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thewestern · 1 year

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Chapter 8

Hildegard … if you have a moment … I’d like to speak with you about the family and my role going forward.

Oh, Billy. How many times must I repeat myself? Call me Mother or Mom or not at all. Please.

Billy had been patiently waiting for the perfect moment to present to Hildy, his mother, his strategic vision, settling for some time between the third and fourth course. That afforded him almost an hour of silence to refine his pitch in his head. He never made written notes. I’m straight off the dome, like Hov and Weezy, as he once assured his sixth-grade English teacher before presenting to the class on The Hobbit.

Imma Bilbo Bag-Chaser / On a quest for Bling / Ur bitch on my dick like Gollum / Kiss the mother fucking Ring

As her son prepared to pitch her, Hildy thought of Fräulein Loebl, something she seldom did. How she would provide weekly status reports to Opa at the dinner table. They kept their affair an open secret. Even to an eight-year-old, who didn’t know what sex was, it was obvious this woman and her grandfather were making it. Her intestines tied in knots over at the repressed memory of the Fräulein erotically slicing his Weisswürste (white sausage), never once breaking eye contact. Since their deaths, she resolved to never stomach another Schweinshaxe or Semmelknödel. Hildy favored a lighter fare, and had a more worldly palate than her Opa, beside. So, as a compromise with herself for keeping Wilhelm I’s legacy on life support through the tradition of Sonntagsessen (Der Hunger des Wolfes gehört uns), Hildy installed a rota of her most favorite restaurants and eateries, contracting them to cater out of the early twentieth-century kitchen at the Wolffenhaus. For this Sunday’s installment, executive sushi chef Tatsahiro Fuji took the night off from his day job at Fōku (you really shouldn’t go for sushi on Sunday anyway), the hottest restaurant in town, to prepare a Sashimi tasting menu just for Hildy and Billy.

As for the latter, despite having been raised with ready access to all the finest cuisines, Billy had remained among the cursed realm of adult picky eaters. In addition to legumes, multi-grain breads and all manner of soups, one of the food groups he hated absolutely was Fish (he was undiagnosed pescaphobic); as to how anyone could enjoy it raw, he was confounded, utterly. But no bother. An empty stomach sharpens the mind (-Marcus Aralias), he thought to himself, scavenging around the edges at some white rice. Time to Enter the fucking Dragon, Billy. Thirty-six bathrooms of the Wolffenhaus. Mother fucking, Bruce Lee, bitch.

Thank you, Mother, for your time. I brought us here today to talk about the future of the company as it relates to the emerging craft and on-premise retail segments, which I believe it does.

Billy’s knee rattled beneath the table; his throat was bone dry. Hopefully he wasn’t having an allergic reaction to whatever sauce was touching that rice, he fretted, the sweat pooling on his temples. Pausing to compose himself, he took an unusually long drink of water.

Hildy wore an expectant look of surprise. She rearranged herself in her seat, as if to make a show of listening, and waited for her son to hamfistedly proceed in making the request she was already certain to deny.

As you know, regarding our Beverage Advancement Division, though our product development and go-to-market strategies have been mostly sound, our new entrants have struggled to achieve widespread adoption amongst our target demographics.

The Beverage Advancement Division, to which Billy was referring, was an offshoot of a subsidiary department to R&D that he had run on a trial basis for the past eighteen months. Hildy hand-placed him there, close enough to the core business, for appearances’ sake. Much as she’d sometimes like, she couldn’t stow her son away somewhere in the back office … He was a Wolff, after all. But, he was kept at an arm’s length-enough away to prevent his inflicting any real damage to the company's reputation and/or the family stock price.

Yes, dear. I’m well aware of the Full Moon, and its resultant failure to launch. Hildegard, We Have a Problem, was I believe the headline in Advertising Era. Or was it: Houston, We Have a Pale Ale?

Full Moon Pale Ale was the Beverage Advancement Division’s latest aborted attempt at astroturfing its own proprietary craft beer revolution. Past iterations included: Rabid Dog Irish Red, Big Bad Brown Ale, and Uber Wolff Select. Billy had taken his first turn at the helm with the much-ballyhooed debut of Full Moon Pale, which signaled a marked departure from prior strategy. Leading a team of the best and brightest among the Wolffenbeir brand management brain trust, Billy grinded harder than he ever had before. Twelve-hour days, six days a week, for three months. Yes, of course, he spent a not insignificant allotment of that time playing Brick Blaster, online shopping and watching Internet porn on his work computer. But … he was In The Office, so you do have to hand it to him. Also, don’t question his creative process.)

Then in one moment, all of a suddenly, it came to him.

Guys, why are we trying to reinvent the wheel here?

Instead of standing up a new category, creating awareness and affinity out of whole cloth, they pivoted: to identifying a brand which had established credibility in the craft beer space — namely, Rider, Pale by the New Frontier Brewing Company. It was a tactic Billy stole from his friends in the tech space called, Fast Following. Really it was a fancy way to say Copying. But in fairness, Russ had been fairly forthcoming about Rider being the Newfy’s level best attempt at Paying Homage to Hairy Uncle Harold, a bloody brilliant Extra Special Bitter, brewed in the Beer World-famous town of Burton Upon Trent, in the borough of East Staffordshire in the West Midlands of England. So it was more like Billy was copying a cop.

Working in shifts, a crack team of flavor chemists (flavorists) embarked to reverse engineer the R,PA recipe. Right out the gate, they were tripped up by the water, of all things. Ironic, you see, since Water was something of a differentiator for Wolffenbeir proper. Wilhelm I had been very savvy to purchase a land conservation easement granting exclusive usage rights to the Washita Watershed, filled in large part by the cirque glaciers in Big Monument National Park. This before it became public land thanks to that tinhorn president, as Wilhelm I would have no doubt called Teddy. Private land ownership is the founding principle of this country! This poppycock notion of Nationalized Parks … It’s Pure Bolshevism!

Is your beer Glacier cold? The old Wolffenbeir commercials used to end in the form of a question. (Chosen over the call to action: Lick the Glacier.) Russell hated those damn adverts. Every so often a smart-ass customer would rib him, hey Russ, how come this beer isn’t Glacier Cold? Yuck, yuck … yuck. To them he would reply, it’s as cold as your mother’s black heart before I screwed her pink back warm, you cunt fucking prick. Schehrer had a weird (bad) sense of humor and a short temper — a perilous combination in most customer service scenarios.

As for Full Moon Pale, their problem had nothing to do with water temperature. You can adjust that at your discretion. Rather it was the composition of the water, which one can also change, but not nearly as easily. Here is something that any brewer worth his or her magnesium sulfate understands: there is water that is Hard, and there is water that is Soft. Per exempla: the water in Burton on Trent, the pre forementioned Beer Mecca of Britainia. That water — flowed through the sediment-rich River Trent (not to be confused with the Trent River, its American cousin, that traverses parts of Jones and Craven Counties in the coastal plain region in eastern North Carolina) — is Hard Water, meaning that it possesses a higher mineral content. For a hop-forward ale, such as an American IPA or an English bitter, the alkalinity of Hard Water is an ideal complement to more a expressive flavor and aroma profile. Meanwhile, the water down there in Bohemia and Bavaria — run off up from them Alps — is Soft Water, insofar as it has a lower mineral content. For a more malty lager, such as a Czech Pilsner or a German Helles, the acidity of Soft Water is optimal for showcasing that lighter, crispier taste.

