#i have this fic worm but no time to write it

[witchy-worm]

Here's my third collab for @spnbangbang ! I was delighted when @friendofcarlotta claimed this piece, I've almost claimed so many of her fics in bangs so having her write a story inspired by my art was a dream come true. And omg I am blown away by what she did with my silly little gym teacher Dean art!!

I am feral about the handprint so I basically screamed when I saw the it was going to play a role in the story. I had no option but to draw a second handprint centric art piece.

Please go read it here: LINK TO FIC

Thank you to the @spnbangbang mods, this was such a fun and well run bang, I will definitely be coming back for more

Banner and fic info behind the cut

Taking Our Time

Author: FriendofCarlotta

Artist: Witchy-Worm

Primary Ship: Dean/Cas 

Other Ships: N/A

Length: 12,649

Warnings: Potentially Dubious Vessel Consent

Tags: S4E13 - After School Special, Post-Canon, Post-15x20, Heaven Fic, Porn With Plot, Top Cas/Bottom Dean, Possession Kink, Grace as Lube

Posting Date: November 23, 2024

Summary It took getting into Heaven for Dean and Cas to finally express their feelings.

Or did it? When Jack frees all the deserving and penitent angels from the Empty, Uriel reveals that there’s a significant gap in Dean and Cas’ memory: the first time they found their way to each other. It happened all the way back in 2009, when Dean was fresh from Hell and Cas was just beginning to have doubts.

When Uriel returns those missing memories, Dean and Cas have some reckoning to do

[hoover1st]

A Likely Pair

Summary: Astarion has been desperately attempting to earn your affection. At the tiefling party, he uses your drunken inhibitions to his advantage. Not knowing you have your own share of trauma, his evening is derailed, likely for the better… Gender Neutral!Reader/Astarion Tags: Implied SA, Angst and Fluff, No Pronouns, Sexual implications but nothing happens, reader has sexual trauma, follows events of Act 1 Astarion Romance. Word Count: 2k AO3 | Masterlist

*A/N: This is extremely self-indulgent. Inspired by a beautiful fic from @tavs-tressym. I didn’t want to make this an OC, because I want my writing to be as accessible as possible, but it’s glaringly obvious that this is written from my own experiences… Again, TW for SA*

Your world has been turned upside down since the day that damned illithid parasite wormed its way into you, but more so since meeting the colorful band of companions who’ve chosen to join you.

Some will still deny it, but you’re magnetic. You don’t complain or nag, rather just handle situations without missing a beat, and your relentless optimism isn’t as suffocating as one might think.

You hate the term leader. You’re not above any of your companions, you just happen to do the talking and the problem-solving. 

The independence that was so valuable throughout your life is hard to unlearn, relying on your companions is still something you’re grappling with. But above all else, the quality that comes to mind when thinking of you is that damned charm. 

You were always teetering on the edge of plausible deniability. Your companions have started to expect it from you, most believing it’s just your personality. You’re attractive, decently kind, and effortlessly funny. 

Mix those qualities, and you get someone whose banter and compliments confound most. You can’t help it, it’s just who you are. It doesn’t help that you genuinely find each of your companions endearing.

There are these moments when you’re spending time with one of them, and they attempt to reciprocate. That’s where the delicate dance begins. Once it clicks in your head that they’re flirting or making implications, you’re gone. Leaving them in their bemusement.

There’s one companion who’s especially engaging. The banter is never dull, because he too has learned this dance. It’s not hard to admit Astarion is indisputably gorgeous. Your personalities are two sides of the same coin. The mischief is like a song, the harmonies balanced.

It’s plain to see that Astarion is pursuing you with the most vigor. You act coy, but you secretly enjoy it, even if it frustrates him to no end. He should have been able to seduce you by now. Knowing that if he could be the one to have you, he’d be protected.

Every time he thinks he’s got you, and his words are more than innuendo, you’ve cleverly removed yourself from the equation. You’re not sure why you do it. Astarion is attractive, and the flutter in your stomach can’t always be blamed on shitty cooking.

There’s something in you that stops anyone from getting too close, at least in that way. You don’t know why? You’ve healed, right? It’s been years since it happened. The touch of others doesn’t make your skin crawl like it used to.

Mother always said it’s natural to touch and kiss others. So why is it that every time they get close, you pull away?

Tonight, the people you so 'selflessly' saved in the Emerald Grove have insisted on throwing a party. Your flirtatious nature is only amplified by the increasing amount of alcohol in your system. You might have even met your match with the Arch-Druid Halsin, but no one is trying as hard as Astarion, and with your inhibitions lowered, you’re starting to consider his proposal.

Swiftly shooting down every other offer is second nature, but for whatever reason, you leave Astarion’s up in the air.

The party stretches on, and you’re not ready to turn in yet, a force compels you back to the rogue’s tent. A drink in hand, you drunkenly saunter back to Astarion, your body leading you like a moth to flames.

Astarion sees you cross back over to him, his gaze unabashed as his eyes rake over your form. This was it, he was finally going to seduce you. As a drunken grin stretches across your face, he feigns a pout, his voice a purr,

“I’m glad you’re back darling. I started to consider you’d found company elsewhere”

You grin and shake your head teasingly, “Most of the ‘company’ has turned in. If there’s someone I know to stay up late, it’s you Astarion dearest”

The wolfish grin you know all too well returns to his face, and he leans in closer, “Well darling if staying up is what you desire, my offer still stands~”

Normally this would be when you’d conveniently snake your way out of the conversation, but the alcohol, and the way he looks in this dim lighting, have you considering it.

Of course, Astarion notices this immediately, and his grin only widens. He knew alcohol would be the key to finally having you. Without letting you respond, he’s moving closer, his voice lowering,

“I’m gonna take that as a yes. Finish that drink of yours and meet me in the clearing near the stream, I’ll be waiting darling.“

With that, he’s gone, slipping away to not give you the chance to say no. Your mind is reeling, did you just agree to do this? Now you feel obligated to go, what if he’s there waiting all night for you? 

Finishing your drink, you go back to your tent to check yourself, suddenly feeling a bit nervous.

As you walk out to the clearing, you look good. A drunken saunter looks sexy on everyone, right? But it’s not your looks you’re concerned with. 

You can do this. It’s no big deal, right? Maybe he doesn’t even actually want sex? But even so, it’s fine. Sex is normal. People do it all the time. Why can’t you?

As you walk into the clearing, he’s posed against a tree, and saunters from his spot. It’s almost comical to you. There’s something so practiced about his movements, the way he’s already lost his shirt.

His body is gorgeous, he’s placed himself so the moonlight casts shadows on the lines of his body, illuminating his pale skin. You wouldn’t be surprised if he scouted and planned this days ago.

Even his voice is perfectly practiced as he purrs, “There you are. I’ve been waiting for you.”

You keep up your playfulness, despite your racing mind, “Poor thing, I was worried you’d be out here all night.”

Astarion cocks a brow and hums, “Oh? Don’t tell me you’ve been reconsidering? it’s so obvious you want this, you mustn’t deny it any longer darling.”

You narrow your eyes teasingly, “And what’s that Astarion? What is it you think I want?”

His predatory expression grows more intense, but inside, he’s growing impatient. Why are you so difficult? “Darling, I think it’s pleasure you want. To lose yourself in me”

You grin, finding comfort in the stalling, “Astarion dearest, I quite like myself. But what is it you want?”

Your question takes him off guard. You see his eyes flicker as if you’d struck some nerve. It takes him a beat to get back on track, and as quick as it was there, it’s gone. The suave charm back,

“What do any of us want, darling? A pleasurable distraction. To find solace in each other.”

His words combined with your intoxication have you nodding, but you’ve lost the playfulness. “If that’s what you want, I’m inclined to agree”

Astarion notices your shift, but he’s too focused on going through his motions, doing what he knows, what he can control. Astarion won’t admit it, but he likes you. Yet, at the end of the day, his focus is on his survival.

At your agreement, he’s moving in. Not wanting to squander the opportunity. Knowing if he doesn’t seize it now; you might pull away, like you always do.

Astarion breaks through your drunken haze, his touch light and experimental, feeling your body before he closes the distance between you. You start to like it. Your senses zoned in on his touch, enjoying the feeling of his caresses. He moves a hand up to cup your cheek and kisses you.

At first, the kiss was nice. It feels good to kiss him, maybe it just took having a handsome stranger like Astarion to cure you?

The kiss becomes more heated, and you start to melt into him. His hands wander, and he kisses you hungrily, but something feels off.

