#so this is just like salt in the proverbial wound

[countingnothings]

my boss hates his job, which, you know what, fair, but he’s decided that hating his job means he’s experiencing medical burnout and took three weeks of sick leave. he’s back now, and feeling better, and good for him! taking breaks when your body tells you to is important! but he asked me how long my burnout lasted and i had to tell him...neil...i quit my job in december 2021 to begin my recovery and this very week i am back to not being able to get off the couch just because i had some time-sensitive deliverables last week that elevated my stress levels and fucked with my routine. like yes everyone’s experiences are different, but also, i think i deserve to be just a little bit petty and tell you that hey actually, some of us have had serious work-induced crises and you having to listen to the needs of human seniors instead of writing your book about how great you are at communing with trees is not even remotely the same.

[wizzdot]

*short fic alert* (fic under page break)

Hear me out. Is this….John Price?!

The 141 get home late from a mission, Johnny and Gaz go straight to the showers and Simon slinks off to wherever it is he winds down after a tough few days.

You have been sat on the proverbial bench for the past few weeks with a bullet wound to the shoulder. While rendered useless to the team, you decide to take up a new hobby. So far, the boys have been lab rats for the taste tests of whatever concoction you pull from the oven.

The burnt cookies (that you’d forgotten to put eggs in) that Kyle had whined about almost breaking his perfect teeth. Johnny managed to gobble them up and didn’t seem to understand what the problem was, leading Simon to joke that the man had no taste buds.

Or the time you accidentally used Salt instead of Sugar in the Victoria Sponge cake. Kyle subtlety threw his slice in the bin while you weren’t looking making sounds as if he had enjoyed in. Johnny ate it, making it look so delicious that you were getting confident that your baking skills were finally improving. Simon took a slice back to his room and in the privacy of his own bed, took a bite, and immediately spat it down the toilet. “Christ Almighty, that fuckin’ twat really doesn’t have taste buds” he cursed.

You perfect your skills over the next couple of weeks, with Johnny and Kyle remaining endlessly supportive of your new venture. But the entire time, John avoids your baking attempts.

“Need to watch my weight, love”

“Wish I could have a bite, but I’m on a diet, sweetheart”

“Can’t afford to pile on the pounds at my age, Dove”

They are John’s favourite excuses. You won’t admit it, but it makes you sad. You want to make all of your boys happy. Also, he isn’t even that old for gods sake.

Simon knows that the Captain is avoiding your god awful attempts. But even Simon notices that your skills are slowly improving. He keeps sneaking cupcakes and cookies into his room and this past week, especially, they’d been… alright. Well - apart from the horrifically deformed attempt of decorating a cake like Yoda. It looked like a slimy goblin with wonky eyes - but it tasted ok.

So picture this, they get home from a three day long mission. You’d missed your boys. You’d left your most recent cake on the kitchen counter before going to bed. You climb out from your bed when you hear their tired footsteps heading down the hall.

You poke your head out of the door. Johnny and Kyle come over and give you a soft hug. “Christ, you boys stink” you say. “Fuck off” Kyle laughs, before stripping himself of his shirt “gonna hop straight in the shower anyway. See you in the mornin’, yeah?” he asks. I nod and watch as he leaves towards his room.

Johnny stands, watching Kyle retreat. “I smell even worse than him, hen” he says, trying to shove your head into his armpit. You fight him off and shoo him down the hall.

Simon walks past and gives a small nod, “you might want to go and see Price. He made a beeline for the kitchen” he grumbles, continuing on his way casually.

That comment puts you on edge. Is John hurt? Is he looking for you? You quickly slide on your fluffy slippers and shuffle down to the kitchen as quickly as you can.

The scene that greets you is the last thing you expect to see. The Captain, in a wide stance, leaning one hand on the counter, devouring your Cake (the best one you’d baked so far!!!) with just a single fork. He’d polished off at least half of it, showing no signs of slowing down.

You can’t help but giggle at the scene. “Is it good…?”

“Fuckin’ hell, Love. It’s delicious”

The blush that erupts over your cheeks is immense.

“That was supposed to be shared..” you mumble.

“Not in a sharing mood” he says through a mouthful of cake.

“It’s rude to chew with your mouth open, Captain” you joke.

“Teach me some manners then, sweetheart” he teases, stabbing the fork into the top of the remaining quarter of cake before crowding into your personal space.

“Cakes almost as sweet as you” he whispers into your left ear before leaving the kitchen with a smug smile as you stand frozen in place.

“Oh, I’ve forgotten something!” He mentions from down the hall before turning back and snatching the cake box from the counter. He pauses on his way out, pecking you on the cheek and heading to his office as if that was totally normal behaviour.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t stand touching the spot that he’d kissed for half an hour after he’d left.

Your phone interrupts your frozen state. It’s a text from the group chat.

………..

Johnny: “Kyle, d’ya think Cap told her how he feels yet?”

………

Johnny: “c’mon ya cunt, don’t ignore my message. I know your out the shower I can hear you laughin through the wall”

………

Simon’s voice bellows throughout the hallway “wrong fuckin’ chat, you moron” followed by Kyle cackling and Johnny swearing loudly.

You’re still standing in the doorway of the kitchen, in shock, when the door to John’s office opens.

“Guess you saw that, eh?” he asks, sheepishly.

You nod your head, zoning in on a piece of icing on the corner of his mouth. As if on instinct, you reach up and wipe it with your finger, sticking it into your mouth, before freezing again, realising what you’d just done.

Johns eyes follow your finger, hungrily.

“If you wanted to taste it, you could’ve just asked, love”

[teyamskxawng]

The Fight [I]

Neteyam Sully x Fem!Omatikaya!Reader

Next Part Here

The rundown: The beach fight scene but make it Reader vs Aonung and he gets his ass beat LMAO. Ft. jealous, possessive (and lowkey oblivious) Neteyam having a crisis over the reader.

Warnings: language, bullying, slight violence, brief mention of the reader's deceased parents, Aonung bashing (but only for the purposes of this fic!! i fr trust Aonung's character arc), characters are aged up

WC: 8.8k

A/N: Don't even ask lol, I just wanted reader to be a badass. Second half of the fic delves into Neteyam's feelings and such. I'll prob finish this in like 1 or 2 more parts, so stay tuned for that! :)

Kiri was sprawled out on her stomach in a shallow area of the beach, her face entirely submerged in the crisp, clear water. Intently, she observed a tiny hole dug into the sand, a hub of activity for little critters periodically scurrying in and out.

Meanwhile, you sat beside her, equally entranced by the little wonder of nature the two of you had chanced upon during your mid-afternoon beach excursion.

Just as you lifted your head out of the water to catch your breath and stretch your neck, you felt vibrations from approaching footsteps and hushed voices carried by the sea breeze. Recognizing the voices, you quickly realized that it was Aonung and his band of goons lurking by the shore.

One of the guys pointed a webbed finger at you and Kiri, making it blatantly obvious that you two were the center of their group's conversation.

With a sly smirk and an obnoxiously loud voice, the boy asked his friends, "What are they doing?"

A chorus of laughter erupted among the group, immediately setting off alarms in your mind. You staunchly stood by Kiri, prepared to defend your friend against any potential ridicule or harm.

Meanwhile, Kiri remained blissfully unaware of all that was transpiring above water. Her head still submerged beneath gentle waves, she continued to marvel at the underwater world without a clue about the brewing laughter above.

Aonung scratched his head in mock confusion before turning to his friends and sarcastically asking, "Is she some kind of…freak?"

This wisecrack immediately set you on edge.

You gently shook Kiri's shoulder, calling out her name in a bid to get her attention but not startle her. Dazed and still somewhat out of the loop, Kiri lifted her head out of the water. Blinking the sea from her eyes, she groggily replied, "Huh? What did you say?"

The guys around you couldn't contain their childish amusement, snickering as they watched the scenario unfold.

Kiri's puzzled gaze finally fell upon the boisterous crowd surrounding them. "Oh." She replied, her entire demeanor deflating.

One of the guys chimed in condescendingly as if addressing a toddler trying to understand a grown-up conversation. "He asked if you were a freak," he smirked.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes in disdain, doing your best to suppress the growing urge to smack that smug grin off the little cretin's face. He looked like he belonged in a cage.

"Kiri, let's get out of here. These fish fuckers actually think that they're funny." You threw a venomous glare at the boys, allowing your piercing stare to linger just a fraction longer on Aonung–the one you least expected this behavior from.

As the son of the Metkayina chief, you assumed he would be different, a sharper contrast to his counterparts. You couldn't help comparing Aonung unfavorably to Neteyam, whose father was the late Omatikayan chief.

Neteyam carried himself with poise and grace far removed from Aonung's immature antics. Further adding salt to Aonung's proverbial wound was how unlike his little sister Tsireya he seemed to be. Although she was young, Tsireya radiated kindness and welcomed you and the Sully kids with open arms from the first day you arrived.

Aonung shot you a smug, sly smirk, allowing his eyes to flit up and down your figure, causing an uneasy sensation to skitter across your skin like an unwanted insect.

With sudden haste, fueled by the desire to escape, your hand shot out and latched onto Kiri's arm–maybe gripping with a bit too much force–as you seized the opportunity to depart from the presence of the immature boys.

Dragging Kiri out of the water with determination, you guided her toward the safety and solitude of the shoreline. To your dismay, though, the boys were not so easily deterred.

They pursued you and Kiri with dogged persistence; their snickers echoed through the air like a pack of viperwolves as they threw snide remarks targeted at your departing backs, whispering just loud enough for you and Kiri to overhear.

"Look at their tails,"

"Aww, baby tail!"

You gritted your teeth, willing yourself to maintain control despite your growing anger. You had hoped that your unspoken plea for serenity would be granted—that you could slip away unnoticed and go about your day. But clearly, Eywa had other plans.

Your breaking point presented itself when Aonung couldn't resist taking his antics a step further, reaching out and brazenly yanking Kiri's tail—probably thinking he was the height of hilarity.

That was the final straw for you; any iota of self-control you'd managed to cling to all this while suddenly snapped like a fragile twig underfoot.

You swiftly tucked Kiri protectively behind your body, baring your fangs with ferocious intensity at Aonung. With a menacing hiss, you attempted to warn him off.

However, Aonung was unfazed by your display; instead, he only widened his smirk and put his hands up theatrically in a gesture of mock surrender. Chuckling derisively, his eyes darted toward his friends for approval.

His cronies wasted no time in offering their reaction, joining in on the laugh track and seemingly growing bolder by the second as they encircled you and Kiri with an unnerving persistence.

"Why so strung up, y/n? I know you're a forest girl and all, but there's no need to go full tribal warrior on us. You're not a freak like Kiri," Aonung teased as he approached you while confidently throwing aside any semblance of personal space or respect.

He reached out and boldly clasped one of your hands as if you were old friends catching up over lunch. Looming over your figure like an unwelcome raincloud, Aonung brandished your hand in front of everyone, showing off the distinct three fingers that set you apart from your friends Kiri and Lo'ak, both of whom inherited their father's four fingers.

"I gotta say," he said while flashing an exaggerated grin at you, "I really don't mind these little hands at all."

With each word, Aonung's grin grew further on his face, as if daring anyone to challenge him.

As he continued to violate your personal space and dignity, you could feel the bubbling cauldron of rage within you reaching its tipping point.

Aonung just stood there on the shore with an infuriating, cocky smirk plastered on his face. His eyes seemed to dig into you as if attempting to burrow inside your head. There was something spectral about his gaze, something that roused an uncontrollable rage within you.

In a quickly unfolding series of events, you yanked your hand away from Aonung's iron grip.

Your blood was boiling at that point, and you immediately raised your fists in a fighter's stance that you learned from Jake, barely containing the volcanic fury surging through your veins.

With admittedly impressive speed and precision, you unleashed a brutal punch that connected with Aonung's cheekbone.

Caught off guard, he stumbled back, visibly dazed from the sudden, forceful attack.

However, you weren't anywhere close to being done with him. The torrential outburst had clouded your perception of time; the seconds stretched and warped until you found yourself throwing not one but two more punches straight into Aonung's disoriented face.

Finally succumbing to the unanticipated onslaught, Aonung faltered under the weight of it all, stumbling and falling on his dumb blue ass with an unceremonious thud.

He looked utterly ridiculous, sprawled across the beach like a fish out of water, his eyes wider than saucers and his mouth agape in sheer bewilderment.

You were so caught up in your victory and the satisfying adrenaline rush that you didn't even register Kiri's voice from behind you, urgently shouting, "Come on, that's enough!"

You had somehow slipped into your own world, built upon cathartic violence, utterly oblivious to the outside stimuli.

Further down the shoreline, the figures of Lo'ak and Neteyam were barely visible as they sprinted toward the scene of the skirmish. But once again, you remained unaffected by their presence and continued to stand your ground, reveling in your well-deserved triumph over Aonung and his ugly arrogance.

With fury still surging through your body, you leaped onto Aonung, who remained rooted to the spot and utterly petrified by the suddenness of your attack.

In one swift motion, you seized hold of his queue with a forceful grip, the fingers of your other hand coiling into a fist as you readied yourself to pummel him once more. A sense of sadistic humor coursed through your veins as you imagined the damage you could inflict.

However, just as your fist was about to make contact, you felt a strong set of hands grabbing onto your arms.

With surprising ease, you were lifted up and away from Aonung's body, leaving you momentarily disoriented.

As your vision cleared, you came to the realization that it was none other than Neteyam who had thwarted your assault and, with his characteristic swiftness, managed to usher you back onto your feet.

However, as far as you were concerned, the fight was not over; if anything, being interrupted had only stoked the flames of your anger toward that insufferable little skxawng even further.

You struggled in Neteyam's unyielding grasp, unleashing a fierce snarl as you reached out helplessly toward Aonung again.

"Just ten more seconds," you thought to yourself.

That's how little time it would take for you to mete out the sweet vengeance you so desperately craved.

Amidst this struggle, a trickle of laughter began bubbling up within you. You couldn't quite pinpoint if it was due to the absurdity of the entire situation, suddenly bordering on comedic, or simply because you knew what would happen if you managed to break free from Neteyam's hold.

