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If there was one thing your mother had taught you, it was patience. Patience woven into silence, silence sharpened into something lethal.
From the time your fingers were clumsy on the bowstring, your mother had made them sure, steady, an extension of instinct rather than flesh.
Those lessons are carved into you, etched as deep as scars. Like the ones littering your collarbone, down your chest and over your stomach. They are a reminder of the things you’ve sacrificed to become who you are. Of the blood you’ve spilled. The lives you’ve taken.
They are the price of becoming what your mother demanded. A weapon honed to perfection, loyal only to the clan, to the land that raised you from ash.
Now, balanced in the crook of a charred tree, those teachings coil through your muscles like waiting serpents. The forest around you is a ruin. Familiar blackened trunks claw at a gray sky, the air thick with the stale scent of ash. It covers your skin, only highlighting the red paint that indicates the clan you are coming from. Like a mark that means you are to be feared.
You’re alone, but so is a palululan before it strikes.
Below you, your oblivious prey moves. It is a na‘vi, tall and muscular. His braids sway with every step, his eyes scanning the desolation as though searching for something that has already been devoured by fire.
The man is a warrior, like you.
He carries his bow slung across his back, a weapon made of metal strapped across his chest and a knife on the side of his tweng [loincloth], gleaming faintly where light filters through the canopy.
Armed to the teeth, yes, but his posture betrays him. No tension in his spine, no ear bent to the forest’s whispers.
Foolish. He doesn’t scent the wind, doesn’t pause to look. He moves through this burned forest like prey too arrogant to know it bleeds.
By the time you would chose to strike, there would be no time for him to reach for any of those many useless weapons. This would be easy, you thought.
It seems he hadn’t even noticed that his careless steps treaded upon sacred ground— your clan’s territory. Such an easy prey. Too easy. Oblivious and entirely blind to its surroundings, you almost felt pity for him.
But mercy was never part of your mothers teachings. The bow in your grip is no tool, it’s an extension of your will, as much a part of you as blood and bone. You steady your breath, the bowstring pulled taut, every muscle singing with the promise of release.
But then he pauses and so do you. You watch as his hand slips behind his shoulder and for a flicker of a heartbeat, you expect steel, the glint of a blade, a fight worthy of your arrows.
But no. Instead, he slides the strap of a weathered pouch from his shoulder and lowers it to the scorched earth. Fingers dig inside, emerging not with a weapon, but with something that looks like a fruit, its skin still dusted in ash. He wipes it halfheartedly against his thigh, then tears into it with sharp white teeth, juice trickling along his chin. Back pressing against the blackened spine of a tree, he slowly lowers himself to the ground, stretching his long limbs before he devours the fruit in his hand.
You almost let the arrow fly anyway, until your gaze catches on his hand. Four fingers. Not three.
The realization slams into you harder than any blow you’ve ever taken. Four. Like the tawtutes [humans]. But no tawtute moves with that kind of grace, no tawtute wears skin this deep shade of blue, nor breathes the air without one of those strange shields clinging to their faces.
He is na‘vi. And yet… not na‘vi. A wrongness cloaked in familiarity.
For the first time in years, your grip falters.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆
The fruit tastes awfully sweet, almost unnaturally so.
Lo’ak leans back against the scorched trunk behind him, shoulders pressing into bark that crumbles like old bone before he takes another bite.
Syrupy, like nectar that’s been left to ferment, sharp enough to prickle on his tongue and make his jaw tense. He rolls the flesh against his teeth, sucking out every drop of its juice. He’s never seen, let alone taste anything like this before. Not on the islands of Awa'atlu and not anywhere else.
Lo’ak is surprised this fruit had even managed to grow here. The forest doesn’t look very nutrient-rich. It doesn’t even look alive if he were being honest. Every tree was charred black and splintered, their roots clawing at soil that seems more ash than earth. Nothing should grow here anymore.
