#graphic pattern rug

[sgsjelfs]

Seattle Open Family Room Mid-sized transitional open concept carpeted and multicolored floor family room photo with gray walls

[bigpoppadean]

Seattle Open Mid-sized transitional open concept carpeted and multicolored floor family room photo with gray walls

[katarzynaroszak]

I drawing on ipad,

on the wall large print image

[mbrainspaz]

gran: I found a rug at a garage sale do you want it?

me: What does it look like?

gran: It's really pretty. It's really nice.

me: ... can I have a picture?

gran: No I just need to know if you want it.

me: ok I guess. If it's nice.

[2 hours later]

gran: Ok got it for ya!

the rug:

me: lol gran is it too late to say no? That pattern went out of style 18 years ago.

gran: Nope I got it. What do you mean? It's pretty! I thought you liked abstract.

[jaipur-rugs]

Buy Best Graphic and Pattern Rug For Your Home Interior Decoration

[double-dare-designs]

Gray with a Splash of Color Area Rug

https://www.zazzle.com/z/aeoizxqn?rf=238828267405258083

[vampsywrites]

V — i remember her hands, and the way the mountains looked.

Synopsis: In which the Sullys approach the mountain clan for sanctuary. The Olo'eykte agrees but proposes one condition: Toruk Makto's eldest son must be promised to her daughter. Surprisingly, instead of the solemn response one would expect, Neteyam agrees almost instantaneously.

Tags: Female! Mountain Na'vi! Reader, Arranged Marriage, Strangers to Lovers, Neteyam is whipped, Fighting, Mentions of blood, Mentions of Injuries, Graphic Violence and Wounds, Suggestive, It gets steamy at the end!

Word Count: 11k | AO3 LINK

< PREV | SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT (soon) >

Weaving the thread under a loop, Neteyam meticulously fastened the neckpiece off and then carefully cut the excess string with his blade. As he held it up to the light, giving it an experimental stretch, the embedded crystals and gems sparkled and glinted beneath the warm honeyed glow of the rising sun, creating a mesmerizing dance of colors.

"Do you think she will like it?" Neteyam asked for what seemed like the hundredth time, his fingers still fiddling around with his work, and his eyes micro-analyzing every stitch and bead.

With a groan, Lo'ak ran a hand down his face.

Exasperated, he turned to Neteyam. "How many times are you going to ask me that? Did you not hear my answer last time? It looks fine."

Ignoring his brother, Neteyam stayed focused on the neckpiece.

"What if she doesn't appreciate Omatikayan weaving?" Neteyam bit his lip, a rugged hand nervously tugging at his braids. "I should have asked her opinion on it… What if these gems aren't the right color for her?"

"Bro, calm down," Lo'ak said, shaking his head. He reached over to gently grab the woven necklace away from Neteyam's fiddling hands, holding it up to examine the intricate detailing more closely.

Neteyam had dedicated the past three months to creating this special gift, pouring his heart and soul into every thread and gemstone. The pattern he had chosen was one only the most skilled weavers of their clan attempted, and Neteyam had executed it flawlessly.

There was not a single sign of a mistake, and the weaving flowed seamlessly, like a river meandering through a pristine forest. The beads adorned the piece like shimmering stars against the sky, their brilliance accentuated by Neteyam's careful polishing. Even to Lo'ak's untrained eye, he could recognize the skill and effort poured into the creation.

"Golden boy and his perfect weaving," Lo'ak whistled, smirking when Neteyam grumbled under his breath from the nickname.

Carefully, he handed the woven neckpiece back to his older brother. "Don't worry. She'll love it."

"Love what?"

As the silhouette of their father loomed over the hut, Neteyam glanced up, surprised by the unexpected visit. Jake stepped into the hut, parting the curtains to the side, and the warm light from the rising sun spilled into the room, casting a comforting glow over their faces.

"Father," Neteyam greeted with respect, setting aside the neckpiece.

"Neteyam," Jake replied warmly, his gaze holding a touch of concern that he didn't bother to conceal.

It was the morning before Neteyam was set to make the trek toward the peak with the other young members of the clan.

Their purpose was clear: to prove their worth and earn their place as adults within the community. However, amidst the group, all eyes were particularly fixed on Neteyam. His journey carried an added weight – the burden of proving himself even more than his peers.

Observing the exchange, Lo'ak locked eyes with Jake, nodding in understanding. He knew what was coming – another heart-to-heart talk between father and son. It seemed like these talks were becoming more frequent lately, and Lo'ak found it tiresome to witness Neteyam's constant overthinking about his upcoming crowning ceremony.

It felt like just yesterday they were dumbass kids climbing trees and exploring the vibrant forest together. Now, with the looming responsibilities of adulthood and leadership, everything felt different.

"Lo'ak, why don't you give us a moment?" Jake suggested, giving his youngest son a knowing smile.

"Finally. Some peace," Lo'ak mumbled to himself, wandering away from the hut to give Neteyam and their father some privacy.

Inside the hut, Neteyam and Jake settled into an intimate silence. The curtains were shut tight but dim light filtered through the gaps in the woven walls, casting soft shadows on their faces, creating a serene atmosphere that encouraged open conversation.

"Things have been hard as of late, huh?" Jake began, his voice gentle and understanding. "Ikinimaya is in a few hours… How are you feeling about the climb?"

Neteyam shrugged, trying to put on a brave front. "Not much," he replied with a smile. "I think I'm more focused on what happens after."

Jake's nod was thoughtful, his eyes reflecting a deep understanding of the burden that came with leadership. He was no stranger to the weight of such a role, having borne it himself as Eywa's chosen one.

After the ceremony, if Neteyam were to complete the ascent, his crowning ceremony as chief would soon occur. Unlike the Omatikaya, where they usually held separate ceremonies for these milestones, the Iuva'ri followed a different tradition, crowning their chiefs on the same day of their coming of age.

It was a big change for Neteyam, but Jake had confidence in his son's ability to adapt and lead.

"I was just like you back then," Jake grinned, nudging Neteyam. "It's a big moment in your life, and the responsibilities that come with it can be overwhelming. But you've got this. You've grown into a strong and thoughtful man."

Neteyam smiled gratefully at his father's words. "Thanks, Dad," he said softly, feeling a sense of reassurance and comfort wash over him.

As Jake's eyes fell on the necklace in Neteyam's hand, his face softened, and a warm smile tugged at his lips. "Is that for her?" he asked, pointing to the beautifully woven piece.

Neteyam nodded nervously, his heart fluttering with a mix of excitement and uncertainty as he held out the carefully crafted gift.

"Yes. I made it," he replied, his voice carrying the timbre of pride mingled with a touch of vulnerability. "What do you think?"

Jake's weathered hands accepted the necklace from his son's outstretched hand, cradling it delicately in his palm. His fingers traced the intricate patterns, each movement a touch of appreciation for the meticulous work that had gone into it.

As the beads slid under his skin, memories of his own courting days resurfaced, painting his thoughts with the vibrant hues of nostalgia. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of longing for the time when he had first encountered Neytiri, their connection as profound and tender as the bond that was now flourishing between Neteyam and his own future mate.

"This is beautiful work," Jake remarked, genuinely impressed by the piece. "She'll love it."

The tension in Neteyam's shoulders eased at his father's genuine praise, a tide of relief sweeping through him.

"I'm glad you think so," he admitted. "I really want this to be special for her."

Jake's expression softened.

"Go on then," he encouraged. He leaned over to hand the necklace back to Neteyam. "She must be waiting for you, boy."

With a grateful smile, Neteyam pocketed the necklace and stood up.

He stepped out onto the balcony, the cool early morning air brushing against his skin. There, he found Lo'ak waiting for him, leaning against the side of the hut.

"What did Dad say?" Lo'ak asked, trying to act nonchalant, but his eyes betrayed his genuine interest. It was clear he was evesdropping but Neteyam decided against bringing it up.

"He thinks she'll love it," Neteyam answered, a hint of relief and satisfaction coloring his words.

Lo'ak rolled his eyes playfully, though a glint of affection was unmistakable in his expression. "Well, then you better not keep her waiting."

Neteyam chuckled, grateful for his support. "I won't. Thanks, baby brother."

With that, Neteyam began his journey to your hut, his heart alternating between racing with anticipation and fluttering with nerves.

The familiar sounds of the mountain village greeted him as he stepped outside—the rustling leaves carried by the breeze, hushed conversations from nearby huts, and the distant chirps of the valley's creatures. It was a soothing symphony that accompanied his walk.

Following a rocky path, he caught sight of the warmth spilling from the oil lamps within your hut. The soft light painted inviting shadows on the walls, offering a sense of comfort.

Taking a moment to collect himself, Neteyam breathed deeply, letting the crisp air anchor him before he entered the hut.

And there you were, seated beside a small stove fire. The joy that lit up your eyes upon seeing him immediately melted away some of his apprehension.

You sat gracefully on a cushion woven from palm threads, encircled by bowls of luminescent paint, each brimming with vibrant hues.

"Ma'Teteyam," you greeted with a soft smile, setting aside the bowl of paint in your hands. "I had hoped you would come soon."

He approached you with a hum, feeling a delightful warmth spread through his chest at the sight of you.

"I wouldn't keep you waiting," he replied, trying to keep his voice steady despite the emotions swirling within him.

As you gestured for him to come closer, Neteyam sat down in front of you, feeling the space between you diminish as you scooted over. You dipped your fingers into one of the polished wooden bowls, and with a tender grace, you began painting delicate patterns on his skin.

Neteyam watched your every move, his breath hitching as your fingertips traced over his flexed muscles. It felt as though he was not just preparing for a ceremony but for a new chapter in his life.

The Na'vi closed his eyes briefly, allowing himself to savor the warmth of your touch as you worked on him. The feeling of your fingers on his skin was both intimate and comforting, a silent reassurance that you were by his side, supporting him every step of the way.

His thoughts were momentarily interrupted by your soft voice, breaking the silence that enveloped the hut.

"You have put so much effort to prepare for this day," you said, your eyes locked on his face, "it is an honor to be a part of it."

He opened his eyes, meeting your gaze with sincerity. "I couldn't imagine sharing this moment with anyone else but you," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

The painting continued, each stroke of your fingers bringing you closer together, both physically and emotionally. Neteyam found himself mesmerized by your focus, the way you seemed to pour your heart and soul into every delicate detail.

Finally, you finished, and Neteyam admired the beautiful patterns adorning his skin. Your eyes locked again, and the moment hung in the air, heavy with emotion and anticipation. The crackling of the fire and the dancing shadows around you seemed to amplify the intimacy of this shared experience.

As the warmth of the stove fire illuminated your faces, Neteyam leaned in slowly. The world around you seemed to fade away as your lips met in a tender and passionate kiss.

As you parted, Neteyam whispered, "Nga yawne lu oer."

A wide smile spread across your face, and you replied, "Nga yawne lu oer.

Humming, Neteyam's arms wrapped around you, holding you close. With you in his embrace, he felt complete, and the weight of his future responsibilities seemed to lift, replaced by a deep sense of purpose and belonging.

The soft crackling of the fire filled the hut with a warm and comforting ambiance, lulling both of you into a comfortable silence. As the flames danced, casting flickering shadows on the woven walls, Neteyam's eyes never left yours, captivated by the tenderness not normally seen in them.

Your fingers traced gentle patterns on his painted cheek, and the affection in your smile made his heart jump with joy.

"I have something for you," you whispered, beginning to draw away from him.

Neteyam reluctantly released his embrace, but his hand lingered on your waist. You chuckled playfully, gently slapping his forearms, urging him to let go.

"I will not be far," you assured him, your eyes locking onto his with affection.

Reluctantly, Neteyam let you go, allowing you the space to retrieve your surprise. You moved towards the cabinets, and he watched with curiosity, wondering what you had in store for him. When you emerged with a fur coat and an axe in hand, his eyebrows raised in intrigue.

"These will help you with your ascent later," you explained.

With a swift movement, you draped the soft fur coat over Neteyam's shoulders, and he immediately felt the warmth of the fabric enveloping him.

The axe you handed him was a well-crafted tool, sturdy and reliable. Its wooden handle fit perfectly in his grip, and the weight was balanced. The crystal blade on it was a striking sight, capturing the firelight and reflecting it back in dazzling purple hues.

"Thank you," he smiled gratefully, his heart brimming with appreciation for your thoughtful gifts. He couldn't help but lean in to press another tender kiss on your forehead.

Nodding at him, you both stood up, your hands guiding him out of the hut. The soft light of the rising sun bathed the mountain village in a gentle glow as you walked together.

"Come," you smile. "The people are waiting."

When a person prepares to become one with your people, experiencing their rebirth, the clan initiates a ceremony. The warriors, adorned with vibrant paint, assemble before the Tsahìk as she prepares them for the ascent.

This final trial, the crucible determining their standing among the Iuva'ri, was a journey. A journey deep into the enigmatic Clouded Peak, a desolate expanse shrouded in snow with perils lurking in every corner.

Victory in this ascent signifies your second birth. Following this achievement, the clan engages in a celebration featuring dance, feasting, and storytelling—a tapestry that weaves bonds. These bonds intertwine them with the people.

This unity is then dedicated to Eywa. It is in that sacred space where a lifelong position among the people is earned, an indelible bond forged forever.

"Tìng mikyun ayoe rutxe nawma ma sa'nok."

As Tsahìk, you stand tall, hosting the sacred coming of age ceremony — The Ascent.

Before you, a line of tall, rugged young men and women stand. Each one carries their own axes and spears, protection for the challenges that lie ahead. Heavy coats rest upon their shoulders, ready to protect them from the biting winds of the ascent.

The presence of Eywa, the Great Mother, is strong and felt in every aspect of the ceremony, infusing the spirits of the young warriors with her guidance. Above, the sky hangs dark and heavy, the wind's mournful song echoing through the trees, creating an aura of solemnity. Illuminating the scene are tall torches lodged in the dirt, casting their flickering glow upon the sacred space.

Just behind you stand the families of the participants, emotions ranging from pride to worry visible as they bear witness to this pivotal moment.

With a solemn grace, you bestow your blessings upon each warrior, marking their foreheads with your painted hand, chanting sacred words as you invoke the great mother's protection and guidance.

"May the Great Mother be with you," you utter. A female warrior before you nods in acknowledgment, her face adorned with a respectful smile.

Moving through the line, you came to Tserat, his face shadowed by conflicting emotions. Unfazed by his glower, you placed your hand upon his chest, offering the same sacred blessing as you did for the others.

"May the Great Mother be with you," you repeated, watching carefully as the red paint stained on his chest. Tserat's head tilted slightly in a small nod, acknowledging the gesture, but his guarded expression remained.

Then, it was Neteyam's turn. As you approached him, your previously stern expression transformed into a genuine, warm smile. The fur coat you had lovingly bestowed upon him was draped over his broad shoulders making his figure appear larger and more imposing. The axe, with its striking purple blade, hung at his side.

As you bestowed your blessing upon him, his hand gently brushed against yours in a fleeting touch, a wordless reassurance passing between you.

"May the Great Mother be with you," you repeated once more. The smile you offered held layers of affection and respect. Neteyam nodded as he felt the warmth of your touch seeping into his very being, strengthening him for the path ahead.

"And to you," he replied, his voice soft.

With the blessings bestowed upon all the warriors, you stepped back and your mother took over. As they followed after her command, the warriors set forth into the mountain, spirits aflame with determination.

Neteyam turned back to you, his eyes locking onto yours once more. Then, with a final nod, he turned away to join the others, his figure blending into the shadows cast by the towering trees. As the last traces of the young warriors disappeared from view, you took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle upon your shoulders.

The village around you was filled with hushed voices and a sense of anticipation, knowing that the destiny of the clan was now in the hands of the brave souls who set forth into the unknown.

"Hold strong, brothers and sisters!"

The peaks of the snowy mountains were a world unto themselves. As the young warriors ascended, they found themselves in a landscape that commanded and tested their physical and mental resilience.

The air, thin and brittle, clawed at their lungs with every inhale, as if the very atmosphere was challenging their presence. The winds, like invisible daggers, sliced through their heavy coats, piercing to the core with their frosty bite. The gusts carried echoes of warnings whispered by the mountains themselves.

The snowy terrain, draped in a pristine white cloak, was a deceptive tapestry of danger. Icy patches lay in ambush, waiting to send even the most seasoned warriors sliding down the steep slopes. The snow, once a soft and powdery expanse, became a battleground as it clung to their legs like quicksand, each step an arduous struggle against the weight of the drifts.

Throughout the ascent, towering rock formations rose like sentinels, casting eerie silhouettes against the darkening sky. Above them, dark and ominous clouds loomed, casting a shadow over the landscape. Visibility was limited, with the peaks shrouded in a thick veil of mist and fog, making it challenging to navigate and discern the safest path.

The ascent was grueling, and Neteyam found himself exerting every ounce of strength to overcome the challenges of the harsh terrain. He trudged forward, his breath visible in the frigid air, while the weight of his heavy coat provided some respite from the biting cold.

Despite the difficulties, Neteyam proved himself to be a skilled and determined climber. He navigated the icy slopes with skill, making steady progress as he ascended higher and higher.

However, even the most skilled climbers could falter in the face of such challenging terrain. It happened in the blink of an eye — a misstep, a patch of ice, and Neteyam's balance was compromised. His foothold gave way, and he found himself sliding down the slope, the cold snow and sharp ice clawing at his skin.

In the midst of his unexpected descent, a frustrated curse escaped his lips. "Fuck."

Tserat, never one to miss an opportunity to taunt him, couldn't help but let out a chuckle at Neteyam's misfortune.

"Forest boy!" Tserat's grin was wide, his amusement evident. "Careful or else you meet Eywa first before you reach the top!"

His comment was met with the amused laughter of some of the other warriors. Shaking his head with a smirk, Tserat turned to the rest of the group, speaking in the Iuvarian dialect, "Did you see that skxawng? He has two left feet."

Neteyam's pride stung, but he quickly composed himself. He shrugged off the snow clinging to his coat, his grip firm on his axe. With a grunt, he steadied himself, using the axe as an anchor to regain his foothold on the treacherous slope.

Finally, Neteyam found his balance and stood straight again. His shadowed eyes met Tserat's with an intensity as if he was silently daring Tserat to push him any further.

Tserat snorted dismissively at the unspoken challenge, opting to avoid further provocation. He turned his attention ahead, recommencing his climb in a brooding silence.

