Klaus Mikaelson is feared by everyone — everyone but you. You’ve loved him since before he was a monster, and you never stopped. When someone dares to threaten his wife, Klaus responds with blood and fury. But when the storm settles, all that’s left is you and him — centuries of devotion, danger, and a love too deep to be undone.
Klaus Mikaelson x wife!reader
There was blood on his hands — again.
It shimmered in the low candlelight, slow and warm, painting the curves of his knuckles, dripping from his fingers in soft, deliberate taps onto the marble. The scent of iron mixed with burnt velvet and old magic — and you breathed it in like memory.
You stepped into the ruins of the room without hesitation. The hem of your coat brushed against a scorched rug. Your boots cracked glass and stepped over torn spellbooks. The air still held the heat of his rage.
He didn’t speak when you entered. Didn’t turn. Just stood there — his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths, his jaw clenched tight, blood drying in streaks on his throat and collar.
“I take it the negotiations didn’t go well,” you murmured.
His knuckles twitched. A body near his feet twitched, too — what was left of one.
You didn’t stop. You moved through the wreckage, around a collapsed chair, past a broken chain, until you reached him. Then you raised your hand, slowly, and brushed a finger along the edge of his collarbone — collecting blood. Warm. Fresh.
You held it up between you, like proof. “They threatened me?”
Klaus’s jaw flexed. “They said your name.”
“Ah.” You let your blood-stained finger drop to your side. “Then I assume this”—you gestured softly to the torn limbs, the scorched sigils on the walls, the silence—“was restrained.”
That made him look at you.
The tension in his frame didn’t ease, but something in his eyes flickered — something aching, something feral, something that had never truly left him, not since the day you first chose him before the wars, before the curse, before the world learned to fear his name.
“I warned them,” Klaus said, voice rough. “What would happen if they even thought of touching you.”
You closed the last inch of space between you. One hand rose to rest against his chest, just over his heart. The other moved to his jaw, your thumb gently brushing the edge of a bloodstained vein beneath his cheekbone.
“You always were a man of your word.”
His eyes slipped shut. His breath shuddered, and he grabbed your wrist — not to pull you away, but to anchor himself to the only thing in the world that ever made him feel real.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, the words rasped out like they hurt. “Not now. Not after everything.”
You cupped his face in both hands, your thumbs brushing the sharp line of his cheeks. “You won’t.”
“I’ve done terrible things,” Klaus murmured, like a confession he’s said a hundred times but never like this. Not to you. “Things I can’t come back from.”
“I know.” You leaned up until your forehead rested against his. “And I stayed anyway.”
His grip shifted, hands sliding down your sides, curling around your hips. He held you like you were both a lifeline and a weapon — and maybe you were.
“You saw me before all of it,” he said hoarsely. “Before the curse, before the blood, before the monster.”
You smiled. “I did. And I see you now.”
Klaus’s breath hitched, and then he kissed you — like he was drowning.
His mouth moved over yours with a kind of desperation only centuries of longing could build. Your lips parted, welcoming him in, letting the taste of blood and power and history pass between you like oxygen.
Your hands slid into his hair, tugging gently. His groan rumbled against your mouth as he pressed you back, one hand gripping your waist, the other finding the small of your back like he’d never forgotten how to hold you.
“You’re everything I ever wanted,” he breathed between kisses. “Even before I had the power to keep you.”
You tilted your head, brushing your lips against the corner of his mouth. “And you’re mine, Niklaus. In every version of yourself. You always have been.”
He broke then — just for a second. You felt it in the way his lips softened, the way his arms tightened, how he buried his face in your neck and inhaled like the scent of you was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.
“I still remember,” he whispered, lips brushing your throat, “the way your hand trembled when you gave me your vow.”
You slid your hand down the front of his ruined shirt, fingers brushing skin. “I remember how your voice cracked when you made yours.”
He kissed you again — slower this time, deeper. Reverent. His mouth moved over yours like he was memorising you, like he was trying to bury himself in your bones.
And maybe he was.
“Say it,” he rasped.
“What?” you breathed.
“That you’re mine.”
You smiled, all heat and fire and old magic. “I’ve always been yours.”
His breath caught. His hand curled beneath your thigh, lifting you effortlessly, pinning you to the nearest wall like instinct. You wrapped your legs around his waist, fingers digging into his shoulders.
“And you?” you whispered. “Still mine?”
He looked at you like worship. “Until the world forgets its name. Until the sun burns out.”
