#my smog son

[booksgivemelifeiswear]

I am having  new feelings about Higgins...like we know he tried to help Andrew while he was still living with the Spears, so imagine, he was used to deal with “problematic” teens and probably had already dealt with abused children too so he noticed something was wrong with Andrew. Underneath all that apathy was a big layer of anger and beneath that there was so much hurt. 

He must have noticed that that blond kid was starting to use long sleeves even on the summer (he probably thought it was bruises, bruises caused by someone else and sometimes it was). 

He probably noticed that even if everyone was scared of him, Andrew flinched when anyone touched him (at the time he still hadn’t taught himself not to do that, to stare at the person in the eyes and tell them silently that any unwanted touch would be responded with a knife on the gut). He probably tried to talk to him, tried to get him to open up, he knew the Spears were trying their best but sometimes these things happen where you least expect it. He must have some connections to the school Andrew attended and was informed that he wasn’t a problem maker, didn’t get detention, nor was he a exemplary student either, but they told him it was usual for him to stay at the library until late night, the librarian caught him sleeping there a few times. 

He must have turned to the person he was the closest with that was involved in the story so he questioned Drake about Andrew’s behavior,  asked if he noticed anything wrong but Drake told him that no, it wasn’t new the way Andrew was acting, he was already acting like that when he came to live with them, that it had probably something to do with his old foster families. 

Higgins tried to be assured after that, bc then it means that he could get better but it crushed onto him when, next week on the regular meeting he made with every teen he saw that Andrew was walking stiffly, he was quieter than normal and worse, he had a bruise on his lip. It wasn’t the kind of bruise made by a fall or a punch on the mouth. Unfortunately, Higgins had seen that kind of bruise on another teen before, a angry girl that  refused to speak in anything but curse words. It was the kind of bruise made by teeth. The officer felt an hole on his chest, it was impossible that no one on the Spears house hadn’t noticed the bruise, Andrew was problematic but he rarely got into fights in school (no one dared to go against him). He tried to speak to the boy but he got nothing, he refused to say that anything was wrong, when Higgins asked about the bruise on his lip Andrew froze for a few seconds before laughing a terrible laugh that Higgins didn’t want to hear ever again, and said “you should have seen the other guy” and left. Higgins decided he had to get him out of that house. 

But it didn’t matter how much he talked to the social worker, they couldn’t simply move Andrew without any evidence. Higgins snapped “you won’t take him away even if I say that there is undeniable evidence of abuse?” He said, screamed at the woman’s face. “Not undeniable, we both know Andrew Doe is not an saint, he could have involved himself into some fight for all you know. Even if we try to go with your hunch, where do you suggest we take him to? Doe is already considered too old by the families interested in adoption, he has a historic of problematic behavior, no one will want him.” She said coldly and Higgins almost lost it right then an there. 

He was desperate for an answer, he had to find evidence or something. It was then that he met Andrew on a baseball match of all places. Except it wasn’t Andrew. He could barely contain his excitement when he got the woman’s, Andrew’s mother, contact and address, he thought he had found his answer. When he told Andrew, Cass and Richard present, the boy didn’t seem to know how to react, but Higgins saw his eyes shine brighter before he left to his room.

Only, later,  Cass told him that Andrew didn’t want to meet his brother (Higgins can’t look at any of the Spears in the eyes anymore, he might not be sure who was the corrupt but he knew that in the end, the blame fell to all of them.) said his twin, Aaron, had sent him a letter that he had answered with a very eloquent “Fuck you”. According to her, he had shut down any further conversations about the subject and soon the Minyard’s had become a forbidden subject in the Spear’s house.

Higgins probably tried to talk to Andrew but he noticed the boy was getting quieter, more subdued, it was like he was disappearing right before his eyes. 

And then Andrew got arrested. Nothing big, just enough to get him into juvie for a few years, Cass called him in despair wanting help in how to handle the situation, she wanted to adopt Andrew and wanted to make sure this wouldn’t delay her plans, Drake was going to the army soon and she wanted to reform the house so Andrew would feel included into the making of his “new home”. The cop didn’t hesitate in calling the number he had kept, but it wasn’t Tilda Minyard that answered the phone, but her brother Luther, so Higgins explained everything. On the next week the man came and visited Andrew in juvie, four days later Andrew finally met his twin, the next month Andrew got a deal based on his good behavior and left juvie as Andrew Minyard. 

Higgins had never been so happy to see one of the teens leave town, but even if Andrew was safe, the new boy that the Spears were fostering wasn’t. 

Higgins probably dedicated the next years trying to find proof of what was going on in the Spears house. At first he thinks Richard is the one abusing the children, opens a case against him even, but still no kid confirms a thing. He tried to call Andrew, he knows he is moving on with his life but the Spears are already fostering their fourth teen and Higgins thinks its getting worse, so he calls PSU and manages to talk with Andrew but it’s not really a talk. Andrew’s voice is different, he is an adult now and there’s something there that wasn’t there before. Higgins had heard that Andrew had been charged for assault after some kind of fight outside a nightclub and had made a deal, some anti psychotic meds for his freedom. He talks in an agitated tone, hanging up on him before making go to the point, his energy completely different from what he is used to, but not in a natural way.

Higgins already hated it.

After the fruitless call he decided to try harder, got the help of a psychiatrist that also worked voluntarily and together they got strong indicatives. 

It kills him inside but he decides not to mellow on it for now, he has to be sure before he can feel guilty, before he can beat himself for ignoring the obvious alternative.

He just needed a confirmation and Higgins knew he had to ask for it personally so he bought the tickets to Palmetto for the next day.

Finding the athletes dorms in PSU was easy but finding Andrew was not. On the first floor he asked for the number of Andrew’s room and got a few looks of fear and an warning of “be careful around there” that he didn’t really understand but knowing Andrew maybe it was coming from experience. He knocked on the indicated door and got no response, knowing already it would be a hard conversation.

He knocked again and maybe he let his desperation show in his knocking because the next door over opened. The girl crossed her arms when she saw him, her expression closed off, behind her he could see the tall boy, his eyes curious. There were a few mumbles behind them but no one else stepped out.

“Hi” Higgins said with a tight smile, unable to hide his tension and it made the girl frown harder. “I am here to see Andrew D- Minyard.” He corrected himself last minute and now the boy’s eyebrows were at the top of his forehead. “My name is Phil Higgins, I work for the Oakland PD” And now he could see them both close off completely and realized that they probably were Andrew’s teammates. The thought of them being protective over him brought him some unexpected joy.

“He’s not here…I will let him know you passed by.” The girl asked, trying to dismiss him but he won’t budge, not now, not when he is so close.

“I would rather wait for him, can you tell me when will he be back?” 

The girl and the boy exchanged looks before shaking their heads but make no move to take out their phones to call or message Andrew.

As a last try, he took out his card and hands it to the couple.

“I will be waiting for him, can you give me a call when he gets back?” He said.

“Sure.” She answered but still looks unsure.

He had no choice but to give them space and hope they do call, so he walked around the campus, not getting too far from the dorms. He saw a few white and orange banners, promoting the Foxes, one talking about their recents wins and he felt a little pang of pride that at least Andrew seemed to be doing fine in his sport.

It was a little surprising but relieving when he got the message telling him that Andrew is coming back to the dorms.

He rushed back and saw the two new faces with the couple from before on the hall.

He introduced himself, noticing one of the new boys taking a small step back from him, a look of mistrust in his face.

He knocked on the door again and this time Andrew was the one to open it and Higgins realized it’s not just Andrew’s voice that changed. He had broader shoulders, his posture firmer, looking like someone who wouldn’t be moved unless forced to, and no force in the world was strong enough to do so. 

The carved smile on his face didn’t hide his anger in seeing him there, Andrew was ready to dismiss him again, to close the door on his face, but one word, one name is enough to make him stop. Instead of denying anything, of trying to cover up his slip up, eh asks the one question that chills Higgins spine.

“How many kids?”

And the number tastes like ash on his mouth because this is proof. He was right, but he was too late, and too many kids were hurt because of it. 

Andrew left and he followed him, getting to rooftop, overlooking the whole campus.

The blonde boy struggled to light up a cigarette, inhaling deeply when he is finally successful.

“Andrew…” He started, unsure on how to finish but the other interrupted him with a laugh and a shake of his head.

“Why did you come here, pig?” He asked.

“The other kids won’t testify, I need…” He is interrupted again by the other’s laugh and the sound grated on his nerves because of how forced it was.

“What? You can’t do your job so now it’s up to me to fix up your mess?” 

The words felt like a stab in his heart because he was right. He knew something was wrong, and who he went for help? Drake.

The man he helped, the man he put in contact with countless kids, the man who hurt and scared them so much they would refuse to talk about.

He blinded himself, made it so he wasn’t trustworthy enough to any kid to confide in him, and now he has to look in the eyes of one of the kids he failed and ask for him to open up a wound he is also responsible for.

“I wouldn’t be here if it was necessary, you can’t let other kids be hurt because he is still there.” He tried, knowing it isn’t fair.

Andrew snapped the cigarette in his hand in half, and crushing it under his heel before lighting up another.

“You won’t put that burden on me, Higgins.” He said almost in the tone he is used to before the smile splits his face again. “I already gave up too much for that family, I have things to take care of here, I won’t be distracted by this.”

“Distracted? Andrew, you can’t just let this go, not after everything.” 

“You don’t get to tell how to feel.” He answered with a laugh and putting down his second cigarette. “Go back from where you came from, pig. There’s nothing for you here.” He said and passed through him and Higgins knew better than to hold him back.

He stayed on the roof, looking out and around at the campus, knowing Andrew was right. What right does he have to come here after years, and try to drag him back into that? 

But he couldn’t give up either, he couldn’t ignore the cries for help, he couldn’t let the injustice go on for longer.

So he went back to Oakland, worked with more people, built a task force, all of it trying to catch Drake slipping, trying to catch something. But these things take time and out of sudden it is November and he still hasn’t gotten what he needed.

Then he goes to work and they tell him he got a call, someone named David Wymack, and it takes some time for him to remember the name but soon he figures out who he was.

“He said something happened with Andrew Minyard and that it was connected with your case on Drake Spear.” 

The words make him freeze and he hurries to look it up, maybe it was nothing but then there would be no need for a phone call. It doesn’t take long for him to find out.

The case open in Columbia.

A body.

One arrest.

A homicide in self-defense.

One victim of sexual assault.

He failed.

[sweetbunpura]

Leona, talking about the fountain as he gives a tour: So, he built it when his son was born-

Yuu: So, he built what is essentially a pretty thing to look at, but he couldn't have used that money towards better things? Like putting an effort into rebuilding the slums?

Grim: Henchhuman-

Vil: Could you be any blunter, potato?

Yuu, crosses arms: What? Oh and this whole "being one with nature" thing and allowing some of the natural resources to go untapped-

Kifaji: It's because we don't want to drain the land of what they have given us-

Yuu: No one said you were draining it. Just think of a more eco-friendly way of handling things. Leona said you guys have the greatest concentration of sunlight, right? Turn that into solar energy. Convert some of the heavy smog machines into ones that run on solar.

Lilia, hums: She might have a point...

Kalim: Wow, Yuu! You're so smart!

Yuu: Thanks. On top of that, it'll create jobs for people, especially those who work in high poverty areas. You guys can still be surrounded by nature without having to sacrifice nature for it. *Sighs* I'm done, sorry for ra-

Leona: Marry me.

Yuu: You get Grim in the process if I do.

Leona: Deal.

Kifaji: My Prince!

[sp4ceboo]

Within the Storms of Giedi Prime: Feyd-Rautha x Reader

A/N: the long awaited part two of upon the sands of the arena is hereeee

tw: 18+, smut (more than last time hehehe), p in v, swearing, Feels™, death, assassination, use of the Voice (not on feyd), less violence but still violence, i lack faith in my sequel writing abilities, blowjobs, SUB FEYDDDD, also DOM FEYDDD, sex Outside, lightning and thunder (it says storms in the title what do you expect)

wc: 4.2k

part 1

Giedi Prime is a miserable planet.

It’s evident in the choking, black smog from the factories in the dense air fused with the anguished cries of overworked slaves and the distant rumble of the still active volcanos. You’re near the Harkonnen’s palace grounds - you’re heading towards them, actually, and the promise of a… pleasant night; to your left, you can just about glimpse the looming silhouette of the great arena, squatting like a hulking beast on the horizon, waiting to swallow any poor soul that gets too close to its gaping maw.

Tonight, roiling storm clouds reign the sky, sending sheets of furious rain pounding down upon anyone who dares to be out at this hour - including you. Harsh bolts of lightning spear down, hurtling towards the ground like incensed, condensed moonlight and casting freakish shadows.

Moonlight: the colour of Feyd’s skin. If it weren’t for him, you’d already be off this sorry planet - alas, you must stay a little longer, your body already a little warm at the memory of his skilled fingers and scorching gaze. You haven’t been back since the encounter with the na-Baron in the arena months ago, and you can’t help but feel the sting of doubt in your chest, wondering if he’ll still want a second time, or if you’ll sneak into his room only to find yourself replaced by a concubine.

Not that you occupy significance to him anyway, you remind yourself. Feyd-Rautha could not replace you, because there would be nothing to replace, just ashes of a once bright fire.

Irked by the weakness of your own mind, you pull the hood of your cloak lower over your face, tightening it across your shoulders. The hem is sullied by browning blood: you disposed of your quarry just this morning, and delivered the decapitated head during the early afternoon.

Conveniently, the Bene Gesserit have left you alone for now, most likely tangled in the politics regarding the Kwisatz Haderach while trying to predict the next movement of Jessica Atreides - word is that she has burrowed her way deeper into the desert, surrounding herself and her son with the more fanatic of the Fremen as she bides her time, ready for her next strike.

It means that you’ve been granted enough time to establish yourself as a bounty hunter. For a highly trained Bene Gesserit, the work is easy, and earns you coin a plenty while keeping you on the move and as in shape as assassinating sloppy idiots attempting to run from debt and petty disagreements can.

Slipping through the palace’s perimeter proves easy enough. You use the Voice on a few guards, preferring it to cutting their throats: instructing them to keep quiet and forget you passed by causes much less of a commotion. The scaling of the ramparts that make up the circumference of the inner palace is the most challenging, due to the stone being slick with moss and rain - your fingers dig into the cracks between the weathered blocks of stone, the wind snapping and tugging at your cloak, fiercer now that you’re higher up.

There’s a narrow battlement ringing one side of Feyd’s room. You land on it silently, padding over to the window sill; curtains made of heavy black fabric layered on a dark, wispy privacy layer shroud most of your view of him. His pale skin is almost luminescent under the jagged flashes of lightning bathing his quarters, the blanket having slipped half off him during the night. He lies with his bare back facing you, although it’s hardly a vulnerability - you doubt anyone would be able to creep up on him easily enough to bury a knife into his exposed back without him tearing their throat out first.

Apart from you - hopefully.

Carefully, you ease the window open. A frigid gust of air rushes in as you climb through, and you witness the exact moment that Feyd awakens and becomes aware of your presence; imperceptibly, the muscles in his back ripple before he settles again - you posticipate the feel of them under your palms, hard, lean, perfect for sinking your nails into.

A thrill rushes through you at the sight of him, a sort of wondrous feeling, keen as a knife and just as cutting. You want him all over you, you want him to consume you until all you can remember is him and his smouldering eyes and sensuous touch.

Shrugging off your cloak, you let it pool to the floor around your feet before toeing off your shoes too; breath caught in your throat, you steal over to his bedside, your hand ghosting over the solid curve of his shoulder blade before you grip his shoulder, turning him so his back is flat against the mattress and straddling him in one fluid motion.

The cold kiss of metal meets your neck.

You almost moan at the look on his face. His lips are pulled back in a snarl, his eyes wild, frenzied almost, glittering with the same danger as before. Running your hands up his hard, sculpted chest, you smirk down at him, watching as ever so slowly, his gelid gaze defrosts with recognition, the ice giving way to those all encompassing flames, flames that you surrender to unequivocally.

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ you murmur, fingers circling his wrist.

Feyd blinks, watching you as if he’s going to eat you as always. Slowly, the hand not wielding the knife roams waywardly down your spine, grabs a harsh fistful of your ass and lingers before gliding upwards and settling on your waist. He huffs, an abrupt, amused sound, but you don’t miss the way he greedily drinks up your figure with his eyes.

‘I thought I scared you away, little witch. Presumably, it was not too much for you?’

‘For me?’ You muse. ‘We’ll see.’

Knocking the blade from his hand, you ignore the screeching noise it makes as it skitters across the stone floor, instead enjoying the subtle inhale, loaded with expectancy, that Feyd takes as you lean in close to him. You hover above him for a prolonged moment, arms boxing him in, before he lurches upwards, connecting your lips with his.

A growl sounds at the back of his throat when he tastes you, licking into your mouth as his fingers press at the small of your back, bringing your lower body to meet his. Rolling his hips against yours, he tangles his fingers in your hair; you feel giddy with the feel of him against you, solid and warm and wanting, so real beneath you, so fucking insatiable.

You can’t get enough of him.

Slowly, you pull away, ablaze with the ravening craving in his eyes. The muscles in his well shaped chest flex as he tips his face up, following your lips, and you smile disarmingly at him, hooking your fingers in the waistband of his trousers and pulling them down.

