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Varang has faced Neytiri more than once. She remembers her clearly. Some figures burn themselves into the mind, impossible to misplace or fade with time, and Neytiri is one of them.
A ferocious, unyielding woman. The kind who stands tall when others learn to bow, who charges forward instead of retreating, who chooses the blood-soaked path even when compromises tempt with survival and safety.
Neytiri never takes the easier option. She takes the one that demands a fight, that asks for pain and courage. That alone has been irritating.
And then there was the night Varang still tastes when she lets her thoughts linger too long.
The memory of her resting peacefully until a sudden presence behind her broke it, close enough that Varang felt it before she understood it.
Cold blade at her throat. A knife pressed just hard enough to promise the spill of blood.
Neytiri’s voice followed, low and threatening, as if she had any right to speak to Varang that way. As if she were not already dead for the audacity alone.
It had been infuriating.
It had been humiliating.
And it had been… exhilarating.
Varang had been caught completely off guard, something that almost never happened. Neytiri had not pleaded or postured. She had threatened Varang as an equal would, certain and ready to follow through.
That was the moment something shifted.
Neytiri meets force with force. She wants to fight, to spill blood, to win. She is dangerous.
And Varang admires this danger.
Now, Quaritch stands at her side. A strong man, capable and ruthless, convinced of his own singular nature. He believes himself her equal. And perhaps, in some ways, he is.
But the thought leaves Varang strangely unsatisfied.
That is not what she wants.
No.
She wants a woman. One who can challenge her command, test her limits, refuse to kneel even if it costs her everything.
She wants someone who can push back, bare her teeth, and bite when cornered.
She wants Neytiri.
Not as something to be broken or bent into obedience. Not as a trophy. She wants Neytiri beside her, an equal presence.
That is what she wants.
And Varang has never been the type to deny herself what she desires.
She summons her warriors, and they come at once, gathering before her in a loose semicircle. These are the strongest among them, scarred and proven. Firelight flickered across hardened faces as Varang steps forward.
“Neytiri.” The name rolls slowly off her tongue. “Bring that woman to me. Alive.”
Her gaze sweeps over them. No one questiones the order or asks for a reason. Varang’s will has never required justification. One by one, they incline their heads and within moments, preparations are underway. Ikrans cry out as They’re readied, wings stretching wide, muscles coiling with anticipation. The riders mount without ceremony, lifting into the sky in steady arcs, fanning out to search forest, mountain, and coast alike.
The hunt has begun.
Varang watches them go for a moment longer before turning away.
She has never trusted others with what mattered most, and she knows Neytiri won’t be taken easily. She will fight. She will draw blood before she is cornered.
Good. That’s how it should be.
But Neytiri needs to be captured. So just to be sure, she’ll join the hunt.
Varang prepares her Nightwraith, swings into the saddle and urges it skyward, the wind tearing at her hair and the headpiece as the ground drops away beneath them.
If the warriors won’t find her. Varang will. She won’t stop until Neytiri is right here, at her home.
𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔
The forest is quiet, but alive.
It speaks about it in a thousand subtle ways. Leaves whisper softly overhead, brushing against one another as Neytiri moves between the trees, bow held loose but ready in her hand. Her steps are light and deliberate, each footfall placed with care, barely disturbing the moss and fallen twigs beneath her feet. She pauses often, head tilting, listening not just with her ears but with her whole body, reading the land the way she always has.
Every sound and shift is catalogued.
She’s focused, but certain she’s the only Na’vi predator moving through this forest.
That certainty is why she doesn’t look up.
High above her, Varang is already there.
She moves through the canopy with ease, body pressed low against thick branches, muscles coiled and controlled. Her eyes never leave Neytiri’s path below. Every step Neytiri takes is anticipated, every pause mirrored. Varang doesn't rush. Hunting demands patience, and this hunt matters too much for mistakes caused by too much eagerness.
Below, Neytiri slows near a small clearing, lifting her bow and drawing an arrow, smooth and graceful. Somewhere ahead, something rustles.
