#LIKE ARE YOU WATCHING? OR YOUR BRAIN IS TOO WITHERED FOR YOU TO UNDERSTAND?

[khaoala]

Re. your reaction video gifset: maybe it's just me, but it's not even fun anymore, it's just painful/frustrating. And while I'm glad the others did (eventually) speak up, I'd love it if in general we could move away from the idea that the only issue here is ppl criticising First (which tbh I haven't even seen), and not, you know, them fundamentally misunderstanding and consequently hating one of the show's core characters. If nothing else ppl should understand that, as an actor, the one responsible for conveying the truth of said character, that misunderstanding is gonna hurt him all the same.

i'm not an actor, so i don't know exactly how it must feel from the perspective of a performer, but as a viewer, i 100% agree with you when you say this isn't even funny or amusing at this point. first is a dear, he's very mindful, so i can't imagine him calling people out harshly for their misinterpretation of kant. he just looks sad when he talks about it now. first is someone who puts a lot of work on the characters he plays, he tries understanding them, and playing them respectfully, so i can only imagine how frustrating it is that people hate on kant without putting thought into why he did the things he did.

and let's be clear, this is not on first even though i haven't been as lucky as you anon, and have seen people being nasty towards him as if he's the character and not first. fandom created such a bias and made kant their villain because apparently focusing on the guy who has no other options since he's being blackmailed is easier than seeing the real problem aka christ, police captain, who brushes shit under the rug and get civilians to do his dirty work instead of doing the work himself.

first in a phenomenal actor. he expresses all the things he needs to express, either with words or looks or actions. maybe if people who complain about kant or kantbison actually watched the show and their scenes, they wouldn't fail to understand his character and need to create wild lies to make their pettiness sound like is grounded.

[devilish-cherry]

ᨳ♡₊➳ jjk men with a s/o who has social anxiety

ᨳ♡₊➳ feat. gojo, geto, nanami, choso, toji

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack, fluff

₊⊹. Satoru Gojo

Gojo is, hands down, the worst person to have around when you have social anxiety because he’s the human equivalent of putting your phone on max brightness in a dark room. Subtlety? Never met her. He thinks the best way to help you “get over” your anxiety is to throw you directly into situations that terrify you—which is objectively the worst way to handle it, but he’s Gojo, so logic does not apply.

“Just talk to them! What’s the worst that could happen?” he says, as if your brain hasn’t already created 19,294 possible worst-case scenarios in the last three seconds.

But if he sees you really panicking, he does become your ultimate human shield. He will talk so much and so loudly that no one will even notice you’re in the room. He’s like a one-man hype squad—dramatically introducing you to people, telling fake stories about how you once saved a baby from a burning building (??), and physically spinning you around like a confused sim to “showcase” you to others.

He also thinks he can fix your anxiety with money. You’re nervous? BOOM—he just bought the entire café so no one else can be there while you order. Scared of talking on the phone? Don’t worry, he hired a personal assistant to do all your calls. You get anxious at big events? Guess what—you’re now watching the concert alone in a VIP skybox, courtesy of Satoru “I Have No Concept of Boundaries” Gojo.

₊⊹. Suguru Geto

Unlike Gojo, Geto actually listens when you say you have social anxiety. He’s your calm, soothing presence who always has your back. If you’re at a social event, he stays close, and does all the talking for you.

Someone pressures you into talking? Geto immediately places a protective hand on your shoulder and effortlessly takes over. “Ah, they don’t feel like talking right now. You understand, don’t you?” (Read: You better understand, or you will be dealt with.)

Geto has zero problems with being your designated spokesperson. If you need something from the waiter but are too anxious to ask, Geto just lifts a lazy hand and orders for you like it’s second nature. And if you ever need an excuse to leave somewhere, he straight-up lies for you.

He always notices when you start getting overwhelmed, even when you try to play it cool. “Do you need a break?” “You wanna go home?” “I can fake an emergency if you need an out.” He has 10 different exit strategies prepared at all times.

He also gaslights you into confidence (in a good way). If you say, “Ugh, I was so awkward,” he immediately replies, “No, you were mysterious and cool.” He refuses to let you spiral.

₊⊹. Kento Nanami

Nanami takes your anxiety very seriously and does research to figure out how best to help you. He probably has a folder of PDFs titled “How to Support Someone With Social Anxiety,” and he reads all of them.

He notices you struggling in conversations and subtly steps in, redirecting attention away from you without making it obvious. He also has the unique skill of making excuses for you so smoothly that even you believe them. He never forces you into situations that make you uncomfortable. If you don’t want to go somewhere, he’ll just stay home with you—no questions asked.

He also takes over any “adult” interactions you dread. Need to call and schedule an appointment? Nanami’s already dialing. Don’t want to talk to a stranger? He steps in like a well-paid lawyer. You once told him that you hate making returns at stores because the confrontation stresses you out. Next thing you know, he’s standing at the counter, receipt in hand, calmly saying, “This item was defective. We’d like a refund.” The cashier is terrified. You’re in awe.

At restaurants, he’ll call the waiter over if you’re too nervous. At events, he’ll stand in front of you like a personal barrier so you don’t feel exposed. And if someone talks too much or makes you uncomfortable, he stares at them until they wither away into dust.

Nanami never makes you feel bad for being anxious. He just accepts you as you are and adapts accordingly.

₊⊹. Choso Kamo

Choso, bless his soul, does not understand social anxiety, but he understands you—and that’s enough for him. The first time you explain it, he just blinks slowly. “So… you feel like dying when you talk to people?” You nod. He nods back, solemn. “Okay. I will protect you.”

He takes this very seriously. If he senses your discomfort, he physically puts himself between you and the offending person, staring them down like a guard dog. Someone talks too much and won’t let you leave? Choso suddenly appears behind you like a horror movie villain, towering and unsmiling. “They don’t want to talk anymore.” You swear you hear boss music.

He thinks hand-holding is the solution to all your problems. If you’re anxious, he just grabs your hand—even in situations where it’s unnecessary. Grocery store? Holding hands. Walking through a park? Holding hands. Sitting next to each other in silence? Holding hands. It’s like his instinctual support system.

He also never pressures you to be social. If you don’t want to go somewhere, he just stays home with you. You could literally say, “I’m too anxious to go outside today,” and he’d nod and say, “Understandable. We stay inside forever now.”

Choso also becomes way too invested in your coping mechanisms. You once told him that looking at your phone makes you feel less awkward, so now, if you ever get anxious, he just wordlessly hands you his phone. No explanation. No context. Just here, take it. It’s always open to some weird Google search like “How do birds know how to fly if nobody teaches them?"

You love him so much.

₊⊹. Toji Fushiguro

Toji has no clue what social anxiety even is. You try explaining it, and he just squints at you like you’re speaking another language. “You’re scared of talking? Just don’t talk.”

You sigh. It’s a lost cause. Despite this, he is somehow still your biggest protector. His solution to your nervousness? Make you feel like you own every room you walk into.

If you hesitate before going somewhere, he hypes you up. "What do you mean you're nervous? Look at you. You’re hot. If anyone even looks at you wrong, I’ll break their kneecaps."

That being said, Toji lives for watching you suffer (affectionately). If you get flustered in social situations, he finds it hilarious. You mumble your order at a restaurant? Toji leans in, smirking. “What was that, sweetheart? Speak up.” You turn red. He grins.

But if anyone else makes you uncomfortable? Oh, they’re dead. Toji has zero patience for people who push you too hard. If someone tries to force you into a conversation, Toji just slings an arm around your shoulder and leans in, voice deceptively casual. “They don’t wanna talk, dumbass. Walk away.” They always walk away.

If you’re anxious in public, he distracts you with absurd nonsense. “Bet you ten bucks I can steal that guy’s drink without him noticing.”

Toji also loves using you as an excuse to leave events early. You both hate being around people for too long. If you’re nervous at a party, he just physically carries you out like a sack of potatoes. If you get overwhelmed in a crowd, he bulldozes a path through people like an unhinged linebacker.

And despite all his chaos, he always makes sure you feel safe. Because at the end of the day, Toji might be a menace, but he’s your menace.

[alexlwrites]

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

✿𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Alpha! Hyung line x Omega! Reader

✿ 𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: "And through some happenstance, casual and cruel, shaped by the hands of the Moon goddesses, you ended up face to face with what They considered your fated mates.

Of course, they didn’t know that - how could they recognize their goddess-given match if you had no scent? As long as you didn’t reach maturity, only you would feel this pull, this constant urge pooling at your lower abdomen when their scents filled your nose and sent your eyes rolling back.

You knew your place and it was not amongst royalty."

OR  

The one where you find your fated alphas, but they can't find you.

✿ 𝑻𝒂𝒈𝒔:  Romance, Humor, Fluff, Angst, ABO, Soulmate AUs.

✿ 𝑨/𝑵: Should I be writing another fanfic when I have not finished a single one of my works? No. Does my brain understand that? Also no.

Anyway enjoy, like and subscribe and ignore any mistakes as english is not my first language and i dont proof read anything in my life.

P.S: This is heavely inspired by the book Pack Darling, so shoutout to that duology give it a read, yall!

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: This is a 18+ work! Minors, please do not interact. Also, there will be mentions of violence and abuse.

(Fanfic masterlist)

(support me on my ko-fi if you enjoy my work <3)

°•. ✿ .•°

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞: 𝐒𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬

You didn’t know how long you had been running, nor how far you’d gotten. The skies had darkened and then lightened again since the moment of your escape and you assumed you had a few more hours before your absence was noticed, but you didn’t have it in yourself to stop, steps only briefly faltering from exhaustion but still fueled by fear.

You had to keep going. No amount of distance was enough between you and what you had left behind.

Still, there was only so much your body could take in its malnourished state and after a while your legs slowed down on their own, feet too hurt to continue carrying your weight. Yet you stumbled forward through unknown woods, watching trees and shrubbery blurr past you as you dragged yourself towards what you hoped was west - towards the coast.

You had never left the walls that surrounded your family’s home, but had seen the maps that covered the walls of your father’s study enough to remember the outlines of the charted land and the sprawling expanse of the coastal city near the territory you lived - the closest and the only one you could get on foot, even if you were unsure what your next step would be once you got there.

Adamas - the capital of diamonds - laid hopefully ahead of you, filled to the brim with marine vessels and royal ships that you could maybe sneak in and let yourself be carried far away from the claws of your family, running until you found somewhere quiet and reclusive where you could spend your days alone and free from your own status and its implications.

But that dream seemed further and further away as your body shivered and withered, unable to continue your journey, faltering until you gave out and found yourself lying atop a pile of leaves on the cold forest floor.

You sighed, a tortured breath escaping your exhausted lungs. Maybe it was the best you’d get - not the solitary cottage you yearned for, but the swift death by the hands of nature. Still an escape, death. Still freedom from that was always expected of you, from the destiny that awaited.

You closed your eyes and waited, giving up on the weight of consciousness. Any moment now, you thought. It would all be over. As the edges of your mind started to become hazy, your tired lungs pulled one more labored breath and with it a scent that reached out to the deepest parts of your soul with a calming, friendly touch and released the tension from your body.

This is heaven, you thought, and allowed yourself to sleep.

***

There was an unconscious omega in his lands and King Namjoon was unsure on what to do.  

Omegas were rare within the wolf genes - they were the smallest of the packs, the caregivers and kindest diplomats, made to become nursing figures within each family dynamic and bring balance to the usually violent and short fused nature of alphas, despite their positions as providers and leaders. But omegas, gentle and fragile omegas, were far and few between and from a very young age Namjoon had been taught to treat them with the utmost care. 

With that being said, Namjoon was also taught to be wary of trespassers and this tiny, wounded omega was somehow within his borders. 

How did you get there, he wondered. There were no roads leading to the back of the castle where he usually strolled through in the early mornings, only thick woods that would be almost a day on foot before you got to any sort of path.

In the end, his instincts spoke louder, dynamics drilled into his brain and pulling him towards the tattered frame on the ground. With all the kindness he could muster from his large frame, he gathered your body in his arms, gently cradling your form.

As he walked, he let his eyes access you: small, disconcertingly thin, with hollow cheeks and dark circles marring your lovely soft features. You had no mating mark on your neck and no distinguishable scent - and that was what confused him the most.

When an omega reaches maturity, their scent would evolve into something unique that would eventually be used to attract a mate and potentially even identify a fated scent match - a partner made by the heavens, your perfect half.

But despite looking past the age of maturity, you smelled clean, neutral with just a hint of sweetness to classify you as an omega.

What on earth could have happened to you, he wondered, worriedly scanning your bruised body and jutting bones.

And what on earth would he do with you?

***

Sometimes Hoseok couldn’t understand his leader.

He watched as Namjoon paced up and down his office, heavy steps echoing around as he stomped in contemplation.

From the day they met, decades ago, when they were both babbling toddlers, Hoseok had accepted  the younger man as pack. Both sons of monarchs, born in allied families, they were thrown together in royal play pens as soon as they could hold the weight of their own heads.

Hoseok always considered it a privilege to watch his brother in arms grow into his  position - a natural born leader, a king. And Hoseok never once doubted his ability to rule fairly and successfully. 

But every so often he couldn’t help but question his friend’s common sense.

“Namjoon” he called to his still restless friend “You cannot possibly be considering throwing the omega in the dungeons?”

“She is technically trespassing” his friend argued stubbornly.

“She’s an omega!”

His own mother being a rare omega, some rules had been drilled very early into Hoseok’s young mind: omegas are to be treasured, his father had said, it is your job as an alpha to protect them should you be blessed enough to find one.

He hadn’t actually seen the omega. He had barely woken up when a maid ushered him to the king’s office where Namjoon had asked for his council while burning a hole through the carpet. 

“She could be dangerous. Some sort of trap, maybe?”

No threat could scare Hoseok more than the idea of his father finding out he had allowed some poor omega to be thrown into their underground cells and so he pleaded “Put her in one of the guest rooms and set my guards in the exits. When she wakes up, I’ll interrogate her myself.”

Namjoon considered the offer for a few seconds, examining the face of the captain of his guard and one of his closest friends. At last, he nodded and settled down in a nearby chair, calling a guard to give the order to move you from the infirmary to the guest aisle of his castle as soon as possible.

Unable to hold back his curiosity any longer, Hoseok asked his shaky leader after a few seconds of silence “What is she like?”

There was a gleam in Namjoon’s eyes Hoseok couldn’t explain and doubted his king could either “Small,” he let out quietly “black and blue all over, all skin and bones like she hadn’t seen a plate of food in days”. Hoseok closed his fists on an impulse and had to force his fingers to relax. Could he blame this sort of reaction on his instincts? 

He thought Namjoon wouldn’t say anything else, but after a few more seconds of silence his king continued “Pretty” he said softly at last, almost like an afterthought.

Hoseok couldn’t help himself, having never met another omega besides his own mother, and asked “And… The scent?”

“Clean.”

Hoseok blinked “She’s a child?”

“No. Full grown. Can’t be more than a couple years younger than us.”

That’s odd, Hoseok thought. From what he was taught, a healthy adult omega should have developed a signature scent - like his mom, with her easily recognizable roses and clear meadows.

Right as he was about to ask to see you, his fascination with the idea of a scentless omega getting the best of him, a maid rushed into the room to announce your awakening.

Both men rushed out of the room, elbowing each other to leave first through the door, impatient to get to where you laid, barely avoiding toppling the poor maid on their way.

The infirmary was a wide room with tall ceilings and large windows that let in the morning light from most angles. That same light illuminated your figure as they walked in, eyes drawn to the only bed occupied in the room.

Oh. You were in fact pretty, Hoseok concluded, watching you blink owlishly at the sunlight invading the space. You had a soft looking kind of beauty that was barely overshadowed by your debilitated state that caused a stirring of protection in both alphas. Who could’ve left you like that, he wondered, and how quickly could he wrap his hands around their necks and twist…

“You’re awake” Namjoon pointed out, catching your attention.

That seemed to be the wrong course of action. When your eyes landed on where the men stood by the door, they widened to the size of saucers. Something about their presence sent you scrambling out of your bed, falling onto the ground with a dull thud as you rushed to put some space between yourself and the imposing males.

“Hey, hey, hey” Hoseok raised his hands, palms facing forward to indicate his intention to cause no harm, your terrified expression keeping him far “Be careful, little lady.”

You didn’t say anything, just kept cowering further and further away until your back hit a wall and you winced in pain.

“Stand up and get back to your bed” Namjoon commanded roughly and Hoseok could see your fighting against the urge to submit to the alpha’s orders, causing him to elbow his friend “Please” he added “You are hurt and weak and shouldn’t be out of bed’ he continued in a much gentler tone. 

Slowly, you moved yourself back to the mattress, shuffling to hide under the blankets, bringing them over your nose and leaving only your panicked eyes visible.

The last thing Hoseok wanted at that moment was to interrogate you when you were so clearly distressed, body shaking under your burrow. But he had duties to uphold and your presence raised questions that just staring at your disarmingly cute face wouldn’t answer.

“What’s your name, little lady?” he asked.

You mumbled your name so quietly he almost didn’t catch it, the sound stifled by the fabric covering your lips. When he did hear it, he did not recognize it.

“How did you manage to get into the castle’s grounds?”

You gulped. “The castle?” you repeated in a whisper. 

“Do you know where you are?” Namjoon asked and you shook your head fearfully “Do you know who we are?”

Sinking deeper into the safety of your blankets, you shook your head once more.

“I’m Jung Hoseok, head of the royal guard” and just when Hoseok thought your eyes couldn’t get any wider, they did, panic seeping further into your gaze “And this is Kim Namjoon” the words had your face paling until devoid of any color, yet he continued “the King of Adamas.”

Both men watched your face for a reaction, seeing you gape in shock, eyes rolling back to your skull as you promptly passed out.

***

You woke up to a churning stomach and a pounding headache, both hunger symptoms that you were very familiar with. How many days had it been since you last ate? You couldn’t tell, the night sky outside the windows of the empty room signaling the end of another day. And at that moment, your starvation was the least of your problems. 

The king - the fucking king - was your mate. And so was the head of his guard. 

When you first opened your eyes to sunlit room, regaining consciousness after Gods knew how long, their scent hit you like a brick to the face, sending you flying off the bed on the brink of a panic attack.

This couldn’t be happening. Not now. You were so close!

You looked for their reaction, trying to gauge if they were feeling what you were - this life changing pull in your core, this prickling feeling underneath your skin, fingers twitching at your side to reach for your alphas.

But there was nothing, not a flick of recognition, only wariness and mild concern.

These were not your alphas - these were your king and his most trusted guard. And you were just an omega on the run, worth only the money you could be sold for.

You remembered the first offer your father had received once the neighboring towns heard about his siring of an omega. Up until then your father had never seen much value in your existence. Before you, he had only had alpha boys - three, to be exact - older, stronger and meaner than you, built for leadership roles and bringing his legacy to another level.

But you? What use did he have for small, needy, whimpering you? None, he had told you many times over. Your father had never been afraid to remind you of your place in the household: the burden.

Until you became the pot of gold.

You weren’t sure how, but someway or another the news of your existence reached the next town and then the next town over, and so forth until your father was reminded that even though he saw no value in housing an omega, the rest of the world did. 

5 million. That was the first offer he received, when you were only fourteen.