He turns the half-eaten fruit in his hands. The skin had fooled him at first, dulled gray under layers of soot, but once he’d wiped it clean, its bright pink color startled him. Inside, the flesh was just as vibrant, soft and pulpy, bleeding color onto his fingers.
It was delicious, but left an odd sensation on his tongue.
Wiping sticky fingers against his loincloth, he unhooks the bow from his back and lays it down carefully, then shrugs off his fathers heavy assault rifle strapped to his chest. It hits the ground with a dull thud, sending a puff of gray dust spiraling upward. Lo‘ak flexes his shoulders, feeling the ache settle deep in the muscle after hours of walking through nothing but ruin. An empty forest, wiped clean of all that once lived.
It seems the sky people are everywhere now, pushing deeper, hungrier. Dad thinks he can outsmart them by hiding, but Lo’ak knows better. That’s why he’s here.
To find help. Allies. Another clan willing to fight, willing to bleed if it means keeping Pandora out of the RDA‘s hands. He has heard of another clan living in these forests, but the further he walks, the more doubtful he becomes that the rumors are true.
Lo’ak drags a hand down his face, smearing sweat and ash across his skin. For a moment, he lets his head rest back against the tree, eyes closing to shut out the world around him. His chest tightens at the thought of going back empty-handed, of telling his father there’s nothing left out here. That they’re alone. Again.
But then a sound slips through the silence, so soft it might‘ve been his imagination. A creak, high above, like the whisper of weight shifting on a branch.
Immediately, Lo’ak’s eyes snap open.
The next moments are a blur of movement and confusion.
Before Lo’ak can even think of reaching for his bow, or the gun lying in the ash, something cold and sharp bites against the skin of his throat. His breath locks, heart slamming hard enough to rattle his ribs.
His gaze snaps downward first, drawn to the glint of the blade angled beneath his jaw, then slowly lifts, until it collides with the face of the person holding it.
A woman.
But despite being so close to the sea, you are nothing like the reef people he’s lived among for so long. There’s no broadness in your frame, no heavy muscle sculpted by the sea. You look more like the female warriors he remembers of his home, slender and elegant in a way that speaks not of fragility, but precision. Every line of your body looked honed for speed, every angle promising death should he make the wrong move.
Your skin looked the kind of ashy blue you’d only find on his people if they were sick. It looked unnatural and would made every mother worry for her child‘s health. But it’s the war paint that grips his attention next: thick crimson stripes, bleeding from the high planes of your cheeks, spilling down over the curve of your chest and tapering toward your navel.
Your ears glitter with silver and bone, pierced so many times they seem armored. Lo’aks eyes dip lower, and the scars he finds there make his breath hitch. Small, yet deep marks scattered across your skin in constellations that remind him of his tanhì [bioluminescence freckles], only harsher, carved by design. Certainly no wounds of war.
These were done intentionally.
Lo’ak swallows hard, the motion scraping his throat against sharpened bone pressed tightly to his skin. His eyes flick lower, catching sight of your fingernails around the knife’s handle, long and wickedly sharp, gleaming like individual blades against the black smear of coal coating your hands and fingertips.
"K-Kaltxì. [Hello] Oel ngati kameie [I see you.]" Lo’ak exhales the words in a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Instead of a verbal response, your eyes narrow, suspicion sharpening the already dangerous angles of your face. Without breaking eye contact, you shift your weight then, one swift kick sending the gun clattering over the blackened roots, another scattering his bow far into the ash and out of his reach.
"Alright then," he mumbles in defeat. Perhaps you didn’t feel like talking to him.
The blade on his throat never wavers as you circle him. With a flick of your wrist and a tug on his arms, rough fibers of a cord bite into Lo’ak’s wrists as you drag them behind his back and fasten them to the trunk of the tree. The knot is tight, merciless, made by someone who has bound men before and will do it again without hesitation.
"Wait," Lo’ak starts, the words tumbling out in desperation. "I… I don’t mean harm. My name is—"
"Tìfnu. [Silence / Be Quiet.]" You hush him.