Varang drops from the trees like a strike of lightning.
The impact is brutal. Neytiri barely has time to react before a heavy weight slams into her from above, driving her hard into the ground. The air is punched from her lungs as dirt and leaves scatter in all directions. She snarls, rolling on instinct, twisting just enough to bring her knee up and shove her attacker away.
She scrambles to her feet in the same motion, blade flashing into her hand.
Varang is already there.
They collide again, upright this time, blades scraping and ringing as Neytiri slashes with clear intent to kill. Her movements are sharp and furious, every strike aimed for something vital. She doesn't hesitate. She doesn’t hold back.
Varang meets each attack head-on, she deflects and redirects, turning Neytiri’s momentum against her again and again. She doesn't answer with killing blows. Instead, she crowds Neytiri’s space, forcing her backward, forcing her to give ground.
That alone is infuriating.
They hiss and growl at one another, breath hot and ragged. Neytiri strikes low, then high, then spins, blade arcing toward Varang’s neck. Varang catches her wrist and twists sharply, forcing the strike wide. Neytiri answers with an elbow, then a knee, then another slash that just barely grazes Varang’s shoulder.
Blood beads, but Varang doesn’t slow.
She grins, feral and bright-eyed, and drives forward. They crash into one another again, feet skidding through the dirt, bodies colliding hard. Neytiri hooks Varang’s leg and shoves, using her weight and momentum to bring them both down.
They hit the ground tangled together.
For a heartbeat, Neytiri is on top.
She presses her knee into Varang’s abdomen and raises her blade, muscles screaming as she prepares to finish it. Varang’s eyes flick briefly to the weapon, then return to Neytiri’s face, unafraid.
And then Varang moves.
It's fast and brutally efficient. She bucks her hips, twists her body, and reverses their positions. The world spins, and suddenly Neytiri’s back slams into the forest floor, breath ripped from her chest.
Varang is on top now.
She pins Neytiri’s wrists above her head, knees locking her legs in place. Neytiri thrashes and snarls, teeth bared, trying to break free, but Varang’s grip is iron. Every attempt is anticipated and neutralized before it can become dangerous.
Neytiri’s blade lies just out of reach.
She freezes, chest heaving, eyes blazing with fury as she waits for the killing blow.
It doesn’t come, Varang doesn’t strike.
She simply holds her there. No blade at Neytiri’s throat. No immediate end.
Neytiri blinks, confusion flickering through her anger despite herself.
Varang leans in just enough for their faces to be close, breath brushing Neytiri’s cheek. Her expression is dark eyes searching, assessing.
“You fight exactly as I remembered,” Varang murmurs.
Neytiri snarls and struggles again. “What do you want?” she snaps, breath ragged.
Varang doesn’t answer.
She shifts slightly, just enough to keep Neytiri pinned, and lifts one hand, fingers threading into Neytiri’s braid and she tenses instantly.
No.
Their kuru intertwine and the world shatters.
Pain floods through Neytiri, blinding and overwhelming, ripping through her senses like lightning. It's everywhere at once, too much to process. She cries out, the sound tearing from her throat before she can stop it.
Varang’s presence crashes into hers, vast and consuming. It's unbearable.
Neytiri convulses beneath Varang’s grip as the connection burns through her, stealing her strength and her breath away.
Then everything goes dark, and her body goes limp.
𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔
Neytiri comes back to herself slowly.
The first thing she feels is the ache. Her shoulders burn, wrists screaming where rope bites into skin. Her arms are pulled high above her head, bound tight to a rough wooden post sunk deep into the ground. She is sitting on packed earth, legs folded awkwardly beneath her, every breath tugging painfully at muscles forced into strain.
Memory surges, of the forest, of the fight.
Her eyes snap open.
She tests the ropes immediately. Once. Twice. They don’t give. The fibers are thick, expertly tied. Bruises bloom beneath them with every movement.
