#Meg explains stuff

[girldragongizzard]

Thank you!

Here's the promised photo. We've kind of become a Nanny Ogg from Disc World figure:

Answering some questions:

What's the Opportunity Council?

It's one of those organizations that's designed to help local homeless people get food, shelter, and employment. They're really cool, actually, with no strings attached for their help. But they're overbooked, typically.

so… the people trying to chase dragons away were like private cops?

A privately owned Wildlife Management company, which is surprisingly common in the U.S. Basically cops for animals.

and also the people who profit if there's drama and unrest (newspapers)?

Yep! Specifically with one person who has ownship in nearly everything, Daniel Säure.

uh oh. a helicopter? did you get like kidnapped and released no idea where?

Yep!

Though, it turns out early on in the next book that I am familiar enough with the local geography and the likely range of a large helicopter that I make a damn good guess as to where I am.

Sort of a surprise camping trip, if you look at it in a certain way.

Chapter 20: What a day that was

I was right.

Dragons are people, and as people we can interpret our instincts and decide how we follow them. I do think other animals can do this too, and often do, but we are too removed from them to see it most of the time. We can’t interview them.

Whitman was, after all, able to communicate through gesture and writing in the playground sand.

His feet are too clumsy to use a tablet or oversized keyboard.

His name is Joel, actually. He wrote that in the sand.

We had to ask him a lot of yes and no questions, with him elaborating with glyphs and words occasionally, but we did interview him.

He’d attacked me originally because he was desperate and scared, and thought it was the thing he was supposed to do to secure his territory. Which he perceived me to be in, or too close to.

He’s been living on the streets for several years, and was pushed into the woods of the southern foothills by losing that challenge to me.

We don’t have a lot more information than that. We’re looking into getting him his own AAC of some sort. He’s frustrated beyond belief that he can’t talk anymore, and angry that I can actually say a few words and he can’t.

And, at the coaxing of Rhoda and Chapman, I ceded him the South West portion of my territory, from Chestnut street to the water, which includes the park we’d just fought over, plus a number of businesses, including two of the more well known brewpubs. It’s twice the land that I’m left with.

I’ve got most of downtown, and a network of friends who are making sure I get what I need. And my building is where I get my identity from, anyway. I don’t need all that space to be mine, really. Not logically, anyway.

Negotiating with my emotions is a different matter, but I’ve been working on learning how to do that for a couple decades now. That’s a huge part of what my therapist is for.

It’s Tuesday morning, the day of my next appointment, and I’m hanging out with my friends and the staff of my coffee shop in the lobby. We’re less afraid of other dragons attacking now.

Rhoda, Nathan, and I have been filling the others in on the details of yesterday’s events, and how the negotiations went. 

Chapman’s at work, and I won’t see them today until maybe when we cross paths outside our therapist’s door. And that’s OK. It’s fun.

Things are not completely resolved.

I have no idea if anyone will ever figure out why we dragons are a thing now. But, I do know it’s a thing Chapman and I are going to keep poking at for the rest of our lives until we uncover it. Together, hopefully.

But, also, there’s a lot of legal and political work to do. And, as Mayor Chisholm warned, it looks like I’ll be seeing some court dates in the future. Which should be stressful, seeing as the court house is in Waits’ territory.

But, hopefully, by then, I’ll be negotiating with Waits over my Discord server, and we’ll work out a plan. First step there is to get a team out to Waits and make sure they have access to the internet and their own form of AAC. Rhoda is planning on calling the Opportunity Council to see if they can help with that.

Astraia has made diplomatic contact with the dragon I’ve been calling Loreena, using human partners as go-betweens, and learned that her name is Tannis. And I didn’t get much sleep last night, because the three of us were trading ideas for how to contact the others.

We’re people. We can act like people. And humanity has created some pretty nifty tools to help us do that, too. And most of us are already familiar with them.

We just have to use them.

There’ve been a lot of times in the past week where it felt like it was falling on me to solve all of these problems. And every time I failed to succeed at whatever I was doing, it was hard not to feel like I was failing myself.

The thing is, I’m not the queen of the local dragons. I’m just me. The loudmouth who lives on the roof of the Magnolia Apartments. And my job, really, is to get along with the people I know, dragon or human, and maybe not get in their way.

And the morning songs are feeling better every day.

Oh, yeah, and the people in that helicopter were members of a private wildlife management company, Equisetum Wildlife, owned by one Daniel Säure, also owner of Morning Glory Corp, and working with the Sheriff, specifically. There’s a bit of a legal and political mess regarding what happened last night that I don’t fully understand, even after it was explained to me, and I’m hoping it shakes out in my favor. 

We’ll see.

Säure, it turns out, also owns the daily newspaper, which is why it’s even still in business. I think he might be a billionaire. So if he decides to back my opposition in court, we’re going to need some serious help.

I’m trying to put that out of my mind, for now.

It’s a little hard, because Nathan takes that tidbit of knowledge and really verbally chews on it, talking about conversations he’s had with Seagull. And the Kims take the bait, and it turns into a whole discussion over the counter during the slower hours of late morning.

I huff and turn to Rhoda, and she raises her eyebrows at me, tilting her head in my direction sympathetically.

I want to talk about something different, but quietly, so I don’t hit talk on my tablet, instead turning it to face her when I’m done typing.

“Chapman says maybe you like me,” I say, like a teenager. It’s so hard to figure out nuance on this thing, even when taking the time to write a full sentence. Nuance usually requires too many words, so I often lean on other people’s grace and forgiveness for the resulting bluntness.

Rhoda reads the sentence carefully and then leans back to sip her coffee, smirking at me through the whole gesture. Then she studies me a little bit and says, “I’ve always wanted to be your friend, Meg. I do like you, and care about you. And I’m really glad you’ve opened up and we can talk more freely now.” She sits there for a little while at that, and I spend that time wondering if she’s done talking, but then she says, “I’m going to put it like this. You have never been like any of the monsters of my ancestors that might have been called dragons. But I’ve always recognized that you are a dragon. And I like the kind of dragon I see in you. Especially after yesterday. So I’m honored to be your friend. Now, if you’re asking me if I might like to see myself as a member of your chosen family, whatever that means, that’s something we’ll have to work on. We’ve only really started actually talking to each other, after all. But I think we’ve made a good start.”

I like that. That feels comfortable.

So we sit there and smile at each other for a while.

Afterward, I climb to my roof to lie spread out in the sun for an hour or so. Half of the time I’m up there, I know that Chapman is attending therapy during hir lunch break.

I have an alarm set on my tablet to let me know a good time to set out for therapy, so that I get there early enough to trade finger guns with Chapman in the lobby.

Well, I’m not using my human disguise. I hate that thing. And I’m only using it in emergencies, to keep it secret and effective.

So, my finger guns look like trigger fingers looped around imaginary guns, because I can’t fully straighten my individual claws out while holding the rest tight. They don’t work independently quite like that.

Still, we know what we’re doing, and we both wink in the process.

And then I walk into my therapist’s office and hunker down for my session, carefully placing my tablet in front of me.

“Meghan,” she says. “Before we get started, I want to report on the homework I gave myself, looking into your case and options. Are you OK with that?”

“Yes,” I say.

She’s startled to hear that come from my throat, but smiles and blinks and nods, saying, “Unfortunately, it really doesn’t look good on the SSI front. Nationally, there is a lot of arguing going on about it, and it looks like it’s going to take them a while to work anything out regarding dragons. And while the State of Washington is fairly progressive, they aren’t in charge of regulating how SSI is handled. That’s purely a federal program. However, you should be able to qualify for SNAP and Medicaid through Washington the instant you lose your SSI, so you’ll have that as a cushion.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Do you have some way of making sure that you have shelter, or a way to pay rent? Are you going to need help with that?” she asks me.

I look down at my tablet and poke it, “Maybe.”

“OK,” she says. “Let me know what kind of help you need.”

“Yes,” I say. I’m starting to wonder what Chapman talked to her about, but it’s none of my business, unless Chapman shares it with me later. In any case, I’m getting help now, obviously. But I’ll keep all my resources open and ready to use.

“I wish I could do more for you in this regard, but it’s really not my specialty. I can maybe help you find a caseworker, though,” she says. 

I feel like maybe my counselor hasn’t learned much about what just happened. Maybe she was too focused on the SSI thing and didn’t pay attention to local news. That’s OK.

“Thank you,” I type.

“Are you OK with this?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I am very sure about it. At this point, bureaucratic garbage like that feels like it might give my life a sense mundanity that I need. I almost feel like I’m ready to tackle it all myself, which would be a whole lot of progress on my C-PTSD if it turns out to be true. I’ve still got a lot to process, mind you. But the SSI thing feels like the least of my worries right now. And there are a couple of things in my life, Rhoda and Chapman specifically, that I’m really looking forward to having to deal with more often. And I'm having a hard time not focusing on them, really.

So, I make a point of preening and composing myself to pay attention to my counselor, as a show that I’m ready to change topics and move on.

“Well, then,” she smiles, leaning back. “Tell me about your week!”

Oh, wow, this is going to be a long hour.

---

Epilogue

Wednesday morning, I think.

Before I even open my eyes, I can tell something is wrong, because I’m not lying on my roof. The surface under me is not level. My head is downhill, and I can feel rocks and knurls of dirt underneath me.

I can hear insects and the birds sound different. And there’s no sound of cars or people anywhere.

I’m pretty sure I came into consciousness hearing the sound of a receding helicopter.

When I crack open my eyes, I can see that it is well past dawn, and I haven’t heard any dragons calling out their morning songs.

The sky is absolutely blue from horizon to horizon, and I’m surrounded by mountains that do not have nearly as much snow on them as I’d come to expect. It is the end of summer in the era of severe climate change, of course. It’s still alarming and heartbreaking.

Looking out toward what I think is the West, I’m seeing a deep valley between sharp peaked mountains, and more mountains beyond that. And I can tell I’m pretty damn high up. I think I’m on another mountain myself, but it’s very rounded and covered in grass. It’s not one of the tallest.

A moving speck off in the far distance draws my eyes and appears to be the helicopter I heard.

And as my head darts this way and that, while I take in my surroundings, I feel something dangling off my left horn. And if I swing my head hard enough it swings briefly into my peripheral vision, but it’s too close for me to see what it is. It’s heavy, and I see a dark green, but I’m guessing it may be orange to humans.

I reach up with my claw to try to scrape it away. But it won’t come off.

I get sort of an idea of its shape from doing this, from feeling around with my foreclaw. It’s like some sort of puck attached to a thin metal cable.

And it takes me a bit to figure out how it’s attached to my horn.

Some asshole has drilled a hole through my horn and threaded the cable through that.

I’ve been tagged!

My purse and tablet are missing. I don’t have anything but this device.

I’ve been tranqed in my sleep, tagged, and then released into the wild.

Hearing my challenge cry echo off the distant mountain tops as it is currently doing would probably be a sublime and meaningful experience under normal circumstances, but I’m way too angry to appreciate it right now.

Maybe somebody else does.

To be continued…

[umbracirrus]

Oh no I opened X and saw what looked like a baby Lissa and baby Frederick silhouette for the upcoming FEH banner

If that's Frederick I might actually play it again

[no1ryomafan]

Another thing I also realized from watching big o that’s not even related to the show itself is I legitimately do better to committing + enjoying a show if I actually watch it out of my own accord and not for someone else. A general struggle of mine is people pleasing tendencies so a lot of shows I’ve watched was out of obligation for someone else-regardless if they outright pushed me to watch it or if I saw it so much in circles I was in I felt like I needed to watch it-but that tends to end up leading to me not liking it and I either take forever to finish or not finish it at all.

Meanwhile this was a show my friend did rec me and I heard about a lot but I decided to watch it just because I felt like it and now instead of procrastinating or worrying I won’t finish it I’ve literally binged half of the show within last week and will probably finish it this week if everything goes accordingly. I really outta do stuff for myself more but I guess this is a good starting point.

Even if yeah- moral of the story don’t rec me things unless I actually ask lol.

[tojisth3rdwife]

Meg 2.0

syn: a member from the JJK universe makes a surprise appearance in your kitchen.

cw: crack, dad toji, moody teen megumi, just another day at the Fushiguro’s

a/n: cursed JJK AU where Toji survived the second fight against Gojo and went on to lead a semi normal life with his son and now you..No apple logo Toji here

*frantic screaming*

Toji and Megumi bump into eachother on their way to the kitchen, the source of the horrified screams. The teen was still wearing his headphones when he rushed into the hallway to meet his father coming out of the bathroom with shaving cream plastered over his jawline.

They exchange a look, nearly identical scowled brows furrowing briefly, both of them determined to get to you.

First to slide across the hardwood floor and into the kitchen doorway on socks was Toji, shirtless and bracing his hands against the frame.

“What happened?!! Whats wrong??!” He calls to his wife, shaving cream dripping from his chin. He immediately finds you hopped up on the counter, back against the upper cabinets and holding onto the the handles shakily. The look on your face suggests you were scared shitless, all color having drained from your warm complexion.

“What, baby?” He repeats his concern when you let out a whimper.

“th..that…” you tremble, eyes wide and brimming with tears as you pointed at something near the door leading to the garage, just out of Toji’s line of sight. Megumi soon joins him in the doorway, craning his neck to see over his dad’s buff ass arm.

“What is it?” He he exhales and you point emphatically towards the door again.

“THAT!! What the FUCK is THAT??” You yell, flinching and going rigid as whatever scared you was now on the move. Toji’s hackles spiked as he marched deeper into the kitchen, placing his body between you and the possible threat. But once he sees what all the commotion is over, he drops his fists with a resigned sigh.

What squirmed about lazily on your kitchen floor was a fat worm, its bulbous segments shaded a deep bruise like purple leading up to a large round head. On it’s face were two huge bug eyes with hooded lids that scanned the floor aimlessly, sniffing it and wheezing out if its thick pouted lips.

Summary: the ugliest fucking thing you’d ever seen.

