#black womb project

[racefortheironthrone]

Seems like the Atomic Age inspired every second superhero to get his or her powers through radiation. The radioactive spider bite is probably the most well known example, but I saw some pretty wacky ones. Wondering if you know any other crazy or interesting ones too?

A lot of the Silver Age superheroes were radioactive, in no small part because Stan Lee was a nut on the subject and didn't particularly care about the actual science. So in addition to Spider-Man (and many of his rogues' gallery), you have the gamma bomb test that created the Hulk and many of his rogues' gallery (although Al Ewing invented a fascinating Kabbalistic mythology on top of the whole gamma radiation thing), the radioactive ooze that blinded Matt Murdock (and created the Ninja Turtles), and on and on...

The one you're probably less familiar with is the first origin story for mutants in the X-Men:

While the nuclear origin of Professor X and the 05 were eventually superseded by Chris Claremont's decision to shift from atomic radiation to genetic mutation, which would be formalized as the X-Gene, X-comics didn't completely abandon the Silver Age origin story for mutants. Building on Xavier's backstory of being the children of government scientists working at a top-secret project at Alamagordo, New Mexico (a clear allusion to the Trinity Test conducted at Los Alamos as part of the Manhattan Project), Fabien Nicieza, Craig Kyle, Chris Yost, and especially Mike Carey invented the Black Womb Project.

In a feat of paranoid conspiracy rarely seen outside of a game of Illuminati, the Black Womb Project was a secret genetic mutation research group using nuclear research as a cover story. Led by "Dr. Nathan Milbury" (aka Mister Sinister aka Nathaniel Essex) and the almost-as-evil Amanda Mueller (aka "the Black Womb Killer"), the Black Womb Project hired Dr. Brian Xavier (Charles' father), Dr. Kurt Marko (Cain Marko's father), and Irene Adler (working undercover to foil Sinister's bid for Dominion).

This project involved wildly unethical experimentation on thousands of children abducted by FBI agents Fred Duncan (who would become Professor X's FBI liason) and Carl Denti (the future anti-mutant villain "X-Cutioner"), including many of the Silver Age villains like Fred Dukes (the Blob) and Mortimer Toynbee (Toad), as well as experiments conducted by Drs. Xavier and Marko on their own children Charles and Cain. Supposedly, the Black Womb Project was designed to test a number of different methods of activating latent X-Genes...

But secretly, Nathaniel Essex/Mister Sinister was intending to use the Project as a springboard for his goals for immortality and ultimate dominion through something called the Cronus Device. This involved the implantation of Sinister's DNA into Xavier and Marko so that if Sinister ever died, a failsafe would activate that would wipe the minds of Charles, Marko, and their descendants and implant Sinister's mind and abilities into them.

While Sinister's plans were foiled by Irene Adler's precognition and Amanda Mueller's attempt to usurp the Cronus Device and replace Sinister's backup with her own (Mueller's mutant power gave her immortality but not eternal youth, so she wanted to use Sinister's backdoor to clone herself into youthful bodies), it did succeed in installing a Sinister backdoor into Charles Xavier and Cain Marko that Sinister would eventually infiltrate into the mutant DNA database at the heart of Krakoan resurrection. Sinister then used his backdoors to attempt to seize control of the Quiet Council and create an intergalatic mutant empire, which he would then sacrifice to fuel his ascension into Dominion.

Unfortunately, he didn't know that Enigma had gotten there first...

[elgaberino-mcoc]

DESTINY (IRENE ADLER) has been added to the #MCOC Wishlist 

@KabamMiike you mentioned her powers could be hard to translate, but the Senator Kelly panel alone should give @MarvelChampions designers ideas. Her combat skill on the power grid is good! - OG

- Other Gabe Senior Editor, MCOC Wishlist

[pinkmirth]

What kinks do you think each Castlevania man would have? Asking for a science project

⸻ WANT & NEEDS!

MY LOVE NOTE! 𝜗𝜚 ₊ ⊹ oooh, kinks you say? >< glad you asked, nonnie! for scientific purposes only, of course . . .

CONTAINS . . . 𝜗𝜚 ₊ ⊹ multi castlevania men x fem!reader (black coded); adrian ‘alucard’ tepes, trevor belmont, richter belmont, hector forgemaster, isaac forgemaster, & vlad ‘dracula’ tepes; praise, body worship, breeding, power play (dom/sub), edging, bdsm (flogging), explicit language, lowercase intended, not proofread (apologies for any typos!), minors shoo!

ALUCARD!

praise • he wants— no, needs to hear the effect he has on you. is he doing well? do you want it faster? are these brittle-cold hands of his any good at handling your body? it’s all he wants; to hear those sweet, sweet words tumble from your lips and grace his ears. words of affirmation is what adrian holds onto dearly. tell him you love him, just voice it out through a whisper, and he’ll melt into you with the loudest moan you’ve ever pried from him. his sounds will heighten, pace increased with a surge of fervor, a fueled drive to please you. yes, he likes being sweet-talked when it’s coming from his beloved. flatter him a bit, and he’ll surely give you a night to remember.

oh my god i’m so sorry but I’m adding another for my favorite man; body worship! • adrian is all about devotion. once he’s invested in anything, in you, he pours in everything he has to offer. alucard doesn’t take it lightly; you trusting him enough to be so vulnerable as to getting intimate with him. unclothing with him. touching yourself before him. joining your body with his own . . . letting his cock press its way into your tight, delicate entrance. it’s an honor, and he sees it as such. his lips never leave your skin, kissing along your neck as he rolls his hips into you, fucking deep into your warmth. ‘thank you,’ he whimpers, tone low but light as a whisper, ‘thank you, my love . . .’ his hands, big and cold, trail along your hips, against your tummy, around your ass, anywhere he can grace with his cool touch. he likes when you voice your approval of him, but loves to praise you all the more.

TREVOR!

breeding • there’s no denying; it took this man no time at all to get sypha pregnant! and god, if that doesn’t convince you, than nothing else can. he fucks with reckless abandon, and finishes inside as it’s his favorite place to do so. he’ll keep you stuffed with him, cock pulsing from within you as he uses your pliant womb to empty his fat balls of the last spurt of his thick, potent cum. there’s a dopey grin he carries knowing that he’s thoroughly fucked a baby into you. perhaps he isn’t destined to be the only remaining survivor of the house of belmont, after all.

RICHTER!

flogging • he doesn’t like to punish you. no, not at all. but seemingly, you quite enjoy receiving it. when you’re working up a fit just to gauge his reaction, richter knows what to do. the unnecessary attitude, sharp mouth, huffy noises— you just want to be spanked. and so, he throws you over his lap, bunches up the frilly layers of your skirt, and allows his handheld flogging toy, purchased for moments like these, to fall upon the jiggling flesh of your round ass. you moan from the pain, and his cock throbs from beneath his trousers. again, it lashes against your bum and the contact makes you jolt in his lap, trembling over his thighs and dripping all over his flogger toy. it’s almost . . . beautiful, watching the sting of pleasure bloom into a faint, lasting red on your supple skin.

HECTOR!

power play • he may be on top, but you’re holding onto the reins. telling him to slow down, speed up, drive into you deeper; it’s all up to you. and oh, is he quick to listen. he’s a pretty little thing— handsome, intelligent, obedient. he aims for your pleasure much more than his own, sneaking beneath layers of fabric to eat you out, determined to make you cum from the swipe of his tongue alone. he isn’t just doing it because you asked, no. he likes the tug of your fingers weaves through his hair, pushing his face further into your dripping cunt. he likes to be used, to be lead, to feel no regret for being vulnerable. you’re sure of what you want from hector and find no shame in demanding for more, blessing him with the direction he so desperately needs.

ISAAC!

edging • isaac simply likes the control it gives, and who is he to turn away from exercising the art of pure discipline? he feels you fluttering around him, sounds growing pitchier as you try and fuck yourself on his cock. it’s easy for him to keep you still in this angle, as he’s kneeling above you and you’re laid on your back, peering up at him with lust-blown eyes and the most desperate expression he’s ever come across. a large hand of his grabs your face, and sternly. his thrusts come to a stop. to that, you whine, but he doesn’t fucking care. you’ll learn some self-control, he’ll make sure of it; even if he’s stuffed you full and the dick has you going brainless.

DRACULA!

soft sex • dare i say this man is vanilla as fuck? he just wants to please, and coddles you throughout it all with his imposing frame. he makes up for his cold touch with the safety and experience his large hands have to offer. vlad craves pure intimacy; nothing extreme, just pure bliss.

[yanderestarangel]

TW : daddykink, betrayal, dilf!bi han, age gap, breeding kink, handjob, v!sex, afab anatomy, pet names, power play, dark!bi han, sex without a condom, possessive sex, objectification, aforementioned pregnancy, sex with pregnant reader, exhibitionism.

♡ DILF!BI HAN  - Who is a tired and grumpy leader always rolling his eyes at everything and everyone, even at his advanced age - 40 years old - he maintained the muscular physique of his younger years, but his hair, which was previously completely brown, now had white streaks , a sign of prominent old age.

♡ DILF!BI HAN -Who is married to an influential woman from another clan, an unhappy and arranged marriage, always aimed at the future and progress of the lin kuei on the earthly plane. The poor woman tried to win Bi Han's love, but she couldn't, after all, he never cared about anything other than the clan's purpose, he had two children, both suffered the pressure of having a father who was the leader of the lin kuei, that is, They had to be worthy of being Bi Han's heirs, but deep down, he loved his children but was too proud and cold to show it.