And for a moment you believed that could be your way out of your father’s cruel claws - get yourself a husband far away and live happily ever after, pampered and taken care of by some alpha knight.

But those daydreams died soon enough when you learned from the maids what happened to sold omegas.

Imprisoned. Trapped. Breeded. Discarded. Rinse. Repeat.

There was an audible crack in your heart, a rift in the fragile rivulet of hope you had for a future of better days. Since then, the only thing you could hope for was an escape. You daydreamed of far away lands and open fields with no civilization for miles, only an ivy covered cottage for you to hide away from the world.

Alas, that dream seemed further and further away as you got older. You knew your father was just waiting for you to present, hoping that whatever scent you developed would up the price with its enticement and your late blooming was a constant reason for his frustration. Your development was the only thing between you and your sale to the highest bidder.

And if you had any say in it, you would never present. In order to do so, your body needed to be healthy - and you just never were.

Starvation, overexhaustion and overworked muscles had been your saviors since you realized they could delay your maturity. So from the day you turned 16 - about the age omegas started presenting - you began restricting your meals to about one every two days. You ran around the property’s grounds until your feet screamed in agony and your knees gave out. Your sleep schedule was messy and insufficient and so your body remained fragile and unchanged.

And that worked up until your 22nd birthday when your father got tired of waiting.

And so you ran, climbing on the back of a supply carriage that you had visited one day and letting it carry you as far as it could. And then you sprinted, like you had been doing for years.

And through some happenstance, casual and cruel, shaped by the hands of the Moon goddesses, you ended up face to face with what They considered your fated mates.

Of course, they didn’t know that - how could they recognize their goddess-given match if you had no scent? As long as you didn’t reach maturity, only you would feel this pull, this constant urge pooling at your lower abdomen when their scents filled your nose and sent your eyes rolling back.

You knew your place and it was not amongst royalty. You were, as your father always pointed out, too small, too weak and too soft to carry on a legacy, a kingdom. 

You had to get out before your ticking bomb of a body turned against you and distanced you once more from your peaceful cottage dream.

You just needed to figure out how.

(Part two>>>)

°•. ✿ .•°

𝐌𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧! 𝐂𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝

[whalesforhands]

what’s yours is mine (1/?)

masterlist next

pairing: geto suguru x reader x gojo satoru

You don’t know a lot of things, and you readily admit that. What you do know, is that the friends you’ve made aren’t something you will ever regret. Until your physical body weakens and becomes nothing, you’re more than happy to give your all until you wither away.

What’s yours can be theirs, too. They’re your friends, after-all. (Omegaverse, rating may change with every update.)

“Ito Saya, reporting in for your daily broadcast. In a noteworthy shift, Omegas are increasingly finding more employment opportunities in positions of power. With a positive trend towards reduced oppression of—“

You’re averse to this sort of thing. A folly, something you can barely care about as your eyes squint at big words floating around the screen, a pretty lady holding papers and looking all serious and… Boring. TV shows are supposed to be fun, supposed to be playing that anime you had been waiting all week to see, supposed to be… Interesting so that you can feel less alone.

You definitely don’t want some silly lady on the screen talking about— Those things that you can barely understand. Why do they always talk so much? A picture could probably end their entire long spiels in seconds.

Your nose scrunches, your fingers cupping your chin like those TV characters did when they were thinking really hard. So why don’t they just use pictures? They’re more colourful and tell you stuff faster, won’t they? It’s not your fault that the TV station people are always so inefficient.

(It’s the television’s fault isn’t it? Definitely, right? Mama always did tell you it was a little old.)

Or maybe it’s because you don’t know a lot of things.

You’re 4, staring up at the glowing screen of your all too old television, sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor in this wide, wide room that was a little too empty for your liking. Your nose picks up on the scent of coffee, ears barely picking up on a clink of porcelain against a cheap wooden coaster. Mama circles things in newspapers, the gliding of her red marker against the sheet attracting your attention to the focused look in her eyes, the furrow of her brows, the way she just held that pen so elegantly…

(Your Mama is so much prettier than the lady on the TV.)

You like it when she’s focused like that, so serious-looking! This must be the pinnacle of a hard worker. Brains… And beety? Or whatever you heard some other old man on the TV used to cheer about.

So you decide you don’t wanna watch anymore, Getting up onto your small feet and barely catching yourself before you topple over, toddling over to your Mama with socks padding against the wooden floors.

You’re soon taking decisive peeks at your all too focused mother, watching over her shoulder in silence to let her focus. There should be a reason why she’s so serious, right?

Maybe it’s something fun? Something exciting? That’s why she’s so focused on it— right?

“J…Ob list…ings open…” Your eyes are narrowed, licking over your lips to wet them as you take another deep breath in. “Mini—um, ex-peer-i-sense?”

You can see the red marker coming to a halt, her sweet chuckle perhaps to humor you, to acknowledge your attempt. Patting your head when she turns her head around, and a smile upon her face as she smooths over the fabric of her skirt, as you feel yourself being lifted and plopped gently into the warm confines of her lap.

“That was a nice try, sweetie.” Her eyes meet yours when you take the decisive move to lean back, a ruffle of your hair and your quiet giggle as the short relief of her attention leaves you, though not without sating your curiosity. “Mama’s looking for a job.”

You know what that is. It’s for adults to make money, disappear for hours in a day and only come back super, super late at night.

(You think your father had one. Or… Did he really?)

And it means they spend all that time in a place nowhere close to their home or cute, adorable, obedient daughters either.

“Does that mean you can’t stay home with me anymore, Mama?” You’re still leaning back into her chest, staring up at her chin from your position as you bring yourself impossibly closer to her, the calm smell of vanilla and honey in your nostrils making you all warm and fuzzy, calm and happy.

(You always liked it when she smelled like this.)

“Maybe, sweetie.” She pulls away briefly to tap the end of the marker against your nose. “But Mama will be able to buy you more delicious food,” She pauses to smile so sweetly down at you, a pinch to your cheek. “And finally get you some toys.”

Toys. You realize that you don’t have any toys. At least— You couldn’t bring any of your toys with you when your mother had so urgently scooped you up into her arms in the dead of the night, a luggage rolling behind her as your nose picks up on an urgent, intruding scent of sour milk and rotting flowers, your senses spiked with uncertainty and fear as you soundlessly drink in the last sight of your old home for those few seconds before the darkness ate it all away.

You remember boarding 1 train, 2 trains, 3 trains… You lost count after that. Only simply remembering getting pulled along, Mama’s soft whispering and cooing promises that this is for the best, that your Papa won’t be able to follow you here, that you’ll be happier than ever. You remember her scent, less rigid, less frightened but still steeped in misplaced excitement. Like a fragrant scent of calm that beckoned you to follow and imitate.

You remember living in small apartments, tiny, squeezy and virtually no space. You remember how sickly, horridly sweet Mama’s scent was, caked in perfume when she rushes out every night for her job at the local izakaya. Her uniform always a little messed up in her haste before she leaves your dinner usually already in your hands as you slurp on ramen or eat another scoop of curry rice.

She would pat your head as you offer her a bite, giving you a smile before she tells you to be good, several locks clicking into place when she closes the door behind her.

It wasn’t much, wasn’t the most fun you’ve ever had in your life, but it was comfortable. You were happy with that simple life with her. But one day, you heard jangling at the front door, you hear hurried, panicked movements, smell sour fear despite the thick odour of perfume as your Mama hurriedly slams the door shut behind her, cold sweat on her as she hugs you close, buries her face into your hair.

You don’t like it when she’s like this.

You remember a man with a scent so different from your father come knocking at your door for weeks on end, gradually changing from slow knocks to furious banging on the metal with a rough pleads begging that he won’t hurt your mother, that she was beautiful, the she was—

That’s how you ended up here now. It’s been at least a year since then. And only about a month since you moved in.

(You think. You’re not really good at telling time yet.)

“Mama, I don’t need toys.” It’s not like you don’t want them, you just don’t need them. A lesson taught to you by more pretty ladies on the TV screen, you’ve also stopped by many a toy store only to see too many zeroes on price tags, and it’s been steeled in your mind that you just don’t need them. Not when you have Mama to play together with now that she’s smiling so much more.

So you’re adamant on not wanting any.

“Is that so, darling?” You feel a mindless pinch to your cheek as she circles another paragraph of words. “Then how are you going to keep yourself from getting bored when I’m not around?”

Now that has you in a slight dilemma, your hands freezing in place from where they had been twirling with her hair. You blink once, and again when you quietly see her marker tap against the paper, as if awaiting your thoughts as your eyes start to dart all over the room.

(She makes really good points. Too good. As expected of your Mama.)

The television? No. Mama would tell you too much is bad for your eyes. The pillows you both use for your futons? No. You’ll probably dirty it and make more work for her. Your eyes silently trail over to the window, sun shining through the panes and onto the floor as a glowing thought arises.

“I can just play outside.”

——

Be careful what you wish for, as they say.

An amused chuckle from Mama as she pushes you towards the door, nimble fingers excitedly doing up the straps of your old sandals and arming you with a couple of handmade cookies, a pat on your head and parting words of;

“Don’t wander anywhere past the playground, don’t follow anyone strange, be back by sunset and make some friends.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have said that you’ll go play outside.

“Honey, I know it’s only been so long since we’ve moved here.” She’s clears her throat, a cloth being gently rubbed against your face to help get rid of any stray rice grains. “But,” She sucks in a breath, a rise and fall of her chest as you blink at her.

“Have you…” She has to take another breath in. Does she have breathing problems—

“Made any friends yet?”

Oh.

The answer is no. Your go-to counter being, ‘I don’t go outside, so how can I make any?’ as if it was the most obvious thing in the world as you give her a smile.

(This isn’t something you’re meant to be proud of.)

And all she’ll give you is winced smile, ruffling your hair and saying that there was no rush. That you’ll get your chance. That you’re the sweetest kid there was. That she has faith in you and wants you to work hard!

But it’s not like it’s as easy as your capable mother makes it sound, and not like you wanted to be out here, anyway. You think the sun is too hot, that there aren’t enough clouds, that the wind isn’t picking up enough, the cicadas are too loud, that you need water—

And that you need to stop complaining so much.

You’re kicking at the path, a long stick in your hands poking at the ground beneath you, cookies pinched between your fingers as you wander and wonder. You can make friends. Surely, you can. That’s what the the cookies are for, right?

Other kids your age should love cookies. You sure do, and you’re Mama’s number 1 fan when it comes to her baking.

(Or her… Anything, really.)

So… You know her inside out, you swear you do. You love her, she loves you, she makes good food and she wants you to make friends, come back with no cookies and a new bond forged.

(Anyone would do, right?)

But you don’t see any kids, the playground you just arrived at deserted and empty. It looks sleek, almost as if it were brand new. Dark wood and galvanized steel, it was so… Clean. So untouched. Yet nobody was here? Your shoulders slump forwards in mild disappointment, yet your heart thrills at the thought of being able to have the whole place to yourself. Alone.

Well, choosers can’t be beggars… Or was it the other way around? Either way, it’s not like Mama would know if you ate them both yourself.

——

So you find yourself sat down comfortably within the top of the little hut housing the slide, your feet splayed out in front of you as you prepare to take a bite. You feel the straps of your sandals relax against your feet, a slight breeze picking up despite the shade you had hidden under. Perfect. This was perfect—

“Are those cookies?”

You can feel your shoulders jump in shock, fear pulling at your heartstrings and a startle nearly making you drop your precious dessert. So much for a peaceful time. You have to physically lurch yourself back before any harm was done to your food. Just who do they think they are? To just come up to you and—

A flurry of white snow and icicles of frost. But you’re pretty sure the summer heat is still beating down, the cicadas are still singing, and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. Yet the one before you defies all of that. He had an aura about him, a commanding curiosity. And he does definitely—

“Look weird.”

His eyes widen for just that fraction of a second, before he furrows his brows, the long sleeves of the firefly kimono swaying when he crosses his arms in rebuttal.

“You’re weirder.”

You blink maybe twice. Once in surprise, and the other to really blink back into reality. He must’ve heard your thoughts.

“I didn’t. Ya just said it out loud, weirdo.”

Oh. You have to say your sorries, then. Mama didn’t raise you to be rude.

“This is my playground.” Your eyes catch a glimmer of the wara zori his feet donned. They were too neat, too well put together. “Nobody else is allowed in.” His tone sounds so proper, his pronunciation so abnormally clear, especially for someone who looks your age.

“Oh.” You didn’t know that. Though to be fair, you don’t know a lot of things. “Sorry. I didn’t know playgrounds can be owned…”

“That’s only for poor people.” You hear the tap of his shoes against pressure treated wood. “If more people were like me, they’d have their own playgrounds too.”

“Oh. Sorry then.” You really are. You just thought playgrounds were a place for every kid… 

“S’that all you can say?” You can see the shine of iridescent blue, making use of his standing height to belittle and threaten your sitting position. He makes himself look big, makes the glimmer in his eye turn into one of malice and impatience. It twists his features, turns them into something rugged and rough and uncomfortable.

And you think it’s such a waste of the cute face he has.

“Sorry.” To his Mama who gave him such a nice looking profile, and to him, you guess. You don’t really know if you should be apologizing, don’t really know if what you’re doing is right.

(But apologising has always worked. It felt right to you.)

And you think he’s satisfied now.

He harrumphs, unfolding his hands. “Some old lady put me on a sweets ban.” He settles down next to you, pushing you aside to make space for himself as he plops down, and you notice the shifting of the pretty blue fabric he donned matching perfectly with the crystal blue of his eyes. You notice the print quality being one so clear and vivid, despite the simple design. That’s a really nice kimono. “So I can’t eat anymore for the rest of the month.”

(He really is cute.)

“But since you’re trespassing on my playground,” He holds a dainty, porcelain hand out, a small twitch of his fingers that itch for your compliance. “I’m charging you cookies for it.” He’s smiling now. A proud, smug grin with the upturn of his eyes into crescents.

”It’s okay for me to eat ‘em cause it’s tax.”

He’s kind of irritating, but… Anyone would do, right?

You swallow the lump you weren’t aware of in your throat, the sweat that you didn’t know that was starting to form on your hand. You think you have an idea. A good one, at that.

“Okay,” You produce the other packaging. “But you have to promise to be my friend.”

Now it’s his turn to blink at you in utter confusion.

“Are you—“ His eyebrows furrow deeper than before, his smile dissipating into this confused frown. His eyes scrutinize and watch you closely, as if he was scouring your every breath, your every movement to uncover something that just wasn’t there.

“Being serious?”

Why… Wouldn’t you be? The way you just blink back at him, waiting on him to continue only to be met with glaring silence… Is there something on your face? Is there a bug you didn’t see crawling in your hair?

Or maybe he just wants the cookie.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Your hand is warm as they grip his wrist, gently dropping the wrinkled plastic onto his hand with a tilt of your head and eyes that flick up to meet his. It’s innocent, genuine, even. Frightfully so. The way you smile with nothing else, the way your intent was shown upon your very sleeve.

Nothing. He garners absolutely nothing from you. Your hands feel too warm, the chocolate chips within the cookie already look like they were melting, sweat is starting to stick your hair to your skin— And he thinks it doesn’t get anymore real than this.

“Okay.”

Oh, good. He agreed. You have a friend now, and it makes your heart squeeze with just that bit of excitement, of joy. It felt like you were swinging too high off the ground, felt like you were going to be swept off your feet.

It felt good. Maybe you should make more friends.

“Do the thing with me.” His pinky is held out, pushed into your face. “Ya gotta promise me something too. That’s how promises work.”

Is that how it works? You didn’t know that either.

“Yeah.” It isn’t. “That’s how it works here, you dunno that cause you’re new.”

Well… Okay then. “What’s the promise?”

You see his lips curl up, his eyes sparkling with something unknown as you begin to stick your own pinky out. “You’re already my friend, right?”

You nod.

“Good.” There’s a smugness to his face now. “So you can’t be friends with other kids from this neighbourhood. That’s betrayal to me.”

You catch a whiff of something spicy, hot. As if it were burning you to the very edges of your body— Before it disappears completely, as if it were never there. He makes sense, to you at least, and it sounds… Fair enough, you guess.

Your pinky wraps tight around his, in spite of how foreboding and suffocating his hold feels. Your nose picks up on the scent of fabric cleaner, the scent of summer weighing heavy on your nose in this moment. You see blue and white, see oranges and pink light starting to envelop his hand from where the sun had begun to set, making his hand glow as your promise becomes sealed in this very moment forward.

“Hey,” His eyes still don’t leave the way your fingers were intertwined with each other. “Which house do you live in?”

(“I’m forgiven for coming in here without permission, right?” Your hands are stained with sticky chocolate that you’re trying to dab off with your dry handkerchief, bits of crumbs littering your lips.

“Ya can come here whenever you want now.” He wipes the remnants of soft biscuit and gooey chocolate off with a dismissive sleeve.

“That’s such a waste of a pretty kimono…”)

——

Even when your pinkies have lost their binding to each other, you still find his hand holding onto yours, adamant on them being intertwined as he huffs in annoyance at your stare.

“I’m only leadin’ ya back cause I wanna see your house.”

You give him that owlish stare again. The blank one that looks like you don’t have a thought passing through your head at all. “Okay,” You smile again.

“What’s your name, by the way?”

It’s a dismissive question, one that had only just occurred to you. You’re far more interested in watching the way the sun casted your shadows together on the concrete pavement, how your silhouettes gave you a sense of weird unity. Having a friend feels really nice, you think.

You take a glance at him when he takes too long to reply, catching an icy cold gaze that contrasted the warmth of your hands conjoined.

“You first.” Well, if he insists, you guess. It’s just your name.

“(last name) (name).” You’re pretty sure you got the pronunciation right.

“Gojo… Satoru.” You can hear him hold his breath as his name leaves his lips, his voice ever steady and confident, though with a tinge of hesitance. As if he expects something, as if he wants it to be over and done with.

It never comes. Only a confused tilt of your head as you keep staring at him like he was the crazy one in this situation.

And you can see his face change into one of disbelief, one that barely tilts over the edge of what you can only describe as ‘shocked relief’. Maybe he is as weird as he looks. Does he have some sort of weird complex? You can swear you’ve heard about it on TV before. Or maybe he just has really bad comedic timing? You can at least compliment him.

“You’re funny, Satoru-san.” Because he’s genuinely making you smile now.

“I didn’t give you permission to call me by my name.”

“Oh.” You thought friends were allowed to be on first name basis immediately. Were you wrong about friendships afterall? You stare at the ground for a little longer than needed as punishment for yourself, “Sorry, Gojo-s—“

“I didn’t give you permission to call me by my last name either.” His hand squeezes yours ever tighter in small retaliation, his face turned away from yours to hide the way he was starting to grow red with rapid embarrassment.

(You can still see the tips of his ears burning red.)

Now you’re just confused. A scratch of your head as you try to think a little bit harder.

“…do I just call you friend, then?” And you can hear him stifle a snort.

“You’re really weird.” He squeezes your palm again. “Lose the honourifics, weirdo.”

(“So, Gojo…?” You test the waters again. You see his eyes stare off to the side in thought for just that one moment before they flick back to meet your gaze.

“Satoru.”)

“My house is that one,” Your small fingers point towards the horizon, a quaint, unassuming home coming into sight. “You have to walk 3 houses down from the playground.”