“Eeughh Toji get it!! Get it pleasee….” You tapped his shoulder briskly, and kisses his teeth before looking back at you like you were crazy.

“Would you relax? He’s harmless.” He tsks.

“He??? That thing is a he???” You nearly gag on the question while you watched your husband step away from you.

“C’mere buddy.” He goes on to coax the worm towards him with his voice, patting his thigh and clicking his tongue softly.

The creature’s head lifts from the floor and slithers in Toji’s direction, sniffing the air curiously. When it reached him, Toji crouched down to rest his hand on it’s head to give it an affectionate pat.

From the kitchen doorway, Megumi makes a sound of disdain that has your eyes snapping towards him.

“Ugh..that thing. Thought it was dead..” he mutters.

“Well you thought wrong, brat.” Toji murmurs bitterly, still stroking the worms fat head with softened eyes.

“You thought the same thing! Its been years..” Megumi bristle’s back and you didn’t have it in you to allow them to get started in on each other. No one was saying what you needed to hear, dammit.

“Neither of you are explaining why theres a big ass, Rottweiler sized, purple people eater looking thing in my kitchen right now and I don’t like that!!” You whine and Megumi comes in to join you at the counter. His gaze fixes on the massive thing as it purred and nuzzled his father’s palm, grimacing sourly.

“Its just Dad’s stupid worm..” he sighs, tucking his hands in the pocket of his pants.

Your eyes widen at his callous response, it only breeding several more questions in your spooked out mind.

“Worm? W-why does he have a worm? Like as a pet?”

“To hold his stuff. Weapons and what not..” he shrugged casually. Your expression goes even more bleak.

“That makes even less sense Megumi..”

At the sound of that name, the worm lifts it’s head and gazes up at you, making a sort of cooing sound.

“Why is it looking at me like that?” You frown and Toji chuckles breathily, scratching under the worm’s chin and looking over his shoulder at you.

“Because you said his name.” He smirks, cutting his son a snarky side eye. Now less afraid than you were before, you allowed yourself to sit casually on the counter. You regarded Toji with bewilderment, your mouth fixed open in shock.

“You……You named that worm after your son?”

“Uh huh” he grunts nonchalantly. You look over at your peeved bonus child’s annoyed expression then back at his daddy.

“ Why Toji? Why..” you deadpan and you could tell Toji was trying to keep from laughing by the way his shoulders shook.

“Cuz at the time it was funny. I forget why though…” he shrugs, biting down in his smile.

“Because he’s literally a blessing AND a curse. Just like you, brat. Ha ha ha..” Megumi mocked what he recalled his father sounding like years ago, cringing at the tasteless irony of it all. Toji laughed at his son’s expense per usual, proceeding to baby talk to the worm in a way that had become too much for the moody teen to witness a second longer.

“Yeaah..Im going back to my room. Have fun..” he yawns as he turned away, replacing his headphones on his head on the way out of the kitchen.

Toji had picked the wiggly thing up and allowed it to wrap itself around his waist and drape over his shoulders like a boa. He turns around and steps closer to you, giving you a better look at it’s creepily humanlike face.

“Uh uhn Toji don’t..” you lean away and he chuckles at your disgust while petting the worm’s head.

“I just said he’s harmless, babe. Look..” he scratches under Megumi 2.0’s bumpy chin, causing it to purr and wheeze in delight. It would have been cute if it werent so damn ugly, but the way Toji handled it made you curious.

He told you much about his life of being an assassin prior to meeting you and all the horrid stories he shared sometimes gave you nightmares. But not once did he ever mention having a 5 foot long worm curse thing that apparently acted as a living breathing fanny pack.

When you’d first seen it huddled in the corner, coiled up in a cinnamon roll, you thought it was capable of all kinds of terrible shit. Watching it cuddle against Toji now lessened that notion.

“If you say so but…Why is it here? And in my kitchen..”

Toji’s lips curl downward in a shrug that his shoulder followed.

“Good question. Thought I’d lost him after that fight against that blue eyed freak. When I woke up at the hospital, Shiu said he wasn’t with me when they found me so I assumed he died or went somewhere to hide. But that was yeeeaaaarrs ago.”

While he spoke, you noted the lightness of his tone as if he’d been reunited with a long lost friend, and it hurt your heart a little.

You heard about that fight against Satoru Gojo and how close it pushed Toji towards death. It was a wonder that he survived at all, according to Shiu. You were grateful for that because it would have meant many things for you and the life you now had with him. The family you had now.

That was the fight that retired him from hunting sorcerers for money, now handling lower risk targets to pay the bills.

You could tell something about this worm brought back good memories or some level of fondness by the way he was handling it.

You let out a relenting sigh.

“How do you take care of it?” You ask and Toji shakes his head.

“He’s not high maintenance or anything like a dog or a cat. Pretty much does his own thing. Doesn’t need to eat or drink but he’ll take whatever you give him. I used to feed him a little bit of whatever I had and he’d be fine.”

“Does he poop? Is he potty trained?” You lift a brow. Toji grunts humorously at the question.

“Nah, he’s a curse, babe. Don’t have to worry about any of that..”

You watched Toji gush over the lumpy, drooly worm warily for a few more seconds before sighing again. You hopped down from the counter, being careful not to let any part of your body touch Megumi 2.0 when you pat Toji’s chest.

“Ok, well…go put him somewhere please. Somewhere away from me. We can figure out something for it..I mean him..later.”

Toji looked up at you like he was a child that was just told he was going to Disney World and you supposed his happiness was worth adopting a giant pet curse into your life.

“Sounds good to me. Thanks babe.” He grins, leaning forward to offer you his lips. Your eyes flit between Toji and the worm, which was now staring at you blankly, before giving your husband a quick peck.

Lord, what did you get yourself into?

[shogunish]

𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗴𝗼𝗷𝗼𝘀 & 𝗶. [𝟬𝟮]

synopsis. satoru knows you're the closest thing to a mother megumi will ever have.

contents. reader battles with a kitchen stove (it was funnier in my head), a lil' bit of megs/reader bonding, soft and tired toru

words. 1.1k

note. pls lmk what you think bc i feel like my writing has gone 📉📉📉 but anyways, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE LOML, THE APPLE OF MY EYE, MY GLORIOUS BLUE EYED KING ���

comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! <3

previous || next

as promised, you're watching over megumi for the day. he's a quiet and somewhat shy kid who doesn't talk too much, but you're certain the little guy will warm up to you once he sees you around more often. you can't blame him; after all, you're basically a stranger in his home who's suddenly spending time with him until he passes out and satoru comes back home from work. you'd be a little reserved as well if you were in his shoes.

“so megumi, what would you like for dinner?” you kneel down to megumi's height and flash him a kind smile, head tilted to the side and hair framing your face.

megumi regards you for a moment as if he doesn't really want to say what he wants, but the smile on your face, the warmth you exude is enough for him to speak up. if he already gets to choose, he better make it count. “..macaroni.” he says, a pout on his lips.

“macaroni it is, buddy.” ruffling megumi's hair, you're quick to move through the kitchen, finding the noodles, preparing two pots and filling one of them with the right amount of water. everything goes as planned until you're faced with that fancy kitchen stove that does absolutely not work like the one you own.

damn satoru and the salary he uses to buy expensive shit like this.

you know it's a touchscreen model, but whenever you do put your finger down and the thing beeps..nothing happens. the stovetop doesn't even turn red to indicate that it's on and so you put your finger down a couple more times only for nothing to happen.

a lump sits in the back of your throat, cold sweat coats the tip of your finger. your heart skips a beat. if you can't even figure out how to operate your newfound nemesis of a stove, megumi would go to bed hungry and satoru would definitely be severely disappointed in you!

you can't let the attractive single dad think you're useless.

you cannot let megumi starve.

stuck in your own panic, you fail to notice how megumi has watched your..conflict by peeking over the countertop. even his dogs give you a somewhat confused look as if they could sense your emotional distress over a stove of all things. the boy walks over, nudges himself between you and your self-proclaimed nemesis and brings his finger down on the touchscreen of the stove like he's never done anything else in his life.

beep. beep, beep.

apparently, it's that easy to get the water to cook.

dumbfounded, you stare at megumi, then at the stove and back at megumi. you have to look hilarious with your lips parted into an o-shape and your eyebrows almost shooting up to your hairline if megumi's little laugh is anything to go by. “..that's amazing..how did you–”

megumi shrugs his shoulders, his usual deadpan expression back on his face. “i always watch dad when he cooks. it's not..that hard.”

you groan out loud, but a little chuckle laces into the sound. “..i'm too old for this stuff.” with pouted lips, you let megumi explain how to increase and decrease the heat, how to turn the stove off and on. it really is a lot easier than you initially believed.

when satoru finally comes home, the skies are already darkening. hues of dark blue and a hint of purple are slathered across the vast canvas, birds roaming through the air and seemingly returning home to their nests or whatever place they consider home for the night. for a moment, the bustling life of the city ceases to exist – at least until satoru would have to leave for work again.

no emails, no phone calls, no meetings.

clad in suit and tie, buttons opened and tie loosened, a sigh of relief sneaks past his pale lips when the warmth of his apartment welcomes him home. a place which was usually silent, almost void of any life since megumi would be in bed by now. but now, the scent of food lingers in the air, soft snores echo from the living room down the hallway and the tv dimly illuminates the cozy space. driven by curiosity and a grumbling stomach, satoru finds a plate of macaroni on the dining table. in front of it, a note is placed.

“i figured you might be hungry after work. all you have to do is warm it up :]”

cerulean eyes soften behind pitch black shades as they skim over the carefully written note and the silly smiley you drew at the end. you didn't have to do this. satoru could take care of himself, he's been doing it for as long as he can remember, but..in a way, it's nice to be thought of, cared for, even in such small ways you probably didn't put much thought into.

he likes it. likely, a lot more than he should.

satoru trudges over to the sofa in the living room, wanting to thank you for the food, but when he sees you passed out on the cushion, megumi cuddled up to your chest and the two dogs snoring at your feet, the ghost of a smile dances on his lips. you look absolutely exhausted, a bit of drool leaking from the corner of your lips and red crayon smeared on your cheek, but it kind of looks cute on you, satoru thinks.

the sound of disney's bambi on the tv is nothing but white noise as satoru's gaze shifts towards his son, his little bundle of joy. the boy who never had a mother appears so content with his little arms clutching his favorite plushie and his little face buried in the warmth of your chest, snoring just as loudly as the dogs. the kid is beat, just like you.

satoru has to shake his head. ever since megumi was born, satoru wanted nothing more than for him to experience the love of a mother. someone who would offer him unconditional love, attention, would care for him and his happiness in ways that only a mother can, but you are not his mother. you never will be.

in the end, you're still the cute neighbor next door who offered to lend him a hand out of pity and not someone who could act as megumi's mother.

and yet, satoru knows he made the right choice by accepting your help.

this is the closest thing megumi will ever have to a mother.

a sigh, heavy enough to be conflicted but quiet enough to drown into the late hours, slips past satoru's lips. with quiet steps, he fetches a blanket from his bedroom and tosses the soft fabric over megumi's and your sleeping form.

"thank you." he breathes out, voice barely above a whisper.

taglist. @torusmochi, @ayanominitrash, @erigaur

[luvvixu]

satoru's little contentment

content: husband!gojo, reader has a son with him along with megs and miki, the beef between megs and toru is real you can't argue with me, teeth-rotten ig?, i'm having a baby fever for a while now huhu, blaming my gf cuz she keeps on showing me baby vids on tiktok—now i want one... not proofread, too lazy, maybe later lmaoaoa

nothing makes gojo satoru content other than seeing his own family here with him.

like at this moment, his family were just hanging around in the gojo estate garden where it used to be boring but now there's a life into it after marrying you. and you, who has a deep love for gardening stuff, you decided to give the house a makeover.

"these are the water lilies that mama planted when she was pregnant with you." with your son in your embrace, you pointed the different types of plants you personally plant.

satsuri was amazed by the colorful plants while you watched the carbon copy of your husband's blue eyes glisten in awe. your heart melts when you see your son tries to communicate with you with his babbles and hand gestures.

planting a kiss on his fluffy cheeks, you couldn't help but to let out a laugh on how adorable your son is. "ooh. i can't wait for the two of us to plant together! we could fill this whole estate with plants and even flowers!" you squeal.

your son tries to wiggle himself free as he would like to be down for a moment and play with nature, or should you say.

satsuri ran around while satoru, who was casually sitting under the tree, watched his loving wife and his adorable son grab some stones using his small tiny hands and give them to his mother, seemingly asking if he could eat them.

"baby, we cannot eat those." your giggly voice echoes in his ears pleasingly. your baby sensed something that was against his will as his lips formed into a pout and was about to cry when you immediately picked him up to console your poor baby.

"these are rocks." you grabbed the stone on his hand, gently tapping his skin using it. "see? these are hard and sharp too. one stone could hurt you, it could hurt you more if you eat it." you tried to explain it to your son well. sadly, he still didn't buy it.

satsuri let out a wail, tears are also now streaming alongside his face. being a protective mom you are, you immediately console your son while walking towards your husband to also ask for some assistance.

"oh no, my little tough guy is crying. did mama fight you? don't worry, your amazing dad will avenge you." satoru takes his son into his hold, cradling him while giving you a meaningful look.

"hush your trap, why would i even fight my own baby?" you snarl at your husband who was just laughing at your expression. satoru knows you hate it when you're making your child cry. although it is something that you should get used to in order for your child to grow morally, not spoiled.

satoru then looked down at satsuri who was now calm after being cradled in his father's embrace. everytime he would look into his son, he would always say in his mind that they were right — you were right, satsuri is really a carbon copy of him.

the only feature that his son inherited from you is a streak portion of your hair color on the side of satsuri's hair. then the rest, it resembles him.

on the contrary, satoru wished satsuri wouldn't inherit his ignorant, nuisance, troublemaker, and hard headed personality when he was way back younger. the man specifically doesn't want his son to experience the things he does inside the jujutsu world.

basically, all he could have wished and asked for is that satsuri must have inherited your soft, kind, and loving personality. those every trait of yours that made him fall in love with you. and now, that got him staring at his son for too long, hoping that satsuri would grow just like you.

hell, if he could only forbid his son to avoid being a sorcerer, then he would! but he knows in the end that satsuri would be the one who will decide his faith.

