#Burn the world government to the ground boys

[kacievvbbbb]

Garp and Compliance

I do think Garp is a very complicated man with very complicated motivations and actions. He is the definition of lawful chaotic. And I do genuinely believe that he joined the marines cause he wanted to do good in the world and that was how he saw how. But I also believe he is a great example of how the willful compliance of the few "good" help maintain the power of a bad system and how that is a part of the problem. does it matter if there are a few good men if the entire system is bad?

But I also do believe that he wanted his kids to drink the marine cool aid like him to keep them safe, Ace particularly. Like I do genuinely believe that.

Like listen they have the "D" just by being alive they are a threat to the world government and it will always want them dead and those they love dead by association. Hell even Sengoku tells Garp that he would have been executed long ago for the crimes of his family if he wasnt so valuable as the Hero of the Marines, anf it's played off like a joke but given everything we know about the marines and the world government it was very much a real threat.

But they haven't because Garp is valuable, he doesn't follow order, his family are all some of the most dangerous criminals in the world and he acts entirely too much like a pirate himself never mind that he and his lineage bare the ultimate sin of having a "D" in their name. But he gets to live, he is safe because he is valuable. And so by that logic if those kids get into the marines, if they complied and become strong, indispensable, invaluable. Then maybe that will keep them safe, maybe it will keep even Ace safe, a boy who committed the gravest only crime against the marines by being born the son of a man the government killed 22 years ago.

And if they are safe then maybe Garp doesn't have to confront the tyranny he swore to protect.

[deusvervewrites]

My Hero Academia Final Thoughts

There's a line that I absolutely adore from the Justice League cartoon. In the episode Hereafter, Superman is believed to be killed and a funeral for him is held. Martian Manhunter, in his speech, concludes with, “Let us all strive to accept his gift and pass it along as an ongoing tribute to Kal-El of Krypton: the immigrant from the stars who taught us all how to be heroes.”

My Hero Academia is coming to an end after around a decade now, and a lot of discussion is happening around the ending, and what has and has not happened. The world of My Hero Academia is one that is shown to be deeply flawed and at points outright cruel. Discrimination runs rampant through all levels of society, and the populace is plagued with a general sense of apathy. People are not inspired to act, but to be passive. Why bother putting in the effort to help others when you can wait for a Hero to do it?

All Men Are Not Created Equal.

This line from the start of the series has been used in many discussions of My Hero Academia over the years especially in regard to the themes of discrimination, but this final chapter provides a new interpretation of them. It is because people are different that we seek each other out. Humans are, after all, social creatures. We simply cannot survive alone. This has been true for thousands of years.

My Hero Academia is a story about justice. Many people wanted the entire government torn the ground, burned, and replaced. But who would that help? How many people would die from that because they needed financial or medical aid that the government supplies? How would a new government even be formed that way? That is the truth Shigaraki��s righteous destruction. It would solve nothing. Cathartic, perhaps, but it would leave a scarred world that may never actually recover.

My Hero Academia is a story about helping people. It is a story about refusing to engage in dehumanization. It is a story about empathizing with others and reaching out to help them. And it is in that act that heroism is performed.

The world presented in the final chapter of My Hero Academia is not perfect.

But it’s better. And it’s still improving.

Shoji has worked to further decrease discrimination.

Uraraka is providing resources for people whose Quirks might cause issues for themselves and others.

The final thesis of My Hero Academia is not about superheroes or an empowered police force. It is that the word ‘hero’ applies to anyone who wants to make a positive change. Heroes are people who help others in need. Heroes like that old woman who helped the boy from the previous chapter, or the middle schooler that tried to help the child who tripped.

There’s a reason that the final scene of the manga is Class 1-A responding together to a natural disaster and not to a Villain attack.

Heroes are a function of Community Outreach.

Midoriya’s legacy is not what he did with One For All. It is that he stood in front of a Japan—a world—struck by apathy and indifference and said “This is wrong!” Midoriya’s legacy is holding his hand out to help others. Midorya’s legacy is that he inspired others to do the same, to throw off their apathy and apply themselves to others.

Let us all strive to accept his gift and pass it along as an ongoing tribute to Midoriya Izuku: the Quirkless man who taught us all how to be heroes.

[pointycorgiears]

The All-Seeing Eyes

An AU to how Mihawk meets his Seraphim clone.

Content warning: Injury, blood

~~~~~~~~~~

Karai Bari was under full assault.

Luckily, they had time to prepare in the form of the Straw Hat Pirates and one of their allied crews arriving ahead with a warning. They had escaped Egghead, and the World Government was not happy about it. It was time to take things to the Emperors themselves and deal with the problem before it could even become an issue.

The Navy brought a few of their new weapons along for good measure. One of them, Mihawk was watching intently, with curiosity and concern. The Seraphim creature with a sword was busy twirling on the sky in a duel with an unknown pirate from the Straw Hat Fleet. Mihawk was busy on the ground with his own opponents, but his eyes were keenly aware of the situation above him. Just how much similar was this...boy supposed to be to him?

A blast of fire from the ships offshore drew Mihawk's attention and he deflected. At the same time, a sudden pressure wave broke the air above him, rattling his senses and he braced. He looked up.

Mihawk saw it too late.

The chil-the clone he'd been observing during the assault had been temporarily disoriented by an explosion of conqueror's haki, leaving themselves open to attack. As Yoru repelled a barrage of cannonfire from the sea, Mihawk watched as the winged creature received a single, devastatingly powerful blow with a seastone weapon from its opponent, knocking them out of the sky.

Mihawk couldn't peel his eyes away. The Seraphim crashed into the scorched sandy beach of Karai Bari, its sword tumbling from its hand and stabbing the earth next to it. Then, there was a scream. Mihawk flinched and something tore through his very being, leaving a thrashing animal inside him in its wake. A child screamed in agony, and Mihawk's feet had never ran faster.

~~***~~

S-Hawk knew it was too late to correct. In that split-second slip up, he'd left himself open, and his opponent smashed into him. Everything went black for a moment and then just as quickly, the red warning signals flashed across his vision. It was too late. He dropped his sword He was falling out of the sky.

His back crashed into the ground. Warning signs and bells flashed in his mind. He couldn't focus on any of it to see what was wrong. All he knew, was that something was definitely wrong. All he could feel was…pain.

Terrible, agonizing pain.

The first time he'd ever felt such a thing.

The sensation overrode his automatic self defense systems and sent a million fold of electrical signals to a reflex he did not know he had. He screamed.

In that instant, every other protocol he had shattered, and S-Hawk screamed in agony. In hurt. In fear. He was frozen on the ground, unable to move, completely open to his enemies, and he was scared. His eyes became wet and burned. All he could do was scream and cry. Because it hurt so much.

~~***~~

Mihawk dashed over to where the Seraphim lay. Above in his periphery, the attacker was preparing a final blow. Mihawk willed every ounce of haki down his arm and into his sword and launched Yoru with that force of will directly in the path of the oncoming attack. The blade landed upright at the Seraphim's side, precisely where it needed to be to blow back the assault and send the attacker flying across the bay.

Mihawk arrived at the scene of the wailing creature. The wings were flared out in a crooked manner, feathers tangled in each other. The arms and hands scratched at the sand beneath, trying to grip something, while the legs bent and spasmed with the pain from the open wound in the torso, just below the ribcage. What he could only assume was blood, green and vibrant, seeped out and stained the pure white shirt. Mihawk then looked at the face, and he fell to his knees.

This was a child.

He leaned over the Seraphim, his hat blocking the sunlight from above. The sudden shadow caught the child's attention and the tear swollen eyes focused on him in shock. Mihawk could see the boy's fear and hurt, and that sight twisted his throat and collapsed his chest.

"It's okay," Mihawk said once he found his voice again.

The wailing suddenly stopped, turning into rapid whimpers as the child heard his words.

"It's okay, little one. I'm here."

The boy's breathing became calm and he stared at Mihawk, unblinking.

Mihawk couldn't look away from him. Everything stopped around him and was silenced as he gazed into the strange, yet familiar visage. He felt something click in his brain, sprouted from his very being, and it spread to his eyes and his vision and cleared away his old perceptions of the world.

This was his existence now. This was a clone made of him. This was his child.

A long whistle came from the distance, piercing the silence around him, and he turned his eyes upward at a cannonball heading straight for his head.

Before he could reach Yoru, the ball was sliced in two and detonated harmlessly along the beach. "Watch your back, old man!" Roronoa Zoro chided as the Straw Hats' swordsman landed gracefully beside him.

Mihawk ignored the annoyed look. "Zoro! Take his sword!"

Now there was a confused look. "What?"

Zoro did not get an explanation though because Mihawk picked up the wounded Seraphim as gently as he could, and ran from the beach to the treeline. Zoro could only follow with Yoru and the Seraphim's sword in his hands.

~~***~~

S-Hawk still felt the pain. He still felt the fear. The warning signs still flashed red across his mind. But, somehow, he felt calm.

As soon as he saw the shadow above him, as soon as he saw the face that was seared into his data banks, as soon as he saw the golden eyes…he felt calm wash over him. And he stopped screaming.

He never looked away from those eyes. He focused on them and it had a secondary effect on his life support systems. He wasn't sure how, but his body was able to run its diagnostic command and begin treating the injured area. The most critical internal damage was given priority and repaired to ensure he would not go into a stasis lock, but there was still a warning message that he needed external treatment.

S-Hawk kept that thought in his mind, but he wasn't as concerned anymore. He wasn't as scared. Those golden eyes shown on him as bright as the sun and he was made visible and seen by them, and he was going to be alright. He still didn't know how he knew that. He just did.

There was some shouting from somewhere, and then S-Hawk was picked up. The lift disturbed his wound somewhat and he grimaced, but he didn't cry. He only stayed focused on the eyes and the face of Dracule Mihawk, his prototype, as he was carried away. His head was leaning on the man's shoulder. He heard every racing breath, felt every pounding heartbeat. S-Hawk was soothed by the sensations and he almost cried out in protest when they disappeared while he was put down on the ground again.

They were now in the safety of the trees, no longer out in the open. The battle sounded so far away, and all his ears registered was Mihawk calling out for a medic.

A little creature with a funny-looking hat appeared at his side and began speaking about him with its high-pitched voice.

"He is bleeding, but the source seems to be sealing on its own."

"Can you help him, Chopper?"

"It looks like the internal damage is already taken care of somehow, but I still need to patch up the open wound so it doesn't worsen while he heals."

"Look out!"

The green-haired swordsman yelled out and dashed away to block what could only be another attack. S-Hawk couldn't see what was happening. He only heard the sounds of a counterattack by the swordsman and the sudden rushing of sand.

A dark canopy enveloped them, creating a barrier that sheltered them from any other assaults. S-Hawk recognized the looming figure of his sister's prototype, Sir Crocodile, standing over Mihawk. He didn't like the feel of the cold purple eyes, and sought out the warm gold instead.

"You're sure about this, Hawkeyes?"

"I was not going to leave him like that, Crocodile. He's just a child."

"Yes…he's your child, by the looks of it. Jinbe and Straw Hat are currently pushing the Navy back, so this is your last chance if you want to send him back to his commanders."

The golden eyes stared at S-Hawk, soft and determined, possessive and protective, completely different from the emotionless, analytical gazes S-Hawk was accustomed to.

"I will never do such a thing."

The eyes pierced into S-Hawk's own and he got the strange feeling of being exposed, opened up, as if his prototype could see every circuit, every command code, every warning signal, lacing S-Hawk's entire being. However, they also saw every feeling encapsulating him right now, every fear, every little hope that he didn't have to fight anymore, at least for today. Even though S-Hawk was completely silent, save for a rattled breath here and there, he felt he did not have to explain himself. He did not have to justify his tears or his screams earlier. He didn't have to ask for the safety he was hoping to receive among this band of targets he was sent here to eliminate. That initial directive had been strangely corrupted. He did not have to say anything, because his prototype already knew what he wanted. The golden eyes saw everything as it was.

The tiny medic continued to work. The tall Crocodile kept standing guard. S-Hawk was surrounded, but not by hostiles. He reached a shaky hand up, and Mihawk immediately took it in his own. He held onto the boy with one strong, powerful hand while the other stroked the white hair matted to the tear-stained face.

"It's okay. I'm here. You're safe with me."

S-Hawk smiled at his reflection in the golden eyes.

~~~~~~~~~

This idea attacked me at 4am this morning and would not let go until I wrote it down. It's just an alternative scenario to how Mihawk first meets S-Hawk. I don't know if I'll incorporate it into Talon's story or not, just playing around for now. Also pretending the Seraphim may not be as indestructible as they seem under certain circumstances lol.

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Pairing(s): Logan Howlett x Reader, Billy Butcher x Reader, Billy Butcher x Becca Butcher

Warnings: cheating, affairs, hurt feelings, violence, soldier girl au, butcher is kinda the bad guy in this version of the au 😅, the boys x marvel au, nudes mentioned, violence, blood

Words: 2182

Summary: Butcher finally apprehends the Wolverine

When Someone Gets Hurt

Inferno

Bruises and Bitemarks

a/n: yes I'm still alive c:

Butcher thought it was his lucky day when he finally apprehended Logan Howlett, more commonly known by his supe alias the Wolverine.

For just one chance at capturing him, the Boys went over their plan nonstop. They needed to make it count. Butcher only had enough time in his life for one enemy to focus all of his attention on. He definitely didn't need another. From trial and error, Butcher learned that it was near impossible catching Logan if the red suited asshole Deadpool was anywhere nearby. The duo were as indestructible as cockroaches.

While nabbing Logan elated Butcher, the fact that he did it without asking for your help was the cherry on top. Neither of you had spoken since he found out you were sleeping with someone else. Honestly, both of you had been too busy anyway to interact let alone talk. You were going through your own life difficulties what with your maniacal supe brother. You'd discovered that Homelander was actually introducing Compound V to terrorists just so the U.S. government would allow supes in the military to counterattack these new "super villains". You and Annie were working hard to prevent Homelander's supremacy of the country though it felt like a lost cause many times. The new addition to the Seven, Stormfront, was putting a wrench in any plans of taking down your brother.

"Go' you now." Butcher sneers in triumph as he yanks on Logan's hair to pull his face upward. Logan snarls, eyes burning with hate that Butcher couldn't possibly comprehend. This was the guy that took you for granted after all. "Took us quite a long time to figure out what would take you down." His head gestures over to Frenchie who was holding that gun that had taken Wolverine down. The gun's chambers, unbeknownst to Logan, was filled with Carbonadium bullets.

Grinning at the detestation on Logan's face, Butcher slams his head down against the ground. If his bones weren't fused with one of the world's most indestructible alloys, Logan was certain his entire jaw would have shattered. Butcher didn't possess fancy powers. All he had was the indomitable human spirit and a fuck ton of hate in his veins.

His strength fleeing from him thanks to the bullets lodged inside of him, Logan can only growl at Hughie and Butcher who frisk his weakening form. Frenchie keeps the gun aimed at his head.

Stomach sinking when he feels Butcher fish out his cellphone from his back pocket has him actually finding the energy to try and kick up a fight. A bulky boot to his back kicks him down.

