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Ao’nung should’ve known Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk'itan would be trouble when he saw him standing in the parking lot of their small-town college, slim waist covered by a strip of black lace peeking from the gaping waistband of his downturned dark denim jeans.
He’s lean and elegant, a pair of oversized dark glasses covering his face and a bright orange and green silk scarf wrapped around the bulk of his braids. His jacket matches his jeans, buttoned up all the way except for the top two, seemingly sucking all the light in the world right into it.
Neteyam stands calm and collected, ignoring the whispers and terribly hidden pointing. He slides his glasses on top of his scarf, amber irises alight with a jaded existence. His emotions seem to be spilled all over that dark rose mouth, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he looks for his younger brother across the dying quad.
Ao’nung has never really seen the oldest Sully boy. In fact, most of the town hadn’t. There were a few hushed testimonials that always included how beautiful Neteyam was, how he looked just like his mama, how his voice was like silk. He thought they were full of shit, but now he understood the attraction.
The Sully siblings were the Metkayinan version of the Lisbon sisters. Their family had taken the seaside southern town of Awa'atlu by surprise with an arrival reminiscent of thunder, and Lord knows their town hadn’t seen rain in years. They had filled the air with a presence as thick as smoke, blooming out onto a Pandoran highway from someplace far away.
The family had moved into a big two-level home on the outskirts of the community, its body shielded by a massive row of magnolia trees. Every time you saw a son or a daughter, your mouth nearly went swollen with desire, your body curling toward them as if they were the sun. Their proximity was a bee sting. At least, that’s what it felt like.
Neteyam is hypnotic, skin like a sheet of chestnut diamond against the denim. It was easy to see why every mother was itching to know if he was available for their budding debutante. A futile hope, really. His eyes only ever seemed to land on Ao’nung’s wide-open gaze, pausing there before slipping away again, uninterested in anyone’s daughter.
From here, he appears tall, but Ao’nung has a strong hunch that he’s got a few inches on him.
Behind Neteyam, the adopted Sully daughter lounged in the backseat, feet up. Most people thought Kiri was strange—short hair, a 1920s face. She went by a different name every time she met a Metkayinan boy, just for fun. She figured if they were going to talk shit, they might as well sound as stupid as they were. Her favorite was Chuck, which she’d then claim was short for Caroline—an assertion that made absolutely no sense—but no one ever questioned it. It didn’t help that her family played along, sending out velvet calls of “Chuck!” or “Caroline!” or “Hannah!” whenever they happened upon her. She always laughed, then made sure her face settled into something serene, a small smile that gave nothing away.
Her real name was only given to the girls she liked, and that’s how Ao’nung found out that they called her Kiri at home. Tsireya had been enfolded right into her coveted circle.
Next to her rests Spider, hair pulled into a bun much like Ao’nung’s own. He always looks tired, though never so much that he can’t trail after Kiri, left and right. In front of him sits Tuk, eyes narrowed in his direction. She’s the youngest of the bunch and Neteyam’s sworn protector. Once, when Ao’nung had finally coaxed an answer out of Tsireya, she’d mentioned how Tuk sometimes slipped into Kiri’s room when Neteyam was there, curling her small body around her brother as if keeping watch.
“So, they’re fucking crazy,” Ao’nung had said.
“No,” Tsireya had said sharply, "they are not.”
“Tsireya,” he had looked at her in bemusement. “They’re fucking crazy.”
Naturally, everyone distrusted them. Within a week, Ao’nung’s mama had convinced herself they were demons, forbidding Tsireya and him from coming within six feet of them. She’d nearly lost her mind when she heard Tsireya and Kiri had been seen together at the lake—one of the few times his father had ever scolded his little sister.
As if summoned by his spiraling thoughts, Tsireya comes to stand at his side. She hugs her books to her chest and gazes wistfully at the group, letting out a long sigh.
“Great Mother,” she croons, “they’re just so pretty, aren’t they?”
She waves shyly as Kiri calls her name from the open car window.
“Don’t let Mom hear that,” Ao’nung drawls, his voice deep with amusement. “She’ll have you praying to Eywa more than she already does.”
Tsireya rolls her eyes. “They’re just people. I don’t know why everyone’s convinced they’re going to corrupt us.”
Right on cue, the missing Sully brother steps out of the building, braids pulled back into his traditional low ponytail. He jogs easily toward the car, bumps Neteyam’s shoulder, teases a smile out of him. He leans through the passenger-side window to kiss Tuk’s cheek, earning a squeal of delight. The trunk of the forest-green Cadillac pops open with a soft click, Lo’ak tossing his school bag inside before slamming it shut.
Ao’nung watches his sister from the corner of his eye, one brow raised. Her infatuation radiates off her in visible heat. Love or lust—it hardly mattered. Tsireya always became a new sun.
“That’s why Mom thinks that,” he tells her lightly. “You’re corrupted already.”
“Shut up, Ao’nung! God—I’m not, it’s not like that. You don’t know anything,” Tsireya huffs, clutching her books tighter to her chest.
“Okay, Reya,” he says, still smiling. “Whatever you want.”
She hits him hard, but he doesn’t stop laughing. The sound carries—enough that the Sullys turn to watch them as one. The engine starts. The car begins to pull away, leaving the quad more enraptured than they’d found it.
Kiri leans her torso out the window, blowing Tsireya exactly three kisses, fingers trailing in a soft, deliberate wave. Tsireya pretends to catch them, laughing—bright and crystalline—as Kiri swoons dramatically back onto Spider’s lap.
“The sister, too? Goddamn, Reya. Maybe Eywa should take you now.”
“Well,” Tsireya says with an arched brow, staunchly ignoring the accusation, “With the way you’re eyeing up Neteyam, I’m sure Mama would be open to a shared grave.”
“You’re a little liar, Tsireya,” Ao’nung grumbles in embarrassment, cheeks suddenly running high with heat.
“Nuh-uh. Just your sister,” she snarks back, but she takes him by the hand and leads him home.
♱
The next time Ao'nung sees him, it's purely by accident. However, every time after that is on purpose.
But this time it’s by accident. When he goes fishing, he’s aiming for time alone. Not time alone with Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan, in short light-wash denim snug on his thighs. He doesn’t see him at first. He’s nearly at the lake’s edge before his eyes pull away from where they’d been resting and settle on Neteyam instead, calf-deep in the water, playing with Tuk.
The delay gives him more time than he should be allowed.
Neteyam’s long brown legs cross and uncross as he lets Tuk overpower him, his laughter low and easy, echoing straight through Ao’nung’s bones. Every Sully on Eywa’s earth must have been granted the power to make others feel entirely too human.
Tuk giggles as she runs circles around her older brother, her face young and full of mischief. Then she sees him. There’s a snap moment where something registers, and her expression falls shut, her body going so still Ao’nung thinks she’s died standing straight up.
Neteyam turns to see why the chase has stopped. He finds Ao’nung at the edge of the woods, watching. His eyes are beautiful even when they fill with apprehension, with something hot and simmering beneath it. He draws Tuk back to him carefully, presses a kiss to the top of her head, murmuring something too low for the other boy to hear.
She says something back to him, and Neteyam gives her a singular look that makes her go still again. Incensed, she squeezes his hand and scrambles in the opposite direction of where Ao'nung stands. He must've told her to go home. Sometimes Ao'nung forgets that their town is so small that almost everybody has the lake in their backyard.
Even when you were as ostracized as the Sully siblings, you still managed to swim in the same green water.
Neteyam is silent, arms crossed against his stomach as he glances coolly over the boy in front of him. Ao'nung says nothing, a little lost for words. He's never been this close before. No one has.
