Your mate, Neteyam returns from war, pent-up with need.
MDNI, TW: Explicit sex, breeding kink, risk of discovery, overstimulation`
WC: 5k
𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𐙚
Your mate
Your child is tucked between your legs, back pressed to your stomach as he squirm, and you gently fix the little braids he destroyed hours ago.
Every time he moves, you guide his head back, fingers practiced and patient.
The camp is loud in that way it gets when everyone’s pretending they aren’t listening
Whispers start out soft and then rise like a tide, rolling through the home and over the dirt, until even you can’t ignore them.
The war party is back.
Your shoulders tense before you even turn. The RDA has been a ghost in your life since you were old enough to know what “sky people” meant.
You didn’t grow up with the Sullys, but you grew up with the same stories, the same smoke, the same metal scars in the forest. They were everywhere. Always watching, always taking.
Your child yanks away from your hands without warning, a sound of delight ripping from his throat.
“Sa’nok, look! Look!” He squeals, feet slipping on the dirt as he bolt forward.
You don’t have to ask where he’s going. Your eyes find him before your mind catches up.
Neteyam.
He’s taller now—broader, carved out of long missions and too many close calls—but at the same time he looks almost exactly the same.
Same quiet mouth.
Same eyes that hold too much.
His voice is deeper.
body bigger.
presence heavier.
but under all of that, he’s still him.
He stands beside Jake in the center of camp, shoulders squared, posture mirroring his father’s almost perfectly.
It makes your stomach twist.
The way he moves, the way he holds himself, it’s like watching a reflection—Jake in front, Neteyam just a step behind, always in the shadow.
But it isn’t just that.
The armor sits heavy on his chest, the matte surface swallowing the torchlight. A bulletproof vest, straps tight. A pistol on his right thigh, human-made metal gleaming against blue skin.
There is so much gear on him that there’s barely any Na’vi left to see at first glance.
He looks like a younger, sharper version of a man born on Earth, not on Eywa’s land.
You never admit it out loud, but you hate it.
Your child reaches him first, practically launching into his legs.
“’Ey-tan!” He squeals, using the nickname they decided on themselves.
Neteyam’s head snaps down, for a breath, the war and the RDA and the line of tired warriors behind him fade out.
His lips curve slowly as he scoops your child up, settling him on his hip like they belong there
because he does.
It’s been a while. Too long. His missions can last a week, a month, longer if the RDA pushes too hard. There’s no pattern. Just absence, then sudden presence.
It makes building a bigger family hard.
Every time Eywa grants you both a quiet moment, your child somehow senses it and chooses that exact time to start whining, or crying, or needing something.
He glances up, and finally, his eyes find you.
Everything around you blurs.
He doesn’t hide the way he looks at you.
His gaze drifts over your face like it’s an old painting he’s scared to touch too fast, taking in every line, every freckle, every scar. He doesn’t look away when Jake speaks.
He doesn’t look away when warriors clap his shoulder. His attention keeps circling back to you, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.
When the debrief is finally over, he breaks away from his father and heads straight for you.
As he gets closer, your heart kicks up, stupid and loud. The older he gets, the rougher his expression seems—his jaw tighter, eyes harder, the weight of command settled on his shoulders—but when he’s in front of you, it’s like time skips. He looks at you the same way he did when you were both just kids sneaking off to the forest: soft, amazed, a little disbelieving that you’re real.
He stops right in front of you, your child perched between you both, his arms tangled around his neck.
“I missed you guys,” he murmurs, voice deep, warm, a little tired around the edges.
He leans in until his forehead rests against yours, your noses bumping, breath mixing. Your child giggles between you, dirt feet kicking against his thighs, making the moment less perfect and more real.
You close your eyes for a second, letting yourself breathe him in—sweat, smoke, faint gun oil, forest, rain water.
You hate the metal, but you love him.
Both things are true, and both things burn in your chest.
Night comes faster than you want it to.
The ceremony ends in a blur of songs and clapping hands and people patting Neteyam’s back. You and he walk home together under the soft blue of bioluminescent plants, your child sleep-heavy on his shoulder.
Getting your child to sleep is a battle of its own. Hours of changing positions, telling stories, soft shushing and gentle hums. He fights it, like he’s scared that blinking too long will make his father disappear again. Eventually, his breaths even out, lashes resting against cheeks, little fingers still twisted in a loose braid of your hair.
