#I hate being the bigger person i crave violence

[deadforsevenyears]

Talking to religious transphobes is like talking to a three year old (and i know this because i spent seven hours with two three year olds today AND then argued with a transphobe because apparently i don't value my time??)

[bombasticsalt]

Arcane and systemic issues aka why Jinx isn't the biggest problem for Arcane's characters

So this post is mainly based on this comment I saw on some random reaction video that said Jinx was the biggest problem in Arcane's universe and why they are wrong. Did we watch the same show? Of course you can root for whoever you want to but I don't feel like you can say people of the undercity revolting are the main problem.

See the thing is Jinx wouldn't have been created as she is if it weren't for her being born on the wrong side of town. I've seen people say Mylo created Jinx or Vi created Jinx but the thing is that arcanes society as it is created Jinx. Often when people talk about powder I see people say that she's only a kid and of course she's bad at stuff, but I think the bigger issue isn't that Powder is bad at stuff it's that she shouldn't have to be good at making bombs, or fighting, or parkour. Powder was a child, a sensitive child at that she's not less talented than any other normal child but, she's surrounded by other kids who have had to have thick skin and have been forced to survive on their wits. Of course, compared to Mylo, Claggor, and Vi she's the weak link because she's the only one in that group who doesn't have something she excells in. Powder has the talent of a child because she is a child who shouldn't have been forced to be at anything other than a childs level. Vi has always been a fighter from what we've seen and that's something that helps her but not every kid is like that, not every kid is a natural leader and they shouldn't have to be they're children it's their job to learn. But for kids like Mylo they don't see it that way all they can see is that everybody else is good at something except for Powder. Mylo makes Powder feel bad for not being good at anything, for jinxing every job because in his eyes she should be up to Zaun's standards. Even though the kids in Zaun shouldn't have to be tough, by normal standards Powder is a smart child but by the undercity's standards she's a weak link. It's not that Powder is bad at everything or a Jinx she's just a child who wasn't born equipped for the world she was brought in.

One of the things I love about arcane is how much content they give us outside of the canon show especially, the enemy music video. Scene's that stick with me are when Powder see's these two people fighting and she has this sad little face it's so heartbreaking, and when she does her little finger gun thing with enforcers. Which brings me to my next point, the undercity is ultimately stuck in a cycle of violence. Doesn't it say something that Silco's best idea of how to control the undercity is to introduce a highly addictive and dangerous drug that grants ordinary people the chance to be strong and retaliate. Most of the enforcers don't care about justice and are more focused on keeping people in the undercity than keeping peace. When you're raised around violence for that long it becomes all you know, hell what made Powder get into wanting to make bombs in the first place. As long as Jinx has been alive the enforcers and topside has been the enemy who has repeatedly said let them eat cake to the undercity's struggles. In fact the entire undercity is full of Jinx's, people who crave violence and chaos who begin to have an unstoppable rage against topside. Jinx is the person who had the guts to look topside in the face and declare war, a revolution to cut off Marie Antoinette's head. Of course in that moment for Jinx it probably was not a statement it was an act of hate, an act of passion, an act of rebirth.

Jinx is a symbol because of her defiance (killing the counselors) but somebody was going to have to do it eventually. Jinx is every top-siders worst stereotype about people from the undercity personified, but of course she is she's a mentally unstable person raised in a society that would rather pretend she does not exist rather than stopping this cycle of poverty and insanity. Of course she's a stereotype in a government that's done barely anything to support her or her sister. And the thing is it was never about Jinx, well it is but not really. Jinx is a name for the monster, a face to make the people raise their pitchforks and burn the entire coven. Jinx is the image not the movement. The biggest issue with the undercity isn't that the people are naturally disturbed it's that they're trapped in an endless cycle of suffering that ultimately leads to mentally unwell people.

Classism is such a big subject when it comes to arcane that I feel as if some fans refuse to acknowledge in a way that says something other than "oh yeah the under city is poor how sad". So many people talk about how you shouldn't compare trauma but it's objectively clear how class effects how people handle trauma. One of the biggest examples is Powder and Vi's parents death vs Caitlyn's mom dying. A line that sticks with me is during the first episode of season two when Vi says she watched the enforcers kill her parents and that Caitlyn has no idea how that feels then Caitlyn says she does because she's sounds so genuine when she says this but she doesn't at all. When Jinx killed Caitlyn's mom she was allowed to hate Jinx, allowed to hate the people of the undercity and nobody ever tries to justify her mother's death. Vi doesn't have that luxury she can't afford to not like the enforcers, she's not allowed to not like them because "they're a symbol of justice" sure they killed her parents but these are the supposed good guys! Vi isn't allowed to express her grief for her parents because the same people who killed them are the same people supposed to protect them, she can't afford to not like people from top side because "they're the good guys the civilized one's among a sea of beasts" sure they made mistakes and sure those mistakes get people from the undercity killed but still "We're the good guys"

Caitlyn claims that Vi can show people that not all of Zaun supports Jinx which feels wrong especially since Jinx shot that rocket with absolutely nobody supporting her. People supported Silco and that they should fight but in that moment that killed Cait's mom it was only Jinx. Yet for Caitlyn it's not Us vs Jinx, it's Us vs The undercity, she even tells Vi that she thought Vi was on their side. Not the side of justice the side of piltover because all it took for Caitlyn to hate the undercity was one bad person. That's what it took to make her see these people as inhumane and lesser than the people of piltover. Caitlyn and Jinx are parallels and I think the only difference between them that isn't just class is that; somebody gave a name to Powder's monster.

[helliontherapscallion]

Why Couldn’t it Have Been Me?

Part 2

Paring: Wilbur Soot x reader (past), Ghostbur x reader

Disclaimer: This contains major spoilers for Tommyinnit’s 4/29 lore stream

Warnings: swearing, violence, death, near death, cheating, 4/29 lore stream, grief, blood, injury, panic attack

Word count: 6,737

(A/N): So in this, you’re Schlatt’s twin and Puffy’s your older sister. Also, sorry for any mistakes, I typed a good 2/3 of this on my phone

This was your own personal hell: being trapped within cement walls with your ex fiance, your asshole of a brother, and a Dream wannabe that seemed to never lose any energy. Your life was like a trope in a novel alive you would’ve liked, however being cursed to live in it made you absolutely loathe any and all mention of it. 

Alive you would’ve killed to hang out with your brother again, not the one that turned to the bottle. Alive you would’ve craved the sweet melodies that streamed from Wilbur’s mouth. You would’ve swooned and maybe, just maybe, you would’ve forgiven him. Alive you would’ve perhaps liked this ‘Mexican Dream’ guy, you would’ve perhaps become the best of friends. 

However you despised the three locked up with you with your whole heart. 

Your ex fiance was someone you adored. Hell, you even idolized him when you were alive. The Wilbur you knew was sweet, loving, attentive, and just all around someone that you swooned over. You could still remember how your heart exploded when he first asked you out under the setting sun by the ocean. You remembered every song he's written for you, every word and rhythm by heart, even after all these years. 

You remembered how you felt your heart completely shatter when you found the songs he had in his drafts for someone that wasn't you. Someone by the name of 'Sally'. After a heated argument you had broken up with him, taking the engagement ring off from your finger and throwing it deep into the ocean. You stayed on L'Manberg's side even after all that, too loyal and proud towards the country you helped forge to drop it. You wouldn't let some stupid boy or rabid tyrants prevent you from raising your beautiful nation up from the ashes.

That had been your downfall. You should've listened to Puffy and left the country behind when you had the chance, now you paid the ultimate price for your deep rooted loyalty and devotion towards independence. And your sacrifice didn't even matter in the end! Your deranged ex blew it all to smithereens. If you didn't despise him before, you absolutely did after your dumbass twin told you about his little 'escapades' while you were gone.

Every little thing Wilbur did, no matter how small it was, made you hate him even more. Every time he would shuffle those damned cards, it made you want to rip them to shreds and throw them across the train tracks. Every time he would sing or even breathe, you wanted to strangle him. You were absolutely certain that Schlatt felt the same. 

Oh, your twin was a real card. Always boasting about how his horns were bigger than yours (who even cares anymore? Yours grew in first anyways), telling the others about your shortcomings through crude jokes, even going as far as fighting you through headbutting; you could still feel the pain of being beaten to death before respawning immediately. Schlatt hadn’t known that you respawn even in the afterlife, so you knew he was serious about killing you. You just wanted Puffy, she was far more tolerable than your twin. 

The rustling of his suit jacket and his small grunts and pants resonated within the walls as he did various forms of exercising. You now knew about all of the differing variations of a pushup and you hated yourself for listening to his explanations. He would beg you, Mexican Dream, and Wilbur to stand on his back while he did his endless routines. The only one to readily take him up on that offer was Mexican Dream.

That man was arguably the only one you slightly tolerated, and you said that very lightly. He was still annoying as all hell, but he was a new face. Well, one that you didn’t know well enough to have a grudge against while you were alive. It was slightly refreshing, in a sense. When he first got here, his songs, stories, and humor gave you a nice break away from Wilbur’s depressing songs and Schlatt’s crude jokes. However when you spend eleven years trapped in a cage with one person, everything they do becomes the bane of your existence. 

You were running out of things that kept you sane in this dump. You've read the same novel, counted the same ceiling and floor tiles (32 ceiling tiles and 57 floor tiles exactly), traced the same cracks in the walls, temporarily killing the same cellmates, you've done anything and everything that this cesspool had to offer. You've done everything billions of times over, a never ending cycle of monotony. 

Tommy joining your group of miserable has-beens was perhaps the highlight of your fifteen, almost sixteen, years spent in this shithole. Though he finally dropped the brave facade and showed just how broken down he was after everything he’s been through, having him around was the saving grace to your sanity. He told you how your sister was, how your nephews were, and most importantly what you missed. You knew about all of the events leading up to Mexican Dream's death, but you were left in the dark with everything past that. Ender, you missed so much since you died; It baffled you how much you missed. 

When the train actually stopped at your cell instead of just passing by and it's doors opened, you were just expecting another poor soul to be dropped off here. You could imagine everybody's surprise when none other than Dream stepped out of those doors. The nephew that had betrayed you without a second thought, that had murdered you, that had your severed head displayed on his mantle (you weren't sure the truth of that last statement, Tommy has a habit of over exaggerating. Though, Schlatt did say that your body was found with a missing head when you first forced him to tell you what you missed). Tommy talked to you about how he died only once, so you knew just what your nephew has been up to. It infuriated you knowing that your adult nephew was manipulating and abusing this young teenager.

While you were releasing your pent up frustrations on the masked man, he merely brushed past you and drug Tommy into the train by the arm. You could remember Wilbur banging on the doors begging for Dream to return his little brother and his angered screams echoing down the railways as the train sped off back towards the land of the living. 

Lucky Tommy, he got to live out the rest of his life and actually age. You and your crew of intolerable jesters were stuck together once again. 

Everybody was silent for a few months, reeling at the newly discovered fact that Dream could actually resurrect people. During those three months, they were quiet and tolerable. In a way, the talks that came out of it was like one of those family therapy sessions your older sister would hold in the living room (you remembered how she would grab you and Schlatt by the horns if either one of you refused to go). You would kill to attend one of those therapy sessions again, and this is the closest you were going to get to it. 

You all talked about the things you regretted most while you were alive. Mexican Dream's was that he didn't protect his girlfriend Mamacita well enough. Schlatt's was choosing alcohol and power over his family (tears were especially shed over Tubbo, he really did regret abandoning him to be raised by you). Yours was that you were too loyal to a cause that would be absolutely decimated a short while after you sacrificed everything for it. Surprisingly, Wilbur's was that he had hurt you.

He had begged and groveled for forgiveness, telling you that he just didn't feel that special connection with you anymore. That didn't take away from the fact that he was seeing another while you two were still dating and that he blew up your life's work. He had stolen everything from you, and you would never forgive him for that. 

After you made your thoughts on him completely clear, he had started treating you like you treated him in the last few months. Tension was building up between you two that had laid dormant for thirteen and a half years like a rope pulled taut about to snap.

Everybody had slowly returned to their annoying selves slowly but surely. Schlatt resumed his workout routine, Mexican Dream had started loudly singing and ranting about Mamacita's everlasting beauty again, and Wilbur eventually started up his solitaire and songwriting once again.

The three of them made you want to rip off your twisting horns and shove them in your ears in hopes of muffling them, but you knew that whomever put you here would restore your hearing and make your horns regrow. You knew that first hand after you spent a couple of years alone in this hellhole; breaking your horns off by repeatedly banging your head against the dull stone walls in a manic state was never fun. The regeneration of the keratin only slightly stung, it was like you were a kid and they were growing in for the first time again. 

You felt your eye twitch as Wilbur sang about that damned train for the umpteenth time since he arrived. It’s always ‘train this' and ‘train that' and quite frankly you were sick of it. You were sick of him. 

“Shut the fuck up about that damned train,” Schlatt seethed. You never once thought you would ever agree with your twin, but here you were nodding in agreement and shooting a glare at Wilbur’s direction. The brunet merely stopped his singing and reshuffled his cards, the sound making an ugly cacophony and grating at your ears. 

“Not my fault you two don’t want to talk to me. I’m just making due with what I’ve been given.” He dealt the cards out in piles and started yet another game of solitaire. Seriously, how many games of solitaire can one play before they lose it? You supposed that you’d find out soon, Wilbur has been playing that monotonous card game nonstop for thirteen and a half years.

“Yeah, let the hombre chill! I like his music.” The masked man reached up to stroke his goatee, the scratching sound further penetrating your focus on your book. 

Everything was quiet before Mexican Dream's voice pierced it, "hey, did I ever tell you guys how beautiful my Mamacita was?"

"You told us millions of times, fuckface. You narrate entire love letters daily, so how could we not know how 'beautiful' she was?" You complained, not once looking up from your book. Schlatt snorted to himself and returned to his workout. Mexican Dream crossed his arms in anger, cursing you out under his breath. Wilbur merely glanced at you and rolled his eyes. "You know, I'm tired of your bitchy attitude. Let him talk about Mamacita, it's not his fault every time you think you love someone it fails." 

Your grip on your book tightened impossibly. If it were physically possible, the book would be crumbling to dust in your voice grip. You practically see red as you slowly dog-eared the worn page you were on and put your book down. 

"Oh shit," you heard Schlatt mumble and move away from you, Mexican Dream following suit. When you both were alive, your anger was always something you knew Schlatt feared. However, you knew that he's never seen you this angry; nobody has. The majority of what you've been holding in for almost fourteen years is about to be unleashed. 

"You know what I'm sick of, Wilbur?"

"Oh, do enlighten us."

"I'm sick of each and every single one of you. You three have been absolutely intolerable ever since you arrived. I was doing just fine alone and the universe just had to fuck everything up for me, just like it always does."

"There you go again," Wilbur laughed sardonically, "making everything about yourself." He gathered his cards and shuffled them repeatedly. 

"I make everything about myself?! Do you even hear yourself? Mr. Oh-I'm-such-a-disappointment-to-Philza, you wallow in self pity twenty-four seven! You fucking write every single song about yourself!”

"I didn't want to come here, okay?! I didn't think it was gonna be like this! God, I might as well be in hell with you here." 

"Believe me, my hell started fourteen years ago when you guys started showing up," you growled out, your ears flattening to the sides of your skull.

"Have you ever stopped to think that you're our hell? All you've done since we came here was complain and be a massive douche to all of us." He fluttered through the deck more and more as the argument escalated, the noise making you want to scream until you tasted blood.

"I'm the one that's in the wrong here? You fucked up my entire life. He," you pointed at Schlatt, "keeps beating me to death. And he," you jutted your chin towards Mexican Dream, "never shuts the hell up… Would you stop with that damn deck?! You're literally so fucking annoying." 

He narrowed his eyes, "make me."

A mixture of an animalistic growl and a guttural scream left your lips as you charged at him, your head tilted downwards so he could feel the brunt of your horns. He moved out of the way just in time, the side of your horn brushing against his arm. You crashed head first into the stone wall before you stabilized yourself and looked at the brunet with seething hatred. 

He was staring at you in shock, "how're you-" You used his shock to your advantage, throwing a right hook at his face. His head whipped to the side and his body followed, sending him to the ground in a heap.

"How am I still conscious? I'm a ram hybrid, dumbass. What'd you expect?" You huffed angrily before you pried the cards out of his hand and stalked over to the tracks. 

He scrambled up to stop you, but before he could even reach you, you held the deck over the tracks and looked down at him. You could just imagine how your horizontal pupils were blazing with fury. 

You reveled in the betrayal and animosity gleaming in his eyes as you dangled the thing he held dearest in this hell over the railroads. If you were to drop them, he'd never be able to see them again.

"We promised not to touch belongings on our first day here!" He yelled at you, his hands wrung in front of him nervously hiding the slight tremor. "Our first day here?" You scoffed, "the last time I checked, I was here for two years before any of you showed up." You gestured around the room in one angry swipe, the cards slipping slightly with how sweaty your hands were. It was then that you saw the fear in Schlatt's eyes. Good, that bastard should be scared of you. "If anything, you all are in my domain."

Wilbur flinched at the sight of the cards slowly slipping out of your hand, his breath hitching and panic stricken across his features. Mexican Dream stood up from his place and put his hands up. He was slowly approaching you like you were a cornered wild animal, making sure that you saw his every move. 

He nervously chuckled, "let's just put the cards down and have a nice talk. Doesn't that sound better than this, mi amigo?"

You shook the cards once again, taking in Wilbur's silent anguish with glee. "I'm not your friend, I'm anything but. Don't tell me what to fucking do or else that picture of Mamacita is the next to go."

"...Okay, you're in charge, man. Do what you want." He reluctantly sat back down next to Schlatt. The ram was watching in fear, yet it looked like he was entertained with what was happening. You couldn't blame him, the last interesting thing that happened was three full months ago when Tommy was taken. That and you probably looked feral at the moment.

"You understand that if you drop those, they're lost forever right?"

You threw your head back and laughed, "of course I know, why do you think I only have one sock? I already tried that shit out before you came." You hummed to yourself in thought, then grinned. Wilbur was going to love this.

While you shuffled the deck, you kept a close eye on the movement happening inside the cell. Another perk to being a ram hybrid was that you had a nearly 360 degree scope of everything around you. The only movement happening was the panicked breaths from Wilbur, good. You huffed in amusement, "alright Wilbur, let's do a card trick. I'd ask you to pick a card, any card, but I don't want to risk you fucking shit up again. So, I'm just going to draw for you." You drew a card from the middle of the deck and showed it to him. "The eight of clubs, how fitting." 

"(Y/n), I don't know what you're getting at, but if you don't give me those cards right now-"

"Shut it, I'm not done. I'm going to shuffle this back into the deck, watch the hands." You kept eye contact with him as you shuffled the cards rigorously, the card you pulled long since hidden with the slight of a hand. After a bit of shuffling and reshuffling, you had sneakily put the card between the two halves and bridged them until the cards were in one pile with the eight of clubs on top. 

You chuckled and pulled the top card, once again showing it to him. "Is this your card?"

He nodded slightly, never once taking his eyes off from the deck. "Yes, now give it back to me!" The angry and anxious undertones were like music to your ears.

You tapped your chin in thought, "hm, I don't think I will. You've taken so much from me, it's only fair that I get some revenge." Without another word, you threw the cards behind your head and smiled widely at the sound of the fluttering down to the tracks. 

Wilbur launched himself forward with a frantic yell, his hands flailing to catch all of the cards before they were lost forever. He only succeeded in catching a few. 

His breath shuddered as he stared at the three cards in his hand: the five of diamonds, the four of spades, and the seven of hearts. The fate of the universe was on your side for once, perhaps preternaturally so. 

"You- do you realize what you just did?!" He spun around to face you. If humans could froth at the mouth, a full waterfall would be streaming through his gritted teeth. His eyes held the rage of a man that had just lost everything in one singular instant, the resentment swirling in his dark brown orbs. Several veins were bulging in his face and neck, painting the skin in a red hue.

You walked over to your book and plopped yourself down. "Yeah," you said with a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders. You opened up your book and started reading it again, leaving the man to his grief. 

Everything was quiet once more much to your delight. Though you read this book from cover to cover thousands of times, enough to know most of the words by heart, you were never able to fully enjoy and immerse yourself in it with them around. You took this time to reclaim your designated corner and spend some quality time reading. 

You spent hours with your nose buried deep in your book, savoring the peace. That was until it was snatched out of your hands and ripped away from you. You looked up in slight shock at the sight of Wilbur snapping it shut and walking over to the tracks. 

No. No. Nononono he can’t. That was the only thing keeping you sane. He can't just get rid of it when he's done so much towards you when you were alive. 

A wail left your mouth as you tackled him to the ground, your arms wrapped around his midsection. He crashed to the ground with a grunt, his forehead smacking against the painted yellow stone. You straddled his back and ripped the book away from him, throwing it across the room and away from the tracks. 

You grabbed a fist full of his hair after yanking off his beanie and tossing it into oblivion with his precious cards. You pulled his head up and leaned close to his ear, "you try that shit again and your hat and cards won't be the only things lost to the void." Venom was seeping through your every word, "do you understand me?" 

He merely jerked his head to the side, colliding it with your nose and mouth. You shouted in surprise and let him go in favor of holding your aching nose. You could feel the warmth of the blood pouring from it. Through teary eyes, you looked up at Wilbur as he grabbed your book and flung it against the wall of the opposite side of the tracks. You scampered to the edge and watched in horror as it disappeared into the void. 

Without warning, you were forced to the ground, a hand holding you by a horn and a knee between your shoulder blades. You struggled before a dark chuckle was heard, "if you keep moving, you'll slip! Do you really want that?" You begrudgingly stopped, realizing that he had all the power in this situation. If he wanted to, he could just slide you off from the platform and toss you away like throwing a piece of paper into the trash.

"Good, you're not as stupid as you were earlier today." He slid you forward, holding your upper body over the tracks by the horn. You came face to face with the swirling abyss that was the void, small shapes appearing from your eyes adjusting to the sudden lack of visual stimulant. Your breathing picked up as he lowered you slightly, "you don't wanna do this." 

"No, I do. Thirteen and a half years of having to be around you was hell, but the shit you pulled today just put the icing on the cake. Do you have any last words before you go?"

You grunted as he shook your head slightly, a slight pain coming from the base of your horn. "Fuck you." 

"How appropriate, now let's see if you'll come back this time. It'll be our fun little science experiment!"

He dropped your horn without a care in the world, sending you plummeting to your demise. A terrified scream ripped it's way out of your throat and you screwed your eyes tightly shut in preparation for the void. Your body came to a jerking halt as you held your breath, preparing for… whatever awaited you. However, nothing came.

You cracked open an eye only to be met with the uncanny inkyness, the invisible mist freezing your face and its frostbitten arms opened wide for you. But you never fell into its embrace. 

Instead, you were pulled back onto the platform. You laid on your stomach with your horn supporting your head staring at the wall, tracing every single nook and cranny of the bricks. Your chest heaved as you greedily gasped for air. You never thought you'd be so relieved to see the cement walls you've been trapped in for over a decade and a half.

You were once again pulled up into a now sitting position and leaned against the wall, your back touching the cool cement. Across from you, you saw Mexican Dream pinning a struggling Wilbur down to the floor. Wilbur's crazed eyes met you, piercing through your very being. However, that didn't affect you in the slightest; you almost were just wiped from existence completely, you stared into the abyss and it stared back at you.

You felt… strange, to say the least. While icy fear and adrenaline coursed through your veins, you felt warmth blossoming in you at the same time. It was like the void was an actual person, politely giving you some form of relief from the hell you've been subjected to for over a decade and a half. It was so welcoming, not terrifying like you initially thought it was. When your fingertips grazed its surface it felt freezing to the touch, yet you felt the staticky power it was showing you. In that split moment of touching it, you had already accepted the power it held over you. 

A hand softly slapped your cheek, "c'mon, (y/n). Talk to me." Your eyes drifted lazily to your twin. He was extremely pale, his eyes frantically searching your face for any sign of responsiveness. When you looked at him, he visibly relaxed. "It was so… so beautiful, Schlatt."

"Yeah, what the actual fuck did you just say? You almost just- just died for good dumbass." He looked at you incredulously, you could just see the cogs in his brain working hard to process what the hell he was seeing. 

You looked back at Wilbur, he had stopped struggling slightly and was instead looking at you with a hint of confusion shining through the crazed daze. Mexican Dream tilted his head, the mask skewing slightly to the side of his face. "Thank you, Wilbur. You've shown me that there's… there's more to this hellhole than suffering. There's beauty in the darkness." His struggling had come to a complete halt, now staring at you with the most confusion you've ever seen from him. You also saw a very small hint of fear from deep within his irises.

A calloused hand gripped your chin and forced you to look back at your twin. "What are you on," he hissed lowly, "the stuff that's comin outta your mouth right now is actually batshit insane. He almost just permanently murked you and you're fucking thanking him." 

"I haven't felt this at ease in nearly two decades. I feel ethereal, Schlatt, and it's all thanks to him." You let your eyes drift over to Wilbur. Giving him a content smile, you nodded your thanks at him.

The next few days went by tensely for the others, eyeing your every move and keeping you away from the ledge. You had only peered over the ledge once since then, it was just so alluring to you. It was nothing, yet everything at the same time. Mexican Dream had pulled you back to the opposite end of the room by your horns. The part that disturbed the three men was that you said absolutely nothing about it. You didn't even struggle against it, you just laid limp and let it happen. 

With each passing second you spent away from the void, the feeling of utter peace was rapidly draining from your body; instead being replaced by icy fear, paranoia, and the realization that you were almost completely swallowed whole by the void. 

After coming back to your senses, you didn't allow anybody near you. Your instincts going haywire and screaming that they were going to hurt you if they came close. The last time Schlatt tried touching you, you damn near took his finger off. They didn't bother trying to approach you anymore, instead glancing at you from the corners of their eyes. Wilbur was perhaps the one you feared the most, you knew that if he didn't hesitate to toss you away the first time, he would surely do it a second time. He spent most of his time staring at you, you didn't know if he was zoned out or not.

Everybody was against you, you knew it. You just knew it. They were plotting to toss you back into the void. That thing- or was it an entity? Whatever it was held a power over you that you didn't know was possible. That trance that it put you in, the craving you felt, was something that was repeating like a broken record in your mind. You could still feel the void calling out to you, it was terrifying. 

