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thetomorrowshow · 7 months

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hubris killed the god - ch 5

first part

cw: apocalypse setting, talk of death

The crew that leaves is Scott, Jimmy, False, Shelby, and Katherine, leaving fWhip and Gem behind (though to be fair, both fWhip and Gem volunteer to stay behind, despite Jimmy clearly wanting at least one of them to come along in place of Scott).

The whole trip, Jimmy ignores Scott—and to be fair, Scott doesn’t make any extra effort to get in his way. Their fight of the previous week clearly hasn’t left either of their minds.

Scott’s not entirely sure what had changed Jimmy’s mind—if he’d just been looking to avoid another fight, or if he’d realized he was wrong at some point. Whatever it was, Scott isn’t going to argue any further. He’s just happy that Jimmy let him come along.

Also, the airship probably isn’t the best place for a fight like they’d had last week. Scott shudders as he pictures Jimmy shoving him again, the two of them clearing the railing entirely and being dead on impact with the ground.

Hopefully dead on impact. If he’s going to die, Scott doesn’t want to feel the mites tearing him apart as he does.

Pix’s land isn’t too far away—not nearly as far as Stratos had been. They arrive after maybe half an hour, hovering over the grand gate that leads to the catacombs.

“All right, you know the plan!” Jimmy hollers over the sound of fans and gears droning. “I take point, Shelby’s got the rear. Katherine behind me. Scott in the middle to keep eyes around. We go in, we get out quick! Got it?”

“And look for coal!” calls False from the stern. Jimmy acknowledges with a wave of his hand, then heaves himself over the railing and onto the rolled-out ladder.

The mites are swarming around below, but they watch as Jimmy draws his pistol and fires an echoing shot below him, scattering the ones directly below him. For a moment, wind catches the ladder and it sways—Jimmy’s one-handed hold is looking pretty loose—but before any of them can shout for him, Jimmy jumps the rest of the way down, landing hard on the ground and firing off another shot.

It’s Scott’s turn next, and he can’t afford to take a moment to feel nervous about it. Jimmy’s down there, howling at the top of his lungs, trying to keep hordes of plaguelings away. He needs help, and Scott just so happens to have a magical eye that repulses evil.

The wind is roaring in his ears and terrifying as he clambers down the rope ladder, it swinging and curling below him while his shovel knocks against his leg. But Scott bites his lip and holds on tight, taking it one shaky step at a time as he climbs.

Eventually, his feet hit solid ground (his knees shake and he nearly falls, but he finds his footing after a precarious moment), and he pulls his shovel from his belt and starts beating at the dirt before he even has a chance to get his legs steady. The mites scurry away from the force, or go still and slowly move away under his gaze, and he casts his eyes around, trying to keep them spooked long enough to stay a good meter away (and hitting with his shovel when they get too close). Jimmy’s still yelling and stomping his feet, and Katherine swings down and joins in.

Once Shelby joins them, Jimmy (still shouting nonsense) leads the way in, shoving at the looming, sealed stone doors until one of them starts to give. Katherine joins him, and with their combined strength, they force one of the doors to scrape open wide enough for them to squeeze through.

It’s a tight fit—and Scott doesn’t like that there are mites on the doors, that could drop down on him as he’s going in, so he pulls up his coat above his head and shimmies through—but it works well enough, and soon all four of them are within the catacombs.

The air within is like a cool breeze washing over them, out of the sun, yet stuffy—but Scott hardly notices it while his eyes adjust to the dark. The crack of the door casts little light within the hollowed out hall, and they all stand there for several long moments (Scott keeps an eye on the door, glaring at any mites that dare shuffle around the corner) while Jimmy strikes a match and lights the torch that he’d strapped to his hip.

Scott lets his coat slide back down from his head to settle on his shoulders again. He’s already starting to have second thoughts, something about the darkness unsettling his stomach. He swallows a couple of times, making sure that he isn’t going to throw up.

It’s tough to see the roughly-hewn stone, even with Jimmy’s torch. The light barely reaches the walls, and Scott can just make out the lumpy shapes of sconces at fixed intervals to light up the place the way Pix always had it. It would’ve been nice if they’d been able to bring as many torches as could fill those—then maybe it would feel less spooky, less . . . off.

In addition to the disconcerting darkness, it feels like they’re in a holy place, and no one speaks while they pass between pillars to reach the main staircase.

Scott’s been in plenty of holy places, and in each one, there’s a certain quality to the air—maybe the way the dust hangs in unnatural stillness, or the stale scent that brings to mind churches and private places of worship. Something that feels as if it would be unwise to disturb it, whether because of the god that watches over it, or because of whatever lies within.

In this case, it could be either, he observes, as Jimmy’s torchlight passes over a painting of a goddess.

Peril, the plaque beneath it reads. Scott only catches a glimpse of the painting as he passes, but she seems stern, stone-like, forbidding.

She seems like an omen.

With every dark hallway and tomb they pass, Scott’s heart sinks lower and lower. If Pix were here, surely he’d have lit the place up, shown some sign of life.

There’s nothing, though. No lit torches, dust settled on the few seats they pass and layered thick on the ground. And the further in they get, the lower the chances are that Pix is somehow still here.

Jimmy’s growing antsy, too. Every room he shines his torch into, he sighs louder, his steps sounding more and more like stomps.

Scott doesn’t dare suggest they turn back, even as the tombs go on and on. He’s not sure how Jimmy’s navigating them, or if he’s navigating at all, so he looks up at him after a moment to see that he has chalk, and is marking each turn they take.

Scott turns his eyes back to the floor, scanning each cranny they pass for any mites that could be hiding in the darkness. The silence feels heavy, weighing down on his shoulders, and he’s assaulted with the image of Martina in the inn, her limp llama form already being torn apart by the mites.

If Pix is down here, what condition will they find him in? Will he be partially decayed, mites crawling around him? Will there be anything left?

Scott shakes himself. There aren’t any mites in here. Well, now there may be, now that they’ve opened the door, but if Pix is here, there can’t be mites. They haven’t encountered any yet, have they? If they were already in here, they would’ve seen one.

Right?

And then, almost before he notices, they’re in the main (and final) chamber.

It’s dark. It’s silent. The torchlight doesn’t fill the entire room, leaving the edges of the room in darkness. The can’t see the walls, they can’t see the ceiling. They can’t see any signs of life.

What they can see is some crypts, inscribed with weathered words in a language Scott doesn’t recognize. A couple of barrels here and there, mostly empty, one or two with shovels or similar excavation tools. A sheet here, a bucket there.

No Pix. This is clearly where he’d been working before everything went down, but he isn’t here.

With a couple of gestures, Jimmy directs them all to various corners of the room to search, despite the futility of it. Scott heads off to his left, feeling along one of the crypts, his fingers digging into the dusty grooves of the lettering.

