#what can one say? inspirations are fickle like that

[drawnfamiliarfaces]

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Happy Halloween ;)

[ryukatters]

a/n: Inspired by that one scene from the apothecary diaries of jinshi interrogating maomao lamaksomsosk (kaiji tang you will always be famous) but with a diff twist

pairing: satoru gojo x gn! reader

content: jealous! Gojo, Gojo really likes reader but reader is kind of dense, reader is a grade one sorcerer younger than Gojo

You give Yaga a quick yet thorough debrief of your mission. You made Nanami go home, insisting that you’d handle all the technical work, since he went out of his way to save your ass when you called him for backup. Your mission had taken an awry turn from a simple investigation of some odd activity near a detention center to having to fight off not one, but two special grade curses.

Sometimes missions don’t go the way you expect them to. That’s normal. Checking in with Yaga after coming back from said missions is also customary. What isn’t normal though, is the way Satoru Gojo is standing behind you grumbling under his breath with each sentence you speak. You can practically feel the menacing aura emanating from his very being. It seeps into your bones and you have to suppress a shiver.

There’s not much you can do. The Jujutsu world’s strongest sorcerer can do whatever he wants. And if he wants to breathe fire down the neck of his poor junior? Then so be it.

“That’s all for my report, sir.”

You bow to Yaga before turning around to get the hell out of the office, far away from him. You give Gojo a slight nod of acknowledgment with the full intention to skitter out of there, but you’re stopped by a large hand gripping your shoulder firmly.

Satoru leans down to whisper into your ear, “I’ll be waiting for you in my office.”

You can’t suppress the way you shudder at his touch and the low timbres of his voice.

And with that, Satoru whips around with a slight ‘hmph’ before sauntering down the hall.

You hear Yaga sigh behind you as you shut the door. You take your time walking, dragging your feet as the ball of anticipation in the pits of your stomach sinks deeper and deeper. You take a deep breath as you grip the door handle leading to Gojo’s office.

Gojo’s sitting down when you enter. Even with his blindfold on, you can tell that his expression looks miffed. His body language too— impatiently drumming his fingers against his thigh. His uncharacteristic silence seeps into every nook and cranny, filling you with an even deeper sense of dread.

Was he upset with you? You hope you’re overthinking things.

“You asked to see me?” You start.

“So…your mission. Heard you had to fight two special grade curses.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. Which gives you the inkling feeling that Gojo isn’t all that interested in actually speaking about your latest assignment.

“I did.”

(You want to remind him that he was in the room when you told Yaga, but you bite your tongue.)

“I see,” he hums noncommittally.

“…And?” You can feel the way his six eyes sear into you even with that stupid blindfold on. You wish he’d just cut to the chase already.

“And when you needed back up, you decided to call Nanami?”

“Yes,” you say with a slight hint of hesitation. You’re not entirely sure what he was trying to get at here. “He was the first sorcerer I saw on my recent calls.”

“Funny how I called you this morning yet you didn’t think about seeking me out for help,” Gojo pouts, idly playing with some empty candy wrappers that were on his coffee table. “Or do you just prefer Nanami over me?”

“Huh?”

“You heard me.”

“I’m not sure what you’re trying to say,” you respond honestly. Because you don’t. Why is he making such a big deal out of this in the first place?

Gojo looks at you, flabbergasted. He groans in exasperation. Were the random (but constant) phone calls, lunches (and dinners), and just generally wanting to be with you not enough? What more does he have to do to make you realize?

Jealousy is a fickle thing. Satoru hates uncertainty, especially when it concerns him. It makes him feel weak. The good thing about fickle feelings is that they can be replaced by something more consistent, more complete, more gratifying. And he’s pretty fucking sure that he loves you by now, even when you’re too thickskulled to recognize that.

Satoru stands up and makes his way in front of you. He towers over you easily, bringing a hand to cup your chin and look at him.

“The next time you need something, and I mean anything— you tell me,” he says. He lacks his usual air of playfulness, instead replaced by a more stern tone— one that forces you to listen. “I can give you whatever you need.”

It’s your turn to stare now. You can feel your ears run hot at the implications with what your senior just said. “Okay, I will,” you whisper. “Thank you, Gojo.”

“Satoru.” he all but demands.

“Thanks, Satoru.”

*throws this into the tags to distract everyone from the fact I haven’t finished his bday fic*

[loaksky]

— 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘮

the deets — lo'ak is the black sheep in the family, clinging to honor by a precarious thread. you are the well-loved songstress in the tribe. he should resent you for being everything he's not, but his fickle heart can't bring him to do so.

the who — lo'ak x fem omatikaya!reader

the word count — 10.2k (rip yall)

the tags — (one-sided) rivals-to-lovers, angsty angsty, hurt / comfort, reader gives lo'ak a big ol smooch (perhaps more than one), lo’ak is the biggest dumbass and because of this he’s mean asf, reader has a big ol heart and just really wants lo’ak to like her, aged!up characters for maturity’s sake. 

the warnings — language, lo'ak is in luv but doesn't realize it, he's in denial that the feelings could be reciprocated, this is super dramatic so put your seat belts on!

the notes — was feeling extra sad and wanted to write something self-indulgent. this lovely anon requested something, and i used their ask as inspiration to finish this beast. fine line, bags, and love in dark are the three main songs i listened to finish this, so if you wanna be in your feels, have a listen LMAO. despite all the support, i’m still so mf nervous posting this ejsjsjdjs

masterlist

SOMETHING UGLY KINDLES IN THE PIT of Lo'ak's stomach at the mere mention of your name. It's sour on his tongue, bitter in his brain. He doesn't know when he's started to feel like this, started to feel absolutely dreadful anytime he'd hear the timbre of your voice. 

It's warm, thick like nectar and it makes him sick. 

Ever since you all were little, the elders crooned over what a great girl you were growing into; strong, intelligent, beautiful. It made him boil how much they'd sing your praises, the high esteem everyone held you in as one of the clan's most talented. 

Something dull would pick at him being compared to his older brother, but nothing burned more than being compared to you. 

Maybe it's because it's always implied whenever your names share the same sentences, that lingering implication that he could be more like you. The clan fans the flames of your mere existence while Lo'ak is snuffed out like a dying fire. 

He hates it. He hates you. 

He thinks. 

It'd be easier to, if you were awful behind the scenes. Arrogant, stuck up, but you're none of those things. You're kind, gentle, mighty when you need to be. It doesn't help that you shine like the brightest star, engulfing everyone in your light, in your warmth. 

But Lo'ak resists. He sees right through you, sees right through every saccharine smile you send him. He can see it in your eyes, how you really see him. Despite standing a full head taller than you, he sees the way you look down your nose at him. 

It grates his nerves, how disgustingly sweet you are towards him despite all attempts to rebuff you. 

Certainly doesn’t soothe his ego when you always seem to be around the bend every time he gets bitched at by the clan, eyes soft and filled with pity. To add insult to injury, you frequently tail him like a shadow after these moments when all he wants is to be alone. 

Like now, you linger. 

It's after dinner and Kiri and Spider stand before him. They come together like the three points of a triangle and you stand an awkward distance away from them. 

Kiri notices you first, her face splitting into a big smile as she waves you over. 

Lo'ak breathes a deep sigh before locking eyes with Spider who tries his best to suppress an amused grin. 

“Hi,” you chirp and Lo'ak can't help but roll his eyes. 

Spider and Kiri greet you eagerly. Lo'ak simply nods his head in acknowledgement before tightening his fist around his dagger. 

“We going or what?” he finally says. 

You perk up. 

“Where are you guys heading off to?” you ask curiously, hands clasped behind your back.

Spider opens his mouth to answer, but Lo'ak cuts him off quickly. 

“No where important,” he says, unsure if you'll blab about their whereabouts to the elders, or worse, his parents. 

You roll your lips and shift on your feet. 

“Can I come?” you ask hesitantly, eyes hopeful. 

Kiri's smile grows as she links her arm with yours. 

“No,” he says sharply. “Absolutely not.” 

Your face falls and something pulls inside his chest when you fail meet his gaze, your frown barely perceptible. 

You make a move to pull from Kiri's grasp, but her arm tightens through yours. She levels Lo'ak with a weighty glare and you fidget uncomfortably under his narrowed eyes. 

“Don't worry about it,” you say, like someone's hit a reset button. You smile that pretty smile and Lo'ak wants to scream. "It's okay, I think Rutan needs help with clean up." 

You slip from Kiri's grasp and the three watch you walk off. 

“Do you always have to be such a bitch?” Spider scoffs a disbelieving laugh. 

“She's just gonna tag along so she can snitch,” Lo'ak grumbles. 

“Oh c'mon,” Kiri argues. “________ just wants friends.”

Lo'ak sneers. 

“I don't want to be friends with her,” he says firmly, knuckles white around the handle of his knife.

“Weirdo,” Spider mumbles. “She’s cute. Think she likes you.”

Lo'ak's spine stiffens.

“It's an act” Lo'ak grumbles. “She just wants to look good in front of the elders to keep up whatever nice girl show she's putting on.” 

Kiri rolls her eyes hard. 

There are moments when Lo'ak thinks he's being harsh, but he can't help himself. It's like he loses all semblance of a filter when it comes to you. 

“Hi, Lo'ak,” you greet him sweetly, lowering yourself onto the fallen log he's perched on, fashioning arrows to practice with later on in the evening with Neteyam. 

He shifts away from you, putting the distance of two bodies between the two of you as he pauses his task at hand. 

“Hi,” he says flatly. 

“Can I help?” you ask tentatively, fingers twitching towards one of the untouched sticks in a pile next to his feet. 

His kicks them closer to himself, out of your reach before leveling you with a sharp glare. 

“No thanks,” he says quickly and you recoil slowly, letting out a shaky laugh before fixing that stupid smile on your pretty face. 

“Oh, sorry,” you apologize, straightening in your seat. 

A silence so uncomfortably palpable settles over the two of you as you shift so that your knees are turned towards him. 

His throat bobs when his gaze travels from your little toes all the way up to your inquisitive gaze, golden and searching. It makes something unruly settle in his gut and he turns his attention back to carving his arrows. 

“Do you need something?” he breaks the silence finally. “I'm kinda busy.”

You bite your lip before scooting a little closer to Lo'ak's hunched figure. 

“My birthday's coming up,” you start. 

“I'm aware,” Lo'ak almost scoffs. 

It's all the clan has been able to talk about for the past few days. How they'd be able to prepare for the golden girl's next birth cycle and what they'd be able to do to make you smile the brightest. 

“Your birthday is a week before,” you state and his head whips towards you. 

“How do you know that?” he asks sharply, accusation heavy in his gruff tone. 

You flinch and he falters for a moment before your smile simply widens. 

“We grew up together, Lo'ak,” you say and the way his name sounds from your mouth sounds absolutely heavenly. “You're my friend.”

Friend. 

He scowls at the term.

“We're not friends,” he bites back. 

If the statement bothers you, you don't show it, simply tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before putting on a brave face. 

“I want to celebrate with you,” you say shyly. 

“Hard pass,” he says too quickly, gathering his sticks and fashioned arrows under his grasp. 

He leaves you in the clearing on your own.

You must be fucking with him. You have to be. It'd be the only explanation for why Jake pulls him aside a few nights later and tells him that you've requested to work with him and Neteyam during archery practice. 

“No,” he says stiffly, shaking his head. 

His dad levels him with a hard glare and Lo'ak sighs deeply. 

“She's a nuisance, Dad,” he argues. “Me and Neteyam are making good progress with our training and we'll have to start at square one if she joins.”

“Lo'ak, this isn't an ask,” Jake says sternly. 

“But, Dad!”

“Lo'ak.”

Lo'ak huffs, snatching his bow and quiver angrily before storming off. 

“You're doing great,” Neteyam says to you once the three of you have convened in the training circle. 

The three arrows you've shot have all landed within centimeters of the mark and to say that Neteyam is impressed is an understatement. Lo'ak, on the other hand, fumes not-so-silently as he tears his arrows from his target. 

Yet again, you have another person wrapped around your finger and it makes his blood simmer as he assumes his position at the marker and loads his arrow. It splinters through the air and hits the target right on the bullseye. The arrow punctures through the hide and lodges its way into the wood from the sheer force of Lo’ak’s shot. 

You start at him moon-eyed, lush lips breaking into a full smile. 

“Perfect shot,” you observe. “That was awesome.” 

Lo’ak scans your features hesitantly before his gaze flits to his older brother, waiting for any acknowledgment that he’d done a great job, but Neteyam is taking notes on the arrows still stuck in the fabric of your own target. 

His heart sinks. 

“Fuck this,” Lo’ak grumbles, bundling all of his belongings.

He stalks through the clearing, past his brother, to leave you two. 

He doesn’t know what fuels the fire more, the fact that Neteyam didn’t even bat an eye at the feat they’d been practicing for for the past three weeks because he was too immersed in you, or the fact that you bore witness to his first clean shot and gave him that sickeningly sweet smile that made his stomach turn. 

“Where are you going?” Neteyam sighs. 

“Somewhere you two aren’t,” he grumbles under his breath, ducking through the brush of the lofty forest. 

You lick your lips, locking eyes with Neteyam as you give him a bashful grin and slowly break away to follow Lo’ak’s path. 

