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He let his impulsive thoughts win

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Important questions.

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I NEED TO FUCK HIM!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA‼️‼️🗣️🗣️🗣️

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contents: neuvillette x gn!reader, reader is very old, reader dies of old age, both neuvi and reader have made peace with reader's death, waxing poetic about water and the sea

or, the end of one life is the start of another.

it was a good life. a long life, full of light and laughter and love.

today, at the end of all days, you lay in bed, blanketed by the arms of your lover. he has not changed. not in the same ways you have. you have been weathered by the world in ways that neuvillette will never understand. but tonight, he looks to you, and you know that he knows.

"you will not pass me by like a ship in the night," he says. his hands, still so smooth, still so unblemished, cup your face. he traces gently over the deep crinkles around your eyes— a manifestation of how his love has changed you for the better. evidence of the great and unbridled joy he has gifted to you.

"i won't," you agree. it is, at once, a condemnation and a reassurance. "i remain, for now. for you. will you miss me, when i'm gone?"

"miss you?" he searches your face. you hope he sees years of contentment written in the lines of your smile. "do the clouds miss the sea?"

they do. the nature of water is to return to the sea from whence it came. the sky itself leaps to the horizons, hoping against hope to run its fingers over the cresting waves. rain is a joyful reunion, a homecoming. a melding of souls. love.

"one day, i will come to the end of my river," he says. his lips brush over your forehead— one last, fleeting blessing. "i will look for the shape of happiness, and i will find you."

when you pass, it is gently, so gently. there is always time for one last kiss.

outside, it begins to rain.

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nana.ken · Happy 40 years left until retirement. May our taxes always be correctly filed and our meetings always be emails. Let's impress our stakeholders again tomorrow <3

minnaci · ill swoon

nana.ken · No, don't. Yuor so sexy.

joining in on the fun with a lil min x nanami 🩵

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these are the same picture

u guys r not going to like what i have to say

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u guys r not going to like what i have to say

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Also can we talk more about calling men mommy

YES ALWAYS ALL THE TIME PLEASE i feel like there are a few camps that men who like being called mommy can fall into and a couple that kinda spring to mind are

men who like it because of how embarrassed you feel calling them mommy. they're the ones who will tease you relentlessly, take you right to the edge and refuse to help push you over until you inevitably break and sob out a pathetic little "mommy, please help me cum" that nearly makes them cum in their pants (this is geto suguru jjk or valentino hazbin hotel to me. maybe even kaeya genshin impact)

men who like it because of the social expectations that come with being a mother (they like playing into the gentle, nurturing stereotype of motherhood). these are the ones who will baby you and find pleasure in your pleasure. they're also the ones who are most excited to watch you suck on their tits SHDJDKF (this is angel dust hazbin hotel and. okay. hot take. toji jjk to me. maybe neuvillette genshin impact but u would have to explain mommy kinks to him first)

yandere coddlers (see any of vic @/saintshigaraki's mother men concepts and posts)

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source by TonyxsteveStony

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Whats soggyboy ^^"

aaaaaa soggyboy is like... internet slang for people or characters that have the same vibe as this hampter

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Good Luck Babe! - Chapter 2: Your Best Laid Plans.

— Aizawa Shōta

⊹ Details. 18+ minors dni, fem!reader (she/her pronouns used to refer to reader), sfw, reader has anxiety, mentions of past situationships ;), reader has lore, plot building, teacher talk. ⊹ Run time. 4.0k ⊹ Note. This is mostly plot progression, next chapter will be make exciting! Enjoy :3

❝Unpacking isn't always easy, at least the U.A dorms were nice.❞

previous part || masterlist || next part

The U.A dormitories were infinitely nicer than your university accommodations. The realisation strikes you before you’ve made your way across the green expanse of the newly built quad. It bristles your feathers and adds yet another reason why privately funded academies were far from your wheelhouse of experience. The Miyagi University of Education was a fine school, it had a small number of students which meant one on one time with their professors, and was built in the late 19th century making the campus as picturesque as a university could be. Sure, the accommodations were a bit dated especially in comparison to a brand new, state of the art building, but you couldn’t complain. Your university years were enjoyable, you wouldn’t trade those memories for anything.

And, Sendai was a lovely city. Costal, filled with enough greenery to never make you miss the quaint rural town you were raised in. There were a plethora of museums and cultural sites that kept you busy and when your close friend worked as an apprentice curator, affordable year round passes were suddenly far more accessible.

Friend, almost boyfriend. Situationship. You chuckle to yourself with a shake of your head. Almost something, almost, nothing. It was maddening when you were stuck within the pit, uncertainty wearing at you. Now, it just seemed silly. 

The lines were still blurred on where exactly your relationship stood. Not that the semantics mattered much when you moved nearly four hours away to a new city, with new people, and a new job. You hadn’t seen him in two months, not since you moved into Musutafu for work and he refused to answer any text messages you’d sent. Not that you cared, that chapter of your life was firmly shut and left in the past– in Sendai– and he was still a close friend, at least that’s what you liked to believe, and would until he said otherwise. Not that he would say otherwise. Still, he was a good friend to have even if he didn’t see you as a friend, or was pissy that you never made a move to clearly define what you were. It’s not like he did either.

Almost, he was an almost. 

You had a lot of those in your history books. Paramours who weren’t quite lovers but you could hardly call them a friend. Always feeling too attached to simply name them as a friend. Women who’s friendship was so intense you couldn’t call it anything other than something akin to love. An almost something that you were scared to commit to. Your heart locked firmly behind the fortress of your rib cage when you wished it could be freely given.

You think that’s why you took this job.