So then in summation, hard water is a little rockier-tasting than normal water. Soft water, on the other hand, is more watery water. What’s fun is you can tell for yourself what kind of water there is where you live, Russ relished to point this out whenever he mansplained pH values in brewing, which was more often than one would care to hear. Next time you’re in the shower, if your soap is super foamy and bubbly, and it won’t wersh off very easy — you’re in a place with Soft Water. If the opposite is true, and you’re having a hard time getting a good scrub going — you’re in a place where the water is hard. If you’re singing in the shower and you get soap in your mouth, then it’s a soap opera.

For his part, Russ often showered sans scrubbing. The pathetically low water pressure in his apartment wasn’t conducive to full exfoliation. That being said, he almost always washed with foam in the form of a beer, or preferably two. (Shower beers are like breasts, he would say. One isn’t enough; two is just right. Three is too many and four is a party.) The juxtaposing sensations of the hot water pitter-pattering at his weather-beaten skin, and the cold beer rinsing down his throat, permanently horse from all that yelling he did … well … if he were to make it through the day long, this was about the finest way he saw fit to start.

(Russ had the most gorgeous, gravelly singing voice nobody ever heard unless they were in earshot of his one bathroom after about that fourth shower pop.

Oh, I, oh I'm still alive

Hey, I, oh I'm still alive

Hey, oh

[Wet belch arpegio])

Same as in his shower, for all the Newfy beers, including R,PA, Russ used City Water, which possessed all manner of mineral content. (Come to find many years later one of the primary elemental compounds therein was fucking lead [Pb] … yikes.) Anyways, the eggheads at Wolffenbeir were using that glacier water from the Washita Watershed, which as we know was pure as the driven snowpack it melted from. Now you can treat that water with various salts and other compounds to harden it back up, but you won’t get exactly that gravel quarry mouthfeel of a Proper Ale. One that tastes like Eddie Vedder sounds. No, you won’t get that at Wolffenbeir. Not in a facility built for brewing At Scale. We’re talking in the hundreds of thousands of cases here. It’d be like trying to make one of Hildy’s fancy-pants European cars on a Detroit assembly line. That dog doesn’t hunt.

Please don’t worry if any of that was confusing, because water chemistry also was not the riptide upon Full Moon Pale waned. (Or would it be waxed?) It’s true they couldn’t achieve the desired Hard Water Effect, and the beer tasted mighty soft for it … But, hey, that’d never stopped them before, baby. Quick: What do Wolff Light and sex in a canoe have in common? Russ loved this one … They’re both fucking close to water!

No, the content of the beverage itself — a watery grave taste with that famous bloated corpse finish — was a complete nonfactor in the Total Eclipse of FMP. (I fucking need you more … THAN EVER.) But wait … If the quality of the product was immaterial to its success in the marketplace, how could it have possibly failed? Thankfully, for the sake of closure, all deceased brands receive a sort of autopsy, so as to determine the manner of death. In this case, results from postmortem social listening sessions indicated that Howler — the cartoon moon-faced mascot plastered onto every can, bottle, tap handle, in-store display … really any conceivable flat or cylindrical surface — had tested very negatively. Like, shockingly so. They Loathed Him. Howler. Multiple survey respondents were quoted as saying that his wry grin appeared Menacing. As if he was watching them, and would continue to do so late into the night as they slept. Staring into their dream state, with a zero-gravity gaze. The way his lunar crater-like eyes — black, the color of deep space — peeked out, just so, from atop the acetate frames of his wayfarers which hung suggestively there on the bridge of his aquiline nose. Even though he didn’t even have a nose. So how were they suspended there? And why on earth would the moon be wearing sunglasses anyway?

One night during Howler’s reign of terror, Hildy was being chauffeured home from a fundraiser at a private home in the foothills, benefitting the Collegiate Academy of Scientific and Technological Excellence. She was the distinguished chair of the independent board of directors for SciTech, which it should be said enjoyed complete autonomy from the publicly-elected school board district. Having once herself been abjectly denied the opportunity to pursue her passion for the Sciences, she was committed to ensuring that access to STEM education was available to all young people, especially young females.

Taking the shortcut she found so distasteful, Hildy saw from out of her panoramic sunroof, He was glaring down atop a massive billboard above the freeway. My heavens, is that one of ours? She asked in horror to her male companion for the evening, Mayor Mockingbird. It was the first she’d seen of Howler, who was even more off-putting in person, standing a full fifteen feet in diameter.

A marketing blunder the magnitude of this should have been quite easily avoidable. For a fact, the pre-launch focus grouping reached the same statistically significant conclusions about the Howler prototype. That he was Eerie, Ominous, Sinister, Awful, Ghoulish, Macabre. (Question: What do these things all have in common?) However, it was Billy who had personally buried that damning report from ever seeing the light of day. More than any other component of the product development phase, he had taken ownership over the Brand Aesthetics — colors, fonts, and specifically the graphic design of the wretched Howlie. Billy spent days in meetings and on calls, going back and forth with the creative agency of record, obsessing over the most minute details — he went to the mat for the shades. Tortiously he pondered the frames. Should they be tortoiseshell or matte black? As for the high stark unfavorablities, well, Howlie was slightly ahead of his time. Temporarily misunderstood. They’ll see. They have to see.

###

The tragic failure of Billy requires some familial context. His mother, Hildy, had made her bones with the company as a young marketing executive on the heralded debut of a new product line called Wolff Light. You know, while we’re at it, the advent of light beer is itself a funny thing. Around that time, Morning in America, or thereabouts, it became fashionable for one to look after one’s health and fitness. Jogging emerged as the modus transportari du jour. Prior to that period, no one had ever thought to run. Not recreationally. Likewise, you started watching what you e’t — heretofore unheard of in the preceding millennia of Human History, when one would eagerly devour whatever he could well get your grubby mitts on. The modern marvel of factory farming allowed for diners to be more nutritionally discerning. The same went for drinking. Turned out a ten-ounce can of beer could pack quite a caloric punch. Hence the consumer clamoring for a beer that was … Lighter.

Inspired by the cigarette ads of her youth — Did you know that four out of five physicians smoke Red Apple? A pack a day keeps the doctor away! — Hildy had the bright idea of playing to the heightened health consciousness percolating in the consumer marketplace. Finding a licensed practitioner of any credibility to endorse the therapeutic benefit of an alcoholic beverage would have proved difficult. (Not impossible.) Thus she created the cartoon clinician we all know and love, Doctor Lupus, M.D. Let’s set the scene. Interior: doctor’s office. A procession of big-eyed woodland critters scurries in one by one — a bunny with an earache, a skunk with a sinus infection, a chipmunk with a chipped tooth. (In addtion to specializing in otorhinolaryngology, apparently he also practiced dentistry, as a side hustle, perhaps.) Irrespective of their affliction, Doctor Lupus prescribes them each one pint of Wolff Light, surgically pouring it from the bottle into a tall, frosty syringe. The punchline reveals via a pile of skeletons that Doctor Lupus — a wolf in sterile clothing — has been eating his patients — picking them bone-clean and washing them down with his own glass of Wolff Light. Then cut to black and the tagline: Wolff Light … Just What The Doctor Ordered. (This preceded the Glacier Cold campaign. Wolff Light has had several slogans, it should come as no surprise. Wolffenbeir Heavy, as it was unofficially known, only ever went by the one, printed in script: The American Standard.

