#varang fluff

[saebyeoksfreckles]

Sweet Talk, Sour End

Varang x fem!Mangkwan!reader

synopsis: When Quaritch gets a little too touchy while teaching you how to use the new RDA guns, Varang isn’t shy about showing him (and everyone else) exactly how unhappy she is about it…

genre: fluff, humor, feral wife energy <3

warnings: use of guns

word count: 1.3k

a/n: requested by anon~ if you liked the woodsprite jealousy, this is that but with wandering hands and a rifle :3

︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

The volcanic winds are screaming tonight. Probably because even Eywa herself is embarrassed by the bullshit unfolding in the Mangkwan camp.

Crates of RDA firearms sit like ugly metal babies among the obsidian rocks, delivered three days ago by the recombinant sky demon who calls himself ‘Quaritch’, with all the swagger of a man who thinks handing out guns makes him king of Pandora. Varang accepted the “alliance” the way she accepts most things: with a slow, curl of her lip that promised she’d use his toys and then maybe use him as target practice later.

You stand near the edge of the training circle, tail flicking with barely contained excitement. The new weapons are strange - cold, heavy, smelling of oil and death - but Quaritch promises that they will make the raids even more devastating.

The sky demon strides into the circle like he owns the ground beneath his boots, blue recombinant skin gleaming under the firelight, yellow eyes scanning the gathered warriors with that same lazy amusement he wears when eyeing prey. His tail sways lazily. One rifle is slung across his back, another cradled in his arms like an old friend.

Varang stands at the head of the circle, arms crossed, crimson and black paint stark against her skin, watching him with the expression of someone deciding whether to gut an intruder or use him first. Her gaze flicks to you once, possessive, then back to the sky person.

“Alright, listen up.” Quaritch drawls, voice carrying over the crackle of flames. “These ain’t no bows. They kick like a thanator and bite even harder. You wanna live through tomorrow, you gotta learn fast.”

His eyes land on you.

You feel it immediately, the slow, appraising sweep, lingering a heartbeat too long on the curve of your hip and the fresh streaks of red across your collarbones. Varang’s tail lashes once, hard enough to stir ash from the ground.

Quaritch steps closer, gesturing you forward with a tilt of his head. “You. Front and center. Let’s see if those pretty little hands can handle something with real power.”

A low hiss ripples from Varang’s throat. It’s barely audible, but you immediately recognize the sound. It’s the one she makes right before she claims something - or someone, with teeth and claws.

You step into the circle anyway, curiosity winning over caution. The rifle feels completely alien in your grip, heavier than any spear, the stock cool against your shoulder as Quaritch moves behind you to adjust your stance.

“Alright, sweetheart.” He drawls, stepping entirely too close, breath warm against the shell of your ear. “Chin up. Shoulders back. Legs apart… Wider, c’mon, don’t be shy.”

One large hand settles on your hip, fingers splayed like he’s measuring you for a trophy case.

The entire camp freezes. Even the fires seem to duck.

Varang, who up until this second had been pretending to sharpen one of her blades with murderous nonchalance, goes statue-still. Her tail stops mid swipe, then it starts again, slower, like a whip being coiled for maximum damage.

Quaritch keeps going, oblivious. Or maybe just stupid. “That’s it. Feel the power. Squeeze nice and slow when you’re ready. Breathe out… Yeah, just like that. Good girl.”

Good girl.

You feel Varang’s glare hit the back of your skull like a thrown knife.

Her shadow falls across both of you before you can even sight down the barrel. She doesn’t speak at first. She simply reaches past Quaritch, her long arm brushing his shoulder in clear dismissal, and wraps her hand around yours on the grip, yanking the rifle upward so the muzzle points harmlessly skyward.

“Enough.” She says, voice low and steady.

Quaritch doesn’t flinch, but his smirk widens, eyes glinting. “Jealous, cupcake? I’m just teaching your girl how to shoot straight.”

The laugh that leaves Varang’s lungs is short, dangerous.

“My mate does not need your hands on her to learn how to kill.” She steps fully between you and him, towering, tail coiling around your calf in a blatant claim. Her free hand slides up your arm, fingers tracing the paint she applied herself only hours ago - marks that declare you hers in ways no sky demon could ever mimic. “She has me for that.”

You feel heat crawl up your neck, tail curling instinctively toward hers. The warriors around the circle are pretending not to watch, but ears are perked, tails still.

Quaritch raises both hands in mock surrender, stepping back with exaggerated slowness.

“Easy, Tsahìk. Didn’t mean to step on any sacred ground.” His gaze flicks to you again, amused. “Though I gotta say, she takes instruction real well.”

Varang’s snarl is instant, lips peeling back from sharp teeth. “You look at her again, I will carve those yellow eyes out and feed them to your ikran. You touch her again…” She trails off, letting the promise hang.

Quaritch chuckles low. “Noted.”

Her tail tightens around your leg, pulling you flush against her.

“You want to learn the sky weapon?” She murmurs. “Fine. But you learn from me. Hands on mine. Body against mine. No one else even gets close enough to smell you.”

She plucks the rifle from your grasp, spins it expertly - already far too comfortable with the alien thing - and presses it back into your hold, this time stepping behind you herself. Her chest molds to your back, one arm banding across your waist, the other aligning along yours to steady the aim.

“Breathe.” She whispers against your ear, lips brushing skin. “Then fire.”

You squeeze the trigger, and the crack echoes across the camp like thunder. The target, a slab of volcanic rock, splinters violently.

Varang’s pleased rumble vibrates through you. “Good pet.”

Quaritch claps slowly from the sidelines. “Guess I’m out of a job.”

Varang finally looks at him, her smile all teeth. “You were never in one.”

She turns you in her arms, ignoring the watching clan, and kisses you hard, claiming and possessive, tasting faintly of smoke and victory. When she pulls back, her eyes are molten.

“No one touches what is mine.” She says softly, just for you. “Not even to teach.”

You grin despite yourself, bumping your nose against hers. “Jealous over a sky demon, Tsahìk?”

