#Addressing Objections and Concerns

[monicahar]

“my wife.”

how they address you. why does it make your heart skip a beat each time?

characters; neuvillette, wriothesley

—female pronouns obvi, aaaa this is so random😭 fluff, tad bit of crack, has suggestive themes/dirty jokes cause that's my humor in general, just tryna get into writing again heehaa don't mind me ʘ⁠‿⁠ʘ

NEUVILETTE always accompanies the term with unmatched affection. it rolls off his tongue perfectly like a match made in heaven, coupled with the serene image of you instantaneously appearing in his mind before he even thinks of the uttering the endearing term. he still finds it surreal that you are both even lawfully married, yet the way he calls you his wife is already on instinct. is it too presumptuous of him?

well, in the end, he can't find any means to worry about it when you seem to equally adore the nickname.

“ooohh, say it again, say it again!”

he can't tell whether he married a child or not, but he still obliges your request and calls you his wife affectionately once more.

meanwhile, furina nearly gags everytime she hears him say it so softly—like using any other tone when referring to you would land him in the hands of the fortress of meropide. sure—she might've been the one who set up both of you—but the drama and thrill akin to watching a romance film has delightfully ended, and she can only meddle so much in marital matters. the iudex just might actually have her head in a platter if she were to do anything mischievous at that point.

but while a happy neuvillette is running around announcing 'my wife' this and 'my wife' that, you are currently stuck on what to call him in return, sadly enough.

“at this point, i think i'm just going to call you daddy.”

it was unfortunate with the way he choked on some of the water he was drinking—well, thank goodness he didn't spill much as before. for this wasn't the first time you said something unprompted while he was in peace with his water—he can only internally sigh.

“and what exactly has influenced you to arrive at such a conclusion, my wife?” he does not miss the tiny shudder of your body that followed the endearment. your face burns a tad bit at that, and he softly chuckles.

“your effect on me is no joke, you know?” you pout at his amused smile, “the way you refer to me so sweetly makes me want to call you my dearest husband everytime.”

“i don't recall voicing any complaints. is something else holding you back from doing so?”

you nod solemnly in agreement at that, which prompts him to raise a brow in mild curiousity.

“thing is, i really like calling you by your first name. same with monsieur neuvilette. there's something mildly erotic within it—you get what i mean, hehehe...” he only stares at you, clearly unimpressed, and a bit concerned at the implication. you clear your throat, apologizing under your breath.

“still—it's such a devastating predicament to be unable to choose between the three.” you sigh defeatedly, moving to slump your entire weight on his lap. you mutter, “my dearest husband monsieur neuvillette...mmm, no, that's too long.”

chuckling at your dramatic antics, he plants a soothing hand on your waist, the other fixing your wrinkled clothing as you practically melt against his hold. “and you thought settling on daddy was the appropriate option?”

“i'm not hearing any objections.” you jest, feeling cheeky.

“please refrain from calling me such a thing in the eyes of the public atleast.”

“...huh? you're actually allowing it??”

WRIOTHESLEY on the other hand, says it as if he's flaunting. it leaves his lips like a taunt each time, indirectly telling the other party 'i have a hot wife and you dont' even though most of the time the people he mentions you to don't even know what you actually look like. it's silly, childish even, but you still love it nonetheless.

sigewinne and the other inmates have collectively told you that ever since you got married, he has never uttered your actual name to anyone else. some find it weird, some find it somehow disrespectful, and some are now convinced he's crazily obsessed with you, and now he's showing it off every chance he gets, much to everyone's dismay.

it's arrived to the point where a small percentage of people have actually forgotten about your name, and now refer to you as the duke's wife, or even duchess, to which you made a face at. that's kind of pushing it by then.

anywho, in the end, it's funny and endearing, maybe even makes you a bit giddy, but there is no way you're telling him that. the situation might escalate even more if possible.

“you know, my wife is very mean to me today.”

as a pair of strong yet gentle arms wrap around your waist, you resist the growing smile on your face, deciding to mess with your husband for a bit.

“is that so?” you continue your chores without a care in the world. he huffs.

“mhm. she won't look me in the eye the whole day, even though she seemed sooo happy last night.” face instantly burning, you hiss as you slap his arm in a fit of embarrassment, pulling a hearty chuckle from the man behind you.

“—and now she's hitting me as well. i can't believe this.” you both know very well he was not fazed in the slightest bit.

“if her husband wasn't such a pervert then maybe—”

his facade cracks as he forces out an awkward laugh, “hey now, baby, you know i'm nothing like that.”

“wriothesley.”

he clears his throat awkwardly, “okay, maybe a little. it's exclusive for you though! my wife doesn't have to be so mean about it, you're making me reallyyy sad here, y'know?”

there it is again, you think. that nickname. that damned word that makes you want to turn around and smash your lips against his and—wait, hold yourself together! don't forget the reason you're being cold to him!

“you deserve to feel remorse. i've been struggling to even move the whole day because of you.”

you go rigid.

you didn't mean for that to come out so bitter...oh no.

“oh. so that's what this is about.” you don't even have to turn around to know that there's a smug look on his stupidly handsome face, his grip on your waist turning into soothing circles as he presses a kiss to your neck.

“if my wife wanted a massage, she could've just said so.” it's husky when it leaves his mouth, leaving you to shiver with the chills he enunciates.

flustered, you completely disregard the way your knees buckle at the endearment laced with that low voice of his, hitting his arm once more, earning a tiny 'ouch' from him.

“pervert. i want rest, not another round!”

“heh, i didn't say anything about another round, my perverted wife.”

“you—” you are abrupt cut off as you yelp in surprise when your feet are raised off the ground, your face now much closer to your husband's as he carries you gently in his arms.

“shhh, just let me take you to bed. if my wife was feeling terrible the whole day, she should've just told me in the first place so she could stay in, don't you think?”

he's right, but you're still angry. “shut up.”

“just letting you know i'm not completely at fault, wife.” you attempt to ignore the furious beating of your heart, face burning at his smug expression. “i'm not the only one who wanted it.”

hsr version...? if i feel like it...🤔🤔

[wheneclipsefalls]

Healing Hands

Pairing: So'lek x Zeswa Female Reader

Summary: So'lek has accepted his life as an outsider, no clan of his own to call home. For years nothing has consumed him more than the need to exact revenge on the RDA who stole everything from him. Yet somehow all of that changes when he meets you.

Warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, trauma, mentions of death and war, angst, injuries, obsessive So'lek, lust, p in v, oral, swearing, marking, possessive thoughts, rough, jealousy, yearning, breast play, alcohol consumption, dirty talk, etc (not all inclusive)

You do not need to have played the game to read this story. I did my best to include context clues that make it clear enough.

Disclaimer: I am no So'lek expert so I made some educated guesses based on what I learned playing the game. If you see mistakes....no you don't.

The first instance is innocent. Something that So’lek can attribute to mere chance and furthermore nothing he expected to have any consequence on him. Meeting you is unexpected. 

It happens after a long mission. He had drawn off firepower from the RDA so that one of the Sarentu could infiltrate and shut down one of the drill sites. Not only was the objective completed but it also seemed to have a positive effect on their relations with the Zeswa clan. They are impressed by the action, even more so drawn to a proper alliance between them and the resistance as the effects of Sky Demon technology has worsened on the their plains. 

And so for the first time So’lek gets to witness the Zeswa home. Only there to discuss further relations with the Tsahik and Olo’eyktan, he tries to keep his curiosity to a minimum. However, it is difficult to not be swept away by the beauty of the upper plains. Even more so with the open comradery and community that is exhibited among the clan. The Zeswa are known for being a loud people, proud and brave while also fundamentally aware of possessing such skills. 

They are a direct contrast to the Aranahe in that aspect. Everywhere he walks there are groups laughing boisterously, young warriors sparing while others cheer. Even when they fight there is not the usual demeanor So’lek is accustomed to. An air of playfulness is present. It is not weighed down by the same bitter thirst for revenge his own training exhibits. 

There are colorful tents and kelku all positioned around caring for the hibernating Zakru. These giant beasts lay in the warm embrace of sunshine as their smaller counterparts laugh and rush around them. A foreign yet delightful relationship to behold. 

His meeting with Minang and Nesim is short. No real negotiations are needed as they too are quick to join a fight. It is one of the things that So’lek has always appreciated about the Zeswa. Unlike the Aranahe they require no convincing when it comes to defending their home. If anything, they only wait to see which allies will be worthy of fighting alongside them. Fear is not a common ideal among them. 

It is when So’lek has paid his respect to their leaders and begins making his long trek home, that he hears a voice. 

“Are you going to leave it like that?”

So’lek’s ears perk, tail stopping midair. When a few seconds pass it becomes clear that the voice behind him is in fact addressing him and not a clan member. Slowly turning on his heels he looks down to find you. A female at least a head shorter than him wearing traditional Zeswa colors and looking up at him with an inquisitive brow raised. Despite your diminutive stature, you blink up at him without an ounce of concern. 

“Your arm.” You clarify and much to his surprise he looks down to where you’re pointing and finds that there is a sizable gath along his bicep. It must have occurred somewhere between drawing the firepower out and taking down an amp suit with his bare hands. There is a tinge of pain now that you’ve brought attention to it, but it’s nothing in comparison to what he has endured in the past. 

“It is minor.” He responds slowly, unsure of what answer you are expecting from him. Most clan members among the Aranahe barely acknowledge him. Not that they can be blamed. He is a stranger with a gun in hand and a permanent scowl in place. Neither has it ever truly bothered him. However, you seem to be in no mood to let him out of his impromptu conversation and it has him slightly on edge. 

You scoff, soft features already laced into an amused expression. “Minor or not it needs to be stitched.” 

Are you going to make him visit the healer’s tent? There would be no need. The hospital outpost within Resistance headquarters is sterile and inhabited by Sky People that barely understand the fundamentals of Na’vi anatomy, but it has always done the job before. Big or small injury, he has remained in one piece. 

So’lek keeps a neutral expression, only allowing himself the release of shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Minang has other responsibilities.” 

You roll your eyes and a short laugh escapes your throat. “Men,” you mutter under your breath, just quiet enough that he starts to wonder if he has imagined it. “Come. I will fix it.” 

He doesn’t immediately move at your command. After a few steps you turn over your shoulder to still see him standing there and it seems as if you are trying to hold laughter back at the sight of him. Although, So’lek can’t fathom what could possibly be funny about him. 

“I do not bite. Come.” Voice fused with a playful laugh, you gesture once more for him to follow. So despite his better judgment, So’lek trails behind you, shortening his stride so as to not clip your heels, until he is gestured into a large tent. There are only a couple healers left in the tent. One woman is organizing the herbs while a male healer inspect a gash upon a man’s leg. Both of them turn to exchange a smile with you upon entering. 

Smiles that waiver when they spot him towering behind. 

“Sit down.” You command, pointing to a mat on his left. Reluctantly So’lek obeys, but his tail is already whipping with impatience. The others will be expecting him back soon. It is only a matter of time before Priya is bugging him over the radio for results on his talk with the Zeswa. It is not as if he is about to bleed out or lose his arm from waiting a few more hours for stitching. 

Regardless, you keep an eye on him while gathering a needle, thread, and the proper ointments. You’re checking to make sure he doesn’t run off and you are nowhere near trying to hide it. In fact, when his eyes meet yours, you give a chipper smile. He holds back a sigh. There will be no escaping this tent soon. 

The same upbeat attitude is not fully shared among the other Na’vi present in the tent. They remain polite but on guard. By the time you are kneeling next to him they have one by one created excuses for needing to leave. It’s just the two of you now. 

“Let me see.” In usual fashion you demand, although voice soft. So’lek watches as you examine his arm, small fingers curling under his bicep carefully. The touch lights something in his stomach until once again he is wondering how long this visit will be. “My name is y/n.” 

The sudden admission has him zoning back in. His golden eyes peek to see you from his peripherals. When the ointment is lathered over his wound So’lek is too busy turning the name over in his head to stop himself from flinching. 

“This is the part where you tell me your name.” Your gaze has risen from where it was inspecting his gash to now inspect his motionless expression instead. So’lek bites back the urge to swallow the lump in his throat. Wonderful. This may be a waste of his time but that is no excuse to be rude, especially among members of a new alliance. 

Social interaction, however, has never been one of his strong suits. He had spent years in the forest surviving alone after his clan was wiped out. Many days the only interactions he had with another being was the prey he hunted, diligently whispering the prayer of thanks over their dead bodies before preparing a meal for one. And even since then, So’lek is vexed to admit that a majority of his conversations have been with pestering Sky Demons at resistance headquarters who ask far too many questions and lag in recognizing his distaste for such interaction. 

“It is So’lek.” 

“I know who you are.” You shrug, back to focusing on spreading the ointment. His hairless brows pull together. 

“If you know then why did you ask?” Except, you technically didn’t ask. You urged him to share, a distinction you graciously don’t correct. 

“Because that is what people do when they meet each other. Just because I know who you are does not mean you shouldn’t share your name with me.” Yet another custom he has become out of touch with. Years away from a true Na’vi clan may have broken him in more ways than he had originally imagined. And yet, you don’t appear to be offended. There is a sparkle in your eyes, something he can’t quite analyze but it holds a lightness he’s unfamiliar with. 

The ointment you spread smells sweet. Almost like the pod fruit he picks near headquarters for lunch. Or perhaps the nectar he can occasionally finds while traveling. Whatever it is, it’s far better than the usual stench of medicine used at headquarters. Those strangely packaged doses have a thick texture and sterile smell that always makes his stomach turn. 

But this…this is almost nice. Even as the lathered touch burns along his wound. 

“Your Sarentu friend comes to visit often. They stop by for a meal and materials, even socializing upon occasion. But I never see you.” The needle gracefully slips beneath his skin but So’lek can barely focus on the sensation. “I was starting to think that you were a myth created by them for a good story.” 

So’lek is at a loss for words. What exactly is your point? Are you suggesting he should be spending more time among the Zeswa. It is the Sarentu that had received an invitation to help, not him. Up until now he has remained respectful of your clan’s space. It is only for an invited meeting that he finds himself here to witness your home for the first time. But the way you talk about it makes him almost feel guilty for not dropping by earlier. 

Would the Zeswa people have welcomed him if he had? Give him a smile as he cooked a meal here or crafted a better bow as the Sarentu often do? He’s not sure if he would know how to respond if they did. Your attention has already proven to be hard enough to reciprocate as is. 

“I attend to responsibilities at Resistance Headquarters.” 

“So I’ve heard.” You hum. There is something else in your voice, some hidden message in your tone but So’lek can’t decipher it for the life of him. So once again he is caught wondering what your intentions are in bringing it up. Perhaps nothing. You are strangers to one another. Just because you have gone out of your way to heal him does not mean you care whether or not he graces the clan with his presence. For all he knows, making conversation is a polite practice for good bedside manner. 

Your precision is admirable. A calm consistent draw and pull of the needle to create perfectly tight and even stitches sealing him up. Far better work than that done by flimsy Sky People hands at headquarters. And while their small faces often pinch in concentration when stitching, your features remain relaxed. Even tranquil, with just the softest of smiles present. 

In a way it almost causes his own demeanor to follow suit. That is if it weren’t for your distracting appearance. It has been so long since he has witnessed true Na’vi crafted attire so he can’t really be blamed for running his eyes over your intricate top of bright reds and oranges. It’s only when you shift slightly that he realizes how scantily clad your chest is with only the decorative fabric. And it shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. 

Nudity is not a big concern among the Na’vi. They are not ashamed of their bodies. But it’s clear he has been hanging around tawtute far too much as he feels the need to shift his gaze away every time that flimsy covering slides one way or another. And where they land, however, is just as distracting. The soft curves of your faces, long dark lashes that blanket your fixated gaze. Even your hair that is entirely unrestrained with only a few flowers woven along your crown, allowing it to fall down to your waist in soft waves. 

Staring isn’t a big deal. Or at least it shouldn’t be, but there is something about letting his eyes land for too long that puts him on edge. Perhaps it is some lingering adrenaline from the fight that still has him on alert. Even has his stomach twisting into weird knots. Usually by this point these effects have worn off, but So’lek tries not to read too far into it. 

A hiss escapes his lips without permission when fingers suddenly press into his shoulder blade. 

“By Eywa…” You marvel, now coming to press against the area harder even as he hisses his discomfort. “You are wound very tight. There is a giant knot here.” 

So’lek’s teeth dig into the inside of his lips to keep back further hissing, but there is no controlling the writhing of his tail. Despite all of his efforts, however, it seems that none of this is of consequence to you. You are more than content to ignore his pain and dig further into the muscle in order to examine the damage better. 

“It is just…tense.” He defends, finally veering away from your hands. 

“That is a nice way of putting it.” You scoff, shaking your head as if he has told a joke. “It needs to be massaged.” 

So’lek blinks back at you. Massaged? Of course it would be nice to stop having that blaring pain in his shoulder but what is he supposed to do about it? It is simply a consequence of pulling back his bow so many times, or even from slotting the stock of a rifle against that shoulder. But then you are reaching out and it hits him. This is you offering? 

Out of reflex he pulls away. Bottom lip caught between your teeth, that amusement paints your features again as you glare back at him. It’s the same look a parent gives their child when they are misbehaving. It has his ears twitching, tailing curling in anticipation. For what, he does not know. 

“It is fine.” So’lek assures you, holding a hand up when you try to reach him again. 

“Do not be ridiculous. It is not fine. That is, unless you are okay with letting it go until you are unable to move your arm without pain.” You have him there and you know it, watching him patiently until he will finally give in to your superior logic. 

You are being a good healer, no doubt far more observant of his state than anyone that has ever treated him among the resistance. And it’s true that restricted mobility would cause a direct conflict to his plans of revenge against the RDA. What point is infiltrating a base if he can’t even pull back the string of his bow? So So’lek can’t quite understand why the idea of conceding to this massage has his heart racing. 

Perhaps there is a personal aspect to it that makes him weary. He does not know you and you do not know him, no matter what stories the Sarentu has supposedly shared. You’ve just about wrestled him into this tent to get mended and now you are fully prepared to massage his pain away. To let those delicately soft hands run over exposed skin, bring him relief in a way no one else ever does. 

His heart rate is far beyond what it should be outside of battle. 

“Are you afraid I will hurt you?” Brow bones raising, you give him a look that says you know exactly how that idea attacks his male pride. Regardless, So’lek can’t hold back a scoff. 

“No.” 

“Then there really is no reason to be stubborn now, is there?” It’s a rhetorical question because only a few seconds after you are settling behind him and grabbing a basin of massage oil. 

For the first time since meeting you, you hesitate when your fingers just barely brush his tactical vest. Immediately that touch is pulled away and you fumble to find an angle that will reach the knot in his shoulder without touching the gear. 

It’s not the first time he has witnessed this hesitation among the Na’vi. The vest is intimidating, tacked on with a radio, ammunition, and many other pieces of Sky People technology that is entirely foreign to you. He remembers that caution in himself the first time he tried to hold a gun. Despite your carefree and pushy nature, this mysterious article seems to put you on edge too. 

“Do you want me to remove it?” 

“What?”

“The vest.” Daring to peek over his shoulder he finds your bottom lips trapped again before a simple nod is given his way. He sets down the vest a distance away with his gun too. Anything to make you feel a little more at ease. Ironically, however, it is him that is left feeling vulnerable without the heavy piece, only a thin swooping necklace over his bare chest now. Has it really been so long since he has removed his armor? Some nights he forgets to unclasp the vest before exhaustion takes him, but he has always blamed that on pure circumstance, not any sign of associated comfort. 

Your apprehension is washed away as if it was never there in the first place, now that you are facing only bare skin. The oil that you begin lathering over his shoulder smells strongly of dapophet but there is something else mixed in there that he can’t place. A strong essence that has memories long forgotten tugged to the forefront of his mind. Images of his clan, his family. Is it possible that the Zeswa use similar herbs in their medicine as that of his clan’s tsahik?

That thought is immediately interrupted when fingers begin to dig into the muscle again. A sharp agony pings through him, his muscles naturally tensing to protect the injured area. However, it is all for not when you continue to dig at the area mercilessly. So’lek usually considers his pain tolerance to be quite high but somehow this pain is so deeply rooted that he can’t stop himself from veering away. Even when you tug his shoulder back towards you, a hiss escapes his lips. 

“Hold still.” You demand. 

He tries. He really does try because squirming like this is borderline embarrassing. He is a trained warrior for Eywa’s sake! A little massage should not have him writhing like this. Regardless it seems this knot has gotten far worse than he could have imagined. 

“It really is fine.” So’lek grits out between clenched teeth. Star above, it is painful! He’s about ready to let the injury worsen if it means escaping your merciless hands. 

“Are you going to stop squirming like a child or will I need to pin you down to do this?” 

He can hear the amused smile in your voice but that’s not what his mind fixates on. Instead So’lek is horrified to witness how quickly his trail of thoughts leads to sinful places. How fast he can conjure up images of your smooth thighs cinched around his waist, your long hair falling over one shoulder to tickle at his spine. How easily he could quickly flip you over until he is the one that pins-

No. He must stop! A seasoned warrior well into his adult years should not create such innuendos so easily. That is for children, perhaps his years as a teenager where his hormones were wildly out of control. Back then he had a reason, but what excuse does he have now? 

“Better.” You murmur and it’s then that he realizes his dirty thoughts have somehow managed to distract him from the pain, autopilot keeping him in place. 

His jaw still clenches as you prod at the muscle, but eventually pain gives way into something else. Skilled fingers slowly ring out the agony he did not realize was there until his shoulders are sagging in relief. Your technique is meticulous, methodic. For such small hands you have quite the plethora of strength, wearing down his body until it is going lax. 

And then there is a tune. A song so quiet that it takes him a moment to realize it is you humming behind him. That foreign melody captivates him easily. Ears perking to catch every change of note, So’lek drowns in your sweet voice. And sweet it is, no better sound has he heard in years. So much of his daily life is accompanied by yapping tawtute and distant RDA bombs.

There are times where the lab tawtute put on records to play but that music is offending in comparison to the theme you weave now. It reminds him of home. Not even specifically of his clan per say, but just the feeling of having a home. Of having a community to bask in. 

Rich melody and trained fingers working in kind, So’lek melts beneath you. For the first time in a long time he remembers the difference between surviving and healing. Pleasure radiates from every touch you bestow and So’lek begins to slump, limbs feeling like noodles. Lost in the tranquility of the moment he doesn’t originally catch how concerning his thoughts become. How easily his body starts to yearn for your touch in different ways. 

How easily he starts to yearn for you. 

The interaction was innocent. And So’lek stands by that fact. You were pulled away abruptly by others demanding your attention and although it took him a few seconds to come down from that strange high, he had gathered his things and left the Zeswa with only your rushed goodbye as parting. 

He had shaken it off as a weird experience, just the shock of true Na’vi medicine after being corrupted by tawtute practice for so long. However, when days pass and his mind keeps dragging him back towards that event, So’lek knows he is in trouble. 

Were it just about the exceptional effects of Na’vi healing he wouldn’t be so concerned. After all, his shoulder has never felt better, his mobility and flexibility far beyond what he has done in a long time. So it would only be natural to have a fixation on something that rendered such positive results. 

But it’s the dreams that worry him. Dreams that start out as intangible images of your long hair, soft hands over his skin. Things that could be shrugged off as a wrong mix of hormones messing with his subconscious, potentially a faceless woman it imitates. But then they become more intense, uncomfortably vivid. Stories woven by his subconscious that are not only specific but inherently sexual. 

He dreams of how your lips would taste against his own. He dreams of your body pressed against him, of an intimacy far beyond what he could ever describe in words. Even the way his scent would beautifully coalesce with your own upon scent marking his territory. 

It is borderline madness. So’lek has only ever met you once! One time where you simply did your job as a healer. Creating fantasies out of such a small instance is truly pathetic. Of course it has been a while since he has been intimate with a woman but these feelings have not risen in years, especially not in a way so close to obsessive that it has his head reeling. 

And yet the dreams morph into the tangling of his actual conscious thoughts as he tries to go about his day. When he is sneaking up on a sturmbeest he’s wondering if you even remember that short hour together. When he is trading materials with the Sarentu his mind trails to guessing what activities are filling your day. And when he talks to Priya, well he tunes her completely out because surviving your nervous rambling is only doable when he’s imagining how the sun reflected off of your hair. And frankly, anything to keep is patience while talking to the purple haired tawtute is approved as far as he’s concerned. 

Maybe he really has been alone for far too long. He is at an age where courting and mating is a common motivation and so his body is pushing him towards the first female that has given him attention. It is biological. It must be. Once his hormones have died down all will return back to normal and he can forget you ever even met. 

That’s what he tells himself for the first week. So’lek stomps down the day dreaming as fast as possible and concentrates on his true goal, riding this planet of the RDA. He is in cohorts with the Sarentu and takes down every RDA tawtute and vehicle in his line of sight. But that doesn’t stop a nasty urge from sticking. Just this tiny idea of an injury bringing him back to the Zeswa healer’s tent. It seems that your duties primarily reside there and so it would be more than likely that he would find himself under your tender care again. 

And it’s hideous the way this fucked up idea becomes a fantasy for him. He is a warrior! A man of honor and courage. No warrior should ever long for an injury, no matter how minor. Especially when it could take him away from helping those who need him most, away from defending his home. So So’lek won’t say he falls from the tree on purpose. 

He is collecting shell fruit up in the red trees. The proximity to Zeswa camp is only a coincidence. Of course his agility is usually far beyond letting himself get scrapped up and falling a few branches down, but everyone has bad days. The only sensible thing to do while so far away from resistance headquarters, is seek a healer from the Zeswa.

He can be quick. In and out with little interference on their daily activities.

So’lek maintains a neutral mask when he reaches the healer’s tent. His greeting is polite but detached with every clan member that passes him by. However, there is no stopping the disappointment that lowers his tail when it is a different female that ushers him in for treatment. You are nowhere to be found in the spacious tent. Just a few elderly Na’vi receiving care and one child getting a scraped up knee bandaged. 

Truly he is grateful for the help received. Ka’xhori is the name of this healer and she does quick ,but quality, work on his bleeding thigh. Several times her curious stare is caught by the strange devices on his vest and even the darker stripes across his forehead. She makes conversation for a few minutes but when his answers become choppy and short, she silently resigns to his lack of interest. 

It’s towards the ending of the wrapping that he spots you from a distance. Just through the opening of the tent he catches you returning with a group of friends, shortbow in hand. A male to your right carries a fresh kill and the female to your left exuberantly tells you a story. 

Your eyes sparkle in delight, avidly drinking in the story. And then your friends says something that elicits the most beautiful sound he has ever heard. You laugh, a laugh quite different than the teasing one you had exposed him to the first time. This one comes from your gut, a belly laugh that has your eyes crinkling and teeth on full display. There is a vibrance to this demeanor that has him drawn like a moth to a flame. 

You’re babbling back at your friend with that same enthusiastic energy until both of you are struggling to not collapse to the ground in a fit of giggles. Even the male carrying the kill can’t defeat such infectious sounds of joy. Complete unabashed delight. No pretense. No mask, just a blinding smile he may never be able to unsee. 

“That should hold for a while.” Ka’xhori says, tugging on the leaf bandage for good measure. 

“My deepest gratitude.” His deep voice responds on autopilot. Most likely it is not convincing enough but So’lek is already shuffling out of the tent before she can respond. 

Despite the natural tugging in your direction, So’lek turns to the trail opposite. This obsession has gone on long enough. He thought that perhaps coming back here would only prove it to be some silly crush born out of dramatizing your first interaction together but now he sees this is only becoming more dangerous by the second. It’s best to cut himself off now while he still can. 

With a bit of distance and discipline he will be back on track. 

“Hey stranger!” 

So’lek pauses at your call, turning around to find you already leaving your friends behind to approach him. It takes everything within him to not reflect on the sway of your hips, the confident yet eased strut you exhibit.

“Kaltxi [hello].” He murmurs, giving the proper touch to his forehead in respect. 

A giggle catches in your throat at his formality. “Kaltxi.” You mimic his tone, but return the gesture. “How is the shoulder? I hope I didn’t rough you up too much.” 

Only psychologically. Only planting some brain rotting disease he can not rid himself of. 

“It is much improved.” 

Hands placed on your hips, that response seems to do the trick. However, it does not satisfy you enough to allow him an escape from this conversation. 

“So you’ve come back for more business, then?”

So’lek tumbles for a proper excuse. 

“I was here for…” It’s too late you’ve already noticed his bandaged thigh. 

“You are injured again?” You make a small tutting noise in disapproval, coming to circle him closer. “You know, So’lek I have found that it is better to dodge the sky demon bullets, not race right into them.” 

You joke as if the two of you are old friends, even a hint of mischief present in your composure. So’lek is left feeling lost in how to navigate this playful environment you’ve created. Even more so unsure on how to avoid admitting he fell out of a damn tree to get this mark. It would only show his weakness. Perhaps even give you the idea that he is uncoordinated in hunting and combat. 

Not that it matters. Why should he care to prove himself as a competent and athletic male? 

When he doesn’t respond fast enough you beat him to the punch. “You are not actually shot, correct?” 

“I am not shot.” 

“Good.” And he may just be imagining it, but there is a flicker of relief in your expression. What would your reaction be if he was shot? He would be mortified to be caught so easily by poorly aimed sky demon bullets but would that have won him some sympathy? Would you have tended to his wound directly, stayed by his side as he was nursed back to health?

“Well then if you are not bleeding to death you should stay for a meal.” 

So’lek flinches when you’ve suddenly grabbed his left hand and tug. This recoil is punished with your hand pulling back, regret immediately slinking through his veins. Despite his brash reaction there is no sign of embarrassment in your expression. Just a simple roll of your eyes. 

“I could not impose.”

“You are not imposing. It’s an invitation, So’lek.” You correct him. “Which in Zeswa culture really means you have no choice but to accept.” 

He’s tempted to ask what would happen should he refuse, but he bites his tongue. It’s important to keep his relations with the Zeswa friendly, being polite as he can manage with his little social skills. So So’lek trails behind you, watching as the skip in your steps sway that long hair back and forth across the curve of your spine. 

Just as with the healer’s tent, your presence immediately has others joyfully expressing their own greetings. 

“I am still waiting for that rematch, Niwin.” You call to male on their right, covered in red paint markings. 

“I told you, tsmuke [sister]. No number of rematches will give you the victory you desire. It is a waste of time.” He calls back, pausing from his work on a spear. 

“Spoken like a true coward. Is your tail truly still stuck between your legs?” Pearly whites on full display you only laugh when he sends back a teasing hiss. So’lek doesn’t miss the way Niwin’s eyes catch and track his frame. He is not the only one to silently wonder what you are doing with a man like him. 

Exchanging waves and inside jokes along the way, the two of you finally reach the largest of the Zeswa tents. Inside are Na’vi sprawled out and socializing, some crafting weapons while others use the cook fire to prepare meals. 

Trusting that So’lek is following behind obediently, you make a beeline for a certain male next to the cookfire. Long dreads falling over his shoulder he is fast at work, properly cooking meat over the fire. A savory scent fills his lungs. 

“Novao, I have brought you another victim.” You grin, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet. 

“Such little faith you have in my genius.” He mutters, but stops short when he notices who stands behind you. His brow bones raise.

“Kaltxi,” So’lek signs awkwardly. 

“Kaltxi,” Novao returns, the response uttered on instinct. “Who is this?” He asks, turning to you. 

“Who is this?” You scoff, pushing at his shoulder. “This is So’lek, of course. By the stars, Novao, you would forget your head were it not attached to your body.” You snicker coming to kneel beside him. 

So’lek hates to appear as if he is mimicking your motions but standing above the two of you now feels awkward so he slowly kneels. 

“Do I want to know by what means you have kidnapped this man?” Novao goads. 