"oh, it's three in the afternoon. it's my turn to pick up gumi and miki." suddenly, you wake him up from his daydreaming session. with a hump, you stand up along with satoru.

"let's pick them up together. it would be nice to see satsuri pick up his siblings too." satoru suggested and you liked the idea. without any further, you two head to your car and drive away. you are the driver right now, of course.

"mom!"

as soon as you exit the car, you see tsumiki waving and smiling at you as you watch her skip her way towards you with megumi trailing behind her.

you kneel down to greet them in your arms. "hi, my babies! how's school?" you asked them, still giving the two your big warm hugs.

"it was fine. my friends and i gossip a lot during our break time and i can't wait to share it with you." you are tsumiki's number two gossip buddy (satoru is the first one, definitely) since both of you are female. most likely, there were times where only the two of you would understand since it's a girls thing.

"how about you, gumi?"

"just a normal one." your other baby boy answered, megumi is still wrapping his arms around your body as you sensed the fatigue in his voice.

"come on, let's head back to the car." you're about to stand up but megumi still refuses to let go. smiling to yourself, you know what he wants so you picked him up and carried him in your arms.

immediately, megumi planted his face on the crook of your neck while tsumiki volunteered to carry his bag — what a sweet girl.

"my sweet gumi must be very tired. do you want me to set up a futon in the backseat?" you cooed.

"yes please." megumi snuggles like a kitten in your embrace, making you smile and giggles at his cute tactics.

tsumiki giggles too at his brother's behavior. both of you know megumi was more fond of you among all. ever since satoru bought them home, megumi finds himself getting more attached to you and sees you as his mother figure.

the three of you proceed to the car. as tsumiki opened the door, she was greeted by a man and baby's voice who seemed to be laughing.

"tsuri! you're here!" tsumiki's face instantly grew brighter at the sight of her little brother. while megumi, his head instantly shot up from your shoulder at the sound of his other brother's name mentioned.

"hello satsuri." despite the sleepiness in his voice, there's still a hint of excitement in his voice.

"hey! i was here too!" the other baby — i mean, satoru pouted when his two children didn't even bother to greet him the way they greet satsuri.

megumi instantly snarls at satoru while tsumiki was kind enough to greet him with the same energy. your husband raises his eyebrows when he realizes that megumi was literally clinging on to you, again.

satoru doesn't have a problem with that, but there's a time when megumi would literally steal your attention away from him when it's just both of you. he just feels that megumi was doing it on purpose. behind his back, he knew megumi would smirk at him or even stick his tongue in his face.

"megs, i'm going to bring you down for a moment. i'll just set up the futon for you and tsumiki." when you get approval from your son, you bring him down and start to do your thing with the help of your husband, of course

you saw your three children playing with each other near the car. you told them not to go far away or they'll get into an accident.

"say, i'm not really in the mood to cook. should we take the kids outside for dinner?" you suggest as you flatten out the sheets of the futon. while satoru was busy double checking the safety of the bed.

"sure, it would be nice too since you've done a lot for us everyday. rest is also very important too, hm? don't forget that, my little wifey." you rolled your eyes but still smiled at his cheesy tease, but you knew satoru was just concerned for you, especially.

"okay, let's go home. it's still early and the kids need to do their assignments." you called out for your three kids who are excited to lay down on the set up futon.

your kids instantly find their spot inside as satoru starts the car. it was him driving this time since satsuri wants to be fed from you.

"sweethearts, did you wear the safety belts?" your two babies nodded. whenever you guys would set up the futon, satoru modified the space with safety belts just in case any accidents would happen, the kids would not be harmed.

looking at your children again, you saw megumi was already fast asleep as soon as he lay down. while tsumiki was watching some miraculous ladybug on her ipad. satsuri was unfortunately not with them since he's still a baby and it's very dangerous to let him sit without any supervision of grownups.

"ouch! don't bite too hard on mama, satsuri." you winced when your son bit your nipple a bit harder than the usual sucking, making satoru look at you in worry.

satsuri was now growing his teeth, so it's a double challenge to endure his sucks. thankfully, satoru was there to remind his baby to suck properly even though satsuri could barely register a word.

"satsuri, milkies are supposed to be suck carefully. want me to demonstrate it to you?" your husband is a bastard as he playfully mumbles the last statement, making you glare at him instantly.

"satoru!" if only he's not driving, you would've smacked the hell out of him. satoru just managed to let out a laugh while keeping his eyes on the road.

thank god, megumi was fast asleep and tsumiki was too engaged on her show, while satsuri is still a baby. but that is not an excuse to behave in such a way in front of your children.

"oopsie daisy! i'm so sorry, my wife. didn't mean to be very voluntary." satoru laughed at his own joke. you just snarled at him and just focused on your baby who was getting drowsy at any minute.

the rest of the ride was fine. just satoru humming a pop tune that he heard over the radio, tsumiki is still busy on her show, megumi was snoring lightly, satsuri is now fast asleep too, while you stay as you.

"baby, can we get some cakes? i am craving for some."

"no. you have to wait after dinner." you deadpanned. seems like his sweet tooth is kicking again. it makes you reminisce when you're still pregnant with your youngest. satoru was craving food more than you do and it somehow confused you.

"but baby—"

"the kids would not properly eat their dinner if they proceed to dessert first. you have to wait, satoru."

"okay." the only available choice for satoru is no choice. that's why his pout is longer than usual, good thing you're getting a bit immune to that. but that doesn't mean you're always enduring his puppy eyes.

sooner than later, the whole family was now home. satoru was carrying the sleepy satsuri while you're carrying the sleepy megumi and tsumiki was walking on her while carrying the bags.

satoru refuses to leave his eyes on you as you walk inside the house. he made a comment on how clingy megumi is and you shouldn't be carrying him because the little boy's now growing.

you replied to him that it's fine and you want to carry him while you still can. like he said, megumi was now growing and you want to cherish those moments to its fullest. satoru was softened by your words. but that doesn't mean his concern about you lessened, so he suggests that he would be the one who's going to carry megumi.

however, your middle child refuses to be held by your husband, that's why both of you ain't got no choice again but to let megumi be carried by you.

"you should've just left him sleeping on the pathway." satoru mumbles. you just shoot him a knowing look because another war would break out if megumi found out that satoru talked about him behind his back. thank goodness, megumi was a heavy sleeper.

"you agree with me, right, satsuri? that your older brother should've just sleep outside?" satoru whispers to his son. it was audible to you, so you're not sure if it was intentional for you to hear him say or not.

somehow, it brings a small smile to your lips despite his silliness, you know he didn't mean that at all. stroking megumi's hair just to make sure he's comfy in your embrace, you decided to counter his words.

"and you'll be sleeping outside too if you keep on teaching my son bad behavior and talking crap to my other son too."

part 2?

©luvvixu2023

[hysteria-things]

GHOST PT 2 PLS

GHOST (part two)

read part one here

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: matt x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: matt feels heartbroken for you, and using the estes method helps him connect with the afterlife to learn your story.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: ANGST, swearing, crying, mentions death (strangulation), lots of dialogue

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 494

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: wanted this to have a short and sweet/sad ending🥲

it’s been about an hour or two, but matt still can’t fathom what he saw. let alone that he had sex with a ghost.

sam and colby talk to the camera, nick sandwiches between them leaving chris and matt in the back.

chris nudges his brother’s arm. “are you doing alright? you’ve been quiet.”

he puts on his best fake smile. “yeah. this hotel is just scary as fuck.”

chris laughs, nodding his head before yapping on and on about whatever.

matt tunes him out, feeling sad. despite being a literal ghost, he wanted to stay with you forever.

he misses you.

mirrors decorate the walls, the room is dark except for the lights that sam and colby set up on the floor. there’s a spirit box in the middle, and static comes from the speakers.

the five boys stand in the middle, taking turns to say stuff but having no luck. “i think you should only speak, matt.” colby explains. “they seem to really like you.”

clearing his throat, he starts speaking. “who’s in here with us right now?

some statics later, they finally get something. “y/n.”

there’s a twinkle in matt’s eye when he hears that name. “hi, y/n.” he says softly, sitting down to get comfortable next to the device. “do you feel safe with all of us in here?”

“you.”

“you?” sam repeats. “like… she’s safe with you?” he points to matt.

“i guess so.” he nods. “what happened to you at this hotel?”

“strangled.”

there’s some commentary getting thrown around the room with each question, but matt is focused on hearing only your voice.

“can you tell me who did that to you?” he says, keeping his tone content.

“brother.”

he can’t help but feel sorry for you. you were so young and had so much to live for, but now you’re known as one of the ninety ghosts that roam this hotel.

nose sniffling, his eyes start to water. he catches on and wipes the tears away. “are you free in this hotel?”

“no.”

before he can ask another question, another word picks up. “out.”

“whoa.” sam says. “it’s never done that—”

“peace.”

colby snaps his fingers repeatedly. “she’s doing rapid fire right now.”

after the boys become silent, and he continues with a shaky inhale. “you feel stuck in here; is that what you’re saying.”

“yes.”

without being able to catch it this time, a tear trickles down his cheek. “i’m sorry, y/n.”

“are you crying?” nick asks, everybody else staring down at him.

“don’t cry.”

he ignores the others, but he doesn’t ignore you. he chuckles instead, wiping the waterworks.

“i’m fine.”

“take a break, man.” colby says, tapping him on the shoulder to help him off the ground.

with that, they contact different spirits after you. matt has to come to terms that he’ll never be able to see you again. he wants you to find your peace. he hopes you will be free.

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

@bunbunbl0gs @lexisecretaccx @thy-mission @angelic-sturniolos111 @sophssturn @mattsneezing @janiellasblog @blahbel668 @meg-sturniolo @hearts4chris @mattslolita @sturnbaby @imwetforyourmom @tillies33ssss @sturnifyed @mayhem-72 @ripmattitude @p1xieswrld @alorsxsturn @txssvx @sttzee @multiluvr @delilahprentiss @matthewsspecial @sturnolio-luvs @sturniolho @suga-daddy-69 @tworosesblackthorn @luckistar-posts @gnxosblog @junnniiieee07 @sturnioloslurps @tylerthecreatorsrealwife @flowerxbunnie @imaslut4kehlani @sturniolosandmoree @hertvgirl @whoreforchrissturniolo @sturniolotriplettoplover @stars4matt @freshsturns @loverrsposts @sturnlcvr @elliesturniolo1 @tpvmz @user283926392 @lalalands86 @sukiipjs @sturniologirl813 @leahrab @chrissturniolosslut @h3arts4harry @sturnioloblogs @creamoncreamoncream2 @luv4kozume @ivyyyyyysposts @mirxcle1 @iluvm4ttsturni0l0 @catalina-island @mbsbaby @mattsdollie @pinkfarts @slut4mattsturn @thesturniolos @vickeyzloserz @nononopenono1 @bitchydragonparadise @gdsvhtwa @hrt-attack @bellasfavbisexual @dwntwn-strnlo @venusbabysblog @meerkatzthings @crazychrisl0v3r @maggieflms

[whumpchester]

Sam!whump wincest fic recs

Only fics with less than 10k hits. All are rated M-E and bottom!Sam unless mentioned otherwise. Check the archive warnings.

❤️ = my favorites

Rampant by puckity (6.1k words) ❤️

What happened to Sam between Alvin Jenkins’ disappearance and Dean’s arrival is the stuff of nightmares, and it haunts both him and Dean long after Hibbing has left their rearview mirror. / One of my favorite Sam whump fics, trauma/dissociation/nightmares, coda to 1.15 The Benders

Dirty Words by angelszn (1k words) ❤️

Sam, wanting to be loved, gets on his knees for Dean. / Another favorite. It's short but so thick with atmosphere. And hot.

in plain sight by autumncolour (2.9k words) ❤️

The video is sent anonymously. It works its way through the bowels of the FBI and lands in Agent Henriksen’s inbox at 3:15 PM one Friday afternoon. It’s accompanied by a note: Aren’t these the boys you’ve been tracking? Maybe don’t watch right after lunch; it’s not pretty. / My fav serial killer Winchester fic!

Put Up Wet by ani_coolgirl (1.6k words) ❤️

Sometimes, Sam doesn't want to be anything more than something to be used. Dean indulges him. / Not necessarily "dark" like the others, but I still feel like it fits here considering it's about Sam's lack of bodily autonomy. From authors notes: "Sam copes with his lack of personhood by making himself a cum rag for his brother."

Consequentialism and Deontology by Dyed_Red (15.2k words, series of 2 works)

Consisting of Lesser Evils, a 5.01 coda to when Meg and her demons come to Sam, Dean and Bobbys motel room. Bad-guys-made-them-do-it rape but it's so much more than that.

And its second part/sequel Mean Ends ❤️ from Sam's POV in the aftermath, with some of the best prose and inner dialogue re:Sam I've seen in fic.

