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Hey! Could You write something about Eric Draven from the crow Bills movie ? Thankss❤️

Black Nails And Bedroom Eyes (Eric Draven X Reader)

Summary: You’ve always had a thing for Eric. Hanging out at his place was supposed to be casual——but things rarely go as planned.

Warnings: 18+, foul language, strong sexual language and explicit scenes, makeout session, sexual arousal, dry humping, maybe a few mulholland drive spoilers?? reader has no filter and might be a little cringe (she’s me fr), just a couple of cuties overall <333

Word Count: 4,667

A/N: In keeping with the current theme of requests lately: I'm so fucking sorry it took me months to get to this!!!😭 My only excuse is that life happens and my brain has been soup. Thank you for waiting—here it is at last! Better late than never (I hope??)

“Ummm… well, he looks like he’s really into Lil Peep.”

Ava’s voice crackled slightly through the speakerphone, casual but laced with that particular brand of judgment only your best friend can get away with. A beat passed, followed by the soft rustle of her phone shifting in her hand and the distinct flick-flick-flick of her long acrylics tapping against the screen as she scrolled through Eric’s Instagram.

“Or,” she added, a hint of humor in her voice, “maybe he’s just really dedicated to the Jared Leto Joker aesthetic. Which, honestly? Might be worse.”

milliumizoomi

DID YOU NOTICE?

☆彡SUMMARY.; Neteyam had to leave you behind and now, you’re with him again, except now, he feels a bit.. different about you.

☆彡FEATURED.; CRUSH! Neteyam x FEM! Omatikaya Reader, NEWFOUND BESTFRIEND!Tsireya x FEM! Omatikaya Reader

☆彡TROPE.; Childhood Friends to Lovers

☆彡FORMAT.; SERIES (ESTIMATED :: 2 PARTS!!)

☆彡WORD COUNT.; 5.6k

☆彡GENRE.; Mostly Fluff, a little bit of Angst

☆彡WARNINGS.; Cursing (only a bit), Slight AFAA spoiler (only one), Neteyam is like emotionally unaware of his own feelings for a bit

☆彡NOTES.; so.. after a lonngggg while, I’m back💀. avatar is my favorite movie franchise so I thought why not write for my favorite character (in my mind, he’s alive and well guys and I’m sticking to it👁️👁️.) ANYWHOOO I hope you enjoy!!💕

REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED🤍.

🎧CREDS TO THE ARTIST OF THE FANART🎧

underoospeterparker

my girl

Steve harrington x fem!reader, 1.8k words, Steve is an adorable loser for his gf <3

summary: Everyone loves Steve's girlfriend, but he just wants a little bit of your attention for himself. Is that so bad?

It starts, as many things do, with Dustin Henderson.

You’re curled on the corner of Steve’s couch, your legs tucked under his thigh while he flicks through TV channels. The doorbell rings, and before Steve can even mutter “I’m not home,” the door swings open.

“Hey, is she— oh, there you are!” Dustin beams, dropping his backpack with a thud. "Hi!"

swimthroughstars

Like A Tree

Neteyam x Metkayina!Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: fighting, slight jealous Neteyam, bullying/teasing, minor injuries/bleeding

Summary: When the Sully family comes to your clan seeking uturu, you realize you have a certain interest in the eldest Sully boy.

gigiszn

⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 the cured.

warnings: mommy issues / death / war / gory depictions / heavy angst / religious themes / kissing / grinding / cunnilingus / body kisses / praise / p in v / cumming inside / angst with a happy ending

authors: wow.. last chapter guys!! we made it so far im so proud of us!! thank you so much for being here with me through this journey and supporting me throughout it. thank you for reading and i promise there will be more to come!! i hope you like this one and... before u read... grab ur tissues guys

wc: 8.5k

click here to be in a taglist!

the poison, the poisoned, the tainted, the cure, the cured.

꣑ৎ ｡°‧⭑.ᐟ

A month had passed, a full cycle of Eywa that had transformed the very air you breathed. The relentless, cleansing rains of the Hallelujah Mountains had done their work, washing away the last vestiges of the ash and soot that had clung to you and Lew’eyn like a second skin. The grey pallor was gone, replaced by a deep, vibrant blue that echoed the warriors of the forest around you. The bioluminescence, once dormant beneath the grime of your home, now shimmered and pulsed across your skin, a constellation of light that marked you as one of them, a change that felt both like a blessing and a betrayal. You didn't look Mangkwan anymore.

The village was a hive of activity, a constant symphony of preparation. Soldiers were training in every clearing, their bodies a blur of motion as they practiced new forms and strategies. Surprisingly, many of them were learning from Lew’eyn. At first, there had been a stiff, resentful refusal. Pride, perhaps, or the deep-seated judgment of generations of conflict. It wouldn't feel great to learn tactics from a child of the enemy clan, a boy who, not long ago, they would have killed on sight. But they had no other choice. Lew’eyn's knowledge of the Mangkwan's brutal, unconventional fighting style was invaluable, a key to survival that only he possessed. You were too busy to oversee the ground troops.

You had been tasked with training the ikran flight crews, teaching them the complex, swirling patterns they must follow to navigate the treacherous thermals and unpredictable winds of the volcanic region without being picked off by Mangkwan sentinels. Nobody else knew the unfair and cruel fighting tactics of your people, the way they used the terrain, the smoke, the very air as a weapon. You were a living, breathing strategy guide, and the Omatikaya were learning to listen.

Throughout this time, you and Neteyam had grown closer, the space between you shrinking until there was none at all. You spent your days together, training side-by-side, your movements a complementary dance of forest and ash styles. You spent your nights running off together, stealing moments of quiet in the high canopy, hidden away from the prying eyes of the clan.

Yes, you and Neteyam definitely had your fair share of close calls. It was almost impossible for him to keep his hands off of you when you were alone, to resist the urge to pull you into the shadows behind a great tree, to feel the soft skin of your waist beneath his fingertips, to lose himself in the golden depths of your eyes.

To be honest, he hated hiding it from his family. Not that he was doing a great job—Lo’ak had caught them sharing a look that was far too intimate, and Tuk had asked why you and Neteyam always sat so close together—but he really liked you. More than liked. He was starting to think he couldn't breathe without you.

You were just too scared. You knew Jake disapproved of you; his gaze was still heavy with suspicion, his trust a currency you hadn't yet earned. Kiri seemed to be cordial, her quiet understanding a welcome balm, and Tuk adored you, fascinated by the intricate, foreign bead-work you would weave for her, telling her stories of the Fire Tribe's crafts.

Lo’ak was a tough one to read, his expression a constant mask of wry amusement and veiled curiosity, as if he were watching a particularly interesting play unfold. You weren’t sure if you cared of any of their opinions – except for Neytiri’s.

You had begun training with her, as well. She was one of the strongest warriors of the Omatikaya, a legend in her own right, and she had taken it upon herself to help teach you battle strategy that wasn't all claws and no decorum, a stark contrast to the ruthless, kill-or-be-killed ethos of the Fire Tribe.

In your time together, you’d have moments to speak, quiet interludes between sparring sessions where the warrior would fall away and the woman would emerge. She told you about her fight with her parents for Jake, the gut-wrenching choice between duty and love, a story that resonated with a painful familiarity. She told you about the battle with the Metkayina against the RDA, the fear of losing her family, the desperate fight for a home that was not her own. In return, you told her about your childhood, about the harsh realities of life on a dying mountain.

You told her what you had to do to survive, the brutal lessons you had to learn, the hardness you had to cultivate in your heart. You told her what all Mangkwan children had to do: fight, steal, and kill before they were old enough to understand the weight of their own actions.

And in the sharing of your scars, a strange, unspoken bond began to form between you, a bridge of shared pain and mutual respect.

꣑ৎ ｡°‧⭑.ᐟ

The night before the tribe was to be sent off, a diplomatic mission cloaked in the fragile hope of peace, you found yourself sitting on the wide, wooden ledge built into a clifftop of the Hallelujah Mountains. It was a place of constant motion, a bustling landing platform for ikran riders who would arrive and depart throughout the day, their great beasts kicking up dust and wind as they made their way inside the heart of the mountain.

But tonight, all was still. The Ikrans were asleep, tucked into their roosts, and the Na'vi were in their homes, the village a quiet hum of anticipation and fear. Your legs dangled over the edge, the vast, dizzying drop to the sea of clouds below a silent testament to the heights you had all reached. Your eyes were closed as you tried to take your mind off of what was to come in the morning, trying to find a sliver of the calm that had eluded you for a month.

Your ear flicked, a sudden, sharp movement that betrayed your inner turmoil. Your posture straightened, your spine going rigid as you heard soft, deliberate footsteps behind you. Your tail lashed, a sharp, angry whip against the wood, as you turned around, your golden eyes narrowing.

Gazing at you from the shadows was the cold, distant figure of Lo’ak. He was a study in contradictions, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp and hard, a flicker of his father's intensity warring with his own youthful recklessness.

He didn't speak, merely moving to sit on the ledge a few feet away from you. He was careful to maintain a respectful, yet pointed, distance, a clear line drawn between them. You both turned to look out at the sky, exchanging no words in the peaceful, yet heavy, moment. The stars of Pandora were a brilliant, scattered diamond field, their light reflecting in the swirling mists below.

"Tomorrow.." Lo’ak’s voice was a low, quiet rumble, cutting through the silence like a knife. "You're deciding between them and us. Have you made your choice?"

Your brows furrowed in confusion, the question a sudden, unexpected blow. You finally turned to look at Lo’ak, whose eyes were still hard and sharp against the breathtaking view, his gaze fixed on some distant point in the sky. "Excuse me?"

Lo’ak scoffs, a harsh, humorless sound. He leans back, resting on his elbows, his body language a deliberate display of casual indifference. "If we get to that battle tomorrow and you tuck your tail and run to mommy, I'll make sure you don't get out of this." His voice was low, a chilling promise that sent a shiver down your spine.

Before you could form a rebuttal, before you could even process the raw venom in his words, Lo’ak had gotten up and sauntered away, his silhouette disappearing back into the shadows of the walkway, leaving you alone with the echoes of his threat.

His words left you conflicted, a storm of doubt and anger raging inside you. But, deep down, in a place you had been desperately trying to ignore, you knew you had to think about this. He was right. You had to pick between your house and your home. Between the blood that ran in your veins and the new life that was beginning to bloom in your heart. All this time you’ve been spending prepping and planning, the endless drills and strategy sessions, was really just a cover up for the fact that you were unconditionally and irrevocably terrified.

You were terrified of facing your mother, of seeing the disappointment in her eyes, of fighting the very people you had sworn to protect. And you were terrified of what would happen if you failed, if you couldn't bridge the gap between your two worlds, and you lost everything.

Morning arrived not with a gentle, gradual light, but with a sudden, stark intrusion of reality. The first rays of the sun pierced the gloom of the shared sleeping quarters, a harsh, unforgiving light that illuminated every detail of the room and the grim truth of the day ahead. The air was cool and still, heavy with the unspoken fears of the sleeping clan.

You sat up, the woven blankets of the cot pooling around your waist, the movement sharp and decisive. Beside you, Lew’eyn was still lost in a restless sleep, his mouth slightly agape, a trail of drool glistening on his cheek. Without a second thought, you smacked him gently on the face with your tail, the soft, leathery appendage a familiar and effective wake-up call.

He groaned, a low, guttural sound of protest, as he sat up from the cot, his body stiff and his eyes bleary with sleep. He rubbed his face, blinking against the bright light, his mind slow to catch up with the reality of the morning. You looked over at him, your eyes filled with a fierce determination that you hoped was convincing, yet it was tinged with a hesitation you couldn't quite hide. He reciprocated your gaze, his own eyes mirroring yours, a silent acknowledgment of the shared terror that coiled in your guts. He nodded his head, a slow, unsure movement.

“It’s the right thing to do,” he spoke, his voice raspy with sleep, though his words sounded more like a question than a statement, a desperate plea for reassurance that neither of you could provide.

You gulped, the sound loud in the quiet room, as you stared down at your clothing. It wasn't the familiar, functional leather of the Mangkwan, but the intricate, layered garments of an Omatikaya warrior.

Neteyam had gifted you and Lew’eyn with it a week prior. He had brought you to the same branch where you had shared your first real kiss, the memory of it a warm, tingling sensation against the cold dread of the morning. Under the soft glow of Pandora's moons, he had adorned you with the woven leather and tall-grass necklaces, his fingers brushing against your skin with a reverence that made your heart ache.

He had carefully strung the delicate waist beads around your hips, their soft clinking a new and unfamiliar sound. And he had presented you with the most beautiful sheath for your knife you had ever seen, a masterpiece of dark, polished wood and vibrant, colorful beads, a perfect fusion of his world and yours. It was a gift, a promise, a symbol of a future you were fighting for, a future you weren't sure you deserved.

“Yeah,” you choked out, the word catching in your throat, your eyes meeting his once more, a silent, desperate pact passing between you. “Save the Omatikaya. Save the cured.” The words tasted like ash in your mouth, a bitter reminder of the price of your choice.

You were not just saving the Omatikaya; you were saving yourselves from the poison of your own heritage, from the endless cycle of violence and despair that had consumed your people for generations. You were saving the cured, the ones who had seen the light, the ones who had chosen to break free. But in doing so, you were condemning the others, the ones who were still lost, the ones who were still blinded by the fire.

You were saving the world by destroying your own, and the weight of that knowledge was a crushing burden on your soul.

꣑ৎ ｡°‧⭑.ᐟ

The journey to the Mangkwan isles was nothing but treacherous. It was a gauntlet of nature’s own design, a brutal, unforgiving landscape that had been the crucible in which your people had been forged. Over the years, the Mangkwan had grown accustomed to the difficult terrain their village was set in, their bodies and their mounts adapting to the whims of the dying mountain, learning to read the turbulent air like a sacred text.

However, the Omatikaya, for all their skill and grace, still struggled regardless of their intensive training. The sky was not the open, welcoming expanse they were used to; it was a labyrinth of jagged, obsidian-black rock pillars that clawed at the heavens, their sharp edges threatening to shred the delicate wings of an ikran with the slightest misjudgment.

The wind was a malevolent entity, a howling, unpredictable force that screamed through the narrow canyons and funneled into violent, twisting vortexes that could toss a rider from their saddle without a moment's notice.

You watched as they banked over the rocky pillars, their movements fluid but lacking the innate, bone-deep understanding of the currents that you and Lew’eyn possessed. You saw them twist practically sideways on their ikrans, their bodies straining against the G-forces as they navigated the sheer, vertical drops. You saw them shoot through the tightest of gaps, spaces that seemed impossibly small, their wings brushing against the jagged rock, sending showers of debris into the turbulent air below.