There’s nothing in his corner. It’s bare, but for a cobweb and more dust. He kicks at the dust, watches idly as it puffs up in a little cloud.

There’s a short shriek behind him, a clattering sound—Scott whips around—Katherine’s leapt back from her corner and knocked over a barrel, her axe raised, eyes focused on a spot on the floor.

“There’s a mite here,” she calls to them when everyone looks to her. “I don’t know if it was already here or if it followed us in. We should go.”

Jimmy nods sharply, heads to the door. Scott falls into line behind him, trying to keep his heart from beating out of his chest. If the mites are already in here—

Jimmy leaves without waiting for Katherine and Shelby to join them, and Scott can’t hang back because Jimmy’s going forward and Scott has to watch out for mites in his path. They aren’t far behind, so he’s confident that they’ll be able to catch up. After all, they can handle themselves for a couple of seconds.

If they’d waited, maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe Scott would have noticed something was off, because he caught sight of some movement on the ceiling but assumed it was just the torchlight flickering as Jimmy hurried down the hallway and up the first flight of stairs.

But now, in an attempt to not let Jimmy get too far ahead, he ignores whatever he’d seen on the ceiling. And when the girls shout behind him, he knows instantly that he should’ve looked closer.

Scott whips around to see his worst nightmare.

It’s Shelby, and there’s a mite on her cheek.

And a mite on her hat.

And a mite on her hand.

And she’s yelling and trying to shake off the mites, and Katherine’s screaming and circling her to try and fend off any others, and the sick feeling that’s been growing in Scott’s stomach this whole time rises to his throat and he nearly vomits.

It’s certain death. There’s no way to survive this plague, and Shelby’s covered in those things and there’s no way to help her and she’s going to die, she’s going to die, she’s going to die—

“Just run!” Jimmy roars, and Scott can’t stay. There’s more of them, the plague dripping from the ceiling and spreading across the walls and Shelby’s going to die and there’s nothing he can do.

Scott pulls the collar of his coat up over his head and runs for it.

The mites scatter from their feet, and all Scott can hear is the pounding of his blood in his ears and all he can feel is his feet slamming against stone, but he keeps pushing, up flights of stairs and down hallways, his eyes on the ground to try and keep it clear. He doesn’t know if Shelby and Katherine are following. He doesn’t know if Jimmy’s still in front of him. He just knows he has to get out.

Something light bounces off his coat over his head and Scott swears in a voice that comes out as more of a shriek than a mutter, as intended. He doesn’t stop running, though, even as each breath tears from his lungs and his legs start to feel like jelly.

And finally, blessedly, he hits the door.

There’s more mites than he’s ever seen in his life swarming around the door, piled up upon each other as they scramble to explore this new place. Scott screams at them, wordless and random, stomping and glaring and swinging with his shovel, until their piles fall apart and scatter and he has a path through.

He can hear other screams, somebody beating something metal against the wall with a repeated, deafening clanging noise that sends Scott’s head spinning and his ears ringing. He squeezes his way out the door, doing his best to shove the door open a bit wider in the process, and finally is free in the open air.

Jimmy’s right there, and the sound is him slamming his pistol against the outer wall as he shouts, making a small clearing in the sea of blackness that surrounds them. Scott spins around, too fast, he’s dizzy he’s going to be sick, casting his eyes on every mite he can to incite them to pull away.

The ladder drops in front of him and Jimmy, still yelling, shoves his pistol into his waistband and starts climbing.

Scott tells himself, frantically, that he’s going to wait for Katherine and Shelby as long as he can. He and Jimmy left them back there, they didn’t wait, and because they didn’t wait they lost one of their number.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long. Within the minute, Shelby exits the catacombs, bereft of her witch hat and her face red with tears. Katherine’s right behind her, and she helps Shelby onto the rope ladder before climbing up herself.

Scott waits until they’re both fully onto the airship, then steels himself. His legs already feel so terribly weak; he isn’t sure that he can make it all the way up.

Well. It’s either make it, or die here.

Scott starts climbing.

His determination is strong, but even so, his legs nearly give out before he reaches the top. When that happens, he just wraps his arms all the way around the ladder and moves slower, shimmying himself up.

He rolls over the railing, onto the deck and out of the way, ready for Katherine to pull the ladder up. Scott shrugs out of his coat, the sun beating down on his back and head.

His ears are still ringing, his head aching, his limbs trembling. He still feels like one wrong move could cause him to lose his breakfast. He still feels like he just wants to sit down and sob.

Scott doesn’t have time for that, though.

He shakes out his coat to find nothing, twists around to check his back just in case. It doesn’t look like he made any skin contact with a mite. He needs to invest in a pair of gloves, though—he’d been hit by the horrifying thought halfway up the ladder that there could be a mite sitting on his shoulder, and he’d have no way to get it off without infecting himself.

There’s a conversation going on around him, he realizes as his ears abruptly stop ringing, yelled over the sound of the airship.

“—okay, we’re right here with you,” Jimmy’s shouting, and Scott turns to see him holding Shelby’s hands as she shudders with barely-contained sobs.

Shelby says something Scott can’t hear, and Jimmy’s face twists. He pulls her close to his chest, wraps her in a hug.

That’s his friend. Shelby is Scott’s friend, and she’s hurting, and she’s going to die soon.

Scott takes a few shaky steps over to her, waiting for her to open her eyes and notice him—and when she does, she reaches out with one of her arms, pulling him into the hug with Jimmy.

“I’m sorry,” Shelby croaks into his ear, and Scott just hugs her tighter.

The ride back is quiet. Shelby sits on the deck, back up against the railing, chin on her knees as she stares at nothing. Katherine paces, back and forth from the stern to the bow, casting anxious glances toward Shelby and Scott.

Jimmy disappears belowdecks, after giving each of them a hug—nothing huge, just a quick slap on the back. Scott leans on the railing at the bow, gazing out over the land.

The worst part is, Jimmy was right.

He was right. Scott had just begun to assume that of course Pix would be there. Of course they would be able to rescue him. And he’d thought, at the time, that even if Pix wasn’t there, it would be worth it just to try (and yet, he was so certain that Pix would be there that it didn’t even matter).

And here they are, with a light pink mark on Shelby’s face and another on her hand, denoting exactly where death had marked her.

Jimmy was right, and he isn’t even doing anything about it.

He’s changed since the apocalypse, Scott thinks. In the past, he imagines Jimmy would be glaring at them all, muttering “I told you so”s and just generally being obnoxious about being right.

In fact, Scott would honestly find it easier to deal with than this silence. He can handle Jimmy being a bit stuck-up and full of himself. He knows that side of Jimmy, he knows what to expect.

No Pix, Scott remembers suddenly with a pang. No sign of him whatsoever. The catacombs had been sealed well enough that until they got there, there’d only been one or two mites in the place total. Had Pix sealed it from the outside, trying to preserve the history within? That sounds like something stupid and self-sacrificing the man would do in the name of history.

