#wild what grief does to your body

[sheyshen]

man considering i haven't actually done all that much this week I'm like exhausted.

[hcneymooners]

⋆ you pull my hair, you call me.

jinx x mermaid!f!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: you are a mermaid living in a hidden grotto of the undercity. one day, jinx wanders into your territory. or more accurately, the ruins of her old haunt.

cw: mermaid!reader, canon divergence!au, discussions of trauma, discussion of child loss, mental health issues, non-sexual intimacy, sfw, however, there are suggestive themes, age gap, girl you are literally thousands of years old.

notes: in these coming days, i hold on tightly to fantasies. they become stronger, more intricate. i feel it is my only way to survive. this is dedicated to @s-4pphics, the only person who makes me feel like a real life mermaid.

The water remembers everything. It's why you were born into it. Your mind is a steel trap, a lattice of love and loss.

Water does not coddle the memory, but it soothes. When your mother crawled into the reservoir to birth you, it did not coddle her naked body as it twisted and expelled you. It did nothing to lessen the sore peaks of her nipples as her breasts swelled and hardened with milk. But it soothed.

Your birth was similar to the experience of having birds flutter out of one’s chest. You came into the world with the rush of wind and at the peak of death, eyes big and your silence even larger. You were a beautiful baby with a delicately scaled face, and from the beginning your mother knew you were different.

She holds you, tells you her name—a name that means one thousand flowers. It fits her; you understand this even one minute fresh into your life. Your mother was one thousand flowers both blooming and decaying at once.

You were born in the winter, snow touching the tender skin of your forehead. It is also winter when your mother, a woman of a thousand flowers, dies.

Her body seems to flutter and pulse until it shudders into foam. The water soothes you as you sink. You stay on the ocean floor for what is close to forever. The years pass, but water remembers.

It remembers the screaming, the fire, the way the undercity shattered like a dropped mirror. The shards spun out and out. You never braved the world, then. You would come close to the surface, float backward and bent as you watched the sky smear into green gas and heat. The water—and therefore you—remember the taste of ash and gunpowder, the iron-rich flavor of blood and revenge.

But mostly, you remember her—that odd girl with chaos pumping inside of her like a second, third heart who came stumbling through the wreckage of her old workshop, trailing ghosts and grief like a burial shroud.

You've been watching her for days. Your kind has always been drawn to broken things, to the places where pain bleeds into water until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins. She fascinates you with her paleness, with her long body that is painted and bared by the shoddy work of her pants and the cut of her top. You hide behind large chunks of driftwood, eye the swivel of her hips as she paces and turns. Her eyes are strange, too pale ghosts colored silvery blue. She closes them, opens, closes.

She is like a small bird, this woman. She carries destruction in her hands but cradles it like a wounded animal at times, afraid to hold too tight, afraid to let go. The first time she breaks, it's like watching a star collapse.

She falls to her knees at the water's edge, her wail echoing off the mineral-crusted walls of what was once her sanctuary. Her hands tear and tug at her braids as if she could rip the memories right out of her skull, like plucking loose the weave of a tapestry. The water around you shivers with her anguish, and your body preens; it tells you that you cannot stay hidden any longer.

You rise from the depths like a dream, your hair carrying traces of phosphorescent algae that provide a lazy glow as it swirls around your face. Her eyes fix on you, fever-bright and wild, but she doesn't run. Maybe she thinks you're a hallucination. Maybe she's just too tired to be afraid. 

You understand this.

The silence lasts for a while. The two of you exist across from one another, your face settling on your hands as you inch forward. She has yet to notice the flutter of your tail, but it's only a matter of time. You can see the light refracting off of it into a million sparks of light, dancing across the ceiling as you near her.Her mouth parts and you feel your own hinge open. You are trying to remember, trying to make yourself just like her if only to assuage her fear. Your tongue unfurls, neat and a deep blue. She blinks in surprise, which allows you to speak first.

"I am [Name]," you say, and your voice is a gentle purr like someone has stumbled over the strings of a harp. You are learning, thinking of how humans relate to one another. You don't tell her your real name, your name birthed by ocean and the melt of your mother's scale in the middle of your tongue. You are a woman of a thousand white waves, because every woman in your family has a thousand of something. "This, here, is my home."

You reach out now, because you have seen this before. Her people hug and grasp at one another in welcoming. The woman jerks, falls with a sick crunch on one of those pale hips in an effort to get away from you. You are hurt, and alarmed, and retreat further into the water. Your hand is still clawed as if to hold hers.

"Get back," she warns, voice raw and hoarse. Her eyes repeat their pattern. Close, open. Open and close. You close yours to see what she sees. Your eyelids are thin, translucent. The world can still be seen. She is right in front of you. "I'll hurt you. I'm a curse; I hurt everything.”

You open your eyes now, reach for her anyway. Your scaled hands catch hers, gentling them away from her hair. You smooth the strands, like your sister would do to you when the poachers came.

"My kind cannot be cursed," you tell her. This close she can feel the vibration, the way that your voice carries echoes of tidal pools and deep-sea trenches. "We are older than magic, older than pain. A different kind of creature."

She laughs, and it sounds like breaking glass. "Yeah? Well I bet you've never met anything like me before."

But you have. You've seen the way trauma can twist a soul, how it can make someone forget the shape of their own heart. You've watched your own kind waste away from grief and pollution, watched your bloodline dwindle to almost nothing. You recognize the look in her eyes—it's the same one you saw in your sister's before the toxic waste claimed her, before disease took your mother.

"Do not tell me what you think I know," you answer and she fidgets within your hold.

You are unsure of how to calm her, so you rummage deep inside of your long memory. You think of your mother. Now, you know. You pull her into the water with you, and she thrashes at first—all spinning limbs and desperate gasping. She is much like a fish at the end of a hook, you think. But you hold her, humming an ancient lullaby that vibrates through the water around you both.

Your singing voice, your Melody was always more unsightly than the others. So much higher and almost dissonant, like the cry of a whale during its migration. You mostly Sang alone, while others Sang together. But it winds around Jinx; maybe she is dissonant too. Slowly, so slowly, she stills.

"This is my body," you murmur, pressing close, your scales catching the ethereal light. "And this is yours." Your hands trace her tattoos like star maps, feeling the stories written in ink and scar tissue. You pause at her stomach, feeling an old grief there. You cast your Melody again, and it falls like a net over the skin underneath your fingers.

"You had a child," you say softly, and she goes rigid in your arms.

"Yes.” She admits this truth as if it hurts her. “She was not—not mine.”

“What was her name?”

“Isha,” she chokes out. “She was... I was supposed to protect her." 

“Mmm,” you say. “She was yours. I can feel it. She was yours, and you lost her.” 

You adjust your embrace, thumb at her bottom lip to reveal her blunt teeth. You have no understanding that this is not normal, that this touching and holding and avid tenderness is not of their culture. This woman, this bloodless weeping woman gazes at you. 

“Your motherhood,” you murmur, “sits inside you like a stone. It is closed, like an oyster. You must name it to begin to release the pain.” 

You press down on her lip. 

“What is your name?”

“Jinx,” she whispers.

“Good,” you tell her. “So, you are Jinx. Jinx, mother of Isha.”

The words seem to break something loose in her, and suddenly she's crying—great, heaving sobs that shake her whole body. You hold her through it, letting her tears mix with the mineral-rich water of your grotto. Strange woman, you think. She is a strange, sweet thing.

Her stomach tenses and releases, over and over. You never once stop your Song.

𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ 𓇼

Days blur together after that. Time moves strangely here. The two of you are a jigsaw puzzle of connection, platonic or maybe familial. You do not ask, preferring to preserve what you have. 

Jinx is shy in the first few moments, a trait you suspect is unfamiliar to her. She builds herself a nest above the waterline: a chaos of stolen furniture and salvaged tech that somehow fits the space perfectly. You watch her work, fascinated by how her hands can create as easily as they dismantle. Sometimes she catches you staring and explains things to you—human concepts that make little sense but delight you anyway.

You measure progress not in days but in small victories: the first time Jinx falls asleep with her head in your lap, fingers curled trustingly around your scales. The morning she lets you rebraid her hair, your webbed fingers gentle against her scalp as you weave strands of luminescent crystal through the blue. The day she shows you how to make paper boats and sets them afloat with tiny lights inside, until the cavern ceiling reflects a mirror image of the stars she remembers from her brief childhood.

You offer up knowledge in return. You speak the thick language of old, born of trench sand and sulfur cracks. She loves when you sing, when your mouth unhinges to show your blue tongue and slightly jagged teeth. She wades into the grotto, standing in the shallow water that barely reaches her ankles, and closes her eyes. She sways as your Melody flows over her, shivering as if touched by cold.

You usually finish the performance by swimming to her, carefully holding her ankles between your extended claws and calling directly to her. This is your favorite—a secret you keep close. You adore how she gazes down at you, how her eyes trace the curve of your slick breasts and torso as you rise to meet her.

You climb until your noses brush, and then you laugh, a sound like the gentle puff of a flute. When you laugh, your gills seize and flex, and Jinx places a hand against them, tracing them until you crook your neck and trill. (That's her favorite.)

"[Name], you can't just walk around topless all the time," she tells you one day, trying not to laugh as you examine a shirt with obvious confusion. The fabric flutters strangely in her hands. "Humans are weird about bodies."

"But they're just bodies," you say, running a webbed hand over your scales. Again, her eyes follow. She closes her eyes, thinking of how your breasts are round and soft like the moon in her hand. You reach out, drawing her closer until she's touching you. "See? This is just flesh. The body is only a  house for our soul."

She grows quiet then, thoughtful in a way that makes her look younger. "Maybe that's why I'm so messed up. My house is... kind of a disaster zone."

You pull her close, letting your tail manifest and wrap around her legs. "Then we'll build you a new one. Piece by piece."

The trust comes in fragments, in stolen quiet moments. Some days she can't bear to be touched, and you give her space, watching from the depths as she paces and talks to ghosts you can't see. Other days she's almost peaceful, letting you massage her scalp or teaching you human games with cards that always seem to explode at exactly the wrong moment.

One night, the voices in her head were particularly loud. You hear it from beneath the water—you sleep closer to the surface since meeting her—and rise to find her jolting in her sleep. You don't think, only move, remembering to rid yourself of your tail only when it scrapes against a sheet of metal jutting from the sand.

You hum agitatedly, distressed by her furrowed brow and trembling body, then take her deeper into the grotto than she's ever been before. Here, crystal formations pulse with bioluminescence, casting rainbow shadows on walls that have never known sunlight. Schools of blind fish dart around you both, their scales glowing like fallen stars.

It takes her a while to wake, but you stay suspended and curled around her. You keep watch, eyeing the murky kelp forests that tease at your fins. There are other, older ways into this grotto that never bothered you before. But now, you're too aware of all the ways someone could reach the jinx resting in your arms.

You see bubbles snort from her nose as she begins to stir, and you move quickly to pluck a shell from the rainbow-dusted walls. The inside is sticky and suctions to her mouth, threading a tendril inside to loop around her lungs and better facilitate her breathing underwater. You don't understand why it works, but you've seen the surface swimmers use it before.

Jinx makes a horrible rasping noise before the shell's work settles in, and then breathing comes easier. The shell is now translucent and attenuated. She cups your side as she shifts in your hold, her unbraided hair thick around her face.

"This is beautiful," she whispers, and for once there's no edge to her voice, no great waiting catastrophe. You know she means you.

"Thank you," you respond, smiling with all your teeth. She smiles crookedly back.

"This was my mother's sanctuary," you tell her, leading her to a cave where ancient glyphs cover the walls. You see her back bend with the water's pressure, and you slow your pace. "There used to be many of me, my bloodline. But the surface world's poisons reached even here." You trace one of the symbols—a spiky, spherical rune that you think means 'confession'. This glyph is older than you, part of a complex language no surface dweller nor merfolk of this time has spoken in millennia. "Now there are only three of us left."

She's quiet for a long moment, her hand finding yours in the glowing water. "Does it ever get easier? Being the only one who survived?"

You think of your sister's last days, of your mother's fading voice. "No," you answer honestly. "But it becomes... different. The pain changes shape, becomes something you can carry without breaking."

She leans into you at that, and you feel the tremors that always precede one of her episodes. But this time, she doesn't fight it. She lets you hold her as the chaos revisits her, trusts you to keep her head above water—in a manner of speaking—as she shakes apart and slowly, slowly comes back together.

𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ 𓇼

It doesn’t simply disappear. Jinx is one of the spirits’ favorite souls to torture and possess.

Most nights, the past continues to crawl up through the cracked floors of the grotto like a cadaver, its saccharine breath seeping into Jinx's dreams until she wakes screaming. And on most of these nights, you find her in her nest of blankets and broken things, her skin fever-hot and her eyes seeing horrors you cannot share.

But after you take her down, beneath the surface, it is different. Now, most nights, she comes to you.

The pattern is the same: you hear her bare feet on the stone before you see her, padding toward the water's edge like a sleepwalker. Her hair is almost always loose, falling around her face in a cascade that reminds you of the sharp stretch of evening sky across the Arctic Ocean. Then she reaches the pool's edge, but she doesn’t stop.

The water accepts her like a lover, closing over her head in a gentle baptism. You rise to meet her, your form shifting in the dipping waves. You cup the nape of her neck and insert the shell. Your skin takes on its natural sheen, scattered with scales that catch the light like opals. Your hair moves as if still underwater even when you break the surface, glistening tendrils floating around your face. Your eyes are all pupil and hold the depths of the ocean, ancient and knowing, utterly without fear. You reach for her, and, like in the beginning, she still tries to pull away; you simply shake your head.

"Your curse cannot touch me," you remind her, your voice like water over stones. "I am not of your world." Your hands move to cup her face, thumbs brushing away tears that roll from the puffy cliff’s edge of her pale eyes. "I am of the deep places, the dark waters. We recognize our own, remember?"

Remember? You always ask her this. It’s all she ever does.

You rise fully from the water then, your form shifting like light through waves until you stand on human legs, naked and gleaming. You pull Jinx to her feet and begin to undress her with the innocent purpose of a child, unbound by human conventions of modesty or shame. She allows it, trembling—not from cold or fear, but from the overwhelming sensation of being touched without consequence, of being seen. She has yet to confess how much she needs this.

"This is my body," you murmur, pressing close, your scaled hands tracing the bridge of her spine. You are reminding her. "And this is yours. We are both such difficult creatures."

"I don't understand you," she whispers, but her hands come up to trace the patterns of your scales, mapping the places where your skin shifts from human to something else entirely.

You catch her hand and press it flat against your chest, letting her feel the strange rhythm of your heart—beating in time with the tides.

"Fear is for those who have something to lose. My kind has already lost almost everything. What's left is..." You pause, searching for words in a language not made for shadowy creatures like you. "What's left is precious because it survived. I am surviving. You are surviving with me.”

Something shifts in her expression then, understanding blooming like oil across the top of a gulf. Her fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer until your foreheads touch.

"Show me again," she breathes, begging. Her breath smells sweet, like candy under the tongue and behind the teeth. "Please."

You take her deeper into the grotto than before, past the engraved walls and into the true heart of your domain. Here, the water is almost desperately alive, swirling with colors that have no names in any human tongue. Your tail manifests fully, lashing out. You seem to be made of living jewels. You are a terrible, beautiful monster; your body twists like a snake as you duck and dive. Jinx watches, transfixed, as you dance through the water, showing her your true way of living.

You do what your kind does when in love. You Sing. You Pull her.

"I've been trying to fix my machines," she says when your last note fades. You are shaking. You have never Sung that hard before. Your Melody has undone you, and you swim weakly back to her. She touches your face, dusts your cheeks with her pruned fingertips. "To make lights that look like this." She gestures at the bioluminescent display around you. "But I keep fucking it up. Everything I touch turns to..."

"A mess," you finish for her. These thoughts are not new. "But a mess is not always born of destruction." You guide her hand through the water, watching the way the disturbed bioluminescence creates new patterns, new constellations. "Sometimes it's just change. It is new, without guidance. You are trying again, relearning. This is only necessary disorder."

She laughs, but it's softer than usual. "Is that what I am? Disordered?"

You pull her closer, letting your tail wrap around her legs as you float together in the heart of the sea. "You are what you choose to be. Here, in these waters, you don't have to be anything but yourself." You pull back so that you can see your hands as you sign to her, curl your fingers into the symbols she’s seen on the walls.

You have changed me. You mouth the words so that she truly understands. You sign it again, across her naked chest so that she can feel the drag of your claws and the pump of her blood in response.

"I don’t feel changed, and I don’t want to ruin you. What if I am still broken?" Her voice cracks on the last word.

"Then be broken here with me," you tell her, pressing your lips to her temple. "The water remembers everything, but it also cleanses. It changes. It heals."

She turns in your arms, and for once, her eyes are clear. No fever, no muddle—just Jinx, looking at you like she’s seeing you for the first time. Her hands find your face, thumbs tracing the almost invisible scales at your temples. You raise your hands, fingers contorting as you sign once more.

We have changed each other. It is a symptom of love.

Jinx says nothing, then she moves. You forget how agile she can be at times. With a few spritely movements, she is holding your waist and treading water. One hand comes up, cradling your face. There is a pause, and you glance at her, eyes wide with confusion and anticipation. This is new. She studies you, and you belatedly realize she is waiting for something. Permission, you think.

“Yes?” you ask. She smiles; it’s the right answer.

She slips out the shell, and you startle. This is dangerous, but she doesn’t care. She stops you.

Her hand nestles thoroughly in your hair, tilting your head until your flesh is exposed to her lips. Again and again, she presses her mouth to your neck. She suckles, nips, until your tail flicks. She is kissing you. You’ve never been kissed before—not like this.

Her teeth dig in, needling at the meat of your throat until it’s mottled and bruised. Then her lips come up to yours. At first, you breathe into her mouth to give her oxygen. Jinx pulls back, grips your jaw, and shakes you slightly. Then her lips return to yours, applying pressure until you open your mouth and allow her tongue in. She licks at your teeth, tracing the points as she holds you to her.

You feel lightheaded, disoriented. You feel good; you want more of her. After a long while, she breaks the contact. Her thumb settles at the base of your throat, slipping to the side to play with your gills. You trill sharply, and she laughs. You don’t want to say it, but you know—you want it to stay this way forever.

Jinx takes her shell from where she had placed it on her stomach. She allows it back into her throat, breathing in deeply. Then she lifts her hands and signs to you—clumsy but earnest.

Yes. You have changed me. It is a symptom of love.

𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ 𓇼

"I used to think I had to be loud," she tells you one night, floating on her back in the shallow parts of the grotto. Her hair fans out around her head like spilled ink, and you can't help but run your fingers through it, watching the way it parts around your hands. "Had to be crazy, had to be Jinx, because if I wasn't, then I'd have to be... her. The girl I was before. And she was weak. She got left behind."

You hum softly, the crystals below resonating in harmony. "Perhaps she wasn't weak," you suggest, tracing the constellation of freckles on her shoulder. "Perhaps she was just unfinished, like a pearl before the ocean completes its formation."

She turns to look at you then, the emotion in her eyes making your heart beat in that strange double rhythm that only happens when she's near.

"Is that what you're doing?" she asks. "Finishing me?"

You shake your head, pulling her closer until she's cradled against your chest, her back to your front, both of you suspended in the gentle current. "No one can complete you but yourself. I'm just... holding the space for you to do it.”

She's quiet for so long you think she might have fallen asleep. Then: "I’m in love with you." Her voice is barely a whisper, as if the words might shatter the peace.

Instead of answering, you press your lips to her shoulder, right where a new tattoo is healing—a pattern of waves and crystals mirroring your own scales. You helped her design it, watching in fascination as she used her clever hands to create the automaton.

"For us," you tell her, "it is different. We don't fall in love the way humans do. There's less emphasis on choices. It’s more like... finding a current that matches your own, something that pulls you in the same direction for the rest of your life. I've been swimming in your current since the day you arrived. There’s a vibration you release, deep inside me. You set it off, again and again."

Your mouth works oddly around the word "belly." She smiles at your struggle, turning in your embrace to press her forehead to yours in the way she knows you love. Her hands find your face, and you press a kiss to her fingers, grazing your teeth over her thumb. She shivers, captures your mouth briefly, then tucks herself back against you. Drowsy, she begins to dream and you let her, drifting your body lazily along the stretch of water to rock her.

It is then that you hear them—footsteps on stone, careful and measured. You recognize them instantly: the heavy tread of the enforcer, the lighter step of her companion. They've been searching for months, following rumors of blue hair seen in the Undercity's depths.

Jinx doesn't hear them, not yet. She’s drifting in that peaceful place between wakefulness and sleep, her body trustingly pliant in your embrace. She’d had an episode before this—memories of fire leaving her shaking for hours. But now she's quiet, her breathing synced with the gentle lap of water against stone.

You sense her presence before you see her, a disturbance in the air that makes the algae pulse brighter. The Sister. Her presence feels much like Jinx’s but more weathered, carrying the weight of blood. It catches in your throat unpleasantly, making you want to cough. Her footsteps falter at the grotto's entrance. The other one—Caitlyn, you recall—steadies her with a touch, but neither makes a sound.

They stand frozen at the sight before them: Jinx floating in the ethereal water, her hair unbound and threaded with living light, her face peaceful in a way they've never seen. Your tail curls protectively around her legs beneath the surface, scales catching and reflecting the cavern's natural light until it seems like you're both in some unreachable heaven. You bare your teeth to shatter the fantasy.

The Sister’s sharp intake of breath echoes off the stone. Jinx stirs slightly, but you soothe her with a soft hum, reworking her lullaby until the water itself vibrates in harmony. Her fingers tighten briefly on your arms before relaxing again.

When you meet the Sister’s eyes over Jinx's shoulder, you see tears tracking silently down her face. There's recognition there, and grief, and something like hope. You see the moment she understands what you are—not just a creature of the deep but a guardian. Her sister’s keeper; her sister’s mate.

Caitlyn moves forward as if to speak, but Violet—yes, Violet—stops her with a gentle touch. They watch as you shift slightly, letting them see how Jinx's newest tattoos mirror your own patterns—not random splashes of pain and memory but flowing lines that speak of partnership, of flesh and form meant to slot into one another.

A soft noise escapes Violet’s throat, something between a sob and a laugh. Jinx stirs again, and this time you let your gaze drop deliberately to her face, your webbed hands smoothing over her shoulders in a gesture that couldn't be more clear: She is safe here. She is loved here.

You raise a hand, your eyes slipping into their true state to make your threat clear. You know the Piltover girl will understand; her home is the home of poachers. Safe, you sign. Then, Go.

The Sister nods once, tears still falling. Her hand finds Caitlyn's and squeezes hard. You watch understanding pass between them—the recognition that sometimes healing happens in strange places, that sometimes love wears unfamiliar, frightening faces.

They turn to leave, but at the last moment, Violet looks back. Her lips form words you can read even across the distance: Thank you. Only when their footsteps fade completely do you press a kiss to Jinx's temple, tasting the salt of tears that aren’t your own.

"Are they gone?" Jinx's voice is quiet, still heavy with sleep.

"Yes," you answer honestly, because you've never lied to her and won’t start now.

She turns in your embrace, pressing her face into your neck where your scales fade into skin. "I'm not ready," she whispers. "Not yet."

"You can stay here," you promise, letting your tail wrap more securely around her. "For as long as you need. But you will not lose me. I will not lose you.”

She lifts her head to look at you, and her eyes are like silver dollars. You mimic her blinking for what must be the millionth time. Open, close. Close and open. She smiles at this. You smile, hollowing your throat to coo, mimicking the call of a bird of paradise. She laughs now; you are pleased.

 "Tell me again," she murmurs. "About your promise."

Your tail flicks as you nod.

“I will never leave; I will only follow,” you begin. The words are heavy, sacred mating rites belonging solely to your tribe. “The water flows across the earth; it is immovable. It is the human that will fade, not the earth, not myself. We will both replenish. Where you go, I will be there—past death and beyond.

Jinx rises, cupping your face firmly, her touch restricting your movement.

“Promise?” she asks, her voice dipping low, laced with danger.

“I promise.”

She presses her lips to your neck, her teeth sinking in as always. You let out a high, trembling sound, your control slipping. Suddenly, you’re human, treading water. Jinx hooks an arm beneath you, lifting you effortlessly as the water renders you weightless.

“I promise.”

You repeat it, over and over.

IpromiseIpromiseIpromiseIpromiseIpromiseIpromiseIpromiseI promiseI promise—

Jinx drags you from the grotto, positioning herself over you. Your words are still spilling out like a mantra.

“I know,” she murmurs.

Her warm, sugary lips cover yours, silencing you. She swallows you down.

© hcneymooners.

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[ponderingmoonlight]

Being held hostage by Ryomen Sukuna

Pairing: Sukuna x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,4k

Synopsis: How you ended up in Sukuna's prison instead of getting killed in an instant? You don't know. What you do know however that the king of curse has more to offer than what you ever imagined...

Warnings: no real smut but it's getting heated y'all, Sukuna being a smooth operator, not 100% proofread

enjoy

„Feeling lonely?“

You huff to yourself, wrists desperately fighting against the chains that keep you in place, tired eyes roaming around in order to find him.

Him, Ryomen Sukuna. The monster who kidnapped you and brought you here, chained you to the ceiling while kneeling on the cold ground. Fuck, how did you even allow him to catch you like this? Why didn’t you use your sphere, fight against him, give everything you have?

You furrow your eyebrows, glaring at his stupid grin with nothing but rejection. Because that man in front of you is more than a simple curse, let alone a human being. Not even you, a special grade jujutsu sorcerer, stood a chance against him. Not when you were too focused on saving your student’s lives to realize that you run straight into his open arms.

“I hate that look on your stupid pretty face. It almost looks like…disgust…”, he comments dryly.