Butcher makes sure Logan can see him as he tauntingly holds Logan's phone in front of him. "You want this, ya? Wonduh what secrets you're hiding 'n here."

"FUCK YOU"

Ignoring the obscenities being snarled at him, Butcher closer examines the phone, tapping on the screen to see if the phone required a passcode. Unfortunately it did.

Dropping it into his pocket, Butcher hums "Lets get back to HQ, shall we? We've got a lot of work to do."

While Butcher and MM interrogate Wolverine in the cellar that served as a holding cell, Frenchie and Hughie got to work on unlocking Logan's phone.

Logan's passcode was, thankfully, a weak one so it didn't take long before Frenchie was allowed access.

"Voila!" He grins to himself and hands the phone to Hughie. "Now we can see all the dirt Le Carcajou has and who that annoying red fucker is." Frenchie held a particular grudge against Deadpool. He'd been shot by him a handful of times.

Not much was on his phone. Only the basic apps that were already preprogrammed into the phone. Contacts were limited to a 'Wilson' and 'Al'.

Going through Logan's phone, Hughie ultimately checks the photos app and nearly drops the phone onto the desk with wide eyes. "Oh god. Oh fuck."

"Petit Hughie?" Frenchie reaches across for the device but Hughie slams his hand on top of it.

"No. No, no, no." He's shaking his head. "Fuck. He's going to fucking kill him if he sees this, Frenchie."

"Well. . . oui? That's what Butcher does." He's confused.

"It won't be Butcher's usual supe killing." Running a hand across his face, Hughie heaves a stuttering breath. He brings up to Frenchie the fact that the affair you were having was with Logan himself.

Frenchie slews a string of profanity. "Le Carcajou? We should've known. He's totally her type. That explains why she hasn't been around to help us catch him either." Everything was coming together. "Butcher won't just kill him."

There would be an utter bloodbath. Now that the Wolverine was weakened, killing him was more feasible a vision.

Hughie nods in knowing and goes a shade paler. And once you found out that Logan was captured. . .

Busy freaking out about what to do, Frenchie takes a peek at the picture on the phone's screen and wolfishly grins. "I never knew she was such a naughty girl."

"Huh? Oh- Frenchie don't!"

"Sorry, Petit Hughie but when I see a work of art I must appreciate it."

"Okay, I'm gonna take the phone away from you now."

"What are you two on about?"

Neither breathes, Frenchie has hold of one end of the cellphone while Hughie has the other end. Unable to react fast enough, Butcher snatches the phone from them in seconds with a mumble about how they should have told him the moment they'd hacked into the phone.

He was not expecting to see your bare tits on the screen of the phone.

Knowing who the tits on the phone screen belonged to. Hughie and Frenchie silently back away, already feeling the heat of his wrath.

"What the fuck is this?" Butcher's ears are ringing and can't even hear whatever Hughie is stammering about.

This was the Wolverine's phone. Why the fuck were your tits on his phone?!

Across the plane of the screen, small cracks begin to emerge as Butcher's grip on the device tightens to a deadly grip, as if he was strangling someone. Imagining that the phone was Logan's neck.

Were you. . . Were you really fucking that guy this entire time?

How long had this been going on?

Did you start seeing him before or after the Boys officially started hunting him?

"Butcher. . ." Hughie's voice sounded far off though he knew it came from right next to him. "Your hand is bleeding. . ."

Spiderweb cracks scrawled across the phone's entire surface. Splinters of glass embedding themselves into his fingers.

Either way, the mother fucker was going to pay for it.

Fuck the mission.

Fuck trying to get any information from this guy.

"Wade- WADE please calm down." You shoot Annie an apologetic look before excusing yourself to take your call to a quieter location.

"They've got him! Those fuckers have our peanut!" Deadpool cries out on the other end of the line.

Lips parting about to inquire on who he meant when icy cold realization seizes your stomach. "Logan. . . No. . ."

"YES!! So if you can, please hurry that gorgeous ass of your's and save him!"

Almost hitting someone with the restroom door you hazardously ram open. Annie stares at you when you fast walk back to the table. Explaining what is going on and how you had to hurry back to headquarters.

"Thank god you're here!" Hughie's voice cracks as you push past him. You could hear the jarring sound of a fist colliding against solid flesh. Grunts of pain and the angry howls emanating from a god of wrath.

You rip the door that led to the Boys' makeshift holding cell/interrogation room to come across Logan covered in his own blood. Matted in thick clumps in his hair and sporting several gunshot wounds that weren't healing. Butcher has his back to you, his shoulders moving up and down as he gulps down ragged breaths.

Logan's own breathing was interrupted every couple of breaths as blood bubbled forth to dribble out from the corner of his mouth. Those dark eyes that you love so much instantly land on you.

"Butcher."

Even having the upper hand wasn't enough to ease the heavy stone that sat at the bottom of your stomach; weighing you down like an anchor.

Slowly he turns around. You'd seen this side of him so many times. Yes, a few times they were aimed at you. Those were the incidents when you battled with your own conflicting feelings toward your brother. Butcher was hell bent on putting an end to Homelander; nothing would change that. He would do it or very well die trying. Yet. . . You remembered your beloved big brother. The one who made you lunch to take to school. He'd been John to you back then. You idolized him and envied him. Vought's pride and joy despite Soldier Boy thinking him weak.

This was different though.

The pain that hardened his gaze was palpable. "This who you been fucking?"

Readying your stance to zoom, you try to keep the panic from your tone. If Butcher heard how much you actually cared for Logan, it would enrage him even more. Logan was more than just sex to you now. "I can explain."

"I bet you can." A dark chuckle is exhaled. "You two been fucking this entire time? Laughing behind my back. I should have known. You'll always be more loyal to your own kind."

"Don't be like that Butcher." You hiss. "Don't you dare lump me into your supe-hating bullshit. That's not what this is. He wasn't on our radar when I met him."

That gives Butcher a reason to pause. "So, you were fucking him the same time when we were still-"

"There was no 'we'." You adamantly point out and accompanied by and exhausted sigh, your stance wavers. "You and I, it was just sex. You made that perfectly clear. After all, I could never measure up to Becca. I can't let you kill him."

To add an emphasis on that declaration, your eyes sizzle red in warning.

His scowl deepens, a snarl curling his lip. "That's how it's gonna be?"

"Just step aside, Billy. Please."

The pleading in your irritates him. You liked this fucker enough to put your pride aside and beg Butcher to release Logan.

"You willin' to kill me over him?"

Fear wasn't something you were necessarily accustomed to. Standing there, you weren't sure of what to do. You couldn't kill Butcher. Yet you couldn't let Butcher kill Logan. The heat in your eyes simmers down.

You couldn't.

"I don't have to kill you."

Swatting him away with a flick of your wrist as you charge toward him, Butcher flies into the side wall. Clearing the way for you to get to Logan.

When you feel the rain-like barrage of bullets against your back, you rip Logan free of his confines. You're not A-Train level fast, but compared to Butcher and the others, your movement was quicker. Pure instinct drives you to bulldoze your way through walls, all while protecting a battered Logan. Blood rushing through your ears made you deaf to what Logan was trying to cough out.

You couldn't stop. You had to keep focus until you were far away and safe enough to check his injuries.

Wind whips your face.

You had to save Logan.

You couldn't let him die.

Suddenly a warm hand to your cheek has you stopping midflight; halting to a hover.

"Can you at least carry me so I don't look like a damn damsel in distress."

In your arms you carried Logan in a bridal style fashion. He was huge compared to you. With your super strength he feels no heavier than an infant.

Registering his position, you also take in the multitudes of bulletholes that litter his torso area. They were still bleeding freely.

One safe landing later (and a quick text to Wade) and you're turning Logan over to examine him. "What did they shoot you with?"

He grunts when you dab a piece of your shirt on a particularly juicy wound. "Not many things that can get me like this."

"I'm gonna have to cauterize some of these until Wade gets here." You warn him. Small hand splayed against his chest you catch his eyes on you. He places his larger one over it, pressing your hand so you could feel his heartbeat.

"M'fine." He tells you, ignoring the thick line of dried blood that ran down from the corner of his mouth. Logan looked like literal hell. Sweat and grime coating his face but his smile was still heart warming. "Just stop talking for a second and let me hold you, yeah?"

Unexpected moments of Logan's softness rendered you speechless. He uses this as an advantage and gathers you up in his bloodied arms.

You close your eyes and relish in his nearness.

"Also wanted to tell you that those guys may have seen your nudes on my phone."

"Are you serious?!" You shriek and push him away. Logan coughs out a laugh, avoiding your faux slaps.

[moonstruckme]

Aight just an idea I had. I like this song called Alabama song by the doors, it reminds me of cowboys dancing around a fire whimsically. Well I’d love if it was either the Marauders (or just Sirius, I’m weak for him) maybe on the run, have a campfire and whimsically dance around it, giggling, laughing and drinking. Anyway just a one shot idea, have a good one!

Thanks for requesting my love! I thought this might fit with apocalypse!marauders so I decided to take it in that direction, hope that's alright :)

apocalypse poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

You’ve decided to chance a fire. You and Remus had cast the best protections you could around your little camp, and though you know the smoke is still a risk, the nights have gotten too cold to go without. 

Your shoulders ache from your turn carrying the backpack this afternoon (though you’d rather die than complain about it, lest James never allow you to contribute again) and the soles of your shoes have worn so thin that the balls of your feet are sore and tender. Remus cracks his neck this way and that, leaning back on his hands as James builds up the fire, the radio blaring softly a few feet away. It’s your constant companion, the first thing you all unpack every night. You’re each too recognizable to risk going into public to try and gather intelligence, so the radio is all you have. Aside from when they list the names of the dead, you’ve mostly begun tuning it out. The government is disorganized, the economy is failing, blah blah blah. None of it matters while the death eaters are in control of the ministry. Frankly, it’s their problem now; the rest of you have larger concerns. 

Sirius plants himself between you and Remus, digging through the pack. “Perk up, buttercups.” He nudges you, a nearly full bottle of firewhiskey now in hand. “I know what’ll make you two stop moaning and groaning.” 

You look at the bottle skeptically, but Remus’ lips quirk upwards and he holds out a hand for it. 

“Attaboy, Moons,” Sirius says, passing it to him. 

Remus takes a swig. “How long have you been hiding this?”

“I haven’t hidden anything,” Sirius contests, grimacing as he takes a sip himself. “It’s been in the bottom of the pack for anyone to find. I just thought we could use it after a day like today.” 

You nod. The day hadn’t been eventful, but maybe that was what had made it so disheartening. The sky had clouded over around midmorning and stayed that way, making your now humdrum routine of trekking through the woods to stay ahead of death eaters that might be tracking you even drearier than usual. Today was the fifth day without even coming close to a town, and you’re beginning to feel like you’re not much help to the resistance at all (though Remus insists that staying alive until you’re needed is the best you all can do right now). The atmosphere had heavied around the four of you, bogged down by gloom and weariness. 

Sirius waggles the bottle in front of you tantalizingly. You take a swig, and the burn is so intense it’s a miracle you don’t spit it right out, gagging. James laughs as he swipes the bottle from you. 

“Don’t suppose you brought mixers too?” you manage. 

“Nope.” Sirius pats your back sympathetically. “Sorry, dollface.” 

“I’ll get used to it.” 

You take turns passing the bottle around, and you do get used to it, your chest warming pleasantly as the ache of your muscles fades into the background. The boys’ limbs seem to be loosening too, their laughter freer and more raucous than it’s been in the weeks since your world and sense of safety was burnt to ash and scattered on the wind. James has the idea of playing spin the bottle, but it only ends in Sirius demanding everyone kiss him regardless of who the bottle points to. Remus lies on the ground and attempts to teach you all the few constellations he remembers from Sinistra’s Astronomy class, but after finding Orion the practice descends into the rest of you pointing out which stars are clustered together to look like dicks or boobs. 

“See,” James insists, shoulder bumping into yours as he points, “those two little ones are the nipples.”

“They’re nowhere near the same size,” Sirius observes. 

“And do you have a problem with disproportionate tits?” you question boldly, to which Sirius only laughs, making a show of pawing at your chest before suddenly going still. 

You tense, scanning the treeline automatically, but Sirius only sets a placating hand on your shoulder, cocking his ear. “They’re playing music,” he says. 

You’re quiet for a moment more, and sure enough, there’s a faint melody crackling through the radio. James reaches over to turn the dial and the sound amplifies, a faint twanging and a slow, accented voice. It’s some American country song, both upbeat and laidback at once. 

“They never play music anymore,” you whisper, as if afraid the broadcasters will hear you and shut it off. 

Remus hums. “It has seemed like a slow day,” he suggests. “Maybe there’s nothing left to report.” 

Sirius hops up, wobbling just a little once he gets on his feet. “Dance with me, Moons.” 

Remus scoffs lightly, sprawled out comfortable and languid on the soft grass. “I think I’ll let you show us how it’s done.” Sirius shrugs gamely, beginning to spin around and kick out his feet sloppily. “Just don’t get too close to the fire,” Remus warns. “That’d be a humbling way to go during wartime.” 

“Or original,” Sirius proposes, but he dances back from the edge of the pit. 

James laughs as Sirius mimes a lasso, ensnaring you and tugging you toward him. You get to your feet obligingly, clasping your hands with his and moving to the rhythm. You don’t know the words to the song, but you hum along anyway, the both of you glowing orange in the firelight. You must make it look fun, because soon James has coaxed Remus up and they’re dancing beside you, the four of you trading partners every second and twirling each other around. James thinks it’s called do-si-do-ing, but none of you actually know and it doesn’t actually matter. You’re happier than you have been in weeks, happier even than when James had stolen that still-warm pie from a bakery and you’d all eaten it out of the tin. 

The song ends, eventually, and James makes you all go to bed so that you can hopefully get a full eight hours before the camp’s protective charms wear off in the morning and you have to set out again. You’re all crammed onto two pushed-together sleeping pads for warmth as the fire dies down to embers, the night sky big and open above you as the chill seeps through your blankets and two layers of clothes straight to your bones. The boys’ breathing evens out one by one, Sirius’ elbow jutting into your side while Remus’ stubble scratches at your cheek. You’ll wake the next morning cold and sore all over, and that’s alright.

[artist-issues]

Hello! I am Catholic artist who is currently writing a story and reading your commentaries on other people’s work I’m starting to wonder if I am actually writing my story the best way that I can. I’m starting to wonder whether or not the story I am writing has a good moral message to begin with, or even one that would make sense. I’m really struggling with this, and I want to tell this story, but I don’t know if the message I’m trying to communicate is the right one anymore. I don’t know whether I should change it or not, and if I do change it, what to change it to. I don’t know how much experience you have with writing, but I wanted to ask you what is your opinion on what the best way is for a story to communicate its lessons, and also how to come up with good themes in general and be able to tell when the one you originally had planned was too weak for the story you wanted to tell.

What do you do when you want to (or you’re thinking about) changing the meaning of your story? Where do you go from there?

I think…sometimes you just have to pick the thing you want to say and make the necessary sacrifices.

There’s lots of ways to say a message like, “Faith Triumphs Over Fear.”