Neytiri exhales slowly through her teeth, forcing her breathing steady. Varang could have killed her a dozen times over.
She didn’t.
She took her instead.
Why?
The yurt flap rustles.
Neytiri straightens as much as the bindings allow, ears flattening as Varang steps inside. She looks entirely unbothered. Calm. Satisfied, even. Her gaze settles on Neytiri at once, sharp and assessing, then softens into something that resembles approval.
“You’re awake,” Varang says, almost pleasantly. “Good.”
Neytiri bares her teeth. “Untie me.”
Varang ignores it, moving closer and stopping just out of reach, her gaze roaming over Neytiri with open interest.
“You took me alive,” Neytiri says. “You want leverage?”
Varang tilts her head slightly, amused.
“To get him?” Neytiri presses. “Jake?”
Varang’s brow creases. “Him?”
“You work with the sky people. With Quaritch,” Neytiri snaps. “You think using me will make him surrender?”
Varang watches her for a long moment.
Then she laughs.
“No,” she says simply. “I don’t want him.”
Neytiri blinks despite herself.
Varang steps closer and lowers herself until they are eye to eye. “Jake Sully is not who I want.”
Confusion flickers across Neytiri’s face. “Then what do you want?”
Varang doesn't answer right away. She reaches out instead, fingers brushing lightly over Neytiri’s cheek, her gaze lingering as if committing every detail to memory.
“I want you,” Varang replies.
Neytiri’s breath catches. “What?”
“We could accomplish so much together,” Varang continues. “You and I.”
Neytiri bares her teeth. “If you think I will join you, you are mistaken.”
Varang hums softly, a low, thoughtful sound. She reaches out again, fingers finding the end of Neytiri’s braid and rolling the tip between them, playing with it idly. Neytiri stiffens at once, every muscle coiling.
“I have seen what is in your heart,” Varang says quietly. “The loss. The grief. The pain.”
“You know nothing,” Neytiri snaps.
Varang doesn't rise to it. She lowers herself fully to the ground in front of her instead, still toying with the braid.
“A fire came from the mountain when I was young,” Varang says after a moment, her gaze drifting, unfocused. “It burned our forest to ash. My people were starving. They cried out. We begged.”
Her eyes snap back to Neytiri’s.
“Eywa did not come.”
Neytiri shakes her head sharply. “Eywa has not abandoned me.”
“Hasn’t she?” Varang tilts her head, studying her. “That air-breather…”
Neytiri’s ears flatten, her tail twitching sharply behind her.
“Eywa saved him,” Varang continues. “Gave him the ability to breathe in your world.” She leans closer now, gaze unwavering. “Where was Eywa when your son was bleeding to death?”
The words strike deep, precisely where it hurts the most.
“Was it her will to break your family?” Varang asks.
Tears well despite Neytiri’s effort to stop them, burning her eyes.
“Is that what you tell yourself?” Varang presses. “Is the sky boy worth more? Eywa chose him over your child.”
Neytiri jerks her head away, breaking eye contact, jaw clenched so tightly it aches.
She doesn’t want to hear this. Doesn’t want this poison threading through her thoughts. It's the witch’s trick, meant to corrupt and weaken.
And yet.
Her mind betrays her, spiraling despite her resistance. Eywa did not save her son. Eywa saved a human. One of the very people who burned her world. Who spilled her blood. Who shattered her family.
How is that justice?
Her faith has been the last thing she has clung to, and now even that feels hollow. Prayer brings no answer. No comfort.
What is the point of devotion if the goddess does not listen when she is needed most?
If she allows those human pests to ruin her home while all Neytiri can do is hide, run, and watch them spread?
A low growl tears from her chest as she strains against the restraints, frustration breaking through her control. The sound cracks halfway through, collapsing into a sob she cannot force back.
Varang stills.
She doesn't press further. She doesn't need to. The seed has been planted.
Rising smoothly, she lets Neytiri’s braid slip from her fingers. “Rest,” she says quietly. “We will speak again.”