Taking his chin in your palm, you tilt his head so you can look him in the eyes before swiping your thumb over his lower lip, savouring the way he’s putty in your hands: a man destined to be the Baron of one of the most influential, powerful Houses in the Imperium, a lethal, strikingly skilled warrior, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, humbled by your touch.

‘Let me taste you,’ you breathe - it’s almost a command.

‘Please,’ he chokes out, imploring you with his eyes.

Laughing, you press a hand to his sternum and push. He sinks back into the mattress, compliant, and you trail your lips down his neck and sternum, leaving hickeys in your wake. You're seized by the need to make him shake and beg and cry; you want to devour him.

Dragging your nails cruelly down his thighs, branding him with livid red scratches, you tilt your head to the side, a smile playing upon your lips as you listen to the groan that leaves him, the pricks of pain setting him alight with longing. There’s a devout look in his eyes - a fervent, zealous sort of lust that stirs within you with the impulse to make him forget his own name.

Curling your fingers around his hard length and giving him a few pumps, you watch him under your lashes, something akin to a power rush spinning your head around and around. Feyd is wonderfully sensitive, and a sneer pulls at your lips when his fingers scramble for purchase, fisting in his silky sheets as you press a chaste, loitering kiss to his cock head - a pearl of jet precum sits at the apex of it, dark against its rosy, delicate flush.

Dipping your hand into your pants, you collect your slick on your fingers and use it to jerk him - when you glance up, his pupils are blown wide; lips parted, he stares at you, transfixed.

Eyes locked on his, you take him in your mouth: his thighs tighten, every muscle taut as you run your tongue along the veins wrapped around the underside of his cock. His head tips back, displaying the strong lines of his neck as you hollow your cheeks, rubbing your thighs together to ease the increasing ache between them. Jaw slack, you gag when he hits the back of your throat, and he growls at the sight of your hungry eyes growing watery.

You toy with him, teasing him with your tongue and grazing your teeth lightly over his length until he’s gasping your name; the way the syllables leave his tongue is almost pleading, his chest heaving and covered in a sheen of sweat, his thighs shuddering, wracked with tremors.

It’s evident that he’s close, the voracity in his eyes so hot that it melts your bones, sending heat pooling in your core - you’re going to let him wreck your cunt after this; ruin you for any other man. Trembling, his pale fingers hover near your head, splaying over the expanse of your shoulder, his eyes fucking begging for permission, so you pull off him, laughing as his hips jolt forward at the loss, his cock twitching when your fingertips graze his balls.

‘Go on, Feyd,’ you coax. ‘Do as you wish.’

A tender, honeyed noise rips from low in his chest, almost a whimper, a sound you know no one has extracted from him before. It’s the only warning before he fists his hand in your hair, hips bucking as he fucks into your mouth, his eyes rolling back as you gag around him, the debased moan that escapes you sending vibrations down his cock.

You almost black out when he comes down your throat. You’re not sure if it’s the lack of air reaching your lungs or the sweet pain of Feyd’s hand yanking at your hair, but you’re sure that you’ve never taken so much pleasure in someone else’s release. Slowly, you sit up, moving to lie beside Feyd, and he smiles dumbly at you, maybe a little fucked out as he leans in to kiss you, sighing as he tastes his own come on your tongue.

‘I could spend hours exploring you, my little witch,’ he says, pressing his lips to your jaw.

Feyd flips you over with only an echo of ferocity from your previous fight, disrobing you and gripping your thighs, spreading them. Your hands find his shoulders, his back, your fingers resting in the dips of muscle there, trailing down the length of his spine as his own find your slick, yearning cunt.

Outside, the storm blows harder, rain pounding down upon the planet’s surface in sheets, lightning lancing through the thick billows of clouds; it is during one of these strikes that you glimpse that Feyd’s eyes are not as dark as they seem, but the colour of glaciers and blue fire. Within them, just beneath the keenness of his electric gaze, lurks something else - something that makes you hesitate. He senses it immediately, fingers pausing their movement, so you fit your lips to his.

You kiss him to avoid the emotions roiling in his stormy eyes.

He responds immediately, and you easily dismiss the thoughts clouding your mind; he barely knows you, there’s no room for the feelings you just saw in his gaze. You seek his body, not his soul, and it is the same both ways.

‘Fuck me,’ you mumble against his lips.

All coherent sentences leave your mind when he flips you over again, this time with your stomach pressed to his bedsheets as he kneels on the mattress behind you.

‘Ass up, my little witch,’ he commands.

Something within you goes molten at the sound of his voice. You can feel his gaze straying all over your skin, greedy, so you tuck your knees beneath you and arch your back, biting down on your lower lip as his palm presses against your lower vertebrae. He chuckles; it warms your bones.

‘You’re so filthy, little witch, displaying yourself for me.’

Bolts of ecstasy shoot through you as Feyd slides his cock head through your folds, his broad hands gripping your hips so tightly that you’ll be left with bruises. Your breath is punched from your lungs when he sinks himself inside you, balls deep, white hot pleasure rocketing down your spine - it tears a wretched cry from you, more so when he starts a brutal, near sadistic pace, the angle destroying you with vicious bliss.

The drag of his searing, velvet cock on your walls makes your toes curl. You think your body might shatter into a million pieces, the way he plucks the euphoria from it so agonisingly, so beautifully. One of his hands finds its way between your thighs, his thumb rolling endlessly over your clit; you find yourself teetering on the edge, suspended there a moment before you fall.

The way your cunt convulses around his cock as you come doesn’t stop Feyd. Unforgiving, he ploughs into you, his fingers still working on your clit, not breaking his rhythm even as you writhe beneath him, trying to jerk your hips away from his to no avail. It’s too much, the pleasure melting delectably into pain and still he can’t stop, won’t stop, his low snarl a warning in your ear as he pins you to the mattress with a hand between your shoulder blades, leaving you helpless to do nothing but take him.

Tears well up in your eyes, soaking into the sheets beneath you as he rails into you, his fingers speeding up on your clit until you’re begging him, tremors shooting through you from the aftershocks of your orgasm. His grip on your hips is unrelenting, and you sob as his pace increases, the savage friction sending you over again.

For the second time, you come hard around him, pussy clenching and fluttering, ragged cries wracking your body. This time, you bring Feyd with you, the sound he makes sharp and almost pained. He pulls out, and you mewl at the sharp tug of friction, panting as he comes on your back and ass, claiming you with his dark seed.

Breathless, he sits back on his heels as you straighten your legs until you lie full stretch, revelling in the post orgasmic rapture. Dimly, you hear his footsteps on the stone floor, but you pay them no mind, instead letting your eyelids droop as you rest your chin in the crook of your elbow.

Gentle hands encircle your ankles, carefully opening your legs. A second later, you feel a warm cloth at the apex of your thighs, and you whine, flinching away from the overstimulation. You hear Feyd’s chuckle, and the comforting sweep of his thumb against your skin as he cleans you up, pressing soft, open mouthed kisses on your back as he does; barely a moment after, the mattress dips, and strong arms pull you into a warm chest.

‘How are you, my little witch?’

You hum in response, not wanting to use words. Something niggles at your brain, even through the haze of pleasure. It’s got to do with the na-Baron’s gentleness after he fucks you; it unsettles you, the sweetness of him, and now these words, as if you’re a lover, and not… whatever this is.

One of his wide palms runs up and down your ribs, and you shove those thoughts to the side, instead enjoying his touch, the way your body fits into his, his chest pressed against your front as he traces patterns on your skin with his deft fingers; his lips brushing the nape of your neck, leaving soft kisses there. You find yourself curling away from him a little - his hands on you make something deep in your chest stir to life, something that shouldn’t be there. It’s -

A blinding flash of lightning, followed by the deep, throaty growl of thunder illuminates the room. You’re facing the door: in the crack between its solid masonry and the floor, you glimpse a shadow.

Hastily, you turn, one hand meeting Feyd’s chest, fingers falling into the dip his collarbone makes as you search his eyes, urgent. He stares back at you, not quite guarded, but not quite open any more, and you’re filled with the urge to protect.

‘Give me your knife,’ you hiss.

He sits up halfway. ‘What’s - ’

You push him back down, glaring at his resistance. You can sense the change in the air, hear the subtle scrape of someone’s boot across the stone floor and the swish of clothing behind the door - or maybe it’s just the building storm outside, the escalating charge in the sky as another bolt of lightning is generated.

‘Feyd. Give me your knife.’

Eyes quizzical, he produces it from somewhere behind him, handing it to you hilt first. It’s just in time, because the door swings open, a masked figure silhouetted there. You whirl around, covering Feyd’s body with your own.

They’re holding a knife.

It doesn’t take you a moment longer to send your knife hurtling towards them. The blade seethes through the air before embedding itself with a thunk into the assassin’s shoulder, and as they drop to the floor, you’re up in another second, poised in case there’s another. A flash of movement catches your eye - the dropped knife, retrieved and held in blood soaked fingers.

‘Stand down,’ you snap.

The Voice echoes through the room, and you pluck the knife out of the now frozen assassin’s grasp and slit his throat. Turning, you see the glimmer of amusement and awe in Feyd’s eyes; assassination attempts probably occur often, an estranged Bene Gesserit using the Voice in his room less so.

‘So many people seem eager to sneak into my bed chamber tonight,’ he remarks. ‘Although I must admit I preferred the first one.’

You laugh, collecting your clothes off the floor. ‘I’m glad.’

As you pull on your trousers, followed closely by your shirt, Feyd gets up, and you’re struck by the slow manner in which he approaches you, so much like the way he prowled towards you in the arena, but this time his eyes concerningly soft, his deadly, killing machine of a body marked with hickeys and love bites.

‘Why do you always rush to leave so fast, my little witch?’

‘I - I have places to be,’ you stammer.

He tilts his head. ‘At this hour of the night?’

‘...Yes.’

Feyd takes one step closer, close enough to kiss. ‘What are you afraid of?’

You back towards the window. ‘I fear nothing.’

‘Don’t lie to me,’ he warns. ‘I can see it in your eyes.’

Shaking your head, panic rising in your throat, you turn, the glass chilly on your fingers as you open the window. Feyd catches your other hand, but you whirl around and lash out, a blow to the face followed by a blow to the legs, and he staggers backwards, giving you enough time to slip out of the window and onto the battlements.

Outside, the storm has whipped up, the howling wind tearing at your hood and blowing it off, the rain immediately pouring down to soak your hair, sting your eyes, wet your face. You need to run, you need to get away from him, but the weak part of you - the part that you fear - slows your strides, tugging at you as if it’s tied to Feyd somehow.

He catches up to you easily enough.

Of course he does, he is Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, and he is inexplicably bound to your soul in a way you cannot describe, in a way that terrifies you, shakes you to your very core. He catches your with a hand around your upper arm and presses you to his chest, your treacherous body reacting to him the way it always has as he stares down at you with those burning, icy eyes, droplets of rain running in rivulets down the moonlight planes of his chest.

Unease tears through you. You see it in his eyes, that he feels it too, and you dread the way it does not disquiet him. Your soul feels like it’s slowly rending in two - you need to get away from him, from the unguarded way he regards you, dedication clear in his unwavering gaze, but all the same, you need to remain with his arms trapping you to him, in the bewildering magnetism of his psyche.

‘Tell me what you fear, my little witch.’

You answer through clenched teeth. ‘I am not yours.’

‘You evade my question.’

You stare at Feyd, confounded. This man before you is the same man that you duelled in the arena, yet he is different; there is a certainty in his eyes, an acceptance that you yourself flee from. You’re drawn to him, even as the instincts that have kept your hollow heart intact all these years squall for you to break loose - and yet you fear that too, the evasion, because you know that if you run now, a part of you will be lost, snapped under the tension.

‘What do you - ’

You cut Feyd off. ‘Do you know what I fear, Harkonnen? I fear the look in your eyes, because it’s not just desire any more. You do not seek me in order that I inflict pain and pleasure alike upon you, you seek something else. I fear the look in your eyes because it is the same feeling that rises traitorously in my chest when I look at you, and it terrifies me.’

He’s silent.

You grab his shoulder. ‘Tell me you feel nothing, Feyd. Tell me you crave me for the thrill of adrenaline and the feel of my body - tell me and do not lie.’

His eyes bore into yours. ‘I cannot.’

‘Exactly.’

You wrest yourself from his grasp, turning and striding down the battlements. A strange feeling overtakes you, a prickle behind your eyes and a lump in your throat, an aching tug at your heart which you stalwartly ignore. It is over - you’re done. He made it harder than it ever had to be, but you’re going now.

He grabs your hand. ‘You cannot either, my little witch.’

Struggling, you snarl at him, clawing at your chest, but he pins you to the wall, his eyes aflame, searing, calling to something in you that rises up to meet him. This time, it is too strong; you cannot push it down, a part of you not even wanting to. You can feel Feyd all over you, your senses overwhelmed by him, by the way he presses his forehead to yours, forcing you to meet his gaze.

‘You do not have to fear it,’ he whispers. ‘Just let go. You’re holding on too tight.’

He dips his head, claiming your lips. You give in, yield to it, let it wash over you and carry you away on its blissful waves, your heart swelling in your chest at the way he touches you, tenderly, as if you’re the most precious thing he’s ever laid his eyes upon; this is not Feyd, but this is him, irrefutably so.

You think this might be love.

It is a wild, white hot blade in your heart that twists, beauteous, enthralling. You believed that it would weaken you, shackle you, but you blaze with the glorious flare of it, the kiss of Feyd’s hips against yours stoking it further. Truly, it is magnificent.

In the only way you know how, you show him. It’s cataclysmic, the way you’re pulled to him like a comet caught in a planet’s gravity, streaking towards him, fated to collide, your hands roving over him, his over you, the taste of rain blooming on your tongue as you bite down on his shoulder, muffling a moan as he ekes sweet, tender pleasure from you. Your head tips back against the stone, eyes raised to the weeping sky, your lips parted as he fills you with his cock.

Feyd looks at you as if you are a goddess. He worships you, cradles you in his arms, anchoring you, grounding you. You do not know where he ends and you begin, nor do you want to know; you wish for your souls to meld, you wish for the two of you to be alone in the universe, unbothered by time or fate or anything.

‘You are mine, little witch,’ he intones against your rain soaked skin. ‘I am yours.’

[riot-ghost]

Started a new train of thought following ghosts and things, and so here's my head cannon that the people of the Infinite Realms have a religious following and how one Daniel Fenton accidentally became the human priest.

-

"What the fuck do you mean I'm a priest?" Danny stared blankly at the Clockwork.

"I mean that you've become the priest of the Infinite Realms." Clockwork says. "By teaching your friends your following, they've decided to convert and follow with you. They believed what you're following is good and right, so there's human followers to our rituals and beliefs."

"I thought they were just respectful and curious! I don't know how to be a priest? Is there a way to revoke it?"

"Not really." Clockwork shrugs. "It seems fitting. Her Infinite lost her king with you, of course she'd name you her priest. I recommend opening a sanctuary,con holy ground. Gotham would fit."

"Holy shit, no, Clockwork, I'm not going to be a priest! I dont-"

"Damnit." Danny stood in front of the new building he'd just purchased.

It's easy to get it set up for outside use, but following the ways of Infinite, making it sacred ground, that was much harder. He spends weeks purifying the pollution and smog, and even longer doing the required rituals and cleansings.

He doesn't hold masses. He holds classes, every day at seven, to teach about the ghosts and Ancients. He cooks dinner for everyone who comes, and everyone is welcome. He's even told everyone they're welcome to just come and take the food and leave.

Gothamites come to find that if the city has been gassed, the sanctuary has clean air. It remains unharmed by the villains, all the way until one murderous clown declares religious exemption while getting arrested.

It's a very public ordeal and Danny hosts a press conference, three police officers and Batman are present. Joker is in cuffs. "I tell anyone that everyone is welcome to our religion. And if the Joker wishes to be, he will be. Is this what you want?" Danny asks, staring down the murderous clown.

"Oh, yes!" The Clown grins back. Danny pulls a gun, pressing it to the side of his head. Everyone is on edge, and Batman's reaching for his belt.

"For the two thousand, eight-hundred and ninty-three lives you have taken, for the nine-hundred and seventy-four children you have brutally killed. The Infinite Realm does not take kindly to murderers, to terrorist." Danny speaks, unwavering. "For your crimes against the Infinite Realms, for your crimes against humanity, and for all those burdened fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, sisters, brothers, for everyone you have taken, for those you have left behind, you shall face judgement upon the high council of the Infinite Realms upon open court. While there, you shall follow every law, to the letter of the law, or you shall face immediate denial to a trial. You will not be given a lawyer. You will not be given a clean death." Danny lowers his gun, pulling out a knife. He kneels, and rips the air behind the Joker a illuminated green portal is torn.

"From personal experience, there's things much worse than death that you can face. From personal opinion, I hope you face every fucking one before you're torn apart." Danny pushes Joker through the portal, and it closes. He mutters a prayer, standing tall. He retakes his position at the podium.

"For anyone who has faced the Joker, who have had people taken from them, had their own lives taken from them, who have so much as passed him on the street, come to the Realms' Sanctuary on North Blvd. 7308. Join the trial to have him purged, have him face the righteous punishment for the horrendous crimes he has commit." Danny bows.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Idol Worship.

Pairing: Yandere!Devil x Reader (Christianity).

Word Count: 1.0k.

