’d take care of it, of you, everything.

Though she didn’t tell you, you knew that it was far from easy for Zara to pull so many strings at once and prevent them from getting tangled. Had you become a scientist like her, maybe you could have helped more beyond bringing her late night dinner. Then again, were you a scientist, you likely wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with, pregnant with an unknown Na’vi’s child.

Anytime you asked how you could assist, she merely wrapped an arm around your shoulders to pull you into her, pressing a kiss to your crown and murmuring for you to simply focus on yourself and the babe, the prrnen. Eat well, rest plenty, stay off your feet, and keep her updated on any changes happening to either you or the fetus.

By the time she had everything sorted, you were right about ready to burst, barely able to move anymore. Your baby had already begun forming hair, ears twitching as it floated comfortably in your womb, kept in a tight embrace by the rapidly shrinking space. You, meanwhile, felt like you were carrying twins, nevermind a single child, convinced you’d pop if you rolled over on your bed wrong.

It was a close shave; Finding an engineer, doctor, and surgeon who could help while keeping their mouths shut, building a tank to act as a pseudo-womb, carefully stealing medical tools and anesthesia, lining up schedules. You could tell that Zara was barely hanging on, the bags under her eyes growing heavier with each sleepless night she spent working on the pseudo-womb, working out a plan with the doctor and surgeon.

It took everything in you to fight down the guilt that tried to tear itself free.

She was doing this for you, for your baby. If not for her, you’d have been screwed. You owed her everything.

It looked like you, a little. The babe.

His skin was a rich cobalt hue, further enhanced by the faint teal glow of the tank he would call his home for the rest of his gestational period. The beginnings of a tail sprouted from the base of his spine, oddly cute in a stubby sort of way. His kuru, too. Short, terribly so, sealed up so that the tendrils within would stay protected during his development.

Pressing your palm to the glass, all you could do was stare. Watch. Compare.

He had your nose, your cheeks, your lips. A thumb and four fingers.

That was where your similarities ended. To anyone else, someone who wouldn’t have the slightest clue, this was nothing more than a Na’vi fetus that the scientists had obtained somehow, studying the process of fetal growth.

But he was yours.

You wanted to hate him. You really did. You wanted to despise him as much as you despised his father, hate him for what your body went through in the short three months that he occupied it. You couldn’t.

None of this was his fault; he was a consequence of another man’s actions, nothing more.

A child. Your child.

It wasn’t until the day your son was ‘born’ that you knew what to call him.

Kei.

A name that worked both in English and Na’vi.

It was also on that day that you were forced to move out of the bubble.

You couldn’t raise him there, not if you wanted to keep him a secret, protect him. For both his safety and yours, you needed to go somewhere else.

The place used to be called Hell’s Gate. Back in the day, it’d been abandoned for a long time, once a human settlement that’d been run out by the nearby native population. Untouched, Pandora had reclaimed most of its exterior, and a bit of the interior, but it remained standing, resilient like the humans that built it.

At some point, humans living nearby were struggling to survive in their bubble. Upon rediscovering Hell’s Gate, its name nearly completely worn off its sides, they worked hard to restore it into working order. There, they found rations and scientific equipment to keep themselves thriving. As a result, new scientists were born again, people who read the research left behind and learned how to study and treat the human body.

Of course, that meant they wanted to study you and your son.

You despised the idea with a burning passion, not wanting to subject him to being treated like a lab rat, but you needed to protect him. They promised safety and support, to feed you, a personal space for you and Kei, their wholehearted protection, in exchange for you participating in studies.

A small price to pay, all things considered. You’d do anything to keep Kei safe.

You’d been living at Hell’s Gate for two years.

In that time, Kei had grown substantially, the wee babe standing at your hip (whenever he humored the scientists enough to stand still long enough for them to measure him). The scientists themselves were kind, doing what they could to support you and your little one. Food, custom-tailored clothing, a private wing, regular checkups. Anything you needed.

All you needed, in truth, was your child.

“Kei!” You shouted after him. “Slow down, I can’t move that fast!”

Little Kei merely giggled, toddling forward faster, egged on by your strict tone. Only two years old, and he was already able to navigate the small patch of forest you let him explore in so well. He was going to be a menace when he grew up.

The smile that the thought induced was dropped the instant you heard him scream.

Not one of his cries for attention, or screams from hunger or pain, no. No, this was a scream of pure, utter fear.

You didn’t think twice as you broke into a sprint, racing towards where you heard him. The scratches that stray branches and underbrush left on your skin were the least of your concern, no mind paid to them when your baby was in danger. Fuck, fuck, fuck! If he got hurt from some animal, or if someone took him—

You burst through a bush into a clearing, where you froze in place upon seeing the last thing you wanted to see.