You and Lew’eyn flew through with an ease that was almost insulting, a seamless, effortless dance through the chaos. You were used to this battle with the wind, this intimate, violent conversation with the elements. It was the language of your home, and you spoke it fluently.

By the end of the hard part, the toll was already being taken. A dozen warriors and their ikrans were injured, their mounts with deep gashes on their wings or their riders with broken limbs from being thrown against the rock faces. They were ordered to fly home, their faces a mask of frustration and shame, their departure leaving a gaping hole in the already small party. A deep, gnawing unease settled in your stomach, cold and heavy.

It would be much more difficult with the great amount of people injured, not just in terms of a fight, but in terms of morale. The sight of their comrades turning back, defeated before they had even arrived, was a blow to the confidence of the remaining warriors.

You looked at the remaining party, a small, determined force against the vast, hostile landscape. Around 70 of the most brave hunters and warriors of the forest clan, their faces set with a grim resolve, their bodies tense with anticipation. They were the best of the best, but they were outsiders here, fish out of water in a world that wanted them dead. With a determined nod, you chirped, a sharp, clear command to your ikran, who surged forward, a beacon of confidence in the face of their uncertainty.

As you rounded the final pillar, the village came into view, and the sounds of screeches and war cries from the Mangkwan below filled your ears. It was a sound you knew intimately, a cacophony of rage and defiance that had been the soundtrack to your entire life. But now, it made your stomach pool with a sense of dread you had long forgotten over your time away from the tribe. It was the sound of home, but it was also the sound of your past, a past you had desperately tried to escape.

Neteyam looked toward you, his eyes meeting yours, though he felt as though they were far off, your gaze distant and clouded with memories.

“Hey,” he called out, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of your thoughts. He urged his ikran closer, reaching out to touch its wing against yours, a gentle, reassuring gesture. “It’ll be okay. Poisoned, remember? We’ll save the cured and get out of here.” His words were a reminder of the plan, of the hope that had brought you here, but they did little to quell the fear that was churning in your gut.

You and the Omatikaya touched down, the landing a rough, jarring experience on the hard, packed earth of the village. The first to jump from their mounts were you and Lew’eyn, your movements fluid and confident, a stark contrast to the hesitant, clumsy dismounts of the forest clan. Neteyam followed soon after, his eyes scanning the crowd, his hand resting on the hilt of his knife. The rest of the forest clan were apprehensive, some standing just next to their bonds, their bodies coiled and ready to flee, some refusing to get off, their bows pointed and arrows nocked, their knuckles white with tension.

The Mangkwan were no different. Some were hiding in the village huts, their arrows pointed through the cracks in the walls, their eyes wide with fear and hatred. Others stood in the open, their spears pointed and their tongues sticking out in a gesture of mockery and defiance. It was a standoff, a tense, volatile silence that was broken only by the hiss of the wind and the distant cry of a nightwraith.

And then you heard it. The familiar, desperate call of your dearest from afar. Vofeng, tied by his neck to the torturous posts the nightwraiths were held on, his claws dragging against the floor as he attempted to get to you. He was calling for you, a series of distressed, pleading chirps that tore at your heart. Your stomach churned, a wave of nausea washing over you, though your eyes lingered forward, refusing to look at him, to show any sign of weakness.

You walked through the large crowd of Mangkwan, your steps slow and deliberate, your eyes never leaving the tall, slender figure of Varang. She stood at the end of the walkway in front of the war hall, a solitary, imposing figure against the backdrop of the dying mountain. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her posture rigid and unyielding, her eyes filled with a venom so poisonous you felt it sting your skin, a palpable, physical force that seemed to reach across the distance and wrap around your throat.

She was waiting for you, and you knew, with a certainty that chilled you to the bone, that this was not going to be a peaceful reunion.

With a surge of adrenaline that was both familiar and terrifying, you coiled your muscles and launched yourself upwards, landing with a soft thud atop the wide, flat roof of a nearby animal stable. The height gave you a vantage point, a stage from which to address the sea of hostile, ashen faces below.

You drew a deep, shuddering breath, the acrid air filling your lungs, and then you let loose a warrior's cry, a sharp, piercing shriek that was a pure, undiluted echo of your heritage. It was a sound that demanded attention, a challenge that could not be ignored. The crowd below fell silent, their hisses and jeers dying in their throats as every eye turned to you.

You began to speak, your voice ringing out across the square, clear and strong. You had practiced this speech in your head a thousand times, but the words felt foreign on your tongue now, heavy with the weight of betrayal.

"Mangkwan!" you started, your voice stern and hard, the voice of a warrior, not a diplomat. "I stand before you today to tell you of a truth we have been taught to deny! I have seen the Great Mother, Eywa! I have felt her presence, and I tell you, she is not the monster we have been led to believe!" Your voice, however, began to crack midway through your sentence, the carefully constructed facade of strength crumbling under the weight of a hundred pairs of eyes, the eyes of your family, your friends, your people.

"What happened to our mountain... it was not an act of malice. It was a tragedy, a natural disaster, a painful but necessary part of the Great Balance she maintains!"

The Mangkwan hissed and booed at your words, the sound a wave of venomous disapproval that washed over you. Some of them, their faces contorted with rage, slowly prepared their weapons, nocking arrows to bowstrings and hefting spears, their gaze shifting from you to the nervous, blue-skinned Omatikaya warriors behind you. But Varang, standing at the far end of the walkway, simply listened, her expression unreadable, her gaze so intense, so focused, that something in you could’ve been convinced she believed you, or at least was considering it.

Lew’eyn, seeing your faltering resolve, took over. He stepped forward, his voice clear and steady as he spoke similar words out to the crowd, his plea for reason and understanding a counterpoint to your passionate, crumbling defense.

You looked down from your perch, seeing some Mangkwan murmuring amongst themselves, their heads close together, their expressions a mixture of confusion and doubt. They stared up at you, then at Lew’eyn, then at Neteyam, a stark, foreign figure of blue amidst their sea of grey. Their gaze would then drop back down to their own ashen skin, and to their own kurus, the hate they had been taught with them now supposedly a lie.

You took a deep breath, gathering the last of your strength. "The way of fear we have lived in for so long is not right!" you cried out, your voice regaining some of its former power. "It is a cage, a poison that has been fed to us by those who seek to control us! The land is ours! The world is ours! If we simply accept it, if we open our hearts to Eywa's grace, we can be healed! We can be whole!"

Varang let out a loud, piercing screech, a sound that cut through the air like a shard of glass. Everyone fell silent, the murmuring dying instantly, the air growing thick with a sudden, suffocating dread. Her hand, slowly, deliberately, began to raise into the air. It was a gesture you knew all too well, a signal you had seen a hundred times on the training grounds, a command for a coordinated strike. Her fingers curled, one by one, into a fist.

Shit.

Neteyam, his face pale with confusion, looked up at you. "What does it mean?" he asked, his voice tight with alarm.

Your eyes widened, the blood draining from your face as you turned and screamed the answer toward the Omatikaya, your voice a raw, desperate cry of warning.

"ATTACK!"

The fire tribe roared into the sunset sky, a guttural, unified sound of pure, unadulterated rage that was swallowed by the howling wind. They raised their weapons, a forest of jagged spears and obsidian-tipped arrows, and the charge began. The battle was brutal from the first heartbeat. It was not a clash of armies, but a maelstrom of individual, desperate fights.

Ikrans, magnificent creatures of the forest, soared from above, their riders lean and blue against the bruised purple sky. They dove and banked, shooting down and landing amongst the Mangkwan, their bows a constant, deadly thrum. But the Mangkwan were born of this chaos. They met the charge with a ferocity that was born of generations of survival.

Flame-ridden arrows, their tips wrapped in oil-soaked cloth, shot through the wind, their trajectories unpredictable and deadly. They found their marks with an unforgiving fury, punching through the soft leather armor of the forest tribe, the impact a sickening, wet thud that was followed by the screams of the wounded.

Your chest heaved, each breath a ragged, painful gasp. No, no, no.

It was going all wrong. This wasn't supposed to happen.

They weren't listening.

They were listening to her.

The hope you had nurtured, the fragile seed of peace you had planted, was being crushed under the boots of your own people. You were standing in the middle of the battlefield, a small, still island in a sea of violence, caught between the two worlds you were desperately trying to unite. In between the Omatikaya, who fought with a fluid, desperate grace, and the Mangkwan, who fought with a savage, suicidal rage. Shouts echoed around you, a cacophony of war cries, screams of pain, and curses in your native tongue.

Flames licked at the edges of your vision, and arrows swished past your head, their fletching a blur of dark feathers, so close you could feel the displacement of air against your skin.

Your gaze caught Lo’ak's as he soared up on his Ikran, his face a mask of fierce concentration as he nocked, drew, and shot down an arrow in a single, fluid motion. He looked at you, his eyes meeting yours for a fleeting, heart-stopping moment, and you knew what he was saying without him having to say a word. His look was not one of triumph, but of grim, challenging finality. You had to make a choice.

The decision was not a thought, but an instinct, a primal surge that ripped through you. You jumped into battle, not with a cry, but with a silent, desperate resolve, your body moving to defend the Omatikaya warriors who were being overwhelmed. You ran, your feet pounding against the hard-packed earth, dodging a thrown spear and parrying a clumsy slash from a Mangkwan warrior you didn't recognize. You ran toward the nightwraith pens, toward the desperate, pleading cries of Vofeng. With a few swift, powerful cuts of your knife, you severed the thick, leather restraints that held him. He was free.

He dipped his great, horned head into your chest, a gesture of pure, unadulterated affection and relief, a low, rumbling purr vibrating through his body and into yours. For a single, absurd moment, you laughed, a wild, hysterical sound that was swallowed by the chaos around you. You quickly told him that they needed to focus, your hand stroking his sensitive, pebbled skin, the bond between you flaring to life, a silent, perfect communication.

You mounted him in a single, fluid motion, and together, you pierced through the sky. You flew from above, a vengeful angel of death, your bow a part of you, an extension of your own will. You pierced through the flesh of your people as you flew from above. Your people.

Tears streamed down your cheeks, hot and unstoppable, pain shooting through your heart with every beat of Vofeng's wings. Your arrow pierced through the air and into the head of a fire warrior, a clean, merciful kill that felt like a piece of your own soul being ripped away.

You recognized some people. Your babysitter, a woman with a kind smile and a missing finger, who used to tell you stories of the old world. Your teacher, a stern, grizzled old man who had taught you how to hold a knife before you could properly walk. A cousin or two, boys you had grown up with, their faces now contorted in a mask of hatred and vengeance as they looked up at you, their eyes burning with a betrayal so deep it was a physical blow.

They saw you not as a savior, but as a traitor, a monster who had turned on her own family, and in their eyes, you saw your own damnation.

A shriek of your name, a sound so raw and filled with agony that it sliced through the cacophony of the battle, alerts you immediately. Lew’eyn. Your head snaps in his direction, the world narrowing to a single point of origin, and you urge Vofeng down, a steep, terrifying dive toward the source of the cry. He’s hidden behind a low, crumbling wall, his body slumped against the stone, an arrow, fletched with the dark feathers of the Mangkwan, lodged deep in his stomach.

You jump from Vofeng, landing hard, your knees absorbing the shock. Vofeng, with a fierce, protective growl, spreads his large wings, creating a leathery, scaly shield around the two of you, a small, fragile sanctuary in the midst of the storm. You scramble to Lew’eyn's side, your hands trembling as you grab his face, his skin clammy and cold.

"Lew’eyn, hey, look at me," you babble, your voice a high, panicked pitch. You press your hands against his chest, trying to stem the flow of blood that was soaking his tunic, a futile gesture that you knew was meaningless. "You'll be okay. You're going to be okay, just stay with me."

You scream out for the Omatikaya, for the Mangkwan, for Eywa, for anyone. You screamed for help, your voice a raw, desperate plea that was swallowed by the roar of the flames and the clash of steel, but nobody heard you. You called out for Neteyam, your voice cracking with a desperate hope, yet he was nowhere to be found, lost in the chaos of the fight.

With a shaky, wet breath, Lew’eyn looks up at you, his eyes wide with a fear that went far beyond the pain of his wound. "Eywa won't let me in," he says in a scared, childlike tone, his voice barely a whisper. "I know it. I was angry. I was ruthless."

You nod, tears dropping down your face, each one a hot, salty brand on your cold skin. "No, she will," you choke out, your voice a broken, desperate promise. "She will, Lew’eyn. She will welcome you with open arms. You aren't ruthless. You aren't angry."

He smiles, a small, sad, bloody smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Blood streaks his teeth as he coughs out the crimson liquid, a wet, rattling sound that makes your heart seize in your chest. "Did I do the right thing?" he asks, his voice fading, his gaze searching yours for a final reassurance.

You nod with a broken-sobbed laugh, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. "You did the right thing," you whisper, your forehead pressed against his. "You did so good."

He nods back, his eyes drawing heavy, the light in them beginning to dim. "I'm going to go see my brother now," he says, his voice a soft, peaceful sigh. His eyes close for the final time.

Your head throws back, a guttural, animalistic scream emitting from your throat, a sound of such profound, soul-shattering grief that it seemed to silence the battle for a single, horrifying moment. It was the scream of a world ending, the sound of a heart being ripped from a chest.

Neytiri hears this, her head snapping in your direction, her eyes widening at the sight of you. She saw herself. She saw herself cradling her sister, Sylwanin, her body growing cold. She saw herself kneeling over her father, his life bleeding out onto the forest floor. The memory, sharp and visceral, hit her with the force of a physical blow. She ran toward you, a fierce, protective fury in her eyes, attacking anyone who tried to get into her way, her knife a blur of motion. She reaches you, dropping to her knees, and grabs your shoulders, shaking you softly as your eyes are wide with a grief so immense it had hollowed you out, leaving only a shell.

"You must be strong hearted like I know you are," she says, her voice a fierce, urgent command. "We need you."

Your sobs that racked through your body slowly calm down, the violent tremors ceasing. They are instead masked with a heavy, rageful breathing, each inhale a deep, shuddering gasp, each exhale a hiss of pure, unadulterated fury. The grief doesn't go away; it curdles, solidifying into a hard, cold, heavy stone in your gut. Your teeth curl into a snarl, and Neytiri nods her head, a gesture of grim approval.

"Feel the rage," she tells you, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "Let it fuel you."

She helps you up, her grip strong and steady, and runs back into the battle. Your gaze, now sharp and cold with a deadly purpose, fixates on two figures locked in a desperate struggle. Neteyam and Varang. They are fighting, and he is losing.