Aside from the clear résumé booster this would be, the pay, and the perks, and the fact that you’d be stupid not to take the job, it was a far leap from your comfort zone. Sendai was the safe choice for university, it was only an hour train ride from your family’s home, a handful of upperclassmen had already been in attendance and offered to shepherd you into this new era. Most weekends were spent back at home until you made a few friends. Even those came with a caveat and a safety net. Mister situationship with the spiky blonde hair and glasses was your lab partner and subsequently became the gateway to the group of friends you'd made. You didn’t dare to branch out on your own, beyond them.

You took the easy way out. If asked you’d say that made you sensible. Your elementary school teachers would agree. They all thought you to be well beyond your years, an old soul trapped behind a pair of chubby cheeks. Never one to act out or step beyond your comfort zone. Your assignments were predictably perfect and drawn directly from your wheelhouse of interests. Your arguments were well polished and you possessed an arsenal of peer reviewed resources that you shuffled around based on your topic of choice.

As a child the adults in your life fussed over you, shirking their misplaced dreams on your frail shoulders. A little leader in your own right, keeping your stuffed animals and friends in line. They told you that you’d make a great teacher, your voice was gentle and your touch was always soft. That or a mother. As if it were the middle ages and that’s all you could amount to.

But, you were predictable. 

You stayed the course they mapped out for you. Too scared for anything bigger. The figs that branched out beyond you had long since rotted and died, taking with it, whatever other paths and aspirations you might’ve filled your life with. 

And, in some fruitless attempt to extend beyond their expectations, you left home and took this job. In most lights it still existed within the realm of your comfort zone but in some it pushed you.

You decided, your one saving grace of the day was that you packed lightly and still managed to scarcely fill out your apartment. Though it may not have been half as fancy as the U.A accommodations, you learned from your university dorm that you probably didn’t need as much as you thought you did. Clearing out your apartment took an hour and the commute back to U.A only about thirty minutes. Foot traffic was much lighter now that the morning rush had subsided. It helped that you’d spent the last two months living out of your suitcase. The apartment was temporary, a placeholder until you found something closer to the school. Though you stupidly never thought to consider that you’d be expected to reside on campus grounds.

Perhaps you were a child like Aizawa accused. Your brain gnawed on his words, playing them on loop until it accepted it as fact. Wearing boots too big for your feet, your naivety glaring. Obvious to everyone but you. 

It was an easy fix. Pessimism was your middle name, though, you preferred to call it realistic. You would wise up in no time. Gather your bearings, plant your roots, and never stumble over the shock of the unknown again. Prove to them, to you, to anyone else who thought to question you, that you were meant to be here. Then, maybe you wouldn’t feel so sick with insecurity even as you tossed your things into your new lodgings.

Shōta stands with his back pressed against the wall outside of class 1-A when Yamada pops out of the classroom. Kayama would be there soon for modern hero art history, Shōta decided then that he’d prefer to keep whatever schemes Nezu was cooking up to himself. He scoffs to himself as he replays the conversation he has with you.

Concerned.

The ministry of education was concerned? Now? Of course they were. Shōta wasn’t stupid, he saw the uptick of distrust growing between the general public and the ministry– it went hand in hand with the near constant criticism that floated across the gaggle of paparazzi that sat outside the school gates everyday. They questioned the ethics behind U.A as an institute, wrote think pieces and created conspiracy theories to work out every move they made as if to catch the school in some lie. It was as exhausting as it was hypocritical. Shōta laughed at the mere thought. The general public had no problem fawning over his class during the sports festival, marvelling at just how powerful they had to be to stand against the League of Villains all on their own.

But sure, now there was a problem. It was serious now that a student had been kidnapped.

Stuffing his hand into his pocket, Shōta grabs the small plastic bottle of eye drops he keeps handy. His eyes sting with irritation, if that was even possible. His unkempt bangs slide away from his forehead when he tilts his head back, widening his eyes for a few drops of temporary relief.

“Hey” Hizashi calls, popping his head out of the classroom door, “Who was that you were talking to? Your students sure had a lot of questions but I didn’t have many answers”

“Irrelevant,” Shōta snips.

“Hm?”

There’s a stack of workbooks tucked in the crook of his elbow, the covers worn and the colours faded. The class must have finished their latest grammar unit. He tilts his head down, his bright orange glasses slip down the slope of his nose to reveal his inquisitive yellow eyes. He peers at Shōta with interest.

“I said, she’s irrelevant,” he repeats, with a frown, “At least to you.”

Hizashi chortles, “Oh? So what, only you get a special little helper?” he quips, with a smile, “Iida said she introduced herself to the class and Nezu was with her, it seemed like she was supposed to be there.”

Shōta hums, pushing off from the wall and away from his classroom, “Seems to me you’re pretty well informed already, Mic.”

“Eh, not anymore than your students.”

His laughter bounces down the hall as he bounds after Shōta, only pausing to adjust the stack of workbooks under his arm.

“C’mon, Shōta, spill!” He says, throwing his free arm over his shoulder, “No one’s losing their job are they?”

The teasing lilt dies quickly, “Right?” Hizashi asks, concern drips from his tongue. Concern for Shōta. He’s getting sick of it.

“She’s from the ministry of ed,” Shōta huffs.

There’d been concern after Bakugō had been kidnapped. Selfish ones. Some worried their positions were up for debate, others wondered if alumni and sponsors would pull funding. Of course, there was always the concern for bad publicity. This entire school year was bad for publicity. Not that it mattered. Bored, nameless nobodies on internet forums always had something to criticise even when the academic year was perfect, when U.A graduates continually climbed the ranks, opened their own agencies, and continued to keep Japan safe. Whatever concern they had now was purely bureaucratic to save their own skin.

“Oh?” Hizashi raises an eyebrow.

They share a look, “Apparently they’ve begun to worry,” he explains, thinking back to what you said. How much did you believe in the lines you’d been fed? Did you create them?