“You said you need a larger sampling audience for more diverse feedback. Look at how I deliver.” You quip, bumping his shoulder with a proud grin. So’lek’s ears flicker at the playful jesting, but he doesn’t allow a smile. “Do not question good things that come your way.” 

“I will once you stop questioning the success of my soon to be famous dishes.” 

Is this how you converse with everyone? If so, perhaps there is nothing special about the way you tease him. Just a general reflection of your boisterous personality that he is not accustomed to. 

“I apologize in advance if this dish causes physical repercussions.” You hand over a leaf of cloaked panther meat crested with vegetables and some sort of seed. A recipe entirely new to him, but he accepts. “There is no telling when Novao’s new recipes will bring you to the heights of ecstasy versus the edge of an early grave. But he needs opinions, so we must do our part.” 

You make a show of holding up your own portions, as if to prove you are in this together. Novao grumbles under his breath but prepares a plate for himself while holding back a smile. 

The first bite is intense. It takes a second bite to fully interpret the burst of flavor in his mouth and once he has, So’lek struggles not to scarf down the entire thing. Even you can’t hold back an approving moan as you chew. A sound that damn near has him spiralling again. 

“It is wonderful,” He says. 

“You see, even this newcomer knows how to appreciate food better.” Novao is quick to jump in. 

Giggling after finally swallowing, you concede. “It is one of your better dishes to date, brother.” 

So’lek has a hard time understanding how this isn’t ranked as the best dish period. He himself is proficient in cooking but So’lek has never taken it up as an art as some do. Most of his dishes have just enough flavor to suffice. During desperate times he occasionally will dip into his small stash of disgusting RDA meals. Nothing, however, has compared to this. 

“Do you claim to cook better?” It’s a genuine question but it has Novao rumbling with laughter immediately. Your brows raise. 

“Oh, look who has a sense of humor after all.” Brows raised, you peer back at him with narrowed eyes and a swishing tail. “Not a very good sense of humor, but one all the same.” 

He can’t tear his gaze away from your burning attention. So’lek’s own tail curls along the floor. It’s not even praise but your spotlight warms his skin just the same. It feels good to elicit some sort of response from you, instead of the other way around for once. 

“Y/n burns everything she touches.” Novao jests between bites. 

“You exaggerate,” comes your quick defense, although posture unbothered as you take another bite. 

“She almost burned down this very tent last time she tried to cook a simple skewer.” 

So’lek can see it now. Na’vi running to and fro out of the tent as you stand there looking perplexed by a raging cookfire. 

“What can I say? I am not made to bother with this mundane task.” You shrug, leaning back on your elbow to lounge. The new position accentuates the dip of your waist until it curves out into full hips. 

“So simple that you purposefully fail at such a boring task?” The questions pops out before he can stop it. But So’lek is slightly startled when you immediately clap a hand down on his knee. 

“You see, So’lek understands!” That dainty hand does not immediately retract, resting upon his bare skin there. He hadn't realized how close you were already laying until now. When you cock your head to the side and continue to banter with the other male, that soft hair comes to tickle at his thighs. 

Being in your space fills his senses with your scent. An essence so unique and addicting that So’lek once again gets the urge to run for the hills. Instead, he remains diligently unmoving, worried that any small shift will have you shuffling away from him. And basking in an entertaining conversation between friends and a good meal before him, So’lek finds that he is in no hurry to return to headquarters. 

It becomes a bad habit of his, looking for excuses to return to the Zeswa home. So’lek had stayed far beyond finishing his meal last time. He blames it on good company, something that seems to be hard for him to keep nowadays. The Sarentu clan joining the resistance has brought him some comfort since but they like him are always busy with their own responsibilities, even further weighed down by scars that are far too fresh. 

So’lek had only convinced himself to leave once your mouth watering essence and occasional friendly touches had become far too much for his body to handle. To his utter mortification there had been a stir in his tewng [loincloth] and he knew then that it was important to make a speedy exit. 

He’s playing with fire, he knows it. So’lek should be doing everything he can to avoid temptation, not race back towards it. Yet, there is something within him that can’t seem to pass up any excuse there is to return. 

“What is wrong?” So’lek reluctantly asks. He doesn’t know how much longer he can silently watch Priya mutter to herself and pace back and forth in front of the monitors. She is on the brink of a full meltdown and as luck would have it, he happens to be the only one in the vicinity as the others take lunch. 

“Nothing,” comes her frazzled response. So’lek shrugs, good enough for him. At least he can say he asked. “Well I mean a little more than nothing I guess. Although that really depends on how you look at it.” 

So’lek holds back a sigh. So they’re doing this after all. 

“It’s just that I sort of forgot to send the coordinates of the new RDA drills sites to the Zeswa after I specifically promised to get it to them within a few days. But I somehow completely forgot, because that’s what I do. Typical Priya. I’m sure at this point they are already upset and-”

“I’ll do it.” 

“What?” 

“I will share the coordinates with Minang and Nesim. That’s what you need right?” 

Priya’s mouth gapes like a fish out of water. She takes an annoying amount of time to gather herself from the apparent shock. 

“Well…I mean yes but that would mean traveling all the way to the Zeswa camp you realize.”

“I realize. Give me the demon tablet.” So’lek snips, holding out his hand for the pad. So maybe it’s not that common for him to help Priya after a foolish mistake like this but he still can’t see how that is enough to elicit such a dramatic response. Nor does So’lek want to wait around for her to start questioning his motives. 

“Wow um yeah of course. I will grab that for you and uh…” She trails off, spinning around as if she is chasing her nonexistent tail, while really just trying to locate the tablet. Priya finally hands it over with a smile. “Thank you, So’lek. I really appreciate it.”

“Yes. Goodbye.” He has never left headquarters so fast. 

Furthermore he manages to make it to Zeswa camp in record time without trying. Walking through the camp he forces himself to make a beeline to Nesim, although a part of him wishes to check the healer’s tent for Minang first. Doing so, however, would only increase the chances of coming across you and getting entirely sidetracked. 

Minang and Nesim are far more forgiving of the delay than Priya gives them credit for. It takes some time trying to properly explain the map on the tablet, as it’s their first time truly interacting so closely with these screens, but eventually he manages to relay the proper information and get all of them on track. 

The beginnings of plans for certain amushes are made and So’lek is given detailed information to return to HQ. Nesim leaves immediately once the plans are made, anxious to get preparations under way. Minang however hangs back in the tent. 

So’lek almost doesn’t notice her presence as he finds himself staring past the tent entrance to where you sit weaving a basket. It feels rare to catch you alone like this but you appear entirely at ease working the fibers together. 

“She is one of my assisting healers.” Minang says, almost making So’lek jump out of his skin when she is suddenly by his side. His eyes immediately dart away, feigning a disinterest as he rakes over the scenery equally. 

So’lek clears his throat before speaking. “That is good.” Despite the strength of his voice, Minang seems to find some sort of amusement in his response. She wears a neutral expression but even he catches the twitch of her lips. 

“I heard the two of you have already met.” 

“Briefly.” 

“Great. Then she will be perfect.” Minang says with an assured nod. 

“Perfect…for what?” A wrinkle settles between his hairless brows as So’lek’s mind races to understand at what point he became so lost in this conversation. Instead of answering his question directly, Minang turns to walk further into the tent. Already moving on to the next task she talks while starting to gather some of her cooking supplies. 

“My sister and I have been talking and we’ve decided it would be beneficial for you to learn how to ride a pa’li [direhorse]. The Sarentu has already taken it upon themselves and has progressed immensely. As another ally of the Zeswa it only makes sense you learn some of our ways too. It may become necessary for any future ground attacks.” 

She continues to gather her things without facing him, but Minang’s ears perk to hear his response. So’lek can’t remember the last time he has ridden on a pa’li. It would have had to have been briefly as a child, not actually making the bond himself but riding with his father. It was not a common experience among his clan and since then he has never had the opportunity to explore it further.

“I see. That is…logical.” 

“Y/n will be happy to teach you. She is an experienced rider. A good karyu [teacher] I think.” 

So’lek feels as if there is a rock lodged in his throat. 

“I would not wish to lessen her availability in the healer’s tent.”

Minang gives a low chuckle, turning to look at him with a swishing tail and wide smile. “I have plenty of help for the time. Besides, since you two have already met, that would make her the ideal choice.” 

“Yes, I see. Although I would not consider us more than strange-”

“I will give her word of this assignment. Return at noon tomorrow for your first lesson.” And with that she saunters out of the tent, leaving So’lek gaping for words and mind lagging to process the turn of events. 

Despite having come all this way for the chance to see you, So’lek goes to slightly extreme lengths to escape the tent without your notice. Brisk walk taking him further and further away from your alluring scent, he asks himself how the hell he is supposed to survive lessons in your presence without going entirely over the line. It’s caught in this spiral that he almost misses Novao’s quick greeting. Just a simple wave before the male is turning back to his meal, but it still catches So’lek off guard. Which appears to be the theme of the day.

And perhaps it’s in his head but it feels as if less people shy away from him as he leaves the camp. A few other Na’vi even extend a goodbye nonchalantly. 

“Did something happen?” Priya twists to meet So’lek’s far off gaze. 

“I have already relayed the information.” 

“I think she means did something happen to have you spacing out like that? You’ve hardly said anything since returning.” Anqa steps in, putting an arm around Priya’s shoulder’s as a comforting act. 

So’lek stares down at the two tawtute. He’s not sure what they expect of him. Confiding with sky people is not a common practice of his. In fact, confiding in anyone is a rare occasion. Neither does he believe they would have any way of understanding his situation. Priya and Anqa are still so wrapped up in their honeymoon phase that giving them any piece of his love life would only set them off like fireworks. He would never hear the end of it. No doubt they would pry until his patience would run out. 

“I will be gone tomorrow.” So’lek says instead. 

“Oh, helping the sarentu again?” Anqa inquires. 

“The Zeswa require my presence. I will return before eclipse.” And before they can question him any further he retreats to his small living quarters. Despite his quick retreat So’lek can still pick up their gossiping whispers behind him. 

Keeping this under wraps may be more difficult than he anticipated. It feels impossible to keep a secret in a place like this, jammed together in a cave with so many tawtute. Then again, this can’t even be qualified as a secret. In order to do so there would have to be actually something to share, and there isn’t. Nothing has occurred between the two of you. It’s just his own imaginings that threaten to get him in trouble. 

You, on the other hand, are just fulfilling the requests of your Tsahik and Olo’eyktan. Even doing a little more than asked by extending a friendly welcome to him. With any luck he will learn to ride a pa’li fast enough to stop this from spiraling out of control and involving other unwanted parties. 

It’s with this attitude that he makes the trek out the next morning. A strong resolve to stay focused and complete the task at hand efficiently. After all, he’s always been a quick learner. Why should this be any different?

“Starting the day a little grumpy, hm?” He spins around at the sound of your voice. Sauntering from a nearby tent, today you wear a decadent feather top. Something so light and revealing it would only take the right gust of wind to have it shifting. So’lek’s digs his nails into his thighs. 

“Um no, I am ready to learn.” 

“Oh so that is your focused scowl. Hard to tell the difference.” With a pep to your step, you motion for him to follow. “Well then if you’re so anxious to learn, let’s get started, lazy bones.” 

“Of course.” So’lek concedes with a nod, but he doesn’t miss the giggle you try to stifle in front of him. Perhaps he is a little formal, even stiff at times, but most people simply take it as a sign to leave him be. The same is not true in your case. 

The sound dies down significantly once the two of you have made it away from the Zeswa camp. Gliding through the tall reeds and plants of the plains there are times where he can only get a glimpse of you through the foliage. So’lek shuffles to keep up. For someone with a significantly shorter stride than him, you sure move fast. 

“There you are!” You call with glee before running forward into a clearing. Finally afforded a proper view of the open space, he spots you next to a pa’li, running a hand along its snout. The creature seems to lean into your touch, just as happy to see you as you are her. “I knew you’d be out here somewhere, girl.” 

When So’lek steps out of the tall grass the creature immediately stiffens. He goes stock still in response. 

“To ride a pa’li you must first show them you are not a threat. Soothe them into letting you approach.” 

So’lek nods his head and takes a steadying breath. Unfortunately, it is only a few steps in before the pa’li is rearing back, trying to get out of your hold. You coo softly, giving comforting words and touches until she is back in your space once more. 

“Perhaps let’s start without your bow first. Just for now.” 

Reluctantly, So’lek slowly removes all forms of weaponry on him and places it on the grass. Try, try and try again, he does all he can to get closer. When you tell him to slow down, he moves at the pace of an insect. When he tries to imitate the cooing sounds you often make it not only has the pa’li running away entirely but also you struggling to hold back your own laughter. 

Trying not to notice the way your tail curls in amusement, So'lek persistently continues.

“A pa’li is not like an ikran. There is no show of dominance to win over lifelong loyalty. Instead you must prove yourself to be caring and trustworthy every time you approach.” 

It’s good instruction but none of it seems to be doing him any use. For whatever reason, he can not get within a few steps of the direhorse before she is running for the hills. Frustration blooming quickly, So’lek’s jaw clenches. 

“You know, the problem is quite clear and simple to fix.” Head tilting to the side you draw forward to him a few steps and this time let the pa’li run off without interference. 

“What is it?”

“That scowl. Not the most inviting demeanor.” You point out and a line forms between his brows. So’lek places his hands on his hips, nose scrunching at the remark. 

“It is my face. There is nothing I can do to change it.” 

“You could try to smile.” You goad, demonstrating a smile of your own. “I’m sure if you put your mind to it, you could manage.” 

“I smile.” Apparently not enough considering you are not the first person to make this suggestion. Keeping a stern expression is not always on purpose, but with all that’s happened it somehow feels like a comforting guard set in place. He is not as vulnerable when others have a hard time reading him. 

“Alright alright.” You concede with hands raised in surrender. “I believe you. It just would be nice to see.” There is a spark of mischief beneath that comforting smile. And something tells So’lek that you are no longer talking about this just in the context of soothing a pa’li. “Let’s try something different then.” 

Air catches in his lungs the second your small fingers are wrapping around his palm. This time, So’lek doesn’t make the mistake of flinching and scaring you off. With rising curiosity he allows himself to be manhandled by your gentle grip. He is pulled along slowly until the pa’li is only a few steps away. 

To his surprise the creature does not immediately shy away now that the two of you approach her together. Slowly his hand is coaxed to lay across her snout, but even once it is placed there your touch does not disappear. Your petite fingers remain calmly pressed over the back of his hand. They coax him to create long soothing strokes across the creature’s leathery skin but every now and then your thumb will run over one of the protruding veins of his hand. 

Saliva gathers atop of his tongue. He should be focusing on this small success and creating a further bond with the pa’li but all he can feel is you. Buttery soft skin and dazzling eyes that peek up at him with praise on your tongue. 

Getting so worked up over something so simple is truly ridiculous and he can’t quite figure out when or how you gained this power over him. 

Soothing the pa’li is one thing but making the bond and mounting the creature happens to be another feat entirely. It takes at least a dozen times to make the bond and mount once but even that only lasts for a few seconds before he is bucked off. Once. Then twice. Then the third time he is catapulted into the lake. 

Breaching the shallow pool, So’lek’s lips turn downwards and he can’t keep back a frustrated grunt. His eyes narrow when they settle on your form nearly hunching over from laughter. Wiping the mud from his brow his gaze is enough to have you trying to stifle your amusement weakly. 

“You are laughing.” He deadpans. 

“No no I am not,” You clear your throat in efforts to stop the giggles as you wade into the water where he sits. “I am not laughing.” 

So’lek doesn’t know what comes over him. An action born from pure emotion, but when he accepts your extended hand of help he doesnt use it to hoist himself up but instead yanks on it hard. With very little force you easily go flying to the ground next to him and beneath the water. A shocked sound escapes your throat the second you resurface. 

An apology is on the tip of his tongue but you don’t give him a chance. 

“Oh I see how it is.” With a threateningly deep chuckle you are already rearing up and splashing a wave of water over him. Whatever amends he was ready to make are chucked aside as he shakes the water from his braids and his tail curls in excitement. 

You are back on your feet and running before he is halfway up. Fast little thing, you are. But it’s no matter, with the adrenaline now racing through his veins it is only a matter of time before he catches up. Splashing, pushing and even tripping all go underway until both of you are covered in lake mud. It’s like being a child again, his hands grasping for your tail at every chance he gets, your own smaller hands managing to fling mud into his braids. 

So’lek’s own deep laughter rumbles in his chest far before he realizes it. An insatiable thrill runs through him as the two of you indulge in play that he has not experienced since he was half this height. And when you tackle him back into the water he comes to find that for the first time in a long time he has forgotten about his nagging objectives. 

He is drunk on your laugh, the way it rings like a beautiful chime in the upper plains wind. Lazily sprawled next to you he tries to reel back his own chuckling just as your chest heaves for air. 

“I knew you could smile.” You manage between breaths. So’lek only has a second to understand your words before there is a distant boom. Head whipping towards the source of the sound he finds it comes from far east. One of the many drilling sites he had shared the coordinates of. He’s ready to shrug it off and continue, far accustomed to the dreadful noise and what it means at this point, but when So’lek turns back to look at you that feeling immediately shifts. 

Your ears are pulled back, almost tucked beneath your hair. Tail limp beneath the water and blank stare fixated in the difference. For the first time since meeting you there are no traces of a smile, not a flicker or spark in those beautiful eyes. Something heavy hangs there in its place. And the breakneck change in demeanor gives him chills. 

It’s as if you’ve forgotten he is there. That usually curving and free moving posture has now straightened into a locked position. 

“It is a drilling site in the east. Several miles away.” So’lek says carefully. There is no telling whether or not his comment makes it better or worse, but with a smooth voice he continues. “It is from a drill that they use to make a hole in the ground.”

‘What?” You whisper, almost as if coming out of a daze. 

“That is what you are hearing. It is an awful sound.” His muzzle wrinkles at the truth of his words. So’lek has come far closer to those dreadful machines then he ever would have liked but at least he now has experienced first hand how they can be stopped. Still, there are nightmares that echo with that Eywa forsaken sound occasionally. 

With a hesitant hand he starts to reach out to place it on your shoulder. “It is alright to be scared.” 

He doesn’t make contact before you are whipping back. 

“I am not scared.” Hastily you spring up onto your feet and back towards the shore. It feels as if the moment has shattered like glass before he could even understand it, leaving him reeling to catch up. “Come, let’s get back to work.” Tone hard and words clipped, you are already out of his reach. 

So’lek is careful not to bring up the drill again, or any RDA activity for that matter. He pretends not to notice that you’ve changed the location of his training further from the drill site. And when he enters the next day he is on edge, watching your features for any signs of distress. 

Surprisingly, you seem to have switched back to your usual friendliness. It’s as if that conversation never happened and since So’lek is more than lost on what to do he easily follows your lead in not talking about it. In fact, as more lessons come and go it becomes easier to follow your lead in many things. 

You are a talkative woman, always chattering about your opinions on different matters (big or small) or filling him in on the intricate inner workings of Zeswa clan gossip. At this point he could probably name just about every clan member from their pieces in your stories alone. When you’re sharing so much like this, it becomes only natural to divulge some information himself. 

You ask about the resistance headquarters, about how many tawtute live there, what they eat. Even more personal things like where he manages to sleep and how he fills his days outside of his pa’li lessons. Although at first feeling a little put on the spot, So’lek eventually warms to this line of questioning. You are simply a curious individual and when you soak in every mundane detail he gives with a vibrant excitement and big wide eyes, it’s hard to not enjoy the attention. 

Learning to ride a pa’li is exceedingly more trying than he had anticipated. Even once he has learned how to mount and start a smooth walk, navigating and getting up to a gallop feels like starting from ground zero again. Despite these difficulties, the extended lessons don’t bother him as he would have expected. 

Some days you greet him with leftovers from Navao’s newest creations (letting him learn the hard way that you’re right about some of them having physical consequences) and other days it is him that brings back foraged fruit or random trinkets from HQ you might find interesting. Those meals are shared in the tall grass of the plains, stories filtering out of your lips faster than he can keep up with as he watches your long hair dancing in the wind. 

There is one question, however, that you never ask him. Perhaps because you already know what happened to his clan. So’lek doesn’t share the story of his clan decimation by the RDA, but word travels. The memory of his people has become a cautionary tale. Not much more than a story to rile anger and motivation to bring the sky people down once and for all. The Sarentu clan shared a similar fate, but they have each other. Even a handful of people is a desirable clan in his eyes. 

It’s a week into the lessons that So’lek finds himself at the Zeswa camp early. He had come across a patch of tsawksyul [pandoran ‘sunflowers’] earlier that morning and was gathering it without thought. He has no use for the delicate flowers but it seems right to leave it with you. Surely you are more than happy to find ways of weaving it into a new intricate top. He’s heard enough about your designs to understand it’s a passion of yours. 

So with a little too much anticipation and haste, So’lek enters the camp early in search of your bright smile. It’s your voice, though, that he hears first. It filters from the healer’s tent. Lurking on the opposite of the doorway So’lek goes to round the structure and enter but he stops midway. 

“Is this about the man from the tawtute clan?” 

“His name is So’lek.” You remind the anonymous female, gently. 

Every muscle in his body freezes at the sound of his name. This is wrong. Listening in on a private conversation is bad enough, even when it is not about you. Yet, his neck cranes to see if anyone else is around instead. Since he is on the opposite side of the tent there is not a soul to note his presence yet and So’lek simply can’t get himself to move from the spot. 

“And why do you assume it would be about him? Does there have to be another man involved in order for me to take time to thoroughly consider Ra’vang’s courtship?” You challenge and the other female lets out a sigh. 

“Of course not, but you have been spending an awful lot of time with him.” 

“Naturally,” comes your simple reply, entirely unbothered. “I am teaching him as I was instructed.” 

“Yeah I know and you’re very kind to do so but you have to admit he is a little…strange.” 

“That is not true! He has simply been through shit that you haven’t.” All softness bleaches from your voice. 

“Woah! Okay, retract the claws. I am sorry. I did not mean to insinuate anything negative by it.” He recognizes your little huff in response. “It’s just that the two of you are very different. That’s all I’m trying to say. He is very…stiff.” 

A beat passes and through the tent material he swears he catches the shake of your head. “So’lek is selective when it comes to socializing. He may come off serious but there is a lot more beneath that hard exterior than you would realize. It’s simply not on show for everyone.” 

It feels as if a wire has been tired around his heart, his lungs furthermore forgetting to take in needed oxygen. 

“I admit I do not claim to know him as well as you do. But…I can not imagine living in such close quarters with sky people like that. Always surrounded by metal.”

“Of course you can not. Most people are not cut out for such a task. But we benefit from the Resistance’s aid, so perhaps we should be grateful that So’lek is capable of dealing with it.” 

“Okay okay, I see your point, sister. Just…be careful what decisions you make right now. Ra’vang is a strong warrior and provider. Even if it’s not him you have other options, many good ones. Spontaneity may be your specialty but I’d hate for you to let a good mating pass by simply because you are not thinking this through properly.” 

You give a small sigh but it’s light, void of anything but fondness. 

“If there is one thing I do know it’s that love is not something to be analyzed and bash one’s own head over. I think things through, but I know how to listen to the song of my own heart too. I don’t make it a practice to question what it tells me.” 

So’lek staggers away. Any longer in that spot and he risks being seen, or sending his thoughts into a further tangled mess. He looks down at the flowers in hand. You defended him, said a lot more than most people would have. It fosters an unfathomable fire in his chest and yet it’s tampered by a reality he wishes to not face. 

You have suitors. Real men of the clan that are not only native to this culture and lifestyle but also expressing interest through real courting displays. If your friend’s words are anything to go off of, you’ve gathered many good prospects. And why wouldn't that be true? It’s easy to imagine what they would see in a woman like you. Easy because it’s everything he sees too.

But So’lek….

So’lek is not Zeswa. He hardly has traces of the lifestyle from his own clan within him. The years have shaped him into somewhat of a mut in Na’vi breeding. He does not know the way of any clan how he should and there is a darkness within him that rages for revenge. These men have been brought up to take care of someone like you. They are able to give you so much more than he ever could and yet here he stands with a courting gift in hand like a true skxawng [idiot]. 

Whether or not it was intentional is irrelevant. If he gives these flowers to you it will surely be a sign of interest. He will instigate himself as a competitor in this game that he has no right playing. 

So’lek discreetly slips them into a basket of herbs in one of the tents. Someone else will find use for them, but it won’t be in his hands when you arrive. 

The entanglement of his thoughts leaves his body buzzing with energy. So much so that even though he hardly hears a word you say during the lesson, he somehow manages to conjure up enough tenacity to stay atop the pa’li while in a gallop. And then faster and faster he pushes the creature with that racing adrenaline he sends down the bond. 

The whip of the wind, the strain of his muscles, all of them work to offset the mental exhaustion that is quickly blossoming. And then his golden eyes finally take in the scene before him. Tall grass races beside him on every side. Trees of crimson leaves dot the open field where arrow deer scurry and Soundblast colossus nap near the sparkling river. 

The plains are monumental. It settles a deep awareness of its grandeur. 

Your celebratory yips and hollers echo from behind. 

And rushing through this scene feels like flying for the first time again. 

Completing the training finally gives So’lek room for a breather. He stunts the disappointment at not seeing you every day with the knowledge that this will only simplify the situation. Without being kept in close quarters he will be free to devote himself entirely to taking down the RDA and you will be free to explore courtings and potential matings without his interference.  

Luckily there is more than enough work to keep him busy now that they are preparing to go up against the largest drilling site to date. When your laughter echoes through his mind, So’lek goes through the RDA rosters until his eyes burn and a headache clouds all thoughts. When his brain compulsively conjures up your teasing jests being directed at another suitor, he hunts feral viperwolves until he is covered in scratches and forced to the hospital wing. 

And it is only once that he accidentally crushes a mug in his grip in front of Alex and Anqa as he envisions another man’s tongue running over your luscious curves. He chalks it up to tension created by the upcoming battle, but it’s clear Anqa has shared the occurrence when Priya gives him worried looks for several days after. 

Despite his busy work, So’lek finds himself relieved when the day of the ambush finally arrives. It is the first time the Zeswa and the Resistance have worked together in combat and the air buzzes with excitement. He only thinks of you for a moment when he mounts a pa’li and joins the Zeswa in leading the majority of RDA firepower towards the hills. 

A small band of Zeswa warriors, tawtute soldiers, and the Sarentu clan work together to infiltrate the base quietly, taking down the drill from the inside. 

Hours feel only like minutes when his body is pumping with adrenaline. It begins and is over all before he can really process it and by some Eywa given miracle, not only do they succeed but there are only injuries to be accounted for. Muscles aching, forehead beaded with sweat, and entire body still pulsing from the intense vibrations of close range gun power, So’lek heaves a deep sigh of relief. A tangible weight lifts from his shoulders, a peace that is often fleeting but something he has learned to enjoy while it lasts. 

There will be more to do tomorrow. The RDA are nowhere near exterminated, but for now he basks in the knowledge that they are one step closer to ridding them for good. The Zeswa holler and cry into the wind with a passion that seems to shake the very hills. Even those that are injured take part in celebrating this victory. 

Watching the scene makes his chest swell with foreign feelings. So many times he has been left to reflect on the aftermath of his solo missions without another to share that moment with. Celebrations occasionally occur at headquarters but never has it felt like this. And his lungs seize, almost bursting with the need to let out his own cry in the mix of their allies. It calls to a part within him that often feels buried away, even forgotten. An instinctual part of him that is true Na’vi, a creature that has a place in Pandora’s beauty. 

Years worth of turmoil releases in that guttural cry and to So’lek’s surprise, it is a sound of pure elation that rings from him. 

It was within that spirit or triumph that So’lek had been extended an invitation by Nesim to join them in festivities. Although noncommittal in his response, he finds himself preparing to leave headquarters hours later. The tawtute and Sarentu work together to create their own party in the dinghy cave. A part of him feels as if he should be there for it, a party of outcasts that he has grown accustomed to associating himself with. But that primal cry remains trapped in his chest. It calls him to the plains. 

And so for once, So’lek decides to let himself celebrate.

There are little memories left of clan parties, most just blurry images of firelight and dancing shadows. They are only mere facades in comparison to the burst of conviviality that So’lek can hear within a mile of camp. 

Walking through the center of camp there are very few Na’vi still residing there, most simply rushing to and fro in search of supplies or friends before scampering back to where the real party is being held. Down the hill he can see towering flames and a gaggle of bodies dancing with fervor. 

He takes a step, then pauses. 

So’lek’s fingers are hesitant as they undo the clasps of his chest guard, but it eventually loosens and slides down his arms to rest in the grass. He sets aside his bow, his gun, and every piece that is made of metal or meant as a weapon. Even his arm guard is placed neatly in that pile. 

The wind nips at his vulnerable form and So’lek is once again struck by how naked he feels without these things. This time though, he settles into that discomfort. This is a party. One night where he will not plot his revenge or sharpen his weapons. A single night where he can pretend to belong. 

The last streaks of fiery red disperse from the sky and in their wake, eclipse conjures Pandora’s bioluminescent glow. Tahni [star-like freckles] light along his exposed skin. So’lek’s ears perk the closer he gets to the party. The very thrum of the heavy drums vibrates at the soles of his feet, reverberating to punch him in the chest. 

There is a vibrance in the air, an energy so palpable it feels as if he can taste it on his tongue. Whatever drug has infused the scene, it seems to spread rapidly among the celebrating parties. Zeswa of all ages and stations are muffled together in a form of dancing that So’lek can only describe as pure frenzy. 

Movement without direction. Feet atop the wind as if a fire has been lit beneath them. 

It is unlike anything So’lek has ever witnessed before. His golden eyes flicker frantically across the parade before him, unsure of what to take in first. The very air in his lungs is filled with the hickory essence of smoked meat. Even his ears flutter across his braids, attacked by the onslaught of sound. 

And then, there is you. 

Right in the very heart of the festivities, as he could have guessed. His overstimulated senses finally find a target, settling entirely on the way you move within the crowd. Much like the rest of the Zeswa your body moves with unabashed enthusiasm. There is no rhyme or reason to the swivel and swish of your small form. You act on pure instinct, a reaction of feeling to the euphoric buzz around you. Pure elation. 

It is a complete disregard of outside perceptions. There is nothing but your windswept joy and the music that moves you to and fro. Although the entire scene is curious by nature to him, there is something about you that constantly pulls him in. And that’s what it is. Your presence is magnetic. It draws not only So’lek in but everyone around you, it’s clear in every reaction he has witnessed. 

You are a free spirit. You move through life as if nothing could ever clip your wings and for all he can tell, you may just be right. Because even in the midst of grief and war, your scars act as the embers to light a vibrant sun in your countenance, until that empathetic warmth seeps to those around you. 

The female next to you, her name Ta’kuri he believes, leans over to converse with you over the pounding music. So’lek’s heart drops to his stomach when she points a finger in his direction and your eyes snag his form. Your responding smile is bright upon spotting him, but So’lek can only focus on the fact that he has potentially been caught staring. 

Small form practically swallowed by the crowd it takes a moment for you to extract yourself from the mesh of bodies. Just enough time for So’lek to calm his heart and feign shown interest elsewhere to cover up for his flub. When you saunter to the outskirts he purposefully waits a beat before sliding his gaze in your direction. 

“Well if it isn’t my star pupil, oeyӓ numeyu [my student]. You actually showed up.” You are all teeth, grin center stage as you pin him with those golden eyes. 

“Kaltxi karyu [hello teacher],” The edges of his lips twist into a lopsided smile without permission. “Nesim invited me.” 

