#i almost died several times in the writing process

[numberonetrashwitch]

Some observations about Baldurs Gate 3 that hit too close to home.

After another few runs i will probably just make an in-Depth Character Analysis for every character simply because they are good reflections of actual trauma-manifestations and how abuse can manifest in people. They are also so well written that it serves a narrative purpose to explore all the material that is out there about them. I am also personally cursed with actual medically-relevant levels of Empathy and Hyperfixation; so writing this helps me put a pin in it and move on.

But so far here are my highlights

(SPOILERS and obviously content warning bc these are deep)

before you ask; i have almost 300h in this game.

You have to convince Shadowheart to eat the Noblestalk. She actually stells you she rather get her memories back from Shar but when you hit the persuasion or intimidation (what the fuck) check to get her to eat it she'll tell you about her childhood friend. Not her name, not her parents but her best firend. Possibly because she has had a closer bond to that person after being abducted and indoctrinated. With her believing herself to be an orphan, she would've looked elsewhere for comfort and sought out her own family, this is why she falls hard and heavy for Shar and builds the backbone of her indoctrination. She is literally ripped out of her home & given a new identity to server her from all she has known. Religious indoctrination, Gaslighting, Abduction, being forced to let go of your personality are her main themes.

There is a scene out there floating around in which you see Astarions pespective of the night when he bites Tav for the first time, in his meditations he is confronted with the rules Cazador put on him, including that he can't eat intelligent creatures, can't be away from Cazador unless allowed to, has to obey every command and that they are should know that they are property. Which in turn means that Astarion literally didn't just have any autonomy, he was objectified (and not just through seductive/sexual measures) and that is really the crux to understanding why he doesn't believe in kindness, but rather shows self-serving behavior in most cases. Since we know that Astarion was extremely young for an elf before he died and became immortal (literally stopping the aging /maturing process) it is also very telling that Cazador constantly calls him brat, boy or other very juvanile names, refering to them as a family... well it is also the story of a very controlling parent. Themes of (Bodily) autonomy, infantilization ( & puer aeternus, forever-child), slavery, depersonalisation, corruption of life and torture to break someone.

Gale isn't just a guy hung up on his Ex, but also a victim of abuse. In this case a power imbalance none of us can fathom; She is described as being a jealous goddess and rules over the domain of mysteries and magic. So with Gale being a Wizard, she is literally his boss. He admits that he was foolish enough to aspire to be an equal to her, but she is so jealous that she tells him he can't really be worthy as long as he takes breath. She could just take his powers away and be done with it, that would be more than enough punishment for a guy who literally made Mystra and her domain his life's purpose, but she rather makes him do it himself. Add to that, that she literally only tells him this after years of self-isolation (after he put down so many wards that he could've blown up a whole army as he says if you click the right dialogue) to really fuck him up well. He also talks about death pretty much constantly, not surprising giving your situation, but he will tell you that he will kill himself at several points in the game, for instance after he comes clear about his nethrese orb. Themes of romantic abuse, power-imbalance, toxic work enviorment, self-isolating behavior, suicidal ideation

Wyll ... well from the looks of it he is the most well adjusted of all the companions (my opinion) but he has something that i'd describe as the "eldest daughter"-syndrome, more commonly known as parentification. This pattern usually occurs within single-household parents and is commonly described as a parent looking to their child for emotional or practical support, rather than providing it to their kid. We meet Ulder and see that he talks over Wyll a lot, not listening but expecting him to follow the standard he sets for him. That is also why Wyll repeats his fathers words like gospel (because this is what, in his mind, fullfills the expectations bestowed upon him) and why he loves fairytales / bard tales so much (because they are an ecapist view of the job he set out to do) Ulder literally exiled his teenage son because Wyll did the only thing he could to save an entire city, by sacrificing himself. Thats a lot to expect from a 17 year old - even more so, he doesn't stop with the heroics. He expects himself, as a human who hasn't even reached the age of 30 to hold up to mystical creatures such as Astarion or Karlach, or even Gale who is a accomplished Wizard. Themes of parentification, escapism, self-harming through putting himself in danger, chronic-self-sacrifice

In plain words; Gortash, Karlach's Idol sold her to a Devil. But add to that that she must have been pretty young when she was sold (late teens to early twenties possibly) and being that if you play as a Tiefling, you face a lot of predjudice she was likely forced into that position as well. Starstruck she was, with a juvenile naitivy that Gortash used. Appropriately, as he is the chosen of Bane the god of "tyrannical oppression, terror, and hate, known across Faerûn as the face of pure evil through malevolent despotism" (Source: Forgotten-Realms Wiki / Bane) So she pretty much was raised in a toxic enviorment, which forced her to become a killing-machine, first figuretively, then with the extraction of her heart, literally. Themes of slavery, oppression, misuse of trust, being taken advantage by a more powerful/older(?) person, being drafted.

Jaheira - to be honest, you need to know the lore of the previous baldurs gate games or just listen to her dialouge, ask her all the questions. She is a war-veteran against Bhaal, the good of ritual murder, and has a long history of fighting to achieve some sort of balance of power. She lost her husband and several close people all to this, or any other war, but due to her wisdom and strength people look to her for guidance. Themes of: Survivors Guilt.

Halsin - he is really closed off at first but then just casually hits you with "i was captured in the underdark and spent 3 years chained to a bedroom wall by a pair of drows who used me as they pleased". He is reprimanded by some of his druids for leaving the grove as soon as opportunity struck, just to get back and leave the next day, and if you talk to him about his position in the grove he is actually very forthcomming. He actively holds himself back; indulging in simple hobbies because he knows what lies within his heart. He is afraid of himself and his potential (canonnically he can't control his wildshape, which is very weird for an ARCH-druid) Themes of: impostor syndrome, avoidant-based self-harm, sexual opression, loss of control, emotional regulation.

Lae'zel is a very tragic case, and one that closely resembles the stories of Shadowheart and Karlach. Her entire existence is based upon a matriachial war society allowing her to live if she proves she can be of use and that in a culture which only values brutality, dominance & service. All of that culimating in her finding out that her oh-so-beloved Queen is actually just an imposter, and that everything she has lived for up to that point is merely political propaganda created to make her, and the rest of her entire species, willing pawns in a war that has no longer bearing on their survival alone, but is fought to justify Vlaakith's (the reigning monarchs) personal ambitions. Not only is she forced to reconcile that she is turned into the thing that controlled her kind for hundreds of years, that the only cure she knows of would kill her and then on top of that, that her hopes and dreams were lies and that she is now the Nr 1 enemy of the person she has served with all her being. themes of: oppression, propaganda, casual violence, objectification, child-warfare, eternal warfare

Minthara in short, her story is about being shamed for growing up in the same scenario that Lae'zel grew up in. Lolth, the god of the Lolth-sworn drows is a crazy queen who values scheming & backstabbing so much and is so volatile that you can't know what to expect of your deeds (and i mean it; there were people who were appraised by her for scheming against her, but also those who were killed. It's almost random.) She considers Lolth to be cruel and abandoned her for the Absolute, only to then be used and abused the same way Lae'zel has. Not with promises, but erasing her memory and exposing her perceived weakness. Themes of: casual violence, violent culture, her own ambition colliding with her desire to be safe, being a pawn in a larger game.

[mononijikayu]

casual — geto suguru.

You nodded, trying to keep your expression neutral. "Yeah, it was nice. Just, you know, casual." "Right, casual. I know, doll." Suguru echoed, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer before he looked away. "No strings attached." "Exactly, yeah���." you said, forcing a smile. "We're both busy, and this doesn't have to mean anything more than... what it was." "Yeah." he said, his voice a bit quieter. "Just a one-time thing. No need to complicate things."

GENRE: Alternate Universe - Canon Convergence;

WARNING/s: Angst, Unrequited Love, Romance, Casual Friends with Benefit, Falling In Love, Lack of Communication, Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Food, Disassociation, Smut, Depiction of Sexual Intercourse, Depiction of Depression, Depiction of Food Withdrawal, Depiction of Disassociation;

WORDS: 6k words.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this took me awhile to write and i wish it didn't but i was busy trying to help my brother heal up from his own fever and then i also felt unwell after going out and visiting my cousins. crazy week so far, but i'm glad to be writing again!!! i'll be publishing pasilyo tomorrow!!! i hope you enjoy this and see you soon <3

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YOU HATE THIS APARTMENT. You know you picked it out. You went through the painstaking process of finding the best you could afford in all of Tokyo, sifting through countless listings, visiting countless open houses, and scrutinizing every detail with a critical eye. You even reached out to Nanami, seeking his advice on how he had found his own place, hoping his insight would guide you to something perfect. 

But now, standing in the middle of the empty apartment, it just feels overwhelming. The walls seem to close in around you, their pristine surfaces a harsh reminder of the solitude that awaits you. The space, while objectively beautiful and well-chosen, feels alien and unwelcoming. The soft, neutral colors and high-end finishes that once seemed so appealing now appear cold and impersonal, like a display in a showroom rather than a home.

Each corner, every room, is meticulously arranged, yet it all feels distant, disconnected. The furniture you carefully selected—elegant, stylish pieces that should have brought comfort—now feels like mere props in a stage set, lacking the warmth and familiarity of a true home. The shelves stand empty, the walls bare, and the lack of personal touches only amplifies the feeling of displacement.

You had envisioned this place as a haven, a refuge where you could build a new chapter of your life. Yet now, it feels like a stark reminder of everything you’ve lost, of the gaping void left by Suguru’s absence and the weight of the decisions that brought you here. The reality of living alone in such a polished, empty space contrasts sharply with the vibrant, chaotic life you once had, and the dissonance is almost too much to bear.

The once-anticipated comfort of the apartment now feels like a cage, trapping you in a space that reflects the isolation and emotional distance you’re struggling to overcome. You try to imagine filling the space with personal belongings, with memories that would make it truly yours, but the task feels daunting, almost insurmountable. Each step you take feels heavy, burdened by the weight of unfulfilled expectations and the deep, pervasive sadness that lingers in every corner of this new, unwelcoming environment.

Since Haibara died and Suguru defected, the world has felt irreparably altered. Their absence has left a void not just in your life but in the very fabric of the world you once knew. Their departures were seismic shifts, upheavals that have reshaped everything—your sense of security, your understanding of your place in the world, and the very essence of who you are. The bonds you once relied on have frayed, the connections you took for granted have been severed, and you are left grappling with a reality that seems both unfamiliar and unkind.

The change is not just in the external world but within yourself. The person you were before all these events feels like a distant memory, replaced by someone who struggles to find meaning and connection in the aftermath of loss and betrayal. How could you not change when everything around you has been transformed so drastically? The world has moved on, and you are left to navigate its new contours alone.

People are worried about you. The concern is palpable, especially from Gojo Satoru, who has always been like a brother to you, a constant in a world that has become increasingly unpredictable. His worry is perhaps the most poignant, reflecting the deep bond you share and the impact of your struggles on those who care about you. His concern is a reminder that while you feel isolated, there are still people who want to help, who see the pain you’re enduring, and who are willing to support you even as you grapple with the overwhelming weight of your new reality.

He’d been trying to reach you for weeks, his calls and messages a persistent thread in the silence of your days. Each notification from Gojo felt like a distant echo, a reminder of the world outside the narrow confines of your apartment. Yet, each time you saw his name on your screen, you hesitated, unable to muster the energy to respond. The weight of the past was a constant companion, keeping you awake through endless nights.

The dreams, when they came, were a cruel mockery of the life you once knew. Each night was filled with hauntingly vivid memories of better times with Suguru—laughter shared in quiet moments, his touch, and the warmth of his presence that now felt like an elusive phantom. The contrast between those dreams and the stark reality of your waking life was almost too much to bear.

Food, once a source of comfort and nourishment, had become a meaningless necessity. The meals you prepared, though carefully chosen, lay untouched on the counter. Their taste had lost all appeal, a reflection of the emptiness that now colored every aspect of your existence. Eating had become a mere act of survival, a stark reminder of the joy that had been stripped away.

The outside world, with its bustling streets and vibrant energy, felt distant, almost foreign. Tokyo’s vibrant chaos seemed to exist in a different realm, one that you could observe but not truly engage with. The city that once felt like a living, breathing entity now felt like a backdrop to your solitary struggle, its noise and activity a harsh contrast to the silence of your own life.

It was on one of these evenings, shrouded in solitude, that Gojo finally appeared at your door. His concern was palpable, a stark reminder of how far you’d retreated from those who cared about you. When you opened the door, he stood there, his face a mixture of frustration and worry.

“I’ve been calling you for weeks.” he said, his voice heavy with concern. “Are you okay? I haven’t heard from you in ages.”

You tried to muster a smile, but it fell short, your exhaustion too profound to conceal. “Oh, Gojo. I didn’t expect you.”

He stepped inside, his eyes quickly taking in the state of your apartment. The neatness of the space did nothing to hide the emptiness that pervaded it. “You don’t look well.” he said, his cerulean gaze moving to the cold meal on the counter. “I’ve been worried. What’s going on?”

You shrugged, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. “It’s nothing. Just... struggling, I guess. Food doesn’t taste right anymore.”

Gojo moved closer to the counter, his eyes scanning the untouched food. “This isn’t just about food. You need to take care of yourself. When was the last time you had a decent meal? When was the last time you really slept?”

You looked away, your voice trembling as you tried to suppress the tears. “I don’t sleep much. When I do, it’s filled with dreams of Suguru. It’s like he’s everywhere, but also nowhere.”

His expression softened, a flicker of empathy in his eyes. “I get it. You’re missing him. But you can’t let it consume you. You need to find a way to move forward.”

You shook your head, the enormity of the situation pressing down on you. “It’s not that simple. The outside world feels so distant now, almost foreign. I’m just... lost.”

Gojo’s hand gently rested on your shoulder, his touch a grounding presence. “I know…But you can’t do this. He…he wouldn’t want this either.”

You knew that. But you felt a pang of guilt as you tried to reassure Satoru about your well-being. The effort to project a sense of normalcy, to offer him even a glimmer of hope that things might improve, weighed heavily on you. You knew that your struggles were far from over, and while you didn’t want to burden him with the full extent of your despair, the pretense felt like a delicate dance on the edge of honesty.

Because you don’t know how he does it. How he keeps himself from going insane. You wished you did. You wished you could be him. Because you’re exhausted. You wanted to move on. You wanted to be free. But still, you’re here in this cage of grief, living like this. Being in pain. Being empty. 

Your graduation, which should have been a moment of triumph, was marred by his absence. The empty chair next to you was a constant reminder of what you’d lost. Now, in the stillness of your apartment, the silence is deafening. The memories of laughter and shared dreams haunt you, and the loneliness seeps into your bones. 

You can’t help but wonder where he is, what he’s doing, if he ever thinks of you too. Suguru’s defection was more than just a betrayal; it was a fracture, a deep wound that hasn’t healed. And as you sit in the vast emptiness of your apartment, you wonder if it ever will.

Back when you lived in Jujutsu High's dorms, life was different. Shoko would pop by unannounced, always ready to share the latest gossip, her presence a comforting constant. Those moments of laughter and whispered secrets felt like a lifetime ago. Back then, you had Digimon show nights with Satoru, the two of you arguing over favorite characters and plot twists, the banter and camaraderie a soothing balm to the stresses of your training.

And then there were those cold nights when you needed warmth, and Suguru Geto was there. His presence was a refuge, his arms a sanctuary. The conversations you'd have, the plans you'd make for the future, they were all wrapped in a cocoon of shared understanding and affection. His departure left a gaping hole, one that you haven't been able to fill.

Now, you are all alone. Anyone is, with your one’s grief. And now you truly are, separated from everyone else. The silence is oppressive, the loneliness a constant companion. The walls of your new apartment seem to close in on you, a stark reminder of what you once had and what you've lost. The memories of Shoko's gossip, Satoru's laughter, and Suguru's warmth are ghosts that haunt you, their absence a painful reminder of the life you once knew.

In the stillness of the night, you sometimes catch yourself hoping for a knock on the door, for Suguru to walk in with that familiar smile, as if everything could go back to the way it was. But reality is harsh, and you know that those days are gone. All you have now are the memories and the lingering hope that somehow, someday, things might change.

Geto Suguru left without saying anything, that day he went on his mission. He was supposed to be back in a day or two—at least that’s what he said during the phone call you shared when he was on that train. His voice, calm and reassuring, echoed in your mind long after the call ended. But that was the last time you heard his voice. The last time he called you. It was him getting off your seesaw game, finally stepping out of your world and leaving you with nothing but a broken heart.

And yet, he was never your boyfriend. You and him kept up the pretense, a delicate dance of closeness and distance, never truly naming what you had. The word "casual" was used way too much, a shield to protect fragile hearts from the vulnerability of the word "love." You remember the nights spent together, the conversations that felt like they meant something more, but neither of you dared to cross that line.

You often think back to that call, replaying every word, every nuance in his voice. It was supposed to be just another mission, nothing out of the ordinary. But something shifted, something changed, and Suguru never came back. His departure was like a cruel twist of fate, leaving you grappling with unanswered questions and unspoken feelings.

In the aftermath, you were left to navigate the wreckage alone. The routines you shared, the subtle intimacy of your connection, all shattered. The memories of his touch, his laugh, the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching—they haunt you, a bittersweet reminder of what could have been.

You’ve tried to move on, to piece together a semblance of normalcy, but the void Suguru left is vast and unrelenting. The "casual" facade you both maintained now feels like a cruel joke, the missed opportunities for something deeper, more meaningful, a constant source of regret. You wonder if he ever felt the same, if he ever wanted to bridge the gap between you, but the answers are lost to the silence he left behind.

The seesaw game you played, the delicate balance of give and take, is now a lonely ride. You’re left suspended in midair, longing for the weight of his presence to bring you back down. But all you have are memories and the lingering ache of a love that was never fully realized, a connection that was always just out of reach.

The room was quiet, the only sound was the soft hum of the city outside the window. You lay there, the sheets tangled around your legs, your mind spinning with a mix of emotions. Suguru was next to you, propped up on one elbow, his dark eyes watching you intently.

"That was... something." you finally said, breaking the silence.

Suguru chuckled softly, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. "Yeah, it was," he agreed. "Unexpected, but not unwelcome."

You nodded, trying to keep your expression neutral. "Yeah, it was nice. Just, you know, casual."

"Right, casual. I know, doll." Suguru echoed, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer before he looked away. "No strings attached."

"Exactly, yeah…." you said, forcing a smile. "We're both busy, and this doesn't have to mean anything more than... what it was."

"Yeah." he said, his voice a bit quieter. "Just a one-time thing. No need to complicate things."

You felt a pang in your chest but ignored it, keeping your tone light. "Right, no need to complicate things. We have enough going on with our missions and training."

"Absolutely, you’re right." Suguru said, but his purple eyes told a different story. There was a flicker of something deeper, something more, but it was quickly masked by a casual smile. "We're just two friends who had a good time."

"Exactly." you repeated, wishing you could believe it. "......Just two friends."

Suguru reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. "I don't want this to change anything between us, doll." he said softly. "I value what we have."

You nodded, your heart pounding. "Me too. This doesn't have to change anything."

He smiled, but there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. "Good. I'm glad we agree."

You both lay there for a moment longer, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you. Finally, Suguru sighed and rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. "So, breakfast?"

You laughed, the tension breaking slightly. "Yeah, breakfast sounds good."

You felt like crying again, and you hated it. You hated yourself for it. Because there was nothing between you and Suguru. You were casual. It’s been a year, and there was nothing after that. He left you. He chose his path. He chose to burn the world to free himself from torment. But now, you are in torment. 

You sat on the edge of your bed, the weight of the silence pressing down on you. The memories of that night haunted you, the way he had looked at you, the way his touch had set your skin on fire. It was casual. Just a one-time thing. That’s what you told yourself, what you both agreed on. But the lie felt like a knife twisting in your gut now.

Suguru had left, and with him, he took the future you had secretly hoped for. You were in love with him. You didn’t want anything to be casual with him. You didn’t want it to be nothing. You wanted more, so much more, and now you knew you would never get anything.

The tears threatened to spill over, and you clenched your fists, trying to hold them back. You hated how weak you felt, how vulnerable. The world moved on, but you were stuck, trapped in a web of your own making. Suguru’s absence was a constant ache, a reminder of what you had lost, what you could never have.

He chose his path, and it led him away from you. It led him to destruction, to a darkness that swallowed him whole. And now, you were left to pick up the pieces of your shattered heart, alone in the vast emptiness of your new apartment. The echoes of your own thoughts were deafening, and the realization that you would never see him again, never hear his voice, never feel his touch—it was almost too much to bear.

You buried your face in your hands, the tears finally escaping, hot and bitter. The sobs wracked your body, each one a painful reminder of your unspoken feelings. You had wanted so much more, but you had been too afraid to ask, too afraid to risk the fragile balance you had. And now, it was too late.

Suguru was gone, and with him, any chance of something more. You were left with memories and regrets, with the knowledge that he had chosen his path, and you were not a part of it. The torment of unrequited love consumed you, a relentless ache that you couldn’t escape. You cried for what was, for what could have been, and for the future that would never be.

There was a strange stillness in the air, a quiet that felt almost suffocating. It felt different tonight. You sat on the edge of your bed, staring blankly at the wall, your thoughts a tangled mess of memories and regrets. The knock on your door was so soft, you almost didn't hear it. For a moment, you thought you had imagined it, but then it came again, more insistent this time.

You wiped your eyes, forcing yourself to stand. Each step toward the door felt like walking through quicksand, your heart pounding in your chest. You weren't expecting anyone. As you reached for the doorknob, a part of you wondered if you were dreaming, if the grief had finally driven you mad.

You opened the door slowly, the hinges creaking in protest. And there he was. Geto Suguru stood in the doorway, looking every bit as if you remembered him, but different somehow. His eyes held a depth of sadness, a haunted look that mirrored your own. He seemed exhausted. As much as you, you think. But you say nothing for a few moments. You just stare at him, as though trying to be sure you weren’t hallucinating. 

"Suguru?" Your voice was barely a whisper, the word catching in your throat.

He gave you a small, almost hesitant smile. "Hey."

"What are you doing here?" you asked, your voice trembling with emotions. “Why—”

"I needed to see you, doll." he said softly. "I just had to see you tonight….will you let me in?”

You don’t know how he found out your address. Or how he was able to know which apartment block yours was. But you didn’t say anything. You didn’t want to force anything tonight. You nodded and stepped back, allowing him to enter. The silence between you was heavy, filled with all the words that had been left unsaid. You closed the door and turned to face him, your heart aching with a mix of hope and fear.

"Why now?" you asked, your eyes searching for him. “Why come back to me now? I���.I’m not…”

He looks at you, almost longingly. “I don’t know.”

The weight of Suguru's confession hung in the air, but before you could process it, he spoke again, breaking the silence. "I know this is unexpected. I know I don't have the right to just show up here like this, but I need to talk to you.”

You stepped back, the doorway now feeling like a chasm between you. "Suguru, this is a bad idea. You shouldn’t be—”

He took a hesitant step inside, his presence filling the space. "I just want to talk. Please."

The room felt smaller, more suffocating, with him in it. The tension was palpable, a fragile thread that could snap at any moment. He glanced around the room, his eyes lingering on familiar objects—things that hadn't changed since he left. Things he wished wouldn't change. From the corner of his eye, he could see it. That uniform button he left behind. He purses his lips.

"How are you?" he asked, his voice low and careful.

You crossed your arms, trying to hold yourself together. "How do you think I am, Suguru? There's an order to kill you on the spot. If people find out you're here with me, the higher ups will get me.”

He flinched at your words, a shadow passing over his face. "I know the risks. I wouldn't have come if I didn't think it was important."