It starts to become all too much to handle. You’re attracted to Astarion, a lot, but when the kiss grows deeper, your face scrunches up into a whine. Astarion likes you, but this is a job to him, something he deems necessary for you to like him. He’s already on autopilot, his brain registering your whine as one of pleasure.

Your fists clench and you start to shy away from him. Something is wrong. This doesn’t feel right, your issues, mixing with your intuition tell you that neither of you is entirely present. You bring your hands up to his chest and apply pressure, after a moment you gently push him away from you.

Your face is scrunched up as your chest heaves, except it’s not from pleasure. Astarion’s eyes widen as he looks at you, taken completely off guard, nothing like this has ever happened to him.

After a moment of staring at you in confusion, he speaks up, his voice betraying his offense, “What’s wrong?!”

You’re curling into yourself, feeling embarrassed. You shake your head and avert your gaze from him, “I’m sorry, I just, I…” you trail off looking for the words, Astarion cuts you off with a huff, 

“What in the bloody hell is your problem?”

Astarion’s mind is racing, has he lost the one thing he was good at? His only valuable asset?

You don’t respond, you can’t stop it, you’re caving into yourself. You try to take deep breaths, your arms wrapped around yourself. Astarion has never seen you behave like this, you’re always the strong, confident one.

Astarion stares as you curl into yourself, watching you walk to the stream nearby, sitting on the bank.

Astarion doesn’t know what to do, he can't remember the last time he cared to comfort another. Why should he? Not like anyone would give a shit if he broke down. He doesn’t even know what to do but his feet are moving, and he gently sits down next to you on the bank, staring into the moving water.

After a long moment, you speak up, eyes never moving from the stream, “I’m sorry Astarion, I hope I didn’t disappoint you”

Whatever Astarion was expecting, it couldn’t have prepared him for the way your words tore through him, he gaped at you his voice unsure, “What do you mean?”

You tear your eyes from the stream, meeting his gaze. Your expression is pained, your voice quiet, “I know you’ve been wanting this Astarion, and I thought I could do it, but it all felt so wrong.”

Astarion’s expression is unusually unguarded. It's as if he’s so perplexed, that he can’t think to put on his usual charming smirk. He stares at you, brows furrowing. Before he can stop himself, his voice uncharacteristically insecure, he’s asking “Did I do something wrong?”

You’re immediately shaking your head, trying to reassure him, “No, no Astarion it’s not you. I just, struggle with things like this”

You both break eye contact, going back to stare into the stream. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. After a while, you’ve calmed down and sobered up, you turn to Astarion with a soft smile, “You could put your shirt on if you’d like, you look a little chilly”

Astarion grins up at you, glad that your teasing is back. He rolls his eyes, “Darling, I’m a vampire, I don’t get ‘chilly’. Plus, it wouldn’t be fair to those beautiful eyes of yours to cover all of this” he gestures down to his bare abdomen.

You laugh and shake your head, “I never said I didn’t appreciate the view Astarion dearest, just trying to be considerate”

As the two of you sit on the bank of the stream, things have finally returned to some semblance of normal. It’s nice. Neither of you talks about your past, or what just happened, but there’s this feeling between the two of you, one of understanding. 

Tonight didn’t turn out the way either of you expected, but sometimes things happen this way for a reason. Maybe the two of you had more in common than you could ever imagine?

*Again, sorry that this was so self-indulgent, thank you for reading!!*

[kohakhearts]

lately ive been thinking a lot about goh’s parents. and all i have to say is . theyre kinda bad <3

[crazylittlejester]

Fireworks

Summary: Wars doesn’t like fireworks very much at all

(A little writing exercise I wrote as I try to slowly come back from my break from writing. My apologies for spelling mistakes or oddly autocorrected works, I’m dyslexic 💔)

lmao *yeets this into the void*

Warriors’s hands were clamped tightly over his ears and he struggled to keep his breathing steady as he sat tucked away in some tight alley corner, eyes squeezed shut and knees brought up close to his chest. He shouldn’t have run away from the others, he’d left them in the busy streets of HIS own Castle Town with no idea where they were going, but the moment the first explosion of colors lit up the night sky his heart had frozen in his chest and he’d bolted.

He wasn’t going to cry, he was NOT. It was just fireworks. It was just fireworks because of course they’d managed to land in his fucking era the night of the anniversary of the end of the fucking war. It had officially been a full eight years, he shouldn’t be reacting this… this STUPIDLY to the loud explosions all around him. It had been eight years since the worst time of his life, he’d gotten better, he HAD. He just needed a minute to pull himself together before he’d head back to the others and beg for their forgiveness for having abandoned them.

Another round of fireworks shot into the sky and Warriors had to bite his lip to keep from crying out, but nothing could stop the frustrated tears from rolling down his cheeks. He couldn’t seem to stop shaking and he could feel his heart beating so fast in his chest he swore he could feel it against his ribs. Thinking was becoming harder by the second, he was so scared out of his mind that his thoughts stopped being rational and were just yelling at him to take cover and to hide, and to get somewhere safe.

Mask… Mask had to get somewhere safe too. Where was he?

Warriors’s head shot up and his eyes opened wide in panic as he frantically searched around him in the alley for his little brother.

No. He forced himself to take in a deep breath to clear his thoughts, ignoring the way he could smell the thick smoke in the air. Mask wasn’t here. Mask was fine because he wasn’t here. The kid had gone home after the end of the war.

Except, no, he WAS there. Older, sure, but Mask WAS with him again. And he wasn’t taking cover and Warriors couldn’t see him. He wasn’t safe.

Warriors tried to push himself up off the ground but the alley spun around him and his legs gave out from underneath him, sending the captain crashing back down to the stone ground with a small whine.

More explosions rang above him and he pressed his hands into his ears again as he curled up as much as he could on the ground. Some war hero he was, cowering in an alley and crying because he didn’t know where his brother was, when HE was the one who’d bolted. HE was the one who left Time and all the others behind. And there was nothing he could do but wait it out because he couldn’t even pick himself up off the jagged stones pressing into his body.

Some evil little voice in his head told him he was incredibly vulnerable here like this without his armor, that anyone could come up behind him and hurt him, and all he could do was curl up tighter and bang his head into the ground a couple times.

A hand slipping itself between his head and the stone street scared him half to death and Warriors let out a strangled scream. He twisted himself around and did his best to scramble away, but the explosions kept firing off and it was so loud and it was so overwhelming and he couldn’t breathe.

He fell flat on his back. And he stayed there, staring up at the sky, ignoring the ash that rained down around him because surely he was about to die.

The person said something he couldn’t understand, they repeated it a few times, but the captain couldn’t hear a thing other than the blood rushing in his ears and the explosions all around. He couldn’t breathe and his limbs felt like lead.

Warriors’s vision was swimming in front of him and he felt too exhausted and worn out to fight the gentle hands that carefully scooped him off the ground, pulling him close to a warm person. He was still shaking in fear and fighting for every gasp of air, but he felt something in him relax when his head was pressed right against a steady heart beat and the person’s other hand covered his other ear, cautious of putting too much pressure over where his earrings hung. There was only one person alive who’d dare to hold him so gently.

He wasn’t alone anymore. He’d been alone for so many long years, but he wasn’t alone anymore.

Warriors reached out and tightly gripped Time’s tunic with a trembling hand, and his little brother pulled him impossibly closer.

“I got you, Captain.” Time must’ve been shouting for Warriors to have been able to hear his voice through Time’s own hands and the fireworks going off above them. “You’re safe.”

[omgeto]

i need ur thoughts on nerd geto cause he’s living rent free in my head ever since i read kazushawty’s post abt him 🎤🎤

book worm!geto who is super well read and articulate and can't help but rant and rave about any and all types of fiction, even when you have no clue what he's on about.

"c'mon suguru, I thought you got in the bath with me so you could do me, not read to me," you whine, tapping the book he has in his hand lightly with your foot to get his attention.

"well actually you got in the bath with me," he lifts the book up, his eyes meeting yours as he chuckles. "but listen, I think you'd really like this author."

"fine tell me all about them," you agree, as you inch closer to him, and he lets you rest on his chest, as you fit in between his legs in the water. his eyes light up as he continues to rave about the latest book he's reader, a genre and author you had no interest in but you didn't care as hearing him speak with so much passion really made your day.

[canarydarity]

(haha happy new year! Heres 6K words of DL ranchers fighting 🤩 [ao3]) dull&slow

There was no feeling like a respawn; it was like jumping off of a building with nothing below to catch you, only to discover you had in fact been fastened into a harness when the bungee cord snapped taut. Except, it also wasn’t like that at all, because the mechanics of respawning—regardless of permanence—did nothing to curb the feeling of death, the actual sensation of dying. All it really did was remove the relief that one might experience had death been final, for what is death but a merciful release from pain? 