You spent most of the time huddled in your corner staring at the fingers that had grazed the textured nothingness. You could still feel the buzzing and popping of the power on your fingertips, that inky residue staining your skin wouldn't come off. No matter how hard you scrubbed, scratched, or scraped, it would not leave your body. It was freezing.

The oncoming train screeching to a gradual stop was perhaps the only thing you fully acknowledged outside of your safety bubble in days. You watched in shock as it stopped at the platform. The doors opened with a fwoosh, fog pouring out onto the smooth stone floors. 

Out stepped Dream, the smile etched into his cracked mask sent chills to your core. Next to him was… was another Wilbur? How in the name of Ender was that even possible? 

This Wilbur was different though. This one was desaturated. This one didn't have an insane glint in his eyes, this one had grief shimmering in the tears that steamed on his cheeks. This one was broken compared to the well established man against the wall. This one was defenseless. 

Dream shoved him to the center of the room, the man falling to his hands and knees. Sobs escaped his mouth as steam left his skin and drifted along the sides of his face before dissolving into the air. 

"Got a new plaything for you guys, this one isn't as… fun as Wilbur is though." Dream's head turned towards you before it tilted. "What happened there? Did our dear little (y/n) get too close to the void?" 

"They are none of your concern, pandejo," Mexican Dream seethed at his counterpart from his position next to the train. "Why are you even here, man?"

"Oh, I'm just here to make a trade. I'm afraid that I'll have to give you guys Ghostbur here in exchange for Wilbur."

Wilbur stared at him with pure hope and glee springing up in his eye for the first time in over a decade. "Really?" 

Dream chuckled, "yes, really. What, do you really think I'd lie to you?" 

"I don't know, ya smiley freak. You've been known to fuck people over." Schlatt scoffed, his ear flicking in annoyance. 

"I'm telling the truth this time. Wilbur, come with me." 

Stars shone in his eyes as he reveled in the sight of the open train doors. He followed the masked man with a skip in his step, ecstatic giggles leaving his mouth as he boarded. 

Anger flooded you as you purse your lips together and you darted towards the train. The doors were closing already, if you could just- 

The door shut with a clank, blocking you from freedom. Your clenched fists banged against the window, glowering at the sight of Wilbur's happiness and Dream looking at you with a wave.

"You fucking bastard! Take me, he doesn't deserve it! He threw his goddamned life away, you're wasting your time with him!" Your angry shouts were ignored by the two however as the train once again started moving with a small hiss. 

A frustrated scream left your mouth as you pummeled the iron with your fists as it moved. If only you could find a train car to jump onto- 

Now. You leapt from the platform towards the junction between two of the train cars. However, your leap of faith was set to a halt midair by Schlatt holding your upper arms. You thrashed against him, desperate to get back to the land of the living, desperate to leave this godforsaken hell called the afterlife, but once again, you were torn away from what you were trying to achieve. 

You fell limp as you watched the last train car pass the platform and disappear down the tracks and into the void. The next possible time it would show it’s face would be in a few months if you were lucky. You let him take you back to your corner, your feet limply being drug against the floor. After you were plopped back down, you stared at the clone of your ex. You were pretty sure Dream said that his name was ‘Ghostbur’. What a strange name, yet you supposed that it was fitting for Wilbur’s apparition. 

“Are ya done with your little ‘moment’, (y/n)?” Schlatt was kneeling in front of you, his hands prepared to grab you if you made a run for it. Though his tone was annoyed, you could detect the very small worried undertone of his voice. 

You nodded and watched as he took a seat next to you, also staring at the newcomer. This is the closest he’s sat next to you in years. 

“...What do you think of the clone over there?” You hummed to yourself, “he looks pathetic, but I think that might be the only thing he and Wilbur share.” 

Mexican Dream took a seat next to you, slinging an arm over your shoulders. Normally, you would’ve shrugged him off, but you were too emotionally drained to do so. “Si, he does look kinda weak. But I think our new hombre here has promise.” 

“Promise for what?” Schlatt snorted. Mexican Dream hesitated, “...I don’t know. This is gonna be interesting, mis amigos.” 

“The party’s just begun, boys. Buckle up, this is gonna be a wild fucking ride.” You mused to them, unsure of what the future would hold with the newcomer. Though after a couple of years, you were sure you were going to hate him; that is if he’s nothing like his clone. Ender help you if he’s anything like Wilbur. 

As you stared at the broken man, you couldn’t help but wonder: why did he get to go back? As far as you were concerned, psychopaths like him do not deserve a second chance at life. If anything, it should be you boarding that train. It should be you getting a second chance. He was the one that so readily threw his life away while you had yours ripped away from you.

One continuous thought was circling in your mind: why couldn’t it have been me?

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

You wrung your hands together as you anxiously waited for Tommy, Ghostbur, and Friend outside of Pandora’s Vault. Ranboo and Tubbo sat next to you in the grass, giving you silent comfort with their presence. You were mainly worried for your boyfriend, his worst fear was Dream using the resurrection book on him. You had calmed him down from a panic attack prior to meeting up with the teenagers, begging him to let you go in his place. Of course, Ghostbur being the caring and brave soul he was, wove you off and ensured that he’d be okay. 

When you saw someone emerging from the portal, you leapt to your feet and steadied your head on your shoulders before you examined the people emerging. Except you only saw a human and a sheep, no ghost. 

Tommy looked pale and on the verge of tears as he led Friend towards you. Before he spoke, he used his sleeve to wipe at his tears. 

“Hey, Tommy! How did it- where’s Ghostbur?” The enderman hybrid stretched his usually slouched back to peer at the portal, keen eyes searching for any sign of movement. 

“I think he’s dead… He’s dead!” 

Tubbo tilted his head and looked up at the blond in confusion, “well, yeah. He’s a ghost. Of course he’s dead.” Ranboo nodded in agreement, “yeah, he can’t die again. That just isn’t possible.”

You said nothing (not like you could in the first place, your head wasn’t connected to your body), looking into Tommy’s eyes inquisitively. They were chock full of panic, grief, and fear, staring down at the lead in his clenched hands. 

“No, no you don’t understand, it’s not that he’s dead… it’s that Wilbur’s back.”

“Hold on, the Wilbur that blew up L’Manberg? That Wilbur?” Ranboo peered down at him incredulously. “Yes! C’mon, he- we gotta get to L’Manberg.” 

He spun around and led Friend towards L’Manberg, walking quickly with a purpose. You, Ranboo, and Tubbo followed. You hugged your head close to your chest, your eyes peeking over your arms. It was always something you’ve done whenever you were scared or worried about something. You heard stories about Wilbur from your nephew, if the stories of his insanity terrified you, you’d hate to see the man in person. 

“I was about to kill Dream, and- and Ghostbur died. Dream revived Wilbur… Fuck!” Tommy walked faster, L’Manberg far off in the distance. With one hand, you grabbed the blond’s attention and finger spelled, ‘are you serious? He’s actually gone?’

“Yes! How many times do I have to explain this?! Ghostbur isn’t with us anymore and Wilbur’s back. Wilbur’s back and we’re absolutely fucked.” He turned on his heel and resumed his beeline towards the crater in the wall. No, he couldn’t be gone. This was just a cruel prank they were pulling on you, right? 

Tubbo put a comforting hand on your shoulder, giving you a small sympathetic smile. You leaned into his touch slightly and carried on, stepping into the makeshift staircase behind Tommy. 

You moved your arms to cover your eyes as you stepped aside to make room for the other two teenagers. You heard a voice; it sounded exactly like Ghostbur’s voice, yet it sounded... off. You however remained hopeful and uncovered your eyes. 

The man that stood there certainly wasn’t your boyfriend. Everything about him was just so wrong. The emotion in his eyes, his clothing, his smile, his stance, his hair, everything. This was a completely different person. This was Wilbur Soot. 

“Hello again.” His eyes flicked around your group, his gaze lingering on you for longer than the rest. You noticed that he was staring at your neck, but that was okay. You were used to it; everybody did that. What you weren’t used to was the revulsion that flashed in his eyes. The eyes that once lovingly stared at you and reassured you that he’d love you even with your… condition were now filled with disgust. 

That was what broke you, the tears that you tried to hold in came streaming out like a waterfall. Stinging pain hit you as the water worked its way through the cloth of your uniform onto your arms, leaving steam floating upwards towards the cave ceiling. You phased through Ranboo’s body and made a mad dash towards your sister’s house. You needed her, you could feel a panic attack brewing inside you. Usually you would hate to be a bother to your older sister and Ghostbur would always calm you down, but now he’s…

You pushed that thought aside and focused completely on getting to Puffy’s house in the distance. You phased through the door without a thought to knock, frantically beginning your search for Puffy. 

You looked everywhere, but you couldn’t find her. Unable to cope any longer, you fell to your knees in the middle of the living room and hugged your head to your chest, your face being pushed against your uniform. Your shoulders shook with silent painful sobs, the only sound in the room being the sizzling of your skin. 

Why couldn’t it have been you? It should be Ghostbur standing there in that cavern, not Wilbur. This was completely your fault, you should’ve gone instead of him. You should’ve volunteered quicker than he did, you shouldn’t have let him talk you into it with his soothing words. Now because of your complete and utter cowardice, he was stuck in the afterlife once again. You were never going to see him any time soon. Your other half was ripped away from you because of your inaction. 

Between sobs, your lips repeatedly formed the same phrase: why couldn’t it have been me?

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[notchesandbullets]

Wherever You Go, I Will Follow (Boxer! Metal Arm! Bakugou x Reader) Underground!AU

Art credit: @/helloclonion on Instagram

Warnings: violence, drinking (everyone is of age), hints of ptsd and depression, mentions of cloning norms, angst but fluffy ending.

Synopsis: Bakugou doesn’t like to talk about what happened to his left arm. Years of fighting underground had made him harder than nails. Society was messed up. Children weren’t born, they were made and any who aren’t adopted are raised in mass orphanages. But you’re special. And you’ve chosen the light even though you’ve seen the darkness. Who else to get through to his heart other than someone like you?

Words: 7.8k

The lights blind you momentarily as they flashed on. The humidity in such a crowded space packed with people was making your skin crawl but it was worth it for the greatly anticipated show.

An underground arena that had this much hype was rare since most fighters didn’t make it past their 20s due to injuries so severe from boxing that it cost them their lives.

There were zero qualified doctors here in the society riddled with old factories that didn't exist anymore and sleazy underground cities where nothing could grow anymore due to the pollution. It had fallen to ruin and only a select handful that could heal like they claimed to. 

Due to that little insignificant fact, that meant the expected lifespan of everyone down here wasn’t more than 30 years of age.

Of course, it varied from section to section, but there was enough pattern to know that there wasn’t long to live once you got to your teens.

Therefore, everyone lived fast and hard down here, trying to experience as much as they could before it was their time to go.

And while you couldn’t say that you blamed them, that wasn’t how you wanted to live. You wanted to fight back against the norm and make a difference that would change this world.

Which is why you were so interested in this particular fighter.

Bakugou Katsuki. 

A reformed individual with a criminal record after a looting with his crew went sideways. He was stronger than most with an attitude and ego bigger than the city itself.

He was renowned to be one of the baddest in the underground and had a personality as difficult as a cloned Siberian tiger.

You sighed and rolled your eyes. You didn’t know why Mic couldn’t come scout today instead of you, you hated how jam packed Bakugou’s fights got, which is why you always steered clear of them.

Well, that and because you weren’t exactly partial to his famed temper.

Then, the glint of metal had you on the edge of your seat, eyes sparkling with curiosity as you caught a better look the second time around as he stomped into the ring. 

Was that… a metal arm?

It looked like something straight out of Marvel’s Winter Soldier from back in the day. Scarily so. 

You faintly recalled that his opponent’s name was Shindou, supposedly the underground’s upcoming rising star to the top. His undefeated reputation preceded him and he certainly was easy on the eyes.

So why did you find your gaze drawn to the arrogant boxer with a cocky smirk on his face across from the guy that was cuter than him?

Metal arm flexing, sweat dripped down his brow, his crimson eyes narrowed in concentration and tinged with a hint of malice as his much larger rival took a swing at him to kick off the round.

Bakugou blocked it head on, retaliating with a force that sent him spiraling towards the cage. His wrapped hands were crusted with blood and he hastily brushed the dirtied, spiky hair that fell into his eyes out of his face, a ravenous hunger coming through as he bounced on the balls of his feet. 

“Is that all you fucking got, extra?!” He screamed in Shindou’s face and you actually had to cover your ears at the sheer volume that carried through the stadium, egging him on.

Your mouth dried as Bakugou caught him across the jaw the second he flew at him, knocking out his opponent in one go, calling the match in under thirty seconds flat. 

Holy shit, he’s good. You thought to yourself, thoroughly impressed, barely able to hear yourself over the crowd’s roar as Bakugou punched his fist in the air victoriously. 

His technique seemed rough to the naked eye but taking a closer look, his form and tactics were flawless. His overall strategy could use a little work, since he seemed particularly keen on using brute strength, but he was really good at turning the tables on his opponent in an instant.

And really good at making sure that they couldn’t get up again after he threw them down.

You had your share of good fighters. Not like that, you dirty minded creature, you were a scout for your father’s gym. 

Aizawa wasn’t a revered name by any means, but that didn’t mean he lacked skill. He was the one who could take down more people than any other pro could, but he absolutely hated media attention. Hence why almost no one knew of his abilities, other than a select few of his colleagues and fellow fighters. 

And you of course. You were so incredibly proud of your him.

He had recently been scouting new talent after taking in several kids: Shinsou, Todoroki and Midoriya. 

The female boxers in his ring were a literal force to be reckoned with. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen someone pack a punch with as much power as Uraraka when she got serious. And no one could beat Yaoyorozu when they stepped in the same arena as her.

In the underground, it was normal to come across those that talked big, but rarely have you ever seen them deliver.

This guy had some raw talent. Perfect. 

Looks like Uncle Hizashi’s instinct was right.

After the fights ended and the exciting night came to a close, you wormed your way through the rows of people lining up to claim their bets that they had placed at the beginning of the night. You were at least smart enough not to get sucked into all that. 

A cage match had too many variables. The odds could change in a split second, no matter how good or bad the fighter was. And since there were no rules, anybody could win. 

You found the boxer in the designated fighters’ alcove security had put there especially for them to wind down. Here, they would be hidden away from the crowd and only the fighters knew about this spot aside from those that protected it.

“You’re good.”

Bakugou snorted, not looking up at the sound of your voice as he continued to unwrap the tape from his hands. “Of course I am, dumbass.”

You cocked an eyebrow at his arrogant attitude but after a fight like that, you guessed the pride was well deserved. After all, the guy he went up against was undefeated. No one had beat him and after Shindou earned his reputation of tearing the limbs off of the fighters he faced, no one wanted to step into the ring with him after that.

But Bakugou didn’t back away, even going so far as to taunt this guy, boldly proclaiming that he’d beat him.

Normally, you would brush off those guys as no good but he made good on what he said he would do, so you were at least a little bit curious.

A little.

You still didn’t like his attitude though. 

Tossing the bloodied wraps in his bag, he ignored you as you just stood there like a lost puppy. People like you didn’t belong in the underground.

Soft.

Bakugou scowled and huffed scornfully, throwing his bandages down with a little more force than necessary. 

Patching up wasn’t too bad this time around. He was lucky the round ended when it did though, that fucking extra had too much boisterous energy and willpower that had carried him this far. Still, it was better than fighting bare-knuckled. 

There was a time when wraps or gloves weren’t allowed. People liked the blood and violence, and craved someone to come out victorious by taking the other’s life.

Fucking sickos if anyone asked him. 

Bakugou slung his gym bag over his shoulder and shouldered his way past you since you had yet to say a word after that initial, begrudging praise. He couldn’t care less if you hung around but he wasn’t going to stick around for the damn media to catch whiff of this fight.

Once it was leaked that he had won, they would take a percentage of his cut and he would have to go without food for another week just to pay rent on that shitty place he stayed at. 

It wasn’t much but it was better than the streets.

“Wait.” You called out, inwardly chastising yourself for being so pathetic. 

You weren’t star-struck or nothing, so why were you feeling so tongue-tied?

Taking a deep breath when he snapped his head around to glare at you in annoyance for stopping him, you rolled your eyes when he tapped his foot impatiently. 

“You gonna take all fucking night, extra?” Bakugou barked at you, clearly not playing around. 

Your eyes widened as the metal plates on his left arm clinked together as he raised up his fist threateningly.

“I’ve got places to go and shit to do.” He grumbled. “So if you’re just going to stand there like a fucking—”

“Do you want to be a part of Aizawa’s gym?” You blurted out before he could get too carried away on his rant.

Bakugou arched an eyebrow in surprise. He hadn’t been expecting that. It was rare that the scruffy old man took on recruits.

Huffing, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and scrutinized you. “Who the hell are you?”

You cringed at how rough his voice laced with suspicion came out but you supposed you could understand. 

Collectors were far too common these days, usually rich scouts from corporations that searched for talented fighters to partake in their financial war when it turned bloody.

You weren’t really sure how it was possible for those airheads to train delinquents into soldiers for their military to fight in the wars that they created, but all you were really concerned about was dodging those scouts.

They weren’t people to trifle with.

Bakugou’s suspicions were misplaced this time around though and you jutted out your hip, planting your hand on it as you regarded him disinterestedly. 

There was only one thing that you could say to get him to trust you.

“He’s my dad.” You said quietly.

The boxer nearly choked on air and you flashed him a cheeky grin when he whipped his head around to glare at you.

“Fuck, seriously?”

You nodded and a heavy exhale whooshed out of his lungs in one breath.

Bakugou cocked up an eyebrow, seeing you in a completely different light. “Holy shit.”

You resisted the urge to dash away under his intrigue but you flinched when his eyes landed on you again.

“Sorry.” Bakugou muttered, averting his eyes. “Just never seen one before.”

You scratched the back of your neck, a habit you picked up from your introverted father whenever he was put in uncomfortable situations. “Yeah…”

Children weren’t born anymore, it was illegal. Partly because expenses couldn’t be covered if people got pregnant and partly because the kids would have nowhere to go, but mostly because the government wanted a controlled population. 

By controlling the gene pool, they could create whoever and whomever they chose, placing them in different status’ around the world to fill in the gaps and create the perfect society.

Except, it really wasn’t all that perfect.

You had been a product of your mom and dad’s unconditional love for each other, something else that was also forbidden, especially in the underground cities where disease ran rampant and claimed numerous innocent lives everyday. 

Your mother wasn’t dead but she did have to leave soon after you were born to protect you from the government officials that would come if she stayed.

Your dad was heartbroken but once every three years, the three of you were reunited under the bridge where seagulls cried and the waves crashed upon the shore.

Once upon a time.

Bakugou crossed his arms over his chest, his bicep bulging and you were willing to wager that he specifically got those measurements for his metal arm tailored to those specifications just so his huge muscles were distractingly the same size. 

He was still not entirely convinced you were who you said you were. He knew that you had to at least be a bastard’s biological child, no one was bold enough or fucking stupid to say that much out loud, but he still wasn’t sure that the old man was your dad.

Not bothering to be discreet as he eyed you up and down, he motioned for you to give him a little more information.

“Aizawa, huh?” Bakugou drawled. “You don’t fucking look like a brat that belongs to him.”

Clearing your throat, you smirked. Now you were the one tapping your foot impatiently. “Thanks, I’m told I have my mother’s eyes.”

He glared at your sarcasm but you didn’t care.

Craning your neck to the side to get a better look at that beautiful arm of his, you pouted when he ducked out of range.

“Prove that he’s your dad.” He demanded and you feigned innocence before shooting him a grin when he rolled his eyes irritably. 

Crossing your arms over your chest, you responded cheekily, “Coffee and cats are his two favorite things in the world, and he only tolerates Uncle Hizashi on a whim when he’s wasted.”

Bakugou barked out laughing and you smiled at the boisterous sound escaping from his lungs. 

“So,” You kicked your feet, scuffing the dirt as you sidled over to him. “You in or what?”

His left arm glinted in the dim, flickering light of the alcove and he tucked in his chin the slightest bit to stare down at you, the corner of his mouth quirked up.

“Hell yeah.”

Exactly one year later, you were weaving in between the clustered bodies in the dingy underground bar you were at to make your way to the obnoxious and rowdy group in the back, all while balancing a tray of beers in one hand.

They had just arrived a few minutes ago, eagerly chatting with your dad, who was their trainer, even though he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else but here.

Your skirt flared around your ankles as you sashayed through the crowd dancing on the dancefloor, a couple strands of hair sticking to your forehead from the exertion of how many tables you waited on already.

“First round’s here!!” You announced, beaming brightly at the packed group of 15.

Shoji, Mineta, and a few others couldn’t make it due to conflicting schedules. But it was alright, they would come again another time. Besides, you were quite sure that a special someone couldn’t care less if they made it or not for this particular day. 

“YES!!” Kaminari shouted escatically, throwing his hands up in the air.

A chorus of “thank you’s” came from the girls as Ashido eagerly reached for her first drink of the night, downing half the bottle in one go. You predicted she was going to be out like a light within the hour if she kept that pace up. 

“Don’t get shitfaced, Kaminari.” Jirou twirled a strand of her dark hair cockily as she teasingly held the last one out of arm’s reach. “Lightweight.”

“Jirou!!” Kaminari protested while the table burst into laughter.

The edgy fighter eventually gave into him, shaking her head in disapproval when he proceeded to chug all of it straight like it was some kind of shot. A knowing smirk appeared on her face when he choked.

“Told you so.” She rubbed in his face as Asui leaned into her side.

“Shut up!!” Kaminari shouted between violent bouts of coughing. It only got worse when Ashido slapped his back, already drunk.

But the slight pink dusted across his cheeks clued you in on what he was really doing.

You shook your head. If he was any more dense, you would’ve smacked him upside the head. Maybe then he would’ve come to his senses and that he didn’t need to do all these things to impress her. 

Jirou never hated anything more than someone who felt fake to her.

As you distributed the rest of the drinks to a clueless Todoroki, a way too eager Midoriya, and handed water to Koda, who thanked you shyly with a small nod.

You smiled at him, then left to the bar that your uncle was managing to get the order for the next table while Iida shouted for everyone to make sure they drank responsibly so that they didn’t cause any problems for you. 

But it was largely ignored in favor of raising their beers in a toast for the birthday boy.

Bakugou scowled in the corner that he was shoved into, wondering why he of all people had to be dragged to this shitty celebration for a birthday he couldn’t care less about. It was too loud here and it was making his head hurt. The only consolation he got was that you were a rare sight, wearing a dress that he had bought for you a week ago.

The seamstress who had made it for him specifically had charged him an incredible amount of money for it, since fabric of any kind that wasn’t made from recycled garbage liners was nearly impossible to come by.

But being a part of the ring of fighters that made up Aizawa’s Warriors gave him credibility and enabled him to make even more money than he did before, so it wasn’t a problem.

That much. 

After rent on his rundown place and scrounging for food, he had saved up the rest for weeks before he was able to afford the pale blue satin dress edged with delicate white lace around the sleeves that cascaded off your shoulders. The tightly-fitted bodice that wrapped around your waist was a simple leather corset, accentuating those curves of yours more than should be legally allowed.

You looked absolutely delicious. 

You continued to sweep around the tavern, oblivious to the looks you were getting. You had a bit of expertise in waitressing due to the lack of income your dad was able to provide so you had to convince him that you really didn’t mind helping out with the staff tonight.

The bar, owned by your Uncle Hizashi, a retired fighter but not retired in spirit, had all the profits go to the orphanages the city couldn’t keep track of or be bothered to pay for; which enabled those kids who were abandoned to have a roof over their heads in all the uncertainty.

The state of those houses holding those homeless children were horrendous. 

But your dad and uncle were taking steps to create something new that would provide them with some relief and a new family.

Kirishima clapped the ash-blond on the shoulder, jarring him out of his annoyance. “Come on, Bakugou, loosen up!!” 

He clicked his tongue and scowled at the red-haired guy’s energy. No one would think that this fun-loving guy and people person would be such a terrifying fighter in the arena.

Kirishima frowned when he noticed his lack of enthusiasm. “C’mon man, I know this isn’t your scene but Y/N worked really hard on this.”

Bakugou’s drink nearly spilled as he set it down abruptly. He wasn’t expecting that. Aizawa had told him that his friends had arranged this.

Picking up on his confusion, Kirishima then proceeded to tell him about how you gathered everybody to ask if they’d be willing to attend the party and how all of them enthusiastically said yes. You had gotten special permission from your Uncle Hizashi to borrow the VIP section of his bar and convinced your father to go easy on their training today. 

Really, the grumpy man with the metal arm should be thanking you since you were the reason all of them weren’t sore to death with barely enough energy to keep their heads up. 

Kirishima was going to blame it on Aizawa. He was tough on them. Too tough. No one should be that determined to make their students push past their limits but everyone knew it came from him caring more than anyone else. 

They were all like his adopted children, in a weird, skewed way. But, no one was going to argue against it. None of them had their biological parents in the picture. 

Besides, Aizawa had enough room for them all to crash in his home. An abandoned mansion overrun with thick green vines but had no working electricity whatsoever looked like something straight out of one of those old horror movies back in the 3000s. 

Bakugou scoffed. Like hell should he care about whether or not you planned this. He didn’t ask you to do any of this, you decided to do it all on your own. 

“Whatever.” He grumbled, snatching his bottle before stalking away from his shocked friends left in the dust. 

Todoroki raised an eyebrow as Kirishima sighed and Midoriya’s expression saddened when he saw him leave. They were supposed to be celebrating…

And yet, all three of them knew why today was so hard for the explosive boxer.

You frowned as you noticed the slumped figure retreating to the back of the establishment. Finishing up serving the drinks for the table you were waiting on, you briefly made a detour to your uncle and asked if it was alright that you take a break.

Ever the doting uncle who loved to spoil you rotten, Mic’s eyes softened understandingly when he noticed who you were staring after and granted you permission.

“Just don’t tell your dad I let you off the hook.” He bargained with an exaggerated wink and you giggled.

“I won’t.” You reassured, setting down the tray and squeezing his hand in thanks.

Then, you followed Bakugou. 

He disappeared around the corner and as soon as you tailed him, you came to a stop in front of a heavy door. Your brow furrowed, wondering why he would be coming here. 

Step after familiar step you took until you eventually came to a standstill on the roof.

Behind you, the heavy door slammed close but it sounded different than usual. Something metal crashed into it, denting it by the sounds of it, and it wasn’t until you turned around that you found Bakugou’s vermilion eyes boring into yours.