You could say it with a farm boy who chooses to stop running toward his own ability to protect what he fears to lose, and instead, lets a Higher Power do the protecting.

You could say it with a tragically powerful war hero who, despite all his strength, can’t save everyone, and instead of trusting a Higher Power with what he can’t do, he burns the world down trying to make up for what he can’t, out of fear.

You could say it with a princess who’s kingdom is burnt to the ground, and who could choose to give up and believe there’s nothing worth fighting for; but instead she finds ways to go on because she trusts in a Higher Power to win in the end, even if she can’t force it to happen.

You could say it with a ragged punk who’s only out for himself, but when he sees how hard better people are willing to fight for what they believe in, he starts to catch onto their faith instead of fearing for his own skin all the time, and finds out it’s a better way to live.

You could say it with a deposed government official who lost everything at the height of his influence, and has to learn patience in exile, patience to pass on what he knows of failure, and trust the Higher Power to do what he couldn’t do even at his most powerful.

I think you get it, I just described to you Star Wars.

Now, that’s all one franchise, but it’s actually lots of little or long stories interwoven together. And each one starts at a different place, with a character of a different age or walk-of-life, and they go through different turns of events and choose to respond to those events in all different ways. Lots of stories. But they’re all different ways to say “Faith Triumphs Over Fear.” One of them is even a cautionary tale about what happens if you don’t believe that.

Lots of ways to say one message.

So you can change the message if you want to. But my question to you would be, why do you think you have to? If Star Wars can come up with twenty different types of stories and characters to say one message, what is it about yours that doesn’t lend itself to your own message?

Find that out.

I think it’s okay to change a message if you find that it wasn’t Good, Beautiful, or most importantly, TRUE. If you say something that’s not true, it’s a waste.

But if your original message is good, beautiful, or true, why change it? I find myself wanting to change my messages for two reasons.

1. The message I thought I was saying wasn’t clear or accurate enough.

For example, I have a Wish Rewrite in my notes app and for the longest time the new message was ““Have Faith and Even More Than What You Wished For Will Come True.” But that’s not what I really meant to say, and so when I was writing the characters, they didn’t fit. I had an Asha who I envisioned as kind of glum and closed off—I was writing her as if she would go FROM “never trying too hard to make anything happen” TO “daring-to-dream.”

But that didn’t fit the original message, because the original message was too broad. Because it has that whole “and even more than what you wished for” part, which implies that the character is wishing for something. Which is not the Asha-version I was drawn to. Again, the version I was drawn to was “refuses to wish.”

For that message, a character like Tiana would’ve fit better—a character who does dream, but does so with no faith, just hard-work. And that’s not the rewritten-Asha that I was warming up to.

So I changed, or rather, honed down the message to “Wishes made in faith can come true.” Ah, now the story is about a character who doesn’t believe wishes can come true at all, and the ingredient she’s missing is faith. Well, then, all the other parts of the story I was struggling with fall into place. Because I honed it down in a way that I could re-focus on, it freed up the parts of my brain that couldn’t figure out what the story needed.

Now that it was about a clearer message, I could focus better and think, “okay, well if wishes made in faith can come true, we need to define what she’s not daring to wish for, that she should wish for.”

Into place clicks something that the main character wants and knows would be good, but won’t admit that she wants it, because she doesn’t believe wishes can come true. Into place clicks who the Star-Boy character should be in order to draw that out of her. Into place clicks what might’ve happened in Asha’s childhood to keep her from believing wishes can come true—and right after that, who her family is clicks easily into place.

So that’s one reason I might “change” the message—just re-phrasing it or eliminating some nuance in order to help myself, and by extension, the story, focus a bit more.

2. I let myself get too attached to the “Fun Stuff” of the story, until the “Fun Stuff” cluttered-up and crowded-out the message.

This one I actually don’t struggle with often because I’m a control-freak, so I’m constantly outlining how everything ties back into the message. My particular weakness is “having fun while storytelling,” I’m not good at that.

But sometimes it does happen! I’m in the middle of writing a sci-fi thing and the message is good, but I haven’t been able to figure out how to write one of the characters. I know it’s because I’m too attached to this version of her who’s like, sassy, but with a protective mom-heart. I like that characterization.

But what I need her to be in the story is actually pretty dark. And that dark-story-reason is why I added her character in the first place. The problem is, her compassionate-sassy-mom personality and motivations don’t match up with the dark thing I originally intended her to do.

So—AND HERE’S THE MEAT OF THE POST—I have a decision to make.

Am I going to sacrifice the thing that I like about this character and find something else that works and supports the message—

—or am I going to stall out and basically give up on writing it because I keep shying away from making the big change, because I don’t want to let the character go?

Because I can’t force the character I like into the role that the story needs. Not in this case. So I can either choose the message, or the Fun Stuff.

Obviously I believe you should choose the message. Because your tastes are wide-ranging, like the cast of Star Wars characters and their stories. I can find another characterization that I like—one that fits the story better. It just takes harder work, and a little sacrifice of the Fun-Thing that I was attached to. But honestly, is this about me, or the audience? That’s what it all boils down to.

I wish I could help more, but without knowing your story I’m not sure if this was answering your question at all. To sum up, I’d say:

Is your message good, beautiful, or true?

Do the characters, setting, and events in your story fit the message and help support it?

Figure out where the problem is and then stop-and-fix, or else you’ll start spinning your wheels and not finish. That’s been my experience!

Thank you for asking! I am not an expert.

[strangersteddierthings]

No Regrets - Part Five

Part One🦇 Part Two🦇Part Three🦇Part Four🦇Part Five🦇Part Six

This beautiful fic cover you see below was made by the fantastic, wonderful and lovely @skepsiss <3 Thanks so much!!! I'm still crying about it.

He jolts backwards, the burning in his chest hurts, it fucking hurts but- but it doesn't? He pulls in a deep, shaking breath and feels no pain.

"Steve?" Nancy asks from off to his right, so he turns to look at her. She looks concerned, and scared in a way he hasn't seen her in years. (Except it's not years, is it? Not anymore, or not right now?) "Are you okay?"

He shakes his head before digging his palms into his eyes. He's dying, dying, dying- he's dead, he has to be. The Storms are so toxic and he-

"Steve," Robin's voice is accompanied by her hands around his wrists. She pulls his hands from his eyes and he lets her. He blinks at her worried face. "Steve, what just happened?"

"I-I was. I think... give me a moment" Steve says. Robin nods once, a confirmation, but she doesn't move away or release his wrists.

He pulls in another deep breath and closes his eyes to think. He's trying to remember. He thinks he promised to explain everything after... after Pennhurst? Yes, he remembers. Promised that after Robin and Nancy got back from their trip to Pennhurst, he'd tell them everything he knows. It's... it is after, now.

It was yesterday that Robin and Nancy went to Pennhurst and spoke to Creel. They learned about Creel, and the music. They still got found out as fakes; Steve didn't remember what caused them to be discovered last time to be able to warn them against it this time.

He still ended up being bullied into driving Max around. This time, though, he already had an hour-long loop of Running Up That Hill in his car. They'd let Max go to speak to Billy alone, like last time. The boys paced around the car and this time, when they realize that Max isn't responding, Steve's already loading the tape into the cassette player. He shoves it into Lukas's hands and tells him to put it on Max, press play, and to not stop begging her to come back until she is.

Steve saw he had questions, but Max was more important. She floated, and fell, and Lucas had caught her. Then...?

Oh, right. Then, he did explain, yesterday evening, after everyone had crowded into the Wheeler's basement. Went over Vecna winning, Hawkins becoming ground zero for the apocalypse. Talks about a future with a lot of loss, but won't say who, as well as the slow decay of the air and earth. That you could breathe the air for small moments of time, but long exposure would make you sick. That even though they'd finally killed Vecna in 1989, too much damage had been done, too many gates opened, kept opening with every new death by demo-creature. El alone would never be able to close off all the gates. They were working on trying to create a reverse of the machine below Starcourt, meant to close gates instead of open, but the world would probably be a complete wasteland before they could complete it.

No one had reacted well to the news, but the yelling was a minimum, which had been a pleasant surprise.

In the end, Steve had told them they needed more people, more help. That he was going to tell Wayne about the Upside Down.

He opens his eyes, now, and looks around. The place is small, familiar almost. Wood paneling and- The Munson's home. They're in Eddie's home. Because last night Steve had come over. He'd come over and told Wayne everything because he couldn't do this again. Not alone, not as the only responsible adult.

The Wayne in the future had been so willing to help, when Hawkins ripped open at its seams, and Wayne in the present was the same. He didn't- he didn't even call Steve crazy. He'd said he believed Steve, that some government lady told him they were going to pay for him to be in a hotel since his home was an active crime scene, but Wayne'd refused. Eddie wouldn't know where to call when he got out, and what if he just showed up and Wayne was gone- well, Wayne found that unacceptable.

Now, Wayne should be his way back from Indy in Eddie's recovered van with the Byers and Mike, and they're here waiting on a call from Eddie.

Steve's not dying, or, he's not anymore? Or maybe he is, and this is just. What the end is like? Getting to put an end to your regrets or something.

Whatever. It doesn't really matter what or why or even how. He knows what is in store for the future if they don't stop Vecna today.

"Sorry, sorry. I'm back," Steve says, opening his eyes to look at Robin.

She scrunches her brow. "Back?"

"Back from the future," Steve gives her a lopsided grin and in return she squints at him, leaning in real close to his face like the closer she is the more of his mind she'll be able to read.

"You're a different Steve. Again."

"What?" Nancy asks.

"Again?" Steve asks.

Robin scrutinizes his face some more before backing off, just a few inches. "Yeah. It was- Saturday, when you just walked out of our shift after Dustin and Max showed up, you were different then. Not. It was- you know how we were just talking about how if only we could combine, our love life problems would be fixed?"

Steve does, but only after having to think about it for a moment. It was so long ago, but it wasn't. Not for the Steve he's replaced, not for Robin in front of him. "Yeah. I remember."

"It's like I didn't realize how much we'd already combined until we weren't anymore. It was like... like you were a completely different person. I thought it was just, maybe, a reaction to learning the Upside Down was back. But you got different. More haunted."

"You noticed a difference?"

Robin scoffs, "of course I did. You're you but it was. This whole week it's been like... each day brings a new you. With different quirks. Except yesterday was still all the same old-new you so I thought- I thought maybe we'd succeeded. Fixed whatever it was that needed changed because you hadn't changed. But we haven't yet. 'Cause you're back."

Steve shakes his head. "No. No, we haven't. But this time- we'll have the manpower."

"No, I mean, I just-" Robin huffs, falling back onto her butt rather than staying in an uncomfortable crouch. "I just noticed, is all."

"Are we making it better," Nancy asks, "or worse?"

Steve looks from Robin to Nancy. "I-I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"I mean I don't know. I don't- I don't know what we've changed. Or if it's been for the better. Because I don't remember."

"Oh," Nancy says with a nod, the look on her face morphing to one Steve knows means she's working out the puzzle of it all. He'll leave her to it.

His attention turns back to Robin, who has her head tipped back, looking at the unopened gate on the roof of the trailer. It definitely cannot be mistaken for water damage anymore. "What are you thinking about?"

Robin tips her head back down to look at Steve. "Exactly that."

"What?"

"Sorry," she says with a frown, "I was just thinking about how we can't- we don't really read each other's minds anymore. I know we should be worrying more about the end of the world but I'm just, just being selfish. Worrying about our friendship."

"You are the only constant in my life, Robin Buckley," Steve confesses, a fierceness to his tone he doesn't even recognize. "You have been, and always will be, the person I need in my life to bother even living it. I swear to God, Robbie, that if anything ever happens to you, I will walk into traffic."

Robin lets out a laugh. "That's a bit extreme."

Steve shoots Nancy a look; he can see she's in her own world. He stands then, offering a hand to Robin to pull her up. "Come on. I have something to tell you. A soulmate secret."

Robin's eyes light up with delight and he pulls her from the ground before leading her to the only place they can get privacy. Eddie's room.

It's two steps into the room that Steve realizes he's never seen Eddie's room before. Or, if he had, the memory of it is lost with the time line it happened in. In Steve's memory, the front half of Eddie's home gets obliterated, and when Eddie and Wayne went back to gather the things that survived the gate opening, Dustin, Mike, and Lucas had gone with the help pack it up. Steve had been helping fortify the high school.

It seems ridiculous, to be hit with the thought of never having seen Eddie's room, with the threat of the apocalypse still looming.

"Alright, secret time," Robin sounds delighted, and her voice pulls him from his thoughts. She shuts the door and turns, eyeing the bed skeptically. "Hmm, standing room only I think."

Steve huffs out a laugh as he takes in the mess of a room, a room that looks lived in and shows Eddie's personality and the things he cares about. Nothing at all like his own room at the Harrington house; perfectly clean and matching and devoid of anything distinctly Steve. "Like you ever make your bed."

The noise Robin makes is clearly offended, and she smacks his arm lightly with the back of her hand, "uncalled for! Unprovoked, even!"

"Yeah, well, you're judging a guy who's been in jail this past 48-ish hours. Not like he had time to tidy up," Steve says.

"I think the state of his bed -whole room, really- is not because he didn't come home to clean up. In fact, I think he just lives like this."

"At least his room looks lived in. I mean, look at all of this on the walls. You think he drew these?" Steve says, hand reach out to brush against a drawing tacked to the wall nearest him.

"Your room could look lived in, too, if you weren't afraid of a few tack holes," Robin replies, crossing the room. Steve watches her go, approaching the mirror and the guitar mounted in front of it. She examines the guitar before picking up the red yoyo atop the amp.

"And here you were worried about not being able to read my mind anymore."

She turns to him and gives him a quick, genuine smile before turning her attention back to the yoyo. "So, what's the soulmate secret? You really good with a yoyo?"

"What? No. I didn't even know that was in here," Steve says.

"I thought you knew the future," Robin teases as she gets the yoyo to successfully fling from her palm and back into her grasp. She makes a little pleased noise before she creeps around the room, gawking at all of Eddie's things.

"I know one, specific future that we are trying to change, if you'll remember. I didn't know you could yoyo."

"Neither did I- oh my God, there's an Alf costume in his closet!"

"A what- no, nevermind. You can snoop and-"

"I'm not a snoop."

"-and listen as the same time, so I just. I'm gonna say something and please know that I have had five years to figure this all out, and also know that the apocalypse has a way of putting things into perspective."

"Mhmm," Robin hums an acknowledgement as she moves back to where she picked up the yoyo. "Why does he have a pepper shaker in his room?"

Steve ignores her, choosing to believe that was just her thinking out loud and not actually asking him. "Actually, the apocalypse was full of surprises. And I mean, beyond the surprises one might expect. Like, so many of our old teachers are survival experts. Did you ever have Mr. Clark, that guy- wait, no. I had something I wanted to tell you."

The phone starts ringing in the living room. Nancy's out there, though, so neither of them move to the door.

"Anyway, this feels so... why am I so nervous about this? I mean, I've already told you once, but, uh, I. I'm a little worried, scared?"

"Hey, whoa," Robin has dropped her investigation and turned fully back to Steve. "What is it?"

