Word count: ~3,550(I'm using a different app, so I don't know the count for sure)
Warnings: None
Pride month fic. 🏳️🌈
First time writing She-ra fanfiction.
Catra twitched in her sleep, growling under her breath. Adora was awake.
She always slept lightly. Years of life in the Horde had trained her to wake at the slightest disturbance. Back then it had been guards making their rounds through the barracks, armor rattling softly as they walked the halls. Sometimes it was the distant cries of creatures outside the Fright Zone walls. Sometimes it was her own nightmares dragging her awake with her heart pounding.
These days, it was usually Catra.
Not intentionally, of course.
Catra slept curled against her side, one arm draped possessively across Adora's waist. The position had become so familiar that Adora could barely remember what it was like sleeping alone. Warm fur brushed against her skin with every breath Catra took.
And every nightmare.
A low growl rumbled from Catra's chest. Her ears flattened against her head even in sleep. Adora sighed quietly. At first she'd tried waking her every time.
The nightmares had been worse after the war.
Especially after Prime.
But Catra had eventually grabbed her wrist one morning and told her to stop.
"Just let me sleep, okay? Even if it's bad."
Adora hadn't liked it, but she'd listened. Catra needed rest more than either of them wanted to admit. Sometimes the nightmares were the only sleep she got.
So now Adora simply watched.
Moonlight spilled through the bedroom window, painting pale silver across the blankets. It caught in Catra's hair, making the dark strands shine.
Adora smiled faintly.
Catra had started growing it out after Prime had shaved it. At first it had been uneven and awkward, sticking out in every direction no matter what she did. Catra had complained constantly about it, threatening to cut it all off again every few days. Now it framed her face in soft layers, brushing her jaw and curling slightly at the ends. Not long, exactly. More like a bob.
Adora thought it was cute. Not that she'd said that out loud.
The last time she'd complimented Catra's hair she'd gotten a pillow thrown directly at her face.
Carefully, Adora lifted a hand and scratched behind one fuzzy ear. Catra immediately leaned into the touch.
Even asleep.
A tiny smile tugged at Adora's mouth.
"You're ridiculous," she whispered. The ear flicked beneath her fingers. Slowly, Catra's growling faded. Her breathing deepened. The tension in her shoulders eased.
Satisfied, Adora let her eyes drift shut. Maybe she could get a few more hours.
She was just beginning to slip back toward sleep when Catra suddenly jerked. Sharp claws buried themselves into Adora's arm.
"Hss—"
Adora bit back a yelp. Pain shot through her skin. "Ow, Catra."
Still asleep.
Adora carefully reached down and pried the claws loose one by one before they could do any more damage. She rubbed the sore spot with a wince. Catra made a distressed noise in the back of her throat.
Another twitch ran through her body.
Adora frowned.
Without thinking, she wrapped both arms around Catra and pulled her closer. Catra practically melted into the embrace despite being asleep. Adora buried her face against Catra's neck, soft fur brushing against her nose. For a moment everything seemed calm again. Then Catra flinched. A sharp, frightened movement. A whimper escaped her lips.
Not a growl.
Not anger.
Fear.
Adora's stomach sank. She knew that sound.
There were different kinds of nightmares. The angry ones left Catra snarling and lashing out. The guilty ones had her mumbling half-formed apologies in her sleep.
But these ones—
Adora didn't like when Catra had these nightmares.
The ones where Catra woke shaking.
The ones where she clawed at the back of her neck as if she could still feel the chip there. Clawed at her own skin as if it was a parasite she had to remove. The ones where she looked around wildly for several seconds before remembering where she was.
Adora tightened her grip. "Catra." Another whimper. "Catra, hey." She gently shook her shoulder. Nothing. Catra's breathing was getting faster. Adora swallowed. "Catra."
This time she shook her a little harder. Catra let out a slightly strangled, confused noise as she surfaced from sleep.
"Mrpmh…"
Her ears flicked irritably.
For a moment she just blinked into the darkness, clearly trying to figure out where she was. Then her gaze landed on Adora.
"S'mthing wrong?" she asked softly, voice rough with sleep.
Adora couldn't help smiling a little at how disoriented she looked.
"Yeah," she said, reaching up to smooth a hand through Catra's hair. "You were clawing my arm."
Catra immediately huffed. "Oh." Her eyes flicked down toward Adora's arm. "…Sorry." The apology came automatically, quiet enough that Adora almost missed it. Then Catra's ears flattened. "Told you not to wake me even if I'm having a nightmare."
Adora sighed. "I know."
Catra gave her a pointed look. "So why'd you?"
For a few seconds neither spoke.
The moonlight filtering through the curtains painted silver stripes across the blankets. Most of Catra's face remained hidden in shadow, but her eyes reflected the light.
Adora knew that look.
The defensive one.
The one that appeared whenever Catra was trying very hard not to talk about something. "I know what kind you were having," Adora said quietly.
Catra froze. Just for a second. But Adora noticed.
The slight twitch of her ears.
The way her shoulders tightened.
The way her gaze slid away.
"Oh." The single word came out smaller this time. Adora felt more than saw her wince. Silence settled between them. Outside, a breeze rustled the trees near the window. Somewhere in the distance a night bird called. Catra remained stubbornly quiet. Adora gave her a few minutes.
Then finally she asked softly, "Shadow Weaver or Prime this time?"
Catra's eyes closed. A long sigh escaped her. For several moments Adora thought she might refuse to answer. Then Catra mumbled, "Kinda both…" The admission sounded reluctant. Like she hated giving voice to it. Adora's hand continued stroking slowly through her hair.
"What happened?" Catra grimaced.
"I don't really remember."Her claws flexed against the blanket. "The dreams are getting less vivid." She frowned. "Less pictures. Less actual memories." She swallowed. "More just…" Her ears flattened. "Feelings."