Lovedrunk by TheQuietWings (1k words)

This is how Dean loves Sam best, sloppy drunk and needy. / Dean justifying/deluding himself that raping Sam is just him "looking after Sam/big brother taking care of Sammy"

to hell and back by unhappy_ghost (6.3k words)

The Mark is changing Dean. It's turning him into something he's not. That's what Sam tells himself. / MoC Dean. Very angsty and hot and with amazing Sam characterisation. Read til the end!

trapped in the Garden by apex__predator (3.3k words)

It's been a week since Sam got his soul back. When Dean slips into his bed, desperate for what they had before the Cage, Sam lets him have it. He thought it'd be easier to give him what he wants than to explain- and it was, until it all becomes too much and he shuts down during sex. / Rape/Cage memories and dissociation during sex

Hold Me Close (Don't Let Me Go) by themegalosaurus (2.1k words)

It’s like living in the shadow of a dam. The town will flood eventually. Sam just doesn’t know when. / Bottom Dean (implied switching), Sam dissociating post-soullessness

Colder Bodies by angelszn (560 words)

Missouri feels sick to her stomach thinking about what those sweet boys have become. Or, worse still, what those seemingly-sweet boys already were when they came into her house so long ago. How they hid it so well that even she couldn’t see it. / I read this without reading the tags first bc I already liked the author and like. After I finished and the realization hit me– Whew. I recommend reading it like that if you're not easily triggered.

[starvine]

☾ ⋆* kiss it better

pairing: neteyam sully x fem!omaticaya reader

genre: fluff, angst

synopsis: all you wanted to do was serve your people. however, when you get injured, your mission is cut short. neteyam insists upon patching you up and decides to explain his concerns for your well-being and future together.

warnings: battle stuff, guns, blood, battle injuries, medical jargon, stitches, minor swearing (?), allusions to mating/sex ig, aged-up neteyam

word count: 7.9k

notes: IT’S HERE! i’m very excited to have started writing again, and although i’m very casual about when i write, i hope to be somewhat consistent lol. enjoy this for now, i have more planned for the future! i hope you all enjoy, pls reblog/comment/etc if you feel so inclined <33

The air was tense today, thick with disciplined focus as you keep your ears alert for any incoming airships. Reeking of smoke and burning metal, a scent that is foreign and unpleasant to your nose, you remain aware of everything and anything. Gray clouds billowing and a pungent smell that cling to the back of your throat like a hand with a vice grip—nothing was natural. 

Tilting your forehead forward, you hope your visor, decorated with teeth and interwoven pieces, will shield your eyes from the wind. You hold your bow tightly, the wood smooth against your fingers as you use your other hand to guide your ikran swiftly through the air. 

“Calm, calm,” you soothe her, tapping your fingers along her strong neck. 

You’re anxious today. Not because of the imminent arrival of the Sky People, their ships ready to fire metal bullets at you at any second; you’ve dealt with that many times before. No, the reason you’re nervous is because of Neteyam. 

Today is Neteyam’s first day participating in the raid—well, his first raid on the ground with his father’s permission—rather than being a part of the aerial surveillance team. You tried to insist that you should accompany him, but, due to his wishes, you remained in the air beside his mother. 

 “Do you see anything yet?” Neytiri’s voice asks over the intercom. 

Bringing your fingers to your throat to press the responding button, you reply, “Nothing yet.” 

“I’m going to fly down to help gather some of the gear. You stay here,” she orders, raising her bow to signal that she and her ikran were descending. 

“Let us know if you spot any bogeys. We’ve got some heavy-duty gear and need as much time as possible,” Jake informs you over the intercom. 

“Roger that, sir,” you say, steering your ikran closer to where the enemy would most likely be approaching. 

Ears twitching back and forth, you attempt to pick up the whir of an aircraft amongst the orders commanded, the creaks and minor explosions occurring from the Meg-Lev train your people have intercepted, and the wind blowing past you. You hope that maybe you could track a scent, sniffing the air a couple of times to no avail. It’s all smoke and metal. The skies were calm, except for your ikran’s screeching, however, they couldn’t be for long. There was no way those demons would allow your people to escape that easily. 

“Hey,” Neteyam breathes over the intercom, a slight huff of your name. You could hear the smile on his face. “How’re things looking up there?” 

“What happened to using my code name?” you question, peering over your ikran in an attempt to find him along the ground. “I’ll tell you if I see anything. I know how to do my job, you know.” 

“Just double checking,” 

You scoff, guiding your ikran to the right. “Maybe you should focus on gathering all of the gear instead,” 

“Oh, really? Maybe you should-”

Suddenly, your ears flex forward, focused on the faint whirring of something mechanical and man-made; something that was not naturally occurring within your world. 

“Airships spotted! Everyone, move!” you shout over the intercom. You yelp out into the open air, pumping your bow in tandem with the three shouts you release to alert your fellow brothers and sisters in battle. 

Just as people begin clambering for their ikrans and direhorses, the two Scorpions start firing. The relentless pop of military guns fills your ears, causing your tail to swish frantically and your ears to perk forward. 

Using a high pitch, you signal for your ikran to dive, swooping up and under the two fighter pilots. 

“Do not engage! I repeat, do not engage! I want minimal casualties today,” Jake commands over the intercom, the background full of shouts and grunts. 

“Jake, I’ve got to take out these two airships. They’re already taking down ikrans,” you spoke, peering up at the airships as you stealthily soar below. 

Just then, Neteyam responds. 

“No! Listen to my father, do not engage. I can lead the people to safety,” 

“There won’t be any people to lead if I don’t take these airships down.” 

Neteyam groans your name in warning, the sound of shouts heard from all around. “Would you listen for once?” 

Jake barks your name, frustrated and frantic. “Get out of there! Get back to the High Camp!” he orders. You begin mapping out the plan of your attack. “That is a direct order!”

“I’m sorry, Jake,” you respond, ignoring all that comes after. 

Your ikran shoots straight up into the air, coming close to the tail-end of the Scorpion gunship. You arch over the top of the gunship, upside down and looping over to the front side. The sun high in the sky and its beams creating a glare on the glass makes it difficult for you to spot the pilot. Upon finding his location, you draw the string of your bow taught, ready to fire. 

“Incoming! Enemy on-”

You shriek upon release. The arrow flies straight through the glass, nailing your target right in the chest. 

The gunship begins to tilt forward, preparing for its decline. As a hunter and warrior, it was your duty to pay respects to the creatures you killed in order to sustain the way of life. Kneeling over them, declaring your thanks, and wishing for their safe return to rest amongst the Great Mother was a sacred practice. However, as the gunship crashed and blew up in flames, hot and angry, you felt no thanks or remorse. They did not deserve to rest peacefully, and they didn’t even deserve to die on the Great Mother’s sacred soil. Their spirits deserved to walk alone, isolated and cold from the warm glow of the afterlife. 

“You skxawng! What the hell are you doing?” Neteyam screams. 

Looking around, you see the green back of his ikran, its rider perched on top with no visible concerns except for the fury etched on his face. 

“I got this! It’s just one more,” you insist, positioning an arrow on your bow, eyeing the last gunship. 

“May the Great Mother help you when I knock-” and with that, he’s easily ignored. 

The wind whips past you, high and soft, almost like a whisper from Eywa that she too felt the tensions of battle. You would do anything to soothe her pain. She could not endure the suffering of this war much longer. 

Tightening your grip on your ikran, her blues providing a stark contrast to the grayness of the military equipment, you attack from the rear yet again. Guns firing, you duck, placing yourself as flat as you can get against her back. However, once you approach the opening of the ship, where all of the massive guns were placed, you sit up, firing quickly. 

The scream and weak grunt you heard confirms that it was a successful hit. Loading your bow with another arrow, you soar underneath the aircraft, looping around until you have the high ground. Securing your aim, your fingers release the string until the arrow flies straight into one of the Scorpion's propellers. A small explosion soon turned into a large one, the ship dipping to its left and falling from its dominant space in the sky to the dirt. 

However, so were you.

You must’ve underestimated how close you were to the ship, your eagerness to protect your people and the Great Mother clouded your judgment. 

The sound and burst of light, as well as the force, must’ve spooked your companion as she, too, seemed to have lost her place in the sky. She tumbles towards the ground, shrieks and roars released into the open air. Jaw clenched, you tried to convince her to gain control to no avail. 

“Come on!” you shout, knuckles turning a pale blue with the tight grip you had. 

As you neared the ground, panic began to set in. Your ears lay flat against your head in an attempt to not become overwhelmed by the wind, you tried to think quickly. 

You could stay with your ikran, but you would both get injured; you could also disconnect from her and leap from the group, in hopes of only injuring yourself. 

Deciding on the latter, you had one plea for the Great Mother: 

“Please don’t let Neteyam kill me.” 

Disconnecting your kuru, you leap the rest of the way to the ground, the shock of the force of your fall causing you to fall instead of landing perfectly on your feet. The ship crashes a couple of yards in front of you, the force of the blast propelling you forward. 

Rolling and skidding along the dirt, pieces of gravel and discarded glass and metal tear at your skin. Red begins to bubble up along the surface, the violent opposite of your blue skin. 

Tumbling down a hill, you lose your grip on your bow, the wood being left behind in your trail. The burning sensation of your flesh being scraped away keeps you alert, blindly clutching at anything to break your fall. 

Eventually, you slow to a stop, landing on your stomach with a mouthful of dirt. Spitting and coughing up the soil, you take a minute to catch your breath. With a slight raise of your head, you look at the ship as the flames crackle and cause a film of sweat to break out on your skin. That hunk of metal was truly ugly against the backdrop of the forest. 

You begin to slowly sit up, a sharp pain coming from your side. A cut, not deep enough to need stitches, slowly oozes blood down your left rib, crimson staining the skin. It looks swollen, screaming to be disinfected immediately. Reaching behind you to check for any more severe wounds, you arch away from your nimble fingers just upon a light graze. The heat from the explosion must’ve irritated the skin, causing soreness and slight bubbling in some places. 

Minor scrapes along your knees and elbows from what you could see and feel, makes you thank Eywa for her protection and the benign wounds. Stumbling onto your feet, you catch sight of something unnatural. 

A small piece of metal protrudes from the side of your thigh, embedded into the flesh. Staring at the shrapnel, you’re reminded that your world doesn’t just belong to you anymore. Even if the Sky People were to disappear and return back to their planet, the scientists would remain here. Their clunky gear and massive structures would continue to reside amongst the nature of Pandora. 

Something about that notion makes your heart sink. 

You lightly touch the silvery metal, trying to gauge how deep the foreign object must be. It felt stiff and unwilling to relent to your touch, confirming that it was not something you could brush off. Taking a step forward, a broad, aching pain festers throughout your leg. It hurt less if you put less pressure on the limb, however, that would be hard to do on your journey back to the High Camp. 

Picking up your bow from the ground, arrows broken and scattered around, you slowly mount your ikran, muttering expletives to yourself at the pain that dwelled throughout your entire body. 

Neteyam was surely going to kill you. 

Upon your arrival, after an arduous flight back home, you slowly slid off your companion onto the uneven rock. Blood oozed out from around the metal, the object having dug deeper into the surface the more you moved. With one hand clutching your rib and another trying to steady the object, you hoped to stumble into a healing area before you were noticed by a Sully. 

Turns out, you’re not as stealthy as you thought. 

“She’s back! She’s back!” a high-pitched cheer sounded, a small girl bouncing towards you. Tuk’s big grin slowly faded into a look of concern and worry as she sized up your injuries. “Mom! Kiri! She’s hurt!” 

The younger girl prances over to you, lifting your arms and examining your body from front to back. You feel the small girl brush against your tail, which was agitatedly flicking back and forth. 

With a sigh of your name, you see Tuk’s mother and elder sister approach you, war paint still decorating Neytiri’s face in vibrant greens and yellows. She gasps upon spotting the dirt, blood, and bruising that has blossomed across your skin, tucking a stray hair behind your ear as her eyes fill with worry. 

“We must get her to grandmother,” Kiri announces to her mother, clutching your upper arm as softly as she could without hurting you. 

“There’s no need. I can do it myself,” you try to assure her, taking a fumbling limp forward. 

“There is a piece of metal sticking out of your leg.” 

You glance down, almost as if you hadn’t noticed it at all before. It was a futile attempt, especially as you used your fingers to brace the object, preventing it from moving too much. “There is?” 

“Damn, bro!” Lo’ak exclaims, waltzing up beside you and trying his best to not laugh at your given failure. “Looks like someone got their ass handed to them by some Sky People,” 

Hissing at him, you weakly push at his chest to show him that you weren’t interested in his jokes right now. 

“Lo’ak!” his mother scolds, hitting him upside the head. 

“What?! What I’d do?!” 

Then, the two people you desperately wanted to avoid came into view: Neteyam and his father. Jake had a stern, militant look on his face—a facade that seemed to follow him everywhere he went. Neteyam’s face was set into a deep frown, a look that was a delicate cross between his mother’s and father’s disappointed faces. 

“Well, would you look at the time? Looks like I better start tending to-” you attempt to walk away, only to be kept in place by Neytiri’s firm hand on your shoulder. It’s not like you’d be able to escape them as quickly or swiftly as you would typically be able to. You–apparently–had a piece of metal sticking out of your leg. 

“What the hell were you thinking?!” Jake scolds still dressed head to toe in his fusion of Omaticaya and Sky military gear. “Disobeying direct orders? That isn’t something I expected from you.” 

Casting your eyes downwards, you hope your flat ears and limp tail would get you out of this scolding quicker than it would’ve if he was scolding Neteyam or Lo’ak. Typically, avoiding his gaze would show that you felt regret—which, in this case, you didn’t really—and he’d let you move on. However, it’s hard to keep your eyes fixed on the ground when someone gets into your line of view. 

Neteyam crouches down, face coming into view as if he’s trying to catch your fake performance. Instead, he places two hands, worn and calloused from all of the years of fighting and defending his people, onto your cheeks. He tilts your face upwards so he can view you from his natural height, allowing him to view each scrape and bruise in proper lighting. His lips twitch into a grimace, thumbs grazing over a small cut that must be on your cheek because, although there’s a faint sting, there’s no leaking blood. 

Now, everyone knew about you and Neteyam. It’s not like it was kept a secret. Wherever you went, he followed; whatever he was doing, you were right there beside him. In the years to come, you would become his mate and that was an unspoken decision between you and him. Well, there was also an unspoken rule between Neteyam and the rest of the boys his age to not even glance at you, or else he’d have their tails. However, no matter how much people smiled softly whenever you’d exchange fond glances or spare looks when you two ran off alone, it wasn’t like you publicly displayed much physical affection. Nonetheless in front of his parents. 