"I like Eddie," Steve blurts, needing to get the words out. "I like Eddie, and I died so now I think this is my only shot, like last last shot but I don't even know if he'll still like me back and I'm, like, ridiculously nervous to see him because, and this is the soulmate secret part because-"

"Whoa, what, what!!? Did you just say died?"

"- you cannot tell anyone, but I'm the reason he's been in jail. I called Hawkins PD and told them where they could find Eddie, 'cause if he was in jail then he couldn't be blamed for Fred's murder, but I've never had to fess up to that because, like, Hawkins exploding and life becoming an actual nightmare for years made it not important. Like, what's a criminal record in the face of no surviving government?"

Robin is staring at him, eyes wide and face slightly pale and it's now that Steve thinks that, maybe, he's not doing as well with everything as he thought he might be.

"Am I... okay?" Steve asks himself out loud, and that has Robin throwing herself across the room to clutch at Steve, drag him into a crushing hug. He hugs back, trembling and finding it hard to breath.

"No, no I don't think you are," Robin whispers, squeezing tight.

"Hey, that was- oh!" Nancy says as she flings the bedroom door open. "Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt-"

"It's just a hug," Robin says.

"Right. Umm, the phone was Officer Callahan. We can go pick up Eddie."

"Right," Steve says, pulling away from the hug and pulling himself together. He can have his mental break down tomorrow. "Let's go get Eddie."

Provided if that, this time when he closes his eyes to rest, he'll wake up here and not. Well, either in the future or not at all.

-

@i-less-than-three-you @nburkhardt @afewproblems @a-little-unsteddie @sevenmerrymagpies @steviesummer @queenie-ofthe-void @mycatsstolemybiscuit @lololol-1234 @synonym-for-strange @tchackdaw

[alex31624]

Duck Comic Reading Club Week 7: Paperinik New Adventures: Earthquake

Ok, let's get to the point, this issue is the best one yet. An amazing story and a gorgeous art combined.

Oh God, the art. The Francesco Guerrini work here is astonishing. The use of the colors is masterful. Brilliant in every aspect.

This week story start with an earthquake on Duckburg. No major disaster occurred, except for good old uncle Scrooge.

Why do you insurance your oil rig with your own insurance company?

I mean, I got that he didn't have to pay himself the quota for the service, but now you have to pay for the damages. So, stop complaining you crazy old bird.

But One found out something fishy about the earthquakes, and is up to Donald to investigate this. Is so funny that Duckburg is Paperopoli in italian. Is better than Patolandia tho.

PK took one of the many vehicles at the Tower, and went for a ride, super hero style.

This page is a piece of beauty.

We got a new character, Mary Ann Flagstarr, a PBI agent. Tough lady.

PK had had encounters with the police, but now, he faced federal agents. My boy is not making any friends.

But, you know? A vigilante, a superhero, can't work with the authority. So, yeah, go get them PK.

Another new character, Professor Morgan Fairfax. What a nice fella, I'm sure he has never done anything wrong in his life.

One knows something is not right, they need to keep investigating. But now, is time to go back to the world of cyber space.

Another beautiful page, this issue can't miss.

But is hard to step into a federal database without anyone noticing, so they got caught. Thankfully, One was one step ahead and got himself a great scapegoat.

Oh, now you don't like spread misinformation, right jerk?

He didn't face any charge, and, to be fair, he was innocent. But, if being ugly was a crime, he would get the chair.

Back to the Professor, and he's making some really evil looking smirks. Could it be that he's not the nice guy that we though?

Also, another banger page.

PK infiltrates in the building, using some advance tech. One is a cheat code, and here's being used at his fullness.

PK had a weird Donald moment, when he stuck in the vent, fall to the ground, and got face to face with the worst security guard ever.

Hey, masked vigilante sneaked in this government facility that I supposed to be looking after. I'm gonna make some lame jokes, and then I'm gonna miss the shots less than a meter away.

Don't come in the morning pal.

You know? I'm starting to think that this guy Fairfax is not that nice.

Yeah, yeah, he's the bad guy. Trying to burn PK alive is in my Being Bad Bingo.

And yet another absolutely gorgeous page. Is amazing.

Thankfully, One and his infinite tech come to the rescue. PK also save the guard, because he's a hero.

Now, this one part was kinda weird. Agent Flagstarr has been shown trough the issue as tough, focus agent, that wants to get the job done. But, a few words of Fairfax and a gift are enough to make her dismiss orders.

Also, that face… you can't trust someone with that face…

Now we found about Fairfax plan. He wants to create a earthquake strong enough that the whole planet would change, and new land would appear.

At the cost of the entire west coast being destroyed.

The worst part? One agrees with him. What the hell man? Not cool One, not cool.

PK got in the plane and try to stop Fairfax, but Flagstarr was in his way. The agent was conflicted on what to do. Madam, help the guy who doesn't want to destroy the whole west coast. Is not that hard.

Man, the art on this issue is out of control.

PK is so cool.

Finally, One got a change of heart, if you can said that, and helped PK to stop this madness. I knew One wasn't a psychopath.

But that last image of the device at the bottom of the sea is quite unsettling.

What can I said? This was awesome. I love all the detective PK stuff, the danger was palpable, One almost got Duckburg destroy. The art was magnificent, the colors were vibrant, it looked beautiful in general.

Hands down, the best one yet.

[because-i-am-barely-even-human]

It starts with pain followed by hate.

«I was a careless fool. I could've sworn I shot clean through the wolf's head, and yet it lunged at me.»

«Everyone stood around the cabin and watched as it burned to the ground.»

Fueled by the endless questions no one can answer.

«The boy's grandfather has fallen ill and his condition worsens every day. The boy worries terribly about him, and there are murmurs of a “madness” among the villagers.»

A stain covers your heart and tears you apart.

— Little hard to put my faith in someone who used to work for Umbrella.

— Umbrella's done for. You don't need to worry about them anymore.

How did you get here and when did it start?

«He is a very curious child and has a true thirst for knowledge.»

«After graduating from university, he was employed by Umbrella's research division.»

An innocent child with a thorn in his heart.

«I cannot bear seeing the boy's worried eyes.»

«I can't die now and leave the boy behind. Dear God, please protect him.»

«The boy looked on without saying a word. The next day he was gone.»

Are you sane?

«After preaching about salvation and forgiveness, they injected us with something they claim will cure us of madness. Can they be trusted?»

Where is the shame?

— Be straight with me for once.

— Los Iluminados... I was working for them.

Who's to blame and where did it start?

«After the Raccoon City Incident, efforts were made by law enforcement and the government to track down anyone with links to Umbrella.»

Is there a cure for your sickness?

«There are two ways to eradicate las plagas: antigen injection and surgery.»

Have you no heart?

— Why are you helping us?

— Because it makes me feel better. Let's leave it at that.

***

— I don't get you. Why risk your life like this? You don't know us.

— I told you. It makes me feel better.

***

— I just wanna feel good about myself. Make amends. Or something like that.

***

— I don't want anyone else to get hurt.

Selling our soul for no reason.

«He was involved in the development of several common over-the-counter drugs, all of which were discontinued before ever reaching the market.»

— It seems he used to be a researcher for Umbrella.

There's a sickness inside you that wants to escape.

«Once fully developed, the parasite gains complete control.»

It's a feeling you get when you can't find your way.

— You know, I led a pretty shitty life.

So how many times must you fall to your knees?

«Serra resigned from Umbrella and could not be located.»

«I don't think I can trust this outside group either, but I've already come this far.»

Never do this again.

— People can change, right?

[cf8wrk4u-us]

Transformers Prime/ A Quiet Place Crossover: Rescue-Bots Edition

Location: Griffin Rock

On Day One of the creatures arrival, like many islands, Griffin Rock was luckily saved from any collision with asteroids carrying the predatory aliens.

Doc Greene was aware of the cluster of meteors that were heading towards earth. But with contact with NASA he was assured everything was fine and they were aware of the debris heading towards the planets. Doc Greene didn't feel good about the answer but figured since the authorities were already informed and he was sure that the asteroids would break-up in Earth's atmosphere all he had to report to the Mayor and Chief Burns was the town was in for an impressive daylight celestial event.

And it was the day the asteroids fell the citizens if Griffin Rock looked at the sky in delight and amazement, only seconds later to realize the terror the world was going through. Especially in New York where the creatures wrecked havoc on the poor residents of the city.

There was panic, people unsure what to do, people who wanted to travel back to the mainland to get to their families. Chief Burns was the one who reluctantly called for a locked down on any transportation to the mainland. Many people were unhappy but Chief Burns did his best to explain that it was for the safety of the island, they had no idea what those aliens were, what they could do, or if what's happening to the mainland would spread to their community. That's why they needed to wait for further instructions by the government.

So, for how long they were able to the people of Griffin Rock saw, listened, and viewed all the terror happening on the mainland. Chief Burns did his best to make sure Cody didn't see anything on T.V. the young boys curiosity would always get the better of him and he view post made about the "Death-Angeles" in excruciating details.

When it was discovered that the aliens couldn't swim in deep water, the coast guard finally called to Griffin Rocks Rescue Team to get any boat available and bring them to New York, needing all the help they can get to evacuate the many survivors from the ground zero of the disaster.

Chief Burns and the rest of his team eagerly agreed, going over the necessary and absolute conditions needed to evacuate people safely and silently. Calling on volunteers with boats to assist them. Getting Arthur Shaw the ferry man and Wild the fishermen to volunteer in the rescue.

Chief Burns left Graham on the island with Cody, promising to radio them every step of the way.

The mission was dangerous but hopeful and with cooperation and careful planning they should help get a good number of civilians to safety.

But that didn't happen.

It was radio silent from the Griffin Rock rescue group, something Graham expected but was still off-putted by. Cody would look over the horizon, trying to spot his family and the boats.

After a day, static hushed voices cane over the line. It was Chief Burns asking for medical assistance to stand by as they would be docking soon.

Graham was relieved and Cody was excited.

But by the time the boats pulled up they watched with gaped months at the horrible scratch marks that littered the haul of the rescue boat and Wilds ship, deep gouges over metal, shattered glass, and the most frightful of all was the blood on the halls.

Arthur Shaw and his boat were nowhere to be seen.

Chief Burns carried an injured Dani off the boat with Kade trailing behind them. A few survivors were with them. All injured in different degrees. But not as many as they had hoped for.

Chief Burns called then for a total lockdian of the island, that no boats were to ever go to the mainland. And for lack of a better words that they were on their own now.

A haunted look was forever set upon the chiefs eyes and that of his children who accompanied him. Forever scared by what he saw and the choices he made to guarantee that his team would survive.

Kade and Dani were not much better and refused to talk about what happened when they made it on shore.

Griffen Rock became a haven for people of the mainland, a safe place from the destruction of the world they once knew. Something Chief Burns did his best to maintain. Even when conflict arrived between the mainland survivors and the residents of Griffin Rock.

On the island they were safe.

Or for the most part.

And this is the world that Geatwave and the rest if his group awaken too.

[cloudinterlude]

what misconception? 👀

I assume this is about the Civil War post I made and oh boy, so many. So, so many. Let me preface this by saying I actually like Civil War enough as a movie. Not as a Captain America movie, but it's engaging and I enjoyed it for the most part. I mostly dislike the dogshit opinions about it. To prevent this from turning into a dissertation, I'll just list the ones that come to mind first/irritate me the most:

"Steve was completely against regulation and oversight" WRONG. He was against the vagueness of it all. He explicitly says that he wants to know whose going to be holding his leash if he has to have one. In fact, he was about to sign the Accords before Tony told him about them preemptively enforcing it and detaining Wanda. Steve was willing to consider the Accords, Steve was trying to discuss the Accords, Steve was on the path to being open to the Accords before the moral failings of it were already shining through. Steve, rightfully so, is distrustful at this point of anonymous authority. Following the news that Hydra had their nasty paws in SHIELD and other high positions in government, Steve decides that he wants to know more about the people who have authority over him. Seems reasonable enough.

"Steve was only against the Accords for Bucky" WRONG. 1) Before he was certain that Bucky was being framed, he says that he has the best chance of bringing him in to minimize damage. Then, when he was certain Bucky was innocent, it became a matter of not letting his bestie be falsely imprisoned and/or killed on the spot. 2) Lemme just add that yes, Bucky is extremely important to Steve, but Steve would have still been against the Accords if Bucky wasn't a factor. I need people to understand this. It wasn't just a "oh no I need to save my best friend". 3) If you read what was in the Accords, you'd understand why Steve would generally be against them. They're abhorrent.

"Steve didn't read the Accords/Steve didn't even attempt to communicate or compromise." I haaaaattttteeee this one with a burning passion. Did we watch the same movie? He's quite literally the only one on screen we see even look at that long ass document. Probably also the only one would could even manage to read the thing since it was sprung up on them 3 days before the meeting (which is a whole 'nother issue for later. For now, I'll just say I support the Ross conspiracy theory). He also tried to tell Tony & Co. before the airport fight that Zemo was the one behind all this conflict, that Bucky is innocent and about the 5 other ultra-dangerous super-soldiers who, as far as he knew, were about to be unleashed onto the world which would be disastrous. Unfortunately, Team IM was wracked with tension and didn't listen and attacked.

"Steve and Bucky jumped Tony (+ variants of this statement)." This is one that confused me so much. Such a bullshit take. I am begging people to rewatch CW and watch the fight. Tony, whose emotions is dialed to a thousand (and not only because of the Bucky thing mind you, but I can talk about that a lot more later because I like talking about Tony's emotional/mental state during Civil War) attacked first, then tries to kill Bucky, Steve tries to get Tony to stop killing Bucky, Tony is trying not to kill Steve, Bucky is trying to get Tony not to kill Steve or him. It's a mess. Mind you, Steve isn't even trying to excessively harm Tony in this scene. It's confirmed that during the entire fight, he was trying to disable the suit. Not trying to beat Tony to a pulp - DISABLE. THE. SUIT. Which he manage to do in the midst of that shitshow.

"*insert any anti-CW Wanda take*" Please, someone please tell me why people think Wanda has any blame for what happened Lagos? Wanda quite literally didn't CAUSE that. I need to understand this point of view before I get an aneurysm. She didn't make the bomb, bring the bomb, set the bomb off. It was Rumlow who had that bomb that would have ended up killing way more people on the ground than where Wanda managed to put it. She absolutely was as much of a hero as she could be in that instance, trying to redirect the bomb away from civilians. Unfortunately, it still ended it casualties, but a lot less than it would have been if Wanda hadn't intervened.

I could go on and on, but I'll stop here. Fanon CACW quite literally has some of the worst fan comprehension I've seen in the MCU. I imagine that a lot of it is not understanding characters, the movie not elaborating on important plot points in an effort to make it 50/50 (which they failed at lol), and the fandom being a lot more conservative than I thought. I can expand further on anything if you want!

[i-didnt-do-1t]

Day 8 of @ailesswhumptober

rope burns/ gags- "You look so much prettier this way."

cw. child abuse, violence, allusions to self harm, blood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Snyder's office was gorgeous, dark green walls and a large, heavy, mahogany desk sat in front of the window at the end room that overlooked the court yard. It was almost cosy, lit dimly with yellow lamps, and a thick red woven rug covering most of the floor; the walls were lined with pictures too, various art pieces interspersed with portraits of the men that used to run the Refuge. Alex Snyder's father, Nigel, and his father before him.

