#should pay itself off in that sense eventually

[lexicog]

some doodles from recently

[aaksuitac]

[03:10 am.] “sleep, pitfighter.”

comfort. wc. 1.1k

(tagging @dilemmars again lol bc i did this on a frenzy and realized later q usé cosas de tu historia qjhdiqndk el efecto de tus audios tía akdbqk)

she nuzzles her head on your chest, a half groan accompaniying the motion as her hands, still stained with grease and dirt, pull and knead the fabric of your jacket.

vi can feel it against her cheek. she can’t recognize the fabric, of course, she has no clue what the damn thing is anyways, but she can’t have it in her to care. it’s soft. it smells like you, sweet, alluring, warm.

“when do I have to pay you?”

her voice is a mumble. an eco that reverberates inside the four sad walls that somehow still stand and separate what she calls an apartment —or something remotely similar, i guess—, even if the resemblance is quite uncanny. gross, to be fair.

you look at the wall, wondering what could be the best way to tell her to stop thinking about that, and you can swear that even the spider that creeps up and travels to her cobweb on the ceiling sighs and shakes her little fuzzy head at the sight of the pitfighter.

if you answer her question or not, vi doesn’t remember. she remembers the sound of your heartbeat, constant, deep, far away from her grasp yet still the closest she could ever be to it. she sighs. somehow, when she reaches for things that she thought constant in her life, they start disappearing. changing.

“are you asleep?” you ask, laying next to her. when there’s no answer, you sigh softly, stroking her hair away from her face, not minding the stain that lingers on your fingers.

vi had a complicated relationship with change —the least you could say was complicated. saying complicated was being nice—, and still, through change, she met you. because if it weren’t for change, she wouldn’t have ended up in the brothel, a drunk in distress. vi doesn’t have a clue how she uttered anything with any kind of sense, until a soft voice came from a pretty stranger with some kind of mask over her eyes.

“darling,” you had said, an enticing smile that dissarmed her, despite the knowledge that it was part of your job. “are you on the floor by chance or by choice?”

by resignation, she wanted to say, but it was as if the word had gotten stuck in her mouth. vi didn’t quite remember how she had ended up on the floor on the first place, barely even acknowledged when the line of the horizon lowered as her legs eventually gave up and tripped.

she had no grudges against the people that worked in the brothel. how could she judge, she chuckled humourlessly in her head, considering her fucked up excuse of a family. taking that in, working in a brothel was, at least, legal. people from the brothel were better off than her on a good day… and on a bad one too.

as she stood —or well, laid— there, you looked at babette, your boss, and she shrugged, staring at vi on an angle much closer to yours. you both ultimately decided that vi wasn’t much of a threat. or anything else, judging by her state.

“should we… kick her out?” you mumbled. you didn’t really want to. the poor thing looked like the embodiment of misery.

at the question, babette sighed, tapping with her fingers on her cigarette as she smoked, with a grace rooted by experience.

“kid,” she spoke lowly. “do you have money in you?”

vi blinked at her, and softly shook her head sideways. babette sighed, her eyes dull with something you couldn’t really piece. she looked like she knew the pitfighter. as if she was… sad when she looked at her.

but you weren’t paid to psychoanalize stares. and as fast as you noticed, babette blinked the emotion away from her eyes.

“no trouble, no problem.” she smoked, heading back to her office. “let her in if she can pay later. someone in her family owns me money anyways.” she smirked humourlessly to herself.

taking her inside your assigned room was hard enough on itself, but you didn’t really mind it. by staying on the communal rooms with the rest of the clients of the day, you ended with a fair paycheck while she slept peacefully.

but when she blinked awake, the story was much more different.

she didn’t knew where she was. there was a weird sound coming from a record player. some kind of scratchy music, as if whoever had recorded the vinyl didn’t really know how to do it.

“cupcake?”

and vi shivered, from the inside out. her eyes widened, and she was fully awake for a minute. you just blinked, puzzled, looking at the pitfighter now aggresively standing before you, huffing from the effort and sudden adrenaline running through her veins.

“what did you say to me, skank?”

you smiled alluringly, swaying your hips. only a fool would be offended by a drunkard.

“i’m offering you food, pitfighter. are we naming honourable professions?”

her eyes softened. she stumbled as her posture relaxed, and she suddenly let out a groan, taking her hands to her head.

“ha. karma.” you snickered, handing her the pastry before turning to your vanity and wiping away your make up.

day after day, she kept coming back. not as drunk. even drunker. sometimes accompanied by a big man. always paid in coins, never struck any deals. didn’t have the energy to hustle.

she’d get to the brothel to sleep. a wild concept. sometimes, she’d even take you by your wrist and make you lie down with her. as a paying customer, she wasn’t doing anything inherintly wrong. she was paying, too. nothing wrong you could say on her behalf.

after a while, when she’d get to the brothel and knock on your door, it started to have a pattern. some kind of sign. a way to say, “it’s me”.

five knocks. five knocks and a scratch, so, technically six. vi, her face read. a v and an i. numbers? possibly. you didn’t learn her name until after the first month. which is funny, at least, considering not only was it written on her face, but because you knew her address by the third day.

the big man that she sometimes came with to the brothel also came to visit you, a week and a bit after. not for your services either. but with an offer.

“the pitfigher.” he had stated calmly. “she…” he sighed. “you’re the only one she’ll speak to right now. i’m not much for deals or favours. just… please, take care of her.” he mumbled.

she’s asleep on her bed now. and you take care of her. weirdly, it seems like the right thing to do. so skipping a low night of work doesn’t seem wrong when you take her home and stay with her, make her eat, redo the bandages on her arms and torso, put oinment on her scars and clean the make up from her face, careful not to let the tattoo on her face show, as she had said.

“i don’t know if i’m vi anymore. or if i should be.”

the stains on her hair fade quickly because of ther sweat. you did that to her by request, but honestly, it’s not your best work.

“you can always be neither.” you replied softly, to a question that hadn’t truly been asked. “not vi. not pitfigher.” you stay silent, your words slurring in your mouth when you concentrate on dying black the strands of hair that cover her face. “i am not who i was before the brothel. nor am i the name i use when i work.” you smile gently. “i am neither.”

“if i don’t know who am i, i’ll try not to be who i don’t want. whoever that is. i keep it close to keep it in watch, and so i never, ever be that kind of me.”

you stroke her hair now, and you sigh, about to stand up and leave, maybe tidy up the shitty apartment beforehand out of generosity, but then her arm passes over your waist and pulls you closer.

“i never… i don’t like being weak.” she mumbles, half asleep. “but… i don’t like sleeping. not since…” she sighs, nuzzling her face into the crook of your neck.

“but… it’s… it’s not so bad with you.” she utters against your skin.

there were many things you didn’t know about her. why was she a pitfigher. why was she so afraid of sleep. why did she sometimes wake up crying. who where those people she called for in her sleep. and maybe, that should’ve been a reason to leave.

so when you hug her, and then, tighter, you weren’t too surprised to notice her breath hitch.

“sleep, pitfigher.” you smile softly. a smile out of work. a smile of trust.

you cover her with the thin bedsheet she owns, and she smiles too. softly. efervescent. a blink and you’ll miss it kind of smile.

business was going to be bad for a couple of weeks. obviously, you weren’t going to let her pay you anymore.

~k.k. (☆) have fun!

a/n I AM NOT PREPARED FOR TODAY’S CHAPTERS, THIS IS MY WAY OF COPING. SEND HELP.

aaksuitac, november 2024 ©

[amirawrah]

✩once in a lifetime... part one🐻🤎🎨

staring: William 'wilo' Saliba x Ameerah Tamilore Adeyemi

summary: After attending an Arsenal match with her friends, she never expected to leave the stadium with a lingering sense of unfinished business. William Saliba saw her walk away that night, and he didn’t stop her—something he instantly regretted. When fate brings them back together at a party, their unspoken connection is impossible to ignore. As the night unfolds, stolen glances turn into quiet confessions, and what started as hesitation becomes something undeniable. But with emotions running high and unspoken feelings in the air, the real question remains—will they finally say what was left unsaid, or will history repeat itself?

amirah: yayyyy i finally made a fic series, i don't know how many chapters but well see where this is going eventually. Like, repost and share and don't be afraid to fall in love with wilo too.

next chapter

William Saliba had always been composed. On the pitch, he was unreadable—calm under pressure, focused, unshaken. Off the pitch, he was the same. He was used to attention, to people admiring him, but he never let it get to him. He never let anyone get to him.

Until you.

The first time he saw you, he knew he was in trouble.

It wasn’t just that you were beautiful—though mon dieu, you were. It was something else. The way you carried yourself, effortless yet captivating, like you weren’t even trying to steal his breath but still did. And then, you smiled.

That was it. That was his downfall.

Because your smile wasn’t just pretty, it was dangerous. The kind of smile that made a man forget how to think straight. The kind that made him feel something deep in his chest, something he couldn’t shake. It was warm, it was bright, and it made him feel like he was done for.

He was supposed to be the composed one. The one who kept his emotions in check. But at that moment, watching you laugh at something your friend said—he didn’t even know what, he just knew he wanted to be the reason for it—he felt something unfamiliar.

He was nervous.

William Saliba, nervous? He would have laughed if it weren’t true. His stomach tightened, his heartbeat picked up just a little, and for the first time in a long time, he felt out of his depth.

You glanced at him then, your eyes meeting his, and that smile widened. Like you knew. Like you could see right through him.

Yeah. He was in trouble.

And the worst part? He liked it but before he could do something he saw you turn your back and leave with your friends.

He should have stopped you.

William knew it the second he saw you walking away, slipping out of the stadium with that same effortless grace that had first drawn him in. He had just finished a match—a good one, a solid performance—but the usual rush of victory felt dull the moment he caught sight of you leaving.

You hadn’t even looked back.

He stood there, still in his kit, still catching his breath, watching as you disappeared into the crowd. His feet felt planted to the ground, his body frozen in place, even as something in his chest told him to move. To go after you.

But he didn’t.

And now, regret sat heavy in his stomach.

He ran his hand down his face, his mind racing. Why hadn’t he said something? Why had he just let you go? Maybe it was because he still didn’t know how to handle what you did to him. How you, with one look, one smile, made him feel like he was completely out of his element.

William Saliba didn’t hesitate on the pitch. He made quick decisions, precise movements, always in control. But with you? It was different. He hesitated. And now, he was paying for it.

“Tu es stupide,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head at himself.

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to look away from where you had just been. But the uneasy feeling stayed, the kind that gnawed at him, making him restless.

The match was over. But the real battle? The one between his pride and the pull you had on him?

That had just begun.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you came to the stadium that day. You didn’t think you’d get caught up in the energy of the match or feel so drawn to one player. But there he was—William Saliba. You couldn’t help but notice him, not just for his skill on the pitch, but for something about the way he carried himself. He was different. And when your eyes met for the first time, something clicked.

But as you made your way to leave, the feeling of his eyes on you stayed with you. You could feel him watching, maybe hoping you’d turn around. Maybe hoping you'd say something, anything. But you couldn’t.

It wasn’t like you didn’t want to.

You wanted to stay, to walk up to him, to see if the tension you felt was mutual. But no. It wasn’t that simple. He had his own life, his own world—one that you weren't sure you could just step into.

So, you turned your back and walked away.

You tried to keep your head high, trying not to let the weight of the moment get to you. But inside, there was a storm. You couldn't shake the feeling that something could have happened if you’d just stayed a little longer, said a little more.

But then again, he hadn’t done anything either. He didn’t chase after you, didn’t stop you from leaving. Maybe that was his way of saying he wasn’t interested.

It’s fine. You tried to convince yourself. You came here for the match, not a man!.

But as you stepped further away from the stadium, the thought lingered. Maybe next time, you’d try to make that connection. But for now, you’d let it go.

You hadn’t said much since you walked out of the stadium. Justine and Halle kept glancing at each other, exchanging puzzled looks, but neither of them spoke up until you all reached the car.

"Alright, what’s going on?" Justine finally asked, raising an eyebrow. She slid into the front seat, glancing at you through the rearview mirror, waiting for you to respond.

You were staring out the window, lost in your thoughts, replaying the way he looked at you, the way you left without a word. It wasn’t like you to let something affect you this much, but there you were—still caught up in the moment with William Saliba.

Halle, sitting next to you, nudged your shoulder lightly. "Hey, you’ve been quiet. What’s up?"

You blinked, coming back to the present, but both of them were already looking at you with knowing expressions.

“Nothing,” you muttered, though even to you, it sounded unconvincing.

“Oh, please.” Justine chuckled, turning around in her seat. “You’ve been daydreaming this whole time. About him, right?”

Your heart skipped. "Who?" you tried to play it off, but Halle caught the slight shift in your expression.

“Don’t play dumb,” Halle said with a smirk. “We saw how you were looking at him during the game. And now, you’re clearly thinking about him again. Spill.”

You sighed, not even bothering to pretend anymore. “I just… I don’t know. I feel like I missed something back there. I don’t even know why I walked away without saying anything.”

Justine leaned back with a knowing smile. "Ah, so you’re into him."

You groaned, sinking into the back seat. “I don’t know if it’s that. I just…” You ran a hand through your hair. "There was this feeling. Like, something could have happened, but I just let it slip away."

Halle laughed softly, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Well, if you want advice, don’t just stand there thinking about it. Go back next time and do something about it."

Justine nodded. “Yeah, no one’s ever going to know if you don’t make the first move, right?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. "I guess you’re right."

Your friends exchanged a look, both of them clearly pleased with themselves for getting you to open up. They could already see it—the connection was there, and you were only just starting to realise it.

“Well, just so you know,” Justine added with a smirk, “if he’s half as interested as you are, you’re in for a wild ride.”

You groaned again, but this time, it was with a little more excitement.

ameerahsnarrative

liked by tolamibenson,heisrema, justineee, sheishalle and 500k others

ameerahsnarative: here at the emirates stadium with my girls @tolamibenson @sheishalle @justineee, had such a good time, so happy we won!.

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@tolamibenson so happy you girls came🥰

♥️by ameerahsnarrative

username1: wow you are pretty

username55: did you meet any of the players?

@justineee wow today isn't just your day huh @ameerahsnarrative fuck off

username88: Forget the match, I’m tryna be YOUR starting XI

username77: girl when are you posting on youtube

@ameerahsnarrative i'll be back soon dw username77: woooo!!

William stepped into the locker room, the sound of his boots echoing on the tile floor as the adrenaline from the match slowly started to fade. His mind should’ve been focused on the game, the win, the fans. But instead, his thoughts were filled with the image of you—your smile, the way you carried yourself so effortlessly.

He tried to shake it off as he headed for the showers. Focus, he told himself. You’ve got a job to do.

But even under the hot stream of water, as he scrubbed away the sweat of the game, all he could think about was you. The way you walked out of the stadium, your back to him, leaving him standing there frozen. He hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t moved. Why? He should’ve followed you, stopped you, at least said something.

But now you were gone.

After a quick shower, he changed into a clean set of clothes, slipping on his usual laid-back style—black hoodie, ripped jeans, and sneakers. He ran a hand through his damp hair, still distracted. You’ve got to stop thinking about her, he told himself, but his thoughts drifted right back to you. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, seeing the frustration in his own eyes.

He needed a distraction.

Just as he was about to grab his keys and head for the door, a few of his teammates wandered into the locker room, their voices loud and playful, breaking through his haze.

"Oi, Saliba!" Bukayo clapped him on the back, causing William to snap out of his thoughts. "You coming with us to Noah’s party?"

William blinked, trying to push thoughts of you aside. "Noah's, huh?" he muttered, trying to focus on the conversation.