♡ DILF!BI HAN - Who got angry with his wife when she brought you into the house, you were young, beautiful and full of dreams. You saw the man look you up and down, grumbling at the presence of another person in his house, but you didn't say anything to avoid causing an unprecedented fight.

♡ DILF!BI HAN - Who listened carefully that you were there to learn about ninja culture and do your history college graduation project, making Bi Han let his guard down a little, even if just a little. He saw an opportunity to bring the knowledge of the existence of the lin kuei to you, even if it was just a college assignment.

♡ DILF!BI HAN - He began to sympathize with you when he saw you playing with his children, you were affectionate and friendly, always with a smile and a light aura, like an angel, he didn't understand how you managed to maintain such a positive attitude in the midst of so much chaos, but, he liked it, your smile was charming to see, it made the old man's heart warm, even if a little.

♡ DILF!BI HAN - Who starts calling you to his meeting room when his wife comes out, serving you tea and wanting to hear your life story. He will listen to everything quietly, but with a practically invisible smile on the corner of his lips, he had something in you that awakened something in him, something he hadn't felt in years. Bi Han will thank you at the end of the conversation for sharing such cultural and life knowledge, so different from his, while asking you if you would be willing to go with him on a walk through the gardens of the lin kuei land.

♡ DILF!BI HAN - That he sees himself thinking of you in another way, a lascivious way, he never cheated on his wife, but you were irresistible, something in the way you moved your hips, your soft thighs, your soft body that gave off a delicate smell of fresh moisturizer , the way you sought his approval for every action, not wanting to make the grand master as calm as possible... It made him feel uncontrollably horny, but he was a man of class, he was going to win you over one way or another.

♡ DILF!BI HAN - He started masturbating thinking about you, while he was taking a shower, one of his most vivid fantasies was having you stand up for him, with his pulsing cock, both wet with water, while he held your ass, burying it in your pussy while you looked pleadingly at him. He, with his sweet and seductive voice, squeezed his dick, calling him "my grand master" or "my lord" or even "Daddy". Bi Han accelerated the movements of his hand on the pulsing length, thinking about how he was going to fuck you so fucking hard, making you shake and squirt on him as he sank his dick into your womb. He manages to finish the nighttime handjob in one long stroke with his fist, while he trembled slightly, his white and black hair fell in his face, while the grand master tried to contain his moans.

♡ DILF!BI HAN - He starts asking you for strange favors, like massaging his muscular back, full of fight scars, his well-worked and tense muscles, while he smiles at you, giving you rose oil, telling you his orders in a calm and deep voice. how to make him feel good. Bi Han asked you to lower yourself a little more, going to his abdomen, while you could see his erection through his pants. "-Fuck I can't contain myself anymore, making me hard since you got here... Just be a good boy/girl and let me fuck that beautiful pussy... I promise to make you feel good (Y/ N)."

♡ DILF!BI HAN - He fucked you with his slippery dick, pushing with all his might, feeling the bulge his dick made in your belly, while he covered your mouth with his hand. "-Shh... you don't want my wife to hear, right?" Bi Han spoke in a cold whisper in your ear, you knew it was wrong, but old Bi Han had a wonderful dick. Bi Han turned you to face him, moaning loudly and smiling mischievously. "-Fuck- what a greedy pussy... sucking my dick like that? so good my pretty boy/girl..."

♡ DILF!BI HAN - Who made you squirt on his dick, but he continued fucking you with his spent, pulsing dick, using both thumbs to mark exactly where he would mark you with more and more of his hot cum. "-See my little boy/little girl? I'm going to fill you up to here, I'm going to get you pregnant, I want to have more children, more children with you baby..." Bi Han would take his dick out of your pussy, using his another hand to hold the member and hit the hard dick on your sensitive clitoris, watching you squirm "-Fuck (Y/N) just a pretty boy/girl looking for a dick to be fucked, right? teasing me with that beautiful pussy. .. you're a little slut... my tight little pussy whore."

♡ DILF!BI HAN - Who fucks you all over the house, holding you in his still muscular arms, forcing you to swallow his dick or fuck your breasts and cum all over them, making you suck off the mess you forced him to make on you. "-Is that what you like, slut? Being your grandmaster's cumdump? I must thank my wife for bringing you a boy/girl so hungry for cock like that." -Bi Han said sadistically, spreading hot jets of cum over your breasts and squeezing them afterwards, while lightly slapping your face, pulling you into a hungry kiss, whispering between his thin lips that he needed you more than anything in this world, that you were his good boy/girl.

♡ DILF!BI HAN - Who doesn't care if his wife sees you fucking him, after all, the only thing he cares about in marriage is his children. So he'll just fuck your pussy, on the kitchen table while she passes by in the hallway, pretending not to hear and see you two. "-Just let her listen, just use that pretty head to make me cum, squeeze that little pussy on my dick like the good slut you are." He would finish saying this with a loud grunt, filling you with his cum again, slapping you hard on the ass, burying two fingers in your pussy, so as not to let his cum escape.

♡ DILF!BI HAN - Who smiles widely when he sees you pregnant with another of his children, seeing you get along even better with his first two children. He will fuck you even more, taking care of your belly, holding your heavy belly while he fucks you slowly, squeezing your sensitive breasts full of milk and sucking them a little. "-Yes... fuck you look so beautiful pregnant like this... fuck I'm the happiest man in the world, and you're my boy/girl forever Fuuck-"

©YANDERESTARANGEL 2023

[thepunkmuppet]

apologies if someone has already made this type of post, because I’ve had the tag blocked for a couple days as I’ve only just been able to watch the stream, but here is all the new hatchetfield lore we learned in the hatchetfield halloween party livestream (sorry if I forgot something):

greenpeace girl’s name is harmony jones

in 2005, wilbur cross murdered douglas keane senior (duke’s dad), who was the sheriff of hatchetfield at the time. we have no idea why or how.

pamela foster refused to go to the hospital when giving birth, and hannah almost died in childbirth. lex psychically felt her dying, and activated her powers for the first time, reaching through the black and white and teleporting her outside the womb. by saving hannah, she apparently saved the entire universe

ted has died the most times out of any hatchetfield character but we all knew that. every time the world ends, he dies twice (main ted and homeless guy).

doctor laszlo, the doctor who sewed hannah’s finger back on in yellow jacket, is a mad scientist who claims to have “conquered death” and will feature in the possible NMT3 story “Frankenruth”.

bill has a literal soulmate, though we don’t know who it is (sylvia?? his ex-wife?? TED?? no idea)

in at least one timeline, becky and tom are engaged and have a baby called marie <3

hidgens is either haunted by the ghosts of the workin boys, haunted by evil creatures pretending to be the workin boys, or insane and hallucinating ghosts of the workin boys. they seem to be led by chad, who is confirmed to NOT be pokey in the workin boys short film, chad was genuinely just a guy hidgens liked, but it is unclear whether or not the chad the ghosts talk about is the real chad or something else.

tim houston has a crush on the “mature and totally cool” grace chasity

duke is getting married to someone else and my life is over and nothing will ever be okay again 👍

I will also transcribe the episode descriptions for the possible NMT3 episodes and other projects and post that in a bit :)

[gnomeantics]

for those unable to attend the livestream i present:

NOTES FROM THE HATCHETFIELD HALLOWEEN PARTY 14th October 2023, 01:00 BST (my time!) / 13th October 2023, 17:00 PDT (their time!)

Note: These notes are at times a little nonsensical and useless and just quotes. This is because it lasted from 01:00-04:00 for me meaning I was incredibly tired. Please bear with <3

Section 1: Nerdy Prudes Must Die talkback

Started with chiptune of Feast or Famine and then chiptune of Jane’s A Car

Steph’s dad may be dead but at least she has a boyfriend <3

Joey was eating beef and potato stew for most of the first segment

When Jeff was asked for the inspiration for The Summoning: “[…] I don’t know. That just popped in my head. It could be true.”  (His answer was Wizard of Oz.)

Section 2: Hatchet Town Trivia Challenge

I tried to keep track of “chat vs cast” points but lost count and failed rather miserably

Nora’s last name is Beanie. Nora Beanie

Jeff is “an avid lover of baby-water” (water pure enough for babies to drink) and “widely known as Doctor Spreadsheets” (my notes just say “baseball game”)

Every time the world destroys, Ted dies twice: once as Ted, once as homeless guy

Lex helped deliver Hannah by teleporting her out of the womb through the Black and White

Greenpeace Girl’s name is Harmony Jones!

Wilbur Cross murdered Duke Senior (Duke Keane’s dad) this may be explored in future.

Section 3: Workin’ Boys

All of my “notes” here are just gushing about the characters. I have written nothing useful enough to be put here

Section 4: Workin’ Boys talkback

Chad was not included in WB because it was deemed that nobody could live up to the legend. This spawned the “Darren 4 Chad” movement in chat

The Workin’ Boys album will be out around next week if all goes to plan. It is 5 tracks and would include Mariah’s version of the Show Stoppin’ Number monologue as well as at least some of her singing it (as seen in the show; hoping for a full version!!)

Mariah’s character in the audience was called Woman.

Lauren’s character in the audience was Courtney, Thrash’s girlfriend from Killer Track

Paul Gabriel’s character was Paul Gabriel

Linda Monroe auditioned for Workin’ Girls and was the only one who didn’t get a part (Ruth was chosen over her). This is why she was happy to see it crash and burn

The programmes made for Workin’ Girls had very detailed bios, which hopefully when in full quality will be readable when paused. This may set up the potential for the Workin’ Girls actresses to be in future HF projects where this can be explored

Jaime will hopefully be in the next Starkid musical!!!!