And there wasn’t any coal either, Scott realizes with a start. They’d gone in there to save Pix and collect coal, and they hadn’t completed either objective.

The sick feeling he’s had since they entered the catacombs increases just slightly. This was a terrible idea. They’ve lost—they’ve lost another trip in the flying machine, wasted on nothing. False had said that the coal they found in Stratos was enough for a handful of flights, and now one of those limited flights has been used up on nothing.

And Shelby, a pointless sacrifice that he had foolishly thought worth it.

Scott slides down to sit on the deck, burying his face in his knees. His eyes are burning at the corners, and he thinks it isn’t exactly because of the wind.

It’s his fault. He riled everyone up, he fought with Jimmy, he insisted that they look for Pix. It’s all his fault that Shelby is dying.

For a moment, with frightening clarity that bubbles up in his chest like a sob, Scott wonders if this is how Jimmy feels.

In a greater sense, this whole thing is Jimmy’s fault. It was Jimmy’s rash actions and anger that had caused the apocalypse, killed thousands of people, ended the world.

And maybe it’s just because Scott doesn’t have time to process anything, he hasn’t had time, he’s never going to have time, but he’s not all that mad at Jimmy right now. If they can work out an impossible escape, and somehow find peace and time to process and heal, then he’d be mad.

But at this point, Scott’s not sure that he would call for punishment. He doesn’t think that he could ever be friends with Jimmy again, but. . . .

He’d really rather forget everything that happened here. Move on.

He’d rather everyone forget about his own terrible decision.

Scott sits there, wind pulling his hair every which way, face tucked into his knees, until they arrive. He tries not to think. He tries not to let his heart break over and over again. He just sits there and breathes and ignores the smarting of his eyes.

Somehow, Scott’s the only one who thinks to tell Sausage that they’re back, and the only one to tell him of Shelby’s condition.

Everyone else tells fWhip and Gem, then heads off in their separate directions—to bed, to patrol, to find a quiet place to cry—whatever it is they do.

Sausage doesn’t take it well, exactly, but where fWhip had cried and Gem had hugged Shelby, Sausage’s face hardens with determination and he starts . . . something.

He opens up a compartment in the back of the altar, draws from it a line of beads—pearls, probably—from which a moon hangs. He sets that on the altar, then pulls out the next thing—a well-preserved sunflower head. Last of all, a tiny little cylindrical container, gleaming gold, that he lays beside the other two items.

“Tell Shelby to come in here. And to bring whatever she uses for her magic,” Sausage instructs, stricter than Scott’s ever heard. And Scott, of course, obeys, turning on his heel and marching right out of the chapel.

fWhip insists on coming too, and then Gem, and then Katherine, so they all follow Scott and Shelby into the chapel, where Sausage is now piling as many pillows as he can onto a table behind the altar.

“Sausage, what’s going on?” Shelby asks wearily, leaning against the altar. “It’s—I’m—I’m d-dead, all right? Don’t try to save me, focus your energy on everyone else.”

“I think I can do something, though,” Sausage declares, and he pats the makeshift bed he’s made on the table. “See, my magic has been keeping the darkness away. And your magic kind of works to keep you safe, right? So I’ve been thinking—just in case, I didn’t plan for anyone to get hurt or anything—that we could try and combine our magic and see what happens!”

That sounds like a terrible idea, from Scott’s point of view. What happens if their magics hate each other? What happens if the combination ends up exploding in ways both literal and not?

But Shelby stills, tilts her head, considering. She scratches absently (not that Scott knows it’s absent scratching, if it were him he’d be overly aware) at the tiny pink splotch on her cheek.

“We can try,” she says slowly. “I mean, I’m already gone. We might as well, right? And it could be kind of fun.”

“Wait, could this actually work?” Gem asks, pushing past Scott to stand directly in front of Sausage. “Could you—if you and Shelby worked together, could you save other people, too?”

As opposed to the moment before, Sausage looks rather unsure of himself, rocking back on his heels and chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Um, maybe! And it can’t hurt to try, mostly. Otherwise I wouldn’t even suggest it, if it could hurt someone.”

He’s sure Sausage didn’t mean to address that statement toward anyone, but Scott feels a pang in his chest at those words. He’d fought to go look for Pix, knowing full well that someone could get hurt. And someone did.

��Then by all means, let’s do it!” fWhip declares, bouncing in place, and Scott can’t stand it.

He doesn’t want hope. He doesn’t want to get excited about the possibility of his friend being okay, because if it doesn’t work then it’ll be like she’s dying all over again.

Scott knows they need to try. He knows that this is a possible fix, not just for Shelby, but for everyone. He knows that there’s hope here.

But there are already far too many bottled-up emotions shoved into the deepest corner of his chest, and the lid is barely staying on the bottle. Opening it up to add hope would send all those other nasty, grieving feelings flying into everything.

So, instead of joining the excited chatter and helping Shelby get comfortable on the table there (where she’ll apparently be spending a lot of time), Scott quietly slips out.

That night, he stays in his room in the inn, instead of heading for the pew where he normally sleeps in the chapel.

That night, Scott barely sleeps at all.

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arachine · 1 year

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— ❝on this fateful night...two hearts danced.❞ ˚₊✩‧₊

ᥫ᭡ pairing :: neteyam sully x human! reader

ᥫ᭡ synopsis :: in omaticayan culture, a young na’vi male does not yet become a full fledged adult until he passes one of two rites of passage: 1) choosing an ikran, and 2) carving a bow from the wood of Hometree (and/or choosing a woman). reader is now 20, and the only man she’s ever loved is expected to choose a wife soon. one day when she overhears a rumor concerning neteyam and the first woman in line to betroth him, reader is struck with grief, ultimately venturing off deep into the forest where she knows nobody will follow her—somewhere forbidden. however, unbeknownst to her, a certain someone follows her trail…

ᥫ᭡ genre :: mature

ᥫ᭡ general tags :: 18+ (explicit sexual content, explicit language), angst, fluff

ᥫ᭡ content warnings :: characters aged up to 20, use of alcohol, inebriation, size kink (kinda), vaginal fingering, oral sex (f receiving), male masturbation, overstimulation, riding (no penetration), m/f ejaculation, squirting…i took some things out but i think that’s it?

ᥫ᭡ notes :: what a long week this has been…but we made it! i cannot believe the first thing i post after being on hiatus for months is blue alien sex. anyway, i hope you all enjoy. also, be mindful that the dialogue switches between formal and casual. it’s something that i noticed neteyam and kiri do a lot in the movie. for what reason? idk…but the big font after the read more is intentional bc ik some ppl complain that the small font hurts their eyes :3

ᥫ᭡ word count :: 7.2k

— playlist :: spotify link

“You have been wandering off by yourself a lot lately…”

There goes that attentiveness, you could never put anything past her—Kiri, that is. She was just too good (to a fault), and though her keen eye and emotional intelligence were extremely useful, they were also the most aggravating traits about her.