With a swift motion, he yanks your chin upward, forces you to stare straight into his red eyes. You hate the way your nerves start tingling by just one look at him, the horror that radiates from those crimson orbs. If he wanted to, he could kill you without blinking, could end your life right here without hesitating. But instead, he decided to chain you into his living room in order to tease you.

“That’s exactly what it is”, you press out, failing miserably in an attempt to escape the sheer force of his fingertips.

“Feisty, I like it. We have a great time ahead of us, (y/n).”

The way he says your name runs shivers down your spine. Fuck, that unpromising look on his face makes you slowly but surely lose your composure. But why…Why are you even here? Why did none other than Ryomen Sukuna decide that you have to stay alive even though he would have been able to kill you without thinking twice? Why are you trapped here instead of six feet under?

“Why am I not dead yet?”

The words escape your mouth faster than you’re able to think. Slowly, he kneels down in front of you, nothing but amusement glimmering in his deadly orbs. Your heart almost beats out of your chest. Why does the air suddenly feel thicker, your lungs refusing their service while all you’re able to do is staring at him? Ryomen Sukuna is your worst enemy, killed countless people, brought nothing but grief your way. But…

You swallow hard. Did he really just get on his knees in front of you?

“I’ve been observing you for quite some time. Even though you’re nothing but a weak human, there’s something I haven’t seen before. Something I want to explore”, he replies with low voice.

Fuck, you hate the way your knees suddenly feel weak, how you squirm under his gaze. Are you out of your goddamn mind? This isn’t Nanami or Gojo. No, this is the king of curses himself. He’ll kill you without blinking when he has enough of you. God, what the hell is wrong with your taste in men anyway? You almost lost your composure when you met Choso back then at Shibuya…

When the man kneeling in front of you killed so many people that you lost count, almost ending your life as well when you were only inches away from getting caught in his sphere.

“No thanks. I have absolutely zero interest in getting explored by you”, you bite back.

Oh, what a filthy little lie. Just the thought of seeing him shirtless drives your imagination wild, sets something free you weren’t even aware of existing. Even though your eyes show nothing but dismissal, your body tells you otherwise.

“We’ll see about that.”

You almost choke on your own salvia when his hands grab your wrist out of the sudden, chest so close to you that you can almost taste the smell of musk and amber radiating from the sheer heat of his body that is only covered by his white robe. If you wanted to, you could rest your head against his broad chest, enjoy the sensation of his body against yours-

Before you’re able to react, your body collapses onto the cold ground, stained wrist set free by none other than Sukuna himself.

“Thanks, asshole”, you hiss through gritted teeth.

Your body feels like pudding, so weak that you can’t lift yourself off the floor as gracefully as you wanted to. How long have you been here already? Way too long as it seems. You glare at him through the messy strands of hair that stick to your face like glue. Just that satisfied grin on his face is enough to fuel your anger all over again.

“You really think you’re a tough one, huh? And that after I saw how you pressed your legs together when I came a little closer.”

“You’re a monster”, you argue.

He roams closer. Like a hunter he circles you, nothing but amusement and something way darker glistening in his eyes.

“You killed my comrades, my friends, innocent people-“

“So what?”, he casually replies.

His hands wrap themselves around your hair before you can stop him. You stare at him in sheer disbelief, head fighting against the sheer force of his fingers unsuccessfully. How on earth did you end up here?

“Your love and affection for others is your true weakness, (y/n). Without your puny thoughts over people who give a damn about you, you’d be unstoppable. Just like me.”

His breath caresses your cheeks, lights a fire that now radiates through your whole body.

“I will stop you”, you breathe out.

“Oh please.”

His hands…You can’t believe your eyes, your instincts, your body. Suddenly you find yourself trapped inside his muscular arms, his face so close to yours that you can feel his hot breath ghosting against your cheek and neck. When was the last time a man touched you? Oh, way too long ago. His toned body pressed against yours reminds you way too painful. But still.

You shake your head ever so slightly, close your eyes against the sensation his touch promises. This isn’t just a random man, not the kind of bad guy like Geto or Choso. No, this is the king of curses himself, a frightful creature absolutely willing to kill you when he had enough of you. You are nothing but a toy to him, something he found useful and will throw away the second you don’t match his expectations. This man is evil, this man is the epitome of cruelty. This man…

Pushes you against the wall, his leg forced between both of yours while all you can think of are his parted lips. This has to be a dream… Or a nightmare?

“Fuck.”

You don’t know, mind clouded by nothing but his sheer presence. What if you just kissed him? Only once to discover how he tastes, to convince yourself that you hate him. Yes, maybe this is all you need to get rid of that ridiculous desire that builds up in your stomach, maybe this will make the pressure between your hips vanish into thin air. A small innocent kiss and you’ll search a way out of this cursed place, an innocent kiss to come back to your senses.

Like in slow motion you stretch out your hand, so ready to touch his cheek. Does he even feel human? What else should he feel like? You just need to stretch your fingertips a little further, your head moving a few more inches towards his lips. His lips, those inviting parted lips…

“I knew you want me.”

But you don’t reach him. The second you open your eyes, you get greeted by that satisfied grin you learned to hate in the matter of hours, his hand keeping your fingers trapped mid-air.

“Don’t worry, I will come back to this eventually. But right now, I have something important to do.”

It happens faster that you’re able to react. Before you even comprehend what is happening, the chains around your wrists come back to life, trap you against the wall like a fool.

“Asshole”, you spit into his face, thick anger rushing through your already heated veins.

Out of instinct you stretch out your hand, ready to hit him with your best shot.

Only to get stopped by him catching your hand mid-air.

Again.

“I’ll see you later, (y/n). Don’t cause trouble as long as I’m gone.”

Tags:  @arehzhera @ploylulla @tzubaki @beatrexworld @kenstarsworld @dazaisdick @hellkaiserinphoenix  @lauv4chuuya @starlightanyaaa @sindela @kayleegomez @sunshine7queen @magalimachete @mokoartpost @gatitam @idontknow1123 @creative1writings @sanicsmut  @mynahx3 @sad-darksoul @chilichopsticks @chuyasthighs0 @ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @wxwieeee @froufrousnowman @hidazinie @tomiokathedepresso  @gojosrealwife  @coffeeluvr96 @mahi-tamashi @weebotaku21 @chaoticwinnercupcake @lees-chaotic-brain  @risuola  @sugurulefttesticle @wordskeeper @baku2345 @polarbvnny @ruixrei @bam-bam-bam-bame-blog @lavenderdrxp @localhehecat @alicerhr @belovedvamp @wifenanami @chilichopsticks @dlwlrmas-world @oikawarz @darkstarlight82 @satoreo @luwumii @tachiharazsstuff @kentocalls @cheesemachine44 @ryva @kenjakusconcubine @baku2345 @komelrebi-san @deezy12299 @busyreader17 @4pgletter @okay-it-is-ivy @iluvtoru @starlightanyaaa @moodswing101 @unholiiness

[melankkholy]

catalepsy

✎ What could be better than spending the last warm days of September in your boyfriend’s lap?

cw: leon being a daddy :³, fluff(ish), breeding kink is going raw w this one, reader on the crack!! (doing some coke and shiii), semi public sex, dumbification, fingering, d in v, size kink, age diff, fem! reader, MDNI

Vegas to L.A., L.A. to Vegas and Vegas to California. Then Italy. Your on-again, off-again relationship with Leon, which has been going on for a while (okay, let’s say about a whole year), is the epitome of chaos. Mobility and jeopardy. Lots of money. Your old life bears no shred of resemblance to the seconds you're spending now. You used to be an employee at the Graham mansion, a girl who would snoop in Ashley’s bedroom at midnight and drink the nectar between her legs until the morning. That changed when the president found out that his daughter was sleeping with some dumb no-name girl (you!). Wild times. No wonder your dismissal came with the first light of the next day. It wasn’t a pretty story after that; at bottom, no money, no happily ever after.

Luckily, Ashley introduced you to him. Leon Kennedy. The man who will hire you to babysit the child he begot from a one-night stand. Oh, boy. Why, what can you say? The guy was tough, hot, but stone cold. At first, he was dead straight. But the years thresh everyone with grief and a lot of bullshit emotions in the name of experience. Say it’s because he liked the way you esteemed his son or something else you don’t know, but the more time you spent with him, the more good-natured his mettle grew. Gradually and incrementally. Sure, you looove money, but you’re no gold digger. A bond of trust, little glimmers of respect, and, of course, the sweet chemistry between the two of you spawned something very unique and new.

Hold on a second. Where does this money come from?

You did question it. Over and over. If you got an answer, all the better. Of course, getting unambiguous answers from the mouth of a man like Leon is a big hassle; it always makes your stomach twist, it puts you on edge, and your abdominal muscles and heart squeeze so tightly that you think you must be knocked up with his child, even though the tests come back negative. You’re just being so silly.

It’s not a big deal. Leon fucking loves you. Who gives a sod about the crass mistakes you two made in the past? He loves you so much that if he ever releases you from his lap for just a second, his brain will be tangled, scratched, scribbled, all fucked up. Like the embers of police sirens flashing blue and red in the darkness. Like twenty-one-year-old rookie Leon’s brain, struggling to fall asleep in the bed of a shit-strewn hotel he found at random. That Leon, a loser who broke out of Raccoon City years ago.

He doesn’t know why he’s hung up on you when he knows he shouldn’t be so attached to anyone. And all he wants is to spend quality time with his pretty baby. All the time.

You're the only reason for the fever in his loins, especially right now with your ass in his lap. The teeny sundress clings to your body angelically, the tulle over your lovely skin. Well, that’s why he calls you an angel. Leon devotes his life to that apparition, to you, namely.

“Thought you wanted to go skinny-dipping?”

He knows. He knows you can’t leave him for the warm waters of the Mediterranean. Not right now, you know, since there’s no pedantic baby for you to babysit right now. Understand, he’s a sweet boy, Leon’s little boy. But what would he be doing on vacation, on your very own private and personal vacation, obviously. It’s just you and your boyfriend, and that Diet Pepsi sippy cup with the stardust in it that you’ve leaked a pinch or two into.

What a late summertime activity.

“Maybe for tonight and definitely with you,” you say it omnisciently. A short sip of coke, and nothing is stopping you from lacing kisses on his lips that are cherry and pulverized pink from your previous kisses. You're letting him taste the tiny vestiges of vanilla icys that linger on your lips, and seconds later, you slip your tongue between his teeth to get him as high as you are in the heart of late afternoon. Leon and getting high only go the way of neat whiskey, but you’re the kind of twist that changes his rules—the kind he takes for granted.

When his palms find your ass snug and trace your flesh with steely resolve over the top of your dress, the kiss is only broken in that very second, a sharp shake of breath drifting between your glossy lips.

“Ow. I told you I don’t like my ass all purple,” your repining tonal laments with a sass that is both habitual and secretly endearing to him. And you’re lying. You like your ass purple and flushed after some good spanking from him.

“What a crybaby you turned out to be.” Leon is, as you know, cynical. His blues are coarse; the halo of the afternoon sun striking his face through his eyelashes gives them a shade of verdant teal.

It’s nothing new that he repeatedly catches you looking at his face. His face is so pretty. You can’t help it. Observant, of course, as is his job. Still, watching you contemplate him under your starry-eyed gaze tugs at his heartstrings. To fall in fucking love like this after forty is damn near unhealthy.

But he loves you when he lifts your dress and catches the licentious view he wants to capture; he loves you when you refuse to put your panties on when you leave your hotel room and go out for brunch on the terrace. Especially the notch you make as the air is ripped out of your lungs, embodying your purity, is everything for Leon. It’s heart-stopping, which is why it doesn’t bode well for his heart. What if he fucking died of a heart attack? The alcohol (and earlier bout of seizures that lasted for a while before you) had already fucked up and altered his body enough.

“Got wet, hmmm?” Captain Obvious can’t be more serious. But he sounds adorable, so you don’t say anything to put him off. Over and above that, his thumbing of the clam of your clit is a fucking must-have class.

“How the hell have you been sitting like this all morning? My poor girl.” Simultaneously, his head lifts up and his finger dips into your wetness; your pussy fits just nicely; he leers at you, straight into your eyes. It’s affectionate, yeah, but his eyes are... you don’t know. There’s something about them.

“Dunno,” you gasp out, “maybe just to keep you from overworking yourself, old man.” You tighten up, but even that doesn’t stop you from throwing in an allusion to his given age.

“Sure, baby, sure, you’re just makin’ sure the old man stays safe.” His quirky drawl rings in your ears as your clit tinkles on his thumb. The sight is a blessing for him, but of course the cock menu before the evening hits is what you want, and in the night, he wants your pussy; he wants to eat you out before a good night's sleep. It’s a must.

Leon finds it funny—it’s cute—but it’s another matter that he plays rather meanly with your clit, parsing and stroking the pulp until the puck flickers on his thumb. It’s the fingers, sculpted by years of drill, that you cum on the spot.

Pathetic.

The grains of fizzy cola splashed from the pint in your hand, and the liquid that washes over you—that’s pathetic. The mess on the navy blue shirt Leon decided to throw on at the last minute, too.

He’s not mad; don’t even worry about that stuff.

Isn’t that just mutual love? Aww. Then, of course, it won’t be long before you’re whining and pestering the hell out of him, and he’s taking the plastic full of coke from your hand to place it on the table behind you so he can take the shaft of his cock and smack it into your warm, sucking hole, the leaky tip wetting the even wetter entrance.

“I do assure you I can perfectly fuck a little baby into this pretty pussy,” he whinges, throaty. Dirty talk is on the spot.

Everybody craves an afterglow, and men like Leon crave a good fuck, precisely a pretty girl bouncing on his dick on his vacation. That’s the norm.

You do the rest anyway, taking him nicely and squeezing the dick little by little, lingering until a little bump forms in your tummy.

“Fuuuuck’s,” are panted out. You both do it. You, because of that pain and sheer pleasure, and he just has pleasure; his pain is for much disparate motives. There’s always a desire to sink himself deeper, but you are always tight, wet, too, thank God, but just too tight for him to sculpt your insides around his cock.

“Fuck, Leon. F—fuck.”

When he bottoms out, your pitch is invariably more slurred and more aggressive, and your pussy plays like a virgin for him.

You can hardly even hold your head up; it’s so heavy.

It’s the voice of his in your head that brings you back to the Mediterranean afternoon when you feel like you’re caving in, like you’re just about to split in half. Beautifully.

“Baby, you’ll get us kicked out of this damn hotel,” his cautionary lulling is in your ears at last. Who cares? He’s got the dough; he can hire; hell, he can buy a whole hotel building.

“Shh, you ain’t gonna pass out on me now, doll.” Somewhere in his voice there’s distress, but his expectant gaze on you is dense. Still, he doesn’t act like a complete asshole and assuredly grips your hips to tuck you back, right on the mean dick. Next thing you know, he’s tattooing your cervix as he jacks you like a doll—his doll—on his thick cock. Raw as always, so what’s a condom? That’s what the pill is for.

The magic of kisses, sloppy blows on the lips, the trick of a cock that fires bullets in and out of you, busing your clit, rocks the whole world away and rattles the chaise lounge beneath you. You’re already a goner. Like hell. Blood and sweat—metaphorically speaking, but that’s not going to fetch the man cumming within you after your second orgasm. You can complain later, 'cause realistically, no man could be that good. But Leon’s the best of the best, so who knows? Maybe he’s been in this business many times before you, with pretty girls and even prettier pussies.

The very thought that makes your heart skitter inside, urges you to cling to him and shove your face into his chest. It’s something he wasn’t expecting, so Leon almost hesitates to cradle your face.

“Looking so pretty—pretty—fucking pretty,” he grates his teeth again and again.

He’s cumming, nowhere that fast, but deep, sticky, cozy, and adhesive. It’s not the most satisfying aftermath in this summer heat, but your cunt is still milking deliciously (greedily) what’s leaking into you.

Fuck it, he should just make you his controversially younger wife.

And he has got some plans in his mind, well assured.

The companionable silence between you is something; how the sun filters down over the horizon, and how your breathing is now regaining its normal rhythm. His balls are now much lighter.

How romantic.

“When will you marry me?"

His question is an impulsive one that pierces the stillness. Is this guy serious, or is he just fucking with you? Are you too high? Oh man, it was just a little pinch of crack cocaine in the cola. Can’t be that loaded, right?

Your lack of words and the fog on your face are too opium; it’s like a sugar high. What a silly girl you are, his girl. In sooth, while he’s still inside you, he needs to ask you one more time.

“The ring is in the room. I shit you not. We gotta call it a wedding.”

Just say yes already.

[youraverageaemondsimp]

Metanoia ;

Aemond Targaryen x Transmigrated!Strong!Reader

>> Chapter VI : The End of the Beginning.

Summary: Things begin to quickly escalate.

WARNINGS: canon typical incest, angst, grief, mentions of child loss, aegon is a dick.

A/N: divider creds to @cafekitsune

<- prev // masterlist // next ->

Everything was moving way too quick for your liking. You thought your marriage pact to Aemond would prevent the war, yet it seems like it's inevitable. You felt nothing but despair watching Aegon walk through the crowd of people, for his coronation.

You knew what was next, Rhaenys would burst through the doors and leave right after threatening them, so you wait anxiously, standing next to Aemond.

But nothing happens.

Rhaenys didn't appear and the coronation went smoothly.

What was happening?

You were escorted back to the castle with guards around you till you reached your room, knowing that the blacks would try to come get you any moment. The greens were on guard.

A few days passed since then, Rhaenys’ absence shocked you the most. You had written a letter to your mother, informing your mother of the happenings.

You paced around your chamber restlessly, anxious about how the story is developing, it seems that your interference made everything worse.

Perhaps it was always meant to be this way, for everyone to be doomed. You thought of Luke, Aemond, Helaena, and all the lives that were taken away because of this war.

You never really acknowledged how real everything was until you felt the taste of potential calamity. Your head snaps to the side when the doors burst open, the guards rushing in and grabbing you.

“W—What are you doing?!” You yell, trying to fight the guards but they say nothing, dragging you out of your chambers by force and out into the hallway.

You are brought down to where the dungeons are, below the castle before being thrown into one as the guards lock the door. You look at Ser Cole who was one of the people that guard you down here. He looked at you with a mockery of pity.

“It was the King's orders.” He speaks, noticing the need for closure in your eyes. Your eyes widened at the truth, lips trembling as you felt useless. Unable to change anything, if in fact everything is more shit.

“What about Aemond? I need to speak to him right now!” You cry out, and Ser Cole shakes his head, “He had called off the betrothal with you.” Those words felt a stab to your heart.

He called it off? No it definitely couldn't be.

Aemond wouldn't do that without consulting you first.

But deep down, you feared that it would be the truth, cause the body you're in believes that to be the case. He was a man stuck to his duty after all.

“Your betrothal to Y/N should be annulled immediately.” Aegon's voice booms through the small council as he sits there on the chair, somehow making coherent decisions. Aemond had just walked in then, immediately being met with a command.

“Why?” Aemond asks in disbelief, his eyebrows furrowed. “I can not, she is— I do not wish to.” Aemond affirms his decision standing tall against at the end of the table, seeming as though he was the king, making decisions.

Aegon scoffed, “You dare defy the king? But I will excuse you, for you are my brother. I'm aware that cunt must've felt good. But it isn't beneficial for the war.” Aegon spews comically, expecting everyone to laugh with him but no one does. Alicent shifts uncomfortably in her seat as she watches the interaction between her sons.

Aemond grits his teeth, his anger oozing off him, suffocating everyone in the room. He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palm as he tries to not move impulsively.

“Aegon, is right.” Alicent interferes, not making eye contact with Aemond. “Marrying her will not do any good. We must use this to gain allies. Besides, who knows what Rhaenyra might do. Now that her child is with us.” She simply states, avoiding the gaze of Aemond.

His eyes darted around the room, everybody was silent.

His mind ran wild, as he stood there still, thinking of the possibilities, thinking about everything.

He swallowed a tight lump in his throat, and the next words that left his mouth, betrayed both himself and you.

“I understand.”

————————————————————————

Rhaenyra's sobs fill the room as she clutches her head, her council looking upon her. “I can't lose another child. I'm afraid I cannot bear it.” She quivers, her body still traumatized from losing her unborn child.

She refers to you. “My baby, I can not. lose. her. again.” her mind fills with the memories of you being asleep for many years, the nights she's spent by your side hoping you'd wake up.

“I am not a good mother, am I? Daemon. I left my child in the viper's nest, even though you were against it.” Rhaenyra stared at Daemon, her mind in shambles. He gazed in silence at her. She was going mad. She couldn't keep calm.

“Those traitors! How could they? Has there been any other letter from her?” She asks as soon as a guard walks in, the one who she planted as a spy.

“The princess has been thrown into the dungeons,” those words were enough to send Rhaenyra spiralling out of control, as she yelled at everyone to take immediate action. She will burn down the city if she needs to.

“And it seems that they have called off the betrothal.” He finishes and Daemon scoffs. “Those cunts.” Daemon mutters underneath his breath.

“We must wait.” Jacaerys speaks up, unable to see his mother spiral like this. “Mother, I am aware that you are worried about our sister, but we need to deal with this sensitively.” He tries to be the voice of reason for her. Luke joins in, holding his mother by her hand and she stares at the both of them before calming down.

Rhaenyra's eyes darken as the last of her tears fell down her cheek. Her mind reeling up a plan, before she toughens up and focuses on the matter before her.

————————————————————————

Aemond left the keep on his horse, going to the forest where Vhagar was sleeping soundly. He goes near her, grazing her sides and she wakes up, feeling her rider near her.

He climbs on top of her, knowing the direction he was meant to go. And so he does, flying off in the direction.

The duty felt heavy on his shoulders, but the betrayal even worse, you must be so confused on what is going on. After the betrothal with the baratheon, he will fly back to you and explain everything.

Yes, it is what he will do.

You probably felt lonely, all alone in your chamber, he should've probably told more guards to protect you before he left but he shakes his head, hoping that you'd be alright.

Ironic how far he was from the truth. He had no idea that you were currently suffering in the dungeons.

The gut feeling was malicious, warning him that he is doing something wrong, but he tried shaking it off. It wouldn't budge. It got so worse to the point he felt nauseous.

He thinks for a minute.

His eye hardens as he takes deep breaths, the weight of betrayal suddenly lifting off, and the pressure of duty fade into nothingness as he commands Vhagar to fly the other direction, spinning her around.

To dragonstone it is.

@gabriella-aesthetic @delaynew @idonotknowenglish @dixie-elocin @intheheartoftheking @dracaryxzs @ladyoffandoms @zoleea-exultant @saturnssrings @uniquecutie-puffs @aleemendoza2425-blog @marvelita85 @feelingfaye @sylvievil @cypherpt5fttaehyung @ttysmfwna @void21 @technicallystrangereview @feyresqueen @evergreen9083 @mirandasidefics @org12 @blorbo-brainrot @thisishwrworld @shadowqueen09 @watermel0nsugarhigh @cottoncandyclouds-stuff @madislayyy @the-hufflebird-girl @hiatuswhore @whompwhompsthings @debesteimanetje

[playboysaleen]

Through Ash and Iron (13)

Jinx x Reader x Caitlyn

Summary: Through Ash and Iron plunges you into the heart of Piltover’s gritty streets, where you’ve always felt the weight of your family’s failures. Rejected from the Junior Enforcer Program, your anger burns brighter than ever—until one fateful punch changes everything. The eyes of Piltover’s elite may look down on you, but it’s the wild eyes of Jinx that truly see you. She’s chaos personified, and you’re drawn to the destruction she promises. But that’s not all. Caitlyn Kiramman, a poised enforcer with a soft spot for rebels like you, offers you a chance to rewrite your future—if you can control the rage you can’t seem to escape.Torn between the order Caitlyn represents and the dangerous freedom Jinx offers, you stand at the crossroads of two worlds. As your power grows, so does the tension between these two women. One promises a chance at belonging, while the other ignites a fire you didn’t know you had. But the choices you make will change everything—not just for you, but for both cities teetering on the edge of war. Who will you choose? And how much of yourself will you lose along the way?

Warnings: Violence duh, gay panic(lol), cursing, all that jazz (whatever you seen in Arcane is what you gon see here)This is also a slight AU.(She/her)

Word Count: 7.9k

hehe, hi...im back but i cant keep you all waiting too long. So here is what i got so far <3.

------------------------------

Time stretched into slow motion, each second weighed down by heartbreak. Jinx stood paralyzed at the edge of the scene, Isha pressed tightly against her chest. The little girl trembled and sobbed into Jinx’s neck, clutching her clothes with tiny, desperate fingers. Jinx’s ears buzzed with grief, her vision blurred by tears that refused to fall, hovering in her eyes like shards of glass. She watched through a haze as your body was hauled onto the stretcher, limbs slack and head lolling in a way that sent icy terror into her bones.

A muffled voice drifted into her awareness���Vi’s. She said something about riding with you to the hospital, to keep an eye on you. Her words echoed hollowly in Jinx’s head, distorted and distant, as though spoken through water. Jinx could only nod dumbly, her gaze anchored on your lifeless form. She couldn’t tear her eyes away long enough to focus on Vi’s face. She barely caught the flash of pink hair as her sister sprinted off, hopping into the ambulance as its doors swung shut with a heavy thud.

Meanwhile, Caitlyn stood a short distance away, breathing shallowly, tears clinging to her lashes. Her entire world was disintegrating moment by moment. She replayed tiny memories: the feel of your arm around her waist, your laughter calming her racing heart, the rare moments your lips touched hers—far too few. She’d barely begun to know the texture of your love, barely savored the quiet mornings, the gentle reassurances, the silent conversations of glances and smiles. Now, it felt as if it had been stolen from her, yanked away by fate’s cruel hand. A distant figure, Ekko, reached out to comfort her, but she recoiled instinctively, shrugging him off with trembling shoulders as she staggered forward, drawn toward you even though you were already gone from sight.