You growl, a sound that is not a word but a pure, primal vibration of rage and grief, a promise of violence. You pounce, your body a coiled spring of unleashed fury, covering the distance between you and the struggle in a single, explosive movement. Varang is about to lay her final blow down on Neteyam, her obsidian knife raised, its edge glinting in the firelight, a look of cold, triumphant finality on her face.

You throw yourself, grabbing her mid-air, your bodies colliding with a sickening thud of flesh and bone. You use her own momentum against her, twisting and heaving, throwing her to the ground with a force that knocks the wind from her lungs.

You’re crouched overtop of Neteyam, your body a living shield, hissing wildly, a feral, protective sound that rips from your throat. Your eyes are bloodshot, the vessels burst from the strain of your grief, the whites a shocking, vivid red against the golden iris. Your breathing is heavy, each ragged gasp a struggle against the crushing weight in your chest, the air burning in your lungs.

Varang's eyes widen in shock, her expression a volatile cocktail of disbelief and a dawning, terrifying respect. It's there, a flicker of acknowledgment for your power, for the sheer ferocity of your defense, but it's instantly consumed by a wild, undiluted anger.

"Is this what you pick?" she snarls, her voice a venomous hiss from the ground. "These forest freaks? This boy over your own blood?"

You only hiss back in response, a sound that is both an answer and a declaration of war. It's a rejection of everything she stands for, everything she made you. Varang laughs, a dry, grating sound that is devoid of all humor. She slowly raises her kuru, the long, slender neural queue, her intention clear in the malevolent glint of her eyes. You knew what she was going to do. You had watched her do it a hundred times. To dying animals that were too weak to keep up. To dying people who had failed her. To Neteyam, months before. She was going to force the bond, a violation so profound it was a fate worse than death.

So without thinking and as quickly as you could, you sprung up and wrap the white, fleshy tendrils of your own kuru around hers. It's a desperate, reckless act, a connection forged not in trust but in defiance. The world explodes. A torrent of raw, agonizing energy floods your senses, a cacophony of her hatred, her ambition, her pain, and her utter, soul-crushing betrayal all slamming into you at once. It's a violation, a psychic rape that feels like it's tearing your mind apart.

She drops to her knees in pain, her mouth agape in a soundless cry, her body convulsing as the raw, unfiltered force of your grief-fueled rage overwhelms her.

The remaining Mangkwan and Omatikaya noticed. The fighting slowly begins to cease as they watch you, a lone, terrifying figure, locked in a battle of wills over the top of your mother.

The battlefield falls silent, the only sound the crackle of flames and the shared, horrified gasps of two tribes witnessing an abomination.

She manages to struggle out, her voice a strained, pathetic wheeze. "You would really do this to me? I raised you, child. You are me." The words are a physical blow, a poisoned dagger twisting in your heart.

You breathe hard, the air thick with the metallic taste of blood and betrayal, debating your next moves. The grief, the rage, the love, the hate—it all coalesces into a single, blinding point of agony. You scream, a sound that is pure, unadulterated pain, as you pull your knife out and wrench it into her, the blade sinking into her flesh with a sickening, final softness. Your eyes are shut tight, unable to watch as you commit the ultimate sin, the act that severs your past and damns your future.

The knife felt impossibly heavy in your hand, its hilt slick with your own sweat and the blood of your mother. A profound, deafening silence fell over the battlefield, a vacuum where the sounds of war had been just moments before. The energy that had sustained you, the white-hot rage that had been your shield and your sword, evaporated in an instant, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache that was infinitely worse.

The strength drained from your limbs, and you dropped down to your knees next to her, the impact jarring your bones. You hesitantly shook her, a small, desperate gesture, as if you could somehow wake her from this final, irreversible sleep.

"Mama?" you whispered, the word a fragile, broken thing.

Tears filled your eyes once more, hot and stinging, blurring the edges of her still, pale face. You shook your head, a denial of the reality you had just created. You apologized, crying out incoherently, a torrent of grief-stricken babbling, a string of meaningless pleas and regrets that were lost on the wind.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry, Mama, please..."

After a moment that stretched into an eternity, you took a deep, shuddering breath, the air tasting of ash and regret. You forced yourself to stand up, your legs trembling, your body screaming in protest. You looked down at her, at the woman who had been your world, your tormentor, and your teacher.

You saw not a monster, but a victim of a world that had broken her, a cycle of violence you had just, in the most brutal way possible, ended.

"Oel ngati kameie," you whispered to your mother, the words a final, ironic blessing.

"I see you."

You turned and walked back toward the crowd, each step a monumental effort, your body moving on autopilot while your soul was shattered into a million pieces.

"Varang is dead," you announced, your voice flat, devoid of all emotion, yet it carried across the silent, stunned clearing.

The group of both tribes remained silent, a collective, unified wave of shock and disbelief. The Mangkwan stared at you, their faces a mixture of horror, relief, and a dawning, terrifying uncertainty. The Omatikaya watched you, their expressions a complex tapestry of awe, pity, and a grudging, hard-won respect.

You looked at them, at the two halves of your torn soul, and you began to speak, your voice gaining strength with each word, a heartfelt speech that poured from the deepest, most broken part of you.

"I came to you a stranger," you began, your gaze sweeping over the Omatikaya warriors.

"An enemy. I came from a world of fire and fear, a world where love was a weakness and trust was a death sentence. But you... you showed me something else." Your eyes found Neteyam, his face pale and streaked with dirt, his expression one of profound, unwavering support.

"You showed me that there is strength in kindness, that there is power in unity. You taught me that family isn't just about blood. It's about choice. It's about standing by someone, even when the whole world is telling you to run. With you, I found meaning. I found purpose. I found a family."

You turned to the Mangkwan, your own people, your heart aching for their lost, leaderless souls. "And I know what you were taught. I know what I taught you. I know the anger you feel, the pain that has festered in your hearts for generations. I know it because I felt it too. I was you."

You took a shaky breath, the truth of your next words a heavy, bitter pill to swallow. "And though I may never forgive Eywa for what she took from us, for the mountain that died and the lives that were lost, it is unfair to say she is a deity of evil when she’s done so much good for the world. She gave us the forest, the sky, the ikrans. She gave us life. The poison was not in her, but in us. In our fear. In our refusal to heal."

You looked at them all, at the sea of faces, both blue and grey, your own tears now dry, replaced by a steely, unyielding resolve. "So?" you breathe, your eyes shaky but clear as they gaze across the crowd, your voice a raw, powerful challenge. "Who's with me?"

꣑ৎ ｡°‧⭑.ᐟ

After two years of living in the intertwined embrace of the forest and mountains, you had grown used to it. The air, once thin and acrid with the scent of sulfur and ash, was now thick with the sweet perfume of alien blossoms and damp earth. The constant, grating roar of the dying mountain had been replaced by the symphony of the forest, the chirping of unseen creatures and the gentle rustle of leaves.

After the battle, many Mangkwan, their spirits broken and their hearts open to the possibility of a different life, decided to join the Omatikaya, though with great hesitation. One by one, they each saw the truth you had preached, their hard, ashen faces softening as they learned to smile, their eyes filled with a genuine appreciation for the breathtaking beauty of Eywa.

The others stayed back, choosing the familiar comfort of their dying home over the daunting promise of a new one. You don’t know how they’re doing, and you quite frankly don’t want to.

That part of your life was a closed chapter, a scar you had learned to live with.

Lew’eyn’s body was carried back after the fight, a solemn procession that bridged two worlds, and laid to rest near the Spirit Tree. It was a place of peace, of eternal connection, and you would sometimes go there, alone, to connect your kuru with the great, weeping branches of the tree. In the glowing, neural network, you could pay him a visit, a silent, ethereal reunion where you would speak to his spirit, and to his brother, too, and greet the ancestors who welcomed him with open arms.

One year into your time with the Omatikaya, you had begun courting Neteyam, though the two of you hadn't yet been officially mated. It took Jake a bit of warming up, his protective instincts as a father and a former warrior warring with his understanding of a world he had once been an outsider to himself. But after a long, pointed scolding from Neytiri, who saw in you the same fire and resilience she possessed, he got it through his thick skull. He was you once, and he learned to appreciate your different ways, your unyielding strength, and the fierce, unconditional love you had for his son.

Vofeng landed on the perch of the cliff next to Neteyam’s ikran, the two great beasts nudging each other in a gesture of familiar affection. Neteyam watched you dismount, a lazy, teasing smile playing on his lips. "Still flying like you're trying to set the sky on fire," he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "One of these days, you're going to give Vofeng a heart attack."

You rolled your eyes, a playful smirk tugging at your own lips. "And you're still flying like you're afraid to get your wings wet," you retorted, poking him in the chest. "Somebody has to keep things exciting."

You walk through the mountains, your eyes filled with a quiet, profound admiration as you see former Mangkwan and Omatikaya bonding, their shared past a bridge rather than a chasm. Children, their skin a beautiful mix of deep blue and soft grey, played happily together, their laughter a sound that never failed to fill you with a sense of hope.

You and Neteyam make your way to the Spirit Tree one night, the bioluminescent flora lighting your path like a trail of fallen stars.

"I still think about it. About her." You sigh, breath shaky as you pull your knees to your chest. Neteyam nods, his hand resting on the small of your back.

"Do you regret it?" He asks softly. The two of you hadn't spoken much about it before, it was always a hurt that the two of you would rather forget about. You don't respond for a moment, seriously debating whether you did in fact regret it. With a confidence that you usually hadn't had, you shook your head.

"I love her. That will never change," You begin, your eyes flickering to the Spirit Tree, "but I do not like her. And saving her would have only brought more pain."

"It is not your fault." Neteyam voices, seeing your lip quiver at his words. Deep down you knew it wasn't your fault, but to hear the words made everything feel like you were walking in the clouds.

Neteyam grabs your chin, his touch gentle but firm, his gaze soft with understanding and love. He pulls you into a kiss, a soft, tender press of his lips against yours that speaks volumes, a silent promise of forever.

The kiss deepens, softness giving way to a heated, desperate need. His lips part yours, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, a silent request for entry that you grant with a soft sigh.

His hands roam your body, one tangling in your hair, the other sliding down your back to cup your ass, pulling you flush against him. He pulls you onto his lap, dragging your hips across his growing bulge, the friction sending a jolt of electricity straight through you.

You moan, a low, throaty sound that is swallowed by his kiss. He kisses down your skin softly, his lips a trail of fire against your neck, your collarbone, the sensitive skin of your chest. He squeezes your breasts with a soft hunger, his thumbs brushing against your hardened nipples, the sensation a delicious, teasing torment.

He slowly lies you down on the glowing, ethereal grass, the soft light of the flora illuminating your body in a heavenly glow. He kisses down your body, his lips and tongue worshipping every inch of your skin, until his head is between your legs.

He lowers his head, his long braids spilling over his shoulders to brush against your stomach. You feel the ghost of his breath against your core, and a shiver runs through you. He takes his time, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thighs, his lips trailing a path of fire that makes you arch your hips in silent invitation. His tongue darts out, tasting your skin, and you can't help the soft whimper that escapes your lips.

Finally, his attention centers on where you need him most. He uses his thumbs to gently part your folds, exposing you completely to his gaze. You feel a moment of vulnerability, but it's quickly erased by the reverent look in his eyes. He leans in and gives a slow, deliberate lick from your entrance to your clit. The sensation is electric, a jolt of pure pleasure that makes you gasp and your toes curl.

Neteyam doesn't rush. He explores you with a patient, thorough curiosity, learning every curve and sensitive spot. His tongue is clever and insistent, swirling around your clit before flattening to press against it with firm, steady pressure. He alternates between broad, languid strokes and quick, flicking motions that send sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. One of his hands leaves your thigh, and you feel his fingers gently probing your entrance, circling it before slowly sinking inside you.

He curls his fingers just right, finding that spot inside that makes your vision blur. The dual stimulation is overwhelming. His mouth works your clit with relentless precision while his fingers pump into you, setting a rhythm that has your hips rocking against his face. You can hear the wet, slick sounds of his mouth on you, mingled with your own ragged breaths and the soft groans he makes deep in his throat, as if tasting you is the greatest pleasure he's ever known.

Your hands fly to his hair, your fingers tangling in his braids, holding him to you as the pressure inside you builds to an unbearable peak. "Neteyam," you gasp, his name a prayer on your lips. He responds by sucking your clit into his mouth, his tongue flicking against it rapidly while his fingers press harder against that sensitive spot inside.

That's all it takes. The pleasure crests and shatters through you, a wave of intense, blinding ecstasy that washes over every inch of your body. You cry out, your back bowing off the bed as your muscles clench around his fingers. He doesn't stop, drawing out your orgasm, lapping up your release as you ride the waves of pleasure until you're spent and trembling.

When the last tremor subsides, he gently withdraws his fingers and places one last, soft kiss on your overly sensitive clit. He moves up your body, covering you with his warmth, and you can taste yourself on his lips when he kisses you deeply. His golden eyes are soft, filled with a deep, satisfied love as he looks down at you, a lazy smile playing on his lips.

He slowly takes off his tewng, his hard, thick cock springing free, and wordlessly looks up at you to ask if this is okay. You breathe out a yes, your mouth opening into a silent moan as he pushes in, the slow, deliberate stretch a delicious, burning pleasure. He holds himself in you for a moment, his body still, as your vaginal walls clench around him, getting used to the hissing pain of his size. The pain slowly turns into pleasure, a deep, satisfying ache that spreads through your entire body, and Neteyam begins rocking in.

He goes slow at first, his movements a gentle, rhythmic sway, a slow, sensual dance that builds a new, more intense fire within you. You beg for him to do it harder, faster, your voice a desperate, breathless plea. He obliges, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, deeper, his hips slapping against yours with a wet, rhythmic sound. Your nails scratch up and down against his back, leaving red, angry welts in their wake, a testament to your passion.

With a whine, you cum once more, your body convulsing around him, your vision going white with pleasure. Neteyam buries himself deep inside of you, his own release a hot, powerful rush, his cum spilling into your pussy, a primal, possessive claim. He burrows his head in your neck, breathing hard as he softly kisses your sweat-slicked skin. "Nga yawne lu oer," he breathes, his voice a low, satisfied rumble, staring deep into your fiery eyes.

"Nga yawne lu oer, tsa," you respond, your voice a soft, breathless whisper, staring into his deep, golden eyes.

Yes, your minds were littered with the scarring memories of the war. And you had in fact given Varang the exact martyred death she would've always hoped for.

But from your mistakes came the fruit of life that you ever so desperately wanted to grow. You wanted to grow it with your changed people, with your new people, with your person.

A part of you will always wonder what could've been if Varang lived. If you had stayed Mangkwan. But months later, as you hold your growing stomach and the tribe celebrates the first grandchild of the Olo'eyktan, you forget any curiosities.