Now, you could just tell her the truth about the place you’re always wandering off to, and you also could confide in her about the thing that’s been plaguing your mind recently—but you don’t, because you know better.

For a split second, though, you hesitate telling her. The lean girl tilts her head, eyes flitting between your face and the satchel in your hands. Smoothly, you pull the satchel across your body and shift it to rest behind you—out of sight.

Kiri seems to notice your apprehension, and so, she peels her eyes from the bag, offering you her full attention by resuming eye contact once again. If she has even the slightest hunch that you’re hiding something, she doesn’t voice her suspicions.

“Well, I won’t pry, sister. You know that I am always here to listen,” she reassured, reaching out a gentle hand towards your face. You let the tips of her fingers graze your cheek, the warmth of her hand providing transitory comfort.

The two of you exchange sweet smiles before you pull away. It was getting dark, and the longer you stayed here, the harder it’d be to avoid the very thing you were trying to get away from—the very person you were trying to get away from.

“I know, Kiri,” you grabbed her hand, encasing it between your own, “I know…but—I have to go. I promise I’m alright. I’ve just…been doing some thinking, and I think I gotta sort some things out with myself before I can be around the rest of you, you know?”

There’s a silence between the two of you, and you’re not exactly sure if she’s taken offense to what you’ve just said, or if she’s carefully choosing her words. You decide on the latter though, because the last thing you want to do is make her feel as if she’s done something wrong, or if anyone has done something wrong. This was entirely on you; you and your stupid, selfish human heart.

“Yes, I know what you mean,” she replies, squinting her eyes. Again, there’s a silence, but you can tell she still has something to say, like she’s mulling it over. “Will you at least be here tonight? You know, for the big feast? Everyone will be here, even Neteyam,” the girl tsks playfully, shaking her head as she walks circles around you.

Immediately your body stiffens, and she responds to this by teasing you, “Or, I could just save you something…or maybe i’ll ask Neteyam to save you something since he’ll be the most important man tonight.”

“And why would you do that?” the words leave your tongue before you have the chance to process them. It reads rather defensively, but you ignore it. “I mean, why—why ask Neteyam?”

“Because he’s your friend…” kiri pokes you, “because you love him,” she whispers, only this time her voice is a lot more serious, a lot quieter—a whisper. This is when you get that feeling again.

That weird, achy feeling that leaves your stomach in knots and your throat all puffy. The sensation is debilitating—suffocating, and the only way you know how to ease it is by doing what you had set out to do in the first place (though, you were swiftly interrupted).

“Don’t be silly, Kiri,” your smile drops solemnly, “we’re…friends, just friends. Besides, he’s going to be spoken for soon. There are a lot of Na’vi women who would make fine mates…” Your voice decrescendos into the forest night air, the conversation lasting a lot longer than you’d anticipated. To stop your solemn mood from being expressed outwardly, you quickly turn around, looking back once to speak.

“Anyway, I have to go now. I’ll see you later.” Kiri nods and waves bye, her eyes watching as your small frame disappears out of her family’s tent.

A cacophony of voices and music fall on deaf ears as you make your way through the village. The preparation is beginning, but all you can think about is him. Him, him, him.

And ever since you overheard a rumor that Neytiri and Mo’at had chosen the next in line to become tsahik after Neytiri, your heart stopped beating…because you knew. You knew exactly what this meant—the end.

Neteyam was to be a future olo’eyktan, after all. And in Na’vi culture, the future head of the clan and the future spiritual representative were to be betrothed. You knew that, and yet, you couldn’t fathom it. Because then it’d be the end.

The end of your late night rendezvous, the end of your special talks, the end of your banter, and your clandestine glances—your whispers. The ones that were quiet, and innocent…the ones that tingled the shell of your ears. Meant for him and you only.

It was selfish, really. Stupid. You knew the day would come when he’d have to grow up and fulfill his duties as a Na’vi male. Just not this soon though, you wanted to hold onto him a little longer. And if drinking your pain away to preserve those precious memories could do that, then you’d do it.

Lost in your train of thought, you don’t register that you’ve walked yourself right into the heart of a crowd until you bump into a young na’vi child. Apologizing, you then attempt to squeeze through the sea of bodies, tapping lightly on people’s legs until you reach the front. The people were cheering, celebrating the hunters’ return and the game that the Great Mother had graciously given them.

Slowly, hunters had begun pooling in from the forest on direhorseback. Then, they started coming in clusters, all ululating, and pumping their fists in the air while holding their dead game in the other. Your head turned in awe as each hunter rode past you, the energy of the people so contagious that your sour mood was starting to dissipate, even if just a little.

Thinking that was the last of the riders, you begin walking again, but the sound of heavy hooves striking the ground halt your movements. Turning your head back to the trees, you see something moving behind the shrubbery, and then enters none other than the man of the hour: Neteyam. If the people weren’t cheering before, they were definitely cheering now—especially since he’d managed to catch an adult sturmbeest (which was a difficult feat).

The direhorse strides slowly through the crowd, and stops in the centre on Neteyam’s command. Nobody can take their eyes off of him, and neither can you. He just looks so strong, and masculine—like his father, even though he’s the spitting image of his mother. Neteyam puts his hand into the air before he dismounts his horse and ushers the people to settle down, and eventually, they do.

He points to the sturmbeest that his direhorse is carrying back to be prepared. “Tonight, my brothers and sisters…” a pause, “we dance! we sing! we feast!” His words excite the villagers again, uluations so loud that your ears begin to ring. Just as you’re about to turn away, his eyes meet yours—he smiles. And there it is. That achy feeling in your chest.

He wants to say something, reaches his arm out to you as if he were silently telling you to wait up, but then a girl strikes up a conversation with him. At first, you’re not entirely sure who it is—and you shouldn’t even care—but then you do a double take and your heart sinks a little more. It was Tsimandi, the girl rumored to be his betrothed.

From this distance, you can’t hear what they’re talking about, so you watch intently. He’s got his head thrown back in hearty laughter, and she’s touching him—actually touching him, her hands wrapped around his forearm in an attempt to pull him further away.

You think if you stay a second longer you’ll actually become a pile of liquid where you stand, so you take this opportunity to slip away while he’s preoccupied.

When Neteyam looks back, he notices your absence. Squinting, he looks around in search of you, and then he sees what looks like a person disappearing into the thick of the forest. Just what is she doing?

“I apologize, Tsimandi, but I must do something,” he begins backing away, a genuine expression etched onto his face, “I will see you tonight, at the feast!”

“Oh, o-okay,” she mutters but he’s already run off. Neteyam calls for his direhorse and waits at the edge of the forest until it comes running towards him. Before he can mount it and follow you, someone calls out to him.

“And where are you going?” the voice queries, tone laced with suspicion. He recognizes who it belongs to and sighs.