Then, in an abrupt upheaval of the tranquil surroundings, the ear-splitting roar of a formidable beast tore through the air. It emerged from the shadows, its massive form nearly matching the trees that lined the mountain slope, and its powerful muscles rippled beneath its thick, coarse fur.

"It's a Nix'feli!" one of the warriors roared out.

The beast's eyes were a piercing shade of amber, burning with an intense primal fury. Its fur, as white as the snow around it, was mottled with dark patterns, reminiscent of ancient tribal markings. Razor-sharp claws, capable of rending through flesh and bone, extended menacingly from its massive paws. A long, sinuous tail swished through the air, leaving deep impressions in the snow with each movement.

The warriors roared out battle cries as they tightened their grips on their weapons, readying themselves. Each one sought a strategic position, spreading out to encircle the formidable creature. However, unlike the other warriors whose moonlit skin offered them some natural camouflage against the snowy backdrop, Neteyam's dark indigo skin stood out vividly, drawing the beast's attention to him.

With a fearsome roar, the feline launched itself at Neteyam, claws extended, aiming directly at him. The world around him blurred as his instincts took over, and with a graceful leap, he evaded the deadly strike. The beast's claws scraped the air where he had stood just moments before, and the force of its attack sent snow flying in all directions.

"Wiya!" Snarling, Tserat managed to loop a thick rope around the feline's neck, anchoring himself in the snow as he strained to halt the beast's ferocious advance.

Several feet away, Neteyam landed with a heavy thud, scraping against the rocks, but swiftly regained his footing. The axe you had gifted him remained firmly in his hand, but he knew he needed a weapon better suited for this confrontation. With a quick decision, he released his grip on the axe and reached for his bow slung over his shoulders. He felt its reassuring weight in his hand as he notched an arrow and focused his gaze on the beast.

With measured intent, he released the arrow, it's trajectory a deadly precision. The arrow found its mark, embedding itself in the beast's eye, igniting a resonant roar of torment that resounded throughout the mountains.

"Another!" Tserat's grip on the rope grew ironclad, utilizing every ounce of his strength to restrain the writhing feline.

"Hold him steady!" Neteyam hissed, preparing for a second shot.

With another swift release, he unleashed another arrow into the frigid air. The arrow struck deep into the beast's flesh, piercing the creature's lungs.

With a final roar, the Nix'feli succumbed to the wounds it had sustained, collapsing onto the pristine snow. Its once-white coat was now marred by streaks of crimson, a contrast that painted the snowy canvas in vivid shades of red.

The young warriors erupted into cheers, hailing Neteyam's clean kill. They hyped him up with enthusiastic shouts and claps on his back, celebrating the triumph over the formidable feline.

Amidst the cheering, Neteyam's gaze locked with Tserat's once more. The Na'vi was rubbing his rope burned palms, blue skin bruising into a deep purple. Tserat stayed silent for a while, his pride momentarily giving way to a begrudging acknowledgment of Neteyam's abilities.

"Finish him off," Tserat ordered, throwing his rope back into his satchel.

Neteyam nodded in understanding, his heart still pounding with the adrenaline of the encounter. He trudged towards the beast, his blade gripped firmly in his hand. He then knelt beside the fallen creature, whispering words of prayer and gratitude for the life that had been taken.

With a final act of mercy, Neteyam raised his blade and delivered a swift, precise strike to the beast's heart. As the blade pierced through, ending the creature's suffering, a sense of peace seemed to settle upon the snowy mountainside. The once-ferocious feline let out one last exhale, and its fierce amber eyes softened in the moment of passing.

Suddenly, a hand reached out, and Neteyam looked up to see Tserat standing beside him.

"Get up," Tserat murmured gruffly, his voice carrying a strange blend of annoyance and something deeper beneath the surface. "We still have to complete the ascent."

Neteyam nodded and quickly rose to his feet, not at all surprised by the mix of emotions that Tserat's demeanor reflected. He stooped to retrieve his discarded axe, giving it a quick shake to dislodge the clinging snow.

As Neteyam continued his ascent, his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. The triumph over the beast had been a demonstration of his skills, but it had also brought into focus the responsibilities he was about to embrace. The mantle of leadership was within his grasp, and he couldn't afford to falter.

Hours seemed to pass as they climbed higher, each step bringing them closer to their destination. The world around them became a blend of white and gray, the sky merging with the snowy landscape as they ascended into the clouds.

Finally, as the sun began its descent, casting a warm golden hue across the icy expanse, they reached the peak. A sense of awe and accomplishment washed over them as they gazed out at the breathtaking beauty before them.

Tserat's demeanor softened, his gaze capturing the ethereal view. With a slight nod, he turned to Neteyam, and in his eyes, a begrudging respect simmered.

"You did well, golden boy," Tserat admitted, his voice carrying a surprising sincerity as he crossed his arms.

Neteyam's smile radiated a sense of fulfillment. "You held your own too," he replied, a shared understanding bridging the gap between them, if only for a fleeting moment.

Once the weary but triumphant warriors returned to the village, families surged forward to welcome back their sons and daughters, now transformed into full-fledged adults of the clan. Amidst this sea of emotions, Neteyam found himself engulfed in the warm embrace of his family. Their pride and love encircled him, forming a cocoon of unwavering support.

However, he couldn't resist the pull to find you, the one who had been his pillar of support throughout his journey.

Amidst the collective embrace of the village, your figure stood tall. Your eyes, adorned with a glint of pride and affection, were fixed upon him.

A triumphant grin stretched on his lips as he closed the gap between you, his bright golden eyes locking onto yours.

"Sweet girl," his words brushed against your skin in a tender whisper as gentle kiss was planted on your forehead. The touch of his lips sent warmth spreading through your cheeks, and you reciprocated the gesture by pressing a peck to his cheek, the coolness of his skin still clinging from the snowy heights they had scaled.

"You did it, my mighty warrior," your voice held a note of sincere admiration, your hand reaching up to graze the rugged terrain of his jawline. He leaned into your touch, savoring the intimate connection between you amidst the surrounding crowd.

As the celebratory atmosphere gradually settled, your mother, called for all to gather. Neteyam was led to the forefront, his broad shoulders clasped by the palms of her wrinkled hands as she presented him to the entire clan.

"Neteyam Te Sulli Tsyey’ite, son of Toruk Makto, has completed the ascent! He has proven himself in our ways and is now fit to hold the position of Olo'eyktan!"

The announcement was met with thunderous applause and pride from the entire clan. But as Ìumayi's eyes swept over the crowd, they locked onto a particular pair. She caught sight of Tserat, who stood tall and proud among the assembled warriors.

Their gazes lingered for a moment before Ìumayi looked away, making it clear that the challenge for the throne had been expected. She gracefully slipped the fur coat off of Neteyam's shoulders and held it up for all to see.

"I now offer a chance at the throne! If anyone wishes to challenge him, step up!"

For a moment, the air seemed tense, silence falling over the crowd. Then, without a word, the people parted, and a figure stepped forward. It was no surprise to see Tserat stepping into the circle, signature scowl etched into his face.

Ìumayi nodded solemnly, acknowledging the challenge, and Tserat removed his coat, brandishing his blade with confidence. Neteyam, too, unsheathed his weapon.

"Tserat Te Ser'oa Aketo'itan has challenged Neteyam Te Sulli Tsyey’ite for the throne!" Ìumayi announced, her voice carrying authority as she gestured for the crowd to form a bigger circle around the two warriors.

Both Neteyam and Tserat locked eyes, their gazes dark and intense as they approached each other. Neteyam's expression was a portrait of unwavering composure, his eyes never straying from the piercing milky depths of Tserat's gaze. There was a quiet confidence about him.

On the other side, Tserat's lips curved into a grim frown.

His emotions were a storm—respect, undoubtedly, for the great warrior that Neteyam was. But beneath that, an undercurrent of uncertainty swirled like a glint of moonlight caught on the surface of a turbulent sea.

The recent display of Neteyam's strength had commanded his respect, but leadership was a different realm, a realm where hunting prowess, while significant, was just one facet of the mosaic of qualities required. Whether the forest dweller's completion of Ikinimaya made him fit enough to lead their people, was a question that churned in Tserat's mind like a tempest.

The challenge had been thrown, the time for words had faded—only actions remained to define their outcome.

Ìumayi raised her hand, and with a firm voice, she declared, "Begin!"

With a fierce battle cry, Tserat charged at Neteyam, his movements fluid and controlled. He swung his blade in a deadly arc, aiming for Neteyam's midsection. But the Omatikayan was agile and skilled, effortlessly sidestepping the attack.

As Tserat's blade sailed past, Neteyam countered with a swift jab of his own, aimed at Tserat's exposed side.

The sound of metal clashing echoed through the gathering as Tserat managed to block Neteyam's blow just in time. The crowd gasped, watching the intensity of the duel unfold before their eyes.

The clash of their weapons resonated like a symphony of steel meeting steel, each strike executed with unwavering precision and met with a fierce parry.

In the midst of this battle, Tserat's calculated maneuvers began to yield results. With a swift and precise strike, his blade found its mark on Neteyam's side, the sharp point penetrating deep into azure skin.

A searing pain tore through Neteyam's body, eliciting a wince that he fought to suppress. Rivulets of blood flowed down his side, staining the grass beneath him. Tserat's triumphant laughter filled the air as he twisted the knife, eliciting a hiss of pain through Neteyam's gritted teeth.

A knee to Neteyam's abdomen sent him stumbling, his foot catching on an uneven rock. The world seemed to warp and waver as he slid to the ground, the impact jarring his senses and amplifying the pain radiating from his wounded side. Dazed and disoriented for a heartbeat, Neteyam fought to regain his footing, his chest heaving with the effort.

"Get up!" Tserat hissed.

Jaw clenched tight, Neteyam summoned every last ounce of strength, his fingers curling around Tserat's blade. A grimace of pain etched onto his features as he yanked the weapon free from his own flesh.

"Come at me," Neteyam snarled, swiftly getting back to his feet. The blade spun in his free hand before he tossed it. It skittered across the ground and out of the circle, which now left Tserat disarmed.

Unfazed, Tserat moved to tackle him once more, bringing them crashing to the ground with a resounding thud that echoed through the expanse of the circle. The impact jarred both warriors, their bodies absorbing the shock as they grappled on the ground.

Amidst the struggle, Tserat seized the opportunity to deliver a series of powerful blows to Neteyam's face. Each strike landed with force, leaving Neteyam momentarily disoriented.

"Neteyam!" Your voice rang out, an anguished cry of worry cutting through the air as your tail lashed anxiously by your feet. You were poised to rush in, to throw yourself into the fray and intervene in his defense. But before you could act upon your instinct, your mother's firm grip on your arm halted your movements.

A mixture of shock and frustration crossed your features, your eyes widening in protest as you hissed at her.

"Mother—" you protested urgently, your voice edged with a mixture of fear and anger. "This is not a battle anymore! Tserat is turning it into an execution!"

"Let them be," she commanded, her tone unyielding as she met your gaze with a steady and unwavering stare. "This is our way. You cannot intervene."

A low, anguished whimper escaped your lips, a mixture of helplessness and frustration welling up inside you.

Tserat's triumphant sneer was a bitter sight to behold as he seized Neteyam's kuru, lifting him effortlessly from the ground. A kick sent Neteyam's own blade skittering away, leaving him defenseless and exposed to the mercy of his opponent.

The scene was agonizing, a twisting knot of emotions in the pit of your stomach.

"Where is your Olo'eyktan now?" Tserat's jeer echoed in the air, the words heavy with contempt. "This is no chief! Just a misplaced boy! Not fit to lead!"

Yet, Neteyam refused to give up so quickly. He kicked at Tserat's shins, causing the man to fall with a shout of surprise. With Tserat momentarily off balance, Neteyam seized the opportunity, his muscles coiling with determination. He locked Tserat in a chokehold, the strain evident in the tight set of his jaw and the flex of his arms as he pressed his forearm against Tserat's windpipe, causing the man to wheeze and struggle.

The battle raged on, their grunts and cries mixing with the roars of the crowd. The cheers and shouts seemed distant as Neteyam focused solely on the man on top of him. He could already feel Tserat's resistance waning.

“Yield,” Neteyam hissed, the veins on his arms bulging as his muscles strained with the effort, grip unyielding. "You are a mighty warrior! The people need you! Your people need you!"

Tserat hesitated, his breaths shallow and labored. The weight of his choices bore down on him, and in that moment, he saw the truth in Neteyam's words.

Slowly, Tserat's resistance wavered, his strength slipping through his fingers like sand. With a feeble tap against Neteyam's arm, he signaled his surrender, submitting to the man.

The cheers of the crowd echoed around them, celebrating their new leader, their new Olo'eyktan. As celebration filled the air, Ìumayi stepped forward to separate the two warriors, signaling the end of the intense duel.

With a low whine, Neteyam managed to get back on his feet, his body still tense with the pain from the wound in his side. He grimaced, feeling the warmth of his own blood seeping through his fingers as he held onto the injured area.

Drawing in heavy breaths, he directed his gaze downward, locking eyes with Tserat for a fleeting moment. Amidst the lingering animosity that had once defined their relationship, a flicker of understanding seemed to pass between them. It was a silent, unspoken acknowledgment of the strength they had both exhibited in this grueling battle.

"You fought well," Neteyam murmured. He extended his hand, a gesture of goodwill meant to bridge the divide between them.

"I know," Tserat scoffed, his pride not entirely diminished by the outcome. His hand slapped Neteyam's aside dismissively, his emotions still raw from the defeat. With a final glance back, he turned away, retreating into the crowd, his head bowed low in an attempt to save face.

Before Neteyam could take a step toward Tserat, a strong yet gentle grip on his side halted him. You were at his side in an instant, your gaze filled with concern as you carefully assessed his injuries. Your hands probed cautiously at the wound on his side, your touch gentle yet deliberate.

The sight before you made your heart clench — a deep gash on his side, his face marred by bruises and smeared with blood. His rugged appearance was in stark contrast to the tender expression in his eyes as he looked down at you.

All of a sudden, the adrenaline that had fueled the battle was now beginning to wane, replaced by the harsh reality of pain. Neteyam's groan cut through the air, his body doubling over in response to the searing ache that pulsed from his injuries.

"Oh, yawne," you murmured softly, your voice laced with concern and care. You moved closer, wrapping an arm around his waist to support him. Your touch was soothing, a balm for the pain he endured. "Come, let us go to our hut."

"Syulang," Neteyam murmured, his brow furrowing as he glanced at you with a touch of worry. His tongue darted out to swipe at the blood on his cut lip, his focus shifting between you and the path ahead. His voice held a note of uncertainty. "But what about the crowning ceremony? Your mother emphasized its importance. A lot."

Your mother and Neteyam's parents approached at that moment. Ìumayi acknowledged his comment with a nod, affirming the tradition.

"Yes. The crowning ceremony must proceed immediately after the ascent," she acknowledged, her gaze dropping to the visible injuries on Neteyam's form. "He will bear his wounds for the time being."

"My son cannot—" Neytiri began, intending to express her concern for his injured form, but you quickly interjected, not willing to let the ceremony take precedence over his well-being.

"I will not let him go through with the ceremony while he is bleeding out," you hissed, your determination clear in your voice and stance. Ears pinned back in frustration, you held your ground. "The traditions will have to be set aside. My mate comes first."

Neytiri regarded you with a surprised look, her gaze lingering on you in newfound admiration. She soon broke into a warm smile, her approval evident. In contrast, your mother seemed on the brink of an argument.

"It is his duty. The people are waiting," she hissed, gesturing to the crowd behind her.

You looked back, noticing that the people had already begun to disperse, making their way to the ceremony site in anticipation of witnessing the ascension of their new Olo'eyktan. And yet, your focus remained unswerving, your thoughts centered solely on Neteyam's well-being.

The idea of him undergoing the ascension ceremony while in his current state was unthinkable to you, and you were resolute in your determination to prioritize him above all else.

"This is a matter for the Tsahìk," you asserted, tail whipping by your feet in anger. "I will not have you ask me of this!"

With a final huff, you turned, guiding Neteyam gently back towards your healing hut.

The elderly woman let out an exasperated hiss, her fingers gripping at her own hair in a mixture of disbelief and frustration. "Great Mother, that girl wants to drive me to an early grave."

Frustration evident in her demeanor, your mother marched away. In the midst of this back-and-forth, both Jake and Neytiri observed closely, trusting your instincts and expertise as you led their son toward your hut.

"Eywa has chosen well for Neteyam," Neytiri spoke up, breaking the silence and drawing the attention of her family. With a playful grin, she gestured towards you. "I like her. She is a feisty one."

As you entered the seclusion of your hut, a sense of tranquility settled over you both. You gently helped Neteyam settle onto a soft fur-covered mat, supporting his back against a pile of cushions. His golden eyes locked onto yours, filled with gratitude and affection for your unwavering care.

"It's better you rest, yawne," you said, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead. "The ceremony can wait. Your well-being is my priority right now."

Neteyam nodded, his hand reaching out to grasp yours, intertwining your fingers. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice hoarse from the battle and the strain of the day's events. "I don't know what I would do without you."

You simply smile and begin to tend to his wound, applying cooling salves and bandages, your gentle touch easing his pain.

The soothing motions of your touch have a profound effect on Neteyam. As the pain begins to lighten, he feels himself drifting into a drowsy state, his body and mind succumbing to much-needed rest. The tension and adrenaline from the battle slowly melt away, replaced by a sense of peace in your presence.

His eyes flutter closed as he leans into your care, finding solace in the knowledge that you are there, looking after him. With each soft touch, he feels the weight of the day's events dissipate, and the warm embrace of your love envelops him like a protective cocoon.

The sounds of the outside world fade away, leaving only the quiet hush of the healing hut. The scent of medicinal herbs and the familiar earthy aroma of the forest soothe his senses and he falls into a deep sleep.

Time seemed to pass in a dream-like haze, and as Neteyam finally awoke, he felt renewed and invigorated. The pain from his wound had significantly subsided, thanks to your skilled touch.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of amber and violet, the moment for the crowning ceremony had arrived. The air was filled with anticipation and excitement as the Na'vi people gathered at the heart of their sacred spirit tree, where the presence of Eywa was strongest. The rhythmic beat of the drums echoed in harmony with the chants of the crowd.

Neteyam, now adorned in ceremonial attire, walked down the path toward the center of the gathering, the cheers of the people and the resonating drums echoing the rhythm of his heart.