Television audiences couldn’t get enough of Doctor Lupus, who became an overnight sensation. Lupus-Fever, as it was called in the pages of TV Guide. Capitalizing on the Feeding Frenzy, as the phenomenon was alternatively called by TV Guide, the Wolffenbeir Company hired a professional mascot to dress up in a plush wolf costume and sent him on a globetrotting goodwill tour. He was invited on late-night talk shows, threw out the ceremonial first pitch at baseball games fetched six-figure speaking fees for cush corporate gigs. Christ’s sake, he met the fucking Pope.

At the absolute tipping point of his pop cultural saturation, Lupus made a cameo appearance on a nationally televised weekend sketch comedy show, performing a bit lampooning a real life pathologist who had recently achieved universal infamy for performing physician-aid-in-dying procedures using his Suicide Machine (patent pending), sparking a contentious debate on the appropriate role of Euthanasia in compassionate palliative care.

Then, somewhere along the way, Doctor Lupus emerged as somewhat of an unlikely Sex Symbol. Men wanted to be him. Women wanted to be with him. Beginning with the model-actress Brooke Shields, who made a splash at the Golden Globes when she walked the red carpet with Hollywood’s Hottest Wolf, himself dressed to the canines in full black tie. A publicity stunt? Quite possibly. Regardless of the romantic legitimacy of their celebrity relationship, the renewed tabloid attention measurably helped to revive her career, which was previously on life support. (Shields subsequently booked the popular sitcom, Suddenly Susan.) As for Lupus, as soon as he was established to be an object of interspecies sexual desire, his campaigns started pushing all boundaries of acceptability. Naturally, there were the Wolff Light Nurses, his harem of buxom blonde, human women. All credit to those gals for managing to carve out a niche of their own, making paid appearances at certified pre-owned car dealerships, minor league hockey games, that sort of thing. It was a decent living. Obviously nowheres near DL scratch. By now his money was Real Good. Enough to afford a Malibu beach house, a paddock of sports cars and a fully blown sex addiction. Part and parcel to a broader heel turn that was reflected in his commercial output. Notably, a later period tv spot was constructed around the conceit which, if you didn’t drink Wolff Light, then Doctor Lupus will fuck your wife.

Kids loved him too. He was the most popular Halloween costume ten years running. His Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon towered above all others, levitating six stories tall, and half a city block long, held afloat by some ninety handlers. (In what’s considered to be the worst accident in Thanksgiving Day Parade history, high winds wagged Lupus’ tail off the planned street route and into a lamppost, toppling it onto the sidewalk below. Several injured parade goers were rushed to nearby Beth Israel Hospital, where one bystander spent the remainder of her holiday season in a medically-induced coma.) Come Christmas morning, children raced downstairs with hopes that Santa Claus had placed Doctor Lupus officially licensed merchandise under the tree. There were action figures, lunch boxes, board games, galore. (The Doctor Lupus Edition of Operation came with a trembling pair of forceps [batteries not included], to simulate alcohol withdrawals of the attending surgeon.)

In addition to buying children’s toys, people of all ages bought beer. More than ever. By the refrigerated truckload. Hildy and her Promethean gollum led Wolffenbeir to its best fiscal year in company history. Industry analysts credited the campaign with breathing new life into a brand that had grown stale. You heard that right … Without the triple bypass surgery performed by Doctor Lupus, Wolffenbeir was in serious danger of flat-lining — gone the way of Schwang Beer, and so many other once-thriving beverage concerns … fizzled out before their time.

Needless to say, Doctor Lupus sent shockwaves up and down Madison Avenue. Hildy graciously accepted the Addy Awards for Best Thirty-Second Spot, Best Creative Direction and Best Campaign. An unprecedented full-category sweep for Lupus, whose creative legacy would live on for generations to come. As written in a twentieth-anniversary tribute by AdMonth Magazine: It was his devil-may-care, irreverent sense of humor which helped to usher in a new wave of avant-garde branding.

What’s more, any ad man worth his Morton’s Salt Girl will tell you, it was Doctor Lupus who once and for all killed The Jingle. You see, it used to be that when a company wanted to promote themselves via the airwaves, they would trudge downtown to Tin Pan Alley and commission an aspiring music man to pen a tune. They called it a jingle. It set the tone for the product. Something you could mindlessly hum, all the way down to the department store. Above all else, Hildy had a vision for her tone. Long before it became Glacier Cold, Wolff Light would be Cool. Now at the time, Coolness, conceptually, was fairly new. But Hildy had the foresight to know that whatever Cool was, a jingle was not. So, in its place, over the Doctor Lupus animation played the opening verse of one of the first-ever commercially-licensed pop songs, a landmark achievement for the form. Ladies and Gentlemen, with their chart-topping hit, Good Lovin’, please give a warm welcome to, The Rascals:

I was feeling so bad

I asked my family doctor just what I had

I said, Doctor (Doctor)

Mr. M.D. (Doctor)

Now can you tell me what's ailing me? (Doctor)

He said, Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

(Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah)

Yes, indeed, all I, I really need …

[Cartoon wolf devours cartoon raccoon]

###

If there was one man immune to Doctor Lupus’ infectious charm, it was Wilhelm I, who detested marketing in all its forms. Advertising, sales, public relations, hexerei. You won’t find a prize inside your soap; there are no tricks, nor any treat; we are not snowmen or confidence artists, selling snake oil, as he would proselytize to Wilhelm II. We are not charlatans; we are craftsmen. We will not arrive to your door with sample goods in a bulging suitcase; that is nothing but a coffin to all who haul it. We make the door which you knock upon; the coffin in where you rest eternal. Call on our storefront, should that you wish to buy. These are our business hours. Here is our price. It is fair. Do you favor to purchase some other wares? By all means … Go right ahead, Sir. And a good day to you!

Thusly, the old man wearily watched Hildegard, his granddaughter ride her traveling circus on this meteoric ascent. Now there were rumours of her consideration for an officer-level position, on a fast track to the C-Suite. Von wegen! A woman would not—could not assume sovereignty of the Wolffenbeir Company, even if she was a Wolff by blood. Besides, Wilhelm I had named his chosen successor, Hildegard’s younger brother, Augustus, his grandson and last surviving male heir. Per his Opa’s orders, Gussie had gone back East to complete his degree in Biochemistry, and was returning home to begin a rotating apprenticeship throughout the brewery. Just as his own father had done, following the righteous path laid forth before him, if only to be thwarted by a coward’s bullet. While Gussie underwent his training, Wilhelm I stowed his sister away in what he considered to be a department of the utmost inconsequence: Marketing. And she should be happy at that! If he had his way, not she nor any woman would draw a wage from the Wolffenbeir Company. Why who would follow behind them on the employment line? Negroes? The Hispanics? Sodomists?

An aside about the Wolffensbeir Company’s hiring practices: In the decades that followed his son’s murder, Wilhelm I grew increasingly paranoid regarding the probability of the Homosexuals infiltrating the brewery on behalf of their staunch allies, the Communists. Or could it have been the reverse? Either way, Wilhelm I staffed a full-time polygraph technician in his Department of Human Resource Extraction (a precursor to HR) to conduct rigorous lie detector testing on all job applicants, to even the lowliest of hourly positions at the Wolffenbeir Company. Primarily, the Enhanced Interviews were designed to suss out any Perverse proclivities or Soviet sympathies. However Wilhelm I was also keen to know all prospective employees’ opinions of antique typewriters, German pistols, and Himself.