You shook your head, frustration and fear mingling in your chest. "Important? You think this is important? You left, Suguru. You choose your path, and it has nothing to do with me. Now you show up out of nowhere, and you want to talk?"

"I had to." he said, his voice almost pleading. "I've made so many mistakes, but leaving you was the worst one. I had to see you, to tell you how I feel."

Your heart ached at his words, but the reality of the situation loomed large. "And what do you expect me to do with that information? Do you want me to just forgive and forget? To pretend like everything's fine when it's not?"

He took another step closer, his eyes searching yours. "I don't expect anything. I just needed you to know. I needed to try and make things right."

You looked away, the emotions swirling inside you too much to bear. "Suguru, you don't understand. It's not just about us. If they find out you're here, they'll kill you. And I'll be branded a traitor."

He nodded slowly, understanding the gravity of your words. "I know. And I'm sorry for putting you in this position. But I couldn't stay away. Not anymore."

The room was thick with tension, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on you both. You wanted to reach out, to bridge the gap between you, but the fear of the consequences held you back.

"I don't know what to do." you admitted, your voice breaking. "I don't know how…I don’t know how to handle this."

Suguru stepped closer, his hand hovering near yours. "You don't have to do anything. Just let me be here, even if it's just for a little while. Let me be with you."

You looked up at him, the pain and regret in his eyes mirroring your own. The risk was enormous, but the pull of your heart was stronger. For a moment, you allowed yourself to imagine that things could be different, that maybe, somehow, you could find a way through this together.

But reality crashed back down, harsh and unyielding. "Suguru, this can't last. You know that."

He nodded, his expression filled with sorrow. "I know. But for now, can we just..."

You took a deep breath, the conflict tearing you apart. "Okay. For now."

Suguru’s eyes softened at your words, relief washing over his features. The air between you was thick with unspoken emotions, the tension palpable. You could feel your resolve wavering, the walls you had built around your heart crumbling with every passing second.

He took another step closer, closing the distance between you. His hand reached out, gently brushing against yours. The touch was electric, sending a shiver down your spine. You looked up at him, your breath catching in your throat as his gaze held yours.

“For now.” he repeated softly, his voice filled with a mixture of hope and longing.

You couldn’t hold back any longer. The months of separation, the endless nights of aching for him, all came crashing down in that moment. You closed the gap between you, your lips finding his in a desperate, hungry kiss.

Suguru responded instantly, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you closer. The kiss was intense, filled with all the emotions you had both kept bottled up for so long. It was as if you were trying to make up for lost time, to pour all your love and longing into that single, searing connection.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing to feel him, to assure yourself that he was really there. Suguru’s hands roamed over your back, his touch igniting a fire within you. The kiss deepened, growing more fervent, more desperate. You broke the kiss just long enough to catch your breath, your foreheads resting against each other. The intensity of your emotions left you both breathless, but neither of you pulled away.

“Suguru.” you whispered, your voice trembling with the weight of everything you felt.

“I know.” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. “I know.”

You kissed him again, this time even more passionately, your need for him overwhelming any lingering doubts. His hands slid under your shirt, his touch sending sparks of electricity through your body. You gasped against his lips, your body responding to him in ways you had tried to forget.

The world outside ceased to exist, the only thing that mattered was Suguru. Being here with you. The kiss grew more intense, a fierce clash of lips and tongues, as if you were both trying to make up for the lost time, for all the moments you had been apart.

Suguru’s hands moved to your waist, lifting you effortlessly and guiding you toward the bed. You didn’t resist, your body craving his touch, his closeness. As he laid you down gently, his lips never leaving yours, you felt a sense of rightness, a feeling that this was where you were meant to be.

His body pressed against yours, the heat between you growing more intense. Every touch, every kiss, was a reminder of what you had lost and found again. Your hands roamed over his back, pulling him closer, needing to feel every inch of him.

“Suguru.” you whispered, your voice filled with a mixture of need and desperation.

He responded with a soft groan, his lips trailing down your neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “I’ve missed you so much, doll.” he murmured against your skin. “Too much…”

You arched into his touch, your body responding to him in ways you had almost forgotten. The intensity of your desire for him was overwhelming, a force you couldn’t control. You pulled him back up, capturing his lips in another searing kiss.

As the kiss deepened, the intensity grew, the passion between you igniting like a wildfire. And for the first time in a long time, you allowed yourself to hope, to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for something more.

The walls themselves felt like they were closing in, drawn tighter by the charged energy of the moment. The temperature seemed to rise with every movement, the warmth of your bodies pressed together creating a cocoon of intimacy and passion. 

You moaned against the kiss, feeling his hand around the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. He was always so good at making you defenseless when it came to him. When it came to Suguru, you surrendered without a fight.

His lips trailed down your jawline, planting heated kisses along the sensitive skin of your neck. Each touch sent shivers down your spine, your body arching into him, craving more. His other hand roamed over your back, his touch firm yet gentle, as if he were memorizing every inch of you.

"You have no idea how much I've missed this." he whispered against your skin, his breath hot and tantalizing. “How much I missed you.”

You could barely form words, your mind clouded with desire. "S–suguru…." you breathed, your voice trembling with need.

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own gaze dark with intensity. "Say it, doll." he urged, his voice a low, husky command. “Use your words.”

"Suguru, please." you repeated, feeling the heat of his name on your lips, the weight of it in the air between you. “I need you.”

A satisfied smile curved his lips before he kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue exploring your mouth with a fierce, possessive hunger. You responded eagerly, your hands clutching at his shoulders, pulling him closer, needing to feel him, to lose yourself in him.

His hand slid down from your neck to the small of your back, pulling you against him, your bodies fitting together perfectly. The sensation was almost overwhelming, a mix of intense pleasure and deep, unfulfilled longing. Your heart pounded in your chest, the sound echoing in your ears, drowning out any remaining doubts.

As the kiss grew more fervent, more desperate, you felt yourself melting into him, your defenses crumbling with every touch, every caress. Suguru had always had this effect on you, this ability to make you forget everything else, to make you feel like you were the only two people in the world.

"I missed you." you whispered against his lips, the confession slipping out before you could stop it.

He groaned in response, his hand sliding up under your shirt, his touch searing against your skin. "I missed you too, doll." he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "More than you know."

As he continued to kiss you, his hands exploring your body with a reverence that made your heart ache, you realized that no matter what happened next, no matter the consequences, this moment was worth it. Being with Suguru, feeling his love, his desire, his need—it was everything you had ever wanted, everything you had been missing.

And in that instant, you knew you would face any danger, any threat, just to keep him here with you, to hold onto this feeling for as long as you could. Because when it came to Suguru, you were willing to surrender without a fight.

The heat between you was almost unbearable, the intensity of your desire for Suguru consuming you. His hands continued their exploration, each touch sending waves of pleasure through your body. You could feel his need, his desperation, mirrored in your own.

"Suguru…" you whispered again, your voice a mix of longing and urgency.

He responded with a deep, passionate kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth, tasting, exploring. Your hands roamed over his back, pulling him closer, needing to feel every inch of him against you. The sensation of his body pressed against yours was intoxicating, driving you to the brink of madness.

His hand slid under your shirt, his fingers tracing a path up your spine, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips as he reached the clasp of your bra, deftly undoing it. The feeling of his hands on your bare skin was electric, every nerve ending alive with sensation.

"You feel so good, doll." he murmured against your lips, his voice husky with desire. 

His words sent a shiver down your spine, your body responding instinctively. You tugged at his shirt, needing to feel his skin against yours. He helped you, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside, revealing the toned muscles of his chest and abdomen.

You ran your hands over his chest, your fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your touch. He groaned softly, his hands moving to your hips, pulling you closer. The feel of his arousal against your thigh sent a surge of desire through you, your need for him growing more intense with every passing second.

He lifted your shirt over your head, his eyes darkened with lust as he took in the sight of you. "You're beautiful." he said, his voice filled with admiration.

You blushed under his gaze, feeling a mix of shyness and exhilaration. "Suguru." you breathed, reaching for him.

He kissed you again, hungrier than before. You could feel his hands sliding down to your jeans, unbuttoning them with practiced ease. You helped him, pushing the fabric down your hips, kicking them off along with your underwear. The cool air against your skin was a stark contrast to the heat between you, heightening your senses.

Suguru's eyes roamed over your body, his expression one of reverence and hunger. He reached for you, his hands gentle yet firm as he guided you back onto the bed. You lay there, your heart pounding, as he stripped off the rest of his clothes, revealing the full extent of his arousal.

He climbed onto the bed, his body hovering over yours, the heat of his skin radiating against you. He kissed you again, his lips trailing down your neck, your collarbone, his hands exploring every inch of you. The sensation was almost overwhelming, your body arching into his touch, craving more.

"I need you." he whispered against your skin, his voice filled with urgency.

"Then take me." you replied, your voice trembling with anticipation.

He positioned himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips as he slowly entered you. The sensation was exquisite, a mix of pleasure and pain that left you gasping, your body adjusting to the fullness of him.

"So deep, Su…." you moaned, your hands clutching at his back, your nails digging into his skin.

He moved slowly at first, his strokes deep and measured, his eyes locked onto yours. The intensity of his gaze, the connection between you, was almost too much to bear. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on.

He responded with a groan, his pace quickening, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through your body. You moved together in perfect rhythm, your bodies melding into one, the world outside fading away.

Every touch, every kiss, every movement—each a story of love and desire you felt for each other. The intensity built with each passing second, your moans mingling with his, the sound of your bodies coming together filling the room.

"S–suguru!" you gasped, feeling the tension building, the climax approaching. “I….I’m close!”

He kissed you deeply, his movements becoming more frantic, more desperate. "I love you, doll." he whispered against your lips, his voice raw with emotion. “More than you know.”

The words sent you over the edge, your body convulsing with pleasure, your vision blurring as the orgasm washed over you. Suguru followed moments later, releasing a powerful, shuddering wave that left him breathless, his body collapsing against yours.

You lay there together, your bodies intertwined, the aftermath of your lovemaking leaving you both spent and sated. For a moment, the world was perfect, the dangers and fears forgotten. In that moment, all that mattered was the love you shared, the connection that bound you together.

Suguru propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze tender as he looked down at you. You turned to face him, your eyes heavy with a mixture of satisfaction and lingering emotions. He stroked your hair gently, his touch soothing. 

"I know I’ve been gone for a long time.”

“You have.”

“I’m sorry for leaving you without any explanation." He whispered to you. “For making you suffer.”

You sighed, closing your eyes as you listened to his words. "It’s been really hard. I didn’t know if you were ever coming back. And when you did… it was like opening old wounds all over again."

Suguru’s fingers traced patterns on your back, his touch calming. "I understand. I’ve had time to think about everything, and I realize now how much I hurt you. I didn’t mean to. But I needed to see you, to try to make things right, even if I’m not sure how."

You looked up at him, your eyes filled with a mix of sadness and hope. "What do you want from me, Suguru? What do we do now?"

He took a deep breath, his expression serious. "I don’t expect things to go back to how they were before. I just want to be honest with you.” 

The sincerity in his voice touched something deep inside you. You took his hand, squeezing it gently. "You’re someone dear to me, Suguru. You always will be.”

You could see how painfully beautiful his smile was. And just as much, how easily he started to grieve this moment. “I know.”

You snuggled closer to him, your body seeking the warmth and comfort of his embrace. As the weight of the conversation and the exhaustion from the emotional rollercoaster began to take their toll, you felt yourself growing drowsy.

Suguru’s arms tightened around you, his presence a soothing balm to your restless heart. "You should get some rest," he murmured, his voice gentle. "I’ll be here until you fall asleep."

You nodded, your eyes fluttering shut as the comforting rhythm of his heartbeat lulled you into a peaceful slumber. The feeling of his body pressed against yours, the gentle caress of his hand on your back, was all you needed to drift off.

When you awoke, it was to the soft, hesitant brush of Suguru’s lips against yours. You stirred, your eyes blinking open to find him gazing at you with a mixture of sadness and affection.

“I have to go, doll,” Suguru said quietly, his voice filled with regret. “But I’ll be thinking of you. Always. Wherever I go, wherever I am. I’ll only love you. Only you.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, each syllable resonating deep within you. You wanted to respond, to find the right words to express how much his declaration meant to you, but the lump in your throat made it difficult to speak.

Instead, you simply reached out, your hand finding his, holding it tightly as if trying to anchor him to this moment. His fingers intertwined with yours, and for a brief second, you found solace in the connection, the warmth of his touch providing a bittersweet comfort.

Suguru leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering as if trying to imprint the memory of your skin on his own. His eyes met yours one last time, filled with an intensity that spoke of a deep and unspoken promise.

“Take care of yourself, doll.” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. “Live for me.”

You nodded, your eyes misting as you tried to hold back the tears. “I will. You too, Suguru. Be safe.

He kissed you one last time, a tender, lingering kiss that seemed to hold all the words left unspoken. His lips brushed against yours with a softness that belied the intensity of the emotions swirling between you. It was a kiss that conveyed both farewell and the depth of his feelings, a final, aching promise wrapped in the warmth of his touch.

As he pulled away, his eyes searched for yours, filled with a profound sadness that matched the heaviness in your heart. There was a moment where time seemed to stand still, where every second stretched into eternity. The look he gave you was a mixture of regret and deep affection, as if he were trying to imprint this final moment into his memory, to hold onto it even as he had to let go.

With a final, loving glance, he slowly rose from the bed, the movement reluctant and heavy. The contrast between the intimacy you had shared moments before and the distance growing between you now felt like a cruel irony. He began to dress, his actions slow and methodical, each movement a reminder of the separation that loomed ahead.

You watched him, feeling a hollow ache settle in your chest. The sight of him buttoning his shirt, pulling on his jacket, seemed to magnify the reality of his departure. Each piece of clothing he put on felt like a barrier, a wall being erected between you. The warmth of his touch was replaced by the cold distance of impending goodbye.

When he finally finished dressing, he paused by the door, turning back to you with one last, lingering look. His eyes were filled with a mixture of sorrow and determination, the kind of gaze that promised he would carry you with him, even as he walked away. The sight of him standing there, so close yet so far, was almost too much to bear.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, and then slowly walked toward the door. Each step he took felt like a betrayal to the moment you had shared, each creak of the floorboards a painful reminder of the separation. As he reached the door, he turned to look at you one last time, his expression a final plea for you to understand.

“Goodbye, doll.” he said softly, his voice breaking slightly with the weight of his emotions.

With those final words, he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, leaving you alone in the room that now felt unbearably empty. The door closed behind him with a soft click, and the sound echoed in the silence that followed.

You sat there, feeling the overwhelming sense of loss, the weight of his absence pressing down on you. The room, once filled with the warmth of his presence, now felt cold and desolate. You reached out to the space he had occupied, your hand trembling as if trying to grasp at the remnants of his touch.

The tears finally came, streaming down your face in silent, aching sobs. The finality of his departure settled in, leaving you with the bittersweet memory of his touch, his kisses, and the love you had shared. As you buried your face in your hands, the pain of his absence was a stark reminder of the reality you had to face, the love that remained but was now out of reach.

You lay back down on the bed, the lingering warmth of his presence a bittersweet comfort. Yearning for what remained of him. The reality of his departure settled in, slowly. Tears kept falling and you couldn’t stop them. When you closed your eyes, all you could see was him. 

You cried until you were too tired to do it. And as you drifted back to sleep, you held onto the memory of his touch, his kisses, and the promise that, despite everything, he would always be a part of your heart. He would always be your ghost. He would always haunt you, even when you’re old and gray — he would always be more than a casual memory. He’d always be the one that got away. And you knew….you were his too.

[void-of-unparalled-chaos]

Rending Flesh From the Bone

Ah yes, the dpxdc "drabble" I decided to write for Halloween. Honestly not too enthused with how it came out but posting it anyway. I feel like some parts feel a bit rushed and there might be some plotholes. Oh well. As always, feel free to add on if you so desire.

TW: Gore, Cannibalism, Vomiting, Zalgo Text

Translations for the Zalgo are available at the end.

AO3 version

   “Are you sure about this, Hood?”

   Dick stared at the entrance of the abandoned subway tunnel, Jason practically vibrating out of his armor beside him. 

   For once, it was Jason who had broken into Dick’s apartment and not the other way around. He was rambling something about the Joker and needing Dick’s help, and who was Dick to say no? His little brother never sought him out on his own, let alone asked for his help. Never. Dick was so proud! If he rewarded this behavior then maybe Jason would do it again, and somehow that would lead to Dick being able to give him his highly sought-after best big brother hugs whenever he wanted. Dick was still figuring out the intermediate steps.

  The point is that Dick needed to help him, regardless of if this was all based on a gut feeling and not even a whisper that the Joker was around let alone planning anything. What the hell, Dick thought. Sometimes gut feelings are right, and push comes to shove, Dick will follow Red Hood around Gotham until his paranoia dies down. Then Dick can lovingly bully him into brother bonding time.

   So here they were, staring into the gaping mouth of an unused tunnel.

   There are worse ways he could have spent his night.

   Jason grunts, fists clenched as they gaze into the blackness. “It’s almost Halloween. You know how these freaks get this time of year.”

   Dick concedes the point.  

   “Come on,” Jason bumps against his shoulder as he stalks toward the blackness, “He’s down there I just know it.”

   Dick shrugs and follows him in.

   Something about it is oppressive. Like something is warning them to turn back or face the consequences. Dick swallows. He shouldn’t be getting so worked up over this. He had been in closed dark spaces like this before, tighter ones even! 

  “Dick.”

   Jason is pointing to the ground. Dark splatters. Blood. Fresh, and more than just a little nosebleed. 

   They make their way further in, following the convenient blood trail even as the urge to turn around gets stronger. They only walk a few feet before a loud scream breaks the silence.

   “I fucking told ya Nightwing!” 

   Dick grunts in response as they sprint down the tunnel, following the blood down twists and turns.

   The two vigilantes slide to a stop as the tunnel breaks into a new one. There is something in this new tunnel. Something large and glowing. The Joker is screaming as it bats him around. 

   Dick can’t bring himself to do anything but freeze, watching and assessing. 

   The first thing he sees is the crown. It floats crookedly above the creature’s white hair, bathing the tunnel in light with its green fiery glow. The being’s face almost looks humanoid, with long ears tapering into points. Its body is long and spindly like a man who had been left starving on an island for several weeks. The vertebrae in its neck are visible even underneath its skin. The spinous processes of the vertebrae break through the flesh, creating a long row of protruding bones that clack and rattle as the spine moves. Its pelvis juts out as if only a thin layer of skin is covering it. The ribcage is on the outside of its body like some kind of fucked up turtle shell. Space was underneath it, the purples and blues of nebulas and the blackness of night and twinkling stars and planets rested underneath the bones.

  The creature has the Joker by the neck. It reminds Dick of a cat Damian had fostered, one that had kittens and would carry them gently between her jaws. There is nothing gentle about this though. Red blood drips down to the ground as the Joker thrashes to try and free himself. The jaws tighten viciously around him and the creature shakes, flinging him around like a chew toy before slamming him down into the ground with a growl.

   A skull flashes underneath its face as if its skin and cartilage are merely a transparent overlay. Sharp, jagged bone peaks rise up smoothly from its mandible in a mimicry of teeth.

   The creature’s jaws are still wrapped around the Joker’s throat. He’s scrambling, screeching underneath the being despite the teeth that should be cutting into his vocal cords.  The Joker scratches at its chest, trying to push it away. It merely makes a low staticky hissing noise, one of its hands pinning him down by the shoulder. 

    The other arm raises upwards in the air. It's too long for the body of the creature, fingers tapering into sharp points. 

   The claws slash downwards. 

   The Joker choked on a scream as the digits tore his chest open like it were tissue paper. Mouth still wrapped around his throat, the being flipped a flap of skin and fat upwards like it was turning the page of a book. 

   The Joker continued to struggle, blood and something green gurgling out of his mouth. The being maneuvered itself until it crouched to Joker’s side, twisting his neck with it. 

  The Joker stilled.

   At first, Dick thought he was dead, but then he saw movement inside his chest wound. 

   His lungs.

   His lungs were still moving.

   Dick can see his lungs breathing.

   The creature reaches its hand back down into the Joker’s chest, wrenching the ribcage open with a snap. The Joker begins to struggle once more, red blood and green liquid splattering on the ground.

   One of the clawed hands replaced its teeth, pinning the Joker’s head down as it stuck its face inside the chest cavity. The Joker suddenly froze. When its face remerged a glowing violet orb was held between its teeth. Red and green dripped from its face.

   The green was familiar.

   Glowing green.

   …

   …Lazarus water?

   The tooth-like protrusions pierce the orb with a crack.

   The Joker falls silent.

   His lungs are no longer moving.

   The being’s head tilts back, the shattered orb disappearing down its gullet. It hunches back down over the corpse. The slimy wet sounds of its hands and head digging into the body are sickening. Dick watches as its head remerges with what looks like a kidney. The kidney follows the orb.

   Dick snaps out of his shock, but not quick enough to muffle his strangled gasp. 

   The being catches sight of them, green eyes, lazarus green, boring into them. Dick can see the dark hollows of the skull’s orbits underneath them. His head pounds.

   The creature began to stand. Its joints, too many joints, creaked as it unfolded its legs. It seemed like it struggled to maneuver its stiff limbs. Like it’s fighting against rigor mortis Dick noted absently.  

   Now standing at full height, the being’s crown nearly scraped the top of the ten-foot ceiling. Its maw parted, blue vapor billowing out between the spiked protrusions that were its teeth. The putrid stench of death and burning flesh that invaded the tunnel had Dick gagging. He quietly covered his mouth as he tried to bite back the bile in his throat.

   He glanced back at his brother to find that Jason had taken a step back. It was impossible to see his expression under the helmet, but Dick could read the tightening of his shoulders. Fear. Deep, primal fear. The kind of fear you feel when you know there are no more options. When you know fighting or running is pointless.

   Here, at this moment, the infamous Red Hood looked less like a feared crime lord vigilante and more like a one-week-old gazelle face to face with a lion.

   Dick reached to pull Jason out of sight but the pounding between his eyes made him uncoordinated. He tripped over his own feet and crashed into Jason’s side, gripping his shoulder with shaking fingers as he righted himself. Jason didn’t budge, remaining stock still despite the extra weight of his older brother against him. 

   The creature stared at them, the piercing green glow of its eyes brightening with a spur of power. Its head tilted to the side until it came to rest at well over ninety degrees. A pointed, frostbitten tongue lolled out between its teeth to lick its bloodied face clean.

   “C̷o̷m̶p̴a̵n̵y̵?̵” It sounded like the desolation of space, the static of electricity, the explosion of a star, the final screech before death.

   The space trapped in its chest began to bleed through its ribs, twinkling stars and asteroids and galaxies escaping the confines of their prison to drip down the being’s waist. It ran over its legs, building and thickening until a long serpentine tail had replaced the limbs entirely. Even as the coils moved, the stars and planets stayed in place as if the tail was merely a window. Watching it made Dick motion sick.

  Even as the elongated spines stretching out of its back clanked together in the mimicry of a death rattle, the creature made no move toward them. Another puff of foul-smelling mist escaped its mouth.