You stop before the front. Trying to loosen your grip only to feel his hand tighten significantly around yours.

“Satoru.” You call his name when he’s seemingly lost in thought, his eyes staring blankly at your humble home. It almost looked as if he hasn’t seen one before. “It’s getting late.”

“Oh.” Is he copying you now?

“Don’t you need to go back home? Your Mama would be mad if you’re late, wouldn’t she?” You probe a little more in efforts to snap him out of his trance, poking at his squishy face to get his attention.

But to no avail.

He doesn’t say anything, his head only turning to the side to stare you straight in the eye as you await. You see how pinks and blues are practically reflecting off of those crystalline optics, the sky reflected in them as they shine with a certain warmth.

“Can I come by tomorrow?”

——

A small knock at your front door early into the morning, when the sun had barely risen and the skies were still painted in shades of night blue.

To be specific, it was 6:00 AM. Your Mama was startled as she sipped coffee in the kitchen, you hear her shuffling downstairs, hear the clatter of the very few kitchenware you had as you begin to stir from your sleep, your brain flaring into overdrive as you try to sniff out the air— Trying to capture whiffs of that rancid scent that you hate so much—

Nothing. Nothing but the growing smell of rotting flowers that sends jitters down your spine. It worries you, sends you into a panic as you practically trip over yourself to run downstairs, disregarding any of the instructions of hiding away in the closet like your Mama had taught you beforehand. You have to check— Have to see if she’s okay—

The door is already open.

“Is (name) home?” He’s the first to talk, eyes flicking back and forth between the slightly open door and the dim light from within your home and your sleepy mother.

Mama only blinks down at him, her phone on speed-dial to the police releasing its tense grip as her shoulders visibly slump forward. Her scent calming from the initial flare up as she opens the door just that little more to allow her full view of Gojo Satoru standing before your home accompanied solely by a pretty lady dressed in a simple kimono.

“Yes… She is—“

“Good morning, (last name)-sama.” A low bow that takes your mother by surprise. “Our young master has scheduled a playdate with your daughter for today.”

“I— Um, heard, yes. But I certainly didn’t expect it to be this early—“ Your Mama shifts in place a little uncomfortably, taking note of how the sun had yet to rise, how the street lamps were still alight.

“We apologize for the disturbance.” The servant girl swoops down into another polite bow, head low and hands holding out a neatly wrapped gift before her. “These are snacks to show our gratitude for hosting this event. Young Master Gojo was looking forward to this arrangement, and had made preparations to come as early as possible.”

What an… Interesting child.

“As I am not allowed to accompany him inside due to his request, please also take this number with you, (last name)-sama. Do not hesitate to call us if anything arises. I will arrive to pick him up when he wishes to go.”

“Ah, um… Thank you…” The box feels heavy in your Mama’s hands as you tug on her pajamas from behind, peeking out slightly once you hear the door close.

“Gojo-kun… Was it?” She has to blink a few times to really get a good look at the snowy-haired boy.

“How did you say your friend looked again?” She’s picking up a dumpling with her chopsticks, gently laying the food onto your plate as you continue to chew in humming delight.

Your training chopsticks are clacking against each other as you smile up at her, all toothy grin and happy glow.

“He’s really cute.”

She figures it checks out, the doll-like, porcelain features of his face, the shiny blue eyes and his silky looking hair. He doesn’t say anything, furrowed brows and curiosity in his eyes as he scrutinizes her too, the air starting to still just that little bit when he nods at her in greeting.

As if he was acknowledging her… And as if he didn’t know how else to react.

“It’s nice to meet you.” She leans down to shake his hand, noticing the softness of his skin, the grip of his hand. “And thank you for the gift.”

You pop out from hiding behind your Mama’s legs, blinking at how his clothing had switched from the pretty kimono yesterday— To a simple shirt and shorts.

“Satoru.” You smile only slightly, your voice dimmed with the raspiness of just waking up, waving your hand in greeting. “You’re not wearing your pretty clothes anymore.”

Mama watches, watches how his gaze had been fixated on you the moment you appeared, how he’s waiting—

“I’ll leave you both to it, then.” A ruffle of your hair as you let out a quiet giggle. “Make sure to wash up and brush your teeth.”

“Okay.”

And when she’s out of sight, her footsteps disappearing down the hallway— He starts to speak more.

“Your house is tiny.” Small. Inferior. Almost unlivable. He swears he’s seen servant quarters bigger than this as he kicks his sneakers off by the genkan, dusting himself of imaginary dust as he climbs up the step, his hand somehow finding yours with almost scary accuracy.

Is it? You always felt that it was too big. Always having too much space that you didn’t know what to do with.

“I think it’s nice.” You can feel yourself squeezing his palm with gentle self-assurance, leading him up the stairs and into the bedroom where your futon still laid upon the ground messily.

He sees darkness, hears the soft pads of your socks against tatami mats. Smells the faintest scent of honey within this room.

He stares. Silently, quietly. At the hadakake of your futon, at the thinner blanket that your Mama had taken out to deal with the sweltering heat of summer, at the overall state of the room.

“Are you poor?” You blink at him when he lays down next to you on his side, the softness of the bedding making your body feel heavy and sleepy, feeling a bit too lazy to want to keep the comfy sheets away.

“No.” Your whisper is quiet, soft. As if you were slowly fading away into sleep. “I have enough.” And he knows you’re telling the truth when you just give him a sleepy smile, a yawn escaping your lips as you cuddle against your pillow, eyes losing focus and turning the sight of your friend into a bleary blue and white.

”So I’m happy with just this.”

And he thinks you’ve really gone crazy.

“Good morning, Satoru…” Because you’re pretty sure you have yet to say it, as weird as it is when you’re in the midst of falling asleep.

“…morning.”

He’s fun to be around.

——

A couple weeks have passed, the same days of Satoru coming around to knock at your door too early in the morning, your sleep-deprived Mama getting the door and letting him in—

Only to end with both you and him sleeping in on your futon until early afternoon, when you both awaken only to play… Whatever, really. The playground, drawing at home, building pillow forts…

Mama tells you she doesn’t mind if he wants to come over, doesn’t mind if Satoru wants to play with you so often when she’s off to work. She tells you what really matters is what you want, that its up to you if you want him to come over this often, that it’s your choice to play with him.

(Mama described him once as ‘clingy’. You don’t know what that means, but you think it’s good. You have a friend. Your only friend.)

So you told him to only come once every 2 days, that you think too much interaction may ruin your alone time with Mama… Only to be met with a pout and eyes that teetered almost on watery even as you pat his head and apologise.

He still listened to you, though. Despite the glare to the side and the very evident pout on his face everytime he realises he doesn’t get to see you the next day—

Though, as of recently, Satoru had been the last thing on your mind. Your eyes taking interest in and stuck onto the house next door instead. It’s always been empty, more barren than your own. But it’s gotten ‘renovated’ as your Mama said, the walls losing their dull shade and obtaining a new shine, the boarded windows replaced with shiny, clear glass.

It looked really nice.

“Stop staring at the ugly house and look at me insteaddddddd!” Ever selfish, ever vying and whining for you to give him your undivided attention.

“(nameeeeeeeeeeee).”

“It’s not ugly, though.” You think it looks quaint, looks prettier than your own. “It looks pretty.” You’re curious what kind of people are gonna live there. Are they gonna be an old couple like how Satoru always claims? Maybe it’ll be a nice middle aged lady who likes to share her pickled vegetable dishes?

You just hope they’re nice.

“How much do you think it costs to rent-uh-vate?” Your stare is still pointed at the house next door, your window directly facing one of their rooms as you stare with curious intensity.

He narrows his eyes at the view of the empty rooms, the windows that still lacked curtains and the blank white of their freshly painted walls.

“Not much, I’m pretty sure.”

Probably not much in his terms, anyway.

“Mama said she thinks they’re gonna move in today.”

“Really? Then let’s watch ‘em later then.” He lets out a huff as he rolls around your floor, watching you settle down cross-legged next to him as he makes a grab for you. “I don’t wanna play at the playground t’day.”

“Oh. Okay then, let’s play the cards you brought then—“ Your words die on your lips, body reeling back to the window at the telltale beep of a horn, the loud rumbling of a truck starting to pull into the street just mere meters away from you.

And that has the both of you clambering up to the window, his hand holding yours to ensure you don’t fall as you both squeeze to stand on the same stool, hands pressed up against the glass as your cheeks squish against each other in hopes of getting a view of what these people will look like.

“If it’s not an old couple, can we play on the swing today?”

“Y’er on.”

Your eyes watch the dark blue Toyota pull in close behind, your heart starting to race in palpitating beats that make you think you’re gonna be sick.

“Looks cheap.” Satoru’s still as snarky as ever.

The passenger door swings open, mesmerizing you with the sight of someone new, someone unfamiliar; a stranger that you’ve never seen before. Your gaze is stuck, unable to leave the features that capture your mind first—

Black hair and purple eyes.

masterlist next

[tsaritza-mika]

The Companions and Separation Anxiety

So something occurred to me while working on a WIP. It mostly started with Astarion, but then drifted to consider the others you could romance as well. I was mostly thinking of Star at the time, and the others came from conversation

If you consider everything that happened, from the moment they met, Tav and Star have never really spent any time apart for maybe longer than a few hours at most. And yes, I'd considered even the times he's left at camp. Because even if he's left at camp, all of them have that underlying mission and the need to rely on their allies. For all the allies that you gather in the game, you still keep everyone outside of your little group at something of an arms length. The only ones that spend even a little bit of time at your camp in the same vein as the rest of your companions are Dame Aylin and Isobel (no I'm not counting Alfira, because in Durge runs she isn't likely to survive a single night XDD poor baby).

All of our time is spent with our companions from the moment we meet, and for the ones we romance, I don't think it'd be far fetched to think that after everything is said and done, the brain and all other enemies dealt with, our chosen romanced companion could very well have some measure of separation anxiety if Tav/Durge had need to leave their side for longer than a day or two.

Especially with Astarion I think he would be hit hardest in this, because before his adventure with everyone, he had no choice but to watch everyone he might have had even a flicker of feelings for being taken away and never return. Kudos where he deserves them, he did a LOT of growing during the journey, but old habits die hard too. So even if he's in a better place at the end, he could very well experience some measure of separation anxiety the first time they need to really be apart from each other. This could be even worse if playing a Durge, as it might be a bit more intense considering he's already experienced his partner dying in front of him and being completely helpless to do anything to stop it before Withers steps in.

With Durge, Astarion had spent 200 years praying to every god he knew for a savior from his torment, watching as everything, every piece of himself was taken away from him. Then, the first truly good thing to happen to him, the first person who acknowledged him as someone worthy of love and respect, was ripped away from him by a god. And once again, he couldn't do anything to stop it. Even with Withers bringing them back, I doubt he's going to be completely fine with Tav/Durge being too far away from him for a while.

I'd imagine Gale and Shadow might have similarly bad reactions, yet not quite to the level that Star may get. They would also have comparable ways of dealing with it I think, reassuring Tav/Durge that they're fine, and that they understand, but their mannerisms aren't as assured as they usually are, and their words may be more clipped and sharp. They just really don't want to think about it, and try their best to ignore it.

Lae'zel I think would just, do everything physical to try not thinking about it. She acts like she's not worried about them, when in reality she's secretly counting the seconds until they're home. She keeps it all inside, because realistically she knows they can handle themselves, but she's not the emotional type. I think she might try losing herself in training. Like she's just, working herself to near exhaustion, putting in every effort to not think about it.

Honestly I think the only ones who wouldn't really be hit by it would be Wyll and Karlach. Like, they'd still feel the worry, but they'd be the ones to handle it best. Wyll and Karlach have been used to being on their own for quite a while before the tadpole, and judging by their dialogue during the reunion, I would guess they may still worry, but it wouldn't truly bother them unless they got word that Tav/Durge was in some serious trouble.

Halsin would likely be the only one who would be a middle-ground in all this I think. He'd do everything he could with the kids and the village, but then if he finds himself with enough time to think about it, he'd probably just, I dunno, chop some wood and build a table or something XDDDD Tav/Durge would come home to find that he's got a whole new 12 person table with chairs and carved dining set and cutlery. He's also carved a mother and father duck gently touching beaks as a centerpiece, and all the other carved ducklings have the names of everyone he knows carefully carved into them and placed in front of each seat. He's also been talking to them. People have been worried about him, but they didn't want to say anything XDDDD

[ronwestbreeze]

you're gonna go far | 3

pairing: jake sully x neytiri x tsu'tey x fem!human! reader summary: a scientist arrives on pandora (unwillingly) a year after the exile of the rda. now she must deal with the likes of a clan leader, a great warrior, and a thanator rider. . . word count: 8.2k warnings: depictions of depression (not too explicit)

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The view of Pandora from the sky should’ve been amazing. Your heart should’ve leaped many times over as the Samson ship flew over many beautiful sights of nature. It should’ve finally occurred to you that you were on the planet of your dreams, that you were witnessing the life of Pandora, mask and all.

Instead, you just stared at the world as if you weren’t in your own body. Floating outside of it and looking down at yourself. It hurt that you practically didn’t recognize yourself anymore. And you wished you could blame it on your current circumstance but even before you were brought to Pandora, before your mother’s forest had withered away, you had always had this familiar feeling. This dislike of what you were becoming.

Bitter. Resentful. The child-like wonder, long gone. You hated what you saw. You hated how so easily you believed back then that your own mother would’ve abandoned you—forgotten you simply because she was on a different planet. How selfish could you have gotten?

You had been burying yourself in jealousy while your mother was already six feet below you.

In the corner of your eye, you spotted Jake flying next to the ship, on one of those winged creatures. You hadn’t noticed Norm, who sat across from you, watching your expression with a frown. You hadn’t realized he’d seen the dullness in your eyes, the exhaustion making you way older than you were. You weren’t even that old actually—but the world aged you. In a way, no one should have to experience.

“They’re called ikrans.” You dragged your eyes toward Norm who nodded his head toward the creature Jake was flying on. Both of you watched as he flew by and took to the front, leading the Samson ship. “It’s who the Na’vi bond with for life. And their way to get around. It’s a lot better than walking, I can tell you that.”

He chuckled a little while you nodded absentmindedly, barely taking in the information he was giving you.

“You’ll definitely appreciate the life here a lot more when you’re steering your avatar.” Norm added on after a pause. 

Okay, he must’ve noticed your lack of interest at some point, right? Why was he so adamant to have a conversation with you? What exactly was he trying to accomplish?

Your mind spurred slowly as you finally watched him, both warily and with interest. Maybe you could take advantage of his talkative mood and gain some type of understanding here. Maybe it would help your mind focus on anything else at the moment. That always helped. Forcing your brain to hyper-fixate on something else besides your own psyche.

“Tell me about the war.” You finally said to him. Norm raised his brows, startled. “Clearly, I have no idea what exactly happened a year before I arrived. And DeVoe didn’t either, considering she thought she would win against the attack on our ship. Clearly, she forgot that a lot could happen during five years of cryosleep.”

With that, he nodded, “Yes, you’re right.” You watched his thoughtful expression turn to sorrow, as his gaze went back to the view below them.

A view you should’ve been looking at too. But for some reason, you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. It hurt too much. It would only keep reminding you…

“There used to be this place called the Kelutral.” Norm began, finally, drawing your mind back to him. Refocusing your gaze on his grim features. “It was this big tree that the Omatikaya used to call their home until the RDA destroyed it for a bunch of unobtanium that was buried beneath the tree. Basically, the rich fucks took their home away and that caused the war that led us into exiling the RDA off this planet. Jake, who was considered an outsider before, helped reunite the other clans to defeat them, Toruk Makto. Because of this title, he was accepted into the Omatikaya, despite being a Sky Person as well.”

You watched him with a frown, taking in the brief, summarized story. “So what, should I become some great warrior to impress the natives too?”

“Couldn’t hurt.” Norm shrugged with half a joking smirk but winced right after. “Don’t know if there’s a lot to choose from though.”

You scowled, not really in the mood to match his playful response, “And Sully knows what it’s like to be an outsider yet acts like a total dickhead still? Some guy.”

Norm awkwardly scratched the back of his head, “Your arrival did kind of spook us, and it happening a year after the RDA were gone too—it was just bad timing, really, Doc. I’m sure once this all cools down then Jake will, I don’t know, get his head out of his own ass and finally get it. But right now, he’s just—they’re all scared. And I can’t necessarily blame him for that either.”

Somewhere, behind all this anger, grief, and exhaustion, there was some part of you that did understand it.

But rationality was hard to come by now. Being reasonable was far from your grasp—in fact, you kicked it away out of spite. Every bit of you just wanted to embrace this anger, embrace this frustration.

You did not ask to be put here. To you, at this moment in time, that was all that mattered.

You were wronged. You were kidnapped. You weren’t responsible for what the RDA had done here—nor what your mother had accomplished on this planet. None of it had anything to do with you.

And for a brief moment, this selfishness felt right. There was no self-hatred for what you felt here. Because you were right to be pissed off at your situation. And no one was going to make you feel bad for it.

Norm didn’t. He took to being neutral. Understanding your side and the natives—which was somewhat fair. At least he didn’t completely write you off as some sort of destructive lost cause.

At some point, Jake maneuvered from the front of the ship to the side of it, gesturing for the pilot to land. You braced yourself as the Samson lowered itself to the ground, the trees flying around you from the spinning blades of the ship.

Once the ship was securely on the ground, you followed Norm off the ship just as Jake landed his winged creature—ikran—in a tree a few feet away from you. After adjusting the exopack you wore—again—Jake landed on the ground and flicked his head in the direction straight head.

“This way.”

The forest was vast and big around you. Perhaps even a bit scary if not for the natural lighting of the plants—bioluminescence—surrounding you. If your mind wasn’t so distracted, you would’ve thought it was absolutely beautiful and ethereal. Unlike anything you had seen in your life.

As you walked, many small creatures flew around you. One of them was a flying lizard which glowed along with the forest. A kenten, you remembered them from your mother’s videos. It flew around you for a bit until it moved on. For a moment, you watched it until you couldn’t see it much anymore as it flew further and further away.

You tried to will some type of amazement. Some type of awe. But nothing came to you. Nothing at all. So, you moved forward, forcing yourself to forget the flying lizard and focus on what was ahead of you.

The clan’s new home must’ve been close by since Jake decided to make them walk the rest of the way to it. Norm was still beside you, also in human form which was slightly comforting. At least you wouldn’t be the only puny creature here.

When you began spotting huts in trees, that’s when you realized you must’ve arrived. The first few practically blended in with the nature of Pandora. But as Jake led you deeper, more huts began to appear, more visible as you walked by. Natives were out and about as well. Children, women, and men alike.

Now you really felt small. Almost pathetic. Being among the Na’vi constantly reminded you of this. Even the children sometimes towered over you. The smallest one that you passed had to have reached your shoulder, and she looked young. Seven years old at least.

Jake glanced over his shoulder at the two of you every now and then, making sure that you were keeping up and that he didn’t lose his eyes on you. He wasn’t the only one watching you keenly, some of the natives did as well. Making you feel both self-conscious of yourself and rather irritated. It was like they wanted you to snap at them.

Next to you, Norm whispered. “The Tsahik, Mo’at, is pretty wise. Basically, everyone looks to her as a spiritual leader. A spokesperson. Interpreting the will of their deity, Eywa.”

