cinnateawrites

[cinnateawrites]

⊹₊⟡⋆ Nerd! Choso who loves when you cockwarm

“You need an Ak-47 with an 78m gear to defeat him”. He’s genuinely playing the game while he’s nine inches deep inside your creamy pussy. He ate you out already while watching a Marvel movie and now he’s cockwarming with you. You are eating ramen and get jumpscared by his game, causing you to jump and hop on his cock.

He grips your waist and slams your hips down on his base, “baby don’t move.” He grips the bulge of his cock in your sweet cunt. “Honey! Not there! Ngh!” His friends, Yuji and inumaki are on call. “Yo bro you watching porn.” “What the fuck was that?”

He apologizes and continues playing. “Threw on me and one behind you, yuji. You are scrolling through Pinterest and Amazon finding things for your gaming setup on his monitor.

“What about this one, Cho?” You say pointing to a mousepad. “I like the black and white cherry blossom one better— no that’s the 8k34 rim. It only has one loadout preset.”

Choso wraps his arms around you to reach his keyboard, because his controller died. You whimper and clamp on him. Your pussy twitching by his proximity. “Mm baby Im ready now.” You pout.

“Almost done with the boss fight.” He closes the game and ends the call with his friends. Quickly carrying you to the bed all the while in you. And boy, he lost the game. So, you’re in for a long night.

[cinnateawrites]

"sylus, do you want kids?"

it's taken you three years to finally gather the courage to pose that question. neither of you ever brought it up, and it's probably because you'd mentioned a personal distaste for the notion of having them back in the early days of your relationship. you didn't want the inconvenience, the pain, the pressure, the change, the loss of comfort. you'd always had the mindset that you'd rather regret never having children than regret having them. you won't let your children, if you ever have any, grow up thinking they were a mistake and unwanted.

he stops in his movements with the bowl in front of him. he's currently making dinner, stirring the marinade for the beef he's going to stir fry, and looks over at you. you're sitting on a stool at the island bench to his left, enjoying a glass of wine, but your mood sobered when the lighthearted conversation from earlier died down into companionable silence, and your mind wandered to other things. why they strayed to the prospect of children and finally starting a family? you haven't the faintest idea.

"what makes you ask?" is his reply. careful, quiet, trying to work out where you're going with this. sylus finally starts placing the beef strips into the sauce to marinate, and then he gets started on chopping vegetables. you get up to grab out the wok for him, and shrug. "dunno. just a thought."

"it's your call, sweetheart," he says softly, hands deft as the kitchen resounds with the sound of a knife hitting wood. "you said you never wanted them."

"yeah." you pour some oil into the wok and grab out a knife also, cutting the ends of an onion off and peeling it. "it's just, well...i never asked what you wanted, you know? you say it's my call, but it's yours, too. we're married and what all those stories call 'one flesh'. it takes two, so it's your choice as well."

"i understand that you don't want to experience labour. i can't say i'm eager to see you in such agony, either."

"but it's well-rewarded," you reply, slowly slicing the onion, thoughts all over the place. "at least, that's what happy couples and families say. we're a happy couple. i think you'd make an excellent father. you're good with kids."

it's silent for a few moments, where there's just the sound cutting and slicing and scraping of knives against two boards, and then sylus speaks up again. "i've always wished to have children with you."

you stop, staring at the diced vegetable in front of you, and tears spring to your eyes. it's the sting of the onion, that's all it is. "...yeah?"

"yeah."

"i see." you lift your shoulder and turn your head to wipe your eyes against your shirt, sniffling. it's the onion. just the onion. "for how long?"

"years." two large, tanned hands enter your blurred line of sight, take the knife out of your hand, and engulf them in his own. you're blinking rapidly, trying to expel the sting and surging emotions and you peer up at your husband through the tears. you can make out a soft smile. "i was sad when you said you didn't want any, but i understood. i still do."

"what if..." you give up on your shirt and step into his chest to use his. just to wipe the tears. not to bury your face into it. "what if i've changed my mind?"

"then i'd be overjoyed."

"it's going to be hard."

"yes, it will, but when isn't everything?"

you grin a little, sniffling. "girl or boy?"

he rubs loving circles into your back. "i've always wanted a baby girl."

"just one?"

"why?" sylus eases you away from him enough snicker down at you. "eager for more?"

you smack his bicep, flushed, biting back laughter. "you know that's not what i meant, you big oaf!" you let him chuckle and let yourself get all hot and bothered, and then you sober a little. "it's just, well...the kid's gotta have siblings, you know?"

"it's still your call, sweetheart."

"i'm asking you what you want, though. how many?"

sylus appears to ponder it for a moment, arms still wrapped around you. "hm. three? four? perhaps two. we've already got enough on our plate."

"with the twins, you mean?"

his answering grin is soft. "yeah. if you want."

you squish your face back into his chest, inhaling his scent, listening to his heartbeat, savouring his warmth. "...four'll do."

"what if there's an unplanned fifth?"

"then that'll be your fault. and then we'll have five kids."

full, familiar lips you adore so much brush the top of your head in a sweet peck. "that sounds nice, doesn't it?"

perhaps you've softened to the idea of childbirth and having mini syluses and mini yous darting about the place. getting in your way, getting in his way, wailing and giggling and whining for ice cream. it's something you can easily imagine with this man.

so you clutch him to you tightly, smiling. "yeah. it does."

[cinnateawrites]

Carrying the Pack

possessive Alpha!Task Force 141 x Omega!Reader

non-preg version here

Summary: Pregnant with the pups of the Task Force 141 alphas, you’ve been pulled from the field and confined to headquarters. But “confined” might be the wrong word. Because your alphas aren’t just protecting you, they’re obsessing over you. You’re not allowed to lift a finger, and even the hint of discomfort sends the most elite soldiers on Earth into a frenzy. You’re not just carrying their pups, you’re carrying their entire world.

Being pregnant at base was like being the center of a five-man tactical mission.

Only the mission was you.

You couldn’t sneeze without someone checking your temperature. Couldn’t stand up without a hand on your elbow. Couldn’t even breathe funny without four alphas going feral.

Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz had always been possessive. Territorial. Alpha to the core. But now?

Now that your scent was thick with pregnancy?

Now that you were round and soft and carrying all of their pups?

They were unhinged.

Price was the lead alpha—the one who enforced every ridiculous rule with a voice too deep and hands too gentle.

“You stay in the nest unless one of us is with you,” he said gruffly, tucking a blanket around your legs like you were fragile. “Not negotiable.”

You raised a brow. “Even to pee?”

He stared you down. “We’ll walk you there.”

Soap was the worst at letting you move. At all.

He picked you up like it was nothing—constantly.

“You shouldn’t be on your feet, Omega,” he whispered, nuzzling your neck. “Let me.”

If you even thought about standing, he was there. Big hands on your hips, nose brushing your cheek, growling at anyone else who got close.

Gaz made it his full-time job to feed you. He kept track of your cravings like mission reports and had half the base cafeteria staff wrapped around his little finger.

“You're eating for a whole squad of pups, love,” he’d murmur, tucking a snack into your hand. “Don’t make me call Price.”

(He did. Once. It ended with you being force-fed soup and swaddled like a burrito.)

Ghost was quieter about it—but no less intense.

He’d hover. Scent you. Growl low and lethal at anyone who got too close.

“You smell stressed.”

“Because I’m sitting in a nest of pillows while four alphas glare at the door like it insulted them.”

“Then the door should apologize.”

He didn’t joke. He meant it.

The nesting room they set up for you was overkill—soft blankets, clothes they’d worn, your favorite scent blockers, temperature controls, plushies (Gaz’s idea), and a locked door that only recognized their bios.

You weren’t just being cared for.

You were being guarded.

Worshipped.

At night, they took turns lying beside you, pressing their hands to your belly, whispering promises to the pups.

“You’re gonna be strong,” Price said once, “like your mum.”

“And loud,” Soap added. “Like me.”

“And stealthy,” Ghost rumbled, lips brushing your neck. “I’ll teach you how to disappear.”

“But never from us,” Gaz whispered. “Never from your pack.”

And you?

You felt safe. Overwhelmed. Loved so deeply it scared you.

Because they weren’t just protecting you.

They belonged to you.

And you to them.

© sleepytopia do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works

[cinnateawrites]

Absolutely incredible work! 💕

Good vibes

Lo‘ak x female avatar!reader x Neteyam

Words: 10k

Summary: What made the Sully brothers so dangerous was not just how they made you feel individually, but how they fed off each other when they were together. Lo’ak lit the spark and Neteyam fanned the flame.

Warnings: explicit smut, sex toys, in public, dirty talk, edging, implied threesome, kinda voyeurism, dirty thoughts, Spider is there but not included (yet ;)), reader is in her avatar body, canon typical mentions of blood, war, dead bodies, etc., this is very filthy, mentions of masturbating, mmf threesome

Notes: Posting this with my eyes closed because the ending is rushed and I don’t like it at all but I needed to get it done so I can finally start working on my other wips 😩

Antibiotics, bandages, powercells.

"Anything else?"

Neteyam glances up from an open med-kit, fingers pausing over a cracked vial of something that might’ve once been antibiotics before he stuffs one of the intact looking bottles into his pouch.

Once the sound of bullets flying through air and heavy machinery had stopped, the jungle around them had returned to its usual buzzing filled with life, and Neteyams shoulders visibly relaxed at that. A few paces off, Lo’ak crouches, his eyes scanning the broken shell of the RDA outpost as if he was waiting for any of the fallen soldiers to move and attack them once more. They don’t.

"Lo’ak." Neteyam says it louder this time. His brother finally turns, carelessly throwing whatever trash he was toying with away. Glass shatters in the distance and he rolls his eyes. At least the cut on his brothers cheek had stopped bleeding, Neteyam notices with relief.

Lo‘ak shrugs, then wanders off in the other direction. "Dunno. Didn’t she say something about syringes too?"

Neteyam nods once and slings the pouch higher on his shoulder. "Syringes. Right." He moves towards the overturned supply cabinet near the wall, kicking aside empty bullets as he goes. It’s in better condition than most of the ruins they usually scavenge, still smelling of cold metal and sterilized plastic instead of mold and dust. And there’s an arrow pierced right through its door. His arrow.

Neteyam crouches, brushing aside shards of synthetic shelving to get to the bottom drawer. A few sealed packs of syringes are tucked beneath a box of surgical tubing. He grabs them, and shoves them into his pouch alongside the other supplies.

Already outside the building, Lo’ak drags a powercell out from under a scorched AMP suit. Its casing is dented, scorched black on one side, but the charge light flickers green when he presses it.

Neteyam gives the room one last pass. Bodies still lay where they’d dropped. The firefight hadn’t lasted long, but it had been loud and he scratches his ear when he notices it’s still ringing. Great mother, how much he hated guns.

"We’ve got what she asked for. Let’s move." He tells his brother. By the time they reach the roof of the building, the last of the light is draining out of the sky, turning the canopy below into a sea of shadows. Their ikrans wait, shaking their wings restlessly, their claws scraping at the metal.

Neteyam mounts first, strapping the bag tight. Lo’ak is close behind, glancing back at the building one last time before they take off. The place already looks abandoned, as if their fight with the soldiers camping there had been years ago.

They fly low and fast, the wind cooling their sweat, until the forest gives way to familiar land. Hell’s Gate rises from the trees like an old scar. The resistance had taken it back, piece by piece, with barely enough power to run the place, but it functions and that’s what matters.

They land near the main med building, where a single floodlight casts pale light across the pad. The inside of the structure is quiet, no one is rushing to meet them, no alarms are blaring. Unlike all the other human buildings littered across Pandora, this place holds no danger for them. They’re welcome here, and very much so.

At this time of the day, most of the humans are gathered either at high camp to share their meal with the clan or already back in their quarters, resting.

When they reach the medical office, Neteyam knocks once, but there comes no answer.

Lo’ak gives a noncommittal grunt, already pushing the door open with a half shoulder shrug.

The room is warm and bright, lined with shelves and clean steel counters that are neatly labeled and organized to perfection. You’ve clearly only just stepped out, half a cup of tea sits cooling on the desk. Next to it stands the link unit that’s whirring softly, with blue light shining between the gaps indicating that your human self is in there, while that other part of you is probably out there with the rest of the clan.

"You think she’ll be pissed we just let ourselves in?" Lo‘ak chuckles as he tries to get a peek inside the link unit. Neteyam rolls his eyes as he gives his little brother a playful shove, reminding him that he should preserve a woman’s dignity instead of fooling around like that.

"You know how she is," he shakes his head, "She doesn’t even like it when someone touches her pens, let alone rifles through her equipment like a bored child."

Lo’ak snorts, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder. "Relax. I wasn’t gonna touch anything."

Not in the mood to argue, Neteyam moves towards the desk and begins to unload the supplies— bandages, meds, syringes, the salvaged powercell, laying them out in neat rows. His brother adds his haul with less ceremony, then flicks the powercell with one finger, satisfied when it blinks green. He’s knows they’re especially hard to get these days and Lo‘ak knows this will earn him praise that‘ll only stroke his already too big ego. Especially if said praise is coming from the pretty Doctor herself.

Lo’ak’s already halfway to the door then, feet padding lightly against the sterile tile. "C’mon, bro, let’s head home." He calls over his shoulder impatiently, now that the task is done. "I’m starving. Think Priya got any of that weird human bread left? Eywa, I’ve been thinking about that all day!"

Behind him, his brother continues to ramble about food and the different shapes of bread that hopefully await him at home, but Neteyam barely hears him.

His attention is locked on something small, half-tucked beneath the edge of a chart on your desk. A device, so unmistakably human, but unlike anything he’s seen in your usual collection of neat, clinical tools. It doesn’t look important. Doesn’t feel important. But that might’ve been the exact reason it draws him in.

It’s… pink. Not grey or white or black or any of the other dull colors you humans love to paint everything in.

A bright, almost silly kind of pink, like something a child might pick from a pile of toys. Soft edges, no worn metal or harsh beeping lights, just a smooth little square with a single button shaped like a heart, which slides up and down with a small click. That’s it. No screen, no label, no numbers that could indicate what it’s good for. It doesn’t even hum like most devices do or has any of these little lights that would show him it’s on.

The longer Neteyam stares at it, the more out of place it looks. What is something like this doing here among antiseptics, scalpels and patient records?

It’s so out of character for Neteyam, but there’s an itch in his fingertips. He glances at Lo’ak’s back and before he can second guess himself, he lets curiosity win.

With practiced fingers, Neteyam snatches the remote and slips it into the inner pouch of his chest strap. He’s not even sure why.

"Hey," Lo’ak calls, brow raised as he looks back over his shoulder, "you coming or what?"

Neteyam straightens, tugging his strap tight and masking the motion like he’s just adjusting it. Then he casts one last glance toward the link unit where your human shell lays peacefully and completely unaware, before he follows his brother out into the hall, pretending like he hadn’t just taken something that didn’t belong to him.

"Yeah," he says, forcing his voice steady. "Coming."

✩⋆｡‧₊˚⭑˚₊‧｡⋆✩

Neteyam was uncharacteristically quiet that evening.

The fire crackled low between them, casting flickers of orange and gold across the gathered faces of the clan members surrounding the fireplace.

Lo’ak and Spider sat close by, bellies full and both half-draped over a log like they’d melted into it after their meal. Spider was grinning, telling one of his favorite near-death stories for what had to be the third time this week. Something about him getting tackled by a wild yerik on their last scouting run. Meanwhile, Lo’ak was interrupting the human every few seconds to insist it hadn’t even been that big, or that dangerous, which only made Spider embellish harder.

Neteyam sat nearby, close enough to feel the heat of the fire, but just outside the core of the conversation.

His fingers curled around the small device hidden in his palm. The bright pink plastic caught the firelight and he turned it slowly in his hand, thumb brushing the heart-shaped slider up, then back down. It made three soft click‘s, barely audible under the chatter around him. Up. Click. Click. Click. Down. Click. Click. Click. Over and over again.

But he had no idea what exactly it did.

And worse, he had no idea why it had been on your desk. Among all the plain, grey, medical equipment, this one soft, candy-colored thing had no right being there.

But still. He shouldn’t have taken it.

"I swear, it just jumped out of the bush!" Spider was saying, gesturing wildly with his hands which ultimately snapped Neteyam out of his thoughts. "Like, fully airborne! I thought I was dead."

"You tripped over a root," Lo’ak shot back, grinning. "And it was three feet tall and scared of your hair, bro."

"That thing was the size of an ikran!" The human argued.

"It was the size of Tuk." Lo‘ak said with a straight face, which earned him a playful shove from Spider.

"Come on, bro. Your sister is pretty tall for her age. Give me some credit!" Both of them broke into laughter at this, shoving each other back and forth as if they were still two teenagers hopped up on too much testosterone and not enough self-preservation.

Normally, that would’ve been Neteyam’s cue to cut in. Say something dry and then pull them apart, before someone could crack a rib or a tooth.

But tonight, he didn’t bother.

Instead, while they were still elbowing each other like overgrown children, he just held the pink device out between them. Might as well ask the experts on their opinion about it.

"Hey. What do you think this is?"

That immediately stopped them.

Lo’ak blinked, then sat up a little straighter, clearly caught off guard by his brothers sudden change of topic. "Uh. What?"

Spider brushed some dirt of his chest, then leaned closer, squinting at it. "Where’d you get that?"

Immediately, his ears folded back in shame.

"I found this on y/n‘s desk,” Neteyam murmured eventually, almost too quiet to hear. "Didn’t mean to take it. I just… I don’t know. It was there and I couldn’t stop looking at it." He shrugged casually, but the guilt gnawing at his insides made his tail thrash and curl on his lap.

Lo’ak, biting down a grin, leaned over to peer at it. "Is that pink?" Then he chuckled teasingly, "Did the mighty warrior let himself get distracted over something pretty and pink? Oh eywa, thank you for—"

"Shut it," Neteyam hissed before he could even finish his speech to the great mother of how thankful he was for this opportunity to tease his older brother. Yeah, he would never hear the end of this, that much was clear.

"Looks like a toy," Spider said, not sounding too confident in his guess as he was still squinting at it. "You think it does something?"

Neteyam shook his head, then shrugged. "I thought you would know. Everything else in her space is so organized. She even has her coffee mug labeled, but not this? It’s… strange, don’t you think?"

"It could really be just a toy," Lo’ak offered. "Maybe it doesn’t even have a purpose except for clicking the button."

"A fidget toy," Spider agreed, nodding. "You know how she is, little miss Dr. Workaholic. Makes sense she would need something to fidged with when she’s stressed or whatever. I think Norm has one of those too."

With a shrug Spider relaxed against the log again, arms crossed behind his head, possibly scanning the area for any unmated women worth flexing his biceps for.

When an outstretched palm appeared right in front of Neteyams nose, he handed the remote over without a word. Lo’ak took it then, visibly intrigued now that it had earned the title of forbidden object found on the pretty doctor’s desk.

He held it up to the firelight, inspecting it from all sides in the same way Neteyam had done a dozen times by now. Then he slid the heart shaped button all the way up.

Click. Click. Click.

Paused.

Then back down.

Click. Click. Click.

He twisted it around, clicked the button a few more times as if expecting something to happen if only he clicked fast enough, but nothing.

"Maybe it’s broken," Spider offered, standing and stretching until his back popped. "Or maybe you’re both thinking too hard about it. Could be she found it on the ground and just kept it for the color. Girls do that kind of thing, right?"

Lo’ak raised a brow. "Bro. She also harvests bullets from wounds without flinching. You really think pink plastic is her vibe?"