He wore a tunic crafted from soft, supple leather, dyed in earthy tones that blended harmoniously with the surrounding forest. Draped across his chest and shoulders was a fur garment, a poignant reminder of his triumph over the fearsome Nix'feli he had vanquished during his rite of passage. Along its edges, two imposing fangs from the vanquished creature were displayed

As he reached the center of the gathering, where you and Ìumayi awaited, Neteyam knelt before you both, a gesture of respect and reverence for his beloved and his mother. Your eyes gleamed with love and admiration as you gently clasped a necklace over his collarbone, a cherished heirloom that had been passed down through generations of leaders.

Ìumayi, her previous ire now gone, regarded him with a warm and proud smile. Stepping forward gracefully, she lifted her headpiece from her forehead and carefully positioned it upon his head. It was a poignant symbol of the legacy she was entrusting to him, signifying the passing down of her mantle as Olo'eyktan.

"My son," she spoke with a voice of wisdom and love, "You are one of us now. You are to lead the people now."

Neteyam met her gaze, his expression one of deep gratitude and determination. He bowed his head in acknowledgment, accepting the mantle of leadership with humility and determination. As Ìumayi turned back to the crowd, her voice carried through the beats of the drums and the chants of the Na'vi, resonating with authority and pride.

"Come! Let us celebrate!" she declared, her smile infectious, and the gathered Na'vi erupted into joyous cheers, their voices united in celebration of their new chief and the hope for a bright and harmonious future under his leadership.

The celebration was in full swing, with the Na'vi people dancing around the campfire, their bodies swaying in perfect harmony with the rhythmic beats of the music that filled the air. Laughter and joy echoed through the night, as stories of bravery and triumph were shared among the warriors. Neteyam, still adorned in his ceremonial attire, found himself at the center of attention.

"The Nix'feli was like nothing I've seen before," Neteyam recounts as he gestures to the bow slung over his shoulder. "But in the end, it was struck down. AlI from two arrows."

The warriors gathered around him, whistling and poking at the bow in admiration, grinning proudly at their new chief. But amidst the festivities, murmurs spread through the group as Tserat approached, carrying a drink in hand. His gaze was dark, and the tension between him and Neteyam was palpable.

With a mischievous glint in his eye, Tserat challenged Neteyam to drink. The crowd looked on eagerly, curious to see how their new chief would respond. Neteyam accepted the challenge and took a hearty swig from the cup, eliciting cheers from the gathered warriors.

Tserat, never one to back down from a challenge, also took a swig from the woven cup, the firelight casting a flickering glow on his face as he did so.

As the night wore on, their conversation took an unexpected turn, veering into a somewhat playful banter between Tserat and Neteyam.

"You know," Tserat slurred, his speech slightly affected by the drinks, "I was almost certain your stubbornness would have gotten you killed during the first trial." He raised his cup to his lips for another gulp, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Neteyam, his senses already dulled by the effect of the potent brew, swayed slightly on the log he was perched upon, managing to maintain his balance only with considerable effort. His response came out in a slurred drawl, eliciting laughter from the men who had gathered around.

"I don't give up easily," he mumbled, a playful smile curving his lips.

In the midst of the good-natured conversation, Neteyam's alcohol-fogged mind seemed to pause, a serious thought managing to cut through the haze. "I have a question," he murmured, his ears twitching as he leaned in slightly.

Tserat leaned forward on the log they shared, the wood creaking softly beneath his weight. His pale eyes bore into Neteyam's expectant ones. "Ask away."

Neteyam took a deep breath, the fogginess in his mind clearing momentarily as he focused.

"In the rite, you ran a knife through my flesh," he spoke in a hushed tone, his words carrying a somber weight. "I, in turn, humiliated you in front of the clan. I took your place. And yet, looking at your eyes now… there's no hatred. Why? Why don't you hate me?"

Tserat's initial response was almost dismissive. He scoffed, tossing his woven cup to the ground, the liquid within spilling onto the dirt.

"Tsk! I did hate you," Tserat admitted, going into a tirade. "I hated you when you entered my village and demanded uturu. I hated you when you took away my position. I felt the sting of rejection, so I acted on those emotions of hatred and look where it led."

Tserat gestured towards the bandages on Neteyam's side, a low laugh rumbling in his chest.

"That is payback," he smirked.

Neteyam, however, wasn't satisfied with this answer. His brows furrowed in confusion as he shook his head. "No, I understand those feelings well. What I mean is—during the battle ritual. When I told you to yield, you did so, and at the end, there was a different look in your eyes."

Tserat's expression shifted, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Yes," he finally responded after a long pause, his fingers drumming on the log's surface.

"And after the battle?" Neteyam pressed, his curiosity unyielding.

Tserat's nostrils flared slightly, his expression caught between annoyance and contemplation.

Wiya... This man. "No. I did not hate you then. I had just thought I was content to have lost to an equal," he replied, a trace of begrudging respect in his tone.

"Content to lose to an equal?" Neteyam repeated, his voice tinged with amusement. "Why me? How did you know I was an equal?"

Tserat laughed heartily, throwing his head back. He then leaned forward to grab a wrap of meat, fangs biting down on it’s leaf covering. "I know you," he said between bites, his demeanor oddly introspective.

Neteyam, still perplexed, shook his head slightly. "There is much you don't know about me. We've barely exchanged words."

“Ah. Words do not reveal much,” Tserat scoffs, leaning back as he pointed two fingers at his milky eyes.

“It’s all in the eyes. They never lie. I saw it in your gaze… One similar to mine," he mused, his fingers reaching out to clasp around Neteyam's shoulder, his gaze unflinching. "I saw you, brother."

A genuine smile tugged at Neteyam's lips, and he reciprocated the gesture by patting Tserat's back. "And I see you.”

Tserat leaned back with a smirk, scarfing down his wrap of meat.

"It's a pity," the man continued, a wistful undertone in his voice. "I could have been a remarkable Olo'eyktan."

Amused by the sentiment, Neteyam chuckled softly, his gaze momentarily distant as he imagined the alternative path that they might have walked. The atmosphere lightened, and Tserat seized the opportunity to grab another drink, the fleeting melancholy replaced by the camaraderie of their exchange.

Noticing the absence of Tsahìk, Tserat's curiosity was stirred. He leaned closer to Neteyam, his shoulders nudging his companion with a teasing grin.

"Where is your mate?" he prodded, his tone playfully taunting. "Leaving her all alone on the day of your ceremony? If I were you, we would be deep in Vitraya Ramunong right now!" he chuckled, earning hollers and laughter from the men around them.

"Do not talk about her like that," Neteyam hissed, shoving at Tserat's shoulder, his protective instincts flaring up.

Undeterred by Neteyam's reaction, Tserat merely raised his brows.

"So, what's the story?" he inquired, his grin unrelenting. "Why aren’t you stuck to her side like a fwampop today?”

A sigh slipped past Neteyam's lips, his gaze momentarily distant as he considered the complexities of the situation. "My sisters have taken her away," he eventually revealed.

Tserat's intrigue was far from satisfied. His brows remained raised, his curiosity persistent. "Why?" he pressed, the question hanging in the air, fueled by genuine interest.

Neteyam's shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug, his expression taking on a somewhat guarded quality. He took a sip of his drink, its bittersweet taste momentarily distracting him.

"Omatikayan matters," he replied, the words an attempt to deflect further probing.

In front of the warmth of the Sully's hut, you felt a mix of excitement and nervousness as Kiri and Tuk prepared you for the upcoming meeting with Neteyam. Kiri's hands were deftly braiding your hair into a classic Omatikayan style, and you couldn't help but pick at one of the braids out of curiosity.

"Interesting," you murmured, examining the beads she threaded into the braid. "Is this how your people did it back home?"

"Yes," Kiri beamed, her hands deftly working on another braid. "It's a classic hairstyle worn by Tsahìk back home. You look stunning with this style."

Her smile turned mischievous as she leaned in to whisper in your ear, dishevelled inky hair falling over her shoulders. "Neteyam will love it."

A bashful smile crept onto your face, and you couldn't help but hide your reddening cheeks with your palm. Kiri's teasing only added to your excitement for the upcoming celebration.

Just then, Tuk barged in with a bunch of woven tops in her arms. You examined the clothes with curiosity, noting how different they were from your usual attire. The tops were loose-fitting and incorporated more elements of the forest, in perfect harmony with the forest people's culture.

Kiri gasped as she noticed one of the tops in Tuk's hands. "Tuk!" she hissed, holding up a dainty lilac top. "This isn't mine! It's mother's!"

Tuk simply sighed, not too concerned about the mix-up. The young girl yanked the top out of her sister's hands and held the it up to your chest, almost as if she were envisioning how it would look on you.

"But she looks so good in it!" Tuk whined, pouting her lips.

You chuckled and gently took the lilac top away from her grabby hands. "It is pretty, but I am not too sure your mother would appreciate if I wore her clothes without permission," you said as you began to fold the woven top back up.

"I would not mind," Neytiri's voice suddenly filled the tent, and you all went quiet, turning to greet the woman.

"Neytiri," you spoke, pressing your fingers to your forehead and stretching it out in a gesture of respect. "I see you."

Neytiri nodded in acknowledgment and gently ushered Kiri away, taking her position in front of you. Her hands delicately held the woven top as she assessed it's appearance. The shift in atmosphere was palpable, and you couldn't help but sense an undercurrent of unspoken thoughts between you two.

The garment in Neytiri's hands, a woven top made of delicate lilac tendrils, was glittered with the shimmer of intricately woven gems. The weaving was intricate, elegant, and er... it left little to the imagination.

Neytiri's eyes appraised the woven creation, her fingers brushing over the patterns as if tracing memories. Her thoughts were a mystery, her feelings hidden beneath a veil of composure. These months of silent interactions had cast shadows of uncertainty, and you couldn't help but wonder how she truly felt about you marrying her son.

"This will look beautiful on you," Neytiri smiled warmly, seemingly approving of your choice. "Come and put it on. I wore this on my mating ceremony too."

With Kiri’s help, Neytiri slipped the woven top onto you, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of honor wearing something with such personal significance to her.

"Beautiful," Neytiri affirmed, her smile radiant as she looked at you, her gaze holding a newfound warmth.

You returned the smile, feeling grateful for her acceptance. "Thank you."

Neytiri merely hummed as her focus shifted to your hair. With each twist and weave, she transformed your locks into an intricate masterpiece, her fingers moving with a practiced rhythm.

As she braided, her attention was drawn to a nearby pile of vibrant flowers. With an sense of which blossoms would harmonize best with your appearance, she delicately plucked a few yellow ones from the pile, their vibrant petals woven into your tresses.

“There,” she whispered, brushing her fingers through your braids. The subtle sound of beads brushing against each other accompanied the delicate sweep of her fingers. “You are ready.”

"Come on! I thought you could climb faster than this!" you playfully teased Neteyam, your laughter carrying through the night air as you both ascended the side of the hill. The moon hung overhead like a silver lantern, casting a soft glow on your surroundings. It was a clear night, the stars scattered across the sky like precious jewels.

Your fingers brushed against the rough texture of the rock as you found footholds, your muscles working in sync as you effortlessly moved upward. Neteyam was close behind, his own movements fluid and sure.

The air was cool against your skin, carrying the scent of the earth and the distant sounds of the ongoing crowning celebration. One that both of you had slipped away from in favor of some solitude.

You reached the top first and hauled yourself up, feeling the rush of accomplishment. But before you could fully revel in your victory, Neteyam, with his impressive agility, soared over the peak and hauled himself over. Running after you, he tugged at your tail, using it to pull you into his strong arms.

"Neteyam!" you laughed, the surprise of his actions quickly turning into delight as he showered you with kisses along your neck and cheek. In that moment of affection, you couldn't resist turning your head to capture his lips in a short, sweet kiss.

Neteyam smiled against your lips, the love in his actions unmistakable. With a tender touch, he then tucked his hands under your knees and shoulders, effortlessly lifting you into his arms. The muscles of his arms flexed, the strength in his embrace a reassurance of his protection of you.

"Where to?" Neteyam's voice was a soft murmur, his eyes locked onto yours as he waited for your instruction. You pointed toward a rocky path ahead, leading the way with a silent gesture.

Following your direction, Neteyam carried you along the path. It led you to a cave at the peak, a hidden gem adorned with the soft glow of radiant plants and flowers. The bioluminescent flora painted the space with an otherworldly light, casting a gentle, colorful illumination that danced across your skin. The air was tinged with the sweet fragrance of the herbs.

As Neteyam carried you into the cave, the glow intensified. The walls seemed to breathe with life, the colors shifting and changing in a mesmerizing display. The space felt like a sanctuary, a haven of beauty and tranquility that mirrored the depth of your connection.

“What is this place?” he questioned, wide eyes looking around in awe.

You snuggled against him, feeling a sense of belonging in his embrace.

"It is Vitraya Ramunong," you whispered, your voice filled with reverence. "The Tree of Souls."

Oh.

Neteyam's dark gaze shifted to you, his tongue running along his bottom lip. The intentions of you taking him here were crystal clear. Faintly, you could feel his nails digging deep into your skin and you bit back a smile.

As Neteyam walked further into the cave, he gently set you down to your feet. You started to walk away, but his firm grip on your hips stopped you, pulling you back against his strong front.

"Don't run away from me now," he murmured, his breath caressing your neck, sending delightful shivers down your spine. He turned you around with a tender touch, and his hand traced up the curve of your jaw, guiding your gaze to meet his intense, loving eyes.

And then, your lips met in a soft, sweet kiss. You could feel the depth of his emotions in the way his lips moved against yours, as if each kiss conveyed a thousand unspoken words.

As Neteyam pulled away slightly, his thumb lingered over your bottom lip, leaving you yearning for more of his affectionate touch. His other hand glided over your chest and now wrapped around your throat, but not with any intention of harm. It was a gentle gesture, one that made you feel cherished and protected. His thumb caressed the skin of your neck, golden gaze pouring over the stripes that lay there, admiring every inch of you.

"I have something for you," he finally murmured. He released his hold on you and reached into his pocket, retrieving the necklace he had crafted for you.

"Oh…Ma'Neteyam," you gasped, taking in every detail of the stunning gift.

Earthy brown tones formed the base, woven with intricate patterns and beads that told a story of his cultural roots—the Omatikayan style so unmistakably his. Yet, there was more to this gift than just his own heritage. Interspersed within the intricate weave were glimmers of polished crystal, a delicate incorporation of your own roots, a seamless merging of your two worlds.

As he clasped the necklace around your neck, his touch was gentle, his fingers lingering for a moment as he secured the knots. Tears welled up in your eyes. You could feel the beads and twine, cool against your skin, its weight a comforting reminder of his presence and affection.

“I hope it’s enough,” he murmured, his voice tinged with vulnerability as his hand traced the contours of the necklace, his touch sending shivers down your spine. “I… I don’t really know—”

With a soft click of your tongue, you silenced his self-doubt, your fingertips tenderly pressing against his lips. A gentle affirmation without words.

“It is enough," you reassured him. The corners of your lips lifted slightly, a soft smile that radiated your appreciation for his gesture. "It is more than enough."

Neteyam's own smile was a reflection of the relief that washed over him. He cupped your cheeks in his large, calloused hands, his touch both tender and possessive.

The warmth of his palms against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, a delicious contrast of roughness and gentleness. Gently, he tilted your head up, exposing your neck to his hungry eyes. Neteyam drank in the sight of the necklace—his necklace sat prettily across your skin, tongue curling around the point of a fang.

You, in turn, stared back up at him, emotions layed bare. As you fluttered your eyes, your thick lashes batted against your plump, flushed cheeks. The curve of the beads in your hair caught the ambient light of the cave, each bead gleaming like a star in the night sky. His eyes traced the path of those beads, capturing the radiance they added to your appearance.

And as his gaze drifted down to the attire Neytiri had allowed you to wear, his eyes recognized the intricate details of Omatikayan weaving that adorned your form. The woven tendrils of the top cascaded gently around your chest, its lilac hues blending harmoniously with the natural tinge of your skin. The top itself was a work of art, its design thoughtfully crafted to highlight your figure in the most flattering way.

Eywa. You drove him mad.

Unable to hold himself any longer, Neteyam guided the both of you down until you were kneeling in front of each other, the soft glow of the flora casting dancing shadows on your entwined figures. He pulled you into his lap, the heat of his body pressing against you, sending a shiver of excitement down your spine.

As he pulled you in closer, the texture of his inky braids brushed along your bare collarbones, accompanied by the warm sensation of his large palms resting against your flushed skin. His tail curled over your thigh, its gentle glide against your soft flesh forming a loose, comforting embrace that brought a rush of intimacy between you.

You couldn't help but stiffen slightly as you suddenly felt the tail trail up your thigh and wrap itself around your hips, flicking against the band of your loincloth. With shaky inhale, you returned your gaze to Neteyam's.

"Tsaheylu," he whispered, the word a delicate breath that carried a promise meant only for you, a secret shared in the quiet of that sacred space. His eyes held a mixture of hope and vulnerability as he waited for your response.

Speechless, you froze up in surprise, lips drawing flat, Neteyam's expression briefly twisted with a pang of dread, as if he feared you would reject him.

“Please, baby,” he begged, his voice a soft plea that held a world of longing.

With a deliberate slowness, his arm extended behind him, retrieving his kuru from where it rested. His fingers curled around the base, and the muscles in his bicep tensed with the weight of anticipation.

The purple tendrils of the kuru glowed with a soft luminescence, their ethereal light casting enchanting reflections against the cave's walls.

Your own fingers moved in response, mimicking his gesture, finding the familiar texture of your kuru. With a gentle pull, you brought the braid over your shoulder, its presence a reassuring weight against your hand.

The tendrils of both seemed to come alive, a dance of ephemeral energy unfolding before your eyes. They swayed like the intertwined branches of the sacred tree. Then, as if drawn together by a force, the tendrils began to weave, intertwining in a mesmerizing display of unity.

As the tendrils merged and embraced, an extraordinary rush of emotion surged through you both. It was as if a floodgate had opened, allowing a tide of feelings to wash over your senses. Electric energy pulsed through your bodies, as if the very essence of your beings was reaching out to connect, to become entwined.

"Fuck," Neteyam grit his teeth, burying his head into your chest. Shaking, your hands flew up to his bare back, palms pressed against the hard muscle and nails scratching at the surface of his skin.

In this shared moment, your heartbeats resonated as one, a rhythm of unity that pulsed through your chests. Breaths synchronized, you felt a deep bond. The barrage of emotions you both felt was overwhelming yet exhilarating, like a river of sensations flowing between you.