You realize you were never poison. You had never poisoned anyone, and you weren't tainted when you began learning the ways of the Omatikaya. You were the cure, the bridge between two hating worlds.

And you cured them.

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tysm for supporting me guys

lomlsatoru

you & me? — neteyam

꩜ pairing ━━ fem!omatikaya!reader x neteyam sully

꩜ summary ━━ the topic of ‘mate’ came into frame and you’re afraid that you might just fuck up your friendship with neteyam.

꩜ disclaimers ━━ best friends to lovers, angst, hurt & comfort, sevin = pretty, maybe ooc neteyam?

꩜ a/n ━━ my BABYYYY ☹️☹️ i miss him so much i hope you guys like this <3 i wasn’t really sure how to end this so sorry for the abrupt ending!

as always comments are very deeply appreciated ♡

masterlist | navi | buy me kofi <3

Neteyam has had a hard day.

His dad has been making them run drills, showing him how to be faster, sneakier, smarter and all he wanted to do was rest.

All he wanted to do was to see you.

The sun was going down, the breeze was nicer to the skin and the stars are glowing in the sky.

Your hut was filled with laughter as Tuk and Kiri accompany your silent place.

“So… how is it going with Neteyam?” Kiri suddenly tease, her eyebrows raise.

You choke at your own saliva, hands briefly freezing.

“Nothing is going on with me and Neteyam.” you chuckle, cheeks going warm.

Tuk poke at your side, “You’re lying! You get all giggly when he’s around.” her sweet laughs makes a fond smile grow on your face.

You scrunch your nose, “I do not.”

“Do to!”

“Do not!” you pinch her nose.

“You so do.” Kiri jumps in.

“And my big bro looks at you a lot.” Tuk continue, sighing blissfully as if she’s seeing a romantic film brought to life.

Your heart flutters, “He doesn’t.” scoffing as you shake your head.

“Does!”

“Nope!”

“What are you girls bickering about?”

crzbss

starstruck - neteyam sully x metkayina!reader

: ˚⋆✮ in which: neteyam can’t stop staring, tuk is the ultimate wing(wo)man and the reef gets alot more magical!

: ˚⋆✮ a/n: first little blurb aaaa! no warnings, leave recs! wc is around 700

when they first arrived at awa’atlu, neteyam instantly found himself drawn toward you. maybe it was your captivating turquoise eyes, or maybe it was those elegant curls that fell below your shoulders. he doesn’t know, and doesn’t care either, he is mesmerized by it all. the way you gracefully ride your ilu. the way you touch his stomach to ‘help him breathe,’ fully aware that his heart is beating awkwardly fast due to your closeness. the way you play with tuk, helping her feel at rest in her new home.

crzbss

quietly, with you - neteyam sully x omatikaya!reader

: ˚⋆✮ in which: neteyam finds peace in your presence and you find a home in his family. (established relationship)

: ˚⋆✮ a/n: trying to write as much as possible before I get super busy lol! send reqs and maybe ill try writing for someone else? not sure rn but yeah! wc is around 750

you felt him before you saw him. heavy tension sat in the atmosphere, neteyam’s tight shoulders hunched as he approached you.

“it’s quiet here” he softly whispers, coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your torso as you move your head to allow him to rest his chin on your shoulder, basking in your presence.

“that’s why I picked it” he doesn’t reply, instead starting to place little kisses on your collarbone. no one ever comes to this riverside, it being quite far from the village.

xluvablz

❀: “the inevitable”

pairing: neteyam sully x f!omatikaya!reader

summary: you and neteyam navigate distance and unspoken feelings as his responsibilities as future olo'eyktan grow. one quiet night in the forest, with a bit of teasing, and honest conversation, finally brings you together, proving your connection was always meant to be.

warnings: literally a dollop of angst lol, other wise super cute and fluffy. a tad bit spicy I suppose?

word count: 3.1k

tsamsiyu - warrior. paskalin - sweet berry. yawne - beloved. kxan'epe - sage mushroom & stagfly ant nectar dish.

The forest was quiet except for the soft rustle of leaves and the hum of distant creatures. You’re perched on a low-hanging branch, sharpening the tip of your knife. As you run the fine-grained rock along the blade's edge with carefully forged precision, your mind wanders astray. When you had befriended the young warrior you were well aware of his destined path as future olo'eyktan, yet the innocence of your blossoming friendship could not have foretold the future challenges the title would hold. You couldn't be upset, not really. Never have you met a boy so gentle and kind.

The arrows he shoots are clean and merciful, crafted with the promise of being wielded by a mighty tsamsiyu. He is dutiful, following his fathers orders with a precision and care that you admire greatly. The love he holds for his family is evident, shining through whenever he burdens the blame for Lo'ak's youthful antics, or when he promises to help Tuk with finding materials for her crafts, despite not really having the time. He is what you could call the clans golden boy and his family's pride and joy, yet he does not wear the attention like a badge.

Maybe it was only inevitable that you would fall for him.

Each time his calloused yet gentle fingers graze yours as he quietly lifts a woven basket of fresh herbs from your hands, insisting on carrying it himself, butterflies bloom in your stomach. A soft violet warmth colours your cheeks when his touch lingers at the small of your back, guiding you carefully through the crowd, or when his features soften and golden eyes find yours across the firelight during a shared meal. The elders called you kindred spirits; you insisted he was far too good for you, yet you could never deny that you were cut from the same cloth, two halves of a single whole. Still, the suggestion makes your heart flutter.

So his confusion at your recent hesitance was understandable: a carefully planned retreat here, a practiced indifference there. Even you could admit you had grown distant. Yet as his responsibilities mounted, his absence cut deeper than you expected. Caught between his fleeting touches and a silence you had not yet learned to endure, it became impossible to quiet the relentless thoughts gnawing at your mind.

The snap of a twig pulls you from your trance. You glance up as Neteyam approaches, his face lit with a mix of curiosity and concern.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he states simply, moving to settle beside you.

You give him a quick glance, eyes shying away with a soft huff before returning to your task at hand.

“I’m not avoiding you,” you whisper after a moment, the tension tightening the air between you. He raises a brow at that. You feel his eyes linger, cautious and searching, as though he is trying to unravel what has driven your behaviour these past few weeks. Neteyam turns his body towards you, shifting his weight, and studies you silently. You can practically feel the thoughts swirling through his brain as he processes your words.

After what feels like an eternity, he lets out a breath, the sound a mixture of frustration and resignation. "You think I wouldn't notice?" He asks, the tone of his voice gruff yet somehow tender.

You let his words settle into the silence, accompanied by the cooling breeze of the nearing eclipse. Because of course you knew he’d notice. He always did.

You notice his movements as he leans back against the tree, the muscles in his arms flexing lightly. He's quiet, watching you, reading your every move like an open book.

After a moment, he lets out a sigh, his golden eyes never leaving your face. "Why are you pulling away like this, huh? Talk to me, paskalin."

You sigh softly, mentally debating how to tell him that you really weren't avoiding him, that instead you were trying to reason with your feelings and his absence.

He notices your sigh, the way your shoulders slump slightly. It's clear something is on your mind but he remains quiet, letting you find the right words. His gaze never wavers from you however, his expression a mix of concern and anticipation. He's waiting for you to talk, to explain why the distance between you feels more like a chasm.

Slowly, you still the motion of your sharpening knife and set it carefully against the lush floor of the canopy. You will yourself to look at his worried expression, feeling a deep pang in your heart for causing his distress.

"Really 'Teyam, I haven't been avoiding you on purpose. I've just needed some time."

His expression softens at your words, the concern creasing his brow smoothing out slightly. He shifts a little closer, his eyes now studying your face intently. "Time? You've never needed time before," he points out gently, his voice low and soft. "Did I do something to upset you?"

He looks genuinely confused and hurt, the thought that he might have inadvertently done something to drive you away clearly troubling him. Your heart stirs.

"No, of course not Tey," you smile at him, tilting your head in adoration. He looks like a lost puppy without having you by his side. Cute, you think. "I guess it's just hard to explain. But you've been so busy with your Olo'eyktan training, when could you have possibly had the time to upset me?" you ponder with a light giggle, bringing your hand to delicately rest upon his bicep.

He visibly relaxes at the sound of your soft laugh, the corners of his mouth lifting into a faint smile. The simple touch of your hand against his arm is more than enough reassurance that you're not as upset as he feared.

"You have a point there," he concedes with a nod, the tension in his shoulders loosening. His fingers instinctively find yours, gently intertwining them before he continues.

"Then why the distance, yawne? Something's bothering you, I can tell."

You look at him with a small pout, unwilling to bare your affections to your long-time best friend. Still, you can’t ignore his quiet patience – or the warmth of his hand in yours, his thumb now brushing slow, reassuring circles over your knuckles.

"It's not that easy Tay," you frown.

He catches your frown and his brow furrows in response, his thumb still continuing its comforting motion over your knuckles. He squeezes your hand softly in reassurance as his gaze locks on yours.

"Try me. Maybe I can understand more than you think." His tone is gentle, almost pleading for you to share whatever burden you've been carrying. He can see the doubt in your eyes, the hesitation, and it's torture.

You giggle at his pushiness, finding it comically endearing. "Hmm, soon," you promise. "But I'm hungry, and I know you are too olo'eyktan-in-waiting," you tease the unofficial title, standing from your spot beneath the cloud pine tree while feebly pulling on his arm.

He rolls his eyes at your playful banter, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Oh, very witty," he remarks, his words dripping with sarcasm. He allows you to pull him to his feet, standing to his full height beside you with a bemused look on his face.

As you start walking back towards the village, he slings his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close against his side. "You think you're real cute, huh?" he teases, his voice holding a hint of affectionate annoyance. You blush at his remark, head bowing low; his arm perched casually on your shoulder sending a tingling sensation through your body.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

The sun has dipped below the horizon, casting the forest in a beautiful array of orange and purple as the evening slowly creeps closer. You and Kiri are currently engrossed in an animated conversation, deep into a topic that you don't quite remember how you arrived at.

As you talk, you catch sight of Neteyam in the distance, engaged in a game with his younger brother and a few of their friends. The warm light of the setting sun dances across his face, highlighting his sharp features and making him look regal and handsome.

"I thought it was really fascinating but- hey!" Kiri snaps her fingers breaking your trance "Are you listening to me?" She questions with a knowing smirk on her face.

"Yes, sorry! I'm just a bit... distracted" Your sentence trailing off as you peer over to him once more.

"Yeah, distracted for sure. That or you're ogling at my brother." She remarks, raising her eyebrow with feigned annoyance.

"Kiri!" You squeal, blushing shyly at the insinuation. Kiri laughs at your reaction, finding your embarrassed response quite amusing. She pokes your shoulder playfully, her tone slightly teasing.

"Oh come on, you make it so obvious." She grins, her eyes flickering over to her brother who's still immersed in his game with Lo'ak.

"I can see the way you look at him all the time. You've got it bad." She continues, her smirk widening as she enjoys your bashfulness.

“Is it really that bad?” you ask, nerves creeping into your voice as you suddenly become far too invested in the bowl of Kxan’epe resting in your hands. Kiri watches you for a moment, her smirk softening into a knowing smile. She leans in slightly, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret.

“Honestly? It’s kind of sweet,” she admits. “And between you and me… I think he looks at you the same way when he thinks no one’s watching.”

Your head snaps up, eyes wide with surprise – but before you can respond, Neteyam appears beside the fire, wiping sweat from his brow after the game. His golden gaze lands right on you, lingering just a second too long before he smirks and reaches for his food.

Dinner crackles with quiet tension – and unspoken feelings hanging thick in the air like smoke from the flames.

Kiri catches the exchange and gives you a sly wink before scooting away with a quiet laugh, leaving you very much on your own.

Neteyam settles down beside you, close enough that his thigh brushes yours. He grabs a piece of roasted teylu from the fire pit with practiced ease.

“You two look real cozy over here,” he says lowly, voice laced with playful suspicion as he eyes your flushed face. “What were you talking about so secretly?”

You swallow hard, suddenly hyper-aware of every point where your bodies touch.

“N-Nothing important,” you stammer slightly; bad move.

He turns his full attention to you now, one eyebrow arched in that infuriatingly attractive way. “Hmm. You only stutter like that when you’re lying… or nervous.” His voice drops an octave. “Which is it, yawne?”

A soft breeze rustles through the leaves above as everyone else laughs and sings around the fire; but in this moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you beneath a sky beginning to sparkle with stars.

And then… he leans in just slightly closer.

You force a shrug, lips tugging into a nervous smile as you mumble, “Just Kiri teasing me – she likes stirring trouble more than the stew.”

He freezes for half a heartbeat, just long enough for you to realize you’ve said it out loud.

Then that slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face; the kind that makes your stomach flip and your pulse jump. He turns fully toward you, one arm now draping over your shoulder like he owns it.

"Baby," he murmurs, voice velvet and warm as firelight, "you don't gotta whisper things like that to yourself."

Your breath catches.

His thumb strokes the edge of your jaw as his golden eyes lock onto yours. "Say it again."

You can't move. Can't speak. All you do is stare up at him, heart hammering under the weight of his gaze... and suddenly all the pretending feels stupid.

Kiri was right.

You've got it so bad.

And worse?

He knows.

Mustering the last of your courage, you hum softly, letting your gaze meet his through fluttering eyelashes. Okay, I'll bite, you think. "I said," you begin, your hand drifting up to rest lightly on the arm draped over your shoulder, "It's hard not to look when you look like that”

The smile on his face changes from something teasing into something almost... soft. Warm. Possessive. He shifts again and then... he's suddenly right against you, thigh brushing yours, his thumb still tracing gentle circles along your jawline.

"That right? You like me all sweaty and out of breath?" he purrs, a hint of self-satisfaction in his voice. "Like seeing me playing with the boys like that? Working up a sweat and showing off… does it make you feel all hot and bothered, baby?"

"Mhm" you nod, suddenly at a loss for words.

He lets out a low, satisfied hum, almost like a growl, deep in his chest. The sound alone makes your spine tingle.

“Then why’ve you been running?” he murmurs, lips close to your ear again. His breath is warm, sending shivers down your neck. “You think I haven’t noticed? Every time I get close… you flinch. You look away.”

His hand slides from your shoulder down to your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer, enough that you can feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of your clothes.

“You’re not the only one who feels it,” he whispers, voice rough now with something raw and real. “I lie awake at night thinking about how soft you are… how sweet you taste when I kiss ya in my dreams.”

Your breath hitches.

He whispers your name so tenderly this time it almost hurts "you don’t gotta hide from me."

A beat of silence.

Then.

“You want me?”

He doesn’t need an answer, he already knows. He waits anyway.

“Of course I want you- how could I not?” you admit softly. “It’s just been hard, with all the weight of your new responsibilities.”

"I never see you anymore" you frown.