It was a family name he took pride in, even if he hated the men themselves, so old and so behind and so awful at understanding how boys today worked, the firm hand you had to direct them with.

Snyder never considered himself a cruel man; he was young and smart, a businessman. That's what his father never understood when he ran this institution. Snyder knew that to keep the Refuge in business, and to make sure the boys listened, you had to be willing to do what it took. He knew that to turn out a genuine, real, rehabilitated young man, sometimes it took violence. It was hardly like Snyder shifted the world to be this way, he just understood how it worked. The world spun, and masters hit their charges and the government sent money his way for every upstanding young citizen he sent back out into society.

Snyder had a firm hand, but he never considered himself unfair. There were just some boys who refused to behave, who just refused to listen, Who had several notches next to their name and Snyder couldn't allow it, couldn't allow this behaviour and the ruin it would bring to his reputation if he wasn’t able to discipline them while they were in his care at the very least.

Kelly was one, a deliberate and consistent problem child who Snyder was sure existed to make his life and his job difficult. So strong in spirit and backbone that Snyder had yet to completely break down but he was sure he was slowly getting there in some capacity if the lack of yelling from down in solitary had anything to say about it.

The other problem developed with the Delanceys. When he had taken up the post he had assumed that given how long they'd been here they'd be able to understand how to take an order, but it was a nigh impossible task to tell them anything.

It had only been this past Monday that the Older Delancey and Jack Kelly had made his blood boil, with an unfamiliar fury; and Snyder would never consider himself an angry man by nature.

It had been an insepction they knew was approaching for weeks, that he had sharply told the boys about the night before, cane resting on the wooden dorm room floor as he instructed them to be on their best behaviour as he showed the inspector around.

But as they'd walked into the dorm the Delancey boy was hunched over with Kelly on the ground and a hand viciously wrapped around his throat, nose dripping blood onto the boy writhing viciously beneath him. It wasn't the first time Snyder had seen a fight between the two of them. But it was the first time he'd lost marks in an inspection, had watched the man frown and lean his head down to write something in his notebook that Snyder couldn't quite read from over his shoulder. The anger was all consuming, he almost felt calm with it, relaxed into this state of fury.

He'd pulled the boys apart of course, had hissed in their ears that they would regret this and had been somewhat satisfied with the sheen of fear in both their eyes at the promise of punishment.

Kelly had been dealt with now, dragged into his office in the early hours of the morning and sent away close to, Snyder checked his watch, an hour ago now. Snyder had sat back at his desk, ignored the splatters of blood on his floor and eaten his lunch, a glass of red on the side. Dry and not his favourite but it's what his father had kept in the cool basement.

He had asked for the Delancey boys to be brought in just after two, Oscar had been the only one fighting, but his brother frequently followed in his footsteps. Snyder had been watching them, the last few months since he had taken over, and he had come to a conclusion he finally had time to test.

As of yet, he hadn't been able to force an apology out of Oscar, despite the beatings and the days in solitary and all the things that usually got Jack to spit the words at least. But two thirds of the fights Oscar got in, the food he stole from the pantry, almost all of it was on behalf of his younger brother. If Oscar could hold his tongue at his own beatings, he wondered if it would be the same if his younger brother was the one under the belt.

The door clicked open and Snyder didn't bother to stand from his chair as the two boys were shoved in. Oscar looked old, like a man, if maybe a little underweight. He was 17 now Snyder knew, and he'd be aging out of the Refuge next year. Snyder wasn't about to let a dangerous miscreant out of his institution without at least teaching him a few lessons first.

They looked nervous, despite the similar glares they sent his way. It was almost sweet how their expressions matched given how different they looked, Morris was gaunt and dainty, with a sharp nose and sharp jaw; Oscar was a little firmer in features, a strong nose and strong cheekbones, deep-set eyes that were blue to Morris's brown.

If he didnt know they were siblings Snyder didn't think he would ever guess it.

He waited for one of them to break the silence, settling into the uncomfortable quiet draped across the room like a blanket.

It was Oscar who spoke eventually, and Snyder's lip twitched. He knew it would be.

"Why the hell is Mo here? He ain't done nothing."

"I was hoping you would ask Oscar, I'm sure Morris here is curious himself, aren't you."

Morris glanced at Oscar, hesitantly, and then at Snyder, like he was checking for permission to speak.

"Yessir."

He knew at the very least their father had had them well trained.

"I'll be happy to explain as soon as I get a few things sorted." He took note of the way Oscar swallowed, and pulled open the heavy drawer of his desk, winding the length of rope casually around his wrist as he lifted it out and stood up, finally. "Oscar come here won't you, turn around."

Oscar's line of sight was fixed on the swath of thick rope. He didn't move, and Snyder felt that same anger he felt on Monday curl in his gut, like it had never faded in the first place.

"What's that-"

The backhand was swift and the crack reverberated around the room. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the the way Morris flinched and the satisfaction at it fanned some of the flames back.

"I didn't tell you to ask ask questions, I told you to come here, and turn around."

Oscar's cheek was already blooming a splotchy red, and he glared, but he listened, took that final step closer to him and turned around.

He only resisted for a moment when Syder grabbed him none too gently by the wrist and twisted one arm behind his back, and then the other, securing his wrists together and ignoring the groan of pain through gritted teeth that Oscar breathed. He tied it just tight enough to be uncomfortable for his shoulders. Just tight enough that he couldn't writhe out.

Snyder shoved him forward and the boy stumbled over the deep red carpet that decorated the floor, the orante, woven designs working to hide so much of the brutality he was unfortunately forced to enact in here. He almost sighed.

"Stand in the corner, and turn to face me. Morris, heel."

"Mr Snyder-"

It was Oscar's voice from the other side of the room. Scared and trying so desperately not to be.

"He aint even done nothin'- fuckin'- tried to stop me from goin' at Kelly-"

"Stop talking, or you'll only make it worse for your brother."

"Mr Snyder-"

"And that's three extra strikes."

"Shut up, Os."

It was a hiss from Morris, now stood in front of him, and that was all the reminding Snyder needed before he grabbed a clean handkerchief from the bottom of the same drawer, neatly folded next to a quater drank bottle of whiskey.

"Open your mouth,” he directed, voice cold, and Morris listened.

It was a simple task to loop the fabric around the lower half of the boy's head and tie a firm knot at the back. It wasn't a perfect gag by any means, but it would work enough to keep any questions off his back, would prevent the screaming from getting too loud.

And instead of sending him away like he did Oscar, he spun Morris to face him. A hand on his jaw, holding him.

He could feel Oscar's eyes on them, from the corner of the room.

"You know why you're here, don't you?”

Snyder revelled in the fact there was no answer, just Oscar's terrified silence and Morris's terrfied gaze staring up at him, eyes wet with fear already.

"I got the report back from the inspection on Monday," he continued, and the pocket knife he reached for in the inside the breast pocket of his blazer was heavy and expensive. He pulled it out in one slow movement. "And it would've been the best score this institution had achieved if it weren't for one, discerning factor."

Their breathing matched too, Snyder realised with vague amusement, not just their glares; their panicked inhales, admittedly harder on Morris's part, were the same.

"Snyder-"

He flicked up the sharp end of the knife.

“Infighting in my Refuge. I have a reputation, you understand Oscar, and I can hardly have people believe that I don't have my wards under control. But you just refuse to listen."

He grabbed Morris's arm, grip far too tight.

"I like this think that maybe this will make you understand the consequences of ignoring me."

"What the fuck- Snyder he ain't do nothin'-"

The first slash was deep, Snyder had to admit, deeper than he intended, and it cut through several of the healed smaller scars that Morris had built a collection of over the years.

"Snyder-"

Oscar's voice was coated in panic and Morris's gasp of pain was nearly completely silenced by the gag as he tried to yank his arm away.

Snyder dug his fingers into his wrist so tight his nails nearly drew blood and added another.

It was hardly neat work, he'd blame that on the anger that consumed him every time he glanced at the report sat open on his desk-

"Oscar if you take one step closer I'll cut his tongue out do you understand me."

It wasn't an empty threat. And Morris barely spoke anyway. It would hardly be a loss. He was sure he could persuade Oscar to thank him for it if he tried hard enough, that he blessed him with not having to listen to his little brother's rambles about home and ma anymore.

Oscar froze where he got halfway across the room. Arms still wrenched painfully behind his back, skin already going red with rope burn from his struggle in them. Eyes pink and jaw hard and utter hatred coursing through him.

"You're sick." It was spat, but he didn't step any closer, and Snyder found himself glancing back to Morris's arm, something like satisfaction curling in his stomach, and then to the thick carpet again under Morris's feet. Blood was streaming in rivulets from his wrist, still enclosed in Snyder's grasp so tight he knew it would leave bruises, cheeks wet with tears, both dripping onto the floor.

Snyder wasn't worried about the mess. The blood was already blending into the rug. He had always thought the deep red of it went with the dark green of the walls.

"Maybe. But don't you think the room is so much prettier this way?

[gojosoath]

the world underneath your skin — toji fic

pairing: toji fushiguro x fem!reader (uses she/her pronouns)

tags: romance x ANGST x like a SHIT TON OF ANGST x AU (no sorcerer stuff in this au) x action x smut x sub!toji x handjob! x light bondage w/cuffs x whiny!toji

warnings: alcoholism x self harm (Y/N self harms, i do NOT mean this in any way implying that the reader (you) do this. and that if you have struggled/or are struggling with self harm, this is a major trigger warning. as someone who personally has struggled with self harm, i know how sensitive the topic is) x death (only characters' death from manga is toji's wife and megumi)

summary: After spending most of his life as an underground hitman for desperate means to support himself financially — Toji Fushiguro gets recruited to work as an assassin for the government due to his his mastered skills. Through his new occupation, Toji struggles with muscle pains and is recommended to see a massage therapist. Toji meets Y/N, who becomes Toji’s massage therapist, and the two realize they both have toxic addictions they hide from daylight; Toji’s alcoholism and Y/N’s self-harm. Along the way, Toji and Y/N can’t seem to stay away from each other despite the darkness that threatens to keep them apart. 

Table of Contents // my ao3 // taglist form

taglist: @sakinotfound ;@nanamingojo; @bubs-world ; @saskamo

a/n: sorry for how long it's taken me to update. i have a thing for seeing strong men on their knees, whimpering and begging. can't help it.

WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: alcohol usage

Part 6: Bad Boy (wc: 5.2k)

Your ass is sore and red from the punishment you received from Toji. Whenever you were getting dressed or going into the shower, you’d turn around to view the pink hand imprints on the fat of your ass. Your cheeks would match the color of your ass at the remembrance of being splayed over Toji’s lap as his large, calloused hands spanking you. You got into the habit of before work masturbating to the memories of Toji being ball deep inside you. It couldn’t be helped, this man had you wet at just the thought of him; his black, raven hair, green eyes, the scars on his body…

Work went as per usual; multiple appointments, and chatting with your patients as you massaged their bodies. You couldn’t help but wish it was your scheduled day with Toji but that would come at the end of the week. Once you were done with all your appointments, you closed up your clinic.

As you were locking the front door of the clinic, the sound of tires on the gravel made you freeze up. The lights of a car reflected in the glass door of the building, making you blind for a split second. You turned around, your hand still holding the keys in the lock. You swallowed thickly, heart hammering against your ribcage. Who could it be this late at night? Especially after closing time.  The car door opened, and someone stumbled out. You still couldn’t make the figure out as the car headlights were too bright. Your breathing had become shallow, your body tense and in the mode to run away if you needed to. The car backed up and drove out of the parking light. The dark figure that had stumbled out rose to their legs and walked towards you. Midway, they fell to the ground, and once on the floor you caught their face in the dim light; Toji. You rushed over to him, hands placed on his shoulders. Your nostrils burned from the heavy smell of alcohol on him. He wore a white button-up that was undone halfway, his muscled chest exposed.  “Toji,” You breathed out, “are you okay?”  “Sorry…” He slurred, looking up to meet your gaze. His eyes were glossed over, there was light stubble that had grown on his face. He gave you a lop-sided smirk, his knuckles coming up to your cheek, “Hey doll, I missed ya…”  “You’re drunk,” You stated the obvious, helping him get up — but this was hard considering how much bigger he was than you. You two stumbled in the process, but you managed to get your arm around his waist. He leaned against you, causing you to set your hand on his chest so he didn’t completely fall over you which would result in taking you down with him. Your hand on his bare chest prompted that fluttering sensation to attack your insides. You could feel the imprint from one of his scars splayed across his chest. 

“We’re going to walk to my car, okay?” You advised, cautiously taking a step forward to see how he would react. Thankfully, he managed to follow your steps. When you two got to your car, you opened the passenger door and helped him get into the seat. The weight of his head made him lean to one side, having to push him back in, “No, no,” You alerted, “please don’t fall,” you prayed out loud. In the process of trying to buckle him up, you knocked him on the side of the head with your elbow. You rubbed where you had hit him, apologizing. 

Toji responded with incoherent mumblings. You finished buckling him in, it felt strange to be handling a grown man like a baby. In no time, you were in the car and driving to your apartment. It was then that the realization struck you; where were you even taking Toji? In the state he was in, there was no way he’d be able to instruct you to where he lived. You heaved out a sigh and decided the best thing would be to take him back to your place. 

The same process happened while trying to get Toji up to your place; stumbling, incoherent mumbles from him, holding onto him to your best so he wouldn’t fall over. When you finally got him into your place, you set him on your couch. Your cat, Willow, made her way to where Toji was placed.

“Don’t worry, he’s nice,” You said to Willow, “what do you think of him?” 

Willow sniffed the top of Toji’s head and then proceeded to jump off the couch. You took off your coat and set aside your purse with your keys. You made sure to also take out his phone and keys out of his pocket, setting them onto the coffee table. You were back by Toji’s side with a glass of cold water in your hands. He was wasted, but you hoped you’d be able to somewhat sober him up. 

You helped him sit back up by pulling at the sleeve of his button up. The glass was brought to his lips, “Come on, let’s drink,” You tried to encourage even though you knew he wasn’t comprehending anything you were saying to him. You cradled the back of his head with your palm when tipping the glass upwards. Toji didn’t reciprocate your act of assistance, the water spilling down his chin and neck. His eyes were closed, and his breathing seemed more shallow. Panic struck you, setting the glass onto the coffee table and putting your ear to his lips. He was still breathing. But he didn’t seem okay. How much had he drunk? 

You got up to go to your bathroom, turning on the shower to cold water. And then you went back to get Toji on his feet and over to the shower. When it came to getting him into the bathtub, it resulted in both of you tumbling in — the cold water of the shower immersing the two of you. You felt Toji’s body jolt against you, which made you relieved. You sat up and patted your hands against Toji’s cheeks.

“Hey, it’s me,” You said through chattering teeth, “come on, love, look at me.” 

Toji trembled under the water, making you reach back and turn it off. His white shirt soaked through, his defined abs showing through the material as it stuck to his skin. Droplets of water fell from the ends of his black hair. Finally, Toji opened his eyes and the first thing he said to you was; 

“It’s fucking freezing, doll.” 