But alas, Neteyam showed little inclination to release his irritated captive as he attempted to prevent an all-out brawl.

"Mawey, y/n. Mawey," Neteyam pleaded softly in your ear, altering his grip from your flailing arms to around your waist, essentially hoisting you off your feet and dragging you away from the bruised and battered boy that you remained intent on hurting.

"I will kill him," you hissed menacingly.

Neteyam's grip instantly tightened–he seemed determined to restrain you and prevent any further chaos.

In a low, soothing voice into your ear, he retorted, "No, you won't."

Under normal circumstances, if you had not been quite so consumed by seething rage, you might've noticed the flutters of excitement in the pit of your stomach as Neteyam's velvety voice caressed your ear, sending the heat of his breath tingling down your neck. Alas, you were consumed by unbridled fury.

Meanwhile, back at the center of the conflict, Lo'ak was engaged in a heated exchange with one of Aonung's friends. With an aggressive shove to the chest, Lo'ak sent the kid stumbling backward.

Naturally, this act of provocation led to a retaliatory shove from the offending boy. The tension in the air thickened as another fight seemed imminent.

However, as though summoned by divine intervention (or just sheer nosiness), Jake and Tonowari burst onto the scene from where they had been residing further down the shore. They hastily made their way over to the contentious group–eager to discover what upheaval you all had gotten up to.

You muttered a curse under your breath, knowing that you really stepped in it this time.

Jake had explicitly instructed you and his children to steer clear of trouble, particularly any sort of mischief that might land them all in hot water.

Yet there you were, having done the complete opposite—you'd gone and beat the living daylight out of the chief's son.

Neteyam, well aware of your obvious distress, gently squeezed your waist in a reassuring manner. He looked at you with an air of confidence that somehow assured you everything would be okay. "I'll take care of it," he boldly declared.

As he finally released his reassuring grip on your middle, you couldn't deny how much you immediately missed the warmth and comfort it provided. The sudden void left by the absence of contact struck you like a bucket of cold water on a chilly morning. Shaking your head, you attempted to dismiss those inconvenient thoughts from your mind.

"No," you began with a sigh, exasperation creeping into your tone. "You didn't even do anything."

It was practically Neteyam's full-time job–swooping in like a hero to rescue anyone and everyone, whether it was his brother or his sisters or yourself.

It was as if he just couldn't help himself; he had to take the bullet every single time (yikes). It was both endearing and frustrating in equal measure.

His behavior had to stem from some kind of savior complex—you swore you could see through it all.

You knew the reason behind his rescue missions was simply the immense pressure his father put on him. Being the eldest child in the family, Neteyam bore the weight of his father's expectations on his shoulders every single day.

"It doesn't matter," Neteyam murmured dismissively, cutting off any further attempts at discussion. He slipped in front of you and made his way toward the unfolding scene with determination written all over his face.

Left behind, standing helplessly amidst dust motes that swirled where he once stood mere seconds ago, and your words still trapped halfway up your throat, you couldn't do anything but blink at his retreating back.

Upon returning to the Sully family's marui pod, you, Neteyam, and Lo'ak stood apprehensively as Jake began to furiously pace in front of you.

Lo'ak was clearly pissed off. He clutched his arm with a vice-like grip, attempting to appear wounded.

You nearly rolled your eyes at the sight. With a grin threatening to break across your face, you had to avert your gaze from the boy to avoid making an untimely scene.

You knew that he wasn't injured in the slightest. One of Aonung's friends had barely shoved him moments earlier.

You suspected he was just putting on a show to earn some sympathy from his father and possibly receive a lighter scolding.

In all honesty, Jake shouldn't have had to yell at anyone but you. If Jake were to hold anyone accountable for the recent chaos, it should have been you. After all, you were the one who threw the first punch, dishing out a humble thrashing to Aonung that would undoubtedly give him pause before stirring up trouble again.

Jake continued his relentless pacing back and forth like a caged animal. It was making you dizzy.

The atmosphere in the marui pod was thick with tension as each step echoed ominously throughout the room. Finally, Jake could contain his frustration no longer.

"What was the one thing I asked? The one thing?!" He stopped abruptly and turned to face the trio of teenagers, awaiting a response like a teacher expecting students to provide an answer to their query.

"Stay out of trouble," Lo'ak muttered with an air of resignation. He barely managed to finish uttering those words before Jake was upon you all again with all the vigor and authority of a seasoned marine.

"Stay out of trouble," he repeated mockingly. "Right."

Amidst the palpable tension in the room, Neteyam bravely took a step forward with his hands raised, eager to defuse the situation like the textbook definition of the golden child that he was.

Clearing his throat, he began, "It was my fault—" But Jake was unyielding. He was not having any of that bullshit.

Infuriated by the mere thought of Neteyam trying to shoulder the blame when it clearly wasn't his mess to carry, Jake cut him off with a fiery glare.

"Oh, I don't think so," Jake chided, pointing a finger at Neteyam.

The sudden shift in energy made Neteyam visibly gulp. He sucked in his cheeks and averted his gaze, quickly realizing that retreat was his best course of action.

"You gotta stop taking the heat for these knuckleheads!" Jake continued. With that said, he pointed his accusatory finger at you and Lo'ak.

Lo'ak's eyebrows shot up and furrowed, causing deep creases between them, as his mouth hung open in disbelief at being pigeonholed as the troublemaker.

He was fully aware that he hadn't been the one behind the afternoon's events–not this time around anyway, as surprising as it may have seemed.

You, too, were fully aware that Lo'ak didn't instigate the fight. You weren't about to let him take the heat for your own misbehavior.

You quickly extended a protective hand in front of Lo'ak, meeting his eye before turning back to face Jake.

"No, Lo'ak had nothing to do with this. It was my fault, seriously. I started it." You admitted.

Jake's eyes shut tight upon hearing your confession, and he expelled an exasperated sigh, heavy with frustration. Deep down, you knew that you were about to get it.

"y/n," he began, finally opening his eyes and turning his full attention towards you with an air of bewilderment. "You got some good hits in, I'll give you that," He paused momentarily before continuing with a mixture of astonishment and disappointment in his voice, "But the chief's son? Do you have any idea what Tonowari could've done to us? What the hell were you thinking, kid?"

You visibly winced as Jake's words hit you like a ton of bricks. He definitely had a valid point there.

The truth was that you hadn't been thinking—not one bit.

All you could recall was Aonung taunting Kiri without an ounce of remorse and then getting all up in your personal space like he had the right to. That was enough for you to see nothing but red.

In that heated moment, the thought of potential consequences flew right over your head. It was as though any semblance of logic had temporarily eluded you.

As you mentally retraced the earlier events that had unfolded before your eyes, you finally dwelled on the severity of the situation.

You didn't consider how your reckless actions could have jeopardized not only your own safety but also that of the Sullys, potentially resulting in their sudden eviction from their newfound home—a home they had fought so hard to earn a place in.

The full gravity of your reckless act hung heavily on your shoulders, like an enormous boulder strapped to your back.

"I'm really sorry, sir," you uttered with undeniable sincerity in your tone.

You tried to maintain eye contact with Jake, but the guilt in your stomach compelled you to anxiously dart your gaze away. The overwhelming shame gnawed at your conscience relentlessly.

Jake, sensing your unease, heaved a heavy sigh once again.

It wasn't lost on you that Jake was treating you far more gently than he would have treated either of his own sons had they been in this situation. This realization only doubled the weight on your shoulders.

At that moment, you felt like an unwanted appendix to their family unit—a burden they never should have taken in.

They didn't have to offer you a place in their home after your parents' deaths, nor did they have to take you with them while they sought uturu with the Metkayina. And yet, they did. And how did you repay their boundless generosity? With this…shitshow.

You found yourself longing for Jake's anger and reprimand instead of the current watered-down scolding he was dishing you. But Jake, obstinately persistent as ever, didn't indulge your desire for absolution through shouting.

As if trying to reach out into your thoughts, he leaned down in an attempt to align his gaze with your line of vision. His hope was to establish eye contact and facilitate a genuine conversation.

His attempts proved futile, though, as he failed to catch your darting eyes. Jake's face scrunched with genuine concern.

Delving further into the matter at hand, he gently inquired, "Why'd you hit him, y/n? Did he do something to you?" His brows knitted into a look of utmost concern, clearly desperate for an explanation that could offer a semblance of understanding as to why you went crazy on the chief's son.

The mere thought of the incident was enough to make your blood surge with fury again.

It occurred to you that you hadn't actually filled Neteyam or Lo'ak in on the details of what had transpired before your little scuffle. The three of you had been too busy being unceremoniously dragged back to the marui pod with your tails between your legs.

With clenched fists, you looked down to see your knuckles–red and battered–for the first time since the confrontation.

The visualized memory of your punches landing on Aonung's face brought you a mix of satisfaction and disgust.

"Aonung wouldn't leave Kiri alone," you spat out, a hint of bitter resentment in your tone. "He kept picking on her and called her a freak."

A brief pause allowed another wave of anger to wash over you.

"And then he started being all gross towards me," you continued. "He grabbed my hand, and I just…reflexed... I guess."

Despite the gravity of the situation, Lo'ak snickered at your choice of words, clearly amused by how casually you downplayed the severity with which you'd beat the actual shit out of Aonung.

Lo'ak's joy was short-lived due to the sudden and simultaneous glare from both Jake and Neteyam that pierced straight through his amusement like a sharp spear.

Jake slowly directed his attention back towards you, lowering his tall frame to match your height.

It was a comical sight as he contorted himself into a near-squatting pose. You hesitantly lifted your eyes to meet Jake's, and to your surprise, you found a warm, gentle smile gracing his stern features.

His eyes held pools of gratitude as he gently placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder, providing a solid anchor to steady your quivering soul.

"Thank you," Jake said softly, his voice laced with sincere gratitude.

You stared at him in confusion.

Why the hell was Jake thanking you when you almost got them all booted off the island like unwanted baggage?

Searching for an explanation, you let out an involuntary, bewildered "huh?" that accurately represented your current state of mind.

The sheer candidness of your reaction brought forth a chuckle that Jake tried hard to suppress. He seemed bemused by your baffled demeanor and swiftly decided to put an end to the suspense.

"For standing up for my daughter," Jake explained, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. "And for putting that little rascal in his rightful place," he added with a smug expression.

Listening to Jake's heartfelt acknowledgment warmed your soul.

Your lips parted as they inched from ear to ear in sync with Jake's own radiant grin, happy that you had stood up for what mattered when it counted the most.

As his words washed over you like a soothing balm, an immaterial weight had seemingly lifted from your chest–one that you hadn't even known had been weighing down on you so heavily until that very moment.

Jake stretched to his full height, puffing out his chest as he authoritatively placed his hands on his hips. He fixed his gaze on his two sons, who exchanged wary glances with each other.

He took a deep breath before delivering his unexpected command.

"Go make peace with Aonung," he said to his boys, nodding firmly as if trying to convince himself of the wisdom of his decision.

Lo'ak's jaw dropped. "What?" he blurted out, his head lurching forward in disbelief.

Jake scowled at Lo'ak's unrestrained backtalk.

You shifted uncomfortably beside Lo'ak, feeling an inexplicable sense of camaraderie. Why should they go make peace with the enemy?

Exasperation danced across Jake's face as he ran a weary hand over it, trying to collect himself for the explanation that was unnecessarily demanded.

"Listen," he began, sounding more than a bit frustrated. "I don't care how you do it. Just go make sure y/n doesn't have to beat up any more of those guys."

Jake did a terrible job of disguising the wide grin that threatened to split his face in half as he glanced back toward you.

You could already tell that you would never live this down.

Neteyam, with a determined expression on his face, nodded firmly at his father's request. "Yes, sir," he replied dutifully.

Lo'ak, however, couldn't have been more displeased, and his disapproval was all too apparent. Neteyam took hold of Lo'ak's arm and practically had to drag him out of the pod.

Jake watched his eldest son in approval, grateful that at least one of his boys was on the same wavelength as him.

With a look of satisfaction, he turned back to you and jerked his head in the direction his two sons had disappeared. "You should go find Kiri," he suggested. "She's by the shore with Neytiri."

You nodded obediently and spun around to exit the pod yourself. But before you managed to get very far, Jake called out to you with a severity that betrayed how truly important he saw your errand.

His facial expression shifted into solemn seriousness. "I mean it, y/n," he insisted. "I appreciate you standing up for my baby girl."

A sad smile played across Jake's features as he added, "She's… she hasn't been having the easiest time adjusting to our new life here."

That fact was not lost on you.

You'd spent countless hours listening attentively to Kiri's impassioned rants about how much she despised their new reef home–a place that just made her feel even more alienated than she did back in the forest.

"Of course," you replied hesitantly, not entirely sure of what else to say in the situation.

It was obvious to anyone who knew you well that you'd risk your life for Kiri's sake in a heartbeat. After all, the minor danger you faced today was absolutely insignificant compared to what you'd do for your friend.

Jake's smile never wavered. He playfully ruffled your hair as if you were a little kid needing reassurance, causing you to let out an exasperated groan. He was such a dad.

"Alright, get outta here," Jake ordered as laughter danced within his voice, his demeanor that of a caring father.

You didn't need to be told twice. You hastily exited the pod while simultaneously trying your best to tame your tousled hair, which now resembled a bird's nest caught in a storm.

Immediately after stepping outside the pod, you noticed Neteyam and Lo'ak still lingering nearby, definitely not 'making peace' with Aonung.

Lo'ak was leaning against the marui pod, wearing an expression that screamed boredom, while Neteyam appeared quite preoccupied.

He practically had the entire side of his head glued to the pod as he clearly tried to eavesdrop on your conversation with Jake.

With a shake of your head, you faced the brothers directly, amusement twinkling in your eyes.

You cleared your throat and shot a sort of 'what the hell?' look at Neteyam, who was quick to whip his head toward you. He backed away from the pod, feigning ignorance.

You narrowed your eyes at him, demanding an explanation with a simple "Um?"

As if on cue, Lo'ak decided that this would be the perfect time to point out the painfully obvious.