So you can talk, he thinks. Lo’ak presses the back of his head against the scorched bark, testing the bindings already cutting into his wrists. Too tight. "Fuck…" he sighs in a mixture of frustration and defeat. "Listen, this is a misunderstanding!"
You pull the cord taut, ignoring his words as though they’re nothing more than the wind muttering through burned leaves. The knife glints dangerously close to his skin every time you move, a reminder of how quickly this could end if you willed it so.
"Stupid forest boy, you claim to see but cannot even see what is in front of you."
Lo‘ak frowns. Had he done anything wrong to upset you? The question sits on the tip of his tongue, but a sudden shudder that creeps up his spine makes him pause for a moment.
It’s the moment your eyes meet his that he notices the heat churning beneath his skin, crawling over him like fire ants. He had felt warm earlier, but now it wasn’t just warm, he felt significantly hotter. He quickly glances away, blaming his reaction on nerves.
But the sweet, sticky taste of the fruit he’d eaten earlier still lingers in his mouth, thick and cloying, leaving his tongue numb, his lips dry. It had been too sweet, almost wrongly sweet, and now his body feels flushed, overheated, like the fire in your gaze had crawled into his blood.
Something feels… wrong. Very wrong.
Pinned against the tree, Lo’ak swallows against the burn in his throat, forcing himself to meet your eyes again.
"W-What did I do?" he manages, voice rough, more desperate than he intends.
"Foolish boy," you snap again, voice sharp with fury. "This is Mangkwan territory!"
Lo’ak blinks, the word rattling strangely in his mind. "Mangk…" His head tilts slightly. "Never heard of that clan before."
If his words had offended you, you didn’t really show it, save for the subtle flick of your tail that gave away your irritation.
Again, his hands strain against the bindings, wrists already aching, but the knots don’t budge. You begin to circle him, a predator studying prey, your steps slow and silent. The knife never strays far, though it dips just enough for your free hand to rise.
Curiosity glints in your eyes as you snatch his hand, your fingers brushing over his own. The moment your touch grazes his pinky, Lo’ak jolts, the sensation flooding through him like lightning. He bites down hard, teeth scraping against his tongue to smother the sound threatening to break free. A whimper sits at the edge of his throat and shame burns hot in his chest at how close he is to letting it escape.
Lo‘ak frowns deeply. What the fuck was happening to him?
This isn’t fear, he knows the weight of fear, the tremble of it in his bones, the icy paralysis that comes with danger. But this— this is heat, raw and unrelenting, crawling through his veins, tightening his chest until he can barely draw breath. He had been threatened before, bound, dragged into danger by the sky people, by soldiers, even by his own reckless choices, but never had he felt like this before.
He squeezes his eyes shut for half a heartbeat, forcing his breath to steady, but the fire doesn’t fade.
"You are not Na’vi, vrrtep [demon]" you murmur, voice low and edged with suspicion.
"I am!" Lo’ak blurts quickly. "Listen, if you would just untie me, I can explain!"
Unfortunately for him, you just ignore him. It’s like he’s not even really here, just physically. Just a foreign thing for you to prod at and inspect.
You move with the precision of someone dissecting prey, your attention fixed entirely on him. Fingers trail slow and carefully, first from the fluffy tip of his tail, all the way up to the base, testing, feeling. Then your hands slide over his chest to the curve of his ear, brushing the sensitive ridge with a featherlight touch. Lo’ak jerks under you, the bindings creaking as his muscles strain against them.
His breath stutters.
When your thumb drags slowly across the fine hairs of his brow, he can’t stop the shiver that ripples through him. Every touch feels magnified, like the skin beneath your fingers has been stripped raw, his nerves wide open.
Lo’ak tries to steady himself, to bite down the whimpering sounds clawing at his chest, but each new point of contact frays another thread of his composure. The shudder in his shoulders builds into tremors, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. His lungs refuse to fill properly, breath escaping in ragged, uneven pants.