The wind was stronger up here and you pinned your arms down to your side, knowing full well from experience how mortifying it would be if your skirt decided to flip up right now.

“What the fuck are you doing up here?” He snapped angrily.

To his surprise, you didn’t look the least bit fazed by his outburst.

“I live here.” You responded nonchalantly, undeterred by his characteristic abrasiveness. 

If Bakugou was startled at that revelation, he didn’t show it. If anything, he looked even more irked, though you didn’t know why. He didn’t have any reason to suspect you of lying but in this world, it was safer to be skeptical than sorry.

However, you hadn’t given him one reason to doubt you the entire year you’ve known him. Not one.

So if anything, he trusted you more than the majority of the rats in his rundown city and just as much as his small circle of extras. 

Picking your way past him carefully since the roof didn’t have a safety rail, you made your way towards the curtained tent hiding behind the generator. Pushing the tattered material back, you showed him the bedroll and small table set up with a few bottles of water, a case of beer and a worn book. 

Bakugou’s mouth dropped open but he recovered quickly so by the time you turned back around, he had the same indifferent, kind of irritated look on his face.

Then, he was a bit at a loss of what to do. It wasn’t often he was faced with the dilemma of being wrong so blatantly. Should he apologize? Even when he didn’t say anything but the thought that you were crazy ran through his head? Should he apologize for something you weren’t even aware of?

Nah, fuck that.

You gingerly took a seat at the edge of the roof, leaning back on your hands as your legs dangled. Patting the spot next to you invitingly, a soft smile curved on the corners of your mouth as he grumbled but came over anyway. He plopped down on your right side and you took a moment to study him. 

He looked exhausted, spirit whittled down to the bone until there was nothing left for him to salvage. His eyes were bloodshot and the beer bottle in his hand probably wasn’t doing any favors for him.

Glancing at him out of the corner of your eyes, you asked worriedly, “You okay?”

He huffed in annoyance at your question.

“Fine.” He ground out through clenched teeth and you shut your mouth.

Bakugou clearly wasn’t looking to talk but you yearned to help. You wanted to be there for him. 

Kirishima hadn’t told you much, only that the incident that took Bakugou’s arm happened a long time ago and wasn’t something he liked to relive. 

You didn’t push it. You had your own share of traumatic experiences in this god-forsaken place and hated nothing more than being forced to talk about by a well meaning friend. So you understood it well. 

Instead of pushing the topic, you sat with him in silence. You didn’t ask why he walked away from the party or why it looked like he was drowning himself in his sorrows to forget something, you just offered him a quiet place to sit, with the company of yours truly.

Fate was flawed. You knew that ever since you were born.

The warped sense of justice that the city had was suffocating. People were put away in prison only to be left to rot with no chance of redemption. Those that made it out were casted out to the underground with no hope to see the light. 

Combatants-for-hire wasn’t an unusual job to take on in the ruined city. All Might knew you too had been mixed up in some shit. 

But it was what made you strong in the end.

“I’m here.” Was all you said softly, staring out at the city lights that were especially illuminating tonight.

Thanks to the heavy pollution, the stars could no longer be seen with the naked eye so this was the closest thing you could get to those twinkling lights raised high in the sky. 

“It’s funny.”

You tilted your head towards him as he spoke and was a bit surprised to find him looking directly back at you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher. 

His eyes were a little dazed, probably from the alcohol, but he looked a little more grounded than he did a minute ago.

Bakugou chuckled but it was short and grated against your ears for a second.

It was mocking.

He tipped his head back, downing the rest of his drink before harshly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand while he crushed the bottle in his metal fist.

Leaning over, he let go and let the shiny crystals plummet to the ground below. 

You smiled faintly, watching how they sparkled. It looked so pretty. 

Sitting back down, Bakugou mimicked your posture and huffed out a dry laugh. “Out of all the shitty extras in the world, you would be the only one to fucking get through to me.”

Your puzzlement must’ve shown through his alcohol-induced haze because the next thing you knew was that he teetered to the side as he lost control of his equilibrium and careened into you.

Out of reflex, you caught him and gasped at the temperature difference as his cold metal arm pressed against you. You could feel it through the thin fabric of your dress and latched onto it when he moved to pull away.

“Sorry.” Bakugou slurred curtly as he gathered his bearings and tried to detangle you from him. 

But his coordination wasn’t the best and he was growing more and more frustrated when you wouldn’t let go.

He snarled. “Let go.”

You shook your head firmly. “You could fall.”

Oh yeah. You two were on the roof. 

This was a bad idea. 

He didn’t know how he ended up here with you but he needed to leave. Immediately. 

Bakugou stumbled to his feet, somehow managing to lose his way halfway to the door and face-planted in something that smelled faintly of lavender. Snuggling into the soft thing that was rubbing against his face, his brow furrowed in annoyance as you giggled at him.

“You have to take me out on a date first if you want that.” You teased lightly and he immediately sat up as he realized he had crashed in your bed.

He scrambled upright, nearly falling over again in his haste. “Fuck, I’m—”

“It’s alright, Katsuki.” You reassured nonchalantly, coming down to sit beside him, but not close enough where your legs were touching.

Bakugou’s mouth twitched at the sound of his first name but his eyes softened the barest bit and he didn’t fight against it. 

Before he met you, he hated his name. It was a reminder that the place he came from was from a lab, cooked up like some sort of sick science experiment to fulfill a role in society that was chosen by some prick who had money.

It was a reminder that he wasn’t real. That he was expendable to all those bastards that ran the world.

But when you used it, when you spoke it with such tentative curiosity and genuine concern, he didn’t feel so unimportant anymore.

“Fuck.” Bakugou breathed as you leaned closer to examine his face.

Your forehead creased in worry and you raised a hand to his head to check his temperature to make sure he wasn’t running a fever. “Are you feeling alright?”

Squeaking when he suddenly grabbed your hand, you gasped in shock when he tugged you towards him. 

You crashed into his chest and your cheeks flushed hotly as his chiseled form honed from years of training molded against your front. 

His arm wrapped around your shoulders and it took a second to realize that his metal arm was planted firmly on the ground, keeping the two of you steady. 

But when you reached out your fingers to brush against it, he ripped away from you.

You pulled back immediately, apology weighing in your gaze as your eyes flicked away from him. “I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s fucking hideous.”

You balked at his tenor. “W-What?!”

Bakugou looked away from you, his gaze fixed on the ground behind you as he rested his chin on top of your head, stubbornly refusing to look you in the eye as you breathed steadily against the base of his neck.

You were warm. Delicate.

Precious.

He didn’t expect someone like you to understand.

His vermilion eyes were shadowed by the ghosts of his past that continued to haunt him and he sighed heavily, curling his arm around you tighter. He didn’t want to let you go just let but he didn’t know why you weren’t pushing him away. 

Your soft voice rang out. “Katsuki, what do you mean? It’s not hideous at all.”

He clicked his tongue but otherwise didn’t verbalize his disagreement. 

“How could someone like you possibly understand this shit?” He spat but you didn’t recoil like he was half hoping you would.

At least then he would have an excuse to leave, under the guise that he had upset you. But you didn’t do any of that. 

Too fucking precious. Always saw the good in everything just like that shitty nerd. 

You closed your eyes in defeat. “No… I suppose I can’t.”

You didn’t quite understand him. 

The bite in his tone sounded like you had hit too close to home, and yet, his thumb was absentmindedly running over the satin of your dress that he had bought you, your side heating up under his chest and warmth bloomed from your heart.

And yet, he wasn’t pushing you away.

Leaning down, you rested your forehead against his shoulder, your heart beating too loud for your own ears. “You don’t have to say anything, but I know what it feels like to be an outcast too.”

Bakugou eyed you cautiously, wondering if this was some sort of trick because he was drunk and definitely not as attentive as normally but your tone was open.

Honest. 

“Yeah, maybe you do.” He scoffed, scorning you under his breath. “Maybe you don’t. It doesn’t fucking matter to me.”

“Maybe it doesn’t.” You whispered, tracing patterns on his chest as your head lolled to the side to gaze at him with complete vulnerability. “But just know that you aren’t alone.”

Bakugou whipped his head around as you stared at him. Didn’t you get it already? He didn’t want to fucking taint you with all of this shit that went on down here.

He didn’t want to tell you that he had to settle tinkering with whatever scrap metal he could find in the junkyard just to make his left arm operational again, didn’t want to tell you that the government had offered him a real replacement prosthetic but at the cost of becoming one of their combatants fighting in a war he never chose and as a result, he was casted to the side when something went wrong.

He had lost everything. 

The second he had been tossed out on the street, he had come crawling back to Kiko, a spunky little girl a part of the UA orphanage in the east, one of the ones that Mic funneled money towards to fund their food and supply them with fresh water every three days.

The girl, no more than ten at the time, with her dirty blonde pigtails sticking out on either side of her lopsided head, had been born with a unique appearance.

The officials called it a defect, as though they were talking about an object of mass production.

Fucking disgusting.

It never seemed to bother the girl though, and she often claimed that she was tougher than all those men in fancy suits. Bakugou liked her spirit already.

Kiko had had this habit of tracing her stubby little fingers all over the scars from his fights whenever he came to visit and it had been her idea to forgo a realistic prosthetic from the corporation that was looking to hire him and just go out, full badass, just like Bucky in the Winter Soldier.

It was her favorite movie but Bakugou claimed he had absolutely no idea where she learned that kind of language from. 

He had chuckled and patted her on the head at the time, swearing to hell and back that there was no fucking way he was going to build a metal arm. He would scare the kids if he did that, not to mention, full-grown adults.

But Kiko simply bounded over to him and beamed up at him like nothing was wrong in the world. It was fucking contagious, begging for him to at least consider it, selling the point of how cool it would look.

“You would be a superhero, Bakugou!!” She cheered, raising her hands up high, demanding for him to lift her up even though she wasn’t five anymore. “And you could save everybody, just like you want to!!”

He never got a chance to show her the finished product. Would she have liked it? Would she run around, screaming in his shitty apartment as she played with it when he detached it for cleaning? Would she try to hit him over the head with it when she thought he wasn’t looking like the cheeky brat he knew that she was?

Bakugou could hear her squeals of excitement so vividly some nights that he woke up from his terror of that night, soaked in cold sweat from a memory of the girl he had failed to save.

Defeated and overwhelmed by his circumstances after being rejected by the very people who sought him out because of his talent, he had ventured to the orphanage that night and on a whim, demanded her to live with him. He would take care of her, protect her, teach her things that she couldn’t learn from anyone else.

The widest smile he had ever seen stretched across Kiko’s face and she accepted his demands with eyes tearing up with joy. 

He vowed to protect her. 

He failed. 

He had an unsettled score with the government officials he had upset on his way out from the lab that day they told him he had been scraped from the program. 

The enraged fighter went on a rampage, tearing down anything in his path and clearing out the experiment rooms, offering freedom and a second chance to anyone willing and brave enough to take it. 

And as a result, many took him up on his offer and fled that place with white walls and food too bland to actually be considered nutritious.

There was no doubt about it. He pissed them off the day he saved the others.  

They had come for her and taken her last year on his birthday as revenge for freeing those they were experimenting on. He found a crumpled, poorly wrapped, newspaper covered package lost in the clutter of his apartment when he got home.

The creaking old door that kept out winter drafts had caved in, signifying that it had broken in with considerable force, and Kiko was gone.

That crushed gift hidden under the stairwell was the only thing that remained of her.

Inside, there was a small metal pin in the shape of an explosion. For his personality. Corny, but the little girl was simple-minded and liked the sentiment she found in things that she repurposed. 

Bakugou always thought it was fucking weird but he hadn’t taken it off ever since that day. 

The metal plates of his arm glided, clinking together softly as the polished steel lifted to trace your jaw, the pin visible on the inside of his wrist.

To keep her close to him always.

He had stormed their stronghold but by the time he got there, they were gone. Everything.

Every vial, all the equipment, every single one of the samples and officials had disappeared into thin air. 

Bakugou had tried everything to track Kiko down, paying off the highest crime organizations to get more eyes out on the street but nothing worked. She was gone.

And she wasn’t ever going to come back.

You were silent when he finished telling you his depressing life story, sure you were bored to death but when he started to get up, he found that he couldn’t get very far with you draped over his body like this.

Bakugou had a fleeting thought that you had fallen asleep while he had been lamenting and rehashing every depressing detail from his past but he noticed the stuttering rise and fall of your back.

Well, at least you weren’t asleep, but now he didn’t know how to feel when he had told you all of that and you had yet to say anything.

“I know you don’t want pity.” You whispered into his shoulder.

He raised an eyebrow but waited for you to continue.

“I know there’s nothing that I can say that would make the pain go away or bring Kiko back,” You said softly. “But I’m here for you.”

Bakugou pressed his cheek against your hair and inhaled your sweet scent, closing his eyes as an unseen weight lifted from off of his shoulders. 

“Thank you.” He murmured quietly with great difficulty. 

You smiled slightly, glad that you were able to provide him with a little bit of comfort. “Anytime.”

The two of you stayed entwined for a few more moments, time stretching as he held onto you, soaking up your soothing presence while you relaxed against his hold.

“Katsuki?” You called quietly when he still didn’t let go after five more minutes.

Tightening his arm around you, he frowned when you struggled in his grip. 

“Stop fucking moving.” He demanded and you ceased fighting in favor of pulling back to flick him on the forehead. “Oi, did you just fucking flick me?!”

“Yes.” You replied bluntly, snickering when he rolled his eyes. 

There he was.

Bakugou protested hotly when you pushed down his arms to untangle from him but you shushed him with a giggle, leaning back to open the box of beer by your bed, grabbing two bottles and fishing for something from underneath your pillow

In the underground city where liquor was the only thing that was plentiful, you would take what you could get. 

Bakugou caught the beer that you threw at him in midair with an expression a mix between annoyance that you tossed it at his face and gratitude that you knew how he needed another drink after that tale. 

“What the fuck is that for?” He scoffed, pointing to the roll of gauze in your hand. “You get a papercut or some shit?”

You rolled your eyes in disbelief, failing to notice how his eyes raked over you to look for any kind of injury you might be hiding from him, and held it up to him. “No, but it looks like you did.”

He almost spilled his beer that he just popped the lid off of, mouth furrowing in a deep-seated frown when he followed your gaze and landed on the cuts on his knuckles from the fight that happened earlier that night.

“Fuck.” He cursed, setting down the beer hard to wipe up the blood.

He hadn’t even known when he got hurt. 

But he didn’t even get started on tending to it when your gentle hands wrapped around his and you took over for him. 

“Here.” You murmured, pouring some water onto a clean cloth and dabbing carefully at his cuts. “Let me.”

“You’re fucking weird.” Bakugou grumbled but allowed you to take over. 

Your touch was so much lighter than the rough pads of his fingers. He was always too impatient whenever he had to patch himself up, jerking at the bandages to get them to lay flat when they wouldn’t cooperate.

It was a fucking pain to stop the bleeding when his shitty fingers fumbled with it. It was a trip to hell and back every single time he had to attend to wounds he got from boxing.

Your nose scrunched up in concentration as you finished cleaning the area before securely wrapping the soft cotton around his knuckles.

“There.” You declared in satisfaction, sitting back on your knees.

Admiring your handiwork with an unreadable expression, it was a second before Bakugou nodded begrudgingly with thanks.

“It’s not complete shit.” 

You giggled. “Thanks.”

He picked back up his drink and took a swig.

Offering up yours, you hid your surprise when he actually recognized the gesture and clinked his glass against yours.

The distinct hum from the music in the establishment below filtered up to the roof, filling the silence and the occasional echo of steel grating against each other. The low lights were pleasant and the ambiance was soothing as you two drank away the night.

You shivered, catching a chill as the night air blew by, but before you could reach for your blanket, Bakugou was tucking you in his side. 

“Get over here, dumbass.” He mumbled, turning his face away so that you wouldn’t see his blush. “You’re gonna get fucking sick.”

You noticed how he still kept your metal arm away from you. That wound was still too fresh and somehow you had a feeling that no matter how much time would pass, things would never quite be the same again.

Playing with the hem of your dress, you smiled softly. “But I wanted to wear it today, it was a special occasion.”

Special occasion his ass. It was fucking freezing out here and all you were wearing was that summer dress. His brow knitted as you puffed out your cheeks, breath visible, and he wasn’t so sure he wanted to leave you out here when it was so cold out.

“I’m sorry.” Bakugou apologized quietly as you lost interest in toying with the pale blue satin and folded your hands neatly in your lap.

At your questioning gaze, he suppressed the urge to roll his eyes but heat crept up his neck.

“For storming out on the celebration you planned, dumbass.” He grumbled, flicking you on the forehead in a similar fashion hat you had done earlier.

Whining, you held onto your forehead as you made an exaggeration of pain. He rolled his eyes at your antics and you giggled, snuggling further into his side.

“You’re warm.” You mused.

Bakugou scowled, cheeks still pink from the embarrassment tingling through his whole body. “Oi, are you fucking ignoring m—”

“Of course not.” You retorted, pinching his side in retaliation for the flick he gave you before your voice dropped a little. “It’s just— There isn’t anything you need to apologize for. I understand.”

Those words, they were so simple and yet, warmth bloomed in his chest from how they fell from your lips. 

And he could see that you were truly genuine.

He had rejected your kindness earlier when Kirishima had told him you had planned out all of this for him. He had never quite been accustomed to generously that lacked a price or some kind of condition.

Then again, he had never met someone quite like you. 

As you rested against his shoulder, Bakugou took the empty beer bottle from you and placed it on the other side of him so that you didn’t break it and cut yourself when you woke up from your little nap.

He gazed out into the city that had caused him so much misery and wondered how it was even possible for someone like you to exist.

Birthdays, he still hated them, but maybe, just maybe, he could start to heal.

It would start by telling that old man that you fucking needed a new place to sleep that wasn’t the goddamn roof.

It was a good thing he knew just the place you could go.

Brushing back the hair out of your eyes, he allowed a small smile to form on his face as you breathed softly, evenly and he smirked against the top of your head as a thought crossed his mind. And even though he knew you couldn’t hear him, he still murmured quietly.

“How do you feel about seagulls and sand, princess?”

[garrettwrites]

Can villains just be evil? No justification?

The answer is yes, but not in the way you think.

You can absolutely have an antagonist that is just a complete piece of garbage. A manipulative bastard, a person who craves violence, a destructive force of nature, or someone who acts so wild you can't even predict their next action no matter how hard you try. They don't need a tragic backstory, or to have been treated badly in order to be what we consider "morally screwed".

In fact, I believe giving your villain a sob story for purely justification means doesn't work. The reason why is very simple: your villain can have their backstory reflect on why they behave like they do, if they were created with such story in mind. If the backstory is there as an afterthought to try to justify their actions, it falls flat. No, giving a flashback of the villain's parents not letting them visit their friends isn't an instant "oh poor character A, they weren't socialized as a kid! Makes perfect sense they now wanna ruin relationships!".

However, this doesn't mean they would be just empty vessels for the author to put all evil in the world inside of them. There should still be a logical conclusion as to why they behave like that, or at least something that remotely makes sense.

For example, let's assume your villain had a normal childhood. Not the best, their parents still argued with them from time to time like all parents do, maybe their grades weren't top of the class but they still were good enough to get them a scholarship later on, maybe they had a pet turtle that they liked, and a stable group of friends.

Yet your villain slowly grew up hating stability. Despite their outer appearance and actions, they were perpetually bored. They craved something more. One day they get the chance to unleash just a small, momentary chaos inside their workspace, and suddenly, they feel joy and entertainment for the first time in a while.

They get addicted. Walking outside the norm and triggering chaotic situations breaks away from the slow spin their world did up until then. Small pranks become bigger and bigger, until your character is out there burning the world down for fun, no matter if innocents get hurt or killed.

In this scenario, nothing tragic happened to them. They were just bored, and found joy in morally questionable actions. This would work if you want an unpredictable villain that can't be "saved" by making them see their past doesn't reflect them, since they aren't bad because their past was horrible, they're bad for shits and giggles. Yes, it makes them borderline irredeemable, but you don't need to redeem all your antagonists. And if you want to, making such a character turn for the good requires more skill and thought than most do, which would be a fun work in on itself.

Many villains can follow this formula. A villain kills because they enjoy seeing life drain out of their victims. A villain is a greedy boss of a billion dollar company because they love the luxury few can afford. A villain is monstrous because they decided being human just wasn't that fun.

You don't need a tragic reason or a plot twist for your antagonist to be bad. You just need to convince the reader their motives, morals or ambitions are so strong they push "good, acceptable" behaviour aside to have their way.

[its-deputy-caleb]

would u possibly do some NSFW morbell? where they're up in colter ( i loved ur original morbell post on them ) pls do more as i love ur blog 💛

this is an absolute mess oml i literally have no idea how to write anything smutty but here we go i guess. I love this pair but i kinda went off topic and centred this on a praise kink for micah. ANYWAY this is probably terrible since i'm melting, its literally 40 degrees and the aircon is broken so its unedited af and i wont look at it again until i have a cold drink. but pls enjoy some morbell <333

------------------------------------

‘Cold up in Colter’

Fuck, what a mess Blackwater had been. The Pinkertons were on them faster than ever and they found themselves fleeing from a blood bath.

That was almost three days ago and Micah hadn’t had an ounce of sleep. He’d been sent out with John to scout ahead, having found a homestead which ended up burning at the hand of O’Driscoll’s. Okay maybe house burning down was his fault but he tends to make stupid decisions when he’s had little to know sleep. And it was so fucking cold.

That didn’t stop heat rising to his face when he felt Arthur’s hands on his shoulder, pushing him back with a roughness he could only wish for in another way. Damn Arthur Morgan and his ability to have Micah curling in on himself and blushing like a virgin at the mere thought of a hand on his shoulder.

He should hate Arthur, really the two are nothing more than rivals, competing for the spot of Dutch Van Der Linde’s right hand. At the beginning, almost six months ago now, Micah couldn’t stand the sight of the man but somehow that anger tapered off into something more akin to admiration and that admiration slowly turned to desire.

He’ll never admit to how badly he wants Arthur but he won’t deny however that he’s pushed the man’s buttons more than once just to have an interaction with him. All he had to do start a silly argument over camp earnings or a bet at five finger fillet to have the man shaking him by the collar and threatening to break his nose.

It almost always ended with Micah sneaking off into the woods with half a bottle of whiskey and his pants bunched around his ankles as he thought of the way Arthur roughed him up by his shirt collar. Fuck he was pathetic sometimes.

There were other occasions where the two had actually managed to get along and that’s what pissed Micah off more than any threats of violence. Arthur just had to go and bring him a beer as he grabbed one for himself, letting their fingers touch accidentally. Or he went and offered him a seat by the fireplace where they ended up much to close for his comfort. Damn Arthur for always leaving him short of breath with a hole in his heart.

Despite what Micah did to impress Dutch, Arthur was still the camp’s favourite by a mile and he never failed to outcompete him in the eyes of the gang. Micah never minded much, not looking for anyone’s approval, but the thought of proving himself to Arthur, of being worthy of his praise is enough to have his wild side reined in.

Naturally that didn’t stop Micah from losing it from time to time and wasn’t surprised when his jealousy shot up again as Miss Grimshaw announced Arthur got his own cabin while he shared with the rest of the fellers. And he’d be damned if he had to share a room with Williamson who didn’t stop snoring.

That’s why he found himself huddled in the makeshift stables, choosing instead to wrap himself in his coat and down a bottle of whiskey to wait the night out. He cold planks he was sitting on offered little comfort and the draft in the room had his lip shaking. But at least he wouldn’t have anyone in his hair and he’d be left alone, just the way he liked it.

Of course that didn’t last long when the cranky wooden door was barged open, spooking some of the horses in the opposite end of the room. A broad figure entered the room, blocking most of the door way but that didn’t stop to whoosh of cold air flood into the room, draining even more colour from his face.

It wasn’t until the door was closed and the man stepped closer when he realised it was Arthur.

“Micah? What the hell are you doing in here?”

Arthur sounded surprised, with only a hint of concern in his voice.

“Sleepin’— what the hell ya doing here Morgan?”

There wasn’t much of a response from Arthur, only a quiet noise which was barely heard over the whistle of the wind between the planks. He walked over to the horses, checking over them and ensuring none of them were freezing to death. Micah watched in silence, scared to disturb the man as he patted along Taima’s neck.

It wasn’t until after Arthur had checked over all the horses did he turn his attention to Micah.

Micah watched as Arthur’s gloved hand extended out and offered itself to him, he hesitated before taking before taking it and being pulled to his feet. Arthur’s hand draped over his shoulder which he didn’t realise had shaking in an effort to keep warm, having drunk the remaining whiskey from the bottle.

“Common now, yer gonna freeze in here alone.”

Micah dug his heels into the ground, not allowing Arthur to pull him any further to the door as he tried to hold his voice steady. He’d be damned if he ever let Arthur know just how much he affected him.

“I ain’t sharing a bunk with Williams—“

Arthur tutted, pulling Micah out the door as he pushed him towards his cabin in the snow storm.

“Quit yer yapping, you’re sharing with me and I ain’t having any more folk die tonight. Now let’s go.”

Arthur didn’t utter another word until they were well and truely in his room, wrapped in a blanket that was barely big enough for the two of them. The bed wasn’t much bigger, having been made for one person which was evident by Arthur pressing against Micah’s back in efforts for them to fit. The only thing that kept them apart was the fabric of their jackets, otherwise Arthur would probably hear Micah’s heartbeat which was beating much to fast for his liking.

The uncomfortable silence was broken when Micah cursed under his breath which caused his teeth to chatter and Arthur spoke up.

“Yer still cold, c'mere”

Micah’s breath fell short as Arthur’s hands slid under his coat, resting his hands on his tummy to use his body heat as a source of warmth. In doing so Arthur had moved even closer, ensuring Micah’s back was flush against his chest.

Despite that Micah wanted to protest, to go straight to his default of arguing he couldn’t help but feel as he began to warm up and he slowly relaxed under his hands.

A blush rose high on his cheeks as Arthur also relaxed into their embrace, accidentally letting his hands drift lower until he felt the hard press of Micah’s straining erection against his knuckle.

Micah instantly sucked in a breath, panicking and trying to push his way out of Arthur’s hold.

“Shit Arthur I—“

Micah froze as Arthur gently pulled him back to the bed and rubbed slow circles along his stomach.

“S’alright Micah, I’m not mad…”

Arthur held him close, letting him relax before talking again before he whispered right into the shell of his ear.