"He was trying to listen in on your conversation," he declared as if the revelation would be of immense assistance.

The unwelcome input earned him a fierce glare from Neteyam, who was not at all pleased with his brother's willingness to rat him out.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes in exasperation as you regarded the two siblings.

"No shit, Lo'ak." you retorted bitingly, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "But why?" This time, your probing inquiry was directed squarely at Neteyam as you sought to get to the bottom of his mysterious behavior.

Despite his earlier nonchalance, Neteyam hesitantly stepped forward with newfound concern etched into his expression.

"You said that Aonung grabbed your hand?" He inquired, his eyes a concoction of fury and worry.

You stared at Neteyam because, yes, you had said that already, and he clearly heard you.

"Yes," you replied, your voice flat and unamused.

Neteyam narrowed his eyes and cautiously stepped closer, tilting his head down to lock gazes with you before forging ahead. "And you said he was being gross? Like… he was trying to come onto you?"

The mere memory of Aonung's behavior sent shivers down your spine.

It wasn't the first time that you had been on the receiving end of Aonung's unwelcome advances since arriving on the island, but you could cope with that. The real issue arose when Aonung decided to mess with someone dear to you—someone like Kiri.

A new wave of hatred washed over you at the memory of your encounter.

Despite the brewing storm within your soul, you attempted to shake off Neteyam's concern. You really didn't want to keep thinking about Aonung's sorry fish ass.

"Yes, Neteyam, that's what I said. But it's not a big deal. I was more concerned about Kiri. And I'm actually supposed to be checking on her right now, so…" You widened your eyes, shooting Neteyam a somewhat comical, unimpressed look before attempting to step around him and head off towards the shoreline.

Just as you were about to make your way past him, you felt a hand on your arm, halting your escape. You followed the blue-striped appendage upwards, your eyes finally meeting Neteyam's sheepish expression.

He appeared mortified by his own actions and quickly released his grip on your arm as though he had just touched a burning hot flame.

"S-Sorry," he stammered awkwardly. "I shouldn't have grabbed you like that after… he… agh!… Sorry."

He was quick to apologize, wincing at his misstep, and the regret in his voice was palpable. He stumbled over his words like someone trudging through the densest of forests.

You rolled your eyes at Neteyam's sudden hesitance to lay a finger on you—he was never weary about touching you.

It was evident that he was attempting to be considerate after you had just given Aonung a thorough beating for having the audacity to grab your hand. Nonetheless, in your perspective, there was a world of difference between Aonung's intrusive touch and Neteyam's gentle one.

Feeling the need to clarify the situation, you addressed Neteyam and reassured him with a lighthearted tone, "You're allowed to touch me, 'Teyam."

Observing his reaction, you grinned at the burst of relief that spread across his face. He let out a hasty exhale that almost sounded like a muted sigh, lively nodding along to your comforting words.

Beside him, Lo'ak, who had still been casually leaning against the side of the hut, let out a snort that echoed through the air.

"Gross," he scoffed with an exaggerated grimace on his face.

Pushing off the hut, he strode towards Neteyam, the mischievous glint in his eyes combined with his devilish grin betraying his intentions.

"You're allowed to touch me whenever you want, 'Teyam," Lo'ak teased in a ridiculous falsetto as he approached Neteyam from behind.

With an exaggerated flair, he reached out and squeezed his brother's arms in a sarcastic display of affection. His lips formed an overly dramatic pout as he pushed them in Neteyam's direction.

The moment barely lasted before Lo'ak folded over in a fit of laughter, clearly amused by his own antics. His cheeky grin spread from ear to ear as he struggled to catch his breath between guffaws.

Neteyam was not as amused.

With narrowed eyes and a sour expression, he tried not to relent to Lo'ak's antics. His patience wore thin until he finally let out an irritated hiss directly at Lo'ak, who was still bent over laughing.

In an attempt to regain some dignity and escape Lo'ak's relentless teasing, Neteyam shoved him away, sending him stumbling several feet back in the process.

As Neteyam struggled to compose himself after being put on display for your amusement due to the constant tormenting of his mischief mongerer of a brother, a deep shade of purple bloomed across his cheeks–evidence of his mixed feelings of embarrassment and annoyance.

It was obvious that he was trying hard not to lose his composure over the incident.

To avoid any further humiliation from the spectacle, Neteyam shook his head and directed his gaze away from you–seeking solace in staring intently at anything else but you.

A blush crept up your face, the hue coordinating with Neteyam's purpling cheeks.

You did not sound like that.

Desperate to distract yourself from the situation, you decided to change your focus to the little jokester, who was still laughing at his brother. You feigned an abrupt lunge toward him.

Lo'ak, completely caught off guard, flinched embarrassingly hard and muttered a terrified 'shit' under his breath.

You shook your head at his overreaction, pushing past the suddenly skittish Lo'ak, who swiftly hid behind his brother in fear.

Ignoring the commotion behind you, you focused on moving toward the shore to find Kiri.

As you made your way towards the water's edge, you called over your shoulder with a cunning grin, "Let me know if Aonung has one, or two black eyes." You teased with a smirk playing at your lips, the playful taunt drifting off into the air as you walked away.

Lo'ak shook his head incredulously at your retreating figure before turning back to Neteyam, who was still sporting a deep blush from ear to ear.

Lo'ak just couldn't help himself.

"Bro. Your girlfriend is scary as fuck." Lo'ak said with a shudder, nudging Neteyam in the ribs as if to underscore his point. Despite the teasing tone, there was a hint of genuine fright in his voice.

Neteyam started to form a reply, "She's not—," but he caught himself, letting out an exasperated groan instead.

Thoroughly annoyed by his brother's relentless poking into his… whatever it was he had with you, he decided it was time for a little distance. With a quick shove to get Lo'ak off him, Neteyam moved away with purpose, intent on finding Aonung and getting the whole thing over with.

Naturally, Lo'ak was not one to accept defeat so easily. Hastily regaining his balance, he broke into a light jog and quickly caught up to Neteyam's side.

The playful smirk on Lo'ak's face betrayed the fact that he wasn't quite ready to let the situation go.

"She's not what?" Lo'ak inquired, feigning innocence but definitely not done being a little shit. "Not your girlfriend, or not scary? 'Cause I'm pretty sure she's at least one of those."

The corners of Neteyam's mouth threatened to betray a grin at the absurdity of the conversation.

Instead of acknowledgment, though, he fixed a determined glare at Lo'ak, hoping that if he couldn't escape through physical distance, maybe stony silence would do the trick.

Despite his seemingly relaxed demeanor, Neteyam found himself battling an internal storm as he recalled the day's events.

Before his awkward fumble with you, he had been trying to decipher what had transpired between you and Aonung on the beach. He wanted to know what could have provoked you enough to attack Aonung the way you did.

As you recounted the events to him earlier, you confessed that Aonung had invaded your personal space, said gross things to you, and even gone as far as grabbing your hand unprovoked.

The mere thought of that skxawng purposefully making you uncomfortable boiled Neteyam's blood. He felt the rage surge within him.

On the outside looking in, it was plain as day that you and Neteyam shared a close bond–you were best friends through and through.

And yet, that knowledge did little to quell the overpowering sense of possessiveness that engulfed Neteyam at the thought of another guy trying to woo you.

Undoubtedly, you were remarkably beautiful; anyone with eyes could see that.

Neteyam was allowed to think of his best friend as beautiful.

It was more than just your physical allure, though. You were so passionate about everything you held dear. Your closest friends, the group of orphaned children that you looked after back in the forest–you cared for them all with burning intensity.

Your dedication to your warrior training was unmatched, even by Neteyam himself. You strived fiercely to master every skill and overcome each challenge in your path. Even your penchant for engaging in spirited conversations about the most random, mundane day-to-day things–you were an enigma that never ceased to captivate.

Coupled with a genuinely warm heart and a razor-sharp wit, you instantaneously charmed anyone in your presence. Your fiery temperament often erupted when things heated up, making it clear that you were never one to back down from a challenge–an attribute Neteyam secretly cherished.

If anything, you seemed too cool for someone like him. And yet, he couldn't help but find himself utterly enamored with every aspect of your character.

There wasn't a thing that he disliked about you.

However, all those emotions were normal because you and he were friends. It was only natural for him to appreciate the characteristics that made you who you were.

And, of course, others admired those same traits in you too, which was exactly why you had such a large circle of friends. Even other guy-friends.

Like his brother, for example.

It was okay that Neteyam felt a little more than just a twinge of jealousy when he’d notice Lo'ak being extra touchy with you. When he'd grab your wrist and go all mushy trying to convince you to re-braid his hair or re-shave the side of his head, knowing that you'd be gentler while doing so than Neytiri typically was.

Or when Lo'ak would virtually throw himself on top of you, insisting on sharing a hammock just because you managed to snatch the last vacant one.

And you would give in to him every single time, despite your feigned annoyance, because you were just that kind of person.

Though Neteyam gritted his teeth at you two in silent disapproval, he repeatedly convinced himself that it was entirely within the bounds of how two friends were allowed to act. You choosing to share a hammock with Lo'ak was just a good-natured deed from someone who looked out for the best interests of their friends. Nothing more than innocent camaraderie.

His blood boiled on another level when he heard that Aonung had laid a hand on you.

But surely, he thought, that feeling of burning rage encapsulating his heart was nothing more than the completely wholesome, totally platonic loyalty and devotion one naturally felt for their best friend.

That was what normal platonic friendships were all about, right?

With a sudden, fluid motion, Lo'ak interrupted Neteyam's mental meanderings by waving a hand in front of his face.

Lo'ak couldn't help but chuckle at the bizarre sight before him. It looked like Neteyam was trying to mentally communicate with an invisible force.

Addressing his brother with a bemused look, Lo'ak asked, "Bro, are you good? You looked like you were having a stroke or something."

Neteyam blinked a few times before the reality of the situation dawned on him.

In truth, Neteyam thought that no, he probably wasn't anywhere close to being okay. He was probably definitely teetering on the edge of an existential crisis centered around his best friend.

Due to the current turmoil raging in his mind, speech was an almost impossible feat for Neteyam to achieve; instead, a cascade of words just kind of tumbled out without any consultation from his overwhelmed brain.

"What do you…I mean, y/n? How do you see her?" stammered Neteyam, catching Lo'ak completely off guard.

Well, maybe not completely.

Lo'ak wasn't surprised to find that Neteyam was thinking about you. There was seemingly no waking moment where you weren't occupying some corner of his thoughts.

Despite this knowledge, it still struck Lo'ak as strange that Neteyam would suddenly ask him about you as if they regularly talked about stuff like girls together.

Lo'ak's eyebrow arched upward in an unmistakable display of confusion. "What do you mean, how do I see y/n?" He asked, genuinely baffled by the seemingly random question.

Neteyam, typically stoic and composed, responded with an unceremonious shrug.

It was an odd departure from his usual tall stance and confident posture–a constant reminder to all that he was the epitome of the perfect warrior son.

But this time, Neteyam couldn't quite meet Lo'ak's gaze directly. Instead of meeting Lo'ak with his usual steadfastness, Neteyam's eyes wandered down toward the ground between them as though the answer to his question was lying somewhere in the dusty sand.

Grumbling under his breath, Neteyam muttered, "I mean. Do you see her as a sister, or just a friend, or…. something more, I guess?" His words trailed off, uncertainty permeating every syllable.

Momentarily taken aback by the probing question, Lo'ak fell silent for a few seconds as he mulled over the implications of Neteyam's question.

Sure, Lo'ak thought you were cool–no dispute there–and you and he were definitely friends. Maybe not as tightly knit as you were with Neteyam or Kiri, but you and Lo'ak still shared a fair share of bonding moments.

You would often join Lo'ak and Spider on their daring expeditions into the heart of the forest–a pastime you all knew would've been strictly forbidden if Neteyam had ever found out.

There was no denying that Lo'ak definitely cared about you; maybe it wasn't the same affection one might have for a sister (he'd be lying to himself if he said that he didn't think y/n was attractive). Still, it wasn't exactly in the realm of romance either.

Lo'ak knew all too well that Neteyam would skin him alive if he even thought about liking you in that way.

The mental image of Neteyam's incensed reaction brought forth an involuntary snicker from Lo'ak.

Neteyam noticed his brother's amusement and responded with a furrowed brow, clearly unimpressed by whatever had caused Lo'ak to laugh. His expression was stern and moody, prompting Lo'ak to quickly alleviate any suspicions Neteyam might have formed.

"y/n is my friend. You already know that." He reassured his older brother, "She grew up with us."

Neteyam slowly nodded his head, not entirely convinced but willing to let the matter slide for now. However, his gaze seemed distant and preoccupied, as if there were thoughts weighing heavily on his mind.

His eyes glazed over ever so slightly as he retreated further into his own mind, leaving an eerie silence hanging between them.

After the silence stretched between them for a few tense seconds too long, it became apparent that Neteyam wouldn't divulge whatever was troubling him without some prodding on Lo'ak's part.

With an exaggerated sigh for dramatic effect and a hint of mischievous humor twinkling in his eyes, Lo'ak decided to press further.

"Alright then," he began nonchalantly, "since we're already on the subject… how do you see y/n?" He couldn't resist adding a teasing tone as he posed the question.

Upon hearing the question, Neteyam instantly stiffened, his head tilting downward in a reflexive motion that allowed his braids to form a protective curtain over his face.

That particular mannerism was all too familiar to Lo'ak, who had observed his brother resort to the same tactic countless times as a defensive response.

With a quick shrug, Neteyam muttered out a barely audible and very unconvincing, "I don't know."

Lo'ak narrowed his eyes at his brother's feeble attempt at nonchalance, not buying into the performance at all. He'd known for a while about the depth of Neteyam's feelings towards you–clearly way more than just friendly affection.

The truth grew glaringly obvious with each passing day; however, Lo'ak had been aware of the emotional connection for years.

"Yeah, that's bullshit," Lo'ak responded, shaking his head at his brother's clear dodge. "You wouldn't have asked me if you didn't know."

Neteyam released a frustrated sigh tinged with annoyance at how effortlessly his brother could read him.