The world smoldered in silence and despair. Fires of anguish danced behind Caitlyn’s eyes. The crowd around them faded into blurred silhouettes. Her chest tightened, and she struggled for air as if drowning. She wiped at her tears, her throat raw with screams left unvoiced. The city’s noise became a distant roar. All that mattered was you, and the knowledge that your heartbeat might have stilled.

Then, across a brief expanse of rubble and smoke, Caitlyn’s tear-filled gaze met Jinx’s. In that slow-motion moment, all their old grudges, their rivalries, their differences evaporated like mist in the morning sun. Both women’s hearts bled pain, reflected plainly in their eyes. Jinx, breathing unevenly, gently eased Isha into Sevika’s arms, not needing words to command Sevika to care for the child. Isha, sobbing quietly, still holding the trinket you’d made, reached out feebly as Jinx stepped away. Sevika cradled the little one, murmuring something inaudible, her own stern eyes shining with something close to sorrow.

Jinx and Caitlyn stumbled toward each other as if guided by some gravitational force. Their legs threatened to give out, the ground swaying beneath them. Every step felt like crossing a battlefield of memories and regrets, of anger and misunderstandings that no longer mattered. The dust danced in the thinning light, casting long shadows of their forms. They closed the distance, and as they reached one another, they collapsed into each other’s arms like fallen angels, wings broken, seeking comfort in the only place they could find it now.

Their bodies trembled with sobs that they tried to hold back but failed. Jinx pressed her face into Caitlyn’s shoulder, her fingers tangling in the strands of Caitlyn’s hair, clinging as if Caitlyn were the last tether to reality. Caitlyn, arms wrapped around Jinx’s waist, choked on her tears, her voice hitching as she tried to form words. They dropped to their knees, still locked in that embrace, their pain merging into a singular force of grief and devotion. They whispered half-words, promises carried on shaky breaths. The smell of smoke, sweat, and blood lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of all they had lost and were losing.

“I can’t lose them,” Caitlyn managed, voice muffled by Jinx’s collar. “I can’t. We’ve barely begun… we need them here.” Jinx nodded fiercely, tears falling freely now onto Caitlyn’s shoulder. “I know,” Jinx whispered, her voice breaking. “They’ll make it. They have to. For all of us.”

When they pulled back slightly, their foreheads touching, the world shrank to that intimate space of shared grief and determination. Caitlyn’s tears slid down her cheeks in silver trails as she managed, “Promise me, Jinx—if something happens, if… if they don’t…” Her voice cracked into silence, too frightened to say the words. “Promise we’ll stop at nothing to make sure they get justice.”

Jinx closed her eyes, pressing her forehead more firmly against Caitlyn’s. “I promise,” she breathed, voice low and strong. “No matter what happens, we’ll make them pay.”

The world beyond them continued in slow-motion chaos—Vi leaving with the ambulance, Ekko and Sevika trying to calm Isha, the crowds murmuring and praying for miracles. Above, the wounded tower bore silent witness to the heartbreak unfolding below.

Caitlyn and Jinx remained in that desperate embrace, tears merging with sweat and ash. In that instant, all rivalry, all resentment, dissolved. The cost of this war had reached too high. They had lost so much, but they would not lose you without a fight.

______

Inside the ambulance, the siren’s wail muted to a distant drone, as if the world outside no longer mattered. The cramped interior smelled of disinfectant and sweat. Vi hovered close, fists clenched at her sides, eyes fixed on your motionless form. The EMTs worked in tense silence, their gloves and uniforms damp with the condensation of frantic effort. Every breath they took, every instrument they lifted, seemed unbearably loud against the hush that fell over the van.

“Answer me,” Vi demanded, voice cracking as she struggled to maintain composure. “Is she—?” She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t voice the terror choking her. “Is she alive?”

One EMT, eyes shadowed with fatigue, spared her a brief glance. “We’re doing everything we can. Please, ma’am, let us work.”

That wasn’t enough. Vi’s heart hammered. She leaned forward, desperate for any sign of life. Another EMT knelt beside you, carefully cutting through the soaked fabric of your shirt to reach your back. The sound of tearing cloth seemed deafening in the quiet. They eased you onto your side, the vehicle rocking slightly as it sped down the streets. The EMT’s brows knitted together, and he exchanged a heavy look with his colleague. Silence thickened, dread settling over them all.

Vi’s throat tightened. “What is it?” she pressed, her voice little more than a plea. “Tell me!”

The EMT finally turned you on your back, the front of your shirt peeled away. Water droplets gleamed on your pale skin, bruises flowering darkly over your ribs and shoulders. Vi could see the bullet wound—an ugly, glistening hole—and her stomach lurched. The other EMT gasped softly, leaning closer, probing gently with skilled fingers. Another ragged piece of fabric fell away, and there it was: a second wound. An exit wound.

“Exit wound,” muttered one of the EMTs, relief blooming in his tone. He looked up at Vi, his features softening with something like hope. “The bullet’s gone through,” he said quietly. “They’re not out of danger yet, but—there’s a chance. The bullet didn’t lodge inside.” His voice faltered, and he continued more confidently, “We can stabilize her. They’re hanging on.”

Vi’s breath caught. She almost dared to hope. “She’s going to make it?” she asked, voice trembling. She tried to imagine your pain, your fight for breath, your heart stubbornly beating. Her mind replayed the scene: Isha in your arms, pressed tight against you, and then that bullet. The angle of the shot. The trinket. The memory hit her, and her eyes widened. The toy you made for Isha—crafted with love and care—must have deflected or slowed the bullet, protecting the child. Her heart twisted. Even in your desperate leap, you’d found a way to shield her.

“We have a pulse spike!” shouted one of the EMTs from the front, looking at the monitor, excitement cracking his voice.

Vi’s hand instinctively found yours, her fingers curling around your limp hand. She leaned down, her forehead nearly touching yours, voice low and raw with emotion. “You’re gonna be okay,” she murmured, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “Do you hear me? You’re not done. Not now. Not after all this.”

The EMT at the monitor let out a quiet laugh of astonishment. “A miracle,” he breathed, and the word hung sweet and tender in the tense air. They resumed their work with renewed vigor, their motions swift and determined. The van sped on, cutting through Piltover’s streets, carrying hope and heartbreak in equal measure.

Vi just held your hand tighter, praying silently you would hold on long enough for them all to see you smile again.

_____

Caitlyn sat at her desk, face set in a grim scowl. The gaslight glow revealed new lines of exhaustion etched into her features. Papers lay strewn across the surface—warrants, decrees, and official pleas—all attempts to pull Mel into a face-to-face confrontation. The tension in the room was palpable as she fiddled with her pen, occasionally tapping it on the desk with sharp, deliberate clicks. Each sound echoed her frustration. She wanted in that room with Mel so badly she could taste it, to show the councilor exactly what came of trying to tear apart the fragile peace she had worked so hard to protect.

The sound of boots in the corridor broke through her dark reverie. She nodded to the guard, a brief jerk of her chin, and the door swung open to admit Jinx. The Zaunite stepped inside with uncharacteristic calm, her eyes flicking over the documents Caitlyn had gathered. She drifted closer, eventually leaning over Caitlyn’s shoulder to scan the warrant Caitlyn intended to serve to Mel.

For a moment, neither spoke. Caitlyn’s shoulders were stiff with pent-up rage, and Jinx’s gaze narrowed as she pieced together the plan forming in Caitlyn’s mind. Finally, Caitlyn broke the silence, her voice low and steady, “Do you hate me more than before? If I do this—if I attempt something that could change so much between the three of us—will you hate me?”

Jinx’s brow furrowed. The question caught her off guard. She crossed her arms, leaning back, considering her words carefully. “Hate you?” she repeated, her tone subdued. “I never really hated you, Piltie. I hated what you stood for, maybe. Your rules, your neat little world that I never fit into. And Vi…” She let the name hang in the air, implying the complicated history that still weighed on both of them. “But since we all… found her,” Jinx paused, eyes distant as if remembering better times with you, “I realized I don’t have room to hate you. Not when we’ve both become better because of her. We wouldn’t be who we are without… you know.”

Caitlyn absorbed these words, nodding slowly. A reluctant respect passed between them—an understanding that the person you loved had somehow bridged the impossible gap. “Come,” she said, her voice tight with emotion, “we need the conference room.” She stood, gathering her paperwork, her gunbelt jingling softly as she moved. “I promise Mel isn’t in there.”

Jinx nodded, following her with quiet determination. They stepped into the corridor and descended into a spacious, high-ceilinged conference room lit by crystal chandeliers that seemed too bright, too pristine for the ugly truths they carried. Councilors were already assembled around a polished table. The atmosphere turned heavy as Caitlyn took her seat at the head of the table, Jinx surprisingly close by, standing at her shoulder like a loyal partner. Their presence together raised a few eyebrows, but no one dared comment outright.

Caitlyn cleared her throat, spreading the documents before her. “We’re here to address the grievous situation,” she began, her voice cold and clipped. “Mel’s involvement in abducting our… our hero.” Her throat caught slightly on that word, but she continued. “She has broken every code of conduct, threatened Piltover’s stability, and shown utter disregard for the alliances we’ve tried to forge.”

A few councilors exchanged uneasy glances. One cleared his throat and said, “With all due respect, Commander, the individual in question—this hero—is from Zaun. Legally, they hold no council position, no formal standing. What do you expect us to do? Without official status, we have limited leverage.”

Jinx’s eyes flashed, and she leaned forward with a sneer. Caitlyn, noting the tension, laid a hand on the table. Her back ramrod straight, she stared each councilor down in turn. “You’re wrong,” she said quietly, “and I’m about to prove it.”

She placed a single sheet of crisp parchment in the center of the table. “According to Piltover’s legal handbook, if an individual is legally bound—married—to a councilor, they gain immediate protections under Piltover’s laws. This includes the right to full investigation and legal action against anyone who harms them.”

A gasp rippled around the room. Jinx stiffened, her heart fluttering in her chest. She tried to hide her shock, but her jaw tightened subtly. Caitlyn didn’t look at Jinx, her gaze fixed on the councilors, daring any of them to object. “I propose marriage,” she stated, her voice unwavering, “to her. As Commander of the Piltover Army, I claim my right to marry who I choose. And once she is my wedded spouse, I will unleash every legal resource Piltover has at its disposal to bring Mel to justice.”

The councilors murmured, scandalized and astonished. They knew Caitlyn Kiramman as strict, law-abiding, measured. But this—this was unprecedented. Her eyes, glacial and steady, left no room for doubt. She was deadly serious. Anyone who dared contradict her now faced not only her wrath, but the collapse of their carefully maintained order.

Jinx swallowed hard. She hadn’t expected this. Marriage? It wasn’t jealousy she felt, but a strange, twisted surge of hope. If this could bring you back—if this could secure justice—then who was she to argue? She caught Caitlyn’s eye, and the enforcer’s stare was calm, purposeful. It was a promise. A promise of unity, of doing whatever it took to save you.

Silence stilled the room, and one councilor cleared his throat, “This is… drastic.”

Caitlyn leaned forward, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “Drastic? You think this is drastic? She has been kidnapped, tortured. Mel has crossed every line. You should be thanking me for using a legal avenue rather than burning the city down.” She scanned their faces, letting the threat hang in the air. “I am the commander of the Piltover Army. She will be my soon-to-be wedded spouse. And I will stop at nothing—nothing—to get the legal protections we need to tear Mel’s empire apart.”

After a heavy pause, she stood, papers in hand, meeting Jinx’s gaze. “This meeting is over,” she said, voice clipped. “Return to your quarters. I have much to prepare.”

The councilors stood in stunned silence as Caitlyn and Jinx turned away. Once out of earshot, Caitlyn’s hand found Jinx’s, their fingers intertwining unexpectedly. Jinx’s lips parted, but no words came. She could only nod slowly, understanding what Caitlyn had just sacrificed: her pride, her position, her future plans. All for you.

Caitlyn leaned in, voice low so only Jinx could hear. “This was the only way without destroying everything she worked for. Everything we helped build with them. We can’t let Mel win. This… it’s our best chance.”

Jinx lowered her eyes, thinking of you—wounded, alone, waiting for rescue. If this marriage, this legal claim, was the key to saving you and Isha… then so be it. She nodded, voice caught in her throat, no teasing remark this time.

“Let’s do it,” she said quietly, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

Together, they left the council room, hearts heavy but resolved, their entwined hands a silent vow to bring you home.

---------

A gentle hush enveloped the hospital room, the kind of quiet that felt protective rather than empty. The air carried the faint smell of antiseptic, mixed with the subtle scent of flowers someone must have brought. You stirred, groaning softly as pain flared in your chest. Instinctively, you clutched at the bandages wrapped snugly around your torso. Your heart hammered unevenly as reality drifted back into focus.

A chair scraped lightly against the floor. “Easy, easy,” Vi’s familiar voice cut through the haze, calm and steady. She stood and approached your bed, her presence a comforting beacon in your confusion. “You’re safe, okay? You’re in the hospital.”

You blinked, vision still fuzzy. “Vi?” you managed, your voice raspy. Your throat ached as if you’d swallowed broken glass. “What… what happened?”

Vi reached for a cup of water on the side table, carefully pressing it into your hand. “You’ve been out for almost a day,” she said quietly, her gaze warm with relief. She waited as you took a tentative sip. “After your… fall,” she began, her eyes flicking downward briefly before meeting yours again, “they rushed you here. Doctors, medics, everyone’s been working round the clock.” She paused, letting the severity of the situation sink in. “Jinx and Caitlyn are going to lose their minds when they hear you’re awake.”

Your memory was fractured, images of that brutal scene with Mel lurking at the edges of your mind. Something more important tugged at your heart. “Isha,” you croaked. “What about Isha?”

A softness touched Vi’s face at the mention of the child’s name. “She’s okay,” Vi said, her voice gentling even further. “Ekko and Sevika found her. She got pretty shaken up, but she’s safe. She’s been hovering around this place, I’m told, waiting to see you again. They’ve all been frantic.”

Relief so profound it brought tears to your eyes washed over you. You took a shallow, careful breath, wincing at the ache in your chest. “Good. That’s… that’s all that matters.”

Silence fell for a moment, both of you absorbing what had happened. The hum of distant hospital equipment provided a steady backdrop. Vi cleared her throat. “You know, seeing you fight like that…” She hesitated, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. “It reminded me of when we were kids. Remember how I used to teach you how to throw a proper punch? How to stand your ground?”

A distant warmth spread through your chest, battling the pain. You nodded, eyes distant with memory. “Yeah, I remember,” you murmured, your voice calmer now. “I must’ve driven you crazy, asking questions and wanting to learn everything at once.”

Vi chuckled softly, the sound like a balm. “You were always ahead of the class, even back then. Quicker, sharper. I was proud of you then. I’m proud of you now.” She placed a hand gently over yours, her calloused fingers wrapping around your knuckles. The gesture spoke volumes neither of you needed to say aloud.

Your eyes found hers, sincerity shining there. “Some things never change,” you whispered, voice thick with gratitude. You squeezed her hand softly, and she returned the pressure.

Just then, the door to your room eased open with a quiet creak. An enforcer stepped inside, his helmet tucked under one arm. He straightened at the sight of you awake and inclined his head respectfully. There was something different in his demeanor—an earnest kindness that took you by surprise.

“Glad to see you up and about,” he said, voice sincere. “We’ve all been worried.” His eyes flicked between you and Vi, reading the relief in the air. “Now that you’re awake, I’ve got a list of visitors waiting for permission to see you.” He cleared his throat, as if unsure how to proceed. “Sevika and the child—er, Isha—are outside. They’d like to come in whenever you’re ready.”

You blinked, still feeling disoriented, but grateful beyond words that Isha and Sevika were here and safe. “Of course,” you replied softly. “They can come in.”

The enforcer nodded smartly. “Yes, Mrs. Kiramman.” He stepped back, placing a hand over his chest in a respectful salute, then pivoted on his heel to leave, the door clicking shut behind him.

Time seemed to stop for a heartbeat. You frowned, confusion knitting your brow. Mrs. Kiramman? You turned to Vi, and found her looking just as baffled. She frowned, lips parted as if to say something but no sound emerged.

“What did he—?” you began, but your voice failed, replaced by a swirl of questions in your mind. Mrs. Kiramman. A title you never thought you'd hear associated with you. Something monumental had happened while you were fighting for your life—something that left even Vi stunned into silence.

Vi shook her head slowly, a strange mix of wonder and uncertainty painted on her face. “I’m as lost as you,” she said quietly, still holding your hand. “But it sounds like Caitlyn and Jinx did something big… something huge.” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

You swallowed hard, heart drumming in your chest. Whatever had taken place while you were unconscious, it was done in love, you were sure of it. You prayed silently that it would mean you were safe to heal and find your way back into their arms.

The hospital room fell quiet as the door swung open again. Isha burst through, her small legs carrying her straight into your waiting arms. You stiffened slightly at the initial jolt of pain, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the soft weight of her body against you, her arms clutching at your neck. You inhaled deeply, closing your eyes as you held her close, breathing in her faint childlike scent. Relief swelled in your chest.

Sevika followed at a more measured pace, her mechanical arm catching the light. You lifted your head to greet her, and she gave a curt nod. “Took you long enough,” you teased, your voice still hoarse but laced with a faint smirk.

Sevika rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “You’re alive, aren’t you?” She huffed, but you caught the flicker of genuine relief in her eyes.

“Thanks for doing all the heavy lifting while I was out cold,” you murmured dryly.

“Sure, princess,” she shot back, arching an eyebrow. “Don’t get used to it.”

Isha snuggled closer, resting her head against your chest. The tension in the room eased. Just then, the door cracked open once more, and the enforcer from before stepped inside. He carried himself differently now—straighter, more respectful. “I’ve notified Commander Kiramman and Mrs. Jinx that you’re awake,” he said. “They’re on their way.”

You blinked. “Mrs. Jinx?” you repeated, confusion tugging at your brows.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, Mrs. Kiramman,” he said, placing a hand across his chest in a salute before backing out of the room.

Your eyes shot to Vi, who stood near the window. She looked just as puzzled. “Since when—?” you began, but Vi shook her head.

“Don’t look at me. I’ve been out of the loop,” Vi said, sounding both amused and wary. She glanced at Sevika. “You know something about this?”

Sevika pursed her lips, seeming suddenly stressed. “It’s better if Caitlyn explains,” she said gruffly, offering no more.

An uneasy silence followed. You took advantage of it to rest your head back against the pillows, relief flooding you at the sound of Isha’s gentle breathing. Your hand found her tiny one, giving it a reassuring squeeze. She was safe. That was the thought you clung to above all else.

After a moment, Vi spoke again, her voice softer. “After you fell,” she started, leaning against the windowsill, “it was chaos. Jinx and Caitlyn lost it—nearly tore the city down trying to find you. Everyone did. They got in, found Isha, got you out of the water and here… It was a miracle.” She swallowed, and her voice faltered slightly, emotion slipping through. “We all thought we’d lost you.”

You closed your eyes, imagining Jinx’s fury, Caitlyn’s tears, all of them searching and fighting. “I’m sorry you went through that,” you said quietly. “Glad everyone’s okay.”

Isha stirred at the sound of your voice and, realizing she was hungry, her little stomach grumbled quietly. You chuckled softly. “Guess we both need something more than hospital broth, huh?” you teased lightly, smoothing her hair down as she blinked sleepily at you.

Vi straightened, nodding. “I’ll get on that,” she said, giving Sevika a look. Sevika nodded, and the two of them slipped out the door to let the enforcers know you needed real food.

With just you and Isha left behind, you pulled her close, cradling her against your chest. Your eyelids grew heavy, and you surrendered to the quiet moment, letting the hush of the hospital and the beat of your own heart lull you. Isha’s breathing steadied, and soon you both drifted into a fragile, much-needed slumber.

->

Time blurred as you slept. Footsteps and hushed voices in the hall pulled you back from the edge of unconsciousness. The door outside your room was guarded, and two figures approached hand-in-hand—Caitlyn and Jinx. The hallway seemed endless, every step resonating with unspoken vows and sorrow. Caitlyn’s enforcers stood at attention, parting before them. In that subtle act, something had shifted: Jinx stood at Caitlyn’s side as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Neither woman questioned it.

Caitlyn gave Jinx’s hand a gentle squeeze. “No matter what,” she whispered, voice tight with worry and resolve, “I’m putting everything on the line. My position, my authority—everything. I won’t lose them again.”

Jinx nodded, her eyes red but fiercely determined. “We’ll make it right,” she said simply.

They entered quietly, bracing themselves for what they might see. Inside, the soft hospital glow fell on your still form, Isha curled at your side. The sight broke their hearts anew. The bandage wrapped around your torso, the bruises and cuts that marred your skin, the weariness in your half-lidded eyes as you stirred—none of it should have happened. Not to you.

Jinx reached you first, her hand gently sliding into yours, while Isha’s small hand cradled your cheek, all still half-asleep. Caitlyn came to your other side, leaning down to press a delicate kiss against your temple. You opened your eyes slowly, meeting their gazes, a small, wry smile pulling at your cracked lips. “Can’t get rid of me that easily,” you rasped, voice scratchy but light, trying to comfort them both. Your words made tears brim in their eyes, relief mixing with lingering fear.

You took a breath, steeling yourself, and began to recount everything that happened in Mel’s tower—her threats, her cruelty, her twisted plans. They listened, their faces darkening, jaws clenched. Jinx’s grip on your hand tightened, and Caitlyn’s eyes blazed with a silent fury.

The door opened again, and the enforcer who had come before stepped in. He greeted you warmly, happier than before to see you awake and stable. “Should I send Sevika and Vi back in, Mrs. Kiramman?” he asked politely.

Your heart nearly stopped. Mrs. Kiramman. There it was again. You looked at Caitlyn, searching for an explanation. Caitlyn’s cheeks flushed, her eyes darting away. She looked nervous, scared even. You’d never seen her like this—Caitlyn Kiramman, Commander of the Piltover Army, rendered shy and hesitant.

Jinx raised an eyebrow at Caitlyn’s reaction, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the gravity of the moment. “Go on, Cupcake. Tell ‘em.”

Caitlyn drew a shaking breath. “While you were… recovering, I took… measures,” she began, voice trembling slightly. “Legal measures, to protect you. I proposed a marriage—” She met your astonished gaze. “To you. On paper, you’re set to become my spouse, and that grants you certain protections. Not just my protections as an army commander, but under Piltover law, we can bring Mel to justice with no question.”

Your mind swam, shock and disbelief warring with gratitude and, strangely, relief. You opened your mouth but no words formed. Your throat felt tight.

Caitlyn forced a nervous laugh, wiping at the corner of her eye. “I know it’s sudden. I’ll have a ring made for you,” she faltered, then glanced at Jinx, swallowing hard. “For both of you, actually.”

Jinx’s eyes widened, then a grin spread across her face. She leaned over your form and pressed a quick, playful kiss to Caitlyn’s cheek. “Oh, this just got interesting,” she teased, her tone lighter, if only by a fraction.

You were frozen, speechless, as your eyes flicked between them. Finally, you managed a whisper: “I… missed a lot, didn’t I?”

They both laughed softly through tears, and you realized that, despite the pain and fear, you were surrounded by love. The future might be complicated, but you were alive, and they were here. You squeezed both their hands, letting your heart speak what words couldn’t.

->->->

A few days had passed since your dramatic return from the brink, and you now found yourself settled in Caitlyn’s quarters. You’d been warned not to overexert yourself, but that didn’t stop you from limping off the plush couch in the dimly lit living space and making a clumsy beeline for the kitchen. The glow of a single lamp cast your shadow long and wobbly as you favored your uninjured side, doing your best not to hiss aloud at every step. Your eyes were set on a simple goal: a glass of water from the cabinet across the island.

Caitlyn’s voice drifted from the next room, something about a meeting in the morning, but you weren’t really listening. Your entire concentration was on not knocking over that vase sitting precariously close to the kitchen’s edge. When you finally reached your target, you lifted your arm, only to realize the glass was just out of reach. You stretched, wincing, your ribs protesting loudly. You’d been through worse, right? Another stretch and—

A throat cleared softly behind you. You froze mid-stretch.

“I told you to use your crutches,” Caitlyn said pointedly, appearing at the kitchen’s threshold. She leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, eyebrows raised. Her disapproval was evident.

You tried to play innocent, but your attempted smile turned into a pained grimace. “I’m fine,” you mumbled, “I’ve been through worse. Don’t see why I’m not healing faster. I’m like… superhuman or something.”

Caitlyn snorted softly, moving towards you. “You were shot,” she reminded calmly, “nearly died, might I add, and most of your ribs are either broken or bruised.” She gently took the glass from the shelf and handed it to you. “I’m quite certain no one expects you to bounce back in a day.”

You rolled your eyes. “Thanks, Dr. Caitlyn. I didn’t know you had a medical degree.” You took the water, and before you could drink, she leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

“I care about you,” she murmured against your mouth, “and I’d rather you not end up back in the hospital.” But you, ever the rebel, attempted to deepen the kiss, leaning in suggestively. Caitlyn pulled back just in time, shaking her head and placing a hand gently on your chest. “Easy there,” she teased, “doctor’s orders. No strenuous activity—including that.”

You pretended to pout, shuffling your way back toward the couch. “Spoil-sport,” you muttered under your breath.

Just as you were about to plop down (carefully) on the couch, the door creaked open. Jinx breezed in, Isha’s small footsteps echoing behind her. Your face lit up, smile bright. “Jinx!” you greeted with an enthusiastic wave, which caused a twinge in your side. Ouch. Worth it.