She leaves Neytiri alone, bound and shaking, with nothing but her own thoughts to battle the words now lodged deep in her mind.
And Neytiri is no longer certain her faith is strong enough to withstand the grief and rage consuming her heart.
𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔
Varang does not like waiting.
She never has. Desire has always translated cleanly into action, and resistance has only ever meant applying more force until it stopped doing so.
It would be easy to do that here.
To press harder. To demand obedience. To break Neytiri.
But that would ruin her.
Neytiri is not meant to be tamed. She is not something that bends and remains useful. Broken, she would become brittle and hollow. Varang already has plenty of those.
What she wants is an equal.
An equal does not submit.
That is the problem. And the allure.
Varang exhales slowly as she walks away from the yurt. She pressed in the right place. The doubt is there now, festering quietly. It will take time to harvest the results.
Time is not Varang’s strength.
But for something worth claiming, she will be patient.
𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔
The yurt flap rustles again.
Neytiri does not look up at first. She already knows who it is.
“You work with them,” she says suddenly. “With the sky people.”
Varang stops a few paces away.
“With Quaritch,” Neytiri continues, lifting her head now, eyes blazing. “You stand beside those who burned our homes. Who killed my people.” Her jaw tightens, muscles locking hard. It's the last barrier she has left, the thin line keeping her from falling apart completely and letting go of everything she still believes in. If Varang truly aids in the destruction the sky people spread wherever they set foot, then she is hardly better than they are.
For a long moment, Varang only watches her.
Then she exhales, slow and thoughtful, and lowers herself to sit once more, resting her forearms loosely on her knees.
“When Eywa did not come,” Varang says calmly, “I went to the fire.”
Neytiri’s ears twitch. Against her will, she listens.
“I learned its way,” Varang continues. “The sky man has what I need. He teaches the ways of the fire.”
Neytiri’s hands clench against the ropes. “So you stand with him?”
“I use him,” Varang corrects smoothly.
She leans forward just slightly. “I take what I need.” Her eyes never leave Neytiri’s face. “And then, we can burn them down. If that is what you desire.”
Neytiri’s jaw tightens.
The offer is dangerous. And tempting, if it's true. Quaritch has already formed an alliance. The other sky people at least tolerate the presence of Na’vi within their metal city. They are inside. Undetected.
If loyalty could be turned. If the strike came when they least expected it...
Learn the ways of the fire. Use their own machines, their weapons, their arrogance against them. Tear it all down and watch them fall beneath what their own hands created.
End it.
Neytiri can see the path clearly.
The Mangkwan are ruthless. They will not hesitate. They will not stop once Varang gives the order.
“I know you want to fight,” Varang says quietly, tilting her head as she studies her. “But you are held back, aren’t you?” Her gaze sharpens. “By that Jake of yours.”
Neytiri hisses at the name, ears flattening. “Do not speak of him.” Her teeth bare. “Jake is my husband.”
Varang hums softly, neither impressed nor dismissive. “You bonded quickly. War was already upon you,” she says. “And it followed him.” Her voice lowers. “Loss follows him. The sky people follow him.”
She pauses, letting the words settle.
“And you are the one who bleeds for it.”
“And what follows you?” Neytiri demands.
Varang doesn’t bristle.
“I do not run,” she replies evenly. “I come at war. I meet the sky people head-on. I take loss and forge it into power.”
She straightens, and a blood-red blade flashes in her hand.
One precise cut and the rope above Neytiri’s wrists snaps, fibers falling away as her arms drop painfully to her sides. Blood rushes back into numb limbs.
Neytiri doesn’t hesitate.
She surges forward with a snarl, tackling Varang before she can step back. The knife slips free in the struggle, clattering uselessly as Varang stumbles into a table, wood rattling under the impact.
Neytiri’s hand closes around Varang’s throat.
For a moment, it feels like victory.
Then Varang strikes the inside of her elbow and Neytiri’s grip falters just long enough for Varang to twist free, one hand clamping around Neytiri’s wrist, the other tangling in her hair, pulling her close instead of pushing her away.