All the while, you’re murmuring things. Fascinated by all the differences and similarities between your bodies. But Lo’ak barely even understands what you’re saying anymore. The closeness of your body and your hands all over his skin are making his head spin. Every bit of sensory stimulation, no matter how slight, feels like fire against his skin. It makes him want to do something.
Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut once more, desperate to block it all out. Desperate to hide the shame coiling in his stomach at how helpless he feels, how his body betrays him with every flinch, every unsteady exhale.
He hears his blood pounding in his ears, as if his heart has become a run-away machine that is just going to pump and pump, madly, until it explodes.
Still, you don’t relent. You lean in close, close enough that the heat of you seeps into him, close enough that the sharpness of your scent fills his nose. Like earth, smoke and iron. And something sweet. Something unnatural and strange and fucking sweet, sweet enough it would make his teeth rot if he were to taste it.
And the longer it goes on, the hotter he feels. Until the tingling under his skin has turned into throbbing and suddenly he’s burning up like he’s running a fever.
The throbbing is painful and confusing at first, for like a split second, before he puts all his focus behind locating where it even comes from, just to try and ease that sudden pressure there.
At last, your touch drifts away.
The absence is almost worse than the contact, leaving his skin buzzing, raw, as though every nerve still echoes with the memory of your fingers. You straighten, rising fluidly to stand before him. For a moment, you don’t speak. You only look at him, gaze sharp.
Lo’ak can’t move, bound as he is, but he wants to shrink under that stare, to disappear into the ash covered earth.
And then your eyes drop.
So do his.
The sight makes his stomach plummet. The thin fabric of his loincloth is strained, tented high and obvious, leaving no room for denial. Heat slams into his face, mortification burning hotter than the fever already in his blood.
A groan claws its way from his throat before he can swallow it back. His head falls against the tree with a soft thud and again his eyes squeeze shut as shame twists inside him, every inch of him flushed and betraying.
"Listen," Lo’ak stammers, his voice rough and too fast, "that, uh, that usually never happens. I‘m not— I don’t know what’s wrong, but I feel…"
He swallows hard, his throat dry, but the taste of that sweet, sweet fruit still clings to his tongue, sickly and cloying.
Lo’ak’s words falter, splintering into silence and before he can steady his breath, the press of your delicate foot comes down against his boner. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind him how easily you could. His body stiffens, he bites down on his bottom lip hard, and when the pressure shifts just slightly higher, just enough to make him flinch, a whimper slips from him.
You arch a brow, unimpressed.
"You are pathetic, forest boy."
With a roll of your eyes, you push off and step back. You stalk over to his leather bag, crouching low to pull it closer. Fingers move with precise efficiency, flipping open flaps, checking straps, rifling through the contents.
A waterskin. Flint. Spare cord. Nothing escapes your inspection. But then your hand freezes.
"Your trust in eywa to see for you will drive you to your death one day." Your voice is low, dangerous, edged with controlled anger.
From behind, Lo’ak can see how your shoulders visibly tense, the muscles rigid beneath your skin, and for a heartbeat, the world seems to shrink to the two of you. He swallows hard, heat crawling up his neck as he watches your expression darken, the lines of your face sharpening with fury once you’ve turned to him fully.
"This," in your hand lays one of the fruits he had eaten earlier, its bright pink color shining through the layer of ash. "Is a Txeptsyip Mauti [flame fruit]. It is meant for mating, you sxkawng! [Idiot/Moron]"
He’s trying, Eywa knows he’s trying, but the heat thrumming in his veins makes concentration nearly impossible. His eyes keep drifting, unable to resist the way you move, the way each motion is so precise, almost commanding. Every tilt of your head, every careful step and especially the sway of your hips hold him spellbound.
You’re beautiful, in a mildly terrifying way. A dangerous woman who could kill him in the blink of an eye, and yet that very way your eyes narrow down at him as if you pity his very existence makes his cock throb.