The Black Book was originally supposed to debut in Workin’ Boys, in its original form in 2020

The 2020 version was planned as a feature-length film but eventually it was decided that it was confusing and remodelled.

The Summoning was supposed to be in Workin’ Boys – the producer would have tricked Hidgens into making the girls perform a ritual; it was realised that this didn’t make much sense so the song was transferred to NPMD

Section 5: The Future Of Hatchetfield

Hatchetfield was supposed to be finished by 2020

Starkid is not going to be exclusively Hatchetfield in the future; their next full-length musical will not be Hatchetfield

NMT3 is hopefully going to happen provided there is enough interest! It was supposed to happen in the same year as NMT2 but they take a long time to write (much longer than a full musical) so that couldn’t happen

NMT3 would conclude Lex and Hannah’s story after Yellow Jacket

It would be produced more face to face like a TV show – Nick said “less Zoom call-y”

It would include stories withheld from NMT1 and NMT2

It would entirely depend on how much interest, particularly views on NMT2.

It would be Halloween themed.

“More things akin to Workin’ Boys would be nice” - Nick

The episodes would be:

Bottle Imps

“Bill Woodward has been chosen to test CCRP’s latest and greatest product: Bottle Imps. These reality-bending buddies will bring their owner the one thing they desire most. When his new imp, Lovely, leads him to his soulmate, Bill decides to use his magical companion to play matchmaker. But to help Charlotte find the man of her dreams, Bill will have to bend the Imp’s rules. Rules he’s been warned, must never be broken…”

Frankenruth

“Desperate to see a naked body, Ruth Fleming and Richie Lipschitz volunteer at the morgue of St. Damian’s Hospital. Their terrible plan becomes exponentially more terrible, when they become unwitting subjects in the experiments of the body-snatching madman, Doctor Lazlo, who claims to have conquered death itself. If Hatchetfield thought Ruth was bad before, then they will cower before the unspeakable horror of… Frankenruth!”

Becky Barnes Climbed A Tree

“Becky Barnes is on top of the world! Not in a literal sense, of course. She’s deathly afraid of heights. After years of struggle, Becky’s life is finally everything she dreamed it would be. She’s engaged to her High School sweetheart, Tom Houston, and the two have a surprise baby on the way! But as the couple prepared for the arrival of Baby Marie, a shadow from Becky’s past returns to haunt them.”

Devil’s Night

“Tim Houston has a crush. Unfortunately, it’s on his older, mature, and totally cool babysitter, Grace Chasity, who he fears will never see him as anything but a snot-nosed little kid. But when a devilish maniac with murderous designs on Grace attacks Hatchetfield the night before Halloween, Tim must protect his beloved, or join the killer’s growing body count. It’s another slashing adventure on the night HE came home… Devil’s Night.”

Miss Holloween

“It’s Halloween in Hatchetfield once again, and Miss Holloway is celebrating the same way she’s done for decades, staving off the horrors that go bump in the night. But when Duke gives her an invitation to his wedding, the dejected Miss Holloway begins to chafe under the terms of a contract forged many years ago. She strikes a new bargain, but unfortunately her creditors are known for their tricks, not treats. Just as Miss Holloway gives up her powers in exchange for a mortal life, a monstrous new threat rears its ugly head. As All Hallows Eve descends, and all Hell breaks loose, Miss Holloway must save the town or die trying… for real this time.”

Orbweaver

“Lex Foster had a life once. A home. A boyfriend. Now there is only the road, and her sister, and the fear of the men who are hunting them. As Hannah Foster watches Lex sink deeper into despair, she is certain of only three things: Webby is gone. She cannot help them. They are alone. Elsewhere, an old soldier awakens from a catatonic state. Returned from some unimaginable Hell with a mission. He knows that somewhere two magical girls require immediate evac… then maybe some coffee.”

As NPMD was conceived of first, it was supposed to be a Nerdy Prudes series: Nerdy Prudes Must Die, Horny Campers Must Die… (this was turned into NMT2’s Abstinence Camp)

The next Hatchetfield full-length musical would probably be about Miss Holloway if there was enough interest.

There is the possibility of a full movie set in Hatchetfield if there is enough interest. (Workin’ Boys was like a trial for how Hatchetfield works in film)

It would be called Cast Party Massacre

“The Hatchetfield Community Players. You will never find a cattier troupe of two-faced thespians. But when the blood begins to flow at their latest show’s cast party, they must consider: is there a secret murderer in their midst? And more importantly, who amongst them is a good enough actor to pull off such a performance? Can they set aside their petty squabbles and tangled romances, or is it curtains for this ensemble? Who will survive… the Cast Party Massacre!”

It would possibly feature the girls from Workin’ Boys.

The licencing rights to TGWDLM will be available soon!

[hirukochan]

I know you are busy right now with your fics and I really admire how brilliant they turn out to be with you working on multiple projects. I really appreciate all your hardwork and dedication and ugh, I just love your work so much.

But can I just say that I saw your comment in one of your fics about a potential forbidden Malfoy OC/Reader x Voldemort and I am really looking forward to that? I'm a huge Harriet x Voldy fan but i really love the Malfoy idea and the whole corruption concept. I have this weird imagery of them like Voldy being the snake from the apple tree in Eden and Malfoy Reader being naive, trusting, and too curious for her own good Eve.

Thank you so much!!! It means the world to hear that! I am thrilled to know so many people enjoy these silly little stories I come up with :D!

I am very much looking forward to writing that story! And I will. First I need to finish some published stories but this one is at the top of the list! I hope I'll get to it some time next year and I will be certain to post about it here too!

I don't know from what perspective I will be writing it yet.

Corruption is a main theme for the fic as I've been planning it right now. The youngest child of Narcissa and Lucius is a very sickly girl who had little influence outside her family and who has never even left her family's estate! Voldemort shamelessly preys on that and revels in the slow but steady destruction of her innocence and purity - something he never got to have.

I have a little snippet/teaser here of that fic for anyone who is interested! I have yet to find a name for the fic - because love coming up with names for stuff!!!! (not.)

Malfoy daughter X Voldemort Snippet

words: 1200

warnings: none that I can think off :D

Astrea Lucretia Malfoy knows there are certain expectations that come with being a member of the ancient and most honourable house of Malfoy. Astrea knew these expectations before she could as much as crawl. They were handed down to her from the very first beat her heart took inside her mother’s womb and Astrea would sooner throw herself off the roof of her family home than do anything that would bring shame to her house and her parents.

Astrea loves her parents.

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy are proud people and Astrea would never want to embarrass them. Astrea knows how to behave. She knows how to greet people and how to make pleasant conversation. Astrea can play the piano and dance and yet despite having devoted her life to trying and be the perfect heiress to her proud parents - she is not.

She is a smudge on her family’s proud family tree and there is nothing she can do.

Astrea looks down at the crimson spots on the snowy white handkerchief in her trembling hands. Steps sounding from the hallway have her hastily fold it and stuff it in her dress. The corset her governess put her into for today’s special occasion.

Time has run out. Astrea can’t escape him any longer. She knows it was an endeavour doomed from the beginning but she had to try.

Her governess opens the door, looking like a banshee coming to announce Astrea’s death, dressed in her stern black uniform. Astrea hates the sight of that uniform. Hates the black dress that makes her think of death every time she sees it because death is the last thing Astrea wants to think about it and yet it’s the first thought on her mind when she wakes up and the last when she falls asleep. Death hunts her in her dreams and she knows death is approaching steadily in reality as well. The handkerchief stuffed between her breasts and the corset bears the proof of that.

Astrea has been sick for as long as she can remember. Despite hiring the most renowned healers and researchers and even shamans nobody has been able to give the proud Malfoys and their inexhaustible vaults at Gringotts an answer as to why their only daughter is a sickly, weak child. She just is. Getting infected with the Dragonpox that would later take her severe, powerful and feared grandfather Abraxas Malfoy did little to improve her condition.

Nowadays Astrea can at least leave her bed and walk freely about the Manor but she knows that little and treasured freedom will be snatched from her the second her overprotective father learns of her relapse.

Astrea pushes her governess' hands from her hair and gets up. She ignores the lightheaded dizziness rushing through her at the swift movement. She does not let it show either.

She can wait no longer.

He is expecting to be introduced to her after all.

The Dark Lord. The most powerful wizard of all times, once believed to have vanished and now returned, reborn. Of course, Astrea knows all about him. She has been taught about him alongside her older brother Draco all her life. Taught of his greatness, his might, his goal to save wizardingkind and she has been taught of her duty to serve him.

And yet she stole from him.

The precious dress made of fairy-spun silk slides over the carpeted stairs. Astrea’s chest strains against the corset. Her governess tied it tighter today against Astrea’s protest.

Nobody here listens to her.

Nobody cares.

Oh, they all ‘care’ - they bend over backwards to delay the inevitable, forcing her to go through heinous treatments to expand her life and yet nobody cares.

Expect for her Uncle Sev perhaps. Her godfather, her father’s best friend and also on the few occasions she is allowed to practise magic, her tutor. He always has an open ear for her and a shoulder to cry on when she needs it.

But there are a few secrets she keeps even from him. The handkerchief and her impertinence. Both she carries on her person tonight. Perhaps a mistake though she seriously doubts the greatest Legilimens to ever live would need her to carry her sin with her to detect it. He’ll know the second he sees her, therefore her avoiding him. In the days before the Dark Lord’s arrival to take up residency in her family home she strategically scattered gasps and moments of pause into her demeanour and speech, then on the morning of his arrival Astrea dipped the thermometer her governess forces past her lips every morning in her teacup for a few seconds as the old hag was preparing her bath.