Neteyam doesn’t come in right away. He stays out a while longer, talking and laughing with his friends, catching up with his brother. It doesn’t bother you. If anything, you understand. War clings to them; they need someone who understands the language of scars and missing sleep.
You pick up the toys your child left scattered around the hut, slipping into quiet routine. A carved ikran goes into a basket. A faded, fraying human toy–a small plastic soldier Jake insisted was “historical”–gets nudged a little further under a mat where your child won’t trip on it.
That’s when you feel it.
Warm hands slide around your waist from behind, fingers spreading over your stomach like they belong there.
You don’t jump.
You don’t need to turn to know who it is.
You lean back into him, instinctive, like your body has been waiting for this exact shape, this exact warmth.
His chest presses against your back
solid
broad
familiar.
You let your head fall onto his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. The sounds from outside fade until there’s just his breathing and the steady thump of his heart against your spine.
You stay like that for a moment, just breathing together.
Then his lips find that spot where your neck meets your shoulder, right where he knows you’re sensitive.
He plants a soft kiss there, not rushed, not demanding, just a hello that says I’m home in a different language.
You feel his smile against your skin before he pulls back slightly, his breath fanning across your neck.
There’s nothing obscene about the touch, but it’s not innocent either.
His hands slid upward, cupping your breasts
thumbs brushing over the thin cloth covering your hardening nipples.
Your breath hitches, and your fingers tighten around the toy in your hand before you set it down, forgotten.
Neteyam's touch always carried that edge—adventurous, bold, influenced by his human-tinged heritage.
He loved kneading your curves
teasing your nipples with his mouth
circling your clit until you squirmed and whined beneath him.
Your friends' tales painted simpler matings, straightforward and traditional
Their nights sound neat, almost ceremonial.
but his "American" fire brought something wilder, more consuming.
You craved it, even if it sometimes felt like uncharted territory.
Your breath caught as his palm slipped beneath the fabric, massaging with warm insistence.
Instinct arched your back, grinding your ass against the thick, rigid length of his cock straining through his loincloth
His thumbs brush over your nipples with slow, careful pressure, like he’s memorizing you all over again.
Your breath stutters.
There are many, many things you love about him, and his body is definitely one of them.
Of course the na’vi in your life had to be different.
The American.
Maybe it’s the part of him that isn’t completely Na’vi, that human-history edge that shows up in the way he touches you.
You don’t hate it.
But sometimes, it doesn’t feel entirely right either.
You never say that part out loud.
Neteyam thrust forward with a low growl, his left hand gripping your hip just above your aching core, pressing down to force harder friction.
He guided you roughly, hips rolling against his thickening cock, until a guttural groan escaped him, lips nipping behind your ear.
The air shifts, heavy and thick between you.
You’re halfway lost in it, in him, when your gaze flicks to the side and lands on your sleeping child, curled up on the mat just a few steps away. His little chest rises and falls, tiny face peaceful.
Your heart lurches.
Your mind starts racing
your child
the cold weight pressed against your back—
The armor.
The realization hits like a splash of ice. You push away from him quickly, your hand braced against his chest, creating space between your bodies. His brows pull together in confusion for a breath, ears flicking, tail waving.
You can’t look him in the eyes.
Your gaze locks onto the vest instead, that ugly slab of foreign material that does not belong inside your home.
You have had this conversation before, more than once.
You told him, calmly and then not so calmly, that you don’t like metal in here.
Not guns.
Not armor.
Nothing born off this planet near your family.
But you also knew what you were marrying into.
Being mated to a Sully means living with that ugly truth: the human things keep him alive.
Flesh and arrows against bullets and ships is a story that does not end in your favor.
You’ve accepted that he uses these things out there because you want him to come back to you.
That is the only reason you made peace with it.
“How dare you wear that in here,” you whisper, your voice low so you don’t wake your child, but sharp enough to cut.
His eyes follow your line of sight, and his whole body jerks as if he’s just now realized it’s still on him.
His hands move fast, unbuckling, unclipping, ripping the vest off like it’s suddenly burning his skin.