TW: Consensual Sex, Size Difference, Implied (Past) Injury To Reader, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Scarring, and Themes of Religious Trauma.

The path to His throne was paved with salt and brimstone.

Smoldering rock burnt into the soles of your feet like ember, taken fresh from the heart of the fire. Living corpses, their rotting flesh deteriorating further with ever fraught breath, laid motionless on either side of the crumbling archway, their milky eyes watching your every stumbling movement. The air was heavy with smoke and sulfur, but the buzzling of unseen insects, the stench of the decay – that was all kept in your peripheral. It was meant for someone else, someone whose crimes were far more violent and far more damning than your own. Your fate was elsewhere.

The ascent was made no easier by your anticipation, the steps carved from black onyx and made steep enough to warrant your immediate and self-inflicted dehumanization, to force you to your hands and knees in your effort to scramble upward – ever upward, as if you hadn’t yet had enough of the blinding sky. Rough granite tore into the skin of your palms, but the agony was minimal, a shadow something greater that would not numb you to more intentional agony. The heat, too, was distant, rolling over you in tender waves and seeping under your skin to coil around your ribs, to weave in and out of ragged tears in your mutilated veins. Something snapped inside your chest as you finished your climb, fresh blood washing over your aching throat, but any pain you might’ve felt faded away as a great hand descended from the clouds of smog and ash, His calloused fingertips digging into your waist, your stomach as He took you up and placed you, gingerly, on His silk-clad thigh. His touch lingered, a thumb running over your scalp as He spoke. “Oh, my glorious one,” His voice was deep and flat and beautiful. “What have they done to you?”

Anything they could. Everything they could. Your body was still plagued with the phantoms of it, the frigid cold of steel and iron against flesh and bone. You tried to speak, but your voice was gone, muted by means beyond your own. You frowned, more frustrated than you were surprised, but He did not share in your disappointment. “They are sons of the Most High, for he is kind to the ungrateful and the evil.” After a beat, He added, “I will not be so forgiving.”

His hand began to pull away, but you scrambled after of it, latching onto His wrist in a futile effort to hold Him that much closer. An airy chuckle fell from Him unmoving muzzle – His golden, slit-pupiled eyes remaining focused on some distant point as He took you into His hold once again, lifting you first to His own height. For the first time, he moved in earnest – tilting his head forward and resting his forehead against yours. “The reason the Son appeared was to destroy the Devil’s work, for the thief comes only to steal and destroy.” His breath was cool against your skin, even as anger seeped into His tone. “And now, instead, you are asked to forgive and comfort him, so that he will not be overwhelmed by excessive sorrow.”

It was more of a croak than a proper plea, hoarse and fractured at all the wrong angles. Still, you managed it, your own small hands pressed into the swell of His palm. “Please, my lamb.”

He seemed to catch himself, inhaling sharply as He shook His head. “My apologies, I forget my audience. You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you.” You nuzzled closer to Him, and He allowed you a moment of solace before pulling away, straightening Himself to His most dignified stature. “We have been separated for no short time. Tell me, will you not gratify the desires of the flesh?” A note of humor, a forked tongue allowed to skirt gingerly over your neck. “Will you not allow me to show the length of my devotion?”

You didn’t need to answer, it was a given that you would. His delicate tongue ran over the lacerations on your calves, your thighs - smearing dried blood and soothing open wounds. It flicked upward, lapping at the twin scars on either side of your chest, then the bruises painted across your collarbones, around the base of your throat. His hand shifted, wrapping around your waist, His hold firm and steady as He lowered you onto his length. There were other options – as many shapes and variations as a lustful heart could dream of – but His cock was among His most impressive features. The shaft alone matched your arm in length and your midriff in girth, and yet, it pierced you without resistance, filling you to the brim before He was so much as half-sheathed inside of you. Your knees pressed into his lap, your hand grasping for purchase against his broad chest, but you felt no fear, nor was your exertion necessary in the face of His willingness to serve. He let out a raspy breath, allowing His head to lull back as He thrust gently into you from below. “Earthly one, glorious one,” The pet name fell from His lips like milk and butter and honey. “We will lead each other astray. We will be the force by which the greatest love is defined.”

A growl of a moan as your walls clenched around Him, a sharp snap of His hips. “We will be bound together in perfect harmony,” His hand found the underside of your chin, tilting your head back with only the upmost delicacy. “And those who try to separate us will face only the most just of retribution.”

Your eyes met His, that wonderous gold melting into softened mortality. Where there should have been revulsion, there was only warmth, only light. Foolishly, for a moment, you allowed yourself to scorn the shine of the heavens, to loathe all things that were not Him.

You allowed yourself to believe that you would need nothing else, not so long as His gaze fell upon you.

[loaksky]

— 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴

the deets  — you are a warrior of very few words, yet oftentimes your gaze betrays you. this widens the rift between you and the eldest sully, but will seeking refuge with the metkayina soothe the burn? especially when the alleviation comes in the form of a certain ocean boy? 

the who — ao’nung x fem tipani!reader, a lil neteyam x fem!tipani reader

the word count — 7.1k (i thought this was gonna be longer, regardless i have zero self control)

the tags — slight e2l (you and ao’nung get off on the wrong foot), unofficial love triangle (reader has two people hooked lmao), angst (wouldn’t be me without a little heartache), fluff. 

the warnings — language, ao’nung’s a cheeky lil shit, neteyam’s in denial and makes things difficult. ao'nung gives reader a lil kith.

the notes — this is my first request! it took me a moment to finish this because i wanted to really research the tipani to characterize reader the best i could. similarly, i feel like we don’t see much of ao’nung past the point of him being a little shit in the movie, so i had to take some creative liberties regarding his character. thank you so much to the anon who requested! this is so long, holy shit, but i hope i did it justice! :) 

(also not proofread well, my bad lmaooo).

masterlist

YOU WERE BORN TO FIGHT. That was what your mother and father had told you day in and day out, from the rise of the sun, to the last eclipse. It was what they had told you when you began your training, when you had started to deepen your studies, and finally, when they clung to their final breaths in the smog of the burning jungle. 

Your village was scarce, a dying lot, as families broke off and settled farther into the jungle, high above the forest floors and into the canopies of the looming trees. 

Jake had heard about you, heard about your dwindling family, your mighty spirit. You were barely older than his eldest, just shy of ten when he’d taken you in, told the clan to revere you as their own. You were tough to crack, stoic, quiet, as you grew into a force to be reckoned with.

The only thing that chipped your facade came in the form of Jake Sully’s oldest son. 

Neteyam, you’d come to realize, was always the diligent one; courageous, firm, and commanded any space he occupied. But he was curious about you. Curious about the lone wolf who wouldn’t even bat an eye in his direction. He poked and prodded, tried as he might, to crack a smile out of you in the first year or two, but found that you gave little reaction. The slightest tilt of the corner of your lips, the most infinitesimal furrow between your brow bones. It was triumph enough, but then things started to shift. 

Though you’d softened around the Sully’s, especially Kiri who, despite being two years your junior, had doted on you like an older sister, Jake had seen potential in you and Neteyam as the fiercest duo. 

It was only normal to consistently pair you two during your training, forcing the hands of time to twine you closer together as your iknimaya drew nearer. You’d both succeeded with flying colors and it was the first time Neteyam had touched you, crushing you in a hug so tight, you felt the breath and the sense leave your body. 

You begrudgingly admit that from that moment on, you were wrapped around his finger. 

Your heart would swell dangerously behind your ribcage every time his hand would come up to pat your head affectionately, stomach twisting in on itself when he’d flash you a pearly smile after each successful hunt. Neteyam made you feel, and it thrilled and horrified you all the same.

But despite basking in the warmth of his company, of being intertwined so intricately, you still feel grossly misplaced.

The thought of letting him in on the fact that he’s swayed your heart leaves a horrid taste in your mouth. 

“It’s not like you to back down,” Kiri tells you as she helps you roll beaded tops and woven loincloths into the small satchel you’d designated for the flight to Awa’atlu. 

The humans were closing in and Jake was growing desperate. 

You stop, tongue in cheek as you settle back on your haunches. 

“Some things are better left unsaid,” you reply, hands clasping in your lap as you level Kiri with a soft gaze through your thick lashes. 

“Perhaps,” Kiri hums. “But will it settle well with you in the future when you think about your inaction?” 

You stiffen a fraction, knowing that Kiri’s insinuation is a heavy one. 

Will you be able to live without him knowing? Will it settle well when Neteyam courts another?

You doubt it will, but pride can be an ugly thing. You’d been taught by your parents, by your surroundings that reading into things farther than you must will only leave you scathed. You’re afraid to piece every lingering touch, every furtive glance, every sweet smile into something that paints an unwanted picture. 

“The worst he could say is no,” Kiri presses. “You are his equal, his dearest friend. You could never ruin that.” 

Kiri squashes every doubt you have with her encouraging words, so you take the plunge.

Neteyam is almost finished preparing for the journey when you poke your head into his tent, cheeks warm and blood pulsing erratically in your veins. 

“One last walk through the forest?” you offer.

Neteyam grins from ear to ear, excusing himself before ducking out of the tent to meet you outside. 

“Lead the way,” he gestures, voice deep like the velvet of the night sky. 

You’re clammy as you walk a few paces in front of him, tongue tied and wracked with nerves as the forest comes alive so brightly around you. The bugs chirp and croak as you cross over fallen logs and climb through the dense flora. 

You’re so deep in your head that you barely register Neteyam calling your name. It’s only when his hand clasps around your wrist that you jerk to a stop, neck craning to take in the concern that mars his freckled face. 

“Everything okay?” he asks, head tilting to get a better look at you. 

“I need to tell you something,” you blurt, swallowing down the courage threatening to escape your body. 

“Of course,” he says, hand lacing with yours. “You can tell me anything.”

A breath catches in your throat before you finally spill.

“I don’t know what our future holds, but…” you trail off, distracted with how intensely he gazes down at you. 

“But?” 

“But I know that I want you in it,” you say, blinking when you realize that’s not at all how you wanted that to come out. 

Neteyam’s head tilts again, this time confusion crosses his features. 

You try again. 

“What I mean to say is, I— well… I like you,” you admit, looking up to meet his golden gaze. 

His face softens and your heart picks up speed. 

“Oh, ________,” he whispers. 

“Maybe I’ve always felt like this, I don’t know,” you continue, steeling your resolve. “But being around you, being with you, makes me feel light. Like I don’t have to bear the weight of the burden all on my own.” 

You realize that this is beginning to go south when his mouth purses and instead of seeing you, he begins to look like he pities you. 

“I’m sorry,” is all he says as he pulls his hand from your own. “We’re friends, ________.” 

You look up at him and it feels like the forest has stilled enough for someone to strike it and shatter the peace. 

“That’s all,” he reiterates. “I’m— I’m flattered, don’t misunderstand. You’re great, lovely, but…I don’t see you in that way.” 

You recoil like you’ve been burned and Neteyam looks guilty. 

“But…” 

“C’mon,” he says, almost pleadingly. “We grew up together. You’re apart of my family. You’re like a si—“ 

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t say it please.” 

Neteyam sighs, deflating. 

“I love you, you know that,” he urges. “But not in that way.” 

Your lips press together tightly, shame filling every available space within you as you feel like the most minuscule speck underneath his burning eyes. 

It’s like you’re both rooted to the earth, unable to part from the other, but you eventually fold first, backing away from his towering stance. 

“________,” he sighs, like you’re just another task he has to deal with. 

“Sorry,” you murmur. “I’m sorry.” 

And you steal off into the glowing forest. 

The waters of Awa’atlu glitter as you close in on the reefs. You lag behind the Sully’s, thoroughly taken by the prior night’s rejection. 

You almost miss the tilt of the voyage, falling even further behind. 

Neteyam peers over his shoulder, immediately noting your lack of focus as you fly with a wide berth between you and his family. 

He falls back. 

“You okay?” he asks over the flapping of wings. 

He notices the puffs underneath your eyes when your gaze flits to him, but like a wall erecting itself, your face goes blank. You lean forward on your ikran and press her to move forward. 

Neteyam is left at the rear now, watching you fall in tandem with Kiri who seems to light up at your first display of emotion. 

The sun gleams againstglinting blue tides as silence blankets the newcomers, the only thing piercing the stillness is the squawk of the birds and the ripple of the waves. 

You stand behind Kiri, staggered in a shallow of sand among the Sully's. You're the smallest of them all, hidden from view as the Metkayina begin murmuring. 

“What a freak.” 

Something tugs hard on your tail, and like muscle memory, your fist is flying. Your knuckles are caught before they strike and you look up into the foamy eyes of a towering boy whose skin is a gentle blue. 

You pull your tail back, ears flat as you level him with a nasty glare. 

The smirk playing at his lips disintegrates as Jake’s voice announces that his family are seeking refuge among the reefs. 

You turn your attention back to the front as the woman, fierce despite being with child, takes Lo’ak’s hand and thrusts it towards the sky, announcing that his extra finger denotes demon blood. 

The villagers gasp and you take a step forward, fists balled so tight you feel like they could burst through the skin. Lo’ak’s head is bowed, refusing to meet the intensity of the clan’s prying eyes, and you feel helpless.

Kiri squeezes your shoulder as Jake attempts to quell the crowd by hold up his own hands. 

The murmuring intensifies as the Olo’eyktan and Tsahik stand at a distance, staring at each other in a silent exchange. 

“Show them our ways,” the Olo’eyktan says after a final verdict. “So that they may not suffer the shame of being useless.” 

Your body is rigid, tense as another ripple of speculation flutters through the crowd. 

“My children will spearhead this by showing them the way of the water,” he says. 

A deep voice makes a noise of protest behind you and your fist tightens around the strap of the satchel slung across your body, temper beginning to tick like a bomb ready to detonate. 

The daughter of the leaders, Tsireya, is the one to show you to the marui that you’ll all occupy. It’s an empty one, uninhabited and clear of any belongings. 

Tuk runs in, tossing her things to the wayside as she begins her inspection. 

“Get settled in well, we will begin our first lesson before eclipse,” Tsireya smiles, then turns to you, trailing behind the Sully’s like their shadow per usual. 

“I’m sorry about Ao’nung,” she says quietly, and you look up at the girl whose dimples dent her rounded cheeks. 

“An apology means nothing if doesn’t come from the aggressor,” you say flatly, hiking up the roll of fabric tucked underneath your arm. 

Tsireya’s ears flatten, her smile faltering as she nods her head. 

“I suppose you’re correct,” she agrees. “The villagers are very steadfast in their ways. When change arrives, they are hesitant, but they’ll come around, promise.” 

She takes your hand and gives your fingers a squeeze. 

“Tell your friends not to be late,” she coos, pulling away from you to bound down the path you’d all come from moments before. 

When you turn, Neteyam stands before you, skin dewy under the unrelenting heat of the pounding sun. 

“Can I get this for you?” he asks, reaching for the items tucked under your arms. 

You ease away, almost as skittish as the first nights you’d joined the Sully’s all those years ago. You feel shamefully like you’re back to square one as you shake your head wordlessly and Neteyam looks down at you with an indiscernible look on his face. 

“________,” he murmurs, and you name sounds like a broken plea on his lips. 

You push past him, taking a quick survey of your surroundings as you claim the level up, hammock tightened around two support posts under a woven canopy. 

Your things are thrown haphazardly underneath the hammock and with your satchel, you’re steering quickly out of the marui. 

“Hey, kid, where you running off to?” Jake calls out. 

“Out,” is all you reply, steps quick down the unfamiliar webbing of the maruis’ woven walkways. 

You’re on edge all over again, like you have to restart all of your valiant efforts to feel any semblance of comfort among another new clan. When you’d joined the Omatikaya, you were able to grasp onto the slivers of belonging through blending into the background, but now, as you pass villagers with skin as glittering and blue as the ocean, tails strong, and figures built, you feel so grossly misplaced. 

You search for less, eyes falling near a swathe of shady trees and a shallow pool in the distance. 

Your pursuit is futile as three looming figures emerge and begin surrounding you, basking you in their shadows. 

“Are you a five-fingered freak like them?” One of them tries to swoop to grab your hand, but you recoil like their touch is acidic. 

“Leave me alone,” you grumble, attempting to push past them. 

Someone tugs sharply on your tail and you jerk back, hands and knees burrowing into the sharp grains of sand. A hand comes up to grab you by the top of your head, forcing your face skywards. 

His curly hair is braided out of his face, the purse of his lips menacing. 

“I asked you a question, weirdo.” 

You hiss and his face contorts. 

“I should—“ 

“Wune,” the voice is a warning. 

A grunt of annoyance. 

Wune lets go of your hair and pulls away from you. You all look in the direction of the voice, and your blood seems to curdle when you see the one who’d yanked your tail earlier in the day. 

Ao’nung.

His chin jerks in the other direction and the three pass each other a knowing glance before retreating, leaving you to fall into a seated position against the sand. 

You surprise yourself when tears begin to well in your eyes involuntarily. 

“You okay?” Ao’nung asks hesitantly, crouching in front of you. 

“Piss off,” you whisper, climbing to your feet as you quickly brush the tears from your waterline. 

“Wait—“ 

“I said piss off,” you hiss, stalking away. 

Awa’atlu is beautiful right before eclipse, sky bathed in orange and purples. 