Her tail flicks irritably, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “Over anything that looks at you like you are theirs to take.”

She steals one more kiss, slower this time, then releases you with a final, warning glare at Quaritch.

“Training is over.” She announces to the camp. “Everyone back to your fires. And if I catch any of you staring at my mate the way this one did…” She jerks her chin toward Quaritch. “I shall use the new toys to paint the rocks with your insides.”

Nervous laughter ripples through the camp, while Quaritch just shakes his head, still smirking, and walks off toward his tent. Varang slings an arm around your shoulders, steering you toward hers.

“Come. You owe me for that little display.”

You lean into her side, trying not to smile. “What did I do?”

“You existed near him.” She grumbles. “That is enough.”

You can’t help it, a soft giggle escapes.

Varang’s eyes snap to yours, narrowing. “You think this is funny?”

“Well… You hissed at a sky person like he stole your last strip of nantang jerky.”

“He did steal something.” She growls, tightening her grip. “Your attention. That is a war crime.”

You grin, bumping your shoulder against hers. “You are ridiculous.”

“I am protecting what is mine,” she grumbles, but the tips of her ears are faintly flushed under the paint, “and you laugh at me.”

“Only a little.”

“Keep laughing…” She warns. “See how funny it is when I make him call you ‘sir’ for the rest of his miserable life.”

You dissolve into helpless giggles against her side.

Varang just sighs, a long-suffering, dramatic, secretly pleased sound, and pulls you closer.

︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

tag list: @just380 @vseliii @sourviking

[saebyeoksfreckles]

Skxawng Pillow

Varang x fem!Mangkwan!reader

synopsis: You fall asleep on Varang’s shoulder mid ritual. She pretends to hate it, but her actions say otherwise - hissing the tribe into silence and shielding you from every sound, all while quietly losing the battle against letting you nuzzle closer…

genre: fluff

word count: 984

a/n: since ppl surprisingly seemed to enjoy my previous Varang fluff! 🥹

︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

The fire in the center of the clearing snaps and roars, throwing red-gold light across the circle of Mangkwan warriors. The air smells of charred meat, crushed herbs, and the faint sulfur tang that still clings to everyone’s skin no matter how far they travel from the volcanoes. Drums throb low and steady; several of the younger warriors are already on their feet, bodies painted in fresh streaks of crimson and charcoal, dancing in sharp, controlled bursts of motion - leaping, twisting, tails whipping like lashes. Others ululate in ragged harmony, the sound rising and falling like a living thing, proud and wild.

You’re sitting thigh-to-thigh with Varang on a wide, flat stone that still holds some of the day’s heat. A strip of smoked nantang haunch rests across your lap; you’ve been picking at it slowly, more out of ritual than hunger.

Varang is quieter than usual tonight. She hasn’t threatened to personally gut anyone in at least twenty minutes. Instead she’s methodically tearing a piece of flatbread between her claws, listening to you speak in that low, casual way you sometimes do when exhaustion makes your guard slip.

“Thunder kept rolling last night.” You murmur, eyes half lidded as you stare into the flames. “I could not settle. Every time I began to drift it cracked again right overhead.”

She makes a small, displeased sound in the back of her throat, not quite a growl, more like something annoyed at the sky for daring to bother you. She doesn’t say anything, just flicks a shred of bread into the fire and watches it flare.

Time slips. The dancing grows wilder. Someone tosses another log on and sparks curl upward. The chanting swells.

Then slowly, so slowly you probably don’t even realize you’re doing it, your body tips.

Varang feels the first brush of warmth against her shoulder blade and every muscle in her back locks iron tight. Your cheek settles fully against her. One soft exhale and your breath steadies.

You’re asleep.

Her entire body seizes like she’s been speared through the chest. Part of her wants to freeze like this forever, your weight so trusting, your breath warm against the bare skin above her clavicle, the faint floral-oil scent of your braids mixing with smoke. The other part wants to bolt into the trees and never look back because what is this feeling and why is it trying to crack her ribs open.

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t breathe for several long seconds.

Then, one of the newer warriors - the loud one with the freshly shaved sides and too much energy - lets out a piercing, ecstatic whoop as he lands a particularly high flip. The cheers of his fellow Mangkwan follow, and the sound slices straight through the night.

Varang’s head snaps toward them.

Her yellow eyes are huge, luminous in the firelight, slit to razor thin lines. The glare could peel paint from stone. The warrior stumbles mid step, ears flattening, and the chants falter for half a heartbeat.

Murmurs ripple - soft, quick apologies in Mangkwan dialect. “Apologies, Tsahìk-” “Forgive us-” Hands lift in small placating gestures.

Varang doesn’t speak. She hisses, a sharp, warning sound while one long arm comes up instinctively, palm curving over the side of your head to cup your ear, shielding you from the noise as if it’s a physical threat she can strangle.

The tribe gets the message instantly.

The drums don’t stop. The dancing doesn’t stop. But the volume drops a careful notch. The ululations soften into something smoother, less jagged. Even the fire seems to crackle more politely.

You shift in your sleep, a small movement - nose pressing deeper into the crook of her neck, one hand sliding up to loosely curl fingers into the beaded straps across her chest. A tiny, contented sound slips out of you.

Varang stops breathing again.

Her free hand hovers uselessly in the air for a second before she forces it down onto her own knee, claws digging in hard enough to leave crescent marks. She stares straight ahead at the flames like they’ve personally offended her, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumps.

Minutes pass.

Eventually your lashes flutter.

You wake slowly, blinking against the firelight, groggy and disoriented. Then you register where you are: cheek smushed against Varang’s shoulder, her arm still curved protectively around your head, her whole body rigid as carved obsidian.

You tilt your face up, eyes soft and heavy lidded, still cloudy with sleep. You’re looking at her like she hung the eclipse.

Varang’s ears flick backward. She scowls, fierce and immediate, teeth flashing just enough to remind everyone (including herself) who she is.

“You drooled on me.” She mutters, voice gravel rough and deliberately mean.