"I didn't intend to disrupt y'all. I was just getting some fish for dinner later. I like to fish, um, sometimes."
Ao'nung wants to die. He's usually suave, blessed with a silver tongue that kills many a person. A right charmer. But Neteyam is so capable of reducing him to a newborn child who's just now discovering the ability to speak.
"That's fine," Neteyam says shortly.
Ao’nung inches closer to the water, careful to keep his body open, his movements friendly. Neteyam shifts, and the sapphire anklet at his ankle sways, square-cut stones flashing reckless deep blue in the afternoon sun.
It’s humid today. That’s what Ao’nung is going to blame the sweat on. That’s all it is.
“I wasn’t gonna hurt you,” Ao’nung says, threading bait onto the hook as he readies his line.
Neteyam lets out a dry laugh, so sharp that the sound slices through Ao'nung's stomach. It's a singular syllable, full of enough disbelief to rival an atheist.
“Your mama’s made it very clear to the whole town,” Neteyam says lightly, “that my mama and the rest of my family are dark as they come. Cursed by Eywa.”
Ao’nung winces.
“Who’s to say you aren’t the same?”
“I—fuck. I’m not my mama,” Ao’nung says. “Neither is Tsireya. Y’all seem to love her well enough.”
“She’s shown us she’s different.”
Ao’nung casts his line, angling his body just enough that he can look at Neteyam without it feeling like an intimidation.
“So I don’t get a chance?”
Neteyam doesn’t answer. He ties the wet ends of his white button-down together, the fabric clinging before it gives, dripping down his thighs. His shorts hang loose at the waist—too loose—and Ao’nung tries, and fails, to be respectful about it.
“I didn’t like the way you were looking at me the other day,” Neteyam says. “When I was picking up my brother.”
“If I offended you,” Ao’nung says, “I apologize. I guess.”
Another dry laugh. Unamused.
“You’re not even sure you’re sorry.”
“I don’t think I understand how I was looking at you, Sully,” Ao’nung says, and it's honest.
Neteyam ignores him, bending to retrieve his shoes. Ao’nung only notices them now: old Converse, beaten all the way to hell and back, scuffed with dirt and something like love. Neteyam turns away, his braids drawn into a single thick French plait down his back.
Right when he hits the wood's edge, he pauses. Turns back.
“You looked at me like you wanted to eat me,” he says. “No one’s ever looked at me like that before. And I never want to feel it again.”
Ao’nung smiles, crooked and easy, his eyes crinkling into slivers of something too pleased. Neteyam tells himself the warmth in his stomach is from the lake water Tuk got in his mouth.
“I don’t wanna eat you, Sully,” Ao’nung says. “I do wanna know you, though. Just a little.”
Neteyam scoffs.
“Based on how you and your little group treat my brother,” he says, “you don’t deserve to know me at all.”
Ao'nung does feel a moment of guilt then. Tsireya had told him that he was building up a reputation of sorts, and now it was truly coming back to bite him in the ass. Picking on Lo’ak had always been easy. Too easy.
“My apologies ’bout that,” Ao’nung calls, as Neteyam disappears into the green.
Neteyam doesn’t answer. He melts into the foliage, his steps swallowed by cicadas and gnats. Covered well enough that he makes it five paces before stopping, turning back to watch Ao’nung fish, his mind worrying over the shape of what they’d just said to each other.
It was better than he’d expected, but he still wasn’t touching Ronal’s son with a ten-foot pole. Tsireya was different—her crush on Lo’ak obvious, and something quietly odd but not alarming with Kiri. She wasn’t calling Lo’ak names or ranting about demons; she left things well enough alone, carving her own way through it. He tolerated her at first, then liked her, and finally found himself adoring the shift she’d brought to his little brother.
He's too deep in thought to hear anyone approach, and so lets out a sharp, surprised little scream when he spins to find Kiri standing just behind him, still as the dead.
She laughs, hands resting delicately on her hips, her deep blue maxi skirt swaying as the cropped cardigan curls at her wrists. Her hair, soft and coiled at the ends, brushes her cheeks.
“Gotta crush, ‘Teyam?”
He gives her a look. She laughs again, slipping her hand into his as they started walking back.
“No, Chuck." She smiles widely at that. “He’s just… odd. They’ve never spoken to us outright before. Not nicely, anyway.”
“Yeah. Heard Mama nearly beat Ronal into a casket at the grocer’s the other day.”
“All-Mother,” Neteyam mutters. “Honestly, it’s only a matter of time before we have to leave town again.”
“Well, maybe if they’d leave us the fuck alone, we’d be fine,” Kiri shoots back, shoulders tensing.
“They never will. People’re like that,” he says, and she presses a soft kiss to his cheek.
“Not you, though,” she teases.
“Not you, either,” he replies, squeezing her hand.
“But seriously—about the boy. You like him?”
Neteyam hesitates, his mind flitting to Ao’nung’s high cheekbones and pale, powder-blue eyes.
“I don’t think so. He’s too mean to Lo’ak. A wonder they’re related.”
Kiri hums, helping him step over a patch of thorns.
“Maybe he’ll come around, like her.”
“I don’t think she ever bought what her mama was spouting. She saw Lo’ak and decided she’d slip her way in.” Neteyam’s gaze flicks sideways at Kiri. “Took one look at you, too.”
Her cheeks flush. She nudges him, and laughter bubbles up from his chest.
“Kiri, you can have anyone you want.”
“If I want them,” she adds.
“If you want them,” he agrees.
“I’m not sure I want her yet. She’s beautiful. Makes me feel like I’m talking straight to God, but…” Her hand tightens in his.
Neteyam feels the weight in her words, hears Eywa where she speaks God. He tightens his grip in return, speaking softly to her as they reach the Cadillac he’d parked along the trail. Tuk’s head pops up from the backseat, Spider beside her.
“It’s okay to be scared, Chuck,” he murmurs.
She chuckles tiredly and shoves him.
“That’s not my name.”
“You like to use it, though.”
She smiles, sliding into the passenger seat, turning to make faces at Tuk as he eases the car into drive. Tuk’s laugh is loud and free, unselfconscious as a child’s should be, and Kiri mimicks her without hesitation.
His shirt clings to his legs still, soaked through, but he doesn't care. Neteyam focuses on driving them back to the manor, though every time he catches a hint of that lake-blue gaze in the rearview mirror, he feels it curl in his chest, a memory he can't look away from.
♱
Neteyam wakes up early so that he can have his time with Eywa alone. The house is silent as he slips from his position behind Tuk, her mouth parted just the smallest bit in her sleep. Next to her, curled tightly, is Lo'ak, and the sight makes him laugh a little because, as grown as Lo'ak claims he is, he refuses to leave his brother alone even in sleep.
At least not since The Argument.
His room is unmistakably his. The floors are clean, lightly stained a warm brown to mimic rustic wood. The headboard of his bed is just the right size, twisting grey metal bent into an ornate flourish; a little practical, more decorative. The walls, rich ivory, still carry a dark blue floral motif from his childhood, faded now but stubbornly holding onto nostalgia.
The ceiling is a crisp, perfect white, broken only by the lines of black script—his real-life diary. Neteyam had never taken to traditional journaling, but when he needed to purge his thoughts, he’d scrawl them across the ceiling, covering them later with a simple charm.
He can’t resist pressing a kiss to Tuk’s forehead—Lo’ak’s too—before leaving, wearing an oversized white cable-knit sweater that had clearly belonged to his father once. His bed wasn’t meant for three, but he welcomed the crowding; his siblings were the only consistent version of home he had.