“…This what you want? Is this why you’re always staring at me from across camp, why yer always picking fights and asking me to robberies?”

A high pitched noise left Micah as he shivered, feeling Arthur’s hot breath against his ear. His blush deepened as he pushed back slightly into him, whimpering at the feel of Arthur’s own erection pressed against his ass.

Fuck it, he thought as heat pooled in his abdomen and he finally allowed himself to have the one thing he’d been craving for months. He nodded frantically, grinding back onto Arthur’s clothed dick and squirming in his grip.

“Relax boy, gonna give you everything you’ve been waiting for— just be good and you’ll get it”

Micah nodded in agreement, a needy, desperate sound leaving him at the promise of praise. He wanted, no needed to be praised by the man so badly that he’d do anything for an ounce of it from the man.

“Oh god Arthur! I need it, need you. Fuck I can be good I promise.”

He knew he was probably being too loud but apart of him didn’t have it in him to care. He moaned softly as Arthur moved him to roll onto his back, towering over him but ensuring they were still kept under the blanket.

Arthur spent the next ten minutes undressing him without exposing much of his skin to the cold. He unbuttoned the lower buttons of his leather jacket, enough for Arthur to work his fly down and pull one pant leg off. He whined pitifully, grabbing at the lapels of Arthur’s coat in a silent plea for him to undress him properly.

Micah mentally scolded himself at just how desperate he was for Arthur to rip his clothes off and fuck him like a bitch in heat but he knew that wasn’t happening any time soon. Arthur however caught on pretty quickly to what he wanted, it seemed the man knew just what made him tick.

“I know sweetheart, once we’re well and truly outta here I’ll get us a room and we can do this properly.”

Micah’s eyes beamed at the thought of Arthur taking him to a hotel in the future, panting as his mind raced with images of Morgan making him fall apart on his cock for hours on end.

While Micah was busy in his mind, Arthur took the opportunity to retrieve the gun oil from his satchel. It certainly wasn’t the best option but it was their only choice with their limited supplies.

Arthur draped himself back over Micah’s body, kissing at his jaw and nibbling as he coated his fingers. The air was cold, only making the oil feel colder as he slowly dipped his index finger past Micah’s rim.

A devilish grin came to Arthur’s face as he heard Micah sigh and take his finger easily, deciding to work his way up to two sooner than he was expecting.

“You’ve wanted this for a long time haven’t you? I saw you once, bout a week ago. Head down, ass up with three of yer fingers inside you while you cried out for me to fuck you. It all clicked in my head then when you started acting different around me at camp.”

Micah flushed a deep red, coughing on air as he realised Arthur knew about his little crush. He tried to think of an excuse, to weasel his way out of it but his thoughts died in his head when Arthur twisted his fingers, scissoring and stretching him open before adding a third.

Arthur dragged a lip along Micah’s cheek to his lip, ghosting his lips over his before kissing him properly. This time Micah didn’t even try to fight for dominance, opening his mouth instantly for Arthur’s tongue to enter. Instead he sighed into it, pulling his legs to wrap around his waist as his hands wrapped around his lover’s shoulder.

It went on like that until Arthur was satisfied that Micah was well prepped enough, simultaneously rubbing against Micah’s prostate while he kissed him deeply. He only pulled away to pull his own leaking member out, bunching his pants around his thighs so he had enough room to move but could stay warm. He coated the rest of the oil onto his member, jerking slowly as he stared down at the sight of Micah below him.

Micah looked like an absolute mess against the pillows already, his face was flush and the scarf around his head had unwrapped slightly, revealing his disheveled blond hair. His chest was heaving as he panted and his thighs shook from pleasure as the weakly wrapped around his waist.

“You look so pretty like this sweetheart”

To say that Micah hated the pet name was a lie, one that he didn’t try deny as he moaned softly. His back arched and he gripped Arthur’s coat tightly as he felt his cock slide between his cheeks and over his hole. He’s wanted this for so long now and yet somehow it still didn’t quite feel real as his mind was clouded with arousal.

Micah’s toes curled and he moaned when he felt Arthur push into him, slowly inching forward until he felt him bottom out.

“Ah— ah! Oh Arthur fuck! Please fuck me, I’ll be good I swear.”

Micah practically sobbed with pleasure as Arthur set up a fast pace, pulling almost all the way out till just the tip was left inside his tight hole before pushing back in quickly, brushing his prostate in the process. His cock twitched from where it rested against his tummy, pinned between Arthur’s jacket which caused a string of moans to fall from his mouth.

“Look at you, so good for me— fucking perfect Micah. Such a good boy”

Arthur’s hands came to hold onto Micah’s hips for leverage, pulling on his slight muffin top under the jacket to help pull him back to meet his thrusts. Beneath him he heard Micah whine and whimper at the praise so desperately needed to hear.

Micah bought a finger up to his mouth, biting on his knuckle to silence any more noises he deemed to be pathetic from slipping out of him. He hated how close he already was just from being praised by Arthur.

It seemed Arthur wasn’t having any of it when he pulled his finger away from his mouth before kissing him like he had done not that long ago. He swallowed every one of Micah’s noises, mindful of Dutch sleeping next door and slowing his thrusts to something deeper and slower.

His hands roamed all over Micah’s clothed body, breaking away for air and whispering praises down his ear.

“That’s it, make those pretty noises for me sweetheart.”

Micah eye’s rolled into his head as he cried out.

“You’re mine, all for me— my good boy.”

More moans slipped from his lips.

“Atta boy— taking me so well, so good.”

His back arched and he withered in his embrace

“So eager to please aren’t you? I’ll take care of you now boy.”

“—Arthur! I’m close— Ah, I’m gonna—“

“Go on sweetheart cum for me…that’s it good boy.”

Micah’s whole body when rigid as he finally came. His mouth hung open, tongue lolling out as his orgasm dragged out with each thrust Arthur delivered, eager to chase his own.

He collapsed into the pillow, thighs shaking as he whined at the oversensitivity. It didn’t last long before Arthur’s thrusts changed pace to something more erratic, picking up the pace as he spilled his load inside him.

Arthur groaned into his neck, pulling him close and collapsing into him as he regained his breath.

He pulled out slowly with a wet and obscene pop, sitting up and helping Micah put his clothes back on. Micah only weakly managed to fiddle with the button on his jacket while Arthur gently manhandled his jelly-like limbs to fit back into his pant leg. He used the blanket to wipe the cum off his tummy, a weak attempt at cleaning up and something they would both no doubt regret come tomorrow morning but for now they were keen to sleep after such a horrific and chaotic few days.

Arthur pulled Micah into their original position for the night, the only difference being that his face was now tucked into his chest. Arthur rested his chin of Micah’s head, littering his hair with kisses as he played with his hair between his rough fingers.

Micah was the first to fall asleep, curled up with his forehead against Arthur’s collarbone. Arthur wasn’t far behind him either, finally letting himself get some much needed rest but not before he pressed a soft kiss to his hairline.

[k7l4d4]

Wander Over Yonder Hypothetical Season 3/Sequel Ideas: Lord Dominator

Hello all, today I’ve decided to revisit one of the greatest, yet underappreciated, Disney Shows of all time, Wander Over Yonder. Beloved by many, with the creators wanting to make the show more than just a time-slot filler, the show was none-the-less ordered canceled by the Network, ending plans for the future, though maybe not permanently if Craig McCracken has anything to say about it. Anywho, this is my thoughts on what a season 3 for the show, or a sequel, could look like. Everybody clap your hands!!

I will detail how I think each of the known main characters would be like in Season 3/the sequel, starting with Dominator. Note, I will be basing this off of notes and hints from creators, but it won’t necessarily follow along with what they had planned.

Picking up where the show left off, with her marching off in a huff through the void of space (it makes sense in context), Dominator... is angry, stressed, and has no clue what she is actually doing. She’s lost everything, and the only things she has are the clothes on her back and some fruit she snagged from Wander’s gift basket to her. Dominator’s place in the story, to me, would mostly deal with how the loss of everything would affect her life and her status in the galaxy. She can’t just run off somewhere else and avoid the consequences too her actions anymore, as she presumably did in the past. Now, she has nothing but her brains and her fighting skills, which she will definitely need.

While most of the galaxy is content with trying to rebuild after her rampage, some of the more spiteful and thuggish personalities feel like laying into the intergalactic bully. In between trying to find her footing in the new galaxy, Dominator is often routinely attacked by mercenaries, bandits, and just everyday punks. While she at first enjoys the fights, seeing them as a nice breakup to her new normal and a way to distract herself from her problems, the nonstop barrage gradually wears on her, until she finally snaps and demands why “all you losers keep coming after me!? It’s not even fun anymore!!”

The answer she gets? Because they can. People in the galaxy, bar those who’ve been directly touched by Wander’s kindness and empathy, HATE Dominator, and have no problem with making her life more miserable than it already is because they can do so without repercussions. Most of those who are attacking her know they don’t stand a chance against her, and are just doing so because it makes her life more difficult, if only marginally. Despite her best efforts to hide it, the confirmation that people so deeply despise her that they are willing to get beaten senseless just to mildly inconvenience her is deeply rattling to the dangerous woman.

Dominator often runs into Wander, Hater, Sylvia and the rest fairly regularly, or at least semi-regularly, and gets sucked into whatever shenanigans are currently going on, much to her frustration. Hater often lords her losses over her, being obnoxious and overbearing about it all even when Dominator pummels him for it. Sylvia is slightly hostile but ultimately dismissive of Dominator, focusing more on whatever is currently going on and brushing off Dominator at every chance, much to her ire. Wander, much to Dominator’s continued surprise, is just as kind, friendly, and patient as ever, and while still attempting to befriend her, he often is less overbearingly attentive and in her face about it.

Due to not having to deal with Wander’s shenanigans being aimed at herself anymore, Dominator is more at ease around him, occasionally letting slip bits and pieces about her past and herself, though she’ll immediately double back and deny it, not that it ever fools Wander. To go along with the official plans, my theory is that Dominator didn’t have any particularly tragic backstory; she was just a lonely kid who had trouble connecting with others, not helped by her interest in less than savory topics, subjects, and hobbies. 

As she got older, and still remained isolated, Dominator grew more angry and aggressive with others, and when she saw that it not only made her feel better when she let her feelings out but that it also caused people to finally notice and pay attention to her, which filled her with glee. As she got older, Dominator kept escalating, looking for bigger and bigger ways to lash out, to get the attention she craved and release her pent up anger and aggression, not to mention her genuine enjoyment of destruction, violence, and so on. In the end, I believe Dominator never grew up from that lonely girl who no one paid attention to or wanted around.

I firmly believe that Dominator will eventually agree to Wander’s offer of friendship because, in the end, it’s all she ever wanted, people who were there for her, who cared about her, and so on. It’s helped by the fact that every so often she remembers the looks on the people’s faces during that final battle, the looks of tentative hope, empathy, understanding, and kindness. She won’t agree at first, or even soon. The wound is to raw and her pride won’t allow it. But she will eventually reach out, either on her own, or on one of the many attempts Wander will doubtlessly make to befriend her. I’d like to think it would happen around either the halfway point of the season/sequel, or at the three-quarters mark.

I am also a Death Star, that is to say Wander x Dominator, Shipper, but that has no bearing on what I think S3/the Sequel would be like.

[strawberrywritings]

Personal gratitude.

A/N: I am sorry about not posting, but I promise I’ll try to be more consistent!🙈 so let tell you how i wrote this: I was thinking about making a Bishop smut (long ovedue), but I had no plot… until @spookyboogyuniverse sent me a message. I changed a bit the relationship between the reader and Nestor+Miguel, but the main points of the plot are the same. Emily is nowhere to be seen because that’s how I like it lmao I really hope you guys like it! Xx🍓💖

Warning: mentions of violence, oral sex (female receiving), protected sexual intercourse, dirty talk, shitty plot and probably bad grammar i am so rusty

/ Masterlist

Summary: Alvarez gets kidnapped and you’re with Miguel and Nestor when they get the news: you offer your help, as Miguel calls the Mayans to join the search. After Marcus is found, everyone celebrates and the president has a unique way of showing his gratitude.

When shit went down, you immediately sensed it was something big, especially with the way Miguel and Nestor were looking. Being childhood friends with them, and not being a stranger to this life, you had waited for them to finish their meeting, and had offered to help.

/

“I know I may not have the same amount of connections you two have, but I know some people. I could call them and tell ‘em to keep an eye out”, you said, and Miguel looked at Nestor, not because he didn’t trust you, but he knew that this situation had to be handled with caution, so he wanted to make sure it would not compromise things even more.

When Nestor nodded, you stepped outside and started making calls, telling everyone only what they needed to know to make sure this whole thing ended quickly. You followed them with your car, making a few stops as Miguel alerted people.

“What the…”, you muttered to yourself as Miguel’s car, with Nestor driving, headed outside the city and towards the desert. You parked the car right behind them, hopping off and about to question what the hell you were doing in the middle of nowhere, but the sound of engines caught your attentions: quite a few bikes made their way to where you were standing, and you immediately recognized their kutte. Everyone knew who the Mayans were, but you had no idea Miguel worked with them. Eight men made their way towards Miguel, as you kept stading off to the side, your back leaned against your car while you waited for them to finish talking.

You might’ve been quiet, but your presence didn’t go unnoticed; you were focused on Miguel and Nestor explaining everything that happened to a man, who was standing a few steps ahead of the others, “probably the president”, you thought, and from the corner of your eye you could see people’s eyes on you, the exchanged whispers.

“What’s she doing here?”, a voice said, and Nestor looked at you as you narrowed your eyes at the tall man who had spoken. “She’s with me, you got a problem with that?”, Miguel said, never taking his eyes off the same man you were watching, and everyone was quick to say “no” and apologize.

/

Fast forward to the day after. Turns out, your contacts were able to actually help with Alvarez’s kidnapping, someone had seen the people responsible for it and, thanks to that, Nestor was able to track them down and now they were with Miguel in his church pew, he needed answer and he needed them fast. In less than 2 hours, not only did Miguel manage to find Marcus, but he also got everyone else involved in the kidnapping, and you didn’t have to ask what would happen to them. You might not have been completely involved in this kind of life, but you were no stranger to it. After Miguel had taken off his yellow raincoat and changed his suit, he came back home and joined you in the living room.

“I remember when we took that picture, I ate that awful soup she made because it was the only way she would let me go out and play”, he said, you could hear the smile in his face and you turned around, smiling, too. It was nice to be back to “normal” after the past few days, filled with worry, fear and rage.

“I remember how that soup tasted, I hated it, too”, you giggled, tracing your finger on the frame encasing the picture. Placing it back on the shelf, you smiled at him and got your purse from the sofa. “I think I should go, I am glad I was able to help, though”, you smiled, going over to him and hugging him, kissing his cheek. “Hey, there’s a party at that clubhouse, the Mayans. Marcus will be there and he asked me if you could come, he wants to thank you personally”, Miguel said, smiling at you as you nodded. “Sure, just text me the address”, he nodded and you both said goodbye, saying also goodbye to Nestor on your way out.

That night, you opted for a nice dress, still casual, since you knew where this clubhouse was and it was nothing compared to the parties Miguel usually attended, but it was nice to be celebrating something like this. After parking your car next to the bikes, you made your way inside. The Mayans sure knew how to throw a party. Alcohol and girls were everywhere, but you didn’t have time to make a tour of the place because Nestor got your attention.

“Hey – he greeted you by kissing both of your cheeks – come on, Marcus is eager to thank you”, he smiled, leading you to the man himself. Marcus didn’t look too bad, just a couple scratches on his face, and surely his body, but he was alive. You started talking, him saying how grateful he was that you helped Miguel.

“If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be here”, he said, taking a sip from his beer. You chuckled and shook your head, “I doubt it, Miguel would’ve found you anyways, he’s very good at what he does… I just happened to make the right calls”, you said with a smile. You kept talking for a while, until you excused yourself to go get a drink.

Drink in hand, you leaned your back against the bar and looked around, until your eyes caught the ones of the president himself. Bishop was sitting with some of his men around a table, smoking a cigar. He had his eyes trained on you but from the way his lips moved you could tell he was still carrying on the conversation. Something in his eyes was drawing you in, but you quickly shoved your impure thoughts in the back of your mind and decided to explore the place, instead.

You took a stroll in the outside area, the actual scrapyard, the corridors of the dorms and then you ended up in Templo. You didn’t think nothing of it, examining the colorful door up close, and sitting in one of the chairs, finally some peace and quiet, which you had been craving for the past 72 hours.

“You wanna prospect?”, the voice almost gave you a heart attack, and you turned around to see Bishop staring down at you. “No…?”, you furrowed your brows. “Then unless you’re a patched Mayan, you can’t be in here”, he replied, walking slowly until he reached the bigger chair, right beside you, and he sat down. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”, you had no idea there were rules, and you were ashamed of having broken them, you should’ve known better. You made a move of getting up from your seat, but he his hand caught your wrist before you could turn away. Your eyes went from his hold on you to his eyes, his expression stoic.

“I wanted to thank you”, he said, and it felt like he was shouting, the only sound was the chatter coming from the party. “For what?”. “Marcus es mi primo” Marcus is my cousin, he said, and you shrugged. “It’s no problem, really, I was glad I could help”, you gave him a small smile, but none of you talked more. His eyes were still locked with yours when he got up, his hand always around your wrist as he neared you, his body almost touching yours, almost. “Let me thank you properly”, his lips were centimeters away from yours, all you had to do was push yourself forward and your lips would meet. He didn’t move, letting you decide what to do… did you want this? Your eyes looked at his lips, plump and inviting, he smelled like nicotine and beer and something else and it was so manly. You couldn’t help but to give in, letting your body guide you into his, your lips finally connecting in a heated kiss. His hands immediately went to your hips, squeezing them in his hands and bringing you close to him. Everything happened in a blur, one second you were making out and the next you were laying on top of the big wooden table, your panties around your ankle and his head between your thighs, and damn, he was good.

“You sure you wanna keep going?”, you nodded, completely out of breath as he looked for his pants. “Condom?”, you asked him just as he took it out of his wallet, and he smiled at you even as he sat down on the president’s chair, putting on the condom and pumping himself. “Come take a ride, sweetheart”, his voice was like pure honey and you didn’t waist time, situating your legs on both sides of his hips before slowly starting to slide down onto him. Your mouth hung open as he filled you, and his hands returned to your hips, squeezing them to take him mind off the fact that he just wanted to fuck you senseless. You let out a high-pitched whine when he bottomed out, his balls pressing against your ass as he only had shoved his pants down enough to take out his dick. A smack to your right cheek brought you back to reality, “Move, cariño”, he said, his lips ghosting over your neck. You obeyed immediately, “Yes, sir”, you didn’t mean to call him that, it just slipped… this man was made to give orders and you would gladly obey, especially if it meant fucking him on top of his president’s  chair.

Your hips bounced on top of him, and you kept going even when your thighs started to ache from the strain: you were determined to cum, and between how good he felt inside you, his groans and moans, you knew it would not take long. One of his hands reached up and grabbed the side of your face, kissing you again before making a trail down your neck, your chest, and closing his lips around one of your exposed nipples. The sensation made you moan and clench around him, your hands now on his shoulder for leverage.

“Get on the table”, he spoke, biting gently on the skin of your breast, and you did as he told you. Spreading your legs wide with his hands, he spit directly onto your lips, spreading the moisture with the tip of his cock, before filling you up again and rolling his hips against yours. “Fuck, just like that”, you closed your eyes as one of your hands went to fondle your breasts, and he smirked. “Am I gonna make you cum?”, you nodded frantically as your moans got louder with every pump of his hips against yours. “Yes, please, please”, you mewled, and he slowed down, making you whine in protest. “Please what?”, he taunted, his eyes switching between your face and his dick disappearing inside you. “Please sir, please make me cum”, you shamelessly begged, your bruised hips rising up to meet his thrusts and your hand reaching your clit, touching yourself. “Así, tócate, touch yourself, cum all over my cock, nena”, his hands gripped your hips as he started to fuck you with wild abandon, not even bothering to try and keep quiet, both your moans echoing in the room.

When you reached your orgasm, it was like a hot flash, your eyes watered from the pleasure and you arched your back. Your pussy pulsated as it milked his dick, his growl ceasing once he was finished, taking a moment to breathe again. when he slid out of you, you let out a sight, you were sure his cock had you addicted and all you could think about was another round. Silence fell over you two as he tied the condom and zipped his pants back up; you had gotten down from the table, fixed your dress and your panties were back in their place.

“I should go”, you stated. “Don’t you wanna stay for the party?”, you chuckled and he smiled. “It’s okay, I already had as much fun as I could”, he smiled and opened the door of Templo for you. He watched as you made your way through the bodies cramped up in the small room, looking at him over your shoulder one last time before disappearing outside.

taglist @scuzmunkie @deeandbobbymcgee @i-love-scott-mccall @mayans-sauce @eternangels @rebelwrites @ifoundmyhappythought @my-rosegold-soul @peaches007 @starrynite7114 @everyhowlmarksthedead @justahopelessssromantic @chibsytelford @gemini0410 @samcrobae @sadeyesgf @woahitslucyylu @onmyspookysblock @angelreyesgirl @elcococruz @cocotheclown @losolvidad0s @enamoured-x @blessedboo @brattyfics @thickemadame @blackmissfrizzle @thesandbeneathmytoes @thewarriorprincessxo @brownsugarcoffy @mycupoffanfictionreads @enamouravecleslivresetlechocolat @sheeshgivemeabreak @danie1432 @noz4a2 @ly--canthrope @buttercup812 @krysiewithak @wrcn9fvlcver @-im-fantastic- @destynelseclipsa @marvelmaree​ @saturnsaree​ @cind-in-real-life​ @mrsjaxtellerfan​

[neo-culture-mafia]

My Peace (w.ykh)

the cutest boy ever

— Warnings: Bruises

— Genres: Fluffy, warm and overall adorable uwu.

— Words: 1.6k

— Summary: “He used to think he didn't deserve to be loved, and that the life he had was too dangerous for him to ever let anyone in. But you worked your way through his heart and proved him wrong, right when he thought he could never enjoy being wrong before.”

— Requested by @min-inu “I'm new to this blog (I love it) and I'm a huge fluff enthusiast 🥺 Can I request something with Lucas (+ female reader? I don't know if I have to specify) where he comes home from work late at night and he's stressed because a deal went wrong (or something else) but as soon as he sees the reader who is barely awake and waiting for him he feels calmer and she does things to cheer him up (lots of cuddles and kisses, maybe a cute date too). Also can I request more than once if it's not a problem?”

— A/N: I absolutely loved your request 🥺 I was craving for some Yukhei's content and didn’t even know it lol And please, feel free to send in more requests, okay? I hope you enjoy this!!

To say he was pissed was an understatement. When Lucas came back to the base and Kun put his eyes on him, he already knew Yukhei was about to explode. After he got in Neo Culture, Yukhei learned how to control his anger issue, but he still had problems with coping with failure.

“Can I give my reports to you tomorrow?” Yukhei asked, staring right at the floor, too afraid that he would explode at himself if he looked at his leader's disappointed expression. If only he knew Kun was way more worried than disappointed.

“You don't have to do this, you know?” Kun turned his chair so he would be staring at the window instead of Yukhei's face. “Avoid looking at me. Feeling shame at yourself. We'll manage to close that deal.”

“They attacked us. I don't think there's a deal to be considered anymore.” Yukhei murmured, closing his eyes and trying the hardest that he could to not start punching and kicking stuff around him. Neo Culture was the family he had never had. The feeling that he somehow had failed the only people who welcomed him do their own home was barely unbearable.

“We're all alive, aren't we?” Kun questioned, slightly turning his face to the side so he could look at the younger one behind him. Yukhei was still afraid to look at his leader, but as he managed to shily give him some attention, he was met with a warm smile coming from the older one. “Then, we'll figure out something. As long as we're together, we can achieve whatever we put our focus to.” He turned his chair back to its initial position, forcing Yukhei to stare at the floor again as he checked his wristwatch.“It's late. Don't worry about your reports, we can do this tomorrow. Go be with Y/N. She is in your dormitory.”

For the first time since he had entered the room, Yukhei face seemed to be no longer twisted by anger anymore, thanks to the mention of your name.

“She's here? I thought she was at home.” He looked right at Kun's eyes, making the leader's smile go even bigger from before. Young love was really adorable. “Yeah, she said something about not wanting to leave you alone after a tiring mission,” Kun added, grabbing a few papers and starting to go over them. He only looked at Yukhei again when he realized the young man was still sitting on his office’s chair. “... why are you not running there yet? Go! You're dismissed!” he exclaimed, pointing at the door and proceeding to laugh at the sight of Lucas running out of his office.

If before Lucas' heart was beating fast from anger, now his heart was beating fast at the thought of seeing you. Besides Neo Culture, the only person who allowed him to be himself with no judgments at sight was you. You had nothing to do with his lifestyle. You weren’t part of the mafia, and God forbids if you ever demonstrated any interest in the business. Yukhei's mind wouldn’t even know how to proceed with the constant feeling that he could lose you at any second.

The only thing that kept him from exploding when he was in the field was the thought of being in your arms again. He needed to come back and see that beautiful smile of yours one more time. And that’s the first thing his eyes started to look for after he had opened the door.

You were close to his desk, apparently taking some food out of plastic bags, and even if he was indeed almost dying from starving, his first impulse was to run and hug you from behind. Your perfume turning to be the only thing he could smell, blocking all of his senses from anything else that wasn't related to you. He could tell you were tired since your whole body almost jumped when he suddenly hugged you.

“You’re back!” You exclaimed with a smile on your face as you felt your boyfriend's face resting on your shoulder. He had his eyes closed and some bruises on his cheek, but he looked pretty much alive to you, and that was all that mattered. “Uh oh. We should take care of those. Sit on the bed, I prepared everything. Including food, but since I didn’t know if you preferred Mexican, Korean, or Japanese, I ordered them all.” You started to blab, hoping to get a smile from your playful boyfriend, but as he just stayed still, you began to worry. “Baby? What is it? Is everyone okay?” You asked, turning around to face him properly, being careful when touching his body.

As he opened his eyes to look at you, any words he could possibly say just disappeared at the sight of you. Your messy hair confirmed his suspicions that you had probably dozed off at some point of the night. Your swollen eyes tipped off that at some point you thought he wasn't coming back and then proceeded to cry. Your worried gaze confirmed how relieved you were for seeing him only with a few bruises. Your lips saying that you loved him made his smile finally appear as he realized how much he loved you. And he hated the thought that Neo Culture wasn't the only one who he failed tonight. He failed the person he loved the most in the entire world when he didn't show you how grateful he was for still being alive. For being by your side. His favorite and most loved place to be.