She spent the past week in her bed but she can’t keep this charade up for long without risking her feeble sham-freedom.

Astrea treasures her freedom above all else.

She enters the sitting room. Her parents are sitting on a sofa with Draco in between them. Uncle Sev sits on their opposite, his face as expressionless as always, swirling whiskey in his glass lazily. There, right across from Astrea is he.

The dark one.

The most powerful and dangerous man to ever walk the earth.

And Astrea not only gets to walk on the same earth at the same time, she gets to be in a room with him, to breathe the same air as him, share dinner with him.

Her chest is bursting with pride, her heart flutters in its cage of fragile bones like the many exotic birds in their cages in her room. Her father keeps bringing them home in hopes of making her smile but Astrea finds no joy in dooming others to share her fate and yet what can she do? These birds, much like her, have no chance of surviving outside their cages and yet she can’t help the occasional thought of just letting them all go, letting them try their luck and run after them, with bare feet and no shawl and wouldn’t that be worth the impending death following them? Living and if only for one second?

Astrea has never felt so alive as she does right now. Her trembling fingers grasp the edge of her dress and lift it slightly as she sinks to her knees, bowing her head at the same time. She struggles to keep her back straight and her body stiff, to not fall over and to make it all seem effortless too. Her long pale blond hair falls over her shoulder. She doesn’t even pause to remember she has never curtseyed in a dress cut like this one, doesn’t remember the corset, doesn’t realise her hair is shielding the sight from her parents and Uncles and doesn’t notice how crimson eyes darken as they skim over her, lingering on the neckline of her dress.

Astrea has grown up well-protected and so she does not realise the different ways men look at quickly coming-of-age girls like her. Merely a year away from being presented to society, something Astrea has never had to worry about as her poor health will hardly allow for such a thing her mother has neglected to prepare her, to warn her of the more unsavoury desires of some men. And still - Astrea knows more than her parents think. She is no idiot and has read nearly every book in the Manor, even those her father keeps away from her in his own library and especially his study and what she can’t find in books her friend tells her about. Her only friend.

“Rise.” The high-pitched voice caresses her skin like morning dew, the leaves of her flowers in front of her windows. Like the wings of her feathered companions, her bare arms. Astrea shudders and - against all her formidable education - she stares.

Amusement twinkles in the crimson eyes of her lord and master, dark red like the drops on her handkerchief. They assess her, gliding over her body, her dress and eventually coming to a halt on her eyes. The corner of his lipsless mouth twitches and for a second Astrea has forgotten everything. The blood, the fatigue, the guilt at lying to her parents, the weight of her sin pressed against her naked thigh beneath her dress.

Lord Voldemort looks different than she could have ever been able to picture him. Pale skin that’s scattered here and there with a bundle of scales that shimmer in the flickering light of the gas lamps on the walls, shimmering like the expensive opal jewellery her parents brought back for her from one of their trips to France once. His pupils are long, shaped like those of a snake and where there is supposed to be a nose, only slit nostrils stretch across his skin.

He is tapping his nails on the armrest of his armchair, one with a regal, high back and luxurious tropical wood, stained dark to fit the room’s aesthetic.

“It is an honour to meet you, my lord.” Astrea says, though her voice sounds strange even to her own ears. “I am saddened to have missed your arrival.”

“I am as well.” Voldemort says, his voice silky smooth, sounding so familiar and yet so strange. Though the fluttery feeling it ignites in her belly is very familiar. She has only ever felt it around her only friend…

Voldemort rises from his seat, abandoning his untouched drink on the table beside his armchair. He towers over her, taller even than her father and uncle. Astrea feels minuscule next to him, not only due to the size. She doesn’t even reach his shoulder.

“Join me? I am curious to learn more about the youngest Malfoy offspring.”

“I am an open book for my lord.” She says with a chaste incline of her head, hiding both from the intense gaze of her master and the redness spreading across her cheeks. “My lord merely needs to ask.”

The stolen leatherbound diary pressed against her thigh she accepts Voldemort’s arm and follows him into the dining room where he even pulls out her chair. No man who does not also share blood with her or is made of ink and magic has ever treated her like this. Astrea sits down and is glad for the rest, ignoring the sweat drenching her back beneath her dress and corset. She doesn’t notice the eyes wandering to her décolletage once more.

“I hope my family’s home becomes my lord well?”

“Yes.” He says, red eyes blazing. “Alas I was uncertain for a bit but it could convince me after all.”

“I am relieved.” Astrea looks up and smiles, finding it contains the same amount of joy it has when addressing it to her ink friend and all the joy it lacks when looking at her family.

“So am I.” His upper lip twitched into a crooked grin, revealing a single, sharp, long fang. The grin looks so familiar-

Astrea shakes the thought off.

Perhaps she should not have brought the diary but she can’t leave Tom in her room alone! He is her only friend and she has to keep him safe! Perhaps Voldemort does not know she has stolen it from her father’s study all those years ago in a fit of infantine anger and desire to hurt her father back for all that he is keeping her from. All she wanted was to join Draco’s birthday celebration and he forbade it. Tom said she did no wrong and that she should believe him but Astrea finds it difficult at times.

She has considered putting the diary back many times but Tom has told her how lonely he was before she saved him and one does not abandon friends! At least that’s what Tom says. Astrea has never had a friend but she trusts Tom. He would never want to harm her.

***

What a curious little creature, Voldemort thinks as he slips into the girl’s room unnoticed. She is lying in a huge bed framed by flimsy, delicate curtains, as delicate as the girl they give fleeting shelter to.

She is asleep, her lids closed, hiding the bright blue of her big eyes. Her luscious lips are slightly parted. Beneath her hand, curled into a feeble fist on top of her pillow, beside her head sits it.

The impertinence. The utter impudence to bring the stolen object to her first encounter with its rightful owner. It’s almost charming. Like an ant that believes itself so powerful it can revolt against the boot.

He will take pleasure in crushing her. In ripping her chaste innocence from her to savour it, to claim it for himself. He’ll punish her for her crime and Lucius for being so careless he has not even realised it’s missing. The object Voldemort entrusted to him. A piece of his master’s soul - though that part he is obviously unaware of. Voldemort is not so stupid as to hand over crucial information to a mere henchman like Lucius. Though his daughter will make a lovely addition to Voldemort’s bed.

He reaches out a pale hand with skeletal fingers to take the diary, reclaim his stolen Horcrux-

Voldemort is pulled away, something tugs on his mind and he falls forward, like dragged into a pensieve and he finds himself in the Slytherin common room, standing by the fireplace he once tossed the annoying cat of a classmate into. In front of him on the leather sofa lies the girl, the same girl, in the same flimsy, nearly see-through nightgown and she is asleep in his arms. In his arms.

Within the blink of an eye his younger self, looking the role of the proper Prefect he had been at the time, stands in front of him. Voldemort had never been short but his adolescent self can’t match the height of his new body and yet he doesn’t seem impressed or like he even remotely cares.

“She is mine!” He hisses in angry parseltongue, his eyes flashing red and Voldemort is forcibly expelled from the diary, such force he stumbles a step backwards, staring at the girl sleeping on his diary as peacefully as humanly possible.

Read it here

[feminismisstillahatemovement]

Hey I was checking your blog and I was wondering if you were the people who asking what they teaching kids in schools about slavery

Well as someone who was part of the American education system. Let me tell you a little secret

Arab, Asian, and ESPECIALLY African slavers are intentionally left out of the education systems

Like remember the women king movie that lionized the Dahomey? Well fun fact for generations my community, the African American community, was told for generations that Africa was that garden of peace until the white devils came and ruined it. In fact I didn’t even know about the Dahomey until people was exposing the atrocities they did after the women king trailer dropped.

I had a near mental breakdown learning that black Americans basically did a equivalent of “Holocaust survivors romanticizing the Nazis” and I’m only 23 so you can just imagine the mental hell for older black Americans when they learn who really sent us to the Americas.

I just wanted to point that out because your British no and I often see non Americans wonder why we constantly make weird ass statements.

Like….black Americans was taught since they were in the fucking womb that slavery was only “white people enslaved black people”

Sorry for this heavy topic, just saying you guys are in a doozy with Americans for awhile

It's true, America is incredibly insular in some ways - perhaps because it is so big - and as a result it sometimes projects its own problems and skewed perceptions onto the rest of the world. And, because it has been the world empire this past century, the rest of the world often falls in line with those views too.

But slavery has always been with us: every race has bought and sold every other race, and Africans were buying, selling, trading and enslaving other Africans for thousands of years before any white-skinned devils bearing gunpowder turned up on their shores.

You'd think that basic and inarguable truth would be the first thing schools would teach impressionable children about this matter, but today they're much more intent on making them want to destroy western civilization for no reason.

[bikenesmith]

brian and charles, sharon and charles (616)

have had the xaviers, the black womb project, and the haunted house that is westchester mansion on the brain

[sweetwriter]

Oh To Love

by Sweetwriter

I often feel like Hephaestus, the throwed away one; the ugly one; the crafter. People only care about the craft and never the crafter. 

I write this story, as a manifestation of a love I would like to receive. 

Hephaestus!Reiner x black reader (at certain points)

this chapter and a couple other chapters are going to be build ups to the love story of Reiner x YN

Heads up: abandonment, self hate, rejection, shame, angst, fluff, maybe smut (later) idk, happy ending :)

This story is based off the poem by Nikola Gill the story of Hephaestus 

“He is dismembered! He will bring shame to my womb” 

Hephaestus hears this conversation, ears pressed against the marble doors.  Looking down at his legs, they didn’t look different to him- I guess it should make sense that the rest of the Pantheon just chooses to completely ignore him. He thought that it was the fact that he wasn't as confident as his brother, Ares or well loved like his half brother, Heracles; nor was he wise like his half sister Athena. But, he thought that people did not mind, he is still young finding his way. 