He doesn’t hesitate—he strides to the entrance and throws it outside, where it lands with a dull thud on the sand.
Your eyes follow it, even when it’s no longer within the circle of your home.
His expression shifts just as quickly as his hands.
He’s back in front of you in a heartbeat, one palm cupping your jaw gently, fingers sliding into your hair, thumb brushing the curve of your ear. He tilts your face up until your eyes meet his.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Even his voice is softer now, like he remembers your child is right there.
You swallow, your anger and fear twisting together into something messy.
“No,” you whisper back, letting your head melt into his hands. Your fingers rise to cover his, your smaller hands wrapping around his larger ones. “It is okay.”
You say it because you know what it means if he doesn’t wear it. You say it because you remember every story of sons that didn’t come back.
He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t let you shake it off like nothing. His brows are still drawn, lips pressed into a thin line.
“Sa’nok,” he murmurs, glancing past you to where your child sleeps, then back to you. “It is not okay. Not if it hurts you.”
You exhale, your throat tight.
You want to drop it. You want to not fight tonight. But it’s there between you, heavy and choking, the same fight that never really ends, just goes quiet for a while.
His hand slides from your cheek down to your shoulder, thumb tracing soft circles on your skin. “Talk to me,” he says. “Please.”
Your jaw clenches. “You know how it makes me feel,” you answer. “We have talked about this, ‘Teyam.”
He doesn’t deny it. His tail is low, not moving, and that tells you more than any words. He’s holding back. He always is. Like there’s a dam in his chest that never breaks, no matter how hard you push.
You glance at your sleeping child again and then back at him. All your fears crash together at once—the armor, the gun at his hip, your child watching him grow up comfortable with metal on his father’s body, like it’s normal.
“I don’t want that near our family,” you say finally, your voice shaking despite how hard you’re trying to keep it level. “I don’t want metal where we sleep. I don’t want our child to think that is… safe. Or normal. I don’t want them to feel comfortable with it.”
Neteyam’s ears droop. He doesn’t look away, but his whole body shifts, shoulders hunching just barely. His tail stays still. His jaw works like he’s grinding down a hundred words he refuses to let slip out too fast.
He stays quiet for a beat too long.
“Say it,” you push, frustration bubbling up under your ribs. “If there is something in your head, say it, Neteyam.”
He looks at you, really looks at you, and you can see the storm in his eyes. For a moment, he’s silent, his chest rising and falling a little too fast. Then he takes your hand, fingers threading through yours, and gently tugs you toward the entrance.
“Come,” he whispers. “Outside. I do not want to wake him.”
He guides you out of the hut, his hand now firm on the small of your back. The night air is cooler, the soft crash of wind louder. The village is quieter now, only a few distant voices murmuring somewhere in the dark.
You stop just outside, the hut at your back, the night in front of you.
He doesn’t let go of your hand.
“You think I like this?” he starts, his voice still low, but there’s heat under it now.
Not at you—never at you—but at everything else.
“You think I want to walk around looking like them?”
Your throat tightens again.
“It feels like you are... letting it in,” you say, words tumbling out before you can swallow them. “Like you are letting this metal, these guns, this Sky People nonsense into our home, into our child. It feels like you are making this family less Na’vi.”
The moment you say it, you see it hit him.
His ears flatten further, shoulders going rigid. His tail stays perfectly still, too still. His expression goes tight, eyes flickering from your face to the glow of the village, to the outline of your sleeping child inside, then back to you.
He doesn’t yell.
He never does.
He never throws words like stones, never raises his voice at you. That’s not who he is. But you can see how much it hurts, how deeply it cuts. His mouth is pressed so hard into a line it almost disappears.
His hand lifts, knuckles brushing your cheekbone as he wipes away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen.
“You think I am less Na’vi,” he murmurs, not accusing, just… wounded.
“I didn’t—” you start, then stop, because you know you did say it, just in a different way.
You look away, biting down on your lip. “I don’t like that you feel so… comfortable with it,” you admit. “With metal. With guns. With that vest. I don’t want our child to grow up thinking that is the way. I don’t want them to think they have to become like… like them.”
There’s a long, heavy silence. Only the wind dares to make a sound.
Neteyam studies you like he’s debating whether to swallow everything again, like he always does, or finally let it spill. His fingers tighten around your hand, then loosen, then tighten again.