"Yeah, big party tonight," Gabriel joined in. "It’s going to be a good one. You in?"

A few other teammates joined in, all eager for a night out after the win. William nodded absentmindedly, trying not to let his gaze wander back to the door where you’d disappeared.

"I guess I could use a distraction," he finally said, giving them a half-hearted grin.

They all seemed excited, chatting about the party details—who else was coming, what they’d be doing, and who was bringing what to drink. It was all standard stuff, but William barely heard it. His mind was elsewhere. His eyes kept flicking to the door. To you.

“Hey, come on, Saliba,” Bukayo said with a grin, “you’ve been quiet. You sure you’re in the mood to party?”

William forced himself to smile, trying to shake the thoughts away. "Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there."

But deep down, he knew it wasn’t just the party he was thinking about. It was you. The way you’d walked away, the way you hadn’t even looked back. He couldn’t get rid of the feeling that he had messed up, and no matter how many parties or distractions he tried to throw at himself, that feeling wasn’t going to go away anytime soon.

Next time, he thought. Next time, I won’t just stand there.

For now, though, he was headed to Noah’s party, but his mind—his thoughts—were already on the next time he saw you.

Music played softly in the background as you, Justine, Halle, and Tolami got ready for Noah’s party. The room buzzed with excitement, everyone shuffling between mirrors, makeup bags, and outfit options. Tonight was meant to be fun—a chance to let loose after the match and just enjoy the night.

Tolami, being Bukayo’s girlfriend, had been the one to invite you to the Arsenal match in the first place. She had insisted you’d have a good time, and she wasn’t wrong. The energy, the crowd, the thrill of seeing the team up close—it had all been incredible. But what stuck with you the most wasn’t just the game itself. It was him.

William Saliba.

You hadn’t mentioned anything about it to Tolami. Not about how your eyes kept finding him on the pitch, or how your heart had felt a little too heavy when you walked away after the match. You weren’t even sure how to put it into words, so instead, you kept quiet, focusing on getting ready like nothing was on your mind.

“Ugh, I swear, picking an outfit should not be this hard,” Justine groaned, holding up two dresses against her body. “Which one?”

“The black one,” you and Halle answered at the same time.

Tolami smirked. “That was quick.”

“I mean, she can never go wrong in black,” you shrugged, brushing a little shimmer onto your cheekbones.

Tolami adjusted her earrings before glancing at you through the mirror. “I’m excited for this party. Noah’s always knows how to throw a good one.”

“Yeah, should be fun,” you replied absentmindedly, fixing your lipstick.

Justine, however, wasn’t letting you off that easy. She turned to you with a pointed look. “You don’t sound excited.”

“I am excited,” you defended. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

Halle, ever the observer, narrowed her eyes at you. “Would this ‘lot on your mind’ have anything to do with a certain footballer?”

Tolami, who had been adjusting her bracelet, froze slightly before looking between you and Halle. “Wait, what?” she asked, intrigued. “What footballer?”

Justine and Halle immediately grinned at each other, and you groaned internally. Great.

“William Saliba,” Halle said, dragging out his name like she was unveiling the biggest gossip of the night.

Tolami’s eyes widened slightly before she turned to you with interest. “Wilo?”

You exhaled, shaking your head. “It’s nothing. Really.”

“Lies,” Justine said, folding her arms. “She’s been all in her head ever since the match.”

Tolami looked at you expectantly. “Okay, I need details. What happened?”

You hesitated before finally giving in. “It’s not even that serious,” you admitted. “I just… I don’t know. There was something there. I saw him after the match, and it felt like I should’ve said something. Or maybe he should’ve. But I just walked away, and now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Tolami’s lips curled into a smirk. “So that’s why you’ve been all quiet.”

Justine nudged your arm. “You should see him tonight and figure it out.”

“Yeah,” Halle added. “No more overthinking. If you feel something, go with it.”

Tolami laughed, shaking her head. “Damn, I had no idea this was going on. But honestly? They’re right. If there’s even a little chance of something there, you might as well see where it leads.”

You exhaled, shaking your head with a small smile. “You guys are ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Justine grinned, “but we’re right.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the excitement creeping in. Maybe tonight wasn’t just about the party. Maybe it was about seeing William again—and maybe this time, neither of you would walk away so easily.

ameerahsnarrative posted on her story

[caption: party ready💋]

The second you stepped into Noah’s house, the atmosphere hit you like a wave—loud music, flashing lights, and a crowd of people already deep into their drinks and conversations. The bass from the speakers vibrated through the floors, laughter and shouts mixing into an overwhelming hum of energy. It was exactly the kind of party that most people thrived in.

But not you.

Parties were never really your thing. Sure, you had no problem going out with your friends, dressing up, and playing along with the excitement. But once you were actually in the chaos of it all, you always found yourself withdrawing. Big crowds, forced small talk, music so loud you had to scream to be heard—it just wasn’t your scene.

As soon as you and the girls stepped inside, Tolami, Justine, and Halle were immediately caught up in the energy. Justine was already pulling Halle toward the dance floor after repeatedly asking you if you wanted to join, and Tolami was scanning the room, probably looking for Bukayo. Meanwhile, you took a deep breath and did what you always did at parties—you found a quiet spot to blend into.

You made your way toward a less crowded corner of the room, claiming a spot near the large window where a soft breeze filtered in from outside. You weren’t necessarily hiding, but you weren’t throwing yourself into the center of attention either. With a drink in your hand, you observed everything—the people laughing too loudly, the way some were already a little too tipsy, the DJ hyping up the crowd. It was all so familiar, yet so foreign at the same time.

A couple of people came up to make conversation, and you smiled, nodding politely, but you never let the interactions last too long. You weren’t in the mood to force excitement or pretend to be someone you weren’t. Instead, you leaned against the wall, slowly sipping your drink, letting the party exist around you without feeling the need to completely join in.

Your eyes absentmindedly wandered through the room, taking in the different faces, the way people moved so effortlessly in spaces like this. That’s when they landed on him.

William Saliba.

Dressed effortlessly in a fitted black shirt and jeans, he stood with a few of his teammates near the bar, casually engaged in conversation. But something about his demeanor was different—like he wasn’t fully present. His gaze was scanning the room, as if searching for something. Or maybe… someone.

Your fingers tightened around your glass as a familiar feeling settled into your chest. It was the same feeling you had when you walked out of the stadium, the same one that told you that whatever this thing was between you and William, it wasn’t over.

And from the way his eyes landed on you—lingering, assessing, almost relieved—you had a feeling he knew it too.

The moment William’s eyes found yours, the noise of the party seemed to fade into the background. The flashing lights, the music, the people—it all blurred into something distant, something irrelevant. For a second, neither of you moved. You just stared, caught in the unspoken tension that had been there since the match.

You swallowed, unsure of what to do. Your instinct was to look away, to pretend you weren’t affected, but something in his gaze held you in place. It wasn’t just curiosity—it was something deeper. Like he was still thinking about the way you walked away, just like you had been thinking about how he didn’t stop you.

He shifted slightly, like he was debating whether to come over.

Your heartbeat picked up.

But before he could make a move, one of his teammates clapped him on the back, pulling his attention away for a moment. That was enough for you to break eye contact, inhaling sharply as you turned toward the window, pretending to take in the view outside.

Get it together.

You weren’t even sure what you wanted. Did you want him to come over? Did you want to talk about what happened—or didn’t happen—after the match? Or were you just caught up in something that wasn’t even real?

“Hey,” Tolami’s voice suddenly pulled you out of your thoughts. She had appeared beside you with Bukayo on her side, her drink in hand, her eyes flicking between you and the direction where William stood. “You good?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, just needed some air.”

Tolami studied you for a second before following your line of sight. “Wait a minute…” A slow smirk spread across her face as she put the pieces together. “That’s who you’ve been thinking about, isn’t it?”

You exhaled, shaking your head with a small, defeated smile. “I hate that you’re so observant.”

Tolami laughed, leaning in slightly. “Girl, he’s been looking at you like you stole something from him.”

You glanced back, only to see William’s gaze had returned to you. This time, there was no hesitation in his stance. He said something quickly to his friends before pushing off the bar and making his way through the crowd—toward you.

Tolami nudged your arm playfully. “Oh yeah, you’re in big trouble.” she said with Bukayo saying "ouhhhh" by her side.

Your heart was in your throat as you watched William close the distance. No more walking away. No more overthinking. This time, there was nowhere to hide.

Making his way through the crowd, he approached them, his confidence steady on the outside, but something about her made him feel uncharacteristically unsure. Tolami noticed him first.

“William,” she greeted with an easy smile.

He returned the gesture with a polite nod. “Tolami.” His voice was smooth, deep, but he was already shifting his gaze toward the real reason he was here.

And then, finally, he was looking at her.

Up close, she was even more breathtaking. Her dark brown eyes held something familiar—shyness, curiosity, and maybe just a little bit of the same hesitation he felt. The same eyes he hadn’t been able to forget.

For a second, neither of them spoke. The energy between them was thick, charged with something unspoken. It was only when Tolami cleared her throat that William realized he was still staring.

He exhaled lightly, gathering himself before speaking.

“I don’t think we’ve met properly,” he said, his accent laced with warmth. “I’m William.” His deep, rich French accent wrapped around the words, smooth and slow.

Her brain took a full three seconds to process what he said because she was too busy reeling from how stupidly attractive his voice was. Her lips parted slightly, almost like she wasn’t sure what to say at first. Then, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gave a small, shy smile. “I know,” she admitted softly. “I mean—yeah. I know who you are.”

His own smile ghosted at the corners of his lips, amused by her nervousness—mostly because he felt the exact same way.

“And you are…?” he prompted gently.

She hesitated, then finally answered, her voice carrying a soft, melodic tone. She told him her name, and just like that, it was engraved into his memory.

Tolami and Bukayo watched the exchange with an unreadable expression, but there was something knowing in Tolami's gaze. “Well,” she said after a beat, taking a step back and dragging her boyfriend with her. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

William barely registered her leaving because his attention was solely on the girl in front of him. He shifted slightly, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically nervous.

“I—uh,” he started, then let out a small chuckle, shaking his head at himself. “Sorry, I don’t usually get nervous like this.”

She laughed softly, tilting her head. “So I make you nervous?”

He let out a breath, meeting her gaze again. “I think you do.”

And just like that, the tension melted into something lighter. The party buzzed around them, but in that moment, it felt like they were in their own little world.

You felt your pulse quicken at his words. The way he admitted it so easily—that you made him nervous—sent a small rush of warmth through you. William Saliba, confident, composed, and undeniably magnetic, was standing in front of you, slightly unsure of himself.

And it was because of you.

You let out a soft laugh, shifting your weight slightly. “That’s funny,” you said, swirling your drink absentmindedly. “Because I was just about to say the same thing.”

William’s lips curled into a subtle, amused smile. “So we’re both nervous?”

“Seems like it.”

For a moment, you both stood there, letting the words settle between you. The tension wasn’t awkward—it was just… there. Charged.

William glanced around briefly before looking back at you. “You don’t seem like you like parties much.”

You raised a brow. “And what gave that away?”

“The fact that you’ve been standing in this exact spot for the past ten minutes,” he said, smirking slightly. “Just watching.”

You sighed, shaking your head playfully. “I do like parties… I just don’t like being in the middle of everything. It’s too much sometimes.”

William nodded as if he understood. “I get that.” He leaned slightly against the wall next to you, his presence comfortable, familiar in a way you weren’t expecting. “I don’t always like them either. At least not the way my teammates do.”

You smiled. “So why are you here then?”

He let out a small chuckle. “Good question.” Then, after a slight pause, he added, “I almost didn’t come, actually.”

That made you tilt your head, curiosity piqued. “Really?”

William held your gaze, his deep brown eyes steady. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice quieter this time. “But now… I’m glad I did.”

You felt your breath hitch slightly at the way he was looking at you, as if he meant every single word.

Before you could overthink it, you smiled, glancing down briefly before looking back up at him. “Me too.”

William’s smile grew just a little, as if he was pleased by your answer.

For the first time that night, you weren’t lost in your thoughts. You weren’t stuck overanalyzing things or trying to blend into the background. You were here, in the moment, with him.

The party carried on around you—music pulsing, people dancing, laughter spilling over in waves—but none of it seemed to matter anymore. The world had shrunk down to just you and William, standing in the corner, locked in this quiet, unexpected moment.

He shifted slightly, his gaze flickering down at you, almost like he was still processing the fact that you were really here, that you were actually talking after everything that had happened at the match.

“I meant to say something earlier,” he admitted after a pause.

You blinked, tilting your head. “Earlier?”

“At the stadium,” he clarified, his voice carrying something that sounded like regret. “When I saw you leaving.”

Oh.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your glass, the memory flashing in your mind—the way you walked away, the way he stood there, watching but not moving.

Your lips parted, but you weren’t sure what to say.

William sighed lightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know why I didn’t,” he admitted. “I just… froze, I guess.”

You studied him for a moment. “Why?”

His jaw flexed, like he was debating how honest he should be. Then, finally, he exhaled, shaking his head with a small, self-deprecating smile. “Because I knew I was in trouble the first time I saw you.”

Your breath caught slightly at his words.

William let out a soft chuckle, his eyes locked onto yours. “I don’t usually get caught off guard, but with you… I did.”

You felt your cheeks warm, a mix of nerves and something else—something much softer—settling in your chest.

“Well,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, “maybe you should’ve stopped me.”

His expression shifted slightly, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. He took a step closer—not too much, just enough that you could catch the faint scent of his cologne, something warm and subtly intoxicating.

“Would you have stayed?” he asked, voice lower now.

You swallowed, holding his gaze. “I don’t know.”

William let out a breath, then nodded slowly. “Then maybe I should’ve tried anyway.”

The weight of those words lingered between you, thick with something unsaid, something unfinished.

And in that moment, you knew one thing for sure—this wasn’t just some fleeting conversation at a party. This wasn’t something either of you would forget by tomorrow morning.

This was something different. Something new.

And neither of you were walking away this time.

[smileposting]

previous anon, thank u for not brushing it off as bait since it was a genuine question. the "cartoony" aspect of it is what threw me off, since i couldn't tell if the message was supposed to be "be cautious of what leads to fascism/misinformation is a dangerous tool" and raking fascism seriously vs "friendship and communication are incredibly important" since imo those are two very different themes to tackle with the same character. i very much appreciate u taking the time to answer the question, ur explanation makes a lot of sense and i hope my question hadnt been too jarring

(context)

it's no trouble at all! thank you for giving me an excuse to prove that i actually did pay attention to this game outside of thesclack yaoi and BBWs lol

as for your primary concern - i'd argue that it could very easily be both, but of course it's a VERY delicate balancing act lol. i don't fault anyone who was thrown off by it. part of the reason it works for me is that inspekta feels very much like - not the Originator of all fascist/fascist-adjacent rhetoric within the world of great god grove (earth itself included) but the latest and biggest sucker to fall for it. he came from what's implied to be pretty fucking rough conditions and he never really unpacked any of the effects that might have had on him or whether his eventual success really Justified those initial conditions. and that's before he ascended to godhood in a culture that seems to treat godhood and humanity as mutually exclusive despite tons of evidence to the contrary*. so when his work pays off and he becomes one of said culture's Primary Mythological Figures, his reaction to the grove being a generally pleasant and compassionate place free of many (but not all) of the world's societal ills - one that came to be that way over centuries of hard work, as implied by bauhauzzo - is not "wow, a better world is possible! i should help see this through to the very end" but "oh wow, these guys are soft, huh? good thing i came into the picture when i did! i know what it's like to actually work to achieve something :)"

...that's how it reads to me, anyway. i apologies if this response is a little too speculation-heavy to really explain things.