“So why does she need to see me?” You questioned as Jake led the both of you to a hut, stopping just at the entrance of it.

Jake looked at you—his face still unreadable—“Wait here.” And he ducked inside. Leaving both you and Norm outside.

The scientist shifted next to you, “Probably to determine whether or not Eywa has truly chosen you.”

“Chosen me?” You repeated incredulously.

“Well, Neytiri did say that those woodspirites—atokirina—were around you earlier.”

“So?”

Norm frowned exasperatedly, “To them that means something. Which means your odds might not be looking too bad now.”

At that, you rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the long curious looks sent your way by the natives. “You’re all more worried about my odds than me.”

He didn’t respond despite the question in his frown. You didn’t offer an explanation.

A minute or two later, Neytiri came out of the hut instead of Jake. She still held a thoughtful yet wary expression when looking down at you. “The Tsahik will see you now.”

Norm gave you a pat on your back, “Good luck.”

Again, not offering a response, you followed Neytiri into the hut, not before hearing Norm say behind you, “I’ll be out here if you need me—"

Inside the Tsahik’s hut, it was pretty spacious—probably because everything just looked much larger to you than it actually was. There were a lot of earthy materials—the air smelled of smoke, herbs, and spice of sorts. Unlike anything you’ve ever smelled on Earth.

A part of you expected this from a Na’vi shaman, so you didn’t observe too much of the space you were in.

Instead, you focused on your busy mind. Your walls going up to defend against any accusation attacks or insults that would be sent your way because of your species, because of your unwelcomed arrival here. Observing the unique hut wasn’t much of an option when your eyes settled on the woman at the center of it.

She was sitting on the ground, eyes focused on something in the wooden bowl she held in her four-fingered hand. She had yet to look up at you, but she didn’t tense at your presence. Not like how Jake did in the corner of your eye—whom you just now noticed standing near the entrance of the hut.

How you had missed his tall blue ass, you didn’t know. 

Your mind had been too blurred and defensive as soon as you stepped in. Not realizing until then that you were standing in front of the Tsahik of the Omatikaya Clan.

Suddenly, you felt intimidated. Like the type of intimidation, you were sure you were supposed to feel while facing Jake. Only you didn’t with him.

But with her? No, there was something about her that exuded something far more powerful than some scary Marine. She hadn’t even said anything yet and you for some reason stiffened at the sight of her.

Mo’at turned her attention to you. “Come, sawtute. Sit.”

Cautiously, you came forward and sat where Mo’at pointed. Neytiri had come inside shortly after, taking the spot behind Mo’at. Watching you and her keenly. You realized while looking at both Na’vi women, how similar they were.

Jake was still standing near the entrance.

All eyes were on you.

And you truly realized then that you were alone. That, essentially, everyone was against you. The way each Na’vi eyed you carefully, as if watching for any sudden movements, the same as the first time you met both Jake and Neytiri at Hell’s Gate.

You realized that the only person who had been in your corner was gone.

It was you against Pandora.

Something suddenly pricked you, interrupting your bleak thoughts. Mo’at held a needle of sorts which was now red with your blood. You watched as she gave it a sniff and then a lick, something you would’ve cringed at if not for your and everyone else’s silent anticipation. All you could do was sit silently, spine straight and protected by steel.

Ready to fight for yourself because no one else would.

Mo’at then peered down at you, “You know who I am.”

You blinked at the question, “Norm told me, yes.”

She made a sound of content with your reply.

Another beat went by as she stared at you, “Tell me about your dying planet. Tell me why you have no interest in making our home yours like your clan.”

You stopped, staring at her in bleak surprise. That certainly wasn’t something you were prepared to answer. Again, you blinked and Mo’at stared at you expectantly.

Unsurely, you finally replied, “It’s like you said. It’s dying. I don’t know how much simpler that can get for you. Saving our home—it’s a naïve dream. That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? Humans killed our own planet and now we want to claim another, just to fuck that one up too.”

Neytiri’s tail moved slightly behind her. In the corner of your eye, Jake stiffened—the only former human here who knew what you were talking about. Who understood what you meant, where you came from, and your position. 

For some reason, that only made you angrier at him. For some reason, now he wanted to pretend that none of that happened. That you, just like the RDA, were just as bad. Without even trying to understand your side.

Mo’at raised a hand as if silencing your bitter thoughts. “I didn’t ask for ‘we’. I want to know why you aren’t following your clan’s ideas. What makes you different from the rest of those sky demons?”

Still confused and now annoyed, you respond anyway, “Because I have no interest in trying anymore.”

And you paused, remembering your mother’s songcord in the back of your pants pocket. You moved your gaze down to your hands, which were clutching your knees until your knuckles were practically shades lighter than your skin.

“Back on Earth, my mother—she believed in the hope that she could save it by starting small. Never mind the hundreds of years of wasted pollution or deforestation, she believed there was still a way to save it. So, she created the Amazon Project. There was still a small patch of land in Brazil left untouched. She took the opportunity to nurture and protect it. Since I was young, I’ve been working under her. Watching her succeed in her project. Until she passed it down to me. To care for it while she left for the Avatar Program. And I was happy to do it. I wanted to see my mother’s work flourish even if she wasn’t at my side. I did it to make her proud.” 

Again, you paused, resisting the urge to reach for the songcord to distract your hands. Despite your trembling, your voice remained steady, “Five years later, RDA agents tell me she died a year into her stay there. Her forest is gone too. By fire. Deforestation. As all the others.”

Mo’at was quiet but thoughtful. Neytiri was staring at you still, her expression less wary, less—almost no severity left there. She was listening, closely. The way her ears twitched every now and then was a sure sign of it.

You couldn’t see Jake’s reaction, your gaze going back down to your hands again.

Until Mo’at finally spoke, “And now you are here. Yet you have no interest in following your clan’s path. Because you have, ‘given up’. Now I am told that we cannot escort you off this planet. So why should my people trust you to stay here—”

“I didn’t want to be here.” You were tired of saying it. Tired of fighting for your innocence here. Fighting for them to see that you too were wronged here. That you were the victim, not the monster in all of this mess. 

If anyone was to blame, it was DeVoe.

But DeVoe was dead. And you were left fending for yourself.

And you were angry all over again. 

“The RDA wanted me to come here and continue my mother’s work. I refused and they brought me here against my will. They tried to get me to buy into this bullshit lie that my mother wanted this, when really they were just desperate fuckers who wanted to get their hands on her work. I destroyed it. No one, not even me, could use it. And if you’re not happy with that explanation either, then do what you want with me—I don’t know how many times I have to say it. I’m not here to take anything. I’m not here to live among you and I’m not here for the Avatar Program—if killing me is all it takes for this shit to end then just get it over with already—”

You missed the way Neytiri frowned, confused by your words. You missed the way Jake winced and looked away from your smaller hunched figure. You missed the way Mo’at nearly chuckled at your words. Because it was always amusing how many didn’t realize how the Great Mother worked. Even when it happened in front of them.

The flaps of the hut entrance yanked open as two Na’vi figures stepped inside. One of them you recognized as the clan leader, Tsu’tey?—while the other was an older woman with a sling across her chest. And in that sling was a sleeping baby.

His eyes found you and his scowl worsened, “What is this?!”

“Tsu’tey,” Neytiri warned as she stood. She moved around Mo’at while saying something to him in their language.

He ignored her and looked to Mo’at, “Why is the demon here?! I already said it isn’t welcomed on our land!”

“I called her here, Olo’eyktan,” Mo’at responded simply, looking increasingly similar to Neytiri as a sort of warning appeared on her own lithe face.

Even Jake stepped forward, placing a hand on the male’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him down, “Just be calm. Mo’at—”

“We agreed the demon would be gone!” Tsu’tey snapped, now glaring at you again. You stared back impassively and for some reason that only seemed to piss him off. “And now you’ve shown her our home and endangered us all!”

Neytiri then hissed at him in their language. You watched both of them quietly go back and forth, Jake even adding input every now and then. Whatever it was they were saying, Tsu’tey didn’t look too happy about it.

“The atokirina has given us a sign.” Mo’at interrupted the three in English as she gestured to you. “Allow her to explain her intentions to the Olo’eyktan and then we can decide—”

“It is already decided.” Tsu’tey snarled. “She leaves—”

“There’s no ship we have that can send her back,” Jake informed calmly. He glanced toward you for a beat, something settling in his yellow gaze before looking back at the heated male. He continued whatever he said to try to persuade the chief in Na’vi. His use of the language wasn't as natural coming from him—which, you noted, showed he hadn’t been experienced in their language for long now.

Neytiri also grabbed and squeezed at Tsu’tey’s arm as she spoke, this time her words sounded a lot more clear instead of quick with a hiss like before. She too was trying to persuade him—or perhaps you weren’t reading their body language right. After all,  you were practically the only one in the hut that didn’t speak the language. Who knew what they could’ve been saying about you—which was slightly irritating.

The nameless woman, whom you had forgotten was there until you spotted the vicious scowl she sent Jake. She was older, around the same age as Mo’at. Had to be. And she was holding that baby in her sling close to her chest, protectively almost. Like there was no way she would let the infant go, not even if someone dared to ask to hold it. Hell, you weren’t even sure if the baby even belonged to her.

But she did look eerily similar to Tsu’tey. Same scowl and all.

And the baby, despite the chaos, was still sound asleep.

There was a certain innocence at the sight. Something so pure about it.

“You claimed to have left the Sky People.” You tore your eyes away from the baby to find a restrained-looking Tsu’tey now peering down at you. “And that you do not want our home. Then what is it that you want, demon?”

Another question you weren’t prepared for. Frankly, you didn’t think they cared for what you personally wanted, even if they got over their fear of you destroying their home like the RDA had done.

Jake and Neytiri now stared at you expectantly. Neytiri’s gaze curious while Jake, as usual, was guarded.

Mo’at also watched you, keenly. Like she knew something you didn’t.

And the nameless woman continued glaring at you with pure and utter hatred.

“Since I can’t go back home. I don’t know.”

Maybe you’ll lay down next to your mother’s grave. Until you turn into a rock, keeping her company.

Tsu’tey scowled, his tail lashing behind him. “That’s not an answer.”

“Well, I don’t know what to fucking tell you. I just lost the one person I ever cared for—so yes, that’s my answer. I don’t know.” You never broke eye contact with him as you said this. Even when he leered at you for your response. There was a certain bite to your words, especially when you said, “God, it’s like you all haven’t fucking lost someone before. Sorry, if my grievance is such an inconvenience to you all.”

Jake winced at this while Neytiri lowered her head. Tsu’tey didn’t appear phased by the comment but his face noticeably grew more hostile, baring his teeth.

Unbeknownst to you, the nameless woman, Artsut, suddenly hissed in offense for her son, “Are you going to let that demon talk to you in such a way, son? You are Olo’eyktan! Put that alien in her place!”

“Be calm,” Jake warned her with a certain look that meant he was not in the mood for her and her unnecessary comments right now.

But of course, Artsut bit back, “You do not get to tell me to calm down, demon! This is your people! You brought her here, it is your fault for this!”

Jake scowled but swallowed his venomous response down his throat.

Because he knew she wasn’t wrong. His presence alone already made some of the natives uneasy. Toruk Makto or not. And he knew that it could draw more Sky People here one day, after pushing the RDA out. The inkling of vengeance they might take on him and the people never left Jake. Not even when he thought he was finally at peace.

“The Tsahik decides what to do next.” Neytiri reminded the woman with a stone look sent her way. “You do not interfere.”

She refrained from screwing her face into a scowl at the sight of Artsut holding Neteyam. But she could not deny her right to hold her grandson. Not even when it made her sick at times.

Instead of bringing attention to it, Neytiri pointed toward the entrance, “Leave. Take our son to bed. You are not needed here.”

Artsut scowled and looked at her son, “Tsu’tey! You let her dismiss me like this? Your own mother?”

Without looking away from you, Tsu’tey muttered, “Take Neteyam, mother. I will find you later.”

With a huff, Artsut raised her chin, sending you another glare as she said, “I hope you kill that demon where she sits. The Great Mother will forgive you if you at least get rid of one stain on our land.”

In the corner of your eye, the woman left finally, and whatever she had said clearly angered Neytiri and made Jake go quiet as he watched her leave with a solemn look.

“What will you do with her then, Olo’eyktan?” Mo’at questioned in English.

You still didn’t look away from Tsu’tey, almost like a silent challenge between the two of you.

Mo’at watched the both of you. All four of you.

Until someone cleared their throat.

At the sudden sound, all of you turned your attention to the hut entrance, finding Norm standing there looking just as puny as you.

“Dr. Reeds can stay at Hell’s Gate with the rest of us—she doesn’t have to be here if you don’t her here. And since she’s a scientist, Dr Patel can take her on. She’ll be out of the way.” Norm offered, carefully when he took in everyone’s different expressions. Including yours.

She’ll be out of the way.

“Thanks, Norm.” You snipped dryly.

He sent you a pointed look. You rolled your eyes but willed yourself to stay quiet. Mostly, because you didn’t care for all of this anymore. You said your peace and now you were done explaining yourself.

All you wanted to do now was sleep.

You almost missed Tsu’tey’s reply as your mind began to drift, “Away with her then. If I see the demon again, I will deal with it my way.”

There was a shudder through your body at the finality of the conversation. But you remained quiet, staring down at your hands, remnants of dirt still left on your fingernails and palms.

The world had gone too quiet, even when you halfheartedly watched everyone’s mouth move. Only for nothing to come out of it but soundless silence.

Eventually, you were allowed to follow Norm out of the hut and back into the village. Getting ready to leave for Hell’s Gate. At some point, you were floating outside of your body again.

Until Norm spoke next to you, “I think that went well. I’ll have to talk to Dr. Patel and arrange everything—but all in all, you’ll get situated just fine. Plus, you still have your avatar—hey are you okay?”

You barely heard his question or anything prior to that. Your knees buckled and your mask began to fog up from the hot tears rolling down your cheeks.

You weren’t wailing. You weren’t shouting. You just cried on the forest floor with quick breaths and a racing heart.

“Dr. Reeds?” Norm knelt down beside you. “Are you—what—”

You just shook your head and continued crying, clutching your shaky hands to your chest. Letting everything you held back in the hut slam into you like a tsunami wave. Overwhelming you. Disarming you and your walls.

“Okay,” Norm mumbled, looking around. Fortunately, you had made it far enough away from prying eyes. He then patted your back, “Okay—Okay, if it helps, I’m here for you. I won’t go anywhere, right? We’ll sit here until you’re ready, yeah?”

You didn’t get out of your bed for the first few days.

Norm showed you your new room after coming back from your visit with Mo’at. Since then, you stayed there.

Fortunately, no one came to get you. Norm only came around to drop off the food you barely ended up touching.

At some point, you realized that there was just no way you could get out of bed. Everything finally came crashing down. The anger still simmered with your situation, but at this point, there was nothing you could do about it. Even if you could go back, there was nothing waiting for you back at home.

Your mother’s songcord lied on the dresser next to the cot you slept on. Sometimes you’d stare at it and other times you’d get so angry at the sight of it that you’d throw it into one of the drawers. Leaving it there until you quietly panicked and took it back out again.

You hadn’t left the room. The world of Pandora was out there and yet you were here. You couldn’t move. Your body was stone.

And you were fine with being stone.

At least the skin would be harder to break this time.

“It is not your fault,” Tsu’tey said, pulling Jake out of his swimming thoughts—nearly drowning if not for a hand always latching onto him, keeping his body dangling above the waters.

When Jake tore his drifting gaze away from sharpening his arrow, his mate was sitting next to him, eyes soft but face set in a determined frown. As if Tsu’tey made a mission for himself. “I will not let you blame yourself for this. I do not care for my mother’s words and neither should you, tiyawn.”

In response, Jake offered a short nod, not entirely trusting himself to speak at the moment.

Guilt wasn’t a stranger to him. He would live with this until his body was buried somewhere on this planet. He would live with this guilt for the rest of his life.

For Grace. For Neytiri’s father. For Tommy.

Suppose all of this started with his twin brother. Suppose it always did.

“I will always be human,” Jake said to both himself and Tsu’tey, clutching the arrow tightly in his grasp. “That’s never going to change. And I gotta live with that.”

Tsu’tey took his hand—the one gripping the arrow—and squeezed it gently. “I know this. Neytiri knows this. Neteyam is half of you. And half of us. You have proven yourself, Jakesully. Long ago. We have not forgotten what you have done for us. What you’ve done for me.”

Jake winced and looked away. 

It wasn’t selfless—saving Tsu’tey after the battle with the Sky People. He had only done it because he didn’t deserve the title. He didn’t want the title. If Tsu’tey lived, he would still be Olo’eyktan. And Jake would just be the Toruk Makto. Nothing more and nothing less.

It wasn’t selfless. It wasn’t.

There was one tablet in your room. At some point, you dragged yourself from the cot and grabbed it.

Turning it on, you searched the system for Joan Reeds.

Her video logs came up. The public ones at least. The ones you destroyed were private. Only for you to see in the end.

This video had to have been when she first arrived. Maybe a few days later.

“Log—um, wait, what day is it?” Already your mother looked frazzled as she searched around the public lab she was in. “Oh! Found it! Video log 10. Today, I got to run around in my avatar and gosh, it’s so jarring how small everyone is—or how small you are. I keep tripping over myself so Dr. Augustine has me putting in more work. Says I’m not useful if I’m always falling on my face. Jokes on her, I’m always falling on my face…I probably won’t be allowed outside of the Avatar Compound.”

Joan laughed at herself in the video. Your heart tugged at the twinkle in her eye as she kept going on and on about her week so far. You listened intently, ignoring the plate of food sitting on your dresser.

In another video, Joan steered off updates and instead took out a tablet. Showing the camera a picture of a forest.

Her forest. On Earth.

Joan was smiling brightly here, “This is the Amazon back on Earth. Or what’s left of it, still preserved under my daughter’s watch. I taught her everything she knows. My very own little shadow. You know when she was smaller, she always used to follow me around. And I mean all the time. Hence the nickname I gave her.” She paused, the smiling faltering a bit. “She doesn’t do it anymore—has a doctorate and everything. My baby’s all grown up. And so, so, talented.”

“Reeds, you’re supposed to be logging. Not crying over your baby photos again.” A voice said in the background.

Joan pouted, “I know, I know. Alright, here come the boring parts—”

“Reeds!”

“Kidding, kidding!”

The video stopped. She never did get to the boring parts.

You stared at the screen in silence. And then you replayed the video. A few more times that night.

Tsu’tey felt small whenever he went to see Mo’at.

Most times he was always accompanied by either Jake or Neytiri—sometimes both—or to bring a warrior who needed healing after a bad hunt.

But when it was just him, it was always different. It had been this way ever since he was young. She just always had this air of importance about her—royalty even. Sometimes—all the time—she was often regarded highly over the Olo’eyktan. Tsu’tey even saw her as the true ruler over the Omatikaya, even before he was named their chief.

It had gotten better, visiting her in his young adolescent years. However, that was only because of their shared grief and the loss of Sylwanin years before. It was easier to be around someone who understood. It was the same with Neytiri. The intimidation was lost because of this.

But now things have changed. Too many things.