They freeze there, breath colliding.
“It can be just for tonight,” Varang says softly, head tilted, lips hovering inches from Neytiri’s. Her grip is firm, but she doesn’t close the distance.
“Just a taste.”
Neytiri knows she should wrench free. Should strike again. Should put space between them.
But she doesn’t.
“I can show you,” Varang murmurs.
Neytiri shifts, just barely, her head tilting.
“Would you like that?”
Despite herself, Neytiri considers it.
I went into the fire, Varang had said. And learned its way.
She feels the shift inside herself, and Varang feels it too. Her grip loosens and she lets Neytiri go.
Here stands the fire. Destruction in flesh and bones. Something Neytiri could seize and control.
She can keep running. Or she can step into it.
And she is so tired. Tired of hiding. Tired of losing. Tired of watching everything slip through her fingers while she prays and hopes and tells herself this is the way things must be.
The last threads of restraint begin to fray, logic drowning beneath grief and rage.
She is offered the power of choice, of a path she sets herself.
And she wants it.
She wants to go into the fire.
Neytiri closes the distance herself, her lips crashing hard against Varang’s.
The woman exhales into the kiss, surprised and pleased all at once.
𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔
The place is dim, the smell of smoke, herbs and a faint copper tint of blood lingering in the air. Animal furs are strewn across the ground, layered thick enough to soften the earth beneath them.
Neytiri barely registers being shoved backward before she falls onto them.
Varang is over her instantly, weight braced on her forearms, but still pinning Neytiri down.
Her mouth claims Neytiri’s immediately. Hard and isistent, like everything else Varang does. Neytiri answers with teeth, lips bruising as they steal each other’s breath, the kiss stripped of any affection.
One hand braces beside Neytiri’s head, the other tilting it aside as the woman’s mouth drifts from her lips to her jaw, then to the line of her neck.
That is where Neytiri has enough.
Her fingers curl into dark hair and she yanks Varang back sharply. At the same time she shifts, legs wrapping around the other woman’s hips, a twist of her body and a hard shove turning the world over.
Varang hits the furs with a surprised grunt.
Now Neytiri is above her, knees bracketing her hips, hands planted on her chest to keep her there.
A frown forms on her face, lips parting to bare teeth, but she doesn’t immediately try to reverse it. She lies still, chest rising beneath Neytiri’s palms, eyes dark and assessing.
Neytiri leans down just enough to make the message clear.
“Stay.”
The woman’s mouth curves, not quite a smile. She looks impressed. Intrigued. Very few dare to challenge her.
But Neytiri is not just anyone.
And that, precisely, is what Varang likes.
Neytiri reaches down and catches her wrists, grip strong and unyielding. It draws a faint frown at the pressure, a flash of discomfort Varang doesn’t bother hiding. But she doesn’t twist free.
Neytiri moves her hands closer and presses them against her own waist.
Varang looks down, then back up, a silent question in her eyes.
“Touch,” Neytiri orders.
Varang exhales through her nose, clearly weighing the command, deciding whether she wants to obey it at all.
But then her fingers flex, and she complies.
Her hands slide along Neytiri’s sides, thumbs pressing into warm skin, palms learning the shape of her without hurry. Now and then the touch tightens, grip turning firm and possessive, a reminder that the balance of power is still being contested.
Still, she quite likes the view from below.
The way Neytiri’s expression shifts with every change in pressure. The way her body sways unconsciously, hips rolling even without guidance. She watches with rapt attention, memorizing reactions, wondering what else she could paint on that face.
It’s almost hypnotic.
“Pleasure me.”
The command cuts cleanly through her thoughts.
Neytiri shifts above her, just enough to make the intent clear, guiding her hand where it’s needed. She knows exactly what she wants and expects it delivered.
The audacity of it.
Varang inhales sharply, muscles tensing beneath Neytiri’s weight. For a brief moment she considers resisting, turning it back into a struggle, reclaiming the upper hand through force.