Slipping into the cool hallway, he remembers the house outside. Vintage, nestled among magnolia trees, it had been love at first sight for Neytiri, tugging Jake’s hand excitedly during their first visit. His father, unable to resist her, had said yes before they’d even returned to the city, and within three months, they’d packed up and moved.
The pale yellow siding gives it a slightly sun-kissed glow year-round. The second floor finishes the picture with its light brown roof and a circular room, a row of windows framing the front lawn like a private gallery.
The balcony is a favorite spot after morning dew, wet wood cool against his skin. The early fog lends the trees a clawing, eerie grace, perfect for the quiet focus he needs to connect with Eywa. There’s something about the hush, the damp earth, the faint, sweet scent of wood and magnolia mixed with jasmine. It sharpens his senses, grounds him, and opens the space in his soul where he needs to listen.
Out of the entire family, Neteyam is one of the weaker Sully witches, just above Tuk, whose own fragility stems only from not yet having fully come into herself. Kiri, by contrast, radiates power so strong it sometimes bends her body in sharp, epileptic episodes, surpassing even their mother.
The weight of his own limitation sits heavy on him, despite his mother’s constant insistence that she loves him as he is, that she is proud regardless of his conjuring skill. Words can soothe, but they do not lift the quiet ache.
He rarely speaks of the depth of how he feels to his father. Their existences seem to run parallel, separated by the formalities that mark their bond. The “sir” that colors every exchange. Jake does his best, Neteyam knows, but he has always been more his father than his dad.
Now, alone, that tight coil in his stomach unwinds. Here, the world narrows to the space between him and Eywa. Every connection is different; theirs is intimate, delicate, a mirror of how she sees him, not how he wishes to be seen.
Neteyam has always found her presence in the trees. Now, cross-legged on the water-logged balcony, he can feel the branches shift gently, magnolias heavy with bloom. The fragrance curls through the air, too rich for anyone else, and the petals catch the light in soft spirals of pink and green, curling in rhythm with his breath.
He loves Eywa beyond reason, beyond measure, and it is this love that makes his own weakness feel sharper. A breeze brushes a loose petal against his cheek, and he smiles at her greeting. His hair, unbound and curling in soft rings, brushes his face as he leans into the moment.
He returns the greeting in his own quiet way, fingers curling through the air with a subtle grace. Petals lift as if drawn by the motion, carrying a whisper of his essence back into her. For a long while, he does nothing more complex. Hands splayed elegantly against his chest, he inhales and then releases, pushing the water pooled in the wood into a bulging bubble.
He pokes it softly, delighted by the lurch as it settles back into place. A small offering, a silent prayer for the home, a patch of roof he’d long meant to mend. Eywa knows his parents had enough on their plate. With a whispered blessing to the Great Mother, the bubble dissolves, falling in shimmer to the center of the lake.
The fog has dispelled some, and that means Neteyam is unpleasantly surprised with the view of Ronal's boy hanging in front of the manor gate, rosebud mouth propped open with awe. Neteyam curses softly, hoping that Ao’nung has glimpsed little of the routine, or that he can dismiss it as a trick of spirits.
Shaking off the thought, he rises, legs steady despite the lingering charm in his veins. He steps down the balcony stairs, into the soft, dew-slick grass of the front lawn, and begins toward Ao’nung, each step measured, each breath a quiet pulse of anxious connection.
"What in Eywa's name are you doing here?" Neteyam hisses.
"You're a goddamn witch," Ao'nung says in response, and Neteyam's eyes flash, the magnolia branches trembling with his temper.
Ao'nung ignores it, palms curling over two of the metal fence’s spokes.
"Are all of you?” Neteyam’s silence only widens Ao’nung’s eyes.
“Even Spider?”
“No,” Neteyam says, exasperated, stepping forward to unlock the gate.
As Ao’nung moves to enter, a sharp glare stops him. One hand presses him back; Neteyam positions himself between him and the house.
“Walk,” he commands, passing ahead without another word.
Ao’nung rolls his eyes but jogs to catch up, falling into step effortlessly. Silence stretches as they head toward town, Neteyam’s boots crunching on gravel, carrying them farther from the safety of his family.
“I won’t say anything if that’s what you care about,” Ao’nung offers.
Neteyam spins, hair flaring out wildly, framing a flushed face softened in the rising light.
“If that’s what I’m worried about?” he parrots incredulously. “We’ve been run out of every forsaken town because of you—or your mother—antagonizing my family. Leaving us the hell alone is apparently too much to ask.”
"I—" Ao'nung begins to explain himself, but he's not given a chance.
“You pick on Lo’ak too much. He loses control with his magic when he’s angry. He’s been doing so well, and every time he heads to lecture, you’re there, your little pack of wolves ready to bite again. He’s done nothing to you! We’ve done nothing to you! All-Mother, at this point, we just want Tuk to have a childhood she’s proud of. What is so wrong with that? And now you—you—”
His voice slowly rises, rasping with anger, and Ao’nung thinks he sees tears glimmering in the other boy’s eyes. He does what he’s seen his father do so many times to his mother: gathers the other boy into himself.
Ao’nung’s arms wrap around Neteyam’s waist, tugging him close. His other hand cups Neteyam’s face. Almond-brown skin pressed to tawny, tattooed flesh; light catches them like oil on water in the waking sun. Neteyam shivers into the hold, a quiet surrender in his posture, and Ao’nung feels, instinctively, the desire behind it.
“Slow down, Sully. I swear I’m not going to tell anyone, and I’ll cut out messing around with Lo’ak. Pinky promise and shit,” he murmurs.
Neteyam says nothing, but he relaxes, just a fraction.
“However,” Ao’nung continues, eyes searching his face, “I want time with you in exchange.”
Neteyam twists away, arms hugging his sweater close.
“Why would you want that?” His gaze lingers on the powder-blue eyes he'd had mapped onto his ceiling long ago.
“I’m not shy about my intentions, Sully. Almost everyone in this town has a crush on you or your siblings. Honestly, I didn’t want to be in the thick of it. Yet here I am. So it’s your problem now.”
Neteyam tilts his head, raising an eyebrow, scoffing in disbelief.
“After what you pulled, you think—”
“I can be different,” Ao’nung interrupts. “I can. Give me a chance. I know Tsireya’s better, but I’m okay sometimes.”
Neteyam's gaze softens, eyes bright and melting. He reaches to touch Ao’nung’s arm, before letting his hand drop slowly.
“Tsireya isn’t better. You’re both good in your own way. Don’t say that about yourself.”
Silence follows. Ao’nung starts walking again, heading back toward Sully Manor.
“I can say what I want about myself.”
“Yeah, but say it enough, and it gets easier to believe. Hunger becomes a new animal once you discover it.”
Ao’nung smiles at the weight in those words.
“See? You’re caring for me already.”
Neteyam laughs, slipping ahead, a coy smile tugging at his lips.
“It was a slip-up.”
“Sure,” Ao’nung agrees, teeth flashing in an easy grin.
Neteyam shakes his head, darting forward to brush fingers against Ao’nung’s cheek, then stepping back. Flushed and embarrassed, he waves absentmindedly, jogging back toward his home.
Ao’nung hesitates, torn between following and letting him go. The decision is made for him when Neteyam turns and waves once more, hair piling gently atop his shoulders as he, not unkindly, sends him on his way.
♱
“You’re gonna get in trouble with my mama, Ao’nung.”
