#does it count as foreshadowing? lol

[veggiesforpresident]

a couple years ago my friend taught me to say "my piece of shit lungs" in french for a fic i was writing. it wound up being something like, "mon dieu, mes poumons d'la merde. i ache."

the line keeps playing in my head when i think about this shit.

ugh.

[tiredmamaissy]

Ralak te Sepawn ieyk’itan: Special Episode V

Something is Brewing

Masterlist ; Rut/Heat/Knotting Info

🔞 minors, do not interact 🔞

Hyperlinks are attached to specific paragraphs that when clicked on will lead you to its illustration by Ralak's insanely talented creator @zestys-stuff. Thank you so much for allowing me to play around with your characters!

Characters: Metkayina!Ralak (25) x Sully!Omaticaya!Reader (20)

Warnings: explicit pregnancy smut, pregnancy fluff, pregnancy angst [for the plot], pregnancy [this chapter is entirely about pregnancy if you haven't caught my drift, just giving you guys a proper warning], age gap, mood swings, cravings, nausea, vomiting, reader is very clumsy, intimate/invasive medical treatment, rut cycle, sexual tension, pregnant sex, p in v, titty fucking, cum eating (m and f), oral sex (m and f), masturbation, exhibitionism (kinda, not really), lactation kink

Word Count: 17.5k (this takes the cake, i apologize)

Requested: Yes || No

Author’s Note: Hey guys! Thank you all for being so patient with me as usual. I had planned to post this chapter earlier, but with the help of @zestys-stuff, we made a last minute change to the chapter. This will definitely cause some changes in the next chapter, so I’m going to work on that right away. I won’t lie, I’m really nervous to publish this one. It's been a while and I’ve ventured into some new territory where I’ve introduced a couple of new themes and -drumroll- a new character. There are parts of this chapter that can possibly cause discomfort (technically, all of this could), so I urge you guys to proceed with caution and click off if you do feel uncomfortable in any way. Aside from that, it’s good to be back (again, lol) and I hope you enjoy!

Synopsis: A timeline of your pregnancy with Ralak’s child, shown through a series of flashbacks of your most prominent milestones—some of which foreshadow something bigger to come…

<- Previous -> Next

Pregnancy is tough. 

A beautiful blessing, but tough nonetheless. With its own set of hardships, uniquely tailored to your own being. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. A sore back, chest, ankles…the list is seemingly endless. The shift in moods, the fatigue. Adjusting to an entire new being growing inside you—one that sucks the nutrients straight from your bones and blood—has your body overcompensating.  

At first it was a dream. 

No life-changing symptoms. It was smooth sailing for the first few weeks. Life went on as usual. If anything, others were more reactive to your pregnancy than you were. Your skimwing became aggressive towards Ralak, snapping at him and whipping her tail, treating him as a threat rather than a companion. He was more than understanding, as it’s common for the protective instinct to kick in when the tsurak senses their rider is with child.  

More importantly, it was an urge that Ralak shared with the beast.

—

You watch as your tendrils intertwine with your skimwing, and how they come together with a rough tug. You let out a rugged breath and the beast beneath you starts to writhe. Ralak instinctively grasps at the harness to steady you and— 

Slash. 

Your trsuak whips her spiked tail at your mate, who blocks it with his strake.

“Shit.” You gasp, tugging at the leather strap and patting her neck to subdue her. “I thought I was in control. Are you alright?”

Ralak nods, his hair now soaked and plastered to his chest. He simply chuckles, respectfully and cautiously approaching the beast with an open hand. Despite this, your tsurak continues to thrash, repeatedly snapping her snout open and shut. Ralak clicks melodically a few times, and her pupils blow and constrict as she calms down. He strokes her snout with one hand, and lays his other on your thigh, gripping it lightly.

“She senses that you are with child.” 

“She does?”

“Yes. That is why she protects you. I understand the feeling.” His accent is thick on his tongue. 

——

Then the nausea came. It was… unbearable. Insufferable. It was almost frightful, actually. Not being able to stomach anything really brought down a sense of dread upon your shoulders. Most days, you found yourself worried about the budding life inside you more than yourself. 

Was he getting enough? Would he develop properly if you went another day without eating? 

Ralak was more worried about you, of course. Going to great lengths to find something you could stomach. Spoon feeding you as you laid down all day from the gut churning nausea. Washing the sick out of your hair when you missed the bucket at your bedside. Detangling and braiding it for you to keep it clean and out of your face. Releasing his pheromones—your only relief—just to put you to sleep at night. 

—

t.w. nausea, vomiting.

In the crisp night, a wave of nausea washes over you, waking you from your sleep. Typically, this is the only time you have a break from the nausea—your slumber. That, and the first ten minutes after throwing up.

You quickly hurl over, grabbing and heaving into your bedside bucket, something that's rightfully earned its spot at your side. Ralak jolts awake, sitting up behind you to gather your hair into his fist, rubbing your back as you retch. 

“Alrigght.” He hums lengthily. “Get it up.”

Finally, you stop. You gasp and pant for air, sitting up only to collapse back into him. “I h-hate this–haah.”

“I do, too.” He grits, reaching over you for the rag at your bedside, and wiping your mouth.

He hates seeing you so sick. He’s tried it all, and though he’s found a few foods that you can stomach, nothing seems stops the nausea. Well, that’s not entirely true.

Ralak relaxes his body, focusing on opening his scent glands to release his his pheromones. They slowly become stronger, calming you down and dulling the waves of nausea. He pulls you close to his warm body, reaching behind him for his kuru. 

“Tsaheylu.” He whispers yearningly, making the bond slowly. He sets a steady breathing pattern, slipping his hand over your tiny bump to caress it. The sickening feeling eases up enough for you to drift back to sleep, Ralak along with you.

——

Thankfully, Eywa lifted you of your säspxin [sickness] when you were about to come upon your third month of pregnancy. Cravings increased ten-fold almost instantly. On the occasion where you couldn’t keep it down—when the desperation was too much—you’d volunteer Ralak to eat it for you so that you could satisfy the craving vicariously through him.

—

“Eywa, that’s so good. One more bite.”

“Tanhí. Enough now.” He grumbles, feeling overly stuffed and almost queasy. 

You glance down at the purple hue of your connected kurus.

“Please...” Your eyes burn as they threaten to well with tears, and your bottom lip quivers, “…last one, promise.”

Ralak sighs, shoveling in another bite of boiled squid, chewing it slowly so you can savor the taste. You keep your eyes closed as he eats, tongue swirling in your mouth to swish your pooling saliva in your cheeks. And when he swallows, you swallow too, gulping down your spit. 

“Thank you.” You say shyly as you open your eyes, feeling bad for making him overeat now that you can really feel his fullness. 

It is my pleasure. Never feel bad. His accented voice tickles your brain. A smile spreads across your face, just as one does on his. 

——

And when you could keep it down, they were delightful when satiated. Keyword being satiated. It posed an issue when they were what Ralak called, ‘forest food’, or on a more rare occasion—‘sky people food’. Those were the insatiable ones. The ones he couldn’t just whip up for you. The times he'd come to you with his ears laid flat to his skull, admitting his defeat. Those were the moments where you felt something stronger than just disappointment. 

It left you gutted. 

—

You can’t stop the tears from flowing down your cheeks. They’re hot and leave a sticky film on your skin, clumping your eyelashes together. It’s stupid. They’re stupid. Stupid tears, from a stupid cause. All because you want your grandmother’s stupid soup. Another thing the blessing of pregnancy has bestowed on you—big, intense feelings. 

As you soak in your bath, Ralak cooks dinner and you just know that whatever is in the pot is something that will make your stomach churn. You bury your face in the palms of your hands, trying to keep your snotty sobs to a minimum. It’s ridiculous, sobbing over something like this. It’s shameful, even. How can you be so ungrateful when this man goes to such lengths to care for you?

“Tanhì!” You hear his rough voice echo from the pod. 

You quickly wipe your face clean, and scramble for your loincloth and top, slipping them back onto your body. Finally, you fix your hair and force a smile to your face. As you get up to the marui, you’re met with the sight of Ralak stirring the soup pot over the firepit. Then the smell hits you. Typically the first thing to set off your nausea to begin with. It smells like—

Grandmother’s soup.

You stare at your mate wide eyed, taking a deep breath to savour it in your lungs. Outside of Ralak’s scent, nothing has smelled this good in months. And you swear you can already taste it on your tongue, the savoury flavour with the sweet aftertaste. 

“I asked your mother. Hope that is okay.” Ralak speaks casually as he serves you a bowl.

As you let out a harsh breath, your eyes burn as the tears come back with a vengeance. You sniffle once, twice—thrice, whimpering quietly as they roll down your cheeks. Ralak looks up at you, concern and honestly a smidge of confusion fixed to his face. Putting the bowl down, he stands and comes over to you, enveloping you in his arms. 

“I do not like to see you cry.” He hums, kissing the crown of your head. “Is it the smell? I will make you something different.” 

“N-No, no. It’s… it smells great. I’m sorry. I—I” You sputter, burying your face into his chest. 

“Then what is it, tìyawn [love]? What do you need?” Ralak cups your face and gently tilts your head upwards so he can look you in the eyes. “Tell me and it is yours.” 

“Thank you.” You croak, feeling your bottom lip curl over and kiss your chin. Now his facial expression is just pure confusion. He tuts in a comforting manner, pulling you back in close to his chest as he waits for you to settle, rocking side to side. 

“Alright, my little one. Shh–shh.”

——

Soon after, that soup pot made quite an appearance. It became your favourite dish, your favourite craving. Ralak made it just like grandmother, for the most part. There were a few omaticayan herbs missing, but outside of that it tasted like…home. At that point, you felt like you had this pregnancy thing down pat and could return to a semi-normal life. 

Everything was relatively the same, except a few obvious things—your growing bump and lack of heats. That was also a blessing, not having to go through a torturous heat every month. Though, you couldn’t say that for Ralak. 

As you neared the end of your third month of pregnancy, his pheromones grew stronger, wafting by you at random times of the day. At first you thought he was just doing it for you. Or, perhaps it was your heightened sense of smell. 

But the day came when his scent was so potent, it was as if it had stained your lips. There wasn’t a moment where you couldn’t smell the scent of your mate under your nose. That was the night you realised it was out of his control. That it was his rut coming. That was the night you confronted him at the bonfire. 

The night he looked at you like you were something to eat. 

— 

Right…there.

You catch the flicker of his eyes just before he lowers his head, shifting to that deep shade of blue. He keeps stealing a glance or two. Maybe even three, or more. It’s hard to keep count when he’s looking at you like this.

is piercing eyes, sultry and alluring, tempting you to crawl through these roaring flames just to get to him quicker. His demeanour. His stance and posture. His domineering leer. Whatever he—or his body—is doing, is working. 

He sits on the boulder, elbow perched on one thick thigh and a hand propped on the other. His hair covers his chestpiece, curled ends barely brushing against his defined ribcage. His bioluminescent freckles dance under the moonlight, his turquoise skin almost golden from the cast of the fire. It’s all so intimidating. He’s exuding dominance, practically looming over you despite him being seated. But there’s something about his aura, something darker.

“I can feel it, you know.” You speak casually, uncrossing your legs.

Ralak’s eyes snap up, boring into yours. He cocks a brow, keeping his eyes locked on you as you stand and walk towards him.

“Your rut. It’s close, isn’t it?”

This would be your first, real rut with him. Without the influence of your own heat. Ralak huffs a sigh, his eyes falling to the small bump that’s in his direct line of sight. Ralak watches as it seemingly grows bigger the closer you get. 

“You are showing.” His hands gently rest on your lower abdomen. Holding his shoulders, you slowly straddle him. 

“Answer me.” You whisper as you cup his face, tilting it upwards to make him look at you. “I want to be with you… and before you say it—” Ralak grits his teeth as he turns his head away, out of your hands.

“No.” 

“Ralak. I am your mate.” You retaliate through tight lips. You knew this would pose an issue. 

“Y/n.” He growls, turning his head to look you in the eyes. “You know my rut. Must I remind you that you are with child? It is final.” 

“I do know, and that’s why I won’t let you go through that alone, ever again.” Though your voice is stern, he can hear the tenderness in it. That this comes from a place of concern and love.

“I will not be in control.” Ralak admits as he shakes his head firmly, flicking his gaze back down to your belly. 

“Look…I made a plan.” You basically confess that you’ve been conjuring up ideas on how to endure this together all day. Although his eyes and hands remain fixed on your tummy, Ralaks ears perk up. He’s listening. 

“How do you feel about…being tied up?” 

Now you’ve got his attention, eyes snapping up to meet yours. The idea of being tied up isn’t entirely foreign to him. It’s something that his people use as a punishment for those who do wrong. He’s not opposed to it. Having a rut so intense is probably something to be punished for, anyways. 

“Hands behind your back…bound to the marui stilt. I will be the one in control. I will take care of you.”

You take his hands from your stomach and tuck them behind his back, your face now millimeters from his. Ralak fights the urge to kiss you. To free his hands from his back to grab your hips and shove your further down onto his growing bulge.

“...feed you…water you…bathe you.” Your voice falters as you swallow your spit. “...fuck you.” 

“...that so?” He whispers against your lips, heart thudding wildly behind his ribcage. 

You look in his eyes, and see that they tremble with constraint. He can’t hide it, the look on his face gives it away. He’s really struggling to think straight. To keep his answer as a firm no. And it doesn’t help that he’s on the cusp of his rut. He yearns to accept. Every fibre of his being wants this–wants you. You see it in his eyes, as they flicker like the flame behind you.

He just needs a little push. 

“We’ll take it slow…gently.” You roll your hips into him and feel his cock straining against his tewng. You lean in close, lips brushing against his as you speak into his mouth. “And, if anything happens… we’ll stop. No knotting.” 

His ears twitch. He’s considering it. Really, actually considering this. But how could he? How could he expect this of you in your state? He squeezes his eyes shut, frustrated and conflicted. And aroused. So fucking aroused that when he feels your lips drag against his cheek, your tongue tasting the lobe of his ear…your breathy whisper, “Pänutìng [Promise].”, he lets out a heated, shaky breath of defeat. Of surrender. 

That seals the deal.

—

Not now. Not yet. Ralak thinks to himself, fighting his urges.

The urge to mate—to pin you down and drive himself inside you. He must remain in control. For you. For your unborn. He sits on the floor, slumped against the stilt of the marui, bowed shoulders and a heavy, hung head. His skin, flushed, and eyes swollen—glowing a vibrant mauve. His hair haphazardly sticks to his sweltering skin as his hands lethargically twiddle with the braided twine behind his back. 

Groggy, you strain to open your eyes and quickly scan your surroundings. Ralaks pheromones cloud the room, engulfing you with their overpowering scent. As you sit up, the bed creaks and Ralak lifts his head, allowing it to flump limply back into the stilt. Extra lidded eyes and tensed brows, he breathes through his mouth. He wills himself to speak, but he’s heavy and sluggish as if he were three bottles deep.

“Ralak.” Your voice is wary and full of concern. Your eyes continue to trail down his body, landing on the undeniable, taut bulge in his loincloth. His cock strains against the fabric, precum completely soaking it through. “How long have you been like this?” 

“Few hours.” He croaks out a dry throat. 

“And you didn’t wake me?” You hastily make your way behind him, slipping to your knees to take the twine from him. 

Fuck. There it is. Your scent...driving him over the edge. Wafting past his nose and making him woozy in the head. 

“Tie me.” He demands. For a moment, you’re frozen in place by his tone, unable to move your hands and fingers. “Quickly.” 

The edginess in his voice startles you, causing you to fumble with the twine. You take a breath and begin tying the knot as he taught you, weaving the twine with itself, tugging at the ends to close it.

“Tighter.” He snaps at you, making your ears lay flat. You pull the ends even tauter, witnessing the twine pinch the thin skin on his wrists. 

“Shit—sorry. Didthat hurt?” You go to loosen the knot, but he pulls at the restraints, making it even tighter.  

“Leave it.” He grumbles, tugging yet again, ensuring it’s unyielding.

Because the closer you get, the harder he finds it to resist. He needs to know that he can’t get out—that he can’t hurt you—before he loses it completely. And with that delicious scent seeping from your neck, he feels himself slipping under. 

“Are you sure? I can tie you after you drink some water and have a—” 

“No...haah—now.” He growls, dropping his head causing the rest of his hair to flow forward and cover his face. “…need you now.” 

Blood rushes to your cheeks, heating them up and flushing them over. You can even feel your heart pumping it harder–faster. It’s hot in here, but even hotter now that you feel yourself heating up too. It’s his rut, influencing you like some sort of drug. You can barely control your breathing, much less think straight. But you told him that you’d be the one in control, the one to care for him. 

“Mawey, ma’ muntxatan [Calm, my husband].” You whisper close to his ear, giving the knot a final tug. “What kind of mate would I be if I did not care for you first? Hm?”  

You shuffle to your feet, and walk away, newly widened hips swaying side to side with temptation. He’s taking in the show through the cracks of space between his clumped together strands of hair, unable to look away no matter how hard he tries. Knowing this, you bend over, lifting your tail to expose your clothed mound to him. You swear you can hear a hiss seep from his lips, and that brings a smile to yours. 

Teasing him is one of your favourite things to do. 

You scoop up some water into the cup, and bring it over to him. Using two fingers to his chin, you tilt his head back, revealing the famine in his inebriated eyes. They’re glossy with need and desperation, begging you to take his ache away. 

“Alright, alright.” You coo softly, sinking back to your knees. “I’m going to make it go away. Now, drink for me.” You bring the cup to his lips, tilting it carefully as he gulps it down thirstily. A few drops dribble down his chin and onto his already glistening chest, rolling down his unflexed stomach. 

Tossing the empty cup to the side, you bend forward and lick the beads of water up his stomach, to his throat, to his lips. His arms jerk reflexively, wanting to cup your face as your lips lock with his.

Throwing a leg over his lap, you straddle him, pressing against the bulge in his sticky tewng. You cup his face instead, deepening the kiss to have a taste of the potent desperation on his tongue.

When you pull away, your noses brush against one another and you feel woozy in the head. His rut is beginning to affect you now. Which isn’t all a bad thing if you want to be able to keep up with him for the next couple days.  

Your hand smoothes over his jawbone to the nape of his neck, where you gently grip the base of his kuru. His ears immediately lay flat to his head, reddening at just the tips. Running your hand along its length, you bring the end of his kuru in front of him. 

“Going to make the bond.” You warn him breathily, bringing forth your queue as well. 

At this point, Ralak is huffing for air and sweating profusely. It looks as if he’s nearing his peak already. This only reaffirms that you’re making the right decision by making tsaheylu—you need the direct influence of his tìsom [heat]. 

When the tendrils intertwine, you come together with a sharp tug and gasp. Instantaneously, you sink into a hazy state, heating up from within. Your breath syncs with his, and suddenly you’re panting too. 

“Ralak.” You moan softly, grinding into him for a bit of friction.

You can’t stop your hips from snapping, and your loincloth is almost completely soaked. He throws his head back into the wooden stilt, looking at you through lidded eyes as he lets loose subtle groans. He looks more than hungry. He looks starved. 

With trembling hands, you search for the knot of his loincloth at the base of his tail. After a bit of scuffling, you untether it and shimmy his tewng down his hips and off of him. Up springs his aching cock, veiny and swollen. It’s so obviously neglected, glossy and sticky with his slick, so uncomfortably hard that it’s already pulsing as it stands firmly pressed against your clothed cunt. 

“Fuck. It’s… even bigger.” You’re taken aback, unsure of how exactly you managed to take this inside you last time he was in rut. Then you notice the red tinge of colour on his cockhead, especially where his ridges stand erect. “D-Does that hurt, karyu?” Bump in the way, you shift your hips back to reveal what exactly you’re talking about. “Need your numeyu to take away the pain?” 

The giant remains silent, but his cock jumps in response, oozing out another large bead of precum. Using your pointer finger, you trace the length of his cock, swollen balls to his pointed tip, collecting that fresh bead of slick on the pad of your digit. He watches intently as you pop your finger into your mouth and suckle, swallowing his semi-sweet essence. His brows knit tightly together. 

You know this is nothing short of torture to him. And though you have every intention to take the ache away… when would you get another opportunity like this? Where this giant is tied down and unable to resist the pleasure you bring him. Where you’re completely… in control. Fuck, you’ve never felt like this before. It's exhilarating. It’s a feeling of power. Of dominance.

A smirk pulls at your lips.   

You begin to pull yourself to your knees, brushing your swollen breasts against his lips. His tongue darts out, eager for a taste. Looking down, you cup one breast with your hand, and guide your stiff nipple into his mouth. His lips pucker over it, closing once they make contact for a vacuum seal.

Your breath hitches when you feel his tongue tickle the sensitive tip of your nipple. His teeth graze against them as he tries to do this handsfree, and you let out a low hiss. Soon his movements grow erratic, being bound to the marui stilt is starting to frustrate him. 

“Ah-ah. What do you need, karyu? Just tell me.” Your voice is feigned with innocence. He breathes heavy against your chest, keeping quiet as his focus is purely on getting his fill. “You won’t get anything from them.” You tsk, tugging away little by little, until eventually you pop off his mouth. 

You continue to rise to your feet, dragging his lips along your swelling tummy, until he’s eye level to the band of your tewng. You can feel his eyes pierce into you, his stare is anything but discreet. It’s intimidating. Your hand flies to the back of your loincloth, fiddling with the knot to untie it. 

“Is it this?”

The cloth drops to your ankles, exposing your flushed cunt to him. It’s pink and hot to the touch, undeniably aroused. Your scent grows stronger with each passing second, filling his lungs. It’s driving him insane—being able to see and smell, but not touch. His rut is only making him more irritable. He just needs to fuck into something and spill himself inside. 

His eyes glisten over an even brighter shade of purple, locking onto their meal. He wets his bottom lip with a quick swipe of his tongue as you take a step closer. You cup his jawbone, tilting it upwards to look down at him. The sight is… intoxicating. His lidded eyes, blown pupils that are threatening to roll to the back of his head. Tensed brow bones and damped, slightly parted lips—not a drop of composure left in his features. 

That new feeling rushes through you again, making you take two more steps forward. Your bare cunt brushes against the tip of his nose, officially branding it with your scent. He leans into you, closing his eyes and straining his neck to indulge himself. 

Your thumb smoothes over his jaw before your hand slips to the back of his head. You fist his hair and yank his head back, sending his eyes flying open. With your free hand, you spread your pussy lips, exposing your swollen clit. It’s sticky and in need of attention, throbbing occasionally as you tug your hood back. 

“Now, suck.” You demand breathily, slowly guiding him by the head to bring his lips to your clit.

You clench around nothing when you feel his heated, slippery lips pucker over the stiffened nub, sucking gently. Sharp eyes bore into yours before they roll back, leaving nothing but the whites exposed. Lids finally fluttering closed, he sucks a little harder, tips of his canines accidentally nipping your supple skin.  

“Ss—fuck.” You hiss, hips snapping back with force, popping off his mouth with a sharp sting. Frantic fingers rub away the tingling sensation as you grit your teeth. You shuffle your feet to ground yourself as you tighten your grip on his hair and hold his head still. 

“I know you’re in rut, but be good to your muntxate [wife].” You warn through your teeth before shoving his face back into your cunt.

This time he feasts with greed, groaning like a starved man. Eating, like a starved man. He’s slurping and sucking, lapping up your slick as it coats his tongue and lips, enjoying every second of your reign.

“Oh—oh shit. Fuck. Right there—” You moan breathlessly, free hand flying to his head to fist his hair, using it as leverage to keep him just where he is.