But before that, she tests the request, curious.
Her hand slides between the other woman’s thighs, fingers brushing sensitive flesh.
Neytiri reacts at once, a quiet sound slipping free.
And that’s enough, Varang’s resolve fractures. Her touch becomes purposeful, precise, giving exactly what Neytiri’s body asks for and her composure unravels in response.
Varang pushes herself up from the ground, closing the distance until her chest presses firmly against Neytiri’s. She wants the contact. Needs it. Her hand stills briefly, but Neytiri keeps moving above her, unwilling to retreat now that she’s this far gone.
Varang finds herself wanting more. Not just the body. She wants the connection to sink past flesh, somewhere deeper. Absolute possession, yes. Body and mind alike.
Her tail twitches, then climbs over Neytiri’s leg, winding around her thigh like a vine. Her free hand slides up Neytiri’s back, slow, almost reverent at first.
Then her fingers find the braid, the place where the kuru hides.
Neytiri feels the tug instantly and stiffens, tension snapping through her spine. She knows what the woman is capable of. Knows how easily she breaks minds.
Neytiri wants to pull away. End this before it’s too late.
But the other woman is faster, guiding the braid where she wants it.
When their kuru intertwine, Neytiri freezes, bracing for pain.
But it never comes.
Instead, sensation detonates through her all at once. A blinding surge, lightning racing through every nerve, stealing her breath and scattering her thoughts.
A sound tears free from her, raw and loud. Varang feels it as keenly as she hears it, warmth blooming low in her own body in response, pleasure washing through her with dizzying intensity.
It’s intoxicating.
“I make you feel so good, don’t I?” she murmurs, lips brushing and lingering at Neytiri’s neck.
It earns her a low, feral growl.
Neytiri doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t need to. The truth pours through the connection, every sensation laid bare.
But it’s a double-edged blade, and the tide rushes back just as hard. The sensation floods Varang in return. She feels how good it is for Neytiri, tastes it through the connection, the intensity of it echoing inside her own body. When Neytiri’s hips sink onto hers, when she fills her again, Varang feels more than the slick heat wrapping around her fingers. She feels the answering fullness too, the phantom sensation mirrored deep within her.
Her head tilts back, eyes closing as a low, languid moan slips past her lips.
Neytiri’s hands clutch at Varang’s shoulders, uncertain and desperate at once. She can’t tell whether she wants to hold her there or shove her away, tear the bond apart and reclaim control.
She knows she should stop.
Knows this crosses a line she will never fully redraw.
But her body betrays her, sensation drowning out caution. She lets the bond hold. Lets the mouth at her neck remain. Lets herself be lost, just for this moment, in a storm she no longer has the strength to fight.
But Varang is Varang, she never stays gentle for long.
Her mouth brushes Neytiri’s shoulder, reverent at first. Then teeth graze, testing.
Neytiri inhales sharply.
The pressure deepens and fangs pierce flesh.
Pain cuts cleanly through the haze. Neytiri snarls on instinct, fingers tangling in hair as she yanks Varang back hard enough to break contact. The woman drops onto the furs with a hiss, eyes flashing as Neytiri looms over her, chest heaving.
They glare at each other like cornered beasts.
“No biting,” Neytiri growls, fist still clenched tight. Being marked like that crosses her limit.
Lips curl, unapologetic. “No biting,” comes the smooth echo, one hand lifting in mock surrender as Varang sits up.
Then she leans in again.
Her hand settles back at Neytiri’s waist, and she presses her mouth to her shoulder once more. This time her tongue traces the sting she left behind, cleaning away the blood. Soft kisses follow, circling the wound as if to soothe what she broke.
Neytiri’s anger ebbs despite herself, guard slipping as the touch turns coaxing again, heat building anew.
𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔
At last, she’s left breathless, mind clouded, limbs trembling with the aftermath of a fight that had nothing to do with blades.
𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔
Neytiri blinks through the haze and moves.