“And now you are here. Finally ready to have some fun, yes?” Chin tilted downward and brow raised, you give him a look that suggests the only correct answer is yes. He feels the snap of a retort at the edge of his tongue. Something about how he is not the grumpy pants you always claim him to be and how he does in fact find time to enjoy himself on occasion. But those are words spoken far before he decided to leave you be. So’lek is trying to be good, desperately trying to be respectful and do the right thing. 

“The celebration is very enjoyable.” 

“Very enjoyable?” You scoff with a half laugh. “How could you even know? You have not even begun dancing yet.”  

So’lek immediately staggers a few steps back, at the speed of a prey avoiding a lethal blow. “No no, I am content to enjoy the party here, paskalin [honey/sweetheart].” Shit! He can’t fathom at what point he gave his mouth permission to utter such an affectionate term. So’lek’s insides twist and for perhaps the first time in years his cheeks fill with heat. He thanks Eywa above that the darkness is enough to hide the new tint. 

Despite his slip up, your grin never falters, in fact it seems to widen until dimples form in your cheeks. “So’lek you need not be stubborn every time I ask something of you.” 

When you catch his wrist in a surprisingly strong hold he is left with no other option but to wobble behind you. “I do not know how to dance. I was never taught.” He shouts to you over the music. 

Throwing a smile over your shoulder you do not respond until he has successfully been pulled into the edges of the crowd. “There is nothing to teach.” You say, dropping his hand to face him. “Dancing is the opposite of thinking, So’lek. You simply feel.” 

“That is not the comfort you believe it to be.” 

Your laugh is barely audible over the roaring drums. “What you need is some liquid courage then.” With a wave of your hand Novao is flagged over. His eyes roll but the swish of his tail is friendly when he comes over to hand two skins of liquor over. 

“You are an angel.” You giggle, taking the containers with glee. 

“So much more than you realize.” Novao snorts before giving your shoulder a teasing bump and sauntering back towards the cookfire. So’lek barely has his hand wrapped around one of the skins before you are chugging back the other. 

When squinted eyes peek up at him over the rim you finally take a breath and push at his hand. “Novao is proficient when it comes to strong drink, I promise.” 

Not wishing to feel out of place for any longer, he slants his lips over the rim and takes an ambitious guilt. Regret immediately stings his throat as it slides down like pure fire. The responding choke that comes from him immediately after is utterly humiliating. Eyes already welling with tears, So’lek does everything in his power to shut up the ridiculous sound and gain whatever is left of his composure. 

“A little strong, huh?” There is a giggling shrill to your tone but a flicker in your gaze shows concern simultaneously. So’lek is shaking his head before you can even suggest a glass of water. 

“No no it is fine just,” He clears his throat, “...different.” 

And different it is in comparison to what he has had. It is only now that it hits him how long it has been since tasting anything even close to resembling alcohol. There are a few tawtute at headquarters that occasionally try their hand at brewing alcohol but it is nothing short of fowl and disappointing. There are no inebriating effects from such water down drink, especially consider he is the twice the height of the intended party. 

So what comes next is completely out of his control. His body is rendered utterly unprepared for the strong drink that he continues to consume in spite of his better judgment and the fact that you don’t continue to urge him to drink. However, So’lek is no child. He is a man, and one that should be able to hold his liquor so when you occasionally blink up at him or catch a glance from the corner of your eye to make sure he is doing alright, it warps his pride to push him into foolishly drinking down even more. 

“Okay I think that is enough.” It takes rising onto your toes in order to reach the rim pointed at his lips. That apparent show of height difference should not please him so much but there is no denying the thrill that tightens his chest. “Now you dance.” 

Braids clinking together he is already resisting as you continue to pull him deeper into the crowd. “I truly do not know-”

“Yes yes, I heard you before. I will assist you.” Peering up at him through thick lashes, your hip bumps against his thigh softly as you tack on, “Or do you not trust me?” 

That is the line that sinks him. Head already feeling floaty, So’lek lets you maneuver him into position. 

Small hands skate across his shoulder blades, for a moment those talented thumbs press into  the muscles there just as you had done upon your first meeting. “You are too tense. You must relax.” 

Easier said than done when there is a line of electricity left behind every inch of skin you touch. But sooner than later he finds his shoulders loosening, starting to sway in a weird motion that seems pointless but actually fits with the rhythm of drums. A burst of confidence fills him when you step back to face him from the front again, trusting him enough to continue the motion. 

“There you go! Learning already.” And just as the simpering student he feels like he is would, So’lek perks up at the praise. Those flirty smiles and encouraging words coupled with the strong drink running through his veins, it becomes all too easy to let his body go without thought. 

Regardless, you continue to guide him. So’lek falls into line with whatever movement feels natural from your promptings. For the first time in years a fuzziness takes over that nagging voice of responsibility and he lets his body take precedence over his overactive brain. The more liquid fire he consumes the easier it becomes to not imagine what he must look like on the outside. Every fiber of his being gravitates towards the addicting pulse of those drums. Drowning in that vibrant energy until he is also engulfed in the crowd of Zeswa. 

Other Na’vi surround him from every side but it’s your touch that pulses through him. A brush of fingers along his arm, his bicep. The zapping electricity every time that dainty hand clasps his own to pull him closer. Even the tickle of your hair in the wind brushing his chest has him fighting back a full body shiver. 

Dancing is not a brash display, although some excel in that arena. No, dancing is the mechanism that pulls you closer to the touch you crave. The perfect opportunity to let hands wander, to mold bodies together without social consequence. And now, So’lek finally understands the rave over this activity. 

So’lek doubts he could confirm whether or not his head is still attached to his shoulders with the amount of alcohol running through him. However, there is no more vivid memory than the one of his hands mapping your frame. They encase your sides, ribs, up to your shoulders over your collarbones, feeling the silky skin beneath as you curve into every brush of his greedy hands. It’s when one hand mindlessly curves around the nape of your neck, the two scents mingling in the most satisfying of ways, that So’lek finally catches the burn of another’s stare.

It radiates from a male off on the sidelines. Each hand holds a skin of strong drink while the male attempts to burn a hole into So’lek’s head through slitted eyes. Something rumbles at the back of So’lek’s head. A voice that tells him there is some reason he should be upset by this situation, but that caution is muffled. It rings out like a message shouted from the deepest part of the lake and So’lek can’t find it within himself to spend more than a few seconds trying to decode it. 

It’s not just you that distracts him. Ta’kuri is suddenly on his left shouting some sort of encouraging words over the music. There’s no making sense of it but before he knows it there are more Na’vi that join the mix. Even Novao meshes with the crowd at some point, slurred conversation passing between him and every Na’vi he meets. Some friends lean on each other to stop from collapsing on the ground in their drunken state while others flourish in a flutter of moves that has the fields buzzing with cheers. So’lek’s own voice joins the other exuberant shouts. 

To call the event hectic would be an understatement but every time So’lek feels as if he may be the one to topple over next, there is a small hand at the base of his spine. Gorgeous golden eyes and a bright smile peering up to remind him that you are watching over him.  

So’lek dances until his ears ring. He dances until the very soles of his feet have grown bruised from landing on the hard ground. It is only when you are stumbling across the long grass, caught by his strong hands desperately trying to pull you back up that the two of you decide to trail off from the dance floor. 

“Save some drink for the rest of us, sister.” Ta’kuri jests, tapping your nose once before helping So’lek pick you up from the ground. That sweet voice seems to be in a constant state of giggling, a sound So’lek is in no rush to rid himself of. 

The two of you find yourselves back in the middle of camp around a fire thanks to Ta’kuri. Several other Zeswa stagger to the outskirts of the cookfire, some already sloppily rolling in the dirt with greedy hands wandering into dangerous territory. The outright display of lust hardly fazes So’lek when his attention is caught by a leaf of meat handed to him. Tender and sweet, it settles in his stomach heavily, finally starting to soak up the excess of alcohol consumed. 

You are just as consumed by the food as he is, scarfing down the last bit with a delighted moan. 

“Alright you miscreants, let’s leave some room for oxygen.” An older male grumbles fondly, softly nudging a couple with his foot who are engaged in a heated lip lock. He settles around the fire and after several minutes of squinting So’lek makes out the figure to be Kin. Although his thoughts still muddle through a haze, So’lek can finally feel his brain starting to come back online. 

Kin engages the group in grand stories while offering milk to be passed around. From the corner of his eye So’lek tracks the way you sway to and fro as the stories continue, but that smile never leaves your tempting lips. Several times you sneak a peek up at him, causing his tail to wind against the floor. 

“This story again.” Ta’kuri mutters from his left, quiet enough that Kin continues the tale without interruption. 

“He has only told it a dozen times before.” Novao adds, sitting on the other side of you. “That is quite good considering how many times he has told the others.” 

“I don’t remember this one.” Lips screwed into a pout and eyes squinted in concentration, you stare intently at the male in the middle. Ta’kuri lets out a short laugh before handing over another container of milk. 

“You don’t remember any of them when you're drunk.” You accept the drink, ignoring her fond scoff and the way So’lek’s gaze is once again drawn in your direction. 

“So rude,” you huff. He lends a steadying hand when chugging down the bowl of milk has you toppling backwards. A deep laugh rumbles in his chest with ease, even once you are back upright and sending him a heated glare. 

Playful comments and quotes of the story are passed between the four in hushed tones until even So’lek is fighting back tears of laughter. Luckily the other Na’vi do not behave much better, half of them already on the brink of wrestling in the grass or laughing until on the verge of passing out. The entire scene is a messy jumble of comradery. It warms him from the inside out. 

“I left it down by the lake.” Novao whispers urgently. 

“You should not be so careless with your things. Who’s to say an arrow deer has not run off with it by now?” Ta’kuri quips back, still even So’lek can tell that she is going to go back and look for his spear with him as requested. 

“I see it is not only Kin making up stories now.” The joke earns him a swift swat to the head with a few fond insults woven before the two are rising. 

“Can I trust the two of you to survive until we get back?” She gestures between So’lek and you, a crooked curve of her lips present. It’s doubtful that you have understood even half of where the conversation is at this point but you do respond in a way that both shocks and amuses him greatly. Fingers together at your forehead you flick it out messily in the same way the sky demons do in salute. It’s imperfect and honestly he’s not sure if there is any true understanding of the action but it appears to be an inside joke that Ta’kuri is in on. She returns the gesture with a fond grin. 

So’lek doesn’t try to break the silence once the pair has left. It’s hardly uncomfortable with such jovial ambience surrounding. Not to mention the fact that he’s not sure how of a conversation you can carry in this state. It makes no difference. Sitting here is nice. Being next to you is fulfilling in a way he could not have imagined. 

“I lied.” 

So’lek’s ears stand at alert. Your comment comes so abruptly that he takes a second to lean forward and make sure that you had meant to say it. Those beautiful eyes are transfixed off in the distance but there is no sign to say otherwise. 

“About what?” So’lek shifts forward, propping an elbow on his knee as he veers forward to observe your strange expression. 

“About not being scared.” It’s a miracle he can detect that whisper over the boisterous conversation around. A part of him wishes he hadn’t. It creates a knot in his stomach. “I am scared. I’m scared all the time. Even on days like this, I should be happy. But I still worry that it could all be ripped away. I don’t want to lose everything, not like…” 

The end of that thought dies in the wind but So’lek catches it anyways. 

Don’t want to lose everything like he did. One glance at your now pinned back ears proves his suspicions to be correct. Comforting others is not his strong suit. Heavy emotions have a way of winding his tail anxiously as he sputters to understand the right course of action. But tonight, he is grateful for the lowered inhibitions brought on by liquor. It’s what allows him to pause and simply feel the weight of your words. 

So’lek’s rough hand, a hand battered by handling weapons in the face of war, settles over your knee. That warm touch has glistening eyes staring back at him. 

“That is not going to happen.” It is a vow, one that is spoken deep from his chest. The Sky People have stolen everything from him. Everything. But he is not afraid to protect you from the same fate. To promise with the last meager supply of hope he has left that he can and will prevent this tragedy from coming your way. 

A single tear cascades over your cheek. Then you’re suddenly curled up against him, resting that head of long hair against his shoulder, seeking refuge there. It bursts something new within him, something even scarier than he has experienced since meeting you. Never in his life has he been a safe place for another person. That honor has never been one he’s opened himself up to or has felt worthy of. 

But you tuck against him, sigh into his neck and every form of tension in your tiny frame evaporates. 

“Fuck, I’m so drunk.” Your half giggled slur coaxes out a deep chuckle from him but So’lek is careful not to move otherwise. This moment is too fragile. And if he’s not careful in a blink it will be tomorrow. A day where he puts that chest guard back on along with every other responsibility he has holstered alone for years. That yearning for revenge will return and clean out the softness that only you can supply. 

So’lek can’t recall at what point he had fallen asleep. The last thing he remembers is Novao laughing so hard that milk came out his nose. Eyes as heavy as metal doors, he squints them open to find the sky still dark. He is not the only one to have dosed off in the middle of camp around the fire. Different groups of Na’vi are passed out in the greenery but there is a warmth at his side. 

You are curled up into a ball, a ball that is slotted against his own body. Even your face presses at the bicep, your nose cold to the touch. Without the protection of tent walls, the breeze is free to brush over the gaggle of Na’vi. Somewhere in your slumber you must have sought out the first available source of heat. Him. 

The wind comes from your direction. So’lek is hardly conscious enough to consider tucking you into a tent for the night so instead he does the next best thing. With careful precision, he lifts himself up over your curled frame and settles himself on the other side. This way the wind now hits him before you. Laying on his side then allows him to create a wall that you can hide from the wind behind. 

A shiver sends down his spine at the first nip of plains of air, but So’lek doesn’t dare consider moving. Legs untangle and your tail splays out flat again. Although it’s clear this tactic has warmed you up nicely, he is shocked to see you turning over to face him once more. Breath caught in his chest, So’lek watches as you groggily tuck up against him and sigh with a smile. 

How many years had it been since he has slept this close to someone? 

So’lek has had occasional lovers, but only as means to an end. Nothing deep. Never anything on an emotional level for either party. And so naturally neither did they end in snuggling close to sleep afterwards. 

Call it pride. Call it living in denial. But something pushes him to forget about tomorrow and cocoon you closer to his chest. 

So’lek’s dreams don’t carry the strain of blood and terror that night.

“There you go, rise and shine sleepyhead.” That soft voice barely filters through the wind, let alone through So’leks head that now feels like the weight of a tank. Throat dry and eyes barely able to slit open to face the light, consciousness comes back slowly.

And when it does, it hurts like hell. 

You lean over to block him from the scorching sunlight. When did the plains get so bright? And when did waking up feel like getting his head smashed beneath an AMP suit? The events of last night are still tucked in his memory, but it takes a moment for So’lek to recall the impact of them properly. And that last thing….the last thing he remembers is you snuggling up against his chest. 

“How long did-”

“No talking, just drink.” You advise, handing over a bowl of water sternly. Although slightly embarrassing, he’s grateful for the way you help him slowly sit up. It’s hard to get his wits about him when the world is still spinning. 

The cold water spears a painful path down his throat, but after several gulps it’s much easier to take in full breaths. The small hand gently placed on his shoulder is a surprising comfort. However, even in a foggy state, that simple touch immediately has him recalling what a true comfort it was to have you in his arms. 

No time in his right mind would he have acted on his impulses so carelessly. But last night he had felt entirely detached from time, even more so distant from the side of him that served to do the right thing. 

“I fear I owe you an apology.” Although your lips are quirked in a half smile, the comment has him stiff as a board. Here it is. The consequences of his actions. In no way did he have the right to act so intimately with a woman of a clan he does not belong to. And now you have finally come to realize that for yourself. “I did not warn you properly of Zeswa drink.” 

A sense of relief bubbles up so fast that So’lek lets a half laugh slip from his lips. It is graciously accepted with a beaming countenance that makes his heart race. 

“No it is fine, simply….different from what I have tried before.”

“Well if I knew you were such a lightweight I wouldn’t have suggested it.” You are never one to give up an opportunity to tease him. It is a routine that he has incidentally become quite fond of. Even more so now when there is a twinkle of sincere concern in your beautiful features. 

You care. It’s not the first time you have shown it and So’lek prays that it won’t be the last, but it seems time has only made the impact of this truth hit him that much harder each time. It flushes through like fire in his veins, far more addicting than the rush of Zeswa alcohol could ever be. 

“I have no regrets,” So’lek says, deep voice rich with sincerity. 

Fingers twiddling in your lap, there is a switch in your demeanor that is hard to ignore. Looking at him through thick lashes and grin barely held by teeth snagging your bottom lip, for the first time a sliver of shyness twinkles in your expression. Although, it is clear that your higher tolerance has afforded a much less dramatic hangover leaving him to look like a mess in comparison, it feels as if he has the upper hand for once. 

“Really? Even now that your head must want to split in two?” That radiant sunshine you hold has his already weakened composure splitting instead. His gravely chuckle intertwines with your own soft laugh and So’lek doesn’t even realize how close he has invaded your space until the next words leave his mouth.

“It was worth it. I wouldn’t trade last night for anything.” 

The severity of his own statement hits like a boulder. Both smiles drop and So’lek is left grappling with the fact that he has meant every word. 

Softened eyes peer straight through him, but these are not full of sympathy. There is no pity extended at now realizing how sad most of his nights must be. There is no squirming to find the right response or looking away with an uncomfortable grimace. 

No, you face him with that excitement that feels like he is bathing in the sun after years of wallowing in darkness. 

“I’m glad.” It’s a small whisper, very much unlike your usual robust calls. And just when So’lek’s eyes have wandered to watch the way your supple lips form those words, he finds that your stare has pinpointed on his own. Golden eyes dart back and forth between his parted lips and So’lek’s own stare. 

There is still that voice that cautions to pull back now. It’s the same voice that screams to curl up and escape your attention before it’s too late.

But you don’t hide. There is only honesty in your curious perusal. 

For once maybe he can find a way not to hide too. 

So’lek breaches the space between you, leaning forward slowly until there is only a whisper of wind between him and the kiss he has desired for weeks. Your noses almost touch. 

“Y/N! Where have you gone? You are needed.” A masculine voice calls from around the corner. There is no one else around the desolate fire where the two of you reside. You make no sign of responding to this call. If he veers forward there will still be enough time to capture what he has dreamed of before the two of you are found out. 

However, So’lek recognizes this voice. It belongs to the same man that had tried to glare a hole through him last night as the two of you danced and so it’s easy to deduce that this must be one of your awaiting sutors. 

A Zeswa male born and raised. A real viable prospect that So’lek is now on the edge of stealing you away from. This is exactly why he has stayed away. And yet all it has taken is one more night in your presence to lose every ounce of self control he has left. 

So’lek veers back. The look of quiet disappointment that crosses your face is enough to twist a knot in his stomach. 

The male rounds the tent, letting out an exasperated sigh upon spotting the two. “Ah there you are.”

“What is it?” You hiss, head snapping in his direction so fast that your hair flies over one shoulder. 

So’lek doesn’t need to look to feel the way this man’s eyes dart between the two of you. 

“Ke’ari is hurling his insides all over the healer’s tent.”

Soft features immediately pinch with irritation. 

“Aim him towards a vase then. He is one of many who are suffering from over indulgence. I am still treating So’lek. He needs food.”

“I have brought him some.” Of course he has. A deep loathing for the other male may already be forming but So’lek can’t ignore the craft of this suitor. He did not come unprepared. 

Hand running through your hair, you take a moment to look up at the sky and conjure the required patience. 

“Fine.” The male is unperturbed by your snipped response. He does, however, glower when your expression melts once facing So’lek once more. “Wait here. I will be right back.” 

It’s tempting to savor the longing in your voice, the way those honest eyes practically plead for him to stay. 

But it’s too late. So’lek regains the reins of his own heart and forces himself to flee at the first chance. The frowning male has no time to implement his intimidation tactics before So’lek is rising onto wobbly legs and searching to retrieve his gear. 

He slips that protective armor back on and leaves without taking a single bite. 

So’lek’s eyes burn from staring at the bright screen, hardly blinking while trying to decode the mess that is RDA rosters. Little progress is made as he stares down at the shining pad in hand and tries for the fifteenth time to pay attention. Perhaps it was a mistake not eating the offered meal this morning. Even if your eager suitor had poisoned it, he doubts dying from it would feel worse than the egregious hangover he suffers now.  

Leaning back against the table, So’lek’s eyes wander again without permission. Headquarters is unusually quiet today, a sign that the party they threw last night was successful enough to put many in the same state So’lek finds himself in the morning after. Priya and Anqa are up, however. Tucked into an alcove near the kitchen they seem to be under the impression that no one can see them here. 

Priya’s giggling echoes through the cave and Anqa only shushes her several times before diving back in for another kiss. Usually this is the part where So’lek’s face scrunches in disgust before he flees to a place he won’t be forced to witness such displays. Today that isn’t the case. In fact today, for reasons unbeknownst to him, So’lek can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the scene. 

“Suffering as well I see.” The voice startles him, almost enough to lose grip of the glowing pad in hand. Shuffling to avert his gaze from the two lovers and appear nonchalant, he looks over to find it is Ri’nela that approaches with an amused smile. “From the hangover.” She clarifies.

“Oh yes…you are unwell too?” The dark mark on his forehead pinches together when she comes to sit on the table beside him. Her new Na’vi attire is still as neat as ever but there is a drowsiness in her gaze similar to his own.

“You seem to forget that I was invited by the Zeswa too.” Although it doses So’lek with a tinge of guilt there is no ill will in her comment. However, it does leave his mind swirling to different concerns. If she was in fact at the party last night, how much of his interactions had she witnessed? More importantly, how much of it would she share? 

“My mind is….clouded this morning,” comes his lame response. Graciously Ri’nela simply gives a hum of understanding before turning towards the direction he was caught looking earlier. 

Priya and Anqa have moved on from swallowing each other’s tongues, but they remain lounged in a hanging chair together, Priya perched atop her lover’s lap as she yaps on and on about who knows what. Although Anqa is less animated in her responses, she listens intently. There is nothing but lovesick admiration in her eyes as she endures the endless jabbering, tucking her girlfriend’s purple hair behind her ear or drawing circles on her side occasionally. 

“It must be nice.” Ri’nela sighs softly, a wistful air to her tone. When So’lek turns to raise a hairless brow at her she motions to where Anqa and Priya. “Having something like that.”

“You envy the tawtute?” So’lek can’t mask how ridiculous he finds the notion. Ri’nela has always struck him as a reasonable Na’vi. Even one that shows great potential as a leader. What do tawtute have for her to be jealous of?

“Well aren’t you?”

So’lek’s nose scrunches. “No.” 

Despite the brunt response, Ri’nela is hardly put out. Her lips perk up slightly and she gives him a gentle look that one does when teaching a small child. “Are you saying you don’t want what they have? A partner? A mate?”

Calling Priya and Anqa mates feels wrong, like a bad taste on his tongue, but he can’t deny they must be something close. After all, they are committed to one another in similar fashion as one does their mate. They always have someone to run to.

“I have not thought about it.” If Ri’nela senses his lie, she doesn’t let it show.

“Hm well I have. It feels kind of impossible though considering our situation.” She sighs and it’s the first thing she has said in this conversation that immediately makes sense to him. Just like him, she is an outcast of sorts. There are only a few that survived in the Sarentu clan and all of them had been kept in with RDA like a lab experiment throughout their adolescence. 

“Difficult indeed.”

Ri’nela lets out a sad laugh, something painful shifting in her features. It sets So’lek on edge, already mentally preparing to navigate a situation where he is expected to comfort another. “Sometimes I think that even being a tawtute would be easier than this. They may live on an alien planet, but even those who have left the RDA have found each other and created this place together. Those two have found love here. This is their clan for all intents and purposes.”

So’lek has never thought of it that way. Do Sky People form clans the way Na’vi do? If so this clan is by far the most peculiar one he has ever seen. Then again, they do work as a team. Everyone comes together to maintain their lodging and when dangers comes knocking there are always a group of former RDA military tawtute ready to act like warriors. 

“We have nobody.” Ri’nela continues. “No clan, no place to call our own. Even our memories of the clan we once belonged to are hazy. This place is the closest thing we have to a refuge and even here no one can truly teach you what it means to follow your path in life.”

So’lek shrinks, fingers idly twiddling together. Of course things have not been easy for the Sarentu that escaped the TAP program but he didn’t know this is how she views the circumstances. 

“And mating…” Ri’nela sighs again, “Mating becomes all the more complicated when you have no clan to pull from.”

“I do not believe now is a good time to mate in general. What is the point when the RDA can easily take away such a bond?”

“Do you really believe that?” 

No, not really. If he had been asked a month ago, perhaps. Back then it had only seemed logical to avoid close ties when he is surrounded by death daily. It would be just another thing for the RDA to take from him. 

But now…now the words are sour on his tongue. 

Ri’nela has this quality about her that is hard to place a finger on. A certain calm vulnerability that somehow makes it difficult to lie to her. So instead of trying, So’lek simply shrugs. 

“I think that if I was lucky enough to find something even close to what they have, there is nothing that could keep me from it.” Ri’nela’s gazes with a sad fondness at Priya and Anqa. There is a longing glimmer to true there that it has his own stare pulled back to the couple. “Someone to weather this storm with. A person that knows you in a way unmatched by any other, and still they choose you. A bond that reminds you why life is so precious, makes it more than just surviving.” 

Is that what Anqa and Priya have? Something worth living for? On the surface it has always seemed like some gooey infatuation, a naive romance that he is forced to witness. But perhaps it is more than that. So’lek doesn’t often think about what life would be like as a tawtute, in fact he never does, but can imagine it not being the most comfortable of circumstances. They are not even able to breathe the Pandoran air around them without suffocating. Going back to their home planet is no good option either as it is already dead. 

So then maybe Ri’nela has a point. Priya and Anqa find happiness in their day to day affairs, affairs that include risking their lives to fight against their corrupt former employers, despite the harrowing circumstances. They always have a reason to smile, something to laugh at. And it’s just hitting him now that this reason is each other. 

“I’m sure you will find something like that, Ri’nela.” The hypocrisy burns So’lek’s throat. How can he claim to believe that when those rules don’t apply to himself? The survivors from the Sarentu clan are the people closest to having the same experience as his own. To have faith in Ri’nela finding a mate not himself goes against all logic. 

“Only time will tell.” Although still melancholy, Ri’nela sends him a sympathetic smile. She rises from the table and goes to make her exit. So nonchalant in her retreat as if she has not induced a spiral of thought for him to wind into. 

She pauses just before reaching the corner and turns to him again. “I know it is not any of my business, but you should know how lucky you are.”

So’lek’s heart drops to his stomach. 

“Don’t let her get away.” 

So’lek would prefer to blame Ri’nela for his inability to sleep that night. After all, she is the one that dropped a bomb on him with her speech about mating. Not to mention the only person in headquarters that has knowledge of his love life and the ability to make his feelings for you public domain. 

However, that would be dishonest. And at the end of the day he knows that tonight was always going to end this way. He has been trying to get his mind off of you for weeks, in fact every time he has returned from the Zeswa camp, and it has always been unsuccessful. And now the fact that two of you had almost shared a kiss only amplifies that obsession more. 

It was already hard enough to control his desires when he could believe that it was a one-sided longing. But now that he knows there is some interest on your side as well, fighting the demons in his head is borderline impossible. You knew he was going to kiss you. You knew and you not only were ready to let him but showed disappointment when he failed to do so. 

How is he ever supposed to resist now that he knows the object of his desires is at his fingertips? That there is a chance he can have you.

Perhaps not as a mate. It would be naive of him to assume his ever growing feelings for you are reciprocated in the same manner. But even knowing you desire him in a physical manner is enough to have him rolling over in the hammock and biting into the material. 

This is absolute madness. 

What is his plan? Avoiding the Zeswa clan forever can surely not be it. He can try to reduce the amount of time spent there but they are still allies so there will always be occasional visits required. Even then, does he really trust that distance will be enough to get rid of these feelings?

No, this is not a phase that will pass. 

And even if So’lek were to find a way of dealing with feelings without intervening in your courtings, what would that change? It would mean that another male comes along and makes you their mate eventually. And every day from then on he would be forced to face the fact that he is in love with a mated woman. He would have to witness that union every time he visits with indifference while everything within him would ache to rip this male’s throat out with his teeth. 

So’leks stuff a growl down his throat. Eywa above, what is wrong with him? Never before has he felt so connected to the primal beast inside of him. For years he has been a master of not only his emotions but impulses as well. But you’ve awakened something else within him. Something that has laid dormant for years and now refuses to go back to sleep. 

When he’s not echoing your perfect laugh in his head, he’s imagining the way you would groan his name. When he’s not recalling the silly story you told him earlier that day with a smile, he is crafting fantasies of his tongue lapping the sweet nectar between your legs. And when he is not pushing back every pulse of his heart that sings for you, he is grinding his teeth at the thought of another ever loving you the way he does, yearning for you the way does. 

Everything circles back to you. 

You have torn him apart from the inside out and the worst part is, he doubts you have any true inkling of this. At most, you understand there is a flirting atmosphere between you two. 

So where does that leave him? It seems there is only one option that has the potential to lead him away from years of insanity. However, that means facing exactly what he has avoided for weeks.

Telling you the truth. 

So’lek is a man. He can and will face rejection if necessary, although the idea of that somehow has his insides curling with dread. If it were only a matter of gaining the courage he would have unrooted his tail from between his legs and told you weeks ago. But that is not the main issue. 

The real danger is having those feelings reciprocated, because that would then mean being open to mating. That would mean letting all of his hard work to protect you go down the drain and instead take you selfishly for himself. And he hasn’t done that. He hasn’t done that because…well because he is not worthy of you. 

Then again, does that imply that your current suitors are the opposite? What do they possess that he does not?

They grew up in a clan, in your clan nonetheless. And So’lek didn’t. He has no clan.��

His conversation with Ri’nela bubbles up again. Does he truly believe that not having a clan means being subjected to a life without a mate? He would not wish that to be true for Ri’nela’s sake. Or Teylan’s. Or really any of the other Sarentu that are left. If she were to come to him in a similar situation, having found interest in someone within the Zeswa clan he would approve of her going after that connection. So why does he not approve of that for himself?

He does not have a deep understanding of his culture or know exactly what it means to have People of your own. And somehow that makes him unworthy of you. Because one day, a long time ago, the Sky People rained hellfire on his home and took away his clan.

Does that one instance mark him as damaged goods for the rest of his life?

If so, that seems to be a lot of power to put in the Sky People’s hands. It means that the Sky People not only took everything he had with such ease, but also everything he could ever gain for the rest of his life. And So’lek…So’lek is so damn tired of having things stolen from him. 

It is not fair for the RDA to steal you away from him too. If he is unworthy of you it is simply because of his shortcomings in character and light when compared to your vibrance. Not because of circumstances he did not choose. You are too good for him, So’lek can recognize that, however that does not mean he is not allowed to chase you like the others. 

Ri’nela prays to find someone to spend her life with, a mate she can call her own, and So’lek can no longer deny that he wants the same too. He does not want to simply survive anymore, he wants to thrive. But unlike Ri’nela, he is lucky enough to already understand who he wants that with. 

So he’s not willing to let you slip away. 

Not before he has given it everything he has first. 

It is only when So’lek hears one of the tawtute’s alarm go off that it becomes clear has had not slept a wink all night. And yet, So’lek has never been filled with so much energy. He dresses and grooms himself within record time, ignoring the puzzled looks that are sent his way. It seems that nothing matters besides getting to the Zeswa camp as fast as possible.

Wrestling his emotions all night has left him with a buzzing energy that threatens to make him explode. He needs to tell you and he needs to tell you now. Every second that this remains unresolved is another that has So’lek on edge. 

And so the trip to the upper plains has never felt longer. Although he makes the trek with incredible speed, his feet don’t take a second to adjust their stomping pace once he enters the camp. In fact, they only drum faster against the long grass as he hunts you down among the bustle. No thought is put into the expression he exhibits or body language, so So’lek doesn’t pay attention to the Na’vi that drive out of his way in fear.