He isn’t far ahead as you push through the vines and low-hanging leaves, the path lined with large plants and the spindly roots of the looming trees. The grass is plush between your toes as you scamper to follow Lo’ak from a distance, watching as his lithe body climbs through the dense flora. 

“Why are you following me?” he calls after a few dozen paces, stopping in the middle of the path to whirl on his heel. 

His golden eyes are syrupy, warm despite the edge, and you can’t help but flash him your pearly whites in a genuine smile that takes up your dimpled cheeks. 

“Why’d you run off?” you ask him. “You were doing so well!” 

His chest rises and falls with a scoff. 

“You can give it a rest, you know?” Lo’ak says flatly, fist so tight around his bow he feels like he’ll crush the wood. 

Your expression morphs, eyebrows furrowing in a way that makes Lo’ak throat bob, something pinching behind his ribcage. 

“What?” you ask, frown marring your pretty face. 

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you can stop acting like you wanna be friends with me,” Lo’ak says matter-of-factly. 

“You are my friend,” you protest quietly. 

Lo’ak rolls his eyes. 

“Dude, whatever,” he mutters, turning his back on you. 

“Is it so wrong?” you murmur and he stops in his tracks, refusing to meet your gaze. “To be friends?” 

Friends. 

That stupid fucking word again.

Lo’ak bites his tongue and stalks off, leaving you on the path. 

Neteyam rips him a new one when he sees him at dinner later that night. Lo’ak hangs his head as Neteyam digs in.

“Is it so hard to be nice?” Neteyam asks, hand squeezing his shoulder as they stand a handful of meters away from the main circle. 

As his eyes wander, he notices you sitting with his sister, head thrown back in laughter that glitters and wafts with the rising smoke of the fire. He swallows turning his attention back to his older brother. 

“Just don’t like her,” he admits. “I want her to leave me alone.” 

“You don’t like her or you like her too much?” Neteyam asks, brow bone raised. 

Lo’ak’s face scrunches.

“Ew, no,” he blurts. “Why would I—”

“________ just wants to fit in,” he sighs. “She has trouble making friends.” 

“Yeah, I wonder why,” Lo’ak mocks. “I don’t know why Kiri and Spider are always up her ass, she’s—”

“Lo’ak,” Neteyam warns. 

“Dude, everyone is always ________ this, _________ that! I don’t understand what’s so great about her—”

A throat clears and the brothers both turn their attention to the newcomer. Lo’ak could groan in frustration seeing that you’ve abandoned your seat and now stand nearby with two wooden plates. 

“They’re going to start cleaning up soon,” you say hesitantly. “Wanted to bring you some.” 

Neteyam takes it graciously from you, nodding his head in thanks while Lo’ak stares down at the plate you’d arranged for him, abundant in vegetables and thick cuts of meat. 

“No thanks,” he says flatly.

You try to coax him. 

“C’mon Lo’ak, you say gently. “I know you haven’t eaten yet.” 

“No thanks,” he repeats stonily, holding his hand up. 

You offer up the plate again. 

“Lo’ak–“ 

“I said no thank you,” he grunts, annoyed. 

He’d only meant to push it back towards you, but one second it’s in your hands, the next you’re wearing dinner, the plate clattering onto the ground. 

“Lo’ak!” Neteyam scolds. 

“Shit, I didn’t–”

“It’s fine,” you breathe an airy laugh and Lo’ak freezes when he hears your breath hitch. “It was an accident.” 

“Oh, ________…” Neteyam sighs, but you’re picking up the plate and scurrying off, ignoring the nearby snickering. 

“Whatever you got going on, you need to cool it,” Jake scolds him in the family tent after dinner that night. “________ is a good girl, she’s trying to find her place. Can’t really do that if you’re gonna be a jerk to her all the time.” 

Lo’ak resists the urge to roll his eyes because, yet again, someone is sticking up for you, admonishing him about how he could be nicer, how he could take you under his wing, how he–

“What about me?” Lo’ak argues. “I tell her to leave me alone all the time, but she doesn’t listen. Why do I have to be nice to someone who doesn’t respect–”

“Cut the bullshit,” Jake thunders. “You haven’t even tried being her friend.” 

“Why should I?” Lo’ak counters. 

“Because maybe you two are more alike than you’d care to learn,” Jake says knowingly. “Now go apologize.” 

“Dad!” 

“Go, Lo’ak.” 

Lo’ak sucks in a deep breath before squeezing his eyes shut and blowing out through his nose. 

“Fine, fine, whatever,” he grumbles, ducking from the tent into the humid night air. 

He starts into the jungle, fingers brushing over the leaves and petals of the plants and flowers. He takes the moment to regulate his pounding heart in his chest before trying to wrack his brain for any words that he could scrounge into a believable apology. 

When he crosses the glowing waters of a skinny brook, something rustles nearby and his hand is on the hilt of his dagger in the blink of an eye. 

He turns to face the noise, knife drawn, but then you emerge and his body relaxes a fraction. 

“Fuck, ________, you scared me,” he sighs in relief. 

You fidget and swallow down the lump in your throat. 

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly. 

A brief silence dawns the two of you and Lo’ak notes that you’ve cleaned up from the evening meal’s debacle, now wearing a longer loincloth threaded with round pearlescent beads that refract the luminescence of the surrounding forest. 

Your grasp tightens around a leather bound journal and for a moment, he wonders what you could be writing about. 

When you follow his gaze, you shyly tuck the journal behind your back and give him an uneasy smile. 

“I wanted to–”

“I came to–”

Your words clash and you breathe a little laugh through your nose as you gaze at him with brilliant eyes. You start closing the distance and Lo’ak’s hands grow clammy. 

“You first,” you offer. 

Whatever threads of an apology he’d crafted in the moments prior have evaporated now that you stand before him, absolutely glowing. 

“Lo’ak?” Your head tilts and his cheeks warm. 

“Sorry,” he says hoarsely. “For what happened at dinner.” 

You shake your head quickly. 

“You don’t have to apologize,” you assure him, reaching out to touch him. 

He recoils, clearing his throat as he retreats to put an ample amount of distance between the two of you. 

You eye the berth and something shutters across your face as you rock back on your heels and flash him another uneasy smile. 

You haven’t even tried being her friend, his dad’s words echo like a call in the night. Maybe you two are more alike that you care to learn. 

Were you? You and Lo’ak were as different as they come, you molded by the love and adoration of the clan, him built up by the lessons and lectures he received from his parents and Neteyam. 

“Where are you going?” you ask, blowing by the previous conversation. 

He shrugs. 

“Dunno,” he admits. “I was looking for you.” 

The way you freeze is almost covert, your lips rolling as you try to hide the smile threatening to split your face. 

“Oh,” you hum. “Wanna go for a walk?” 

No, he wants to say. He absolutely does not want to spend anymore time with you than he has to. Likes to believe that he wouldn’t even bat an eye if he were to never see you again, but you’re looking at him expectantly and his dad’s words are like a mantra in his head, so he agrees begrudgingly. 

It’s awkward at first, silent except for the natural soundtrack of the vicarious jungle. But like you do so well, you break the silence and Lo’ak has to resist rolling his eyes for the third time that night. 

“What are your favorite colors?” you ask suddenly. 

“I dunno, green?” he offers. 

“Are you sure?” you laugh quietly. 

Lo’ak thinks a moment before nodding his head. 

“Yeah, green,” he finalizes. “And blue.” 

He barely notices that you’d fallen behind, and when he turns to look over his shoulder, he sees that you’re scratching something into your little journal. 

“And your favorite fruit?” you press, nose still between the pages. 

Lo’ak breathes out a laugh and your head shoots up. 

“What? You gonna send this list to the lab?” Lo’ak asks.

You give him a shy smile, shifting on your feet. 

“No,” you say softly, then whisper to yourself, “just compiling a list to win your heart.” 

Lo’ak barely hears you, ears twitching as his eyes narrow in confusion. 

“What?” he asks. 

You snap your notebook shut, shaking your head quickly as you pad through the grass to catch up to him. 

“Nothing.” 

Something ripples in the fabric after that night, you and Neteyam both notice when Lo’ak enters the training clearing the next afternoon and greets you with a nod instead of flat out ignoring your presence like he had the last training session. 

And you think that the moment is fleeting, a one off, but as the days progress, you realize that maybe Lo’ak is finally softening around you. 

He stays for entire lessons, the most minute of smiles twitching at his lips whenever you compliment his shots. He waits near the edge for you as you pack up your things, and while the walk back to the village is a quiet one, you bask in his company, triumphant when he doesn’t run off. 

And while your evening walks are few and far between, you savor the moments he affords you, wedging yourself between him the crumbling walls of his facade. 

Tonight is one of those moments, sitting on adjacent branches overlooking the lively forest, when Lo’ak lets you peek farther into his life than he’d originally intended. 

“He never understands,” he sighs, popping a few berries from his satchel past his lips. 

Tonight’s topic is his father and you listen intently, eyes fixed on the way he reclines on the branch and looks up at the stars. 

“I try hard, you know? To make everyone proud, but all they see is my failure,” he says, obviously annoyed. “No matter what I do, it’s not good enough.” 

“You do great things, Lo’ak,” you say quietly, the first words you’ve said all night. 

And like your voice is a reminder, Lo’ak’s spine goes rigid, throat bobbing as he realizes that he may have said too much to you. He’s getting too comfortable and you’re all the willing to absorb every insecurity and every worry he has. 

But something about quiet moments like these makes him loose-lipped, eyes fluttering to where you’ve got your notebook balanced in the seam of your thighs, scrawling something on the pages as you eat your own berries. 

The words are leaving him before he can stop them. 

“Easy for you to say,” he murmurs. “You’re perfect.” 

The laugh that escapes you startles him and a few of the berries he was about to devour slips from his fingers and plunk down the leaves.

“I’m not perfect,” you assure him. 

“Only someone who’s perfect would say that,” Lo’ak grumbles, peering over the edge of the branches to spot his fallen fruit. “The whole village loves you, everyone’s always so ready to bat for you.” 

You look down at the pages of your journal with a sad smile. 

“It’s a lot of pressure,” you admit quietly. “Everyone’s watching your every move, waiting for you to mess up.” 

Lo’ak shifts uncomfortably.

You continue. 

“And most of the villagers our age don’t like me,” you say, thumbing one of the pages. “They say I kiss ass, that I’m always trying to keep a leg up.” 

Lo’ak winces, knowing that he’s the source of at least one of those sentiments. 

“The elders think you’re honorable,” Lo’ak argues gently. “You’re talented, you have something to offer the people.” 

“Honor means nothing if you’re bound by it,” you say finally, closing the cover to your journal. “If anything, I want to be more like you.” 

“Like me?” Lo’ak asks incredulously, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

You nod, smiling at him. 

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think you’re brave, fearless. And even if you care what people think, you do what you want.”

Lo’ak is quiet, taken aback by your confession.

Before he can respond, you’re gathering your things, bidding him a warm farewell as you begin climbing down the tree to disappear into the night. 

After that night, you think that maybe you’re just imagining things, that you’re reading too much into the fact that Lo’ak has begun to finally act like you exist, but then Kiri says something and the hope sends your heart soaring. 

“Seems like he finally got his head out of his ass,” she says a few mornings later as you two stand near a shallow stream, eyes peeled for any fish you two could bring back to the village. 

“Think so?” you ask nervously, arrow trapping the flailing fish to the pebbles of the stream’s bed. 

Kiri shrugs. 

“He actually pays you mind now,” Kiri observes. “That’s a step up for sure. I think you just need to spend more time with him.” 

You smile, splashing through shallow waters to capture the fish and add it to the growing pile in the basket between you and the middle Sully. 

“Yeah?” you wonder

So you test the theory, basket filled with various peeled fruits and a little container of nectar you squeezed from the petals of a flower. 

It doesn’t take long to hunt him down. When you enter the training circle, he’s packing up his things, quiver strapped to his back and bow in his fist. 

Before you make yourself known, he’s turning on his heel to face you, eyes wild as he swallows down the lump in his throat. 

He’d be the last to admit that the last night you two spent together was branded in his brain, that his mouth had dried up so much so he felt his tongue could crack.

There were so many implications in your words and it horrified him, scared him so much that he knew he couldn’t let you that close again. 

But now you stand before him, pretty as can be, hopeful even, and he’s at a war with himself, absolutely caught between resenting you for being everything he’s not and giving into the draw. 

“Hi,” you greet, basket heavy in your hands. 

You look more radiant than usual, skirt brushing the forest floor, the woven vine of your top banded to expose your midriff. 

“Hey,” he replies hesitantly. 

“Where you going?” you ask curiously.

His throat bobs as he gestures behind him. 

“Hunting,” is all he says.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” you ask eagerly.

He doesn’t. He shouldn’t. Because things are shifting and he’s not sure if he’ll be able to stomach the change. If he’ll be able to admit to himself that you’re wearing him thin, that you make him feel things he’s never felt before and that it makes him feel like he has no control. 

Because when it boils down to it, you make him lose control, make him lose his filter, and make him feel every emotion twice as hard. 

“No,” he says.

And in that moment, you feel like you’re back at square one, watching as his eyes turn stony and his jaw sets firmly. 

“You shouldn’t go hunting on your own,” you say softly. “Will someone be with you?” 

“It’s fine,” he argues. “I’m fine.” 