   “Y̶o̷u̸ ̶s̵h̴o̷u̴l̵d̶ ̴b̶e̵ ̸m̴o̴r̷e̸ ̴c̷a̴r̸e̴f̴u̷l̵,̷ ̸l̴i̴t̷t̶l̷e̸ ̶g̶h̸o̷s̴t̶l̷i̸n̷g̸.̸” It’s voice boomed, “Y̴o̸u̵ ̶a̸r̶e̵ ̷n̷o̶ ̷m̵a̸t̸c̶h̴ ̷f̴o̵r̴ ̸m̶o̵s̷t̷ ̴s̸p̵i̴r̴i̷t̴s̴ ̵a̸s̸ ̷y̵o̵u̵n̷g̴ ̴a̷s̶ ̶y̶o̵u̶ ̷a̸r̵e̵.̷ ̷E̶s̸p̷e̸c̵i̶a̶l̴l̷y̶ ̶n̴o̵t̷ ̴o̶n̴ ̶S̵a̶m̷h̷a̶i̷n̷.̶”

   The two brothers remained frozen in place. The stars in its tail flickered until millions of eyes were boring into Dick’s soul. With a stuttering gasp, Dick stepped back again. Jason refused to budge despite his urging. The next time Dick blinked the eyes were stars again.

   The being chuckled at them, “N̵o̴ ̴n̶e̸e̵d̷ ̵t̵o̶ ̵f̸e̸a̶r̵,̸ ̵g̸h̵o̶s̶t̶l̸i̴n̴g̶.̸ ̴I̸ ̵d̴o̵ ̷n̶o̶t̴ ̶w̶i̸s̵h̴ ̵y̸o̴u̸ ̷n̷o̵r̴ ̸y̴o̶u̴r̸ ̴f̵r̸a̷i̵d̷ ̴h̵a̵r̷m̸.̶” Dick found that hard to believe considering that they had just watched it eat the Joker’s kidney, “Y̸o̵u̴ ̸a̷r̴e̵ ̵v̵e̸r̸y̶ ̴l̵u̶c̸k̶y̴ ̶i̶t̵ ̴w̷a̴s̴ ̴m̶e̵ ̸w̴h̷o̸ ̸y̶o̷u̵ ̷c̸a̸m̷e̴ ̵a̶c̴r̷o̸s̸s̵ ̶r̸a̴t̷h̷e̵r̸ ̷t̵h̵a̷n̴ ̴a̵n̷o̴t̶h̶e̶r̵ ̷s̴p̷i̸r̸i̴t̸.̵ ̷M̶a̷n̶y̶ ̵w̴o̸u̶l̴d̸ ̷h̸a̶v̸e̷ ̵e̷a̷t̴e̴n̵ ̸y̸o̴u̶ ̴b̵y̷ ̵n̴o̴w̶.̴”

  “I-” Jason finally choked out, “What?”

  The being lowered itself until it was at eye level with Jason. It evaluated him once more before jerking back with what seemed to be an expression of surprise. “O̷h̷ ̸l̵i̶t̷t̵l̷e̵ ̴g̴h̴o̶s̴t̴,̶ ̶y̶o̶u̴ ̸a̴r̵e̸ ̵m̴u̸c̴h̴ ̸y̸o̷u̸n̴g̴e̴r̶ ̵t̶h̷a̶n̸ ̶I̵ ̵h̸a̷d̸ ̴t̵h̵o̵u̸g̸h̵t̵!̵ ̴Y̴o̵u̶r̵ ̷c̵o̴r̸e̵ ̵i̴s̴ ̷n̸e̷w̶ ̶a̷n̷d̵ ̸u̶n̶d̴e̷r̵n̴o̸u̸r̶i̶s̸h̵e̴d̴.̶ ̸N̴o̵ ̴w̸o̴n̸d̵e̶r̶ ̷I̷ ̴h̵a̸d̴ ̷n̵o̷t̴ ̴s̸e̸n̴s̵e̵d̵ ̸y̸o̶u̶ ̶b̷e̵f̵o̷r̷e̶!̴ ̶H̵a̵v̷e̶ ̶y̶o̷u̴ ̷b̵e̵e̵n̵ ̶e̸a̷t̸i̷n̴g̶?̸”

   Its tone seemed almost doting, motherly even. The image was broken by the fact that it was currently leaning closer toward them, supporting itself on what was left of the Joker’s exposed ribcage. 

   Jason shook his head in dumbfounded horror.

  The creature seemed to take it as an answer, humming in what felt like parental disappointment. “Y̶o̶u̷ ̵n̵e̴e̴d̸ ̶t̷o̷ ̷t̶a̵k̸e̵ ̷b̴e̸t̵t̵e̸r̶ ̷c̸a̶r̸e̴ ̶o̷f̶ ̸y̴o̴u̴r̵s̸e̷l̶f̴,̴ ̵l̷i̸t̴t̷l̶e̵ ̶g̶h̵o̸s̵t̴.̵ ̵I̵'̴v̸e̴ ̴n̵e̸v̴e̶r̸ ̸s̵e̵e̵n̷ ̴s̵u̶c̵h̵ ̸a̶n̴ ̸u̶n̷d̷e̸r̶n̶o̴u̸r̸i̸s̵h̸e̵d̶ ̷c̶o̶r̷e̴.̸ ̷Y̷o̶u̴ ̸m̴u̶s̷t̷ ̸b̷e̷ ̷a̵b̵l̷e̸ ̴t̸o̴ ̸f̸e̸e̶l̷ ̸t̶h̵e̸ ̸e̸f̷f̵e̷c̷t̵s̴.̶ ̵A̴r̴e̴ ̶y̴o̴u̶ ̴i̵n̸ ̸p̸a̵i̴n̶?̴”

   Dick knew that he was. If it wasn’t the emotional torment of the pit madness it was chronic pain. There had been many nights where he had to tend to his brother, trying everything from painkillers to ice packs to numbing cream in an attempt to stop it.

   Jason nodded hesitantly, “Yes…” he took his helmet off, letting it drop to the ground. His eyes were burning lazarus green, “It hurts all the time… like there’s a fire burning in my chest. It gets hotter and hotter and hotter until I feel like my brain is gonna melt outta my ears.”

   The creature slithered closer with a rumbling coo. It offered a hand to Jason. Its fingers curled unnaturally. It looked like it had an extra knuckle. “C̷o̷m̷e̴ ̵h̸e̷r̸e̴,̵ ̸g̴h̷o̴s̵t̷l̷i̸n̸g̶.̴ ̴I̷ ̷w̶i̴l̶l̸ ̸s̸h̴a̸r̸e̴ ̷m̶y̶ ̸c̷a̴t̵c̶h̴.̷ ̷I̵ ̷c̵a̴n̷ ̶s̶e̴n̴s̴e̵ ̸t̵h̴e̸ ̵c̴o̵n̷n̸e̵c̴t̶i̷o̷n̷ ̶t̴h̴i̵s̵ ̷r̸e̸v̷e̷n̴a̴n̸t̴ ̴h̴a̶s̸ ̸t̷o̷ ̸y̶o̶u̵.̶ ̷A̸s̸ ̵y̷o̷u̶r̴ ̷k̷i̵l̸l̶e̶r̶,̶ ̵f̵e̸a̵s̷t̴i̴n̸g̶ ̸o̴n̷ ̵h̵i̷m̶ ̸w̷i̴l̵l̵ ̴h̷a̸v̶e̷ ̶e̸x̶t̸r̶a̴ ̶b̶e̷n̸e̵f̸i̵t̷s̴.̸”

   Jason reaches out to accept the hand. Dick throws himself between them, “Little Wing, what the hell! You aren’t seriously going to… you're not…”

   “I… I need it, Dick.” Jason wiped drool from his lips. Dick caught the flash of fanged teeth, sharper than they should have been. “I don’t know how to explain it but I just- I’m so fucking hungry.”

   Dick… Dick wasn’t scared of Jason. He wasn’t. But at that moment, he felt like he needed to run. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t abandon his little brother to this…thing.

   “I̸ ̵u̶n̵d̴e̸r̶s̸t̵a̷n̴d̵ ̷y̶o̴u̶r̴ ̸a̵p̶p̷r̸e̶h̴e̷n̶s̷i̵o̸n̵.̵” the being addressed him, Dick struggled to look it in the eyes, the pounding of his head increasing, “A̶s̷ ̷a̷ ̶l̴i̷v̵i̴n̷g̴ ̷i̸t̸ ̴f̴e̵e̶l̸s̷ ̴w̷r̶o̶n̶g̵,̶ ̶s̴i̶c̵k̴e̴n̴i̶n̵g̴ ̶e̴v̷e̷n̸.̷ ̴I̸t̷ ̵t̷o̸o̶k̷ ̸m̵e̴ ̶a̶ ̷l̶o̸n̴g̸ ̸t̵i̴m̷e̵ ̵t̵o̸ ̷c̵o̵m̶e̶ ̶t̶o̴ ̷t̷e̸r̷m̸s̸ ̸w̶i̶t̴h̸ ̴i̸t̴.̷ ̵I̶ ̴u̸n̵d̶e̵r̷s̸t̶a̴n̶d̸.̸ ̴B̷u̴t̵ ̴i̵t̷ ̸i̵s̷ ̸s̸o̵m̸e̸t̷h̶i̸n̷g̶ ̷o̷u̸r̵ ̷s̴p̸e̷c̷i̵e̵s̸ ̷n̸e̸e̶d̵s̸.̵ ̸S̵u̶r̸e̷l̸y̶ ̴y̷o̷u̴ ̸m̶u̷s̴t̷ ̴h̴a̸v̸e̷ ̷w̴i̴t̸n̴e̸s̴s̵e̶d̸ ̶t̴h̷e̴ ̴e̴f̴f̶e̷c̴t̴s̶ ̶o̴f̴ ̶s̵t̶a̶r̴v̷a̸t̶i̶o̶n̴ ̵o̴n̸ ̸y̵o̷u̶r̷ ̶f̵r̵a̶i̷d̸m̶a̷t̶e̸?̵”

  Moments flash through Dick’s head. Jason breathes as he struggles against the pit so hard that Dick starts to worry his brother will pop a lung. Jason looked at the remains of another destroyed glass in dismay, before practically sprinting to hole himself up somewhere Dick couldn’t find him. Jason sobs into his shirt, begging him to make it stop, to take the pain away as Dick watches on helplessly.

   “I̷t̵ ̷w̸i̷l̵l̶ ̵o̷n̶l̵y̷ ̷g̷e̵t̵ ̷w̴o̸r̴s̸e̶ ̶i̷f̷ ̶h̴e̷ ̷d̵o̶e̶s̴n̸'̶t̷ ̸e̵a̶t̴.̵ ̶E̴v̶e̵n̵t̸u̴a̴l̸l̵y̸,̸ ̵t̴h̴e̵ ̵s̶t̶a̶r̴v̷a̵t̶i̸o̵n̵ ̸w̴i̷l̵l̵ ̶b̴e̶ ̶s̶o̷ ̸b̷a̶d̸ ̷h̷i̸s̵ ̴c̷o̴r̵e̵ ̷w̷i̸l̷l̴ ̷s̷e̵l̸f̵-̷c̴a̷n̴n̷i̵b̷a̶l̵i̵z̴e̷.̵”

   “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

   “I̶ ̷a̵m̵ ̷K̶i̶n̷g̷ ̷P̶h̵a̴n̸t̵o̶m̵ ̵o̸f̷ ̵t̶h̴e̸ ̶I̴n̶f̶i̵n̷i̶t̸e̶ ̶R̷e̶a̸l̴m̷s̴,̷ ̶t̴h̷e̶ ̵A̸n̶c̵i̶e̵n̶t̵ ̵o̵f̵ ̵S̸p̸a̶c̸e̸,̶ ̶P̷r̸o̶t̶e̴c̵t̸o̷r̷ ̴o̶f̷ ̶t̷h̸e̸ ̵L̷i̸v̵i̷n̸g̸ ̸a̵n̷d̴ ̸D̷e̸a̴d̴,̷ ̷t̵h̷e̴ ̶O̸n̸e̴ ̸W̶h̶o̶ ̷L̷i̴e̴s̷ ̸I̴n̶ ̴B̴e̷t̸w̴e̵e̴n̵,̷ ̶t̴h̶e̷ ̴K̵i̴n̶g̵ ̸o̷f̶ ̶G̶h̷o̴s̸t̷s̵.̴” What almost looks like a smile splits across his face, “I̴f̸ ̶I̶ ̴w̵e̶r̴e̵ ̷n̵o̸t̵ ̶a̴w̷a̸r̷e̶ ̶o̶f̵ ̶m̷y̸ ̵p̶e̴o̶p̷l̴e̸'̵s̵ ̸n̷e̶e̴d̵s̵ ̷I̴ ̶w̵o̷u̸l̵d̴ ̷b̴e̶ ̴a̸ ̷v̴e̵r̵y̷ ̷p̴o̸o̷r̸ ̴k̶i̸n̷g̸ ̶i̵n̶d̷e̸e̷d̴.̸”

   Dick turns back to Jason. His brother hasn’t looked this small since before his death. He’s shaking. He looks desperate.

   Dick steps to the side.

   Jason lets out a stuttering breath but remains still otherwise, hands clenched at his sides.

   The newly dubbed King Phantom returns to the corpse, digging through fluid and meat. “I̴f̷ ̸i̴t̷ ̷i̶s̴ ̸a̸n̸y̴ ̵c̴o̵n̸s̸o̵l̶a̸t̷i̷o̵n̶,̷ ̵h̶e̵ ̷w̶i̴l̵l̵ ̸n̴o̷t̸ ̶n̷e̸e̶d̴ ̵t̶o̵ ̶e̸a̵t̴ ̴o̷f̴t̶e̸n̶.̸ ̸O̵n̴c̸e̸ ̴o̸r̴ ̸t̶w̷i̴c̸e̵ ̷e̸v̷e̸r̸y̶ ̷f̴i̶f̸t̵y̶ ̵y̸e̷a̴r̶s̶ ̸o̷r̴ ̷s̴o̵ ̷s̵h̵o̶u̶l̵d̶ ̸b̶e̸ ̸e̴n̸o̵u̸g̵h̴ ̶t̸o̶ ̸k̶e̴e̵p̶ ̴h̶i̶m̷ ̶r̸e̴l̶a̷t̷i̸v̶e̷l̶y̸ ̵h̶e̵a̸l̶t̸h̶y̴.̶“ He pulls out the Joker's liver with bloody claws. "C̷o̴m̷e̵ ̶h̵e̸r̸e̷,̵ ̷g̸h̵o̴s̷t̷l̵i̸n̴g̸," he purrs, offering it to Jason as if it were an apple instead of a human organ, "I̴ ̴k̴n̶o̷w̸ ̷y̸o̴u̵'̶r̵e̷ ̴h̶u̶n̷g̶r̸y̷.̶ ̵T̴h̵e̸ ̷e̶c̴t̴o̵p̷l̶a̶s̷m̷ ̸i̴n̴ ̶h̷e̷r̴e̵ ̵w̵i̵l̵l̴ ̵h̵e̴l̶p̵ ̵b̵o̵o̸s̶t̵ ̸y̶o̵u̵r̵ ̷o̸w̷n̸ ̶e̶c̷t̴o̴ ̸p̶r̶o̷d̴u̷c̴t̴i̶o̴n̵.̵"

   Jason reaches for it, eyes flicking uncertainly between the liver and the creature’s eyes. Despite everything, Dick almost hopes that he will suddenly come to his senses, slap the hand away, and leap backward gagging in disgust.

  Instead, he wraps a couple of fingers around one of King Phantom’s. His tank of a brother looks minuscule in comparison. Jason stares up at the being with wide eyes, like a child presented with cotton candy.

   “Are you sure I can have it?”

   King Phantom’s chest lets out another deep rumbling purr. “T̶h̷e̴ ̶l̴o̷s̵s̵ ̴i̸s̴ ̵n̸o̴t̶ ̷a̷ ̷g̵r̷e̶a̵t̸ ̴o̷n̷e̴ ̵f̴o̶r̴ ̸m̴e̸.̴ ̵I̵ ̵a̶m̸ ̷p̷o̸w̵e̷r̶f̸u̸l̸ ̵e̶n̸o̶u̷g̷h̵ ̷t̵o̴ ̶s̷u̷r̸v̴i̸v̸e̸ ̵o̷f̵f̶ ̷a̷m̴b̷i̶e̸n̵t̸ ̸e̸c̷t̵o̷p̷l̵a̵s̶m̸ ̸a̶n̸d̴ ̴e̸m̸o̶t̷i̵o̴n̸s̶ ̴l̴o̷n̷g̶e̸r̸ ̴t̸h̸a̵n̸ ̴o̶t̴h̵e̸r̸s̷.̷ ̸B̶e̵s̶i̸d̸e̸s̴,̶ ̴t̵h̵e̶r̴e̷ ̸w̴i̴l̷l̷ ̴a̷l̴w̴a̵y̷s̷ ̵b̸e̴ ̸a̵n̶o̷t̸h̴e̷r̴ ̸c̶r̶i̶m̷i̴n̶a̵l̵ ̸t̴o̸ ̷h̶u̸n̵t̵.̵”

   Jason snatches the liver with burning green eyes. The organ wobbles in his hands. To Dick’s dismay, Jason takes a large eager bite. His expression can only be described as blissed relief like he had just tasted ambrosia. He goes in for another, larger bite before he has even swallowed the first, jaw unhinging like a snake. 

   Dick is never eating Jello again. 

   He watches with detachment as Jason takes a third bite of the liver. His brother’s mouth is painted in red and green like a facsimile of King Phantom’s. For the first time, Jason’s chest stutteringly hums in relieved glee. King Phantom purrs in return as he tucks his face back into the corpse, like some sort of horrific feedback loop. 

   Dick tries to focus on something else, anything else, but the iron stench of blood and burning flesh is inescapable. He tries to avert his eyes away from the gorey pile of what used to be the Joker as his brother and the creature tear into it. The stars that makeup King Phantom’s tail stare at him. They blink. A sharp pain shoots behind his eyes as he shuts them tightly. 

   It feels like he loses time.

   When he opens them again, his brother is gnawing flesh off a rib. The entire front of his body is caked in red and green. King Phantom is staring at him with piercing green eyes. Intestines dangle from between its jaws. Its tongue maneuvers them further into its mouth like they are spaghetti noodles. 

   The bile rises in his throat again. Dick retches against the wall. He wipes the acid from his mouth and leans his forehead against the brick. The coolness of the stone eases the pain zinging between his eyes. He can still hear the squelching of meat and snapping of bone behind him. 

  A noise of concern sounds from his brother.

   Dick turns back in the direction of the horror show, keeping his eyes squeezed tight.

   King Phantom hums in thought. “P̴e̷r̷h̷a̶p̶s̶ ̴i̷t̸ ̵w̶i̷l̴l̷ ̸b̵e̵ ̸e̶a̵s̵i̵e̴r̸ ̶i̷f̴ ̸y̴o̵u̸ ̷w̵a̵i̴t̸ ̶o̷u̸t̵s̶i̵d̵e̷.̸”

    “Y-yeah.” Dick nods, voice cracking. “I think I’ll just… do that.”

   Jason makes a noise of acknowledgment. 

   Another bone snaps.

   Dick quickly makes his way back the way they had come. He stops briefly to vomit again, though there is nothing left in his stomach to throw up. When he emerges from the tunnel entrance he gasps on fresh Gotham air. He wraps his arms tight around himself with shaking fingers as he tries to steady his breathing. With the absence of the creature the pain in his head steadily fades away, though the images of bloody organs and sounds of desperate screaming remain persistent. 

   He’s not sure how long he waits outside, but it's long enough that he begins to worry something happened to Jason. He begins to wonder if the creature pinned him down like it had the Joker, restaining him with his neck between its fangs. What would Dick even do? How could he save his brother from that… thing?

   Jason remerges before he can figure it out. He’s clean of any visible blood or lazarus water, but the acrid tang of death and gore follows him. 

   Jason pleadingly stares at him through the eyes of his helmet. 

   Dick nods.

   They don’t speak of it again.

______________________

Zalgo Translations...

"Company?"

"You should be more careful, little ghostling."

"You are no match for most spirits as young as you are. Especially not on Samhain."

"No need to fear, ghostling. I do not wish you nor your fraid harm."

"You are very lucky it was me who you came across rather than some other spirit. Many would have eaten you by now."

"Oh little ghost, you are much younger than I had thought! Your core is new and undernourished. No wonder I had not sensed you before! Have you been eating?"

"You need to take better care of yourself, little ghost. I've never seen such an undernourished core. You must be able to feel the effects. Are you in pain?"

"Come here, ghostling. I will share my catch. I can sense the connection this revenant has to you. As your killer, feasting on him will have extra benefits."

"I understand your apprehension."

"As a living it feels wrong, sickening even. It took me a long time to come to terms with it. I understand. But it is something our species needs. Surely you must have witnessed the effects of starvation on your fraidmate?"

"It will only get worse if he doesn't eat. Eventually, the starvation will be so bad his core will self-cannibalize."

"I am King Phantom of the Infinite Realms, the Ancient of Space, Protector of the Living and Dead, the One Who Lies In Between, the King of Ghosts."

"If I were not aware of my people's needs I would be a very poor king indeed."

"If it is any consolation, he will not need to eat often. Once or twice every fifty years or so should be enough to keep him relatively healthy. "

"Come here, ghostling,"

"I know you're hungry. The ectoplasm in here will help boost your own ecto production."

"The loss is not a great one for me. I am powerful enough to survive off ambient ectoplasm and emotions longer than others. Besides, there will always be another criminal to hunt."

"Perhaps it will be easier if you wait outside."

[ziggyzolch]

Your Prettiness is Seeping Through II (Wanda Maximoff x Reader)

Warnings: maybe bungled the medical stuff and process of being admitted, suicidal ideation, aftermath, descriptions of self harm kind of? its not like currently happening. Bulimia and what comes with it. Those r the main things I think. Previous Chapter

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

-------the shame is manifest in my resistance------- ❅❅❅

“So they’re admitting you?”

You could feel the snow being crushed beneath your weight as you leaned back on your hands. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon and your best friend was sitting next to you on a random curb, taking the pack of cigarettes from your hand.

It was mid-winter. The city streets bustled with the cheer of festive Christmas decorations and the harmonies of carolers. It almost makes you feel better. You never cared for Christmas, or religion in general, but the joy in the little kids’ faces at the snow blanketing the streets, and the laughing of teenagers having snowball fights was cute.

It helped.

You sigh, turning towards your friend, “No, I don’t think so. Most that’ll happen is I’ll be in therapy, I guess.”

She rubs her hands together in an attempt to warm up, “I think I’d kill myself if I got caught. Kidding, you’ll be fine. Probably.”

You scoff, “Thanks,”

You snatched the pack from her hand, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.

You had gotten over the fear of throat cancer a long time ago. It’s more of an expectation than a fear now. Smoking and purging at the same time kind of makes it an inevitability. The thought of death didn’t scare you. Not that you were cripplingly suicidal. You didn’t desperately want to die anymore, you just wouldn’t mind if you did. If you died from all of these habits, it was fine, great even. If not, whatever.

Passively suicidal.

Tomorrow, you’ll have your long awaited psych evaluation. You were shocked that it wasn’t the first thing they’d done. You weren’t that big of a risk anyways. A week has passed since your parents caught you, and you’d been made to take a number of medical tests to determine the severity of your bulimia, or something.

The first one was a general physical assessment, the most simple yet most uncomfortable. You had been made to wear a hospital gown, which you felt was overboard but whatever. They wouldn’t be able to admit you just based off of a BMI measurement, you were sure. You weren’t very underweight, most bulimics you knew weren’t. In fact, most of them were normal, sometimes overweight, but you just assumed it was because they were bad at it. You didn’t feel anything looking at your weight. Numbers mattered, sure, but with every binge and purge, your weight fluctuated like crazy, so you learned to just look for signs of weight loss via mirror.

She read your BMI out loud, you knew it wasn’t low enough to be a concern. You internally celebrated, until you noticed her eyes glancing down to your arm.

Shit.