“Syulang…” With a shaky gasp, Neteyam leaned up and met your mouth in a deep, passionate kiss, his lips pressing against yours as if he had been waiting to taste you his entire life. He explored your mouth with his tongue, memorizing every curve and crevice, before gently sucking on your lower lip. You couldn't help but gasp in response, caught by the intensity of the moment.

Everything between you was heightened—the passion, the desire, the longing. Every touch, every glance, every shared heartbeat carried a weight that spoke of the depth of your feelings. The cave around you seemed to pulse with your shared energy as if you felt Eywa herself acknowledge the bond you had formed.

As you parted from the kiss, your eyes locked once more with Neteyam's, and you could see the raw desire and emotion swirling in his gaze. He appeared almost feral, his pupils wide with overwhelming passion, not missing a single twitch or movement in the intimate exchange between you both.

Unable to resist the pull, he pressed against you, causing you to fall back onto the cave floor, beads clicking as your hair spilled all around you. Crawling on top of you, Neteyam’s lips immediately chased yours once more in a primal hunger.

Lost in each other's touch, the world around you faded away, leaving only the echoing sounds of your breaths and the beating of your hearts, united as one in the sacred bond of Tsaheylu.

Amidst the lively celebration of Neteyam’s crowning ceremony, the music and laughter continued to weave a vibrant tapestry of joy. Jake and Neytiri found themselves seated together, basking in the warm ambiance of the party. The flickering flames from the central bonfire added to the enchantment of the night, casting a soft glow on their faces.

‘We are mated before Eywa, Ma’Neteyam’ your voice echoes in his mind. ‘I am with you forever now.’

Nearly a year had passed since they made the difficult decision to leave their clan. The abandonment of their home had left a wound which still carried a weight that was far from forgotten. The wound left behind by that loss was raw and gaping, still in the process of healing. However, here at Iuva’ri, they had been granted a fresh start. It was a place where they could breathe, live, and forge new connections without the constant shadow of war looming over them.

In the midst of the joy, a sudden hush fell over the crowd as Tuk rushed into the gathering, her tears glistening on her cheeks. Both Jake and Neytiri were quick to notice her distress, and they exchanged concerned glances before rushing to her side.

"Tuk?" Jake's voice held genuine worry as he gently wiped away her tears. "What's wrong, babygirl?"

< PREV | SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT (soon) >

Between gasps, Tuk managed to speak through her tears, "It's Kiri!"

______________________________________

teehee congrats on the new husband pookies<33 Neytiri is our mother now

If you can't see your blog, that means I could tag you! :(Also, if any new people want to be tagged - please send me an ask in my inbox or reblog instead! Bc the sea of comments are too much across all the posts :,)

TAGLIST: @rainbowsocks @milktealvrr @strawberri-blonde @dark-mark @v4mp1rr3 @xylianasblog @piceous21 @celi-xxmoon @corpsebridenightamare @bluealiensimp @tyongluvs @theyoungeagle @im-in-a-pansexual-panik @nerdfacesposts @isnt-itstrange @smile-skxawng @eywas-heir @mochiivqi @wavesarchive @simpforramenboy @crazy4books @jamie-poopoo @gg-trini @dollyplayhouse @couragemydearheart @lynbubble @pinkpantheris @northsoulss @queer-griffin @lexasaurs634 @melllinaa @maki-z @crazyforteyam @rose-brulante @ladylokilaufeyson5 @lunarangelxo @rexorangecouny @thepineapplesimp @moneyoverl0v3 @c-townes @pinkpantheris @sussybaka10 @lil-bexie

[thelemonsnek]

graphic interior design is my passion

[image id: an aerial floorplan of Ingo and Emmet's apartment. It is relatively small and not overly fancy. There are only two bedrooms, Ingo's and Emmet's, with a pullout couch to make up for the lack of a spare room. Most of the house is carpeted with a navy blue carpet. Off to the side, a tiny Ingo and Emmet look over at the apartment. End id]

additional ramblings under the cut for reasoning about some of this!!

ingo typically takes night shifts, so he took the room without the window so he could sleep better during the day. emmet preferred the room with the window bc the sunrise helps him wake up easier

their bed colors are based off their ex outfits in masters. emmet's is lighter and ingo's is darker to match the white/black theme

if you happened to notice, ingo's trashcan is beside his desk. emmet's isn't shown because it's under his desk. ingo also has one of those desks with built in shelves, both because it makes up for him not having a bookshelf, and also because i just think he'd enjoy the efficiency of it

for all of the chairs, they're out from the tables to demonstrate the space they would take up if in use. the twins do in fact push in their chairs. the exception is ingo's desk chair, which he leaves pushed out on purpose. freak

the dark carpet helps to hide dirt - important for trainers with so many pokemon in the house!!

speaking of pokemon, the hallway is intentionally larger than i'd expect of real life houses, in order to accommodate large final evolutions

the couch is a pullout, since they don't have a spare room

the rug isn't plain white i'd just rather die than actually design the pattern

there's also a lot of clutter/decorative stuff that i didn't include

the laundry room is sparse for easy access to the fire exit! safety first :)!

there are "floating" cabinets over the counters, i just couldn't figure out an effective way to draw that. the microwave is above the stove

i think that they're a higher up floor in the apartment, but not the highest. maybe like,,,,3 out of 5 or 6 floors?

space for ghosts was originally a little joke comment i wrote for myself when drafting the layout, then kept in. i could've extended the kitchen down and given them more room but the space for ghosts is important to me now. chandelure needs her alone time

[hurriane23456]

From Ranch to Runway

Jack adjusted his cowboy hat as he stepped into the small bungalow, feeling the heat of the day still clinging to his clothes. His suitcase thudded onto the bed, the dust from his boots already leaving faint tracks on the tiled floor. This was supposed to be a change of pace—a week away from the ranch, the jeans, the plaid shirts, and the routine. He was ready for sandy beaches and lazy afternoons, but as he unzipped his suitcase, his plans came to a screeching halt.

The contents weren’t his.

Instead of denim and flannel, the bag was filled with bold, oversized pieces, vibrant graphics, and textures he’d never encountered before. Hoodies with surreal artwork splashed across them, baggy cargo pants, sneakers so pristine they looked like they belonged in a museum, and accessories—chains, caps, and even a pair of chunky sunglasses.

“What in the…” Jack muttered, pulling out a neon-green sweatshirt that felt plush and heavy in his hands. A tag on the inside confirmed it—Not His. His heartbeat quickened. The wrong bag.

At first, frustration bubbled up. He’d have to call the airline, track down his own stuff, and deal with the hassle. But as he held up a pair of black joggers with reflective stripes running down the sides, a flicker of curiosity replaced his irritation. He couldn’t help but wonder—what would it feel like to wear something so different from his usual look?

He glanced around the empty bungalow, his lips quirking into a mischievous grin. Nobody was here to see him.

---

The first piece he tried was a pair of joggers. The material was lightweight and silky, nothing like the stiff denim he was used to. They hung loose around his legs but tapered at the ankles, giving him a strange mix of comfort and style. He paired them with the neon sweatshirt, which draped over him in an oversized fit. The bright color was almost absurd against his sun-weathered skin, but as he caught his reflection in the mirror, he couldn’t help but smile.

“Not bad,” he murmured, tugging at the cuffs of the sweatshirt. It was softer than anything he’d worn before, like being wrapped in a cloud.

Next, he slid his feet into a pair of sneakers—sleek, white, and futuristic-looking, with thick soles and intricate stitching. He’d never owned anything so clean in his life, but they fit like a glove. As he walked across the room, he felt an unfamiliar bounce in his step.

---

Jack dove deeper into the bag. He pulled out a black hoodie with a bold graphic of a tiger snarling across the chest. The fabric was thick and warm, with a lined hood that he pulled up over his head. He found matching black cargo pants, their pockets lined with zippers and straps. As he slid them on, he noticed how the fabric felt rugged but surprisingly lightweight, with just enough stretch to move easily.

Then there were the accessories. A silver chain necklace gleamed in the dim light. Jack hesitated but eventually draped it around his neck, feeling its weight settle against his chest. There was a cap, too, with a flat brim and an embroidered logo he didn’t recognize. He adjusted it on his head, tilting it slightly to the side.

The transformation was surreal. The cowboy who’d rolled into town a few hours ago was gone. In his place was someone new—someone edgier, bolder, and just a little bit rebellious.

---

As the night wore on, Jack tried on every combination the suitcase had to offer. There was a pair of wide-leg jeans with distressed patches that felt like a second skin, paired with a cropped puffer jacket in a striking shade of orange. There was a graphic tee with abstract designs and a matching pair of patterned shorts that fell just above his knees.

Each piece was a revelation. The fabrics—soft, stretchy, and breathable—were unlike anything he’d worn before. The cuts and fits challenged everything he thought he knew about comfort and style. And the colors, from deep purples to electric blues, seemed to radiate energy.

But it wasn’t just about the clothes. With every outfit, Jack felt a shift in himself. He walked differently, stood taller, and even caught himself smirking at his reflection. The streetwear didn’t just change how he looked—it changed how he felt.

Jack couldn’t help but eye the sleek toiletry bag nestled in the corner of the suitcase. It was unlike anything he’d ever owned—black leather, minimalist, and unmistakably expensive. Curiosity won out, and he unzipped it to reveal its contents: a neatly arranged assortment of grooming products, each packaged with a designer’s touch. The first thing he grabbed was the cologne, a small glass bottle with a silver cap. He sprayed a bit onto his wrist, and the scent hit him immediately—warm and spicy, with hints of cedarwood and citrus. It was intoxicating, nothing like the simple, woodsy aftershave he usually wore. Jack dabbed some on his neck and let the aroma envelop him, feeling an unfamiliar sense of refinement.

As he rummaged further, Jack came across a small case of colored contact lenses. His reflection stared back at him in the mirror, his own eyes a familiar brown, but the lenses intrigued him. The box listed the color as "Steel Gray." He hesitated for a moment, but his curiosity got the better of him. Carefully, he popped out a lens and held it up to the light before slipping it into his eye. It felt strange at first—a bit of a sting—but once it settled, he blinked a few times and stepped closer to the mirror. The transformation was startling. His once-warm gaze now carried an icy intensity, sharp and arresting. He slid in the second lens and marveled at the effect. Combined with the cologne, it was like he was staring at a different version of himself—cool, confident, and slightly mysterious.

Next, he picked up a stick of deodorant. The packaging was sleek and matte black, and the scent—fresh but with a hint of musk—wafted up as he twisted the top. He applied it, noting how smoothly it glided over his skin, and immediately felt refreshed. There was something oddly sensual about the process. The scent blended seamlessly with the cologne, creating a layered effect that felt sophisticated and intentional. He lifted his arms experimentally, catching the fragrance in the air, and smirked. For the first time, Jack felt like he truly smelled expensive, like someone who turned heads when they entered a room.

Finally, he explored the rest of the bag—a premium face moisturizer, a small tube of under-eye cream, and a beard oil. He worked through each one, carefully reading the labels and applying the products as directed. The moisturizer was rich and creamy, leaving his skin feeling smooth and hydrated. The eye cream tingled slightly, a sensation that made him feel oddly pampered. As he massaged the beard oil into his scruff, its subtle scent of sandalwood and vanilla mingled with the other fragrances, completing the sensory experience. Jack stepped back and took a long look at himself in the mirror. Between the gray lenses, the polished grooming, and the luxurious scents clinging to his skin, he hardly recognized himself—but he liked what he saw.

---

By the time he was done, Jack was lounging on the bungalow’s balcony, wearing a pair of olive-green utility pants, a boxy white T-shirt with bold black lettering, and the sneakers. A chain bracelet clinked softly against his wrist as he swirled a glass of whiskey in his hand. The waves crashed in the distance, and the warm night breeze ruffled his hair.

For the first time in years, he felt free—free to experiment, to play, and to imagine himself as someone entirely new. Maybe it was fate that had swapped his suitcase. Maybe this week wasn’t just about escaping his routine but redefining it entirely.

Jack grinned, his eyes drifting to the glowing horizon. Tomorrow, he’d take his new look out into the world. The ranch could wait. For now, he was Jack, the streetwear king.

[cityof2morrow]

Space-O-Rama Build 001

Published: 7-19-2024 | Updated: 7-20-2024 SUMMARY “With intricate geometric patterns, delicate parabolas, and inverted inversion, Space-O-Rama glass sets a new standard that’s out of this world!” An odd mixture of low-to-mid poly items for retro-futuristic builds, inspired by the Space-o-Rama glass fences (Pets EP). There are 41 objects and a host of recolors using texture resources from PineappleForest (2022) actions from CuriousB (2010), Pixelhate, and Klevestav (2015; 2013). Many of the recolors have a weathered/distressed look.

DETAILS Requires Uni, Nightlife, and Apartment Life Eps. §100-500 | Build and Buy Files with “MESH” in their name are required. You also need the BBNiche1Master (BuggyBooz, 2012),  Elemental TXTR Repository, and he Graphic Glass TXTR Repository from the Repository Pack (Simmons, 2023). Additional repo pack recolors can be found on this site under these tags - #co2recolors, #ts2recolors, #ts2repo #co2repo #co2repopack. ITMES 3 Fences (~1622 poly) 5 Divider Screens (1025-1528 poly) 8 Window Boxes (Columns) (576 poly) 4 Doorframes (Deco) (92-1353 poly) 2 Door Rugs (Columns) (34 poly) –for doors 003 and 004 7 Planters (546-1092 poly) 4 Wall Accents (Columns) (8-12 poly) (3) Neon Panels A-C (1080-1521 poly) – sharp corners and some overlap (shadows look better than when the mesh is completely smooth); small gap on the side ; requires the Nightlife EP. 3 Bunker Walls (22-24 poly) – some overlap 3 Garden Panels (99 poly) *You’ll need “moveobjects on” and “grid on/off” cheats since not all parts align perfectly. DOWNLOAD (choose one) from SFS | from MEGA

7-20-2024 UPDATE : Added alternative versions of Doors 3 and 4. The texture on the top interior was distorted when the poly count (“faces”) got reduced. I recolored that part separately in black. If you want the alternative versions, manually delete old files (they are “..doorframe3-MESH” and “…doorframe4-REPO”) and replace them with these new files (“…alt2”). DOWNLOAD (choose one) ALTERNATE DOOR 3 & 4  from SFS | from MEGA CREDITS Thanks: Simmers with meshing, cloning, and fencing tutorials. Sources: Beyno (Korn via BBFonts), Sci-fi House (AiKu via Creative Commons Attribution, 2018), Space-o-Rama Divider (EA/Maxis), 4t2 Eco Living Door (Ethan, 2020), Streets of Utopia (Stonemason, 2024), SciFi Panels (Unity Fan via CCA, 2023), Scifi Gate (Stan via CCA, 2023), Bomb Rush Cyberfunk Street [fan art] (Max Staples via CCA, 2023), Modular Bunker (mats de Wind via CCA, 2020), modular Walls (detona via CCA, 2018).

[serenaisavillain]

The Veiled Serenade - II

Summary: Prince Aemond and his brother Aegon traverse amidst the murky depths of Flea Bottom, where darkness reigns supreme. A web of intrigue is woven, fraught with forbidden desires and veiled intentions. As alliances shift and secrets unravel, the stage is set for an ardent tale of power, betrayal, and illicit love affairs in the heart of King's Landing.

Warnings: Contains sensitive themes, including imagery of graphic violence, as well as depictions of sexual assault and harassment. The story contains explicit language and mature themes, including substance abuse and addiction. Word Count: 1.4k Series: I Authors Note: I'd love to hear your thoughts on the fic.

"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!" the Queen boomed through the threshold of her second son's chamber.

The prince swore the candles that hung above their heads flickered at his mother's sudden outburst.

Aemond swallowed.

His toes clawed into the Sunspear rug below him as his eye focused on the ridges of the stone behind his mother's auburn head, her face turning scarlet.

"Aemond?!" She grabbed a fist of his small clothes.

"Mother?" His tone fell flat, his pale lilac eye trained to hers.

Her lips fell agape.

"You are not even listening! Of course not! No one listens to me!" She muttered to herself.

The boy exhaled through his nose.

"Why? Why must you encourage him?" She asked with glassy eyes, her eyebrows knit together.

His mother was always on the verge of tears, it had grown quite predictable, quite a bore.

"He is the oldest..." She began, shaking his shoulders with her frigid hands.

"And you are the wisest..." they said in unison.

The Queen dowager blinked rapidly, her brown eyes searching his for any semblance of remorse, instead, she found something darker, something that broke her gaze.

"I went with him to make sure he did not drown in his cups and soil himself in Flea Bottom... again." Aemond huffed.

"And well?..." she folded her arms.

The prince sighed.

"He got drunk and taunted a rhymester…”

KING'S LANDING was alive under the dim light of heaven's stars. Y/N traipsed along the dirt road, lifting her silk gown, its gold color glimmering. She often walked before a performance to scare the spirit of cowardice from her heart, but, tonight she was finding it quite the arduous task.

Two pale hands pulled her out of the road and into an alley knocking the breath out of her lungs.

THE DAY WAS SPENT at The Crimson Lotus, a bath house in the bustling market district. Renowned for its exotic offerings; specialty baths infused with fragrant oils, rare botanicals from across the Narrow Sea and especially noted for the Dornish ladies who worked their glamor magic.

It was an unfamiliar place for the girl, but Fin had spared no expense, ensuring that every aspect of her grooming was attended to with the utmost care. He was well aware that the more alluring his songstress appeared, the more coin they would earn.

Before the grooming began, she was brought a chalice of a spiced Dornish red. She brought it to her lips, humming in satisfaction.

Her hair was meticulously washed and styled, mimicking Sunspear women. They took their time twisting and creating intricate patterns. Sandalwood and vanilla musk oil were added to the bathwater, before slices of blood orange were added along with cinnamon and clove. Once submerged in the steaming bath she soaked for a time, her skin becoming soft. The women gently cleansed her skin with a traditional herbal scrub leaving it radiant and smooth.

After she was rinsed, she was dried and laid out on a wooden table where several women tended to her. Every stray hair expertly plucked or shaved. Finally, floral oils were applied to her skin, leaving her glowing and fragrant.

Y/N emerged from the bathhouse a newborn doe, legs knocking together without grace.

"I see you enjoyed the Dornish red I paid for." Fin laughed.

The girl only nodded in response.

The two strolled to their dwelling. Fin stealing the occasional glance.

"You are staring..." the girl hummed.

Fin felt his face warm and scratched the back of his neck.