There is nothing but cold steel determination laced with an anxiousness that overtakes him. 

Then there you are. Long hair blowing in the wind and basket in hand as you carefully weave the next row. So’lek’s lungs finally fill with air. Has it truly only been a day since he has seen you? How was he foolish enough to believe he could ever continue being around you without trying his hand at making you his? Heavy steps cross the space, almost on the brink of jogging to where you stand next to a tent. 

When your tails perk and eyes finally clock the impending advance of his tall frame, there is a surprised glimmer in your expression. Even a shot of excitement in those beautiful golden eyes that has all of So’lek’s restraint depleting. 

“So’lek, what are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer with words. Instead he springs the last two steps into your space and immediately hunches to plant his lips against yours. His long fingers curl at the nape of your neck while his thumb caresses your cheek. Although your response is lagged from shock, it doesn’t take long for your lips to meld with his in perfect unison. 

So’lek gives everything to that kiss. Every night that he has laid awake thinking about you. Every sputter that his heart has wrenched from your laughter as he has fallen off a pa’li over and over. Every ounce of desire that rushes through him like a river bashing against a dam ready to break. 

Deepening the kiss, he refrains, however, from letting it get too vulgar. If he lets that primal creature inside of him lose now, he’ll take you right here and now before talking anything through. It’s difficult to remember this, however. Technically his plan was to speak to you then take his shot at a kiss but So’lek can find room for regret when you taste like everything sweet he has been missing for years. You are just as soft as he imagined. Even more addicting than he could have envisioned. 

When So’lek breaks away your lips are already a pretty shade of pink, parted to release heavy breaths. Those golden eyes are now only a sliver of color as your pupils have dilated and eyes widened in disbelief. 

“I should have done that yesterday.” That truth gives little explanation, but it’s the only words he manages to get out without sticking his tongue down your throat. 

Your chest heaves and features morph into a delighted shock. Seeing you like this is more satisfying than he could put into words. You’ve always been the outspoken one between the two of you, but now it is him that renders you speechless. 

So’lek almost goes in for another kiss before the weight of several gazes finally register. Turning over his shoulder he finds that you are not alone in weaving your basket. In fact there is a group of Na’vi sitting on the ground holding their own materials, watching with wide eyes and dropped jaws. It hits him then. You aren’t just sitting here working on your own basket. You are in the middle of teaching a class. 

A class he has so dramatically disrupted. 

“I apologize for the interruption.” And he should be, he really should be but So’lek doesn’t even believe his own words at this point. He stalks off simply out of respect for the class and the chance to remember how to behave in public. 

It won’t matter though, not when he can feel the prickle of your wide-eyed gaze along his back. 

So’lek lingers just outside of camp in an alcove of blood leaf trees. It’s just enough space for him to catch his breath, try to clear his head as he waits for your class to finish. Palms spread along the bark in front of him. So’lek drops his head between his outstretched arms and focuses on inhaling and exhaling. The exercise is borderline pointless when each inhale only sparks attention to your taste lingering on his tongue. 

Never before would he consider himself this impulsive or irrational but even now that he has made a spectacle in front of everybody, So’lek fights the urge to turn around and do it all over again. He barely resists the aching need to stomp back into camp, throw you over his shoulder and carry you into the woods where he can finally have his way with you. 

So’lek spins on his heel, leaning against the tree with his head thrown backwards now. This is insanity. 

His nostrils flare the second there is a trace of your essence in the wind. So’lek almost wishes he wouldn’t have looked because now he is sucked in by the way your breasts bounce as you jog from the camp towards him. 

Great Mother above, how is going to have a conversation with you while in this state?

Luckily, or perhaps not so lucky, you are in no mood for conversation either. So’lek doesn’t get out a simple hello before you are bounding into his chest and pulling him down for another kiss. This time there are no boundaries keeping the kiss from turning absolutely filthy. That devious tongue swirls around his own until So’lek is capturing your bottom lip between his teeth in retribution. 

Fuck, you are so much trouble. 

“Wait…mh...wait.” You don’t afford him the space for speaking so So’lek eventually catches your upper arms in a firm grip and establishes some distance. “Wait for one moment.”

“No, I’m sick of waiting.” Voice teetering on a whine, you brush off the hold and capture his lips back to yours. So’lek feels like he is being torn in two. It’s important to talk things through, make sure that you understand just how deep his feelings are, but with the way his tewng struggles to keep his hard cock trapped, it is only a matter of time before instincts overcome logic. 

So you leave him with no choice. 

With one graceful swoop he has you manhandled back against the tree, arms planted on either side of your head to keep you bracketed there. “You need to listen.” So’lek seethes and it comes out far angrier than he intended. 

In spite of that, your eyes take on a new sparkle. Those beautifully swollen lips part and soft features morph into a dazed shock just as they had done after that first kiss. Except this time, the aroma of arousal thickens.

Fuck, you’re into this. You like the way he has wrestled you into place. You like how he towers over you now and demands to be heard. Perhaps it is the only reason your protests have immediately stopped. He needs to get this off of his chest before the ability to make full sentences leave him entirely.

So So’lek blurts it all out in a heated rush. 

“I did not come here to fool around once. That is not what this is. I am here because it is physically impossible for me to stay away. There is not an hour that goes by where I don’t long to be with you, even in your presence if that is what I can get. I have no clan. I don’t know the customs of your people and I often have a disposition that makes people want to run away rather than draw near. I am not like your other suitors, I do not offer the same things. All of this I know and have tried to respect but it seems no iron will I construct is strong enough to keep me from wanting you all the same.” 

You don’t dare to blink and disconnect his gaze from yours. 

“And want you I do, paskalin. But not just once, not just in a way that satisfies our bodies alone. I yearn to have every part of you that can be offered.” One step closer and So’lek’s can practically feel the drumming of your rampant heart against his chest. “So if this is not what you want, then you need to tell me now. Because I know that once we cross this threshold, once I get one more taste of you there will be no going back for me. You will have my heart until my dying breath.” 

Winds whips against his back. Second feel like years as dainty hands wind up his arms and clasp at the nape of his neck. 

“Maybe if you weren’t so stubborn, So’lek, you would already know that I have been yours since the moment we met.” 

The next connection of lips is softer, far more patient than the ravaging before. It allows So’lek to fall into your confession properly, to let it settle into his head and heart that this is real. That you are truly sunk into his embrace, candy on his lips, and heart open for him entirely. 

So’lek pours every fiber of gratitude into this kiss. He winds his love into the tender brush of his fingers across your cheek. His tail curves around your thigh with the solemn promise to protect you until his heart stops beating. And you breathe in every silent promise he makes with one of your own. 

Your long lashes tickle his cheeks and small hands rooted in his hair causes So’lek’s knees to weaken. 

This tender moment can only last so long, however. That deep seated fire has not been forgotten and with every second the two of you remain entangled, the hotter it burns. That shift is prevalent in the way you go from running nails over his scalp to tugging on the long locks to pull him closer. So’lek’s own hands go from tender exploration to greedy groping down your hips and backside. 

A part of him would question the harshness and vulgarity of his actions were it not for the way you now moan into his mouth. You take every crude touch delivered and beg for more in the same breath. 

So’lek only departs from your lips to finally slot his face into the crook of your neck. Nose running along a vein of your throat, he is free to drown in the place where your aroma is most potent. But it’s not enough to breathe you in, not even sufficient to simply witness the way his scent now intertwines with yours. He must taste it, must run his tongue over every inch of perfectly delicious skin like he has dreamed of for weeks. 

The flat of his tongue draws over from your collarbone to the edge of your jaw. You don’t hide your sound of delight, nor the obvious push of your pelvis to find his own. Bruising kisses turn into sucking deep marks at the vulnerable skin. So’lek only pauses when you manage to crane your head down and capture one of his ears carefully between sharp teeth. The tip of your tongue follows a smooth path at the shell of his ear. It taunts a deep rumble from his chest. 

Pulling back, So’lek hardly gets a chance to witness your pleased smirk before he is caught in another kiss. Unlike the first day in the healer’s tent when you had been hesitant to touch his chest guard, you now use it as your personal leash to bring him closer. Those small hands dig into the tough material and yank without reserve. 

Not that it’s needed. So’lek would gladly crawl at your feet if it means getting to devour you once more. 

However, it quickly becomes not enough. His mouth salivates at the idea of tasting another sweet part he has been dreaming of. You give no struggle when his hand hitches behind your knee, allowing him to curve that long leg around his waist and press your pelvises together. It takes bending his own knees to account for the height difference but it’s worth all of the hassle when feeling the heat that literally radiates through your tewng. 

So’lek suddenly becomes all too aware of how overdressed he is in comparison. That sentiment must be shared because your eyes dance with excitement when he is haphazardly shucking off the chest guards and gear attached. Your own chest piece does little to hide those perfectly shaped breasts, one nipple managing to slip out from under a feather, and even more so does not hide that now red hue over the area. It seems that all your grinding against him, has consequently rutted your chest over his radio and other hard gear. 

Perhaps he should feel bad but all So’lek can think about instead is whether or not his teeth and tongue could exhibit a similar reaction along your perfect breasts. Is the other nipple as hard as the one that has slipped out? 

It’s as if you can read his mind, or rather notice where his gaze has lowered to have him drooling, because without a single prompting you are undoing the clasp and letting the delicate top fall away. 

So’lek would judge any other male for acting the way he does now. So easily reduced to a mouth breathing imbecile just from a natural part of female anatomy. But perhaps he simply didn’t get it until now. Staring at those beautifully pointed nipples and curved breasts the perfect size for his hands, he thinks he may just now understand why a sight like that never gets old. At least, not when it’s yours. 

You grasp the hand not holding your leg, confidently guiding his palm to rest over the right breast. So’lek requires no further invitation. He squeezes and savors the squishy weight in his hand, drawing his thumb over that perky nipple that is begging to be sucked. Delight spikes his blood pressure when he witnesses how his calloused fingertips tighten the bud. 

“So’lek please! I’m not fragile.” 

His name has never sounded so beautiful. Those wicked eyes ensnare him without an ounce of bashfulness. Caught between two temptations So’lek eventually drops your leg in favor of using both hands to explore this new uncovered skin. 

The first time he pinches one nipple between his fingertips and tugs it brings on a sound from your throat so sudden and lewd it makes his cock twitch in its confines. 

“Harder.”

So’lek’s pupils dilate. What a little pain slut you’ve turned out to be and from the blissed expression you wear now, there is not an ounce of you that is ashamed of it. Nor should you be. Every new discovery is a gift So’lek delights in unwrapping. 

“Always so demanding, paskalin.” Voice gravelly and thick with lust, So’lek bends down further until his lips are skating over the swell of your breasts. 

“I’m actually quite a patient person.” Even with labored breath your quip doesn’t lose its whip. 

“Is that so?” It is by no means playing fair, but So’lek latches his lips around your left nipple before letting you respond. He rolls the raised flesh between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to capture the peak and pull it back. 

You have a handful of braids gathered in your grip tightly but they don’t stop the retreat of his head. You let out a guttural groan, rising onto your toes as if to enhance the sharp sting. And still, your determination to get out a response does not falter. 

“I’ve waited for you this long, haven’t I? Agh Eywa mm…flirted with you for weeks waiting for you to take the bait.” 

So’lek switches to the other side, snapping his teeth around the raised bud before muttering, “You poor thing.” 

“Mock me all you want but you’re cruel for making me wait.” A gasp bubbles up your throat when he pinches the disregarded nipple while the other is nipped by his teeth. “A woman has needs, So’lek.” 

Those words have his ears perking in interest, even lapping at the abused flesh so you have a better chance at finishing that thought. 

“Thinking of you with my hand between my thighs is only good for so long before I start wanting the real thing.”

A string of saliva still connecting your nipple to his lips, So’lek pulls back to look up at you. “Is that what you do, paskalin? Touch yourself while you dream about me?” 

Then with zero hesitation, “I was three fingers deep inside myself this morning while I pondered what your cock would feel like down my throat.” 

Static fills his head, the only sound bouncing in his skull is your unabashed confession. This morning. You had been touching yourself to the thought of him this morning. Meaning while he was buzzing with adrenaline, thoughts wild and uncontained at the thought of what if, as he made the trek to the Zeswa camp, you were exploring the parts of yourself he had been dreaming of for weeks while conjuring dirty fantasies of him. So’lek had been spiraling and questioning all of his desires with no knowledge that you were already his for the taking.

And that’s what it has been. Weeks and weeks of him dreaming and wishing and overthinking while you waited patiently for him to untuck his tail and do something about it. How long has he gone on torturing himself while you’ve been right here?

Too long. 

Way too fucking long.

But now, he is determined to make up for every second of lost time. 

“You are trouble.” Voice rough with a rumbling depth, you are unbothered by his change in inflection. 

“I’m just being honest.” You shrug, lips tempted into a crooked smirk. “Don’t ask the question if you can’t handle the answer.” 

Your confident snip simultaneously delights and taunts him. It tugs at the part of him that no longer wants to be gentle or conscientious. You are coaxing out the beast in him that is nothing but teeth, and from your self satisfied smirk it’s clear you know it too. 

So’lek rises back to his full height, dragging his muscular form along your sweet curves until his impressive frame is molded against your own. When you crane your neck to look at him he witnesses your dilated pupils even beneath the shadow that he has cast over you. It’s So’lek’s hand now that roots into your hair, yanking you forward into a demanding kiss. 

He gives no room for air, slotting his nose along yours and devouring you with vengeance. So’lek has to hold back a vicious smirk at the moan you release once he begins sucking on your tongue. Dulls nails dig into his waist, clawing to bring him impossibly closer. They seek to draw blood in retaliation when he finally breaks the kiss. 

“You are not the only one who has been waiting for a taste, paskalin.” 

You grin and lean forward, interpreting that as another filthy kiss coming your way. However, it is not your lips that he speaks of now. Or at least, not those lips. Your tail whips in surprise when large hands begin undoing the string around it. So’lek tugs and digs at those knots without preamble, watching your pretty face as you realize where this is heading. 

Once the offensive garment is ripped away he drops to his knees. His nostrils flare, greedily taking in your thick essence but it's not enough. So’lek roughly yanks one of your legs over his shoulder and his ears twitch to catch your pretty gasp. Now teetering on one leg while the other is curved over his broad shoulder, you are perfectly laid out for him. 

So’lek barely has enough time to appreciate the view before his instincts demand a taste. Intricate stripes along your inner thighs and navel create an alluring path to the treasure between your legs. So’lek runs the tip of his nose along one stripe of your thigh before stopping less than an inch from your soaked cunt. 

Eywa above, his vivid imagination could never compare to the beauty that lies before him now! 

Your needy clit is already engorged, a pretty pearl that begs to be played with. He uses his thumbs to part your lips and get an unobstructed view. Hot breath tickles your sensitive core causing your now displayed entrance to flutter. Watching the way your pussy grasps at nothing has So’lek caught between wanting to drown himself in your juices or fill you with his aching cock. 

“So’lek, you are such a fucking tease I-”

The end of that complaint is strangled into a whine when his lips close around your clit. A small hand pushes at the back of his head. As if he would need the encouragement. So’lek smothers himself in your warmth. Nose slotted between your lips his tongue runs up the sensitive cut of you, collecting every ounce of sticky arousal it can find. The tip of his tongue then circles around that pulsing bud until your clitoral hood is pushed back and he can attack the nerve dead on. 

That action conjures a violent reaction. Hips buck back at him hard enough to have your one supporting leg struggling to remain planted. So’lek takes that as his cue to take pity on you. He slinks the other leg over his shoulder and wraps his arms around your thighs to support the weight. This way he has full control of wrangling your soaked cunt to his lips while you no longer have to focus on standing. 

“Oh Eywa! More…more So’lek…I need more.” Although your voice has flitted into desperate gasps, it loses none of its conviction. 

Your demands push him further, his tongue now spearing into your pussy with a desire to explore. Fuck, even around his tongue you are tight as a vise. So’lek rises to his feet, keeping you sat on his shoulders as your back glides along the tree trunk. If you have a fear of heights it is not voiced as you are pinned against the trunk and ravaged. 

“Right there! Right there! Ah yes! Right-”

That constantly babbling has never been more beautiful than now. His tongue curves to hit that oh so special spot that has your thighs shaking around his head. So’lek’s nails dig into your ass to spread you wider as your own viciously claws into his scalp. 

With the perfect combination of his tongue fucking up into you and his nose rutting along your clit, your first orgasm comes in no time. So’lek drinks up every last drop selfishly. He considers it a reward after all of this time he’s behaved, been patient and tried to get you out of his head. Now that you’ve broken his resolve, it’s only fair that you give him everything that you have. That he collects what belongs to him. 

When So’lek finally peels away, he finds you catching your breath while one hand grips a tree branch above. He’s caught staring but even with a flushed hue over your cheeks, you simply let out a breathy laugh in a daze. Your legs are shaking as he lowers you back onto your feet but that isn’t enough to deter you. 

Half of his face coated in your essence, So’lek graciously obeys the hands that yank him down for another kiss. It seems right that you get to taste how delicious you are too. His big hands wrap around either side of your neck, angling your face upwards and deeper into the kiss. 

Meanwhile, it seems that even in the afterglow of a climax, you can’t refrain from being a minx. Confident hands map the territory of his slim hips and v line before one sneaks back to grab his ass. His dark chuckle is passed between his lips to yours as you hold back a devious smirk. 

“Your turn.” You demand, tugging at the waistband of his loincloth with the patience of a child waiting to unwrap a present. The motion only increases the ache in his groin, somewhat surprised that the piece of fabric has managed to contain his boner. 

So’lek practically jumps out of his skin when you slip past the waistband. His left hand slams against the tree trunk as he groans when you wrap around his base, thumb running up a thick vein. The fire in his eyes matches your own. This is a game of tug a war. Weeks of yearning and dreaming have left both of you utterly insatiable. Matched in intensity, you too are determined to take everything your desired mate has to offer. 

And So’lek is going to deliver it to you on a silver platter. 

That is, after he gets his own chunk of flesh. 

Hastily undoing the string of his tewng, So’lek slots his face into your neck as you start a slow but firm pace stroking him. It is borderline torture, the way you already know how to apply the perfect amount of pressure at the right places while still having your fun sweeping a thumb over his head to collect the precum there. A sweat breaks out along his forehead. He finds himself wishing for a hair tie to wrangle his now messy braids out of the way as he holds back from exploding all over your stomach. 

“You’re so pretty.” You marvel, aroused scent intermingling with his own as you stare down with blown out pupils. Fuck, you are going to kill him if you keep looking at him like that. It’s no wonder his feral instincts have taken over. When yours are already unleashed it’s impossible to hold back. He was a fool for ever thinking he could escape your taunting. 

“No,” So’lek nearly barks when you try to sink down onto your knees. He quickly wraps a firm hand around your bicep to urge you back up. Those plump lips part, no doubt preparing to protest, perhaps say something about how unfair he’s been for once again making you wait. So’lek cuts in before you get the chance. “I need to be inside you. Now.” 

It’s impossible to keep back the rugged timber that takes over his words. Even more so impossible to hide the desperation that fills him to the brim. As much as he is overtaken by the thought of your talented mouth wrapped around him, he knows there is no way he will be able to hold himself back from coming then. And when he reaches that high for the first time with you, So’lek wants nothing more than to be buried deep inside of you, feeling the way you unravel around him. 

But his body is already far too close to the edge. A heat coils in his abdomen and every touch you deposit has his tip leaking more sticky precum. This needs to happen now before he loses it prematurely. 

Luckily, your attitude appears to be put into check by his words. All signs of disappointment quickly shift into a raw fervor, hands grabbing for his shoulders. So’lek takes the cue in stride, hoisting your knee up to his hip and positioning himself at your entrance. 

And then he hesitates. 

So’lek is not small by any means and he has not properly prepared you for him. 

“Oh Eywa,” You groan, “I stretched myself out this morning, So’lek just…please!” 

That whine and pinched expression is borderline distressed and therefore all the encouragement he requires to slink forward. You’re his mate and as you’ve said, a woman has needs. From here on out he is going to be the sole provider for every single one of yours. 

It takes a hand to your hip in order to keep control of his pace sinking inside. So’lek’s hairless brows furrow and muzzle wrinkles at the difficulty required to keep himself from plunging inside with one thrust. Sweet sounds wracking your throat, you provide no help as your hips keep trying to slant forward. At this point there is going to be an imprint of his fingers from where they press into your hip. 

So’lek lets out a harsh breath. 

Stars above, that thought has the potential to send him down a very dark hole. Just thinking about all the ways and places he can mark you has his ball drawing up against his body. 

When he is finally seated all the way inside, pelvis flush against your own, both of you take a moment to breathe. Panted air tickles his chest from where you have your forehead slants against his collarbone. His own nose buries into that luscious hair that he has admired flying in the wind for weeks. 

So’lek’s tail wraps around your planted leg and it’s then that he feels the way you are on the verge of collapsing. Hooking an arm underneath that knee he swipes it to his waist. The new angle makes both of you groan but you are quick to lock both ankles at the base of his spine and cling for dear life. 

This moment is sacred. 

The first of many times that he can feel what it means to be intimately intertwined with you in a way only inferior to making tsaheylu. So much distance he has kept between the two of you only to now gorge himself in a closeness beyond anything he has ever experienced. And someday, someday very soon, it will be even more. Once he has courted you properly, showered you with the love and attention has wanted to give you from the very beginning, the two of you will make the bond. 

A permanent entanglement that he will cherish until the end of his days. 

“So’lek,” You whisper. Nothing but his name against his chest until your right hand is reaching up to brush his cheek. He nuzzles into your palm without thought before ducking down until your cheek is sliding against his own. It’s in this primal act of scenting that his hips finally begin to move. 

Long languid thrusts that have you shuddering against him while his teeth bite into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. In this state you are an open book. Every spike of your pleasure is indicated by the way you squeeze his cock, or dig your nails into his shoulder blades, or even nips at his pulse point. There is nothing demure about your exploration. 

As his pace picks up, now figuring out where that sweet spot is to torment, your soft hands are mapping every inch of him they can reach. His neck, his shoulders, every rigid line of his abdomen. When one hand reaches to squeeze his muscular bicep his tail coils. 

You are matched in desire perfectly, a fact that threatens to coax him into spilling inside of you instantly. So’lek has to grit his teeth to hold back even as your lips find his own again. This kiss is a mess of saliva and haphazard coordination as the increased speed of his thrusts have you jackhammering up the tree trunk. It doesn’t matter. 

All So’lek can focus is your sweet sounds and how eagerly your body welcomes him in. 

“Paskalin,” He groans, barely managing to tear away from your lips. “You are everything.” 

He witnesses the way those words sink in, how long it takes for them to settle before you are able to smile back at him in your disheveled state. This smile is unique from the many others he has seen you wear. It is one not meant for the public eye, a rare form that one can only be seen in an intimate setting like this. A smile that now only shines for him. 

A burst of adrenaline courses through his veins. Tired muscles renew tenfold, cock driving up into you now with uncontained zeal. This burst of energy has him entirely distracted so when a foreign touch suddenly scrapes his kuru, So’lek just about buckles and takes you both to the ground. 

With a hiss he rights himself and pushes you harder against the tree. Nails glide over his protective braid with a featherlight pressure before sweeping over his shoulder and getting dangerously close to the exposed tendrils. 

So’lek’s jaw clamps hard enough to make his teeth ache. 

“Don’t do that, tanhi [star]. You’re going to make me come.” 

“My thoughts exactly.” That devious hitch in your voice cracks when he sends a harsh thrust in reprimanding. 

“I mean it.” He grits. 

“So do I.” Baby hairs plastered to your damp forehead, you stare him down with a renewed fervor. “I want all of you, So’lek. Everything.” 

The dancing tendrils of his kuru are dragged along your shoulder teasingly. His vision zeroes in on the sight, muscles of his abdomen tightening. Your forehead tips against his own, lashes almost kissing his cheek. 

“Please don’t make me beg,” you whisper. 

It’s intentional, the way your pussy clamps around him in a vice like grip as those words leave your lips. So’lek can no longer remember why he was trying to draw this out as he rickets his hips upwards and gets lost in the feeling of his kuru tendrils wrapping around one of your fingers. 

Whatever composure you had temporarily regained becomes frazzled once more as the head of his cock knocks at your sweet spot over and over again with overwhelming accuracy. Your cries muddle together just as your orgasm comes to line up with his. 

So’lek has felt no greater relief than releasing himself deep inside of tight heat. Stars dot his vision while you milk him for all that he is worth, panting against his neck. His kuru is dropped and So’lek’s knees wobble, for the first time finding difficulty in holding both of your weight. 

He becomes a statue following that high. His brain rings with the same dead sound the computers at headquarters make. You are no better off, clinging to him for dear life as your breasts push against him with every rushed exhale. The first movement is your arms cinching tighter around his neck. A strangely innocent and endearing hug considering the lewd entanglement the two of you maintain. 

Gently, So’lek slips out and guides you back onto your feet. He has to scramble when your knees immediately buckle. Swiping his arms beneath your own, he coaxes you to lean your weight on him. 

“Are you alright?” His worried tone is in direct contrast to the breathy laugh you give. 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You giggle, clinging to his shoulders. “They’ll work again…eventually.” 

Your eyes crinkle in the same way they do when watching him fall off of a pa’li. So’lek’s lips curve into their own grin. His lips are still stretched wide when he plants tender kisses to your hairline. 

“You smell good,” You hum.

So’lek chuckles fondly before noticing the combined spend that trails down your inner thighs. He has nothing but his gear with him out here in the fields. The only fabric he carries is a small bundle of bandages but he used up the last of it a few days ago. His lips turn down. He will need to be more prepared than this now that he has a mate to look after. 

“Paskalin, let me find something to clean you up with.” 

“No no shhh,” You reach up and place a finger against his lips. “Stop thinking for one second and hold me.” 

So’lek’s heart twists at your little antics, silently obeying your request, shifting both of you to lay on the long grass. Sweaty limbs tangle together, your smaller form messily sprawled across him until your hair is twisted over his abdomen. So’lek slings and arm over your back to cradle you closer. 

This is always the part he has missed. Various partners over the years and yet not one of them holding the tender affection that radiates between the two of you now. The chance to just hold and bask in the other’s presence. Little touches that speak volumes louder than he ever could. So’lek is not good with words. He never says the right thing or in the right way. 

But he can do this. He can drench the sweet brush of his fingertips over your skin with the weight of every confession he has ever been tempted to give you. He can radiate the deep love that blossoms in his chest with every soft kiss to your hairline and swipe of his thumb over your cheek. And he can feel the same devotion reciprocated every time you snuggle further into his chest or trace lines over his abdomen. 

Before long your tail whips out to jest with his curious fingers. He swipes over the thin appendage, watching the way it flickers and circles around his wrist before letting go. The tuft of hair at the end tickles his forearm as it playfully taunts and bats away from his touch. This little game is more amusing than he cares to admit. 

A muffled giggle against his chest tells him that his fixation is not concealed. However, for the first time in weeks he’s allowed to not care. There is no lingering regret at showing his cards to you or betraying his emotions to be analyzed. With you he gets to let that mask fall away, allowing you to see a part of him so vulnerable that So’lek thought it had died off years ago. 

“I will be ready again in about ten minutes.” You state, smiling while tracing the veins of his left arm. The insinuation and expectation is clear and it shakes a surprised laugh from his lungs. 

“And if I am not, paskalin?” So’leks goads with a smirk.

You shift onto your stomach, chin resting atop his chest so that you can look at him directly now. Your tail lashes behind you as you smirk up at him. “Then you better find a way to be.” 

So’lek lets out a low chuckle, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Your smile, however, falters when you notice something. Legs still shaky and weak, you try to climb up his chest to get a better look. He’s unsure what you are getting at but So’lek doesn’t hesitate in cinching a hand behind your knee and using that grip to slide you upwards. 

Hairless brows furrowed and bottom lip on the verge of jutting into a pout, one dainty finger runs over the skin beneath his eyes. It is only then he realizes that he must have dark circles beneath his eyes from not sleeping last night. 

“You did not sleep.” 

It truly is of little importance but watching how genuinely concerned you are by it may just be the most endearing thing he has ever witnessed. It reminds him of the day you met. The first time was subjected to your insistent care as he writhed and tried to assure you he was fine. If only back then he knew what he knows now. You always take care of him, of anyone and everyone in your vicinity. 

No matter what front he has put up. Regardless of every effort he has made to convince you and himself that he does not need this, it has never been a match for you. You who not only sees through his walls but knocks them down with that infectious grin. The Great Mother has blessed him with the only woman stubborn enough to break him the way he truly needed. 

“I was up thinking.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Of course you were. What am I going to do with you?” You give him a reprimanding glare but fondness seeps into your beautiful features before you are scooting upwards again. 

So’lek expects a kiss, lashes already flutter over his cheeks in anticipation but then those lips are not touching his. Instead a delicate kiss is placed over each eyelid, as if to kiss the sleep deprivation away. 

When So’lek opens his eyes you are already shuffling to tuck your face against his neck nonchalantly as if you have not made his heart overflow with one simple move. 

This is what Ri’nela had been talking about. Not just surviving but thriving. Have a place to call home, or perhaps in his case someone. For years his sole drive in life has been to repay the RDA for the tragedies they have rained on Pandora, on his clan. That has been his purpose. There has always been something to fight for. 

But for the first time in years he now has someone to fight for as well.  

Please don't hesitate to share your thoughts! I spent way too much time obsessing over this so getting some feedback/interaction would mean the world to me<3

"Taglist" AKA peeps I thought might like this: @pandoraslxna @tallulah477 @eywaite

[nondelphic]

writing prompts but they’re unhinged

your protagonist wakes up to find their reflection in the mirror isn’t copying them anymore, and it’s pissed off.

a vending machine gives your character a random object instead of their snack… and it changes their life.

every time your protagonist swears, something inexplicable happens. no one believes them until it’s too late.

your character is haunted. not by a ghost, but by an alternate version of themselves who keeps showing up to offer bad life advice.

the sun doesn’t rise one day. no one knows why, and your protagonist is the only one who seems concerned.

your protagonist gets a mysterious letter with their own handwriting on it. it’s dated next week.

your character gets cursed with the ability to hear every thought their pet has ever had. unfortunately, their pet has a lot to say.

the local library has a secret basement full of books that are still being written—and one of them has your protagonist’s name on it.

someone keeps breaking into your character’s house, not to steal things but to leave increasingly cryptic notes in their fridge.

every time your protagonist dreams, someone else’s life changes. one day, they meet someone who claims to recognize them from their dreams.

your character buys a secondhand jacket, only to find an ominous letter in the pocket addressed to them… from ten years ago.

a mysterious voice narrates your protagonist’s life in real time. it’s helpful until it starts describing things that haven’t happened yet.

your protagonist finds an old photograph of their family at a place they’ve never been, but they’re in the picture.

every plant your character touches immediately withers, except for one very stubborn weed that keeps following them around.

your character orders takeout. instead of food, the delivery person hands them a sealed envelope marked urgent.

your protagonist finds a diary under their bed. it’s not theirs, but the last entry describes exactly what they’re doing right now.

your character attends a mandatory office meeting, but halfway through, they realize none of their coworkers seem… human.

your protagonist accidentally wins a supernatural competition they didn’t know they entered. the prize? something they really don’t want.

every time your character writes something down, it vanishes from their memory. they can’t figure out what they’re forgetting—until it’s almost too late.

[pascaloverx]

STARVE

Summary: You lost your husband some time ago while he served as a gladiator for Emperors Geta and Caracalla. General Acacius saved you from becoming an object of pleasure for the emperors. Since then, he has taken you as his mistress. In your free time, you became a disciple of Ravi, the healer, dedicating yourself to tending to wounded gladiators. All seemed to be in perfect harmony until Hanno, a gladiator driven by a thirst for vengeance, crossed your path.