Burning was your preferred method of self mutilation. Cutting was unsatisfying, messy, and a pain in the ass. Burns look disgusting when they heal though, which was the only downside. The scars are easily passable as cooking accidents and such. When they’re still healing, though, charred, blistered, and disgusting, they’re almost impossible to excuse. Your mom had caught you once, with your worst burn nonetheless. One offer of taking over the chores for the day and she was off your back, already taking her place on the sofa.

The burns weren’t fresh, not at all. Most of them were years old, but you panicked nonetheless. You’ve seen how batshit they get at any sign of self harm. You watched as she glanced towards your arm, then turned back to her clipboard, writing something down. Subtly moving your other arm behind your back, you cover up the bruises on your knuckles.

You also had to go to a dentist appointment. Last time you went, you had just gotten your braces off and permanent retainers in. You still have glue on the back of your teeth from when your top retainer broke, they had never gotten rid of it. With how often it fell off, you were glad the dentist had given up on putting in replacements.

You were more worried about this appointment than the physical assessment. You couldn’t keep food down, smiling with your eroded teeth was uncomfortable, and your breath was horrible. The dentist would definitely notice something, at the very least that you were a smoker. Your mother would hate that more than bulimia.

Honestly, despite all of these effects, you got the benefit of barely having a gag reflex. Which, now that you think about it, doesn’t really matter considering you don’t even like men.

Surprise was clear on your face when your dentist complimented you on the health of your teeth and sent you on your way.

You didn’t really know what the other tests were, something about heart arrhythmias and electrolytes. You didn’t care, you were so over it. It was all bullshit. You weren’t sad. You weren’t suicidal nor were you a danger to yourself or others. You were just bulimic, not on the brink of fucking brain collapse.

All of this was bullshit.

❅❅❅

Wanda’s senses come back one by one. Her ears pick up the soft whirring of machinery and occasional beeping of monitors. The soft footsteps of nurses and patients walking past, the opening and closing of a door as doctors enter, the scratching of their pens against their clipboard. The lingering scent of antiseptic reaches her nose, and the bitter taste in her mouth makes itself known. Her fingers pinch the stiff material of her gown, and she can feel the IV in her arm. Finally, she opens her eyes.

Waking up in the fiery depths of hell would’ve been better than where Wanda was right now. She mumbled curses under her breath as she looked around, taking in the hospital equipment around her.

“Natasha?” She croaked out when she caught sight of her friend sleeping on the hospital chair in the corner of the room. Natasha jumped up, wiping the drool off her chin and rushing towards Wanda. “Oh, thank god.” She sighed, pulling Wanda into an awkward hug.

She pulls back when she realizes Wanda wasn’t hugging her back. “How do you feel?” Wanda cringes at the pity on Natasha’s face. “Peachy.” She turns away, not stopping Natasha when she reaches to grab her hand.

The widow sighs, rubbing circles into Wanda’s hand, making her fingers twitch slightly. They sit in silence, not knowing what to say to each other. Wanda was glad Natasha had found her. She didn’t want to be found at all, but at least it was Natasha.

She was so stupid, so fucking stupid. Of course it wouldn’t have worked. She should’ve just shot herself in the head, like a man. She’d read somewhere that men have higher suicide rates because they carry it out in more extreme ways. Girls usually go for lighter, prettier deaths. Overdoses, slitting their wrists in a rose petal filled bathtub, and such. More survivable, and less of a burden for whoever cleans up after them. Men don't feel the same obligation. So what if it's more work for the cleaners? A shotgun to the head is easier for them, that's what matters. They don't think about how puffy their face would get if they hung themselves, or how awkward they'd be positioned on the ground if they jumped off a building. They don't think about the possibility of surviving afterwards and dealing with the deformity.

Pietro’s lifeless body flashes in her mind.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

Wanda finally notices the iron grip she had on Natasha’s hand.

She didn’t want to talk about Pietro. Never. “What’s going to happen to me?”

Her friend looks away, “You’re suspended until you get help.”

“What! No!” Wanda sits up, snatching her hand out of Natasha’s grip, “This was the first time! Bruce tried to kill himself, why isn’t he suspended?”

“That was before he even joined.”

Wanda sighs, “So, what like, therapy for a week?”

Natasha raises her eyebrows, “Wanda, you tried to kill yourself. You need to be monitored.”

“I’m not a fucking child. Jesus, Nat!”

“It’s not up to me, Fury’s orders. Either get help or you’re fired, basically.”

“Don’t I need a psychological evaluation or some shit?”

“Wanda, you swallowed a whole bottle of whatever-the-fuck pills. I can evaluate you right now. You’re fucked in the head, babe.” Natasha attempts to joke.

She sighs in relief when Wanda huffs out a laugh, “So, you’re sending me to the loony bin?”

“Yup. It’ll be great though, perks of being an Avenger.” Natasha places a comforting hand on Wanda’s shoulder.

“How long will I be there?”

Natasha grabs Wanda’s hand that’s picking at her gown, “Until you’re better.”

The sound of a girl yelling stops their conversation.

❅❅❅

“Inpatient would be the best option…”

The ringing in your ears blocks out whatever the doctor was saying. What the fuck. You were not crazy. So what if you were bulimic. You didn’t constantly starve yourself and avoid food so you were chill, but you also were not getting fat, so you were hot. It’s like a win-win.

You’re sitting with your parents, a doctor across from you. He must be a therapist, or psychologist…psychiatrist? Potato, Tomato.

A hand on your shoulder brings you back to earth. Tears are pooling in your mothers eyes, your father is sighing into his hand. “What about my classes? My life!”

“Lower your voice. You aren’t being sent away to the fucking Alcatraz.” Your father grits out.

The doctor chimes in, “I’m sure you’ll be able to do your school work, most institutions let you have books and supervised computer time.”

You push your mothers hand off your shoulder. “Why are you doing this to me?”

She scoffs, “Me? Why are you doing this to yourself!”

“You can’t make me!” Passersby can hear your voice through the closed door of the office.

It was true, they couldn’t really. You were a legal adult, they couldn’t make you do shit. Your mother pinches the bridge of her nose before turning to your father expectedly. You look back and forth between them with an eyebrow raised.

“We won’t support you anymore if you don’t do this.” He finally pushes out.

“What? As if you’ve ever supported-”

Oh. Financially. College and such. Housing and such. Food…and such.

You’re not that level of adult, yet.

“What the fuck-”

“Language!”

“No! What the actual fuck! I’m not sick!”

Your father’s face contorts in anger, “Did you not hear a single word the doctor said? Your potassium levels, electrolytes, and heart are all fucked! You could have a heart attack!” He takes a breath,

“You are killing yourself.”

“What?” You don’t know what to say. Why is your heart beating so fast?

You let out a frustrated shriek, getting up to leave. They don’t know what they’re saying. You storm out of the office, narrowly avoiding passing nurses and stretchers, trying to ignore the sense of dread building within you.

Heart attacks were a lame death. You could imagine how stupid you'd look; jaw wide open, leaning back in your desk chair, clutching at your chest. The door to your room is always locked, so your parents wouldn’t care to check for a while. They’d just assume you were isolating yourself.

Stiffening up in that position, rotting and decomposing. So lame, so ugly.

It didn’t scare you.

Your head ricocheting off a wall interrupts your spiral.

Natasha winces, peaking over the door to find you on the floor, rubbing your head. Wanda had asked her to check what was going on, and you happened to be passing by at the same time she opened the door. You push yourself off the floor before Natasha could help you up. Black spots appear in your vision and you start swaying. You must’ve stood up too fast.

Natasha holds you up as you fall into her for a second, before you regain your bearings.

“Get off me!”

She lets go immediately, raising an eyebrow when you double-take at the sight of Wanda.

‘She’s so skinny.’

Wanda looks up at you, confused when she takes you in. You could’ve been the same weight as her, if not a little more. She doesn’t read people's thoughts if she can help it, but yours were so loud. You blush when she makes eye contact with you, turning and stomping away.

Your footsteps fade as Natasha closes the door, making her way back to Wanda. The widow smiles at Wanda, poking her side, “I think she has a crush on you.” Wanda’s eyes widen, “No way; she said I was skinny.” Natasha tilts her head, “Like in a disgusted way?” The witch looks down at her hands.

She assumed it was envy at first, but you didn’t look like you weighed significantly more than her. Nor was it disgust, based off of how you looked at her.

“Not…really. I don’t know.”

Natasha sighs, “Well, it doesn't matter. We’ll fatten you up in no time.”

She winces at Wanda’s obviously forced laugh.

She didn’t like being skinny, but it was an effect of her depression. It wouldn’t be that easy to reverse. The only reason she was open to this treatment was so that she could go back to work. She’ll just pretend to get better, go back, and work until she can’t take it anymore. Next time, she’ll use a gun. Actually, would she subconsciously stop the bullet with her powers? The pills almost killed her, maybe she’d just lock her door next time. She could pick up smoking, maybe that’d be like a backup. A slow, eventual death could be happening in the background while she found short term options. Multitasker.

“What’re you thinking about?”

Wanda is taken out of her reverie as Natasha pokes at her stomach again. She smiles, shaking her head and curling up into the bed. The older redhead pats her shoulder, “The squad’s going to visit before you leave. Just thought I’d give you a heads up.”

Wanda groans, she didn’t need any more people up her ass.

She stiffens at the sound of sniffling, looking up when she feels her shoulder dampen.

“Don’t ever do that again.”

Natasha leans over her frame, hair masking her face. The brunette stammers, racking her brain for a reply. She’d never seen Natasha so emotional. It was like hearing Steve use slang.

She sighs, curling further into herself and ignoring Natasha. She wishes she could reassure her. Tell her that even the thought of trying again made her nauseous, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t live the rest of her life seeing her brother's corpse every time she blinks.

Living with the memory of Pietro’s death for the rest of her life was worse than any torture she’d ever endured.

She ignores the flashing images as her eyes drift close, falling asleep to the sound of Natasha’s sniffling.

❅❅❅

A/N: I lowk regret writing in in second person but yolo. reply to this post if u wanna get tagged in the next chapter. I hope you enjoyed!

Tags: @mathxa @nikkinss

[magpiefngrl]

hey! curious new writer here. which fix of yours were the easiest to write and which were the hardest? in what way?

Hello anon! Thanks for an interesting ask.

OK I'll start with the disclaimer that every fic has its difficulties as well as moments when it flows, but there have definitely been some that poured out of me with great ease than others which were a constant struggle.

The Miseducation of Draco Malfoy, my first drarry, was written at the height of my obsession and it poured out of me. I wrote like a fiend all day and would go to bed at night and reread what I wrote. I breathed that fic day and night for the weeks it took me to write it. It was also the most fun I had writing, prob because I was a complete unknown and there were zero expectations from me. Similarly, The Full Monty, written just after TMODM, was an easy fic to write. I remember I read the prompt and was immediately assaulted by images and started laughing on my own and was like, OK I need to claim this, the fic is writing itself.

Similarly but in a more tortuous way, dirtynumbangelboy poured out of me too. More tortuous because it took me ages to find the right beginning, and by then I was behind with my deadlines and got stressed. Also, I wrote it in a sort of dread of the Erised fest, because it had some amazing writers that year and I was intimidated. I remember my goal was to "at least not embarrass myself" .

But, aside from the doubts and stress, dnab itself flowed like nothing else. There are passages that I really love, even now years later, and they are exactly as they came out the first time. I did very little editing (compared to other works).

With The Boy Who Died I made a fun post on tumblr about a mdzs AU of drarry and then the idea wouldn't let me go so I had to sit and write it. Luckily it was summer and I didn't work and I could spend my days writing it. There were moments I got stumped but it mostly came out easily.

Finally, a lot of my short fics poured out of me in one go and came out almost perfectly formed. The Dare, A Perfectly Normal Reaction, and my MCD The Death You Carry are good examples.

Fics that took ages at first:

so my thing is that I have to find the right opening to begin the story, otherwise I can't proceed. I don't plan; the first scene/chapter is my plan. And sometimes I get stuck for yonks. With The Unquiet Grave I began with a Draco POV, him being a politician and Harry his bodyguard, had an interesting first scene and then---nothing. It's like I hit a wall. Zero words come. When I have this feeling, I know I need to go back and revise. Long story short, it was when I changed the POV to Harry that somehow the whole gothic mood came about and I felt the auspicious click: I got it. That's what the story is. A gothic romance. After that, it was easier.

The same thing happened with Hush, darling. I rewrote a first scene fruitlessly several times until a random bit of inspiration fell into my hands: the visual of a card game. I began with it and I let it guide me and the whole plot/stakes/cast fell into place.

Fics that needed a LOT of work and had to be dragged into existence:

The Gift is the first that comes to mind. First couple of chapters were pretty easy and then I was stumped. Writing it felt like dragging myself up a slope, step by step and also not being happy with anything, so that was fun. :/

The other is 9 ½ Days, which took actual years to finish. In that case the middle part was the hard one. I wrote the beginning fairly easily and the last chapters, the plotty ones, also flowed. But the middle. Zeus almighty. It took me years and I thought and thought and thought about it a lot. Finishing this fic was an immense relief but also a source of pride, especially because I really liked the result, and judging by the comments I get, people seem to love it too.

Thanks for an unusual ask! It was good to ponder about my fics and my writing process. The same issues seem to crop up with my original works too, and it's helpful to remind myself that I got over those issues before and I can get over them again.

[seyaryminamoto]

Fic-to-Art #38: Ozai carries Azula to the physicians' wing

This has been done for A WHILE now, but I didn't post it because the past days have been chaotic and not just on a personal level. For one thing, I really wasn't eager to drop this when people were losing their shit massively over the liveaction and its recontextualization of Azula and Ozai's dynamics, I didn't look forward to releasing this just to be told that whatever I've done in my story is somehow wrong, sooooooooo... that held me back, for a few days.

Then? The AI-Tumblr deal started to be talked about and I may or may not have freaked out about that too. Sooo... this is the first glazed and nightshaded piece of my creation, as consequence. The original, clean and proper version is available in my Patreon. Is this me being a dick to Tumblr-only people? Unfortunately, it very much isn't, I'm not trying to say that if you want the best iterations of my art, you should pay me for it... this is squarely, entirely, at staff/the CEO's feet. Obviously, there's the insecure side of me that goes "what makes you think they'd steal YOUR art when there are so many better artists out there!" but ultimately? AI is about taking everything en masse. It isn't a matter of developing a criteria about who makes the better art... it's just taking EVERYTHING and trying to repurpose it in whatever twisted way it needs to. Therefore? I think my choice is more of a matter of caution than anything else. Once AI bullshit dies out (and I really hope it does), we may just return to the same level of quality across all my accounts. For now, it is what it is.

ANYWAY! Point is this artwork is very much what my Patrons happened to vote for this month, a very shocking scene where Ozai reacted in the least foreseen way to Azula being attacked. Azula's confusion/terror comes from a place of not knowing what to do and being powerless to stop her father even if she doesn't feel comfortable with his help... but for once, Ozai isn't making a dreadful choice that will only devastate his daughter. He's actually worried about her health... and feeling genuine guilt over what landed her in the situation where she was in danger in the first place. Yes. I like me my complex Ozai who finally learned actions have consequences. He bores me to death otherwise :') if anyone STILL doesn't know that this whole situation is Gladiator-specific, then I shall clarify fully: this is artwork based on my fic. It's about a story that has been developing these characters for ALMOST ELEVEN YEARS now. It has nothing to do with whatever's going on in canon or in the liveaction, the scene in question was written almost two years ago and the artwork proposed and voted for several days before the liveaction aired. Ergo: there is no connection between this and that. Nor am I saying through this piece that Ozai is a good father. He is not. He can still be an interesting character to work with on a narrative level anyway :')

Alright. With that out of the way, hope you guys like this piece! The big one I haven't posted is ALSO finished, also glazed and nightshaded, but I think I might just end up posting it on the 26th if I don't have time to do anything big for our eleventh anniversary... yep, I'm so busy I don't even have a huge project in mind this time. Also? I have a lot to write and I'm finally happily writing it, and I would like to continue doing that...

Anyway! If you would like to be part of the creative process behind this piece, as well as see it in its proper, OG, less color-bleeding clunky version? A $1 Patreon pledge gives you the chance to join in suggesting prompts, voting for them and reading Gladiator snippets 6 days before a new chapter is released!

[nkn0va]

I try again. Persona 5 girls expect Sumite react to their S/O scarifice themself to end Yaldabaoth and girls spend their last moment with them.

Alternative scenario of Yaldabaoth final boss fight where Phantom Thieves can't defeat the God or Joker did not have Satanael's Sinful Shell. S/O did the Minato's move but we just Kaboom ourself along with Yaldabaoth to end it result S/O existence being erase as well.

In the wise words of the snake man: "Kept you waiting, huh?"

Yeah the first scenario is what we're going with. Joker not having Satanael means he hasn't completed the fool's journey and thus failed as a Wild Card in which case the world would be fucked. Also coming up with four ways for S/O to die was way harder than it should've been. This doesn't live up to my personal standard of writing but better to get it out than just keep putting it off.

-It was a complete accident, something that was completely unavoidable, especially with the nature of the foe they were fighting. At least that's what everyone had been telling Ann since the accident.

-Ever since then though, she's only able to blame herself. She was caught off guard by one of Yaldabaoth's several weapons, the sword in particular. She was caught up in dealing damage to Yaldabaoth himself to the point she wasn't able to see it coming.

-You tackled her out of the way, and in the process lost an arm. Makoto and Morgana tried their hardest, but there was no stopping bleeding that severe and you died in her arms.

-No matter what sort of reasoning the rest of the group tries to give her, none of it is enough to console the immense survivor's guilt. A loss that she herself believes she could've prevented, but just like with Shiho, she wasn't good enough to save you.

-This time however though, you weren't coming back.

-Things were currently not looking good. Four whole arms had been sprouted out, all carrying weapons that posed their own very real threat. The possibility of death was looming over them more than ever.

-Makoto, ever the caretaker and tactician of the group, was in particular stressing herself about how to get everyone out of the situation safely, at least until you came up with an idea.

-It was stupid, reckless, and would probably end with you dead, but you recognized that it was your best chance at victory, despite how much Makoto was begging you not to do it.

-Channeling every bit of power your Persona had all at once, you leapt right up into Yaldabaoth's face and put everything you had into one final attack. You took out three of the arms he'd sprouted, but one survived and managed to hit you head on.

-The damage was far too much to heal, and it wasn't long until you inevitably succumbed to your wounds. Makoto sat over your body until you closed your eyes for good, and that was how she stayed for a while.

-She should've come up with something better, she should've come up with a way to save you of all people. No matter how much she tries to reason with herself that it was almost impossible for everyone to escape alive against a god.

-Much in the same way as any other battle, Futaba was in the backlines, unable to directly do anything herself. Usually this wasn't much of a problem, however Yaldabaoth did the unthinkable and went after her.

-Being her S/O, you were the one to step in first, taking a full barrage of projectiles all at once meant to take out Futaba instantly.

-In your last moments, you ask for Futaba to lock in as their navigator and make sure no one else has to die, she's too important to go.

-In the moment she has no choice but to say yes. However afterward is an entirely different story. Yet another person she loved dearly has died in front of her while she was unable to do anything about it.

-She goes back into shut-in mode, not coming out of her room for an indeterminate amount of time. It's a while before she can come out again after being re-traumatized like that.

-Being the gun damage specialist of the team, Haru was tasked with dealing with Yaldabaoth's gun in a shootout, however it wasn't long before she'd faced one too many of them and started to get exhausted. This caused her to let her guard down.

-As it took aim at her, you were the first to realize what was going on and leapt into action, jumping in front of her to take the gunshot instead. Yaldabaoth didn't stop at just one shot though, taking a few more at you until you fell to the ground, in shock from the overwhelming pain and quickly bleeding out.

-Tears quickly well up in Haru's eyes as she watches the life leave yours, telling her it's ok. Telling her that she shouldn't feel guilty, and that you only wish for her to finish the fight in your place.

-She tries to get over you, she really does. She knows you wouldn't want her to grieve over you. No matter how hard she tried though, it was too much. First her father, and now you...

-If only she was stronger. If only she was faster. If only she could've done her job right, you would still be here. Now she has to carry the weight of two deaths on her shoulders.

[shiny-jr]

hi! i was looking at your twst mythical creatures au(?) and i'm really thinking abt nøkken/ningyo octavinelle atm

– Warning: Slightly yandere? Not really though. Gender-neutral reader. Mention of a lot of death though.

– Character: Azul Ashengrotto.

– Note: I actually preferred the Nixie/Näcken for Azul, since I plan for each dorm to be loosely based off mythical creatures and stories from the region where they might be located. Again though, did not think I would actually write anything for this au, but I just got an idea when I saw this so I had to. Also, not everyone in the dorm will be the same. There may be some similarities, like in the larger dorms like Heartslabyul with Ace + Cater being the same and Trey + Deuce being the same creature, or in the case of brothers like Jade + Floyd or Idia + Ortho. Anyways, continuing.

All the locals knew that these creeks and rivers and lakes all led back to one source, the ocean. It wasn't too far away, if you just followed the direction in which the river flowed, you would get there. However, no one ventured out into the wilderness as often as they used to. Rumors spoke of an increase in beasts in the area, especially in the waters, inhuman creatures that would prey upon any helpless victim that neared.

Sometimes, especially those close to the deep unknowns of the ocean, bodies were discovered, torn and ripped apart like a half-eaten meal from whatever fearsome beasts lay out there. Most of the time, only severed appendages were discovered when washed up on shore, like a leg or an arm. Perhaps that's why many fisherman moved from the sea to the rivers, but it wasn't as if that stopped the casualties from rising. Yet to those poor men and women that depended on fishing for their way of living, the rivers were preferable. At least if they died there, it might be peaceful. When a corpse was discovered in the rivers of the woods, they were usually fully intact and they had a smile on their face and closed eyes as their bodies floated down the river, as if they experienced a peaceful sleeping death. It brought a strange sort of comfort to the fishermen, because if they died in these woods, at least it wouldn't be torture. The only odd thing about the bodies discovered in the rivers, were that valuables such as jewelry, coins, and other sparkling treasures were usually taken.

Personally, you weren't too keen on even going near the beaches due to the reports and stories. However, the woods was another thing. In the woods, there was plenty of land, it wasn't entirely water, so you felt a bit safer there. But you weren't foolish enough to willingly go towards the river, especially by yourself. So you merely kept away from any water source bigger than a puddle whenever you would go forage for berries and wild garlic.

The grass was wet with fresh dew, patches of trees and barren dirt ground were coated with a soft layer of moss. It smelt of pine and rain, the gray clouds a good distance away over the hills and mountains signaled that a light rain might be arriving later. The sun shining through the branches provided a pleasant warmth over your skin. In your basket you carried berries and mushrooms you forged already, making sure to leave just enough for next time. As you walked, avoiding the increasing number of puddles and trying not to step on the pretty white flowers growing among the clovers, you admired the flowing creek just down the sloping hill you were on. Everything was going so well, you felt as if you could admire the butterflies floating about and birds twittering for hours. It was perfect, until it wasn't––

You detected notes from an instrument, that played a curious tune and instantly caused you to stop in your tracks and raise your head. It sounded like... a piano? What was a piano doing in the middle of the woods? Almost instantly, as soon as you processed the first notes, the noise made your head pound, its enchanting melody throbbing in your skull. Your vision became distorted and you were moving–– not by your own free will. You felt your legs moving, and so were your arms, you were inching forward on your toes, as if being dragged forward in a trance and awkward dance. The notes of the piano became so loud that it was drowning out your thoughts of panic and confusion, even as you attempted to cover your ears, your feet still marched forward on their own and the notes echoed within the confines of your mind no matter how hard you tried to block it out. You couldn't even think straight.