Before you know it your hips are moving on their own, humping at his face as you hold him tightly with both hands. With each thrust you shove him further back into the stilt, until the back of your hand is repeatedly hitting its surface. 

Until you’re hunched over him, looking him deep in the eyes as you grind into whatever part of him your clit is rubbing against. He expertly holds his breath as he allows you full control to fuck his face as if you were the one in heat.

Because with each roll of your hips he feels it too.

He feels the jolt of pleasure that shoots through you when his tongue hits your clit in that special spot. When the tips of his canines graze your swollen folds. The feeling is all consuming and he’s whining into your cunt from the over—and under—stimulation. His cock shifts to a shade of purple, jumping each time you thrust into his mouth. 

‘Sorry, Ralak. ‘m sorry.’ You think to him through tsaheylu, feeling the burn in your own lungs now. 

“Haa—ah, fuck. Thrust. Fuck. Thrust. F-Fuck! I’m gonna cum—in your—ngh!” Your voice quavers as you come suddenly undone in his mouth, holding him firm and still as you rock your body into him. 

His eyes slam shut and his brows knit tightly together as he grunts repeatedly into your cunt. He tugs harshly at his restraints and his heels dig into the woven floor. Yet still, you hold onto him even tighter until your pussy stops fluttering. 

With a loud, shaky gasp, you yank him away, letting go of his hair to grab the marui stilt to stop your trembling legs from giving out beneath you. Ralak wheezes loudly, shoulders heaving harshly as he frantically pants for air. His face is bright pink, flushed and glazed in a layer of sweat. He opens his eyes but they’re so heavy that you can barely see the colour in them. 

“Rutxe [please].” Ralak begs through a desperate groan, flicking his stare downwards. And when you look, you’re met with the sight of his still-throbbing cock, covered in his sticky, thick cum. Shiney beads still ooze out and dribble down his length and onto his swollen, firm balls. 

His first word was a plea of help. 

Your heart aches in your chest. How could you let yourself go so far with your little bit of power? To be so selfish. And here he was, in so much discomfort and yet you put your needs first. Leaving him so neglected to the point his body makes the release for him. Is this how he felt after he unleashed six pent up years on you in a couple days? 

Pent up years of suffering. 

“Shh. You’re okay, my love. You’re okay.” You whisper as you slowly squat down. “I got you. I’m going to make it…” you hold eye contact with him as you lower yourself onto his cock, aligning his tip with your sopping entrance, “…all better now.” 

You wince when his cock slowly penetrates you, mewling a little higher with every inch you manage to take. The stretch is almost unbearable. This is the first rut you’ve spent with him without being in heat. 

No foggy haze to dull the ache. 

No emptiness to be filled. 

And it doesn’t help that your womb is already so full. 

Your mewl quickly turns into a whimper when your bodies become flush to one another. Ralaks head slumps back into the marui stilt and he heaves a loud, lengthy moan of relief from being buried deep inside your warm cunt. You feel so good around him, making his cock heat up and twitch inside of you. 

Snaking your arms around his neck, you hold onto him as you frantically try to adjust to his size. It’s dawning on you exactly what you’ve gotten yourself into, and that you’ve seriously underestimated his rut. A sense of uncertainty begins to tighten your stomach but it quickly dissipates when you hear Ralak’s second plea. 

“Rutxe, ma’ tanhì..” Ralak mutters with a pained, gravelly voice. 

Without another word, you move your hips up and down, dragging his length along your gummy, slick walls. Your movements are sloppy and uncoordinated, you’re not used to doing most of the work much less all of it. With his hands tied behind his back, you can already feel the burn in your thighs and the throb in the tips of your toes. 

Regardless, you keep moving your hips. 

Bouncing up and down on his cock, pressing your forehead into his in a poor attempt to steady your position. That little sting slowly morphs into something of pleasure the more your hips meet his with a slap. And soon all you can hear is smack, after smack, after smack. The noises that split his lips tell you all you need to know. He’s feeling good and that’s all that matters. 

But exhaustion hits you quickly—unexpectedly. His cock is buried to the hilt inside you, and the more tired your legs get, the deeper it drills inside you, pressing harshly into your cervix. Your legs are trembling uncontrollably and you can barely catch your breath, leaving you no choice but to lazily rock back and forth on his cock. 

Ralak lets out a grunt and bucks his hips. 

“Haah!” You yelp.

Ralaks ears lay flat, lips pursed tightly into a thin line. He can’t hold back his frustration any longer. He’s growing impatient. If he didn’t get his real release soon he may really lose it. He’s grunting through his nose and tugging at his restraints, bruising his wrists. You feel him shift his hips up and shove his cock as far as he can inside you. 

“Ngh! I-It won’t go any deeper!” Your voice strains as you try to lift yourself up. But he just keeps pushing until his feet are grounded. And then his hips drop, pulling his cock half way out of you. 

Thrust.

Ralak slams his cock back inside you, drilling deeper than he was before. Your mouth falls open as all the air is forcefully expelled from your lungs. As you suck in a gasp of air he thrusts inside you again. And again. And again. Until he’s rutting into you in a feverish frenzy, chasing his climax as if it were prey. His thrusts turn relentless, leaving you breathless with each buck of his hips. 

“Fuck—fuck—fu—” Your voice bounces with his thrusts. 

You look down, met with eyes that are empty yet heavy with appetite. He’s in the thick of it and he’s no longer all there. He’s purely instinct now and the only thing holding him back from pinning you down and having his way with you is the twine wrapped around his wrists. 

You can’t lie and say that you aren’t enjoying the look on his face and the break from the burn in your thighs. Stars sprinkle your vision as you’re overwhelmed with the immense pleasure he’s slamming into you. He’s fucking you into submission and you’re mind is borderline blank. His groans are primal and guttural, and they grow louder with each hysteric thrust. 

“Want to knot.” He huffs suddenly—desperately. You can feel his thick knot poke and prod at your entrance, his thrusts now sloppy and erratic. 

“Fuck, I—” You know you shouldn’t, no matter how hazy his rut is making you feel. “W-We can’t. I’m still ea—rly.” But he’s too busy watching himself fuck you in a daze, drenched with sweat. “Ralak…” You grab his face, tilting his chin upwards so he looks you in the face. His gaze is hollow yet his features are tense. “…are y–ou hear–ing me, la–k?”

“Need to breed.” He growls as he fights against his restraints. He doesn’t ease up on his tussle with the twine, sweating and panting as he desperately tries to force his knot inside you. 

“Shit.” You mutter, coming to the quick realisation that he can’t stop himself. “Wait, wait, wait—” 

Your hands fall from his face to his stomach, pushing down in a panicky attempt to lift yourself off him. But his rut is making you sluggish and weak, so you make the quick decision to sever the bond with a rough yank. 

Snap. 

“Oh, fuck.” You curse under your breath. 

The twine breaks, and his arms fly forward, hands making impact with your hips, fingernails digging into the thin skin. His grip is unyielding as he holds you down firmly on his cock. You feel him throb inside you as he attempts to plug you full with his knot. 

“Lak! Ralak, h-hold on!” As much as you actually want to, you can barely take what’s inside you as it is.

“Submit.” He rasps, top lip curled tight to his teeth, baring his canines. 

“I—I’m pregnant.” You whisper quickly, voice hoarse and strained. 

Immediately, his movements cease and his eyes flick down to your tiny bump, then widen when he finally realises. In one swift, sudden move, he lifts you off him and uses your swollen pussy lips to hug his cock and finish himself off. He rocks you back and forth like a rag doll at the mercy of undying grip, growling and grunting. 

His head drops forward when he outright howls. You look down and witness his mushroomy head pulsating feverishly, spurting out his load in thick ropes, all over his stomach and chest. All whilst his engorged, throbbing knot pulses against your slit as he cums, earning some well deserved comfort and warmth.

Ralak sputters as he tries to catch his breath, hands still glued to your hips. The fog still clouds his mind but it’s less blinding now. He’s just about capable of acknowledging what just happened. To acknowledge that this was risky, and could’ve ended badly. That, if you hadn’t said something to him, he would have knotted you without mercy.

An uncomfortable silence passes between you, where you’re both breathing heavily and staring at one another. You both share the same thought—the same realisation. His rut is too aggressive for you to handle right now. 

“I must go.” Ralak looks away as he breaks the silence, wanting to take advantage of his release before the pressure builds yet again. He’s clear headed enough to leave without turning back and pouncing on you. 

“No, don’t… we can try again.” You say softly, hand cupping his jawbone, turning him to face you. You feel terrible that he may have to spend this rut alone, that you couldn’t fulfil your promise—your duty as his mate. 

“I almost knotted you, y/n.” His eyes gloss over with guilt, his hands finally peeling away your bruised hips. 

“But… you didn’t. You stopped yourself—” 

“And if I do not leave now… I will.” Ralak growls inches away from your face.

You’re a little taken aback by his bluntness, but you know it’s the truth. And it’s final. No matter what you say. No matter how it makes the flesh between your legs throb a little more. You nod, keeping yourself quiet. 

“I will see you in a couple days. I love you both.” Your lips meet briefly before he carries you to bed and readies himself to leave. You watch in silence, murmuring an “I love you, too” under your breath when he exits the marui.  

—

As time passed you grew more angsty, unable to keep in one spot or focus on a single task. All that ran on your mind was Ralak and how he was probably suffering all alone. All because you failed to do your duty as his mate. The guilt was almost sickening, having you dry heaving into your bedside bucket a few times for the rest of the day. 

Until later that night. 

You rub in the thick, oily concoction on your belly, getting ready for bed. The sound of the marui door flapping open startles you, making you jump in your skin and clutch your stomach. You’re not expecting Ralaks return so soon. 

A silhouette stands tall at the door, his bioluminescent star pattern unmistakable. 

“Ralak? Oh, Ralak. Eywa. You’re back. I should have made dinner. I thought you'd be gone for a while longer. You must be so hungry. You—” You speak urgently, eyes flicking down to his tewng, which is seemingly damp, “—was it too much? …are you alright? Let me help you, lak.”

“Tanhì.” Ralaks cuts you short, voice trembling slightly, yet full of relief. “It is done.” 

“…what?” The question is breathy. 

“My rut.” Ralak says as he makes his way towards you, scooping up a glob of your special concoction. He sits next to you, and begins massaging it into your back. “You have fixed me.” 

You come to the realization that he's talking about his rut finishing earlier than usual—like that of an average na'vi.

“You were never broken, my love.” You moan softly, closing your eyes to enjoy the massage.

Ralak then rests his chin on your shoulder, smoothing his hands down your back and around your abdomen—rubbing what's left on his hands onto your swelling belly. His touch prickles your skin, sending the tip of your tail swishing. 

“I live for you.” He mutters with a thick accent, nuzzling his face into your neck. “I will die for you.”

Your heart skips a beat when you hear his words, he must have really been suffering for the past six years. You feel your face heat up, and you try to fight the smile balling your cheeks. You opt to drop your head and hide your face instead, resting a hand on his thigh. 

“Well. We won’t have you doing that.” You giggle, rubbing his upper thigh as you turn your head to glance at him. “…the last part, that is.” 

But he just looks at you, face still as stone. He speaks sternly.

“I will.” He speaks sternly.

You swallow your spit, tempted to drop your head again as you take in the gravity of his two words. You nod, searching his eyes with yours as you close the space between you. You hover open mouthed against his lips. 

“Me too.”

——

Time waits for no one. 

At least that’s how it felt. You had ballooned overnight, round and a little heavier as you embarked on your sixth month of pregnancy. His kicks grew stronger and more uncomfortable. But it was Ralaks favourite thing to feel before bed.

You found yourself spending most of your days bouncing between your marui and your family’s marui—paying your family visits more often. They grew fond of the idea that there would be an addition to the family and it became a regular thing for you to seek refuge there when Ralak was roped in for his ‘duties’. Which seemed to increase in number the further along you progressed. 

Ralak had his daily duties—tending to the ilus, a few lessons, fishing... These were just the simpler tasks that you could say you knew for certain he did. But there were his ‘fkxaranga’ [stressful] duties’, as you liked to call them.

The ones where Tonowari would summon him with nothing else but a simple nudge or glance. The duties that were spontaneous. That stole precious hours of his time. Duties that left Ralak spent and on edge, reaching for his top shelf when he came home. Those were the ones you dreaded the most. 

The ones like last night. 

——

With a huff, Ralak chucks his gear onto the floor and roughly unclips his chest piece. His pointed tools are covered in some sort of thick, iridescent muck, shifting from green to orange as they rock side to side on the floor. It’s something you’ve been seeing recently with no idea as to what it is. 

Ralak grunts, bringing your attention to his lips, which are slightly downturned. The more you take in the sight before you the more it occurs to you how exhausted this man is. His eyes are hollow, ears droopy, tail dragging heavily behind him. His muscles are seized up despite the bow of his shoulders—he looks as if he could use a massage. 

“Manga [Hey, you].” You get up to meet him at the door, taking the chest piece out of his hands to hang up on the wooden stand. “Tonowari is working your tail off. Do I need to have a word with that man?” 

He only works up a grumble as you lead him over to the bed. “That bad? What is he making you do? Hunt akulas? Eywa.”  

Ralak sits down, face sinking into his hands before two fingers slip down to pinch the bridge of his nose. You climb up and settle behind him, huffing and puffing along the way. Your hands smooth over his back, thumbs pressing firmly into his muscles, kneading the flesh until you feel him loosen up. 

Though the question sounded rhetorical, he knew it wasn’t. He knows you’re awaiting a response, the silence is loud and clear. You always want to know more about his day, fine details and all. And he’s usually reluctant to speak of it, but insisting it’s nothing for you to worry your head over. But recently, your inquisitivity is… well founded. And he knows it.

“Not quite.” He mumbles wearily into his palm, ears laid flat to his skull–although it wasn’t uncommon for him to encounter an akula or two whilst fulfilling the olo’eyktan’s orders. 

You open your mouth to question him further, but you can tell that he’s more than tired. And it didn’t help that you were constantly needing his help, especially now that you’re growing heavier.

Going down the stairs is a struggle considering you can no longer see your own feet or keep your balance. You had been waking him up almost twice a night to help you down the marui stairs just to pee. He’d always be happy to help, though. He understands that this is what comes with the changes that are happening to your body that’s giving life to his child. 

“Rest. Please.” You say softly, tugging at him to lie down in bed with you. 

To your surprise, he actually lays down, assuming his typical position before dozing off for the night—on his back with a hand on your belly. You expected him to resist a little, insisting something or another.

He really, really must be tired. Your heart fills with something heavy. Something that makes you almost feel sick. Your brows pinch as you look beside you to see his tensed face relax into something of tranquility. 

And a smile pulls at your lips when his eyes fall shut. 

Dinner’s over the firepit—his favourite stew with extra mushrooms. The sound of it bubbling becomes louder as it thickens. With a quick, final stir, you take it off the fire and cover it to let it sit. You hope that this will help lift his mood when he wakes. You look over to him as he lays stockstill with softened features, breathing tidally. 

Holding onto a supporting beam of the marui, you bring yourself to your feet and waddle your way over to him. You extend a hand to wake him for dinner but you hesitate. He needs this. And that’s when you make the decision to allow him however long it takes to rest. Even if it means that you speak to Tonowari yourself. 

Night falls and the temperature falls with it. The glowing firepit keeps the stew and marui warm for the time being as you prepare for bed. You draw the curtains and glance over to your mate, who still remains in a deep sleep, tucked cozily under the blanket you covered him with. You drape the shawl he wove you over your shoulders, and make your way to the door. 

A silent yawn splits your lips just before you lift away the flap. Your eyelids are heavy and the drowsiness is weighing on you tenfold. You have one last step of your nightly routine before you can crawl into bed next to your husband. And that's emptying the bladder that your son uses as a footrest. Plus, if you didn’t do it now, it would just be an additional trip in the middle of the night. 

As you make your way to the door, the need to go becomes urgent. Perhaps it was all the water you thirstily chugged whilst eating, or maybe it's just the fact that you're already on your way there. Either way, you can’t seem to get there quick enough. Your movements turn hasty the second you get to the top step, hands clutching on the only thing available—your bulging belly. You’re looking down despite the fact that you can’t even see your feet.

Leaning forward slightly, you try to shift your stomach to the side to see your next step. You step down and feel your bare foot make contact with the slippery wood. Your toes press into its surface to ground you as you take your next step. You wobble when you get to the last step, and sigh in relief when you feel the cold, wet sand spill between your toes. 

After wasting no time and doing what you came to do, you quickly make your way back to the marui. The tips of your ears and tails are just going numb from how cold it is and the night dew is beginning to form. You get to the bottom step, fixing your shawl so that it’s out the way. You make your way up the first, second and third step, but when you get to the fourth your shawl falls forward. 

And so do you. 

A blood curdling shriek rips from your throat when you feel your feet give out beneath you. Your hands splay out to grab onto whatever’s around you to break your fall but before you know it you're tumbling back down the stairs at a frightening rate. You keep on your side as best you can, landing into the sand with a muffled thump. 

“Fuck. Shit—oh, great mother—” You mutter as you hyperventilate, clutching your stomach as you wait for your son to kick—to show you some sign of life. Your eyes well with tears as you rub your bump vigorously. Your heart is slamming violenting against your rib cage, so hard you can hear it over the ringing in your ears. “Please, please, please.” 

…but nothing. 

“Y/n?!” You hear Ralaks worried voice boom behind you, then his hurried footsteps down the stairs. 

Maybe it’s his fathers voice, but your unborn son gives you one of the biggest kicks yet. You sob out a laugh, rubbing your stomach as relief flows through your body. You take a few deep breaths through your mouth to calm down, feeling another reassuring kick. 

“Y/n. Y/n.” Ralak chants your name, eyes rapidly darting side to side to assess you as he kneels beside you. Concern’s etched deeply into his features as he lifts your arms and legs, searching for injuries. 

“I’m alright. I’m alright.” You repeat urgently, but he continues to look, even taking off your shawl. His eyes are wide and he seems to be in some level of shock, especially after coming straight out of a deep sleep. “Ralak. Really. I’m fine. We’re okay.” 

Ralaks features soften at your two final words. His stare falls to your swollen belly, hands taking the place of yours as he waits. After a few seconds of stillness, his eyes snap up to yours—refilling with worry. He begins to shake his head, and you reassure him with a hand to his face. 

“Talk to him.” You whisper with trembling lungs. Ralak looks back down to your stomach.

“Maitan [My son].” Your mate says in a low, steady voice, ensuring not to allow even a hint of fright slip through. Just then, he feels a little nudge against the palm of his hand. Ralaks gaze snaps up to you and his expression relaxes, hands rubbing your belly gently. “How did this happen, tanhì?”

“I…needed to pee.” You say shamefully, avoiding eye contact. “…and I tripped going up the steps.” You glance up at him to see what you perceive to be a face of disappointment. “I’m sorry. I know, I’m so stupid.” 

“No. Do not say that.” He interjects, tensing his jaw. “...you are heavy with child—why did you not wake me?” 

“You were so, so tired. You needed to rest, and I did not want to disturb you.” You turn to your side to get up, wincing when a sharp pain shoots down your back. 

“Careful.” He clears his throat, stopping you from trying to get up on your own. He watches your contorted face relax, but the heart wrenching guilt just gets worse. “You should have. Wake me for anything.” He says sternly, snaking his arms underneath you to lift you up. “Everything.”

“You really don’t have to—” Ralak continues, scooping you in his arms and holding you close to his chest. “I can walk. I’m all right, Ralak.”

You try to reassure him, shuffling in his arms to get down. But he only muffles out a sigh, glancing down at you with downturned brows and droopy ears. He then walks away from the marui stairs, to the direction of the water. 

“Where are we going?” You ask quickly when you realise that you’re walking away from home. Ralak clicks for his tsurak, taking his time as he mounts it with you tucked to his chest. “Ralak.” 

“To tsahìk.” He states, making the bond with his beast.

“Ronal?” You sound almost panicked as the idea of everyone knowing you fell up the stairs clouds your mind. It’s almost mortifying to think about. “We don’t need to do that, it’s really late too, and—”

Commanding his beast to go, you both take off at full speed. It doesn’t take long to arrive at the tsahìk’s healing pod. Many healers gather at the door when they hear the sound of Ralak’s low pitched call. And they rush out to meet him as he carries you towards them in a hurried manner. They usher you in, hushed murmurs growing louder and clearer as they bring you to Ronal. 

You didn’t even notice the burning pain in your lower back until you were about half way here. 

The Tsahìk stands upon your entrance, her crystal blue eyes widening when she sees Ralak with you in his arms. You wince as he lays you down where the healers instruct him to. She strides over to a woven basket filled with an array of herbs and needle-like wooden sticks, and quickly props it on her hip—just out of the way of her own bump. She settles herself beside you, feeling your stomach as she channels Eywa. 

Ronal throws a look to Ralak, whose hands are on his hips as he waits patiently for the verdict. 

“She fell.” He says, only for Ronal to cock an eyebrow. “Stairs.” He finishes. Then both her eyebrows raise, and she reaches for a jar of a ground up, purplish herb. She pours half of it into a wooden bowl, and activates it with a few drops of water from the spirit tree. 

“Baby is strong. Very strong.” The Tsahìk announces, and both you and Ralak heave a loud sigh of relief. “But—” Ronal props your legs up on the makeshift table, spreading them slightly. Embarrassment flushes your cheeks as you look over to Ralak. “You are still at risk.”

Ralak moves closer to you, taking your hand in his to keep you calm. You both watch as Ronal rolls the fabric tightly into a small cylindrical shape. You swallow your spit when you realise exactly where that’s going. 

“This ensures he stays. It will also help with the pain.” She states, glancing at Ralak to see the glare he’s trying to hold back. She shakes her head slightly and hands you the precautionary apparatus. “Insert. Rest…and remove at sunrise.” Ronal continues, drawing back the curtain to give you some privacy. 

“Sunrise?” You whisper to yourself as you watch her step out.

Your eyes dart up to Ralak who is clearly concerned, staring down at you with worry in his eyes. Embarrassment heats up your cheeks and your nerves fray. Why are you so shy all of a sudden? He’s your mate. Your husband. 

You sit up a bit more and try to see over your stomach to get the task done with shaky hands. You fumble and struggle with the flimsy cloth, blindly doing your best. But each time you lean forward the pain in your back burns hotter.

Ralak’s supporting you with a hand on your upper back, patiently waiting for you, noticing your trembling fingers and little grunts. He uses his free hand to cup yours, stilling your hurried movements.

“Mawey [calm]. Breathe.” He hums, gently taking it from you and helping you lay down. 

You look him in the eyes as he inserts it carefully, wincing when the concoction stings a bit. Ralak gives your hand a light squeeze, speaking as if he had access to your thoughts. You nod, trying to smile through the burning sensation, but he picks up on your discomfort. 

“What is it? Is it your back?" His voice quavers with worry.

“No… just burns a little.” You say quietly. You watch his jaw flutter and his shoulders droop as he huffs out a sigh. “Not to worry. It’s going away now.” 

As he’s about to speak, the curtain is drawn to the side and Ronal comes in and stands at the arched entrance, hand on her hip. Ralak averts his attention to her, his eyes glancing down at her unborn moving in her belly. Although you were both six months pregnant, you were noticeably bigger than her. 

“A word.” Her serious tone of voice brings him out of deep thought, and her nudging head tells him that it’s something urgent. 