Their mother often warned Neteyam that he wore his heart on his sleeve and couldn't mask his emotions if he tried. She knew this because Neteyam was like a carbon copy of herself. Those words had always frightened him—being exposed like that—but deep down, he knew she was right.

Neteyam had a conflicted look on his face as he hesitantly shared his thoughts with his brother.

"I think I see y/n differently," Neteyam confessed, his words shrouded in ambiguity.

Lo'ak, despite the vagueness of the statement, nodded slowly, urging his brother to elaborate.

Neteyam somehow found the courage to continue. "I probably think about her too much to say I see her as just a friend. Definitely not like a sister either," he added with a grimace, visibly repulsed by the thought as he shook his head.

Lo'ak laughed at Neteyam's reaction, provoking a playful, yet forceful shove from his brother.

Regaining his balance after the mild assault, Lo'ak clasped a hand onto Neteyam's shoulder with a lighthearted grin.

"You should really tell her, bro," he suggested earnestly.

Neteyam's eyes widened in alarm at the proposal, and he instinctively whirled his head in his brother's direction.

In doing so, his braids followed suit with their own whipping motion.

Lo'ak narrowly dodged the unexpected barrage of hair, squinting his eyes and leaning away just in time.

"Or not…" he mumbled, lowering his voice as he witnessed the sheer panic etched across Neteyam's face.

Neteyam shook his head vehemently, unable to understand how Lo'ak could actually propose such an insane idea.

"No way. Y/n doesn't think of me like that," he adamantly stated.

And really, how could you? The bond between you and Neteyam stretched back as far as either of you could remember—inseparable partners in mischief and life.

You grew up side by side, practically joined at the hip; you were a constant presence in his life. You'd seen each other through thick and thin, weathered all of life's storms together. You'd stood by him through every uneven haircut and awkward phase he went through, a true testament to your unwavering friendship.

He vividly remembered how when he was thirteen, you were the shoulder he leaned on after receiving a particularly harsh scolding from his father. You'd enfolded him in your arms, even as hot tears trailed down his cheeks and onto your hair. The sheer agony and embarrassment of it all seemed insurmountable at the time, but somehow your reassuring embrace made it bearable.

In recent times, you had borne witness to Neteyam's continual fumbles in your presence.

More often than not, they ended with him stumbling over his words around you, or being caught staring at you, or going all flustered when you'd make eye contact with him.

It was genuinely sad.

But above all else, Neteyam didn't even have the title of future olo'eyktan anymore since their move to the reef. Now he was just Neteyam.

Nothing more. Nothing special. With so many other potential suitors living on Pandora, all eager to win your favor and heart, why would you settle for him?

Lo'ak stared at his brother with a deadpan expression, evenly poised between amusement and annoyance. "I really can't tell if you're just trying to be humble or if you're actually that stupid," he said, his voice genuine.

He paused for a moment, taking in the affronted expression on Neteyam's face, before continuing. "I mean, come on! You're obviously in love with y/n, and y/n is obviously in love with you, so… what's the big issue here?"

Neteyam's eyes narrowed in disbelief as he prepared to assure Lo'ak that you were definitely not in love with him, but before he could get a word out of his dumbstruck mouth, the sound of rustling leaves and light footsteps interrupted their conversation.

Both brothers froze, ears perking up in attention as they caught the unmistakable chime of a familiar giggle.

Out from the protective confines of a low-hanging bunch of leaves came their little sister, a mischievous grin plastered on her tiny face.

"I knew it!" sang Tuk in a teasing melody as she skipped towards Neteyam and grasped his arm with a vice-like grip.

Jumping up and down with seemingly boundless energy, she reveled in her newly discovered knowledge.

Neteyam's heart dropped like a stone when he realized the situation he had gotten himself into. His little sister was about as adept at keeping secrets as he was. Which wasn't good at all. Which meant that Neteyam was screwed.

He frantically attempted to shake his head 'no,' engaging in a futile bid to persuade his already-convinced sister of his supposed indifference towards you.

Overwhelmed by desperation, Neteyam tried to stifle Tuk's excitement by shushing her vigorously. "No, no, no. It's not like that, Tuk," he pleaded.

Neteyam gently placed his hand on Tuk's head, trying to still her bounciness.

She reluctantly stopped bouncing but couldn't wipe the enormous grin off her face, as if she had just discovered the world's biggest secret.

"Lo'ak is right!" Tuk exclaimed with glee. "You need to tell y/n that you're in love with her! Then you both can become mated, just like mom and dad! And after that, you can have a whole bunch of little kids like they did with us! You can name one of them after me!"

Lo'ak, who was standing nearby, stifled a snort at how eagerly and confidently Tuk had outlined Neteyam's entire life trajectory in a matter of seconds. He smirked as he watched Neteyam's reaction to their sister's wild imagination.

In stark contrast to Tuk's excitement, Neteyam's face glowed in embarrassment, caught completely off guard by the talk about him mating and having kids with you.

Determined to regain control of the conversation, Neteyam firmly placed his other hand on Tuk's shoulder and bent down a little so that he could look directly into her eyes.

Addressing her in the most serious tone he could muster, he stated: "Tuk, listen closely—I never said I was in love with y/n."

However, Tuk was unfazed by his denial and abruptly interrupted him.

With all the assertiveness a tiny eight-year-old could muster, she poked her small finger firmly into Neteyam's chest. Her eyes gleaming with mischief and a cheeky smile plastered on her face, she said slowly and with complete certainty, "But you are in love with her."

Letting out a long, exasperated sigh, Neteyam found he lacked the energy to even dispute Tuk's assertion. He'd never been much of a convincing liar anyway.

Instead, he decided to go for a different tactic by gently placing both of his hands on her shoulders and adopting a serious expression.

"You are not going to tell anyone about any of what you think you heard."

He put particular emphasis on the word 'think,' giving his sister a significant nod as though that would somehow engrain the words into her stubborn little mind.

"And especially not y/n," he quickly added, feeling his heart beat just a little faster at the thought of you discovering the alleged secret in such an embarrassingly unfortunate way.

Tuk dramatically rolled her eyes, evidently disgruntled by the unfair reality that she'd be unable to freely broadcast each and every one of her thoughts to anyone within earshot.

Still, she begrudgingly muttered her acquiescence with an insincere "Fine."

Yet, it was clear that she was still unhappy with the deal when she pointedly avoided meeting Neteyam's gaze while uttering her reluctant agreement.

Neteyam refused to take any chances with his sister.

He recognized the profound influence he had on Tuk as a sort of second father figure, but this only seemed to take effect when he adopted a grave demeanor.

Looking into her eyes with an air of utmost sincerity, he raised a finger and pointed it to her chest. His voice took on a more commanding tone, though only marginally harsher.

"I mean it, Tuk. Do you swear?" he inquired, extending his smallest finger in their customary gesture signifying an unbreakable promise.

The ritual dated back to their childhood days and had been passed down by their father.

For siblings Neteyam and Tuk, it symbolized the sacred bond between them. Tuk knew all too well that once she linked fingers with her brother, backing down was out of the question.

Upon seeing Neteyam's extended digit, she furrowed her brow in consternation.

She couldn't shake the memory of her other brother's vivid warning: Lo'ak had once gravely warned her that hundreds of little bugs would crawl into her ears in her sleep if a pinky promise were ever broken.

Sighing with visible reluctance, she hooked her small finger around Neteyam's larger one and mumbled an almost inaudible "I swear."

Neteyam's face immediately broke into a beaming smile upon hearing those decisive words. Breathing a sigh of relief as if he'd just prevented an impending catastrophe, he affectionately patted his sister on the head before straightening up to his full height, standing tall like a proud winner.

Crisis averted, he thought, though his mind continually strayed back to thoughts of you.

Deep down, he knew that the situation he found himself in was anything but over.

Next Part Here

[toadsdrool]

🌊 i see you everywhere 🌊

keep reading to see my selkie!henry drabble, and see more of my drabbles on ao3!

Alex lived in a little town on a cliff by the sea, with a gorgeous view of the never ending, shimmering ocean. He hadn't really liked traipsing through the water as a child, too afraid of the rip tides that just loved to pull him under. He’d been a short kid, it couldn’t be helped. His dad and sister had no such problem with swimming. But after his dad left, he found great comfort in the pull of the waves and tide. If he was just rubbing salt in his proverbial wounds, so be it. 

"Since when did Alex grow sea legs?" Nora teased from her spot on a beach towel, sunbathing next to June. 

"Dunno," June called, loud enough for Alex to hear where he was floating in the water. "Guess he got over his fear of seals."

Alex shot them both a look that could cut glass. "People call them sea lions for a fucking reason June!" 

It wasn't as simple as a usual fear of sea life, not really. That was what his family believed, but that didn't make it true. Alex knew what he saw that day when he was seven years old. He knew what face haunted him in a perfect crest of the waves, he knew what words he saw scribbled in the sand just after the seals dove back into the waning tide.  

Just last week he'd caught sight of a poem scrawled on the waterfront, reminding him of the thing that was out there, haunting him every day.

If you notice a dancing light on the water, that's me. The light kisses your nose, then your eyes, and you can’t rub it off. 

Alex knew four truths:

The moon controlled the tides. 

The tide controlled the sea life.

The sea life in question included that thing. 

It lived with the seals, but it was no run of the mill seal. It became just as human as Alex was, with big beautiful eyes, that rivaled the water on the clearest summer day. That brought Alex to the final thing he knew:

The beast loved him, just as Alex loved the beast. 

It was all very fairy tale romance. 

Their chances to be together were slim. A week every seven years. Only true love's kiss could grant the beast the ability to shed his seal skin and walk on land for as long as he liked. The first time, Alex had been too young to understand, the second time he'd been too scared, but now at twenty-one he was ready. He would kiss the snot out of that sea monster, else he'd be left waiting another seven years to see his muse again. 

For now he took a stick and traced some prose in the sand, finally returning the favor and offering the rest of the quote. 

My darling honey how I adore you, and Lord knows I can’t say what it means to me to come into the room and find you sitting there.

🩵read more on ao3🩵

[copiousloverofcopia]

Since the last chapter was a little light but would have been too long with all this included lol...

HERE IS THE NEXT CHAPTER OF POTPOURRI!

Things are happening lol

Potpourri

During his retirement, Papa Primo Emeritus falls in love with a new Sister of Sin who has suffered a tragic loss. While the new sister settles into the Abbey, Primo can't help but grow more infatuated with her. Promising to give her everything she desires, but can he win her affections when she still can't let go of the past?

Chapter 5: The Night of Ritual

Also available HERE on A03! Haven't started? Start from the beginning HERE!

Definitely NSFW below the cut!

The meeting with Sister Imperator went about as well as expected. The battle-ax of a woman, wasting no time in rubbing in the decision to keep Copia on the road. All of them, knowing it was only to spite Primo—like salt into the proverbial wound. Primo, Secondo, and Terzo were all doing their best to bite their tongues. Holding in their true feelings on the matter. If it weren't for Nihil’s insistence on keeping her around, and the looming threat of his spirit haunting them for eternity, they’d have found a way to rid the Abbey of her long ago. 

Another couple of days had gone by without anything of note. Only the planning and preparation for the ritual that would make the new arrivals officially siblings of sin. Primo and his ghouls, in charge of gathering of spiritual herbs, talismans, and tomes that would aid them in bringing the new siblings to their rightful place. All take and the other clergymen's’ tasks completed, along with the plans for the following night's grand dinner were complete. Nothing was left but to await the day of their ascension, and now finally arrived. 

All the Abbey was stirred up with excitement—all except Gwen. She had only the day before returned to the general population of the Abbey. No longer staying in Primo’s rooms, despite his insistence. She was allowed back into her dorm with Fiona, leaving the comforts of Primo’s bed behind her, for which the Papa was less than pleased. Allowing her to go however without fuss.

He would die before making her a prisoner of his quarters, when she already felt prisoner to this world. Gwen continued her studies, along with the other seminarians and novitiate, and was just as ready to accept her vows as the rest of them. Her heart however still barely stitched together and easily bled. Any time she came across a sister who was with child or happened past the Abbey nursery, she felt a piece of herself dying. 

What could she do? Her life now was Primo’s—and his hers. There would be no ending things, lest she be responsible for his death as well. So, she pushed on, in a somewhat robotic state. Going through the motions of her life, but without truly living it. 

At the night’s ceremonies she would take her vows like a good novitiate, while inside she cursed both God and the Devil for conspiring against her. Her anger, still very much burning and bubbling inside. Her heart, however, had softened towards Primo. The more she tried, the more Gwen found it hard to stay mad at him.

The softness in his mismatched eyes whenever he looked at her. Or even the way his smile made her want to mirror it with her own. Primo’s presence was like a bit of a warmth that managed to break through the cold she felt inside. A feeling towards him she had trouble defining—but it was there. 

The two of them had talked, though not about what had happened or about Gwen’s life before. Mostly their conversations light, with talk of the upcoming rites and about other small talk sorts of things. Both of them always knew that there were many things left unsaid between them. Today would change things.

Gwen was sitting by herself in the cloister, watching the other siblings, ghouls, and clergy going about their day. Tonight’s ritual would make things official and there was nothing, but smiles worn on the faces of all those that passed her. She happened to catch a glimpse of some ghoul tomfoolery, as they hung from the balcony attached to the Great Hall. The pack, giving each other some good-natured teasing and taunting as one of them was stuck in the rails. It was when she felt herself begin to laugh that she felt him sit down beside her. Instantly the feeling of warmth began to fill her cheeks before she chose to speak.

“Good Morning Papa.” Gwen said, her eyes never leaving the ghouls. Primo smiled too when he saw them. Always having a special affinity for them and finding their customs quite amusing. However, his gaze quickly returned to Gwen. She looked so beautiful in her robes, her hair flowing gently in the breeze as it blew past them. Primo took in a deep breath through his distinguished Romanesque nose. Inhaling the scent of her lavender shampoo that had drifted his way. 