You had no choice when you were sent toppling down the grassy slope, the berries and mushrooms you worked so hard to forge falling out of the basket you carried as you fell into the river with a loud splash! Thankfully, the music stopped, you could finally hear your own thoughts again, and you were able to regain control of your limbs to swim back to the surface of the water. You clung to the closest stone, eyes wide and now soaked to the bone. Your eyes landed on a pair of legs, feet bare and dipped into the water. Slowly your eyes travelled upwards, surprised to see a man seated on the very rock in the middle of the river you were now clinging to dear life for.

The young man smiled down at you softly, although you didn't like the strange glint in his eyes. His hair–– his hair was an odd white, wavy yet soft looking, not to mention dry looking too. Which was strange considering he was literally in the middle of a river, but to be fair he was seated on a dry rock. However, what caused you to freeze, was what was at his fingertips. Light, a soft purple light that formed the shape of the keys of a piano, like odd magic. Upon removing his hand from it, the lights disappeared, leaving you stunned. What was that...?

"Ah, that didn't take very long. Certainly much longer than last time to find a patron!" He spoke extravagantly, reminding you a lot of the smooth fast-talking merchants back in town. Was he some sort of magic user...?

Your eyes landed on his clothing, finding it somewhat familiar. A black tunic with long sleeves and a matching pair of pants, the second layer was a purple vest sewn with little patterns of golden seashells, a thick gray coat that reached to his thighs with golden patterns on the edges and white fur on its hood. Not to mention, lots of shining accessories. A ring, bracelets, earrings, necklaces of gold and silver, he even wore silver glasses and had a pouch fat with coins tied to his hip. Then it came to you. Those were all stolen.

When a body was found by the river, people assumed it was a simple murder when the person's black clothing was missing. When a victim was found without their beloved gray coat, everyone guessed that the victim had lost it. Then there was the fact that bodies found floating down the river were all missing valuables, shiny valuables, and this man had so many... Without even thinking, you blurted out, "If you're looking for shiny stuff, you're wasting your time."

"I realize that." The young man said while doing a once over of you, looking particularly unimpressed since you looked like a cat that fell in a tub of water. Slowly he shrugged, averting his gaze away, "Well, since you have no use to me––"

"Wait!" He stopped, listening to your words as you proceeded carefully. "I might have more to offer than gold and silver if you let me live."

At that, he raised an eyebrow, a sly smile appearing on his face as he glanced back at you. "Oh? Are you proposing a deal? That's brave of you, it's amusing! Alright, I'm listening. First, the formalities. Every proper business deal must have the formalities first. My name is Azul, and as your astute observations have picked up by now, I am not like you. So, what is your name and what will you bargain to me?"

[siren-darkocean]

idk if you're still up for answering Bionicle/Hero factory questions, but I got back into both atm and I found your blog. I've uh ... Been lurking a lot and have enjoyed all your posts. So I have a question.

What would happen if Stormer and Ackar met? And likewise with Mata Nui and Furno.

Plus, I've been debating on writing a short fic about it, but do you have any ideas on if Mata Nui saw Ackar heavily injured? Their relationship (canon or otherwise) is by far my favorite dynamic.

*bursts into the room covered in blood as if I haven't spent hours in my bed playing the new Cult of the Lamb Unholy Alliance update for hours of the day even at almost 1 am*

*fixes hair and glasses* I'M GLAD YOU FUCKING ASKED MY FRIEND!

Okay Ackar and Stormer (my fatha(don't judge I see him and Furno as parents to replace my crappy ones ehhh)), Ackar would be mixed ground souly because he's somewhat used to biomechanical beings existed from the GSR Inhabitants and even MATA NUI HIMSELF, but with the heroes being powered by Quaza from Quatros that's a new for him

Stormer I would imagine Hero Factory is somewhat aware of the Spherus Magna inhabitants or any alien species (there's this theory of Hero Factory taking place centuries or eons after the events of G1 Bionicle in tying Hero Factory origins to Spherus Magna (I think it was mainly because Mr.Makuro looks similar to Matau as a Turaga so there's that, plus other stuff I'm not sure rn) but he would be a bit curious to learn of the Glatorian

The two would definitely get along due to their stressed leader energy and bad habit of over working themselves to the bone (or Core for Stormer's case)

Mata and my momma Furno on the other hand-

Mata: why do you remind me of Gresh?

Furno: Who?

Jokes aside of that, Furno would be SO confused (like the Bara Magna inhabitants aka Agori and Glatorian) as Mata explains to him details of his old body and universe like he would nearly short circuit at all of this information (Furno: There was little guys managing your body? Mata: Yes, and no-) processing into his data banks

I think they would get along fine however because Mata just got that lovable personality who no one hates (ignoring the Brotherhood, Tuma, Skrall, Bone Hunters and Metus)

And of that one shot-

I HAVE HAD THAT IDEA SEVERAL DOZENS OF FUCKING TIMES IN VARIOUS WAYS YOU HAVE NO IDEA!

Okay of ideas wise: While Ackar is somewhat used to getting injuries as a Glatorian, the issues of survival on Bara Magna and ofc the double fights in the arena

MATA ON THE OTHER HAND IS TERRIFIED WHEN ANY OF HIS FRIENDS GETS HURT BECAUSE THE AMOUNT OF HIS PEOPLE WHO HAVE DIED OR SACRIFICED THEMSELVES FOR HIM HE IS NOT RISKING ANYMORE LIVES

He is so overbearing to tending to his friends wounds and Ackar and even Berix and Click aren't fucking spared from it

I would imagine something from the Mata Nui's Challenge readers level book link here after the whole thing of Mata Nui defeating the Rock Steed Ackar is injured (it's not as bad as Mata Nui's panic is making it out to be) so its just Ackar sitting through the fallen God nursing his wounds in a panic trying not to laugh because he some reason finds this hilarious to him having someone worry for him like this

Maybe potential venting of the people who died and or sacrificed themselves for Mata Nui in the GSR (because let's be fr man needs to NOT bottle that shit up it ain't mentally healthy) *coughs* even Matoro *coughs* and the whole thing Mata Nui has a mental breakdown (mainly crying because yes) with Ackar comforting him

Also I love seeing people noticing how amazing Ackar and Mata Nui's relationship (both platonic and romantic) is, like it's so fucking good

I'm always down for content especially fics and oneshots of those two

[greenerteacups]

I’m not sure if you’ve specifically answered this before, but how long did it take you to outline, research, and prepare the foundational meat of Lionheart since it’s such a sprawling saga with threads for so many characters? Did you have it all mapped out before you started writing? What about shorter pieces like The Climb and the latest, delightful The Death Eater Diaries?

The series outline for Lionheart I wrote on one bleary, rabbit-hole of a day in the summer of 2022 when I was definitely supposed to be doing something else, and after that, each book took me between 3 days and 2 weeks to outline completely. The later books have taken longer because of their length and the number of threads — the series has a way of getting wider as well as longer, and for the last two books, I sometimes got a bit grumbly about how many characters pop up in every novel. As for research, most of that will happen before or during the outlining process; I'll have a copy of the book on-hand to check plot details, but for the most part I try to work without flipping back to the text, to avoid copying beats or stylistic choices unless I have a thematic reason to. I also use HP Lexicon and fanwikis while I'm editing for content, though when I'm drafting I make a real effort not to switch out of the tab for any reason, because it breaks flow. I'm sure I have missed some details despite my references, but c'est la vie; JKR had to do continuity edits in subsequent edition releases for several books, so at least I'm not alone.

For The Climb, I wrote the first chapter in the raw, then went through and blocked out the second two in an outline at the bottom of the document. Very very broad strokes there — TC is different from Lionheart because it's a slice-of-life tone piece, so there's not as much plot to be done. It's a novella conceived for the sole purpose of exploring one particular relationship, so the plot came secondary to the things I wanted to highlight about how that dynamic worked. It's a character-forward piece, to borrow culinary terminology, and outlining for character is a lot easier than outlining for plot. (For me.)

The Death Eater Diaries emerged almost fully-formed from a Tumblr post I made joking about the sort of ludicrously awful decade Narcissa experiences. The hardest part of outlining was nailing down canonical dates. Stuff like how old Andromeda was when she got pregnant, when Bellatrix got married, when the members of the previous generation died, all that's unspecified — but it's also all functionally constrained to a narrow window of time, if you take in where the characters are at certain other parts of the story, so you can't just say anything. It was very fun to write, though. Doing so also stressed how hilariously short the timeline on the Black family collapse actually is. Between 1971 and 1981, they go from a two-branch family with an heir, a spare, and three healthy daughters -> completely extinct in the male line, two of its descendants disinherited, two imprisoned, one missing, presumed dead, and Draco Malfoy's mom.

[cogglebee]

Portal Zombie AU

I'm more of an ideas man, so actually writing out my ideas into a full story is stupid difficult. But I still want to share while I embark on the painfully long process of turning this idea into a full fic. (sorry if any of this is formatted strange or if I'm somehow posting wrong, I don't really understand tumblr all that much)

Portal Zombie Apocolypse AU!! (I started this before infection aus started popping up if that gives you any frame of reference as to how long ago I started this)

Summary: Instead of Caroline being put into Glados, she's poisoned by a jealous coworker with a strange substance from one of the labs (Cave is still alive and healthy, he's just not relevant to this story)

She goes home to her fiancé Chell (queue the gasps and cheers) Who is worried that she appears so sick and cold. Caroline brushes her off and goes to rest, insisting it's just a bug. So Chell leaves and visits her friend and former coworker Mel (queue more gasps and cheers)

It's here where we learn a bit more about Chell, she's a former test subject that left quietly after witnessing the death of a fellow test subject due to the unsafe testing conditions of Aperture. She hasn't reported anything for fear of ruining Caroline's career.

While Chell is away, Caroline begins to change, her body begins to decay, her hair loses it's color and turns white, her brown eyes shift to a haunting yellow. In a distressed state, not remembering that she pushed Chell away, begins desperately searching for her. This is when the infection spreads to other people.

By the time Chell leaves Mel's house (the next day) the entire city is desolate, she rushes home, encountering several zombies on the way. She's desperate to find Caroline again, but she doesn't find her. So she gathers a couple weapons and goes back out to search for her fiancé, on the way meeting Doug Rattman, the scientist that was working on the serum that caused all of this, he's trying to find a cure (he also has a large therapy dog simply named "Companion" that accompanies him) the two team up and travel together, eventually meeting Wheatley, whom they have to save from a small horde. Mel probably dies I haven't decided.

Angst and apocalypse shenanigans ensue, the crew travel together till they find Caroline, now Glados, (Genetic Lifeform Amplifier Destitute of Soul) (idk man I needed to get the name change in there with a new acronym) Emotional moment, Chell has to kill her, world begins to heal.

Some other information: Caroline is the patient zero in this (obviously), so she's got some abilities to kinda mimic Glados in the game. She acts kinda like the head of a hivemind, she's able to tune into any infected and see what they see, hear what they hear, etc. She uses this to spy on Chell, as she is now hellbent on killing her (I'll work out a proper reason, it's mainly because her mind is very corrupt right now and all she knows is that Chell makes her feel very upset, because when she was first getting up again while Chell was gone she found her ring on the counter)(She doesn't know that it was temporary so that she could wash her hands and just forgot to put it back on)

This all also means that killing any infected won't do much to end the apocalypse, they have to kill Caroline.

I have some other little ideas but thats about the jist of it. The idea was inspired by Brand New City by Mitski and California Dreamin' by The Mamas and The Papas

If anyone has any advice on properly executing an idea like this PLEASE share, I'm almost desperate here (I'm very desperate, writing is a tricky mistress)

[quordleona03]

A Priest in Korea is Moving to the AO3

Many years ago, I was friends with Scarlatti on Livejournal, and I found she had written a whole lot of M*A*S*H fanfiction (twenty stories! That was a whole lot back then!) using the name Iolanthe.

I read all her stories - mostly Hawkeye/Mulcahy: as far as I know, she was the very first person ever to write Hawkeye/Mulcahy slash stories - and I loved them and I started seeing Hawkcahy in the series and one of her stories gave me the idea for the story that eventually grew into Sins and Virtues.

She read the final part of S&V only in first draft - I started sending her sections as soon as I had finished them - because Susan had cancer, and she died, four months before she would have turned 40. Her website, A Priest In Korea (William Christopher's description of M*A*S*H was "Oh, it's about a priest in Korea") fell into the Wayback machine, and last year, thinking of her stories again and looking for them, I found a complete snapshot of her website, and I thought "I could transfer this over to AO3 and let everyone read them: I bet they have a process for that".

They do. Julie was my Virgil as I walked through the Open Doors and now a priest in Korea has moved to AO3: A priest in Korea03. The longest story on site isn't even a Hawkeye/Mulcahy story: it's a Francis Mulcahy & Margaret Houlihan story, Polarity, which uses "a creaky old sci-fi plot device" to put Francis into Margaret's body and Margaret into Francis's -

He grew even more uneasy under the appreciative once-over with which Dickinson now favored him, and a blush warmed his face. When he caught sight of Houlihan's sidelong glare, he wondered how she -- or any other woman, for that matter -- would normally handle that kind of attention.

"Well now, Major, I can see you're a take-charge kind of gal," Dickinson drawled. "Meaning no disrespect. But your C.O. would have my head on a platter if I sent you off without an armed escort. Ain't that how you got into this mess in the first place?"

And the next-longest is also not precisely Hawkeye/Mulcahy, Playing the Game: The night air was pleasant and warm, and I was enjoying the mind-fuzzing effects of several beers, so my pace was unhurried. I'd almost made it to my tent when a man stepped out of the shadows behind the nurses' tent and latched onto my upper arm. "Hold it right there, Mister Vatican," he hissed.

I knew who it was without needing to see his face. No one but Colonel Sam Flagg, alleged CIA operative and all-around loose cannon, had ever addressed me in that fashion. I froze obediently, though my heart was racing and every instinct was telling me to flee for the hills at the earliest opportunity.

"Got a few questions for you," Flagg went on.

(sadly, now and forever unfinished, but rather in the sense of "there should have been more" than "ends on a cliffhanger")

She wrote what is still (as far as I can tell) the only Henry Blake/Trapper story, one of the few Radar/Hawkeye stories, and also Trapper/Mulcahy.

But mostly, she wrote about Francis Mulcahy falling in love with Hawkeye, and Hawkeye's gentle reciprocation.

Between us, we somehow managed to get the tent door open and cross the threshold. At that point, I expected Mulcahy to say goodnight and go pass out in his bunk, which is what I would've done, but instead he had a surprise for me.

As soon as the door closed behind us, he turned in my grasp until we were face to face. Before I had time to fully register what was going on, he'd looped his arms around my neck and was pulling me forward into a kiss.

It was, I think, the softest, sweetest, most tender kiss I've ever received...and one of the most inexplicably erotic.

What can I say? I loved her stories. She inspired me to write Hawkcahy long before that shipname was invented. I never got to meet her. I'd like you all to read her stories, and thanks to Open Doors/AO3, there they are.

They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead, They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed. I wept, as I remembered, how often you and I Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky. And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, A handful of grey ashes, long long ago at rest, Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake; For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

This is sort of a sad post, but it shouldn't be: Susan was hilarious, and it's been a pleasure and an honour being her archivist.

Thanks, Susan.

[skyward-floored]

Another little IAU fic! I mentioned I was going to write this recently, and despite having a billion other things to work on I did this instead oof

This one is less lighthearted than some of them but... you know I love my angst. Sorry. It’s all good in the end.

Read on ao3

————————————————————

It was amazing how fast things could go wrong sometimes.

Time was seated on the front porch of their small house, keeping an eye on Twilight gently petting one of the neighbor’s cats while Malon attended to some chores inside. His son was absolutely delighted by the furry creature, and it let out a meow, Twilight giggling as it licked his hand.

Time felt a smile pull at his lips, aware that it had been a while since he’d made such an expression.

It was a surprisingly warm winter day, the promise of spring on the breeze, and he was taking the time to enjoy it, trying to put all thoughts of bans and supers from his mind. It was difficult though, especially when he heard the sound of a baby fussing from inside, and Malon shushing him.

Legend was a few months old now, and so was the law that made any sort of hero work illegal, leaving them all struggling with what exactly the future would hold for their family. They were all still processing everything that had happened, and trying to navigate life now that they weren’t allowed to use their powers for... pretty much anything.

Time sighed and shook his head, firmly getting rid of his thoughts. He’d come out here to enjoy the sunshine, not brood.

He continued to watch Twilight, the cat rubbing around him and purring so loudly Time could hear it from where he was sitting, and he chuckled. His son had a way with animals, just like his wife, and it was always endearing to watch.

Almost as if she knew he’d been thinking of her, Malon suddenly called his name from inside, and Time turned back to reply to her question. He had to get up and go to the door to hear her better when Legend let out a loud squeal, and looked away from Twilight for a moment.

And in the small space of time his eyes weren’t on his son, the cat Twilight had been happily petting got startled by a loud noise in another yard. It’s fur fluffed straight up, and it darted away from him, bolting towards the street.

“Kitty!” Twilight cried, and ran after it onto the pavement. Time turned back at his shout, eye widening as Twilight ran after the cat across the street, the creature already safely on the other side.

A car suddenly sped into view, and Twilight froze when he saw it, staring as it barreled down the street. The driver obviously couldn’t see him due to his height, and wasn’t slowing down a bit.

Time didn’t hesitate.

“Twilight!”

He bolted across the street as he activated his powers, lunging for Twilight and tucking him close to his chest as the car’s brakes squealed.

Metal slammed into Time, and while the impact didn’t hurt him, it did knock him forward a bit, sending him sliding across the pavement. He let out an involuntary grunt that was drowned out by the sound of the car crashing into him, and waited several seconds once it quieted to be sure the car had stopped.

Then Time uncurled from around Twilight and frantically looked him over, patting him down and then holding his shoulders.

“Twilight are you okay?” he asked urgently, and his son stared at him, his eyes wide with shock. He didn’t speak, but his face had gone white, and Time picked him back up, holding him tightly in his arms as smoke wafted up from the car beside them.

Twilight clutched at him with shaking hands, and Time ran a slow hand over his head.

“You’re okay, you’re okay pup,” Time breathed, Twilight trembling in his arms, Time’s own heart pounding like it would explode.

If he’d been even a second later...

“Sir! Sir is your boy...”

The voice died, and as Time turned around to look at the handful of people who had come to stare at the accident, he realized they’d all just seen him get hit by a car and come out of the ordeal unscathed.

And all of those people knew what that meant.

His stomach sank, and he couldn’t help but count the people that had gathered around, staring at him, at the car, at Twilight...

The first few that had approached were now looking at him with shock and distaste on their faces as they realized what had happened, and the man who’d been driving the car had gotten out and was staring between Time and the crumpled front of his vehicle with an expression that only grew angrier.

Time held Twilight more tightly in his arms, well aware that his eyes were still glowing as the crowd began to murmur.

“Link!”

Time turned at the shout to see Malon running towards him, and when she reached his side she immediately met his eyes, her face pale.

“Link, are you—”

“Take him, call Impa,” Time breathed, and Malon did as he said, though Twilight didn’t particularly want to leave his arms. He finally gave in once he realized who was taking him, and clung to Malon as she quickly strode back into the house.

Then Time turned back to the onlookers, and swallowed, letting go of his powers. He just needed to keep things calm until Impa could get here. She was always quick and would handle the small crowd, and make sure his identity was forgotten as well, but until she got here...

Time didn’t get a chance to say anything in his defense before the driver of the car stomped over though, his face red with anger.

“You! You’re a super!” the man bellowed. “You’re— you destroyed my car!”

Anger welled up in Time’s chest. “You were speeding in a residential area,” he shot back, glaring at the man. “And nearly hit my son due to it.”

The man glared back, and began spouting something about expensive cars and insurance and laws, but Time didn’t bother listening to him. He’d nearly run Twilight over and didn’t even care, there was nothing he had to say that Time wanted to hear.

“...better there’d be less of your kind around anyway...”

But that caught his attention.

Time whipped around and grabbed the man’s collar, feeling his power return in a rush of anger as he glared down at him.

“Say that again,” he growled, and the man balked as he stared up at Time.

The street went silent, and the man didn’t move for several seconds, squirming under his glare. But then he glanced at his car and seemed to regain some of his swagger, sneering as he met Time’s eyes.

“We don’t want your kind here,” he spat. “A danger to society is all you are, a bunch of freaks who think they can do whatever they want, all because they’ve got glowing eyes or laser powers or whatever other ungodly thing it is that’s wrong with you. And any spawn of yours is exactly the—”

Time slammed him against the side of his car, and the man’s mouth clicked shut, his sneer evaporating.

“Leave my children out of this,” he snarled, and the man seemed to finally realize the precarious situation he was in.

His face went pale, and he began to babble out some kind of apology, but Time was done listening. His vision had narrowed down to the man’s face mere inches from his own, and he nearly threw him through his own car’s windshield.

And then he remembered that it wouldn’t change anything.

Time continued to glare at the man, but the anger pounding through him was being slowly replaced with a drained feeling, and disgust as the man continued to grovel and apologize.

Time glared at him a moment longer, face still inches from the man’s own, then forced himself to release his collar and step back. Picking a further fight would only worsen the situation, no matter how badly the man deserved a solid punch to his nose.

A murmur went up around them, and Time suddenly remembered he wasn’t alone, a cold feeling swamping over him as he glanced around.

Any sympathy on the onlookers’ faces had been almost entirely swept away, and they were now looking at him with a mix of fear and hatred. Never mind the fact that he’d saved a toddler from being run over— he’d threatened someone with his powers, and in doing so, proved their prejudices correct.

He was dangerous.

The sound of a car approaching caught everyone’s attention, and Time relaxed a little as a van pulled up, and a stern-looking woman got out along with a few other people.

Impa.

The agent took in the scene with a slow glance, the onlookers’ murmuring doubled at her arrival. Then Impa met Time’s eyes, then sighed, shaking her head as he quietly let his powers fall away.

“Later,” she cut him off when he opened his mouth to explain, and gestured for him to go inside.

I want your side of the story, but now is not the time.

Time closed his mouth, and did as she said, turning and walking back to his house. He didn’t give the man or the onlookers a single glance as he passed them, and didn’t bother listening to whatever Impa had begun to say to the crowd.

He merely went inside, and closed the door.

It seemed strangely quiet as he walked in, Legend’s babbling quieted for once, and Time walked forward in a near daze. Something squeaked as he took a step forward though, and he paused, lifting his foot and staring at the little chew toy they’d gotten for Twilight to play with as a wolf.

The weight of everything that had just happened suddenly hit him, and Time pressed a hand to his forehead, slowly breathing out as he leaned back against the door. He’d just completely revealed his identity to a small crowd of people, threatened a man in front of them as well, and Twilight had nearly...

Time took a deep breath, forcibly tucking his thoughts away, then went to find where Malon had gone with Twilight.

He could think about it all later.

He found them in the living room with the first-aid kit, Malon cleaning up a scrape Twilight had gotten on his leg. She was just finishing putting a bandaid over it when Time walked in, and she met his eyes, her own shiny with worry.

He sighed and crossed the room, sitting next to her and putting an arm around her and Twilight.

Twilight was still clinging to Malon’s shirt, trembling a little, but still not crying, and when Time sat next to him he squeezed himself up against his chest. Time ran a soothing hand through his hair, and Twilight buried his head between him and Malon.

“What happened Link?” Malon asked in a low voice. “I heard the crash, but what..?”

“Later,” he whispered, well aware that if he tried to explain everything, than what was left of his composure would likely crack. “I promise, just... not now.”