Ao’nung smiles widely, mouth twisting with humor at the corners right before it evolves into a full-blown laugh. He had taken his chances today, praying that Neteyam was out early just like before. He wasn't as lucky as before and had to come back later in the afternoon, sitting stubbornly in front of the gate until Kiri had seen him. She'd rolled her eyes and called back inside the house for her brother, tone high and teasing as she muttered something indistinguishable.
Now, Neteyam scolds him as he walks forward. His hair is in a crown of thick braids, pinned elaborately on top of his head. He wonders if that’s magic, too, since the style is always varying.
“I’m already in trouble with mine. It won’t hurt to go home smelling like you and your magic.”
Neteyam doesn’t move any closer to the latch of the gate, planted safely behind it where Ao’nung can’t touch him. He hides a smile and tilts his head, his hands lacing together briefly before falling apart.
“And what do we smell like? My magic and I.”
“Cinnamon,” Ao’nung says, low and dark, “and the lake out back.”
“Yeah?” Neteyam responds, fingers curling upwards as he feels power spark behind his palms.
“Mmhmm. I can smell it now. When I saw you do it, it was in the air, but I thought it was the magnolias. Then I touched you like I did, ‘round your waist. Realized it was you.” He drawls.
Neteyam flushes all dark at the memory, and Ao’nung counts it as a small victory.
“You pay too much attention to me. You’ve gotta stop.”
“I don’t make it a habit to do what I’m told. Not when it comes to you. I told you that, so,” he shrugs, “fair game.”
Neteyam can’t stop the smile now, so he quickly pivots, walking back down the aisle of magnolia branches clawing weakly at empty air.
“You can’t spare a moment for me today, Sully?” Ao’nung calls after him.
Neteyam stops, seems to contemplate, but before he gets to make the choice, Jake Sully does it for him.
“Come on in, Ao’nung. Getting tired of seeing you outside my property.”
Ao’nung grins.
♱
Jake Sully is intimidating, but he’s nowhere near his wife. Still, he’s a large part of why most of the town doesn’t interfere too much with the Sully children. Tall, ruggedly handsome, hair buzzed short from his military days, he unsettles Ao’nung in a way that’s sharp and interesting—he is a white, military man—reminding him faintly of his own father.
He sits across from Ao’nung in their kitchen, the wooden table pushed up to the bay windows, their sills cushioned for extra seating. Neteyam perches beside his father, mouth tight, eyes flicking nervously from left to right. Today, he’s in denim again: low-rise jeans hugging his hips, a faded university tee cropped just enough to feel vintage, golden rings gleaming on long, elegant fingers.
Ao’nung can’t help noticing he looks good. Apparently, Jake Sully does too, because he clears his throat, pulling Ao’nung’s attention like a leash. Sheepish, Ao’nung raises his hands in placation.
“You gonna raise hell for my family, boy?”
“No, sir,” he answers, eyes steel as they meet Jake’s. The man nods once, sipping his coffee. Neteyam looks one heartbeat away from neurosis, and Ao’nung leans in, softening his voice.
“Just wanna talk to your son.”
Neteyam snaps his head toward him, and Ao'nung finds himself stifling a laugh at his expression.
“Yeah, I know. With the way you keep looking at him, that’s the only option.”
“Dad!” Neteyam exclaims, and Ao’nung doesn’t miss the flash of surprise on Jake’s face.
Mr. Sully’s face softens just for a minute, the hardness dissapating slightly before shaping back up into military mode. His son looks taken aback, too, and Ao’nung can’t help but wonder how the hell they talk to each other regularly for this to be abnormal.
“Just calling it like it is, son,” Jake says evenly.
“Sir, there’s not—” Neteyam starts, and Ao'nung gets his answer, “—anything between us.”
“Not yet,” Ao’nung adds automatically, and Neteyam drops his head in mild despair, the ghost of a blush brushing his cheeks.
“I’m just trying to control the situation. He saw me on the balcony the other day. Casting.”
Jake’s eyes nearly pop out of his head, but that quickly becomes the preferred reaction when Neteyam’s mother begins yelling from the kitchen doorway. Tuk trails behind her, eyes narrowed on Ao’nung as though she might actually bite him.
“He what? Neteyam! What have I told you about remaining aware of your surroundings while casting? He is the last person who should be seeing you. The last.”
Neteyam springs upright, hands fluttering nervously as he tries to explain.
“Mama. Mama, I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But—But I’m trying to fix it. I swear.”
Ao’nung hates how small Neteyam’s voice has become, how his spine curls, how his throat works so hard as he pleads for his mother to understand. Neytiri’s berating continues, incisive and furious, but her hand reaches out, tugging him close, tapping his chin in gentle admonishment.
“‘Teyam, you didn’t mean to,” Tuk says softly. “You’re always so careful. You didn’t mean to.”
She presses her small hand to his back, eyes focused, almost luminous, and Ao’nung finally registers the soft blue glow shimmering there. It hits him then: she’s grounding him, literally, comforting him through the use of her magic.
“Tuk.”
Jake’s low voice cuts through the room, and all eyes turn toward him—except Tuk’s.
“Since when have you been casting?” he asks.
“Since two days ago,” Tuk answers.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Neytiri asks, tone tight, eyes closing in a silent prayer for strength.
“Didn’t feel like it,” Tuk replies casually, as though it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Ao’nung can’t help it. He laughs, sharp and short, and immediately regrets it. It's just that the absurdity is too much. Neytiri’s glare lands on him like a physical weight, if possible, even more disdainful than before. Neteyam turns toward him too, and Ao’nung thinks of how alike they are: almond skin, haunting eyes, cheekbones high, jawlines lending an unearthly definition to their faces. Tuk is softer, a lighter echo of her brother, skin paler in comparison
Neytiri starts to speak again, words undoubtedly scathing, and Jake rises, ready to intervene. But before anyone can act, Neteyam gently tugs free from Tuk’s side, face closing off. His gaze lands briefly on Ao’nung, strange and unreadable, before turning away from his mother entirely. Quietly, he ascends the stairs.
Tuk lifts a small foot, always aching to follow, but Jake scoops her up without changing expression.
“We gotta talk to you, baby girl,” he says firmly.
The youngest Sully tilts her head in mild annoyance, and Ao’nung stifles another laugh. Jake’s eyes flick to him, and for a heartbeat, something complicated flickers across his face.
“Boy.”
Ao’nung lifts his chin, acknowledging.
“Go after him. Shouldn’t have to tell you that.”
Without hesitation, Ao’nung follows.
♱
The hallway is dark, split only by two small windows that don't do enough to soften the space's cold nature.
Ao’nung should’ve asked which door belonged to Neteyam, but he thought he was clever enough to figure it out. He wasn’t. The first door he stumbles into is Lo’ak’s, and he’s immediately confronted with the mortifying sight of Tsireya halfway in his brother’s lap, hands tangled in the roots of his curls.
His sister squawks indecently. Ao’nung rolls his eyes, slamming the door and moving on. He’ll… address that later. If he feels like it.
A scent of cinnamon wafts from a cracked door further down. If he hadn’t already known they were witches, he’d be getting strong hints now. The door is massive, wooden, fitting perfectly into the wall. Its handle is a simple gold bracket, but closer inspection reveals delicate impressions of birds of paradise and humanoid figures riding enormous winged creatures.
He furrows his brow, trying to make sense of them.
“They’re Ikrans,” a sugary voice says.
Ao’nung spins. Kiri watches him from her door across the hall, Spider just behind her, eyes wide and curious.
“The creatures,” she clarifies. “You can go in. It’s not closed all the way. He won’t, like, kill you or anything. He’s just… overwhelmed. Probably being way too hard on himself.”
She starts back into her room, then calls over her shoulder.