Author's Note: And the gods said: Starve will be a multi-chapter fanfiction (I hope readers will follow it all the way through). Without further ado, the characters belong to Ridley Scott's Gladiator II universe, though there will be significant deviations from the film. Historical accuracy regarding life in the Roman Empire may not always be strictly observed, so I hope you can overlook that. Yes, this story revolves around a love triangle, but I will strive to satisfy everyone. This fanfiction will include adult content, violence, and potentially coarse language. Enjoy!

preview two

ONE

A starry night, as though the gods themselves had blessed the heavens. You stand in the place where you often meet General Acacius to maintain appearances. He will spend the day attending to Emperors Geta and Caracalla alongside his wife, Lucilla. Meanwhile, your day will revolve around the gladiators—or, more precisely, their wounds. You have been summoned to tend to the gladiators who will participate in that day's opening of the games—battles they will wage against one another or against beasts. Your thoughts are divided between Marcus Acacius and Hanno, the gladiator you strongly suspect harbors intentions of avenging his wife’s death at Acacius's hands.

"Mea domina, you are here," General Acacius murmurs as he approaches, though his complexion appears unusually pale. He is dressed in a tunic that conceals most of his body, with a laurel crown adorning his head. The lateness of the hour and the absence of natural light obscure your view, but as he draws nearer, you notice a wound bleeding on his arm. You rush toward him, your concern overcoming any formality. Without hesitation, you expose the area of his injury, removing the fabric to inspect it. His skin is feverishly warm beneath your touch.

"Who did this to you, Acacius?" you ask, a wave of anger surging through your body, mingling with an overwhelming sense of concern. "By the Gods, you should have come to me sooner," you say, your voice laced with frustration as your fingers graze his fevered skin, causing him to shiver under your touch. You guide him to a nearby bench, urging him to rest. Knowing him well, you suspect he has concealed his injury from everyone, unwilling to reveal any vulnerability. Fortunately, all are accustomed to you tending to him—it is, after all, one of your roles as his lover.

"I did not wish to trouble anyone, least of all you, Y/N," Acacius replies, his tone steady as he attempts to mask his discomfort. "A gladiator loosed an arrow at me—it must have struck me somehow. Macrinus certainly knows how to select skilled men for his arena." His voice retains its commanding timbre, though his actions betray his weariness. He pulls you closer by the waist, resting his head against your abdomen, as though seeking solace in your presence.

"General, we must go to the place where Ravi keeps his instruments. I must tend to your wounds and return you, whole and well, to your wife," you say, holding Acacius' face in your hands, as if willing him to remain conscious. His deep brown eyes meet yours, their gaze uncharacteristically tender.

"But this is my time with you," he whispers, taking your hands in his and pressing a kiss to each. "And I have told you, you need not address me as General. Our relationship has long surpassed formalities," he says, his voice softer now as he finishes kissing your hands. A fleeting thought tempts you to lean down and kiss him, but before you can act, the sound of approaching footsteps interrupts. Guards arrive, accompanied by Lucilla and Ravi. You instinctively want to withdraw from Acacius, but his unconscious state forces you to hold him upright.

"Take my husband to his quarters. Ravi is here to see to his treatment," Lucilla commands, her tone dismissive, her gaze avoiding yours entirely. The guards comply, carrying the now-limp Acacius away.

"Y/N," Lucilla addresses you, her voice sharp and deliberate, "from this moment forward, Ravi will be responsible for Acacius' care. I trust the gladiators will suffice to occupy your attention." Her words, though polite in form, carry an unmistakable message: your role as Acacius' lover is nearing its end. Vulnerability washes over you, but you lower your head in acknowledgment, as if understanding her decree. Without another glance, she follows the guards to accompany her husband.

Ravi approaches, carrying his instruments and tools. "I need you to go to Macrinus' gladiator and tend to his wounds. Macrinus has already informed the guards of his gladiator's need for treatment, so you need not fear," Ravi instructs, already preparing to attend to Acacius himself. Fear is far from your mind. The only sentiment stirring within you is anger, directed at the one who dared harm Acacius. You nod in silent agreement and gather the necessary supplies to treat the gladiator, your resolve firm as you set out to fulfill your task.

The guards grant you entry without hesitation, their expressions indifferent. Inside the dimly lit cell, you find Hanno—his body marred by fresh wounds, his face pale but defiant. He appears battered, as though every ounce of strength has been drained from him. Anticipating the state you might find him in, you came prepared with tools to clean his wounds, at least superficially.

"The lovely healer graces me with her presence once more," Hanno mutters, his tone laced with a mix of sarcasm and faint amusement. A strained smile flickers across his lips as he clutches his abdomen, evidently in pain. "I suppose you're here to finish what the guards so generously began." His voice is hoarse and weakened, yet it retains a biting edge.

A chill runs through you as you step closer to him, fully entering his cell. The air feels heavier here, and his piercing gaze follows your every move. "They must have hurt you for what you did to General Acacius," you state, your voice measured as you kneel, setting down your tools. The mention of Acacius draws no sign of remorse from Hanno; instead, he seems emboldened, inching himself nearer to you with deliberate subtlety. As you settle beside him, his proximity becomes undeniable, his rugged presence filling the confined space. Though weakened, there’s an unsettling calm in his demeanor, as though he is testing you, seeking something unspoken within your resolve.

As you begin to cleanse his wounds, the facade of the formidable gladiator crumbles beneath the weight of his pain. Low, anguished groans escape his lips despite his efforts to suppress them. It becomes clear that he is suffering deeply, though he clings to the last vestiges of his pride.

"Ah, here we are again," Hanno murmurs between strained breaths, his voice laced with an uneven mixture of sarcasm and torment. "You, seizing the opportunity to inflict more pain under the guise of tending my wounds, and I, striving to focus on your beauty to mask just how much it hurts."

A flicker of anger rises within you, mingled with a reluctant pity for the state of his battered body. "Flattery will not grant you any special treatment," you reply sharply, leaning in closer to examine his injuries more thoroughly. "I warned you not to harm Acacius dishonorably. I thought you might exercise restraint, but I was mistaken."

With deft movements, you remove the upper portion of his tattered garment to gain better access to the worst of his injuries. He offers no resistance, watching you with an unsettling mix of amusement and interest, as if savoring the attention. "I do recall saying I would take your request under consideration," Hanno says nonchalantly, as though the matter were trivial.

Frustrated by his flippant attitude, you press a tender wound more firmly than necessary. He lets out a guttural cry of pain, his composure faltering for a moment. "Forgive me," you say with a mocking smile, your tone cold. "I must have forgotten to take your suffering under consideration."

He meets your gaze, a faint, knowing grin curling his lips as if he derives some twisted pleasure from your defiance. "If you wish to exact vengeance, then take the dagger you’ve hidden and drive it into my heart," he says, his voice low and steady, despite the evident strain. "It is the only way to shield your precious General Acacius from my wrath." Hanno leans closer, his piercing blue eyes locking onto yours, the proximity of his battered form unsettling. His observation of the concealed blade leaves you momentarily stunned, your grip tightening as the tension between you hangs heavy in the air.

"Is that what you believe I should do—kill you?" you ask, a faint trace of amusement in your tone as you marvel at Hanno's audacity. He leans closer to your face, his gaze sharp and provocative.

"If protecting him is your goal, then yes," Hanno replies, his voice steady, his eyes fixed upon yours with an intensity that borders on insolence.

You smile, intrigued by how easily he speaks of his own demise. "General Acacius is a wise and seasoned warrior. He will know how to deal with you," you say, leaning in as if accepting the challenge his very presence seems to demand.

"If you think I seek an honorable battle with Acacius solely to shield him," you continue, your voice steady and measured, "then you are gravely mistaken. Look at yourself, gladiator. To achieve vengeance, it is not merely strength or skill you require. A true fighter knows which battles are worth fighting." Your hand moves deftly to clean a wound near his neck, blood still seeping from it. He winces slightly but does not pull away, his sharp blue eyes never leaving your face.

"The way you speak, it seems as though you've developed an affection for me, healer," Hanno remarks, his tone soft but probing. "If that is the case, why carry a dagger?" He gently grasps your arm, his grip firm yet careful, as if urging you to give him your full attention.

"Because the wife of General Acacius made it clear before the guards that I will no longer tend to his care. For many of the men here, that declaration is as good as an invitation to see me as their sport," you reply, your gaze unwavering as you meet his eyes.

For a moment, something shifts in his expression—a flicker of understanding crossing his features. "I see," he murmurs, his voice lower now. "Then show me. Show me how you would wield it to defend yourself." Though puzzled by his request, you reach for the dagger and position it as you would in a moment of self-defense, your stance steady and deliberate. His eyes follow your movements with a keen focus, his lips curving into a faint, almost approving smile as he observes your resolve.

"You’re holding it incorrectly," he says, taking your hands, still clutching the dagger, and guiding them to a precise spot on the left side of his chest. "Here. Strike here on any opponent—more than once, if need be—and you’ll increase your chances of survival," he instructs, his voice steady, his grip firm but not overbearing.

You had never considered the necessity of knowing how to fight; before Acacius, your late husband had always been there to shield you. But now, an unsettling vulnerability lingers, heavy and unshakable.

"You place too much trust in me," you murmur, your gaze locked with his. "I could hurt you with this dagger right now."

His lips curl into a faint, genuine smile, weak but without hesitation. "Honestly, I wouldn’t mind if you did," Hanno replies, the tension between you thickening.

You drop the dagger back to its place, snapping yourself out of the moment. "Turn around. I need to apply an herbal salve to the wound on your back so I can retire to my quarters. It has been a long day," you instruct, watching as he complies without protest. His physique, sculpted as one would expect of a gladiator, does not escape your notice. But before your thoughts can wander too far, you refocus, applying the salve with care. He grunts softly at the touch, his pain audible but restrained.

"I could teach you how to defend yourself," Hanno murmurs as you finish tending to his wounds. Once done, he turns to face you, his expression expectant.

"Are you certain you wish to help me, knowing my loyalty lies with General Acacius?" you ask, genuine curiosity laced in your tone.

He lifts a hand to your face, his touch gentle as he caresses your cheek. "Something tells me you need help, and I want to offer it. General Acacius or not, this is about you," he emphasizes, pointing at you, "and me," he finishes, gesturing to himself.

You hesitate, uncertainty flickering in your eyes, but the sincerity in his gaze stirs something within you. Perhaps it would be wise to accept his offer. "Very well, gladiator," you reply, taking the hand that had touched your face and grazing it softly with your fingertips. "Teach me what you know, and I promise to mend you each time you require it."

[odoraful]

𝑨 𝑳𝑰𝑻𝑻𝑳𝑬 𝑩𝑰𝑹𝑫𝑰𝑬

⟡ content: xiao x gn!reader; sfw; fluff; established relationship; xiao has certain powers that i will not disclose since it will spoil the fic, but it will be very obvious when you read it !; 1.5k words

⟡ a/n: couldn't for the life of me come up with a one sentence summary for this so unfortunately there is just the title to go off of 😔 also chibi xiao for the banner because it matches the vibe of the story hehe i hope you enjoy mwah !

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“If anything happens-”

“Just speak your name and you’ll be there.”

You finished off Xiao’s sentence with a soft smile.

Xiao’s protectiveness was second nature to him. Though he knew you were capable of fending for yourself, it never felt right for him to let you go on long travels without reiterating his promise to you. Especially now when you were heading to another nation where its threats were unfamiliar to him.

“But I won’t need to because nothing will happen to me,” you continued, flicking the clasps of your travel bag closed. “That is, unless the alchemical materials in the laboratory become sentient and decide to attack.”

Xiao gave a pout. “My concern is with the monsters of Dragonspine, not inanimate objects.”

His unwavering sincerity meant he seldom reciprocated your jokes, particularly when they revolved around your own safety. He had always thought that this would make him appear too stiff. Little did he know that it endeared him to you even more.

You walked over to Xiao, taking both his hands in yours. Eyes meeting his serious, amber gaze, you gently kissed the spot between his brows, trying to smooth out the furrow that had made its home there. He tensed ever so slightly before relaxing, still getting accustomed to your open affection.

“I’ll always be accompanied by members of the Knights of Favonius,” you detailed. “And I’ll be staying in the city whenever I’m not doing my training.”

Conceding to your rational arguments, his frown melted away with a sigh. The sharpness on his face was replaced with a softer expression as you squeezed his hands. He let out a low hum, focusing on the weight of your hands in his own. After your leave, it would be a little while until he would be able to feel this once again.

“I’ll be alright, Xiao.”

Your voice resonated through his head. Sweet and reassuring.

Of course everything would be alright. It was you after all.

However, there would be nothing stopping Xiao from being who he was either.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

There always seemed to be a pleasant breeze in the City of Mondstadt, neither too strong nor too cold. You were thankful for the window in your room facing outwards into the street so you could always enjoy the fresh air. The accommodation in Angel’s Share tavern was modest, with all the essential features for a visitor like yourself. A bed, a cupboard for storage, and small writing desk below a window.

Today, the winds cooled your skin, toying with loose strands of your hair, but never disrupting the papers on your desk below as you worked.

After tidying up the notes from that day’s alchemical training session, you brought out a fresh piece of parchment. Dipping your quill into the black ink pot, you began to write, taking care so your handwriting wouldn’t be as illegible as your study notes.

Dear Xiao…

To ease your boyfriend’s worries about your status, you also each promised to write to each other. Fortunately, with Liyue and Mondstadt being neighbouring nations, mailing could be sent and received within a few days. Verr Goldet would certainly be surprised to see Xiao skulking around the lobby, secretly waiting for a letter addressed to him.

Too engrossed in your penning, you failed to notice company joining you by your open window.

A small bird landed on the sill with unnatural grace. It hopped curiously, head tilting one side then the other. It was only until it gave a chirp did your head shoot upwards.

“Archons!”

You placed your hand over your chest in surprise. The bird let out another chirp, ruffling its own feathers. A laugh bubbled out of you, amused by how frightened you were by such a harmless creature.

Placing your pen to the side, you leaned your head in your hand and observed the bird.

“You nearly scared me to death, you know that?” you said to it, lifting your brows in mock scolding.

You hadn’t seen a bird like this before. Its plumage was a mixture of teals with purple around the top of its head. Maybe it was a native bird of Mondstadt. You’d have to ask Albedo about it during your training session tomorrow.

The little bird didn’t move. It simply stared back with unblinking eyes.

You were no animal whisperer, yet something about its stance made it look like it was anticipating something. Your natural urge to pet cute things took over and you slowly reached out a hand towards it. That seemed to be the correct response as the bird quickly met the palm of your hand, nuzzling under your touch. You chuckled, rubbing small circles into its head with your thumb.

The bird gave another chirp, quieter this time but satisfied, nonetheless.

“You might be the cutest bird I’ve ever seen,” you mused aloud. “I should keep you to myself and take you home with me.”

From under your palm, the bird squeaked. It almost sounded alarmed. You lifted your hand curiously, and it hopped out of your touch. Its head swivelled around, looking between you and the window behind it. It came to a decision and unfurled its wings, taking flight into the open air.

You stood up and stuck your head out of the window, following its path before it blended in with the clear blue sky and disappeared from your sight.

You flopped back down into your chair, the wood creaking beneath you. The inked greeting you wrote at the beginning of your letter had dried down, settling into the parchment. Smiling to yourself, you picked up your pen and continued to write.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The little teal bird could only make it to Stone Gate before it had to make a stop.

Away from the eyes of any merchant or traveller passing through, it landed on one of the cliffs that lined the edges of the board walk.

If it were to land where there would be citizens present, it would probably cause a spectacle for what it was about to do next.

Wisps of green energy formed and coalesced around the bird, covering its body. The once tiny form grew larger and larger, reaching human size. Once upon a time, the transformation would have been much faster—almost instantaneous. But it had been a long time since he last used this power.

No trace of the little bird could be found as Xiao’s human form materialized.

Immediately, he fell to his knees. Partly because the transformation had been strenuous to concentrate on, but mostly because of his own embarrassment.

It had been less than a week since your departure, and Xiao could not wait for your first letter. He had to see for himself that no harm had befallen you.

He covered his beet-red face with both gloved hands, letting out a flustered groan.

His act would have been utterly blown had you kept him with you like a pet. The thought of him using up the last of his power and transforming while with you was too mortifying of a scenario. He also harshly reminded himself that you had not called him cute but rather the bird, and therefore there was no reason for his heart to be beating so fast.

How foolish of me... Of course nothing bad happened, he thought to himself. He had seen you unscathed, diligently studying, and even writing this week's letter for him.

Xiao took a moment to regain his energy and steady his heart. He gazed out at the landscape of Dihua Marsh. The remnant sensation of your warm hand caressing his feathered head left goosebumps on his skin. He had missed your soothing touch. Though, it just wasn’t the same compared to his human form. He couldn’t wrap his arms around you, feel you relax in his hold, or smell the scent of your perfume.

Xiao quietly admitted to himself that he preferred that you held his normal self. And because of that, he would be responsible and wait out these remaining four weeks until you returned to Liyue. That would be his first and last instance of spying in on you. Besides, he had your letters to look forward to.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[transmutationisms]

you’ve talked about the unquantifiability/immateriality of attention span - thinking about your recent posts against the concept of addition, do you think concepts like compulsion/willpower are measurable/material? thinking specifically in the context of like, a casino or a gacha game, which actively and successfully employ concrete tactics to encourage people to continue playing and discourage them from stopping without altering their autonomy. without overgeneralizing, what might be happening psychologically there - escapism via the adrenaline rush, or…?

it's honestly insane to me how often people mystify gambling like it has nothing to do with any other phenomenon by which people identify that they want something & then try to obtain it. when i run a race im particularly motivated when i reach the sign that says only 2km left, & i expend extra effort sprinting when the finish line is in sight. if im thirsty & someone says maybe there's free water down the hall, i get up & go there to find it. if i live in a society in which i need money to live, & someone says i can obtain a great deal of it by going to a windowless hotel & spinning a wheel, is it really particularly pathological of me to be tempted by the offer?

you can see the same type of behaviour in eg people who get way too invested in the PTA cakewalk or charity raffles or bingo night at the assisted living facility—but these activities are designed to offer limited opportunity for play, & relatively insignificant payouts, plus they're associated w/ middle class suburbanites whose spending habits prompt less social concern in general. gambling on the other hand is advertised to be incredibly opaque about what your actual odds of winning are, & designed so that even when you rationally know those odds you're still being inundated with tempting fantasies that your payout might be juuuust around the corner if you keep at it. it's not really bizarre to me that people respond to this (& to the fear of losing the monetary investment they've already made so far!) by continuing to play well past their means, & even past what they would find rationally acceptable if they were in a low-pressure environment with their material needs already met & with time to think through their decision. pathologising this behaviour as compulsion/addiction/lack of self-control is an incredibly convenient fiction that identifies a subset of the population as psychologically defective rather than identifying an economic mechanism that preys on people.

anyway no i also don't put stock in broader notions of compulsion/willpower, for basically the same reason: they're psychological stories that make people's attempts to obtain things they want/need into individual mental maladies, & specifically maladies framed around the idea of a constitutionally weak/degrading mental faculty of self-regulation. generally i find it much more fruitful to consider what needs aren't being met, & are instead manifesting in a subjective inability to direct one's own impulses/desires: for example, in the paradigmatic case, as a teenager i struggled with compulsions to count things & flick light switches & check door locks not because those objects were exerting some kind of nefarious control over my damaged brain but because i felt (was) unsafe & unprotected in other ways, & i was unable to address those needs due to the constraints of my circumstances, whereas turning the lights off was an action within my control that i was capable of performing. i may know that physically i need to eat more, but be worried about not having enough money to spend on food or about incurring social punishment if i'm perceived as excessively appetitive or if i gain weight: thus, i experience not-eating as an irresistible temptation even though i recognise it rationally as physically dangerous & misery-inducing. &c &c &c.

i fundamentally just don't believe actions we experience as 'compulsive' (particularly irresistible) are mysteriously so, any more than any other actions. indeed the compulsion logic is just tautological if you follow it to its end: every action i have ever taken in my entire life definitionally had to have been one i wanted to take, on some level & in some way, else i wouldn't have done them. yet somehow i do still talk about myself & others as moral agents possessed of self-determination, go figure.

[figmentforms]

★ Art Auction for the Palestine Children’s Relief Fund ★

Auction has closed! The winning donation was $1,234!!!! Thank you, Jeff!!!

And thank you so much to everyone that placed bids and got the donation to be this high! You're all very much appreciated! <3

★ Winning Bid: $1,234 * Ended April 15th, 2024 at 8:22 am ★

Auction will go until April 15th, 2024 at 7pm, Eastern Standard Time

The Palestine Children's Relief Fund (PCRF) is a non-political organization established in 1991 by concerned people in the U.S. to address the medical and humanitarian crisis facing Palestinian youth in the Middle East. The main objective of the PCRF is to identify and treat every child in the Middle East in need of specialized surgery not available to them locally. We locate, sponsor and run volunteer medical missions to the Middle East in adult and pediatric cardiac surgery, pediatric cardiology, plastic and reconstructive surgery, maxillofacial surgery, pediatric urology, ophthalmology, vascular surgery, pediatric orthopedic surgery, occupational therapy, and other specialties. They also have a fantastic 4-star rating on Charity Navigator ( https://www.pcrf.net/ )

★ Details About the Set of Paintings:

• Painted with acrylic on stretched canvas over wood triangle frames.

• Each of the three canvasses are 26 cm tall, 30 cm wide, 3.5 cm thick. (10 1/4 inches tall, 12 inches wide, and about 1 1/2 inches thick)

★ How to participate is below:

• To bid: email me at  figmentformsCharityArtAuction@gmail.com and let me know how much you want to bid.

• If the top bidder backs out, the paintings will go to the next highest bidder.

• The highest bid will be kept current at the top of this post (as best as I can keep up. I'm human).

• Bidding ends on April 15th, 2024 at 7pm, Eastern Standard Time.

• If you win, make your donation directly to Palestine Children’s Relief Fund ( https://www.pcrf.net/ ). Then email me a screenshot of your donation confirmation as proof. (feel free to blur out any personal info you would like.)

• Then let me know what address you would like your package shipped to. Free shipping within the United States. If outside that area, let me know and we can figure out something that works for us both.

Best wishes and hopefully this will do some good!

[kanmom51]

Have Jikook changed?

My first post for 2025 and here I am, once again, making some points that I feel need to be made.

This is going to be a long one, so brace yourselves for it.

Now that I'm back home from my trip I felt like talking about this post I came by, more so talk about the ask in this post:

I wanted to address this issue that has been concerning some Jikookers over the past year.

This coming up over and over again:

"Jikook have changed". "Their relationship has changed". "They aren't the same", yadda yadda yadda...

Truthfully, this is not something new.

I heard this back in 2021. I heard it in 2022. I definitely heard it in 2023 (who didn't?) and even in 2024, which has me racking my brain seeing as to what they gave us with AYS, their choice of enlistment together and them, in the very few times we heard from them since they enlisted, making sure to tell us they are together (for all those that keep claiming they aren't), they are good, and as of late, JK letting us know they spend their free time together and sing while showering together everyday - yes - everyday.

ALT

I am aware of the fact that many of those voicing these claims are not and never were Jikookers. Amongst them you will find your proverbial cultists (you know exactly who I'm talking about), and antis of all sorts, including but not only JK and JM solos.

When I talk about Jikookers, well, I'm talking about supporters. And I use the word supporters because I do believe there is a stark difference between those who support JM and JK and their bond and love for each other, and shippers that at times are in this for their own gratification rather than support for those two young men. This self gratification can come in many forms. For example, one of them is feeding off drama. Needing JK and JM's relationship to have it's ups and downs. Needing there to be cheating and breakups and heartbreak, making it much more interesting and not just your run of the mill boring long term relationship, cause where's the fun in that?

There are also the 'insecure' Jikookers. These are those that need that constant affirmation from JK and JM, need them to 'prove' they are indeed together, that their bond is as strong as it has always been, that they are MORE than friends to each other. When this affirmation doesn't come they become unsure, start to question it all. And when a blurry no-faced 8 sec clip shows up, they disregard the timing of the clip landing, they disregard it showing up with clearly doctored other clips and pics, they disregard all the suspicious inconsistencies in that clip, including apartment placement, windows placement, furniture placement including objects that aren't supposed to be there, problematic supposed timeline of the filming. Apparently it's enough for there to be a few similarities (while ignoring everything that doesn't fit) for it to be a PROVEN clip of JK. I'm not even going into it being a totally innocent interaction that proves absolutely none of the vile things people, that were supposed Jikookers, were now saying about JK. Not to mention conclusions that were now made regarding JK and JM and their bond and relationship. One grainy clip had people dismiss years of interactions and words spoken by those two, including in 2023, including JK's lives, including JM flying out to be with JK in July, including JK's "I go the other way" TikTok and him coming live shortly after and telling us all that he does not have a girlfriend. Apparently JK supposedly hugging a woman makes him: straight, a cheater, in a relationship with a woman, a king of fanservice using JM to promote his own career.

Where does this insecurity stem from?

Is it because these are two very desirable men that could HAVE anyone they ever wanted, and how can it be that they chose to be in a monogamous relationship with another man for years and since they were literally teenagers? Is it even Homophobia perhaps (including internalised)? Is it due to lack of maturity or lack of experience or bad experience in love and relationships? Is it a combination of all of the above? IDK.

This is becoming long winded... I know I said this will be long, but this is me not even getting started on the points I wanted to make in this post.

Let me sum this up before I move on:

People love drama. People need constant affirmation, especially when it comes to a queer relationship between two hunks of men that are the wet dream of millions, regardless of their sexuality or gender. People have a hard time coming to terms with these two men being in a healthy loving long term relationship.

I guess it's time I started getting to what I wanted to convey here...

I wanted to talk about the whole "they changed" issue.

Because you know, I really struggle understanding what people actually want from JK and JM when it comes to that. What do they expect from them?

What their expectations would be of a straight couple.

What their expectations would be of a straight long term couple.

What their expectations would be of two straight superstars who happen to be in a long term relationship.

Insert the queer into that equation.

Insert queer closeted into that equation.

And now try to make sense of it all.

What do they expect of 2 mega superstars in a 10 year, more or less, queer closeted healthy monogamous long term loving relationship?

This is about the closeted queer relationship, but it's also about what exactly does a long term relationship look like. Healthy long term relationships, straight or queer. Because I do believe that there are too many who have zero idea of what that is supposed to look like. You know, in real life.

Do anons like the one in that post even know what that kind of a relationship looks like to make the claims they do?

There is a reason why so many people that are in such a relationship are recognising Jikook for it!!!

Oh, and btw, I saw their follow-up ask in which they 'explain' what they mean by "changed". Yeah, all the same same. Distanced, not seen together, not spend time together, enlistment together not an actual choice, yadda yadda yadda... Bull meet crap. Jikooker or not is irrelevant to the points I want to make, so I'm not going to get into it. What I want to talk about is Jikook's relationship. Or more so, what a healthy relationship looks like. Over time. As it progresses.

Key word being:

Progresses.

A relationship is dynamic. It grows. It changes. Even more so a healthy one. As the people in the relationship grow, mature, as both JM and JK did (seeing they started out in their teens or early 20s), so does their relationship. Not to mention it changing and adapting to the environment it's in, to realities that change.

A relationship that stays the same, it becomes stagnant. We change all the time. Our surroundings change. The people around us change. If the relationship itself stayed the same it would not survive the test of time.

2013 Jikook are not 2014 Jikook.

Jikook in 2015 are different than they were in 2014 (I mean, their dynamics changed and progressed during 2015 itself as well).

Jikook 2016 are not the same as they were in 2015.

Jikook dynamics in 2017 are different than they were in 2016.

And so on so forth. All the way into 2023 and 2024.

You cannot expect Jikook 2017 to be the same as Jikook 2019, and the same as Jikook 2021 and the same as Jikook 2023-4? And their relationship isn't existing in a vacuum. Untouched, uninfluenced or impacted by everything that is going on around them.

They grew, their environment and reality changed, and as such their dynamics changed and progressed.

Anyone that has followed those two, anyone that joined over time and has watched original content from the past 11 years has seen the progression of their relationship. And make no mistake. This whole "they aren't the same" didn't start in 2023. But it sure has become louder since mid 2021 up to today. There are many reasons to this, growth of the fandom being one of them, but I do believe the main issue was less Jikook content starting end of 2021, basically starting with Chapter two. Them going on their long break and then hiatus into their solo debuts. Less BTS ot7 content meant less Jikook time. Period. Jikook are allowed to be themselves more so when they have the protection of all 7 around them. So, during this period of time we mostly got the same interactions as before, only thing is that we got much less of them and into 2023 we got close to none. This drove people mad. It simply cannot be that the two have a relationship but we aren't allowed to see it, right? There is no way that they are spending time together and we don't know about it... If they aren't seen out together (more so if K-army are not telling us if they are), can they actually still be a couple? As a couple how can they not be fully involved in each other's solo careers, including letting us know that they are, right? I keep saying this, well, I've said it all the way back from 2021: Not seeing them doesn't mean they aren't there. And the two showed us exactly that. We got crumbs of it throughout 2023 but even more so in the end of that year. They have been seeing each other. Spending time at each other's places. Talking to each other about their music. Sharing their songs with each other getting their input. Each knowing the other's songs before released. Knowing as in even being able to sing or hum them. And the choice of enlisting together, the choice not to be separated for the 18 months of service. The choice to go into a fighting unit on the frontline being the price to be paid so that they can stay together. No, there is no comparison to Jin. Yes he was in a base that is considered to be close to the frontline, but he was an instructor in basic training, not a fighter in a frontline unit ready for battle at any given moment. As for the stories about JK not being able to enlist into Tae's unit. Nope. Not true. JK's tattoos weren't preventing him from getting into that unit. Not to mention, if it was that important for Tae to be with JK and the latter couldn't enlist into that unit, well you'd expect Tae to make the effort and enlist into a unit where they could be together, no? Kind of like what JM and JK did to be able to be with each other... There was a clear choice made - for JK and JM to be TOGETHER. The two of them. Period.

Again I digress.

What's wrong with me?????

I was going to talk about healthy long term relationships...

"Jikook have changed", "their relationship has changed". Well, DAH. Of course it has. That's what happens with an ongoing relationship.

If they hadn't changed then I would maybe have doubts, you know, "it's only a friendship" kind of doubts. Although, even friendships change with time (wouldn't that mean that a closer more intimate relationship with another person was prone to change even more so?). Or, like some 'Jikookers' like to talk about them being attracted to each other but never making that move beyond the attraction - yes, then we would be seeing pretty much of the same Jikook as in the early years, but we aren't. We are seeing exactly how a couple's relationship progresses overtime.

But from the little we are privileged to see, the little they allow us to, seeing that even though they are public figures they are still entitled to have a private life, their dynamics, they are clearly as close as ever and A-ok. The level of intimacy between them is beyond, and it's funny to me how so many missed how they stood out so clearly in AYS, but even more so in AYS Jeju. The stark difference between those two, their interactions, their tones with each other, the care towards each other, and then with Tae. It's both ways btw. Each of them towards Tae and Tae with each of them. Clear difference between friends and couple.

But let's move on from AYS, and specifically from the clear differences we saw in Jeju.

Let's talk about those "changes" these shippers, or "insecures" or antis are seeing. I read the comments to the post and I agree with many of them. And I also agree that in a way this anon here represents basic homophobic ideas. The thought of a healthy monogamous long term queer relationship is so unheard of for them that clear signs of exactly that are interpreted as the exact opposite. Clear signs of that calmness, settled in day to day routines, the even, for lack of another term, BORING contentment of a couple are being ignored because what? They themselves have zero idea what a healthy long term relationship looks like? Because they aren't really interested in JK and JM's happiness and want to see the drama, the push and pull, the teenage boy hard to hide or disguise attraction?