You tugged at his collar until it tore, lips brushing his jaw. “Then ruin me, husband.”
Klaus kissed you like he planned to — slow and dark and deliberate.
And when he did — when centuries of restraint gave way to the truth of your bond — it wasn’t violent. It wasn’t chaotic.
It was worship.
Blood and devotion and possession, yes. But it was love.
I feel like I’m bombarding you sending requests so close together, so I’m sorry! I’m watching Civil War today and what if reader meets Bucky while he’s on the run, and they’re living together in Bucharest when Steve shows up in his apartment? So now Bucky has to do the whole fight and escape while carrying his very civilian girlfriend because he’s terrified of her being captured? And then they get captured together and reader is there when Zemo reads his trigger words, but even when he’s the Winter Soldier, he still knows her! Basically civil war with someone who loves him by his side? Cause let me just tell you I’d have been stuck to him like glue through every bit of this mess! And I have a very sharp tongue, so I may not be able to fight, but they’d have received a few verbal lashings on behalf of my man!! - ⚓️
no please keep invading it!
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You cling to Bucharest the way you cling to him — a stubborn, half-defensive hold that says you belong to the city and, more importantly, to the man who chose to hide inside it. Your life here is small and domestic: a chipped mug that’s his, a sweater that smells faintly of motor oil and winter, and the way he makes tea like the act of boiling water can be an incantation against whatever the world wants to do to him. You tell yourself you’re safe because you remember the plain pleasures — the echo of his laugh when he’s trying not to smile, the careful way he tightens the laces when you go for walks — and you brace for the rest.
Then Steve comes to the door.
He doesn’t knock. He leans into the threshold like he’s been swallowed by the hallway light and spat out into your living room: still as a photograph, with the same impossible jaw you’ve seen in framed cutouts of soldiers and magazine covers you’d once laughed at. For a beat you think he might be a dream, until Bucky says your name the way he always does — low and real — and the sound lands like a promise you didn’t know you’d been waiting for.
Bucky looks at Steve like there is a landmine between them that could snap the world in two. You watch Steve’s eyes flick from Bucky to you, and you know, with a sudden, cold clarity, that what was once a war between men has become a war contaminating your small home. Your heart thrums like you’ve swallowed a fistful of coins.
“Get out,” Bucky says. It’s not loud, but it’s precise. He takes a step forward and you have the ridiculous urge to press your back to him, to make yourself heavier and more immovable.
Steve doesn’t move. He takes one more step, and then another, the way someone approaches a wound they’ve been both the cause of and the salve for. “Bucky,” he says, the name like a key. “We have to go.”
You laugh — a short, incredulous sound that is more defense than humor. “We?” you repeat. “You’re telling me — me, who made a mean stew and a worse attempt at repairing a radiator — that we need to go fight a manhunt? I’m flattered, Stevie, really.”
Bucky’s jaw tightens. “You’re coming with me,” he says. No options. No room for argument. He moves before you can protest, wrapping one arm around your waist the way he does when the nights are too loud and the city smells of rain. It’s the same motion but multiplied by urgency; he pulls you close and under his shoulder as if you might blow away.
You’re in his arms and suddenly you are not the woman who gets flustered at small talk — you are the woman he will not let be taken.
He carries you down narrow stairwells and past rooms with darkened curtains like someone smuggling oxygen. You can feel the weight of the moment — the quiet, the hesitation of strangers behind curtains — and the kind of intimacy that grows when people have to be nearer than they should. You try to be useful. You offer directions, you point out back alleys you know by the graffiti, you keep up a running commentary that is mostly sassy retorts and wry observations, because if you can make him laugh, you can keep the panic at bay.
You know you’re being ridiculous in the face of danger, and you lean into it. “If anyone tries to take me, they’re in for the verbal thrashing of a lifetime,” you tell him, voice steady though your palms sweat against his jacket. “Trust me. I’ve ruined reputations with fewer words and better posture.”
He huffs something that might be a laugh or an exhale of fear. “Keep talking,” he says. “Distract me.”
You do. You jab at him with a stream of sharp, ridiculous comments — about how Steve’s haircut is suspiciously soldierly, about how Bucky’s sock game is inconsistent — and it works. The string between your ribs tightens and loosens like a hand on a leash. For a second you forget that the world might end, because he’s holding you as if he can stop it.