“By the way. Your friend Rotxo? Tell him yes for me.”
Ao’nung huffs.
“I’m not your damn messenger, and I don’t even know what the fuck you’re saying yes to. And since when—”
“Just do it. He’ll know. Thank you,” she commands.
Her door clicks shut, made of large fanned palm leaves. Ao’nung shakes his head and continues, shutting Neteyam’s door gently behind him.
Neteyam doesn't seem to realize that someone else is in the room with him. He’s changed into navy cotton shorts and the same tee, levitating above the bed, an arm raised as he writes across the ceiling. His script flows like a love letter, the ends of his ‘g’s and ‘j’s coifed with care, some lines overlapping, shimmering in and out of view.
Ao’nung leans against the wall, craning his neck, captivated. His own clothes—baggy green cargos, a black knit sweater with artful rips—feel out of place here, but the calm warmth of the room draws him in anyway.
He notices the lowercase, the absence of capitalization, and it strikes him: the way Neteyam treats his words as if they’re small, unimportant. Ao’nung understands. It’s part of the contract for being the eldest, of carrying the family’s every expectation.
He catches sight of his name in several sentences and squints, focusing a little harder in a better attempt to understand.
i'm starting to think about ao'nung all the time. i hope i don't end up like one of those people who needs some great love to get them through life. like oxygen, like water. knowing me, i'll be reduced to a bedridden state, infinitely rotting away because i would never, could never, say anything. i like his tattoos, especially his facial ones. they have significance in his culture, moments of achievement. they're beautiful. he's so beautiful.
He reads further, something heavy and firm settling in his stomach. He feeds it.
the other day kiri and i were talking and she said that tsireya's eyes were a weird blue she didn't know the name of. i said "they're powder blue" and she went "that's perfect! how did you come up with that?" i was absent-minded and a little tired (i'm tired all the time some days) and it just slipped out. "because her brother's eyes are the same." i was embarrassed and faked a headache but she saw right through me. i'm sick of people being able to do that.
Ao'nung smiles at the thought of him being so withholding, even in his own diary. He takes a step forward to read another snippet, focusing on the one Neteyam is halfway through scribbling now.
ao'nung says i smell like cinnamon and it makes me smile. i like that i smell good to him. i don't understand what could make me interesting enough to pay attention to. at least for a long time, and for something so small and insignificant. usually, when i'm noticed it's because i’ve not done enough. but ao'nung is confusing because, just, i don't know. he just does odd things like telling my father that he wants me to his face while seated at my kitchen table. what am i supposed to do with that? he looks at me like he's hungry.
Hungry. Ao'nung doesn't think too hard about the kaleidoscope of feelings that make up his attraction to Neteyam, but yeah, hunger could be one of them.
it's like he's fighting for me. i wonder what he tastes like. he overwhelms me. i want him to overwhelm me. i want him to look at me and decide that he wants to show me what he tastes like. i'm so fucking stupid. that's so fucking stupid.
"No, it's not," Ao'nung says automatically.
Neteyam lets out a gasp of surprise and slams down onto his comforter, the ceiling switching to white as he casts a covering charm. His script melts and shrinks away into the mouth of his magic, the room suddenly swollen with the scent of cinnamon, but now burnt.
Ao’nung slides closer instinctively, hand tracing along his waist, checking that he’s unharmed. Neteyam shivers—a single, fragile tremor of desire—before pulling slightly away.
“How much of that did you read?” he asks.
“Some of it,” Ao’nung says honestly, face open, devoid of judgment.
“Fuck.”
“I like the way you write about me,” Ao’nung murmurs, reaching forward and tucking a stray braid behind Neteyam's ear. “And I don’t think it’s stupid that you want to kiss me. That you want me to kiss you.”
Neteyam blinks, cheeks slowly blooming pink, eyes shifting toward the newly blank ceiling. Ao’nung cups his face, thumb grazing the hard line of his cheekbone. Neteyam's eyes are like two Tuscan suns, flickering with uncertainty.
Sliding onto the bed, Ao’nung positions himself behind Neteyam, one hand on his hip, steadying him. He leans in, placing three delicate kisses along the open plane of Neteyam’s throat, following the curve of his braids, teasing lightly at the skin as if tasting something forbidden. Ao'nung swings his legs up now, sure to kick off his shoes, arranging the two of them so that Neteyam is better sitting on his lap, one hand on the other boy's hip to steady himself.
He bites down gently, then pulls back just to lick at the mark as if it’s the sugar-lined rim of a cocktail glass.
Neteyam remains silent, trembling, fingers twisting Ao’nung’s sweater into small, tight pools. Ao’nung pauses, then kisses him fully, sucking his bottom lip into his own. He releases it, a shock of warmth shooting through him at the dark red state of it. He reslots their lips together in a way that sends his body humming, placing kiss after kiss down to continue chasing that high.
Neteyam lifts his hands, cradling Ao’nung’s face, pressing back with equal fervor. Their bodies mold together, tense with the need for this, a private choreography of necessity and desire. He tugs at the bun Ao'nung had slicked back this morning, letting his hair fall to curtain both of them. Small whimpers escape as Ao’nung’s calloused hands slide over Neteyam’s cocoa-buttered thighs, guiding him gently.
Ao'nung's sliding backward until he's on his back, Neteyam suspended above him. His eyes are dilated, and he leans in to peck at Ao'nung's freshly inflamed mouth. They're so comfortable with each other, arching up into the other's silhouette. There's a moan as Neteyam feels Ao'nung's arousal against his own, grinding down to provide pressure.
A pause. Ao’nung rubs his thumb along Neteyam’s slickened lips.
"I don't wanna fuck you with your mama in the house," he whispers, "or your dad. They both scare me."
Neteyam laughs, buries his burning face in Ao'nung's chest.
“And I want more than this. I’m not just using you for a good town story.”
Neteyam meets his gaze, impassive, and Ao’nung flips them, hovering above, fingers parting his thighs with care.
“You said it’s like I’m fighting for you,” he murmurs. “Well, you’re right.”
Neteyam's mouth is open in surprise at this show of sudden strength, so Ao'nung uses the opportunity to kiss him silent. He slides lower down, breath ghosting over his legs.
“I’m never going to stop fighting for you, Neteyam te Suuli Tseyeyk’itan.”
“What if you die a soldier?” Neteyam asks quietly, eyes dark.
“That’s fine. Lots of men are in love with war.”
Ao’nung lowers his head, finally settling on the sensitive skin of Neteyam’s inner thigh. Neteyam’s head falls back, mind stilling, trust absolute.
♱
Neteyam drifted through weeks unanchored after that kiss. The taste of Ao’nung lingered, not sweet but impossible to place, not in the mouth but in the chest, under the ribs. Lo’ak too seemed absent from himself, missing pieces he could not name. Both felt the absence of their respective siblings keenly, a quiet ache lingering at the edges of their days.
It all comes to a head at a family dinner. Neteyam wears an old sweatshirt that once belonged to his father, the fabric soft and worn, sleeves hanging loosely over his hands. Jake’s smile catches him first, as if the room has a secret. Braids swaying, Neteyam mirrors it, returning and returning to the same small connection, a thread of soft reassurance.
They come in, one by one, the family, Kiri dragging Spider, sleepy, pliant, a weight she didn’t complain of.
“Still not on top of this blood-sucking thing, bro?” Lo’ak asks, mouth full.
Neytiri reaches over to smack the back of his head. He yelps, rubbing the spot, grumbling about the injustice of parental attacks. Neteyam laughs quietly, slipping a piece of potato into his mouth. Tonight’s dinner—vegan chickpea curry with jackpot potatoes—is surprisingly delicious. A moment of ordinary magic.
