💐But the moon knows all my secrets💐 @m00nchildthings - Tumblr Blog

i will burn happily, baby

pairings aged-up!neteyam x mangkwan!female warrior

notes stupid loverboy neteyam, emotional turmoil for the reader, smut (p in v), oral (f & m receiving), childhood trauma :(, kuru torture, violence and blood, reader is a tough cookie but deep inside she just longs for a normal life

synopsis you were sent to kill neteyam, the warrior you have repeatedly grappled with in your clan’s raids that he kept sabotaging. you are confident he won’t recognize you without your paint, but alas, he does!

word count 25.1k

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“Take this and go!” You pushed a woven basket of herbs into the arms of a young raider, jerking your head toward the hoard of direhorses waiting on the sidelines.

The smell of burning fibers is the familiar perfume of your clan's raids. As the people around you scream in horror, you could almost smell their fears, too. The village huts dissolved into orange embers while you moved around, your double-bladed staff a crimson blur, deflecting a wild swing from a desperate villager and had the man running away. Your fellow raiders pillaged what could be pillaged while Vakrep, the nephew of Varang’s second-in-command Riku, barked orders.

The Mangkwan fell in a disarray the moment Omatikaya war cries were heard from above. Now, most of them were panicking, much like the people of the clan you were just raiding. You were running toward what seemed to be a storage hut when a scream resounded from the distance, your head whipped on its direction, immediately seeing a young boy, barely taller than your waist, his eyes wide with terror as he dodges a Mangkwan warrior twice his size. Taykan, laughed a harsh, guttural sound, his spear already arcing down. You didn't hesitate, you ran towards them, holding your bladed staff out, the curved blade flashing before it hooked on the Taykan’s arm, yanking him off balance. He stumbled, roaring in surprise.

“Go!” you said, a low growl in your chest, eyes fixed on the child.

The boy scrambled away, a small blue streak vanishing into the smoke. Tayrep snarled, regaining his footing.

“For fire’s sake! What is wrong with you?!” he spat, eyes narrowed at you.

You fixed him with a stare that promised pain. “We are to raid the village, not hunt children for sport. Go, help the others secure the hoard!”

He hesitated, then grumbled, turning to rejoin the fray. Your gaze tracked the boy’s escape, a flicker of something soft in your eyes when suddenly, you heard a loud curse from one of the sky people who accompanied you in the raid. Your head snapped to his direction, seeing his metal body grappled against an Omatikaya, larger and taller than his specialized metal suit. You saw the man’s fist move in several sharp, foreign motion, sending blow after blow, and puncturing the man’s metal suit with a sickening crack.

You tilted your head, your lips parting. Neteyam. A Mangkwan ran toward him but he spun fast, his wrist twisting to use the longer blade his weapon to wound the man with a hard jab before kicking him away, returning to the metal suit. Once he’s ruined it all, he pushed it to the ground, not killing the tawtute.

Your gaze traced up from the muscles on his arm up to his angled jaw. His presence here, during a Mangkwan raid, was a familiar insult. Two years ago, on a similar night, you grappled with him in a combat, failing to truly hurt him which you think he deserves for sabotaging your clan’s raid. You remembered the clash of your blade against the blade of his knife at his forearm. He’s extremely strong and hss surprising speed for a warrior of his size, so you learned not to underestimate him.

A low hiss escaped your lips at the sight of him and you lunged without thinking. He turned to you, his eyes widening a little before reacting to meet you halfway, his dual blade fist knife at the ready. You spinned your staff, hurling the blades closer to him. He was taller, a wall of muscle even before, but you were more agile, your quickness a match for his brute strength. The blade that extended to his forearm parried a thrust of your blade. You danced around him, seeking an opening, and smiling like a predator eyeing its meal.

His sharp eyes tracked your every move before shifting, a fluid grace that belied his size, blocking your strikes instinctively. You faked a high strike, then dropped low, sweeping your staff in a wide arc. He jumped, agile as a viperwolf, but you were already twisting, bringing the staff up, the curved hook of the blade catching his shoulder. He grunted, pulling back, but not before the jagged edge bit deep. A line of crimson bloomed on his shoulder.

“Still too slow,” you murmured, a triumphant glint in your eyes.

He huffed, his eyes glowing with playful mischief. You narrowed your eyes, annoyed, so you pressed your advantage, a flurry of strikes to force him back and back until his heel caught on a fallen branch. He stumbled, off balance but he immediately found his footing. You pushed him, hard, your hand pressing againg his chest when you heard Vakrep’s roar cut through the air as he called your name. You glanced over your shoulder, then back at Neteyam. His eyes were fixed on you, a strange intensity in their depths.

You pushed him again. “Go!” you hissed, your voice low and urgent.

He didn't move, just watching you, his breathing ragged. You turned, sprinting towards your party, leaving him standing there in the middle of the burning village. You risked a glance back and saw that he was still there, a lone, blue figure, watching you disappear into the smoke and fire. You remembered years ago... That same moment when you looked back and he was just standing there, watching you run away.

A few moons later, the training grounds was filled with the sounds of blades clashing. You moved among the young Mangkwan, correcting stances, demonstrating blocks, your double-bladed staff a natural extension of your arm. The red blades flashed as you carried it with controlled precision, sparring with a young Mangkwan, barely a man, his eyes wide with concentration. He lunged, a predictable move, and you flowed around him, the flat of your staff tapping his side.

“Dead,” you said in a bored tone. “You’ll die quick if you’re too eager.”

He nodded and you continued, ensuring to fulfill your role of honing their skills, keeping in mind the philosophy that pulsed in every Mangkwan’s vein: only the strong survive. Those who are too weak to hunt, those who are too injured to recover, are left to death for the taking, left to rot as lessons to others.

You remembered Säyim’s frail hand, her hunting days long behind her. Kekihe, her granddaughter, was no more than a foal. They were what this clan sees as disposable, marked for abandonment. Your heart silently rebelled to your own people’s words. Säyim and Kekihe are your life. A family you found in the chaos.

Your eyes caught Vakrep standing on the sidelines. His eyes, as always were on you, the possessive glint in his eyes making your skin crawl. He raised a hand by the time your current trainee wws done.

“I’ll spar with you next,” you heard him say, the sound followed by the snickering of his foolish crew behind him. “I miss... touching you.”

You gritted your teeth, your hand itching to wound him for the disgusting meaning behind his words, reinforcing the talks he spread about having bedded you which held no truth in them. “You talk too much,” you spat, your hand gripping your staff.

His lips curled into a sickening smile, stepping closer to you. “Just a friendly bout, yerik. Do not embarrass me or else—”

You didn’t wait for him to finish. You lunged, spinning your staff, until one of its blades cut an arc across his chest. He jerked back, the tip of your blade catching only the thick woven strap of his knife sheath. His crew’s laughter died down instantly.

“Careful,” he gasped, his smirk faltering as he scrambled to draw his own knife. “You’ll ruin the fun before we’ve even started.”

“The fun starts when you stop breathing,” you hissed, circling him but he moved fast, too.

His low growl rumbled behind you, making you spin, sending a wide, sweeping kick that he evaded. He grinned at you, a predator’s flash of teeth, his eyes hungry. “The yerik fights like a nantang... Always so compelling,“ he sneered, lunging.

You ignored him as you twisted, his grip only grazing your shoulder. You delivered a sharp jab to his ribs, and he grunted, stumbling back, but only for a moment. He came at you again, faster, stronger. He aimed for your head, but you blocked, the jarring impact travelling up your arm. You saw an opening, and you swept his legs out from under him, sending him butt first in the dust. Before he could recover, your staff was already descending on him, the tip of the red blade pressing against his throat while your foot kicked his chest. He looked up at you, his eyes burning with renewed obsession, not anger nor defeat.

“One day, yerik,” he rasped, his voice dark with promise, “You will be mine.”

You hissed at him. “In your dreams, you disgusting dust.”

You were planning to push your blade further on his throat if only a young Mangkwan didn’t arrive, calling you. “Varang calls for you. At the ops center.”

The ops center. You had been there only once since the last year when Varang joined forces with the sky people, finding the alien smell and cold metals really unsettling. You can’t tolerate sky people either with the way they look at your people as though they were tools to use when necessary or mere animals to be tolerated.

The place was filled with machinery and the glare of foreign light that could take the form of anything. Quaritch stood before one, his face etched with grim determination. Varang, her regal posture unwavering, stood beside him, her eyes holding a glint of something you couldn't quite decipher. Meanwhile, General Ardmore stood in the middle.

Quaritch gestured to the shimmering hologram. It showed a desolate landscape, a half-built RDA outpost, then a sudden, explosive eruption. Dust and debris filled the air, and through it, a flash of blue, an ikran flying through the chaos. Its rider, impossibly precise, was disabling machinery and killing sky people. The footage zoomed in, revealing a face, grim and focused. Neteyam.

You watched, a strange awe blooming in your chest for his sheer audacity. He was a force of nature, a single warrior dismantling an entire armed installation. He was everything the Mangkwan revered in a fighter. Too bad, he’s the enemy.

“You looked as if you’re impressed...” Varang’s voice cut through the hum of the machines. Her eyes, narrowed, watched you from across the room.

You turned to her, shrugging, a deliberate nonchalance you didn't actually feel. “He’s not one to be underestimated.”

General Ardmore snickered, a humorless sound. “She’s right. Sully’s boy is one hell of a man. Who among us here will happily march into a hell pit as easily as his boy has?”

Quaritch huffed, a gust of irritation. “He underestimates and embarrasses us, Ardmore. He will continue to think we are assailable if we just let him be—”

“But we are, Quaritch.” Ardmore cut him off, her voice sharp. “If he could come riding that banshee and disable an entire armed outpost with his primitive weapons, then we are assailable, and that is embarrassing. We will put an end to this, once and for all. And I hear he is also a concern for the Mangkwan?” She turned her gaze to Varang.

“He is. He has sabotaged many of my people’s raids in the past years.” Varang’s voice was laced with venom. She strode towards you, her movements deliberate, her eyes never leaving yours. She reached out, her fingers cupping your face, tilting your chin up, presenting you to the sky people as if you were a prize. “This is who I’m talking about… my most beautiful warrior and the most skilled in combat.”

“She is beautiful,” Ardmore agreed, her eyes sweeping over you. “We will send her, at your approval.”

Your eyes snapped back to Varang, a knot tightening in your stomach. Send you? To what? Varang offered them a sly smile, a chilling curve of her lips. “I approve.”

Your breath hitched. “What’s going on?” The words were a strained whisper.

Varang’s hand, surprisingly gentle, moved to your braids, her fingers tracing the simple headdress you wore, a lone red stone framed by two viperwolf teeth, marking your high rank intl the clan. “We will send you to that damned son of Toruk Makto, daughter. You will kill him… Avenge your brothers and sisters that fell in his hands... Think you could do that for me... For us?” Her smile remained, but now it held an uncanny quality that sent a shiver down your spine.

Fear, cold and sharp, pricked at your resolve. You swallowed, trying to steady your voice. “And what if he kills me instead?” The question hung in the air, a challenge Varang rarely tolerated. Her people followed without question, without doubt. To hesitate was to border on betrayal. You saw the impatience flicker in her eyes as she eyed you darkly.

“Then you die.” she declared nonchalantly. “It is something you must do for the people.” Her voice hardened, leaving no room for argument.

Quaritch then stepped forward, his voice a rumble, outlining the details. They told you about the annual convention of the clans which you already know about, a gathering of all the chieftains, discussing peace and trade among each other. They introduced you to a Li’onan man named Taryu who you were told is an RDA mole, infiltrating events such as that to learn the movements of the clans.

He would accompany you along with Trojan, a recombinant soldier under Quaritch, to ensure your entry in the convention. Taryu, a traitor to his own kind, explained that Neteyam would be there this season, to accompany his father, Jake Sully, as next-in-line to the Omatikaya leadership.

You listened to everything they were saying, registering nothing because your mind is reeling. You have to kill Neteyam. At the convention. You pictured the bustling gathering, the chieftains, their heirs, the throng of people. You couldn't just attack him there. You’d be dead before your blade even found him. Or perhaps, you would succeed, only to be cut down moments later. A cold dread settled in your gut. You couldn't die. Not now. Not when you have Säyim and Kekihe depending on you.

You walked back to the yurt you share with Säyim and Kekihe, the familiar scent of leaves burning greeting you as you entered. Kekihe, barely eight seasons old, played with grass, pretending to weave them together, her forehead furrowed in concentration but as you entered, her head snapped up.

“Sister!” she grinned, her happy face looking up at you as if you hung the stars yourselves.

Säyim sat by the low fire, roasting yerik meat wrapped in leaves. She smiled up at you, her eyes filled with adoration making you finally smile. Her eyes betrayed her true feelings though, reflecting her worry for you as she signed. You understand the familiar movement of her hands, remembering what you had to do.

You moved to the fire, warming your hands and staring at the embers. “Varang wants me to go to the convention,” you said, your voice flat. “I will be gone... Maybe a few days. I’ve checked our provisions. You two should be alright until I’m back.” You smiled.

Säyim’s hands, gnarled but strong, flew to your arms, gripping them tightly. Her eyes pleaded, her mouth unable to form the words. She shook her head, signing with frantic gestures, a language only you could understand, yet sometimes don’t. Right now, you're refusing to understand. She understands without you telling her what your mission will be. What will a Mangkwan do at the convention anyway? She drew a line across her throat, then pointed to you, then to Kekihe. A shudder ran through you. She was warning you.

“I will be alright,” you tried to reassure her. “I’ll be back.”

But she wouldn't let go, her grip tightening, her signs growing more desperate. Her hands signed the sign for Varang, then a knife, then your neck. She was furious, her distress visibke. You had to calm her, murmuring reassurances you didn't believe yourself. You understood her fear: Varang is sending you to your death. But the deeper meaning of her signs, the truth she tried to convey about your parents, remained just out of reach, a truth you weren’t able to grasp.

You left the yurt before the sun even rose, the weight of Säyim’s unspoken words and Kekihe’s innocence pressing down on you. You had always known Varang’s ruthlessness. You had seen Mangkwan warriors, out of their blind fanaticism of her, sacrifice themselves for her and... Now, she is asking for your life. The thought of Neteyam, the warrior you secretly respected, the one you were now commanded to kill, twisted in your gut. It is not always that you admit fear... But right now, you are scared.

The journey to the convention was a blur of discomfort. Trojan, a hulking figure wearing your skin with the dead eyes of a sky person, accompanied you and Taryu who led the way. He didn’t only ensure your entry in the covention, he also secured your place among the female performers, a group of young women from various clans, their faces painted with bright, intricate designs.

You stood among them, your own face free of your clan’s ash and paint. Taryu explained that it was part of the disguise, to appear harmless, a simple girl among many young women. You watched them prepare, their laughter light and unrestrained, and a pang of something akin to longing pierced you. You wondered what it would be like, to be one of them, a normal girl, unburdened by the weight of Varang’s ambition, of your clan’s harsh creed. You were twenty, past the age when most women mated, yet no man in the Mangkwan had ever stirred your heart, nor even truly captured your attention. You imagined a simpler life with Säyim and Kekihe, a different path, away from the hardness of your own people. The thought felt traitorous, but in that moment, anger at Varang overshadowed all else.