He unloops your visor from behind your ears, handing it to his brother without his gaze leaving your face. As soon as his hands leave you, they return just as quickly. His fingers smooth over your face, confirming that you’re breathing and here in front of him—something he’s very grateful for. Your stupidity—not so much. 

“You’re such a skxawng,” he chides, tilting your face towards his. 

“Yeah, yeah whatever. It’s not like I’m the one who took down—not one—but two whole- ow!” you yelp, stumbling forward towards the young man. 

Tuk looks at you guiltily, one finger outstretched as if she was prodding at something. 

Kiri steps forward, pushing Tuktirey out of the way in order to re-examine your back. 

“We should take her to grandmother,” she insists, “now.” 

You roll your eyes, trying to continue with your act of not being nearly as injured as you appear, but the longer you stand, the more it becomes not true. As the adrenaline wears off, the soreness and incessant throbbing grow throughout your muscles and bones. Your rib and leg are still oozing blood, warm and tacky against your skin. Neteyam loops an arm around you, careful to avoid the blisters and welts that decorate various places on your back. 

His free hand reaches for the hand that hangs limply over his shoulder, intertwining your fingers and giving them a light squeeze. “It’ll all be okay,” 

“Yeah, I know. Just ‘cause I’m walking a bit funny doesn’t mean I’m dying,” 

You could say that then, but you sure as hell can’t say that now. 

If there was one thing about Mo’at, it was that she couldn’t care less if her remedies stung like a bitch as long as they cured you thoroughly. So now, as she smears a paste along your back—the sensation as bitter and frigid as the Northernmost part of any mountain—that bites at your skin, you kind of wish you were dead. Or at least knocked out. 

This isn’t even the worst of it. 

Once the stinging fades more into a relaxing cool, Mo’at instructs you to lean backward so she can assess your torso. The older woman crouches next to you, hands hovering over the wound as if Eywa was sending her a direct message on the best way to heal you. Neteyam sits on the other side of you, clutching your hand with a grip that seems more like it’s to reassure him than you, his other hand brushing your hair away from your face. 

Neytiri stays close to her mother, observing or advising what she believes to be the next course of action—just as a tsakarem should do. Kiri stays by your feet, grinding and mashing up various plants and syrups that could be used to aid with disinfecting your wounds. Lo’ak and his father stay near the door, ready to leave if someone else should need assistance with anything to do with the war effort. However, as everyone stays well within their place, performing their necessary task, Tuk couldn’t seem to sit still. 

“Is she going to need stitches?” Tuk asks, peering over her eldest brother. 

Neteyam removes his hand from your hair, slightly readjusting the younger’s weight so she doesn’t put too much pressure on him, in turn, putting pressure on you. 

The Tsahìk doesn’t look up from your wound, eyes brightening as if Eywa had finally delivered her guidance to the woman. “No, she will just need to rest. I would advise very minimal movement for at least seven days,” the woman says, being handed a bowl of yellowish sap. 

“Seven days? But I need to be out there, it’s my duty to fight,” you plead, growing restless and inching upwards. 

Neteyam pushes you back down, delicate but firm fingers pressing against your sternum. “Down,” he murmurs. 

“It is not my fault you did not listen to orders,” the older woman retorts, using a brush-like leaf to observe the consistency of the paste before lowering it toward your injury. 

“Yeah, well it’s not my fault that I just happened to save- oh, Great Mother! Holy sh-” you yelp upon Mo’at contact. 

Neteyam presses a hand over your mouth, sending you a stern glare. “Not in front of the Tsahìk,” he hushes, palm warm against your lips. 

You groan against his hand, face twisting and back arching in pain. Unlike the gel thinly spread across your back, there was no relief from this paste. Mo’at continued to slather it all across your skin, insisting that the more you move, the more it will hurt. You squeeze Neteyam’s hand, feeling the bones shift with how strong your grip is. If you’re hurting him, you can’t tell. The look of pain on his face seems to be linked to his feelings about your injuries, your pain. Always the doting lover. 

Once Mo’at wraps the injury, using both Na’vi and human medical wraps, she places a palm over the injury, thanking the Great Mother. Then, she looks at your leg. 

Your leg was held down by Kiri throughout the excursion, as she didn’t want the shrapnel to lodge itself deeper into the skin and muscle. At the base of your leg, a piece of twine is firmly wrapped around the skin to lightly restrict blood flow. The skin was not pinched, nor did you lose feeling in your leg as you would’ve if the twine was used as a makeshift tourniquet, however, your thigh still resisted against the band. 

You haven’t cried yet, however, just with her eyes boring into your leg you feel as if you’re about to sob. 

“Please don’t take it out. I don’t- I don’t want to have to do this anymore,” you begin to blubber, looking at Neteyam as you try to sit up. 

“Shh, shh,” he placates, stroking your cheek. “It’s okay. I’m here, I promise I won’t let anyone hurt you.” 

“I’ve been hurting this whole time,” you groan, “what the hell have you been-”

Then, the last two people you want to see walk into the room: Norm and Max. 

“I grabbed them as soon as I heard,” says Spider, following close behind. 

“No. No, no, no. Get the hell away from me,” you say, instantly shooting up and trying your best to scoot away, even as Kiri still holds down your leg. 

Neteyam says your name so sweetly, so full of fondness that a chill is sent up your spine—a chill that isn’t caused by the cooling medicine or a shock of pain. “He’s here to help.”

“I don’t want him here,” you spit, speaking Na’vi to the boy sitting beside you. 

“We have no choice,” he reasons, his voice dropping an octave. “They will be much quicker with their equipment than with ours. I promise that my grandmother will heal and treat you, but we need their help to make sure that there’s no extra damage that is beyond what the eye can see.” 

You shake your head, refusing to listen to him and averting your gaze. 

His lithe fingers reach for your chin, turning you back towards him. There he goes again; always making you feel like the blushing fool, especially in front of his family. 

“I will not let them hurt you.” 

What a fucking liar. 

Taking a team of three women plus Norm to hold your leg down, Max begins to lower his tweezers toward the piece of metal. With the first tug, you begin screaming. The pressure and the resistance between Max’s tweezers and the artificial shard against your tender skin and muscle caused your free leg to kick, hands tightening at your sides and clinging onto Neteyam. The fact that your whole body was tense, each muscle spasming, probably didn’t help what was already a difficult procedure. 

“Damn, she’s strong,” Norm comments, adding more pressure in an attempt to hold your leg down. “Spider, help us out.” 

You continue to sob, reaching for Neteyam to claw at his shoulder. If you’re hurting him or breaking skin, he doesn’t tell you. Instead, he cradles you as you cry against his leg. Ripping your hand from his, you squeeze his leg, nose pressed against his thigh to hide your face. There’s no guarantee that half of the clan hasn’t heard you by now, nor that a few people have poked their heads in to see who the hell was screaming so damn loud. You were well known. There’s no way anybody wouldn’t recognize that it was you who was being surgically tortured. However, if you could save some dignity by hiding yourself against Neteyam, you would do just that. 

“I’m never letting them near my body again,” you weep, gripping tight to the blue skin beneath you. 

Neteyam rakes his fingers through your hair, hands petting any inch of skin that has brought you comfort over the years. He knows you like the back of his hands. Playing with your hair puts you to sleep, rubbing his thumb across your cheek makes you keen, following the slope of your nose makes you smile, and touching your ear makes you quiet. Using this knowledge, Neteyam’s hands roam to any expanse of skin that he can reach. He must look mad, with busy fingers and frantic eyes, but he can’t help himself. His chest hurts when he sees you like this, and if he needs to kill someone to make you feel better, he’d gladly do that. 

“It’s almost out. We’re almost done,” he assures you in a soft tone, getting close to your ear. 

Your ears, which have been laying flat and folding over periodically finally perk up and away from your skull—a sense of relief. It’s quick-lived before they fall back against your hair, but he sees it as a small win. 

“Can you dress it for me?” you plea, voice breaking painfully. 

Who is he to deny you? 

“All done!” Max cheers, placing the flat piece of shrapnel into an emesis basin.

The clang of the metal against metal causes you to abruptly sit up. Neteyam’s hand is on your shoulder, but for the first time, it’s not to push you back down. He lets you take your time viewing the sizable gash in your leg, an injury that without a doubt needs extra aid. You whimper at the sight, not necessarily at the pain, but because you knew what this means: you would be under strict supervision at the battle scene. You couldn’t be trusted to be alone, especially as you were a great friend of the Sully’s and Neteyam’s prospective mate. 

Falling back into Neteyam, the cries you let out are softer but still cause your body to shake. Neteyam rubs his cheek against yours when you hide your face in his neck, tears causing the blue skin to become slick and tacky. He readjusts your top which has moved around during all of your painful squirming, protecting your modesty. The beads land softly against your shoulder, arms holding you snuggly against him. He tucks your hair behind your ear, giving him a view of the ear that is decorated with various pieces of Omaticaya jewelry. An orange bead, delicately dangling from your lobe, was a gift from him. 

“It makes me feel wiser during battle,” you told him once before sending an arrow straight through the eye of a fish that swam around in the pond. 

He touches it lightly, reminding you that everything is alright. 

“No! She’s going to need stitches!” Tuk whimpers, a frown deeply set on her face. Even through your crying, Neteyam catches the faintest hint of a smile. 

Mo’at begins to drip water over the wound, clearing away any blood that may have leaked down your leg despite the twine restricting your blood flow. 

It’s silent besides Max, Norm, and Jake’s mumbling outside of the tent as Mo’at preps a needle and thread. Kiri, Neytiri, and Spider have since released your leg, observing you and the Tsahìk. Just as Mo’at blesses the needle and thread, Neteyam speaks up. 

“I’ll do it.” 

Mo’at looks at her grandson, her gaze strong but understanding. The white bone needle stays pinched between her two fingers, amber eyes unwavering. 

“Neteyam, let your grandmother-“ 

“I said I’ll do it.” he hushes, lip curling in order to hide a scowl. 

His mother looks at her own, a non-verbal communication occurring between their stares. Eventually, Neytiri acquiesces, standing up and taking a step away from you. 

Mo’at hands him the needle, placing a worn but beautiful hand on your leg. 

“Return here tomorrow so I can check on the wound,” she orders. You nod, eyes still teary before the older woman stands with her daughter, ready to move on to the other warriors who need their assistance. 

Once his mother and grandmother leave, Neteyam grows restless. 

“Everyone out, please.” 

Kiri scoffs at him, still seated by your feet. “You can‘t be serious,” 

“Out! Get out!” he hisses, fangs bared at his sister and the human boy beside her. “You have done nothing!” 

“I wouldn’t call holding down her leg for nothing. I’ll have bruises for the next week,” Spider dismisses, standing up with Lo’ak, who is already headed towards the exit. 

“Out!” he shouts one final time, his siblings leaving as his tail flicks back and forth with irritation. 

It isn’t until they’re gone, that Neteyam leaves your right side, scrambling and pouncing over you in order to come in contact with your left leg. 

The tent is silent as he begins his work. The process doesn’t hurt much, a gentle prick or pinch here and there; you’re not sure whether it’s because your nerves are shot and can’t detect pain anymore or because Neteyam is good at his work. It could be both. Before you know it, the wound is closed and a row of sutures stares back at you in a familiar Na’vi sewing pattern. The skin is even, nothing too uncomfortable, and although there’s bruising, it appears to be that everything will be okay. 

You reach out to touch the stitches with a shaky hand, only to be slapped away. “Uh uh, don’t touch,” he tuts, eyes focused and mouth slightly ajar in concentration. 

He grabs under your knee, bending it at the joint in order to prop it up so he can place a bandage over the sutures. 

“To protect them,” he informs you, wrapping the gauze around your thigh.

He’s very quiet throughout, a reaction you were not expecting. Neteyam has always been logical, methodical; he never steps out of line or does something rash unless it’s for the means of protecting those he loves. Always quick to action, he’s usually the first to help and the first to reprimand someone (usually Lo’ak) for their stupidity. That would be the typical reaction. However, now he looked almost forlorn. 

Once he’s done, he fully stands for the first time since you entered the tent. He begins to rummage through his grandmother’s remedies that sit in wooden jars and crystal vials, concoctions she’s mastered after years and years of being the Tsahìk. After selecting a small wooden bowl filled with clear oil, he grabs another bowl of water and a rag and sits down in front of you. Dabbing the rag in the bowl of water, he lifts the dripping cloth toward your face. 

“What are you doing?” 

He looks at you, eyes narrowing briefly before they return to their normal, large position. 

“Your face is filthy.” 

He gently holds your chin, tilting it up towards him so he can begin wiping your face. His hold is steady but his eyes look nerved, almost as if he has too much on his mind to bear. His breathing matches yours, and he dodges your gaze although his entire being crowds your line of sight. There’s no way for him to avoid you, really. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask as he dips the rag and wrings out all of the water, approaching your face yet again. 

“Nothing is wrong,” he replies curtly, his ears twitching quickly before returning to their previous state—a telltale sign that he’s lying. 

“Oh, so you’re just going to pretend like I know nothing about you now?” you try to joke, smile falling when you notice how he doesn’t reciprocate your humor. “Talk to me,” you urge, grabbing his wrist so he can’t try to distract you or himself by caring for your wounds. 

He sighs, looking away before he slowly looks back at you. Holding your gaze, eyes squinting and lips pursing slightly. Neteyam looks at you like you’re supposed to understand him–and you do–but it’s as if he’s expecting you to know what’s bothering him. However, the problem is that you don’t. Once he comes to that realization, he sighs, still looking into your eyes. 

“I’m upset with you.” 

And there it is. Your tail swishes uneasily, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by Neteyam, but he can’t bring himself to quell his emotions for your sake. He almost lost you. 

“Why are you upset with me?” 