After the war, after the battle with the Sky People, Tsu’tey didn’t remember the end result. He never saw them win. Not when he was shot down by one of the Sky People. All he remembered was falling from one of their flying ships and falling back into the arms of his home. Readily to embrace his impending death. Ready to greet Eywa.

He remembered Neytiri crying over his body. He remembered trying to make Jake the next Olo’eyktan. And then it was just darkness. Nothingness. For a moment he could’ve sworn he saw Sylwanin.

And then he woke up with Mo’at crouched over him, hard at work at his severe wounds. Wounds he was sure he would’ve died from. Should’ve died from.

Tsu’tey had lived through the war and came back with nightmares and aching scars in his wake. Sometimes wishing he had stayed asleep for good.

Then the pain would be gone. Then the strange tightness in his chest would go away. Then he wouldn’t have to keep experiencing his breath shortening and his heart racing every time the world spun just a little too much or he’d pulled himself—half a man—out of another one of his nightmares.

Then he wouldn’t have to suffer.

Then he would be at peace.

But a gentle hand always pulled him back. Lifting him out of the ocean. Keeping his head just above the waters, just enough that he could breathe.

Neteyam’s eyes held him in place and stopped his world from spinning.

The world got a little brighter because of his little boy. Because of his mates.

So, when Tsu’tey visited Mo’at on the day of one of his healing sessions, there was always something to keep his head floating above water.

Today it was Neytiri who had his hand against her cheek, running fingers down his arms softly as Mo’at massaged the healing wounds on his back and chest. Last night it was Jake, who hugged him tightly after waking up from one of his nightmares. The day before it had been Neteyam. And the day before that, it had been unintentionally you. His rage for the Sky People kept him grounded.

And tomorrow, he didn’t know what it would bring. He would just have to leave it to the Great Mother. And pray that she doesn’t want him to suffer.

Slowly, you began to eat again. And that was a start.

By the third week, you began doing little exercises in your room.

Push-ups. Sit-ups. Planks. Anything to make your mind start moving again.

It wasn’t perfect. You knew this. But you tried.

One day at a time.

Neytiri and grief were friends.

There was nothing difficult about her emotions or how she expressed herself. Neytiri felt everything. And she could not stop feeling. She could not stop understanding.

So she understood Tsu’tey when he changed after Sylwanin’s death. Neytiri had changed too.

She understood Jake when Grace had died in his arms. Her father had died in her arms too.

She did not want to understand Sky People. She did not want to feel sympathy for the people who stole everything from her. She did not wish to feel sympathy from those that stole her sister away and as if they weren’t greedy enough, took her father and her home from her as well.

And she was tired because of it. She just wanted peace. She just wanted to raise her children and be with her mates. She did not want to worry about those demons coming back and destroying her home, and her life again.

Neytiri was just so tired of it. Being stuck in this never-ending cycle of grief.

Was this the path the Great Mother wanted for her?

Was she just never meant to be happy?

“Hey.”

Neytiri perked up and turned to find Jake watching her curiously. She had forgotten where she was for a moment. In the forest with her bow and Jake. Ready to hunt.

“You here with me?” Jake asked, smiling at her.

And she returned the smile, her chest warm. “Yes.” She then gently smacked his arm, “Now focus. We need dinner for tonight.”

She was always standing at the edge of the cliff, the water staring back at her below. There was always a weight that she held onto, with such desperation. She wouldn’t dream of letting it go. She wouldn’t dream of letting them drown.

So she always held tight. She would be the tether. 

The following week arrived. You managed to take a shower and finally leave your room.

Today you were just numb. And you would work with that.

Hell’s Gate was a vast place that you wanted to map out and fully explore. If this was the place you would be stationed/forced to stay at, then you needed to understand the layout.

You started at the administrative centers; passing the Operations Center and a few link rooms. Some people nodded to you in acknowledgment as you passed while others ignored your existence, being too focused on their work—which you didn’t mind.

Eventually, you made it to one of the bio labs. There, you found a few more people—which you assumed were scientists. You passed another link room—Norm mentioned these places a few times whenever he stopped by your room to try and pull you into a conversation.

You lingered there for a minute. Watching two people enter the link beds. By the time they were closed in, you moved on.

The Avatar Compound was of course the last place you visited. You ignored your mother’s old lab and sauntered toward the gardens.

There was a lot more browning than you saw before. Most of them were dead, others were on the verge of dying. It looked pathetic, really. How some of them stood limp. Nearly touching the ground.

You frowned at the sight, fingers twitching.

You moved on.

“Do you guys have a library here?”

Norm looked up at you, eyes alight with surprise at the sight of you, “Um, I don’t know anything about a library. What are you looking for exactly?”

You frowned, tucking the tablet from your room under your arm. “You worked with the former head of the Avatar Program, Grace Augustine. She has a book on the plant life here. I was wondering if this place has a copy lying around somewhere.”

“Light reading?” He asked with a raised brow.

You shrugged, “Something like that, yes.”

Norm nodded with a smile, “Well, like I said we don’t really have a library—but I actually have a copy of her book. I'm a big fan myself. I could lend it to you if you want.”

“I’d like that. Might be a while before I give it back though.”

He grinned, “I don’t mind. Knock yourself out! I’m just glad to see you walking around.” Norm sat back down at his computer with a sigh. “They’ve been sending warriors to check up on things but when I’ve been giving them the same updates, they kind of stopped coming around. So, it might be good for you—”

“Thank you, Spellman.” You nodded, as you started for the doorway leading out of the lab. “Send the book to my room whenever you can.”

Right now you were just floating out of your body. It was easier this way, you realized. And you would work with it.

The book was in your room the next day. You took it while holding your mother’s songcord and read through it. Front and back. You grabbed your tablet as you read the book again, taking notes this time around.

You organized the plants, you separated them into categories. Foods humans and Na’vi could eat. Plants that were meant for herbs and medicine. And plants to avoid altogether.

You read it for a third time to make sure you didn’t miss anything.

Finally, you went to the gardens. After examining which plants needed replacement—which was mostly the fruits and vegetables, food sources that they couldn’t afford to run out of. Hell’s Gate was living off rations, which were bound to be gone at some point. A harvesting garden would be useful.

So, you adjusted your exopack and got work.

You didn’t do too much the first day, just tore down the dead plants—which was practically the whole land of the garden. The plants themselves were big so it took most of the day. Those that could be saved were mushrooms. They hadn’t blossomed yet so you took care of it. Adding water, and new soil—you did this until the night came.

The next few days were planned accordingly. You found yourself busy foraging for fruits and vegetables in the forest surrounding the compound. Of course, you didn’t wander too far from the compound, making sure to keep track of every path you took.

It was quite big and overwhelming, the forest. Even some of the fruits you carried back were bigger than your own body. But you managed well enough to plant down some seeds. Which also took quite some time.

It wasn’t until you saw avatars running around your mind suddenly clicked.

“Spellman.” You ran up to him one day, catching him going into the bio lab. He turned as you stopped in front of him, “I have an avatar, right? How long does it take to get used to being in the body?”

Norm, who had been waiting for you to ask this very question, grinned. “Right this way, Doc.”

Frankly, it took a couple of days until you were finally used to being in your avatar body. Which unfortunately slowed your progress with the garden, but you managed in between breaks from training with the avatar body to continue planting more seeds as best as you could.

But once you could manage to stand on your own two feet in this new body, your process with your garden got a whole lot easier.

One of them was the fact that you didn’t have to wear those stupid masks anymore. Not having to worry about losing oxygen after a couple of hours was a huge plus.

Admittedly, it was strange at first. Suddenly being taller than humans, having a tail that sometimes moved without your knowledge, and then there was keeping both bodies healthy. That would be a challenge but you could deal.

After getting used to your new body, you continued tending to the garden which was making great progress. Except for the mushrooms. They just wouldn’t grow.

“Mmm.” You mumbled to yourself while tucking your tablet—a new one large enough for you to hold—under your arm. Maybe the roots were too old and weak. Maybe it was best to cut it down and start over again.

You went into the bush. The forest looked a lot different with brand-new maskless eyes. A lot more vibrant. A lot more real.

Eventually, you found the same mushrooms in the forest that were in your garden. Kneeling down, you grabbed your tablet. Studying and comparing it carefully.

Of course, the roots were a lot more greener than yours. Maybe it needed fresh soil. Or more moisture. These mushrooms were obviously different from the Earth ones, so you were a little out of your depth here. The book didn’t talk too much about mushrooms, unfortunately.

There was a quick shift in the corner of your vision—something you definitely wouldn’t have caught in your human body. Another plus with the avatar, better senses.

You looked up, your eyes locked with another pair of yellow ones.

A familiar face you hadn’t seen in a while.

Neytiri crouched down on the branch she was on, staring at you intensely.

You stood, “Come to spy on me yourself this time?”

A flicker of recognition flashed through her eyes, her head tilting as she analyzed your features. “You are the demon but different now. You are dreamwalker.”

You gave a single nod and took a moment to observe her carefully. Just as she was doing with you.

After a while, you turned away from her to focus back on the mushrooms. You knelt back down to get a better look at the roots again. The grass shifted after as a soft thud sounded next to you. A second later Neytiri’s feet appeared next to you.

“Why are you doing that?” She questioned.

“I am growing some mushrooms.” You replied simply. “Mine aren’t growing like they’re supposed to…” You then looked up at her curiously. Neytiri stared back at you with a small frown. A strange idea struck you then. “Can you look at the mushrooms back in my garden?”

Neytiri huffed, her tail swishing behind her.

You shrugged, “Or not. I’ll figure it out.”

After you secured the tablet under your arm again—you really should get yourself a bag at some point—you started back to the compound.

Surprisingly, Neytiri followed.

There weren’t a lot of avatars out today so it was practically just you and Neytiri. You found your mushrooms and knelt back down to the ground.

Behind you, you felt Neytiri looking at you. “You did all of this?”

You made a sound of confirmation without looking up from the mushrooms, “We can’t survive off just rations. Sure there’s a lot—meant for a lot—but it won’t last. Better start now than later.”

“And you intend to do it our way?”

“For the most part, yes.”

After a while, Neytiri knelt down next to you as you brought out your tablet to take notes. She tapped your arm, drawing your attention to her.

She then lowered your tablet and pointed to the semi-growing mushroom. “The sun is blocked. You need to move it. Or it won’t grow.”

You frowned. Huh, that was simple enough.

With a nod, you placed the tablet aside and dug up the roots. Neytiri watched as you moved the soil into a more sunny spot. And for the next few minutes, you planted it down with your hands. Once it was done, you looked to Neytiri expectantly.

She was studying your other plants. There wasn’t any annoyance on her face, which was a plus at least. You watched quietly as she poked and prodded at the plants until her eyes met yours. Her ears perked, her face became tight, and her tail curled behind her. She now looked both annoyed and—flustered?

You gestured to the mushrooms, “Anything else?”

Neytiri inched toward you and examined your work, “Yes. That is good.”

You nodded and stood, “Thank you for your help.” She blinked and nodded reluctantly. Then she departed.

It was progress. Your new garden. One day at a time.

Neytiri did not want to understand Sky People.

You were sad, she concluded.

While human, you had appeared dangerous, vicious-looking. Defenseless. But then again, she thought that of all humans.

In your false body, you were easier to read. Your words, as you spoke, still never matched your face. Low ears and tail. Dull, almost unfocused eyes.

Neytiri and grief were friends.

There was nothing difficult about her emotions or how she expressed herself. Neytiri felt everything. And she could not stop feeling. She could not stop understanding.

So she understood Tsu’tey when he changed after Sylwanin’s death. Neytiri had changed too.

She understood Jake when Grace had died in his arms. Her father had died in her arms too.

Unwillingly, she somehow began to understand you after the meeting with her mother. Humans were hard to read, so when she listened to your words, she also watched your face. And it was almost solemn and expressionless. Neytiri wondered if you were like Jake, locking your emotions up, not allowing yourself to feel.

Neytiri did not understand why they did that. Sky People and the way they dealt with their emotions were strange.

You were no different.

You were at the bottom of the ocean. Whatever hand tried to grasp for your body, it always slipped. And you just sunk deeper and deeper.

Until you were a forgotten shadow.

so, yes, this one is a little longer than the last two chapters, lol. i got a little carried away but i really wanted to take a look into the minds of both, jake, neytiri, and tsu'tey, just to gain a little sense as to why they act the way they do towards reader.

they are all very much soulmates. grieving in their own ways. i can't wait to write more of them.

let me know your thoughts! i love talking to y'all and reading your very kind comments!

taglist: @doggyteam2028 @slutforsmut4ever @lik0 @bigbootahjudy @innercreationflower @n7cje @celi-xxmoon @readerofallthingss @childofgod-05

[onlyyoucanhurtlikethis]

Wilted - kylian mbappe one shot

Her laptop was open, spreadsheets glowing in front of her, but she’d been staring at the same line for the past five minutes. The day had been long—emails, calls, decisions—and her brain was beginning to fog over. She stretched out on the couch, phone facedown beside her, trying to will herself into one last burst of productivity.

Then the buzz came.

She didn’t need to check to know who it was. She smiled before she even picked it up.

Kylian: Another day unkissed. This is getting dangerous.

She snorted softly, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Her: Dangerous how?

Kylian: I’m withering away. Might not make it through the night.

She leaned back against the cushions, head tipping back as she grinned. It was always like this with him—effortless. Even when they were on different continents, caught in the chaos of their own careers, he knew exactly how to slip into her day, like he belonged there.

Which, by now, he did.

Her: Dramatic much?

Kylian: Listen, you wouldn’t understand. This is serious. The only known cure is a kiss. You hold my life in your hands.

Her: You’ll survive.

Kylian: I’m not so sure. World’s best striker, taken out by a lack of affection. Headline writes itself.

She laughed, loud enough that it echoed through her apartment. She could picture him typing it, probably stretched out in his bedroom, feet kicked up, smug as hell because he knew exactly what he was doing.

Her: Fine. I’ll consider it… but only if you’re on your best behavior tomorrow.

The typing bubbles appeared instantly.

Kylian: Define best behavior.

Her: No complaints when I pick the restaurant.

Kylian: Fine.

Her: No negotiating over dessert.

Kylian: Pushing it, but okay.

Her: And—you’re gonna like this—I get to pick the movie if we end up back at mine.

A pause.

Kylian: …Even if it’s that one with the crying dog?

She laughed into her sleeve. He still hadn’t recovered from the last time she made him watch a heart-wrenching indie film about a dog’s journey through grief. He’d sulked for a week.

Her: Especially if it’s the crying dog.

Kylian: Wow. I’m really risking it all for this kiss.

Her: You are.

His next message was a photo—his face filling the screen, lips pushed into the most ridiculous pout she’d ever seen. She rolled her eyes, but her heart did that annoying, familiar flip.

Kylian: Look at me. I’m suffering.

She shook her head, but she was still smiling.

Her: You’re ridiculous.

Kylian: You love it.

She didn’t deny it.

Her fingers paused, though, because sometimes—like now—she felt it. The realness under all the jokes. The fact that they were two people who had built lives for themselves, who didn’t need anyone, but had somehow ended up here. Choosing each other.

It wasn’t always easy. His schedule was insane. Her career was demanding. There were weeks they only had these messages. But when they were together—really together—it felt like they had all the time in the world.

The typing bubbles popped up again before she could respond.

Kylian: But seriously. I miss you.

That got her. Every time.

She tucked the phone into her palm, heartbeat slowing to something warm, something steady.

Her: I miss you too.

There was a beat of silence before her screen lit up with an incoming call. She hesitated for half a second, then answered.

“Hey,” she said, soft.

“Hey,” his voice was low, a little tired, but still carrying that smile she knew so well. “So, I figured texting wasn’t doing me justice. You needed to hear the pain in my voice.”

She laughed. “Oh yeah? You sound like you’re on death’s door.”

“I am,” he deadpanned. “You’ve done this to me.”

“It’s been one day.”

“Too long.”

She shifted on the couch, tucking her feet under herself. “How was training?”

“Tough. Good, though. I scored two screamers. You’d have been impressed.”

“I’m always impressed,” she teased.

“I know. You’re my biggest fan.”

“Debatable.”

He laughed, then his voice softened. “You, though? How was your day?”

She exhaled, the weight of it still sitting somewhere in her chest. “Long. We’re closing a deal, but it’s complicated. One wrong move and—”

“And you lose everything,” he finished, knowing the stakes. They’d had this conversation before. He knew what she was building, how hard she worked for it.

“Exactly.”

“You’ll get it done.”

She smiled at his certainty. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re a killer. I’ve seen you work.”

“I like hearing you say that,” she admitted.

“I know you do.”

There was a pause. Comfortable.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “we could just skip tomorrow and you could come over now.”

She laughed. “Nice try.”

“What? I’m serious. I’m here. You’re there. We’re both awake. Simple solution.”

“I have work.”

“You’re always working. You need a break.”

“You’re the break.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

She shook her head, even though he couldn’t see it. “Tomorrow.”

“Fine,” he sighed, mock suffering. “But I’m getting my kiss. And dessert.”

“We’ll see.”

“We will.”

Silence stretched out between them, not awkward—never awkward—but full. Like both of them knew exactly what this was. Two lives, busy and full, but always making room for each other.

“I like this,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“Ending the day talking to you.”

Her chest tightened. “Me too.”

“Okay,” he murmured. “Go finish being a business genius. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Neither of them hung up right away. When she finally did, her apartment felt a little quieter. But lighter too.

She picked up her laptop again, but the work didn’t feel so heavy now. Some things mattered more.

Tomorrow would be good.

[pheracy]

CHARACTER Ellie Williams FANDOM The Last of Us Part 2 SYNOPSIS A poem of Ellie writing in her diary about Joel TAGS & TW major character death, grief, mourning, trauma, blood, body horror, graphic depictions of violence, ptsd, emotional hurt, no comfort, survivor's guilt SONG The choice 🦉 Gustavo Santaolalla, Alan Umstead NOTE Do not ask me how many hours I've cried while writing this. First you'll see the translation of the poem to English since I wrote it in Spanish. Below, you have the original and much better version in Spanish. The picture in the banner is taken and edited by me, please do not repost or claim as your own.

Autumn, brown, leaves on the ground. I don’t eat, I don’t sleep, I don’t move past the grief.

An owl visits my window, nests your bones, lays your entrails in my bed.

It decorates them with flowers picked from your door, bouquets now covering your house, cold and deserted.

Blood drips down the walls, it's a dream, wake up! A moth rests on your guitar, withered and dead.

On your porch, with it beneath the strings, that night I lost you, I wonder if you remember.

I still don’t understand why you get me out alive. You’d do it again, even knowing the outcome.

The scent of your jacket soaked in one last coffee, our last conversation, I will never speak of it.

My heart hasn’t beaten since that scene. After that, we never had our last supper.

Forgiveness and forgetting, debts left unsettled, I’d give anything to have you back.

I write in my notebook, it burns and enrages me. I draw you in its yellowed pages.

You looked at me with eyes that still haunt me, as your brains flew in slow motion.

I don’t want to grow old without seeing you walk through that door. Your corpse buried underground, yet I still leave it open.

In the spaceship that will never land, the one where I once glimpsed the Moon.

You gave your life for mine too many times to count. I still don’t know how to honor you the way you deserve.

I won’t speak of you in the past tense, for you’re still by my side. I wish I could mourn you in silence, but you hurt too much.