The performance began. The drums pulsing, vibrating through the ground. You moved with the other dancers, your body flowing, your limbs graceful as you danced, a mask of serenity plastered over your face, belying the turmoil inside you. You tried to lose yourself in the movement, to forget the knife strapped to your thigh, the mission.

As you spun, your eyes, almost instinctively, drifted towards the dais where the clan chieftains and their heirs sat. And then you saw him. Neteyam. You stopped breathing as your heart gave a lurch, a frantic drum against your ribs. From where you are, you can feel his eyes in your direction but you couldn’t be so sure. You are confident he won’t recognize you without your paint, after all, he’s only ever seen you clad in it.

Yet, your stomach clenched, tearing your gaze away, focusing on the dance, on the rhythm, on anything but him. But every time you stole a glance, his eyes were still fixed on your direction. Even when he turned to speak to those beside him, his eyes seemed to return to you, a silent, unwavering focus.

The performance ended. The dancers dispersed, mingling with the crowd and you found yourself wandering, inspecting the stalls that belong to each clan, displaying their unique crafts and delicacies. You accepted every offer of fermented fruit juice, the potent liquid a welcome distraction that helps numb your nerves. You moved through the throngs of people, your senses overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and smells of a world so different from the ash lands of the Mangkwan or the metallic and asphalt of Bridgehead.

A young man, his face painted with the markings of the Tayrangi clan, began to speak to you, offering another bowl of juice. “That is the sweetest I’ve ever tasted. I saw you trying the juices, you might like that,” he said.

You took it before he even finished talking, nodding performatively, barely listening, your eyes still flicking towards the dais. Neteyam was still there, engaged in conversation. He hadn’t approached. A strange mix of relief and disappointment washed over you.

You lifted the bowl to your lips, the sweet liquid a comfort. The young man rambled on, his voice a pleasant tone that you conveniently tuned out, you didn’t even notice when he abruptly fell silent. In your peripheral vision though, you saw a towering form approach.

“Neteyam,” the young man greeted, touching his forehead. “Oel ngati kameie.”

A deep voice, resonant and familiar, cut through the din as he returned the greeting. You remained focused on your bowl, pretending not to notice the imposing presence even when you felt his eyes on you, a warmth that prickled your skin. You are so nervous.

“What is there to enjoy?” you heard Neteyam ask the young man. You stepped back a little, giving them space. You peered up, and your eyes met his. He touched his forehead, a formal greeting, then his gaze dropped to the bowl in your hand. “What are you drinking?” The casual question was directed at you, his eyes, dark and intense, never leaving yours.

“Swoa…” you answered, a slight tilt of your head, a carefully practiced innocence. You lifted the bowl slightly so he’d look at it instead of you.

His lips parted in a small smile before reaching out, his large hand covering yours as he gently grabbed the bowl. He didn’t take it fully from your grasp, but rather brought it to his lips while you're stil holding it, his eyes still locked with yours as he sipped.

“Sweet,” he said, his voice a low murmur.

The young man from earlier, sensing the shift in attention, had quietly slipped away, unwilling to challenge Neteyam’s obvious interest. You tilted your head. “And if it’s poisoned?”

A small smile sliced across his lips, revealing a flash of white teeth. “Is it?”

You narrowed your eyes. “It could be, and you drank straight from it.” Your usual biting tone slipped before you finished the remaining liquid in your bowl. Your gaze snagging on the white scar on his shoulder, a stark line against his blue skin. Your scar. Your handiwork. A smirk touched your lips before meeting his eyes again, seeing him still watching you, a knowing glint in their depths.

“It would be worth it then,” he retorted, his voice playful, a challenge. “For a man to stare at a woman as beautiful as you as he dies?” He received his own bowl of fermented juice from a passing server, his eyes never leaving yours.

You huffed, a small, disbelieving sound. “You are stupid.” You hadn’t expected this. The serious, formidable warrior you had fought was replaced by this charming, stupidly reckless man. “Do we know each other?” you pretended to ask, your eyes searching his face.

A boyish smile broke across his face, transforming his features. “My name’s Neteyam,” he said, his voice a warm rumble. “Yours?” His question was breathless, as if he hung on your answer.

You considered lying, inventing a name, a clan, a false identity. But a strange impulse, a sudden defiance against Varang’s machinations, pushed your real name from your lips.

He repeated it, testing the sound on his tongue, a soft reverence in his voice. He smiled, a genuine, open smile. “I think I could have imagined that you have a name very fitting.”

You rolled your eyes, a small, genuine laugh escaping you. He was a smooth talker and undeniably charming that you found yourself amused despite the gravity of your mission. You wandered with him through the bustling convention, moving from stall to stall, exploring the various clans’ offerings. He pointed out different customs, shared observations, his voice steady and pleasant, as if he’s used to talk about nearly everything, a true diplomat. Meanwhile, you accepted every offer of fermented juice as though they were bowls of courage sent your way. By the sixth bowl, he caught your hand before you could even lift it to your lips.

“Planning to get drunk?” he asked, his grip firm but gentle.

You looked at him, shaking your head. “Just trying to relax.”

“You don’t like festivities?” he asked, his hand hovering at your waist as you navigated the crowd.

You shook your head again. Mangkwan gatherings were rarely joyous affairs, more often rituals or raucous snuff parties orchestrated by Varang. You found little pleasure in the addicting fumes. You had experienced how it dulled the senses and twisted the mind, and Varang herself rarely indulged in it. You prefer having your wits about you every hour of the day.

“Would you like to explore the woods instead?” he asked, his voice casual, as though there was no meaning in there at all, but perhaps, there was truly none. Neteyam loved festivities, but he also loved peace and quiet which he often found in the woods back home.

You, however, snapped up like syíl hearing a movement. This is it. The opportunity you had been seeking. Get him alone. Render him vulnerable. You fought the urge to narrow your eyes, to let your true intentions show. Instead, you offered him a small, shy smile. “If you want.”

You walked into the forest, the sounds of the convention fading behind you. Bioluminescent flora illuminated your path, casting a glow on the towering trees. You reached out, your fingers tracing the glowing leaves as you two walked. The air here was clean, damp, and alive with the scent of growing things, very different to the metallic smell of Bridgehead and the choking ash of your homeland. You breathed deeply, trying to calm the frantic beating of your heart. You were about to do something you had never done before, something that felt both terrifying and exhilarating.

You stopped by a large pitcher plant, its leaves shaped like a goblet. You pulled it down gently, arching your head back before catching the cool, pure water that trickled from it. Some droplets rolled down your chin as you swallowed, rolling down your neck as you faced Neteyam, offering him another shy, innocent smile, part of the act, part of the lure, which proved to be effective because his eyes, dark and dilated, watched you, captivated. He lifted a hand, his thumb brushing away a drop of water from the corner of your mouth.

You stepped forward, boldly, emboldened by all the fermented juice you drank. You rose onto your toes, your lips brushing his, a light touch. You watched his face, saw his eyes drop to your lips, then lock with yours.

“Yeah?“ his deep voice grumbled.

He watched the playful glint in your golden orbs before moving. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you close, molding your body against his. His other hand cupped your neck and jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek. His lips descended on yours, hard and searching, a fierce hunger that stole your breath. You staggered back, until your back met a tree. You pulled him closer, your fingers tangling in the braids at the nape of his neck, your other hand pressing against the solid wall of his chest. The sweetness of the fermented juice, the taste of him, filled your mouth. He kissed you with a desperate intensity, as if the world would end with the next breath.

His hand slid down your back, a warm caress. You tensed, a fleeting worry that he would feel the scarifications that marked your skin. But he didn’t pause, his fingers trailing lower, past your waist, cupping your ass to lift you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms tightening around his neck, pulling him deeper. He broke away, only for a moment, his breath ragged, his eyes scanning the surrounding forest probably to look for a place. He kissed your neck, the sensation sending shivers through you, as he walked a little deep away from the main path, finding a private clearing.

The soft moss yielded beneath your weight as he lowered you down. The bioluminescent plants cast a dim glow around you, treating you to a view of his sculpted body as he loomed over you, a mountain of muscle and intent. His eyes held yours as he lowered himself, his lips claiming yours once more.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, while his calloused hand found your breast, giving it a possessive squeeze that made you breathily sigh. He pulled back, his gaze lingering on your face before dropping to the pink feathers adorning your chest. A deft movement, and the top was tossed carelessly to the side, leaving you exposed to the cool night air.

You gritted your teeth, watching his face carefully, trying to see if you’ll see change in them. Three parallel lines of scarification bumps formed a V-shape across your shoulder blades, meeting at your cleavage. They connected to the same patterns on your upper back, the unmistakable tradition of the Mangkwan. You waited and yet he didn't flinch, didn't question, only dipping his head low before you felt his warm lips trace the line of your neck, down to the raised bumps of the scarifications on your shoulders. He kissed them, then licked, a slow, deliberate exploration that made your breath hitch. His eyes, dark and hungry, flickered up to yours as he captured an engorged nipple. You moaned at the foreign, exhilarating sensation, cradling his head as he suckled on them.

He moved further down, his lips tracing another series of vertical lines of scarification on your abdomen, leading to the delicate V-shape of your lower belly. He kissed and licked, a low hum rumbling in his chest, as if it all made it feel better for him. His fingers, gentle yet firm, found your tail, a soft caress that made you arch your back. Then, his lips brushed against the long scar on your inner thigh, a tender kiss as he untied the simple knot of your loincloth. More loving kisses followed the length of the scar as the fabric fell away.

You felt yourself pooling between your legs, a hot flush of embarrassment rising in you. You had touched yourself countless of times before, even explored with your wooden phallics, but this… this was different. His eyes met yours, a silent question in their depths. You groaned, a guttural sound, and he laughed, a deep, rich rumble.

“Relax...“ he kissed your inner thigh before dipping his head, his tongue lashing out. Consecutive hard sucks followed and you couldn't help but moan louder, your hips bucking instinctively. Your imagination, it seemed, had been utterly inadequate. It hadn’t prepared you for the possibility of this.

Weak from his ministrations, your body thrummed, your mind barely conscious as your eyes focused on him. He was untying his own loincloth, his eyes darkly caressing your naked form. You bit your lip, pressing your feet against his lower abdomen, a silent command. He allowed it, smirking at you as he fully freed himself. Your gaze dropped, your breath hitching. He was long and thick, humbling your wooden toys by a mile. Daunted, you couldn't hide the apprehension in your eyes. He saw it, and a primal glint ignited in his own.

He grabbed your ankle, his large hand caressing your leg, tracing your calf, up to the underside of your knee. Then, with a firm clasp, he spread you wider. You couldn't even fake bravery as he lined his cock against the tight opening of your pussy, a soft nudge. You bit your lip and he lowered his head, capturing your mouth in a soft kiss, a good distraction. You moaned into his mouth as the wide head of him slipped inside you. It was uncomfortable at first, a stretching fullness you’d never known and when he eased more of himself in, the feeling intensified, making you feel so full.

He groaned, burying his face in your neck. You cradled his head, your fingers tangling in the strands of his braids. He pressed a hard kiss against your neck, and a scream tore at your throat when he plunged the rest of his length into you, burying himself balls deep.

You clutched his shoulders, your fingernails digging into his skin. He lifted his head, his eyes scanning your face, concern etched into their depths.

“Hurt?” he rasped.

It did, but it thrilled you. You shook your head. “Continue,” you ordered, squeezing his shoulder. His eyes caressed your face, lingering. You watched for a flicker of recognition again, for his gaze to fall on the vertical lines of small scarifications that lined your nose.

“You are so beautiful...” he mumbled instead, his voice thick with desire. He kissed you, then began to move, slow and deliberate at first, then building in rhythm. “So fucking tight.”

You cupped his jaw, gently holding his face, willing him to stare into your eyes as he moved inside you. He did. Both of you were in a trance, the clearing filled with your moans and his groans. A guttural sound ripped from his chest when you kissed him softly, your lips brushing his as he drove into you.

“Fuck,” he weakly breathed, a low chuckle rumbling from deep within him.

He moved with relentless rhythm, pushing you higher and higher until both of you shattered in an explosive climax. He kissed you as you came down, his thrusts shallow now, a gentle rocking. Then, he rolled on his back, pulling you with him, so you wouldn't bear his full weight. His hand, warm and heavy, caressed your back. After a while, you propped a hand on his chest, pushing yourself up. He watched you with dark, dilated eyes, his hand falling to rest on your waist.

“Again?” he asked.

You bit your lip, then slowly, began to move on top of him. A moan escaped you as your clit repeatedly grazed against his pelvis. You quickened your pace, your hand reaching out, searching. Your fingers closed around the familiar hilt of your knife, lying discarded on the moss next to your loincloth.

In a snap, you brought the blade to his throat. His expression didn’t change. His eyes, still dilated with raw desire, locked onto yours. His thumb, resting on your waist, continued its slow caress.

“Do it,” he whispered, his voice a low rasp.

You stared down at him, fear gripping your heart. This was never truly in you. Killing never brought you pleasure, nor was hurting people and animals. You do your duty for the clan but you don’t hurt people if you can help it, but you know that doesn’t make you a good person because at the end of it all, you still brought unimaginable horror to many people. Varang. She had forced your hand, given you no choice, treating you as a tool to use. Your whole life, you had always acted on her behalf, but this… this you couldn't do.

You have always considered this a weakness. You carried something most Mangkwan lacked: mercy. Why couldn't you just kill him? Prove your loyalty to Varang, to the people. But also, why should you? Why prove yourself to the leader who had sent you to your death?

You blinked, your hand, still holding the knife, loosening its grip on his neck. He felt it. So, without breaking eye contact, he slowly, carefully, moved his hand up, covering yours. He gently unclenched your fingers from the knife. When you released your hold, he took it, tossing it away with a soft thud. His hand, now free, hooked around your nape, pulling you down into a searing kiss. Shame and relief washed over you. Shame that he kissed you despite your attempt, and relief that he did. It was strange.

Both his arms now wrapped around you as he kissed you, his hips adjusting between your thighs. A broken cry tore from your throat as he began to thrust from below, his hips slapping against yours with desperate speed. You could barely form a complete string of moans. You didn't know you could be so turned on by the act of being caged in his strong arms, used for his pleasure that you climaxed again, a helpless, shattering release, while Neteyam chased his own, continuously slamming into you. By the time he finished, you were limp in his arms, breathing heavily, unable to move.

At some point, you drifted into a brief, light sleep, but then a jolt brought you back, finding him cleaning you up with a soft leaf. You scrambled away, your eyes hard and sharp, a stark contrast to the softness in his. You grabbed your loincloth and top, dressing quickly. He did the same, rising to his feet as you did.

“You okay?” he asked, watching you carefully as though you were a wild viperwolf he’s trying to calm down.

You hissed at him. “What do you want to hear?“

He tilted his head. “Reviews?” he asked, his voice playful and full of meaning.

Your eyes narrowed. “You are stupid,” you said, continuing to tie your loincloth on your tail.

He chuckled, stupidly amused with your words. “I know you, you know,” he said, his gaze lingering on your face. “You gave me this.” He pointed to the white scar on his shoulder. You glanced at it, a faint line on his dark skin. He felt a little foolish for pointing it out. It was shallow, shamed by the scars you bore, the ones he had just kissed. He couldn't even imagine the wounds they used to be.