There’s something magnetic about you, something that pulls him in despite the ropes binding his wrists.
"P…Please," the word tumbles out before he even knows what exactly he’s begging for. All he knows is that it hurts and for some reason unbeknownst to him, it felt as if you could somehow relieve this pain, make it better. So he pleads, not only with his words, but with his eyes too. His brows bow and his eyes go glossy as he stares at you with his mouth agape.
For a moment, your hairless brows narrow. When you finally step forward, your shadow falls over him like a looming cloud. The tilt of your head is small, but it feels like judgment. Rope bites into his wrists and sweat beads at his temples, sliding hot and sticky into the curve of his jaw.
No warning comes before you sink into a crouch. The sudden nearness forces his lips to part, though words refuse to follow. Heat climbs his throat, burns in his cheeks, and his pulse hammers loud enough to drown out all the other sounds around him.
That grin, eywa, that grin— it spreads slow across your face, giving him goosebumps. It’s sharp, mocking, a demons smile that knows exactly what kind of torture it’s dealing. He groans lowly, the sound vibrating in his chest like a growl.
Bark digs into his shoulders as his body jerks, hips straining against nothing as they buck up into the air. Every breath rasps shallow, ragged, the effort of holding himself together unraveling second by second. Great mother, this was becoming unbearable.
"It is painful, isn’t it?" You whisper, still grinning as if the thought of his suffering was something amusing. Fingers hover for a second, before they brush over and squeeze the prominent bulge under his loincloth. "It hurts… here, doesn’t it?"
A sharp breath hisses through his teeth, chest rising and falling too fast as he fights against the ropes digging into his wrists. The restraints only make everything worse, make every inch of space between you a kind of torture.
"Uh-huh, yeah, yes." Lo‘ak whines. "Fuck, yes, t-there."
He can’t even recognize his own voice anymore. It’s raw, shaky, and you’re right— it is pathetic. The sound makes his stomach twist, but at the same time, he can’t deny how good it feels.
Every brush of your dainty fingers, every glance of your sharp eyes, sends another wave rolling through him like he’s high off something. And maybe he is. Not that he’s ever touched tawtute drugs, but this haze choking his brain, this fire in his blood, this has to be what that must feel like.
Eywa help me, he thinks, though he doesn’t know if he wants help anymore. It feels too good, too dangerous, too much. His body is betraying him, pushing into every little shift you make like it’s begging for more, while his mind screams at him that you could gut him open in an instant.
The ropes biting his wrists are the only thing keeping him from reaching out, from grabbing you, from doing something so stupid it might actually get him killed.
The fog in his head thickens. Every thought tangles with lust until he can barely think at all, just a mess of want and don’t crashing together. His chest heaves, his tail twitches uselessly against the tree, and all he can do is drown in it.
Your tongue, sharp and wet, swipes over your bottom lip to wet it and Lo‘ak follows the movement with his eyes, hungry to get a taste it it himself. Your tongue, your lip, your salvia, all of it. It doesn’t really matter.
"You should understand, we eat the Txeptsyip Mauti to ensure fertility, when a mate has been chosen," you explain, your voice sultry slow. "But you and me, we are not the same. There is nothing loving and gentle about what the fruit will make my people do to their mates."
Lo‘ak has to swallow down the pool of salvia in his mouth before he drools like a nangtang [Viperwolf] in heat when your fingers begin to wander, teasing the cord of his coverings, pulling them taunt until the knot gives and the fabric slips off of him. His cock springs free and slaps against his stomach with a hard, wet thud.
Your grin widens at the sight of him and a almost pleased expression crosses your features.
"The Txeptsyip Mauti will make you want to fuck." You emphasize the word by wrapping your hand around the base of him, giving him a firm tug that makes his eyes momentarily roll back inside his skull. "Rough, like an animal. And it will not stop hurting until there is nothing left in…" You unwrap your hand from his throbbing length to glide down to where his balls hang hot and heavy, giving them a not so gentle squeeze. "…these."