You let out a breathless laugh of relief, “Let me get you a towel, be right back,” You got out of the bathtub, soaking as well. You came back with a towel and wrapped it around him. You helped him get out of the bathtub, but this time, he wasn’t stumbling like before. You took him to your room, having him sit at the edge of your bed. You knelt before him, rubbing the towel over his head. Toji’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, making you stop; looking at you with great intensity. 

“You worried me,” You thought out loud, “I was scared.”

Toji shivered, you noticed Adam’s apple go up as he swallowed before speaking, “No one’s ever taken care of me this well.”

His words plucked your strings, it rang inside of you, like music. You stood up, going over to your closet to try and find him some clothes. “How much did you drink today?” You looked through the racks of your clothes, knowing damn well you had nothing in there that would fit him. Your hands were shaking from how cold you were yourself (and also because of Toji). 

“A couple of glasses,” Toji responded nonchalantly. You scoffed, pulling out a sweatshirt that used to belong to a guy you used to hook up with, “That’s bullshit.” You turned back around, Toji was unbuttoning the rest of his shirt and taking it off. You averted your gaze back to the sweatshirt you held in your hands, clearing your throat, “You know that our appointment isn’t for another few days, right?”

Toji rubbed the towel against his hair and let it drop into his lap, “What can I say? It’s becoming hard to be patient.”

His words always had a way of making you flutter. You said in a quiet voice, “You scared me, Toji,” You could feel tears welling up in the corner of your eyes. 

“You saved me,” Toji returned. You turned back around to face him and sure enough, he was smiling. He added with more playfulness, “I’m at your service, Miss L/N.” 

You threw the sweatshirt at him and he caught it in time with his hands, “Take off your clothes.”

“Oh?” He cocked an eyebrow, “Impatient, as always.”

You grabbed your laundry basket, “No, I need to wash your clothes,” You stuck the laundry basket out for him and he chuckled deeply. He put his white long sleeve in the basket, followed by his black pants which took struggling attempts to get them off. 

“Keep the underwear on,” You told him before his hands could move to the waistband of his boxers. 

He kept his tease on, “Why? You won’t be able to resist?” 

You huffed, “Toji, shut up.” 

“Ooh,” Toji pretended to be hurt by your words and put the sweatshirt on. It fit him perfectly. You walked out of your room and put his clothes into the washer, your cheeks burning up from him taking his clothes off moments ago. You were determined to not show him that he’s got you flustered, though. When you came back into the room, Toji remained seated at the edge of your bed. You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over your chest. 

Toji extended his arm out with the towel in his hand, “Let me dry you.”

“Why?” 

“Because you’re wet,” Toji answers, “and also, because I’m at your service. After all, you saved me.”

You walked towards him, “I get to decide how you’ll be of service to me,” you sat beside him on the bed and Toji threw the towel over you, rubbing your hair. 

Toji says, “Your clothes are wet, you should change as well.”

You state with sharpness in your tone, “I don’t want to.” 

Toji takes the towel off of you, his fingers coming up to your face where he tucks damp strands of your hair behind your ear. “Why not, kitten?”

You feel tears burning your eyes again, “Because you worried me! You show up at my clinic completely wasted as I’m closing up. Are you going to tell me what happened?” 

Toji sighs, “I wanted to see you.”

You shake your head, pushing his hand away, “Don’t give me that,” You snapped at him, “tell me what happened.”

“I had a little too much to drink,” He remarks. At his mention of drinking too much, it’s then when you notice a fresh hickey on the side of his neck. You don’t know how you didn’t notice it earlier. Toji is aware of your observation and before he can open his mouth to say something, you beat him to it.

“Is it related to work?” 

Toji is silent, you can’t read the expression on his face. His hand finds your face, cupping your cheek, “I did work today, yes.” 

You want answers — no, you’re desperate for answers. You knew that what you and Toji had between the two of you was physical pleasure. But why did it feel like you needed to know details about him? 

“Tell me,” You say. 

Again, Toji sighs, “You don’t want to know anything about me.” 

You persist, “Why not?”

Toji comes back with, “Because I’m a boring, old man.” 

This time, you wrap your fingers around his wrist and claim sternly, “If you don’t tell me truthfully, I’ll have to punish you.” Toji’s green eyes slightly widen at your gallantness — you had caught him completely off guard. His voice is low, “Punish me?” 

In a heartbeat, you respond with, “Yes.” 

Toji runs his thumb over your bottom lips, “Why is that?” His eyes flicker down to them. 

“Because you’ve been a bad boy,” You allure, adding, “a very bad boy.” 

Toji cocks his head to the side, amused, “How will you punish me?” 

In a whisper, you say, “If you don’t answer me honestly, then you’ll find out.”

Toji is smug as he professes, “I’m intrigued, I’ve never been punished before.” 

You bring his hand down away from your face, standing up, Toji’s gaze following your every move. “When I’m done with you, you’re going to tell me what happened. Understand?” You grab his chin, tilting his face up towards you with your lips a breath away from his. You can feel the way his breathing has changed, pupils dilated as they look into yours. His breath fans against your lips, as desperately as you want to devour him, you can’t. Not yet. 

“You’ll have to punish me very hard, then,” Toji whispers. 

You let go of his chin and walk back over to your closet, “Lay on the bed for me,” You order, kneeling to look for what you had in mind. You find the handcuffs alongside a ribbon and turn back around, where Toji had obeyed your orders by laying on the bed. You go back over to the bed, get on it, and crawl over to him. You straddle over his lap with your legs on either side of his hips. You can feel how hard he already is underneath you but you don’t acknowledge it. 

“Oh, you’re kinky, aren’t ya?” Toji comments as you take his hand, clasping the handcuff around on one wrist and then the other. You finish it off by binding the handcuffs to the headboard of your bed with the ribbon. You look down at the man that lays beneath you; this man that radiated confidence and strength was now at your mercy — and you loved it. 

“This is how you will be at my service,” You tell him, cupping the side of his face, “but you talk too much for my liking.” Your other hand goes to your pants which are still wet and slip them down, throwing them to the side once they’re off. You follow it by taking your panties off, too and proceed to shove them into Toji’s mouth. 

Your thumb traces small circles on his cheek, “Aww,” You coo at him, “much better.” 

Toji tries to speak, but his voice is muffled with your panties stuffed in his mouth. He looks at you with hooded eyelids, his chest going up and down. You place your pointer finger by the corner of his eyes and run it alongside his face, “You look so cute like this, you know that?” 

You notice the tone on Toji’s face, a light blush of pink adorning his tan skin. You lean back, cocking your head and humming in thought, “Wonder how I should punish you…” your fingers move to his neck, wrapping around it, his eyes widening. You lightly grasp the sides of his neck, his eyelids fluttering close at the sensation. 

“Oh my,” You delight at him, “you’re so sensitive when you’re like this.” He responds by opening his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he breathes heavily through them. You lean into him, your lips ghosting where his pulse flutters crazily. “If you had just been honest with me,” You purr into him, “you wouldn’t be tied up like this.” You lean back, smiling at him and letting go of his neck. You press more weight off your crotch against his hard dick underneath you. At the sensation, Toji lets out a groan that shifts into a whimper when you begin to rub your crotch against it. 

“Don’t even think for a second I’m going to let you cum,” You assert grimly, “bad boys like you need to be taught a very good lesson.” 

You have no idea how you even had this in you. In all your sexual experiences, it was always you on the receiving end of being dominated. You had never dominated any one of your sexual partners. And the fact that you were doing it with the man who had your wrists tied up last week is beyond your comprehension. Your hands go to the hem of his sweatshirt and you push it up, exposing his defined abdomen. 

Your hands splayed across his torso, looking at him through your lashes, “I don’t just want to punish you — I want you to fucking cry, Fushiguro.” 

You feel Toji shiver at your words — he whines. It makes you want to drool but you know you have to keep up your persona for this to work. His jaw clenches at biting down your panties that fill up his mouth. You move back, your hands now on his boxers. His hard dick forms a tent against the fabric, your palm his erection which causes his hips to lurch upwards. 

You lightly slap his thigh, and he brings them back down. You look back at him, he looks at you helplessly. It drives you crazy, how exposed and vulnerable he appears. You recite his words, “Let’s see how wet you are,” You pull down his boxers, his hard dick springing up and falling against his lower abdomen. Just as you expected, the head of his dick is dripping with precum. You pull down his boxers all the way and put them to the side. 

“Disgusting,” You spit out, “an old man like you getting hard over a young woman like me?” Your hand goes to his heavy balls, his hair dark and curly — which is undeniably cute. “You’re such a pervert, Fushiguro,” You cup his balls, resulting in Toji throwing his head back against your pillow, moaning. “If you’re this sensitive already, I think you might just cum if I put your dick inside my pussy.” 

Toji’s cheek is pressed to his shoulder, practically heaving through his nostrils. You then grab his dick in your hands, earning another moan from him. You lean down, grabbing your hair and moving it to one side of your shoulder. You look up at him, locking gazes with him, and give him a single lick with your tongue to his hard, dripping head. 

Toji’s bottom lip quivers, his wrists pulling at the handcuffs but he has nowhere to go. He is restrained to the bed, right where you want him. It makes you laugh, “I never knew a man like you could enjoy something like this.” Another kitten lick to the head of his dick, “I’m still not convinced that you should cum, though.” You let go of his dick, dropping back to his lower abdomen. You sit up, arms crossed over your chest, “Convince me,” You tell him, “why should I let you cum?”

Toji’s voice is muffled, and you crawl over him until your face is above his. “Let me help with that,” You take your panties out from his mouth,  there’s drool at the corners of his lips.

“Let me cum,” He breathes out, “please.”

You shake your head, “That’s it? Not very convincing, old man.”

His green eyes are clouded with lust and overstimulation, “Please,” He tries again, “give it to me. Whatever it is, I can take it,” he rambles in a gravel voice, “please, doll. Whatever you do, as long as you make me cum, I’ll be happy.” 

You taunt him, “But why do you deserve to cum? After being such a bad boy tonight?” Toji huffs in annoyance, and you grab his face with your hand, fingers pinching his cheeks. In a leveled tone, you say, “I haven’t even punished you yet and you’re already this impatient?” 

Toji swallowed thickly, you let go of his cheeks, “I deserve it because I’ll be a good boy for you,” He deciphers, his tone desperate, “I’ve never had anyone do this to me. I want you to punish me. Do it. Punish me until I’m crying and then give it to me. I deserve it because I’m the only one that will make you cum the hardest in all your life. Fuck every man you’ve slept with, I’ll fuck your brains out for the rest of your life. I promise.” 

You’re melting on the inside, you want to crash into him, kiss him on the mouth and shove his dick inside you. But you can’t. Not until he’s crying. So you shove the panties back into his mouth, making him gag at your harshness. You give his cheek a peck before shimmying back down to his waist. You grab his dick and run your finger from the bottom to the top, where you press the flat of your thumb against his leaking, hot slit. This makes Toji’s eyes cross, there’s sweat building up at his temples. And you do this a couple of times, applying pressure to the head of his dick and then lifting your thumb from it. It has him panting through his nose, his dick becoming a darker shade of red. 

You give his dick a little slap with your hand, and he whimpers, “Count, Toji,” You command, “if you lose count, we’ll have to start over.”

Toji muffles against your panties, “One…”

“Good boy,” You tell him, “you worried me so much tonight,” You’re lightly fondling his balls, only giving him teasing light squeezes. You give the tip of his dick another light slap. His thigh muscles tense up.

“Two!” Toji moans. 

“Showing up drunk like that,” You shake your head, “did you think there wouldn’t be consequences to your actions?” 

Slap!

“Three!” 

“It’s a shame no one has ever punished you,” You run your finger down his dick, his body shuddering. You notice for the first time a throbbing vein that runs down his shaft. It’s so pretty. His body feels so hot underneath your touch, “Because they’ve never been able to see just how beautiful a strong man looks when they’re tied up.” 

Slap!

“Four…” 

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Your fingers wrap around his hard length and drag your hand at an astonishingly slow pace. 

Toji cries against the gag, even though it’s incoherent, you can tell he’s not keeping count of anything. You stop your movements, causing Toji to lift his head, his chest heaving up and down frantically. 

“What is it?” You jibe with an innocent smile, “What’s wrong, baby?” Toji’s eyes roll to the back of his head as you press your thumb back on his wet tip, “We’re only at four slaps and you look like you’ve had enough. Remember when I took six spanks from you?” When you don’t get a response that satisfies you, you give his dick another slap. Toji doesn’t keep count, he is groaning. 

“Oh?” You let his dick fall back onto his lower stomach, “You poor, poor baby,” You make your way back over to being on top of him. When you’re closer to him, it’s then when you notice his eyes glossed over with tears, salvia on his chin. You take the panties out, he pants against your lips. 

“Make me cum!” He mewls, “Please, doll. Make daddy cum.” You never thought you’d hear him in such a despairing state. It almost made you dizzy. Now you understood the high people got from being dominant. 

“No, I’m daddy here,” You remark with a smirk, “and besides, you lost count.”

You hear your bed frame creak as Toji fights against the cuffs, “Please,” His deep voice cracks, “I want it, mommy. Please, please!” 

You are about to push him further but it’s then that Toji completely breaks down. You smile wider at him calling you ‘mommy.’ His green eyes are completely glossed over. Your thumb wipes at one of his tears falling down the side of his temple, “There we go,” You whisper, “there’s so pretty tears.” You reach between the space of your bodies and wrap your fingers around his dick. You stroke him, sending Toji’s eyes to go cross-eyed. 

“Fuuuck!” He drawls out, “Fuck, doll…” 

“Mmh,” You press your lips right below his jaw. It’s the opposite side of his fresh hickey. You move your kisses down until it's at his neck and suction your lips around the skin as you pump him harder and faster. 

Toji curses between moans, “Yes, mommy,” He whines, “yes, yes! Just like that!” 

His dick feels hot in your hand, you can tell he’s close. You keep sucking at the skin of his neck while your pace fastens. Toji’s hips buckle forward and his body is trembling, letting out a deep groan as you feel his warm cum paint your hand. 

Toji’s eyes clenched shut at the pure bliss running through him, “Fuck, fuck,” He exhales, “feel so good, kitten.” 

You pull back and look down at him, his eyebrows are furrowed as he finishes cumming. “Such a slut,” You patronize him, “you know that?”

Toji gasps when your hand keeps stroking him after finishing. You let go, his dick beginning to soften up. Toji pleads in a whisper, “Kiss me, please.”

Before you do, you say, “Only because you said ‘please,’” and you press your lips against his. Your tongues overlap, swirling. Saliva builds up at the corner of your mouth as well. Your hands move to his head, fingers lacing in between his hair strands. He tastes slightly like alcohol, even a little bit like cigarettes. But you love it. You can smell him, his sweat, his arousal. He’s at the grace of your fingertips, quite literally. You want to break him again, again and again. And then you want to put him together, again, again, and again. You don’t know why but you just do. You find your hips grinding against his upper torso, the friction giving you pleasure against your clit. 