I wish you had let me die on that table. We wouldn’t have lived through this unreal nightmare.

Brain ripped out, heart left unscathed, had you left me in that hospital, maybe we’d still be together.

I don’t know if a life without you will be worth it. Knowing my father is gone feels like a sentence.

Years of enduring all your lies, your conscience screams every time you breathe.

A burn on my arm, a hydrocarbon scar, my tattoo of you, growing darker with time.

Two fingers missing, no days left ahead, I step outside, daring death to take me.

You are the person I’ve learned the most from. I hope you didn’t leave this world filled with regret.

What’s left of you will never be forgotten, your gun and a broken watch with time reversed.

I’m glad you can’t see what I’ve become.

El otoño, el marrón, las hojas en el suelo. No como, no duermo, no supero el duelo.

Hay un búho que visita mi ventana, en su nido pone tus huesos y en mi cama tus entrañas.

Lo adorna con flores que cogió de tu puerta, ramos que cubren tu casa, ahora fría y desierta.

La sangre cae por las paredes, es un sueño, ¡despierta! Sobre tu guitarra una polilla, marchita y muerta.

En tu porche con ella bajo las cuerdas, esa noche te perdí, no sé si recuerdas.

El olor de tu chaqueta bañada en un último café, nuestra última conversación de la nunca hablaré.

Mi corazón no ha vuelto a latir desde aquella escena, tras eso nunca tuvimos nuestra última cena.

El perdón y el olvido, no querer cuentas, daría lo que fuera por tenerte de vuelta.

Escribo en mi cuaderno, me quema y violenta, te dibujo en sus páginas amarillentas.

Me miraste con ojos que aún me atormentan mientras tus sesos volaban a cámara lenta.

No quiero cumplir años sin verte entrar por la puerta, tu cadáver bajo tierra y aún así la dejo abierta.

En la nave espacial que nunca va a aterrizar, aquella en la que conseguí la Luna visualizar.

Diste tu vida por la mía incontables veces, sigo sin saber honrarte de la manera en que mereces.

No hablaré de ti en pasado ya que sigues a mi lado, quiero llorarte en silencio pero dueles demasiado.

De que me sacaras viva aún no entiendo el significado, lo volverías a hacer, aún sabiendo el resultado.

Ojalá me hubieras dejado morir en la camilla, no hubiéramos vivido esta irreal pesadilla.

Con el cerebro arrancado y el corazón sin rasguños, de haberme dejado en el hospital, quizá seguiríamos juntos.

No sé si una vida sin ti merecerá la pena, saber que mi padre no está es una condena.

Durante años aguantando todas tus mentiras, te grita la conciencia cada vez que respiras.

En mi brazo quemadura de hidrocarburo, mi tatuaje sobre ti cada vez más oscuro.

Con dos dedos de menos, sin días ni futuro, he salido de casa, a morir me aventuro.

Eres la persona de la que más he aprendido, espero que no dejaras este mundo estando arrepentido.

Lo que queda de ti nunca quedará en el olvido, tu pistola y un reloj roto con el tiempo invertido.

Me alegra que no puedas ver en quién me he convertido.

Credits: dividers by @anitalenia 📬∿ Requests are open and much appreciated! You can read the fandoms I'm in to ask for a poem, headcanons, a lil fic in English or Spanish. 🧭▬▬ poems masterlist | navigation Please do not copy, alter, or repost my work ©pheracy 2025.

[undxad]

you're just another plant to him

"i like the way they need me" ─ you're not sure why you can remember their words so clearly, the moment replaying in your mind on repeat. you remember as you attempted to please them, how you attempted to relate to his so obvious like towards plants. they liked plants because they needed them, they'd told you; and you understood. ─ or at least, that's what you said. were you lying? you can't remember.

maybe it was from the many drugs he'd given you, or the pain that fogged your brain, clouding over the memories of a life you can't remember having before lawrence. a life when you had your arms and your legs, and you weren't forced to spend every moment behind a door bolted shut with plants in every corner, that seemed like they were watching you (but maybe that's just the paranoia; the side effects of every drug he'd make you swallow).

did you like plants? were you lying when you agreed with them? you don't know. you don't know.

─ it doesn't matter. because you understand now.

without any arms or legs, you were helpless ─ you couldn't do anything for yourself. you relied on the cause for your lack of ability to care for yourself; everything you couldn't do, they had to do for you.

you'd done this to yourself, you remind yourself often. you had your chance, and yet you made the choice to climb under the covers with them, to give in to the desires you had for your captor. and in turn, they couldn't let you go; taking your mobility and forcing you to grasp on to them for a life that was no longer yours.

you don't know when you noticed, when the realization caught, and you made the connection. ─ perhaps it was the moment he'd carassed your face, the way they would when they were holding their plants. or maybe when your hair had gotten too long and they cut it, treating it as if it were dead leaves that needed to be trimmed.

you weren't human to them ─ and a part of you, wasn't all that surprised to find out. did they see you as just another plant that needed him to live? (and perhaps he was right to treat you like so; because what could you do for yourself?)

you were just another plant among the many the filled their apartment ─ and just like any other plant, you'd wither and you'd die, the grasp they had on you unyielding even as you wilt in his hands.

─ and there was nothing you could do but wait for that moment.

[solaneceae]

my battery is low, and it's getting dark.

a codebreakers fanfic about étoiles losing his sight. read on Ao3

It starts off with light blurriness — the kind you get when you forget to remove your contacts before bed, dryness and irritation welcoming you back to the waking world. Étoiles doesn’t wear contacts, although he does don a pair of sturdy, cheap rectangular glasses on occasion, whenever reports have to be read or written in thin leather-bound books for the Résistance’s upper echelon. 

(Upper echelon he’s never caught a whiff off, by the way. Étoiles understands the need for secrecy, for compartmentalization — but damn, it does get lonely here in headquarters, with nothing but his own voice and long-dried ink speaking of codes going rogue and islander alignments to entertain himself with.)

He blinks, once, twice, rubbing at his eyeballs through the skin of his lids. No amelioration. He shrugs it off, readjusts the straps of his slime armor. It’s a shit one, not even the good enchants on it. But he’s been restless lately, antsy. Not quite worried, but something else, something in the negative shape of a beloved, beret-wearing egg. Ants under his greenish skin, a fire only the cold bite of enemy blades and a close brush with Lady Death can fix.

He likes Kristin. She’s funny, with her large brimmed hat and gentle smile and gentler words still. Philza’s a lucky man.

“You are sad,” she would say, in the space-between-spaces he would drift to when downed, just before the ‘doom-doom’ of revival. The crimson bud of her smile would twist into a scowl, as she watched him give her a two-fingered salute. “Is that why I see you so often, starling?”

“I’m not sad,” he would answer without fail — the ache inside his chest wasn’t sadness. Étoiles didn’t do sad. He killed, he destroyed, his body grown in a weapon meant to hurt and maim and be hurt in return. Meant to be wielded by someone worthy. (He thinks of pitch-black feathers and a wheezy laugh, the tingle of wither-decay dancing on his skin, the smell of bone. Claws digging into his bony hips, a litany of trills speaking of ownership-claim, great shadows trapping him in so effectively. His knee guards stained by fresh soil where potatoes are endlessly grown in honor of a great warrior he once crossed blades with. Worship, devotion.)

“I’m not sad,” he mumbles, jumping down the well and into the darkness of the dungeon below. Hopefully it wouldn’t be a shit one, and he could scratch that itch in the back of his mind that demanded blood be spilled, be it his or otherwise. “Maybe I die for real today, let’s goooo.”

He never does. He’s too good at dungeoning, too good at placing blocks and throwing splash potions at his feet, golden apples now a rare last resort because he knows what happens when he eats too many. Aaaah, what a pity, he thinks, as he loses himself in the clash of metal on metal and the grunt of mobs falling at his feet. What a pity, I feel nothing. Bad day for me, bad day.

***

The blurriness stays. Days go by, sluggish and quiet, too quiet on this shit island, and no amount of sleep or healing potions make it any better. His arm stings with static-burn where the black and green binary tar has spread, higher, creeping up his neck. But it does nothing to hinder his movements, doesn’t dull the sharpness of his mind. So he ignores it. “Maybe you should get that checked out or something,” Foolish pokes at it once, as they sit and talk atop the Titan’s head using the blue and green plush chairs the TazerCraft have sneaked in. Pac e Mike, wow wow, sings a little voice in Étoiles’ mind whenever he sees splashes of blue and green, because those two live rent-free in everyone’s builds and brains.

“It’s okay,” he smiles at the shark-totem, easy and casual and Étoiles. “It doesn’t hurt.” It doesn’t. “It’s not changing me.” He is changing, that softness that Pomme had made bloom inside him eroding away with every day she’s gone. It’s harder to stay still, harder to stop and talk to the others, because half of them are depressed and the other half are going insane. But none of that is the code’s doing. “Look, I’ll prove it! 1v1 stick?” he jumps to his feet, throwing a wooden stick at his friend with a fiendish grin. “1v1, right now, let’s go.”

Foolish chuckles, even though his smile doesn’t reach his emerald-carved eyes. (His features are hazy, fuzziness getting worse every time Étoiles wakes. Doesn’t matter.) 

They fight, Étoiles takes it home with six hearts to spare. And he still feels empty.

***

Lilacs. Sunflowers. Cornflowers. Poppies.

Flower biomes were Pomme’s favorites. They’re hard to find, but Étoiles is one patient, stubborn cucumber. “T’aurais adoré ça, légende,” he hums, picking another poppy by the stem and stuffing it into his inventory, the frozen subspace keeping it suspended in time and fresh. He can almost hear the pitter-patter of her little cheeto legs in the grass, the rustle of the blades against her shell. The bomp of a red sign being placed, asking for more red, more blue, more of every color to make her siblings flower crowns and dye her trusty scythe like a rainbow.

He can barely make out their shape anymore, only differentiating roses from poppies by tracing their petals with gold-scarred fingers. He sees a blue blur somewhere at his right, oh, cornflower probably. Her secret code.

He lets out a deep, guttural groan and lets his body fall backwards, hitting the plush grass with a thump. A few butterflies flutter out of the way, one of them settling back on the bridge of the warrior’s nose. He glares at it, faded golden stars comically crossed. He only sees the yellow of its wings, stark against sky blue. “Hey, hey. Tu vas rien trouver ici, tu sais. J’ai pas fleuri depuis des plombes.”

The critter’s wings flap once, unbothered. Étoiles blows on it to make it go away, fails. (He’s a failure, at everything. Fails to keep his kid safe, fails to win a 1v1 against an insect.) Soon enough, there is enough butterflies on him to pin him to the ground under the would-be guilt of disturbing them. Étoiles whines, childish and unserious. “Vas-y, j’peux plus bouger. Pas juste. Même la nature me déteste, c’est bon.”

He’s missed this. The warmth of a sunbeam, the scent of fertile soil, the brush of grass blades, the call of the earth below pulling at him. Part of him wants to sink into it, curl up in Her embrace like a child would in their mother’s womb, forget about the world and the Federation and the Codes and all this shit. Maybe he could fall asleep right here. Let his body soak up the sun, let himself bloom again. Let that softness grow out of his skin for all to see, like he used to. Or, he thinks he used to. The memories of Before are static-fuzz between his ears, unreachable unless he looks at them at the corner of his eye, so to speak.

(The freezing cold, then heat as air exploded around him, an impact. Physicality, sudden and unexpected, the song of the stars loud in his ears as he opened his eyes for the first time in front of a bewildered human in a frayed straw hat. He was happy, wasn’t it? He thinks he used to be happy. What happened?)

But Étoiles is a warrior, a weapon, and weapons dull and rust and grow weak if left to rest. So he takes a deep breath, pushes himself up. “Désolé,” he hums to the butterflies as they scatter away. They are but bright, colorful blobs in his dulling eyes. “Désolé,” he says as he warps back home to forge yet another axe. 

His inventory is full of flowers that he’ll forget about, wrapping him in a constant mix of herbal scents that has Cellbit recoiling next time they cross paths. Étoiles doesn’t notice it, the Brazilian’s bothered expression lost on his rapidly-decaying vision.

***

By the time the Code challenges him to what Étoiles knows will be their last duel for the foreseeable future, his sight is all but gone, everyone and their dog has taken notice, and he has brushed off their concern. “I don’t need to see to click good,” he boasts, slamming down deepslate to launch himself fast and run circles around a disgruntled Pac. “See, see! I’m strafing, I’m doing it, playing the game.” Pac makes a strange sound, one he struggles to guess the emotion behind without body language. “It’s okay, Pac. It’s easy. There’s no problem, at all.”

Phil isn’t here yet, can’t see any names on his comlink but Tubbo told him he wasn’t. Shame, shame he won’t be there to see him die, Étoiles thinks as the rain soaks through his shirt, the boom of lightning bothering him more than he lets show. His ears are ringing as he jumps, ducks, tugs at the string of his bow and sends an arrow flying where he knows the Code is, he can feel it, the only spot that doesn’t smell like anything but void. But there’s no feedback, no satisfying sound of health being chipped at, nothing.

This Code is too strong, his sword winging an off-tune melody as it goes through the binary without ripping or tearing. No damage. Ah, he thinks, so they have finally stopped playing. I see now.

The back of his chestplate shatters into a blast of broken enchant magic and diamond shards, some of them lodging themselves into his flesh. Something cold sinks between his ribs, brushing against his spine in a white-hot flash of pain that irradiates through his whole body, and oh, yeah, it’s over. It’s joever, as Tubbo would say. “GGs,” he gasps through a mouthful of dark green blood. He coughs it up, lets it splash down his neck and paint his shirt. Tubbo’s screaming somewhere, too far away for Étoiles to discern the words. “You- eugh, you slash-kill’ed me, good job you cheater. Easy win.”

The entity growls, a hum-buzz that makes his brain (or whatever he has for brains, maybe lettuce?) rattle inside his skull. The blade slides out, cutting away at him further on its way out, and his body falls into a puddle of rainwater and mud with a wet thud. It hurts, blackered arm buzzing, pain creeping up his neck and the right side of his face, extinguishing the last of his remaining sight. 

He faintly realises that almost nobody knows about his respaw mechanic. Ah, et merde. He hopes they’ll have the presence of mind to ask Antoine, when they realise he wouldn’t just re-pop into existence seconds after his death… or when they noticed his body starting to wilt and decay, if they stuck around for long enough.

(Tallulah knows, he remembers. He told her. But had she told Philza, before she disappeared along with all the other eggs?)

Through his fading senses, his comm buzzes with what he knows is his first death message in a really long time. He can make out the sound of rapid footsteps, clickety hooves and heavy, leather work boots. Tubbo and Pierre. He closes his eyes, not that he needs to anymore for darkness to cradle him. He lets go.

He doesn’t see Kristin this time, only hears a faint sigh and a gentle breath sending him off into the void. He hopes they find his seed soon. He doesn’t wanna stay missing for too long, after all.

***

His personal death-void is not so bad of a place. Boring, obviously, but there’s a familiarity to it, to the way the darkness shrouds him like a heavy blanket, pushing against him from all sides. Not oppressive but comforting. Cradling, instead of crushing.

It reminds him of the dirt patch he was born in — he had been asleep and new, just ripe for the picking, dirt-stained hands pulling at his stem with the roughness of a long-repeated gesture. He had screamed, he thinks, not in pain, but to show the world he was here and alive, hello, hello sun, hello dirt, hello person! Had given poor old Théo a heart attack too.

Ah. He could remember, now. Théo, his leathered face and kind eyes with crow feet, wary at first before this walking, talking little legume with the night sky in his eyes, flower-covered vine-tail like some sort of umbilical cord trailing behind him as he follows the old farmer around, asking him endless questions in barely-legible French. But… yes, he’d been kind to him, Étoiles thinks. The first face his face saw. Makes sense it would be one of the first things that came back to him. Maybe remembering was easier in the void? Maybe he should die more often.

…Nah. Dying wasn’t his style. And having to regrow a whole new body over a week was annoying. He had things to do in the island! Like talking with people (eurgh), and giving them things (yes) and fighting with Philza (yes! yes! yes!) and have fun!

So he waits, oblivion pulling at him like gravity. The void is a quiet place, sometimes, but more often it’s not, with the song of supernovas and wailing stars far away keeping him aware, listening. He hums along to it with no mouth or vocal chords (not yet, still growing, still so small, unripe), and sometimes he swears he can hear another voice singing with him. Off-key, awful really, almost crow-like, but it sounds like someone he cares about, so he’s happy to listen to its drone.

Other times, he sleeps. And he dreams of tiny hands and quiet chirps and clicks, of the yesyes uncle Phil taught her, of the chrr-chrr-peep that means him, when she calls Étoiles’ name in her own little language. And he curls around the memory, softness, and lets it carry him up into the stars glittering behind still-forming eyelids.

***

“Étoiles.”

He hums — warmth, the slow beating heart of the earth. The choir of stars constantly burning far, far away. He could listen to it forever, because he had been listening to it since the birth of the first star, he knew.

“Mate. You with me? C’mon, s’been a week already. Come up here, you can do it.”

The voice scratches pleasantly at the back of his brain. But the earth is so warm, so comfy, a cocoon of peace and respite he’s not sure he wants to leave. He sighs with no lungs to breathe, no need for them, when all he could ever need is right there — perfect temp, perfect moisture, glucose, carbon dioxide, rich nutrients all around. Who needs gapples, really. Or thoughts. Or responsibilities. This is the best.

“...Mh. Alright then.”

The voice grates on his ears, ears that try to flick but are stopped by the soil packed around them. He groans in drowsy irritation, curls in on himself in an attempt to shield himself from it and from the world. It seems to work, the noises fading into nothing, and Étoiles feels his thoughts scatter as a faint scratching sound seeps through the earth and into his mind like white noise. Sleep pulls at him again, and he lets it.

He’s startled back into wakefulness by something pulling harshly, somewhere that feels a bit away but is still part of him. His eyes fly open in pained surprise because ow, ow, that’s my— “Come here, you lazy fuck!” That voice — high-pitched, that heavy accent he’s come to love, amusement and exasperation combined, Phil, his Phil, his GOAT, his brother in arms, his Death-touched angel.

Étoiles blinks, unseeing. Étoiles remembers. And with awareness comes something else, something that shimmers and calls his name in gentle whisper-echoes, as he feels himself being pulled up, and up, dirt parting to let him ascend back to the surface. Aah. Goodbye mama. Hello problems. “Get harvested, idiot!” Philza Minecraft grunts with effort somewhere above him, and the tug gets stronger, prompting a pained ow out of him as the ground crackles and breaks above him, and he feels air-sun-outside on his back as he’s forcefully pulled from the ground like the fresh crop he is. He flails a little bit, kicking off dirt and soil (it’s everywhere, in his hair and between his toes and a little in his mouth and nose, bleh!), then rolls onto his back with a groan, frowning up at the sky he knows is there, blue and clear, because it doesn’t smell like rain and the surface soil is dry and warm.

He’s back. And he sees nothing at all. Welp, better close his eyes again then. He feels a shadow fall on him, feels a sandaled foot nudge his side. “Helloooooo. Hello Phil,” he greets the other leaning hard on the deadpan because he knows it makes his friend laugh when he does that. It lands. “What, that’s it?” the elytrian caws, kneeling beside him and poking at his face, talons dulled to a gentle roundness. Étoiles wishes he didn’t trim them, but Phil is too nice, too careful, too eager to smooth himself down for others, for the eggs. Docile.