You stared at him. “And yet you came up to me, you idiotic man.”

His eyes swept over your body, gaze so full of meaning you felt an urge to slap him. His eyes lit up though, a flicker of realization. “Were you supposed to be in disguise?” he whispered, genuinely curious.

Dumbfounded, you tilted your head. The answer was plain on your face and he scrambled for words. “I am Mangkwan.” you said, slowly, to get it into his thick head.

“I know. I just told you I know you,” he said as a matter of fact. You realized now. Why he hadn't been bothered by your scars because he knew you, he knew what you are. And still went there with you.

You huffed a frustrated breath. “You are one stupid man. You are an idiot.” You hissed at him. You imagined the corpse he would have been now if Varang had sent a different Mangkwan.

He stared at you, his eyes still dazed. He didn't seem to care what you said. He held out your knife, the blade facing him.

Another groan tore from your throat. You snatched the knife from him. “You ought to be careful next time. You were really easy,” you said, narrowing your eyes to mock him. “If I had wanted to kill you, I would have done it already.”

He tilted his head, his eyes darkening, hot on you. “I have no doubt,” he said, a note of pride in his voice. “And there is no next time, neither was there a last time. I’m not that easy.”

You couldn't help but laugh, a sharp, disbelieving sound. He seemed to realize what he had just said, because he smoothly looked away, his hand lifting, as if to rub his nape, before awkwardly dropping it. “Saving face, Sully? I got you there in record time.” You savored the newfound power, a delicious, unexpected sensation.

He stared at you, silent, but you could almost hear the gears grinding in his mind.

“What?” you snapped, confused by his unwavering gaze.

“Just... So this is how you look without your paint,” he said, his voice soft.

Your face crumpled in annoyance. He didn't take you seriously, and it was your own fault. You hissed at him, turning to walk away, feeling his hot gaze follow you and then the thud of his footsteps. Before you reached the edge of the woods, his hand caught your elbow. You tried to shake it off, but he pulled you back, a spring toy snapping into him. Your palms pressed against his broad chest as your body almost slammed against his.

“I want to see you again,” he said, his voice deep.

Your nose almost flared. “I have no reason to see you again,” you hissed, freeing yourself from his grasp. “Be thankful to your goddess that I showed you mercy.”

He watched you walk away this time, his eyes still glinting with a strange mix of amazement and amusement. You returned to the convention, searching for Taryu when a sharp clap was heard. Trojan stepped into view, a sneer twisting his features. You gritted your teeth at the sight of him.

“Impeccable performance,” he drawled, his voice laced with mock admiration. “You didn’t waste time, huh? Varang didn’t tell us we had a hustler on our side.”

You stood impassive, giving him nothing.

“I wasn’t even needed here. You did everything on your own. Got yourself out there and lured that damned demon effortlessly,” he continued, shaking his head. “You must be really hot by Na’vi standards. I mean, you look delectable to me as it is, and I’m a human.” His eyes raked over you.

You chuckled with disdain, the sound mocking his words, especially because he wore a Na’vi body. “I don’t expect anything from you anyway. Now, are you going to patronize me for doing all the work, or will you shut up soon?”

He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. He bowed his head mockingly. “Shutting up soon, but I need to know what happened. Where is the demon’s corpse?“

Demon. You wanted to roll your eyes. “I did not kill him. It’s not a job for me to do,” you said, nonchalantly.

“What?” He said, stepping toward you. You stood your ground, watching him with dark eyes, daring him to come closer. “You had the chance, and you did not?”

“How many chances did the RDA have to kill that man? Probably uncountable, and yet he remains breathing. Is there really no honor in you sky people that you had to resort to underhanded tactics to kill a single man?”

“You are in no position to talk about honor, Mangkwan,” he retorted, his voice sharp. “You know nothing about politics and strategies. The RDA won’t waste resources and soldiers just for the life of one man.”

“Then the RDA must bear the losses that one man brings them,” you countered.

“I saw you disappear into the forest with him. Ah, I know,” a snicker escaped him. “He fucked you. And you decided you won’t kill him—”

You hissed, unsheathing your knife, and before he could even blink an eye, you had the blade pressed against his throat. His eyes widened, primal fear flashing in their depths.

“Do not test me, demon,” you threatened, your voice a low hiss.

He took a short, sharp breath, afraid to move his head, lest you dig the blade deeper. He raised both hands, stepping back slowly, watching you as if you were a wild animal. “I’ll relay what happened to Quaritch. Await your punishment from your deranged leader.”

The travel back to Bridgehead City was surprisingly calmer than your travel to the convention. You didn’t know why, but you couldn’t find your anxiety yet, even as you know that Varang will surely deal with you. The sterile air of Bridgehead that welcomd you made you wince. It scraped at your nostrils, it was a stark contrast to the humid forest you had just left.

Quaritch and Varang waited in the ops center, the room humming with the low thrum of machinery, banks of glowing screens casting an eerie blue light on their faces. Varang’s eyes, bright and predatory, settled on you as you entered. A wicked smile stretched her lips. You braced yourself, each step a march toward an inevitable punishment.

“It is swift. Just as I expected from you, daughter.” Pride laced her voice, a sickening sweetness that made your gut clench.

Trojan snickered, the sound grating. “She didn’t kill that devil incarnate, Quaritch. She had the chance though, he got lured right into her trap without her trying but still, that ingrate didn’t kill him.”

Varang’s smile vanished, her eyes snapping to you. “Is this true?”

You met her gaze, a chilling fear crawling up your spine, but you refused to shrink. “Yes.”

Her hand clamped onto your forearm. “And you didn’t kill him, why?”

Trojan snickered again. “Good question—”

You hissed at him, cutting him off mid-sentence. Quaritch, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, raised a hand, silencing Trojan with a glance. You turned back to Varang, your voice low, controlled. “He would kill me if I tried to. And truthfully, I do not want to die.” You lied. “If the sky people want him dead, then they should come for him.” You shifted your gaze to Quaritch, a challenge in your eyes. “Or do you fear him, Colonel?”

Varang’s grip on your forearm tightened, her nails digging into your flesh. “How dare you question Quaritch?” Her voice cracked like a whip. You clamped your mouth shut and she turned to Quaritch, a placating smile returning, though it didn't reach her eyes. “I will deal with her.”

She dragged you out, her grip like iron as you walked past the many machineries and tanks until you reached the place allotted for the Mangkwan. A few children played near the entrance to the living quarters, their laughter a contrast to the dread building within you. Kekihe called your name, her voice filled with innocent joy but Varang’s angry hiss silenced her, and worry morphed her face before her small features twisted in fear. Your forehead furrowed, a pang of hurt piercing through you as you watched how scared she was. You forced a smile, happily waving a hand, a silent assurance to soothe her.

Varang shoved you into her yurt. You stumbled, landing hard on the ground. You knew better than to rise, remaining kneeling, your head bowed, as her fury descended on you.

“You brought me shame. You embarrass me to our allies!” Her eyes, wide and furious, burned into you. “Why did you not kill him?” she bit out, each word sharp.

“Olo’eykte, I already said—”

“I do not care about what you do not want or whether you do not want to die,” she cut you off. “My order was for you to kill the son of Toruk Makto.” Every word was emphasized, punctuated by the deceptive touch of her hand on the thick plait of braided hair behind your head. Your breath hitched, closing your eyes, knowing what would come. “And yet you failed me.”

A beat of silence and then a pained scream tore at your throat as she forcibly connected her kuru to yours. Your back arched, muscles spasming as you threw your head back, a primal shriek echoing in the yurt. White-hot pain seared through your mind, a thousand needles piercing your consciousness. The memories, long buried, erupted. Varang’s voice, cold and sharp, echoed in your head. You were much smaller, being punished for something you can't even remember anymore.

Your body felt like it was burning, every nerve ending aflame. You couldn’t even see her clearly, your vision marred with streaks of white as desperation clawed at you, a desperate need to be freed from this torment.

She grabbed your jaw hard, her fingers digging into your cheek. “I would kill you right now for this misdeed. Tell me why I shouldn’t.”

Your body convulsed, gasping for air, the world spinning. You forced words past your burning throat. “I have been loyal to you, Olo’eykte, my whole life.” That was the truth. You realized now how it was only ever driven by fear and never respect and devotion for her. You wished you could say more, explain the impossible choice she had forced upon you, but your mind was reeling.

She groaned, a sound of frustration, before pulling her kuru violently. You stumbled on the floor, chasing your breath, jolts of pulsing pain attacking your body. “You do not want to kill him… but you are not scared of him.” She said, her voice laced with a strange realization, interpreting what she had read from your raw emotions. She narrowed her eyes at you, then pushed you away. “Get out of here!”

You crawled out of her yurt, gasping, your limbs trembling. Kekihe waited in the distance, her small frame hunched, tears streaming down her face. She ran to you, throwing her arms around your waist, burying her face in your hip, her sobs muffled against your skin. Anguish seized your heart as you kneeled. The physical and mental pain inflicted on you barely made you cry, but as Kekihe cries for you, only then did your tears fall.

You stroke her hair, assuring her you were okay, your voice rough with unspoken pain. “Do not cry loudly,” you whispered, your eyes darting back to Varang’s yurt, “She might hear you.”

You returned to the yurt you shared with Säyim and Kekihe. Säyim sat by the low fire, her eyes fixed on the entrance. Kekihe, still sniffling, recounted what she witnessed. Säyim’s face contorted, groans of rage tearing at her throat. You assured both of them you were fine, though your body throbbed and your spirit felt raw.

From that day forward, you had fallen from Varang’s favor. In turn, you had lost your last shred of respect for her. You didn’t even know if you had ever truly respected her at all, or if you had simply done what you thought necessary to keep yourself, Säyim and Kekihe, safe from her wrath.

You continued your duties, a silent rebel within her ranks. You trained young warriors. You hunted, venturing further from Bridgehead, seeking the clean scents of the forest. You hunted for Säyim and Kekihe, for the vulnerable. If the hunt yielded more than enough, you shared with others, another act of defiance against the selfishness Varang has ingrained in her people.

A moon had waxed and waned since your encounter with Neteyam. And now, you hunted in a forest an hour’s flight from Bridgehead. You had washed away the ash and paint, leaving your skin bare, a conscious choice for a safer hunt. You knew the risks; others had paid with their lives for being Mangkwan in these territories.

You were stalking a small yerik when you heard a sudden, rhythmic thudding on the ground, followed by heavier ones. A blur of blue followed by the monstrous, hulking form of a palulukan, its massive mouth opened, snapping inches away from the person’s head. Without any hesitation, without even a thought, you released your arrow. It whistled through the air, but the palulukan, a creature of pure instinct managed to evade it. The arrow flew past its head, embedding itself harmlessly in a tree trunk further back.

You missed it, but your shot had done a different job. The palulukan, its momentum still carrying it forward, halted mid-stride, its massive head swiveling until its eyes fixed on you. Your breathing hitched at the same time an enraged bellow ripped from its throat. It coiled and then it launched itself, a terrifying, unstoppable force, directly at you. You stepped backward, nocking another arrow, and sending it flying. The forest, so peaceful moments before, now screamed with danger.

“Run!” A deep, resonant bellow, full of urgency and power, cut through the din.

But you didn’t run. You aimed another arrow, holding your breath, scared but still defiant. The palulukan closed the distance between you two in terrifying strides. You released the arrow. It struck the beast’s shoulder, but it merely enraged it further. There was no more time. The palulukan was almost upon you. You turned, finally, to flee, running as fast as you could but your foot caught on a gnarled root, sending you stumbling. You cried out and fell hard on the ground. You felt a jolt of agony splintering up your foot. You sat there, watching in sickening slow motion as the massive palulukan zoomed forward. You fumbled for one of the separated blades of your double-bladed staff, preparing for a desperate, final stand.

This was it. You’re going to die. But at least, it would be in the mouth of a palulukan.

But you heard a whistling sound, and then a thud. The palulukan’s charge faltered. It staggered, a guttural roar tearing from its throat, then it collapsed. An arrow, fletched with large green leaves, jutted from its chest, buried deep. The beast’s momentum carried it forward, its massive body plowing through the soft ground, sending a cloud of dust and leaves flying in the air until its snout came to rest mere inches from your outstretched foot.

Silence descended, broken only by your ragged breathing. You sat there, heart hammering, disoriented, the scent of dust thick in your nostrils as you heard heavy footsteps thud closer, purposeful and swift, followed by an angry, “What were you thinking?!”

You snapped your head up, indignation burning through the pain. How dare he yell at you after you had just saved him, and gotten yourself injured in the process? A tall, broad figure emerged from the tree line. Your lips parted, a huff of disbelief escaping you. Neteyam. His face, initially contorted with anger, softened, a quick wave of concern washing over his features as his eyes landed on you. You would laugh at the swift change if you weren’t so thoroughly enraged.

You hissed at him. “How dare you get mad? I saved you!” You gestured wildly to your throbbing foot. “And now, I’m hurt!”

His eyes widened a fraction, traveling from your face to your ankle. “You’re hurt?” he repeated, already scrambling to your side. He knelt, his large hands gently assessing your now swelling foot. “Fuck, you sprained it.”

You raised a brow at the foreign word. You tried to move your foot, to pull yourself up, but a jolt of excruciating pain shot through your leg. He groaned and gathered you into his arms, lifting you easily as thought you weigh nothing, and set you down on a nearby rock, kneeling in front of you once more.

He carefully pressed down on your ankle, and you hissed. He looked up, his eyes filled with concern. “Hurt?”

You bit your lip. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

He sighed, a deep, rumbling sound. “I won’t allow you to strain your foot further if that’s what you’re planning to do.” His eyes dared you to challenge him. “I’ve got you. Don’t worry.” He opened his satchel, pulling out a flat, intricately carved container.

“As you should, that happened because of you,” you said, watching him open the container, dismissing the fact that it was your decision to intervene.

He held your foot gently, applying a dollop of thick, minty balm to your ankle. “I’m sorry,” he looked up again, his expression earnest. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

A prickle of guilt pierced your thick shell. You had blamed him, but he had saved you too. You pushed your lips forward. “I know,” you said in a small voice. “Sorry.” A word you rarely utter.

He lifted his head, a small smile gracing his lips. When your eyes met, he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You stared at him as a strange, ticklish warmth spread through your chest. You forced a cough, looking away.

“What’s that balm made of? It’s cool,” you asked, changing the subject.

“Dapophet and spice bell, mixed with the nectar of a hatchet bee,” he told you, still smiling softly. “We need to be somewhere safe before it darkens.” He easily gathered you into his arms again.

He walked and you looked around, taking in the unfamiliar forest. “Do you know these woods?” you asked.

“Not much, but I saw a falls over there. That’s where I was planning to jump to escape the palulukan,” he said.

You remembered his calm demeanor earlier, the absence of panic. He had a plan. He wasn’t even fazed by having killed a palulukan, as though it were a small achievement among many. He found a small grotto near the falls, a hidden alcove veiled by hanging vines. He gently placed you down on a soft, mossy stone bed.