You snap out of it when you remember why you even brought him to a breaking point, pulling back. Toji gives you a yearning look from the space between you two. “Now tell me the truth,” You say, breathless, “what happened earlier tonight at work that made you drunk.” You wrap your fingers around his neck again, lightly squeezing, “I punished you, now you answer truthfully.”

Toji answers in a breathy tone, “I escorted someone.” 

You apply pressure to his neck, and he looks at you with half-lidded eyes, “Did something happen?” 

He clenches his jaw, “We had sex if that’s what you mean—”

You cut him off, “You know that���s not what I mean,” You warn, “answer me, honestly, Toji.” 

His eyes flicker to the side and then back over to you, “I drank before the appointment.” 

“Why?” 

He closes his eyes, slightly shaking his head, exhaling through his nose. “It helps with getting through the appointment.” 

This time, your tone is softer, “Why?” 

Toji is silent for a moment, and instead says, “Why do you want to know?”

“Because you interrupted my night by being the little slut you are,” You note sharply. 

Your comment makes him smirk, breathing out a laugh, “I can’t help it. Might just do it again if it means getting punished like this—”

You interrupt him again, but this time by shoving two of your fingers into his mouth. His eyes widen, and he chokes on your fingers. You pull them back out as if they weren’t even in his mouth, to begin with. 

Through clenched teeth, you say, “Answer. The. Question.” 

Toji coughs, his eyes scanning your face, “I don’t want to remember,” He discloses, his voice strained. “I don’t want to remember any of it. That’s why.”

Your hand lets go of his neck, feeling that knot in your stomach tighten. His words feel like a knife to your skin. Resonating too deeply with you that it makes you want to break open and sob. And you do. Your shoulders are shaking, your cheeks are wet, and tears fall onto Toji’s face. You're heaving, choking on your cries that feel like they’re going to break your bones. 

A look of deep concern is displayed on Toji’s expression, not sure how to even respond. He’s still handcuffed to your headboard and all he can do is look at you. He says, “Miss L/N, it’s okay.” 

You sniffle, bringing the back of your hand across your eyes. Still crying, you uncuff Toji, his wrists falling. He prompts himself onto his elbows, with you still in your lap. You catch Toji off guard for the hundredth time tonight, as you engulf him in a hug. His face is in your neck, it’s then when he realizes his wrists are sore from the strain of the handcuffs. Toji is frozen for a moment, not sure what to do or react. You’ve calmed down, and Toji hugs you back, giving your neck a chaste kiss. 

Your guys’ hug is interrupted by a phone ringing. The two of you turn to look and see that it’s Toji’s phone ringing forming the living room. You get off his lap and Toji grabs his phone from the coffee table. You’re waiting by the living room entrance, arms crossed over your chest. 

“I’ve gotta take this,” Toji grumbles, and steps outside of the room and into the bathroom. “Shiu,” Toji answers the call.

“We’ve got an assignment,” Shiu states, “they want it done in a couple of hours.” 

“Who is it for?” Toji asks. 

“It’s the woman you’ve been assigned to,” Shiu explains. 

Toji grits his teeth, the woman he had been assigned to escort the last couple of times. He ends the call and comes back into your bedroom, “I need to go,” He says curtly. His demeanor has changed, no longer is he the helpless man who was begging to cum not that long ago. 

Another cut at you — it hurts you so much to hear him say he needs to go. You want to ask him to stay, but something tells you that if you do that, he wouldn’t stay. You slip your panties back on, the ones that were in Toji’s mouth. They’re wet against you from his pathetic salvia. You go over to your washing machine in the hallway and take out his drenching clothes that still were in the middle of a cycle wash. You shove the clothes into his hands, dripping. 

Toji notices your changed attitude as well, he wants to kiss you on the cheek and tell you that he’s not leaving because of you. But he could never tell you what he does for a living. What he’s been doing his whole life to make needs met. Toji wrings out his clothes in your bathroom over the bathtub and changes into them. They’re uncomfortable and hard to put on but he has no other choice. Toji walks into the living room where you’re waiting for him at the front door that’s already open for him. 

Toji wants to reassure you, he can see it on the look on your face — that you’re pissed off at him. His hand comes up to your face in hesitation, and before it can meet your cheek, you place something in his hands; 

Toji takes a look at his palm; it’s his apartment keys. He was going to leave without them, Toji was always attentive when it came to small things such as that. 

You bid him farewell bitterly, “Grab a cab.” 

Toji does the only thing he can do to somewhat reassure you, “I’ll see you at the appointment, Miss L/N.” And he leaves your place. 

[elfboyeros]

Grimhaven

"Welcome to Grimhaven"

In West Alexandria's capital city, there is the Grimhaven Agency! An outsourcing arm of the government that trains, hires, and sends out Grotesquerie Hunters to protect Willowcrest citizens from the monsters that hunt and harm them

Ah, the first chapter of Grimhaven, this story is supposed more "relaxed". I just trying to have fun with it (I say as if I don't have fun with my other stuff) Things may not contact or make much sense but that's because it's not suppose to lol. Please enjoy. Read about all my nerds and junk

Grotesqueries

Rabid animals in want of human blood, demons of flesh and bone, for as long as one can remember monsters have infected the world along with the human race. In a modern age, one need not worry about leaving the homestand and dying instantly. However cannibalistic monsters far too similar to humans still hide in the shadows waiting for the time to feed.

Little blue, squinted eyes stare up at a tubular building resembling a large, tall office building covered in tinted windows in the middle of a bustling city. A black-haired, ivory-skinned man stands on the sidewalk, in a long sand-colored trench coat, black turtleneck, black slacks, and black shoes. His face displays a clear look of disdain while looking upon the building in front of him.

“Mr. Otto! Hemlock Otto!”

His name comes from a rather posh feminine voice in front of him. Taking his eyes off the building, he sees the vision of an elderly white woman dressed in a long, light lime-colored skirt and a rather vintage-looking blouse. Cane in hand, she sweeps the ground in front of her as she walks, fading green hair up, with bangs swooping to one side of her face.

“You have to speak, boy, or I don’t know where you are!” she says in a stern tone.

“I’m here ma’am,” Hemlock replies, moving closer to her so doesn’t walk too far into the sidewalk, her cane smacking the side of his shoes before stating calmly, “I’m in front of you.”

She smiles letting out a light chuckle. “Very good!”

He can see the scarring over her eyes, now closer to her. If he had to guess, she was burned with acid years ago. “With all due respect ma’am, I—”

“Shush now! I don’t want to hear about this “I work alone, this system isn’t for me.” This is for your benefit, sir, do not get arrested!” she interrupted, “Now come!”

 “Mrs. Whitlock,” Hemlock exclaims as the older woman swiftly turns around and walks back into the building. He follows.

She leads him through the automatic doors, into a barren first level of an office building. If this is supposed to be the great agency of hunters in the city, it looks like pure shit, with its pale walls, willing plants, large, tinted windows, and uncomfortable-looking couches.

“Mrs. Whitlock it is quiet—”

“Pay this no mind! It is simply a cover, a safety between the real world and us.” She remarks, “And enough with the formalities! Call me Granny Gwyn!”

As Gwyndolyn and Hemlock walked through, two young individuals stood off to the side watching them. A woman with duel-colored hair, blonde on the left and pistachio green on the right, bisque skin, and pale olive eyes. Wearing an oversized neutral-colored sweater, a pleated skirt, stockings that matched her skin color, and tall-heeled boots. Next to her was a man, clearly related to her, given their shared skin tone and eye color only he’s hair is blonde. He wears an acid green beret matching the accents on his light brown oversized cotton vest that overlays a cream button-up shirt tucked into his brown slacks that barely reach his dark brown dress shoes.  

“This is our punishment,” the man sighed.

“It’s not a punishment, Caelyn,” the woman replied.

“The craziest vigilante in the Willowcrest inducted into the agency, and put under your care—”

“Most, if not all, of the GGHs are “under my care”, he’s not going to be any different.”

“Blythe—”

“I don’t know why you are so worried,” Blythe scoffs. Heading for the stairs. “You don’t even work here.”

“But I do live here, and you’re my sister!” Caelyn exclaims, following after her.

Hemlock presses the elevator call button before stating, “Mrs. Gwyndolyn, I have very little faith that this becoming a GGH will make much of a difference for me.”

“Yet, it will keep you from going to jail for Five years!” Gwyndolyn declares as the elevator dings before the doors open. “We are starting to floor seven, son.”

Hemlock observes the many buttons on the display. There are 5 floors below and 64 above. “I have no need to show you the basement floors, our forensics lab, our garage, and some other department that lives down there, places I doubt would be of any interest to you,” Gwyndolyn comments.

Hemlock shrugs, “I wouldn’t mind seeing the garage at some point. If I have to work here for the rest of my career.”

“You like cars?”

“Motorcycles,” Hemlock simply replies, “but I also like cars.”

“My husband loves motorcycles.” Gwyndolyn coos softly before the elevator opens.

The two steps out in the small area hosting the elevators, soft warm natural-colored walls reminded Hemlock of the old childhood memories of Hemlock going to the family doctor with his mother.

“I’ll have you meet the secretary. I know you; hunters feel a center way about offices and desks, but if you need an office one can be provided to you, and it will be on this floor,” Gwendolyn explains as she and Hemlock walk down the hallway.

Hemlock hums before stopping at a door in about the middle of the hallway. A dark door with a placard reading secretary. After smacking her cane on the bottom of the door the bottom of the door, the same blonde man with an acid green hat who had been watching them before, opens it.

“Hi granny,” Caelyn says with a smile.

“Is your sister in?” Gwyndolyn asks as she enters, Hemlock slowly entering behind her.

Cream-colored walls, walnut-colored furniture, black filing cabins, a large neatly cluttered desk in the center, a nice cream couch against the wall next to the desk with a green quilt hanging off the back of it, and pictures and degrees on the wall.

“I’m right here granny,” A Blythe remarks standing up from squatting down to get into the bottom drawer in a filing cabinet. Looking up from the thick file in hand, the duel-haired young woman smiles at the sight of Gwyndolyn and Hemlock, “Welcome to The Grimhaven Agency.”

Hemlock quickly observes many things silently. Everyone in the room talks in a posh manner. Gwyndolyn is the poshest of the three. The young man in the room is not fond of him. The office feels very lived in. The young woman in front of him has a beautiful smile—a smile that pulls locked-away memories of lost love to the front of Hemlock’s mind and gives him the beginnings of a splitting headache.

“I’m Blythe Rosenheim,” Blythe informs sticking a handout for Hemlock to shake.

“Hemlock Otto,” he replies shaking her hand.

“I’ll report to me for most of your needs,” she adds, “assignments, testimonies, excreta.”

Hemlock nods, his mouth open ready to ask the young girl a question before Gwyndolyn taps her cane on the ground, “Alright there is more for you to see,” she comments, heading for the door.

“Have a nice day granny,” Blythe calls as Gwyndolyn and Hemlock leave her office.

“Who was the blonde boy?” Hemlock asks.

“Caelyn,” Gwyndolyn simply replies, “Was he giving you evil looks?”

“He didn’t seem fond of my presence.”  

“Pay him no mind. He is just a little boy angry at the world.”

Hemlock hums as they approach the elevator, he presses the call button and steps into the elevator with Gwyndolyn waiting for her instructions.

“Floor 4, son.”

The older woman leads Hemlock to the many floors, departments, and areas in The Grimhaven Agency building as if he were a dog. The fitness center, the infirmary, the armory, the cafeteria, and even the garage. He was her little pup, chasing after her dress strings as if they were toys, disputes not having an interest in the Grimhaven Agency, and its bureaucracy around the hunter society he had been in since his early 20s. However, he does listen and observe, because the great Hemlock Otto- Willowcrest's most prolific vigilante grotesquerie hunter- would rather die a hunter under the Grimhaven Agency than in a prison cell.

“Alright son,” Gwyndolyn sighs, “You now have freedom to do as you must until 6, unless you have changed your mind about living here.”

“No, Mrs. Gwyndolyn, I have not.”

Gwyndolyn ticks her tongue on the roof of her mouth, “At least call me Mrs. Gwyn, enough of the Gwyndolyn shit.”

“Apologizes, my mother raised me to be polite.”

Gwyndolyn hums, “I hope to hear more about your mother,” she comments before heading off, “Enjoy your first day, son.”

Hemlock watched the older woman toddle away, before getting into the elevator once again to go back up to the seventh floor to Blythe’s office. Knocking on her door, she remarks a soft “Come in.”

Sitting behind a multi-monitor computer, eyebrows raised at Hemlock coming through her door, “You’re not moving in?” she asks.

“I have my own apartment,” he replied.

Blythe hums, “Well, I have nothing for you today. " She explains, “Everything is either taken or occupied. If I had known you weren’t moving in today, I would have called you out.”

Hemlock sighs, “If you would like to stay to see if anything new comes in, you are more than welcome to,” Blythe adds.

He settles on the couch, a hand resting on his cheek. The comforting sounds of Blythe’s fingers hitting the key on the keyboard, the comfortable temperature, and the smell of eucalyptus and green tea lulled him to sleep.

“DREW! DREW!”

“COME ON STAY WITH ME!”

“Hemlock…”

“It’ll be okay, It’ll be okay! I gotcha babe, stay with me!”

“Hemlock…”

“DREW!”

Hemlock bolts up out of his nightmare, with the same blanket on the back of the couch now on his lap as he lays across the small couch, having no recollection of lying on the couch or grabbing the blanket.

He let out a heavy sigh, sitting on the couch properly he rests his elbows on his knees before putting his head in his hands.

“Who are they?” Blythe asks, softly.

“Huh?”

“Who is Drew?” she replies.

Hemlock looked up at her, and she looked at him with a pitiful gaze before he sighed heavily once again, “My girlfriend.”

This silence blankets them. It’s not comfortable, but it’s not awkward; it’s just silent. The room still has a nice temperature, and the smell of eucalyptus and green tea is still in the air. However, it’s fainter than before, and there is no soft tapping of keys on a typeset.

“Go home, Hemlock,” Blythe instructs.

“I’m fin—”

“It’s 6 p.m., go home,” she remarks interrupting him, “I make sure there is something for you first thing tomorrow.”

Hemlock stands, “Have a nice night, Blythe,” he mutters before leaving her office to get back into the elevator for the umpteenth, exit the agency, hop on his motorcycle, and head home.

Entering his apartment, he shrugs off his coat and tosses it on the back of the couch after pulling out a pack of cigarettes and lighting it while heading to his kitchen.

His apartment is a modern style yet rather sparse of personal objects that would add to a comforting clutter. The only light in his space was from the overhead light above the stove in the kitchen, and the light coming through the large windows.  

Placing a pan on the stovetop, Hemlock pulls a couple of eggs from the fridge. With his nightmare about 15 minutes ago, he knew he couldn’t keep an “actual” dinner down, thus scrambled eggs would do.

While he cooked, sounds could be heard behind him. They were not the normal settling sounds of a building; they were almost inhuman sounds of something approaching him.

His cigarette rests in an ashtray near him, and he transfers his eggs onto a plate. The same inhuman sounds approached him slowly from behind him.