“Nowhere, sir,” he dismounts, meeting his father’s eyes, his mother also accompanying him.

“Yeah, I’d hope so. The people are throwing this feast for you, or have you forgotten?” Jake gives him a once over, eyes still boring into his son.

“No, sir. I have not forgotten,” the boy lowers his gaze in embarrassment.

“Good. Go get ready, knucklehead.”

With each trudge through the forest, you were losing more and more sunlight. You’d walked about halfway to your destination when you remembered the bottle sloshing around in your satchel.

Usually, you waited to drink the liquid there, but you decided given today’s strenuous events, you’d have some now. A reward, you tell yourself. Taking the bottle out of the bag, you lift your mask from your face briefly, twisting open the top and taking a big swig.

No matter how many times you did it, the taste always made you gag. Bourbon—is what they called it. It was equal parts bitter and pungent but it did the trick. Helped you to relax, to forget. The first time you came across it, it was by pure accident.

You’d been somewhere you shouldn’t have been, doing things you shouldn’t have been doing. But one thing led to another, and soon enough, you were inebriated for the first time.

By the time you drink half of your weight in liquor, you reach your destination. The old shack. After what happened with the Sky People, Jake’s first rule as olo’eyktan was to prohibit anyone from entering.

Even being somewhere remotely around the area was forbidden. But you were no stranger to disobedience, you’d come here once with Lo’ak (which was your first time actually).

Though, you didn’t get to explore much because Tuk had spoiled your fun by telling Jake. That day was one of your favorite memories, you think. Jake couldn’t stop yelling at the two of you, but all you could do was laugh. Nothing was really even funny, but you couldn’t help it. Seeing Jake’s eye twitch at your outburst only exacerbated it.

Lo’ak was getting the worst of it, and Neteyam fell victim to Jake’s nagging too for not ‘being there’. After a while, he’d dismissed the bunch of you from his tent and as soon as you were out of earshot, the three of you went into a frenzy of laughter. You think back fondly on those memories, all the ones that include Neteyam, that is.

“God, there isn’t a second when I’m not thinking of you…” you sigh in exhaustion, extending an arm out to open the shack’s door. Reaching in your satchel, you pull out two jars full of glow worms (you’ve found that two jars are enough to light up the shack). Ambling over to your favorite spot, you open a cabinet and reach for another bottle of that bitter liquid you willingly put into your body.

It’s still a wonder to you how well preserved these bottles remained over the years, and you’re pretty sure you’ve heard Norm or someone mention that the older the liquor, the better it tastes (which was a lie, but alas, you down another shot).

“Wooo,” a cough erupts from your throat, “yep, still nasty.”

At this point, the liquor is starting to take effect. Warmth radiates throughout your entire body, and you can feel your limbs gradually getting heavier. Being drunk had to be one of your top three favorite feelings.

It either made you: sad, tired, or giggly (maybe even all at once). But now? Now you were feeling sleepy, so you groggily trudge over to one of the beds in the shack.

As soon as your body hits the plush, a cloud of dust filters through the air. It was incredibly disgusting, but you’d slept in worse places. For now, you would lay here…succumbing to a sweet slumber.

Neteyam had gone home without fuss as promised. Go and get ready. Well, he was doing exactly that now, exchanging his previous attire for that of something more formal. He rolled his eyes and huffed. Sometimes his father could just be a…

“Son of a bitch,” the boy snapped, his frustration reaching its peak. He’d been standing in the tent for about 10 minutes trying to figure out this headpiece his mother had laid out for him, but could not for the life of him figure it out.

Giving up, he throws it to the ground and takes a seat with his head in his hands. Kiri slips in shortly after his outburst, bending to the ground to retrieve the item. Hesitantly, she walks over to her brother.

“If you needed some help, you could have called, brother.” Neteyam lifts his head up from his hands to see Kiri towering over him, his eyes breaking contact with hers as she sits down next to him. There’s a pregnant pause, but it doesn’t last for long because Kiri is already opening her mouth to speak.

“What is troubling you?” She asks, forcing Neteyam to turn his back to her so that she can place the headpiece onto him properly. He inhales deeply, then exhales.

“I do not know…I saw (your name) earlier and…” Kiri hums, encouraging him to continue, “and—she had this strange look on her face.”

“Look? What do you mean? Was she angry? Sad?”

“I have never seen it before, sister. She usually looks happy when she sees me…but this look was different,” his voice is almost inaudible when he finishes. Kiri ponders for a bit, tilting her head as if she were mentally putting the puzzle pieces together.

“How come you did not speak to her?” Kiri makes her final adjustments to the headpiece, ushering Neteyam to meet her eyes.

“I was going to…I tried to, but Tsimandi found me before I could,” he fiddles with his fingers. Kiri takes note of his disposition, and she frowns empathetically. Clearly, whatever was going on with you two was something you had to work out together. This wasn’t like either of you!

“But it was not just today either,” he continues, “she has been distancing herself for awhile, have you noticed?” She laughs at this, nodding her head.

“Yes, she has been acting a little strange lately. I think I might know what is troubling her, brother,” the girl takes his hand into her own. “But I cannot tell you. This is something that concerns only she and you…”

Neteyam squints his eyes in confusion, muttering a ‘what’. His mouth opens to speak but he is swiftly interrupted upon Jake and Neytiri’s arrival. He looks to Kiri for some clarification but all she says is: ‘go, go, you have a feast to attend’, followed with a, ‘find her later’.

“Well? Come on, the people won’t wait for your blue ass all day will they?” Jake teases. Neytiri slaps his arm, scolding him playfully.

“Ah, my son, my beautiful son,” she pads to where he stands, taking his face into her hands. “It is time to go, we must celebrate you.”

Jake nods, flashing a quick wink of approval. Together, they all walk out of the tent and through the village where they’re instantly greeted with colorful luminescence, loud music, and food. All things that have been so generously prepared for him. By the time they make it down to the Tree of Souls, everyone halts their cheering to hear what Jake has to say.

“Tonight we eat,” a pause, “in honor of Neteyam’s mighty victory!” Jake grabs his eldest son’s hand, raising it in the air. “He led his first attack against the Sky People and made it back without any casualties!” A sudden roar of praise erupts from the crowd.

Everyone is chanting his name, and clapping, but even amidst all this praise, he can’t help but to think about you. What does all of this matter if you’re not here to celebrate with him?

You’ve been by his side since the two of you could walk, so where are you now? The thought saddens him, but he can’t wear his heart on his sleeve tonight. Not when there’s so many people here just for him.

“For the past 20 years, my son has always been just a boy to me. But now I realize…he is a man—and he has proven himself in front of the eyes of Eywa,” The former marine glances down at his son, eyeing him in admiration. “Enough talking, let us feast!”

Laughter and songs fill the warm, breezy nighttime air. It’s been about two hours since the celebration commenced, and Neteyam has just about made his rounds to every important family.