“Say it,” you whisper. “Please. Just say what is in your head.”
His jaw flexes once, twice, and then something inside him unclenches.
“It is outrageous not to use fire,” he says quietly, but firmly. His eyes hold yours, steady. “It is dangerous to go out there without it. Without guns. They have machines, metal birds, bullets that tear through everything. You want me to stand there with only an arrow and hope Eywa catches them all?”
You flinch, not because of the words, but because he’s right and you hate that he’s right.
“I do not wear that vest because I want to,” he continues, voice roughening. “I wear it because I want to come home. To you. To him.” His hand gestures to the hut, to your sleeping child. “You think I want our child to even know what a gun is? I don’t. I wish…” He swallows hard, looking away for a second. “I wish he would grow up and only hear stories about the RDA like some old nightmare. I wish they never see one of those ships. I wish they never learn the taste of fear in their mouth like I did.”
His hand finds its way to your waist, thumb stroking slow circles on your skin, grounding himself as much as you. “I lead those war parties so they don’t have to,” he says, quieter now. “So our child doesn’t. So our family is safe. That is all I want. Do you understand that?”
Your chest aches.
Every word sinks into you, sharp and honest.
You nod, tears stinging your eyes again. “I know,” you whisper. “I know. I just—” Your voice breaks. “I am scared. I am scared you will get so used to that metal that you forget where you come from. I am scared our child will see you and only see… a soldier. Not their father. Not a hunter. Not a son of the People.”
His expression is still angry in that controlled way he has—brows drawn, mouth tight—but his hands are gentle. He reaches up, thumbs brushing away every tear that dares fall. He does not leave you hanging, does not turn away to sulk, does not throw your words back at you. He just listens. Listens and touches you like you’re something fragile he refuses to drop.
“I will never forget who I am,” he says finally, voice steady. “I am Na’vi. I am your mate. I am his father. I am Toruk Makto’s son. The metal, the gun, the vest… those are tools. They are not me.”
He leans in closer, his forehead resting against yours again. “And I will not let them be normal to our children,” he adds. “They will know what they are for. They will know why I carry them. They will know it is not a toy. Not something to worship. Just something their father used so he could come home and hold them again.”
Your bottom lip trembles. His hands slide from your face back down to your waist, pulling you gently closer until there’s barely any space between you.
“Do you trust me?” he whispers.
The question is soft, but it lands heavy.
You close your eyes, taking a deep breath that tastes like rain water and him.
“Yes,” you say. “I trust you.”
The fight doesn’t magically disappear, but the sharpest edges dull.
You exhale, letting yourself lean into him a little more. His shoulders relax a fraction. He nods once, like he’s sealing a promise.
“Then let me protect us,” he murmurs.
You nod back. “Okay,” you whisper.
“Okay.” You say more confidently
You both stand there for a second longer, letting the night wind cool the leftover heat of the argument. Then he dips his head and presses a small kiss to your forehead. It’s simple, gentle, and it cracks something open in your chest.
“I love you,” he whispers into your skin.
You tilt your face up, eyes meeting his, and your hands slide up his chest to curl around the back of his neck. “I love you too,” you answer, because you do, more than you know how to say.
He doesn’t move his forehead from yours right away. He just breathes with you. Then, slowly, his lips brush over yours.
It starts as a small peck, barely a real kiss.
Another follows.
And another.
Between each one, he murmurs something soft against your mouth.
“I love you.”
Peck.
“I love our family.”
Peck.
“I love coming home to you.”
Peck.
The words grow fewer.
The kisses get quicker, less space for talking, more space for feeling.
Each brush of lips grows warmer, deeper, but still unhurried, like he’s savoring you, memorizing you all over again after being gone so long.
His mouth moves from your lips to your cheek, to the corner of your mouth, to the bridge of your nose, then back again.
It’s not rushed, not greedy. Just full.
He lingers at your nose, resting his against yours again, his breath fanning across your lips. Silence falls between you, but it’s comfortable, your chests rising and falling together.
He doesn’t move his face much after that. His hands do the traveling now.
They slide down from your waist, fingertips tracing the curve of your hips, the dip of your spine. His thumbs press gently into the sides of your body, encouraging you closer, guiding you without words.