You were his personal place of peace. And you needed to know it.

“I love you. Oh God, I love you so much. I never thought I would love someone as much as I love you.” He pushed you a little so he could start pecking all over your face, making both of you giggle at his action. “You kind of scared me for a second.” You pushed him a little and smiled at how bright his face now looked. “There is nothing to worry about. Not when I’m with you.” He replied to you with the words he was actually saying to himself.

The world outside could wait. All the violence, gunshots, and uncertainty could wait. Now, he was with his personal gift from heaven. The one capable of bringing the best out of him. His one and only. His Everything.

“Look, I do appreciate all the kisses and stuff but I won't stop bothering you until you let me take care of your bruises.” You pecked his lips and then started to walk backward, holding both of your boyfriend's big hands, seeing the biggest smile appear to his face. “Okay doc, treat me.”

In a matter of seconds, you were sitting on your bed, having Lucas’ head laying on your lap as you cleaned his cheek bruises with a cotton pad. He had his eyes closed so he could just enjoy your touch, and as much as you loved seeing him relax, which rarely happened, you wanted to fill him in on what you did during the days he spent on mission. Especially when you knew he didn’t like to talk about the missions when he was tired.

"So, I met Mark's girlfriend." You started, causing Yukhei to look at you with a puzzled expression on his face. "Mark's girlfriend? What was she doing here?" "She came here to get a few papers. Something about her and Mark going on a vacation." You shrugged, gently closing Yukhei's eyes with your fingertips so you could clean the bruises on his eyelid. "We went out for a meal together. She reminds me so much of Mark, it's almost like they're the same person. No wonder she's dating him for four years, they really complement each other well." 

"They really do. I'm still waiting for the wedding invitation of those two." Yukhei commented, making you laugh at the situation your newest friend had told you. "Oh, you're gonna have to wait a little more then. Mark almost freaked out some days ago thinking that she wanted him to propose when she actually wanted to adopt a dog together!" Yukhei couldn't help but laugh at how Mark that sounded like. "That sounds like something Mark would do, for sure." 

"I know, right? He almost freaked her out too, she thought he wanted to break up or something." You added, putting two stitches on your boyfriend's worst bruises and letting your hand go and play with his messy silver hair. "I'm done. Now, we should get some food in that belly of yours." 

"What? No, right when it's starting to get good!" he whined, pouting like the big baby you knew he was. "You can take a shower first if you like, but if I know you enough, you're starving,” You pointed at the small desk full of delicious smelling food. "and that’s why I got your favorites. The burrito is smelling especially nice tonight." "You're unbelievably perfect, and that was the lowest punch ever, but I still love you anyway.” He stated, giving you a quick peck before getting up from the bed and running towards the desk. 

                                                            ...

"So, now that I'm no longer starving and smelling nice thanks to that cologne you gave, what do you say about..." Yukhei stopped himself from talking and drying his hair with a towel when he noticed your sleeping figure evolved in a warm blanket. 

I knew you were tired. Yukhei smiled at the view, silently giggling at his own thoughts. There weren't enough words to describe how much he appreciated all the effort you did to make him feel comfortable after missions. He knew you abdicated a lot from your life for the two of you to be together, things you thought you couldn't live without, like your freedom to walk around with no bodyguards. And even though he tried to push you away to stop you from getting too close to him, you two just couldn't be apart. You consciously chose to be with him, and he loved you so damn much for that.

As he laid down next to you, slightly pulling you closer, and placing a soft kiss on your forehead, he voiced out the words with the most affection he had ever put into words before: 

"You are my peace, baby. I will always come back to you, no matter what happens.”

[sacred-algae]

In celebration of The Great Gatsby entering public domian, I would like to publish an essay I wrote a few years back. Because I hate The Great Gatsby with the burning passion of a thousand suns.

A Character Analysis of The Great Gatsby:

Gatsby, Nick and Daisy

“The Great Gatsby” by F. Scott Fitzgerald is often revered as one of the greatest American novels of all time. It makes us take off our rose-colored glasses and look at the rich whom we idolize so much. But are our perspectives of this book also tinted by its title of the great American novel? We are often misdirected in this book to forget many important quotes that change the way we look at the main characters completely. Authors make sure that everything in the book has a purpose. If it was included, it’s important and shouldn't be ignored. Readers often place certain expectations on the characters due to its high status, however, this paper will show that the characters in question are not as they are commonly perceived, whether good or bad, and explore the complex writing behind the characters, Nick, Gatsby, and Daisy.

Although Nick Carraway is seen by many for who he is, arrogant and judgemental, they still miss out on the bigger picture. He glorifies violence and he is a cheater. The problem with Nick and the book is that rather than the book being written by Fitzgerald, it is written by Nick. Because of this, we see him in a glorified manner. The first few lines of the book show this. “In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.” (pg. 3) Using the words “younger”, “vulnerable” and even “father” he immediately ensures that we have his sympathy. He does the same thing again later, and more directly, at the very end of chapter three. “Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known.” (pg. 65) This is where most people begin to see his true self shine through. However, it should be seen much earlier. In chapter one he mentions something very sinister. “I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm center of the world the middle-west now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe” (pg. 5) Nick says directly to the reader that he enjoyed WWI. Only second to WWII (85,000,000 or 3% of the entire world’s population), WWI is the bloodiest war in world history with a death toll of 16,000,000. 40,000,000 if you include deaths resulting from the Spanish Flu. (statistics from Wikipedia) For someone to enjoy being at war there has to be something majorly wrong with them. Not only that but it can be said with near certainty that Nick was cheating on a girl out west when he had his fling with Jordan. In chapter one after dinner with the Buchanans this conversation tasks place. “As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called ‘Wait! ‘I forgot to ask you something, and it’s important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West.’ ‘That’s right,’ corroborated Tom kindly. ‘We heard that you were engaged.’ ‘It’s libel. I’m too poor.’ ‘But we heard it,’ insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. ‘We heard it from three people so it must be true.’” (pg. 23) For there to be rumors that someone is engaged with someone else it has to be commonly known that they are in a relationship. Nick is a severely flawed, if not evil, character.

Many people strive to be like Jay Gatsby, with his charm and “extraordinary gift for hope.” Even then, the biggest argument of the book is whether or not he truly loves Daisy. Most clues point to no. Gatsby even remarks that “‘Her voice is full of money,’” (pg. 128). He sees her as a prize to be won. He chases her, she’s the final thing he needs to have his perfect life. And during a flashback to his first kiss with her, right before the iconic passage where “she blossomed for him like a flower,” Fitzgerald describes his desire for her like this: “The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalk really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees—he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder.” Possibly the most frightening passage in the book. It sounds like some bestial craving. But that is just his relationship with Daisy. Tom accuses him of bootlegging. “‘I found out what your ‘drug stores’ were.’ He turned to us and spoke rapidly. ‘He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street drug stores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him and I wasn’t far wrong.’” (pg.143) We never are told explicitly that this is true but it is left to the reader to decide this. And there is plenty of evidence. When Gatsby is giving Daisy a tour of the mansion we hear him on his side of a phone call. “...the phone rang and Gatsby took up the receiver. ‘Yes…. Well, I can’t talk now…. I can’t talk now, old sport…. I said a SMALL town…. He must know what a small town is…. Well, he’s no use to us if Detroit is his idea of a small town….’” (pg. 100-101) This again isn't explicit but why would the person in question be of no use to him if they think that Detroit is a small town? They need a small town. If it is a big one it is easier for the police to track his business. And after Gatsby dies Nick answers another business call. “...said Chicago was calling...‘This is Slagle speaking....’ ‘Yes?’ The name was unfamiliar. ‘Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?’ ‘There haven’t been any wires.’ ‘Young Parke’s in trouble,’ he said rapidly. ‘They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ‘em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns——‘ ‘Hello!’ I interrupted breathlessly. ‘Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.’” This is a hint towards Gatsby making money selling counterfeit bonds. A business that he tried to recruit Nick too. “‘Why, I thought—why, look here, old sport, you don’t make much money, do you?’ ‘Not very much.’ This seemed to reassure him and he continued more confidently. ‘I thought you didn’t, if you’ll pardon my—you see, I carry on a little business on the side, a sort of sideline, you understand. And I thought that if you don’t make very much—You’re selling bonds, aren’t you, old sport?’ ‘Trying to.’ ‘Well, this would interest you. It wouldn’t take up much of your time and you might pick up a nice bit of money. It happens to be a rather confidential sort of thing.’” (pg. 88-89) Why is it confidential? Because it’s illegal. Not only is Gatsby’s relationship with Daisy toxic, but he is a mobster. This in itself isn’t problematic, but people may have died because of him, and the book shies past this point.

Daisy Buchanan is hated by most people who read the book. It is said that she is shallow and arrogant. This is a look to the surface. First, it is important to understand Daisy and Tom’s ages. When the book takes place Daisy is 23, Tom is 30. Making Daisy 18 and Tom 25 at the time they were married. While she is legal this marriage is incredibly creepy. She is stuck in a marriage with a racist, cheating, borderline abusive husband. And she knows this. Even then she is brave enough to call him out (and mock him) on his racism in chapter one at dinner. “‘Tom’s getting very profound,’ said Daisy with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. ‘He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we——‘ ‘Well, these books are all scientific,’ insisted Tom…” (pg. 16) She’s trapped in a situation where she has no control. She tries to reclaim her life through Gatsby but she quickly learns that he isn’t different. “‘Please don’t.’ Her voice was cold, but the rancour was gone from it. She looked at Gatsby. ‘There, Jay,’ she said— but her hand as she tried to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet. ‘Oh, you want too much!’ she cried to Gatsby. ‘I love you now—isn’t that enough? I can’t help what’s past.’ She began to sob helplessly. ‘I did love him once—but I loved you too.’” (pg. 141-142). Daisy lives in a society where women are seen and not heard. She knows this but still does what she can to speak for herself. She is incredibly smart. People don’t give her enough credit. Take the iconic line, “Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.’” (pg. 20)

She is smart enough to see what is happening around her and it breaks her, that's why she wants her daughter to be a fool. She’ll never have to question it, she’ll never know it, she’ll always be happy.

“The Great Gatsby” indeed is a great book. One with deeply complex characters. But we need to take a second look at them, not just accept what others tell us. Because of its high status, the characters of “The Great Gatsby” are often subject to preconceived notions, through discussing and analyzing quotes in the book you can begin to see both sides of Nick, Gatsby, and Daisy. When we see someone say something about them, or any person, or anything, question it. As the great Albert Einstein once said-“The important thing is to never stop questioning.”

We need to stop idolizing Nick and Gatsby, and stop victim blaming Daisy. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk

[saharamae21]

Vapor (Part 17)

Hey guys.... Long time, no update. Rip. I’m so sorry... I love Vapor and I love writing this, but there was a lot of negativity around it when I took my break from it. It is back though!! I’m really sorry.

GIVE ME FEEDBACK - I WANNA KNOW IF YOU GUYS EVEN WANT TO READ THIS STILL

Work count: 1.5K

Warnings: Language, mentions of kidnapping and violence.

_________________________________________

Adelaide’s POV:

Why does this place seem so familiar? I was walking around the park? It wasn’t the usual park though. This one was in The Cut… I watched as 14 year old Adelaide sat on the swing. I knew exactly what day this was. I watched as she rocked back and forth, waiting for JJ who wasn’t coming. I wished I could open my mouth and tell her. I wish I could tell her that there wasn’t any point waiting.

More importantly, I wished I could tell her not to give up on him. He was just hurt and scared and he needed you. I wished I hadn’t left…

I woke up to the empty room. I struggled to lift my head up and my vision was hazy. I muttered out JJ’s name a few times, but my body felt weak and my voice began to fail me. The walls were metal and every sound bounced off of them and into my ears. They made my head spin with pain. My stomach craved food and my mouth was drier than a desert. I called out for Rafe, wondering if he was watching me suffer somehow. I needed something to eat and drink. I needed to get out of here, but I had a bad feeling that this abduction would be longer than a day…

JJ’s POV:

I sat in the chateau, the thought Addie fresh in my mind. This was all my fault. She was supposed to be here with me, in bed, peacefully asleep. I promised I wouldn’t leave her again and somehow I always managed to fuck it up. If she was hurt at all, I’d never forgive myself. How did I let this happen?

The morning light filtered through the window. I hadn’t slept at all, but I don’t think I could've if I tried. I heard the front door open and Kie’s voice ring out. She called for me, but I said nothing. She opened the door to the spare room and I turned to look at her. I was sitting upright on the bed, hugging a pillow in my arms, eyes red from tears. She sat down next to me and asked if it was my dad. She asked if I found Addie. The moment she said her name, I buried my face into the pillow. She took the hint and hugged me.

“She’s probably just upset,” she said. “Maybe we could go over and talk to her together. I bet when she sees you like this she-”

“She’s not at home!” I said. I looked up from the pillow, breaking down a little bit. “Rafe took her because I took that stupid money!”

There was silence for a moment as Kie tried to process what I said. She looked at me, trying to understand what I meant. She tried to process all the different things that one sentence could stand for. Every ounce of my body was shaking as I thought back to her in that photo. I thought back to that day so many years ago and it felt exactly the same.

I was climbing on the jungle gym, ecstatic at how awesome this park was. They only had parks like this in The Figure Eight back home and if I went anywhere near that the older kids would beat me up. I wanted to stay and play on it forever, but Addie was upset. She had fallen from the monkey bars and wanted to go find her mom, but I wasn’t ready yet. I told her I wanted to play more and ignore her as I climbed to the top. I smiled proudly as I made it all the way up and called down to Addie, wanting her to see how cool I was.

“Addie, look!” I yelled, but she didn’t respond. I looked down to where she was a couple minutes ago and she was no longer there. I wondered if she had gone looking for her mom, but she wouldn’t have done that without me. She knew better. I looked around frantically, trying to find any sign on here, but it was like she had disappeared from thin in.

I climbed down as fast as I could without getting hurt and ran around the area. She couldn’t have gotten too far without me. Fear and unease filled me as my head darted in every direction, praying to see her off in the distance, but I didn’t. I ran over to find her mom across the street. She looked down at me with worry. The only time I ever ran over was when Addie had gotten hurt, but this was so much bigger than that. I remember shaking with tears falling down my face. I just apologized over and over. I told her I could find her anywhere and that it was all my fault. I cried as they called the police. Addie’s mom pulled me into a hug and told me that it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know why she was being so nice when I had lost her daughter, but it felt good to have a mother hug me again. I clung to her and apologized profusely. I promised her that I would never leave Addie again, but we all know how that turned out.

“What do you mean Rafe took her?” she asked, interrupting my thoughts. I stared at her and shook my head, telling her to give me a moment. I was furious and scared all at the same time, not to mention exhausted.

“He took her. He showed me a picture of her tied to a chair. Kie, this is all my fault,” I explained. I felt her arms slip around me and attempt to comfort me. I could tell that she was scared too, but I knew we had to be strong for Addie. Rafe might be a psycho, but he wouldn’t go that far. He wouldn’t kill her over this. I just had to think of a plan. I just had to get her back.

Kiara went and told the others about what was going on while I stayed at the chateau. I promised her I would try to get some sleep, but my head was racing at a million miles an hour. I thought about how amazing her family was to me and this was how I repaid them. I put Addie in danger every chance I got and worst of all, I didn’t even protect her in those situations. I was too selfish to even check up on her after the run in with Barry. I was too self absorbed to comfort her when she needed me. Instead I pulled my arm away from her and turned my back on her. I walked away because that was what I did best. I closed my eyes and tried not to think about her, but she was the only thing that was ever on my mind.

After that day, Addie saw a lot of different grown ups. She went to doctor after doctor, all of them trying to get her to open up to them, but she never did. Not until her mom asked me to come with. I couldn’t remember the shrink's name but I remember sitting on the couch and wondering why I was there. Addie sat next to me and when the quack started asking her questions, she reached over and grabbed my hand. We had held hands a lot, but this was the first time she grabbed me like she needed me. She looked at me before she answered the questions and I remember her tearing up a little bit. When she cried, I stood up and yelled at the adult for being mean to her. I remember kneeling in front of Addie and telling her she didn’t have to talk to this guy. She just sniffled and laughed at me, throwing her arms around me and pulling me into a hug. I think that was the day I realized that she was the most important person in my life…

As much as I hated all of those doctor’s, she definitely needed to see them. When she was awake, she seemed normal. She would smile and laugh just like she had before the abduction. Occasionally she would fall into these quiet moments where she would stare off into the distance, but overall she was the same Addie I had always known. It was a different story at night though. I remember laying on their couch and being woken up by her screaming. I remember rushing into her room to see her flailing her arms and legs, trying to fight away the bad guy. I remember letting her hit me as I tried to wrap my arms around her, signaling that I was there. I wouldn’t let anything like this happen to her again, or so I thought.

I woke up and the sun was setting. I could hear something in the kitchen, but I wasn’t ready to face my friends. I sat up in bed and thought about her. I wondered if she would be the same Addie I knew after all of this or if this would finally break here. I wondered if her parents would hate me for letting this happen all over again. I wondered if me being there for her would still be enough…

_________________________________________________

GIVE ME FEEDBACK - I WANNA KNOW IF YOU GUYS EVEN WANT TO READ THIS STILL

Tag List : @thebendslikebendover @justcallmesams @jellyfishbeansontoast @prejudic3 @jjtheangel @jiaraendgame @obxmxybxnk @waywardbarbie @talksoprettyjjx @bb-tings @agirlwholovescoffee-blog @thoughtsofthestars @outerbankslut @potterheadhollander @baby-pogue @obxlife @queenieloveswriting @rockyyc77 @beth-winchester21 @outerbongs @sunwardsss @ilovejjmaybank @kaelyn-lobrutto24 @jjmaybankwildtimes @canibeoneofthepogues @raekenliar @jjpogueprincess @casper17 @waywardbabie @iateamoth @judayyyw @drewswannabegirl @maybanksbaby

[trillian-anders]

suspect - i

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

warnings: descriptive violence, graphic descriptions of crime scenes, angst, slow burn

word count: 5k

description: au detective!bucky barnes x investigative journalist!reader;

still wet behind his ears, detective barnes is given his very first homicide case, a woman no one seems to care about had been murdered. it’s only when investigative journalist reader brings the small details to his attention that he realizes there’s a bigger problem. a serial killer no one was paying attention to.

Cheryl Hansen’s accent was thick, Boston southie. “Are they in bed?” She asked the person on the other end of the line, “I should be home soon. Probably another hour or so.” Her heel scraping against the concrete, arm wrapped around her middle. The temperature had dropped since that morning. A beautiful spring day it had been, just hours before. She took her kids to the park, a rare happy moment in a life she though she’d never find herself in. “I love you.” Spoken softly as a car pulls to a stop beside her, “I’ve got to go, bye-bye.” Her phone screen darkened, the passenger window rolling down. She puts her game face on and leans down to talk to the man sitting in the driver’s seat.

It wasn’t something she particularly liked to do. You could say she didn’t like to do it at all. But it was easy money. It was quick money. It was the only way she could make money. She couldn’t see his face, half covered by a baseball cap which wasn’t out of the norm. A lot of Johns tend to want to cover their faces, the embarrassment of paying for sex. The ‘shamefulness’ of it. A lot of them were like this.

“Get in.” His voice, demanding, aggressive. He wasn’t going to be an easy one, and she knew that. A bad feeling in her gut, she slipped into the passenger seat of the car. The car pulling off from the curb and disappearing into the night.

...

They switched the coffee. Bucky glared down at the bitter cup in his hand before searching through the cabinets above the coffee maker. French roast, he scrunched his nose up at before dumping the cup into the sink and rinsing out his mug. “So no coffee.” He mumbles to himself.

The bullpen was busy today. Already, and it was not a good day. He had three cases worth of paperwork to turn in, his dryer broke last night so his jeans were still damp when he put them on, and his arm was aching today. A storm was coming soon. He was late to work which meant getting breakroom coffee and unfortunately, they’d stocked it with the one kind he didn’t like.

First world problems, sure he tried to rationalize as he sat down at his desk, booting up his computer for the first time that day. His thumb flipped through the large stack of files on his desk, ready to be sorted through and input into the computer. Rubbing his eyes, he realized he’s going to need to go get some sort of caffeine at some point.

“Barnes.” Looking up from his computer, in the doorway of his Captain’s office, Steve Rogers. Long time friend and once partner, now Captain of this precinct. “Can I see you in my office please?”

The man across from him let out a laugh, his fingers playing on his lips, shady eyes glaring over at him from behind his computer screen. “What did you do Barnes?” Rumlow the little shit. Bucky hated working with him. Rumlow fought him for cases, always. Became a detective at the same time as Steve and was sore as hell that Steve got the Captain position over him. He was waiting for the day that Bucky was knocked down a peg or two. “But it’s hard with good old-fashioned nepotism.” Rulmow would jeer. As if Steve was giving him anything special. If anything, Steve had been giving him the short end of the stick.

Bucky had been stuck doing cases easy enough for a beat cop. He’d been begging Steve for something else, but it was always the same shit, “Those cases go to the detectives with more experience.” The homicides. The serial rapists. Granted, they weren’t as prevalent as a common break in or robbery, but he still craved it. Justice was why he became a cop in the first place. He wanted to be tracking down true criminals. Not these schmucks being busted for having an ounce of weed on them, something he didn’t see as much of a problem anyway. He followed Steve into his office, ignoring Rumlow’s comment.

“Shut the door behind you.” Steve said, sitting behind his desk. The glass windows to the bullpen hot on Bucky’s back as he was sure Rumlow was staring him down, trying to see what was going on by the look on Steve’s face.

“What’s going on?” Bucky sunk into the chair opposite. Steve shuffled papers around on his desk before looking up at his friend.

“They found a body in an alley in near lower Washington.” Bucky perked up in his seat. Steve shook his head, “Don’t fuck this up, do you understand me? I’m giving you some real responsibility here.”

“Of course not.” Bucky blew out a huff, “You know how bad I want this Steve.” He rolled his eyes,

“Yeah I know,” Steve leaned back in his chair, “Now get out of here.”

The clouds gave a murky grey light over the streets of Boston. Bucky peered up at them as he exits his car. He rotated his left arm, the muscles sore. There was already caution tape strung up surrounding the alley. Beat cops and people trying to peer into the crime scene.

The body. Fuck the body. Bucky’s stomach churned at the sight. Yes, solving a homicide came with its perks career-wise, but the physicality of it was something he’d yet dealt with. He’s seen his share of bodies as a beat cop. He would have been one of those suckers behind him securing the scene and making sure there was no civilian interference. Keeping all the looky-loos at bay.

That’s the thing though, everyone thinks they want to see a dead body, but when faced with one… it’s much more unsettling. This woman could have been anyone. She could have been Becca, his sister. She could have been Peggy, Steve’s wife. She could have been anyone. But that’s not saying that there wasn’t a stigma with it.

“It’s a hazard of the occupation.” Rumlow would spit at him later, “Nothing more than another dead prostitute.”

“Sex worker.” Bucky would correct him. And now squatting next to the body, looking upon her corpse. “Victim.”

She was flat on her back. Spread eagle on the ground. Naked. Her eyes blankly staring up at the sky. Her makeup was smeared across her face. She’d been crying. Ligatures around her neck, no doubt that she had been strangled to death. And the one strange thing, the one souvenir taken from her body. Her ring finger cut at the joint. And missing.

“Look who they let out of the bullpen.” A snarky voice from behind him, he peered over his shoulder. “I brought you a coffee.” Natasha Romanov. Assistant DA. No doubt the one assigned to this case, even though they both know it won’t go anywhere. No one cared about a dead sex worker, and the girls she worked with wouldn’t speak to cops. Bucky resented Steve for giving him this case. Immediately.

“Thank you.” Taking the coffee and stepping over to her side.

“What do you think?” Natasha asked, gesturing toward the body. Bucky took a sip of his coffee, bringing himself back online and feeling okay for the first time that morning, considering. He shakes his head.

“It’s a shame.” He takes another sip, “Guys just get to mow down these girls like they’re nothing. And no one will probably ever go to jail for this.” She nods,

“Sucks that they gave it to you.” Bucky sighs. Yeah, it does. “Well, I have to get back to the office, but let me know if you find anything.”

“Thanks again for the coffee.” He watches her go. The coroners waiting for him to give the okay to take the body for autopsy. He nods, stepping back and out of the way.

Whoever killed this poor girl obviously thought very little of her, having her spread open that way, discarded in an alley like trash. It stirred something raw in Bucky’s gut.

When he got back to the precinct he sat heavily in his chair, rubbing his eyes and typing the woman’s name into the computer. He’d have to tell her family, if they had any. Maybe she had priors.

And she did.

Her face pulled up on his screen. Cheryl Hansen. The life in her eyes. Miserable, but she was there. Alive, and she was arrested for drug possession, solicitation for sex work twice, she had a restraining order on an ex-boyfriend. Maybe he could start there.

But first thing’s first. Next of kin.

“She was a pretty little thing huh?” Bucky turned and glared at the man behind him.

“You’re disgusting.” Bucky spat, scribbling down her address and then typed in the ex-boyfriend’s name.

“I’ve got eyes.” Rumlow parried. “Just because she’s dead doesn’t mean she wasn’t hot.”

“Have some respect.” The ex-boyfriend’s face loads, his rap sheet longer than hers and littered with domestic calls and assault charges. A good lead. A great lead to be completely honest. The way she was murdered was violent and passionate. Intimate almost.

Cheryl lived in a bad part of town which wasn’t surprising. Bucky remembered on going on more than one domestic call here in his time on the beat, it was dirty, not too well kept. But it was cheap and it’s hard to find somewhere cheap to live in Boston. His knuckles rapt against the door. A shuffling heard from behind. The door opened, chain still locked into place and a hazel eye showed in the crack.

“Can I help you?” Cheryl’s Mother. He swallowed, anxious about what was about to follow.

“I’m Detective Barnes with Boston PD.” His badge held up for her to see. “I’m here to talk to you about your daughter, Cheryl Hansen?” The door shut and a scramble for the chain before it was pulled open. A baby on her hip.

“Did something happen to her?”

This was the worst part of the job. The despair. He was serving her with the death of her child. The death of her daughter. Cheryl had two kids. One just barely over a year, the other three years old. Two beautiful baby girls that no longer had their Mother.