It doesn’t take long for things to spiral. A car idles too long, and the faces that step from it have the kind of focus that comes from men who are paid to be relentless. Everything accelerates. Metal flashes. Voices bark. You feel the press of force and the dull, terrifying logic of being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people.
Bucky moves like a man who knows the choreography of violence well: swift, efficient, and a hair away from being too brutal for what he’s had to endure. He picks you up as he does — not a lover’s cradle, but a soldier’s carry, limbs arranged to keep you safe and his body a shield. You’ve never been this small in his arms, and you grip the back of his neck like an anchor.
“Stay with me,” he says, his voice raw on the edge. “Don’t—”
“Scare me?” you finish for him, with a grin you hope is brave. “I’m with you. Always.”
You are. You mean it, the way your tongue tastes like copper and courage. When the world compresses into the moment of fight-or-flight, your mouth is a weapon of its own. You throw insults like punches, sharp and ridiculous: at the men who try to corner you, at the absurdity of the situation. It keeps your mind quick, and it keeps Bucky’s eyes on you, not just on the threat.
They take you both. You don’t go quietly; there is a strain in your voice that comes from the kind of anger which refuses to be patted down. You deliver a few barbs — deliciously cutting — and for a flicker of time they look like they’re about to work. Then there’s the back of a van, the smell of oil and cheap plastic, and the hard certainty of captivity.
The room you wake in is too bright and too clinical, and for the first terrifying seconds you cannot breathe properly because everything has been pared back to the essentials: the sound of Bucky’s breath, the rustle of his movement. You sit up. You find him beside you, eyes blank as porcelain and fingers trembling. The man who holds your hand is not quite Bucky. He is a mechanic of silence and trained reflex, a weapon with a name that you were taught to whisper in case it had been better left unsaid.
Zemo’s voice is a scalpel.
They stand there, a small crowd. Zemo talks like he is narrating a tragedy, and the thing he says feels like a key in a lock — phrases that unfurl the Winter Soldier like he’s been sleepwalking for years. You watch the change like someone witnessing a floral bloom in reverse. The man you love becomes the man you fear, and yet as the old program crawls back across his features, he doesn’t look at you with empty eyes. Something else — a shard of the man who held teacups and warmed your hands and told you about the small, stupid things he missed — catches in the ugly light.
For a beat that stretches in a way pain doesn’t, he blinks. Recognition slides across his face, quicker than the triggered menace. His hand finds your wrist, and you feel it — a small, trembling hello. It’s the ghost of a hello that says, I still know you.
In that impossible second the Soldier is both predator and penitent. His mouth works, and the words that come are not the cold programmed orders they expect. They are an apology, an anchor, a memory. “You,” he says to you, and it is the most human thing anyone has heard in that room all night. “You’re here.”
You laugh then — a little hysterical, a little raw, because the absurdity of being known in the middle of a nightmare tastes like salvation. You press your hand to his cheek, because if you don’t touch him, you might lose him to the mechanics of violence. Your fingers are steady. “Did you actually think I’d stay home and bake while you ran from a country?” you joke, and it comes out like a promise.
He stares at you like the sun has finally broken through the clouds. There’s pain in his eyes, and something like gratitude. The world may have painted him as machine, but in that tight, stolen time he looks at you like he is pointed toward something better — toward himself, toward a chance at being whole enough to deserve you.
They underestimate the danger of love. It’s not a weapon to throw; it’s a stubborn, blunt force that refuses to let the darkness write him entirely. And even with Zemo’s cold words and the weight of the past, your presence — your sharp tongue and your wrongs and your ridiculous, human warmth — is a map that the man with a metal arm reads with awe.
When the room tightens again and the Soldier’s calm returns like an ocean tide, you don’t flinch. You keep holding his hand. The world can do what it will: you have a man who carries you because he’s terrified you’ll be taken. You have a man who, even when someone else makes him into something else, still very clearly knows the name of the woman at his side.
“You’re not leaving me,” you tell him, and it’s not a question.
He squeezes your hand — slow, fierce — and for the first time since you met him on this run, you believe him.
Pairing: (VERY obsessed) Neteyam x Strong!Fem Human/Avatar Reader
Genre: Medium burn, Enemies-to-Lovers, Post-canon AU /Neteyam survived the shot and all the Sullys went home/
Synopsis: General Frances Ardmore asks her ambitious and strong-willed daughter, who stayed on Earth, to help convince Jake Sully to cooperate. If she succeeds, she promises to give her what she values most in life: a huge amount of money.