Adora listened quietly. Catra stared at a spot somewhere beyond her shoulder. "Like I know somebody's there." Her voice dropped lower. "Hands grabbing me." A shudder ran through her body. "Someone doing what they want me." Her breathing hitched. "Being watched all the time." The growl that followed sounded more miserable than angry. "And then there's sometimes the stupid chip."
Adora felt her stomach twist. "The feeling of it?"
Catra nodded. "Yeah."
Her hand moved unconsciously toward the back of her neck. "The pressure." Another pause. "The feeling that you're still in there somewhere but you can't make yourself move." Her claws dug into the blanket. "I hate it."
Adora's chest hurt. Not because she didn't understand. Because she understood all too well. Without saying anything, she let her hand trail down from Catra's hair. Across her cheek. Her thumb brushed gently beneath one eye. Then Adora leaned forward and pressed her lips softly against Catra's.
The kiss was slow.
Gentle.
Nothing demanding.
Just there.
A reminder.
You're here.
You're safe.
You're with me.
Catra immediately melted against her. A quiet purr vibrated in her chest. When they finally pulled apart, Catra rested her forehead against Adora's shoulder.
"I hate that I'm still thinking about this." Her voice was muffled. "Prime's been dead for a year and a half." A bitter laugh escaped her. "Shadow Weaver too." Adora shifted, one hand moving from Catra's cheek to the back of her neck.
Then lower.
Tracing along her spine.
Guiding her closer until Catra was half sprawled across her chest. The position seemed to calm her immediately. Her ears relaxed. Her tail settled.
"I get it," Adora said quietly.
Catra snorted. "Do you?"
"Yeah." Adora stared up at the ceiling. "I still think about Shadow Weaver a lot." The words felt strange to admit. But true. She still heard her voice sometimes. Still caught herself wondering whether she'd approve of something. Still remembered standing at attention waiting for praise that never quite came.
She was opening her mouth to explain when Catra interrupted. "Yeah." The word came out sharper than intended. "But she didn't abuse you."
Adora frowned. "I got hit sometimes."
Catra immediately scoffed. "Adora."
"What?"
"You know what I mean."
Adora looked away. Because she did. Catra buried her face against her shoulder. "I know she hurt you too." Her voice softened. "But she liked you." The words sounded almost guilty. As if Catra hated saying them. "She thought you were worth something."
Adora flinched. "Catra—"
"No." Catra's ears flattened again. "She didn't—" Her voice broke. The sentence cut off. A strangled sound escaped her throat. Adora felt her whole body tense. A small sob followed. Quickly smothered. Like Catra was embarrassed it had escaped at all. Immediately Adora wrapped both arms around her.
Pulling her close. Pressing their foreheads together. "I know." The words came out barely above a whisper. Catra squeezed her eyes shut. "I know." For a moment neither moved. "I still wish you'd told me."
Catra laughed weakly. "About what?"
"About her doing that." Adora's throat tightened. "The things she did." Catra looked away.
"We were kids."
"I know."
"We were, like, twelve when she started." Her tail flicked irritably. "You would've confronted her." Adora opened her mouth. Catra pointed at her. "You would've."
"…Maybe."
"You would've marched right into her office and yelled at her."
"Probably."
"And then gotten yourself punished."
Adora smiled faintly. "Probably."
Catra rolled her eyes. "You're stupid." The insult lacked any real heat. "You're stupid and caring and heroic and annoying." A tiny smile tugged at Adora's lips.
Adora shrugged. "I would've taken it." Catra froze. Adora buried her face against the soft fur of her neck. "If it meant you got hurt less."
For a second Catra didn't respond. Then Adora felt a low purr begin. Soft.
Warm. Steady. A hand rose and brushed gently against Adora's cheek.
"See?" Catra murmured sleepily. "Stupid."
Adora laughed quietly. "Yeah."
The purring grew stronger. Catra's body slowly relaxed. The tension she'd carried when she woke faded little by little. Her breathing slowed. Her eyes drifted closed. Adora kissed the side of her neck. The nearest ear flicked.
"How's meditation with Perfuma going?" Adora asked softly. One eye opened. Catra groaned dramatically.
"Really?"
"What?"
"You wait until I'm falling asleep."
Adora grinned. "That's when you're honest."
Catra muttered something unintelligible. Then finally sighed. "…Good."
"Good?"
"Yeah."
Adora waited. Catra yawned. A huge, jaw-cracking yawn. "Never really had time to…"Another yawn interrupted her. "…sit and think." Her voice was already fading. "Turns out…" A sleepy purr rumbled through her chest. "…that's probably important."
Adora smiled. "You think?"
"No."
A pause. Then, half asleep: "Still stupid."Within seconds her breathing deepened. The purring settled into a slow, steady rumble. Catra had fallen asleep completely. This time without nightmares. Adora listened to the sound for a while. Then pressed one last kiss against her forehead, tightened her arms around her, and finally allowed herself to drift back to sleep too.
Zedaph sat at a table, the smooth oak cool beneath his palms. He was the first to get there, which wasn’t unusual. He liked arriving early, liked having a moment to exist in a space before it filled up with voices and movement. He and his friends were meeting up on a public server, lunch plans finally lining up after too many near misses. Since it was lunch, they had chosen the grill. Simple food, simple place, nothing fancy enough to make anyone feel out of place.
He had already told the server he wanted four menus and that he wouldn’t be making any food decisions until his friends arrived. The server had just nodded, easygoing, like this was a perfectly normal request. Zedaph had been here alone before. Embo’s Grill was privately owned, the kind of place where the staff remembered faces and didn’t rush you out the door. They let you sit. They let you breathe.
The building itself was plain in a comforting way. Birch wood framed the walls, pale and warm, broken up by wide panes of glass that let the gray daylight spill in. Outside, rain streaked gently down the windows, blurring the shapes of passing players into soft colors and motion. Inside, everything smelled faintly of smoke, oil, and something sweet sizzling on a distant grill.