Spider admits softly, “It’s on top of me a little.” His drawl is heavy, his words stretching so much longer than everyone else's.
They had found him years ago, frothing by the roadside, eyes dilated, teeth oversized for his jaw. Kiri had soothed him into submission, wrist in his mouth, and carried him to safety. And that had been that.
“Nah, cuz. You need to get that shit in order before I become a meal,” Lo’ak mutters.
Spider chuckles, but Neytiri still catches the remark. A warning look, a twitch of her finger, the restraint of a mother holding back sharp claws. Lo’ak shrugs, chews, unconcerned.
He eyes his older brother out of curiosity. Neteyam is quiet, fingering a pearl pendant that was definitely new, tracing lines, patterns in his mind. His gaze drifts out the kitchen window, eyes thoughtful. Lo’ak leans closer, voice deceptively innocent.
"Thinking of your boyfriend, 'Teyam? Tsireya told me what happened in that room."
Heat rises to Neteyam’s cheeks, freshly searing the skin as Jake’s thick eyebrow lifts in quiet amusement. His face twists in irritation when he looks at his younger brother, and he narrows his eyes, hellbent on getting him right back.
“Was this before or after she had to fix her clothes before going home to her mama?” Neteyam hisses back.
Lo'ak squawks in outrage, and Kiri bursts into laughter. Tuk is busy pilfering bites from Spider’s plate, entirely unconcerned. He doesn't stop her despite noticing. The brat is an ankle biter, and he has the scars to prove it.
“Lo’ak, are you having sex? Great Mother,” Neytiri groans dramatically, conspiratorial wink aimed at Neteyam. Neteyam’s head bows slightly, cheeks too hot.
Lo’ak hides his face in embarrassment, hands sliding tightly over his eyes. Jake only watches with poorly concealed amusement. No one moves to stop the ritual of familial humiliation; it was tradition now.
"Come on," Kiri reprimands. Lo'ak lifts his head to give her a look of gratitude just in time to see her grin malevolently. “We all know Lo’ak and Tsireya will be baby-making machines in no time. He just needs to hurry up with that proposal."
Neteyam snorts, giggling, quickly stepping aside as Lo’ak lunges at Kiri. Laughter scaled the walls, with Neytiri calling out baby names she and Jake had never used as "inspiration." She stands to dance out of the way as Lo'ak moves toward her next, his hands outstretched to cover her mouth. Jake grabs at Lo’ak, steadying him with ease, and plants him back in his seat, commenting about how he couldn't take his mother in a dance battle, let alone a regular fight.
It quiets down for a brief moment, and then Tuk:
"I hope it's a girl."
They all lose it again, and Tuk doesn't even deign to glance at Lo'ak for a reaction. She simply reaches over and takes Jake's plate, begins to eat his food too. ( There's a fresh bite imprint on Spider's left ankle. He seems a bit pale. )
Throughout the racket, a knock sounds, and it almost goes unnoticed. Spider hears it the second time and slides away from the table, revealing Ao’nung on the doorstep, carrying a wrapped package, hand tucked in his shorts pocket.
“‘M here for ‘Teyam,” he said, voice steady.
The vampire smiles easily with one side of his mouth, a fang poking out. Ao'nung ignores that.
"Yeah, I know," he says. "Come on in."
Ao'nung enters the foyer, sliding off his shoes. As he puts them to the side, he notices a dog-eared copy of Valley of the Dolls, its cover black and gold with pink pages on the wooden table by the door. He picks it up and does a quick flip through, the annotations clearly Neteyam’s. He makes a mental note to ask about it later. Neteyam liked to talk about what he read.
Stepping into the kitchen, Ao’nung took in the Sullys laughing freely, spilling joy across each other. His pale eyes found the necklace he had gifted Neteyam, and warmth bloomed in his chest.
Spider clears his throat as he sits back down, and they all look up, settling down as they all greet Ao'nung. Neteyam forgets himself for a moment and stands so fast that he slams his knee into the underside of the table. The pain doesn't matter, and he smiles so hard his cheeks bunch up with it. Ao'nung looks beautiful, his hair half up and half down, a little longer now.
He gives a little wave, and Neteyam waves right back, running a hand through his braids as if he's not already beautiful. Neytiri and Jake watch the exchange with knowing glances. It's a pleasant sight, their oldest son loosened with love.
"Go ahead. You're excused."
“Thanks, Dad,” Neteyam said breathlessly, weaving past siblings to reach Ao’nung.
Jake feels his wife squeeze his hand. It's been a lot more "Dad" than "sir" lately. They're doing okay. They're doing well.
"This is for you," Ao'nung murmurs lowly, smiling down at Neteyam.
"For me?" Neteyam responds, sugar-sweet. "Thank you, baby."
"You don't even know what it is yet."
They move to the foyer, slipping shoes on. The family could still hear them, a comfortable hush following the sound of Neteyam’s happiness.
"It's from you, 'Nung. I'm gonna love it."
"Let's go for a drive. Is that okay?" Ao'nung asks.
There's a soft sound, almost like the lift of a lid.
"Yes, that's okay."
“I hate when you kiss me on the cheek first. Kiss me on the mouth and then the cheek.”
A bright, airy laugh rings out.
"'Nung! My parents are here."
"So what? I want a real kiss. Give me what I want. Get back here!"
The door opens, and Neteyam runs, wind in his hair. He's visible through the kitchen windows. Ao’nung follows, chasing but not trying, letting him sail ahead, a star in motion.
♱
Ao’nung got him a journal. It’s beautiful, bound in midnight blue faux leather with his name on the front in gold lettering. Neteyam rewards him with a “real” kiss for that.
“Might be better than your ceiling. Just try it,” he says as he pulls away from the manor gate.
Neteyam hums and looks out the window, closing his eyes as the wind blows through the gap his boyfriend left. He’s never been in his Jeep before this, so he takes the time to look around to catch the small things that make it Ao’nung’s. The color of the car is a deep teal, a custom job done by some boy in town who charges far too much. The inside smells like black cherry, and there's a surfer necklace hanging from the rearview mirror.
A miniature stenciled 'A' sits on the knob of the radio, and it makes Neteyam smile. He reaches out to touch it, the movement making Ao’nung glance at him for a split second.
“Tsireya did it. I never removed it.”
“Don’t,” Neteyam tells him, placing a hand on his thigh before he goes back to looking out the window.
Ao’nung has them on the highway now, out of that godforsaken little town. The lights of other cars are overly bright, but they both like it because it’s something they don’t see every day. There’s no music initially, and then Ao’nung shifts forward to pop a disc in. Neteyam catalogs that too: disc instead of aux.
A rock song starts bleeding out of the speakers, the frontman’s voice drifting into the space between them. The stereo lets Neteyam know it’s “With or Without You” by U2, and he taps his fingers lightly to the beat. Ao’nung grins, plucks at a braid, and sings along to the opening lines.
“Who showed you this song?” Neteyam asks, nudging his cheek with the tip of his finger.
“My mom.”
The answer surprises him. Ao’nung pauses and tilts his head, as if weighing the right way to explain.
“She’s really cool in her own way. Taught me about alternative rock and other cool shit like herbs and spirituality. She just…mistrusts things she doesn’t understand at first. But she’s not a bad person, not by a long shot. She just takes some work to get along with.”
More silence. Then, almost under his breath:
"She’s my mom. I love her.”
Neteyam hums in understanding, but says nothing. He's sitting with it.