“I’ll go get more herbs and food,” he said, leaving his satchel beside you.

When he returned, he already has a string of iridescent fish, a bundle of fresh herbs, and an armload of wood for fire.

“I’ll help you start it,” you said, carefully trying to slide off the stone bed. But he intercepted you, his hands firm on your waist, settling you back down. You almost hissed at him, but bit back. “In my clan, I am a priestess of fire,” you told him in a biting tone.

He smiled, a genuine, easy smile. “Relax, spitfire, I believe you.” He smirked. “But I have to wrap your ankle with poultice. We’ll start the fire later.”

You pushed your lips forward, watching him work. He crushed the herbs with a smooth stone, his movements precise and practiced. You thought of your clan, how no man, not even most of the women, knew anything about tending to injuries. They left the weak to die. And here was this man, a fearsome warrior, yet so gentle, and knowledgeable in the matters of healing. No one had ever cared for you so tenderly and you felt something tug at your heart. No one had ever let you be the weak one.

He meticulously wrapped your ankle with a woven fabric, securing the poultice in place. Then, he helped you down. “Now we can start the fire,” he said, scaling the fish with practiced ease.

You struck a spark, coaxing a flame from the dry tinder. He watched, fascinated, as the fire caught, growing quickly under your ministrations. “How did you do that?” he asked, genuine wonder in his voice.

“We worship the fire,” you said, your tone clipped, a hint of pride in your voice. “We call to it as you call to your Eywa.”

He stared at you, his expression thoughtful and then he nodded. “I understand.” he said with no hint of prejudice and judgment that you held his gaze for a long moment, a strange warmth spreading through you.

You ate the roasted fish together, the silence comfortable, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire and the murmur of the waterfall outside your grotto.

When it was time to sleep, he sat on the ground, sharpening his arrows on a smooth stone, despite the ample space on the stone bed beside you. “Don’t you want to lie beside me?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended. His head snapped up, his eyes wide as they met yours.

“I want to, of course,“ he answered quickly, like a yerik being offered food. “I mean, if you want me to… then…” he stammered, so unlike the fierce warrior in the battlefield.

You raised a brow, stifling a laugh at his unexpected decency. “Well, I feel sorry that you have to sleep on the cold ground… when there’s plenty of space beside me… here, on the mossy bed.” You yawned, stretching as you turned to your side, your tail moving lasciviously.

He stifled a smile, his eyes watching your tail. You watched him stand, biting your lip, a small, private smile blooming on your face as he lay down beside you, filling your back with warmth. You fell asleep so quick it was almost record-breaking and when you woke up, sunlight is already filtering through the vines that serve as a curtain for your grotto. You were cuddled to Neteyam, his arm wrapped around you and your cheek pillowed on his chest.

You were so surprised that you jolted awake, moving back faster than you could think. Neteyam’s eyes flew opened, panic already flashing in them watching you fall off the stone bed. His arm shot up immediately though, catching you mid-fall and pulling you back to him.

“Shit,” he breathed and you frowned at the foreign word. “Eywa, she’s a little disaster.”

Your frown deepened. “I was surprised! I didn’t allow you to hug me!” you pushed him away.

He chuckled, sitting up and gently grabbing your leg, you’d kick his hand away if only it wasn’t your injured foot that he was cradling. “I’ll unwrap it, let’s check how your foot is doing,” he said, his voice still thick with sleep.

You’d retort with something smart but you were distracted with his gravelly deep voice, ended up just watching him unwrap it. There was a vibrant bruise of purple and green, but the swelling was already receding. You tried to rotate it but there was still pain, making you wince.

“Stop straining yourself,” he groaned, fixing you with his best stern look, but when you didn’t hiss or bite back, his finger lifted to boop your nose. “We’ll rewrap your sprain with poultice and I’ll get us some food,“ he said, already moving as if he’s being timed.

Days bled into one another and surprisingly, you were never bored except when you’re alone because he’s out to hunt. One afternoon, he came back with a variety of fruits, some of them you never even knew existed. The sight of them alone excited you, but when he presented a small, intricately woven cord, your attention was snagged immediately. You felt like a kid being presented with many, many gifts. Dangling from it, polished to a dull sheen, were several palulukan teeth.

“This is beautiful,” you said, peering up at him, “I like it.”

He tilted his head, smiling. “It’s yours.” He parted both ends of the woven cords and you leaned forward to offer your neck.

You touched the centerpiece. A fang, much longer and more curved than the others that surround it. Your eyes caught the leaf that cradled more palulukan teeth and your hand reached for it. “Can I have this?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended.

He nodded, his finger brushing the fang sitting on your sternum. “Sure. I have nothing to do with it anyway.”

You raised a brow, a flicker of amusement dancing in your eyes. “How about bringing it back to your clan as proof of your might?” Even among the Mangkwan, felling a palulukan was a feat. Such a kill warranted celebration, proof of a warrior’s prowess.

He blinked, genuinely perplexed. “Why would I need proof?”

You pushed your lips forward. Of course. The warrior who dismantles entire armed outposts with only his bow and arrows required no tangible evidence of his strength. You simply shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips.

Mornings often found you curled against his side, just like your first morning together. In your defense, the chill of the forest is not to be underestimated. Whenever you cuddled closer, he would stir, a low hum in his chest, and without a word, his arm would wrap around you, pulling you deeper into his warmth. A quiet triumph blooms in his chest each time you woke entangled, your body not recoiling, no sharp hiss escaping your lips. One time, you even snuggled closer into him even when you're already awake.

By the fire at night, you spoke of nothing else but your own people. He spoke of his family, his voice soft with affection as he told you stories about his siblings, while you listened, painting mental pictures of what they might look like.

“How old is your brother Lo’ak?” you asked again, thinking you missed a part because he mentioned a little sister around Kekihe's age.

His eyes snapped at you. “He's mated,” he answered.

You frowned. “And? That’s not what I asked,” you rolled you eyes, biting into a juicy fruit.

“He’s a year younger... But mated already,” he said as if he really needed to add that fact. “He beat me to it.” he added smoothly.

You raised a brow, both understanding and not understanding what he’s trying to say. Yes, he is unmated, but you don’t know how that is any of your business.

“You hunt on your own?” he asked, his fingers absently weaving through your hair. The question came after you mentioned your various solo journeys before this one.

“Everyone in my clan must sustain themselves on their own. Most of them hunt only for themselves,” you told him.

He tilted his head. “What of the old and the young? Who feeds them?”

“The young depend on their parents,” you replied. You remembered scrambling for scraps, foraging for berries in the ashen woods an hour’s walk from the village when you were young. No one hunted for you so you learned to hunt young.

“What about orphaned children? Surely, there are some of them, with how frequently adults in your clan die…” His voice held a gentle probe, a curiosity that bordered on concern.

You pushed your lips forward, in awe of how he hit the nail right on the head. When you were young, you couldn't understand the fact that adults could watch you starve and do nothing... And here he is, perhaps years late, thinking about children like you were.

You sighed. “They either get adopted or die… I have one, her name’s Kekihe.” A soft smile touched your lips at the memory of the bright-eyed child.

“You have an adopted child?” he asked, his voice laced with an almost boyish curiosity.

“Not adopted, not really… I live with her and her grandmother, Säyim,” you clarified. They are your family now. Their presence is a balm in your hard existence.

He nodded, a thoughtful expression settling on his face. “And now, you cannot hunt because of your foot,” he mused, a flicker of worry in his eyes. “I will hunt for you. You can’t go home to them with nothing.” He said, determined.

While he’s out hunting every day, you worked on weaving a choker for him. You used your red dye, stringing small, polished beads onto a fine sinew. The palulukan fang, black and sharp, is its centerpiece. The days continued to melt, and with each passing one, your ankle gained strength. A dull ache with every step remained but the sharp pain had receded. One afternoon, after you were finally done with the choker you were creating, you let the pull of the water outside your grotto win you over.

You were on the upstream of the waterfall, surrounded by large rocks before the actual fall and you felt relief that yiu were not tempted to jump over. You shed your top and loincloth, the cool water making you shiver as you submerge yourself further in the icy water. You floated on your back, watching the sky filtered by the canopy above

Neteyam arrived then, a huge yerik slung effortlessly over his shoulder. You maneuvered to stand, the water swirling around your hips, looking up at him. “My foot doesn’t hurt that much anymore,” you told him and you were surprised at how sad you sounded. “The water’s cold and it helps.”

He nodded, his gaze sweeping over you, and you felt a strange triumph when you see the subtle downturn of his lips, mirroring your sadness. He lowered the yerik to the ground, its bulk settling with a soft thud. Your eyes followed him as he walked towards the stream, his movements fluid. He untied his loincloth, the simple act sending a jolt through you. Your breath hitched, watching the fabric fall away, revealing his cock, already hard and thick.

He submerged himself, the water rippling around him, and swam under the surface, emerging a few feet away. A sly smile curved your lips as you moved towards him. His eyes, dark and dangerous, watched your every move. You scooped water onto your hand, casually reaching for his shoulder to wash away the remnants of blood from his hunt. You caressed the scar you’d given him, your fingers tracing the raised skin before leaning in, pressing your lips to it. A deep rumble escaped his chest and you smiled, your own desire mirrors the heat in his eyes as you continued to wash the blood from his arms, appreciating the taut lines of his form.

“Did you wander far? Where did you catch the yerik?” you asked, your voice a low murmur.

His hands found the curve of your waist, settling there, his grip firm. “Not that far. It was alone near the river where I fish,” he answered, his voice a low growl.

You peered up at him, finding his eyes dilated, fixed on your face. “It was huge.” One of your hands drifted down to his abdomen, tracing the hard planes of his muscles, your gaze never leaving his.

You rose onto your tiptoes, and he eagerly lowered his head, meeting your lips. He groaned as your mouths finally met, his hand cupping your jaw, tilting your head back to plunder your lips, demanding and possessive. Your hands caressed up, hooking your forearms around his nape. One of his hands slid up, kneading your breast, as his lips traced a path down your jaw, along your neck, and onto your shoulder. You cradled his head, your own head thrown back as he kissed your scarification bumps reverently.

His other hand scooped you by the ass and you wrapped your legs around his waist, your hips instinctively arching. He laid you down on a smooth, moss-covered rock by the stream, the cool stone a contrast to the heat of his body. He loomed over you, kissing your lips again before his mouth trailed down your neck, across your shoulder, over your chest, and finally to your belly, his lips pressing soft kisses to each scarification. You spread your legs wider, a silent invitation as he made his intent clear, he kissed the long scar on your thugh tenderly before his mouth found your pussy.

Your breath hitched and your hips bucked involuntarily, grabbing a handful of his braids, pushing him down further, gaining a deep groan from him. He kissed and licked, a relentless assault on your softness, until you were writhing, stimulated to the brink. He rose then, your body trembling as you weakly watch him, one hand grabbing your breast, squeezing.

He watched you, his eyes dark with raw desire, propping a hand on the rock beside you. He kissed you softly, a tender brush of lips, before pressing his forehead against yours. “Do you want me, my fire?” he asked, his voice low and thick with arousal.

You moaned, a soft sound in his ears. “Yes…”

He pressed a hard kiss against your lips, then gently took your hand, guiding it to his cock. “Put me in you then…”

You whined, a frustrated sound, lifting your head to kiss him, but he pulled back an inch, evading your lips. You groaned, glaring at him as you circled your fingers around his thick cock, the smooth, hot skin making you moan. You spread your thighs wider, lifting your hips slightly, your hand moving up and down his length in a slow caress.

He watched you, biting his lip, a raw, animalistic expression. You breathed shakily, guiding the wide head of his cock into your softness, whining as you move your hips, swallowing him slowly, inch by agonizing inch. He claimed your lips, kissing you deep and hungry, his tongue tangling with yours. Your scream was muffled by his kisses as he plunged the rest of his length into you in one swift, desperate motion, holding your hips in place. You clutched at his shoulders, your fingers digging into his flesh, your other hand leaving angry red scratches on his back. Like the first time, a sharp ache blossomed, but it was quickly overridden by a profound, delicious stretch.

“Hurt?” he asked, his tongue tracing the curve of your lip.

“No. So good…” you mumbled, kissing him again, losing yourself in the sensation.

You made love, there by the stream, and when he carried you back to your grotto, he didn’t let go of you. Later, as you lay tangled on the stone bed, the cool air caressing your heated skin, you felt him kiss your hair, inhaling your scent, a deep, contented sigh rumbling in his chest. You nuzzled deeper into his neck, the scent of him filling your senses.

“I made something for you,” you mumbled, your hand idly caressing his chest.

He kissed your temple. “Yeah?” He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours.

You smiled softly, and his heart lurched, a warmth spreading through his chest as if you were the very source of fire, a true fire priestess. He couldn’t resist, his lips finding yours again. You chuckled, untangling yourself to reach for the choker you’d made.

“I only have red dye with me… so the beads are red,” you said, lifting the choker into the air, a small frown on your face. “Sorry.”

He sat up, his large hands covering yours as he touched the choker. “Do not say sorry,” he said, his voice firm, his eyes reprimanding you. “This is beautiful, baby.” His fingers traced the smooth black fang centerpiece. “Red is beautiful.”

“It is the color of Mangkwan…” you pointed out, as if that alone were reason enough for him to dislike it.

“It is your color,” he corrected, his earnest eyes fixed on yours. He remembered the fierce beauty that had captivated him years ago, the first time he ever saw you in an ambush of a Mangkwan raid. Truthfully, he’d sabotaged the Mangkwan raids that followed that just to see you again. He hadn’t, until months ago, when you’d wounded him, leaving him with a scar that he now wore with pride.

He removed the choker he was already wearing before leaning in toward you. You understood, kneeling to reach behind him to tie the choker around his nape. His hands settled on your waist, and his lips found your chest, pressing a kiss to your scarifications. You sat back on your heels, your fingers touching the beads at his neck.

He stared at you, his eyes soulful. “We will see each other again,” he said, his voice low.

You gave him a haughty look, a playful glint in your eyes. “That sounds more like an order than an entreaty.”

His eyes widened, humor dancing in their depths. “Well, baby, I am not above begging.” He took your hands, his earnest gaze locking with yours. “I beg of you, my fire, say you will see me again and save this warrior from his misery of constantly missing you…” He brought your hand to his chest, pressing it over his beating heart.

A sly smile cut through your lips. You pushed gently against his chest. You’d thought about it countless times in the past days, the desire to see him again, the quiet hope that he would want the same. “You’re being dramatic,” you rolled your eyes. “I will see you.”

He smiled then, a triumphant flash, bringing your hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to your palm. “Always so merciful.”

“Will we see each other here?” you asked, slowly lying back down on the stone bed.

He watched you, his eyes darkening, his hand pressing against your lower abdomen, a slow caress. “I’d go to you, my fire, if you wish.”

You rolled your eyes again. “Sure, if you can make it to Bridgehead,” you smirked, raising your hands above your head, your round breasts offered to his gaze.

His eyes darted down, his hand travelling up, covering one of your breasts, massaging gently. “Is that a challenge, baby?” he asked cockily.

You turned serious, the playful facade dropping. “Don’t even try, Sully. You would never step in a place where every single person wants your head.” Your teeth gritted, the warning sharp.