He shrugs, almost as if he’s embarrassed or too shy to explain his feelings. Being the eldest son and the next heir, Neteyam often felt as if he had to hide his own inhibitions or concerns in order to be a good son, a good brother, a good leader. When it was just the two of you, you would often have to do a little extra prying in order to get him to reveal what was truly occupying that pretty little head of his. Even once he admitted it, it was even harder to get him to elaborate. 

“Just drop it. You should be healing,” he dismisses, trying to distract himself by wiping your face again. 

Pushing his wrist away with your fingers, you take the cloth and throw it into the bowl of water. Holding his hands on your lap, his tail swishing timidly behind him, you make him look at you by following his gaze. “I can talk and heal. The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” 

“I wish they were,” he mutters, a braid swinging in front of his face. 

“Hey,” you tuck the strand behind his ear. He leans towards your touch, almost as if he craves it, no matter how much he wishes he didn’t. “This isn’t how this works. You need to talk to me.” 

“You’ve already been in enough pain today. I don’t want to cause anymore,” 

“Quit the bullshit. I’m better now. I’ll feel worse if you don’t tell me.” 

“That’s not the way it works.” 

“Um, yes, it is.” 

“It’s not.” 

“How would you know? I can already feel my leg hurting ten times more now that you won’t communicate with me.” 

“You’re not in any more pain because of me,” he scoffs, trying to escape your grasp. 

“Ow, my leg! My leg!” you feign a whimper. He cracks a small smile, your cheeks spreading as smoothly as the war paint that still dons his face. 

Neteyam looks so beautiful when he smiles. It’s a special smile, reserved only for you; it drips of sticky honey, so sugary that sometimes you feel as if you could fall ill from its adoration. He’s soft as he looks at you, coy and all things delightful. The hands that once tried to flee your own, now reach for your wrists, petting the skin in a pattern that speaks a million languages at once. And yet, somehow, not one of those languages can truly resemble how much he loves you. He loves you a lot. 

“Please,” you whisper, “tell me what’s wrong?” 

He sighs, assenting to your pleas. With one final sweep over your face, he finally indulges you. 

“I’m not happy that you took down those ships.” 

“Well, duh,” you scoff, rolling your eyes playfully. “I know that, but I want to know why.” 

“You weren’t careful.” 

This causes a richer scoff to form at the back of your throat, a sound that makes his ears press against his braids. “I thought we agreed to take down the enemy at any and all costs?” 

“I know, and we did—we did make that agreement. I just,” he groans, trying to find the right words. Neteyam never had the right words when it came to expressing himself. “I was scared.” 

“Okay,” you reply softly, shuffling closer to him. “Why were you scared?” 

“Why wouldn’t I be scared?” he answers, tone mimicking the same quiet tone you used. “You’re mine—my girl, and- and they almost took what’s mine away from me.” 

“God, I just got so scared that something bad would happen to you. And when I saw you hurt, how badly you were in pain, and I couldn’t do anything about it I just…” his eyes are frantic, searching all across the hut for something—anything—to provide him an answer. His hands start to tremor in your hold. “I felt helpless and so stupid. I should’ve been tougher on you, or—I don’t know—had Lo’ak or even Kiri stay with you so you didn’t have to be alone. And it’s not that I don’t think you’re incapable or anything—” he excuses, causing you to smile lightly, “—but I don’t trust them. I don‘t trust them with you.” 

Smile turning watery, you reach for his shoulder, soon deciding to hold his face instead. He leans into your palm yet again, seeking the warmth that can only emanate from your hands alone. It’s the only warmth that can rid him of any chill. 

Neteyam kisses your palm, soon rolling your hand over in his, placing his lips on each knuckle as if it provides him comfort. And it does. It provides him more comfort than he could care to admit. Placing your head in the crook where his neck and shoulder meet, you place a kiss on his collarbone, lowering your lips to place another on his pec, right above his heart. The young man draws in a deep breath, holding you close to him, savoring each second, each touch. Skin against skin; heart against heart. 

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” you apologize, your soft lips grazing his blue skin. He loves the feeling. “I just wanted to protect our people.” 

“I know, I know,” he murmurs against your forehead, a light kiss placed there. “I’m sorry for yelling.” 

“It’s okay. You didn’t even yell,” you forgive, cheeks pillowing against his chest. When you lift yourself away from him, he tilts his head in confusion at your smirk. “Also, we both know Kiri would be awful on the battlefield.” 

He chuckles, brushing his nose against yours. “True. She can’t even shoot an arrow in a straight line.” 

“Exactly! I don’t know what you were thinking when you said that. Lo’ak? Sure, whatever. But Kiri?” 

“I know, I know,” he agrees, voice growing softer as if his quietness will preserve this moment between you. 

His eyes become velvet—smooth and warm—the longer he looks at you and it instantly makes you melt. His lips look saccharine, a buttery spread of a light smile decorating his face which is just the absolute cherry on top. If Eywa hadn’t taken you during battle, she sure as hell was going to take you now with how crazy Neteyam makes your heartbeat. 

He tucks your hair behind your ear, his smile growing more and more with each expanse of skin he navigates. Dancing his fingertips over your jaw and across your cheekbones, he eventually cups your cheek and you just watch. If you breathe too hard, if you shift your weight, this moment could crumble. He’s looked at you like this many times before but it’s usually in the dark, under the bioluminescent blue and purple lights of the forest, where all you can see are the shadows of his face and the warmth of his tongue and the breeze of his breath. Now, you can see everything in pure, golden hues. The way his mouth relaxes, the way his eyes absorb all they can with each quick glance, the way the corner of his mouth tugs upwards unconsciously. You love it. 

“May I kiss you?” he asks quietly, thumb swiping along a stripe on your cheek. 

“Why do you ask now? You’ve done it many times before,” you wonder, eyes transfixed on the way his own mouth moves with each word he’s about to form. 

He chuckles, a sweet, melodic sound, “Just wanted to make sure you’re still down even when the sun is out.” 

This earns a loud laugh from you, a laugh that makes Neteyam’s heart squeeze and his lower stomach burn. He loves you. One day, he’ll say it. 

Once your giggles have fizzled into a content sigh, you bite your lip lightly before you release it and it returns to its normal place. Neteyam follows the movement. 

“I’m always down if it’s you.” 

“Yeah?” he smiles, breathy and lips plush.  

“Yeah.” 

With that, he seals the deal. His kiss is soft, and you don’t miss the way his eyes dip to your mouth right before the initial contact. It makes you feel hot all over. He’s gentle—he always is at first—and he’s so, so kind. He pulls away briefly, returning not long after as if he needs to be connected to you or else he would suffer. In a way, he would. 

Neteyam is sweet. He still tastes like the fruit you shared before the raid and also a little bit like blood—whether it’s from him or you, you don’t care; you’ll devour it desperately just like you want him to devour you. He traces that stripe on your cheek again, his new best friend, and follows it down the nape of your neck. His other hand trails up from the small of your back to the divot in between your shoulder blades. He uses his hand to pull you closer, seeking any contact from you that he can get. 

Your hands are a barrier, shielding your chest from his, and in a way, it upsets you but also pleases you. Nobody knows what would happen if you could feel his chest pressed against yours at this moment—not even you know. Your hands glide across his chest, lighting scraping and molding against the fine muscle that hides under his smooth skin. When a lithe finger accidentally catches against a nipple, his mouth drops open pliantly, his tongue searching for yours. 

“‘S scared they took my girl away from me,” he murmurs against your lips, his own following after yours after each word. 

“Never,” you promise, kissing him firmly, one hand gripping his shoulder to ground yourself. All of this kissing was beginning to make you feel as if you could float away. “I’m yours. They could never take me or have me. You know that,” 

“Mhm,” he hums, voice lilting towards the end as he presses his mouth to yours. It makes your back arch forward, seeking more of his skin, his touch. 

His hands are growing desperate now. Neteyam knows he has to be gentle, avoiding the damaged skin on your back and remaining weary of the injuries on your rib and leg, but he so badly just wants to pull you close to him and never let go. He wants to hold you, to feel you, to be with you in every single way he can imagine so passionately. But he can’t. He will have to wait for another time. 

You, on the other hand, may roam freely. Your hands travel down his chest, exploring the taught skin of his stomach. It seems he subconsciously flexes underneath your touch, something that is rather enticing. Reaching the plusher skin of his lower stomach, although there still isn’t much give, you trace the muscle gingerly, bordering right above the hem of his loincloth. The delicate touch of your fingers causes him to lightly moan into your mouth, a sound you gladly drink down just to feel its warmth in your stomach. 

Neteyam pulls away suddenly, a loss you’re greatly upset about until he relocates his lips under your ear, traveling down your neck. He hums against the skin, tongue swiping against it as if he’s trying to taste as much of you as he can, as much as he’s allowed. 

“You can’t touch me like that,” he says, using a hand to bring both of yours back toward his chest. You cradle his head instead, tracing a finger along his ear. It twitches. 

“Why not?” you question, voice airy. Neteyam nearly preens at the sound, tail wild. “You seem to like it.” 

“I do like it,” he insists, “I love it, even.” 

“Then why can’t I touch you there?” 

He places a wet, fervent kiss against the crook of your neck. Your breath hitches in your throat, a moan threatening to escape past your lips. 

“Because,” another kiss, “You are not promised to me yet.” 

“I just told you that I’m yours,” you reminded him. 

“Yes,” he nods, trailing his kisses back toward your jaw. “However, you’re still not mine.” 

Oh. 

“I could be yours. All you have to do is ask,” you say as if it’s not something he already knows. You hold his head in place, halting his journey upwards so you can whisper in his ear: “Ask me, Neteyam.” 

His tail swishes excitedly, something that makes you smile. Great Mother, you could eat him up. 

“No,” he responds, pulling away and facing you head-on. He has a lovesick smile on his face, a grin that nobody could wipe off as long as you’re around. “I want to do it right.” 

“Yeah?” you counter. “How would you do it?”

“Well,” he hums, kissing your lips. “First, I’d get all of your favorite foods. All of those fruits you like, season everything all nice,” he begins to slowly kiss your cheeks, “and get it all ready just for you to eat.” 

“What else?” 

“Then,” his kisses travel towards your ear, “Once you’re full and comfortable, we’ll go for a walk.” He bites your ear lobe and you press yourself against him. “We’ll go to our favorite spots: we’ll look at those flowers you like, go to the river, maybe swim a little. I like the way your hair looks while wet, you look so pretty,” he sighs. “You listening?” 

“Yes,” you nod. “Go on.” 

“Then I’d bring you to our sacred tree, just so Eywa can see us and I can see you under her light. I want to see you when I ask you. I want to see you if you smile or cry or decide that I’m not the one, I don’t care, I just want to see you,” he smiles, no longer kissing you but nudging your nose with his. 

“And if you say yes—Great Mother, I hope you say yes—I promise, I’ll treat you so well. I’ll hold you the way you ask to be held, kiss you in all of the places I already know you love to be kissed, and learn all of the new places I can’t reach yet too. I want to feel you, and see the way you react. I want you to feel me, too. I want you to see me, and I want to see you,” he whispers, voicing each wish. 

You nod, slowly and then desperately. “I want to see you, too,” you promise. He smiles that big, toothy smile. “Tell me when you’ll ask me? I can’t wait for much longer. I need you.” 

His eyelids grow heavy, skin heating underneath your palm. “I need you, too,” he gasps, leaning forward to kiss you again. “It’ll be soon, just want you to heal for now.” 

“Yeah?” you smile. “Soon?” 

“Yeah,” he smiles. “Soon.” 

ⓒ starvine 2023

[yeoldenews]

The craziest nickname i know of even more of of leftfield than Peg for Margaret, is Tuck for William. Can you explain where that one came from?

While I've seen a few scattered Williams who go by Tuck, I've never seen any formal association with the name William.

I feel like English has too many terms for nicknames (diminutive, hypocorism, sobriquet, pet name, etc.) which either have no firm definitions, or they have definitions that largely overlap - which leads to a lot of confusion as to exactly what type of nickname you're talking about.

For example: my given name is Samantha, but my family calls me Sissy. Sissy is my (a person named Samantha's) nickname, but that doesn't mean Sissy is a nickname for Samantha.

So while Tuck may be a person named William's nickname, it isn't a nickname for William (at least not that I've ever come across).

And Peg may seem odd, but it's actually pretty straight-forward linguistically:

Margaret was shortened Marg, Marg became Mag due to many British dialects lacking rhoticity, Mag became Meg as a result of the Great Vowel Shift, and Meg rhymes with Peg and people really, really like rhyming stuff.

[feralferretxp]

Okay so this is a intro post about my headcanons for Bang's parents and his childhood. So yeah, buckle in guys :D

This is Meg, short for Margaret, and Ned, short for Edwin.

Meg was designed by @supgoddo while i designed Ned. These are just some early doodles of them.

Also this last one is my most recent drawing of them which was a while ago but I plan on drawing a lot of stuff of them and Bang for future posts ↴

I headcanon them to be rich/high class because:

Bang's whole canon name is pretty dang fancy, like come on there's no way he just has that name for no reason

As made in a older post of mine (this one) I talked about how Bang shows a lot of signs that he comes from a wealthy upbringing of some sorts. Including him having proper manners like when he greets a royal sand architect and some kid named "King"

Here's just a synopsis for Bang's parents and his childhood and how it all affected him:

Bangford "Bang" Bipplebop III grew up in a wealthy family under the weight of big expectations. His father, Ned (Bangford Edwin "Ned" Bipplebop II), was a self-made millionaire who pushed himself to succeed as his own father wanted. He hoped Bang would inherit this same drive and set high, often unrealistic goals for him to carry on the family legacy. Bang’s mother, Margaret "Meg", came from old money and embraced tradition, placing high value on elegance and respectability. Though she loved Bang, she struggled with his transition and often deadnamed or misgendered him, which only deepened the distance between them. As a kid, Bang struggled academically and socially, showing neurodivergent traits like his father has, but Ned is not even aware of his own traits so he's blind to Bang's struggles with causes more stain on their relationship. Bang was often clumsy and felt slow or “behind,” which led to frustration and yelling from his parents, leaving him feeling out of place even in his own home. Still, he idolized his dad, and when he transitioned, he chose to become Bangford "Bang" Bipplebop III. Ned was proud, but Meg quietly missed her “little girl”. Now an adult, Bang has adopted a chill, stoner-surfer vibe, projecting effortless cool demeanor. Beneath that, though, he constantly wrestles with feelings of inadequacy and failure. He dropped out of college, never achieving the high-class life his parents imagined. He even got his current job on Answer Team 341B by accident, after receiving someone else’s acceptance letter, which only adds to his sense of not belonging or “being behind,” since he was never properly trained. To cope, he uses weed to numb the pain and avoid his worries, but he fears this habit only reinforces the image of an ambitionless pothead that his parents likely suspect him to be. Beneath his mellow exterior, Bang battles with self-worth, struggling to break free of family expectations that never quite fit.