“I can go with you!” you offer. “I thought maybe we could sit by the stream and talk, but we can go hunting instead. We can–” 

“No,” he says again, pinning you with eyes so lethal, it makes you wonder if you really had imagined the moments you shared with him, if you had imagined Kiri telling you that she saw it too. 

You try again anyways. 

“It’ll be good practice and–”

“I said no, ________,” he barks. “You’re dead weight and I want to be alone.” 

Your lips seal and you bite the inside of your cheek. 

Lo’ak could nearly scream in frustration when he notices the way your shoulders sag and it makes something in his heart cinch. 

“Okay,” you agree, nodding quickly. “Be safe and–”

The words die on your tongue when you notice the look of annoyance on Lo’ak’s face. 

Lo’ak is in deep shit, you come to find out hours later. 

You sit outside of the training circle, knowing that Lo’ak will return down the path after his hunting trip. What you don’t expect, however, is Jake and Neytiri emerging with the entire line of Sully kids and Spider.

Jake grips the back of Lo’ak’s neck tightly as they march past wandering eyes, straight to the family tent. You don’t miss his wounds though, varying in depth, some bleeding, some sore. 

You’re hot on their heels, standing right outside of the entrance as Jake tears into the middle Sully. 

“Time and time again, I have to get on your ass for doing the complete opposite of what I ask you to do!” Jake’s voice is thunderous inside the tent. “Do you not realize that you not only risked your life but your sisters’ too?”

There’s a beat of silence before Jake continues, obviously pacing from the way his volume fluctuates. 

“And what were you thinking bringing Tuk? She’s nine, Lo’ak!” he shouts, the anger and the hurt evident in his tone. 

“I’m sorry,” Lo’ak mumbles. 

“Yeah, I bet you are!” Jake scolds. “I don’t ask for much. All I want is for you stay in line. Just stay out of trouble and work hard on your training. I paired you with ________ and Neteyam in hopes that maybe you’ll tighten up and be more like them, but you’re always disappointing me.” 

You frown. 

Whatever Lo’ak had done probably didn’t warrant such deep admonishment and something tugs especially hard at your heartstrings knowing that all he wants to do is make his dad proud. 

“You’re surrounded by good influences, but you always have to go against the grain, Lo’ak,” Jake says, the edge in his tone softening. “I’m getting tired of the bullshit, son. You need to clean up your act. Hear me?” 

“Yes sir,” Lo’ak says quietly, voice almost a whisper behind the hide of the tent. 

“Now go get yourself cleaned up,” Jake huffs. 

Your spine is straightening when you hear foot steps closing in, holding your breath as the flap to the tent billows open and Lo’ak is emerging.

His eyes flit to yours and his expression sours further. 

“Lo’ak,” you murmur, reaching out to him. 

He’s shrugging you away, wincing when a wound on his shoulder stretches especially taut. 

“You’re hurt,” you say quietly. “I’ll–”

“Leave me alone,” he says, eerily level. 

“But you’re–”

“I said leave me alone, ________,” he warns, pushing past you in what should be the pursuit of his grandmother’s quarters.

Instead he’s making a beeline for the jungle. 

You’d seen the look in his eye before he stonewalled you, seen the hurt and heaviness that most people didn’t seem to notice because he was always so adventurous and carefree. 

You follow after him. 

“Lo’ak, you know he’s only worried for you,” you try to reason gently, fingers reaching for his own as you duck under massive leaves and fluttering insects. 

He whirls to face you, swatting your hand away. 

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he bites. “You don’t know anything.” 

You swallow, holding your hand to your chest as you watch him lay down every brick to wall himself off. 

He hates it. He hates how you look at him, how you seem to pity the life he has to live. It makes him sick, thinking that you two have it the same. He’d rather be hated for being great than hated for being a let down. It’s insulting, how you think you know how it feels. 

“Let’s go back. I’ll wrap your wounds and–”

“Of course, clan’s golden girl is gonna patch me up and make it all better, huh?” he seethes facetiously. “Just fuck off!” 

You flinch, blinking at the boy you holds so much rage in front of you. 

“I know you’re hurting, but you don’t have to be mean,” you whisper, taking in a shuddering breath to will yourself not to cry. 

“Mean? Mean?” Lo’ak bristles. “I’ve tried telling you to lay off nicely, tried telling you to just leave me alone, but you don’t listen. You just pry and overstep and you make every little thing about you! Oh, it’s so much pressure, villagers our age hate me, of course they would! You already have everything and just have to go rub salt in the wound!” 

You shrink, eyes welling as your lip trembles. 

“Lo’ak, stop,” you whimper. 

“We’re not friends, ________.We never were and we never will because I don’t like you,” he spits. “Now please, for the love of god, will you just leave me alone!” 

The forest is silent save for Lo’ak’s ragged breathing, fists clenched as he glares down at you. 

“I-” Your breath hitches and you choke out an apology. “I’m sorry.” 

Lo’ak’s heart softens a fraction as you take a step back, turning quickly on your heel. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” you rasp, tripping over your own feet as you stumble into a run, putting as much space as you can between you and the middle child who stands in the middle of the forest, unable to wrangle every harsh word he’d said to force back down his throat. 

You dropped your journal. 

Lo’ak is sure you’re looking for it, know that you’ve always got your nose stuck in it. You had dropped it running off and now he has its leather bound in his hands. 

It’s been a couple of nights since the faithful evening he’d blown his top and he’d only seen whispers of you. It was so unlike you to disappear, to not be entertaining the masses as they fell to your feet. 

He’d cooled off significantly, and when he replayed the conversation in his head, he winced, body folding in on itself as he realizes how harsh he’d been. 

“Are you actually thinking thoughts?” Spider claps him on the shoulder, startling him so badly he drops the journal. 

It lands spine down, the pages fluttering open. 

He chances a peek before Spider is rounding his lithe figure to pick up the notebook. All he makes out is a rough sketch. 

“You write?” Spider asks, intrigued. 

“No, it’s ________’s,” Lo’ak answers. 

“Oh, your little girlfriend’s?” 

Lo’ak gives the human a cross look, snatching the book from his grasp as he stands up.

“Trouble in paradise?” Spider pries, scurrying to keep up with Lo’ak’s long strides. 

A beat of silence before Lo’ak finally answers. 

“Made her cry,” he mumbles, embarrassed. 

Spider winces behind him. 

“You serious?” 

Lo’ak sighs. 

“Yes, dude, fuck,” he breathes, hand coming to the back of his neck. “I don’t know what came over me. Dad was ripping me a new one and Neteyam already chewed me out before they got there and she was being annoying, so I just…” 

“Bro,” Spider scoffs in disbelief, scratching the back of his head. “You’re a real dickhead sometimes.” 

Lo’ak’s eyes wander as he shifts uncomfortably, feeling incredibly small as his friend glares up at him. 

“I mean, I told her I wanted to be left alone!” Lo’ak tries to defend weakly. “I- I didn’t mean to.” 

“She likes you a lot, dude,” Spider reiterates. “She just wants you to like her back.” 

Despite the glaring signs, Lo’ak has trouble believing that your feelings for him far surpass charity work. They couldn’t, it was impossible. Because at the end of the day, you’re you and he’s…him. 

He opens his mouth to say something, but Spider beats him to it.

“Did you at least apologize?” 

Lo’ak squirms.

“Dude!” 

“Look, I know, I know,” he tries to assuage the situation. 

“________ is literally the sweetest girl in the entire clan you just–“ 

“I get it, bro, I get it!” Lo’ak huffs. 

“Get your head out of your ass,” Spider says. “She might not stick around long enough for you to realize.” 

“Realize what?” Lo’ak snaps. 

“Are you really gonna play stupid right now?” 

He blinks at the human. 

“You like ________,” Spider says matter-of-factly. “You always have, ever since we were kids.” 

“Oh, piss off,” Lo’ak grumbles.

“Dude, you’re literally my best friend, but I sometimes I wanna shove my foot so far up your–”

“I do not like ________,” Lo’ak says sharply. 

“Everyone sees it but you, dipshit,” Spider scoffs. “You like her, but you’re scared. She’s perfect and she intimidates you. Think she’s gonna see you for what you really are and turn her back on you like everyone else does when you fuck up, but she’s not like that, Lo’ak. She’s been there whether you like it or not. But she might not always.” 

Lo’ak swallows down the knot in his throat, fingers tightening around the notebook. 

“Everything clicking?” Spider asks knowingly. 

Lo’ak throws him a final narrowed glare before stalking off. 

It’s Lo’ak’s birthday and just like every orbit, he spends it alone in the forest.

At first, he’d been burdened with the weight of hurting your feelings, but now his conversation with Spider weighs heavy on him as he climbs dirt walkways and flowered paths. 

It doesn’t help that your notebook weighs heavy in his satchel, a silent reminder that he still has a piece of you while you cling to his peace of mind. 

I think you’re brave, fearless. They’re the words you uttered to him that fateful night you turned the reality of you two on its axis. 

As he splices all the moments you two shared like a reel, he realizes that it’s endless. That you’re always there, you’d always been there, like a layer of impenetrable atmosphere surrounding him. 

He really should apologize, he knows this much, but you’ve disappeared like a wisp of smoke. Training sessions have returned to a sibling affair and he’s too prideful to ask about you. 

It’s almost eclipse when he begins making his way back for the evening meal, knowing that a scolding will await if he arrives even a minute late. 

After what had happened with you, he was lying low, trying to diminish his blip from the radar.

As he closes in on the village’s main circle, he notes that it’s quiet. A little too quiet. It puts him on edge, makes him draw his bow and feel around for an arrow in his quiver. 

A few more paces and he’s broken into the clearing, a few stragglers milling about. Another half a dozen steps and it’s like the forest melts into a celebration, whorls of blue pouring into the circle as villagers begin trilling. 

Lo’ak is hoisted into the air as the dying fire in the center of the camp begins to slowly roar. 

“Happy birthday, baby bro!” Neteyam caws loudly as they begin jostling him into the air, chanting and dancing as the dense crowd of clanspeople celebrate him.

It’s like time slows as he peers from side to side eagerly, seeing the way Spider, Kiri and Tuk dance happily among his people. Jake and Neytiri stand near the fire, smiles wide when they see the look of awe on their middle son’s face. 

When he’s finally set on his feet, he wobbles, childlike as he turns, taking in the glowing streamers that crisscross between the tents. Flowers of green and blue thread through the vines, gleaming like lamplight as the forest buzzes around them. 

“Wha– What is all this?” Lo’ak croaks in disbelief, eyes flitting wildly as he notices Norm and Max standing next to a table they’d hauled from the pod to the circle, piled high with meats and vegetables wrapped in leaves. 

A platter of yovo fruits, his favorite, are at the center, surrounded by a painted sign with his name and the handprints of dozens of villagers on it. 

“You survived another orbit!” Neteyam laughs heartily, head-locking the younger boy before roughly digging his knuckles into the top of his head. 

A laugh bubbles from Lo’ak’s lips, swatting his brother away as villagers and clan members he’d grown up with approach him one by one to greet him. 

As the night progresses, he doesn’t even realize he’s searching until your mother approaches and his spine goes rigid, cheeks warming under her piercing gaze. 

“From my ________,” she says, setting a pouch into his palms. “She toiled over these for many eclipses. Please take care.” 

Lo’ak’s nod is delayed as his satchel shifts on his shoulders, a dull reminder that your journal still remains with him, begging to be read. 

“Where– Where is she?” he asks suddenly, feeling your absence all the more now that your gift sits in the palm of his hand. 

“My daughter does not feel well,” your mother says simply. “She wished to be excused from the festivities.” 

His chest feels hollow, stomach tight as his cheeks burn. You’d mentioned this to him, all those days ago in the training circle, about wanting to celebrate with him. 

His eyes flit to the flowers looped through the vines, the mountain of yovo fruits, the gift in his hands. He doesn’t want to be presumptuous. Doesn’t want to fuel the tiniest ember of hope in chest, but he can’t help it. 

He can’t help but read into it, into the implications of this celebration you’d planned all for him, into every word you uttered to him in the quiet of the forest’s chirping. 

It’s all it takes for him to lock himself in his own head. The feast melts into the background, dull, as his eyes cut the crowd for you. 

You have to be here, gotta be hanging around the outskirts silently. The idea taunts him, makes his gut twist hard as images of you dancing in the circle, singing to him, celebrating him, loving him—

Lo’ak freezes, blinking incredulously at the thought that’d just crossed his brain. It makes him queasy, makes the regret and the guilt gnaw at every nerve ending as your crying face flashes like an unwanted slideshow in his brain. 

It’s all he can think about as the festivities die, as villagers begin turning in the for the night and he helps his family clean up the aftermath of another orbit finally finished. 

Spider helps Tuk and Neteyam near the fire, and as Lo’ak moves through the motions like he’s caught in a tide, Kiri watches, knowing all too well what consumes her brother’s mind. 

It isn’t until Lo’ak is shrouded by the stillness of the early morning, his family tucked in their tent, bodies and limbs splayed as they sleep together, that he sits in a swinging hammock, your journal and the pouch in his lap. 

It feels wrong, the way he thumbs the cover, working up the courage to turn it open. But Ewya, fate, would have never left it in his wake if it wasn’t meant to be read.