Étoiles despises it, but he keeps quiet because he knows Phil doesn’t like to talk about those things. “You get yourself killed by a fucking Code of all things,” Phil keeps going, “make everyone freak the fuck out because you won’t respawn like a normal fucking person, and that’s all you have to say for yourself?”

“Antoine knows. And I’m here now, so it’s okay.”

“Antoine barely logs on, you absolute dumbass. You’re lucky Lullah told me about the seed thing, because you would’ve been fucked six ways to Sunday.”

He opens his eyes, if only to shoot Phil a halfhearted glare. And then immediately forgets about it, blinks owlishly. Sits up to get closer to the other man. “Phil. Why are you stars?”

“What.”

He sees stars. (And not in the sex way, because he doesn't do that.) It’s not night, but there are stars in his vision, where pitch blackness used to be, and the constellation is Phil-shaped.

Philza is a cosmic cluster, a nebula shining bright in the darkness that has become his world. He can see nothing beyond him, not the plants surrounding him, not the long vine attached to his lower back Phil used to pull him out. He can tell it’s there, though, lightly thumping at the ground in agitation. “You, are stars. That’s how I see you now.”

“Wait. Can you, like, see again?” Phil asks, uncharacteristically soft. “I know it was getting… bad. And your eyes are like, all greyed out. Did the code stuff on your arm do that?” Étoiles sees a cluster of stars approaching his face — hand — and feels fingers brushing just under his right eye. He’s a bit startled by the contact, the area usually covered by his trust bandana (he needs it back, needs his stuff back, hopefully someone held onto it for him). Phil draws away, an apology ready from the way his constellation-body shifts, but Étoiles doesn’t let him. “I can’t,” he answers, tilting his head, ear flicking in focus — the stars that make up Phil sharpen, and he can almost make out the shape of the wings bound behind his back. “But I can See. I think.” He also wouldn’t mind Phil’s hand on his face again. It feels nice. Scratches at something long-buried, and denied.

Philza makes a confused sound. “Okay, I heard that capital S there. What’s that mean? Are you pulling a Daredevil?”

Étoiles grins, sharp-toothed and playful. “Oh, oh! He thinks I’m a superhero? He thinks I’m cool, Felipe Minecraft? Big win for me.” Phil rolls his eyes, which Étoiles can tell because the crow always makes that low warble when he does. “But no, it’s not like that. I still need my eyes to see like this, and I don’t hear or smell better than before.” Although his status as a hybrid means his baseline is still higher than the average person’s, but that’s irrelevant. “FF.”

“So no cool blindfold for you, ey?”

“No cool blindfold. I will just do a Pomme and drown myself later, to make up for how uncool I am.” (He cannot drown. No lungs. But he can pretend.)

He squints. There’s a little cluster, right there at the side of Phil’s head. He can connect the dots, identify the shape of the elytrian’s bucket hat, but there’s something else there too. “What’s that on your head, Phil? I can’t make it out well.”

“Oh— here,” the other takes his hand and guides it towards his hair, and Étoiles feels a familiar texture under his pads. He makes a noise of surprise. “That’s. Mine.”

“Do you want it back?” Phil hums, brushing at the large cucumber flower tucked in the band of his hat. “It bloomed this morning, on top of the plant you were growing under. Took it as a sign you were, uh, done cooking.” Étoiles snorts. Good guess. “But uh, I guess the plant was also you, cuz it’s at the end of your tail now. Dragging.” Ah. Yeah. He really ought to cut it. “Is it weird? That I’m wearing a piece of you? I don’t know what… fuckin’... cucumber etiquette is.”

“It’s not weird,” Étoiles says, because he doesn’t think it is. “You can keep it.” He kind of likes it. That Phil’s wearing a piece of him. It makes him, happy? “You know, that I am your weapon. Yes? So it makes sense, that you show it.”

“You’re my friend. Don’t call yourself a weapon, man.”

“Same thing for me.”

Phil’s response is wordless, a simple, noncommittal mmh. But Étoiles can hear the hidden fondness in it. He pushes a little further, crudely imitates that  one bird sound Philza makes when he’s happy. Whoops internally when Phil puffs out his feathers and trills out a yesyes in return. Héhé. “Yes yes, Philza? Fight me, right now?” he slips into his usual stance, just a bit offset by the lack of armor weighing him down. “1v1, no weapons, no armor? Fistfight, let’s go.”

Phil cackles, crow-like. “I am not fighting you right now, you little shit. You menace. What’s wrong with you?”

“Aww, Phil hates me,” the warrior whines. “He hates me. He won’t 1v1 me, he must hate me. Sad.”

“Oh my god, stop being a baby.”

“I was literally born five minutes ago. I am baby, and Felipe Minecraft hates me,” he sasses back, and Phil throws his arms towards the sky in exasperation. “Oh come on. I spent a week protecting your green ass! Making sure you got enough sun and water and shit, it was like doing egg tasks all over again. Antoine even talked me into fucking singing, pretty sure he was pranking me with that one by the way, and still you think I hate you?”

“Nice caulk, Phil.”

He can’t see it, but Étoiles knows Phil’s eyelid is twitching. “Mate. I got a faceful of ass pulling you out of here, you’re on thin fucking ice.”

The cucumber snorts. “Héhé, got mooned by the stars.” That was kinda funny. “You were pulling me by the tail, I do not know what you expected. You’re lucky I’m a plant, or there would have been full cock and balls there.”

“Bruh. I thought it would be connected to your… plant belly button, or whatever, like an umbilical cord.”

“It’s an ass button, GGs.”

“Jesus Christ, please don’t call it that. I didn’t even know you had a tail. You didn’t before.”

“That’s because I always cut it,” the warrior huffs, said tail lashing behind him from the restless energy that always accompanies a new body. Its leaves drag around the loose dirt in little swish-y sounds. “Give me a sword, Phil, it’s already annoying me.”

The crow peers down at the vine, then back at him. “I dunno, man. You look kinda fun with it.” Étoiles squints. He can’t quite make out Phil’s expression like this, all stars and nothing between them, but he can hear the hidden laughter in his voice. “...I will cut it with my teeth then.”

“Won’t that hurt more than with a blade?”

“It doesn’t hurt. Only the base. Like when you pulled on it.”

“Why not keep it? It’s a part of you.”

Because it speaks for me, he considers replying. Because it says and shows things that I don’t want people to see. Even now, it wags, because Phil is here and now brushing stray dirt out of his hair and it’s very nice. (Is he touch-starved? He might be. Pomme is gone, and he doesn’t trust people to touch him, other than with blunt force and sharp diamond blades.) But Étoiles hasn’t kept his tail since he was a child, still wide-eyed and showing his innermost self to the whole world without any shield. He feels weird. Exposed. And it’s okay with Phil, because Phil is Phil, but it’s not okay because they’re out in the open and anyone could come and see. He doesn’t like that. “Because people can grab it, and it gets stuck in things, and it’s annoying. I cut it, now.” He tugs at the appendage, bringing it up to his mouth. “Nope,” Phil snatches it away, and Étoiles hisses at him. “Calm down, dude. At least let’s do it cleanly.”

“Eeeeuugh. Okay.”

”Then we’re getting your stuff back from Antoine’s, good god. You’re still butt-naked and I won’t have you strut around like that.”

“He has my things? Comms, armor, my backpacks?”

“All of it, yeah,” the older man huffs, and Étoiles can hear the telltale sound of an item being summoned of an inventory. Enchanted axe, he parses, recognizing the ozone-y smell of the sharpness enchant and the sound of the air being sliced downward. He doesn’t feel anything when the vine is severed, frowns when he realises Phil left a good… fifty centimeters of it, still attached to his body. “Phil. You misclick? You aim like shit today?”

“You said it hurts near the base,” the elytrian huffs, finality lacing his every word. “Keep it or cut the rest later, your pick, but I’m not hurting you.”

Étoiles’ ear flicks in confusion, and so does his tail. It moves faster, easier now without the rest of the plant weighing it down. “...We fight each other all the time, that hurts more. I don’t care.”

Phil stays silent for a few seconds. Nebula-Phil shifts before him. “It’s. Different.”

Étoiles hums. Philza has the Tone™ again, the one that means he’s thinking of things that hurt. He thinks of clipped feathers, of matted down that he wishes he could run his fingers through and fix, fix, let me fix it, let me do this for you. But he says nothing. Maybe another time, when they’re both ready for that conversation. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Maybe I keep it this time. Maybe.”

He can hear Phil’s smile in the next word he speaks. “Attaboy.” And he tries to ignore the way his tail wags with renewed enthusiasm at that.

[lemmetreatya]

hii hope your having an amazing day! i am litr in SUCH A BIG miguel brain rot and it’s unreal. like imagine reader having such a bad day at work and comes home so sad and shit and miguel just cheers her up!! like he’s so sweet UGHH. i feel like he could be fluffy or smutty 🤭🤭

contains: cunnilingus

“Hermosa!”

As Miguel hears the door open and close, he shouts the usual petname into the air — an indication of where he is within the apartment. However, once he hears the irregular stomping and hard clanks of your items clashing around, he knows somethings up. 

“Babe?”

Miguel’s already making his way towards the front of the apartment, meeting you as you’re about to move into a next room. Just by your pudged frown alone, he can tell you’re not in the mood. 

“Bad day?”

“Worst.” 

You move past him, already making trudging effort for the kitchen. Miguel can only follow after you with his head constantly trying to poke over you to see what you’re doing. 

“Sorry to hear that, mi cielo.” Unsure, he keeps a safe distance. “Anything I can do to make it better?”

“Barely.” 

As you get out a glass and an already opened bottle of wine from the fridge, you brashly pour yourself some. Turning to Miguel, you finally unleash everything you’re feeling.

“I just feel like everything at that establishment is always going wrong and I’m always the one having to be caught up in it. It’s honestly about time I get something else but the process in finding work is so tedious.” 

Miguel blinks a few times as he watches you from across the counter. 

“I could always get you something at Alchem—“

“Be fucking for real. Why the fuck would I work at such a dubiously immoral place like that?”

A twitch of an unpleasant feeling flashed across Miguel’s face as he’s taken aback by your words. Even before he makes that expression, you realise how harsh they were as soon as they left your mouth. 

It was an insensitive thing to say to someone who contributed greatly to the company’s success. 

“Sorry. That was unfair.” You say. 

Miguel, as ever understanding with you, simply shakes his head. You know if this was anyone else or even a different scenario that he would have snapped back with something uglier. Instead he only shrugs. 

“No, it’s okay. It’s not like you’re far off.”

“Miguel, that wasn’t okay. I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry.” 

The man softly shrugs again as he comes closer to you. He stretches his arm out for you to hand him the glass of wine and you comply. 

“Hey, so you haven’t had the best of the days. I get it. I’m not mad at you, but we gotta find you a way to distress before you’re hurting anyone else, hm?”

He places the glass down on the counter besides you both before cupping your cheeks and planting a kiss to the button of your nose. You pout at his sweet gesture, already melting into his touch. 

“I guess…”

Miguel kisses your nose again before planting one to your mouth. As you feel him smile against your lips, you already know he has a method in mind. 

Soft whimpers leave your throat as you wither over the bedsheets, fingers digging into the material and duvet. You make a mental note that after this, they’d need to be changed.

“Fuck, Miguel.” 

The man hums against your dewy cunt as he hears your reactions, mouth too busy to give a proper reply. He finds no problem in then latching his lips to the nub of your clit and sweetly such on the meat of it. 

Another curse leaves your mouth and your hands find a way to tug at the roots of his hair. You can tell it’s had an effect on Miguel because his head lifts with the pull and he lets out a succinct groan. Either way, he doesn’t reprimand you for it. If anything he only uses the pull to come up for air and conversation. 

“Work was that bad?” He jokes. 

“S-shut up.” 

Miguel chuckles with his eyes looking up at you. He knows its a tease, a play at making you so wound up that your climax can only be euphoric as it reflects your pent up frustration. 

“Annoying…”

“But you love me~” He coos before going down on you again. 

[liliumsabyss]

Victory

Newt(TMR) x male reader

Prequel(?) to “Don’t Go”

Minor angst to Fluff I think?

Word Count: 1.35k

Tw: Normal Maze Runner stuff maybe more descriptors of violence, loss of hearing temporarily, maybe ooc

Newt hadn’t seen it till it was too late and now he was fighting off a crank that had climbed on top of him waving its claws wildly and snarling at him. He terrified, fought back being careful to avoid being scratched or bit using the large rifle he had stolen from wicked as a shield as much to his misfortune had gotten jammed rendering it as his only weapon useless, utterly useless. And he was not ready to accept the fate that was to await him if he were to give up he still had to fight. But that wasn’t the main thought in his mind as his ears rang. The main thought was Where were you? If you were okay despite the odds were ok he would be fine with dying right there but with the group getting ambushed by a flood of cranks he feared that you had either been dead or infected and both of those images had been his worst fear. His thought of you being infected had started to now grow into a conviction he was so convinced you had to be infected at this point that he begged you had died instead at least then he wouldn’t have to watch your eyes slowly turn into a black void, dark blood spilling from your mouth, your veins showing off the changes, and worst of all, your beautiful mind withering away till you were an empty shell actually you wouldn’t be empty you would be so much worse filled with agony, hatred, and a violent nature that simply just didn’t belong to you. The thought of that made him more terrified than the crank he was fighting. And yet just at that second a swift blur in his confusion passed by his eyes the weight of the creature gone. So he scrambled to sit up only to see you on top of the crank, pinning its arms into the ground with your knees while your knife was held high above your head. Newt's eyes flashed with even more horror at the image, why were you being so so stupid why would you put yourself in this kind of peril for him, why were you willing to potentially die for him. He couldn’t understand actually with his fear cloudling his brain he wouldn’t understand the conviction of you being infected flashed across his eyes all over again. Your knife came down over and over black liquid spraying you with each violent stab into the cranks skull the dark substance dripping from the knife that shined ever so slightly the crank letting out screeches until it fell silent its struggling arms fell limp. You leaned back ever so slightly relieving the pressure on your knees. Dark coloured blood splattered across your face smeared along with dust and dirt as you climbed off the crank still remaining on your knees. Newt without thinking crawled? More like clamered on his knees towards you sliding at the last second ever so slightly before you.

“ You bloody shank! Why would you do that?” He practically yelled over the gunshots of the others, “ Why would you be that bloody stupid! People care about you, I care about you!”

You tilted your head in confusion at him but he didn’t appear to notice. He continued to “yell” as you watched his lips trying to make out with what he was saying. He almost completely forgot that he had practically confessed to you but that would be a problem for future him. Yet by the time he had stopped to take a sharp inhale and he refocused on you matching your confusion as he saw you staring confused and intensely at his mouth. He blushed a little at the immediate implication he had thought of, quite embarrassed with himself that his mind even remotely thought of that. You said something softly, too softly for him to hear over the screeches and gunfire. He looked at you in confusion moving his head closer, hinting he could not hear. 

“ I CAN’T HEAR MY GUN BLEW OUT MY HEARING.” You shouted unable to control your volume due to your well lack of receiving volume. Newt slightly jumped back in surprise at your loudness, but quickly he nodded showing he understood what you had said. 

He scrambled onto his feet, realising that the group had to move forward or else they would die there. He had then reached his hand out towards you, you in response stretched your hand up to rest in his before his fingers curled gentle enough not to hurt you but firm in which it would be hard to let go. Newt gave a sharp tug to reference you to stand, you stood up stumbling a tad trying to gather your bearings. 

“ We have to get out of here, they will corner us.” Newt shouted at the rest, you had tried to read his lips only catching a word here and there as your hearing continued to be repressed. It would have sounded if you were underwater.

The other nodded and made affirmations in response. Newt looked at you trying his best to mouth something, you could make it out and he never would have even had to tell  you for you already did. The words “Trust Me” left his mouth and you nodded, why wouldn’t you he was the one you had so utterly cared for to the point where you had thrown yourself onto a crank for him. So yes you did trust him. He turned around reaching into his back pocket behind the aviator esc coat revealing a small handgun he had most definitely taken from WICKED. When? You had no clue but considering his other weapon was rendered useless you certainly weren’t complaining. He started to yell towards the rest who were still fighting against the ongoing swarms of cranks. There was a plan in play, a plan you didn’t know and that scared you but your ever going trust in the other male was clear so you squeezed his head lightly your version of a response. And soon you moved forward, Newt jogging to the best of his ability stayed at the front clearing the general path with the small handgun and never once letting go of your hand. While he was usually never the leader and often more times second in command the person who keeps everyone together you could see that he was more than suited to be a leader. Whether it was in his nature or he had picked it up from Alby no one there could deny his knack for leadership. To you he had seemed like a knight in shining armour, fearless. However his internal dialogue would prove otherwise, he was mortified at that second he was nearly shooting everything that moved and he was as flighty as bird. He held frantically onto your hand the warmth of your hand and the occasional squeeze here and there kept him grounded yet made him only further scared him. The constant reminder that you had been there and while not helpless you certainly weren’t in the most ideal situation.

 He would’ve kept running if it wasn’t for Minho’s voice calling out to him he wouldn’t have stopped. He looked around a little too fast for someone who would appear to be safe and that's when he realised they had gotten out that they were safe. He looked back at you, both of you holding each other's hand just as tight, the sun lighting up your faces. A huge grin spread across your face and you laughed, you just laughed, your head threw back and you laughed and before Newt knew it he was laughing alongside you his toothy grin being revealed as he laughed. There were only two thoughts in his mind: you had survived and furthermore you were so bloody beautiful. And so he continued to smile and laugh as the others joined in celebrating your victory, he couldn’t tell if your hearing was back but for now he would just enjoy watching you celebrate. 

[breadsticksposts]

Hi!! How are you?? So i was thinking for a LONG TIME, i was wondering if you can make a headcanon of tighnari with a dumb bunny s/o!! If you play genshin tho! Feel free to ignore btw!

TIGHNARI WITH DUMB BUNNY S/O!!

thank you for making a request 😭😭 and tighnari is one of my favorite characters! and im doing fine and i hope you are too!! i been waiting for a request and i got itt!! i hope you like it!

-you been with tighnari for a long time and you can e honest that its kinda hard to understand some of his words! like something science or just straight up plants!

-when you want to go out to the forest, tighnari kinda need to you to bring someone (he trust) or he will go with you.

-well.., its maybe because that one time when you went out to the forest by yourself after tighnari says there is a withering and you must be careful,

-well you remember his words but how can you know when you are close to the withering place?? so you kinda roam around and you see a kind of dark red smoke/mist and you kinda faint after tthat.

-you woke up in tighnari place. and after that, he lecture you till you remember when yoou are near a withering and explain to you about the flowers i there and how dangerous it is!

-after that long long LONGGG lecture, its kinda stuck to your head now.

- next! you kinda straight up saying something stupid, and you kinda get a hit in the head from tighnari (not that hard of course, don’t want to damage the brain and make you more dumb)

-“aww the yellow rabbit is so cute!” you say

-“thats a desert fox” tighnari say while hitting you in the head

- “ooo! what is that?? is that a solar system??” you touch the balls of someone project, while tighnari was talking to the person

-“its atoms..for my project” the person say to you

-“they are nerdy balls” you say and get hit

- next! you have to attend some work but you really dont want to go there! so you pretend that your arm hurt so bad! your right arm!