You’ve rejoined the Sully’s after your encounter with the three Metkayina boys and Ao’nung. Now you’re seated with the four siblings, Tsireya, and another friendly face that you’ve been introduced to as Rotxo. 

“The way of water has no beginning and no end,” Tsireya says. “Our hearts beat in the womb of the world.” 

Your heart beats fast now, like you’ve just run from one end of the forest to another. It beats erratically under Neteyam’s unrelenting gaze. He looks like he’s dissecting you, trying to pry into your mind and you hate that things have come to this. 

You hate that one evening has shattered the careful friendship that you and Neteyam have built over the course of many tumultuous years. You want to find comfort in his presence, know with your soul that he’d tuck your hair behind your ear and tell you that things would be alright. But now you feel like you two are distant strangers. 

“The sea is your home, before your birth and after your death.” 

You want to argue that you know no home, that the wind seems to carry you where it may, but you bite your tongue and you zone out of her lecture.

You only tune back in when the hairs on the back of your neck stand at the arrival of a new body. 

“Mother and father say that it’s time to prepare for the evening meal.” 

After hearing the voice twice in the day, you recognize the timbre. 

Ao’nung stands tall, chest broad and eyes bright. 

They settle on you in an instant, and you feel indescribably smaller as Tsireya announces that she will continue during the morning’s eclipse. 

Everyone begins to stand, brushing the residual sand from their skin as they begin to file away. 

You’re startled to a stop when your name comes from Neteyam’s lips and a gentle hand latches onto your forearm. 

You look down to see strong fingers lighter than your own holding onto you. Then your gaze flits to Neteyam who stands a few feet away, words dying on his tongue. 

Ao’nung tugs lightly and you look up to meet softened eyes. 

“Can I borrow you for a moment?” he asks. He notices the apprehensive look on your face as you peel away from him, then adds, “I’ll be quick.” 

Neteyam opens his mouth to protest on your behalf, but you flash him a pensive look and he stops in his tracks, watching as you turn your slender back towards him and follow the lumbering Metkayina.

When the two of you are alone, you dig your toe into the sand, hands clasped behind your back as you wait for Ao’nung to break the silence and get on with it. 

“I want to apologize,” he finally says, when you’re out of earshot of the village and the curious Sully’s who’d noted the entire exchange. 

You look up at him, brow bone raised. 

“For?” 

“For being mean,” he says, “I was inappropriate.” 

“Is this your sister talking?” you ask crudely, but he doesn’t flinch at the venom in your tone.

Instead, he smiles down at you. 

“No,” he assures you. “One hundred percent me, promise.” 

You look down at your feet, still fidgeting with the sand. 

“I guess…” you trail off. 

“You guess?” he prods.

“I guess we’re okay,” you say hesitantly. 

Ao’nung hums. 

“Good,” he concedes. “Great. I’m glad.” 

You flash him a bored look through thick lashes and his lips twitch as he stares down at you with piercing eyes. 

“I can be dumb,” he says, grin widening. “My family says I don’t know how to act around nice things.” 

Your cheeks warm as you avoid his eyes, breaking away to catch up with Kiri and Tuk.

After dinner, in the quiet of the Sully’s marui, you lie in the hammock you claimed earlier in the day, hands folded underneath your head as you gaze at the stars. 

“My dad came from a star,” Lo’ak had said to you one night, eliciting the smallest of smiles. 

As you comb through each one, you burn to be up there. A digging desire to only know about shining bright and being wished so hard upon. 

There are nights like these where everything feels heavy, where your shoulders sag underneath the pressure of being a great warrior. You wonder what life could be like had the RDA spared your village, had you not gone off into the forest to hunt, had you—

He’s a barely perceptible shadow under the glow of the moon and ocean, slinking down the woven path between pods. 

Like a whisper of wind, you climb out of your hammock and over sleeping bodies. 

As you slip out of the marui, you don’t notice the pair of sleepy eyes on your retreating figure. 

Before he even knows what’s going on, you’re scurrying over the thick branches, following his path until he hits the intersection right before the Sully’s quarters. 

You jump down and intersect Ao’nung, hand coming over his mouth before he can shout in shock. His eyes are wide as you stand on your tip toes, other hand coming to your lips to gesture for him to be quiet. 

“What are you doing?” you hiss quietly. 

His fingers come to your wrist, nudging your palm from his mouth to reveal a beaming smile. 

“I was coming for you,” he admits. 

“Why?” you press, shaking his hold away when you realize that he’d still been grasping your wrist.

“Have you ridden an ilu before?” he asks. 

You shift uncomfortably. 

“No,” you answer shortly. 

“You wanna?” he offers. 

“No.” 

He frowns. 

“Swimming?”

“Pass.” 

“I have fruits,” he singsongs. 

“Ao’nung,” you warn.

“Is it so wrong to want to spend time with you?” he asks, hands up in defense. 

“Why would you want to?” you ask accusingly. “Your village sees us as demons and I’m included in that whether it applies to me or not. I’ll stay out of your way, just leave me alone.” 

“I don’t think you’re a demon,” Ao’nung says gently. “If anything, I- I think you’re great.” 

“You don’t know me,” you spit. 

“I know enough,” Ao’nung says with finality. “I know that you are strong and your spirit is kind. Ewya has let me feel as such.” 

Your expression is lethal, but Ao’nung doesn’t back down. 

“One night,” he says quietly. “Spend one night with me.” 

The following silence stretches eternally before something magnetic pulls you towards Ao’nung’s honeyed gaze. You chance a glance over your shoulder, met with stillness and the minute laps of the ocean on the shore. 

When you meet his eyes again, you nod once, hesitantly, and he’s taking your hand to tug you into the glowy night. 

Ao’nung returns you before the sun rises, a few early risers giving you two curious glances as he walks you to where you’d ambushed him the night before.

You wave to him hesitantly, sighing in relief when you you creep back into the marui and find everyone fast asleep, splayed over one another like a big heap. 

You climb over limbs and snoring bodies, finally settling in your hammock to watch the beginnings of the eclipsing sun brighten the village. 

You don’t notice the same bleary eyes watching you from where he’s laid on the floor, Lo’ak’s head weighing on his stomach and Tuk smushed onto his armpit. 

They’re the same eyes that watch you all morning, as his family gets up one by one, stretching their lithe limbs and tidying up before being called for the day’s first meal. 

Neteyam is watchful, stealing glances as you file behind his family from the pod to the clan circle, now buzzing with hungry villagers as the sun shines high in the sky. 

But he doesn’t say a word, silent as you choose the seat farthest from him. Quiet as you blink your eyes sleepily, barely registering Tuk’s excited blabbering about all of the new things she can make with the shells and supplies here. 

“Give it a rest,” Lo’ak grumbles from beside him. 

He snaps out of his reverie, eyes narrowing in on his brother. 

“What?” 

“You’ve been watching ________ all morning,” Lo’ak chides. “She’s locked up tight, bro. No way you’re getting her.” 

Neteyam’s blood curdles at the thought, wanting to tell his brother to shove it. But you’d shut him out the past few days, the sting of his rejection obviously driving a wedge between the two of you. 

“Shut up,” he grumbles. 

He hates that you’d gone from being inseparable to being strangers overnight. But what he hates even more is the way Ao’nung drops onto the log next to you and you don’t even flinch, just pass him a bored gaze that makes him beam. 

He watches you closely, eyes glued to your every move. 

Something ugly roils inside of him as Ao’nung offers you a braided bag and you hesitantly take a piece of dried meat from him, face morphing as you give him a nod of approval. 

Ao’nung looks proud of of himself as he balances the bag next to him on the log and leans towards you almost imperceptibly. Neteyam expects you to put distance between the two of you, but you barely bat an eye, watching intently as Ao’nung talks animatedly. 

Lo’ak scoffs beside him and Neteyam stomach turns.

Hours bleed into days, days bleed into weeks, and for once, you feel like things could be alright. The breathing gets easier, the learning comes faster, and something feels peaceful being near the ocean. 

The only thing that hadn’t been amended was the gaping hole that separated you from Neteyam, but in the company of a certain Olo’eyktan’s only son, you don’t feel the burn as much. 

You watch him now, as he treads water with Rotxo and the two Sully boys, walking them through the procedure of hunting under water and how to maximize their kills. 

“…and the reefs underwater…” 

He’s one and the same with the tides, mighty and commanding as his veined hands gesture confidently. One moment, he’s focused on his instruction intently, the next he’s glancing at you. 

You feel hot in the warm waters as your cheeks flame under a genuine smile. Neteyam follows his line of sight, body tensing in the water when he sees the shy look on your face. 

He’s not the only one who notices as Kiri feigns a gag and Tsireya pauses her spiel to giggle at the obvious exchange. 

“Oh, ________,” she whispers giddily. 

Your eyes swing to the group of girls surrounding you as Tuk lets out a gleeful laugh and pinches you under the water. 

“Ouch!” 

“________ has a crush,” Tuk singsongs obnoxiously. 

You knuckle her forehead and give her a warning glare than only sends her into a frenzy, laughing and splashing as she seeks protection from Kiri. 

“Stop that!” you whisper fiercely. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft,” Kiri moans. 

“No!” you say, a little too quickly. “No.”

No one in your circle looks convinced as Tsireya closes her lesson and leads the three of you to wade out of the waters. 

“It’s okay, you know?” Kiri says once you’ve reached your belongings and sling your trusty satchel over your front. 

You give her an inquisitive look and she throws her head back and laughs. 

“I know you sneak out to meet with Ao’nung at night,” she admits quietly. “I love my stupid brother, but it’s okay to move on.” 

You blanche, embarrassed at having been caught. 

After the first night, when he’d taken you for a swim with his ilu and you’d gasped in both fear and delight as the creature cut through the waters to sail through the air, he had started to frequently come back for you in the wee hours after eclipse. It had turned from you clocking him as he approached the Sully’s pod, to you standing off the side of the path he usually crossed, waiting for him. 

The first night you’d done that, his smile was so sweet, you felt something fluttering in your tummy. 

Among one of those late night excursions, while you both were splayed on the beach after a particularly adventurous swim, Ao’nung had told you he wouldn’t mind showing you all the beautiful things Awa’atlu had to offer, you just had to say the words. And you had reluctantly agreed, heart locked away tight. 

You hate to admit that he’s done well chiseling away every effort you’d made to remain snug behind your walls. He had coaxed you out with soft words, sweet fruits, meaningful talks. And you absolutely melted like putty in his hands. 

“We are head and heart,” Kiri says gently. “Sometimes it’s okay to listen to your heart.” 

You swallow under Kiri’s sympathetic gaze. 

“You’ve been strong for a long time, ________,” she states simply. “Your feelings are not a weakness.” 

You nod as she rejoins Tuk and Tsireya a few strides away.

A few moments later, a voice is warm in the shell of your sensitive ears. 

“What adventure awaits after eclipse?” Ao’nung asks lightly. 

You resist smiling up at him, but fail miserably when his webbed fingers come up to move hair from your face. 

“I have seeds of a spartan fruit,” you say quietly. “If you know of anywhere to plant them.” 

“I can make something work,” he assures you, thumb brushing your cheek, then pinching gently with a toothy smile. “Our usual place?” 

You bow your head, cheeks hot. 

“Of course.” 

“Alright, little leaf,” he bids, that stupid nickname he’d called you one of the first nights, sticking. “See you then.” 

He’s walking back in the direction of the other boys, cutting across the sand as they venture towards the heart of the clan’s village. 

As you pick up the remainder of your items, you don’t realize a body has stayed behind. 

“Little leaf?” It comes out as a scoff, mocking as your whirl on your heel and find Neteyam standing over you. “What’s your deal with him?”

You blink hard. 

“What are you talking about?”

“You an Ao’nung,” Neteyam bites, temper short. “What’s going on between you two?” 

Annoyance pinches the back of your brain as you look off into the roll of the shallow tides, then turn your attention back to the eldest Sully. For the first time in an infinite amount of moments, you don’t feel like falling into him. 

“He’s my friend,” you decide to say, sucking in a deep breath in hopes of calming your racing nerves. “Is that alright with you?” 

Neteyam’s glare doesn’t falter. 

“Just your friend?” he accuses. “I know you meet with him after eclipse, don’t think you have anyone fooled. Why?” 

“What do you mean why?” you counter, unable to keep the edge from your tone. 

“Why are you sneaking around with someone you barely know after dark, ________?” he grills. “Don’t be dense.” 

“Ao’nung is kind to me,” you argue. “He shows me about his life, about the villagers and the way of the water.” 

“And what, I’m not kind to you?” Neteyam bristles. “Tsireya can’t show you all of those things?” 

Your face scrunches in annoyance. 

“You’re being unreasonable, Neteyam,” you scoff. 

“I’m being unreasonable?” he asks in disbelief. “Ao’nung is just like the rest of the village, ________. You really thinking that in front of everyone else, he doesn’t shun us all the same?” 

“No, Neteyam, I don’t,” you retort. “Because Ao’nung is nice. He goes to great lengths to make me feel welcome, like Awa’atlu is home.”

“So he puts on a show and you’re so willing to be with him, huh?” Neteyam seethes quietly. “We’re your home, ________. Ao’nung is earning brownie points with his parents having you hooked, but do you really think he sees you?” 

You swallow, biting the inside of your cheek as you stare up at Neteyam in resignation. 

“You can be so callous sometimes,” you whisper, turning to leave the conversation. 

“I’m not done talking to you,” Neteyam sighs. 

“Well, I am.��� 

You never make it back to the marui that night, still embarrassed that two of Sully’s had noticed that you were ditching your hammock as soon as the village turned in for the evenings. Instead, you wander around the beaches, collecting shells and little trinkets for morning handicrafts with Tuk. 

After the island glows both from the luminescence of the habitat and the moon, you stand post, waiting for the familiar pad of Ao’nung’s feet over the sand. You watch the stars up above to distract you, fingers twitching as you recall your argument with Neteyam earlier in the day. 

You know he was looking for chords to strike, but something akin to insecurity begins to root itself inside of you as the stars begin shifting further and further, indicating that a wide span of time has elapsed. The village is still, but your mind is racing as Ao’nung’s whereabouts remain a mystery. 

Regardless you wait. You wait so long, you’d resorted to planting yourself in the sand, and after what felt like infinity, the morning eclipse begins. When the village starts to turn over for the day, curtains and drapery being pulled back to reveal slowly waking families, you finally stand, heart in your hands. 

When you return to your pod, Neteyam is already up, posted on the edge of the walkway with his toes in the water. 

He’s shooting up when he sees you. 

“Where have you been?” he demands as you draw nearer. 

His face softens when he sees the first tear arch over your sculpted cheekbone. 

You quickly wipe it away. 

“No where,” you grumble, pushing past him. 

“________,” he urges. 

You deflect his reaching hands. 

“I’m serious, Neteyam,” you warn, the look in your golden eyes deadly. “Leave me alone.” 

Despite not seeing Ao’nung the entirety of the day, you return to your post the next night, hoping the night prior had been a fluke. The seeds of the spartan fruit are held tight in your fist and you use them as a vessel to wish hard. But it’s futile when the stars that map the skies continue to inch and you continue to wait. 

On the fourth night of Ao’nung’s absence, you decide to get to the bottom of things. 

You weave through the maruis, into the village’s circle right before eclipse. You spot Tsireya first, then him. He isn’t hard to miss when you’ve grown to know the drape of his curling hair and the bass of his hearty laugh. 

Rotxo, who sits opposite them, notices you first and his smile falters. 

Ao’nung’s neck cranes and his face shutters as he locks eyes with you. 

“________, hi,” he greets simply. 

“Hi?” you parrot, the spartan seeds you were beginning to use as a safety blanket clutched tight in your fist. “That’s it?” 

Ao’nung turns completely, waving off his sister and Rotxo as he stands to his full height. 

“What are you—“ 

“I waited for you,” you hiccup, shocked at the emotion that hijacks every morsel of resolve and composure you’ve always kept a tight lid on. “I waited for you, but you never came.” 

Ao’nung’s hands are on your shoulders, nudging you to a more private area, an alcove hidden among arched and gnarled tree roots. 

“________, I don’t understand,” he says quietly. “You—“ 

“I waited for you so that we could plant these stupid seeds and—“ 

Your unfurled fist catches his attention and his eyes widen when he sees that you’ve gripped them so hard in your hands, your palms are bleeding. 

He makes a move to grab you injured hand, but your fist tightens again. 

“This is inappropriate,” Ao’nung says sharply, eyes pleading. 

“What is?” you ask desperately. 

“You and me,” he says, like it should make sense. “This isn’t right.” 

Like a time warp, you’re brought back to the glowing forest before your departure. You see Neteyam’s disappointed expression, the twinge of disgust lacing his features at the thought of wanting you like you wanted him. 

Your heart shatters. 

Just when you thought you were getting over it all. Just when you thought that Ao’nung made you feel alive. Made you feel things you’d never felt before, he was extinguishing every sweet moment. If he was trying to cut ties before you could fall, it was too late. He was dousing the flames that had grown to engulf him and you don’t know how much more you can take. 

“Why would you do this?” you whisper brokenly. “I wanted to be left alone. Why would you force yourself into my life if you don’t want to be in it in the first place? Why would you make me want you?” 

Ao’nung’s expression turns sour. 

“I want to be there for you, ________,” he says fiercely. “You shine so bright and you are so incredible, you don’t even know it, but I can’t do this.” 

“Why?” you hoarse. 

