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

[gd-dollopole]

I'm so sorry for this, it sucks! I'm so busy too I can't even read I WANT TO DIE!!! But you can do this, it seems very tough BUT I BELIEVE IN YOU!!! And this system sucks, they should at least give you more holidays to take all of this in.

AND I'LL BE THERE TO COMMENT WHEN IT'LL BE OVER and take your time to write it don't worry, I understand and so do your other readers (I thought too I could have finished my two fics earlier BUT you know life so *sad face*)

BUT HERE it is cooking something as always, and maybe Arthur doesn't even have that many special powers, he just gets easily tired if he doesn't cuddle or snuggle Merlin, or something, like he can eat and sleep and be active but if he doesn't get his dose of MERLIN SNUGGLES nah he might as well die.

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” Merlin stared one second at those puppy eyes and just sighs and goes “Yeah, fine, I’m not typically a fan of worms, but if you were one—“ *Arthur runs to squish him in his arms. Arthur is happy☺️*

(thank you, thank you, we’re gay AND SMART the best of two worlds)

Yeah yeah, Merlin being a doctor, Merlin being a biologist, a writer,...

BUT what if Merlin decided for shit and giggle to find a weird thing to study? The kind of thing that when you explain it at family meal there is a blank of confusion because nobody understands what you do/because this is so fucking weird

Now this could go 2 different way

Post return arthur coming out of tha lake and Merlin desperately avoiding what he has been doing the last decade (IMAGINE IF HE GOT A JOB AS A PROFESSOR OF SAID WEIRD STUDIES)

Merlin peacefully walking to get to his class and finding reincarnated Artbur. Poor him trying very hard to avoid the subject of "In What Field He Is"

[got-into-worm-by-mistake]

Okay, I've Read Worm: A Retrospective Part 5: What Was I Fucking Surprised By?

So, as you may remember, I got into Worm thoroughly spoiled by the wiki and Wormblr and r/parahumans and r/Wormfanfic and actual Worm fanfic. I knew pretty much all the basic details of all the plot twists. And yet, of course, there are things I didn't expect, things the fandom or the wiki mislead me about, etc. Things I was surprised by.

So let's talk about a few:

Taylor Hebert: As I've said, I kind of worried, before reading Worm, that I'd find Taylor insufferable. The sort of character that tries to be a hero and then convinces themselves to do all sorts of bad stuff while telling themselves they're still a hero/good person/etc is hard to write well without being really unpleasant to read/watc/etc. Self-righteousness in general is hard to enjoy for me. Taylor, honestly, stops thinking of herself as a good person partway through the post-Levi period, in most ways, and she never gets self-righteous about it. So Taylor was much more sufferable than I thought. Which is good, because I would have dropped Worm like a hot potato if she'd been insufferable as the main POV.

Eidolon & The Endbringers: (Sounds like a band name). The whole 'you needed Worthy opponents' thing, and the way people talked about Eidolon (seriously, this fandom as a whole is hugely unfair to the guy, istg) really gave me the impression of like, this vainglorious piece of shit guy who wants adulation and doesn't care how he gets it. And like... I don't get that impression from his Interlude at all? He doesn't seem to give two shits about fame, just about knowing what he did mattered. And he knew that well before the Endbringers. Obviously, he subconsciously created them, and then [High Priest] got all goddamn malicious in his compliance but he's not the vainglorious asshole who charges off to face Scion in single combat or w/e the way the fanfiction gave me that impression. Also, like, maybe it's just me, but I define 'Worthy Opponent' as 'something the person could have a reasonable chance of defeating in a solo fight'. So for me, a worthy opponent would be a rowdy 12 year old with maybe a white belt in karate. the Endbringers are not solo-able opponents for Eidolon. So absolutely not doing what he actually wanted. I really think the fandom is unfairly hard on Eidolon.

Interlude 15.x: Look, at the risk of starting discourse - I'm sorry. I've read 15.x Backwards and forwards and there is just Nothing pointing towards rape in the text, even looking for it as I was. I really expected I'd see some line, some implication, some fucking hint and there's just... absolutely nothing. The text of Worm as written, whatever Wildbow claims he meant and whatever he did mean, does not support a rape interpretation of events. And that sure as fuck surprised me.