“Buongiorno Guinevere.” Primo said back, taking a sip from the mug of tea that he’d brought along with him. It was a gift from the ghoul nits, who at times considered him to be a grandfather figure to them. Its handmade handle and misshapen walls gave a way its amateur , but loving origins. Gwen couldn’t help but smile at it. “Ora questa deve essere la cosa più bella che abbia mai visto…”   

“I’m sorry?”

“That smile of yours.” Primo clarified. Gwen struggled not to roll her eyes at him but was unable to stop her eyebrows from raising in disbelief.

“Well don’t get used to it.” she smirked. Now this was the woman Primo had felt all along. The one hidden beneath the ash that resided inside her before the pain. He would do anything to bring this woman back for good. 

“We shall see cara. What are you doing out here by yourself? The initiations are tonight, I thought someone like you would be preparing to make sure all went smoothly or celebrating with the others. Have you chosen your sin?” Primo asked her. 

“I have…or more like you have.” she explained. Primo was confused, he couldn’t recall doing anything of the sort and from the look on Gwen’s face it was not a positive connotation.

“Oh?” he asked, afraid of what he might hear.

“You told me I was selfish…so greed is my sin.” she explained. The memory of his words piercing the flesh as she spoke them. 

“Oh cara…I didn’t mean—”

“No…it's ok. Maybe you’re right…I am selfish.”

“I’m sorry.” he apologized, wishing that he had never said that to her. 

“Well, I had to choose a sin and well…it's just as fitting as any other. Also, I hear you will be doing the post-ritual sin fulfillment ceremonies and I was told Greed would be one you were in charge of.”

“Si.”

“Did Papa Terzo beat you at taking lust?” Gwen grinned, “I assume that's the coveted position.” she finished with a laugh. A laugh that sent Primo’s heart aflutter.  

“That is always Terzo’s position…for obvious reasons. There is only one person for me thank you.” Primo said without even thinking. Both him and Gwen, falling silent, only the chirping of the birds, and the hum of the Abbey around them, making a sound. 

“I see. Well, I must be going as you said.” Gwen commented as she stood up from the bench and turned to face him. “I shall see you tonight Papa?”

“Primo—please.” he insisted.  

“Primo.”

“Of course, see you then.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“It is with great honor that we commit our lives to sin. That we free ourselves from the confines of good and evil. Becoming one with all things and acknowledging that the world is but shades of gray.” Primo preached over the congregation. The chapel pews filled to the brim with people, all of whom hung on every word that fell from his lips. The ancient scrolls laid out before him on the stone altar. A chalice of blood, centuries old and a dagger, whose blade glinted in the light of the candles, laid on opposing sides.  

“No longer shall you deny your true selves in service to a God that gives only pain and suffering to those who love him most.” Primo called out, Removing the glove from his left hand and slicing open his palm. Spilling himself into the chalice as he continued on with his sermon. Opening the minds, hearts, and souls of the would-be siblings before they took their oaths and accepted Lucifer. 

“Nema!” he called out once more. The whole Abbey, returning it back to him. With more fervor and passion than he’d ever heard before. Truly this group of siblings would be a fine addition to their ranks. 

Finally, it was time for the main event. The sibling pledges lining up in the nave. Their eyes fixed forward on Primo awaiting them at the altar. They were dressed in all white robes. Like sacrificial lambs for the slaughter. Ready to be purged of their old lives and begin anew. 

From this moment forward they would be forever blessed by sin. Their souls pledged in service to his most unholy. Each of them stood proud in their place in line, waiting eagerly to receive their cursed blessing. A mark—bore on their heads and drawn deliberately with Primo's blood. 

One by one, Primo and the siblings recited the rites of passage and drew the sigil upon their foreheads. His eyes, always searching for Gwen in the crowd. After several siblings had passed through, he had begun to worry. Thankfully spotting her only moments later towards the back of the line. 

Her face was sullen and pale—a far cry from the beaming smiles and nervous excitement that poured from her peers. Primo could tell that she was trying her best to be positive, but her pain was still ever present. Like a ghost that haunted her home. When finally, it was her turn at the altar, Primo stood up tall and cleared his throat. Anxiously waiting as the sibling before her stepped aside and returned to their place within the pews. “Guinevere, do you commit your life to sin. Shun the God that denies you and open yourself to all things in Lucifer's name?” Primo asked her, dipping his forefinger into the blood. 

“I do.” Gwen answered. 

“Do you swear to always be in service of HIM and to respect and honor the tenets of our order?” Primo asked, now drawing the sigil of Lucifer upon Gwen's forehead. She closed her eyes and felt the warmth of her tears flowing over her cheeks. 

“I do.” she answered, the hint of her wavering resolve present in her voice. Primo had up until this point, with every sibling before her, taken their hands and recited the final words before allowing them to return to the pews. With Gwen however he took her face in his palms, cupping her soft cheeks as he wiped the tears and finished the rites.

“As above, so shall it be below.” Primo said softly, the whole Abbey taking note of the change in his procedure. Instantly the whispering spread among the crowd. All of them, gossiping and speculating as to why this had occurred. He leaned in to kiss the top of Gwen’s head. She was surprised that instead of pulling back, she leaned into it. 

“Primo?” she as his lips left her head.

“I’m proud of you amore.” he told her. The tears then came flooding out of her with full abandon. Her cheeks flushed with his words and the feel of his kiss upon her head sending her over with emotion. She was overwhelmed and more than a little confused. She said nothing back, but only nodded as she quickly left for her seat. Pretending not to hear the comments that came colliding in from all around her. 

“It is with great pleasure that I announce that all those who have pledged themselves in Satan’s name this day have been reborn in sin. To all those who have taken your vows to his church and of the unholiest of orders, we welcome you home. Siblings of Sin!” 

The whole chapel cheered. A roar, thunderous and proud, as the siblings were now equal in the eyes of Lucifer. Gwen smiled sheepishly at Primo as he and the other clergymen dismissed the chapel. Before she knew it they were all standing up and rushing out the door. 

All of them anxious to get to the festivities of sin that await them as the final celebration of their vows. If it were up to her this would be the end of it. Returning to the solitude of her room and leaving the crowd behind. She felt Finn pulling her arm, her eyes turning reluctantly towards her. 

“Gwen! Aren’t you excited?! We are Sisters!” Finn all but exploded with excitement. Gwen smiled back at her and nodded. “...uh…Gwenie, I'm so excited I could burst! This is going to be so amazing. Also, I am gonna need the full story on what is going on between you and Papa.”

“Here’s noth—” Gwen began when Fiona’s anxious energy got the best of her. 

“Tell me later I gotta get ready for my date with Papa Terzo.” she giggled.

“It’s hardly a date, Finn.” Gwen reminded her, though the activity for which they’d be partaking in could certainly make one believe it was such. But an orgy in the name of Satan wasn't exactly something Gwen would consider date night material.

“See you tomorrow!” Fiona winked as she disappeared with an equally horny group of siblings, heading down the hall to the Asmodeus wing of the Abbey–where all exploration of Lust in his name took place.

All the siblings, ghouls, and clergy took off to their posts. Each new sibling, ready to commit fully to their chosen sin. The lustful, like Fiona, and prideful ones went on to Terzo. Ready to perform all manner of debauchery and selfish exploration. 

Envy and Wrath were overseen by Secondo. Each of the new siblings, reborn with their spilling of vile confessions of jealousy. While others indulged in consensual acts of violence. The gluttonous ones went to Nihil who, despite his ectoplasmic materialization, was all too happy to partake with them in feasting. Imbibing with the young noviates, turned full sisters, being his favorite since he was banned from Terzo’s group.

Finally, was the group that was left to Primo. Those who chose Sloth and Greed. All of them, lounging about in the sanctuary as they breathed in a hypnotic blend of herbs and ash. Their essence, packed into incense whose smoke filled their lungs and their brains with imagery and vivid dreams. The others, illusions of their deepest desires and wants. 

Gwen was there, sitting in the back of the room as she watched everyone around her fall victim to their sin. Each with a smile splashed across their faces. Primo had taken a special tonic to be immune to the incense effects. Watching over the flock as they reveled in their desires. Their minds, open to all the possibilities and riches the world had to offer. 

Primo kept careful watch on Gwen. She was resistant at first, one of the last siblings to give way into her “dreams”. Primo waited with bated breath as she slipped deeper into the dream. All the while, he was positive that he knew what would happen—and he was right. 

As soon as Gwen closed her eyes, the flashes of light hit her so fast from all sides she almost felt sick. There was nothing but brightness and the feeling of warmth when she heard it. Cries. The smallest of sounds coming from behind her. 

She turned around to see a child there in a bassinet. The same small woven bed she had remembered buying for her own. Her hand on her belly and smile on her face as she left the quaint children’s shop along the market street. A memory she'd buried deep down inside. 

She bent down and picked the child up in her arms. The little one’s crying stopped, replaced by sleepy cooing, like a lullaby to Gwen’s ears. Patting the infant's back as she found herself humming to soothe them. Back in reality, however, she had begun to cry. 

Primo noticed instantly, going towards her. Wishing that he had been wrong. Just as he reached her, Gwen collapsed on the ground. Crying as she brought herself back from the trance. Primo and her were now the only ones not under the spell.

“Amore…I am so sorry.” Primo cried too as he held Gwen in his arms. Her tears fell uncontrollably. Wishing so badly to return to the dream, even though she knew it wasn’t real.

“I wanted that baby Primo. I wanted them so much. I already loved them.” she cried harder and harder. Primo squeezed her tightly against his chest. Wishing that he'd never have to let go. 

“I know.” he told her. Just then her eyes opened to him, seeing his compassionate face looking back at her. The love shining in his eyes as he held her against him. Gwen could feel the need for him rising inside her and before she knew it he had kissed her. 

Primo's lips, feeling so tender against hers before he pulled away.  Gwen stared at him once more, Primo able to see the hint of the feelings that came creeping up inside of her. He ran his fingers through her hair as they came close again.

The feeling of each other’s breathing, ticking the skin as their mouths hovered ever closer. Primo couldn’t stop himself, drawing her towards him as her quivering lips brushed against his own. He wasted no time, taking her mouth onto his. His tongue, gliding gently inside as she held onto his shoulders. 

He wanted her and she wanted him. Primo lifted her up, carrying her to the sofa that sat near them in the back of the room. Still shrouded in darkness he sat down, Gwen straddling his lap as Primo ran his hands over the curves of her body. She felt even more wonderful than he had ever imagined. 

The heat of her core, radiating against his lap. Primo quickly swelling with need. Gwen moaned into their kiss. Her Papa, unable to help himself from raising his hips against her. Hoping to share friction between them. 

“Gwen…amore…I want you so badly.” Primo confessed. Gwen was unable to respond, losing herself in the feeling of his hand climbing up between her thighs. Primo’s long fingers, breaching the line of her panties beneath that innocent white gown. Her entrance, already dripping with anticipation of his touch as he sank two fingers gently inside her.

“Ah!” she cried out as Primo tore off her panties with the other hand. Only the remnants of the band left to speak of. 

“I will give you all that you desire. Make you mine.” Primo vowed, gently taking in Gwen’s lower lip as she found herself grinding along with the motions of his lustful hands. 

“Yes…Primo…make me feel something.” Gwen whispered as his lips trailed along the line of her neck. Leaving purple marks of intention in his wake. He slid his fingers out from inside her a moment to encircle her clit. Gwen’s head, falling back in pleasure as he rubbed her gently. 

“Cum for me, mio fiore.” Primo commanded. Swirling over Gwen’s swollen bud as she trembled in his arms. Primo’s cock, pulsing beneath her as he felt her cum hard against his fingers.

“Ah fuck!” she cried out once more, feeling the rush of her orgasm ripping through her. Primo wasn’t satisfied. Lifting her up from his lap, placing her back on the sofa. Discarding his chasuble like tissue before undoing his belt. 

Gwen writhed on the sofa below him. Still coming down from the heights of her orgasm when she felt Primo’s cock nudging her entrance. “I want to give you everything you always wanted Guinevere, if you’ll only let me.” Primo hummed against the small of her neck. The impact of his words hitting her full force. 

Gwen quickly sat up and pushed Primo off her. Her eyes once more welling up with tears. “Please—Primo—I’m sorry—I just can't.” she told him as she fixed her dress and ran out from the room. Leaving Primo behind on the sofa, his heart heavy in his chest. 

Notes:

mio fiore- my flower

ora questa deve essere la cosa più bella che abbia mai visto…-now that has to be the most beautiful thing I have ever seen

[theclaravoyant]

AN ~ An angsty oneshot, inspired by @spindlesaurus-rex egging me on about some Ideas i have been having ... this is planned to be a Part 1 of 2.

features Aziraphale and Metatron (go to hell amen), Aziracrow heavy. Crowley As Trans Allegory themes bc i cannot help myself <3 Read on AO3 (~1000wd) **contains spoilers for S2**

Olive Branch

Somewhere in heaven, there is a mural of three doves attacking a crow.

Aziraphale used to love this mural. Once upon a time, it had filled him with a sense of strength and mission. It had stood for victory of the powers of light, of truth, of good over evil. The teamwork of the smaller doves to overcome their larger, more powerful nemesis had reminded him that goodness did not stand alone against the dark. Looking at it now, though, his eyes trace the lines of those big black wings - both bent upward from a body in freefall, having been driven from the sky - and he wonders belatedly: who is coming to help the crow?

There is a sound behind him, scarcely more than a rush of air, and he tries not to jump (it’s still far too quiet up here). Of course, it’s the Metatron, because apparently these days the Supreme Archangel can barely take a proverbial piss, let alone get lost daydreaming of ecclesiastical dilemmas, without supervision.

“There you are,” the Metatron says, stepping up alongside Aziraphale and handing him a coffee as if they are wandering a museum together rather than stalking and being stalked. “‘The Fall.’ Magnificent, isn’t it?”

Barbaric, is what Aziraphale wants to say. Instead he smiles and says - “Quite.”

The Metatron takes a long, deliberately drawn out sip from his coffee. Innocently observing the magnificent massacre. But even without those ageless eyes on his, Aziraphale feels distinctly trapped. He is a fly, waiting for the right moment to break free of the web - if he even can, and trying is probably a death sentence - and so he stares blankly at the perfect blue and the smallness of the doves and pleads with himself for patience. For strength.