There was a man holding a writhing, bawling Kei up by the pits, honey eyes wide with shock, lips parted.

Ikmey.

The moment you appeared, his gaze snapped to you, eyes only growing larger. You panted, throat aching, unused to the exertion. When Kei saw you, he began crying louder and reaching for you, yowling for mama.

Ikmey lowered the toddler, and Kei ran back to you, slamming into your legs. You crouched down and hugged him tightly, hand rubbing up and down his back as you shushed him tenderly.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you murmured to your son, voice trembling as the adrenaline that fueled you drained from your system. He was safe. “I’ve got you, baby.”

You hooked your hands under his legs and hoisted him up onto your hip as you stood, grunting under his weight.

When Ikmey spoke, the low rumble of his voice startled you. “Itan?” He asked, then hesitantly motioned between himself and Kei. “…Ma’itan?”

You swallowed thickly. You didn’t want to answer him, he had no right to know about you after all he’d done to you, to your body, your life.

You’d always been a terrible liar.

Minutely, your head dipped forward once.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Your son.”

His entire expression changed. A myriad of emotions swept over his face; shock, elation, grief, anger, confusion, a million more you weren’t able to put a name to quickly enough.

“You— hide,” he growled out in rough English. “Hide him.”

The muscles in your jaw fluttered. “I had to. To protect him. Tìhawnu si.”

His nose scrunched up, his anger growing as he stepped towards you, prowling like a predator. “You are mate. You run.”

In return, you began backing away. You opened your mouth to argue back, to insist that you weren’t his mate. He’d taken you on the ground like an animal, ignoring your cries that you didn’t want it, then thought he could claim you? You weren’t a Na’vi, you were human. In every way, you were incompatible.

At least, you believed so. Used to, until your son had to be removed from your womb to keep you alive, lest he tear you apart by growing too quickly, too big, for you to handle. Until you had proof that, by some miracle or curse, a Na’vi was able to reproduce with a human and create new life.

But your back bumped into something hard, something that wasn’t there before, and the words died in your throat.

Tilting your head back, you met the gaze of the Na’vi that had blocked your exit, his gaze severe. Rustling caused you to snap your attention to the sides of the clearing, horror settling deep in your gut as more Na’vi made themselves known, further cutting off any escape routes. A nervous Kei buried his face into your clavicle, and you hugged him tighter, closer to you.

You’d do anything to protect him.

Surprisingly gentle fingers pinched your chin and turned your head, forcing you to meet Ikmey’s unwavering stare. He peered down at you, his size making you shrink, your throat closing up. If you screamed, would anybody be able to reach you in time? Would the humans be able to save you from these towering, unbreakable beings?

As Ikmey leaned down into your space, brought himself eye-to-eye with you, you knew the answer had always been and would always be no. There was nothing that could save you.

On his wrist, there was a glint.

Tied to his songcord, his waytelem, was the very same river stone that had lured you into his trap all those years ago.

“No more running.”

banners by strangergraphics ♥

"I did!" You brush him off.

"You definitely thought of something else." He taps a hand on his chin. "Was it naughty?"

You shake your head aggressively, eager to change the subject, and now he wants to know even more.

He gets his answer months later, when you're drunk and slumped across his shoulder. This time, when he asks, you're a lot less dogged.

"You can't tell him I said this, okay?" Your voice slurs as you continue to lean into him. "You can't tell Satoru. It's a secret." You clumsily push your finger to your lips, loudly shushing in his ear.

"I promise I won't," Satoru assures you as he lets you cling onto him, eager to claim his prize after waiting for so long.

"It's so mean, it's just one of those...intrusive thoughts, but I always wondered how inbred he is."

He blinks. What?

"I mean, he's gotta be right?" You continue, oblivious to the frozen man. "I bet the Gojo clan was all about 'keeping it in the family' or whatever. It's not like I'm blaming him, but you really gotta' wonder."

"You think...he looks....inbred." He repeats your words with a flat tone.

"I mean, not in a bad way." Is there a good way? "He looks like he'd fit right in with the Targeryens, and those guys are so beautiful even though they're only into their sisters and cousins. Wait, do I like inbred-looking men?" You cut yourself off with a drunken laugh.

You reach for your cup. Satoru stops you.

"I'm taking you home." He tells you flatly. You whine and complain as he drags you out of the bar.

When you're dropped off at home and asleep underneath blankets, Satoru sits right outside your apartment. His hands grip the steering wheel as he replays your words over and over again.

Well, you did say you liked men who looked inbred, he thinks as he fiddles with his fingers.