Bending his knees with all the strength Lo’ak could muster in this position, he manages to thrust his hips up and into your hands, desperately seeking friction. He whines again, his cock leaking fat tears of pre-cum that drip down his length and tickle him in all the worst ways.
"Oh, great mother, please! Please do something, anything!"
One, just one of your fingers then runs up over the underside of him, up, up, up— until you’re teasing the wet little slit at the head with a fingertip. Normally, this would be barely enough to elicit even a shudder from him. But now it’s more than enough to shake his whole body to the core. Enough to make him moan like a pathetic little virgin, enough to make his cock jerk and throb and his balls grow tight, his toes curl. And then he’s coming.
Lo‘ak watches in horror with his mouth agape and all these foreign noises leaving him, as his length twitches in the air and warm, sticky cum leaks all over his stomach.
"What the— fu–ck!" He gasps between deep groans. Never before had he come untouched like that!
And now his whole body felt on fire. Partly from embarrassment, but mostly because it wasn’t even close to enough. He had just spent more seed than he had ever seen come out of him before all over his stomach, and already he was hard as a rock again.
Again? No. Still. He was still hard.
"T-Touch me! More, I need more," Lo‘ak heaves in breathless frustration. "Please, please touch me, it hurts so bad!"
Although he can’t see himself, Lo‘ak knows just how big and round his eyes must be as they stare up at you. Fingertips dip into the mess collecting near his navel before you bring them to your lips, tasting him. A hum that’s far too soft for a woman like you makes goosebumps raise all over his skin. Then your other hand reaches out, grabs a fist full of braids from the top of his hair to pin him back against the tree rather roughly.
"You talk too much, vrrtep [demon]. But you are lucky I enjoy the way you beg for me." You tell him with a wicked smile, sharp canine glinting in the dim light. "Fine. I will touch you. But after I am done with you, I will bring you to our Olo’eykte so she can decide what to make of you."
Before Lo‘ak can process the meaning of these words, you’re already fumbling with the strings of your loincloth. Your fingers are quick and steady and the piece of clothing falls before his eyes in one fluid movement.
"Now would be the best time for you to start praying to your goddess that my mother will let me keep you," you grin. "My people are nowhere as nice to strangers as I am."
Now that you were finally bare before him, he doesn’t know if he would rather spend more time admiring your beautiful cunt or beg you to get on with it and finally fucking do something. He can barely listen to a word you’re saying, can barely piece together the words of information you give him about being the olo’eyktes daughter. But when you move to squad over him, he decides to be rather thankful that you are not wasting any more time.
Lo‘ak feels like heaven is opening up for him when you spread your thighs and reach behind yourself, gripping his length with your hand still coated in cum. If his own hands were free, he’d simply grip you by the hips and force you down in one quick thrust. Or he would push you to the forest floor and pound you like there’s no tomorrow, fuck you hard and fast until the shape of his cock was molded to your pussy. He would use you in a way that would bring shame to his entire bloodline, fuck you like you were nothing more than a vessel for his seed.
All these primitive and animalistic thoughts made him shudder. They were so unlike everything Lo‘ak knew about himself. Whatever this fruit was, it was bringing out the worst of him. The part that was reduced to instincts and lust.
Your hands hold him steady as you position the smooth tip against your entrance. His eyes are transfixed at the sight your slick arousal coating your lips who part so eagerly for him to slide in between. And then you sink down.
Lo‘ak groans, eyes slamming shut as he presses his head back against the tree. You’re warm and wet, there’s pressure all around him, it’s such a tight fit and—
"FUCK!"
All air wheezes right out of his lungs when his eyes snap open and he’s found you forced yourself down his entire length in one, merciless and surprisingly fluid thrust.
You’re grinning at him like a nantang [viperwolf] cornering its kill, teeth bared in a smile that promises no mercy, only inevitability.
