You want to prove to Jake that you’re worthy of Neteyams love

“again.”

your spear hits the ground before it even gets halfway to the target.

you don’t even try to hide the sigh this time, shoulders slumping as you trudge forward to pick it up, fingers tightening around the shaft like maybe if you hold it harder, it’ll finally listen to you.

it doesn’t.

it never does.

“hey,” neteyam’s voice is softer than the frustration buzzing in your chest, and it makes something in you ease despite yourself. “don’t start that.”

“i’m not starting anything,” you mumble, even though you are…just not out loud.

he steps up behind you anyway, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your back, his hand gently covering yours where it grips the spear.

“you’re holding it too tight again,” he murmurs.

of course you are.

you always are.

“if i don’t, it slips,” you argue weakly.

“it slips because you’re fighting it,” he corrects, not mean, not sharp, just patient. always patient with you. “relax your wrist.”

you try.

you really do.

his fingers adjust yours, careful, guiding instead of forcing, and for a second you let yourself lean back into him just a little. just enough to feel steady.

“there,” he says quietly. “now throw.”

you exhale.

and throw.

the spear flies—

—and misses.

again.

not as bad this time. closer. but still not enough.

your chest tightens anyway, a familiar, awful heat creeping up your neck. embarrassment. frustration. something heavier that you don’t really have a name for.

neteyam doesn’t say anything at first.

he just… rests his chin briefly against your shoulder.

“better,” he hums.

you let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “you’re lying.”

“i’m not.”

“neteyam—”

he turns you gently by your arm before you can spiral too far, forcing you to look at him. 

“you’re getting better,” he says, firmer now. “you just don’t see it.”

your lips press together.

it’s easy for him to say.

he’s good at everything.

everyone knows it.

golden boy. perfect aim. perfect form. perfect son.

and you—

you’re just…

you.

“i slow you down,” you blurt before you can stop yourself.

his expression changes instantly.

not angry.

not annoyed.

just… there’s not a word for it.. it’s just Neteyams typical look when you say something you shouldn’t have.

“don’t say that.”

“it’s true,” you push, quieter now, eyes dropping. “everyone else— they don’t need help like i do. you’re always—”

“i want to help you.”

that makes you pause.

you glance back up, caught off guard by how serious he looks now.

“that’s not the same thing.”

his hand comes up, thumb brushing lightly under your eye before you even realize you’re on the verge of tearing up.

“it is to me.”

you don’t know what to say to that.

so you don’t.

you just stand there, caught between wanting to believe him and every doubt you’ve ever had about yourself.

and neteyam…

neteyam just smiles, softer this time, nudging your spear back into your hands.

“again,” he says.

—

jake notices before either of you are ready for him to.

it’s not anything obvious.

not a confession. not a mistake big enough to call out.

it’s the small things.

the way neteyam’s attention drifts when you’re nearby. the way you hover just a little closer to him than you do to others. the quiet, shared looks that last half a second too long.

jake sees it.

and he doesn’t like it.

“son…”

neteyam pauses mid step at the entrance of the marui, his father’s voice enough to make his shoulders straighten automatically.

jake doesn’t look angry.

that almost makes it worse.

“you’ll be twenty three soon,” he starts, measured. thoughtful. “which means your training will change. people will start to look at you differently.”

neteyam nods once. “i know.”

jake studies him for a moment longer before continuing.

“they will also look at who stands beside you.”

there it is.

neteyam’s jaw tightens slightly. “father—”

“if they see your mate as someone who is not…” jake hesitates, choosing his words carefully but not carefully enough. “not capable, they will question you.”

that does it.

“i don’t want to hear this,” neteyam cuts in, sharper than he means to but he doesn’t take it back.

jake’s gaze hardens.

“you need to.”

“no,” neteyam shakes his head, stepping forward now. “i don’t…not about her.”

“this is not just about feelings—”

“it is to me.”

the words land heavier than anything else he could’ve said.

jake exhales slowly, already losing patience. “there are other girls, son, strong ones. skilled. daughters of—”

“i don’t care.”

silence.

thick. tense. suffocating.

neteyam doesn’t back down.