You blink again. Then a slow, sleepy smile spreads across your face. “I did not.”

“You did.”

“You lie.”

She huffs through her nose, glare sharpening, but she still hasn’t moved her arm from around you. She hasn’t pushed you off. She hasn’t even straightened her spine.

You yawn, small and catlike, and let your head drop back onto her shoulder without even asking permission.

“I sleep again.” You mumble into her skin. “Your warmth comforts me.”

Varang makes a sound that might be a growl if it weren’t so strangled.

“…Skxawng.” She grits out. “Always troubling me.”

But her thumb - almost against her will - starts the tiniest, slowest circle against the shell of your ear where her palm still rests.

The fire keeps burning.

The tribe keeps singing, quieter now, careful.

And Varang sits there like a statue of barely contained panic and something dangerously close to tenderness, letting you use her as a pillow while she glares at anyone who so much as glances over for longer than two seconds.

She’ll deny every second of this tomorrow, but tonight?

She stays exactly where you left her.

[saebyeoksfreckles]

Puppy Eyes

Varang x fem!Mangkwan!reader

synopsis: Varang insists she’s only “handling” your fever out of duty, brewing herbs and stoking the fire while pretending the whole thing annoys her. But one look from your glassy, pleading eyes and the she finds herself frozen, then curled protectively around you on the furs. Varang does not cuddle… except, apparently, when it’s you…

genre: sick/comfort, light fluff, light humor

word count: 1.4k

︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

The tent is dim, lit only by the low, steady glow of the fire pit at its heart. Embers crackle softly, sending thin threads of smoke curling toward the vented roof where volcanic heat has blackened the hides. Outside, the Mangkwan camp carries on in murmurs and distant clinks of obsidian, but in here the world narrows to the furs beneath you, the fever burning under your skin, and the tall shadow moving with deliberate quiet.

You lie curled on your side amid the thickest pelts, tail limp, body aching with alternating waves of heat and violent shivers. The wild berries you’d foraged two days ago - bright, innocent little things clustered under a sulfur vent - had tasted sweet at first. Now they punish you with every twist of your gut. Na’vi rarely fall to such things; your people are forged in fire and ash, bodies hardened against the world’s cruelties. But poison doesn’t care for toughness.

Varang stands across the fire, arms crossed, tail flicking once, sharply, as though irritation alone could banish the sickness from you. She hasn’t left your side since you staggered back from the edge of camp and collapsed just inside her tent. She barked orders at the healers to stay away - “I will handle this myself” - and now she pretends the whole affair annoys her.

She feeds the fire another chunk of volcanic rock that glows faintly red as it catches, then crouches near a small clay bowl, crushing dried leaves between her palms with more care than she usually allows herself. The sharp, clean scent of feverfew and bitterroot rises, mingling with smoke. She mutters under her breath, something about stupid foraging and a softer stomach than hers, while stirring the herbs into steaming water with a blackened spoon.

You watch her through half lidded eyes, teeth chattering softly. Your skin feels too tight, your head too heavy. Every labored breath pulls at the nausea coiled low in your belly.

She approaches with the steaming bowl held carefully in both hands, the way one might carry something fragile yet infuriating. Then, slowly, she kneels beside you, setting the bowl down within reach.

“Drink.” She says, voice gruff, eyes fixed somewhere above your head. “It will pull the poison out faster.”

You try to sit up and the world tilts. A soft whimper escapes before you can stop it. Varang’s jaw tightens at the sound. She doesn’t touch you, not yet, but her tail lashes once behind her, betraying what her face refuses to show.

You manage a few sips. The brew is bitter enough to make your eyes water worse than the fever already has, but warmth spreads through your chest like reluctant mercy. When you sink back down, you’re shivering harder now, curling tighter into yourself.

Varang stays kneeling there longer than necessary, staring at the floor with that unreadable expression. She’s trying to look unaffected: arms crossed loosely, jaw set, ears angled back in that familiar show of impatience. But her tail betrays her with slow, restless sweeps across the furs, tip curling and uncurling like it can’t decide whether to flee or coil tighter.

You try to speak. The words come out cracked and thin.

“Ma Tsahìk…”

She glances at you immediately. Too quickly. Her golden eyes catch the firelight and hold it, bright and unblinking.

You don’t say anything more, you just look up at her.

And the look is devastating.

Your eyes - already large and luminous even when you’re well - are enormous now, glassy with fever-tears that gather at the edges but never quite fall. The bioluminescence in your irises flickers weakly, like dying embers underwater, turning the usual fierce spark into something soft, wounded, pleading. Your lashes clump together with moisture; your lower lip trembles just enough to make the vulnerability impossible to ignore. It’s not performative. It’s not even conscious. It’s pure, fever-weakened need staring straight into her.

Puppy eyes don’t begin to cover it.

They’re the eyes of something small and trusting that’s been hurt and doesn’t understand why the world won’t stop hurting, yet still believes against all evidence that the person looking down at it might make it stop.

Varang stops breathing.

Her chest locks mid inhale. The muscle in her jaw jumps once, hard. Her pupils blow wide, swallowing the gold until her eyes look almost black. For one suspended heartbeat she looks like she’s been struck physically somewhere deep under the ribs.

Her hand twitches at her side, fingers curling in, then out, as though she wants to reach for a weapon that isn’t there; or maybe just to cover her own heart so you won’t see how violently it’s hammering.

“Eywa’s tits.” She mutters under her breath, voice rougher than gravel, barely audible. It’s not a curse, but a prayer for composure she no longer has.

She exhales through her nose, the sound sharp and annoyed. But her shoulders drop a fraction.

“Tell me what it is that you need.” She says finally, quieter than usual. The words come out almost reluctant, like she’s prying them from somewhere deep and unfamiliar.

You don’t speak again. Your throat burns, your voice reduced to a cracked whisper. Instead you lift one trembling hand and pat the empty space on the thick furs right beside you, right against her warmth.