Ralak looks at you, not wanting to leave you alone but you smile and reassure him with a light nod. He clenches his jaw but you give him a gentle push towards Ronal. He squeezes your hand before letting go and leans in to plant a firm kiss on your forehead. You watch as he leaves, laying back and taking in the ripples in the curtain as you strain to hear their hushed conversation. 

“Ronal. Oe irayo si ngaru. [Thank you]” Ralak begins, bowing before the shorter na’vi.

“I worry for your mate.” Ronal cuts to the chase, using her hand to guide him further away from the curtain. 

“For what reason?” He asks, keeping his head hung to hear what she has to say. They walk until they’re nearly at the entrance of the healing pod. 

“Your son is fast growing.” She speaks calmly but quickly.

Ralak is a little puzzled, although he doesn’t show it. Is that such a bad thing? He continues to look down at her with the same expression, listening intently to what the tsahìk speaks of.

“Her body will struggle. Birth will be hard. Very long and painful.” Now Ralak is having a hard time keeping his emotions concealed as they chisel themselves into his features. Yet he remains silent. “You must warn her about mun’i [the cut].”

“Pxasìk [no way/fuck that]” Ralak curses through a hiss in his native tongue as he stands at full height, figuratively and literally taken aback. How dare she call that upon his mate? Ronal returns a low hiss as Ralak moves away from her, staring down at her with a mixture of emotions. 

Concern. Surprise. Fear. 

Mun’i [the cut] is rare and risky. Only three have been performed since the birth of this clan, all done in desperation when hope was gone. The last one was performed by Ronal's mother herself. It is an extremely invasive procedure where the mother is cut and the infant is removed. It’s only done in dire situations, where the mother is incapable of giving birth to their young naturally, and risks dying in the process.

Ralak can’t help but feel a burning anger amongst the sea of emotions flooding him at once. How could she suggest such a thing to him? Something so dangerous and grave? All because you will give birth to ‘a different kind’. He’s more than confident that you’re capable of this, despite the murmurs circulating the clan. 

He has always been aware of Ronal's perception of you, and her opinion about the mating. It was no secret, though she never outwardly told Ralak as he is like a son to her. She often insisted that you two were not compatible in more ways than one, and always saw you as the forest girl who needed special training. But to know that Ronal doubts your capabilities to give life ignites a flame in his chest. 

One that he must quickly put out. 

“Ralak!” 

He hears you call out for him, prompting him to quell the flame and shoot Ronal a glare of displeasure. “She is stronger than you know.” Ralak speaks through his teeth before turning his heel to tend to you. 

Heart pounding, he makes his way through the curtain to be met with the joyous sight of you cradling your stomach with a smile plastered to your face. That only further calms the flicker of the flame in his chest, making a smile tug at his lips. He sees you glance up at him, pearly teeth glistening in the luminosity of the night. 

“Sorry if I startled you, it’s just—he’s kicking so hard. Come, come feel!” You blubber excitedly, reaching out for his hand to place it on your belly. He slowly takes a knee, staying still as stone to soak up each movement. “He is so strong, Ralak. Like you.” You whisper, looking down at your mate doting on your bump. 

Though he should be proud of your words, he can’t help but feel a little nervous by them. If this child is really like him, then what Ronal said may have some truth to it. Yet he smiles, smoothing his thumb over your protruding belly button. 

“He is strong like his sa’nu [mummy].” He says softly, perhaps in attempts to reassure himself and calm his own nerves. Your smile only grows and you place your hand on top of his. 

“What did Ronal say?” Ralaks eyes snap up to yours, wide and almost panicked, wiping the smile off your face instantly. “Oh, no. Is it bad? Is something wrong?” 

“No, no. She says…” He drops his head, watching his unborn move as he contemplates telling you. You need rest, and this would further stress your mind and body. Ralak urges himself to smile—to create a new mask—one of feigned happiness. “…you must rest. Wait until sunrise.” 

“Oh, okay.” You exhale a sigh of relief, “Good. I—I can do that.” 

—— 

After such an eventful night, sleep found you easily. Ralak carried you up the marui stairs, tucked you into bed and watched as your eyes fluttered shut. And even so, he remained at your side for some time, ensuring you were deep in sleep before embarking on his new task. 

It began with a ‘quick’ trip inland for the right kind of wood. The kind that holds up well against the elements and the saltiness of the water. The kind that doesn’t have a slip to it when it's been wet for more than a few hours. It took a few trips to get it all back to the beach but it was more of an irritable task than a difficult one.

Ralak tried to keep as quiet as possible, spending the rest of the night—until sunrise—cutting and carving the wood, binding them together with twine, sap and wooden pins. And by the time the first few rays of sunlight beamed in, he was engraving his finishing touches. 

—

Ralak chucks down the tool and it lands into the sand with a muffled thud. Using the back of his strake to wipe his forehead clean of sweat, he looks up at his work for a final time—railings for the marui stairs. Then the bright ray of sun shines before his eyes, standing between his two new creations. 

You.

You’re surprised to see him out this early, still in his gear from last night. The realisation dawns on you that he’s been up all night, doing this. You can actually feel your chest warm up as your heart pumps the blood through your veins at an insane rate. It rushes to your cheeks, making them hot and flushed. 

“Is this what you’ve been doing all night?” You ask the question under your breath, dragging a hand along the railing. It’s smooth under the pads of your fingers, and warm to the touch, as if they’ve just been filed down. You notice a small carving on the side of the railing—your son’s initial.

R. 

“Mm.” He grunts, not that he could have slept anyways. He glances at the initial that you’re staring at. “I should have done it long ago.” The shame in his voice is loud and clear. You look down at your feet, unsure of what to say, noticing that he’s redone the steps too. 

“Ralak—”

“You must still wake me. Understand?” He cuts you off, already knowing what you’re about to say. 

You take a step down, holding tightly onto the railing with one hand and the other tucked under your bump. He rushes up the stairs and supports you by the arm. You lean into him for a hug, nuzzling your face into his chest. “… thank you, my love.” 

“Kea tìkin [no need (for thanks)].” He presses his lips onto the crown of your head, words muffled by your hair. His hand slips down your arm and rests on your lower back. “Still feeling pain?” 

“No. I feel good. Like new.” You smile, watching his features soften and his lips pull into a subtle smile. “Your son, too. He kicked me all night.” 

“Is that so, young one?” He leans down to speak to your belly as you watch intently, “you must be gentle with your sa’nu [mummy].” 

As he looks back up to you, your eyes follow his every move. And suddenly it’s just the two of you, before the orange glow of the sunrise, sharing this intimate gaze with one another. 

“Ralak… I see you.” You say softly, witnessing his pupils blow until there’s nothing but thin rings of blue.

He swallows, you see the lump in his throat undulate, and the balls of his cheeks stain a light pink. He blinks a few times, leaning in until his lips brush against yours. He lingers there for a bit, jaw fluttering as he grits his teeth a few times. He can’t help but feel a pang in his chest. 

How could he keep this from you?

“Oel ngat kame, ma’ muntxate.” He husks the words before locking his lips with yours.

But as he pulls away, you see the glint in his eye. When he sees your lowered brows and inquisitive eyes, he attempts to fix his mask of indifference—no, happiness. But you see right through it—

The glint of guilt. 

“What is it?” You ask, reaching behind him for his kuru. It’s your way of saying, 'no secrets'. He’s quiet. Uncomfortably quiet. Unsure of how to say what he should say. You urge him with a light tug to his queue, creating a little more distance between you to look him dead in the eye. “Ralak.”

“Ronal doubts…you.” He says plainly, trying hard to rid himself of the thought of childbirth taking you away from him.

“I don’t understand. What—what does that mean?” You ask, confused and worried. 

“I should have told you about it when you asked.” Ralak says, shaking his head. “But…you were already under so much stress. In pain. Our son—” 

“Ralak. Tell me about what?” You whisper quietly—quickly. Ralak looks at you, allowing a few seconds of silence to pass before he speaks. 

“Mun’i [the cut].” Ralak’s voice cracks with pain as the dreaded thought floods his mind. 

Ralak goes on to explain mun'i, giving you a brief lesson on its history and typical…outcome. He explains why Ronal urged him to warn you about it. And exactly what he told her in return. That he is confident that you are more capable of doing this. 

It ends with a comforting embrace and the both of you coming to the conclusion that a conservation with Jake is needed. If the cut were to happen, the sky people’s medical advancements would be…useful. 

——

Since then, Ralak adapted a very strict agenda when it came to the preparation of the birth. In some ways, it reminded you of the beginning of your relationship with him as teacher and student. Karyu and Numeyu. A revision of previous lessons, such as breathing lessons. 

—

“Deeper breaths, tanhì. Slow.” Ralak instructs you with his hand on your round belly. 

“It’s hard…” your voice is strained, “when his feet are in my lungs.” 

Ralak chuckles, nodding in understanding. “Right. Do your best.” 

You attempt to follow his demonstration a fifth time, inhaling deeply through your nose, holding it, and then slowly letting it out through your mouth. “Light headed now.”

“You did well.” Ralak praises you, snaking an arm around you as he lowers you onto your back. “You all right?” 

“Just fine.” You mutter, grateful for the new position. 

Ralak looks at you for a while, taking in a sight that may be similar to the one of you giving birth—giving life. The reality that you will soon be a family quickly dawns on him. The reality that… Ronal's words still weigh heavy on his heart.

“And when you bear down…” Ralak pulls your leg back, your knee now grazing against your cheek as they flush with embarrassment. “…shallow, fast breaths. Do not hold it.” 

He then demonstrates, emphasising the sound of the breathing technique to ensure you’re doing it properly.

'…hee—hee—hoo…'

You mimic his sounds, looking down to see nothing but your protruding bump. It may be strange to some that Ralak is teaching you a lesson on something such as childbirth. But with his mother-figure being the tsahìk, there were just certain things he grew to have knowledge of. 

“Ronal says there are times where it is best to allow your body to take over. Focus on breathing him out. Let your body do the work for you…” You nod slowly as you practice deep breathing in this new position, “…she will show you some positions in your lesson tomorrow.” 

"What?" Your ears perk up. For some reason one on one interactions with Ronal always make you nervous. 

“The other expecting women of the clan will be there.” 

Your ears relax, and you feel a little more at ease knowing you won’t be alone, even if it’s a sea of gossiping women. At least they were more discreet about it. 

——

As you neared the final months of your pregnancy, Ralak was called out more frequently. The aches and pains that came along with being so big were just as frequent, it seemed. They’d hit you at the strangest times, during your sleep or whilst on your tsurak.

But when the pain spread to your abdomen is when Ralak urged you to take things easy. But they didn’t stop him from going anywhere. No matter how badly he wanted to stay home and tend to you. It was more complicated than that. Something that you were blissfully unaware of. Something he wanted to keep that way until it was the right time to tell you. 

—

“Must you go?” You ask hopefully, tugging at his bicep. “You just got back.” 

“Tono will have my head, tahnì.” He states, buckling his chest gear yet another time for today. 

“It’s not fair. Not even the warriors back at home tree were called out so much. Especially if their mate was this far along.” You huff, letting go off his bicep to clutch your protruding belly. He cups a hand over yours, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

“Ah. I know, I know. I want to stay, I do—” He’s cut off by your sudden gasp, and your face screwing with discomfort. “Are you alright?” His voice turns fills with concern, head tilting even more so that he can look you in the face. It felt as if your back set ablaze and your stomach hardened into rock. It eases up within a few seconds and you take a quick breath before answering. 

“Yeah, I think so.” You feel around your bump, taking note of how it’s softened and back to normal. “…that’s the second one today.” 

“Hm. It is. See Ronal while I am gone.” Ralak insists, tucking a couple loose braids behind your ear. You nod in response, gritting your teeth from the reminder that he’s leaving again. “I will speak with Tonowari today.” 

He’s quick to kiss you, lingering longer than he should. You savor his tender touch, breathing him in until you’ve gotten your fill to last you until he’s back. He pulls away, a grimace fixed to his face as it’s almost painful to do. He rubs your belly a final time, clicking for his beast. Reluctantly, he leaves, and so do you.

—

‘Practice Contractions.’

Ronal’s diagnosis of your pains. 

You’re not entirely unfamiliar with the concept. Mom calls them something different, but it all means the same thing at the end of the day. The body’s way of preparing to give birth. The constriction of your stomach, accompanied by intense pain, at random times with no rhythm. 

It’s normal, and expected. Ronal was particularly pleased to see your body do this early in your pregnancy. It typically occurs a couple weeks prior to birth, and both of you weren’t due for another month. 

They’re nothing to worry about, but she advises to rest if they get too intense. You waddle home with your tail dragging behind you, unhappy to see no sign of your mates return. 

—

“You are late.” Tonowari speaks monotonously, back turned to Ralak as he keeps his eyes on his task—forging a new tool. Ralak has to swallow his frustration and maintain his confidence. 

“It will happen soon.” He responds in a similar tone, his eyes following as the olo’eyktan stands. “I must be with her.”

“I understand. I do. But—” Tonowari finishes up the last touches, giving the tool its final inspection. “This is your duty, son.”

“She, is my duty.” Ralak snaps, his frustration slipping through. 

Feeling challenged, Tonowari turns to face him, now eye level with Ralak as he slowly nears his subordinate—chest to chest. But with a pregnant mate of his own, and the fact that Ralak is like his own son, Tonowari huffs a sigh and gives this a pass.  

“This is for her, too. For the people of the clan. You know what we are about to face. You will do this.” The olo’eyktan states sternly. “When the horn sounds… you come. And that…” he shoves the tool into Ralak’s chest, “…is an order.” 

Holding the tool against his own chest, Ralak looks away from Tonowari, grinding his back teeth hard enough to file them flat. He breathes heavily, attempting to recenter himself and stamp out the flame flickering in his chest. Tonowari gives him space, going ahead and mounting his skimwing, readying himself to embark on their journey. Whilst Ralak is left behind to let out a sluggish, shaky breath, closing his eyes when it dawns on him...

…what he must do, where he must go and who he must see. 

All before coming home this evening. 

—

“Zu’té.”

Ralak calls his name outside of the secluded, dim marui pod. It’s familiar, yet so unknown. It’s an eerie feeling to be standing here. It’s as if no one’s home. Not a single flame burning, nor the residual heat of a smothered fire pit. But Ralak can sense his presence. It’s thick. Aggressive. Just as it’s always been. It’s only intensified since the incident. 

The silence is deafening now. A message loud enough to have Ralak reconsidering his actions—rethinking his feelings. No part of him really desired to ask anything of this man, much less this. But in the case Tonowari really doesn’t budge with his decision, it is something he must do. No matter how many years have passed. Ralak has moved on…come to terms with what’s happened, and is in a much better place in his life now. Because of you.

You.

He’s doing this for you. Or is he? The fact he’s fathered a child has a major influence on his decision to be standing here to begin with… perhaps it’s something within him driven by nature—by instinct. The further you’ve progressed, the more he’s thought about rekindling this relationship. But he always brushed off these passing thoughts, until they were no longer just thoughts that passed. They became thoughts that lingered and kept him awake some nights. 

Showing their faces the most when Tonowari reminds him of the imminent danger the clan may face.

They reminded him of the good times when they were children. Teasing the ilus when no one was looking, sneaking off to the reef where the adults went to hunt just to see what it was like. But it also reminded him of the more unfortunate moments they shared. Those that will forever leave a scar on their souls, branded by pain and suffering. Since then, Ralak took an oath to never allow his own family to suffer the way he did. 

If this is what he must do, he’ll do it.

“I am in need of a favour.” Ralak finally admits, witnessing a tall, thick silhouette emerge from the marui. 

At this angle, its darkness looms over Ralak ominously. Green glowing eyes peer down at Ralak as the figure's hands cross defensively over his chest. He steps out of the darkness, revealing his inked face and intricately up-kept hair. He looks as if he’s been disturbed or rudely interrupted, evident in the way his eyes pierce fearlessly into Ralak. But Ralak simply returns the leer. 

“Zu’té.” Ralak speaks his name again, a little more sternly this time.

“Brother. To what do I owe this visit?” His tone is sarcastic with undertones of hostility. 

Ralak sighs, turning his head away from his older brother, fixating his gaze elsewhere. His jawbone flutters as he struggles to figure out what words to string together next. This isn’t easy for him—being here with his tail tucked between his legs. 

“It is no way easy for me to ask you of this…I know we have not spoken for some time.”

“Really? You think so? I would say it has been a little more than ‘some time’, no?” Zu’té’s irritation is shining through now.

“Agreed.” Ralak speaks sharply, dropping his head, gaze piercing into his own feet. He swallows and sighs once more, finally lifting his head to look his brother in the face. "I need your help, brother."

“Hm.” Zu’té scoffs, meeting his stare flagrantly. “Let me get this right. You come here, wake me out my sleep, speak to me like this for the first time in over forty-eight seasons…and demand my help?”  

“You are the only one I trust with this.” Ralak grinds out the words, they are hard to admit. 

This quietens Zu’té, causing his features to soften and his fixed stare to falter. To hear this after twelve years, straight from his brother’s mouth has him a little taken aback. There’s only one thing that it could mean—that could bring the golden child before him, begging for a favour. 

War. 

“What does our ‘mighty’ olo’eyktan have you up to now, baby brother?” Zu’té’s tone is especially sardonic when speaking of their father-figure. 

“Plenty.” Ralak chuckles quietly, shaking his head in amusement. His curved lips fade into a thin line, returning his grim expression when he’s reminded yet again of his exact reason for being here. “Look…” Ralak exhales, “...it is nowhere likeable for me to show my face like this. Trust me, I have thought of every possible solution. But…" he shakes his head, hesitant to share what he must say next. "My mate...she is pregnant."

Zu’té’ sighs when he realizes the gravity of the situation, eyes narrowing as they look behind Ralak to scan his surroundings. He’s far from all of the neighbouring marui pods, being the last pod along the mangroves. But if someone were nearby, they could eavesdrop with ease.

Zu’té lightly nudges his head, giving Ralak the silent signal to enter his marui. Ralak moves slowly, a little surprised by his change in...heart. Annoyed with Ralak's sluggish movement, Zu’té rolls his eyes.

“What? You expect an invitation?" Zu’té asks the rhetorical question loud and clear, watching in awe as his not-so-little brother stands almost eye to eye with him. "...you've grown."

"Surprised?" Ralak mutters, ears spasming from his brother's comment—shuffling past him.

"Don't get smart with me, little brother." Zu’té snaps with his ears pinned to his skull, automatically slipping back into disciplining his younger brother like he once used to. Ralak fights the smirk pulling at his lips, making his way further into the neat, well-decorated marui.

——

Ralak came home that night, as he does most nights nowadays with a heavy tail and tensed muscles. That night he broke the news that he had no luck with Tonowari. That he remained tied to his duties as a warrior, teacher, hunter and evidently more…that you had no knowledge of. 

But he made it clear that none of them came before you—his most important duty of all. He promised not only to your father, but also to you, to put you first, no matter what. That he will do whatever he needs to ensure your safety is never compromised. Even if it means putting his pride aside, and asking for help, as he did that night. 

The desire to prepare for your son's arrival grew with each passing day, making you nest like an expecting ikran. You smoked enough meat to last for the next couple months, and gathered as many herbs and fruits that you could manage.

Weaving has been one of your more frequent tasks, making a couple slings and a few more blankets. Ralak was quick to build the cot when he got into a nesting frenzy, too.

But regardless of what your next task was, it was always a little bit harder…a little bit more tiring. Until you were so round and heavy that most of them became unachievable. Your size started to affect you in more ways than just physical. It started to affect you mentally, too. Playing tricks on your mind, making you think negatively about yourself.

And Ralak picked up on that very quickly. 

——

As you wait for his return, you give the marui another deep clean. You take small breaks often, sitting down whenever you become short of breath.

Whilst you sweep the patio, you see your mate trudge up the stairs, ears pinned back and exhaustion wrinkled into his forehead. Ralak sees you and wastes no time to take the broom from you and pull you into his chest. 

He holds you in silence. Comfortable silence. Savouring how you feel against his body. The thud of your heartbeat, the warmth of your skin. You’re his safe place. His home. As he is yours. His embrace is what you look forward to the most after a long day apart. 

Perhaps this is what you both need. A moment of peace and quiet, where your focus is purely on the person in front of you. A break from the mayhem that life can entail, from the pull and push of the rough tides. Serenity. All to be interrupted by Ralak pulling away, holding you by the arms to create some distance between you two. 

Furrowed brows and beaded eyes stare back at you when you look at him. He’s staring at you, but not at you. His eyes pierce into your chest, and then peel away to flick down at his stomach. A smile creeps on his face, and a huff of air through his nostrils as he chuckles softly. His gaze finally meets yours, and he lets go of your arms.

“Your milk is in.” He almost whispers, his fingertips grazing against your stomach. 

“What?” You breathe, caught off guard to say the least. Your head snaps down, eyes searching every inch of your shawl to find two large, growing wet spots on it. “O-Oh.” You stutter, looking back up at him, catching sight of the glistening liquid on his stomach. “Oh.” 

Your cheeks grow hot when blood rushes to them from embarrassment. Just another thing pregnancy has bestowed upon you. “Sorry, Lak.” You turn to reach for the nearby cloth that hangs by the window. 

“What for?” He asks innocently—a little confused. 

He watches as you wipe him down in an almost frantic manner. He stills your movements by grasping your wrists, causing you to drop the cloth. He brings your hands to his lips.

“Mawey [Calm]. Nothing to be ashamed of.” He speaks into the palm of your hands. You hear his words, but you still can’t bring yourself to look at him. “Hey.” 

He lets go, and cups your cheek, urging you to look at him. When you finally do, he’s smiling down at you, allowing his hand to slip down to the bow of your shoulder—his fingers hooking underneath the hem of your shawl. “Let me clean you up, hm?” 

“Oh—okay.” You stutter shyly, feeling his fingers slip under the woven fabric to slip it off your shoulders. “W-Wait.”

And when the material hits the floor, a shiver shakes your spine. Your breasts are exposed to the cool air, sticky nipples hardened into peaks for him to see. They’ve darkened in colour, and are even a little more puffy too.

Honestly, you weren’t the biggest fan of them anymore. You wore thicker tops or shawls to conceal them, just as you did your stomach with your new…stripes. But Ralak loves them, always stealing a glance at every given chance. 

But to know that they’re full with milk makes him feel…on edge. 

His eyes bore into them, unapologetically taking in every detail. His smile falls into a slight smirk, which then droops into a thin line. His jaw flutters as he grits his teeth, biting back his urges. 

“Don’t stare.” You whisper shyly, covering your chest with one arm and your belly with the other. He looks at you, and reaches for your arms, peeling them away from your body. 

“Beautiful.” He states as a fact, intertwining his fingers with yours. “So beautiful, carrying my child.” 

“‘m really not.” You mumble, looking away in shame. You feel his hand move to your face, two fingers tugging at your jaw to have you look up at him. When you finally give in to his nudges, you see the look on his face. It was as if you had deeply and personally offended him.

“You are.” He insists softly. 

You simply shake your head, arms instinctively wrapping around your chest and belly once more. “I don’t feel it. I don’t even know how you can look at me and say that.” 

Ralak almost feels angered by your words. It hurts him to hear you speak of yourself in such a way, especially when it’s far from the truth. If anything, he’s even more attracted to you. Knowing that this is what your body is going through to bring his child into the world has made him even more appreciative of you. 

“Never say such things.” He husks firmly, removing your hands from your body and keeping them in his grasp. “Do not hide.” 

“You have barely touched me.” You retaliate, voice cracking with hurt. 