Caitlyn wasted no time. “Oh, perfect timing, Jinx,” she said, crossing her arms. “Someone here decided to go wandering around without assistance.”

You shot Caitlyn a half-hearted glare. “Traitor,” you hissed softly.

Jinx smirked, sauntering over, her purple eyes gleaming with mischief. She leaned in and kissed you softly, her lips just brushing yours. You tried to pull her closer—only for her to pull away, wagging a finger as if scolding a misbehaving puppy. “Tsk, tsk. What did the doc say? No heavy lifting, no strenuous activity. I’d say that includes making out, too.”

You groaned dramatically, grabbing a plushie—a weird, fuzzy creature Vi had gifted you with a “get well soon” note—and tossing it lamely toward Caitlyn. It soared a pitiful few inches before flopping to the floor near her feet.

Caitlyn gave you a deadpan look, and Jinx giggled, thoroughly enjoying the exchange.

Sevika and Vi had stepped out to arrange more substantial food for you and Isha, who had quietly taken a seat beside you, eyes shining as you offered her a slice of pineapple from a small bowl someone had left on the coffee table. You winked at her, tossing a piece gently across the living room, and to your delight, it landed perfectly in her mouth. Isha giggled, the sound like a tiny bell in the tense room, and you cheered quietly, wincing again but grinning through the pain.

Caitlyn and Jinx moved over to the kitchen island, speaking in hushed tones. Their posture was close, intimate in a cautious way. You pretended not to listen, but your ears perked up anyway.

“I’ve filed the necessary papers,” Caitlyn said, leaning forward, her voice steady but her nerves clearly on edge. “The council knows I intend to marry them. It’s… unexpected, but I want to make sure Mel understands what she’s dealing with. This gives us a legal edge. If they’re my spouse, I have more power, more rights to act.”

Jinx folded her arms, at first stunned by the mention of marriage. But then she cracked a smirk. “You’re serious? Marriage. Didn’t think you’d pull that card, Cupcake. But I gotta say, it’s bold.” Her tone turned thoughtful. “They’re worth it. Everything we’ve done—this fight, the pain—we owe it to them.”

Caitlyn nodded, her eyes cast down for a moment. Then she looked up, her expression softening. She reached out and took Jinx’s hand, fingers curling gently around hers. Jinx stiffened slightly, surprised by the tenderness. “Jinx,” Caitlyn began, voice quiet but firm, “I know we’ve had our differences. Hell, we used to be enemies. But I’ve come to respect you, to admire what you bring to their life. And I… I think I’ve come to care about you, too.”

Jinx’s eyes widened. She tried to play it off, a teasing gleam entering her gaze. “Careful, Piltie. Don’t get sappy on me now.” But her voice shook slightly. “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, then yeah… I guess I feel the same. We’re all tangled together now, and… I’m not complaining.”

In that soft moment, the sounds of your quiet laughter carried over. Caitlyn and Jinx glanced at you, lying on the couch with Isha. Isha giggled again as you attempted another pineapple toss, this time celebrating more quietly as it landed near her. You smiled, half delirious with fatigue and medication, and waved your free hand at them, your grin lopsided but happy.

Jinx and Caitlyn turned back to each other. It was settled, then. Their differences were trivial compared to what they’d almost lost.

As the two women straightened, Caitlyn’s cheeks tinted faintly pink, and Jinx’s smile turned mischievous. Jinx leaned in and kissed Caitlyn’s cheek, a gesture that spoke volumes—an agreement, a partnership. Caitlyn blushed harder, and Jinx chuckled softly.

From the couch, you were caught in stunned silence, your brain still registering the domestic chaos and unexpected confessions. You finally managed to whisper in a playful tone, “I must’ve missed a lot.”

They both looked at you, eyes shining with a new understanding. And in that shared gaze, something deeper formed—hope, resilience, and the promise of a future built on unity rather than division.

->->->

Late night starlight trickled through the windows, painting the kitchen in quiet hues of silver and blue. You stood hunched over the kitchen island, your shoulders relaxed, the marriage papers spread before you like a map to a future you never quite imagined. The silence was comforting. You flipped through the pages, absorbing the legalities that tethered your life to Caitlyn’s authority—and, indirectly, to Jinx and Isha. You’d recovered almost fully now, your aches and bruises reduced to faint reminders, your chest no longer wrapped in bandages. Still, you took your time reading, wanting to understand every clause, every promise lurking between the lines.

You felt her presence before you heard her. Caitlyn, leaning against the wall just out of your line of sight, arms folded softly. You knew she was there, watching. She always did that—let you have your moment, your breathing space, while keeping a vigilant eye. You didn’t acknowledge her right away, focusing on a particular paragraph that detailed the legal protections and rights transferred upon the union.

Eventually, Caitlyn spoke, her voice low and gentle. “I’m sorry it had to be this way,” she said, each word carefully weighed. “I never intended to corner you into a marriage for legal reasons. But Mel’s… actions left us with little choice. This was the best way to ensure you’d be safe, and that you’d have the power to continue your work, to keep building that bridge between Piltover and Zaun.”

You paused, letting her apology settle into the quiet. You turned the last page, running your fingertips over the ink. Finally, you lifted your gaze and fixed it on Caitlyn. Her silhouette was touched by moonlight, highlighting the concern etching her features. The purple glow in your eyes caught her attention, and you saw her posture ease when she realized the shimmer in your blood had rekindled. You were healing, truly.

Caitlyn tilted her head slightly, almost smiling. The worry in her face softened. The purple in your eyes meant something to her—strength, vitality, your unyielding spirit. “You’re getting stronger,” she said, her voice hitching a bit on that last word, as if it gave her comfort.

You leaned your elbows on the island, pushing the documents aside. “I’ve been thinking,” you began, choosing your words with care. “About Jinx, and you, and this whole arrangement. I don’t want Jinx left out. I never wanted that. I want… the both of you. For the rest of my life. No one else.”

Caitlyn’s lips parted, her eyes shining with an emotion she tried to contain. She nodded slowly. Without a word, she stepped forward and placed a small velvet box on the countertop. You raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at your lips. “Quick to get a ring, aren’t you?” you teased lightly, expecting some band for you.

With a slight, nervous laugh, Caitlyn flipped the box open. You leaned in, only to gasp softly. Inside wasn’t your ring—it was one for Jinx. A beautiful piece, edgy yet elegant, something that would suit Jinx’s wild spirit. Your eyes flicked up to Caitlyn’s in quiet awe.

She took a breath and began. “I’ve come to realize something,” Caitlyn said softly. “I’m happiest when we’re together. All three of us. I think… we’re stronger that way. And I want Jinx to know that this isn’t just about you and me, or legalities. It’s about all of us. I want her to be part of this—of us—for real.”

You felt your chest tighten with gratitude and love. You let out a soft laugh, relief and warmth flooding you. Caitlyn’s confession made your heart flutter. You reached across the island, your fingers closing around her hand. You felt the coolness of her skin, the subtle tremor in her fingertips.

In that dimly lit kitchen, surrounded by silence and the distant hum of a sleeping city, you followed an impulsive spark. You moved quickly, your body barely protesting as you lunged forward. Caitlyn gasped softly, caught off guard, as you pressed your lips to hers. This wasn’t a light kiss—this was you pouring everything into it, your soul’s breath, your heart’s yearnings, your mind’s gratitude. All the pain, the fear, the relief, the love coalesced in that single, passionate moment.

Caitlyn’s free hand rose to your shoulder, and you felt her smile against your mouth, her breathing unsteady. You were aware of the faint scent of her hair, the soft hum of her small contented sigh. When you finally pulled away, you stayed close, resting your forehead against hers. Her eyes were wide, tears welling, and in that luminous haze of vulnerability, you whispered, “I love you.”

It was simple, raw. The words came out quieter than expected, almost breaking on a sob you didn’t know you held. You loved her. You told her at last.

Caitlyn’s eyes shone as the tears finally spilled over. She let out a breathless laugh, shaky but joyful. “You…” she began, voice trembling. “You love me… I love you, too. I love you so much.” She repeated it, as if tasting the words, as if by saying it again and again she could make it more real, more permanent. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

You smiled, your face damp with your own tears. The world felt infinitely kinder in that moment. The darkness of the past weeks receded, leaving behind a fragile but glowing promise. Your heart, so long battered and tested, found solace in Caitlyn’s voice, in her words, in her love.

In the silence that followed, you thought about Jinx asleep in the other room, Isha dreaming peacefully, and Vi, Sevika, Ekko all working on a future shaped by your shared struggles. This was your family, unexpected and eccentric, forged in crisis and tempered by love.

As you stood there, forehead to forehead with Caitlyn, tears drying on your cheeks, you knew that no matter what Mel tried, or what storms lay ahead, you had something unbreakable. You had each other.

->

The city of Zaun breathed differently now—whispers of a gentler future drifted through its alleys, and the hum of machinery felt less hostile. You walked at a measured pace beside Sevika, your footsteps echoing along metal walkways and old stone paths. Rusted pipes and flickering neon signs painted a palette of subdued color over the streets, and you caught sight of fewer rough characters lurking in the shadows. It was as if the city itself exhaled a long, weary sigh and found some measure of calm.

Sevika tossed a small gear between her metal fingers, eyeing you with a guarded fondness. “You know,” she began, voice gruff but not unfriendly, “things’ve changed since you decided to play hero. Not so many muggings, not so many fights. The gangs keep to their corners, and I don’t have to watch my back every damn second.” She laughed dryly, “I’d say you’ve become a god here, but I know better than to inflate your ego.”

You snorted softly, shaking your head. “God?” you repeated, eyebrows lifting in amused disbelief. “Come on, Sevika, I’m just someone who wanted peace since I was a kid. Nothing more.” The thought made your heart warm. “I never planned on becoming some legendary figure. I just… wanted everyone to stop hurting each other.”

Sevika shrugged, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Well, you got what you wanted, for now.” She gestured ahead, where Jinx’s lair beckoned with its now more colorful lights dancing across broken beams and suspended platforms. The place looked different, touched by brighter hues and small tokens of cheer that hadn’t been there before.

When you reached the door, Sevika stopped abruptly and hesitated. Then, with a grunt that sounded too embarrassed to be anything but sincere, she pulled you into a sudden hug. Her mechanical arm clinked softly, and her human arm tightened gently around your shoulder. “Thanks,” she said quietly, her voice rough with something unspoken. “For everything. Don’t forget to invite me to the wedding,” she added, pulling back and feigning a scowl to mask how much that gesture meant.

You huffed a laugh, mock-pushing her away. “Sure thing,” you teased. “Just don’t complain about the seating arrangements.”

Sevika rolled her eyes, stepping back with a half-smile. “Whatever, I’ll take Isha with me. Give you and Jinx some time.” She waved off your thanks and walked away, footsteps heavy, as her form vanished around a corner.

Turning your attention to the lair, you entered slowly, eyes adjusting to the changing lights. The hum of music reverberated softly, a half-finished melody drifting from Jinx’s workbench. You leaned against a freshly installed railing—the edges no longer looked so sharp and dangerous. The place felt safer, more lived-in, as if Jinx had softened its edges in subtle tribute to the peace you’d fought for.

She hadn’t noticed you yet. Her goggles perched on her forehead, she tinkered with something small and metallic. The steady rhythm of her tools tapping and the quiet hum of the music created an intimate atmosphere. As if sensing your gaze, Jinx brushed her hair aside to fix her goggles and spotted you. The smile that graced her lips was different now—calmer, warmer, more full of love than mischief.

You pushed off the railing, crossing the space to her. “Working on something explosive?” you teased softly, voice low in the quiet room.

Jinx’s eyes sparked. “Maybe,” she admitted, her tone playfully secretive. “Let’s just say if Mel ever tries something again, I’ve got a few… surprises.” She turned down the music, her attention fully on you.

You stood before her, a good head taller, and as you reached out to brush a stray strand of her blue hair from her face, her lashes fluttered. She pressed closer, sliding her hands lightly over your waist. Jinx’s voice dropped to a whisper, “You’re so beautiful, you know that? The first time I saw you from above, I knew…” She swallowed hard, eyes glistening in the low light. “I knew you’d be someone extraordinary.”

Your heart twisted sweetly. Tears threatened at the corners of your eyes as you listened. Overwhelmed by how far you’d all come—Jinx, Caitlyn, you—and what it meant to be so cared for, so cherished. The tears escaped, sliding down your cheeks silently.

Jinx, ever observant, gently cupped your face, her thumb sweeping away the wetness. “You’re perfect,” she whispered, her voice quivering with intensity. “Your soul… it’s what the world needs. You, Caitlyn, and me—it’s crazy, but we fit together. We belong.”

You pulled her into a hug, your arms wrapping securely around her slender frame. She murmured reassurance after reassurance, stroking your back, calming the trembling in your chest.

As your emotions steadied, you leaned down to her ear, your breath warm against her skin. “Jinx,” you said softly, “I love you.” The words fell quiet but potent, like a secret only meant for her.

She pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. Something shifted—her pupils dilated, the hue of her irises flashing from purple to a brilliant blue, catching the faint reflection of your own eyes doing the same. A moment of quiet magic passed between you, some silent acknowledgment of a bond deeper than words. You both gasped softly, surprised and delighted by the sensation.

Jinx’s lips curved into a trembling smile, and before you could speak again, she grabbed your face and drew you into a deep, fervent kiss. You responded with equal longing, pressing her gently against her workbench. Her quiet whimpers and sighs rang sweet and gentle in your ears. She held you as if you might vanish, her fingers tangling into your hair, pulling you impossibly closer.

When finally you parted, both of you breathless, she whispered, “I love you too. More than you’ll ever know.”

For a moment, the world stood still in the silence of her workshop. Just you and her, your heartbeats aligning. The distant hum of the city seemed muted, the future stretched open before you—complicated, challenging, but bright with possibility. And at last, you understood what it meant to be not just a part of Jinx’s life, but loved by her, and by Caitlyn, wholly and completely.

-------------------------

This is for that ANON. Here you go pookie lololol

[lillypad-monopoly]

Wild Life Episode 5 Thoughts

(Except I'm insane about Martyn's ep)

LIFE SERIES TRIVIA is DIABOLICAL! The watchers literally being like "how well do you guys know your pain and suffering?" (also sorry only winners remember theory truthers)

The way Grian and Scar are such bitter ex-soulmates that Mumbo has to point it out is hilarious. (also them getting even and saying "Just like Third Life" hurt my heart)

Grian not remembering iconic moments from his own series is so funny. What do you mean he only knows Martyn beheaded Ren with an axe from fanart? Grian gaining possession of the Red Winter Axe was a whole plot point.

MUMBO FIRST OUT! IN SESSION 5! The canary curse is broken for real now guys but at what cost.

Grian standing on the ruins of the tower by himself going through the five stages of grief over Mumbo's death as the sun rises in the background is a gorgeous piece of fanart waiting to happen

Martyn you didn't need to start the episode by talking about how Ren is providing for you, you're asking for the shipping at this point 🤣

MARTYN YOU DO THE LORE OFC JIMMY AND TANGO WERE OUT FIRST. Also REN YOU WERE LITERALLY IN DOUBLE LIFE. RIP Ren/BigB we know where his true loyalties lie

THE TWO NICKLES MEME BREAKING CONTAINMENT I CAN'T

Ren inviting BigB to join the RenWood Mound alliance WITHOUT REMEMBERING DOUBLE LIFE is so insane I don't even know what to say.

OF COURSE SCAR REMEMBERS THE DESERT DUO FLOWERS I'M GOING TO BE SICK

Martyn and Ren saying they're going to be boat bros. This has been coming since last session but I NEED Joel and Etho to call them out on it

"We're boat boys," MARTYN INTHELITTLEWOOD WHEN I CATCH YOU-

Etho yelling for Bdubs to hit him so they could test if the wildcard affected damage and then Tango going "smack me harder~" in the background was diabolical. Suuuure you guys are all PG.

Etho sitting in a boat for Joel to jump over him feels like some boat boys relationship symbolism I'm not smart enough to explain

So Etho is currently living with team BET, but allied with the Four Gs, and in the family with Gem and Joel. Wildcard Etho is so back!

Of course Impulse immediately remembered the clock question.

Joel boasting about how he immediately knows all the questions is peak Joel form and I would expect nothing less. It is kind of warranted though because everybody else is waffling on the simple ones.

Joel is now two for two on unquestioningly trusting Etho only to have something bad happen to him and not even being mad about it what is wrong with this man 😭

Does Joel have the censor bleep on his keyboard or did he just straight up start swearing at Tango and know they would both have to censor it in post to get the effect that he was also making the noise?

Scott's gone from a creaking fanboy to a body horror situation and I'm living for it (also considering he's agreed to "go wild" this session--am I sensing a Scott corruption arc?)

Scott cutting directly from saying he and Jimmy were never married even though they called each other husbands to a scene WITH Jimmy was kind of an insane choice

Gaslight Gatekeep Girlboss Girldad has been confirmed by Scott as the actual reason for the 4Gs. I still think Gaslight Gatekeep Girlboss ImpulseSV is funnier but good to have an official ruling

Scott giving up his life for Pearl and them being good natured about it and calling it therapy! I love them so much!

Lizzie being the only person who's not exicted when a trivia bot spawns is so funny. Even the other players who weren't in all the seasons don't seem to be as miffed by them as she is.

Lizzie's flaming snail arising out of that hole while smiling is potentially the funniest thing I've seen all day. Why did it look like that 🤣

[goodlucktai]

love that doesn’t have a place to rest

one piece word count: 2.5k pairing: sabo & luffy, ASL brothers this was my piece for the @flameemperorzine ! leftover sales are open now ❤️‍🔥 title borrowed from never love an anchor by the crane wives

x

When Sabo wakes up, he does it slowly. It’s a peaceful, drifting sort of journey back into the world.

He’s comfortable, which must mean that he’s safe, which must mean that he’s home. When he opens his eyes, he’ll see a familiar canopy of rich greenery hanging over him, the pale light of fresh dawn peeking through the leaves.

Sabo isn’t usually the first one awake, and when he is, it’s only by a slim margin.

Any second now, he thinks, not even fooling himself with the put-upon annoyance, there will be a tiny rubber body flinging itself on top of him like a fun-sized catapult. Luffy’s voice will be loud enough to rouse the whole mountain when he cries, “Good morning!” He always says it like every single day they get to wake up in their ramshackle little treehouse together is a wonderful surprise, even though they’ll always get to wake up here together, forever and ever until they grow up. It's not the type of thing a little kid should be grateful for, but Luffy has all sorts of silly ideas. 

With a groan, Ace will roll over and tug his blanket up over his head. “Before breakfast, he’s your brother,” he’ll grumble.

Sabo will make sure to complain about the early hour, and call Luffy names and tug on his cheek so that beaming smile stretches even wider—but he’ll still get up and follow Luffy down the ladder into the jungle and stumble into half a dozen little adventures well before the sun has a chance to really shine. 

And sooner than later, Ace will join them, because he can’t fool himself, either. The sky always looks the best and bluest when they’re looking up at it together. Sabo knows he’d give up every extra hour of sleep and everything else in his whole life for that view, side by side by side.

He opens his eyes. He sees the ceiling of the infirmary instead. And then he remembers.

The person Sabo was ten years ago and the person he is today meet in the middle with an earth-shattering crash. He lurches upright so suddenly that Koala, dozing on the chair beside the bed in a precarious lean, tumbles to the floor with a screech.   

Sabo crashes into the communications room at a dead sprint, taking the door halfway off its hinges, and demands an update. He looks manic enough that three people start talking at once, about three different missions, and a fourth slips cautiously out of his line of sight in the direction of the kitchens.

Once deep breaths are had and calming tea has been acquired and Sabo is slightly more specific about his request, he’s read in on Fire Fist’s botched execution and all other relevant developments he missed during his episode. He thanks everyone for their assistance, knocks back the cup of herbal tea he let go cold, to the entire room’s collective disgust, and then stalks off to steal a carriage.

He could probably just requisition one, if he spoke to Dragon—but he would probably also fling himself at the man claws first like a territorial jungle cat, and demand to know what the fuck he was doing that was more important than helping his own son, if he spoke to Dragon. So he’s going to just steal it and spare them both the trouble.

Sabo doesn’t think about Ace. He can’t think about Ace without crumpling to the floor under the weight of impossible grief and letting it crush him into tiny, insubstantial pieces, and right now there’s something he still has to do. He very, very carefully doesn’t think about Ace.

Luffy disappeared before the end of the Summit War, long-gone when the dust finally settled, but it isn’t hard to find him. The oceans are unknowable and wild, but so is Sabo, and so is the place that raised him, the looming rainforest and its giant beasts and birds and deadly-beautiful flora. If he had to, he would bend the world into the shape he wanted, he would force it to give up its secrets at knifepoint—but he doesn’t have to. There is an army of intelligence at his disposal, contacts in all corners of every country.

And there is Ivankov, whose feelings are obvious even over the snailphone. They sound bone-tired and worried in a way that pricks restlessly at Sabo’s heart like a million needles. Iva explains that they hitched a ride away from Marineford with the Pirate Empress, of all people, who seems to treat anyone allied with Luffy as an ally of her own. Boa Hancock’s ship was hailed by the Heart Pirates, the rookie crew that had rescued and absconded with Sabo’s injured brother, and she gave them enthusiastic permission to shelter at Amazon Lily indefinitely.

“That,” Iva told him, their voice world-wearier than Sabo had ever heard it, “is where Strawhat-boy will be. Whatever need you have of him, please go gently.”

Sabo doesn’t have a gentle bone left in his body and arrives on Amazon Lily like a tropical storm. He’s met with open hostility at first, for all of ten seconds. That’s how long it takes Trafalgar Law to lift his head and say, “So you’re Strawhat’s brother? Emporio warned me you were coming. Took your time showing up.” At which point Sabo becomes an honored guest and the eldest Boa all but trips over herself trying to make a good impression.

He’ll definitely have an opinion about all of these things some other time. It all goes up on the shelf where he’s keeping Ace, safe in the back of his brain. He has to focus on what he can still do—the person he can still reach. It’s too late for him to save anybody but Luffy is his responsibility. His only family. His little brother.  

“Where is he?” Sabo says, doing a passable job of sounding like a human being.

Trafalgar tilts his head eastward, where the coast begins to climb upwards into a craggy cliffside. Jinbe, beside him, has his arms folded over an impressive swathe of bandages that wrap around his chest and midsection and looks Sabo up and down with a critical gaze. He clearly isn’t eager to interject where it isn’t his place, but he’s equally as unwilling to let someone who might be a threat go near the young captain in question while he’s hurting. It’s surprisingly proprietary for a person who has only had Luffy’s acquaintance for a short time.

But then Luffy has always had that effect on people, hasn’t he? He worms his way in. He makes you care.

“The surgery was a success,” Trafalgar says without overture, like the word ‘surgery’ in correlation to Sabo’s brother doesn’t send ice down his spine. “But it wouldn’t have been for anyone without the Op-op Fruit. And there’s still a good chance that all my hard work will be rendered a waste of time if that kid goes on another rampage.”

“He was disoriented when he woke up,” Jinbe adds carefully. “He went looking for his brother. And it—pained him. To realize that Ace was gone. He was hurting himself. I told him to look past what he lost, at the things he still had.” His deep, strong voice softens as he goes on, “If his grief wasn’t so self-destructive, I would have let him have it. He deserves to have it.”

Sabo is halfway up a hill before he’s aware of moving in the first place, using his hands to climb when it gets steep, not feeling it when sharp branches cut against his face as he shoves his way through them. Observation Haki comes naturally to him but he thinks he’d be able to find Luffy even without it. His soul or heart or something equally as important inside him would tug him in the right direction.

He was always the best at finding his brothers.

Sabo knows right where to go. He doesn’t know how he knows, but his feet guide him without faltering, picking his way over the river stepping-stone by -stone. And as he gets closer, over the cheerful babbling of the water and the thrushes in the trees, Sabo can hear the faint sound that’s become so familiar to him over the last couple of months—the sound of a little kid crying.

“This is why Ace calls you a baby, you know,” Sabo says to the hollow log Luffy is hiding in.

Luffy stubbornly won’t budge, so Sabo crawls in after him. Luffy’s face is all sticky and dirty, and Makino would have a lot to say about it if she could see him, but she’s not here. A little dirt never killed anybody. The tears bother Sabo, though.

They bother Ace, too. He probably remembers as well as Sabo does how it feels to be left alone while you cried. They both learned a long time ago that no one was going to come make it better.

Luffy hasn’t learned that yet. He still cries over every little thing that hurts or scares him, and Ace gets loud and mean because he hates it when his siblings are hurt or scared. He hates it even more that this crummy world failed Luffy as wholly as it failed Ace and Sabo. 

But it’s not the same, not really. Luffy can tear up over every heartache and frustration and nighttime fear, and his big brothers will come running. It’s annoying sometimes, and upsetting other times, and they can’t always make it better, but Sabo and Ace would never leave Luffy to cry all by himself.

Luffy isn’t crying when Sabo sits beside him. His dark eyes are wide and faraway, gazing out over the water the way he used to when they were children, dreaming about their future.

His brown skin has a sickly, ashen pallor to it. There are bruises beneath his eyes and an unhealthy thinness to his frame. He is covered, head to toe, in bandages. Even his hands are wrapped up, finger by finger. It’s proof of how far he would go, how much damage he’s willing to do to himself for just the opportunity to reach out and save someone he loves.

Sabo doesn’t know what to say. This is one of the most important people in his life, and he failed this person so spectacularly. He opens his mouth, but he can feel the words forming right before he speaks them—Do you hate me? He closes his mouth.

Coward, he berates himself venomously. If Luffy hates you, it’s as much as you deserve.