“You are promised to someone else,” he says vehemently. “This entire time, I have sought you out with the intention of making you mine, but your heart belongs to someone else.” 

Your face crumples. 

“What are you— I don’t—“ 

“Neteyam told me to stay away from you,” Ao’nung says. “That you two would solidify your union once it was safe to go back home.” 

“No,” you interject. “That’s not—“ 

“Don’t be cruel,” he says quietly. “I don’t think I can take it.” 

“No, Neteyam and I are nothing,” you spit. “We—“ 

The fury hits you full force as you pull away from Ao’nung and stalk away. 

You don't you hear him rushing to catch up with you. It’s like you’re underwater, hearing muffled as you map the woven path to the Sully’s marui. 

Everything is absolutely red as you clock him.

Neteyam is laughing with Lo’ak and Kiri when you approach. 

The expression on your face is murderous when he looks up and he pales as he stands to meet your barreling figure. You’re shoving him away from you as soon as he steps in your immediate space. 

“How could you?” you cry out. 

Kiri and Lo’ak’s eyes are wide at your outburst, the warrior of few words teeming with anger and emotion as you square your shoulders. Kiri nudges Lo’ak’s shoulder and gestures towards their marui to give you two some privacy. 

“________—“ 

“You told Ao’nung we were promised to each other?” you press, finger jabbing his chest heatedly. 

His face contorts as his spine straightens. 

“Yes, ________, I did,” he confirms, nearly smug.

“Why?” you cry out. “After everything, why would you—“ 

“You’re mine, ________,” he blurts, fists shaking as he closes in on you. “All mine, and I refuse to let anyone have you. Especially Ao’nung.” 

The boy who stands before you is unrecognizable, so taken by anger and envy. 

“You’re heartless,” you whimper. 

“Me?” he asks incredulously, voice breaking as he comes up to grab you by your biceps. “You– You made me fall for you and suddenly you–“ 

“I liked you first,” you choke, eyes searching his wildly. “I liked you first and you told me that you were sorry. In that moment, I could see how you saw me. Pitiful, coarse, misplaced. Ao’nung doesn’t make me feel that way.” 

“Ao’nung doesn’t—“ 

“For once in my life, I feel okay. I feel like I can finally breathe, and that upsets you? You’re jealous? All I’ve known is the forest from a distance, coinciding with clans that make me feel like an outsider! When it’s me and him, that’s all it is, just two souls existing together. This is the first time I can say such.” Your voice is hoarse, drawing wandering eyes. 

Neteyam’s face softens. 

His entire time growing up with you in the forest, he’d never seen you display as much of yourself as you had in this moment. He can feel it pouring from you, every feeling you’d kept locked tight in your heart. He sees it in your eyes, nearly feral as you tremble in his hold. 

“You love him?” It comes out more like a statement, his chest heaving. 

Love. A word that holds the weight of a thousand suns. Four letters that seal your fate. 

Did you love Ao’nung? 

No. You didn’t, but maybe…maybe you could learn to. You could learn to love him just how he’d learned you, how he meticulously dismantled every doubt you had in him. 

“I could,” you whisper. 

Neteyam’s grasp loosens and he looks wounded as he backs away from you, peering down at you like he doesn’t recognize the person you’ve become. 

As the cloud dissipates, you become aware of the eyes watching the entire debacle. 

You shrink, mortified that nearly the entire village knows of your feelings for their Olo’eyktan’s son. 

You turn on your heel to flee, but a sturdy body stands a few feet away, leaned against one of the twisted trunks of a tree supporting the surrounding maruis. 

You swallow. 

“A-Ao’nung,” you splutter. 

His smile is soft, knowing, as he pushes off the tree and comes to stand in front of you. 

“You’re popular, little leaf.” 

You buckle, head bowing in embarrassment. 

“I’m sorry, Ao’nung,” you murmur. “I…” 

His hand comes around your head and pushes your face into the smooth skin of his chest. 

You soften.

“Why are you sorry?” he asks, hand caressing your loosening braids.

“This must be embarrassing,” you whisper. 

He spins your bodies, tugging you back down along the path you marched to confront Neteyam. 

“You could never embarrass me,” he assures you, guiding you towards the village circle. One of his hands turns yours over, inspecting the tiny wounds as you two hurry along. “Let’s get you fixed up, okay?” 

You can barely swallow around the lump forming in your throat as he climbs up into an empty pod used for treating the wounded and helps you up. 

“Sit,” he coaxes, striding to the ledges of supplies, meticulously organized by his own mother. 

You obey, tears streaking your cheeks as you tuck one leg under the other. You don’t feel like the mighty warrior Jake and many of the Omatikaya have made you out to be all of these years. 

You feel small, and you feel weak. All because of a boy. 

“Hand, please,” he says gently, kneeling in front of you with an arm full of remedies. 

You oblige, offering your shaky hand, palm up. 

The blood has dried, revealing small little angry lacerations that sting when he pours a thin liquid to clean them. You hiss and the tears start again. 

“Stop,” he murmurs, wiping away the rivulets that slip. “Stop crying.” 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, fist balling involuntarily when he slathers a viscous mixture on your palm that soothes the burns. 

“Stop apologizing,” he says softly. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

He places a leaf over your palm and then wraps your hand in a soft cloth that sates the ache. When you’re all patched up, he brings your fingers to his lips, then holds them tightly in his lap. 

“I need to hear it for myself,” he sighs.

“Hear what?” you croak. 

“Every moment I spent with you since your arrival has been precious to me,” Ao’nung says. “I want you to say it to me.” 

You’re in knots, swallowing hard as he blurs. 

You take a gasping breath as you will yourself not to cry. 

“I want you, Ao’nung. I see you,” you warble. “And I’m petrified to admit it because admitting it means I’m being vulnerable, but I want you to see me too.” 

His lips curve, pulling you forward so that you have to catch yourself on your uninjured hand. 

“You scared me for a little there,” he whispers, mouth a hairsbreadth from yours. “I don’t know what I would do if all that time we spent together meant nothing to you.” 

You swallow for the thousandth time. 

“Never,” you shudder. 

His smile widens. 

“You’re not gonna stop me, are you?” he asks, lips ghosting yours as his eyes search your own. 

“No,” you murmur.

“Good,” he sighs.

He kisses you like you’re delicate, pulling you into him to taste every unspoken word you’ve held onto since the first night he came to you. 

When he pulls away from you, forehead resting against yours, he’s so quiet when he whispers. 

But you hear him all the same. 

“I see you, little leaf.” 

an — AHH second full length oneshot is done! if you've made it this far, i thank you again! i had so much fun writing this request and once more want to express gratitude the anon to shot me this idea! ALSO purposefully left out details of their little rendezvous' so that i could do some drabbles for them in the future! next fic is (finally) the lo'ak x reader i've been blabbing about.

.

.

.

neng © 2023

[kvetchlandia]

Thomas Hoepker Charles Bukowskim Los Angeles 1986

call it the greenhouse effect or whatever but it just doesn't rain like it used to. I particularly remember the rains of the depression era. there wasn't any money but there was plenty of rain. it wouldn't rain for just a night or a day, it would RAIN for 7 days and 7 nights and in Los Angeles the storm drains weren't built to carry off that much water and the rain came down THICK and MEAN and STEADY and you HEARD it banging against the roofs and into the ground waterfalls of it came down from roofs and there was HAIL big ROCKS OF ICE bombing exploding smashing into things and the rain just wouldn't STOP and all the roofs leaked- dishpans, cooking pots were placed all about; they dripped loudly and had to be emptied again and again. the rain came up over the street curbings, across the lawns, climbed up the steps and entered the houses. there were mops and bathroom towels, and the rain often came up through the toilets:bubbling, brown, crazy,whirling, and all the old cars stood in the streets, cars that had problems starting on a sunny day, and the jobless men stood looking out the windows at the old machines dying like living things out there. the jobless men, failures in a failing time were imprisoned in their houses with their wives and children and their pets. the pets refused to go out and left their waste in strange places. the jobless men went mad confined with their once beautiful wives. there were terrible arguments as notices of foreclosure fell into the mailbox. rain and hail, cans of beans, bread without butter;fried eggs, boiled eggs, poached eggs; peanut butter sandwiches, and an invisible chicken in every pot. my father, never a good man at best, beat my mother when it rained as I threw myself between them, the legs, the knees, the screams until they separated. "I'll kill you," I screamed at him. "You hit her again and I'll kill you!" "Get that son-of-a-bitching kid out of here!" "no, Henry, you stay with your mother!" all the households were under siege but I believe that ours held more terror than the average. and at night as we attempted to sleep the rains still came down and it was in bed in the dark watching the moon against the scarred window so bravely holding out most of the rain, I thought of Noah and the Ark and I thought, it has come again. we all thought that. and then, at once, it would stop. and it always seemed to stop around 5 or 6 a.m., peaceful then, but not an exact silence because things continued to drip drip drip

and there was no smog then and by 8 a.m. there was a blazing yellow sunlight, Van Gogh yellow- crazy, blinding! and then the roof drains relieved of the rush of water began to expand in the warmth: PANG!PANG!PANG! and everybody got up and looked outside and there were all the lawns still soaked greener than green will ever be and there were birds on the lawn CHIRPING like mad, they hadn't eaten decently for 7 days and 7 nights and they were weary of berries and they waited as the worms rose to the top, half drowned worms. the birds plucked them up and gobbled them down;there were blackbirds and sparrows. the blackbirds tried to drive the sparrows off but the sparrows, maddened with hunger, smaller and quicker, got their due. the men stood on their porches smoking cigarettes, now knowing they'd have to go out there to look for that job that probably wasn't there, to start that car that probably wouldn't start. and the once beautiful wives stood in their bathrooms combing their hair, applying makeup, trying to put their world back together again, trying to forget that awful sadness that gripped them, wondering what they could fix for breakfast. and on the radio we were told that school was now open. and soon there I was on the way to school, massive puddles in the street, the sun like a new world, my parents back in that house, I arrived at my classroom on time. Mrs. Sorenson greeted us with, "we won't have our usual recess, the grounds are too wet." "AW!" most of the boys went. "but we are going to do something special at recess," she went on, "and it will be fun!" well, we all wondered what that would be and the two hour wait seemed a long time as Mrs.Sorenson went about teaching her lessons. I looked at the little girls, they looked so pretty and clean and alert, they sat still and straight and their hair was beautiful in the California sunshine. the the recess bells rang and we all waited for the fun. then Mrs. Sorenson told us: "now, what we are going to do is we are going to tell each other what we did during the rainstorm! we'll begin in the front row and go right around! now, Michael, you're first!. . ." well, we all began to tell our stories, Michael began and it went on and on, and soon we realized that we were all lying, not exactly lying but mostly lying and some of the boys began to snicker and some of the girls began to give them dirty looks and Mrs.Sorenson said, "all right! I demand a modicum of silence here! I am interested in what you did during the rainstorm even if you aren't!" so we had to tell our stories and they were stories. one girl said that when the rainbow first came she saw God's face at the end of it. only she didn't say which end. one boy said he stuck his fishing pole out the window and caught a little fish and fed it to his cat. almost everybody told a lie. the truth was just too awful and embarrassing to tell. then the bell rang and recess was over. "thank you," said Mrs. Sorenson, "that was very nice. and tomorrow the grounds will be dry and we will put them to use again." most of the boys cheered and the little girls sat very straight and still, looking so pretty and clean and alert, their hair beautiful in a sunshine that the world might never see again. and

-- Charles Bukowski, "We Ain't Got No Money, Honey, But We Got Rain" 1990

[aprocessionofthoughts]

Singing Songs and Being Kidnapped

ectoberhaunt24 day 3- archaeology fandom- dp x dc TW-none summary- Danny is bored and is making it everyone's problem

ao3 masterlist part 2 of APVG

Danny had grown bored and had started tapping his foot. He’d been humming at first but the bag over his head muffled the sound. (He’d been humming the chorus of Staying Alive. (the only part he knew) It was funny. Sue him. Actually, please don’t. He only had two nickels and a mint edition signed Dumpty Humpty record to his name. But you’d have to pry that from his cold, dead (well deader) hands!)

 But wait! He just had to be louder so he could be heard through the bag over his head. So, instead of just humming, he started singing out loud. He had an excellent singing voice no matter what Sam and Tucker and all his classmates and teachers and other Amity Parkers said. He made it through the song’s chorus ten times, trying his best to make the instrumental sounds with his mouth. He started wondering what other songs he could sing when he was so rudely interrupted.

“Will you stop it!” screeched the smelly man currently in the room guarding him.

“I’m booooooored!” Danny complained trying to flop back dramatically, forgetting he was tied to a chair so all that happened was a tiny shuffle.

“I don’t care!” the guard said. “Look,” the guard sounded like he was pleading, “They’re on the phone with Wayne now, which means Batman will probably break in, break my kneecaps and rescue you soon. Please don’t make my life anymore miserable in the meantime!”

Awww, poor guy. He was just trying to do his job. Maybe Danny should be nice. Nah. They’d kidnapped him, now they had to deal with him.

After singing the chorus of Staying Alive approximately more times than he cared to count, Danny started branching out into the choruses of other songs he knew before deciding just to start singing the song that never ends, because it goes on and on my friend. Someone (Danny) started singing it not knowing how it ends (that’s a mystery even the Ancients can’t solve, except for maybe Clockwork) and know Danny’s stuck repeating it forever just because, it’s the song that never ends, yes it goes on and on my friend someone started singing it not knowing how it ends and now we’re repea–

Batman broke through the wall (leave the poor guy alone, he's allergic to doors) to find a henchman curled up in the fetal position, sobbing, and a kid who Batman could swear was one of his even with the bag still on the boy’s head.

Batman secured the goon, who still hadn’t stopped sobbing, before stepping over the man and removing the bag from the boy’s head. 

Yup, that definitely looked like one of his. He squinted. He didn’t think he adopted anyone recently, but…

“Thanks, Mr. Bat Furry Man. Sir.” said the young boy who immediately stood up, the ropes falling away.

The teasing and being able to escape the ropes, were two more points toward this being one of his kids.

“Hn.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m ok. Don’t get your spandex in a twist.” he said, rolling his eyes.

This had to be one of his! He even understood the bat-grunts!

“Glad you’re okay.” Batman placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll see you at dinner.” Then he leapt up, creating a hole in the ceiling. He then immediately jumped behind an ac unit, hissing as the light of the sun hit him. 

Curse the sun! Gotham wasn’t supposed to have sunlight! What was this? Some new villainous plot? Where was the smog? The smoke? The darkness!?

Down below, Danny blinked up at the hole in the ceiling, then looked down at the still crying henchman. “Well that was weird.”

Though… If the henchmen thought he was a Wayne kid, and Batman just called him son… did that mean… could Wes possibly be right?! But no, that was ridiculous! Surely, Batman would know his own kids!

Then again, he did remember Sam mentioning that there was a whole boatload of Wayne kids, and Wes had mentioned that the number of Bats pretty much lined up with the number of bats, and that the times of adoption lined up with the reveal of each new bat.

But whatever! Danny didn’t care! He had his own problems to deal with. Batman would just have to have dinner without him!

With a look toward the now unconscious henchman, Danny turned invangible (invisible plus intangible) and flew out so that he could return to the class.

Following his classmates' ecto-signatures, he found his way to a museum where he dropped into the middle of the group letting go of his ghostliness.

“Finally, took you long enough.” Sam muttered.

Danny rolled his eyes. “It’s not like I missed out on anything. I’ve seen most of this stuff on the jobs I do for Clockwork.”

Tucker smirked. “Speaking about your jobs for Clockwork,” Tucker motioned to where their classmates were huddled together in front of a mosaic, “look at what they found.” 

Danny shoved his way to the front, forgoing intangibility just to annoy them. Then he caught sight of what they were looking at and promptly turned green as a green tomato.

“Hey, Danny, why didn’t you tell us you looked so good in a dress?” Paulina snickered.

Danny turned even greener. “It’s a toga!”

His classmates snickered, and Danny flicked his fingers at the floor, covering it in a layer of thin ice. They yelped as they lost their balance and tumbled to the floor. Danny snickered, before darting away when they tried to pull him down too.

While Danny couldn’t wait to go home, being able to have fun with his class one last time before they all went their separate ways for college was really nice.

[garbinge]

Maybe One Day

Chibs Telford x F!Teller!Reader

Summary: You go back to Charming 10 years after… everything.

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Angsty. Mentions of death, murder, emotional distress, emotionally heavy.

SOA Taglist: @drabbles-mc @justreblogginfics

A/N: I wrote this on my phone so don’t mind any odd formatting or editing mistakes!

Part 2

The moment you crossed into the town line you felt the heaviness overcome you. It was like there was this smog that only existed within the miles of town, one foot outside that sign that held the town founding year and population and it was like fresh air. But currently you were being suffocated as the odometer added mile after mile as you drove deeper into Charming.

It was like looking at an old photograph, not much had changed in most parts. There was still the main street strip, some of the stores definitely were new, but the street felt the same. You noticed the lack of loud, rumbling motors, lack of two wheeled engines parked along the curb. But early on that had been how it was before Scoops turned into the new head quarters for the Sons of Anarchy. It had been 10 years since you’d been back here, so it was likely the original club stomping grounds were back in commission.