Spider just shrugs. "Don’t ask me, man. You’re the one playing with it like it’s so special. Just toss it away or better, give it back."

"I’m not playing," Neteyam said firmly, eyes narrowing.

Spider smirked, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. I’m grabbing something to drink before you two start a full psychological breakdown over a heart-shaped button. You ladies want anything?"

When both Sully brothers shook their heads in unison, he wandered off toward the small basket of fermented fruit drinks where some of the young huntresses stood.

With his focus back on Lo’ak, he watched him click the slider once more, but a little slower this time, with intent. Then he held it there for several long moments, before he slid it down again. He repeated that same process two or three more times, all while scanning the place for something that would happen.

Neteyam glanced sidelong at his brother. As expected, nothing happened. But still, the corner of Lo‘aks mouth lifted.

"So…" Neteyam cleared his throat, "what do you really think it is?"

Again, Lo‘ak looked down at the pink remote between them and then back at his brother, a full blown grin spreading over his face now. Oh, that sxkawng [idiot] definitely knew something.

"Honestly?" The younger one chuckled, then tipped his chin in the direction opposite of the fireplace. "I think you should see for yourself. Watch."

It takes a moment for Neteyam to figure out what exactly he’s supposed to be watching between all the people gathered around the fire, but then he finally spots it. Its unmistakable what his brother was trying to show him.

You.

It’s you, in your blue skin that makes you look just like one of the people. You, in that loincloth and that top so revealing, he can see the soft outline of your breasts, your pretty nipples shining through the feathers weaved into your top. Your hair full of ornaments in the same color of your eyes and the sparkle of your thanì [bioluminescence freckles] in the dark.

And then it hits him. That blush on your cheeks thats never been there before, not unless you’ve had too much to drink on very rare occasions. It’s not just on your cheeks though, it’s on your neck too, your tense shoulders and also your chest. When in the corner of his eyes, Neteyam catches Lo‘aks thumb moving the little button down three clicks, you shoulders immediately slacken and your head drops with relief. Your chest expands again, as if you were just holding your breath.

"What the…"

"Spider wasn’t wrong, it is a toy." Lo’ak casually explained, fidgeting the remote between his fingers. "Just not the one you would expect."

He lazily clicked it once more.

Across the fire, you shifted again, eyes fluttering closed for a second too long. As if something unseen had tugged at your spine. Neteyam watched the exact moment your thighs pressed together, subtle and slow, before you coughed and sat back up.

Something hot curled in Neteyam’s chest and his brows furrowed as he glanced between his brother and you, confusion clearly written all over his face.

"It’s something the tawtutes [humans] use sometimes, the adults mainly. It’s called a vibrator. A little device that does, well, that." Lo‘ak half shrugged, then leaned back on his hands like he lived for moments like this. It’s not often that Neteyam was the clueless one of the two, and he was enjoying every second of it. "It vibrates."

Oh. Neteyam swallowed.

"How do you even know all that?"

"Ah, a gentleman never kiss and tells." His brother shook his head with a wide grin. "Lets just say these things are very popular among their females. Most of them got these toys hidden somewhere and let me tell you, they love to play with them."

Neteyam didn’t know much about human things like this. Most of what he knew came from watching the humans from a safe distance. And the tech, sure. The tools, the weapons, the medicine even, that he understood. You and some of the other humans had explained those things in simple, clinical terms that were easy to understand. How they worked, what they were for, where they should go. But this? He had no frame of reference for this little pink thing.

And judging by the way Lo’ak was grinning at him, all smug and overly confident when he explained it, it must be something your people didn’t talk about— not openly and not to people of authority. Like Neteyam. This must’ve been something to discuss solely with the men like Lo‘ak, mischievous and with a filthy mind.

Which only made him feel worse for having taken it. It felt as if he had stepped into a space that wasn’t his to enter.

It vibrates, Lo‘aks words still echoed in his mind.

"It vibrates… where exactly?" Neteyam asked, more confused than just mere minutes ago. "And what’s the remote for?" Nothing had ever intrigued him more than this toy. There were so many questions floating around in his head, too many for him to pester his brother with in just one night.

"Oh I guess our little doctor over there thought it would be fun to use it on her avatar, but she forgot to pack the remote before she left."

"You mean it…"

"Yeah. It controls the vibration. That toy is meant the be inserted, you know. And by the looks of it," click. click. "she’s wearing it right now."

Great mother help him.

Lo‘ak nudged his brothers side before he could even process his words fully, drawing his attention back to your cowering frame across the fire. Two clicks up on the remote and there was a visible layer of sweat forming on your temples. Your jaw was tight, muscles tense as you sat hunched over your own thighs. Click. Click. And then you exhaled again, blinking rapidly as if you had just been woken up from a daydream. Must’ve been a good one, he thought.

So these were the consequences of his poor choices? Huh. This felt more like a reward than a punishment for stealing something that didn’t belong to him. Truthfully, this felt like unfamiliar territory to Neteyam and for the first time, he had no idea how to act nor feel. No idea, if he should let himself enjoy this. Was this even… allowed?

Swallowing the salvia pooling in his mouth, Neteyam cleared his throat and turned back to Lo‘ak, "and she has no idea we have the remote?"

"Hm not yet at least." He shrugged in amusement. "She looks pretty confused, so I guess not."

"That’s…" Neteyam, despite the warmth blossoming in his lower abdomen, muttered, "it’s wrong."

But even as he said it, the words felt thin and hollow. More like something he was supposed to say, something that had been drilled into him and not something he truly believed in that moment.

Because the truth was already settling like wildfire in his gut and it had nothing to do with right or wrong.

The warmth was there. Not the kind that came from sitting too close to the fire, but the slow, creeping kind that coiled low in his stomach and made him feel restless in his own skin. Every time he remembered the way your body had reacted to the vibrations his brother controlled, how you visibly melted the second Lo’ak moved that little switch, his mind betrayed him. It filled in the blanks, wondered what you must’ve felt. Wondered what you looked like when you felt it for real, without trying to hide it. Did it feel good? Would it feel better if he was to use the remote?

And most importantly, would you enjoy it more if you knew it was them controlling the toy?

It that made his chest clench with shame.

And worse still:

He liked it. Matter of fact, he was extremely turned on right now. So turned on by these shameful thoughts, enough that his loincloth suddenly felt uncomfortably tight and Neteyam felt the need to shift and discreetly brush a palm over his bulge to relieve some of the pressure.

Besides him, Lo‘ak scoffed. "What? That she doesn’t know? Go on and tell her then, mighty warrior."

He was sure his brother wasn’t even being sarcastic, not with the way he was looking at you. That glint in his eyes that could only mean trouble. That glint that meant, Lo‘ak must’ve had the same sinful thoughts about this as he had.

"We shouldn’t—"

"Bro, listen." Lo’ak cut in. Rolling his eyes, he turned the vibration up three clicks and then waved the remote in front of Neteyams face in demonstration. "You wouldn’t let this thing laying around if you wouldn’t want others to find it, right? If you‘d ask me, finding this remote in the middle of her desk was like an invention. I mean, she knew we were coming over!"

Neteyam hated to admit that, for once, his brother had a point. Hated even more that he found himself agreeing to his nonsense. Now he finally understood how he and Spider had managed to drag themselves into that much trouble during their teenage years. Eywa forgive him.

Staring at his brother, still not fully able to comprehend that he was agreeing with this skxawng [idiot], he found the remote still sat casually in his brother’s hand. His fingers were tapping idly at its bright pink edges, completely unbothered that the slider —still set at three clicks up— hadn’t moved. And that meant only one thing: you were still feeling it. Right now. Across the fire. Surrounded by people. With no idea who had control over your precious little toy.

Shifting slightly, Neteyam’s eyes darted toward you and what he saw, made his pulse catch.

You weren’t even hiding the way your legs pressed together or how your hands kept fidgeting with the fabric of your loincloth. Something in your gaze, wild and unfocused, flitted across the people surrounding the fire like a hunted animal.

The panic behind your eyes wasn’t fear, not really. It was desperation. Urgency. The kind that came from being pushed into the center of attention. And then, as if turning around to see who exactly had pushed you, your eyes landed on them.

The recognition was instant.

Your breath caught. A tremble ran through your shoulders, and your lips parted as if you might speak, but the sound never came. Red bloomed across your cheeks and spread downward, flushing the smooth skin of your neck and disappearing under your top. Neteyam felt his loincloth tighten even more.

Lo’ak saw you too and, like the fucking idiot he was, he waved! Remote in hand and a big, smug grin on his face.

"She’s so cute when she’s flustered, isn’t she?" He sighed almost softly when your entire face changed its color from blue to red. Then, to his surprise, Lo’ak swiftly moved to stand, righting his loincloth and hair. Expecting his brother to blindly follow his lead, and clearly disappointed Neteyam stayed put, Lo’ak then urged, "C‘mon, bro. She’s practically begging for you to come over and play!"

Now it was Neteyam’s turn to chuckle. With one raised brow he asked, "Just me?"

"Keep dreaming." Lo’ak snorted. "You wouldn’t even know what to do without me."

Pushing past the younger one, Neteyam grinned, "Come on then. Let’s pay our favorite doctor a visit."

✩⋆｡‧₊˚⭑˚₊‧｡⋆✩

Ovulating, as it turns out, is one hell of a curse for the female body.

One minute, you’re cataloguing the blood samples of your latest patients with the steady hands of someone who’d pulled three double shifts in a row, and the next you’re fanning your face with a patient chart, wondering if it’s actually gotten significantly hotter in here or if your nervous system was staging a mutiny.

Focus? Gone. Brain? Useless. Legs? Wobbly, like they forgot what professional composure is. Perfect. Just what every overworked doctor needs: a biological betrayal before breakfast that makes it nearly impossible for you to concentrate on your work.

And to top it all off? You had left that damn remote on your desk!

The remote that controls a very specific device, which —while admittedly a brilliant idea in theory— was now starting to feel more like a liability in practice. It was supposed to be… well, just a small indulgence. An outlet to blow of some steam and then return to your work. Something to take the edge off, burn through the tension coiled between your shoulders, and let you reset. Five minutes, maybe ten, and you’d be as good as new! That was the plan.

But that was before you stumbled across the huntresses on your way back to snatch the remote from your desk that you had forgotten. Before they’d pulled you into easy conversation, laughing and chatting. Before they insisted you join them for the evening meal. And before you could have even tried to wring out at least one beautiful orgasm to cleanse your system.

Now you sat by the fire mostly in silence, eyes flickering between the flames and the people around you. The clan’s laughter echoed in your ears, but none of it really stuck. You forced a few polite smiles, a nod here and there. But your mind wasn’t here, it was back in your office, circling that silly pink remote.

Thankfully, without the remote the vibrator wasn’t even turned on, yet you still felt restless. Aware. Every shift of your body reminded you of that it was there. Not in a way that anyone else could tell, of course not, but in a way that made it impossible for you to forget about it. It pressed uncomfortably against your inner walls, the curve so perfect that it bought you pleasure without even having to turn it on. A persistent, low-grade anticipation buzzed at the edge of your thoughts, turning your calm professionalism into a balancing act.

No one around you had any idea, and yet you couldn’t shake the feeling off being watched. Or maybe it was just the shame creeping in, whispering about recklessness and poor timing. You weren’t usually this impulsive. Or kinky, for that matter.

You inhaled slowly, then exhaled with purpose, glancing at the path that led back to hells gate. If you left now, if you timed it just right, you could slip away with an excuse about finishing reports or checking in on a patient. Nothing too suspicious.

But just as you began to shift, mentally rehearsing your out, something changed.

A jolt. Subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone else. But you felt it. A soft hum that bloomed low in your core like the flicker of a match. So faint you thought you imagined it. Until it happened again.

Your breath hitched. Spine straightened. Every nerve in your body woke up at once as you realized something crucial—

Someone had turned the vibrator on!

And that’s exactly how you found yourself in this situation: trapped and circled like prey, by two of the most handsome apex predators in the whole clan.

Your form by the fire shifts, as if expecting them, but uncertain what to do. The ember glow paints highlights in their braided hair, making their eyes light up in warm golden tones. It makes your breaths come shorter.

"Hello, sevin [pretty]," Neteyam smiled gently at you, almost innocently as he stood before you. Then he leaned over, just a bit closer, as if not wanting anyone to hear. "Mind if we sit with you?"

Before you could manage to respond, Lo‘ak already pressed himself close and casually swung an arm around your shoulders. His warmth made your skin prickle. It’s nothing new that these two were so casual with you, but there has always been this professional distance. One, that Lo‘ak just casually threw out of the window.

"What’s wrong, paskalin [honey]? You look awfully tense tonight." Lo‘ak grinned, cocking his head to the side like a curious puppy.

You can’t help the shaking breath that comes out of your lungs, brief as it is. The vibrations are still buzzing through your body, the intensity as uncomfortable as it is pleasurable.

"W-What are you two doing?" You ask, voice quivering and so, so quiet. Too scared to speak up in case a moan might slip out too.

"We?" Lo’ak gestures between himself and his brother, who had just sat down next to you as well. "Oh nothing. Just trying to enjoy tonight’s vibe, if you get what I’m saying."

With the same carelessness that made people either love him or want to strangle him, he pulled up the little pink device that was currently responsible for the stiffness in your shoulders. The one, he had so foolishly waved around for the whole clan to see, before they both invited themselves over.

Just as earlier, your eyes snapped to it instantly.

Lo’ak, all charm and zero shame, held it up between two fingers like a prize he’d won, then passed it to Neteyam with an almost reverent gesture, like he was handing over something sacred. His grin was unrepentant, no apology, not even a hint of hesitation. He looked proud, as if orchestrating your flustered silence had been some kind of performance art.

How did they—

"I found this on your desk earlier," Neteyam confessed in a hushed tone, causing your keen ears to twitch. "Took me a while to figure out what’s it for," he murmured, then glanced up to meet your eyes, "but now I know."

Behind him, your tail gave a subtle flick, not the kind that came with irritation or warning. The tip curled slightly, then relaxed again, betraying your attempt at keeping your composure. If you could just get the remote back, just for a second. Turn off these stupid, wonderful waves that made your lower abdomen constrict around the smooth toy sitting inside of you.

"Y-You do?" You let the words out in a nervous chuckle, while subtle trying to shift your position. It was obvious that the device still whirring on the highest level was making this whole situation impossible difficult for you and you found both of the Sully brothers seemingly unable to peel their eyes off of your struggling form.

"I do," Neteyam smiled, then leaned in a bit more. "Can I be honest with you for a moment?" Quickly, you nodded. "I didn’t expect you to be into such dirty tawtute [human] play things. But I like it."

Oh. You swallowed. Was this a dream? Were you dreaming?

You watch his thumb move over the heart shaped button as if testing how it feels, before he slides it down two clicks. A deep sigh leaves your lips at that, but you inhale just as quick and sharp when he slides the button up one click again. Your words come tumbling out in the same breath, rushed and uneven.

"No, I’m usually— it’s… this is actually my first time wearing it outside," you blurt, the explanation coming far too quickly to be anything but an attempt at covering your vulnerability.

Your hands still fidget with the hem of your loincloth, as if you could somehow smooth the honesty out of your voice. But the faint blush that clings to your cheeks, spreading down your neck, betrays the rest of you.

"Your first time?" Neteyam echoed, brows raised in surprise. "How cute."

With your chin nearly touching your chest, you were trying your hardest to hide from both of their eyes boring holes into your face. This whole situation was something straight out of a dream. A horrible, embarrassing wet dream.

"So," Lo‘ak cleared his throat to gain your attention back, "you just wanted to see how long you could last? If you can keep quiet? Or is this your method of stress relief, doc?"

Squirming in your seat, it was obvious to no one but them how much the vibrations were distracting you from forming any coherent response. When both of their tails slowly curled around your own as if keeping you as close as possible, all thoughts suddenly vanished from your mind.

"I— uh, uhm." Words, come on. Focus. It’s not that hard. You squeeze your eyes shut in a vain attempt to clear your head, then exhale a long breath that comes out as a shaky whimper. "Jesus, give me a second."

Both of them chuckled at that.

"Enlighten us, please." Neteyam encouraged you, brushing a strand of stray hair that had fallen forward back behind your ear. "We’d love to know."

"I- I don’t know." You rushed out, hiding your face in shame by turning away, but with both of them on either side of you, you realized quickly how impossible that was. "I guess I just wanted to… try it out. Relief some stress. It’s exciting and I thought, no I don’t know what I thought. I- I didn’t even mean to wear it here! Oh god, this was such a stupid idea…"

Too overwhelmed by their intense gazes and the heat radiating off of them, paired with the low vibrations still torturing all nerve endings of your insides, you quickly covered your face with your hands before they could realize how red you’ve gotten in the past couple of seconds.

A hand then slowly curled over your knee, then slides up to your thigh, giving you a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

"It’s not stupid, paskalin." Neteyam coos softly. His hand slides just a bit higher. "You really deserved this, you work so hard all the time. What a shame you couldn’t relieve this tension on your own. Don’t you think, Lo‘ak?"

"Oh, such a shame." Another hand places itself upon your knee, then slowly slides higher, making your breath hitch. "If you can’t do it on your own, what about we‘ll help you out a little, hm? Trust me, we‘re experts when it comes to stress relief."

Carefully, you lower your hands from your face to peak up at them. Both brothers were staring you down like you were nothing but a delicious piece of candy, waiting to be devoured. It made you feel strangely hot under your skin.

When you began to squirm once more, you finally realized how soaked your loincloth had become over the past few minutes. You were so wet, it was starting to squelch between your thighs if you pressed them too hard together and you prayed none of them could hear.

The effect these two had on you was truly something you hadn’t anticipated. Not in a million years you would’ve thought that the two warriors who spent most of their days bickering, sparring and diving headfirst into trouble, could unravel you with nothing but a glance, a shared look and a shift in tone. The weight of their attention alone felt like a hand curled around your throat, and one around your hip, bending you in position for them.

You weren’t stupid. You knew they both had a certain charm, different, but equally as dangerous.

Lo’ak wore his like a badge, loud and visible and impossible to ignore. He was bold not just in the way he spoke, but in the way he did everything else, all smirks and never ending confidence. He flirted like it was second nature to him: recklessly, constantly and with zero regard for consequences. He knew how to get under peoples skin and it was clear to anyone with eyes that this was what he loved to do most.

Neteyam, though… Neteyam was something else entirely. He didn’t chase attention— he commanded it. His charm crept up on you, quietly and slow, like the press of a steady hand at your lower back. He watched more than he spoke, but when he did speak, his words would replay in your head for hours while you were trying to fall asleep. You could never tell if he was just being kind, or careful, or was downright flirting.

And maybe that’s what made them so dangerous: not just how they made you feel individually, but how they fed off each other when they were together. Lo’ak lit the spark and Neteyam fanned the flame. You had seen this happen way too many times before. But you’ve never thought you’d be lucky enough to be able to experience this first hand. To be at their center of attention.

Slowly, you pealed your eyes open inch by inch. What greeted you, was the pink remote right in front of your face. It was in such plain sight for everyone to see, red hot embarrassment shot up your spine and instinctively, you reached out for it. Too slow however, because Lo‘ak quickly snatched it away from your greedy hands.

"Nu-uh, where would be the fun it that?" He chuckled, holding the device just out of your reach. "We will keep this for you, baby. You just sit there and be pretty, while we help you relieve that stress. And if you‘re good for us and stay quiet, you’re not only getting it back, but we‘ll make sure to reward you. Sounds good, right?"

You blink, dumbfounded. "Reward…me?"