But his lips stay glued shut. He can’t open himself to that inevitable blow, not yet. The question goes up on that mental shelf next to Ace. Instead, Sabo sits beside his only living brother for as long as he’s allowed.

“I haven’t seen you since I was little, Sabo,” Luffy says suddenly. “I saw you all the time back then.”

Sabo’s heart is racing. He’s confused and unsettled and hurting so keenly he could lay down and die from it. But he can’t let Luffy go unanswered, so he says, “Of course you did. We lived together.”

A faint smile touches the corners of Luffy’s mouth, like some distant part of him wants to laugh.

“I mean after you died. We saw you a lot. We talked to you and you would talk back. Sometimes I wondered if maybe you were really still there and everyone just got it wrong. I was dumb.”

“No,” Sabo says quietly.

“I thought I’d see Ace now,” Luffy goes on, in a meandering, conversational way. “The way we used to see Sabo. But Sabo is here again instead. I’m not mad, ‘Bo. I missed you. I wish you hadn’t left.”

Sabo doesn’t know how to hold this without it breaking him. He needs more hands. He needs his twin, his anchor, his other half, to help with the heavy-lifting. He isn’t enough on his own. He will never, ever, ever be enough on his own to make up for Ace dying in Luffy’s arms, bleeding all over Luffy’s hands, carving a hole into Luffy’s heart right next to the one Sabo left there ten years ago.

There is nothing that he can say that will make this better. The only thing he can do is be here, and put his arm around Luffy the way he used to when they were children, and whisper, “I missed you, too, Lu. I wanted to stay.”

Luffy doesn’t cry how Sabo remembers. He doesn’t throw his head back and wail and shove balled fists into his eyes. But the way he curls against Sabo’s side is familiar—the way he makes himself smaller, and tucks his face against Sabo’s shoulder like he’s seeking shelter, and winds rubber limbs around him until they’re too well-tangled to do anything but hold each other.

The sun sinks slowly through the sky, and Luffy’s body gets heavy and loose. He falls asleep between one thick, hitching breath and the next. 

“I don’t believe him,” Sabo’s twin says incredulously, staring down at the little boy sprawled like a sack of potatoes across the mossy rocks. “As soon as it gets dark, he’s out like a light.”

Sabo laughs, the way he’s only recently learned how to laugh. It bubbles up all the way from his stomach, from the squishy warm center of him. He isn’t allowed to be noisy at the mansion, but Ace’s face always scrunches in a wolfish grin at the sound.

“And he’s up with the sun, too,” Sabo says. “Better than an alarm clock.”

He sloshes across the shallow part of the river and kneels in the muddy bank, beginning the familiar chore of gathering up a seven-year-old’s sprawling rubber limbs so they can carry him home. Luffy always droops when he sleeps, like taffy left out in the sun, his bones going all bendy since there isn’t conscious thought to keep them firm. He’s as light as a kid half his size, and twice as much work.

“Brat’s lucky we don’t just leave him here,” Ace mutters, but he doesn’t mean it. He sits carefully still while Sabo situates Luffy on his back, and keeps one rough, scarred hand wrapped carefully around one of Luffy’s soft wrists the whole way back up the mountain.

Their little brother only comes close to stirring once, and all he does is press his face against Ace’s shoulder with a content sigh that’s so quiet it could almost be a secret. 

Luffy is lucky that he has someone to carry him home. But Sabo and Ace are lucky, too. They have someone to carry.

Sabo rests his cheek on the top of Luffy’s head, and listens to the marathon march of his heart. He counts every beat. He feels like a ghost.

“I wanted to stay,” Sabo says again. He hopes that someone’s listening.

[always-a-king-or-queen]

Miss Pevensie, they say, can you identify these bodies for us? And you try, gentlest sibling, you try your best. But the tears are thick in your throat and the grief is bitter on your tongue, and when you shut your eyes you see fire and steel, twisting together and crushing the breath from their bodies.

You look at your father, and mother, and cousin, still and silent on their backs, bruised and bloodied and unsmiling, and their faces are anything but familiar. Were their eyes open you would be looking into the face of a stranger. You press your hand over your mouth, and you do not cry, and you tell them what they want to know. These are my parents, you hear yourself say. This is my cousin. They nod, they thank you, they direct you forward. More, more, more corpses to identify. More losses to count.

You look at your eldest brother, golden blond hair spread across his forehead, thick like the mane of a lion. There is gravel in his skin and soot on his cheeks and his face is pale, hands folded over his chest and blood threaded into his yellow sweater. Red against gold. For a moment the combination brushes your brain, touches a distant memory of battle and clashing swords, but you blink and it is gone. This is my brother Peter, you say, in a voice choked with grief. The sky looks black outside the window, and your brother’s arm still feels warm when you touch it a final time.

You look to your younger brother, dark hair tousled, blood leaking between his lips. His skin is frost pale, like snow, so white he appears to be made of stone. Shrapnel cuts into his cheeks and sends crimson trails across his face. His hands are clenched, cap askew on hair smeared with blood. They tell you he died with his sister in his arms, body curled around her in a vain attempt to keep her safe. You stare at him with a lump in your throat, and for a moment you seem to see him, silver crown upon his head, smiling with quiet gentleness. It fades, and you whisper, This is my brother Edmund. The tree outside the window seems to wilt a little as you speak. Your brother’s cheek is like ice beneath your fingertips.

You look last at your sister. She is peaceful, lips lifted in a smile, hair tangled beneath her head and shoulders. She grips something in one hand— a tiny wooden carving. A lion. Your throat clenches to see it, but you do not know why. Her skin is warm, like sunlight, but there is such coldness in her face. Such emptiness. Blood smears her sky blue dress, and you weep to see it. Blood does not belong on your baby sister. For a moment the red makes you remember her, dancing wild by a fire with berry juice smeared on her hands and mouth, but surely not. Surely such a thing never happened. This is my sister Lucy, you murmur, and are able to say no more. For a moment it seems as if a mist touches the window, and your sister’s skin is hot against your palms.

You turn away, raven-dark hair falling over your cheek, and stare out the window with tears burning your throat. There is no sun, and you think that perhaps there will never be sun again. It has been taken away forever.

(For a moment you seem to hear a voice, deep, gentle, loving. To the radiant southern sun. For a moment you feel the weight of a crown in your hair. Perhaps you are losing your sanity, bit by bit. Perhaps it was shattered the moment you heard the news).

They asked you to identify the bodies, and you did, because they are your family. They were your family. You loved each and every one of them. You loved your mother's soft fingers in your hair and your father's deep chuckle. You loved your older brother's fierce kindness and your little brother's quiet demeanor and your baby sister's merriment. You loved them all. And now you stare through the window at a sky that is heavy with rain and think of flames and twisted metal and the blood on your siblings' skin.

You close your eyes. For a brief moment you think you smell lilies, and salt, and Lucy is laughing and Edmund is smiling and Peter's arms are slung around their shoulders, and then they are looking at you and beckoning and there is a lion with golden eyes and the sun is rising into a damp new sky.

Your eyes open slowly, glazed over with tears that spill down your cheeks like rain.

And for a moment, just for a moment, you remember.

[chrolloluvr]

May I request Mammon angst HCs please? Like the reader is possibly breaking up with him or something? (i love your HCs for mammon<3)

Mammon Breaking Up Hcs

note: Thank you i'm so glad you like them pookie!! also yes i love this idea ❤️❤️

warnings: Cursing, creepy behavior, unbalanced power dynamic, killing. Not proofread!

Female!Reader, (no specific gender, so can be GenderNeutral!Reader)

It would be best to tell him over text, since he is guaranteed to throw a toddler like temper tantrum if you ever told him in person.

So you text him over text, what happens? He 100% thinks you're joking at first. He thinks you aren't being serious at all, and that wow babe, you might even be a bigger clown than I am.

But when he realized that you were being serious, he gets angry. How dare you? Why would you ever break up with him? He is the king of greed, he has trillions of dollars in the bank, so why don't you want to stay by his side? Did he do something? Did he hurt you? What happened? Baby, we can sort this out-

In a way, still doesn't think you are being serious, which is what he tries to tell himself. So he will let you leave, and will act like he doesn't need you.

Another author said this already, but he will 100% go through the stages of grief, (he will never go through acceptance, because in his mind, you will always come crawling back to him.)

He will be in denial for a very long time. Let's say you move out, and even start residing in another ring. He will send you texts. All. The. Time.

Your phone will mods likely have 103 Missed Calls, 986 Messages, and 37 Voicemails. He is crazy, and especially crazy for you. So when you don't respond to him, he does not understand why. He likes to think that you were just going on vacation for a while. He genuinely thinks you two are still together.

Anger- Once he sees that you have indeed moved on, and that he is no longer living in fantasy land, he gets extremely angry. His general mood spikes, he lashes out (wayyy more than he used to), and a-lot of his servants are scared to talk to him. Will absolutely keep bombarding you with texts every day. He will even get his servants to start texting you on his 100's of extra HellPhones.

Mamm 🕸️💚 11:34

Come hone ygu little cungt

Mamm 🕸️💚 11:35

ANSWERF ME.

Mamm 🕸️💚 11:35

Do ygu knoe how easily i can replaece yu

Mamm🕸️💚 11:36

Fine go shack uo with sorm dirty hoboes you little slut

Mamm 🕸️💚 11:36

I dont kneed u and youir mediocar holes

So yeah... thats just one example. He has so many spelling mistakes because he is typing so fast, and practically brekaing his phone from how angry he is.

But in reality he does need you. You are. the one thing that keeps him running. However he will never, over his dead body, ever admit that.

Bargaining- He will send things to your... new home... in gift baskets. Fizzarolli plushies, flowers, tickets to his live events, expensive jewelry, the list goes on. It gets to a point where (if you live in an apartment complex) People start stealing his gifts and start putting them up online to sell. (And they go for 10s of thousands of dollars.)

He send these to you so that you can hopefully come crawling back into his life, so that he can control you again.

At this point, you have most likely made it public about your distance between you and the sin. Your relationship was extremely public, and known by everybody.

He refuses to speak publicly, because he wants people to think he still controls you. And when i say your relationship was big, it was definitely the most talked about relationship in all of Hell. People will go nuts about you two breaking up. Another author said this as well, but people will go crazy with the comments.

"L Mammon fumbled so bad its actually wild."

"Bros got plenty other options 💀"

"Why tf would she/they break up w/ HIM???🤰"

"Now that hes single I call dibs 🙌"

You try your best to ignore the comments, but eventually you cant, its not just online, but in real life you feel cornered as well. You might even start to reconsider your departure with him. Which is exactly where he wants you.

Depression- He spirals into somewhat of an insecure man. He strives to be better. He ups his game for his big pageants, soon to be bigger, just to impress you.

He maaaay or may not have killed people in your favor. This is known, obviously, but his obsession along with his newfound insecurity has left him no choice but to show that if you dont want to come home, he will show you its safer than anywhere else.

Overall, if you do end up coming back to him, he is overjoyed with happiness, and will take extra precautions to ensure you wont ever walk out on him and his warm embrace again.

However if you end up never wanting anything to do with him, he will be devastated, but he will force himself to get over it. He is Mammon, he truly does not need you. In reality, you were somebody he felt an unexplainable feeling to protect. He absolutely can live without you, but for some reason, he feels like he cant. If somebody were to ever bring you up, he would lash out, and make his anger everybody's problem. He may get over you after a while, but he will never fully accept the fact that you left him.

[s0fter-sin]

ghost stares at the ceiling, chest heaving in a harsh pant; sweat ice on his clammy flesh and soaked into the sheet he restlessly kicks away.

ears still ringing, his fingertips blindly drift down to trail along his vivisection scar. he half-expects blood to smear in their wake. his own line of solomon, who ordered him split in twain; half of him given to a grieving mother and half left with the grieving to be.

just for both his broken halves to be rejected.

what did it make him that his mother grieved him more than she loved him? that she begged to be relieved of him more adamantly than she begged to receive him? why did his worth spill out with his drawn blood? why was his pain lesser than hers?

his hand flexes, digging into the raised scar like it’ll part beneath his fingertips to plunge into his mangled insides. no one knows the cruelty of reforming the halved; his name, his being, not nearly as important as his body when he was stripped from himself. no one knows the pain of healing and understanding losing pieces of yourself means losing your value along with them.

how many more pieces did he have to lose before he was halved once more? before his very presence incurred grief so strong it was better to be rid of him than cradle his bloodied remains?

did the infant fight himself? did he age always at odds with himself; his halves never truly whole? he hopes he wasn’t, that he was spared the loss of self; the fear that one may be welcomed over the other.

who will he lose when the inevitable comes? when he’s ripped apart again? simon? or ghost? is it better to be cursed with choice just like his mother or live with an aftermath chosen for him? does it matter if in the end, he convinces himself there was nothing of him left to lose?

his head lolls to the side and the wild buck of his chest slows. he watches johnny beside him, his face lax with the rare peace of sleep; his cheek squished against the pillow, his lips pursed as long breaths escape him.

johnny. soap. never torn asunder but two all the same.

he carefully reaches out and ghosts his fingers along the jagged scar on his chin. even in sleep, he presses into his bloodied touch. he’s never fled his half-flesh, never shies away from his gore as it spills unbidden from his cleaved torso. he holds on where his mother let him go; cups his stomach to hold his insides in place and never minds the blood that drips through his fingers.

simon will never let him become his own solomon and cannibalise himself. he will never let him question which half of him has more value; which pieces he can afford to lose before he’s cast aside.

ghost’s soap. simon’s johnny. his.

whole, in any incarnation.

[senualothbrok]

Come What May

Summary: On what Gale believes is his last night alive, you cannot give him your body. But there are countless ways to declare love, and infinite ways to express it.

An alternative act 2 romance scene, featuring a Tav who is a cleric of Ilmater. "Come What May" is a song from "Moulin Rouge".

AO3 link

Non-18+. Angst with a happy ending.

Trigger warnings: references to prostitution (Tav's mother), sexual trauma, grief/bereavement, graphic depictions of illness, Gale's suicidal ideation.

A/N: This fic is a response to the anon who requested an alternative act 2 romance scene between Gale and a Tav who wants to save intimacy for after marriage. I feel that I should apologise because I am clearly incapable of writing a straightforwardly sweet/romantic piece which does not involve trauma and angst of some sort. I have no idea why this happened, please forgive me.

Please note the trigger warnings and exercise self-care. It is, however, angst with a happy ending.

I highly recommend listening to "Come What May" from Moulin Rouge during/after you read this.

I deliberated over whether to post this. It feels like my weakest work, and I feel slightly ashamed about it. I'm still not sure if it's good enough to post, but decided to bite the bullet because I wanted to give it to the anon who reached out. I really hope it does bring some comfort and enjoyment to someone out there.

I cannot thank my dear friends @inglorionamy-ammy and @dekariosclan enough for being truly wonderful beta readers and helping me with some major edits on this piece. Thank you and I am forever grateful for your kind hearts and keen minds.

“I’m in love with you.”

There is anguish in Gale’s eyes. His voice trembles with fear and urgency. You feel it all, a sunbeam shooting through the blue-green haze he has conjured around you. For you. 

You gaze at him, breathless. Nothing compares, not even the beauty and wonder of his creation. When Gale looks at you, you do not feel dread, that ancient squirming beneath your skin. He is not the lumbering colossus of your nightmares, leaving a trail of whimpering bruises on your mother’s flesh. When he is near, you feel a yearning to draw closer, not away. You had never thought that possible with a man.

In that moment, you are possessed by a wild terror. An agonising thought that he will slip through your fingers, as though he never was. His last night alive. 

Your heart surges, and you cannot stop it. You answer without thinking.

“I’m in love with you too.”

Panic seizes you. Your admission is a sacred boundary crossed. A bulwark broken. You have the urge to bolt before all is lost.

But then Gale’s face lifts. It radiates with a smile, and all at once, you are beaming with the knowledge that you are the cause. Fleetingly, you let yourself imagine the miracle of seeing that smile again and again for the rest of your days. It is not a leering grin from which you flee, nor a repulsed grimace from which you hide. Sometimes, in his presence, there is something about solitude that no longer feels like safety, but loss. It bewilders you.

He huffs out a laugh, and you are mesmerised by the curl of his eyelashes, delicate as butterfly wings. 

“That’s a relief. It’d be a shame to spend my final hours making an ass of myself.”

There is a flame in his eyes that sets you alight. You cannot look away. You do not want to. Something swollen simmers in the space between you, just as it had that night when the Weave had made you one. 

He dips towards you. You are drifting towards him, dizzy from his scent. It is like nothing you have breathed before. There is no trace of sourness, no stale grease. It is sandalwood and leather, scrolls and soap. You are entranced by the plump curve of Gale’s lips, the soft earth of his eyes. In your mind, you see the smooth curve of his shoulders, broad and welcoming. His feather light fingers turning a page, like a sculptor’s touch on setting clay. 

The glaring marks on your mother’s neck, withering into wounds. The blood of her scabs, pooling in her navel.

You flinch.

Confusion flits across his features. You shift away.

“I'm sorry,” you manage. “I can't.”

You are winded by his spasm of hurt, a storm of despair, rejection, doubt. Part of you wishes you did not have this gift, this curse of Ilmater - to read others’ pain, to feel others' suffering so deeply it becomes your own. And you know, as you reel from the chains you cannot shed, that you should say no more. But you cannot bear it. You cannot let him suffer from a lie.

“I love you,” you choke. “But I can't.”

His brows steeple. He is silent. The thought that he does not believe you is a torment. You cannot be another loss, another reason for him to believe his life means nothing. To convince himself there is no one who would mourn his death. 

The words spill out as though you are clutching, searching. 

“I made a vow.” 

He sucks in a sharp breath. “A vow.” His gaze darkens. “You're promised to another.”

“No.” You jerk your head, frantic. “No. It’s not that…” 

He stiffens, as though he is braced for a blow. That he would expect harm from you is devastating.

“I made a promise to Ilmater,” you confess. “I can't be… intimate with anyone. Not like that.”

His eyes widen. You notice that there are flecks of gold in the brown of his irises, flaring with surprise. You fumble for proof, excuses, anything to skirt around the edge of it. The scar inside you that no one but Brother Rogier has seen. Your burden, your wound. Yours and yours alone.

“It keeps me safe.” You sound frenetic. “So that I can heal. I can't be charmed, or harmed by phantasm. Ilmater protects me from–”

It is ridiculous. You feel it as you speak. To suggest that such feeble protections would keep you from the magnitude of his love, when he is certain he will soon be dust and ash. Insulting. You are ashamed.

Disbelief curdles in the tight line of his lips. 

“Please. There’s no need for that.” He looks away. “You have a compassionate heart. That much is clear. But there's no need to go to such lengths to spare what remains of my pride.”

You stare at him, bereft. “Gale–”

“I understand perfectly.” His voice is broken glass. “And I would never force my heart on someone who doesn't reciprocate my affections, no matter how pitiful I may appear.”

He turns his back to you. You can no longer see his face. This is the right thing, you tell yourself. The good thing. He will walk away, and you will remain intact. Safe. You will endure. 

But a frenzy has come over you. As you watch the sagging of his shoulders, the clenching of his hands, you realise that you do not want it. You do not want this sacrifice, this secret. 

You want him.

You have never wanted anything so much.

You lurch forward. He spins around at the desperate questing of your fingers, lacing into his. You fall to your knees, pressing his hand to your heart. Recognition sparks in his eyes as your tadpole brushes against his.

“Please,” you whisper. “Let me show you.”

****

She used to be beautiful, you thought, kneeling there beside her. You stared at the welts marring her olive skin, her scarlet hair flaking to rust. There was a sore on your mother's thigh, weeping with pus, and you looked away when Brother Rogier pressed on it, ashamed at your squeamishness. 

You had seen far worse, waiting in dark alleyways and side streets while she heaved, clamped against the wall by some hooded giant, or kneeling as a grunting shadow loomed over her. You had never felt disgust or shock, only vague impatience, as you watched her finish and rearrange her skirts. Coins jangled in her pockets as she took your hand, bounding towards the promise of candlelight in the distance.  Later on those nights, she would hold you close in a warm bed, lulling you to sleep with whispered songs. With a full stomach and a formless hope, you ignored the greasy stench of strangers’ sweat which she could never shed.

It angered you, how nauseous you felt, as you listened to the bubbling crackle of your mother's breathing. You were only ten, but you were no longer a child, and you knew her moments were numbered. To feel disgust as she lay there, leaking into a peeling pallet, a guttering flame - it was the greatest betrayal. A sin you could never forgive. When Brother Rogier covered your mother's modesty with his usual gentleness, you started to cry. 

You had been suspicious of him at first, stooped and shrouded in his tattered grey robe. You had never met a priest of Ilmater. All you could see was his bald head, so shiny it looked wet, and the backs of his calloused hands, hairy as a beast’s. When he first took hold of your mother after her collapse, you screamed.

But he did not scold or strike you. He spoke to you softly, as an equal, not a child. 

“I want nothing from your mother, or from you,” he said. “I have sworn a vow of chastity.”

He had crouched to look you in the eye. It was a dignity you had never been given before, as the ugly runt of a streetwalker. It made you feel like he truly saw you, in a way that no one but your mother did.

“It means I will never take a woman or a man. She is safe with me. And so are you.”

And you were. With him, you felt safe. He was the only other person who would touch her, when  the sickness ravaged her body and her mind.  He tended to her in the temple with poultices and prayers, giving you food, water and shelter. She was well beyond thanking him by then, all speech and thought swallowed up in decay. Yet when her fire was snuffed out, he was the one who stood with you, cleaning her for burial. He was the one who anointed her so carefully, so reverently, for a return to Ilmater’s embrace.

“Ilmater sees you,” Brother Rogier had said. “He bears your suffering.”

And as you wept into your mother's cold, hard hands, with Brother Rogier steadfast beside you, you thought of every stranger who sucked and thrust your mother's beauty out of her. You thought of their relentless claws in the darkness, and Brother Rogier’s tender fingers in the light. You thought of your life, broken and empty, but for Ilmater's unexpected kindness.

And you made a promise. You promised you would never give your body as your mother had. All that you were, all that you had, you vowed to give to the Crying, Broken God, the one who stood with you and endured.

****

There is a tiny scar near his temple, framed by a dew drop of a mole. You had never noticed them before. As you lie facing him, cocooned in the illusion of the lush grass beneath and the boundless night above, you drink in every pore of his bronze-kissed face, every shadow that lifts as his gaze roams over you. You feel it like a caress, drifting over the patches and blemishes marring your skin, and for the first time in your life, you do not feel the need to hide them. 

“Tav.” His voice is so low, you strain to hear it. “I’m so sorry.”

He draws closer. He has seen the gaping hole inside you, and he remains. You can feel his longing to comfort, his desire to heal. It is a familiar urge, your second nature. It would be a gift, if you could accept his reassurance. If you could rest in his embrace. If only.

He senses your hesitation. Abruptly, he pauses, his fingers hovering above yours.

“Is this… alright?” Worry twists his features. “Are you comfortable with–”

“It’s alright.” 

He gestures between you. “Because if it makes you feel uncomfortable, I can–”

“It doesn’t.” 

He frowns, questioning, fretting. 

“I'm sorry.” You look down. “I'm sorry I can't…”

He jolts. Your breath hitches as his fingers find the point of your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.

“I love you.” His brow quivers. “There are countless ways to declare love. Infinite ways to express it. The joining of bodies, the pleasures of the flesh…they're but one stitch in a vast tapestry. My love for you goes far deeper, burns far brighter.”

You gaze at him, motionless. When you speak again, your voice is torn.

“I want to. With you. One day, when I’m not...” 

You grimace as the images flash through your mind. The weeping scratches on your mother’s breast. The oily sheen on her calloused skin. You try to blink them away.

“When I can, I want to.”

He nods slowly, firmly. He shines, as though there are no more shadows between you. That there never could be.

“It’s different with you.” You try to explain. “When I’m with you, I don’t have to hide. When I’m close to you, I feel…safe.”

You know it is not enough, but it is all you have. You can only give him the truth, no more, no less.

“You’re not like the others,” you say finally. “I… want to be with you. To…touch you.”

You clasp his hand. There is the faintest glow of lavender that trails down the muscles of his neck, a glinting sliver of his chest through the opening of his robe. You look at him with concern. He grimaces slightly. You think you see a trace of embarrassment, but you are not sure. 

“I - ah –” 

His mouth opens, closes. He struggles for words.

“Is it hurting?” You wince. “We can try that poultice again, I have some in my–”

“I’m alright,” he huffs. “I’m quite alright, Tav.”

“Are you in pain?”

“Not…quite.” He shakes his head. “Not now. It’s–”

He bites his lip. There is a strange silence, as though you have reached a frontier you cannot pass. And yet, the intensity of his gaze draws you, like a thread tethering your soul to his. Your fingers follow its path, hovering over the dark ring at his centre. He tilts his head, and almost imperceptibly, he nods.

His eyelids flutter at your touch. The lines of the orb feel like a scar, a stitch sinking into his skin. There is a coldness to the purple pulse under your fingers. You notice that Gale has stopped breathing. You draw back.

“Am I hurting you?”

“No,” he answers immediately. His lips are parted. You catch the wet glimmer of his tongue. “Not at all.”

He clears his throat. You swallow. For a moment, you cannot look at each other. He runs his hand through his hair, while you fuss at your tunic. A hushed heat falls over you, and as if on cue, you both roll onto your backs, fixing your gazes on the celestial canvas. 

It is quiet for a long time. And then your hand returns to his, as if it belongs there. You trace the grooves on his palm, as he caresses the callouses of your knuckles.

“I would wait an eternity for you.” His voice is rough, fractured. “If only I could…but the orb, the fate Mystra demands of me–”

“You don’t deserve this,” you choke.

