#oc clan

[lolli-apop]

Weak - Varang x Reader x Quaritch - Part Two (14k wc)

After months of peace, everything shatters the moment Quaritch and Varang return from the Battle of the Great Reef. But something is wrong. Varang has lost her ability to bond with Eywa, and the transformation is immediate and devastating. The woman you loved is gone, replaced by someone consumed with violence, rage, and a spiraling madness you can barely recognize. As she slips further from your grasp, one truth becomes painfully clear: the only way to save her is to return her to the Great Mother's embrace.

Warning- Forced feeding, toxic Varang and Quaritch, light smut (not detailed), dub-con, religious trauma, chronic pain, fem-reader, polyamory

A/N- Ok... so...don't get mad at me guys but uh... its 23k. I really wanted to make this one chapter but Tumblr is forcing me to split this into two. Because of that, part three will be released in two days instead of my usual three (I'm honestly just doing this to allow myself time to like--rest) Anyway, this went a direction I hope you guys like... there's plot now... yay??? (As always I'll add a banner as a checkpoint since its long!) Part One - Part Three

Varang knew the kind of person people saw her as. She knew because she ensured that every bit of it was cultivated, curated and perfectly perfected as she wished others to see her.

She was the flame.

She was the heat that scorched its enemies and brought warmth to its allies. That danced as it spread and created a vision so tantalizing, others would reach just to feel its beauty.

Quaritch had been hypnotized just as he had been hypnotizing. In that front, the two shared an understanding to either's rage and velocity no other woman or man lived up to.

But he was no flame, not the spark of one either. He was thunder. Loud and instant. It shook the sky and brought the world shaking. Because before rain, was always the thunder.

And that thunder had grown weak.

"Ngh—" Varang swept through the sky and brought her nightwraith crashing down onto the RDA port.

The bond felt thinner than it ever had. Eywa's bitch. She hissed through clenched teeth. Her nightwraith writhed beneath her, confused and hurting, a connection that flickered in and out. The neural link stuttered against her consciousness—there one breath, severed the next, over and over until she forgot when it started and when it stopped.

The cable had been damaged.

"Move."

She slung Quaritch's body onto the ground roughly, letting the surrounding pinkskins do whatever they needed to do. His chest still rose and fell. She could hear the wet rasp of life dragging through whatever injury he sustained.

That was enough. He’ll live. She had other priorities now.

She needed to find you, and so she slid off.

"Where is she." 

Yepa appeared at her elbow—materialized, really, because she hadn't heard him approach. That can’t be...She always heard footsteps.

Yepa was still bloody from the battle, huffing out air. Gashes mapped his ribs, one eye had swollen shut. He lowered himself immediately, gaze hazed and unfocused. "The—" he swallowed, tongue thick in his mouth. "She's helping the wounded."

She stumbled, pushing past him.

Her senses felt shredded, smeared across the ground in some frothy mix of blood and adrenaline. Left had become right. Up felt like down. But she placed one foot in front of the other.

"Tsahik," Yepa murmured behind her.

His voice seemed impossibly far away.

The world tilted sideways, then over-corrected. She caught herself against a support beam, bark rough beneath her palm, and forced another step.

Focus. Y/n. Need to find…

She looked around the settlement. Smoke floated through the air. Fires still guttered in oil drums. Bodies—both Na'vi and human—lay in careful rows, awaiting the clan or the RDA corpse-ships.

There.

You were tucked behind the barest hint of shoulder poking out from a yurt, gun in hand for defense.

"Y/n!" she called.

You turned, and your eyes went wide. Relief flooded your face before you bolted across the clearing. "Varang!" Tears were already streaming as you crashed into her, laughing breathlessly, tucking your head beneath her chin and clawing at her back like you could pull her closer. "You're okay!"

Varang closed her eyes, and pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. "I am now."

"Where is Qua—"

ZAP.

Varang suddenly went still, her entire body becoming rigid. "NghAAhh!" A painful screech tore from her throat, her eyes went wide, hands suddenly clawing at the sky as though she could tear away whatever invisible thing had seized her. Every muscle locked. She couldn't move—couldn't stop moving—caught between convulsion and paralysis.

"Varang?!"

You cupped her cheeks and looked at her, now trying to find any obvious wounds, anything you could fix. Her screams would not stop, and it was as if she was unable to do anything but suffer.

What is happening…?

You lifted her top with shaking hands. No bullets, no arrows. You examined every part of her—ribs, stomach, shoulders—searching for the wound that had to be there. Blood smeared under your fingertips, but none of it was hers. And then—

You caught the flickering bioluminescence of her queue.

"...Varang…?"

Purple and wrong, swelling as if it were cooking.

You hooked your own queue to hers.

The moment the connection snapped into place, you felt it. It was a violent, repeating pulse of sensation gone haywire. It was the repeated flicker of senses simply going—neurons misfiring, signals scrambling, the very structure of thought collapsing and rebuilding and collapsing again.

Your entire nervous system lit up like it was being electrocuted from the inside. You stiffened. A scream ripped from your throat before you could stop it.

You felt your heart stutter in your chest—skip a beat, then two, then slam back into rhythm so hard it hurt.

Disconnectdisconnectdisconnect—

Your legs gave out.

You hit the ground hard, palms scraping against dirt, and Varang collapsed with you. Her weight crushed into your lap, head lolling against your thigh, and you couldn't—you couldn't breathe—

"Varang! Y/n!"

Yepa lunged forward, yanking the queues apart with both hands.

Yepa knelt beside you, both hands still gripping the separated queues, his eyes wide and panicked. "What—what was—"

You couldn't answer.

Your own tendrils felt sore now, and you felt the flicker throb only to disappear, the simplist echo of agony that left your skull ringing

Varang stared at nothing.

"What is happening...?" Yepa's voice cracked.

Behind him, more Mangkwan landed with ikran screeching and warriors bleeding from arrows lodged in arms. The settlement was quickly becoming a makeshift field hospital.

"I don't know." You barely heard yourself.

You looked down at Varang—at the way her pupils had blown wide, at the way her fingers twitched against her thigh like they were trying to grip then release.

"Go help the others, Yepa."

He hesitated. “Y/n—”

"Go."

You didn't want anyone to see her like this, and you knew—you knew—she'd curse you later if you let them.

Yepa rose slowly, backing away, before finally turning and jogging toward the cluster of wounded warriors. You watched him go, then looked down.

You hoisted her onto your shoulder, steadying her weight against you. 

Over the chaos, you caught it: Quaritch's body being hauled onto a stretcher, with burns tracing down his sides and falling into bloody drips. Your breath snagged. Two recoms grunted under the bulk of him.

What happened to him? Weren’t they winning? Thats what you overheard from a pinkskin.

Your attention quickly fled from Miles to Varang, and your breath steadied. "Come on," you whispered, fingers digging into her hip. "Please, Varang. Come on."

Varang stumbled, dragging a path of resistance that followed into streaks of ash against the hot metal floor.

You led ger to the nearest yurt—now abandoned or forgotten, you didn't care—and lowered her into the hammock with soft hands. The hammock swayed until you fisted the rope, keeping her steady. 

She didn't even resist. Didn't speak. Her head lolled back, exposing the long line of her throat. No injuries, not even there.

ou grabbed a rag, dunking it in the water bowl, and began wiping the paint from her face. Red smeared to pink. White turned blotted, only to come into nothing. You pulled the stool closer.

"Y/n…" The word was barely a murmur. Her head dipped, eyes glazing as they tracked your movements. Then, impossibly, she smiled.

"Shh." You took her hand and threaded your fingers through hers, squeezed gently. You felt the bone underneath the skin, and even that felt hot. "You're okay." You will be okay. You thought. You just aren’t now.

You began undressing her. The beads and bones and leather ties, the feathered collar you helped her make. When you reached her mother's bag, the one she never let anyone touch, you placed it right beside her head.

"I need to see the queue, Varang."

“The queue is the na’vi.” You remembered her telling you, far too long ago. “It is the great pretenders curse to all beings. To rely on the connection of all things, a reminder that we are only her children, and will forever be hers. An extension”

She’d been sitting, pelting the metal into a ring. Sweat dripped trails down her face, but she did not move to wipe the droplets. “The pinkskins do not have this tether, Y/n.” She looked at you now. Stopped. “This forever umbilical cord. That is why they can kill the Na’vi, and why Eywa cannot stop it.”

You remembered just watching her, then drifting to her belt of queues, to your own she adorned as love. “You believe Quaritch can kill the great mother—” Mistake. “---The great pretender, I mean.” You grumbled.

Her face relaxed. “Yes.”

You rolled her onto her side. The queue spilled over her shoulder, and your stomach dropped.

The bioluminescence that marked every Na'vi's neural whip had dimmed to almost nothing. The tendrils that should have been gentle and searching coiled inward as if experiencing a great dying. You didn't touch it. 

Your throat tightened. "What happened?"

Varang's jaw clenched. She turned her face into the hammock, shoulders rigid. "Eywa's bitch," she seethed. "That's what."

You didn't press. Instead, you reached for a length of soft cloth and began wrapping the queue with the kind of care you’d give to a dying thing. She’s not dying. You reprimanded yourself. Hurt. That is all. All things that can be hurt, can bleed.

Even that—the barest brush of fabric—made her twitch. A sharp intake of breath. A bitten-off sound that could've been a cry.

"I know, I know." You kissed her neck between each gentle wrap, lips pressed to sweat-slick skin. "Almost done, yawntu."

At the final tie, she went slack.

You stayed and stroked her hair until sleep took her somewhere nice and sweet. You gave one final kiss, smelled the smoke, and slipped outside.

Yepa was waiting. Of course he was.