“Did Crowley ever tell you,” the Metatron asks, “what it was like?”

(Please tell me you said no.)

Aziraphale clenches his jaw and doesn’t answer. Every miniscule quake in Crowley’s voice slices into him. He’d been so excited to drag him back here. To this.

“You knew each other, didn’t you?” the Metatron pushes. “Before all that.”

“Only in passing.” 

“Well, naturally.”

The Metatron gives a little scoff, and it feels like salt, like acid in Aziraphale’s wounds. Is this what he’d sounded like to Crowley, ever distancing himself from those people, from bad company, as if Crowley wasn’t one of them? Like it was only right that a perfect little angel not allow himself to be tainted, even at the end, when Crowley was trying to tell him-.

“Is that why you insist on calling him Crowley?”

Curse him, his gaze snaps askance at that. It’s the tiniest movement, just for a second, but it’s as good at giving himself away as grabbing the Metatron’s shoulders and shouting in his face, what is that supposed to mean? The Metatron raises his eyebrows, in an exaggerated and clearly over-acted impression of surprise.

“He’s never told you, has he? His name.”

“His name is Crowley.”

The Metatron sighs and waves a hand. “Yes, yes, of course it is. But his angelic name. His God-given name. His name as it is Written.”

Aziraphale draws himself up to meet the Metatron’s eyes. 

“No. He’s never told me. And I’ve never asked.”

“Does it ever bother you?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“But Crowley is a demon’s name. Surely, you’d wish to grace the one you love with their true name, hm?”

Love. That stings. Aziraphale feels a hot flash of rage, that the Metatron dared put it to words before he had. Of course, many have danced around it, and dangled it before him. They have used it to praise and empathise, to mock and threaten… but it’s never felt quite like this before. Like a deliberate twist of a knife through his heart.

“If Crowley wants me to call him by a different name,” Aziraphale finally manages, “he need only say so.”

“Ah, but there’s the rub, dear Aziraphale,” the Metatron says, and his smile is too benevolent for the malice in his eyes. “What if he does not know it?”

“Why would he not know his own-”

Aziraphale’s tongue all of a sudden freezes up. Cold horror sinks into him like water into concrete; like it wants to take the atoms of him apart. He thinks of a fly and a box and a naked man on his doorstep. This lot want their Archangel back so they can fire him, Crowley had said. And Crowley had been a lot worse than fired.

“He hasn’t even told you that, has he? That he has been having memory trouble,” the Metatron muses. “Hm. Don’t suppose it’s a surprise, though. One can hardly be expected to divulge such secrets to the other side.”

Aziraphale’s eyes sting with tears. He can hardly breathe through them but his corporation insists on doing so anyway. It gives him away, sloppy and miserable, the strength he’s braced into himself finally starting to crack. He wills himself to hold it in - he’d always known it after all, that there was never a their own side. But that’s not even the worst of it; no, what he really can’t bear is knowing that Crowley suffered, so unspeakably much, and didn’t think it was appropriate - maybe even safe - maybe even his deepest heart’s desire to share in it. He’d called Crowley nearly every day for years, nattering on about concert tickets and this ruddy stain in the carpet and a particularly beautiful duck when what he should have said was, Tell me what you remember about making the stars.

“Oh, Aziraphale,” the Metatron sighs, dripping with false sympathy. “It’s not your fault. It’s in his nature.” 

“You don’t know anything about his nature.” It’s all he can trust himself to say, but the Metatron appears unfazed by the fact that he’s just barely holding back an ocean over here. He makes a bemused little humming sound and draws something from the pocket of his jacket.

“As it turns out, neither do you.” He pauses a beat, to let it dangle before Aziraphale.

It’s a pendant small enough to fit in his hand. A little glass vial on a golden chain - or at least, it appears to be glass, and it appears to be gold - and inside it, a tiny sprig of olive leaves in what he has to assume is holy water. It’s so small. Too small. He can hardly believe the vastness that is Crowley would fit into something so… precious.

“... Would you like to?”

[old-souldier]

A wistful chilly morning (Post-6.2, WoL!Jordan)

Jordan sighed as she felt the last bit of warmth from her teacup fade. She had taken the last sip but a moment before, looking as the sun had lifted up past the horizon. The morning had begun in earnest here at the small cottage by the sea off the east coast of Vylbrand.

Ever since she returned from the edge of the universe, the brink of death, an entire year ago, Jordan had taken to having morning tea out on the veranda on every clear morning she could. Sometimes a neighbor would stop by, sometimes her oldest friend Emmeline, sometimes some important somebody or other representative of the Admiral or Alliance or whatnot. Mostly, it was just herself and her animals.

This morning, she spied her chocobo Pipa, dozing against her friend Cuddles, the brown bear. It was getting a bit chilly after all Jordan thought May’aps I need to bring in the stable cover n’ one of ‘em Garlean-style ceruleum heaters. Jordan let a soft chuckle out, despite herself.

The months after The Final Days were a blur. The first month, she visited her family in Ul’dah for a while, crying despite herself when her adoptive granddaughter bent down and gave her a hug upon their first meeting. Despite what she said to Sami, it wasn’t really from the chronic pain in her shoulder.

The next months were, to be frank, debauched. She had abstained from drink, but not from her other vices. She had coin enough saved up and a sizeable discount for the one who help stop the bloody end of th’ world, after all. Then she chartered a boat off to the South Seas. Tataru had some cockamamie scheme of settling an island, but settling wasn’t the point. Years ago, she had made a pledge. She promised herself when it was over, when she knew her grandchildren would grow up in a time without war, like she had, she would go out to sea alone and end her life. She had done it. Committed to that future. And here she was, as she had panned, placing the proverbial blade to her throat.

But she couldn’t do it. She knew as she alighted from Oschon’s Torch that she didn’t need to martyr herself anymore. She had prepared to slough off and wipe away the people who had killed so many she knew growing up. She had hated that standard of locked chains. She has wanted to murder Quintus van Cinna the moment she had laid upon the bastard. Learning he had died by his own hand, seeing the spatter of red, she could only spit and call him a coward.

By the time the final conflict had flared, not between her and the union of all despair, but between a tired old woman and a spoiled princeling turned rabid dog, she was sick of hating. Sick of herself. But no longer sick of living.

When she returned, she spared few trips from home. She was glad to be in her own bed, tend to her garden, drink her tea and soothe her wounds. She knew she wouldn’t heft an axe without some pain again, but the biting ache kept her anger going. Swords and Gunblades just weren’t the same, handy though they were. She got to know her neighbors, who were lovely once they got past the suspiciousness of the empty house suddenly bursting with life and chores and famous dignitaries and the like coming to visit.

Thankfully, the few trips she had undertaken were to someplace warm, by the sea, and, most importantly, valued good tea. Old Sharlayan had been a disappointment, sharing some of the worst aspects of Ishgard (the occasional drifts of snow, even in summer) and Gridania (the lack of actual flavors 99% of the time). Thavnair, in contrast, had spice and sea salt in the air, warm and cordial faces, and tea that rivaled Doma in complexity and presentation. True, the whole “voidsent” thing was a pressing issue, but she could leave the details to the others. Y’shtola is looking to travel to the First, Vrtra wants his sister who practically raised him like a mother. ‘n Estinien Varlineau Jordan mused, a smirk growing on her face is too obvious. Makes jest at Alphy’s savior complex, but ‘e’s just as much the same sort of boy protecting friends. Must be an Elezen thing may’aps. Zero was a new wrinkle, but Cylva’s words had helped put her at ease and she was able to let it fall to more capable hands until there were answers.

It was enough to be in a space of quiet, though it was beginning to get on with the day as Jordan’s thoughts again turned to the now cold teacup.

She stood and felt a presence in the pocket of her tunic. She reached in and felt the warmth and smoothness of the top as it came to points on the side. Azem’s stone. Mind of its own Jordan thought Always ‘appy to just be around until summat thing needs doin’ or it wants me to galavant off somewhere…

She entered her house and placed the cup in the sink. She looked out the kitchen window, noting the small ceramic plaque, which hung nearby. It was decorated with a crook, the symbol of her own patron God. Jordan shook her head as she felt an old twinge and itch at her feet. “All right, all right! Can’t let an old woman rest in ‘er home fer five minutes can’t ye?” She announced out old, as though addressing the books and knick knacks in the room.

Jordan Rosalind Kennedy, having lived as such for 57 years on Ethierys, knew better than to counter provenance. She went downstairs to see her pack and her adventuring gear was ready.

As an old friend once told her, “the call to adventure never takes no for an answer.” She needed to make sure her affairs were in order.

[skaruresonic]

abstaining wont get you a better government that doesnt contribute to genocide itll get you a far right government that contributes to genocide even harder

I'm going to talk about some heavy unfun stuff that will harsh your buzz.

The US government wants NDNs gone regardless of party because the entire country is inherently built on our genocide. Neither side wants us to live, much less have a say in how the country is run, and in some cases, Democrats have blatantly ignored us when we asked them for help. The fact of the matter is they give as little a shit about Natives as Republicans do. Neither side has lifted laws on blood quantum requirements for tribal enrollment, which will lead to tribal collapse if unchecked precisely because tribal collapse is the entire point. Likewise, when the Diné asked for help against COVID on a reservation without running water, AKA that thing you need to wash your hands with, the government sent bodybags. Nor was COVID the first time the US government sent the Diné bodybags in response to an outcry for help against disease.

Democrats just want to seem more "polite" about it. Our choices are not red or blue. They essentially boil down to the choice of death by lethal injection or death by firing squad. Make no mistake: unless you attempt to resist, you're going to die either way. Framing one method as less "painful" than the other makes it neither a mercy nor a pardon. Playing into the system that desires your death may retard it, but it will never prevent it.

If what I say seems dire, it's because it is that dire. You talk of genocide not realizing we've already suffered from one and continue to do so because they've never let up.

Nobody talks about this but voting, like getting a passport, is a big sovereignty and self-determination issue for Native nations. "Just register to vote" - it's not that easy. Or simple. If we do, that can open the door for the government to say, "Well, you guys consider yourselves US citizens, therefore Your Tribe isn't Really Sovereign, hence there's no reason for you to keep your lands and tribal rights, thus we can do whatever we want with your lands and identity and there's fuck-all you can do about it." This isn't even getting into the fact that Natives were among the last demographic to receive the right to vote in the first place.

There are still old laws on the books to this day which would give Congress the green light to dissolve rights to Native land stewardship at any given time. We always have the proverbial sword hanging over our necks. The question isn't if, but when, it drops.

You give the government any reason to strip you of your rights, no matter how small, they'll take it. Moralizing about how we're Personally Contributing to Genocide by not giving the government the means to perpetuate ours while we're still coping with ours is equivalent to rubbing salt in a festering wound. Direct your ire towards those who have more power and less to lose.

Re. passports: similar issue. Yunęhwá·kneʔ uhéhčhakę·w. It's a pain in the ass because we have tribal cards, but not everybody acknowledges them as a valid form of ID. The DMV's refusal to accept mine was the reason I wasn't able to get my driver's permit for three years.

It's up to the whims of fate, mostly. Imagine having a driver's license but whether the DMV recognizes it depends on whether or not they feel like it at the moment. It's always a crapshoot with crossing the Canadian border specifically because whether you can cross with your tribal card depends on who's working at the bridge that day, sometimes whether they're Native too and sympathetic, or feeling magnanimous. It can be easier to get into Canada than to return home.

You cannot, however, use it as a passport to fly, even though it's strongly encouraged that you do.

So, even disregarding the pressures from our government, other governments also practically force us to get US passports if we want to get anywhere, (which btw, the thing I just described? violates the Jay Treaty which says Natives are allowed to cross the Canadian border freely. Not that anyone ever gives a shit about respecting treaties, though). The US is so invested in the idea that All the Indians Are Dead that the rest of the world believes the lie. Besides, tribal council keeps tabs on everyone who registers to vote. It doesn't matter why you did it or who you voted for. If you choose to register, you're potentially undermining your tribe's sovereignty. It's not that we wouldn't vote, it's that we can't, not without incurring risk to ourselves. And it doesn't mean you don't care about what happens to the country overall, it means that the government could take away your rights to self-determination at any time regardless of if they're Democrat or Republican and you need to Be Vigilant about that shit.

sorry but i want to hit every american talking about not wanting to vote democrat anymore with hammers. lol

[wcshedup]

@madefate asked: Blitz gently skates the tips of his claws around the base of Barbie's horns, carefully finding the spots where she knows she carries her tension - the same way he does, a small, merciful mirror they still share. When he can take her weight against him he does, pulling her in, leaning down so that when he hums (their mother always sang it better, but they can keep it alive like this) she can feel it in his chest.

barbie had so many preconceived notions and spiraling ruminations about how their reunion might go. it had never gone well before, and she could face up to the fact that she MIGHT shoulder most of that blame -- it would be different this time ! she was clean now. she had a steady job that didn't require any unsavory characters or close brushes with the vices she'd fought so hard to kick. that life felt so far away now, like it happened to someone else and barbie was simply an observer sat in a plush theatre seat, filled with compassion but growing exhausted with seeing the main character choke on her own vomit again.

guilt eats at her now that her feet are rooted in reality once more. the imp vaguely recalls the last scene involving blitzø in that film of her life -- fizz had signed those paper so easily, she'd felt, too easily, in fact. but blitzø would come and set it all right, he would RESCUE her from this horrible cesspit of losers and 'doctors' who didn't seem to understand that she was in PAIN -- she'd told them so, tears of rage cascading down her cheeks, but they had given that sensation another name. withdrawal.

and when she'd called blitzø she felt SURE he would understand -- but when her brother would not sign the release, barbie's nervous jittering had turned into an all-out fit of rage; fists flying and legs kicking with intent to maim as the staff had fought to restrain her. ( " you said ! you said i could CALL you when i NEEDED you ! " ) and she realizes now that the sensation of betrayal had been misplaced, had been nothing more than a fabrication of her addiction. feet braced on either side of the doorway as they tried to force her back into the room, barbie had screamed it loud enough for even the heavens to hear her rage. ( " I'll NEVER forgive you for this, blitzo ! NEVER ! " )

how could he EVER forgive her ?