You had told yourself you weren’t going to find out if that were true but you currently were parked just outside the automotive shop to see a new black warehouse like space where the old blue one used to be. The paint didn’t look too fresh where SOA was stencilled on but it looked new enough to you as you leaned against the black cutlass.

One thing and one thing only. It was the sentence you repeated in your head over and over as you drove hours back home. Back home, that felt like a heavy statement. Charming might have been where you grew up, but it wasn’t home. Despite it being where you’ve lived most in your life, it wasn’t home. One thing and one thing only. You knew that wasn’t true every time the thought ran in your head. It was inevitable that you’d come here, that you’d stop at the rocky mounted highway where JT’s memorial was. Where the helmet and sunglasses of the other Teller still lay abandoned.

You were just supposed to grab the last few things at the house before the closing date. The realtor handled everything else, the listing pictures, the calls with interested buyers, you had hired people to straighten up and you had put mostly everything else in storage 10 years ago, but there was one thing that was still in that house that no one else could get but you.

You didn’t put the house on the market until a month ago. It was an assumption but you figured the club was going to use the house for whatever shady business or reasons, it’s why you were happy you had a confirmed buyer that first week of putting the blue house on the market. All it took was one day and one tour by your realtor before the offer came in. But that sped up your timeline. It was likely that was why you pushed this out so far, dreading the thought of coming out here and going to the kitchen drawer and grabbing that pocket notebook that you hid in the false bottom of it.

Now that notebook was weighing heavy in your back pocket but it was fitting considering the weight of the air. You saw people in TM work shirts moving around, the weight of the word Teller staring down at you even from the street. That was all Charming ever did, weigh heavy on you.

You thought of the words you repeated over and over again. One thing and one thing only. What a lie. You scoffed slightly as if the conversation you were having in your head was actually happening outloud.

A few more thoughts popped into your head, each from someone this town had an effect on. Both statements weighing heavy on you because what else would thoughts about Charming be.

The one Hale spoke to Jax when you were younger. “It wont be long before SAMCRO is just an ugly memory in the history of charming.” Something felt unsettling there, unfortunately Hale died before he could see that come to light and as you stared at the new SAMCRO compound you had to think you probably would too.

Then Wendy’s voice came to your head, “The MC, this town, it kills all the shit you love.” She was right before shit even hit the fan. Although, shit was always hitting the fan so she was just on the pulse of Charming before any one else even bothered to look. You had lost everyone to Charming—to the club. Yes, you had Abel and Thomas still, but it was different, everyone you had in your family during your young life was gone. Tara, Jax, Gemma, Opie. The list went on.

But before you could continue the list you heard a familiar voice. The voice of the one person you hadn’t technically lost to the reaper but you most certainly lost to Charming and SAMCRO.

You hated how the voice made your heart happy. You hated how it managed to make every ounce of heaviness disappear and flee to the deep depths of the town and would only surface when you were left alone. But as you heard his voice again it made you wish you never would be alone again. It made you think for the briefest of seconds that maybe you could back out of the offer, move into the house that was now in your name and create a life here. Charming was home after all.

No. No. Charming was not home. The quick rational part of your brain quickly jolted you back to reality. That weight quickly rising from the ground and pulling at your ankles as a reminder that the town’s grip would suffocate you. But there it was again, the interruption that pulled the weight off your ankles and had you feeling as light as a feather.

“Love?”

The name he called you for years, whether it was in public or when you were tangled up in the sheets felt like a breath of fresh air in this smothering town. It wasn’t a nickname solely for you, you heard him say it to many women in your years of knowing him, and he probably had a fair share of women now he used the name on.

But that didn’t stop your knees from wanting to buckle. You turned and saw him, it was ironic that in your years of hanging in this club house, at TM, you had never seen Chibs on the street in front of the club HQ. Most guys parked inside, the street parking was reserved for excess cars who were there for service and for on lookers like yourself, although they usually tended to be wearing badges.

“Mother of Christ.” His accent was thick as he lifted his sunglasses up and off his face. His feet were moving towards you.

He didn’t think twice before engulfing you in a hug. You had thought about this moment a lot, going over all the different ways it could go. In one of the scenarios you thought he’d pause immediately front of you, stare at you like a stranger. There was something so relieving that he was hugging you like the past 10 years hadn’t existed, that no matter what happened he still cared about you, was happy to see you.

“Chibs!” A voice interrupted your embrace and you wanted to murder them. Funny how being in Charming made homicide an instant thought.

Chibs pulled away and that’s when the Scottish cologne hit you, a smile filling your face as he looked back to the person in the TM lot.

“Church in 10!”

You looked at the patch on his kutte immediately at those words and saw the president patch. It sent bile to your throat, it was the patch Jax wore for years. Not figuratively, but literally. It was the exact patch he wore, some of the stains on it were likely from his time wearing it. You didn’t stay here long enough to see it sit on Chibbs’ kutte but seeing it now was transporting you back 10 years.

“Why don’t y’come int’the clubhouse darlin’, have a drink, we can talk.” He looked older, the bags under his eyes were dark and puffy. You could tell the club life was affecting him, his hair was graying way more and it made him even more attractive.

“I shouldn’t.” You shook your head and doubled down, “I can’t.”

The second two worded statement you spoke is what made Chibs understand, a nod escaping from his head.

“It’s good t’see ye’.” He was trying to keep it light, he knew how hard this was.

“I’m selling the house.” You said it so business like, it was a way to give him the heads up to let the club know. You saw some traces of them being there, not frequently but enough. Cigarette buds in the ashtrays around the furniture that was left, empty beer bottles in the recycling bin. You knew Chibs made sure whoever came by knew to clean up after.

Chibs just nodded and looked down. “Y’happy?”

How were you supposed to be happy after Charming took every last thing that you loved. You thought for a minute and the faces of your nephews flashed in your mind and you smiled.

“The boys are teenagers. I don’t know if you can be happy with teenagers.” You joked.

Chibs grinned at the mention of Thomas and Abel.

You wanted to ask him if he was happy but you were afraid of the answer. You saw what the club presidency did to the person in the role before him. You saw what it had done to the other Teller in the same position just a decade before. It made you think about JT and his legacy for a moment. You always wondered if JT was just exemplified as this great person because he wasnt alive to be rememebered for his flaws. But then you remembered Gemma and Clay and how they only remembered JT for his flaws. Your mind instantly went to Jax who had killed both Clay and Gemma, and what his legacy was. If he’d be exemplified just because he was gone and his flaws would be forgotten. Your eyes moved to the newer clubhouse and saw the small memorial that was on the roof. There was white air forces perched on the edge where Jax would very often sit and reflect. That solidified it for you, he’d be seen as Jax Teller, son of JT, president of SOA, an honor to have known and loved him for the guys who were in the club when he reigned as VP and president. But then your eyes fell back on Chibs, the hope that since he knew the flaws that essentially led to the death of your brother, he’d lead differently while still respecting his legacy in the eyes of the club.

“You rebuilt.” You pointed to the building trying to erase that long heavy thought from your mind.

“Ice cream and hookers were too distracting for the guys.” He teased in reference to Scoops and Red Woody. “You sure you don’t want to come in, love? Church won’t take long, I’ll give y’my dorm while y’wait.”

It was a convincing offer. You wanted to see what Chibs’ dorm looked like, what life was like for him. But deep down you knew you already knew what it looked like because you lived it. You lived it and you hated it. You loved him but hated the life.

“No just came to get this.” You pulled the pocket notebook out and flapped it in the air.

Chibs knew exactly what that was and nodded in understanding.

“Chibs!” The same voice called out again.

“He’ll be in in a second!” You called out, eyes still glued on the Scot in front of you.

The prospect shut up quickly and moved back inside. You wondered how he’d describe you to the members inside, there was only a handful that could potentially recognize you from description, and an even smaller handful that would come out to see for themselves.

“I wanted to give it to Abel. I think he deserves to know Jax the way Jax wanted him to.” You explained the notebook that Chibbs knew all about between the time when Jax was writing it and when you had told him where you’d put it.

“It was really good ta see y’love.”

Despite everything shitty about being back, it was true for you too. It was great seeing him. You wished you could ask him to leave, come stay with you on your humble farm, sell fresh eggs with you at the farmers market and ride dirt bikes with the boys. But it was the same reason he never asked you to stay here. Sure he might’ve asked you to come in for a drink but the words “stay in Charming” would never come from his mouth. He knew it was too painful.

He pulled you in for another hug and you didn’t want to let go. The drink wasn’t sounding half bad, you wanted to catch up, hear about what he’s up to, how he’s been, but the answers you’d want to hear would never come and the one’s you dreaded to hear would be the only one’s that filled your ears.

As you pulled out of the embrace you squeezed his arm in a way to tell him the same about seeing him without actually saying it and then you quickly turned back to your car. Chibs was walking away now, his hand reaching up to wipe the couple stray tears he’d never admit to shedding and dropping his sunglasses back down.

You called out one last time to him, an impulsive decision and impulsive thought meeting together at the tip of your tongue.

“If Abel comes here, push him out. Don’t welcome him in.”

Chibs was frozen at the request and then he nodded in understanding.

“I’ll send ‘em right back to th’farm so his auntie can talk some sense into ‘em.” It was a humorous statement but it gave you relief because Chibs wouldn’t lie to you.

“You can tell him about Jax. The Jax you knew. The Jax we wanted him to be.”

It was just like you to have the most mundane small talk conversation at close range where whispers could be exchanged and this important one where voices carried.

“I won’t.” At first you thought he misheard you and you were going to correct him when he spoke up. “If he’s anything like his ol’ man, he’ll want to become the man we wanted him to be, and we’ve already seen how that plays out.”

You thought it was impossible to feel seen in Charming. To feel heard. You thought it was impossible for someone in the club to speak this way about it. About past members. It was probably one of the many things about Chibs that made you love him, his honesty, his care for the Teller family. It gave you a little hope.

“There’s always room for you at the farm.” You said as Chibs was walking backwards. Getting closer to the club but still staring in your direction. You saw the curly haired man appear from the clubhouse building, about to call Chibs’ name when he spotted you. You knew he’d hear the prospect talk and be outside to see for himself, using Chibs as the excuse.

Your hand raised and waved at Tig like you had just seen him yesterday. He immediately raised his hand waved and you heard his laugh crystal clear from where you were and stared back at Chibs for a response to your invitation.

“Maybe one day, love. Maybe one day.”

Part 2

[nightmare-foundation]

Please share thy Dick Grayson headcanons they sound very cool (I specifically saw posts about BPD and Damian parallels, but I'm excited to hear anything you've got to say)

Okay okay headcanon time 🙏

1. I have a pretty specific image in my head of how I imagine Dick. The closest example I can think of is how Bruno Redondo and Stephen Byrn both draw Dick in terms of body shape; broad shoulders, hourglass body, etc. Though I imagine his hair as thick and wavy/curly, his skin dark with a warm undertone (though he's been pretty pale a lot of his life thanks to the Gotham smog), and lots of scars. He has a pretty square face shape, like how Redondo draws him.

2. Speaking of scars, I headcanon Dick has a LOT of scars. Like, a shit ton of them. Scars leftover from Superwomans lasso, scars from the many times he's been restrained, the many times he's been stabbed/shot/slashed, from when he got shot in the head, etc. I imagine him with a scar on his mouth specifically, something he got from one of his stays in Arkham.

3. I actually mash up a lot of Dicks, and the Batfamilys in general, history from various eras, reboots, and even other media. So when I imagine a young teenage Dick, I typically imagine something similar to Teen Titans Robin! I also headcanon he was briefly Slades apprentice, like in the show, but this is separate from Renegade in the comics. Both things happened in my own timeline. Though, honestly, I need to watch Teen Titans...

4. Speaking of- I actually imagine that Damian looks almost exactly like Dick did at his age, but with different eye and hair color, and a slightly different chin shape. Though, once Damian is an adult, he'll look more like Talia. The resemblance Dick and Damian have is because Dick just so happens to look like Bruce, and Damian looks like Bruce too. It's a little weird, seeing how similar they look. On top of that, Damian is pretty similar in personality to young teenage Dick (13-14, Dick lightened up a bit later). Frankly, if you put those two in the same room together, you'd think they were blood related.

5. Dick struggles a LOT with his fears of failure and abandonment. It's partly because of his BPD (that i headcanon he has) and also from past experience. When he was still Robin, and somewhat later in his early Nightwing days, he was also terrified of being replaced. Dick feels an intense need to prove himself, to be good enough so that he's worthy of love, of being in the Batfamily. He very much sees his place in the family as something that isn't permanent, that isn't guaranteed. Prior to finding out about Jason, to being fired, he was very afraid of not being good enough and being replaced. And, well, we all know how that went. (The fear of being replaced actually has basis in canon. There's a few golden age comics where Dick thinks he's being replaced, and he's so afraid and devastated he starts crying. Even the possibility terrified him, and exacerbated his insecurities when he overheard people talking shit about Robin, saying it was good he was 'replaced'.)

6. Dicks childhood wasn't actually all perfect prior to his parents falling. Circuses have a long history of abuse and being dangerous. It's established in canon that he actually witnessed someone die when doing a dangerous stunt, and Dick would've likely had to have been aware of the constant danger with performing in the circus. Plus, I believe it's also established in canon that during performances, him, his mom and dad were all work partners instead of parents and a son. I headcanon this is where the parentification of Dick started, and Bruce didn't help at all. His parents WERE good though, it's just the environment Dick grew up in.

7. About the circus- the Court of Owls kept a VERY close eye on Dick during this time. There was a lot of subtle Court stuff in Dicks childhood (stuff he only realizes were that after finding out about the Courts involvement). He was taught how to throw knives, for one, and grew up hearing stories about the mythical Court of Owls. So, yeah, not really a normal childhood.

8. Dick isn't at all sure of what to think about his parents after the revelation they were involved with the Court and that they were supposed to give him to them to be trained as a Talon. He knows they likely wouldn't have had a choice, and he's aware of just how much they loved him, but he's a mix of emotions on the topic, so he prefers not to think about it.

9. I'm don't know how it is in canon, but I headcanon Cobb to be Dicks great-grandfather on his mother's side. His father is white, and his family is in the Court. Dicks grandparents on his father's side are alive, but they're pretty old at this point and he's not at all interested in getting to know them, if he's even aware of who they are. (Keep in mind i don't know much about William Cobb himself, so honestly this might change unless I prefer what I have over whatever canon has lol)

10. Dick is FTM Transgender!! I absolutely refuse to consider the idea of AMAB or cis Dick. I attached to him so he's trans now

11. He's both Bi and Demisexual :)

12. I also headcanon he has ADHD and autism!

13. Dick would rather die than admit it, but he's genuinely afraid of Bruce thanks to all the mistreatment over his life. It only got worse after Spyral, and he hates the fawn response he's had ever since.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hello I love your short fics you do with LeonxReader. I also saw your “tired, trying and internally dying” and it describes me perfectly. I was also wondering if you would do a LeonxReader with some injury/angst and Leon or reader whoever is the injured one making jokes to try and lighten the situation??? Please and thank you💖💖

I appreciate that you enjoy my little Leon x reader stuff and Ngl I made that motto up on the fly when making this blog and now I’m only seemingly to live up to it nowadays 😂

Tw: Hatchets being thrown, injuries, violence, gun violence and reader having a gun.

‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s not good etiquette to greet guests with such hostility?’ You taunted the villager just as he threw his hatchet at your head but you moved out of it’s trajectory in the nick of time. ‘Ha! You missed!’ You exclaimed which would’ve proved in making the villager pissed, but you noticed the sinister look in his eyes as they moved over your shoulder before a sickeningly satisfied smirk stretched across his face.

Just then a pained shout came from behind you and your blood ran cold. ‘Leon?’ You said under your breath and the smile on the villagers face seemed to only grow, as though he was confirming your worst fear; A scowl then replaced your worried expression as your jaw clenched tightly and your blood began to boil out of anger.

‘Say good night you son of a bitch.’ You snarled as you were quick in drawing your gun before putting a couple of well placed bullets through the man’s head, chest and legs in rapid fire succession; Taking an unsettling amount of enjoyment as he fell off the side of the castle battlements and into the veil of smog below before a faint thud could be heard, indicating that the bastard was well and truly dead.

‘Hey, if your done patting yourself on the back, I’m still very much hurt and would very appreciate if my lovely partner would offer me a helping hand, if that’s not too much to ask for?’ Leon’s voice brought you out of your own head and you were quick to look at him; only for your eyes to focus on the handle of the hatchet that stuck out from his shoulder whilst the steel blade was buried deep into his flesh.

‘Oh my god, Leon.’ You said hurriedly as you rushed to his side, trying not to openly express your internal fretting over him but you obviously weren’t doing so well in keeping your composure, as Leon attempted a smile before placing his hand on your shoulder. ‘It’s no biggie, having a hatchet in your shoulder and all.’ He shrugs with his uninjured shoulder. ‘It could’ve been a hell of a lot worse, so I’d give this experience a five out of ten.’

‘Will you quit it with the joking?’ You said, not finding any of this even remotely funny as you gestured to the hatchet in his shoulder. ‘You’re hurt, seriously hurt-‘

‘oh is that what this searing pain in my shoulder is? I wouldn’t have guessed. Thank you for educating me doctor, you really saved my life.’ Leon cuts you off sarcastically and you looked at him with raised brows and arms crossed over your chest as you impatiently tapped your foot. ‘Your ability to run your mouth hasn’t seemed to be hindered much for an injured man, so you should be up to continuing the mission right?’ You told him, flashing a false smile as you patted his chest rather harshly, causing Leon to wince upon each impact of your hand.