No. You seemed earnest, young enough that your naïvity was genuine and you were likely just a piece for them to move about the board as they saw fit. You couldn’t be complicit in whatever cover up scheme Nezu had allowed into the building. Your flighty, nervous demeanour told him as much. He was worried he might burst into tears if his voice dared to sharpen any further. The way you wilted like a sad, delicate flower beneath the uncomfortable heat of the sun reminded him of a few past students. The ones he expelled for being too soft and too thoughtful. The ones who weren’t cut from the right cloth, they’d never be able to hack it as a hero without that reckless drive most had. 

You were like them but somehow even more fragile. Even with the tenacity and sheer stupidity you had.

“About?” Hizashi questions, his eyebrow quirking upward.

“Our teaching capabilities,” Shōta shrugs, jabbing his thumb into the up bottom once they reach the elevators.

Hizashi leans against the wall, hitching his leg upward, “What does that mean?” His scrunches up in annoyance, “It’s deceptively vague.”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

The ride up the elevator is quiet. Hizashi keeps his lips pursed in a fine line while Shōta scowls in contemplative silence.

Concern?

If they were concerned they’d help implement mental health services for all students at U.A. He’s petitioned them relentlessly for years, they had the funding, Nezu was onboard but there was far too much red tape to navigate through and each thread led back to the ministry. Instead they wanted to throw you to the wolves. A peppy, fresh faced, anxiety riddled university graduate who had yet to experience much of the real world. You sparkled in the way most did before they got a taste of how monotonous their dream careers were. 

“I heard the minister of education is planning on campaigning for Prime Minister,” Hizashi comments, stepping toward the now open elevator doors.

Shōta clicks his tongue, “Hm, how convenient.”

“It could be worse.”

“How so?” He raises a brow to Hizashi.

“The hero commission and the ministry could be breathing down our necks,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I’m sure she’s harmless and her presence is merely a formality, a box to check to appease antsy civilians and overzealous journalists.”

“Right.”

Shōta gives Hizashi a tight, strained smile as the elevator door shuts between them.

A formality. 

That’s what you were. He didn’t often feel uneasy, but none of this sat right with him. His stomach churned at the thought of you. The same looming feeling of dread sat like a pit in his stomach most days when he stared directly into the bright eyed, determined faces of his students. You held the same look, though it was shrouded with an obvious nervousness that you couldn’t shake. Still, your dreams had yet to be jaded by the cruelties of this world, much like his students. It made him uneasy. They at least understood the gravity of their reality, he wasn’t sure you did.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Shōta sighed to himself.

He was growing soft in his age. That’s why he didn’t fight you. It had to be why.

Sauntering down the hall to his office, Shōta wonders if he made the right decision.

Aizawa finds an hour after the final bell has rung. The sun has dipped low in the afternoon sky, painting your lodgings a warm, comforting yellow. The walls are bare and the decor is sparse. Only a few polaroid pictures, a calendar and your two degrees occupy the space. It feels oddly big, too big for just you but there’s nothing else to cram in the nooks and crannies to make your new home a little less lonesome.

It’s a relief to see Aizawa’s tired face on the other side of your door. He’d offer you a reprieve from the anxious thoughts that relentlessly ping pong around your skull.

“Hi!” You chirp, opening up the door, offering him a nervous smile, “Did you want to come in?”

He hoarsely grumbles out something resembling a, “Yes”, pushing past you before you’ve fully moved out of the way. His eyes scan his surroundings, you suppose he’s taking in the little decorations you’ve set about the place but you struggle to follow his gaze from where it’s hidden beneath his fringe. You suppose it’s a learned trait. After a bit of googling, you found that his quirk was aptly named erasure and  manifested through his eyes. 

Aizawa settles on your sofa, his legs spread as he rests his elbows on his thighs.

“Did you uhm, want something to drink?”

All you had was a nearly empty tin of instant coffee and a box of tea that expired two years ago. You hoped he’d say no, so you didn’t have to go through the mortifying ordeal of scrounging something you. Your parents raised you to be hospitable when you opened your home to guests. So, you couldn’t help but ask.

He dismisses you with a wave of his hand, “Thank you but, I’m fine,” he says, resting his chin on his interlocked fingers.

“Okay!”

Scratching the back of your head, you flounder around the living space. The armchair was piled high with your winter coats and the only other space to sit was next to him. 

“I don’t bite,” he mutters, peering up at you.

You shift nervously from foot to foot, reminding yourself that he’s a pro hero– despite his tired disposition. He was likely trained to read body language. It wasn’t that you were easy to read but that he read others easily. There was no need to feel nervous, he wasn’t doing it purposely and you probably weren’t giving anything away. Shuffling closer to the sofa, you sit as close to the arm as you could without making your discomfort obvious.

“You’ve settled in?”

Nodding you nervously bite your lip, “I pack light so it wasn’t much work.”

Aizawa hums. His arm brushes against yours. You can feel how his chest rumbles as he speaks.

“Good,” he says, pausing for a moment, “Then, I trust you have the time to elaborate on why you’re here?”

A small sound of agreement passes your raw, bitten lips, “I sure can!” You smile, hoping the pep in your voice disguises the panic, “Uhm, well the ministry of education was worried that the repeated villain attacks and lack of consistent curriculum was negatively impacting their development.”

 You wrack your brain trying to remember what exactly their email outlined but all that comes up is the excitement you felt. The picture in your mind is hazy, the details sparse but you remember most of the key points they had. They’d stuck out to you and seemed reasonable enough once you started digging into the files they sent you.

“I think it’s fairly obvious that being the target of villain attacks would have adverse effects,” you state as if he didn’t see that for himself, “However in addition to the unique mode of learning employed by each teacher here, there has been concern that the lack of consistency is what’s causing their markedly low grades.”

Aizawa scoffs, staring at you in disbelief, “Their grades are fine, I would know.”