He tapped his hoof-finger against the table, a quiet, rhythmic sound that kept his hands busy. Today, he had decided not to wear his jacket. The thought still made his chest tighten a little. It was too hot for heavy layers, so Skizz had trimmed his wool short, careful and joking the whole time, and Zedaph had settled for a thin long-sleeve instead. The fabric clung closer than he liked. He was very aware of it.
He wasn’t used to being seen like this. He didn’t like his body, not really, and the jacket had always helped. Big, bulky, forgiving. It let him disappear a little. But the heat had forced compromises, and surprisingly, those compromises had helped. Each time he went without it, the panic didn’t last as long. Each time, he realized the world didn’t end just because his outline was sharper. He wasn’t suddenly fragile. Just… present.
He stared out the window and yawned, blinking away the heaviness in his eyes. He’d woken up late, the kind of late that turned lunch into something closer to brunch. His internal clock had always been a suggestion rather than a rule. Rain pattered softly against the glass, steady and polite. It wasn’t a storm, just enough to cool the air and darken the pavement.
Honestly, with how hot it had been lately, the slight sprinkle was refreshing. The humidity eased, the heat backed off just a bit, and the world felt less like it was pressing in on him. Zedaph exhaled, shoulders loosening, and let himself enjoy the quiet while it lasted. Soon the table would be crowded, menus spread everywhere, laughter bouncing off the birch walls. But for now, it was just him, the rain, and the gentle promise of food and friends on the way.
and—
“Hey.”
Zedaph jumped as someone slid into the seat beside him without asking. The chair scraped softly against the floor, close enough that their elbows nearly touched. His shoulders jolted upward on instinct before he could stop himself. He blinked, heart stuttering, and turned to look at the intruder.
The guy was a deer hybrid. Broad in the shoulders, thicker through the chest than most, like he spent a lot of time lifting or hauling things around. Short brown hair sat neatly between a pair of antlers that had clearly been trimmed down, sanded smooth at the tips. His ears were upright and alert, and his tail flicked lazily behind the chair as if he already belonged there.
“Uh… hello?” Zedaph said, the word coming out slower than he meant. His eyes flicked briefly to the empty seats around them. There were plenty of places to sit. This one hadn’t been necessary.
The deer smiled. It was practiced, easy. Something about it made Zedaph’s wool prickle uncomfortably along his arms.
“That— uh— that seat is reserved—” Zedaph started, lifting a hand and gesturing to the menus stacked neatly at the edge of the table.
“How are you?” the deer interrupted smoothly, leaning back as if they were already mid-conversation. “What’s your name? I don’t think you live around here.”
Zedaph felt the warning bells ring immediately. Too many questions, too fast. He knew better than this. Don’t give strangers information. Don’t engage more than necessary.
“I’m good…” he mumbled, eyes dropping briefly to the tabletop. He tapped one hoof-finger against the wood, trying to ground himself. “Again, that seat is reserved.” He waved his hand a little more firmly this time, hoping the hint would land.
Instead, the deer leaned in, forearms resting on his knees. Close. Too close.
“Well, I’ve seen you here for the last half hour,” he said casually, eyes flicking toward the window and then back to Zedaph’s face. “Are you sure whoever you’re waiting on is actually going to show up?”
Zedaph’s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth to answer, to say yes, of course they were coming, but the guy kept going, voice lowering just a touch.
“I could buy us some food,” he offered. “Maybe a drink.” His gaze drifted, slow and deliberate, taking in Zedaph’s trimmed wool, the thin fabric of his shirt. “And if whoever never arrives, then maybe you could stop by my place and…”
He trailed off, leaving the rest hanging in the air like smoke.
Zedaph waited for fear to hit him first. Or embarrassment. Or that familiar, sinking self-consciousness about the fact that he wasn’t wearing his jacket, that he felt exposed in a way he still wasn’t used to.
But what came instead was irritation. Sharp and immediate.
“No,” he said flatly.
The deer’s smile didn’t vanish, but it stiffened at the edges. One ear flicked back in annoyance.
“Hm…” he hummed, tilting his head and giving his antlers a small, dismissive toss. “Okay, okay. We don’t need to get a drink or food. Could just come over. I was just offering to buy you lunch beforehand.”
Zedaph shook his head, more forcefully now.
“No,” he repeated. Then, before he could second-guess himself, the words spilled out. “No as in I don’t want laid. I know that’s what you’re offering.”
The smile finally dropped. The deer frowned, eyes narrowing.
“Besides,” Zedaph added, heat rising in his chest, “you’re not so attractive that you’ll get people begging for it just by talking to them.”
The insult landed. He saw it in the way the deer’s jaw clenched, the way his shoulders squared. Irritation bled into something darker as he leaned closer, invading Zedaph’s space again.
“Okay then,” he muttered, voice rougher now. “It wasn’t an offer.”
The growl underneath the words made Zedaph’s stomach twist. Fear crept in at last, cold and unwelcome, but he forced himself to stay upright, to meet the guy’s gaze.
“I said no,” Zedaph said, voice shaking only a little. “And if you don’t leave me alone before the others get here, you’ll have three more people to deal with.”
The deer’s eyes flicked toward the window. Then to the counter. The greeter was gone, probably on break or in the back. The nearby tables were empty. Outside, the street was quiet, rain muting everything.
Zedaph saw the calculation happen in real time.
His heart kicked hard against his ribs.
He shoved his chair back and stood, panic finally breaking through. “Hey!” he shouted, turning toward the counter. “Excuse me—!”
He didn’t get another word out.
The guy lunged at him, faster than Zedaph expected, and a hand clamped over his mouth, cutting off the shout before it could carry.
He hated the hands on his body.
The contact made his skin crawl, every place the stranger touched lighting up with alarm. Zedaph twisted hard in his grip, wool brushing against fabric, breath stuttering as panic spiked. The pressure on his mouth made his head buzz, and for a split second all he could hear was his own pulse roaring in his ears.
Instinct took over.
He raised one foot and slammed his hoof down against the edge of the table as hard as he could.
The impact rang out like a gunshot.