Regretably for Wilhelm I, Doctor Lupus was a force of nature even not he could control. (He had once bent the shape of a river.) Hildy rode that son of a bitch all the way to the now-coveted role of Chief Marketing Officer. Protracting that her career arc would soon crest atop the Wolffenbeir org chart, Wilhelm I personally endeavored to spay her further promotion in his capacity as Chairman of the Board. A savvy play. For here was a man who saw the whole chessboard. The first choice of any consequence he ever made was to stow himself away on that train compartment, on tracks laid due west. Starting there, at that railroad junction, he compiled an entire lifetime of making the right decision at exactly the right time. Until this very moment, when Wilhelm I made his first mistake — not including his three ex-wives, who were matrimonial sunk costs — and it was fatal. One by one, the board of directors betrayed him, Like Caesar, unanimously entering a vote of no confidence, removing him from his position, effectively excommunicating him from the institution he built and installing his granddaughter as the chairwoman-in-waiting. Six days later, just as soon as he could be sure the rest of his affairs were in order, Wilhelm I cemented their decision, splayed on the gravel of his eternally long, tax-shelter of a driveway.

And that is the rest of the story, about why Billy tried to lasso the moon. It was all for his mother. Ain’t that a bitch.

#novls of tumblr #soft water

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wheneclipsefalls · 3 months

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Little Gift - Latch

Neteyam photo by @cinetrix

Pairing: Dark Aged Up Neteyam x Human Fem Reader

Warnings: aged up characters, DUBCON/NONCON, kidnapping, MDNI EXPLICIT, yandered qualities, possessive behavior, slight degradation, interspecies intimacy, swearing, power imbalance, sub reader, dom Neteyam, manipulation, hair pulling, creampie, a lot more stuff but at this point you hopefully know whether or not you should read haha

Summary: Victory is finally his and Neteyam knows exactly how he wants to celebrate it.

A/N: A little unsure about my word choice but it's been fun writing from Neteyam perspective for the first time in this series. Enjoy!

Main Masterlist I Little Gift Masterlist

You belong here, perched on his lap with your head notched against his shoulder. So small and pretty that his legs barely register your body weight. He wraps a hand around your outer thigh to angel you further against him. This is perfect.

Everything is perfect.

Pandora has rid of those Sky Demons and his prize, his little gift, is still here in his arms where you will always be. Those traitors are no longer here to tempt you with false promises of escape and a life outside of belonging to the Olo’eyktan. You may not realize it now but they would have broken you. It is only a miracle from Eywa that has allowed your beautiful spirit to stay in tack after all those years of inhabiting the same space as those treacherous creatures.

The RDA may think that you are a gift given by them but in reality it is Eywa that has placed you on his lap.

You were created for him. Designed perfectly inside and out.

His reward for all that he has had to endure.

Now with you safely tucked in his arms and his People celebrating their freedom once more, he can rest. He is free to savor all that the Great Mother has offered him, although you prove to be difficult to rangle at times. That’s okay, he enjoys a good challenge. It makes your earned submission all that more satisfying.

He’s not sure how long one human can cry for but it appears you are shooting for a record. Your tears have soaked the feathers of his Olo’eyktan attire but he doesn’t mind, not when you are snuggling into him for comfort.

His plan of distraction worked wonders during take off but it was only a matter of time before your mind came back online and began worrying once more about the absence of people that never truly loved you. It’s to be expected however Neteyam is pleased to find that your response is not one of anger but sadness and seeking refuge. He couldn’t have asked for anything more ideal.

He is your refuge, your one true home and the fact that you are learning that so quickly makes a sense of pride burst within him.

The glittering gems of your new top compliment your own sparkling tears exquisitely. It had taken weeks for him to make but it was worth it. He would want nothing less for his pet on a night of such grand celebration. However, it becomes abundantly clear that he is not the only one who appreciates the outfit.

It’s the fifth time Lo’ak has turned in the direction of the throne while dancing to check on you. Or at least, that is how his younger brother would be sure to phrase it but Neteyam is no fool. He can see the hunger in those eyes. Typical of his younger sibling to chase after what he can not have. What Neteyam himself possesses.

Their eyes meet and it only takes a moment for Lo’ak to recover from being caught and roll his own back at his brother and turn to continue dancing. He’s not sure how much longer this game will go on where Lo’ak pretends to hold no interest. One way or another it will come out. Neteyam’s arm tightens around your waist, fingers running through your silky hair.

It is then that he notices your little sobs have stopped and are now replaced with long deep breaths. It’s amazing that you are able to sleep through the banging drums and echoing calls but it seems that all of your crying has worn out your poor little body. Such a fragile thing you are.

All the more reason to keep you close. And yet another reason he finds his mind swirling back to the idea of keeping you on a leash. Ideally he would carry you to and fro but there are times where he needs to have his hands available. With your habit to wander off he can’t risk having you fall and break your little neck. A leash would be the perfect solution.

Not to mention how good you would look trailing behind him, sweet little bow around your throat as a permanent reminder of his claim on you.

His tewng [loincloth] is unbearably tight. It presses against your soft thighs but that’s not enough. For perhaps the hundredth time you shift in his lap, unable to sit comfortably on your red ass. You’ve given up on trying to convince him to let you stand but that doesn’t stop that supple little pout from gracing your lips every time you are reminded of the pain. Even in your sleep you try to wiggle and squirm from his lap.

Of course there is another source of your constant squirming. A source that Neteyam finds his fingers dipping down to trace over as the base just barely peeks out of your tight pussy.

This plug is much larger than the cute one you had stowed away in your old nightstand drawer. It had taken more than a fair amount of encouragement to slot that thick piece of plastic inside your cunt but the sight was magnificent. Complain all you want but the way your walls clench around it in desperation tells Neteyam more than he needs to know.

It’s the largest size of his collection which means that tonight is the night. Tonight you will officially become his. Your pussy will soon forever have the imprint of his thick length inside of you, ruining you for any other man. Not that you would ever have the chance to be with another male outside of him again. Jared was the end of that line and the Olo’eyktan feels no hint of remorse for taking care of that pest.

Another flash of Lo’ak’s gaze.

Neteyam feels you stir when he lets out a deep sigh. However reluctant he is, it’s important to set his brother straight. Lo’ak has an overactive imagination after all and the last thing he would want is his little brother’s curiosity and desire becoming an interruption for the wondrous night the two of you are about to have.

Those long lashes flutter open, throat caught on a sharp intake when he stands up and places you back onto the seat. Your dazed and confused look is one that Neteyam can’t help but coo at, the pad of his thumb running over your cheek.

“Mawey, tiyawn [be calm, love]. I will be right back.” You’re already scrambling to your knees, finally keeping the weight off of your sore bum. “Be a good girl for me and stay put, yes?”

It’s a rhetorical question and one that he doesn’t give you a chance to answer before a kiss is placed on your hairline and the Olo’eyktan is parting the crowd. It’s obvious that there is a moment where you consider stopping him. You may be hell bent on never admitting it verbally but the other Na’vi put you on edge and being around him has become your one constant, a safety you can rely on. If not for his urgency Neteyam would take his time in teasing you on the matter.

Your face always looks even more lovely with that deep shade of red, whether from anger or embarrassment or even both.

Later, he reminds himself.

The female rubbing up against Lo’ak looks more than put out by his lagged reciprocation. Her displeasure colors into slight shock when she spots her Olo’eyktan coming straight towards them. Lo’ak crosses his arms as his partner quickly signs the proper respect to their leader. Neteyam dismisses her easily.

“Excuse me, sister. I require a moment with my brother.” Neteyam ushers Lo’ak away from the scene before giving her a chance to respond or offer to give them privacy.