“Their grades are still above average; however, compared to their entrance exam marks and results from the previous year's standardised tests, the class's average has dropped by 5%,” you explain, pressing a finger to the tip of your chin, “I have the data sheets, I can show them to you if you want.”

Initially you hadn’t been concerned when looking over their most recent examination marks. They had done exceptionally well with material that far surpassed the curriculum expectations set in the prefecture, however the decline was clear. You presumed the several areas in which they hadn’t done as well in, had been lessons interrupted by villain attacks. It wasn’t their fault, and if anything they were still on track but still, you couldn’t help but worry.

“If they're above the country's average, I don’t see the issue.”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you sigh “Well there’s a clear pattern that indicates an issue that needs to be addressed,” a frustrated puff of air passes your lips, “These kids are meant to be above average, sure that’s why they’re here, however their emotional well being and emotional needs should also be met instead of being ignored because they’re so special!”

Clearing your throat, you sink deeper into your sofa’s cushion, cheeks warmed to the touch. Your voice had raised several octaves, progressively getting louder as you prattled. You’d always been passionate about mental health, but you didn’t know you were this passionate. Aizawa watches you, there's something in his eyes, you can’t name it. Not yet. You don’t know him well enough. He gestures for you to continue on with his hand.

 “It’s evidentially contributing to a class-wide decline,” you conclude, fiddling with your fingers, “It’s not your fault! I tried asking Principal Nezu about U.A’s guidance counsellor and mental health resources and apparently neither exist.”

He nods, seemingly knowing it all too well,“How do you propose we fix that then?”

“This isn’t something that’s cut and dry, I need to spend some time with your students, get to know them, and hear from them where they’re needing support.”

Aizawa laughs. He laughs at you, throwing his head back and letting out a full bellied laugh. You’re stunned to silence, blinking, half in disbelief and half in shock. His laugh was nice, rich even. Oddly befitting for a man like him, but still unexpected. At first glance you wouldn’t have expected from him. Though, you’re unsure what you had expected of Aizawa. He was nothing like the glamorous, larger than life pro heroes you grew up watching on television. Aizawa was far more relaxed, his dress casual, and seemed to proudly wear the dark circles that lined his tired eyes. It made him approachable, the lack of lustre and branding around the elusive Eraserhead. 

You liked that about him.

“Is something funny?” You asked with a quirk of your brow.

“It’s just rather amusing that you think any of them will ask for help,” he states, leaning back into the sofa, “Have you ever heard of a hero's pride?”

“Well, it’s a good thing they’re not heroes, they’re teenagers,” you hum, clasping your hands together.

“Try telling them that and see how well that goes.”

A joke, you think he was making a joke,“I’m well aware they think they’re more grown up than they actually are,” you felt the same at that age, you’re sure the responsibility of herodom only intensified it,“They kinda are compared to their middle school peers at the very least.”

Aizawa snorts, “Something like that,” he agrees with a shake of his head.

His gaze catches yours for a moment, it’s held for a few short seconds before you anxiously look away. Letting out a forced cough, you train your eyes on the television that sits across the room. 

“So I was thinking it would be a good idea if I could have a copy of your students' syllabus for each course they're taking?” You blurt, eager to continue the conversation forward.

“What?”

“The syllabus?” You repeat, “You know, the document that outlines their course expectations, assignments, and schedule for the semester?”

He scratches his chin, rubbing the stubble, “We don’t have those,” Aizawa says with a frown, “Is that standard practice?”

“Ah, mostly in University but many secondary schools are beginning to use them,” you explain, “It helps give students an idea of their semester beforehand.”

“It’s the beginning of the semester,” Aizawa comments, his lips pursed.

“That it is.”

Shrugging his shoulders, his eyes slide over to you, “We could make up a syllabus,” he suggests, “If you think that it’d be a worthwhile endeavour.”

“I think it is,” you sit a little straighter, a grin overtaking your lips, “Students seem to respond well when they feel prepared rather than blindsided, I can send you one of the research articles I’ve read!”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Giving your knee a pat, Aizawa offers you a strained smile.

You have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from asking if he was sure. Aizawa didn’t strike you as a man who did anything he wasn’t sure of. Your overly eager, zealous attitude could be a bit much. You didn’t want to come off any stronger than you already did. Whatever impression that you’d made to him likely wasn’t one you’d want to stick around for too long.

“Well, that sounds like a plan!”

“So, tomorrow you’ll observe my class,” he proposes, “We can regroup in the evening, if it should suit you?”

You find yourself nodding before he’s finished speaking, “Oh for sure!” You grin, clapping your hands on your thighs, “I can do that!”

Aizawa rises from your sofa with a small grunt, stretching out his spine before he turns to you, “I’ll see you then.”

Nodding in agreement, you watch as he walks out of your front door. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, flopping back onto the sofa as soon as the door clicks shut behind him. Tomorrow would be the big day then, the day you stepped into adulthood and kickstarted your career. Your stomach churned at the realisation. You’d spent the better part of two weeks preparing for this day, meticulously rehearsing what you’d say, how you’d say it, what you’d wear, and how you’d part your hair. 

You’d have to do it all again, tomorrow. This time, without any of your planning.

© all content belongs to dearbraus. do not modify, repost, or redistribute.

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Six eyes brat 💎👅💎

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also Yes the gojomega collab fic is coming i was just hit by the worst wave of depression that i've experienced in a while and i am still recovering from it :') please forgive me for being a little late

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shaking and trembling thinking about calling men mommy this morning

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translation

Aventurine doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you. (Or: You are the only person in the universe who understands Aventurine in his mother tongue. He often regrets teaching it to you.)

5k words. gender neutral reader, established relationship, angst, non-graphic sex (reader bottoms, anatomy neutral), themes of cultural loss, references to slavery, aventurine’s canonically implied desire to die. MDNI.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.