Wood splintered. Plates rattled. The table tipped and crashed to the floor, menus scattering and skidding across the wood with a sharp, echoing clatter. The sound tore through the quiet restaurant and hung there, impossible to ignore.
The man froze.
Just long enough.
His hand dropped away from Zedaph’s mouth, and they locked eyes. The deer glared at him, anger and surprise warring across his face, ears pinned flat. For a heartbeat, Zedaph thought he might lunge again.
Instead, the man snarled under his breath and bolted.
Zedaph sucked in a breath that burned his throat. He watched the guy turn toward the door, toward escape, and something hot and fierce flared in his chest. He didn’t want him to get away. Didn’t want this to just… vanish.
Before his nerves could catch up, he moved.
He tackled the man from behind, shoulder slamming into his back. They went down hard, the impact knocking the air out of both of them. Zedaph heard startled shouting, footsteps pounding as the server burst into the room, eyes wide.
“Hey! What’s going on—!”
Zedaph had a fistful of the guy’s shirt, hands shaking but grip unyielding. “He grabbed me,” he said quickly, voice tight and breathless. “He wouldn’t leave me alone.”
The deer struggled once, then stopped when the server shouted again and another voice echoed from the back. Someone grabbed the guy’s arm and hauled him upright, keeping distance between him and Zedaph as the tension cracked and spilled into noise and movement.
The police arrived not long after. Everything blurred together after that. Questions. Nods. Writing. Zedaph gave a short statement, hands tucked under his arms, fingers digging into his sleeves as if he could hold himself together that way. The server filled in what they’d seen, voice still edged with adrenaline.
When it was over and the man was gone, the restaurant felt too quiet again.
As the adrenaline drained away, the discomfort crept in like cold seeping through cracks. Zedaph became painfully aware of the space around him. The windows. The big, open panes of glass that suddenly felt like they were exposing him. Anyone walking by could see him standing there, shaken, wool ruffled, eyes too bright.
And some of them did look.
He rubbed his arms, trying to soothe the lingering phantom pressure of hands that weren’t there anymore. The owner approached him gently, voice low and careful, and told him the meal was on the house. They wouldn’t charge him for the table either, dented and tipped where it lay.
Zedaph thanked him automatically. The words felt hollow.
All he wanted was to leave. To not be visible. To not feel like a display behind glass. Even though it was only the greeter and the server nearby, both hovering with concern instead of judgment, and the occasional passerby slowed by curiosity, it felt like too much.
A couple came in, shaking rain from their coats, laughing softly as they took a seat and ordered. Life moved on with an almost cruel normalcy.
Zedaph stood there, arms wrapped around himself, wishing desperately that he could do the same.
Then the door opened again, bells chiming softly, and Impulse, Tango, and Skizz walked in together, trailing the faint scent of rain and outside air. Zedaph noticed them immediately, tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction at the familiar sight. Impulse was talking animatedly about something, gesturing with one hand, and Zedaph’s eyes snagged on the small bandage wrapped around his elbow. He wondered absently if he’d scraped it on something, or if it was another one of Impulse’s near-misses with enthusiasm.
Skizz noticed Zedaph before anyone else did.
His expression shifted almost instantly, smile faltering as his eyes sharpened with concern. He sped up, boots thudding softly against the floor, and was at Zedaph’s side in seconds. He slid into the seat next to him without hesitation and gently cupped Zedaph’s face, thumbs warm against his cheeks.
“Zed, are you okay?” Skizz asked, voice low but urgent. “You look upset.”
His eyes flicked over Zedaph quickly, checking for injuries, for anything obvious. “Is it your dysmorphia?”
Zedaph swallowed. Maybe a little. Okay, more than a little. A lot, actually. But that wasn’t the center of it. The image of the man, the hands, the sudden lunge still sat heavy in his chest.
“No… it’s…” He trailed off, glancing past Skizz as Impulse and Tango took their seats across the table. Tango was already shrugging out of his jacket, tail swishing idly, while Impulse settled in beside him. Zedaph shook his head slightly. “Let’s order,” he mumbled. “I’ll tell you while we wait.”
Skizz frowned, clearly not satisfied, but he nodded and leaned back, one hand still resting reassuringly on the table near Zedaph’s. Menus were passed around, conversation picking up in that familiar, easy rhythm, even if Zedaph was quieter than usual. He pointed to something almost at random, not really reading, just going through the motions.
Once the order was placed, the server left and returned quickly with drinks, setting them down carefully. “Food’ll be about thirty minutes,” he said, offering a small, apologetic smile.
He came back a moment later with an appetizer Zedaph hadn’t ordered. His second pair of arms balanced the tray expertly as he set down a bowl of warm, buttered bread in the center of the table. Normally you had to ask for those here. Zedaph had a feeling this was the server’s way of trying to make things right, to apologize for something that wasn’t his fault.
Zedaph murmured a quiet thank you.
Tango tapped the side of his fruit drink with one claw, the ice chiming softly. “Well?” he said, looking expectantly at Zedaph. His tail flicked and smacked lightly against Impulse’s head.
“Hey,” Impulse protested, laughing as he used the residual warmth from Tango’s tail to dry his still-damp hair.
Zedaph sighed, shoulders drooping. He told them what happened. Not every detail, but enough. The unwanted attention. The refusal to leave. The grab. The table. The police.
As he spoke, he watched their faces change. Humor drained away, replaced by tight jaws and narrowed eyes. Skizz’s hand curled into a fist. Tango’s ears pinned back. Impulse’s expression went carefully neutral, which somehow felt worse.
They all looked at him with the same thing in their eyes. Pity. Concern. Anger on his behalf.
Zedaph normally didn’t mind that look. He knew it came from care. But right now, it rubbed him the wrong way, made him feel small in a way he didn’t have words for. He didn’t say anything, just tore off a piece of bread and focused on the warmth in his hands.
Skizz didn’t look convinced. He studied Zedaph’s posture, the way his arms stayed folded in on himself, the way his wool lay slightly ruffled from nervous rubbing. They’d been working on his dysmorphia for a while now, slow steps, careful progress, and Skizz clearly worried this had knocked something loose.
