#hand-woven beadwork

[euphorbic]

Sculpt: @dkeats888.03 RuggedRealism Geneo from Rites of Passage. 65cm body.

˚✧₊⁎This time the light at the end of the tunnel is a disco ball. ⁎⁺˳✧༚

[neteyamsilly]

i will soften every edge, hold the world to its best | 4

summary ;; A father protects, that's what gives him meaning. Jake Sully has failed. PART 3 | PART 5 pairings ;; dad!jake sully x reader, mom!neytiri x reader, sully family x reader genre ;; pure angst and family feels notes / explanations ;; PLEASE READ AUTHOR NOTES. I explicitly said in the previous chapter I would NO LONGER BE TAKING TAG REQUESTS. You're just going to have to check my profile every now and then. I also will not be re-tagging the peeps I did in the last chapter’s replies, it’s just a lot 😭 I'm sorry for the inconvenience and thank you for your understanding! Now I present you, the long awaited angst and groveling of Jake. Enjoy! Please excuse my mistakes if you see any. Thank you so much for the lovely comments and support, I hope the angst hits the way you wanted it / was expecting HHHHH

It’ll shine better, Jake mused to himself, rotating the lumpy amber around in his fingers to better reflect the sunlight streaming in thin rays from the hands of the dense flora above, once I dip this in that polish oil. It’s not entirely unsalvageable. 

At least he hadn’t scraped too much in attempts to give it a rounder shape, the bug at its core you were gushing about to the point of waking him up at zero dark thirty was still intact. He had been summoned from his dreams to look at a cool rock. 

Jake couldn’t not gift it to you as something to be permanently worn after that.

The problem? He was ass at this. Always had been. No drop of craftsmanship in his bloodstream at all when the Na’vi were particularly fond of their ornaments and accessories, making it themselves, in fact. 

Songcords were put together from beads, bones and stones, virtuosity was a must intrinsically woven into everyday life, methodized and irreplaceable since it wasn’t as if mass production could ever be a thing in Pandora. Everything was handmade. 

Jake’s worst enemy beadwork was in their clothing, for example, even in braids — his maladroit at it may or may not be why he wore his hair in plain dreads now. 

He wasn’t an artist or a creator, his hands were more comfortable being fit around a gun or a knife than slipping effortlessly in the rhythm of weaving or the act of making. All his end results were dreadful enough to be bullied relentlessly by his kids — except for you, that is. You absolutely loved them for reasons your mother or none of your siblings could understand. 

Jake’s blundering conscience would melt at the sight of your eyes shining and the biggest smile almost splitting your head in half as if he had just handed you the world every single time he gifted you the newest of his clunky handiwork. He didn’t know why that made you the happiest. You’d been that way ever since you saw him carving and personally adding a bead to his songcord about how he got his firstborn daughter to utter her first word: dada. 

It was important to him, so, down it had gone into Jake’s life story; putting official significance to the moment he never wanted to forget in the same thread that carried the story of him becoming Toruk Makto, just beside Neteyam’s first word, which was also dadada. (Neytiri had Lo’ak’s mam, and Kiri’s perfectly articulated mommy.)

Ever since that day, you had made grabby hands at the bead all the time when he picked you up, teethed at it like a puppy trying to grab a toy, tried to rip it off to make it yours — anything, until Neytiri made you one, but no, you wanted it from dada. 

So dada started making you little trinkets. 

He didn’t know if it was a good or a bad thing you never grew out of receiving gifts from your dad he himself cringed at. Jake wasn’t one to complain, not when someone in this life would feel such enough joy to purify thousands of blighted souls upon receiving his ugly personal work. It made him happy, stroked his ego to high heavens that his sweetheart was doting on dada to see the imperfect as the most fascinating. 

That’s why he had taken on the daunting task of making a bead for you out of the amber you’d fixated on, rasp in one hand, sitting on a thick log that cut into the little stream he and his family were spending leisurely time that day, one leg pulled to himself and one feet in the water up to his ankle. Even though he had half an ear on his four children playing around in the shallow water of the creek, all the screams and squeals of joy felt weak compared to the contained huff of amusement that escaped from his mate who had come up to Jake while he was way too engrossed in his task. 

His eyes shifted to Neytiri, watching her hop on to the log in one agile move. “Don’t laugh.”

“I am not laughing,” Neytiri said, crouching to sit, her mouth twitched upwards as she looked at the amber in his hand.

“I have eyes, Neytiri, I literally see you laughing.” His face used to burn at her openly teasing about beadmaking, but his oldest daughter’s attentions had restored his bruised confidence over the years. The slander wasn’t taken lightly these days as Jake had proudly relabeled the odd shapes of his work as a creative choice. “Right to my face.”

“You’re mistaken.” 

Jake made his jaw drop, overacting his bafflement. “Wow, gaslighting? Really?”

Neytiri hit his arm lightly. In her terms, it was light, at least. “I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s something you shouldn’t do to your mate.” He turned his back to her, giving a look over his shoulder. “You’re abusing me. I’m being abused.”

“Baby.”

“No amount of pet names are gonna fix my broken heart.”

“No. You are a baby. I’m insulting you.” Neytiri hadn’t even laughed, but the uplifted timbre of that sentence sure did make Jake snicker in disbelief. “If you can’t take it, maybe you should leave beading to me.”

“I would say they are fashionably off,” he defended. You carried them with delight, so why shouldn’t Jake take more pride in his work? “And you said practice makes perfect years ago, I remember the exact words—”

“Years ago. You still haven’t gotten any better at it.” Neytiri was his biggest supporter and criticizer at the same time. “And you became a part of the clan back in the day in three months Jake. Never a more unbelievable thing to me than this.” 

“I’m trying alright?” He turned back to the bead, or, vaguely bead-shaped amber, if technical terms were involved. It still had a whole adventure to embark on until it could receive the noble title of a bead. “She likes what I make, at least.”

“It’s because she’s your daughter and anything you do is out of this world. Beauty in the most unlikely places. A child’s love is pure that way.” The unexpected hypnotism of poetry in that sentence alone pulled Jake’s gaze to Neytiri’s, and for a moment, he could physically feel his heart within his ribcage being squeezed, tethering on painful, but with a joyful tinge. “She doesn’t have standards yet.”

Well, that hurt. “Damn.”

“Damm!” A pair of small and branch-thin arms wrapped around his neck from behind, and something, or rather, someone, latched onto his back. “Rahh!” 

Jake should have been suspicious of how silent it had gotten halfway into his talk with Neytiri. Turns out, you had swam underneath the log to get out of his line of sight, climbing with the stealth of a bug to come up undetected. 

Well, mark Jake down as impressed, you weren’t able to do that without being spotted until today, this was another wonderful milestone for you — you had learned impressively, taking advantage of his distraction, avoiding making noise and using water to your advantage. Neytiri must have given you some pointers. 

And now he was wondering if his mate was in on this all along, purposefully disturbing his peace so their kids could see an opening to pounce on him.  

“Oof!” Your hold on him was something he could break out of any minute with how adorably strong you were exerting yourself to make it, but he wanted to play along more than anything. Jake was acting panicked, swinging his body left and right from the waist, but really, it was just a light warm-up exercise with the easiest deadlift possible. “I’m being ambushed!”

“I got you now, Toruk Makto!” You wrapped your legs around his torso, and he felt like this was just a piggyback ride with extra steps. “Watch this, mom!”

Oh, it’s on. 

Discreetly handing Neytiri the amber, Jake stood up, bringing you up with him and fighting a smile at your clipped squeak as the height became too much too quick, causing you to cling onto him stronger. He reached behind, and within seconds, he had you in his hands, holding you from the armpits and dangling you above the stream, your kicking legs beating the air, and he cackled like a villain threatening to fling the hero from atop of a skyscraper. 

“You got me? Please.” He loosened his grip the slightest amount to give you the illusion he would let go, and you stopped struggling to scream, catching his forearms. “A measly thing like you? Conquering me? I’ll show you why I’m the king of the skies! Here I come!”

Making sure you wouldn’t get hurt, Jake threw you into the water as gently as possible, but made the angle entertaining enough so you would go flying. He wasn’t sure who’d screeched the highest, your three siblings who had you spearheading this little operation with full trust in your capabilities, or you reacting like you were falling down from an ikran midair. Either way, he was enjoying bullying his kid a bit too much. 

Emerging from the stream and shaking the water off too akin to a wet dog, your first action was to shield your siblings, open arms and whole body and all. “Nete, run! Protect Lovak and Kiri, I’ll save you!”

Jake’s evil smile looming on his kids wavered at that. 

You had problems with some letters even at the big age of eight, two vowels next to each other in one word was one of them, along with the confusion of “f” and “b”, and sometimes “p” — it made for hilarious misunderstandings Jake had to fight to be a parent about instead of busting a lung from laughing. 

One of the many unforgettable events was deemed “The Fish Incident” between Jake, Max and Norm. He had been recording Neteyam’s first catch on his own to add it to the cute memory pile he and his mate would watch in the future after all their children eventually moved out to pursue their paths. You happened to be present that time, watching intently as your big brother shot a particularly giant yellow fish, eagerly jumping down to the pond to get it and showing it to the camera with a shy, yet proud grin on his face. 

“Good job, boy!” Jake had cheered. “Say I got that fish!”

Out of the camera’s frame and making little jumps on your toes, you’d blithely yelled. “Yeah, you got that bish!” 

The rest of the footage was shaky and out of focus, the microphone hadn’t picked up any sound but Jake’s uncontrollable laughter, kicked off by an exploding snort of shock. 

You and Neteyam had no idea why, but after he’d stopped recording with tears streaming down his face, wheezing because he couldn’t stop laughing, you’d joined to laugh and play with him regardless, mirroring his excitement. 

Later though, Jake had to actively make it so you wouldn’t have to say the words kitchen and pitch (and obviously, fish) out loud, at least, in front of Neytiri. He didn’t want to abstain from having a little fun himself, so under no circumstance was she allowed to find out and correct you. And he had it going strong for a while until it slipped when he was talking about a scientist friend over at Hell’s Gate called Richard and you repeated it as “Bitchard”. The word had somehow weaseled into your English lexicon as well, and Neytiri wasn’t illiterate enough to be oblivious to what you’d merrily blurted. 

Good old days. Jake sometimes missed hearing you curse innocently. Neytiri had to take that source of joy away from him. Discouragement and warnings would be given to his kids if they knowingly cussed, of course, Kiri calling Lo’ak penis face was something he’d immediately shot down, but this was harmless, he thought. He could have let you be blissfully unaware until the day you learned the meaning of the words, or gain consciousness of the articulation errors as you grew up and naturally fix it yourself. It was only a natural part of a child’s growth.  

But he had other entertainment. The obligatory consonant you had to sometimes add to two different neighboring vowels if it was too difficult for you to pronounce, for example. Your little brother was a victim to this. Thankfully, Lo’ak wasn’t bothered to be called Lovak by his older sister, somehow thinking of it as a nickname, but Jake could bet his ass the boy would use this as infinite ammo against you once both of you were older. He would of course forget how you always protected him in play fighting like right now, of course, maybe you would remember enough to accuse him of ungratefulness, and perhaps Lo’ak would declare he didn’t recall anything such as that. 

How bittersweet of a thing it was to drift into imaginations of how his kids would be like when they grew up. Like the stinging ache Jake always got when he was confronted with the sadness of losing his children forever one day — the need to put every minute with them in a bottle, and the feeling of time slipping through his fingers, the same old melancholy each time: when it first dawned on Jake that you’d successfully sneaked up on him just now, when Neteyam had captured his first fish all on his own without assistance, when Lo’ak showed him the knife he had successfully carved by himself to get his approval, and when Kiri had tended to a scratch wound of his better than her grandmother did with precocious wisdom on her face. 

Jake was making every moment count. Just like this one. 

“Nobody is safe from me, I’ll huff and I’ll puff and blow your house in!” He jumped down from the log with the grace and intimidation of a leopard who had been disturbed while eating up the tree he’d dragged his meal on, splashing water everywhere. “What will you do, o’ mighty hunter?”

You loved being called mighty hunter by him, he saw the sparkle in your eyes. 

“Noooo!” Kiri cried, pulling on both Lo’ak and Neteyam’s arms huddled behind you. “He’ll get us!”

Your thought process, completely spooked by Jake, was painfully visible. But surprisingly, you yelled, “Scatter!” with the experience of a rave addict who would take a forty and smash it on the ground as the police closed in on the party grounds. And his kids ran in different directions, like a group of cockroaches when someone approached them, they all ran in different directions. 