“I don’t think she’s a bad person,” he says after a moment, thoughtful. “She had you and Tsireya. She raised you. She can’t be the worst person in the world.”
Ao’nung’s shoulders ease slightly. Neteyam reaches out to rub along his shoulder.
“I’m not asking you to hate her. I’d never do that to you, ‘Nung. She’s a part of who you are, forever. Some people are just harder to know and understand. She’s that person for me. But I think it’ll be okay. Things will work out.”
“I wanna kiss you right now, but we gotta get to the beach first,” Ao’nung tells him.
Neteyam laughs, leans over the console, and presses a gentle peck to the side of his mouth.
“Thanks for telling me.”
♱
The beach is gorgeous at night, especially when you're the only two people on it.
The sea air makes Neteyam waver sleepily where he is, legs tucked underneath him in the back of the car's cleared-out trunk. There's no moon visible, and Ao'nung has turned off the trunk's light so that they could appreciate the view; it makes the whole thing that much sweeter. They had started with talking and then eventually settled into a soft silence, Neteyam's head finding its way onto Ao'nung's stomach, braids spilling like a river over the stone of his boyfriend's legs.
Ao'nung watches him now, following that golden gaze to the waves crashing on shore before looking back to trail his own over Neteyam's body. His sweatshirt is way too big for him, and as a result, the curve of his shoulder peeks out. His head is turned to the side so that his neck is bared like a sacrifice, and his mouth keeps opening the smallest bit as he fights against sleep.
Ao'nung reaches back to put his hair all the way up before turning them softly, working until his stomach is against Neteyam's back. He receives a soft sigh of pleasure as he begins to kiss the nape of Neteyam's neck, sucking gently until the skin is raised and dark.
He uses one hand to stroke Neteyam's stomach, squeezing his waist at odd intervals, continuing his mission of leaving as many marks as he can. As he kisses behind Neteyam's ear, he hears a soft moan slip out, the muscle beneath him shivering minutely.
"Did you know," Ao'nung says in between kisses, "that you are the prettiest person on Eywa's green earth?"
"Liar," Neteyam says through a wry laugh.
"Am not."
Neteyam rolls over so that he can look up at his boyfriend, long fingers running over the corded muscle of his arms. He takes time to look Ao'nung up and down, taking in his turquoise tee and ash-grey sweats, low-hanging. He slides the shirt up a little and is surprised at the flash of metal he's met with.
"I didn't know you had a piercing, 'Nung."
"Well, you've never tried to get me naked before, Sully."
Neteyam hides his face in the strong chest in front of him, shoulders shaking in amusement. He pulls away and presses a warm kiss to Ao'nung's jaw.
"I have one too. It's a star."
He rolls flat on his back, and Ao'nung hovers over him, pushing Neteyam's sweatshirt up until he can see the gold winking up at him.
"Would you look at that," Ao'nung rasps, dipping to levy a kiss against it.
Neteyam gasps as his tongue pokes out to lick a stripe over the spot.
"It's a real diamond," he tells Ao'nung, and he feels lips press over the jewelry.
"Your mama know about this?" Ao'nung asks distractedly.
"No. Kept it a secret," Neteyam breathes out.
"Good. Then you can keep this a secret too."
And with that, Ao'nung slides Neteyam's oversized boxers down beneath his crew neck, propping his thighs up as he begins to deposit warm kisses on them. Neteyam lets out another moan, the closer he gets to where he wants him. Where he needs him.
Ao'nung shifts back, much to Neteyam's displeasure, and further shoves up the hem of the sweatshirt, latching his mouth onto his nipple. Neteyam arches and almost hits the roof of the car, as the other boy works his mouth steadily. Ao'nung licks and bites at the nub until it’s swollen, rolling the other between his fingers so it’s not neglected.
There's a heartbeat in the bottom of Neteyam's stomach, in the ridge of his hips. Ao'nung takes his mouth up so that he can look up and talk to him. He grins lopsidedly and says,
"You should consider piercing these, too." He pinches Neteyam's nipples for emphasis, eyes darkening at the noise that releases. "Think my boyfriend would look hot with his tits all jeweled up."
Neteyam should not be attracted to that the way he is. He presses a weak hand to Ao'nung's lips and protests.
"They're not ti—"
"Yeah, they are, baby," Ao'nung overrides him. "Just like how it's your cunt that’s fluttering all over my fingertips right now. It's like a heartbeat."
Neteyam lets his head slam back, mind fizzing in and out as Ao'nung rubs a dry finger along his hole. Warmth is leaking all through his body, his blood rushing in his ears.
"You're so fucking nasty," he heaves out, and Ao'nung laughs.
"Uh-huh. You are too, sugar."
The pet name is poisonous, said so low and dangerously that it makes Neteyam's thighs tremble, and his lungs constrict.
"That's why you're gonna let me fuck you the way I wanna," Ao'nung continues, sitting up and pulling his tee off.
Neteyam watches him, eyes drawn to the swirls of tattoos on his V-line, face flushing as he thinks about how far down they could go. His hands find themselves splayed across the brown skin in front of him, thumbing at the silver ball of Ao'nung's own piercing. His boyfriend quakes under his hands, a low grunt escaping as Neteyam begins to pull down the waist of his sweats.
Ao'nung breathes out sharply like he's been wounded before detangling them, sliding out of the trunk, and walking to the driver's side. Neteyam watches him from the back of the car, following him as he pulls two thick blankets from seemingly nowhere.
Slamming the door closed with urgency, Ao'nung spreads the blankets out right in front of the open trunk, making sure to cover as much sand as possible. Neteyam blinks at him as he moves to stand in front of him.
"Come on, 'Teyam. Out."
"Are you serious, right now? I can't—I can't have sex in the open!"
"No one's here right now, baby. I swear," Ao'nung reassures him, voice strained with something animalistic.
Neteyam lets out a noise of disbelief, and Ao'nung closes his eyes in impatience.
"Listen to me. You need to get out of the fucking Jeep because our first time isn't gonna be in some cramped space smelling of cheap black cherry. You can either let me fuck you on the blankets under the stars, or I'll fuck you on top of the damn car itself."
Neteyam's mouth dries at the second option, his legs squeezing together tightly. Ao'nung tracks the motion and smiles cockily.
"I'm flexible, sugar. Both ways will result in you getting fucked within an inch of your life. I've had a lot of time to think about you beneath me." He sees Neteyam look at his rising cock swelling in his sweats, and he tilts his head, putting a hand on it. "And based on how you're looking at how hard you've made me, you've thought about it too."
Neteyam flushes and slides out of the car, feet settling against the soft faux fur of the blankets.
"There you go, sugar. So good for me."
That just about unplugs what was left of Neteyam's brain, and Ao'nung fucking knows it. With a sweep of his man's arms, Neteyam is picked up and lowered to the blankets, legs intertwined around Ao'nung's biceps.
Kisses are pressed to his face as Ao'nung slowly pulls away, sliding his sweatshirt completely off. Neteyam is observed heavily, calloused fingers tracing his body and dipping into the crevice of his legs. He's shifted slightly so that his ass is in Ao'nung's lap as he leans over to kiss Neteyam messily.
"Can I eat you out?" Ao'nung asks seriously, and Neteyam nods, pulling him in for another kiss before falling back.
There's a moment when he loses Ao’nung’s warmth, mewling in discomfort. Then those strong hands are around his hips, lifting him to a tender mouth. He’s always felt as if Ao’nung was trying to devour him, but now, with his legs over his shoulders, he knows it's true. There’s a tentative lick at first and then a curse against his hole, Ao’nung gripping his hips tightly as he flattens his tongue and licks all the way to his taint.