Her hands slide to the Varang’s chest and shove her back. She hits the ground with a surprised grunt, caught off guard enough not to resist, dark hair spilling across the furs. Neytiri follows immediately, looming over her, eyes sharp once more.
She studies her for a long moment, measuring. Then she leans down, her mouth finding the other woman’s neck.
Varang stiffens instantly.
It’s a vulnerable place and she knows it. Neytiri’s teeth could do real damage there, and the awareness sends a cold rush down her spine. Her hands brace on Neytiri’s shoulders, ready to shove her away if needed.
But Neytiri doesn’t bite.
Her lips travel higher instead, brushing Varang’s ear. Warm breath ghosts over it before Neytiri’s mouth closes there. She toys with it, and it flicks at the touch.
A quiet, involuntary sound slips from Varang’s throat and her resolve fractures in that instant. Instead of pushing Neytiri away, her hand slides up her spine, fingers curling at the nape of her neck, drawing her closer.
Neytiri’s mouth trails lower again, reverent in a way that feels almost out of place against Varang’s skin.
“You’re so gentle,” Varang murmurs, mocking.
Neytiri pauses.
Her ears flatten, tail flicking sharply behind her, irritation flashing across her face. She lifts her head just enough for Varang to see the shift before leaning back in. This time, when she reaches the valley of Varang’s chest, her teeth close hard around the sensitive bud.
Varang growls, fist twisting into Neytiri’s hair as she yanks her back. The moment snaps, tension flaring hot between them.
Neytiri hisses and straightens, scowling. “You were complaining about the gentleness.”
Varang bares her teeth, but Neytiri doesn’t give her time to recover. She shoves the hand away from her hair and pins it to the ground, grip firm as she leans over her again.
“Stay still,” Neytiri growls.
Varang hisses back, but she doesn’t struggle.
There are few who can tease her without paying for it. Fewer still who can make her enjoy it.
Neytiri falls squarely into that category, and Varang finds she has little interest in fighting for long. Curiosity wins and anticipation follows. She lets herself sink back into the furs, muscles easing, eyes sliding shut as she gives in and lets Neytiri take control.
Neytiri studies her now, intrigued. There’s a thrill in this. In commanding something so wild.
She wonders what it’s be like to unravel her completely.
Her mouth moves over Varang with deliberate slowness, kisses tracing a path down her skin that feels almost reverent.
Worshipful.
Varang exhales a quiet, amused breath. She has never minded being worshipped.
Neytiri shifts, nudging her legs apart before settling between them. The movement alone draws a restless response, a subtle squirm Varang doesn’t bother to hide. Impatient.
Hands follow. Neytiri’s touch maps her thighs and hips, grounding and claiming all at once, breath warming skin as she lowers herself further, almost there.
Then she stops.
The pause stretches. Long. Anticipation coils tight in Varang’s belly, and a frustrated sound slips free before she can stop it.
She knows exactly what Neytiri is doing. A delicious, calculated torment.
When Neytiri finally closes the distance, the sensation hits like a spark, setting her ablaze. Varang gasps, body arching instinctively, a low moan tearing from her throat.
As Neytiri continues, Varang’s lips curve into something like a smile, a pleased sound vibrating low in her chest as she sinks into the sensation. It pulls her under slowly, until thought dulls and only feeling remains.
Her body betrays her in small ways. A restless shift of her hips. A soft arch of her back. Each movement chasing the heat wherever Neytiri lingers too long.
Her eyes remain closed, lashes resting against her skin. One hand reaches out blindly, fingers finding purchase in Neytiri’s hair. She grips there, not to guide, but to anchor herself, knuckles tightening as the sensation builds and coaxes soft sounds from her.
Neytiri hears them.
Every stuttered breath. Every quiet sound that slips free. She listens closely, then adjusts with intent. Slower here. Firmer there. Enough to make Varang shift again. Enough to draw another sound from her throat.
Just as Varang’s body begins to chase the feeling on its own, Neytiri stills her and holds her there.