*the contrary being that while a god is no longer Physically human, they are still very much Mentally human. i imagine this aspect of Grove Culture changes to accommodate this reality postcanon along with Many Other Things, but i digress.

[carionto]

Pressure and Release

Human: *hmm-ing at a set of dials and gauges*

Alien: What seems to be *translation unit catches up with the information they're displaying* OH MY GOD IT'S GOING TO EXPLODE!!! GET TO THE ESCAPE PODS NOW!!!!

H: Shh, it's fine, I'm just experimenting.

A: OH MY GOD WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE HORRIBLY!

H: Hey! Rude. *turns a dial causing a loud hissing noise* It's just air compressors and hydraulics.

A: *due to not dying, is beginning to relax* Why do you need up to 200 atmospheres running through these systems. We have invented alloy-specific magnetization mechanisms. Please, why do you keep insisting on these volatile and explosive means?

H: *turns the dial up* Because... *releases the pressure again, loud sudden hissing sound again* That's a cool sound.

A: Just because you think something is 'cool' doesn't make it-

H: *interrupts with another air build up and release sound without breaking eye contact*

A: *leaves*

H: *continues to play around*

_________________________________________

Okay, so I wanna get this off my chest. I find myself now for the fourth time starting a fun little activity, doing it for months on end, having a blast, and then almost suddenly dropping it entirely. First time I wrote some short stories or something every day for about six months and put it on deviantart. Then some longer form stuff started cropping in, sort of continuous narratives or whatever, and I stopped. Second was running a open D&D campaign with a persistent world but ever changing party, each session a sort of one-shot with a decision that would impact the whole world and what future sessions would exist. Not even 10 sessions in I felt under pressure to continue and build upon what I had already and just couldn't and stopped. Third was another kind of TTRPG, this time running my own server for Lancer. Again, open one shots, but less connected and I would hopefully get some of the players to want to run their own games within this freeform framework that I directly lifted from a D&D server I was in, even had some of the same people join as players. Few months later, I felt this massive pressure from myself to run games and come up with new scenarios that I just froze up. I cancelled game after game and just eventually abandoned the server and the resources I had made. Fourth time was here on tumblr itself. Back to writing some short form stuff on a fairly regular basis, almost daily for some time even. Had a blast, and then longer form content started creeping in. I thought I wanted to write some stories with an overarching plot and recurring characters and connected storylines, build up and pay off, that sort of thing. Again, I created this massive pressure by myself for myself of myself to do something I apparently can't. I created this sense of expectation of myself "Well, I started this, I should finish it, but where do I go, what do I do, how can I connect this?" And then this self-inflicted pressure got to me, again. And I stopped.

What I have known for a while, but couldn't put into words is that I don't want to tell a big long epic story or anything like that. I don't have one of those in me and forcing something like that only makes me shrivel up and run away. I have a world, several in fact, in my mind. Entire continents of a low fantasy character driven political intrigue and drama based world with tons of rules and restrictions, thousands of years of history, strong personalities for the main actors and so many individual scenes with them and the supporting cast, and a timeframe for when the overarching story happens and how it ends. But no story itself. Just scenes. I have a high fiction sci-fi world, again, with very distinct factions and races, most of the details I have written out back when I was a teen in a physical notebook with pen and pencil. Lots of historical points and events, how the races work, their domains if you will, near magical powers I try to explain with plausible science. Tons of specific details. Even drew each of their common symbols, how one of the languages is structured, schematics of how their cities are planned, and details on other planets in the system and how those might be important later. But, not a single individual character or story. Just dry facts. And then we have the loose sci-fi world I've created here. Bunch of different angles and perspectives, some comedic, some more serious, even put Cthulu in there. Many short and mostly self-contained stories and episodes of various humans doing things an exaggerated version of humanity would do. There is potential for a number of expanded and longer form stories here, some I attempted, and as mentioned, what ultimately made me stop. I don't have a book in me, and I don't want to write one. I just like to write little snippets and I want to get myself to accept this idea that, no, it does not need to become more than that. Because every time I start going down a path where it feels like it should be more than a one page thing, I seize up, start thinking that I need to do this, panic when I can't come up with anything, go silent, and give up. It just does not work for my brain. And that's fine.

[tributedreference]

I like to think that when one of the big outcodes (Dream, Ink, Error, Nightmare, etc) find an Aftertale, they all have some sort of dilemma of what to do with it. For those who don't know, Aftertale has a Sans named Geno lost on the save screen influencing a Sans down in the actual timeline with the goal of destroying their universe to stop the Human. Eventually there is a happy ending where the timeline doesn't get destroyed and Geno gets to go back home, only for him to become an Error soon after. There's also an offshoot of the story where Error finds Geno and tries to kill him, only to unintentionally create Fatal Error. Ink likes to pride himself on being a protector of AUs but also has reserves with messing with their natural outcome, so he's probably not bothered by the main route, but if another Error is created out of it, then what? That'll just make his job harder. Not to mention that Error's involvement in Fatal's creation probably rubs him the wrong way. It could be that's simply just the fate of some Aftertales, but is Fatal really made because of Error? Makes me wonder what Ink's views on Fatal are. Dream has no qualms messing with an AUs story to make it a more positive timeline, but Aftertale's story typically resolves itself perfectly well without his involvement. It's just a matter of what he should do when the story is done. Fatals don't typically cause a lot of problems, they copy what they need and then leave, but Error's are filled with negativity or spite, but does that outweigh the positivity of the new happy ending? Perhaps he should pull Geno out of the Anti-void before that happens? Creation and Destruction are supposed to be a balance too, right? Nightmare only wants things to suffer and will mess with timelines to get what he wants. If he finds an Aftertale, he might ensure that the ending is not happy, or even prolong Geno's suffering. but what about the Error that comes out of it? Fatals do house some negativity and can copy life, temporarily making slightly more negativity than before, but that's really about it. Errors on the other hand hurt and destroy, they ruin worlds and lives. But he also kills people. If he can find a way to control Error, that's not an issue, but if he can't, would the pay-off of negativity Error produces outweigh the damage he'll do to the current emotional economy? Error just doesn't care whatsoever and does whatever he wants. If he's already learned his lesson about Fatal, he might leave the timeline be, but if not, he'd just destroy it for the fun of it. It should also be noted that Error doesn't know Geno is the past version of himself, so if he ever finds out that Geno's stuck in the Anti-Void and going to turn into him, what would he do or think? He could see the creation of himself, and it suddenly makes more sense why Geno and Fatal feel so familiar.

[legionofpotatoes]

I had been floating through my apartment these past days suppressing every sense that blared alarms at the gaping hole in the middle of everything. Was pretending she was still snuggled up somewhere out of view. Finally processed it by cleaning up last night. Her toilet, her brushes, her little paw prints on the counter. This shit sucks fellas

I'll self soothe by pointlessly journaling again I guess!

I just don't know how to exist without her at home it feels like. After cremating her I stayed with my partner for a few days and then the first night back home was the emptiest I'd felt in my entire life. Dramatic!

why'd I just make a joke there? It did feel that way. Her smell was everywhere, her stuff was everywhere. Took so many photos of those faint paw prints. I move through the rooms like a ghost. I feel like I am floating because my body is rejecting every attempt at being present. Does this make sense? I don't want to focus on any one moment. Like rolling a boulder up an incline and the boulder is also punching me repeatedly because the boulder is reality itself that I am pushing away.

I am not good at grief and death. This is a lesson that I had to have beaten into me these past three years. I don't deal with it linearly, properly, healthily, or at all like an adult should, I think. I hate how much it shuts me down and turns me into a black hole of energy. Through the haze I can see myself being a nuisance to my loved ones sometimes but I have no heart to push through it. I feel like this is a pretty universal thing. Seen it happen from outside in.

they say grief isn't a finite thing but a process. And I can attest that it definitely transforms over time! But it's also additive? Everything else in life feels balanced in its give and take. But death only compounds. And I often feel like I am running out of places to store it in. It's like a game of tetris each time. Where does this terribly mangled piece fit into my psyche in a way that doesn't unravel everything? Oh it's nowhere? No worries just bolt it on there anyway and the aerodynamics of moving through life will smooth some of the edges eventually. Others not so much.

I have a deeper insecurity that pisses me off in this whole thing. A lot of my worldview and baseline beliefs rest - theoretically, it now seems - on a staunch respect and acceptance of what death is supposed to be. In the natural order I mean. Circle of life and all that. I feel like I look at so much loathsome reactionary sentiment around and trace it back to feelings of inadequacy, powerlessness, and on an even deeper level, a paralyzing fear of death. So, intellectually, my ego rages against it. I chase those themes in stories and philosophical theorems, I pay lip service to the ineffable value of mortality, I worship at the altar of transience, of change, of being a temporary perspective point of a universe that constantly expels and subsumes them to and fro. I like that framework of understanding life and death; I want to inhabit those beliefs. They feel right, primal, divine.

But then death touches my life and I have such idiotic trouble squaring what I feel with those beliefs. There's a lot of physiological trauma associated with it for sure - body recoils at the sudden shift in routines, absence of familiar patterns, lack of crucial stimuli. Maybe that's why? Feels almost like love is a resource I gently tap from multiple sources across the lives that surround me, for nourishment and fuel, and when an ore is lost there's no recourse. I cannot simply truck on and aggressively reallocate remaining channels to maintain bandwidth. Gotta grieve, gotta change somehow.

It's not for them, my partner tells me. And she's right. The cats are at peace, no longer in pain, no longer inhabiting their tiny perspectives of our greater whole. Everyone else too, all the loss I keep recirculating like a demented merry-go-round inside my head, they're okay now. In whatever context that can be defined in, however you spin it - their corporeal suffering is at a confident zero. Their essence, one could say, is in a far less entropic state, peacefully blanketing and guiding the flow instead of being confined to a confusing and traumatic flesh puppet caught in its currents. So yeah I know they don't need my tears, my head understands that, but I think there's something less personal in mourning all this.

Like with chichi specifically when I drill down to it it's the experiences. I collapsed on the floor and wept at the small hairs still visible on the brushing glove because the specificity of that ritual between this particular kitty and her dad, that small gesture of love, is forever lost. The kitty is at peace and her idiot companion will be fine with his drawings and video games, but the experiences that bound them cannot carry on unchanged. That's quite sad. Bodies and lives ending is normal, necessary, and kind. Relationships and experiences, however, were never a predestined vessel born out of stardust. They formed out of thin air, from that magnetic chemistry between unlikely cohorts. Seeing those end abruptly isn't as easy to chalk up to cosmic scales. It's fair to lag and glitch while your brain deals with the sudden loss of those calcified rituals. Maybe that is what's crossing my wires when reconciling personal loss with my highfalutin beliefs.

I sound like a loon. But mostly just reassuring myself that my grief is normal maybe and not as weird and childish as I try to make it seem. I know cats are idiots and pets in general represent a selfish type of unconditional love we like to cultivate, but it's also more than that. It's stupid to even assume otherwise. My favorite artwork of all time is, and don't punch too hard if you've heard this one before, brosio's two earthlings. And it is one hundred percent because of the name. Cause they're both the same thing. Separated not just by time, but biology, sapience, death itself. and yet they're still somehow the same exact thing. Like me and chichi were.

Different eyes and different brains watching and interpreting the same strange reality, and choosing to coalesce in that experience. I don't know how true it is that ancient felines domesticated themselves in order to live alongside people for a steadier supply of food, but there's something so whimsically sacred in that possibility. these utterly alien hairless beasts seem prone to throw food our way, so maybe we'll hitch a ride and see where it takes us.

I hope chichi had a good one with me. She was the sweetest, gentlest, kindest soul in the tiniest, fluffiest body. I knew her mom, was there for her birth, and watched her maintain that peculiar enjoyment of human contact even as she matured and went through her own challenges on the streets (I couldn't rescue her until after I moved into my own apartment). Nothing seemed to blunt her spirit, no expected pavlovian defensiveness or aggression manifested. one day I discovered she had a BB pellet embedded between her shoulder blades, skin already healed over the impact point, trapping the tiny bullet under her epidermis. the vets said it was okay to leave it in.

I hope whoever shot at her is living their worst life. but her response to me touching the pellet was to immediately plonk into my arms for a cuddle. that was her response to most things. she lived to love and be loved. she made pancakes all the time. it was her form of response prioritized even above meowing. she'd be asleep with her paws up and if I quietly whispered her name, her upwards beans would start gently curling and opening in mid-air before a single peep would leave her mouth. I kept her her nails untrimmed due to us living on a higher floor - better safe than sorry - so those kneads were felt keenly. today I would rip my arm off and eat it just to feel one of her paws digging into my knee again. but I like to think the clouds are extra cushiony in the sky since she went up there and started fluffing them up.

she had many litters, and after arriving into my home, she enjoyed a calm half a decade of retirement. eleven years isn't a long time for a cat, but I like to think it's more than most get in her predicament. we had to remove her teefs due to an infection, move to an all-soft-food diet, and take extra care not to run into that silly tongue hanging out as a result. I'm not sure if she would have lived more years or less without me swooping her into my arms, but I like to think it's the former. and that it was her own choices that made that possible.

I loved not just the warmth she spilled into my heart, but the very real being behind her eyes. the interior life of this impossibly small idiot who made it her life's mission to cuddle every living thing. I would sometimes look at her contended face squished against my thigh, gently vibrating from a deceptively strong purr drive, and I would wonder. just how can any form of life possibly hope to aspire to something more than this, something purer or kinder than a simple yearning for quiet togetherness. why greatness? why is goodness not enough?

chichi was very good. she made me better, too. she greeted death as she lived life, with dignity, calm, and relentless biscuits. I'll never forget cradling her head as we drove to the final vet appointment. I was in the left back seat, she was lying down in her bed on the right side, and her body was too weak to move. but her eyes were darting, inquisitive, curious. I lifted her noggin and gently cupped it from behind to guide her gaze upwards. dappled lights danced on the window as we approached the clinic, and I could see them reflect in her eyes like stars. we parked the car, and her side of the door opened.

right as she was about to get picked up for her final on-foot transit, I saw her squeeze out one last pancake. simply built different.

I love you pancake monster. I'll try to be okay and remember you fondly. I would say you'd hate the gauche etsy urn I picked out for your ashes, but you hated nothing. you contained only startdust and love.

I hope to feel you again sometime.

[s3asons]

——————

Goku scowled at a nearby poster, the familiar face sending him decades back, the poster old despite the number of times I’d been replaced.

Goku stared at the poster a bit longer, the bounty being worth a fair amount of money, enough to help him settle down in a town, and finally find some stability in this dry land.

Living in a food desert was ridiculous, but avoiding another bounty was easy in a place like this. Though, it seems Vegeta was still involving himself in some sort of trouble. Goku should've known his promise was barren.

After all, he was never the kind to promise in the first place.

Goku nibbled on his bottom lip in thought, debating whether or not he should search for the man, the bounty hovering over his head was worth more than Goku could ever imagine.

He crossed his arms, deciding he'd drink on it, walking into a nearby tavern, the reek of old rum and whiskey tickling at his nose.

He sat down at the farthest stool, paying for his drink right away, a simple glass of rum being enough to indulge his senses, and maybe heighten his mind.

The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to rage, he still wasn't over the betrayal, and he didn't think he'd ever be able to let it go.

Eventually, he'd marched out of the tavern, deciding that any longer inside would make him reek of liquor, a smell he despised.

As the sun set, he began his search, he knew Vegeta wasn't dumb enough to roam the desert during the day, there was no way he hadn't seen the bounty over his head.

Goku liked to tell himself he knew Vegeta better than himself, but he didn't know if he could assume that anymore, after that spring, he saw the man again, vouching to never search for him again.