Extinction 8.6: The way people - and even some fics - talked about the scene where Amy messes with Taylor post-Leviathan made it sound like Amy straight up ripped off Taylor's mask or something extreme like that, and then Taylor sees unmasked Sophia while trying to run and hide after being unmasked. What we got was Amy being a bit of a bitch, deliberately refusing to answer a question Taylor asked because she knew not answering would upset the girl (not cool), Amy's bedside manner being shit, and Taylor's own paranoia (and the godawful choice of the heroes to handcuff her to the bed) filling in the blanks. And this absolutely tepid-ass shit is pointed to by people as proof that 'Amy was a bitch the whole time'.

The Leviathan Fight: It was a lot shorter than I expected. I enjoyed reading it in ways I was worried I wouldn't.

Cauldron: Now, here's the thing. Characters that do bad things, knowing they're bad, but in pursuit of a greater good? That shit is my goddamn jam. I fucking love characters like that. They're my catnip! And I went into Worm sympathetic as FUCK to Cauldron. and I come out of Worm going 'Jesus Christ what a bunch of fucking idjits!' Their shoestring illuminati was run by a bunch of teenagers who never grew up and a college student who's a worse control freak than Taylor. Their incompetence appears to be the whole point (until Wildbow's WoGs turned everything into Cauldron social engineering and he went out of his way to make a big thing about how Cauldron was totes necessary for making things better. Man just cannot shut up). They try for decades to put some final fight against Scion together, and they fail epicly. No groundwork, no real success, and they turned to ACCORD for their post-apocalyptic plans. And apparently had no plan for a mass Case-53 breakout/attack. Which is... sure a choice. Dumping the Case-53s the way they did. The choice of which Case 53s to dump (Sveta sure was a choice of who to just... let out into the world. Like, not an issue with her personally, but you don't release that kind of uncontrollable murder tentacle out into the world, maybe? Just maybe?). I went into Worm thinking I'd be on Cauldron's side, at least a little, and I came out just... god no, you people are stupid.

Amy's Birdcage Arc: I really thought we'd see more of Amy's time in the birdcage, but 16.z really was all we got.

Alexandria's Death: I don't quite know what I did expect, but I didn't expect Alexandria's death to be so goddamn Darwin-award worthy. The woman died like the biggest of CHUMPs and that was much funnier than I expected.

The Drugs are Fantastic line: I knew it was being taken out of context, but it wasn't quite in the place I expected, I'll be honest. Not sure what I did expect.

Taylor's Weaver Arc/The Timeskip: I expected... I dunno. Less of an abrupt transition, I guess? I thought the timeskip would be like, a series of small scenes skipping ahead over two years between them? Instead, right in the middle of Arc 25, it just jumps ahead two years without ceremony. Did not expect that. At all.

Slaughterhouse Nine: I was not prepared for just how goddamn boring the Nine were. I don't think I read any spoilers about how Jack Slash being boring af was the point until I'd already started the S9 arc, but I especially didn't expect how pathetically bland as characters Manny the Kinless and Burnscar and Crawler and Sibby the Friendly Neighborhood Cannibal would be. Cherish managed to be interesting by being such a failure, and Bonebitch, to my eterntal frustration, managed to be funny, but the rest? Also, I thought Manton would die in the Bay, rather than be killed unceremoniously offscreen while in Boston.

The Butcher: For a character who appears in all of two chapters, the Butcher has a much larger presence in the fandom. But that is Worm for you, because groups like the Elite and the Fallen also show up more in the fics than their presence in the main story merits (Though the Fallen have more of a presence in Ward, even if I gather Ward kinda sorta retcons like half the details or at least presents irreconcilable visions of the organization)

Empire 88: They were way out of focus, compared to how much they appear in fics. But it is fun in fics to see Nazis get beat up all the time, so this is valid. But also, like, even their post-Levi remnants were weaksauce af. Someone in a server the other day said that taking out Marquis took out an entire faction, and that Levi proved that taking out Kaiser (or Allfather before him) doesn't stop the Empire, gesturing to the Aryan's Chosen and the Pure as proof but like... lbr. Both groups were pretty damn pathetic in the post-Leviathan bay. Regardless, I expected to see more of the Nazis getting beat in Worm itself, and we really didn't. But this is one time where I don't care, because as I said, seeing Nazis get beaten up over and over again in the fanfic is fun.

Ward: I was worried reading and finishing Worm might make me want to read Ward. Thankfully, it did not. *whew*

Now, there are probably others, but nothing else as major. But there are also some things I just plain wasn't surprised by.