When they arrived, the girl's amber eyes trained on their humble surroundings; a bucket, a bath, a mattress, and a chair. Fin always slept in the chair despite the protest of Y/N. The girl collapsed face-first on the lumpy mattress and groaned.

"How long do we have?" she mumbled between inhales.

"A time," the man laughed, taking off his boots.

He rose quickly, reaching what was left of their water to bring to her.

"We can get drunk later. I cannot have you slurring your songs on stage,"

Y/N hummed in response before sitting up and eagerly bringing the bottle to her lips. The man grinned. Fin was always smiling in Y/N's company.

THE DARKNESS OF THE ALLEY was all-consuming, and the stench of piss and horse dung wafted through the damp air. Y/N let out a muffled scream behind the rough palm of her assailant. Her legs kicked at his, hoping to shake his balance.

"Shh..." he whispered, his hot breath fanning over her ear.

"I am going to uncover your mouth. Do not scream," he said, his voice steady.

The girl nodded.

"I do not have any coin I-" she began whimpering.

The figure grabbed her shoulders and turned her around. Under his hood, she spotted the flow of his Targaryen locks, the shape of his punchable jaw, and that pleased expression he wore as if it were his birthright.

"You!" she scoffed, her finger jutting at his chin.

"I knew not of other ways to attain your attention…" he mumbled, his gaze dropping to the floor as scarlet dusted his long face.

His eye flickered to her strange ensemble, the way the garment hung on her frame; the fabric cinched at her waist and flowing past her legs.

Y/N let out a long, weary breath, her shoulders sagging slightly.

"I... wish to apologize... for yesterday..." he croaked.

The girl let out a dry laugh.

"And I suppose I am to forgive you now? After you have dragged me into a filthy alley against my will?..." she sneered.

The girl looked down at her dress now stained with godsknew what.

"I came here to apologize! You should be grateful... not many can say they have heard such words fall from my lips..." he spat.

"Thank you, my Prince..." she bowed, "what great honor you have bestowed upon me. I think I will be going now." She smiled politely.

Y/N stepped from the alleyway with caution, so as to not spoil the garment's fabric much further.

Aemond closed his eye, letting his head fall back against a wall. The Seven, if they truly existed like his mother preached, clearly despised him.

Fin's brown eyes widened when he saw his friend's state.

"What... what happened to you?" He asked, rushing to her side.

Y/N's eyes filled with water.

"I ruined your dress..." she sobbed.

Fin cupped her cheeks. Her tears spilling into the wrinkles of his fingers.

"Shhh Y/N... it is just fabric and dye... it is okay..."

Unbeknownst to the pair, the pale-faced prince prowled in the shadows.

The tavern was filled to the brim. Lords sat among sellswords and whores alike. T'was a rare sight. Y/N felt as though the entire kingdom had come to see her perform. Fin had one of the barmaids scrub the dress as well as she could and re-apply what little makeup Y/N had worn. Rouge coated her lips, and Kohl graced her eyes.

The candles shone extra brightly that eve, illuminating the stage on which she and Fin stood firmly planted. He began plucking an upbeat tune as the girl began clapping, the crowd following suit. The tavern shook with the thundering clasp of palms.

"What is good for the goose

is good for the gander,

But I am no man,

I sit and wonder,

when it will be I am asked for my hand

When will I see the love of a man" She began.

A few chuckles rose from the audience.

Prince Aemond lurked from the corner of the room, still enveloped by his dark cloak.

The crowd swayed as she continued singing. Aemond eyed the pleased faces of women and the awestruck faces of men, their expressions changing with every clever lyric, every high note that Y/N whistled out of her mouth.

When Fin's thick fingers plucked the last string of his mandolin the room filled with applause. Y/N bowed, her unruly curls falling forward. The bard walked through the crowd with his satchel open collecting coin from eager patrons.

The one-eyed prince had seen enough, slinking through the crowd, making his way out of the tavern and slithered his way back into The Red Keep.

He knocked before entering his mother’s chambers.

“The songstress denied me an audience… however she sang for all of King’s Landing,” Aemond sighed.

Alicent mused, thinking behind her pretty red head of hair what to do next.

She swallowed the wine from her chalice, “Make her an offer she cannot refuse…”

[wroteclassicaly]

Fallin’ For His Darlin’

(Gator Tillman x Female Reader)

Word count: 1,062

Pairings: Gator Tillman x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Language, mentions of trauma, wounds, pain, anxiety, and depression, vaginal sex, fluff, hurt/comfort, vaginal fingering, kind of dark!Gator, kind of soft/anxious too, etc.

A/N: So inspired tonight, listened to some mood music, feeling that fall vibe, haha! Hope y’all enjoy? I’m pretty happy with this one! And I can’t wait to see our boy in action 😭 P.S, forgive my shitty graphic making, I’m not good at that!

You’re not sure what time it is. Maybe midnight? You aren’t positive, because when his headlights find your garage door, floating in through your window like his own personal spotlight, his tires skid across the gravel of your lane, his car door heavily thudding closed, his boots crunching heavily over rough ground, signaling him closer… closer — time ceases to matter much. You’re meeting him eagerly over the threshold, his back slammed against the beat up wood, boots falling beside your sneakers on the entryway rug. Nothing can find you here, can harm you here, and what has lifelong permission to touch you, it’s always-only… him.

He smells as good as always. Spicy cologne and cigarettes, powdered sugar from the donuts he’d eaten for dinner (you are always on him to eat more), leftovers from your shared favorite diner — Angelica’s, still pressed into his crisp black t-shirt, as if he’d forgotten a napkin. His hair is usually in its less than pristine condition by the time he arrives at yours in the night hours. Doesn’t matter anyways, not with how you end up carrying on in front of your old fireplace (Gator’s a fan of your new cream rug, intricate floral patterns woven into it, loved by owners before, thrifted, and now yours), or on your couch. You’d never really gone to your bed, learning how those times nearly caused lines to be crossed, one ending with Gator falling asleep on your naked breasts, (the calmest he’s been in years, and you just watching him as the sun came up and cast a glow on his youthful head. he was lost, broken, beaten down).

Sticking to this, here in your living room, it’s safer, saner. But it’s not what you want. However, you’ll have him whichever way he offers. He’s Gator and you’re his sweet darlin’.

~*~

Your legs fall open, one wrapped up in his camouflage pant clad thighs. His fingers press deeper inside of you, thumb circling your curls, smearing the cream around in them, watching how it bubbles. You’re kissing him again, lips so soft on his chest, fingernails scraping through the thick tufts that rest on his chest, occasionally flicking his gold and silver chain overlays. You’d gotten him the gold pendant, something he could wear, a symbol for faith that Gator could attach his own meaning to, not having to wear because it meant what his father wanted it to. But it was safe enough that Roy wouldn’t question its meaning.

Your lips find that patch of skin by his left nipple, sucking it between your lips, before you bite down. Gator throbs in his pants, his spare hand squeezing your neck’s nape. Despite his fascination, he’s still a million miles away. “Why do you let me do this to you?”

It’s a default question, an answer you both know already. Why you let him love you like this, it’s so simple…

“These hands, what I do with them before I come here. I’m bad. And I could hurt you, you know?” He adds a little pressure that travels up your scalp in electric prickles.

You spread yourself wider for him, a third finger stretching you in a welcomed, boundary pushing burn. Your eyes meet the midnight murk that’s woven over his mossy pupils like a blanket to mask, face leaving that cove of his chest. Your finger reaches to rub along his lower lip, his tongue licking out to taste skin.

“You wouldn’t, Gator. You won’t...” Is your answer. As if you believe it more than you believe in any god or higher power.

He’s pushing, as he often does…

“And if I do?”

“Then I’d let you.” It’s plain and simple, your fingers leaving his mouth to wrap around his wrist and correct him to a deeper rhythm. This is not enough tonight. More. Fuck, you want him to swallow you whole, capture you, trap, and hurt you in the ways you welcome — how he can, ever so softly, but painfully blissful, like a fire to your fingertips, flames licking the skin, enough to sting, but never to take away in harm.

He’s fully hard, swollen, and he’s turning towards you, forcing you to him by your nape. Your noses bump into a brushing nudge, his hand leaving your cunt and pressing wet, calloused fingers to your jaw as he brings you into his mouth. He’s so warm, plush, his stubble has a scratching effect. He tastes like sweet sugar and Marlboros. He’s been smoking menthol, you note — what he switches to in the colder seasons.

He’s panting his next declaration over your mouth in a fragile concentration. “Would you let me put it inside of you, darlin’?”

Your thighs tighten together, pussy clicking noisily. You’ve never had penetrative sex with him yet, something so close for two childhood friends. But you’re ready to leap if he is, reaching for his hand on your jaw and squeezing over his knuckles. “What do you think I’ve been waiting for, Gator?”

~*~

Approaching Autumn glides in on the cool September rain of Sunday, leaves and earth filling your room with the harsh scent of two bodies connecting. Your blush curtains blow against the chipped, open window frames. Your nipples have hardened from the cool air, from dragging repeatedly across Gator’s chest hair, his necklaces dipping into your collar bones and the valley of your tits. He’s got your legs held around his waist, your hands pulling in his hair to mess it up, his nose finding yours, foreheads sticking with perspiration. The box of condoms lay abandoned at your bedside, a gamble in you, of which Gator is only ever willing to trust.

Your eyes tighten and close, his size making you feel as if you’ve never been touched or fucked before in your lifetime. Everything aches, everything is too much, all at once.

“Should I stop? You hurtin’?” He’s speaking to you in a way that makes tears gather in your lash line. He brushes them away with a rough thumb, then a trigger finger, almost immediately.

His hands let your legs drop to take your fingers in his own, directing one to his shoulder and the other around his waist. “Hold onto me?”

“I’ll never stop.” And you’re surging in for a kiss.

The rain hasn’t stopped when the sun begins to come up the next morning. And your boy sleeps soundly on your chest, uncaring. And that funny thing called time? Well, it still ceases to exist.

// Eat me paragraph //

[ficthots]

Tracking

A/N: Wow, just yeah. I know it's been a long while since I posted for Peter, but like I promised, I was working on things for him and here it is! Now, I'll crawl back into my cave until my next writing is ready. As always let me know what you guys think and enjoy!

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence

Word Count: 6.4K+

Time is a fucking thief. Really, it is. Waking up with the rising of the sun, getting ready to go to a job you despised, remaining in a windowless cubicle for eight hours, making dinner, then time to sleep again. Watching the clock as each passing minute was taken from you over and over again. Now when you throw being a superhero into the mix, it makes it even worse.

Holding down relationships, careers, any and all of the important things in life were always seemingly snatched away when it came to the personal life of crime fighting vigilante Spider-Man. That’s why when you entered his life it was like getting another opportunity to engage with time he had never experienced before.

Looking forward to coming home and eating dinner, stopping by on patrol nights to give you a goodnight kiss no matter what, to Peter Parker, he would do everything in his power to devote as much time as he possibly could to you.

Perhaps you were the time thief in his life now. Either way he didn’t mind when it came to you.

Were there times when it just simply wasn’t possible to shovel all of his waking energy towards you? Of course! The problems came when it had been that way for months. Yeah, you read that right.

In the span of four months, Peter had become so ravaged with his other entities responsibilities that his time with you was drastically rescinded. Unanswered text messages for days, not a peep from him for a week at a time, no more windowsill kisses. It was like he had vanished into thin air.

You understood at first. Hell, you had been dating the man for three years! What was happening, though, was unlike anything he had ever dealt with before. A group of men, identities undisclosed, were wreaking havoc throughout New York City. For months on end, like clockwork, every other week a crime would occur.

Each more gruesome than the last.

Peter had never really been on a deadline like this. Knowing that with each ticking second it was growing closer to the next attack. Spending all nights on the streets, trying to spot whoever could be responsible for this.

The worst part was that he had no leads. A few locations that were all pointless distractions. No semblance of an inkling as to who was committing all of these atrocities. In the span of time since their starting, over eight lives had been taken. A mind boggling number for such a short span of time.

Police were just as useless and he had decided to not take up any more time than necessary with them in tow simply because they weren’t taking this as seriously as they should have been. Instead of confronting the public, reminding them to be careful and not to wander alone past sunset, they were sweeping it under the rug.

Not wanting to cause a public disturbance. No need to fear monger they had told Spider-Man. Assuring him that all of those victims were tied to a gang in one way or another and it was criminal activity work. Something that he shouldn’t spend too much time dwelling on.

That was not a good enough answer for Peter. He didn’t believe them. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure it was a group behind all of this. It could have been a serial killer that was on one hell of a spree.

There was no pattern with their victims either. Randomly selected from the streets. What you didn’t understand was why Peter was involved with all of this. Of course, you knew he wanted to do all in his power to save as many lives as he could, but you warned him to be careful after the initial police warning.

Sticking his nose in places it didn’t belong was not going to end well. It had been the first time you two had argued to that extent. Shouting at the top of your lungs you weren’t ready to lose him and that’s what you were afraid was in the works.

He called you silly for thinking such things. That you needed to have more faith in him than you were giving. It still didn’t answer why he was so invested in this. You knew there were details he was purposely not giving you. Maybe he didn’t want to frighten you or maybe he thought you wouldn’t be able to handle it, but to you, you were a partnership, a pair.

All you wanted was to have Peter back around. Who knows, you might be able to actually help him if he came to you and showed you what he did and did not have. Instead, he hid it from you. Becoming cold and aloof. Distant and consumed.

If there was something you knew about Peter it was that he did not like being bested. Truly holding himself to a standard that was near impossible. Knowing he was above average intelligence, to put it lightly, when people tried outsmarting him, it was always a humorous effort. No one bested Spider-Man.

This time, they were.

Following that night of your monstrous bickering, you hadn’t seen or heard from Peter in over a week. Honestly, you weren’t making much of an effort yourself. Having no interest in being around him when he was in a head space like this. Knowing that there really was no way to help him if he presented nothing to you.

Peter on the other hand was not okay with you going dark on him. Despite knowing that the clock was dwindling down before their next attack, it was the first time in weeks you had been at the forefront of his mind. The little voice in the back of his head was telling him he needed to smooth this over with you or he would regret it.

Which is why he was climbing into your living room window with a bouquet of your favorite flowers, opting to take the night off even though it could be a crucial turning point. He ended up convincing himself it would be alright because if he didn’t have a direction to go in an hour before arriving at your apartment, then hunting tonight was pointless.

He didn’t have a direction.

Even though you hadn’t spoken to Peter, your thoughts were consumed by him as well. What was the bit of information he wasn’t giving you? Was there even anything he was leaving out? There could be the slim possibility he had actually divulged all he knew to you. But you knew better than that. Peter was hiding something, you just couldn’t figure out what it was.

The notes.

Discovered next to each of the victims he had come across. Given he was the only individual to find them and when he tried bringing it to the attention of the police, they had shrugged him off. They were trying to get to him.

Sheets of white printer paper, the typical horror movie fashion of assembly. Varying letters from magazines, newspapers, old letters, all taped and pasted on the paper in a note. Each one was different, but told in a fashion of a word problem. Some were like riddles.

Either way, with each new victim that appeared, so did a new note. It was one of the things he dreaded the most. Seeing what possibly innocent person had been selected in order to deliver the paper to him. His stomach turned just at the thought of it.

Tonight was not for that, though. Instead he chose to bury it in the back of his brain and spend some much needed time with you. So why weren’t you home?

If there was one thing Peter knew and loved about you was that you were a schedule person. Totally type-a, your day planned to perfection and given it was just after six o’clock that evening, you should’ve been in the kitchen plating your dinner.

Except, there was no you in the kitchen, there was no music or television playing in the background, it looked as though nothing had been touched all day. Until he stepped further into the kitchen.

When his eyes darted over to the corner of your counter, partly covered by your fridge, he froze. There it sat. An uneaten bowl of cereal. The milk on the counter next to it, the cereal box still opened and there.

As he approached it, observing the contents, you hadn’t even gotten a spoon out yet. It was filled to the brim, more so than you would’ve liked, but given it hadn’t been touched some of the cereal had inflated from the milk.

“Bug?” His voice, calm and collected echoed out into the quiet flat. Finally prying his eyes away from the alarming sight he had just seen, he was stumped. Everything else in the living room and kitchen was exactly as it should have been.

Maybe you were running late this morning and didn’t realize until after you had made your breakfast. Yes, of course! That’s exactly what it was.

Peeking into your bedroom, his heart rate decreased, a sense of relief and ease settling over him at the entirely bogus reasoning he had used to calm himself down. Until the most unusual sight of all was spotted.

Your phone sitting soundly on your nightstand, still connected to the charger. His hand rubbed at his closed eyes, trying to will his breathing to return to a normal rate. Tapping the screen, it lit up with dozens of texts. Some from Peter, some from coworkers, a few missed calls from work.

Never would you ever forget your phone. Never would you ever not put the cereal back in its place. Something was wrong.

His trembling hands removed his own phone from his pocket, before entirely losing any semblance of sanity, he dialed your boss’s number. It picked up on the third ring and Peter did his best to sound as normal as he could.

“Hey, Guy! It’s Peter Parker,” he was instantly cut off by his chipper voice on the other end. “Peter! How the heck are you?” He sighed, a shaky laugh escaping him. “Great, great. I just have a quick question for you,” as Peter asked if you had made it into work today, Guy responded fast.

“No, actually she didn’t today or yesterday. Didn’t even call. It’s not like her at all. I think a few of her team members tried texting her and didn’t hear from her either. Everything okay?” It was the worst thing he could have been told at that moment.

Clearing his throat, he tried to remain calm. “Mhm, yeah, yes. She’s just, uh, very sick. It might be a few days before she’s well enough to get back to the office. I didn’t call earlier because I wasn’t sure if she had or not.”

Guy’s laugh of relief was palpable. “Whew, thank goodness! Okay, well tell her to rest up and we’ll see her when she’s all better.” Thanking him and quickly ending the call, Peter tore your apartment upside down.

Any clues he could think of, any sign of forced entry, anything at all. But there was nothing. It was all still in the pristine condition it had been left in. Not a single thing out of the ordinary despite the two big red flags. Even going through every app on your phone, just in case, but it was fruitless.

Alarm bells were chiming in his head, he knew something was wrong. He knew you were in some sort of danger. He collapsed on your couch, wracking his brain for anything that could have given him something to work with.

Then he saw it. Out of the corner of his eye. A small piece of white paper stuck to the tongue of a running shoe you never wore. Turned on its side. He couldn’t remember if he had knocked it over during his rushed search of your apartment, but as he picked it up, his blood turned to ice.