He straightened when he saw you, concern careful into every line of his young face. "Y/n." His head dipped. "How is the Tsahìk?"

A glance back at the yurt entrance. "She will be fine." A second lie, easier than the first. You took his arm and pulled him closer. "But… in case the others ask, say she is resting after battle. Tell them not to worry."

Yepa's nod came without hesitation. "Of course, Y/n."

The camp was chaos.

Pinkskins ran in every direction, hauling buckets of water toward buildings still licked by flame. Your people carried the injured—warriors, hunters—into yurts or toward the tsahik-like healers Quaritch called doctors. Among the orange sky, voices rose in languages meshed with your peoples, and theirs.

Quaritch.

Where is Quaritch.

He’d left your mind completely, shamefully. Too preoccupied with the pressing matter of Varang becoming much less than a na’vi but still a little more than a human.

You ducked low, catching a passing pinkskin by the arm. He stumbled, eyes wide beneath the strange helmet.

"Quaritch," you said. "Where is he?"

"Shit—shit, uh… the infirmary? I think. If it's not overloaded, you might find him in the cafeteria." They tore away before you could ask further.

Your tail lashed once against the ground. You straightened, scanning the smoke-stained horizon.

Cafeteria or infirmary.

.

.

.

You had tasted the copper and antiseptic.  An-tuh-sep-tik. Human word, four syllables. You said it hidden in your tongue. Good practice when Quaritch was gone and you needed training.

"Get me a scalpel, Christ, someone—"

"Anyone have saline water?"

Overcrowded didn't begin to cover it. Tsahìk-like humans in pale coverings ran past, smeared wrist to elbow in red. Wailing rose from cots arranged in crooked rows, or other bodies resting on any surface available. Failure, it seemed, was something the RDA did not account for.

The ego of these people. Your ears flickered.

You hunched smaller, shoulders curling inward. This was no place for you. That much was clear. You pressed against the wall, trying to become nothing.

"The hell—move!"

One of them shoved your leg aside without looking, carrying something slick and dark between bloodied hands. You caught enough of a glimpse. Some organ you’d seen on a poster once. In-tes-tine. Three syllables.

You flinched. "Apologies. Where may I find Quaritch?"

The healer stopped. Sniffed. Shook their head like you were the stupidest thing they'd seen all day."Jesus—the southside industrial zone, sweetheart. We're fucking swamped here, can't you see that?"

You frowned but nodded. I do see that. But I cannot do anything about it.

More walking.

Your feet ached by the time you found him. You'd asked—what, five people? Six? Their faces blurred together—flat features, dark eyes, impatient— All too busy dying or saving the dying to care about one Na'vi looking for one man. Until finally, someone jerked their chin toward a narrow corridor. "Down there. Can't miss the big blue bastard."

And there he was.

"Quaritch." You sighed his name.

Wires snaked across his chest, disappearing beneath strange white wrappings that covered most of his torso. An IV drip hung beside him, clear liquid trickling down into the crook of his elbow. The healers had already moved on, focusing on those with worse bodies and greivious wounds. He’d been triaged.

His ear twitched first. Then a groan, low and pained. "Buttercup, that you?" He forced his eyes open. His arm jerked—tried to—but he couldn't. Nothing moved right.  “Got me hooked on a fuck-ton of morphine. Can you believe that?”

“Morphine…? Mor-fine. Two syllables." You said it aloud this time, you knew he liked it when you practiced his language.

"Yeah, sugar." A ghost of his usual grin. "That's right. Morphine. Makes my head feel like I got hit by a goddamn freight train."

"What is... freight train?"

He laughed. Winced immediately after, hand twitching toward his ribs. "Ah, fuck—don't make me laugh, doll. Hurts like a bitch."

You smiled despite yourself, sinking down beside the cot. "Okay." Your hand found the edge of the metal frame. "I was looking everywhere for you." It came out more petulant than you meant. Annoyed, like he'd hidden on purpose.

He sucked air through his teeth. "That's sweet of you, real sweet." His head lolled toward you, gaze still hazy.  "Varang send you?"

"No." You paused. “She’s—”

“Course she didn’t,” He grunted. "Our little lady tossed me aside in the dirt, goddamn hurt."

He tried to sit up.

Your palm found his chest, pressing him back with gentle insistence. "No, Quaritch. Please." A whisper. "You are injured."

His jaw worked. "Yeah, well—"

"The both of you."

That made him still. "What?"

You frowned, fingers twisting together in your lap. "Varang. Her queue." The words tasted wrong. "Did someone... slice it? I could not unbraid her hair to look. But..." You shrugged, helpless. "I have never seen anything like it." Your gaze drifted away, fixing on nothing. "What happened, Quaritch?"

His jaw clenched so hard you heard the grind of teeth. Behind him, his tail tried to lash—stopped short by his weight pinning it to the cot. "Jake Sully." The name came out like rot. "Him and his batshit wife and their shitty half-breeds."

You gave a slow nod. "The man you are hunting, yes? The one like you?"

"Not like me." The snarl was immediate. "Not a damn traitor."

But Quaritch wore your colors and dressed like your people. He put the same ash you did over his own body. He was far more Na’vi than he was human, at any point. Dumb, not weak. Just dumb.

You frowned, then sighed, then rubbed your face with both palms because that was the only thing you could possibly do at this moment. "Did you recover Spider?" The question came quiet.

But you already knew the answer.

He scoffed. Turned his head away, staring at the ceiling. Mumbled something low enough that even your ears couldn't catch it.

"Quaritch—"

"Who do you think gave me this, sweetheart?"

He lifted his arm—the bandaged one, red blooming through white gauze like a flower you'd never want to pick. The movement made him wince and suck air through his teeth. "Kid wants nothing to do with me, hell he shot me himself. My own goddamn son put an arrow—" His voice cracked. Just enough that you heard it. He was forcing anger when you could see his sadness, forcing rage to cover the wound underneath.

"That is not true." You whispered, thumb stroking across his knuckles. "You are his father despite everything. Blood does not change.”

"He shot me—"

"And you probably gave him no choice." You huffed, meeting his gaze. "Quaritch. We both know how you are. You are relentless and I love you for it but—" You paused. "But sometimes... sometimes you push too hard. Sometimes you do not know when to stop."

He was grinning now. 

Actually grinning, the bastard. That crooked, shit-eating smile pulling at his mouth despite everything—the pain, the morphine, the failure. "Love me for it?"

You wanted to hit him. "Do not—"

"Nah, nah." His grin widened, even through the pain. "You said it, buttercup. Can't take it back now."

Instead you sighed. "Skxawng." Idiot. "Dumb man."

He chuckled.. "Yeah, but I'm your dumb man."

You hid your tired smile, and he laughed again. His hand found yours, threading your fingers together despite the IV line. "You're good for me, you know that?" His thumb traced lazy circles against your palm. "Don't let me get too dark."

For a moment you just sat there, hand on his knee, listening to the machines beep their steady rhythm. Alive. Alive. Alive.

“Well I should—”

His hand shot out—faster than you'd thought possible for someone leaking blood and swimming in drugs—and his fingers closed around your wrist. The grip was pathetic, but you didn’t mind it.

"Buttercup."

Something in his face had cracked open, softening at the seams where the morphine pooled, made him honest in ways sobriety never allowed. "Varang" He swallowed. "She... she's alright though, right?"

"It’s… too soon but she is angry," you said carefully. "At herself, I think. Or at you. Or—" The words dissolved. You lifted one shoulder in a helpless shrug. "Everything."

He nodded in understanding. "Yeah. That sounds like her. Sully's got nine lives or some shit. Slippery bastard."

You watched his face, saw the way his eyes glazed in thought. Or morphine, the two syllable word  that felt more like an excuse. "You will try again." You looked away from him, defeated once more.

"Damn right I will." His grip on your wrist loosened, fingers going slack. "Soon as I can walk without feeling like my guts are gonna spill out onto the floor... soon as they clear me for duty..." His head lolled back against the pillow. "Gonna get my boy back. Gonna make Sully pay for every goddamn—"

"Quaritch."

"Mm?"

"Rest."

He cracked a smile, looking at you. "You're bossy when you're worried."

"I am not worried."

"Then leave."

You didn't move.

His mouth quirked. "Or stay." Softer now. He patted the space beside him, shuffling over despite the wince it earned. "Come on. Really gonna leave me alone? After my battle wounds, bleedin' out here?"

He doesn't want to be alone.

The thought sat strange in your chest.

You frowned, glancing toward the door, the hallway beyond. "Is that... you know..." Your voice dropped to a whisper. "Fine?"

"Regs say patients need rest and comfort. I want the company. Doctor's orders." He tapped his temple, sluggish. "I'm self-prescribing."

Your tail curled before you could stop it. You climbed onto the bed with careful hands, pressing your cheek to his chest where the bandages weren't, where you could feel his heartbeat against your ear.

"You hate me, huh?"

“What…?”

"Nothing." He exhaled slow, and you felt it ruffle your braids. "Just thinkin' out loud. Morphine makes me philosophical." A pause. Then, quieter: "Move closer."

"I am close."

"Closer." His hand found the back of your head, fingers threading through your braids. That stupid grin was back. You could hear it in his voice. "I don't care for the pain. Means I'm livin' ain't it?"

Your brows twisted. "But I don't want to—"

He lifted you.

Just—lifted you, hands finding your hips and dragging you up to straddle him despite the way his face went white, despite the fresh blood seeping dark through gauze. He swallowed the pain, jaw locked, and resettled you like it was nothing.

"Miles!" Your hands flew to his shoulders.

"See?" His thumbs pressed into your hipbones. Rubbed small circles there. "Not so bad."

Your tail wagged. Traitor. It thumped against his knee, betraying the warmth flooding your chest at the display. Strength. Devotion. Something else you didn't have words for.