He tilted his head, a thoughtful hum escaping him. “Someone doesn’t want me to die,” he mused, pinching your nipple, a jolt of pleasure making you moan.

You kicked him lightly with your uninjured foot. “You just said you want to meet me again. What else will we do but fuck? Who will fuck me if you’re dead?”

He laughed then, a boisterous, manly sound that filled the grotto. His smile, deceptively handsome and lopsided, held a glint of mischief as he looked at you. “Only I get to make you feel like this, baby. Only me.” His hand clamped around your inner thigh, spreading your legs apart.

You raised a brow, watching him rise onto his knees, positioning himself between your spread legs. He lowered himself, his mouth claiming yours in a hard, demanding kiss. You closed your eyes, your arms wrapping around his nape, pulling him down to you.

Having to leave that little pocket of forest you two carved out as your own held a surprising reluctance in you. You felt like you didn’t want to leave, but your foot, though still a little tender when you give it your full weight, was mostly healed. Besides, Säyim is definitely worrying. He watched you with silent intensity as you lathered your skin with ash, then applied the black and red paints to your face and forearm, transforming yourself back into the Mangkwan you are. To an outsider, his devotion would be glaringly obvious. He’s a man completely ensnared. Yet, you still thought him foolish for being here, being with you.

You looked at up at him when he leaned forward, dipping his thumb into your red dye, then, with a careful touch, painted the horizontal line from beneath your nose, down to your lips and chin, as if telling you he knew exactly what your signature face paint looked like. When you’re ready, he helped you tie the yerik he’d caught onto your ikran, adding many fruits and strings of fresh fish with it. One would think you were sent out to get food for a whole village.

“That is a lot,” you said, patting your ikran’s head.

“You can do what you wish with it,” he said, pulling you close by the waist and inhaling your scent, making you feel conscious about the ash but he didn’t seem to care at all. “I want to give you everything you need.”

You peered up at him, your eyes glinting with promise that you’ll return the favor... someway else. Varang, the Mangkwan, and the RDA, they all seemed distant, fading in the background. You had never felt this way before, this intoxicating mix of joy and warmth. You had never truly rebelled, not like this, and for the first time in your life, you wanted to chase this feeling Neteyam ignited within you. For once, you wanted to choose yourself.

You flew back to Bridgehead, your heart still alight with joy, a warmth that had settled deep within. But the warmth quickly dissipated, replaced by a cold dread, when you heard Vakrep’s voice behind you as you were discharging the yerik from your ikran’s back, the heavy carcass thudding to the ground.

“Where were you?” he asked, his voice a low sneer.

You snapped a sharp glance at him, your eyes narrowed. “Hunting. What is it to you?”

His eyes, creepy and always invasive, swept over your body. “You killed a palulukan?” he asked, a curious glint in his gaze as he noticed the necklace around your neck.

“Again, what is it to you?” you retorted, dragging the yerik further, then lifting the strings of fruit.

He stepped forward, closing the distance. “It is my business to know where you are going. One day, Varang will give you to me,” he said, his fangs on display, a predatory smile stretching his lips. “So you better watch your actions… and keep yourself untainted. For me.”

You winced, a visceral wave of disgust washing over you. You hissed, a low, guttural sound. “I would kill you before that happens.”

He snickered, a harsh, grating sound. “I’d like to see you try, but you have no choice. You know that. You are a strong warrior, as am I… Varang will ensure the future of the Mangkwan through us.”

You gritted your teeth, watching him turn and retreat.

Meanwhile, at the Omatikaya hometree, Neteyam was enveloped in his mother’s embrace. He had been gone for weeks, but her initial worry, softened into relief as she scanned his uninjured form. Her eyes, however, caught on the choker at his neck.

“Palulukan… you killed a palulukan?” A smile of fierce pride broke across her face. “Where?”

“Western rainforest… it chased me,” he said, a flicker of a smile playing on his lips, and for a moment, Neytiri was reminded of the boy he once was.

“Red beads? Beautiful… It is a strong color,” she mused, her fingers tracing the beads. “It suits you, son.”

Neteyam looked at his mother, his eyes alight with an emotion that surprised even Neytiri. “Does it?” he asked, his voice soft, almost vulnerable.

She chuckled, her hand reaching up to rest on his head, a gesture of affection despite his towering height. “It does.”

The happiness radiating from him, a palpable aura, did not escape Neytiri. Nor did the sight of his thumb, faintly reddened with dye. She watched her son move through the winding ramps of Hometree, a lightness in his steps, as though he floated on air, buoyed by an invisible joy.

The forest, just as it stood witness to thousands of Neteyam’s ancestors, seems to hold the secret of your clandestine meetings, too; hearing the sounds of shared laughter that mingles with the whisper of the waterfall, saw how the mask of the perfect son slips from Neteyam’s face, replaced by vulnerability he only ever allowed you to see. It was a stark contrast to the one he shows when you two were in a spar though. He is a competent fighter and you’ve known that in the two times you faced him in a ground combat, but you had a hunch that he’s holding back which you take as insult.

“Mawey, baby. This is just a game,” he said, sidestepping you, his hand catching your wrist with ease.

“Scared?” you shot back, twisting out of his grip, a kick sent at his side, but he blocked it, a surprised grunt escaping him.

“Fuck, you kick like a direhorse,“ he said, chuckling as he flicked his hand to shake off the faint pain that blocking your kick brought. You circled him, eyes narrowed, a predatory glint in their depths. “Respectfully.” he added with a boyish smile.

You raised a brow. “Don’t hold back on me, Sully,” you said, smirking.

He tilted his head and you could tell he’s accepted your challenge because you felt the full force of his strength. He was faster, stronger, and his reach longer but you were able to find gaps. You were smaller, sure, but you were more agile and ferocious, your skills honed by countless unrestrained fights.

“You fight as if you want to kill me,” he said after the spar, pinning you against a tree, his chest heaving, a sheen of sweat on it. Your own chest rose and fell rapidly, your eyes locked with his as your lips curved into a smirk. He groaned, cupping your chin and tilting your head up to kiss you hard.

You hummed against his lips, kissing him back. “What if I am?” you mumured against his lips before giving him consecutive pecks.

He laughed, a genuine, booming sound that echoed through the trees, angling his head to kiss you softly. “Will die happily, baby,” he whispered, kissing you again, this time, deeper.

You allowed yourself to melt into his kiss, hooking your arms around his nape at the same time his large hands spanned your waist, both your hearts beating against your ribcages in sync, both seeking release and desiring to tangle around each other, just as you two later were. As your meetings continued and occured as frequently, Neteyam’s absences did not go unnoticed by his clan. In the great communal space of Hometree, the elders and warriors often glanced at the empty place beside Jake Sully. Jake, who had already had a hunch about what Neteyam is doing, remained silent.

The clan had pushed his son to mate, to choose a woman from among them the moment he’d come to adulthood, but Jake had never seen Neteyam show interest in any Omatikaya woman, but these frequent disappearances and slipping back into Hometree late into the night, with that stupid smile on and a lightness in his steps, Jake could only assume.

He shook his head to himself, his lips curling in a private smile. Let the boy find his own path. For this, he often covered for his eldest son, a silent acknowledgement of how Neteyam, who had carried most of the clan’s burdens against their enemies for years, deserves this, more than ever.

“I sent him on patrol,” Jake would state, his voice carrying an authority no one dared question.

One night, Neteyam returned late from a meeting with you, having been away for over a day. He stepped into the Hometree just as the council meeting was concluding.

“You are not in attendance again!” Neytiri’s voice was sharp with concern and annoyance as she reprimanded her son. Her eyes held a steely glint. “Your father covered for you, but this cannot continue.”

Neteyam stood straighter. He had just parted ways with you, your scent still lingering on his skin, the memory of your laugh a warm ember in his chest. His head bowed a little, offering no argument. “My apologies, Mother. It will not happen again.”

“You are late for the council meeting! Late for your duties! What is so important that it pulls you from your responsibilities?” she continued and Jake could almost imagine her breathing fire.

Neteyam’s head remained bowed and Jake knew his son won’t talk back, unless he’s in a position that allows him to defend himself. Jake, taking initiative, put both his hands on his mate’s shoulders, gently pulling her back.

“Mawey, baby, mawey. Give the boy some slack, he’s always working hard,” he nod his head toward his son before pressing on Neytiri’s shoulders. “He is still just a young man.”

Neytiri’s shoulders slumped, realizing that Jake is saying nothing but the truth. No one works harder than Neteyam, and it made her feel guily that she’s expecting so much from him. “I’m sorry, son. You may go and rest now.” she said, reaching up to put a palm over her son’s head.

Neteyam nodded, excusing himself to both of them and walking away. Jake watched his son, seeing the faint smile that touched his lips. The heavy burden Neteyam carried for this clan seemed to lift from his shoulders when he returned from these secret rendezvous. Jake once again smiled to himself, a silent understanding passing between father and son.

You dodged Neteyam’s weapon, spinning as you bring your own twin-bladed staff around in a wide arc. He blocked, his blade thudding against yours. You pressed the advantage, sending a flurry of strikes, each aimed at each opening you can see. He parried, his brow furrowed in concentration, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“Too slow, Sully,” you hissed, feinting left, then dropping low, sweeping your staff at his legs. He hopped, a grunt escaping him, but you were already up, disarming him with a swift flick of your wrist. His knife fell to the ground. You pressed the tip of your own to his throat.

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. “Always a cheat, my fire.” He didn’t move, eyes glinting with admiration.

“Always a fool for falling for it,” you countered, pulling your staff back. You offered him his weapon.

He took it, his fingers brushing yours, his fingers lingering. “You make it too easy to be a fool.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’m starting to think I only managed to wound you because you allowed me.”

A smirk appeared on his handsome face. “I didn’t, but I was definitely distracted.”

You explored the forest, with him pointing out plants, describing their properties, their uses in medicine or sustenance, and you find it funny that he knows so much.

“This one, its sap can soothe burns,” he explained, his finger tracing the broad petal of a healing rose. “And this, its berries, when crushed, make a potent pain reliever.”

“Are you sure you’re not your people’s tsakarem?” you asked, chuckling.

He grinned. “My grandmother knows a lot about healing. Healers, under her supervision, teach the kids the basics. Just in case a situation calls for it,” he said.

You tilted your head, remembering what an expert he was at tending to your injured ankle, seemingly knowing exactly what to do. You smiled, thinking of a people making it a norm to teach the children how to care for one another.

You held his weapon, examining its weight and its design. You’ve never seen a weapon like it before. The handle was beautiful, fashioned after the sloping head of a direhorse. You adjusted your grip around it, remembering how he held it in a perpendicular angle, his hand fisting around the hilt. A short, pointed blade jut forward, it’s the blade he used to puncture that sky person’s metal suit by delivering punches.

On the other side, a longer blade extended down, covering your forearm. This is what he used to wound your fellow Mangkwan with a twist of his hand, slashing at the chest. It has dual blades, customized especially for him, and extremely deadly. “This is a beautiful weapon,” you commented.

He smirked. “It was my Uncle Tsu’tey’s. He was the Olo’eyktan before my father... He fought with my parents in the battle of the Ayram Alusing.”

You smiled at the thought. Every battle he’s fighting is guided with the weapon of an Olo’eyktan and warrior who fought for their people. You wondered about your parents. Mangkwan warriors like yourself... who both died before you could even remember them.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

You leaned against a tree, your top askewed and your breathing ragged as streaks of white marred your vision from the mind-blowing orgasm he just gave you. You felt his mouth on one of your nipples and your fingers tightened around his cock. “Shit...”

He chuckled at the word you used, sending delicious vibrations on your breast as he sucked on it, his fingers caressing your still-sensitive pussy. Your hand trembled as it continued moving up and down his length and when his lips traced up, you lowered your head to catch his lips and kissed him. You can feel him smiling against your kiss and you reared your head back to look at him.

You bit your lip before dipping your head to press an open-mouthed kiss on his neck, gaining a breathy chuckle from him. A renewed flame burned within you as your lips traced a path down his chest and to his abdomen, your hand still pumping his cock. You peered up at him, meeting his eyes as your lips hovered near his hard length. He raised a brow, his eyes dilated and hot on you.

“I want to kiss you here...“ you whispered and you felt him physically tremble as his hand grabbed you shoulder firmly.

Many moons unfolded this way. The days you met were punctuated by him teaching you how to hunt better in the forest, by both of you challenging and pushing at each othe’s limits in combat, and by that one activity inside your grotto that you unanimously decided was best for leaving the two of you breathless. It was clear to him where this is going, he knew the odds he needed to beat to get there, and his body was already vibrating with energy when he thinks about what he is capable of doing, for you.

You, on the other hand, found yourself more and more learned about the nuances of his smile, the way his eyes crinkled when genuinely happy or amused. Unaware, you mirror his gestures—a hand on his arm, a soft brush of your shoulder against his, and your fingers always finding his skin. The sound of his laughter seemed to have carved itself in your heart, reminding you of warmth when you’re back at the concrete and metallic labyrinth that was Bridgehead where a different kind of tension has settled over your people.

The children had been sick. It doesn’t take one to be so smart to conclude that the nearest river that had been the Mangkwan’s source of water had been polluted with the RDA’s hazards. The last time you went there to collect water, you observed its waters shimmering with an unnatural sheen. You are still Varang’s unofficial tsakarem, having been taught about the various toxins and hallucinogens, but the very little you know about actual healing, you learned from Neteyam.

He knows the basic benefits of each flora you see in the forest and he’s helped you gather herbs for the sick when you told him what has been going on. If only the situation wasn’t so dire, you would find it comical how quickly he acted when you asked, as if it wasn’t in his mind that it was the Mangkwan you were talking about.

You moved between the sick in a makeshift infirmary made of whatever fabrics the Mangkwan has gotten from previous raidings. The children, usually so vibrant, lay listless with eyes glazed and breaths shallow.

“His fever burns all day long,” a mother pleaded, her child writhing on a mat.

You pressed a cool, damp cloth to the child’s forehead, offering a sip of boiled water mixed with crushed bark. “Keep him warm. He needs rest.” You showed her how to mix the herbs, how to make the poultice. You taught the other women, too, their faces grim at first but then began to help, their hands clumsy but willing.

The river, Varang had declared, was merely a form of cleansing when she graced the makeshift infirmary with her presence. “No, this is not natural. The river is contaminated, Olo’eykte—”

“It is weakness,” she told you, her head snapping at the growing number of sick wth disdain. “Here... Only the strong survive.”

“They are children, Olo’eykte. Some are women. They are the future of our clan—“

“I do not wish for the future of this clan to be on the shoulders of children who fall sick over river water,” she said. “My people have endured worst.“

You kept your mouth clamped then, nodding, knowing that you cannot change her mind. She saw the plague not as a threat, but as a culling, a way to purge the clan of its lesser members. But you saw the fear in the eyes of the mothers, the desperation of the fathers, in the children’s small bodies being wracked with sickness.

Each of your hunt became even more desperate. You distributed food among the sick, among the families whose hunters were too weak to stalk game. But it was never enough. The sickness continued to spread, some children had died and though deep ache tug at your heart at the sound of their mothers wailing, you stayed behind to offer whatever comfort you could give.