Well, I've got some news for those I mention above.

Relationships, the healthier they are, the more they change, adapt. To each other and to everything that surrounds them.

JK and JM grew up.

JK was 18 and JM 20 when things changed between them (in my book). They are now in their late 20s.

They matured. Their relationship matured.

And it adapted.

Adapted to everything and everyone around them.

It changed and adapted to the pandemic in 2020-21. JM struggled, JK was there with him through it all.

Hybe being created. Hybe going public. Hybe vying to buy SM. MHJ and the shit she's pulled, even way back in 2022.

BTS hiatus. Solo debuts.

All these have had an impact on their relationship. Not as to end it, but most definitley having to adapt to these new realities. And as a couple in this industry and a queer one as such, these all also had an affect on what they allowed us to see. Of them. Because of course these last ones impact what we are being allowed to see or hear. Of course there is much that is happening that we don't know, much that we don't get to see, much that we are not allowed to see.

Put all of those together and see where that puts you with regards to a 10 year long term relationship.

A couple in a healthy long term relationship makes for 2 people who share a level of intimacy shared with no others. It has it's ups and downs. They will be sarcastic with each other. They will bicker. They can be bitchy with each other. They will also be highly affectionate with each other. Caring, taking care of one another. Naughty and teasing and flirty with each other. The love is there. The attraction is there. But as time goes by and as they grow up it's more controllable. In a way, it can be referred to as SOFTER. Less edgy as it used to be in the early days. Less urgent perhaps would also be a way of putting it. Many like to refer to it as "domestic".

Jikook in AYS are all of that and more.

I also saw people claiming Jikook in AYS are clear evidence of that "change" they are talking about. And I sit here, running AYS through my head and trying to understand what the heck they're talking about, because AYS, all 8 episodes of the show, showed us just how GOOD Jikook are. As a couple. As a loving couple in a long term relationship. A long term relationship that's been going on since late 2015. A long term relationship that started out with two hormonal driven teenage (totally uncontrollable, lol) boys changing, adapting, growing into two almost 30 year old men (still hormonal, but with much more restraint around each other while on camera, lol).

**Side note: Something I haven't talked about much in this post, but the camera is also a huge part here (when it comes to AYS), one most of those who talk about that "change" seem to forget. Add the fact that although these two have lived many hours in front of the cameras over the years, those cameras haven't been a consistent presence in the past few years, unlike pre 2020. Not to mention that this is the first time the two have ALL of the attention on them and them alone. It's not a coincidence (like most things when it comes to those two) that the moment these people are latching on to is from the first few minutes of the first episode of AYS, as the two just embarked on the unknown journey of filming this show, that they didn't even know what it will look like and what to call at start. I wonder how these Jikook relationship critics would be behaving with a camera in their faces all while being in a closeted relationship... Let's not play stupid and not understand the ramifications of their relationship being 'outed', even more so before they are willing and/or ready for it.

**Another side note: Also, behaviours tend to change according to the situation. Jikook on stage with adrenaline pumping in their veins, all pumped up and less inhibitions are not the same Jikook when first starting to film only the two of them for a show going on a long looked forward trip together. JK's "finally" says it all. Many talk about that car talk, I said what I had to say about it in this post:

They love to latch on to those few words, once again ignoring 8 chapters that show us exactly what they are to each other, not to mention JK's mentioning multiple times how he enjoyed the trips and in the last episode telling us these were the BEST trips of his life!!

**Oh, another side note (if I'm already at it): Another thing people tend to forget is that what we got is the tip of the iceberg of their trips. There are hours of footage they spent together we didn't get to see, not to mention hours they spent together with the cameras off (we saw that they did have control at times over the cameras, if to have the turned on or off). What about their Tokyo time together, which we never got to see of? And if I'm already mentioning this, then I feel the need, once again, to mention that what we get to see on camera or even through sightings of sorts once in a while, is NOTHING compared to what we don't see of their lives. The assumptions made by so many that they don't spend time together during these times is mind boggling to me. Even more so when we KNOW otherwise from little glimpses we get, like: JK talking to himself off camera (yeah, you think that was not on purpose?) that JM changed the angle of his mood lamp; JK telling JM as naturally as can be that he'll get his toiletries together and come have a shower at his place (like he doesn't live minutes away from him and can't shower at his own place); JM spending time with JK the night he got back from LA , JK cooking him dinner, not sleeping all night, only to leave on their Jeju trip together the next day; JK having the code to the apartment at nine one allowing himself in like it's his own place... just a few examples...

Enough with side notes and back to Jikook changing.

Yeah, that car talk is something they love to bring up time and time again. All while ignoring the abundance of moments that show oh so very clearly just how much JM and JK are so very much the same two people that are still so very much together.

The loud naughty moments

The playful/ fun/ also a little naughty moments

The you are me I am you moments

Butt hitting, hair pulling

The JK mesmerised by JM moments

The soft intimate moments.

The soft "I'm there for you" moments.

The caring moments

The JK cooking FOR JM moments

The "I have no straight explanation for this" moments

Basically that whole hot tub/ cold tub episode was just....

There was so so much more, my image limit is done and dusted. I'm visualising a series of posts (needs to be a series because of this silly image limit) for these moments... all the above (seeing that these were just a few examples among many more instances) plus more more more, like the teasing and so very couplie "I will do the thing I know will get a kick out of you because I know you oh so very much" moments as well (just posted my AYS masterlist, but also, go watch the show again!!).

And yes, the bickering and sarcastic moments too, cause babe, there ain't no long term relationship without all of those. It's a package. It's real life people, not a scripted drama.

If you can't be real with the person you love, if you can't show them not only when you are happy and content but also when you are unhappy, including with them, then that is not a healthy happy relationship.

I sometimes feel like those who won't see Jikook for what they are and what they have are driven by fear. Fear of a same sex couple is a huge one, but not only. Fear of what a healthy relationship is. Fear of never having that kind of a relationship would also be up there. Fear of what a long term relationship is - this idea that a relationship has to be static and intense and not understanding that the safety and comfort and ordinary day to day existence doesn't take away from the love you have for each other, nor the passion, quite the opposite.

And for those that don't get that, I feel a little sad, seeing that their expectations of a relationship are unrealistic or toxic.

I will end with this making it super clear:

JM and JK may have changed over the years. Their relationship has progressed and changed over the years as relationships do.

What they mean to each other, what they are to each other remains unchanged.

[goodolreliablejake]

Fantasy races are an uncomfortable concept, because they present a world that literally works the way racists think that it works. The attempts to mitigate this problem often fail to address the core concern, merely making the idea more palatable.

A big example is trying to correct by changing the language from "races" to "species." This attempt fails for two reasons:

1) Exactly! Racists think that people of other races are a different species. That's the foundation of "race science," phrenology, all of it.

2) Are demihumans different species, though? Like, the interactions between elves and dwarves don't resemble the interactions between different species in our world. They don't act like snakes and lemurs, or whales and krill, or even cats and dogs. More often we've got different groups of people, who may speak different languages and have different cultural practices, engaging in diplomacy or war and struggling to coexist. In practice, they are treated as nations: ethnicities. Except they're ethnicities who are biologically distinct enough to have objective differences in ability.

This is something that puts me on edge in Mass Effect, otherwise one of my favorite games. True, the game ultimately lands on condemning the genophage, and it's not subtle about that. I mean just look at the name... But it's still considered debatable, morally grey, and Mordin Solus remains one of the most charming and enduring heroes of the series. The setting has bent over backwards to make every racist stereotype and talking point as legitimate as possible. In this setting, it is objectively true, scientifically proven that it is in the DNA of Krogans to naturally be violent, warmongering killing machines whose explosively rapid breeding poses an existential threat to the galaxy. That in turn is meant to make us think that maybe forced sterilization is something worth considering. It's hard to ignore the parallels to real life racist propaganda. I don't think it's malicious, just ungrounded and thoughtless; the result of creators to whom these ideals are abstract thought experiments, rather than reflections of real history.

Another big example is Dark Elves. They try to make it okay, to mitigate the message by fleshing them out as characters, by scapegoating an abusive deity rather than an ingrained nature, by erasing the monster manual description that reads "Always Chaotic Evil," by trending skin tone away from black and towards purple, or gray, even pale white. But none of it really changes the core issue, does it? The idea of drow is to equate dark skin with evil, to fetishize that idea, and to tell a story about a subsect of people cast into darkness as a result of sin in a direct parallel to racist Christian beliefs about dark skin being a curse or punishment from God.

So, do I think we need to cancel Mass Effect and stop playing D&D or telling stories about drow? No, not really. I mean... I do all these things. Truth is, I don't have an actionable solution, for myself or anyone. But the dynamic is clearly present and worth describing. And the attempts to challenge it are often insufficient, more about making ourselves feel better about what we're already doing than enacting real change.

[dfortrafalgar]

Shampoo

Sometimes, Law neglects his personal hygiene and needs some external reminders.

Warnings: None, other than a musty pirate captain's sweaty hat

A/N: in my google drive i had called this fic "Sebaceous Gland Lipids" but realized i should probably title it something less jarring on here. It's also worth it to note that this was heavily inspired by a shitpost tiktok i saw early last year of which i haven't been able to find since then sob

You loved Law with every fiber of your being, you really did.

But you could not deny that his personal hygiene tended to lack, especially in times of high stress.  Typically he would just mask any lingering odor with some extra sprays of a mild cologne or an additional application of antiperspirant, but it would always get to a point where you would practically beg him for a good shower.  And if you didn’t, one of his other crew members certainly would.

The worst victim of his stress-induced musk, however, was his thick mop of black hair that he kept covered with his plush white cap all hours of the day.

Late one evening, deep below the surface of the ocean, Law sat at the Polar Tang’s communal dining table, sipping a cup of lukewarm black coffee and flipping through the recent issue of the World Government’s newspaper, discarding the fresh pile of wanted posters that didn’t concern him.  Down the table from him, Shachi, Penguin, and Bepo were intensely focused in a game of rummy.  Other members of the Heart Pirates milled about the ship, either preparing to tuck in for the night, fulfilling evening duties pertaining to the submarine’s upkeep, or simply lounging as their higher-ups currently did.

Clad in flannel pajamas, you rounded the corner into the galley and smiled upon seeing your beloved captain and first mates in a state of stress-free relaxation.  Law heard you enter and immediately flashed a small smile in your direction, setting his paper down.

“Hey, baby,” he said in a coarse, tired voice.

You smiled even wider, excited whenever he shoved aside his pride to address you with such pet names around his friends and crew.  “Hi, Law, hi Bepo and Shachi and Penguin,” you addressed the other three sitting at the end of the table.  Penguin simply nodded his head, lips held in a firm pout as he debated his hand compared to the cards already placed down on the table.

You took the open seat next to Law, reaching across him to grab the pile of wanted posters to flip through them.  Most were pirates you had never heard of, small-time rookies from the Grand Line or having just entered the New World.  Some were much more local, a new, substantial bounty from the West Blue being included in the stack.

“You always love looking through the posters every week,” Law simply stated through the rim of his coffee cup.

Flicking through the parchment you nodded in affirmation.  “I like seeing if anyone I know shows up!”

“She wants to see when she’ll get her own wanted poster,” elaborated Shachi, turning his attention away from their game.

You scoffed, but Law saw right through your futile attempt at deflection and uttered a hardy chuckle.  “You need to get yourself involved in more fights with the Marines for that to happen.”

You hunched your shoulders in defeat.  With a sudden switch to your sullen mood, you cocked a smirk and reached your hand upward, aiming towards the brim of Law’s fluffy white speckled hat.

“Maybe I can just trick the Marines with this,” you boasted, pulling the cap off of your boyfriend’s head freeing his unkempt black hair.  You were the only one, aside from Bepo, he allowed to touch his beloved hat.  He found you even more adorable when you wore it, but he’d never reveal that information toward you.

You held the brim in your hand and raised the object over your head to plop it on, but before it could make contact with your hair, you paused.  An offending odor intruded your nostrils.  You brought the underside of the hat towards your nose, taking an apprehensive sniff.  A foul, musky scent, somewhat salty and definitely humid, singed the fine hairs in your nose.  You yanked the hat away from your face with a groan.  

“Oh my god, Law!” you shouted, bewildered.

“What?” he asked plainly, completely confused at your sudden reaction.  

The three men at the end of the table had now completely forgotten their card game and instead turned their full attention on the two of you.

“Your hat smells disgusting, when’s the last time you even washed it?”  

Law drummed his fingers on the surface of the metal table.  “Uhm… probably a year or so ago?”

Down the table, Penguin released a harsh snort from his own nose.

“How often are you supposed to wash hats?  I didn’t even think they needed to be washed.”  Law felt himself grow slightly annoyed with the confrontation.  He grabbed his hat back from you and attempted to place it back on his head, but your hand latched onto his wrist while your other flew toward his hair.  

Your fingers threaded through his bangs and along his scalp.  You recoiled your appendage after only a few fleeting seconds, eyes wide and aghast.  “Your hair is so greasy, Law,” you said under your breath.  You knew you should probably have this conversation away from the prying ears of Law’s three best friends, but it couldn’t be helped at this point.

“So?  Hair sebum is natural,” he responded, finally being able to replace his hat.

“Yeah, but not that much,” you uttered back.  “You should wash your hair at least once a week to keep up on it.”

Law’s jaw clenched.  “I’m not stupid,” he said back, an annoyed venom on his tongue.

“Never said you are, but you really should wash your hair.”  You stood from your seat, grabbing the stack of wanted posters to bring with you to review in bed.  “Goodnight, guys, see you in the morning!”

The three stooges waved you a goodnight while Law simply scowled down at his newspaper, not reading any of the words.

“Has it really been that long since you’ve washed your hair?” Shachi asked.  “Even I'm not that bad.”

“Oh, stuff it.”  Law folded up the newsprint and left it on the table, trudging out of the galley with a grunt.

An hour or so had passed, and you were curled up on the plush cot you shared with Law, warm and cozy under the blankets.  You kept your eyes closed when you heard the door to the room open and then close slowly so as to not make much noise.  You felt the bed dip downward with the force of Law laying down.  He shuffled toward you, his chest against your back, wrapping his arms around your body and holding you tightly against him without a single word.  Cold, damp hairs tickled your neck, and a faint smell of lavender and honey filled your senses.  You smiled in the dark.

He used your shampoo.

[e-hibiscus]

Synopsis: Sending and/or receiving (love) letters from each other.

Pairing: Arlecchino x gn!reader, Clorinde x gn!reader, Eula x gn!reader

sfw utc‼️‼️

Arlecchino

With Arlecchino, exchanging letters is a common occurrence. Her time away from Fontaine can be prolonged and sporadic, however the messages and letters you wish to send always find themselves in her grasp in a timely manner.

Your letters are long; full of present and future plans, but always includes a small portion at the end dedicated to how much you miss her. How you can’t wait for her to come back home, and for Arlecchino to take care of herself. Even if she knows very few individuals could cause her any harm, Arlecchino finds your concern endearing.

Arlecchino adores if you send her pictures alongside them. She often keeps them with her until she returns home; collecting the photographs as sentimental momento from you within her private quarters alongside all the other little gifts you make just for her. She keeps the majority of your letters in a box within her office.

In turn, Arlecchino sends back just as many letters, if not more. Her handwriting is elegant; strokes thin and pristine. Each letter is handwritten and delivered with your favorite type of flower or small gifts from wherever she’s currently assigned. The majority of the time, one of the children would be the one to hand the envelope to you because she trusts them more than any fatui agent.

Clorinde

Clorinde was the first to send you a love letter. It was a confession asking you to become her partner, and it’s written with affection and care that would’ve been unbelievable if not for your long standing friendship with one another. Many of her affections are written out, for your eyes only. She’s often reserved with her affections, but her adoration is laid fully bare in each word written in ink.

Her letters are saved for special occasions such as your anniversary, birthdays, and other special events. They’re neatly placed in a custom sealed envelope, addressed solely to you alongside a small gift she knows you’ll treasure. It’s usually an object you’ve been eyeing when the two of you go for your evening stroll together.

Clorinde enjoys watching you open and read them. For her, it’s far easier to put her feelings into writing. She adores the way your gaze softens so lovingly, your eyes come up to meet hers, and how flushed your cheeks become.

She prefers sending you letters, but when you write one in turn, Clorinde keeps it in her bedside table; rereading your letters when she either wakes up or before heading to bed.

Eula

Eula secretly adores the love letters you leave for her. Before she wakes up or after she falls asleep you leave a folded letter on the kitchen counter where you know she will see.

The first time you wrote her a love letter, Eula turned beet red. She was just as flustered as when you first confessed your feelings for her. She (tries) to maintain a cold outward demeanor, however she carefully places the letter meticulously back. She’s kept that one letter in her office at work so she could reread it on a bad day.

Her letters to you seem well thought out. They’re written perfectly, and Eula lets you know how “effortlessly” writing something like this was for her. In reality, she’s rewritten the same letter over and over again because she doesn’t quite know just how she wants to say she loves you. Even as she writes, the knight can’t help but feel the heat rising up her face as she envisions your reaction to her letter.

She’ll swear to herself when the ink blots on the page, crumpling it before getting a fresh sheet. It needs to be perfect because Eula wants to send you a perfect letter. It’s what you deserve for being her lover!

[zeyris-daydreams]

Nocturne to The Consecrated - 15.6k longfic

Yandere!reader x (whatever this is)!Sunday

This idea was piling in my mind for weeks now, but it is finally done. Reader displays some concerning tendencies, all the while we get to watch. I’m not sure what to label Sunday in this, yandere is too harsh but he’s NOT normal. That aside, special thanks to Adam, my musically talented friend, who lent me his expertise for orchestral accuracy in this.

Warnings; stalking, manipulation, sort of abuse of power if you squint.

[ao3] [music used for this fic]

“He was never supposed to know you existed. You kept your distance, content with watching from the edges, learning his movements, his habits—his power. But Sunday has always understood the weight of unseen things. And when he calls you forward, it is not with accusation, nor with anger. It is with amusement. With interest. Because the moment you stepped into his world, you were already playing by his rules.”

The paper was a white, dove colour, shade of the freshest feathers plucked, long before they had a chance to stain with the unruly ground - stark contrast to the blood red seal at the front of the envelope, throwing off the harmony of the already too thick sheet.

It weighed heavy in your sweaty palm, breathing shortened as you stared at the object, pondering the reality of the situation - or lack thereof. The envelope bore a shade similar to the halovian’s feathers, and as himself, the stamp was perfectly pressed. Not a spillage of wax outside of the shape it held, formed into the innermost layers of a tree. A symbol you’ve grown used to seeing already, and you could imagine his gloved hands pressing the form into the wax.

Sitting on top of the beige sofa in the comfort of your own apartment didn’t fix the restless feeling of unease in your gut. Lack of emotional control in your own safespace, lack of control over the situation - things unfamiliar. You didn’t want to know them.

The wax felt smooth beneath your fingertips when you grabbed it instinctually, like all the other times when you've taken the courtesy of receiving the mail from the Oak Family in the comfort of your office.

Your fingers lingered on the envelope for a moment too long, as though the act of unraveling it would change something irreparably.

Index finger easily pried the edge of the wax up, before you remembered to keep it intact. It is a symbol of the Oak Family, and a symbol of a perfect person. Then again why would something like this matter to a deadman? It was nothing but bad news to be addressed by him directly, feeling akin to a freshly penned death sentence.

Your position and expertise was nothing but a candle’s flick to a sun’s roar, guaranteeing you no recognition in this field. To be sent paperology so personally was below your tasks.

You could gently peel it off to hold onto it like with everything related, but perfection didn’t matter in this situation. This time, this single time, you ripped it off in haste. If— If there would be another chance like this, you’d preserve the wax. To ruin such a shapely sigil would be unsightly, you knew he’d most certainly dislike it.

A strange bile rose in your throat when the paper protested, holding onto its shape despite your harsh tug on the front, and the edge of the envelope tore in the sudden action. It didn’t matter.

Your heart felt like a rock upon water, its beat sending a steady rhythm down your fingertips.

The envelope gave you one last mocking frown before it was unveiled, and the pristine white sheet was taken out from the inside. Empty and purposeless exterior fell to the ground as you held the beating heart of the problem, fingers digging into it like into your last meal, and you pulled the organ apart, exposing its secrets to all eyes that may be watching—

All colour and blood drained from your face. Your fingers shaking against the thing that felt all too thick and all too glassy, like blood ready to spill from your fingers. With a flutter of paper the temperature dropped, the chill settling on your skin as though the air had anticipated with you. Eyes drifted down towards where the signature would be laid, at the end of the correspondence. So down it was almost passable, and despite the dimmed light in your apartment, you saw it well.

“Sunday, the head of the Oak Family”

The ink felt bold, as if it had been pressed with force into the writing - precision remained, as many of the items he wrote before. It bled into the thick sheet, still in your retina despite your frantic glance around the space of your dull living room.

As fast as that happened, your eyes shot back to the culprit, and you scanned it. Once - skimming, the letters blurring as if they smudged under the weight of your gaze.

Second - drawing out the key words, ones which escaped your grasp, like a mouse from the claws of a cat.

Only the third time did the message register, painting in your mind as you analysed each stroke, lips moving along to each syllable.

”—Esteemed member of the Nightingale Family. It is my utmost pleasure to invite you to a private soirée following the Assembly of the families this Friday,“

The dryness in your mouth only intensified. It was Wednesday.

”where the evening shall continue with further contemplations in a more intimate setting. Please arrive promptly at the close of the performance, for the evening promises to unfold in unexpected ways.”

The penmanship was what you knew already, having collected countless letters and signatures with the same strokes before. The same quill, the same ink. The same hand.

As a member of the Nightingale Family you were more than aware of the tradition; each year Family representatives gathered around a table to discuss the future of the land of festivities together - more to uphold an idea than to have any political discourse.

That, and apparent parties they partook in for the duration of the day.

”Should you accept, you may find the atmosphere illuminating and serene—

Though I suspect it will be, for you, anything but.”

Your gaze felt pinned to the sheet. That is all it said, yet you couldn’t shake the feeling that the wording left much to be considered.

Hand tightened against the paper and the fabric bent like a neck to jaws, the thick saliva in your mouth finally swallowed.

—

The residence was quiet, spare for the echo of footsteps you took. Hum of conversation and murmurs of others long died - never to be witnessed by your ears. Maybe you had come too late - an idea proven by the eerily empty room you stood in.

Perhaps they have slipped unnoticed, long gone to leave you to your reckoning - and perhaps if you knew it was the plan, you too would’ve slipped into the shadows as always.

Now though, you were alone, with light above too bright for the liking of your eyes.

The realisation weighed like a boulder, each breath becoming heavier as you looked around. The walls were washed over with a dull shade of blue, akin to a vast ocean in which you could easily get lost in, where all land was too far to be seen.

As though the room wished to retain nothing but stretching emptiness - your body felt lightweight.

You had come, expecting the soirée, the event—you had come wishing to slip unnoticed at a time opportune. But now the space seems cavernous, the shadows stretching long, looming above your frame. Mocking, laughing at the predicament.

The butler that had taken your coat has long vanished, and yet the feeling of eyes on you was unmistakable.

A sharp note cut through the quiet.

Your body turned rigid. Another note joined it, narrow, and they danced in your ear in a tango from the very far left, tempting you to join their flow. Their threads pulled your limbs out of the space, forward and down the corridor.

You knew the tune immediately, and just as instantaneously you wish you didn’t. You have heard the piece before - when he played the piano like this during the private event, then again you couldn’t be sure if that was more than once; being too preoccupied with the pianist each and every time.

Sunday was at the piano when you had found him, seated with utmost perfect posture, his back to you. Skillfully his hands glided across the keys akin to a painter mastering their craft. The melody building and twisting, every note deliberate. The way he played it - precise, restrained, as though there was something beneath the rhythm being held back. It gripped you in an unmistakable way.

He spared you not a glance. He didn’t acknowledge you. For a moment, you’d be hopeful enough to believe he hasn’t taken notice of you at all.

The sound arches as you observe him, rolling down a steady slope-

But then, as the melody faded into silence before the next part of the composition you’ve already grown to anticipate, the fugue, he glanced over his shoulder.

Eyes of gold met yours.

”Ah,” he mused, as though he only realised your presence. “You’ve arrived.”

Nothing in the halovian’s tone sounded unusual, nothing to suggest he had been expecting you, here, alone. Yet the faintest rise of the edges of his lips - a knowing smile.

For a moment you opened your trembling lips, trying to apologise for intruding, but your throat felt tight. It was of no significance to Sunday, as he turned back to the piano. His gloved hands returned their dance upon the keys. The silence between notes stretched out however, purposeful and nearly deliberate.

”Do you recognise it?” He asked suddenly, voice so soft it blended with the sharp tune of the music, smudging with each passing second.

Your chest tightened, throat burning. Of course you recognised it, how could you not? The obvious answer doesn’t find the escape through your teeth, clenched together.

And so you said nothing, and he too didn’t press. The melody shifted, the last keys being played, and the tune grew softer, before a sense of almost pleasant silence followed. As though the aroma of the tune remained in the air, lingering thickly like smoke.

Not for long.

As if nothing happened, he raised to his full height, facing you as he smoothed down the sleeves of his suit. Perfect. Preened.

”I’m sorry for the absence of company,” his voice cut the momentary reprieve, words so casual they felt nearly calculated. Restrained, and deliberate, a perfect chord resolving a dissonant phrase. “But I thought it might be better this way. Simpler.”

Simpler. The word twisted in your mind, an apple rotting as soon as it began its descent from grace. It felt sour on your tongue.

You wanted to leave, now. The urge clawed at you, sharp and insistent, a cat scratching at the window to take run. Something in the way he watched you, though, his head tilted slightly. Sunday waited for something you couldn’t quite pinpoint, a reaction possibly.

”You’re quiet,” his tone was conversational, light. Sunday stepped closer, and it took every single fiber of your will to keep yourself grounded, not retreat. “But then, you always were.”

The calm in which he said it, the purposeful use of ‘always’. A fact, not a guess, something he knew as well as the fact that the sky is blue. And that the candles are meant to burn.

Before you processed his words and had a chance to decide on a reaction, he tilted his head slightly, arm gesturing towards the hall beyond.

“Come,” he says. “I’d like to show you something.”

The words carried a tune of softness, but they weren’t a request.

You hesitated, but something in his posture and unblinking, unrelenting gaze forced you to move. The weight of his tone made it impossible to refuse.

Sunday waited just enough for you to take a step, and he then turned, beginning the walk. Each move was precise, soft yet measured - certain against the floor. Despite the tightness of your mind and your flesh, you followed him.

You tried to focus on the sound of your own footsteps to drown out the sense of anxiety that muffled your rational sense, the floor feeling as though it dipped beneath your shoes. Like sand, wanting to swallow you whole.

The walls, despite the lights, felt long, decorated with your moving shadow, one that laughed cruelly at the predicament of the ‘real’ you. The silence stretched similarly to each darkened spot on the walls, mocking, staring over you.

When he finally stopped, you nearly stumbled, heart racing when you realised that you’ve reached a room. For a change, you didn’t recognise it, an unknown pathway of the forest you always bravely threaded. The doors were closed, surface carved with an intricate design you again didn’t find familiar - regardless of the dim light.

A sense of sickness pooled at the bottom of your stomach, threatening to burn through the layers of the already sensitive flesh.

Sunday turned to you, his face unrecognisable. For a moment the halovian merely watched, gaze steady as it was when he played Bach’s melody, and you felt its weight sit heavy on your shoulders, weighing you down like a sinner’s record.

”Go ahead,” his voice was smooth, hand gently pulling on the handle to reveal the interior to you.

”After you.”

—

The light shone from above you in a distinct halo, and you looked towards your ticket once more. The edge dipped in gold, reflecting the beam from the chandelier in an almost blinding manner. Yet your walk persisted, following the usher into an entrance tucked away from the common guests.

Upright posts traced the way forward, the most elaborate pathway towards the grand doors at the end. The surroundings around the venue felt spacious, creamy white walls and intricate decor of the walls, the pillars which supported a far too high of a ceiling. Crown mouldings above were nothing but detailed, white and free and pure and untouched.

As you walked you wondered what sort of person could reach and clean it from possible cobwebs. Fingers absentmindedly moved over the repertoire of the concert, the surface glassy and smooth against your skin. A measure to ground yourself, a futile one. You chose to focus on the feeling of your formal wear against your body, and the discomfort of your shoes against the heels of your feet.

The usher led you towards a gradually darkening hallway, where you and the grand doors could bid each other another greeting and farewell. With a smile akin to paint on porcelain, the usher opened the doors, letting you walk through, as the manners demanded.

The grand concert hall beyond was one you’ve witnessed already, the main stage in front of you, the seats empty still. As a person of precision, you were always present before most other guests; a privilege you weren’t truly aware of.

Behind you the usher waited for you to take in the scenery, automatic, still as a robot. Your eyes lingered at the seats before the stage, the balconies in front of you. As of now, your perspective was laid from the spot behind the stage, elevated.

An important point indeed.

The chandelier was elaborate, shards and crystals hanging from it, the water hardened upon branches of a tree from the frost - hanging and anticipating warmth of spring. A cruel irony when the tree looked best in the cold. The light from it was sharp, separating in thousands stars and halos in your vision - starbursts and rays of shine.

Your thoughts drifted to the balconies, eyes following sluggishly. The hall was well lit for now, illuminating each empty seat, highlighting absence of presence. Unknowingly the corners of your mouth moved up, in a smirk you had a hard time keeping down. Soon enough everything would be filled with life, but for now it was yours to enjoy.

The orchestra situated in front of the stage was an intriguing concept. Not one for you, no. While the stalls in front of the musicians provided an auditory experience out of this world, it wasn’t that aspect that drew you to observe. From your perspective it was no effort to lay your eyes upon the guests who chose seats with such little proximity.

From that point the melody surely seemed multifaceted, filled with layers that threatened to spill from the nearly full cup, overflowing to the edges - held only by its surface tension. The listener must have been able to feel the steady drumming of the liquid underneath their fingertips. Each blow of flute - painfully separate from the essence of the violin. All notes and tunes flowing in a river to fill the senses, yet not mixing, like oil to water.

To witness it must’ve been extraordinary. The melody diverging into few, solely due to how easy each sound could be separated from the rest had they paid attention. Not that you’d know - price wasn’t an issue. Had you deemed fit, you would’ve graced the stalls - which were closest to the stage on the ground level - with your presence.

The guests at the front must’ve thought themselves to be connoisseurs, wishing for an up-close view, as though it made a difference due to the balanced acoustics and the view of the performance.

But you weren’t one to enjoy cacophonous melodies.

The true performance wasn’t in the eye of the guest; not in the eye of the conductor, and definitely not in the wooden or metal hearts of instruments. The true performance was the event, the observation of all that unravels - and in that light, you were the spectator.

The usher took a step to lead you to your seat - once you were done admiring the view of the unmoving hall, that is. You were led towards the designated choir spot - empty during this performance, and the other person left.

Formal dress felt comfortable once you wore it often, and you found yourself feeling as easy as in any pair of clothes, spare for the bite of your shoes. The coat on your arm was slowly put onto the arm rest of the seat, before you walked forward to the barrier-like structure between the seats and the stage.

It bore ornamental mouldings at the top, extending forward to you, and you could rest your elbows on it. Leaning against it you took in an inhale.

You opened the plan of the orchestra in your hand, pretending to yourself, and anyone that can be watching, that you paid any mind to the compositions listed.

“Beethoven” You mouthed.

Beethoven - Egmont Overture, then Symphony no. 7,3rd movement.