You didn't pull away from the warmth or the wet copper smell blooming beneath the bandages. Instead you curled around him—over him, into him—face buried against the crook of his neck and shoulder where his pulse beat steady. The bloody scent should have repelled you.

It didn't.

"You are an idiot," you whispered.

"Been called worse." He squeezed your ass. "Usually by you, actually."

"Teylupil," you muttered.

"Yeah, that one." He laughed—a soft, huffing thing that made him wince. "Still don't know what it means but I'm guessin' it ain't a compliment."

His hand found your back. Spread wide. Holding you there.

I love him.

.

.

.

You visited Quaritch as often as the guards allowed. When they barred his door, you went to Varang instead. And where Quaritch grew stronger, Varang did not.

Her queue.

As the Tsahik-like pinkskins had said, her queue had been scrambled. Utterly, completely, frayed. They didn’t mince the words. “It’s connected to her nervous system.” They’d grumble. “And that nervous system is basically washed.” They described it like a current rushing through and overloading the system. “She basically experienced lighting, and her queue was the singular rod. It just burned the receptors until nothing existed.”

She would never bond again.

She would never see you again.

The absolute devastation.

"There must be something," you pressed, following the medic as he moved between shelves of supplies. Your voice came out thin, desperate. You hated the sound of it. "Sky-people technology—surely you have something… Maybe…?"

The man shook his head. He didn't even look up from his clipboard. He scribbled another line, reached for a vial, set it back down.

"Nothing we have is made for Na'vi. Not designed for your physiology." A pause. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We might be able to grow a queue in a lab. Theoretically. But attaching it without killing her?" He exhaled through his teeth. "The complexity alone—"

"But it's hurting her. Please—"

"Look." His tone sharpened, then softened into something worse: pity. "The RDA will never fund a project like that for a simple sav—"

Your teeth snapped together. A hiss escaped before you could choke it back.

He froze mid-breath, then tried again, gentler this time though the tone had taken something patronizing, curling beneath softer words. "What I'm trying to say is, if it's not an avatar, there's no budget. No authorization. That's just how it is."

You felt lost, and the RDA scrubbed their hands clean of any responsibility.

You turned away, pressing your palms to your face, pacing the narrow length of the tent. The fabric walls shuddered with each gust of wind outside.

Varang would be like this. Forever. Locked in constant, gnawing pain. Unable to bond with any living thing, unable to command or comfort or feel the world the way she once had. Varang would never be the Varang you knew.

Please, great mother… please.

For the first time in years, you found yourself praying.

You'd slipped away from the compound under cover of dusk, moving deep into the forest where no one would think to follow.

This was yours. A secret.

The tendrils hung from the branches, gentle and swaying against the wind. They were purple and pink and white, all the colors you had forgotten existed in the world, a beautiful brilliance that no fire could truly emulate.

"Please, Great Mother," You sank against the base of the tree, knees drawn to your chest, and let your queue unfurl. "Forgive her." The braid trembled as you lifted it toward the hanging vines, hesitating only once before the connection took hold. The world opened.

Warmth flooded your senses. Not heat—something gentler. The pulse of thousands of lives breathing in unison.

"Forgive her. Forgive the violence she's carried, the pain she's caused." You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the words to reach into the heart of the ancestors and be carried into the soul of the Great Mother. "Please heal her."

Silence.

Of course.

Your throat tightened. Tears pricked hot behind your eyes, and you hated them, hated the weakness, hated that you were here at all. "Please… Please…"

Eywa did not listen to prayers. Eywa followed the balance of life, protected it. And Varang had tried to destroy it. Had brought metal and death to the People. Why would Eywa listen now? Her back would be turned to you all, surely.

Eywa holds all her children in her heart.

You swallowed hard.

If Varang was condemned to live in misery, then let Eywa grant her peace in death. Let her spirit return to the earth, forgiven at last, held gently in the embrace you could no longer give her.

Let her return to the roots, the soil, the endless green. Let her be held, even if she'd never allowed herself to be held in life.

Let her come home.

Your hand found your songcord, fingers tracing the beads there. The amber one with the red skittle inside. The small carved bone from Varang's first scalping. The woven fiber Quaritch had tied there one night when you weren't looking, smelling faintly of gunpowder and something sweet.

You watched the tendril glow as you let go. A calm filled you—unexpected yet not entirely forgotten. It had been so long since you'd felt anything close to peace.

Your smile came small and bitter. "I am so sorry, Mother," you whispered. The words tasted like confession. "But I love her. And I believe my love is shrouded in selfishness."

Your head bowed. Atokirina descended, one pale seed against the dark, and settled on your shoulder. You cupped it in your palms, careful. It was so weightless, so beautiful. It only hovered, the judgement of something so pure against the filth that was your sin. 

Crack.

You whirled. Gun raised, safety off, barrel trained on the shadow bleeding out from between the trees. Your breath came in sharp bursts. Tears still wet on your cheeks, salt stinging the corners of your mouth.

You grimaced. “Who are you?”

A woman stepped into the clearing, hands raised in a gesture both placating and unafraid. She wore the sacred red of the Tsahik draped over her shoulders. Curiosity softened her features, not fear. You glared back, teeth bared, dragging your forearm across wet eyes. “Answer me."

The Atokirina drifted away. The woman's frown was gentle. "I am Saye." Her gaze traced your rifle, then traveled your ash-marked skin. "You are of the Mangkwan, the ash clan." Confusion creased her brow, not judgment—although you had expected it. "What are you doing here?"

You clicked the safety. The sound meant nothing to her, and yet she flinched. "None of your business," you hissed, rising slowly. 

She carried no weapons save the ceremonial dagger all Tsahik bore at their waist. Nothing against a gun.

She studied the rifle again, frown deepening. "You bring metal to a sacred place?" A smile ghosted across her mouth. "You expect the Great Mother to hear you with such a thing clouding your heart? Poisoning it?"

You raised the gun higher. Her smile died.

"I am sorry." Her voice dropped. "My mother tells me I am too blunt." She inclined her head. A pause. Her gaze lifted, meeting yours with unnerving steadiness "...But you never answered. Why are you here? Will you burn this place too?"

Your chest heaved, and you found breath came hard. Lying to a Tsahik felt sacrilegious, somehow.

When did it start mattering?

The rifle lowered, heavy now in your grip. "No." The word barely carried. "I did not come here to burn." You turned toward the tree, fingers finding a tendril. "I have come here to—"

"To pray?"

Your gaze snapped back to her, suspicious. Searching for mockery—but found only patience. You nodded, the admission scraping out of you. "To pray."

The rifle returned to your back. Saye's smile returned, warmer now, and she stepped closer. When you retreated a pace, she stopped.

"Please. Let us pray together then." She extended a hand. Your eyes flicked to her dagger. She reached down slowly, lifted it from its sheath, and placed it on a nearby stone. "In peace."

You studied her. "Why are you being kind?"

"There is no reason." She shrugged, lowering herself onto one of the great roots. She knelt and brought her queue forward, joining it to the tree. "I just want to visit my mother.” Her eyes found yours again. “And you will not move."

You paused.

"Oh."

"You assumed she was alive."

"You spoke to her as if she was." The words came quieter now. You knelt beside her—still tense, still ready to bolt—but the woman was at ease, hands lifting to cradle the tendril with a gentleness you'd forgotten existed.

I've forgotten how to be soft, you realized.

You watched her, studied the bits of her in her face. Every small shift—the flutter of her eyelids, the way her jaw softened—all of it. Her hair had been shaved close along both sides, leaving only the center: thick dreads pulled back into a high tail that swayed when she moved.

"You are staring," she murmured without opening her eyes.

Heat crawled up your neck. You turned your head. "I'm sorry."

One eye cracked open, amber catching the filtered light. Her mouth curved. "Don't be." Then she closed it again, still smiling. Communing, you realized. Speaking to the Great Mother in ways you'd long abandoned.

Your chest tightened. You thought of your own mother—her kind eyes, her hands that never raised in anger. The headdress she'd woven from forest flowers and vines, burned to ash in the fire that took everything. How could you face her now, even in memory? How could she look at you and not see what you'd become: the weight behind your gaze, the red and black paint marking your skin, the ash that left trails of hometree against greener lands.

So instead, you reached back and attached your queue to the tree's sacred tendril. And you prayed.

Great Mother, if you can hear me, grant me strength. Just that. Nothing more. Strength to carry this body forward. Strength to stop running.

Saye's communion lasted only minutes. When she released her queue, she offered a soft thanks to the darkness above before turning to face you fully. Her scrutiny was unhurried—tracing the paint dried in the hollows of your cheeks, the bumpy scars across your abdomen. Self-inflicted, those. Marks of devotion carved in the Mangkwan way.

"I thought the mangkwan abandoned Eywa," she said at last, curiosity softening the accusation. 

She shifted to sit cross-legged, weight braced on her left hand, head tilted like a child puzzling over a broken toy. "Unless I'm mistaken. Which I must be."

“Pain is a reminder of what we will never forget!” Varang’s speech had been absolute: Starving men and women, children too weak to lift their heads, looked high at Varang as she slashed her own forehead, a deep cut that resulted in the scar.

Pain was everything, and it was a rite of passage all members underwent.

The more scars, the more respect you garnered.

You nodded once. "You're not. We don't believe anymore."

"And yet." Her gesture encompassed you, the tree, the connection still tingling at the base of your skull. "Here you are."

"Here I am."

Silence stretched. She dipped her head, catching your eyes before you could look away. "Why are you really here, lost one?"

"I told you—"

"To pray. I know." Impatience cmae through her tone now. "But for what? You turn your back on the People, on Eywa. You go to the demons. What does someone like that beg forgiveness for?"