Neteyam hisses at the feeling, legs closing on instinct. Ao’nung makes no move to stop him, lapping at his entrance over and over, chasing whatever feeling this is. The sounds should be embarrassing, but they just run through Neteyam’s blood, exchanging roles with his oxygen. Ao’nung sucks at his hole, using the tip of his tongue to enter him.
“Fuuuck, baby,” Neteyam whispers, and Ao’nung removes a hand to reach up and tug his head to the side.
That makes Neteyam’s back arch and pushes him further into his boyfriend’s working mouth. Ao’nung holds him up, feeling his legs shake in pleasure. New stars in Neteyam’s vision get steadily brighter as Ao’nung messily laves over his hole. He murmurs that he’s gonna cum, and all he gets is a severe squeeze on his hips.
Cinnamon fills the air as he snaps his hips up once, twice. There’s no explosion. Instead, his orgasm settles into him in the form of a slow warmth, spilling over his skin like an oil stain. He can’t see, he can’t hear. It’s only an immense pleasure bordering on oversensitivity. He faintly understands that Ao’nung is talking to him, but he’s too busy rolling his hips to keep the feeling going.
When he blinks back into reality, magnolias are blooming through the sand around them. Ao’nung laughs and kisses him, massaging his stomach as he watches him.
“How the fuck are you so good at that?” Neteyam asks, breathless.
“I’ve always been good at eating pussy,” Ao’nung answers, voice dangerous.
The response gets the reaction he wanted, Neteyam’s body shivering at the implication. He lets the boy underneath him run his hands over his chest, nails digging in to leave marks. Neteyam sits up and pulls Ao’nung to his mouth for a kiss, tugging him in by the shoulders.
The way their lips meet is heavy, messy. Ao’nung wrenches his head back, kissing his neck again. Neteyam laughs because he’s like a dog with a bone when it comes to kissing his throat. He loves the feeling.
“You wanna please me, baby?” Neteyam asks, and Ao’nung bucks beneath him, whatever control he had now lost.
“All I wanna do, ‘Teyam. Tell me how to make you feel good.”
“Get inside me. Please, honey. I need it.”
That’s all he needs to tell him. Ao’nung lowers him gently, stepping over the flowers to the trunk, where he digs around until he comes up with lube. Neteyam cocks his head and can’t resist using the moment to tease him.
“You been fucking other pretty boys, ‘Nung?”
“Nah,” Ao’nung says, spreading his legs with one hand. “It just became a habit to jerk off while thinking of how it should be you that I’m cumming on instead of my hand.”
“Great Mother.”
“Just me, sweetheart,” Ao’nung hums.
Neteyam is moved around like a doll, his limbs arranged until his back is against Ao’nung’s chest. He doesn’t get a second to breathe before a slick finger makes its way inside him. His boyfriend has taken the time to ensure the lube is warmed up, which he appreciates now. There’s a minute where he has to adjust, and then it's gone, his body moving in an unspoken request for Ao’nung to hurry up.
Ao’nung slides another finger in quickly, crooking the two as he begins to fuck him. He’s searching like a man possessed for that spot inside that’ll reduce Neteyam to tears, and he finds it after a while, a hand coming up to hold his shoulder as he presses into it. He chuckles at the way Neteyam is babbling, fucking him harder with his fingers, adding in a third just to hear a compliment about being filled, about feeling so fucking full.
Eventually, Neteyam needs more than this, and he lets Ao’nung know, lifting his head so that he can kiss him urgently. He’s pulled slightly upwards before being lowered down onto Ao’nung’s thick cock. He reaches down just so he can thumb at the vein on the underside, relishing in the moan it releases from the chest behind him.
"Thank you, baby. Shit. I want you to leave me wide open, want you to leave an impression. Please, baby? Please?" Neteyam babbles as he drags his nails down Ao'nung's flexed thighs, his mouth falling open as his man bottoms out.
"Goddamn, Neteyam," Ao'nung moans.
He fucks up into him, using Neteyam’s hips as leverage to pull the other down to meet his thrusts. Ao’nung bites at his shoulder from behind, cursing under his breath as Neteyam’s hole tightens around his cock. His balls are becoming heavy, but he’s not planning on cumming until Neteyam is out of his mind with his own release.
On the other hand, Neteyam is certainly close to falling over the edge. Every thrust is making him lightheaded; every tightened hold on his hips must be bruising him. He uses the last of whatever sense is in him to put Ao’nung’s large hand around his throat, relishing in the way his breathing constricts as pressure is gently but firmly applied. All it takes is one more hardened grip that makes it impossible for him to breathe easily and a perfectly timed thrust for him to moan loudly, his cum sliding down the head of his angry cock.
He’s fucking flying, and Ao’nung fucks him through it, talking him down.
“There you go, Sully. Finish for me, sugar. Mark me up. Paint me with it, sweetheart.”
Ao’nung thrusts one more time before pulling out just to push Neteyam down, setting him up on all fours. He slaps his ass as he begins to fuck him again, spreading his cheeks so that he can watch how Neteyam swallows him.
He’s a little out of it now, the world narrowing down to his approaching orgasm. Neteyam is twitching beneath him, oversensitive and letting out little gasps every time he fucks into him.
“I’m gonna cum,” Ao’nung moans. “I need you to take my shit, sugar. Can you do that for me?”
Neteyam nods and rocks back, aching for that rush of warmth inside of him. Ao’nung’s hips stutter, and then he’s lying over Neteyam’s back, holding his waist as he empties his cock into the open hole around him.
“Fuck, honey. Take it all for me.” He demands, voice thick with satisfaction.
Neteyam mewls and feels a hand stroke his hair away from his face.
“So good for me, sugar. So good.”
Ao’nung shifts them but doesn’t pull out, carefully lowering them until they’re curled around each other comfortably.
“You with me, Sully?” comes the question, making Neteyam laugh.
“I’m with you, ‘Nung,” he tells him.
He’s always with him.
♱
On the way back, Neteyam can’t resist the urge to ask the question that’s been living underneath his skin for the past few days.
“‘Nung, would you have really kept pursuing me if I had been too scared to let myself have this?”
Ao’nung looks at him briefly before looking back at the road, merging expertly into the left lane and getting them back on the highway. The thought feels heavier now that they’re on the way back home, as if whatever the answer is will stay with them for the rest of their lives in that town.
“I would’ve followed you away from home and to the ends of the earth. Once I loved you, I loved you. I love you. I wasn’t ever going to let go unless I knew you really, truly wanted to be left alone because I’m not a fucking creep.”
Neteyam laughs wetly at the disclaimer.
“What if I had strung you along all my life?”
“I would’ve died happy, sugar. Even if you waited till I was in my casket to bend down and kiss me, it still would’ve been the only kiss I had that mattered. You’re it for me. I knew it the moment I saw you. I’m reminded every time I fall asleep.”
Neteyam loves him so much.
“You don’t deserve to be alone. Do you hear me, Neteyam? ”
“Yeah,” Neteyam wipes his face. “I hear you, baby.”
Ao’nung is silent, and then he uses his free hand to hold Netyam’s left one. He’s so honest with the next thing he utters that Neteyam feels like the world has stopped for just a minute.
“If there wasn’t Eywa, there would be you.”
The earth doesn’t shake, and the sun doesn’t shatter. Nothing unearthly happens except for Neteyam making six magnolias bloom right in the middle of Ao’nung’s well-loved Jeep. It’s the equivalent, though, so it's enough. The words echo through their bloodstream.
If there wasn’t Eywa, there would be you.
“You with me, Sully?”
“I’m with you.”