Sloshing water all around to make it more terrifying, he got Kiri first, hauled her right over his shoulder when she made for Neytiri, thinking her mother could protect her, but no. Jake was inevitable. Lo’ak gave him a weak challenge trying to step around him, getting Jake to confuse his steps as if they were playing basketball, but this was his dad he was facing and not Spider, these tricks didn’t work on veterans, so now he was flush to Jake’s side, tail facing forward, carried like some strapless bag, it didn’t even put any strain on the man’s bicep. Neteyam was the last, hiding beneath the water level and holding his breath, but the little nose peeking out for air gave him away, and Jake had him up the other shoulder in seconds, the boy didn’t have enough time to run away even though he’d spied from underwater that Jake was coming for him. 

Three out of four. That left only his eldest daughter. 

You were nowhere to be seen. The delighted and struggling giggle-cries of the three kids in his arms and shoulders didn’t help at all to Jake taking his surroundings in with a keen ear, all senses attuned to spotting the stray. 

A rustle from above. 

“Attack him!” 

He didn’t have enough time to see just which branch of the trees cocooning the creek you had climbed on before all three in his arms turned on him, flailing around together in unison to get Jake to fall down and kneel, and it surprisingly worked, he couldn’t even recover between the blink of a time between them getting off the way and you jumping down on him. The height at which you did that knocked all air off his ribcage for a second as he tried to retain balance, and you took that chance to sit on his shoulders, your legs dangling from each one, grabbing onto two dreads on his head as if they were the tails of Toruk he once had held onto like leashes. 

Jake had to give this one to you, damn. When had you become a student of the art of strategizing? 

But, defeat was defeat. He had to play his part. “This can’t be!” He opened his arms, making it seem cartoonishly like he had been incapacitated. “I’ve been… bested?”

“That’s right!” The cockiness was dripping from you as you pulled on his dreads. “I’m Toruk Makto Makto now. The first of my name!”

Your siblings started cheering battle cries, repeating the word. 

Don’t laugh, he ordered himself. Toruk Makto Makto, what a title, oh Jesus Christ. 

“Alright, alright, you got me, mighty hunter.” 

“So I win?”

“Yes, you win.”

He was going to have two less dreads on his head if you kept pulling on them like this. “Hell yeah!” 

After hearing the declaration, his other children also joined in on the ‘Hell yeah!’ train. Jake supposed he could let this slide for now, you guys were too happy, he wouldn’t sully it. 

“You’re gonna rip my hair off, get down now.” You understood play time was over from his tone, and obeyed, hopping down his shoulders when he lowered you into the water, immediately attempting to rush to your siblings’ side to be celebrated, but Jake had something else in mind. “C’mere for a sec.”

He pulled you to the edge of the stream where water met grassy land, dipping his hand into the wet soil under your confused gaze and bringing his fingers up to trace a pattern on your face.

The reaction was instantaneous. You pulled back. “Ew, mud!”

“Hold on,” he gently warned, or rather, encouraged.

You let him continue whatever he was doing then, albeit not losing the laughable concern along the way. “What’s this?”

“Well, you’ve tamed Toruk Makto before an ikran. My mighty hunter should be painted accordingly, no?”

He pointed down and you followed it with your eyes. Seeing your reflection and the ‘V’ shape with a dot on your face in the water, you stopped yourself from touching it with the impulse control that kicked in at the last second, looking up at Jake, jumping up and down, unable to contain the energy, knowing exactly what he did just now. He’d recognized you as a prospective hunter candidate. “Thank you, dad!”

Jake could swear his insides liquidized at that. “Always, sweetheart.”

“Will you paint me like this when I finally get an ikran, too?”

“Of course I will.” He actually wanted to cup your cheeks and plant a little kiss at the adorable flat of your nose but the mud would be ruined, so he pet your braids instead. “As will your mother. It’s what family does.”

At the time, Jake didn’t have the slightest inkling that the paint would end up being your own blood. 

Neytiri’s bloody hands — your blood, his child, his child, his baby Jake’s entire day would stop at seeing one tear on her face — had been stroking your face, trying to hold on to you anywhere she could to soothe your flaming pain as you were squirming like a dying animal fighting for the next breath. His heart beating right behind his eyes in a massive pulsating headache, Jake was too desperate fighting his swelling panic with each noise that ripped from you to notice they had left the vague pattern of Iknimaya paint pattern in their wake. 

She did. 

And her following anguished, gasping shudder as her shaking hands hovered above your contorted face, tracing the air along the lines the blood had left on your face ended up hitting him right in the gut. He couldn’t dwell on it. He couldn’t let this random twisted sign sweep him into the roaring waterfall of torment, your life was on the line.  

Jake didn’t have any coherent memory of running back to the mouth of the cave from the family tent. One moment, he was back with his brain fried from thinking about Quaritch in the aftermath of an hour that had just taken twenty years from his lifespan, avoiding the inquisitive silence of his kids who hadn’t gone back to bed yet; and the other, Neytiri was screaming in the distance with terror worse than the anguish he’d heard her go through upon losing her father and her home. Jake had all but flown there, mind blank in swirling, spasming panic. 

Neytiri had told him he had a strong heart the first time they’d met. No fear. Even though Jake was aware he was being disliked strongly, this quality of his she had remarked on, honest to her soul. 

But she was wrong. 

That fearless fortress heart of his had begun to crumble the moment he learned of Neteyam’s existence. And with each and every new addition to their family, Jake had been rehabilitated on what fear truly was, like a baby learning a language. 

Losing. It was all about losing. 

He would wake up from terrorizing, choking nightmares with the sensation of his family being violently taken away from him when his children were in his arms, sleeping peacefully all along. He couldn’t stop it. It had spiraled out of control after the sky people came back, turning him into a paranoid, angry man who was ruled by fear. He worried for the safety of his family every day, obsessed over it — beneath the impenetrable iron mask of a leader his whole clan was leaning on, Jake was nothing more than a weak, emotionally crippled father who would lose it the more his children grew up to take reckless actions he made worse by the inability to govern his fear-curbed anger. He called it tough love. 

That tough love had resulted in this. Loss. Loss. Loss he had tried his damnedest to prevent. It was blood slipping through his fingers from a wound he had no way of stitching back together. 

The more he pushed to block the bullet entrance point, the more you fought Jake, making feral yowls that weakened into animalistic whimpers and throaty whines that all but ripped his heart off muscle by muscle, your hits and scratches didn’t faze him, but the noises. Eywa, the noises. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know you’re in pain, I know, I know, I’ll make it go away, please hold on, c’mon.” The droplets of sweat that had formed in the matter of seconds rolled down his face. You had begun to hyperventilate from the accelerating pain because of his efforts. “C’mon sweetheart. Breathe for me, breathe for dad, okay? You gotta breathe. Breathe!”

You were unhearing, lost in the overwhelming, blinding, deafening agony he couldn’t anchor or shield you from. The grunt of desperation that escaped his sore throat rattled his carbon fiber infused bones.  

Jake didn’t have time to think. His reason had flown out the mountains to be able to force one single word to form in his mindscape. He just knew he had to stop the bleeding, propelled by concentrated instinct. You were struggling too much for him to have a solid hold on you. Everything, too slippery. Too much blood. Too fucking much. The sickening smell of iron bit at his senses. 

(Was it the liver? The spleen? Pancreas? One of the major arteries? But Na’vi biology wasn’t the same as humans. Fuck.) 

Then, you were being restrained by a third party, Neytiri was too devastated to make that reasonable decision, and in his peripheral vision, he saw it was Neteyam who had sat down on your legs, restricting your movements with incredible strength. Jake couldn’t even bark at him to go away with how much Neteyam looked in control, a rock he and Neytiri both could draw strength from. Behind him, Lo’ak was a stone statue just standing there, frozen, his eyes not leaving your bloody abdomen. 

When you let out a yelp his heart could no longer stand, he yelled, “Bring a stretcher!” to nobody in particular, out of his goddamn mind. Lo’ak jumped at it, coming back to his senses, hesitating what to do for a second before he was off to god knows where. He had to take you to Norm’s, and then a doctor—

A tiny, trembling voice he couldn’t recognize as Neteyam’s reached his ears. “Dad…” 

The boy was looking at you, blown eyes shining with unshed tears, upper set of teeth sinking in his shaky bottom lip. 

You had gone slack in his arms. 

He hadn’t even seen the moment, didn’t stop putting pressure on the wound as the dread assaulted his body. And a biting shiver went down his spine before Jake also looked down on his eldest daughter. Your eyes weren’t closed all the way, halted gaze focused on something to the side, one tear rolling down your temple. 

“Don’t do this to me.” Jake couldn’t breathe as he shook his head, he was about to lose it, about to tumble down the edge he could never climb his way up from. In denial, he didn’t lift his hands, losing all strength in his upper body and gradually collapsing forward as his forehead found yours. “Don’t do this to me, sweetheart, not like this. Please, not like this.”

The last thing you were looking at was the ikran you’d gotten.

Jake didn’t feel that very ikran making its way to their side, flapping its wings, didn’t feel anything to react when a snoot reached down and ever-so-gently nudged you, like you were asleep and it was given the duty to wake you up in the morning that day. 

Your ikran nudged you once. Twice. Thrice. Each push was harsher than the other. 

You didn’t wake up. Your eyes didn’t get their light back. 

A paralyzing numbness took over Jake’s body, all his neuron ends stunted. The moon stopped spinning, time stopped moving, he ceased existing, all at the same time. 

A piercing ringing stabbed his ears, took away his hearing. He didn’t hear Neytiri scream louder than the ikran, you were ripped from his arms, and he couldn’t move to do anything about it, just staring into the distance, at nothing, bloodied palms facing upwards in his lap. 

It was Neteyam who tried to stop his wailing mother from going mad with grief, trying to get her to set down your body from her crushing embrace even though he couldn’t take his misty eyes off your body. It was Lo’ak, frantic in his run even though his panic-frozen face gave away nothing, who had rushed back with Mo’at and Kiri. It was Tuk who had thrown herself into his arms for a hug Jake wasn’t in his body to reciprocate, his seven year old child, in tears, comforting him when Jake, as the adult and the father, should have had his shit together and be the provider of comfort. 

Instead, all he could feel was the blood on his hands, one small part in his mind making him focus on that one amber with a bug inside he’d carved for you, years ago, now in your hair.

The tears didn’t come. His world was shattering all around him, but not one tear made it to the surface. 

Someone was talking to him, but Jake wasn’t there, experiencing the moment behind a thick veil of silencing glass. 

“Open her mouth, Jakesuli.”

He looked at the source of the muffled sound breaching the ringing in his ears, painfully empty and unfeeling. It was Mo’at. In her hand, a woodsprite gently floated in the air and landed before it repeated the motion again. It was as if his brains had been emptied from his skull. He didn’t understand. He didn’t see. Tuk was clinging to him, Neytiri doubled down in waves of cries in Neteyam’s arms. Jake wasn’t there. 

“Open her mouth so I can keep her spirit here longer,” Mo’at said. “Do it now. We do not have much time.”

And Jake could breathe again, his soul slinged back into his body, feeling returning to the tips of his fingers, kicking into action. 

He cradled your body from the cold ground you were lying on, bringing his shaky hand to your tightly shut jaw. Your body couldn’t have been experiencing rigor mortis, so you must have been clenching your teeth to the point of your jaw locking to fight the pain, and he was nearly blinded from the sheer strength with which he had to hold back from hugging you. But he eventually opened your jaw with a sickening pop that made him visibly grimace, and Mo’at guided the woodsprite to slip inside the cavity of your mouth.

The bioluminescent dots on your body began to flicker the moment your mouth was closed again. Jake gave a shuddering breath at the sign of life, hands unsure if he should continue to cover the wound again. 

“Eywa has allowed her to remain. For a while.”

“Oh Great Mother, thank you!” Neytiri took one of your hands, pressing it against her cheek and kissing it over and over again. “Thank you, thank you.”

“Bring her to my tent,” the Tsahik simply stated, and Jake didn’t even stop to consider how he should be taking you to the science guys, how they were probably going to say you needed a blood transfusion and surgery right after they got the necessary tests such as MRI and blood analysis out of the way. Kiri, sniffling weakly, took the crying Tuk away so Jake could carry you. He couldn’t comfort his girls the way he wanted to, couldn’t attend to Neytiri as their sons consoled her and got consoled in return in a tight hug together; he was on the move, heart about to beat out of his chest.  

He took you in his arms and clutched your unconscious and ashen blue body tightly to his chest, your head lolling in the crook of his arm, arriving to Mo’at’s tent faster than she did — and oh, how small you were compared to him, how fragile and vulnerable. The attitude made you appear bigger than you actually were, and Jake was reminded how you were still a child from how light his daughter was, like a fleeting bird. He’d forgotten. It had been forever since he last held you like this that he couldn’t bear to lay you down on the mat. If only he could hide you away within his ribcage, away from the pain and the suffering, forever.