Jimmy imagined that there were few things that could even begin to feel like what a respawn did—the simultaneous cracking of all your joints at once in a manner akin to a human glow stick; ice cream that had been left out on the counter to melt but was then shoved back into the freezer again after only making it to that indescribably viscous stage between solid and liquid; a jam in a paper shredder—the kind where half of the page is relieved and sticking out of the top, completely intact and fine, while the rest is in ribbons below, still warm to the touch at the recent dismemberment. 

And that was only the physical aspect—the violent draw of your subconscious from the brink of death to perfect health mid-panic was something else entirely. It never got any easier, no matter how many times he did it (and Jimmy did it a lot). 

This was their second respawn, but it was different in the way that it happened unlike it did the first time: together. It was new but not unexpected to shoot up in bed at the ranch, cows mooing to his left and moonlight peaking through the window to his right. Jimmy heaved some breaths in and out; logically, he knew he was fine, but his body remembered the vertigo of falling. 

Tango was next to him, still lying back in their small bed staring at the ceiling. 

For a few beats, they were quiet, they caught their breath. The buzz of the cicadas outside was heavy in a way, droning alongside the cacophony of cows and the muted clucks of chickens from below ground. 

When his eyes began to itch and dry out from staring at nothing and his heaving sounded more like huffing, Jimmy broke the silence first. 

“I was leanin’ over the edge…why was I leaning over the edge?” His words were incredulous and barely there, only formed enough to actually get them out of his mouth but not any further. Had Tango not been right next to him, he probably wouldn’t have heard. 

Tango sat up, “Jim, hey–hey!” One of Tango’s hands reached behind Jimmy and settled on his shoulder, the other moved across himself to settle on Jimmy’s arm. “It’s okay! It’s only our second life, it was bound to happen sooner or la—”

Jimmy blinked out of his daze to realize Tango was soothing him; It was not shocking in the way it hadn’t happened before—it had actually, in fact, happened quite often—but in the way it was happening now. the combination of noises pushing in all around the ranch, having just lived through dying, again, and Tango’s warmth that he would’ve appreciated any other time, made it all immediately too much. Tango was soothing him—Tango misunderstood. 

It was instinct to throw Tango’s arm off of him, to scatter, to stand and create distance, and had Jimmy been in the right state of mind he would’ve explained that and apologized, but Tango’s shocked offense was the last thing he was focusing on. 

“No, you—why was I leaning over the edge?” 

It was the only thought that had run through his head since he’d woken up and stopped feeling like an egg mid-scramble. Not worry about being on red life, not concern about having been the one to return the favor of killing Tango this time, not upset that things were shaping up like they always did. 

Tango wasn’t necessarily wrong to assume that that’s where Jimmy’s thoughts had gone, as that’s usually where they would have. But this was not Jimmy when he was anxious, when he was guilty; This was Jimmy when he was mad.

He was pacing, but he wasn’t aware when it had started. He was just—he couldn’t stop thinking about fish. Or—no, not fish, parasites; there was this parasite he’d heard about that matures in the eye of a fish but reproduces in the belly of a bird. Jimmy had heard this and thought what a stupid, impossible thing—and he’d thought he had shit luck.  

That was until he’d heard the rest. Under control of the parasite, infected fish swim closer and closer to the surface of the water, leading it to be spotted and picked up by a bird; the parasite ends up where it needed to be all along, and that damned stupid fish is what gets it there. It doesn’t know what it’s doing, it’s not choosing to swim near the surface—by that point, the parasite is choosing for it—but it’s still— 

It just—

The fish gets itself eaten, essentially. The scariest part, Jimmy thought, was that he wasn’t sure the fish even knew. Was it aware it had been infected? Or was it swimming up and up and up and thinking what the fuck am I doing? Was it resting precariously below the surface, watching in fear as the birds circle, knowing all it had to do to avoid being eaten was swim the fuck back down, but for some reason, it just couldn’t?

Jimmy just—why was he leaning over the edge? His hands were wrapped around his stomach, griping his sides, hard. His teeth were grinding together, or he was biting his lip, or he was mumbling nonsense that even he didn’t know what meant. 

The floorboards of the ranch creaked and groaned with his pacing, and Tango remained watching from the bed, his face still painted in confusion. 

A noise—something caught between a whine and a grumble—worked its way out of Jimmy's throat, and more words came with it.  

“I saw them with their bows and arrows out—Joel, Etho, Scott—and I—” He shook his head. “We’d have been fine if I just didn’t peak my head over!” 

Jimmy turned back to Tango and pointed at him; Tango blinked, but the accusation delivered wasn’t for him. “And they weren’t even shooting at Grian, at—why weren’t they shooting at anyone else?”

Tango shook his head a little, opened his mouth to reply, but Jimmy wasn’t done. “I don’t understand—I don’t—” he grabbed at his hair and pulled; he bit into his lip again, not stopping when it started to hurt even though he knew Tango must’ve felt the ghost of it too. Jimmy rocked in place, “I even thought it. I thought ‘what are you leaning over the edge for, idiot!’ And then!” 

Jimmy spun, but no form of movement could match the direction of his thoughts, the restlessness of his mind. He felt like he was malfunctioning, every action begun and then subsequently aborted in favor of another; as if he could stop it all if he could just get himself to feel physically how he felt mentally, equilibrium a sort of saving grace. 

Jimmy hit himself in the head once like he could knock things back into place, fix whatever was loose in there–get the paper to start shredding again; in pieces, maybe, things would be okay. There was a call behind him of stop that, hey, none of that! and the bed creaked as Tango finally made the move to stand. 

“I don’t understand,” Jimmy mumbled again. They were inside, but his hair still felt the wind ruffle through it as though he were at high altitude; his hands touched nothing, but he could grip the hardwood of the defense tower all the same, rough and splintering. Joel and Etho had stood so far below, looking up, each with a hand up to their eyes to shield them from the sun. Jimmy remembered every detail about that moment—Grian had been leaning over right next to him. “Stupid parasite and it—why weren’t they shooting at anyone else? All I had to do was not lean over…”

Jimmy startled when Tango spoke again, he’d forgotten for a moment he wasn’t alone. 

“I don’t follow—parasite? What pa—”

Right, he wasn’t alone. 

“Gosh, and I’ve killed you, too, we’re–we’re red!” Jimmy said, facing Tango again. “And we’re back to nothing, we’ve lost everything—the horns, they’d have taken them by now, surely.” The anger from before seeped back into his voice, and Tango kept his space; a part of Jimmy felt bad at that, but he mostly felt validated. The guilt would come later, his chest didn’t house the room to feel so many things at once. 

Though space didn’t mean Tango was willing to stay out of things completely. 

“Jimmy, just hold on, I can’t keep up.” Tango was clearly still thrown by the direction things had gone in—he’d been expecting to reassure, not pacify—but Jimmy didn’t have it in him to stop and explain. His hands out like he was corralling a feral animal, he said, “What are you even…? Slow down, alright.” 

And maybe that was the last straw—his soulmate, known for his rage, asking him to calm, to slow down; the stark contrast between the Tango standing in front of him—hands splayed, face confused but determined—and the Tango who’d needed to be restrained as the ranch smoldered behind them; the fact that it was Jimmy who was being looked at like a time bomb with not even 5 seconds left to spare. 

This time, the accusation was meant for Tango, and Jimmy watched him stumble a little in shock when he received it. He threw his hand out like he’d needed that extra strength to pull the question from him, like his throat wasn’t up for the challenge alone, like he had to prove this was something he wanted to start and start now.  

“Why aren’t you mad?”

Tango’s face wound up with disbelief. “What?” 

Jimmy’s voice wasn’t made to be raised, but he gave it his best effort. It hurt, in a way—his throat not used to the coarse delivery; it hurt more for the fact that he’d made Tango the object of its direction. 

“You’re sitting here, and you’re calm,” he spat. “And—and you’re telling ME to be calm! Me!” Jimmy huffed again at the ridiculousness of the entire situation. “Why aren’t you mad?”

This time as Jimmy spoke, Tango wound down; he visibly CTRL+ALT+DLT-ed, a total system shutdown reboot. His hands dropped back to his sides and he stood up straighter. His face reset until he was just blankly watching Jimmy sputter and steam. He was still in a way Tango rarely was.

Jimmy thought it was the most un-Tango-like thing he’d ever seen, and that just made things worse. 

“Because it was going to happen either way, I could’ve just as eas—” its delivery was flat, like Tango knew he was stepping off of a bear trap but onto a landmine; though he did it anyway, and in most circumstances, his dedication to the idea of if at first you don’t succeed! was something Jimmy found endearing. If it wasn’t clear enough already, this was not most circumstances. 