“she makes me happy,” he says, quieter now but somehow more solid. “when i felt like i couldn’t breathe under all of this—” he gestures vaguely, meaning everything—expectations, pressure, legacy—“dad , she really makes me happy. .”

jake doesn’t respond right away.

but the look on his face says enough.

he doesn’t agree.

—

you notice.

of course you do.

it’s in the way jake’s eyes linger on you now. no longer neutral, no longer warm. not cruel, but… assessing. critical.

it’s in the way neteyam stands a little straighter around him. a little more guarded. like he’s bracing for something.

like he’s already fighting a battle you didn’t even know started.

and suddenly…

everything clicks.

your grip tightens around the basket in your hands.

oh.

—

that night, you don’t cry.

you don’t run to neteyam.

you don’t pretend you didn’t notice.

instead, you sit there in the quiet, staring down at your hands, at the small scars, the clumsy fingers, the proof of every time you weren’t good enough.

and for the first time, it doesn’t just make you feel small.

it makes you determined.

“i’ll fix it,” you whisper to yourself.

not because jake said so.

not even because you doubt neteyam.

but because you want to stand next to him without feeling like you have to apologize for it.

not because jake said so.

not even because you doubt neteyam.

but because you want to stand next to him without feeling like you have to apologize for it.

—

it starts the next morning.

earlier than usual—earlier than you’ve ever willingly woken up for anything—but you don’t let yourself think too hard about it. if you do, you might talk yourself out of it, and you’re tired of doing that.

the village is still quiet when you step out, the air cool against your skin, the sky barely touched with light. for a moment, you just stand there, adjusting to it, to the stillness, to the absence of anyone watching.

good.

you don’t want anyone to see this part.

not yet.

your fingers tighten around your bow as you make your way toward the training grounds, steps slower than you’d like but steadier than before. 

you nock an arrow.

pull.

your shoulders tense—of course they do—but you catch it this time, forcing yourself to breathe through it instead of fighting it.

release.

it misses.

you exhale sharply through your nose, jaw tightening but you don’t stop.

again.

and again.

and again.

by the time the sun starts to rise, your arms ache, your fingers sting, and your frustration sits heavy in your chest but there are more arrows in the target than there used to be.

not perfect.

never perfect.

but closer.

“you’re going to wear yourself out before breakfast.”

you don’t turn right away.

you know that voice.

“then i’ll just have to get stronger,” you mutter, lowering your bow as you finally glance over your shoulder.

neteyam is leaning casually against one of the posts, arms crossed, watching you in that quiet way of his that always feels like he’s seeing more than you’re showing.

“…you didn’t wake me,” he adds.

there’s no accusation in it.

just something softer.

you shrug lightly, looking back at the target. “you need sleep.”

“so do you.”

“i’m fine.”

he hums like he doesn’t believe you but he doesn’t push it. instead, he pushes off the post and walks toward you, slow, unhurried, like he’s giving you time to decide if you want him there.

you do.

you always do.

“show me,” he says quietly, nodding toward your bow.

you hesitate for half a second.

then you lift it again.

this time, when you pull the string back, he steps in closer but he still doesn’t touch you. you can feel him there, though. 

watching.

it makes your heartbeat pick up.

you release.

the arrow flies

and lands.

closer.

not center, but close enough that something in your chest loosens.

“…better,” he murmurs.

you glance at him. “just better?”

a small smile tugs at his mouth. “do you want me to lie?”

you huff softly, looking awaybut you’re smiling too.

“i’m trying,” you say after a second, quieter now. “i really am.”

his expression shifts at that, softening in a way that makes your chest ache a little.

“i know,” he says.

you don’t realize how close he’s gotten until his hand finally does brush against yours

you don’t pull away.

so his fingers slide more fully into place, adjusting your grip just slightly.

“relax here,” he murmurs, guiding your wrist. “you’re still holding too much tension.”

you let out a quiet breath, trying to follow his lead.

it’s easier with him.

it always has been.

“there,” he says softly.

you tilt your head back just slightly to look at him, and he’s already looking at you. closer than you expected, eyes flicking between yours and your lips for just a second too long.

your breath catches.