Lo‘ak inhales shakily, then exhales all the same.
The texture of your inner walls is soft and spongey, like velvet and warm honey wrapped tightly around his cock. There’s heat everywhere, and then you shuffle a little to get a better position, your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself and then you raise all the way up until only his tip rests inside you.
In a desperate attempt to get you back, Lo‘ak is bucking his hips up a little, whining when you hover there for a second too long.
"Eywa, woman, please move. You’re so fucking—" he starts, but then you slam yourself down, harder this time. A wanton moan tears from his throat. You lift yourself up again, then sit back down. Repeat the movement, twice. Lo‘ak tries to lift his legs to meet your thrusts, and when you glance back over your shoulder you see how his toes are curl in pleasure.
You’re still grinning even as you fall into a steady, fast paced rhythm. Your pretty tits are bouncing right in front of his face, so his tongue rolls out of his gaping mouth in hopes he‘ll catch a nipple between his teeth. Now that he focuses on them, he can see the outline of something shiny and polished pierced right through them. But you’re moving too fast and he’s bound too tightly, all he can do is let drool run down his chin as he stares at them, at you, while you fuck him.
"So good, it’s so— ngh–good, fuck, please," the words sound almost like they are punched out of him by the harsh thrusts of your hips. "Please don’t stop! Don’t— I’m gonna— gonna— hngh– ah!"
"What, again?" You chuckle softly, but there’s a mean edge to your tone that makes him want to return the favor. Great mother, he wants to rip free and make you cum so hard—
Lo‘ak briefly closes his eyes when he can feel the pull at his muscles, the tightening of the knot in his stomach that warns him, he is going to come again. Then he tenses up when you’re squeezing around his cock, moving quick and short and possibly faster than you should be but he is coming already, completely and utterly unable to hold it for even a second longer.
"Oh, what a good boy you are." You tease, forcing his gaze to stay on you with your hand squeezing his cheeks. "Look at you coming for me, so obedient. Yes, let it all out. Give it to me!"
Each thrust of you slamming down on his cock was starting to make him see stars.
You were fucking him through this orgasm and another one following right after, purring filth and degrading praises into his ear, telling him exactly what you‘d like to do to him. What he would like to do to you, once he was free.
By the time he comes a fourth time, Lo‘ak shudders and gasps for air, his fingernails digging into his own palms while you encourage him to keep going. By the time he is grunting and pulsing, filling every inch of space inside you with his cum once more, Lo‘ak is feeling positively dirty. He feels used, like some wild animal just pinned him down and fucked him.
And strangely enough, he likes it. He knows it’s the fruit that makes him do this, makes him think this. But he’s so far gone, he doesn’t know anymore what is real and what is not.
Lo‘ak feels overused and spent, empty for all he’s worth, but you’re still grinding on him, still squeezing every last drop out of him until it’s slowly starting to hurt with how overstimulating it is.
"Can’t," he wheezes, his head suddenly too heavy to keep upright on his own. His forehead rests against your shoulder, your skin cooling his heated body. "I can’t.. can’t cum anymore."
"No?" You hum every so softly, but Lo‘ak could tell the disappointment in your voice. "Oh, I think you have one more in you."
He shakes his head weakly against your shoulder. "No, no I can’t, s‘too much."
Softness comes where he least expects it. Fingers glide over the back of his head, not pressing, not punishing, just a careful brush that sends a shiver darting down his spine. Nothing in your handling of him until now has been kind, yet this small gesture unravels him. He doesn’t dare question it. Not when it feels this good.
A hum escapes his throat before he can stop it, low and rough and yet so sickening soft. The sound betrays him, but he can’t care. Nails stroke down through his hair, smoothing it flat in places where ash has settled. Down, always down, until they trace the hair of his braid. The motion drags fire along every nerve, and his breath hitches with each careful pull.