“Not for that reason.” He’s quick to cut you short, making sure you know that the last thing stopping him from pouncing on you every chance he gets is the way you look. Absolutely not. 

“If that’s what you need to tell yourself, then—”

Frustrated, Ralak shoves your hand onto his loincloth, pressing it firmly against the bulge that strains against the material. “You feel that?” 

You do, you feel every inch of it, hard and warm against your palm. Your face heats up even more, cheeks staining a bright red. Your breath turns raggedy as you struggle to find the words to say. 

“Hm?” He grunts as he presses himself even harder against the palm of your hand. 

“Y-Yes.” You stutter. Ralak turns you around, pressing himself into you from behind. His heated lips are flush against your ear, hot breath prickling your skin. 

“This is what you do to me.” Ralak husks into the shell of your ear, grinding his bulge into the swell of your ass. “Day after day.” He groans almost painfully, filled with all sorts of emotions. He holds you firm against his body, grazing his bottom teeth against the lobe of your ear. “All it takes is a single glance.” His words have your clit pulsing under your tewng and your thighs rubbing against one another. “The sight of you…of your swollen breasts… your swollen womb…” he hisses, on edge and high strung as he caresses your belly, “…it makes me lose myself.” 

“Fuck.” You breathe, reaching behind you to tug his loincloth down in a frantic manner. You feel his lips nibble and nip at the skin behind your ear, making their way down the back of your neck. You can’t help but moan from the feeling, your already stiff nipples tingling from his gentle touches. 

You feel his hands wander over your stomach and under your tewng, his fingers fondling your folds as he gently parts them. He grunts against your neck, inhaling your scent deep in his lungs as his hips stutter into you. Your stickiness coats his fingers as they slip and slide over your hardened nub. 

You tug even harder at his loincloth, struggling to get the annoying thing off him. You let out a frustrated grunt, and he lets loose an amused chuckle, peppering soft kisses down to the bow of your shoulder.

“What is it? Need me to take you right here?” He husks low, voice muffled by his continuous kisses. “…where someone may see?” 

Right, you’re on the patio. 

Out in the open, under the light of the moon. Ralaks marui pod is far from the village on a cul de sac. The only thing further than here is sand, open water and a couple smaller islands off in the distance. However, there' is's always the slim chance of a na’vi or two going for a late night swim or on a romantic adventure far from the village.

But you simply didn’t care. 

If anything it only riles you up more—the riskiness of it all, the thought of being caught. The need to be sneaky and quiet, when all you want to do is moan his name until your voice goes dim. It seems that Ralak feels similarly as you feel him throb against you, excited to take you where you stand. 

“I don’t mind.” You huff shakily, finally tugging the cloth down enough for his cock to spring out. “Do you?” 

You feel him smile against your shoulder when you grip it in your hand, smooth teeth bumping into your skin as his free hand cups your full breast. 

“Not at all, my tanhì.” He breathes, gently kneading the soft flesh, feeling the trickle of your milk flow over the back of his hand. 

“Good.” Your lungs tremble beneath his touch, hand desperately stroking his length. Yet he remains gentle with his touches, pinning your clit between his two fingers as he rubs you slowly. “Then hurry…I need you inside.” 

Ralak quickly moves his kisses back up your neck, and you feel the tip of his tongue tickle the lobe of your ear before he suckles on it lightly. Tingles ripple up your spine, sending your head into a shiver as you lean into his mouth. His fingers dip into your soaking core just as he rolls your tender nipple between his other two digits. 

It’s all too much. All-consuming. Making you gasp for air in lungs that won’t seem to fill. Fog clouds your head. How did you get here? How did this happen? Fuck, it doesn’t matter. Not when you feel like this.

You’re already so sensitive as it is, so tender and delicate, like silk under his fingers. He pushes his two fingers even deeper inside your aching pussy, curling them and earning a whimper from your lips and quiver of your tail.

“Not too loud, oeyä sevin muntxate [my pretty/beautiful wife]”. Ralak whispers the hushed praise, knowing it’s what you need to hear. 

You’re so much warmer around his fingers than usual, so much softer. Wetter. With each curl of his digits comes out a squelch as he works you open for his cock that he’s been dying to plunge inside you. 

You wrap your leg around his, perching your heel on the side of thigh as you lean all your weight back into him. He steadies his knees, supporting you with ease. Your head slumps back into his shoulder, opening up your neck to his hot breaths, an arm reaching behind you to fist his hair. 

His brows are tense and his breath is heavy. He’s overcome with arousal and he can’t keep his composure as your scent grows stronger now your throat is directly under his nose. Truthfully it’s been too long, he knows that. He knows he’s been too protective, too cautious. Depriving you and him of the touch that’s necessary between a mated pair. 

His fingers slip out of you, now expertly unravelling the loose knot just barely keeping your tewng on you. As it drops to the floor his fingers are back where they were, rubbing sloppy circles into your clit before spreading your pussylips apart. His hips stutter as he attempts to align the crown of his cock with your slit and finally buck forward when he senses your little, exposed hole. 

His cock sinks inside you at an achingly slow pace—inch by inch. You let loose a lengthy moan when you feel him fill you completely, no longer caring if anyone hears you. 

“Hnng—I missed you.” The gruff words slip out as he bottoms out inside your cunt. He has longed to feel your gummy walls squeeze oh-so tightly around his cock. “You alright?” He checks on you in a daze, voice thick with want—with the desire to pummel your little pussy until your voice is hoarse. But the last thing he wants is to hurt his heavily pregnant mate. 

“Mhm, ple-ase.” You purr with need, closing your eyes and relaxing completely into him. Trusting someone this much feels too good. Ralak moves slowly, pumping his cock in and out of you in a languid haze, tickling your sensitive clit with just the tips of his fingers. 

“Tanhì—haah—you are squeezing me so tight.” Ralak moans as his strokes grow with intent. His hips roll deep, shoving and forcing his cock inside your sensitive cunt until his swollen balls kiss your clit. 

He’s unapologetically coaxing out the orgasm you’ve been denied for so long with only a few lazy thrusts. And he knows it. He can feel it from the way you clench around him. From the way your thighs tremble a little more after each deep stroke…from the sweet, filthy noises that shamelessly drip from your lips. 

“Oh my—Ralak! I-I’m gonna—” You sputter the words between choked sounds, eyes welling with tears from the burn between your legs. 

“I know, I know.” He huffs, dragging his hot tongue along the length of your throat. The truth is, he’s close too. But he can’t allow himself to finish inside you. He can’t risk letting himself go and pounding recklessly into your poor, tender pussy. He’s already had a long day. “Let it out, tìyawn [love].”

Its almost cathartic. 

Weeks of pent up frustration released in a few minutes, leaving you near convulsing in his grip. You can’t stop the flutter of your pussy walls if you try, it’s out of your control, much like the surge of white fire going right through you. Your legs fight to stay open and you hold onto your mate to keep you standing. Gurgled noises spill from your lips as your body shudders under him. His hips still, keeping his cock buried to the hilt inside your quivering cunt as he holds you tight, supporting you until you finish riding out your high. 

“Good girl. Good girl.” He praises you in a hushed, shaky voice, extremely wound up from feeling you flourish so beautifully under his touch. It's a miracle that he didn't empty himself inside you right then and there. 

“But you—but you haven’t—” You sputter, collapsing into him as your legs give out. 

“I know. It is alright..” He hums, carefully leading you inside the marui to lay you on the bed. 

“Thought you were c-cleaning me u-up. Not mak-king m-more of a mess.” Your breath is relentlessly hitching as you watch him hastily remove his tewng that’s been digging into his thighs. A reminder of exactly how quickly things happened. 

“You are right.” Ralak tsks, cocking a brow as he stares down at you with a predatory leer. “I did say that, didn’t I?” 

Ralak situates himself between your legs, crouching over you, ensuring there’s plenty of space between him and your stomach. His cock presses between your sticky folds as his lips press against your clammy neck. He tastes the faint saltiness of the thin film of sweat on your skin as he drags his lips down your chest—between your breasts. 

“Lak…” You whisper, back bowing against the bed. 

You’re way too sensitive right now, like an exposed nerve. His eyes snap up and lock with yours, responding to you moaning his name. His tongue darts out, sampling a taste of the spilled milk on your breast. Then his eyes slam shut, tensed brows and scrunched nose telling you that he’s unsure of the flavour in his mouth. 

Eyes widening, you’re taken aback by his actions, feelings of shyness and embarrassment creeping back in. Fisting his hair, you pull gently at his head to pry him off your chest, only for him to resist your tugs. 

“You shouldn’t have done—why’d you do—” You struggle to find the right words at this moment, flustered and nervous that he’d do that. 

But what leaves you even more speechless is when he opens his eyes to reveal dots for pupils, a look you only see when he’s high strung. And then he eagerly takes your nipple into his mouth, latching on and ensuring the suction is airtight. The tip of his tongue flicks at your hardened nipple a few times before he gently suckles at your breast.

A tingling sensation radiates your chest and you feel it in the pit of your stomach. Your breath catches in your throat, a little surprised by his lewd behaviour. And soon, all you can hear are the repeated, muffled gulps of your warm milk flowing down his throat.

“W-What are yo-ou d-doing, my love?” You mewl, squirming underneath him from the strange feeling. He unlatches harshly with an audible pop, leaving your pointed nipple misshapened and exposed. 

“Cleaning you.” He huffs quickly as he catches his breath, diving back in to lap up the milk leaking from your other neglected breast. Your head throws back in what is undeniably pleasure now, legs tightening around his waist. You look down in a daze, watching him feast greedily, feeling his hips begin to stammer against you. 

“Fuck—I didn’t know this i-is what you meant.” You’re finally calming down from your orgasm now, already feeling your body gearing up to have another. His desperation is pungent. Evident in the way his cock grinds between your soft, slippery folds, scenting your cunt with it. 

He pulls off you with yet another pop, his tongue swiping his bottom lip so not to let the bead of milk dripping off of it go to waste. He’s huffing and puffing against you, trailing his wet kisses down your curved stomach as he tucks your legs back. You feel his hot breath against your thighs and your legs tremble in anticipation. 

“Kalin, kalin [sweet, sweet].” He mumbles, kissing your pulsing clit. “Oeyä kalin [My sweet].” 

“Oh shit.” You let loose the breathy curse when you feel his lips pucker around your over sensitive nub, and squeal when he begins to suck on it too. Your hands fly to his head, grasping at his hair to shove his face further into your cunt. He devours you with exhilaration, lapping at your leaking slit to savour your sweetness. 

His cock is aching now. He’s so hard it’s painful. He can’t stop throbbing and his cock strains so hard it’s swollen. He wants to shove himself back inside you— your warmth—and hump at you until his marked you with his essence. 

He can’t help but touch himself as he pleasures you. Stroking his cock with every lick of your pussy. Thrusting into his hand when he feels you throb against his tongue. He’s groaning and grunting into your cunt, urgently chasing his own release as he sucks on you for his own pleasure. 

Too busy to realise that you’ve been begging him to slow down a bit. That you’re too sensitive. That you feel like you may explode if he continues. 

“Ralak! I just came! F-Fuck—” You yank his head away, hurriedly rubbing at your sore pussy.

Ralak pants for air, pulling back into a standing position to reveal that he’s been fucking his hand this entire time. It’s glossy with his precum as it dribbles down his strake. He’s frantically stroking himself, staring brazenly down at your pussy—taking in how it’s flushed and swollen, glistening with his spit and your slick. It’s a delicious sight, tempting him to go in for another taste. 

He’s close and you can tell, his hips are stuttering erratically and he’s groaning like a dying man. You sit up slowly, bringing yourself to your knees as you shuffle your way closer to him. Your chest is level to his cock and you cup your full breasts with both hands, pushing them together only inches away from him. 

He seems a little confused, unsure of what your next move may be. Fuck, you aren’t even sure of what your next move is. But you’re going with your instinct, pinching your nipples until they begin to leak milk. His brows jump, the sight of that sends his hips stammering into his hand. With each huff and thrust sends his cock a little closer to you, until his swollen cockhead is poking at your breasts. 

You shuffle a little closer, moaning softly from watching him get off like this. Then you feel his sticky cock slip in between your breasts, and his hand falls to your shoulders. 

Now he’s fucking your tits in a frenzy, his leaking tip prodding at your lips. You stick your tongue out for a taste, allowing his cockhead to slip and slide against it. He’s groaning and moaning, eyes fixed in the sight beneath him. The pressure from his fat cock between your breasts only makes you leak even more, and that’s when he loses it completely.

“Oh, fuck.” He growls, thrusting hard enough to shove his cockhead into your mouth. You feel him throb violently against your tongue, his thick, hot load coating your cheeks until they're full to the brim. He pulls out as soon as he realises what he’s down, immediately reaching for your bedside bucket to spit in. 

But you shake your head, glossy eyes staring up at him as you swallow his cum with a singular, loud gulp. His eyes bulge, his hands flying to cup your cheeks as he quickly searches your eyes. You simply smile, using a thumb to swipe the single bead of cum on your chin and pop it into your mouth. 

Features softening, he returns the smile, chest heaving wildly as it swells with pride. 

——

[theharrowing]

Collateral 🗡️: Yoongi POV

Yoongi is spiraling. He has has a bigger mess on his hands than he could have anticipated, and you have slipped between his fingers.

PREVIOUS | INDEX | NEXT

❗ THIS IS A CHARACTER POV CHAPTER!!!

even if you have not been reading the POV chapters, i highly recommend reading this one to get a sense of what has been going on inside Yoongi's head since this story began, and where he is now.

🗡️Yoongi x Namjoon, Yoongi x Female Reader x Namjoon, Jungkook x Reader

🗡️ word count: 8.1k

🗡️ mafia au, established relationship, poly, smut, angst, fluff, nsfw, explicit, 21+

🗡️ warnings: semi-explicit smut between Yoongi & Namjoon (anal sex; mostly Yoongi experiencing subspace and not being present; non-explicit oral sex); mention of the disposal of dead bodies; blood on Yoongi's hands; mention of weapons (guns and knives); mental health stuff (anxiety; dissociation); chess talk...(is that a warning? lmk if the analogy is confusing lol); brief mention of homophobia (as a concept/worry, not as a direct experience); thoughts of taking heroin and overdosing (does not actually use); Yoongi is in a dark place and not necessarily suicidal, but definitely at a breaking point.

🗡️ notes: mc is referred to in 3rd person (she/her) pronouns for this chapter! there is also a hefty amount of foreshadowing for remaining chapters, and a surprise at the end.

🗡️ beta read by @neoneunnajimin 

🗡️ posted june 2024 | read on ao3

"She's gone," Namjoon says, smile evident in his tone. Yoongi continues to watch as Jeongguk drags her away by the hand along the path toward his home. She stumbles behind him, arm outstretched as his strides are longer than hers. Namjoon continues, "I have you all to myself."

Once she disappears along the path, Yoongi rips his gaze from the trees and turns to Namjoon, lifting an eyebrow to appear nonchalant. The crease of dimples on Namjoon's cheeks, paired with his lidded gaze, turns Yoongi's heart into a caged, rabid beast. 

"Oh?" he asks. 

Namjoon's dimples deepen. "It's been a while since it has just been us two," he groans, stepping so close that Yoongi has to angle his head to gaze at him. "I miss you."

This makes Yoongi chuckle. He knows what Namjoon's I miss you entails—how it has nothing to do with the simple physical nearness that the phrase may imply on a surface level.

"You have me," Yoongi responds, wrapping his arms lazily around Namjoon's waist.

"Are any staff members here?" Namjoon asks as he leans close and rubs the tips of their noses together. His cologne is familiar and bright, causing tension to release from Yoongi's shoulders.

"Just the chef," Yoongi responds through a long exhale of air.

He opens his mouth to ask why Namjoon is curious—knowing full well that sex is on his mind—but Namjoon captures his bottom lip in his teeth and sucks until Yoongi's eyes roll back. Yoongi feels dizzy from desire and goes limp in Namjoon's arms. His eyes flutter closed momentarily, and he lets out a deep, pleased groan.

"Send him home," Namjoon mutters, lip still captive in his mouth. He releases, then more clearly says, "I want you on the couch."

Yoongi shakes his head, unable to hold back a smile. He sounds petulant as he says, "Not my mother's couch," making Namjoon chuckle. The thought alone of cleaning a stain out of that ancient blue velvet sends a shiver along his spine. 

Namjoon laughs harder and nods—when it comes to Yoongi's mother, Namjoon always concedes. Even from the grave, he would never do anything to displease her. 

"Alright," Namjoon says, giving Yoongi a tug toward the slightly ajar front door. "The couch upstairs, then."

Yoongi smiles, and that is all Namjoon needs to take the lead, kicking out of his shoes while he tugs on Yoongi's hand. Yoongi steps out of a pair of leather loafers and is led through his home to his bedroom, smiling wider with each step, doing his best not to trip on his way up the stairs.

Yoongi loves his darling. He really does. 

But there is something so serene and comforting about having Namjoon all to himself, and he allows his mind to wander along this path, knowing it is not a disservice to her. He imagines she also enjoys moments when it is just herself and one of them. 

Or herself and Jeongguk.

"What do you suppose they are getting up to at Jeongguk's place?" Yoongi asks as they approach the large blue couch in his bedroom. 

Namjoon sinks to the cushions, leaving Yoongi to stand before him. He knows that unless Namjoon gives him verbal instruction, his assumed instruction is to not do anything, and so he keeps his arms hung to his sides while Namjoon begins undoing the fly of his slacks. 

"Fucking," Namjoon responds, glancing up at him, dimples prominent. His dark hair is beginning to grow out a bit, and hangs parted over his forehead.

Yoongi rolls his eyes, chuckling as his slacks and briefs are shoved to his knees and his legs are hit by cool air. He gently lifts one foot after another, hovering each one long enough to have his socks removed, and he says, "Touché."

"He bought her a dildo, for fuck's sake," Namjoon says, standing before Yoongi and grabbing at the bottom hem of his black sweater. 

Yoongi regrets bringing it up, sensing Namjoon is in the mood to tease. He grumbles, "I'm aware."

"Modeled after his own cock," Namjoon adds, sounding ever incredulous.

Yoongi feels exasperated and mutters, "Forget I asked," under his breath.

"No, tell me," Namjoon continues, lifting Yoongi's sweater and tee in the same motion, forcing Yoongi's arms upward. The garments are removed and tossed aside, and Namjoon grips Yoongi's chin, tugging him forcefully to bring their lips close before Yoongi has a chance to lower his arms to his sides again. "What else would they be doing?"

Namjoon steals the air from Yoongi's lungs, leaving him standing nude, cold, and utterly speechless. He stares into Namjoon's dark, sharp eyes, finding all he can do is catch his breath.

"Bend over," Namjoon instructs.

Yoongi nods in quick, shallow movements and swallows thickly. "Yes, daddy," he utters softly, sound caught in his throat. 

Namjoon takes his time stretching Yoongi with his fingers and tongue. He is delirious by the time he is instructed to lay on his back, barely cognizant of the soft fabric as it shifts below his knees and settles below his back. 

The room dissipates into a thin fog as Namjoon enters him, and his body is electric with sensation, feeling only where he is used and touched—where beads of sweat drip from Namjoon's forehead onto his heated skin. 

Yoongi revels in these moments when he can slip into subspace and shut off, becoming nothing but a doll for his lover. He tries to think about his darling but the synapses do not fire. All he knows in this moment is immediate, insurmountable pleasure. 

As Namjoon fucks Yoongi with his legs lifted high in the air, the rocking of his body mixed with the pleasure-pain of how hard Namjoon's thrusts are caused him to drift. He is lost at sea with nothing but the roaring, whooshing sound of his heartbeat in his ears.

Yoongi returns to his body as Namjoon uses a warm, damp rag to clean him off. It takes several heavy blinks to realize he has been carried into the bathroom and is bending over the cold marble sink with his feet spread on a soft rug. The hard surface feels good against his heated skin, but he begins to shiver the more aware of it he becomes. 

"I completely lost you for a while, there," Namjoon says once he is finished. He places a kiss between Yoongi's shoulder blades, and Yoongi hums happily as his eyelids flutter closed and a shiver works down his spine. 

The two of them have an agreement that unless Yoongi becomes so out of it that he starts to panic, Namjoon is not to stop. He is allowed to use Yoongi all he needs to, and he is always gracious in the way he cares for Yoongi after. 

Yoongi has never had a panic moment during subspace, but they have read that it is something that can happen. He and Namjoon have become so close over the years that Yoongi is not concerned. They can cross that bridge if they ever come to it. 

It is only when the sex ends and Yoongi is a full person again that he sometimes loses his grasp on reality, but he figures that is a different matter entirely.

"Did I cum?" Yoongi asks although he knows the answer is no. His cock is soft but he can feel the pent-up need for release that has him practically begging Namjoon for another round.

"Nah," Namjoon responds, tugging Yoongi by the shoulders to stand up straight. As Yoongi pushes away from the counter with his elbows and then his palms, Namjoon—who is shirtless but wearing briefs—wraps his arms around Yoongi's arms, pinning them to his sides. "I tried twice to make you cum but you kept seeming too overwhelmed. Didn't want to push you."

"Sorry," Yoongi mutters, although he is not in the least bit sorry. Still, he finds it is the only thing that makes sense for him to say, right now. It is common for him to get so lost that he does not cum, but he always feels a tinge of guilt for some reason, as if ejaculation is the only way to express to someone that they have made you feel good. Of course, it is not.

"Want to discuss it?" Namjoon asks, and Yoongi shrugs, ready to brush it off as nothing because he is concerned that he may actually begin to spiral if he voices what has been on his mind. 

It certainly is not nothing. Yoongi slips away the easiest when his mind is so clouded with anxiety that he becomes desperate to let go. And, of course, Namjoon knows this better than anyone else. 

"Sure," Yoongi admits. Perhaps it would be nice to voice his feelings out loud. "Once we are dressed and I have a fair amount of marijuana in my system, I will gladly discuss it."

With new socks and underwear, Yoongi returns to the outfit he had been wearing before, shaking the garments as he lifts them from their pile on the floor in order to free them of the socks and briefs that belong in the hamper. 

Namjoon kisses Yoongi on the cheek and leaves the bedroom first, undoubtedly to make his way down to the living room to where he keeps his joints stashed in his mother's favorite antique table. 

Yoongi thinks of his mother as he runs a hand through his hair and slowly follows along. The mansion is full of memories of her, and he wishes he could confide in her the way he did when he was younger. More than anything, he wishes he could be in her presence again.

He pauses at the top of the stairs to peer at a closed door on the far end of the mezzanine that has not been opened in years, and he imagines his mother donned in all black with her long hair twisted out of her face into a neat bun in the back. She always sat on her favorite velvet sofa—the one that is now down in the main hall—drinking a glass of Shiraz while reading the newspaper, ready to set both aside to advise her son in a moment's notice. 

Yoongi has walked in on a similar scene so many times before, and as he imagines the warmth of her embrace, memories flood back to him, as they always do.

I love him, his younger self whined, collapsing to the cushion as two warm arms wrapped around his shoulders and engulfed his head in Chanel-scented darkness. He loved Ryujin, too, but in the way one loves someone they have known all their life. Not in the way he loved Namjoon. 

He had always thought he could have, though. He was willing to try to feel the way he pretended to. All he needed was a little time, he would tell himself.

I know you do, her voice said, strong yet soft, unwavering. Hold him dearly, and do not let him go. The others will come to understand.

Yoongi remembers asking his mother what to do if the others did not come to understand, voice trembling as he sniffled against her neck. Specifically, he was talking about his father, though he was not brave enough to say so. He was never brave enough to say so.