“…neteyam—”

he closes the distance before you can finish.

it’s not rushed.

it never is with him.

his hand slides from your wrist to your jaw, thumb brushing lightly along your cheek as his lips press against yours, warm and familiar in a way that makes your shoulders finally drop, tension melting out of you without you even realizing it.

your fingers curl into the front of his chest, grounding yourself there as you lean into him, just a little.

just enough.

he hums softly against your lips, like he feels it too.

like he always does.

“you’re doing good,” he murmurs when he pulls back, his forehead resting lightly against yours.

you let out a small, breathless laugh. “you say that even when i’m not.”

“no,” he says, quieter now. “i say it when you don’t see it.”

your smile falters, just a little.

because that’s the part that’s hardest.

but before you can respond, 

“neteyam.”

you both freeze.

this time, you pull back first.

neteyam doesn’t let you go.

his hand stays at your waist, firm, like he’s not even considering it.

jake stands a few feet away, his expression unreadable but his eyes are sharp, taking in everything. your closeness. the way neteyam’s hand hasn’t moved. the way you haven’t stepped away.

“…you’re up early,” jake says.

“so is she,” neteyam replies evenly.

jake’s gaze shifts to you.

you feel it.

but you don’t drop your eyes this time.

not immediately.

“…i see that,” he says.

there’s a pause.

then he steps closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that it feels intentional.

“show me,” he says.

you blink. “what?”

“what you’ve been working on.”

your grip tightens slightly on the bow.

for a second, doubt flares up suddenly.

you could say no.

you could laugh it off.

you could wait until you’re better.

but then, what would be the point?

you nod once.

lift the bow.

pull.

your arms shake slightly, but you steady your breathing the way neteyam showed you—slow, controlled, focused.

release.

the arrow flies

and lands.

not perfect.

but close.

close enough.

silence stretches for a second.

two.

three.

“…again,” jake says.

so you do.

and again.

and again.

until your arms burn and your fingers feel numb and your frustration threatens to creep back in—but you don’t let it.

you don’t stop.

not until jake finally exhales, nodding once.

“better.”

just one word.

but this time, you feel it.

you really feel it.

when you lower the bow, your chest is rising and falling a little too fast, your hands still trembling but there’s something else there too.

something steadier.

jake looks at you for a long moment, then at neteyam, at the way he’s still standing close, still watching you like nothing else matters.

“…you’re serious about this,” jake says, more statement than question.

neteyam doesn’t hesitate. “i am.”

jake’s gaze lingers on him, searching, weighing. Then he starts walking off. 

The days that follow blur into a moment you can’t really pinpoint. 

Jake’s plan isn’t subtle. Not to Neteyam, anyway.

First it’s Nari, a hunter’s daughter with a flawless aim and the easy laugh, “accidentally” finding reasons to train near the two of you. 

Then it’s Seyka, broad shouldered and small waist, bringing fresh kill to the Sully marui and lingering when Neteyam is there. They smile at him. They brush against him. They offer to spar, to hunt, to show him new routes through the forest.

Neteyam is polite. Always polite. But his hand finds the small of your back every single time, pulling you closer. His tail brushes around your ankle under the table. His eyes never linger on them longer than a second.

You notice. He notices you noticing.

One evening after Seyka leaves yet another woven gift at the entrance, Neteyam tugs you away from the village entirely. His fingers lace tight through yours as he leads you to a secluded waterfall pool, the one only he seems to know about.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just pulls you into the water with him, cool against heated skin, and kisses you like he’s been starving for it all day. Deeper than usual. Hungrier. His tongue slides against yours, while his hands roam down your sides, over the curve of your hips, then up again to cup your breasts through the thin beads and fabric, thumbs brushing your nipples until they pebble.

You gasp into his mouth. He swallows it.

“ Neteyam… what are y-“

When he finally pulls back, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours, his voice is low but rough.

“I know what he’s doing,” he murmurs. “Sending them. Thinking I’ll change my mind.” His thumb traces your bottom lip. “I won’t. I never will.”

Your heart stutters. “Neteyam…”

“I want you,” he says, simple and fierce. “Only you. And I’m tired of waiting for him to see it.”

His hand slides lower under the water, palm pressing between your thighs, cupping you through the thin loincloth. 