The brothers share a look. It was one of those silent, brotherly exchanges, the kind that said 'we’ve already decided, but we’re enjoying this far too much to stop now.' And you, supposed genius with a dozen degrees and more certifications than either of them could probably name, could only sit there like a deer caught in headlights.

Apparently, all it took to knock you off your pedestal was a pair of troublemakers, this stupid toy still whirring inside of you and a very inopportune moment of hormonal vulnerability.

How utterly humbling.

"Oh, you know." Neteyam shrugged casually, then leaned over until he was close enough that his lips brushed your sensitive ear as he whispered, "Both of us."

"Both of… you," you repeated the words slowly, as if trying to understand what they could possibly mean. You knew. Damn, you knew exactly what they meant. Your brain was just working too damn slow, too overwhelmed at the moment to proceed them properly, so you just sat there with your mouth agape, until Neteyam tipped your chin up with a slender finger.

"You’re a smart girl, aren’t you? You‘ll figure it out."

His nose brushed your cheek in a brief nuzzle, before he leaned back to admire you once more. However, before you could even manage to think of a response, a sudden jolt of pleasure shook through your core in such a violent way, you nearly let out a loud, wanton moan.

Biting down on your lower lip prevented that from happening, although a whimper escaped anyway.

Glancing to your right, your gaze immediately lands on Lo‘aks hand —or better, to his thumb that had moved the heart shaped slider all the way up to the highest setting. Various filthy curses shoot through your head like lightning, but you swallowed them down. Your toes curl and you want to bend over and moan for how good it feels.

"You look so pretty when you enjoy yourself," Lo‘ak grins, then winks at you when your eyes meet. "Don’t be shy, tell us how it feels, paskalin [honey]."

It’s nearly impossible. You stumble over words, over thoughts, over the urge to crawl onto his lap and ride his cock until you were both spent and exhausted, grinning like you were insane at the shocked response of your unwilling audience. Jesus Christ, where were these sudden thoughts even coming from?

"G-Good," you finally manage to force out, thighs pressing together hard enough to hurt. But all it does is shove the vibrator deeper inside your channel, nearly making your eyes cross.

Thankfully, the toy stops soon enough, and you feel like you’re about to melt into a puddle on the floor. Already, you were panting, shuddering and repeatedly wetting your lips with your tongue. There was no way in hell you would last for more than five minutes of this torture.

"Just good?" Neteyam shakes his head as if disappointed in his brother, before he takes the remote from Lo‘aks hand. "We��ll have to change that, don’t you think? Just good doesn’t really suit you. We will need a lot more to relief all that stress."

Beside him, Lo’ak smirks, arms crossed over his chest. "Yeah, doc. You always shoot for excellent in the lab. Don’t tell me you’re suddenly satisfied with just average."

You open your mouth, then close it again. Honestly, what were you supposed to say? There were words in your brain somewhere, smart ones probably, but they were jumbled up beneath the weight of your embarrassment. Your ears burned. Your tail twitched in a way that could only be described as nervy, but it was unable to move freely with both of their tails still curled around yours.

Those tails, you desperately wished to feel elsewhere. Around your throat would be a start. Or sliding between your lips, teasing your clit. Using them to keep your hands pinned behind your back while they were using you like their personal fleshlight. Your clit gave a needy throb at that.

Then it was Neteyams turn to play with the remote.

Click.

Unlike his brother, he was starting of slow. Gentle waves of pleasure began rolling through your core once more, warming your insides. Your toes curled and your breathing turned quicker. Lips pressed together to a thin line, you let a quiet hum escape as your eyes fluttered closed. It was a comfortable, subtle kind of pleasure. Not quite enough to get you there, but it was enjoyable.

Click.

Oh! This was different.

This time, it was significantly harder to hold back a moan. You even jumped a little when the vibrations turned up, but managed to keep your composure after exhaling a deep, shaking breath.

"And how’s that, sevin? [pretty]" Neteyam asked under his breath. "That‘ feel good too?"

"Hmh, y-yes," you whispered, "Fuck, I- I don’t know if I can keep quiet like that."

"You can," he reassured you with a voice so deep it made the hair in the nape of your neck raise. "You’re being such a good girl for us, I know you can hold all these pretty sounds in. Just focus."

After just mere seconds you began restlessly shifting from side to side, squirming as the pleasure reached a point that was dangerously close to your peak. The vibrator inside you sat just right, pressed against your sweet spot. It’s tip was shoved so deep inside from all the movement that it tickled your cervix. It was just right, just perfect and so, so good.

"I think she’s about to come soon," Lo‘ak said besides you, his hand squeezing the pillowy flesh of your thigh in anticipation. You could feel it in the tips of his fingers how bad he wanted to slide your loincloth to the side and just feel how close you really were. "Keep it down, baby, just like that. Remember what we told you."

"I‘m fucking trying," you cursed with your teeth clenched together hard enough it almost hurt. Their snickering only made the humiliating part about this so much worse. Yet at the same time, it made goosebumps raise all over your skin. Who would’ve thought you’d be into this sort of thing?

Your inner muscles constricted around the toy, walls fluttering. More arousal was pooling out of you like a stream, wetting your underwear and loincloth and probably even the piece of wood you sat on.

You loved their hands on you, so subtle no one seemed to notice, yet you were still in public and anyone who would glance at the three of you might realize what was going on in this moment. A shudder runs through you at the very thought of getting caught playing around with the handsome sons of the olo’eyktan. So naughty and so very forbidden for a dreamwalker. All the unmated na‘vi women in the clan were probably cursing your name in this moment.

"You smell so good when you’re close," Neteyam said lowly in your ear just as your hips involuntarily began to twitch and your back arched ever so slightly. "I wonder what you might taste like, paskalin [honey]."

You were about ready to spread your thighs and let him get a taste right here, right now.

Needy as you were, you whimpered pathetically under your breath. His words were enough to sent a jolt of electricity through your spine. Not the kind that made you recoil, but the kind that left your lungs tightening and your thoughts spiraling into places they absolutely shouldn’t be going with this many people still around.

Your fingers curled tightly around the fabric of your loincloth, nerves coiling like springs in your palms. So close. So damn close, all you needed was—

"Uh-Oh," Lo‘ak‘s voice cut through the quiet tension like a sharp blade, causing your eyes to snap open. "Spider’s coming over."

You could practically hear the awkward scramble of composure clattering into place like a knocked-over stack of med supplies.

Neteyam’s hand slipped back to his side, the remote disappearing into his palm and behind his back with a practiced ease that made your stomach flip for entirely different reasons. The glimmer in Lo’ak’s eyes didn’t dim, though. If anything, the approaching interruption only seemed to amuse him more. He appeared even more casual than before. These situations were really second nature to him. Unlike you, who were about to hyperventilate from nerves.

"Relax," Neteyam murmured with a reassuring smile. For a moment, you sighed in relief when the familiar click, click of the remote informed you that he had reduced the intensity of the vibration. But as you waited for the final click to turn it off entirely, Lo‘ak just leaned in to whisper, "be good for us and stay quiet, yes?"

And that’s when you realized, that final click would never come. They weren’t planning to turn it off. In fact, they weren’t even planning to stop.

Clearly caught off guard by this, you still managed to clear your throat. Face still warm, your smile far too tight, you shifted in place and attempted to look as normal as possible. As if your pulse hadn’t just spiked dangerously from a few simple words and a subtle press of a button.

"Sup’." Spider, blissfully oblivious, flopped down on the log in front of you with a grunt. "What did I miss?"

"Not much," Lo‘ak replied, casual as ever. Spider’s brow furrowed slightly as he glanced between the three of you. The smell of sex and pheromones in the air must’ve been unmistakably for a na‘vi sitting this close to you. For a human however, it must’ve been close to nothing. Thank god for small mercies.

"So? That weird remote thing. Did you uh… give it back?"

There was a brief pause. A glance passed between the Sully brothers, quick and silent. Neteyam’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t say anything. Lo’ak, the faster liar of the two, leaned back on his palms and scoffed lightly.

"Oh, that. Yeah," he said, tossing a glance at you, squashed in the middle between them like it was no big deal. "Turns out it wasn’t what we thought. Just a busted old clicker for some projector thing, right y/n? Pretty boring."

Spider narrowed his eyes, "Really?"

"Yep," Lo’ak said easily, but the tilt in his voice was just a little too playful, the grin tugging at his lips too smug to be convincing. He didn’t even bother hiding it.

And then, to your sheer horror, the sound of a click made goosebumps raise all over your skin. With your brows drawn together as if you might beg for mercy at given second, you slowly turned your head in Neteyams direction.

But Neteyam only smiles at you, warm and gentle, yet you know, deep down there’s something mischievous behind it. Something that does make them brothers after all, no matter how different they might appear. And with a hand still behind his back, Neteyam turns the vibrator up.

Shuddering, you sink your teeth into your bottom lip as discreetly as you could manage. It takes every ounce of your strength to not start moaning like an animal in heat from the way your inner walls shook with the toy whirring to life inside of you.

Completely obvious to the silent torture you were going through, Spider still eyed Lo’ak suspiciously for another beat, before huffing and leaning forward, grabbing a roasted nut from a shared bowl near the fire.

"Anyway," Lo’ak said, quickly clearing his throat to hide his chuckle, "how’d it go with that one huntress you were talking to earlier?"

Immediately, Spider perked up, a lopsided grin blooming across his face. "Oh, you mean Ale’ka?" He gave a sheepish shrug. "I think I made some progress. She didn’t walk away this time, so I’m counting that as a win. And then she also…"

Oh, for fucks sake Spider— leave! Please!

As Spider launched into his story with the enthusiasm of someone who had no fucking clue that they were completely unwanted in this very situation, you couldn’t even pretend to pay attention to him. Just like Lo‘ak, who you could tell was only half-listening to his human friend.

His grin deepened every time your gaze wavered, which only made your stomach flip harder. You felt his eyes on you, even as you tried your hardest to focus on yourself, on keeping your composure, keeping quiet.

But when you, more or less, accidentally glanced up at him again, you caught sight of a subtle, unspoken communication that passed between the brothers in a blink. Lo’ak tipped his chin up at Neteyam, and Neteyam’s posture shifted ever so slightly in response.

You swallowed. Oh god, please no— Click.

This time, you almost fell forward for real. The vibrations weren’t only stronger now that Neteyam had turned the toy up to its fullest potential, but they were also pulsing, throbbing in perfect sync with your poor clit preparing for an incoming orgasm. Your whole body tenses and shudders.

Pressing your chin to your chest, you try your damn hardest to breathe steady, to breathe quietly, but the fucking hellish thing is pressed so tightly and perfectly against your sweet spot that it’s no use. Every fucking second feels like torture and it’s so good. It’s way too fucking good. Perfect, actually. You’ve never hit the spot so good before when you were on your own.

Your heart was racing, threatening to thump right out of your chest as you arched, squirmed, writhed as subtly as humanly possible while the toy inside of you kept going without mercy.

Vaguely, you’re aware of Spider talking casually with a very unimpressed Lo‘ak, and when you dare to look up, you see Neteyam purposefully making a show of circling the heart shaped button with the pad of his thumb. God, you wanted him to do this elsewhere. Right now it wouldn’t even matter if you’re in public or not, you just needed these hands on you.

Distinctly, you wondered if they would mind their human friend watching at all. Would they let him watch as they devoured you? Would they let Spider watch as you rode them, spread your thighs wider, bend forward and let the other one fill you out as well? Would they enjoy showing you off, praising you for taking them at the same time? Would they—

When Lo’ak barks out a laugh, you nearly flinch from being so on edge, so lost in the thought of falling apart for them, over and over again. Giving your body to them whenever they see fit, whenever you needed to relief stress. "Man, you’re setting the bar so low, it’s underground," Lo‘ak laughs at his friend.

"Hey," Spider defends, pointing at him. "Small victories, alright? You try flirting with someone who could knock your head off with a single punch. Not that I would complain!"

Neteyam chuckles, then uses the moment of their heated conversation to move closer to you. One of his hands, the one not controlling your toy, reaches behind to steady him when he casually leans back. But you know that’s not the reason he has moved at all. You feel his hand on your tail, caressing the soft curve, squeezing the base. It’s all happening in the privacy behind your back, with Spider still clueless about what’s happening right in front of him.

During it all, you somehow manage to stay unnaturally still and oddly quiet, suddenly fascinated with the flames flickering in front of you, the fabric of your clothes, the dirt under your nails from picking at the log. Everything that wasn’t the conversation happening in front of you, Neteyams hands and Lo‘aks eyes flicking over to your trembling frame, waiting and wanting to see you fall apart.

At this point, you didn’t know if they even wanted to see you behave or if they really wanted you to fail. If they were just waiting for you to make a sound and reveal what was actually happening here. Make the whole clan watch as you come with their names on your lips.

You could feel Spider watching you now, his gaze curious, maybe even suspicious. Your hands were folded too tightly in your lap, legs crossed like you were holding yourself together with sheer force of will. Biting your lip harder, you didn’t even dare exhale right now. Every innocent breath could betray you, you were damn near ready to burst like a bubble from all the pressure of trying to hold it together. All the pleasure wanting to escape in sounds, cries and screams and maybe even tears because of how damn good it felt.

There were beads of sweat on your forehead and you could feel your face burning up, which meant that every inch of your skin had to be tinted an angry red. By now you were trembling and your hands were opening and closing aimlessly as you were breathing hard through your nose, wishing you could just spread your thighs and let go, but then—

Click.

Neteyam presses his thumb on the heart shaped button again and slides it down. And now you don’t know what’s worse. The vibrations stop pulsing and instead become one drawn-out, steady line of torture once more. Honestly, you’re not even sure how you manage to not moan or scream or how you’re even still sitting here when all you want to do is to get on all-fours for Lo‘ak or Neteyam or preferably both, even with all these people around. Fuck it, you’d even include their friend if it would make them both happy.

"You alright?" Spider asks eventually and every muscle in your body goes rigid when six pair of eyes suddenly land on you.

No, you idiot. I‘m about to c—

Neteyams hand squeezes the base of your tail hard, but not painful. Still, it’s enough to make you jump. Now the toy pushes against your walls at a new angle, vibrating against your g-spot at full intensity and full force. You’re vision is clouding and light is bursting behind your eyes. Your throat hurts from ragged breaths and trying to keep it all down.

In a desperate attempt to keep in your whimpers, you nearly pass out from holding your breath. But it's just so difficult at this point, it's been going on for so long. You’re so wet and everything throbs and aches, your inner walls constrict around the vibrator, eager to be properly filled. You’re torn between wanting to come, finally having that release slam through your body, or letting this feeling of pleasureembarassementwantpleasure continue to wash over you, fogging your mind and getting lost in it.

Right now, you’re feeling pretty fucking stupid for having ever agreed to this. On the other hand, you’re kind of committed yourself at this point, and, well, at the end of the day you are definitely the kind of stubborn woman who’s not going to quit now. You just wished that telling yourself that was actually helping.

On your other side, Lo‘ak is leaning against your shoulder, a hand to your thigh. He grins at you and— click.

It‘s blindingly, deafeningly good. When you finally come, all you can do is tense up and hold your head down. You hold it in until you physically can’t anymore, then breath out through your nose in one deep exhale. Squeezing your thighs together as hard as you can, you feel the wetness smearing between them as your liquid arousal seeps through the fabric of your underwear. It’s so filthy that you can’t help but shudder.

There is so much pleasure trying to burst out of you like a firework that it whites out your nerves, leaves you stunned and nearly sensationless for a very long moment, before everything comes singing back. You’re still not entirely sure your body's all in one piece, vision fractured and limbs leaden, when you finally notice that your ears are ringing.

Click. Click. Click.

Your eyes nearly pop out of their sockets when the intense whirring of the vibrator finally stops and you don’t know whether to curse or praise the damn thing. Fucking hell, you’ve never had an orgasm this intense before. You’ve also never been edged this way, nor for so long.

With another heavy sigh, all tension suddenly melts out of you, your trembling muscles finally give in under their constant pressure and you nearly fall face first to the ground —if it weren’t for Lo’ak catching you last second. Everything still pulses and your poor clit feels swollen and neglected as it rubs against your soaking wet underwear. There’s a sudden urge to strip naked and just lay down to let the Sully brothers take care of you in their own way, but the sound of Spiders worry filled voice makes you decide against it.

"Y/N?"

The mewl that tumbles from your lips is quiet, but you’re sure Lo‘ak and Neteyam must have heard it.

"Yeaah, you know how humans are," Lo’ak chuckles over your head as he tucks you under his chin. "She just had too much to drink."

"She‘ll be fine," Neteyam adds, immediately waving off any questions that might sit on Spiders tongue, "but it’s probably best we‘ll take her home now."

"Oh uh, yeah of course," the human nods, albeit slightly perplexed when both brothers immediately move to stand, with Lo‘ak supporting your weight with an arm around your waist and Neteyam with a hand on your lower back.

"Don’t worry, we‘re going to take reaal good care of you, doc," Lo‘ak smiled. Then quietly, he adds, "Just as we promised."

Together, they lead you away from the fireplace, away from the clan and any unwanted attention. But also away from the only familiar path in the forest that you know of: The one that leads you home.

"Uhm…" You hesitantly lick your lips, still raw from biting down too hard on them to muffle your moans. "The labs are the other way."

"The labs?" Neteyam echoes, then smiles gently at you. "Oh, sweet girl, we‘re not going back to hells gate. Too many people."

You slowed your pace, or at least, you tried to. But with both of their hands on your back, urging you to continue walking, it was nearly impossible. Not to mention, if it weren’t for them, your wobbly legs wouldn’t even be able to carry you this far.

"Then where are we going?" You arched a brow as you looked up at either of them. They didn’t miss the way your voice dipped with uncertainty.

"As much as we enjoyed playing like this…," Neteyam begins. His hand brushes lightly against your lower back, fingertips playing with the edge of your waistband as he exchanges a knowing look with his brother over your head.

"What comes now," Lo‘ak then continued with a sly grin, "is only for us to witness."

[cinnateawrites]

dad!Sukuna x reader

Sukuna recently gets out of jail and immediately knocks you up. He is determined to step up and provide for you both.

WC: 1k. TW: unplanned pregnancy

Sukuna always said he’d have kids with you. He just didn’t mean within a few months of getting out of jail.

That honeymoon phase lead to you both being reckless. It’s not like you’d been sleeping with anyone while he was away, so there was no need for birth control in your life. Then he surprised you by getting out on parole and well…you quite literally couldn’t keep your hands off each other.

Out of condoms in the middle of the night? No problem, he’d pull out. Plus what are the odds that you’d actually get pregnant, women are only fertile for such a short window anyways this one time wouldn’t hurt…

Fast forward to the present day and Sukuna is kissing you good night. He rarely goes to sleep with you, trying to expedite getting his degree by studying at night after working a full day shift.

He may have been incarcerated the last 3 years, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him from being the best father and partner that he could be.

The night he saw you crying on the bathroom floor changed him. Three positive tests leered at you from the counter and in that moment he knew he had to man up. Hearing you say things like “I can’t believe my baby daddy barely has a job and just got out of jail” internally upset him, but deep down he knew you were right.

The honeymoon period was over, no more inconsistent hours at the garage, no more sleeping in until noon, and no more constantly coming onto you causing neither of you to get out of the bed for hours.

Sukuna swore he would provide for you and the baby. He’d finish that degree he started long ago so he could own his own garage, be his own boss.

He’d be there for you every step of the way unlike when he was in jail and you were doing life alone. He was serious about you and this baby, in fact, he’d always been ride or die for you, he just didn’t have a great way of showing it, defaulting to his playful and goofy side.