Cheryl’s mom, Sophie sat across from him, sobbing. He didn’t know what to do. This isn’t something that ever got easier. A box of tissues stolen from the coffee table, sat between them at the small kitchenette. Her head in her hands, crying. He tried to comfort her. He did. Hand on her shoulder, but it was best to just let them cry it out. It was all you could really do.

“I’m sorry,” he says, knowing it won’t make it any better, “I’m going to do everything I can to find the person responsible for this, but I need you to tell me if there’s anyone you know who would want to hurt her.”

“She told me she was a waitress.” Sophie sniffled. “She told me—” A hiccup.

“I know this is difficult.” He scoots his chair closer, “But Cheryl needs us to help find her killer.” Sophie’s eyes red, body trembling as she met his gaze.

“Uh, Michael Hale.” The ex-boyfriend. Sophie sniffles and hiccups again. “He used to really hurt her.”

“Later on, a woman named Natasha Romanov should be by.” He says, “She’s going to want to ask you similar questions and she’ll help you get in touch with grief counselling and how to take steps legally for guardianship of the kids, I’ve informed her of the situation.” Sophie nods, taking the little business card with his number scribbled on the back. “If there’s anything you need at all, call me at this number.”

“We used to call her Cherry.” She sniffs, staring at the card. “That’s her nickname.” Her eyes met his, crying and obviously distraught. “People may not know her name is Cheryl. That’s all.”

With Sophie telling him that Michael Hale would be someone who would hurt Cheryl he had everything he needed to bring him in.

“Natasha.” He spoke into the receiver. “I sent you an email with the information I’ve gathered so far, I need you to look into Michael Hale, call me back when you get this.”

This neighborhood. Even as he stood out on the street, his car feet away. He was getting looks. He didn’t belong here and that was clear. He flipped his phone between his fingers, taking one last look around before slipping into the driver’s seat of his car and pulling away.

A few minutes into his drive Natasha’s name lit up on his dashboard. A button pressed on his steering wheel answered the call.

“Autopsy report should be in tomorrow morning at the latest,” She said, “I’m processing a warrant for Michael Hale, I think we have enough to at least bring him in for questioning, see what he was doing last night, but I think you should head back to the station.”

His brow furrowed, “Why is that?”

“There’s a reporter poking around, asking to talk to you. She’s… persistent.”

…

It had been a slow news day all in all. Not much going on outside of upcoming elections and the same silly little fluff pieces about a new animal coming to the Franklin Park Zoo or a kid selling lemonade real nostalgic like in their front yard raising money for one of their sick classmates. A shooting in Chinatown or a robbery here or there. A quaint little town just outside of Boston ‘shaken’ by whatever crime people were nonplussed about in big cities.

But it got your attention. Cheryl Hansen.

It showed up as a little blip on your radar. The way you followed the leads before. Maybe this time.

Maybe this time.

“Hey Sam.” Your editor. The big man behind the desk. “Let me take this.” He was wearing his glasses, reading emails when you showed up in his doorway. A printout of the police report, not much information to go on, but he would know. He would know why you wanted it. The paper plucked from his desk and he adjusted his glasses to read it, eyes gazing over the top rim at you.

“A murdered sex worker?” He asked, “Y/N…”

“Listen, Sam…” You slipped into the chair across from him, “We could get ahead of this, look at the details.” The detective’s notes. How the body was found. Where it was found.

But was her ring finger gone?

“Y/N…” Sam sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “The last time you fell down this rabbit hole it wasn’t good for you.” You remember. The hangovers were hell. The stress. The migraines. “I don’t think—”

“Sam it’s him.” You know it is. You can feel it in your gut. “I know it.” He looked at you, silently debating for a moment before saying,

“You can talk to the detective, get a short comment. Nothing more.” The paper thrown back on the desk between you. “Less than 300 words and I mean it. I don’t want you pulling out the red string.” You felt your jaw clench but willed yourself to relax.

“Thank you.” The paper hastily grabbed from between you and you took your exit, barely grabbing your jacket before running out the door.

Your heart raced when you saw that police report. This could be it. It could be the clues you’d been waiting for.

“Hi, I would like to speak to Detective Barnes.” The man at the front desk of the police station glanced up at you from his computer screen.

“He’s not here right now.” Another man rounded the desk, leaning on the counter beside you. “Is there anything I could help you with? Detective Brock Rulmow.” A shit eating grin. Wise guy.

“I need to speak to Detective Barnes about the woman murdered in the Combat Zone this morning. I’m an investigative journalist with—” His brows pull together. Head jerking to the side.

“The prostitute?” He asks.

“Sex worker.” You correct. “Do you know when he’ll be back?” Rumlow’s jaw clenched, he looked to the man behind the desk as though in on a joke, then back at you.

“No clue sweetheart,” A chill down your spine, “I’ll let him know you were in.”  You try not to huff in frustration,

“I can just wait at his desk.” You offer, no big deal. He laughs bitterly,

“I’ll let him know you were in.” He repeats, like it’s final. You shake your head looking down at the man behind the desk.

“Is there someone else I could speak to?” You ask. The man looks between you and Rumlow, but before he can speak.

“You can speak to me.” Turning, you see a woman in all black, red hair perfectly smooth, pulled back on her head in a tight bun at the base of her neck. “Natasha Romanov, assistant DA, I work with Detective Barnes.” A sigh of relief. “You’re more than welcome to sit at his desk and wait for him, he should be back soon, but I myself will not be making any comments about the crime at the moment and I’m not sure he would be willing to either.” A blanket statement, but she didn’t shut you out so there was some wiggle room here.

“I just have a couple about the victim herself, Cheryl Hansen.” Natasha nods, “She has children?” Something that could be easily found with a search, but you’re asking her anyway.

“Two.” Natasha answers, “Young, only a year and three years.” Simple things make her think you’re just writing a short little piece about the victim.

“Was she married?”

“No,” She crosses her arms, leaning over on her heels. “But both children are from the same father.” You hum, a little bias there. Would it have made a difference if they weren’t?

“Does she have any remaining family?” Natasha looks at you for a moment, glancing at the bag on your back.

“Are you going to write any of this down for your article?” You shake your head,

“It’s up here.” A tap to your temple. “If I was taking a direct quote I would record, but…”

“These are simple questions.” You smile,

“Yeah.” You look back past the desk and into the bullpen. Rumlow glaring at you from across the way before looking back to Natasha.

“Her Mother.” Natasha answered, then looking at her watch says, “I’ve got to get going, but I’m sure Detective Barnes should be back soon, his desk, unfortunately, is the one beside Detective Rumlow’s.” Of course, it is.

“Thank you for your time.” But she was already walking away from you. You sucked in your teeth, slipping into the bullpen and settling yourself into the seat at his desk. The little plaque ‘Detective James Barnes’, slightly messy with an empty coffee mug and a large stack of files.

You could feel Rumlow’s eyes on you, but luckily, he hadn’t said much since you sat down. Now all you had to do was wait.

You didn’t have to wait long before a man entered the precinct and made his way over to the desk you were waiting at, you standing to greet him.

“Detective Barnes.” A smile as charming as you can muster, and a hand thrust out in front of you for him to shake. Which he does, giving you a strange look.

“You’re a reporter?” He shakes your hand awkwardly,

“Investigative journalist.” You glance behind you at Rumlow’s scoff, his eyes focused on his computer screen. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about Cheryl Hansen.”

“Do you have any information that would be pertinent to the case?” He went to sit at his desk, stopped by your hand,

“We should talk privately.”

Bucky Barnes has heard your name before. You’d approached many Detectives in cases such as these and there was a little stigma attached to it. It wasn’t uncommon for your name to be brought up looking into the death of a sex worker. “Every time a girl is murdered suspiciously, she pokes her nose into it.” Natasha told him. “Just give her a little statement and send her on her way.” Harmless.

The small conference room he watched you slip your backpack off and sink into a chair, looking at him expectantly as he sat across from you.

“I don’t have a lot of time,” Which wasn’t a lie, but wasn’t exactly the truth either. He needed to talk to Steve, but not much else could be done about the case until he got the warrant for Hale or the autopsy report.

“I’ll be quick, I promise.” The little notebook laid out, pen absently set beside it. “I just have a couple of questions as far as the layout,” The notebook full of scribbles, notes. Bucky could see different names. Details. “She was on her back? Spread out? Naked.” Yes. He watched you pause for a moment, “Strangled?” He nods, yes.

“This is all things you can find in the police report.” He says, “What is your question?” You stare at each other a moment before asking,

“Was she missing her ring finger?” That took Bucky off guard. That wasn’t in the police report. Something he kept from accessible record. He stared at you for a moment,

“How did you know that?” He watched your mouth part, your eyes shifting into the bullpen, then back to his.

“You’re a new Detective, right?” You ask him. He nods, watching you rip a sheet of paper out and scribbling down an address. “I think you can really help me, but it’s not safe to talk here.” A phone number, before sitting back in your chair and looking at him plainly. “This isn’t just another dead girl.”

A knock on the conference room door. He spun around, Steve. “Barnes, in my office please.” A look past him at you, “Sorry for interrupting,” an apologetic smile. “Just have to steal him from you, but I’m sure he’d be willing to finish the interview at another time.” Bucky took the slip of paper from your hand, scooting back from the table as you stood across from him.

“Thank you for your time.” Bucky shakes your hand,

“Have a nice day.” And he was gone from the room. Walking through the bullpen and into Steve’s office.

“Thanks for saving me.” He sighs, sinking into the chair across from his friend. The paper shoved into his jacket pocket. Steve laughed,

“You’re not the first Detective she’s cornered looking for information.” Typing into his computer. “She has this conspiracy theory about the murdered sex workers in the Combat Zone that she’s trying to find a foothold in.”

“What conspiracy?” Steve had been a Detective long before he was, when he was still a beat cop Steve got promoted, and it wasn’t long after Steve had been promoted that he became Captain. The guy was a marvel. Very hard working, a little strict, but Bucky admired the perseverance of his friend. Steve wanted to be Captain just like his Dad had been, and he did nothing else but work hard to reach his goal. Bucky was sure that Joseph Rogers paved the way for Steve’s success, but Steve was so hard working on his own that he couldn’t help but have been proud of his friend.

Steve shakes his head, “Back in the 90’s there was a serial killer on the loose here in Boston that murdered a bunch of sex workers, but they caught the guy. He had a confession. His DNA was found on multiple crime scenes.” Steve sits back in his chair, slightly rocking from side to side, “But she still thinks they caught the wrong guy.” A shrug. “So she thinks he’s still out there and could pick back up at any time.”

“So she’s just nutty?” Bucky chuckles, sighing and rubbing his eyes, “Is there any margin for error on this?” Steve purses his lips,

“There’s a margin for error on any case, but I think that there was enough evidence for the jury to come to the conclusion that the guy was guilty.” A shrug, “I don’t remember enough about the case, but I’m sure you could look it up and see the details.” A slight rock side to side in his chair,

“Did you want to grab a drink later?” Bucky asked, “I think I need one after seeing that body this morning.”

“I can’t,” Steve sighs, “Peg’s brother is coming over for dinner tonight and I gotta be out of here right at five to go help her clean up and cook.” Bucky nods,

“Alright, so I’ll see you tomorrow then?” Standing from his chair,

“With your paperwork all finished.” Bucky groaned.

“Don’t give me that Buck.” Steve laughed, “It has to get done.” He raises his hands in submission,

“It’ll get done.” Bucky smiles, “Tell Peggy I said hi.”

“Will do.” Rumlow was giving him a look when he sat down at his desk, protein bar in hand.

“The broad is crazy right?” Bucky shakes his head, not answering, “She is hot though, next time I see her I’m probably gonna see if she wants to—”

“Don’t you have work to do?” A glance over the top of his computer screen, the smirk on Rumlow’s face.

“You’re no fun Barnes,” A laugh, “No fun at all.”

…

“He didn’t believe me.” You sighed into the receiver, shaking your head, “I could tell.” A deep breath from the other side.

“Maybe you need to take a break from this.” Sam’s voice laced with concern, soft for you on the other line. “I know how much this means to you Y/N, but it’s not healthy.” You could feel the tears starting. You needed to calm down. Your knee bouncing up and down as you sat in your car. The anxiety.

“I can’t let go, Sam.” A whisper into the car. “I just can’t.”

“I’m not asking you to.” You could hear him on the other end, probably slipping his coat onto his shoulders. Picking up his bag. “Maybe you should come over for dinner. Riley is grilling steaks; I’ll have him throw one on for you.” Shaking your head.

“Not tonight, Sam.” You tug on your bottom lip, “I think I just need to be alone.” You hear him pause,

“It’s not—”

“Good for me to be alone, I know.” You look out the window of your car at the police station. “I think I’m gonna just go grab some dinner out and go to bed, I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Okay, if you need anything…”

“Thank you, Sam.” The phone disconnected you ran your thumb across the screen before tossing it into your cup holder, turning your keys in the ignition and pulling off.

There was a little diner by your apartment. A place that had been your favorite since you could remember. You could recall in vague memories of your Mother, when she was still alive, taking you to this diner. It wasn’t the best diner, with the best coffee, or the best pie. But you knew everyone who worked there. It wasn’t uncommon for you to stop in and have dinner there while you worked. To be honest it’s what you preferred to do instead of going home to your empty apartment every night. Laptop out on the table while you ate a club sandwich and fries, Marie stopping by to refill your coffee while you sat with a half-touched piece of whatever pie they were trying to get rid of.

It was a comfort really.

And when you walk in and your table is empty, it just makes the day just a little bit better. Back to the wall, the window on your left giving you somewhere to zone out over the parking lot.

“Hi honey,” Marie, sweet and ageing, her hair was almost entirely grey now. You vaguely recall a time where it was pitch black. “What do you feel like eating today?” A glass of water and a soda brought over with her greeting. You hum, slipping your laptop out of your backpack.

“I think I want a burger.” And she was off. Your screen lit up you opened your notebook. The first page was a list of names. The twenty women killed over the course of 10 years starting in 1989 and continuing to 1999. One every six months like clockwork, the following pages, each woman having their own page. Name, next of kin, children’s names and ages. Details of their death. And on and on, you flipped through the pages. Leaving a blank page in between you write at the top, Cheryl Hansen.

Mother of two.

You wondered briefly what she wanted out of life. If she wanted to do something else and just tumbled into this bad life by circumstance, because they all did. You wondered how the system failed her. How she ended up dead in the middle of an alley somewhere because she wasn’t given the help she needed.

Tomorrow, you’d talk to her Mother. Like you’ve talked to the other next of kin before. You open the Facebook page. Thousands of members.

Justice for Nick Fury.

The man the murders were pinned on. The man you visit every week. And you made a post.

You thanked Marie for your dinner, picking at your fries as you wrote to your mods about the new development. That you’ll be looking into it, because you’re sure in the next day or two you’ll get a good amount of people forwarding you information about Cheryl’s death. A fund would be put up for donations to help her children. You sigh, leaning back against the booth.

As you finally bit into your burger, your phone lights up on the table next to you. A number you don’t recognize. Your thumb ran across the screen, answering the call, “Hello?” You wiped your mouth with a napkin.

“Y/N? This is Detective James Barnes… we need to talk.”

[eightysixed]

happier than ever

You call me again, drunk in your Benz Drivin' home under the influence You scared me to death, but I'm wastin' my breath 'Cause you only listen to your fuckin' friends I don't relate to you I don't relate to you, no 'Cause I'd never treat me this shitty You made me hate this city

words: 3.2k plot: emma and tomo’s relationship, in a nutshell. trigger warnings: abuse, assault, drugs, cheating, violence, blood, suicidal ideation, nsfw

Five years is a lifetime when you’ve just begun your twenties. It’s half a decade of years so formative and important that you don’t really realize their importance until they have flown past.

Emma spent those years with Tomo.

[ SEPTEMBER 2014 ]

A twenty-one year old goes to an Outkast concert. She gets propositioned by a guy. Rough, pushy, handsy, it’s enough to make her feel suffocated, plan paths of escape or desperately look for a face in the crowd that could intervene. Then he comes in with his buddies and they all but rescue her. How ironic Emma thinks, years later. What a Disney-ified, damsel in distress moment to have and to meet by.

They spend the rest of the concert together, follow it up with an after hours at Los Coyotes, wolfing down soft shells in between food-spitting laughter. Emma, Tomo, and his two buddies. The energy is infectious, and she doesn’t want to say goodbye at the end of the night. It’s a feeling she has never felt before; those sparks in his eyes that are in hers too, the way he grounds and floors her. They exchange numbers and Emma’s face lights up as she’s getting off her Muni owl: it’s a text from him.

It doesn’t take long for his contact name to acquire an Emoji heart next to it, the girl who ridiculed these kinds of things in high school now finding herself enamoured, head-over-heels, and not caring for the criticisms of formerly cynical self.

[ OCTOBER ] A month later and she’s packed up and moved into his place, about as happy as she has ever been of late; everything in life falls into place with him, just makes sense.

[ NOVEMBER ] He gets エマ tattooed on his collarbone; her name in katakana. She gets 23, his lucky number.

They spend thanksgiving with her mom in Cupertino. Frankie hasn’t seen Emma this animated again in a long time, composes a poem about in her head as the green beans and pumpkin pie are passed around. Later of course, she pulls out the baby photos, much to Emma’s embarrassment and Tomo’s delight. “You were such a fat baby, Jesus,”  Tomo laughs. “She looks like she ate baby Jesus,” her mother quips.

When her mom falls asleep, they sneak out and climb up Emma’s childhood treehouse armed with blankets. They gaze at a sliver of night sky through a gap in the roof as Emma tells him her childhood dreams of flying to space and inventing computers that could contact extraterrestrial life. They kiss, they make love, Emma ponders her stance on marriage being outdated and for chumps and losers next to a snoring Tomo.

[ FEBRUARY 2015 ] Their first Valentine’s day together they drop acid at Pier 39. An irate parent yells at them for making out on the merry-go-round in view of children; have they no shame.

She makes new friends, dozens, someone always at their place as Tomo plays them new tracks, smoke weed together, and watch the oil projector light show make shapes on the ceiling. They talk about the future, fame, and world domination.

They don’t discuss babies because neither of them care for that sort of shit — but they do talk about moving into a bigger place together, maybe getting a dog or two — the breed is subject of many arguments.

[ MARCH ] In peak puppy fever, Emma adopts a two year old rescue bulldog named Tito. It’s the first, tiny sign of a crack in their relationship, of dissent — she thinks she sees Tomo glare at the precious pup when he thinks she isn’t looking. But maybe she imagined it. He does shed and slobber uncontrollably after all, and her boyfriend happens to be a clean freak.

[ JULY ] That summer, Emma braves a plane once more to see Tomo play in Atlanta. His set is off the walls and for the first time, she is amazed to see just how many fans he has, how far this boyfriend of hers has come from making tracks in his living room. It’s just too bad she is fast asleep when he tiptoes out of their hotel room to meet one of said fans for a back-alley blowjob.

They roadtrip across the South to play some more venues and the pattern repeats itself in Louisiana, Texas, New Mexico. She wakes up in a cold sweat one night in Vegas, confused as to why he’s gone. “Out getting food. Got hungry.” The message hits her in a weird place, but she is tired, sleepy, and in a haze; Emma accepts, does not question. He even returns with some Taco Bell for her.

Timeskip — 3 years:

[ APRIL 2018 ]

Emma is on her hands and knees in a bathroom, vomit dripping off the toilet rim. She can’t remember how or why she got here, but she’s here. Everything seems to be swimming backwards. Eventually she is able to collect herself off the floor, splash water against her face and wall-to-wall stagger back out of the bathroom. It didn’t work, she’s purged the worst of it but still feeling funny. “Oh, Emma, there you are.” A man’s hands wrap around her. He says he’s friends with Tomo. Says he’ll take her to him. Fade to black.

Waking up with strange bruises should not become a norm, but it does. Emma dismisses it, goes to work, does her best.

Things with Tomo are a violent rollercoaster; some days are great, some days nondescript; and some days downright nightmarish. They fight, throw shit, break shit, yell at each other. Things almost border on the unacceptable as words turn into threats, threats turn to action. A hand around the throat; a body pinned to the wall — her body, of course. His weed grinder he threw that hit her in the head which he swore he’d meant to only toss at the wall. It never crosses a line into the unacceptable, though. That’s what Emma tells herself. He might push her down on the bed, sure, but a bed was soft. He might squeeze her throat in the heat of an argument, but never so much that she’s passing out. He doesn’t hit, kick, or punch her. That was what abusers did, not him. 

She tells herself he can’t help it, his mother used to punish him and his father didn’t love him and now he lashes out the only way he knows how, on the only person he can. He didn’t grown up in as loving a home like she did. He had his reasons. It was okay. They were okay. And the makeup sex afterwards? The best ever.

[ MAY 2018 ]  A month later and Emma is walking in on some girl riding Tomo’s dick like the world was ending, right there on their couch. On their goddamn couch they picked out together, hauled up the stairs with the delivery men. Somehow, the worst part about it all, Emma’s fucked up brain tells her, is that Tito is there to witness it. Her innocent, furry son, witnessing his ‘dad’ for all intents and purposes, cheating on his mom. A ridiculously thought but one she has nonetheless as she’s driving away, Tito next to her in the passenger seat. She goes to sleep at a friend’s and sobs the entire night.

Despite herself, she doesn’t break up with him; but the rift is a mile wide and constantly palpable. Tomo becomes relentlessly apologetic. Not only does he beg forgiveness, he does it live on-air at a radio station, on social media, Emma bombarded by strangers she doesn’t know writing her to take him back. Then he goes and uses her personal kryptonite pulls a Lloyd Dobler outside her work with a Cocorosie song she was absolutely weak for. She hates making a public scene but the sentimental part of her is melting at the gesture, the boombox, all of it. Emma stays. He’d been a shitbag, but he was her shitbag, with all his lovable and terrible qualities wrapped into one person, and she just had to take the shit with the good. Because there was no one else she’d rather be with, ripping side-stitches from too much laughter at four in the morning, tears in her eyes for a good reason this time, from one of his horrifying jokes. 

He was hers and she was his, that’s just how it was to be. Well, as much as she could call him hers when he seemed to be everybody else’s in the process.

Emma does ridiculous, degrading, uncomfortable things in the name of love, and yet in the end she can’t hold on to the love she had for him in the beginning. Way back when they were going up on that ferris wheel at the pier and he looked at her like he had nothing but love in this world, for her. That was what hurt the most, because now the ferris wheel only went down.

There are threesomes, fivesomes, sixsomes, so many bodies in between hers and the one she loves, all in the name of exciting him, holding onto him, trying to be something for him that measured up to Enough. But none of it is enough. None of it makes him happy, nor did it make her happy. She gives him an inch and he takes a mile and then demands more, smiling with blood in his mouth.  She breaks down and becomes something she doesn’t recognize in the mirror. Whether it was an act of revenge or desperation, or finally wanting to give him a taste of his own medicine, Emma sleeps with Corey, one of his best friends. She takes pictures, sends them to him “by accident”. She hates herself through it all, every moment of it, mostly for what he made her into. And yet, underneath all the layers of attempts at hurting him she was really just crawling on all fours, begging him to love her again, need her and want he the way he did in the beginning. Craving to get that first hit back, the one she had been on a residue high off of for four years, the one that now tasted metallic and rancid in her throat.

The worst part? Tomo doesn’t care. He texts her back, telling her to have fun, to send more pictures. She’s never felt this hollow, this empty, this non-entity of a being. The day of her high school graduation flashes in her mind, her dad telling her to never lose her identity, the core of what made her, her. Emma took that core and probably threw it into the Pacific. Somewher between Japan and California, it lies at the bottom of the ocean. 

[ APRIL 2019 ]

Turns out, Emma could draw a line, and that line was becoming accessory to a drug deal. She knew Tomo sold on the side to make up for all the money going into the records, but it had always been a few pills here and there, nothing big. But this? Fentanyl, Xanax, bricks of coke and hash? It was a lot. It was too much.

He sells the drugs and her to go with it, and that’s the end right there. The package she delivers to the apartment he asks her to deliver it to turns into a hostage situation, and she leaves hours later, bruises and caked blood on her. She can’t go home, doesn’t want to. She wants to jump off the bridge she’s crossing from Oakland back to the city. Any bridge, any of them would do. She understands why people jump from the Golden Gate now, or maybe always had. She was there now, climbing the railings, she was ready. She wanted that plunge so badly, would be sad to leave one parent, but good to be reunited with the other. Maybe there she’d be happy, maybe there she’d find peace. 

She calls Ben that night. She’s dry eyed and unemotional, but as soon as she gets the right words, verbalizes her situation, she’s sobbing again. Tomo is out of the city, across the country in Philly on tour. Now was the time, if there was any time for it. She’s not even done with the call when Ben is getting in his car to drive to her. It’s 6 hours from Ojai to San Francisco; he tells her he’ll be there in five. She never deserved a friend like him and never would, Emma thinks as she packs, hastily because somehow Tomo walking through the front door as a ‘surprise’ wouldn’t be out of the question. In the end, she can’t pack everything, has to leave so much behind, her records, books, knickknacks. Five years in this apartment and she’s leaving all of it behind, making a getaway in the middle of the night like some kind of burglar.

By three in the morning he’s here, and they get to packing her suitcases in the car, stacking them as best as they fit in his trunk and backseat, all of Tito’s things and then Tito on a bed in the seat in the back. Emma is in busy mode, stacking and packing everything as fast she can, still somewhere in the back of her mind thinking Tomo would appear at the last minute, and how with Ben here, things could get ugly. She doesn’t want them to get ugly. She loved him far too much to see him have to deal with Tomo, the only person in that specific firing line should be her and no one else.

They drive off. She only feels herself unclench an hour out of Daly City, somewhere in between the Bay and Southern California, where she can exhale. She’s still looking behind them constantly, wondering if every passing car could somehow be him. The saddest, most desperate part of all this that a part of her wants him to have followed. One last ditch attempt to get her back. An all out attempt, one where he would get on both knees and apologize, swear to never be this way again and follow through with it, because he was her person, he was her only person, there was nobody else in this world for her but him, but what do you do when you had to run from your person in the dead of night?

She pulls her raincoat tighter when they stop to get gas, a cold and windy middle of nowhere gas station. She’s not sure how she ends up embracing him, but they’re in it, and feeling someone’s arms around her, somebody that actually cares, who’d never hurt her, who was family, was her mom and his sister and everybody she loved rolled into one, feels like a reprieve. She feels like dirt for making him do this, making him worry, Emma was a piece of shit for that.