The fire’s light now just barely humming over their skin. The two brothers find a moment of solace on the outskirts of the celebration. Neteyam’s ears still buzz from the sensory overload it has taken for the past few hours.

“If you’re going to ask me for another favor can it at least wait until tomorrow? There is a party, you know.” Lo’ak tall frame lazily leans against the nearest tree and he attempts to hide the way his eyes fly over Neteyam’s shoulder towards you by making a show of tying his hair back.

“Funny considering how eager you were to grant me a favor earlier this morning.” Neteyam’s veiny arms cross over his chest, tail whipping back and forth in the cool wind. If Lo’ak is intimidated he doesn’t show it.

“Aren’t I a wonderful brother?” Those sharp teeth shimmer as he makes a show of giving an over the top sarcastic grin.

“Lo’ak.” Neteyam growls.

“Jesus, calm down.” Lo’ak groans, head thrown back against the bark. “She’s still your little toy.”

“I am not stupid, baby brother. I see the way you look at her.”

“Whatever.” Lo’ak bristles and makes his way to stomp off but he is caught by the upper bicep.

“I don’t want there to be any…confusion.” Silence spreads between them, the only sound being that of Lo’ak’s harsh exhale.

“I was only watching.” He finally says, voice dropping lower.

“And you are free to.” Small steps bring him further into his brother’s space. “But let’s be clear about whose permission you need in order to touch.”

“And I didn’t.” His arm is ripped from Neteyam’s grasp. “I’ve only ever babysat the little brat and done all that you’ve asked of me. If you are looking for problems to address I would start with her running off at every given opportunity. Take a look for yourself!” He flails an exasperated arm in your direction but Neteyam doesn’t even bother to turn.

“I am aware.” There is no need to look in order to know that you have once again tried your hand at another escape. He can see it in his mind’s eye now, your small body carefully hoisting itself down from the high throne. Panicked eyes racing over the crowd in search of any Na’vi that could potentially halt your actions. All that before short legs race off into the darkness. “I’m giving her a head start.”

It’s best not to let you go too far. Eywa knows you are very skilled at finding new ways to put yourself in danger, but a little chase is an exhilarating experience.

“Oh yeah, you going to make me chase after her for you too?” Lo’ak spits out, urging Neteyam to roll his eyes at his brother’s antics. He resists however, that wouldn’t be very becoming of the Olo’eyktan.

“I fear you would enjoy that far too much, brother.”

Instead of fiery words shot back the only line of defense Lo’ak puts up is a scoff and frowned expression, golden eyes simmering with words that he knows better than to voice. Neteyam can give his brother credit for that at least. He knows when he is stomping on dangerous territory. You, on the other hand, seem to be learning that lesson far too slow. It seems a cute tawtute like you are more of a hands on learner.

“Can I be excused then, oh might Olo’eyktan?” He flourishes with a sarcastic bow.

“Leave.” Neteyam bites out simply, forcing his eyes to remain trained on his younger brother as he joins the crowd again. It’s a safety precaution just in case Lo’ak gets a bad idea even after warnings. Much to the Na’vi girl’s dismay Lo’ak does not join her again on the dance floor and instead heads straight towards the fermented fruit. No doubt he will spoil himself into a drunken state. Unfortunately for him, Neteyam already has his hands full babysitting you tonight.

He takes his time, however, greeting a few of the clan members and partaking in a small dose of alcohol himself. With your small legs it will take you forever to get a distance that makes this chase even remotely fun. However, once the drink is empty and he has done his dues as Olo’eyktan in the social event Neteyam can no longer keep himself at bay. There are other creatures of the night that could be waiting to catch a pretty prey like you.

Tracking you down is almost laughably easy with your sweet scent wafting through the air. A scent that only grows tenfold when he comes across a peculiar piece of plastic stashed in a bush. It’s the dildo that is meant to still be snuggled up in your little cunt.

A sharp smirk cuts into his features.

For such a smart little thing you really can be so negligent at times. With the dildo out your scent now goes from a dulled perfume to a thick fragrance that coats the air. He recognizes that aroma, he knows the way it tastes. Your arousal has only made you an easier target and now you have done nothing but take out the one piece keeping it plugged. Neteyam can envision so clearly that trail of slick that is sure to be marking your thighs.

Such a messy little thing you are. Even after the way he cleaned you up so dutifully post launch, you have managed to turn into a wet temptation once more.

The small footprints along the dirt are almost pointless in his pursuit now that he has your scent. They only serve as a confirmation that he is going the right way. It doesn’t take long before the sound of your sharp panting reaches his upturned ears. It’s then that the Olo’eyktan takes to the trees. He glides along the thick branches without a sound, gaining a bird’s eye view of your desperate running.

The full on sprint you started off with has come down to a clumsy jog. Even with your small stride he’s sure you could make it a lot further if you would simply stop looking over your shoulder every other second. An action that has you stumbling and grabbing your foot to pick out a thorn from the underside. Little curses rise between your harsh breaths.

And then your breathing is cut all together.

The sounds of claws and wild yips echo through the greenery. By the sounds of it Neteyam knows it must be a small pack of aynantang [viperwolves]. They aren’t close, at least not yet. With your back turned and eyes blown out in silent terror he decides that now is as good a time as ever to interrupt.

Neteyam lowers himself down slowly, muscular arms controlling his descent into a movement so smooth and silent that it is nothing more than a shadow. A shaky hand covers your lips, the little puff of your beating heart pushing your chest out even more. One long step forward and now he can watch your trembling from above, his toes almost touching your muddy heels.

“Their bite is not as sharp as mine, pet.”

You scream before the sound can be stopped, spinning so fast your heel that you land directly on your red bum instead. Even without glowing tanhi dotting your skin, those dilated eyes have a way of making you glow in the night. Even more so when they dazzle up at him with unleashed fear and vulnerability.

You scramble backwards, clawing at the muddy ground until you are clumsily trying to crawl back onto your feet. Fine by him, it’s easier to close the height difference when you are back to standing. He grabs your right arms easily, pulling you back against him. The fight continues as you turn to bash your first against his abdomen, even clawing at his thighs but then another sound cuts you off again.

They are closer this time.

“They hunt in packs.” Neteyam informs you. “Circle their prey until there is nowhere left to go.”

A rustle of bushes to the left has your squirming changing from running away to ducking behind Neteyam. He allows the action, sharp teeth peeking from his grin when he feels the way your soft fingers dig into his thighs.

“My father was almost killed by a pack once. Even in his avatar form he depended on my mother’s mercy to fight the creatures off.” You shake like a leaf in the wind, your face pressed against his lower back when the sounds get louder. He almost feels bad for scaring you so much, tempted to bundle you in his arms and shush your worries away. However, that would ruin the lesson. You are the one that decided to run off carelessly into the woods without him and now you need to understand why you depend on Neteyam for everything. Why you owe him your submission and affection.

“I wonder how you would fair.” A few more wolves prowl from the bushes, inching closer. They creep forward with a hesitance at the sight of Neteyam, driven only by curiosity as your scent continues to fill the air.

“Teyam.” You whimper into his hip, now latching onto the strap of his loincloth to urge him backwards.

“What’s wrong, pet? I thought you wanted to be set free?”

A vicious snarl rip from the right and you stumble to cling to his left side now. That startled little scream is just barely muffled by the way your face is pressed into his hip.

He coos at your little pleas. “Has someone changed their mind, hm?” Any other time you would be barring your blunt teeth at him but he knows that in the height of your fear there is no resistance left for him. You’re too focused on the prowling beasts that flash their own teeth in eclipse’s glow.