Jimmy made a noise of dissent. This wasn’t—

“No, not—that’s not what I meant.”

A few beats of silence. They argued with the awkward hesitation of two people who’d never fought before and therefore didn’t know the procedure; neither of them had had time to memorize their lines. Fight was something they didn’t do—partially because they hadn’t been together long enough to garner the need, and partially because they got along with a simplicity they hadn’t expected. There was a question in this lapse between one comment and the next, an are we really going to do this?  

Tango blinked at Jimmy. “You don’t mean why am I not mad at you?” 

It would’ve been an easy out if he had. A way to walk them back to familiar ground—the kind where Jimmy was apologetic and guilty and anxious and Tango was steady and reassuring and kind. 

He couldn’t lie and say that wasn’t part of it; he was a liability, and he would never be over Tango being his collateral damage. 

He looked away from Tango, “Well—”

“Jimmy…” Pity was such an ugly, regretful thing. 

“No! No—yes, that’s not what I mean.” And it really wasn’t—at least, not at first, not completely. That was the undertone that would drive all his decisions and thoughts and feelings, it’s true, but this was different. This was—they’d died, Jimmy killed them, and Tango wasn’t upset about it; moreover, Tango was docile, passive. He was—

“Then I don’t understand what you’re asking me.”

—resigned. 

Jimmy didn’t yet look back, because he knew it would be his turn to talk when he did. All that he had to explain lacked the rationale to be said aloud; simply put, he was mad because Tango wasn’t. 

“You’re gonna have to give me something to go off of here, Jim.”

Eyes still fixed resolutely on the wall, Jimmy repeated the only sentiment he really could express at the time. “You’re not mad…” He let the end trail off, embarrassed it was all he had to offer, knowing it was unfair to Tango, knowing a normal person would’ve been able to voice more; just another way Jimmy fell behind. 

“At?”

“At anything!” He was discovering that when he did yell, his voice got high, and he tended to cut off the ends of his words. They shortened, got sucked up into the emotion until they weren’t letters anymore but sounds. “You’re—I had to restrain you, practically, after Scar burned down the ranch! And I wasn’t there, but I heard about last life and I—”

He felt like his sentences were being recorded in takes; start and stop, start—stop, mark! He would sound so much better edited together. He needed a script, surely he’d be able to say the right words had someone else given them to him. He’d do it right then, he knew. Of course arguing, too, was something he wasn’t good at.

Jimmy gestured at Tango, “You’re not mad, at anything, you’re just standin’ here! We’re going to die and it’s like you don’t even…like you’re not upset.” The final clause came out dejected and unsure; it sounded like it belonged to a completely different conversation. If he were reading lines, he’d likely receive notes about consistency and remaining in character. It was hard to do that when he wasn’t sure who he was or was ever supposed to be.

Tango looked no less confused. “That’s how the game works, Jimmy—we’re all going to die at some point.”

“I know that, Tango, I know.” Jimmy bit his lip. “How are you just okay with it?”

Tango’s eyebrows raised in shock, the kind that spoke to his questioning the audacity of something. “Well, I’m not happy about it, bu—”

“You are, though.” 

Eyes narrow, frustration finally starting to seep in, Tango said: “No, I’m not.”

“You are!” This felt more tantrum than argument; more whining about not getting his way than making a point about having been wronged; he wasn’t really sure he had been wronged. At least, not by Tango. But he didn’t know how to rewind, he didn’t think there was a going back. 

“Damnit, Jimmy, I’m not. You think I want to lose this?” 

No, Jimmy didn’t—and that’s why he was so confused. 

“Then why aren’t you angry that’s what I don’t…” This line of questioning wasn’t going to work—he’d already discovered that again and again. He needed to figure out a different direction to head in. “Even now I’m yellin’ at you and you’re just there.”

“So now you’re mad because I’m not yelling at you?” Annoyance, frustration, irritation—they were close, but none of them were what Jimmy wanted. Or—not what he wanted but what he needed. People were mad at him far too often for him to crave it in this uncommon time when no one was, but he needed to know Tango was with him on this.

“No, Tango!” Jimmy whined.

“Well you’re not explaining anything, what am I supposed to think? That’s what it sounds like you’re saying to me!” His voice finally at an above-normal volume, Jimmy shrunk; reality wasn’t ever quite like expectation, was it? The simultaneous relief mixed with the guilt, and everything got worse; he thought maybe that’d been his goal all along, he could see it now that it had occurred. And yet, it wasn’t right; sure, Tango was mad—but he still didn’t get it. Tango kept rambling.

“You’re mad that I’m not mad, and you say it’s not about you, but then you’re also mad I’m not yelling at you—which I have yet to figure out, by the way, and—” 

Following Tango’s wild hand gestures, Jimmy’s eyes landed on their wall of chests, and he knew what he needed to do. He scooted past Tango, who turned to keep facing him, and started rooting around until he found what he was looking for. 

“Oh, and you’re ignoring me too, now, which is neat,” Tango said to his back.

He’d wrapped it in a bundle of spare wool hoping that bed made they wouldn’t need much else and Tango wouldn’t find it on accident, but he pulled it out now and turned back to face Tango gripping it in his hand.

His soulmate shut up immediately, his gaze first on Jimmy’s hand, and then up at his eyes. 

“Where did you get that.” The anger was finally there, but Jimmy didn’t immediately respond. “Why do you have that?”

The golden apple was cold in his hand, colder than he thought it should have been. It glowed slightly in the darkness of the ranch, a yellow hue that spread out in a dim radius; he had the bizarre thought that it would've made a good nightlight had it not been illegal. Jimmy had always been a bit scared of the dark (he’d been pleased, then, when the game had started and he found that his soulmate glowed just the same). He didn’t need the apple sitting on the lid of their chests to provide light—not so long as he had Tango; how ironic then that he only got both or none, that consuming—and therefore getting rid of—the apple would rid him of Tango, too. 

Jimmy didn’t want to be left alone in the dark, but that was sort of why he looked back at Tango and he said, “I think you should eat it.”

“No.” It was both a response and an expression of disbelief rolled into one; a no, this conversation is not happening, not now, and a no way in hell is that thing getting anywhere near my mouth. The stillness was back, but it was more dangerous this time; less resigned, more preparing to strike.

Jimmy repeated himself, lifting his arm and holding the apple between them as he did. “Tango, you should eat it.”

“No.” Tango shook his head. “Jimmy, I said no.” 

“Why not?”

“Why not?” A sardonic, humorless laugh made its way out of Tango, and Jimmy flinched at the sound; a broken echo of their usual selves. “This is a joke, right? There’s something here that I’m missing that makes this all super-happy-funny and we’ll laugh about it in 5 minutes.”

“I’m serious, Tango.”

His hands on his hips, Tango nodded at Jimmy as he said, “you are.” It was deceptively compliant, mockingly understanding. Jimmy was misled often enough in conversation to recognize when he was being set up, but he hadn’t quite yet learned the skill of letting things go; he walked again and again through a door labeled trap! which was how he knew he was doing it now. 

“Yes...” 

“Serious-serious, you’re seriously asking me why I don’t want to eat a golden apple.” Tango doubling down, Tango continuing to misunderstand, the fact that Jimmy couldn’t blame him for any of it, the feeling of everything at once, and the knowledge that all was out of his control; he felt his eyes well up with tears of frustration. 

“That’s what I just said...” Dejected, a clown waiting for the punchline—waiting for others to laugh at his expense; setting up joke after joke, forgetting what it was like to not provide the entertainment. 

“Well I just wanted to confirm before I informed you that that’s the stupidest question I’ve ever been asked in my entire life.” It was at this point that Jimmy let out a breath, and a tear fell with it. “Like, wow it’s almost an accomplishment how stupid that question is.”

“Tango…” He’d plead but he knew he didn’t have the right—not in this conversation of his own devising. It wouldn’t be a lie to say he didn’t know how they got here, but it wouldn’t be the truth either. 

“Really! I’d make you a ribbon to commemorate and everything if we had literally anything to our name at all.”

Catching the opportunity to jump back in, Jimmy took it. “Okay, that—that’s my point.” 

“That I haven't offered to make you a rib—” 

Jimmy cut Tango off again before he could stuff the conversation with more nonsense in defense. “That we have nothing—have had nothing since we started!” 

It was more than just luck—it was design. There came a point where chance ended, a place coincidence didn’t reach. Jimmy had dwelled long enough in the space between unlucky and doomed to know that one was cyclic, intermittent, while the other was ceaseless, fixed. Luck would come and go, but damnation? That kind of fate had been here since before all of them, and would remain long after. 