Deception does not come easily to him in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak—and too kind. The universe was a different place in the days when his life was coloured by the warble of Avgin dialect. It felt simpler, partly because he was a child and partly because Sigonia was yet untouched by outsiders. There were no corporations, no casinos, no commodity codes. His entire world was sand, desert, mother, sister, father (or more often—ghost), goddess, tent, wagon, luck, sin, rain, blessing, Avgin.

Katican.

Aventurine is sure that he knew more than just those words. He was fluent as a child. He had conversations with his sister that were complex enough to make his heart hurt, though perhaps his heart was just constantly aching anyway. But the rest of his early words escapes him. He could maybe dredge them up if he thinks long enough, but he also isn't sure if his tongue and lips could form the shape of them anymore. Sometimes he still counts in Avgin, memorises phone numbers in it, but he doesn’t remember the last time he actually strung together a full sentence in the language.

When Aventurine was first stolen into slavery (a word that he had not known as a child, and still doesn't know in Avgin), he wasn’t given a Synesthesia Beacon. He had to rely on his ears and his wits, deciphering the harsh edges of the Katican dialect and then the strange garble of Interastral Standard Language. By the time he had a Beacon installed, it was already translating all speech into Standard—his dominant language.

Sometimes he feels a little aggrieved by it, but at least it wasn't Katican. He'd have blown out his brains if it were.

But it is easy to console himself: Avgin is not a useful language anyway. Dead languages have no value, and the Avgin dialect was killed along with its people. You can’t perform commerce in a dead language, can't negotiate contracts, can't enter a gambling den and use your silver tongue to rob people blind. You can't use a dead language to fell governments and extract resources; you can't use a dead language to bring an entire planet to its knees. You can’t use a dead language to gamble your life; you can't use it to save yourself from the gallows.

You cannot deceive people in a language that is defined by sand, sister, goddess, ghost.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin. His command of it is too weak, and there is no one left to which he can lie, anyway.

When you ask Aventurine to teach you his first language, he gives you an amused look.

“Why Avgin?” he asks. “No one speaks it anymore. I can teach you Common Sigonian if you’d like. Or we could learn Xianzhounese together. Maybe Intellitron code? I know a little.”

“You speak Avgin,” you argue.

“Not often,” he says. “And badly when I do.”

“But it's still your language. And I want to understand you.”

Aventurine has to stop himself from laughing. Understand him? He hates being understood. When people understand him, it makes him predictable. And unlikeable. Hardly a position from which he can manipulate people in.

You understand him well enough to know that.

“You'll have to give me a better reason than that,” he says neatly. “Make it worth my while. Reward me.”

You look at him as you ponder, your eyes lingering on his. Perhaps trying to read him, though he prefers to think you're just enjoying the sight of them.

“I’ll teach you my language as well?”

“You mean—you'll reward my hard labour with more work?” he says, lighthearted.

You frown at him despite the joke. “You don't want to understand me better than what a Synesthesia Beacon would allow?” He blinks, pausing. “It’ll be convenient too. We can talk shit about other people in public and no one will understand us.”

Aventurine considers you. He doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you.

He also likes the idea of talking shit in public.

“I'm listening,” he says, voice lilting. You lean in, smiling. Sweet. It makes his heart feel something he isn't used to. Something addictive. Something disgusting. He scrambles to cover it with one of the usual tools: humour or distraction or maybe just plain old lying—his most reliable weapon.

“I'll throw in a kiss?” you try.

He hums. “Just one?”

“One per day.”

“Three.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“Well, I am a businessman.”

You snort, but he knows you're endeared. You have very noticeable tells when you’re flustered.

“Okay,” you say. “Three kisses on days you teach me.”

“Deal.”

Aventurine remembers more Avgin than he thought he would.

It comes to him slowly, painstakingly. You aren't interested in structured lessons, and he wouldn't be able to provide them anyway. He has a nonexistent grasp of grammar aside from this sounds right and that sounds strange, and Avgin dialect is both so niche and so dead that no textbooks are available. The scholars have abandoned the language as much as the politicians abandoned its people. Aventurine only has you, his fragmented memory, and whatever questions come to mind as you live out your days with him.

Mostly, you ask him about basic vocabulary. Sometimes you ask him to repeat sentences from your conversations in Avgin, like he’s some kind of multilingual parrot. Each prompt forces him to wade through the fog in his mind, the one that’s been shrouding his childhood memories until now. He's startled at how naturally the old words roll off his tongue: One, two, three, four. Good morning. Good evening. Good night. Sweet dreams. Five, six, seven, eight. You're lying to me. Why do you always lie to me? I don't know what you're talking about. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Welcome home. Have you eaten? Have some bread. I made you stew. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty. That was dangerous. I thought you wouldn't make it back to me. Sometimes I think you want to die. One hundred, one thousand, one million, one billion. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

When you say, How do I ask you to let me hold you, he answers easily. He'd heard the words so often as a child: Let me hold you, Kakavasha. Let Mama hold you. His mouth forms the sounds without conscious thought.

He regrets it almost immediately.

When Aventurine hears it from you—stilted, halting, but no less gentle—he stops breathing. Let me hold you. You say it all the time in Standard, but it feels different in Avgin. More painful. A strange sense of panic closes in on him when he's wrapped up in you, thinking in Avgin, thinking sand, sister, goddess, ghost. He holds you tightly, like the rags cut from his father’s shirt, or his mother’s locket won back from the shell-slashers, or a bag of poker chips beneath a card table, clutched within his trembling grip.

“Aventurine, is something wrong?” you ask in Avgin, and he replies in Standard with his usual smile.

“Hm? No. What could be wrong if I have you here?”