He scoffs, a burst of anger and disgust. “I was foolish. Selfish. It was unconscionable. I endangered everyone around me–”

You spin back to him. “You don’t deserve this, Gale. Not this. Not her abandonment and punishment. Not any of it.”

He stares at you. There is both a hardening and a softening in him as he wrestles with your words. You understand. You know how it feels to grapple with a burden, haunted by whether you can ever lay it down. Plagued by whether you should.

A tangle of hair falls into your eyes. Slowly, tentatively, he reaches up to tuck it behind your ear. Your skin tingles from the ghost of his touch.

“I could never tire of looking at your face,” he breathes. “Hearing your voice, seeing you smile. Watching you laugh. Being with you, basking in the miracle of your presence.” He closes his eyes, as if committing you to memory. “When the time comes, this is what I’ll picture. Only you.”

The sorrow of his smile floods you. The resolution, the resignation in it. All at once, you are drowning. He gasps, flinching forwards. 

“Please.” His thumb draws gentle circles on your cheek, brushing away your falling tears. “My love, please don't cry.”

He speaks with a tortured awe, as though no one has ever wept from his pain. 

“I would never want to bring you grief. Only joy. Beauty. Happiness and wonder.”

“Then don't do it.” You try to stifle your sobs. “We can work this out together. You don’t have to die.”

You cup his flickering hand against your skin. 

���Any goddess who would ask you to do this isn’t worthy of your love. You're worth more than any mistakes you’ve made. So much more than this cruel forgiveness. You’re… everything.”

Ilmater would never ask this. He would see Gale, his regrets, his triumphs, his goodness and kindness. His love. Ilmater would bear his suffering as his own. He would walk with Gale through the roses and the thorns. You wish you could make him see.

But he does not see it. “Please don't cry,” is all he says, as he wipes away your tears. 

***

“What's your happiest memory?” 

It feels like a deflection at first. A misguided focus on your sorrow instead of his own. You do not want to back down. You want to convince him that Mystra is wrong, that he deserves to live, that he should endure. But there is a plea in his question, a ragged insistence, and you cannot refuse him.

You close your eyes as you consider. 

“My mother loved to sing,” you start. “When she sang, it was like time stood still. Her voice was so beautiful… I can’t describe it, but I remember it. Everything about her was beautiful… until she got sick.”

You feel your mother’s crimson waves, wrapped like a veil around you. The cradle of her arms, so thin and willowy, yet strong as spider silk. 

“Just before she got sick, my mother took me to a tavern to see Red Millie. A singer - you won’t have heard of her, but she was a celebrity around our parts. The barkeep took one look at us and tried to throw us out, but we managed to hide away at the back.”

You remember your glee, sneaking with your mother through the gaps in the crowd, shrouded in shadows. There was a whimsy, a spirit within your mother that no amount of degradation and destitution could ever kill. Not until the very end.

Gale’s jaw clenches. “Blind prejudice. Needless cruelty, to deny such simple pleasures to a woman and her child. What I wouldn’t do to give that fool a piece of my mind.” 

A tide of tenderness washes over you. You squeeze his hand. 

“It wouldn’t have changed anything. But thank you.” 

Reluctantly, he eases. His anger moves you in a way you cannot describe. You are reminded of how Brother Rogier chased off the boys that spat and threw stones at you, as though there was nothing that mattered more than your dignity. 

“It was incredible, anyway,” you go on. “My first time at a real show. It was the only time I saw my mother’s face light up like that. Red Millie had red hair just like hers, and a voice that could bring warriors to their knees. And that night, she sang this song, a song I’ll never forget.”

It takes you unawares, how clearly you can still hear it. How it echoes inside you like a temple bell.

“Afterwards, my mother looked at me like she’d never done before. She was smiling, and there were tears in her eyes, and she held me so tightly I thought she would never let me go.”

Your chest heaves. She is a bottomless ache. You struggle to find your breath.

“What was the song?” Gale asks softly. 

The grasp of his hand stills you. No one but Brother Rogier has ever heard you sing. You have always thought your song fragile, brittle, like thawing ice. It has always been a secret part of yourself, set aside for your mother and Ilmater alone. But when Gale asks, it is a foregone conclusion. Something you give him freely and without reservation.

And so, with your tears mirrored in his eyes, you sing him your mother’s song.

“Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place

Suddenly it moves with such a perfect grace

Suddenly my life doesn't seem such a waste

It all revolves around you

And there's no mountain too high

No river too wide

Sing out this song and I'll be there by your side

Storm clouds may gather

And stars may collide

But I love you

Until the end of time

Come what may

I will love you

Until my dying day”

****

“Come.” He stands suddenly, lithe with determination. “I want to show you something.”

He reaches down to you, and when you take his hand, the world around you dissolves into a whirl of blinding light. You stumble, but with his fingers intertwined in yours, there is no space inside you for trepidation. There is only wonder.

He strides forward. You gasp as a vista of oak, marble, and vellum streams from his free hand. Not for the first time, you are enthralled by Gale in his element, working miracles from the Weave. You marvel at the sculptures and paintings that appear around you, the plush seats and ornate walls enlivened by the spines of a thousand books.  Within this sanctuary of deep reds and gilded greens, open tomes and scribbled notes gleam in the glow of the fireplace. All you see and feel and smell is Gale.

“This is my home in Waterdeep. The centre of my universe.”

You stand speechless, taking it all in - the gift of Gale’s trust, the purity of his love as he bears his soul to you. With a flourish, Gale leads you towards an intricately carved piano that waits in the corner of the room. 

“This is beautiful, Gale.”

You are referring to all of it - Gale's art, his home and haven, Gale himself. But Gale beams down at the piano with a special focus.

“It was my mother's.” 

His thumb grazes its elaborate markings. There is such a delicacy in the gesture. An act of worship.

“She gave it to me, when I finally got my act together and moved into my own place. What a day of joy and mourning that was.” 

He chuckles, brimming with memories. You wish you could see them all.

“She was a marvellous pianist, back in the day, when her fingers were nimbler. Truly exceptional. She was no wizard, but to hear her play–”

His hands dance, fervent with admiration.

“She played with such passion, such unparalleled mastery, that her music had a magic of its own.”

He gestures to the bench in front of the piano. As you sit, your thigh brushes against his. His fingers trail idly over the keys.

“It was always a treat as a child, to perch here beside her and watch her play. No matter how much of a menace I'd been, how exhausted she was from the endless havoc I wreaked and all the questions about the universe I demanded she answer. No matter how incandescent she was with me for burning this or summoning that…” 

He gives a huff of affection. 

“She would still invite me to sit beside her and listen. Every time.”

Gale's smile illuminates every part of him. It is a smile like no other, a fixed star in an endless night. 

“She sounds like a wonderful woman.”

He bobs his head. “Indeed. Formidable, and fearsome, and wonderful. You would like her. And she would adore you.”

There is an instant before he holds your gaze - a flurry of his fingers, a low murmur. And then, the piano bursts into life with a familiar song that shatters your heart into a thousand pieces before restoring them one by one, sealed in gold.

You are shaking. “Gale,” you whisper through tears. “The song–”

He takes your hand and presses it against his cheek. You feel it all - the roughness, the smoothness, the swelling storm, the steady sea. There is so much more you want to tell each other, things that spill over the seams of speech, lapping at the edges of all your empty spaces. In this moment, you do not need it. You simply listen.

****

You are sitting on the balcony. Framed by golden shafts of sunlight, he looks like a vision from your dreams, real and unreal at the same time. You know everything around you is an illusion, a haze of yearning and remembrance. Yet it is truer than anything you have ever seen or felt, greater than all your nightmares, the spectres of the past. It is his world, melting into yours, making you one.

“My favourite spot.” 

He pats the velvet seat beneath you. Dust motes shimmer in the rising air.

“Many times, evening turned to night and back to daybreak once more while I sat here, lost in words.”

He looks out into the horizon, the shifting waves and seagulls soaring overhead. You are reminded that he has created all of this from memory. The undulations of the arches before you, the chiselled grooves of the stone floor beneath you. The bustling docks and well worn buildings of Waterdeep in the distance. The empty wine glasses on the table, reflecting the setting sun. You feel the love and longing in his creation. You see the mourning in his frown, the dark determination in the twisting of his mouth. A farewell. 

“You'll come back here,” you tell him. “When this is all over. You'll be back.”

He turns back to you. There is a faltering, a crack in his conviction. You hope, with every ardent prayer within you, that it is enough.

Your hand seeks his. “What's your happiest memory?”

A fleeting surprise passes over his features, but there is no hesitation. 

“This,” he says. “Now. Being here with you.”

You are taken aback by the force of his sincerity, the gratitude that glistens in his gaze. Of all his accolades, all his many accomplishments and adventures, of all the people he has loved and lain with, this is what he cherishes most. You, bruised and battered as you are. Only you.

“And for you, I’ll wait.” He clasps both of your hands in his. “I'll wait for as long as it takes. A thousand years could pass, and I'd still be here, waiting.” His lips curl. “If you'll still have me, that is.”

You cannot help but laugh at his unexpected pun, and the hint of pride in it. Your cheeks flush with the implication of his smirk. It takes you a beat to register what he has said. When you do, you halt.

“Is that a promise?”

He freezes. Desperately, you search his face.

“It's a promise.” You surge forward. “You're going to wait till the day I can give myself to you completely, mind, body and soul. You're going to live.”

He looks down at his hands, wrapped up in yours. You can feel the roiling inside him, the relentless battle between hope and sacrifice. And when his eyes meet yours again, you are overcome by a love that blazes through everything hidden and broken within you. 

There is the ghost of a nod, and his hair skims your neck as you reach for him. When your lips find his, he trembles, his hands questing, coming to rest at the small of your back. You cup his cheeks, and the caress of his tongue against yours is a prayer answered. A vow.

In the warmth of his embrace, you watch the weary sun take its dive into the sea. He holds you close, and as the piano whispers your mother’s song, you let the gentle rhythm of his breaths lull you into sleep.

******************************

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[sunofpandora]

 V I R A G O                   

Chapter 4

Neteyam x fem!omaticaya!reader

Nice Going, Romeo

𝓭𝓮𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓵𝓼/𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼/𝓼𝔂𝓷𝓸𝓹𝓼𝓲𝓼/

»»———–➤»»———–➤»»———–

Chapter four synopsis: After years of tension, Y/n and Neteyam have finally made up and have agreed to re-establish their friendship. Because of the chaotic events of the last few days, Y/n hits her breaking point due to all the stress and has an argument with Spider. Meanwhile, Neteyam basks in his lovesick haze.  »»———–➤»»———–➤»»———–➤»»———–➤»»

WARNINGS:

Mentions of a stroke??? (its a joke)/Lo’ak and Y/n being platonic soulmates/ mentions of cutting hair/ mentions of anxiety and grief/ I think that’s it??

Author’s Note

My beautiful readers! Goodness, it's been a  minute hasn't it?? I actually had a lot of fun writing this chapter. D0 you like my new dividers?? I thought the arrows were on theme hehe. Also, they really help space out the details, warnings and synopsis area a lot more so everything up here isn’t so chunky. Comments and reposts are much appreciated as usual.  

☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⁺☀︎₊ ⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊ ⋆⁺𖦹₊⋆⁺☀︎₊

The room is dimly lit, no thanks to the shitty lamp that emanated a sickly shade of yellow on the small bedside table next to Spider’s bunk. 

High camp was silent. The rest of the clan had retired to their homes for sleep. The atmosphere tonight is cinematically melancholy. Thick shadowy mist, like the kind that falls just before a thunderstorm. 

Spider has been sleeping for the last few hours. Water and food kept close by on a tray on the floor. 

So much has happened since the accident. Your intervention with Neteyam, your new appointed position as a teacher, the weight of it all still heavy on your chest.

Neteyam and you had a complicated history to say the least. Your love for him has grown with you. From a child's softly sewed heart, patchwork pieces of moonlight and magic and sweet things. Chasing each other across shin-deep streams and unmeasured mindgames. Innocence unrestrained by a child’s imagination. 

You were a wild child. Unafraid of unruly sensations that snap and scratch at the scarred skin stretched on your bones. You were taller than Neteyam until you were 11, despite him being older. You remember him looking up at you with all the wonder in the world

And then you grew older, shamefully throwing yourself into his arms. 

Within the depths of your bliss, you found a sanctuary with him. Newfound effervescence, two souls choking on their words to describe eachothers beauty. You remember chasing eachother through the forest after sundown, catching the colors caught in the sky,  hues of red and orange bargaining for dominance as the sky stretched into indefinite lengths. 

Liquid glass visions and sweet tasting sunlight, bright orange arrows greedily repel the monochrome traces that perturbed from the daylight hours, 

He swore to you. 

He looked you in your eyes and he swore to you.

He would protect you. No matter what. 

Thoughts of you were sanctified.

He told you he would take you anywhere you desired. 

The disparity in it all was hollow promises.

 You sit up, your ears catching the sound of the blanket that draped across Spider’s body slipping off to the floor.

“You’re awake.”

You wasted no time. You stood up from your sitting spot in the corner to kneel next to the cot he laid on.

He sat up with a groan, his eyes lazily blinking to adjust to the light.

“Hey.”

He whispered, patting your leg.

You cracked a smile, buty it faded when your gaze drifted to his bandages.

“Does it hurt?” You whispered. 

He shakes his head.

“Nah. I think Norm and Max gave me something for pain.”

You nodded, slowly. Shifting to rest on your knees.

He allocated steps of silence for you to rest your words. But for some reason, you couldn’t find them.

It confined itself in your throat. The feverent sting of tears and bronze and venom gathered in dark corners of your heart.

“What?”

You whispered, waiting for him to explain why he was staring so intently.

“I don’t know. You’re quiet. You're shaking. And you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I almost did. Because of your stupid ass.”

He let a rough breath out, glowering in annoyance.

“Y/n. Everything was fine. I fell. You’ve never fallen?”

“Because I had my ass half-hanging out of a broken aircraft? No, actually.”

Your voice textured itself with all the harshness that rewired into carcass of throned fear. The heaviness in your chest is still embedded, sacred and silent but not senseless. 

His gaze tremors in a pattern between you and the floor.

You leaned back, a choked breath leaving your lips.

“Spider, tonight I thought was the last time I’d ever see you breathing.”

He shook his head, trying to reassure you.

“I’m fine. Look at me-

It’s just a few bruises.”

“That’s not the point, dumbass! It could have been worse.”

Spider had nothing to say to that. He reveled in the silence that thickened the air.

“I’m not a little kid anymore. I don’t need you to come to my rescue.”

Those words wound you even more when in his eyes you see he’s debating whether he regrets them or not.

Spider was older than you. And you were always told stories of how your mother saw a child alone in a great big world regardless of whether he was a human or not. It broke her heart.

Growing up, you always threw yourself into fights for Spider.

Refusing to play games with other children that called him names. Learning at the ripe age of 8 how to make sure he had a spare pack whenever he left the shack, and how to hook it up to his mask, thanks to Max and Norm.

You and Lo’ak running through the forest to collect new fruits to use as dye to paint his skin, hoping the  azure streaks and stripes would stain his skin.

It was funny, really. How he was protective of you despite you being the one that was taller, stronger, faster.

You knew spider was grateful for your parents. He loved them like his own. Mourned them so heavily when they left this world and moved on to the next. But you also knew it wasn’t easy.

It wasn’t easy being a human in a clan that was still healing. It wasn’t easy being the son of Miles Quaritch. 

When the world around him seemed like a sword, you became a shield.

A habit you had picked up since childhood. You pride yourself on never mistaking any part of his for weakness.

But how could you not feel solicitous?

When you and your world felt too big, and he looked too small, when even the air denied him to breathe freely?

The ache in your chest is almost firstful, palpable in immediacy of the realization that he had become the sword in this moment.

Your tone clawed and mangled with the pain that was morphing into anger.

“If you don’t want me to rescue you, don’t almost kill yourself.”

You hissed, your mind snatching the sense of guilt from his earlier remark.

He scoffs.

“Oh of course. As usual, you’re the hero and I’m just the human you’re in charge of keeping on a leash.”

“I wouldn’t have to keep you on a fucking leash if you used your brain once in a while.

And what the fuck does that mean?”

Spider sits up a little more, glaring at you.

“You’ve always been perfect. Put a bow and arrow in your hand and the clan thinks you’re some deity from the heavens sent to protect everything that breathes.”

That was unnecessary. And really fucking immature.

“Don’t glorify me. And don’t ever hold my dedication to protect my people against me.”

“No one asked you too! It was all the sudden you were training with Jake. Next thing you know your Lucy the fucking Lutientent or some shit. Would it kill you for once; to not be the hero? Would it kill you to-“

Before he could finish, you snatched the picture on the bulletin board next to some photos Norm and Max had hung up in the shack where spider slept. 

It was a picture of a spider had taped up on the wall when he was a child.

A picture of your mother holding him on her hip, smiling for max behind a camera as he insisted on taking a picture of them. 

The picture hurt you to look at. How young your mother looked. Your mother had always been beautiful. But something about the her glow, evident of her early years of motherhood and healing after the war.

You shoved it into his chest, watching his eyes widen as he scrambled to hold it.

“Would it kill me? It won’t kill me, but this war killed her. So my apologies if I refuse to let it kill you, or anyone else I care about.”

Spider was stunned. He stared at you, his eyes shadowed with regret.

You stood to your feet, mocking his glare from a few seconds ago.

“I know you didn’t ask for this. But guess what? I didn’t either.”

“Y-“

You didn’t even want to hear him speak, much less listen to him berate you about apologizing for a mess you were only trying to fix.

You turned for the door, ducking under the top frame, minding that it was not made for Na’vi to enter and go as they please.

You felt like the floor was being torn open with each step as the feeling of cool wooden metal tiles turned into the grassy patches outside the shack.

You jumped down the steps, grounding yourself both mentally and physically  on the familiar air of the high camp, the night’s scent thick with high emotions and heartache.

The meds Norm and Max gave Spider must have some kind of mind altering drug side effects because he knew better than to raise his tone with you.

You and spider never fought.

Well, that wasn’t true. But when you did, it never got to a point of either of you leaving without resolving it.

You ran your hands through your braids, tugging lightly at the ends.

You wished the night would just swallow you hole, you paced around in a circle, cursing under your breath.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fucking-

Fuck!”

You rasped, reaching for the natural stone wall that encaved high camp. Steadying yourself with deep breaths.

You finally manage to soothe yourself just enough to imagine that entire encounter went much smoother.

Eywa, how you yearned for nothingness at this moment. 

You loved Spider, but sometimes he opens his mouth and suddenly you're one step closer to considering alcoholism.

“Y/n?”

You spin around on your heel, hand instinctively resting on your knife handle, prepared to defend yourself, your stance stiffened, your tail curling protectively around your leg.

“Easy kiddo. It’s just me.”

Jake arands with a hand resting on his waist as he peers down at you. 

You let out a breath you weren’t sure how long you were holding.

“What is it with your family and sneaking up on me!?”

You whisper-yelled, trying not to wake the whole clan.

Jake rubs the back of his neck, his tail swaying awkwardly.

The night air takes a tenor of star-strung sounds that harmonize with the of the imbricating symphonies of pandora’s nocturnal life. 

Jake gestured back to the shack.

“Are you all done there?”

“How long were you standing there?”

You couldn’t help but sound slightly accusatory. You hoped he wasn’t eavesdropping on you and Spider. 

You don’t really want Jake pushing himself where he didn’t belong.

He shrugs.

“About 30 seconds.”

You let out a sigh, running a hand down your neck, the motion an attempted anodyne to calm your nerves.

“What are you even doing here? It’s late?”

You query, tilting your head.

He paused before answering.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay, Y/n. You had one hell of a day.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms.

Were you the happiest with Jake right now?

No. Not really.

Why? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because he has been planning on setting you up to train either Makeyo or Neteyam for weeks without informing you. You thought he valued you as a warrior. For your skill. For your courage. For your vigor and vigilance. To be tossed into a position without as much as a warning? Has he lost respect for you? Maybe Spider was right. You were a sword. Forged from fire and bloodshed and grief.

Eywa had to be fucking with you. Why is that when one argument with a sully ends, another one comes from around the corner.

“I’m fine Jake. Neve better.”

Jake sighs, running a hand down his face.

“Y/n, sweetheart, I know I should have told you sooner. I know. But this was my best option.”

“Not even a warning?? Not even a heads up?? the fact that you had already decided I was going to become someone’s teacher before deciding who I was going to teach! You just kept running in between Makeyo or Neteyam.”

Jake looked down for a moment, he had no excuse for why he did it, allowing the regret to inchoate into him.

Your voice was a whisper now. Hoarse and exhausted, contrast to your usual pragmatic approach to speaking with Jake.

He was your superior. The Olo’eyktan of your clan. A leader.

“Do you think I’m not strong enough anymore?”

 Jake shook his head, placing a hand on your shoulder, leaning down slightly.

“Y/n. Listen to me. You are one of the strongest warriors this clan has ever seen. You fight with honor. But you can’t keep throwing yourself into fire over and over again. And if you have to, you’re not doing it alone. If I can get someone with half your skill to support you while you’re in the sky, I’m gonna do it.”

You glared. “So you’re going to assign your son to hover behind me while I fight?”

“Short answer? Yes.”

You let out a huff, feeling yourself getting worked up again.

“I don’t need Neteyam to chaperone me.”

Jake threw his arms up, followed by an over exaggerated sigh.

“It’s less about you being ‘chaperoned’ and more about keeping you alive, Y/n!”

In response? You had nothing to say. All you knew is that you were tired. So, so tired.

Tired of arguing. Tired of the cold glares you had distributed throughout the day. 

Jake sighed, wrapping an arm around you supportively. 

“Sweetheart you look dead on your feet. You need some rest.”

You were silent as Jake walked you across highcamp to Mo’ats tent. 

He pulled back the flap, the smells of grinded herbs and salves, the fresh smell of the wood wafting through the air.

You ducked inside, plopping yourself on the ground.

“Jesus Christ, when’s the last time you slept?”

He crouched down, pressing his palm to your cheek, making you look up at him, 

“I don’t need sleep”, 

you mumbled hissing at him weakly. You collapsed onto the pile of woven blankets that rested in the corner.

He closed the flap behind him, moving some of Mo’at’s supplies out of the way so you could sprawl out.

“You can rest here for tonight. Take some time for yourself. Meditate or something.”

You raised a brow, your ears flicking upwards.

“Meditate?”

“I don’t know, kid. Just do something to calm yourself down.”

Jake walked over to you, tossing a blanket over you and handing you a parcel, wrapped carefully by leaves.

“What’s this?” You murmur, staring down at it.

“Dinner. Don’t think I didn’t notice you skipping tonight’s meal.”

You frowned, not even remembering you were so rushed to meet Spider after your chat with Neteyam, that you completely forgot to eat.

“Well shit…Thank you.”

You held it up, nodding towards him.

He stood up, waving you off.

“Just make sure you eat all of it. You’re not an old lady, and i’m too young to force-feed you like you are one.”

You cracked a smile. You really were grateful for Jake.

“Thank you.” You whispered.

He sat on his knees next to you, adjusting the blanket to drape over your shoulders, patting your back a few times for good measure.

“Are you okay, Y/n? Really, be honest with me, kiddo.”

His voice was softer thai time, laced with concern and honesty. 

You sighed.

“I had an argument with Spider.”

Jake sighed, as if he were relieved.

“Thank god..”

You sat up, confused tp say the least.

“Why is that a good thing?”

“Well I'm just happy it’s that and someone’s not messing with you. I wouldn’t want to have to throw punches.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Please. You know I’d fold anyone anyday.”

Jake gave you a hearty smile, running a hand down your back.

“Damn straight. My money’s on you.”

You chuckled weakly, feeling the tiredness wash over you.

Jake rose to his feet, looking at you one more time before leaving.

“Get some sleep, sweetheart. And eat your damn food.”

☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⁺☀︎₊ ⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊ ⋆⁺ ‏𖦹  ₊⋆⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⁺☀︎₊ 

The next morning…Neteyam’s POV

Have you ever woken up feeling like you could pull the moon out of the sky with your bare hands and gift it to the most beautiful person you had ever seen??? Have you ever woken up feeling like even the smallest of shifts in the wind sang someone’s name?? Have you ever woken up feeling like one singular soul could somehow hold my existence in her palm with such ease?? Have you ever woken up feeling like the air is a bit lighter? Like the sky is a bit brighter?

Maybe it’s just me. But ever since last night..Ever since iv’e earned her trust back, I’ve felt as if I could brivet around the forest like a brainless fool, just basking in the absurdity of this amorevolous haze.

Did I mention she hugged me-??? Just wrapped her arms around me mid of my sentence. Eywa, if she was an ocean I'd drown in her. 

When I woke up this morning, I blinked slowly, allowing the early morning sunrays that filtered through the small open spaces in the woven material to leak it’s light onto me. I stretched my arms above my head, feeling its warmth encompass me.

There was a stupid smile on my face that I wasn’t aware of.

I stare up at the ceiling for a moment. Letting my thoughts drift to the farther corners of my mind. All my burdens and worries slowly follow suit.

“Psst! Teyam! Are you awake??”

I roll over to my side, sitting up a bit, and as I angle myself to rest on my elbows, i’m faced with big golden eyes that could only belong to Tuk.

“Hi Tuk.”

I yawn, trying to clear the hoarseness out of my voice. 

She blinks at me, her tail flicking behind her. The echo of her laughter embodied the lightheaded ecstasy that already embedded its energy into my brain this morning. She yanks the blanket that was covering my legs off of me, tugging at my arm.

“Come on! Mama said it’s time to eat!”

I groan dramatically, humoring her.

“Tuktirey, I don’t think my legs are working-

Oh no, there I go. Gravity’s increasing on me.”

She squeals as I lean forward, letting half my upper body weight hang on her as she holds my limp figure up with her much smaller arms.