“You know it is rude to eavesdrop, Hephaestus.” He turns around to see Aphrodite, his aphrodite. He had loved her for as long as he has known what love was. 

“They are talking about my appearance again. How come they never talk about my projects- the very crown she has on her head is a design I created.” He sighs. It has been a time where Hephaestus has conceded that he is gifted in crafts work. He often spent time mining near volcanoes to search for precious gems he will use for his next project. It is nearing his birthday, no one really remembers, so he decided to make a gift for himself.  

“Appearances are everything to an Olympian, we are perfect beings, when one is imperfect, what will that do to the Pantheon” she says softly. Hephaestus notices she often does that, she is harsh with her words and soft with her voice, it does not stop the sting, instead it prolongs it. He is use to the harsh tone. Soft tones are tattooed in his mind forever, for how can forget kindness. But as he grows, he questions whether softness is equivalent to kindness. 

“He looks like a beast because of your transgressions, whoring your love out to whatever you please but your wife. You have put shame on me, and I refuse to accept such thing as a son of mine.” Hera shouted, All Hephaestus saw was his mother storming his way with anger in his face, “mother, what are you” that was all he remembered. 

As he fell that day, all the pain and suffering settled in his chest; The humiliation of being discarded. “Who would want me if Olympus does not desire my presence?” Hephaestus questioned himself for hours as he fell. All the pain and suffering marinating into his bones, the agony wearing down his godly bones. 

He spent his 14th birthday falling from his godliness. His age progressed and his pride of being Olympian diminished.

When he hit the ground his heart rate picked up speed. Gods can not get hurt or feel pain, they say. The agony of falling must’ve weakened his goldy pride because when he fell. Everything held dearly, fell along with that: the pride of being his parent’s child, to be the sibling of all he cares for, the love of another. 

He felt as if his immortal life was over, that there was nothing that he needed to look forward to, all he had to do was aimlessly wander the earth. What he did not expect, was when Hephaestus was thrown off of Olympus and to the mortal realm, he experienced something he had never experienced, love. 

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A/N: HANBDJBFSB sorry it took me so long to get back to writing, I wanted to write all the parts out and then post them individually. I feel less stressed when all the parts are already saved and such. But yeah- leave notes or feedback or anything. maybe even some other mythology x anime ideas. Let me knooooowww

with love,

sweet writer

[sybaritick]

horrible mecha-cyborg-biotech galetash time :) / 4.3k, E

please mind the tags, particularly for noncon, nonconsensual drug use, and nonconsensual body modification!

one day I'll write a fic where something nice happens to Gale (lying through my teeth)

Once a tenday he’s inspected and modified in a way he fears and appreciates in equal measure. It’s always the same engineer with the same broad frame, dark-eyed and unnerving with a mop of unruly black hair. The man has a particular liking for him, Gale knows, and an ambition so sharp it impresses even him, Gale Dekarios, Gale of Waterdeep, teenage prodigy who had been granted the time to finish his degree on the homeworld solely out of respect for what they knew he would become. What’s Gortash, to rival that? Not Waterdhavian, not a pilot, not a nobleman. A mechanic he’d estimate is only a couple years younger than him, but more talented than any other he'd had, and more dangerous besides. Threatening, always, that if Gale wants to stay at the top of his game he'd give and give and give these pieces of himself over to the machine until hardly any of his body belongs to him at all. It’s your mind that is you, Enver always insists. The rest is only a tool and an interface. Enver sits cross-legged on the floor of the hangar when Gale finally steps from the dark womb of the cockpit. Wobbly-legged, readjusting to holding the weight of himself again after eighteen hours not: sweat-slick and dead-eyed and artificially awake in a way that feels like he’s held up on marionette strings. Detaching the neural connection is what Gale delays the most. After the preternatural calm and precision of his machine-self, the hormone-addled meat of his brain cut loose from its harness finds pathetically little signal in the noise, half-drowns in the overstimulus of reality. "Sharp as ever," Enver comments, glancing at the joints of the machine, eyes tracing the polished surfaces. "I see no damage to you."

read the rest!

[talonabraxas]

Description of the Frontispiece in Magic: White and Black by Franz Hartmann.

At the foot of the picture is a sleeping Sphinx, whose upper part (representing the higher principles) is human; while the lower parts (symbolizing the lower principles) are of an animal nature.

She is dreaming of the solution of the great problem of the construction of the Universe and of the nature and destiny of Man, and her dream takes the shape of the figure above her, representing the Macrocosm and the Microcosm and their mutual interaction.

Above, around, and within all, without beginning and without an end, penetrating and pervading all, from the endless and unimaginable periphery to the invisible and incomprehensible center is Parabrahm, the unmanifested Absolute, the supreme source of every power that ever manifested or may in the future manifest itself as a "thing", and by whose activity the world was thrown into existence, being projected by the power of His own will and imagination.

The Omega (and the Alpha in the center) represent the "Son", the Absolute having become manifest as the Universal Logos or The Christ, also called Buddhi, or the sixth principle, the cause of the beginning and the end of every created thing. It is One with the "father", being manifested as a Trinity in a Unity, the cause of what we call Space, Motion, and Substance. Its highest manifestation is Self-consciousness, by which it may come to the comprehension of Man.

The spiritual man whose matrix is his own physical body, draws his nutriment from this universal spiritual principle as the physical fetus is nourished by means of the womb of the mother, his soul being formed from the astral influences or the soul of the world.

Out of the Universal Logos proceeds the "invisible Light " of the Spirit, the Truth, the Law, and the Life, embracing and penetrating the Cosmos and becoming manifest in the illuminated soul of Man, while the visible light of Nature is only its most material aspect or mode of manifestation, in the same sense as the visible sun is the reflex of its divine prototype, the invisible center of power or the great spiritual Sun.

The circle with the twelve signs of the Zodiac, enclosing the space in which the planets belonging to our solar system are represented, symbolizes the Cosmos, filled with the planetary influences pervading the Astral Light, and which are caused by the interaction of the astral emanations of the cosmic bodies and their inhabitants.

The activity in the Cosmos is represented by the interlaced triangle. The two outer ones represent the great powers of creation, preservation, and destruction, or Brahama, Vishnu, and Siva, acting upon the elements of Fire, Water, and Earth — that is to say, upon the original principles out of which ethereal, fluid and solid material substances and forms are produced.

The two inner interlaced triangles refer more especially to the development of Man. B, C, and D represent Knowledge, the Knower, and the Known, which trinity constitutes Self-knowledge. E, F, and G represent the Physical Man, the Ethereal or Inner Man, and the Spiritual Man. The center represents the divine Atma, being identical with the Universal Logos. It is, like the latter, a Trinity in a Unity. Of the three interlaced A's only one is distinctly drawn in the figure.

It is the spiritual seed implanted in the soul of man, through whose growth immortal life is attained. Its light is the Rose of the Cross that is formed by Wisdom and Power. But below all is the realm of illusion, of the most gross and heavy materialized thoughts, sinking into Darkness and Death, where they decompose and putrefy, and are resolved again into the elements out of which the Universe came into existence.

(Excerpts from: Magic: White and Black by Franz Hartmann)

[fl3shm4id3n]

ₛₑₑ ₙₒ ₑᵥᵢₗ, ₛₚₑₐₖ ₙₒ ₑᵥᵢₗ

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝'𝐯𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐃𝐀 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠. 𝐍𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐡 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. 𝐀𝐬 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐧𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ʀᴇᴄᴏᴍ ᴍᴀɴꜱᴋ x ꜰᴇᴍ! ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ-ᴛᴀʀᴋᴀᴛᴀɴ ᴄʟᴏɴᴇ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Tw: illegal experimentation, cloning, blood, flesh, romantic relationships, fluff, PDA, talk about insecurities, comfort.

A/N: I thought Mansk would be a good match for this reader, he doesn't seem judgmental, he seems chill af. Would this be considered a black cat and golden retriever relationship?

Masterlist

You were an experiment created by the RDA is Bridgehead. You had been created from flesh and blood from a scientist who volunteered into this creation. They had got some kind of sample from an illegal market on earth, from a creature known as a Tarkatan. They were from a different planet, further away from Pandora. You basically grew from an artificial womb, for many years, it wasn't an easy task when creating something like you. Then finally after twenty years you were 'born' an adult.

Not only that, but besides 'looking' humans, you had other features that weren't so human. Yours eyes looked demonic, not only that, but you had no lips, instead you had rows of fangs. Your appearance was unsettling to everyone around you, so you began to wear a mask to hide your horrifying teeth and at least seem more friendly, but that didn't work either. You'd show violent and aggressive behavior towards others. You didn't mean to show that sort of behavior, you were like a child learning new emotions and always thought of your behavior as you being friendly.

No matter how hard you tried not to be aggressive or violence, it would happen by accident, they didn't seem to trust you either, everyone assumed you just pure evil and were just waiting to kill them all. At first you hated being an outcast, but now you didn't care, if that's how you would be looked at then so be it. Is not like people liked you anyway, so why bother trying to make friends or impress people.

You had gone under some kind of training, specifically for you, you didn't do any military programs, instead you were taught taught martials arts and wielded two sai blades, you had grown to love the idea of stabbing things, whether it was a dummy, you just loved stabbing. Also biting, you had bit an opponent that was helping with your training, and you had bit them on the shoulder out of frustration. The taste of their blood made you go feral and wanting for more, it was an accident, but you were glad it happened, or else you would've never figured out your love for blood.