“Teyam please, let’s go!” Voice caught on sobs that threaten to rise, you can barely make the words out.

Your fear is palpable, but not just to him.The aynantang [viperwolves] can sense it too. They circle and watch with more confidence as the seconds roll by. Periodically they flicker up to his looming form, as if checking to see whether or not he will be a threat against their newfound meal. It would be easy to scare them off, something Neteyam has done himself many times. He’s hunted these forests since he was a boy and his own scent is something that the creatures have learned to associate with danger.

Standing here now, however, he keeps a neutral position and one that the pack hesitantly takes as an opportunity to cinch closer. A flash of his knife and that confidence would disintegrate until the pack would scurry off into another corner of the forest.

Neteyam keeps it sheathed.

“You’re the one that ran off, little gift.” He reminds you, voice calm and cool.

“I know! I know! I’m sorry j-just please!”

“Please what, tiyawn? You have to be more specific.”

You struggle to respond properly, hands frantically switching from tugs at the straps to clawing up at his arms. Regardless, Neteyam remains unmoved, arms crossed over his chest as he observes the scene with indifference. “Please..please don’t let them-” You gasp rearing back when you spot another viperwolf emerging from the left. It’s been there for a while but it appears this is the first time your weak eyes have caught sight of it. “I’m sorry! I’ve changed my mind! Please, I’m sorry.” You cry out in a shrill voice, plastering yourself under his arm.

“Changed your mind on what?” It’s tempting to look down and see the way you so desperately seek his comfort but Neteyam is wise enough to keep his golden gaze sharply pinned on the emerging creatures.

“On wanting to leave! You can take me home just please-”

“Oh can I?” Your chin is snatched between two fingers, forcing you to crane your neck up towards him. That mask of indifference is gone, replaced only by a fierce stirness you are terrified to be facing twice in one day. “And what makes you think that is up to you?”

It’s hard to look into your eyes directly when they are bouncing wildly in every which direction. Perhaps it is your pitiful way of tracking the oncoming predators, or maybe you simply can not handle facing his gaze filled with ire. Either way, it is adorable to watch your natural submissive nature emerge. And all from a few viperwolves.

Poor thing, what would you do without him?

“I-I’m sorry.” You say, voice so small and timid that only a Na’vi would have hopes of hearing it. Neteyam’s chest rumbles with a deep purr, other hand finally coming up to run through your hair.

“I know you are, tiyawn. You just get confused sometimes, don’t you?” No response is given, instead just a gasp as another creature inches closer and you dash into his arms. This time he wraps one arm around your small frame while the other goes for his sheathed knife. The advance pauses, aynantang [viperwolves] pacing from side to side instead. Your reaction is premature but Neteyam basks in it all the same.

From the heated breath and salty tears painting his lower stomach he begins to worry that your fragile body will soon give out and lose consciousness. Keeping you tucked under his arm is the best move, easily accessible for when he needs to scoop you up without retaliation. However at this point, it seems that you are willing to do whatever it takes to earn his protection.

What a short memory you truly have. Perhaps if you listened to him more diligently like a good pet should then you would already know that his protection has been yours since the first time he saw you. He would defend you to his very last breath. Whether or not you asked for it would be irrelevant. That being said, you’ve always had the sweetest way of begging so who is he to deny himself such a pretty chorus of promises.

They flow now freely from your lips. Pleading, crying, and begging for him to get you out of harm's way. He simply shushes you, making no rush as a rigid arm tightens to pull you even closer.

The creatures are scared off within the first few hisses that leave his lips. Knife dancing under the moonlight with a deadly promise, they yip away reluctantly. Still, there is an advantage to not letting you know how easy it truly is to scare them off so he tells you to look away, to keep snuggled against him where they can not so easily see your fear.

You remain that way when you are lifted into his arms. Your thighs strain to wrap around his ribcage but you eventually manage to lock your ankles together. With your shaky limbs locked in terror you are barely in need of his supporting arm, but he wraps one under your rear anyways. You remind him of a small syaksyuk [Prolemuris] as you cling with fervor, lighting his amusement to new heights.

The walk back is pleasant, even when your shaking doesn’t stop and your racing heart beat is louder than the stomp of his feet. There is still great peace to be found with you in his arms and the promise of a wonderful night in the air. After tonight you won’t dare to leave him, not now that you have developed a healthy sense of fear and even more so once your body has taken him fully the way it was meant to.

He holds back a groan at the thought. Your smell is still just as potent as when you first ran and now it holds an extra tang of emotion that makes it all that much sweeter. He manages to pick up the tossed aside dildo on the way back, but that acts as fuel to the flames.

He has sought after your true mating for months and now that he is on the cusp of finally making it a reality it is hard to keep a rational mind. The natural urge to pin you down and take what has always been his morphs into a feral urgency that infringes on his thoughts. Although, he is determined to take his time tonight because it is isn’t enough to simply fuck you into the ground or find pleasure in that first stretch. No, tonight is about claiming you in every way possible.

About teaching not only your body but your mind that there is no one else it belongs to. No one else that can provide for you in the way he can. Utter and complete submission is his goal. But to get you there, that will take skillful maneuvering and coercion. Otherwise it would not be a quest worthy of his time or attention.

However, there is still one more way he can lock you into his life. One permanent reminder that would forever keep you shackled to him. An action that would have your scent intertwined with his so much so that it wouldn’t matter if it took. Pregnant or not the message would be clear. The confines of his loincloth feel suffocating at the thought. Would your tiny pussy even be able to hold half of his seed? What a pretty treat it would be to see it spilling out from your perfectly pink and tight hole.

Pace now quickened, nothing can take away his laser focus. Not even Lo’ak’s obvious staring as you are carried swiftly along the outer edges of the celebration. Nor Spider who tries to run across the crowd and apologize again. Neither make it to him because all that he can feel is the warmth of your softy body. The pulse of your heart. The essence that is entirely yours, filling his lungs.

Once back in the safety of his kelku [home/house] you are smart enough to not flee from his lap. He manhandles one leg to be thrown to the other side so you are properly straddling him. A sense of shyness must fall over you because you are silent while nervously fiddling with the feathers of his traditional attire. Or maybe you are still too shaken up over the little viperwolf incident to do much else.

Neteyam is unbothered by it, instead using it as an opportunity to let his hands explore. Not in a sexual way at first, just simple brushes that are sure to have you melting for him.

“Now you understand why you must stay by my side. Don’t you pet?” Voice as gentle as the hands that run up the back of your neck, he can feel goosebumps rise in its wake. Eyes still fixated on the feathers, you nod shakily. If it wasn’t so cute he would be tempted to reprimand you for such a half hearted response but it appears luck is in your favor.

His knuckles paint a trail up the back of your neck before swiping over your left shoulder. His other hand softly gathers your hair to the other side so your skin is bared for him. He thumbs at the side of your throat, feeling your pulse flicker beneath his fingers.

“Such a pretty thing like you is not safe out there.” His hands bracket either side of your face, large enough to span the entirety of your head and tilt it upwards. It gives him the perfect view of your expression when both hands smooth up towards your hairline before parting and dragging along your scalp. Lips parted and eyes fluttered closed, he knows he has pressed the right button.

“Creatures eager to snatch you up.” Neteyam draws out, nails ever so gently scratching along your roots. The shiver that races through your body is powerful enough to be visual. Massaging at the area in long strokes proves to have you breaking into pieces. Body practically limp against him, the Olo’eyktan watches with glee.