Neteyam feels completely tired of all the expectations and duties. He just wants to be happy, but he feels like no one understands him — until life brings him face to face with his greatest enemy, and he realizes they have much more in common than he ever thought.
PREVIOUS CHAPTER Chapter index
Chapter 1 - Arrival
Five years have passed since Neteyam felt the touch of death.
Time has dulled the sharpest pains, his body has more or less healed the wound, but the experience left something behind that remains forever.
Tonight, in the pale light filtering through the tree canopies, he quietly cleanses himself in the pleasantly warm water of the lake, his fingers involuntarily tracing the sensitive scar stretching across his chest.
The rough-edged, star-shaped lines sprawl irregularly and hideously over his skin, as if life itself had carved the memory of his weakness into him: the failure of not being fast enough, not being attentive enough.
The healers did everything they could, and his parents made every sacrifice they could, but the most they achieved was that he survived.
At least he kept breathing.
Even though his father kept his promise and finally brought them home, the longed-for relief did not come—not even here.
In fact, he feels even more broken and shameful in front of the clan, which once counted on him to someday become their olo'eyktan.
"Who would want someone like this?" he thinks bitterly.
His parents tell him almost daily that as a grown man, it’s time he finds a mate and puts his own happiness first, but... he wonders, what woman would want to look up at this disgusting body during an act that’s supposed to be perfect, something beautiful?
Moreover, he’s no longer good at anything; he tires too easily, and whenever he tries to push beyond his limits, his damaged heart stops him.
He can only become less with each passing day, never more.
A warrior’s body is his pride: but he can’t see it as a badge of honor, only as a failure of life itself.
Leaves rustle softly behind him, and a frowning Lo’ak steps out from the shadows, grinning as he wades into the water beside his brother.
Though he has matured a lot over the past few years, he’s still a complete idiot—though now, sympathy sparkles in his eyes.
Or maybe pity, Neteyam thinks bitterly.
- Hey - his younger brother says in a voice trying to sound casual - , if you’re brooding over it again, I swear I’m gonna hit you! It’s still not that bad.
Neteyam turns his head toward him but says nothing. His gaze remains as hard as the trunks of the ancient trees.
- Seriously - Lo'ak continues, stepping closer and starting to rub himself down with mud scooped from the lakebed - , look... that scar just shows you survived. You fought and you won! Besides - he grins -, girls dig that kind of thing. You could even spice up the story a little. I'd totally back you up, swear it!
Neteyam lets out a short, disbelieving breath through his nose, but the hard line of his mouth softens a little.
He doesn’t believe Lo’ak’s words—not yet—but his brother’s presence, the support he offers, makes the weight on his chest feel a bit lighter. Even if only for a moment.
- Shut up, skxawng! - he says, splashing a generous amount of water into his little brother’s face.
Lo'ak sputters, swearing half in Na'vi and half in English, trying to blink the water from his eyes.
The sight finally brings a genuine smile to Neteyam’s lips, and he quickly steps back before Lo'ak can retaliate.
- What the hell, bro?! - the younger boy grumbles. - I came out here to balm your poor little soul, and this is the thanks I get?
- Didn’t you say not that long ago that you wanted to go back to Awa'atlu 'cause you missed the water? Guess not that much, huh?
A strange expression flashes across Lo’ak’s face before he finally mutters:
- I just miss Payakan, that’s all. And... maybe Tsireya. Just a little.
Guilt twists Neteyam’s heart at the thought that because of his own wish to return home, his brother had to leave the place where he had, for the first time in his life, truly been himself.
He’s about to offer to take him back if he wants—ready to understand, even if it would hurt like hell if Lo’ak decided to stay and not be part of his everyday life—but...
No.
If he’s being completely honest, he knows he couldn’t leave him there alone. Not without him to protect him—even if now, he might not even be able to.
His fists clench at the thought that maybe his family, his siblings, no longer need him—and that over time, he might become nothing more than a burden to them.
But then dozens of bright lights appear in the night sky, rapidly approaching, drawing both their gazes upward.
Ships are landing in the distance—and both of them know: this never means anything good.
At the same time, a strange feeling squeezes Neteyam’s chest: as if his whole world is about to change, though he has no idea yet why or how.
- Come on, we have to get home - he says, grabbing his brother’s arm and dragging the protesting, muddy Lo’ak toward the shore. - We have to report this to Dad.
✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: Tamed by the Starlight :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
When you first step onto Pandora’s soil, your first thought is what a backwards dump this place is—and that thought sticks around for quite a while.