Her eyes widen. “I am not-”

She freezes. Her tail stills completely. For a long heartbeat she doesn’t move at all, as though your request has short circuited something in her. Physical closeness is not her language. She commands, she claims, she protects with teeth and blade and fury. She does not cuddle.

But those eyes.

Those eyes keep looking at her. Waiting. Fragile. Open. Asking without words if she will be cruel or if, for once, she will be kind.

Something inside her gives way. Not with a crack, but with a quiet, inevitable slide, like obsidian shearing clean under perfect pressure.

She huffs once, sharp, almost a growl, then shifts. Slow. Nervous. Like she’s approaching something that might bite. She lowers herself beside you, long limbs folding with exaggerated care so she doesn’t jostle you too much, then lies on her back, stiff as carved obsidian, arms rigid at her sides, staring up at the tent’s dark ceiling.

Silence stretches, thick and heavy, filled with the crackle of the fire and your uneven breathing.

Then you move.

Weakly, shivering, you roll toward her. Your forehead presses to the curve of her shoulder. One arm drapes across her ribs, fingers curling loosely into the fabric of her top. Your tail curls instinctively around her thigh as you nuzzle closer, seeking heat, seeking solidness, seeking her.

Varang goes rigid. Every muscle in her body locks and her breath catches audibly, one sharp inhale through flared nostrils. You can feel the rapid thud-thud-thud of her heart against your cheek, so much faster than it should be for someone who claims to feel nothing softly.

But she doesn’t pull away.

“Stupid… stubborn… skxawng…” She whispers against your hair. The words are harsh, but the tone is wrecked, raw and unsteady, like she’s speaking around a knot in her throat. “You look at me like that again and I swear on every ancestor I will…”

She doesn’t finish the threat.

Seconds pass. Then minutes. And slowly - very slowly - her arm twitches, then lifts. Hesitant, like she’s forgotten how the motion works, her hand settles on your back, palm flat between your shoulder blades. The touch is light at first, almost questioning. Then firmer, fingers spread, holding you against her side.

Her tail finally moves. It curls once around your calf, tentative, then tighter. Possessive in the quietest way she knows.

Your shivering eases a little. The fever still burns, but her warmth seeps into you like medicine no herb can match. Your breathing slows, evening out against her skin.

Varang stares at the ceiling for a long time. The pounding in her chest doesn’t fade, but it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t frighten her the way softness usually does.

It feels… right.

She turns her head just enough to rest her cheek against the top of your head, while her hand strokes once down your spine, awkward and unpracticed, but steady. She doesn’t speak again, just holds you - awkwardly at first, then with growing certainty - as the fire burns low and your breathing finally evens against her heartbeat.

She tells herself later that it was only practicality. That she was only keeping you warm.

But deep in a place she usually keeps locked behind teeth and fury, she knows the truth:

Those eyes undid her.

And she would let them do it again.

︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

tag list: @just380 @vseliii @sourviking @gazellespell @akiyamamio0 @crystalsncryptids @nom0ru

[saebyeoksfreckles]

Defeated by Drool

Varang x fem!Mangkwan!reader

synopsis: When a fearless baby direhorse decides you’re its new favorite person, an unimpressed Varang finds herself in the most humiliating battle of her life: losing to an animal that won’t stop chewing her braids and stealing your attention…

genre: fluff

word count: 795

︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

The Mangkwan scouting party has paused in a wide meadow ringed by bioluminescent ferns, the afternoon sun filtering green-gold through the canopy. Most of the warriors are checking gear, sharpening blades, or resting in the shade. You on the other hand, are crouched near the edge of the clearing beside a young pa’lì, barely more than a foal, still all long gangly legs and wide curious eyes.

It has already decided you belong to it.

The little direhorse butts its velvet-soft nose against your chest, chirruping happily, tail flicking in lazy contentment. You laugh under your breath and scratch behind its twitching ears, murmuring nonsense in the gentle tone you only use for small, harmless things.

Varang stands a few paces away.

Arms crossed. Tail lashing hard. Yellow eyes narrowed to threatening slits.

She’s been watching this entire exchange with the expression of someone who has just been personally insulted by the Great Mother herself.

The foal nuzzles deeper, pressing its whole face between your ribs like it’s trying to crawl inside your ribcage. Another soft, bubbly chirrup fills the air.

Varang’s ears pin flat.

“Why is it acting like that.” She says. Her voice is low and clipped, edged with actual offense.

You glance up, smiling without meaning to. “I think it likes me.”

Varang’s tail gives another sharp flick before she takes one step closer, looming.

“It should not like you that much.” She mutters. “It is too close. Look at it, pressing everywhere.”

“Tsahìk… it is a baby.”

“It is bold.”

You have to physically bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. The foal chooses that exact moment to lip at the edge of your chest strap, tugging playfully. Varang makes a sound in her throat in response - not quite a growl, more like a kettle about to scream.

She drops into a crouch right beside you, so close her shoulder brushes yours. Her gaze locks onto the direhorse like she’s sizing up an enemy twice her size.

The foal pauses, ears flicking forward. It blinks slowly at her. Varang leans in, just a little, pupils blown wide. She does not blink.

The baby direhorse tilts its head, curious. Varang tilts her head the same way, slower, more deliberate. A silent challenge.

You can see the exact moment the foal registers that this tall, painted, sharp-toothed person is Not Playing; its ears swivel back and it lets out one uncertain chirp.

Varang’s lip curls, showing just a flash of fang.

“See?” She says quietly, her tone triumphant. “It knows.”

But then, because it is very young and very brave and very stupid, the foal leans forward and snuffles right at her chin.

Varang freezes. Completely.

The baby sniffs again, then, absolutely delighted, opens its mouth and begins gumming the end of one of her long braids. You lose the battle and laugh out loud, shoulders shaking.

Varang does not move.

Her eyes are huge. Betrayed. Horrified. The braid is slowly disappearing into the foal’s mouth like a piece of string being reeled in.

“Get it off.” She hisses, but the hiss is quieter than usual, almost careful, like she’s afraid to startle it and make it bite down harder.