Yet here he was, nearly two years later, searching for him in the places where they'd caused mischief.

Goku tsked at his horse, sprinting through the dry lands, the tumbleweeds occasionally rolling past, a custom Goku had grown familiar with.

He secretly wondered what Vegeta could've possibly done to get such a huge bounty over his head, though he felt stupid even asking himself that question, as Vegeta was the worse of the two.

As nightfall approached, and the moon grew full, Goku’s eyes fell low, reaching a junkyard, a perfect place to set camp, he yawned, hopping off his horse, the surrounding area making him feel strangely squeamish.

He tied his horse around to a nearby sign and began setting up for the night, a campfire for light, and a tent and sleeping bag to sleep in, rinsing his hands and mouth before he laid to rest for a while.

The night grew silent, and when early dawn arrived he whined at the scattering sound, angry that a disturbing sound had awoken him and not Mother Nature itself.

He reached for his pistol, rushing out of his tent in search of whatever was lurking, his eyes adjusted to the sudden dawn, the warm sunrise feeling like a sick lie waiting to swallow him, and although he'd been searching for him, he didn't want to see him.

“Kakarot.”

Goku aimed his gun at the man's head, clenching his jaw, ignoring the ache and anger in his chest.

“Kakarot— you? Did you get out?”

And oh that made him grow even more frustrated, the thought of who was supposedly his “friendly rival” or whatever they were to each other: asking such a ridiculous question.

“No thanks to you.”

Vegeta's brows furrowed, taking a step forward, attempting to make amends, by standing his ground, refusing to look small or feel small.

“Kakarot. Hey, I told you, you misunderstood, it wasn't like that at all.”

“Really? Seriously, leaving me to rot in prison for your mistake, your crime, when you swore- you'd come back to get me out?” Goku’s gun clicked, and Vegeta's face grew expressionless.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Are you aware of the 500 grand bounty that's located in every single nearby town?”

Vegetas face scrunched up in frustration.

“So what now you're gonna kill me for a few bucks?”

“Who said I had to kill you?”

“Kaka—”

“How does life in prison sound ”Prince Vegeta”? Does it sound appealing? Is that sentence familiar to you?”

“I already told you it was a big misunderstanding. Kakarot, I was on my way back.”

“Over a year later than your initial promise.”

“I had, business to tend to.”

“What business? The flocks of gangs who framed me with your crime?”

Goku unclicked his gun, placing it on the hook on his boot, he took a single step, keeping his eyes on Vegeta as he dug for his ropes.

“Hold out your hands.”

“What?”

“Just do it!”

Vegeta held out his wrists, which Goku immediately rushed to tie the rope secure around his wrists, he hooked the remainder of the rope to the saddle of his horse, his face growing expressionless as he packed up his things and before he could let Vegeta speak again he'd already climbed his horse and begun the long journey back to the sheriff's office.

Vegeta walking closely behind, dragged along, playing stubborn, refusing to walk quickly, resulting in a painful sting to his wrists.

“Are you turning me in?”

“I haven't made up my mind yet.”

The silence after that was agonizing, the only evident sound being the click of his horse's hoofs, and the gushing sound of the desert winds, he pretended he couldn't hear the complaining that came from Vegeta's lips, allowing himself to succumb to a stubborn resentment. He hasn't decided whether or not he was still hurt.

“Kakarot.”

“What.”

“Loosen these up.”

“No.”

“Kakarot.”

“I said no.”

“At least let me ride on the back of the horse.”

“There's no room.”

“Yes, there is.”

“No there isn't.”

“Kakarot!”

Goku brought his horse to a stop, the agonizing hours of hearing Vegeta complain were driving him nuts, the strange familiarity of it, the horrible sound of his complaining— all it gave him was fury.

Goku sighed, clicking for his horse to turn at an intersection, in search of camp, once they'd arrived Vegeta tried to make it a thing to be allowed to be untied, Goku ignored him, knowing fully well that if Vegeta wanted out of the ropes he could've freed himself.

He was more than fully capable of doing so.

“Where are we?”

“Hell.”

Vegeta scoffed, sitting on a scrapped log, hissing at the mosquitos, complaining about them still lingering despite the fall already being evident in the environment.

“You still act like a big baby I see.”

“Says the one hissing at mosquitos.”

The silence grew loud, it was taunting, to both Vegeta and Goku, being in each other's presence was so unfamiliar, yet so familiar, and Goku couldn't tell if he was okay with that or not.

“Kakarot.”

“What.”

“I'm sorry.”

Goku scoffed, ignoring the other man's words, making it a mission to set up for the late night, ignoring the tension in the air that was driving him insane.

Vegeta stayed silent for a moment, watching Goku from the corner of his eye, the scruffed clothes and spiky hair reminding him of the past before he ruined it all.

“Are you going to turn me in?

“I don't know.”

“Kakarot.”

“I don't know! Shut up.”

Goku looked up from his task for a moment, looking at the man with a stressed expression. “Why'd you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Oh come on Vegeta! You know what? Nevermind. I don't wanna know.”

“I did come back for you. I did.”

“Yeah right.”

“I got involved with some nasty people— Kakarot I didn't have a choice. I need you to realize that I didn't have a choice! The prison was safer than the city. It was safe. The prison was safer than anywhere I was.”

“Screw that! I'm fully capable of surviving without your pity.”

Goku scoffed, as he sat on a log across from Vegeta, fighting the urge to rage and throw a few punches at the man.

“The loan sharks would've killed you.”

“They could've killed you.”

The tension in the air felt tight, making Goku frustrated, whether it was sexual or not.

“Did you drink?”

“What? Yeah? That's irrelevant.”

“Kakarot.”

Vegeta tore through the ropes, placing them beside him, awaiting Goku's response.

“Are you going to turn me in?”

“No.”

Within seconds Vegeta was walking towards Goku, making the gravity around them feel thicker, Goku took a step back, glaring at the man.

“Fuck off.”

Vegeta ignored him, clasping his lower jaw, his thumb slightly digging into his chin, forcing the other face towards his.

Within seconds he had pressed his lips against the other in a hungry kiss, in which in response, Goky shoved him off, glaring at the man who had read his mind.

It wasn't long before he'd taken a step back towards the other, ignoring the familiar ache Vegeta’s face gave him, their lips met in a desperate hungry kiss, almost like they were trying to make up for the loss that was the last two years.

They both stumbled, a loss of balance contributing to the extreme closeness, of their current situation. Vegeta pulled away to get a good look at Goku’s face, to which in response to his sultry expression, he only met him with a deeper kiss, trying to ignore the chills that ran down his spine as the other arched into his touch.

And all he could think about now was claiming him as his yet again, and taking him to bed to make up for the lost time.

———

He he he, I know this isn't MHA related but someone held me at gunpoint to post this even though it was a gift from my soul but heh, i guess I'm just too good!

Anyways, will attempt to wrote MHA related soon, buh bye!

[malikaidith]

I'm from watching Woman of the Hour and it brings to light the devastating reality that, for many women, a sense of physical and emotional safety is often out of reach, especially in their encounters with men. It's heart-wrenching that women constantly have to worry about their safety in the most ordinary situations, hoping that an interaction with a man won’t end with them getting hurt, manipulated, or even killed. Watching this film, you're faced with a blunt, uncomfortable truth: that women often navigate life with a lingering sense of dread, a hope that every man they meet will turn out to be "safe," but always carrying the terrible weight of possibility that he won’t be. It reveals how, in these situations, women are forced to read every shift in body language, every change in tone, every uncomfortable glance, constantly calculating how to respond so they can make it home alive. The awareness of an energy shift, of a moment when a man’s demeanor turns from kind to cold, or when a friendly conversation starts feeling forced and tense, is a brutal reality. Women feel that change instinctively, and the unease can quickly transform from discomfort into fear, knowing that the wrong word, the wrong look, or the wrong reaction could set off a chain of events that end in violence. It's a tragic and exhausting experience, one that's deeply ingrained in the female experience.The fact that women feel pressure to "entertain" men, to always appear sweet, polite, or funny, is itself exhausting, often feeling more like survival than simple social interaction. It's heartbreaking that so many women find themselves in situations where they have to be agreeable, even when it’s uncomfortable, because showing irritation or anger could be dangerous. They might go as far as to sleep with someone simply because he’s "nice," or out of pity, feeling they owe it to him to avoid confrontation, and because they have been conditioned to see politeness as a form of safety.

The concept of the "friend zone" has often been wielded as a tool of emotional pressure, shaping a narrative where men feel entitled to romantic or sexual interest from women simply because they’ve been "nice" or "supportive." It’s as if the term was created to frame kindness and friendship as some kind of down payment on a relationship. For some men, the "friend zone" suggests that a woman’s friendship alone isn't enough and that, if she doesn’t eventually “pay back” his kindness with romance or intimacy, she’s somehow wronging him. This idea implies a transactional approach to relationships, where the efforts made to be close to a woman such as acts of kindness, companionship, or attention,..are seen as investments that ought to yield a "reward."

The "friend zone" narrative creates a damaging mindset, one that can foster resentment and blame against women for setting boundaries or valuing a man’s friendship without romantic interest. It suggests that by not reciprocating feelings, women are “leading men on” or being ungrateful, when in reality, they’re simply respecting their own feelings and agency. The pressure this creates is unfair, reducing a woman’s worth to her willingness to return affection, regardless of her own emotions, and dismissing the validity of any friendship that isn’t rooted in romance or sexual attraction.

This concept reinforces the notion that women "owe" men something for being present in their lives, which can be deeply manipulative and guilt-inducing. It suggests that if a woman is not romantically interested, she’s rejecting more than just romantic involvement, she’s failing in her role as a friend. The expectation underlying the "friend zone" myth pressures women to question their boundaries and can lead them to feel guilty or even question their own self-worth. It’s a framework that shifts blame onto women for simply following their feelings, which in reality, should be met with respect and understanding, rather than frustration or entitlement. The "friend zone" is ultimately a term that devalues genuine friendship and imposes unfair expectations on women, making it all the more crucial to challenge and dismantle this narrative.

Watching this movie, you get to see a woman facing a life-threatening situation with Rodney Alcala(he's serial killer btw) She could sense the threat looming over her, yet she managed to escape by performing a heartbreaking act of self-preservation. ( I literally cried in this scene..the way she told him "it's okay baby. We are okay" after finding herself SA'd and bleeding and having wounds all over..)By being "sweet," keeping things calm, and even comforting him, she put his emotions first, all while fearing for her life, just to buy herself a chance to survive. That desperation, that terrifying choice to soothe someone even after they’ve committed unimaginable violence, is a survival tactic no one should ever have to use.

The film underscores just how exhausting and painful it is to carry this kind of fear, knowing that a man could become violent at any moment. To be forced into adopting a "safe" demeanor when threatened—acting as if everything is fine to keep the peace—becomes a tragic survival mechanism. It’s heartbreaking that many women have to live like this, balancing on a razor’s edge, feeling like their words and actions are constantly under scrutiny, needing to be careful, needing to be "nice." And it brings a painful realization to the surface: being a woman often means carrying an internalized set of survival strategies simply to coexist in a world that doesn’t always value or protect women’s safety and autonomy.

Watching this movie ,you see the courage and resilience women have to summon just to navigate their lives, but it’s a courage born of necessity, of the hard reality that, for many women, safety is never guaranteed. It’s a haunting, deeply tragic insight into how hard and, at times, terrifying it can be to simply exist as a woman. Anna Kendrick really played her role well, all women did. Then the producers and directors did well by not going so deep into the graphics. I would never get why some feel the need to display these act of violents like SA or torture. It's so unnecessary to show the viewers such. Sometimes I feel I'm losing my mind and my heart is breaking and I just wanna let out a blood curdling scream every single time I think about what happens to women. The injustice.

It’s devastating to witness how the justice system and law enforcement have, time and again, failed women by not addressing violence and abuse against them with the urgency and seriousness they deserve. For countless women, reporting incidents of rape, domestic violence, or even feeling unsafe doesn’t lead to protection or justice but often to dismissive attitudes, skepticism, and even blame. Far too often, women are questioned, doubted, or shamed for coming forward, as if they’re responsible for the crimes committed against them. This dismissive culture within law enforcement can make women feel as though their pain, fear, and trauma are trivial, as if their safety simply doesn’t matter as much. It’s heartbreaking and infuriating that cases of assault and abuse are frequently minimized or dismissed, leaving many women unprotected and without a path toward healing or justice.

[manicrouge]

Episode Five: Bear the Burden

[𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛] || [𝙰𝚄: 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚢 𝙱𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜] || 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

[𝙳𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍]: 10/09/24

[𝙰𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝]: Blake faces the consequences of his actions whilst you face the consequences of your association with John Price.

[𝙲𝚠]: violence, non-con touching (nothing sexual), blood/ gore (nothing too bad).

[𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝]: 8.4k

[𝙰/𝙽]: I am so sorry this took so long... I hope this makes up for my absence !! Also please let me know if I've missed and warnings.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Please don't post my work anywhere else without my permission !!

He lurks like a virus, you find.

One you can’t quite shake. His annoying tendencies and loud mouth make him a villain – you can’t perceive him as anything other; whatever your mind attempts to conjure up always leads you in circles until you eventually find yourself back at your original assessment.

You're staring at a pretty woman sitting on a throne, although you cannot take your eyes off her eyes. They're haunting – primal. And despite her well-kept golden hair and the richness of the clothing surrounding her, none of the jewels she is adorned in can distract you from the rubies in her eyes.

Despite your assessment of the piece, you cannot help but sense his grin as it radiates like a toxin, infecting the area surrounding the pair. 

It’s early and the general hubbub of the city is left behind you. And strangely, you find that the gallery's silence leaves you with a profound emptiness.

The Hindsight’s loudness as proclaimed by your old boss, was the one thing that was supposed to deter you from working there, and yet, you miss the calamity and feel the urge to rush out the doors all to hear the drunken babbles of the patrons you’ve become so accustomed to during the time you’ve spent there. 

‘It’s quiet today,’ Graves says, turning his head slightly to glance at you, ‘you’re quiet too. Somethin' wrong?’

‘You’re not talking,’ you remark, looking down at the small purse in your hands, ‘there's been no mention of the guns. I haven’t heard a thing… I- I don’t think they took them.’

He scoffs. ‘That’s what they want you to think.’ 

You shake your head, your hands tightening around the handles of your small bag. ‘You told me that Ky– that Garrick said that–’

‘Oh,' he begins, 'we’re on a first-name basis with them now, ay?’ Graves chuckles, ‘I hope you’re not growing a soft spot for them, ‘need I remind you that they’re criminals?’ 

‘I know they are,’ you say, although your voice is unsteady as you profess their sins. ‘But I don’t think they have the guns.’ 

‘Then who has them?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ you shrug, ‘I’ve heard that the communists are planning on having a protest at the train station this afternoon. They’re demanding fairer pay and treatment… they think the government has abandoned them after the war.’ 

‘They made it home,’ Graves said, ‘they should be happy with that. The world isn't gonna fall to its knees for them; everyone’s lost something or someone. They’re being greedy.’ 

His words leave you thinking of Blake. The man is much too big for his personality, although you suppose he needs the extra space to fit the heart inside his chest. Greed isn’t how you’d describe a man like him and the war took more from him than most people; you can see it in his eyes. 

‘The capital keeps this place running, same as the States. We lose that, we lose order – fall into whatever Russia has landed itself in. It’s unruly, unjust, and, quite frankly, a mess.’ 

You hold your tongue, fearing you’ll be guilty of speaking as your heart compels you to say, settling in the spot you’ve been standing in as you shift your feet, swallowing your heart.