“Everything in this world is borrowed,” she told him, an incense was burned, salves were prepared, tools he had no idea on what they were used were brought out. Plants, herbs. Jake stood there, helpless. “Even this child, Eywa has lent to you. She is borrowed from the bosom of our Great Mother, entrusted to you. Entrusted.” Your freckles were still flickering, and Tsahik’s tone, clipped. “I will converse with her. Ask if she plans to call her daughter back home today.”

Ice washed over Jake. “No, you gotta heal her, Mo’at, I can't lose m—”

“Everything in this world is borrowed. Each breath. Each heartbeat. All children. All gifts from Eywa.” Her eyes bore into him. “I can only ask.”

Neytiri pounced on him as soon as he stumbled out of the tent, beaten and spent despite not having one scratch on his body, upon Kiri’s entrance to assist her grandmother in tending to you. 

“Your fault!” He was violently pushed back, only able to take in the woman’s bloodied, wrathful face, tear tracks freshened with saltwater she couldn’t stop shedding. “This is your fault! I told you! I told you to fix this!”

Jake was aware other clan members were watching even if they weren’t out of their homes, he was Olo’eyktan, their leader, his pride would have taken this to their own tent had this been any other debate, but now, he couldn’t give a flying fuck. Bruising his back was the weight of a failed father instead of the ornamental piece of the clan leader, it was unbearable enough. She was right. There was nothing else to be said. His mate was right. 

“Mother, please,” Neteyam was right beside them in a flash, holding Neytiri back and shielding his father from her. His sunken eyes found Lo’ak and Tuk crouching at the edge of the tent, huddled together, the youngest having the crying hiccups as her older brother had an arm around her, himself looking traumatized enough. 

“Don’t, boy.” Jake put a hand on his stone-hard shoulder, moving him aside. Neteyam took one hard look at Neytiri half-circling his father in long strides, and decided it was best if he took care of his siblings instead even if he wasn’t told outright. He ushered Tuk and Lo’ak up and away, to the other side of the tent where they wouldn’t disturb their parents by staying in the field of vision. 

Jake should have been the one to take control, but Neteyam had stepped up for it — he was a kid, too, eldest child or not. What the fuck am I doing? 

In his tumultuous sorrow, every piece of the fortress Jake had put together was coming down, every decision re-evaluated, emotion overtaking what he once thought as logic. His fault. His fault. He had ruined his children, all of them. He had thought embracing the iron will of a war chief would allow him to be a strong father figure, but it had only alienated his family. 

You had died in his arms. 

Jake contained every storm in a box inside his body, Neytiri lived those storms, she was strong that way. He would take it. Her eyes were only seeing red at the moment, the grief and wrath of a wronged mother. “Yeah, it’s my fault,” he told her, something between a whisper and a sigh. His kids deserved to hear it. “I know.”

“She is dying because of you!” Jake couldn’t escape the truth by closing his eyes, but he did anyway, like an automatic body reflex against detecting something would be hitting him. He swallowed, his mouth was drier than a desert, no relief was found in the action. “My daughter! My child! Your child!” She pushed him again, hissing. Jake didn’t do anything to stop it. “All because you told her to go today—everything, everything… All because you didn’t reach out to her. She hid that.” A shiver shook her voice. “That… because of you. You! She thought you would be angry!”

Violent horror seized his heart, ears pinning back on his head, knuckles clenching so light blue they were almost white. “I would… I would never—how could I ever—?”

But it was in character, wasn’t it? Jake always getting angry over worry for his children. Going crazy because they could have gotten hurt. Fear grows into anger, worm eating away the bark of a tree into poisonous snake. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, chest rising and falling in big breaths, there was no air.  

“She said you hated her. Over and over again, she said you hated her. Not to call you because you would hate her for it, Jake!”

Bitter guilt and glacial shock rose from his stomach, choking him, his eyes looking at anywhere but Neytiri’s blazing golden eyes, to his children who sat together seemingly away from them but blatantly listening, to the tent flames were barely illuminating the shadows inside. His legs were weak. All that he had been breaching behind a wall to prioritize your safety flooded rancid to his mind. 

Jake got angry at you all the time that you’d expected it at your most vulnerable. That he would blame you, reprimand you for his enemy’s actions.

His memories were attacked by all sides. That you had gone off on your own for the Iknimaya everybody should have been there for, he should have painted your face personally for. That you have been hiding the bleeding out from the moment Jake had found you pinned down by the dead body of an avatar, from the moment you’d answered positively to the question of if you were hurt or not, with that rifle he’d thought you didn’t let go because of how the events had shaken you. He opened his mouth, a gaping fish, but no words came out, mute and voiceless. 

Hate you? Hate you? Hate his own child he would burn the whole world for?

His child. Suffering in silence when her nature was anything but silent. Afraid of her father when she was the most fearless of his kids when facing him.

You thought you weren’t loved.

“What have you done to our children? What has this family become? What are we if our children are too afraid to come to us in their darkest hours?” Neytiri was snarling, both fury and grief battling inside her, teeth gnashing so hard they could sharpen a knife. “What child does not seek her parents when she is hurt?” 

Unseeing, Jake couldn’t stand anymore, staggering towards a particularly large rock and sitting on it, he raised his hands to rub his face but stopped when he saw the blood. 

All yours. All his daughter’s who he had failed. Who had died in his arms thinking she was hated because Jake was a shit excuse of a father you couldn’t trust to say you were hurt that you would take the risk of dying so he wouldn’t find out. 

His daughter’s blood, on his hands. 

He put his elbows to his legs, crossing his wrists to lean his forehead on, yet unable to hide his shaking hands even if he managed to hide his face. Jake couldn’t comprehend any of this, crushed beneath the skyful of burning hot shame and the guilt dwarfing him — tears he couldn’t seem to shed found life in his eyes at him trying to blink away the memory of you clinging to your ikran at the flight home. You had been suffering the whole time and all he could think about was Quaritch when he should have been thinking of you.

“What child would rather hide her injury than let her father know?” It shocked his spine like lightning, and Jake visibly flinched, fists clenching and unclenching. “Explain this to me!” 

Shame. Shame. Shame. Jake was about to throw up, rocking back and forth.

He had nothing to say. Nothing could ever excuse this. He couldn’t wash away all your moments from this night, all a cursed film strip haunting his every breath accompanied by thorns that ripped apart his insides. 

“If she lives,” Neytiri said, pointing a curled hand at him, slowly, scarily calm, but shaking with mastered rage. If she lives destroyed Jake.  “We would be lucky if my mother doesn’t decide to perform Stxel’eveng as Tsahik!” 

Jake’s head shot up at the word, his arms dropping altogether and meeting his mate’s tortured stare. As Olo’eyktan, he had to be taught the traditions and ceremonies to the point of talking in his sleep from overlearning — this one was a long lost one the clan hadn’t performed for a long time, as the Omatikayan were faithful and loyal to Eywa and her teachings. 

Stxel’eveng was the shortened word for ‘Gifting of a Child’ — an adoption ceremony within Na’vi that didn’t even have the word ‘adopt’ in their vocabulary, simply because it was almost non-existent, most Na’vi didn’t even know the existence of such a tradition. If the parents were unable to care and provide for their child, mistreated on purpose or neglected them to the point of no return, they were to be publicly dishonored by the gifting of said child to another willing family. A knot would be formed between the three, one thread bound around the waist of the mother signifying the womb, one thread fastened to the queue of the father, and the final thread to the wrists of the child as if they were captive. The knot, then, would be severed by Tsahik to symbolize the dissolvement of the familial relations in Eywa’s eyes.

The biggest shame a Na’vi could bring upon their name. 

“No,” Jake muttered, his mind going blank yet again. Fuck the shame. Damn his name. He couldn’t lose you. It’s a stone in his throat he can’t swallow, whales on his tongue he can’t speak to save himself.

“Pray to Eywa it doesn’t happen. Because if I was Tsahik, I would do it.” Neytiri turned away from him, pushing the heel of her hands on her damp eyes. “I cannot bear this shame, Jake. I can barely breathe.”

He quivered like a baby leaf caught in a storm, a couple more tears rolling down his cheeks. “Neytiri…” 

“I lost my daughter today. She slipped from my fingers. I watched her die.” He lowered his head at her grief, vision swimming. “How am I a mother when I can't feel her pain? How am I worthy of being her mother when I saw my child’s pain and just sat there helpless? Why would the Great Mother ever want to send her back?” She just kept going, not having any mercy on Jake’s soul. “Where was I when she won against her ikran? Where was I when she had her first flight? Where was I to protect her from those demons?”

A father protects, that’s what gives him meaning.

Who was Jake Sully?

“Lo’ak, come back here!” 

Both of them turned just in time to see their youngest son running away from the back of the tent they’d been hiding, Neteyam following a couple steps before he stopped to look back, probably at his sister. 

“I’ll get him,” Jake said, soulless and absentminded. Neytiri didn’t respond, stalking back to Mo’at’s tent, just kneeling in front of the entrance, wrapping her hands and tail around her knees. Tuk turned the corner, scampering towards her and finding refuge in Neytiri immediately wrapping around her protectively. 

Jake wasn’t allowed to comfort his mate. 

But he could get to his children who needed it. Trust, Neytiri had said. Honesty. 

Walking up to Neteyam, he put a warm hand behind his rigid back, and felt the taut muscles relax underneath his touch, another wave of shame hitting at the inability to recall just when he had last comforted his boy. 

“Get Tuk. Go home. Rest.”

Neteyam turned to him, scandalized. “We will stay.”

“Neteyam—”

“Dad—sir, please. I can’t leave my sister.”

That sir was a splash of acid on his already weeping heart. 

It dawned on Jake that Neteyam was the one witnessing your moment of death. Death. A surge of nausea shot up from his esophagus, and he didn’t stop himself from hooking an arm around the boy, careful of using his hands not to get blood on the eldest, pulling him into a much awaited embrace. He hadn’t allowed him to be a kid.

“It’s okay, Neteyam,” he croaked. “She’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

Neteyam’s arms didn’t wrap around him, unfamiliar to the gesture — crumbling Jake’s already broken heart into dust, but he did shiver, fighting the tremble. He simply said, “I pray so.”

He was still trying to hold it together — for everybody’s sake. 

Jake felt the boy’s tears on his skin, and didn’t let him go when he tried to step back to wipe them, letting Neteyam cry silently as much as he wanted. He owed the boy that much, as his father. It was the least he could do. 

Jake would stitch this family back together. He had to.

Washing the blood off his hands had taken a while. Jake wasn’t let off easy, cursed by the remaining line of bloodied dirt in his nails. 

He found Lo’ak at where it all began. The mouth of the cave where your ikran was disturbing the other ones with restless chittering, reminding Jake of a wolf howling all night at the full moon. 

His youngest son was transfixed by the blood staining the ground. Just standing there, looking at it. Jake couldn’t protect him from the sight. Not anymore. He himself could barely stomach it.

“Is sister going to be taken away?” was the first thing he asked Jake, not looking at him still. 

Jake didn’t know if he meant death, or Stxel’eveng. 

“I pray not,” he told Lo’ak, honest for once. 

And like him, the boy wasn’t sentimental or emotional enough to bear his wounds to another, even to a family member, and fell silent. “It has Toruk’s colors,” he said instead, referring to your ikran’s red, orange, yellow and black patterns. Looking at the creature, Jake tried his hardest to stand up straight when he discerned all the blood coating its neck and back from the natural red color disguising it. “I wanted to fly with her.”

Pulling him into a side-hug, “I’m sorry, Lo’ak,” Jake admitted, causing him to finally break the trance he had on the blood. Speechless at his father, proud and strong, admitting he was wrong out loud and that he was being hugged when it wasn’t like his father at all to show them casual physical affection. Jake knew what must be going through his head, he would be thinking the same if his own father had ever taken responsibility for wrongdoings, as well.  “It’s my fault you didn’t get to.”

Lo’ak’s mouth was hanging low. “Dad…”

“But you will,” he said, determined and full of hope. He had to be. For his children. 

“You think so?”

“I pray so,” he quoted Neteyam. “Your sister is stubborn. She will pull through. Don’t lose faith in her.”

Lo’ak’s grip on his forearm was painful. 

“That ikran’s lost the half of its tail fins,” the boy sniffled, thickening his voice to hide the tears. “How did it get all the way here?”

It stung in Jake’s chest. The same way you’d hidden that injury. Your ikran was fueled only by the desire to get its rider to safety, it seemed. 

It would never fly again. 