Your jaw clenched. "Careful, Saye. I've killed Na'vi for less."

She didn't flinch. If anything, one brow arched higher, waiting.

You pulled back, pressing your spine against rough bark. The truth clawed its way up your throat before you could stop it, until it found the tremble of your lips.  "My love. My mate." So quietly. 

 "Her queue's been damaged and I don't know how to heal her. I'm desperate—she's in pain. So I come here." You lifted your gaze to the tree above. Atokirina drifted through the branches like tiny stars. Saye watched you watch them.

"I'm the Tsahik of my village," she said quietly, rising to her feet. "The Yangor clan. Perhaps I can help." She extended one hand, palm up.

Slowly—so slowly—you stood, but didn't take it. "How?"

Her hand dropped to her side without offense. She laced her fingers together instead. "Remedies. Rituals. There must be something." Her voice took on the cadence of a healer cataloging symptoms. "What afflicts her? Is there rot? Did she fall and damage the base? Is it—" She listed other possibilities—illnesses, severed tendrils, cuts, deformities.

"No." The word came too sharp. You shook your head, tried again softer. "No. It's... limp. The bioluminescence is gone. Sometimes it flickers, and when it does—" Your voice cracked. "—she's in agony. She can't bond with anything. Not ikran, no kind of tsaheylu, not..."

Not me, you didn't say. But Saye heard it anyway.

She reached for you then, and this time you let her. Her hand was warm. You squeezed back, drowning.

"I don't know what caused it," you managed. "She won't talk about it."

"How strange." Saye's thumb traced gentle circles against your knuckles. "I'll speak with the others, there is—" You tensed violently. "Peace,” She smiled. “I won't mention you."

Your grip loosened a bit. "Thank you."

She released your hand, glancing back toward where she'd come from. "I should leave before my people come looking." She raised her hand in the gesture of the People—fingers spread, palm out. "I see you, Y/n. Travel well. May Eywa remain in your heart."

For one breath you hesitated. Then you brought your hand to your forehead, fingers clumsy and uncertain as they extended outward. The gesture felt foreign after so many years. Blasphemous, even.

"I see you, Saye."

She smiled—sad and knowing—then retrieved her blade from where it rested against the roots. You turned toward your ikran. Anything. You'd do anything to help Varang.

.

.

.

"There you are."

Varang's silhouette filled the scene, her ceremonial paint catching firelight in fractured flickers of flame that came behind her. The usual bonfire.

She wore her armor. Feathers and metal piercings traced what was her authority—olo'eykte and tsahik in every choice of acessory—but you had learned to read the micro-tensions beneath. The way her jaw set a fraction too tight. The deliberate slowness of her breathing.

"Varang." Your tongue pressed the name carefully against your teeth.

The gathered clan watched from the edges of the clearing, faces turned with studied casualness that fooled no one. 

You swallowed the reprimand that wanted to surface—You should not be up, what happened to your queue, why is the wrapping different—and instead closed the distance between you. 

Your arms found her waist. She smelled of medicinal salve and something scorched. The black fabric wound around her queue caught your peripheral vision. Beneath it, you knew: white gauze, and beneath that, the thing neither of you had named aloud.

Quaritch came beside her. Weeks had filed down his worst injuries to manageable pain. The third-degree burns still wore their dressings, angry marks across his shoulders and neck, but the first-degree damage had faded to gentle pink that faded purple along the edges.

"There's my little lady."

Sweet words

He stepped into your space with the presumption of earned intimacy, arms circling your shoulders in an embrace. "You didn't tell anyone where you ran off to. Got me and Varang all worried."

His fingers dug into your arms hard enough to bruise, and it translated what his mouth wouldn't say: furious.

And if Quaritch was furious, Varang was enraged.

"Sorry." Your ear twitched. "I went to the forest."

Neither of them acknowledged the explanation. They just tugged—Varang on one side, Quaritch on the other—until you stumbled between them.

A concession you'd learned to appreciate. 

Small mercies. You thought. Anger her, not him. He was the nicer of the two.

"Yeah?" He hauled you forward with just enough force to make the point. "That so."

"Yes."

They pushed you into their yurt. Their yurt. Quaritch's things were spread throughout the home that used to be just yours and Varang's—his boots by the entrance, his rifle propped against the carved wood post.

Quaritch's additions had come through the space with those small things. But it was enough. Your home. His home. Her home. You’d gotten used to it, his scent that mingled over Varang’s herbs and your gunpowder. The hammock itself had been re-strung wider, reinforced to bear his mass alongside yours and hers.

You'd adjusted. You had to.

But still—

"You bring metal to this sacred place?"

Your gaze dropped to the rifle in your hands. When did you pick it up? You couldn't remember. 

You shook your head. One moment with Saye and she’s infected my beliefs. 

You lifted the rifle from your shoulder and set it against the woven wall. Each gesture performed under Varang’s stare. She’ll see my tail and see the flick of it. Then she’ll know. Because Varang always—

"Where were you."

You hid the frown but your ears betrayed you, flicking back flat against your skull. She knew everything except how to fix the rot that spread through her queue, and the madness what will follow if it wasn’t stopped.

"I told you. The forest." The snap in it surprised even you. Your ears flattened in immediate regret as you turned, already backpedaling. "I'm—"

Varang's hand closed around the base of your queue.

Your head wrenched back, spine arching until you were bent nearly double, staring up at her from an impossible angle, until the world inverted. The yurt spun in your vision, tears pricking hot at the corners of your eyes. "Ngh—"

You saw her face hanging above yours, upside-down, expression carved into apathy and false innocence.

"Do you think yourself capable?" She hummed the question like a lullaby. 

Her nails found itself past the threads of your hair, into the sensitive base of your queue, digging just deep enough to make everything crystallize into sharp, undeniable focus.

"Quaritch gives you the gift of metal, and now you believe you can slip away unaccounted for?"

"I'm sorry, Varang..." The words came pitched high with distress. You didn't push against her grip. Didn't try to twist free or pry her fingers loose. You had learned that lesson already.

"Honey, sweetbuns."

Quaritch's hand closed around your wrist while his gaze slid sideways toward Varang. 

"Come on, sugar." He clicked his tongue, a careful sound that eased Varang's fingers from where they'd tangled in your queue. "She's apologizing. It was just a slip, that's all."

You didn’t fight when he guided you toward the hammock. You never did. He settled himself first, then pulled you into his lap with his usual ease, the one that made your breath catch, but not from comfort.

“She should watch her tone.” Varang huffed. You pressed yourself deeper against Quaritch’s chest, who seemed to like that action. He thinks himself a savior.

"Yeah, yeah. But look at her.” He gave a pointed look, before circling his attention back to you. “Look, little lady. We have a tracker on you." His tone shifted. “You know that. Saw you close to the Yangor clan. Got worried. Almost sent out a damn patrol."

His palm slid lower, settling over your stomach. He'd been doing that more often lately. You knew why. At your lack of response he frowned, you felt it—or rather heard it. The lips pulling back, gums hitting something wet. Let the great mother hope it was a frown.

"Got some new shipment of Skittles. You like those, don't you? Might make you feel better."

Your ears perked, you wrestled them flat. No. You were upset. Angry. "I don't want any." Soft and learned. A good answer from a mouth that learned earlier about raising your voice. At least for now, while it was recent and until tomorrow came and you’ll yell again and—

“Mm.” He sounded unconvinced, tapping your thighs rhythmically. "What were you doing out there anyway? You never go out by yourself."

Your lips pressed into a thin line. You glanced at Varang and caught the way she'd gone still, predator-like. The lie died on your tongue.

"...Medicine." Your head dipped, gaze fixed on the woven floor. "For… for Varang. I thought that maybe…"

Varang stopped moving. Quaritch, by contrast, exhaled a chuckle and leaned forward to raise your chin.

"Ain't you so sweet." He looked past you to Varang, and you felt her presence shift just beyond your sight. "Told you, sugar. She's innocent." 

He pressed a wet kiss to your cheek then lifted you from his lap with easy strength, his hand delivering two light pats to your backside that made heat crawl up your neck. His hands found his pockets, head cocking to the side in that easy, expectant way of his.

"Find anything, darling?"

You shook your head. Not yet. The words caught behind your teeth. But I will.

Varang's scoffed, a sound that carried the weight of too many conversations they'd had about you, without you.

She wouldn't apologize. She never did. Instead she moved into your space and kissed you. Her mouth was claiming as usual, and buried underneath it was the sweetness of love she’d never say outloud.

"Dumb of you." The words ghosted against your lips. "This is Eywa's curse, and my blessing, Y/n." Her grip tightened fractionally. "Remember that."

You kissed her back, because that is what was expected. Let her tongue slide against yours, let her hands find your waist and squeeze. But the heat that lived and made you stupid for her—

It wasn’t there.

So instead you made the right sounds, shaped your body into the right softness.

"I know," you whispered against her teeth. "I won't."

But you would. You had to.

Because Varang had gotten worse.

Not the injury—that would heal, or it wouldn't. Pain had a way of leveling out, of becoming background noise until the body learned to carry it like any other weight.

No. It was everything else.

She had no patience left. Not for you or the clan. Not even for Quaritch, and that—that was new, which meant it was something dangerous.

And Quaritch?

Days later, he cracked.

"What's got her so pissy," 

He paced. Back and forth, back and forth, boots scuffing against stone. His hands worked over the gun with violent efficiency, scrubbing at the barrel. Red and black paint—her paint—flaked off in angry little curls. She'd packed powder into the mechanism on purpose, made it jam.

It was off-putting in the way Varang loved metal. She fetishized it, found it sacred. And she decided to desecrate it, to make it useless.