He smiles warmly as he looks at the scene in front of him: children playing and dancing by the fireside, putting on elaborate performances for the adults still filling their bellies full of food. Everyone is lively—happy, a testament to tonight’s success.

Mo’at is pleased by this especially, she tells him that ‘this is what the people needed’—you know, to boost morale. At some point, when nobody is watching, he slips away from the party to walk around. Unbeknownst to him, someone has seen him.

“Getting tired?” a voice questions from the shadows. Out comes Kiri, revealing herself from behind a leaf.

“Yes, exhausted actually,” he jokes, disconnecting his braid from his direhorse. “No, but I need to find (your name). She has not come back and it is dark.”

“I figured you would leave early, that’s why I covered your ass and told Dad you were not feeling well,” the feline-like girl smirks.

“Do you have an idea where she might be?”

Kiri takes a moment before answering, “I’m not sure…but for some reason, I have a hunch that she’s at the old shack,” Neteyam furrows his brows in confusion.

“Why do you think she’s there?” he queries, “I mean, it is forbidden.” Kiri offers him a shrug.

“I don’t know but if you’re going to find her, do it now while dad still thinks you’re not feeling well.”

With that, he thanks her for the intel and mounts his horse, disappearing into the thick of the forest. On the way there, his mind conjures up just about every possible scenario that might explain your absence.

Were you upset with him? Did he do something or say something that you didn’t like? He wishes he could just read your thoughts because right now, his heart is pounding so rapidly within the confines of his chest, that he thinks it’ll explode.

This wasn’t like you two, everything was always so easygoing. Being with you was easy, like breathing. But this? His heart couldn’t handle this. Yeah, there’s been some distance between the two of you recently but not due to his own volition—it was duty. If he could spend every second of his life by your side, just being kids, laughing with you, playing with you, he would.

He’s trying to recount these last few days, weeks—months. Trying to pinpoint when exactly things got like this between you…pinpoint when you stopped smiling at him with that smile that made his head all fuzzy, and his heart race like a kid running for the first time.

“Ah, everything’s going to shit, buddy,” he sighs, rubbing the side of his horse, “I don’t know what is wrong.” His mammalian companion grunts empathetically, stopping in its tracks at the edge of the forest when it sees the abandoned link shack. Neteyam doesn’t bother scolding her, because even the animals know that this place is forbidden.

“Alright, I will see you later, okay? Stay here,” he pats her, disconnecting the bond. From this distance, he can see that there seems to be some sort of light illuminating from inside the shack.

That alone already confirms Kiri’s hunch. The closer he gets, the more his stomach feels uneasy. He doesn’t even know why he’s nervous, but he attempts to ease his mind (and body) by telling himself that it’s only you. He’s talked to you one on one hundreds of times, so what’s the difference now?

Noises in the distance rouse you from your ephemeral repose. When you stand up, your head spins with the room, causing you to instinctively reach out for the nearest surface available. Whatever was outside had better be non-threatening, because you were not in the condition to be fighting—let alone standing. When you were drunk like this, you couldn’t even hurt a fly.

“Fuck, I’m gonna have the worst headache soon,” you huff quietly, still aware that there might be someone or something outside. The noise is getting closer, and you’re running out of time to find a hiding spot.

Quickly, you grab the closest thing you can to defend yourself (which is literally a jar of glow worms), and crouch down below the window. When you lift your head just enough to see outside, the makings of a silhouette cloud your vision.

“Shit, shit, shit,” you whisper-yell, tightening your hold on the jar. Lifting your head up again, you notice that the figure is not in the spot it was previously. Then, the knob to the shack twists, and now it’s opening, and—

“(Your name)?”

You pause your attack, slowly dropping your hand (that’s holding the jar) to your side. A flood of relief washes over you once you register who the voice belongs to. Rising from the ground, you open the door fully to see Neteyam standing in the doorway.

“I almost killed you, you know!” you raise the jar, pulling him inside of the shack.

“I think it would take more than a jar of worms to kill me,” he teases. Rolling your eyes, you continue ushering him further inside, leading him to an area where you can sit and talk.

“What…what are you doing here?” you finally ask, folding your arms across your chest. Neteyam towers over you from this height, so he accommodates you by dropping to his haunches.

“I was worried about you,” the boy confesses, “what are you doing here? Why were you not at the feast?” Suddenly, you don’t really feel like talking anymore. Even though the adrenaline from before was still pumping through your veins, so was the alcohol in your system. You’re not so sure you’d be able to keep your composure long enough to answer without exposing your truest feelings. So, you decide on deflecting.

“Aren’t you the man of the hour? I think you should go back to the party before daddy throws a fit. We both know how he gets when his perfect little son isn’t at his every beck and call…” As soon as the words spill from your tongue, you wince. It came out meaner than you meant, and the last thing you wanted was to give him shit for being a caring friend.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t mean that,” you apologize, sitting down on the bed. All he does is sigh, but he takes this opportunity to enter your space, gets all close until his body is nestled between your legs.

“I know…I know, but I want you to tell me what’s wrong, hm?” his fingers lift your chin, “so I can fix it.”

“Can’t fix this, ‘Teyam,” a saltine droplet ribbons down your face. Your head is tilted up with his fingers, but you can’t even force yourself to meet his gaze. God, how pathetic did you look right now?

Here you were, inside an abandoned shack, drinking your body weight in liquor…all while a celebration was being thrown in your best friend’s honor. And for what? Because you were jealous? Because you liked him—loved him?

You knew that eventually your relationship would shift. That he’d take on his duties as the future olo’eyktan, and you’d just be his human friend he hangs with from time to time. How stupid could you be to think things would stay like this forever?

“Hey, hey, hey,” he soothes, both hands now cupping your cheeks, “don’t do that. Do not shut me out. We’re not like this, (your name), you used to always talk to me about things.”

Things. You’d talk about things. But those things were not like these things. And if he knew what things you were thinking about, the things that involved him…then you two would never talk about things again.

You’re curious, though. What if you just told him? Just told him about all the days you’ve loved him, all the nights you’ve stayed up thinking of him—all the stars you counted wishing for him? At least then, the burden of keeping such a secret would stop weighing so heavy on your heart.

“I..” a breath, “I heard a rumor.” The boy hums, encouraging you to continue. “I heard your mother has chosen her successor.”

“Is that what this is about? Why does this bother you?”

“Because you know what this means! We both know what this means, don’t be dense, ’Teyam,” you droop your head in sorrow, coaxing him to just lift it back up. Only this time, his hold on your face is a lot firmer. His eyes are fiercer.

“No. I don’t, so just tell me.”

“You’re gonna be the future olo’eyktan, and we both know that the future clan leader and the chosen tsahik are to be betrothed,” you start, “there will be no time for me! No more late night talks, no more exploring, no more secret whispers…I mean, I get it, you have duties to fulfill but…I wanna be selfish a little longer. Can’t I be selfish a little longer?”