Jake looked down at Lo’ak, only to be met with him avoiding his look, still concerned with hiding the tears. “Loyalty,” he said. “Devotion. Sometimes you don’t want to lose the things you love no matter what, that desperation gives you enough strength to push through any trial by fire. You would do anything. Anything.” 

And sometimes it was fear that did it, but he didn’t mention that to Lo’ak to not put salt on their family’s injury. Jake didn’t want to think about how terrified you must have been, or he would actually go insane. He didn’t want to think about the possibility of you not making it in the end. He had to keep going. He had to push forward. Be the father this family needed him to be. 

“Come on, boy,” he pulled Lo’ak gently. “Let’s go back.”

Your ikran whined at this pitifully. Jake tried not to think. He tried not to imagine what your reaction would be upon learning you would never fly together again, and had to put down this ikran that had been devoted endlessly to you if you wanted to get a new one. 

Jake didn’t think. Because if he did, he would actually go insane from the pain. 

Mo’at and Kiri emerged from the tent only in the morning, by which the whole family was cocooned in Jake’s embrace for the first time in years before the sky people had come back. They all had scrambled to get up, waiting with bated breath for one syllable of good news as Kiri slipped into Jake’s arms, one wink from falling asleep while standing. He kissed the girl’s head, soothing her, hoping this could be you eventually. He had been praying for it like a madman. 

“Eywa has accepted to bestow your daughter back to you, Jakesuli,” was the only answer Mo’at had for them, no word about your physical wellbeing. “But only if she accepts as well.” 

“I don’t understand.”

“You must go speak with her. At the Tree of Souls.”

taglist: @ihonestlydontknowwhattonamethis@alohastitch0626 @jackiehollanderr @lucciera @qvrcll @iloveavatar @velvtcherie @ssc7514 @goldenmoonbeam @neteyamforlife @itsluludoll @jakesullys-bitch @blubrryy @sully-stick-together @arminsgfloll @alice121804 @noname2246 @justthingzsblog @eywamygoddess @m-1234 @ellabellabus07 @hellok1ttycake @dakotali @bluefire12348 @abbersreads @yellooaaa @aimsro @octavias-next-meat-bite @nikqdn @nao-cchi @spicycloudsalad @yeosxxx @heybiatchz @winxschester @elegantkidfansoul @eichenhouseproperty @kakimakiloh @dueiosy @liyahsocorro @dimplesxx @tigresslily@n8ivatar @strnqer @lillybbyy @jakesullyssluttt @r3dc4ndy @myheartfollower @gcldtom @bunnyrose01 @aceofheartzzz @ghoulbli @slasherfcker505 @ducks118 @megsthings @graykageyama @gwolf92

@thotd-f1 @httpjiikook @nipoxe @fussel9913 @gloryekaterina @nxptury @thesheelfsworld @heyyitsmaiaa @anyasullyyy @rey26 @in-luvais @em-100 @n7cje @kpopslur @holysaladapricothero @dedicateeverythingtomilkshake @maviee @grxcisxhy-wp @me-marilm @n39ro-chann

[angel-sweets666]

Cast me spell

Barbarian bakugo x witch afab reader

warning : smut

part 2

read part one here first before reading this, then it will make more sense

a/n I’ve heard your prayers and I’m writing part 2 bc I’ve been asked to. I genuinely didn’t think this fanfiction would actually be good to read bc I don’t think I’m a good writer but some people like it and I’m going to try and get better. I downloaded grammarly so I could get better at writing for you guys

You slept well that night, cradled in the arms of a certain blonde barbarian. Bakugo kept you safe as you lay on his chest, his hand tangled in your hair. You whined softly and buried your face into his broad chest, his skin scattered with scars. Carefully, you traced the marks with your fingers. "Can I try something?" you asked softly, looking up at him with big doe eyes. "Yeah, go ahead, darlin'," he replied groggily, his voice raspy and deep. Your index finger began to glow as you pressed it against a scar that stretched across his chest. Suddenly, the scar began to glow around the edges and slowly closed up, starting from the left side and moving to the right. Bakugo watched in awe. Witches could do magical things, but he didn’t think they could do this! He looked down at his chest, then back up at you. "How did you do that?" he asked, puzzled. You snickered and placed your head back down on his chest. "Magic…" you murmured.

Bakugo accepted your answer and stared up at the ceiling. The silence was comforting, not awkward at all. He rubbed your back soothingly, occasionally tugging softly at the ends of your hair. He smiled down at you and kissed your forehead. "So… will you take me up on my proposal?" he asked.

"Didn't I already answer that?" you replied.

"I want an answer when you're not all sexed up, a sober answer," he said, his voice serious.

"Oh… then… yes, I will marry you." It felt like a big step to be honest, but to him, this was completely normal. It was a part of his culture. Perhaps it was strange, but this was what he knew. Maybe you could understand him better if you did this? You reached up to play with a lock of his blonde hair. It was soft, but it was clear he didn’t take great care of it as you picked pieces of dirt from it, probably from all his time at war and hunting.

"You will…?" he asked, needing to be sure.

"Yes, I will." His face lit up and he grabbed your waist, suddenly standing and spinning you around. You squealed in excitement, wrapping your arms around him for security. He slowly placed you back on your feet. "Sorry…" he murmured.

Many preparations were made for the wedding of the future chief. After this marriage, Bakugo's parents could step down, allowing Bakugo to step up. Becoming the chief was a big deal to him since it was all he was expected to be; it was what he was raised to be. Knowing that it was so close was… scary to him. He would have many responsibilities, and so would you. He was expected to be strong for his tribe, to protect them and keep them in line. You were expected to cast spells for the tribe because you're a witch, in addition to fulfilling the usual expectations of a spouse to a chief.

The day of the wedding arrived with the tribe bustling with excitement and activity. The air was filled with the sound of drums and chanting, a rhythmic melody that echoed through the forest. Colorful banners and decorations made from woven fabrics and wildflowers adorned the central clearing where the ceremony would take place.

As the sun began to set, casting a warm golden glow over the area , you stood at the edge of the clearing, dressed in a traditional gown made from soft, flowing materials and adorned with intricate beadwork and feathers. , your fingers tingling with the familiar hum of your magic.

Bakugo stood at the center of the clearing, dressed in ceremonial garb that highlighted his powerful physique. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to fade away, he looked angry most days however his gaze held a softness meant only for you.

The tribe’s shaman, an elderly woman with wise eyes and a staff decorated with charms and bones, began the ceremony. She spoke in the ancient language of the tribe. As she chanted, the flames of the central bonfire danced higher, casting flickering shadows around the clearing.

You stepped forward, guided by a gentle push from the shaman’s assistant. Bakugo extended his hand, and you took it, feeling the rough calluses of a warrior against your soft skin. Together, you walked to the center, where the shaman held a bowl filled with sacred herbs and oils.

With a nod from the shaman, you and Bakugo knelt before the fire. She anointed your foreheads with the oils, muttering incantations . The flames flaring brightly and then settling into a steady, calming glow.

Next, she handed you a small, intricately carved knife. With steady hands, you made a small cut on Bakugo’s palm, and he did the same to yours. You pressed your palms together, allowing your blood to mingle—a symbol of your unity and shared strength. The shaman wrapped your hands in a strip of cloth, binding the wound and sealing your bond.

As the final words of the ceremony were spoken, the tribe erupted in cheers. Bakugo leaned in and pressed a fierce, tender kiss to your lips, sealing your union. For the rest of the evening, the tribe feasted and danced, sharing stories and laughter under the starlit sky. You and Bakugo remained close, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist.

you showed the tribe witch craft, potion making and doing spells, but the night of the wedding was mostly partying and drinking, youyou and bakugo stayed sober however. You two spent most that time dancing and leaning on each other, cuddling and kissing. Even after knowing each other for such a short time you seemed to be happily in love. The night was over before you knew it and you two were walking back to your hut, he couldn’t keep his hands off you the whole walk there. His hands groping you, your face turning pinker with each grab and caress. The moment you were inside of your tent and in your own space he picked you up by the under arm and threw you on the bed “why are you so pink? This is was spouses do on their wedding night~” he leaned down and kissed your neck, you whimpered and grabbed his hair. The space between your legs feeling a familiar warmth or… wetness..? He grabbed your thighs and massaged them with each kiss and suck of your neck, he left purple hickeys all around the side of your neck. He reached down between your legs “already so wet huh..?” He slowly got down on his knees, sitting himself right between your legs “want me to keep going..?” He asked “mhm…” you nodded, giving him consent. Bakugo pulled you by your hips towards his face, licking your clit softly. You moaned and grabbed the bed sheets under you, he managed to slip his tongue inside which only intensified the feeling. Bakugo used his hands to keep your legs apart, the buldge in his pants getting larger and larger. He began to get impatient and stood up, pulling away from your pussy “hey… why’d you stop..?” You whines before he slipped a finger inside “wanna… be inside you” he grumbled, you moaned softly at the finger wiggling inside of you “is that good…?” Bakugo cooed to you “mmmph.. nghh.. y-yea…” you reached down and gripped his wrist. Feeling him slip a second finger into your hole, you held tightly onto his wrist. He slowly pulled his hand out and stuck his fingers in his mouth, tasting you on them. “Good girl, that’s a good girl.. tell me when it hurts” and before you know it, bakugo had the tip of his dick at your already wet hole and was slowly pushing inside, he groaned and laid his head on your chest. Gripping your thighs tighter with each inch that was sinking inside you, he bottomed out and he paused to catch his breath. Bakugo pulled out almost all the way before slamming back into your pussy, you moaned loudly and buried your face into his shoulder in a attempt to muffle out the loud noise of your voice, the huts don’t exactly drown out loud noise… he put his hands over your head for balance, the bed shook with each thrust and he was grunting lowly ontop of you “is that good…? That’s what I thought” he smirked and pet your hair “my wife..” he leaned down to kiss your head “ good girl..take it like a good girl” he pressed his forehead against yours as he continued his deep thrusts into you, the pleasure resulting in moans and grunts from you two. After what felt like hours of teasing and pleasure, the knot finally snapped. He buried his cock deeply inside you and then came. He panted softly, bringing you to his chest “you did so good, I’m so proud..”

[prettyboykatsuki]

✮  tags ; desi-coded reader (tbh...specifically bangladeshi dkjfsdj), pre-wedding celebration, so blatantly selfship coded i might have to delete it if the shame kicks in , 18+

Night air wisps against your warm skin like thin threads of silk as you step away from the party - with the assistance of Sakura, who held the door open like his life depended on it.

Your arms are stiff from how long you've been holding them in the same position, but after upwards of three hours - all the mendhi required for your upcoming wedding ceremony has been put on.

From the tips of your fingers all the way down to your elbows and even some parts of your feet. It's the one aspect of the celebration you've always looked forward too. When you glance down and see it, its completely surpassed your expectations

Through the light of your window is your family and friends, traditional folk music and ballad love songs play as guest dance and laugh in the warm lights of your living room. Laughter bubbles through the crack letting out some air and you smile to yourself, careful not to touch anything.

The feeling of drying mendhi on your skin is nostalgic even in it's mild discomfort, a slight itch in the intricate designs covering your palms. You sniff a little from the cool air, lungs filling with the earthy, heavy scent of mendhi paste and the sharp bitterness of mustard oil.

You slip further away until you end up enough distance away for the sound to quiet. Crickets chirp and the wind blows - as if the whole world is feeling soft.

You aren't expecting Umemiya to pop out from anywhere. He must've noticed you leaving and followed you out. You try not to smile and fail when he makes his way towards you.

Umemiya grins brighter than the sun. In the dead of night and even amidst the pleasant atmosphere - nothing shines quite like him. He looks good in the clothes your extended family so painstakingly picked out for him. A panjabi and salwar to match, a pleasantly deep shade of blue to go with his eyes. Your kameez is more complicated, but the tailoring similarities of the florals and beadwork make you happy no matter how trivial. It feels a little more worth getting three outfits tailored looking at him.

He cuts a fine figure in general, you think.

He approaches first with worry. A furrow in his brow.

"You okay?"

You smile at him and then smile a little more at the way it makes him relax instantly.

"I'm good." You take a deep breath, hands stiff at your sides and suddenly itching to find his to hold. "Was getting hot and stiff sitting for so long."

"Oh, is it done finally? Am I allowed to look?"

"Were you gonna avoid looking at my arms for three days if I said no?" You tease. Umemiya's eyes fill with mirth and sincerity.

"If I had too."

Silly. You love him, you think. You shake your head. "You can look. Might be a little hard to see even with the street light though."

"That's okay." He says, and there's something deeply doting in his voice that makes you feel like you might sink. "An excuse to get close to you is always nice to have."