Bach - Erbarme dich, mein Gott

Beethoven, Symphony no.3, 2nd movement.

The repertoire at the back went over the musicians at play today, but any technicalities caused you to shut the paper soon after. It was of no significance, in the end, the music was not what you judged.

Someone could call it recklessness or inelegance, but you weren’t one to dwell. The performance tonight was a special show indeed - an appearance of a prominent figure; a man who was to take the leadership over the Oak Family. That itself gave you more power, it was after all an exclusive performance which only family members could join. And - as many as there were - not all afforded the ticket. A delight for not many eyes was what you were in for, disregarding the parts of this that went unspoken.

You thought yourself to be above such political matters, and so you had no care in that aspect; then again you were always like this.

The emptiness of the hall was enjoyed by you for about half an hour, where you gazed and thought absentmindedly, before it began to steadily fill. With the grace and normalcy of a cat you moved back from the barrier, sitting in your designated place.

The guests arrived from entrances slowly, filling in the balconies and the boxes along. Perhaps you were lucky enough to visit this unusual hall, none wished to share your space.

For a moment you considered whether this was due to you, or due to the spot. Not that you’d ever complain of solitude. It was enough to see with your very sharp eyes how people gathered in pairs and groups, little doves and robins flocking together to pick at the seeds dispersed. Only prey stuck together. The three-course meal of this orchestra seemed to have been tailored to you.

Your stomach fluttered at the thought.

—

The people all took their places in an orderly manner, like ants to honey - all drew in by the sweet promise of melodies and sounds cleansing their mortal mind. Seats near you remained nearly empty due to their unconventional placement, much to your pleasure. With your legs crossed subtly, you watched the musicians tune their instruments. And the audience fell into one, long quiet note of nothing - respectful to the craft.

Your face slowly moved once the whispers began; far away; but you saw it. People in balconies leaned towards each other to speak quietly, their tone a hushed sound, like dust in the otherwise clean air. It was evident their thoughts were ignited by a spark, and soon enough the person came into view.

It was time for the conductor to enter - and he did, with grace unseen by the mortal squarol previously, from the far entrance, walking towards the stage.

All the whispers stopped, hung in the air like a promise.

As he stepped his figure grew clearer, and given your unique position in the seats behind the stage, you saw the man from that much more unique standing. Dark suit tailored by the night, elongated at the back - plain and simple, yet elegant all the same.

A halovian - you realised.

The apparent new heir to the Oak Family. Your fingers laid upon your knees so you could lean in to focus better, and you looked with bated breath.

He walked onto the stage with no slip up, measured and precise. Once atop, he turned his back to you, and acknowledged the audience. Sunday - that was his name, that was what you remember from all the gossip you have overheard. In arrogance you ignored the thought which appeared in your mind; no, you were not aloof, nor were you dismissive. Why should you care who pulls the strings this time?

However, the impact was undeniable. You were in this hall many times, and not once has this man played. In fact, you never heard of his protege before. Your eyes followed each move with judgement, and found not a thread to latch onto, rather, you were left with an impression.

An impression of skill, as Sunday graced the audience as though he did it thousand times over before, the anxiety of performance not read from his body either. And as the halovian turned back to the musicians before him, his face remained equally as neutral as his body language.

Your upper tooth caught against the dry skin of your bottom lip, a strange cotton filled your mind. The concertmaster readied her bow, straightening instantaneously, as though she hadn't sat properly previously.

The chandelier above the stage illuminated his halo, which reflected in rays and beams that made your eyes squint, an ache to the very back of your skull. It was a cruel mockery of fate, the astigmatism you were bestowed got in the way of truly analysing this new figure.

From what you saw, his silver hair gave a sheen of iridescence as the light fell upon it, draped over his shoulders. Despite the odd sensitivity to light separating from all that emitted it, your vision was as sharp as always.

Beneath the glow of his halo you saw a pair of golden eyes - as you assumed. The sharp features of his face like paint upon canvas, crafted and catered to by someone already mastered. You saw it all despite the proximity, the stage was quite the distance in front after all, and nothing around seemed to matter, spare for the main course. As everything around grew dark, the focus was on the musicians.

In spite of that, only the man seemed to have been graced; seemingly bestowed upon heavens with sunlight breaking through the clouds of the weather, highlighted as starkly as snow during summer. (Snowflakes could not dream of reflecting this sort of shine)

A strange feeling in your throat rose, and you forgot how to breathe for a moment. You couldn’t tear your eyes away, unlike all times otherwise.

An angel. He must have been an angel. His gaze swept over the orchestra - subtly and unhurriedly, with certainty which seemed preordained. You felt ringing in your ears, and he raised his baton, the musicians nearly under a spell. With no further dragging or prolonging, sharp noise of strings cut through the air, building slightly to cascade in a slope. A bold and decided melody, it was much more than just that.

A statement of bravery, a statement of honour. Your tongue moved against your lip. Sound bold and foreboding and-

The musicians pulled and moved their hearts of instrument, but all you focused on was the movement. He welcomed other sections to join in the dance, a heavy feeling in your lungs. This was no mere performance of skill.

Involuntarily you leaned forward, hands at the barrier separating you from the space in front. For the first time in months your brain stopped sending signals, and you looked to the conductor empty minded.

It felt akin to a hypnosis, you stared thoughtlessly as the tunes changed. Each time his demeanour fit the melody - but it was pushed to the back of your mind. You were no longer trying to gauge reactions of the crowd, no - your eyes were glued with amber to his grace. You didn’t know if you’d ever be able to break through it, the soft flutter of feathers in your skull pushing against the boundaries of mortality.

—

The music carved a space in your chest. When he moved, the orchestra moved, and so did the air, and so did your mind. And he conducted the performance with something- something else.

The baton altered the law of reality itself, and with the last note’s death came the end. And before he even had a chance to turn around properly you rose from your seat, hands joining together for a moment temporary. You inhaled deeply. This you have never done - you have never graced people with your approval. You stood for none and clapped for none.

Yet your heart decided for you, movement so quick you couldn’t register your logical will behind it. The sound of your clapping gave way for others joining in, the sound filling the hall shortly after.

Sunday bowed to none. And he didn’t bow now either, turning away from where your gaze could see him. He surveyed the room not with air of appreciation, and as the applause echoed into its death, his gaze swept over the audience.

Not with politeness, but quiet authority— as though the evening had never been about music at all.

The guests took their time to come down from the grandiose, and he watched like a hawk as they slowly left, trailing through the exit in monotony.

You couldn’t budge. Your feet were planted, and it took minutes for the room to empty once more. Sunday finally turned his gaze to the puppets he guided, and gave them but a nod of approval. But then he looked up, eyes meeting yours for only a second.

Throat tightened on an instinct, and before anything else he averted his gaze—you were another soul in a crowded cemetery, abandoned by your saviour.

It was time to go, but your feet moved on their own only when the musicians were left behind by Sunday. He headed for the exit, and you headed for your own, grabbing your coat and walking back in haste. With your chest burning, you stepped fast, nearly stumbling over your feet before you forced yourself into grace. Through the dimly lit corridor, up to the doors which you swung open hurriedly.

Most parts of this hall had their own entrances, and you walked fast, to catch even a glimpse of him in the entrance hall where all the exits connected-

Sunday was at an advantage, as he could swiftly make his way out through the grander entryway; you felt blessed to even witness him truly leaving the building, moments after your entry.

Your feet carried you to the centre of the entrance hall, and you stared at the doors for moments, long after he had left.

A sweet aftertaste lingered in your mouth, and you licked your teeth.

—

It was innocent - initially. You had to see him once more.

The first purposeful encounter wasn’t hard to navigate, and to satiate your curiosity, you decided to grace the event with your presence. A week and a half since his debut and final performance in one, came his ascension.

And he looked brilliant as he did all these days ago, white suit, perfectly ironed. His wings were preened as always, nearly translucent at their ends; only this time his halo didn’t reflect the light right at your eyes, allowing you that much more comfort.

Your side leaned against the pillar, the shadow of it like a comforting blanket for a person with fever. The side of your head pressed into the carved stone soon after, and you averted your gaze from Sunday.

It wasn’t worth mentioning what kinds of people gathered here, family representatives and the executives, and then the other four heads of each organisation - showy and loud about their presence, begging for a gaze as divine as sweet.

Not you, no. Refined as you were, you knew what to do despite your elevated rank. Amongst your kind - the aristocrats - you were still quite low, a piece of wood right near the ground, hardly necessary for the ladder to function. You knew that, and in spite of it, you were still important enough to enter seamlessly.

There had been no issue with signing onto the guest list.

The room was dimly lit despite how spacious it was, quite intimate for family’s standard; with tens of guests, yes, yet still smaller than life itself. That was proven by the scarce decor of the tables, only drinks served - when speech was delivered, no one was to consume food.

It wasn’t the food you craved, nor the appraisal that the other representatives seemed to strive for - you knew they didn’t care about the speech. They didn’t care about Sunday and his rank, merely what he had to offer.

They were here to show everyone that they were here, to make a statement with their insignificant presence, demanding approval. Not you.

You were here with purpose, and you’d fulfill it. You weren’t like them; you weren’t here for favour from singing Sunday praises, and you weren’t there to scrutinise the new family head. Different — that’s what you were, and you weren’t here as a Nightingale Family member. You were here as you.

Your brow rose, and you straightened upon hearing the chatter come to and end - and then a soft clink. Decisive voice cut through the air, in a mere clearing of his throat.

It was time. Your head whipped sideways as you leaned aside from behind the shadowed pillar, watching Sunday at the very end of the room. That marked the first time you heard him speak, for a smaller audience at that, but you were here.

“On behalf of the Oak Family, I’d like to extend my gratitude to those who took time out of their day to come. Alas, on my own behalf as well.”

He held a glass in his hand idly, somewhat elevated before the guests. You watched carefully, unnoticed and concealed, subtle like needle amongst hay.

Like a cat flattening into the ground when it was observing a bird.

”It is a rare privilege to stand in front of you today—not simply as an individual, but as a representative of what we all wish to achieve. Today we not only celebrate an appointment, but a shared vision and a shared wish; one that binds us, not separates us.”

Sunday spoke boldly, against all you expected. From the distance you could take in vague hints of his demeanour. Your eyes narrowed softly.

In his gold irises there was calculation, and in his words - a sense of certainty. He had no need for reading off anything, as a person of his stature should. You turned to face the pillar, fingers on the cold stone as you ran your finger down the engravings on it.

You remained concealed, despite the tilt of your head allowing for vision of the saint to shine through. “It is not our personal ambitions which allow us to weave law into reality — but a sense of duty we share. As we stand here, let us remember it is our collective will to push the boundaries of the possibilities we have today.”

The guests paid much attention, and you tried to as well. It was hard to focus on the taste, and you drank the honey of his voice like a deserted hermit, left with no water to the point of their lips resembling dehydrated land. The sweetness stung your sore and dry throat, but you couldn’t stop.

There was no focus on admiring the taste. Trying to decipher what sort of flowers went into the golden dew you were drinking wasn’t an option anymore.

His tone was fluid, and you swallowed dryly.

“Our ultimate goal is to benefit Penacony, and we are not competitors in improving our ways; rather, we are collaborators.“ Sunday glanced over the guests, scattering an air of appreciation for their presence, the pollen of flowers to rest upon their eyes.

In your mind you felt there must’ve been more to his words. There always was, and the orchestra hadn't been only about showing people his conducting talent.

It were the people that he conducted, and the orchestra was only the symbol of it—something clear as day when you considered his stance when addressing others.

Once the guests were paid attention to as such, the halovian continued, his tone gaining an air of boldness, confidence. Firm and unwavering as stone. Cold stone. Your fingers touched the pillar with an unseen curiosity.

“It is not enough to respond to the changing world; we must seize it and adapt our ways, improve in ways we want the future generations to do. We must set an example not only in the public eye, but in places where no eyes lay.

Penacony is a planet of potential—boundless and ripe, full of opportunity not only for us, but for our people. It is up to us to direct that potential, mold it, guide it.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, the pressure in his words evident. Sunday wasn’t trying to appease the elders' ways, despite what all the other heads did. He took the route of openness, stunning them with light and only then—allowing them vision.

“And so, as I step into this role, I make this promise to all of you; I will do what is necessary. I will push the limits of what we thought was possible, we will no longer simply adapt to change—we will become it.”

A strong middle of the speech, as strong as it was in the orchestra. And then the aftertaste; lingering and sweet whisper of what would come undoubtedly. Like in his performance.

“I will not ask for approval based on words, what I offer is action. And with action, I’ll reap results. To those who stand beside me, I offer support, and I’m grateful to know the weight of choice is understood. To those who oppose—I offer nothing but silence-“

You involuntarily gripped at the stone tighter.

”-for in silence, we will do what others cannot.”

—

The public meetings left a bitter aftertaste in your mouth, akin to drinking tea after consuming a cake most layered and sweet. Such tea was reality that you had to be struck with when the sweetness of the event eventually washed away like foam upon sea.

It was nearly voracious and gluttonous, a stomach which didn’t know how to seek satisfaction with a balanced diet; disregarding the idea of a fulfilling, voluminous light meal, for the idea of something small and dense, over and over.

Your gaze was trained on the papers in your hand, the desk beyond them so dull and lacking that it didn’t catch your interest. Your eyes moved upon the words with little interest — it was a proposal for a financial strategy for the upcoming year, one you had to analyse and sign to confirm that you realised your responsibilities.

Like all areas of your work, the technicalities didn’t matter, as longest as the job got done. A weary sigh, and then the papers dropped onto the wood in front of you. Your elbow rested upon it, and you instinctively flipped to the last sheet, signing it without realising you held the pen all this time.

The secretary in front of you tensed. A frail and new thing really - her hands balled at her lap, her breathing coming to a stop. Unimpressively you watched her mouth open.

In that moment you wondered what it may be that she wanted to say—maybe question you, or correct you. Leaning back against the seat you released the paperwork, and waved her off; her nervous departure taking even less than reading the writing itself.

Many people hoped for this work to be a gate for them, a stepping stone to an oh so grandiose and dream-like future they assumed they’d get access to. It was proven by the way they decorated their work areas and offices, you’ve seen it countless times really. Pictures of their family and loved ones, small memorial trinkets of their goals and interests. Some even kept plants, or testaments of their hobbies; like paintings or figures.

With a sharp gaze you looked at the walls of your office. Plain, with the decor scarce spare for what you arrived to all those years ago—a still-life painting and a vase which was empty for a long, long time.

Some people got too invested in their work, while some took it for granted; you were neither. A boat never ending too far on the deep end, yet never as much as scraping the oceans floor. All reports were on time—never early, and never late.

Conversations and useless chatter reduced to minimum, spare for whatever could bring gain.

Some people worked too hard, while some worked too little. Former—welcomed promotions, more money, more power, which inescapably tied to more responsibility, less time. And the latter ended up on the grey end, replaced by better; fired.

You would say you value your free time; you would even say your schedule was already too tight as it was. Colleague invitations all declined, small talk cut with a dismissive scoff.

With your head held high you never engaged in office politics, never asked questions. Your colleagues talk about career trajectories, while you’re wondering when the work hours are over.

—

Sunday was an important figure now, more so than he was before.

He was so utterly unlike you, in that aspect. The man seemed to have been ambitious, something you’d never imagine in your own life. Stuck in monotony, content in uncontentment; having enough to live, but not to dream. In a sense it was intriguing, a person living so.. distinctly.

Sunday must have had it all. The recognition fell upon him shortly after he was officially recognised as the new head of the Oak Family, and it didn’t take a genius to guess other parts at play.

An underwater current, unseen to the naked eye, until it pulls you in, and you’re drowning — you had to stay away, never allow yourself to linger too close for fear of being tugged into its rhythm.

You never danced to someone else’s tune, and you never sang to the directions of others.

And so—to keep your distance, you joined a conference where he would be the speaker. Counterproductive, in a sense, but your actions didn’t need to be logical for others. The ascension event has left you hungry for more of his articulate wisdom—

Because you didn’t want to truly stay away. Not in any way that mattered - it wasn’t usual for something to properly catch your eye, catch your heart. Admiration—a word you’d use to describe this occurrence.

You admired Sunday, and that’s about it.

And admiration truly could carry people places they’d never think to visit; that’s how you found yourself seated in the last row of the otherwise empty hall. It felt clinical and grey, large windows on one side of the room, draped over by zebra blinds, cream coloured and clean.

The windows gave way to a majestic view of Penacony from great height, but you didn’t find it in yourself to look through this time—waiting in your seat like lamb for slaughter.

As before you were early, rationalising it by the need to observe rather than be watched. Yet the seat was quite far from the spot where the speakers would converse, an unpleasant taste left in your throat at the idea of not seeing the events unfold properly.

You leaned back in the chair, and half-mindedly thought to grab your coat and just sit elsewhere—but whoever watched over you, be it Xipe or otherwise, had different plans. Before you made your move a group of people entered the hall, marking the end of your silent campaign.

So much talk—you shouldn’t be annoyed, the conference hasn’t even started yet. Yet the lack of appropriate behaviour boiled you over, and as more guests arrived in their restless and bored chatter, you inhaled and exhaled shakily.

Then, you checked your wrist watch, and looked ahead. People sat in front of you, next to you. Never behind you—something to actually be grateful for.

Ten minutes.

And then it was five minutes, which dragged over like hours. You bounced your knee, hands pressed together on your lap as a deep sense of unease filled you. As people took up their seats, you hardly felt like watching them this time.

It was different from the previous admiration.

—

You wouldn't say you were infatuated or enamored with the idea of Sunday at all; he hardly lingered in your mind. Then again that was the best subject for observation, and as such he would remain one. Something to treat as a sweet treat, or as a dessert.

Perhaps it was a good way to get out of the house more often. You never got along with people, and so it was easier to stay home with your own thoughts, rather than be exposed to the mediocrity of others. Given that attitude, you usually spent time by yourself.

Occasionally though you were in a people watching mood; not just any sort of window-gazing or park-sitting watching. Sometimes you picked places where humans gathered to dine and discuss, to wine and speak.

It wasn't that you needed their secrets in particular, or that you needed their sense of familiarity from some form of loneliness—rather it was a background noise you seemed to want.

Sometimes you'd try to filter the noise and information with your mind, cutting through the nice and useless threads to gather an image of something. Usually you weren't trying to spy.

You weren't spying now either, you were merely observing. Sunday was a few tables away after all, sat straight, with no sweet drink in sight as all the times before.

It was an accident that you found yourself here—well, one that became intentional with each visit. Wind told you once that a particular person enjoyed such a setting on very specific days, and you merely wanted to check it out yourself. That was how it began.

Soon after you found yourself arriving at the cafe multiple times a week, slowly trying to gauge out a routine tied to this place. The day was long, and so was the week.

It was mere curiosity that led you to sit in the cafe for hours at a time to try and see which moments were the graced ones—as it was only fascination that caused you to memorise the schedule.

You had a habit of chewing your food slowly and steadily, instead of consuming it all before you accurately enjoyed the taste. Watching from a controlled distance was a sign of a connoisseur.

The cafe was muted in colour, beige and darkened, giving off a feeling of an autumn evening rich with burned shades of yellow—spare for how washed out they were.

The halovian was at the table in the corner, and so were you, just the opposite side. His discussion was most fruitful indeed, and instead of focusing on the tablet in front of you, you were listening.

Sunday seemed to have been engaging in a light yet meaningful conversation, which carefully threaded between personal and professional. The noise around them and you made it harder to catch all detail—so your mind wandered.

From what you gathered, the person was someone close, whom Sunday must've known. Not by work, despite the distance that was between them, as the tone was far too light hearted. Each time Sunday frequented the cafe, it would be easier to spot the same habits of his.

Such as the way he hardly gestured during a conversation, spare for when you assumed he was making a point. Frequently he would place his hands upon his vest to straighten it out, if it ever dared to crinkle from his movement.

Even in such a comfortable setting he tried to carry himself with grace, just like at the events. And just like at the orchestra, he was eloquent in movement. His hands never made any sudden gestures, and he would ensure his vision remained trained on the guest he was speaking with.

Slight changes were present, you noted, finally lowering your gaze to the tablet. You grabbed the pen nearby to write down more.

Sometimes, Sunday would change the ordeal of his actions depending on who he spoke to. Once he came here with a family member of his—the famed singer Robin. You only knew more of her after extensive research which followed that encounter, and it led to more conclusions.

Sunday seemed more carefree around such a trusted person. He even allowed himself to lean an elbow on the table, his expression ever so pleasant then. Unlike what it was now, neutral and to the point. A mixture of his professionalism and an inherent familiarity he couldn't reject nor deny.

Not often would his posture become harsher—strictly detached and shielded, yet offensive nonetheless. It all laid in the anger of his gold eyes sometimes, covered over by a soft neutrality to mask his stance. Maybe Sunday remained detached, keeping his cards to his chest, but you could see it on his face.

You bit your lip in deep thought once your eyes moved up. The Head of the Oak Family seemed to have been holding onto something at this very moment. Perhaps it was his sense of conduct.

Remembering these few differences of his demeanor, you leaned down to put the straw of your drink between your lips. You wondered how he'd act around you. Would he disregard you? Would he treat you with disgust?

How does a rabbit behave around a fox? Would a dove fly away if a cat sat close?

The black haired male in front of Sunday nodded to him, and the cacophonous conductor only looked to the side, meeting the gaze of someone near his table. It was averted shortly after.

You wondered for a moment, with a sense of unease; if he sees them, does he also notice you?

—

Formally, the Oak family was a collaborator, not an enemy or opposition. Then again formal agreements hardly translate into words or actions, and it was no surprise that the name of competition lingered within the work area like cheap perfume, gone when waved away, short-lasting.

It was unlike the true aroma of your coffee, not enjoyed in silence, but in the noise. As soon as you grabbed a sugar packet you turned away from the machine, only to watch that one inconvenient pest trail behind you.

Superficial as all—a person kept around only for appearances. The girl cleared her throat as she walked with you.

”…and still they haven’t. What should I do?

Her voice was like a sound coming from an untuned accordion, and you gripped at the paper cup. You spared her a glance only. Nothing was as annoying as interrupted willful solitude.

“I don’t know”

The reply caused her to frown, and she immediately reacted at the dismissal. “What do you mean? Here I am asking you for advice, and—“

”Well, this is your problem.” You retorted.

Frankly, you didn’t care whether she had her reports on time or not. You only gave enough to hold onto her in case of emergencies—a nameless girl you simply felt bad for.

”But I need this report—“ She spoke, catching up to your step, and you weren’t willing to slow down your walk to the elevator in the building. You clicked the number of your floor without looking at her. “If i don’t get it, the presentation won’t get done in time.”

The anger simmered in your chest, but your face remained as neutral as before, and the metal doors of the elevator slid open. “Why won’t you tell him to wrap it up then?”

She skittishly followed you in, eyes closed as her long eyelashes rested upon her cheeks. “How do I make it not sound rude?”

When she didn't notice your eyeroll, you glued your gaze to the closing doors of the elevator. “You're asking the wrong person.”

“But I really need it-”

“Tell the higher ups.”

“I'll really get in trouble, I really need that report to- to calculate the possible profit from collaborating with Oak Family on a project and-”

She wasn't aware what sparked your interest, but you immediately turned your face towards her. She swallowed under the scrutinising gaze, but her reaction was misplaced.

“Send me the items of interest. I'll do it.”

—

The next time you saw him at an event, you secured the spot with your unique predisposition. Maybe this work of yours was useful sometimes, as it was with financial access to exquisite things. Museums and galleries, orchestras, operas. You wanted it all.

Reactions of people to artistry were interesting to put it simply, how their eyes would squint or narrow—and their brows would furrow, knitted together in a concentration similar to a prophet upon receiving a revelation.

Some people would have a different reaction, with eyes widened and brows raised—shock and surprise, akin to witnessing an apocalypse, hearing an angel blow the final trumpet, closing the gates for forgiveness.

You were never the subject who experienced it, spare for understanding the reactions of others, a second hand emotion you were privy to.

And while elaborate paintings or sculptures hardly moved your long rotten heart, there was something that had your blood flowing anew, breathing life into you like a musician into their trumpet. It made you come alive—no longer a piece of metal, but a thing to be heard. An utter vibranto.

Despite the setting of a museum, you weren't here for whatever new items of culture it could offer you. You were here due to the event which would follow its opening, an invitation to all the folk of Penacony.

You ensured your placement at the back of the hall despite the early arrival, the guests and alike all gathering at the front. They wished to hear Sunday's opening speech, to see him. And oh, did he have a way with words.

It was for Penacony's grand history, a museum to gather the evidence of Families hard work and ambition. A monument of sorts, to celebrate how far everyone has come.

But that was only a side reason, something you convinced yourself of to feel better. You weren't here for it, no—you were here for Sunday.

He was speaking as always, a long talk to appease the masses with his wisdom and eloquence. A charming ritual in which all the eyes were magically drawn to him, hanging on each word he spoke. The details of his face evaded you from the distance, and for a moment your fingers shook in your pocket. You wanted to be closer. You were here only for him after all.

The history of Penacony was something you had no care for.

Would he see you from the first row?

—

All you had to do was to ask, and it was a given. Securing an important position at your work wasn't because of ambition, but because of your will to own.

It was hard to remain in such a placement without being promoted, or without drawing much attention to yourself that is; and while the job helped with achieving your goals, it wasn't ideal.

If you could have the same pay for less labour, you'd gladly take any offer; but good things don't just occur like natural phenomena, just as miracles don't shine down on sinners.

Another weekly meeting, another scheduled misery. Your arms were neatly placed upon the long table in the room, and you ignored the coworkers which sat around as. With a gaze most bored you stared at your folder, not meeting the gaze of the executive who was explaining the agenda; there was no need to. You never asked questions, and you never wanted more.

“We are currently facing many allegations from different sides” The executive stated, her blonde hair tied behind her head in a slick bun. It didn't get in the way as always—everything was programmed to not get in the way.

She looked behind herself to the whiteboard which contrasted with the otherwise dark blue wall. “First being our deal of halving the Bloodhound income in half.”

You frowned to yourself, fingers moving over the skin around your nails. You focused on the shape of it, feeling the texture beneath your fingertip.

You traced the side of your finger, to the dip between the digits, before moving up again, right to the peak of the knuckle. The art of not listening was ingrained within you by then, and as the executive listed current issues, you were wondering when the break would be.

You could do with a coffee.

“...inherently tied to the new Head of the Oak Family. He may not be as lenient as we had hoped—”

Involuntarily you looked to the executive. You wouldn't have listened otherwise, but— “While it is not Oak Family's business what we do with our deals, they allege we violated the code of..”

Whatever else she mentioned faded to the background. Oak Family. Sunday—

She went over the possible lawsuits or disagreement, but it didn't matter. You hardly listened to the tasks which were expected to be fulfilled regarding that issue, and when she asked who would partake in that assignment of the week, your hand shot up.

Eyes lingered on you, but you held back the urge to shrink under the gaze.

—

Like all figures which were sacred and holy, Sunday was away from the reach of your palm. A star you could only gaze at when it was night, a rare occurrence of the moon when it took different shades to show to the mortal filth below.

To a literal extent, he was also far from reach. The head of the Nightingale Family was someone you couldn't hope to meet despite being its member; what made you believe you were worthy to know Sunday, the head of an entirely different family?

Perhaps over time it wasn't about knowing him. It should be enough to admire him from a controlled distance. Distance gave certainty, and measured proximity gave control.

Two things which you found more delightful than any cake. And to uphold said control over the situation, without being a reckless fool, you decided to take a closer look this time.

Sunday was a prominent figure for months, and as his reputation and responsibility over the Family grew, so did the curiosity of many prying eyes. But you weren't just any prying eye.

You didn't wish to ever know him personally, and you didn't want to be a part of his life. His company you didn't seek because of possible fame or clout, but for your own satisfaction. Sinner casting prayer in silence, compared to ones who proclaim their worship in the street.

Inherently, that made you better than all of them. And such human weakness could not hold you back from confessing your wrongdoings.

You hoped to find no forgiveness in the holy scriptures that the private library offered.

As an important member, you could enjoy the privilege of having connections. Superficial as all, but that was what mattered in the world of adults; not deep friendships which ended with sleepovers, rather—dinner parties which ended with agreements and unspoken favours.

It took nearly nothing to sign up for a membership which only important figures were privy to, after all who sane would be in a private library?

Sunday could easily afford to make a library within the Oak Family manor; in fact, if he wished to, he could probably own an entire library for himself. It was most intriguing then, that he picked this specific one.

You slouched in your seat, the thick book raised just enough to cover your face. You sat near a computer, at the second story of the grand family-owned library. Commoners couldn't hope to be here, and a sense of warmth filled your throat at the idea of such exclusiveness. A private bird sanctuary in an enclosed garden.

Sunday didn't come here often and so it wasn't a treat you could get your hands on. Still, there seemed to have been routines he followed. As with cafe being the more-likely spot, you found he visited the library at least once a week. There were places you visited already as well, such as his most frequented benches in the Golden Hour.

Or his most favourite balconies at the edges of the city which never slept. You were there already. Sunday never changed.

You weren't surprised at his pristine attire as he browsed the sections, his back turned to you. All the other people ignored him, busy in their books.

Maybe they thought themselves to be better than him. A figure of Sunday's stature was a sight unseen, and your jaw tightened at the thought. His fingers lingered over a book, which he pulled out to scan. Dark wood of the shelves against the emerald green book cover, as mystical as a forest. The halovian tilted his head in curiosity, his wings fluttering.

Soft and gentle as ever. Preened, clean. You wondered how it would feel like to touch them, to run your fingers over them, to pluck them for yourself. Take away his metaphorical flight.

You wondered how it would feel like to slide your fingers underneath his gloves, to push the boundary of what you knew to be possible. A mortal craving the delight of flesh of a saint. You wanted to sink your teeth in his jugular.

The item was put back on the shelf soon after, and he stepped aside, where your eyes could no longer see him.

Perhaps it was his means of having a slither of commodity, behaving like an average person for feigned normalcy.

When Sunday finally moved to a further section you closed the nameless book you held, slowly walking to the bookshelf abandoned by him.

Your eyes scanned the spines, and your fingers touched upon the book he discarded, an indirect way to feel connected. You didn't pick the book up though, looking towards the doors of the library. The distance was enough for him to be right next to the exit.

He grabbed the engraved handle, and then stopped. Your heart throbbed, and his face turned. Sunday looked in your general direction, brows knitting together—a small shard of his broken up composure, and your heart stopped. It appeared as if he sensed something—someone— and you held your breath.

His facade concealed him once more, and he left.

—

Routine was a defining factor of a member of the Nightingale Family, and the schedule didn't change much. Meetings were always on time, spare for emergencies. The work hours didn't change, and all holiday breaks were consistent each year. The layout of the offices and rooms never switched, and workers usually stayed the same.

Routine—integral and true part of your life, as real as the blood that rushed through your veins like a wild river restricted by the channel layered with stone and sand. Something so simple, so expected, yet troublesome all the same.

Discipline was something tied to routine, and routine was dependent on previous discipline, creating a cycle of short lived codependency, in which the routine finally tore away to be by itself—leaving discipline to tie different aspects of life to established habits.

The more you watched Sunday, the more integral it was in your routine. As obvious as the moon rising in the night, it was slowly becoming a necessity. Like the smoker needing nicotine because of their own weakness—unable to stay away, despite initially using cigarettes as a means of relaxation.

Reliance gave way to habits born from stress, and escapism with such reliance was another means of growing a routine. A routine not based around day to day life, but a situational one, only working when certain things clicked into place. An addict only smoked when stressed, and the habit of stress-smoking created the routine of smoking on a time-based schedule.

You weren't sure which applied to you, but the gnawing scrape of routine gnawed at the lining of your stomach. It took your appetite and will to live with itself, causing a vortex only satisfied with relentless pursuit.