No wonder Sky People are too soft for this world, all it takes to disarm you is some well placed pets.

“And they’d be successful too,” The tips of his fingers come together to circle your hair into a ponytail. A small sound exhales from your lips, leaning into his touch without resolve. “Have you between their teeth before you could even scream.” That dark tone washes over you in a way so contrary to the warning message, his lips mere centimeters away from your own.

One little kiss, more of a peck really. That is all you get. Just enough to have you chasing after him, a motion that is hard to do when he has you anchored by the root of your hair.

“And that,” Another soft peck to your cheek, “is why you are so lucky to have me.” Neteyam allows his lips to linger longer this time but it’s still just as soft, almost more of a whisper than anything else and with the way you are trapped, there is nothing for you to do but take it. The noise that catches in your throat proves it is far from the passionate affection you desire.

“Isn’t that right?”

“Yes Teyam.” You puff, the softest whisper as you try to learn forward for more. He tutts in disapproval, a slow but firm yank to your hair following. “Y-yes Olo’eyktan.” You correct yourself with a squeak and much to his delight, the fragrance from between your thighs intensifies. He’s tempted to look now and see if it has left a spot on his loincloth.

“There’s my good girl.” He grins and finally you are rewarded with his lips capturing yours. Although slow and tender in movement the heat of the kiss is all consuming, spreading a message that can only reflect his complete control over you. Several times you try to squirm or wiggle but the hand embedded in your hair shackles you into place.

Unlike most times you become a fidgeting little thing, it’s clear that your efforts are to get closer, not further away. Neteyam is a nice man after all and so he indulges that desire. At least to a degree. He kisses you until you’re gasping for breath. He kisses you until slick is seeping through your mini loincloth. And he kisses you until those soft little lips are ruby red and chapped from the harsh treatment.

It doesn’t matter to you, that much is clear by the way you whimper once he pulls away.

“Don’t be greedy.” He smirks against your cheek.

Your greed only intensifies when he slips one hand down to untie your loincloth. His other hand remains embedded in your hair as a leash, one that proves necessary as you are eager to rut up against him. Perhaps he would feel guilty for the way you blush in shame after another tug to your hair. That is, if your reactions weren’t so delightfully endearing.

For reasons mysterious to him, humans have a habit of going against their natural needs. You are not exempt from this issue as you are constantly trying to deny your desire for him, even deny yourself the pleasure you so clearly require. It’s fortunate that you have him to override those silly concerns. And override them he does, quite easily since your body reacts like a live wire every time he is near. The smallest of touches have you aching for more.

Eywa has blessed him with such a responsive little pet and he has every intention of exploiting that sensitivity until you are screeching for him to stop.

Small hands come to dig into his feathered mantle as he idly explores the curves of your stomach. He traces up until reaching the sparkling gems of your top. With two little flicks your hardened nipples are bared for him.

It’s a rare experience to have you so cooperative as he bites and sucks at those little peaks. The emotions of that day have softened your resolve, a pattern that Neteyam makes a mental note of.

He tunes into every sensation of satin skin beneath his fingertips. Atop his thighs. Prickling beneath his lips. Like a flower you blossom for him so exquisitely. Revealing petals that are just for him. Melodic whimpers that only he has the pleasure of inducing. The irritation of Lo’ak’s infatuation fades to the background with you so pliant in his arms.

You are quickly driven to madness, or at least is how you plead when he continues to trace, worship and tease your small body. Neteyam is anxious too. His hard member presses painfully against the fabric of his tewng. However, being the first born son has taught him something that you very rarely exhibit: patience. The fruits of your labors are tenfold more exhilarating once following a period of yearning.

And you yearn for him, little gift. So much so that your dramatic begging has him holding back a deep chuckle.

A river of nectar flowing down your thighs, you act as if you will pitter into dust if not satisfied.

It will be fun training you. Making you learn to sit patiently like a good pet when that inferno of fire burns deep within you. He can devise a plethora of creative punishments for when you inevitably step out of line. Neteyam looks forward to the long process. He wouldn’t want to succeed too quickly and cut the fun short.

Luckily your spit fire attitude is sure to draw it out, keeping him entertained and challenged for a long time.

The reasoning is only further confirmed when he catches you sneaking a tiny hand between your legs. The grip in your hair finally releases only for him to sharply smack away your attempt.

“Did I say you could do that?”

You’re exasperated, pleading eyes staring up at him as a drawn out groan comes from your lips.

“Well are you planning to tease me all night or actually do something?”

You’re pinned onto your back in a heartbeat, this time his right hand curled around your throat instead of your hair. It may not be firm enough to cut off your airway but the oxygen in your lungs freezes all the same.

“Oeyӓ tiyawn I have greater plans for my pussy than using your pathetic little fingers.” He growls into your ear, watching as you are too frozen in shock to bother struggling. “Because by the end of tonight it will be filled with my seed.”

Your throat bobs with a thick gulp, stuttered words struggling to come forth but a tad more pressure against your pulse earns your silence. And to his fascination, your eyes roll back into your head. Fight it all you want, but it’s clear you have always thrived off of his domination. This power imbalance is one that you need. Satisfying that deeply locked away drive you have to be loved, pampered, controlled, and absolutely ruined.

Just in the way only he can deliver.

Squeeze any tighter and his fingers might just lose circulation. Regardless, the dildos have done their job effectively and now you are more than ready to take him. It was always going to be a tight fit, but at least there is little risk of real injury due to his preparations.

You appear less convinced on that matter when his unoccupied hand roughly tugs off his tewng. Wide eyes stare down to where his full length lays along your stomach. He has to admit that in a position like this the size difference does become ever more staggering but he has every faith in you.

“Neteyam please,” You whimper, shiny eyes staring up at him for mercy.

“Please what?” He hums. His fingers curl to massage that special spot inside while his thumb playfully runs over your clit. It has the desired effect, watching as your begging turns towards a different goal.

“Please let me cum! Need it! Neteyam please!”

Neteyam shushes you tenderly, relieving some of the pressure from you little button when he feels your cunt clench around him on the verge of an orgasm. You’ve never looked more beautiful than now, naked and spread across the little nest of blankets and pillows he arranged just for you. Long hair splayed out in every which direction and eyes already coated in a haze, it appears as if you have already been fucked dumb beneath him.

“Patience, little gift. You will cum on my cock soon enough.”

Your alarm flares up once more.

“No Neteyam I can’t! It’s too big, it’s impossible-”

A large thumb presses over your lips to silence you. At this rate you are going to work yourself into hysterics and that would unravel all of the hard work he has done to get you here. A few more intentional circles on your clit has those protests flying out the door. It’s clear you require his help to stay calm and compliant the way you are meant to. The Olo’eyktan doesn’t mind aiding.

Your chest rises and falls dramatically as you melt under the pleasure. And when his three fingers are replaced with the head of his cock lining up, you hardly even notice. As long as that little bundle of nerves is being stimulated, you are hyper focused on seeing out that ecstasy to a finish.

A soft kiss dampens your screech when he slots in just the tip. Already his mind swirls from the sensation but Neteyam manages to reign in his focus. Little ‘no’ s and pleas fall from your lips to caress his.

“Mawey, oeyӓ tiyawn [be calm, my love]. You are being so good for me.” Another inch and it feels as if his own knees are about to crumble from how tightly you cinch around him. Small hands fists into the fabric below as your eyes squeeze shut. Neteyam shakily grasps one with his right hand, placing it along his shoulder that is now exposed with the feathered attire out of the way. “You can touch, little pet. Good girls deserve rewards.”