Taped to the shoe were the letters he dreaded seeing. Had been haunting him in his sleep for weeks. When he could sleep that was. Unlike the others, it was almost a clue as to where to go next. His eyes quickly saw the time and knew they were going to strike again soon. Far too soon.

One step forward, three steps back, find her quick before she’s the next attack

It was an anger unlike anything he had ever felt before. Not when his parents had died, not when uncle Ben died, it was so overpowering, Peter truly didn’t know how to control it. Darting out of your window, knowing he was on limited time, he began his search.

A near pointless search. A pill that was hard to swallow. Knowing the chances of actually finding you were so slim. He had the list in the back of his mind, places he had scouted previously that he knew they had used at one point or another.

That was the only thing he could think to do. Which is exactly what he did. Searching one by one individually, spending no more than thirty seconds to one minute at each location before going down the list. Did he destroy some of those places during his searches? Absolutely.

He only grew angrier with each location he arrived at that you weren’t in. His hope was running out. Knowing he was at the last two possible places you could be at that he knew about. It was an abandoned warehouse by the river. The first place he had ever tracked them to, but it was far too late when he made his discovery. They had been out of there for over a week by the time he found it.

They were always just a few steps ahead of him and it drove him mad. His masked face searched the premises from what he could see. Through one of the partly shattered windows, there appeared to be a figure on the far end of the building.

A single light shining on them, their back facing where Peter stood. Sitting in a chair, only a wisp of a shadow, no identifying features to be made out. Assuming it was going to be a fight he was about to step into, Peter broke the remainder of the window and launched himself in.

Eerily silent. No noise in the entire building apart from the howling wind outside. It was beginning to become mid-fall in the city and it was always your favorite time of year. No one was enjoying the crisp autumn air that evening.

It was unbearably stuffy in there. No fresh air had swept through the place in years. The stale scents made that abundantly clear. Peter hesitantly approached the figure, the lighting just so he couldn’t make anything out until only a few hundred yards away.

The minute he saw the tied hands behind the back of the chair, his heart soared. “Bu-bug!” His voice shouted, relief flowing off of him in waves, but they came crashing down just as fast.

He wasn’t even sure if it was you. Incredibly deformed from obvious beatings, your face was swollen, bruised, and bloody like he had never seen before. The zip tie around your wrists had cut into the skin, pieces of flesh hanging from it.

As he looked down, the sticky floor was a deep crimson, continuing to pool from your countless open wounds. No shoes were on your feet, they too were cut and dangling from your seated position, totally limp.

He wasn’t entirely sure what was in your mouth as a makeshift gag, but whatever it was had been there so long, your skin was raw and bruised around it. It was the first thing he removed and as he did, your chipped teeth entered his view.

A blanket was draped over you that was covered in things Peter did not even want to begin to imagine. It was the next thing he went to remove, but he halted the moment it was off your body.

There, stapled to your bare chest, was his next note. The same haunting letters, covered in either your own or someone else’s blood. Based on the missing fingernails, he assumed it was a fight you had given which made him silently pray it was someone else’s, yours already spilled too much.

It took him a second longer than he realized to see that your toes were mainly all facing the wrong way. Your arms bruised from newly broken bones, legs in the same condition.

His trembling voice was the first thing you heard as he cut the tie from your hands, whimpers and choked cries trying to escape your hoarse throat. Immediately going limp, Peter caught you. Your body was convulsing in ways he had never seen, unable to open your eyes and see that Peter had found you.

His tears made heavy tracts on his sweat riddled skin. His gloved hands smoothed over the inflamed sections of your face. “I’m-I’m here bug, I got you. I found you, baby. I got you, okay? It’s okay now, baby.” Despite knowing how difficult and incredibly painful his next actions were going to be, he had to get you out of there.

Medical attention was the only way you were going to be able to survive. That meant Peter was going to have to carry you to the hospital. No possibility of emergency services being able to get to you before it was too late.

He was right. Had he waited for emergency services you would have died. You had been in the hospital for three weeks now. Finally in a state where you were fully conscious, despite the pain that never subsided, you were doing better than everyone thought.

It was unclear how long you had been in their “care” before Peter had found you. Based on the little memory you had from the snatching, it was assumed you had been with them for at least forty-eight hours, possibly more.

Peter hadn’t left your side since. Growing tired of hearing the nurses and doctors praise Spider-Man for having found you and saving you when he did. Hardly. He had hardly saved you.

In fact, this was his fault. It was the conclusion he had made. His careless and reckless behaviors had led them straight to you. He hadn’t spoken to you in a week and look what they had done. They thought they had killed you. There hadn’t been another attack yet. It meant nothing though.

No, the note left for him said otherwise. You’ve made it three steps back, how long until the grand final act?

Peter was frightening you. Since you had been awake and aware of what was happening, he had hardly spoken to you. The deep purple bags under his eyes were only growing worse, skin a sickly gray you had never witnessed in a human before, face hollowing out from lack of rest and food.

All he did was write in his notebook.

Curled up in a chair, he stared at the pages for hours on end. Occasionally writing and scribbling in it. His eyes never rested, constantly darting around the pages. It had been weeks of this. Total silence from him, not sure how to talk to him when he was like…this.

It was another late night in the hospital, having drifted in and out of painful sleep all day. Based on the lack of staff and visitors present, you assumed it was the middle of the night. The hospital floor just outside your door was quiet. An easy night for the staff, you thought.

Trying to figure out how to eat a pudding cup, one of the only things you could keep down, was your current task at hand. The tv playing with hardly any sound, it being the only main light in there, Peter silently re-reading whatever was in that book. That was the current mood of your room.

Eating was difficult. Only having three working fingers on your non-dominant hand, luckily one being your thumb, you struggled to pick up the spoon, also knowing you couldn’t move your arm to bring the spoon to you or bend over to get closer to consume anything. Just trying to move to secure the spoon in your mangled fingers had you on the verge of tears, losing your breath along the way.

You could do nothing without help. Not wanting to ask Peter for any assistance because of how poor his mood was. That was where you two currently sat with one another. Scared to speak to him more than absolutely necessary. Hardly speaking since being here.

His eyes briefly glanced at you before realizing what you were trying to do, throwing his notebook onto the side table. “Hey, hey, hey! What are you even trying to do, bug?” His voice was soft, a slight laugh in his voice, exhaustion evident with each word spoken. Taking the spoon from your hand, he pulled his chair closer to the bed, beginning to bring it to your lips.

It was silent until your eyes darted back at the book, deciding to take a leap. “Whatcha writing?” Your cracked, gravelly, and weak voice echoed through the silent room.

It made him want to revert to a blind rage attack. Your voice that was usually so full of life and excitement. Strong and loud that could command an entire room with only a few words. Now, he could hardly hear you, understand you, look at you. Jaw clenching at the question, his teeth grinded together.

When he closed his eyes, he saw visions of you beaten in that warehouse, left for dead. The immense pain you had been suffering through ever since then. Scars that would never fade, both physically and mentally meant he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. Not until he found them.

Your face was doing better, still black and blue, but healing. Able to open your eyes and look at him despite the popped blood vessels. Bandages littered every inch of your skin, wrists tightly wrapped with special medicine for the skin loss.

“Notes,” he murmured, eyes darkening as you asked your question, obviously not wanting to speak about it more. Changing the topic as your pudding came to an end, his hand brushed through your hair, knuckles lightly brushing against your cheek. “What do you need? Anything?”

It was silly. A simple question to see if you really did need anything. It didn’t stop the tears from hurriedly falling down your face. “Yo-you, Peter. I need you. I don’t know where you’ve been, but it hasn’t been here with me. I feel like I’m healing on my own. Like you’re not even here. You sit in that chair, staring at that notebook for days on end. You’ve hardly looked at me, spoken to me, listened to me. Please, just come back to me. Please, Pete.” It was borderline begging, but months of pent up frustration had broken the dam.

Peter’s heart continued to crack with each additional word you said. Realization of what he was doing to you, slamming into him all at once. He nodded, chin resting on one of the side rails, sniffling himself. “I’m here, bug. Whatever you need. I’m so sorry.”

Your only non-fully broken hand you extended towards him, wincing in pain from the movement. Scared to touch you, he only placed your hand back down, removing the side rail to get as close as possible to you.

The rest of the night, you two sat chatting ,watching whatever movies you wanted. It was a glimpse at the man you had seemingly lost all those months ago. Peter was back.

You were released from the hospital just shy of a week later. Peter’s plan to nurse you back to health was his moving in with you. While it was just supposed to be while you recovered, you two ended up enjoying it so much, he was now permanently living there.

It felt like your relationship was shooting by leaps and bounds, spending time together like you had never experienced before. Him being there when you went to bed at night and his face being the first thing you spotted when your eyes opened was a treat you didn’t know you needed.

Feeling content, cared for, respected, and loved like never before. Peter admitted, with your confession to him in the hospital about how distant he had become, tore him apart. He had never seen you moved to tears in such a way, especially over him.

He didn’t realize how deep he had been sucked in until that moment. From then on, Peter swore to keep his other persona on the sidelines for a bit whilst you healed and needed him. Did that mean he was going to stop being Spider-Man in the meantime?

Of course not. It meant that side of him was reserved for the span of time from when you fell asleep to about forty minutes before you would wake up in the morning. Absolutely clueless as to the fact that he had been out all night.

Hunting. Stalking. Tracking.

It was the first night in which you didn’t need him to help lay you down in bed. Peter knew his sleep schedule was already fucked, each time his eyes would drift shut all he could see was you strapped to that chair, nearing death.

And the fact that he hadn’t caught them.

Keeping him up at night, when he could sleep it was plagued by nightmares. Peter knew that there was no opportunity for him to rest while these scumbags were still wandering the streets, looking for another prey to select for their sick games.

Which is why he was doing this without you knowing. Not wanting to worry you and cause you further stress. No, Peter could do this. Would do this. Had to do this. He had made amazing moves. Truly spectacular given the place he had been stuck in before.

They had no idea he had found them, watched their every move, plotted what he was going to do to them. Honestly, when he first spotted one of the three he had discovered had been involved in your…incident, it took every ounce of strength he had to not murder the man right then.

He had to remind himself that all he had to do was provide some patience and the reward would be unlike anything he imagined. And imagine he did.

It was what plagued his thoughts every single day as he watched you hobble around such short distances that only offered pain and tiredness from. His eyes would drift over your still bruised skin as he helped you bathe and it was like witnessing it all over again.

Your hand would tip his chin up, forcing him to lock eyes with you. It was nearly impossible to not see the sadness and hurt in his eyes. Disappointed in himself for letting this happen to you. It didn’t matter because what had happened was now in the past and all you were looking forward to was healing.

The emotional and traumatic scars left on you were not easy to mask. Perhaps that was another reason why Peter was so furious as well. If he moved too quickly behind you, you jumped and a small scream would follow. Trembling for upwards of an hour before settling down. Peter would have to tell you small things to gather your thoughts.

Feel my hand? I`m right here, bug. Here, I want you to use the remote and put on whatever you want. You feel the couch under you? You’re home, baby. You’re safe.

If it weren’t for Peter, you weren’t sure what you would do. He was your rock, your other half, offering reason for unreasonable thoughts. He was your Peter.

The rain was pattering against the window, a sort of white noise you weren’t expecting tonight, but were grateful for it nonetheless. It helped you drift off to a dreamless sleep, exhaustion from trying to do some basic things today taking too much out of you.

Peter was already out of the house before he knew you were soundly asleep. He couldn’t risk being late. Tonight was the night.

Weeks of following them, understanding and breaking their odd patterns, he watched as they went according to plan perfectly. A construction sight for a new high rise. This was their new rendezvous sight for the next attack.

There wouldn’t be another attack.

Counting silently in his head, as he saw a flicker of a small light near the top floor, his count was perfect. They entered exactly on schedule. Crawling down the side of the building and using the thunderstorm to his advantage, he shattered a window a few floors up.

There was no other way that he knew of other than how they had entered and that was far too risky as they had all other doors blocked. As he slowly descended the staircase to scout the floor and determine which room they were in, his hair stood on end as a voice hit his ear.

Three of them. All there. The monsters who were behind your attack. Simply waiting for him.

Except, they didn’t know they were waiting for him. No, tonight was a setup night. Preparation for the coming days of their next plan. Peter had determined fairly early on it was not going to be their final act like they had claimed.

The door was kept slightly ajar with a cinder block, no handles on them yet meaning if it closed, there was no way out for them. Which was their plan for their next victim. Leave the poor soul trapped here with no means of getting out alive.

Peter’s skin was crawling, every instinct shouting at him to just do it. End them now. It would be so easy. He shook off those thoughts, knowing his plan was the correct one.

He dropped to the floor behind them, one of them catching him out of the corner of their eye, a smirk taking over his face. “Spidey boy finally found us, boss.” The thick accent made him hard to understand. Peter kept silent. Very silent.

The other two turned to face him, matching looks on their hideous faces. “How’s your girl? You otta be more careful next time or she could get seriously hurt.” A chuckle escaped them. Peter still didn’t move, watching them from a few paces away.

Quickly deciding they weren’t a fan of the silent treatment, the largest man in the center who Peter knew to be their ringleader drew his gun. In the blink of an eye, web flew towards the gunman, pinning the weapon to the wall behind him.

“Come on now, you didn’t think I knew what you have on you? Just like how I know tweedledee over here is about to throw a knife at me,” Peter ducked out of the way as the blade hurdled towards him. “Now how about we all play nice and introduce ourselves?”

An over exaggerated sigh escaped Peter’s lips as the three men darted towards him, but he acted quickly, webbing them to the surrounding walls, letting one approach him to fight him. “Guess not. Okay, then. I guess I’ll be the one making the rules tonight then.”

Peter grabbed the three chairs from one of the corners of the room before leisurely strolling towards the door and pushing the cinder block from the opening. He whistled a made up tune as he removed them one by one, webbing them to the seats to the point of them not being able to move an inch.

“You know, it’s such a shame sometimes that I wear this mask because I would love you guys to see how big of a smile I have right now. Scouts honor, I am overjoyed that we finally get to do this!” He took his own seat directly across from them.

His head scanned them before pointing at the one on the right. “Let’s start with you bumblebee. What’s your name?” His black and yellow striped shirt was what appointed him his nickname. “You think we’re going to talk? I have nothing to say.”

Peter nodded at his words before looking at the other two. “Same goes for you two then, I assume?” When they didn’t respond, instead only seeing spit hurl towards him, he dropped his head, shaking it. “Such a shame. Alright, last chance. Just give me a name.”

Silence.

A shrug. “It brings me no joy to resort to this, fellas. I’m truly not a violent person. I pride myself on being as gentle as I can be. " He began pacing around, his chair discarded behind him now. “Igor, Viktor, Sasha.” He pointed at each of them individually as he divulged their names.

He gave himself a small satisfactory pump into the air at his success. He could tell he was correct by the little one on the lefts eyes growing slightly wider. It was just the start. As Peter continued on, he got tiny tidbits of information. Only when he presented to them what he knew. Which at this point was everything.

Names, date of births, addresses, spouses, children, education records, dental records, you name it, Peter had it. It still wasn’t enough to get them talking like how he wanted. Instead, Peter fell into the second part of his plan earlier than he had expected.

With seven toes, five fingers, three teeth, many beatings, and an ear, they were beginning to squeal. The leader, Igor, was suspended from the ceiling by his bound hands submerged in webbing. He was entirely nude, body cut up in ways that had blood spilling from him ferociously.

Viktor was webbed entirely to the floor, his entire body covered in fluid despite only one singular nostril. He was the one who cracked first which Peter expected after his reaction to his grandmothers home address in his tiny village in his home country. It was quickly discovered that he was mainly an action man, simply doing what he was told, not a mastermind of any sort.

The other one, Sasha, was who most of the beatings had gone towards once Viktor had divulged it was him who had mainly been the culprit in your beating. Webbed to the wall with no chance of escape, Peter mimicked all the injuries you had sustained on him and then some. Just missing a few fingers and toes now as well.

As the night drew to a close, Peter admired the work he had done. He wiped his gloved hands in a motion to signify he was wrapping up. They were hardly conscious enough at this point to understand what was happening to them. To understand the fate they had drawn themselves to.

There was just one final thing he needed to do. Grabbing the needle and thread he brought with him for tonight and tonight only, he walked slowly towards the nude man. “Did you know that I sew all of my suits? Crazy right! How in the world does he have the time to do this, you might ask. It’s a valid question, but you know what, if I took it to lets say a seamstress, I would be unbelievably broke. Not to mention, how does one drop off the Spider-Man suit without drawing suspicion. First world problems, am I right?” 

The man didn’t respond, but as Peter pierced the needle into his skin, his yelp rang in Peter’s ears. “Ah, ah, ah, don’t be moving around now, you’ll make my stitches go all out of wack here.” Peter took his time, but as he finished he admired the handy work.

Sewn into the man chest was a letter of his own. Crafted just for them. A message curated specifically for their enjoyment.

“How time flies, boys. Suns coming up here shortly. Time for me to be heading out.” He smashed a window, ready to crawl out, but he remembered one final thing he needed to do. Walking back over to Igor, he pulled his head back by the hair on his scalp, making him look into the bug eyed mask.

The whimper that fell from the grown man was laughable to Peter. “If you or your dogs come near anyone I love again, our next visit will not be as enjoyable as this one. If you get out of here, I mean.” Tears fell from the corner of his eyes as Peter released his head to fall back into its resting position.

“See you later, guys! Make better choices!” He called out behind himself as he crawled out the window, webbing it shut behind him before making his way home to you.

It was the first time in months that Peter felt like he could breathe. Taking in the fresh morning air, just minutes before the sun began to peak on the horizon, signaling the arrival of a new day. His lungs expanded with the deep breath of air, wanting to sob at the weight removed from his shoulders.

As he made his way back into the apartment, he spotted you in bed. Still curled up in the comforter, sound asleep, none the wiser of his whereabouts the night before. The brusing getting less and less noticeable by the day.

When he crawled into bed next to you, he refused to fall asleep, not tired in the least. No, instead as the sun began to shine through the curtains, he watched you. Watched as your chest rose and fell with each breath, grateful you were taking those breaths.

Because Peter knew that it wasn’t long ago where those breaths weren’t guaranteed. Now, he counted each one, to make sure you were okay. Of course you were okay now. Peter just needed to make sure.