Sukuna didn’t plan, didn’t look five steps ahead, just lived in the moment and did what felt good at the time. And quite frankly you were the same way, enjoying life to the fullest after the love of your life was finally released.

The ultrasound made it more real. Sukuna seeing his tiny baby on that grainy screen made him shed a tear. So small and helpless, his baby needed him to get his shit together because the rest of the pregnancy was going to go fast.

That little blob on the screen got bigger and bigger. Even though Sukuna worked seven days a week, picking up extra shifts while also doing his college work at night, he still never missed an appointment with you.

Even though he made so much progress on his degree, he still had a few more months to go before he could finish when the baby came.

You both agreed to put it on hold the first few weeks. Trying to figure out how to keep this little pink haired boy alive was terrifying and being there for each other was paramount.

After about a month you told Sukuna to get back to his schooling, in the long term it was important, you’d take care of the baby at night.

Except he refused, demanding you sleep through the night and he’d tend to the baby while studying. As long as there was enough formula and you supplemented with pumping, he could feed the baby through the night.

Therein started his nightly routine. He’d lay with you in the bed while you breastfed, talking about anything and everything. Once you were done, he’d go lay the baby down to come back and hold you until you fell asleep.

Slowly he’d slip away, leaving one more parting kiss on your cheek. Sukuna would go down the hall to the nursery and set his computer up. Sometimes he’d watch lectures, write papers, do homework, whatever was needed that night. At this point he was used to being up after working on this degree the past year.

When the baby would stir, Sukuna would gather him up in his strong arms, cradling him against his chest while warming up a bottle. Finally, he’d sit back down, feeding the baby while clicking through lecture slides.

It became your favorite sight. Waking up in the middle of the night to pee, you’d sometimes go poke your head in, just to be met with an adorable sight.

Your man, pink hair in disarray donning pajama pants and no shirt, cradling the baby in one arm while clicking with the other. The baby was fast asleep with Sukuna rocking him every now and then, stopping to take a break and just stare down at the perfect combination of you and him.

Eventually Sukuna would shut everything down, feeding the baby one more time in the early morning hours, and then slip into your shared bad to join you for a few hours.

A lesser man may have been resentful at the end of the night. Never Sukuna though. He loved you more than anything, and now he loved this little baby. Sukuna would do anything for the two of you so he could provide a better life.

He’d always treasure those nights spent with the baby after he got older…his little study buddy as he called him. Nuzzling against your skin, he held you close and drifted off to sleep with you, the love of his life, the mother of his child and the woman who made him a dad.

This is one of the few times he could genuinely say he loved his life and knowing the future he could provide was within reach made every hard day and night worth it all.

This little scene has been living in my mind and I just had to write it down ❤️

[cinnateawrites]

You're having a baby. He's freaking the fuck out.

Gojo Satoru never wanted kids.

Too messy. Too unpredictable. Too dangerous.

All of the above if, god forbid, the kids pop out and end up like him. The idea of some tiny version of himself running around with cursed energy leaking out of their sticky little fingers has always made his skin crawl. Not because he couldn’t handle it – he could handle anything – but because the world couldn’t. Because he knows exactly how that story ends.

A kid like that wouldn’t get to be just a kid. Not with his blood or his power or his name. They’d be taken and dissected before they could be loved, worshipped before they could be understood or even understand how to. Thrown into a battlefield before they’d ever lose a tooth.

But worst of all – the fear that’s kept him up more nights than he’ll ever admit – is that they’d have his eyes.

Those unnatural, glowing, light-refracting things. A curse disguised as beauty. A beacon of danger. And what if his baby came out looking like him? What kind of life would they ever get to have?

No, he decided a long time ago: No tiny Gojos. No soft cheeks or first steps or lullabies. No cursed bloodline dragging another child into a war they didn’t ask for. He doesn’t want to leave a legacy.

He just wants peace.

So, of course, you had to go and ruin everything.

“You better not be crying,” you whimper from the hospital bed, your fingers squeezing his so tight he swears you might shatter bone.

“I’m not,” he lies. (He absolutely is.)

“You are,” you whine, breath catching in your throat as another contraction ripples through your body. “Satoru, I swear to– fuck! You’re not even the one pushing something the size of a watermelon out of your–”

“Okay, okay!” he blurts out, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand like it might soothe you. “I know, baby, I’m not leaving your side. Not for food, not for water, not even if Shoko threatens to kill me. Again.”

You blink up at him through bleary eyes, sweaty, furious, and glowing in a way that makes his chest ache. “I literally told you to get me ice chips five minutes ago.”

“Ignore past you,” he says solemnly. “Present you needs me more.”

You roll your eyes, the little curve in the corner of your lip sending a warm tingle spiraling from his heart to his fingertips.

He doesn’t know why someone like you could love someone like him. Much less want children with him. But you do, somehow.

The midwife says it’s time.

And when she tells you to push, you stare directly into your husband’s eyes like this is his fault – like your withering glare is some sort of karmic retribution for him cumming in you nine months ago (which is maybe not entirely untrue).

“Don’t look at me like that!” he squeaks, panicked, as you scream bloody murder and clutch at him like you want to take him with you. “You look so pretty all the time, especially when you're ovulating, I didn’t know it’d come to this–!”

But the words catch in his throat as a cry cuts through the room.

Small and sharp and alive.

The nurse is saying something, handing you something, but all Satoru can hear is the way the baby is crying. Loud and trembling and needy and pissed off. Exactly the way you cry and hide in his arms when you’re frustrated.

You let out a shaky sigh, settling down as you rock the little bundle in your arms.

There’s something in the shape of the face, the tilt of the nose, the set of the lips, that is all you. Undeniably, irrevocably, painfully you–

Oh.

It opens its eyes.

And for a second, he forgets how to breathe.

They’re bright blue. Too bright. His. The kind that twist the light around them into something gleaming. But there’s something different, too, something soft. Something gentle.

They shimmer like starbursts on water. Like they were made to reflect everything good in the world back at him.

And suddenly, he’s not afraid anymore. Because they aren’t just his eyes. They’re yours, too, in shape and in spirit and in the way they seem to say I’m here, I’m real, I’m yours.

Everything about this is unfamiliar and impossibly small and he’s terrified he’s going to fuck it all up somehow. But those eyes?

They’re beautiful.

You’re holding your baby like it’s made of starlight and miracles, and your lips are trembling like you’re about to cry but you’re too tired, and when you look up at him, it all clicks into place.

God.

You’re beautiful.

You, and your baby, and he loves you so, so much, it’s insane.

Yeah.

Maybe having kids isn’t so bad after all.

[cinnateawrites]

synopsis. heian era sukuna and his daughter <3 tags/notes. how characteristic that every time i go to write about another, sukuna takes over.

ko-fi page here for your consideration, masterlists here for your entertainment.

“you’d do best to control this child, woman,” sukuna practically grows in your ear as your back presses to his front, two of his arms wrapping around your stomach. the child in question is climbing up sukuna’s throne, the very throne the two of you are sitting on, and trying to reach her father’s eyes. it seems that your daughter is highly fascinated by her father’s illuminated (and numerous) eyes.

she coos when she finally reaches him, her chubby hand reaching up to smack at his face. he flinches, mostly from her audacity, but has no reaction otherwise. in fact, a smirk creeps onto his face when she giggles and pounces on his face, her hands scruffing his hair as she rests her cheek on his forehead.

“she adores you, ryo,” you whisper, watching with a bright smile and a tender heart as your husband reaches a hand up to lift her and place her directly on his head. your daughter belly-laughs at the swaying motion, even when she almost slips off to tumble into your lap.

“my little curse is honing her survival instincts, i see,” sukuna says observationally, grinning toothily as his ‘little curse’ starts glittering with a very miniscule amount of cursed energy. you gasp at her glow, equally surprised and joyfully anticipatory. “don’t go teaching her to handle a weapon now,” you warn, reaching both arms up to pull her down into your lap.

“buuuuu,” she sputters, drooling onto her linen dress as she plays with the sleeve of your floral kimono.

“imitating ghouls already. promising,” he teases, a playful lilt in his voice that escalates into a low laugh when you smack his arm, your brow furrowing and lips parting with a sigh even as he kisses your neck in as much as an placatory manner he can muster for someone of his stature.

[cinnateawrites]

Mob Sukuna and Gojo's kids have a playdate!

This was in my inbox to show the kids from Pour it Up and Losing Control Now hehe, setting this about two years after the ending of Gojo's fic! Told from Pour it Up reader's perspective! - SFW/fluff/crack

"Touma, you can't just steal your sisters dolls and tie them up!?" You're looking with horrified eyes as Touma has taken your little girl's baby dolls, their wrists bound with stolen pony tails as he giggles.

"Nah, the kid's just showing his creativity," Sukuna lounges on the couch, your pretty little girl so tiny in his big ass arms. She's almost two now, and you're not sure she walks often purely because Sukuna carries her everywhere. She's holding her hand up, tugging on Sukuna's pale pink locks, he just smiles at her. "Tell her, Suki."

You cross your arms now, raising a brow as Suki giggles at you. "Mama, mama!"

"You two are both against me here, I see. We have Satoru's kid coming in just a minute, we can't corrupt their little girl! Put it up Touma."

"Mom, it'll teach them-"

"Up. Now." Touma sighs, and starts untying the dolls, Sukuna's smirking. "What's so funny?"

"You're pretty when you're all mad like that," you scoff, shaking your head when the doorbell rings. "I'll get it."

"Try not to scare them off, I want a playdate." Sukuna just grins deviously, just like your son does. He's absolutely taken after his stepfather, following him everywhere he goes. You take your daughter in your arms now, brushing back her hair softly. "Are you excited?"

"Mhmm!" You melt for her, with her pretty eyes wide and her little chubby cheeks, while the door opens, and you see Satoru, his wife and their daughter. "Mama! Friends here!"

"I know, here." You set her down and she runs over excitedly, you follow her and hug them all, pressing a kiss on their daughters hair, snow white like Satoru's. "Hello pretty girl!"

"Hi, hi!"

"Cute little Sakura," you look at Satoru and his girl then. "Oh she's gotten so tall already, my goodness!"

"I know, it goes too quickly," she is snug in Satoru's arms while his girl snatches up Suki. "Hi sweet girl, I missed you."

"Shit, haven't seen you in forever. Did you miss me, Kuna?" Sukuna glares, jaw setting while you girls giggle, Satoru holds his little girl up defensively. "You can't hit me, I have a child!"

"Now ya don't," he hands her off to her mother, and Satoru backs off, devious grin on his face. "Come here, I wanna show you how much I missed you, Satoru."

"No, no, I'm suddenly so busy..." Sukuna snorts in laughter, wrapping an arm around the lanky man, earning Gojo's relief. "Come get a drink with me, let them do the mom shit."

"The 'mom shit'?" You ask, Sukuna leans close to you, lips against your ear now.

"You look so hot angry, I think Suki and Touma need a sibling," you're a blushing mess, scowling at your devious husband now, seeing Satoru setting his little girl down to play with Suki and Touma now. "You like that idea, huh brat?"

"Shush!" You're burning up, he knows what that does to you.

"I'll show you around, come on!" Touma takes Sakura's hand, she giggles and babbles.

"Cute, cute!" Touma blushes then, Satoru glares.

"Sakura, you can never date, don't even!" Satoru's wife is giggling, he stands, tugging her to his side, holding her close while Sakura kisses Touma's cheek, he rubs it off. "You're encouraging this behavior, sweetheart?"

"I think she'll never have a chance with you," he smirks, and holds her close, she sighs and nuzzles his neck. "Gonna scare any future boyfriend away."

"Absolutely will," he kisses her cheek. "She needs a brother to protect her."

"Maybe she does-"

"Okay, get a room," Sukuna grumbles, snatching Satoru up by the arm then. "Let's go do manly shit."

"I wanna do manly shit-"

"Touma! Sukuna, see he's cussing!?" Sukuna and Satoru just burst into laughter, as you two girls scowl at your husbands.

"Good kid-"

"Sukuna, I swear you'll sleep on the couch."

"Bad kid! Listen to your mom." You smile, and Touma pouts all cute, before deciding to look at you abashedly.

"Sorry mama..."

"It's fine baby," you smack a kiss on his cheek, then take Satoru's girl's hand as your husbands go off to have a drink. "How are you, lovely?"

"I'm doing so good, I missed being here," she's been gone for months, Satoru's on a whole travel kick lately. "The men are having drinks, huh?"

"They are, but I have mimosas ready."

"Ooh! I'll take one." They're mostly orange juice, but as the four of you sit around and nibble on brunch, it feels perfect.

Until...

"Bang bang! That's how you shoot-"

"Sukuna." Your husband stops his proud smile immediately at your death glare, clearing his throat then.

"I'll handle it." He rushes off, but you hear him murmur - 'hah, good job kid' as Satoru's maniacally laughing, and you and his girl wonder just what you've gotten into with these men.

Unserious nonsense aha, I hope you all enjoyyy

[cinnateawrites]

Nanami x Reader

Girl Dad! Kento Nanami

GirlDad! Nanami coming home from work, walking through the front door of the apartment you shared, eyes heavy, shoulders tense as he placed his brief case down and kicked off his shoes.

Walking down the hall to be greeted by his four-year-old daughter in a tutu, a scarf and one of his dress shirts, stacked with all of the expensive jewelry kento had ever bought you. Makeup smeared onto her soft chubby face as she played tea party with her stuffed animals.

“Daddys home!!” she squealed, grabbing her stuffed bear and running over to cuddle his leg, jumping excitedly as he picked her up with a small groan, resting her on his side.

“Hello sweetheart.” he smiles, kissing the top of her head as he walked into the kitchen spotting you making dinner and walking up behind you, curling his free arm around your waist, “how are my girls today, hm?” he mumbles, kissing your temple softly.

“Mommy taught me how to do makeup, see! I'm pretty like mommy!” She smiles big, pointing at her overly blushed cheeks.

Kento laughed softly, nodding slowly, "I saw as soon as I walked in, sweetheart. But you know you're already perfect enough that you don't need it.” he gently placed the girl down and she quickly scurried back to the living room to play.

Kento lets out a low hum, moving to embrace you from behind, burying his face into the crook of your neck, “makeup, jewelry, four already. She's growing too fast.” He mumbles, hands sliding onto your small rounded stomach.

“And to think we’ll do it all over again in a few months now, maybe a boy this time.” he whispers, eyes watching as you cook, a soft content smile on his lips, “I love you.”

© all works belong to chikithree. do not copy, repost, or translate my works.

[cinnateawrites]

୨୧ — As you're reaching for Nanami's favorite coffee mug -the one you bought him as a joke that says "worlds hottest daddy"- you find yourself struggling with your new center of gravity…

At six months pregnant, your balance had shifted quite dramatically, your rounded belly making even the simple tasks challenging.

Standing on your tippy toes, you stretch as far as you can, Nanami's oversized shirt riding up perfectly to tease the swell of your stomach.

Your fingers wiggle around just barely grazing the handle... "Almost... got it." you mutter to yourself, straining just a little further.

That's when Nanami walks in.

He pauses in the doorway, his tired eyes instantly softening at the sight before him. Your hair tousled from sleep, legs bare, his shirt riding up exposing the curve of your belly where his daughter was growing. His lips curl up into a smile at the way your ass is sticking out and how hard you're trying to reach the cup, ignoring the doctors and his orders, but still…

"Don't move," he says, his voice soft and gentle, yet still authoritative. Your freeze, turning your head to find him pulling out his phone, a look of absolute adoration on his face, "just... stay exactly like that,"

"What are you doing?" You giggle, but you remain as he requested, watching as he snaps a photo, then another, and another.

"Preserving this moment," he says simply, crossing the kitchen toward you. Turning his phone, he shows you the screen, and... damn... you had no idea he was this good at taking photos. The picture shows your entire profile, your pregnant belly, the smile on your lips as you look over your shoulder at him, and how the morning sun gives the top of your head a makeshift halo. You look, good... radiant, even.

"You're beautiful, and this is how I see you every single day," Nanami whispers, leaning down to kiss the top of your head as he tucks his phone back in his pocket. 

Before you can respond, he steps behind you, one strong arm wrapping carefully around your waist, just beneath your pregnant belly. With surprising gentleness for such a powerful man, he lifts you slightly and places you at his side away from the counter.

"Kento!!" You squeal, giggling as he holds you to him, positioning himself in front of the shelf.

"Let me," he says with a smile, easily reaching up to grab the mug.

"I could've gotten it," you protest weakly, though you and him both knew you loved his attentiveness.

"I know you could," he agrees, giving you a squeeze so soft you almost missed it, "but why should you when I'm here? Taking care of you both is my favorite job."

You practically melt into him, "I ask myself everyday how I got so lucky... maybe we should send the bar we met at flowers and a thank you card."

He chuckles, "Perhaps we should... But I think I should get some lower shelves installed first. I don't want you struggling while I'm not here."

"I'm pregnant, Kento. Not an old granny."

"No, you're definitely not," how could he disagree when you were in fact much younger than he was... "Humor me though, please" He murmurs, pressing the sweetest kiss to your cheek.

"Fiiiine," you sigh dramatically, though you're fighting back a smile, "I suppose I can let my big strong husband take care of me..."

"That's my good girl," Nanami murmurs, his voice ever so gentle against your ear as he sets the mug down on the counter.

Without warning, his large hand slide down to rest on your thighs, and before you can even process what's happening, one strong arm slides beneath you, supporting you under your bottom and thighs.

"Hold onto me," he instructs softly, and you barely have time to wrap your arms around his neck before he's lifting you effortlessly off your feet in one smooth motion.

"Keeennnto!" you whine playfully, your face flushing at how easily he carries you despite the pregnancy.

"I've got you, my love." he says simply, a sweet kiss to your temple as he carries you the few steps to the kitchen table, "I've always got you."

He sets you down gently on the edge of the table, his hands lingering on your waist as he positions himself between your legs. This close, you can see the way his eyes have gone soft with pure adoration, the way they keep drifting down to your rounded belly.

"You're going to spoil me rotten," you whisper, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the wonderful beat of his heart beneath your palms, a feeling you’ll never grow tire of.

"Good," he replies without hesitation, one hand coming up to cup your cheek while the other spreads across your belly, "That's exactly what I intend to do. For the rest of our lives. Now-" he leans down to press a kiss to your lips, "let me make you breakfast while you sit there and look beautiful."

Prt 1

[cinnateawrites]

summary: your criminal boyfriend sukuna who absolutely rocks your world in the best way possible. now you’re in ur prison gf arc?

wc: uuhhh, 7k? i think..i yapped

cw: angsty, fluff, smut, mentions of guns, prison, drugs, etc. comfort at the end, pinky promise :3

you met ryomen sukuna through some mutuals. back when you were still smart. still cautious. some house party with peeling paint, shitty music. way too many bodies and way too many red solo cups.

you went with one of your girls yuki tsukumo—well, got dragged along. she was pointing people out, talking fast, already tipsy. you were half listening, half not giving a fuck.

then she leaned in, whispered over the rim of her drink,

“and that’s ryomen. don’t. he’s like crazy. like—jail time type shit.”

your ears perked up like a dog.

“jail time?” you asked. and then you saw him.

sitting on a shitty couch, red eyes. black tattoos on his face, crawling down the back of his neck, his arms, clearly all over. all ink and muscle and attitude. dragging a hand through a soft pink buzzcut, smoking a blunt. shirt half unbuttoned (thank fuck). tatted hands in his pockets like he could kill you or kiss you and you’d say thank you for both.

and to your surprise, he looked in your direction as you mindlessly walked to up him like you’d been shot by cupid. he smirked, looking you up and down—like he already knew you’d walk over.