It had been a year since you were 'born' and you were ready to be put out in the field, you could go alone and be okay, but the RDA did not want to risk losing you, so they put you on a up coming team by the project known as 'Project Phoenix'. Which was basically reincarnating dead soldiers and placing their soul in a new body, they only bought back a small portion of the team instead of all the dead soldiers. It would cost an arm and a leg for sure.

Day by day a member would wake up, you were introduced to them, and they had been told that you were there first member, you thought that you'd be the leader due to being alive first, but no, they already had someone in charge, someone they called Quaritch, it sucked, you wanted lead, you were capable of doing so, but no. You were basically their mascot or a pet to them, it was stupid. He came up with the group name which sounded like a dad joke.

The whole team head been awake by now, you along with everyone were in a small meeting. Instead of paying attention to Quaritch stupid dad joke about being blue and shit. You looked around the blue cats that surrounded your small frame. You payed closed attention to them, you wanted to know what their weaknesses were and how you could use them to your advantage. You thought about causing some fear in chaos to the member just for your own entertainment and to also show them that you could kill them in there sleep if they tried to mess with you.

That was when you met Mansk, while all the members seemed to avoid you, he had the decency to be nice to you. He didn't wear any shades the first time you saw him, but now he did, they looked good on him. Though, you thought that he had really pretty eyes and wish to have a look at them forever. As the time passed, you were no longer alone like you used to be, instead Mansk would keep you company, it was odd hanging out with someone since most of the time you were alone, well not anymore.

You'd be spotted with Mansk, everyone just assumed that you were getting along since you were in the same team, but for the past couple days you and him had got closer by the hour. He didn't seem scared of you like others, instead he showed interest in you. It made you feel like you had butterflies in your stomach, you never would of thought you'd begin to grow feelings for someone, specially since he'd be considered your first love. It made you happy, seen that you were accepted by someone.

After a couple months of getting to know each other, you and Mansk had officially became a couple. Since you knew nothing about romance or relationship's Mansk had to be the one to tell you how that stuff worked. You were loving this new found relationship with Mansk, you were overly affectionate with the man, why wouldn't you? He had been nice and sweet to you since you when you met. You had basically fallen in love with him from the start.

He didn't seem to mind PDA since you'd show him all the affection you could. What made you sad was that you couldn't kiss him. Sometimes you wished that you had a pair of lips so that you can kiss him on the cheek. Since you couldn't, Mansk would be the one doing the kissing, he'd kiss your forehead, cheek, hand, and also your fangs. It made you get all giggly when he did. Specially since he'd kiss the part where your lips would be on. The 'kissing' you'd do is basically lick his cheek, he didn't seem to mind since you literally had no lips.

Others of the team began to take notice of yours and Mansks relationship, at first they thought it was just two colleges getting along, but the more they noticed how you and Masnk spend a lot of time together, they got the memo that you and him were a thing. The group couldn't comprehend how that relationship worked, you were basically two different species, not only that but you? You could basically eat Mansk alive if you wanted to. They didn't seem to really care, they were just shocked that you and Mansk were a couple. Miles did not care, as long as your relationship didn't intervene with the mission.

That day there was no mission, so you were hanging out with Mansks in his room, just laying on his bed in silence. You were cuddled up against Mansk, you had your arms wrapped around his torso while he had one arm around your waist. You both were enjoying the silence, until you spoke. "Mansky?" you called to him, he hummed at you as a form of response. You got of from your side and climbing over his waist, straddling him. Mansk placed his hands on your thighs, he also didn't wear his glasses around you, and you didn't wear your mask around him.

"I've been meaning to ask.." you said a bit shyly. Mansk looked into your eyes. "What of babe?" he said sweetly, causing you to melt a bit by the pet name. "Do you find me pretty?" you asked nervously. He gave you a look of confusion, then gave your thighs a squeeze of comfort. "Of course I do, why wouldn't I?" he asked, now worried. You sigh and ran your long talon like nails on the material of his shirt. "Donno, I kind off.. I just.." you couldn't find the proper words to put it. "I don't normally care on how I look like, but, I've heard others say that.. your with me out of pity" you admitted.

Now Mansk understood. "Oh babe, I think your the most beautiful being I've ever met, I don't care on what you are and how you look like." He said, bringing his hand up to your chin and lifted it so that you could look at him. You had a sad look on your eyes. "Really?" you asked, feeling butterflies in your stomach beginning to flutter around. "Yes babe! Don't listen to what those idiots say, I know we're still getting to know one another but I'm already falling in love with you." He admitted, this confession made you basically jumped onto him and hugged him tightly around his neck. "Mansky! I love you too!!" you squealed and gave him a kiss (lick) on this cheek. Mansk just chuckled by your reaction and hugged you back.

ₙₑₓₜ ₚₐᵣₜ?

Taglist: @anoungsoneandonly

[thenightcallsme]

ATWOW | Neteyam Sully, pt. 5

"The further we walk along the sandbar, the further we are closed in. The Reef People stand at all sides; we are entirely at their mercy."

Synopsis: You and the Sully's have reached the Metkayina Clan at their seaside village, Awa’atlu. Their acceptance is something to be fought for, and despite your willingness, it is no less challenging. (A/N: this is just a bit of a world-building/filler chapter)

Pairing: Neteyam x Fem!Ometikaya OC (Gi'anya, or Gi for short)

Contains: established OC POV, mentions of menstruation if that makes you uncomfortable (mostly me projecting my health issues onto MC lol), less talking more thinking in this one,

Word count: 4,735

find the rest of the chapters in my masterlist here :)

• • • • •

By some miracle, the grazed bullet wound on my thigh has healed. No purplish bruises, no angry red hints of infection, no scab, not even the silvery hint of a scar. Unbroken blue skin takes its place. Cuts and bruises on both Sully brothers from the incident during their last raid have just begun to fade, all injuries that are less serious than mine for the most part. And yet I’ve healed days before they have even begun. I ran my fingers over the soft unmarred skin in wonder upon removing the bandage, and if I’m honest, it almost unsettled me. Though I’m not surprised. 

All my life this has happened. An accidental bite of my tongue heals in an hour, a graze on the knee scabbing over in two. Being called to my talents of healing and crafting, I do not often partake in hunts or any activity that entails injury. But on the rare occasion I do injure myself, nothing ever lasts. My body is untouched by scars. Even the littlest things like chapped lips and dry skin are almost nonexistent for me. Not to mention my immune system and stamina are impeccable, as if my body is in a constant state of replenishment too advanced to be natural.

I once brought it up to the human scientists who lived alongside us. One theorised that my cells work at an advanced rate, an attribute of my half-Avatar heritage (as far as we know, at least), and offered to run some tests. Already burnt out by the excessive and invasive tests for my unusual menstrual cycle, I declined. Count it as a miracle, I had reasoned. It’s best not to challenge something good. 

My conception and its mysteries have influenced a constant state of questioning. Nothing about who my mother and father are—or were. That is something I accepted to be lost in time. It's myself that I question. The five toes and fingers, the fine hairs on my brow and the queue stemming from the base of my skull were questions answered by the Sully children; having at least one Avatar parent gave the possibility of a few inherited traits. Those traits were black and white through the extensive knowledge of their creation. Perfect genetics concocted in a lab do not leave room for imperfections, and those perfect genetics did not include incredible cell sustainability. And then there’s my menstrual problems, something not recorded in Na’vi women and something not programmed into the Avatars. 

How, how, how… It’s a ruthless cycle of endless questions not meant to be answered. The regeneration doesn’t bother me as much. The menstrual problems, however…

Na’vi women experience their cycle twice a year at the height of their heat. The surge of their female hormones causes an extraordinary desire for a male counterpart shadowed by a light shedding of blood from the womb. Accompanying that is the slightest hint of pain and pressure. Nothing crippling, just noticeable enough to entice the occasional hiss and wince.

Eywa, do I envy the other women. 

Four times a year, I spiral into a week-long suffering so debilitating I wonder if the end is near. My presence from clan life is snuffed like a flame as I lay curled in my hut, a mess of tears and too much blood for me to handle. I spend most of those weeks submerged in lonely streams if I can make the journey without vomiting. Of course, I battle the same…wants as the other women. It dances with the debilitating pain in a dangerously tempting, mind-numbing tango.

The visits paid by a certain someone in those weeks are almost unbearable.

The scientists told me I display symptoms of disorders that are entirely human in nature, opening up a can of worms they were eager to explore, given my mysterious conception. They did the best they could with the limited knowledge and Na’vi adapted health equipment they had. Something was wrong, that much was concluded, but to know the extent of it would require surgeries and more of those terrible internal exams. In the end, I was left with no solid answer and extensive knowledge of the human menstrual cycle and its inherited flaws.

Oh well. There is no use thinking about it today of all days, especially with the bleeding stage of my cycle about a month away. Those four weeks are worth spending enjoying the moments I’m able to function. So I brush the thoughts away, instead testing the unbroken stretch of skin across my thigh. How strange…

Jake believes today will see our journey’s end. A flat expanse of water stretches out endlessly beneath the flock of Ikrans, reaching its watery grasp to each corner of the horizon. Soon enough, his prediction manifests.

Peaking from the endless ocean is the promise of land; spires of rocks and greenery that meld into staggering mountains dance in a misty haze on the horizon. Small islands orbit one gigantic one that reaches for the heavens with jagged fingers. A wall of arching roots exploding from the sea floor keeps the islands in a circle of calm waters, filtering out the strong currents and merciless waves beyond. As our Ikrans cross the protective boundaries, I get a glimpse of shallow pools climbing the natural walls, teeming with life. Not just the splash of a tail or glitter of scaled bodies, but intelligent life. Na’vi life.