Malon’s face creased even further, but then Twilight shivered, and she nodded, not replying as she soothed him. Their son let out a small hiccupy noise, pressing his face even more tightly into his parents’ chests, and Time ran his hand through Twilight’s hair again as a tight feeling squeezed his stomach.

Forget everything else that had happened. Twilight was safe.

Malon rested her head on his, and Time held her and Twilight close, closing his eyes with a small shudder.

In the end, even with all of the consequences that would doubtlessly arise from this, that was the only thing that truly mattered.

[good-beanswrites]

That LCSYS and OoA crossover got me wondering about Fuuta.

How does he feel about being in Mahiru's place and Amane being in his place? How does he act around them?

How does he act during his interrogation?

Poor guy isn't cut out for this role, but he's doing his best! I had some format fun with this one -- I took your OoA chapter of his interrogation and put Fuuta's LCSyS thoughts in between, I think it worked out well! I discovered some new things about Fuuta's mindset in the au through the process of writing, it was really interesing :0

(Trigger warnings for suicidal thoughts, including a brief mention of Haruka's situation. There's also something about Fuuta repeatedly stopping Es from getting Shidou.)

Fuuta heard Es' footsteps approaching. He took a measured breath. In and out. His exhale trembled a bit from nerves. He figured he could use that to his advantage.

Es entered the cell and took in the layout. Fuuta was propped up in a hospital bed, his neck and torso securely braced and his left arm in a sling. He was kneading a Jackalope stress toy with his right hand, digging his nails into it. More stress toys stood on the table to his right, and Es almost tripped on one a few feet ahead. As Fuuta saw Es approaching, he dropped what he was holding and swatted the rest out of his reach.

"Been a… while, Warden," Fuuta said. Es was expecting more malice in his tone, but he sounded like his life force was draining.

Fuuta hadn't liked the idea of playing the damsel in distress. He wasn't some sickly bedridden patient with a quivering voice and trembling limbs. Thankfully, Mahiru and Mikoto had talked him into taking a different angle: some of their favorite books and movies featured a battle-weary hero, weak from the fight and scorning the cowards that didn't fight alongside him. That seemed doable, he thought. He put an extra pant into his breath, hoping to evoke the thought of messy wounds from his brawl with Kotoko.

"Fuuta… you…" They pulled a chair to the side of the table and took a seat. "Are you okay?"

That's their opening? What kind of fucking question is that?

He kept Mahiru's pointers in his head, picturing a bloodied and bandaged knight, or maybe an action hero resting up after getting riddled with bullets. He forced his voice to come out more tired than he felt.

"…look like it?" Fuuta responded. If he was angry, his voice did a terrible job of showing it.

Es didn't know how to respond. Do I look like it? was obviously a rhetorical question, but they needed to show some tact.

After a moment, Fuuta spoke up again. "…look awful… don't I?"

Still unsure of what to say, Es nodded slightly.

Heh. Good. Time to twist the knife a bit. Play the confident card, make them feel guilty. They'll see how strong I am -- how strong I've always been -- and what a mistake it was to let me fall so far.

"Could've been worse. Could've died."

Es stared down, pondering their next words. Several seconds passed.

Fuuta watched them. He felt a sinking in his stomach. Their sullen silence wasn't what he'd been anticipating. He wouldn't have been satisfied with a lot of possible responses, but he'd still been expecting something. Where was their respect? Their remorse? Their pity? Anything? He reached his arm out.

A loud knock on the table got their attention.

"Oi… talking to you." Fuuta's irritated glare met Es as they lifted their head.

"I'm sorry," they said, "I'm… I'm not sure what I can say."

"Don't know what to say? I almost died because of… you don't know… Even so, it's a miracle I … If Shidou had taken any longer, would've been over for me. Don't blame him, though.

I think I've said too much -- Shidou said only a few sentences at a time...

It was impossible to keep it short, though. Es just told him that they have nothing to say in defense of his near-death. Did he really mean so little to Es that they wouldn't even dignify him with an explanation?

"…Oi, say something."

"Sor-"

"Sorry won't cut it." Fuuta sounded more pained than angry.

That was easier to accomplish now that he was actually feeling some pain. After everything, all Es had to say was a half-hearted "sorry."

So, they really don't care about me...

Es took a breath. "…Kotoko did this to you?"

Well then, I guess I'll just have to make them care.

"No sh… agh…" Fuuta gasped for air.

"Fuuta!" Es got up and walked to his side. "I'll go get Shidou-"

"Don't!" Fuuta's eyes betrayed his desperation.

Only when my pain is thrown directly in my face do they give a damn. And they were going running off to Shidou, anyway! Though maybe...

After they locked eyes for a few moments, Fuuta let out a chuckle. "Look … you … down on me, like always. Must be so happy to see…"

"I- no, I'm not. I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't think Kotoko would-"

"Beat me to near-death? What'd you expect … you affirmed her…"

"I…"

"…thought she wouldn’t have … same crime here in…"

It seemed Es was finally listening, finally trying to open themself to him. And all of the sudden, Fuuta hated it. He felt paranoid under their gaze. He wasn't sure if it was fear of them seeing through his false injuries, or fear of another judgement from them. Regardless, he felt his pulse race with the way they were watching him.

"Oi, quit standing… staring…"

"I’m sorry, I didn't think-"

"Useless… apology…"

But what else could Es do besides apologize? Stand their ground and contradict Fuuta while he was in that pitiful state?

Fuuta was tired of their weak apologies. If Es had the conviction to name him guilty, they should toughen up and admit it.

With a deep breath, Fuuta forced himself to stay slumped into the bedsheets. He was getting riled up, but couldn't afford to look to strong.

"Really didn't think it'd… turn out… Me too. All I did… call some bad person out… say what's wrong was wrong…"

Es' gaze had become intense again. Those eyes, staring into his. Studying his injuries. Studying his expression.

Staring.

Staring.

Staring.

"Their reasons were b-" Fuuta gasped and clutched his chest. Es began to turn towards the door, but Fuuta grabbed their cape with his right hand.

Why can't they just offer help themself? Why do they go running off to someone else at the first sign of trouble? Am I really so disliked they can't face me?

Es swatted his hand away. "Hey, you can't just grab me like that."

"Don't dare…"

"Fine, I won't get Shidou. Yet." Es stood in place and waited for Fuuta to regain his voice.

Fuuta pretended to catch his breath, using the time to muster up something to say. If he wasn't so insistent on Es taking some responsibility for themself, he'd consider letting them call Shidou and just end this whole interrogation. He was ready to jump up and start swinging.

He itched to leap out of bed and give Es a real piece of his mind. He repeated the others' advice and pleading for him to keep his temper in check for the sake of the experiment. He thought of Amane -- how eagerly she awaited her own interrogation. All of this had been her plan, after all. As miserable as he was, he wouldn't ruin everything before she got her turn.

No, I will not steal her trial.

"You judged me… said I was unforgivable… without the whole story… How's that any different?"

"Excuse me?"

"That's so hypo- khh!" Fuuta slammed his hand on the table, trying to play it off as an emphasis, but that didn't mask his pain.

"Careful, Fuuta! You'll hurt-" Es gave up on that concern when Fuuta glared.

Pssh, like they actually care.

"Someone died because of you. You're saying I'm the same?"

"I didn't think they'd die!"

"But you knew people would dogpile them."

"I wasn't acting alone. Anyone else… out of my control… Why'd you pick me…"

"Milgram has judged-"

"Milgram doesn't make any f-"

Maybe Es should have put their foot down and called Shidou regardless of Fuuta's wishes. But something compelled them to hear him out. "Don't push yourself."

He tried to gauge if they were being sincere. He wasn't sure if he only mistook it as genuine concern since he was hoping for that so very badly.

Fuuta was clearly annoyed, but he took a breath and continued. "Still don't see it? We're just the same!"

"Me? The same as you?" Es couldn't deny Fuuta's point. They both made their judgments without thinking that someone could be seriously hurt—or dead.

That's got their mind turning, huh? I've got 'em now -- even if they don't feel like taking responsibility for my condition, I can subtly get them to take responsibilty for anothers'.

Fuuta was not known for his subtlety.

"I'll tell you. They were just in middle school. Maybe closer to Amane… than you…"

"Amane…" Es already knew this from what they gleaned from Fuuta's first video, but it didn't register how close in age their victims were. Wait, why were they thinking of Amane as a victim? "Amane… huh… I noticed you two have been spending a lot of time together lately."

"You kidding? Don't change the subject... You don't talk about her like… Only one who cared before everything went to hell. You made her go through it. Decided she wasn't forgivable… painted a target… She could've died too! Then we'd be exactly…"

"Don't put me on the same level as you."

He took another moment to calm himself. His "broken" arm clenched into a fish underneath the blankets. It made sense that Es wouldn't want to talk about the other prisoners during his interrogation, but their avoidance of Amane made his blood boil.

"Are you not-"

"I'm just doing my job. Nobody told you to go online and decide who are bad people and harass them. You made a game out of judgment. This is what I'm supposed to do."

Fuuta laughed at Es for still failing to acknowledge their similarities. Then he winced in pain. Then he kept laughing and mocking Es for taking their job seriously.

It was difficult to keep up the act the whole time, but he was always quick to recover each time he slipped up. He was doing this for the others. All hope for himself was lost, but at least he could do this for the others.

Es snapped back. A pointless, cyclical conversation. Fuuta stopped Es from calling Shidou no less than three times.

If he had to sit here and suffer through this interrogation, so did Es.

Eventually, the bell brought the conversation to a halt.

Silence.

Why was Fuuta so quiet?

"Hey… Fuuta?" Es leaned over to get a better look at his face. His eyes seemed glassy, and he seemed to be breathing more slowly. "Fuuta… I'll go get-"

"Don't. Not worth…"

"Worth what?"

"If you're not going to… forgive… what's the point… living?"

Fuuta would just chalk it up to getting too in-character, when the others asked.

"Don't say-"

"Everything hurts so much."

This feeling of betrayal. Of loneliness. The fact that I was the first named unforgiven. The fact that I'd be the first attacked, making me the victim -- not a hero, nor a warrior. The fact that you knew all along. You knew I was none of those things. You saw right through my act, to the real me, the one who is a victim. And that's why you acted the way that you did. You're trying to do your job without hurting me any more, as if I'm something fragile to be handled carefully. And that hurts most of all.

To keep things on track, he added,

"Painkillers don't help… Strange wonder I survived. Is it really worth it?"

"Worth it…" What could Es even say about that? Anything they could think of was either more unwanted pity or…

A cold accusation that Fuuta was bargaining his life for forgiveness. Es's thoughts flitted back to Haruka's interrogation- no, that comparison was unfair. Haruka's loaded intentions were worlds away from Fuuta's resignation. How could Es dare…

"I understand… this job requires resolve…"

"Resolve? You really have resolve… just kill me. With your own two hands. Don't hide behind the rules."

Look who's talking...

"I can't do that. I can't sink to the prisoners' level. It's my job as the warden to make a fair judgement. I… I have to judge each and every one of you… no matter how much they plead, cry, or bargain… even if they are dying right in front of me."

"What is even the point? You give a damn about my life, forgive me! If not, kill me… get it over with."

The words came tumbling out. Fuuta tried not to think so hard about what he was saying. It was all in character. That was it.

For some reason, he got the sinking sensation that he'd be pulled aside later to explain himself. He wasn't sure who'd get to him first. Yuno? Shidou? Kotoko? Now that he thought about it, it would probably be Mahiru.

"Bargaining tactics won't work with me."

"Not like I care. Or… if I get out of this alive, I'll… kill… you…"

"Fine by me. If we truly are the same, then I'll have had it coming. Now, Prisoner no. 3, Fuuta, sing your sins."

Fuuta breathed a sigh of relief.

Fucking finally...

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

Below you will find the character profile for my One Piece OC (one of them, anyway. I have at least five, but I'll be working the most closely with this one for now).

So, here we go. Only been working on this shit for like...three days. Okay, technically over ten years since I used to write her ages ago when I was on fanfiction.net, but I've redone a lot of things.

I'm already in the process of working on a novel-length Mihawk x AFAB!OC fanfic, so here's the overly extensive character sheet for my OC because I always put way too much effort into character development.

The character history practically devolves into a mini fanfic itself around the middle by total accident, but whatever.

The fanfic(s) will toe the line between Live Action and Manga canon. We'll just call it AU and leave it at that.

Karimi Lionne

Associated fanfics: Hearing Problems (coming soon to an Unknowable Horror near you) and Any Way The Wind Blows (eventually, bear with me)

Age: 24

Occupation: Pirate; Mercenary

Abilities:

Kiku Kiku no Mi: A Paramecia type devil fruit that grants the user the ability to hear...well, everything, all the time. Within a certain range she, can hear the thoughts of people around her. The range varies with her focus; standard, it's anyone within a range of about fifty feet in any direction. She can close that circle down to either listen to one person's thoughts, or expand it to search a city or town for a particular person. Activated (which she hasn't yet), it allows the user the ability to plant thoughts in others' heads, and potentially control their thoughts.

She considers the ability more of a curse than a blessing since she has never managed to hone it quite well enough to shut it off entirely, and can often be found sitting at a dock or on a beach with her feet in the salt water, just to get some peace and quiet in her own head.

Blades: Karimi carries a pair of daggers with ornately carved ivory handles, the head of a lioness carved into the top of each hilt, in sheaths at either side of her belt. They belonged to her grandmother, who raised her from age four to age fourteen, and also taught her most of what she knows in combat. She also keeps a handful of throwing knives in a holster belted to her right calf, a couple inches below her knee.

Her fighting style relies primarily on agility, evasion, and accuracy rather than raw strength due to her relatively small stature of 5'2".

Haki: Not a master by any means at all. Learned from Red-Haired Shanks during her brief stint working with his crew, used largely to assist in suppressing her devil fruit abilities and making them more manageable. Not really proficient enough to use it for any other application.

Music: Karimi was taught to play guitar, fiddle, and piano by her grandmother, but she hasn't touched an instrument since her grandmother died, so she doesn't know how much of the ability she has retained. Karimi also learned several sea shanties from her, and often hums or quietly sings them to herself while out to sea.

Appearance:

Faceclaim: Jane Fonda c. 1960s, facial structure, skin and hair edited via Faceapp

Long, dark green hair, in wild curls that she can't do much of anything with except tie back in a bun or stuff under a hat. Sharp emerald green eyes. Fair-skinned with a handful of freckles.

The Resting Bitch Face is strong with this one.

Slender, petite, 5'2" tall.

Tends toward wearing long-sleeved shirts/dresses to cover the scars on her arms. Almost always wears her grandmother's hat, an old and tattered brown leather tricorne with a patch on the front left brim and a few more in the back.

Personality:

Confident, toeing the line of outright arrogance at times. Humor that ranges from dryly sarcastic to quite silly, depending on who she's around. Guarded. Brooding. Cynical. Empathetic. Gentle. Uses sarcasm as a coping mechanism. Not easily offended. Prominent issues with self-harm and PTSD.

Backstory (prior to beginning of fic)

Karimi has next to no knowledge of her origins. She knows her mother died shortly after giving birth to her, that she was born on her father's ship, and that she got her hands on a devil fruit the crew had found and ate it when she was three or four years old, not knowing what it was. Shortly thereafter she was taken to live with her grandmother on a remote island village called Conch Cove, somewhere on the Grand Line.

Her grandmother, Helena Lionne, had been a pirate captain shortly before Gol D. Roger came around and into his earlyyears of piracy, but Karimi didn't know much about her history. Helena was a powerful haki user, and was able to use the power to dampen Karimi's devil fruit abilities, largely for the sake of the girl's own comfort and sanity. Helena trained her to fight in order to defend herself in the event that she ever left the island, as well as survivalist training. She wasn't shy about telling Karimi that the world could be a dangerous place, particularly for a woman on her own, amd wanted to ensure that her granddaughter had everything she needed to safely make her way in the world.

Karimi found out more about her grandmother a week after her fourteenth birthday.

She discovered that her grandmother had been captain of the Siren Pirates. She discovered her grandmother possessed the abilities of the Mizu Mizu no Mi (logia type, water). She discovered that her bounty was in the billions...and still very much active.

The Marine Admiral who showed up to the island, Admiral Jackson "Volcano" Vesper, brought a large crew with him, with no intention of taking Helena alive. His moniker stemmed not only from his explosive temper, but also from his own devil fruit abilities—the predecessor to Fire Fist Ace, he possessed the power of the Mera Mera no Mi (logia type, fire). He also possessed an intense desire for revenge on the woman that had killed his father.

He didn't bother revealing how he managed to track her down—he simply went in guns blazing. The battle between him and Helena, between his crew and what remained of hers, waged for nearly two entire days, leaving several Marines and villagers dead and the town in total ruin. Karimi stayed hidden the entire time as her grandmother had asked her to, but with Helena's haki focused on defending herself and her allies, Karimi could hear everything with her devil fruit abilities.

She could hear the moment when Admiral Vesper's first mate got the drop on her grandmother, pinned her to the ground with the butt of his rifle, which he had coated in a layer of sea stone, instantly sapping her strength and her devil fruit powers.

Karimi could hear Vesper's thoughts, his intentions to humiliate her, kill her, and return to Marineford with her head.

And Karimi emerged from hiding and managed to toss a throwing a knife into the back of his leg.

She was captured almost immediately. Her physical resemblance to her grandmother in the woman's younger years was noted immediately by Vesper, and he knew in that instant that he had won.

And Karimi knew it too, with the man's bowie knife to her throat.

He agreed to let Karimi go in exchange for Helena's life, and Helena gave in without a second thought when she saw the bowie knife start to cut into her granddaughters neck.

He took the remainder of Helena's old crew as prisoners—the only four other villagers on the island left alive, but not before slitting Helena's throat and sawing her head from her neck with his bowie knife, while Karimi was held captive and forced to watch.

Then he and his men left her there on the remote island, in a ruined village with nothing but the corpses of friends and neighbors and the woman who raised her to keep her company.

She doesn't remember much of the following two weeks. She knows she was able to make a spear out of a throwing knife and a shovel handle to catch fish for food in the shallows around the island. That she had a fresh source of water in the form of a pond. She knows she was nearly through building a raft out of the rubble that was left of the town when another marine ship arrived at the island, captained this time by Vice Admiral Garp the Fist. She was understandably beyond wary of Marines, and she fought tooth and nail, kicking and screaming, when they took her back to their ship.

They took her throwing knives and her grandmother's daggers, and she was forced to stay in the brig because she made very clear that she would gladly gut any marine who came near her. She was still treated with kindness and provided full meals given her situation, and as she bided her time and got her strength back she formed a plan of escape.

She was able to use her devil fruit powers effectively in her escape—by listening around and finding the easiest target. This came in the form of a fifteen year old cadet who would check on her and talk to her during his downtime. He thought she was pretty and couldn't believe she had managed to keep herself alive for two and a half weeks after what she had been through, admired her sheer strength of will. It was incredibly easy to sweet-talk him into getting her weapons back to her, playing on his sympathies by telling him that they were all she had left of her grandmother.

She hid them once she had them, and did a little more sweet-talking...until he agreed to steal the keys and get her out of the cell. Once she was out, she wasted no time in knocking him out, stealing his uniform, stuffing her hair under the hat, and discreetly stealing enough rations to last herself a week and slipping away on a dinghy.

She had no idea where she was or how she was going to get anywhere, but she wasn't exactly of sound mind after the trauma she had endured. Her only thoughts at the time were that she wanted to put as much distance between herself and the Marines as possible.

She was picked up by a merchant vessel after a few days, and they took pity on her story and allowed her to remain on board the ship, assisting in cooking and cleaning in exchange for room and board and safe passage to their next stop. They were bound for Loguetown in the East Blue, and that suited her just fine.

Loguetown was a large city right outside the only passage onto the Grand Line, and it gave her plenty of options for work. She worked odd jobs that provided her with room and board, saving up money over the course of the following two years.

She was working in a tavern and staying at the attached inn when the Red-Hair pirates made port in Loguetown, and she knew she had her ticket back onto the seas, with only one goal in mind—to find her father, and tell him what had become of her grandmother.

Her memories of him were too vague for her to give any decent description, but she wasn't telling anyone her reasons anyway. She waited for her shift to end before approaching Shanks himself and asking, confidently, to join his crew.

That got a tremendous laugh out of the crew at large, but only a little bit of a chuckle from Shanks himself.

"And why would a little slip of a thing like yourself want sail around with a bunch of old men?"

"That's not really important." She sat down at the neighboring table at this. "But what I can provide your crew is."

"And what might that be, love?"

"I've trained with daggers and throwing knives since I was four years old. I also possess the abilities of the Kiku Kiku no Mi."

Yasopp, sitting between Shanks and his first mate Benn Beckman with bis feet propped up on the table, snorted at that, grinning. "So what, it improved your hearing?"

Karimi leveled her eyes with his. "Immensely," she daid. She gave a small smile...and began narrating his thoughts out loud. "'The hell is this girl's deal? Does she have any idea who she's even talking to right now? She can't even be much older than my—Wait. What the hell? What the hell is she—'" His feet slipped off the table, his mouth falling open as he registered what was happening. "'Holy shit, is she in my head? Is—'"

"Okay, you made your point, cut it out!" he half-shouted, staring at her in alarm.

No one was laughing anymore—and she knew she had their full attention now.

"That," Shanks said lightly, the amusement gone from his eyes and replaced with caution—but also intrigue, "is a very dangerous ability for someone as young as yourself to possess."

"I've had it since I was four. I've learned to manage it."

That was, of course, only half true—she could deal with it, yes, but she couldn't fully control it.

After a long, silent moment, in which members of his crew exchanged glances and Shanks quietly studied her, he leaned back in his chair, nodding to himself.

"Let's give you a real test," he said, leaning his arm over the back of his chair. "See how well you can put your abilities to use." Karimi lifted her eyebrows, waiting. "I want you to sneak into the Marine base here in Loguetown. Find where they keep the treasure and money they've confiscated from pirates and thieves they've arrested...and walk out with as much as you can carry." He lifted his bottle of rum from the table. "Undetected."

"Have you lost your goddamned mind?" Shanks glanced across the table at Benn when he spoke up.

"That's been gone for years, but go on."

Benn gave a growl of annoyance at his captain. "She's a kid. You're talking about sending a kid into a damned Marine base to steal from them. That's a suicide mission."

"The girl wants a chance to prove herself," he said simply, shrugging a shoulder. He looked back at her. "That's my offer, love. We're setting out no later than noon tomorrow. You bring your haul to the ship, you can come with us."

Karimi nodded, and stood from her chair. "Then I will see you all no later than noon tomorrow."

A few hours later, when the tavern closed for the night and the crew returned to the ship, they were met with the sight of Karimi, wearing a Marine uniform and sitting on a sizable burlap sack right in the middle of the deck. She stood from it and kicked it over, spilling gold bricks, jewels, and piles of Berry notes and coins across the deck.

Sneaking into the base had honestly been a piece of cake—she found a half-drunk Marine a couple years older than her at another tavern, did a little sweet-talking and got him back to her inn room. Suggested some rather kinky activities that would involve him stripping down and being tied to the bed and he jumped on it. Once he was securely tied, she gathered her few belongings, put on his uniform, put a do-not-disturb sign on the door, and slipped out the window.

It had taken longer to find and get into the rooms where they kept any seized contraband, but it had been as simple as keeping her head down and listening. Hiding and ducking down empty halls when she heard anyone drawing too close. The entire ordeal had taken just under three hours.

After a long stretch of silence, it was Benn Beckman that voiced what everyone was thinking.

"Holy shit."

Shanks grinned over at him. "Suicide mission, aye?"

She was officially welcomed aboard the ship at this, as promised, but there was some deal of commotion when she told them her name.