It wasn’t too long after when you began stirring, eyes blinking open to see his golden eyes staring down at you with the softest gaze Peter had ever had. “Morning,” you mumbled, he whispered it back to you.

“You sleep okay?” He asked, to which you nodded, asking him the same. “Of course I did.” You smiled, getting up and ready to start your day.

You just needed to pretended you didn’t see the bruises adorning his knuckles. “What’s for breakfast?”

[doumadono]

Warnings: graphic descriptions of amputation, blood and gore, a dash of dark humour at the very end, viking themes, mentions of sacrifices

A/N: this original story was commissioned by @amelia-quining on my Ko-fi page. Thank you once again for trusting me with your request. I really hope this little fic meets your expectations ♥

KO-FI COMMISSIONS

In the far reaches of the north of Sweden, nestled amidst towering firs, rugged cliffs and ancient stones, lay the Viking settlement of Hurgå, where the chill winds carried whispers of ancient gods and forgotten rituals. 

Hurgå was a quaint settlement nestled amidst the rugged terrain of the northern lands. Surrounded by dense forests and towering mountains, it exuded an aura of rugged beauty and ancient mystique. The village consisted of sturdy wooden structures, their roofs adorned with thatch, blending seamlessly with the natural landscape. Narrow dirt paths wound their way between the buildings, lined with wildflowers and patches of vibrant greenery.

In the heart of Hurgå, overlooking the settlement square, stood a modest yet revered structure: the temple dedicated to the glory of Odin, the Allfather.  Built with sturdy timber and adorned with intricate carvings depicting scenes from ancient legends, the temple served as a focal point for the spiritual life of the community.

Hurgå was a place of untamed beauty and unyielding harshness, where the whispers of ancient gods still lingered in the crisp mountain air, and where the people revered the old ways with unwavering devotion.

Among them was Åse. 

The girl, in her mid-20s, possessed a striking appearance that captivated those around her. Her long, lustrous ginger hair cascaded down her back, framing her delicate features. Emerald eyes sparkled with intelligence and depth, drawing others into their gaze. Freckles adorned her nose and cheeks like constellations against her porcelain skin, as pale as moonlight, that felt soft and smooth to the touch, like freshly fallen snow. Despite her slender frame and lack of height, there was an undeniable allure to her presence, and many young men found themselves enchanted by her beauty, but alas, their affections remained unrequited. As a devout priestess of Odin, her heart belonged solely to her divine calling, and no earthly suitor could sway her dedication.

Åse was not like the other women of Hurgå. While they busied themselves with domestic chores and tending to the hearth, she sought knowledge and enlightenment in the shadow of the temple built for the glory of Allfather. Her dreams were filled with visions of the future, and she longed to become a seer, a vessel through which Odin's will could be known.

During the summer solstice, when the boundaries between the hominal realm and the divine were said to blur, Åse made the pilgrimage to Uppsala, the sacred center of worship for the northern tribes. There, amidst the throngs of pilgrims and the intoxicating scent of burning incense, she partook in the sacred rituals and consumed the potent hallucinogenic brew offered by the temple priests that would allow her to transcend the mortal realm.

As Åse consumed the potent hallucinogenic brew, the world around her began to shift and warp, blurring the lines between reality and the ethereal. Colors danced before her eyes, swirling and merging into intricate patterns that seemed to pulse with life. Her senses heightened, and she felt as though she were being pulled into another realm.

In her trance, Åse found herself standing in a vast, mist-shrouded forest. The air was thick with the scent of pine and soggy earth, and a sense of ancient wisdom seemed to permeate the very atmosphere. As she walked deeper into the forest, she felt a presence watching her, a powerful and otherworldly presence that seemed to emanate from the very trees themselves.

Amidst the haze, a figure began to materialize before her. He stood tall and imposing, his form wreathed in ethereal light. His features were sharp and regal, with piercing eyes that seemed to hold the wisdom of the ages. Though she had never beheld a man so fine in her life, she felt an unmistakable sense of recognition, as if she had known him in some distant time or place. It was him. It was the Allfather.

With a voice barely above a whisper, the girl spoke, her words tinged with gratitude. "Thank you, my lord," she murmured, her voice barely audible amidst the swirling energies of the trance. "For your guidance and your presence in my mere life."

"Daughter of the north," the man spoke, his voice resonating with power. "You have come seeking knowledge and guidance. Ask, and I shall provide."

"Great Allfather," Åse began, her words echoing in the sacred space. "I seek your knowledge and your blessing. I wish to become a seer, to dedicate myself fully to your teachings and to serve you with all that I am."

When he spoke, his voice was like thunder rolling across the heavens, yet infused with a gentle warmth that enveloped Åse like a comforting embrace. "My child," he replied, his words resonating deep within her soul, "Your heart is pure, and your spirit is strong. I grant you my blessing and the gift of sight. May you use it wisely, and may your visions guide you on the path of enlightenment."

With those words, Åse felt a profound sense of connection to the divine. 

Odin's voice echoed in her mind once again, his gaze piercing through her very soul. "But such power comes at a price. Will you prove yourself worthy, my child?"

With unwavering determination, Åse knelt before the man, her heart pounding with anticipation. "I am all yours to command, Allfather," she declared, her voice resolute. 

"To wield such power, one must prove themselves worthy," the god intoned, his one-eyed gaze piercing into Åse's very soul. "Are you prepared to make the necessary sacrifice?"

Åse's heart pounded in her chest as she contemplated the weight of Odin's words. This was no simple bargain; it was a test of her dedication and resolve. But deep within her, she felt a stirring, a flicker of determination that burned brighter with each passing moment. "I am," she declared, her voice steady despite the tremble in her limbs. "I will give all that I am, if it means serving you, Allfather."

A solemn nod from Odin confirmed her choice, his presence seeming to fill all of her being with an otherworldly aura. "Then let it be done," he commanded, his tone both solemn and commanding.

Suddenly, Åse's vision blurred and the world around her seemed to fade into darkness. She felt herself falling, tumbling into a black abyss of oblivion, her senses overwhelmed by the weight of her decision. Time lost its meaning as she drifted in the void, her mind awash with visions of the future and the divine presence of the Allfather.

When she finally awoke, it was with a sense of disorientation, her head swimming with dizziness. But even as she struggled to steady herself, there was a newfound certainty burning within her soul. She knew, without a doubt, that what she had experienced was real, as real as her own flesh.

Determined to fulfill her destiny, Åse made her way to the highest priest of Uppsala, her steps unsteady but resolute. 

Odin's temple in Uppsala stood as a grand testament to the reverence and awe inspired by the ancient deity. The temple itself was a structure of grandeur and majesty, constructed of sturdy timber beams and adorned with intricate carvings depicting scenes from Norse mythology. Massive wooden doors, carved with symbols of Odin's authority, guarded the entrance, inviting only the most devout worshippers to pass through.

Inside, the temple's interior was bathed in the warm glow of flickering torches, casting dancing shadows across the polished stone floors. The air was heavy with the scent of burning incense, mingling with the earthy aroma of the surrounding forest.

At the heart of the temple stood a great altar, adorned with offerings of mead, bread, and other treasures laid out as gifts to the Allfather. Above it, a towering statue of Odin loomed, his piercing gaze seeming to follow the movements of those who entered.

Around the altar, worshippers gathered in reverent silence, their faces upturned in prayer and supplication. The atmosphere was charged with a palpable sense of reverence and devotion as pilgrims sought to commune with the divine and receive the blessings of the Allfather.

As Åse entered the sacred halls of the temple, she soon was led to the back of the temple by an elder woman, and upon entering the chamber of the highest priest, she felt meaningless.

The priest, adorned in ceremonial robes and wreathed in the flickering light of candles, regarded her with solemn gravity. "Åse," he intoned, his voice a low rumble that echoed off the stone walls of the chamber. 

Surprised by the priest's knowledge of her name, the long-haired girl furrowed her ginger brow in confusion. "How do you know my name?" she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity.

The priest regarded her with a knowing gaze. "Child," he said, his voice grave and solemn, "The Allfather sees all and knows all. He has watched over you since the day you were born, guiding your footsteps and weaving the tapestry of your destiny, leading you to this exact place."

Åse's eyes widened in astonishment at his words, a shiver coursing down her spine. "The Allfather..." the ginger murmured, her mind reeling with the implications of his revelation.

The priest nodded solemnly, his expression unreadable. "Indeed," he replied. "He has chosen you for a great purpose, Åse. Embrace your destiny, for it is a path that few are privileged to walk. Now, tell me, my child, what did you see in your vision?”

She recounted her vision. With each word, she felt the weight of her commitment grow heavier, yet she knew that she was ready to embrace whatever fate awaited her. She had never felt so chosen, yet the weight of her destiny felt heavy upon her shoulders, so she regarded the man’s words with a single nod.

"You have come seeking the blessing of the Allfather, but know that the path you tread is one of great peril."

Åse nodded, her gaze steady as she met the priest's solemn gaze. "I understand, honored one. I am prepared to make this sacrifice."

The priest inclined his head in acknowledgment, his expression grave. "Very well. You understand the magnitude of what you are about to undertake. This path is one of solitude and sacrifice, and none may accompany you on your journey."

Åse swallowed hard, steeling herself for the ordeal ahead. "I will not falter," she vowed, her voice ringing with pure determination. "I will see this through to the end."

“What did you offer to Odin himself in exchange for his favor?" the priest inquired, his voice low and grave.

Åse squared her shoulders, meeting the man's gaze with determination. "I offered my left arm," she replied, her voice steady despite the tremor in her heart.

The man placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch a silent benediction. "May the gods grant you strength and wisdom in the trials ahead. You walk a path that few dare to tread, but know that you do so with their blessing."

The priest's movements were deliberate as he approached a small box resting on the desk, surrounded by flickering candles. With a solemn air, he opened the lid, revealing the sacrificial knife nestled within. The blade gleamed in the dim light, its sharp edge catching the glow of the candles.

Carefully, the man lifted the knife from the box, wrapping it in a linen cloth before handing it to Åse. "This is the tool of your sacrifice," he said, his voice low and solemn. "To fulfill your oath to Odin, you must wield it with purpose and conviction."

He placed the knife gently into Åse's open hands, his touch reverent. "Remember, Åse," he continued, his words weighted with significance, "The sacrifice you make tomorrow will bind you to Odin's will for eternity. Use the blade wisely, for it is a symbol of your destiny."

On a crisp dawn, Åse knelt before the towering statue of Odin, her heart pounding with anticipation. She was about to make the ultimate sacrifice, a testament to her love and devotion. Clad in a simple white shift, her left arm was bare, the spot where it would be severed was marked with a rune of courage.

Åse began her prayer, her voice echoing in the silent temple.

“Hinn almáttki Óðinn, Alföðr, heyr minn bæn. Veit mér styrk og hugrekki til að takast á við þessa áskorun, til að fórna af sjálfum mér í þínu nafni."

Åse's fingers wrapped around the sacrificial knife, its weight heavy in her palm. 

The blade gleamed with a deadly sheen, its edge honed to a razor-sharpness that promised swift and merciless precision. Adorned with ancient runes, the handle pulsed with an otherworldly energy, each symbol whispering secrets of power and sacrifice. It was a weapon of old, forged in the fires of tradition and steeped in the blood of ages past. And now, it awaited its next offering, hungry for the flesh that would feed its ancient hunger.

With a steady hand, Åse tested the blade's edge, marveling at its keenness as it sliced effortlessly through the skin on the pad of her left index finger. Åse hissed as the sharp blade met her skin, a bead of crimson welling up from the shallow cut. The sting of pain was sharp and quick, but she gritted her teeth and pushed through it, her determination unwavering. This sacrifice was necessary, a small price to pay for the knowledge and power she sought.

As she prepared herself for the task ahead, Åse knew that this blade held the key to her destiny. With its bite, she would carve her path into the annals of history, marking herself as a vessel for the divine will. And though her heart trembled with fear, her resolve remained unshaken, for she understood the importance of the sacrifice that lay before her.

She hadn't conducted any prior research, but fortunately, one of her closest friends, Helga, had assisted a healer back in Hurgå. Åse had witnessed a few instances where limbs were amputated due to the severe injuries sustained by their warriors in battles against Christians or other settlements.

Åse scolded herself inwardly, chastising her own hesitance. "Foolish," she thought, a twinge of uncertainty began to creep into the recesses of her mind, gnawing at her resolve like a relentless predator stalking its prey. "Every moment wasted is another moment of doubt and hesitation. Allfather awaits my sacrifice, and I cannot afford to falter now."

Gripping the sacrificial knife tightly in her hand, she positioned it just at the crook of her left elbow. Her emerald eyes shone with anticipation. With a shaky exhale, she pressed the blade against her skin, feeling the cold steel bite into her flesh with a sickening crunch. 

The first incision was precise, the sharp edge of the blade slicing effortlessly through the layers of dermis and epidermis. A jolt of excruciating pain shot through her arm, causing her to scream in the overwhelming agony. Sweat beaded on her ginger brow as she fought to steady her trembling hand, each movement of the blade sending shockwaves of torment coursing through her body. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she summoned every ounce of determination she possessed and began to saw through her flesh.

As the blade penetrated deeper, the resistance was greater, the tissue denser, but the blade pressed on, its edge biting into the flesh with a relentless determination.

A white-hot agony threatened to overwhelm her completely.

With each sawing motion, Åse felt a searing pain shoot through her arm, radiating outward from the point of contact. The nerves screamed in protest as the blade severed them, sending waves of agony coursing through her body. Blood welled up from the wound, flowing freely down her arm and pooling on the ground below.

As the blade cut through muscle and sinew with alarming ease, Åse could feel the resistance give way, the tissue parting like silk under the blade. The sound of tearing flesh filled the air, accompanied by the sickening sensation of her own thick blood coating her skin.

With each agonizing cut, she felt a piece of herself being torn away, sacrificed in the name of her destiny. The sound of her own labored breathing filled the air, punctuated by the wet, guttural sound of flesh being torn asunder. Her entire being was screaming in protest as she fought to keep moving. 

The metallic tang of blood filled the air, mingling with the acrid scent of burning incense. Her hands slick with blood as she worked to complete the grisly task. 

With a steady hand, the ginger girl applied more pressure to the blade. There was a sickening sensation as the blade sliced through muscles and tendon, but she pushed past it. With a deft movement, she twisted the knife, using its keen edge to pry apart the joint.

Finally, with a final, decisive stroke, there was a soft pop as the joint gave way, and Åse's arm fell down to the floor with a sickening thud, leaving a gaping wound in its wake. Blood poured from the stump, staining the ground and her robes crimson as Åse crumpled to the floor to her knees, her vision swimming with pain and dizziness, her body wracked with pain and exhaustion. She had done it. She had made the ultimate sacrifice.

In that moment, she felt a surge of power unlike anything she had ever known, and she knew that the Allfather was offering her a gift beyond imagining. And then a shroud of darkness descended upon her, swallowing her whole.

Åse didn't know how long she had been unconscious, or if she had crossed the threshold into death itself. 

Slowly, she opened her eyes, blinking against the sudden brightness that stung her vision. Blinking away the discomfort, she took in her surroundings, and realized she was lying on a small bed, adorned with furs. The air was thick with the scent of incense and the pungent aroma of mead.

After a few moments of disorientation, Åse tentatively turned her head to the left. With hesitant movements, she lifted the fur covering her upper shoulder, revealing the neatly wrapped bandages that concealed the absence of her forearm. The absence of her limb sent a shiver down her spine, yet she could still feel its phantom presence, a sensation that made her gasp. 

Tears welled in her eyes once more as she gently laid her head back against the pillow. "Thank you, Allfather," she whispered, her voice barely audible in the quiet chamber.

The door creaked open, and an elderly woman entered the room, carrying a bowl filled with fresh bandages. With a gentle smile, she approached Åse's bedside. "You've been unconscious for nearly two weeks, child," the woman said softly, her voice filled with concern. "Many feared you wouldn't make it.”

Åse listened in stunned silence as the woman continued, explaining that her offering had been presented at the altar of Odin and later burnt alongside other tributes. The girl then inquired about when she could return home.

The woman offered a sympathetic smile. "That depends on how quickly you recover, my dear. But rest assured, we will do everything we can to aid your healing."

Åse returned to her settlement, Hurgå, greeted by the shocked and concerned faces of her fellow villagers. Whispers spread like wildfire as people noticed her armless state, and many approached her, their voices trembling with worry.

"Åse, what happened to you? Were you attacked on your trip to Uppsala?" they asked, their eyes wide with fear.

But Åse simply smiled, her demeanor calm and serene despite the questions. "No, I wasn't attacked," she reassured them. "It was an offering I made to the Allfather."

Some of the villagers exchanged skeptical glances, murmuring amongst themselves about her supposed delusions. They couldn't fathom why she would believe that Odin would accept such a lousy sacrifice.

Yet Åse remained undeterred, her faith unwavering as she returned to her daily life, determined to fulfill her destiny, no matter the cost.

Her best friend, Helga, rushed to greet Åse as well as soon as she spotted her. Her eyes widened in shock as she took in Åse's armless form, unable to hide her dismay. “Åse, what happened to you, sweetie?!" 

The ginger slowly nodded her head. "Well, you know how I've always been a bit too giving," she joked, a wry smile playing on her lips. "I guess I just gave a little too much this time,” she let out a soft chuckle, attempting to lighten the mood despite the gravity of her situation.

Helga shook her head in disbelief, struggling to find the right words to express her shock, shaking her head dismissively. "I... I don't know what to say," she stammered, at a loss for words. "You've always been the crazy one," the other woman murmured, her voice tinged with emotion. "But I'm glad you're back, Åse. I missed you.”

Åse gave her friend a genuine smile. "Don't worry about it, Helga," she said with a reassuring smile. "I just made a sacrifice for something greater. It's all part of my journey."

And though some may have viewed her sacrifice with horror or pity, Åse wore her scar with pride, a testament to her unwavering devotion to the gods. 

To Åse, the absence of her arm wasn't a sorrowful event, but a mark of pride, a testament to her commitment to Odin and her readiness to give for a noble cause. As she faced the days ahead with a clearer vision and renewed resolve, she understood that her decision was one she'd never rue. By sacrificing a piece of herself, she'd acquired something profound - a bond with the divine and a destiny that would guide her path forevermore.

[csuitebitches]

Interiors: Basics of Styles

The 9 Styles of Interiors are maximalist, brutalist, coastal, minimalist, rustic, art deco, Hollywood Regency, midcentury modern and modern organic and they all have unique characteristics. Let’s dive in.

Maximalism

* Bold colors.