Zedaph did feel more uncomfortable. The thin fabric, the windows, the memory all pressed in on him.
But he was fine.
Mostly.
And for now, with his friends around the table, warm bread between them and voices filling the space, that was enough to hold him together.
Another continuation of Tears in The Void, with you can read here.
Word count:
Warnings: None
Gem sat in the small cave she and Pearl had holed up in that first night after arriving. It was little more than a hollow in the hillside—bare stone, a patch of moss she’d claimed as a seat, and the smell of fresh dirt from where Pearl had torn the entrance larger with her claws. Now, it was just… temporary shelter. A stop between chaos and rebuilding.
She tapped her hoof-like fingers on the stone floor, letting the clacking rhythm fill the silence. She pretended she was interested in rearranging her newly crafted iron tools, but her eyes kept drifting to Pearl.
Pearl.
Her Pearl.
Her best friend since before half these Hermits even knew how to use Elytra.
And Pearl… was a Watcher.
The word still felt unreal, like a nightmare Gem couldn’t wake from. Watchers were stories—dark ones, old ones—about things that destroyed servers effortlessly, things with eyes where no eyes should be. Things that erased memories, rewrote fate, and laughed while they did it.
And Grian… He’d been Evo’s Admin. The Admin of the first server fully destroyed.
Gem let out a long, shaky breath. Pearl sat across the cave, facing the wall, legs folded awkwardly, her posture small. She looked nothing like the terrifying creature people feared. She looked like someone trying not to fall apart.
Gem remembered the meeting after the portal opened—after Grian had dragged Tango out of space and nearly collapsed in Mumbo’s arms. Xisuma had been hissing and snarling, half-panicked, half-protective. Keralis and Wels hovered beside him, trying to calm him down before he ordered a server purge.
But he hadn’t.
He’d listened.
Grian and Pearl had told their stories—quietly, bluntly, with shame and fear all tangled together. The Hermits held a vote. More yeses than noes, but the noes still stabbed deep. Gem had seen the way Grian’s shoulders curled and the way Pearl’s wings went rigid with hurt.
Impulse’s “no” had hit Pearl like a slap, even though he looked just as miserable casting it.
And Xisuma… well, he had to protect his world.
But seeing Pearl now, Gem felt something twist painfully in her chest.
She tipped her head. “Pearl.”
Her voice echoed gently off the cave walls.
Pearl turned just her head, blue eye reflecting dim torchlight, wings drooping. At the smallest gesture from Gem—just a little beckoning motion—Pearl dragged herself over. She slumped across the makeshift stone table like someone too tired to stand but too restless to sit still.
Gem settled beside her. “So… all the things you and Grian said about not wanting to be Watchers… was that true?”
Pearl didn’t answer at first. Her throat bobbed. She fiddled with the furred edges of her wings, eyes fixed on the stone.
Then, quietly, she nodded.
“Yes.” Her voice was small—even smaller than Grian’s had been. “Yes, it’s true.”
She sank forward until her forehead rested on the table. “I’m sorry, Gem…”
Her voice cracked. She scrubbed at her face like she could smear the guilt away.
Gem hesitated before reaching out, her hoof-fingers lightly tracing circles between Pearl’s shoulder blades. Pearl flinched at first—her instincts always a little sharp—then melted into the touch.
“So,” Gem said softly, “what can you do? With… all of this.” She gestured vaguely to Pearl’s wings, her eyes, her whole body. “Are they all destructive powers? Or are some of them good? I mean—I saw you fix Tango like he was made of LEGO.”
Pearl snorted weakly. It wasn’t a laugh, but it was close.
She sat up a little. “Well… I don’t really need to sleep anymore. I can manage on an hour or two.” She lifted her shoulders in an awkward shrug. “I can see things. Places. People. Like Grian does. I can open portals. Small ones, not big ones—big ones hurt, and I’m not good at them.” She rubbed her head. “That’s basically it.”
Gem huffed. “Could be worse.”
Pearl’s wings drooped again. “You won’t… you won’t be scared of me? You won’t leave?” Her voice trembled. “I won’t hurt you, Gem. I swear. I swear on anything you want. I—”
“Hey, hey—” Gem cut her off gently and pulled her into a proper hug this time. Pearl stiffened, then sagged into her like she had been waiting to be held for hours. “I know.” Gem murmured into Pearl’s hair. “I’ve known you for ages. I know you won’t hurt me.”
Pearl clung to her, arms tight, wings half-wrapped around Gem’s waist.
“And Grian won’t either!” Pearl blurted quickly, sitting up enough to look Gem in the eye. “I mean it! He’s—he’s been hurt more than he’s ever hurt anyone else. He doesn’t want to use anything he has.”
Gem didn’t let her finish. She pulled Pearl even closer, holding tight.
Warnings: Attempted suicide, implied past SA, mentioned past violence.
Word count: 1,239
Grian woke slightly. Slowly.
Consciousness crept in like a tide that didn’t quite reach shore. Everything felt syrup-thick, his thoughts dragging, his body heavy and distant. There was a ringing in his ears, steady and dull, as if someone had wrapped the world in layers of wool and left him inside it. He tried to move. Or maybe he only thought about moving. His arm twitched, then fell back to nothing.
“Ssmmnm…” The sound leaked out of him, barely a sound at all.
Hands cupped his face, warm and firm, thumbs brushing his cheekbones as if checking he was really there. For a second he leaned into it without meaning to, chasing the warmth. Then the hands pulled away. The cold rushed back in and Grian made a small, disappointed noise before he could stop himself.
A voice rumbled nearby. Deep. Too deep. The sound vibrated more than it spoke, sliding past his ears without ever becoming words. It wasn’t Sam’s. It wasn’t Tuartis’s. His pulse stuttered at the realization.
He tried to roll away from it, away from the unfamiliar sound, but his body barely listened. His shoulder dragged against something hard and he froze, breath hitching. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like not knowing who was there.