So in a nutshell, he’s a trans man dealing with generational trauma who masks his insecurities and self-doubt with a laid-back persona while using weed to numb the pain 👍

Also my headcanons for his childhood struggles help explain why he shields his face and head when he gets yelled at times, which i also talked about in a different post. (right here) Like him fearing of being scolded at again for doing something wrong. Or even just to shield and protect himself when he feels like he's in danger. Poor dude🥺

Also to point out that there are a few moments in Answer Time where you can see where Bang is not at all interested in business, like in the Internet episode where he looks disengaged and even a little bored when Stacy, the human calling them, was talking about his corporate job that's all about serious business. And plus the Stocks episode where Bang has no idea or interest in how to run a company when he was trying to figure out how stocks work. Which helps with my headcanon that he ofc doesn't find any interest in business like his father does and doesn't want to be in it.

Heck, even Sue tells Bang in the Stocks episode, "Some folks are just born with a innate talent for business." Which could hint that business is in his family blood somehow.

Anyways, back on track. My voice claims for Meg and Ned are Mother Gothel from Tangled and Wheatley from Portal, and those could also kind of show how they both act like but not entirely of course but just sorta the gist of it in a nutshell.

Since moving out for college, Bang has been living on his own away from his parents and after dropping out, he cut off all contact with them, being too ashamed to face them as their only child who was a far cry from what they had hoped for. But I do theorize that perhaps after the Stock episode when Bang's red t-shirt company flunked in stocks, Ned took notice of this (not to mention all of the adverts with Bang's face in them) and thus could lead to him and Meg soon finding Bang and meeting him after so many years. Which would scare the living hell out of him if he ever saw them knocking at his door, but that's for another time I think.

So yeah that's what i have for y'all so far with Med and Neg. I'll probably make other posts talking about Meg and Ned in more depth with their own backstories and lore. I hope you guys like my headcanons or whatever. Please feel free to comment or share your ideas or thoughts!

Thank you for reading this far and have a good day! ✨

[girldragongizzard]

Ah, again, thank you so much for reading!

Our weekend is OK, but we're all starting to feel sick ourselves.

Anyway, I wanted to answer at least this question regarding magic in this story and in the Sunspot Chronicles:

But is it the same thing only in different stories, or are there differences I missed?

They're based on the same idea, the same basic principles, but with different rules.

In my story, so far, Phage does not exist as an entity, and consent is not a mechanical part of the magic. Also, the magic can be used to do some really magical stuff, like shapeshifting.

In the Sunspot Chronicles, the concept of consent is really important, so that's baked into the magic system. It's designed to mimic the way our dreams work in our own head. And the magic is more described as a psychic ability and can't do things like shapeshifting.

But, as we get into the sequels, there will be some other parallels that crop up as well. Such as what exactly Chapman really is. But it is deep lore stuff that you have to read all the unwritten Sunspot Chronicles to probably pick up on.

Chapter 18: Sutures

I wake up with a start, the gash on my back burning and itching, with just one thought in my head.

Mayor?!?

I was having a dream where I was in the beer garden of Flounder Sound Brewpub, having a beer and a mint chocolate chip ice cream cone, while talking to Kimberly about Chapman and listening to live music. The ice cream cone was propped up in a beer glass, and the beer was in a bowl, and I was musing about how my own subconscious mind was so thoughtful to accommodate me in this way, when Kimberly said something about how lucky I was to have found Chapman. And that’s when I pressed the talk button on my tablet and said, “That’s nothing. On Monday, I have a meeting with the Mayor!”

And that word just grabbed ahold of my whole brain and dragged me right out of sleep, head snapping up and darting glances all around.

Fortunately, there is no Mayor on the rooftop, nor on airbound approach.

I’m safe.

But I have an interview with the Mayor? Just two days after an interview with Seagull Phil, arguably the only investigative journalist left working in town?

I mean, I suppose that’s how that works.

I get up to stretch and –

Dang! My back is starting to really bother me.

I look at it and, though I’m not going to describe it again, it looks a bit worrisome. Not gross, to me, and I can’t tell if it’s infected by the same ways you can tell with various human tissue. But I don’t see any indication that it’s healing, either. And it is deep. And then there’s that burning and itching thing.

I feel like I have memories of seeing wild animals with wounds like this on video. And they’re just stoically going about their lives. And I have no idea where those videos came from, whether it was T.V. back in the day or YouTube or TikTok or what, but I’m now sort of feeling like we dragons are just expected to do the same.

A dugong could have a nasty run in with a boat’s propeller and there’s no vet there to stitch it up. The dugong would just have to bear it and heal as best it could. And that’s how it goes.

And seeing Astraia with her wounds just walking downtown had reminded me of that at the time. And, I guess I assumed that’s what she was doing, and made up a story in my head about how the local veterinarians wouldn’t see dragons, because, holy shit can you imagine one of us in the waiting room of a vet clinic with the dogs and cats in there all panicking?

And we’re all suddenly fighting and hurting each other and creating a demand. And probably a lot of us can’t pay.

I certainly couldn’t.

But, then, also, I’m about to see the Mayor? With a nasty gash on my back? Down at my Seaside Park? With Seagull Phil and a photographer present? With a nasty gash on my back?

It’s not dawn yet, so I’ve got some time to quietly freak out about all this.

I remember one of the biggest elements of my daydreaming about being a “real dragon” when I was a kid (and later as an adult, because I never stopped) was that I wouldn’t have to deal with any of this kind of thing.

With a “proper dragon body” – and I’m putting that in quotes because I was a dragon back then, I’ve always been a dragon, and that means I’ve always had the body of a dragon whatever body that was – anyway, with a “proper dragon body” I wouldn’t have to worry about getting hurt because my armor would be impervious to it, and I wouldn’t have to worry about social expectations and money because everyone would see that I am a dragon.

I’m not sure why this memo didn’t get through to the universe. I wrote it enough times in my head.

I go over and over all of this in my head for a while, waiting for the sun to come up, to the point that I eventually teach myself how to say “Mayor” just by visualizing it as spoken by my tablet.

The word just comes out of my chest and open mouth, “Mayor!” Complete with exclamation point. A cry of incredulous exasperation, it’s the one thing I’ve learned how to say with any inflection.

That startles me and snaps me out of my ruminations.

I get a little excited about it.

I go through all the words I’ve learned.

“Mayor!”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Stop.”

“Meg.”

“Okay.”

“Mine.”

“Fight.”

“Peace.”

“Go.”

“Stay.”

“Now.”

“Shit,” which is still spoken in Caleb’s voice, so I’m not really counting it in my vocabulary yet.

As I think I’ve said, I figure that most of these are words that will be useful in critical moments of diplomacy or action. I’m hoping for diplomacy more than anything else. I’m hoping to surprise another dragon or human into listening.

I guess I’m willing to fight anything if I absolutely have to, up to and including a space shuttle or maybe even the sun, but even a fight with a cat seems like it might be too costly, really. Either socially or physically.

And that’s not even thinking like a human, which I’m not sure if I’ve ever done, but I’ve watched a lot of human made movies.

It’s just my sense of things. And of what little experience I’ve had.

My shoulder really burns.

It’s just, everything seems like it’s been spinning wildly out of control. And a lot of things have been happening behind my back or out of sight, and I’m not entirely sure what all is going on, and I have to trust my friends that they’re setting things up well and OK, the best they can. And I’m not sure I feel like I’ve had a lot of agency in even my own actions, to be honest.

A lot of the time, I’m just reacting. And that seems like a problem.

I can only imagine the amount of damage my flailing has done politically, locally and maybe even more broadly than that.

I have a lot of questions that are still unanswered, including and maybe featuring the question of the mysterious helicopter. Maybe it was just a police helicopter. Maybe it was actually animal control. I don’t know!

I don’t like not knowing, but I’ve done my own searches now and I still can’t find the answers.

I might not ever know.

I’m old enough to have heard from people involved in direct action, who have come into contact with police work and military support of it, and they’ve said that sometimes they’ve encountered things they don’t ever expect to learn the explanation for.

And I’d love for my life to be this really cool narrative where I eventually learn the thing, but maybe I need to stop chewing on it and focus on what I can work with.

There are a bunch of social, political, and physical wounds that need repairing, and I don’t know the extent to how bad they are. I’m one of the wounded.

My first responsibility is probably to relax and let people help me, honestly.

That is something I’ve learned from my time amongst humans, definitely, from reading blog posts about trauma and injury and from talking to therapists extensively about C-PTSD. It’s nice to have a moment where I can just remember that advice about priority and try to apply it.

But then, I’m left wondering again what parts of me are draconic and what parts are human? I know I’m all dragon and have always been a dragon, identity-wise. But I’ve been raised by humans who thought I was human for the first fifty years of my life.

It’s.

OK.

If I’m truly, genuinely, entirely a dragon, then it seems to be in draconic nature to learn from humans, understand them, and emulate them in some ways.

If I focus on that, I think I can live with it without fretting too much.

But it also comes part and parcel with the relationship dragons have with humans and the question of what it could possibly be. Like, where did we come from? And, where are we going?

I’d thought about this the first few days of realizing my reality, but I haven’t had a lot of time since. And while I definitely speculated and daydreamt about it prior to my – I guess I’m going to borrow from my trans peers and call it my hatching – I didn’t have any of the evidence I have now.

Without any stressors, it seems like dragons and humans can get along just fine. Almost like we’ve been living with each other for millennia.

Mind you, a lot of the humans in my life have been taking that further, and are super close to me now that we all know what I am, and they’ve been taking care of me. They’ve been taking it for granted that they would. Almost like a parental role. Or a partner taking care of a disabled spouse. They even let me fuck up and help me straighten things out.

Which is more than humans often do for each other.

And my own reaction to them?

Now that they are clearly mine, I don’t want to lose them. 

But there’s more. I’ve even been holding back. I’ve not really let myself think about this, except a few times where it was awkward, but I want to be closer to them. I find myself wishing we could all have the quiet and space to cuddle and share our warmth. One big pile. Even if some of them aren’t very close to each other.

I wonder if Caleb and Astraia have taken the time to do that, since they’re already partners.

And when I think about other dragons?

Not very cuddly.

I just really need to know where we stand with each other.

We could be allies. We could be mates in the Spring. But we clearly need our space.

So, if we evolved at all, and weren’t just created by some magical force out of thin air, it seems like we’ve evolved to be symbiotic protectors of human communities. Maybe we were bred that way. But we’re clearly intellectually on par with humans. At least, we are now. So I tend to prefer to think we evolved that way.

But, then, there’s this one statement by one scholar of dragons, I can’t remember who or in what book, about mythological dragons. It went something like this. 

If you do a deep and broad analysis of what constitutes a dragon, you learn a few fundamental things. The things in common with all dragons are that they are monsters, they tend to live on the edges of nature while still in intimate contact with human communities, and their personal foibles or vices are often caricatures of one or more of the seven deadly sins. Where they are venerated, they are sought out for their wisdom and even rulership. Where they are reviled, they are slain, usually in the service of conquering or “saving” the people they are associated with. If anything, it seems as if dragons are like proto-gods, or minor deities, themselves. Created in humanity’s image melded and fused with the other apex predators of the natural world to be liaisons between us and the chaos of the wild. And, maybe, sometimes, to help us deal with other humans.

I think I’m remembering that right. I read it way, way back in the late 90s, when I was just starting college and found that amazing campus library. I may have embellished it over time and through hypesharing about dragons to everyone I’ve talked to.

Or, to put it more simply, what if dragons are the supernatural children of humanity? Maybe, up until now, we’ve only ever existed in myth.

It doesn’t completely line up with the prior awakening of the wizards. Nor with how my life and my body aren’t exactly like how myth would suggest it should be. There are loose strings there that I bet we could all pull at for centuries.

However, I’ve got a date with the Mayor tomorrow, and maybe sharing that would be a politically good idea, even if it’s wrong. Because maybe it speaks more to what we dragons could be.

And, of course, there’s the counter theory, that I tend to mention in the same breath.

That we dragons, being found in the artwork of humans long, long before any civilization was built, have always been here. And maybe it’s the other way around, and humans are our children, raised by us from the primordial world.

Maybe that’s why I sometimes feel like I have some kind of responsibility to them, to keep them. But I can’t do that well enough now because maybe I’m a very young dragon and have a lot to learn yet.

And, for whatever kept us hidden for so long, all my ancestors are in story books now, and they’re not here to look over my shoulder and say, “No, do it this way.”

Hm.

Maybe the symbiotic relationship is the one to focus on tomorrow.

If the Mayor even wants to talk about that. The Mayor who is a literal parent of a dragon.

Oh, right.

If humans are the parents of dragons. Doesn’t that mean that humans are dragons, too? At least, just a little bit?

The sky is getting brighter.

It’s time to sing.

—

There were no sirens.

We got away with it again. Singing to each other over the rooftops of the world.

Some people say they love it.