You hold out your arms and lift your palms gently to Umemiya. His admiration makes your heart swell ten folds. His hands are careful as they slide underneath your own decorate ones, careful not to touch the actual design but to support your forearms and wrists.

"It's so beautiful."

"Right? She did a good job. She's doing Kotoha-chans now."

He makes a little affirmative noise while he draws his eyes along the different shapes and patters. Traditional shapes of roses and marigolds along with inspired cuts. There's a mix of imagery, well integrated - patterns of cranes and cherry blossoms well woven into it as symbolism. Umemiya pauses, most certainly noticing the nuance.

"I like it a lot. You're gonna look so beautiful."

You brush past the words, unable to respond to them without feeling earnest flush. Umemiya is undeterred by this, just offers a smile and another light touch. He leans it to place a kiss to your temple before pulling back.

A thought pops into your head. You wanted to show him eventually - you thought at least after you washed it off, but now seems like a better time.

"Oh and..." You carefully hold your wrist up to him. "See?"

He squints for a long while before breaking out into an impossible grin. Hidden in the wrists of your mendhi design are the characters of his name - integrated into the piece. You can see the very moment it clicks.

"Is that...is it traditional?"

"Maybe? It's common at least. I thought it'd be more special with the Japanese characters though.”

A little nod to him and to you. He's silent for a long while, deep in thought about something. You don't know what exactly.

"I love it," He says, then looks up at you. He presses his forehead against yours, a gentle tap that still manages to catch you off guard as he does. The decorative teep on your forehead presses a little into his skin as he does it but you don't make a move to pull away from his affection. "I love you."

You tilt your head a little, pretending to wipe sweat from your brow.

"That's a relief."

He shakes his head. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Could you feed me something off the table inside? I'm hungry."

He almost seems upset he didn't think of it first. He nods. "I'll be right back. Stay put but be careful."

"I'm right infront of the house Hajime."

"It's always good to be careful. I'd be sad if my wife went missing just days before,"

“I’ll be safe,”

“And I’ll be quick,”

He pauses before he goes back through the door, turning suddenly before he smiles again. Impossibly gently, he runs his fingers through his hair before running back to you.

Another kiss to the corner of your mouth followed with one to your lips. The last one carefully place on the drying mendhi on your arms just where his name sits.

“I love you,”

You soften. “I love you too, Hajime. You can dote on me as much as you want when you come back.”

He grins. “I’ll hold you to that.”

glossary of terms:

mendhi - more commonly known as henna, a special skin safe paste used for decorative designs. commonly red or black.

panjabi - bangla word for kurta. basically a long item of menswear that stops just past the knee or above.

teep - also known as bindi. a decorative sticker or red dot placed in the center of the forehead.

** more cultural notes: in bangladesh mustard oil is often used to deepen the color of mendhi. it normally goes on after or while almost dry.

[loaksky]

— 𝘺𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸

the lowdown — the one where you and lo’ak are too stupid to be in love. 

the who — lo’ak x fem omaticaya!reader 

the word count — 3k

the tags & warnings — language (the usual), some angst with a disgustingly sweet resolution because everyone deserves happy endings aheh, lo'ak and reader are two big ol emotionally constipated bffs.

the notes — hello!! i'm back hehe. this is based on this request! <3

masterlist

Despite every voice of reason, you are green. Green with envy, green with greed. 

For as long as your memory has served you, it’s always been you and Lo’ak. And while things had always seemed innocent enough, had been just two kids, two best friends, growing up together, things had started to shift. 

It was well before the Sully’s and your family had sought out refuge with the Metkayina. Eyes had started to wander, hands started to linger. The two of you were treading such a fine line, teetering dangerously over the edge between just friends and something more. And you knew that he could feel it too, could see it in the way his pupils seemed to eclipse the gold of his irises.

But maybe you were mistaken. Maybe your intuition was failing you if his proximity to the olo’eyktan’s daughter was proof enough. And why wouldn’t he act on it? Tsireya was inexplicably beautiful, glowed with belonging, gentle, kind. She was the next tsahik and you were a forgettable face. 

And it tears through your heart, how easy she’d seemed to wiggle her way into his heart. 

Years upon years of you silently pleading that Lo’ak would finally see you was decimated with the single apparition of the Metkayina’s golden daughter. 

It made you burn with rage, silently seethe with envy when you’d see him tailing her or vice versa. Made every bone in your body rattle every time you’d see a lingering touch. 

“You’re steaming.” 

Kiri’s voice is quiet, teasing, as you angrily puncture holes in the shells you’d collected for beadwork. 

Like curtains drawing, your expression resigns, the furrow in your brows relaxing as you let go of the skinny sliver of steel. 

“You did it!” 

Tsireya’s voice tinkles through the air, giggles floating up the shore as she swims towards Lo’ak and grasps the hand holding up the empty half of a mollusk shell.

His smile is gooey, sweet, and you lick your bottom row of teeth before standing to your feet. 

“Where are you going?” Kiri sighs, hand coming up to shade her eyes as she watches you brush sand off your legs and collect your things. 

“No where,” you rush, then shrug. “I don’t know, anywhere.”

For the first time in weeks, Lo’ak is alone and Tsireya is no where to be found. You breathe a sigh of relief as you approach his hunched figure, toying with something in his lap as he grumbles to himself under the unrelenting beat of the sun. 

“Lo’ak!” you call, treading through the mounds of sand to reach where he sits just outside of the shade of a banyan tree. 

His spine stiffens as he peers over his shoulder and you shrink for a moment when you lock eyes. But then he flashes you such a genuine smile, you can’t help but feel like you’ve been caught in the snapshots of a moment where only the two of you exist. 

“What are you doing?” you ask, eyes flitting to the chord wrapped around his fingers. 

You don’t get a good look before he notices your gaze and quickly shoves it into the small woven bag next to him. 

A lump lodges its way into your throat when you notice that the bag looks rather new, the one you’d made for him long before your arrival to Awa’atlu gone without a trace. 

“Nothing,” he says quickly as you settle beside him, long legs stretched so that your toes line up with his. 

You settle back against your palms, noting the way that Lo’ak is still tense. 

“I miss you,” you admit softly, cheeks warming as you chance a glance at your friend. “Feel like we don’t talk anymore.” 

A hum sounds from Lo’ak’s chest as he turns to face you. He studies your face momentarily and you flash him a close-lipped smile, hand coming up to tuck a beaded braid behind his ear. 

He eases away as his gaze flutters over your shoulder and you don’t need to turn to know that Tsireya is approaching. 

Damn this, damn it all. 

“Sorry, ________,” he says shakily. “Gotta go.” 

Your hand closes around his wrist as he slings the bag over his shoulder. 

“Let’s meet here,” you offer. “Later tonight? I wanna spend time with you.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he agrees. “Sure.” 

He stands to his feet quickly and you know that Tsireya’s right behind you when a shadow shades your seated figure.

“Hi, ________,” she chirps. 

When you look up, she’s smiling, dimples denting her round cheeks. As Lo’ak goes to stand next to her, your heart shrivels because she shines so bright and they look like they belong together. 

“See you later,” Lo’ak rushes, pulling Tsireya away by her arm. 

You bite your lip, feeling the telltale burn behind the bridge of your nose, the sting of saline as tears sheen your eyes. 

Their hips bump and Lo’ak chuckles, digging into his bag to produce the craft he was hiding from you a mere moments ago.

You barely hear Tsireya gasp, a faint “it’s beautiful” leaving her lips. 

You angrily dash away the tears, grasping at the frayed potential of what the two of you could’ve been. But you steel your resolve, knowing that Lo’ak wasn’t even yours to mourn in the first place. 

Something ferocious in the back of your brain told you that you should have expected it. Lo’ak was too caught up, too enamored with a fresh spark to remember his promise to you. 

You felt stupid, standing near the same tree the two of you had occupied a few hours prior wearing your favorite beaded top, the one Lo’ak had told you made your freckles brighter. 

You feel stupider when you take a seat, hoping that getting comfortable in the sand will draw him from whatever he’s doing. 

And you feel like the stupidest girl in the world when you begin nodding off, only to be startled awake some time later when someone touches your shoulder gently. 

“Lo’ak?” you hoarse, voice dry from disuse. 

The oldest Sully gives you a sympathetic look. 

“Why don’t we get you get you to sleep,” he says quietly, fingers threading through yours to help you to your feet. 

Humiliation floods your system as you and Neteyam walk side by side through the quieting night. 

You decide, in that moment, to fold your hand, allowing the fate of your friendship with Lo’ak to spindle like a wisp of smoke. 

He’s finally ready. 

The small macrame pouch that holds the piece he labored  over day in and day out, had pricked the pads of his fingers and strained his eyes, weighs heavy like the weight of his feelings for you. 

“Just like how we practiced,” Tsireya reminds him, hand coming up to squeeze his shoulder. “It’s there, Lo’ak. Everyone sees it.” 

He hopes so. 

Because every moment leading up to this has been agonizing, has made him wrack every memory in his brain to analyze the inevitability of you and him. You’re everything to him, and he’s almost embarrassed to admit that, recently, as the chemistry between you two has started to heighten, he’s become nervous. 

You make him nervous. Make his diaphragm tighten with each hitched breath, and his cheeks incorrigibly hot. Because every time he sees you, you’re no longer his gangly best friend he’d grown up with, but a blossoming, achingly beautiful young woman that he’d do atrocious things to catch the attention of. 

The little pouch he grasps tightly holds his grand gesture, and he hopes it’ll speak volumes. 

“She’s coming,” Tsireya says, peeking over his shoulder. 

He swallows hard, blowing a shaky breath through rounded lips as he turns to face you head on. 

He expects you to light up, to meet him halfway as he tries to muster enough confidence in his stride, but you barely bat an eye and every ounce of certainty seems to dissipate like sea foam. 

“Hey,” he greets, smile unsure as he holds the pouch behind his back. 

You don’t even stop, continuing your trek across the beach. 

“Hi.” 

He blinks at your retreating figure, gaze flitting to his coach for reassurance. Tsireya nods eagerly, tilting her head in your direction in encouragement. 

He jogs to catch up with you, fingers closing around your elbow. He’s shocked when you jerk away from him, something indiscernible twitching through your features as you shift to make distance. 

“Where you going?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck. 

“For a swim,” is all you say, tangible silence cocooning you as you glance over his shoulder. 

He opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off. 

“I’m in a rush,” you say quickly. “And I think you’ve got someone waiting on you.” 

When Lo’ak’s brows furrow and he tosses a look over his shoulder, he finds Tsireya still watching the two of you eagerly,

“No, she’s just—“ 

You’re already meters away from him when he turns back around, words dying on his tongue as his fist tightens through the loops of the pouch. 

You’re avoiding him, he realizes, when he starts seeing less and less of you. 

It makes his mind race, makes him wonder what had transpired for you to withdraw from him. Insecurity begins to rear its ugly head, solidifying when a few nights after he’d tried and failed to get you alone. 

There’s a bonfire and all of the villagers your age are celebrating with fruits and a swim. He’s sat by himself, staving off anyone who tries to take the empty space next to him with a glare so deathly. 

You don’t plop down next to him like you usually would, though, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. Instead, you’re lowering yourself onto the large stone next to Neteyam, smiling softly as he shears a chunk of fruit for you. 

The pouch he’d been meaning to gift you the past week is tucked away safely in his bag, gifted from you and reinforced with new binding around the strap. It feels like it’s burning hole because it’s not where it belongs with you. 

You throw your head back in quiet laughter, shoulders shaking at something his older brother says and it takes everything inside of him not to visibly roll his eyes from across the fire. 

“Well?” 

Someone has taken residence in the seat he’s saved for you, and his hardened jaw softens when he sees Tsireya’s curious gaze peering back at him. 

“Well what?” he huffs. 

“Have you said anything?” she asks. 

“No,” he answers petulantly, sneaking another glance to find that whatever you’re talking about has Neteyam enraptured. “Never see her, every time we do cross paths, she’s running off.” 

“Well…” Tsireya trails off. “She’s right there.” 

And perhaps she’s right. You are right there, not even three meters from him, but you look devastating in firelight and the gleam of your smile rivals the stars in the night sky. In this moment, he has never felt so far away, so unsure of something in his life. 

At first, he was certain, could feel it in the way your gaze was liquid when you’d spend time alone, could feel it when accidental touches lingered, then became blatant displays of affection. You were all his, he just needed to seal the deal. But now, he feels like he’s grossly misread the situation. 

From meeting up with Tsireya who’d confronted him about his feelings when she’d seen you two and the way he hesitated during a kiss waiting to happen, to handpicking every single bead, jewel and shell to string through the piece he was making. 