* Bright wallpaper.

* Mixed patterns with contrasting motifs, like animal print, geometric shapes, or florals.

* Ornate accents, like chandeliers.

* Layered fabrics.

* Statement pieces.

Notable people: Kelly Wearstler, Martin Brudnizki, Dorothy Draper and the Greenbriar Resort

Brutalist

* Raw Materials. At its core, Brutalist interior design honors raw materials—showcasing the honesty of construction

* Geometric Shapes

* Textured Surfaces

* Unadorned Minimalism

* Focus on Function

Notable people: Le Corbusier, Marcel Breuer, Moshe Safdie

Coastal

* Natural Light

* Crisp whites

* Layered blue tones

* Jute textures

* Stripes

* Linen upholstery

Notable people: William Pahlmann, Amy Aidinis Hirsch, Brett Sugerman and Giselle Loor Sugerman

Minimalist

* Simple lines.

* Monochromatic or neutral color palettes.

* Limited furniture.

* Limited decorative objects.

* Storage solutions that keep the space uncluttered.

* Open floor plans.

* Natural light

Notable people: Donald Judd, Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, David Chipperfield

Rustic

* Main Colors: Wood grains or browns, beiges, or warmer shades

* of white.

* Accent Colors: Muted colors - tans, reds, blues, greens, yellows,

* and grays.

* Shapes: Rugged, imperfect lines and silhouettes.

* Fixture Finishes: Iron, pewter, copper, or brass.

* Aesthetic: Imperfect but warm and inviting. Decor/Art Style: Animal hides and fur, antlers, throws, pillows,

* and rugs with simple motifs or patterns.

Notable people: Alexander Waterworth, Grey Walker, Katherine Pooley, Bill Hovard, Jean Stoffer

Art deco

* Streamlined, symmetrical forms.

* Geometric designs as ornamentation; it's common to see shapes such as: Trapezoids

* Rich material and textile palettes

* Ornamental light fixtures such as chandeliers or sconces.

Notable people: Jacques Ruhlmann and Maurice Dufrène, Eliel Saarinen

Hollywood Regency

* richly layered textures

* high contrast patterns

* metallic finishes

* vibrant colors

Notable people: Dorothy Draper, George Vernon Russell, Douglas Honnold, John Woolf, and Paul R. Williams.

Midcentury Modern

* clean lines

* muted tones

* a combination of natural and manmade materials

* graphic shapes

* vibrant colours

* integrating indoor and outdoor motifs

Notable people: Arne Jacobsen, Charles and Ray Eames, Eero Saarinen

Modern Organic

* The modern organic interior design style mixes minimalism, midcentury modern, and boho flair

* Clean minimalism and sleek lines meet nature-inspired shapes, organic textures, and rustic elements

* By adding natural textures and shapes, the modern organic decor is warm, inviting, soulful, and elegant.

[keisobe]

; 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 (𝐡𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧)

⎯ from spider-man : across the spiderverse (spoiler free!!)

✮. ⋆ after a successful date with hobie, you show your gratitude by surprising him with the frills and bows you’ve been hiding throughout the night. + wc. 3.1k

content. afab reader. graphic smut. semi-dom reader. sub hobie. unprotected sex. oral sex (m receiving). creampie. established relationship. pet names. first time together.

notes. this fic was based off two anon requests asking for ‘polar opposites’ and ‘dom reader’. i hope that i fulfilled those request perfectly and also hope you guys enjoy this hobie smut (ik i wrote his accent terribly lol) ♡

The shuffle of your footsteps traveled through the dark apartment, laughter and the jingle of keys filled the bleak atmosphere as you and Hobie situated yourself into the warm comfort of your flat. You flicked the light switch as you laughed along a joke he made about the creep in the pub that tried to hit on you.

It was a momentarily tragic incident, an unfamiliar touch to your ass while you were simply ordering from the bartender had your heart drop in terror. That was until Hobie stepped him and pushed the creep down to the floor, guiding himself with his broken fall as he laid bone shattering punches onto the guy’s face. It was then that the both of you were kicked out for ‘causing a violent disturbance’, all because an ambulance had to be sent out. Although the booze was out of reach for the night, the date was still a success as Hobie made it up by sneaking you both into a runway show happening near the heart of London. You got to sit alongside celebrities you’ve seen pictures in the magazines you owned. It was one of the best dates you’ve ever been on and it was all thanks to Hobie.

To show your gratitude, you begged him to come back to your place. Hobie didn’t hesitate to accept the offer, letting you excitedly walk him to your flat as the full moon shedded a guiding light towards your destination.

Now he’s in your room, looking adorably out of place as his roughen up exterior was completely surrounded by your sickly sweet and soft trinkets and decor.

“Hmm… wat’s this lil’ cute thing?”

You turned curiously as you propped yourself comfortably onto the strawberry comforter, scrambling off the white fur coat and the glossy heels you’ve worn throughout the night. Hobie was holding up your Hello Kitty plush, poking in the beaded black eyes and fiddling with the sewn bow with utter confusion.

“Never heard of Hello Kitty before?” You teased, tearing off your ruffled socks as the warmth of your room hit your bare skin.

“Nah, ain’t my style babe.” Hobie quipped as he gently placed it back beside your abundance of jewelry and makeup, smiling at the typical pattern with all your belongings; dainty and pink. “But perhaps ‘ll get more for you.”

His words fall into deaf ears as he gives himself a second to take in your entire room. Everything was absolutely adorable. It was a contrast from his own living space— his wallpaper looking like a scrapbook and his furniture beaten to death. There was something accelerating about you being the complete opposite of him. Someone so well-put together and could be comparable to a doll. While he’s rugged and has been called a ‘toy that’s been scribbled by a toddler’ by one of his bandmates.

You coughed a little bit to steal his attention, internally giggling to yourself as Hobie was completely mesmerized by your room. You gave him a moment to look around more for a few seconds until you began to dramatically yawn, sounding like a broken moan that made his ears twitch.

When he finally turned to look at you, Hobie couldn’t help but nervously chuckle as he ran a hand over his flushed face. Fuck, there you were, sprawled on the bed with soft pink lingerie. The bows and frills fitted your curves perfectly, the silky fabric made your skin glow in the dimly lit room. You look like an angel— at least that’s what Hobie thought.

You smirked at his dazed look as you got up on your knees, looping your fingers on his belt loops and tugging him closer to the bed.

He broke out of his trance from the sudden movement, a cocky smile plastered into his face.

“‘s why were you so eager to bring me to your flat?” He titled your chin as he caressed a thumb over your cheek, allowing your hands to work on his studded belts.

“Maybe.”

“Needy lil’ one.”

You laughed at that. Touché.

As each belt fell on the floor with a solid clink, Hobie retracted his melting touch to discard his leather jacket and torn shirt— coming off swiftly with each pull. He kicked off his laced boots when you unzipped and discarded his pants, tugging at his briefs with surprising strength as he clumsily landed on top of you. You ran a hand over his bare chest, reluctantly passing over a silver piercing on his nipples. You knew he was hot, but he just got even hotter.

“Lay down for me.” You ordered right as Hobie's hand hovered over your hips.

He looked stunned for a moment before smirking, raising his hands as he surrendered himself to you.

“‘es ma’am.”

Doing exactly what he was told, Hobie flipped over to his back against the comforter, brushing a hand onto your thigh as you positioned yourself between his spread legs. Without any more hesitation, you gave into your desires and began to crawl onto his long torso— locking your lips onto his. You felt a smile curl on his lips as he deepened the kiss, guiding your tongues to tangle together. Hobie craned his head to drag his teeth against your quivering lips, grazing a soft hand along your flushed cheeks. He could taste you, finally. This yearning he had for you throughout the night was well worth it at the end. It couldn’t be helped that he was a little obsessed with you. Especially with your taste on his tongue, Hobie couldn’t restrain himself to push further into your mouth— licking along your molars as drool ran down both your chins.

You whimpered into his mouth until he pulled away with a labored breath, a string of saliva connecting your lips together. A soft glint in his eyes made your heart skip a beat for a moment, until your eyes gazed towards the vein running down his neck.

Not worrying to catch some air, you kissed along his jawline with utter need. Lolling your tongue along the juncture of his neck and closing it off with a harsh bite with the goal to leave an obvious mark that he wouldn’t dare hide with his chokers. A deep groan rumbled in Hobie's chest as he gave into your mouth, each lick going lower and lower along his body. You lapped along the metal bar on his nipple, kissing and marking his toned stomach, and finally laying your tongue down to the trail of coarse hair that continued under his lousy waistband.

Being face-to-face with the tent in his briefs sent your nerves on edge as his erection was utterly palpable. The outline of his cock bobbed under the confining fabric as a wet spot began to ooze out from your needy advances. This new display of hobie made all your purest thoughts incinerate into intense ardor. The wetness between your legs seeping through your own garments.

Hobie clicked his tongue with impatience, pulling you back from your lustful hallucination.

“C'mon love, don’ shy away now.” Hobie cooed as he rested his muscular arms under his head, craning it a bit to get a perfect view of your dazed eyes and his erection. If he could capture this moment, he would have hundreds of them plastered on his walls.

Wordlessly, you slowly slid down the waistband with anticipation, feeling the warmth radiating off his clothed cock pass along your cheeks, before the elastic finally wrapped around his thighs. A low hiss slipped through Hobie's lips as the brief contact of cold air drifted along his freed cock, springing to its full length as it slapped heavily against his bruised stomach. He was huge; his length well passed over his navel and the thickness can be comparable to your wrist. But what’s had you gawking hard is the details of his cock. A prominent vein running down the underside of his length. But then you happen to gaze at a hint of silver— leading to three metal bars pierced along his frenum. Holy shit, Hobie had dick piercings.

“Should I be upset at the person who pierced your dick?” You jested, but your stomach turned at the fact that someone else already saw his cock before you.

Hobie chuckled, taking a hand out to teasingly stroke his length in front of your sour expression, giving you a good eyeful of the glistening precum running down his glaring piercings and tightening skin.

“Upset at me? ‘s not really fair innit?”

You bit back a relieved grin at his reply. You should’ve known. Either way, the fluttering pride in your stomach directed you back into your lustful advances. You’ll make him feel good then.

There's no time for Hobie to tease your jealousy when you lap the full length of his cock, leaving a salty and bitter taste tingling on your taste buds. An unexpected whimper managed to escape his mouth, making you smile pridefully. Your tongue worked its way onto his glistening, swollen tip. Hobie snagged the strawberry printed comforter under him, mumbling curses under his breath as you began to gently suckle the redden head of his cock, careful not to scrape your teeth. You purse your lips along his tip and continue to relentlessly tease his cockhead, its shade of red deepening with each swipe of your tongue. Finally, with precum coating your lips and Hobie’s restraint slowly breaking loose, you bottom out completely and begin to create a steady pace around his length.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell…” Hobie managed to sigh through his swollen lips, giving in to his temptations of forcibly touching you as he latched onto the back of your neck— firm yet gentle to the touch.

His sweet touch quickly became desperate, as hobie began to pace your mouth faster around his cock, leaving a sore ache to your jaw and the repeated stabbing sensation of his tip sliding down your resisting throat. Fuck it hurts, but it felt so good. Especially when hobie was spitting out a bunch of sweet nothings and Hobie curses, and the occasional addicting groans whenever you would lewdly gurgle around his length. Before he could come undone, Hobie urgently grabbed onto the roots of your hair and pulled you away from his throbbing cock. With teary eyes and cum stained cheeks, you coughed and inhaled deeply. Hobie quickly came to your aid afterwards, petting your head gently as his thumb swiped over the spittle of precum glossing over your lips.

“Wan’ stop?” His concern was genuine, but he couldn’t help but admit that you looked really good right now. Tongue coated with his essence, lashes wet and eyes glistening, Hobie just wanted to go the full ride. But only if you wanted to.

Your weak smile reassures him as you cutely shake your head. He gave you a sweet peck on the lips before he lifted you onto his torso. You straddled his slim frame as he eagerly kneaded the softness of your hips. Hobie took in your outfit one last time. Tugging onto the pretty, lacey frills that made his head spin exactly how it did the first time he met you. Fuck, he never even knew pink would look so good on someone until he met you. An absolute princess, he thought. With his dark eyes teaching over your features, his sneaky hand reaches around the hooks of your bra, expertly popping off the clasps with total finesse. The garment slid down your arms and was discarded with the rest of your clothing.

God, he couldn’t keep his eyes off your tits. Every curve, shadow, and tiny details on your sacred flesh lessened his self control. Hobie begins to rut against you, latching his mouth onto a nipple as his spindly fingers began to grope more and more of your exposed body. You sighed as his suckling became more heated and desperate, hollowing his sunken cheeks and filling his tongue with the taste of your hardened buds. Then each suck became bites— bites that littered a bruise on your delicate skin. He wanted to show you off, to that sick bastard that touched you at the bar, the random eyeing you when you guys walked back to your home. Hobie never felt this before, was he feeling jealousy too? Huh, he’s learning many new things today.

“Hobie…” You panted, cradling his face so gently. Hobie could literally get on his knees right now and—

“Let me ride you.”

He rasped a low fuck and nodded with obedience that he never knew existed in his genes.

You tore off your underwear with vigor, a clear strand of your arousal connecting to your sensitive pussy. His cock jutted as you steadied yourself, grabbing firmly onto the thick base. It took so much willpower to not piston his hips right now, but his wishes came true when you sunk down halfway down his pulsing cock. With this newfound connection, the both of you moaned at the same time— your tight walls wrapping around Hobie and his impressive length absolutely wrecking you before you could move your hips.

“Fuckin’ shit– move, move babe. Please.” His begging sounded like music to your ears.

So you lifted your hips and pushed down with a groan.

And everything happened so quickly afterwards.

The heady scent of sex wavered around the warm air, echoes of skin slapping creeping along the empty hallway, your hands sprawled along Hobie’s glowing chest, and your rhyming hips diving down his length that left traces of your arousal along his pubic bone. Control never felt so good. Especially when it comes to Hobie, someone with anarchistic tendencies and despises being ordered around, is now a whimpering mess under you. No snarky quips, relentless teasing, or his usual lopsided grin. He was unraveling, purring and groaning with deep satisfaction, pinching the faces and limbs of your stuffed toys that were disheveled on your bed. There was a whole audience of them, stitched out smiles and detailed eyes that made it seem directed toward the two of you.

And Hobie loved it. Though it was incomparable to the crowds he’d performed in front of, these ones resemble you. Back when he saw you stick out like a sore thumb in the middle of metal chains and spiked hair. He vividly remembered the fluffy white dress and pearls that adorned your hair. He’d be crazy not to take you behind stage right after his performance, and so he did. Now, his current circumstances have him in a blissful state, under the same girl who was too shy to even ask for an autograph.

It’s filthy, having the sight of you bouncing around his cock, the cute little accessories unkempt in your hair, makeup smudged and faded.

But your sight was better. A halo of plushies surrounding Hobie, his eyes teary with hot pleasure, veins protruding along his glowing skin. It’s a sight that had your slick walls tightening around him like a vice and setting up for a mind-shattering orgasm.

“Feeling good love?”

Hobie furrowed his brows, his cartilage bobbing with a thick swallow.

“Y-Yea babe… shit,” Hobie deeply groans, eyes fluttering open with a smirk. “Oh, y-you’r my mine you know that? Can only make me feel this good, yea?”

He was back. Not that you mind, his praising words only made you fuck him harder— more desperate, like you’re chasing down for his cock. The soft ridges of his tip brushed along a spot that made your knees wobble and nearly lock in place. Hobie took the courtesy to start snapping his hips against yours, meeting your quivering thrust halfway. His slender hands were more frantic, a thumb rapidly rolling over your swollen clit and a palm grabbing your thigh for leverage. With his new advances, you began to thrash and whine, mindlessly pleading to Hobie like a broken vinyl. Pleading him to keep going.

His spider senses were on a scale that he never knew could be reached. Prickles along his dewy skin, the tips of his ears twitching with every yelp and mewl that escaped your glossy lips. He can feel your approaching orgasm himself, the warm buzz spreading along his groin was like electricity. He can even feel himself on the edge, his demanding, measured thrust faltering to a desperate, sloppy mess.

“I’m gonna cum.” You rasped with need, your hips sputtering and clumsily losing its tempo.

“Yea, I know.” Hobie slurred through clenched teeth.

Then both of you released at the same time: you, gushing around his heavy length with one final drag against your sweet spot and him; mesmerized by your scrunched up features as his cock spurted hot, messy cum inside you.

Falling into his arms with exhaustion, Hobie immediately nestled you into a comforting embrace. You fit perfectly with his body, the blank spaces filled with your tightly pressed limbs like it was meant to be pieced together; each pant and heartbeat completely in sync. Both of you were sticky, sweaty, and dulled from overwhelming arousal.

“Up top?” Hobie held at his palm, a playful smile adoring his attractive face.

You grinned back, slapping your clammy palm together as his spindly fingers laced around yours, locking your hand in a comforting hold.

“ ‘s fine that I…?” Oh yeah. He came inside you.

“You’re good, see, look?” You propped yourself up and shook the plastic case that contained your birth control. This new position you were in gave Hobie a nice glimpse of his seed slowly running down your leg.

Hobie let out a reverb chuckle, patting at your thighs with adoration.

“Just makin’ sure, ‘m not ready to be a dad yet.”

You playfully rolled your eyes as you adjusted yourself back onto the bed. The brief moment of silence was comforting, weirdly domestic. His slow breathing sounded familiar from your dreams, his caresses nearly lulling you to sleep. Then you broke the silence.

“You know… I would’ve gotten with you way before if I knew you’d fuck me this silly,” you jested, lightly tracing over the silver punctures on his brow bones, to the metallic bar hooked around his soft lips. He leaned into your touch, kissing your palm sweetly.

“Didn’ kno’ you’d like someone as shabby as me.” There was a little shame with Hobie’s confession. He was anxious that his striking contrast from you would draw you away, not like he would usually care, but there was a feeling inside him that drew him closer to you. He didn't want to lose you.

“Shabby? No, you’re actually adorable.” You reassured him softly.

Hobie scoffed out of flusteredness, biting back a satisfied grin.

Adorable? Him? Impossible.

“Wan’ me to leave?” He jokingly pointed towards the door.

You snickered at his teasing, reaching over the piles of discarded clothing and tossing on his loose band shirt.

“Without a nice, hot shower?”

Hobie smiled wickedly. Touché.

“Sounds li’ somethin’ I don’t miss out on.”

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