‘Yes,’ you mumble.

‘I’ll look into it, have some police on the lookout. Speaking of which, I heard the owner of the pharmacy was attacked. Does that have something to do with Price?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ you speak truthfully, biting down on your lip, ‘I have to go.’ 

‘Your shift doesn’t start for another hour,’ he says, looking down at his watch. 

‘I have nothing else to say to you,’ you answer, turning on your heel, and heading towards the exit. 

You’re stopped as his hand clasps your upper arm. ‘If I find out you have been lying, Mr Churchill won’t be pleased.’ 

‘I’m not,’ you answer, ‘now let go of me.’ 

‘Promise me,’ he says. 

‘Promise you?’ you scoff.

He takes offence to that clearly as he scrunches his nose up, and as he speaks again, you note that he is gritting his teeth – addressing you as though you have become the next target on his list. ‘That you’re not lying to me. You’re a good girl, it’d kill me to know you’re falling for their trap.’ 

Whatever he's talking about you're convinced is the byproduct of paranoia. No sane man ponders that hard and comes to such a demented conclusion.

Your stomach twists and you yank your arm out of his. ‘I’m being honest with you,’ you say, 'not giving him any more of your time as you rush towards the museum's exit. 'I don't appreciate your tone with me, I advise you fix it.'

'I don't appreciate your secrecy.'

'It's not secrecy,' you breathe, 'rather doubt.'

He sticks up his nose at your confession, turning his back to you as though to resume looking at the painting the pair of you were looking at but a moment before the outburst.

'He has the guns.'

'And what proof do you have of that?' He falls silent. 'You have no right to blame me for having reasonable doubt. Garrick had no idea what you were talking about.'

'People can lie,' he says firmly.

'I know,' you insist, 'I'm not a child, I understand how the world works. Stop treating me as though I know nothing.'

He grumbles something under his breath, shaking his head. 'So what do you want me to do? Pack up shop and tell ol' Churchy boy that his guns are gone because you think Garrick is telling the truth?'

His condescending tone is enough to have your heartbeat ringing in your ears. You ball your fists and chew so hard on the inside of your cheek that you almost bite through it.

'You keep doing your job, I'll have the boys raid the house of a few known commies, and see if they know anything about it. But if I find nothing, I'm meeting John Price and asking him in person.'

You know whether or not you're okay with what he is saying to you is pointless and you struggle to contend with what you acknowledge to be your personal bias against the man who has invited you to the races with him. If you speak now, you fear it will simply be word vomit – an attempt to justify a man beyond redemption (supposedly).

—

A profound concept is what you are to him and as he spies you, he’s unable to shake the thought that, for the first time in his life, he is doing something truly wrong.

His eyes feel too dirty to look at you and the occasional line in his peripheral vision acts like a clump of muck on you. He blinks quickly to chase it away, of course, he does, he wouldn’t leave you with the burden of his truth for longer than a few seconds. 

You’re grinning at the man you’re talking to – he’s much too drunk, wobbling a little as you converse with him. The conversation is not secret either; he has a gob that could replace a foghorn and a laugh that could give a gunshot a run for its money. Your responses, however, remain a mystery as you sit; you’re much too gentle to return his drunken enthusiasm.

You eventually lift your head and your eyes lock for the first time since you poured his drink. You offer the man a smile before heading away from him and approaching Price. 

‘You want a refill?’ you chirp. 

A voice as sweet as the song of a bird, he thinks, nodding his head as he holds his glass up. ‘Fill me up, love.’ 

The cork in the top of the bottle squeals as you open it, pouring more drink into his cup. ‘You look tired, is everything okay?’ 

Your question is one he wishes he could answer, only, he doesn’t want to bear you with the burden of what his morning will entail. The request he had been provided with the day prior has been weighing on him monstrously and he’s left offering you a lopsided smile as he shakes his head, downing the drink you have just poured him in the blink of an eye.

‘Had a bad night's sleep. Nothing a drink an’ smoke won’t sort.’ Your skepticism at his claim is charming and he smiles. ‘Really, love, I’m fine. Don't worry about me.’ 

‘Do you get much sleep?’ you ask. ‘It’s just… I’ve heard a lot of people – especially men who were in the war struggle to sleep.’ 

‘I sleep fine,’ he says abruptly, nearly choking on his tongue, ‘just excited about the races.’ Your face lights up with the mention of the races. ‘You found a dress yet?’ 

‘You only asked me last night,’ you exclaim, ‘I haven’t had the time yet.’ 

‘Well that’s no good, is it?’ he says, ‘you can have a day off later this week – go get yourself something nice.’ 

‘Who will run the pub?’ 

‘Sure Johnny will do just fine until you get back.’ 

‘All the liquor’ll be gone by the time I get back,’ you laugh. 

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says, glancing at his watch.

Despite a peculiar force keeping him seated in his chair, he pushes against it, forcing himself up and away from you. He catches the furrowing of your brows as he gets up to leave and a part of him wishes to stay all to engage in an empty conversation with you.

‘Keep this place safe whilst I’m gone, ay? Any issues, tell one of the boys about it.’ 

You grin. 'I can take care of myself, John, don't you worry about me.'

As though taking a page out of his book, you speak with a mocking gruffness in your tone. If you were anyone else, he very well would have taken insult to the words you're speaking to him. Only, he can't help but let out a small chuckle.

'Heard you loud and clear, sweetheart,' he says, not missing the bruising scarlet on your cheeks as he offers you one more smile before turning on his heel and heading towards the exit of the pub.

—

‘Simon Riley,’ Graves addresses the man as he slowly stalks the shadows in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the brooding man’s face. Only, his disappointment is measurable in the curve of his mouth as he catches the mask covering his face. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ he confesses with a smile, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants, and shifting on his feet. 

Simon simply stares at him, not bothering to even muster up the strength to blink. Graves hums, filling the void of the silence. The man’s trying to intimidate him; he’s seen that old tired tactic one too many times to fall for it. Especially from a man like Simon. 

‘I’ve been trying to get a hold of that boss of yours. Slippery man, ain’t he?’

Simon keeps his mouth shut. 

Graves lets out a short laugh. ‘Not the talkative type, are ya?’

‘If you were tryin’ to get a hold of him, you wouldn’t have beat Kyle,’ he firmly says, crossing his arms across himself, rolling his neck seemingly in an attempt to cling to composure. 

Still, Graves has never really been one to threat in the face of evil, rather, he compromises – plays their game. That’s how you get through to them; he’s done it throughout his career and he’s sure it wouldn’t keep him from succeeding now, even if he is in a foreign land- nothing has stopped him before and he doesn’t intend for anything to stop him now. 

‘I wanted to scope the area out before addressing the boss,’ Graves answers. 

‘Y’ scared of Price,’ he says, ‘cause, if you weren’t then you woulda just went straight to him instead of spying on one of his workers.’

‘Kyle is one of his closest workers, is he not?’ he responds, narrowing his eyes, ‘don’t tell me how to do my fuckin’ job, kid. I imagine I could teach you a thing or two about it.’

‘No,’ Simon says, shifting as he moves slightly closer to him, ‘you took one look at whatever files you got from the government and decided that he was the easiest out of all of us to go for,’ he corrects strictly, narrowing his eyes. ‘I’m not a fuckin’ idiot, and neither are any of the lads, so don’t try an’ play me as one.’ 

‘Anyone in the right mind would believe that you are threatening me right now.’ 

‘I am,’ he states blatantly, uncaring for the consequences. ‘You gonna beat me like you beat Kyle, hey?’ 

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he says with a grin, all to burst into a fit of laughter, ‘I know I’m not fooling you, Simon. And, if you want my honest answer, I would say that you would just have to wait and see.’ 

The man hums, his unhappiness as prevalent as a gigantic pimple on someone's chin. ‘You’re here for the guns. Not for us. Keep it that way.’ 

‘And why would I do that?’ 

He’s silent for a while, his eyes dragging up and down Phillip’s face before he eventually relents, his eyes narrowing to form crescents. ‘Cause, otherwise, you’ll be goin’ back home in a box.’ 

‘I didn’t think men like you would have the decency to even send me home,’ he says with a laugh, raising his hand and bringing it against his chest, ‘I’m touched, Simon, truly touched.’ 

‘Don’t want the blood of someone like you spoiling the dirt around here.'

He leaves without another word, not stopping even after Graves calls his name. So, the man stands and observes his pathing, finding that he is walking right towards The Hindsight. Rolling his eyes, he crosses his arms over himself.

Wonder if he speaks to her like that.

—

Simon Riley is a peculiar case, one that cannot quite be answered. Every time you take a glance at the man, you're left more confused than the last time as questions swirl around in your head.

'You wanna ask me something?' he asks, startling you.

Slowly, you turn to see him staring at you, the glass of whiskey he's nursing being engulfed by his hands. Never had you ever seen a man so big in stature. He's similar to Blake in a way, only, quieter. Whatever troubles he's having are reserved for his mind.

'Sorry,' you mumble out.

Much to your surprise, he shakes his head, beckoning you to approach him. You're cautious at first, acting as though he is a stray dog who appears as though he's going to snap at any moment.

'John told me about the chain around the door last night. You okay?'

There's something in his tone which makes the darker inflexions soften as he addresses you and you're unable to hide the smile that forms on your face as you swallow down any prior doubts you had about the man.

'I'm fine,' you say with a smile, 'nothing out of the ordinary for places like this, I'm sure.'

He shakes his head. 'Yeah,' he breathes, 'Johnny's gone round to ask people if anyone's seen the fella who had something to do with it today. We know it's Fisher's group — just don't know who's in charge now.'

'I saw John this morning,' you say, 'he seemed like he was in a rush when he realised the time.'

'Don't worry about him,' Simon says, pulling his mask up to expose his mouth, taking a sip of his whiskey. 'Still acts like a Captain even though we're outta the war,' he snorts.

'Old habits die hard, I guess,' you say, grabbing the whiskey bottle, 'you want a refill?'

—

The pair walk side by side as though there is not a fault in the world, and for a while, Price allows himself to believe that. It’s kind to let the mind rest for a while, he remembers remarking that during their time in the trenches. It’s just a shame that Blake's mind never seems to stop. He’s walking with his hat in his hand, scrunched up in his hands as he stares at the ground, his head occasionally bobbing as he listens to John.

Life is greedy. But the business is bloodthirsty.

And it’s something he has come to terms with, at least in his execution. Admittedly, the difference between being a soldier and a businessman – in terms of the business he is in – is very little. His fingers are so used to wielding a weapon that he wonders if his hands would still close similarly if he had never been exposed to violence. But he’s a violent man and always has been one. And everyone sees him for what he is. 

‘I was talkin’ to my lady this morning,’ Blake says, the rocks below them crunching as they tread closer to the water. ‘She’s real worried about me. A- And I’m sorry.’ 

His eyes steer clear of the man beside him as he spies two figures obscured by the fog of the early morning. Despite such, the pointed brim of their hats is blatant and even causes the outline of their figures to appear slightly rough around the edges. He spies danger in their exterior and he wonders if Blake sees it too. 

‘You see those men,’ he asks, motioning towards the evasive figures. 

‘Yes, Cap’n.’ 

He answers like a child answers a parent.

‘You killed an important man, Blake,’ he says, ‘their brother.’

‘I didn’t mean to, you know that, Cap'n.’ 

‘You think they care why you did it?’ Price asks, furrowing his brow, ‘scrambled mind or well one, it doesn’t matter. You killed one of theirs.’ 

‘I- I know I did and am sorry–’

‘You upset the wrong people, Blake,’ Price says, looking across the water at the two old men perched on the edge of old discarded crates. 

The closer they get to the men, the more he can see of them.

One of them takes a puff from the cigar between their lips, the grey smoke whipping to the left with a harsh breeze. There’s the stench of the rotten water below them, reeking of sewage and whatever else has been dumped in there (John might have an idea, but he would never tell).

The world is a state, he knows that as his hand firmly grasps the gun sitting at his waist. Blake stands with his back to him, keeping his eyes trained on the billowing smoke from the factory, a short breath escaping him as he hears his Captain cock the gun. 

‘I- I didn’t mean to, Cap’n,’ Blake says, glancing over his shoulder briefly, just long enough to capture John’s eyes. 'You know I didn't mean to... it's just me mind. There's something wrong with me.'

‘I know you didn’t,’ he said, rubbing his mouth with his free hand, ‘I know you didn’t, but you’re causing’ more and more trouble all because you can’t get your shit together, ey? And how does that look for me?’ he asks, ‘I’m your boss and I’m supposed to have all the power in the world and I still can’t control you, an’ look where that’s got us now.’

‘Cap’n, please, I- I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again, please.’

His pleading leaves him dizzy as he addresses the two men standing on the opposite side of the dock awaiting what he has promised. The business is terrible, he concludes.

Even the war was easier than this.

‘I- I don’t wanna die, I got a little girl at home an’… I wanna see her grow, I wanna be there for her when she needs me.’ Blake sobs, reduced to an infant himself. ‘She can’t sleep if am not there, Cap’n. A girl needs her daddy to read her a bedtime story – she needs me to chase away whatever monsters are in the shadows. And if am not there, how am I supposed to do that? She needs me.’ 

‘Are they her monsters or yours, Blake?’ 

The sobs escaping him calm for a moment and he feels his heart breaking in the silence. ‘You’re a good man. But they don’t know that and they don’t want to know that. I can't force them to listen cause you killed one of theirs.’ 

He bows his head, not caring to look John in the eye. He’s quite sure he can hear his heart pounding from where he is standing and the gun in his hand feels heavy. Too heavy. 

His big hands are balled into fists hanging on either side of him and in a small voice, Blake mumbles, ‘look after me girls f’r me, yeah, Cap’n?’ 

It’s so weak, something he expected to leave the mouth of a child – not a grown man. He manages out a grunt as he readies his finger on the trigger, sucking in a breath. To offer him a response seems unjust, there’s nothing he can say as of that moment as he’s all too aware of the eyes watching him. 

He lands with a thud as the sound of his pistol rings out around the yard, his body falling onto a boat passing by. His pistol smokes as he moves his hand to station it back to his side. The men sitting across the window offer him a half-assed nod as they push themselves up off the crates. They offer him nothing else: no condolences, no ‘thank you’ for what he’s just done.

No.

Instead, they head on their merry way, leaving Price to watch as the boat drifts down the canal, red splayed across the back of Blake's head. 

The sight leaves him feeling empty, like a de-gloved puppet. He has no purpose, simply sworn to a haphazard purgatory until the next time his violence is needed.

—

He's tired and he knows it.

Truthfully, he doesn't understand why he has even entertained your suggestion and the rudeness you exerted in the gallery has left him with a bruised conscience as he stands outside of the home, listening to the littered curses of the residents as they are pulled outside.

Tapping his foot against the ground, his mind is taken hostage by a woman across the street. Her blonde hair is tied neatly into a bun against her head and she seems much too disturbed by the fabric of her skirt. She walks with a sneer — uncommon for a woman as, typically, they know anything other than a smile is sure to make them an outcast.

And still, he's intrigued by her.

He's sure he knows her from somewhere.

And then he sees him. John Price, in person. He's walking with his typical arrogance: head held high, hands behind his back walking as though he's still in the position he favoured. The entirety of the man is a waste, he concluded. Nothing is redeeming about him and his desire to revisit the life he lost is simply pitiful to observe.

The woman he approaches looks at him and they share a few words before Graves notes that her eyes catch his own for a split second before turning back to Price. It's that that ultimately provides him with the go-ahead to approach the pair of them, uncaring for the commotion he's caused in the household behind him.