Then be rid of them, is all she would say in response. She made it sound so easy.

Yoongi's heart feels heavy, and he closes his eyes, descending the steps while wishing she were still here. He is no fool—he knows he does not always make the best choices. But he does the best he can with what he has been given, and he hopes that she would still be proud of him. At the very least, he thinks she could talk some sense into him.

In a blink, Yoongi is outside, standing on his front stoop, lighting the joint that is nestled between his lips. He glances down at his feet to make sure he is wearing shoes and is pleased to find that they match. 

Yoongi does this lately—loses track of himself. One moment, he is standing at the top of the staircase, and the next, he is outside. He knows that his brain still pilots his body in the in-between moments, but it always gives him pause to return to himself, realizing he has been somewhere else. 

Christopher says it is a form of dissociation and points out that it occurs when Yoongi tends to be experiencing high levels of stress. The problem is, Yoongi is almost always experiencing high levels of stress. 

Yoongi inhales sharply, feeling the smoke fill his lungs. He hands the joint to Namjoon, holding his breath a few seconds more, then lets it out in a deep exhale.

"Craving sushi," Yoongi mutters, mostly to himself.

Namjoon chuckles as he lets out a plume of smoke and hands the joint back. "Sushi is doable, and agreeable. Wanna call our darling?"

Yoongi brings the joint to his lips and shakes his head. He wants to give her a little more time and space. He wants her to feel like she has freedom. 

"Not yet," he says as best as he can while trying to keep the smoke from escaping his lungs. Then he sighs, letting the air push out, passing the joint back to Namjoon. "I feel like I have been crowding her, and I—" Yoongi swallows, finds his mouth is terribly dry, and shoves his hands into his pockets. 

Namjoon inhales sharply and coughs. Yoongi considers going into the kitchen to fetch them some water, but he feels glued in place, unable to move. 

"Ah, right," Namjoon says, voice somewhat strained from coughing. "Is this what has you stuck inside your head today?"

Yoongi nods, staring at the tree line that separates his property from Seokjin's and Jeongguk's. Greens and browns fade in and out of focus, making him dizzy, but he finds he cannot look away.

"She had a fucking panic attack," Yoongi says under his breath, finding his tone is sharper and much angrier than he intends. He swallows, nibbles the inside of his cheek, and then tries again in a much more even tone. "I feel like I have grossly misjudged the situation, and it is not as if I can simply take the proposal back."

"We have been putting a lot of pressure on her," Namjoon agrees, stepping close. 

Yoongi does not want more of the weed, and he shakes his head when it is offered. He rips his gaze from the trees and turns to Namjoon, watching as his expression falls to match his solemn one, lips downturned in a frown. Yoongi knows that Namjoon already knows what he is thinking before he says it. He always does. 

"I am at a loss for what to do," Yoongi mutters. 

Namjoon turns his head to the side to blow out a mouthful of smoke, eyes staying on Yoongi. "I suppose we give her space whenever possible," he suggests, to which Yoongi nods. "And we find a good time to sit her down and talk to her. We can assure her that we are not trying to rush or pressure her."

As always, Namjoon is right. A conversation goes a long way, and it is something the three of them have not made enough time for. A lot of bullshit has happened over the last couple of months, and Yoongi imagines all three of them must have a lot on their minds.

And there are some things that Yoongi needs to clear up before their relationship becomes even more serious. Things he has not been forthcoming about because he never expected to care enough about her to want to openly discuss them. 

He still cannot believe he has allowed himself to fall in love again.

Yoongi opens his mouth to respond, but his phone begins to buzz. The vibration is a pattern that is only programmed for one phone number, and he smiles as he reaches into his pocket, eager to hear from her, albeit a little worried. Perhaps they can have the dreaded but much needed conversation over dinner. 

* * *

It is just after 2 in the morning when Yoongi's phone finally rings. He is drenched in sweat and blood, and he drags the back of his hand over his brow as he wipes his other hand against the leg of his pants and reaches into his pocket, palming his device. Seokjin's name shines at him in big white letters, and he breathes deeply and slowly before accepting the call. 

Around him, bodies of men are dragged further onto the compound from the security gate, and Taehyung loads them into the back of a sleek black pickup truck for identification and disposal while Jeongguk prowls the length of the driveway like a territorial beast, clenching bloody knives in both hands. 

"Seokjin," Yoongi pants, exhausted. 

"Boss," Seokjin responds chipperly, "Your wolf is on a flight to Taiwan. A liaison will meet her and either take her to Hong Kong to stay with The Tigers, or to Busan."

"Busan," Yoongi bites back, feeling his stomach churn with discomfort. "It would be nice to have her on the same peninsula, but…at what cost."

Seokjin asks, "Still distrust the ladies?"

Yoongi sighs. "Yes and no. Ryujin is not stupid enough to harm her, but I am not sure I can speak for Hyungseo."

"I have employed Hyejin to take the place of our informant, and I seem to recall she and your darling getting along fairly well."

Yoongi hums. Something about Hyejin's actions have always felt like a performance. That, or it has been too long since Yoongi has ever met someone who is genuinely as kind as she seems. 

"Busan is fine, so long as one of us can make house calls."

There is a pause before both men say, "Jeonggukah."

Of all the family men, Jeongguk was closest with Ryujin before her family's betrayal. If there is anyone who she would allow on her compound, it is likely him. 

"Once they have settled, I will be in touch," Seokjin says. "They are going to stay in Taiwan for a couple of days to allow things here to calm down, or culminate—whichever comes first."

"Alright," Yoongi says, willing to accept this plan for now. 

The less time she spends in Busan with his enemy, the better. But, Yoongi supposes, it may pull Barom off her scent, that sneaky piece of—

"How are things there?" Seokjin asks. 

Yoongi scoffs. He stretches his neck and glances around, watching as Taehyung and Namjoon load the last of the bodies onto the truck. Jeongguk continues to pace back and forth near the gate while Hoseok gleefully packs up all the various weapons taken from the dead men. 

"It was a clusterfuck, to say the least." Yoongi sighs. "Barom slipped away with one of his men. We managed to kill the rest. Taehyungah is taking the bodies to ID and incinerate, and Hoseokah is piling up a wealth of new toys."

"Ooh, toys! Anything good?" 

Yoongi shrugs to nobody. "Mostly knives and handguns. I have a feeling these are not his strongest, nor most organized men. Have you any idea who this guy could be working for?"

"I did a cursory check on social media—just what he shares with the public—and it seems people call him Mister Insanity. But, as you can imagine, that provides us with absolutely nothing."

Yoongi chuckles. How ridiculous.

Seokjin continues. "I have asked the Busan girls, as well as the Songs in the south. Neither seem to know anything, but they said they would report back should anything come up."

Reluctantly, Yoongi asks, "And Sunmi-noona?"

Seokjin sighs. Lee Sunmi, who remains a neutral party with regard to mafia family goings-on, is often at the center of everything, as well as a ghost. She operates many of the businesses owned by the Min and Shin families from Seoul to Busan, with a spattering of buildings in Daegu. 

With simultaneously the cleanest and dirtiest hands in the city, Sunmi tends to know everything that happens behind the scenes, though Yoongi suspects Seokjin knows even more. Sunmi and Seokjin were in cahoots for a while until Hoseok stole Seokjin's attention away for good, and they developed the same chains of information gathering. 

Yoongi has not seen Sunmi in quite some time. In fact, he has been dodging her calls and being dismissive over text since the day he brought his darling home. They, too, were tangled in a messy little web for a while, and Yoongi was not the most chivalrous in the way he stepped away. Becoming close with Sunmi was a strategic move, and nothing more. Getting information from her now might prove to be a challenge. 

"That one is on you," Seokjin responds through a chuckle. "You know damn well she will not meet with me."

Yoongi sighs and rubs his thumb and middle finger over his temples. "Alright," he concedes.

Namjoon sends Yoongi a nod to let him know he and Taehyung are finished with their task. Yoongi lets out a sigh and feels his shoulders relax. 

"I need a fucking shower and to get some sleep. I am postponing our meeting until ten."

"Sounds good, boss," Seokjin replies. 

His tone is too calm for the present situation, and it makes Yoongi uneasy, but he is exhausted and he pushes the thought aside. He can dwell on it once he has slept. 

Yoongi seems to slip out of himself once more, losing the time spent walking from the driveway up to the ensuite and undressing. He returns to himself as hot water hits his bare shoulders and he gasps while looking around, finding Namjoon adjusting the shower knobs to his left. 

"Too hot?" Namjoon asks.

Steam fills the room, and it is definitely too hot, but it also feels good. Yoongi likes it when the water is near-scalding. How else will it wash away his sins?

With a sigh, Yoongi closes his eyes and tilts his head back. He lets out a grunting sound that is hardly a response, and Namjoon continues to fiddle with the knobs until the water is a more agreeable warm-hot. 

"We should pack her a suitcase," Yoongi mutters to himself as a sudsy loofa passes over his collarbone.

Yoongi allows Namjoon to wash him, standing with his eyes closed and his body as still as he can keep it. He wonders whether he should allow himself to feel relieved that she will be on her way to Busan in a matter of days. He thinks the girls will take good care of her so long as their lives are on the line. 

In the morning, he thinks, he can pack a bag to give to Jeongguk. He and Namjoon can also assist Taehyung with cleaning the mess. Yoongi just needs to get a little sleep first. 

As Namjoon washes him for the second time today, Yoongi begins to somewhat drift. He often wishes the two of them could have had a simple, normal life.

"The last conversation I had with my mother," Yoongi mutters, eyes closed, imagining her smile that so closely resembled his own, "was to tell her that I wished I could marry you instead."

Namjoon's hand stills where it scrubs circles against Yoongi's shoulder blades. Then his hand continues to scrub, and he mutters, "I know."

Of course, Namjoon knows. Yoongi has told him time and time again.

Perhaps it is unfair to his darling—all the secrets he has kept, the life he wishes he could lead instead of this one. He has often wondered whether he will ever have the courage to tell her the entire truth. 

What he has done…the long con that he has facilitated behind the scenes, the presence he has had in her life for years before she finally came into his home… Once she discovers how many strings Yoongi had been pulling behind the scenes—a maestro of death, destruction, and coercion—he worries her grasp on reality would shatter.

But, he reminds himself, the two of them were never meant to fall in love. Not really. And, he thinks, perhaps that is why he is so comfortable with allowing her to fall into the arms of other men. 

Despite how close they have become, Yoongi has always known that she would not be comfortable with this lifestyle. We will condition her, he used to insist. We will break her down and build her back up again. We will make her into something magnificent.

After all, she was only meant to be a rook in the greater scheme of this game they have found themselves playing. A major piece, but an exchange piece, no less. Her purpose was always to be the beautiful façade that hid his relationship with Namjoon from the politicians and the thugs who might weaponize his sexuality and use it against him. He should have known from the start that the rook was a queen in disguise and that she would not so easily put up with his bullshit.

Yoongi knows he has taken her for granted and that she deserves to know everything. He has dwelled on it for far too long—has let the guilt nearly tear them apart several times, already. 

More importantly, he needs to be the one to tell her the truth. He needs to make damn sure Barom does not find a way to her first. Yoongi was certain that his threat back at the Han River when all of this began would be enough to keep Barom away; his return changes everything. 

"Baby," Namjoon says, pulling Yoongi from his thoughts. The word is spoken low and close, right into his ear. 

Yoongi hums and opens his eyes. 

"Wash your hair. Let's get to bed."

Yoongi nods. He turns to the black tile shelves set into the shower wall and squirts shampoo into his hand from a bottle. It is a newer one Namjoon has bought that has a woodsy scent to it, mingling with a citrus scent that Yoongi tends to default to. It cloys his senses as he rubs it into his hair, slowly working it into a lather. 

Two strong hands take over, nails scratching against his scalp, and Yoongi lets out a heavy sigh and drops his hands to his sides. He must have been spacing out again, and he opens his eyes to find Namjoon's tattooed chest and neck covering his field of vision. 

"Sure you don't want to make an appointment with Christopher?" Namjoon asks.

"Just need to sleep," Yoongi responds somewhat robotically, voice monotone. 

Namjoon chuckles. "No amount of sleep is going to fix whatever is going on up here, baby," he gives Yoongi's soapy hair a playful tug. It feels nice. "But I suppose that is a good place to start. Rinse."

Yoongi takes one step forward to be fully under one of the showerheads, and he stands in place as his hair falls around his face to his shoulders in a wet curtain. Namjoon continues to scratch his nails over his scalp, and Yoongi opens his mouth to sigh, tasting the sharp flavor of shampoo enter his mouth. 

Once the shower is turned off, Yoongi shivers as he walks out onto the mat and reaches for a towel. He feels cold all the way to the bone marrow and has to force himself not to tremble so hard his teeth clatter. Namjoon walks to the sink to retrieve a bottle of leave-in conditioner that he begins to work into Yoongi's hair, and then he leaves the room entirely.

Namjoon does not shiver the way Yoongi does. He appears perfectly content with just a towel wrapped around his hips, walking around as if he truly has no care in the world. Yoongi envies him.

With his shoulders pulled up to his ears, Yoongi meanders to the sink and begins to brush his teeth. He spits bloody foam into the basin and rinses with warm water, tonguing a spot on the right side of his mouth where his tooth and gum had been struck with the butt of a gun the same night Jimin was shot. 

Yoongi needs to see the dentist to have his teeth looked at, but it is another thing on the ever-growing list of things Yoongi has no energy for. There are always so many fucking things. 

Namjoon returns with a stack of folded black fabric that Yoongi recognizes as a shirt and sweatpants. He gets dressed slowly, knees and shoulders feeling stiff with age and exhaustion. Namjoon uses a towel to squeeze some of the dampness from Yoongi's hair, then tosses the towel aside. Yoongi follows him to bed. 

As soon as he lays down and is engulfed in the cold comforter, Yoongi shivers and turns instinctively to Namjoon, whose naked limbs are wrapping around him and tugging him close.

"Need a little help falling asleep, baby?" Namjoon asks as a warm hand cups Yoongi's flaccid cock and balls over his sweatpants. 

Yoongi stretches his legs out and rolls onto his back, smiling as he mutters, "Hmm…maybe."

Without another word, his pants are shoved down, and Yoongi feels hot breath ghosting against his thighs. He spreads his legs wide, digging his heels into the mattress as Namjoon settles between them. Namjoon's mouth is as talented as it is greedy, and he has Yoongi cuming down his throat and falling asleep in no time. 

When Yoongi awakens, the hints of sun that come past the dark blue curtains are still too faint to light more than soft slivers of the room. Yoongi stretches his limbs, causing the sweaty mass of snoring man beside him to stir and shift. 

Yoongi takes his time rolling out of bed, feeling rested enough. He knows that a little more sleep would do him some good, but once he is awake, he is awake. 

He wants to pack a suitcase that he can send with Jeongguk the moment their meeting concludes. Even though the girls will likely be in Taiwan for another day or two, he wants everything to be prepared. He does not want to waste a moment of time.

As Yoongi steps out into the cold, empty mansion, his gaze drifts once more to the door at the far end of the mezzanine, past the two bedrooms that are infrequently occupied. One of these days, he thinks, he would like to pull away the plastic furniture coverings and sit on the chairs. He should dust his mother's shelves of books and open the curtains to let in some light.

Yoongi pads over to the first bedroom and twists the knob. When he shoves the door open, the air in his lungs gets trapped. Something about the way this room was left unsettles him, and it takes a moment for him to notice all the signs.

The makeup and hair care items that had lived atop the vanity near the door are all gone, the bed is made, and sitting on the bedside table, where it always is, is the Tiffany blue engagement ring box. 

Beside the large, fake engagement ring box is the second, smaller one. The real one. 

Yoongi swallows the urge to vomit. He steps into the room, leaving the door hanging ajar, walks over to the walk-in closet, turns on the light, and nearly collapses. 

It is clear from a cursory glance that his darling has cleaned this place out. All that remains are designer clothing and shoes that he and Namjoon procured; everything that seemed to have personal value to her is gone. 

Yoongi walks in on the right side and lifts a hand, brushing his fingertips over dress after dress, feeling the fabrics—one after another after another, some soft, some rough, all delicate. At the very back is the off-white halter dress that she wore to her birthday party, and he freezes, hand hovering in the air before it. 

Tears pool in Yoongi's eyes, and he swallows his urge to panic. He needs to think. None of this makes sense and he needs to think. 

In the left back corner of the room, where a large black suitcase once stood, there is nothing. It is clear that she had packed her belongings, but when? Between Barom and his men arriving, and Seokjin escorting her out, there was no time to pack this much.

Realization hits and settles uncomfortably in Yoongi's belly. She planned on leaving before Barom arrived with his fireworks and guns. She was planning on leaving all along.

He wants to rip every last shred of fabric from these hangers and scream until his throat is raw. Instead, he turns to the center island, bends with his elbows against the cold marble, and sobs. 

Anguish fills his chest and throat, constricting his ability to breathe. Tears fall in hot streaks, tickling his nose and lips as he leans with his head against his forearms and cries until his throat burns, failing to keep from making too much noise. Although he is far enough that the sounds likely will not travel to Namjoon, sound does carry surprisingly far through large, empty spaces. 

He does not wish to alarm Namjoon. Not until he can gather himself.

Yoongi cries until he is out of breath. He attempts to stand and get his bearings, but he is dizzy and bleary. He is angry. He is confused. 

He opens a drawer on the left side of the island and peers inside to find that all of the jewelry Namjoon bought for her birthday is still tucked inside. She has taken none of their many gifts. But why?

As he sighs through his misery, taking in deep, shaking breaths, Yoongi blinks the small room into focus and notices a piece of paper sitting atop the marble island, folded neatly into a rectangle. His hands shake as he reaches for it, delicately unfolds it, and reads. 

My Yoongi,

Your blood is on my hands in my dreams and in the waking world. I know you do not blame me, but the thought of it makes me sick to my stomach. I hope one day I will be able to look you in the eye and not feel so ashamed. 

In your arms, I feel like a queen. I feel like I am on top of the entire world. Nobody has ever given that to me before, and nobody could ever come close. 

It is not the height that I fear so badly but the fall back to earth.

Yoongi's hands tremble, and anger rises. He squeezes the paper, crumpling it in his palm as the burning fire of rage courses through his blood. 

Her absence holds emptiness like a hole in the world, and Yoongi feels as if he might go supernova and collapse on himself, only to explode.

He does not understand. Has Seokjin put her up to something more nefarious than he realizes? Could she have been planning on running away with Barom? Did seeing him at the restaurant cause something in her to want to flee, whether toward Barom or away from him? How does all of this connect?

Yoongi remembers the way she excused herself to bed early yesterday. He remembers the way Namjoon muttered, "I can't put my finger on it, but something feels off," as the two of them watched her walk up the stairs. 

How could he have missed something so big happening under his own roof? How could she join them in bed after packing her suitcase devoid of all their gifts as if nothing were amiss, at all?

Yoongi stands at the foot of his own bed, seething with anger and despair. He has no memory of walking there, but he is there now, watching as Namjoon sits up, first with a smile on his face, then with a look of worry.

"What is it?" Namjoon asks, shoulder and chest muscles flexing and relaxing with each movement.

Yoongi rounds the bed, tosses the crumpled note Namjoon's way, then grabs his phone. His hands shake fiercely, and he clenches his teeth as if that might help.

Call after call is rejected, met with an apologetic voice that informs him that the number he has dialed is no longer in service. How could the phone he has given her no longer work? He finds it unlikely that Seokjin would allow her to move continents without making sure she is able to communicate with him. 

Yoongi ignores the urge to throw his phone against the wall and he dials Seokjin. 

On the third ring, Seokjin answers, "Boss."

Yoongi hardly recognizes his own voice. "Seokjin," he growls. "We need to talk."

* * *

By eight fifteen, Seokjin is on the blue couch sitting beside a furious, confused Namjoon. Yoongi stands across from him, arms crossed tightly over his chest with the table between them. The letter is on the table, and although Seokjin has done his best to smooth it out, it is destroyed from Yoongi's grasp. 

To the left, beside the couch, is an equally confused Hoseok, standing with his arms crossed over his chest. Seokjin and Hoseok are well put together in button-ups and slacks. Namjoon and Yoongi are disheveled in pajamas. The clothing Namjoon wears belongs to Yoongi and is ill-fitting, rising at his ankles and abdominals and showing swaths of skin. 

Seokjin's demeanor is far too calm as he sits straight, addressing Yoongi. "As you originally instructed, I had kept Barom in one of the lower ranking teams—Jeongguk's drug operation. It was the same team he had been on before we took your wolf as collateral, only we had taken him off the streets. You will remember the group Jeongguk extinguished after he found out those guys had been stealing product."

"Jae," Yoongi says.

"Yes," Seokjin says. "Barom was the only member of that team who wasn't being a complete fuck up. After Jeongguk fish-fileted the lot of them, I moved Barom into hospitality where he was more or less a nobody working in various hotels. He blended in, didn't give anyone any trouble, and skirted under the radar, taking my many threats to keep his nose out of trouble seriously. Or so it seemed...until last night."

All of this checks out. When Yoongi gave Seokjin the instruction to keep Barom close and monitor him, he did not want to be told where the man would work and how much responsibility he would have. Yoongi did not want to run the risk of running into him, and he would likely have hunted him down had he known where to look.

Barom has always been a hard worker, but he has also been a bit of a coward. Yoongi did not think Barom would turn around and work for another family—to enact revenge or otherwise—but he has not been eager to give the man a chance. Keep your enemies close, and all that.

"And last night?" Yoongi grits between his teeth.

Seokjin sighs, but his expression does not break. "Last night was a strange series of coincidences."

"Why did she go to your house after dinner?"

With a light chuckle that is devoid of humor, Seokjin says, "She came by demanding that I help her set up a vacation. Seeing Barom at the restaurant rattled her, and she wanted to flee, so I told her to pack a bag, and that in the meantime, I would try to set something up. My plan was to discuss the matter with the two of you," Seokjin glances at Namjoon but keeps his attention on Yoongi, "and then pull her out in the next few days. Barom showing up in the middle of the night propelled matters."

All of this might make sense, except for one thing. "Then why did she leave that note? Why does it seem like she was planning on running away without saying goodbye to us?"

Seokjin sighs again, this time allowing his posture to relax. "As far as I can tell, she was planning on leaving without saying goodbye."

Yoongi drops his arms to his sides, fists clenched. "And you were going to—"

"Yes," Seokjin says simply, unwavering. "Either I was going to inform you and ask you to keep it a secret from her, so as to allow her to slip away without worry, or I was going to abide by her wishes and take the heat for it afterwards. You and I both know I would never put her in any sort of danger. She was not sure she could leave you two if she had to say goodbye to your faces, and she seemed quite desperate."

"No sort of danger?" Yoongi asks, shifting his weight to his right side. "Just as Hyunjin was in no danger? And his wife, and his daughter."

Before Seokjin can respond, Yoongi catches a slip in his façade. It is a minuscule twitch of his mouth—so small that someone who is not keenly aware of every one of Seokjin's microexpressions may not catch it. But Yoongi does, and he is furious. 

He steps forward, knocking his shin against the table as he roars, "You son of a bitch!"

From his left, Hoseok is advancing, hands open wide at his sides. He appears worried but confused, as if Seokjin has kept this secret from him, as well. 

Seokjin lifts his palms, and Yoongi imagines them dripping with blood. "You and I both know I had to spread the news that he was dead," he says quickly. "I was intending on telling you the truth once they were settled in with their new identities, but then you—"

Then he went off the rails and shot heroin into his veins. Yoongi squeezes his eyes closed. How has everything become so out of his control over the past year? He feels as if his sanity is slipping through his fingers like sand.