“you lost?” his voice was low. rough. amused.

you shook your head. “nope.” sitting on his lap anyways.

and you swore it was just you being dumb. wanted a quick fuck, nothing more. you weren’t actually gonna fall for him.

after the first time you met him, it started slow. drinks, texts, late nights that blurred into mornings. you never asked what he did—not really. he never volunteered it. but the cash came easy. so what the hell right?

“you scared of me yet?” he asks you one night, voice low, fingers brushing your thigh while you sat in his lap, his gun cold against your lower back while it was tucked in his waist band.

you shake your head. “dunno, should i be?”

he grins. all teeth. “nah. i’d never hurt you.” and he meant it.

you always looked the other way when he left in the middle of the night. didn’t feel the need ask why he always checked the blinds twice. why he had two phones. why he flinched when a black SUV passed too slow.

because sukuna…he was surprisingly gentle. always held the door for you. always touched you like he meant it. he made you laugh when you didn’t want to, made you feel like the only girl in the world. took you out and never let you pay. took you home and made you feel safe, somehow, even with a gun or two on the nightstand.

you know he’s not a good man. you’re not stupid.

but he just looks so goddamn fine when he leans against the hood of his car, blunt between his lips, black hoodie clinging to his frame. the kind of man people cross the street to avoid.

i mean come on, he’s a criminal. a real one. not some fake ass who shoplifts and smokes mids. sukuna moves product, handles money, kills when he has to—cold, smart, ruthless.

but with you? he’s just so soft. always puts his gun on the counter before dinner. keeps his voice low when you’re tired. kisses the inside of your wrist and tugs you into his lap when you’re mad at him. carries you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch. rubs your feet without asking.

he kisses you so sweetly. calls you baby in that low voice like it’s a threat. you argue like you want to kill each other and fuck like you’re trying to bring each other back to life.

so when he comes home at night, blood on his clothes and that dead-calm look in his eye, and mutters, “need you to say i was with you tonight,”

you don’t ask. you just say: “yeah. course you were.”

(fuck it, we ball)

and some months later, he’s still in your bed. still eating all of your snacks, washing your dishes sometimes, kissing your neck with a kind of possessiveness that should be a red flag—but feels so green.

the thing is? he never lies to you. doesn’t even try to.

“i’m not clean,” he says one night, tracing tattoos along your thigh while the tv plays something neither of you are watching. “i do bad shit. and i’m not gonna stop.”

you probably should’ve left then. but instead, you kissed him.

and by the end of year one, you’re living in his apartment—scratch that, your apartment, because his name’s not on the lease. “can’t leave a paper trail, princess.” the place is cozy and yours. you got loud neighbors and a pitbull named akuma—big, gray, dumb as hell, and completely obsessed with sukuna.

“he’s gonna be a little menace to society,” you said when he brought the puppy home.

sukuna just smirked, kneeling down, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “takes after his dad.”

the three of you are like some fucked-up little family. your neighbors always side-eye you. your mom knows but chooses not to say anything anymore. and now your friends have stopped trying to talk you out of it.

and you stopped pretending you wanted out a loooong ass time ago.

fast forward to two years in: the fridge is covered in dumb polaroids. you brushing your teeth. him flipping off the camera. akuma in the middle, tongue out, wearing the stupid, gucci harness you swore was too expensive until sukuna said, “yeah, and?” and bought it anyway.

and now sukuna’s even got your name inked into the thick muscle of his forearm. right above those bold lines on his wrist.

“seriously? this isn’t like sharpie or something?” you’d asked when he came home from the tattoo shop that day.

he just smirked. “dead serious.”

when akuma jumps into bed and crushes your legs and sukuna tells him to get off but doesn’t mean it, when he presses his inked hand to your thigh while you’re watching a movie and says “gonna put a ring on it, you know that?”

you believe every word.

one day, you see the red and blue lights flash by in a blur out the window when he comes running inside the apartment—breathless—you don’t question him. idiot move but it’s because he always comes home. always throws his wallet and his keys on the counter and kisses your cheek like nothing happened. cooks dinner shirtless, muscles flexing while he flips the steak and washes his hands off in the sink.

you clean his knuckles. you patch his ribs. you kiss the crown of his head while he falls asleep on the couch with his arms around you and that’s all that matters.

but you notice how he’s been on edge. more late nights. tighter grip on your waist when you’re out. more checking the windows. more guns on the table.

“you trust me?” he asks later that night, voice low in the dark.

you’re in bed, curled against his side, tracing the black ink on his chest. akuma at your feet. his heart’s beating too fast.

you nod. “always, kuna.”

he exhales, fingers brushing over your spine.

“then no matter what happens—no matter who says what, or what you hear—you remember that. alright?”

you look up at him. search his face. “baby, what’s going on?”

he doesn’t answer. just kisses your forehead, holds you tighter.

a week goes by after that conversation. everything is almost perfect and then it’s not. it all happens so fast. it’s 2:26 a.m. quiet, maybe a little too quiet. then it’s not.

one minute you’re on the couch, hoodie on, legs tucked under you, sukuna’s head in your lap while a movie plays low in the background. he’s half-asleep, arm curled around your thigh, breathing slow like—for once—he’s letting himself rest.

then a crash. your front door kicked in. boots pounding down the hall. shouting—sharp, cold, barked like war commands.

“CLEAR.”

“LEFT SIDE.”

“MOVE MOVE MOVE—”

“HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”

akuma is the first to react—your gray pittie, big and gentle and stupidly loyal—howling, barking like he’s ready to kill. but there are too many of them. someone yells to grab the dog. you scream his name, but they’ve already got him by the collar, dragging him back while he thrashes and whines. red and blue lights flash across the walls. guns drawn.

you’re frozen, shaking, the room is spinning.

you’re still processing—still trying to understand why there are rifles in your face. why they’re screaming your name. why they’re tearing through your drawers, your closet. why they’re grabbing sukuna’s burner phone, the rolled cash, the duffel bags, the box under the bed he told you never to touch.

sukuna’s already standing—calm. too calm. hands raised. jaw tight.

his gun’s on the coffee table. he doesn’t move. he just looks at you.

“listen to me. breathe. look at me. i told you—don’t forget, alright?”

you’re crying now. shaking. choking on air.

his eyes—sharp, red, unreadable—don’t move.

you lunge for him, but two officers grab you first and shove you against the wall. you’re screaming just trying to see him, but they’re in the way, shouting over you.

“wait—please, don’t hurt him!” you shake your head, blinking through tears, “he didn’t—he—what the fuck is going on?!”

“ryomen sukuna, you’re under arrest for organized crime, weapons trafficking, drug trafficking, assault with a deadly weapon—”

the words don’t sound real and it’s not like you didn’t know. you weren’t stupid. you just loved him too much to say it out loud.

as they read him his rights. he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t blink. he lets them cuff him—wrists behind his back, shoulders loose. they slam him into the wall and he still turns to find you.

and he’s smiling.

the cuffs are tight. your apartment’s destroyed. your dog is howling like he’s mourning a death.

but sukuna just smiles. like this is nothing. like he knew it was coming. which in hindsight, he tried to warn you something was coming.

his eyes stay on you, even through the flashlight beams, the chaos.

“it’s okay, baby,” he says, soft, just for you. “don’t cry.”

“sukuna—please, no—”

he keeps smiling. even as they start pulling him toward the door.

“i’ll be alright. i promise.”

and just before the hallway swallows him, just before the sirens drown it all out.

“baby,” he calls out again, louder this time. “look at me.”

you do, through the blur of tears, you do.

he’s got a split lip from how they man handled him, bleeding. his arms tensed behind his back. his face still calm.

“don’t worry, yeah?” voice steady. “they’re just doing their job. i’ll be fine.”

“b-but you promised—” your voice breaks. “you promised me—”

“i know.” he nods. and for the first time, the smile slips. just for a second. “i know, baby. i’m sorry.”

they drag him out towards the squad car. akuma’s losing it—thrashing against the grip on his collar, trying to follow him. you collapse to the floor, sobbing. akuma finally escapes from one of the officers and pushes his head into your side, whining like his heart’s breaking too.

as you look around, they’re bagging everything. phones. files. guns. bricks. a woman in a black blazer reads off inventory like she’s listing groceries. her voice is calm. efficient. it makes you want to scream.

while you’re left on the floor—sobbing, shaking, clutching your dog while your whole life gets zipped into evidence bags. and all you can hear is his voice, still yelling from outside:

“don’t fuckin’ touch my girl or my dog—you hear me?!”

you stare past the officer crouched in front of you, not even hearing him anymore—just watching sukuna get shoved into the back of a squad car.

and just before the door slams, he shouts, “i love you, y’know that? i’ll come back.”

the door closes.

all that was left was the mumbling of officers as they raided your apartment. after that, they take you down to the station. they question you for hours but they don’t have anything on you nor do they any info from you.

you were smart. loyal. quiet. just his girlfriend, just the love of his life. you didn’t know a damn thing. you were with him on this day. and that day. you gave them alibis for everything they tried to pin on him.

never flinched. never snitched. you held the line.

and when they finally let you go, hours later—bleary-eyed, fingers trembling, walking back into the wreckage of what used to be home—akuma’s waiting by the door. his tail thumping, eyes wide, like he doesn’t know how to stop looking for him.

and neither do you.

couple months down the line, it’s his court date. it’d been painfully long. phone calls, visits here and there but it was finally time for his sentencing.

you had gotten there early. standing in a corner, speaking with his defense attorney.

but as the time passed, the courtroom felt cold and quiet in that fake, choking way.

you’re sitting stiff in the second row, all black—tight dress, heavy coat, heels loud on the tile when you walked in. hands gripping the edge of the bench, white-knuckled as you waited.

your eyes lock on him the second he steps into the room.

sukuna walks in wearing shackles like they’re fucking jewelry. orange jumpsuit unzipped just enough to show the ink crawling up his chest. wrists cuffed, ankles too, chain connecting them down the middle.

he’s smirking like this is a joke. like he already knows how it ends. then his eyes land on you. his girl.

“hey, baby. you look good.”

“shut the fuck up,” one of the guards snaps, yanking the chain forward.

you don’t flinch. you don’t even speak. you just watch him walk to his seat like he owns the place.

he sits back like it’s a poker game. his leg bouncing, smiling. those red eyes scan the room once, like he’s bored.

then it begins. and soon enough, the judge starts reading the charges.

violent, serious shit. none of it exaggerated even a little bit.

organized crime. trafficking. assault. illegal weapons.

which again, you know what he did. you knew before the cops ever did. meanwhile everyone in the room looks at him like a monster but not you.

you don’t even blink when the jury says “guilty” after every charge and neither does he.

the judge ends the trial with his sentence, “twenty-five years. eligible for parole in seven.”

the courtroom breathes in like it just took a punch. and sukuna? sukuna just laughs. real fucking loud, ugly and real. he throws his head back like he’s in on some joke no one else gets.

the judge bangs the gavel. some man yells at him to shut up and stop laughing, the guards move fast.

he just grins through all of it then turns his head toward you, mouth split in that same damn smirk.

“still gonna write me, baby?” he calls, smug, voice booming off the walls.

you nod once—sharp. you could care less who sees.

the guards haul him up, start dragging him toward the side door. he doesn’t resist. just keeps smiling at you like he already knows you’ll be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. and he’s right.

the truth is, the charges could’ve been a hell of a lot worse. they had enough to bury him alive but you? you were a fucking godsend. every little lie was perfect. you lied through your goddamn teeth. all the fake alibis, timelines, pretending not to know what half the shit in your apartment was—had worked. even after they grilled you for hours. days. tried to shake you, to get you to break.

but you never gave them shit. you kept your voice steady, your story straight and your love for him ironclad.

and it worked. it could’ve been 40 years to life. it could’ve been no parole. it could’ve even been you, too. but here you are—still free. he’s not. but he’s still yours.

and seven years later? he’s still yours.

sure, he’s missed holidays. birthdays. every new year’s kiss. but every thursday at 3:00pm? you’re there.

you’re used to the routine now. first your ID, patdown, metal detector. pretty boring stuff.

at that point, you knew every guard by name.

you’ve done this a hundred times—plastic chairs, shitty vending machine coffee, body searches.

you don’t care because the second he walks into the visitation room everything else fades out.

he’s bigger now. broader. face leaner, eyes sharper—darker in a way that says time has passed, and prison doesn’t change people so much as refine them. orange jumpsuit rolled to the waist, white tank clinging to his chest, black ink crawling up the back of his neck like smoke.

and that grin—dangerous. crooked. just for you.

“fuck, baby,” he drawls, sliding into the seat across from you. “you get hotter every time i see you. is that a new lip gloss?”

you roll your eyes. “you gonna flirt or ask how i’ve been?”

he shrugs, smirking. “same thing.”

still cocky. still loud. still him but the edges are tighter now. more controlled like every second without you has been simmering under his skin.

there were times you’d talk. about nothing. about everything. he tells you about prison like it’s high school drama. you tell him about bills, work, new TV shows, keeping the bed warm for him. he listens like every word matters. like you’re the only real thing in his world.

“are you wearing that chain i sent you?” he asks.

you tug it out from under your hoodie—a little silver bar with his name engraved.

his grin widens. “of course you are, don’t know why i even asked.”

and sometimes, when the guards aren’t looking, he leans in close. voice low, filthy, just for you:

“you gonna let me fuck you in the conjugal trailer next month?”

“still think about that pretty little body when i fall asleep.”

“i’m gonna come home and ruin you. you know that, right?”

you squeeze your thighs together. he sees. smirks. and of course the smug bastard is proud of himself.

and sometimes it’s quiet. just the sound of your fingers tapping on the metal table. he stares at your hands like they mean something.

“seven years,” he mutters. “and you’re still here.”

you shrug. “you’d do it for me.”

he lifts a brow. “would i?”

you give him a look.

he laughs—low, warm and real. “yeah,” he says. “yeah, i fuckin’ would.”

there’s no kissing here. no touching past a handshake, a goodbye but the way he looks at you?

you feel it everywhere.

and one day, just as the guard calls time, just as he stands and stretches and leans in a little closer than he’s supposed to—

he murmurs, voice quiet, steady. “marry me when i get out.”

you blink. “what?”

but he’s already turning away, that same old grin tugging at his mouth, shouting something crass to another inmate, hands cuffed behind his back.

the door slams shut behind him.

and you’re left sitting there, heart pounding, chain warm between your fingers, replaying those words in your head.

the next time you see him, he walks in wearing that ugly-ass orange jumpsuit as usual, smile already stretching across his face the second he sees you.

“look at you,” he says, voice low and filthy despite the guards. “dressed all nice for your criminal boyfriend.”

you roll your eyes. “you asked me to.”

“yeah. and you listened. you always do” he leans in. “always such a good girl for me.”

the tension’s thick. his wrists are cuffed, but his eyes are on you like he’s already got his hands around your throat.

“heard the news?” he asks casually, voice like honey dipped in gasoline. “early release. next month.”

your breath catches. “wait, are you serious?”

“mmhm.” he leans back, tongue flicking over his teeth. “good behavior.” he grins. “just for you.”

he’s been cleaning up—no fights, no smuggling, no stabbings in the yard, even though he wants to. because he wants to see you again. wants his hands on you. his mouth. wants you under him, not across the table.

“been thinkin’ about what I’m gonna do to you first,” he says, voice lower now, eyes burning. “once i get out.”

you swallow and shift in your seat. “are you gonna behave?”

he laughs. full-bodied, dark. “fuck no. i’m gonna ruin you.”

he leans forward, chained wrists clinking on the table, eyes locked on yours.

“i’ve been locked up seven years, princess. do you know how much time i’ve spent thinking about that sweet little body under mine?”

you feel your cheeks heat, but you don’t look away.

“you better be ready,” he says, voice rough now. “’cause i’m gonna spend the first night out fucking you like i’m tryna get sent right back.”

so thankfully, he’s the kind of inmate that runs the damn yard but keeps his nose clean just enough to qualify for early release. he did beat someone’s ass in the showers last month for talking sideways about you—but still managed to earn “good behavior” by bribing the guards and running literacy programs like a deranged philanthropist.

next time you hear from him he calls you from the jail phone with that lazy, smug tone:

“two more weeks. then i’m home. you ready for that, princess?”

“depends. are you gonna kill anyone again?”

“no, baby. i’m a changed man, pinky promise.”

a pause. “unless they touch you.”

but life as a prisoner’s girlfriend had been interesting to say the least. some your favorite memories though?

the video call visits. the video calls hit different.

you answer from the bed, in his hoodie that thankfully still smelled like him, all soft lighting and skin and love in your eyes.

the screen flickers—and there he is.

inmate #966666. your man. arms crossed, face lit by the shitty fluorescent light in the visiting block. buzzed short on the sides, salmon pink thick on top. face tattoos sharp even in pixelation. smirking. cocky. starved.

“there’s my girl,” he rumbles, leaning in like he’s trying to reach through the screen. “lookin’ all cozy in our bed.”

you smile, soft. “missed you today.”

he leans back, legs spread, grinning. “yeah? say it again.”

you roll your eyes, giggling. “missed you.”

“mm,” he hums. “missed you more, baby. how’s our place lookin’? bought anything new for me to come home to?”

and you have—so you flip the camera around, showing off the new record shelf, the little framed photo of you two from before, and the rug you’ve been saving for.

“can’t wait for you to see it for real,” you say quietly. “can’t wait till you come home.”

his face softens—just barely. eyes half-lidded.

“me neither, princess. every night i picture it. you. the apartment. our bed. my hands all over you again.”

you bring the camera back to yourself, and akuma sits up on the floor beside your bed, tail thumping.

sukuna lights up like a kid on christma.

the dog perks up at his voice, sniffs the screen, tail going harder.

“yo, come here, big man,” he coos. “you takin’ care of my girl, huh? keepin’ her warm at night? …better not be sleepin’ on my fuckin’ pillow.”

you both laugh. but you already know when sukuna gets out, he’s picking that big soft baby up in his arms like it’s nothing, and probably crying into his fur when no one’s looking.

and the letters? worth framing.

he sends them folded perfectly, sprayed with just a hint of your favorite cologne. immaculate. front-and-back, always. tight, clean handwriting. detailed as hell—how he’s doing, what he’s thinking about. sweet shit like “wish i could hold you right now. need it bad.” and spicy shit like: “wanna fuck you face-down ass-up the minute I’m out.” “was dreamin’ about you last night. woke up hard. you owe me.”

one of his first letters had said:

hey baby, how are you? miss you real bad. i woke up thinkin’ about your laugh. that one that comes out when you’re tryin’ not to snort. i miss it. miss you. drawn your face from memory like four times now. don’t tell nobody, they’ll say i’m gettin’ soft. been missing your smell. you smell like home. that sweet vanilla shit you always put on. i look at your pictures every night. even got one under my pillow. even when they toss my cell, i hide it like it’s fuckin’ contraband. you’re my peace. can’t lose you princess.

then they’d switch, just like that.

you know, i thought about that one night. you dancing in the kitchen, making soup, wearing those little shorts. you remember the ones? yeah. me too. that’s why i wrote this with one hand. also last night i laid in this goddamn bunk and imagined the sound you make when you take your bra off after a long day. hard as a rock. you’re such a fuckin’ problem. do you still wear that lacey one i like? the one that barely holds anything? bet your titties are sittin’ real pretty in it right now. fuck me.

i miss how you say my name when you’re tired. i miss how you say it when you’re on top. i miss your thighs around my neck. i miss your mouth. i miss being inside you so deep you forget your own fuckin’ name.

but more than that? i miss watching you eat dinner across from me. i miss you bitchin’ about your coworkers. i miss your fingers in my hair when i can’t sleep. i don’t give a fuck how long it takes, you’re it for me.

and he always had a sketch tucked inside. sometimes it’s little things—your side profile, your body. or sharp, shaded tattoos—ones he designed for you. (something he did on the side when he was still a law abiding citizen). his name in kanji. a snake coiled around a katana surrounded by lilies.

this one’s for your spine. wanna see it when i fuck you from behind.

then, right under that like he didn’t just make you cry and wet at the same time:

…also. take it easy at work. remember to eat. and kiss akuma for me. shit, also, can you put some extra on my books? tryna get you something for your birthday. don’t ask what. it’s not a weapon, swear.

and you do—put money on his books, no hesitation. commissary’s got nothing on you. he’s got honey buns, decent ramen, and the best soap on his block. your man is moisturized and fed. period.

and at the end of a long, loving, slightly filthy letter, he always signed in that perfect script: “ryo. always yours.”

you kept every letter in a shoebox under your bed, every sketch on your corkboard. you read them on bad days. and good ones.

you always wrote back, too— keeping him updated with everything. little doodles, lipstick kisses on the envelope, spritz of perfume here and here. snuck in polaroids of you and akuma. even some spicy ones for his eyes only. always signed with “your/name, always & forever <3.”

oh and those conjugal visits? they most deeeefinitely take the cake.

you had waited weeks for them, marked off in red hearts on the calendar.

one of the first visits:

you walk into that little cold-ass private trailer with a bag packed—cute pajamas, your favorite lotion, that perfume he likes. he’s already there when you arrive, looking like sin in his real clothes. not that orange jumpsuit he’s usually in. eyes glued to you the second you step in.

then he softens. just a little.

you stand. don’t even say anything. just walk straight into his arms. he buries his face in your neck, breath catching like it’s the first inhale he’s had since they locked the door behind him.