He’d spent so much time trying to find the words to mean it, but they sit heavy like stones moored to the pit of his stomach. 

“I don’t know anymore,” Lo’ak whispers, shrugging his shoulders. 

Despite his own aching heart, Tsireya looks wounded, the biggest supporter when it came down to the two of you. 

“Why?” she asks. “Don’t you…don’t you–”

“I think I read us wrong.” It’s like acid, thinking that maybe he’d read between the wrong lines. 

Tsireya scoffs. 

“Definitely not,” she giggles. “Don’t lose a good thing, Lo’ak.” 

His eyes flit to you again, stomach caving when the juice of the fruit spills from the corner of your lips and Neteyam shamelessly thumbs it away. 

It’s his final straw, standing so quickly, everyone who’d been engrossed in their own bubbles have now shifted their attention to the sudden movement.

He’s crossing the circle, fingers circling your wrist as he swiftly pulls you to your feet and leaves the fire with you and his bag in tow. 

“Lo’ak,” you huff as he pulls you far from wandering eyes and piqued ears. 

He doesn’t relent until you’re digging your heels into the sand, his name like venom on your tongue. 

“Lo’ak, you’re hurting me,” you bite. 

He snaps away likes he’s been burned, expression unreadable as he turns to face you. 

“What’s going on between you and Neteyam?” he blurts, chest heaving. 

Your gaze is narrowed, lips pursed as you glare up at him.

“Nothing,” you retort. 

“That didn’t look like nothing,” he argues, then his gaze melts and he’s blinking like he’s trying to salvage the clarity in the situation. “What’s going on?” 

“I just told you—”

“With us?” 

Now you look confused, features pinched as the breeze rustles your skirt. 

“What do you mean us?” You say it like you can’t fathom the idea of you and him and it makes all of the emotions simmer dangerously. 

“Are you really gonna do this?” he asks quietly. 

“Do what?” you parrot, obviously vexed with the back forth. 

“Act like there’s nothing between us!” he shouts so thunderously, you recoil, eyes wide and searching his. 

“Is there?” you ask incredulously. 

“Don’t play stupid.” His voice shakes and something is blooming in your chest. 

“You’re the one who’s stupid,” you whisper. 

Lo’ak scrubs peeved hands down his face, finally exploding with the words that have been teeming his brain. 

“You’re right!” he agrees bitterly. “I am stupid. Stupid for ever thinking that you’d see me the same way I see you!” 

You freeze, watching as he unravels. 

“Stupid for wasting my time trying to get it right, for reading into every stupid time you’d look at me like we could be something more and so fucking stupid for thinking you’d give us a shot!” 

Your throat bobs audibly. 

“But Tsi–”

“What about her?” he cries out. “Why do you have to worry about everything else but you and me?” 

“Why are you here with me when you should be with her?” you finally shout, all the envy and rage finally coming to a head. “Why are we even–“ 

“What are you– Why would I want to be with her with it’s always been you?” 

The words cling to the air, completely unveiled, no room to be misconstrued. 

It’s always been you. 

“I spend all my time with her trying to get this right,” he says quietly. “Trying to get us right.” 

Your heart is beating like a war drum in your chest. 

“Why are you so blind?” he huffs. “Why can’t— Why can’t you just want me back?” 

The first tear falls and Lo’ak thinks he’s really gone and done it now. But honestly, truly, it’s because you realize you’ve had it all wrong this entire time. 

Lo’ak, your sweet sweet boy, was just severely misunderstood. Had finally encountered someone nearly as soft as you and took the opportunity not to learn about her, but learn about you. About what you could like, what he could do to secure a future with you. 

As he digs through his bag, your breath is still caught in your throat. He grabs your hand a moment later, depositing a macrame pouch into your sweaty palm. 

“Here,” he grunts, resigned. “Made this for you.” 

He doesn’t even wait as you turn it over into your other hand, fingers trembling as you unravel an anklet made with care. 

You know you can’t let it end like this. Like salt in the wind, you’d tasted a mere flutter of what it was like to want and be wanted.

“Wait, Lo’ak,” you whimper. “Wait.” 

He stops, still facing the fire in the distance. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you ask softly, closing the distance so that your bodies are a hairsbreadth from each other. 

Like muscle memory, your forehead connects with the expanse between his shoulder blades, the warmth of his skin finally feeling like home after so many weeks of reserve. 

“I didn’t think I had to,” he admits, tension melting from his shoulders when he feels how close you are. “I thought you felt it too.” 

“I do,” you affirm after a beat. “Of course I do.” 

He turns to face you, eyes hazy as you bow your head in embarrassment. 

You’d been so cold, so foolish when all you had to do was see. You clutch the anklet, beads blurring as you imagine Lo’ak toiling over the intricate threading. 

“I love it,” you whisper. 

I love you, is a silent insinuation and Lo’ak can’t help the way the corners of his lips turn up. 

“I was hoping you would,” he swallows. “I wanted it to mean something, so I made an anklet so that…you know…” 

Maybe you really were stupid but no, you didn’t know. 

You blink up at him and his shoulders shake with a laugh.

“Means that even if I’m not with you physically–” He smiles, hand coming up to your face. “I’ll be with you every step of the way.” 

The sentiment makes you go soft, fingers twitching hesitantly as you reach for his own. 

You’re opening your mouth to say something, but you’re cut off with a loud groan. 

“Dude, just kiss already!” You think it’s Kiri and Lo’ak is throwing the nastiest glare over his shoulder as your smile widens. 

He’s gearing up for a snarky retort to his sister, but you’re pushing up on your toes and your hands find purchase on his shoulders and with your faces millimeters apart, it seems like everything seems to shift to stillness. 

You hear the way his throat bobs and you breathe a laugh through your nose. 

“Let me kiss you?” you ask quietly.

He licks his lips before nodding once. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Please.” 

neng © 2023

taglist: @nao-cchi , @jkiminpark , @philiasoul@amart-e , @s-u-t , @netesbby , @tayswiftlovebot , @dumb-fawkin-bitch , @ewackmn , @fanboyluvr , @neteyamoa , @itssiaaax , @girlpostingsposts , @athenachu

[mybeingthere]

Dana Claxton, Headdress, 2018-2019.

In her series "Headdress", Dana Claxton continues to extol indigenous cultural abundance. The personal collections of five womxn are featured: Jeneen’s collection of beadwork spans three generations from Old Crow Yukon, with designs that are specific to the Vuntut Gwich’in First Nation; Connie, matriarch of beadwork, adorns her own hand beaded pieces; Shadae mixes it up with hip-hop baseball caps, a Coast Salish woven cedar hat, and her husband’s pow wow/peyote fans; Dee and Dana wear pieces of the same inter-tribal collection made by beaders from the four directions. In these portraits, the beadworks cover and espouse the womxn’s silhouettes, becoming more than just objects: the beadworks are cultural belongings, and the womxn are cultural carriers.

Claxton has repeated the beaded veil motif in some half-dozen backlit transparencies, the most recent in the show being Headdress–Jeneen, a 2018 image of the acclaimed young performance artist Jeneen Frei Njootli. She is portrayed extravagantly draped in some 15 beaded objects from her own collection, including hats, bags, bracelets, necklaces, moccasins, barrettes and a small curtain of coloured beads that covers her eyes and cheeks. Here, the deflection of the viewer’s gaze is immediately understood, so that Frei Njootli is not the object of the portrait but the subject, collaborating with Claxton to maintain control of her image—an image of feminist, cultural and spiritual power. Claxton has spoken about the “transformative” nature of working with Indigenous women—friends and colleagues—in creating the “Headdress” series. She has also remarked on the unsettling impact on the viewer of covering the sitter’s eyes, which are, she said, “a place of spirit.”

[dent-de-leon]

All Caleb Widogast can taste is ash, the soot and smoke turning everything pitch black. Heat still searing the palms of his hands, boiling his blood. Before him a face burns, the flames cresting higher and higher, a roaring beacon in the darkness. The face is a stranger, eyeless sockets hollow and empty, mere kindling for the fire.

The face is his Mother, his Father. Astrid and Wulf and every good thing he'd ever burned.

He falls to his knees with a last, desperate cry--a curse, a prayer--begging for any and all gods to hear him, save him, change his wretched fate. All his life, Caleb Widogast had never known faith, never dared to invoke it. But deep down in the marrow of his bones, in whatever hell he's buried his heart, a part of him still clings to hope. Redemption. Salvation. An anguished plea for some force in this cruel world to set him free. Someone--anyone. Help me. Please.

And then, all at once, the world was quiet. He breathed with choked up, ragged gasps, and the air was clear--all the soot and ash drifting away. The roaring blaze dissipated into dying sparks and dull embers, just a winding cloud of smoke swallowed up by the chill night air, the smoldering heat at his fingertips going numb.

A figure stood towering above his prone form--a mere shadow one moment, but bathed in glistening moonlight the next. Curled horns glinted and gleamed with all manner of little baubles and golden charms, a forked tail darting out and swaying playfully behind him.

He's draped in a parade of vibrant color, ornate coat emblazoned with the symbol of every deity across the pantheon, the lining a sea of shimmering silvery moons. Each stitch of embroidery delicately woven with care, intricate beadwork and crystals glinting in the moonlight.

Caleb could see the Moonweaver's gossamer light in him, the way his eyes glinted with her playful mischief.

The tiefling spins and twirls with that roaring, ringing laughter, his coat fluttering in a blur of crimson as the wind kicks in. And before Caleb could protest, he's caught up in that wild dance; warm hands reach out and find him in the darkness, casting him back into the light.

And Caleb gladly welcomes that tender touch.

Hands joined with his partner, steps lighter than air. Caleb lets him take the lead, following after in a dance he's always known. He can't help but gravitate toward this shining soul, as inescapable as Catha caught in Exandria's pull. They beckon, and Caleb can only follow.

As their dance descends into its final steps, the tiefling whispers in his ear. A soft lilt to his cadence, charming and musical.

"Why so surprised, Magician? You asked me for help, didn't you?" A hint of amusement colored his words, warm and playful.

Not you, Caleb thinks, fleeting iconography of the pantheon flickering in his mind. This was not the noble Dawnfather, the Lawmaster, the Knowing Mistress--none of the…appropriate gods his family prayed to under the strict reign of the Empire. This was a heathen god, some interloper. One of the dangerous idols he was always warned about.

The stranger circled Caleb, eyeing him appraisingly as his gaze trailed over the wizard's haunted stare and torn clothes. The tattered, fraying bandages he'd stolen years ago. The fresh bruises just beginning to bloom.

Caleb backs away, unable to bear the piercing focus of that unerring gaze, the way this stranger could see his whole hollowed out heart with but a glance. His eyes--all his red eyes, shining bright--seeing everything.

"Who are you?" he demands, head held high, even as his voice starts to shake. What are you?

The tiefling advances. Drawing another step closer, a hand outstretched in welcome--all Caleb wants is to take it.

"I'm...a friend," he says amicably, bearing all his teeth in a sharp-toothed grin.

For some reason, Caleb isn't afraid.

Gentle claws skim his skin with the barest touch, drifting down his cheek in a fond caress.

"Your dreams called to me, Magician. You're...interesting, and I'm curious. And more importantly--you cried out for help. Do I need any other reason?"

His gaze, his voice--they soften, melt--soothing him as the glistening sky above bleeds away into inky black darkness. No starlight, no moons. Just them, tucked away in this little patch of shadowed solace where the nightmares can't reach him, where the flames don't still burn.

The only heat is the tiefling's arms around him, wrapping him in a warm embrace. The delicate press of his lips to Caleb's sweat sheened forehead. It feels like a gift, a promise; solace and grace and the first gentle touch he's known in so long. Devotion so divine it feels purely mortal.

"Consider this my blessing--and an invitation. May the Monweaver watch over you, Magician."

"What are you offering?" Caleb rasped. He can feel the rest of the world slipping away, can feel the taste of ash and soot clawing up the back of his throat.

"Nothing much. Just a bit of luck. And some dreams. Sleep tight, Mr. Caleb--you've had enough nightmares for one life."

When he awoke, the flames were gone.

[mahoganydoodles]

PA’ATENI by neonheartbeat (@urulokid), author’s copies.

A memory of flames licking at the pillars of the throne room on the ancestral plane, N’Jadaka’s mouth curled in a mocking sneer, filled Shuri’s memory. Fire and earth. “You were happy to die at my hands,” she echoed, the skin on her arms pebbling as a shiver ran through her.

“Yes. But I only wished for one thing, and I had not gotten it before my death. So I was glad you showed mercy in the end.”

“And what did you wish for?” Shuri asked, advancing on him from the bed. “Your people swimming up the river to break Wakanda’s borders? An empire of blood against all other nations in the world?”