As his finger ghosts the etchings of the front cover, worn and loved by you, something tickles his leg as he admires the leather. He blinks in disbelief when he sees a singular woodsprite resting against his thigh. 

Before he loses his nerve, he’s opening the pages with bated breath. 

Recipes, nature notes, short thoughts fill the sheets and Lo’ak feels like he’s reading into your brain, seeing all the little things no one bothers to know. 

he is like the sun,

shines so bright,

but burns the closer you get. 

Lo’ak’s pointer finger glosses over the ink, over your curly handwriting. 

he is so incredible, but he doesn’t even know it. i want to shout it to every creature in the forest, every tree and every flower. oh, how i wish to be as fearless as him. 

His chest heaves as the words blur. 

Fearless. 

Fearless. 

Fearless. 

In this moment, he feels everything but. He feels like a coward. 

He continues to flip, throat lodged as he sees drawings, both rough sketches and full renderings. He hadn’t even known that you liked to draw, yet here he was, observing his home through your artistic eye. 

Flowers, leaves, trees, creatures, insects, fruits mar the stained papers, etched like it’d been caught in real time. 

likes green and blue. 

likes yovo fruits. 

The entry from the day you’d first walked with him through the forest. 

When he turns the page, his breath hitches. 

In full color, you’d captured his bullseye from your first training session. His back taut from the release, expression shaded stoic. He looked mighty, like the strongest warrior, and it was all through your eyes. 

Lo’ak doesn’t even realize he’s crying until the bullseye in the illustration bleeds from a fallen tear. Another one drips from his chin, then another. 

The next page is the night you two had poured your hearts out to each other. Again, in full color, he’s watching the stars. You don’t leave out the glow of the freckles that smatter his face and body, don’t miss the smile that plays at his lips as he quietly points out that his dad had come from a star. 

He flips again and different iterations and designs for what seems like jewelry litters the pages, shaded with different colors of blue and green, marked with varying notes, x’s marking through ideas you didn’t like. 

Lo’ak remembers the pouch, sitting untouched in his lap, and his shaky fingers undo the ties. He shakes the contents on the flat of the notebook and the most intricate beadwork fits into the crease. 

His eyes widen as he picks up the necklace in a trembling hand, the eclipsing sun catching the etching in the flat stones. 

Four five-fingered hands and four four-fingered ones, each separated by jewels scavenged and cleaned from the bed of the glowing river. 

A small scroll flutters from the pouch and Lo’ak chokes back as sob as he unrolls the hide. 

Happy Birthday, Lo’ak. I am always grateful to know someone like you. May your next orbit be filled with endless blessings from Ewya and may you see yourself how I see you. 

You see him, he realizes. You’re his supporter, a silent force that consumes every insecurity and swallows every doubt. You believe in him more than he believes in himself. 

He stands from the hammock and runs. 

You’re sitting in the same tree the two of you had rested in the night you’d confided in Lo’ak, watching as the sun eclipses and begins to light up the sparkling forest.

Something rustles and you sit up, hand on the hilt of your dagger as you search the area for movement.

As your eyes lock on the source, you almost wish it had been a beast coming to devour you whole. But as Lo’ak climbs the branches of the tree quickly, you feel the dread begin to solidify in your veins. 

You take your satchel, hanging from a nearby branch and sling it over your shoulder, pulling your shawl over your head to prepare for your escape. 

“________, wait,” he chokes breathlessly. “Please.” 

You feel like crying all over again, feel so unbelievably stupid thinking that Lo’ak would ever see you the way that you see him. 

You pause a beat as he settles on the branch across from yours, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. 

Something glints in the sun and your eyes widen when you see that Lo’ak has fastened the necklace you made him around his neck, right above the the leather chain that holds his beloved claw charm. 

“You’re wearing it,” you whisper, lips twitching into a frown as you try your best to keep your tears at bay. 

“I’m sorry, ________,” Lo’ak apologizes hoarsely. “Fuck, you don’t understand how sorry I am.” 

The tears well on their own. 

We’re not friends. We never were and we never will. 

The words haunt you like a broken record and you shake your head, moving from your perch to move down the branches. 

“Wait, wait,” Lo’ak pleads. “Please don’t go, I–”

“I hate you,” you whisper. “I hate you, Lo’ak.” 

He freezes, watching as you balance on a branch below. 

“I tried so hard to be your friend,” you whimper, angrily wiping away your tears. “You’re amazing. You’re strong, and you’re fearless, and you are everything I want to be, but you’re heartless.” 

Lo’ak lets out a shuddering breath, a chill running down his spine as you look up at him like he’d smashed every star in the sky. 

“I wanted to be with you, you know?” you let out a watery laugh. “I hoped that maybe if I stuck it out, you’d see how much I cared, how badly I wanted to be with you, even if it was from a distance.” 

“I do, _________, I do!” he argues. 

He hadn’t always, but he sees it now. He sees you. 

You shake your head again.

“You don’t,” you sigh, voice trembling. “It’s my fault anyways. You were right. You told me to leave you alone and I was being too much.” 

“Stop–”

“Let this be the last time,” you assure him. “Let’s just– Let’s pretend we never met.”

“No, _________. Wait!” 

You’re climbing down the tree and disappearing into the brush and, like a fleck of ash, you’re disintegrating into nothingness. 

Most people think he’s being moody, that he’s just been scolded by his father or older brother, but Neytiri knows better. 

She sees the way her son has changed over the course of the past few weeks. She knows there is a great burden that he carries, but much like her beloved and her eldest, he suffers in silence. 

“Maitan,” she says quietly, brushing a braid from his face as he folds the leaves around a chunk of steaming meat. 

Lo’ak pauses almost imperceptibly, but continues his task. 

It isn’t like him to stay home and work with Neytiri. If anything, he’d be the first one out of the tent, Tuk, Spider, and Kiri tailing after him as they galavant through the endless forest. 

“Something weighs heavy in your heart,” she tries again, hand coming over his. 

Lo’ak stops and leans back, unable to meet his mother’s searching gaze. 

“I hurt someone,” he says quietly. 

Neytiri stiffens.

“What?” 

“I hurt someone I care about,” Lo’ak admits. You’d called him fearless, strong. He needed to live by your word. “I hurt her and I don’t know how to fix it.” 

“Oh, Lo’ak,” she murmurs, squeezing his hand gently. 

Her face has softened as she takes in his stony expression. 

“My son, some things cannot be fixed,” she says honestly. “But all things require great effort. Sometimes those efforts will fall through, but that is the natural order of life.” 

Lo’ak swallows. 

“Whoever this special person is, if you have hurt her, she deserves the full effort of your heart, no?” 

You do, he knows you do. You deserve every last effort. But a niggling streak of insecurity tells him that you don’t deserve someone like him. You don’t deserve someone who takes your affections for granted. You deserve someone who will love you with every breath, who will love you fearlessly. 

“I really messed things up, Mom,” Lo’ak says quietly. “I don’t…” 

Neytiri’s hand comes to Lo’ak chest. 

“The night I first met your father, Ewya gave me sign,” she says. “He has a pure, strong heart. You do too.” 

Lo’ak swallows. 

“Be brave, Maitan,” she says. “Sometimes that is enough.” 

Lo’ak’s fingers hurt from picking berries.

His cuticles bleed, pricked by the thorns of the fruit’s bush. Kiri hums beside him, weaving a little bag out of ropes of thin vines. 

“You’re not gonna help me?” he whines. 

“Why should I help you with your mess?” 

You look beautiful under the glow of the evening meal’s crackling fire. It’s the first time you’ve emerged since before Lo’ak’s birthday feast and you’re being flocked by elders and villagers, wishing you well and asking about your supposed ailment. 

He sits across the fire, fists tight as he searches for a lull in the crowd. 

Spider snickers next to him, devouring the contents of his plate like he’s starved, watching Lo’ak’s useless pining like a show. 

Be brave. 

He’s standing to his feet before he can back out, crossing the circle to approach you. The villagers watch like they know something he doesn’t and the nerves are eating away at him as he steps into your space. 

You look up from your conversation with a girl your age, the smile slipping from your lips. 

“Can we talk?” Lo’ak asks, eyes wandering to watch the way everyone watches him. 

You remain jaded.

“Now’s not a good time,” you say quietly and a few onlookers snicker in the background. “________,” Lo’ak tries again. 

You stare up at him, the shadow of the fire dancing over your features as you seemingly look right through him. It’s humiliating, the way you remain seated and watch him fidget, but he figures he deserves the cold shoulder after months, years of casting you to the side. 

“Let’s go?” you ask the girl, nodding your head over your shoulder. 

The girl chances a glance between you and Lo’ak, noticing the telltale sign of your work etched into the stones of the choker he hadn’t taken off since his birthday. 

She gives him a sympathetic smile as she follows after you. 

He’s going to have to try a lot harder than he has, he realizes as your birthday looms right around the corner. The next eclipse, in fact. 

He’s losing hope, losing courage, but he can’t give up on you two just yet. 

He makes sure the berries he picked the days prior are packed tightly in his bag, the lid to the nectar fastened, and his present wrapped nicely. 

It’s his last hope, his last shot to make things right. 

Spider, Tuk, and Neytiri surround him, Neteyam and Jake off on a hunt. 

They’d all been privy to the fact, aiding him in his endeavors as he organized his final grapple with your heart. 

“Kiri said she’ll bring her right before eclipse,” Spider says, peeking from the flap of the tent. “That’s in, like, minutes.” 

Lo’ak is nervous. Doesn’t know what he’ll do if he loses you for good, but he knows he has to give it his best effort. It’s the least you deserve. 

Be brave. Sometimes that is enough. 

Lo’ak glances at his mom and she gives him a warm smile, ruffling his braids. 

“You are the son of Toruk Makto,” she assures him, pinching his cheek. “There is nothing you cannot do.” 

The words are carved into his brain as he rushes through the forest, the the stream that the curls and bends through the forest. It glows beautifully at night and that is his final push. 

“Wait, give me like three seconds, I left something.” Kiri’s voice is muffled behind the trees. 

“Huh?” Lo’ak sees the way your head tilts through an opening in the foliage. 

“I’ll only be a second!” 

“Wait, Kiri!” 

Kiri is running straight for him, comes barreling through the bushes, and continues down the path. 

“Good luck, egghead!”

Lo’ak takes in a final breath to quell the tremor in his hands before ducking through the bushes to reveal himself. 

You’re sitting on the embankment, on a woven mat that Kiri had laid out for you two, decorative vines edging the seams. 

“Oh, you were–”

You peer over your shoulder and your expression falls. 

“Lo’ak…” 

“Happy birthday, ________,” he breathes. 

You don’t look amused, slinging your bag over you shoulder as you rise to your feet. 

“Kiri and I are hanging out,” you tell him. 

He scratches the back of his head. 

“I…I had Kiri bring you here because I knew that you wouldn’t come with me if I asked,” he admits. “And of course, I don’t blame you, but I– I just really need to talk to you.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek, unable to look him in his eyes as he draws nearer. 

“Just give me some time, please,” he pleads. 

You finally meet his gaze, searching his eyes as he looks down at you earnestly. 

You give him the tiniest nod, reluctantly shedding your satchel to reassume your seat on the mat. 

The waters rush gently, like a song as Lo’ak lowers himself next to you.

His palms are clammy as he fidgets in his seat, the scent of herbs and flowers wafting from your dewy skin. He can’t bring himself to look at you, afraid that every sentiment he’d crafted in the hours of the night will escape him, so he watches the bubbling of the stream. 

“Well?” you whisper, like you don’t want to shatter the fragile sheath of peace that layers you. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I know I’ve said it already, but I really am, ________.” 

“I know,” you murmur and his gaze flits to yours. “Even if you don’t act like it, you have a good heart, Lo’ak. You feel everything, even the things you don’t want to.” 

He swallows.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says carefully. “I was mad and I took it out on you. That wasn’t fair.” 

You sit silently, knees hugged to your chest. Your cheek rests against your knee, watching Lo’ak with seeing eyes. It makes him trip over his words. 

“My whole life, I’ve always been compared to Neteyam,” he says. “The entire village would whisper about me and how I was nothing like the mighty warrior.” 

When he glances at you, he notices your fingers twitch, like you want to reach out to him. 

He squashes his fears and turns to face you, five-fingered hand coming up to thread with your four. You watch the union, uncertainty obvious in the way you tense, but Lo’ak squeezes. 

“And then when we started growing up, you were just another person I had to live up to,” Lo’ak whispers. “You’re perfect, ________. You’re kind, and you’re smart, talented. You’re everything I’m not and it made me hate you.” 

You shrink, but Lo’ak pulls you towards him, hand coming up to brush your cheek. 

“But you’re all of that and more,” he continues, the words gushing like a river. “You’re always there, you support me and you defend me and see things I don’t.” 

You become shy under his gaze because for the first time, he’s seeing you. He’s seeing you for every single thing you’ve been to him and it makes your stomach knot. 

“I have something to tell you,” he says. “Please don’t be mad at me.” 

Your gaze is soft, palm still in his as he turns and reaches into the bag he discarded next to him. Your eyes widen when he produces your notebook, edges curled the slightest as he hands it to you. 

“My journal,” you say, taking it from him quickly. “I’ve been looking for this. Why- Why do you have it?” 

He looks guilty, lips rolling as he avoids your gaze. 