You watched him from your spot on the mat, tail swaying in slow, disinterested arcs. All you wanted was to finish your new top. The beadwork kept slipping through your fingers. 

"Everything, Quaritch." The words came out flat, tired. "She's been like this since the battle." You glanced up, frown deepening. "Which neither of you want to tell me about."

He paused mid-scrub and sighed through his nose. "Not you too. Don't be mad." His jaw worked. "It's complicated, is all."

“Hm. Complicated.”

"Shit—look at this." He held up the gun, tilting it so you could see the clogged mechanism. "All because I told her to calm her fuckin' tits down." He shook his head, bitter. "It's like she's on her period or somethin'."

Your mouth twitched. "Period?"

"Something women of my species go through. Makes them lose their minds for a week, they go all batshit and emotional." He scrubbed harder now, the rag catching on the notches she'd carved into the barrel. Then he slammed it down.

The gun shattered.

Pieces scattered across the floor—springs, pins, the firing mechanism spinning in a lazy circle before settling near your knee. You picked it up carefully, turning the small metal piece between your fingers.

Quaritch hit the pillar, knuckles splitting against the wood. “God-fucking-dammit!”

Then he slumped against the hammock, breath coming hard and fast. His shoulders curved inward, all that furious energy draining out of him as if it never existed.

You watched him for a long moment. 

"What is the matter?" you asked softly.

You rose, padding over, and settled beside him until your thigh pressed against his. 

He wouldn't look at you.

"I had it," he muttered.

"The gun?"

He shook his head. Slow. His gaze fixed on something you couldn't see—just inside his own skull.

"Spider. I had him." His voice cracked on the last word. "And he shot me. I gave him a damn burger—you saw, remember?"

"I do." You had. Just briefly. A boy with blonde hair and his father's mouth, dressed like the forest clans, moving like he'd been born among them instead of the sky-people.

"And my dog tag." Quaritch's hand went to his chest, fingers closing around empty air where the metal should've hung. "I thought we were bonding. And he chose that traitor."

"JakeSulli," you murmured. "The traitor."

You felt like a bigger one.

"He called me dad."

Your ears snapped up.

You turned to look at him fully now. His eyes were wet. Not crying—Quaritch would never—but wet.

"I want my son back," he said. "And he shot me."

You almost told him—almost pointed out that he'd kidnapped the boy. That Eywa—the Great Mother—had given Spider breath, had woven him into the forest's roots just as surely as any born Na'vi. Why would he ever turn his back on Her?

But you didn't.

You glanced down at your hands, at the three fingers and scarifiation along the wrist. 

The great mother gave him breath, and choked our own lungs full of fire and ash.

But that didn't feel proper. It wasn't your thought.

The voice sounded suspiciously like Varang.

"Do you want another?"

The words left you before you could stop them. As if you were offering. As if you could. Quaritch knew by now—Varang would never allow it. She'd allow him to touch you, to see you, to fuck you breathless against the woven mats until your voice gave out.

But you two could never bond. And you would never carry his children.

"Here." She'd always say it. Just like that.

An herbal tea that made Quaritch's jaw lock tight, teeth grinding audible even across the yurt. No amount of complaining would ever make her stop. She'd even made a special brew—kept it right beside the hammock in a clay cup for you to drink from. Right after. While you were still slick and sticky with him—and Quaritch would watch with something dark and helpless behind his eyes.

Once, he'd tried to knock the cup from your hands.

Varang had slammed her knife near his cock.

He never tried again.

Varang forbade it.

And if she forbade it, then it was law.

Quaritch looked at you for a long time. His eye twitched. Then his gaze dragged lower, slower, until it stopped at the base of your stomach. It lingered there.

"To start over?"

You shrugged. "If there was an opportunity."

You watched him shift.

Then he scoffed, that grin splitting his face wide. "Little lady, if you're offering—"

"You know I can't."

He shrugged right back. "Not yet. But you'll see." His hand found your knee, thumb tracing idle circles. "Babies are cute. Despite what Varang says, she likes cute things." A pause. His smile gentled. "You're proof of that, honey."

You weren't so convinced.

Your gaze drifted back to the entrance of the yurt. The beads swayed, disturbed by nothing. Beyond them, voices rose and fell. Varang was doing her daily drugging—the ritual that turned her clan pliable, devoted. 

In the beginning of your partnership, she'd had you dependent on them. On her. For the longest time. You could barely see the tattoo of her eye without flinching now—that third one, inked above across her palm.

"You won't join them?"

"Nah." His fingers tapped a rhythm against your thigh. "Not into that drug shit. Once is enough. Never really took substances, even back then. Saw what it did to good soldiers. Watched 'em turn soft, useless." His lip curled. "I don't do soft."

But you are with me. Sometimes.

He watched you for a long time. You felt it in your peripheral. "What are you thinking about?"

About Varang. The Great Mother. My relationship with both. How to fix both.

"My people." You said it simply. Glanced back at him, and felt his suspicion rise.

His eyes narrowed. "Your people."

"Mhm."

"The ones Varang's got eating outta her palm?" He leaned back, arms crossing over his chest. The muscles in his forearms shifted. "Or the ones buried under volcanic ash?"

You flinched. That was cruel. “Quaritch…” You whispered.

His tail flickered. "That's what I thought." But his voice went sweet and he pulled you in, kissed the top of your head. "Are you planning something, doll?"

"No."

"You're a terrible liar."

"I'm not—"

"Yeah, you are." He caught your chin between his thumb and forefinger now, forcing your gaze to his. "I've interrogated better liars than you. Scarier ones, too. You got a tell." His thumb brushed your lower lip. "Right here. Twitches when you're lying through your teeth."

Your tail lashed.

He grinned. "See? There it is."

Varang thought him dumb. You had too, at first. And maybe he was—dumb with matters that meant nothing. Dumb with his own emotions.

But Miles Quaritch was smarter than he appeared.

And you knew exactly how to stop it.

You smiled now. The one you gave Varang to calm her down, and crawled onto his lap, knees bracketing his hips. You knew the rhythms of both—adapted to either's anger and impatience, to either's weaknesses.

Your hands found his shoulders. Your mouth found his jaw.

"I love you, Miles."

He smiled then. Dopey. And there it was—stupid.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm." You nuzzled against him, the picture of devotion, arms winding around his neck. Let your breath ghost over the shell of his ear. "I love you, sir."

You'd found out he liked that a bit ago. A cheat word that always got him going.

"Look at you—" He manhandled you down, flipping you with an ease that drew a practiced giggle from your throat. His grin was all teeth. "Dirty minx. Tryna distract me?"

"Is it working?"

"Hell yes, it is." His mouth found your throat, teeth grazing. "But we're comin' back to this conversation later, cupcake. Don't think I'm gonna forget."

You would make him forget.

Sex.

You two had sex.

His hands were rough, familiar, mapping the planes of your body like territory he'd claimed a hundred times before. Your loincloth hit the floor. His followed. He hiked your leg over his hip, breath hot against your collarbone as he lined himself up.

"Gonna make you sing for me," he muttered, and pushed inside.

You gasped. Clutched at his shoulders, let your head fall back in a display of surrender that wasn't entirely false. He felt good—too good. Big enough to make you ache, to make your body remember him long after he'd gone.

"That's it. That's my girl." He set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping against yours, the obscene slap of skin on skin filling the yurt. "So fuckin' perfect. Made for this, weren't you?"

"Yes—" You choked on the word. "Yes, sir."

And the whole time, you stared at the beads hanging in the doorway, counting each one, waiting for them to part. Waiting to drink the tea in three swallows, feeling the familiar numbness spread through your belly, your womb, killing everything before it could take root.

The beads didn't move.

.

.

.

"Ngh—"

The hiss tore through your teeth before you could swallow it. Your fingers wound the bandage over your nape where the flesh screamed red. You'd carved into yourself with one of Quaritch's knives, the one with the green pattern he called camouflage, like the word meant anything to you beyond three syllables and a way to count through pain.

Cam—one. You made a deeper cut.

Ou—two. You grit your teeth, sucking air for the pain.

Flage—three. You dug your fingers inside the wound

Cam-ou-flage..

The tracker sat in your palm now.

Small thing. Barely the size of your smallest nail. It pulsed with the faintest blue glow, slick with your blood, and you stared at it like it might just alert everyone what you’d done.

You wouldn't destroy it. You knew better. Knew what that would do—send a signal straight to him, and then he'd know. He'd come looking. And he wouldn't be sweet this time. Wouldn't call you cupcake or press candy into your hands with that rough, embarrassed laugh.

Nah. You could already see it.

The shift in his shoulders. That mean scowl he wore when you pushed too far. "You trying to sneak off?" His voice would drop, go cold, and you'd be looking up at fifty-years of meanness stuffed into twenty years of youth.

You wondered if he'd lock you up. Put you in one of those metal RDA boxes with the flickering lights and the stale air. wondered if he'd embed three more trackers just to make you suffer thrice over when you tried to dig them out.

This one had taken hours. 

Careful slicing. A mirror angled behind you, your arm twisted at an angle that made your shoulder ache. Blood slicking your fingers. And even now, you'd barely managed it.

For Varang. The thought was bitter. They're so stubborn. Both of them. Always thinking they owned you just because you weren’t as aggressive as them.

You turned the tracker between your fingers, then rose. You crossed to Yepa's bag where it hung by the entrance, then slipped the little glowing thing inside, buried it beneath his tools and rations. He'd carry it around without ever knowing. Good.

Outside, you paused.

You tied the bandage tighter around your throat, then felt the sting and welcomed it—proof you could still do things they didn't know about. You'd tell them you fell. Clumsy little thing, tumbled right out of the hammock, landed on a corner. They'd believe it. They always did. You were just so helpless to them.