He wants to reach over the table and choke the air from Seokjin's lungs, but he knows that all Seokjin has done is follow protocol. Had Yoongi not been so wrapped up in everything else, he likely would have seen it for what it was—a ruse to throw anyone on the outside off of Hyunjin's scent. 

Forcing everyone, including those close to him, to think he is dead is a strategic move that Yoongi's father has used many times in the past. The old man even faked his own death once before he was gone for good, giving Yoongi a chance to slide into his role while standing over him like the menacing shadow he was. What a relief it was when the old man actually died shortly thereafter.

"Fine," Yoongi says, allowing his tensed muscles to relax. His shoulders feel tight, and he rolls them back as he takes a step away from the table and lets out a deep exhale. "It is a relief to know they are safe. I trust that they have money? A home?"

Seokjin hums in agreement. "They have been set up with fine lives."

"And you would have done the same for her?"

There is another pause before Seokjin says, "I would have set her up with The Tigers for the time being, to get her off the peninsula. Then I would have offered her any major city we have ties to. I would have sent a translator who doubles as an informant to live in the next room over from wherever she was staying...or whatever the two of you would have advised."

This is acceptable, and what Yoongi had expected might happen when she began to talk about needing a vacation. He supposes that it all makes sense. She must have written the letter with the intention of him seeing it eventually, knowing she may not have had the courage to say goodbye to him to his face. Perhaps, he thinks, she did not mean to leave it behind when she left this morning.

Still, it hurts, just as it would have hurt had things gone the way she planned. But he finds he cannot be angry with her. 

Yoongi runs a hand through his unbrushed hair. His fingers yank knots apart. "Where is Barom now?"

Seokjin blinks owlishly. "I don't know."

Yoongi lifts an eyebrow, tamping down the urge to scream. His words come out sharp and slow. "What…do you mean…you don't—"

"He has gone off the radar since this morning," Seokjin cuts in, his words coming out quickly. "I have informants keeping their eyes open, including some in Busan. The moment anyone catches wind of him, we will know."

Yoongi wants to explode. He wants to claw everything in his path and rip it to shreds. He wants to smash the entire world under his boots, creating a mass of rubble and destruction that matches how he feels. 

"Alright," Yoongi says, exhausted. Spent.

It feels as if ants are crawling through his bloodstream and all he wants is to forget. He would love to shoot up and completely lose sight of himself, but he knows he cannot do that again. The temptation to push himself too far is too great. He cannot do that to Namjoon. Marijuana will have to suffice.

He walks to his mother's favorite antique table between the couch and his blue velvet chair, pulls out the small drawer on its front, and retrieves Namjoon's metal cigarette case which holds his stash of joints. Yoongi presses a little button on the side of the case, causing it to spring open, then he pulls out the last joint along with a box of matches. 

Without saying a word, Yoongi tosses the empty cigarette case onto the chair in a clatter of metal and begins to walk toward the door. He steps outside in socked feet and cradles the joint between his lips as his trembling hands work to light a match. 

Yoongi's phone dings in his pocket. It is the singular ding that signals an incoming text message, and he lights the tip of the joint with the flaming match, pulling in a deep breath as the end cherries red and turns to ash. His mouth and throat fill with smoke, and he holds it in until he begins to feel dizzy. 

With a sigh, smoke billows from Yoongi's nostrils, and he tosses the match to the ground, watching as the wooden stick darkens until it is a burnt husk blowing in the light breeze. Yoongi reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, spotting an unknown number and an image file. 

He thumbs through various screens until he finds Barom's clown-painted smiling face. The man is standing in front of a sign that Yoongi has to squint to read. He is unmistakably at an airport in Taiwan, but which one, Yoongi cannot tell.

"Seokjin!" Yoongi growls, feeling his pulse rise and his hands begin to shake. He knows that if he calls this number, it will come back empty. There is no way Barom sent that image without promptly removing the sim card.

Before Seokjin can respond, Yoongi's phone begins to ring, and he blinks the screen into focus, glancing at Taehyung's name as he pulls the device to his ear.

"Yes?" he asks, closing his eyes. He is not sure he can take any more news, and the day has hardly begun.

"Boss," Taehyung says. "It's Jimin."

Jimin. Yoongi's eyes fly open, sore against the bright morning sun. His vision is blotted momentarily with bright white, and as he blinks, it becomes clouded instead by tears. Yoongi finds it hard to imagine he has any more tears left to shed. 

"What is it?" Yoongi asks, voice shaking as badly as his hands. His knees weaken, and he considers sitting down on the hard concrete. 

Yoongi braces himself for the worst, and holds his breath while the joint between his fingers burns uselessly. Behind him, at least one other man has come to the door, but he is too focused on awaiting Taehyung's response to see who.

Hands grip his arms as if their owner senses his uneasiness, and Yoongi does his best to ignore the sensation as he tries his hardest not to drift away. He listens intently. 

And then Taehyung says two little words that change absolutely everything. 

"He's awake."

* * *

We are living in the war How far were we lying? We are living in the war Who'll listen to your prayers? We are living in the war

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* * *

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[val-in-the-underdark]

Grief, Pt. 2

I have a thread on Twitter talking about Astarion's grief that I will bring over here eventually, but it's something I thought of again while trying a new path last night.

I'm halfway through Act 3 with Val and I decided to see what would happen if I didn't take Astarion to Cazador's (I've done this quest like 8 times so I'm just doing separate saves to try things out).

It's a pretty rough path to go because Astarion is understandably upset. You robbed him of his choice to ascend or not, and his story is all about lack of free will (he and his siblings are enslaved after all), among several other things.

But if he doesn't break up with you, he tells you that Cazador held up a lot of space in his life and now he feels empty.

The quote before this is that Astarion thinks he would have felt differently if he had killed Cazador himself, but even if you take him with you, he says he feels numb and empty (said here if you defeat Cazador before dealing with Lorroakan).

Several characters in the game have this in common like Dame Aylin, Lae'zel, Shadowheart, Karlach, and Wyll, who are all in different stages of mourning a loss. Losing a future. Losing family. Losing freedom.

Grief can be a non-linear process and not the same for everyone. The five stages often quoted are never in a straight line like you would think. You might feel angry right away and hold that for so long that you cycle through everything else later.

Astarion is angry for a lot of the game in part because he's grieving; he was young and then enslaved for centuries with nothing to call his own. He has lost everything including his sense of self, something he will have to rebuild over again after the ending of his quest, The Pale Elf. How he does that is up to you, but with Cazador gone, it's no wonder he feels lost after two centuries.

Lastly, and I find this interesting, is the conversation that Tav/Durge can have when about to kill Cazador (again, if you decide not to take Astarion).

I think that all the evidence you encounter in the palace and in the dungeon isn't there to make you feel bad for Cazador (I mean, you could but you'd be a better person than me LOL). The purpose of Vellioth's lessons and this particular dialogue, etc. is to foreshadow Astarion's potential transformation into the Vampire Ascendant.

Ascended Astarion is a new kind of vampire, yes, but he's still a full vampire. He's not 100% outside of the mentality that full vampires have. For instance, when he first tells you about Cazador in Act 1, he says that vampires are scheming and power-hungry beasts.

This is evidenced by things you find in Cazador's Palace including the fact that he was hosting a final "feast" before the ascension ritual where he was gathering information (pretty sure this person said they worked at the Counting House).

Ascended Astarion is doing something similar in the epilogue when he tells you to bring any secrets right back to him - he's scheming and biding his time just like Cazador.

While we don't know exactly is going through Astarion's mind when he ascends, I sometimes wonder if there is a layer of him trapped like Cazador. I've argued in another thread that I don't think Ascended Astarion will fully deal with his past the way Spawn Astarion has to in order to move on, but maybe I'll re-post that or revise that for another time.

Anyway, while this path is interesting for lore reasons if you really love Astarion, it does feel hollow and anti-climatic because there's a lot of emotional payoff in the final confrontation.

[chaithetics]

frothing at the mouth for any norm fics

Gaps of Sunlight

Pairing: Norm Maclean (Fallout) x f reader Word count: 4.5K Gif by @klausbens Warning: Barely proofread, pining, longing, maybe a little fluff and angst? a jab at Chet's weird crush, this is set before the events of Fallout S1 so some 'foreshadowing' I guess but doesn't have any spoilers! Mitski inspired! A/N: Ask and you shall receive 🙏(translation: thank you for enabling me!!!) This is my first time writing Norm and it's the most fun I've had with writing a fic in a long time! I feel like I'm a more descriptive writer and I haven't had an idea flow like this in quite a while. I feel like this is similar to 'Porce and the Shark' in terms of writing? Idk how well this flows as a story lol?!?! I've barely written any angst and I haven't really done any yearning, so I hope this is good! So please validate, I just felt like I was never going to finish or/fix it enough so I thought I'd post it as is. Thought about the queen of angst, @inknopewetrust's work a lot when I started writing this. Comments and reblogs are really appreciated 🫶

You lay in bed as you couldn’t help but think about it all. Once again. You could go outside to the corn fields but all that could offer you was a projection from a time and place well before you were even conceived as an idea. You’d never really know what the sunlight felt like, how it would heat your chin and what it would be like to bathe in that light. You had tried to live vicariously through that with what approved, classic literature had survived the war and through the vaults. Shakespeare didn’t offer you much beyond metaphors that were just out of your grasp with relatability to your environment, you hadn’t particularly enjoyed Chaucer, an opinion you’d kept from your father. While the Brontë sisters were able to perfectly let you know what rain in a different continent would’ve felt like against your face and how it would’ve smelt and made your shoes feel to run across an English countryside, they never enlightened you about what being bathed in sunlight would feel like. There were only so many times you could read and annotate Homer’s works awaiting a revelation. 

Despite how everyone else moved around Vault 33, it was impossible for you to not help but wonder more of life. What it all was, and what it all meant. 

You pull yourself out of a possible mental spiral and quickly get ready for the day as it eases on just as every other day does in the Vault. There’s breakfast with a pleasant conversation with your family, and you teach English classes to the youth of Vault 33, you participate in other extracurriculars just like most of the other Vault dwellers but teaching takes up the bulk of each of your days. You don’t mind that at all though, you enjoy it, even on days where everything feels like a complete rut. The mornings when the blue of the vault suits feels like too much, the pleasantries feel more like programming than authentic connections. 

It had started like every other day and classes had happened accordingly, there was now the communal reprieve of lunch. As you slowly chew you look up and see him across the dining hall, despite being from the poster-perfect vault family, he’s Vault 33’s very own black sheep, Norman MacLean. He’s sitting there silently while his dad and Lucy are happily chatting away. Each taking turns trying to lure him into conversation, which he rejects each time with a quick, blink and you’ll miss it shake of his head. The same expression he always wears these days and has for years is etched onto his face, a chronic look of apathy. 

You can’t help but stare at him for a moment, watching the way he looks on almost blankly. Even from across the room, you can see every thought in those brown doe eyes as if he’s saying them aloud. How is it that he’s still so misunderstood? 

You’d grown up with Norm, he’d always been nice to you, even when you were at school. But that wasn’t exceptional, that was the whole thing with vault-dwellers, being nice people, even from a very young age. It’s not exactly a melting pot of cultures in the Vault like you know the surface once was but the culture is to be nice, chirpy, and practical. 

Norm was nice, he had a quiet charm, he’d be a good politician, just in a different way and style as his father, he was practical but he didn’t have a cheery disposition. He lacked enthusiasm and at times it seemed to almost fascinate him how much that little rebellion could bother people. He didn’t put himself out there and you remember how he was smart, he knew answers to the questions that were asked but he’d never put his hand up for them. 

It made you wonder at times if he was scared of his own voice. You feel your eyes squinting as you look at him wondering that question, as if studying his jawline for another minute or watching him lift his fork up to his mouth will tell you. 

With a deep breath, you tilt your head discreetly to look around to see if anyone noticed your infatuated staring but nobody seems to. You still put a polite, chirpy smile on your face in case anyone did. That should be enough for anyone to notice anything your eyes might’ve been betraying. 

Your mind still stays on him, because as always, you might see him better than anyone else but he is still a puzzle with pieces you have yet to find the corners to.

You’re sitting near the cornfield, trying to live vicariously in a world that’s not yours, one that will always be out of touch, just trapped into ink on a page and repeated for the ears of children, to fulfil a mission. But it’s his voice that pulls you out of the inner world of classical Greek horrors. 

“Sunny day today.” He says as he looks down at you as you sit on the chair and look at his standing form. He says it as if it isn’t sunny every day with that projection meant to convince you of what the surface once knew and not instead fall flat and be more reminiscent of golden Hollywood-esque crops on sets of the films that have survived. Norm’s voice is quiet, he’s just as soft-spoken as you remember him being so long ago. His tone is bored, but it doesn’t deter you, how could it when he’s standing in front of you looking into your eyes? 

He looks into your eyes, taking in the colour, worried that someday he could forget the flicks closest to your eyes. They might rearrange if he doesn’t look at them for another ten seconds to appreciate them. He could forget them. But he never would. 

“Just like your disposition.” You quietly tease, offering him a shy smile. 

Just as if it’s somehow not always sunny, a rare occasion worth being spoken about, so is his unchanging character. But beyond adding in a couple of cups of more confidence perhaps, you don’t think there’s much else that could be worth editing. 

“And for that exact reason, I’m surprised I’m getting a job transfer with the reasoning being my enthusiasm levels.” He says with a breathless chuckle. 

You tilt your head as you look up at him, he’s still standing, the toe of his shoe almost toying with something invisible on the artificial emerald green grass. You’d put your thumb in your book when he’d arrived but now you put your bookmark in and gently close it. Placing it gently on your lap. 

It hadn’t been that long since you’d both finished your education, having had jobs and duties in the vault was important for its efficiency and functionality. But still, this wouldn’t be Norm’s second job. You were still the teacher you’d been assigned at the start of your adult life, most people in the vault only ever had one job, sometimes they would change and so have had two in their whole life and of course, there would be a change of two or sometimes three for overseers, but three while still being so young was very rare. You had questions and internal crises about this world all the time, there was always a moment somewhere in your world that you felt slightly out of place. But still, contentment had found a way to settle in your bones much easier than it did for him. 

“What were the enthusiasm levels?” You ask quietly, slowly blinking. You already know the answer. 

Norm looks down at the ground, at the grass he could tug out and it would just never grow back. No matter how desperately everyone would want to pretend it would. His foot is so close to yours, mere inches away, the toe of his shoe could just brush against yours and no one would know. 

“Nought.” He says with disinterest, he slightly shrugs his shoulders as his eyes stay planted on the ground. 

“Something will stick eventually.” You say. 

You say stick, you don’t say that there will definitely be something he loves or that it’ll all be okay, it’s not what he wants to hear and you don’t know if there’s a role in this world that you both live in that would fulfil him as much as his father is fulfilled by being Overseer. He appreciates that. But he needs to change the subject. 

“Is a literature teacher always reading?” He questions as if it’s a riddle that might amuse him. 

“More likely to happen than finding them counting.” You say as you tilt your head. You don’t remember the last time he approached you for conversation, or the last time that he did and there were this many words. It would’ve been back when you were younger, still classmates. You can’t track an exact memory down which surprises you.

“So, what’s that one?” He asks looking at the book in your lap for a moment before his eyes slowly gaze back to your face, making eye contact for the first time in over a minute. You can’t help but feel your cheeks heat up at this. You feel seen as his eyes rake up and take in every facial feature and unique mark on you. 

Everyone makes a false and fatal assumption about Norm. They assume that because he’s not extroverted and over-the-top warm like Lucy or Hank, that he’s not charming. That’s complete crap. You know it’s false. He’s not the same as his family or a lot of the people in your home vault but without a doubt, Norman MacLean oozes charisma. He knows just when to turn it on and how to utilise it in the best way with each person. And right now, it’s working on you. 

“The Three Theban plays, by Sophocles.” You whisper as your eyes bore into him, you don’t dare to blink. Too scared that he might just disappear if you do, and that when your eyes open again, this will all be confirmed as another of one of your many daydreams about him. “They’re tragedies, I’m reading Antigone, at the moment.” You feel yourself latching each word onto the next word as if you’re climbing a ladder and need to build more rungs at the same time, there’s some intrinsic need in you to draw this out for just a few more moments. His presence gives you some kind of glow. You finally blink, your eyes not able to hold it anymore, he’s somehow still standing in front of you once your lids open. You immediately wonder if you’ve said too much and try to fight the urge to sigh but the urge to not let on how embarrassed you feel is more of a priority, you need to keep that internal. 

“And what has that taught you?” He asks with a small smile. 

Someone else might’ve found the tone cold. If someone else had asked that exact question, it might’ve felt condescending. But you know exactly what it is. 

Norm knows better, not better than you, he’s not that kind of arrogant. It’s because he’s always known that he knows better than most in these reinforced concrete and metal walls you all live in. But you live in a meritocracy. Everyone is in constant pursuit to be kind and to better and upskill as a contributing member of Vault society. Of course if someone’s openly reading it’s an academic pursuit, to be more well-read, that they can learn an important tale and moral lesson, or to use it as a quote to whip out at a convenient time in a council meeting or for intellectual criticism of another philosopher or writer’s thesis. And you both know it’s why each book that was chosen for survival by Vault-Tec was carefully curated, all in the name of intellectual pursuits and other reasons beyond either of your imagination. 

“Just further proof why we have rules against familial relations.” You reply after a slow blink, you remember what his sense of humour used to be like in class, how teachers would occasionally stifle an eye roll and sigh or would take a moment to then replaster their smile back on. You look at him, and your eyes can’t help but take in the shape of his nose as if you hadn’t already committed it to memory a thousand times before now. 

“Hah.” He says quietly, as if it’s amusing, which he finds to be a little as he lets out a small chuckle and his mouth quirks up and that makes you happy. It’s an expression that doesn’t grace his handsome face often. “Might need to pass that on to Chet, if that’s the case, I doubt he’s read it.” 

You let out a chuckle at that, and Norm’s brow furrows for a mere second as he takes you in. His mouth is still in a small smile but not many people find his humour to actually be humorous, his father and Lucy love him but he earns more small sighs and tired smiles from them than anything close to a laugh. 

“I’ll let you know when I’m done with this copy.” You reply with another slow blink. 

You watch his mouth, mentally tracing his lips with your eyes as he sucks his lips for a moment and nods, his eyes dropping to the ground again. It’s only then that you realise how close the toes of your feet are to each other. He couldn’t be looking down because of that, or thinking about that though. You are cursed to yearn in silence. “Appreciate it.” He says with a small smirk as he looks up at your eyes, he raises his eyebrows slightly to replace any verbal goodbyes and he walks off. 

Norm leaves you as he found you minutes before, all alone in false sunlight with a book in your hands. You still haven’t found the missing puzzle pieces. 

It had been four days now. Four days since you’d had that conversation with Norm, there had been plenty of stolen glances, and a few returned smiles when your eyes met across corridors or the dining hall, but Norman MacLean was still, one of the only things occupying your mind.

You wouldn’t complain, why would you? How could you when the fact that those glances, and snippets of conversations were now a supercut in your head that provided comfort whenever you started to get into another emotional crisis about vault life and what the history was that had brought everyone to this point. But still, you couldn’t help but sometimes worry over this yearning. How unrequited it could be. How unrequited it felt. 

You felt a hunger in the pit of your stomach each time that you saw his shadow, each time you two made eye contact you couldn’t help but feel as if it was a caress on your skin, even though the only time he’d touched you was to help you up when you’d fallen over outside when you were seven. He’d insisted on being the one to put the excessive amount of band-aids on your grazed hands. Hank had stood back and watched, finding it endearing, how concentrated Norm’s face was at such a young age. Maybe they should’ve thought about trialling him in medicine, but no, he probably still lacked the desired enthusiasm during the first-aid training vault-dwellers did. 

You were seated with your family for a council update, everyone gathered to sit on the folded chairs, you and your family were always extremely punctual, you sat with them on one side while the other was still a row of a few empty seats. 

As people slowly trickle in you see Norm come in, he looks mentally fatigued as he looks around, you turn your head to face your family so you don’t catch his eye in hopes of him not noticing your stare. How pathetic would he think you are if he saw you looking at him like a wide-eyed puppy, begging for love? You can imagine, but you don’t want to know. After a moment you hear somebody sit down next to you, the chatter of people finding seats fills your ears but you don’t hear any from whoever sits down. You feel their arm brush against yours, you know it’s nothing but you instinctively turn to see who it is and to give them a polite and welcoming smile. 

It’s Norm. Of course, it’s Norm. But why is it? He’s just facing ahead so he hasn’t acknowledged you yet, although you’re sure he can see your smile and look in his peripheral vision. “Hey.” You say quietly in a warm voice as you look at his handsome side profile, he shouldn’t look that good. His face shouldn’t be so perfectly sculpted. “Hi.” He says quietly as he tilts his head giving you a small look that seems dramatically playful which makes you smile, and let out a silent chuckle. Norm’s face turns back ahead to face the front where his father now stands and the council sit. Your eyes follow his gaze and you turn back in your seat to look straight ahead as Hank MacLean starts his updates in his usual down-to-earth, selfless leader tone. 

You can’t help but wonder if this is a sign, him choosing this seat, you even wonder if his arm brushing against you was intentional as he sat down and then again you wonder if you were being crazy for wondering that. As Hank’s words go on to fill the air, they don’t really fill your head, that’s too busy being at full capacity with thoughts of Norman. You rub your chin after a moment, hoping the feeling of your fingertips and nails against your chin might create a sensory distraction. You get a completely different kind of sensory distraction when his arm gently brushes against yours as he leans back in his seat, he adjusts himself so that your shoulders are touching and you can feel his arm against yours. You can’t help but silently gasp, hoping he doesn’t hear it and your breath traps itself as you hold your breath. Feeling far too scared to move. It has to be intentional, you look at him through the corner of your eye as you try not to move. He’s still looking ahead, his expression unfazed as he looks at the people in front of him but he’s still sitting in that position. He hasn’t moved his arm. 

It’s intentional. 

You try to breathe again as your cheeks heat up, and you bite the corner of your lip. The feeling of his arm against yours sends shivers up your spine and you can feel the warmth of that small point of contact radiating throughout the rest of your body. 

The connection you feel with Norm is deep and for the first time in quite a while, this simple gesture of touching arms makes you wonder if these years of yearning maybe aren’t unrequited. You feel your shoulders start to slowly rise and fall again at this thought, this movement hasn’t disturbed Norm away. A smile grows on your face like the corn that’s picked around the year, as you smile and look ahead. The meeting continues like this, it isn’t till the end that you lose that gentle, physical touch, sweet connection that you long for as Norm gets up and leaves to carry on with his day, you smile as he stands up, he gives you as small smile and walks away. You’re now touch-starved all over again, and you think it feels more hollow after feeling a touch from him. 

Maybe one day it won’t be just your arms touching but instead your hands, your hands will brush against each other and then your fingers will interlock together. You’re better at camouflaging but you’re certain that your souls are made of and connected by the same things. 

It’s been what feels like an eternity since you felt Norm’s simple touch, it’s occupied every thought and been the reason behind nearly every smile since it happened. The question is though, has it been haunting Norm at all? You know he isn’t seeing anyone, secrets like that don’t exist here and it would certainly be talk with how introverted Norm is. 

