Chapter Text
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.