“Did you…” 

“I wasn’t going to,” he admits. “But there were woodsprites and I knew it was a s–”

“Lo’ak this is private,” you murmur incredulously. “Why would you read this?” 

“How long, ________?” he asks quietly, grip on your hand tightening. 

“Lo’ak, don’t–”

“How long?” he presses desperately. 

Your eyes are watering, like that wicked night all over again and Lo’ak begs Eywa for the final push. 

“Since we were ten,” you whisper brokenly. “It was my first performance and it was so stupid, but I was throwing up because I was nervous and you talked me through it.” 

Lo’ak is stunned, the memory like the faintest of outlines. 

“We didn’t even know each other that well,” you hiccup. “But you patted me on the back and you gave me this–”

You pull your fingers from his grasp and flip the journal to the last page, revealing a hidden pocket. Your nimble fingers pull a tattered string, the remnants of a vine, threaded with wilted flower petals, preserved from being pressed inside your notebook.

“You said that they made you make it during lessons,” you say, breath hitching. “That it’d be my good luck.” 

He’d forgotten all about the memory completely, too caught up in driving whatever wedge he could between you two, building up walls to seal you out. 

“And you kept it this whole time?” he asks, face scrunched in disbelief. 

“I’d hold on to anything you give me,” you admit in defeat. “Heartbreak included.” 

He lets out a shaky breath. 

“________, I’m so sorry,” he repeats, hand coming up to your neck. “You have to know that. I’m really fucking stupid, but if you give us a shot, I won’t mess it up.” 

Your hand comes up to his wrist, crumpling as you bow your head. 

“Don’t do this to me,” you beg, moving to break away from him. 

“Please.” 

His hold tightens, other hand twining with yours. 

“If I…if I give myself to you, I’m giving you everything,” you say hesitantly. “If you break this, you break me. I don’t think I can come back from this.” 

Lo’ak presses his forehead to yours, breath warm against your lips as he searches your gaze for any semblance of hope. 

“This is me being fearless, ________,” he whispers. 

You melt, pressing your lips to his tentatively. He’s frozen for the shortest of moments before relenting, pushing up onto his knees to deepen the kiss. 

He’s cradling your face and your hands are wandering and Lo’ak can’t help but think he could get used to loving you. 

To being loved by you. 

BONUS

“I was gonna give it to you on your birthday,” Lo’ak says sheepishly a few nights later under the stars. “But, you know…” 

Your usual place among the branches of the looming trees have a lot of memories both bitter and sweet, but you suppose you could make new ones. 

“You don’t have to give me anything,” you say sweetly, tail swishing to wrap around his ankle. “You’re all I need.” 

Lo’ak doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to your saccharine words if the pounding in his chest is anything to go by. 

His hands are shaky as he pushes the hide towards you, a bow made of vine tied neatly around the gift. 

“Wanted to,” he says simply, moving the hair from you face to see your reaction better. “Open it.” 

You’re gentle with the present, like you are with most things, but eager to see what he’d gotten you. 

A tiny gasp falls from your lips when you finally see it, wide eyes meeting his as you free the jars of paints he’d mashed up, the brushes he fashioned, and the brand new journal he bound himself. 

“Lo’ak, wow…” 

“So you can paint me more,” he says, then adds timidly. “Or maybe us. Maybe you could paint us.” 

an — holy shit guys, this was such a big project for me because i really wanted to dive into so many different things in this fic. to everyone who was waiting patiently, thank you sososo much. as usual, i took a lot of creative liberties with this one, but i hope you guys enjoyed nonetheless! although requests are paused for me to catch up, like always, if you wanna chat with me about literally anything, my askbox is open. lots of love hehehe :) xx

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neng © 2023

taglist: @nao-cchi , @jkiminpark , @philiasoul @amart-e , @s-u-t , @netesbby , @tayswiftlovebot , @dumb-fawkin-bitch , @ewackmn

[giorno-plays-piano]

Favors and Debts

Part I

Pairing: fae!Yuji/Sukuna x reader

Warnings: noncon, yandere, murder, captivity, stalking, violence (not towards reader), Sukuna having a purity kink.

Words: 1.6k

Summary: Of all creatures fickle and cruel, the fair folk are the ones inspiring fear and awe alike. You were unlucky enough to save one of them from captivity, and now you must pay for it.

________________

"Please, leave me be," your whisper is so quiet you barely hear yourself speak, but it's enough for the monster to bare his teeth at you in a smile.

"No," he says simply and then charges at you like a wild animal, forcing a scream out of your throat as you run and run and run until you are facing a dead wall blocking your path.

His sharp smile grows wider the closer he steps to you.

Then you wake up with a gasp, face wet with tears and cold sweat as you clench the sheets in your fingers, choking from horror. It's him again. The fae boy you saved years ago, the one who pays you back with fear and pain and nightmares. He doesn't visit you every night, not when you keep taking your sleeping pills religiously, but they are a serious thing, and your stomach keeps hurting more and more over the years, forcing you to take lesser doses. That's when the fae boy strikes, slipping into your dreams like water seeps through a crack of an old, chipped cup.

It's the same dream over and over again: he chases you down the city as you run for your life like a prey followed by predator, blinded by fear while he taunts you, his six long, muscular arms nearly catching you every time. It feels like every night he allows you to escape, but you don't think it's entirely true. Your iron and your mirrors must be keeping you safe: after all this time, he hadn't come for you yet.

You were young back then, so naive, so pure. You finally received a long-awaited recommendation letter from the head pharmacist to be allowed to work in a tiny village down south, nearly at the Drowned Forest border. You were, by far, not a superstitious girl, and the rumors didn't scare you. You were, though, quite worried about being among the simple, rural folk who weren't keen on trusting a young city girl with making their medication: truth be told, women in those places had only ever had one purpose in life, and it had nothing to do with a medical career or any career at all.

And yet, you were welcomed to the place. The villagers were desperate since it took at least several days to drive to the closes town to procure the medication of any serious kind, and they were in great need of someone who'd serve as a doctor and a pharmacist, even if it was just a young girl who had only gotten her recommendation letter.

But it was an unfriendly, cold, half-abandonded sort of place. Likewise, you didn't like its people who were always too crude, too vulgar to your taste, their gazes always lingering too long on you when they thought you didn't see, and you could barely stand the almost-casual touches of men who seemed to think you couldn't see beneath their polite facade. "They're simple folk," the head pharmacist would say, shaking his head after you pleaded with him to give you a letter of recommendation. "You won't appreciate their way of life, and you don't have to. Why do you want to go there so badly if you can continue working as my junior pharmacist? You can make a name for yourself here."

You were stupid back then. You wanted to prove yourself so desperately you thought nothing of his gentle warning, rushing headlong in what you thought your first grown-up adventure that turned out to be a nightmare haunting you to this day.

At first, despite your unease towards the village folk, it all was new and exciting. You were the head pharmacist! The only one for miles and miles. People spoke about you with respect, or so you thought. You were crafting medication day and night, and nearly everyone was coming to your door religiously every couple of days. You enjoyed the welcomed weight of responsibility on your shoulders.

It wasn't until a month passed that the villagers finally let you meet a scrawny pink-haired kid by the name of Yuji, who was some sort of an apprentice. Whose apprentice was he? The men all laughed when you asked them, looking smug as they claimed he was apprenticing for every master in the village.

What an odd thing to say, you thought, furrowing your brows. How could one boy be an apprentice to all of them?

Of course, he wasn't. He was a fae boy they have somehow captured and kept prisoner, making him do all sorts of manual labor because they knew his true name.

At first, you thought it was nothing but a shameful lie to keep a fatherless young man chained to his captors to make their bidding. Yuji was just a boy. He was young and smiley and helpful despite the abuse he had to endure every day, the villagers giving him the thoughest jobs under the pretense of his immense fairy powers. Where was he from? Why had no one tried to stop people from treating him so unfairly? He wasn't a caged animal. Yuji was a human being.

But then the blacksmith once handed him an iron girdle, a wicked smirk on his lips, and you saw the horror and pain reflected on Yuji's face when his fingers touched the metal, his palm immediately growing red as if the iron was still hot. He wailed, dropping the girdle on the ground while the blacksmith laughed at him like it was a joke of some kind, and you, caught off guard by such casual display of cruelty, ran to the boy to have a look at his injured hand.

He was, indeed, a fae. The iron to him was alike acid to humans, burning his flesh at the slightest touch.

The discovery shook you to the core, at one point making you question your sanity, but in that moment you were so preoccupied with the boy's injury you were more focused on helping him alleviate the pain and bandage his poor hand than worry about his fairy nature. Regardless of what villagers said, Yuji was gentle and proper. He didn't deserve such horrible treatment.

With every day, you grew more and more anxious, watching him casually bullied and hurt by the village folk for their own amusement. They made him touch iron, look into the mirrors that somehow brought him immense pain, forced him to work till sunset and even at night, and refused him food from to time. It was unbearable to watch a young boy being treated that way. It was no wonder you developed so much compassion and pity for him, soon sneaking in the hovel where he was allowed to sleep to feed him or bring him medication for his injuries. He was such a lovely boy, so bright and kind and sensitive, that it took you just a couple more weeks to agree to his plea to help him get out of this wicked place.

How could you have known of his true nature? You were but a naive, pure young girl. It was a given you were easy to manipulate, to be taken advantage of. A disaster waiting to happen.

You didn't even believe in the fair folk when you had first arrived in that god-forsaked village, but in a couple of months you took up on a quest to find another fae in the Drowned Forest and bring him to Yuji to set him free. When you think of it now, it's such a miracle you stayed alive. Walking straight into the Drowned Forest... what were you thinking back then? How could you be so stupid? That journey could have cost you your life, but you grew too desperate to protect Yuji against villagers' abuse.

Back then, you weren't sure how you stumbled upon another fae so fast, barely minutes into the charmed forest, but now you know he had been waiting for you. Yuji was biding his time because he knew one day a girl like you would appear and do what she could to free him. He was well-prepared, and you were eager to be deceived.

You didn't know what to expect from that exciting but inherently dangerous affair, and yet you didn't think the fae to just slaughter them all, all the human folk of the village. You heard them scream. Luckily, Yuji locked you in the barn where he used to sleep, and you avoided looking at the bloodshed, but their desperate, horryfying cries have been your constant companions for many years to come. You still hear them sometimes when you sleep.

When the menacing black-haired fae from the Drowned Forest grew in size, the marks on his forehead shining in the dark, claws elongating meyond measure, Yuji forced you into his barn, his usually gentle expression morphing into something sinister. He looked at you with mad glee, his fangs elongating, two arms splitting into six like he was mutating right in front of your very eyes, and as you crawled back, suddenly realizing the villagers were right about him, he cornered you, caging you with his large, muscular body, strange symbols engraved into his skin.

"A woman like you captured me," he whispered softly as you shook violently beneath him. "She was a clever little fox, and I lusted after her like a fool, letting her trick me into submission. All those years I spent like a dog on a chain... But I knew a woman like her would set me free."

________

His hand brushed a lock of your hair away from your face, and with the other one he took you by the chin, forcing you to look up at him, "Seven years I've waited in my cage, little bird. Seven years I'll give you to live your mundane life before I come for you."

Part II

Tags: @minshookie29

[baejax-the-great]

The best way to get a writer writing faster is not to leave a comment begging, asking, or passive aggressively demanding an update. Whether the comment is silly, playful, earnest, or downright rude, whether or not the author is flattered by the comment, it is unlikely to spur your writer to action.

The best way to get a writer writing faster is to comment on the actual story you want written-its plot, its characters, its themes, its anything--for the very simple reason that thinking about the story is the first step to actually writing the story.

If I have five WIPs going and someone leaves me a comment on one saying, "update when?", they have not gotten me thinking about my story at all. The answer remains "whenever the winds of fate drive me to open up that document." If someone leaves a comment talking about the story, their understanding of it, what they are enjoying or confused by or hope to see, now I am thinking about the story and what I wanted to accomplish with it. That fresh perspective on my work has the gears turning in my head. And now I am ten times more likely to open up that doc and set my fingers to typing.

Will this always work? No. People have busy lives and inspiration can be a fickle beast. But it is a far better approach (and dare I say less annoying and entitled approach) to getting your favorite author writing the fic you want them to be writing.

[sirfrogsworth]

If there is a post discussing ableism there is a decent chance a disabled person is writing it.

I really appreciate the work this person did transcribing that post. I am always grateful when people make my work more accessible.

But I am really getting tired of defending myself on this.

My disability makes me very tired, reduces my concentration, and kills my willpower.

For a long time I thought that last thing was me being lazy. That's what my own father thought for a long time. And I was often scolded when I was younger for being lazy. And to this day I struggle with feeling depressed when I cannot be productive.

But willpower is a fickle thing and I do not believe it can be explained simply by calling people lazy.

I have nearly a thousand unfinished posts in my draft folder because I simply ran out of willpower to finish them.

Inspiration is fuel. Sometimes it is the only thing I have to overcome how tired I am and how hard it is to stay focused. And if I lose the inspiration to do something, there is a good chance I will not be able to finish it.

When I set out to create one of my typical high effort posts, the process looks roughly like this...

Research any topics I am unfamiliar with.

Gather any images I need.

Brainstorm what I want to write.

Write a first draft.

Write a second draft.

Write a third draft.

If there is humor in what I'm writing, I will do a joke pass.