Hours is the amount of time you’ve spent trying to think of a reason to approach him but nothing feels right and you decide against it anytime you get close to it. You try to find any excuse to visit him and the one you can think of is beyond pathetic, and you know that. 

You find another copy of a collection of plays and decide to give it to Norm, for him to decide whether he wants to read it or to fulfil a bit. It’s not a good reason, but it’s the best you’d been able to come up with. And at least with the book in your hands there would be some comfort in the pages, the smell of them and the remaining dust that haunted the corners that had been facing the wall. It can ground you and be something to hold onto anxiously while you make a fool of yourself. Norm conveniently answers after you’ve knocked at the MacLean family unit. He looks at your face and raises his eyebrows slightly, his face switches from an apathetic expression to one a bit warmer. “Hey.” You say, smiling at him but you think it must come off as panicked and scared as you look at him with wide eyes and feel an anxious parasite growing and feeding off of you in your brain. 

“Hi.” He says as he steps back letting you come into the unit. You walk in, and it’s nice and tidy but it’s the same as essentially your family unit and every other unit in Vault 33. You blink as you look around for a couple of seconds and your eyes land back on him, he’s been watching you the whole time. 

“After Lucy?” He asks and you feel your cheeks heat up, you liked Lucy, she was an extremely lovely person and you did consider her a close friend. “No.” You shake your head, the admission makes you feel like coming here was an even worse idea than what you thought it was just a few minutes ago. “I brought a copy of tragedies, in case you needed any dark reading, or wanted to… pass them on…” You continue and bite your lip for a second. 

Norm lets out a little chuckle that shakes his shoulders for a second but it’s borderline silent, almost not real. He looks into your eyes and takes a step closer, you’re not sure if he’s going to do the hospitality script you learn from a young age of offering a glass of water or cup of old Joe. 

Instead, he quickly steps closer and Norm places his hands on the back of your neck, you sharply exhale and you know that the hair on the back of your neck is standing up. The feeling of goosebumps on every inch of your skin overwhelms your senses as his lips finally crash down. 

His lips are slightly chapped and you can feel that against yours, the fine lines and cracks as they press against your mouth. There’s nothing you can do but melt into his touch as you’re overcome with warmth. But there isn’t anything else you’d want to do anyway. 

There’s nothing else you can imagine feeling that feels this good. You kiss him back instinctively and put your hand into his hair as he deepens the kiss, his hair is soft and you run your fingers through it as you feel his tongue, and it’s a clash of your mouths against the other. 

You immediately wonder if the physical warmth of where your bodies come into contact, his breath against your face, his warm lips, and the warmth that envelops you internally is what sunlight feels like. This feeling basks you in what you imagine would be similar to being basked in the light of sunrays would. 

You don’t know how long this lasts, it feels like a sweet lifetime but still deliciously short as you kiss and feel his hair while his hand is gentle on the back of your neck. Like all things, it eventually ends. You look at each other with widened eyes and pant as your lips are no longer in contact. Your cheeks heat up and you almost want to giggle. You see his face is flushed and his eyes shine, you think it’s adoration but you could be projecting. 

“My dad will be back soon.” He whispers knowingly as his eyes look glassy. “Oh.” You look around as if that’ll help you feel more composed. You weren’t expecting this to end so abruptly, this felt like something straight out of a dream and now it was a cold end, something want to shapeshift into a nightmare. You know you should leave, you’re feeling far too flustered to try and have a conversation with Hank and you know this isn’t a conversation Norman wants to try navigating around with his father. “We um… Well, we need to talk…” You breathe out. 

He smiles and whispers your name, the tone is reverent as he says each syllable. “Not now.” His eyes look a little less glassy but it’s still a visible sheen and you can see it, the sun has withdrawn a little.  

“Not now?” You repeat, it comes out as a shaky question though as you feel every muscle in your body tense.

This is rejection, this is what puts all those protagonists you’ve read of into a depression that only the seaside can cure if anything can cure it. Being in this vault, you don’t think you can ask for cornfield projections to change to windy cliffs with waves crashing and the artificial grass to be replaced with manmade sand. You’d always wondered about the sunlight but now you’d have to wonder what sand from a beach felt like as well. 

“No.” He whispers. “That isn’t fair. Tomorrow?”

“I don’t know.” He blinks and his cheeks are flushed as he looks at you. 

“When?” “Maybe when you finish the book, not a copy, your book.” 

“Not a copy?” Your face scrunches up, as your brain runs screaming. 

“No.” He answers. “Yours probably has thoughtful annotations or something right?” He asks. 

“Or something.” You whisper back. 

“I’ll read that.” He says. 

You nod, as you pick up the spare copy and walk out from the MacLean unit, you don’t feel like you’re controlling your body right now, it must be some form of muscle memory.  Maybe you need to read and reread every book in the vault to further investigate if what you just felt was sunlight. Or, you wonder, are you still under gaps of sunlight, missing Norm more than anything?

[spngirlpolls]

Hi, I have a poll idea!

What is your favourite accidental foreshadowing in spn?

The Chronos ep from season 7 foreshadowing November 5 (Your future is covered in dark goo, letter written on Nov 5)

The trickster as Gabriel (does this count as accidental foreshadowing?)

The behind the scenes “we’re missing the gay angel” - “you mean gay like happy right?”

The monster at the end of this book and Chuck as final boss

“Angels are watching over you” (all early seasons mention of angels)

these are the ones that came to my mind

sorry this one took me a minute to respond to, i was trying to rack my brain for further examples. such a good idea!

i probably could do another one of these so keep an eye out for that

[spacemagicandlaserswords]

The Bad Batch 3.1 ‘Confined’ Recap

Image from this post by @isthereanechoinhere96

Fuck you for starting with that line

Why are the captions in a serif font?

Going heavy on the theme of freedom for the clones already in the recap. Foreshadowing?

Rex!

CODY

Meme by u/No-Needleworker5295 on Reddit

Ah fuck here we go again

Why must I be made to relive this?

Damn the music is really hitting hard and it’s only the recap

Spoilers for Season 3 below!

Mayday! *sobs*

Oh great, it’s fuck face again

Hemlock being a bastard as per usual

Poor Omega

“Prisoner? Omega, you are no such thing.” Said to the child kept in a cage.

Still not trusting and heavily side eyeing Emerie

Why do they let Omega carry around a little lunchbox? That seems like an obvious security risk. As does the cell with a window, even if it has a heavy grate on it.

LMAO Crosshair looks the saddest, wettest, most bedraggled little meow meow in existence

Who are those other clones??? I must know

Why are they taking blood samples from the top of the hand? That seems like the least useful place to take it from

“All of us serve a purpose here” Big oof

The shots and framing are making it pretty clear that the blood, and Omega's blood in particular, is important

So many commandos with the glowing visors

Oh, it’s a door scanner. I thought Omega was sitting in a cell in that shot in the trailer

Nala Se (derogatory)

Lmao that wasn’t even subtle. She just destroyed Omega’s blood sample without even hiding what she was doing

“This research, it’s not like what we did on Kamino, is it?” Pretty sure what you did on Kamino was just as horrific. Though you can’t really blame Omega for that seeing as she’s a literal child who was also probably experimented on

M-count. That’s midi-chlorians isn’t it. Lol they aren’t even being subtle about this. Force sensitive clones ahoy!

“Experiments on the specimens” Jesus H Christ

Vault? That doesn’t bode well

Everything about this episode is very eerie and sinister

Ok that is an excessive, overkill amount of security. Who the fuck is in there?

And straight into electrocuting space dogs. Great.

I knew the lunchbox was for hiding something!

Batcher? Aw, she named them after the Bad Batch

Yes, stick your arm into the cage with the aggressive space dog. That’s a good idea

Nuggies???

He was shivering T_T

Who are all of these clones??? I keep pausing the video and zooming in but I can’t see any identifying characteristics on any of them yet. 

And there he is

Oh fuck Crosshair’s hand is shaking. I know most people have probably watched the clip of this already but I deliberately didn’t. Shaking hands for a sniper is Not Good. That’s his right hand too, so presumably his trigger hand/finger/whatever it’s called? Is this a physical injury inflicted on him by their experiments or PTSD or both?

I’m intrigued at how much relative freedom they’re giving Omega. She’s not being kept in a cell all the time like the other clones. Though I suppose this is part of their plan to make Nala Se cooperate.

Ok the tap dripping in Omega’s cell is definitely a visual metaphor for how repetitive, dreary, and isolating this all is

That’s 21 tally marks

Oh, she made a straw Lula. Ow

[shrieking in distance] – what shrieking? Captions, what are you going on about?

Oh fuck that’s a lot of tally marks. And a hair change. Lots of time has clearly passed. They’ve updated Omega’s model too but I think it’s a tad heavy handed as she hasn’t aged that much.

Wow, she didn’t even look at Crosshair. Is this attitude change Omega being ground down by what’s happening to her or something she’s doing deliberately to try and play along and be more cooperative so she can find out about more stuff? Also, that’s the second time she’s walked past Crosshair in the same spot at the same time of the day. That seems deliberate. 

Lol could you be any more obvious with the lighting in that shot that Omega’s blood is important? It’s like the vial of her blood has a moody spotlight on it. Important plot point here!

Nooooo Batcher’s hurt 😭

Bacta sponge?

“If I get the chance to escape, I wouldn’t think twice about leaving you behind.” Hmmm, you keep telling yourself that Crosshair

“I’m not them.” T_T

“Don’t risk anything for me. I belong in here.” Oooooooooowwwwwwwww

“None of us belong in here.” Damn right

There is some really lovely cinematography and framing in this scene between Omega and Crosshair

Well that was brutal and heavy handed

A successful transfer? A successful transfer of what?

The “specimen” has a high M-count. So they’re force sensitive. Now for the speculation on who it is?

“You should not question my loyalty to science, Doctor.” LMAO bitch what?

Urgh, of course they’re killing the dog once it’s friendly

Ahahaha squished

Aw, she’s setting Batcher free but she doesn’t want to go. 

“I didn’t know you were so cruel, Omega.” Oh fuck right off

Piss weak attempt to help there Emerie

Hemlock getting his evil baddie laugh moment

Clever. Omega knows why she’s here.

Urgh, of course Hemlock would threaten Crosshair to get Omega to cooperate.

Re-education?!?!?! You sick fuck

“Actions always have consequences. Sometimes not in the ways we imagine.” I am really hoping that line comes back to bite him in the ass later on

Oh fuck off with bring back the doll Emerie. That is such a bait to try and get Omega to like her and behave

That’s 164 tally marks. Omega’s been on Mount Tantiss for 5 and a half months

Aw, Batcher made it out. And that’s the crashed shuttle from earlier that she’s howling on the top of. More foreshadowing?

[synthshenanigans]

I'm curious as to peoples idea for what he'd do for the next power hour so

[These all being popular ideas or ppl he's mentioned]

This was all just a ploy to get you to read my info dump theory on the concept of a Chonny Jash Power Hour loser HAHAHA

Im joking tho. Not about my CJPH theory, that is very much real but I'm not forcing you to read it lol

However if you're curious, my inane rambles are further down :}

[Long Rant Post Below]

Okay so I'm gonna start with the basic idea I got it from; that being Nerd. Nerd already foreshadowed the THDPH & the WWPH [Even down to the last song for each of them] Not only that, but he references the stuff hes done in the past as well with a break/pause inbetween.

[This is what I mean]

The first three being all stuff he already did. BDG with Pocket, Tally Hall with Vol.1 & then Cage by Tim Minchin being the start the power hours.

The next two being the power hours he would do after this song [Memento Mori & Charlie's Inferno-Will Wood & That Handsome Devil]. But those are the only songs he would reference in Nerd, leaving no more clues as to what the last one would be. The only thing left in it is the video game references & Stairway to Heaven in the ending. [Which oddly enough also fit the pattern in a way. StH being about dying and the afterlife like Memento Mori & Chonny's Inferno and the video game references being all covers he made on his old channel]

While the VG refs could be a hint at a Videogame or Toby Fox Power Hour, I think at most, if its a clue at all, hinting at the next thing he does is recovering old songs.

----

Next, a couple of his songs reference his past stuff. Fine, I'm Fine has a good amount of lines that vaguely refer back to songs from the before [heres a post that goes more into it that's pretty cool!!]. And more importantly Dear Machine references Pocket, Dream (Outro from Calamity) & wings of wax. Pocket being later used in Nerd & the mention of Icarus coming back in Art. Not only that, but the voice in the very end Thermodynamic Lawyer is the exact same [if not very close to] voice filter/effect he uses in Dear Machine. Even down to the British accent he does in it. [Tho it is fairly normal for a music artist to reference their older songs in their music so it could be nothing]

Speaking of Dear Machine tho, quick thing to add about it is that it shows he not against covering his own songs. While yea technically its just a different version of Ode of the Cog, DM,HtC in a way counts as a cover of OotC. Same goes for bargaining/compromise & The Ballad of Dr. Jekyll.

----

Another idea with a CJPH is that in the CJFS discord theres a "Question of the Day" Channel. Where, as the name says, a Mod or Helper will ask a CJ related question & everyone can give their idea/imput on it. For Day 100, as a special fun lil thing, they asked Chonny if he wanted to give a question for that day. His question being:

And yes he does say that he doesnt plan on doing anything like that in future [if he even were to do it]. I fully believe he wasn't lying there & honestly I never saw him redoing any song ever until I had the idea of a CJPH [aside from stuff like Spring and a Storm & Storm and a Spring obviously]. But this is the best idea I could ever see him doing that. Also that question was from early August so a fair amount of time has passed. Whether thats enough time to equal "at least in the near future at all" I have no clue, but it is a thought.

----

One of my last points [that I remember atm lol] is on how he would end the power hours. Cos like, while yea he does whatever he wants & doesn't rlly follow what anyone says or asks [which I 100% agree with & is completely valid btw], I'd imagine he'd still want to end the PHs with a bang. Which is why I originally didnt think the recent one would be Will Wood.

He's stated a couple of time that hes one of his favorite artist & he definitely knows that a huge chunk of his fan base listen to WW as well. So why not end with that? Why not end with one of the most requested artist people wanted him to cover? Why wouldn't he end with a power hour of the artist that was his #1 on his Spotify Wrapped? What else could he do after that? Well maybe he'd go with his #2 artist? WHICH IS JUST HIMSELF BBYYYY

Plus, the name Power Hour already comes from this:

So it's very likely he's had himself play multiple times in a row & had a "Chonny Jash Power Hour".

Of course theories are just theories so there's always the chance I'm wrong & just insane. And again he does whatever he wants whenever he wants so who knows what it'll be. I just think id be an interesting idea for him to do.

As for how a Chonny Jash Power Hour would look? Maybe each song being a cover of a song from a past album or single? I'd imagine one from the before. & Covered in Discontent [maybe Gothic Whore?]. Like remake Pocket since its been referenced so much, tho that's still just a BDG cover so who knows. the before. would be interesting just to see how his perspective has changed since he originally wrote those songs. Gothic Whore he already has 2 songs that have a story version & a him version so I can see him doing another.

I HIGHLY doubt he'd do anything related to Vol.1 as its his completely separate thing & he doesn't rlly wanna touch any song that's TH/HMS related until whenever he feels like starting Vol.2 [which is valid lol]. If anything I could maybe see like TWWAY, Special or maybe Greener? Or go a different route with the og I'm Gonna Win or like a more outta the box one with like Just a Friend [only cos be did a 20 second "cover" of it in Mucka Blucka]. Again, I do not see him touching anything Vol.1 related but still something to entertain ig? [4th TME cover; The Chonny Electric when/j]

Tho maybe he'd just remake songs that he he fully made [like the before. or Gothic Whore], since those are more of actual Chonny Jash songs rather than the others just being covers. Would be very cool to maybe see a remake of some of his Majora's Mask song tho [no this isn't me coping over HEAL not being on spotify shush]. Or maybe he'd do songs from his old stuff like Don't Take it Personally? [also not me coping over wanting that song on Spotify too]

Idk these are just my thoughts on the idea of a CJPH [or even a Can of Soup Power Hour/j]. Either way I am gonna say idc what he'd do, BDG or Streetlight Manifesto are my other guesses, but anything he makes is always rll good & fun so I'll be interested to see whatever it is.

But ya know considering I typed all this out in the span of an hour & a half I kinda hope im not wrong PFFT

[sexually-confused-goblin]

I finally started "Anne Rice's Interview with the Vampire", so here's my live commentary which absolutely nobody asked for :D (there'll definitely be spoilers, so I'll put it underneath the cut)

Episode 1:

I already like Daniel's snark lol

"Our boy" huh?

That's some great representation of a relationship between siblings lmao (annoying them until they feel like hitting/stabbing you and then complaining to mom about it)

Lestat starts speaking and all I hear in my head is "I'm a Barbie girl"

The way Lestat was staring at Louis' neck like I look at my food while waiting for it to cool down enough to be edible after forgetting to eat during the day

That was sensual, omg (as much as the floating took me out)

I get the feeling Paul's foreshadowing a lot here ... that usually tends to not go well for characters

Oh come on!

Poor Louis :(

Lestat's lost in the sauce

Does that count as Lestat love bombing Louis before turning him?

[steamberrystudio]

19/11/2023

Hey everyone! Time for the bi-weekly tumblr update for Steamberry stuffs!

Summary

Finished writing all routes up through the end of chapter 9

Started working on editing for now

Added in-game achievements

Received some new BG art

Ramble

Okay, so writing-wise, I wrote Yren's content up through the end of chapter 9. Also revamped my end-route summaries for Yren and Raif.

The current word count is 426,000 words.

But I decided to hold off on finishing the endings for the four remaining routes. The main reason for this is that I have planned a lot of early-story changes that are going to shift the trajectory of the route endings. And I was really struggling with how to construct the route endings with those planned changes in a more nebulous state.

I usually try to avoid working out of order because I find it is not conducive to forward progress. But there are some points when you have to break the rules and go back to make important edits because you need them there in order to be able to move forward.

I'm kind of at that point.

So I decided I would fully edit Asher's route, which will allow me to inject all those planned changes into the story which will make it much easier to construct endings that call back to that earlier foreshadowing.

So writing-wise, that's what I've been doing this week. I am currently up to Chapter 6 in the edit (which means I'm a little less than half through the route).

Other Stuff:

I have received new BGs of course. Those are coming in at a fairly steady rate of 1.5 - 2 weeks each.

I also have decided to add in-game achievements to WSC. I've been thinking about it for a while but putting it off since I know that one more screen (like an achievements gallery) means more tweaks to the UI. But I finally sucked it up and did it anyway.

I've also been playing with a colour slider for Wil's sprite. I'm not going to go into detail about it here because I've talked about it more in depth on Patreon and will continue to post most of the details there.

But the idea is that instead of choosing from 3 skin tones and 2 hair colours, there would be colour sliders allowing for a much greater range of selection. One of the big concerns with colour sliders is whether or not the recolours can be made to look as good as recolouring manually - which has always been why I've stayed away from them. 

The more complex shading styles have always struggled with colour sliders. But a developer friend - Feniks - has made a really cool and dynamic shader that actually can recreate even painterly or non-outlined art styles with incredible accuracy.

Using a slider is really useful because it increases the variations the player gets while *reducing* my work load. Instead of having to recolour manually, I would actually only need to colour everything once in grey scale.

Of course, it's not as easy as just dumping in the code and art. It requires some experimentation and learning but right now it is looking like I will be able to make it work. So I may be able to show off some examples in the future.

Screenshots:

None this time...

Upcoming Weeks:

I am currently editing Chapter 6 of asher/common routes and there are some pretty substantial edits I have to make.

It's always tricky to estimate what I will get done editing wise because editing does not flow at a more or less even pace like writing. Chapter 5, 6, and 7 had (and will have) major updates and changes so it may take a while to get through them. Though I'm already through with Ch 5. So...that's one of three.

Anyway.

And I'm also working on the GS lore book, still (LoL. 🙃). Someone today reminded me that I still need to go through all the deleted content to see if anything is salvageable for the lore book too.

😭

Thank you so much to that person (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. And you need to answer for your crimes, my friend.) 👀

[claudiablogger]

i love your takes on armand,he gives the ick but it’s fascinating at the same time lol what is your take on loumand from armand side? do you think he genuinely liked louis at some point?! it was all about his obsession with lestat? why he wanted to keep him so bad,again,only bc of lestat(i hope not tbh)? did he love him? idk after the last two episodes i bounce so much with this!!

thank youuu everyone loves an evil man until they get one and suddenly he's their canceled wife. or a doe eyed twink. or an overgrown teenager. anything but the actually interesting version of himself presented in the source material. but i digress imo armand absolutely loves louis he's so. his hunger is bottomless and he pours all of it into louis and by god will he ensure louis takes it. without complaint too we wouldn't want to get hysterical now would we dear not in this already fragile state. anyway i do think the choices armand makes in no pain are incredible (scarily straightforward) foreshadowing for the latter half of s2. like base conditions and consequences 1. he wants a relationship with louis on his own terms (on coven terms he set) or not at all; 2. he expects louis to make the necessary unquestioning sacrifices for acceptance and for their romance--first his freedom, then claudia; 3. and in the absence of this sacrifice he kills him/possesses him completely when that fails--e3 ends with armand deciding not to kill him but instead have sex with him. and the trial's ordeal ends with their eternal companionship built on armand's lie . othello had to kill desdemona bc if she could betray her father to marry him she could betray him to sleep w someone else etc it's all about making sure the wife knows her place

in dubai he's definitely a hundred percent in love w louis + having been shown their bedroom i don't subscribe to the bed death theories. but imo louis doesn't have the breadth of choice to ever meaningfully reciprocate. his love is a small box....it's all carefully curated to ensure he appears louis' only option and his best chance at enduring vampirism + the sickness of living without claudia. in his mind he keeps louis because he loves louis. he keeps louis because he wants complete control over his own illusion of servitude. he keeps louis bc he's earned the right to louis + his companionship

i do genuinely think his obsession w lestat is different entirely; armand respects lestat too much to ever love him the way he loves louis. man to man lmao.....he knows lestat can't be possessed the way louis can and his envy is only amplified by louis' love for him. i also do think in his eyes he just vibes w louis better (while in her eyes well. armand voice your wife is counting down your thrusts) while his relationship with lestat 1. was primarily antagonistic 2. was edited to fit the narrative of his powerlessness + being wronged by him in order to appeal to louis' sympathies 3. eventually became about louis' love and louis' choices . yay

[quibbs]

So, I've got kinda a comic making question I was hoping you coukd give some insight to. I've been planning on making a webcomic and I wanted to know how you go about outlining a chapter? You see, I have scriptwriting experience for comics, but I was doing it in the way you might for an issue of a typical western comic book, so I had a cap of 22 pages. And since webcomics don't have that cap, I was wondering how you handled how many pages each chapter would be? Is it just as many as you deem fit for the beats of the chapter to flow well? Or do you have a page count you aim for per chapter and adjust as you see fit? I know there aren't any like. Rules for doing this, but it's just something I've had on my mind lol

hmmm unfortunately for the most part my process is oops all vibes: I definitely tend to work under "as many as I deem fit for the beats of the chapter to flow well," but i think there's probably at least a few things about my process that I can elucidate that might help.

i tend to organize my written outline by ACT [ general idea for what takes place and what conflict is taking place in the character,] and then underneath that would fit CHAPTER [what ideas i am trying to establish] , and then underneath that would fit SCENE (written dialogue, setting descriptions, stage directions). I like to start with the biggest overlying connective tissue between scenes and then get smaller and nitty grittier as i write.

this is very quickly made and generalized, but for example if i was telling a story about someone going to the grocery store:

ACT ONE: the discovery of the secret

a girl goes to a the grocery store and discovers the secrets of the sinister, hidden, dark grocery store underground. character should be set up to be so driven by hunger that she just might do anything to satiate it.