-“tighnari..i dont feel going to that work today.. my right arm hurt so bad..!” you say while whining and faking it! good thing that you are good at whining!

“hm? let me see,” tighnari says, you give him your left arm. “..this one hurt..??” tighnari ask “mhm!” you hummed

-tighnari sigh and left. and came back bringing some medical things to check your arm. tighnari was waiting for you to give your arm. and you give him your right arm.

- “i though you say that this arm was hurting??” tighnari point at your left arm. “hah..? um..”

-well you kinda get caught lying

- but you and tighnari both have tails. so if you help him take care of his, then he will take care of yours!

-your tail is a bit more sensitive tho! but you dont need to say twice to tighnari, he took care of you very good!

- your floppy ears are also took care by him! thats why its soft and nice!

- like tighnari too, your ears are sensitive to loud sounds! so if you feel uncomfortable, you can just say it too him, and he will bring you to somewhere nice and calm!

-next! your personality is quite different than tighnari’s, you are more energetic and excited about little things! and your body is surely more flexible!

- one time you got into a trap that one of the forest rangers put for capturing and fungus! you are kinda in a uncomfy pose but you manage to doit until tighnari save you! and ofcourse you got the long lectures, asking whyb are you not careful, but who can blame him?? he love you so much and dont want you to get hurt!

- one time you get excited about some things and kinda run in excitement, and you didnt watch where you are going bump your head and fall.

well thats embarrassing!

-now lets go to the sleep headcanon!

- you ofcourse the little spoon!

-tighnari love cuddling you! its like his night routine now! cant live without it

-all of his stress came falling down in a single calm and relaxing cuddle from you!

-he love wrapping his tail around you while you guys are cuddling!

— he may give headpats too! and touch your ears

-night is the best part of the day for both of you!

i hope you like it! tell me what should i make?? please give me some scenarios if you want 😁🫶

[slickshoesareyoucrazy]

Stones

This is a weird thing to be writing about, but I'm thinking about it, so here we go.

When A died, the first time I visited his grave, I took flowers. That's what I was used to taking to the cemetery whenever I visited my grandparents' graves, or went with J to visit his mom's. That's the traditional, generally-culturally-Christian American thing to take. But A's grave, at first, didn't have a receptacle to hold flowers (a vase or specified place of any kind). I had to lay the flowers against his low, flat headstone, which didn't feel right anyway. And as I left, I thought about how flowers wither and die and get thrown out. So I tried to think of something more lasting and permanent that didn't blow away or die or (eventually) get (understandably) tossed in a trash can. And the way my goofy brain works, I thought about Schindler's List. Not to be a 30+ year old movie spoiler, but at the end of the film, the people saved from the camps by Oskar Schindler are seen placing stones on his grave, and it is explained that it's a Jewish tradition to do so. Neither A nor I have a Jewish heritage (we were both raised Catholic and eventually became culturally Christian omnist/agnostic-ish people), but something about that tradition spoke to me. I saw Schindler's List maybe 3 times total in my life, the most recent time being with my son a couple of years ago, and it was the only place I'd ever heard about the stone tradition.

Until this past year-ish.

I read a book by Shelly Read, Go As a River, that's not even about Jewish characters, but features laying stones as memorials. Nothing about the cover or the jacket blurb of this book suggested this would be a part of the plot before I brought it home from work with me.

Then last week, J and I watched a news magazine show that featured a Jewish family who had made a stone garden in memorial of their son who died tragically young--a small park where the paths were lined and the trees were ringed in stones people found and laid, some of them painted. We had no idea this would be a feature in the story when we began watching.

Today, I watched A Real Pain, a movie written by and starring Jesse Eisenberg and co-starring Kieran Culkin (I love Kieran Culkin; that's why I started watching it). And lo and behold, the Jewish tradition of placing stones on graves is featured in this dramedy too.

I find it strange that since I began taking stones to A, I'm seeing this featured more frequently in the media I'm choosing. And I'm not choosing the media for this feature; I don't even know it will be there until I see it. I'm sure a lot of folks will write this off as some mere coincidence or explain it as some weird combination of a form of confirmation bias and strange self fulfilling prophecy because I'm seeing it more now because I'm doing it. Like when you get a new car, you start seeing 'your' car everywhere. Maybe there's something to that. I'd have called bullshit on a lot of things I've felt and seen and experienced this past year if someone else...anyone else...maybe even A himself...told me they'd felt or seen or experienced them before he died. But now? That's A. I know it is.

I know it's you, man. OK? I know. I like how much you show up. How consistent it is. And I guess you like getting those stones. We're still snowed in, but I sure do hope they're still there when we thaw out, and I promise I'll bring you more.

I still miss you fucking all the time and I'm still sad about it. But. I can't say it's 'easier' to deal with, but now I can at least feel the comfort in stuff like seeing Jesse Eisenberg and Kieran Culkin go find some stones worthy of their beloved dead. I can feel YOU in that stuff. I love you, man. I want to get back to the cemetery, but it's gonna be another week or two at least. <3

[inuhiime]

:: 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 ! ──── ⪩⪨ 𝐉𝐎𝐉𝐎'𝐒 𝐁𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 ; 𝐩𝐭. 𝐢𝐢

' loneliness will devour a man from within '

' it may be true that our fate is to be together '

' don't you understand? fate won and you are the loser '

' you'll be safe here. i won't let anyone hurt you again '

' i won't be a matyr. i refuse '

' why do you want to shame me? i have made peace with myself '

' hey, are you listening to me at all? '

' are your actions born of truth? '

' just shut up already. i have nothing more to say to you '

' what a pathetic life you've lived '

' what, are you going to try to run again? you can't do that anymore '

' why are you telling me all this crap? '

' no matter where in the world you might run to, you'll never find a safe haven again '

' this will hurt me as much as it hurts you '

' i never had the slightest intention of forgiving you '

' go to hell, asshole '

' have you ever considered why humans wish to live? '

' it's a waste to kill you '

' it's all over for you. you should have stayed outside of my business '

' the one who should be running away is you '

' does your brain shut down when you talk to people? '

' i probably won't ever find someone who sees me for who i am '

' you're not gonna get any sympathy from me '

' what, are you afraid you'll regret killing me? '

' your foolish honor will be your demise '

' you went and pissed me off. was it worth it? '

' who else would know pointless crap like that? '

' i can't ever forget a clown like you even if i tried, you bastard '

' even if it's scary, i gotta do something '

' you'll forever have my respect for doing this '

' why does that even matter? '

' doesn't anyone in this world have a decent personality? '

' your death is a necessity at this point '

' good heavens. was it something i said? '

' i thought you were defeated, but i guess you had already won '

' i wanted you guys to be proud of me '

' when it's over, we'll bring you home '

' we don't engage in actions that risk one's own life '

' you should savor your last meal while you can '

' how many times do i have to keep teaching you this lesson? '

' you are planning to help me, right? '

' i appreciate the commitment, but i think you're taking it a bit too far '

' you won't make it in time '

' watch over me so i may not walk the wrong path '

' that's the dumbest thing i've ever heard '

' what kind of pompous bullshit are they on about? '

' that's great. could you please heal me? i'm dying '

' you're a disgrace '

' your rationale intrigues me. just what were you thinking? '

' you could never understand what's in my heart '

' it hurts to say this, but no one's coming with you '

' though you might be able to witness the truth, you can never hope to reach it '

' please don't tell me to stay behind '

' no one can escape the fate that was chosen for them '

' i can't bring him back. i wasn't fast enough '

' please give everyone my regards '

' we are all slaves of fate '

' this is me saying goodbye '

' you shall come to realize your own insignificance as you wither and fade away '

' you are unable to defeat your destiny '

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators 19 - Bite Night

Astarion spills a little secret.

On AO3.

Astarion lurches back and onto his feet. Says something you can’t understand because you are rationing your last dirt potion. But this seems pretty goddamn important, so you reach for your bag without breaking eye contact. His gaze follows your hands, and even in the dim light from a dying campfire, you can tell his whole frame tenses. And then sags—less than an inch—when you pull out the potion bottle and unstopper it with your teeth.

Still tastes like ass.

“What the fuck,” you say.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Astarion says. He’s back up another three paces or so, hands still held up.

It looks like a man looming over you with his mouth fucking open. Are bath salts a thing here? Is he some kind of serial killer?

“What’s it look like?” you say.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you!”

“So, what, you just spend your nights breathing on us while we all sleep?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” His usual smirk and swagger are gone. They’ve left someone with his ridiculous, poofy hair and the frilly ass shirt and the scaredest aura you’ve seen in a long, long while. When you don’t scream or try to kick him—his eyes track to your hands again—he continues. Winces. “I just needed a little, well, blood?”

You’re not sure that translates correctly. Then you’re not sure you heard it correctly. Because it makes no damn sense. Not at all. Gale is the cook, and you’ve never seen Astarion fucking around with potions—you’ve never seen Gale fucking around with blood in his potion brewing, but you brain makes that jump anyhow.

“Why?” you drawl.

He blinks at you. Seems a little taken aback, almost sheepish. Both at himself, and at you, for some reason.

His gaze darts behind you, to the rest of the sleeping party. He swallows visibly. “I…might have neglected to mention something about me. Not anything momentous! It’s just well, I might happen to be a…what’s the best way to put this. A vampire! Haha!”

The laugh comes out as this bright, theatrical giggle. Dude might as well be flashing jazz hands to go with it.

A vampire. Like…like fucking dracula? If it translated correctly. If your brain hasn’t started bleeding in your sleep as the worm hits some vital artery and this is the last, bizarre hurrah delusion as your cerebral tissues wither and die of oxygen deprivation.

“A vampire,” you say to see if it sounds like bullshit out loud and yep, sure does.

“Yes.” He still wears that fake smile. One that morphs as you watch. Twists into nervousness. “I’m not some monster, though. I feed on animals: boars, deer, kobolds. Whatever I can get. I’m…just too slow right now. Too weak.”

Boars. Like the one y’all found on the road two days ago. The one he just left there for anyone to see.

…you could have sworn he was smart. He couldn’t come up with half the shit he’s said to you without a touch of clever. But that seems so…amateur hour.

Then again, you come from a world with fifty-seven new murder podcasts a week, so there’s that.

“So like, ‘drink the blood of the innocent’, honest-to-god actual vampire,” you say. “That’s a fucking thing that exists here?”

“Gods have very little to do with it. Do you not have vampires in your realm?”

“No. Not, I mean. There’s people who call themselves that? But they just dye their hair and wear dramatic makeup and I think some of them actually do lick each others’ blood, but that’s how you catch hepatitis, so…”

It’s his turn to stare all baffled at you. He starts to open his mouth.

“They’re not like,” you say and gesture to him. “They’re just pretending.”

Red eyes and pale skin. You’d thought he was albino. Some kind of fantasy albino that could bask under the sun, because this is a whole different plane of existence and what the fuck do you know?

Looking now, he’s not the same type of pale, though. He’s more corpse-pale. And in the low firelight, as he’d loomed over you, you had spotted, you realize, a set of fangs he’s until now kept hidden.

Man is a fucking vampire.

“But you know what that is?” he says. “What I am?”

He keeps checking behind you. He was on first watch (…that explains so much right now; he always took first watch). Considering he’s kept the entire thing hidden until you caught him, you know, with his fangs over your neck, and considering the way his body language screams, you’re guessing he expects a strong, negative reaction.

“Maybe we should talk about this closer to your tent?” you say. “Y’know, out of earshot?”

It’s the second time he’s ever dropped his “smug bastard” look in surprise. At least that you’ve seen. His mouth even flaps a couple of times before he recovers and slides the Goblin Man persona back on.

“Yes, of course,” he says, sweeps one arm out to indicate “after you.” Seems to consider how vulnerable this leaves you and he sort of freezes. Must not like the idea of you at his back, either.

Well. He’s had plenty of time to slit your throat since you met. And he rolled back when you woke up, instead of lunging and pinning you and ripping your throat like some 30 Days of Night motherfucker.

You climb to your feet (fuck fuck! The burn! Why does your fucking scalp hurt??) and stagger past him like an arthritic grandma.

His footsteps follow a second later. You hear footsteps, which means he wants you to, so that’s likely a good sign?

You stop next to his tent, just at the edge of the dim glow of the embers, and give him the best look-over you can manage in the gloom.

“My people got all kinds of stories about vampires,” you say. “But they’re just stories, and a lot of them don’t match each other. I been saying we don’t have monsters or magic or all that. Just humans and other animals.”

“No monsters? At all?” he says. “How…quaint.”

“None,” you say. “So you’re gonna have to explain to me what this all means, and I’m gonna ask around later to make sure it all checks out.”

“Ask?” His voice goes hard and his entire frame snaps into harsh angles.

“Gale. About history. Monsters and such. I don’t know shit and everyone knows it. No one’ll find that weird.”

He watches you for a breath. Two. The muscles of his jaw work. Then he sighs all harsh through his nose. “I suppose that’s to be expected. Fine.”

And he explains. A “vampire spawn”, not a “real” vampire. Some fuckface named Cazador. He gives no details about his life, no emotions, only what you might call a wikipedia summary of what, exactly he is. But you can imagine a lot of horror around the words “puppet” and “slave.” You can imagine a lot.

“We’ll be in the swamp tomorrow to ambush this meeting you’re so curious about,” he says, moving on like he didn’t toss a psychological grenade into your lap. “If I need to fight, I need to get my strength up. And, well. I’m too slow to hunt at the moment. One too many ambushes, lately.”

“How often do you need, um, blood?”

“Oh, most days animals are just fine. I hunt most nights, but I can go much longer in between, if I need to.”

The tadpole shivers in your brain. You flinch, and notice Astarion do the same. It’s trying to mind whammy y’all. The connection flows between you, and you catch a sliver of cracked and quivering memories, of—

no no NO.

Of fear.

You slam it shut so hard the both of you stumble.

Fear. No.

Terror. The man is scared absolutely shitless right now. And he can go longer in between meals the way a human can technically survive a few days without water. You’d felt starvation chewing through his gut, an icy thing made of teeth chewing, chewing, chewing at him.

“Fuck!” you say and clamp a hand over your mouth.

None of the others stirs.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you whisper shout. You’d felt it for less than a second and it had damn near turned your brains to scrambled eggs. You’re not even sure how the man is capable of standing upright, let alone using facial expressions and gesticulating.

A snarl tugs at his lips, even as his facial muscles twitch and you watch in real time as he smooths his expression out into a pleasant neutrality.

Motherfucker. This, he…this is so fucked up.

“At best I was sure you’d say no,” he says. “More likely, you’d ram a stake through my ribs.

You’ve demonstrated to god and country tonight that you literally do not possess the upper body strength to pull that off. Nor do you have a stake (he’d been watching your hands so carefully).

“No, I needed you to trust me. And you can trust me.”

“You put a knife to my throat the first time you saw me,” you say.

His smarm bleeds over him like a drop of water touched to a smear of paint. “Well, darling, it was quite a day. I’d been abducted and infected once already. I’m sure you can appreciate having a healthy amount of caution.”

He’s not wrong. If you’d found any weapons on the butthole ship, you probably would have pointed one right back at him. Had he not tackled you to the ground, anyway.

It was a fucking day.

You glance back to the others. Gale curled on his side with his toes peeking out. Shadowheart bundled into a ball with only her long ponytail to indicate she was anything more than a lump of bedding. Lae’zel on her back with one leg kicked up, for some reason.

“Have you bitten any of us before?” you say.

He makes a sound, one part smug, and one part wistful. “Darling, I’m good, but I’m not that good. You’d have noticed if I spent the night devouring you.”

You roll your eyes. “So what stopped you?”

“It seemed ill mannered to bite without asking. Present instance excluded.”

So he could have, but didn’t. Whether he’d actually considered it rude, or some other reason he’s not telling you (getting caught), y’all’ve been laying your necks out for the taking for days. He hasn’t been pulling a dracula and draining one of y’all slowly. He didn’t slaughter his way through camp in a feral blood rage.

And yes, you’re pretty sure part of that is the reason he’s tagging along with y’all anyway: security in numbers. Still. He can control himself, present instance excluded.

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, you been trustworthy so far. Mostly.”

“Thank you,” he says. For the first time tonight, the tension laced through him seems to genuinely crack and give. You think that’s the end of it, and almost turn back to your warm bedroll. But then he makes a hesitant gesture and you stop. “Do you think you could, ah, trust me just…a little further? I only need a taste, I swear.”

A taste…?

Oh.

Ohhh.

“My blood,” you say like a clever person.

“Not all of it! Just enough to get me back to top form. For whatever we find tomorrow.”

The vampire wants to drink your blood. That’s…

“Um,” you say.

Focus. You need to focus.

That hunger. Your own middle still shivers from the memory, and you’d only brushed his thoughts for a moment. You know hunger. Or thought you did (it seems a mewling kitten in comparison to the thing Astarion is carrying around). You wouldn’t wish it on anyone. And you donated blood back home on the regular. It’s just blood, right? Your body will make more, and the guy could use it.

But vampirism is a bit different from a sterile needle, and it has side effects in all the movies. You take a breath.

“Two questions. One, is this in any way, shape or form, going to result in killing me now or in the future?”

His face does something complicated before he answers, “Not at all. I don’t intend to take any more than you can handle.”

Your stomach flutters. This is batshit (ha). Surely y’all could bring him something still kicking in the morning? Go hunting for him?

You fold your hands so he can’t see them shake. “Second question: is this going to, in any way shape or form now or in the future, turn me into a vampire?”

The emotion in his next smile you can identify. Bitterness. His chin drops, casting even the faint shine from the embers out of his eyes and leaving them dark.

“I’m a spawn, not a real vampire, darling. My bite won’t do anything more than sip from that precious neck of yours.”

Okay. Right. Questions answered. You think he’s telling the truth? You hope he’s telling the truth. Sweet baby jesus on a pogo stick, this is the stupid idea. Stoopid with two o’s.

“Can you pass on any other diseases you might have?” you say because you still have a handful of braincells trying to do their job.

“That’s three questions.”

You stare.

He grins all fake; you’re learning to recognize it.

“D’you want my blood or not?”

He actually slouches as he rolls his eyes.

 “Alright, fine. Not that I know of.” He holds one finger up to silence the next question forming on your lips. “I can experience side effects if I feed on something rancid. But as I’m dead—technically undead—I can neither catch nor spread mortal diseases.”

…sounds logical. Also sends a cascade of biology questions churning through your mind. Maybe he’ll let you ask, later? This’ll probably increase your standing with him, if no one else, and that’s a step towards proving you aren’t a total drain on camp resources (the fucking irony). Besides, it’s not your first donation, even if the form and function are vastly different (are they, though?).

You roll your head onto your shoulders. Shrug a couple of times to loosen the tension. Say, “Okay then.”

He actually backs up. Not a full step, just a surprised sort of shuffle. In the gloom, the dead fire paints his shocked expression in shades of orange and red.

“Really?” he says, and even he can’t hide the genuine surprise in his voice. “I…of course. I’ll not take one drop more than I need.”

You’re doing this. Good god, you’re doing this.

He seems to psyche himself up, too. Straightens and gives his shoulders a wiggle. His chin lifts, mask slides back into place. He says, “Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”

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