Amy Dallon: I went into Worm expecting her to be my blorbo, and that didn't change. She's definitely my character type. I feel the same about her storyline in Worm as I did going into it.

Tattlebitch: I expcted to hate her, and I stayed hating her. Lisa sucks. Like, she has her redeeming moments and features, but overall, I still hate Lisa.

Carol Dallon: My Sympathy for Carol remains about as theoretical as it always was.

The PRT/Protectorate: I suspected the PRT/Protectorate was not as useless and incompetent and ACAB as a lot of fics painted it and... I was right.

My Ultimate Opinion: I went into Worm thinking it wasn't really for me, but that I'd probably find it well written and that many characters would be engaging. I figured it would have massive gaping plot holes and that I would never find it to be the 'amazeballs perfect wonderful' that some people seem to find it. And yeah, I was right about that too.

[euthymiya]

acting like you’re some woke person just because you advocate for middle aged women to be lifeless on the internet is not the flex you think it is 💀

You seem rather passionate about this so I’m going to indulge your ask to let you know three things:

Writing is a hobby that gets better with age, life experience, and practice. The best pieces of writing objectively come from older people and I’m not talking about fanfiction. I mean books and literature. I’m serious—go look at some of the most well known pieces of literature and then search up the ages of their authors during the years they were published. You’ll find the older writers tend to bust out bangers and this principle is very much applicable to fics too by default. Also writing fanfic is not “lifeless” lol. Some of you act like writing fanfic is juvenile compared to a novel and it’s rly not that different from writing an original piece of fiction. Sure, sometimes fanfic can be a little less on the conventional side in terms of technique. But genuinely the concept of putting characters into situations to create a plot is literally the main thing on both sides here and if you think writing fanfic is silly, it makes 0 sense to hold creative writing to some pedestal. Some fanfic writers demonstrate AMAZING original world building skills especially if they write au’s that diverge from canon and I think you are out of your mind if you think this hobby is not oftentimes an impressive one rather than “lifeless”

Being 30+ doesn’t automatically mean you must/do have a family and kids but I’ll still indulge that point and say you can easily balance a work and personal life while also having a hobby. I know middle aged men who dedicate more time to hobbies like hunting and fishing than middle aged women do with writing. One actually requires you to leave your house and family behind and the other you can do from the comfort of your home and tend to your family should you need to. I think the nature of your opinion only stems from a misogynistic view on aging women but that’s another can of worms

People don’t stop consuming and enjoying things as soon as they hit their third decade of living. If that’s your viewpoint on life, you’re going to set yourself up for a very miserable time once you hit 30. If you’re already 30+ then you’re a hypocrite by default by even being here in the first place lol. Also, life is literally so fucking silly okay? You wake up, work, pay taxes, and try to get by with what is usually an underpaid paycheck. Just fucking enjoy your life and let others enjoy theirs okay? If a 30 year old likes anime, then that is literally so god damn harmless I cannot stress enough how unimportant that is. There are 30 year olds out there doing heinous things in their free time and you choose to be bothered by someone who happens to produce an assortment of words from time to time. Please reevaluate your priorities

All things aside I cannot convince you that being 30+ and enjoying fandom and fanfic is not weird unless you really just realize that it’s not weird. Idk how old you are but I assume you’re younger than 30 because no 30 year old would be on fandom tumblr and then bash others for it. But regardless, just because you think something is weird doesn’t mean it’s bad. It is literally the most harmless thing I do not understand why you would care so much, just move on???? When you think someone dresses weird in real life do you go point it out to them??? No you think it to yourself and move tf on—and if you would voice it to them then you are literally a rude individual. Plain and simple. Rude and disrespectful and I would suggest you again, reevaluate. And it’s the same principle here. You just move on. If you seriously cannot be convinced that this is normal and just absolutely are dead set on believing that 30+ year olds who enjoy fandom are weird, fine. But just keep it to yourself it is the bare minimum you can do to be a decent person I cannot stress this enough to you

And one more thing. The people who are writing the mangas and animes you enjoy so much are middle aged. Older than 30/40. Grown people who might even have families and kids. Creativity has no age limit it is just a small joy that people indulge in at any age and it’s a very nice thing when they share it for others to enjoy, as well. Please just enjoy someone’s art and live a little. I promise you will be much happier and peaceful if you just read a good fic without worrying about the age of whoever produced it. I guarantee you a lot of the BEST fics you’ll read will come from the older writers they are literally doing you a favor if you happen to enjoy reading fanfic. Why bite the hand that feeds you?