His expression softens, the teasing falling away to a look of understanding. One corner of his mouth twitches up into a wry smile. "You think I like it any more?" he asks, fingers toying with the soft fabric at your waist. "Being the future olo'eyktan... It's been nonstop training. And don't even get me started on dad's expectations."

He lets out an exasperated sigh, frustration clear in his voice. "I'm lucky if I get a couple hours of sleep each night, and even then dad has me working again in the morning."

“And I appreciate that - truly. I can’t imagine how heavy that expectation must be,” you say, pausing before adding more quietly, “I only meant that I miss you.”

His whole body stills at your words.

Then, slowly, he turns to face you fully, his hand sliding from your waist to cradle your jaw, calloused thumb brushing over the curve of your cheekbone like he’s memorizing it.

“Miss me?” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “You think I don’t miss you, baby?” A low chuckle escapes him – warm but laced with pain. “I dream about you every night and wake up aching.”

He leans in until his forehead rests gently against yours, breath mingling in the small space between.

“You’re not just some girl I flirt with,” he whispers fiercely. “You’re my paskalin… my heart.” He pauses. "And I hate that duty keeps stealing me from you."

A beat.

Then, with a smirk tugging at his lips, “So maybe… we stop letting it.”

You close your eyes, heart fluttering at the weight of his words. “Yeah? You mean it?” you ask, voice laced with hope. His thumb drifts from your jaw to skim across your parted lips, his gaze locked onto the spot in a possessive way that makes your knees weak. He leans in closer still, closing what little distance was left.

"Oh Paskalin," he murmurs huskily, lips practically brushing yours now.

"I do."

The intensity in his eyes, the rough quality of his voice, it's overwhelming. The only thing keeping you from sinking into a puddle is his firm grip on your hip.

"You're mine," he says, low and possessive. "And I'm yours."

His words linger.

“Okay, can you two get a room? Ew.” Kiri’s voice cuts through the moment, making both of you jump apart, hands still brushing. Her tone of mock disgust doesn’t match the cunning smirk and mischievous twinkle in her eye as she flicks her gaze between you and Neteyam. Neteyam lets out a low curse, his grip on you tightening instinctively.

"Damn it, Kiri," he mutters, shooting a glare at his sister, his face dusted a light shade of purple. "Can't even get one moment without you interrupting."

He's clearly irked, but there's a hint of amusement in his voice too. He knows Kiri's been playing matchmaker for years.

Kiri simply laughs, her hands thrown up in mock surrender. "Hey, don't get mad at me for speaking the truth."

Neteyam shoots a final, half-hearted scowling stare at his sister before heaving a sigh of resignation. He's about to say something when Lo'ak saunters up, an amused grin plastered across his face.

"So... you guys finally pull your heads outta your asses?" he quips, glancing back and forth between you and Neteyam.

Kiri lets out a laugh, leaning against her brother with a knowing smirk. "About damn time, huh?"

Lo'ak chuckles heartily, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Damn straight. I was tired of Neteyam moaning every day about how he 'pined for his sweet berry,'" he mimics in a high-pitched voice.

Neteyam shoots him a scathing look, clearly mortified at the revelation that he actually was that obvious. "Oh, shut up Lo'ak. Like you'd know anything about relationships."

You giggle at the sight of the two brothers bickering, but beneath the amusement, a quiet thread of contempt stirs in your chest. You and Neteyam – this night, this near kiss – it really had always felt inevitable.

Neteyam turns back to you, his expression softening instantly. He takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together.

"Yeah," he says simply, voice low and sure. "We were just gonna go get a room."

Kiri raises an eyebrow. "Oh really?"

"Mmhm," Neteyam smirks, standing and pulling you up with him, smooth as ever. "Gotta make up for lost time... baby."

You flush hard at the word, heart skipping, and before anyone can say another joke or tease, he leads you away from the firelight, toward the quiet path that winds through the trees.

Behind you, Lo'ak mutters, "Fucking finally."

And Kiri whispers with a grin, "Took them long enough."

But you don’t look back.

Because for the first time in weeks… maybe months… there’s no distance between you at all.

Just warmth.

And promise.

And him.

It's been so long! with the release of the new avatar movie and the influx of fics, i felt compelled to write a little something. hopefully I'll be sticking around a bit longer this time!

xluvablz

❀: “healers hands”

pairing: neteyam sully x f!omatikaya!reader

summary: neteyam keeps coming to your tent; first with wounds, then excuses, then nothing at all. teasing and care turn to trust and unspoken feelings. it isn't until he returns with a serious injury that the truth finally unfolds.

warnings: pure yearning. mostly fluffy and a bit of pining, but there is also some angst.

word count: 1.9k

tsakarem - tsahìk-in-training. paysyul flower - water lily.

The first time he limps into your healing tent, he’s all arrogance and sharp edges.

A gash runs down his thigh; deep enough to need stitching, shallow enough that he insists it’s nothing.

"Sit," you command, voice steady despite the way his towering frame fills the space.

He smirks, blood dripping between his fingers, but obliges. "Didn’t take you for the bossy type, tsakarem," he teases surveying your features for a reaction.

You ignore him, gathering yalna bark and spider silk. When you kneel beside him, his breath hitches, just once, as your fingers skim his skin.

"This will sting," you warn.

He leans in, voices a low rumble. "I like it when it stings."

You swallow hard.

With practiced care, you smooth the thick paste along the wound, nimble fingers gentle against his skin. Taking the thread, you begin stitching the edges closed, each careful pull precise and steady, your focus unwavering as you work to ease the pain and ensure the wound heals cleanly.

He barely moves beneath your touch, jaw clenched as he watches you from beneath his lashes. You murmur soft reassurances as you work, reminding him to breathe, your thumb brushing lightly over his skin whenever his muscles tense.

When the last stitch is tied off, you press a clean cloth over the wound, checking your work with a quiet nod, before sending him off.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

Three eclipses later, he’s back – this time with a bruised rib.

"Fell off a branch," he mumbles, wincing as you prod the swelling.

You arch a brow suspiciously. "You? The great warrior… fell?”

His laughter is warm, and closer than necessary. "Maybe I just wanted to hear you scold me again."

Your hands hesitate over his ribs. His heartbeat thrumming beneath your fingertips. “You need to be more careful, Neteyam,” you chastise, unimpressed at his new-found clumsiness.

Your hands still, clicking your tongue. “One day I won’t be here to patch you up.”

You reach for the salve anyway, smoothing it over the bruise with gentle pressure. He hisses, then relaxes, leaning subtly into your touch as if the pain is worth it just to be here; under your careful hands and watchful gaze.

His smile falters, just a fraction, at your words. “Yeah,” he murmurs, quieter now. “But you are now.”

A soft smile tugs at your lips. You glance up at him, warmth settling in your chest as your thumb traces a soothing circle near the bruise.

“You enjoy this too much,” you mutter, face falling serious, trying to sound stern.

“Maybe,” he replies softly, eyes fixed on your face. “But I trust you.”

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

The next time, his excuse is thinner than mist. You have to suppress the urge to roll your eyes.

A shallow scratch across his palm; barely deserving of the poultice you press to it.

But when your fingers linger, he turns his hand, his touch grazing yours, almost – almost – intertwining. The contact sends a quiet jolt up your arm, unwelcome yet undeniable.

“Tell me, healer,” he murmurs, fingers brushing over your knuckles, voice low and deliberate. “Do you tend to all the warriors… or just me?”

Your pulse stutters. “Just the reckless ones,” you scoff, forcing a lightness into your tone as you dab the salve more firmly than necessary.

He doesn’t pull away. Instead, his grin widens, all trouble and fangs. “Lucky me.”

You finally look up at him then, catching the way his eyes linger – soft, searching, entirely too familiar. For a fleeting moment, neither of you moves, the air between you taut with something unspoken, before you clear your throat and tug your hand free, pretending your heart isn’t racing.

“All done.”

He gives you a knowing look, head tilting slightly. Your gaze does not meet his, and your fingers writhe gently in your lap. He rises silently uttering a careful ‘thank you’ before disappearing behind the flaps of your tent.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

Then comes the night he arrives with no wound at all.

Just a single, perfect paysyul flower – rare, delicate, glowing softly in the dark.

"For you," he says, uncharacteristically quiet.

You stare at his outstretched hand offering you the delicate bundle of petals. Your body is enveloped by a warmth akin to the sun-soaked shallows of the forest, where the water holds heat long after the day has faded; it paints your face with a faint violet tint, and causes a familiar fluttering sensation in your chest.

His fingers brush yours as you take the flower, his touch too deliberate to be accidental. The petals glow softly between your hands, casting shimmering reflections across his face, illuminating the quiet intensity in his golden eyes.

"You… brought me this?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, and can catch the scent of earth and morning dew clinging to his skin.

"Couldn’t think of a better excuse to see you," he admits, voice rough at the edges. His thumb grazes your wrist before he adds, softer. "Missed you."

The confession lingers in the air between you, fragile as the flower’s glow.

And then –

His hand slides up to cradle your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, lips hovering so near yours you can taste his breath, sweet with the nectar of the forest.

You don’t.

The moment hangs, heavy with anticipation. His thumb is tracing circles on your jaw, his gaze locked on your lips. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and just slightly desperate.

And then, from outside the camp, the sound of footsteps and a familiar voice rings through the night…

"Neteyam!"

His head snaps up, eyes flashing with irritation, before he lets out a sigh, almost annoyed. "Damn it,” he mumbles with a small huff.

"What is it?" he calls back, not taking his hand off your cheek. Your skin burns where he holds you, blush deepening into a plum hue.

A few moments later, a figure appears behind the tent flap. Lo’ak peers curiously, his gaze flicking between you and his brother for a beat. He arches a brow, taking in the sight of Neteyam’s fingers now shifted underneath your chin, before an amused smile creeps onto his face.

"What’s this?" he asks, feigning surprise. "Am I interrupting something here?"

Neteyam shoots him a warning glare. "What do you want, Lo’ak?"

Lo’ak doesn’t miss your reaction, or the way Neteyam’s grip tightens slightly, his thumb pressing into your skin like he’s silently staking a claim.

A slow, shit-eating grin spreads across Lo’ak’s face.

"Ohhh," he drawls, crossing his arms. "So this is where you’ve been sneaking off too lately." His eyes flick to you, mischief dancing in them. "Funny how you only seem to get hurt when she’s on healing duty, bro."

Neteyam’s jaw clenches – hard.

"Lo’ak," he growls, voice low and dangerous.

But his little brother just laughs, backing away with his hands raised in mock surrender. "Alright, alright! Sorry to interrupt... whatever this is." He wiggles his eyebrows. "But dad wants you for something."

And with that, he ducks out of the tent, leaving behind only the sound of his fading laughter and tension thick enough to choke on.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

Weeks pass.

Neteyam stops showing up with flimsy excuses. The playful tension between you fades into something quieter, made of lingering glances, fleeting brushes of fingers – but nothing more.

Then, one night, the tent flaps burst open.

Lo’ak stumbles in, panting, Neteyam slumped heavily against him. Blood soaks through his chest wrap, his breaths ragged. Your stomach plummets.

"What happened?" you demand, already moving, hands steady despite the panic clawing up your throat.

"Stupid ikran hunt," Lo’ak grits out, lowering him onto the mat. "Tried to show off – got clipped mid-dive."

Neteyam’s eyes flutter open, hazy with pain. But when they land on you, his lips twitch weakly. "...Missed you," he slurs, delirious.

Your hands tremble as you peel back the fabric, revealing the deep gash across his ribs.

"You idiot," you whisper, pressing a dapophet pad to the wound. "You could’ve died."

His fingers brush your wrist, barely a ghost of touch. "Worth it… to see you… scowl like that."

Lo’ak groans. "Oh my Eywa, half-dead and he’s still flirting."

You ignore him, focusing on the way Neteyam’s breath hitches when your fingers trace his skin; gentle, but firm.

"Don’t you dare bleed out on me," you murmur, voice thick.

His hand finds yours, squeezing weakly. "...Wouldn’t dream of it, baby."

Your heart pounds out a desperate rhythm as you work, trying to stay focused on the task at hand, but he keeps making it worse. Every ragged breath, every brush of skin, every stolen glance sends adrenaline surging through your veins.

Lo’ak watches quietly from the side, his amusement replaced with concern. He knows better than to distract you, but his eyes flit between you and his brother with growing curiosity.

Neteyam’s gaze is hazy, fever-bright, but still filled with an almost reverent fascination. His fingers find your wrist again, a little firmer this time. The salve stings, but Neteyam doesn’t flinch. His eyes stay locked on yours, even as sweat beads at his temples, even as his fingers twitch against the mat.

You lean closer, checking the stitching. "You’re lucky it didn’t puncture your lung," you mutter, trying to ignore the way his breath hitches when your fingers graze his bare ribs.

His hand suddenly catches yours, pressing your palm flat against his chest, right over his pounding heartbeat.

"Feel that?" he rasps.

You freeze.

"That’s you," he continues, voice rough with pain and something else entirely. "Every time you touch me – every damn time – it does that."

Your breath catches.

Lo’ak, still hovering near the entrance, makes a strangled noise. "Okay, I’m out. I’ll just– go tell Dad you’re not dead."

The tent flaps swish shut behind him, a silence following.

Neteyam’s thumb strokes your wrist. "Stay," he murmurs.

"I’m your healer," you whisper, trembling. "I have to."

He shakes his head, wincing at the movement. "Not… what I meant."

And then – weak but determined – he tugs you down until your forehead rests against his, his breath mingling with yours.

"Stay after," he clarifies, voice raw. "When I’m not just… another wound to fix."

Your pulse thrums where your skin meets his.

Outside, the wind rustles the leaves. Inside, something fragile and long-avoided finally snaps.

You let out a breath shakily, his words settling deep within you. He had stumbled his way into your tent – your life – and had made a home out of your heart.

"I could never leave you," you begin. "You know that. I've always been here– waiting." You take another breath, letting it fill your lungs before you continue, "I will always be with you.” Another breath.

“I see you.”

His grip tightens around your hand, desperate and reverent, words feeling as though they are caught in his throat.

“Say it again," he breathes, voice cracking.

You don’t hesitate.

“I see you.”

A shudder runs through him – half pain, half relief –before he tugs you even closer, your lips hovering just above his, sharing the same air, the same heartbeat.

"Took you long enough," he rasps, but there’s no bite to it, just warmth; just yours. “I see you.”

And when his eyes finally flutter shut from exhaustion, his fingers stay tangled with yours.

Finally. Finally.

loveshotzz

Playing with Steve’s hair

Just a little blurb about playing with a stressed out baseball cap wearing Steve’s hair in the back of a broken down WSQK van.

warnings:my blog is 18+, friends to lovers, a little hint of touch starved steve, season five moody steve.