You have no idea how you're going to survive this place until your mother's mission succeeds: to establish a human colony, build up proven tech, and reach the level of development that was once part of everyday life on Earth (at least until Earth's collapse reached such a degree that not even technology could save it anymore).
Not that you miss humans much—but after five years frozen in cryo, you are curious what happened to your company and your people back there.
Not that it really matters—whether Larry sank the whole thing or not, you’ll make enough here to buy a new car and track his sorry ass down to punch him before you rehire him.
Despite the utter shithole you now find yourself in—the depressing military base and the iron walls that remind you way too much of your school and your childhood traumas—you cheer up at the thought of fat stacks of cash.
You still remember being six years old, sobbing uncontrollably as you begged your mother not to leave you—only for her to shove you away with a stone-cold face, telling you you were a disgrace.
Sure, she paid a small fortune for your education before disappearing to conquer worlds—but you hadn’t seen her in person since.
General Frances Ardmore.
It fills you with pure joy to squeeze every dime out of her now.
No sum of money, though, can ever really pay for the nights you cried yourself to sleep like some dumb kid, still believing in the childish fantasy that maybe, just maybe, your mother loved you—just didn’t know how to show it.
What a fucking joke!
No matter how hard you tried to be a good kid, you never had a real relationship with her.
Honestly, you never understood what the hell drove her to have a child when she clearly cared about nothing but the military and her stupid stars.
(You heard she had four now—likely adding a few more soon.)
Meanwhile, you never gave a damn about any of that.
Every single day at the elite military boarding school felt like waking up on death row—for twelve straight years.
You always wanted to be a queen—or, more realistically, a businesswoman at the helm of a modern tech empire.
Living in luxury—ordering people around a little—and sipping martinis on your private jet as you flew over oil-slick oceans.
Was that too much to ask?
Instead, while you dreamed of driving luxury SUVs in designer suits, reality had you learning how to shoot guns in ugly camo male uniforms.
Useful knowledge on a dying planet—but nowhere near satisfying, especially with strict rules banning you from using your skills for real.
On Pandora though... there are no such rules. Hm.
At school, eventually, every boy wanted to be your "friend"—and thanks to your seemingly adorable (but actually ruthlessly persuasive) personality—you had them all eating out of your hand by the time you graduated.
(You'd swear you didn’t even do it on purpose.)
Even though you went from pathetic loser to top of your class and one of the most talented snipers in the state, you refused to pursue a professional military career—just to spite your calculating mother.
Instead, you leveraged every one of your talents into the business world—transforming from a nobody into a full-blown predator.
Your skills, your ambitions, your face (which is, objectively, pretty damn good-looking) all culminated in that long-distance message five years ago that blindsided you during a smog-alert Wednesday afternoon:
If you're willing to step out of your comfy executive chair for ten years, come to Pandora, and negotiate the colonization deal with the enemy chieftain in an Avatar body—after multiple assassination attempts failed—then not only will you be paid a salary that’ll make you piss yourself, but if you succeed, your company will be the one overseeing all the tech development on Pandora.
The money will flood in.
Considering that back on Earth the economy was already collapsing and people had started killing each other instead of spending their money, it didn’t sound like a bad deal—especially with that billion-dollar payday on the table if you pulled it off.
You still don’t quite know how you're going to do it.
But hell, you’ll wag your blue alien tail for Jake Sully on all fours if that’s what it takes to seal the deal.
The real problem is the execution: bribing a marine who's devoted to protecting the natives?
It's a thrilling challenge—but maybe for the first time in your life, you don't have a complete plan. (At least not unless you go with the most humiliating one: seducing him away from his woman. But that would involve way too many situations you'd rather die than deal with, even if the guy looks like Adonis.)
Honestly, you don't get Jake Sully.
What kind of lunatic chooses to be a jungle savage hunting buffalo with a spear when they could live in a world with vending machine McDonald’s?
There’s no smart home system out there. No AI.
Not even hamburgers.
It makes no sense.
No alien body—no matter how badass—or sexy half-animal woman is worth giving all that up.
(Unless Na'vi avatars came with superpowers... which, sadly, they don’t.)
Speaking of alien bodies—
You raise an eyebrow at the giant tank of blue goo floating in front of you, containing a massive, freaky creature with a face disturbingly similar to yours.
At least they gave it the big boobs, you admit with a sigh.