Particularly her surname.

She learned very quickly that both Shanks and his first mate were familiar with her father—and that Benn utterly despised him. To the point that he, however briefly, threatened to throw Karimi off the ship himself against his captain's will if necessary. The brief altercation ended in Benn storming off to the gun deck on his own, leaving Karimi wondering if she had made the right choice of crew.

Shanks was far more personable.

He told her about her father—Lyon D. Rollo.

He described her father as having been like "the annoying little brother he never wanted." Told her about their time spent as deckhands aboard the Oro Jackson. About his devil fruit abilities that had caused absolutely nothing but trouble for years because they were incredibly difficult to master without massive repercussions: the Kaze Kaze no Mi (logia type: wind).

Told her how they met Benn not long after Roger's execution after setting out on their own—Benn and his younger sister, Sedna, who he had looked after on his own since he was around sixteen and she was six, when their parents had been killed by raiding pirates.

Who Karimi's father had apparently fallen inmediately head over heels for. Said he refused to leave town without her, and did exactly as he set out to. Benn had refused to leave her side, and came with them despite his hatred of pirates at the time.

It was a year later that Shanks and her father had gone their separate ways. It had always been the plan, as they were both too stubborn to accept being anything but captains. Once they gathered enough of their own crew members and got their own ships, they parted as friends. Benn stayed with Shanks, and Sedna remained with Lyon.

It wasn't long after that they recieved word that Sedna had been killed during a firefight with the Marines.

"He never mentioned a child," said Shanks, shaking his head and looking at Karimi like he was looking at a ghost as he leaned forward against the railing around the bow. "I imagine he couldn't have been much older than seventeen." He shook his head a little, still in disbelief. "I don't think I need devil fruit abilities to know what you're doing here."

Karimi nodded shortly. "Do you know where—?"

"No, unfortunately."

No one knew where Lyon was—it had been five years since Shanks actually last saw him, and he and his entire crew seemed to have just vanished into thin air around a year ago, despite still holding active bounties.

Karimi didn't tell him anything else, not why she was looking for him—only that she was, and that she had no intention of remaining with the Red Hair crew for the long term. Just long enough to get a bit of money together and purchase her own ship, something small like a sloop that she could handle by herself.

She ended up sailing with the Red Hair Pirates for around two years, give or take few months. Shanks became something of a mentor to her over that period of time, taking time to train her in Busoshoku Haki, the same type of Haki that her grandmother had used to repress Karimi's Devil Fruit abilities, so Karimi could use it herself when she wished to. It wasn't fool-proof, but it at least helped lessen the mental load.

Once on her own, Karimi ultimately began working as a mercenary; taking on jobs with various pirate crews that required stealth or a subtle touch, avoiding Marines as much as possible, and attempting to gather any information she could about her father, but to no avail on the latter front—it really seemed like he and his crew had just vanished into thin air. His bounty was still active, along with those of his first mate and officers, but no one had heard hide nor hair of them in literaly years.

Nothing much changed for her until Karimi took a job from the Buggy Pirates a few years later, at twenty-four years old. Buggy was searching for a map of the Grand Line, and he needed someone to steal it for him, since he and his crew more or less stood out like sore thumbs and couldn't very discreetly sneak into the naval base in Shells Town where it was being kept. She was reluctant to accept—she usually avoided jobs that had anything at all to do with the Marines, but Buggy made an offer she couldn't refuse.

He claimed to have information about her father that he would gladly trade for the map.

She kept her ship anchored next to Buggy's overnight to set to preparing, planning to make way for Shells Town first thing the following morning...but news came down the grapevine that night that the map had been stolen during a break-in by another pirate crew into the Marine base.

In his rage that his plans were foiled after spending months gathering information, Buggy laid the blame on the hired hand—that she had left immediately, she could have beaten the other crew to the base and gotten the map first. He ultimately sunk her sloop, nearly with her on it before she managed to gather her most valuable items and get herself onto Buggy's ship, where he informed her she would be working for him until her debt at failing to get him the map was paid off—now she was going to have to steal it from the pirates that had taken it.

Karimi had little choice but to agree—being a devil fruit user, it would be far too risky for her to steal a dinghy and take her chances with thr open oceans.

They found the crew on a schooner and took them prisoner easily enough, given that there were only three of them. Karimi recognized one of them from a description Shanks had mentioned during her time with the Red Hair Pirates of the boy he had lost his arm to a sea monster saving (a story that she had honestly thought had to be an exaggeration), who claimed to be their captain and insisted he was going to be king of the pirates...while the other two claimed they weren't even a crew.

Whatever the case, Karimi knew they were her ticket out of servitude to the Buggy Pirates, and mutinied against them the second that the odds shifted in favor of Luffy, Zoro, and Nami.

Luffy was more than happy to welcome her aboard their tiny ship, especially on learning that she knew Shanks. She didn't tell them of her devil fruit abilities, still keeping them suppressed with Haki, a mistake she would regret in the next island they made port at due largely to their schooner springing a leak. They lucked out on landing in a town with a shipyard, but none of them really had a Berry to spare between them to actually purchase a new ship—the vast majority of the money that Karimi had saved herself had sunk to the bottom of the ocean with her own ship amd most of her worldly possessions.

On meeting and quickly befriending Usopp at the shipyard and learning the owner of the place was his "best friend," they had something of a plan, if a bit of a ridiculous one—Luffy was convinced that if he just talked to Kaya and explained their situation, she would just give him a ship and they could be off and on their way.

Both Karimi and Zoro recognized the butler Klahador, but couldn't quite put their finger on why. This was Karimi's mistake—she didn't think enough of it to release her haki and just listen in on his thoughts. It wasn't until everything later fell apart in Kaya's mansion that she did release her haki and quickly learn he was Captain Kuro, a cutthroat captain who had been believed dead for years, that he had been poisoning Kaya for years, and that he planned to murder Kaya and take over the estate himself that night.

She also learned while her abilities were active that Nami had every intention of stealing the Grand Line map and taking it to the pirate crew she was serving against her will. By this point Karimi had developed a soft spot for all three members of the Strawhat Crew (even if two of them still claimed not to be a crew), but she decided not to confront Nami about it—yet.

Kaya was more than happy to gift them a ship after they helped defeat Kuro and freed her from his suppression. She offered Karimi one as well, but she declined, stating that she would prefer to purchase one herself once she had the means to do so—but that she would happily return to Syrup Village and purchase one from Kaya's family's shipyard. In truth, she was honestly enjoying her time with the ragtag little crew, and wanted to stick around with them just a bit longer to see how far Luffy's ambitions could take them.

Usopp joined them at this point as the crew's sharpshooter. They were intercepted not far from Syrup Village by a Marine ship, and Karimi recognized Vice Admiral Garp almost immediately—as did Luffy, to her and the others' astonishment on finding our that Garp was his grandfather. Luffy was able to use his devil fruit abilities to deflect a cannonball thrown at their ship by Garp, and damage Garp's ship enough for them to slip away into a dense fog and lose their pursuers.

They happened by pure luck upon the restaurant ship Baratie, where our story begins in earnest, following Luffy's idiocy at trying to pass off a very expensive bill with an I.O.U. and getting stuck washing dishes in the kitchen to pay it off.

Relationships

Helena Lionne (OC): Grandmother, deceased. A powerful pirate captain in her heyday, Helena disappeared from the seas without a word one day and no one really knew where she had gone. Helena raised Karimi from age four to fourteen, when she was tragically murdered by a revenge-crazed marine admiral whose father Helena had killed years earlier when she was still pirating. Karimi looked up to her immensely and loved her to death, and thinking about her still hurts.

Lyon D. Rollo (OC): A active pirate captain on the grand line, though no one has heard hide nor hair of him or his crew (the Hurricane Pirates) in years. She's been trying to find him for the past ten years, to tell him what happened to her grandmother/his mother, since Karimi was the only witness left alive and no one else would be able to tell him exactly what happened. It doesn't help that she last saw him at four years old, and remembers next to nothing about him. He's actually the one who gave her the hat—he took it when he left home at thirteen to become a pirate himself, and left it with her when he took her to her grandmother. (A/N, if and when I ever get to working on Any Way The Wind Blows, it will be about his history.)

Red-Haired Shanks: Working with the Red-Hair pirates for two years led to her becoming fairly close with Shanks. He had known her father over two decades and became quite protective of her as a direct result, with her looking at him almost as a father figure as well as a mentor.

Benn Beckman: The first mate of Red-Haired Shanks, Karimi learned from Shanks that her mother had been Benn's younger sister, Sedna, and that Benn absolutely despised her father and blamed him for his younger sibling's untimely death. As a result, Benn spent a while both wary and untrusting of Karimi and treating her with indifference that bordered on hostility; but he eventually let it go, accepting that she was capable (and, in his own words, "a hell of a lot smarter than Lyon D. Dipshit"),

The Marines: Karimi positively despises Marines, with the sole exception of Garp since has come to recognize that she wouldn't be alive if not for him, though good luck getting her to admit it.

Luffy: For her short spell traveling with Luffy and his "crew," she bonded with Luffy pretty quickly, coming to see him like a goofy little brother. He absolutely reveled in hearing stories about her time on the ocean, especially any that involved her time on Shanks's crew. She's quick to scold him for his naivety and questionable decisions, but it's mostly out of care; his ambition is definitely infectious, and she wants to see him achieve everything he's set out to do.

Nami: As the only other girl on the Going Merry, Karimi did her best to get close to Nami, especially on learning about her tragic situation with the Arlong Pirates via her devil fruit abilities, but Nami makes herself intentionally distant.

Zoro: She butted heads a fair bit with Zoro, largely due to both of them being exceedingly sarcastic, but she doesn't hate him by any means. Quite the contrary, she admires his abilities as a fighter and passes time sparring with him on the deck. They're about evenly matched in fighting ability, as his style relies largely on strength and her own on evasion and agility.

Usopp: Usopp is always quick to pipe in with his own epic stories of his supposed adventures when Karimi mentions any of her own past ventures. Not unlike Luffy, she looks at him almost like a younger sibling, though honestly he annoys her a little more than Luffy.

[grecoisms]

title: a heap of broken images (4/4)

pairing: kim wexler x lalo salamanca

rating: E

summary: 

"Funny coincidence, no? I leave this apartment, and they come to kill me two days later." "One might say you could not get your house in order." Kim says coldly, pressing all her nails into her palm with full force. Small crescents of small moons.

"You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water." t.s.eliot - the waste land

They could have died.

Died so easily. 

As easily as one draws a breath.

The realization hits her like a gong gone off.

The realization comes after - 

locking eyes with Lalo and staring him down,

looking at the empty space he still occupied,

getting in the taxi and the ride itself, 

leaving adrenaline behind, again,

But the realization comes before -

Getting into the hotel bed,

Shaking from exhaustion,

Hugging Jimmy tight,

Faking a cough,

Calling in sick,

Sleeping in, 

Staying in,

Processing,

Surviving.

The day is spent in bed and recollection.

He thumbed his gun so naturally, Kim thinks, picturing Lalo with a repressed storm on his face and gun tucked in his belt. He spoke so politely, even though his very presence froze the place up, made Jimmy and her rooted to the ground. Speechless. 

Jimmy went out some time ago to get some food, but they promised to text each other every five minutes, something he was more adamant on doing than Kim, who felt how she felt usually after going on a rollercoaster. Slightly sick, insides coiled, head fuzzy. 

We almost died. 

He made Jimmy retell the story how many times? At least three. But the words were less crucial than his presence - for he actually came to listen to Jimmy's story, find the cracks, and then?

Then he would have shot them both dead. 

Except she convinced him. Or perhaps made him rethink his agenda. Matters not which. All that matters is he left, left to Mexico, or perhaps somewhere else, but is probably far-far away. 

Her phone buzzes from under the pillows. Kim peers at the screen, seeing Jimmy's name.

Just stepped in Walmart. Milk, cheese, sth else? 

If u see some tylenol, pls buy some, Kim writes back, head on the headboard, head in a fog, staring at the colorless painting hung on the colorless hotel wall. Staring, but not seeing. 

Lalo left only for them to leave the house as well, with shaking limbs and a shock worth several strung-out nights. Jimmy has more of a problem with dreaming than sleeping though: started mumbling, shaking in his sleep yesterday - please, please, I didn't know.

As for Kim, she has more of a problem with falling asleep. She keeps seeing the look Lalo gave her when she stepped between Jimmy and him; when she struck him down with three well-versed sentences, aim to be heard, aim to hurt. 

Later, in the dark, the hotel room feels foreign. A fever-dream. Kim scoots closer to Jimmy, touching his arm gently, to soothe him, calm him.

"I won't let anything happen" she whispers in the dead night, where the words might as well be a dream. Wish upon a star. "I'm here."

And he is gone. And he cannot hurt you. Even if his eyes seemed to pierce.

Eyes so dark.

Half-admiring, half-calculating.

.

She quits Schweikart and Cokely the next day, with the sole intent on focusing on two things:

Help pro-bono clients.

Turn Lalo Salamanca in. 

.

Helping pro-bono clients, of course, is way easier than trying to come up with an affidavit that won't put Jimmy and her in jail for at least a couple of years. 

Context matters, and since Kim's knowledge of criminal law has been superficial and whatever remained has rusted over the years anyway, she decides to consult some books at the Central Library. Asking Jimmy is out of question, especially because he is still jumpy at the mention of anything regarding the cartel, the desert or the name Jorge de Guzmán in general. His sunburn has started to fade, but the wound on his forehead is not in a hurry to heal. 

"Back in the biz" he sighs two weeks later, just as he sets his briefcase in the hall. They moved back a week ago, mostly because Jimmy insisted on going to work and repeating different versions of "everything is settled now, I don't think there is going to be a problem" - and well, because they actually missed their real bed, and in Kim's case, needing stuff like pens and skirts and various folders from home.

It's almost as everything is back to normal. 

Lalo nothing but a memory. 

And yet. 

Jimmy still mumbles in his sleep. He still awakes drenched in sweat. 

As for Kim, she insists on working from their bedroom. It's not that the kitchen or the living room has become spooky or uninhabitable, but when alone, she has become used to working from their bedroom, where light seeps in so tenderly.

No memory that taints the space. 

.

Whether it is fate or simply bad luck, Kim does not know. 

May changes to juvenile June - time flies. It has been what? A month since Lalo has entered their home, uninvited. 

The amount of pro bono cases double at the start of summer season, and Kim barely has time to eat, least to wander around Central Library to read through yet another book on cartel cases. One makes do with the time one has, and since the only time the library closes late is on Wednesdays, Kim makes it a routine to nap for twenty minutes in her car after work, then head to the Library and stay as long as eleven in the night in the silence of the books. Rubbing her tired eyes, praying to find at least one small parallel between older cases and the Salamanca case. What she found out so far is not from a book, but Jimmy.  Lalo's cousin, Tuco, is in jail right now. Real name, real case. But the cousin sounds labile, prone to violence, no control whatsoever, so Kim quickly shuns the idea of visiting him. Also, because she is sure that the moment she speaks with another Salamanca, she is dead.

And Kim likes living, thank you very much. 

But her time remains tight and because of that, her mood morose, and she, unmotivated. The hardest part is leaving Jimmy out entirely, but after reading a 1986 case where the lawyer of a larger gang in Chihuahua got away by a written warning only, he includes him - by name - in the document, watchful of the tone. Yet playing with the tone of the affidavit suddenly makes it personal, the exact opposite of what it should sound like, what it must be. 

After coming up with a particularly complex sentence and realizing Jimmy does sound guilty in all of this (Saul Goodman, known as Jimmy McGill, volunteered, accepted, got chosen by Eduardo Salamanca to collect the bail money) accentuating how thin her case, how brief her document, Kim throws her pen away, resisting the urge to scream on her way home.

Home is more or less a sanctuary. 

More so, because Jimmy is home.

Less so, because his mood is not the best either.

He still suffers from nightmares, regularly. Kim can hear it sometimes, the panting or lashing out against a ghost threat, a ghost danger. When she hears it, she shakes Jimmy up immediately, but there are other disturbing remnants in him: outages, as she calls it. Because sometimes, even during the most innocent of actions, like cooking soup, or watching TV together or starting the washing machine, Kim sees Jimmy transform - face dropping, eyes vacant, hands shaking - and she knows he sees not the flat, or her, or the screen, but the desert, vast and unforgiving. Something terrible has happened, or is happening, and he denies telling her. Kim cannot decide whether she is angrier at or sorrier for him. Right now, the two feelings are equal in her, arguing. 

"You're early!'' Jimmy is on the couch, fresh out of the shower, laptop in his hand. "You want to order Chinese?"

He looks a bit pale, as if not have seen the light today.

"Sure" sighs Kim, throwing herself next to him. "Anything important happen today?"

"Well. I kinda fucked up, Kim." he turns his head. "Khalil found me today. With that detective you mentioned."

"Roberts" nods Kim, tense. "What did they want?"

"Called me out on the fake family. No phone, no address. By the way, how did you find them?"

"It was buried in the back of your other folder, the red one. Got lucky."

The folder, alongside all documents regarding de Guzman's case (and Ignacio Varga's, coincidentally) was destroyed when they moved back to the apartment. Jimmy shred them to smithereens, but when Kim got a whiff of his plan, she insisted they burn the remnants as well.

  "Point is" continues Jimmy. "I...got carried away, and said Lalo's name."

"Shit" says Kim with a dry mouth. "Did they notice it?"

"Yeah, Khalil repeated his name back at me. Y'know... interrogation style."

"Shit" Kim repeats. 

"I acted confused, but I'm sot sure they bought it. I bet they ran to Ericsen right away."

There was a silence. The uncomfortable kind this time - sand in the shoes, sand in the eyes. 

Kim takes a big breath. 

"Okay. No point in panicking." This would, of course, accelerate some things. ''What if... what if this was a way out?"

"What... what do you mean?" Jimmy stammers.

Though feels he won't take it well, Kim leans forward, reaching for her husband's hand, still dry from the days spent wandering. How deep he still carries the desert with him, within his body!

Indeed, where can he put it down?

"Jimmy" her voice is soft, hushed. "If we fold now, we might have a chance to get out. It is your choice, always has been. But from where I'm standing, you don't seem so happy to have been caught in this."

"But..." Jimmy smiles at first, as if she was joking. Falters. "It's all good now. I just need... no, listen. We just need some more time. This will blow over." There must be doubt on her face, because he continues.

"Worst case, they're gonna be angry with us for a few weeks? And then - what can they do: shake their fists at us?" he waves, but it's half-hearted. "Come on!"

"And when it blows over, will it be really over?" she asks, sharply. "From where I'm standing, it looks like you are wandering around comatose, and it has nothing to do with the courthouse. It has to do with the desert."

"I'm just tired, that's all. Look, maybe I haven't drunk enough water in the past few weeks, and maybe, I should see a doctor. You were right before, maybe I will see a shrink, but.... Kim?"

His voice trails off, because Kim stands up suddenly, both alarmed and ecstatic. 

"Jimmy... the man. The man who wanted to kill Lalo!"

"You told me he killed him." her husband says, alarmed. 

"One of them. The cellmate. But the other one... the one from outside..."

"He is in the hospital." Jimmy's breath hitches. "In a coma."

"Listen. We might be able to solve this, without incriminating us further. Hear me out..."

.

Allegedly, the man who attempted to kill Lalo Salamanca in his cell (the very same man who almost got killed by him) is called Stephen Olarfsson, 39, an accountant born in Oregon. 

It takes her three days and - she avoids writing emails altogether - at least a dozen calls to track down the man. During this interval Kim is a chameleon: posing as a legal administrator, police clerk, member of the Neurocritical Care Society requesting a one-on-one with the patient, who she learns has woken up four days ago, disoriented and discomfited. He denies answering any questions and in turn, remaining chained to his hospital bed until the Rehabilitation Center of Rio Rancho discharges him, which, one of the nurses tells Kim's pseudonym, may take at least a month, but more realistically, three. 

Apart from the sever head-trauma (causing hemorrhage in his brain, rendering him comatose for a few weeks), the shiv which killed Lalo's cellmate has founds its way into him as well, more specifically his thighs and stomach (so he was to be operated twice at the end of the month and fed intravenously in the time being). 

He remains under close supervision, from both outside and inside of his hospital room. 

He remains silent, despite threats and pleads and deals. 

This suits Kim perfectly. She does not want to talk. 

She just wants him to deliver a message. 

 .

Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong - is what Kim's mom used to say, usually after waking up hungover. Yet on those mornings, it was Kim tasting yellow acid in her mouth, as if she had been the one drinking. Bitterness, by any other name. 

It's the same acidic bitterness in her mouth when Erickson finds her one morning, coffee in her right hand, and flattery in her mouth, and Kim knows they are in trouble. De Guzman's name could only hold up for so long - it's a damn miracle it lasted at all. 

"Here" Ericsen says after leading Kim to her office, placing two photographs next to each other on the table. They are not shaking, her hands, but she puts them under the desk anyway, so that they wouldn´t betray her. "Same person."

On one of the photos is a black-and-white mugshot of Lalo, a close up of his all-angles face, mouth downturned. On the other, he is violently alive, all colorful, laughing, while embracing two older women in a garden. Maybe one of them is his mother, or perhaps both of them are his aunts - Kim cannot tell from the picture. She can only guess, and the smile on Lalo's face seems genuine in its warmth. But then again, Kim cannot quite tell.

"Who is Eduardo Salamanca?" she asks, easing the edges of the questions. For she knows him, seems like she has known him for ages, even though it's only been a month and a half. 

"A major drug dealer south of the border" it's different, hearing it from Ericsen. There is a slight bite to her tone, meant to criticize. "It seems Salamanca jumped bail, fled to Mexico where he consequently died in a gunfight. Half dozen people were killed."

Dead.

Kim resists the urge to stare at the colored photo again. 

When? she wants to ask, to get proof. It seems laughable, unbelievable to her, that a man like that would die, as if he was too much for death to bear. A month ago, he was towering above them, and staring at her with his knife-gaze, the gaze that seemed sharp enough to cut through her mask. And now -

The word is on the tip of her tongue. 

When? 

But instead, she says: 

"And?"

Ericsen looks strict. 

"I think there's a question here, Kim: How much did you know?"

The question is piercing.

Tell her, sensible Kim says. Here's the chance. 

Not like this, survivor Kim whispers. She won't believe you. Or worse, she will believe you - but not Jimmy. 

And without Jimmy McGill, Kim Wexler won't make a deal. 

.

Kim returns to the hospital the next week. 

Olarfsson, patient-assailant, is gone. 

Kim's note, the one which he gave him to deliver, hid it under his mattress and told him to try, that note is gone, too. 

Worse, as she leaves the hospital in a rush, confused if Olarfsson disappearing is a good or bad news, she spots a car that she has spotted before, when they returned home from the hotel. 

A blue sedan with two men in it. 

Otherwise forgettable. 

Until they are not. 

.

Jimmy's mood blackens in the upcoming days. 

Hearsay starts and all the other lawyers ostracize him - the news reaches her not through Jimmy, but from here and there after hearings. This is how she knows his shunning is widespread, ugly in its depth.

He needs cheering up, Kim decides. 

In fact, she needs cheering up as well. 

Deserves it. 

The plan presents itself in the form of Howard stopping her one day at the Forque Bar, voice polite but words biting, telling her to make her own decisions and insulting Jimmy. That is all it takes. 

Rushing home, an idea forms in her mind, ugly in its depth, but rewarding too, she knows. 

A well-deserved prank.

A lesson, if you would. 

Nothing too serious.

.

"They're gone" says a gruff voice, grave and gravelly. "The two men who were following you. They're gone."

Kim turns, there is almost no one in the elegant, but shabby little café. It's a dead part of town, dead part of the day. 