“fuck,” he mutters. “you smell good. gonna feel even better.”

his hands are everywhere. rough palms on your waist, your thighs, your ass. lips dragging over your skin like he’s starved—and he is.

he grabs your waist fast, pulls you in for a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth, rough like he’s been starving for you.

“got something to show you,” you whisper, breathless already.

you turn around, pull your dress up, and tug the side of your thong down just enough to show him—

small script. his name. right cheek. close to the curve of your hip.

he goes still. his hand on your ass, thumb dragging right over it. then he finally speaks.

“nah, what the fuck,” he laughs, eyes wide, voice shaking. “you got my name tatted on you?”

you look back over your shoulder, smiling.

“been had it. waited to show you in person.”

his hands are now rubbing all over you, gripping that ass with both hands like it’s his last meal. but then, he’s got you onto the bed so fast the mattress groans. pulls your dress over your head and yanks your panties down. he stares like he’s looking at something holy.

“missed this mouth,” he groans, spreading your legs, licking up your slick with a filthy moan. “missed how fuckin’ sweet you are when you’re beggin’.”

you gasp, already squirming.

he fully buries face between your thighs, hands gripping your waist like he’s starving and hasn’t had a real meal since he got locked up. moaning into your cunt, licking like it’s his last day alive.

“taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he groans. “missed this fuckin’ pussy so bad. missed how you sound when i’m inside you.”

after a two or three orgasms from his tongue and fingers, he finally fucks you. it’s deep, rough, desperate. your legs around his waist, your back arching off the mattress while he pounds into you like he’s making up for lost time. his tip hitting that sweet spot repeatedly in your pussy that makes your body take a fucking screenshot. teeth on your neck, fingers digging into your hips right below where his name is inked into your skin.

he just mutters filthy shit in your ear:

“you got my name on you, and now you’re gonna take all of me.”

“this ass? mine.”

“gonna fuck you so good you dream about it ‘til the next visit.”

then he flips you both, makes you ride him, sucking your tits while they bounce, eyes half-lidded.

“shiiiit, sweetheart—gonna fuck a baby into you in this nasty little room if you’re not careful,” he grits.

and you just moan louder, hands in his hair, riding the edge of pure bliss.

“missed you,” you whisper, staring up at him, cradling his face.

he kisses you. hard. filthy. then soft.

he pulls away breathless. jaw slack, panting like a dog in heat.

“fuck, baby—come on. gimme that shit. come all over my dick. show me how much you missed it.”

you do. messy. loud. milking him for all he’s got.

and he follows right after, hands gripping your ass so hard they’re sure to leave bruises as he cums deep and desperate.

and when he’s done, he kisses your neck, arms wrapped around you.

“gonna marry you when i get out,” he whispers. “i swear.”

you both lie on the tiny mattress after some much needed TLC. tangled up, his head between your tits, your fingers in his hair. he traces your tattoo with his fingers.

“gonna take care of you right, when i get out,” he murmurs, voice rough. “no more bullshit.”

you kiss his jaw. whisper back. “i know.”

and when you left that day, sore and glowing, your man watched you walk away as the guards put the cuffs back on him, mouth curled into a grin, voice low like a promise:

“keep my side of the bed warm, baby. i’m comin’ home. promise.”

and the day he gets out, you’re already there.

you’re standing by the gate before the sun’s even up. his hoodie on, necklace with his name around your neck. you’re trying to play it cool, but your hands won’t stop shaking.

and when that gate finally opened, when ryomen sukuna steps out, a free man, tattoos gleaming in the morning light, black tee hugging his chest, hair grown out just a little, grin already forming.

you don’t even get a word out before he grabs you, spins you around like a goddamn princess. his hands firm on your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, face buried in your neck.

“fuck, baby,” he breathes. “missed you so fuckin’ bad.”

you’re laughing. crying a little. arms wrapped around his shoulders so tight it hurts.

he sets you down, but barely. just enough to kiss your cheeks, your jaw, your nose, and then he pulls back, still holding your face like it’s precious.

“you ready?”

you blink. “for what?”

he grins. big. so sure.

“courthouse. thirty minutes away. judge’s on lunch break. said he’ll squeeze us in.”

you blink again. “wait, the fuck? are you—you’re serious?”

“sweetheart,” he says, already dragging you toward the car, “i’ve been locked up seven fuckin’ years. i’m so serious.”

cut to an hour later: courthouse.

fluorescent lights. ugly tile. fake bouquet from the clerk’s desk in your hand. cheap rings in a little box you picked up from the nearest pawn shop on the way there. you didn’t even have time to change. he didn’t care. not even a little.

“you look perfect,” he mutters, adjusting your hoodie like it’s designer couture. “i’m gonna wife you up in my hoodie. that’s so hard.”

you roll your eyes. “you’re such a dumbass.”

“your dumbass now,” he grins emphasizing the your. “permanently.”

you say your vows that came straight from the heart in a cheap government office, between a sleepy officiant and a laminated “no food or drink” sign.

but he looks at you like you’re in a white dress on a mountaintop.

he kisses your hand when he slides the ring on.

says “’bout fuckin’ time,” loud enough that the clerk snorts.

and when they say “you may now kiss—”

he doesn’t wait. he pulls you in, kisses you like he’s trying to breathe through you. it’s deep and messy and a little bit desperate.

you giggle against his mouth.

he presses his forehead to yours, still grinning.

“mrs. ryomen fuckin’ sukuna,” he says proudly. “finally.”

you walk out as husband and wife.

he pulls you in by the hips and kisses you again in the parking lot, hands low, grin wide.

“made good on that promise, yeah?”

you decide not to do anything fancy. no champagne. no five-star dinner.

you celebrate the only way you know how—greasy as hell.

just burgers and fries at that little place you used to talk about in letters and phone calls—the one with the neon sign and checkered floors. sukuna orders double everything, and he’s across from you in sweats and an ankle monitor, eating like a man who forgot what real food tastes like.

he steals your fries when you’re not looking. you slap his hand.

he smirks. “married now, baby. my fries too.”

you share a milkshake. vanilla. extra whipped cream. two straws.

he stares at you across the table like he still doesn’t believe you’re real.

“you know i dreamed about this?” he says, voice rough from grease and emotion. “used to lay there and think about you, right across from me, doing this exact same shit.”

you smile. press your foot against his under the table.

“dream about the milkshake or me?”

he snorts. “both. obviously.”

he takes your hand and kisses your ring finger, red eyes locked on yours and filled with so much love.

and when you finally drive home—real home—his leg’s bouncing the whole way. you both get off the car and head up the steps and you unlock the front door.

“you sure he’s not gonna bite me?”

you snort. “you’re the one who taught him to go for the ankles.”

the apartment is quiet when you pull up. it’s familiar to him, but different. newer furniture. he’s seen it all in video calls but it’s different in person now. his shoes aren’t by the door anymore, but everything else—everything you—is still here. still home.

he hesitates at the threshold. just for a second. like he’s afraid it’ll vanish if he walks in. but then—

“AKUMA!” you call out, voice soft but firm.

and there’s the sound of scrambling paws, claws on the hardwood, and then akuma’s there—gray, stocky, a little older, but still full of love and joy.

the pitbull barrels into the room like he’s about to tear through the walls, skids to a stop, and freezes when he sees him.

sukuna kneels down, slow, whispering. “…yo.”

akuma just stares at first—like he’s short-circuiting. akuma sniffs the air. tail wags once. then again. and then he launches.

sukuna catches all 70 pounds of him like it’s nothing, falling back onto his ass with a grunt as akuma licks at his face like he’s trying to put seven years of love into one minute.

“fuck—okay, okay—goddamn—” sukuna’s laughing, arms tight around the dog’s back, fingers gripping his fur like he’s afraid he’ll disappear again.

akuma’s whining, tail a blur of chaos, body wriggling like he can’t get close enough.

and sukuna—your big, bad, tatted-up, ex-convict husband?

he fucking cries. silent at first. then not. (expected)

his shoulders were shaking, arms wrapped tight around the dog, forehead pressed to his fur.

you just watch from the doorway. hands over your mouth. heart splitting. he looks up at you, eyes wet.

“fuck, baby,” he says, voice cracking. “i didn’t think—i didn’t know if—”

you kneel beside him. touch his back. “he never stopped waiting,” you whisper. “neither did i.”

he pulls you both in—you and akuma—his whole world in his arms now. big, calloused hands around your waist. akuma draped across your laps like a living blanket.

you sit beside him. curl against his side.

“god, y/n, you—fuck—i…,” he whispers into akuma’s fur. “didn’t think i’d get to see you again.”

and for the first time in seven years, sukuna lets himself feel safe.

after you both settle in, it’s quiet now. real quiet. not prison quiet.

no locks clanking. no cell doors slamming. no count. no cold tile or shitty mattress. home quiet.

you’re both clean—fresh from a hot shower, towel-dried hair, his hands all over you the entire time like he couldn’t believe you were real. when he brushed his teeth, he kept making jokes about “first night as a free man, i’m getting minty for my wife.”

his wife.

he’s got everything he dreamed about for the last seven years. sheets that smell like you. a real bed. a dim lamp in the corner next to a photo of you, him & akuma.

and you—standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but one of his old shirts and a look that says finally.

the ring glints on your finger in the dark. he exhales like he’s never really breathed before. he sits on the edge of the bed for a while. just stares at the wall.

you don’t rush him. you know what’s going on in that handsome head of his. this is the place he got arrested in. the same room they tore apart. same windows, same shadows.

“seven years,” he murmurs. “first night back in my bed.”

you walk over. slow. crawl into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck.

“our bed,” you whisper.

he swallows. hard. hands settling on your hips.

eyes drinking you in like he can’t believe you’re real. like maybe he’s still dreaming in some concrete box.

“you’re my wife,” he says, voice thick. “fuckin’ wife.”

you smile against his lips. “so make me feel like it.”and that’s all it takes.

he kisses you hard—mouth desperate, like he’s catching up for all the years he couldn’t. he pulls your shirt over your head, kisses the top of your chest first, then lower. his hands are everywhere. reverent. hungry. he grabs your thighs, flips you onto your back, crawls down between your legs like he’s starving.

and he is.

he pulls your panties off with his teeth. kisses your inner thighs like he’s praying. then licks into you, slow and deep, groaning when your fingers tangle in his hair.

“sweetest fuckin’ thing,” he murmurs against your pussy. “missed this taste every night. used to jerk off thinkin’ about this right here.”

he eats like he’s got time to worship. not rough. not rushed. just…grateful. long licks, fingers curling inside, nose pressed to your clit until your thighs are shaking and your hips are grinding into his face.

“go ahead, baby. be a good girl and come on my face. it’s your first night as my wife. i got shit to prove.”

you come hard. breathless. crying out his name.

and he doesn’t stop. not until your thighs are twitching. not until he’s satisfied.

then he crawls back up, drags your mouth to his, lets you taste yourself on his lips.

“sit on it,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “wanna watch you ride me. wanna feel all of it.”

you straddle him, slow, sinking down onto his cock until you’re full—so fucking full it steals your breath.

he moans, head tipping back, gripping your hips, watching every inch disappear.

“my fuckin’ wife,” he breathes. “look at you.” you move slow at first, hands on his chest, grinding your hips like you’ve got nowhere else to be for the rest of your life.

and he loves it.

he’s got his hands all over you. one on your waist, the other cupping your breast, thumb brushing your nipple.

he fucks up into you, matching your pace, mouth dragging across your throat.

“seven fuckin’ years,” he pants. “you know how many times i dreamed of this?”

you’re shaking now. gasping.

“show me,” you whisper. “show me how bad you wanted it.”

he flips you fast—so fast—lays you down on his bed for the first time in seven years, and fucks you deep, slow, deliberate. the room filled with the most obscene sounds. bed creaking, the sweet, wet squelch of your pussy and his balls slapping against your ass.

he kisses your fingers. your mouth. your ring.

“mine,” he whispers into your neck. “forever. mine.”

you come again. this time with his name in your mouth and his hand locked with yours.

he follows right after—groaning low, buried deep inside you, face pressed to your chest. (definitely pregnant after that)

you collapse on top of him. he wraps you up. presses kisses to your hair. just lays there, breathing with you, forehead to yours, thumb brushing your cheek.

“thank you,” he whispers. “for waiting. for staying. for not giving up on me.”

no more grainy phone calls. no more visits. no more letters. just the two of you home with nothing between you but peace.

he rubs his hand over your back, voice soft.

“we’re good now, yeah?”

you nod, half-asleep. “mhm.”

“told you i’d come back.” he whispers.

after that, it gets quiet again. except akuma’s snoring in the corner like a damn freight train. the door’s locked. the city’s asleep.

and you’re in bed, legs tangled with your husband’s, skin warm from hours of sex and laughter and most of all—relief.

sukuna’s on his back, one arm around your waist, the other tucked behind his head.

he’s watching the ceiling like it owes him something, blinking slow, chest still rising a little too fast. like he can’t quite believe any of this is real.

you lean over him, kiss the ink on his collarbone.

he smiles—lazy and smug—as usual.

“what?” you murmur, tracing a line down his stomach.

he glances at you, eyes half-lidded. “just thinking.”

“oof, that’s dangerous.” you tease.

he huffs a laugh. “yeah.”

you wait and then he says it—quiet, almost like a joke.

“remember the party?”

you blink. “the one where we met. over some shitty, warm beer that toji picked up at the corner store?”

“mmhm.” he smirks, but softer now. “the one where yuki told you not to talk to me.”

you laugh. full and real. “‘don’t. he’s crazy, jail-time type shit.’”

“and you came and sat on my lap anyway.”

“i meeean, you were hot.” you shrug.

“and you’re an idiot.”

you smile, curl into his side, cheek resting on his shoulder.

he presses a kiss to your forehead, knuckles brushing your bare spine.

“guess i should thank your dumbass friend,” he mutters, voice low, already fading into sleep. “she’s the reason i met my wife. my ride or die.”

you smile and don’t say anything. you just hold him tighter, like you’re afraid he’ll disappear all over again.

two years in, then seven apart.

crime. then courtrooms. then shitty vending machine coffee. hundreds of letters and visits.

and now he’s here, tucked against your side, finally. fully.

yours in a way no one ever thought he should be.

you whisper, barely a breath. “guess you’re not so crazy after all, huh?”

he stirs—doesn’t open his eyes—but he hears you and with a rough, half-asleep laugh, he mutters.

“still fuckin’ crazy.”

then he kisses your shoulder, presses closer, and falls back asleep with his hand curled around your wedding ring.

you’re just starting to drift off—his breathing slow against your skin, your fingers still tangled in his hair—when the mattress shifts with a heavy thud.

then a groan.

“no. absolutely the fuck not—” sukuna mumbles, voice hoarse.

akuma, in all his 70-pound glory, launched himself onto the bed. sprawling across both of you like he’s claiming his spot. head wedged on your stomach, paws kicking into sukuna’s ribs.

you laugh, half-asleep. “aw, kuuuna. baby, he missed you.”

sukuna sighs, glaring at the ceiling.

“seven years in prison, and i come home to my traitorous cockblockin’ dog.”

akuma lets out a loud sigh and promptly starts snoring. loud and obnoxious.

you kiss his little boxy head and then sukuna’s temple, still grinning.

sukuna grumbles something under his breath—but his arm curls tighter around both of you.

and you’re pretty sure you heard him mutter the words, “thanks…whoever’s out there.”

© j3llyc4kes

:3 please check out my other works! here’s the master list! <3

a/n: this was pretty long! been sitting on this for about a month now, hopefully you all enjoyed it! let me know if i should continue this or leave it as is! t

[cinnateawrites]

Does anyone remember that one Gojo x Reader fic where the reader is pregnant, and Gojo keeps cheating on her? She allows it to happen because she’s literally pregnant and he’s her only support system.

There’s a line where the reader says something near the end like “I hope she’s a girl,” or “I hope we have a daughter” because how would Gojo feel if someone did the same thing he did to her… but to his daughter?

I’m too lazy to scroll through every single liked post to find it 🙁

Also I think he’s a yandere or something in it, toxic red flag but the fic EATS 😛 and it’s spilt in two parts

[cinnateawrites]

would love to hear a bit more of that immortal!reader who feels all the pain but doesn’t tell anyone angst thing that you mentioned…😇 just saying

Well... a bit off but how abt ghost whos jealous of immortal!reader???

After the initial shock and everyone coming to terms with the fact that u really are immortal, a new feeling creeps into ghosts chest.

Jealousy.

Hes heard plenty of stories from u since that op about all the things you've survived. Sure, they may be embellished, but at the core its all true. Hell, ghost literally saw you regrow a limb. And yet, no one would be able to tell just looking at you. Your skin doesnt scar, no injury ever leaves its mark for longer than a week.

He can't help it, that sick desire to have been cursed with ur ailment. To be unmarred despite all hos truama. In the mornings when ghost looks in the mirror, he studies simons face. Imagines what it would look like now without all the scars. Would he look a bit more like his ma?

This ache only grows, and with it ghost cant bare to look at u, feeling sick with envy. It gets to the point he avoids you and is outright hostile at times. Everyone picks up on it, hes not exactly subtle. But it all comes to a boil when you complain about the possibility of mines and ghost shoots back "who cares? You'll just come back good as new."

The line goes quiet, and you just, you cant take it anymore. Youve put up with the cold shoulder, the sneers, the glares. But downright animosity in the middle of an op? "What the hell is your problem?" You snap.

"nothing. Just making an observation." Ghost's voice is gruff, and no matter how much hes internally screaming at himself to shut up he cant stop. "Doesn't really matter if you die, eh? You come back, no scars or nothin' to ruin that perfect face of yours."