Arms crossed, you walk around it, inspecting its sickly thin body, its long, four-fingered hands (freaky as hell, but the scientists had orgasms over achieving that breakthrough), and the deep cut between its legs...
You wonder if it would look the same spread open as a human’s would?
Not that you plan to use that part, but still—you try to get a peek.
No luck from this angle.
Oh well—you'll have plenty of time to study it once you’re inside it.
Next to you, Arnold—the nerdy little shit from Avatar operations—is practically drooling over his own tank.
Annoying little busybody.
Ever since you guys woke up from cryo, he hasn't left you alone.
No insult is harsh enough to deter him.
He follows you around like a puppy, apparently thinking even your brutal sarcasm is some kind of friendly joke.
He probably wants to fuck you—if he weren’t such a pathetic nerd.
As it is, he’s just waiting for you to drag him into some maintenance bay and make the first move—which, of course, would happen over your dead body.
Still, you glance at his avatar, floating spread-eagle in the tank, looking even dumber than his human self.
And you can’t help but notice that his avatar has the same weird deep cut between the legs.
Maybe, you could be more discreet—but that’s not you.
So you blurt out:
- Is it just yours that doesn’t have a dick, or are these things all like fucking snails?
Arnold turns tomato-red, immediately launching into a stuttering, scientific explanation about Na'vi anatomy and arousal states— but a rough, gravelly voice cuts him off:
- Hopefully, you'll never find yourself in a situation where you have to see a native's penis in person—otherwise, I'd be terribly disappointed.
And you thought this day couldn’t possibly get any more fucked up.
Your mother stands by the railing, her posture so stiff it’s like she swallowed a stick, a stern expression locked on her face.
- Not that I care about that sort of thing - you say dryly. - What's the plan? When do we get to dive in?
Your mother—no. General Ardmore doesn’t even glance at you as she walks past, handing you a twenty-centimeter-thick stack of documents as if she were giving orders to any random cadet.
- In three days. Assuming you complete the first mission successfully.
Couldn’t they at least let you get over your jet lag?
Of course not.
Arnold tries to sneak a glance over your shoulder, until the general cuts off his efforts with a barked, "Schafer, dismissed."
With a stoic face, you flip open the detailed blueprints—of a city, surrounded by a transparent dome with an artificially maintained atmosphere.
The first human base on this moon, where, thanks to the air filtration systems, humans could practically live under an open sky.
An engineering masterpiece, laid out in perfect detail on every page.
The aesthetic leaves a lot to be desired, but that’s exactly where your company comes in.
- We've scheduled a diplomatic meeting with the natives for after the second eclipse tomorrow. Since my people are only good at using weapons, I’m counting on you to represent humanity as an independent civilian—at least on paper. What you’re holding in your hands is the future of humanity, the fate of an entire species. It’s an incredibly important plan, and if they don’t accept it, we don’t stand a chance.
Naturally, there’s no "Wow, you’ve grown so much these past fifteen years while I completely ignored your existence, sweetie."
Just business. Dry, no foreplay.
- And exactly who am I supposed to give this little lecture to, about how wonderful it will be for them to have their beloved trees bulldozed down and replaced with piles of metal?
- Currently, their leader is a young male named Tarsem, but it’s mostly a symbolic role. He is a primitive half-beast. I doubt they’ll send him. Jake Sully is their military leader—and 'the brains' of the entire tribe—but it’s unlikely he'll appear in person. I suspect he’ll send someone in his place while he watches the meeting site, ready to jump in if needed.
- Fantastic.
So, chances are, you’ll have heavily armed blue monkey-men watching your every move from the bushes—you’re starting to miss military school a little.
- You’ll find a crash course on the Na'vi in the last few pages. I’d start there if I were you. There are a few topics they’re particularly sensitive about.
From what little you know about them, they don't seem much different from the greenpeace diehards who chain themselves to the last dying trees.
Spiritual hippies who believe in "the sacred power of goodness" and other such bullshit.
You probably won’t have any problems—unless you accidentally trample their precious grass.
You expect someone young, maybe a warrior, a little less primitive than the rest.
Though it doesn’t really matter.
Whoever they send, your mission is clear: convince them that whatever crap you’re selling is, in fact, good for them.
You hum thoughtfully over the heavy paragraphs detailing the environmental devastation plans—surely, they’ll love that—while inside, your mind already starts racing.
At any cost, they said.
Negotiation, lying, blackmail—or, if needed, a much... subtler form of manipulation.
Perfect.