The pause stretches. Varang’s grip tightens, a frustrated sound breaking loose as her body arches instinctively, searching for more.
Only then does Neytiri move again, measured and unhurried, granting just enough to remind her whose mercy she’s at.
Heat coils low and tight, stealing Varang’s breath one rasp at a time. Her hips shift, desperate now, chasing sensation as it threatens to crest.
But Neytiri does not give her what she wants.
She pulls back just far enough to break the spell, leaving only the ghost of her touch behind. Varang drops back against the furs with a frustrated growl, eyes flying open, fury and need burning together as she snaps her gaze upward.
“You—”
She tries to surge forward, but Neytiri’s hands are already there, firm on her shoulders, shoving her back down hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. Varang wheezes, more startled than hurt, glaring up at her.
“Say please,” Neytiri says coolly. “And I might continue.”
Varang scoffs, baring her teeth. “You want me to beg?”
“Yes.”
Neytiri catches her wrists and pins them on either side of her head. She leans in, lips brushing her ear, voice dropping low.
“Do you want me to continue?”
Neytiri’s still positioned between her legs, and the subtle shift of her hips is enough to make the reminder clear. It takes Varang a considerable amount of restraint not to push back, not to let out a pathetic sound.
Varang’s jaw tightens, breath shuddering as pride wars with want.
Then she exhales sharply, angrily.
“Yes,” she hisses. “…Please.”
Neytiri smirks, satisfied.
Her mouth returns to where it left off, relentless, and the heat surges back through Varang in a rush. Her nerves ignite all over again, every breath turning ragged as sounds slip free. She wants more. Wants it to continue this time, uninterrupted, carried all the way through instead of being denied at the edge.
Neytiri doesn’t pull away.
She stays, pushing her higher and higher until the tension has nowhere left to go. When it finally breaks, the sound Varang makes is raw and loud, echoing through the space before she can catch it. Her body slackens afterward, strength draining from her limbs as the intensity ebbs slowly, leaving her spent and breathing unevenly.
Neytiri’s lips linger, pressing soft kisses along her stomach, and the gentleness is almost jarring after everything that came before. Varang exhales and lets her eyes fall shut again, letting it happen.
Maybe she doesn’t need it. She could go without, has gone without, long enough that it was never a requirement. But the want still whispers at the back of her mind. Neytiri’s mouth is warm and soft against her skin, and it feels… good.
So she takes what’s offered.
Neytiri shifts higher, lips brushing hers, tentative at first before pressing fully against them. Varang welcomes the kiss without hesitation, mouth parting as she meets her halfway. A pleased sound hums low in her chest as she tastes herself on Neytiri’s tongue.
Her arms slide around Neytiri’s back, drawing her closer as their mouths move together.
It’s unhurried now. Languid. Lacking the sharp teeth from before.
With a smooth shift, Varang rolls them onto their sides. They settle facing one another, legs tangled, bodies fitting together with ease. Her hand travels down Neytiri’s back, sliding over her hip to rest on her thigh, pulling her closer. Her tail curls around Neytiri’s calf, securing her there.
When Varang breaks the kiss, it isn’t abrupt. Her lips trail along Neytiri’s jaw, lingering before drifting to her neck, the touch soft in a way that almost surprises her.
Neytiri’s arm wraps around Varang, hand resting at the nape of her neck, keeping her close. She doesn’t retreat from the kisses. She bares her throat, offering it freely.
Varang’s knee slips further between Neytiri’s thighs, and her hips sink against it, a low sound spilling into Varang’s ear.
They’re still caught in the afterglow of arousal, but it’s no longer shaped by struggle or control.
They hold equal power now, simply sharing the closeness. Neytiri touches her freely, hand drifting over shoulders and along the back of her neck, fingers curling into loose strands of hair, not pulling, just playing. Varang yields to it, remaining gentle as her nose brushes Neytiri’s throat, lips exploring her skin lazily while she inhales her scent.
It almost feels like they’re something more than enemies.