‘No, I would like it very much if my partner got me medical attention before I decided to pull this fucker out myself and bleed to death.’ Leon retorted, mimicking you by raising his brows and tapping his foot. The sight was quite humorous that you had to stifle a chuckle behind you hand because of it, before regaining your composure as you then sighed loudly as you moved yourself to Leon’s side and usher him to where you met the merchant last.

Yet with how slow Leon was taking his strides, you couldn’t help but crack a joke at his expense. ‘C’mon grandpa, it’s time for your daily medication.’ Leon scoffed but couldn’t help the smile that slip onto his lips when he noticed how much you’ve calmed down since first seeing his injury; Being a little pain in the arse seemed to have finally pay off in his favour.

‘You’ve been waiting to make that joke you, haven’t you?’ Leon asked, voice light in humour as he gauged your reaction.

‘Maybe.’ You responded, neither denying nor confirming.

‘Bitch.’ Leon said.

‘Jerk.’ You replied.

[legomonkiefics]

Oh, my God! I admire you, the way you write, the way you convey the character, taking into account the plot. I've been reading you since the very beginning of creating this account.

I could ask about the Red Son, and the reader could ask about their family life? For example, because the reader is an ordinary person living in an apartment with a red-haired son. because it will be dangerous for the reader to live in his castle because of his parents, the robot, inventions and traps in the castle itself

❤️🔥Life at Home — Red Son x GN Reader HCs🔥❤️

Genres: Fluff || he/she/they pronouns for Red Son, they/them pronouns for reader || No warnings needed

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆˚｡⋆୨🔥୧⋆˚｡⋆✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖

- Life with a firey royal had its ups and downs. Red Son could cook well and preferred to keep a clean home, but their temper caused a few scorch marks in quite a bit of furniture. At different times, however, they'd referred back to their childhood home. Things like "mother expected a clean home" or "father and I cooked together once"

- Eventually, the curiosity got to you. There was definitely a lot to ask, as someone so picky and used to royal treatment like Red Son settling into a modest and simple apartment with you seemed like an odd contrast

- One day during TV time, you ended up taking a wild shot in the dark and just outright asking. What was her home like? Why did she seem so apprehensive of the subject? Things of that nature

- Red Son seemed a little hesitant to answer at first. You knew her relationship with her parents had a history of being on rocky ground, so it almost made you want to apologize and take it all back. But the prince reassured you, admitting that the current living situation wasn't what she was expecting either

- They tell you of the firey interior, the magma that filled moats and fissures, the Bull Clones running around. She also described her old office as being quite full of shards of scrap metal and tools. He mentioned how he built all his servants, and how it was a sort of castle for his family

- At first, you seemed impressed, maybe even a little awestruck. With the way she was describing it, filled with pride and bombastic dramatics, it made the home sound like something out of a fairytale. You were tempted to almost ask to visit, but Red Son gently stopped that train of thought

- He also took the time to explain the more personal aspects of the home. The marks raked into the ground from his father's temperamental hooves, the way the walls had cracks from his horns. The way the fire often caused smog and humidity, and the air quality was generally low

- You listened intently, noticing how he was treading around the lingering more sensitive topics that were always underlying everything that happened in her home. You gently stopped them, ending their rambling

- Once he pulled back, he settled on lightheartedly telling you that a home full of temperamental bull royalty was no place for a squishy little mortal as she held you close

- They reassure you that at the end of the day, they might miss royal living a bit, but they're much happier being in a healthy environment with you than being back at her childhood home

[trashyrosie]

Leona, talking about the fountain as he gives a tour: So, he built it when his son was born-

Yuu: So, he built what is essentially a pretty thing to look at, but he couldn't have used that money towards better things? Like putting an effort into rebuilding the slums?

Grim: Henchhuman-

Vil: Could you be any blunter, potato?

Yuu, crosses arms: What? Oh and this whole "being one with nature" thing and allowing some of the natural resources to go untapped-

Kifaji: It's because we don't want to drain the land of what they have given us-

Yuu: No one said you were draining it. Just think of a more eco-friendly way of handling things. Leona said you guys have the greatest concentration of sunlight, right? Turn that into solar energy. Convert some of the heavy smog machines into ones that run on solar.

Lilia, hums: She might have a point...

Kalim: Wow, Yuu! You're so smart!

Yuu: Thanks. On top of that, it'll create jobs for people, especially those who work in high poverty areas. You guys can still be surrounded by nature without having to sacrifice nature for it. *Sighs* I'm done, sorry for ra-

Leona: Marry me.

Yuu: You get Grim in the process if I do.

Leona: Deal.

Kifaji: My Prince!

#twisted wonderland#twst yuu#yuu homura#lilia vanrouge#twst grim#vil schoenheit#twst kifaji#kalim al asim#leona kingscholar#cloudcalling on the savanna

No but like as an economics student AND a Leona stan hearing about the way they're handling their economy in the Sunset Savanna ... was sure..... Shocking to say the least

I hope I’m not being to forward but your comment has me thinking, as an economics student how do you think they could improve their situation, what policies can they implement, I would love to hear your ideas💡please

...fam. I'm about to yammer. Also this is my favorite question ever

As an economics student and mind you I might come off as abit harsh or even cold but I want to keep things factual. I don't think the game itself even recognizes what a big of a deal it is to purposely not develop the infrastructure. Underdeveloped infrastructure is one of the things that we take in consideration wHEN MEASURING POVERTY. This is what threw me off, in a way it sounded like they were INSISTING on having poverty related issues. AND WE KNOW THE SUNSET SAVANNA HAS PEOPLE LIVING IN POVERTY. The slumps being the biggest proof.

Leona's ideas ARE actually great solutions, he's completely right in my opinion. I just I think a lot of people don't exactly understand what he means when he talks about industrialization.. And I don't blame them. I too thought industrialization is just big factories go brr pollution and that's what the game seems to be sitting up but... I'm about to "um actually 🤓☝"

So, why is industrialization the solution (that AND developing the infrastructure bECAUSE OH MY GOD people don't have basic needs like water in 2024 ..??? I don't even feel the NEED to explain why that's bad at this point oh also the renewable energy idea is just PERFECT chief kiss) .. Now industrialization doesn't mean 100% destroying the environment.. Does it have a bad effect on the environment.. Yes but it doesn't means absolute destruction of the environment especially in this case..

Think about it...if the products they should be producing depend on natural resources as their input..would they really go, is Leona really presenting that they should go and absolutely DESTROY the sources of their inputs.?, even looking at it from a greedy economical perspective it makes no sense. Also industrialization provides ✨job opportunities✨ and this is very important. Job opportunities and providing the people with income "moves" the economy and improves people's living conditions, people now can afford education and health (which we know the people of the slumps have next to no access to, Ruggie's mom died while giving birth to him and it was mentioned there's a lot of crying kids in the slumps that means women in the slumps don't have access to good healthcare for giving birth a common thing found in countries suffering from whaaat? Poverty.) Providing people with an income improves their living condition (no sh*t) and the best way to provide them with that is by providing them with jobes and yOU DO THAT THROUGH INDUSTRIALIZATION (also side not here, governments can GIVE their citizens "monthly allowances or icomes" these amounts are usually small but better than nothing .. My country is doing this as of now and it's for this exact same thing "moving the economy" aka the people selling, buying, getting married reproducing... Basically living)

Another solution I really like is tourism.. Which Leona mentioned.. twice. .. I think? Okay so they don't want to mass produce? Okie dokie. Then lean heavy into the cool epic greenery you got. A lot of countries irl do that actually and it would also provides the people with the needed jobs (I'll never stop shouting about the importance of income and job opportunities)

but this time in the tourism industry.. and the sunset Savanna really can make banks out of this that place is gorgeous and they should use their beliefs and pride in what they've got as a force to move forward not being all like "the circle of life😍"... As a justification for Underdevelopemt. I really adore the tourism solution like personally like it. I actually I'm an average environment enjoyer myself and I don't think we should destroy nature.... But mothers are dying in the slumps and children are getting no food... And we don't even NEED to destroy nature... We simply need to IMPROVE the way the economy is going NOT DESTROY IT AND CHANGE IT.. Just modernize it a bit.. A region in my country is actually doing this. Leaning heavily into the old castles and mud houses we got (we old as heck) modernizing things a bit to make it tourists friendly while also keeping our history (that I love) intact and BOOM tourists destination and more jobs for the people

in conclusion, I love this ask so much thank you so much so much so much for asking.. my field of study + my favorite lion boy. I'm on cloud nine.. Hands down made my night..i think I gave three solutions.. I'm very sorry if I didn't go in more depths or if this isn't what you wanted I'll clearly be more than happy to answer more stuff about this because I'm a giant nerd. Also I should rule the sunset Savanna. Thank you.

[violet-bruises]

Baby Lay Your Head Down

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x OFC (SSA Sophie Carter)

Warnings: Established past relationship (kind of), mild suggestive language, mentions of grief, mentions of death and almost death, mentions of suppressing emotions, excessive longing, angst

Author's note: I've had ideas for Hotch swirling in my head for months years, and this is the first time I've managed to get anything down on paper. In my head, my OFC is a little more fleshed out, as is her relationship to Hotch, and their story is much larger. This is just a small blurb taken from a point in their story that was swirling in my mind recently. I hope it makes sense lol. ALSO! This is my very first time posting to tumblr, or publicly at all for that matter.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN AARON HOTCHNER AS A CHARACTER! ALL CREDIT TO THE CREATOR! (did i say it right?)

Word count: 2,474

Summary: Aaron is usually the first one in the office. Usually.

Once upon a time, Aaron loved mornings. In law school, he’d wake up while it was still dark, squeeze in an early run around campus, shower, and enjoy his coffee all before the sun ever began to show its soft colors. When he and Haley were newlyweds, he’d surprise her with breakfast in bed—which quickly grew cold as they entangled themselves in their straight from the registry sheets. And once Jack was born, Aaron would wake up just to hold him, rock him in the cushioned chair in his nursery before work. But soon, slowly and then all at once, his life grew darker. A thick shadow cast over his days, no matter how high the sun sat in the sky. He and Haley drifted apart. He’d wake many mornings to an empty apartment—no longer a home, much less a house. He spent his mornings in the confines of the BAU. And then Haley died, and Jack almost did; Aaron started sneaking into Jack’s room to watch him sleep just to reassure himself that his son was still here, alive and breathing.

But eventually, mornings became bearable, until they were even enjoyable again. The thick smog over his days lifted. He stopped going into the office early and started having small moments with Jack. Aaron got to enjoy his coffee again, squeeze in the occasional early run, and, for the first time ever, eat breakfast in bed, made for him. For the first time, Aaron’s small apartment felt like home; the soft colors of the sun were no match the vibrant warmth Sophie carted into his life. But clearly Aaron was cursed long ago to fulfill the same prophecy over and over again, because, just as he was finally happy again, truly and utterly, deeply and joyously, he managed to fuck that up, too.

So, once again, Aaron arrives early at the office now every morning. Some occasional mornings, he’s not the first one to wake the floor. On those mornings, he’s grateful—a pot of bitter hot coffee almost certain to be residing in the carafe, singing his name. Most mornings, however, Aaron arrives to a dark and empty bullpen, and he’ll trudge to the small kitchenette in the break room before doing anything else to start the coffee. While the coffee brews, Aaron will make his way to his office, setting down his briefcase and unloading the files on his desk. He’ll file away papers he’s finished with, creating a pile for JJ and Garcia to review. By this time, his coffee has dripped enough that he can pour himself a decent cup. Black. No cream or sugar when in the office, not that any amount could truly save the monstrosity. He’ll place the files on Garcia’s desk, then backtrack to JJ’s. Once he returns, he’ll sit at his desk, pouring over case files, old and new, as the sun rises outside and the city wakes and people begin to pour into the office, a trickle, then a flood.

The same routine for the past three months. Every morning. Everyday.

Except for today.

Today, when Aaron manages to pull himself to the seventh floor and into the BAU, he stops short. The usually quiet and dim office space is punctuated by a soft glow, right at its heart. As he approaches from the entrance, he expects someone to be occupying the lit desk, but its chair is empty. Scattered across the tabletop are case files. A file on the missing twin girls in Arizona from last week (paperwork the responsible unit chief in him is praying is finally done) is open on top, but more lie underneath. He can’t quite read the labels in the shadows that escape the desk lamp’s light. Aaron reaches his hand out to thumb through the papers.

“Oh!”

Aaron swivels to find Supervisory Special Agent Sophie Carter, sock-footed and grasping a massive cup of coffee, standing before him, clearly having just emerged from the break room. Aaron briefly, traitorously, wonders what the ratio of actual coffee to sugar to cream she’s decided on today.

“Good morning,” Aaron greets her, gruffly. He hasn’t spoken since waking up, really only just above a whisper when dropping Jack off at Jessica’s. His voice is rough with unuse. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “What are you doing here?”

“Good morning,” Sophie responds. She diverts eye contact and brushes just past Aaron to reach her desk chair. Aaron watches her. “And I work here.”

Aaron’s lips purse displeasingly. After a moment, Sophie glances up at him then sighs. “I, um, couldn’t really sleep. Figured I’d turn that into being a model employee and finally finish all of my paperwork.”

Aaron documents the subtle red tinge bloomed across her cheeks. Still avoiding his questioning and concerned gaze, she raises her coffee mug to her soft lips. I’m Down To Just 1 Cup A Day in big block letters written on the side. The mug is as big as his head.

“I wish you’d chosen that philosophy about ten years ago. Would’ve saved me a few headaches.”

Sophie finally meets his eyes again. Warm and dark, nearly midnight when cast away from the light on her desk. Aaron is reminded of the night skies that cover all of the small towns he’s seen; far enough from the city, awash with billions of tiny dots of light—stars that create impossibly beautiful and intricate patterns in the sky—the vastness could swallow him whole, and he’d welcome it with open arms.

“Ha ha,” she intones, but her eyes never lose their warmth. Aaron chuckles but doesn’t respond. Instead, he watches. Watches her shuffle through papers, write things down on a sticky note, tuck papers away in folders, pull more papers out. Finally, with tight shoulders, she turns to look up at him. “Can I help you?”

Aaron scans her face. “What are you doing here so early?”

She frowns. “I told you. I couldn’t sleep.”

Then, Sophie sighs, slumping back in her chair. Aaron knows she’s tired. But it’s not the discoloration under her eyes, or the heaviness of her lids that gives her away. It’s how quickly she caves to telling the truth. Too tired to be stubborn, Aaron muses. The fight and irritation drain from her in an instant. “I don’t know, Hotch. Genuinely, I really haven’t been sleeping well, promise. But. . . yeah, it’s been more than just a few sleepless nights.” She flops over, forehead resting on her folded arms. “I haven’t had insomnia like this since college.” Her words come out muffled and pitiful, wrought with exhaustion.

“How long has it been this bad?”

“Um, I guess. . . since the serial in Montana.”

“That was three months ago.”

She doesn’t answer; her head stays buried. Aaron frowns, though he pretty much has been since he realized it was her desk light on in the dark office. Since his discovery, the sun has risen a tiny bit beyond the brick of the building, the sky a cornflower blue. Aaron reckons it’s about 5:30—about an hour and a half before anyone starts arriving—two and a half before the bullpen is officially alive for the day (and three before Morgan manages his way in). Aaron’s noticed Sophie’s tiredness. Of course he has. He catches her blank stares and heavy lids easily. He would’ve said something by now, but her exhaustion had, remarkably, not yet affected her job. The minute duty calls, she springs into action, like she’s been a tightly coiled spring finally allowed to burst. But, it’s more than just that that holds Aaron back. Because that wasn’t part of their arrangement, was it? Because asking her if she’s been sleeping, or feeling well, or eating okay, or taking care of herself, or seeing anyone— those questions were off limits. Wasn’t that what they’d decided? The rules they’d laid down?

Aaron never really was good at following the rules.

“C’mon.”

Sophie lifted her head, eyes wide and round. “What?”

“C’mon,” Aaron repeated, holding his hand out for her to take. She looked between him and his outstretched palm, gaze wildly skeptical.

“Aaron. . . we talked—”

“You talked, I listened, and this—this isn’t about that. This is about ensuring all of my subordinates are in appropriate shape to adequately perform their duties.”

“Last time I checked, I perform my duties far better than adequately.”

“Sophie,” he pleads. It’s a mistake and he knows it, but she broke the rule first. She called him Aaron. Not Hotch, or Agent Hotchner. His resolve was weak enough as it was; her so easily tossing around his first name like that, when he hadn’t heard it from her in months, when he had grown so used to hearing it when she lay next to him, or, when she whispered it, breathlessly, under him. “Please just. . . humor me.”

Her icy look melted, trickling down her body as exhaustion quickly crept up on her. She didn’t take his hand, but she did stand, shuffling papers in folders and stacking them neatly on top of each other. Aaron waited patiently for her to finish tidying and wondered if he’d ever unlearn her. If he ever wanted to. Arranging papers and cleaning off the desk cleaner than he’d seen it since before it was hers—she was stalling to fully accept his offer, and he knows it’s a punishment, her not giving in. For whom, he’s not quite sure.

Finally, after ages, she turns to him. Her eyebrows raise.