You walked.

You didn't meet anyone's eyes—not the pinkskins, not your own people. It didn't matter. They didn't look at you anyway. Another one of Varang's laws. Do not meet her gaze. She is mine to see.

The roost was ahead.

Upue stood distracted by a pinkskin—some grunt who probably couldn't tell one Na'vi from another. Great Mother, one of them had thought you were Varang until you laughed in his face. Idiots. All of them.

"Shhh, come here girl." You formed the bond with your ikran, feeling her heartbeat slam against yours before softening. Matching. Slow. We must not make any movement. She understood. Then shifted several inches, wings tucked tight, then launched skyward with barely any sound.

The wind swept at your braids as you took to the sky.

You swept low over Yangor's forest, weaving between branches until the Tree of Souls rose before you, bioluminescent tendrils swaying with each flutter of your ikran. You dropped—

"I was beginning to think I imagined you."

You jumped.

Saye sat in the branches above, smiling and chewing something with that infuriating casualness. "I've come every night," she added.

Your tail lashed. "It is hard to sneak past," you muttered.

Her gaze dropped to the bandage at your neck. She hummed, thoughtful, before dropping down beside you. "Do they not allow you a simple journey?"

Another bite. Loud. 

"All Na'vi are enemies to the pinkskins." The words came flat.

"What a terrible way to look at the world. To only see enemies."

You didn't answer. Didn't have one. Instead you shrugged the bag from your shoulder, crouched and began unpacking. "These come from my home. Rare—they do not grow in many places where ash does not touch the ground. If you need—"

Her hand rose. "There is no need for it," she whispered.

Your chest tightened. "...No?"

She smiled. Small thing, but it reached her eyes. "I have asked all around. And I think I know the solution." She gestured forward in a coaxing manner.

You hesitated.

“Don’t be a fool, Y/n. Kindness is another word for leverage.” You heard Varang then. You could already see her, watching you in the corner, head tilted in disapproval. “It’s a trap. Do not trust any na’vi not ours. They will not protect you.” 

And you stepped forward.

Nothing they can do could possibly be worse then what Varang does.

Saye's fingers closed around your wrists. She tugged, and you hissed through your teeth, but she only laughed. Such a bright sound, nothing like the chitters you were used to. "I want to show you my clan. You must talk to Tui!"

You dug your heels in. "You told me that—"

"I know." The smile she threw over her shoulder was easy. She tugged again. "But I told them you aren't a threat."

Not a threat.

Your ears flattened. Heat crawled up your neck, settling hot and bitter behind your teeth. Somehow that felt worse than suspicion. You were Varang's chosen, marked by death itself, and this girl reduced you to—what? Harmless? Not that she’d know, but if she did, would her assessment change then? Would it?

You sighed. Relented.

Somehow that stung worse than an insult, but you yanked your wrist free and followed anyway. Stupid. The thought gnawed at you with every step. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Your tag was gone. If they decided to kill you now, neither Quartitch nor Varang would lift a finger to avenge you. You'd just be another name scratched off a ledger somewhere, filed under poor judgment.

Saye led you deeper, until the trees opened to reveal a cave mouth draped in hanging vines. She held them aside for you—polite, careful—then let them fall and shoved you forward with both hands.

You stumbled into firelight.

The village sprawled above you—woven platforms strung between massive trunks, suspended high where the canopy thinned and let the sky bleed through. Not ground-level like yours had been before the volcano swallowed it.

Here, the trees still stood.

People moved between the structures—resting, talking, laughing in clusters. The moment you stepped through, every eye turned.

You looked wrong here.

They wore colors. Ochre and green, blue and cream, beads threaded through braids and woven into cloth. You wore black and white paint. Red streaked across your cheekbones. Scarification that told stories they didn't want to hear. Ash clung to you, followed you, and you wondered if they could smell it. Death, maybe. 

You forced your head up.

Show no fear. Like Varang would.

They looked wary—reasonable. Their eyes flicked to Saye, pointedly as if this wasn’t the first time she picked up a stray.

"This is the one," she said simply.

You walked beside her across the canopy, following her up trunks and branches until you reached the upper platforms. There, they eyed your scarification. A few reached out, fingers ghosting over the metal piercing you'd stuck through the end of your tail. 

You hissed, and they scattered like startled prey.

"Do not be so rude," Saye chided, amused. "They are just curious."

"I do not like touches," you grumbled. You kept your eyes forward.

But it wasn't just that.

You looked at them—really looked—and something bitter coiled in your chest. Look at them. With their homes intact. The green of the forest wrapping around them like a mother's arms. Look at them, untouched by fire, by ash, by the great mothers silence.

You swallowed it down.

For Varang. Remember.

Saye led you to a specific platform,  slightly larger than the others, though not by much. It was decorated—shells and carved bone hung from the support beams, and soft hides were draped across the floor. She knocked. "Tui?"

A woman sat cross-legged on woven cloth, running a sharpening stone along the edge of a spear. She turned her head, measured you with a single sweep of her gaze. Older than Saye, frailer too—but you knew immediately. She was the Olo’eykete

Instead of a grimace or even distrust, she smiled.

"This is the one?"

Saye nodded, almost giddy. "Yes."

Tui rose slowly, and that's when you saw it. She was small. Smaller than you, the crown of her head barely reaching your collarbone. But it didn't make her less. If anything, she wore her size well. Power lived in her movements, in the quiet authority that filled the space around her.

Varang would disagree. She believed one must stand as tall as the mountains, as unmovable as—

You frowned.

"You are sweeter-looking than I'd think," Tui’s voice was so warm.

You held your tongue and chose politeness over instinct. "Thank you," you mumbled.

Saye settled beside you, expectant. Her tail swayed. She looked between you and Tui.

Tui clicked her tongue. "Right."

The sound was decisive. She reached into her bag dyed the deep red of clay—and withdrew something that made the air between you still.

An atokirina.

Saye took it from her, swaddling the seed between her palms. "Forgive me," she whispered, lips brushing the glowing wisp. "For trapping you, pure spirit."

You stared.

"I do not understand." You said bluntly. Your gaze flicked between them, then back to the seed pulsing soft white in Saye's palm. "Seeds of the sacred tree?"

Both women nodded. Saye especially—her ears dipped forward, something eager flickering behind her eyes.

"There was a rumor," she said, voice hushed like prayer. "After the great battle of the reefs. It traveled from the Omatikaya—carried by a distant Sarentu traveler."

Saye pressed the atokirina into your hand.

It hovered there, its wisps gentle and tickling against the faint glow of your skin. You frowned. "What rumor?"

"Kiri." Tui leaned forward. "The adoptive daughter of Jake Sully. You know this name?"

Your gaze snapped up.

Toruk Makto.

Of course you knew that name. Varang spat it sometimes, usually followed by Eywa's bitch or forest rat or—on particularly venomous days—the demon who thinks herself People. You'd heard she fought in the battle at the reefs. Heard she'd turned the tide, called the creatures of the deep like they were hers to command.

Snippets. Fragments. The kind of half-truths your people traded in the dark when Varang wasn't listening.

"Kiri," you repeated. "I have... heard things. But forgive me—I do not understand what this girl has to do with—"

Tui whistled a laugh and patted your knee with such easy familiarity that you flinched before forcing yourself to relax. "The Great Mother loves that one." Tui's voice carried something like awe. Something almost jealous. "Truly loves her. Speaks through her, some say. And there is a human boy—"

"—who breathes." The realization hit you slow, then all at once. "Spider. Quaritch's son."

Both their ears flicked backward. Saye nodded. "Correct."

You looked down at the seed. Your thumb brushed one of its wispy tendrils and it curled toward the touch like it recognized you.

"This… Kiri." You swallowed. "She did this? Made him breathe?"

Another nod.

You stared down at the atokirina, harder now. "But what is the seed for?"

Saye's hand found yours. Then Tui's. Four-fingered and warm, bracketing you on either side.

"To swallow it," Saye said simply. "Your beloved must swallow the seed." Her thumb traced the ridge of your knuckles. "And you bring her here. The clan will begin the ritual, and—" She paused, choosing her words with care. "—hopefully, we fix her queue."

Your throat closed. Bring her here.

"I can't—" The words choked out. "She wouldn't. Eywa has no place in our hearts."

They smiled and looked at one another as if they already knew.

"Eywa will always be in your heart." Saye pressed her hand to your chest, feeling the frantic beat beneath. "The great mother loves all her children. Even the ones who do not wish her to."

You looked at her, and your eyes burned hot and wet. You managed a nod, no matter how jerky. "I'll see what I can do." 

You lifted as if to rise, but Tui hummed low in her throat. "Stay—

“for a bit." Saye said now, patting the ground beside her. "We are having drink and food. The People are curious of you. They've never seen a Mangkwan before."A pause. "Not one who still has kindness left, anyway."

That hit harder than it should have.

Her smile widened. "Tell us of your people's ways."

You glanced between them, weighing. "My people's ways aren't something to celebrate over."

"We know," Saye said.

Just that.

"And still," Tui added, "we are curious."

Something in you softened. A smile slipped free before you could stop it.

"Just before eclipse is over," you murmured, and sat back down.

.

.

.

You stayed longer than you'd meant to.

The horror came first—it always did. When you spoke of your people's ways, some wept. Others turned their faces, unable to meet your eyes. But none looked at you like you were monstrous. Only lost.

That word sat strange in your mouth. Lost.

You'd been drinking in a circle beneath the purple-white glow of bioluminescent vines, the sweet tang of yovo fruit coating your tongue. Hunters boasted. Warriors laughed. Someone passed a rumor about a sky-person settlement to the north, another about a thanator sighting near the river.

And then one of them, far too into their cups, mentioned the Mangkwan.