The world narrowed to the space between you—his nose pressed gently against yours, warm and steady. His breath fanned across your lips, ragged and warm, carrying the faint taste of his desire.
His thumbs traced slow, maddening circles on your throbbing clit above your cloth, the friction sending heat pooling low in your belly.
“Straighten your back,” he murmured, voice deep and rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet.
You obeyed. Arching just enough to press yourself closer, to give him what he wanted.
And eywa, did he take it.
His thumbs slipped beneath the fabric now, finding the heat of your skin, the soft, sensitive flesh between your thighs.
They moved with agonizing slowness
circling, teasing, brushing over your lips in featherlight strokes that made your knees tremble.
“You’re so soft,” he growled against your mouth, his breath hitching as he felt you respond.
“So fucking wet for me already.
this all mine?”
His fingers pressed just a little harder, testing, claiming
Your mind spun in frantic circles
what if your child stirred in the next room, tiny feet padding toward the door?
Worse, what if the neighbor's fire flicked on, catching the shadowed outline of this forbidden act through the cloths?
Neteyam didn't falter, though.
That wild American recklessness burned in his eyes, unapologetic, devouring the risk like it fueled him.
The pulsing ache between your thighs only deepened, heavy and insistent, betraying every frantic thought.
"Answer me," he demanded, his voice dropping to a guttural rumble that vibrated straight through your core.
"Yes," you gasped, the word tumbling out too fast, too needy. "All yours."
"Good."
His right thumb finally claimed your clit, parting your slick folds with a slow, deliberate push
the wet sound it made echoing obscenely in the dim area, the one that always drew that feral glint to his gaze.
He knew your body like a map he'd traced a thousand times, zeroing in on the spot that turned you to liquid weakness.
Circular motions now, unhurried and precise, building that coil tighter with every pass.
His nose stayed pressed to yours, an anchor of intimacy amid the storm, but his eyes drifted downward
locked on his hand working you, drinking in the sight of his pussy, glistening and swollen just for him.
"You gonna let me put another baby in you?" he whispered, his breath a hot caress against your lips, the words dripping with possession and promise.
The rhythm of his thumb shredded your focus, words dissolving into a choked "'A-euh"—half moan, half desperate yes.
He chuckled, low and teasing, the sound vibrating against your skin. "What was that? I couldn't understand you."
You dragged in a shaky breath, hands clawing at the hard ridges of his muscles for balance as your legs threatened to give. "Ah—yes," you managed, eyes fluttering shut against the wave of pleasure crashing over you.
"You have to be quiet," he warned, thumb lifting away just long enough to make you whimper at the loss. "You don't wanna wake up Mom."
But even as he said it, his fingers plunged deeper—two now, stretching you with that perfect burn—his mouth crashing onto yours to swallow your cries, daring the quiet night to break.
Then
He came to a stop.
He sank slowly to his knees before you, hands still locked firm on your hips like iron cuffs, grounding you even as your chest heaved with ragged breaths.
Words failed you—only soft gasps escaped, your body still trembling from the edge he'd pushed you to.
His lips found your stomach, warm and deliberate, pressing a kiss just above your navel.
"I'm gonna put another baby in here," he murmured against your skin, four fingers splaying possessively across the soft plane of your belly, tracing lazy patterns that made your core clench anew.
You grabbed his wrist, clinging for balance as whimpers bubbled up, muffled behind bitten lips.
Staying quiet felt impossible—every nerve screamed for release—but you fought it, chest rising and falling in desperate heaves.
His fingers skimmed the band of your underwear, featherlight, as he planted open-mouthed kisses around the sensitive skin, teasing higher, lower, everywhere but where you ached most. Then, with agonizing slowness, he tugged the fabric down—not all the way, just enough to bare you to the cool air, stopping where a mini skirt might end, leaving you exposed and vulnerable.
Your hands stayed gripped on his wrists at your hips, anchoring you as he leaned in again.
This time, his lips brushed your clit—a soft, searing kiss that jolted through you like lightning.
You shook, thighs quivering, and he pulled back just enough to glance up, that wicked smile curling his mouth, eyes dark with triumph.
He dove back in, tongue caressing your swollen clit with slow, deliberate strokes
warm, wet, unrelenting.