Aaron simply turns on his heel, slightly tipping his head for her to follow. He leads them up the short staircase and as they cross the threshold into his office. Aaron places his briefcase down on his own desk before turning to the couch pressed against the opposite wall.

“Hotch—” So she did realize her mistake, “—really, I’m fine. This isn’t the first sleepless night and early morning I’ve had. I can manage on my own.”

Aaron doesn’t respond right away, busying himself with gathering blankets and pillows.

“Hotch.”

“I am very aware that you are perfectly capable of managing on your own. But, Soph,” Aaron can see the miniscule pinch in her brows. Small, but powerful in the painful way it tugs at him. He sighs. “Friends, right? Don’t friends. . . take care of each other?”

Aaron knows, knows all too well, that an argument boils on the tip of her tongue. But he also knows the heavy dangle of her limbs and the soft glaze of her eyes means she’s close to nearly collapsing. It’s not fair, what he’s doing. He knows that and yet. . .

He watches her study the makeshift bed he’s made for her. And then, “I suppose. . . Penelope would do the same for me, too.”

Aaron suppresses a smile. “She would.”

“She’d do more, actually. Penelope would have freshly baked cookies waiting for me, too.”

“That she would.”

“Penelope is a better friend than you are.”

Aaron hears the jest in her voice, but he doesn’t smile. “That she is,” he says, softly.

Finally, Sophie drags her feet to the couch. Without meeting his gaze, she climbs under the covers and settles in. She inhales deeply as her eyes flutter shut.

It should be studied, Aaron thinks, the mercurial rush of affection that overcomes him. He wishes he could control it. Tamper it down and bury it under the crushing weight of all the other emotions he has buried and ignored. He’s usually quite good at it, actually, with years of careful experience under his belt. Though maybe that’s the problem; he’s attempting to add to something already overflowing, and the erosion of it all has chipped his self-control down to nearly nothing.

Aaron’s surety is bone deep: he’s destined to love her until the day he dies. Even if she doesn’t want him to, even if she doesn’t love him. He’d use his dying breath to confess his overwhelming and all-consuming truth. His throat grows tight.

He’s about to turn on his heel, afraid of what he’ll do if he lingers any longer, when Sophie softly calls out to him.

“Thank you,” she tells him, her eyes opening to finally meet his again. Like an electric shock, the urge to touch her races through him. To caress her warm cheek in his palm, to cradle her face and pull it closer to his own, to press his lips to hers. Aaron feels his fingers twitch under his thinning restraint.

He allows his lips to curve in a faint smile. “Of course,” he whispers.

Aaron finally retreats. With his back to her, he swears he can feel Sophie watching him, but when he turns back as he reaches his desk, Sophie has flipped onto her side, her back facing him. It’s for the best, Aaron reminds himself. If he’d caught her eye again, the ghost of his resolve would haunt his office forever.

As the hours ticked on, the BAU bullpen slowly comes back to life. Just as eight o’clock slips by and the trickling morning light catches the ends of Sophie’s hair ablaze, a knock sounds on his door. Before Aaron gets a chance to stand and answer, the door opens and Garcia swiftly steps in.

“Good morning, sir! I sent over the background profiles you requested from the Jefferson City case—”

“Thank you, Garcia. I—”

“Also, I got that police chief in Wichita to finally send over the files on that cold case Rossi needed—”

“Garcia—”

“You wouldn’t believe the sweet talking I had to do, I mean, Morgan level—”

“Garcia!” Aaron couldn’t resist glancing at Sophie, still fast asleep.

Unfortunately, Garcia caught his slip, and she followed his gaze.

“Oh!”

Garcia looked between Aaron and Sophie, once. Then twice.

“Oh, sir,” she started, much softer than when she’d entered. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize!” Garcia began to back out of his office. “See! I saw her desk light on but I hadn’t seen her since I got in. I thought maybe she just forgot to turn it off, ya know, but then she didn’t respond to my text! Which I get now why, you know, given that she’s, you know—”

“Garcia.” She stopped at the entry way. “Let’s just— please don’t—”

She nodded rapidly and mimicked zipping her lips shut, locking them, and throwing away the key. “Of course, sir.”

Just before she closed the door, Garcia poked her head back in.

“Oh! Also, I brought leftover cookies I baked for the counseling center. They’re in the kitchen!” And the door clicked shut behind her.

“See,” Sophie mumbled, voice muffled by the pillows. “Told you.”

Aaron laughs. Maybe these new early mornings weren’t so bad after all.

[paintbrushinacoffeecup]

Oh Mother, Mother… Mother of Me.

When you were me, this world was ending. Violence echoed in every hall – every mountain, every valley was a warzone. Your mother gave you the directive to continue it, and what else were you meant to do? You did what your mother told you, echoing the same touch of gunmanship that your mothers birthed you to taste.

Oh Mother, Mother… Mother of Me.

I envy how much you saw the sky, with how little you cared for it. You lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow. Your head could never reach the clouds as mine does, and yet, the smog that covers my eyes banishes the hope of ever calling myself belonging to the Earth I was named for. Instead of seeing the sun, I carry your achievements on my back, the last sons of all. 

Oh Mother, Mother… Mother of Me.

You are like a sister to me – fathers differing in three. Yours, mine, and The Heavenly. I feel the panels on my head shutting down, my legs buckling as my spear raises. I feel our connection in this act, though I never once met you, mother. You were perfect in your creation, your mechanic forging each metal plate with tedious care. You carried the coffin on your back with love and guilt, the most agonizing emotions we were left with. 

Oh Mother, Mother… Mother of Me.

I must take up my quarrel with the foe. Nameless, faceless. Designed by sisters of mine that were never born by humanity’s hand, but instead, by yours. The same shapes, the same goal – without purpose. My only natural talent is wasted as blood is siphoned from your mother, the sky too filled with the remnants of wars too old to remember, and too new to forget. 

I envy how much you saw the sky. I am dying, no Nessus to protect me from the violence we have created… the era you had birthed with the blood on your back and shield in your hand. I am a redundancy incarnate, and I pray, mother, that I will meet you. I shall be the very image of shame the bull was to the King of Crete. 

Oh Mother, Mother… Mother of Me,

you belong to the gutter you were named for, I will utter, as I crumble in cascade to the ground.

[2demondogs]

Name of the Game, Boy | Dutch & Arthur

Tags: Young VanDerMatthews and Arthur fluff, Dutch teaches Arthur how to roll a cigar; Hosea's not really present Word Count: 2.3k A/N: Have a Cigar by Pink Floyd, while on the nose, is unexpectedly fitting overall. I'm a cigarette aficionado myself, so I did my best to describe an unfamiliar process.

They've been cornered between city-smog and marsh-heat for days now. Tents were pitched under the shade of a grove, but when its the air that is assaulting them, there's not much the penetrable material of their enclosures can do. It's times like these he wishes they had found somewhere abandoned to shack up, even if it didn't have all four walls.

Hosea's lungs were beginning to struggle with the thickness, and the dampness. Dutch worries. He would have protested his going hunting if it weren't for the emptiness of their metaphorical pantry, and would've joined if it weren't for Arthur. What food's left has wandered off via the saddlebags on his horse, most certainly to the find the nearest watering hole and non-mudstuck grass to graze on. Hosea dislikes them being out of sight, but Dutch's only complaint is his things being carried into the wind.

His upper lip was soaked in sweat when he woke up — hardly unusual, but positively unbearable with the thick hair trapping every bit of it. The same could be said of where his back and behind were drenched in sweat when Hosea roused him to announce his early morning hunt.

While it's still cool out, he said. Even in half-sleep, Dutch laughed.

Always the reasonable one, the older man continues to insist that long sleeves keep the sun off and, therefore, they will sweat far less if they wear them.

Arthur can listen to him all he wants. Maybe, just maybe, he has a point somewhere in that advice.

But Dutch has been feeling choked in anything beyond his singlet. He cropped the sleeves off in their first days wandering this area and, being comfortably outside of society, has worn nothing but his shirt and trousers since they set up proper camp. His arms are beet red and bubbling with burns from the sun, but at least he can feel those rare breaths of relieving wind right on his skin.

Hosea's eyes wander, too. Pleasant, besides the additional heat of them.

The kid is already sitting in his tent with the flaps open when Dutch peels himself from the bedroll once and for all, a modest-sized tin in hand to roll himself a morning smoke. Sleep here is fitful and yet hard to swim out of, like a limbo, even with the sun coming up on its early noon position.

Across the yard or two between the tents, he can tell Arthur is dozing off with his eyes open; he's been growing suspicious that the boy has heat poisoning, his usual alertness having faded into something almost docile — if such a word could ever describe that scrappy mutt of a teenager.

"Mornin', mister," Dutch greets, seating himself between the men's tent and the dead campfire.

He looks up from where he was lazily picking the dirt from beneath his nails with his pocket knife. "Mornin'."

For such a young man, his voice is getting gruff, and fast. Dutch feels a twang of pride thinking on how its dropped since they took him in, as if he has any right to feel that fatherly way.

Even if he tries, the situation doesn't feel... committal enough to warrant himself a label which so many men desire. His mock-son could scurry off any time to try his hand at another orphanage, at finding some wealthy family with a nice homestead who will pity him. They wouldn't, but Hosea and Dutch could just as easily abandon him in his sleep or send him on a goose chase while they flee.

Their relationship isn't tied the same a father and his offspring's is. One mistake from either party, and it could be gone without nearly the same sorrow. Dutch grows older and softer by the day, but he fears wiser is not part of that.

Hosea suits the role of patriarch just fine; the youngin' has begun to say something like Pa and quickly changed his mind with a flush once or twice. In those moments, Dutch always jealously wonders what type of father he'd be.

Is he a Pa, too, perhaps an Old Man? Maybe he could be Daddy, the way his father was to him. Will Arthur ever call him anything but you old coot and yessir?

He's grown fond of the damned critter, and he seems to have met the age where most men feel a certain emptiness in their bachelorism.

Eyes are burning into him as he pops the tin lid and takes out the beginnings of his first cigar: a bundle of tobacco leaves and a bottled shot of whiskey for moistening them. It needs refilled when they cross the next saloon.

The pre-rolls he purchased in Saint Dennis have already molded in the heat, much to his dismay.

Looking up from the bunch of tobacco he's binding to absentmindedly check the horizon for Hosea, he finds Arthur turning his eyes down fast at nothing in particular.

"What's on your mind?" He asks, amused.

Arthur rarely turns away when he's caught watching something; in fact, he seems to stare harder as if to assert his authority. It'd be impossible to say he weren't Dutch's kin, if it weren't for that mop of dirty blonde hair and those blue eyes.

"Nothin'."

"Naw, come on, son."

How he perks up at the name is mostly imperceptible, but it softens Arthur's face as it softens Dutch's sudden, self-imposed jealousy of Hosea.

Raising on gangly legs — still so, even after being fattened with some of Hosea's best game meat — Arthur comes to stand before Dutch, hands stuck in the pockets of his trousers.

"That a cigar?" He nods to the roll in his hand. The question doesn't seem to warrant the interest, but he lets Arthur be timid about his real intent.

"Yessir," Dutch says. He rolls it smooth along his thigh, considers the opportunity he has before him. "You want to learn how to roll one?"

Hilariously, his only response is: "Could I smoke it, too?" His voice is even, total seriousness in it.

Dutch laughs. It is one his first real, hearty ones since they pitched in this miserable swamp.

"'Course you can," he says. He looks up and squints into the light, follows his eyes as the teen plops himself on the ground next to him. He warns with a dull severity: "But if you tell Hosea, he'll hang me. You're too young for smokin'. He worries you'll grow a pair of lungs like his."

"When will I be old enough?" He asks.

He purses his lips, picks up the razor he keeps in his cigar tin for trimming the ends. "I'on know," he admits. "Guess I smoked cigarettes before I was your age." He offers a wry smile. "But I weren't no role model for anything, so don't listen to me."

"They were too expensive f'me," Arthur says. "No one'd let me bum any."

It's one of the few looks into his previous life that he's ever given them. As always, delivered without a missed beat. Arthur doesn't realize how solemn his life was, not really — not beyond the animal discomfort it brought him. It was all he really knew.

Dutch is never sure how to respond beyond the tight knit of his brows. "Well, you're gettin' to try one now," is all he says.

He feels the yearning for a son again while Arthur watches him intently. Explaining his more practiced skills in words has never been Dutch's strong suit, so he's decided he'll either smoke a second or save it for Hosea, depending on when he returns.

Usually, he wouldn't care for one, but Dutch knows he likes the whiskey-River Valley combination real well.

It is strange to have someone so intent on learning from him. Dutch knows he can command a room of people rather easily — it's his job. A genuine attempt to teach makes it feel different, fulfilling; Arthur is hooked, blinking sweat from his eyes as it forms. Seems he's been wanting to ask Dutch to show him this process for a long time. It makes the heat of the risen sun feel bearable.

"Why do you use the drink?" He asks. He spilled a splotch of whiskey on his trouser leg, and Dutch hopes Hosea doesn't smell the liquor on him when he comes back. He'd have to say goodbye to his own hide.

"Makes the leaves flexible." He starts to bunch them to form a core, eyeing Arthur to his side. He learns quick enough, but he's pressing together too hard. "So they won't crumble when you manhandle 'em."

He struggles with wrapping the bunch, but shakes his head when Dutch offers to fix it for him. "I won't learn if you do it."

"A'right," Dutch says. "You want help, you jus' say it. You can try again next time Old Girl's out."

When they're finished, he knows Arthur's cigar isn't going to burn too well. What exactly will go wrong, he isn't sure — but his fingers, though skinny and precise, are unpracticed with this art.

It is an art, one of practicing the tactical differences between excess and moderation, and he makes sure to tell Arthur as much.

He does insist on toasting both cigars. It's hard to explain, the words his own father told him on the matter long forgotten in favor of muscle memories, and Dutch isn't sure that he could even think how to pick apart the delicate process.

He'll probably have to offer Arthur his own cigar if he wants the boy to not hate them forever over one low quality roll — he is fond of him, but it takes practice.

As expected, Arthur's acne-pocked face scrunches upon his first draw. The density of the smoke gives him a mighty cough, and Dutch slaps his back as he hacks.

"Sorry, son," he says, smoke furling from his nostrils as he speaks. He means it. "I probably shoulda known you wouldn't know how to smoke it right."

"There's," — a group of final, shorter coughs, tears forming in his eyes — "A right way?"

"Ayuh," Dutch nods. He barely notices he's adopted Hosea's favorite affirmation, mind focused on finding a flask to offer him a drink of water. "You don't inhale the smoke.

"I still cough like that if I do and I've smoked 'em longer than you been breathin'." Arthur seems mildly surprised by the reminder someone is so much older than him; oh, youth. "When you drag on it, keep that smoke in your mouth and let it sit there. With cigarettes, you smoke 'em. A cigar is for tastin'. Watch."

He takes an exemplary drag. Arthur mirrors him carefully, face still somewhat twisted as he waits to exhale alongside Dutch. The clouds mingle and fade into the air before them, over the unlit campfire.

"All I taste is some nasty ass leaves an' itchy throat," he admits, sounding disappointed.

Dutch laughs. "Sounds 'bout right. It takes time to learn how to appreciate it," he says. "Like all good things in life. Try mine."

They trade. Arthur's is bitter, and he notices the skin of it is cracking at the end. He rolled far too tightly in his efforts to do it right; the taste is tolerable, but only just, and it is difficult to pull on. Arthur immediately hits his cigar once he's gotten it and he bites his cheek to avoid protesting too rashly.

Over the year he's been riding with them, he's noticed the boy struggles with enacting much patience.

"I wouldn't smoke them so fast," he warns. "You'll make it into even more nastiness." Dutch taps the cigar on the boot of his folded leg, Arthur copying him. At least the ash falls off easy. "If you savor it, they can taste real sweet."

Arthur near balks. "Sweet?"

"These are a sweeter kind," he says, and the information takes a moment to be believed at all. He's sure Arthur still thinks he's pulling his leg once it registers that this sour little roll-up tastes sweet to his companion. "Hosea likes these ones 'cause they're some of the easiest to stomach."

It isn't entirely fair to say, but he is absent now and Dutch hasn't influenced Arthur with a good-natured jab at his partner in one too many days.

As they finish them in relative silence, the only sound the thrumming of the heat in the atmosphere and the chirps of birds and insects milling through it, Dutch relents to the sneaking feeling that Arthur looks up to him in some way.

The kid watches him close, nearing the end of his own cigar and yet still learning how to draw it right from how little Dutch's cheeks hollow when he pulls the smoke in. He tries his hardest to wait between drags like he does. He didn't think being mimed could feel so rewarding; he didn't think teaching anything could be much beyond an inconvenience or the mild satisfaction of knowing that he's smarter than someone else.

Probably it speaks to all his own mentors — at least all the ones before Hosea — that such egoism was all he found in it.

The man of the hour rides in shortly after they tap their last ashes, and he is equal parts dismayed and proud to see Arthur studying how Hosea smokes on his cigar once he's passed the responsibility of dismantling the sizeable deer onto Dutch.

He'll give their little smoking lessons away before the month is over, but he has a feeling he can talk his way out of being skinned. When it comes around, he'll tell Hosea he shows Arthur how to survive, and Dutch shows him how to live, and his hubris will endear Hosea too much to say anything besides: don't go rolling him one everyday.