“Neteyam! You’re too heavy!”

She whines playfully, attempting poorly tp push me upright again.

I let up after a moment, watching as she squeals with laughter before running to Kiri’s hammock, quickly yanking her blanket away before scurrying to jump on top of a snoring Lo’ak.

I chuckle to myself, folding up my own blanket and leaving it in my now empty hammock as I duck under the divider flap in the tent to distinguish areas with a barrier of sorts. I guess when you’ve had as many kids as my parents have, its better to try and break down a large marui into different quarters.

“Ma’itan, did you sleep alright?” I look  downward to see my mother glancing in between me and the fruit she was cutting up, the juices leaving slight stains on the tips of her fingers.

I sigh, the breath leaving my lips in an accidental dreamily manner. As if i’m caught in a mirage, my steps almost stumble over each other, it’s intractable. As if the light of the morning has transferred into the weight in my movements.

I sit down next to her on my knees. “I'm a great mother, perfect, even.”

She smiles at me, but there's confusion in her gaze.

I don’t think my stupid smile has faded because of the way my father pauses from sneaking his fingers into the bowl of pitcher plant nectar to stare at me. 

We lock gazes and I wave at him, as if it's been days since I've seen him.

“Father, good morning.” I raise two fingers to my forehead, dipping them downwards to form the ‘I see you’ sign. He hesitates to return the gesture, sharing confused glances with my mother.

“Uhm, Good morning. Are you feeling alright, bud?”

My mother and him exchange glances, and with a subtle gesture with a nod of her head, he understands she wants him to check on me. He places a hand on my shoulder, crouching down next to me, switching places with my mother per her silent request.

I shake my head, not being able to suppress the laugh that leaves my chest.

“I’m fine. Really, I feel– amazing. Like…really, really good-”

I paused for a moment as my dad pressed the back of his hand to my forehead.

“You don’t have a fever..do you know where we are right now? Could you tell me our exact location?”

“Ma’jake. He is not ill.”

“Baby, I gotta make sure he’s not stroking out-”

“Oh Jake enough. He is fine.”

My mother swats him away as she sits next to me, taking his place. She hands me a few fruits.

“Ma’itan, will you cut these up for me?”

“Of course mother.” I unsheathe my knife to start my task. I feel sleepless nights and dreams of kissing until I can’t breathe come spilling out of me in wavelengths of sunrays and gold-plaited glimpses. A woven thread that tugs on my heart weaves throughout ragged plains of regret, now lost and forgotten to what I feel now.

My father attempts to sneak more nectar, dipping his finger into the bowl just for my mother to spin around to catch him.

“Eywa help me, Jake how many times have i told you to save some for the children?”

“Not my fault this stuff is so sweet, baby, I could drink this stuff.”

My father throws his hands up in a mock surrender, fighting back a smile.

She throws her head back, a groan leaving her.

“You are infuriating. I cannot turn my back for 2 seconds.”

She stands to her feet to wash off her knife, only for my father to sneak up behind her, snaking his hands around her waist.

“Awh, don’t worry honey, It’s not as sweet as you.” He presses kisses to her cheek, tugging at her tail lightly, a soft gasp leaves my mother’s lips followed my soft laughter,

“Jake- stop, you are sticky.”

Since when was watching my mother and father flirt so heartwarming? 

“Gross. I didn’t know we were having PDA for breakfast.”

The familiar grumble causes me to turn to its source. Kiri trudges through the tent flap, her hair messy and her strides slow and exhausted. She rubs her eyes, clutching a waterskin in her other hand. It was a herbal tea that grandmother made for her frequent headaches. She carried it almost everywhere, especially in the morning.

She practically collapses into a cross-crossed position across from me, staring unamused as my parents pull apart from each other, my dad slowly maneuvering my mothers knife out of her grip.

“I’ll go wash this for ya, hon.” He whispers, giving her one last kiss before he slips out behind Kiri and ducks under the divider, letting the curtain fall behind him as you can hear him faintly telling Lo’ak and Tuk to stop wrestling around and get to breakfast.

My mother clears her throat, trying to suppress her own stupid smile now, victim of my father’s charm.

“Kiri, how did you sleep?”

 Kiri yawns, rebraiding one of the braids that fell on the side of her messily layered hair to frame her face.’

“Well, Y/n wasn’t here so there was no one I could rant to at midnight about the hypocrisy in our culture surrounding our misanthropic beliefs as a clan and the refusal to collate and unwillingness to adapt.”

She takes another sipt out of her waterskin, speaking as if she was explaining how to count to 3.

My mother smiles, clearly pretending to understand her.

“So….you slept well?”

Kiri sighs defeatedly, tying off the braid with the small band in her hand.

“Yes mother, I slept like a baby.”

I find myself snickering at the exchange, I look up to see my father return, Tuk and Lo’ak not far behind him. Tuk was doubled over, trying to support a limp-limbed Lo’ak with her smaller body, he’s mimicking my earlier joke with Tuk,

Noises of annoyance and in need of aid leave her as she struggles under Lo’ak’s weight.

“Lo’ak! You’re too heavy! Neteyam is funny when he does it!” She whines, attempting to push him off of her’

Lo’ak clutches his chest, as if he’s having a heart attack. “Oh eywa! I see the light!” He raises both arms up towards the sky, as if some divine presence was going to scoop him up into it’s arms and take him away.

“Take me, great mother!”

Tuk lets out a scream as Lo’ak tumbles atop her.

“That’s enough, you two. Lo’ak, get offa’ your sister.”

My dad tugs on Lo’ak’s tail, and he hisses in pain.

“Ow! Dad-”

“Sit.”

 My dad gives him a final glare and he sighs, cracking his knuckles before taking a seat next to me. Tuk scrambles next to my dad, nuzzling into his side, sticking her tongue out at lo’ak in a victorious manner.

Lo’ak points his two fingers to his own eyes before pointing them back at Tuk, and a clear ‘this isn’t over’ message is received.

Maybe it’s just my weird sense of peace I've felt all morning, but I attempt to park up a conversation with Lo’ak.

“Good morning baby bro.”

I swing my arm around him, ruffling at his braids. He stills his motion of munching into his slice of fruit, glancing up at me with a confused, cautious stare. As if my odd demeanor was an active minefield.

“Uhm. Hi..”

He side-eyed me curiously. Like my happiness was disgustingly contagious. 

His tail thumped against the floor. His eyebrow raised curiously at my stupid smile.

“What’s got you so bright and cheery?”

He glances over at Kiri, hoping for some kind of backup, only to see her silently praying to eywa before eating her food.

“Nothing. I just woke up feeling good.”

I shrug, snatching a slice of fruit from his little leaf he had arranged his stack of food on. The moment my teeth sink in, I'm slapped with the taste of sugared honey mixed with sunshine and sweet nectars. The flavor is resplendent. An unexpected soft groan leaves me as the juices trickle down my lips, I wipe them with my forearm. Why did everything today taste so much sweeter than usual?

Lo’ak stares at me as if he’s abhorred with my behavior.

“Dude..what the hell.”

My ears flick upwards as I turn to face the rest of the family, who’s now looking at me like I’m the epitome of bizarreness.  

My father snickers, helping Tuk peel her small fruit.

“Neteyam, should we give you and your fruit a moment alone.”

Lo’ak shivers, clearly uncomfortable. “Bro. could you not moan into your food in front of my breakfast.”

I shake my head, some of my braids falling over my shoulders. “Sorry, baby brother.” I laugh, but i’m not really sure why. I feel my face flush as i lean back into my spot.

“Dad, I think Neteyam is stroking out.”

Lo’ak snaps his fingers, trying to gather my father’s attention as he points to me.

My father shakes his head. “I already checked. It’s not a stroke.”

Mother hisses at both of them, passing a cut open fruit to Kiri, who as usual seems unbothered with our family’s shenanigans. 

“Both of you, leave him be. He is happy.”

I can always count on mama. 

Lo’ak shoots me a look.

“Why?”

I shrug.

“Why not? We have food, a family, a roof over our heads, we’re safe and happy, a strong clan and a lovely home.”

The woman I would die for no longer hates my guts. Hey, life is pretty good.

My mother smiles at me.

“See? You are not ill. One who takes time to appreciate all the great mother has given us is not sick.”

Lo’ak doesn’t seem convinced. He takes a big bite of his fruit, slowly eyeing me up and down.

My father clears his throat, sitting up a bit straighter. 

“While I have you kids here, I need you all to try and give y/n a little bit of space today.”

Kiri finally seems to engage in the current conversation now that Y/n is mentioned.

Tuk looks up, as well as my mother, Lo’ak and I.

“Is she okay? Is she sick?”

Tuk pouts, tugging on my fathers arm.

“Does she need anything? Is she hurt?”

It comes out before I can stop myself, trying not to sound too nervous.

Lo’ak groans

“Please don’t tell me she’s dead. That would really suck.”

My dad shakes his head gently reaching for Tuk’s smaller hand.

“No, guys. She’s okay. It’s just that she’s been through a ton these last few days. The poor thing’s burnt out. She needs some rest.”

Silent relief waves over me. I turn to Lo’ak as soon as I hear him speak.

“That doesn’t include me, right?”

He points at himself, a cocky smirk forming on his lips.

My dad glared at him.

“That means especially you. Ever since you could walk I had to pull you away from the poor girl kicking and screaming. And I am NOT about to do it again now that you’re this big. It’s a bad look for me.”

“That just shows we’re not supposed to be away from one another. It’s a sign from eywa. And you know I don’t play with the big lady upstairs.”

Lo’ak presses his lips on two fingers before reaching his hands up as if he’s kissing the sky.

My dad gives him a final warning look before he surrenders.

“Alright, fine. But if you get struck by lightning later it’s not my issue.

I’m gonna go on a walk.”

Lo’ak shoved his food into a small pouch before slinging it over his shoulder.

My mother frowns.

“With half of your breakfast in a pouch? You might as well just finish eating.”

Lo’ak waves her off. “Don’t worry, ma. I got a ton to do today.

I’ll just eat on the go.”

 mother gives him the leave to go, albeit reluctantly.

☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⁺☀︎₊ ⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊ ⋆⁺𖦹₊⋆⁺☀︎₊

Y/n’s pov:

You woke up feeling so much better than yesterday. You and Spider haven’t spoken, but you can live with that for right now.

The only person you’ve spoken to since you’ve woken up is Mo’at. She was in nice company. And you certainly didn’t mind conversations with her.

It was a revitalizing contrast from the rush and endless chaos of of the last few days events, when the world didn’t feel to big, the air didn’t feel weighted, it was days like this you treasured.Today your hands weren’t victim to the relentless grip of your bow, your fingers free from the touch of the end of your arrows, your arms no longer aching from holding your shooting stance. No, today was a day you could drown in the acquiescence of having to do absolutely nothing.

Well, except maybe help Mo’at every now and then, but you hardly considered that physically draining.

You sat in her healing hut, grinding up some herbs as you cozied yourself up in the corner. You hummed one of your mother’s songs, the sound of the stone scratching against the bowl providing an odd backbeat.

Mo’at returned from her morning meetings with the clans healers, a long sigh dragged from her lips as she muttered complaints to herself, sitting down slowly.

You loved how she could make you laugh without effort.

“Something wrong?”

She waved off your concern, starting to gather some of the loose bowls strung around and stacking them in her arms.

“You know Menari??” She glances up at you, her tail flicking behind her.

You nod, a smile creeping up your face.

She sighed with irritation.

“Overmixed the herbs I tasked her with preparing because she was making eyes at Kalun.”

Ah yes, clan gossip. Who better to deliver such scandals than Tsahik herself?

You rolled your eyes, giggling at her exaggeration.

“They’re young, and in love. What else can you ask for?”

“I can ask for her to stop looking up at that scrawny man and do her job.”

You cackled, passing her the freshly grinding paste.

‘

“Awh, now that's not kind.”

She scoffed.

“You know what's not kind? I've seen sticks with more build than him and he still flaunts himself like he’s the prettiest peacock.”

You shrugged, moving on to preparing the next bowl

“At least he has confidence?”

Mo’at waves you off again. 

“When I was your age, I was shut away in my family’s tent speaking with the spirit’s, asking them to guide Eytukan to court me.”

“Oh here we go-”

“I prayed every night, child. I performed rituals and burned sacred plants.”

“Ma’tsahik, you’ve told me this story quite a few–”

She raised her hand, signaling for you to be quiet.

“Hush woman, I am not done.”

You sighed, strapping in for more of her spiritual seance stories.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good, now where was I?”

“Hm…I think you were at the sacred plants.”

A voice that didn’t belong to you or Mo’at spoke, causing you both to pause.

You turned around, spotting Lo’ak standing at the entrance of the tent, a pouch in his hands and a soft smirk on his face.

He strides his way inside without invitation, plopping himself down next to you and sprawling out his legs as he leaned on you.

You groaned, noyt appreciating being used as a seat.

“Lo’ak, what are you doing here?”

He blinked up at you, like him just throwing himself onto you was the most casual thing he could possibly do.

Which, to be fair, he did so often, it probably was by now.

“Did you really think I would leave you here to endure Grandma’s stories alone?? Of course not. So I brought you food,”

He tosses you the pouch.

“And the gift of my presence.”

Mo’at crosses her arms, staring at him with an unamused manner.

“I could have sworn your father informed me this morning to let Y/n rest, and not be dragged into anymore excursions for today.”

Lo’ak shrugged, munching on a fruit from the pouch that he handed you a half of.

“Y/n doesn’t mind me, besides, you know we don’t stay separated for very long.”

It was true. Ever since you were children, you and lo’ak had practically been a package deal.

Sleeping at each other's homes, not wanting to do anything unless you both could do it together, braiding each other's hair, and swapping and sharing bracelets, necklaces, armbands on the daily.

When Lo’ak was a toddler, he’d have a meltdown every time he had to go home after a day of playing with you.

And to be honest? He was right. You didn’t mind Lo’ak hanging with you today.

He wasn’t stressful when he didn’t want to be. You felt like you could talk to him about almost everything, secrets were rare between you and lo’ak, unless you both were keeping them from other people.

If you were the moon, he was the stars. Scattered across the abyss of the night sky, assuring that the darkness wouldn't be drowned in, dwelling with you in the comfort of nocturnal notions while still providing you the subtle comforts of luminescence.

And whether you both liked to admit it or not, you needed each other.

He was there for you when you mourned your mother and father. He was there for you with a blanket and a hug and some stupid joke to calm you when you woke up in the middle of the night hyperventilating. 

And you were there for him.

You were there when he almost died during his first attempt at iknimiya, calling him stiupid and hugging him until you couldn't breathe because a part of you swore you were about to loose your twin flame. 

And he was here now. Well, he was slouched over you with his legs spread and his arms floundered out. But..he was here.

You nudged hi9m to sit up straight, taking the fruit he offered you.

He spoke between mouth-fulls of munches.

“So, what's up with Kalun? I saw him lugging around a big basket of flowers.”

Lo’ak points with his thumb behind him, gesturing to the bustling clan outside going about with their daily tasks behind the closed tent flap.

Mo’at throws her arms up in exaggeration.

“Eywa, why does he insist on distracting that poor girl from her duties!?”

You weren’t a huge romantic, but you did find it sweet how he found time to bring Menari flowers.

“I think it’s sweet.” You hummed, continuing to grind up the herbs in the bowl.

Lo’ak gagged dramatically.

“Gross. I’m never going to mate with anyone.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Uh huh. Sure you’re not.”

He raised a brow, a challenging expression streaked his face.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Mo’at cuts you both off.

“Nothing. Lo’ak you’re going to have children and a mate because I demand great-grandchildren.”

A bust of a laugh leaves you, and you shove Lo’ak, who now stares at Mo’at in disbelief.

“And who are you to demand that i have kids?”

“The tsahik of this clan.”

You smirk triumphantly, smacking the back of Lo’aks head, earning a hiss from him.

“You’re screwed, bro.”

Lo’ak leans back, sighing dramatically.

“It’s so hard being sexy…I guess everyone wants me.”

It was your turn to gag, clutching your hand lightly around your throat to sell the idea.

“Not everyone.”

Mo’at sighs, as if recalling a memory that could only be one of her fondest.

“You know who everyone wanted? Your grandfather, now that’s a story-“

You and Lo’ak both groaned in sync.

☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⁺☀︎₊ ⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊ ⋆⁺𖦹₊⋆⁺☀︎₊

You and Lo’ak had hung out almost all day inside mo’ats tent. And it was probably the most fun you’ve had in a while. 

Conversations with Lo’ak were always interesting to say the least. But if one thing was for sure, it was that there was no one you could possibly think of that you spoke to the way you spoke to Lo’ak. The two of you confided in one another. That meant now that Mo’at had left for the afternoon, there was nothing stopping you both from listening to each other's ramblings.

You told him a few minutes ago about the argument you had with Spider.

He was disappointed, and hated when you both were fighting, but he agreed that you both just needed some space.

So, he did what he did best.

Cher you up.

He was currently retelling a story that took place while you were away on a hunting trip with Neytiri a few weeks back, causing your absence during the event. Lo’ak clears his throat, continuing.

“So anyways, as she’s tying together her next row of knots, I notice that she forgot to do the loopy thing under the second layer of the armband, right?’

Lo’ak explains, making hand motions to try and create some sort of visual of the weaving motion Tuk was practicing.

You nodded, taking a sip of the tea Mo’at had made you, the smooth wood pressed against the inner of your lips for a moment.

“Uh huh.”

“So, I, being the good brother I am, decide stupidly to help the kid out.”

“Right. I mean, who wouldn't?”

“Exactly! So I tell her, ‘Tuk, that row is crooked’, and she has the AUDACITY to respond with ‘crooked like your haircut?’”

Your laughter vibrates down your body, and apparently it’s contagious because Lo’ak can’t help but cackle as well.

“Don’t fucking laugh you asshole. You’re the one who gave me this half shaved side shit, fuck you.”

He manages the last few words through his heavy breaths in between bouts of laughter.

“For the last time!”

You shriek, shoving him playfully.

“You don’t give an 12 year old a knife and expect them to perfectly cut someone’s hair!”

It seems like almost yesterday you and Lo’ak were hiding in a cave you found in the forest, not far from the clearing your clan resided in before high camp came into play.

You remember it perfectly, your mothers sharpest hunting knife she kept in a basket next to the entrance of your family’s marui along with various other weapons your parents kept out of reach from you and spider. He was sat infront of you on his knees, the backs of this thighs touching his shins while you kept yourself elevated behind him to provide you some sort of extra inches of height to better see Lo’aks head, as if that was going to make you know what the hell you were doing.

It didn’t. You remember him telling you to stop hesitating and just do it. He had been asking you for weeks to help him cut his hair since Jake wasn’t aloud to braid much less cut his children’s hair out of lack of confidence, and how Neteyam thought It was an insecurity thing and only responded with “You look great! There’s no need to cut it, baby bro.”

Neytiri didn’t like the idea of her 12 year old son wearing a style most adult warriors garb themselves with,and kiri just laughed when he asked her. 

You were his best option. You remember you and Lo’ak jumping up and down and squealing with excitement at the sight of a few of his braids falling to the ground, forming a circle around the two of you, and how that excitement slowly faded into fear when you both realized those few braids seemed much chunkier than at first glance. You fondly recall running back into the village with a giant leaf over Lo’ak’s head, making a bee-line straight for your family’s tent because going home to tell jake and neytiri was equivalent to walking into a thantors den after rubbing yourself in fragrant spices ready to be cooked and devoured. 

You could never forget your mothers face as she tried to comfort a frantic lo’ak, using her own tools to smoothe down the shaved plain.

To cut a long story short, that’s how Lo’ak got his side shaved. But it appeared Tuk had taken after your habit of never letting him live it down.

You both were out of breath from laughing once you both finished recalling the memory. It’s the terrible experiences that made you two stronger together.

 Lo’ak sighed, leaning back.

“Tuk’s spending too much time with you. You’re a shitty influence.”

You swatted at the back of his head, snickering softly.

A few beats of comfortable silence falls between you both, enjoying  just the feeling of moments like these.

“So, I’m not sure if I told you, but Neteyam was acting weird this morning.”

Your ears flick upwards at the mention of Neteteyam.

You carefully calculate your next words, attempting to make your curiosity seem as causal as a commodity, inconsequential and free of attribution relating to the feelings exchanged the night before. 

“Oh…was he okay?”

Real discreet, Y/n. Nice work.

Lo’ak paused to look up at you, his gaze cynically, clumsily trying to catch your heavily concealed sense of concern

“He was fine…I guess. I still think he was having a stroke.”

You rolled your eyes.

“He wasn’t having a stroke.”

“You weren’t there Y/n. The man acted like he Ingested 80 tons of helium and practically pranced around the marui. He was moaning into his fruit, and sighing every 2 seconds like he was in a dream or something.”

You scrunched up your nose at the visual of anyone being aroused by a fruit. 

“I’m sure he wasn’t ‘moaning’ into his fruit.”

You waved off the idea, Lo’ak scoffed.

“Uh huh. And the smiling-

Holy shit Y/n. This man would. Not. Stop. Smiling. It was insane.”

Come on, was he serious? Neteyam was fine…there’s no way this could be related to your conversation last night..right?

You gasped dramatically, widening your eyes as if you had the most sagacious epiphany, feigning stupidity for sarcasm. 

“Maybe he was..I don’t know..happy? Is that even possible for neteyam?”

Lo’ak was not amused.

“I’m telling you, something’s up with him.”

You sighed, shaking your head.

“Why would you think that? He’s probably just happy about something personal, maybe he set a goal for himself. Maybe he’s training differently or maybe he finally has that angled dive he’s always wanted to do on his ikran. The move your mom does with her bow? He’s always wanted to do that-“

Lo’ak looks at you like you’ve grown 6 extra tails. Maybe it was because you were rambling about Neteyam too personally. Nah. Maybe you really did grow 6 tails. 

Check just in case.

You cleared your throat, fidgeting with your bracelets. Acting like you weren’t just talking about something  Neteyam told you in private 3 years ago while you too were on a ‘date’ no one knew about. Because you were.

“..or something like that.”

Eywa must have been personally trying to provide you some amorality at that moment when Lo’ak shrugs you off.

“I don’t know. But I feel like if it was really something huge, he would have told his family about it. Right? Like, he doesn’t just keep that stuff from us…”

Point taken.

You placed a hand on his back.

“Look, Lo’ak, I’m sure Neteyam is fine. We all have..weird days, we can’t always be perfect.”

Lo’ak sighed, leaning back, letting his eyes flutter closed.

“You’re right. I mean, at least it’s not about you or some other girl.”

It slowly stings a little bit more each time it plays over and over in your head.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Lo’ak opened one eye.

“What?”

“You said ‘at least it’s not about you’. What does that mean, Lo’ak?”

Lo’ak, (somewhat stupidly, I must admit,) seemed surprised with your offended tone.

“I mean, at least it’s not about you. You know? Like you two aren’t dancing around eachother again.”

“What do you mean, ‘dancing around’ eachother?”

He sighed, rubbing his temple.

“Look, you don’t have to get upset-“

“I’ll decide whether or not I’ll get upset when you explain what the fuck that’s supposed to mean, Lo’ak.”

Lo’ak gulped, silently regretting ever opening his mouth.

“You and him are just…weird?-

No, weird is not the right word.”

You agreed, coldly.

“Clearly.”

He groaned.

“Stop putting me in a bad corner here, Y/n, you know what I mean.”

He was right. You didn’t have to be so harsh with him. You knew Lo’ak had a tough time articulating himself. And you getting angry probably wasn’t going to make that any better.

“Look, I’m sorry. It’s just..you’re so confusing when it comes to what I used to have with your brother.”

You and Lo’ak are both a bit uncomfortable when you say it aloud. It wasn’t very often you confessed to being romantic with Neteyam in the past, even if it was just to yourself. It was hard to face.

“Y/n we don’t have to talk about this, really.”

“No, i think we do.

You don’t like it when Neteyam used to bring me flowers, or take me out to go ride ikrans, or spend time with me, but you were there for me when he started to distance himself from me. All of this shit about ‘oh you can’t court my brother’ but when it finally falls, like any normal person who speaks like that would want it to, all the sudden you’re in the heartbreak hot seat with me. What is going on, Lo?”

Lo’ak was quiet for a Minute. And it’s actually kinda funny how he conducted himself in a similar manner to Jake when things like this happened.

“Because I care.”

“About what!?”

“About you!”

You were quiet for a moment.

“Because I should care when you start to love, or like or feel for someone! Because you’re like a sister to me. Because you’re the one I can come to when I fuck up with my dad or feel like I’m screwing everything up. You’re the one I can come to when the others are giving me a bunch of shit about being Neteyam’s perfect little brother, or whatever.

And yes, it’s so fucking weird to see my brother staring at you like you’re the most important thing on this entire planet. But you know what? It makes you happy. Am I gonna give you and Neteyam shit about it? Of course I am! It’s fucking disgusting. But you know what? It makes you both happy. So I can’t do a damn thing, and I don’t want to.

Am I gonna wanna kick his ass when he screws up? Of course I am. Am I gonna sit next to you and listen to you cry and scream and do all that angry relationship stuff that people do? Abso-fucking-lutely I am.

But you’re both still disgusting and full of love diseases.”

And now it all made sense. Lo’ak was your person. Half your heart in the form of a living soul.

To feel someone in such truth it aches.

And it wasn’t romance. It wasn’t sex or lust. It was a different kind of love.

The kind that meant that you could share a hammock with him and fight every urge not to kick him off when he starts to snore. The kind that meant you were the only one who trusted to braid his hair because neytiri wasn’t gentle enough and Jake was out of the question. The kind that meant that you had his back, and he had yours. 