[mothhball]

hello and congratulations precious barkeep!!! u-u please may I have a masterfully mixed vodka with coffee and some tomato and pineapple juice? i’m gonna serve it to Arkham Jonathan, because he might be the only one who can stomach this mad concoction lol 💚💚💚

Arkhamverse!Scarecrow x Reader

summary short fic + dark/dead dove + blood play + getting revenge

warnings hey uhm so this might be fucked, reader gets injured, blood (ofc), non-con drugging, non-con body modification, non-con blood drinking, non-con cutting, reader basically goes THROUGH IT

DEAD DOVE !!!!

notes tee hee I was kicking my feet while writing!!! first time playing with him and idk if my brain worms coordinated to get him right, BUT I had fun. thank you so much for ordering a drink <3 Slàinte Mhath!

! MINORS DNI !

event masterlist • main masterlist • taglist • kofi word count: 624

You lost count. Lost count of the hours, the tears, the wasted attempts to plead and beg your way out of this. Knowing Crane, this was to be expected. Once he set his mind to something, he made sure to see it through. With every dreadful, pain inflicting caress, he made sure to see it through.

“Attachment is a dreadful thing, isn’t it.” A statement, not a question. He didn’t expect you to answer, anyway. “So, you can imagine how displeased I am with this entire situation.”

The Scarecrow heaved out a raspy sigh as he stopped his pacing, and he returned to the examination table to once again check the restraints around your wrists. Your eye twitched as his thumb rubbed over the raw skin, irritating the results of your struggles. You weren’t sure what to say. Apologies, bargaining and other nonsense obviously hadn’t worked in the slightest. And at this point, your tongue felt too heavy, and your brain was fuzzed over by the numerous relaxants he had pumped into your bloodstream.

Crane leaned over you, and his image blurred and cleared in tandem with the pulse pounding in your throat.

“I suppose I am to blame as well. I shouldn’t have expected loyalty in Gotham. Not even from you.”

Stepping around to stand over your head, he brushed a sweaty strand of hair out of your face. The touch was almost tender.

Almost.

If it weren’t for the blood he spread over your skin in the process.

Your blood.

“Of all people,” he hummed, leaning down to get a better look at your face. “Ratting me out. Running like frightened vermin to run your mouth to the first fool who’d listen.”

His eyes narrowed, and a feeling of shame joined the nausea in your stomach.

“Was this your worst-case scenario if things went wrong like they did? Tell me, did you think I would kill you and call it a day?”

Your lips parted, but the words died on your tongue.

“Your work is brilliant. But you are so frustratingly stupid,” he hissed, moving next to your side again, and reaching for the scalpel. A familiar acquaintance at this point. One that has been a trusted instrument for the past hours.

You could always tell the moment that it cut. Even with a paper cut, the fleeting moment of cold pain was a telltale sign that something was split. Skin and flesh and fat. Tissue separated, layers revealed.

With a steady hand, Crane guided the blade from your sternum up to your collarbone. Enough for skin to open up, enough for your breath to hitch as the warm blood ran over your cold flesh and pooled in the hollow of your throat. Fortunately, not enough to eviscerate you like a frog on the dissecting table. Just right to hurt and mangle and teach.

“You know why I couldn’t be lenient. This has to be a learning moment,” he murmured, already bending over to lap the blood off your skin while his spindly hands spread over your body. His breath quickened with every drag of his tongue over the wound, and you could feel the tremble in his fingers as they dug into your plush frame.

Finally, he straightened up again, reigning himself in with much difficulty. With his teeth and mouth stained sanguine, he undid your leather restraints, freeing you from the metal table before he guided you into a sitting position. The world spun for a moment as Crane put your arm around his shoulders to steady you.

But the drop in your stomach wasn’t just from disorientation.

Your body felt lighter. Incomplete.

“Don’t fret. You’re still useful, after all. But you won’t need your legs to work, will you?”

[kohakhearts]

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

[germesthegenie]

AU where Amy gets temporarily deployed to Chicago to help deal with some villain (idk maybe some plague type cape) and gets assigned a bodyguard who’s basically her type and not her sister

Follow up to this post

[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.

[whirlybirbs]

[LT. SIMON "GHOST" RILEY VOICE] seasonal depression innit

[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.

[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

[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)