"Varang clouds your judgment."

Your hand twitched toward your gun before you remembered you'd left it with your ikran. Muscle memory of a cold sheen pressing against your back. But you stopped. They didn't know. How could they? They knew you had a lover, a wounded lover who you loved oh so much—surely it could not be Varang herself. So you locked your jaw and smiled with all your teeth.

"Whatever do you mean?"

The hunter shrugged, swirling his cup in lazy circles. He hiccupped. "It is the truth. She has taken the role of the great mother and corrupted it." Another sip. "She is a coward."

Coward.

Your fingers tightened around the cup—knuckles white, lips pulling back from your teeth. What would they know? Varang had survived more than any of them could fathom. She'd crawled through fire and loss and grief that would have killed softer people. She was courageous. She was wonderful.

These people who still had their forests, their mothers, their green.

"She ran from the Omatikaya," someone else added. "Left her warriors behind."

"That's not—" You stopped. "She would not."

Laughter rippled through the circle.

Saye's hand found your shoulder, a gentle weight. Calm, it said.

"She is the strongest person I know." you said, and the words came out harder than you meant them to. 

More laughter. Like they knew something you didn't.

"If she's your strongest," one of them snickered, "then I'm appalled at your clan's ability to fight anything."

Another hunter smiled—polite, apologetic—and his tail whipped out to smack the first. Too much, the gesture said. You are making her uncomfortable.

The laughter died. Guilt flickered across the drunk one's face.

"I heard from the Sarentu," someone else offered, quieter now, "that she ran from battle. Toruk Makto's daughter overpowered her with her queue. The woman fled with her tail tucked."

Your rage turned to confusion.

"...What?"

Nods all around. "Don't you know? They say Kiri's queue was floating like—" She made a vague gesture with her hands, something that looked like tendrils rising. "Well… I am not sure how much I believe that part, but the Sarentu heard it from Neytiri's mouth. And Neytiri is not one to exaggerate feats."

Liar. They were lying. Varang would not run. She would fight. She would win.

Varang's queue is limp, Y/n.

No.

Saye squeezed your shoulder again, firmer now. "You should get going." Her voice was soft, almost pitying. She knew. Somehow, she knew. "Take the atokirina. Convince her." She smiled then, pulling you into an embrace. "Be safe, lost one."

You did not hug back.

You thanked them for the drink, for the circle, for their time. They stared at you like you'd grown a second head before bursting into confused laughter. "Why are you thanking us for this? Poor Mangkwan—do they not even share cups?"

They did not, you told them.

The laughter died.

Saye walked you to where your ikran waited, pressing a woven bag into your hands. Inside, the atokirina pulsed with faint light. "Be careful with this," she murmured. "I blessed the spirit and apologized for its capture. Still..." She trailed off, watching your face.

You took the bag. Your hands were steadier than you expected.

Varang. Weak. Quaritch weaker for not protecting her.

"Thank you," you finally said.

"It is my pleasure." Saye stepped back, her silhouette framed by the glow of the village behind her. "Visit more. The People enjoyed you."

You did not consider her words. You left.

.

.

.

Your ikran shrieked when you landed too hard, claws scraping stone. You didn't apologize. Didn't soothe. Just disconnected your queue and slid off, legs shaking.

When you returned, the secret sat heavy in your chest. The biggest secret.

Varang is strength.

You repeated it while walking through camp, past warriors sharpening blades and children chasing each other in circles. Past Yepa who glanced up from whatever he was cleaning and opened his mouth—

Varang is strength.

You repeated it while brushing aside the cloth of the hut, beads clicking soft and accusatory against each other. While your eyes adjusted to the dim firelight inside.

You repeated it while looking at her.

"Varang." You clutched the bag tighter.

Varang glanced back. She was naked—well, both she and Quaritch were—The two looked as if they just returned from the rivers, water still gleaming across their bare skin. 

Neither looked pleased.

"There she is." Quaritch's mouth pulled into something not quite a smile. "Again, darling?"

You bowed your head. "I am sorry."

"And here I was about to check the tracker." His drawl stretched lazy across the words. "Where you been, hon? Didn't catch you all day."

Your weight shifted foot to foot. You looked between them—him, her. "Somewhere." You whispered.

"Vague." Varang tilted her head. Her hand reached, fingers finding the tight band across your breasts. She leaned in and inhaled. "You smell of fruit." Another sniff. "And something floral."

You met her eyes, then didn't. Her touch felt different now. Poisonous, maybe. Not like Saye's calm hands or Tui's gentle prodding. Even the Yangor clan's curious jabs felt lighter than Varang's undressing.

Your hands twisted together. "One of the pinkskins were showing me…" You feigned confusion. A careful pause, eyes lifting to Quaritch now. "Er… per… perf…."

"Perfume." He chuckled, rising without a care for his own nakedness. You'd seen him enough by now. "That's how you say it, hon."

When Varang finished unwinding the cloth, she tossed it aside and cupped both breasts, bouncing them against her palms with usual disinterest. "Will you bathe tonight?"

You smiled, blushing a bit, but it felt forced. “No.”

A huff escaped her. "I prefer my scent on you." She kissed your cheek, nuzzling everywhere—your jaw, your throat, your shoulder. Almost purring. "You should bathe. Let me wash away this musk of flowers and fruits."

A soft laugh escaped you. Your heart wasn't in it.

She noticed.

"What is wrong?" The question came softer now. Her teeth found your nipple, tugging the piercing. You winced—still sore from Miles earlier—and the thought of more tonight made your stomach clench.

"Varang…" You pressed gentle hands against her shoulders, creating distance. Strike one. You knew that. But she needed to understand. You lifted your gaze to meet hers.

Now or never, you thought. My courage won't survive later.

She went still. Those large eyes locked on yours. Her smile faltered into something scarily blank.

Quaritch, oblivious as ever, groaned from the hammock. "You movin' already? Come back here. I'm cold." That usual grin. "Want to feel those itty-bitty-cupcake-titties." He winked.

You just rolled your eyes. So crude. 

You turned your back to him. The bag trembled in your hands as you lifted it. "Please… I need to…"

For one brief, cowardly moment your thumb pressed against the middle—where the Atokirina waited inside. Press into it. Forget about it. You'll find another way without the great mother's help, without the Yangor.

But you couldn't.

The Great Mother loves all her children. Even the ones who do not wish her to.

You loosened the drawstring. The seed floated free, wisping away from the fire's heat, luminous and impossible.

"You—" Varang saw it and scrambled backward, hissing. As if Eywa herself had materialized between you. "What are you doing!"

"If you allow—"

Varang lunged for the atokirina. You shoved her back.

Strike two.

"Stop." A sneer pulled at your lips.

Varang froze mid-reach. She stared at you like you'd become someone else entirely. Someone she didn't recognize. Slowly, she straightened. "...You ungrateful—"

Quaritch moved between you both, hands raised. "Let's stop having a catfight, alright ladies? Let's just—"

"No." Your gaze locked on Varang's. "It needs to be said."

You stepped beside Quaritch—not behind him. Beside. Your expression softened despite everything burning in your chest. "I would not bring a seed of the sacred tree if not for you."

"For me, she says—"

"Varang, please." Desperation bled through now. "You are not the same as before. You are…" You bit your lower lip. "Angrier. And I love your fury, you know this—but it's different. You are in constant pain. But the Yangor—"

"The Yangor?" She hissed the word like venom. "You went to the Yangor? When—" A pause. Her pupils narrowed. "You went right now. Didn't you."

A slow nod. "I did. Saye, the Tsahik of their village, told me that—"

She scoffed, pacing like a caged animal, shaking her head in furious disbelief. "Another woman. You went to another woman, a tsahik of another clan who worships the false mother—"

"You aren't listening—"

"Why should I?" A yell. A screech, really. "You've been… distant. Quaritch sees it too. And that man sees nothing!"

"Hey!" Quaritch frowned, hands finding his hips. He looked between you both. "Look, I don't know what's going on with the two of you, but you're acting like a bunch of toddlers. We got a problem, we talk about it. Alright?"

You both hissed at him.

“Shit, fine!” He raised his hands in defeat and slouched back against the hammock, sighing, watching with lazy eyes and attentive ears.

Varang's eyes tracked the Atokirina.

You moved without thinking—body curling around it, sheltering. The seed spirit seemed to know. It drifted higher, pressed itself against the woven ceiling as far from her as the small space allowed, and its tendrils curled inward like a hand making a fist. It too understood the danger in the room.

"Varang." Your voice came slower now, careful.  "All I ask is that you swallow the seed. Let me take you to the Yangor." Your voice dropped to something softer, pleading. "They've agreed. Their clan will perform the ritual. Your queue—it can be fixed."

You reached for her hand. Yours was shaking.

"It's not weakness to accept help." The words felt thin, stretched too tight. "We can bond again. I miss you. I miss seeing you."

Varang's gaze held yours. Her eyes tracked over your face, your trembling mouth, the tears already gathering at your lashes. Her lips pressed inward, rolled between her teeth. Beneath your palm, her pulse galloped. Then something in her shoulders unknotted. She looked past you to the Atokirina.

"Eat it?"

"No. Swallow it." You barely whispered now. "That's what she said."

Varang went quiet. Her eyes grew glossy—wet where iris met the rim. She glanced back at the limp queue draped over her shoulder, then at the spirit hovering behind you, then—strangely—at Quaritch, as if he might weigh in. As if his answer mattered.

He shrugged, all lazy indifference. "Not my problem." A grumble. "Don't appreciate her goin' behind our backs, but..." His jaw worked. "It was for you, Varang. Can't expect me to get mad at that."

You smiled at him despite yourself. Quaritch was the nicer one.