It was no longer thought of or planned, it was desperate. Like a hungry dog whining and scraping at the doors, a mouse squeezing through the hole in the wall only to slither inside.

As before, it only took a small amount of curiosity for you to gain more gossip. You initially were against the idea, provided your general nonchalance towards your job; if you privately asked your connections about questions only relating to Oak Family, you'd be seen as suspicious. And so you had to slowly worm your way into the graces of the Bloodhounds—their.. unique job in the Penacony made it all the more easier.

Bloodhounds were responsible for ensuring safety and peace of citizens, and so they were always watching, observing. And, in your growing desperation, you used some of your connections to gain favour within them—something which your co-workers would only see as making more connections. That was something praiseworthy.

From there, by pulling a few strings on behalf of Bloodhound Family, you were privy to information pertaining to routines of figures of importance. Because even the most important figures relied on routines and habits, that was what made them successful.

In mere mortal desperation, as a smoker consuming any sort of cigarette, you quickly used such an opportunity to ask about the Head of the Oak Family, despite the original plan to ask around for others first.

But it didn't matter. In the perpetual evening of Penacony's sweet dream, you didn't feel like you were committing a crime in broad daylight. Because you weren't. Observing someone wasn't something punishable.

You walked a pace slower than Sunday did, watching him from the street parallel to the one that his footsteps graced. The light above his head illuminated his halo each time he walked beyond a street lamp, the shine beaming and splintering into thousands shards in your vision as with all light.

The lamps emitted a rainbow halo around themselves, the brightness making it difficult to keep your eyes open. Even as he strolled peacefully as a means of relaxation, he was graceful. A swan confident of its swim across the shimmering, moonlit lake.

In retrospect, the halo around particularly bright objects did take your mind to Sunday. Something illuminated past your mortal comprehension, as if trying to gaze out into the roaring sun. Lately everything took your mind to him.

An apple that you bit, or the movie that you watched. A cat always eats the bird, but not all birds are prey, and not all cats are predators.

The street was filled with joined buildings, and people around didn't seem to care for anything other than going about their day—something you wilfully deprived yourself off. Like a madman cutting off their leg despite not being bound.

You did this to yourself.

Despite the stark awareness you continued the walk, at all times remaining a pace behind. His halo was shining as always, as if freshly polished and wiped away, his wings relaxed despite the spikes which bound one. You wondered how it would feel to place your mouth over the cold metal of them, and then tear at it. If you gripped his throat, would he have the strength to stop you?

His step stopped abruptly, and your body ducked into an alleyway with an unreasonable speed. Concealed by the comfort of the darkness you saw him turn his head to a poster on one of the buildings, entirely uncaring about your—

Sunday's back was to you, but he moved his head to the side, just enough for you to see his eyes flicker, looking at the street ahead with a newly formed frown.

It was like nicotine on an empty stomach, and a weird sense of rush filled your body.

—

“Didn't think you cared about these briefings.” A voice from beside you muttered as you took the seat close to the executive, just this once.

“I don't,” you replied, flipping through the agenda. “I just want to know who's attending.”

It wasn't an utter lie, but thanks to your newfound connections to the Bloodhound's, you figured out there would be a business deal in regards to the Oak Family.

All you had to do was get the Bloodhound's some information and keep a stable contact, something unlike your connections to the Iris Family. Those required little to no contact, spare for only exchanging favours with no further familiarity.

Bloodhounds were more knit together you realised—troublesome, but doable nonetheless.

With a few bats of your eyelashes you learned new things. New opportunities to witness Sunday —and gain political intel.

The executive finally arrived, and you closed the folder to put it back down. Proper and perpetual courtesy you did but default.

The blonde woman looked over at the gathered co-worker's, before turning on the screen situated behind the ever present whiteboard. “Thanks to the quick thinking of one of you, we managed to salvage the deal with Oak Family before the allegations got out of control.

Mr. Oak liked our programme and the idea to improve on our cultural industry—courtesy of the Iris Family.”

Whatever that meant, you nearly rolled your eyes. That was until the executive finally said your name, and you straightened, looking towards her with your hand at the table. It squeezed into a fist.

“Thanks to you we managed to get the presentation in time—where credit is due, of course.” She cleared her throat.

Mr. Oak liked the presentation. He saw it; you signed it.

Something in your stomach fluttered, simultaneously excited and nauseous. You didn't know whether to throw your hands in the air or to throw up, and you swallowed the dryness that formed within your throat.

You forced a smile on your face.

The eyes lingered on you, and you gripped at the table, before switching to holding your paper cup. The executive briefed everyone else on their tasks, while you wondered if you weren't digging your own grave.

He saw you where you couldn't see him.

—

You arrived to the event early, an Opera. You figured Sunday must've enjoyed the themes of grandiose and grandeur, and all things classic and exquisite. Bloodhound's were known for their straight forwardness, yet even they couldn't escape the tug of culture and an air of normalcy that the Oak Family enforced onto others.

Before they would sign the agreements once more, due to the five year policy, Mr. Oak required the important personnel to accompany him to one of the Opera's hosted at the grand theatre of penacony. Unnecessarily so, as the real discussions were said to start in an entirely different spot once the theatre was over.

The act was one he picked.

The Bloodhound who informed you of it was kind enough to let you know that only Bloodhound's and the Oak Family knew of this arrangement. Then again the tickets were available to everyone, as the event wasn't private.

Of course you had to go. And of course you chose the VIP section.

Glancing at your wrist watch you realised there was half an hour left until the performance began, and once more, like at the orchestra, your seat was elevated just enough to oversee the stage. The actors prepared the props, the musicians their instruments, and you prepared your mind due to a weird sense of unease.

A waiter came over with a smile strangely stretched, and you accepted the offered drink. You placed it at the small table in front of you, glancing around the darkened cubicle.

People of importance enjoyed the privacy that the shadow provided, and this was no different. Only when the light is cut, only then can the roaches crawl from underneath the stones like vermin.

You finally picked up the glass, red wine. Your hand was flat against its bottom and your brow furrowed when you felt a strange texture against your skin, akin to experiencing the streaks of the wood in a tree.

The glass was raised to your eye level, the bottom of it engraved in a pattern of a rose. Your palm slid towards you gently, until your fingers could run over the intricate design. You haven't seen glasses like these before, but it wouldn't change the taste of wine, and it wouldn't change the outcome.

—

You were here before. But it was only right to be aware of the territory you stepped to. The Oak Family manor was usually open for guests in the parts accessible, alongside the specific offices you could go to if you wished to file a complaint.

You were overstepping. But all your control and observation? You had nothing to show for it—the wax and stamps you've collected didn't count. You received them at your work, after all, merely as means of exchanging envelopes with the family in regards to some matters you didn't care about.

There was a need for something closer. A fear of wanting to eat the entire cake after tasting a slice, but you'd control yourself.

Maybe you'd try to break into some space, just for the feeling of familiarity. Surely he had to have his office, and he had to have his belongings—you were utterly pathetic.

A crime in broad daylight. You stole the gloves that he accidentally left on the table after signing paperwork. One time you watched him press the wax into the envelopes that he sent.

And one time you saw him from a balcony at a gathering in a garden. It was truly a beautiful day.

The sky was clear, spare for a small amount of pristine white clouds, and the guests were more than happy to discuss things with him in the open air, a breath of life from the early spring.

Things didn't make sense anymore.

—

It wasn't enough. Public meetings, seeing him walk on the street; it wasn't enough to satiate the gnawing in you.

You wished to know him; as well as you could from a distance, as a researcher astronomer knows the stars, as well as a biologist knows the layers of an oak tree. For now you had to satiate on the scraps you were fed after sacrificing your dignity.

No amount was fulfilling enough—and this time, in foolish recklessness, you arranged an entry into one of the private parties of the Oak Family. It was hosted right in the famed manor, and you signed up for it a week or so before it even took place. It wasn't something members of other Families would do, but you couldn't think of the consequence. You've followed him to events before.

You've been where he was, and did what he did, and you admired the view of the city once when he was admiring it, in a skyscraper. He wasn't aware of your presence then. But that was before, and now is now. And just because someone ate dinner, didn't mean they didn't crave breakfast.

Who would blame you, though? You've been starved of his enlightening presence for over a week—he didn't partake in anything special over the time, and just seeing him in a library, or a cafe, or on his walk, or in his gardens; it wasn't as satiating.

In his lonesome moments he didn't speak. He had no reason to. If you engaged with him, would he converse with you? Would he wave you off?

Your decision was done in haste, in sheer animalistic desperation with no thought. You hesitated for a second only, before deciding to screw it all. What would you from nearly a year ago think of yourself now? You'd shame yourself.

And so, right when the announcement came a week ago, you signed up, handing over your information just to be granted entry. Just to see him.

You tried your best to force your hands into compliance, stiffening them when you showed a guard your identification document. As they took it from you to inspect, something incoherent lingered on their otherwise neutral face, before you were allowed to pass.

All Families had their property; not that the members lived there, it was more like a governmental building tied to the place where the officials stayed.

You were allowed into the general guest area, while the other parts of the manor were entirely blocked, accessible only from the outside entrances for these specific parts. As much as it gnawed onto you to travel around, despite the risk of being caught, it simply wasn't possible.

As all guests were led to the major hall of the event, you wondered how personal this one would be. The space was gentle blue and heavenly, the light wooden panels serving as the great basis for tall walls and windows, and the blue curtains which draped over like leaves on trees.

The chandelier was grand, and you looked upwards for a moment, its colours golden and rich. Squinting, you cast your gaze downward again.

The guests gathered round an important figure, gravitating towards him like planets around the sun, listening intently to all he said. With a shaky sigh you found your feet involuntarily leading you over to the nearest table at the disposal, your shoes inaudible against the noise of the people.

Your hand lingered on its pristine white surface, but you didn't sit. Slowly but surely your gaze resumed its walk forward, spotting an empty table right near the centre of all the fuss.

It felt strange. Your blood was turning cold, and you swallowed. With one last hesitation you stepped forward, claiming the empty seat within Sunday's vicinity, where there were gaps between the guests in the front.

That felt.. nice. He looked over at the people, and he was smiling. The champagne in his hand was merely a prop, and his sister stood beside him. She wore some sort of a nightgown that you didn't spare your time for— your eyes quickly drifted to Sunday.

It seemed he was comfortable here, the cold facade of stone and divinity dispersed like leaves on wind. He talked to the guests as if they knew each other closely, his halovian sister smiling. On occasion she nodded, and added to his sentences, having guests laugh.

Your eyes remained glued to his suit, a cold and ice shade of white, and then a hot blue tie, like the utmost bottom of an iceberg. His hair was neat as always, parts of it brushed back while the longer strands draped upon his shoulders like water which spilled from glasses.

Behind Sunday was a white piano to match the design, something you assumed to be only a piece of decor.

“Exactly that, dear. Though it makes me wonder what challenges we will face next. After all,” Sunday gestured to the crowd. “we can expect the unexpected from some, while some choose to be predictable.”

Robin nodded, tipping her head. “Well said, brother. It makes me all the more excited for the charmony festival this year—” her wings fluttered excitedly, contrary to his, which seemed to hardly respond to his emotional stimuli.

You leaned your elbow into the table, hand supporting your chin. Just hearing him talk made your earlier anxiety ease, the hands of darkness which peeled at the lining of your intestines having retreated far into the world unknown. Sunday was akin to a miracle cancer to a condition he himself caused upon you. Truly cruel.

Sunday hummed. A guest joined the discussion, an older man. “I haven't seen such development since the times of the old Gopher Wood, Sunday. You truly do live up to the promise!” a hearty laugh followed.

Despite how often he was praised in public, in the newspaper—oh, the newspaper. Once it called him the most handsome man in Penacony, followed by so many mentions of fan accounts. A celebrity of his caliber seen by so many. It made your throat tighten and an unreasonable anger rise in you, just thinking about it—

“Now, now. Let's not be excessive.” The head of the Oak Family stated, tone gentle and conversational. He did not speak to you, but it felt like it.

“Let's focus on things that truly matter. Now, I've been asked quite nicely by someone,” Sunday's face turned to his sister, who couldn't keep her face neutral, as a smile involuntarily formed on her face. “to play a piece for us tonight.”

He slightly side-stepped, giving view to the piano behind. Robin's wings gave a flutter, and she nodded.

Sunday straightened his suit a little. This was unlike the conferences between families, this was more casual. Personal. Private, intimate.

Why were you here?

He headed for the stool situated in front of the piano, opening it for all the guests to see. To keep the politeness, he was still turned sideways, his back straight. But a soft chuckle left him. It seemed he only now realised the piece he'd be playing, reading off the musical sheet right in front of him. And then his face turned towards the audience for a moment.

“As requested, I'll play Clair de Lune. To commemorate this eventful night—” he stated. “And to bring upon ease.”

The guests whispered for only a moment, and Robin stepped aside, letting her brother take the attention this time. You assumed it must've felt good when eyes weren't on you, as they always were.

His hand moved to the keys, the touch gentle as he pressed them. Sunday's gloved fingers moved with ease, trailing along the instrument with an unseen softness and care, each break between the note filled with an echo.

You forgot how to swallow for a moment, the saliva collecting in your mouth until you finally recalled how to perform functions such as breathing.

On an evening like this, the tune was most appropriate, liquified moonlight amplified by his instrument. Despite no change in light, it felt akin to the piano dispersing the reflected beam of the moon across the guests, and all seemed as in awe as you were.

It was breathing life into you, and an uncanny unease as well. No one dared interrupt nor speak, and you leaned forward, both your elbows resting upon the white table.

Sunday moved with grace. You could see his head slightly tilt, despite seeing mostly his back at such an angle. All it did was help you witness the measured and precise dance of his fingers, like droplets of water upon the moonlit lake, gentle and careful and carefree.

The tune was revitalising, and when the last note died, your body forced you to finally exhale. Small round of applause fell shortly after, which you didn't join.

Unexpectedly Sunday raised his hand. “Well, while I am at it, I do believe another piece would be appropriate?”

But he didn't look at the crowd. Hell, he didn't seem to want to hear what they had to say. Sunday tilted his face to Robin. And she nodded excitedly.

It was sweet in hindsight.

“Very well then. For the new beginnings, and for the ends which start them”

This time he didn't need a sheet in front of himself, playing an entirely different rhythm. Sharper.

And by the time the guests were satiated with Sunday humouring them, the party was coming to an end. It was hard to say where each melody began and when it ended, and while the guests slowly began to converse between each other, Sunday's play faded to the background.

It all ended. The guests were leaving, spare for you and few others. They drank, and you lingered in the after-taste of the moonlight you were hand fed. The hosts were leaving too, Robin first, and then Sunday. His conversation with one of the people came to an end, and he stepped to the exit, shoes softly sounding out as he made his way forward.

You realised you pushed your limits when he stopped in his tracks right next to your table. A flicker of amusement was all you were given, and he left soon after.

The liquified moonlight’s effect was cast away when the coldness of anxiety coated your skin once more.

Does he know?

If he does, why doesn't he say anything?

—

There is always a bigger fish, just as not all birds get eaten.

Some birds eat.

—

You didn't want to walk through, but it was as inevitable as a hawk stealing a lady's pampered dog.

Then again you clung onto hope like a leech, hoping that maybe this really wasn't true. It sure felt like a dream, and it made you light headed with sickness. Your face turned to his to try and gauge any silent confirmation, but his eyes were glued to your face.

Lowering your eyes you walked through into the room with hesitation, acutely aware of the sound of his footsteps right behind you.

Before you was a rather large table, filled with blocks and models of sky-scrapers. The front of the model, Penacony's banner, was turned towards the doors. Such a mini city caused uncertainty to build in your throat, and your fingers twitched against each other as they folded before you.

The sound of a click cut through the air, and you didn't have to turn your face around to realise that the gates to salvation were long locked for you. Closed, never to be reopened again.

Above the grey model of the city was a lamp, leaving the room in a comfortable yet dim, warm yellow light. It did nothing to make you feel any warmer or any more welcome.

You were aware of sofas situated near each wall, it seemed like a gathering spot of sorts—spare for the way it's been mostly empty.

Aside from the two of you.

Sunday stepped from behind you, approaching the city model with an ease and certainty inappropriate for the situation. Using the opportunity you looked behind yourself once more, the engraved doors having been long shut as you had assumed.

The halovian cleared his throat, and your face shifted back to see the space before you. He stood at the side of the table, picking up the wine that was sitting conveniently next to him, a thing so normal yet out of place.

“Come,” his other hand gestured to you. “there is lots to discuss.”

As ambiguous and vague as it was, you had truly no choice. And so you took the first step, approaching the model. You were sure you were shaking despite the composed demeanor, one you held onto like a lifeline—your heart struck your ribcage with each frantic pump, but it felt like the blood coursing never gave enough air.

It was art to not hyperventilate right now, your senses dulled; as though the rush of your blood muted your ability to hear. And, yet, you heard him well.

You stood a good pace away from Sunday, but close enough to the table for him to have no objections. The bottle of wine was already open, and all he had to do was to take one of the glasses into his gloved hand, tilting it. The red liquid poured inside of it, rolling over the walls of the glass like a heart filling with blood.

He reached it out to you, and after a momentary period of stillness, your hand took the glass.

It did not spill, your oversensitive muscles however did not take kindly to the strain, the grip on the wine causing it to vibrate. It was not only humiliating, but just embarrassing. Your other hand joined the grip, moving underneath the glass’ bottom.

Sunday had his gaze glued to you, and the temporary shaking of the glass did not escape his gaze. Alas the corner of his mouth only moved up, before he cast his look down to the glass he was filling for himself.

Your skin felt the intricate design on the glass’ bottom, and you could swear your heart stopped. With eyes widened you took a peak downwards, and surely enough you saw that the bottom of it was engraved.

You would run out of here if you could. Even if it was pathetic, even if it was embarrassing and humiliating and even if you had to look like a prey to get out, you would. You'd leave Penacony, change your number, you could even change your face and identity. You'd—

“The city breathes, you know?” he began, causing your train of thought to derail entirely off the mountain. You swallowed, your confused expression causing the man to continue. “Not because it wants to. Because it must.”

The model before you was detailed, as a model could be that is. The buildings had their respective lights from the inside, even the Golden Hour held an unnerving degree of accuracy to it.

Sunday always made sure all buttons were in place. “Not in the way people do, of course not, but in a way that something vast and living shifts under its own weight.”

You were aware of his face turning to you for a moment, the silence stretching. It lingered on your face, before he tilted his head to the model, hand sitting loosely on one of the wider buildings. His index finger moved in a circle for a moment, but he didn't unnecessarily fidget.

“A change in the air, a tilt in the balance—no matter how small and insignificant, it's all felt somewhere.”

Your eyes glued themselves back to the model, and you felt tense, like a piece of wood waiting for the carpenter to arrive. No—the carpenter has arrived. And right now he was preparing his tools properly.

His hand moved towards one of the streets, pressing into one of the buildings. It dipped into the model's bottom, before clicking, and as his pressure released, the building loosened. Sunday picked it up with his hand, bringing it closer to his face.

It was a cafe, one too similar, and you felt like you were being mocked right now. Sunday sighed. “More often than not, it isn't the grand movements that matter, not the political ones either. It's the small ones that set the tune for the city's music. These ones—define its breath.”

He hummed, his finger running over the bottom of the mini building. With a click its light turned on, and he pushed it back into its appropriate place, slow and unrished, with no misstep.

Your fingers tightened against the glass, and you prayed you wouldn't shatter it. “Small steps like these measure up to grand tunes, be it a street closing early, or a whisper in the wrong ear,”

“even a shadow where there shouldn't be one.”

His gaze flickered to you, unreadable.

With a throat tight and mind spiralling, you couldn't hope to know what to say. It was no magic trick, you didn't know your last words.

“It doesn't take much to alter the shape of something—yes, even something as vast as this.”

He raised his glass in a silent toast, and you did not raise yours. You had no intention of consuming it, not from fear of it being drugged—Sunday did not play dirty. Rather, you were afraid your stomach would reject all that wasn't his flesh. Not from desperation, but sheer anger at the situation.

Sunday's eyes closed as he straightened, head tilting. His movement was slow and deliberate. “That makes watching interesting, don't you think? That's why I do what I do—”

“—it is most interesting to see what happens when someone changes the rhythm.”

He was calm, something contrary to your jerky movement as you set the wine glass down, the tension inside you snapping like a hairband; flying across the room like a miscalculated bullet of a faulty gun. “What's the meaning of all of this?”

Sunday didn't snap back. He smiled knowingly. Instead of responding immediately, he tilted his head slightly, as if considering whether to answer at all.

Informed and restrained, yet not forceful, as though the causality was something simple. He spoke at his own pace. “What is it, I wonder. Maybe you can tell me?”

The room felt all too small, and your words didn't change anything. Subtle amusement found itself passing on his face, yet he didn't wait for your response as you would've expected.

“I’ll admit—” he began. “I thought, for a time, that you belonged to someone else.” The halovian mused, his fingers lightly moving over the edge of a building, dancing forward towards the concert hall. “That you were someone's carefully placed piece.”

He exhaled, almost amused. Almost disappointed.

“But no.”

Sunday's fingers knew where to look, and you followed their movements as they pressed against a part of the structure of the building. The concert hall clicked, and its outside lights sprung to life like confetti bursting from pressure. This soft click, precise and deliberate, caused things to fall into place.

“You were moving on your own, weren't you?”

His gaze meets yours. Not in passing as before, Sunday truly looked at you, eyes flickering over your eyes, and the curve of your lips. A glance measured in centuries, in calculations that have already reached their conclusion long before you were aware of them taking place. His finger rested on the model, poised like he could collapse the entire thing with the slightest pressure.

“It's a dangerous thing,” he continues. “To move like that, without knowing whose board you're on.”

A beat of silence.

Sunday's hand leaves the city, and he lets it fall to his side, watching you with something unreadable.

“Then again you know what by now, don't you?”

There it is. The checkmate. A fail proof strategy which you thought you controlled, falling through your fingers like sand. The checkmate. The knowledge that this game—your game—was never yours to control.

Another pause, each stop between the notes of the tune made your heartstrings compensate for the silence. Then, just as the weight of it settles—

“Of course,” his voice is light, a shard of kindness in the otherwise cruel situation, as if he was offering you the last slither of dignity. “you could always try again.”

His lips curved into a smile.

“This time, perhaps, with me watching.”

—

There was a deliberate sense of being observed. It was unlike being watched by his mentor, and it was unlike being watched by a pesky Alfalfa spy.

Sunday showcased his abilities before; he could guide the masses, the grand symphonies—as easily as he guided singular figures and pawns.

He was a soloist as he was a conductor, and a conductor should know how to push things into place. He could lead the whole and he could lead the singular, yet there was something that was hidden in the darkness.

Sunday had realised it long before anyone else, and he saw through it long before being warned. Gopher's words, for the first time in a while, fell upon deaf ears.

And while originally it was his idea to introduce Sunday to the masses with orchestra, to have him make the repertoire, it wasn't his idea to drag the game longer than necessary. Much to your displeasure—if you ever did find out—the air of the order around Sunday pulled dirt out from the darkness without having to be prompted.

And, while you initially saw your steps as infallible—instead of covering them up like branches used to cover traces in the snow, you only highlighted your path.

With his resources it was a game of cards. Many names have repeated before, it was to be expected that same members visited the same events more often than necessary.

But there were things which were not accidental. Why would a spy have to follow him to a library? Sunday, when he was young, learned that the only way to understand mechanisms was to push all the buttons. He did not do that anymore of course, he preferred instructions, but it's not how it worked with people.

In your blinded following you chased after him everywhere he led you, without realising it. Sunday found it amusing—you were no good of a spy.

And then, he came to find you weren't anything like that at all. You were pathetic.

[valdotjpg]

i would highly recommend reading all 3 parts of this interview w/ hidetaka miyazaki abt the duskbloods to those who wanna hear more abt its gameplay, but i wanted to make a little highlight reel of points that interested me personally

Genre + addressing concerns wrt future games

"[...] At its core, it’s an online multiplayer focused game [...] I’ve always found the PvPvE structure very interesting. It allows for a broad range of game-design ideas, while also letting us leverage our experience of designing challenging enemy encounters.

As a side note, please allow me to address one thing. As previously mentioned, this is an online multiplayer title at its core, but this doesn’t mean that we as a company have decided to shift to a more multiplayer-focused direction with titles going forward. [...] We still intend to actively develop single player focused games such as [Elden Ring] that embrace our more traditional style."

(more under the cut!)

The general gameplay loop

"The game has a so-called “hub” area, where players can choose their character, customize them and enter online multiplayer. Online multiplayer supports up to 8 players. [...]

Online matches are generally last player standing, however there are certain cases where victory conditions differ. For example, players may be tasked with teaming up to take down a powerful boss enemy, or find themselves in other special circumstances."

The game's characters & setting

The game’s protagonists are known as “Bloodsworn” - a group whose members have achieved super-human abilities through the power of special blood. Fromsoft tried to extract the sort of romantic aspects they found interesting from concepts such as vampires while working on the game.

"As human society reaches an end, something known as "First Blood" flows in an event called the “Twilight of Humanity.” The Bloodsworn are summoned to the Twilight of Humanity across a variety of different times and places in a bid to obtain First Blood. Due to this, there is no fixed era or location in which The Duskbloods takes place. There are more traditional Gothic- or Victorian-style maps as well as those depicting the closing years of the early modern period, like the one glimpsed in the trailer with the train running through it."

There are over a dozen characters for the player to choose from, each with their own identity and appearance. Each character can be customized to a certain extent using rewards from online matches, "allowing players the fun of building a character that feels like their own."

"The fragments [of lore and worldbuilding details] this time are found in character customization items: their “blood history and fate.” Customizing a character will reveal a piece of information regarding the world and its unfolding story. [...] Analyzing and altering a character’s blood history and fate allows players to customize all sorts of things, from their abilities, appearance, and inner characteristics to the role they play in the world and relationships with other characters."

Roles & "role-playing"

"Roles give players special responsibilities and objectives that often lead to unique interactions and relationships between players based on their corresponding roles.

For example, if a player possesses the “Destined Rivals” role, another player is designated as their rival, and they are tasked with finding and defeating that player. Doing so counts as achieving a personal goal, separate from the overall victory conditions.

Another example is “Destined Companion,” where one player is required to seek out another designated as their companion, which results in a special reward if they form a bond with one another.

Roles can be assigned to any character via blood customization, allowing players to enjoy role-playing in a literal sense and hopefully adding to the drama of these engagements."

Rat lore :)

"That character shares a similar role with the fire keepers from the Dark Souls series. They remain in the hub area, providing the player with advice and guidance.

I suppose you could say we tried doing something a little [cute] in the spirit of the [Nintendo] partnership. [...] Although I will say this character is actually an elderly gentleman (laughter)."

[acewritesfics]

Wanting A Baby | Tommy Shelby

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Wife!Reader

Request: no.

Warnings: talks of having a baby. fluff.

Word Count: 845

Tommy Shelby Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Y/N sits nervously at Tommy's desk, her leg bouncing up and down as anxiety courses through her veins. "All you have to say is, Tommy, after three years of marriage, it's time to think about starting a family again," She murmurs to herself, her mind racing with the various scenarios of what can happen, despite the fact that there are only two possible outcomes. He accepts, and they begin trying for a baby. Or he objects, denying her the right to become a mother. 

"Tommy, I want a child," she declares to the empty room, trying to think of a suitable way to tell her husband she's ready for the family they anticipated to have before they were married. 

She was amazed it hadn't happened yet, given how many hours they spent with their bodies intertwined with one another's. 

In their three-year marriage, they haven't yet discussed having children. Not after the miscarriage they had a week before their wedding. Miscarriages frequently tear couples apart, but not Y/N and Tommy. The love that the two have for one other is strong enough to overcome any hardship. They've loved one other since they were five years old, and their love only gets stronger with each passing day. 

Hearing the front door open and slam shut with a loud bang, she stands up from the chair behind Tommy's desk, her hands overlapping across her stomach as her nerves intensify. She feels like she's about to vomit as she moves in front of the large desk, waiting for her husband to find her. 

"Y/N?" She hears him call her name. "Where have you gone, Love?" 

"In the office, Sweetheart," she responds, trying to mask her nervousness with her normal manner. Taking deep breaths in and out to calm herself, she hears his loud footsteps reach the room where he spends the most of his time at home. 

"Good evening, my darling wife," the handsome man says, kissing her cheek before settling into the leather chair.  

Y/N was more than Tommy's wife; she was also his secretary and the person he trusted the most in this world. She's been in his office without him, and he's never had a cause to wonder why. When she doesn't say anything, he stares at her with concern, her eyes downcast as if she's trying not to look at him, her fingers twisting the fabric of her top. "What's wrong?" 

His query appears to startle her out of her thoughts, and she raises her head to address him. "There's nothing wrong, Tommy." 

"Then why the long face, Y/N?" he questions, still looking at her with concern. 

"Everything is perfect," she says, "or almost perfect." 

"What are you on about?" He's now perplexed. 

"Thomas," she says as she takes a deep breath in and out. "There is something we need to discuss." 

"All right," he replies, encouraging her to continue. 

She pauses for a few seconds before saying the four words she's been wanting to say for the last month. "I want a baby." 

Tommy's face is expressionless, his magnificent sparkling blue eyes unblinking, and his lips remained in a straight line. When Tommy didn't respond as she had anticipated, she began to think that she should have kept her mouth shut. She was expecting him to be delighted or enraged. But she received nothing, not even a clench of the jaw. 

"Forget I said anything," she mumbles, disappointed and embarrassed. He gently takes hold of her arm as she prepares to leave the office and turns her around so she can face him. 

"Are you sure about this?" He asks, as if he wants to be sure it's what she actually wants. 

She nods her. "Above all else, Tommy. It's all that's left for us. We now have a good stable marriage, financial stability, and a large, beautiful home that is starting to feel empty. All we need is an heir, a child to love and care for, a child to chase around the back garden, and to fill an empty room, and to complete our family." 

"I want it as well," he confesses. 

Y/N can't stop the broad grin from spreading across her face as her arms fly around her husband's shoulders, enveloping the Shelby man in a strong embrace. Tears flow down her cheeks as she silently prays to God, thanking him and asking that they not have to wait long for a small life to begin growing inside her. 

Y/N pulls back from Tommy so that she can look at him. "I love you so much, Mr Shelby." 

"I love you even more, Mrs Shelby," he replies as he wipes her tears away before kissing her. 

He breaks the kiss way too soon for his wife's liking, a smile on his handsome face as one of his hands glides to her stomach. "So, should I try putting a baby in there now or after supper?" 

Instead of using words, she answers by crushing her lips against his, kissing him passionately as her hands reach for his belt to unbuckle it. 

[theweeklydiscourse]

One thing I disliked about the Shadow and Bone Netflix adaptation (among other things) was the way the narrative preemptively decides that the Crows are going to to heroically rescue Alina. An implication of this choice is that it makes Inej, a survivor of human trafficking and prostitution, actively participate in a human trafficking operation. The Crows are travelling across the fold to kidnap and then transport a young woman to a wealthy older man with unknown motives, in exchange for a large sum. You would think this might raise concerns with Inej and create some turmoil within her. But funnily enough, Inej doesn’t raise any objections to it until she has solid proof that Alina is the real deal, and even then, her objections are rooted primarily in her faith.

This strange treatment of Inej’s characters, as well as the whitewashing of the Crow’s position as criminals is because the narrative feels no inclination to address these implications. They already know that the Crows are going to rescue Alina anyways in an impromptu sabotage of the Darkling’s evil plans™ so they feel no need to comment on the morality of such a plan. Funny that a group of characters known for their grey morality are diluted at every turn to make them as morally white as possible.