The subject was taboo, but there wasn’t a single person on this server who was unaware that Jimmy was ill-fated. They poked and prodded him about it, but any level of seriousness to the conversation was buried under veiled laughter and slightly glassy eyes; the kind of sheen to a stare that said even if they tried, they couldn’t know what it was they talked about. To everyone else, Jimmy’s “curse” was a bit they’d overindulged in; to Jimmy, it was a burden he wasn’t allowed to acknowledge. They didn’t let him. 

He’d thought maybe…Tango was being forced to share it; maybe something would click; maybe they’d let him have this for just a few weeks. 

Jimmy didn’t think he could get any more stupid. 

The sarcasm remained equipped, defenses high. “Well, I’m sorry that you think I’m not doing enough to provide for you, Jimmy, bu—”

Jimmy groaned again. “Tango can you be serious for 2 minutes! 2 minutes, please!” 

“No!” Tango was looking at him in a way he never did; a look that conveyed I cannot believe you, the underlying sentiment of dismissal that hurt more for it coming from the only person who’d ever really listened to him without reservation.“You know what, no, I cannot. If you’re going to start a ridiculous argument you’re going to get ridiculous responses—you don’t like it, too bad.”

Jimmy had been involved in a lot of ridiculous arguments before—it came with being a reactive person; he existed with defenses always already half-raised, on high alert for anything that might make him the center of negative attention. 

But this wasn’t one of them. The ranch, Tango, soulmates—they were easily the most valuable things he’d ever had—and that was why he couldn’t have them. He was going to lose it—he was already losing it; it never hurt so much when he was the only thing he had. “Gosh, dont you get it?! There’s nothing we can do—nothing! I’m gonna kill us, you understand?”

It felt good to say it out loud, to watch Tango blink in the face of such bluntness. Somehow his shock betrayed his lucidity, and proved to Jimmy what he’d feared all along: Tango felt it too. 

And that made him circle all the way back to the beginning of this stupid roundabout conversation. Maybe he didn’t know it in so many words, having less time to experience it than Jimmy did but Tango knew—their time was running out; running out in a way it didn’t for anyone else playing these games; running out in a way Jimmy had—until now—never before been allowed to acknowledge. Tango knew. 

And Tango wasn’t mad. 

“Ugh, this is—this is childish, is what it is! I don’t…I can’t believe this is happening. This is—it’s madness.” What did they bother going in circles for if they were just going to end up right where they’d started?

“You’re the one trying to force feed me a golden apple,” Tango grumbled, eyebrows raised and face mocking as he looked at the cows. A few of them were standing against the fence staring back, mooing insistently; a strange audience for a strange night. 

“Because I’m sick of it, Tango!” He was, once again, not the right recipient of this complaint, but what else was Jimmy to do? Seasons of grief built up in one desperate conversation, it was becoming more a list of grievances than a call to action. “Of all of it! Of the jokes, of losing, of—of not being in control of anything, of dying—and you—”

“Me?” Tango huffed, interrupting. “Wow, tell me how you really feel, Jim.”

Jimmy shook his head and looked down, a dismissal; his answer immediate and unhesitant. “No, that’s not what I—” 

Sick of Tango—it wasn’t possible, but he saw in his hands that he still clutched the golden apple, and he was reminded again of all the ways in which he was dangerous; of the ways in which he was the heavy rock tied around Tango’s ankle, sinking slowly despite all efforts. He closed his eyes, tight, hard enough to hurt, and swallowed the bile in his throat. “You know what, yeah. I am.”

He looked up again to look at Tango, forcing himself to look determined, sure. “Yes, I’m sick of you.”

“Jimmy…” There was a warning there, but following warnings was never Jimmy’s strong suit. 

“I am!” He didn’t think there was much of a chance Tango would believe him, but he loved Tango enough that he owed it to him to try. “I’m sick of you and how calm you’re being. We’re losing everything, again, always and you’re just standin’ around and I’m sick of it, Tango.” 

Tango refused to answer, and Jimmy knew to be any convincing at all, he had to commit. 

“I’m sick of this place,” he gestured around the ranch, rebuilt since the fire but still nowhere near as advanced as the other bases on the server; they could try and try and try but they’d never reach that level; they couldn’t be allowed to have an actual chance. “and—and how we built it from nothing and it still didn’t matter. We weren’t even doing that bad, and we’re still losing, and I’m sick of that, too!” 

Tango standing still, Tango with his hands on his hips, Tango refusing to rise to the bait in Jimmy’s words. “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe me? Fine, I’ll just keep going then.” He shrugged, undeterred, glancing around as if he wasn’t bothered—and his eyes landed on the cows in the corner, still watching them as if simply their being awake meant they’d be getting fed. Jimmy raised the arm with the golden apple, using it to point at them. “These stupid cows mooing all the time—the chickens—might as well just kill ‘em all now, 'cause they’re not going to matter either, are they? I’m over this place, and—and everyone else treating us like a joke.”

He looked back at Tango when he’d finished. “And I know you’re sick of it too, you are.”

“I’m not.” This, finally, was familiar ground—Jimmy projecting, Tango reassuring—but for once, Jimmy wished his anxiety proven right, he wished Tango would give in and admit that this wasn’t what he wanted—that Jimmy wasn’t what he wanted; not if it meant the absence of a fair chance.  

“You are, you have to be.” And it was somewhat like begging. Jimmy’s never begged someone to be sick of him before—he was usually pleading for the opposite; how backward, how wrong, everything in him screaming what are you doing?! No one else had ever treated him like Tango did. 

He sniffed once—as he was still crying—and kept listing things; the sort of fears it would kill him if Tango validated, but he said them anyway. If there was any chance it’d get Tango to eat the apple and be safe. 

“You’re sick of having to cater to me, right? Of having to answer a million questions and reassure.” Tango began to shake his head, but Jimmy ignored it and kept going, stepping closer to his soulmate. 

“And I bet you’re sick of losing, too. You don’t want to lose, Tango, not again, right?” It was a low blow, but Tango didn’t look hurt so much as he looked sad; he accepted Jimmy’s meanness as a product of his fear, and he curbed his offense to make room for the heartbreak. 

Figures that Jimmy starts a needless argument insulting Tango endlessly and was still the most pitied in the room. He didn’t know if it was a product of his selfishness or Tango’s altruism, but the effect remained the same. 

Within arms reach at last, Tango raised a hand but stopped it midway between them, unsure if breaching this distance was yet allowed. When Jimmy didn’t do anything about it, Tango lowered his hand until it rested on the front-facing part of Jimmy’s shoulder, eyebrows furrowed, not trusting that this was over.

Jimmy mirrored Tango with his own hand, feeling the warmth of Tango’s vest and above-average temperature below—the heat that’d been keeping him warm at night when they couldn’t splurge on extra blankets or were sleeping in a half-burned-down building or just because. He only allowed himself to feel it for a second before he pushed—not hard, but enough to make Tango take a step back, more because he wasn’t expecting it than due to force. 

“Come on,” Jimmy pled. “Fight back. Get mad, hit me.”

“I’m not going to hit you, Jimmy.”

Jimmy stepped forward and pushed again, both hands; not harder but more firm. “Fight back, Tango, come on.”

“No.” Tango’s face was scrunched together in the most vehement disagreement he could give, and, out of options—out of energy—Jimmy made another noise somewhere between a whine and a groan and raised his hands again, only for Tango to catch them this time and drag Jimmy closer; dropping his hands the second he was within holding distance, one of Tagno’s arms wrapped around him and the other cradled the back of Jimmy’s head as he pulled it down towards his shoulder. Their height difference made it difficult at first, but they’d been practicing for weeks. 

Jimmy went without protest, arms at Tango’s waist, screwing his eyes shut tight enough that he could almost pretend he didn’t hear the I’ve got you’s that he didn’t deserve but Tango was nonetheless whispering to the side of his head. He wanted to protest—or, no, he wanted to want to protest; to keep trying until Tango understood, until Jimmy screwed up enough that Tango got fed up and left the way anyone else would’ve done weeks ago, possibly just upon finding out they were paired. 

“You’re okay—we’re okay,” Tango said. “I’ve got you. We’re going to be okay,” hand steady on the back of Jimmy’s head, holding fast when he tried to shake it and express his opposition. Jimmy didn’t think that ‘okay’ had a place here, not for them, not anymore. 

They were on their last life now, he could feel the effects of being red thrumming through him, though they weren’t as much to blame for the damage he’d caused as he wished; this disaster, like most, was entirely Jimmy’s own. 