The deep voice cut off. Another voice broke in, higher, quicker, sharp with panic. They spoke over each other, fragments overlapping, none of it making sense to him. Then the deep voice again, slower now, measured.
A hand closed around his shoulder, anchoring him in place. Something sharp kissed his arm, a sudden sting blooming through the haze.
And then the world went dark again.
.
.
.
He woke again with a whimper torn from his throat.
Cold seeped into him first, biting through his clothes, curling around his ribs. He shuddered, instinctively drawing in on himself. A blanket was laid over him, the weight settling him down, the fabric rough but blessedly warm. His breathing eased, just a little.
“Th’n’s… Sm…” he slurred, the words tripping over each other.
Winter in the Tokyo dorm was cruel. No central heating. Mornings like ice baths you couldn’t escape. He burrowed weakly into the blanket, chasing the memory of warmth, and slipped back under.
.
.
.
Grian woke to hands on him.
Panic flared instantly, bright and sharp, but he crushed it down before it could spill out. He knew better than to fight. Fighting only made things worse. Fighting earned him more pain later. Cuts. Bruises. The kind of headaches that rang for days.
So he stayed still, breath shallow, every muscle locked.
Then confusion bled in.
The hands weren’t… right. They weren’t doing what he expected. There was no rough urgency, no familiar rhythm to it. Just pressure, careful and searching, as if whoever it was didn’t quite know where to put them.
A small, questioning sound slipped out of him before he could stop it.
No response.
He tried to open his eyes, to see who was there, but his eyelids felt glued shut. Heavy. Useless. Maybe Sam was waiting. Maybe he was supposed to move first. The thought twisted in his chest.
He shifted slightly, tried to part his legs, offering what he thought was expected.
The hands vanished instantly.
The loss of contact felt worse than the touch. His stomach dropped. He froze, then flinched, heart hammering. Had he done something wrong? If Sam was angry, that was bad. That was very bad.
His breathing sped up despite himself, shallow and uneven, panic clawing its way back in. He felt it before he saw it: another sharp prick at his arm.
For a split second he thought it was a knife.
Then the cold spread, numb and sinking, and the panic blurred away as the dark rushed up to meet him.
.
.
.
There was a hand in his.
The sensation anchored him before anything else did. Warm. Solid. Real. His fingers curled weakly, then tightened, afraid it might disappear if he didn’t hold on.
“Grian?” The voice drifted to him, cautious, like someone afraid of startling a skittish animal.
He frowned, confusion knitting his thoughts together. “Sam?” he rasped. His throat burned, dry and raw. “Why do you sound… odd?”
The hand tightened around his, thumb brushing over his knuckles in a grounding, rhythmic motion.
“Sam?” the voice repeated, not offended, just gently questioning.
That was what finally pushed him to try harder. Grian pried his eyes open, lids fluttering as light stabbed behind them. Shapes swam into focus slowly. A figure leaned over him, tall, familiar in an entirely different way.
Not furred ears. Not sharp teeth.
Soft wings, folded close. Antennae twitching with worry.
“No…” he breathed, a dizzy laugh hitching in his chest. “Mumbo.”
Relief crashed into him so hard it almost hurt. He wasn’t with Sam. He wasn’t in Tokyo. He wasn’t—
The thought cut off abruptly.
If he wasn’t there anymore… if Sam wasn’t here… then that meant—
His breath hitched sharply, turning into a broken sob before he could stop it. Tears welled up fast, blurring Mumbo’s face into light and shadow. Mumbo immediately cupped his face, hands gentle but sure, thumbs brushing away tears that kept coming anyway.
Grian blinked at him, then leaned forward without thinking, pressing his face into Mumbo’s palm like it was the only solid thing left in the world. His shoulders shook, quiet, exhausted sobs wracking through him.
“Why am I here…?” he mumbled, the question small and pitiful even to his own ears.
Mumbo sat down beside him and carefully shifted Grian closer, one arm wrapping around him, the other still holding his hand. He pulled him into a hug that was firm without being trapping, steady without demanding anything back.
“You…” Mumbo started, then hesitated. Grian could feel the pause in his chest. “You tried overdosing.”
Grian flinched, but nodded faintly.
“But—”
“But the pills Stress makes are made to prevent overdose when overused,” Grian cut in quietly. The words came back to him now, clicking into place like a puzzle he hadn’t wanted to finish. “So it just made me sick. Really sick. And then I… I tried jumping.”
Memory flooded in. The dizziness. The nausea. The desperate need for it all to stop. He curled further into Mumbo’s arms, gripping his shirt like he might fall if he let go. Stress was clever. She knew the Hermits were a mess sometimes, but she also knew they needed their meds to be safe.
“You had us worried,” Mumbo said softly, voice thick with it.
Grian nodded against his chest. “Sorry,” he whispered, the word barely audible.
“Why?” Mumbo asked after a moment.
Grian went still. He pulled back just enough to look down at his hands, twisting his fingers together. He shook his head slowly, unable to force the words out. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Mumbo sighed, long and tired, but not angry. He shifted and pressed his face gently to the top of Grian’s head, wings settling around them like a quiet barrier from the world.
“Okay,” he murmured. “You don’t have to tell me.” He paused, then added, softer still, “Just… tell me next time you even start thinking about this. Please.”
Grian nodded again, eyes burning, and clung to him as if agreeing was the only promise he could make right now
Mumbo walked back and forth across the half-finished platform, placing and breaking blocks with the mechanical persistence of habit rather than inspiration. His hands knew what to do even if his head didn’t. Lately everything felt like that. He’d been burnt out for a while now, the kind of tired that sank into the bones and stayed there no matter how long you rested. And resting, unfortunately, was the one thing he couldn’t seem to do.