“It is just chewing. It has no real teeth yet.”

“It is chewing me.”

You reach out and gently coax the foal’s head back. The braid slides free, now shiny with baby drool. Varang stares at the wet strands with wounded honor.

You pat the direhorse’s neck. “Good job. What a scary warrior you are.”

The foal chirps happily and immediately returns to nuzzling your chest, while Varang exhales through her nose, a long suffering sound.

She glares at the baby for one more long second.

Then, with the air of someone accepting permanent defeat, she shifts closer until her side is pressed fully against yours. One arm settles behind you, not quite touching, but close enough that you feel the heat radiating off her skin.

She keeps glaring at the foal, but her free hand slowly, reluctantly, lifts…

She begins scratching the little direhorse under the chin, very carefully, and very slowly, as if she’s handling live explosives. The foal leans into her touch at once, eyes half closing in bliss. Varang ears flick back in outrage, but she doesn’t stop.

You rest your head lightly against her shoulder, smiling into the curve of her neck. “See? It likes you now too.”

She makes a low, grumbling sound, flashing a single fang.

“Skxawng.” She mutters. “Both of you.”

But her fingers keep scratching. And when the baby eventually flops down across both of your laps, she doesn’t push it away. She just sighs - long, dramatic, completely put-on - and lets her tail curl loosely around your ankle.

︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

tag list: @just380 @vseliii

[saebyeoksfreckles]

When the Fire Falters

Varang x fem!Mangkwan!reader

synopsis: During a brutal raid, you take a near-fatal arrow and fall from your ikran. Varang’s world shatters when she believes she’s losing her mate forever, unleashing raw desperation, reckless fury, and an intensely emotional tsaheylu reunion when you finally wake…

genre: angst with happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, recovery fic

warnings: graphic injury (arrow wound, head trauma), unconsciousness, fever/infection, near-death experience, blood, medical themes, tsaheylu (intense emotional bond)

word count: 2k

a/n: requested by anon

︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

The raid tears across the borderlands like wildfire over dry scrub.

Varang leads from the front, her nightwraith slicing low through smoke and ash, wings cutting sharp arcs against the bruised sky. You fly just behind her right wing - your usual place - close enough to hear the low growl in her throat when she spots prey, far enough that your ikran’s wingbeats don’t tangle with hers.

The two of you move like one creature split in two; her spear already red, your bow drawn, arrows nocked and ready. The wind screams past your ears, thick with sulfur and the copper promise of blood.

Then everything changes.

A single long arrow, tipped with obsidian, rises from the chaos below like a striking viper. It punches clean through your side, just below your ribs. The impact is a hammer blow, pain exploding white-hot and immediate under your skin. Your bow slips from numb fingers, your ikran shrieking in alarm as your weight shifts, sudden and violent.

You sway. Your claws attempt to scrabble at the harness, but you’re too late.

You fall.

Varang’s head snaps around at the sound of your ikran’s cry. She sees you tumbling, sees the dark bloom of blood against your crimson paint, sees your body folding in midair like a broken wing, and a raw, guttural scream rips from her throat. Not a command, not a war cry, but something primal and shattered.

“No!”

Her nightwraith banks so hard the beast nearly stalls. Varang lowers her desperately, leaning low over the saddle, reaching one clawed hand uselessly toward you as if she could snatch you from the sky itself.

But she’s too far.

You hit the volcanic stone hard, shoulder first, then the back of your head cracks against a jagged outcrop. The world flashes black as blood begins to pool beneath your skull in a dark halo. You don’t move again.

Varang’s nightwraith slams down beside you in a storm of dust and ash. She leaps from the saddle before the wings have fully folded, feet pounding the ground as she sprints the last few strides.

She drops to her knees in the spreading blood.

“Ma yawne-” Her voice cracks. She grabs your shoulders and shakes you once, hard. Nothing. Your head lolls, eyes closed, breathing shallow and wet.

Desperation claws up her throat. She slaps you across the face; not cruel, but frantic, the crack of it loud even over the battle roar.

“Wake. Wake!” Another slap, lighter this time, trembling. “Please…”

Still nothing.

Her yellow eyes go wide, pupils blown with terror. She presses two fingers to the side of your neck, feeling for a pulse. It’s there, faint and thready. You’re barely alive, but you’re still here.

“Get the healers!” She roars at the nearest warriors, voice cracking like cooling lava. “Now! Or I will feed your spines to the vents!”

They scatter. Varang doesn’t watch them go. She gathers you against her chest, careful of the arrow still lodged in your side and the blood matting the back of your head. She cradles you like something fragile and irreplaceable, tail lashing, ears pinned flat.

Your breathing is shallow and wet. Each exhale ghosts against her throat like a dying ember. Her tail coils tight around your thigh, anchoring you to her the way it does every night in the furs. But this time it shakes.

She has faced eruptions that swallowed villages. She has poisoned her own father to save her people from weakness. She has stared down the sky people’s metal demons without flinching.

But this, this tiny, fragile sound of your lungs struggling, undoes her.

“Eywa may have abandoned us long ago,” she murmurs against your temple, the words for your ears alone, “but the fire still listens. Stay, my beloved. Burn with me. Do not dare leave me in the cold ash. I will follow you into the dark if you do.”

A healer finally arrives, breathless, carrying salves and glowing herbs. Varang snarls when the woman tries to take you from her arms. She hisses at every clumsy touch, every hesitant hand.

“Touch her gently. If she dies because you were clumsy…”

The threat dies unfinished.

They work fast under her glare. The arrow is cut free, the wound packed with steaming poultices. Your head is bandaged thickly with strips of soft hide and glowing salve. Varang never lets go, not once, until they lift you onto a litter and carry you back to the Mangkwan camp.

She walks beside it the whole way, one bloodied hand never leaving yours.

They bring you to the only place Varang trusts, the center of her own tent. The air is thick with volcanic smoke and healing herbs. You lie motionless on thick furs, arrow wound cleaned but angry-red, the bandages on the back of your head already spotting dark.