Still murmuring and offering reassurance, fingers of one hand still scratching through Jimmy’s hair, Tango used his other to gently pry the golden apple from Jimmy—no longer putting up a fight—and toss it away without looking until it rolled on the wood flooring through the gate of the cow pen. Jimmy watched, head still on Tango’s shoulder, as the cows shuffled around for the lobbed apple, mooing increasingly louder until, after a crunch or two, it was assumed no longer there. 

He felt more so than heard Tango clear his throat, the motion vibrating through Jimmy like a warning. “I am mad,” Tango whispered, voice only half-formed at the low volume. “I am,” he repeated, “don’t think I’m not.” His tone the kind of calm that only gave way to true anger. “But what can we do?”

Jimmy closed his eyes. He didn’t know. 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~

They’re in bed after, facing each other in the dark; Tango watching Jimmy, Jimmy watching their clasped hands between them. Tango’s thumb ran along the ridges and valleys of his knuckles, waiting for something, though he didn’t know what. In his mind, Jimmy was running through all he had to offer—the things he should say, the things he couldn’t voice—but what he kept getting stuck on was:

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” Tango said; not exasperated, not upset, just matter of fact. 

Jimmy raised his eyes to Tangos, shaking his head as much as he could while lying down, not willing to risk any more miscommunication, “I’m not sick of it here.” 

“I know, Jimmy.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Shhh,” Tango pulled their joined hands until Jimmy scooted forward, head under Tango’s chin, all not forgotten but, at the moment, behind them. They were on their red life, after all—there were other things to worry about. 

Jimmy knew that the fact that Tango loved him shouldn’t be one of them, but when it was more than he wanted to live, it was. There was nothing he could do about it now. They would wake up in bed tomorrow and, maybe if they were lucky, the day after that—but there wouldn't be another respawn. They were out of time, out of options—this was it. 

Tango loved him, Tango wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t need to press his ear further into Tango’s chest to hear his heartbeat—not when it was an echo of his own—but he did it anyway and tried not to number the beats like a countdown, to assign them values and limitations. 

He squeezed Tango tighter, comfort disregarded; it was an offering where words had previously failed him, though there was no guarantee that his message would translate this way either. Physicality was another language Jimmy had never gained proficiency in—pretty much any method of communication verbal or non-verbal was—but he owed it to Tango to try. The trace of his fingers along Tango’s spine said I’m sorry, his breath on Tango’s chest whispered of how he’d spare Tango’s heart from his if he could; forehead to collarbone asked if things could still be normal tomorrow, since there was now a very real possibility that tomorrow was all they had. 

He didn’t bother interpreting the response, focus lost as Jimmy tried and failed not to drift away on the subliminal messaging of his own; that this was his loss, his failure, his fault. 

If he’d tried, maybe he’d have read the brush of Tango’s fingers through his hair as I don’t mind, the press of lips to the top of his head as reaffirming the deliberate choice being made—the decision to stay, to be a part of this. 

But he didn’t. Jimmy was stuck, and not at all like he had thought. Maybe he wasn’t the fish, maybe he was the parasite; the birds were circling and Jimmy could beg all he wanted, but Tango loved him. Tango wasn’t going to swim down. 

Tango wasn’t going anywhere.

[thereaderinsertlady]

Step 1: Go to ao3

Step 2: Search Dimentio/Reader fics

Step 3: Sigh and leave when no new ones have been posted.

Repeat daily

[svtskneecaps]

my personal pipe dream is that one monday the egg statistics drop and flippa (and maybe tilin) are just there. at the end. with one heart, and one gray checkmark.

what i imagine is the server flips their shit. alive!!! alive!!! but they log in and they don't see the eggs. instead they get a message. i do not care who it's from or how it's delivered. they're told the eggs are being held captive somewhere, but they're alive. all that's left is to find them, before sunday at midnight pst. bc if their tasks aren't done, they die (one checkmark, one quest set. once rescued they become triple check like the other eggs)

slimeriana come CRASHING back into the server, they don't know jack shit, ESPECIALLY mariana who doesn't recognize 90% of the island anymore but holy fuck, flippa is alive somewhere and they have to find her. and maybe mariana's still in the old server days mindset of raising his kid alone but slime's slowly been indoctrinated into "it takes a village" and honestly the absolute second mariana logs on, someone's gonna be in chat already like HEY MARIANA CAN I TALK TO YOU? be it baghera or cellbit or forever or bad or I DON'T KNOW, COULD GENUINELY BE ANYONE LMAO but like mystery and eggs in danger is chumming the water for this server

which is great bc A) mariana has a concrete goal for logging into the server (finding his daughter) and B) he would be interacting with the rest of the server along the way, because he's not going to be doing this alone (he wouldn't even be allowed lmfao the rest of the server would be at his doorstep asking to help him in like 15 seconds flat) which means C) he might get reasons to log in extending outside flippa and slime. bingooooo

i call this a pipe dream bc i can poke so many holes in this even rn (does cc!mariana want flippa back, like fr? i'm not up to date) but can you IMAGINE. LIKE DAMN. i'm putting this idea into the public domain fr go nuts with it.

[dirtytransmasc]

How would mama Neytrir or papa Jake react if the RDA brainwashed Spider and made him more ‘human’, eg his hair is short and refuses to Speak navi(despite the fact it’s literally his language), and now wears human clothes as well. Spider also doesn’t remember anything about his old life, he doesn’t remember his mama, dad, siblings, friends, interests or even hair braiding. Just imagine mama Neytrir's reaction to this……💔

this had to be a mother's worst nightmare, for her own child to no longer recognize her, to look at her with fear and disgust, cowering from her touch. those demons shaved him, stripped him of his jewelry, and his songchord, forcing ill-fitting and bland RDA clothes on what remained of his tiny, underweight little body. every bit of skin covered in dark bruises, yellow patches painted the in-between, both eyes ringed with deep blacks and reds, his gaze absent, dead. he looked ill, his skin pale as if he had been kept from the sun, lips shriveled with dehydration and the biting spider seemed intent on doing. spider had refused any food or water, a change of clothes, even if only nicer human clothes, but he just shook his head or shut down.

he wouldn't talk to anyone, not unless he was screaming that his name was no longer 'spider', that the terms of endearment neytiri whispered to him in na'vi were nonsense, that they were all nothing but filthy savages.

neytiri knew that wasn't her son, not truly, and from what she had learned about the humans, what she saw on her son's body, she knew they had tortured him, beat him until he did what they wanted. hearing jake explain to her what they did made her feel sick with rage, made her desperate to hold onto him, to make him know he didn't have to fear them anymore, that he didn't have to pretend anymore.

but as days turned to weeks, it just got worse. spider made it very clear that this was no act, he didn't remember, his family were now strangers, he didn't remember his home, his people.

every day he grew wearier, every time he seemed to come close to remembering something no matter how small he became more and more vile, spitting acid at his family with that empty look in his eye.

neytiri was heartbroken, she would sit there all day, letting her baby throw insults at her, at her people, never once getting angry. she knew, the way a mother knew, that her baby was in there somewhere and she wasn't gonna scare him away. she would wait there every day for the next 100 years if she had to, she was going to get her baby back.

she would crawl closer at night, brush her fingers through the fluffy new growth of his curly golden locks, ever so gentle as to not wake him from the little sleep he managed. he thrashed in his sleep, whining pitifully, shredding her already mangled heart; spider had few nightmares as a child, but when he did, like any child would, he clung close to his mother and father, not letting go till it was long gone. but now she could only watch, praying to the great mother that she show the boy mercy.

when jake forced her to leave the little 'cell' spider confined himself in, she walked the familiar paths of spider's childhood, the routes she shared only with him, in hopes of gaining back some of the joy she once felt with him. the room itself was an old infirmary transitioned to best suit what they thought was a scared and traumatized little boy who was lost in his own torture, but now it was more than that, and spider refused to leave. he spent most of his days curled up in the dark corner next to the cot, so he could only be seen from one direction, head-on.

jake sat with him a few hours everyday, not as long as neytiri, as spider seemed a lot more frightened by him, no doubt the intentions of his captors when they broke his little mind. spider looked through him and it made him feel cold, like he was submerged in ice water. it broke him to see his son, his baby boy, like that. he remembered when spider was so tiny, curled up asleep in his lap, gnawing on his cummerbund like it was a chew toy. he remembered carving the boys first knife, helping him shoot his first arrow, watching him make his first clean kill. he wanted to know where that little boy went, he wanted to bring him back, to hold him and make sure nothing ever hurt him again.

in the short time they weren't allowed in the room, when spider needed to be manhandled and sedated so he could be tube fed and checked up on by norm and max, jake and neytiri clung to each other, trying not to mourn the loss of their son, because he wasn't gone, they would never accept that, but they cried, they screamed and begged and howled like wounded animals; what had spider ever done to deserve this?

spider was a good boy, he did whatever he could to help The People, the village, the elders. he was well-mannered and respectful, always had a smile on his face and a laugh on his tongue. he was the sweetest, most helpful, and loving little boy, what did he do to deserve this?

they had to watch as he fought to wake up from the sedation, tears flowing from his eyes, a pitiful little whine crawling its way out of his chest. most days neytiri could stay behind the window, but watching spider thrash with something raw this time round, choking on his own spit, and for a split second she swore she heard the word mama in-between his horrible sobs.

she rushed to his side, even as max and norm tried to pull her away, as jake stood numb in the doorway. she took his little scarred hands into her own, scared that if she just scooped him up it would scare him away.