With your face just barely reaching chest level the Olo’eyktan is forced to bend into an awkward position every time he goes to kiss away your tears, but it’s worth it. Those blunt little nails dig into his lower back. It’s a shame they aren’t strong enough to leave marks that he can cherish.

The air from his lungs are pushed out in a rush as he plunges ever so slightly deeper inside your sweet little pussy. You tense and cry beneath him, scratching as his back in haste. Although mere seconds away from popping his load far too early he still manages to reach down and play with your poor little cunt until more of that sweet essence is trailing out.

“You need to relax for me, pet.” Neteyam grits, tail curling erratically. “Going to suffocate my cock like this, little one.” And it’s true because in all of his years of sexual maturity not once has he ever felt a pussy so tight, so responsive, wrapped around him. It drives him to the point of insanity. It takes every last bit of resolve he has left to not shove the rest of himself inside and plow you into the floor.

But Neteyam knows better than to break his toys.

The next few minutes test his mental and physical stamina over and over as you slowly take him inch by inch. Every slow push of his hips causes a domino effect of tears and incoherent cries from your sweet lips. He kisses and soothes and pleasures your trembling body until you’ve learned to relax again. Only to then restart the cycle when you take one inch more.

However, nothing prepares him for the end result. No amount of dreaming or training could ever have done the sight justice as he sees the way your soft belly bulges when he reaches the hilt. The shape of him is clearly visible, twitching so deep inside of you that it threatens to drive both of you into sensation overload.

The groan that rumbles from his throat is one that you have never heard before. So rough and unleashed that your glittering eyes dilate in response. It’s still painful, that much he can see from the look on your face. So despite every instinct in him screaming to ruin your little pussy until it can take no more, Neteyam remains in place.

Your swollen nub is red from his sensual play, nipples not far behind as he laps and kisses them like they are the last meal he will ever have. That beautiful blush now heats down your neck and torso, as if tempting him to continual his oral fixation. It accentuates most importantly that bulge of your stomach until he can’t help himself anymore, large hand spanning over your tummy to press on that area lightly.

“Can you feel me, tiyawn? Right here?” He presses again, your mouth opening in a silent scream. “Taking me so deep, pet. My good girl.”

And it’s then that it feels as if something has clicked. Your bodies becomes attuned to one another. Burning stretch morphs into something otherworldly, those soft features finally unscrewing into fluttering bliss. And he draws out ever so slightly to rut back in, your head falls back against the pillows.

He’s waited long enough. Pinned long enough. Crawled after you long enough. Now all that his body can do is take what you so freely give him. His hips snap forward without restrain, spurred on by the little sounds that pulse in the back of your throat. Little fingers scatter between gripping his muscular back and tangling into his braids.

The heat that travels from his ears to toes is so intense that it feels as if he may burst into an inferno. And he truly might, little gift. With the way you hug his cock so snuggly as if you never want to let it go, you may simply kill him. He would be happy to go that way. To leave this world drowning in the bliss of your destined union.

And for once in his life, Neteyam lets himself fully go. He chases that peak with fervent desperation. He drinks in every reaction you have to give him. And when the pleasure becomes all too much for you to take. When you grapple to crawl away from him and the mind shattering climax that is around the corner, he pulls you back down with a hiss.

“No more running, pet.” He commands, a growl emanating so deeply from his chest that he almost doesn’t recognize his own voice. He hoists your left leg around his waist, effectively changing the angle to thrust in deeper.

“Neteyam!” A screech like sweet honey from your lips as you finally tip over the edge. Body trembling so hard it takes that firm grip on your leg to keep it there, you crumble beneath him. His stamina is far from being drained as he rides you through it. Every wave of pleasure is stronger than a drug, leading him to cloud nine until he no longer wants to be anywhere else.

“T-too much.” You gasp for air but your body is already succumbing to the onslaught. He can feel the way you are ramping up again. This is far from being over.

“Give in.” Neteyam coos but the ring of that command is clear. There is no other option. That is the way it has always been because from the very beginning you have always been his. And sooner or later Eywa knew that the two of you would be here together, trapped in his love where you belong.

“Oh God!” You cry out, body sliding up the floor with every thrust.

Whether you find his queue by accident or on purpose is unclear but that first tug is enough to have his balls drawing up against his body, bracing to fly into bliss. There is a sticky mess between the two of you, slick enough to have those wet sounds filling the night air. Neteyam runs the flat of his nose over your sweaty temple and curve of your cheek.

“My little gift.” He purrs, body on the brink of rupturing. He says it more for himself than you but is more than pleased to watch the way your eyes flutter close as the sound. Trembling, squeezing, and shattering around him, those are the moments your reserve of denial dries up.

That’s how it has always been. From the first night that he brought you home, tucked under his arm, you’ve had this other side that can be taunted out. Even that night as you had pleaded to be released only to have the gag put back in, his tongue had driven you to stillness. Your screaming of kidnapping had sizzled into a series of moans and ecstatic exclamations.

There’s another side to him too.

The part of him that can finally bask in the one thing he has wanted for months. The part of him that yearns for reprieve day in and day out. The part that demands for rest- for freedom.

Now he can finally surrender himself to the magic that the two of you create. To the sparkle that runs down your cheeks. To the sensation of being embraced so tightly by your little pussy. To the way his name has never sounded better from anyone else’s lips. Eywa has finally given him this gift, his sanctuary from every other pressure bestowed upon him.

And now nothing is going to take it away from him.

Nothing will ever take you away.

Those are the thoughts that coerce his primal nature forward. The same that ramp the fire of his tongue demanding more from you. Pushing you further, harder, deeper.

“You won’t let any spill out, will you pet?” He spits between grunts.

“I-I’ll be good. I’ll be good. I’ll be good.” More of a chant on loop than anything else. One day you will beg properly. You will cry for his seed, for his babies. You won’t question whether or not pregnancy is possible as he fills your womb with his mark.

You will wear that little bow on your neck with pride.

Neteyam forces his eyes open at the precipice. Even as his body convulses and cock pulses rampantly while painting your insides white, he won’t allow himself to miss a single moment. That imprint of your expression as he finally claims you past the point of return will stay with him. The drawn in gasp that is sucked in from your red lips when you feel that warmth will be what keeps him going on day after day. Major to minor details of tonight will be his soundtrack to perfection as he pushes himself to be the best Olo’eyktan possible.

And when the day has worn him to the bone and those day dreams are not enough, there you will be. Waiting for him oh so sweetly.

“I want to sleep.”

Your muffled whine coaxes a chuckle from the Olo’eyktan.

“Then sleep.” He responds, only looking up from your spread legs for a second. So peaceful and sweet you are now, almost drowned in the hammock’s blankets and pillows. The picture of innocence and beauty only to then trail his eyes lower and find the evidence of his primal claim. His bioluminescent seed paints your weeping folds and inner thighs. A new spurt erupts from your still clenching hole only for him to push it back inside with his thumb again.

It won’t make much of a difference. There is no way your small body could ever truly hold all of it but that doesn’t stop him from teasing you all the same.

“Looks like this little pussy will need training to savor my seed properly after all.”

Eyes still closed you let out a groan, trying to rip your thighs from his fingers. You remain trapped as exhaustion finally overcomes you, only a small incoherent curse from your tongue before passing out.

Neteyam grins, reaching up to straighten the little pink bow around your throat.

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