Steve sighs when you slip the baseball cap off his head, readjusting where he lays on your lap in the back of the WSQK van. The dark chestnut of his hair is even messier than usual, and a little damp from the sweat that had collected inside the worn in nylon. Your fingers slide through the thick silk of it, pushing his signature swoop back, the blunt ends of your nails scratching along his scalp. He groans at the feeling, the deep stress lines that had made a permanent home on his forehead softening, smoothing out so you can see the secret freckles that kiss his sunkissed skin.

One big hand wraps lazily around your leg, the pad of his thumb rubbing circles on the back of your calf. The other lays across his stomach where his camo shirt rides up, revealing an even darker happy trail that leads to a full thatch of hair on his chest you’ve only seen a few times and tried desperately not to stare. Lately though, it’s felt an awful lot like he wants you to. You weave your fingers through the thick of it, twisting them just a little bit before tugging lightly.

”Jesus Christ that feels good.” He grumbles, his eyebrows marrying in the middle, jaw going slack when you do it again.

“It’s supposed to feel like I’m pulling it out.” You whisper quietly, doing your best to help him get rid of the headache that turned into a migraine stranded on the side of the road.

You scratch along the side of his head, running your fingers through the baby hairs that curl around his ear, making him hum like you’ve hit a sensitive spot. He turns his head to the side in a silent plea to do it again, the tip of his nose pressing into your tummy. You wonder if he can feel the butterflies there. Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth you oblige him, the grip he has on your calf tightening just a little bit. A loud breath escapes through his nose, before it nuzzles deeper into you. The windowless back of the van blocks his sensitive eyes from the sun outside, leaving just a small warm beam that shines against the signal tracker. The tiny fuzz of the shag lining dancing inside the light of it.

”How much longer till Henderson said they’d be here again?” He mumbles, scooting his body closer, his hand sliding further up your leg until he's holding your thigh.

“Like an hour.” You sigh, the tips of your fingers smoothing out the annoyed wrinkle that forms on his forehead at the news, daring them to slide down the slight stubble that lines his jaw.

He doesn’t respond, instead he just angles his face up in a way that encourages your wandering hands to keep going, a low appreciative hum slipping from between his lips when they do. You trace down the slope of his nose, lashes tickling at the tops of your cheeks feeling the heat of his breath against your skin.

”Maybe uh - “ He clears his throat a little, turning his head to look up at you with pretty hazel eyes despite the lavender bags underneath them. “Maybe tonight we could sneak away and watch some of the movies we snagged from Family Video before they locked it down.”

Your fingers pause on their path along his favorite spot around his ear, trying to figure out if Steve Harrington was asking you out during the end of the world.

”I mean only if you want to you know, like no pressure, it’s totally coo-“

”Only if I get to pick the movie.” You interrupt with a poor attempt at being coy, but it seems to work with the way red starts to paint his cheeks.

”Deal, I mean you have like five to choose from but whatever you want.” He smiles like it’s easy, like it’s not something you haven’t seen him do in what felt like months and it makes your heart skip a beat.

ilostmywingz

SOFT SPOT

with mike wheeler

𑣲 summary, mike was stubborn - well at least he was supposed to be, but when it came to you he seemed to fold instantly, also having the biggest soft spot for you ever

𑣲 contents, childish arguments, bickering, fluff, downbad mike and y/n, gf! reader, y/n not used, cuties in love… i apologise this is short and not read through much ;(

request

You had Mike Wheeler wrapped around your pinky finger - tightly, he clung there for his dear life. The rest of the boys in the party - Dustin, Lucas and Will - had all realised it though you were more so oblivious or perhaps desensitised to the dynamic, not knowing any better.

It had been this way since day one. During recess sometime kindergarten, Mike had been bickering nonstop with another boy named Theo. Theo had been pouring all the water out of his water bottle into the sandpit, causing the sand to clump and grow dark much to Mikes dismay, and you were in the opposite corner building a sand castle whilst dirtying the shorts your mom had requested for you to keep clean.

"You're ruining the sand for everyone else!" Mike had stomped, brows furrowing in frustration and his arms crossing over his chest watching as the bottle leaked out the last few drops.

Theo had bent down with a smile that seemed wicked at the time, taking a handful of wet sand and launching it towards Mikes shoe. "Shut up, buttface!"

Before Mikes could argue back, or go through with his fantasy of flinging Theo across the playground to the next town over, you had spoke up. "Would you both shut up? I'm not loosing time off next recess because of you two dummies fighting."

ilostmywingz

PERFECT

with mike wheeler

𑣲 summary, you were the perfect popular princess that hawkins needed and mike was… well not that. though with your friends bullying dustin, you needed help making it up for said boy - so mike helps and maybe stares too hard during it

𑣲 contents, fem! reader, y/n used, bullying, andy being a douche, reader being a sweetheart, mike being head over heels, kissing, hickeys

request

Perfect. That's exactly what you were. Absolutely fucking perfect. You held an award winning smile that never seemed to falter, the sun seemed to follow after you as if it went to you for advice. You were popular, the star of Hawkins, though humbly declined the cheer girls constant wants for you to join the team - "It's not my scene." you laugh softly with a shake of your head.

It confused others, because if cheerleading wasn't your scene, what was? You hung around the cheer girls, hung around the basketball guys - absolute douches who didn't deserve to be grazed by your presence - Mike would know.

Well really he didn't. He'd never had a full conversation with you apart from silently sliding his sheet across the table when he saw you were struggling in science, and you'd always thank him with that same smile he thought about at night.

hanwritesthings

Future With You

pairing- steve harrington x fem!reader,

warnings: SPOILERS FOR FINALE, set in the epilogue, reader is mentioned to be dustin's sister but it is not an essential plot point. the finale finally pulled me out of my writer’s block so i hope you enjoy!!

You examine your reflection in the mirror closely. The shower was still running in the small ensuite connected to the bedroom, steam from Steve’s shower slowly drifting in through the crack in the door. The two of you had gotten back from Steve’s championship game not too long ago and were now getting ready to go to The Party’s graduation. Well, not his championship game, but his team’s.

thebestandworstdayofjune

we can play house, we can bed down

summary: Steve crashes girl's night, but now you're wondering why this wasn't the plan all along wc: 1.4k warnings: fem!reader, talks of having kids, clingy lovesick Steve, Max and El being meddlers, sugary sweet fluff all the way through a/n: I am so beyond obsessed with these two, I want to write them forever. This is part of a larger series, but this can be read as a stand alone! I am so fearful about the finale, this is 100% how I am coping <3 previous part here! | materialist here! | ask box here!

“What are you doing here?” Your boyfriend, your lovely, sweet and incredibly clingy boyfriend, was standing on your front porch, loaded down with shopping bags and a hopeful expression on his face.

“What do you mean ‘what are you doing here’?” Steve’s head cocked to the side in the way that made your heart twirl. “You needed ice cream.” He held up the bags emphatically. “So I brought ice cream.”

Those little liars.

“Just call him!”

“Please, come on!” Your girls were not patient creatures.

“I want ice cream too, but Steve is busy.” you sighed, hoping that they would drop it soon. You were ecstatic to have them both there for the sleepover you’d been promising for weeks, but they were on a tear tonight.

“Who would he be busy with? You’re here.” Max snarked, not looking up from El’s nails, which were being painted a lovely shade of neon green.

eventhorizonsposts

a little more time | steve harrington x henderson!reader

word count: 7.4k

summary: The last 18 months have been hard on everyone, but Dustin is spiraling out of control. Steve will do anything to make sure you and your brother are safe, together, and loved. Crawls be damned.

content warnings: some s5, vol 1 spoilers, Steve pov, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, mild descriptors of blood, everyone is actually full of anxiety in this one, no use of y/n

author’s note: first fic!! I liked the idea to match the titles to a song that was playing as I was writing. love this one. I was really thinking heavily about how paranoid Steve could be, especially when he wants to protect something/someone. This is also very self indulgent so sue me! Please go easy on me this time, but I’d love to hear your thoughts. Enjoy!

Steve isn’t a stranger to having someone in his bed. There was once a time where this house—this room—was a revolving door of pretty sighs and low chuckles. A time where he thought Nancy was the one for him, and that there was nothing to be afraid of in this world outside of his parents’ vague yet ever lingering disappointment.

But now his room is at a standstill, void of all those old ghosts. The only sound being the soft huffs of air coming from the other side of his bed.

From you.

He doesn’t really know how long he’s been sitting here watching you. Long enough for the faint glow of moonlight to slowly slip down from its starting point near you brow to where it now cast a blue beam across the curve of your lips. Longer still that he has started timing those soft puffs of air, counting every rise and fall of your shoulders.

It’s a habit he picked up the night after everything had gone to shit over a year ago. Something in the devastation on Lucas’s face as they had rushed Max to the hospital had made Steve himself grow almost unfairly paranoid about his own girlfriend.

What right did he have, he’d ask himself. You hadn’t been selected to be one of Vecna's victims. You’d made it out of the Upside Down, Steve had made sure of that.

And although any scrape or bruise on you was an affront to everything Steve stood for…he was grateful that that’s all they were. Your eyes still clear, hands still carding absentmindedly through his hair when you can. So seeing you sleeping—albeit fitfully—is a blessing that he acknowledges every night.

Of course, he always has room for more habits. Picking fights with Jonathan for instance. You had sat primly in the passenger seat of the van just days ago, shaking your head while halfheartedly chastising him.

“Don’t be mean Steve. He’s going to assume you are going for a hostile takeover.”

There wasn’t a single hint of real anger in your tone though. In truth you also loved pressing buttons, especially when it came to Jonathan and Nancy.

You’d never quite forgiven them for playing hooky at Murray’s while you and Steve nearly became demodog food—no matter what their intentions were.

Steve pulled out a Bopper, another recently formed habit. Tearing at the wrapper he smirked over at you, “Maybe I want to keep him on his toes.”

“Well,” you let out a snort. “Then we will just have to divide and conquer.”

We. There was something so warm about your demeanor despite everything. You never left any room for doubt or distrust.

From the moment Dustin had dragged Steve to your house and thrown you into a world of monsters and lab experiments, you’d somehow decided he was worthy of something. Of trust, of being in your orbit. Of love.

It reminds him of standing in the soft rays of sunlight at the start of spring.

Now, the November chill curls up into his bones as he slips out of bed to perform his newest habit: checking on Dustin.

The doors to both Steve’s bedroom and the guest room across the hall are wide open. An unspoken rule when your brother spends the night. Harsh snores erupt from under the quilted blanket, currently the only sign in the cover of darkness that Dustin’s face was swollen beyond belief.

Whatever happened to him tonight was not a bike accident, that Steve knows for sure. His tough love tactic hasn’t exactly been successful lately, but honestly he’d take Dustin screaming at him over silence any day. The only white flag they had been able to fly these days was you.

Dustin had completely turned in his seat to stare at Steve once he explained what a shit show tonight had been. Jonathan was still fuming in the back of the van, headphones firmly on his head.

The words that had been thrown around between them didn’t bother Steve—not really. He was more offended that the older Byers brother still couldn’t get it through his thick skull that Steve has moved on. Happily even. Besides, he had bigger fish to fry than his ex and her very insecure partner.

“You let her go in there?” Dustin gritted out, rings glinting under the streetlights as his hands clench around the fast food napkin Steve shoved his way.

Steve rolled his eyes, “Henderson I don’t let her do anything. I didn’t even know about it until they were already on the way to the hospital!”

Truth. Though he was scared shitless, he’d never deny you the right to fight. Despite your qualms with Nancy, there had been zero hesitation in your bones when Will had given the group some sort of warning about the attack on the Wheelers house. You knew how to handle yourself, he’s seen it. Even if it does scare him.

“I asked one thing of you! You’re supposed to be protecting her and instead you can’t even figure out how to prevent a power surge,” Dustin’s voice cracks with disbelief as he swipes at the dried blood on his chin. “Why wasn’t she with you in the first place?”

Steve cradles his head in one hand as if that could dampen the headache rolling in, “She wanted to stay at the station in case you showed up you little shit.”

Dustin scoffs at that, “You told me you wouldn’t leave her alone.”

That’s it. Against his better judgement Steve slams on the brakes, throwing everyone in the van forward.

“Jesus Christ Steve! We’re losing the signal, what are you doing?” Jonathan yells, fumbling with the headphones as he braces himself against the built in desk.

Steve ignores him completely as he throws the van into park and fully swivels in his seat to look at the boy beside him.

“She isn’t alone. And you told your sister that you’d be careful. That you’d stop doing this,” he gestures up and down Dustin’s frame. “You remember that, huh?”

Dustin opens his mouth to say something but Steve presses on, “Do you know how worried she’s been tonight? Everyone was wondering where you could possibly be and if it had been up to her, we would have cancelled the damn crawl to look for you.”

“Guys come on!” Jonathan presses, “We are wasting time.”

Dustin’s blue eyed gaze pierced into him, but Steve didn’t let up on his stern expression. The silence of the night pressed into them, tall rows of corn swaying slightly in the breeze. Something snaps in Steve as he turns back into his seat.

Slowly, he shifts back into drive before muttering, “Yeah, we are wasting time. I’m looping around one more time and then we are going to the hospital.”

Jonathan sputters in protest, “But what about Hop? The crawl-”

“I don’t give a damn about the crawl Byers!” Steve shouts. “We lost him two hours ago. I don’t care what you tell your mom either, but we need to regroup. Take the van for all I care. But your girlfriend’s parents are in surgery. Holly is missing. And I’m going to get my girlfriend.”

Steve was never one to back down from anything, but there was an unfamiliar edge in his tone that silenced the other two. Not that Dustin was saying anything at the moment.

Jonathan finally radioed in to Joyce back at the Squawk, speaking quietly as if to soften the blow that Hopper would have to be on his own for now. Steve glances just once at Dustin blotting his nose tenderly, before turning down Cornwallis towards the glow of Hawkins.

If he was being totally honest with himself, Steve felt truly terrible about the Wheelers. Of course he did. But he was more concerned about minimizing any sort of panic within Dustin. You weren’t injured, that much he knew, but lack of wounds wouldn’t stop Dustin from the warpath he’s been on since Eddie.

At one time you were the protector. The older sibling that went above and beyond to get your brother and his friends out of harm’s way. You had the scars to prove it.

Now, Dustin treats you like you’re made of glass.

It had been little things with Dustin since Eddie’s funeral. You’d woken up one night to him tucked into bed with you—something he hadn’t done since you had moved to Hawkins. One night turned to every night, but you never questioned it, and he would disappear before your alarm went off in the morning.