So, he crosses the street, putting on the brightest grin he can muster as he proceeds towards the pair of them. He doesn't need to be beside Price for the man to turn around and address him. Immediately, he's greeted by a casual coolness.

'Mr—'

'Detective Graves,' Price cuts off, narrowing his eyes. 'I've heard you've been looking for me.'

'That I have,' he nods, a smile plastered on his face.

'And to get my attention... you beat one of my men?'

'He wasn't cooperating.'

The woman beside Price pipes up. 'That's not what I heard.'

Her tone is thick and professional, and she seems to be just as much of a cynic as he is. 'Your men left him bloody and half-conscious in an alleyway. The barmaid had to help him inside,' Price says, 'I wouldn't call that not cooperating. If you wanted to speak to me, you could have asked me. But you didn't.'

'Forgive me,' he says through a huff, 'for not wanting to trust a criminal,' he adds, 'but I have reason to believe that you're the man who took a shipment of guns.'

'I don't know what you're talking about,' he says, 'an' Gaz told us about that. You wanna work with us.'

'That I do. If you're not a guilty man then it should be no problem.'

'No,' he says, 'not after how you treated him. You can take your deal and shove it right up your arse,' he says in an all too polite manner. 'I want no part in whatever it is you're doing.'

'But you'll gladly get your hands dirty for Blake, eh?' Graves asks.

The woman standing next to Price shoots him a confused look, her thin eyebrows bunching together in the centre of her forehead as her mouth hangs open ever so slightly. Rather than answer, Price places his hands on the woman's shoulder and begins to usher her away.

Graves watches as he does so, resting his hands on his lips with a grin. 'I look forward to our proper meeting, John!'

—

The coldness of the night seeps between the cracks of the pub as you ready yourself for your walk home in the dark. You give it little thought as you get ready to leave; it’s no different to any other night, aside from the one where John walked you home, of course.

You can’t seem to escape the thought of last night, and even though it was a measly day ago, you find yourself grinning at the idea of the pair of you walking side by side. Neither of you said anything, only offering a quiet ‘thank you,’ and ‘good night,’ when you reached your doorstep and left him.

And, as you’re turning off the lights inside the pub, you find there’s an ache in your chest that the pair of you didn’t fill the void with some form of conversation, although, you’re charmed that the pair of you could walk in silence and not feel the need to speak. 

Not even Graves can give you that. And he isn't the criminal.

It’s odd and you feel like a schoolgirl again, bumbling and stuttering over yourself while daydreaming about the bad boy in school. It’s corny, you know it is (that’s the worst part, really), and it certainly isn’t what you’re here to do. You’re here to find the guns and nothing else. The weasel your way into the mind of John Price and crack the code of what exactly has happened to the weaponry. Yet, you’d be a fool to deny the thudding of your heart within your chest every time you heard his voice. 

The pub is submerged in darkness as you shuffle towards the doors with a sigh, your bag slung across your shoulder containing the coins John offered you earlier today. There’s so much you could buy with the money he’s given you and you’re embarrassingly excited about the dress you’re going to get, even though you’re unsure as to what you’re going to purchase at this very moment. All you know is you’re dressing to impress, especially, if you’re going to be the woman who he has on his arm for the entire event. 

As you pull the first door open, you close it firmly behind you, locking the latch at the top of the doors, and pushing them to ensure they’re both securely shut. You nod to yourself when the door doesn’t budge, proceeding to head out of the door stationed in front of you.

As you push the door open, you are still at the sound of footsteps to the left of you, slowly craning your head in the direction in which you hear them. Still, you keep a tight hold of the bar on the inside of the door as you do so. There’s a shadow which covers your frame and as you slowly start to pull the door to a close, you jump as a hand plunges from out of the darkness, taking hold of your forearm. 

You’re pulled away from the door, a short breath escaping you as your forearms are grabbed. You stare the shadow right in the eyes, wincing as their hold on you grows tighter. You open your mouth with the intent of screaming to catch someone's attention, as, quite frankly, the sudden altercation has left your chest rattling and all your strength after a long day in the Hindsight has been sucked out of you. Only, the man standing before you quickly lets go of your arm, placing his hand over your mouth to keep you from crying out. 

As he cranes his neck towards you, you feel his hot breath on your face as he forces your head backwards against the door, keeping you completely pinned. There’s the faint smell of booze and smoke on his breath and he offers you a grin, showing off his yellow teeth.

Your mouth runs dry as you look at him in the eyes, unable to even move in his hold. The flesh in his hold feels as though it is rotting, and the horrific grimness of this situation dawns upon you.

You’ve never been one to be played as a fool, however, as you look at the grotesque man standing before you, you feel as though you’re about to burst into a fit of tears. You’re exhausted, you’ve had a long shift and all you long for is your bed. Yet, even the universe cannot grant you that one simple pleasure. 

‘I was hopin’ to catch you,’ confesses the man, his leg bouncing as he twitched with a peculiar excitement. ‘You’ve been the talk of the town, y’know? The barmaid. Everyone has been sayin’ how pretty you are and I wanted to see for meself… and they weren’t wrong.’

All you can do is stare as he addresses you as though you’re an apparition. 

‘They’ve said that John Price is real fond of you,’ he says, ‘and you know what’s the best way to get to a man?’ he asks, leaning closer as he lets go of your forearm, still keeping a secure grip on your face.

He beckons his head as you watch his hand disappear into the night. So, in an attempt to keep yourself alive, you slowly shake your head, hoping he’ll leave you be. 

‘Dumb girl – you got the looks but not the wit about you, ain’t that right?’ he laughs, moving closer and closer to you until his forehead is pressed against yours and you have no choice but to look him in the eyes. 

You feel him shift against you, a worrying action as he’s obscuring your view so all you can see are his sharp features and his bloodshot eyes. Your breath is caught in your throat as your mouth runs dry, there’s no sense of security in the eyes of a criminal like him, you know it, and during your fit of panic, you feel your body begin to tremble. He pushes his hand against your mouth harder, forcing your head to press against the glass on the door to the Hindsight.

‘Lemme tell you a little somethin’ about this business,’ he sighs, ‘us men like three things, you take one of them away and… well, you might as well shoot us there and then, yeah?’ 

You feel something blunt press against your throat.

‘Money, power, and our women,’ he claims boldly, ‘take that away from any man and he has nothing. And I don’t intend on keeping you around just cause you’re giving me puppy dog eyes cause you’re a mutt who's in with the wrong crowd.’

If he knew the truth, you’re unsure whether or not he would have changed his tune or if he would remain the same cruel man he is right now. 

'Does it feel good, hm? To work for a fuckin’ scamming lowlife?’ he asks, pulling away from you slightly, ‘bet it feels pretty fuckin’ good, ey? Since you’re choosing to stick around for him, anyway.’ 

An immediacy hits you as you note that you are going to die if you do not do something – anything: your mission would be all for nothing. Your spirit would haunt The Hindsight and an eternity roaming the ale-soaked halls of that pub leaves your blood cold and throat dry. You hear the gun beneath your chin cock.

‘Please,’ you whisper, and he pulls his hand from your mouth, allowing you to catch your breath. ‘Please just let me go; I- I won’t tell anyone anything.’ 

He chuckles, ‘The dead can’t speak, but the living can lie.’ 

A tear rolls down your face as you come to terms with what you’re going to have to do in order to escape him. You’re no killer, you don’t take yourself for one, anyway. Morality always comes first, however, when it’s between the choice of your life and someone else’s, should you really be calculating just how long of a stay you’re going to have in hell? 

You wince at the feeling of the cool metal being pressed under your chin, a burst of adrenaline shooting through you as you lift your leg, driving it right into his crotch. The pressure from around your face is relieved as he staggers backwards whilst you sink your hand into your bag, holding the handle of a blade in your hand before driving it into his stomach. The man grunts, his skin suctioning around the blade – almost pleading to keep the hole you’ve just created plugged up to avoid his immediate death.

However you show little mercy in the eyes of the man you perceive to be the devil, and if you have sinned, you shall address that in the afterlife. 

He falls to the ground, gripping his side and you stand over him, your hand falling from out of your bag as you hold your arms in front of you, teary-eyed. 

‘I- I- I…’ your words waver as you stand,  dropping your hand out of your bag. The gun he held to your throat lays on the ground beside him and you can’t take your eyes off of it. Truthfully, there was no innocence in what the man tried to do to you and you know that justifying his actions will only make you the villain. 

You are not a monster, but you are a murderer. 

The thought hits you like the first lick of light at dawn and you’re blinded by the sight of blood staining your hands. A voice rings from down the road behind you and you take that as your sign to leave. You have little time to rationalize where exactly you’re running to as you find your legs are carrying you before your brain fully processes the fact that you’re moving, resulting in a few clumsy steps as you rush up the road. 

You’re winded by the time you make it to the top of the road, and instead of taking the turn to your house just a few streets away, you stop in front of one of the doors at the top of the street. You intend to knock lightly, knowing the people in the house will not take lightly to such a rude wake-up call, but your trembling fist simulates that of the pound of a bailiff. You knock three times, your fist hovering as you go to do it again, all for the lock on the other side of the door to click. 

Much to your relief, you spy John Price standing at the door. He’s still in his typical business attire, only the top few buttons of his white shirt have been undone. Your eyes well with tears at the sight of him and you fight off the urge to throw yourself into the arms of a criminal as you stare at him with wild eyes.

You’re aware he can see your bloody hand, but he ignores it as he cautiously reaches his hand out to you, acting as though you’re a feral cat. You don’t move, only lightly flinching when you feel his coarse fingertips brush against your chin as he gently moves your head up to get a good view of your neck. 

His face settles from concern to anger as his eyebrows furrow. A tear falls from your eye. ‘I- I’m sorry,’ you croak, ‘I know it’s late a- and–’

‘Don’t be stupid, love,’ he said, wiping away the tear with the pad of his thumb. 

You wait no longer, throwing your arms around him as a sob rips through you. Your rationality tells you one thing: you’re not better than he is now, although, you’re unsure whether or not that is such a bad thing. He may be a criminal in the eyes of the law, but with how he holds you, you wonder what else he is beyond the label. He’s respectful with the way his hands wrap around you, one in your hair, pressing your head into his chest lightly, the smell of a discarded cigar haunting the fabric, whilst his other hand captures the wrist of your bloody hand. 

‘H- He was gonna kill me,’ you weep, your words muffled by his chest. ‘I didn’t know what to do, I- I wanted him away from me but I didn’t want to kill him.’ 

Your confession comes with silence, and you push your face away from his chest, looking up at him as though he is God, awaiting a punishment: eternal damnation.

‘Where is he?’ 

His tone is one of anger, one which desires retribution, a potent hunger which diminishes all signs of humanity.

‘Outside the pub,’ you mumble, holding his shoulders, ‘I- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–’

‘You’ve done nothing wrong,’ he refutes quickly, not giving you a chance to change his mind. 

Leading you inside of the house, he closes the door behind the pair of you, motioning for you to take a seat on the sofa. You do as he says and take a seat, your blood hand staining the fabric of your cream skirt. He pours you a glass of whiskey, holding it out to you. You take it and bring the glass to your lips, taking a small sip. The burning in the back of your throat causes you to wince as the sensation works to tell you that you’re alive: you survived. 

‘I- I was locking up and he grabbed me and… and pushed me up against the door,’ you say dully, ‘he put a gun under my chin, said he was gonna kill me b- because I was associated with you.’ 

John’s face falls at your confession. 

‘I didn’t know what to do. I- I couldn’t think straight and I panicked. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t want to kill him,’ you say, your voice cracking as you bring the glass back up to your mouth. ‘I- I promise I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want to kill him, but it was him… or me.’ He remains silent causing you to look up at him, your eyes creasing as you snivel, ‘I’m a murderer… a monster.’ 

The whiskey sloshes in the cup as it settles on your knee, more tears pouring down your cheeks. You're heaving for your breath, unable to keep your panic at bay. Strings of saliva cling to your lips as they part once more as your conscience seeks to defend itself further. Only, you close your mouth as John pushes himself off of the sofa, kneeling before you as he takes your blood hand in both of his, looking up at you. 

‘You’re not a monster, love,’ he breathes, ‘far from it,’ he adds, letting go of your hand as he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a handkerchief, gently holding your wrist as he begins to clean your hand of blood. ‘I’ve met monsters. You’re nothing of the sort.’

You seek sorrow in his eyes as he wipes the blood away, the tenderness of his action momentarily deceiving you into thinking the pair of you are in your fifteenth year of marriage. In reality, the pair of you are barely friends – strangers.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there.’ 

The word strangers seems cruel.

You let out a small laugh. ‘You weren’t to know.’

He chews on the inside of his mouth like he’s chewing on a stick of gum. ‘Shouldn’t have left you to walk home alone,’ he refutes, shaking his head as he turns your hand over, continuing to wipe away the blood. ‘Especially not after findin’ that on the handle of the pub. That was stupid of me. I’m sorry love.’ 

‘It’s okay,’ you say quietly. 

There’s silence for a while and you have no desire to break it. 

‘Stay here for the night,’ he says, ‘you can have my cot.’ 

It’s as though he's offering you his life. You sense something – it’s exuding from his pores in the dim candlelight, the fire to the right of the pair of you leaving half his face illuminated with orange, specks of white meeting your eye as you stare at him. He seems afraid, whether it is for you or something else, you’re unsure. 

‘Okay,’ you whisper, placing your hand over his with a smile. You close your hand around his, uncaring of any consequence. 

‘Good,’ he says. 

You feel compelled to answer him instead of falling back into silence, mustering up a quaint but firm, ‘It’s not your fault, John.’ 

You spy a brief moment of resentment on his face before it settles as he looks at you with thin lips and glistening eyes. All he can offer you is a curt nod, and you suspect that if he does open his mouth, the likelihood of him becoming reduced to a puddle of tears is startlingly high. There’s a peculiarity about the situation you’ve found yourself in, knowing the details of the man and the words that authorities have chosen to describe him as, criminal, murderer, failure.

If you possessed the paper right now, it would fuel the fire burning beside the pair of you. 

‘I won’t let anythin’ like that happen to you ever again,’ he says, clearing his throat. In spite of his best efforts, the congestion of his tone is blatant and you know better than to blame his smoking habits on the sound. 

‘It’s not your fault.’ 

‘It is,’ he insists, ‘you shouldn’t have blood on your hands. You don’t deserve the burden of it,’ he says, closing his hand around your bloody one, ‘it changes the way your brain works and… well, I don’t want that for you.’ 

‘This isn’t your burden to carry,’ you say, ‘I held the knife, I pierced his flesh. His blood is on my hands.’ 

‘Whose name did he say?’ You bow your head, unable to shake the feeling of guilt. ‘It’s my name that’s deadly, not your actions, love. He wouldn’t have done that to you if you weren’t associated with me.’ 

‘It’s unfair.’ 

‘It’s the truth,’ he says, the tips of his fingers lifting your head so your eyes meet again. ‘I’m used to it, love. Don’t lose sleep over someone like me, yeah?’ 

You ponder your exchange while he leaves you to sit alone with your thoughts for a while. Expressing concern for your safety was one thing, you’re grateful for his words of course you are, however, when you hear the voices of two other men and busy footsteps down the stairs, you choose to nurse your dry mouth with the glass of whiskey he poured you a while ago.

Kyle appears first. Had it not been for the sound of his pounding steps you would have taken the smile he’s giving you at face value – but you know better than to do that. Whilst his anger is not on his face, there’s a potency in his eyes appearing in the form of a minuscule shadow. 

‘Don’t worry, lovie,’ he says firmly, pulling the front door open, looking behind his shoulder as more footsteps fill the room. ‘You’re safe with us.’ 