If it were humans you were dealing with, this would be a walk in the park.
But you’ve never even seen a real Na'vi before.
Outside, under Pandora’s sky, a different life pulses. A world you don’t understand—but whose fate now rests in your hands.You have one day to prepare.
One day to become a god—or be torn apart by the natives of a foreign world.
The rules will be different here—but so are you.
Those savages have never met anyone like you. Of that, you’re sure.
- One more piece of advice. - The general’s voice never softens; she’s always the same—cold, focused, ruthlessly efficient. - For the sake of success, you’d better not mention the name Ardmore to them. Let them think they’re negotiating with peaceful civilian humanity. If you get them to accept the pact and the western region becomes a war-free zone, you’ll receive half the payment. If you fail...
She doesn’t finish the sentence.
She knows—just like you do—that you’ve never failed in your life, no matter how hard the world tried to break you.
✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: Tamed by the Starlight :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
Neteyam hadn’t exactly been eager to meet more humans in the past few years, aside from the scientists who had been a part of his daily life since childhood.
However, the fact that his father had personally asked him to take on an important mission—after five long years of not even being allowed to hunt alone—overrode any lingering resentment.
Finally, he felt useful again—and he tried to ignore the fact that his younger brother—whom he once had to protect—was now practically glued to his side like a bodyguard.
Their father had been adamant when Neteyam tried to argue that he could take care of himself.
He had made it clear: they would be close by, ready to step in if anything went wrong with the so-called "peacekeepers."
Neteyam tried not to dwell on how much he had changed over the years—how much he had been forced to change.
He had once been a skilled warrior, the pride of his people, entrusted with any task without hesitation.
Now, whenever he thought of "humans," images of machine guns flashed before his eyes, and a deep, uncomfortable tension settled in his gut.
He knew—at least intellectually—that the peacekeepers often sided with the Na'vi just as much as with their own species, sometimes even clashing with other humans.
But he couldn't fully shake the unease.
Who would the RDA send?
A high-ranking official?
General Ardmore herself?
No—that seemed unlikely.
That woman, with all the blood on her hands, would never dare show herself unguarded.
- I bet it’s going to be some pretty human chick - Lo'ak commented casually after Neteyam asked him what he was thinking about. - They want to convince us, right? So they'll definitely send the cutest one.The peacekeepers always send the better-looking women.
In the end, it didn’t matter.
If what they asked wasn’t beyond the price of the truce the Omatikaya had already offered, he would agree.
He wanted peace.
He wanted to get rid of the nerve-wracking sound of gunfire, which he had hated for as long as he could remember—and which, for the last five years, had filled him with a deep, paralyzing dread.
The forest watched their approach in near silence, broken only by the distant cries of birds.
Neteyam’s eyes scanned the surroundings continuously, instinctively searching for any hint of danger as they neared their destination: the old military outpost on the edge of their territory.
It was now rarely used—only for meetings like this one, under the peacekeepers’ supervision.
Every nerve ending in his body screamed caution, but he knew his duty: much depended on this, and knowing Lo'ak, he would have to stay alert for the both of them.
The metallic hatch of the old cabin groaned as he pushed it open, moving ahead of his brother to shield him if an ambush awaited.
Some things never changed.
But inside, it wasn't at all what he expected: No weapons.
No soldiers.
Just one large table, piled with papers—and behind it, your gaze met his.
Something clenched tight in his stomach as he looked you over—an ordinary human, yet unlike any he had ever seen.
You didn’t look insignificant or pitiful like the others—even with the mask hiding half your face.
✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: Tamed by the Starlight :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
You wear a midnight-black blazer—your favorite one—the same you had worn while sealing countless deals back on Earth.
Your opponent likely had never seen a human dressed like this before—and he was visibly taken aback by how the fabric clung to your body.
You lean your hands casually against the table, watching his every move from behind your sleek, custom-made breathing mask, like a predator studying prey that had just wandered into its trap.
He’s surprisingly... not as repulsive as his kind usually are.
Young, probably just reached adulthood—though you have no idea how these creatures age.
Apparently, they grow up faster than humans, or so you read in the briefing last night.
His muscles have a soft, athletic build, like someone trained hard for years but recently shifted to a less grueling lifestyle—something you had seen before in injured soldiers.
Honestly, you’re a little impressed.
You’ve seen pictures of Na'vi before, but if you had to rank them by appearance, this one would definitely be on top—both in physique and face.
You wonder which type he is—or if, maybe, he’s something completely different, outside human categories.