Lying is one of his greatest tools. Sex is another one. So he says, “I think I'd like my reward now,” and he runs his lips along your jaw, your pulse, the spot over your heart (there's a word for that in Avgin but not Standard, he tells you), until you're laughing. I thought you wanted three kisses, you tease, and he replies, Who said I wanted to kiss you on the mouth?

But he coaxes open your thighs, and once he's inside you, he collects his payment properly. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and you swallow his lies whole.

There are some things that Aventurine doesn't teach you. Mostly, they’re things that he can’t teach you.

There are countless gaps in his Avgin. His speech is painfully childish—probably more childish than it was when he actually stopped speaking it. He doesn't know how to swear (something that disappoints you) and he doesn't know how to flirt (something that devastates you). He doesn’t know any words that would be useful for work either: commercialization, governance, stakes, winnings, profit. When you ask him what his job title is in Avgin (“Was senior management even a thing in Avgin society?”), he laughs and gives you the word for gambler.

Then there are the words that he remembers—has remembered his whole life—but never says. Not to you, and not to himself. He doesn't teach you any prayers. He doesn't teach you any blessings. He doesn't teach you about Mama Fenge, or the Kakava Festival, or how the rain fell when he was born. When you ask him, What holidays did you celebrate when you were little? he shrugs and says, We didn't have any. Sigonia’s too bleak to do any partying.

Then you ask him one day, while your bodies are spent in the afterglow of sex, sticky with sweat and sweetness, how to say I love you. And he goes quiet.

Love is a cheap word in Interastral Standard. In the language of globalisation and trade, love has been commercialised, commodified, capitalised for power. You say it to him in many contexts: I love this, I love that, I love you. He hardly ever reacts, and he's never said it back. It would feel unnecessary and also cruel if he did: Aventurine has only ever said the words himself as either a joke or a manipulation.

But love feels different in Avgin than in Interastral Standard, doesn't sound like a thing that can be traded or bought. Kakavasha only ever said the word love to his mother, to his sister, to his father's grave. Love in his mother tongue feels priceless.

When Aventurine thinks about you saying it—I love you, Kakavasha, in clumsy, earnest Avgin—something so painful swells in his throat that he can hardly breathe.

“There is no word for love in my language,” he tells you.

You blink. “Okay, then what's an idiom for it?”

“There is none. There’s no word or phrase expressing love.”

You raise a brow. “That’s hard to believe.”

“Is it?” He smiles. “There’s no Avgin in the known universe who cares about love. Only scheming, thieving, and treachery—and you can't do those things when love is involved.”

You look at him in alarm. “Why are you saying that?” You're practically squirming in your discomfort. “I don't know why you think I'd believe such a racist stereotype.”

“It’s not a stereotype,” he says. “I'm not talking about the Avgin culture. I'm talking about myself.”

After all, he is the only Avgin left.

It is an unfair thing to say. A cruel thing to say. After all the laughing and kissing and crying and fucking, after all the tender eyes and gentle words from you—it is probably the worst pain imaginable: I don't give a shit about you. He waits for you to cry.

But you only stare at him calmly, studying him. You brush the hair out of his eyes, seeing them clearly.

“If you lie to me all the time,” you say in Avgin, “eventually I'll stop believing anything you say.”

Aventurine is speechless. His heart does that addictive, disgusting thing again. He thinks about leaving, but then you say, Let me hold you, and he can't do anything other than obey.

Avgin dialect was once included in the Synesthesia Beacon list of functions. The Intelligentsia Guild added it before the Second Katica-Avgin Extinction Event, when the IPC was trying to get a political foothold on Sigonia via the Avgin people. The language was alive then, with enough value to be included into the Synesthesia LLM by the linguists.

But since the Extinction Event—since Kakavasha ran away from home—the Synesthesia data on Avgin has been stagnant, a fossil. Aventurine knows because he's subscribed to software updates for certain languages (Avgin Sigonian, Common Sigonian, Interastral Standard, and now your mother tongue). He gets pinged every time there's a new addition for slang, for neologisms—but there hasn't been a ping for the Avgin dialect since he had the Beacon installed. The live translation function hasn't even been available since the previous Amber Era. When he checks its page on his Synesthesia app, it's very clear why—

SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT SPEAKERS: 0 STATUS: Extinct END OF SERVICE: 2156 AE

The complete death of the language has led to an irritating dilemma for you and Aventurine. You keep running into words that he doesn't know—this time not because of his childlike speech, but because they never existed in his language to begin with. Ocean, tropical, rainforest. Starskiff, accelerator, space fleet. Stock market, shortselling, mutual funds. Black hole, event horizon, spaghettification. All things that never came up for Kakavasha, but now come up for Aventurine, and the language has not evolved to include it.

He always wants to switch to Standard to discuss these things, but you're insistent on speaking in Avgin as much as possible. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't mind humouring you—partly because he likes to indulge you, and partly because he’s grown used to hearing the honeyed timbre of Avgin dialect in your household. The place would feel strange without it.

So you start filling the gaps with other languages, filtering them through the lyricism of Avgin. Loanwords, he thinks they’re called. You take ocean, tropical, rainforest from Amazian; starskiff, accelerator, space fleet from Xianzhounese; stock market, shortselling, mutual funds from Interastral Standard. For the astrophysics terms, you try directly translating them—with limited success.

“Can't I literally just say ‘black hole’?” you ask in Avgin, and he nearly spits out his coffee.

“Please don't. That's a dirty word.” He can't bring himself to say what it means, but from the way you’re laughing, you can clearly guess.

“I thought you said you didn't know how to swear.”

“You've just reminded me how.”

“You're welcome.” You look on the verge of cackling. Aventurine finishes his coffee and wonders when you're going to surprise him with your newfound vulgarity.

“Let's just do the space terms based on Standard,” he says. Begs.

“No, that's so boring.”

“Then let's do your language.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Give him a blank look.