quite easily, it seemed.

there are no tense silences or awkward shuffles. being together again is like letting go of a breath barbie didn't know she'd been holding. meeting his employees and his daughter ? THAT had thrown her for a bit of loop at first, but barbie had warmed to the idea by the time the coffee was ready. everything went so. . . perfectly.

it didn't seem real.

of course it makes sense that she'd find a way to RUIN it at the finish line. they'd started so strong, uncorking a bottle of something strong and cheap between the pair of them at blitzø's apartment that night, trying and failing to smother their drunken laughter from disturbing the hellhound occupying the bedroom just a few feet away. the sort of giddiness that makes barbie reach out to shake his shoulder for stability, her core ACHING as she laughs like it's the first time in a long time. it is. she missed him.

but the turn in the conversation had come at the bottom of her third glass of wine, where barbie had found the grief long since mistaken for simple rage lying in wait. sometimes i wish i had. . . been with her. it feels like a mistake to speak out loud, barbie blames it on the lowering of her inhibitions -- she turns to shield her tears in the wake of her confession from blitzø, that familiar ache blossoming behind her sternum and it's her first instinct to shield the emotional wound from the proverbial salt that might fly. it had been so long since vulnerability had been rewarded with anything but the twist of a knife. " satan, I'm so SORRY, I'm just -- "

FUCKING EVERYTHING UP

" just give me a second -- " barbie can still reclaim the rapidly suffering vibe of the room, she knows, if she puts her mind to it -- pushes down the agony and steers the conversation back towards the lighthearted. but JUST as she opens her mouth to remind blitzø about the time they managed to switch places for a whole three days -- she catches sight of his expression.

there's no distaste for her tears, or rolling eyes that signal exhaustion with her emotional ineptitude -- barb uses her wrist to scrub at one bleary eye, the way blitzø opens his arms towards his sister might take her conscious mind aback, but her body knows exactly what to do. it's muscle memory to rush into his side, arms coming upward to cling to her brother's shoulders and bury her face there in turn. it's the first time barbie has felt SAFE in so long.

it's been even longer since she felt this loved.

" I'm so sorry, blitzø. "

[marblecarved]

@spellwrites sent a letter to nymphadora tonks: ‘‘ watch it with that thing ! somebody could get seriously hurt ! ’’

prompt: impromptu.

As though in answer to Imogen's warning, thumps and thuds can be heard from behind the closed door of the kitchen. A moment later there comes what sounds like a chair toppling over and a muffled curse, immediately followed by a louder: ❝ don't worry, I got it ! ❞ in an attempt to reassure Imogen. Key word here being attempt, because these words fail to sound reassuring even to her own ears.

How she managed to convice Mrs. Weasley to help her carry all those kitchen tools is a mystery. Eager to help, she picked a handful of them and hurried ahead, miracolously not tripping on her own feet on the way. That would've been embarrassing. It's a good thing that the tools, prompted by her quick, careless movements, started to tumble out of her arms and on the floor when she reached the kitchen. Well... it's not actually that good a thing, but since she found the kitchen empty upon entering, there was not as much salt to put on the proverbial wound, so to speak.

Indeed, embarrassing herself when no one is around to witness it is one thing, but when there are others around, visibly cringing at her ( when she trips on her feet, or on things ... ) then it is another thing entirely, which verges on the painful, more for herself than for others. Thus, an empty kitchen means that no one, beside herself, is there to witness the cause of all that ruckus, and in turn it gives Tonks more time to collect herself as well all the fallen tools.

The tools, when she finally reaches the counter, are placed one by one next to the does after she squints at them in search of scuff marks. They didn't suffer much from their fall, as much as she can see, and they'll of course need to be cleaned before being put away in the drawers, but... they are all here, just as she promised Mrs. Weasley, and Tonks considers this a small victory.

Once done, Tonks opens the door of the kitchen, meaning to return to Mrs. Weasley, but stops when she sees Imogen still there. A wide, brilliant smile appears. ❝ There, ❞ she says. ❝ I told you I got it, didn't I ? ❞ this is said as casually as one does when discussing the weather, as though no thumps and thuds were heard until a mere moment ago. Here she shifts from one foot to the other, hiding a wince at her legs twinge of protest. ❝ No one was hurt, I didn’t break anything, ❞ maybe. ❝ Easy peasy ! ❞

[ofbloodandbullets]

can we just talk about the irony of the movies when booker is doing all of this to try and find a way to actually end his immortality and like ignoring the fuckery of let's betray your friends and family to achieve this but how much it must have sucked and made him so fucking furious and cursing the twisted sense of humor of the universe when he found out that andy was already in the process of becoming mortal i mean just. salt in his proverbial wounds.

[damnedrainbows]

As the distance between the two finally broke…so too did the illusion, and so too, did the fearsome radio demon.

It took a moment for the shock to wear off as Alastor’s limbs hung there and trickled ichor out onto the dirty brimstone path. Warmth. Soft fur. A smell that was familiar, and one that replaced the stench of blood, and rot. Claws that enclosed gently around him, and a furry chest he found himself pressed into. The pacifying purring drowned out the rushing of his own heartbeat, and finally ebbed away all denial in his fevered mind.

The burning agony of infected wounds and his body slowly giving out was enveloped, and smothered away in soft fur, and silk. Feathers. Feathers that blanketed him…like some guardian angel.

Husk. Safety…

And the belting cry that suddenly spasmed from Alastor shook both of their souls. His claws, stiff with congealed blood, clung so desperately into the fabric that they pierced it. Crimson and salt ruined the beautiful suit immediately.

Alastor…wept. The heartwrenching, shoulder wracking sobbing wasn’t even quiet, but the volume was thankfully muffled into coarse fur and fabric.

It all unleashed….at once. These weeks of solitude, the only respite in company being his constant tormentor—these weeks of thinking he lost it all—power, his home, his friends, and increasingly from his own neglect…his life. These years even of masking everything behind a smile that only seemed to become more fragile as time went on…everything poured out at once.

Boiled to the surface, out of control; the tormentor had become the tormented and was left alone in his endless suffering. Death and torture was his only absolution, and his only salvation came in the dreams that left his heart aching. Alastor couldn’t maintain the facade anymore. His proverbial walls had crumbled, and he was finally out of the bricks to try and fix the foundation. He shivered like a fawn…and for maybe the first time in his life, he didn’t care how it looked.

Tears, cathartic as they were meant to be, burned as they leaked into the lacerations and burns on his face, and trekked through the grime. They soaked Husk’s blazer as quickly as the crimson. His throat burned with the effort it took to get every anguished cry out. His internal speakers fizzled and popped, creating a horrid cacophony of glitching heartbreak. He didn’t know why Charlie enjoyed crying so much. This was horrible, and yet it just wouldn’t end.

Irony was a funny thing indeed. Poetic even. He’d been so stubborn and desperate not to admit fault that he’d sooner traumatize them both before, and yet now…apologies were all that tumbled out. So much so, that through the onslaught of sobbing, it was all that was intelligible. Enough apologies to cover every awful deed he’d ever done to the cat…

“SorryI’msorryI’msosorry-“

If he was merely another figment of his broken heart, then he was certainly a long lasting one. Usually by now the illusion of those he loved would have disappeared by now. Charlie’s cold gaze as it left him back in the bleakness, with her eyes morphing into the potent glare of her Mother. Niffty, darling Niffty as her slender fingers slipped away. Abandoned to the dark. Abandoned to the thorns that weaved out of the ground, and dragged him further into the brimstone of his own personal hell.

Sometimes Alastor would get a chance to feel the claws of his old friend, but whether a hallucination, a dream, or a mirage created by Lilith…they were never kind. Hell, they’d held a whip against him last they’d neared him. Always deserved, and expected. It was the reason Alastor even now just waited for them to turn.

Yet in this moment, all he could see was sadness and horror in Husk’s gaze. That was new. It replaced the hatred and blazing look of revenge all the figments had. “W…well yes,” he buzzed out. He tried to shake his head and it felt like the entire world tilted when he did. “Ha, of….course I lost access. The rules are…quite strict about bringing harm…upon anyone there. Both by Charlie…and Lilith herself.”

Why did he seem so surprised? Why did he seem so sad? Isn’t this what he wanted?

“I…violated…” Another long buzzing crackle. His microphone staff could be seen discarded, and snapped. “Both of…their terms.” Dials twisted in his gaze, but after a moment it was clear that wasn’t intentional. They spasmed like a radio trying to tune itself, and trying to gain some sort of control. He blinked back to hazed crimson, fighting a body that wanted to shut down. Fighting a radio that wanted to end its broadcast…permanently.

As Husk’s paw fell over his, something in him shook. His voice trembled now for more reason than the wounded glitching. He inhaled a couple shallow breaths, tired and hopeful eyes looking from the feline’s paw over his own clenched, and shaking fingers. Soft. It was soft…and lingering. Alastor wasn’t ready to give in to the temptation that this might be real, but denial was beginning to slowly unravel. Frankly, he wasn’t sure what was easier to comprehend at the moment.

Husk couldn’t be here. Husk wouldn’t be here. Husk couldn’t see him like this. Husk wouldn’t have come back. Husk couldn’t see him like this.

Alastor looked back at his broken and mangled body, his snapped cane-the blood that sullied him in pints compared to the beautiful pristine coat of the feline. Humiliating. Degrading. His voice shivered as much as his form. He wanted to grip the hand that held his, but was afraid the illusion would break into pieces.

“N-no…I was…kicked out the next day.” He blinked in confusion, blinked the desperate salt trying to form. “You…didn’t tell? ……..Are you…really here?”

[charnelhouse]

if I may...a humble request...you have solo reader/TF guy fics with everyone except Santi...just a suggestion 😇

Pairing: Santiago Garcia x F!Reader Warnings: Daddy Kink. Role Play. SMUT. A/N: you're right. I had to rectify this!

There are edges to Santi - fragmented shards inside him. He doesn’t know who he is. What’s his point? His process?

I stalk bad guys. I hope for the best.

Is that how you heal?

Sure.

It’s all about the chase for him because Santi is running running everywhere without an end in sight. You meet him halfway - you meet him because you have your own demons and your own shitty ruins that decay all slow in the meat of your head.

“You wanna fuck?” he asks one night - those rose lips brushing over the tip of his beer bottle. That dark stubble and darker hair that blooms silver at his temples. You’re both tired - both nursing your wounds and your failure at having lost another lead.

You’ve known Pope a long ass time. You’ve served with him - fought with him. You still fight with him because hunting down kingpins sounded like a lot more fun than trying to sell shitty real estate in Florida.

“What would the guys say?” you answer - dropping your head over the edge of your chair - feeling warm and loose.

“Who cares.”

You sit up - meeting his gaze that burns black. Pope is beautiful - he has always been beautiful. You’ve lost track of the number of women he’s slept with while you’ve been waist-deep in this broken town of another shattered city. Colombia is another red pin on your map.

He moves forward - elbows on his knees - jaw clenching as his eyes rake over you - slash you in a thousand lines. There are so many memories between you. Screwing wouldn’t throw a proverbial wrench into your friendship. It’s packed in salt.

“Okay,” you shrug.

***

The first time goes on for hours. He thrusts into your soaking pussy, sliding his thick cock in and out of you at a steady pace. He shoves his entire body against you - just so his groin can graze your throbbing clit. He practically buries you into the thin mattress - his sturdy hands pinning your wrists above your head.

He manipulates honey-slow orgasms from your aching sex - each of them having the same intensity as a bruising kiss.

“Fuck,” he grunts. “Didn’t know it would be like this, princesa.”

He rocks into you - lips sliding over yours insistently as waves of pleasure drift and roll through your pelvis.

Stars.

“You want to be a good girl for me?” he mutters - another punch of his cock - another rough stroke of his hips. “You want to be my good girl?”

You never give him anything. You never budge an inch. But Jesus the tight coil of your climax is near choking in the cup of your womb and you think - fuck it.

“Yeah, Santi,” you moan. “Yeah, I’ll be yours. I’ll be so good.”

***

Pope’s tastes aren’t exactly a surprise.

He loves to run - he loves to hunt and capture. He loves to smell you out. You fucking like it and what you like more is the fact that Pope isn't sleeping with anyone else. No more girls or late-night calls. He comes to you and it's like you sate all of his wants - his dirty kinks that he wouldn't just share with anyone else.

"You get me," he drawls as casually as possible - fingertips drifting over your shoulder. "You know every part of me. You've seen the worst."

"You're a sap."

"Fuck you."

***

You play this game when you have the time. You play it because it’s the one space you allow yourself to be vulnerable or even submissive.

The boys would have a fucking field day if they knew that you turned into a deferential little slut for Santiago. They’d never let you live it down.

“Oh hush,” Pope murmurs as he curls his body around yours. “Who gives a shit - they don’t need to know anyway. It’s our business.”

“I’ll curb stomp you if you tell them,” you hiss as you go lax and let him cuddle you.

“Kinky.”

“I mean it, Pope.”

He snorts before he pushes his chin over your shoulder - his hands stroking your tits and then your belly before they fall between your legs and make you gasp. “Tell them what exactly? That you turn into such an obedient little girl for me?” He runs his tongue across your throat - nips at your earlobe. “Tell them that you call me daddy.”

You shudder - your cunt dripping around his fingers. You feel the slippery white surface of his teeth against your skin.

“Yeah,” you sigh as you feel the blunt head of his cock snagging at your entrance - the fat of it stretching your hole before he’s even buried himself all the way. “Yeah - that.”

“Okay, baby,” he agrees. “Daddy will keep us a secret.”

“You fucker.”

He pushes forward and you fall apart.

***

But that’s not even the game. The game is this:

You run. He gives chase.

You stumble through the thick grass and dense trees. The maw of the jungle swirling into something cloying and inky and unforgiving.

The only rules are don’t go too far and if shit gets weird, say red.