“I wished,” said Namor very quietly, watching her and not moving, “to hear you say my name.”

348,367 words | 1,112 pages | 2 volumes

When I first reached out to Neon to ask if I could bind pa’ateni for them, I had all these dreams of beadwork and jade and rich purples and golds and silk and layers of fabric emulating the rich description Neon weaves (you know this was gonna be a FANCY fancy bind). 

But when I asked Neon what kinda cover they wanted and they said “Ahhh just very natural I think,” that threw me for a LOOP. Because I was like fuck! Now what do I do! And the answer was… that I couldn’t be happier with how this bind turned out, so THANK YOU so much Neon for pointing me this direction!

One of the things i love about pa’ateni, and all of Neon’s work, is the attention to the ordinary. Part of the reason Neon’s characters feel so real is how much regular stuff gets description—whether that’s thinking about laundry chutes or washing their hair or getting drunk at a local bar. There’s a peacefulness to it, and that peace is at the heart of Namor and Shuri’s relationship (once they finally get on the right track). It reminds me of evenings at the ocean, of the quiet solitude of the ocean crashing. That something doesn’t need to be divine to be ethereal. 

I drew on that for this bind. There were two separate versions—the original NSFW story and a SFW version as well—that I modeled after a wave crashing onto the shore, two books forming a single image. The wave theme is echoed on the inside as well, in the moon cycle of the footer border, the moon and water iconography of the custom dinkus, and the full-page chapter titles of the sea. 

To complement the two volumes, I focused on one of the moments that stood out to me the most from the very start: the scene where Namor leaves Princess Shuri a bouquet of kelp. I made a custom Peller box with HTV of the passage quote on the inside, with multi-colored vinyl on the outside woven together to make kelp. A very special box (even by cool slipcase standards) for two very special books 🙂

Pa’ateni is such a beautiful story that builds on the emotions of grief, compassion, selflessness, and desire in Black Panther: Wakanda Forever. Read it on AO3, and thank you Neon for telling such a beautiful story. 

[pinkiepiebones]

Oh?? Well now my interest is piqued! I would like to know The Shirt Saga! 👀 If youre comfortable with it, of course

Ah, yes! Come, gather by the fire, and I shall tell the tale of The Shirt. 'Tis a long tale, so, so grab a snack or a drink. Okay. Good? Then here we go.

PART ONE: A PACT IS FORGED

How it started was July 2017. I got to the venue far too early. I was the only Ghost VIP in line. There were at least twenty Iron Maiden VIPs already there. It was a good time, they were all really nice and had obviously waited for concerts before (this was my first concert outing since 2006 or so). But it was hot. It was so fucking hot, even in the shade. I was wearing a black Ghost shirt I got off Fright Rags but I wasn't going to survive four more hours of sitting outside on the pavement. My brother had just got to the line- he had been looking for a parking spot (technically this concert was his birthday gift; I bought the tickets because he loved Iron Maiden and yes because Ghost). We both agreed to go back to the hotel, grab some food, etc. I had packed another shirt, just a white shirt with a red anatomical heart diagram on it, and decided to change into it. White shirts are better for hot days, right?

Then it's a blur until I met Papa III. I was frozen at the doorway of the photo tent and he opened his arms, his chasuble glittering with intricate beadwork, and he beckoned me with gold talons "come in! Come on in!" I didn't budge. Papa brought his claws together and tilted his head a little, owlish. "I like that shirt you have there," he said. For whatever reason, that broke the ice inside me. I got a hug. I got a picture.

I barely remember the concert now. The A/C was fucked so it was hellishly hot inside. Any time I stopped recording during Maiden's set some old veteran fan would gently grab my shoulder and say "you're gonna wanna record this next bit!" :,) Rock on, old guy who was spending his retirement following Iron Maiden around.

Anyway, the show ended and my brother was trying to get a cab back (we Ubered to the venue from the hotel) and I insisted we wait by the buses. He relented, eventually. XD We waited about an hour with ten or so other Ghost fans. Billy Vanilla regaled us with tales from the road. Ben Cristo (I think that's his name), who had at that point been playing the Nameless Ghoul who played the black and white guitar (I think the fandom calls him Ifrit) came out first and signed all our stuff with the alchemical symbol for fire.

After another half hour, I saw a group on the sidewalk walking towards us. They appeared to be led by a man in a white Misfits shirt and the skinniest skinny jeans I ever saw. He looked ahead and I swear we locked eyes for an instant. I started punching my brother's arm and yelled IT'S HIM IT'S HIM IT'S PAPA PAPA IS HERE. The people went into the bus and him, Papa, Tobias, stopped to say to us all "let me put my things away, I will be back out shortly."

Tobias and Chris Catalyst (played the Nameless Ghoul with the black guitar, aka Aether, until last year) came out with Sharpies and security staff to make sure no pictures were taken. And like I said, Tobias restated how much he liked my shirt. I said, "I actually have two of these, I'll bring you my spare next time I see the band!" He looked genuinely surprised and said "really? Wow, thank you! That's very kind of you!"

PART TWO: THE YEAR OF THE CARDINAL

In May 2018 I saw Ghost again. And Evening with Ghost, it was called. I packed The Shirt and it's twin and flew to Pittsburgh to crash on @csevet 's sofa and drag em to the show. And I got to meet @jayyynine too!! Oh, and Cardinal Copia, we all got to meet him. @csevet and I got to go into the meet and greet photo tent together because we wanted a "family photo" with Copia. According to em, when Copia shook my hand, his gaze went 'face, shirt, face, shirt, face.' Ey insisted he recognised me. I left a gift bag with the security staffer. Inside was several hand-woven bags I made for all the ghouls, and The Shirt. And an SASE because I was feeling cocky, I guess.

Two weeks after the show, the SASE came back. Inside was the card I had provided, along with a Sharpie-scrawled autograph above a THANK YOU next to a little tiny smiling devil face. Literally 😈

Five months later, I got to see Ghost again, wearing The Shirt, my mom in tow. Why? Because she rocks. Anywho, we do the meet and greet. Copia shakes my mom's hand, then goes to grab mine but stops. "That's a cool shirt you have there," he says, gesturing. "You know, I happen to have one just like it." My mom says "that's because they gave you one" and Copia looks over his shoulder at her and says "Yes, I know this."

Mom says that after the pictures I was shaking and yelling "he remembered me" in a "dinosaur shriek noise." I have no memory of this. But the notion that Cardinal Copia- Tobias Forge- had one brain cell with my information stored on it? Well, I can understand why I may have squawked.

PART 3: THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY

In April of 2019 I got tickets for the October show in Hershey, Pennsylvania. I would be meeting up with @csevet again and would drive a rental across the state. No biggie! Well, slight biggie. You see, in September I had a full hysterectomy. My OBGYN and the surgeon *barely* cleared me for travel. But I bought the fucking tickets in APRIL and @csevet got the time off approved at er job so. I couldn't not go.

I had a cane. I was six weeks post op, four weeks actually up out of bed. Ghost's meet and greet crew and the staff of the venue were super accommodating, let us take an elevator to the photo area, someone brought me a folding chair for the lineup. Copia was in his red suit on this leg of the tour. There were so many people, no one had much time to chat with Copia. But I know ...I had the shirt. He took my hand and said gently, "I know we have met before..." I kissed his sideburn.

PART FOUR: PAPA EMERITUS THE FOURTH

Copia was promoted to Papa! Then the world shut down. So for years, nothin'. Then, 2022. Just after my birthday. St. Louis. Ghost.

I had to go. And of course do the meet and greet. Happy birthday to me.

I was alone for this one, for the first time. I felt less alone by talking to other fans, and helping ease the nerves of first timers. Everyone's been a newbie at some point, gatekeeping is for jerks, etc. I was wearing The Shirt and regaling those who would listen with the saga. But I was nervous. I tried to play it off. "Of course he won't remember you," I told myself. "It's been way too long."

Then I get into the tent. Due to the ongoing health concerns there were no hugs or handshakes, and the photos had you and Papa separated by a pane of plexiglass, which would be photoshopped out later. Papa had taken a step from his designated photo spot to explain these things to me, but he stopped mid-sentence, looked me up and down, and said,

"I'm getting like a deja vu here. I have a shirt just like that."

Then his eyes widened and he snapped his fingers and said,

"You gave me it! Yes! Hello, how have you been doing?"

He chatted with me like we were old friends. I told him about graduate school and my hopes for a Masters degree. He said he would love to see me with it.

And then the moment was over. I was overcome with emotions and the group of fans who had gone before me all huddled around and gently sat me down (I guess I looked like I was going to faint) and I started crying and said "after three years he still remembers me" and then "I need to call my mom."

I did also see Ghost this past September, but they weren't doing meet and greets, and as close as I was to the stage, I don't hold hope that me and The Shirt were seen.

PART FIVE: HERE'S TO THE FUTURE

I don't know what the future for Ghost will hold. But I do know that I have been squirreling away money for the next inevitable show. And The Shirt will be ready. Papa III passed it on to Papa IV. Will Papa IV pass it on to Papa V? I don't know, but I am excited to find out.

[karisomk]

Stone

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7QU1nvuxaMA -song in reference- "I can't have this Attuma" Okoye reached to carefully take off the choker that was woven in bright blue and white Maya beadwork. The center holding a small jade-shaped shark tooth. "Why?" The question came after a moment of silence, their fingers brushing against one another. He wanted to hold her hand, and pull her closer to him to ask what has caused her to change her mind about their courtship. "You know why. " "Shuri. Our Queen-...Shuri still delays the treaty of alliance between our nations. And it will not look good in the eyes of the border tribe council to see her Midnight Angel conspiring with Talokan's general. " "Then I will wait. "

"Attuma, do not be foolish. You do not know how long this will take or if Queen Shuri would agree in the end." Attuma reached for Okoye's hand, pulling it carefully for to touch the scar on his cheek. "I made my choice to be yours long ago. I will wait for you, Okoye. No matter how long it takes." It was Okoye who pulled back first, even if tears welled up in her eyes. Her thumb brushed the scar one last time before her hand pulled out of his fully. Leaving his side, a rushed farewell just to prevent anyone from seeing them together. Disturbing the one of the few last tender moments they would share.

Attuma didn't move even if his thoughts screamed for him to follow after her. Instead, he held lightly onto the necklace, the same necklace he had crafted for her to wear. Remembering the bashful smile that lit up her face when she first saw it. Yes, he would wait.

((Not me getting sad about the fact that Okoye breaks up with Attuma.))

[everybodyshusband]

"i made this for you"

mushy may ; day two !! approx. 410 words

(i completely forgot to mention this yesterday, but a massive thank you to @forlorn-crows for putting this prompt list together!!)

“Mount…” Rain breathed out. “This is beautiful.” He turned the bracelet over in his hands, admiring the way the colours—blues, greens and whites—were twirled so deftly together.

Mountain chuckled nervously. “You really think so?”

“Of course!” He ran his fingers over the beads woven through the colourful embroidery thread, entranced by how seamlessly they seemed to have been added; how perfectly the entire thing was weighted. Rain held the bracelet back out to Mountain, willing him to take it back. “Whoever you’re giving it to is very lucky, Mount.”

“Oh…” Mountain blushed a dusty pink and looked down at his boots, pushing Rain's hands—and the bracelet—back towards the water ghoul. “I– I actually… I made this for you, Rain.”

“For… me?” A smile slowly spread across Rain’s face as he took in Mountain’s words.

“Yeah. If– if you’d like to have it, that is…”

With only a delighted laugh as a warning, Rain launched himself at the earth ghoul—who only just managed to catch him as he leapt into his arms and wrapped his legs around his waist—and began peppering his face with kisses. “Yes, I want it, Mount! Thank you! It's so pretty! Thank you, thank you!”

Mountain laughed, hugging Rain tightly. “I’m glad, you love it, raindrop.” He set Rain down on his feet again and took the bracelet gently from the water ghoul’s hands, pointing at the beadwork he’d so carefully woven through the threads, starting with the inverted triangle. “See this one here, the big one? That’s your symbol. And these beads, on each side of it, are mine. “ He gestured to the two smaller earth beads on either side of the water one. “I– I know it’s weird having two of my symbols and only one of yours, but I figured you’d want it to be symmetrical and– Mmph!”

Rain cut Mountain’s self-conscious rambling off by kissing him hard on the mouth. “I love it,” he promised into the kisses, before stealing the bracelet right back from the earth ghoul’s hands and slipping it onto his own wrist. “Thank you, Mount.” He nuzzled into Mountain’s side, doing his best to convey the magnitude of his appreciation for the earth ghoul and his gift.