Then I do a grammar check.

Then I do a grammar check.

Then I do a grammar check.

I keep doing grammar checks until I find no more mistakes.

Then I do a quick fact check and google anything I am not 100% certain is correct.

Then I do a polishing pass and address any formatting issues.

And if I get this far, I publish the post.

By the time I get to publishing I am usually very tired. I no longer have any ability to concentrate. And the willpower to put any more effort into the post is long gone.

It's not that I don't want to transcribe images. It's that I just don't have the willpower to do so.

It is just not feasible for me to go back and transcribe everything. I don't want my posts ending up with those thousand unfinished drafts.

There is also the matter of not knowing if my post will reach 10 people or 10,000 people. I can't justify using up all of that energy for 10 people. My energy is my most precious commodity. I have to be very careful how I use it.

Disabilities vary wildly and lately I have seen a lot of disabled folks struggle to see the world outside their particular limitations. And that is frustrating. If we are going to be a strong community and advocate for ourselves, we need to learn more about each other's needs and limitations.

I'm not saying this person intended to call me lazy. But, if I am being honest, reading this felt like those days of my dad calling me lazy and wishing I had a better work ethic like my brother. He was a great dad, but he was not perfect. Especially when I was younger and we didn't understand my health issues.

So before you criticize someone please try to consider if there is a legitimate reason to do so. Maybe look at their tumblr and read their bio. Or check out a few posts.

I can be too quick to judge. It's something I have to work on as well. But this is the last time I'm going to apologize for not doing extra labor on my posts.

[zarla-s]

Man it's been a long time since I've done an ask cluster! Let's see if I can get some down...

He's an extremely fun character to write for and play with! So in that sense I'm fond of him, haha. He's such a huge disaster of a person, there's always something fun to do with him. Well "fun" in a relative sense.

I don't have anything to forgive him for, he didn't hurt me. |D He hurt the brothers!

I do have an idea for a cute feature inspired by Six-Eared Macaque! I should really sit down and do that already... and finish the one I half started but never finished...

I don't think my opinion on any of them changed! I love them all, haha. Which ones I drew comics about just depends on which ones I get ideas for really. Sometimes I get Alphys ideas and sometimes I get Goatparents ideas! Inspiration is fickle!

I don't have any solid plans or anything. :B Just gonna keep chugging along with silly comics and art! Work on Defrag and such. I'd like to finish a Ladyverse comic I've had lying around forever, and I had vague plans for doing a doujin for them too I could work on... and also seeing if I could format Handplates into a book format... I've always got a bunch of projects, haha.

It works on that level! It wasn't intentional though. |D

I do enjoy speculation! I don't really have much of my own though, I didn't predict anything in chapter 2 so now I'm assuming I can't predict anything in the future chapters either, haha.

Emesis Blue is great! Some really beautiful visuals in there, very striking! Love the mood of it too and a lot of the surreal imagery. I think it helped spur me back into TF2 again, haha. Medic and Scout's relationship was so cute.

I have thought about this! It has its share of challenges though... I outlined them more in this post. A pdf would be more doable though... could even include some extra stuff as well! Hmm...

I can see that! He'd probably spend as much time out in the rain as he could just doing whatever to stay outside.

It was pretty much always going to end like that. I always wanted it to end on a hopeful note! Which might seem weird with how dark it is at the beginning. I DID for a brief period at the very beginning of Handplates think about stopping with the Pacifist run, but that was only because I thought going where I wanted to go would take too long and already the project seemed so dauntingly huge at the time, haha. But it was always going to end in a positive way!

Gaster talks about what he originally intended to create here, and he explains a bit about the physical experiments he runs on the brothers here. They aren't really a solution in and of themselves so much as tools to try and find a way to break the barrier. Really though, Gaster got stuck in the sunk-cost fallacy lol.

I don't really have opinions about what canon Gaster would be like. |D Handplates Gaster is his own thing really. Canon Gaster, who knows! Deltarune Gaster, who knows! I will say I hope Gaster stays a mystery in Deltarune and never actually shows up but I think the odds of that are really low at this point.

I thought about doing a script along those lines! I did a few rough drafts of one, but it never really went anywhere... it'd end up dead-ending or kind of meandering off. I might see if I can get an actual script down for a side-comic or something in the future... it might be better suited for a fic.

I was just thinking about this lately! I was picturing Gaster totally forgetting about that until he sees Papyrus squinting and is like OH GOD YOUR EYES THAT'S RIGHT D: and goes to get him looked at lol.

I couldn't come up with a good idea for Flowey which is a shame, I do like him, haha. If one comes to me though I might make a little side comic about it!

Gaster's LV is complicated... his stats in-game are ludicrous if I recall correctly. Did he carry the damage from his murders into the void, even if those murders weren't his in the new timeline? Deep thoughts.

He fed them anything he could find, haha. Which is why sometimes they just ended up with chocolate bars (which he intended as dinner for himself). He probably fed them more often than he fed himself lol. He did feed them fairly regularly though.

Not about skeletons, probably. |D

Man I know I had an explanation for this but it was so long ago... it's hard for me to remember. It could be that the Riverperson is just weird and has weird insight into elements of things, had a prophetic dream... I don't know! It bugs me now that I can't remember this, haha.

[fumifooms]

This chapter was very interesting, even if it was mostly set-up. Besides learning the new girl’s name and getting confirmation that she just get kicks from playing with people, the most insightful part was definitely seeing Asa and Yoru’s reaction to the fame.

We see that Asa feels happy over the fame, even if she denies it, and even Yoru admits that it feels soothing, like a need being met, fulfilling. This isn’t surprising at all, after all the whole of Yoru’s goal is to become relevant again, for people to fear her once more, to know of her, and she’s insecure over being called dumb and whatnot: she craves recognition, wants power so she can make people see her wether it be through inspiring awe or inflicting suffering and destruction. Asa has struggled a lot with feeling like she was invisible, or worse, being seen and getting negative attention, being bullied and judged and seen as dumb, annoying, ugly, boring, useless, someone who always messes up and can’t do anything right, worthless. She is afraid of the spotlight, but we’ve seen that she wants it as well, notably inside the aquarium, in that blissful moment when everyone was cheering her for having her phone. So of course, getting such widespread attention, praise, validation, when she hadn’t even intended for it, when she was just being herself and doing her own thing, it’s like being accepted for once. Being seen, and being loved, not only from a small group like a class but on a wide scale.

Of course, for both of them, such recognition and fame is only a substitute for meaningful human relationships, and it can’t replace those. I think it’s actually very lucky that Asa and Yoru have each other currently, it’s good to be reminded that for how much Asa is alone and isolated currently, she was so even more before Yoru, and Yoru similarly doesn’t seem like she had anyone, rotting away i alleyways losing strength more and more over time. Asa seems to want to keep a cool head over the fame to be self-righteous, but is it more because she wants to keep a collected appearance or because she truly doesn’t want to be sidetracked and be swept away?

Either way, I think it’s interesting that she recenters herself by reminding themselves that she’s doing it for Chainsaw Man. In a way, her goal then is something like a human relationship like I mentioned. Not that I think she thinks she’d get to get closer to Chainsaw Man or something, but that she’s motivated by something akin to selflessness, for someone that means a lot to her. A lot to Yoru too. Yoru sees Chainsaw Man as the one who took away her recognition, who stole her thunder, by eating atomic bombs out of existence, meanwhile Asa sees Chainsaw Man as one of the first people who saw her, who talked to her at her lowest and looked at her at her filthiest, and decided that she was worth something, worth protecting. I’m getting sidetracked here but ough!! Let’s just hope Asa doesn’t lose sight of that interpersonal relationship that he inspired her to pursue, gave her the courage to do so, because of easy and fickle validation from fame, is what I’m trying to say.

On Denji’s end, things seem to keep getting worse, even as they… Kinda get better? It turns out the woman is an ally and not an enemy, but Denji seems disappointed by their fight being discontinued, losing the rush he’s so acquainted to. He can’t be Chainsaw Man anymore, right, but he could still fight as Denji, except… It’s not necessary, he’s protected and people have it covered. He loses a possible love interest and enemy as she turns out to be something more like a colleague if anything, their relationship becoming professional and distant by nature, himself making a comment about that. She says that she likes/admires him because he’s Chainsaw Man and Denji is stunned, is it because that attention is a crumb of recognition, recognition that he used to be center stage for all the time just not long ago? Or is it because he’s "Chainsaw Man" in her eyes, because even as she speaks to him the crumbs of validation are directed at Chainsaw Man and not Denji, because he lost the opportunity to have a genuine connection as himself. Fame gives and even as it does, it takes away.

It’s very possible that Denji feels jealous of Asa in the posters scene. Not only does she get to fight devils and do what he’s not allowed to do anymore, but she also gets to do it with her name and her face public. While he was told times and times again that he couldn’t have his identity be public for his safety, Asa gets to do it freely wothout repercussion (thus far), she gets to be liked as herself. But moreso, I feel like the scene’s about loss. With Asa rising up in fame, Denji will have to keep hearing about her and her exploits, not only as a reminder of not being able to be Chainsaw Man anymore but also a reminder of the girl he liked that he had to dump. He couldn’t keep Chainsaw Man, and he couldn’t keep Asa either. Things have possibly never been more normal for Denji’s daily life, and yet it is utterly miserable.

[the-bad-batch-baroness]

Caution to the Wind

Wrecker x Fem!Reader

Summary: For her birthday, Omega asks you and Wrecker to ride the roller coaster with her at the fair.

Pairing: Wrecker x Fem!Reader

Characters: Wrecker, Omega, Hunter, Echo, Crosshair, Tech

Tags & Warnings: modern!AU, family fluff, roller coaster, anxiety, fear of heights, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 2k

Author's Note: Two fics in one weekend 😱 I think I broke a record 😂 Even though it's shorter than most of my one-shots, rest assured, this idea was predetermined at the beginning and didn't come from my panic that I only have a week left to finish my bingo card 😅 I love the Bad Batch and their characters, but inspiration is a very fickle thing. As always, please enjoy 💚

@clonexreaderbingo Square: Wrecker

It's a beautiful summer day, and as you walk through the crowds of people your senses are filled with the smells of funnel cakes and fried oreos, and the sounds of kids screaming on the fast, colorful, rides at the midway. Today is Omega's birthday, and to celebrate she wanted to spend the day at the local fair with her brothers. Their girlfriends were also allowed to come, making for a fun family day for everyone. It's been forever since you've gone to a fair, so you're also excited.

Omega sits atop Hunter's shoulders and points out everything she wants to do, eat, and ride. Tech keeps a running list of what she says so they don't forget something, including the firework show at the end. Echo is in charge of the map to make sure they take the most efficient path. Crosshair isn't much of a fairgoer, but he would never pass up an opportunity to wipe the floor with the dads at the fair games and win Omega the biggest stuffed animal available.

Then there's you and Wrecker. He's just as excited as Omega to enjoy the fair, but what he's most excited about is the food. Fair food is the best. There's nothing quite like deep fried candy bars and cheap corndogs smothered in ketchup and mustard. You're not sure where he keeps packing it away, but you had to stop after the fried pickles and take a break. You sit down on a bench to rest for a minute, when Wrecker walks over carrying a massive red and blue slushy.

Your eyes widen. "Please tell me that's not for me."

Wrecker laughs. "It's for both of us."

"Oh, thank God," you breathe in relief. You rub your stomach when you feel it gurgle.

"Not feelin' well?" Wrecker asks as he sits down and rubs your back.

"Just ate too much," you answer. "I'll be fine in a bit."

"Guess I'll have to drink this myself then," Wrecker says.

"Knock yourself out," you chuckle.

You continue to relax on the bench under the shade of a tree while you wait for your stomach to settle. It's the middle of the day, and the sun is beating down hard and hot. Everyone is taking a break now around the same bench, making sure to hydrate so the fun can continue without issue. You also end up taking a few sips of that slushy. Omega becomes restless as she plucks pieces of grass impatiently while sitting on the ground waiting to have fun again.

"Can we go now?" Omega asks while tugging on Hunter's pant leg.

"Ten more minutes," Hunter says as he leans against the tree and looks down at Omega.

Omega flops onto her back and groans. "The fair will be closed in ten minutes."

"Actually, the fair will close in approximately eight hours," Tech adds.

 "See?" Echo says as he pats Omega's leg. "Plenty of time to enjoy the rest of the fair."

Omega sits up and rolls her eyes.

"So," you begin, while trying to change the subject, "what's next on the list?"

"Hmm," Omega thinks. "The rides! Definitely the rides."

"Are you sure you don't want to save those until it gets dark?" Echo asks. "The lights on the rides are pretty at night."

Omega pouts.

"Let the kid go on the rides," Crosshair argues. "We've got the wristbands, so we can always come back after it gets dark."

Omega's face lights up and she tugs harder on Hunter's pant leg. "Hunter, please? Can we go now? I want to go on the rides."

Hunter sighs.

"Aw, c'mon, Hunter," Wrecker says. "It's the kid's birthday."

Hunter glances at Echo and Echo shrugs. "Fine. Let's go."

"Yes!" Omega exclaims as she jumps up from the ground.