Not pushing inside, just yet, just rubbing, right against the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top of your slit until your hips jerk and a soft whimper escapes you.

He watches your face the whole time, eyes dark.

“ Neteyam.. not right now.. I have to watch tuk for your mom…” 

“Okay,” he promises as he takes his hand from between your legs, kissing the corner of your mouth. 

–

The touches grow bolder after that.

During a private picnic on a high branch, his fingers are beneath your loincloth while you’re straddling his lap, circling your clit with slick, teasing strokes until you’re shaking and biting his shoulder to stay quiet. 

On a night hunt he presses you against a tree trunk, kissing you until your knees buckle, grinding his hard cock against your belly through both your cloths while whispering how perfect you feel.

Every time he stops just before you can tip over the edge. Every time he leaves you aching and wet and wanting.

Until the night he doesn’t stop.

He takes you to the same hidden pool, moonlight silver on the water. This time there’s a woven mat and soft blankets he brought ahead. This time his hands tremble slightly as he helps you out of your top, eyes reverent as your breasts spill free.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes, leaning down to take one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently until your back arches and your fingers thread through his braids.

He lays you down. Kisses every inch of you, down your stomach, along your thighs, then between them, tongue slow and worshipful on your clit until you come the first time with a broken cry, thighs clamped around his head.

Only then does he rise over you, loincloth discarded, thick cock heavy and flushed against his belly. The head already glistening.

His queue—long, neural tendrils glowing softly—sways behind him. Yours curls forward instinctively.

Neteyam looks down at you, eyes burning.

“I want to mate with you,” he says, voice rough with need. “I want tsaheylu. I want to live with you. Wake up with you. Have a family with you. I don’t care what my father says. I choose you. Now. Forever.”

Your throat tightens with emotion even as heat pulses low in your belly.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, Neteyam. I choose you too.”

He leans down. The moment your queues connect, braiding together with a soft, electric snap, the world explodes into color and feeling. You feel him—his love, his want, his steady unwavering certainty—and it steals your breath.

Then he’s pushing inside you.

Slow. So slow.

The stretch burns. He’s thick, and you’re tight, and the first few inches make you whimper, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Shh, yawne,” he murmurs, kissing your temple, your cheeks, your lips. “Breathe. I’ve got you. Just relax for me.”

He keeps rocking forward in tiny increments, letting your body open for him, whispering praise the whole time about how warm you are, how perfect you feel around him, how much he loves you. When he’s finally seated to the hilt, both of you are shaking.

He stays there, buried deep, forehead against yours, letting you adjust while the bond floods you with his pleasure.

Then he starts to move.

Long, slow thrusts at first, careful. The pain fades into a deep, aching fullness that makes your toes curl. Your breasts bounce gently with every push, nipples tight, and Neteyam can’t stop looking at you pretty body witb his eyes dark, and his lips parted.

“Mh…, look at you,” he groans, picking up pace. The wet sound of him sliding in and out fills the air. Your tits jump more noticeably now, soft and full, and he leans down to catch one nipple in his mouth again, sucking in time with his thrusts.

You moan louder, legs wrapping around his waist.

The pleasure builds fast, his cock dragging against a perfect spot inside you, the bond letting you feel his own rising ecstasy, the way your tight heat is driving him insane.

You come first, clenching hard around him with a cry, vision whiting out. He follows right after, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a guttural groan, hips jerking as pulse after pulse of hot seed fills you.

For a long moment you just cling to each other, panting, connected in every way possible.

Then Neteyam laughs—soft, breathless, delighted—as he nuzzles your neck.

“We’re going to have a kid,” he murmurs against your skin, still buried inside you. “I can already see it. Our family.”

You let out a shaky laugh, still floating. “What if… what if I don’t get pregnant this time?”

He lifts his head, eyes sparkling with love and mischief and fresh hunger. His hips roll slowly, cock still hard and twitching inside your sensitive walls.

“Then we’ll just do this again,” he whispers, starting to thrust. “And again. As many times as it takes.”

Your head falls back on a moan as he settles into a steady rhythm once more, the bond singing between you, his hands sliding up to cup your bouncing breasts while he fucks you slow and sweet under the moonlight.

Hi hope you enjoyed!

Based off this request!