We are here.

Greenish bodies pause in acts of play and leisure to turn skyward as our Ikrans soar past. Some point, some remain unreadable from this distance. Some dive into the waters below and disappear beneath marbling azure blues and emerald greens. 

The stretch between the wall and the main island is crossed in just a few minutes. My Ikran dives to skim the surface of the water. Small bodies of aquatic life jump through the calm ripples alongside Vaana as if in competition. It’s not long before they’re lost to the sea. Standing at attention along the approaching shore is a compact network of gigantic mangroves. Their great roots dive dramatically in and out of pale sand and crystal waters. Nestled into the root system are the woven huts and platforms that make up Awa’atlu, the settlement of the most westerly Metkayina village. We’re halfway when the deep bellow of a horn echoes across the bay.

The Metkayina dive from their platforms, abandon shore-side activities and emerge from the waters atop strange creatures as our Ikrans approach an outstretched catwalk of sand. A crowd has already gathered as the first of us touch down. Neytiri’s Ikran screeches a mighty cry. I run my hands along the stretch of Vaana’s white neck, fingers following the purple and black patterns as I silently urge her to remain quiet. Our arrival is meant to appear in some confidence, but too much may strike the wrong impression. 

I slide off Vaana, feet met with the unfamiliar scorch of hot sand. Sand beaches are not common in the jungles of Pandora and are often traded for natural pools and gushing waterfalls. Even then, the sand isn't nearly as fine, nor responsive to the heat of the sun. I share a wordless look with Kiri, who falls into step beside me as we shadow her brothers. With a nod she returns, I look ahead at the approaching people, pulling my woven shawl tight around my shoulders at the sight of them. Some brandish wooden spears, some carry children on their hips. Some appear curious, others cautious. And some…some look ready to strike. Yips and cries are passed between the Metkayina as Jake takes the lead, palms outstretched and arms flourishing in a sign of peace.

The further we walk along the sandbar, the further we are closed in. The Reef People stand at all sides; we are entirely at their mercy.

It doesn’t take a second look to see a striking difference in anatomy besides the obvious green skin and markings, which closely resemble ripples instead of stripes. In both males and females, their ribcages are wider, protruding in great contrast to their soft stomachs. A jutting form branches from elbow to pinky resembling that of a fish's fins. Thin and tufted tails are traded for oar-like ones, thicker and flat. While I try not to stare at one face for too long, I’m caught off guard by the blinks of blue eyes. Their eyes are double-lidded, one layer blinking towards the inner corners before the outer layers meet in the middle. Swirling designs cover their skin, etched permanently in black ink.

It shouldn’t take an expert to understand the difference; their bodies are built for the water.

The hushed whispers set me on edge. My ears prick this way and that as my brain attempts to pick apart every conversation. One woman leans towards her friend, whispering that she is unsure why we are here. It’s one of the more tame comments, and though I wish to bare teeth at some, I know it is not wise. They are right to be unsure, right to question what they do not know.

From the crowd, two boys that I assume are similar to my age emerge. The one in front is taller, staring us down through heavy brows. Intimidating. His black braided hair is pulled into a topknot high on his head. A leather band circles his thick bicep, stitched with small shards of iridescent paua shells and practically shouting his ranking. A warrior. Strapped to his grass loincloth is an impressive blade. Behind him, his shorter companion appears more curious, albeit still on the offence. He, too, carries a blade, but his arm is bare of a band. Neither of them is marked by the swirling tattoos.

As they advance, their gazes leave Jake and Neytiri to focus on us. Kiri and I linger a step behind Neteyam and Lo’ak, who incline their heads and draw two fingers from their foreheads outwards in a sign of respect. The gesture is not returned. Kiri and I make similar gestures regardless. Still, their ruthless stares do not soften.

The pair pass behind the brothers to reach Kiri and me, the two of us no longer able to cower behind the broad shields of Neteyam and Lo’ak’s backs. They turn over their shoulders to keep a close watch. In usual fashion, Lo’ak is distracted within seconds and his eyes travel elsewhere, melting into awe at something I cannot see. Neteyam, however, is entirely invested. There’s a sort of warning in the way he watches the Metkayina boys. The tall one seems to find it amusing.

The two are unapologetic in their dissecting stares, brows raising and lowering as they take us in. The taller one’s blue eyes remain on me longer. Too much longer. His gaze is too slow as it drags over my body, too curious. When our gazes meet, the hint of a smirk pricks at his full lips. It takes a ridiculous amount of will to school myself into indifference. I couldn’t be more thankful when his friend nudges at his arm, pointing at Neteyam’s swishing tail.

“Look, what is that?” He says with a bemused grin. “Is that supposed to be a tail?”

At his loud comment, a few curious onlookers giggle and laugh. His friend finds great amusement in it. Neteyam’s jaw clenches but, unsurprisingly, he chooses to remain silent. Not interested in childish jabs, I follow Lo’ak’s gaze to the shoreline, which has caught my attention in its intensity.

Emerging with grace so admirable it's envious, a Metkayina girl approaches. The sea of people part for her without hesitation. She’s important. Small braids stop behind her ears to unravel into a glistening shroud of black curls strong enough to resist the weight of water. Beads of water trickle down her heart-shaped face, following the curves of her soft cheekbones, the bridge of her nose, the plush of her full lips. The further it trickles, the further my eyes travel. Subtle curves, short but lean. Shells that reflect different colours upon each footstep are woven together with ropey twine to fashion the most beautiful top I’ve ever seen.

She was beautiful. Utterly beautiful. So much so that I envied it more than I envied her grace—not out of spite or self-hatred, of course. It’s impossible for me not to recognise her beauty out of awe. …An awe Lo’ak shares.

She approaches the two boys, sweet face souring as she hits away the shorter one’s outstretched hand.

“Do not. Rotxo. Aunong.”

Rotxo retracts his hand, grin falling at her tone. The other, Aunong, simply shakes his head, returning his gaze to stare me down. I try my best at faking obliviousness. 

The girl turns her gaze to regard us quietly, a vague calculation in her pale blue eyes. Nobody has shown outward kindness yet, and in a way, neither has she. All she does is regain courtesy. However, there’s an aura to her that sucks me in, catching me so off guard that I smile, shoulders relaxing. She doesn’t hesitate to smile back.

Lo’ak nods his head towards her. “Hey.”

She looks away with a flustered huff that almost resembles a giggle, as musical as her breathy voice. Lo’ak’s tail swishes.

Eywa, already?

Kiri sighs at her brother's eagerness, a sound quickly drowned out by a guttural bellow.

Launching from the calm waters come three creatures, all bones and scaled, sleek skin, fish-like and foreign. Close to the base of elongated, slim jaws clustered with razor teeth spread a pair of wings wide. Blue bodies melt into fiery wings not nearly as flexible as our Ikran’s and fin-like in structure. A smaller pair sprout further down the snake-like bodies, merging into a flat tail. Over the sand bar they fly, mounted by males who, without a second glance, appear to be decorated warriors. 

The creatures dive towards the water and submerge tail first. Spiked spines peak through the surface beneath the males. The first one to emerge onto the sandbar catches not only my attention, but the entire devoted attention of the Metkayina. They yip in response to his grunt. Tonowari.

Tonowari is the chief of the Metkayina tribe. If I had not known so already, it would have been obvious in his attire. His loincloth is impeccably detailed, with beaded swirls of purples, greens, and blues. Strapped to his chest is what must be their equivalent of a warrior belt to us; a curved, thick leather strap that comes from his left hip, crossing over his ribs and over his left shoulder. A spine-like design of shells decorates the piece, and around his neck a huge display of mollusc shells that dance in the space between purple and blue. A cloak of yellow feathers lines his broad shoulders before descending into braided orange yarn. 

With each slow, purposeful stride, Tonowari digs the head of his spear into the sand. The hostility he presents is not near as much as I had expected. He instead appears confused. Surprised. Swirling patterns inked in black stem from the point of his wide nose and the curve beneath his full lower lip. The patterns dip beneath his jaw and fall down his neck to cover his chest. Vaguely, they seem to ebb and flow like the soft lapping of waves against the shore.

“Olo’eyktan,” Tonowari says by way of greeting.

Jake bows his head, repeating the gesture his sons gave to the boys. Behind him, the rest of us bow our heads to do the same. “I see you, Tonowari.”

The chief of the Reef People returns the gesture. “Jake Sully.”

As Tonowari turns to greet Neytiri under customs was no longer required under our exile, a woman emerges from the tight-knit circle, clad in a get-up as exquisite as the chiefs. The Metkayina bow their heads and bear the spears skyward as she passes. At the sight of her less welcoming face, my stomach turns, recalling Jake’s warnings about today.

The Tsahik of the clan approaches her mate, hips swishing, sending ripples down an incredible grass skirt. There’s a fullness to her hips and roundness to her pale stomach that promises the bearing of a child. A thick netting tangled with shells hugs her throat tightly, falling down to cover her fuller breasts. Similarly to her mate, facial tattoos mark her face, stemming from her nose and beneath her lower lip, although more modest. Delicate. Where his covers all of his neck and chest, hers follows a central line from her mouth, over her throat and between her collarbones. It disappears at her sternum, reappearing beneath her breasts reaching her naval. A beautiful headpiece holding a flat shell against her forehead is tucked into a thick head of wild black hair. Her eyes are wide and aware, lips parted as if something is dying to be said.

“I see you, Ronal,” Jake says before she can question anything. Neytiri echoes his words. “Tsahik of the Metkayina.”