You say the last line while meeting his gaze. You’re teary eyed and shaking, but you try your best to keep any semblance of composure you have left intact (though, it’s failing). His expression is indiscernible.

It makes you nervous. Sick. And now you’re forcing yourself not to throw up because…the realization that you just told someone your deepest, truest, most vulnerable feelings makes you physically ill.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry. Forget what I jus—“

“Are you serious? You don’t get it do you?” Neteyam’s head falls forward, a little chuckle slipping past his lips. His hands leave your head and slither down to your hands. He takes them into his own, eyeing you while kissing the knuckles of each.

The act is incredibly intimate, sends white-hot electricity down the column of your spine. Renders you speechless. All you can do is sit there, too scared that if you move or speak, you’ll shatter into a million little pieces.

“I have duties, yes…but my heart is already spoken for. Always has been.”

“What are you saying, ’Teyam,” your head snuggles into the warmth of his hand. You know exactly what he’s saying, but you want to hear him say—

“I see you,” he whispers in your ear, “you are my most beloved.” The warmth of his breath tingles the shell of your ear, it takes the strength of a thousand men to not scream.

But in this moment? In this moment you want to kiss him. You want to kiss him silly, actually, but you quickly remember the thing on your face preventing your lips from connecting with his. There are truly evil forces conspiring against you.

“I want to kiss you,” you admit solemnly.

“Oh, you don’t know how many nights I’ve spent dreaming about kissing you. Too many,” he jokes, “but I’m afraid if we remove this, you’ll die.”

“Then you don’t have to kiss my lips,” a silence, “you can kiss me anywhere you’d like. Anywhere.”

His green eyes flitter between your face and your body, and then his hands are on you, forcing you to lay back against the bed. You lift your head up and lean back onto your elbows, watching through lust-filled eyes as he begins his ministrations.

He starts from the bottom, works his way up real slowly—too slowly. He’s showing restraint, and while you appreciate the fact that he’s worshiping your body like a devoted follower worships their deity, you want him to ravage you. To eat you up until there’s nothing left but bones.

“’Teyam, please…” you breathe out impatiently. Like the cocky-brat he is, he ignores your pleas, only laughing into your skin.

“Shh, be calm.” The plush of his lips trail up the plains and pastures of your body, up your calves, your thighs (he spends the most time there), and then comes to a stop at the crest of your breasts. His fingers fiddle with the cloth covering your chest, lightly tracing the edges that rest just beneath your mounds.

A tease is what he is. And you didn’t have the time for a tease, so you figured you’d help speed up the process by removing it. Sitting up, you untie the makeshift top and let it fall to your lap, smirking deviously as if you’ve done something so naughty.

“Thought I’d help you,” you grin, wrapping your hands around his neck, “Please, no more going slow…I think we’ve been going slow for twenty years, don’t you think?”

And he gets the hint, once again resuming his assault on your body, but this time with more fervor. More urgency. He’s kissing you everywhere, licking wet stripes over your chest, and leaving love bites in the places where he’s kissed you. Right now he’s acting on his most basic, primal instincts—he’s claiming you as his mate—in the only way he knows how to.

The feeling of his hands on your neck, back, thighs and waist send you into oblivion. But then his hands are creeping up to your tits, deft fingers twisting and kneading, and oh god, you’re seeing stars. The addition of his mouth doesn’t help either.

“You’re so,” a kiss, “beautiful,” a suck, “perfect.” Neteyam kneads one breast while his mouth works on another. He plops down onto a pert nipple, using his tongue to draw circles around the area, his saliva acting as a salve.

A moan (that comes out more like a disgruntled sigh) vacates your throat, and his eyes widen in excitement. The sight of his tail swaying in the background makes you giggle. Cute, you think.

Even though what the two of you were doing wasn’t innocent, you couldn’t help but to feel all giddy. Reaching a hand out, you place a gentle palm on the side of his face.

You trace the contours of his nose, his cheekbones, smooth over his jaw, and then stop at his lips. Your thumb grazes them, first the top, then the bottom—learning. Committing them to memory, how they look, feel, and move under your thumb.

Neteyam is unmoving while you continue to run your finger across his lips—save for his hand, which slowly begins traveling south to your thighs. Experimentally, you push your thumb inside of his mouth, pressing the digit down on his tongue before tracing his cat-like canines. This moment is particularly special, because now it’s you who’s doing the admiring.

The free hand that’s not inching towards your core, skillfully removes the loin cloth around your hips. Immediately, he’s met with your bare sex. It’s smooth—wet, so incredibly wet that it has his cock twitching, and his hands eager to touch you. He wants to taste you. Feel you, all of you.

“I—,” a slender finger rubs your slit, “mmf, see you,” you mewl, cupping his cheek. Neteyam’s eyes widen, he wants to hear you make that sound again…and again, and again, and—

The boy repeats the action. Watches your abs flex and tremble from the touch, and your thighs close in on his arm. Using the other hand, he gently pulls them apart and leaves three open-mouthed kisses: one on your inner thigh, one on another, and then a final one at the top of your mound. The heat from his nostrils make you full body shiver; suddenly, being the only one completely bare is slightly bothering you.

“Do not cover yourself. I want to see you,” his hand finds your cunt again, a long finger pushing into you ever so slowly, “…want to hear those sweet sounds again.”

A soft sigh leaves your lips as you watch his digit push further into you, the drag of a knuckle against your slick walls aiding in the pleasure. You can’t help but to wince at the intrusion, because shit, this was a lot more than what you were used to—using your fingers, that is.

You also suppose penetration would be off the table considering humans and Na’vi were never meant to mate, but it doesn’t prevent you from fantasizing about it anyway. How big was it? Did he touch himself? Use his hands and picture yours?

The thought of him hunching over, rubbing one out, all slick with sweat and pre has your head all dizzy. Your mouth is practically salivating at the mental image you’ve conjured up in your head of him fucking your face, but you know it would never fit. There really are evil forces conspiring against you…

Neteyam’s finger reaching the hilt brings you back down to reality. A forceful thrust that coaxes you to gasp sharply and grab his forearm. After patiently waiting for you to adjust to his size, he begins to move. He sets a steady rhythm, pulling out slowly, then pushing back into you with the same velocity.

Eventually, his movements become less hesitated, and more calculated. Instead of steady and slow, he begins increasing the pace of his thrusts, then graduates from speed to incorporating force.

Every delve of his finger, every deliberate drag and prod has fire pooling in the depths of your belly. Squelches and whimpers ricochet off of the metal walls, and fuck, his dick won’t stop twitching.

It’s grown considerably harder in these past few minutes, and all from just hearing you vocalize your pleasure. When the stretch stops feeling like a stretch, and starts feeling like a ‘give me more’, that’s when you encourage him to add another. And of course, he indulges you.

