POWER COUPLE.

UNTIL EVERY ONE OF MY BONES IS BROKEN-

i am a private person who doesn’t like talking about their life but who also compulsively overshares at any given opportunity. hope that helps

predictions are locked in. 2026 is going to be a good one

2026

my daily affirmation as an author

Sky girl

Neteyam x kekunan!reader

a/n this is a repost from my previous post/request answer bc i want people to see it and get their attention asap bc this is the longest and best fic ive ever written

trash sequel

The mist of the Hallelujah Mountains did not just cling to the rocks; it breathed. It was the living respiration of Pandora, a swirling, ethereal ocean of white that separated the grounded world from the kingdom of the clouds. For a daughter of the Kekunan, this vertiginous world was the only one that made sense. To the forest clans, the "edge" was a place of danger. To you, the edge was where life truly began.

You were born to the sky, a child of the clan that first taught the Na'vi how to touch the heavens. While the Omatikaya were rooted in the deep shadows of the jungle, your people were the bright sparks of defiance against gravity. You were clothed in the colors of the sunrise—boisterous, screaming shades of crimson, saffron, and violet that mirrored the plumage of the mountain banshees.

As the daughter of the Olo’eyktan and tsakarem, your life was a tapestry of duty. You were expected to be the swiftest, the bravest, and the most composed, embodying the legend of Taronyu, the first rider. But today, the heavy mantle of being a chieftain’s child had been set aside. Today, you were simply a creature of the wind.

You were alone with Ni’muna, your ikran. She was a magnificent beast of fire and blood-orange, her wings dappled with patterns that looked like cooling lava. You had spent the morning painting yourself to match her, dragging fingers dipped in thick orange clay across your sapphire skin, creating bold, aggressive streaks that trailed down your arms and thighs. It was a tribute to her, a sign of the tsaheylu, that she was you— and you her.

High above the tree line, where the air grew thin and cold enough to bite, you sat tall in your saddle. You wore a thin, feathered top—a vibrant, daring red that fluttered violently in the wind, the feathers plucked from the Great Leonopteryx’s smaller cousins. It offered little protection against the elements, but the Kekunan did not dress for comfort; you dressed for the dance.

“You ready, girl?” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper against the gale.

Ni’muna didn't need the words. Through the bond, you felt the thrum of her heart—a rapid, powerful rhythm that mirrored the pounding in your own chest. You felt the twitch of her wing muscles, the way she tasted the thermal drafts, and the sheer, unadulterated hunger for speed.

With a sudden, violent thrust of her wings, she tipped her nose toward the abyss.

The stomach-flipping drop was your favorite part. You leaned forward, flattening your chest against her neck, your wind-swept curls whipping behind you like a dark cloud. The air roared past your ears, a deafening whistle that drowned out the world. You were practicing a maneuver inspired by the old stories—the ones your father told about the Great War. He had spoken of a warrior, the Toruk Makto, who used the sky as a three-dimensional battlefield, twisting and diving in ways that the traditional aerial dances hadn't yet touched.

“Now!” you thought, a command sent through the braid.

Ni’muna tucked one wing and flared the other. You went into a violent, high-speed barrel roll. The world spun—sky, rock, fog, sky again—in a blur of turquoise and gray. Amidst the centrifugal force trying to tear you from the saddle, you reached back, your fingers finding the notch of your bow by muscle memory alone.

You saw the target: a small, crimson shell fruit you had balanced on a jutting branch of a solitary floating islet.

In the split second where your horizon leveled during the roll, you drew. The tension of the string was a familiar ache in your shoulder. You released.

Thwack.

The arrow pierced the fruit dead center, pinning it to the bark as you zoomed past. Ni’muna leveled out with a triumphant shriek, her own roars joining your piercing whoop. You banked a wide, graceful turn to retrieve your arrow, expecting to be alone with your victory.

Instead, as you approached the small islet, Ni’muna’s head crested with a low, wary hiss.

Unbeknownst to you, Neteyam stood on the edge of the floating rock, his breath hitching in his throat. He had been sent out on a long-range patrol, seeking the solitude of the high altitudes to clear his head from the pressures of being the "perfect son," when he had heard the scream of an ikran—not the usual cry of a hunter, but a sound of pure, reckless joy.

honest to god i think tyler galpin doesn't need a redemption arc. my son had a douchebag as a dad, his mom is (presumed) dead, he was groomed by the woman whom ALSO tortured him, and i KNOW deep in my heart he was overworked and underpaid at weathervane. He deserves to have a crash out and murder people as a treat. as a diva should.

he deserves a little theatrics, a little pizzazz if you will.

Aphas gotta take care of the pack. Even if they're a bunch of psycho gremlins

A wizard that regularly breaks into the gem shop where magical gemstones are cut from rough stone into their more commonly known sparkly faceted shapes - but he doesn't steal any of them. He sweeps the floor. Bags the stone crumbs and shards and dust he sweeps up. Breaks out again. The goblins who run the gem shop never bother to investigate why the floor just cleans up on its own, they assume that they've got a house elf or something.

So the wizard takes the shards and all, and grinds them all into evenly sized teeny tiny crumbs, and mixes them all together. The magic gemstone chips and crumbs become something new: magic pocket sand. Nobody knows what it'll do to you if he throws it at you. Least of all him.

A fantasy story starting with the protagonist minding her own business gathering firewood, when a demon appears out of nowhere announcing that she belongs to him now. The protagonist demands to know on what grounds, she's never signed no damn contract. The demon is kind of baffled by this, and awkwardly explains that just now her father had promised his firstborn for something, and she is his firstborn.

The protagonist digs her heels in and says no, she never knew her biological father and by the way the demon explained the situation, evidently her father also doesn't know that he already has a daughter, so therefore the man who had made no contribution to her life after he bred and fled has no claim to her as something he could barter.

Not giving a shit about the fact she's gambling her life in doing so, the protagonist makes contact with the local woodland fae, asking them to negotiate on her side. The fae think that this is fucking hilarious and go with her. So, having lawyered up and with a reluctant demon in tow, the protagonist heads off on a quest to find her father and do whatever it takes to wrangle everyone involved into unmaking the contract.