In one swift motion, he takes the hot frying pan he was using and smacks whatever is behind him, hitting something between a solid and a liquid. Hemlock turned around quickly facing a type of creature his is all too familiar with.

Animalistic in both appearance and nature, the creature is almost deer-like with muted colors. Unnaturally long in an uncanny way, very thin with a rib cage that is almost exposed, back hunched in an uncomfortable-looking way. Struggling to stand on the traction-less floor with its pencil-thin legs, it looks at Hemlock with deep soulless eyes that bulged out of their sockets before roaring a loud, screeching roar showing off its many teeth.

A grotesquerie, in his apartment!

“FUCK!” Hemlock shouts, racing out of the kitchen.

Barely making it out into the living area, he is rammed in the back sending him into the hardwood floors of his apartment. The creature gnaws at his legs, his thick pants preventing its sharp teeth from touching Hemlock's skin.

In the past seven years of being a private (and illegal) grotesquerie hunter, Hemlock has never struggled as much as he has now. Yes, normally, he has a weapon, yet the government confiscated any weapons he had in his positions when that finally “caught” him, even though he had legally obtained all the weapons he owned. Yet even with his fist, he can normally do enough to get at least free.

Kicking the grotesquerie in the face with his free foot, getting his leg free, however, the grotesquerie then chopped down on his forearm actually breaking the skin and digging into his skin.

It felt like time was going by so painfully slowly as he kicked at the beast atop him and lay on the floor with the stinging pain of the creature's teeth in his forearm. His front door is then slammed open, smacking into the wall after being taken off its hinges forcibly.

Then a gunshot.

Shot clean between the eyes, the grotesquerie flops into Hemlock's lap. When looking in the direction of the gunshot, “Blythe?!”

Panting in the doorway of his front door was that duel-haired secretary in her oversized sweater and pleaded skirt, with a compact handgun in hand. “You should have agreed to live at Grimhaven,” Blythe huffs.

His pain is too great to come up with a comeback. After Blythe helps him off the floor, they go back to Grimhaven, where he was being doctored by a sanatorium nurse, before reluctantly agreeing with Gwyndolyn that he should live in one of the penthouse apartments in the Grimhaven building. A lack of personal items makes the collection of his things smoother than presumed by those at Grimhaven, allowing Hemlock’s move to take just a day.

“Fuck,” he curses, attempting to pick up one of the large paintings he had in his old apartment.

He can hear a door open across the hallway, turning around swiftly to apologize for the noise he’s making, he lets out a sarcastic little chuckle when his eyes meet Blythe’s.

Leaning against her apartment’s doorframe, a foot resting against her other leg’s calf in a pair of cotton shorts, an oversized sweatshirt with the embroidered text of her alma mater across the chest, and hair clipped up and out of her face.

“Do you need help?” she asks.

“No, I’m fine,” Hemlock muttered, attempting to pick up the painting again, only to lose his grip and have the wooden backing of the canvas slam into the wrapped wound on his arm, “SHIT!”

“Let me help,” Blythe scoffs.

With Blythe on one side of the hefty canvas and Hemlock on the other, the two of them easily placed the painting safely in his apartment. “I’ll figure out where to put it later,” Hemlock muttered.

Blythe hums looking around his living space and seeing all the other paintings already hung up on the walls, “Do you paint?”

“No, these were all made for me,” Hemlock answers.

“Who did them?” Blythe asks, “They’re beautiful.”

“My girlfriend,” he remarks quietly.

Blythe hums once again, “Is she the reason you didn’t want to live here?”

Hemlock doesn’t answer, rather he passes by Blythe to head to the kitchen, “You know she can visit you. She can even live here with you if she wants, this is the safest place in all of Willowcrest, probably even all of West Alexandria—”

“She’s dead,” Hemlock states, making Blythe freeze, “And even if Drew was alive…”

“Hemlock, I’m so sorry,” Blythe gasps.

“Don’t apologize, it’s not like you knew,” Hemlock shrugs, “Unlike how you knew I was in danger yesterday.”

“Tracking software is put on all GGH devices whether they are provided by the agency or not,” Blythe explains, “I took advantage of your nap yesterday to put the software on your phone.”

“And the Grimhaven secretary just carries a gun?”

“I need a way to practice myself,” she comments.

“Well thank you for saving my life,” Hemlock replies.

Blythe flashes him a small smile, heading back to her apartment, “Have a nice night, Hemlock.”

“You too, Blythe.”

[mega-ringsandthings-world]

There's something so interesting and tantalizing about the idea of outsiders reacting to a character once they come out from a significant event and the reactions to it. I’m thinking about Shanks again and the people he used to know—because it’s going to be about two years in captivity, another year and a half to heal and get back to snuff before either Shanks or Mihawk are gonna hit it out into the wide open blues again. That’s almost four years of people not seeing them—aside from the people who meet them right after, like Buggy.

What I’m trying to get at is, for two years, Roger's old crew had to watch their pseudo-son get showcased in front of a Den Den, spouting the most horrendous propaganda, being paraded about like the government's show pony. What seemed to be a happy and healthy life of luxury, they could only assume, having betrayed them—do some of them hate him? Do some of them try to justify his actions to themselves? Do some of them drink themselves to sleep, hoping he’s betraying them, praying behind cameras and photo ops he isn’t being tortured? Not to mention while all this is going down, they're being run down like hound dogs with a scent? And since the world government is cleaning shop and doesn’t have to worry about a wave of wannabe pirates to slow them down, they can get to the nitty-gritty of tracking Roger's crew down to ground.

People like Rayleigh or Crocus probably won’t even have time to grieve or settle down or drink themselves into a stupor. Every second will be running, hiding, buying what you can, and stealing the rest, going into the underground’s underground. For two years! You can’t tell me a lot more of them aren’t caught, a lot more of them aren’t executed (maybe even taken back to Loguetown where they can see Shanks face to face and see as he is forced to watch from below as he begs and cries, curled into the arms of another dead-eyed child before the spears pierce their back and all the cries turn to screams.)

Maybe they resent him, hate him in their own ways, as much as they understand and love him. So when Loguetown burns and everyone escapes and on the front page (if the government doesn’t cover it up) is that little boy, maybe not so little anymore, torching the place to the studs. How do they react?

Not just them, but the rest of the pirate world. Him, Mihawk, and the other survivors must be the most hated pirates on the sea for those two years, seemingly choosing protection and the lap of the government over Impel Down. Seeing their faces plastered everywhere as part of the rehabilitation effort of the Marines, they must be seen as traitors of the highest order. But then they escape, and Loguetown burns, and rumors and secrets start to get out about what really happened in logue-town, the true horror show. Maybe even the Revolutionaries spur this on with pictures and scars and their own interviews, learning about the coercion, the psychological and physical torture, the assaults, the corruption that keeps compounding on its self into a public relations nightmare. They have to come face to face with a smiling 14/15-year-old, knowing that under all that makeup and false cheer is a child being tortured.

Like Oda-sensei, that’s gotta mess with you. And your image when Mihawk and Shanks hit the scene—are they going to get as many weary glances as they are pitying ones? Like not only did all my trauma get blarred to the world in graphic 3D with surround sound, but people also treat me with awkwardness or like brittle porcelain.

Yeah. The official story that was released was that the pirates in the square were offered a mass pardon/amnesty after the execution, and most of them refused and rioted, being the mindless violent grunts that they are. But the more famous pirates, being of sounder mind, accepted the pardon/amnesty and are now working in conjunction with the government to rehabilitate the other pirates. Which is a load of bullshit, but one becomes a lot more believable once they start putting people out in front of the cameras. Shanks is going to be the object of resentment, sorrow, and yes, hatred, for his former crew. As far as they are concerned, he sold them out with Roger not even cold in his grave. Most of the crew are going to believe that he truly betrayed them, and those will be divided into ones that detest him and ones that afford him a measure of sympathy. On one hand, he's a traitor spitting on the memory of Roger and Roger's care for him and that's it, on the other hand, he's just a kid and seeing Roger, his idol and father figure being killed must have been a big enough blow that it turned him a coward willing to buy his own safety. Neither opinion is very favorable to him. But others like Rayleigh and Crocus don't think ill of him, they knew him, and they would have the sense that there's something insidious going on. They'd be the ones who worry and grieve for him and think the worst. This does not mean they don't have their doubts, though. When the government puts the heat down on the Roger pirates, the first thing that everyone is going to think is that Shanks gave them info, and even Rayleigh and Crocus will think it was forced out of him somehow. (for the record, Shanks never once betrays anything in the years he's a captive) and so the resentment builds, even in the ones who still secretly nurse a care/love for him. The running, the hiding, the fear, the times of need and living like animals and the unceasing relentless pursuit is not going to make it any better. And then, yes. They start getting picked off. That's inevitable. The marines get lucky one time, the Roger pirates actually do get sold out another time, and other times yet crewmembers sacrifice themselves to let the other's get away. (it's important to note that while the Roger pirates had been disbanded, they grouped back together under the persecution) However it happens, some Roger pirates end up in Loguetown, set to be summarily executed. And the Marines make sure they see Shanks before the fact. Those Roger pirates don't have a clue what's been happening to Shanks in the interim, and they react to him as one might expect. Mihawk kills a Roger pirate in the course of defending Shanks from them. They don't realize how wrong they were until too late, until they witness the situation at Loguetown first hand, or witness Shanks publicly begging for their lives, or the punishments he's given for that, or, during the rare times the marines do grant a stay of execution, what Shanks has to do to procure it. But it always ends the same for every captured Roger pirate, and the last thing they'll always see is a helpless Shanks being held back by Mihawk. (They'd have many questions about Mihawk, if there was time to ask them.) needs pt.2

[onetruesirius]

I sit here and I watch the news about Gaza

and I think

shit, I need to get back to work;

it's toxic to just fixate on the news,

It's bad for my mental health.

I can't be irresponsible to myself

I have class in the morning.

I have exams next week...

But how can I turn a blind eye?

How can I not care

that nine thousand Gazan children are dead,

that the Israeli Occupation Force has dropped the equivalent of an atomic bomb

on a space about the size of the New York City metropolis,

that an episcopal church was bombed—

it was one of the oldest churches in the world,

that one of the oldest mosques in the region was destroyed

that hospitals are being shelled with doctors and patients still within,

that men are carrying pieces of their dead children out of houses in plastic grocery bags because there's no other way to carry that many pieces in their hands,

that over a million people were told to evacuate on bombed-out roads,

and then they were shot and bombed with USAmerican white phosphorus when trying to leave?

Do you know what white phosphorus does to a human body?????

Please google it.

And if you "don't want to see something like that"

Oh,

I want you to google it even more now.

just to be appropriately horrified.

How can I not see that the Israeli government doesn't see Palestinian people [THEIR people if we're going by statehood metrics, who were on that land when the BRITISH GOVERNMENT decided to make the state] as human beings,

that they'd do anything to slaughter Palestinians under the cover of radio silence so the world turns away?

And that men wail from minarets—

not to call their flock to holy prayer but

to speak messages of hope that god will save them,

to attempt to reach the outside world, when the information reaches the people at the edge of the strip, who have international SIM cards and can get the word out,

and to deliver news of where the bombs fall so that paramedics can know where to dig more bodies out—the bodies that aren't a bloody slurry sprayed across the streets and walls, anyways.

And that journalists are being executed en masse to hide the story.

And that men are being stripped naken and forced to sit on the ground for hours at a time, just like in Nazi Germany.

And I can't forget the fact that the United States, MY NATION, voted AGAINST a UN call for a ceasefire...

TWICE.

And that construction companies are already tearing down the old apartments to make room for new living arrangements for the colonisers, before the old buildings even stop burning.

And that settlers are coming into these abandoned homes and looting food and jewelry and desecrating prayer rugs.

And it isn't the fault of Jewish people.

I know that.

Jewish people deserve a place to be safe and free, wherever they are...

But this fact likewise does not require the creation of an ethnostate.

The implication that the only way for Jewish people to be safe is to kill everyone else... is it not in itself antisemitic?

I'm scared for the Palestinian people, and also for my Jewish diaspora friends.

They hate what's going on just as much as I do,

but they're going to get blamed by well-meaning Palestine supporters.

I know they will.

They know they will.

We all know that they will.

Another wave of antisemitism.

Another wave of islamophobia.

Another wave of killings.

Another wave of ethnic cleansing.

On it goes.

A little boy was already killed by his mother's racist landlord in Chicago. Stabbed 26 times.

Three college students were attacked and one was maimed for life.

Attacks against synagogues here in the US have only increased. Two people were shot, allegedly for a Free Palestine...

But we all know that the neonazis have been using this mess to stir the pot against Jewish people and boost their recruitment.

The Palestinian 2023/24 school year has been officially canceled going forward.

Because the enrolled students are dead or missing.

Because they were bombed with American ground-to-ground missiles.

We all know the missiles are American in origin.

Russia has its own genocide to attend to, and China doesn't care enough to give arms to anyone. And we know it's American White Phosphorus.

All the while, war profiteers in my nation get richer and richer,

richer and richer and richer,

and richer and richer and richer and richer and richer and richer—

and they'll laugh like the evil FUCKING pricks that they are

when Gaza gets bombed,

and they'll laugh like the evil FUCKING pricks that they are

when Jewish people get attacked in the streets,

because every act of violence

and every sentiment of hated

fills their pockets with more and more and more US-AMERICAN DOLLARS and GUNS and BOMBINGS and SHOOTINGS and HATRED and GOD BLESS AMERICA—

or something like that

.

.

.

I've signed petitions.

I've signed so many I've lost track of the ones I've signed and the ones I haven't, the ones for other countries that I can repost but can't sign or they might get tossed out.

I've donated money to relief organizations for when the borders re-open, because I'm an optimistic bastard like that.

I've sent emails.

I've sent... so many emails.

I've called all my Representatives in Congress.

I've spread news to as many of my friends as I can without them blocking me.

And still Gaza burns.

And still children are slaughtered, even during the fake ceasefire.

And still I have exams next week.

And still I think about how I really shouldn't fixate on this, because it affects my mood.

and it's been impacting my performance at school.

and it's been undoing months of work I've done with my therapist to try and disconnect from current events.

And still I think about how

"the current events"

rain down like hellfire on innocent mothers of dead children,

and children of dead mothers,

and sisters of dead brothers,

and brothers of dead sisters,

and fathers of dead babies,

and babies of dead fathers,

and teachers of dead students,

and students of dead teachers,

and churches and pastors,

and mosques and imams,

and hospitals and doctors,

and synagogues and rabbis,

and the fucking relief trucks that were filled with food and water.

And here I sit, and I don't know what to do about it????

And I wonder if this is all the point?

To make things worse and worse and worse and worse so that people are so unbearably exhausted from just trying to do the right thing

that they can't take care of themselves?

That they can't achieve upwards mobility?

That they can't make any difference at all for the things that matter most to them?

but I'm just one monkey...

one monkey can't solve systemic problems

that are baked into the roots of our society.

It's a first world problem, for sure. I have the privilege to be able to unplug from this and rest in my bed and not get bombed.

But I just want to make things better, for everyone...

I know that I can't do that.

But I wish I could

Oh, god—

I wish I could.

But I guess I'll just go to sleep.

After all

I have class in the morning.