—

“I couldn’t get a vet to come up here, nor this early. And they were all reluctant to work on a dragon,” Chapman says. “But, that’s OK, because I got some advice, a link to how to do my own sutures on scaly hide, and I’ve got an idea. Did you know that there is knowledge on the internet on how to give a crocodile stitches?”

“No.”

“I don’t know if it’s legitimate or good advice, except that Dr. Park sent me the link,” sie says. “However! We need to clean and close that up, I’m sure of it. And if I do the sutures, then I can put my own spin on them. I can put my art into it, and maybe help with the healing that way.”

“Okay.” I feel nervous about all of that, but it still feels like it’s better than doing nothing.

“You’re going to love this part,” Chapman says in as encouraging and enthusiastic a voice as sie can muster, which sounds not at all sarcastic, but like it should be. Especially with the next sentence. “I spent all night staying up and researching how to do it! I’m going to need to pass out after this.” Which sie speaks as sie takes medical sewing supplies out of hir purse, including a small glass bottle with a worn out label and packets of sterile medical grade gauze. “Rhoda got me this stuff. I hope the needle is thick enough for your hide. And that I have enough thread. I’m supposed to do several layers to get it all closed safely without air stuck in the wound.”

“Okay,” I say, without betraying any of my emotions at all in my voice, because my voice doesn’t work that way. I figure that not saying “yes” will be enough to get my reticence across. Also, I’m very deliberately turning my head to watch everything but what Chapman is doing.

That’s a sign of trust, really. But also, I just don’t want to watch.

I need to make sure we’re not going to be interrupted by another dragon or a helicopter, anyway.

My tablet is handy, and within knuckle reach, so that I can talk calmly about anything while getting my shoulder stitched.

But, at first, I don’t have anything to say. I’m too focused on being OK with the pain and the discomfort of the procedure.

But after the shock of the antiseptic, even during the sharp poking of the needle, it does start to feel better. The burning and itching subsides quickly.

“Being disguised as much as you were yesterday probably actually did this some good,” Chapman says. “It was kind of like bandaging it up and keeping it away from exposure. But only when you were disguised. This is a little infected, still. But I really drenched it in the stuff, so we should be good.”

“How work?” I ask, impatient with everything, but curious.

“How what work?” Chapman asks.

“Art,” I say.

“Ah, hm,” sie tightens hir lips and pulls on the needle. “I suppose I might as well tell you. It hilariously doesn’t break my vow, because when I made it I didn’t take dragons into account.”

I wait while sie continues to work silently for a while. After a bit, though, I feel like sie isn’t actually going to explain, so I talk.

“Yes,” I say.

“Just a second, gathering my thoughts,” sie replies.

Of course.

“From what I can gather, it’s really a lot like programming or chip design,” Chapman says. “There are probably other ways of manipulating reality like I do, and I suspect that you dragons do it naturally in your own way. But the way I go about it is by making physical circuits that tell the forces of the universe what to do in a specific area and under specific circumstances. But, it’s different, too. I’m not a good programmer in any way. I’m an artist. I can’t code for shit, but I can do this. It’s like creating and cultivating a path for the beholder’s eye to follow through the composition, only, in this case, the eye of the beholder is often Entropy Itself. And I’m provoking an emotional reaction in it to the point it does something.”

Sie falls silent again for several stitches. Then continues.

“It still has to be precise and specific, which is fortunately also the way I think a lot of the time,” sie explains. “In this case, what I’m doing for your wound is to create channels through which heat and electricity can flow to create a barrier against pathogens. And I’m putting that over a latticework that is designed to help oxygen and nutrients to find the cells that need them the most, and to coax them into reproducing and bonding more rapidly in what I hope is the healing process. If I’m wrong, I might be giving you melanoma, so we’ll have to keep an eye on it.”

“Why?” I ask.

“I don’t want you dying of sepsis,” sie replies.

I flicker my tongue briefly and regret it. The antiseptic and the wound odor together do not taste good. Then I look at Chapman with my left eye. I want to stretch the wing that sie is hunched over, but I know that’s not a good idea. So, I ask another question.

“Why?”

“My younger brother was two once, you know,” Chapman says. “I’m familiar with this game.”

I turn my head to look at hir with both my eyes, and flicker my tongue again very deliberately, as an expression rather than to taste the air. I still taste the air, and I learn a lot from it. Chapman is sweating and hasn’t showered in over a day. But sie has also sanitized hir hands and arms thoroughly, and is wearing gloves.

Chapman sighs, “I like you. I don’t live here, and I don’t work here, but I come here for the coffee and we have the same counselor, and you’re my dragon anyway. I don’t have a relationship with the dragon of my neighborhood, so, I like you.”

Hearing that makes me feel stronger and more calm, and the needle bothers me so much less afterward.

“What think Rhoda?” I ask.

“Can you take the time to add a word or two more to that question?” Chapman suggests. “I don’t know which question it is.”

I huff and do that, “What you think of Rhoda?”

“Oh, damn, yeah,” Chapman says. “The world is a better place with her in it. She reminds me of my Grandma, in a way. Always doing things for others above and beyond what anybody expects. But she seems to know her limits better. I don’t think she’s really done it in front of you, but she delegates. And she does it with a finesse that is above and beyond anything I think I’ve done with my art, honestly.”

“Even pendant?” I ask, genuinely incredulous.

“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” Chapman replies. “I told you. That took me years.”

I huff again and really carefully write out my next two sentences to the letter, “Rhoda took decades to learn her finesse and to network. She got me a date with the Mayor.”

“Then you’re saying she’s as dedicated as I am, too. My point still stands,” Chapman says.

“Not competition,” I say.

“I don’t think I ever said it was.”

“Implied it. I think.”

“OK, sure.”

I really search my feelings about this. I rely a lot on subtext and context when I use as few words as I do. So, I’m not really sure how much the other person is getting when I talk to them and ask leading or pointed questions. And, also, I think my motives are often more different from other people’s than we all want to admit.

I experimentally say, “I like you both.”

“Can I scan you to understand that better?” Chapman asks.

I laugh to myself, which externally looks like my tail rotating and slapping the roof and my head turning away, tongue flickering. Then I decide to consent and say, “Yes.”

This time I get to watch Chapman more closely when sie does the scan.

Sie puts the inside of hir left wrist over the back of hir right wrist, connecting a couple of tattoos there that I hadn’t really paid attention to before. And I feel a shift.

“Oh, like that!” Chapman raises hir eyebrows.

I cue up a couple words, then say, “Yes, but different.”

“Different how?”

“Dragon different,” I say. “Not mate. Yet. Maybe. But family. People. Yes.”

“OK. But, still, as partners? Or potential partners?”

“Yes. If OK,” I affirm.

“Let’s get past this crisis, and then talk about that some more,” Chapman says. “I know I am at least amenable to the idea, to a certain extent. But I’d rather we all see each other under more stable conditions, I think.”

I scroll up and hit a previous question, to say it again with new context, “What you think of Rhoda?”

Chapman stands up and back from hir work and leans over a little bit to look me in the eye and says, “I’ve noticed that you smile like a cat. You know cats, I think. Everyone I talk to about Rhoda and you say things that lead me to conclude that she’s been leaving metaphorical dead mice on your doorstep for years, and you’ve just finally started to eat them this past week. Because you have to.” Sie watches me for a bit, seeming to try to evaluate my expression, then says, “I’m not sure if she knows she’s been doing that. But she looks more content than before, apparently. And I think she looks like she’s really in her element. But who am I to say what either of you have noticed or not, or what you’re really feeling? We’re all queers. We’re all disastrous fuck ups when it comes to this.”

“Yes,” I say.

“Anyway,” Chapman says, getting back into suturing. “You’re a dragon and we’re a couple of humans. Even if I wasn’t polyamorous and ace, being in a partnership with you, if that’s what we end up calling it, I don’t think it would get in the way of any human romance I might need to pursue. If I’m reading things right. And Rhoda probably feels the same way. And I’m guessing you do, too. Like. Come spring time, you’re going to want to try to mate with another dragon, right?”

“Don’t know,” I reply.

“Then we all take our time and feel it out, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t talk to the Mayor about this stuff. We don’t need the romantic lives of dragons getting mixed up in your fight for your, uh, human rights. At least, not at this stage,” Chapman says. “And we don’t want the Mayor worrying and confused about her daughter’s life any more than she already is.”

There’s a story going around social media about this guy who’s become the husband to a crane. He works in animal husbandry, or wildlife rehabilitation, or something like that. And one of the cranes he works with has decided that he’s her life partner, her mate. Cranes mate for life, and she bonded with this human. And, in order to make sure that she’s safe and lives healthily and happy into her old age, he’s just gotta stick with her. He, of course, is legally married to a human woman, and they have their own family.

I wonder if something similar is happening with me. A mix up of my instincts with my social situation. Or what?

None of the advice I’d ever learned from anybody regarding human relationships, and nothing I observed from watching everyone around me try to navigate them, feels like it’s relevant here. Except for maybe the “relax and see” bit.

But, Chapman’s right. The Mayor doesn’t need to think about that. And neither does the press, as much as I may like Seagull Phil.

I don’t think I would have ever been in danger of bringing it up with them anyway, though, really.

[umbracirrus]

Edits for the first five chapters of The Perfect Storm are uploaded onto AO3! Taking a break from editing for now, and will work on the rest over the coming days/weeks 💛

[no1ryomafan]

The con I’m going to is literally tomorrow-started today technically-but instead of thinking about getting prepared n shit I talk to two of my friends separately about new!ryoma and I’m being hit with the emotions again AOAGAHA

I need to write a essay about him so fucking badly but how do you WORD about Ryoma Nagare.

[odder-oddish]

Anyone else ever think about how weird it would be for the DBD survivors to like, miss out on years of pop culture? Like, we know that Vittorio, Gabriel and some of the killers come from different time periods, but assuming that like the original characters were taken from their lives on their "release date" in the game, then that means that Dwight and Meg have been gone from the world for 8 years.

And that's like, elections, political tension, music and movies, all sorts of stuff.

Like World Cups, Super Bowls, etc. Anyone who has a favorite team they follow would probably be wondering if they took home the title. Ace wonders if the last couple bets he made would have won him a couple hundred dollars or put him into debt even more. Musically inclined survivors are probably curious about their favorite star's newest albums, and newer survivors all have the latest hits stuck in their head.

And for the younger survivors... MEMES. Like remember how different those were in 2016? Newer survivors are coming in with the worst sort of brain rot; some try to explain it to the others but some don't bother.

And then one day, Zarina, who was released in early 2020, is like, yeah there's a bad virus going around. Everyone's staying inside and isolating, but we think it'll be over by Fall. And then, Felix shows up, like, yeah no there's still a plague. And then Elodie and later Yun-Jin and Mikaela are like, yep we still have COVID

And then, Thalita or Renato makes a joke about the Queen dying...

And David just loses his shit.

And then Nick Cage shows up???

I think about that a lot.

[lovinglylibelle]

—𝐣𝐣𝐤 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐮𝐩 { pt. 2 }

pt1 || pt3 (will be posted either today or tomorrow) || pt4

masterlist || navigation

moodboards will be posted after the series <3

✧. FUSHIGURO MEGUMI

His aesthetic i would say is... dark academia meets street style casual if you know what i mean?? It's hard to explain. anyway

Megumi has a very simple goal, be comfortable while looking good and he does just that. He doesn't even realise it, he just naturally has a way of pulling off just about anything. His sense of style is casual yet chic, streetwear yet classy.

Megumi usually go for dark colours, mostly monochromes like black, gray and white but also occassional dark blue, dark green, olive, maroon etc. and might i just say that he fucking serves those colours??? like!?!?

wears a lot of hoodies and sweatshirts, like a lot. but when he feels hot, he wears oversized tshirts like the one in lost in paradise. These shirts are either solid coloured or graphic tees, sometimes its fan merch, sometimes its from a cool small business with amazing prints.

He carries a cross body bag, for school and yk to carry random stuff and just as a nice way to accesorise.

He wears a simple silver chain around his neck, a thin one just because.

He also wears a few black rings, not chunky tho, he doesn't like his hand empty cause he has LONG fingers.

He kinda switches between leather bracelets and watches, depending on his outfit. Prefers to wear a watch usually. Has them in every color, but prefers black or silver metal.

HE ALWAYS has his headphones with him, so much so that it has become an accessory. He has a collection of headphones actually.

Occasionally, he also wears trench coats. IDC WHAT ANYBODY SAYS but he wears trench coats or long coats.

HE ALSO WEARS TURTLE-NECKS, its his personal favourite actually. Pairs it with trousers.

He actually mostly wears loose trousers or wide leg jeans. It depends on the day.

✧. ITADORI YUUJI

He is so adorable, pleaseeeeeeeee

He LOVES hoodies, like is obsessed with them. You will open his closet and you will see only hoodies with occassional shirts.

He has them in every type, warm hoodies, hoodies for summer, short sleeved hoodies, hoodies with buttons?? he has them all and is proud of his collection.

He does wear t-shirts, but very rarely and just like Megs they are graphic tees of his favourite fandom.

Would wear button ups in special occasions. VERY special occasions

Has a lot of caps too, doesn't wear them all the time tho. He has a great fashion sense so he wears them when they look good with an outfit.

Has a lot of shorts like Inumaki, all sorts of them.

Wears joggers when he is feeling lazy and cargos/wide legs when he has to go out with friends.

Will either look like a model for a photoshoot or homeless, there is no inbetween.

Wears cute bracelets for aesthetic purposes and to look adorable, he loves it when girls notice his bracelets and smile amongst themselves. Makes him feel proud.

He also silently coordinates with Megumi but always plays it as coincidence.Would see what Megumi is wearing and decide his fit accordingly. Its an everyday thing between Itadori and Kugisaki.

He likes light colors believes that they go well with his skintone.

Sky blue, pastel yellow, white, mint, light green etc etc are his go to colours.

Has a very fun vibe going, approachable and cute. AAAAAA he is just a truly adorable little man. i love him.

taglist 🏷️: send an ask to be added