You smile at her excitement, and stretch your arms above your head as you get up from the bench. You definitely feel more rested, and your stomach has settled since you sat down and stopped eating food. You're not sure about going on any of the rides though. You love the fair as long as you stay on the ground. You mostly enjoy the little shops, stands, music, food, and the animals, but not the rides. They make your stomach queasy, but mostly, you're afraid of heights.

However, for Omega's birthday, you will play along for as much as you can, even if you stay behind to hold everyone's belongings while they go on the rides. Someone has to do it, so it might as well be you. The first ride Omega chooses is an easy one, the carousel. Now that's a ride you can handle, and everyone can still carry their belongings onto the ride. It's not too fast and not too high, just perfect for someone like you, and possibly the only ride you'll go on.

After the carousel, the group hops from one ride to the next. Your plan of staying back and holding everyone's belongings is working out very well, and so far, no one has questioned it. Wrecker knows your apprehension towards rides and fear of heights, so he doesn't have to ask. Even through his own fear of heights, he still goes on the rides with Omega and everyone else. You admire him for working through his fear, for his little sister's sake, and wish you could too.

After a couple more hours of rides, the sun starts sinking lower in the sky and the heat of the day passes, with a slight breeze blowing in from the east. You thought that Omega would be tired by now from all of the walking and rides, but no, she is still moving like she was this morning. You don't know where she gets all of the energy from, but you now understand why Hunter is so tired all of the time. Keeping up with that ball of energy must be exhausting for him.

Just as you think you'll be leaving the midway to get more snacks and drinks before the firework show, Omega pulls everyone to one last ride. The roller coaster. You look up at the colossal giant of twisting metal and lose your breath as a cart of screaming people flies by across from you. That's one big nope from you. You are happy to just stay on the ground and let everyone else fly down that hill to their deaths. You take a seat on the bench by the line and try to relax.

"C'mon," Omega says as she pulls on your hand. "We're going on the roller coaster!"

You instinctively shrink down further onto the bench. "Oh, no, Omega. I can't."

"Please?" she pleads. "I want us all to go."

"Really, I–"

"It's for the kids' birthday," Crosshair interrupts. "If I have to put up with it, so do you."

"I don't like roller coasters," you explain. "They're way too high and scary."

"The probability of getting hurt on a roller coaster is one in one hundred and seventy million," Tech adds. "You will be fine by my calculation."

Echo elbows Tech and gives him a look. "Really?"

Tech pushes his glasses up. "My calculations are never wrong."

"Guys, please," you say. "I'm really afraid of heights. I can't do it."

"Wrecker is afraid of heights," Hunter notes, "and he's gone on everything."

"Well, maybe my fear of heights and his fear of heights are different," you argue.

"Mesh'la," Wrecker says as he sits on the bench next to you. "If you sit next to me, you know I won't let anything bad happen to you."

"But–"

"Just this once," Wrecker insists. "For Omega."

You sigh and look into Wrecker's soulful eyes. "Promise nothing will happen?"

"Promise," Wrecker says with a comforting smile.

You take a deep breath and exhale slowly. "Okay, let's go before I change my mind."

"Yes!" Omega exclaims. "Roller coaster here we come!"

The wait in line for the roller coaster is rather short, so you don't get a lot of time to overthink your absolutely horrible decision. You're not sure how you let them talk you into it, but here you are, stepping into the car of a roller coaster and regretting every second of it. You chose a car in the middle of the roller coaster, because both being in the front or the back is terrifying, then Wrecker squeezes in after you. He pulls the safety bar down and drapes his arm over your shoulder.

"Wreck," you say with a shaky voice. "I don't think I can do this."

"Just hold onto me," Wrecker says. "I gotcha."

You clamp your hands onto Wrecker's arm as best you can and squeeze your eyes shut. You want to get off, but the ride hasn't even started yet. You can hear Omega in one of the cars in front of you giggling in anticipation, while you, on the other hand, are hyperventilating and hanging on for dear life. Every terrifying possibility and horrific outcome races through your mind all at once and you wonder if you should have written a will before you let yourself get on the ride.

It's too late now. You feel the car jerk beneath you and the chain clanking as it pulls the line of cars down the track and towards the first hill. Every muscle in your body is tense and you don't dare to open your eyes, but you still feel it. You feel it moving beneath you along the track and your anxiety grows when your body leans back against the hard seat as the coaster is pulled up the first hill. Every alarm bell in your head is going off, warning you that you won't survive the drop.

Then it stops, and for a moment you let yourself relax, thinking you must be at the top of the hill. Of course, where else could you be? The anticipation of what's to come overwhelms your already tense body and you steal a peek, but instantly regret it. You're up, high up, very high up, and the only way down is to let the coaster take you there, but you don't want it to move. You feel sick and you hold onto Wrecker's arm even tighter, wondering if he feels the same way.

Before you can get the answer, you're careening down the hill at top speed. The rushing wind blows your hair wildly as your stomach enters your throat as the feeling of weightlessness takes over. But before you can pass out, your weight returns, pushing your butt back down into the seat. Now that your breath is back, you can finally scream. You scream for dear life, and you're pretty sure Wrecker is having as much of a horrible time as you are, but he stays strong for you.

Thankfully, the ride comes to a stop back at the station. The safety bars release, but you've got one solid grip on the bar and another on Wrecker's arms, refusing to let go, even though the ride is over. Your body has clamped down and you're stuck. You won't even open your eyes. Even if you try to move, you know your legs will be wobbly and you'll probably fall over, or at the least look ridiculous trying to exit the ride. Then you feel two strong arms lifting you out of the seat.

"I've got you," Wrecker soothes. "You're okay."

"Am I alive?" you ask with a shaky voice, eyes still squeezed shut.

"I think so," Wrecker says, then pinches your arm.

"Ow!" you yell and open your eyes.

"Yup," Wrecker says. "Alive and well."

You can't help but laugh. "Thanks."

Wrecker smiles and gives you a soft kiss on the forehead, which you lean into to help soothe your shot nerves.

"C'mon, guys!" Omega calls. "We're gonna miss the firework show!"

"Can you handle that?" Wrecker asks.

You sigh as your body begins to relax. "As long as I get to stay on the ground I can."

"Can do," Wrecker smiles, then drops your legs so you can stand.

"Actually, can you carry me?" you ask with big doe eyes. "I'm so tired and my legs feel like jelly."

"Always," Wrecker says, then picks you back up and follows after the rest of the group.

Masterlist

AO3

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[seek--rest]

Inspired by this because @missamyshay is a menace

MJ is exhausted.

She’s not sure what she expected about becoming the lead— the grueling rehearsals and back and forth and back again from fickle directors is something MJ’s been more than aware of ever since she started auditioning.

She’s worked her way up from the chorus to the secondary, never really getting the chance to be front and center until her last play Turtle Drive became a runaway hit— surprising everyone, least of all herself, with how well people responded to it.

Critics were divided, as to be expected from a biopic of a forgotten 90s singer but audiences were engrossed— the one bright spot consistently done in reviews being that of MJ’s performance as the stereotypically sassy Black best friend, having a song that felt on the nose in its satire despite how much MJ tried to sell it.

And sell it she did, with every ounce of her being— determined to prove that she had the chops to make it and move above the bit parts she’s always been relegated to.

Tuttle Drive’s success paved the way for her role now as Edith in Taking Flight, a monstrous beast of a thing that sought to combine all of Shakespeare’s works together in a fictional town out of New England.

Edith was a difficult character, an impossible amalgamation of Juliet, Ophelia, Katharina, and Beatrice that made MJ’s head spin. When she first read the script, she had thought it was daring and inventive— interesting and so very different.

Now, after weeks of rehearsal on a spinning turn table and going over numbers that felt less innovative and more confounding— MJ was beginning to wonder if she had made a mistake.

It’s what she’s thinking of, amongst other things like what she’ll finally get to eat today when she sees a shadow pass over her— glancing up and seeing a familiar rush of red and blue.

“How you doing tonight, ma’am?” Spider-Man asks, MJ smirking as she glances up and then keeps walking.

“Just fine, spidey,” she says, imagining the look on Peter’s face underneath the mask. He has a habit of doing this, finding her on his patrol in what the calls an attempt to make sure she’s okay.

What MJ isn’t so fond off are the Daily Bugle reports later, hating the idea that her new play might get even more press in all the wrong ways as she hears him snort.

“What’s the hold up, lady?” He says, his voice shifting until it’s that odd mix of a Transatlantic newscaster and old-school New Yorker. “You got somewhere to be?”

“I do actually,” she says, glancing up as he hops from one branch to another. “My husband’s waiting for me.”

“Is he now?” Peter asks, MJ seeing some tourists out of the corner of her eye. “Must not be a good one then.”

“Excuse me?” She asks, glancing up only for Peter to make his presence known in the weirdest way possible.

He knows that she loves him entirely but the more spidery parts of him were her least favorite.

Which is why Peter— hanging upside down right in front of her— was all but an act of war as she frowns.

“Pretty lady like you, walking the streets all by yourself?” He clicks his tongue in disapproval. “What kinda man is that?”

“Are you saying I can’t walk home by myself?” She asks teasingly, watching as he tilts his head.

“I think you can do anything you set your mind to Miz Watson,” he says, his tone still joking even if MJ can still hear the sincerity in it. He knows how much she’s been worried about the play and while he can’t say as much here and now— with a family of tourists staring at the two of them intently. “Why, you’re a famous Broadway star.”

“Not that famous.”

“Famous enough that it can be dangerous, walking here all by your lonesome,” he says, hearing the laugh in his voice.

MJ glares at him, the white eyes of the mask staring back at her.

“Well, miz Watson?” He asks, MJ holding back the urge to laugh from his dumb accent. “What do you say?”

“I guess,” she says with a laugh.

“Trust me, ma’am. No sirree, you won’t regret it,” he says, seeing the bystanders around them turn.

This will definitely end up trending somewhere, seeing the phone angled in her direction.

Never have, she thinks to herself as Spider-Man loops his arms with hers and leads them forward— trusting him to take her home.

[rose-lunaire]

mattheo riddle | halloween special

grand finale of ‘slytherin halloween’ inspired by ‘honeymoon’, lana del rey, the queen of my heart

slytherin halloween masterlist

pairing: mattheo riddle x gn!reader

warnings: none

“nobody cares about the music unless it’s their favourite song playing”

“what?” despite being the dj he heard you perfectly, he just didn’t want to believe what words just left your lips. “i’m saying: you can leave your post, comrade, and dance with me for merlin’s sake” you laughed while dragging him from the stage. you were right, no one batted an eyelash. in mattheo’s case it was from shock.

a little party never hurt no one - it was an unofficial slytherin motto. the serpent house was famous for unforgettable moments, breaching the lines between fantasy and reality. they were reserved for the strict elite, shrouded in an aura of mystery. cases of the finest champagne stacked carelessly, empty absinthe glasses sparkled with cigarette ash. groans of pleasure mixing with hysterical laughter. it was crazy, it was classy, it was addicting.

how easy it was to get lost in the feeling of letting go. music reminiscent of a siren’s song, making you forget all about you everyday life. your deepest urges taking over the reins once and for all. at least until the sun rises again. unwanted memories gone, the best moments irreversibly imbedded in your brain, making you come back every time. ‘cause you want more.

the parties combined the wild energy of the gryffindor raves with mysterious dress-ups of ravenclaw. nobody knew who you are, unless you wanted it to be known. people smoking, people drinking. jokes could be heard at every corner of the room. as soon as one stepped into the common room, the became enveloped in the carefree atmosphere, reminiscent of a hufflepuff get-together.

a loose gown falling on your perfect hips, spinning with each turn you take. the fabric skipped through the air, finding no obstacle in other party goers. you were the only one on the dance floor, mattheo’s gaze fixated on your dance. every move hypnotising, tantalising, burning with devotion. like a child dancing in the rain, you were laughing. oh, what would he do to hear this sound all over again! it was like all thoughts left his head, leaving pure desire in place: a blue flame charring his insides.

“screw your anonymity, loving me is all you need to feel” his hands were on your waist, grasping onto your skin hungrily. it was too much, never enough. he was choking on the unknown.

so your slowly untied the ribbons keeping the mask in place. carefully placed his palms onto the smooth surface, his trusty muscles the only thing separating you from being uncovered. like a priest serving his deity, he lowered his head in respect.

and then he saw you. eros and venus, devil himself. beauty eternal, he would like to serve till the end of his days. you smirked at his naivety. blink of an eye and you disappeared.

your allure transfixed in the music around him. forever unobtainable and fickle. but he felt you with his whole being. mattheo inhaled this illusion of closure, smiling blissfully.

he created you and now you made him your man.

[serenescribe]

Poll: Help me pick my next TWST longfic! [FINISHED]

Hello everyone!

As most of you may know, I am quite the avid longfic writer. However, university's been slowing me down a lot, so I've been unable to write as quickly as before. So why not poll some of my fic ideas and let you all decide?

I'll include some brief, rambling summaries of the options below the cut! The poll will run for seven days, and the winner will be the longfic I focus on next! (That isn't to say I won't write other things since inspiration is fickle and some of these are semi-completed, but for the most case, my priority will be whatever wins!)