She says as much. He tells her to shut up, that she’s nothing like that and this was nothing that he wouldn’t have done for her on any night, any time at all. And maybe that, that was the night she fell in love with him a little bit, or realized she had always been, all along, but God likes to play Lucifer’s games with the little lives he watches over, and it wasn’t made to be, too late anyway since she’d left her heart in somebody else’s hands where it would stay. And he doesn’t need a mess like her anyway, just thinking of the name Catarina was enough. It had been five years but she still remembered the day like yesterday. How low he had been back then. How they would get high together and feel miserable together because at least they had that. They had Weetzie too, but she hadn’t experienced loss like they had, she sympathized but she’d never know what this particular slice of hell was like. But Ben and Emma knew. She knew it in that part of her ribs that met his, and she did not know what she would do if she didn’t have that, have Ben Abrams in her life. 

[ MARCH 2021 ]

Fast forward two years, and the ex is in town. Here, in Los Angeles. That very ex you worked so hard to forget, to heal from, to act like he wasn’t there. And yet, reminders of him were constantly there, everywhere. She doesn’t tell her friends, doesn’t tell anybody he’s in town, just balks when his so called best friend turns up in her neighborhood. She nearly grabs Tito and runs the other way, but it had been too late for that and they have a forced, awkward catch-up. He’s oblivious to anything happening, had barely known about her and Tomo breaking up. Figures, Emma thought, that he would act like nothing happened at all.

He’s in town, and every day she goes to work dreading something happening. She thinks she sees him outside the tattoo parlor’s window, but it’s someone else entirely. She’s losing it again, losing sleep, falling prey to her nightmares. Has a boyfriend now but even that doesn’t help, if anything, he’s a guilty reminder of just how little progress she had made, because she couldn’t devote the time and attention somebody like that needed in her life. Not when all she could think about was him.

The worst part is that once he’s long gone again, back up north, she’s feeling that hollow feeling again. Feeling upset that he didn’t seek her out, didn’t come see her. Even though she knew what an unmitigated disaster that would’ve been, the horrible, rotten part of her wanted it. Of course it wanted it. Two years and her skin still itched for him like an addict longing to be in the throes of fullblown relapse. But he didn’t track her down, call, or text, and that was that. Her only run-in with him involves a party flyer papered on a wall, his name in big stylized letters as the headlining DJ at the club. She stares at that flyer for a little too long, it burns itself in her eye like she’d looked at the sun for too long. And then she does the worst thing she could probably do, go on instagram. Only to find he has a new girlfriend. A brunette with tattoos who looked fun and flirty and everything she had been all those years ago.

That was the last tip of the scale. She reactivates her Tinder, finds some half okay looking guy, makes plans to meet him that night. It’s terrifying, so terrifying going through with, but she gets sufficiently drunk, then high on top of that, and goes through with it. Thinking of another boy’s name the entire time, his face, his body, hands and all the rest. Twelve hours later she’s leaving his apartment, no longer the nun of two years she’d become and feeling shitty about that on top of everything else. It was probably time to go see Karen again she thinks, smoking a cigarette under the sun that melts her while waiting for her Uber home. Thanks friends, thanks family, I’ve made terrific process with all your help and am now back to square one. Thanks for everything.  

Maybe in a decade’s time. 

Maybe she’d be over it by then.  

[marvella15]

Astaire & Rogers Rewatch Part 10: The Barkleys of Broadway

• So here’s the story. Fred Astaire tried to retire. He’d been performing his entire life and he was ready to finally retire. In 1946, he did Blue Skies, which was meant to be his farewell picture. Then two years went by. Meanwhile, Gene Kelly was on the rise. He was booked to do a film with Judy Garland. Then he broke his ankle. 

Kelly was extremely competitive and he and his wife often hosted volleyball games at their house. He either broke his ankle while playing or, as one story goes, he was so mad at having lost, he stamped his foot on the doorstep and injured himself. 

• Kelly couldn’t do Easter Parade with Garland. So he called up Astaire and basically was like, please help me. Astaire agreed and had such a fabulous time with Garland and the film was such a success that the studio immediately wanted to pair them up again. But then, Garland’s health precluded her from doing The Barkleys of Broadway. 

• So Astaire called up Ginger Rogers and said, hey how about we reunite for the first time on screen in ten years? And although she’d essentially stopped doing musicals at all, she agreed. And so we have The Barkleys of Broadway as the final Astaire/Rogers film and their only one in color.

• Our characters/actor: Josh Barkley (Fred Astaire), Dinah Barkley (Ginger Rogers), Ezra Miller (Oscar Levant), Jacques Barredout (Jacques François)

• Right off the bat, this movie makes a dumb decision. They put the credits over Astaire and Rogers dancing. (You can see this routine minus the credits as part of That’s Entertainment 3.)

• One of the critiques of this film is that Rogers was no longer the lithe young dancer from her and Astaire’s heyday. And to that I say: shut up. Heaven forbid she have, quite frankly, a healthier and stronger look to her than she did ten years prior when she was working herself to the bone and routinely losing 10-15 pounds from all of the dancing. I support her healthier look, lifestyle, and the ice cream she was surely enjoying from her custom home bar. 

• The main tension of the story is that Josh is essentially credited with all of Dinah’s success because he “made her what she was.” This was a real-life argument reporters of the day made about the Astaire/Rogers partnership, casting her as the brainless actress whom Astaire molded into the perfect dance partner. Which is incorrect in every sense, as we’ve seen in these past nine films.

The bickering between the Barkleys is also likely poking fun at another frequent and false report about Astaire and Rogers, which is that they hated each other and regularly fought while making their films. They had their squabbles, of course, such as the feather dress affair, but from all first-hand accounts, they got along extremely well and spent most of their time during rehearsal and filming having an incredible amount of fun. 

• I adore how they cuddle up in the car. There’s so little physical affection in Astaire/Rogers films outside of the dancing that every moment of it feels like a treat. It’s slightly ruined by a rough cut, which includes the magical appearance of a lit cigarette in Josh’s hand. 

• Josh doesn’t fight fair at all. While Dinah insists on knowing what “detail” wasn’t perfect in the show, Josh doesn’t allow her to respond to his criticism. So she’s left simply to stew in anger and hurt feelings. 

He does apologize to her soon after and they seem to make up. But as we know, the same issues will resurface again and again for them because if you don’t ever have a fair, honest conversation about your problems, they don’t ever go away. 

• I have to point out how Astaire looks at her adoringly after Josh’s apology. I also love the way she hooks her fingers into the lapels of his suit. It’s a small gesture of affection only borne out of being comfortable with someone. I’d be surprised to learn that action was in the script. 

• See, when you don’t have an actual conversation with your partner you end up freezing and starving out on the balcony at a party while a snobby, elitist playwright gives them the attention and thoughtful feedback they crave. 

• Oscar Levant always plays a version of himself in every film and he does a great job of it. When you can play piano that well, there’s no need to do a lot of heavy lifting in your acting.

• Astaire and Rogers do a really fabulous job of portraying a married couple famous for their dancing but who are also major drama queens. For example, this line from Josh, “What with walking pneumonia and concussion a fine performance I’ll give tomorrow night.”

• Some light domestic violence humor here in 1949. 😒

• Dinah hums in pleasure after Josh surprises her with a kiss and I just can’t say for sure whether that’s acting or not…

• "You'd Be Hard to Replace" is another lovely song that I really enjoy hearing Astaire sing. I also really like how Rogers caresses his elbow when they hold each other’s arms. When he wraps her in his arms from behind, their hands knead one another’s. 

They kiss again at the end of this song. There are so, so many kisses in this movie. 

• "Bouncin' the Blues" is a great tap number and they both look excellent in it. The only thing that I find a tad grating is Astaire’s exclamations, which seem too manufactured (maybe because some of them are dubbed in?). Far better is the moment when they reach out to link hands and both look like they’re having a blast. For that instant, there’s a hint of that special Astaire/Rogers magic. 

• The artwork in tribute to Josh and Dinah is atrocious, misogynistic, and rude. The artist calls her a ball of shapeless dough only formed into being by her husband, the frying pan. 

• "My One and Only Highland Fling" is… an interesting choice. Was anyone looking for Astaire and Rogers to sing in Scottish accents or dance in kilts?? The kisses on the cheek are cute though and so is their interaction after the number in their dressing room.

• They look pretty fab while playing tennis during their weekend in the country. When they make plans to meet up for dinner, they say goodbye with kisses on the cheek. To me, those natural moments between them are the best parts of the movie. 

• Omg I totally forgot about the part where Dinah pretends to be faint so Josh sends Ezra to bring her some brandy and Ezra returns with the ENTIRE drink tray with four massive bottles and glasses hahahaha

• Not to be outdone, Dinah hurriedly correcting Josh when he thinks she’s faint because she’s pregnant is also hilarious.

• Dinah does the worst possible job hiding her script from Josh. He’s angry for a lot of reasons but the note from Jacques, which implies an ongoing secret relationship between him and Dinah, is what really ticks Josh off. 

• "Shoes with Wings On" is another example of Astaire’s continued interest in special effects. Green screen technology was used to make the shoes appear to dance on their own. The finished product was one of Astaire’s enduring creations and probably what The Barkleys of Broadway is best known for outside of being a reunion picture for Astaire and Rogers. He does a convincing job of making it seem as though his shoes are dancing despite his own ability or effort. 

• Unsurprisingly, Jacques is revealed to be an even bigger pompous dick as a director than he’s been on social occasions. It’s also even more glaringly obvious that his intention the whole time has not been solely to nurture Dinah’s dramatic career but to steal her away from her husband.

 • It was Rogers’ idea to have them dance to "They Can't Take That Away From Me" rather than a new original piece. Astaire didn’t like repeating himself, and that included songs from previous films, but he made an exception. It’s a nice dance and is certainly the closest thing this film has to offer of the OG Astaire and Rogers duets. But as I said in my Shall We Dance rewatch, it’s just not the same as if they’d danced to this song the first time around.

The use of the song made sense since Ira Gershwin was the lyricist for The Barkleys of Broadway. 

• Considering it’s 1949, Dinah does a remarkable job of standing up for herself and getting to the root of the couple’s issues. He’s been taking her for granted and stifling her own creative interests and she’s been smothering her frustrations as best she can but they hit the breaking point. Something needs to change or their relationship can’t continue. But that doesn’t mean she’s happy about it.

• Dinah’s terrible acting in the play had to HAD TO be intentional on someone’s part but I can’t for the life of me think who or why. 

• Love and support are what we all want from our partners. Dinah is still in love with Josh but it’s only once she knows that Josh has been helping her despite the fact that she ended their relationship and it didn’t benefit him at all that she goes back to him. Though, she does also take a bit of pleasure in making him agonize a little while.

I like the little whistle she does upon entering their apartment. It must be something they did to alert the other they’d come home. Wish we’d gotten to see it some other time in the movie.

• The truth is, Dinah and Josh enjoy being dramatic together and I get that. When you’re with the right person, it’s fun to play around. 

• "Manhattan Down Beat" is wasted as an ending song. It could’ve been a good lively number, perhaps instead of "My One and Only Highland Fling.” I’d say that Astaire was just trying to avoid being in a top hat and tails more than necessary but he also reportedly hated being in silly costumes like the Scottish getup so 🤷‍♀️

• And that’s how the greatest on-screen dancing partnership ends. The Barkleys of Broadway is a more interesting and somewhat better film than The Story of Vernon and Irene Castle so it functions as a better finale for Astaire and Rogers. While their dancing isn’t quite the same, the chemistry between them is still very evident, which speaks to their enduring personal relationship. But that probably deserves its own post, which is what I’ll do next and how I’ll end this rewatch. 

[shelterforthelost-and-weary]

// For anyone new (or stuck on mobile) to this specific blog of mine (hi, mun from silent-stalker here) here is a list of the muses I currently have here. Right now it’s only oc’s, though I might be adding certain canon muses later on. 

Bunker - the OG muse for this blog, a Cybertronian war drone that has gained sentience for themselves and still thinks like a unit or hive mind for the most part. Lives on a backwater planet (not Earth) and visits other planets and colonies on occasion.

Vulture - an ex-Decepticon medic and seeker with corrupted memory files and a knack for coming up with extremely personal insults, even when they don’t know who they’re insulting.

Conduit - a very small pre-war empurata victim that managed to get out before he got tossed into some prison; has an outlier ability and is a glorified walking taser. Currently stowing away on merchant ships and turning tricks to fund his criminal lifestyle. (a joke, he’s just nervous and scared of everything)

Burrower - a particularly large insecticon miner who’s entire hive is dead; he lives on Earth at the moment and refuses to be a part of anyone’s war since the Decepticons already cost him his entire family. Actually very sweet.

Specimen 001 - A very old sparkeater that was discovered near a crashed Cybertronian ship, trapped in a frozen ocean. A research team dug it/him out and accidently woke it/him, Specs promptly murdered the team and used their escape pod to return to Cybertron. Can currently be found wandering the Rust Sea and the ruined cities of Cybertron. May also wind up on Earth due to groundbridge mishaps.

(Specs uses any pronouns assigned to it, the team that found it used “it/its” only, as they believed Specs to be completely dead. Specs itself doesn’t really care, but it should be noted that Specs uses he/him from the human language when speaking English.

Further information under the cut, but please be aware that the full bios contain mentions of murder, trauma, abuse, vague descriptions of torture and dismemberment (for science) as well as oppressive gov mentions.

Bunker

Bunker as they now go by, was a weapon forged in Cybertron’s early wars. They were initially created as a mindless drone, an expendable soldier, but during the last meager battles of a long, drawn out war, they went missing. After that war, the drones were all destroyed and smelted down, so that no one else could use them to start another war. (HA)

But they missed one.

Bunker hadn’t gone missing, they had been shot down by friendly fire, and left stranded when the unit panicked and tried to cover their mistake. Thankfully, the drone was fuel efficient despite their size, and could scrape extra energy up by processing raw minerals and using the solar panels in their shoulders, even after they ran out of energon rations.

Eventually, without anyone to give them orders and no one to attack, Bunker developed complete sentience, slowly evolving into a deeply intelligent mech with a craving for knowledge. They’ve managed to gather enough energy to return to Cybertron, but at this point the Decepticon/Autobot war had completely destroyed their home. Athough they are still able to harvest energon and live off of raw minerals, they do not wish to stay on a lifeless planet.

At least where they had been stranded last, they’d had animals and plants to keep them company.

So Bunker returned to their old home. However, they brought with them an old drop ship from the same era they were forged in, turning the drop ship into a humble abode for themselves. They have also managed to get a space bridge working, and are taking their first steps into a world that has mostly remained unknown to them.

Vulture

A black market medic, Vulture is an onyx seeker with two sets of wings, and a black mane/cuff of synthetic “fur” around their neck that’s really just flight insulation they choose to have on the outside of their frame. They joined the Decepticons early in the war, but have since left after watching the faction drop the original cause.

They no longer wanted anything to do with their old faction, have repainted the medic emblems on their primary set of wings - the red cross being the only color on them - and returned their visor back to a dark grey instead of red. They live in a neutral colony, tending to those who can’t afford the clinics or can’t be caught in one for whatever reason.

They present as feminine but use they/them pronouns.

Conduit

A small, horribly nervous young mech that was subjected to empurata after there was a rumor he had helped kill a senator and plotted to kill the rest. Only afterwards did anyone realize that the mech had nothing to do with the murder, and that there was no plot. The senate made up a lie, stating that Conduit’s Outlier ability to momentarily seize up a mech’s neural network and paralyze them made him extremely dangerous and that he had used it to commit criminal acts.

Conduit was able to escape using his ability and lives wherever he can, stowing away on ships and doing odd jobs at docks and colonies in order to eat. He’s very nervous and prone to accidently shocking those that touch or grab at him without warning.

He hates the claws he now has, and hates his single yellow optic, and has developed a bad habit of clawing at himself. He’s covered in the self inflicted scars. He’ll claw at others if they try to stop him from hurting himself, but will immediately seek a medic to help whoever he’s hurt.

Burrower

A large insecticon styled after a pill bug, Burrower was a miner before the war, able to dig up energon, metals and other hard minerals without the use of external equipment. When the war started, his hive was recruited by the Decepticons. Burrower refused to leave, as there was a brood yet to hatch, and his hive thus left him behind.

Unfortunately, the violence of the war saw the mines and the hive destroyed, killing the brood he had stayed for. With a newfound hatred for the war, Burrower decided to use a little known ability of his; launching himself into space like a cannonball. As long as he stayed rolled into a tight ball and used only his sensory antenna, he could travel through space just like this in a sort of hibernation, and has since visited many planets using this skill.

Currently, Burrower has found a home on Earth, and can be found digging tunnels, mining energon and occasionally wading through large bodies of water, usually hunting down clay deposits and gemstones/crystals/shells. He has a built-in refinery and can consume just about anything - stone, metal and even organic matter - and turn it into a brew to fuel himself and others if he so chose to share.

Specimen 001

Found by a Cybertronian research team, trapped deep within a frozen ocean, it was unclear at first what it was exactly. It was Cybertronian, and that was all that was clear to the research team. One of their first finds on this mining colony, whatever it was, Specimen One was their pride and joy - which of course, meant running as many tests as they had the resources for.

This meant many long days at the side of this frozen behemoth of a mech - although “mech” was used as a loose term. At least 50 feet (15 meters) in height, the frame of this mech was broken, falling apart and in baring many, many wounds - both healed and “fresh”. It has four arms, a primary set that had thick cables running along the underside, the large hands boasting wicked claws.

The secondary set were smaller, and curled into a space beneath it’s chest, with a set of smaller clawed hands…well, hand. One had been removed by the research team, justified at the time as the only option to run certain tests.

It had six optics, with one being broken from a past injury, a dangerous set of steel-crunching jaws and a second mandible that could split open to make for a bigger, more painful bite. Throat is coated in barbs or hooks, looking like a garbage disposal to grind up anything it swallowed. It had thick cables coming from it’s back, each ending in a hooked, beak-like clamp. Each of these were equipped with injector needles for paralyzing it’s prey, the cables themselves strong enough to hold an average sized mech down. (discovered later)

There are large vents on either side of it’s helm, only obvious when in use as a thin film covers them otherwise. Was discovered to be an advanced olfactory organs, giving the mech the ability to hunt by scent alone.

And finally, after thawing the mech out, having thought it dead, the research team discovered a crucial piece of information: The mech was still alive, and it was a very big, very old, and very pissed off sparkeater.

[songfell-ut]

Chapter 9 is done, urgh

This one was quite the exercise in rewriting All The Phrasing. Stoopid fortunes. I ended up splitting it off again. Here it is! Hi, @lostmypotatoes! Next one very soon!

Sans and Frisk did not have a slumber party that night.

No, once they returned from the festival and she finished telling Sans exactly what she thought of his behavior, Frisk sent him to his room, then went to the office and stayed there. Not on the couch: she sat down at her desk to make a few notes while the fortunes were still fresh in her mind. By the time she was done, it was after dawn, her hand was one solid cramp, she'd lost all feeling in her rear, and she had filled up five sheets of paper.

Regarding the child – the one from her nightmares – there wasn't much to write, just key phrases that she suspected would be more intelligible when she'd tracked down the man who spoke in hands. Would Sans have mentioned it if he knew some way in which he didn't belong here? It could simply be his stay in the castle, but it felt bigger than that. She'd had nightmares about that horrible child throughout her entire life, and it had never wanted her to do anything before; had it known she'd meet him, and would its "business" be finished if she killed him?

For now, it was all morbid conjecture. She'd put it aside until she could talk to Sans without wanting to pull his arm off and slap him with it.

So. If she didn't open the box, her life would be adequate. There was a lot to be said for adequacy. Her children would have wealthy, loving parents, and never suffer from hunger, loneliness, beatings—the kind of pain that was all behind her now, the same way a loaded wagon is behind the horse pulling it. Staying busy with her lessons in the strict, orderly convent and then her duties as High Priestess had kept Frisk going, preventing her from having to look over her shoulder. Would marrying Luke keep it that way?

She had gone years without really thinking of her life before St. Brigid's, except for fleeting apprehensions about having to explain the scars to her future husband. Why in God's name would she want to dig that up in the course of remembering something even worse?

By definition, she didn't know the exact contents of the rosewood box. She just knew that when she was about thirteen, one of her teachers had finally explained to Frisk why she couldn't recall anything between her tenth birthday and her second month at the convent: "We could do nothing with you when you first arrived. No food, no rest, just tears and 'Take me back, please' for weeks on end," Sister Clair had told her, almost accusingly. "Your father came to see you for himself, and he was so distraught that he gave the Mother Superior his blessing to do whatever she thought needful."

Frisk had always accepted that the sisters knew best; her father's influence had probably been a factor, but it wouldn't have pushed them to take such a drastic step if it hadn't been absolutely necessary. She herself had done her fair share of comforting frightened or homesick new arrivals, and no matter how distressed they were, none of them had had their memories removed.

She also had come to terms with her father returning home from his visit without her. Her first solid recollection at the convent was of the Mother Superior taking her aside to tell her exactly who her father was, ensuring she understood why he hadn't been a more direct part of her life and why she would be staying here from now on. Accustomed to receiving girls born out of wedlock, the Mother had emphasized how lucky Frisk was that her father had come forward – discreetly – to acknowledge her and pay for her education, and that he would ensure she had everything she needed from then on. Even as a child, Frisk had appreciated how superior the convent was to her prior circumstances, and agreed that she was fine at St. Brigid's.

The only mystery to Frisk was why she had initially been so desperate to leave. She couldn't have been crying for her father; she'd always been told that he was dead, and never thought to question it. Frisk had seen over and over again that mistreated children never wanted to leave their parents, no matter how awful they were, but her mother had only visited her every few months throughout her early life, and once Frisk realized that Mama was never going to keep her promise to take her with her, Frisk had grown to hate seeing her. She hadn't been attached to anyone at the group home where she'd stayed as a very little girl, and when she was old enough to work in the castle kitchens, her only goal had been to avoid being noticed. What had she wanted so badly?

Since Sans had arrived, she had been more and more tempted to try something stupid and just crack the orb or chip off a few figuratively bite-sized pieces. But that wasn't how the magic worked, was it? The sisters had been very specific on how to take the memories back if she so chose, and her fortune had also made it clear that this was an all-or-nothing proposition. She would fully open the box and reclaim the contents, or throw them away for good, no peeking allowed.

At that point, Frisk almost stopped writing and tossed her notes into the fireplace. What was she doing? Why wouldn't she choose a long life with a respectable husband and four children? True, her efforts to free monsters from slavery wouldn't work, but that didn't mean she'd be totally useless. Besides helping humans – always a full-time job – there was still plenty she could do for monsters in captivity, and she'd lay the groundwork for others to finish what she'd started. After centuries of hatred and mistrust, it made sense that humanity wasn't ready yet to accept monsters as equals; she couldn't change the entire world on her own, so—

Except that she could. She could change the world for the better if she worked hard enough to achieve her goal, which she knew in her bones to be humans and monsters living in peace. But how could her lost memories possibly be the one thing that made the difference? And if they were, how was she supposed to deal with that much pain, knowing it would also affect at least one other person?

...But what about the joy, the love, the power, also to be shared? What about the child she'd bear in time for next year's All Souls festival?

That was another worry: the ferryman had said "your husband" for the first future, but "your child's father" in the second. That didn't seem accidental. Frisk knew herself, and she had no idea what would induce her to conceive a child with someone she wouldn't or couldn't marry, no matter how attractive he was or how lonely she might be. With her own morals and her mother's example to go on, she'd sooner die than let a married man near her, and she'd kill him if she found out after the fact!

Surely the fortune-teller would've mentioned the child resulting from violence or coercion? Its wry tone had implied that the father would be unable to talk her out of going to the festival, not that she'd escape from his clutches, which also eliminated the possibility of one night with someone she'd never see again or a man who would die before the baby was born.

So, in summary, she would have little triumphs, large regrets, old age, a decent husband, money, kids, in-laws, and grandkids. Very simple.

...Granted, it...didn't sound quite like the life she'd always craved, with joy and love, real parents, a huge family, and monsters freed in her lifetime, not to mention a man she loved enough to have his illegitimate child...and maybe Frisk could see Luke assuring her with a straight face that he'd "take an interest in her happiness," and maybe it was already making her cringe. Maybe she was already wealthy enough to marry anyone she wanted. Maybe she intended to keep working hard enough that, when she thought it over, she found she would much rather have one child than divide her attention between four who could very well end up being raised by servants. Maybe all these things were true.

...What was she trying to say again?

Right. Maybe all these things were true. There was still no avoiding the fact that she'd be exchanging a life of peace and stability for every bit of the heartbreak that had nearly killed her as a child, and somehow also share it with someone else. Was she stupid enough to open the box anyway out of curiosity, like the woman in the fable?

A treacherous little voice whispered in reply: Are you selfish enough to keep monsters enslaved because you're afraid of being hurt?

Frisk shoved the papers into a drawer and eased out of her chair, shaking her hand vigorously as the sun peeped in through the high window. It'd be time for breakfast soon. She wouldn't take Sans to pieces; she'd let him sleep in, then have him experiment with the alfalfa mixtures while she napped, though they'd need fresh seedlings before he could really get started. The supplies she had already ordered should be arriving this afternoon, which would enable them to try even more—

Sans was not sleeping. Sans was sitting in the middle of the workroom floor with no clothes on. He was holding a book up over his head and squinting at the words as though he'd never seen letters before, and gave a very elongated "Heyyyy" when he heard the door open.

Frisk stopped dead. "Hey," she responded. "What are you doing, Sans?"

"Wheeee," the skeleton said, and demonstrated by falling onto his back. The book stayed up, and his legs fell every which way, one bumping into a chair pulled away from the worktable and the other almost hitting the bedroom door. "'s hot in here," he explained, pointing at the ceiling.

Frisk looked at the ceiling, then at the windows. They were all wide open, and the workroom was freezing. She had the completely irrational urge to cover her eyes, and compromised by turning her back and heading to the windows. "We're going to pretend that it's not hot in here," she said carefully. What on earth was wrong with him?

In the time it took for her to shut one window and place her hand on the latch, Sans had appeared inches away. One enormous phalange wobbled its way up to push her hand aside. "No, 's hot," he explained.

The priestess was equal parts annoyed and concerned now, especially when he teetered against the wall. "Sans, if I did not know better, I would say you were drunk. Have you been mixing things without telling me?" She eased away from him, just in case.