“You don't know how to say those words in your mother tongue either, do you,” he intuits.

“Well, ‘spaghettification’ doesn't really come up in everyday conversation, does it?”

“Then maybe we don't need it.” He smiles, senses an opportunity. Smells blood. “How about ‘love’? I'd much rather know how you say that. I bet it sounds beautiful.”

You give him a long look. Your eyes are vulnerable when you share it: Love. I love you. He’s fascinated by the sound of it. Your voice is never that fragile when you say it in Standard. It's never so earnest. He repeats it, staring at you, and your gaze falls to the ground. His mouth curls.

“I like it,” he says. “Let's use that. It'll sound nice in Avgin.”

You try to recover. “Sure. That works. But back to ‘black hole’—”

And the two of you continue like that for days, weeks, months. It feels like a complete bastardization of his mother tongue on some days, in some conversations. Almost unrecognisable. But it doesn't feel bad. It’s all he has, it's all you have, and when he walks into your home, he starts speaking it without thinking: your bastard, patchwork language. The Avgin dialect that exists only in your house. A tongue that can only be understood by a liar.

And then, one lazy Sunday morning, he gets a familiar ping. He expects it to be Interastral Standard, as usual. The language balloons with each planet that the IPC colonises.

But instead, he opens his screen and freezes.

SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT SPEAKERS: 2 STATUS: Endangered. SERVICE RESUMED: 2157 AE NEW UPDATES: 103 loanwords and 5 neologisms added.

He can't stop looking at the status. Endangered. Endangered, which means dying, but alive. The Avgin dialect is alive again. The Intelligentsia Guild determined it, so it must be true. But Aventurine can't agree: there are no Avgin speakers in the known universe other than the two of you, and what you speak isn't real Avgin. The Avgin spoken by his mother and father and sister is dead; the Avgin spoken by Kakavasha is dead. The festivals are gone; the deserts have been terraformed. There are no wagons; there are no dances; there are no prayers. There are no blessings, and he has no home—

As long as you are alive, the blood of the Avgin will never run dry.

His throat locks up.

“Aventurine?” you ask. Your voice is drowsy, but concerned. “Is something wrong?”

He looks at you from his phone, a polished smile on his face.

“No.” His syllables are plain and efficient in the noise of Interastral Standard: “Just looking at details for a new assignment. It’ll be a long one.”

“Oh.” You frown. “Will you be away from home for a long time, then?”

He stops himself from swallowing. “Yes, I'll be away from the house. For several months, probably.”

“Okay.” Your voice is small. “Take care of yourself, okay? I'll miss you.”

Each word you speak resonates with heartbreak. It always does in these conversations, even in Standard—but the sorrow is amplified in Avgin. His mother tongue has an inherently sad quality to it, he's noticed. His people have lost so much over their history—their language is one of loss. It's his language of loss. Kakavasha did all his grieving in Avgin; Aventurine has never felt sorrow in Standard. When the language died, so did Kakavasha—and all his regrets with it.

“You'll come home to me, right?” you ask. It's a beautiful sentence in Avgin. A heartrending one. He feels something that he hasn't known since he was a child.

It's a feeling he has to kill.

“Yes,” he says in Standard. “Of course I'll come back.”

This is not the first time that Aventurine has been mistaken for dead, but this is the longest time.

The latest world to join the IPC network was a tough acquisition. It had been ruled by a despot who wreaked havoc on both the people and the planet, and who was too stupid and reckless to resolve conflicts with his trade partners. He probably would have blown up the whole star system had he been left to his own devices. Aventurine had no qualms about bringing him to ruin, nor did he have qualms about nearly dying in the process.

If things had gone his way, he'd either be dead or missing. This would have been the perfect opportunity to do the latter, actually—to be freed from the IPC. Free to drift alone, speaking with strangers in strange, unfamiliar tongues. No connection to his past, to the cruel history of his luck, to his commodity code. No tether to his inherently unjust destiny. But instead he's back in your house, pockets heavy with his borrowed wealth, speaking to you in his bastardised, childish Avgin. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

Your Avgin is—shockingly fluent. He doesn't know how. He can't think about it right now. All he can process is the wounded animal noise of your speech as you yell at him, as you cry. Like an injured songbird, or a weeping child. Why did you leave, why did you lie, why do you always lie to me, why don't you give a shit about me, you spit. Why do you want to die, why do you want to die, why do you want to die, you keep saying. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost, he keeps hearing. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost. Don't leave me, big sister. People will die. Why do you have to go?

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, this time in your language. “I'm so sorry. Come here. Let me hold you.”

You collapse into your mother tongue. Aventurine is both relieved and horrified. Relieved that he doesn't need to hear the language of his grief—horrified that he needs to hear yours. He's never heard you cry like this. He's never heard you break like this. These must have been the words you used when the soldiers found you hiding in your closet, when they dragged you out of your home. You were just a child.

Aventurine doesn't know the words you are using—you've never taught them—but he still understands them.

You're very malleable when you’re sad; even more so when you're hysterical. Aventurine understands this about you, and he understands how to calm you—this time in your native tongue—and he understands how to kiss you. He understands that you need to feel close to him. He understands that there are ways to accomplish this other than sex. A normal person would talk it out, have an honest conversation, come to a mutual understanding, and maybe even stop trying to kill himself. They wouldn't fuck you into the mattress while your face is still wet with tears.

But Aventurine is not a normal person. He doesn't know how to have an honest conversation, and he doesn't want to be understood. Lying is his greatest weapon, and sex is a close second. So he kisses you until you’re too breathless to cry, fucks you until you can't think, and makes you come so hard that you’re in too much bliss to grieve. And maybe it's horrible of him, but he enjoys it. He enjoys the way your body takes him in so easily, the way your nails dig into his back, the way you tighten around him when you climax, so wet and needy for him. The way you beg for him in your language for liars as he spends himself inside you: I love you, Aventurine, I love you, I love you, I love you—

Only because it feels good. This is all only because he enjoys fucking you. This is all only because you enjoy fucking him. This is all it'll ever be, and it'll be this way until he gets to meet his end.