He’d taken to constantly checking the batteries on your walkie, even when you’d said they were good. Steve even began to notice that your brother was nudging you as far away from doors and windows as humanly possible. As if you’d be snatched away if he wasn’t paying attention.

When you’d moved in with Steve after your graduation, Dustin didn’t riot. He just…adapted. Part of his excuse for showing up constantly was to avoid explaining why he was up at all hours after a crawl to your mother. She was thrilled at the very thought that you’d still be watching him.

But nobody was more thrilled than Steve himself. His parents didn’t make an effort to return home from Chicago once he’d told them about the quarantine situation. The last phone call he’d gotten was a quick happy birthday from his mother. Then of course she ended the brief call with a, “Do try to keep the house in order, dear.”

And order he kept. He knew they wouldn’t be coming back. You’d purchased soft yellow curtains that made the living room feel cheerful for once. Furniture was rearranged, and closets were filled.

It began to feel like a home.

So when Dustin showed up past the military’s curfew with an overnight bag and a small stack of books, Steve didn’t give you the chance to wonder if he was alright with it.

“Henderson!” he grinned wildly, before pulling Dustin inside. Your brother’s eyes were still dimmed but he had an expression of calm once Steve had slapped a soda in his hand and turned on the TV.

He had then disappeared upstairs for so long that you went looking for him. You’d found him in the guest room, your brother’s books stacked on the bedside table and extra blankets piled high at the foot of the bed.

“Baby?” you had a smile in your voice that made something in Steve’s heart swell.

“Do you think he would want his room painted?” he blurted out.

The truth was Dustin didn’t really care, but Steve shoved various paint chips into his hands for weeks until a deep green was begrudgingly selected.

It was much easier getting your brother to join in on the actual painting. You would bring them lemonade and hear Dustin laughing along to whatever Steve had come up with. Steve didn’t miss the glassy smile you gave him before popping out again.

The guest room project turned into the fence needing to be touched up, and that turned into your request to have the shutters done in blue.

Steve would come home with paint cans and Dustin would silently consent to assisting. He never pushed a topic, never brought up the bats or Eddie at all. He was just grateful to have the old Dustin back, even if it was just for a few moments at a time.

School made everything worse. Of course there was the Hellfire Club issue. But then there was Dustin’s unwillingness to forgive the student body as a whole. Nearly everyone at Hawkins High was guilty of complacency regarding Eddie’s death in his eyes—almost more than Vecna.

“His grades are fine,” you’d said one night at the dining table. “But he barely sleeps as it is. He seems…anxious.”

Steve frowned at the wrinkles of worry etched on your forehead. Trying to get you to relax he grabbed onto your hand gently, clearing his throat before saying lightheartedly, “I think we still have my mom’s sleeping pills.”

“Steven, we can’t sedate him.” you say sternly, though he can tell your heart’s not in it.

“Hey,” he tuts softly. “We’ll watch him. I just wanted to give you the nuclear option first.”

And you laughed before taking another bite of lasagna, meaning Steve had won another battle. He was just as concerned about Dustin as you were, but he was prepared to take the brunt of whatever this grief was transforming into.

The grief, it turned out, melded into near crippling anxiety about you.

You’d recently taken up a librarian position, offered to you in the wake of quarantine—no masters degree required for the time being. You and Steve had a schedule to maintain on top of the crawls, and Dustin needed to be in school, which meant less sleepovers.

Steve always tried to make sure that he was present with you at the Henderson residence at least once a week. He liked the idea of a family dinner. Of Claudia hugging him tightly and setting that week’s bouquet of flowers into a vase with unabashed glee. But more than that, it was an opportunity for you and Dustin to have time together.

Steve knew that it was going to be a problem when a surprise military shipment came in three months ago. You had to feign a cold to get the two of you out of family dinner last minute, leaving Dustin with your mother.

“Yes,” you said with a sigh of exasperation into the receiver. “No-Dustin, I won’t break the antenna. Yes, I’ll be careful.”

Steve stood next to you, frame leaning casually against the wall as he assessed the tone you were taking with your brother. He could just make out the muffled sound of his name through the line before you let out a sigh, shoulders slipping forward in defeat.

“Yeah, okay. I love you,” you hold the phone out to Steve. “I’m going to grab our snacks.”

Steve gingerly takes the phone as you start down the hallway, but not before ghosting his lips across your forehead.

“Hey Dust,” he greets.

Just a speck of dust, that’s what you called him when you were little. The ease of the nickname has embedded itself into Steve’s vocabulary.

“You have her mixtape?” Dustin asks bluntly.

Okay so this is how it’s gonna go tonight, Steve thought to himself.

“Yep. The soothing tunes of Fleetwood Mac are safe and sound.”

And they are, along with a variety of your favorite songs that he has in the van. And the station. And the living room stereo.

In fact, he has tapes for each member of the party scattered everywhere—spent the early months of quarantine holed up in the station, recording from the turntable. But no matter who the tape was for, he made sure the third track was Gypsy. For you.

There was a pause of silence that almost made Steve think Dustin had hung up. Then, softer now, “Be safe.”

Click.

And you were safe. Steve still hauled ass through town but went easier on the turns, determined to keep you in your seat. Everything went without a hitch, and you returned home in the early morning hours hand in hand.

“How long do we have to sleep?” you mumbled into his shoulder as Steve fiddled with the house keys in the darkness.

Steve sighs, silently cursing himself for not remembering to turn on the porch light before you left the house.

Squinting at his watch he replies, “Three hours? Maybe three and a half if we shower together.” He didn’t need extra light to know that you had matching smirks.

“Jesus, you two are disgusting.”

Steve didn’t think as he dropped the keys, shoving you behind him as you both turned toward the disembodied voice.

But you registered the familiar cadence much quicker than Steve. Poking your head around him you narrow your eyes before calling out your brother’s name.

Light erupts from the other end of the solid wooden planks, casting shadows along the side of the house. Dustin is holding court in one of the rocking chairs, flashlight in hand.

Steve sucks in a breath of air, “Henderson, what are you doing?”

Dustin avoids the eye contact before muttering, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“No dude, what are you doing outside my house at 3 in the morning?”

Dustin’s lips slip into a frown so similar to yours that it makes Steve blink, “I couldn’t get in.”

“Oh jeez Dust,” you say softly. Steve crouches down, feeling for his key ring while you pull your brother into a hug, “Does Mom know you are gone?”

Finally Steve jams the silver key into the lock, yanking open the door. He can see Dustin shaking his head out of the corner of his eye.

“Come on. In.” Steve calls, waving the two of you inside before firmly shutting out the rest of Hawkins.

A robotic sort of instinct took over him as he flicked on the kitchen lights and started pulling out ingredients. He can feel the two of you watching him in confusion as he yanks the egg carton out of the fridge.

“Henderson I can hear your stomach growling from here, will you grab the frying pan.”

There was a flurry of motion from you and Dustin behind him as he tried to wipe the grin off his face. The three of you ate breakfast as the sky gradually lightened, speaking softly and forgoing sleep entirely.

Steve made it a point to press a copy of the house key into Dustin’s palm a few days later. He wanted your brother where he could keep a close eye on him. And sure, there was good and bad days with Dustin—with all of you if Steve was being honest.

This was something Steve knew he couldn’t fix. There was no manual when it came to death and monsters and the loss of a friend. How can he shield both you and Dustin from any more disaster when you were still grasping at straws with the crawls?

It was these things pressing on his mind some weeks later as he played a laughing track for Robin.

“And don’t forget kids, please do not try to catch the mystery dandruff with your tongue. I can promise you that it isn’t snowing in August,” Steve scoffed at that one as Robin turned toward the records. “But I do forecast a slight drizzle with this next one by the Eurythmics.”

Here Comes The Rain Again started up and Rob reached across the panels to switch off the microphones just in time for the side door to slam open.

Both DJs flinched as the metal bounced against the wall, rattling the picture frames and plaques lining the walls. And then Dustin was bursting through the doorway, hair disheveled and chest heaving as his mouth moved a million miles a minute.

Steve scrambled to tug off his headphones, nearly overturning the stool he had been perched on in his haste to exit the sound booth.

Every worst case scenario from more Russians to Henry Creel standing outside the building flashed through his mind.

“Henderson,” Steve crossed the room in quick strides. “What happened?”

“She’s missing,” Dustin panted, dropping his backpack to the ground.

Steve’s face screwed up in confusion, “Missing?”

Names and faces flashed across his mind. Robin was right here, Max wasn’t disappearing from the hospital. Erica? Nancy? And you were-

At the same time, Robin stopped beside him, “Aren’t you supposed to be in class right now?”

Dustin ignored the pair of them, dropping to the floor by the couch and pulling out the crowbar Steve had hidden under there, among other blunt objects in the building.

“She’s not answering on the walkie. And I went by the library but Rose said she left in a hurry. An emergency.”

Library? The gears finally started turning again for Steve.

“Dustin, hold on a minute. Your sister-“ he began.

The younger boy actually gripped onto Steve’s shirt. Robin’s eyebrows shot up, disappearing behind her bangs.

“I forgot to radio her at lunch,” Dustin choked out. “I knew something would happen and now-”

“Dust?”

All three heads snapped up toward the sound of your voice. You had paused at the mouth of the hallway that leads to the kitchen and store rooms, balancing three steaming mugs of coffee.

Between your cozy look in Steve’s sweatshirt and the comically different shades of the coffee (black for you, extra sweet for him, and Robin somewhere in the middle) he felt an endearing, feather-soft tug on his heart.

Confusion clouded your eyes as you looked between Steve and Dustin. Steve was suddenly very aware of how unhinged your brother looked at the moment. Lowering his hands from where they were locked onto Dustin’s shoulders, Steve slipped the crowbar out of the boy’s hand.

You had set down the mugs by now, and Steve tried to give you a look to convey the severity of the issue.

“Rob, the music,” he mumbled tugging her back toward the booth.

She snatched up both their mugs as she trailed after him, giving you an apologetic smile. And there they sat, switching between Bowie and Wham!, ELO and even a Metallica song. That one was for Eddie.

Robin made sure not to look over at the siblings, but Steve wouldn’t look away. He didn’t need to hear through the thick glass to know that Dustin had begun to tearfully explain himself, talking with his hands as much as his voice. Your own gestures mirrored his, hair bouncing as you pointed toward the basement and then toward Steve himself.

Tension was obviously bleeding out of Dustin as his shoulders sagged further the longer you spoke. Though he knew you weren’t yelling, you had taken on a stern expression that made you look more weary than angry.

He only looked away when you finally threw your hands up in defeat before pulling your little brother into a desperately tight hug.

It was honestly a miracle that they hadn’t been pulled over on their way through town. Steve’s mind was clouded with half-baked jabs from a grumbling Jonathan and a deep need to just take you home.

“That was a red light back there in case you couldn’t see,” Dustin mutters beside him, voice nasally from the tissue shoved up both nostrils.

Swallowing a sigh, Steve’s hands tighten around the steering wheel as he immediately tries to relax his eyes. He knows he needs glasses. Could have used them since Starcourt, but he isn’t quite ready to admit that particular defeat.

“Yeah? Well keep getting the daylights beat out of you, and we can go to the optometrist together.”

Dustin doesn’t fight back, some of the anger fizzling out the more Steve states the obvious—this was no bike accident. Steve takes a moment to really look at the boy beside him, flashing back to that day at the Squawk.

Your ‘emergency’ wasn’t entirely fabricated. Murray had gotten through the check point with a shipment, including an obscene amount of ammo for Hopper. Along the way to the station for drop off, the truck had given out leaving Murray completely vulnerable to soldiers showing up for food only to find bullets and grenades. You could hear the frantic code coming from the walkie buried in your bag in the library’s break room, taking off in a hurry to grab the gear and go.

Steve and Robin were more than happy to see you arriving earlier than expected with your miniature haul. And in your haste to get inside the station, you abandoned your radio in the car—not that Dustin had remembered to contact you at all.

In fact, he was actually having casual conversations with his friends for once that day. It was only during his history class that it dawned on him that he hadn’t done his self imposed duty of checking on you like he’d been doing all semester.

Now, as Steve brings the van to a screeching halt he can’t help feeling a little useless to both Hendersons tonight.

“Byers get out. Go find your girlfriend,” Steve makes a point to maintain eye contact from the rear view mirror. “I’ll find a spot to park this thing.”

Something akin to understanding passes over Jonathan’s face, but he doesn’t say anything before slamming the back door and ducking inside. Silence overtakes the vehicle as Steve maneuvers into a parking spot and shuts off the engine.

Neither boy looks at the other, they both just stare forwards at the large hospital wing in front of them.

Then Dustin gives Steve the biggest shock of the night.

“I’m sorry.”

There is an audible crack of his neck as Steve whips his head around to look at the curly headed boy, “Did you get a concussion or something?”

Dustin rolls his eyes but presses on like he didn’t even hear him, “I was a little harsh.”

Steve nods his head, but says nothing. Dustin lets out a deep breath before continuing.

“I didn’t mean to miss the crawl. Or make you worry,” he looks over at Steve now. “Do you…think she’s mad at me?”

“No! God no,” Steve nervously runs a hand through his hair, debating whether he should put his full emotions on display before just going for it. “She hasn’t been mad this whole time. Anxious maybe. And a little scared, but she just wants you to be okay. As okay as we can be stuck in this town.”

Dustin quietly huffed a laugh, and it feels like Steve just won the lottery.

He presses on, gentler now, “I know you miss Eddie. Hell, I think I might too. But you’ve got to remember that your sister is strong. And a little crazy. I know you don’t want anything to happen, and I can’t promise these things away anymore. All I can tell you is that she loves you more than the whole world. We both do. I will always do everything I can to protect her. Can you trust in that?”

Dustin stares at him for a long moment, but Steve doesn’t flinch from it.

“Yeah,” Dustin answers quietly. “I trust you.”

“Good,” Steve claps him on the shoulder. “I can work with that. Just remember to trust her. Now take those napkins out of your nostrils, it’s making it look worse.”

Dustin fumbles with his makeshift first aid solution before they head into the hospital.

Steve takes the opportunity to lay down the law as they navigate towards the ICU, “Remember, she’s fine. I don’t know what she saw for sure, but she isn’t physically hurt okay?”

“Yeah, got it.”

By the time they finally found the right waiting room, it was just Mike and Lucas.

“Dude what the hell happened to you?” Lucas asks dumbfounded as he takes in Dustin’s injuries.

“Long story, I can explain later. What happened to Nance and Jonathan?”

Mike finally snaps out of his stupor and looks at his friend, “She needed some air.”

Steve doesn’t want to be insensitive about all this but he breezes right past the whereabouts of the eldest Wheeler. Putting a hand out he interjects, “So where is Henderson right now?”

Lucas tenses slightly as if deciding how much he wants to say.