You were walking with the bowl of fresh herbs you gathered in the nearest forest when you saw young raiders running to the roost. You grabbed one by the arm and saw him visibly catch his breath. “Are you raiding?“

“Vakrep is leading us to Zeswa. Said we need their medicine—”

“You are raiding the Zeswa?“ you asked in a hard tone, and when he nodded, you let go of his arm and rushed to the infirmary.

You set the bowl down and quickly instructed the women on what to do before making your own way to the roost. You felt ashamed at what you’re feeling, the urgency to stop them from doing what you have done, and even led, for years. Were you as beyond saving as Vakrep? Have you done so much evil already that it voids your right to call out the wrongdoing of your own people?

You launched your ikran into the sky, the wind whipping at your face as you flew over quickly changjng landscape until you reached the clouded forest, seeing the Mangkwan raid party right away despite the thick fog. You dove without thinking, intending to intercept and to reason.

But then there were others there, too. Omatikaya warriors had gotten here faster than you did. You jumped off your ikran before it even fully landed on the ground but an arrow flew, and you felt a searing pain in your calf, a gasp tearing from your throat. You staggered, almost landing hard on the nearest tree, the breath knocked from your lungs.

“No!” a familiar voice bellowed. Neteyam.

A dark shape moved over you. Not Neteyam, but Vakrep, scooping you up in his arms, pulling you away from the chaos.

“My leg!” you hissed, struggling against him, but the pain flared.

You heard the clash of weapons fading behind you as he carried you to where the ikran are waiting, slumping you on the back of his ikran before launching into the sky. Back in Bridgehead, the outrage simmered. Warriors, their faces grim, gathered before Varang’s yurt. Their families, gaunt and trembling, stood behind them.

“Our children are dying, Olo’eykte!” a warrior cried, his voice raw with grief. “The sky people poison our waters! What will we do? What will you do?”

Varang emerged, her eyes already cold. “You whine like pups. This is much like the fire that burned our people years ago... Nothing can stop it, but only the strong endure.”

“The strong die in their sleep from fever!” another shouted. “Their bodies swell! This is not like the fire that burned our people, this is the sky people’s poison!”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Weakness. Your bodies are simply not fit for this land. It is your own failings, and if this weakness among you continues, I will have to deal with all of you.”

A collective silence. The warriors exchanged glances. The respect, once absolute is now flattering, replaced by resentment. You watched from the edge of the crowd, your bandaged leg aching. This was not the Varang you had known, the fierce leader who commanded loyalty. This was a tyrant, blinded by her own twisted belief.

A day later, you walked toward your grotto despite the ache in your leg. Your pride simply cannot take the limping. Neteyam was already there, restless as he paced the clearing, but the moment his eyes landed on you, he ran, pulling you into a crushing embrace. His breath hitched against your hair, ragged.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry, baby,” his voice thick with stress, with anger. He lowered himself, his large hand gently touching the wrapped wound on your leg.

“Do not worry,” you murmured, squeezing his arm and pulling him up. “That was just a near-miss. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

He rose, his eyes blazing, a raw anguish on his face. “Stop saying that.” His voice was a low growl. “Stop saying you can handle everything, especially when I’m here. I’m here for you. You should have told me what you needed, what your people needed, and I would have handled it.”

You smirked, but it was a genuine curve of your lips. You cupped his jaw, your thumb tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone, then rose on your toes to kiss him softly. “I know,” you murmured against his lips. “I know.”

He leaned into your touch, his eyes closing for a moment, then opening to devour you. His hand found the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. He lifted you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, and carried you into the grotto, laying you gently on the soft stone bed.

He moved over you, his body a familiar weight, a comforting pressure. His lips found yours, a deep, hungry kiss that stole your breath, erasing the pain, the anger, the fear. You surrendered, as you always did with him, your body yielding to his, trusting him implicitly. He stripped away your loincloth, his eyes dark with desire, tracing the lines of your body with reverent hands. His mouth followed, a trail of fire from your lips, down your neck, across your shoulders, lingering on the scarifications etched into your skin. You arched into him, your hips rising to meet his, a low moan escaping your throat.

His fingers danced between your thighs, teasing, swirling, until you were slick and ready, your core aching for him. He entered you slowly, a deep, satisfying stretch that made you gasp, then moan as you wrapped around him, pulling him deeper still. He moved, driving into you, his hips pounding against yours, and you met him, thrust for thrust. You felt his control slipping, and you held him tighter, meeting his thrusts until he cried out your name, his body shuddering against yours as he spilled himself into you.

You lay tangled, the warmth of his body a shield against the cool air of the grotto. Your fingers traced the lines of his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

“What causes the sickness?” he asked, his voice a low rumble against your hair.

You sighed, your suppressed anger bubbling to the surface. “The sky people. Their waste poisons our waters.” You paused, then continued, the words tumbling out, raw and bitter. “Varang won't believe us. She calls it weakness. She says they are a drain, that they will only drag the clan down.” Your voice cracked, a tremor running through you. “She has dictated my life. My whole life. She sent me to my death, sending me to you.”

He pulled you closer, his lips pressing against your forehead. “I couldn’t have killed you, baby.”

“You were so stupid,” you whispered, a soft laugh escaping you. “If it had been a different Mangkwan, you would have been dead.”

“If it had been a different Mangkwan, I wouldn’t have been there with her,” he said, his voice firm. “I wouldn’t even come up to her.”

“You say that now...”

“I’m saying it because it is the truth. I told you I know you, didn’t I? It was an easy conquer because I have wanted you for so long.” he said, his voice raw.

You stifled a smile, propping yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him. “Is that what happens when anyone wounds you? Then I am the only one allowed to wound you.” Your eyes darkened, a possessive glint in them.

“It wasn’t because you wounded me,” he said, his voice a little resigned. “It was… years ago.”

Your forehead furrowed. “That was a long time ago.”

“Yeah.” He croaked, as if he’s accepting the fact that he’s been devoted for years, even without any assurance. And then he remembered... “Who was that man? The one who… carried you away?”

You blinked, confused for a moment. “Vakrep.”

“Who is he to you?” he asked, his voice tight.

“He is a nuisance,” you said in a biting tone.

“He likes you.”

A wave of disgust washed over you. “He does not. He is fucked in the head, as you say. He doesn’t like. He thinks he owns everyone.”

“And does he think he owns you?”

Your eyes darkened further. “I don’t care what he thinks. Do not worry yourself about him.” You pressed your palm against his chest, a silent reassurance. “I am here with you, Neteyam.”

He caught your hand, holding it, bringing your fingers to his lips, kissing them softly. His eyes searched yours, and your heart ache when you saw the silent question and desperate plea for something in them.

At Bridgehead, the whispers grew louder. The Mangkwan, once united under Varang’s cruel rule, now questioned. You sat beside Kiren’s child, applying a fresh poultice to his swollen glands. Kiren, a seasoned warrior, sat beside you, his face etched with worry.

“Our people sicken,” Kiren said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Varang turns her back, just as Eywa had. She sees only weakness.” He looked at you, his eyes holding a fierce, desperate hope. “You heal them. You hunt for them. Many warriors… they follow you. Would you lead us, warrior? Against her?”

You looked at the child, then at Kiren. A new life. A better life for Kekihe, for Säyim, for all of them. The thought sparked, a tiny flame in the darkness. “I... I will think on it,” you said, your voice trembling. “I will get back to you.”

But you never got the chance.

The next morning, a guttural scream, filled with horror, tore through the camp. You ran outside, your heart seizing in your chest. Kiren. His body, mangled, twisted, tied to a post. As they would an animal regularly tortured during rituals. His face, frozen in terror.

Your people’s faces were impassive, blank masks. None showed what they truly felt, save for Kiren’s mate, who knelt in front of his body, her wails tearing through air. Some, you noticed with a sickening lurch, even celebrated, their smiles cruel. Across from you, Vakrep stood, a smug smile on his face. He bowed his head, his eyes meeting yours, as if he knows that you know why Kiren is dead.

A hush fell over the crowd and you saw Varang, strutting into the circle, her head held high. Her eyes, predatory and sickeningly filled with pleasure, swept over Kiren’s broken form.

“Let Kiren serve as a cautionary tale among you, my beloved people.” Her voice was gentle, silken with lie, yet her smile was evil. “Do any of you know what he did to deserve this?” She paused, letting the silence stretch. “He was treasonous. He was planning to oust me. Would you like that? Would you like the leader that rose above Eywa’s misdeeds against us and built this clan from the ashes it was reduced to, to be cast out?”

The crowd shook their heads, the face of subservience. No one was brave enough to challenge her, not now, not after this.

“I thought so, too.” Her smile widened, a cold, sharp thing. Her head swept across the crowd, her gaze lingering, searching. Then her eyes found yours. A sudden sharp dread washed over you. She smiled. And you know it was not a good thing at all.

By midday, the children Kekihe often played with ran toward the makeshift infirmary, their small voices shrill with panic. “Varang took Kekihe!”

Fear, raw and primal, seized you again. You ran, despite your still healing leg, toward Varang’s yurt, but you were stopped by Säyim, her face streaked with blood, her worldless cries tearing at your heart. You pulled her into a desperate embrace, but she was signing frantically, a whirlwind of frantic gestures you couldn’t fully understand. You saw Vakrep behind her, his smile sick and smug.

You unsheathed your knife and walked toward him. Säyim held you back, her grip surprisingly strong, her eyes wide with terror as she continued to sign, her body trembling. “What did you do to her?!” you screamed at Vakrep, your knife held tightly, ready to strike.

“Varang’s orders,” he said, his voice smooth, unconcerned. “I told you, yerik. The day would come. I was counting.” He smirked.

You gritted your teeth, a growl rumbling in your chest, and lunged. But before you reached him, warriors, much stronger and bigger, held you back. You thrashed, your rage roaring within you. Vakrep turned his head to an emerging figure, silently ordering his warriors to let go of you when he saw Varang. The warriors pushed you toward Varang, and when you saw her serene face, your anger flared anew.

“We must come to an agreement, daughter,” she said, her voice soft, smiling. She turned her back, entering her yurt.

You followed, your breath heavy, expecting to see Kekihe, but the yurt was empty. “Where is Kekihe?” You hissed.

“She is somewhere… safe.” Varang smiled, achillingly calm expression, not minding your tone. “She will train under me. Just as you had, daughter.” Her meaning was clear.

“Do not hurt her,” you begged, your voice breaking, a desperate plea. You remembered the pain of your own childhood, the brutal training, the constant fear, the torture. Kekihe could not go through that. You refused to let it happen.

“Of course,” Varang said, her face twisting into a pretense of worry. “I would never. But of course, this is all on you, sweetling. If you are good to me, I am good to her. Do you understand?”

You took a sharp breath, your chest tight with dread. You nodded.

“You will mate Vakrep.” She threw the curveball, and you felt like a knife was twisted in your gut. “You agree?” Your eyes snapped to hers, disagreement blazing in them. She saw it, her smile faltering for a moment. “Säyim and Kekihe… I see you care for them deeply.” Her fingers, played with your kuru, a subtle threat as she repeated, “You agree?”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “I… I will think about it—”

She tugged, a sharp pull on your kuru. “Do. You. Agree?”

You took in another sharp breath, the air burning in your lungs. “Yes,” you breathed out, tasting ash in your mouth.

She grinned, an uncanny sight. “Just as I thought you would.” She nodded, dismissing you.

You slipped out of Bridgehead the next day, a ghost in the pre-dawn gloom. The forest, once a sanctuary, now felt like a trap. You wanted to run, to flee this place, this fate. But Säyim and Kekihe were constantly on your mind. They depended on you. What would Varang do if you didn’t come back? Besides, you and Neteyam… it wasn’t like that. You couldn’t burden him with your woes, your twisted life. He deserved someone free, someone who wasn’t the enemy of his people. Perhaps, who you were better off with, was Vakrep. Someone who had done things as unimaginable as you had done.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The fire cracked in the grotto, its flame mirroring the tremor in your hand as you traced the cracks of his chest. The words clawed at your throat and every breath tasted like ash, watching him with his eyes closed, a ghost of a smile lingering on his lips, both sated and sleepy. It made your coming betrayal feel like a physical blow against your chest.

“We need to stop this.” You whispered.

His eyes, though heavy with sleepiness, snapped open. A frown touched his brow. “What?”

“This. Us.” You gestured vaguely between your bodies, still entwined. “It has to end.”

He pushed himself up fully, sitting upright, the glow of the bioluminescent moss in the grotto allowed you to see his raw, vulnerable look. “Why?”

You sat up, too. “Things always end, Neteyam.” You wrapped your arms around your naked from, creating a wall between you. “Nothing lasts.”

He reached for you, his hand warm against your bare shoulder. “This doesn’t. Not us.” His voice was low, edged with a tremor of its own. “Where is this this coming from?”

You flinched away from his touch. “Neteyam, this isn't serious. You know that, don’t you? We are two young people who find pleasure in each other’s company. There are no strings. That’s all we are.”

He snatched his hand back as if burned. His jaw tightened. “Bullshit,” he said in a growl. “What if I want to be tethered to you? What if I want to be your mate?”

You laughed, a harsh, brittle sound that cracked in the quiet. “Then you are stupid.” Your voice rose, losing its calm. “I am Mangkwan, Neteyam. I am your people’s enemy. How many times must I remind you?”

“I do not care about any of that.” He grabbed your hand, his eyes burning into yours. “I never cared. Not about your clan. Not about your name. Only you.”

An exasperated sigh hissed between your teeth. “Do not make this hard, Neteyam.” Your voice broke, a plea escaping. “You will forget me, trust. This will be a distant memory in the future and yu’ll thank yourself for not taking this seriously.”

He cut you off with an anguished groan, a sound ripped from deep within him. “If I could forget you, I would have done it years ago!” His voice cracked, raw with emotion. “Baby, I am in love with you...”

Tears, hot and sudden, pooled in your eyes at his tone. You loved him. A love so fierce it threatened to consume you. But this was a love you could not allow. You were poison. You would burn him to ash.

“I am to mate Vakrep.” The words echoed in the small space.

His head reared back, as if you had struck him, clawed his face. The fire in his eyes died, replaced by a chilling void. “You can’t possibly do that.” The word was barely audible.

“It is not my choice.” Your voice was thin. “Varang… she decides.” The name was a curse.

“She cannot keep decidinh your life for you!” He gripped your arms, his touch firm. “You must fight. I will fight with you.”

You shook your head, the tears finally spilling down your cheeks. “I cannot. And you must not.” Your breath hitched. “She will hurt Säyim and Kekihe. She has Kekihe now. We haven’t seen her for days.” Your voice rose, a desperate cry. “Neteyam, I know she will hurt her. She’s hurting her. She did it to me when I was small. She hurt me.” Your breathing grew ragged, quick, panicked gasps.

Neteyam watched your face crumple in pain, and then fear, your glassy eyes seem to see nothing but the horror of your childhood flashing before them. His face mirrored the anguish in yours, pulling you into his arms, a tight embrace that stole your breath. Your head burrowed into his shoulder, tears soaking his skin.

“I cannot allow her to hurt Kekihe. This is the only way.”

His hand tangled in your hair, stroking your head. “This isn’t the only way, my love.” His voice was a low rumble against your ear.