You huff in astonishment and barely contained rage. "Is that what this is about? You feeling too fucking ugly so you gotta take it out on me-"

"thats enough! Both of you, cut it out. You can deal with this later." Ur captain cuts in, and u just barely bite ur tongue.

Still, you seethe and seethe. Ghost basically told you he doesnt care if you died. And ur what, supposed to let that slide? Aa far as ur concerned. Ghost isnt a teammate anymore. Isn't even an ally you can trust.

[cinnateawrites]

The Last Mad King

Pairings- Satoru Targaryen x F! reader

Warnings - just sexual tension and talk in this, him being BATSHIT crazy, randomly killing mfs with fire - he's psychotic, breed kink like a mf, terrified ass reader, and a pretty dragon! <3

Okay this was an idea @sweetlandspos and me were dying over!!! Gojo as a Targaryen ahhh!

They call him the mad king.

Satoru - the last descendent of the Targaryens', the last of the dragon riders. He's sitting there on his elaborate golden throne, a fucking insane look in his bright blue eyes, those silvery white locks brushed back just so under his golden crown, wrapping his head. It glimmers under the fires lit above in the cast iron chandelier as you walk in slowly.

You have a guard on either arm in their silver armor, as if to make sure you don't try to escape - Satoru's brides were notorious for running off, or just eliminating themselves from the candidacy. Several were now in the dungeon for their discrepancies, but here you are, a perfect candidate from a perfect bloodline.

You weren't as brave as them.

If a dungeon is preferable to the mad King's company, just who is this fucking man? You've heard tales across the nation, of him killing his own people when they merely piss him off, of his powers that seem to be tall tales, but nothing prepared you for walking in and seeing him sitting next to a white dragon.

The dragon has the same beautiful blue eyes, she's towering over you, but not so big that she cannot fit in the throne room, roaring as you shrink back in fear. Satoru's eyes drift up and down your body in the thin gauze gown they've thrown you in, hiding nothing, he smirks as you tremble.

"Ah, my new bride, c'mere sweetheart, lemme see if you pass the inspection," he's grinning with white teeth flashing, you eye his dragon, its scales shimmering as he laughs then. "Are you scared of her? She's the last thing you should fear. Come."

Fuck.

You take a shaky breath, slippers dancing across the cold, unforgiving stone floor underneath, making you tremble more as you walk across the expanse, the guards letting your arms go. Satoru pauses as he sees your tits sway under that gown, as he sees your hips move side to side, begging for his hands.

You're perfect, terrified, big eyes wide in fear as you assess him, until you stand before him, and he leans forward in his massive throne. He stands then, towering over you, as his dragon tilts it's head, it's mouth opening in a gentle roar, he's chuckling like a psycho, a mad laughter that fits his tales, as he tilts your head.

"Attention on me, girl, only me." He tilts your chin up for an inspection, walking around you slowly in his majestic blue robes, his heeled boots clicking along the floor and echoing. "Fuck... you are by far the most superb offering I've had, just look at you."

As he speaks his lewd praise, he lifts your hair off your shoulders, brushing his fingers down the sides of your breasts, smirking as your nipples perk up, your breasts heaving with your terrified breaths. He cooes at you then, slipping his thumbs across them.

"Perfect," he slips his hands to your hips now, exhaling. "Breedable hips, too, hmm," he shocks you then, pressing you forward, until your head is against his throne, he assesses you from the back, his hands now gripping your ass.

"Your Majesty, please..." You're begging, and he's laughing then.

"I'll fuck you soon enough, no need to beg beautiful, just needed to see it from the back... mmm..." he stands you up after his careful assessment, standing you up, wrapping his big arms around you and tugging you close.

"Please, I..."

"Shh, shh, soon enough, I'll have you full of babies pretty girl," his voice is a terrifying caress, the dragon's blue eyes light up as Satoru looks at her. "What do you think, Sapphire, do you like her too!? I think I like this one!"

He's asking a fucking dragon if she likes you!? In a boyish tone mind you, not one of a king, like he's just a young silly little guy and not a psycho!

The dragon - Sapphire you guess - leans forward, Satoru takes your hand and she bumps it with her nose, cool scales feeling surprisingly smooth, and your heart hammers in your chest. Satoru moans a bit, pressing closer, cock thick and hard even under his layers of clothing, you shut your eyes in fear.

"She likes you, oh you're perfect," he's laughing again, turning you and cupping your face. "Are you crying? No, that just won't do," he laps the tears off with the tip of his tongue sighing. "You do look pretty crying though."

You say nothing, when the negotiations are set, and Satoru will finally have his bride. He's got you sitting on his lap, pressed against one of his hard thighs over the velvet of his pants, his hand resting on your thigh over the thin gossamer. You can hardly speak or think, as you watch him burn two people alive as they apparently have wronged him.

You sit through the entire meeting, almost naked in front of all these people, when Satoru tugs you further up his thigh, his lips against your ear. "I can't wait to put ten Targaryens inside your womb, fuck I can't wait to have you cockwarm me right here," he's pressing your tummy, you whine out. "You'd like that, hmm, pretty cunt wrapping my cock?"

You can't answer, a mix of feeling soaking wet and wanting to run yanking you in every direction, when he lands a sharp smack on your thigh. "Y-yes your majesty!"

"Perfect, soon sweetheart, very soon," his grin is as beautiful as it is terrifying. "We'll have all of our babies riding dragons again, we'll take everything back, hmm?"

You just nod and earn a kiss on your lips - your first, from an insane psychopath of a king, who just wants to breed you right here - and he lets you know. If you were his wife, he'd have no problem fucking loads of his seed in your womb right here, and you're left with an insane king and a fucking dragon surrounding you.

How did you end up here, and would you end up alive?

aha this was fun why does gojo fit so well??? I'm legit thinking of making it a drabble series or something - talk me out of itttt

[cinnateawrites]

So convinced John, Simon and König have big babies.

Big, chunky, chubby cheeked, 90th percentile, rolls on their arms, stomach and legs, doe eyed cabbage patch kids, babies.

They are the closet thing you or him are going to get to angels on this earth. They the cutest babies known to man. You don’t know how you managed to push such a big baby out of you, but you got the more adorable (and hungry) little thing known to man.

John, the old man, is almost appalled when the three of you get home and three months in, none of planned baby clothes or diapers can fit any of their clothes cause they’re so small. John definitely has a baby with such chubby cheeks, they’re like big mochi balls and have the cutest boba tea eyes that match yours. John fucking loves it. Cutest thing alive. The man can not say no to the babe for anything. Whatever the baby gurgles or cries for, John gives you that pout to match it.

Simon, always encouraging play time. Even when your baby can’t roll over, Simons giving the best examples (after pushing the coffee table and the couch out of the way) in the living room. A loooong baby, everyone so sure they’ll be tall. Your grandma can barely even lift them when they hit 9 months, they’re a heavy little thing. Simon is one of the few who can hold the baby in just one hand. Always eager to hold the baby in his arms, asking to help him put the carrier on so you can take (another) break.

And König who has to explain when your signing the baby up for daycare that his baby big baby is just 1 years old and not 3, who just started walking and has all those cute little rolls on his arms and legs, And yes, forced the 6’5 man to face his anxiety head on, still shy as ever and quietly apologizing after your child goes up to strangers like he knows them and babbles their heads off. But he’s right there, watching shows like Ms.Rachel, Blues Clues, Kipper abd Little Einsteins and singing along softly to all the songs. Your baby sat in his lap and enjoying every moment of it.

a/n: so unserious and probably ridiculously inaccurate. I just thought it’d be cute if these men had big babies.

masterlist

[cinnateawrites]

Amazing work, as always. 💖

Be brave, I‘m worth it

female human rda!reader x Neteyam

Words: 6.3k

Summary: The mission was simple: keep the prisoner alive. But Neteyam isn’t interested in survival— he’s interested in you.

Warnings: explicit smut, enemies to lovers, flirting, handjob, mating cycle/in rut, mentions of hunger strike, starving, humiliation, needles (to take blood samples), physical fights, violence (not against reader), Neteyam is a prisoner of war, na‘vi dirty talk, language barrier, alien biology, a/b/o dynamics, knots, yes he whimpers

Notes: this is short, lazy and not properly proof read, i just had this idea that I wanted to write down between my other wips and now I don’t know if I like it or not lol enjoy

You have heard of him before. The na‘vi they’ve taken hostage.

Not just any warrior from any clan, but the well trained son of the resistance leader. Jake Sully‘s son. He, who took down an entire armed outpost alone. With a fucking bow and an arrow against heavy machinery.

In the hallways, they speak of him in hushed tones, as if saying his name too loudly might summon him from the shadows of the trees. Neteyam. The eldest Sully.

The soldiers who have seen him and lived call him a demon, though not the kind they once thought all Na’vi to be. No, he is something else. Something worse. A ghost that strikes without warning, an archer whose arrows never miss, whose footsteps make no sound. And if you see the shadow of his banshee, you’re already dead.

They say he moves like the wind— there one moment, gone the next, leaving only bodies in his wake. The son of the great Toruk Makto and his sinister, gruesome wife. Raised in war, molded by it.

And now, he is the companies prisoner.

You don’t know how he managed to get himself captured, but it’s not like it matters much anyways. He’s here now and he‘s been the talk of the entire base for weeks. But there is something wrong with him. Which brings us to you.

You’ve worked with the Na’vi before. At least, that’s what your record says. You’ve studied their physiology, their biology, the way their systems work. You’ve patched up recombinant soldiers on the rare occasions they needed it, adjusted their treatments, monitored their vitals.

But this? This is different.

This is a real Na’vi. A wild one. An untamed, battle-hardened warrior who, if circumstances were different, would kill you without hesitation.

When you stepped into General Ardmore’s office this morning, she had barely looked up from her screen as she acknowledged your presence.

"General," you nodded with a tight smile.

"Doctor," she said, voice clipped, eyes scanning through reports. "He is sick. On a hunger strike since tuesday. Not drinking much either." Without mentioning his name, you already know who she’s talking about. You swallow thickly. "If he dies, it’ll be a problem."

She doesn’t say why and you don’t ask.

"I need him stabilized," she continues. "Figure out what’s wrong. Do whatever you need to, just keep him alive."

You nod, swallowing the questions that want to rise. She doesn’t like questions. You’ve learned that much.

Outside, a guard was already waiting to escort you down.

The hallways of the RDA facility feel colder than usual as you make your way toward the cell block. Armed guards stand at every turn, gripping their weapons a little too tightly, their faces set in grim determination. It’s not the usual tight security of a military base, this is fear.

They’re afraid of him.

The room they lead you into is sterile, clinical. White fluorescent lights hum softly above. It smells of antiseptic and recycled air, the way all RDA facilities do. Empty. Lifeless.

A single table and chair sit in the center of your side of the room. Nothing else. No distractions, no unnecessary details.

The partition is thick, reinforced, likely designed for containment more than observation. On the other side, the air is different. Dimmer. The lights are broken, he made sure of that on his first day here. You’ve heard the whispers. He shattered the lights above with his bare hands, tried to turn the shards into weapons, cut off a man’s hand in the process of disarming him. And then they took everything after that. Gutted the room of anything remotely useful. Now, there is nothing.

The walls are bare. The floor is smooth. No furniture, no bedding, not even a cot. Just cold steel and silence.

And in the farthest corner, where the darkness swallows him whole, he crouches. Even now, reduced to this trapped, starving and caged animal, he does not look broken. His posture is low but not slumped, his body wound tight like a coiled spring. Watching. Waiting.

Your gaze flickers to the plastic bowl on the ground. Untouched. The humiliation of it is sharp. No utensils, no dignity. Just a feeding dish, as if he were no more than a dog to be kept alive.

You swallow.

You exhale slowly, trying to regain focus on your task. You set your bag down on the cold metal table, the sound echoing too loudly in the sterile space. One by one, you take out your equipment. Your tablet, your scanner, a notepad for observations. A pointless habit, really. The RDA wants everything digital, but writing things down helps you think. Helps you process.

You press your palms against the table’s smooth surface, inhaling deeply. How the hell were you supposed to do this?

It’s not like you can just walk in there and ask him to hold out his arm for a vitals check. No, if you wanted to get close, you would need security, at least two, maybe three guards. And even then, it’ll be a risk. He is a risk.

You’re so lost in thought that when you finally turn around, your heart nearly explodes out of your chest.

He’s right there, nearly pressed up against the glass.

A sharp gasp leaves you as you stumble back, your hand flying to clutch the fabric of your blouse over your racing heart.

"Jesus Christ," you hiss sharply.

He’s close, so much closer than before. His forearm is braced against the glass, his forehead resting on it, his other hand relaxed by his side. It’s almost a casual posture, but there’s something about it. His head tilts slightly, like he’s trying to see you better past the glare of the artificial lights.

Your pulse hammers in your throat.

Surprisingly, there is no aggression in his stance, no bared teeth, no clenched fists. You’re so on edge, it seems ridiculous for you to have reacted that way, but you couldn’t help it. This whole situation was beyond terrifying.

For a long moment, neither of you move.

You stand frozen, your breath shallow, your fingers still curled into the fabric of your blouse as if that might somehow steady your racing heart. He doesn’t move either, just watches you with unsettling patience, his golden eyes sharp, studying.

The silence stretches.

You aren’t sure what you expected. Perhaps hostility, maybe a snarl or a glare, something that would confirm everything you’ve heard about him. But instead, something shifts in his expression. A slow grin spreads across his face, baring sharp canines, and then—

"Kaltxì, sevin tawtute" [Hello, pretty human].

His voice is low, rough around the edges from disuse, but there’s an unmistakable amusement in it. Like he knows something you don’t.

You blink. Your mind scrambles to process the words, but they mean nothing to you. You don’t speak na’vi. So when you don’t immediately respond, he’s quick to open his mouth again. And again, it takes you utterly by surprise.

"You don’t speak my tongue," he says, sounding equally as surprised as you feel. "I assumed most white coats do."

"White coats?" You frown, then glance down at yourself, at your outfit. The white coat you’re wearing. "Oh! Oh, no I’m not a scientist. I’m—," you pause, considering, "not supposed to be talking to you at all."

"What's the harm in talking to me?" He asks, then flicks the glass with a finger and a ping echoes off the walls. "I can't bite you."

Can't. Not won't, you note.

You ignore his words, pushing past the unease still curling in your stomach, and step closer to the glass. You came here for a reason and you needed to focus.

Up close, he looks worse than in the images you’d seen in his file. The hunger strike is taking its toll. His skin, normally a deep, rich blue, looks dull under the dim lighting. There’s a thin layer of sweat on his forehead and bruises, faded but present, blooming along his forearms and dried blood across his knuckles.

You pull out your notepad, jotting down quick observations. When you glance up again, you realize he’s watching you intently.

His ears are high, alert, fully focused on you. His tail curls slightly, the tip twitching, and there’s something almost… expectant in the way he’s standing now, his weight shifting forward, as if waiting.

You hesitate, then take another slow step forward. And the change in him is immediate.

Neteyam straightens to his full height, a fluid, effortless motion. God, this guy was tall. Easily nine, probably even ten feet tall. His three-fingered hands drop from the glass, but he doesn’t step back. His eyes flick downward, skimming over your coat, and his lips part slightly as if sounding something out.

Then, to your astonishment, he says, "You are a Doctor."

He taps a finger against the glass twice, right where your name tag sits.

Your brows lift. "You can read?"

His ears flick forward, a pleased glint flashing through his golden eyes. He licks his lips, dry, you note absently. Another symptom of dehydration.

"I can," he says simply. "Can you?"

Heat rises to your face and you shift uncomfortably, gripping your notepad a little tighter. In all honesty, it never even occurred to you that he might be able to read english, let alone speak it this fluently. The reports never mentioned it and none of the briefings prepared you for this.

"Forgive me for assuming…" you say, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Neteyam tilts his head slightly, considering you. The grin he wore just moments ago fades into something unreadable. Then, he huffs softly through his nose, his fingers flexing at his sides.

"Hm." He makes a low sound of acknowledgment. His eyes stay locked on yours, sharp and searching, as if trying to decide what to make of you.

You clear your throat, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism. Straightening, you glance down at your notes, reviewing what little information you were given before being sent here.

According to General Ardmore, Neteyam must be sick. Some kind of flu or disease like the pandorian rabies they’ve said. You look up at him, then back to your notes. Then back up. Huh. But he doesn’t seem sick. Sure, he’s in an overall bad condition, but that must be due to the circumstances.

The reports are vague, but they all say the same thing: he refuses to eat, he barely drinks. He‘s been acting overly aggressive for the past week and refuses any human contact. Several guards and scientists have both noted his erratic behavior.

He also appears feverish and perpetually on edge. There are nights when he doesn’t sleep at all, tossing and turning as if tormented by unseen pain, and days when he lies in a fitful slumber for hours, his body curled in on himself in a way that suggests both exhaustion and deep distress. It’s an unusual pattern, a disturbing cycle of wakefulness and forced rest, that defies any simple explanation.

And all of this, after over a month of captivity in which he was acting relatively normal. For a na‘vi that is.

But right now? He seems fine, you think, brows creating a deep crease on your forehead as you scan him up and down. Is he just pretending?

You wonder if this fevered state is a defense mechanism, a way for him to mask his vulnerabilities, or if it’s simply the physical manifestation of the abuse he’s endured. The puzzle is as chilling as it is complex, and the urgency to understand it grows with every labored breath he takes behind the reinforced glass.

"So," you nervously clear your throat. "Why aren’t you eating?" You manage to get the courage to ask.

His ears flick at the sound of your voice, but he doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he just looks at you, his golden eyes unreadable, like he’s weighing whether your question even deserves a response.

Seconds stretch.

Then, finally, he exhales through his nose. His expression hardens, and when he speaks, his voice sounds strained.

"Because it is not food that I crave," he murmurs.

That’s not helping. You don’t know what that means, but the look he gives you is uncanny. He’s just trying to scare you, you try to remind yourself.

You open your mouth, about to press him further, but before you can get another word out, the heavy door behind you hisses open.

"Time’s up for today, doc," a guard calls from the entrance. His voice is flat, bored, like this is nothing more than routine. Already?

You exhale, forcing yourself to step back from the glass. Neteyam doesn’t move. He just keeps watching you, his gaze tracking your every motion with quiet intensity. And even as you turn away, you could still feel his eyes on your back.

As you pass the guard, you stop just long enough to give a quiet instruction. "Please make sure to take blood samples for me first thing in the morning. I want to check them before I come see him tomorrow."

The guard nods. "Sure thing."

With one last glance toward the figure in the dimly lit cell, you step out into the hallway.

— ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ —

The next day arrives, and you brace yourself as you make your way back to the facility.

Before you see Neteyam, you stop to speak with the guard from yesterday. He’s stationed near the entrance, looking more worn than he did before, his face set in an angry scowl.

As you approach, he doesn’t waste time with pleasantries.

"That motherfucker is not cooperating in the ways we thought he would,” he says, voice low and tight with frustration. "Getting that sample when he’s in that kind of mood was a shit idea, doc. No offense." Then his expression hardens and your brows raise in a mixture of shock and surprise. "Two of my men are seriously injured, and one has permanently lost a damn finger."

You feel a sharp pang of guilt at his words. In all honesty, you hadn’t anticipated this. The thought of Neteyam, a prisoner already broken physically and mentally by his circumstances, causing such violence…

"And we didn’t even get your sample," the guard continues bitterly. Your shoulders slumped. "He fought us every step of the way. I don’t know how much longer we can keep him under control like this."

A sense of dread curls in your stomach. "Did you try sedating him?" you ask, almost hesitantly, unsure of the answer you’ll get.