The next days are torment carved from stone.

The wound festers. Fever takes you in vicious waves, your body shaking, skin burning, breath ragged. The healers murmur grimly: the blow to your skull was brutal. Bone cracked. Blood pooled inside. They’ve done what they can, but they cannot say if you will wake. Or if you will wake as yourself.

Varang becomes stone.

She barely speaks. And when she does, it is to snap orders in a voice flat and cold. She snarls at anyone who lingers too long near the tent flap. The clan parts before her like water before a blade. She leaves the tent only once - for the next raid.

She fights like someone with nothing left to lose.

Her spear moves faster, harder, careless of her own skin. She takes cuts she knows could have avoided, and returns streaked with fresh blood and new scars, eyes dull.

When she steps back into camp, limping slightly, one of the healers is waiting outside her tent.

“She is awake.”

Varang freezes. Her pupils flare wide for a moment, golden and cat-like, absolutely enormous. For one heartbeat something raw and vulnerable flickers across her face - fear, hope, relief, all at once.

Then she shoves the healer aside with a snarled “Move.”

She ducks through the entrance, and the firelight catches your open eyes.

You’re pale, exhausted, pain etched deep in every line of your face. But you’re awake. Looking at her.

The breath is punched out of Varang’s lungs.

Her knees buckle and she drops beside the furs, hands shaking as she cups your face with reverent gentleness, thumbs brushing the edges of the bandages. She presses her forehead to yours so hard it almost hurts.

“I was so lost.” She whispers, voice cracking open. “I thought-I thought you had left. And I did not know how to burn without you.”

Tears cut clean tracks through the ash and dried blood on her cheeks. She doesn’t even try to hide them.

You’re exhausted, and your throat is raw, too sore to speak much. But your hand lifts, trembling from pain and exhaustion, and finds the braid of her kuru. You stroke the hair gently, the way you always do when words fail.

She looks up at you, eyes shining, tear-streaked, fierce and fragile all at once.

“How do you feel, ma yawne?”

You manage a faint, pained smile. “Like I fell out of the sky.”

She exhales a broken laugh.

You don’t say more. Words feel too small, too fragile for what’s crashing through you both.

Instead, your hand slides down her braid to find the glowing tip of her kuru. Your fingers brush the sensitive tendrils, coaxing them gently toward yours. The queues twitch, alive with anticipation, seeking like vines in the dark.

Varang’s breath catches as her golden eyes lock on yours, fierce and utterly unguarded. For once, the unbreakable Tsahìk looks small, like the fire in her could gutter out if you slip away again.

She nods once and leans in.

Your queues meet in one soft, electric snap, and tsaheylu ignites.

It hits like falling into lava and cool rain at once.

First comes the rush: her heartbeat slamming against yours, fast and frantic, syncing in jagged bursts until they beat as one thunderous rhythm. You feel the ache in her fresh scars from the reckless raid, the sting of cuts across her ribs, the burn in her shoulder where she took a spear meant for someone else. You taste the ash on her tongue from days without food, smell the sulfur and blood that clings to her skin like a second war paint.

And she feels you.

Every inch of your pain floods into her. The deep throb where the arrow tore through muscle, the nauseating pulse behind your bandaged skull, the bone deep exhaustion that makes even breathing feel like lifting stone. She winces visibly as your agony becomes hers, her tail lashing once before coiling tighter around your leg.

It grows deeper.

Memories cascade like sparks from a dying fire.

You see flashes of her. A child watching her village swallowed by eruption, ash raining like black snow. The moment she drove poison into her father’s veins to save what remained of her clan. Nights alone in the vents, screaming into the dark until her voice broke, convinced Eywa had turned away forever.

She sees you. The first time you knelt before her as her right hand, heart pounding with awe and fear. Stolen touches in the furs when the clan slept, her claws tracing your spine like she was memorizing every ridge. The terror of falling, knowing you might never feel her heat again.

Emotions pour unchecked. No walls, no armor.

Her fear crashes over you like a tidal wave. The suffocating void when she thought you were gone, the certainty that without you the fire in her would die to embers, leaving only ash and a hollow leader. Regret follows, sharp as obsidian, for every harsh word, every time she pushed you to the edge of battle because she couldn’t bear to admit how much she needed you close.

Only your unyielding love answers her. It wraps around her terror like glowing vines, soothing the raw edges. You push back waves of I’m here. I came back. I will always come back, until relief blooms in her chest, mingling with a fierce, possessive joy that makes her gasp against your forehead.

The bond pulses deeper still, sensations blurring: her breath on your skin becomes yours; the gentle stroke of your fingers on her kuru echoes in both of you like ripples in shared water. Pleasure and pain intertwine - your shared wounds throb together, but so does the electric thrill of connection, the sacred heat of being utterly seen.

Varang shudders. A low, broken sound escapes her as tears spill freely now, dripping onto your collarbone. She presses closer, forehead fused to yours, bodies trembling in the furs. She exhales shakily, the sound ragged with relief. Her hand finds yours, claws threading carefully between your fingers. The bond hums, alive and eternal like the heart of a volcano, steady and molten.

Slowly, the intensity ebbs, leaving just enough room to breathe. The flood becomes a deep, constant current: her strength bolstering your weakness, your warmth thawing her stone. You feel her vow settle into your bones: no more reckless charges, no more distance. She will guard you as fiercely as she guards her heart, but softer now. Yours.

She pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again. Tears still gleam on her cheeks, but her gaze is steady, glowing with something new; fierce devotion, a love stripped bare.

“Ma yawne.” She murmurs, voice thick. “You are my fire.”

You manage the faintest smile, pain fading under the warmth of the bond.

“And you are mine.”

She curls fully around you then, tail wrapped possessively, one hand splayed over your heart where she can feel it beat in time with hers through tsaheylu. Her kuru stays twined with yours, the connection unbroken, a quiet golden glow between you.