"I'm here, sweet boy, I'm here, your mama's here... please baby, I'm right here," she was desperate, for spider's eyes to fall on her and fill with ease, to recognize her, to come back to her.

and for a second he did, he looked like he wanted to melt, for a single second he was there... and then he was gone, screaming and thrashing about, even spitting at her. then neytiri was the one crying, not letting go of his hands until someone dragged her away, begging for him to come back, to stay with her.

jake held her as spider crawled off the cot and back into his corner, dragging the blanket down with him, curling up so you could only see the gold of his hair.

part of neytiri died that day, the hope she held for just a second being crushed just as fast as it had gathered, and it took some of her spirit with her. she went to commune with Eywa that day, desperate for some sort of answer, guidance as to how she was supposed to help her little gift, her miracle, her fkew'hi'i'atan. she wanted so badly to free him from the prison the demons locked him in. but her strength was waning, she couldn't put up with much more, she knew it wasn't him saying it, that it was forced into him, this whole new persona was built and tortured into him, but hearing her baby's voice, no matter how broken, saying such awful things, it was breaking her.

Eywa provided her little answers, little peace, even though she begged and pleaded. she went to her mother who could only hold onto her and attempt to console her as she sobbed. jake held her that night, promised her that he would make the demons pay for what they did to their baby, that no matter what happened, spider would not suffer for nothing. she felt him losing hope, she couldn't blame him, he could barely even be in the room without spider screaming at him.

it had been almost a year before there was any change, spider stopped fighting, just went catatonic, stared off into space for hours and hours. they'd tried taking him outside, jake holding him in strong arms, laying him in the grass, racking finger's through his hair as the wind blew past him. they'd never managed to get spider outside before then, they had tried, so hard. they hated keeping spider in that sterile white room, even if they hadn't kept him by choice. neytiri insists that something was there, that his eyes shifted a little, that his breath came easier. jake couldn't decided if she was right or if it was just wishful thinking, he doesn't know which one hurts more.

neytiri could hold him now, and she did, every day. she sat there and sang to him, kissing his forehead, talking to him as if it was any other day, and her baby was right there like it had been before.

spider had to be carried everywhere, months spending balled up in corners or sedated to keep him from destroying himself atrophied all his muscles, even if he wanted to, he would never walk on his own, not without a lot of help and a lot of physical therapy. they were unsure if he'd be able to speak if he wanted to either, as he only used his voice to scream and cry. it felt almost unethical to keep spider, he had no quality of life, he was nothing but a shell and it was devastating. they were faced with a horrible question; what do you do when a persons mind has all but died, leaving them to suffer in a broken body? what do you do when death would be a mercy but simply won't come? what do you do when your child is in that position, do you watch them wither away, knowing every single day is nothing but pain and fear and all you can do is watch?

one day spider's songchord showed up, neytiri knew who put it there, and as much as she detested that man, as much as she blamed what happened to her boy on that man, she knew he had some amount of heart. he let spider go, he brought spider back to them, and now he'd managed to find his songchord. it had been left on the edge of omatikaya territory, the songchord was wrapped in his loincloth, a small string of beads next to it, spider's hair beads. she was grateful, in a strange way, she understood what he had done, why he had done it; he never meant for this to happen, and he took full blame for it, this was his way of saying sorry.

neytiri took spider to Eywa that day, placed him under the tree of souls, singing his songchord, watching eywa hold her baby in her arms. spider wasn't asleep, but he wasn't awake, he wasn't there. she connecter to the tree, hoping to find spider within the connection... when she did she almost regretted it, just for a second.

she found spider, her spider, curled up in a ball, sobbing. when she reached out to him, desperately, his eyes met hers. he stared for a second before throwing himself at her. for the first time in forever she heard na'vi on his tongue, heard him call her mama, heard his voice.

she held him as tight as she could, holding onto him as if he was going to disappear. her baby was locked in his own mind, unable to scream out, to beg for help, his minds only goal now was to survive, even if it meant killing him off. but here, where only their souls mattered, she could finally reach her boy.

"mama," his voice was broken, though this time it was overrun with pain and emotion, as he clung to her.

"oh my son, my son I'm here, I never left you."

"mama," he repeated, as if thats the only thing he could think about.

"I never gave on you fkew'hi'i'atan, I know you were in there, and I know your fighting. I know your tired, I see it, I see it, my sweet child. I know you want to give up, that your heart is tired. but I am here, I am waiting for you, your father is waiting, your siblings are waiting, baby we're waiting for you, come back to us." she begged her son, begged him with every last bit of energy she had.

"I don't know how mama, I'm trying, I'm trying really hard, I wanna come home," he cried, cowering into her chest, a subconscious fear kicking in.

she brushed back his hair, kissing the top of his head, trying to reassure him that he was safe here with her. "It's ok, little one, it's oke I will come here everyday with you if that's what it means, I will give myself to Eywa herself, to get you back. I promise you spider, I will never give up on you my son. I know its hard and its scary, but I will be here," she meant every word, she would do whatever it took to get her boy back.

"I'm sorry," he sniffled, "I was so mean, I said... I said such horrible things, I made dad go away, so I hid, I hid as far away as I could and now I can't get back."

neytiri felt her world collapse around her. spider did this for her, for jake, he gave up his own mind, what little bit he had left, for them.

she didn't know what to say, but she didn't need to saying anything, cause Eywa knew, spider knew, she knew. there were some things that couldn't be said, feelings that could never be expressed in words. so she held her baby boy as close as she could, kissing his temple, tucking her head over his.

"I will take you home spider, I will find a way, I promise you that. tomorrow I will come with your father and we will find a way to fix this. rest for now, my little one, you don't have to be strong anymore, its our turn now. you've been so strong and so brave, let it be my turn, can you do that for me?"

he nodded against her, "five more minutes?" his little voice asked her, as if he was a baby all over again - she hadn't let herself remember he wasn't a baby anymore, he was 18 now, in so long, the thought hurt - as he curled into her chest.

"of course hi'i'tìyawn, I'll stay as long as you need."

there was something so simple, painful and bittersweet, as a mother holding her child. as she rocked him she imagined them back in their home, the home spider should have know. the home they could have had back in hometree. she let spider see what she used to see, both of them being lulled into the lullaby of The Great Mother, until the bond was broken by Eywa herself. jake had to carry them both home that night, but that was ok, because he found them in each other's arms, covered in ato'kirina, and something told him it would all be ok.

[creativenicocorner]

A strange case takes Reigen and Serizawa to a small (intimately so, a detail Reigen might be hesitant to comment on) village North in the mountains, where they quickly discover things are far stranger than they both realized. Not only that, but they might be more than just a little out of their depths.

Nature, the past, it all has a way of being heard - even to those reluctant to listen.

---

Reblogs, Kudos, and Comments are deeply appreciated ♡

[egginfroggin]

*smacc*

It's ya boi. Major character death.

Emmet's fine, he's just a wee lil bit dead, that's all. Nothing some therapy won't help.

So I've had like no inspiration last long enough to really finish an illustration, so instead I'm trying to embrace the sketchy half-finished look.

Also, highlighter brush, beloved.