Finally, the boy—no, the man—breaks eye contact, unable to withstand the intensity of your gaze, and looks away.
Oh?
He is categorizable after all: the shy type.
Performance anxiety.
Mild self-esteem issues.
You smirk, victorious.
But just then, another young male—this one much cockier—saunters in, takes one look at you, and grins.
- Hah, told ya'! - he nudges the taller one, flashing sharp fangs in a teasing smile.
Shit, you think.
The exact opposite.
Maybe this won’t be so easy after all.
You accidentally match on a dating app, not knowing you’re co-workers at a top-secret biohazard containment unit (think Umbrella-adjacent but ethical). A rom-com with slow burn tension, flirty messages, awkward work encounters, and the chaotic realization that you’ve been flirting with the guy who shares your locker wall. Cue tactical training mishaps, emergency drills, and long looks over protein bars.
You hated dating apps. Your friends insisted it was time to “get out there,” and after one too many glasses of wine and a pushy group chat full of profile suggestions, you caved. Reluctantly. You spent your Sunday afternoon swiping through profiles with all the enthusiasm of writing a post-mission report. Most of the bios were painfully try-hard or clearly bots—until you saw his profile.
Username: TacticalTeddy92
Bio: “Not a morning person unless coffee is involved. Can survive a zombie outbreak. Probably.”
You snorted. The line was cheesy, borderline cliché, but somehow it worked. Maybe it was the warmth in his eyes. Maybe it was that he looked like someone who could pull you out of an explosion one minute and make you laugh the next. Whatever it was, you didn’t think too hard—you just swiped right.
And to your surprise (and mild horror), it was an instant match. You exchanged messages that were casual, teasing, and strangely familiar—like you were catching up with someone you already knew.
Him: “So, what’s your apocalypse plan?”
You: “Easy. Raid the coffee supply and then hide in the vents. No one checks the vents.”
Him: “Genius. You a strategist or just a caffeine junkie?”
You: “Can’t I be both?”
Him: “Dangerous combo. I like it.”
The banter flowed effortlessly, like you’d known each other for years. You found yourself smiling every time your phone buzzed. Even during night shifts. Even in the break room where the coffee was criminally bad.
You didn’t know what he looked like in person exactly—his profile pictures were just vague enough—but something about the tone of his voice messages made your stomach do that stupid flip. You wondered what he did for work. He mentioned a lot of odd hours. Security clearance. A shared hatred for protocol meetings. So naturally, fate decided to ambush you.
It started innocently. You were in the locker room after an extended training session, tossing your boots into your locker when your eyes caught something taped on the metal door two spaces down. A photo. That grin. Your brow furrowed.
Then, as if summoned by chaos itself, he walked in. Carlos Oliveira—team lead, tactical specialist, the guy with the infamously charming smirk and the arms that made your coworkers swoon. He looked sleep-deprived and slightly rumpled. And all too familiar. Your phone buzzed in your hand.
TacticalTeddy92: “Hey, this might sound weird… but you work for B.E.A.S.T., right?”
You blinked.
You: “Wait. What makes you think that?”
TacticalTeddy92: “Your last photo. That containment corridor background? That’s HQ. I’d know that ugly lighting anywhere. ;)”
Your heart dropped to your stomach. Slowly, you looked up. Carlos was staring at you. His eyes darted to your phone. Then to your face. Recognition bloomed in slow-motion. The air between you went still.
“…TacticalTeddy92?” you whispered.
Carlos grinned, completely unbothered. “You didn’t recognize me? I’m hurt. Just a little.”
You stared at him in stunned silence. The irony. The audacity.
“I didn’t recognize you with a shirt on,” you muttered, instantly regretting it as your cheeks flared with heat.
He laughed, a deep and warm sound that echoed off the lockers and made your stomach twist in ways that had nothing to do with nerves.
“You gonna unmatch me now?” he asked, tilting his head with mock concern.
You considered it. Briefly. But then again, you did like a little danger.
“…Maybe after coffee. And a full psych evaluation,” you deadpanned.
He just winked, like he’d won a bet you didn’t know you were playing.
yeah i’ll fight the whole pit and the whole damn city if i have to. but the second i’ve got her in my arms? i’m soft. i’m gentle. i’m petting her hair and kissing her neck and reminding her she’s mine. doesn’t matter how bloodied i am. doesn’t matter if my ribs are cracked. if i can still breathe, i’ll be holding her