For the first time since the arrow struck, the weight in her chest lifts. The fire that has always burned in her, wild and all consuming, now burns shared. Steadier. Brighter.

She presses one soft kiss to your temple, right at the edge of the bandage, and whispers against your skin,

“Rest now. I have you.”

You let your eyes drift closed, exhaustion finally winning, but safe in the cradle of her arms and the unbreakable thread of your bond.

The fire between you does not falter.

It never will.

︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

tag list: @just380 @vseliii @sourviking

[saebyeoksfreckles]

Tiny Omen of Softness

Varang x fem!Mangkwan!reader

synopsis: While camping in Omatikaya territory the night before a raid, Varang grows wildly jealous when you give a single, pathetic woodsprite more attention than her - for three entire heartbeats…

genre: fluff, humor

word count: 799

︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

The clan has made camp in a narrow clearing just beyond the edge of the Omatikaya’s territory, close enough to smell tomorrow’s raid on the wind, far enough that the ash scented air of home feels like a distant memory. The great volcanic vents and blackened stone are replaced here by towering trees draped in glowing vines, the ground soft with moss and fallen leaves instead of cracked obsidian. Your fellow Mangkwan warriors sit in loose circles around crackling fires, murmuring low, sharpening blades or chewing on smoked strips of meat. Their red and black body paint stands out starkly against the alien green luminescence all around them.

You’re sitting close to Varang on a fallen log, knees almost touching, the heat of the fire painting shifting patterns across her skin. She’s speaking casually, something about how she’ll personally claim the first Omatikaya ikran she spots tomorrow, her voice low and confident, gesturing with one clawed hand as if already gripping the reins.

Then it happens.

A single atokirina - a woodsprite - drifts into the firelight, delicate and translucent, glowing with a pure, pale blue-white light like a living starseed. It floats lazily past the flames, carried on an invisible current, spiraling gently downward until it hovers just in front of your face. You freeze, breath catching. It’s beautiful in a way nothing in the ashlands ever is: fragile, sacred, untouched by soot or rage. Your eyes widen; you can’t look away.

Varang’s words cut off mid sentence.

“…and when its rider falls, I shall-”

She stops. Completely.

Her ears pin flat against her skull. Her tail gives one sharp, irritated lash that sends a puff of dirt into the air. The fire reflects in her narrowed eyes as she stares at the woodsprite as if it’s an enemy scout.

The little seed-thing doesn’t notice. It twirls once, twice, then settles lightly on the back of your hand, wings - if they can be called that - fluttering in slow, hypnotic pulses.

Varang’s nostrils flare. She leans forward, looming without moving from her seat, every line of her body radiating sudden, irrational fury.

Then the chanting begins, quiet at first, almost a hiss under her breath. But it builds, into something theatrical and menacing.

“I will scorch you, pale ghost.” She intones, voice dropping into that ritual growl she usually saves for offerings to the fire. “I will reduce your pathetic glow to ash! You dare land on what belongs to me? You dare shine where I cannot?”

She’s on her feet now, circling the log in slow, predatory steps, hands flexing as though summoning invisible flames. The other warriors glance over, amused but wise enough not to interrupt their Tsahìk mid performance.

“Tiny omen of softness.” She continues, louder, gesturing wildly at the atokirina. “Traitor of the night! Floating deceiver! Your light offends me! I call upon the flames to-”

The woodsprite, utterly unconcerned, lifts off again. It drifts upward in a lazy spiral, carried away into the dark canopy like it was never there.

Varang halts mid gesture, one arm still raised dramatically. She stares at the empty space above your hand, then at you, betrayal written across her fierce features.

She drops into a crouch right in front of you, so close her breath brushes your cheek, arms crossed tight over her chest, tail coiled rigid behind her. The pout is immediate and spectacular: lower lip jutting, ears still pinned, eyes blazing with wounded pride.

“You let it touch you.” She accuses, voice dropping to something almost small. “For three entire heartbeats. Three. You stared as if it were something… precious.”

You blink, fighting a smile. “Tsahìk... It is a woodsprite. It is nothing more than a seed.”

“A glowing seed.” She snaps, ears flicking downward. “Floating and delicate… Probably sent by Eywa herself to tempt you into staying in this wet, leafy hell instead of coming home with me.”

You reach out slowly, cupping the sides of her face. She resists for half a second, stubborn as always, then leans hard into your palms, eyes squeezing shut like she’s fighting not to melt.

“You are ridiculous.” You murmur, thumb brushing the sharp line of her cheekbone.

“I am fire.” She whispers, but her tail sneaks forward, wrapping possessively around your calf. A low, rumbling sound starts in her chest, something you think is supposed to be a growl but sounds dangerously closer to a purr.

You lean in and press a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth.

The tough facade cracks instantly. Her shoulders slump. The rumble deepens. She turns her head, nuzzling shamelessly into your hand, fangs grazing your skin just enough to remind you who she is.

“Fine.” She grumbles against your palm. “The floating nuisance may live. This time.”

[saebyeoksfreckles]

Ghosts

Varang x fem!recom!reader

synopsis: You left everything for her - your unit, your past, the sky itself. But when Varang catches you staring at the stars with longing in your eyes, she sees it as betrayal. Jealousy ignites, and the fight that follows is brutal…

genre: angst with happy ending, hurt/comfort

warnings: argument (resolved)

word count: 1.3k

a/m: requested by anon

︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

The volcanic ridges of the Mangkwan lands stretched black and jagged under the twin moons, vents glowing faintly like embers that never quite died. You had grown used to the heat, the sharp scent of sulfur and ash, the way the ground sometimes trembled as if Pandora herself remembered her wounds. It had been months since you made your choice, since the Recom unit’s mission fractured and you walked away; away from bridges, from orders, from the sterile promise of a human sky you no longer fully belonged to.

You stayed for her.

Varang. Olo’eykte and Tsahìk of the Mangkwan clan. The one who had looked at you not as a demon in borrowed skin, but as something worth claiming. Worth marking. Worth mating under the ash-choked stars while the clan sang low victory songs around distant fires.