You were his and he was yours. Sentiments are sensitive and romance is rigged but this went beyond fairytale endings.  Because you knew he would always stand next to you, tangled at the roots. And when the world seemed to be made out of nothing but unkept promises and sterling stained heartbreak, rusting off to a sickly shade of green that once shimmered gold, you found him.

And he was stupid and you loved him and his stupid stupidity that often led him to do stupid things, and of course you would always do them right along with him because he always said he didn’t want to die looking dumber than you. 

And if he asked you to loose your fucking mind with him you’d agree in a heartbeat with an extra pouch of food because he was always hungry. 

You smiled, the intangibility of this beautiful mess of a thing that only you two could create echoed through the air pulsing undercurrent that inhabited the stars that now turned a thousand shades of blue.

“Oh Lo’ak.”

You whispered, the endnotes query themselves upon pity.

“I know you care. But I can protect myself.

I thought that you’d know that better than anyone.”

He nodded, fidgeting with the bracelet that matched you’re own

“You’re right. I know. I’m just not ready to be..I dunno. It’s sounds stupid as shit but, alone?? That’s weird, right?”

“No, of course not. You’re not alone. You’ll always have me. But you don’t have to take every shot for me. That’s a job for my mouth and my fists.”

You smiled, mocking the boxing stance Jake had taught you and punching the air.

Lo’ak looked nauseous. “Y/n. Can we stop talking about your relationships and jobs you do with your hands and your mouth?”

You snickered shoving him.

“You’re so stupid.”

“I get it from you.”

A comfortable silence settled as he leaned his head on you’re shoulder. But there was something drumming at the back of your mind. An unfinished note that would

complete the song.

You sighed.

“Lo’ak, you know how we don’t keep secrets?”

He nodded, not bothering to lift his head.

“Yuh huh.”

“Well..I uh.”

You took a breath, gathering your words and placing them in the right order.

“I talked with Neteyam last night. And I hugged him-

I don’t know why I hugged him. There’s nothing going on but we’re all good now with what happened all those years ago. The past is in the past and I just thought you would know.”

Lo’ak was quiet for a moment.

“Aight.”

‘Aight’? That’s all you get?

“Really? That’s it?”

“Well, it’s disgusting, but as long as you two aren’t canoodling-“

“Trust me. I’m his teacher now. There will be no canoodling. I swear it.”

Lo’ak shrugged, his expression neutral. 

“Then my final verdict is in place. No getting pregnant and nothing below the waist.”

You snorted.

“You’re the boss.”

Another beat of silence settled.

Then, you got an idea.

“You wanna go race ikrans?”

A hint of mischief in your voice, he sighed.

“I’m off flight privileges for 2 more days for that stunt I pulled at the raid.”

You frowned, but it didn’t last long.

“You wanna go on a ride on Kailo? I’ll let you take shotgun.”

“Fuck yeah.”

☾⁺☀︎₊𖦹✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⁺☀︎₊ ⁺☀︎₊☾⁺☀︎₊ ⋆⁺𖦹₊⋆⁺☀︎₊

Memes from this chapter

And some Lo’ak and y/n memes bc they’re besties

Authors note:

*in Backstreet Boys voice* ohmahgod we’re back againnn. 

First things first, I owe you all a huge apology. This chapter is way overdue, since I decided to re-write it halfway through like an idiot. But I’m fairly happy with how this turned out, which is rare for me. I’ve been a surf trip for the last few weeks and this summer I’m going on a lot more so that’s been kinda tough to find time to write on a laptop coming home from the beach all sandy and wet. 

But we’re back and the next few chapters will be written in close proximity to this time wise. I’m leaving the country on July 27 so I’m gonna try to get at least one more long chapter out before then. 

This is getting kinda long. But guys I have so much fun writing from Neteyam’s pov. The first time I wrote for neteyam was like 2 chapters ago and I was so so nervous about posting it bc I thought it sounded so cringe but you guys loved it so much, I’ve decided from now on there’s gonna be a neteyam pov in every chapter.

For these of you who know, Lo’ak is my son, my baby, my child, my pride and joy so obviously writing for him is also super fun. 

Okay this is getting so much longer than I planned. But I’ll see you lovelies next time!!

-Solana

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@bakugouswaif

@eljaynosine-triphosphate

(I just realized how long this taglist is getting guys…it’s actually getting me all teary eyed. Tysm for the support!)

[the-s1lly-corner]

Stupid idea I keep thinking about-

You know in tadc newest episode there’s that one scene with kinger and his wife in the pillow fort?

What that but instead of them it was immortal reader and ej?

I mentioned in posts that ej is slowly becoming more animal then human

-⚠️

Feral!Eyeless Jack x Immortal!Reader

i need!! to explore the feral eyeless jack stuff more, even if not romantically- like in general... like can you imagine the horror behind that, both as a witness to his downfall and for him internally to know hes slowly losing himself and cant stop it- OUGH notes: reader is gn, established relationship but its shifted from romantic into something else, eyeless jacks memories and mind is scattered but it sometimes returns to him, sad stuff not very fluffy cws: loss of self and grief bonus, music stuff mentioned as nod to this old post

the last time the two of you actually had a coherent conversation together was... god it was so long ago, and you hate yourself for not being able to remember what you had talked about

the topic wasnt anything special either, neither of you knew just how much time he had left until his mind collapsed in on itself and left him as a wild shell of himself

you always keep an eye on him to make sure he doesnt wander where he isnt meant to go, and you make sure hes fed... and you make sure to clean up the messes he leaves behind to keep him hidden from the world outside. youd never forgive yourself if any evidence was left and it led authorities to the two of you

keeping a hand on him wasnt easy, either. he hardly recognized you on most days and when he did he remained still... on days he didnt, hed stalk you and wait for the chance to strike you down for his next meal

music and darkness seem to give him some level of clarity, even if its not enough to return him to you

only when the windows are covered and you hum songs into his ear does he calm down enough to let you touch him

sometimes if you were lucky he would let you hold his face in your hands, or maybe even rest his head on your lap

he seemed.... tired... during these moments. exhausted, even

in pain, always in pain

you hate what hes become but you knew what you were getting into when you first started noticing the changes in him, even he seemed to be aware of it before you were

and he seemed to, for the most part at least, make peace with the fate thats been forced onto him- though that didnt stop him from hating each new change that happened to his body and mind

[thr0wnawayy]

Who would the 10-13 1A members that died in the MLA be, if MHA had any actual stakes? I really liked your Kaminari idea, so I just wanted to explore it with you. It would have realistically made UA/the heroes look a hell of a lot worse and the villains look a hell of a lot smarter if they went for the angle of "the best heroics school in Japan is using child soldiers!"

I know for the heroes, it should have been Pixie Bob and Gran Torino in addition to Crust. Endeavor also should have died because it would have actually given the story actual stakes - Japan is now in shambles and the new #1 hero/heavy hitter is dead. Oh shit, what are they going to do?

Firstly I feel I should clarify that both 1A and B would lose some team members as both classes were thrust into war with basically no real training. Although for the sake of plot 1A would lose vastly more.

With that stated, let us begin.

I know for a fact that Koda is dead.

Truthfully, there is no way someone as bulky as him (with the addition of his poorly designed costume) would be even marginally capable of outrunning Shigaraki's Decay.

His quirk (Anivoice) gives him zero advantages and being in Jaku (a city under evacuation) would only add to this.

We also mustn't forget that the rubble by itself was also capable of disintegrating anything it touched. Putting all that together and given how close he was to "ground zero", his chances of survival are slim to none.

Additionally, everyone who found Midnight's corpse is either dead or brutally injured.

Midnight's body is isolated in a decently foliage heavy area, with plenty of hiding spots and vantage points making it all too easy to set an ambush.

Our merry band of MLA/PLF mercenaries simply have to bide their time, wait for the shock and horror to settle in and then strike.

Sero, Kirishima and Setsuna are easy targets (with Setsuna being the farthest from the bait) their backs are turned and mentally are either distant or "vacant".

If Momo didn't recover from her grief and get off the floor, it's game over.

However. She would likely manage to fend them off long enough to escape (thanks to her intelligence and dexterity), although not without some scars. (eyepatch momo, anyone?)

Mina might be able to hold them off due to her acid but will eventually falter because (as you mentioned) Aizawa's a shitheel.

That brings us up to 5 students so far (if we include Kaminari's death) that have died due to UA's (and the HPSC's) crippling negligence.

I'm a tad hesitant to add Tsu here but it's unlikely she'd survive. (even if she does survive the wave, she'd likely die in the crossfire)

Comicman, because yeah he's unimportant.

For the Villa Raid team it's important that we cut some heroes in order for this scenario to work.

Edgeshot is dead, likely fried to death by Electro-lite.

This would cause the raiding heroes to become discouraged and overwhelmed.

the MLA's gear is more than a match and combined with their years of fighting and tactical prowess. It's not even close.

Simply put; divide and conquer.

Mineta's dying for sure. His costume restricts his (torso and leg) movements and makes him standout like a traffic cone. That guy with holes all over his body is likely the one to snuff him out.

Ojiro is dead the moment the MLA members use numbers to overwhelm him, no amount of martial arts will save you from getting jumped.

Mines dies because his quirk (Twin Impact) suffers from the Flect Fallacy.(Overwhelming the quirk will break it). So pretty much any MLA member could be the one to kill him

That sets the score to 11 total student deaths (8 for 1A, 3 for 1B), not a good look.

We know the rest, Dabi kills Enji for good.

Skeptic publishes a video along with Dabi's exposé that reveals UA is using child soldiers and that the HPSC forged paperwork to allow this.

And the crowd goes wild!

The reactions would be brutal, national if not global criticism from every angle.

The entire raid and evacuation effort would be considered an immense failure, the villains remain at large to gather their numbers and most civilians would be left homeless and displaced.

The hero that everybody placed their bets on turned out be a child/wife beating eugenicist who bought (and later assaulted) his wife when she was only 17. Only to be killed off by the very child he left to burn.

The (global) outrage partially stems from the fact that if it weren't for Dabi, no one would have known otherwise .

The number 2 hero is an (attempted) murderer and seems almost irritated at Enji being outed, the world stage takes this the wrong way and opts not to aid Japan.* What pisses them off the most is his uncaring attitude.

Considering them a lost cause when Shigaraki not only breaks everyone out of Tartarus but also manges to kill AFO by sheer force of will (and wanting to see his friends live as they please)

Rei's speech/conference serves as the final nail. Going into immense detail of the pain she and her children suffered at the hands of Enji. (If their were any doubts Touya was her son, they were killed here)

When asked if anyone knew, she finishes her speech off with revealing that some heroes and staff knew about the abuse and chose to look the other way. Causing the room to burst into an uproar.

*(explaining why Japan was allowed to fester for as long as it did without intervention, something Hori failed to explain)

Parents begin pulling out their children in droves, not wanting to risk their kids getting drafted, others quit by choice.

Shiketsu and Ketsubutsu don't put their students on the front lines (they aren't stupid). The commission is unable to force them due to their, "unique" situation.

The heroes that quit are harshly criticized by the public and media (and usually fairly too), pointing out how shitty it looks (and is) for heroes to suddenly abandon them as soon as things get serious.

Class 1A is left to pickup the pieces with 8 classmates killed (+ Bakugo) the events of the last week have shocked them to their cores but perhaps there is hope.

Of course they're left to pick up their predecessors mistakes, again.

Midoriya would still go rouge, albiet he would stick to his principals. He's made a disturbing connection between Bakugo and Endeavor and it haunts him.

(I should add that Bakugo's death is portrayed for the selfish play it was)

Midoriya likely driven by the need to ensure that he doesn't lose anyone else. His anger at AM would probably stem from the fact that he is putting himself in danger for someone as "expendable" as himself.

I could see the two having a heart to heart that Midoriya is more than his quirk once he willingly returns.

Some additional information:

Bakugo dies permanently, because Edgeshot was killed by "Electro" earlier (even then I'm not doing the writing atrocity that is the "Jeart".)

For heroes I'd like to add Jeanist to the roster. Gigantomachia should have swatted him and his airship like a fly. This means the top 3 are dead, adding to the chaos. This also prevents the old-gen from taking up space.

The High-End Nomu beat the tar out of Miriko, leaving crippled at best and a paraplegic at worst. (That is assuming they don't kill her).

Fourth Kind is killed when, like Ojiro, he is overwhelmed.

Your absolutely correct, Gran Torino and Pixiebob are eliminated, joining Crust.

Twice actually lives, though I would keep that ambiguous until later, he wouldn't get out unscathed of course and would probably need to be put into a coma while his injuries heal.

Himiko's revenge plot now has additional stakes as she promises Twice that she will return to him. (before he's medically put under)

This also fuels the PLF + Spinner, vowing to do right by their ally and friend.

Dabi would have disfigured Hawks upon discovery of his attempt on Twice's life, no more cosmetic scars. Just good old fashioned brutality.

(The fear of losing Twice may have dug up the past memory of losing his mother after Enji drove her to the brink. As Dabi cares deeply for both [even if he won't admit it] ontop of the fact that it's a "hero" that's trying to take them and he betrayed them).

Overall this world is going to be one wild ride with a very different ending to what Hori gave us.

It is a story not of heroes and villains, but of ideals and goals. It asks the question:

What is it to save?

A few additional notes:

Momo would likely have a revenge arc as a sort of parallel between Izuku and Himiko. However it wouldn't be as bland as what we got in canon with Mina.

The mercenaries aren't mustache twirling supremacists, no. Here they're cold, calculated soldiers who are strictly tactical. Midnight was "nothing personal, just business" to them.

They serve as a dark mirror to Momo's shift in personality during the war, as Momo reverts to her initial cold confidant personality and kicks it up to 20 as she hunts them down.

Midnight's killer even points out midbattle on how Momo was sexualized and she doesn't even know it. Telling her at one point: "You may see them as an equal, they see you as a display"

The battle isnt treated as a victory either, while the Momo and her squadron win, the gravity of the situation isn't ignored and Momo actually listens to her opponent's critique.

[kdogreads]

Richie Jerimovich NSFW Alphabet

Co-written with the incredible @foreveraimingtowardsthesky

Thank you so much for collabing on this, my friend! It’s been a longtime coming but here we are 🤪😍

Enjoy this look into our wildest delulu fantasies with our bb Richie. This was a 50/50 project and still took us forever so please APPRECIATE IT 😂❤️

A — Aftercare

There is nothing Richie loves more than smoking a cigarette with you in his arms after he blows your mind. He’s trained to read people and you are no exception. He’ll help you clean up then he’ll cuddle you, or kiss you silly, or light you a joint, or brush your hair for you. Whatever you need this time, he’s on it.

B – Body part (favourite of yours and theirs)

Richie likes - no loves - your mouth. The way your lips close around a cigarette plucked from his hand, the wet heat of it when his fingers press against your tongue, how you open up so readily for him when you’re on your knees, the sharp indent of your teeth in your lower lip when you’re trying to be quiet.. Yeah, he could lose hours dreaming of your mouth, thinking of new ways he can make it his. Spit in it. Gag it. Have you clean him up with your tongue..

C — Cum

Richie can be nasty. He wants to cum on your face, your chest, your ass, literally anywhere he can. It’s his way to mark you as his without leaving hickies or anything, ever the practical thinker. His favorite by far, though, if you’ll let him, is to cum inside you. Chef’s kiss.

D – Dirty secret

Richie has fucked, or tried to fuck, too many short-lived staff at The Beef to mention. But that’s no secret. In fact, there’s really only one thing he hopes never gets out. Luckily for him, she feels the same way. Chalk it up to the effects of grief and alcohol, explain it away however you like, but if word got round? I don’t think her little brother would ever get over it.

E — Experience

Honestly, Richie doesn’t have a ton of experience with different partners, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t treat you R I G H T. He’s only had a couple relationships besides you and Tiff and maybe he brought home a girl from the bar once or twice before you. This man is a very, very fast learner, though. It doesn’t take him long to learn every little thing that drives you wild and he’s more than willing to experiment with what you like (always with permission first).

F – Favourite position

Richie wants to see. He wants to see his cock sinking into you. He wants to see your face when you come. He wants to see the rise and fall of your chest and he wants to see his hands on your body. Richie also wants to bend you over and fuck you from behind. He likes how it makes you whine when he pulls your hips back as he fucks into you.

So he fucks you on your knees in front of the mirror on his bedroom wall, drags his fingers through your gathered slick and rubs the mess across your tight little asshole, his thumb circling and circling and circling before pushing inside. Like this he can watch as he fills you up, and see your fucked-out face as you fall apart.

G — Goofy

Our Richie is a big goofball in every aspect of his life and sex is no exception. He loves being able to laugh with you and tease you while he’s inside you or eating you out. One day he gets it in is mind that you have to call him Mr. Jerimovich as like a demeaning/authoritative thing, but when you actually call him that, he cracks up laughing. Cannot keep a straight face for the life of him. “It sounds like you’re talkin’ to my fuckin’ granddad. Too fuckin’ weird for me, baby, m’sorry.”

If he’s had a rough day, though, and needs to take it out on you, it’s all serious. No jokes, no laughing, no teasing. He just takes when he needs from you — and of course makes sure you have a good time, too.

H – Hair

How well groomed is Richie? Richie is a low-maintenance, one-bottle-in-the-shower guy. He keeps his hair and his beard short, that’s his look. Once upon a time, he got clippers and a beard trimmer for Christmas, so he does this himself, and every so often the rest of him will get the trimmer treatment. He’s not super hairy but he likes how his dick looks bigger after. He’s only human, after all.

He’s clean, but not meticulous. He doesn’t mind things getting a bit.. dirty. And if you’re honest with yourself, you sometimes like him best at the end of a long day. A little sweaty, a little rough around the edges, his skin tasting like salt and cigarette smoke.

I — Intimacy

Richie the cuddle master, am I right? He loves physical affection and just being close to you. If you’re having a slow, sweet love session, he’ll hold your face and tell you the stickiest sweet things you’ve ever heard in your life. “You were made for me, baby. I was made f’you” and “You’re so beautiful, sometimes I can’t believe you’re mine” and “I love you so much my heart fuckin’ hurts.” Loves eye contact, loves holding your hands, loves loving you basically.

Talks you through it. Big time. He’s in his daddy era and he’s desperate for his baby to cum. 🥵

J – Jerk off

In a word. Yes. In the shower most mornings. It’s a Pavlovian response now. Routine. The hot shower spray. The steam. His hand wrapped round his cock.

But he’s seen the way your breath catches. When he’s knelt between your spread legs. When he drags it out just a little longer, his fist working over his cock as though he prefers it to your pretty pussy. How your eyes follow the movement of his hand as he makes you wait, how your tongue darts out against the softness of your lips..

Until finally - - You like watchin, huh? Your face had heated under his scrutiny, but you couldn’t deny it. And since then? Pictures. Videos. Whenever you’re apart for while and sometimes even when you’re not. His hand sliding over his hard dick, slow at first, then faster. You can hear his breathing, all the bitten off sounds he makes - - fuck. Sometimes it’s a piece of your underwear that he’s ruined, the sheets, his shirt. Sometimes come splashes hot against his tense belly. It’s insanely hot. It makes you ache for him. And he knows it.

K — Kinks

This man will shock you with just how freaky he can get. Choking, gun play, knife play, slapping, daddy/sir, tying you up/getting tied up, he’s into it all. Something you’ve always wanted to try? He’s down. It doesn’t always have to be super kinky stuff, though. Sometimes he’s in the mood to make love to you and, when he is, he’s the stickiest sweet lover you’ve ever had.

Once he discovers the the free use concept, it’s his favorite. “Don’t let me stop ya, baby. You keep workin’ on that,” while he proceeds to fuck you into a different universe. 🥵

L – Location

Anywhere. At the restaurant when everyone else has gone home (that reservations desk is his in more ways than anyone else knows). In his car, where there’s just enough room for you to straddle his lap in the driver’s seat. Up against the wall in some dark corner when he just can’t wait. On the couch, forgotten movie in the background. The kitchen counter in the middle of a lazy weekend breakfast. In the shower, the pretty noises you make bouncing off the tiles. In your bed. In his bed.

That’s probably his favourite. His bed. When you’re waiting for him at the end of a long day in his bed. Wearing his shirt. Your perfume on his pillows.

M — Motivation

YOU. Richie is such a romantic at heart and, if you’re his, he wants nothing more than to make you happy any way he can. He loves to hear you whine and moan for him or squirm under his touch. Part of him selfishly loves knowing he can make you feel better than anyone else ever has. He loves making you forget all your worries with his fingers or his mouth or his cock. He gets off just by knowing how satisfied he can make you.

N – No

It’s a short list, but anything you’re not into is at the top of it. You can also add to that anything too elaborate. Role play’s fine just nothing too fuckin weird alright.And he doesn’t need a red room of sex shit, doesn’t need whips and chains when his tie looks so pretty around your wrists, when his belt drags so nicely against your skin.

O — Oral

You mean Richie “could eat pussy for three meals a day” Jerimovich?? He LOVES oral. As much as he loves feeling your lips wrapped around him, he loves feeling you squirm under his tongue even more. He’ll have you pinned down with his arms begging him for a break at any chance he gets. Giving is his favorite, but he loves receiving, too.

He loves when you give him road head. Loves it. Only when it's late at night and you're alone on the back roads, though. He knows just what you're thinking when you reach a hand over coyly and scratch your nails along his thigh. A silly grin spreads across his face and he gives you a subtle nod to encourage you. By the end he's usually pulled over somewhere with both hands in your hair and a plan in place for when you get home...

P – Pace

He can go slow. If that’s what you need. He likes how he can feel everything when he takes his time, but it wears away at his self control and he didn’t have much to begin with. You like to ride him, achingly slowly, stretching his restraint as far as it’ll go before it snaps, before he grips your hips and fucks up into you, or until he flips you over and fucks you through the bed.

Q — Quickie

Are you kidding me? Richie loves quickies. Possibly his favorite thing in the world. Just finished dinner service? He’ll fuck you in the alleyway. Popped in to say hi while you’re running errands? He’ll bend you over Carmy’s desk. Even just going about your day at home he’ll come up behind you in the kitchen and pull you up onto the counter. Any chance he has to get you off he’ll take.

R – Risk

Is Richie a risk taker? Yeah. He gets a kick out of the possibility that the two of you might get caught. Actually no, he gets a kick out of you getting so fucking greedy and needy for him that you’ll let him touch you, let him fuck you, where anyone might see. His hand between your legs under the restaurant table, his mouth on your breasts in the cool evening air, your back against the wall and legs round his waist, your body pressed to the high rise window of the nicest hotel room he could afford. It fuels his possessiveness. You’re his and he wants everyone to know it.

S — Stamina

Richie isn’t as young as he used to be, but he uses what energy he has wisely. In his younger days he could go at it for hours, but nowadays his poor achey back can’t take more than one, maybe two rounds. He gets you off more times than you can count before he even thinks about fucking you, so don’t let his old age scare you.

Just because his body gets tired faster doesn't mean his sex drive has gone down, though, so don't you worry about that.

T – Toys

The first time Richie caught you with your favourite toy, he’d watched from the doorway with a dangerous mix of jealousy and want. You’d pulled the toy from your body when you saw him, but he’d shook his head and something in the look in his eyes made your mouth go dry and your stuttered explanation die in your throat. – - Don’t stop. He’d climbed onto the bed, sat back against the headboard and pulled you to his chest between his spread legs. - - keep going.. s’it feel good? .. feel better than me, huh? - - you’d said no, but he’d slapped your hand from the toy anyway, taking it from you and mimicking the movements he’d watched earlier, but harder, faster, more him. And he’d liked the way you’d surrendered control so easily, the way your head fell back against his shoulder, how your fingers twisted into the fabric of his sweats. And it occurred to him that he could keep this up for hours..

U — Unfair

Richie is a little shit… of course he loves teasing you. He’ll send you dirty texts all day while you’re at work and get you all hot and bothered. Then he’ll edge you for what feels like hours if he feels like it. He always leaves you satisfied after his fun, though, he is a gentleman after all.

When he first discovered what his "harmless" teasing does to you... Oh man. It's like he can't stop now. He'll pull you into the office at work just to whisper dirty things in your ear.

"You look real pretty tonight baby," He leans in to kiss your neck, hands wandering all over your body, "Fuuuck, you want daddy to take care of you, hm? Touch you? Make you scream so everybody knows who you belong to, yeah?" Swoon.

V – Volume

Richie has the dirtiest mouth in all of Chicago. He remembers the first time he’d called you his good fuckin girl. He remembers because you came hard and tight and wet before the words had barely left his mouth. Now he won’t fucking shut up. And you love it like that. But the best thing? There’s this noise he makes when he’s close to losing it. A filthy low groan as everything begins to unravel. It might be the hottest thing you’ve ever heard.

W — Wildcard

Richie definitely has a thing for public sex. The thrill of potentially getting caught, having to show off his pretty baby to whoever catches you… He can’t help it if he wants to show you off and make it clear just who belong to.

X – x-ray

What’s going on in those tighty whiteys? He’s not gotten any complaints. Well, no, that’s not quite right. He’s gotten loads of complaints. Just not about his dick. If he was the type of guy to be heading down the gym (although lets face it, he isn’t ) he wouldn’t need to be shy in the locker room, if you catch my meaning. Alright, alright.. it’s big. You happy now?

Y — Yearning

He may be in his 40s but his sex drive is stronger than ever. He always wants you. Richie is just insatiable sometimes. It’s like he can’t believe you are his to take care of and please whenever he wants to and he does.

Z – zzzz

He’s not even stayed awake long enough for you to read the end of this. Sorry. But let’s be fair, he’s a hard working guy and he’s had his fair share of sleepless nights. So you can’t begrudge the fact that he sleeps like an angel (an angel splayed across 75% of the bed, but still..) once you’ve both had your fill. Now roll him over before he starts snoring.