Slowly—so slowly—Varang reached for the Atokirina. Her fingers grazed the wisps just as yours had. Her tail swayed, uncertain. Her throat worked around something she couldn't name.

Then she crushed it beneath her palm.

"NO!"

Your eyes went wide. Her fist shook from how tightly she gripped, knuckles bleached pale under blue skin. You watched the light die between her fingers, heard the faint, sickening crunch. Her eyes had gone hard, flat—as if the softness before had been nothing but performance.

It was performance. You realized it too late, but you understood that now, standing in the wreckage of your own hope. You'd fallen for it. Again.

When she opened her hand, the Atokirina fell in pieces—tendrils falling to the ground. Their bioluminescence was all gone.

"Why would you—" The sob choked off the rest. You couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. You were crying now. 

Varang ground her heel into the remains. She glanced back at you with a tight frown that might have been pity. "Do you believe I need the bond? That I need to see you in order to love you?"

Her lips quirked up—an expression that looked almost fond. "I am farther from Eywa than I have ever been. The queue was my last tie to Her, and it's gone. In its place is pain." She paused, tilted her head. She watched your tears with something like fascination. "And I am happy for it."

You just stared.

Shoulders shaking. Sobbing. You couldn't look at her past the blur. Couldn't see her face without wanting to claw it apart or kiss it or scream until your throat bled. Couldn't reconcile this woman with the one you'd loved.

"You…"

Quaritch frowned, genuine discomfort creeping into his features. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Oh baby, don't cry. Just a damn seed." He shifted his weight, clearly out of his depth. "Now let's move on and sleep? I'm goddamn tired..."

"Shut it, Quaritch." Varang didn't look at him. She opened her arms instead, smile soft and coaxing. "Come here..."

And you pushed her away—hard—so hard she actually stumbled backward, caught off-balance, and hit the floor.

Strike three.

"Get away from me."

Quaritch's eyes widened. He was on his feet immediately, shoulders squared. "You stepped over the line, missy." His voice dropped into something dangerous, protective. A scowl carved deep lines around his mouth.

"I hate you." The words came out whispered, vicious. "Both of you. I hate you."

Quaritch's ears flicked back. His face crumpled—genuine hurt—before he locked it down. "You take that back." A grumble. "You take that back right now."

Varang watched from the ground, chest heaving, eyes wide with what might have been disbelief. Then her expression curdled. She hauled herself up and hissed—all that bared teeth and coiled fury. "You're emotional over a silly seed? You've always been weak, Y/n, but—"

"No." You glared. "No, you're the weak one."

She froze.

"You ran from Kiri. Ran from the battle." Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. "Yepa is just a boy and he had more wounds than you did! You are the weakest woman I know, Varang!"

"Butterc—"

You rounded on him, jabbed a finger into his chest. Teeth bared. "You couldn't kill a man you've hunted for sixteen years. You lost your son and then lost the winning battle!" Your breath came ragged now, furious. "You both think violence is strength. But violence isn't strength!"

They both went still.

Perfectly, terribly still.

You were huffing now, breath coming in ragged gasps. Their faces had gone placid—expressionless in a way that made your stomach drop, made ice crawl up your spine.

You'd messed up.

And yet, somehow, you did not care.

You were done with the lies.

"I hate you both."

The words came out wet, choked. Your face was a ruin of tears and snot and something uglier—something that had been rotting inside you for months. "I wish I never met you. I wish I went with your sister to a faraway clan."

Varang lifted herself up. Her head tilted, and you watched her think—watched the gears turn behind those golden eyes. She looked girlish now, in the way you just wanted to hug and hold her and tell her you are sorry.

Don’t you remember, Y/n? Finding me amongst the white hazy ash, barely a child, watching with wide eyes as soot overtook us both, screams of—

You shook your head.

"This is how you feel?"

The crack in her voice was barely there. A hairline fracture in stone. But years tangled with Varang had taught you—however much you hated it—to read her better than anyone.

You nodded and wiped at your tears with the back of your hand.

Quaritch's tail lashed once—sharp, deliberate. His stare locked onto Varang, then swung back to you and didn't leave. His fists opened and closed, opened and closed, as though she vanished entirely and it was just you two. And Varang? Varang—

Varang giggled.

It was light and sweet. Quaritch never blinked. His gaze pinned you in place while she circled closer, close enough to boop your nose like you were a child playing make-believe. She kissed you—deep, then pulled back with that same terrible lightness.

"My little flame," she murmured against your lips. "Burning so hot." 

She pulled back, still smiling. 

“Eat it.”

You paused. “...What?”

Her hand found your queue before you could pull away and her smile stayed eager, like she'd just asked you to look at a funny insect or pretty rock. "I said. Eat. It." She shoved you down, palm flat between your shoulder blades, pressing your face toward the atokirina's delicate threads. "You love the Great Mother, don't you? Love her enough to believe she can heal all wounds. So eat it. Do as you told your woman."

"I don't want to… I…"

You looked up at Quaritch through the blur of tears, eyes round and desperate, searching for—what? Mercy? He just watched. Then he grinned.

"Aww, look at her," he drawled, squatting down until his face was level with yours. His voice dripped with mock sympathy. "Beggin' now. What happened, sugar?" He tilted his head, bottom lip jutting out in a cruel pout. "Not so nice now, is it?"

He settled lower, knees spreading, forearms resting on his thighs. Eye level. "Just a bite, little lady."

You couldn't see anymore. Couldn't breathe. Your chest heaved in sharp, uneven gasps, ribs aching with the effort. You squirmed but Varang's hand was iron—pressing your face into the delicate threads until they crushed against your lips.

"Eat."

You opened your mouth and shut your eyes. A whine crawled up your throat. Your teeth closed around the delicate threads, and you chewed.

Forgive me, Great Mother. Forgive me for eating this pure spirit. Let it, if anything, bear the curse of my sins and—

Varang cooed, soft and sickly sweet. She eased the pressure on your skull and stepped back, watching you with the same fond attention one might give a pet learning a new trick. "There. Now you are one with the Great Mother, yes? Do you feel pure now? Hm?"

She waited. You chewed. The taste was nothing—but the texture was everything. Light, wispy, crunchy.

Her voice sharpened, just a fraction. "Little one. I am speaking to you."

You nodded. "Yes, Varang." The world felt distant. Muffled. Your body wasn't yours anymore—it was something you watched from far away, a puppet going through motions you controlled, but didn’t acknowledge. 

She stepped past you, naked and laughing. “Good.” She left the yut. You heard her voice drift back, sing-song. "She's finally blossoming."

Quaritch didn't follow. He stepped forward instead, closing the space until you had nowhere to go but backward. Your ears flattened, and you acknowledged the shame you felt with your tail tucked in tight. His grin curled sardonic at the edges when he caught your chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up. He pressed a light kiss over the crown of your head.

"There's that fire," he grumbled. "Proud of you."

And you realized.

They didn't think you were being serious.

They thought this was a tantrum.

"Quaritch—"

He hummed, a dismissive sound, and slapped your ass in passing. The crack echoed. "That was some mean stuff." He grabbed his loincloth from where it had been discarded. Unlike Varang, he still had some modesty left in him. "Almost believed you, hot stuff. But Varang knows how to reel in brats. Better than me, truthfully."

He tied the cloth at his hip, movements easy, unbothered. "Gonna give you the benefit of the doubt that you didn't mean it. 'Cause I know you wouldn't hurt my heart like that."

He glanced back over his shoulder, all teeth. "Dealt with Spider long enough—kid does the same shit. Spouts off about how much he hates me, then turns around and calls me dad."

He finished the knot, then straightened. Watched you for a beat too long.

Then, finally, he stepped closer.

And closer.

He leaned down. You could smell the sweat on his skin, the faint tang of gunpowder that never quite left him. His breath ghosted over your ear.

"But if you say that shit again, Y/n..."

He never called you by your name.

"Well."

He patted your ass again and turned toward the door. "See you at dinner."

Like it was nothing. 

You stood frozen in the empty hut, staring. Your eyes burned.

Hate.

A/N- Please remember to reblog or like! Much appreciated!!!

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Tag list- @petalsmoons, @pedroswife2222, @tatertati-fangirl, @sukuichs, @beepbeepimasheep123, @mrsmorgan001, @twentyonetornmyheart, @ruinhalo, @honey-i-love-chevy, @reinaissante, @meeowbitch, @always-1960, @glitterforashes, @ella0108, @dollfaceglow ^^^^Thank you all who wished to be added to the taglist! You guys are amazing... hopefully it was up to par!

[wingo5]

Working on a snow avatar clan!! Here is a woman (possibly tsahik idk yet) concept. Feel free to ask questions, I’m working on the flora, fauna, architecture, and lore rn lol :3

[starsloom]

gazes at her disapprovingly

[troutbelly]

Wildkit, his negligent mother, and his mentor/probable father

[thlaylistar]

HarvestClan full Lineup!

HarvestClan is a clangen group I’ve been playing with for a couple of days now. They live in an abandoned fruit orchard, whose overgrown flora offer them respite from the elements. They are a noticeably small group; two come from a clan-like group, one, a barncat, and one of mysterious origin.

I don’t think I’ll be doing a full fledged comic but I plan to make more stuff with them :333

[meatybeeeee]

All of bundleclan

This took all day

Who knows if more cats will be added to the tree idk I’m too tired

[gorsepawenjoyer]

how y'all liking my fan clan logos for my warrior cats stories!?

I'm debating switching Ash'Clan to an orange colour..

[nocturneghosts]

Started working on that FanClan made up of your kins/favourite characters! Trying to keep these simple in my chibi style, but the itch to create big lore is getting me...

Here are the first two: Littleghost and Falconsnow! Any guesses who they are based on?