Life with her was intense and consuming, but it was good. Fierce hunts during the day, her powerful body moving like a living flame beside yours. Nights tangled in furs inside her dwelling, her clawed hands possessive on your waist, her sharp teeth grazing the sensitive stripe of your queue as she reminded you again and again that you were hers. Mated. Bonded. The Recom body felt more real here than it ever had among the sky people. Stronger. More alive.

Until the nights when the yearning crept in.

It started small. You’d slip from the furs when Varang’s breathing evened into sleep, stepping out onto the cooled obsidian ledge near the clan’s central vents. The sky here was different, hazed by ash, but on clearer nights the stars still pierced through. You’d stare upward, tail low and still, ears flicking at distant nightwraith cries, and let yourself remember.

Not regret. Just… a pull. Earth’s moon. The RDA bases. The strange, flattened horizon of space. The life you’d had before the Avatar program swallowed it whole. A quiet ache for something familiar, even if you’d chosen to leave it behind.

You never stayed long. A few minutes, maybe. You’d return to curl against Varang’s warm back, breathing in the smoke and iron scent on her skin and the faint herbal sharpness of her paints.

But she noticed.

The fight broke open on a night when the vents were restless, spitting sparks into the dark.

You stood on the ledge again, arms wrapped around yourself, eyes fixed on a particularly bright cluster of stars half-hidden by drifting ash. The Recom body didn’t need as much sleep as a human one, but the quiet hours still found the old thoughts rising.

Varang’s voice cut through the night like a blade.

“You look to the sky as if it still owns you.”

You turned, heart jolting. She stood a few paces away, tall and imposing, her red and black painted skin gleaming in the low vent light. Her braids shifted with the wind, bone and tooth ornaments clicking as her tail lashed once, sharp.

“Ma yawne-”

“Do not.” Her voice was low, dangerous. She stepped closer, yellow eyes burning. “I have seen you. Three nights this past hand of days, sneaking from our furs like a thief. Staring up there like a lost ikran searching for a rookery that rejected it.”

You swallowed. “It’s not like that.”

“Then tell me what it is like, mate.” The last word came out biting. She closed the distance in two giant strides, gripping your chin with surprising gentleness that still held steel. “You chose us. You chose me. You let me paint the mating marks on your skin. You let me twine our queues and bind our spirits while the clan witnessed. And still you yearn for a metal sky?”

Jealousy rolled off her in waves, hot and volatile, the same fire that had driven her to seize leadership of a broken clan and forge it into something fierce. Varang did not share. Not her people’s survival, not her power, and certainly not her mate’s heart.

“I’m not yearning to leave.” You said, voice steady even as your tail betrayed nerves, curling toward her. “It’s just… memories. I was human once, born under a different sky. It doesn’t mean I regret this; you… us.”

Her laugh came bitter. “Memories. You think I do not carry memories? Of fire swallowing my home? Of my mother’s screams? I do not stand on ledges staring at the place where it burned, wishing I could crawl back into the ashes.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Is it not?” She released your chin but didn’t step back. Her presence loomed, all heat and muscle and barely leashed storm. “I have given you everything. My clan accepted a demon in Na’vi skin because I claimed you. And you repay me by pining for the sky people’s poison?”

The words stung. You felt your own temper flare, the Recom body’s heightened instincts sharpening everything.

“I gave up everything for you! My unit, my old life, the chance to ever go back. I sleep in ash and breathe sulfur because I love you. Because you’re worth it. But that doesn’t erase where I came from in a single bond. I’m allowed to feel… complicated sometimes.”

For a moment her eyes flickered, something raw and wounded beneath the rage. Then the walls slammed back up.

“Complicated.” She spat. “Go then. Stare at your cold stars. Perhaps they will warm you better than I do.”

Then she turned away, braids snapping, shoulders rigid as she stalked back toward the dwelling. You stood there, chest tight, the fight draining into exhaustion.

The sky above suddenly looked vast and empty.

You found her later inside, seated on the furs with her back to the entrance, sharpening a blade with short, angry strokes as the firepit glowed low.

You didn’t speak at first. Just crossed the space, knelt behind her, and wrapped your arms around her waist, pressing your forehead between her shoulder blades. She tensed but didn’t pull away.

“My home is where you are.” You whispered against her skin. The words came thick, completely honest. “Not the sky. Not bridges or bases or any of that. You, Varang. The heat of your body. The way you look at me like I’m worth fighting for. The way you touch me like you’ll never let go. That’s home. I chose it. I choose it every day.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy and warm. Varang remained still for a long moment, her breathing shallow, the blade still gripped tightly in her hand. Then she let out a slow, tired sigh. The sharpening stone clinked softly as she set the blade down beside her on the furs.

“I do not like sharing you.” She admitted quietly, voice rough around the edges. “Not even with ghosts.”

The vulnerability in her tone made your chest ache. You held her a little tighter, nuzzling into the space between her shoulders.

“You don’t have to.” You murmured.

She shifted then, turning just enough to pull you around into her lap. Strong arms wrapped around you, one hand settling possessively at the small of your back while the other cupped the back of your neck. She rested her forehead against yours, eyes closed, breathing you in.

A low, rare purr rumbled deep in her chest, soft and unsteady at first, then steady. She tugged the thick furs over both of you, cocooning you together in the warmth of the dwelling.

“Stay with me, next time the yearning comes.” She whispered against your temple, already sounding half asleep. “Let me hold you until it passes.”

You closed your eyes and breathed her in, letting her warmth sink into your bones. A contented rumble vibrated through her chest as her arms tightened around you. Your tails remained twined, and the faint glow of your bonded queues pulsed gently between your bodies.

Light years away, Earth spun cold and distant, a faded memory beneath a foreign sun. But here, wrapped safely in her arms, surrounded by the scent of ash and smoke and her body paints, you knew that this was your true home.

She was.

︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

tag list: @just380 @vseliii @sourviking @gazellespell @akiyamamio0 @crystalsncryptids @nom0ru @noeulsangel