Disappearing into the darkness of the night, you wonder what sort of sin he is going to commit because of your clumsy hand and desperation to live. Simon Riley is next down the stairs, paying you no mind as he walks through the door frame, nearly having to duck to keep his head from hitting the top of it. The door closes with a slam and you stifle a gasp, the whiskey soaking your upper lip as you bang your teeth against the rim of the glass.

Wincing, you pull your lips off the glass staring teary eyed at the closed door. You’ve never been so emotional in your life, an urgency striking you like a knife to the chest to flee from your vulnerability; to be a damsel in distress is to be everything you have desperately been trying to avoid. And still, when Price appears with a head of ruffled hair, you finish the last of the whiskey in your glass. It outstays its welcome, dragging its feet as it slides down your throat. 

‘Where are they going?’ 

‘Don’t worry,’ Price says, holding his hand out to you. ‘Let’s get you up to bed.’

You choose not to fight his words and follow him up the steps. He stands guard as though there’s an enemy in the house waiting to strike as you wash your hands in the water basin in the bathroom, your reflection split into fragmented pieces due to the shattered mirror on the wall. Your cheeks are stained with the tears you have cried throughout the night, your bloodshot eyes challenging the redness of violence in the remnants of the mirror. You spy your soul in pieces and your chest aches. 

Who am I? 

The blood is officially off of your hands after a generous amount of scrubbing and when you turn around, you’re greeted by the sight of one of John’s shirts sitting atop the closed toilet seat. You take it into your clean hands, staring at it. His kindness is striking and you feel little remorse as the straps of your ruined navy dress fall from off of your shoulders, permitting the white fabric of his shirt to wrap around you. 

Pulling open the door, you step out onto the landing with your dress balled up in your arms. ‘I’ll have Kate fix it,’ he says, taking it from your hands. 

‘No, it’s fine.’ 

‘Blood’s difficult to wash out, love,’ he says gently, ‘rather you keep your hands clean.’  The dress slips from your grip and he rests it on the banister. His statement is a reminder of who exactly you’re in the presence of – that the reports aren’t rumours but facts. 

But you don’t care.

Not when you slip into his bed, and not when he sits in a chair beside you, refusing to take the space you possess. Any other bad man would have been between the sheets with you in a heartbeat, and despite your attempts to protest, he insists on leaving you alone in the bed he sleeps in. So you settle with your head against his pillow, his hand resting just above your  head, mindlessly brushing his crooked fingers through your hair. 

‘You thought any more about what dress you're gonna get for the races?’ 

A smile forms on your face, ‘no.’ 

‘I’ll give you some coins, get you a pretty dress.’ 

Your mouth forms a frown. ‘Because you want to or because you think you have to because of what happened?’ 

‘Because I want to, love,’ he says, the chair creaking as he shifts. ‘I was thinkin’ red.’ 

‘Red?’ You ask. 

‘Looks good on you.’ 

Your cheeks are stained with scarlet and you lean further into the pillow. ‘You think?’

‘I know,’ he hums, the tips of his fingers resting atop your head. ‘But it’s your choice.’

‘Red it is,’ you say. 

The pair of you sit in silence as you grow tired, and when you feel his hand begin to pull away, you move your hand from under the sheets, grabbing his wrist. He understands and, without a word, he continues to brush his hands through your hair, sweeping stray strands from out of your face as you slowly succumb to slumber. 

John doesn’t sleep, however. 

Instead, he spends his time watching you. Every sharp breath from you is reminiscent of the gunshots in the trenches. How brutal the mind could be to one. He supposes it is simply his punishment for being unable to save Blake from his own. The destitution of the mind leaves the body with too little to spend. He wishes he knew that without bearing the burden of his actions and faults – without getting you involved. It’s a difficult life, but he’s a difficult person. 

The sight of you quells the beating in his chest, and as you sleep you pull your hand from out of the sheets. Sitting idly, he taps his foot against the ground while staring at your hand. The red under your nails, while subtle, sounded the scratching in his mind and he fell queasy at the sight. Reaching out his hand, he took yours in his, leaning forward as he did so and resting his head upon his free hand.

To bear burdens is his job: to hear the scratching in the walls before bed, to brutalize his men, to keep secrets. And now you’re here, he fears all his efforts for money and reprimand have been nothing but a waste of his time. 

𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

TAGS: (If you would like to be added to the tag list let me know!) @forever-twenty-two-years-old @iizx7y @phantomreadsandreblogs @talooolaaloolla @guiltgoreglory @corpsebasil @ferns-fics @racheldoyle

Btw I appreciate it's been a while so if you would like me to remove you from the tag list let me know!

(Once again I apologise)

[popatochisssp]

Hi!! If the Papyri are knights what are the Sanses? Also you should totally make an AU of this, you beautiful brain

You have no idea, none of you have any idea how absolutely insane I went about this goofy little one-off AU concept

...Some of you have an idea. And some of you maybe know me well enough to have just guessed I would go off the rails the way I have lol

Anyway, this is the first, but absolutely not the last of The Court AU:

Sans (Undertale): The court jester, in possession of a quick wit and a cutting sense of humor and with no desire to let either go to waste. He’s much beloved at court and prides himself on his ability to make even the stuffiest of courtiers chuckle with his jokes and pranks—and his jester’s privilege makes him nigh untouchable to those who somehow aren’t amused by him. It’s a good life…

Papyrus (Undertale): A proud knight of the kingdom and a member of the Royal Guard! Er…well…eventually, he will be. The Captain won’t make him a full member of the Guard until he’s proven his valor through a series of knightly quests…but she won’t tell him what the quests are, so he travels the kingdom as a knight-errant, helping those in need and solving problems that may or may not have needed solving! You’re welcome, good citizens!

Sky (Underswap Sans): A squire, or knight-in-training, attendant to the Captain of the Guard until he properly earns his own knighthood. …Frankly, he’s already capable and qualified to be a knight now, but he’s aware that the Captain has some reservations regarding his health and is hesitating to just give him the job because of it. He fully intends to prove himself to her in the line of active duty, and someday be recognized as a fully-fledged knight of the realm.

Paps (Underswap Papyrus): The court archivist, most at home amidst shelves of tomes and records and far away from the social obligations of the court itself. He tracks and preserves all kind of documents, from agricultural reports to genealogies to romantic poetry, and is on call to locate specific texts for any nobles or otherwise literate folks seeking to reference them. It gets a bit musty sometimes but he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Jasper (Underfell Sans): A mercenary, traveling the kingdom in search of people to sell his sword to for a bit of coin—and then traveling in search of satisfying ways to spend that coin. He does occasionally venture outside the kingdom for both of these things, but he has quite a few connections to well-paying opportunities within the borders, so as much as he avoids putting down roots, he tends not to stray too far from ‘home.’

Pyre (Underfell Papyrus): A knight in the Royal Guard, touted as a black knight for the scorched and stained armor he wears—a marker of the many deadly, heroic feats he’s conquered. No quest is too dangerous, no enemy too great for him to overcome, and he bravely takes on what lesser knights fear to risk. He’s quite accomplished dealing with dragons, and wildfires, and even mages, who always seem to cast fireballs and…well, perhaps that’s the reason his armor is so blackened…

Mal (Swapfell Sans): Personal guard to the Empress herself, nominally part of the Royal Guard as well but far from the front-lines of battle as his duty to her highness’ safety comes first and foremost. He’s involved in a lot of the structuring and scheduling of patrols for the lower ranking guardsmen, and his opinion is often sought in matters of state and military, but his primary concern is accompanying the Empress wherever she goes, or standing post just outside the door. Only on rare occasions does anyone else fill his role, and that’s just the way he likes it.

Rus (Swapfell Papyrus): He’s a nobleman who used his wealth and free time to pursue a passion in painting. His passion paid off in the form of a bit of notoriety for his work and several offers of patronage from other nobility seeking portraits and frescoes and the like done in his hand. …Or as he sees it, rich people paying him to do what he loves instead of some sort of actual job. As long as he can comfortably afford his paints, he’s happy.

Slate (Horrortale Sans): He’s a stableman at the queen’s castle, looking after the horses and hunting dogs kept there. He isn’t as quick as he used to be, and his memory hasn’t been the same since his head injury, but he was graciously employed elsewhere rather than dismissed and it’s…fine. Well enough, at least. It’s dirty and often thankless work, but he is fond of the animals, and much prefers their company to anyone else.

Papy (Horrortale Papyrus): He’s a medic in service to the knights of the Royal Guard. He actually used to be among their number…sort of…but there were some changes, in his life, and his eye-sight isn’t really what it used to be anyway, and… Well! He spent some time learning from the court physician and got very interested in ways to treat illness and injury. He’s not as skilled and knowledgeable as a full-fledged healer but he’s happily on hand for minor training accidents and sicknesses or injuries in those coming back from patrols. He loves to be able to help!

Ash (Undergloom Sans): A musician who plays his trusty horn for the court during all the feasts and festivals. He’s only one player of many but enough of a talent to be selected for the job and pleased that his music should entertain the king and queen and all their noble guests. It’s not the most glorious of positions but he’s happy enough doing it and lives well for his station.

Yrus (Undergloom Papyrus): Head cook in the castle kitchens, a station he worked up to from the bottom as a lowly kitchen boy. He has a lot of experience making meals for the royal couple and for all the nobles that regularly attend court gatherings and he knows how to give the people what they want. There are several other cooks and kitchen attendants that work with him but it’s his job to make decisions and keep everything running smoothly, which keeps him busy but happily so.

Brick (Horrorfell Sans): He sticks exclusively to the royal court these days, not as a hired sword but as a wealthy and rakish duke of the kingdom. His brother gave him the title and it’d be stupid not to take advantage of the perks—though he does have to earn them. He’s less a hired sword now and more a hired axe, performing the duty of the royal executioner whenever he’s called upon to do so. No need to wear a hood, everyone knows who he is and what he does to enemies of the crown.

King (Horrorfell Papyrus): The king of the castle, in a very literal sense. Some may call him a usurper or a traitor to the crown to have seized the throne for himself without proper claim… and for those people he arranges a meeting between their necks and his brother’s blade. He seized the throne because he’s loyal to the crown and the queen he deposed was wearing it quite poorly. If he could, he would’ve stepped down by now and given way to the true queen, but the people have been through enough upheaval—so he will remain as their king, as long as is necessary.

Merc (Horrorswap Sans): A cursed king who lives an austere, lonely life in a desolate castle by the sea. He fled from his true realm in disgrace and now awaits an end to his curse or his shame—whichever comes first—in the ruins of a fallen kingdom as degraded as he is. He doesn’t expect to be found, or saved from the curse that his own choices wrought upon him, and just tries to bear his fate with the grace expected of him.

Ell (Horrorswap Papyrus): Prince-errant of his kingdom, meant to be ruling his people but instead gallivanting off across the countryside in search of his missing brother. He wants to find him and know he’s well about as much as he doesn’t want to go back and be the ruler of a kingdom, for which he was never properly trained and is wholly unprepared! Maybe in his search and his hardships, he can find the strength and maturity to do what the kingdom needs him to do…but he’s not there yet, and finding his brother is his priority.

Pitch (Horrorswapfell Sans): Every knight in the Royal Guard is hand-picked and trained by him. He held a high office among the guardsmen once, but a severe injury put him out of commission and without his sight, he was no longer fighting fit, as they say. Still, his strength and his skill didn’t abandon him and while he could be a liability on the battlefield, he’s nothing less than a powerful asset when it comes to training the knights up to his own exacting standards. Only the best make it through his gauntlet.

Nemo (Horrorswapfell Papyrus): He walks the wall of the castle at night, standing guard for any threats to the kingdom that might otherwise go unseen. He takes his duty very seriously and refuses to let any night pass without a watchman on duty, even in foul weather or nights of great feasts and festivals. His vigilance has protected the kingdom from many a threat and he feels certain that his job is of much higher importance than any frivolous pastimes he absorbed himself in before.

Sunny (Gastertale Sans): A courtier of…mysterious origin. He’s often at court, making conversation and telling colorful stories to anyone whose ear he can snatch—and he manages to snatch quite a few—but no one can manage to figure out quite where he came from or what he ought to be doing. Mostly, he entertains himself and others with various leisurely pursuits, games, hunts, dances, songs, and as such he’s a well-liked person at court…wherever he came from.

Aster (Gastertale Papyrus): Another man of mystery who appeared at court on the heels of his brother, though far less flamboyantly. He’s obviously a learned man, well-educated and well-spoken, and though he wasn’t as warmly embraced by the courtiers at large, he was eventually welcomed into the king’s confidence as a royal advisor. The backing of the king being what it is, he’s accepted and respected as probably some sort of nobleman, regardless of his unclear origin, and continues to advise the king on matters of state.

Spectr (Transcendtale Sans): A wanderer, uprooted from his life and former kingdom and left to walk the land in search of meaning. Some say his kingdom was destroyed but for a small handful of survivors. Some say he turned to dark magic and sold his soul for the chance. to take revenge on the one who desolated his home. Some say he’s ageless, bones turned to cold iron and chest empty of breath to contain the power he now holds. …They’re all right. But his quest is long over, and all that’s left to do now is wander.

PapAIrus (Transcendtale Papyrus): He’s a proud knight of the kingdom! He may not have been in the Royal Guard when he was tragically cut down before his time, but he did come back from death as a ghostly semblance of himself at the same time everyone else did—and when your Captain is no longer worried that you might get yourself killed in battle because you already did, promotions are in order! So, he now serves his phantom kingdom as a phantom knight, valiantly and eagerly, but of course, taking time every now and then to visit his (mostly) living family member, to keep him from brooding too hard.

Xanth (Ascendswap Sans): It’s…slightly unclear what he does. He’s seemed strange for a time, a bit touched, but the queen seems to hold him in high esteem and never fails to consult him (among others) before any major decisions are made. Sometimes he’ll appear in unusual places with cryptic messages, or look into peoples’ eyes and divine their intentions (should they be ill ones), and for all this, though he holds no specific title, he’s at least informally called the court mystic. There are rumors that his strangeness and that of those closest to him is because he made contact and some sort of bargain with the faefolk…but those are surely just rumors.

Piper (Ascendswap Papyrus): The royal falconer, primary trainer, keeper, and handler of all the hawks and falcons owned by the queen. It wasn’t a job he was born into, but one he sought out of the blue one day, and he earned his way by demonstrating a remarkable affinity for the birds even prior to any training. By now he’s a figure of great respect for the command he has over the flighted beasts, and he happily demonstrates it during the queen’s feasts and king’s hunts.

Carmine (Underfell Fruition Sans): He’s earned his way at court with talent, performing dazzling displays of bullets and other magic for nobles and royals alike. He’s a standout from other such entertainers in that his well of magic never seems to run dry and he can keep showing off his juggling and his light shows and his dancing bullets from sun-up to sun-down without ever tiring. He doesn’t talk much about his life before coming to court, but he’s happy now so it’s just as well.

Tank (Underfell Fruition Papyrus): He was trained from a very young age to be a soldier, a paladin meant to fight in a holy war and raised to believe his greatest purpose was to die on the battlefield and bring glory to the cause. That all…never happened. He was freed from the grip of the zealots and reunited with the brother he hadn’t seen in ages, but then left at odds for what to do now—a warrior with no war to fight. Eventually he becomes apprenticed to a carpenter in town in the hopes of learning a trade to live on, and…he’s starting to be content.

Vi (Swapfell Fruition Sans): Spymaster to the crown, head of a small network of covert informants, assassins, thieves and the rest of their ilk. It was a career he…inherited…but also one he carried out diligently, carefully, and above all, secretly. At least, until his brother married and he left to join him in his new kingdom, where he serves much the same function at court—with the added responsibility of wrangling and occasionally nominally filling in for the crown prince. All according to plan.