Sleep had become a fickle, distant thing. Anxiety-induced insomnia had settled in like an unwanted roommate, pacing his thoughts long after the torches were lit. This week had been particularly bad. A new server meant unfamiliar terrain, unfamiliar sounds, and the pressure of starting over again with nothing but a small, temporary base and a head full of expectations. Every night blurred into the next, marked only by the rising and setting of the square sun and how heavy his eyes felt by morning.
Eventually, he rubbed his face with both hands, dragging his palms down over his eyes as if he could physically wipe the exhaustion away. His movements slowed, shoulders slumping, and he turned toward the entrance. He had to sleep at some point. He knew that. Season five had taught him that lesson the hard way. Falling asleep mid-flight was really, really bad. Now it was season eight. He had time. Plenty of time, he told himself, to figure out how to manage this better.
The walk to his bed was short. Too short. He hadn’t even bothered moving it properly into the starter base yet; it sat exposed, surrounded by unfinished walls and open air, like an afterthought. Mumbo hesitated before lying down, then finally lowered himself onto the mattress and stared up at the dark ceiling.
Sleep didn’t come.
Instead, his mind latched onto everything that could possibly go wrong. The night sounds were the first to needle at him: distant groans, the rustle of something moving just out of sight, the hollow echo of caves below. Normally he soundproofed his bases as early as possible. Normally, the quiet was something he controlled.
This base wasn’t finished. That thought came next, sharp and insistent. A block could crumble. A creeper could wander too close. Mobs could find some ridiculous path in through a corner he hadn’t sealed yet. He replayed the layout in his head over and over, cataloguing every gap, every weak point, every reason he shouldn’t be able to relax.
And then there were the other thoughts. The unreasonable ones. The ones he knew were paranoia but couldn’t stop anyway.
Stress made pills that helped with anxiety, he thought distantly, grasping for solutions. But she probably didn’t have any ready yet. Scar could mix herbs. He was good at that. Scar would know what to do. But Scar was asleep, and Mumbo wasn’t about to wake someone up over thoughts he couldn’t even explain properly.
A soft sound reached his ears.
Footsteps.
Mumbo stiffened instantly, every muscle locking as his heart jumped into his throat. His breath caught, shallow and tight. Probably a mob, he told himself. Or a passive animal wandering too close. It was nothing. It had to be nothing.
Then the door creaked open.
Mumbo nearly leapt out of bed, panic surging through him in a hot rush. The only thing that kept him still was his hands, clenched white-knuckled in the bedsheets, anchoring him in place as his pulse thundered and he waited to see what stood on the other side of the doorway.
“Mumbo?”
The voice was soft, careful, as if it didn’t want to startle him. Familiar. Grian’s.
Relief washed through Mumbo so fast it almost made him dizzy. His shoulders sagged, tension bleeding out of him in one long exhale, even though his fingers were still twisted tight in the bedsheets.
“Come in,” he said, voice rough with half-sleep and lingering nerves. “I was trying to sleep.” He pushed himself upright, rubbing one eye as if that might convince his body it was time to rest.
Grian slipped inside and closed the door behind him, the sound gentle. He crossed the small space and sat down on the edge of the bed without ceremony. Mumbo barely registered it as unusual. This had become a pattern over time. Grian came by a lot, especially on nights when sleep refused to cooperate.
It wasn’t anxiety, at least not in the same way Mumbo’s was. Grian’s sleeplessness felt different, quieter but heavier somehow. He never explained it, and Mumbo never pushed. When Mumbo disappeared for a while during burnout, Grian would go to Scar instead. Scar never asked questions. And after Pearl joined, sometimes he went to her. She knew more about Grian’s past than Mumbo ever would. Still, when given the choice, Grian almost always ended up here.
Without a word, Grian leaned in, resting his weight against Mumbo’s side. The contact was easy, practiced. Mumbo shifted automatically to make room, then paused when he realized one of his hands was still locked onto the sheets. He frowned at it, then carefully pried his fingers loose and wrapped an arm around Grian’s shoulders.
His heart was still racing, though. He could feel it thudding hard against his ribs, like it hadn’t quite gotten the message that everything was fine now.
Grian tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking to Mumbo’s hand. Even in the near-total darkness, he seemed to see everything. Mumbo had never asked how.
Before Mumbo could say anything, Grian reached out and gently took Mumbo’s other hand, easing it away from the bed. His touch was warm, steady. He pressed two fingers lightly to Mumbo’s wrist, right over the vein, and stayed there.
Mumbo blinked. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Grian was focused, listening to something Mumbo couldn’t hear. The seconds stretched. The world narrowed to the quiet room, the soft rise and fall of breath, the steady presence beside him.
Gradually, without Mumbo quite realizing when it happened, his pulse slowed. The frantic edge dulled, the pounding easing into something calmer, more manageable.
He was just about to ask what Grian was doing when he noticed the faint, strange pressure against his skin. Grian’s thumb talon rested against his wrist, the tip just barely pricked into the vein. It didn’t hurt. If anything, it felt grounding, like an anchor pinning him to the moment.
Confusion flickered through him, but before he could dwell on it, Grian withdrew his hand and shifted closer, resting his head against Mumbo’s chest. The contact felt deliberate, final, as if a decision had been made.
Mumbo tightened his arm around him without thinking. Warmth spread through his limbs, heavy and comforting, and the exhaustion he’d been fighting all night finally caught up to him. His eyelids drooped.
He lay back down, adjusting only enough to give Grian space to settle however he liked. He let Grian choose the position, trusting him to make himself comfortable.
The last thing Mumbo registered was the steady, even rhythm of breathing against his chest.
Then sleep took him, swift and merciful.
~
Mumbo was carefully setting up a farm, movements slow and deliberate, like he was afraid that if he rushed, something would snap. He placed blocks, checked spacing, adjusted redstone. Then he stopped.
He stared at it.
The layout was wrong.
He frowned, rubbing at the back of his neck as if the answer might be hiding there. Bamboo was already sorted, neatly feeding into furnaces on one line and a composter on another. That much made sense. He could see the logic of it laid out in front of him, clean and efficient.
So why was he building it like a melon and pumpkin farm?