His hands pressed harder into your hips, pinning you in place, denying any escape from the onslaught.
That tongue danced over every slick fold, exploring with merciless precision, like a warm shower in the dead of winter, thawing you from the inside out.
Your head fell back, spine arching as you bit your lip hard enough to nearly break skin, stifling the cries threatening to spill. To anyone listening, it might sound like nothing more than a couple lost in heated kisses—soft, wet sounds and muffled breaths—but you knew better.
No mercy came from him; his tongue claimed every inch, swirling, sucking, building that unbearable pressure.
Your hands shifted now
one tangling in his hair, guiding your thighs wider for him, opening yourself fully despite the human indulgence you usually resisted.
This, though—this you craved endlessly.
The other hand clamped over your mouth, trapping the whimpers clawing to escape, tears pricking your eyes from the overwhelming intensity.
He knew.
He always did.
No words needed—your trembling thighs, the way you bucked against his grip, the silent sobs shaking your frame told him everything.
You were crying now, tears streaking down as his hands held you steady, tongue driving you mercilessly toward shattering release.
He surged to his feet in one fluid motion, lips crashing into yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. His tongue tangled with yours, hot and demanding, letting you taste yourself on him
salty-sweet, intoxicating, a raw reminder of how thoroughly he'd unraveled you.
His left hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair to angle you deeper into the kiss, while his right fumbled urgently with the band of his loincloth.
Finally, he freed himself
his cock springing heavy and throbbing against your thigh, the heat of it branding your skin.
Lips never parting, he guided the tip to your entrance, teasing with slow, shallow nudges that made you both gasp into each other's mouths.
Eye contact locked—intimate, piercing—as he pushed in, inch by agonizing inch, stretching you full.
A shared breath shuddered out, the world narrowing to that perfect, burning connection.
The first thrusts were deliberate, unhurried, the wet sounds of your slick bodies joining a symphony only he could love. Neither of you dared voice the pleasure ripping through you, bites and breaths your only outlet.
His right arm banded around your lower back, left hand gripping just under your ass, holding you flush against him as he withdrew almost completely
then slammed home, his cock so impossibly deep it kissed the depths of your belly.
You were a wreck already—juices trailing down your thighs, mind blank to everything but him, the neighbors, the child be damned.
Every plunge hit that spot inside, coiling you tighter, Neteyam's huffs flaring hot against your neck as he fought his own groans.
He shifted, arms wrapping your back, hands splayed across your shoulders for leverage.
Then, without mercy, his pace shattered, hips snapping faster, balls slapping wetly against your thighs, each thrust burying deeper than the last, dragging cries you swallowed against his skin.
Your knees buckled; he caught you effortlessly at the waist, hoisting you off the ground, legs dangling straight, loincloth caging them shut.
He fucked you senseless like that—ruthless, owning—your arms hooking his shoulders, face buried in his neck, nails raking bloody trails down his back as skin met skin in rising slaps.
Drool slipped from your lips, body no longer yours, legs quaking violently. Mumbled pleas spilled out, incoherent, as you clenched hard around him—your climax crashing like a tidal wave.
Neteyam knew every clench, every quiver; words were never needed with him.
He eased just a fraction, thrusts slowing to deep, grinding rolls.
You whine
"I know, baby," he whispered raggedly into your ear, voice strained with his own edge.
"Just a little bit more." He chanted it with every slow thrust.
"Just a little more, tìyawn,"
"Hold on, just a bit more"
Your cunt is sore, you can’t form words at this point.
His words slurring into quick, breathless mumbles against your neck as his hips stuttered faster.
"I love this pussy." A growl.
"Eywa..." A prayer.
"I love you." A vow.
"I'm gonna'—mh—".
You felt it
his cum flooding hot and thick inside you, slow, deep thrusts milking every drop deeper, claiming you utterly. You stayed locked like that, panting, trembling, breaths syncing in the aftershocks.
Then
a wail pierced the night.
Your child.
"I got it, I got it," Neteyam whispered, chest heaving as he lowered you gently, tugging your loincloth back into place with tender care.
“ I will be back”
A soft kiss pressed to your forehead, then he adjusted himself, voice steadying.
"I love you."
"I love you too."
𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𐙚
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