(Some months ago, Aventurine started dreaming in Avgin.

It surprised him when he first noticed it. The last time he remembers having a dream in his native tongue, he was twelve years old and still in chains. And even then, it had become a sporadic, strange thing. Awful to wake up from. One minute he was with his mother and sister on a cool, rainy day, speaking fluently in Avgin as he laughed and played—and the next minute, he was being shaken awake in his cage, hearing the cruel lash of Katican.

But ever since he's started speaking Avgin with you, he's been dreaming in it. Vividly. Sometimes he's a child in these dreams, and sometimes he's grown. He's always back in the Sigonian desert, among the tents and the campfires and his family wagons. His mother and sister are alive. Sometimes his father is too. The skies roar with thunder and the stellar winds are always harsh, but they always keep him cocooned up in their arms. He's always warm.

Sometimes Aventurine dreams of nicer days. Clear skies, warm sun, cool breeze—all blessings from the Mother Goddess. On these days, he tends to be an adult, and you tend to be there with him. Your Avgin is fluent but strange, filled with funny loanwords and peculiar slang. His father likes the neologisms and starts using them—but only in wrong ways. His sister finds it embarrassing and keeps apologising to you.

His mother loves you. She loves you so much it hurts. This is how I know you're blessed, Kakavasha, she says, glowing. You’re so lucky to have found such a kind person.

Kakavasha knows this. He knows he's lucky, and in his dreams, that isn't a bad thing. In his dreams, his luck means that his home is not violently excised from his heart: his father never dies; his mother never dies; his sister never dies. The tents are not burned; the wagons are not destroyed. He is never forced to forget his people's dishes, their songs, their language, their joy. And in his dreams, his luck means that he meets you anyway, without all the loss and the chains and the lying.

In his dreams, he is able to bring you to the desert. He is able to teach you the Avgin he spoke as a child, to cook all the meals his mother used to make, to share with you their coffee and their tea. He teaches you prayers. He teaches you blessings. He tells you about Mama Fenge, about how the rain fell when he was born. He takes you to the Kakava Festival, shows you how to dance, sings to you all the Avgin songs until you're singing back. He presses his palm to yours in prayer; he kisses you in devotion, not avoidance.

Sometimes the two of you still fight, the same fights that you have in real life, but he handles them with honesty. He listens to you. He apologises to you. He tells you that he’ll change, and he means it—because this world is a kind one, and he has no need to be so cruel to you.

In this kind world, when you lay in bed with his arms tight around you, you smile at him and say, I love you, Kakavasha. You say it in Avgin—real Avgin, not the dialect born from genocide and deceit—and when he responds, there's not even a little bit of insincerity in his voice. Because Kakavasha never became Aventurine in these dreams, so he has no Interastral Standard in which he can lie to you, no silver tongue with which he can manipulate you, no commodity code that inspires his fear of being controlled by you. Kakavasha only knows Avgin, and he only has his sand, his family, his goddess, his home.

And he has you. Finally, he has you.

He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and then he tells you the truth.)

.

.

.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.

You noticed this very early on: whenever he lies to you, he always switches to Interastral Standard. Probably he wouldn't be able to do it in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak, and the words he knows are all too kind. He speaks with the innocence of a child, and children cannot deceive people in the way that adults can. Children cannot perform commerce or negotiate contracts. They cannot use a silver tongue to rob people blind. They cannot save themselves from the gallows.

So Aventurine’s Avgin is defenceless. Vulnerable. So vulnerable it hurts. You are not so vulnerable in your first language because your captors spoke it on occasion, and you learned to lie in it to gain their pity. You told Aventurine that knowing it would help him understand you, but this was a deception. Aventurine’s mother tongue was a language of trust, but yours is a dialect of abuse.

The Avgin language died before Aventurine could be gutted by it; this is why it disarms him so completely. This is why he’s so indulgent and so warm when you use it with him, why he yields to all your requests. Not requests for money or gifts—you’re certain those are meaningless to him—but for affection. Let me hold you. Let me touch you. Let me kiss you. He can never say no.

This is also why he loves hearing you speak his mother tongue, you think—it makes him feel at home, it makes him feel safe. Maybe it even makes him feel loved. He never seems so at peace speaking any other language, so you try to use Avgin as much as possible. You like seeing him happy. You like it even if it means you need to teach him your own native language in exchange, even when it means you need to hear him say all the things your captors used to say. You don't mind it if it's him. You never mind the harm he inflicts on you, especially not when it brings you closer to him.

It is convenient that he cannot lie in Avgin. You only wanted to learn it in the first place because he talks in his sleep—mostly in Standard, but sometimes in his native tongue. And now that you know he cannot lie in Avgin, you also know he's always being honest in his dreams. Honest when he throws his arms around you in his sleep. Honest when he grabs you so tightly that you bruise. Honest when he buries his face into your neck and whispers prayers into your skin.

Most of the words he says are common ones, the earliest vocabulary that he taught you. But there are some things he's withheld from you—and to learn those things, you had to track down linguists from the Intelligentsia Guild, bribe them with your dirty money, have them give you all their deprecated, extinct data. It felt two-faced, and it was violating, but it was the only way. You already know that Aventurine would rather die than translate his feelings for you, would never want this part of himself understood.

I'm sorry for always leaving you.

I'm sorry for making you cry.

I can't bear the thought of losing you.

Freedom would be too lonely without you.

I don't want to hurt you anymore.

I don't want to lie to you anymore.

I missed you.

I want you.

I need you.

I love you.

end

afterword

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