Have a good day! :>

(Program: Krita; time taken: about 1 hr. 40 minutes)

[chiropteracupola]

emothy what is the deal with wormsfic. I Must Know

It's The One Where I Put Worms (So Many Worms) In That Man :)

in more seriousness, this is the very very long flight of the heron undead!Keith au which I ...apparently have not posted another chapter of in over a year.

this is an expansion of 'this is not your grave, get out of this hole' to great, wiggly, slimy heights, wherein the idea of this hole not being a grave is somewhat complicated by the fact that it Is in fact a grave. but despite that I continue asking questions such as 'what if you had a Big, Terrible, Difficult-to-Conceal problem (it can be a metaphor for all manner of things if you like) and were loved anyway? what if that problem involved the fact that your open chest cavity was just writhing with worms?'

snippet for vibe taste-testing purposes:

Keith forces his fist closed around a pen, pressing each finger into its once-accustomed place and cursing when they do not comply with his wishes. His hand falls open once more if he tries to refine his grasp, and when he manages to hold the pen long enough for a few letters, the script is shaky, unfamiliar. The ink twists on the page, spidery and wet, and Keith pushes the inkwell aside with enough force that it spills over, blotting out an hour’s efforts. “Of course a dead man cannot write,” he says, and laughs, as much a pitiless half-choked sob as it is a laugh at all. But “Tell me what you wish to say, and I may write for you, if you will permit me,” says Ewen, and finds a fresh sheet of paper to replace the stained one.

[dw-flagler]

gross thought but like what do you think would happen if taylor got a parasite. like a tapeworm. one of the ones that hatches in the human body. cause her power doesn't detect larvae or eggs i don't think so she wouldn't know about it if she drank dirty water or something.

again gross thought but i'm thinking about her like detecting through her power a tapeworm hatching in her own stomach. or intestines. wherever tapeworms live. what would you do about having a tapeworm in your stomach and knowing about it from the moment it hatches from its egg. like do you let it die? cause she controls it so she can just make it so it doesn't eat any food and it starves to death. does that make it worse does that kill you

[ughscara]

OH MY GOSH YAME,,, THE 3RD STILL ISNT HERE FOR ME BUT KUNIS BDAY LETTER IS TOO CUTE I EVAPORATED INTO THIN AIR 💥💥💥 all i can think about is reader secretly giving tips to those students who ambushed him and next time they surprise him with a cake that isn't sweet and he actually likes it 💔💔 i just know you end up being popular at the akademiya solely because of kuni and people try to ask you things about him 😭😭 (i just had a sudden rush of scara love and i had to share with someone 🥹)

SUZU .. OH MY GOODNESS OKAY — first and foremost, you're very much welcome! second, i am honored and glad that you reached out to me for this bc 🥹🥹 i wanna pour my heart out in regards to the brainrot and how much i adore him and his letter so here we fucking go. welcome to another episode of ayame loves scara <3

in regards to evaporating into thin air; that is such a perfect way to describe how i felt while reading it too ;; i mentioned this in my silly lil post but i was literally smiling from ear to ear reading his letter, it's just so nice hearing he's up to his usual mundanities yet still experience something eventful in a way :') "it was so incredibly ridiculous i had to laugh" just the image of him laughing. like. genuinely laughing has me going so soft and melt into a puddle

now brainrot time ( ✧ ✧⁠)

reader, in this vision of this specific scenario, wouldn't be affiliated with the akademiya. sure, visits are quite common for you, but it's only for a certain vahumana scholar... he's been the talk of the town for a decent while, not only for his eccentric personality; but also for possessing an insight vastly different from your typical scholar. some students had the gall to examine that harsh exterior falter ever so slightly when you arrive to mainly check up on him with a meal prepared for him, heard saying such things like “you didn't have to trouble yourself.” under his breath only for you to hear all the while he's taking what you had for him that day in his hands, scurrying away in the wild whilst treating himself to the delicacy he's grown to take a liking to ( code sentence for: loves immensely ).

of course, noticing your close bond with vahumana's one and only hat guy, it prompted a few brave souls from the akademiya to approach you and inquire about your lover. some questions were a little on the nose, and you didn't hesitate to turn those questions down for both his sake and yours. mainly his.

overtime, kuni would start hearing your name echo in the halls. sometimes in the house of daena while he occupied himself with reading to pass time. more popular for your connection to him rather than something else... of course, occasional praises being sung about you would enter his earshot, but that is precisely what they should've settled on first. regardless, the first time they ( some of the students ) interrupted his peace; jumping out of a bush with a cake that, in his gaze, was sickeningly sweet as he so described. sharp eyes from one of the students was enough to alert the others that perhaps the cake they got him wasn't something he particularly liked... so, they seek who for guidance? you, of course.

encounter after another when the students spot you at puspa cafe on your own, your desire to see your lover being unceremoniously interrupted by a student or two having a few things to ask you. you admit, you found a bit of amusement in how literally everyone in the akademiya knew little to none about him. and truthfully, you felt like some divinely favored being to be able to call him your boyfriend, but you digress. his dessert preferences was something you didn't expect to be asked a day prior to his birthday, but the question wasn't unwelcome. you'd dawn on a small smile and explain to the students that he isn't so fond of sweets. sure, he'll have dessert, but they're always bitter. your excitement was unfortunately not kept at bay when the group of vahumana students brought up why they were asking. and you, naturally, tagged along with them to surprise him.

all you did was provide directions, the path he always takes to his favorite spot that he rarely ever visits unless with you tagging along or something would weigh down his mind. and for the fun of it, you made sure to remain hidden as the group jumped out of the bush with a cake that this time, was one exactly to his liking. that same laughter that erupted from him last time, as the students told you, escaped his lips again. this one seemed more... genuine, in comparison to the last one which the students explained as "feeling like they were getting spit in the face."

from his perspective, as his eyes were fixed on the matcha flavored cake presented to him, he could just about feel your presence lurking here. you're the one who's been indulging them in their meaningless questions that were only answered for the sake of knowing more, you're watching him right now, aren't you? of course you are, not when he was able to make out the little hum that was almost taken away along with the breeze and the accomplished squeal from one of the students.

just how much did you indulge them? not much he figured, but you didn't shy away from explaining his dessert preferences. typical from you, yet that laughter that escaped his lips, the slightly lighthearted snark thrown at the students standing in front of him with his favorite cake, and the acknowledgement of your presence here that slowly began to dissipate... you have some explaining to do.

[paimonial-rage]

A while back, my friend asked me what I thought my writing style was. It's been something that has been sitting on my mind for a while, but I think I finally got to an answer. I'm putting this on here because, one, I like talking about myself, and two, I have a bad memory so if I'm ever asked this question again, I have something to refer to.

Simply put, my writing style, at least for longer fics, can best be described as opening a can of worms and then wrapping them up prettily into a present. My main goal when writing a fic is to introduce tension, then bring it to catharsis. Majority of my fics will have a central core theme. This theme can be a statement, problem, point, etc. By the end of the fic, my goal is to reaffirm the theme, explain it, subvert it, or bring it to closure. However, because I want my fic to be akin to a present, I try to wrap everything up as satisfyingly as I can.

One can say that introducing conflict and resolving it is the form for every story out there, but I specifically want my fics to bring about catharsis. I want the ending to give endorphins. I want it to feel good. I want it to feel right. I want it to be a proper ending. I want it to be the mic drop at the end of a killer slam poetry performance. I'm not saying I'm good at it, but I want the ending of my fics to be a statement that there is absolutely no doubt about what my story is about.

I'll say this again. I'm not necessarily good at it, but the way I try to achieve this is primarily through the manipulation of tension. I do my best to frame everything, from the sequence of the events to the wording of my sentences, to keep an ongoing sense of tension through the fic. You as the audience is tasked to deal with this tension. However, it is through this emotional labor that when the tension is finally resolved, the ending feels better because it was deserved. I want my audience to feel that the work they put in was worth it.

However, this is not so simply done. As before, the ending of a fic needs to be framed properly. There should not be any loose threads or worms wriggling around. So then comes the question of how does one do this? I'll be honest, there are many different ways, and despite this, I still have a difficult time. My favorite way is through parallels. I enjoy making a direct parallel between the ending and the theme or the beginning of the fic. Either way, you should feel goosebumps from the ending you choose. You should be proud of it. That's the only way you know you did it right.

Some examples of things that fall into this writing style is What Destiny Has Brought. The theme is self-worth and self-acceptance. The parallel is first Fischl giving her true name to reader. And ends with reader giving her name back to her. In Follow the Wind (part one/part two), the theme is control and fear of change. The parallel is that you start off forever running after him, but in the end when he finally lets you in, you overtake him. In Slitherer-Outer, the theme is that Zhongli never pays for anything and here's proof! However, the end of the story chucks that whole premise out the window in the rudest way possible.

[kyliafanfiction]

Honestly, if I thought it might actually be possible to just... exorcise the Amy brainrot from my head and move on with my life, fic ideas unwritten, fics unread and Worm unfinished, I'm tempted to.

Not because of the brainrot itself, but because of how fucking annoyed thinking about Ward and all the Ward-era WoG shit Wildbow pulled gets me.