An old man looks back at her with shrewd eyed at the bar top. 

"Would you mind sitting down for a moment? And I'll answer any questions you have. If I can."

Once seated, he fishes a paper out of his front pocket, unfolds it neatly, and sets it in front of her.

"This" he says. "wasn't very clever."

It's Kim's note, the offer, crumpled, but still eligible.

July heat scorches the back of her clothes, makes it stick to her back, however she resists it, whatever she wears. 

"Doesn't fortune favor the bold?" she asks evenly. 

"Sometimes" the man agrees with a small nod. "When you busted my men, that was brave. Not wise perhaps, but I'll give you credit."

"Were you..."

"The one who hired Olarffson? No." he shakes his head, for emphasis. "That is why you should not leave notes like that around. And I would advise against leaving a note like that at the District Attorney's office as well."

Kim picks up her note, and puts in her bag, slow. 

"But the men who followed me" she asks, sharp. "They were yours, weren't they?"

"Yes. Both you and your husband. I'm not police. They are not investigating you either, in case you were wondering. I also know you have been doing things you should not be doing. But this is not what it is about."

"What is this about then?"

As if to brace himself, he man breathes in deeply. He has a tough look, but a calm kind of face. Grounding. 

"Lalo Salamanca."

"Lalo Salamanca is dead."

The old man says nothing.

And by saying nothing, Kim knows. 

.

Paranoia is just a fancy word for intuition - was another favorite saying of her mother.

The same intuition that made her find out about the attendant's men is now heightened three-fold. Now that she knows he isn't dead, it's as if the pavement, the canals, hell, even the high windows downtown grew eyes, watching her. 

Made of sterner stuff, he said. It echoes in her mind, her child self, the survivor jeers at it. It is a praise but so what? She thumbs the note she has written, the offer of information in exchange for information, so that she can see better, understand Lalo, who is very much alive, and could be anywhere in the world. 

So why is she so certain he is here somewhere, watching and smiling and knowing? Knowing what she does not? Sterner stuff, yet she is powerless. No move, no motivation given.

The note, she puts it next to the half-drafted affidavit. Both these papers, she puts in the cabinet under the fish tank, where they keep receipts, letter of guarantees and different sized rubber bands. Perhaps later she will have need of it, perhaps later, they can forget about it. 

When cornered, an animal will attack. Kim, with a beer in one hand, and a cigarette in another, cannot attack a fanthom, a ghost. Takes a great inhale of smoke and watches the board where the Hamlin-scam's planning stages are almost all ticked. 

A career-setback.

Or else, an attack. 

.

You never listen, Kim. 

It is true. She never listened to her mother, who she deeemed irresponsible and self-destructive in more ways than one. But then, how was she different? Where was the line, the line which she never should have crossed? Was it the Howard-scam? Or planning the affidavit? Or standing up against Lalo? Or going to the Detention Center to meet him? Or lying to Ericsen; laughing at Howard? Or marrying Jimmy? Where did it turn into a tragedy? 

She doesn't reflect on these questions yet. Not on the sunniest day of July, the last day of the month, when the prank has succeeded, the deed done. Sex with Jimmy has never been this amazing. There must be something to be said about the euphoria found in the vulgar, and Kim is basking in it, her worries near-forgotten, so is her guilt. She has had no time to ponder about the affidavit too much in the last couple of days, so deep they were into executing the Howard-prank. 

"Drinks?" Jimmy asks, half-clothed. 

"I will get some snacks, we have nothing now." yawns Kim, who wants nothing more than sleep for a bit, but it has been a long time since they celebrated anything. "Not even toothpaste."

She drives to the nearest supermarket. On the way, Howard calls her, which she declines with a scoff. Gets the toothpaste and the snacks, but also  washing powder, and a new set of towels for the kitchen, feeling festive, as if they have renovated their house, or else, moved into a new one. As if she should not hurry, because why would she need to? 

One of her clients, an unemployed guy from Nevada who moved recently, calls her, she takes it, tells him the basics, asks him to write an email, tells him everything will be alright. Calms him. 

Then she sees then Ericsen has called while she talked with Nevada. Calls her back with the patience of a saint. Ericsen just wants an update that she cannot give her, they talk of ongoing cases and how Jimmy fares, which Kim decided to color in a better light than it is. 

"Oh, I forgot" Suzanne says before hanging up. Kim, who has been in the supermarket for two hours now, starts to get a bit impatient. "Police in Chihuahua tracked Ignacio Varga. He was first spotted at the border, then near Albuquerque around a fortnight ago."

Vertigo claims her, suddenly. 

"That's great help, Suzanne. Gotta go now." she says, hangs up. 

The first sign: when she checks her phone again, she sees that Howard has not tried to call her again, nor did Jimmy. 

Not once.

.

Just paranoia, she repeats to herself, but goes over the speed limit anyway, rushing home despite her rational self soothing her. Nothing wrong, he probably fell asleep. 

The second sign appears though: her key gets stuck into the lock - with a creaking, splitting sound, as if something has already been forced into it. 

Kim will remember the sound for the rest of her life. 

It is stuck, however forcefully she wants to pull it out. 

"Kim!" Jimmy shouts from inside, and he sounds desperate, so Kim leaves her keys in the door. 

Decides to step inside. 

An act that cannot be undone. 

.

Inside is a slaughterhouse. 

She barely has time to register Jimmy's voice, which is shrill, begging her to run, when another person steps from behind the door, closing it, barring it.

  "Mrs. Goodman" beams Lalo, dominating the dmall space around him. Smile so wide, so wild. "So nice to see you again - come, join us!"

He has specks of blood on his face, but he does not seem to mind as he leads her to the living room, where everything is either overturned, on the floor, or bloody. Or all three. 

On the couch is Jimmy, crumpled and worn, so small. Around him are books opened and smaller storage boxes emptied on the floor, a mass of paper, most of them bloody, and god, where did the blood come from? She studies Jimmy who seems unharmed, though thoroughly shaken, like he was struck by lightning. Lalo does not seem to be hurt either - a bit tired and worn, but still very virile for lack of a better word. 

All she has to do, however, is to step closer. There lies the answer. Lies, literally, because Howard is on the floor, sprawled on the ground, a stranger, because it is not him anymore, only his body: bloody and unbothered by the happenings around him. Some of his blood has been mixed with water, diluting it, increasing its spread on the floor. The water comes from the fish tank that has been shattered on the floor, the fish dead on the ground, the cabinets in the kitchen with the utensils and the pots scattered on the ground, as well as the papers from the filing compartment, soaking in the salty water and the fresh blood. 

"God" Kim hears herself uttering the words, automatic and from far away. 

She cannot see the note or the affidavit on the ground. 

.

Once he sends Jimmy away, - because obviously he would send him to kill a man, as if the choice mattered - they are alone. Lalo simply makes Kim sit on the sofa, setting a glass of water before her. 

"Can I get something stronger, please?" she hates how weak her voice sounds. It's like her energy was inside this room and by destroying its order, Lalo decimated her powers. 

"Sure" says Lalo, amused. He has been walking up and down ceaselessly since Jimmy left, not one moment at ease. "Where you keep your liquor?"

"I thought you ransacked everything."

"You came home before I could get everything."

"It's above the fridge."

He whistles while stepping over Howard's body, on the way to the kitchen. 

"You have a preference, Mrs. Goodman?"

"Gin."

"Blue or red?"

Kim looks into the unseeing eyes of Howard Hamlin, close yet far, and she has a sudden urge to cry. 

"Blue."

He pours them both a glass and sits down on a chair, facing her. 

"Drink up."

He gulps his in a second, sighing when finishing. Waits until Kim finishes hers, stares at her with a pensive look, thumbing his gun again. 

"You were an only child, weren´t you?" he says after a second or so. "A lonely one, eh? You have that independence about you, real toughness, no fake macho shit. Could see it the first time you turned up, even if you were shaking down to your boots. Real courage. It's rare."

"Is this about Olarfsson?"

"Olarfsson?" smiles Lalo. "That the guy who I almost killed with my bare hands?"

Kim is very careful to keep her face blank as Lalo peers down at her. 

"Seems like you´ve been bad" he murmurs to himself, licking his lips. "and there I thought you are all goody two shoes."

He scratches his chin with the gun, then pushes his chair closer to the sofa, to her. 

"But then, you got me thinking."

The smell of him hits her nose this close: smoke, sweat and day old gasoline. 

"Gotta hand it to you, your mask is real good. Almost fooled me too. But then again, you have some tells."

"Tells?" repeats Kim, voice far, mind on the floor, next to Howard´s body.

"Yeah" he drawls, holding up his fingers to count, comical. "The first being married to Mr. Big Mouth. The second chasing me down in jail. And the third, well... I saw the look you gave me across the table. You throw that look around often?"

"I dont´t often dislike people." 

"Dislike" Lalo sneers, smile going cold. "Now that´s a funny word. You know what I dislike?"

He leans in, confidential. 

"Disloyalty."

Her blood curls. Whatever happened to Varga must be something terrible, and there is not an ounce of her that wants to know. Not this, nor where her note or her affidavit went. 

"Disloyalty is really ugly to me." continues Lalo breezily, as if they were having a coffee downtown, not playing russian roulette. "Hate and blood, that's part of the business, you know, but when you really trust someone - let's take your lovely husband, as an example, shall we? - it's all give and take. Al que a buen árbol se arrima, you know? And to betray a bond like this, well that's just a shame."

"Tell me what does this have to do with us?" Kim bites back. She can feel a swollen drop of sweat make its way down from the nape of her neck, and the blood of Howard Hamlin streaming its way to the carpet, near her feet. "You have asked for a service which Jimmy and I delivered. And now our business is done."

A deep cut appears in between Lalo's eyebrows: scorn. 

"I told your husband the moment I left that cell: this business between you and me is not over. Great things were waiting for us. And then you two spit in my face."

"The job you gave us" argues Kim with a heaving chest. "wasn´t easy and it wasn´t quick, but we did it - and we did not rat."

"You are a liar, Mrs. Goodman" Lalo says a bit too calmly for her taste. "First time, I almost bought what you said, I even admired it. Thought to myself: this Goodman is one lucky pendejo, eh? But then your esposo comes back and suddenly, you don't know nothing about anything, despite being top of the class."

Some of the blood reaches her left sock - wet and warm. 

What was that thing Howard told her some months ago, about forgiveness? Her mind feels a maze, but arguing gives some of her strength back so as she continues, so fear eludes her voice entirely.

"Threatening situations make people scared and desperate. And desperate people often look guilty."  

"A nice defense, councellor. Maybe that´s why you went running to a hotel, afraid I´ll come back here, huh?"

"Which you did." Kim points out.

Lalo spreads his legs in sitting, and leans in closer. His knees are just touching hers like at the garden at the Center, when Kim wrote her number on the map of his hand. When she thought him human. 

Lalo strokes his moustache before speaking.

"Funny coincidence, no? I leave this apartment, and they come to kill me two days later."

"One might say you could not get your house in order." she says coldly, pressing all her nails into her palm with full force. Small crescents of small moons.

Now, a snarl appears, yet Lalo manages some mirth into his voice - the contrast between his facade and his face quite disturbing.

  "As you kindly warned me so. How can I ever repay you, Mrs. Goodman?"

"You can start by not killing me."

"Is this what you think I'll do?" his voice is low.

The thudding of her heart becomes almost unbearable. When she looks up straight onto Lalo´s eyes, only to find him already looking back at her, a mirroring. The sliver of his brown eyes seemingly warm in the living light of the room - but it's only veneer. She knows by now it melts off easy.

"What you think I want to do?"

Without looking at the table itself, Lalo puts his gun on the far end of it, and rests his hands on the sides of Kim's head, caging her in. Then he bends even closer, breath blowing some here-there slips of her hair. 

"The worst thing that can happen?"

His pupils are so large, they seem to have devoured half of his gaze. 

Fear, Kim realizes suddenly, is a very lax word. She thought she was afraid before, but it is nothing compared to what she is feeling now. It's as if her body was falling off a balcony, or her nerves were stacked on each other, aflame. 

"Look -" she gives reason one last shot.

But he cuts her off immediately by pushing his hands from the sides of her head to the nape of her neck. Kim feels heavy and light at the same time. 

"We talked about family, remember?" Lalo says in a strange tone. "Family...well it's everything. And the people back in my home, well, they were part of my family. And every one of them is now dead, thanks to Varga, and that hijo de puta, and maybe, just maybe... " he thumbs Kim's temples as an afterthought. "Because of you."

Terror is a stone that sits inside of her. 

"That's insane" she whispers, looking down to Howard and then back at his murderer. Her face feels wet, and why is it wet? "You think we wanted this?"

Lalo angles his head to the side, examining.

"You might not have sent the men or pulled the trigger. But I'm sure you got a wind of what would happen. What has happened. And didn't tell me. Isn't that against law, too?"

Then with an almost uncanny gentleness, he caresses her face. 

"You should have run further away, you know?" he whispers. "Just like your mama made you run before, huh?"

Time freezes. 

It freezes with a special kind of carelessness, the one you don't expect coming, that makes the heart of you shudder.

Howard's voice, in her head: 

Your debt is forgiven, but anything else? That's on you.

"You look shocked!" Lalo continues, toothful of mirth in his mouth. "But I check on everyone I employ. People I want to work with in the long run, y'know."

It's not so abstract anymore, the terror in her blood - indeed, it has turned entirely tangible, something to become entirely. Terror, personified, chewing on her brain, devouring it whole. 

"Checked on your husband before Varga introduced us" then he points at her, just below her neck, near the jugular. "And I checked on you, too, just after we had that nice talk right in this room. Kimberly Wexler. Goodman's name doesn't suit you as much as your own does. Lots of, consonantes, hard on the tongue. Hard name for a hard woman."

He licks his lips. 

"How many schools did you go to, exactly?" he asks. It would be a very polite question, were he a polite man. Were this a polite scenario.

Kim opens her mouth to say something. 

But nothing comes out.

So Lalo reaches for one of her wrists resting on her lap.

"Hey, hey" he says, smile flattening. "Don't get panicky on me now, hm? We're just having a conversation. You, me, just like back in the garden."

His hand doesn't let go - his index finger measures her pulse. 

"You can ask me anything in turn. Talking is nice, no? As long as we're honest with each other. Mira!"

He holds out his other hand, for Kim to shake it. 

With a clammy palm, Kim shakes it, her body shaking itself into acceptance. This is not a dream. This is happening. Howard on the floor, a body, nothing more. Lalo sitting on the chair, in front of her, nearer than near, with frenzied eyes, oozing blood. 

"So... Kimberly! How many schools did you go to, exactly?"

"I can't... can't remember." Kim confesses, teeth chattering. "Twelve, or maybe more. Didn't reach twenty, I think."

"Dios mio! Hell of an education!" he cocks his head. "But that's not what made you smart, isn't it?"

Kim says nothing. Thinks nothing. 

Lalo continues. 

"Must have been hard, growing up with a mama like that. You moved cause of her job?"

"Not really."

"Did she have a lot of men to run around with?"

"No, I wouldn't say that."

There is a sharp flash entering his gaze now.

Knowledge. 

"But you moved because of her, no?"

"Yes" there is no danger in confessing this, at least.

"Was she a drunk? Or a gambler?"

"Bit of both."

Lalo hums, thoughtful. 

"And your dad?"

"My dad left when I was very small." her answers come automatically - all she need is time. Maybe some curiosity where there is no sympathy.  "Don't remember him."

"Must have been hard. I should know - I don't remember my papá either" says Lalo wistfully. "But he didn't leave."

"Did he die?" Kim asks, sure of the answer. 

"Yes, he was killed when I was four. My brother too, y'know." he reaches for the hem of Kim's blouse, a soft kind of material, blue. He inspects it with a tender sort of care, like he wants to imprint it in his memory. 

Jimmy loved the color of it, said so in the morning. 

"Only brother I had. Mi madre estaba tan triste, she got locked in a madhouse. Did you know that grief can make you insane?"

"That's terrible" says Kim, fighting the urge to be sick. Her mind cannot comprehend it yet, but in her soul, she already feels what is about to bloom in between them. 

"Yeah" Lalo says, still caressing the material, hands wandering near the skin of her abdomen. "You talked with Olarfsson?"

"No."

"And a gringo called Mike?"

"I do not know who that is."

Lalo hums again, the sound reverbarating on Kim's stomach, in her body.

"And does Goodman know?"

"Know what?" her mouth is so dry she has difficulty swallowing.

  Finally, Lalo looks up from her blouse to her face, clenching both of her wrist this time, his hands hot and his eyes dark. But only when he starts talking, voice raspy and an octave deeper from arousal, does Kim realize his strategy as a whole. 

"How much you want to be punished."

"That's not - " she tries, but Lalo raises one of his fingers against her face - his face severe in its fury.

"If you lie to me again, I´ll make Goodman eat that fish on the floor before I gut him before you."

Whether it's a revolt, an instict, it matters not.

What matter is it makes Kim spit on him.

For a moment, Lalo does nothing. Stunned completely as the wetness trickles down his face - Kim's spit landed just above his left eye, where there is a week old graze, perhaps from the day they tried to kill him. 

"Bien" Lalo's face is blank as a baptism. "If you want to play it like this."

He thumbs the spit away, eyes bright, and there, just next to the craving, there is an animal coming out of his stare now, gentle reminiscing and the light mannerisms all gone, gone with the spittle. And Kim can see clearly now how the dark window of his eyes have splintered, and something wild and mad had spilled in between the cracks. 

The hold on her hands is definitely painful now, she can feel his fingernails leaving red crescents on her in his wake. 

"Turn" it's an order. 

And he is reaching for the gun. 

Kim has been waiting for this move since he put the gun down in the first place. 

So when he moves to hold both her hands in one, she can feel his hold loosening a bit, and then, then she yanks her hands, preferably knocking him on the head. She also tries to kick him. 

But that never happens. 

Lalo is a seasoned one, it was clear from the first moment they talked. 

It's past talking now, and even in actions, he feels experienced enough. The moment she moves to dislodge herself, he halts his movement and kicks the coffeetable away, so as to drag her by the waist, down, down to the floor that is all bloody and watery. 

"Here she is!" he is panting, but his voice sounds triumphant. "¡Una mujer de fuego! I knew you were there somewhere, Kimberly."

He pushes himself on her so easily - and he is smiling again, the look on her face, the crack in her composure so intoxicating. 

"Fuck" Kim hisses, strained. Lalo's body is a bulk. But the heaviness she feels now, in her abdomen, is both new and familiar.

"I'm trying, Mrs. Goodman." he chides her, cruel again, despite the plea now in her eyes, because he invoked him again. 

Not him, he doesn't have a place here. Leave him out of this.

"What a temper you have, huh?" he moves deftly this time, moving her wrists into one hand, and pulling the hem of the blouse up, stroking the hardened skin there, seemingly a solid shell, yet soft nevertheless. Goosebumps appear on her abdomen as he caresses it. "The first time you got into trouble, you must have felt so bad. That made you do all the stupid things in the last few months?"

"At least I feel bad" Kim says dryly. 

"Yes, I'm sure it made a lot difference." he looks around, cocking his head. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"I really hope you will die soon and painfully" Kim bites back, childish. "I hope they shoot your brains out or else hang you by your feet to rot."

As this was an invitation, Lalo leans in to kiss her with a devouring sort of hunger, pressing his forehead to hers and cupping her breast. Her breath hitches when he bites on her tongue, hard. As she taste of copper floods her mouth, and she sinks her teeth into his lips as a rebuttal.

Lalo grunts. His eyes are pitch-dark, and his lips vivid-red when he breaks the kiss. 

"The moment you stood up to defend that clown of a husband, I knew. Almost took you on the spot. I got so fucking hard I got almost blind. Here, feel it."

Almost gently, he guides her hand to his trousers tenting. 

You still have weapons, y’know, says the dark and dead voice again in the back of her brain. Think fast, Mrs. Goodman.

So Kim palms his erection through the fabric of his jeans - hears him inhale, hard. 

"Qué inteligente" he drawls against her mouth, breathless. "Veamos que mojada estas."

So Kim helps him discard the rest of his clothes.

So Kim does not mind when he tears her blouse into two, and simply pulls her panties away, sticking two of his fingers deep inside of her, curling them. Does not mind when he groans against her neck when she pulls on his thick hair, dishevelled in their rutting because this is far from lovemaking, she wouldn't even call it fucking. It's something more violent, bordering on biological. 

A whimper emerges from her mouth when he sticks a third finger in her, and he leans in close to swallow the sound with a kiss, searing. He licks her teeth before sticking his fingers into her mouth. 

"Just get it over with" Kim chokes when he pulls his fingers out to lick them. Feels strung-out, feels seen. Does not like how Lalo keeps his eyes on fixed on hers, fixed on her - rooted, grounded. Does not like it at all. 

She thought he'd cease talking once he is in her, but he is only silent as he unbuckles his belt with one hand, and takes out his cock. There is little to no fumblings, but Kim wishes there would be so she could be prepared. Still, the suddenness and harshness of it all is quite fitting. After all, judgement and punishment rarely comes expected. 

It hurts, when he enters her - even wet, he is so big. She gasps into his mouth when he starts moving, resuming his speech. 

"Can you imagine" he breathes into the hollow of her pale neck, as he presses her into the floor, the woodboard hard on her back, her hips. His golden necklace is cold on her bare breasts. "What Goodman would say if he found out? That would be something, no? Him walking in while I'm balls deep in you."

It is almost vulgar, the sound between the meeting of their flesh, because she is wet, shamefully so, and he, so eager that he is now slipping inside of her effortlessly. 

"Enough..." she pleads, and when he smiles her down, she bites him on his shoulder, until she feels the skin break and the sinews shake and his shivering voice, low in her ears. 

"Enough?" he pulls out of her only to turn her over, on her stomach, only to hoist her skirt to her waist, and enter her from behind. "We're just getting started - or is this..." 

This time, his breath halts, as Kim feels her walls squeeze involuntarily, shuddering through her orgasm, throwing back her head, her ponytail slipping from its keep, the world with it too, falling apart. She feels as if she was being impaled, cut in half. 

"Jesús" his left hand finds her hair, gripping, then pulling. Her back arches instinctively, and she mewls despite her discipline, despite this being a game. Because it is still a game, a chess game. Isn't it?

He is close to climaxing too - she can feel it as he grips her by the narrow slope of her neck and drags her closer, skin on skin, want on want. 

"A woman like you, I could give her the world... ¿No lo quieres dulce, querida?" he bends to her right ear, his face next to her, their breath mingling. "You wouldn't have to act good, wouldn't have to act at all, you can be as cold...Don't you want it sweet though? Sweet from me alone? Cristó..." 

His cock swells, and then he empties himself in her, his cum hot in her womb, his body almost lifeless as his orgasm take him by full force. 

"It wasn't so bad, wasn't it?" he says, later, as he climbs down from her laid down body, resembling the corpse in the room, stiff and spiritless. "Miss Wexler?"

Kim turns her face away, and finally, finally, starts crying.

.

After, when Mike tells them that Lalo is dead, she also tells her he destroyed the note with the affidavit a long time ago. 

"Knew you would keep it." he shakes his hands. The dawning light seeps in, and Kim feels a thousand year old. "And some things, you should let go of."

"Thanks." it sounds empty, because it is. 

The apartment is a mess.

She wouldn't meet Jimmy's eyes, though he tries to catch her gaze. 

They have to leave, so that they can clean the place, Mike and his men. 

Most of the blood is Howard's, she wants to tell them in passing. Some of them is mine.

But there is a strange smell around the blood, heaviest in the living room.

Must be the same for them so it must means nothing for them. 

So she tells them nothing. 

Thinks of nothing.