“She…wanted to go see Max. I gave her a minute.”

Dustin hesitates for a moment, shuffling his feet before wrapping his arms around Mike. Lucas turns to Steve with a look of utter astonishment, but Steve just shrugs as Mike finally raises his arms to return the embrace.

He quickly takes the opportunity to slip down the too familiar hallway towards Max’s room. If the guys want to have a heart to heart, he could join in on another day.

As he neared room 415, he could just hear the soft cadence of your voice from the slightly cracked door.

He pauses just outside, arm braced against the door.

“The White Rabbit put on his spectacles,” you murmur before becoming slightly more animated. “‘Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?’ he asked.”

You were reading aloud, much like you have been each time you’ve come to visit Max. Lucas insisted that any talking or music, even if it isn’t Kate Bush, has to do some good. You’d taken that seriously, and now have a small stack of classics in the cupboard next to the stereo.

Steve already feels the tension ease from his shoulders as he quietly listens. And then he feels a presence from behind. He doesn’t need to turn around to know that Dustin caught up to him, but he does it anyway. With a pointed look at the younger boy, Steve shuffles just enough to the right to let him go inside first.

A short gasp from you echoes in the sterile air. Then, “Dusty, what the hell happened?”

Still in the doorway, Steve expects Dustin to launch into a watered down explanation, but instead is met with silence aside from the constant beep of Max’s heart rate.

Steve pushes open the door just to nearly run into Dustin’s smaller frame. Distract. Sooth. Do something, Harrington.

“Hey baby,” Steve says softly stepping around a still frozen Dustin to get to you. You are clutching onto a large book in one hand, the other resting on top of Max’s.

You look up at him for a moment and he can barely stave off the rush of air he takes in at the look of devastation on your face. The blood splattered on your cheek.

In fact you are covered in it, dark red staining the sleeves of your once yellow sweater and set in the knees of your jeans where you had to have been kneeling.

“I’m fine,” you say. But it’s too monotone. Void of the usual lilting sound of your voice. You’re looking at Dustin again realizing just how bad you look, before gently setting down the book next to Max’s too pale arm. “It’s not mine Dust. I was trying to help Mr. Wheeler.”

Jesus Christ, Ted. Steve flashed on awkward yet friendly dinners from long ago. If Ted objected to his relationship with Nancy back then, he didn’t show it. Didn’t show much of anything at all, but he didn’t deserve to practically bleed out.

You set your lips into a firm line before looking between the two boys sporadically, silver lining your eyes. He can see you are trying to hold it together and not freak out your brother even more.

You‘ve never been a crier, always feeling worse than when you’ve started, but Steve can tell you are on the cusp of a breakdown. The last time you looked at him like that was when he’d had to pull Dustin off of Eddie’s body.

Steve stops at the foot of the bed, and turns back to look at Dustin. The boy’s lips are wobbling slightly, but he still hasn’t made a move towards you. Backpedalling, Steve abruptly walks back to him and pulls him into a tight hug.

Dustin lets out a shuddering breath, which only makes Steve squeeze him tighter before whispering, “She’s fine, yeah? Not a scratch on her. She’s just a little upset.”

Dustin violently nods his head, and Steve can feel the damp spot growing on his sweater.

“I ca-I can’t. I need to-,” Dustin starts pulling away, clearly making for a hasty exit.

“Hey hey it’s fine. Just take a minute. Here,” Steve pulls out his wallet, shoving the leather into Dustin’s hand. “Go get something to drink, something for your sister too.”

Dustin doesn’t hesitate, spinning on his heel before disappearing down the hall. Steve sighs as the door shuts, the red glow of the exit sign across the way washing over his face.

He doesn’t get the chance to turn around before you slam into his back, arms wrapping around his middle. He can’t help the small grunt of surprise that escapes him, but manages to keep his balance as his hands naturally search out for the pulse points of your wrists.

“You know, the football team really could have used some of your coaching on their tackle last season,” he attempts to tease. “Maybe they would have actually won a game.”

You let out a wet chuckle, the vibrations radiating across his upper back, “Yeah right.”

Steve takes the opportunity to loosen your hold just enough to spin around, “No, no I’m serious. They could have been state champs with that move.”

The ghost of a smile you carry morphs into something somber as he cups your cheek.

Deflecting is no longer an option, he knows.

“Are you alright? Like, seriously?” Steve whispers.

It was like opening the floodgates. He isn’t even sure if you can see as you cling on to him.

“It was a lot of blood Steve. I don’t even know how he survived the trip to the hospital with those wounds. I was trying to help stop the bleeding,” you pauses for a gasp of air. “And when i put pressure on his chest it just sprayed everywhere. What if I made it worse? And Karen…Nancy is devastated.”

Steve wraps you up tighter, shushing you lightly. Across the room Max lies in her bed, the florescent light casting a blue hue onto her already too-pale face. A flash of the letter she wrote to him, still unopened in his dresser drawer, comes to him.

Closing his eyes, he plants a kiss on the top of your head, “It’s not on you. None of us knew that Vecna would attack the Wheelers.”

You are barely listening, “And Dustin, God! What the hell happened to him tonight. Did he tell you anything? We can’t send him home like that, my mother is going to skin us alive.”

“Okay,” Steve winces, somehow believing that Claudia would in fact haunt him for life if she got a look at her baby tonight.

“I’m going to let him explain that to you, preferably at home. Besides, he is more worried about you anyway.”

Home. He used to hate that place, and now he was all too eager to get you and Dustin back inside. As safe as he can get you—considering that demogorgons are just attacking at random now.

“After finding the Wheelers like that,” you croak out. “I thought that something must have attacked him too.”

Sort of from the looks of it. “I know. He scared me.”

You step back from him then, tears tapering off. Part of him naturally follows your moments, like he always has. But he lets you wipe at your eyes, and then your unruly hair.

But as your fingers snag at the knots, his eyes catch the blood stains on your sleeves again and he can feel himself pale at the sight. He knows it’s not yours. That you are full of life right in front of him.

Regardless, he understands Dustin more than he thought he did as he strides to one of the cabinets lining the far wall. Yanking one door then a second and third, he scans the shelves until he finds a stack of towels.

Turning towards you again, he sees that you’ve already placed Alice in Wonderland back onto the stack and are now fiddling with Max’s blankets.

“Baby, come here,” he calls, hand held out between you.

You smooth out one more nonexistent wrinkle among the sheets before coming to him. Leading you into the attached bathroom Steve flicks on the light as the door clicks shut. He immediately turns the hot water in the sink on, watching carefully for the steam to curl up before sticking part of the towel under the stream.

“We are going to get you all cleaned up and then we are gonna go back to the station, yeah?” he says, still testing the temperature with his fingers. You like it scalding to be perfectly honest.

Your lack of response gains his attention and he looks up into the hanging mirror to find you already looking at your reflection. Panic swells in him as he whips around to fully look at you, your hands shaking as you try to rub off the blood on the side of your neck.

“Hey no. I’m gonna get it off of you okay?” he says quickly.

“I ca- I can’t wear this,” you start yanking off your beloved sweater.

“Okay that’s fine,” Steve sheds his jacket to pull off the sweater underneath, leaving him in his white undershirt. “Just look at me for a second. Don’t look at the mirror.”

Thankfully, you oblige him. He quickly pulls the sweater onto you before guiding you to the counter. You don’t comment when he lifts you up to sit on the granite, hands steady on your hips before grabbing the towel again.

You still don’t talk when he gets the damp portion back to the necessary temperature and brings it up to your cheekbone. So Steve does the talking for you.

“You know, when they finally let us out of this town we are going on that road trip,” his eyes dart to yours for a moment before he continues gently wiping. “I figure by that time Dustin will have picked out a college, or a college will have picked out Dustin, and we can do the grand tour. Embarrass the hell out of him, get matching sweatshirts.”

Your lips wobble in a tiny smile at the thought while he starts working on the other cheek.

“And then you and I are gonna see the sights. I’m talking through the mountains, over rivers—everything. We’ll avoid the bison and get a picture in front of Old Yeller.”

You snort at that, “Steve are you talking about Old Faithful?”

Thank god she laughed, he thinks. “Yeah that. This is why you are the lovely navigator and I am the chauffeur.”

“I love you,” you say quietly. It’s not a confession. You’ve both said it enough times for it to become less of an announcement and more of a reminder.

Steve gives the corner of your mouth a quick kiss before dragging the towel down your neck, “I love you too.”

By the time he’d gotten you cleaned up, you’d exhausted any tears left over. Slipping out of the bathroom, the pair of you find Lucas. Steve tries to convey a look of understanding toward the boy who has taken up vigil next to Max.

“Hey, you okay?” Lucas asks gingerly, clutching onto his paper cup of coffee.

“Yeah. We’ve had better crawls I’d say,” you mutter, clutching onto the ruined knitting of your sweater. Steve isn’t a laundry wizard, but he knows that he’ll probably need to purchase a replacement.

The door bursts open to reveal your brother, looking thankfully less pale than when he’d left, “They were out of Coke on three floors but I finally found one.”

He holds the can out to you, but you pull him in for a hug instead, “Thanks Dust.”

You gingerly take the can from your brother and grab his hand before looking over at Steve.

“We will be back in a few minutes, yeah?”

Steve nods, and watches as you two go before letting out a sigh.

“You two make a good team.”

Steve looks back at Lucas, mildly stunned.

“Max thinks so too,” he continues from his chair. “She kinda bet Mike money that you’d get married before we started college.”

Steve barks out a laugh, “When was this exactly?”

“That summer at Starcourt. You both should have worked at Scoops with how much she was there.”

Steve smiles fondly at the memory. You had been with him a lot that summer. Robin was wary of him at first, but once she found out you were willingly dating him, you all became friends. The truth serum probably helped the bonding process though.

“Henderson keeps me honest, I’ll give you that. And I’ll put in a good word with the boss,” he wiggles his eyebrows. “See if we can win Max that cash.”

Lucas grins before looking back at the redhead, “I miss her, you know?”

Steve presses a hand gently on top of his shoulder, “Yeah. I know.”

Time doesn’t feel very linear in the hospital to Steve. Every visit has felt like both 10 minutes and a lifetime have passed. He couldn’t say for sure when you and Dustin returned, or when you all said loving ‘see you later’s’—never goodbye—to Max, or worse yet when the three of you took your leave in the station van.

The Wheelers will be in surgery for a couple more hours at least, and with the way Nancy was breaking down, Steve was more than willing to sweep for the tracker on the way back to the station.

Dustin crawled in to the back, but places a hand on the back of Steve’s seat as he hands over his wallet, which in all honesty, Steve had completely forgotten about.

“Thanks dude,” he says over his shoulder.

Dustin doesn’t reply to that. Instead Steve hears more shuffling before something is tossed into his lap. Looking down in the faint light of the parking lot, Steve squints at what he realizes is a peanut M&Ms package.

“What’s this for?” surprise laces his voice.

“They didn’t have any Boppers left. I got you the next best thing.” Dustin mutters before pulling the headphones over his hat, leaving no room for conversation.

Steve looks over to you, only to find you staring straight ahead with the softest smile he’s seen all day. Shaking his head, he maneuvers out of the lot and down the street.

Instinct has him reaching for your hand, but you are already meeting him halfway, fingers intertwining gently. You squeeze his hand sporadically the whole way home, but he knows all the meaning behind it.

I love you, we are okay, I’m here with you.

It was the same pressure on his hand that pulls him out of his thoughts in his darkened hallway now.

“Honey, what are you doing up?” you whisper groggily, hand cold—always colder than his own.

“Making sure he is still breathing under there,” he whispers back. You don’t respond, the silence forcing him to turn and look at the frown on your face. “What?”

You let out a huff meant to be stern but just ends up sounding incredibly sweet to Steve. “You worry too much.”

You pull him back toward your room, and he cranes his neck once more to make sure Dustin doesn’t wake up.

“Okay, no. Tonight was very worrying actually,” he speaks a little louder as you crawl into bed again, silently holding the blankets open for him to follow.

“I know,” you say once he has finally settled in, pulling you into his side. “But you need to sleep. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a mess.”

Right. Hopper and El going MIA. The Wheelers. Holly.

Steve melts into you, nose buried in your hair, sweet with the scent of your shampoo.

“I just feel like if I don’t have you two within sight you’re going to evaporate into thin air,” he says after a moment.

“It’s not all on you,” your breath tickles his neck. “We are dealing with this the best we can. I think Dustin might try a little more though.”

Right. Your heart to heart had revealed as much as he had suspected. Andy and his sidekicks of course.

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation, “He hates me half the time.”

You press soft kisses against his clenched jaw, trying to relax him, “He loves you like a brother. Fights with you like one too. I think he is just as worried about you as he is about me.”

Steve feels like you threw a bucket of ice water on him, “You think so?”

You give him another peck, “Yes. Don’t let the attitude fool you, love.”

And something unclenches in his chest, at least for tonight. You stare at each other smiling despite everything.

Finally you readjust yourself, getting comfy half on top of him. “Tell me about something good. Something happy.”

You relaxing like this finally makes him relax as he hums in thought. Suddenly he flashed on the revelation in Max’s hospital room, “Well. Apparently the kids have money on the timing of our wedding so…”

You laugh loud, disbelief on your face as you start asking rapid-fire questions.

And it doesn’t matter that he hasn’t asked—doesn’t even have a ring. These brief moments of your joy as the sun begins rising is as good as a yes.

enchantresss97

Dark Gravity - Part Six Finale part

Characters: Au!Eric Draven (Bill Skarsgård) x reader

Description: This is a Au!Eric Draven, no Shelly involved(although is another girl involved), no Roeg and no powers, other than that is still the Eric we know. He is powerful, dangerous, and infamous for his violent reputation, he’s someone people know to stay away from. A man whose name strikes fear in the hearts of many. His presence is commanding, intimidating. He’s not the type to open up, but when he locks eyes with you, there’s an undeniable tension that pulses in the air between you two. It’s hard to ignore the way he looks at you, the subtle flirting, and the dangerous charm that seems to surround him. You never imagined to meet him, but here you are, caught in a web of questions. Where will this lead? Can there be something more between you two? Will you end up friends, or is there something darker, more complicated in store? You can’t deny the tension, the attraction, it’s palpable. Could something truly happen between you and him? Only time will tell, but you can’t help but wonder: where will this take you?

Warning: (the warnings are for the whole story, not just this chapter) language, angst, drugs, alcohol, blood, violence, guns, murder, sex (at this point you know me), cheating.

Word count: 9930 yep, I know...

Ladies and gents, the moment you’ve been waiting for has arrived. The final part is here. Nearly 10,000 words long, because naturally, I had to finish it in my own style👀

THIS IS NOT EDITED!

Dark Gravity - Part Six

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