The skeleton seemed to take umbrage: his eyes lit up. "Ya don' know better. I am absolutely drunk!" Just as quickly, his sockets were blank. He peered at the tiny-looking book in his hand and turned it to her, tapping a random word. "How d'ya say this? It's human. How do you human. Please."

Frisk eased back a little more, trying not to look at his pelvis, which was far too close to her eye level. "That's the word 'the,' Sans. If that's not the one you mean, I will have to ask you to be more specific." Should she make a break for the bedroom, or just put up a barrier while she had the chance?

Sans laughed. "Damn, yer cute! Lessee." He dropped the book and continued trying to flip pages in midair. A moment later, he realized his mistake, scowled, and lifted the book on a wisp of red. "Hold on. 's tryin' ta get away." Even the magic had trouble staying steady, she noted uneasily.

Someone knocked on the double doors, and Frisk heaved a sigh of relief. "You can find the word while I answer that, all right?" She lifted a foot to step around him.

Unbelievably quick, Sans sat down, extended a hand, and caught her around the middle in a loose, ironclad grip. Across the workroom, the bar on the doors glowed red and lifted; the doors swung open. "There," said the boss monster, tugging her closer and frowning at the book. "Who's what y'want?"

It was Dr. Serif, who stopped on the threshold, raised an eyebrow as high as it would go, and closed the doors behind him. "Good morning?" he inquired.

"Hands," the skeleton replied, still searching the pages for that errant word.

The priestess was still trying to comprehend what was happening. Was this some kind of bizarre prank, or a distraction from talking about last night? The longer he held on, the less likely either possibility seemed—he was too calm and too comfortable, as if this was something he was doing simply because he wanted to do it.

Here they were, then. With Sans seated and her standing, the giant skeleton could fold his arm and hold Frisk against him like a child cuddling a teddy bear, fingers spread across her upper legs and torso, her shoulders resting on his clavicle. This wasn't quite as scary as the last time he'd grabbed her, but...

Frisk tested his grip and was unsurprised to find that, though his phalanges were angled not to dig into her, they were about as movable as solid rock. "We're having a very interesting morning," she said to Dr. Serif, and mouthed Help!

"I can see that," said the doctor, who gestured for her not to move, then came forward a few steps. Sans' head swiveled, eyes fully lit, and the royal sorcerer turned his next step into a half bow. "I am glad to hear that you had a good time at the festival last night, my lady. Rumors are brewing about a woman with a highly interesting fortune who was called 'Your Eminence,' but no one is willing to swear that it was you."

That sounded like one problem too many. "Good" was all she could think to say.

"I can't find it," complained Sans. He tossed the book out the window. "Gimme another one, pl's."

"You can have it later," Frisk said acidly. That was her old science textbook from the convent, with her notes and doodles in the margins!

"Sans," said the doctor, "where are your clothes?"

The skeleton blinked at him, sockets still wide orange. "Off," he said, as though the sorcerer was being stupid.

"Of course. How silly of me." Dr. Serif bowed vigorously, letting the motion carry him forward. "Tell me, what did you have to drink at the festival?"

"This asshole was comin' onta her." The skeleton's now-free hand patted Frisk very lightly on the head. Despite her irritation, the priestess couldn't help smiling. "I hit 'im with cider," said Sans. "Damn good cider. 'sat why those people were goin' at it, Frisk?" he asked curiously.

The priestess was no longer smiling. "Sans intervened on my behalf when a man wouldn't leave me alone," she explained to the straight-faced doctor. "We tried some apple cider—why can I still smell it on you, Sans? And yes, we saw a couple who couldn't wait until they found somewhere private. I have no idea what they'd been drinking, but it wasn't what we were having."

"Hmmm." Dr. Serif watched Sans, who was examining the back of Frisk's head, then produced a scroll from his robe pocket. "The monster Snowdrake has been confiscated from his owners, effective immediately. I've brought the paperwork for you to take official custody, my lady. He will be here once the captain of the guards has finished questioning him."

Sans started. Frisk tugged at the skeleton's enormous metacarpals. "Let me go, Sans, please."

Very reluctantly, his hand uncurled to let her wriggle free. Trust the doctor to be a step ahead of everyone, she thought as she accepted the scroll, unaware that Sans was staring fixedly at him. The priestess smoothed out the papers on the worktable and began skimming through it.

Sans turned around so that he stretch out on the floor lengthwise. The doctor wrinkled his nose at the colossal skeleton, then peered over Frisk's shoulder as she came to several blank lines for an address. "Where is that, my lady?" he asked as she began writing.

"It's a house I own on the edge of the city. I've been renting it out, but the current tenants have already moved for the winter, so I'm putting it down as Snowdrake's official residence."

"Well done." Dr. Serif glanced at Sans, then suddenly flicked his fingers across Frisk's back. "Forgive me, Your Eminence," he said as she jumped, "there was a spider. We'll have to have your rooms cleaned soon."

The High Priestess scratched her back, gave him a terse nod, and went back to the scroll, moving away from him.

Sans was on his feet. He said to Frisk, "'Scuse us, kitten," then grabbed the doctor and vanished.

She wondered why he was so upset, and why he'd teleported Dr. Serif just a few feet away into the office. Well, at least he'd let go of her without a fight. Should she check on him to be sure he wouldn't hurt the doctor?

After a moment, she shook her head. She'd have to let them hash it out. What was the worst that could happen?

 ~

 The moment they reached the office, Gaster dropped his disguise, summoned six extra hands, and gripped the boss monster's arms before Sans could dismember him. "Easy, now," the older skeleton cautioned him. "Don't disrupt Her Eminence any more than you already have."

"Oh yeah? 'll disrupt yer fuckin'—"

Smack. "Hold still," the doctor rasped, and Sans jerked convulsively as a hand gripped the back of his skull. A moment later, the hand disappeared and left Sans with his eyes shut tight. "Can you think now, insofar as you are capable of it?" snapped Gaster.

Sans blinked at the hands grasping his arms. They disappeared, too, and Sans looked down at himself. "What." He twisted around to look at his backside. "The hell are my clothes? What'd ya do?"

"I sped up the metabolism of the ethanol molecules that were causing you to lose track of your clothing and treat the High Priestess like a toddler with his favorite toy. In short, you were drunk, and you no longer are. Would you care to tell me how much alcohol it took to inebriate someone your size so many hours after the fact, and how you did so without the lady knowing?"

Sans had gone red. "All I had last night was turkey an' cider!" he protested. "She wouldn't let me try anythin' else! She had the exact same stuff, 'n she didn't get plastered!"

The older skeleton regarded him with narrowed eyes, which was extremely creepy. It made Sans think of Frisk's first question, the one about the child from her nightmares—had Frisk been talking about him? If so, then how did he not belong here? Did the kid's unfinished business with him involve murder? Why?

Why should they beware the man who spoke in hands?

Gaster started to speak, and Sans cut him off: "Were you tryin' ta piss me off back there? Are ya after Frisk, or d'you just wanna screw with me? Whaddya want?"

"To help," the doctor said calmly.

Sans sat down with a mighty thmp. "Ta help. Of course. Why didn't I realize that already?" He tapped his phalanges on the carpet. "Who are you helpin', besides yerself?"

"That is a very large question." Gaster also sat down, on the edge of the desk. "My most immediate goal since Frisk became High Priestess has been to aid her in restoring peace between monsters and humans. The longer I have worked with her, the more I find that, frankly, I like her, and I would like her to be happy if possible." No sooner had the words left him than a hand sprang up in front of Sans, who was already fully aglow. The hand held up a finger long enough for Gaster to add, "Which is to say, I admire her caring heart, her singing voice, her magical prowess...her determination. Would you agree?"

Sans' eyes felt ready to burn clean through his skull. Frisk would get even more upset with him if her office was destroyed, so he tried to say something civil, or at least something okay, or something that wouldn't get him smacked again. But he couldn't.

The hand waggled again, then vanished. "Everything I say and do is for one ultimate purpose, my boy: to gather data. I can help no one if I have insufficient information. Take you, for example." The older skeleton folded an extra set of hands in the air over his lap, like a lecturer settling in at the start of class. "Since the High Priestess made you her apprentice, I have considered your intractability to be an impediment to her plan. I ensured that she had a means of preventing your escape, and I have been monitoring your relationship to see if you were developing any kind of rapport. Now that you have, though, you have become a very different sort of problem."

The boss monster was still at a loss. Gaster was quiet, but it didn't feel as if he was trying to antagonize him again; this seemed more careful, almost sad, thought Sans. "In that respect, I have all the data I need," the doctor said. "I assure you that I have no personal designs on Her Eminence, and I will not imply anything further to that effect." He was looking through Sans now, almost talking to himself. "The more I resolve to be of use, the more difficult it becomes to discern where usefulness ends and interference begins. I am more inclined to let matters go where they will from here on, especially after the advice Her Eminence received last night. But..." The slashes on Gaster's face deepened. "It cannot hurt to exchange information. For example, did you notice that the 'ferryman' is a monster?"

"I..." Sans got his thoughts back in order, contemplated the fortune-teller and his cat-shaped table, and found himself nodding slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I kinda did. He didn't seem very human."

Gaster chuckled. "It's strange how these things work. Where I come from, he is the ferryman in the Underground."

"Where you come from?" A chill crept down Sans' spine. He tried to force a laugh. "We just have a coupla Royal Guards runnin' our ferry. Wha, is there more'n one Underground 'round here?"

"No. There is not." The smile faded. "Now, my turn. None of the people who heard Frisk's fortunes told were listening closely to her first question, or the answer. What exactly were they?"

Sans still had that prickly feeling, like someone had held a door open too long and he'd glimpsed something he couldn't unsee. He probably shouldn't tell the man who speaks in hands that they were supposed to beware of him, should he? "Yeah, she asked about something from her nightmares that wanted her to hurt somebody. He said it's a child who wants Frisk to kill someone who doesn't belong here, something about it having 'unfinished business,' and that Frisk was its connection."

The doctor waited patiently as Sans hesitated. "I'm pretty much positive she meant me," the boss monster continued. "I saw the kid once, and I could tell it hates my guts." The boss monster took a moment to indicate that he didn't have guts, ha ha, but Gaster was unamused. "So that means I don't belong here, and some freaky little ghost wants Frisk t'finish me off? I guess? Any chance ya know what any of that means?" He scratched his patella, wondering if it was his imagination or if his body was feeling a little more touch-sensitive than usual, like his human self.

Come to think of it, he could sort of smell the air in here, though it wasn't as strong as any of the ones he'd encountered at the festival. And now he could vaguely remember Frisk being right up against him a minute ago, and that her hair had smelled like...a smell. All he knew was that he had liked it, and letting her go had sucked.

...Crap. What were they talking about again?

"I see," murmured Gaster. He looked down at his extra hands. "Forgive me if this sounds dramatic, or if it's very personal, but have you ever felt especially out of place, or dreamed vividly of things that you are sure never happened to you?"

It was more than a chill this time. "Yeah, but I figured everybody feels like that sometimes. I've had the same nightmares my whole damn life, over and over. They stopped when I came here and started sleepin' inside her barrier. So..." He scowled, trying to cover his fear. "Somethin' is makin' us both see things? Is that it?" He suddenly sprang to his feet. "Is that why I used ta dream about ya? Are you behind all this shit?!"

Two skeletal hands flew at him and stopped just short of his eye sockets. Sans froze, feeling sick and cold inside as he stared through the holes in the palms. Those hands, coming at him—

Gaster gave a long, tired, defeated sigh. "Data. I am sorry, Sans. This will be very unpleasant, but I need to know if it is familiar to you. Hold still, please."

Before the boss monster could react, a third hand dropped onto the top of his skull and—

 ~

 It was cold. Dark, darker, yet darker.

Papyrus wasn't moving. Sans struggled out of the restraints, threw himself onto the tiles and screamed at his brother, trying to shake the little skeleton awake, but pieces were already flaking off. Helpless tears streamed from Sans' sockets, soaking the dust into pink mud.

"Messy."

Sans whirled around, choking with grief and rage. He'd always promised himself he would kill the bastard before he let him hurt Pap! Why hadn't he—

Hands smashed into his spine, his ribs, and one square over his face, the palm large enough for both his sockets to see out through the hole. "I never could fix that design flaw," their creator said in distaste, poking at the red streaking Sans' cheekbones. "Strange...I always thought you'd break first. Ah, well." A philosophical sigh. "Now, the question of whether to finish with you and create a better set, or try a fresh copy of that one first. What do you think, Sans?"

There was a deep sound from behind Dr. Gaster, almost a snarl. It was Gaster's turn to whip around, his face contorted in surprise and every one of his hands flung up to defend himself. A flash of light, searing pain—

Footsteps. A dark figure bent over him. Sans whimpered as Gaster loomed back into his field of view. He should have known better than to hope he was dead!

But...Gaster seemed different, almost another person—paler, the cracks in his face more shallow and less splintered than the ones Sans had stared down his whole life. The hand that rested on Sans' forehead was...gentle? "I am so sorry, child," the scientist said quietly. "Forgive me."

Sans couldn't answer. He felt as if his bones were getting softer, his body lighter. When Gaster sighed, Sans watched tiny bits of himself blow away in the puff of breath. It was almost a relief to feel his SOUL flicker out like a candle and finally die.

 ~

 Sans clawed his way back to consciousness, sitting up so hard that he nearly banged his head on the desk. He looked around, but there was no laboratory equipment, no tile floors or piles of murky dust, just the desk in her office.

Frisk's office. He was here. He wasn't dead, Pap wasn't dead, Gaster wasn't—

"Please do not move."

The boss monster froze in place. "Now, tell me," the doctor said, shutting the door. "Have you had that nightmare before?"

Sans nodded imperceptibly. "Yeah. Long...a long time ago." He couldn't stop shaking.

He flinched as Gaster patted his shoulder blade. "Please don't be frightened, Sans. It was only a dream. I have never hurt you or your brother, and I have no intention of ever doing so." A black coat drifted past Sans' peripheral vision as the royal sorcerer went behind the desk. "To answer your last question, no, I have not sent any of your nightmares, or hers. As I said, I am here to acquire information. I try to avoid collateral damage in the pursuit thereof, but it is not always possible. For that, I sincerely apologize. I've asked Frisk for her help in calming you down."

Sure enough, a sound was coming through the door behind him. It was faint, but as Sans listened, he recognized her humming a slow, sweet little song. Out of her entire repertoire, that one was probably his favorite; he hadn't heard it in so long that he'd been on the verge of swallowing his pride and asking her to do it again. Had Gaster requested that one specifically, or did she know?

Gaster watched the tension fade from the boss monster's massive frame, and the smallest movements of his skull as he bobbed his head along. The doctor examined the center of Sans' chest, his eyes going very wide. Sans was too mellow to ask what he was looking at...probably his SOUL. Eh, whatever.

Presently, the royal sorcerer said, "Snowdrake should be en route now. Her Eminence is still checking that the papers are in order, as well as the deposit she will have to put down until the Church finds another buyer for him." A dry chuckle. "If I know Frisk, Snowdrake will not be sold again. In the unlikely event that someone discovers she's lost track of him, she will be rebuked and lose her deposit, and that will be all."

Sans moved his shoulder back. "She's not gonna get fired or locked up?"

"They wouldn't dare. Not for her first offense, and not for neglecting a single low-ranked monster. Our High Priestess is protected by very powerful connections."

That word took Sans right back to the child from her nightmares. "Why'd you show me that horrible thing with me 'n Pap, and how? I didn't see the ghost kid anywhere. Is the little psycho mad about that dream 'cause it wanted ta kill me first? What the hell is it, anyway?"

"One thing at a time, please. Overall, you may be on the right track, but that's a matter I would rather discuss with Frisk. I—"

"Quit callin' 'er by name. I thought you weren't gonna pull that crap anymore."

Gaster merely smiled. "If you'll bear with me for a moment, the best answer I can give you is that the mind is a terrifyingly powerful thing." Sans bit back his impatience as the doctor settled himself again. "When someone has suffered greatly, especially early in life, it is natural to try to move past those experiences as quickly as possible. But if the mind is active, intelligent, and magically gifted, failure to properly acknowledge these experiences can backfire very badly. Inner demons may become reality, or outside forces with malevolent intent take notice, or both."

"Geez." Sans rubbed the corners of his eyes, wondering where the hanky was. "Yeah, that'd explain why I never got any sleep before I shacked up with someone who could block 'em for me."

A beat of cold silence. "I am not talking about you."

The giant skeleton paused mid-rub. "Ya mean—"

"Most people in a great deal of pain will express it as destructive behavior toward themselves or others. It takes remarkable determination to turn that negativity into the drive to protect other people, rather than lashing out." The doctor shook his head. "I am impressed that she has not seen anything worse than the specter of an evil child. The fact that it can be stopped with a barrier suggests it is primarily external in nature, and her recognizing its intent without acting upon it is also a good sign."

Sans winced. "So, is she seeing it 'cause she's mad at me? Am I in any actual danger?"

Gaster laced his fingers together. "Its power and its ability to work through her will depend both on her intrinsic strength and the energy she has left after dealing with other problems—say, a protege who interrupts an expensive fortune-teller with crude questions in front of dozens of people, and then says 'See you next year' as she tries to get him away."

At this point, Sans would have been surprised if word of that incident hadn't gotten around. "Ya think she's still mad at me?" he asked sheepishly.

"I am not her, so I cannot say for certain, but I can ask you whether you've apologized yet."

"I didn't get a chance! She reamed me out 'n made me go straight t'bed!"

"After which you were drunk this morning, which I still do not understand, and during which you took sizable liberties." A hand popped up to rap Sans on the skull. "At the risk of interfering further, I strongly advise you to ask yourself whether you want to be a friend or a problem."

Sans digested this in silence. The royal sorcerer glanced at the door. "We have a few more minutes. I'd like to ask you a few more questions—nothing terrible, just some odds and ends I've wanted to discuss for some time now. You may do the same."

The boss monster thought it over for a moment. "What's everyone sayin' about her second fortune, the one with the box?"

"Your turn is already over." Two more hands appeared over Gaster's head, one holding a pen and the other a small notepad. "Now, you were a normal skeleton for most of your life, correct? And Papyrus remains as he was?" The hand with the pen swooped down and tapped on Sans' upper leftmost fang, then the top of his skull. "Hm. Intact. How interesting."

Sans swatted at the hand, which evaded him as nimbly as a bug and swooped back up to scratch something on the notepad. "Yeah, Pap's still Pap, and I wasn't born a big ol' freak. Don't ask how that happened, 'cause I don't wanna talk about it."

"Fair enough. Tell me, Sans, do you or have you ever smoked?"

"Smoked? From where?"

The doctor laughed. "I'll take that as a no." Scritch, scritch went the pen. "Do you have a predilection for violence? If so, is it against other monsters, humans, or both?"

"Uh...yes? Humans?"

"I see." Scriscritch. "What is your favorite food? Do you prefer any condiments in particular?"

"My favorite food's whatever I can eat! Haven't you heard what's happenin' in the Underground? Where the hell are you from, exactly?"

Gaster tsked. "In that vein, have any monsters besides yourself become more violent than usual?"

"Not...really. Undyne's more psycho than ever, but I think that's just her."

"Is the situation such that anyone has contemplated resorting to cannibalism?"

"Hell no! Don't even joke about that!"

"I am not joking, Sans. Has the Underground seen a marked increase in sexual activity?"

Great, now he was baffled and embarrassed. "Weren't you listening? There's no damn food! Why would anybody want to have kids right now?"

"A valid point, but to your knowledge, have any of the monsters been engaging in indiscriminate, non-procreative sexual activities?"

"Wha—why the fuck would I know that?!"

That earned him another smack on the head, though not very hard. "Language." Scriscritch. "Now, please be honest. Have you ever contemplated keeping a human as a pet? If so, do you believe you would treat her well, or would you—"

"That does it!" Sans lurched to his feet, eyes and face blazing. "I dunno what kinda sick fantasies ya got goin', buddy, but I'm not gonna play along!"

The royal sorcerer held up his hands, and the extras holding the pen and notepad vanished. "Let's move on, then. Tell me whether this is correct: the second fortune explained the consequences of Her Eminence either opening or disposing of a box. One result is a very dull and safe future, while the other would be shorter and more painful, but ultimately much more fulfilling. Yes?"

Sans sat back down, poking at a scuff mark on the carpet. "Yeah, that's pretty much it."

"Unsurprisingly, many people are fixated on the latter possibility, because it would result in the High Priestess – if it is her, of course, which no one will say for certain, though they're certainly saying it – having a child by this time next year." One side of Gaster's mouth lifted. "It is a very popular misconception that human gestation lasts nine months, but in reality, medical experts consider a full-term pregnancy to be roughly forty weeks, or ten months. I will not contribute any sordid conjectures to the narrative, but if this aspect of her fortune is accurate, the necessary timing of certain events is self-evident."

"If?" Sans sat forward eagerly. "Ya mean it might not happen? No boring husband sometime soonish, no havin' a kid right away?"

Gaster stared at him for a little too long. "Where do you see yourself in this, Sans? Where would you like to be?"

Sans blinked. "Wha?"

"You escorted her to the festival, and mutual convenience led you to present yourselves as a couple, but you are not her husband. You are her apprentice and personal guard for the next twenty or so days, after which she will return to the usual course of her duties, and you will return to the Underground to report to King Asgore that the humans are interested in reopening diplomatic relations."

"Actually," Sans said, trying not to sound smug, "once my time's up, she's probably gonna come back Underground with me. She's got this big plan ta have monsters work with humans instead of bein' slaves, and it's too much fer me t'decide on, so—"

"So you would risk her life by bringing her directly to Asgore?" The doctor stood slowly, and the room seemed to grow darker as he glared down at Sans. "You idiot! Do you have any idea what will happen if the High Priestess is delivered to your King as he is now?"

"You mean, if he doesn't like her idea? Then I'll...uh..."

"You'll what?" Gaster's voice dripped with such scorn that Sans couldn't muster a response. "King Asgore is not interested in making peace! He would only meet with her in order to take her SOUL!"

The boss monster's mouth opened and closed. "But...if I didn't—"

"Asgore's sole aim is to become powerful enough to take vengeance on humanity. The King knows very well that only women with strong inborn magic may become High Priestess, and the moment he saw Frisk's SOUL for himself, he would be willing to fight her, you, and perhaps even Toriel to acquire it. Do you understand?"

Sans had never felt so small and stupid. Why hadn't it occurred to him that Asgore would notice how powerful Frisk was without being told? All he had thought of was the excuse to take her with him, not even bothering to remember how he had immediately noticed her SOUL and tried to kill her for it. He was smarter than this!

There was no time to beat himself up. He had to think. Her first fortune had said her efforts wouldn't bear fruit, and Gaster had mentioned Asgore "as he is now"; for the second future to come to pass, with Frisk changing the world and achieving her goal, the King would have to be more like his old, sweet-natured self, who would never have killed someone without at least hearing her out. "Whaddya think is in the box?" Sans asked abruptly.

Gaster frowned. "That's an excellent question. I couldn't even venture a guess without seeing the box myself, but I doubt Her Eminence would be willing to show me. After what you said last night, I don't think she would be receptive to you asking, either."

Sans let himself fall onto his back, staring at the wallpapered ceiling. Who the hell put wallpaper on the ceiling? "Nope. She'd kick my ass from here to the Underground and back."

"Crude, but accurate." Gaster sighed, twiddling his thumbs in elaborate swirls. "How very frustrating. We have so much information, but the most crucial component may be forever beyond our gr—"

The door banged open. "Excuse me," Frisk said to Sans, who got up and watched her shove the couch aside.

Gaster quickly resumed his disguise; luckily, the priestess was so fixated on the couch that she hadn't noticed. "May we help you, my lady?" asked Dr. Serif.

"No." The young woman yanked at a floorboard, and both monsters watched in astonishment as she pulled it up to reveal a makeshift safe. She removed the barrier and rummaged through the safe, extracting a thickly folded paper. "Here we are." Frisk scowled as she tried to remove the packet: the safe was so small that the paper was stuck lengthwise against something. The priestess dug downward and shoved the offending object up and onto the floor. "Here is the deed to my house in Riverview, and here's the key. You and Snowdrake will be able to stop there on your way, and no one will...Sans? Hello?"

The men weren't listening to her. They were looking at what had tumbled out of the safe: a rosewood box.

Frisk slapped at it, sending it tumbling back into the safe, which she resealed and covered with the floorboard and couch in rapid succession. "Don't even think about it," she said to them, dangerously calm, and marched out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

The royal sorcerer scratched his cheek. "Memories."

"Hm?" Sans glanced at him. "What about 'em?"

"That type of wood is useful for preserving magical objects, but that shape and size are not common. Given the context of her second fortune and the emotional pain therein, it must contain at least one memory." Dr. Serif drummed his fingers on the desk. "How curious. Memory excision has historically been so abused that it was outlawed by King Stephin's great-grandfather. Nowadays, the procedure can only be authorized on a case-by-case basis by a Church official higher than an archdeacon, or the very highest ranks of the nobility or royalty."

Sans suddenly remembered a night not long after he'd arrived where Frisk had mentioned her father, and how loyal her mother had been to the duke she worked for. Just for grins, he'd looked up the hierarchy of nobility in one of Frisk's books, and a duke was the next best thing to being a royal. It all fit, except for the fact that what the hell was in the box? How did you keep memories sitting around like that? Why would you need to carve something like that out of someone's head, and how would getting it back make the difference between a future of "stupid perfect husband she didn't even like" and "monsters going free" plus "having sex sometime soon"?

One more thing came to mind, and before he could stop himself, Sans said, "Hey, Gaster. Doctor. Whatever you are right now. You say you're from another Underground or something?"

The doctor narrowed his eyes at him again. Even with a human face, it gave Sans the creeps. "Why do you ask?"

Sans almost said "Never mind," but the air still faintly smelled of Frisk – he'd have to ask her what it was, exactly – and he wouldn't get a chance to ask anyone else who might know, so, fuck it. "D'ya know if it's possible for a monster and a human to have a kid together? Biologically?"

The royal scientist raised his eyebrows. "Well," he said after a painfully long moment. "It is quite rare, but I am aware of several instances where a human woman married and had at least one child with a monster." He coughed. "With a skeleton."

But before Sans could even start feeling things about that, much less sort through them, the doctor half-smiled. "None of them, however, involved a boss monster." He stood, and walked to the door. "I'm sorry." He slipped out, leaving Sans to stare up at the wallpaper ceiling.