The trail ends at the end of his kuru, where skin meets braid and everything feels far too vulnerable. A strange weight presses in his chest as awareness blooms there and he suddenly feels unbearably exposed.
Movement stirs. Your body shifts, shoulder rolling, arm bending back toward your own braid. Suspicion sparks through the haze flooding his mind. His head lifts, slow and sluggish, but determined enough to get a glimpse at what you’re doing.
That’s when he sees it. Your grin, sharp as flint, wicked enough to make his blood run hot and cold all at once. The pieces click, and dread coils hard in his gut. Eywa, no. You wouldn’t dare.
"I believe you just need the right… motivation."
The end of his kuru is caught in your grip, the braid pulled taut, the sacred tendrils exposed. Opposite of it, you lift your own braid, and suddenly the air feels too thin. Tiny pink tendrils writhe and shift, alive in their own strange way, reaching, seeking. They dance in the space between, like two hearts aching to close the distance.
Lo’ak’s chest tightens. This is wrong. This is so wrong. Tsaheylu is sacred, it belongs to chosen mates, to bonds made with reverence, not enemies! Not like this.
The sight makes his stomach churn. Heat crashes into him, tangled with horror, with disbelief. His body thrashes weakly against the restraints, a frantic, jerking effort to pull away, but the ropes dig deeper, holding him fast. His pulse roars, ears pinned flat against his skull.
"Don’t," he rasps, voice hoarse, the word breaking apart under the weight of his fear. His throat works as he swallows, desperate to speak sense into a moment already spiraling. "Sa’nok [My mother] would curse me!Eywa would curse you!"
"Your goddess has no dominion here. I am your goddess now."
The tendrils twitch again, straining closer, and Lo’ak’s breath seizes in his lungs.
"N-No, no, no wait!"
And then the gap closes. For one suspended heartbeat, the writhing tendrils brush against each other, and then they connect fully.
White heat lances through Lo’ak’s body. His back bows violently against the ropes, every muscle seizing as if lightning has struck him. A cry rips from his throat, raw and startled, beyond his control. His pupils blow wide, swallowing the gold of his eyes until only black remains.
It’s too much. Too fast. Thoughts scatter like frightened animals as something not his own surges into him. The sacred bond that should bring harmony instead feels jagged, wrong, tearing through the walls of his mind like claws.
And then there’s your voice, hot against his ear, and Lo‘ak realizes then that you’ve started moving once more as you whisper, "come."
It wasn’t just a demand. Lo‘ak felt his body obey without having much or any say in it. It took all of his sheer strength and willpower for him to keep his eyes open, to not miss the way your own fluttered, the way these small noises escaped you in a shivering breath. The way your own orgasm was triggered by the force of his own. Two bodies became one, breathing together, moaning on the same exhale, the tremor moving from his own body over to yours.
When it’s finally over, he isn’t sure that the breath he’s inhaling comes from his own lungs anymore.
"Lo‘ak", you murmur his name for the very first time, slowly, as if tasting each syllable on your tongue.
The bond grants you with memory threads, small and bright, offered through that fragile, pulsing connection. Faces, a slice of a laugh at the reef, the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder, the ache of his clan’s fear, all tumble into the space between you and him like stones dropped into still water.
Vision blurs in his eyes as if the world is falling away. Muscles slacken, breath shallows, and the fever that had set his blood to a roar begins to ebb as quickly as it rose. Exhaustion drags at him like a tide pulling back, heat drains from his limbs until his skin feels clammy.
A slow, small sound escapes his throat, not quite a sob, but close, and you let the connection loosen, fingers curling around the end of his kuru as if testing a tether. The knowledge you’ve gathered is enough: his name, the cadence of his fear, the stubborn, dangerous light in his eyes that had driven him here. The location of his clan. You know it all.
"You, Lo’ak," you say lowly, that wicked grin spreading over your lips once more, "are mine now." The words hang heavy in the air, an announcement that makes him shiver. "You belong to me, daughter of Varang, bringer of fire and ash."