[Summaries under the cut!]

i. Bad Things Happen Bingo: Locked in a Freezer Epel-focused! I originally started working on this in April but shelved it because I was more focused on writing Diasomnia. That and I also did not look forward to writing Rook... Still, the benefit of this option is that It's already 2/3 finished, with the first two chapters done, so it would be done a lot faster. I'd feel pretty keen on finishing it sooner if there was interest expressed.

ii. Bad Things Happen Bingo: Barely Conscious Silver-focused! A bad end AU of the Fairy Gala remix event... and that's about all I can say about it. Compared to the other options, it wouldn't be as long, so I could see it being done faster. It would not have a definitive conclusion, being a bad end of an event, but if you like Silver suffering, this is the one for you!

iii. Bad Things Happen Bingo: On the Run Sebek-focused, along with the first years! I originally wanted to write this for Halloween this year, but quickly shelved that idea due to realising how much Uni sapped my energy. This is one of the two options here that would be rated Mature, along with warnings of Major Character Death. It was meant to be a Halloween fic, after all.

iv. Bad Things Happen Bingo: This Is For Your Own Good Silver and Lilia-focused. What can I say about this AU without revealing too much...? This is the other option that would be rated Mature. It gets truly fucked up and dark in the latter half, and bad things truly does happen. It would also be one of the longest fics in the BTHB series, as I'm envisioning two very long chapters. All the same, this is arguably the idea I'm most excited to write. So if that means anything to you (trust in my tastes, perhaps?) you might want to consider voting for this!

v. Bad Things Happen Bingo: Hope Is Scary Silver-focused, though Lilia comes in later. This is arguably the least developed of all the ideas here, however it was a really good idea that Olive thought up and gave me permission to write. A lot of Silver suffering in this one! And being alone. The prompt is literally about losing all hope and not wanting to hope again in case it gets dashed.

vi. Reverse Containment Breach AU: Starchild Lilia and Silver-focused. This is based on Olive's Reverse Containment Breach AU, of which I'd previously written a ficlet for here with Malleus and Sebek. Think something SCP-esque with an organisation studying strange subjects. Head Researcher Lilia Vanrouge stumbles upon a boy who fell from space one night, and that's when everything slowly goes off the rails. I actually finished about 1/3 of this? So it's partially started.

vii. PMMM AU: Lilia Longfic Lilia and Silver-focused. What it says on the tin. Mica and I's PMMM AU, which isn't 1:1 with canon but Lilia takes the role of Homura, and Silver as Madoka. Time loops and general suffering and angst. If you know how Madoka plays out, you know how this one's going to go.

[darkestprompts]

a bolt of divine inspiration has suddenly nailed me between the eyes.

when the Body Of Work is defeated, the Academic implies the world is destroyed but remade with the Scholar's/Protege's memories: “To destroy the thing is to destroy yourself, but the world will spring anew from the memory you kept of it”.

why do the heroes feel Off(tm)? they're slowly but surely being fucked up by Scholar's/Protege's simplifying memories of them. horrifying.

I'm on the fence whether the world springing anew at the end of DD2 is meant to signify its recovery after the Body of Work is destroyed or if it literally was destroyed and rebuilt. Your reading is certainly possible, although the text only directly addresses the destruction of the BoW and the Protegé. The memories here could be a template for a rebuilt reality or just indicate that what you saved and preserved will go on after you die.

I have to say, though, I like the dark implication you are going for here: memories are fickle, subject to reinterpretation or misaprehension by others. We tend to simplify history so we may be able to understand it. No one can truly hold full knowledge of even a single lifetime, so this new world must be a shadow of the old one. It will become its own thing in time, but for now what we have is a vague impression of a distant fading light. Doubling down on it would give the additional sting of bitterness I felt lacked in the ending.

[theclaravoyant]

AN ~ I couldn't help myself writing a little one about Crowley, Aziraphale and horses XD Inspired by this post .

-

It was far from the first time Crowley’s bony frame crunched into the red dirt. His jaw locked together and his knees scraped up. He remembers something about staying loose and it hurting less, but he’s so pissed off at the massive hellbeast they keep insisting on putting him on, that rage-tension makes sure everything hurts as much as possible.

“Ho, there!” cries a voice, an unusual one in this place and time. “Are you alri-”

The stranger takes Crowley’s hand and locks eyes at the same moment. Not such a stranger after all, helps pull him to his feet.

“Crowley?”

“Don’t wear it out.” Crowley does his best to stretch and flex his limbs, and brush off his clothes at the same time. He looks around for the horse. Hell help him if he’s lost it.

“She’s over there,” Aziraphale advises. “It looks as though she’s taken a fright. What happened? Perhaps she saw a snake?”

He chuckles a little, trying to lighten the mood, but Crowley glares past him.

“Perhapssss.” He stretches it out deliberately. It’s petty. She’s a horse. But something tells him she knows how to be petty - the bastard of a horse is now nibbling at something by the side of the road, as cool and calm as anything now that she’s got what she wanted.

Aziraphale scampers ahead of him to fetch the horse before Crowley can discorporate her with the power of his displeasure. He takes a piece of something from his pocket, and the fickle beastie pricks her ears and takes it with a delighted snuffle. She towers over the angel, a sleek and thick well-muscled blacker-than-night type Hell insists is befitting an agent of chaos. But perhaps the accursed creature can sense Aziraphale’s Heavenly Affinity for the Creator or some such. Crowley has never seen her so gentle, in fact, she seems to enjoy putting on the Hellfire show for more than just him - it’s what drove Hell to choose her for his Earthly Steed. But here they are.

“And who is this marvelous creature?” Aziraphale asks, leading her over and offering the reins back to Crowley.

“Lilith, Aziraphale,” Crowley introduces, with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “Angel. Lilith.”

Aziraphale laughs, his face lighting up. Crowley almost smiles.

Fortunately, Lilith bares her teeth and snaps at his hand to interrupt the moment.

Aziraphale frowns.

“Um,” he offers, “Perhaps you’d like to dinky Hannah for a little?”

He gestures toward his own mount. A chubby little Palomino, because of course she is.

“I cannot,” Crowley spits. “Ride that Thing. And we’re going opposite ways.”

And I don’t ‘dinky’. He leaves that part unspoken.

He’s pretty sure Aziraphale just rolled his eyes, but before he can take offense or so much as open his mouth to mock the Angel, Aziraphale twiddles his fingers and a little stool appears by Lilith’s side.

“Alright. Hop on then.”

“I’ll walk,” Crowley insists.

“It’s miles.”

“I’m a demon.”

“Think of the optics.”

Crowley scowls. He snatches the reins and takes to the stool - he might as well, especially since his hips are violently protesting any attempt to get on from the ground. Aziraphale keeps hold of Lilith just under her chin. Looks her in the face and - Crowley will never tell anyone as long as he lives - impresses upon her,

“Be nice.”

Half-expecting to slam into the ground again when she steps aside or some other nonsense, Crowley raises a leg over her back. She doesn’t object. He sits.

“There now,” Aziraphale says. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Crowley gets the feeling he’s not just talking to the horse.

“Right then.” He kicks. Maybe a little harder than he needs to. Lilith shakes her head impetuously, but she moves.

“Wait- Crowley-”

He turns, and sees Aziraphale picking something from the dirt. Black glass. They’re uncovered. Breath catches, twists in his chest. He can’t speak for a moment, but the Angel doesn’t seem to notice. He only waves a hand over the glasses, un-smashing the lens, and passes it up to Crowley. He pauses, and tells himself it’s not for one last look in those uninterrupted eyes.

“Thankyou,” Crowley finally manages. 

At last, Aziraphale lets his eye contact drop.

“Don’t mention it.”

[coldalbion]

Like Covid, climate change will force more artists away from traditional opportunities for community and inspiration. The pandemic turned drag Twitch streamer DEERE into a full-timer; as a makeup artist, her gigs vanished. So she focused on her passions: drag, horror games, and streaming. Early in the pandemic, comedian Jenny Yang created and hosted Comedy Crossing, a twice-monthly standup show streamed over Zoom from inside the game Animal Crossing. Throughout 2020, it raised more than $40,000 for Black Lives Matter. “I’m in this industry and have dedicated my life to it because I want to be part of a conversation,” she says. “To me the collective conversation is what makes life meaningful.” BOARLORD is an indie game developer who “pivoted to porn” (and Patreon) during the pandemic after working in tech, where she discovered “the naked hatred they all have for cultural production.” It was there she found her place. “I am not trying to capture the largest audience. I’m being hyper-specific, sometimes to my detriment," she says of her work. Or, to put it another way, DEERE, Yang, and BOARLORD all found their own ways of seizing the means of production, of audience-building. It's the same thing Black Girl Nerds CEO Jamie Broadnax discovered live-tweeting Scandal years earlier. “I didn’t know I was building a community,” Broadnax says. “I was tired of waiting for a seat at the table, so I built my own table.” The appeal of becoming one’s own studio head is obvious. “Take TikTok,” says Clifton. “You have teens with a more polished presence online than most companies, who have become TikTok experts seemingly overnight, and their work just keeps getting more and more professional-grade.” But in a world where everyone is a brand, no one can be a star. And influencers have discovered what porn performers already knew: Platforms are fickle. Content guidelines, corporate ownership, and payment structures can change overnight, without explanation. Much like humans have permanently altered and unsettled the natural world, online ecosystems for fans and creators have experienced rolling shocks in response to technology. Just as users find another den, it’s burned down. The story of the internet is the story of America itself: a seemingly limitless landscape transformed into a shopping mall populated by the same handful of brands, products, and voices. MacDonald tells me that what’s important about pornography isn’t what it can tell us about entertainment but what it can tell us about how platforms will treat people in the future. “Porn workers are the canaries in the coal mine. They are the first ones to be censored, demonetized, deprioritized in recommender systems, shadow-banned,” MacDonald says. And their vulnerability will soon be everyone’s. “Porn workers are at the bleeding edge of showing that if we don’t address this unilaterally and quickly, next it will be queer video gamers, and after that it will be certain political opinions, and that is alarming. That should concern everyone.” To understand how the American media landscape fractured, one must first understand the brands that forged it. According to Faris Yakob, cofounder of creative consultancy Genius Steals and author of Paid Attention, advertisers created the neutral “view from nowhere” voice in media. In the 19th and 20th centuries, national brands looking to grow customers wouldn’t partner with biased publications. But everything changed when ad tech arrived. “People started tagging their digital media buys so it wouldn’t appear next to topics like homosexuality, or Covid, to avoid getting into clusters,” Yakob says. “But that means that the news isn’t being funded. If you can pick and choose what topics to fund in news, you can distort what is being reported on, to some degree.”

This a fantastic article that touches on so much

[dailycharacteroption]

Planar Tour Guide: The First World part 5

(art by SilviaBobekova on DeviantArt)

Conclusions

The First World is, to put it simply, a place of generative chaos, where even the act of destroying something or someone just means it will come back later, though perhaps not unchanged. It is the ultimate progenitive chaos in a sort of cosmic answer to the entropic, destructive chaos of the Maelstrom (Which I get whey they did it that way, but I don’t personally agree with. More on that when I tackle the Maelstrom)

But because it is always changing and draws upon everything that ever was, will be, won’t, and never will be, it is also a place of simultaneous wonder and horror. The same forest of mushrooms that inspired childlike awe before may become a place of horror when the effects that the spores of said mushrooms have are revealed, to say nothing of bright, childlike fey that turn monstrous in disposition at the drop of the hat.

Of course, not every trip to the First World is like that. Sometimes things are exactly how they seem, whatever that may be, but it’s no excuse to let your guard down. Even Elysium, the plane of chaos and good, has it’s dangers, and the First World has no pretense of rightness and fairness. In fact, what is right is purely determined by who is in charge of a realm, in a poignant parody of how mortal authority and law tends to work.

I suppose at it’s core, that’s what a lot of fairylands in fiction are: exaggerated parodies of every subject the author seeks to bring up. The wilds are simultaneously more fantastical and wondrous, but also even more fickle and dangerous, and so too are the politics of the pockets of civilization you find there as well.

That’s not to say that there are not goodly fey and other entities as well, of course, some seem to embody concepts such as noble righteousness or simply being kind and sweet all the time, after all, so there are also plenty of allies to be found there, even if their outlook is somewhat alien, which can also lead to conflict as well.

The concept of a “fairyland” is very old, as it is a derivative of the almost universal concept of an “otherworld” where spirits dwell. Sometimes this is a land of the dead, sometimes it’s more a place of nature spirits and monsters, and so on. Perhaps the most well-known ideas of a land of the fae comes from Gaelic mythology, where we hear names like Tir na Nog, Elpahme (which does sound a lot like the Nordic Alfheim, doesn’t it?), and so on.

Such realms varied in apparent size depending on the telling, and could range from hidden illusion-cloaked castles or cities far from civilization, to being entire realms or dimensions of their own. The only really consistent way to get to them seems to have been getting lost, however, either losing one’s way from civilization or following a fey creature to one of the entrances.

A lot of more modern depictions of such fairylands often borrow imagery from the works of Lewis Carrol, particularly Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass, and other such stories where it’s clear that imagination is a massive defining force of the realm (so much so that we the reader are left wondering if any of it was real to begin with). As we’ve seen with the Dreamlands, however, events in the First World don’t need to be “real” in the traditional sense to have far-reaching consequences back in familiar realms.

All said, if your adventure takes you into the First World, your GM has an opportunity to craft a truly unforgettable and surreal experience, but it is one that must be handled with care. I hope you enjoyed this special, and look forward to more archetypes and options next week!