You shook your head slowly, a desperate denial. “I am not for you, Neteyam. I am the fire that will burn you to ashes if you don’t let go...”

He tilted his head back, pulling you away just enough to look into your eyes. His gaze was soulful, filled with an unwavering devotion that broke your heart further. “I will burn happily, baby.”

You hugged him then, tighter than you had ever embraced anyone. You clung to him, desperate to stop him from slipping away, to prevent the best thing that had ever happened to you from fleeting, leaving you alone in your dark world. Leaving the rendezvous place, the sacred space that had witnessed moons of your life with Neteyam, was the hardest thing you had ever done.

And now, a different fire crackled before you, its flames mocking your despair. You stared into it, your tears falling, unheard, and swallowed by what you must do. Tonight, you were to mate Vakrep. Tonight, you will lose whatever freedom you thought you have. You wished the fire would consume you, turn you to ash before you could endure such a fate.

Säyim sat beside you, her anguish palpable. Her eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, mirrored your own. The female attendants, their faces impassive, finished arranging your headdress, an elaborate cage of red and sharp fibers.

Säyim tugged at your hand when they left, her touch insistent. Her hands began to sign. You watched her, a knot forming in your gut.

“Kekihe?” you asked, a desperate hope in your voice. She nodded eagerly, her hands moving again, a frantic dance. “I know, Säyim,” you said, squeezing her hands. “That’s why I’m doing this. I will not let Varang hurt her.”

She shook her head, a violent motion, and pointed at you, her signing more urgent now.

“No, she will not be like me.” You tried to reassure her, your voice thick. “I promise you. Varang will not kill me. I will fight. My priority is to protect you and Kekihe, always.”

She shook her head again, frustration twisting her features. Her hands flew, pointing at you, then at herself, then making the sign for death. You watched her, a chill creeping up your spine. You’d seen the sign for death before, but the context…

“My parents?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. She nodded, tears pooling in her eyes, before making the sign again, insistent. You felt a her fear. “No, Säyim, I will not be like my parents. And Kekihe will not be like me. I will protect her. I promised you.”

She shook her head again, her face contorted in a silent scream. She signed once more, her movements sharp, desperate. You watched carefully, your head tilting as the meaning slowly, chillingly, solidified. When she finished, she stared at you, her eyes pleading, willing you to understand.

You blinked, the world momentarily blurring. “My parents were killed?” She nodded eagerly, her hands signing, a torrent of unspoken words. “Varang?”

She nodded, tears streaming down her face, then she opened her mouth, revealing the raw, jagged scar where her tongue had once been. Your face twisted in horror. The realization and the sheer, brutal truth of it all struck you like a physical blow. You pulled her into a fierce hug, her frail body trembling against yours.

Anger, cold and swift, enveloped you, making you grit your teeth. It surged through your veins, eclipsing all else. You stood, a sudden, fierce resolve hardening your features. You walked to the corner of the yurt, grabbing your double-bladed staff from where it hung against the woven wall. Säyim watched you, fear widening her eyes, but she did not stop you. Not this time.

You burst from the yurt, intent on finding Varang, on tearing her apart. But then, a deafening explosion ripped through the air, shaking the ground beneath your feet. It came from the RDA’s industrial site. You staggered, your fury momentarily forgotten, replaced by alarm. Screams, distant and terrified, echoed. Fire bloomed from the other side of Bridgehead, a hungry orange maw. You were watching in shock when another explosion, closer this time, erupted. You looked up, your eyes scanning the smoke-choked sky. A lone ikran was soaring above the flames.

“Sully’s boy! Sully’s boy!” You heard the shrill of panic from sky peoplw. You saw them, small figures, scrambling, dispatching soldiers on the ground.

Neteyam.

From where you stood, away from the quickly growing fire, your heart drummed hard against your chest as you watched him nock another arrow in a swift, practiced motion. It flew, striking a huge RDA tank, making it erupt in a huge flame, an explosion that rocked the ground. Then, the ikran, with its defiant rider, banked sharply and flew away.

A hand clamped on your forearm. You spun, your eyes locking with Taw’tan, one of the Mangkwan warriors who had shown discontent with Varang’s rule. His face was grim, his eyes wide with urgency.

He tugged at your arm. “Let’s go! Get Säyim!”

Your eyes widened, a breath of horror escaping your lips. Another explosion sent a shower of sparks into the night. The RDA was panicking, soldiers running on foot, fighter jets screaming into the sky.

“No.” You shook your head, pulling your arm free. “You get Säyim! Get her to safety! Get everyone who will come with you to safety.” You met his gaze, your voice firm, absolute. “Kekihe. I will find her.”

He tugged at your forearm again, his grip tight. “We got her. Come with us now!”

You looked at him, surprised. Kekihe was safe? A wave of relief, potent and dizzying, washed over you. But there was no time for questions. Another young warrior, his face streaked with ash, emerged from your yurt, half-carrying Säyim, who was signing frantically, her eyes wide with terror.

“Get them to safety, Taw’tan.” You ordered, your voice sharp, authoritative.

You didn’t wait for his answer. You ran back into your yurt, grabbing your longbow and quiver of arrows. Your divided staff slung across your back. You burst out again, running toward where your ikran waited, agitated by the explosions.

You called to your ikran, a piercing whistle that cut through the din. It flew toward you immediately, a magnificent shadow. You jumped onto its back, making tsaheylu before you beckoned it upward.

The ikran launched into the air, its powerful wings beating against the smoke that managed to hide Neteyam from the sight of RDA pilots. You nocked an arrow, aiming for the closest fighter jet, a monstrous metal bird firing at Neteyam. The arrow flew, finding its mark in its open underbelly. It shuddered, black smoke erupting from its side, then plummeted, ensuring an explosion.

You saw Neteyam then, nocking another arrow toward an industrial site. A fighter jet, its engines roaring, pursued him relentlessly. You nocked another arrow sending it toward the jet. It struck one of its rotors, causing it to spiral into an explosive death. Several Mangkwan warriors on their ikran flew then, too. For a terrifying moment, you thought they were after you. But then, they swooped, targeting RDA tanks. They were on your side.

“Neteyam!” You bellowed, your voice carrying across the wind. You flew closer, noting the ash and red dye streaking his skin, just like yours. You motioned your head toward the dense canopies of the forest below. To cover. To ground.

You flew there, reaching the intricate labyrinth of trees in record time. But a hoard of Mangkwan warriors, their war cries echoing, immediately followed. You and Neteyam dove, flying under the thick canopies, knowing you wouldn’t be able to fight the overwhelming numbers overhead.

“What were you thinking?!” You shouted at him, the wind whipping your words away. You weaved through the giant branches and twisting vines, the forest a blur of green.

Mangkwan warriors, their ikrans screaming, followed, their arrows slicing through the air, forcing you to duck and swerve. Then, you heard another set of war cries, different this time.

“Omatikaya!” Neteyam shouted, his ikran surging, attempting to fly upwards, to meet his kin.

You flew upward, too, but then you heard it. Vakrep’s sick, smug voice, calling your name. Instead of following Neteyam, you maneuvered your ikran, pulling it down, choosing to face him. But Neteyam, seeing your choice, also maneuvered his ikran, circling back down, placing himself between you and Vakrep.

Vakrep’s eyes, filled with a predatory gleam, landed on Neteyam. Surprise, a fleeting flicker, crossed his face. Then rage, when he spotted the choker adorning his neck along with an IFF tag you don’t even know where Neteyam got.

“Neteyam te Suli…” His voice was thick with fury, a guttural snarl. His gaze flicked to you, then back to Neteyam, as if he had just pieced together a grotesque puzzle.

Vakrep lunged on his ikran and Neteyam welcomed his assertion. Their ikran grappled in a swirling dance of fury. But Neteyam managed to unseat Vakrep, pulling him down to the forest floor. Neteyam was taller and bigger in built, his movements stronger. But you knew Vakrep. He was a cheat. Neteyam overpowered him, landing heavy punches on his face. Then, a flash of movement from above alerted you of the coming of a Mangkwan warrior loyal to Vakrep. You saw his arrow aim for Neteyam’s back and you unsheathed your knife, sending it his way, and it flew, burying itself deep in the man’s chest. He crumpled, his longbow falling harmlessly, but the arrow that’s already loosed found its mark in Neteyam’s arm.

He groaned, an animalistic sound of pain and rage. Vakrep found his chance, pushing Neteyam off him and unsheathing his knife to send a blow on Neteyam but you moved, grabbing one of your blades behind you before tackling Vakrep off Neteyam who had just splintered the wood of the arrow lodged in his arm. You held Vakrep by his kuru, wrapping the thick plait around your hand and wrist. Meanwhile, Neteyam was quick to grab a random longbow and arrow, pointing it at Vakrep.

“Put your knife down, Vakrep,” you said, your tone biting. “We will finish this here...”

He put his knife down, spitting blood down at your feet with disdain. “You lay with the enemy, you disgusting whore—”

You kicked the back of his knee, sending him down on his knee, before putting your blade in his throat. “Yes, uncountable times. And it was great,” you snickered, making him thrash against your hold but you tugged at his kuru hard, while Neteyam renewed his hold on the arrow pointed at Vakrep. “Enjoy a warrior’s death.”

You slashed Vakrep’s neck in a clean, brutal cut, hearing him gurgle, a sickening sound, as blood gushed from his throat. You let out a sigh of relief, one that was short-lived because you heard familiar war cries descending from above. You looked at Neteyam, seeing a grimace of pain twisting his features, but he stood straighter, grabbing his weapon at the same time you fixed your blades into a double-bladed staff.

Vakrep, dead at your feet, was the first thing they saw. “Traitor!” One of them said before lunging.

You sifted your hold on the center of your staff, holding it tight before spinning it into a brutal arc to catch the spear of a Mangkwan who charged at you. One of your blades caught the shaft of his spear, knocking it before you spun the other blade to slit at his throat. Before his body even hit the ground, you saw Neteyam moving behind you, dropping low to a avoid a swinging club.

With a sharp thrust of his fist, he delivered a punch-stab to a Mangkwan’s chest, and before pulling the short blade out, he twisted his wrist, ripping his arm outward. The longer blade delivered a sweeping slash to another Mangkwan close to him. It was to your advantage that you know how the Mangkwan fight, some of them even trained under you, and now, when a warrior swung low at Neteyam's legs, you vaulted over the attacker’s crouching form, driving a blade into his shoulder and slicing upward.

Your flank was left exposed, but Neteyam stepped right in, his blade catching the strike meant for your ribs, deflecting it harshly before sinking his weapon into the enemy's side. You moved as one until the Mangkwan warriors fell, one by one, reduced to a heap of corpses.

You stood there, unable to process the carnage, when another hoard of Mangkwan warriors landed. But among them, you saw the familiar faces of those who had sided with you, Taw’tan among them. He eyed Neteyam, his fingers brushing his forehead in polite greeting, something you’ve never seen your people do. He then glanced at Vakrep’s corpse among the heap of Mangkwan corpses before looking at you.

“Säyim and Kekihe are with the women, they are accompanied by Faykir’s crew,“ he told you.

Neteyam beside you spoke for the first time, his voice deep and almost breathless. “Think you can you send a man to their location? I’ll have men get the women and children, take them to safety.”

Taw’tan nodded, turning to Säron. “This is our quickest rider.”

Neteyam nodded, removing an arm band, handing it to Säron. “I’ll send men to the location. Show this to a man named Tormak.”

Säron nodded and walked away, while Neteyam touched something in his neck, speaking to someone in his comms to give his orders. He wasn’t even finish yet when several Mangkwan landed again. You closed your eyes and sighed. When you opened it, you saw Riku, looking at his nephew’s corpse on the ground before his face contorted, a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. Then, Varang appeared, her eyes sweeping over the scene, landing on Neteyam with a chilling curiosity.

“The famed son of Toruk Makto.” Her voice was a silken whisper. She smiled, a predatory curve of her lips, her eyes flicking to you. “You came to take this woman.” She concluded, her gaze settling on you, cold and dissecting. “I wonder what you’ve seen in her. She is weak. She failed her people.”

“I failed no one, Varang.” you spat her name out. “It is you who failed us. Many Mangkwan died because of the RDA, and yet you refused to see. You have been so blinded by ambition and hatred that you’ve lost sight of us! Among us, you are the weak one, refusing to budge and get over a single tragedy, allowing it to control your whole life and dictate what happens to your people!”

She snickered, a rasping sound. “Why would they listen to you? You are a traitor. Just like your parents.” She smiled, a cruel, triumphant twist of her lips.

You watched her, pain piercing your heart. “You killed them.” The words were a whisper.

“Yes, I did.” Her eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction. “They betrayed me. They were traitors who aided the damned Toruk Makto against my orders!”

“And what is the punishment for an Olo’eykte who betrays her people?” You met her gaze, your voice rising, gaining strength. “Who leaves them to themselves in times of great despair?”

She hissed and her warriors nocked their arrows, aiming at you. But then, the Mangkwan who sided with you, their faces grim, raised their bows. Varang’s eyes snapped up when she heard unfamiliar war cries descending from the air. The Omatikaya, among them Jake and Neytiri, landed behind you. The Mangkwan were outnumbered, and she knew it.

“Leave, or this will end here. And it will not be good for you, Varang,” you said her name in a biting tone. “For everything you did to me and my family, I shall be righteous if I tear you apart.”

Varang watched you, her eyes sharp and full of resigned rage. She hissed and you hissed back. It must have taken so much of her pride to turn away, along with her warriors, and the fear that was overpowered by your anger swam to the surface, sending a tremor in your body. You staggered, the adrenaline draining. Neteyam immediately caught you, pulling you into his uninjured arm, his grip firm and comforting.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered, breathless, hugging you.

“Neteyam, thank you. We owe Y/N the lives of our families. And now, we owe it to you, too.” He looked behind him, at the warriors you had helped in the past, their faces etched with gratitude. “If it’s not too much… we’d ask uturu… only until we could stand on our own. If… if you’ll have us.”

Neteyam seemed to look beyond you, his gaze sweeping over the Mangkwan warriors who had chosen to stand with you. He nodded once, his arm reaching out, gripping forearms with Taw’tan. Taw’tan let out an anguished sound, his arm finding your arm, his head bowing. The other Mangkwan warriors, laying down their weapons, knelt on one knee, bowing to your feet. Taw’tan thanked Neteyam, too, his voice thick with emotion and Neteyam told them to stand, his voice firm but kind.

“Neteyam.” A woman’s voice cut through the air. You looked behind you and saw a slightly older woman, her features striking and resembling Neteyam unmistakably.

“Mother.” He said, his voice softening. You moved away, allowing his mother to embrace him. A slightly older man, tall and broad, walked toward them, too, placing a large hand on Neteyam’s head. He had five fingers, much like Quaritch’s, and you remembered him from the convention.

“We all need to go home. You are wounded.” She told him, her eyes tracing the blood on his arm.

Neteyam nodded, his arm still around your waist, his grip firm, leaving no confusion about why this battle had been fought, or who he had fought it for.