CHAPTER 1: (set up)

how does she get to the grocery store? how do i succinctly establish the character of this story? what is she lacking that she should grow to be able to receive by the end of the story?)

scene1 (girl wakes up from violent nightmares with a dark pit in her stomach. she reluctantly gets out of bed).

scene2 (girl goes to pour her cereal and notices that she is completely out of coco puffs. her previous gut feelings that the day would go poorly are confirmed)

scene3 (girl drives to grocery store, for aforementioned coco puffs. another dark feeling tugs at her and is yet again rewarded for it's honesty by a cheerful grocery store employee slipping her a note simply reading "help."

CHAPTER 2 (building tension)

how does the character respond to the call of action and what does that say about her? what are the red flags i should establish now that will foreshadow just how wrong and disturbed this work culture is? what am I trying to SAY by writing it like this- what will the viewer take away, inadvertently or not, by framing the grocery store underbelly like this?

scene1 (girl is alarmed but calmly walks down the aisle. this is not her problem. she is so hungry. she walks toward the coco puffs. her heart sinks: they are out of stock)

scene2 (her heart lifts again when another employee calls out to her, holding the coveted puffs. the girl accepts them, grateful that she will finally have breakfast, when suddenly she notices another note has been slipped to her under the box. "i know who you are. meet me in the bathroom in 5 minutes and change everybody's life here forever."

scene3 (she's had enough. she races to the check out line with the puffs and in her hurry, she notices the box isn't making any noise as it shakes by her side. not like coco puffs in a box often do. she realizes with a heavy heart that it's empty. she sighs and turns around. she reluctantly walks toward the bathroom... almost like she's done this before.

ACT 2: doing something about the secret.

character is officially thrust into this underground network of grocery store vigilantes against her will...she is not happy... she swore she left her days of fighting middle management crime behind her and yet..... these embittered employees are stoking old fires in her heart she had once thought unstokable. we learn about her relationship to this lifestyle and how it led to the person she is today.

etc, etc, etc, and so on, and so forth.

Basically, I don't plan out how many pages I'm going to have. i usually only find out by the time i'm finished sketching it all; and usually by drawing it all out you end up having more ideas, which adds more scenes, etc, etc, etc, webcomicing never ends and never will

My general rule of thumb is to always use as few pages as you can possibly afford without taking away from the story. make it as short as you possibly can while still letting it be as long as it needs to be.

Pacing is everything. the page count truly does not matter as long as the flow is flowing; it entirely depends on your story! your chapter could be 2 pages long if it made sense in the story for it to be 2 pages long (side note: desperately been trying to find a place for a 2 page long chapter for years now but it's never reached fruition. one day. you wait).

IK this is coming from a girl who writes 200 page long chapters, haha. I like to think that I'm getting better at being briefer, but somehow, i never end up briefer than 200. your story could be different! most are. it should be. don't do what i do.

that being said, my overall advice is to always prioritize pacing and writing over an arbitrary page count quota. if the length feels good for the story, then do it. I hope this helps! mwa.

[hikennosabo]

#tristampparty day 6, episode 6: once upon a time in hopeland

THE HALFWAY POINT OF @tristampparty BABY!!! this is another episode i've watched multiple times on its own so... LET'S GOOOOO

and we start right out the gate with

wolfwood vial count: 2

i don't think i need to keep saying that masaya onosaka is the radio dj... he's been a constant...

LOL, LMAO, EVEN

"disposal," though... we know all about the last run, but what else does disposal entail. like what do they do with the. um. the corpse? and the word "disposal"... yeesh...

so they say, even though it's obvious bullshit. but i do wonder. conrad is in charge of july, EoM's base is in july, etc etc... but how many people actually know what's going on? who does "the july government" consist of besides conrad? what about the civilians living in the city? EoM's cover is flimsy at best, they're suspicious as hell, so how deep and how far does the propaganda machine reach that this can just... keep going on?

all this planet has is radio and newspapers, no TV, no internet, and everyone is struggling just to survive... we saw just last ep how EoM had a grip on one village to the point where it was normalized to sacrifice children... just how good are they at controlling information? jeez. roberto and meryl's job as reporters is more important than ever.

we see that part of wolfwood's designated role is to go after deserters and traitors, so that's another way of controlling information, but. he's just one guy. so they probably have more assassins than just him. maybe the rest of the ghg that we haven't seen yet? there's livio, too, but... how long has he been with EoM at this point? the timeline's so unclear on this, i don't know... we know it took "months" between wolfwood being taken by them and his escape attempt + livio(/razlo) joining, but we don't know how long ago that was either... presumably it would also take "months" for the experiments to be done on livio, or maybe even less time? uhhhhh (steam comes out of my ears from thinking too hard)

......i'm less than 3 minutes into the episode. let's continue.

it's cute that they shrug simultaneously. mad at each other but still in sync... :')

no idea why the orphanage would be highlighted on the map except for foreshadowing purposes, but it looks like the steamer stops at... uh... *squints* taradiddlescoast... deucedump?!... orange bazoo... who tf is naming these places?!

:') aha. ahahahahaha. ahahhahahahaha. ah. uah. ue. ueeeeeeaaahhh

we already know that the sandsteamer route passes by the orphanage. so i like that there's a sandsteamer visible in the distance. very nice subtle attention to detail here

i feel like people are always quick to point out that livio and wolfwood being siblings is specific to stampede only but i DON'T care, this is my FAVORITE interpretation of their relationship, i really love it so much and think it enhances the narrative and nicely contrasts the relationship between vash and knives. orange was SO big brained for this and i'm not kidding. they're brothers in the manga too, to me.

the dub line here is "stop, livio! he's not who hurt you!" which just tears me into a million pieces, thanks!

...if i remember correctly... the "great sand ocean" is called as such because things just sink into it, right? (hmm... wonder how many crashed ships sank into the sand ocean...) hence the boat-like vehicles that are used to cross it. as we can see, the bad lads gang uses what look like windsurfers. and yet wheeled vehicles seem to fare just fine...?!

we never see what the test is. huh... i'm reminded of the promised neverland all of a sudden

nicholas gets selected and the bell rings... can i point something out? the bell's presence in scenes... what the bell represents... it has the EoM logo on it. well, so does the building. but notably, we see the bell in the scene with livio and wolfwood on the roof at night and also in the scene of them cuddling which i posted above. they're bonding and they love each other but the eye of michael is quite literally looming over them... and over the orphanage as a whole...

i've already talked about this in my bookclub posts but i want to talk about the orphanage's relationship with EoM again. it's literally run by them... there's NO cover story here, they're CLEARLY suspicious as hell. in the manga, chapel came by himself to pick wolfwood up and the cover story was that they would be repairing churches, right? and everyone genuinely believed he was going off to live a better life. here it's just. a bunch of guys in suits and masks. obviously suspicious. they run the place, so i guess there's no need for a cover story...? but iirc in the manga EoM was also using the orphanage as a "source" for soldiers, right? like i think chapel says something like that, doesn't he? am i misremembering?

i have so many questions. there's no confetti. what does that mean. this is a lot more lowkey than wolfwood's departure in the manga. no cheering, no invitation to come back/saying this is always his home, just... polite waves. and melanie looks... unhappy. how much does she know? how much of a choice does she have here? ...huh. i'm reminded of the promised neverland again.

what does this mean for... y'know. The Scene. like. the confetti is important. the kids loving nicholas so much and cheering while saying goodbye is important. why did orange take those out what are they planning what does it MEAN!!!!

wolfwood is "test subject HL1-06" and i have no idea what that means and we can't determine from this how many kids came before him either.

wolfwood vial count: 3

hi sweetieeeee i love youuuuuu i love youuuuuu

see this gets the gears turning in my head regarding the timeline again. legato says this, and we see some flashforwards (i guess in this context that's what they are) to wolfwood killing people, including the guy from the beginning of this episode and monev from the last episode... (over which legato calls him a loser, lol?! even though that's very much not the reason why wolfwood killed him, and we know it) so how long was wolfwood working for EoM before he was given the job to "babysit" vash?

i already talked about this in one of my bookclub posts but there's the change in livio's motivations, too... he's chasing after wolfwood... as opposed to (razlo) wanting to be needed... what does it mean. man, i really hope orange doesn't do razlo dirty whenever he shows up for real.

THIS CLEARLY ISN'T STRINGS. WHY IS LEGATO'S POWER DIFFERENT IN EVERY VERSION OF TRIGUN I SWEAR TO GOD like it's telekinesis, right?! what does this mean for legato?! and his backstory?! strings are so fitting for him thematically, so i don't know what they could be planning here!!

kouki uchiyama will see a guy with blue hair covering one eye and say "is anyone gonna voice him" and not wait for an answer (and then fight akira ishida over it)

CONRAD I'M GOING TO THROTTLE YOU. WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR EXPERIMENTS ARE DOING HUH. HUH!!!!

HGORHGHGHG.GHG. AHGHGGG.HGH.

thinking about the previous episode and eating rocks

livio hears wolfwood's name and that's when he opens his eyes and kicks vash off him... i initially thought maybe he just took the opportunity because vash was distracted, but he was distracted by the military guys right before this, so...?!

say that to knives and see what happens. also hello pretty boy you are so pretty i love you i'm blowing you kisses mwah mwah mwah mwah mwah

whenever legato talks about his confusion over fraternal love i can't help but remember nightow's comment about him maybe having a younger sister. which is interesting to think about but has never been relevant for any version of legato ever... buuuut... with orange's attention to detail, hmmm, who knows...

also i'm obsessed with legato driving hands-free and I AM ONCE AGAIN ASKING HOW HIS POWERS WORK IN THIS VERSION.

*wipes brow* let's end it there i wrote too much. i know i'll have a lot to say about the next episode too. they don't stop coming and they don't stop coming and they don't stop coming

[bartholomew-junior]

23 25 26... hmm. maybe sips ANd erina And gothi (unless you dont feel like that feel free to just choose one of them cause. 6 entire different answers to think) <3<3

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE thank u circular 4 ur boon of kindness. it is appreciated. apologies for the wait, as i had to let the ideas for this ripen be4 properly answering. i’m gonna start the first ask off with gothi from ep.10.

first of all, i just love her mask and am permanently sad that she never gets to wear it again. bonus for foreshadowing face reveal a few episodes down the line and making her an incredibly ominous cryptid like presence kind of. i just think she’s neat. next is erina in ep.32:

honestly i was really tempted to use a frame from when she was xanu possessed cuz it looked real fuckin cool, but i think this one’s more meaningful. she’s sympathizing with sips for once instead of trying to one up him (at least after a bit) and realizing how tough shit must’ve been for him. agh they make me insane. next is sips from ep.15:

from right after he ate bou claire’s heart. the buildup narration to him looking into the mirror is, ,, agghhh. the fact this was used to promo merch is funny also.

now for q. 25: technically, my first impression of gothi was her getting sips to do karaoke while drunk (lol) and that being the catalyst for EVERYTHING (this campaign is the equivalent of a snowball rolling down a hill). but now, it was her kind of managing and trying to quell sips’ anger best she could along with erina.

erina was just a memelord to me lol. sips wasn’t in the best condition the first few episodes, so my first impression was just that he was a bottomless pit of rage. now looking at the early episodes feels like looking at alpha minecraft in comparison to 1.21, especially without xanu or abby. sneeze was just a little guy.

ok freebie question time. i’m gonna pick q. 22 even tho there hasn’t been a new fic at all on ao3 since i updated my own fic (which makes sense considering we’ve kinda already met the goal of the series even if there’s a lot of stuff on the horizon). and i’ll pick all 3 of them + xanu for this cuz. why not

sips: a lot of the fics on ao3 4 this fandom are oneshots, so there isn’t much they’re able to explore if they’re low word counts, but my dream sips-centric fic would be like. a collection of missed/deleted scenes from his early life and time in ammurin with a kind of dream/void/death motif. bonus points if he’s trans

erina: i haven’t seen ANYTHING about her early life in kylandria being the child of busy royal entertainers, hell even her weapons are like a carnival trick, so i’d really like to see a bit of early life stuff again. are you sensing a trend. also her just dealing with royalty is fun and i have many ideas

gothi: early life again. listen she was a whole ass princess who was allowed to exist only because of her rank she was under so much pressure all of the time, especially with being buddies with xanu. did she ever talk to another defective foreclaimer. who are her parents. did they love her. ugh. also, seeing her interact with vicky is something i haven’t really seen before, so that’d be fun.

xanu: listen. i feel like he’d be the hermit on the high mountain type never interacting with anyone like thanos after killing half the universe. also, i feel like a lot of aspects of his character get discarded in favor of making him easier to digest and write, which i’ve done, and this does not do him any service. i think making all the fools gold cast kind of,, mlp headcanon designified is also fun and i want to do it. also bonus vicky

in conclusion: thank u circular <3333333 :]] :), i hope this isn’t miserably long. i’ve been all worded out for the day. do u ever think abt how vicky and sips are parallels and

[tarisilmarwen]

Rebels Rewatch: "The Honorable Ones"

Kallus starts growing the nigglings of a conscience and also I never want to visit Bahryn ever.

Does this count as Friendship Fetch Quest episode? I mean... we do technically recruit an ally, albeit we make one out of a consistent former enemy, and he is important to things later...

Yeah, you know what, I'm counting it.

Geonosis looks gorgeous.

Oooooof SO many Death Star foreshadowings in this conversation. This is in fact where they started construction on the Mark I, as far back as the Clone Wars. Some time between now and then (Wookiepedia thinks it's between "Breaking Ranks" and now), the project was moved, the orbital stations scrapped, and the entire population of Geonosis genocided to conceal the project's existence.

Just, you know, your ordinary Tuesday for the Empire.

Hi Kallus!

Love Chopper getting to be an absolutely murderous psychopath again lolol.

Ohhhh hey, this cue is from back in "Droids In Distress" when they were about to blow up the ion disruptors. How fitting, lol.

Ezra is still Not Fond of leaving people behind.

He looks so worried. :(

Love how Kallus and Zeb stop fighting for a second when they realize they're about to crash. Matching Oh Crap expressions and everything.

Ngl, I felt that cry of agony deep in the recesses of my childhood.

(I fell off some parallel bars once in gym, didn't break anything, but my first scream? Sounded not too unlike that.)

Lol Ezra banging on Chopper. "Yes, we want him back! Don't be a sleemo!"

Jeez, how terrified Kallus must have been, stuck in the exact scenario that traumatized him so in the past. Lucky for our favorite asshole Zeb is the honorable type.

Yup, yeah, pissing his pants terrified. David does a really good job with Kallus this episode, it's one of the first times they let him show a bit more range and he does shrill and hysterical very nicely, if I may say so.

Kallus is so assured of the Empire's fairness and nobility, aww let's shatter that to pieces this episode. :D

Worried Ezra continues to be worried. <3

He is already shivering, nice little animation here. Also lol @ Zeb pettily pulling the heater closer towards him.

Ahhh the glowing rock of friendship. Love that Kallus keeps it after this.

"You're going to hurt yourself!" <3 See this mother hen behavior right here is why I stuck the Iron Squadron kids with him in my Mirrorverse series, Kallus being a fussy fretful Team Mom is hilarious.

Ah NOPE, nope, nah-uh. Nooooooo thank you.

The bonzami are actually really well-designed. They look like prehistoric dinosaurs of some kind. Definitely evocative of all my childhood nightmares about T-Rexes.

Kallus parroting the Might Makes Right and Social Darwinism of the Empire, leading to Zeb beginning to ask pointed questions.

Oh man there was a really good analysis on here someone did about Kallus's fighting style, how he's better at close quarters than distance/ranged, I wish I remembered who wrote it.

Subtle animation appreciation detail: That pinched guilt in Kallus's expression.

Oooh yeah, that's the good stuff.

Kallus launches into his tragic backstory, possibly to try and remind himself why he personally hates Lasats, rejustify in his head how it was okay for him not to question orders when told to use the ion disruptors--("They deserve it, they're bad people, they kill the injured!")--and the connection to Saw is not a coincidence I think, the writers expand heavily on the whole "It's how we fight that matters." and "The ends justify the means." conflict later on down the line. Numerous characters on this show like Saw and Thrawn and Kallus to an extent represent what happens when you go too far to fight those you consider monsters. I've always loved how firmly Rebels comes down on the side of "The means do matter."

Probably one of the reasons I'm still kind of relucant to watch Andor, I know fandom loves that "I burn myself for a sunrise I'll never see." quote but eehhhhhhhhh.

The exchange right after Kallus's story is a bit clunky, I get what the intent was--that there are people in the Empire who aren't cold and bloodthirsty and evil and the Rebels shouldn't write them all off like they're the same--but it's clumsily executed.

PPFFFFTTTTTT LOLOLOL. KALLUS CANNOT BELIEVE THE SHEER PETTINESS IN ZEB HURLING THE BO-RIFLE OUT OF THE CAVE RATHER THAN LET HIM HOLD IT.

Hey remember when I said I love David Oyelowo's hysterical Kallus voice? Yeah.

Zeb's prehensile feet put to good use again.

Ohhhhh yeah no that's absolutely a terrifying concept for me. Nope.

"Hey we didn't get eaten! Are we friends now?"

There's some debate in the fandom about the inconsistency of the stories Kallus tells from "Droids In Distress" to here. Some parts of fandom point to how he almost gleefully bragged about giving the order to use the ion disruptors and others point out that he couldn't possibly have been high enough in the ranks at that point to actually have the authority to do that.

I tend to fall more towards the latter camp, that he wasn't actually THE one to give the order but he didn't question it and passed it right along due to his prejudice against the Lasat, and only said what he said to Zeb to rile him up. As much as he hated Lasats though, there has been some guilt severely weighing on him since then, and I'm pretty sure it's partly due to his confusion over the Honor Guardsman giving him his bo-rifle. There was a note of aggravated self-defense in Kallus's voice when he explains to Zeb how it was given to him, like he's dispensing with an act and being all, "All right look here's how it really happened."

This conversation is slightly less clear but to me reads like Kallus is detailing his thoughts from the moment he'd been given the order. Like it's mid-battle and it's going harder than they anticipated and the weapons are handed out and he's told to use them and he realizes, "Oh. The Empire is not playing around are they?" and he shoves down his own potential qualms about it and just passes on the order.

Zeb, having had his character development, is dismissive of Kallus's attempt to explain the massacre, saying that it doesn't affect him anymore, basically.

They're so happy to see him. <3

Awwwwwww.

Subtle animation appreciation moment: Zeb's little elbow bump to Ezra's arm as they climb up the ramp.

Ohhhhhh man the behind the scenes had a little plot bit that they should have kept, basically it was not the Empire that retrieved Kallus from Bahryn, it was a scavenger ship, the Empire spent a paltry two rotations looking for him and then wrote him off, he had to make his way back to them on his own.

Konstantine doesn't even look at him.

:((((((

Kallus's redemption is a bit of a polarizing topic in fandom. Personally I'm very fond of it, I like Kallus as an antagonist-turned-Rebel, I think he's a lot of fun post Heel Face Turn and the many myriad fanfics that bridge the gap between "Zero Hour" and Season 4 featuring Kallus slowly blending in to the Spectres are among some of my favorites.

But it's also one of my major nitpicks because it's a bit lacking in legwork. Show👏me👏the legwork!👏 Like 90% of all writing problems can be solved just by expending some effort. Don't just have Kallus as the new Fulcrum offscreen between seasons I need to SEE it.

That being said, this is a mostly tightly written Locked In A Room type episode, well-paced, decently animated. Fandom definitely loves it and I'll still give it fairly regular rewatches since it's another of the husband's favorites.

Next up, we return again to Lothal for Force Weirdness.

[mimbotomy]

Thank you @lazuliquetzal for the tag! 🩷

How many works do you have on AO3? 10! Which feels small because I have more than three times as many WIPs rattling around in my google docs rip

What’s your total AO3 word count? 561,190

What fandoms do you write for? AC Odyssey! Except I write so many crossovers so I have a couple other fandoms on my AO3 as well. I also have WIPs for AC Valhalla, House of the Dragon, and ATLA. Fun fact, I also have Odyssey crossovers planned for two of those fandoms, and I'll let you guess which two 😜

What are your top 5 fics by kudos? Rebirth - My beloved, my baby, I swear I am still writing this My Miraculous Ladybug fic - I wrote this seven years ago and like to pretend it doesn't exist Assassins, Atlantis, and Avengers - Unfortunately on indefinite hiatus, but I've gotten so many nice comments on it recently that I've been thinking a lot about it! The Children of Kephallonia - MY FAVORITE FIC OF MINE EVERYONE SHOULD READ THIS I'M SO PROUD OF THIS ONE Not a Malákes Ravenclaw - Absolutely ridiculous I can't believe people actually like this (it's so fun to write tho 😂)

Do you respond to comments? I do my best but I'm not actually the best lol

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Of my published fics, The Lioness, but only if you read the first chapter and ignore my ramblings in the second chapter about how SPOILERS deaths would change canon.

What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? There is No Escape...! It technically has the same ending as my other Kassandra drags Phoibe out of the Underworld fic, but this fic has a planned sequel called the Electric Boogaloo, so I think it's obvious which one I had more fun writing 😂

Do you get hate on fics? One or two negative comments but for the most part people have been really nice to me! Which I appreciate, because I am a smol anxious bean who just wants friends 🥰

Do you write smut? If so, what kind? I have a few bordering on spicy scenes, but no real smut.

Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written? BOY DO I HAVE CROSSOVERS I have so many crossovers, like too many crossovers, all putting the queen of my heart Kassandra the Eagle Bearer in another universe and making her the main character she is clearly supposed to be. My craziest one is probably my AC Odyssey x Harry Potter crossover, but I am now hesitant to call it crazy because it now seems to make sense to me??? So maybe I'm going crazy???

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Nope!

Have you ever had a fic translated? Nope again!

Have you ever co-written a fic before? Once again, nope! But I honestly think co writing a fic would be so fun to try, at least once.

What’s your all time favorite ship? Kassidas. I always liked it but it has legitmately taken over my brain the last year. I blame @aeide's amazing Kassidas' fics

What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? Assassins, Atlantis, and Avengers. It's on indefinite hiatus right now because while I have an outline and even a few scattered scenes written, actually writing it seems impossible right now. But I hold out hope that I will come back to it one day!

What are your writing strengths? Character relationships! (At least in my opinion lol)

What are your writing weaknesses? Does constantly going back and rewriting chapters because I slightly changed my idea and want to foreshadow things better count? If not, I could be better at setting the scene and not just imagining it in my head.

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? Definitely not opposed to doing so, albiet through google translate because I am truly terrible with languages, but I always try to keep it short and I include translations in the endnotes.

First fandom you wrote for? Miraculous Ladybug. I sometimes like to pretend that fic doesn't exist because I feel bad that I forgot what I had planned/never finished it.

Favorite fic you’ve written? THE CHILDREN OF KEPHALLONIA I feel like I really came into my own as a writer when I started plotting out this fic and I'm really happy with my worldbuilding, character relationships, misc narrative choices, and just how my writing style has improved from my first fics. If you want to read any of my fics, I recommend this one.

I vaguely remember doing this exact tag game at some point, but time is an illusion and I have no idea when this was! So if I tag you and you did this recently, do not feel any pressure to do it again!

Tagging @aeide, @uhhhyaenbyjade, @zephyrwolf5, @ithinkthiswasabadidea, and anyone else who wants to do this!