The same time he pushes another finger in, is the same time he starts rubbing himself. He’s not even really aware of it at first, it’s mindless. He’s just so entranced by you, and the sounds you’re making, the things you’re saying, the way your cunt’s sucking in his fingers—

Fuck. He just finished all over himself. He doesn’t let that deter him though, keeps fingering you through his post-orgasm, taking care of you until you come undone on his fingers.

And the sight is amazing, he can’t stop gawking at the way your hole flutters around him, and the nectar-like liquid that drips down the length of his fingers and onto the bed. He wants to taste it.

“Can I taste you?” he asks. You’re in such a daze that the question doesn’t even register, suddenly too preoccupied with breathing like you’ve forgotten how to.

“Huh? Wha—ohhhh.” His tongue licks a long stripe up your slit. He concentrates the tip at the bottom, lapping at the essence that leaks from there, and then circles back to your puffy bud. Experimentally, he prods it with his fingers, rubbing it in tantalizingly slow circles.

The combination of his tongue and his fingers almost feel overwhelming, you feel like a puppet on a marionette with the way he’s maneuvering your legs around for better access. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was a starved man.

His mouth is slick with drool, and his hands are pressing down so firmly onto your thighs, that you’re sure a handprint will be there for you to discover in the morning. His tongue feels so good on you, so nasty.

The picture is obscene, unlike anything you’ve ever witnessed before. But the thing that’s really getting to you are the sounds he’s making. Grunts and groans, expletives and mumbles. ‘So good’, ‘perfect’, ‘beautiful’…it has your head spinning and your fists gripping for the sheets beneath you.

There’s a knot in your abdomen pulled taut like a string of twine. You can feel it twisting and pulling, ready to come undone at the drop of a pin. The more he works on your slit, the more the temperature rises in the shack.

Was the room always spinning? Did your body always run this hot? It feels like you’ve been thrown into a furnace, and the only source of coolness is the wetness that his tongue provides.

“‘M gonna, mmf, ’s too much!” you jab at his hand in an attempt to push him away. He’s relentless though, still sucking harshly, and teasing, ramming his thick fingers up against your gummy walls.

It feels different than when you touch yourself, more intense. Like something’s sitting heavy on your bladder. Then, snap. The string in your abdomen unravels, bringing forth a flood of ecstasy.

“’Teyam!” you sob, back arching to the ceiling. When he pulls his fingers out, a stream of clear liquid seeps from your cunt. He’s awestruck, staring in admiration as your sweat kissed chest rises and falls rhythmically.

“Look, your legs are shaking,” he points, biting down a laugh, “why are they shaking?”

“Oh my god, shut up!” you feign offense, pushing him backwards with a chuckle. He pretends to be wounded, rubbing his back dramatically, ‘oohing’ and ‘owing’ as he does so. When you finally sit up, your eyes naturally fall to his loincloth, a wet ringlet contrasting starkly against the beige textile.

“Hey…” your voice is hesitant, but teetering on the edge of curiosity, “Can I try something?”

The boy silently nods his approval, shifting his position on the ground when you amble over to him. A look of confusion molds onto his face following the events that involve you plopping down onto his lap and laying him down. He goes to speak but you interrupt him.

“Your turn, right? Can’t put it in, but…I can still make you feel good,” you say, tugging on the piece of fabric that separates your sex from his. Eagerly, he removes it for you and lets the item fall haphazardly to the ground.

It’s big, so big—and pretty too. A beautiful blue hue that matches the rest of his body, paired along with a blushing teal tip that’s oozing pre. You want to know what he tastes like on your tongue…

“So pretty.”

Heat rises to his cheeks, and his tail takes an aquiline form, quivering in rapid movements. His usual, over-confident disposition was slowly dissipating under your intense gaze, and you reveled in it by mocking his bashfulness.

“Awe, the little kitty’s shy,” you mock, tickling his side.

“Stop it, I don’t look like those Earth things,” he laughs, pushing your hand away, but to no avail. You continue to dodge his attempts to stop you, tickling him here and there until he accidentally bucks and pulls you down against him. Embarrassingly, you let a whine fall from your lips…still too sensitive down there, you guess.

There’s a shit-eating grin plastered on his face now, you hate it. “Who’s making noises like a kitty now, huh?” With this, he takes the liberty to do it again, pressing you down hard against his length.

The feeling of your bare cunt against him is electrifying, probably (definitely) not better than him being inside you, but the next best thing. This was supposed to be your thanks to him. But now he’s taken full charge—maneuvering you back and forth, gripping and kneading—it’s cruel.

For someone who’s never mated with anyone in his life, he’s sure moving you around like he has. His hands are all over you—thighs, hips, waist, breasts, it’s almost overwhelming. Every touch, addled with the buck of hips, brings forth a new sensation that is better than the last. You think this would be a good way to go out, right on his cock. One last hurrah before the morbid inevitable.

“You f-feel so good, (your name),” his voice is breathy, “r-really good.” Neteyam’s grip on your arms is vice, partly because he can feel his climax approaching, but mostly because he can tell you’re growing tired.

Swiftly, he changes your positions to where you’re laying on your back and he’s crouching over you. The tip of his head smoothes over your folds when he pushes up, and before he draws back, you can see just about where his dick would rest if he were inside of you.

“I’d be all the way up here,” he presses down just beneath your breastbone, “you’re so tiny.” It sounds so dirty, but you know ultimately he’s just making an observation—regardless, the comment has your stomach churning in excitement.

The both of you watch in fascination as he sheathes himself up and over your cunt, moaning in unison when the tip of his mushroomy head catches against your bud. Euphoric, he thinks. He never imagined that something could feel this good, let alone without connecting bonds.

Still sensitive from earlier, it doesn’t take too long for you to reach your peak. Neteyam knows that your arrhythmic breathing is a tell-tale sign, and he helps you get there by cooing words of encouragement.

He goes back and forth between ’I got you’s and ‘it’s okay’s, leaving trails of kisses down your body in his wake. The second you finish, you’re pulling him down onto you tight. Moaning and whining into his ear, whispering those same words of encouragement that he whispered to you prior.

“So good, ‘Teyam,” you claw at his back, “keep going, want you to feel good too.” And he does. Unrelenting in his attack against your sex, he comes with a few more pistons.

You eagerly welcome him into your arms when he drops from exhaustion, and hold him there until your erratic breaths synchronize. The both of you are disgustingly sweaty and sticky, but even so, you feel at peace.

You bask in the tranquil quietness of the night, just staring at each other. Soft caresses and soothing hums. Then, Neteyam speaks.

“On this fateful night, two hearts danced…” he whispers, grabbing your hand to hold it over his heart.

“What does this mean?” you smile at him. He ponders over it and then explains.

“My songcord…I want to tell this story,” he starts, “the night when two hearts became one.”

A crystal droplet cascades down your face, “that sounds beautiful.”

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