Neteyam, despite his wound, made sure to accompany you to where Säyim and Kekihe are when you all arrived at Hometree. You weren’t expecting the Omatikaya to immediately warm up to you and your people, or expect them to accept your presence here, but you were thankful enough that they were not hostile. Save from some curious looks, and some children getting scared, there were really no violent reactions that you know of.

As you two walk, you saw a little girl approach, jumpy on her toes, her short braids flying in the air. “Neteyam!” Her jolly voice sounded, and when her eyes landed on you, you almost expected the girl's smile to falter but it didn’t. “Some of the Mangkwan are sick, so grandmother had them all receive treatment at her tent. Tsanu is setting up a very large tent, he said it’s temporary but it's where they will sleep!”

Neteyam smiled, putting a hand over the girl’s head. “This is Tuk, my little sister,“ he told you.

You smiled. “Hi, Tuk...” you said and her eyes widened a little before she smile shyly.

“Are you Y/N?” she asked curiously and when you nodded, she practically jumped over to your side and held your hand. “I know where your family is!”

She pulled you up a winding ramp, and honestly, you aren’t really that used to climb trees and you almost lost your footing if only Neteyam weren’t able to catch you. Tuk gestured to a small kelku like it was a gift and when you walked inside, you saw Kekihe and Säyim huddled together. You let out a breathe of relief, especially at the sight of Kekihe.

“Oh, Kekihe,” you ran inside, kneeling to hug the girl who hugged you back tightly, her hand clutching at your arm like she's afraid you’ll disappear. Säyim wrapped her around you two and you sobbed in her arms.

“Aww...” you heard Tuk’s small voice behind you.

A deep, unfamiliar wave of relief washed over you as you hugged them both, meanwhile, Nteyam still stands outside the kelku, still unbothered about his wound that his unyielding figure there catching Säyim’s eyes. She signed. Is he your lover? She meant to say and you chuckled, despite your tears. You nodded silently.

“And I love him, Säyim...” you mumbled, your tears falling.

It is a good thing, to love, she signed. He is a good man, I can tell. Her soulful eyes stared in yours, a reassurance.

You smiled and nodded, knowing that already. After talking with her for more, you walked outside, seeing Neteyam standing there. “Neteyam,” you said in a soft voice, your hand grabbing his forearm. “You are wounded, you should have had this treated already.”

“Yes, right now...” he mumbled. “They are okay?” he asked.

You nodded, tears pooling in your eyes again. You feel like crying all day, just cry all the tears you haven’t cried your whole life. “Neteyam. Thank you.”

He raised a hand, cupping your neck and jaw. “We’ll talk about this once I’m treated,” he said and you nodded.

Later, as candles burned inside the Tsahik’s tent, Neytiri stood outside, her gaze fixed on the quiet form of her son inside. Mo’at, her face etched with a calm wisdom, placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

“Are you certain, Mother?” Neytiri’s voice was a low murmur, still watching her son.

Mo’at’s smile was soft, a knowing curve of her lips. “I have dreamed of it for years, daughter. And you have never seen your son as happy as he has been in these past moons. Eywa could never be wrong.” Her grip on Neytiri’s shoulder pressed, a silent reassurance. “Do you worry, daughter?”

Neytiri let out a sigh, the sound heavy with unspoken thoughts. “It’s just… this isn’t what I imagined.”

Mo’at tilted her head, her eyes twinkling. “And you think Jake Sully is who I imagined for you?”

A small, surprised huff of laughter escaped Neytiri. “That is different, Mother.”

“Is it?” Mo’at questioned, her gaze unwavering. Neytiri met her mother’s eyes, a quiet understanding passing between them.

Days bled quickly. You watched your people shed their old lives by washing away the ash and paint, the symbols of their Mangkwan identity, revealing skin that had not seen the sun in years. Säyim, her hands never idle, joined the Omatikaya weavers, meanwhile, Kekihe quickly found a friend in Tuk. The other Mangkwan found their place. Some hunters joined the Omatikaya hunting parties. While those who wished to be warriors will have to go through the Omatikaya iknimaya.

Kiri, her movements graceful, often sought you out. “Lo’ak, my brother, already found his mate,” she told you one afternoon, as Kekihe and Tuk splashed in a shallow stream nearby. “He lives at Awa’atlu, in the eastern sea.”

You nodded, a faint smile touching your lips. Neteyam had already told you about it. He spoke to you of Awa’atlu, of the Metkayina, and their wise tulkuns.

Kiri smiled as she observed Kekihe’s joyous shrieks as Tuk splashed her. “Tuk took to her quickly. She doesn’t have many children her age to play with here. Now, there are many new children. I’m pretty sure her friend Popiti will love Kekihe, too.”

Your gaze lingered on Kekihe, a warmth spreading through your chest. You should feel content, you thought. Your people were safe, cared for. Kekihe was happy. Yet, a restlessness stirred within you. Neteyam was healing, you knew, but why had he not sought you out? Days had passed. Perhaps, the novelty of the forbidden has worn off. You are afraid it was the case.

The Omatikaya also threw a celebratory feast. The air filled with the rich aroma of roasted meat and sweet fruits. You watched, a lump forming in your throat, as your people danced, their faces alight with genuine joy. Tears pricked at your eyes. This was true happiness, a gift you had never truly known.

Kiri appeared beside you, her voice gentle. “Pey’ra told me you were Tsakarem of your former clan.”

You turned to her. “I hardly am. I just did what I needed to do.”

“But you were their healer. You gave them hope when there was none. And they said they are alive because of you.” She offered you a vibrant forest flower, its petals unfurling like a tiny, colorful fan. “I think you ought to prepare yourself for Mo’at. My grandmother. She is Tsahik of Omatikaya. You will have many meetings with her.”

Your brow furrowed slightly. “What for?” you asked softly, the words barely a whisper.

Kiri’s eyes shifted past your shoulder, a faint smile playing on her lips. She didn’t answer, instead melting away into the throng, heading towards where Tuk and Kekihe now giggled, chasing glowing insects.

A sudden stillness enveloped you and your heart began a slow, heavy thud against your ribs. You didn’t need to turn to know because the air around you had shifted, became more charged. You turned, slowly, and saw Neteyam, his arm bandage wrapped neatly. His eyes, dark and intense, were fixed on you. A lump formed in your throat again.

“Hi,” you croaked, your voice thin. “How are you?”

“Fine,” he said, his voice deeper than you remembered, a touch rough. “Wasn’t so bad.”

You nodded, looking away, suddenly finding the intricate patterns of the Hometree floor fascinating. “Good. That’s good to hear.” You bit your lip, fighting the tremor that threatened to overtake it. Why the distance? Why the delay?

“You?” he asked, his voice softer now. “How are you settling in? Säyim and Kekihe?”

You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “Säyim is learning with the weavers. She’s always loved to weave. And Kekihe has found a friend in Tuk.” You glanced at your hands, twisting your fingers together. “My people… some of them are no longer used to a Hometree. Ours was burned by the fire long before some of us were born. But they are learning.”

“That’s great to hear,” he replied.

You looked down at the dancing figures, the vibrant colors blurring. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. You didn’t know what else to say. The awkwardness was a physical weight. The thought, cold and sharp, pierced through you: the novelty has worn off. This is how it ends. After everything.

“I’ll go,” you said, your voice barely audible. “Check on Säyim.”

“Are you avoiding me?” His voice, sharp and accusatory, stopped you mid-turn.

You snapped your head back, indignation flaring. “Why would I avoid you?” you asked, your eyes almost narrowing at his audacity. He’s the one avoiding you!

“I just got here.” His eyes narrowed.

“Yeah. Well, it’s awkward. I don’t think we have anything more to talk about.” Your voice was tight, strained.

He tilted his head, his expression hardening. Now that you truly looked, you saw not detachment, but a simmering anger in his gaze. “You think so?” he asked, his voice low, dangerous. “I think we have so much to discuss.”

Your nose flared. “Oh. You weren’t really acting like it. You have avoided me for days,” you hissed, the words tumbling out. “And don’t tell me you were healing. You are a man too virile to be knocked down by a single arrow on the arm for days. Just tell me if we should start acting like we don’t know each other.”

He took a step forward, his immense height suddenly towering over you. His hand, surprisingly gentle despite the anger vibrating in his body, closed around your forearm. “I was angry with you, baby. Hell, I still am.” His voice was thick with frustration as he pulled you closer.

“Why? I didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, I should be mad at you. You are very stupid, you could have been killed!” you retorted, your teeth gritted.

A giggle drifted from nearby. You glanced over to see a group of teenagers, eyes wide with curiosity, whispering amongst themselves, their gazes flitting between you and Neteyam. He tightened his grip on your hand, pulling you away from the feast, deeper into the Hometree’s winding ramps, until he found a secluded alcove glowing faintly with hanging firepots. He stopped, then turned to face you.

“Then what do you suggest I do, baby? Stay back and let you mate that scoundrel? You truly don’t believe I’d let that happen, do you? I would rather die—”

“Don’t say that!” you hissed, your shoulders slumping. The weight of your past, the chains of Varang’s manipulation, are long behind you. You were free. “I had to do it, Neteyam. My problems are not yours and I mean it when I said you shouldn’t waste your life with me.”

He groaned, his grip on your hand tightening further as he pulled you fully into his embrace. “A life without you is the only one I’ll consider a life wasted.” His voice was a raw whisper against your hair. “I am so in love with you. And to know that you would rather carry your problems and burdens alone instead of sharing it with me is a heavier burden for me. I am here now, do you understand? Your problems and burdens are mine. You are mine.”

Tears welled, hot and stinging. The urge to weep, to collapse into his arms, was overwhelming. To be protected, loved, to have your burdens carried by someone who cherished you so deeply. This was a feeling utterly new, completely foreign. Säyim and Kekihe loved you, yes, but you carried them, protected them. This, this kind of love that allowed you to rest, to simply be… it undid you.

You cupped his jaw, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone. You gave him a weak, open-mouthed kiss, and he groaned, a deep, guttural sound. You sniffled, tasting salt on your lips. “I love you, Neteyam.”

His arms tightened around you, crushing you against his chest. His head dipped, finding your forehead, then your lips. “I love you so much, baby. And I see you. I have always seen you.”

You smiled through the hot tears, a genuine, radiant smile. You knew the truth of his words. “I see you, Neteyam.” You pulled back slightly, your gaze locking with his. “And I love you so much.” You rose onto your toes, kissing him again, your arms hooking around his nape, your chest pressing against his. Both your hearts hammered, a frantic, joyous rhythm against your ribs. “Where is your hut?” you mumbled against his lips.

His eyes darkened, but a low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “So we can talk more in private?” He raised a brow, a teasing glint in his gaze.

You pursed your lips, peering up at him with feigned innocence. “Didn’t you say we have lots to discuss? It’s a little loud out here.” You pursed your lips.

He grinned. “Well, since you asked…” He took your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours, and led you up the winding ramps of the Hometree.

In the quiet sanctuary of his hut, he kissed you, softly, lovingly. There was no rush, only the deep connection that hummed between you. His hand cupped your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek, his eyes soulful as they searched yours. “I want to be your mate, my love. And… I want you to be mine.” His whisper was raw, full of yearning.

You blinked, a fresh wave of tears blurring your vision. Mating in your clan had been a nothing but a means of reproduction or domination. Theirs, you knew, was a sacred bond, witnessed by Eywa herself. And you had known his body, known his touch, the way he made love, the way he pleasured you like a man cherishing his beloved woman.

His hand cradled your face. “I will not force you to worship who I worship. It will take time for you to believe, I know that. But… I want to be truly yours, and you to be truly mine. So please, have me...” The yearning in his voice was palpable, a tangible thing that wrapped around your heart.

Tears pooled in your eyes, brimming, then spilling. “I am yours, Neteyam. You have me.”

He kissed you, your head pillowed on the soft, woven mat. He made love to you, slowly, the connection of your kurus pulsing, enhancing the experience. His mouth muffled your moans, silencing the sounds that threatened to escape. “Shh, baby. People might hear,” he whispered, a chuckle rumbling against your lips.

“But it’s so good,” you whined, pulling him back for another kiss.

The next times were rougher. You felt his earlier anger and frustration, in every thrust, every hard squeeze on your breasts. You bit down on your loincloth, muffling your cries as you lay facedown, his body pressing into yours from behind. You lost count of how many times he claimed you, how many times you surrendered. Even as you drifted to sleep, he was still moving inside you, his lips pressed to your neck.

You woke to the cheerful sound of children’s laughter. A soft smile touched your lips. You heard Kekihe’s voice among them, clear and bright. It felt like a dream, a fragile, beautiful illusion. You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the smooth skin of Neteyam’s shoulder. He stirred, a low groan escaping him, and pulled you closer, his arm tightening around your waist.

“I think they’ll call for breakfast soon,” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep.

“Let’s skip it,” he mumbled, his hand on your shoulder sliding down to knead your round breast, rolling and pinching the pebbled tip.

“I’m hungry,” you complained playfully, a soft gasp escaping you.

He chuckled, his lips pressing against your ear. “I’ll fill your belly up, don’t worry.”

You groaned, the soreness between your legs is not a joking matter. “No thanks,” you said, pushing against his chest. You were still recovering from being pounded on literally just an hour ago, both of you waking up just to fuck and then going to back to sleep again.

Neteyam caught your waist as you tried to roll off the mat, pulling you back, your back slamming against his chest, his lips finding your neck. You shrieked, and then clamped your mouth shut, remembering the children just outside the hut. You bit your lip as you found yourself beneath him again, peering up as his hand hooked under your knees, lifting them, spreading your legs wider.

Suddenly, Tuk’s voice, echoed nearby and you sat up and pulled a blanket over you in record time. Thankfully, she didn't burst inside. “You two should really see this! This is the coolest thing you’ll ever see!”

Neteyam groaned, his head falling back. “She says that all the time.”

You chuckled, kissing his cheek. “We should really get up now.” You moved quickly, dressing yourself, trying to smooth your hair as best you could. He followed you out of the small alcove and into the receiving area of his kelku.

There, you stopped, breathless. Hundreds of atokirina, glowing with an ethereal light, floated in the air, swirling and dancing. Thousands, perhaps, some even drifting gently inside the kelku. From below, you could hear the soft murmurs of the people, watching from the branches, while children chased the glowing spirits with joyous shouts.

You felt Neteyam’s warmth behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you close. He held out a hand, catching an atokirina in his palm, its gentle glow illuminating his face. You watched in awe, never having witnessed such a breathtaking display.

“We have been blessed, my love,” he whispered, his lips pressing a soft kiss below your ear.

You reached out, catching one in your own palm, its tiny light pulsing softly. You smiled, a deep, profound sense of peace settling over you. A promise of a new beginning.

Below, Neytiri, Mo’at, and Jake watched the spectacle unfold.

“They have been blessed, Jake,” Neytiri said, a radiant smile on her face.

Jake blinked, looking at his mate, then back at the floating lights. “What? Did they mate… there?”

Neytiri smacked his arm, her eyes widening in mock outrage. “You don’t say that! To anyone, at all!”

Jake rubbed his arm where Neytiri smacked him. “I didn’t know the atokirina could float this high...” he said innocently.

“Nothing is impossible in Eywa’s grace, children,” Mo’at said, her smile serene, her gaze fixed on the two figures silhouetted against the glowing spirits.

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