The Tsahik does not respond, painfully silent and painfully critical in her stare.

“Why do you come to us, Jake Sully?” Tonowari asks after a long pause.

Jake looks back at his family before answering. “We seek uturu.”

Ronal’s questioning eyes turn bewildered. “Uturu?”

Her judgment is off-putting, but I do not blame her. Uturu does not just mean a place to stay for the Na’vi, it means protection. Alliance. A welcoming into one’s way of life as if those seeking it were family. Acceptance is celebrated in our cultures but not without the allowance to question.

Jake nods. “Yes, sanctuary for my family.”

Tonowari seems torn as his mate wordlessly advances towards us, searching, judging. “We are Reef People. You are Forest People. Your skills will mean nothing here.”

Ronal levels Neteyam and Lo’ak with hard stares as she breezes behind their parents. The two of them lower their gazes out of respect, not the challenge that she seems to be searching for. I chew at the inner flesh of my cheeks as she comes Kiri and I’s way. Respect her, understand her. The first indication of negativity will have the Tsahik demanding our retreat.

“Well, we will learn your ways,” Jake reasons, turning back to give his mate a silent call for help. “Am I right?”

“Yes.”

Neytiri can barely breathe out her answer before the Tsahik’s hand wraps around her tail. It slips from her grasp as Neytiri turns. Their gazes meet, hard and demanding the other to speak first, but Ronal drifts away without paying her any more mind. Instead, she reaches for Tuk’s arm to hold it high above the child’s head.

“Their arms are thin,” she announces. Tuk backs away so fast that she stumbles from the comfort of her mother, instead thumping into her father’s thigh. Ronal continues, doing the same to Kiri as she had just done to Neytiri. “Their tails are weak. You will be slow in the water.”

With an indignant ‘ow’, Kiri snatches back her tail, holding the tufted end to her shawl-draped chest. An energy of incredulousness buzzes from my friend. I place a hand on Kiri’s shoulder, squeezing softly. Don’t bite back. Let her express her concerns. Kiri seems to heed my silent plea. When her gaze travels to me and the hand on her shoulder, I have to remind myself of the same plea. Especially when her three-fingered grasp pulls at my wrist.

Ronal is anything but gentle as turns my palm skyward, eyes jumping over each finger. She pulls at my other hand to do the same, recounting the extra digit over and over as if certain she has imagined it. Jaw hard, she raises my hands skyward so hard my shoulders ache in protest. I look to the sands below in shame.

“These children are not even true Na’vi!”

A collective gasp rolls through the crowd like a ripple in a lake, upset by the plunk of a skipped stone. This, I had expected. Beyond the forests, nowhere else on Pandora has seen the uncanny forms of the Avatars and their descendants. Na’vi are incredibly accepting in appearance, but our culture has never accounted for physical mutations, something unheard of throughout history. Instead, I’ve come to learn that acceptance lies in expression; the clothes you wear, the way your hair is done, the precious stones and woven jewellery decorating your body. All things controllable. I do not fit that narrative.

“Yes, we are,” Kiri counters, but Ronal has already had enough, prowling away as the murmurs and gasps continue.

The others look on, helplessly silent as she grabs for Lo’ak’s hand. It’s a rebuttal to Kiri’s comment, proof that we are not true Na’vi. I share a sympathetic look with Lo’ak, who runs his tongue behind his lower lip to subdue any arguments. There is nothing we can do but listen.

“They have demon blood!”

The murmurs grow deafeningly loud, horrified and angry. My ears flatten as I attempt to drown out their words. Some back away, positioning themselves on their haunches as if prepared to strike. Considering the wooden spears in their hand that happen to tilt down from the clouds…I wouldn’t be surprised.

 “Look. Look!” Jake brandishes his hand, extending his fingers and waving it before the Tsahik’s face. “Look, I was born of the Sky People and now I am Na’vi. All right? You can adapt.”

Unchanging in her display of disgust, all Ronal does is drop Lo’ak’s hand, drag her eyes venomously over his father’s face, and then prowl back to Tonowari’s side. Jake spreads his hands wide and turns to address the crowd.

“We can all adapt. Okay?”

At the ensuing silence and unsure look on the clan leader’s face, Neytiri steps forward. She regards the Tsahik with her chin purposefully high, looking down the flat bridge of her nose as if the female was her lesser counterpart instead of her equal. Unsurprisingly, it is Neytiri who is unapologetic and unafraid to display her distaste for our treatment. My respect for her is endless, but I cannot help but fear for the response.

“My husband was Toruk Makto,” she begins, voice dancing between contempt for the female and pride in her mate. “He led the clans to victory against the Sky People.”

Ronal scoffs. “This you call victory? Hiding amongst strangers? It seems Eywa has turned her back on you…Chosen One.”

At the sarcastic power behind the name thrown at Jake, Neytiri’s lips curl back into a livid scowl, fangs bared. Ronal reacts in kind by mirroring the look. The two women snarl at each other. Strangely, in their clashing, the Tsahik and Neytiri are incredibly alike. It is their stubborn pride in the protection of their people that cannot coexist. Jake places a hand between the two.

“I apologise for my mate,” he says slowly, trying to appease the Tsahik without offence to Neytiri. “She’s—”

“Do not apologise for me.”

“—flown a long way, and she’s exhausted.”

“Jake.”

Jake shoots her a look. With a huff, she falls back a step to remain in line with him.

“Toruk Makto is a great war leader!” Tonowari suddenly announces. At the dizzying speed that everyone's head turns, it seems we have all forgotten his presence, entirely captivated by the unnerving clash. He steps forward, a giant hand falling on Jake’s shoulder. “All Na’vi people know his story.”

The onlookers nod slowly, humming their hesitant agreements. Tuk tugs at her father’s arm as the Metkayinan chief addresses his people. He picks up his daughter, cradling her small body to his chest tightly. The image of him holding her as if he had just carried her across a battlefield, face twisted in desperation for a godly miracle to promise her safety, is signal enough. Its time.

Slowly, Kiri and I drift to either side of her mother. We are not shy in our closeness—we have a part to play, after all. Kiri flocks beneath her mother's outstretched arm, a hand reaching up to hold the one resting on her upper arm. Neytiri’s own free hand rests on my shoulder, her thumb running over the curve at the base of my neck. The great warrior that holds us has lost all hints of hostility, eyes downcast and touch comforting. Her sons stand as our shadows, towering over us women. I look back to see Lo’ak watching his mother with convincingly sad eyes. Neteyam gives me a reserved nod.

“But we Metkayina…are not at war.” Tonowari turns back to Jake then. “We cannot let you bring your war here.”

“I’m done with war. Okay?” Jake pleads. “I just want to keep my family safe.”

His quiet, defeated voice breaks beneath the anguish. For a moment, the chief and his mate go quiet, considering his request as they take us in. Weak, hopeless, broken. That’s how we look, just as Jake had instructed us to. The Metkayina would not sway easily; he had thought right. Manipulative as it was, we had to capitalise on our desperation, drag it out and brandish it like scars of war.

“Uturu has been asked.” With great difficulty, Neytiri repeats what we have come here for. It shames her to seek help from a foreign clan. To ask twice is unbearable.

Still, they remain silent, sharing an indecipherable look.

“Do we have to go now?” 

Tuk asks the question quietly against her father’s neck. He reaches his hand to her skull, cradling it in his palm to hush his daughter with the promise of everything being okay. Clever girl. The scene captivates Ronal entirely as if she had just witnessed Eywa herself descend from the heavens. Leave it up to the innocence of a child and the threat of danger to pull on even the coldest heartstrings. 

One million words are spoken between the chief and his mate, but not one lands on my ears. Through raised brows, lowered eyes, hard jaws and pursed lips, they soundlessly speak entire conversations, going over the risks and the gains, what is morally right but what is wrong for their people. A sigh, a nod, then…

“Toruk Makto and his family will stay with us.”

My heart flutters. A breath I had not known I was holding escapes my lips. Neytiri squeezes my shoulder.

“Treat them as our brothers and sisters,” he continues, speaking to the contrasting sea of emotions that surrounds us. “Now, they do not know the sea, so they will be like babies taking their first breath. Teach them our ways so they do not suffer the shame of being useless.”

Jake chuckles softly, bewildered. To Tuk, he murmurs, “Hey, what do we say?”

Tuk looks to the chief with a beaming, utterly youthful smile. “Thank you.”

The praise is echoed between us. Kiri’s voice is an unenthusiastic whisper, barely anything more than a breath as she does the same.

“My son, Aunong, our daughter, Tsireya, will show your children what to do.” 

Tonowari gestures to his children as he speaks, first the tall boy with the wandering eyes, then the pretty girl who had told him off earlier. Tsireya beams at us, and so far the only person happy with our arrival, and I couldn’t be more relieved that she will be the one to show us our new way of life. Her brother, on the other hand, looks mortified. I’m just as displeased that he has to do the same.

“Father, why do—”

“It is decided.” Tonowari cuts him off firmly with a pointed finger and a shove of his spear into the sand. Aunong stares his father down.

“Come!” Tsireya wastes no time in skipping towards us, breezing past the boys with a welcoming smile towards Kiri and I. She takes my hands in hers and pulls me away from the confinements of the circle. At first, our arrival was unbearable, dragging out like a terrible memory on repeat to torture me. Now, the pace has kicked up, and everything moves too fast for me to comprehend. “I will show you our village.”

I smile back at Tsireya. First impressions mean nothing, I tell myself. So what if the rest of the Metkayina are hesitant to accept us? As long as I can find a friend in the chief's joyous daughter, our time here may not be so bad.