He stepped back, scanning the structure again. Observer placement. Pistons. Collection rails. All familiar. All wrong. It was like following instructions he remembered memorizing, only to realize halfway through that they belonged to an entirely different machine.
Mumbo scratched at his neck, unease prickling under his skin, then glanced down at his hand.
Where Grian’s talon had pricked him earlier, there was a small dark spot on his wrist, just beneath the skin. Not a bruise. Not quite a puncture wound either. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t even itch. It just… sat there.
He stared at it for a moment too long, then shook his head sharply.
“Focus,” he muttered to himself.
He turned back to the farm and continued setting up the cooked chicken farm—
He froze.
No.
Bamboo. This was bamboo. He knew that. He knew that.
A cold weight settled in his chest. Mumbo slowly lowered himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged on the stone as if his legs had simply decided they were done holding him up. He pressed his palms to his knees, grounding himself.
Maybe he was burnt out again. That would explain it. The brain fog, the mistakes, the strange sense of being half a second behind his own thoughts.
But no. This didn’t feel like burnout. Burnout was dull and heavy. This was sharp. Wrong.
He tilted his head up, drawing in a breath. The air felt cool against his face, almost chilly, and for a split second that confused him. He’d sworn it was bright and warm just moments ago.
He blinked.
The sky was dark.
His heart stuttered. He blinked again, faster this time, and looked up properly.
The sun was still there.
But it wasn’t the sun.
It hung in the sky, vast and unblinking, its golden disk split by a massive pupil that stared straight down at him.
Mumbo screamed.
The sound tore out of his throat, raw and panicked, and then his breath hitched completely. His pulse spiked so violently it made him dizzy. He tried to stand and couldn’t. Tried to breathe and failed. His chest locked up, every inhale scraping uselessly against his ribs.
This was too much. Far too much. His chronic anxiety surged, swallowing everything else until there was nothing but terror and the pounding of blood in his ears.
He looked around wildly, desperate for something familiar, something solid.
Everywhere he looked, there were eyes.
They stared from the leaves of the trees, nestled between blocks of green like fruit gone wrong. They stared from the redstone dust, each twisting line forming a lidless gaze that followed him. The smoke curling up from torches twisted into blinking shapes, and the flames themselves opened and closed slowly, watching.
Even the flowers weren’t safe. Their centers darkened, pupils blooming where petals should have been.
Mumbo couldn’t move. His body refused, locked in place by sheer, overwhelming fear. He didn’t understand. He didn’t know what was happening. His mind scrambled for explanations and found none.
Why were there eyes?
He didn’t want to move. The stone beneath him was patterned now, veined with shapes that resolved into watching faces. He was sure of it. He could feel them blink beneath his palms. He pulled his hands back quickly, hugging himself, breath coming in short, broken gasps.
He rubbed his face hard, fingers pressing against his eyes, as if he could wipe the world back into place.
When he lowered his hands, his gaze snagged on his wrist.
The dark spot.
It blinked.
Mumbo’s scream fractured into a shriek as the spot looked at him, a tiny pupil opening where skin should be. He scrambled backward, panic completely overtaking thought, trying to get away from his own arm, his own body.
His heel came down on one of the stone eyes behind him.
It wasn’t hard.
It was soft.
The surface gave under his weight with a sickening sensation, like stepping on something living. The eye blinked beneath his foot, and from it welled something purple and shimmering, thick and viscous. It spilled out like tears, like liquid night, like the End’s void made molten.
He tried to step back to where he’d been standing.
An eye opened there too.
He slipped on the void-tears, his footing vanishing completely, and the world tilted violently as he fell, the watching eyes multiplying as the ground rushed up to meet him.
~
He woke slowly.
Not with a jolt or a gasp, but with the gentle awareness of being warm and heavy, like his body had sunk into the world and decided to stay there for a while. He blinked, lashes sticking together, and yawned wide enough to make his jaw crack. The remnants of sleep clung to him in hazy fragments, thoughts drifting in and out without urgency.
He was lying on his belly.
That registered first. Then the weight on his back.
Mumbo blinked again and carefully shifted his head to the side. Grian was sprawled across him, completely unbothered, limbs loose and tangled, wings folded awkwardly as if he’d simply flopped there at some point in the night and never bothered to move again. The steady rise and fall of Grian’s breathing pressed warmly against Mumbo’s spine.
Mumbo lay still, letting the moment exist.
A memory stirred, distant and sharp-edged. Eyes. The sky. Panic clawing at his chest.
He frowned slightly.
Had that been a dream?
Or a nightmare?
He waited for the familiar aftermath. The cold sweat soaking into the sheets. The tremor in his hands. The overwhelming need to sit up, pace, make chamomile tea and rock himself through the shaking until dawn felt survivable again. His nightmares never lingered quietly. They always left him raw, overreactive, set off by the smallest sound.
But none of that came.
His chest felt steady. His breathing slow and even. There was no buzzing panic under his skin, no sense that the world was about to tilt again. If anything, he felt… rested. Genuinely so. The kind of rest he’d almost forgotten was possible.
Carefully, he lifted one arm, moving slowly so he wouldn’t disturb Grian. His wrist turned in the dim light, and he studied it closely.
The skin was unmarked.
No dark spot. No puncture. No sign at all of where Grian’s talon had pressed, where it had pierced him. He traced the area with his thumb, pressing lightly, then a little harder. Nothing. Smooth. Whole.
Mumbo stared at it for a long moment, a faint crease forming between his brows.
He didn’t understand what had happened. The memory of terror felt distant now, like it belonged to someone else entirely, muffled and unreal. Dream logic, maybe. Stress, finally burning itself out.
Whatever it was, he didn’t want to chase it.
Thinking about it felt like tugging on a loose thread in a sweater he very much needed to stay intact. So he let the questions drift away, unexamined.
Gently, he lowered his arm back down and settled into the mattress again. Grian shifted slightly on his back, mumbling something incoherent, and Mumbo relaxed at the familiar weight.
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