“You’re welcome, my raindrop.” Mountain took Rain’s hand in his own, kissed the top of the water ghoul’s head and began leading him from the gardens, back towards the Abbey. “Now, c’mon, I think there’s a pile of blankets up there just waiting for us to hide ourselves away in for the next few hours..."

[euphorbic]

First time for my beading thread to fray and break, but it is 3/0 thread. Okay, tbh, I know way wayyy more about bead sizes than thread sizes. 3/0 means nothing to me other than mistaking it for cat hair on my beading mat. My usual thread for people-size beading projects is A.

Repairing this will suck a bit. Lol

[snarky-art]

For the bingo, can I ask, please and thank you, for my faves Aisha/Flora (nobody seems likes them 🥲) and of course Stella/Bloom!?

For Bloom/Stella

I’m a simpleton

For all the reasons I adore them, I refer you to canon

Stella hypes Bloom up, helps her work through her insecurities, her doubts. She values her input and lets her know that. She would take a hit for her no questions asked.

Bloom would do the same. They’d go to war for each other, no hesitation.

Bloom calls Stella on her shit, knows how to see through her false confidence and bravado when it flares up, trusts her with everything she has, knows she can count on her for anything.

They’re just so devoted it makes me 🥺

Stella knows how to handle Bloom’s temper, knows how to help her talk it out with her and figure out what’s bugging her or articulate what’s ailing her (Stella always has been better with words, she does love to talk after all). Bloom knows when to call Stella on a tantrum, whether it’s worth all the energy Stella is exerting or not, help her see more objectively how serious or big of a deal the thing is she’s fixated on, and how to prioritize it.

Stella is the sky (and the stars and the moon and the sun lol) and Bloom is the ground. They meet in the middle and sometimes they seem to blur into the other. They’re both splendid and compliment each other so well and make the most beautiful compositions, whether it’s a sunset in the mountains or a hurricane at sea. That’s the spice of life, babeyyy.

Stella drowns Bloom in gifts and words of affirmation. Bloom is all about quality time and acts of service (Stella has always enjoyed being doted on thankfully).

The Ultimate Power Couple. Together they have the power of god and all the celestial bodies at their whim. Heirs to two of The Pillars of The Magical World, one with its own specialty magic and the other considered the center of all life and magic that ever was and ever will be.

10000/10 I adore them

For Aisha/Flora

OOOOOOOOH NOW THERES A COMBO

I never even considered them! But the idea is very sweet imo

Very much a classic “upfront and blunt” with a “shy and soft spoken” combo

Aisha is ready to go at any given moment and Flora would remind her to take a minute and smell the roses (lol)

Flora treats her so gently, not because she thinks Aisha can’t handle anything else, but simply because she wants to. Because the world is so harsh and cruel already at times (they know all about that by now), so what could be better than being drowned in something soft and kind to make facing the hard times more bearable.

Aisha is always touching some part of her. Her hand, her hip, her shoulders, her hair, anything.

Flora grabs little things she sees here and there that remind her of Aisha. A flower she saw in the courtyard (she asked before she picked it if the flower was ok with it obviously. She then cast a spell that made a new bud grow that was even richer and healthier than before), a hair clip she saw at a boutique, some woven threads that had a lovely shimmer to them that she adds some beadwork to and gifts to her randomly during a walk.

Very fond and growing more fond the more I think about it.

Would LOVE to hear why you think they work and what they would be like together! And here, some quick art as a treat because you deserve more food.

Very attached to the idea of her playing with her hair when she gets excited thanks to @giantratbf also shout out to them

[aeriona]

Traditional Frenator Glass Jewelry!

Frenators are known for their unique cultural obsession with beadwork fashioned from glass, hand-blown using fire. Fire is an important part of Frenator culture, as they believe it can be used as a tool to capture spirits and immortalise them into glass.

Travellers practise glassblowing in different places they visit, to capture different animal spirits. Whatever they make is fashioned into accessories or charms in the shape of local animals.

The beads and charms they make can be put anywhere, but they are usually woven into clothing and hair, or strung into necklaces. Animal charms are painted with eyes and kept exposed to the open air, so the spirit housed within can ‘see’ the world around them.

It’s considered respectful to capture animal spirits and take them with you on your journey, so they can see the world’s wonders even after their death.

When a beloved animal companion passes away, a glass effigy is often made very soon after to immortalise their soul into, so they can always be with you. This is only done for animals though, not people!

[tahomawhisperingwind]

Crafting Connections: Workshops on Traditional Apache Crafts for Kids

Image generated by the author

Imagine a sun-drenched afternoon in the heart of the Southwest, where the air is infused with the earthy scent of clay and the gentle rustle of natural grasses fills the air. Laughter rings out as children’s hands delve into the rich textures of traditional Apache crafts—pottery shaping beneath fingers, vibrant beads sparking creativity, and intricate baskets beginning to take form. These are not just workshops; they are gateways to a cultural legacy, where the past intertwines with the present, and the wisdom of the Apache people is passed down to a new generation.

The Workshop Experience: An Immersive Cultural Journey

In today’s fast-paced world, where screens often dominate children's attention, the Apache crafts workshops provide a much-needed pause. They offer a rare opportunity for young participants to engage with their cultural roots through hands-on experiences that transcend mere learning. Here, children dip their hands into the clay, feeling its coolness, and weave with grasses, allowing their imaginations to flourish. Each workshop is designed to be a profound journey, inviting kids to explore not only the art of crafting but also the philosophies and stories that underpin these age-old traditions.

Participating in activities such as pottery making, basket weaving, and intricate beadwork, children are not just creating; they are connecting. Each crafted item becomes a vessel of Apache wisdom, encapsulating stories of ancestors, the land, and the intricate relationship between humans and nature. The workshops encourage children to slow down, to appreciate the beauty of craftsmanship, and to foster a deeper understanding of their heritage.

The Cultural Context: Weaving History into Craft

The Apache people have a rich history that is intricately woven with their traditional crafts. Every craft tells a story—a narrative punctuated by resilience, survival, and an unwavering connection to the earth. Pottery, for instance, is not merely a functional object; it represents generations of knowledge passed down through families, each piece echoing the voice of an ancestor. Basket weaving, similarly, reflects both artistic expression and practical skills honed over centuries, often utilizing materials sourced directly from the surrounding landscape.

Through these workshops, children delve into the significance of these crafts, learning that every weave and every shape is imbued with cultural meaning. They discover the importance of sustainability and environmental stewardship, understanding that the materials they use come from nature and should be treated with respect. In this way, the workshops serve as a bridge, helping to instill a sense of identity and cultural pride in the participants.

Crafting Values: Patience, Creativity, and Resilience

Crafting is not solely about the end product; it is a process that teaches invaluable life lessons. As children learn to weave baskets or mold clay into pottery, they cultivate patience and persistence. They encounter challenges, whether it’s overcoming a stubborn piece of clay or perfecting the tension in their weaving. Each struggle becomes a lesson in resilience, a reminder that mastery takes time and effort.

The workshops also encourage creativity. With each bead strung and each basket woven, children express themselves artistically. They learn that there are no strict rules; the beauty of art lies in personal expression. Collaborating with peers fosters camaraderie, as they share techniques and ideas, forging friendships that transcend cultural lines. This sense of community becomes a vital part of the experience, reinforcing the idea that crafting is a collective endeavor.

Storytelling: The Heartbeat of Apache Heritage

At the core of these workshops lies the art of storytelling. As children engage in crafting, they are immersed in Apache tales, legends, and teachings that enrich their understanding of the culture. Each crafted piece becomes more than just an object; it transforms into a narrative canvas, where personal stories and cultural histories collide.

As they weave their baskets, children might hear about the significance of the materials they use—how the grasses symbolize strength and flexibility. While shaping clay into pottery, they may listen to stories of ancestors who relied on these vessels for sustenance and survival. The storytelling aspect of the workshops enhances critical thinking, as children reflect on the lessons embedded in each narrative and relate them to their own lives.

Bridging the Past and Present: Modern Relevance of Apache Crafts

In a world dominated by digital distractions, these workshops offer a refreshing escape. They serve as a reminder of the importance of unplugging and reconnecting with the creative spirit that resides in each child. When hands are busy shaping clay or weaving fibers, minds become engaged in a way that screens cannot replicate.

Moreover, the workshops highlight the significance of environmental awareness. Children learn that traditional crafting practices are rooted in sustainability. They come to understand that respecting nature is not just a cultural obligation but a universal necessity. As they craft, they become stewards of the earth, learning the value of natural materials and the impact of their actions on the environment.

Conclusion: Nurturing Future Generations

As the sun sets on another day of crafting, the echo of laughter and joy lingers in the air. The workshops on traditional Apache crafts are more than mere activities; they are a profound investment in the future. They nurture a generation that not only appreciates Apache culture but also embodies the values of environmental stewardship and community engagement.

These experiences cultivate creativity, knowledge, and pride in heritage, ensuring that the traditional practices of the Apache people continue to thrive. The workshops invite us all to participate in this journey—whether by enrolling our children, volunteering, or simply spreading the word about the importance of cultural preservation.

As we reflect on the vibrant connection between past and present, we are left with a thought-provoking question: How can we each contribute to preserving the rich tapestry of our cultural heritage while fostering a deeper connection to the natural world? It is a call to action, a reminder that the stories we weave and the crafts we create today will shape the narratives of tomorrow.

AI Disclosure: AI was used for content ideation, spelling and grammar checks, and some modification of this article.

About Black Hawk Visions: We preserve and share timeless Apache wisdom through digital media. Explore nature connection, survival skills, and inner growth at Black Hawk Visions.

[storeonline28]

Exploring The Diverse World Of Women's Shoes In Parramatta

Parramatta, a bustling hub of culture, history, and commerce, offers a wide range of fashion choices for women, particularly when it comes to shoes. Whether you're strolling through Westfield Parramatta, perusing the local boutiques, or navigating the vibrant street markets, the variety of women’s shoes available is nothing short of impressive. From casual flats to elegant heels, each style serves a different purpose, catering to various tastes and needs. Below, we explore some unique and diverse types of women’s shoes you can find in Parramatta.

1. Eco-Friendly Footwear

With sustainability on the rise, many women in Parramatta are seeking out eco-friendly footwear options. These shoes are made from environmentally conscious materials such as organic cotton, recycled rubber, or vegan leather. Popular brands found in local boutiques and larger retail stores offer a range of stylish options, from everyday sneakers to chic sandals. 

2. Statement Boots

Statement boots are making a bold return, particularly in the trendy quarters of Parramatta. These aren't your typical everyday boots—they are characterised by bright colours, unique patterns, and unconventional materials. Whether it’s knee-high boots in vivid red or ankle boots with intricate embroidery, these shoes allow women to stand out in any crowd. Statement boots are ideal for those looking to make a bold fashion statement, especially during the colder months when layering becomes essential.

3. Artisanal Sandals

Artisanal craftsmanship is valued in Parramatta's shopping scene, where many women are drawn to handcrafted sandals that are both unique and stylish. These sandals often feature intricate detailing, such as beadwork, hand-painted designs, or woven elements, showcasing the skills of artisans from around the world. Artisanal sandals offer a perfect blend of tradition and modernity, making them a popular choice for women who appreciate the art behind their footwear.

4. Tech-Enhanced Fitness Shoes

With fitness playing an increasingly important role in the lives of Parramatta's women, tech-enhanced shoes have gained popularity. These advanced shoes incorporate technology designed to improve performance, such as smart insoles that track your steps or cushioned midsoles that enhance comfort and reduce impact during workouts. 

5. Office-Ready Flats

Office-appropriate flats are a staple for many women in Parramatta, especially those who want to maintain a professional look without sacrificing comfort. However, modern office flats go beyond basic designs; they now feature stylish elements like metallic finishes, pointed toes, and cushioned insoles for all-day wear. Available in a range of neutral tones and vibrant colours, these flats allow women to navigate long workdays while keeping their feet comfortable and chic.

6. Minimalist Slip-Ons

Minimalist fashion has been gaining momentum, and slip-on shoes are a key part of this trend in Parramatta. Minimalist slip-ons are sleek and simple, often made from high-quality leather or suede, with clean lines and subtle detailing. These shoes are perfect for women who appreciate a more understated, yet sophisticated, look. Slip-ons offer convenience and comfort, making them a great choice for both casual and semi-formal occasions.

Parramatta’s diverse shopping scene ensures that women have access to a wide array of shoe options, each catering to different tastes, needs, and lifestyles. From eco-friendly choices to statement pieces, the variety is as vast as it is stylish. Whether you're looking for everyday comfort, fitness functionality, or standout designs for a special event, Parramatta has something to offer every woman looking to step up her footwear game.