You’re a fawn on new legs. Your heart pumping swiftly - your blood hot beneath your skin. Sometimes you really make his day and you wear something sweet - a pale dress or a skirt. You get so caught up in it that you scare yourself - your adrenaline bursting white behind your eyes as you run and slip behind branches or drooping foliage.

You’re playing a part. Kind of.

Your entire body vibrates with it - your bones shivering underneath your skin. Santi’s low chuckle seeping between the leaves - through thickets and hanging flowers like overturned bells. There’s rain and it mingles with your sweat - drenches the fabric of your dress.

You find a spot to hide - you hold yourself still - try to even out your breathing. Your heart won’t shut the fuck up as it pounds impossibly loud in the cage of your ribs.

You never hide well enough because you feel his hand on your wrist - fierce and possessive. He rips you from the trees - pushing you into the dirt.

“Aw, baby,” he whines. “Why’d you run from me?”

You bite down on your lip - swallowing the grin that threatens to split across your face. You blink up at him - letting the rain make patterns on your skin. “I’m sorry,” you plead. “I’m sorry.”

“Knees,” he demands. You follow his lead.

He’s undoing his belt - while he slips his thumb across your lower lip. His cheeks are pink from the exertion of him racing after you. “You wanna show me how good you are, princess?”

You nod - fingers catching on his thighs as you rise up to meet him. “C’mon - open up for me - wider - show daddy just how much you want it.”

[sparksnevadas]

Little Quackcicle ficlet

Also available on ao3

After he falls, he wakes up at spawn. The effects of having most of your home blown up in your face, he supposes. Fucking sucks though.

He makes the long walk back to Las Nevadas in a haze. The words of Slime echoing in his head.

He knows the words sting because they’re true. He’d known the lessons were exaggerated when he taught them. But he hadn’t meant harm. He had been trying to protect Charlie— protect Slime. The world hadn’t been kind to Quackity, and he had wanted to save Slime from the same fate. Now he understands he’d condemned him to the inevitable.

The sun is setting by the time he reaches his wrecked Las Nevadas. Foolish was long gone. He’d probably ran as soon as Dream made it out. The man was functionally immortal, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a bit of a coward now. It was Quackity’s own fault, really.

Slime is waiting for him on the path where he died. They sit on a chest, their eyes in shadow.

Quackity still isn’t used to seeing so much emotion in those dark green eyes, especially not negative ones. They hold onto leftover anger, but along his shoulders is a sad heavy weight that Quackity is intimately familiar with.

Quackity looks away, forcing himself to hold in the wave of emotions that threatens to flood out of him. It doesn’t make sense for Them to still be here.

What was this? Was he going to laugh at him? Throw salt in his wound with the truth? Wasn’t his death already the ultimate reality check?

Quackity was on his third life, and he didn’t have much more to give to this cycle of revenge and hurt.

Their message was clear, and Quackity had received it loudly. He’s already made up his mind. He’s going to start over.

“Quackity from Las Nevadas,” Slime looks up. They don’t add another thought to it, they just call for him.

Quackity stays as far as he can, picking up the few items that are lost in the sand. He finds his pickaxe, some last minute building blocks he had in his inventory. Unfortunately his armor is lost to the sand. That or…

He looks up, to where Slime sits on a closed chest. His green eyes are dark as they stare at him intently.

“Why are you still here, Slime?” Back to basics. Quackity struggled to call him that name he gave him when he was still in that awful half-state, still melted from the lava in that room that smelt like burnt mucus and something that was specifically Slime-

“Legacy, Quackity. I’ve had a lot of time to think about the one I’ll leave behind too. I’ve come to the conclusion that you and I… our legacies are one and the same, by your own doing-“

“Slime,” Quackity says forcefully, his sadness peaking into anger. “You’ve made your point. I have ends to tie and shit to fix. Why. Are. You. Still. Here?”

Slime stands quickly, and Quackity can’t help flinching back bodily, falling back onto his ass. Sand dusts up and he knows he’s going to be shaking it out for the rest of the night.

He watches as Slime steps up to him, eyes glaring down at him. Its hard to look directly at him, the sunset blaring its brightness directly behind him. If Slime were to pull out an axe and swing down at him, Quackity would only have a second to react.

But no, instead of that, Slime waits. And Quackity’s eyes blink away the shadows.

Slime’s hand waits for him.

“You have to take responsibility for all of it,” Charlie says. “Me included.”

It’s unclear if they mean they’re apart of the responsibilities or if he also has a weight to carry up the proverbial mountain. But all Quackity knows is that he sees a second chance.

One he definitely doesn’t deserve.

But Quackity’s never been a selfless man. He grants himself one more selfish act as he reaches back, and lets Charlie pull him up.

===

He leaves an olive branch letter at the house of enemy and every antagonist in his life so far. And when he’s done with that, he writes more letters, to Tommy and Tubbo, to Ponk, Bad and Eret, to all his friends that he’s let grow apart from him. He writes them an apology and asks them to not consider him a stranger, even if the man in his bathroom mirror looks scarred and worn compared to the young, foolish man they once knew just a year ago.

He writes a letter for Ranboo and lets it sit at his bedside table. A letter to be delivered later he promises over his nightly prayers.

He does not write a letter to Dream.

Fuck Dream.

Charlie disappears during the day. Quackity’s never sure where he goes. Sometimes he disappears for fulls days at a time, and sometimes Charlie just sits on the balcony and stares at the stars during the twilight hours. At night, they sit by Quackity’s bed during the night and watch over him.

It should be uncomfortable.

Instead it just feels safe.

Quackity has felt this vulnerable before and had promised himself not to let it happen again. But the honesty in Slime’s eyes is leagues above the fleeting looks of love Schlatt gave him between played-up sneers. He falls asleep easily under Charlie’s watchful gaze.

===

He’s in love with Charlie. Always has been, since the moment he decided to take the sentient mob under his wing. Charlie was unlike anyone he’d ever met before, the blind loyalty something Quackity coveted being the target of. But it went beyond adoration. He liked seeing Charlie succeed, enjoyed every moment when Charlie surprised him and made his heart flutter. When they were apart, Quackity used to worry about him being taken advantage of by people just like himself. Now he worried that Charlie wouldn’t come back one day.

He deserved to create his own legacy out there, away from Quackity. But Quackity’s heart hadn’t quite shaken off the selfish pangs of want. He saw Charlie and just wanted to smother him with tearful apologies and promises to be better. But he knew better, logically he knew he shouldn’t.

But the heart wants what it wants.

In the cover of night, he awakes from a dream of dying, the fading image of Charlie’s eyes full of hate instead of anger in his mind. He sits up and pulls his knees to his chest. He knows Charlie, the real Charlie, patient Charlie who wants him to be better, is watching him. But he can’t help the way he curls up and sobs.

His heart aches, and twists and burns. He’s done so much wrong in the world, he’s hurt the people he loves, and for what? For a country that people want to leave? He hurt Charlie, his citizens don’t care for him, even stupid Wilbur hasn’t shown up to check up on him since Dream showed up. What was the point in having a third chance if <em>this</em> was all he had to show for it?

“I’m not sure, Quackity,” Charlie answers him slowly. “But I’ve been told the point is to leave a legacy you’re proud of. Of all the things you thought me, that one still seems to ring true. I’ve seen seeds turned into farms that long outlast the people who planted them, and helped generations survive. Our legacy should be that important.”

Quackity wipes his snot on his pajama pants and turns his head. He sees Charlie sitting on the edge of his bed, where he had been when Quackity had fallen asleep. And his heart aches at the distance between them, too far to close without them both shifting closer. So Quackity stays still, lets Charlie’s words wash over him.

“I’m sorry, Charlie,” Quackity chokes out between more sobs. “I’ve been really fucking selfish, haven’t I?”

“Yes,” Charlie says honestly. They move towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder. The silence stretches on, until its clear he has nothing else to add. Quackity can’t help but laugh at Charlie’s earnestness.

Charlie tilts his head at Quackity, silently asking him to elaborate on the laughs. Quackity shakes his head with a smile.

“Not laughing at you,” he clarifies. “You just… you say I’ve changed you, but there’s still parts of you that never change. You’re really amazing, Charlie.”

“You have changed me,” Charlie says with a tone of warning that he shouldn’t deny it, and Quackity quickly nods.

“I’m sure. And you’ve changed me, but for the better instead of the worse like I did to you. I have a lot to learn from you still,” Quackity says. He sniffles and wipes his nose again. “If the world were full of people like you though, I don’t think war would exist.”

The hand on his shoulder shifts. Suddenly, two hands push against the front of both shoulders until he’s back on his pillows, and Charlie’s beautiful face floats above him.

“No war sounds like the start of a good legacy, Quackity from Las Nevadas,” he says appreciatively. It takes Quackity a moment to react, his heart preoccupied by their positions. When he processes the words, he chuckles. He reaches up to tuck one sticky strand of hair behind Charlie’s ear in a careful move.

“It’s a big ask, but I’ll try for you,” Quackity says slowly. His hand trail from the back of Charlie’s ear to around the back of his neck. “Anything for you.”

“For us,” Charlie clarifies, eyes darkening. “Our legacy.”

And then he leans down, and presses his mouth against Quackity’s. He has a bodily response, his arms coming around Charlie’s neck, his hands digging into his hair. Charlie’s mouth is warm, and it’s perfect. Its more than he deserves, and Charlie gives it to him freely.

—

Las Nevadas is the city that never sleeps.

But even her patrons find the time to be escorted to a room in her beautiful hotels and take a nap with emptier pockets.

But if you happen to be a night owl, and stay up until the new warm lights of sunrise peak over the horizon, then you might see the Prime Leader of Las Nevadas take to the dance floor like a personal prayer to his dance partner. They hold each other tightly, whispering promises and wishes alike right into each other’s ears.

And if you stay up long enough, you might even see them make good on those promises and leave behind a legend of love forged in pain and forgiveness.

[ground-zero-idiocies]

So how would Fallout 4 companions and faction leaders (nuka world included) react to nearly getting trapped in a fire fight, then suddenly a British man comes in and shoots all the enemies down effortlessly.

He pulls them up to their feet saying, “On your feet, we are leaving!” https://youtu.be/o77LwJEVxcg

When they ask who then man is, they simply state that they’re well acquainted with SS.

(I intended for this to be a normal react, yet here we are. I'll re-do this if you want lol)

Here's the deal:

It's tuesday. No one really wants to do anything, but saving the Commonwealth isn't a job you can just put off until the weekend. A massive joint force, Talon Company + Gunners, is teaming up to hit Diamond City. Without DC, the Institute would have no one to broadcast their propaganda, the Brotherhood would have nowhere to resupply, the Railroad would have no one to recruit, and the Minutemen...well they just like helping. And the Nuka World raiders wouldn't have anyone to enslave/exploit, so they begrudgingly decide to help aid the city.

The moment comes. It's 7 AM, and everyone is barely awake. A line is formed to direct the bad guys into an abandoned hotel, where the main fighting force is sitting on the second floor.

The Gunners and Talons arrive. They're steered into the collapsing hotel, plasma bolts melting the brave freedom fighters on the way in. They pour into the hotel, uncontrollably firing off into the crowd in the grand lobby. They storm in, but are taken down by the Nuka World raiders...until the gatling units show up.

All of a sudden, three, no, five, no, a dozen power-armored soldiers storm through the double doors, miniguns and RCW's in hand. They quickly plow through the raiders, taking down wave after wave of expendable bodies.

As if to rub salt in DC's proverbial wound, one more power-armored soldier bursts in, holding the most destructive weapon one man could wield: a pipe pistol MERV launcher. Tiny nukes crash down upon the second floor, collapsing the ceiling on those who weren't murdered in the explosions.

Huddled in the corner, the companions try to catch their collective breath, Stimpaks and Nuka Quantum flying into bodies and caved-in walls offering the illusion of protection from the remaining fighters.

The doors of the hotel swing open once more. In steps a sharply-dressed man, black tie quickly gathering dust from the nuclear explosion. The gunners and talons turn to face him, but they're already dead. With a slight grunt and a single bead of sweat, the man throws aside a large chunk of concrete under which the companions are stuck, blood from the dead talons beginning to run down his face. He helps the companions all up, and dusts off their outfits.

It's Cait who first turns to the man, then back at Nora, then back at the man. "Who the fock is that? Why didn't you tell me you had some insanely sexy man who can just take on ten thousand raiders like that??"

The man laughs, a bit taken aback by the compliment. It had been a while since anyone had called his shaggy-haired self 'sexy'.

"I assure you, I don't just pop out of nowhere. I was just a little late to this defense party, is all. Nora, good to see you, as always. How's young Shaun doing these days? The robot, I mean. Not the God cosplayer."

Nora shoots up from the ground, a smile quickly overtaking her face. "James! It's been far, far too long. I swear, you really do need to come from England more often. I know you say it's too far a trip for a lazy Sunday but I really think you should visit more often. Did you know that we actually just built a settlement on an island just for Feral Ghouls?"

Curie walks over and touches the man's face and torso, studying his physique and form.

"A rHeal British person. How fascinating."

James chuckles once again, his accent now giving away his place of origin. He bends down to help up Danse, crushed under a large bar of steel.

"On your feet, soldier. I believe there is still an invasion to repel. We are leaving."

...James will return

[yanderes-galore]

Time for more creeper Michael Myers headcanons.

The pain Darling feels from the time he literally ripped their hair out is never forgotten. Sometimes, they still feel the agonizing pain of it. The defaced diary just adds salt to the now proverbial wound. Though, the torture never ends because it's Michael. He literally is unable to tell right from wrong and killing is the only thing that gives him comfort, hence why he's so fixated and obsessed with it. And sadly, now Y/N also gives him peace and comfort, so now he's obsessed and fixated on them as well. He doesn't see anything he does when tormenting them as wrong or not okay, he views it as him bonding with them and thinks that he's spending time and showcasing his love.

Darling meanwhile, throughout the whole thing:

That's an accurate reaction.

Michael certainly doesn't seem like he has a normal moral compass.

Hence why everyone has deemed him evil itself.

He won't kill you, but you can expect pain and discomfort.