The guard’s jaw tightens, and he lets out a frustrated exhale, as if the question itself irritates him. "We did," he snaps, then adds more grimly, "but it’s not working. He fights the medication too much. The lab coats said if we keep doubling the dosage, we might risk his health permanently. We’ve already given him enough to knock out a horse! This guy is stubborn, I’ll have to give him that."

You blink, trying to process the information. You had assumed the sedation would be a simple solution, but now it’s clear it’s not. Neteyam isn’t just fighting back physically, he’s resisting in a way that seems impossible. For a human.

You glance down, running a hand through your hair in frustration. "That’s not," you shake your head. "That’s not possible."

"Look, doc, here’s the deal. You know what this freak’s been doing for the last goddamn month? He’s been making a damn mockery of us. We try to get samples, he won’t have it. We try to sedate him, he either spits it out or rips out the syringe. You think he’s just playing along?" He scoffs, shaking his head. "This guy’s a goddamn nightmare. I don’t care who his daddy is, but his son is a pain in my ass."

The guard sighs, rubbing his temples. "But… here’s the kicker." He leans in slightly, eyes narrowing. "He’s made a condition. Can you believe that? Never even heard him speak before you showed up, so there’s that."

You stare at him, confused. "A condition?"

The guard gives a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah, you heard me right. He said he won’t give us shit— unless you come in and get it yourself. So that’s the situation now."

You feel a wave of unease sweep over you and a cold prickle runs down your spine.

"He what?" You say a little to loud, then, quieter, "Why?"

The guard huffs and shrugs, "hell if I know."

Your hands feel clammy, your pulse hammering uncomfortably in your ears. This doesn’t make sense. Out of all the things Neteyam could’ve demand, like better food, freedom, actual negotiation… this is what he asks for?

The thought of stepping into that room, alone, with him makes your stomach churn. He’s unpredictable, dangerous, but the guard informs you that the General has approved of his condition.

You swallow hard. Of course, she would approve this. If Neteyam is as valuable as they claim, they’ll bend over backward to keep him alive, no matter what it takes. And now, you are part of that equation.

With a sharp buzz, the locks disengage and the door slides open. The Guard nods as you enter, then closes and locks the door behind you.

On the other side of the glass, Neteyam doesn’t move right away. He stays crouched, both forearm resting over his knees. His golden eyes gleam in the darkness, locked onto you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.

You force yourself to stand tall, clutching your bag like a lifeline. A long moment of silence stretches between you, but then, slowly, he unfolds himself from the crouch, rising to his full height.

And he looks bad. Horrible, even. So much worse than yesterday that the sight shocks you. He appeared fine yesterday, so what happened since the last time you saw him?

Neteyam sways slightly as he straightens, and for a fleeting second, you think he might stumble. But he catches himself with a hand against the glass wall, sharp chin tilting upward, his expression one of stubborn defiance. His breathing is heavier than before, his chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate motions, as if he’s trying to keep himself steady.

You swallow against the dryness in your throat.

"You need us to check on you," you say carefully, your voice softer now, coaxing rather than commanding. "You’re sick and your condition is getting worse by the hour."

His pupils are so blown that the gold of his irises is barely visible, swallowed by darkness. Fever, dehydration, exhaustion, whatever this is, it’s consuming him, and fast.

"I need—" You hesitate, then correct yourself. "I want to help you," you tell him. "But you have to let me."

For a moment, he says nothing. Just stands there, eyes locked onto yours, unblinking.

"I am not sick." He says stubbornly.

You shake your head, irritation flickering beneath your concern before you step closer to the glass. Setting your bag down to the ground, you approach the keypad on the wall. Your finger hovers over the numbers.

"Neteyam. If I come in," you swallow, "will you hurt me?"

Immediately, "no."

"Will you try and use me to escape?"

Again, "no."

"Then why me?"

This time there comes no immediate response. Neteyam‘s expression is unreadable, his fever-bright eyes locked onto yours.

"You ask many questions, little doctor," he murmurs after a beat, voice low and rough.

You exhale sharply, then shake your head as you enter the code to the door separating you from him. "Because it doesn’t make sense," you say, frustration creeping in. "You don’t make sense."

The door seals shut behind you with a weighty finality, cutting you off from the sterile white light of the observation room. Inside the cell, the air is different. Thicker, warmer, oppressive in a way that settles uncomfortably against your skin. It smells faintly of sweat and metal, a sharp contrast to the clinical sterility of the rest of the base.

Neteyam stands just a few feet next to you, his hand still steadying him against the glass, his golden eyes tracking your every movement. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just watches. You try not to let it rattle you as you kneel down and begin unpacking your supplies.

"Give me your arm," you say, keeping your voice neutral and professional as you step closer. "Just so you know, if you still decide to try anything, there are guards waiting for me right outside."

At first, he doesn’t react. Then, slowly, he extends it toward you, the movement precise, controlled. His skin is slick with sweat, an unnatural heat radiating off of him in waves. As you swipe an alcohol pad over the inside of his forearm, he flinches when you press your fingers down on his upper arm to stop the blood flow. His breathing shifts, deepens.

Your eyes flicker up to his face. "Did that hurt?"

He shakes his head once, curt. "No."

A lie, perhaps. But you don’t push. Instead, you press forward, inserting the needle carefully, watching as dark crimson fills the vial. He doesn’t react to the puncture, not even a flicker of discomfort. But when you remove the needle and your fingers brush against his burning skin, his breath hitches, a tremor running through him so faint you almost miss it.

Your brow furrows. Something isn’t right.

You set the vial aside and scan his body with a practiced eye, looking for any signs of injury. If he fought back this morning, it’s possible he took a blow, maybe even fractured something. "I need to check you for wounds," you murmur, reaching for his arm again. "You might’ve—"

The second your fingertips press against his skin, his whole body shudders. This time, you ignore it. You let your fingers wander, stretching to reach over his bicep, his shoulder. And then down on his collarbone. Carefully, you prod at his bones, the strong fiber of muscle of his chest, his abs. By the time you’ve checked all of his ribs, his chest heaves.

His breath comes slower now, deeper, as if each inhale takes effort. Up close, you can see the fine tremors in his muscles, the tension coiled beneath his skin like a bowstring pulled too tight. If you thought his pupils were blown wide before, they’re nearly completely black by now, swallowing almost all the gold in his irises, leaving behind only a thin ring of color that’s barely visible.

And god, he’s burning up. Too hot, far beyond a normal fever. The heat reminds you of a furnace, stifling, suffocating. You don’t dare acknowledge it, but his head hangs low. Low enough, his forehead almost rests against your shoulder. He‘s exhausted, tired from whatever illness is plaguing him.

He‘s close enough now, you could only pretend to not hear him groaning whenever your fingertips prodded his flesh. And they sounded breathier the further down your hands wandered.

They move carefully over the planes of his body, fingertips pressing against fevered skin, mapping the unyielding muscle beneath. You try to focus on the task, searching for anything unusual, something that would explain the state he’s in, but it’s difficult.

Neteyam is scorching beneath your touch, the heat of him bleeding into your palms, making it hard to ignore the way his skin twitches beneath your fingers. And the sounds, soft, shuddering exhales that catch in his throat whenever you press a little too firmly. He’s feeling every touch, too much of it, like his nerves are raw and burning.

You swallow against the tightness in your own throat and keep going, moving downward. Over the ridges of his ribs, across the taut plane of his stomach, feeling for swelling, a break, a tear.

But there’s nothing.

No wounds, no fractures, no sign of external trauma. Just heat and tension and the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your hands.

You tell yourself not to look. To keep your eyes level, professional. But then your gaze flickers downward— just for a second, just to check.

But what you see makes your breath catch in your throat, makes heat creep up the back of your neck.

Just below where his stomach tenses and his prominent V-line marks the way for your eyes to travel down, down, down, before you see it. He’s… Oh god. He’s hard!

Oh.

Your eyes widen in shock.

"You’re—" He‘s in rut!

The realization hits you like a lightning strike and you pull your hand away from his lower abdomen just as quick. But Neteyam is quicker. His three fingered hand wraps around your wrist and keeps you hovering over his skin.

"Figured it out, hm?" He exhales, long and slow, the corner of his mouth lifting in a teasing grin.

You feel embarrassingly dumb for not coming to this conclusion earlier. Or at least, before you started torturing him with your hands all over his body. Of course he’s burning up like this, you think as you mentally slap a hand to your forehead. You’re the only fertile female around and while you doubt you were anywhere near compatible to a Na’vi, their senses were strong enough to pick up even the slightest scents. Even those of a human ripe enough to mate. And the dampness in your underwear from feeling him up and down must’ve been his final straw, you internally groan.

With your eyes wide and your gaze still fixed on it, on him, as you curse yourself for acting so foolish, you don’t even notice how Neteyam shifts his other hand to cup his length. He groans when he squeezes himself over his loincloth, then leans in to sniff at your throat. A gasp escapes you, but you can’t step away. You’re trapped between him and the glass, heart beating like a drum inside your chest.

"Go one, little tawtute, [human]" Neteyam rasps, his voice rougher than before, almost strained. "You can keep touching."

He’s still holding your wrist, but not that tight. It seems more careful, as if he wanted you to want it but couldn’t risk letting you go and loose the warmth of your touch. When you hesitate for a minute too long, he simply guides you to where your eyes are already fixed on. He pushes the cords of his loincloth down until his cock springs free, then wraps your dainty little fingers around the shaft.

"You wanted to help," he whispers. "Then help me out."

You exhale shakily, bottom lip trapped between your teeth as you let him. God, you just let him!

You can’t believe yourself.

The part of your brain still rooted in rationality, your duty, the strict protocols etched into every step of your career, scream at you to step back. To draw the line. But your body doesn’t listen. It stays. You stay.

You tell yourself it’s compassion. Just your concern. Just your professionalism being tested in the worst way imaginable. That his fever is spiking, that he’s just disoriented. That this is just some strange byproduct of his rut, something all na‘vi of age experience every other month, you know that. Hell, even the recombinants are required to take a week off and lock themselves into their quarters whenever it happens.

That’s why your hand stays against his burning skin. Because you’re his doctor. Because you want to ease the pressure in his chest, calm the tension running like wire beneath his skin. That’s all. That has to be all.

Your face is burning, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a question you’re too afraid to ask.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move, either. He just watches your hands, eyes half-lidded but sharp beneath the weight of heat and exhaustion.

You don’t know what he’s thinking. You’re not even sure what you’re thinking anymore. But you know one thing: if this is a line, you’re toeing it and Neteyam seems about ready to push you right over it.

Then his hand squeezes yours, before he pulls back entirely, leaving you to the task. You blink.

He‘s… huge. So alien looking it makes you shiver. He’s smooth and warm, his cock extruding from a slit on his lower abdomen. His tip looks humanoid, and the shape as well. But it also doesn’t.

He feels so heavy in your hand, you instinctively reach out to take him in both. You don’t even mean to, it was just a reflex, but he’s audibly pleased by this. Even more so, when you squeeze him slightly.

"Hmm, good girl. Keep doing that."

When Neteyam presses himself closer against you, you swallow thickly. However, even with his giant frame looming over you and basically caging you in, you don’t feel threatened. Strangely enough, you just feel desired.

Unable to peel your eyes off of him and his length in your hand, you give him the tiniest stroke. The reaction is instantaneous.

Neteyams mouth parts as he pants, hot and wet, against your throat. You feel— jesus, you feel his cock pulse in your palms. When you do it again, twice, stroking with an upward curve and slight pressure on his soft tip, the mighty warrior whimpers.

"Are you okay?" You whisper, afraid you might’ve hurt him since you don’t know how na‘vi react to physical touch in certain places or if their pleasure spots are similar to humans. But Neteyam wantonly pushes into your hand, so that sort of answers that.

You then try to get a decent grip so you can continue to stroke. The size difference makes this a funny angle and he’s not giving your arms enough room to move. When you finally get it right, though, Neteyam makes more noises, little whimpering sounds and deep moans that leave you feeling feverish, too.

By the kind of sounds your touch elicits out of him your hands must feel heavenly. He must’ve been so pent up and frustrated, you think. So needy and driven by these animalistic urges, so much lust with no where to relieve himself, you almost feel pity for him.

"B-Be quiet," you shush him as you glance over your shoulder to the door. There are guards right outside that you haven’t forgotten about and the thought of getting caught with both of your hands around the prisoners cock makes your stomach do jumping jacks.

"Tì'efu Tsìltsan [Feels good]," he whispers, his breath a little puff against your neck. "Eywa srung oe… i want to burry myself in you so bad, tawtute [human]."

It's weird to be able to feel Neteyams reactions, how he gets tenser as you touch him, how his breathing gets uneven. You chew the inside of your cheek, trying not to pay too much attention to the way you’re getting all tingly between your thighs. That's not what this is about. You’re not messing around together. You’re just... helping him out, is all.

"Pretty little doctor, you like this? I can… smell your arousal." Neteyam says lowly. Goosebumps raise all over your skin when his tongue glides over your pulse point. "So sweet. Ftxìlor [Delicious]."

That such dirty thoughts exist behind that inscrutable mask of a warrior still kind of shocks you. Neteyam is back to nosing along your neck, under your ear before you can even find it in yourself to tell him that’s not true. But you could hear him breathing in deep, and while it was good that his breaths were evening out a little as a result, it still made your own arousal deepen. Fuck, you needed to control yourself.

"You’re in rut," you mumble, more to yourself than to him as your hand glides over his shaft. "You’re not yourself. I‘m only helping."

"Oh, you are helping me." Neteyam hissed in pleasure. You had this way of twisting just a bit at the head, like turning a doorknob, that made him wild. "Do you treat all prisoners like that or am I just special, hm?" He chuckles between breathy moans.

With both hands twisting in opposite directions, your blush deepened even more. Then you stroked all the way down his length and back up. Coating the inside of your palms with pre-cum that dribbled down his slit, you stroked down to his base, getting him all wet and slippery. The groan that vibrated through his chest at that made your knees goes momentarily weak.

The faster you moved, the more some of his less human characteristics would take hold of him. Like his tail that whipped and twisted behind him, his lips pulling back and canine flashing in the dim light as if he was holding himself back from ramming them underneath your flesh and claiming ownership on you.

Neteyams hands were balled into fists on either side of your head as he held himself up against the glass. His knuckles white from how hard he was holding himself together not to touch you.

"Zun oen… [If i could]," he grit out between clenched teeth, "oel mìn nga io sì nga skien fìtseng. [I would turn you over and fuck you right here.] Oe would kä'ärìp fta nefma your 'ekxin tsongropx ulte teya si nga fa rina', tawtute. [I would force my knot into your tight hole and fill you with my seed, human.]"

Neteyam says all these words under his breath, low and guttural, in that fluid, lilting Na’vi tongue, and though the words mean nothing to you, the tone coils tight around your spine. It sounds like a plea. Or a warning. Maybe both.

You’re not sure which would be worse.

You might not understand the words he speaks, but your body understands the energy behind them. It’s like he’s fighting himself, like there’s something building inside him that he’s desperate to hold back— for your sake, or for his, you can’t be sure.

But you feel it.

God help you, you can feel it.

There’s a thick tissue of flesh that swells on the base of his cock and every time your fingers brush it, Neteyam makes a sound of pleasure. That must be his knot. It ensures successful breeding when a male and female Na’vi mate, locks them together for a period of time.

You use one of your hands to stroke him in an upward curve once more, while the other gentle massages the knot. Carefully you test for the right amount of pressure, watching out for any negative reaction as you feel it grow in your palm. The skin there is taut and feels hot to the touch, and you swallow thickly as the thought crosses your mind that this will eventually go inside his desired mate one day. A shiver runs through you when you can’t stop yourself from imagining it going inside you.

"Tsu‘sì," Neteyam breathes, so quietly you almost don’t hear him over the thundering of your own blood.

"H-Huh?" You stutter, your blush intensifying as you glance up and meet his half lidded and lust filled eyes.

"Close," he rasps, "I‘m— fuck, I’m so close."

His lips are back on your throat, not really kissing, just licking and sucking as if giving his mouth something to do or he‘ll loose himself in something else entirely. His tongue tickles and his salvia is hot and wet against your skin, but you will yourself to focus. Your grip around his cock tightens and your hand moves faster.

Soon, your strokes are becoming irregular and jerky. Neteyam’s shamelessly thrusting into your hands and when he shudders from head to toe, presses his slick forehead into your hair and swears in his native tongue, he finally comes over your hands in intense waves that makes you flinch and gasp. The ropes of cum that you manage to catch in your palm are thick and sticky and you watch as his cock throbs with his own heartbeat as more and more of it spurts into your hands.

Moments later and with a final, deep exhale, it stops then.

The whole room is spinning around you as reality settles in. You feel hot under your skin and damp between your thighs. Fuck. Fuck! You shouldn’t have—

But then, just as you’re about to wriggle free, before the weight of what you’ve just done crashes in full, Neteyam leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear.

"Thanks for curing me, sevin [pretty]," he murmurs, low and dangerous, followed by a soft, knowing chuckle that sends your heart racing once more.

"A-As your doctor—" you start, voice trembling. Neteyam who seems rather unfazed by what just happened, ties the cord of his loincloth back into place before he tips your chin up with his finger. There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he grins at you. You almost miss the way his ears twitch as heavy footfall approaches the door.

"As my doctor," he says, voice smooth and steady, "you should probably look like you are doing your job. Look busy." The last words come out as a whispered command and you blink a few times to process them.

Your brows knit, confused, about to ask what the hell he means by that, when the metallic hiss of the security door behind you makes your blood run cold.

Before you can even react, he steps back, the heat of his body gone like a sudden gust of wind. His posture shifts instantly, expression wiped clean save for the sharp curve of a smirk still pulling at the corner of his mouth.

The door slams open.

Two, three guards flood into the room, all tense shoulders and scowls on their faces. They’re accompanied by two of the recombinant soldiers. You flinch instinctively, heart hammering, and hastily clasp your hands behind your back, trying to hide the trembling in your fingers and the cum still staining the inside of your palms. You internally cringe when you feel it drip to the floor behind your back and you pray that nobody will take notice of it.

When the recombinants step into the cell, they eye you warily, their noses twitching and for a moment, you hold your breath. But then they just walk past you.

"Sully. Hands up, you know the drill," one of them barks.

Neteyam lifts his arms with practiced ease, wrists exposed in surrender you didn’t expect from him. You’re not used to seeing him yield, if this even is that.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t resist. Not even a twitch. Just lets them slap the cuffs around his wrists, that grin never fading. They say something to you about the General wanting to speak with him personally, but your mind’s too clouded to process the details. It’s as if you’re acting on autopilot, simply nodding to whatever’s being said to you.

Then comes the second recombinant, slower, more cautious. He approaches with something in his hand that you recognize as a muzzle.

Neteyam’s smile falters just slightly when he sees it, not out of fear, but disdain. Still, he doesn’t fight when they wrap it around the lower half of his face and fasten it tightly behind his head. It’s not to silence him. You know that. It’s to stop him from biting.

You just watch, mute and stunned, as they lead him past you. Luckily, none of them pays you any attention now. They’re too focused on securing him like handlers with a dangerous animal.

Just before he crosses the threshold, Neteyam turns his head, golden eyes catching yours. And then he winks. He fucking winks at you. You don’t move. Can’t. Your limbs are rooted to the floor like they’ve forgotten how to function.

And then he’s gone.

[cinnateawrites]

Someone help lol I remember vividly reading something about a fae king gojo, I don’t think the actual fic was published but there was a sneak leak of part of the fic and I can’t remember if I followed the author or not so if anyone knows anything about any fae king gojo fics pls let me know.. 😩