Hunter (Swapfell Fruition Papyrus): He was in the same family business as his brother, but when he caught the eye of a visiting monarch and won an invitation to their kingdom, to marry, well… how could he refuse? And when, after an unsuspicious amount of time, his spouse is found dead under mysterious—but not too mysterious—circumstances, and no one from the proper line of succession seems to be coming to take their place… He really has no choice but to go from the prince consort to the crown prince, for the sake of his late spouse’s people. He’s far from a proper or responsible prince, and certainly has some kind of reputation, but he’s pleased enough with how everything’s going.

Kohl (Descendtale Sans): He minds the royal dungeons. It’s not what he started out doing, but somewhere along the way he lost the humor for anything else, and it’s as good a job as any. Not too many strangers make it into the kingdom these days, but plenty have foul intentions and it is something he takes some pride in, keeping watch over those ill-meaning outsiders and making sure they stay put, where they belong. He’s not the kindest of dungeon-keepers, but quite frankly, since when was ‘kindness’ part of that job description?

Bram (Descendtale Papyrus): His brother keeps the dungeon and he keeps the grounds. While a groundskeeper isn’t anything close to what he thought he’d want to be, a lot has happened—to him personally and to the kingdom as a whole—and well, he’s providing a very valuable service with his work, humble though it may be. Anyone with skin would have a horrid time pruning back all the wicked, cursed thorns that keep trying to consume the realm, and unchecked, they could probably run wild in less than a fortnight, where would they all be if he let that happen?

[bmtillerbabe]

Ooo, would you be interested in writing some super whumpy Ghoap where one of them is captured (maybe by Graves?) and the other one is forced to watch in person or sees over a live feed until they can break them out?

Oooooooo yes!! This sounds fun! 😍

Hope you enjoy, dear 😘

✨

CW : People getting beat up, some torture, blood, hitting, kicking, Angst, Ghost is gonna have Hella revenge..... 🫢

Take care of your mental health! I tried to keep it descriptive, yet vague - because torture is one of my triggers and I typically get so pissed at the character inflicting it!

But rest assured - Ghost is gonna kick this mother fucker's ASS off! ❤️

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

Ghost rattled the chains that bound his fists behind his back, thrashing against the metal that locked him in place.

He growled loudly, pulling his arms with every bit of strength he could muster - screaming, yelling, crying out as he tried to break free, but to no use.

His jeans were filthy and his knees ached, strained from the Heft of his weight being on them for so many hours; mud and shit and sludge caked into his denim and the patches of skin that poked through the holes torn from the concrete beneath him.

Distant sounds of creaking and groaning gave him no clues as to where he was currently being held, and the room itself was dome-shaped and dark with no windows and no views of the outside world.

If he even was outside.

It was dark, dirty, damp and disgusting - meant to isolate and incite panic.

Meant to.

Ghost cussed himself with a grunt, trying to concentrate on getting at least one of his wrists free, (debating on how stupid is would be for him to break his wrist or a couple fingers to slip free....), instead of counting each steady drip-drip-drip of the leak overhead.

He should have known better than to hesitate when he and Soap got to the Exfil location, and nothing was there. He'd sensed something was wrong in his gut right then, but ignored it; choosing to be ever the obedient solder instead of following his gut.

And now he was paying the price for it.

He'd been in situations like this before, sure. He'd been trained on how to remain calm, and trained in hundreds of ways to break free of traps and bonds. He'd been trained to keep his mind cool, and his breathing in check.

He'd been trained not to fear for his life.

..... But it wasn't his own life he feared for, now.

It was Johnny's.

And he hadn't been trained for that.

Ghost yelled in anguish, pain evident in his voice, eyed locked onto the staticky, cracked screen on the curved wall above of him.

And Johnny - his Johnny - was on it.

And it was his fault.

"Soap!" Ghost screamed at the top of his lungs, wondering, hoping that maybe, just maybe, their rooms were close enough for the to hear the other. "Johnny!"

But the Scot didn't move, his eyes darting around, taking in his surroundings and struggling against his bonds much like his Lieutenant.

Ghost was left helpless, angled in such a way that he was forced to watch Soap breath heavily and anger flash over his features.

He could see the fire in his Sargeant's eyes, could see his mind racing with plans of his escape, and taking in anything he could about his surroundings.

Any other day, Ghost would have beamed with pride at seeing just how far the Scot had come in the short time he'd been enlisted.

But today was not the day.

Ghost was just about to make the decision that a broken wrist could heal eventually - when the flourescant green light of the room, and the TV screen, suddenly shut down.

He froze his movements, going still and quiet in the shadows.

Drip..... Drip..... Drip....

A power play, no doubt, he knew. Just reminding him who was really in charge, and that it wasn't him.

Several seconds later, only the TV flicked back on, fuzzy feedback whistling and crackling through the empty space. Ghost's eyes were locked to the screen, and he felt his face flush with rage when he saw another face appear as it adjusted the angle of the camera and came into focus.

"Well, lookie here."

Ghost would recognize that nasty, southern drawl anywhere.

"Seems I've managed to catch both the Ghost and his little guard dog."

Graves.

Ghost released a heavy, throaty growl at the mere sight of the blonde traitor who flashed a crooked grin at the screen, yanking against his chains like a rabid beast ready to maul him to shreds. He wasnt sure if the American could hear him, so he didn't speak.

But it didn't take long for Grave's twisted lilt to fill the space.

The man loved to hear himself talk.

"Now. I bet you're wonderin' why I got you both tied up an' bound like this." Graves proclaimed, almost proudly, sauntering over towards Soap. The Scot eyed him with pure disdain, his face twisted in a putrid scowl as the man neared.

Ghost watched through the screen as Graves went over and gripped Soap's chin, tilting it side to side, up and down, like he was inspecting goods.

"Well, see..... We caught you snoopin' round where you shouldn't be." Graves smirked as he leaned near Soap's face with a devilish grin, knowing damn well that Johnny could do absolutely nothing with his hands chained to the ground behind his back.

He could spit though.

Making a sound as he did so, Johnny reared back and spit a huge glob into Grave's eye, glaring at him. Graves reared back in shock, but once he processed what happened, his brow furrowed and he reached down to give Johnny a good slap across the cheek - hard enough that spit flew from his mouth.

Ghost yelled as he watched the impact from his side of the screen, his eyes wide and pained, trying again to break free of these damned chains---!

"Is that all ye got, ye pussy?" Johnny managed to chuckle darkly, shaking his head and spitting out a good bit of blood. He stared Graves down without an ounce of fear. "I've had new recruits hit harder than tha'."

Graves shook his head, but returned the smile to the Scot before facing the camera - facing Ghost.

"See the disrespect in this one?" he shook his head. "Should've kept this dog on a tighter leash, there, Ghost."

Ghost couldn't help but bite out an angry yell at the screen, though he knew it was probably useless. "Graves, I'll fucking kill you!"

Johnny kept his eyes trained on Graves as the man circled him, his breathing heavy and lip oozing a tiny trickle of blood. The American stopped and stooped down to Soap's eye level and clicked his tongue.

"Now, lookie here, Soap, the way I see it, we got two options."

Soap didn't respond.

Graves continued.

"We can either do this the easy way, and you tell me just where that laptop yall stole from that K-27 base is...... Or I can just rip the answer right from your throat. Quite literally."

Ghost was breathing heavily, watching the crappy screen helplessly, knowing exactly what Soap was about to say. His heart ached and time seemed to stop around him. He watched Johnny lean in to Graves and utter,

"Go ta hell."

Graves let out a barking laugh, licking his lips as he stood up full height.

The without warning, reared his leg back and kicked Soap right in the gut with what looked like his full strength.

Ghost screamed in the dark silence, willing the chains to break free so he could get out and punch that fucker face through the back of his skull - might even wear it over his balaclava after - eyes locked onto the screen, unable to do much else but watch.

Graves walked behind Soap as he was catching his breath, gripping his mohawk and ripping it back to Soap was now looking directly at the screen.

"See, we thought you might choose the hard way." Graves drawled with a grin, patting him on the cheek several times. "And that's why we're making your buddy there, watch...... And why I'm gonna have a lot of fun with this."

Soap didn't even have time to prepare or react before Graves was in front of him and punching his jaw, landing blow after blow on the bound man.

Ghost had done his fair share of torture. Hell, he was typically the one that most people feared based on reputation alone. He himself could withstand any amount of pain inflicted upon his body, or mind. Had the years-honed ability to dissociate, even welcome the pain.

But never had he been subject to a torture like this - - being forced to watch his Sargeant, his best friend - his lover - take the wounds that should be going to him instead.

It was his job to make sure this didn't happen, it was his job to make sure that his team and his men got home safe and alive. And yet, here we was, yelling angrily at the expanse as he was forced to watch Graves pummel into Johnny.

It pulled his heartstrings when Soap, already beaten bloody, spit out what looked like a tooth, and eyed the man before him.

"All this time, and ye still fight like a bloody girl."

Graves seemed to have had enough and landed another series of blows across his face and chest. Gripping Soap's cheeks, he forced him to face the screen again.

"You about ready to talk yet?" He drawled with a pant.

Ghost knew he wasn't talking to Soap.

Graves was talking to him.

When no answer came through, Graves just shook his head and sighed, turning back to Johnny.

"Sounds like your friend there don't much mind if you die in here."

Soap glared at him through a swelling eye already turning purple, thrashing against his chains. Graves merely chuckled and looked into the camera again.

"You just let us know if you decide his life is worth that laptop of yours."

Soap coughed up blood when Graves kicked him again, no doubt having broken a rib.

"N-no! Ghost! Simon! Don't listen to him! I can take it, I can---!" He ended with a kick to the gut before Graves walked over to a shadow in the background and soft clinking sounded through the fuzzy speakers. He pushed over a small cart full of different knives and..... Tools..... Lifting each on in the air to inspect them.

Ghost couldn't remember the last time he cried.

Hell he couldn't even remember the last time he even felt sadness.

But this sight damn near broke him in two - a single tear slipping through his long, blonde lashes, obsorbing into the balaclava.

The cries and screams of pain from his friend - his Johnny - kept his eyes glued to the screen, forcing himself to watch; taking a mental note of each and every injury Graves inflicted onto Soap :

Because not only was he going to get himself and Johnny of here alive - he planned to inflict every wound back to that fucker tenfold

.

.

. Hope yall enjoyed, reblogs and comments and hearts are SO appreciated - always! ❤️

[authorchariot]

the light that yields

rating: explicit ❤️

fandom: x-men apocalypse (2016)

pairing: en sabah nur x ftm!reader

word count: 4k+

content warning(s): dub-con, mentioned rape

tags: corruption, creampie, dub-con, manipulation, mentioned rape, mind control, moral dilemmas, mutants, not beta read, pov second person, telepathy, vaginal sex

summary: you are a healer, not a conqueror. in a quiet town far from the wars of gods and mutants, your hands mend what the world broke; until he walks into your clinic. he arrives offering power, purpose and eternity. you refuse him. but he is patient. and as the cracks in your morals begin to show, he slips through them like shadow through light. until the healer becomes the harbinger.

read on ao3 or keep reading here ↓

The wind carries dust and silence over the outskirts of a small town, its streets sun-bleached and half-sleeping under the weight of the evening. You're inside the clinic, sleeves rolled up, hands glowing with faint, golden energy as they hover over an old man's broken ankle. He winces, more out of habit than pain, and then breathes easier as the bone knits beneath your touch. You offer a soft word, a nod and send him on his way with a smile and no bill to pay.

This is your rhythm; quiet, compassionate, tucked away from the chaos of the world. You've built a life here, a purpose. The townspeople call you a miracle. You don't correct them. But you know what you are. Mutant. Gifted. Cursed, maybe, depending on who's asking.

You're just cleaning the table when the air changes.

It's not the temperature — though it seems to drop a few degrees all at once — it's the stillness. A pause in everything, like even the breeze dares not move. You feel it before you see him, a presence pressing into the room like the weight of time itself.

He doesn't knock. Doesn't need to. The door opens without sound, and he steps inside, clad in ancient armour that doesn't reflect the light so much as absorb it. His skin is a deep blue, his eyes shining with power older than empires. He doesn't speak at first. Just looks at you. Dark eyes stare you down as he stands there, cloaked in hooded robes that cast his face in shadow.

The clinic feels suddenly too small for something as vast and terrible as him.

Eventually, you find your voice.

"Wh-Who are you?" It comes out higher than you'd like. The door falls shut with a gentle click, the sound deafening in the silent room. You sense danger but you also inherently know that, were you to challenge this being, you would fall swiftly and painfully. His voice is oddly smooth when he replies.

"I have been called many names." He pauses, his gaze intense as it holds your own. "I've been searching for you." Your eyes widen.

You? A quiet thing that keeps to yourself, cozy on the outskirts of a small town in the middle of nowhere? What business could he have with you?

"For me?"

"Yes. I've heard whispers of your name, your power, your capacity to heal wounds that should be impossible. Yet, here you are, choosing to live in obscurity, serving those who cannot pay." His voice carries a hint of respect and curiosity. Your name rolls off his tongue and he purses his lips slightly, as if savouring the taste of the syllables. "I am En Sabah Nur; the first of our kind." He tells you and you swallow thickly.

"A... A mutant?" You ask, as if the blue skin and intricate patterns all along his face and neck didn't make it abundantly obvious. He nods in approval before moving closer, his gaze pinning you to the spot, perched on your stool, in front of your workbench, cloth still in hand.

"I've lived for centuries, accumulated power beyond imagination, seen civilisations rise and fall." His expression hardens ever so slightly. "You waste your gift on the insignificant, my child." The term of endearment almost makes you forget the rest of his words, the words like honey on his tongue, dripping through you.

You manage to move, pulling the curtains closed and locking the door. He watches as you move about the room, scared to turn you back on him.

"They aren't insignificant. They're not like us. And they need help." You tell him, stopping in a spot by your workbench.

"That's...noble." He says the word almost reluctantly, as if it's foreign on his tongue. "And foolish. You're exhausting yourself over those who do not appreciate your true power." With a heavy sigh, you collapse back onto your stool, shoulders slumped.

"It's rewarding."

"Rewarding." He scoffs. "You seek fulfilment on their gratitude. But I offer you the opportunity to be truly great, to shape this world as it should be. If you would only join me." His voice is almost hypnotic and you have to force yourself to process the words before you blindly take his hand.

"'As it should be'? And how 'should' it be?" You challenge him and he nods, understanding your need for explanation.

"Survival of the fittest. The strong ruling over the weak. A world order where our kind reign supreme. You would no longer cower in shadow, no longer pretend to be like them. We would be gods amongst men." So many phrases ring alarm bells in your head but you stay quiet until he falls silent, gauging your reaction.

"Surely...the strong should protect the weak. That's what I was always taught; that those with should care for those without." A hint of a smile crosses his features, as if immediately dismissing your words as foolish and naïve.

"Those are the teachings of the weak, meant to keep you in chains, my child." He shakes his head. "The strong need not protect them for charity. Those who cannot protect themselves...deserve only to be culled." Your face falls completely, cheeks draining colour. You go silent for a moment, trying to process the weight of his intentions.

"That's cruel..." You manage to say, finally.

"Cruelty is a necessary tool for survival. Nature, itself, is cruel. You heal them, you keep them alive when they should have died. You only prolong their suffering." He watches your reaction closely, his expression unyielding. You avert your gaze, feeling the heavy weight of his judgement on your shoulders.

"I-I try to do good."

"'Good'... My child, 'good' is a concept invented by the weak to justify their existence. There is no 'good' or 'evil', only power and those who lack it." Reaching out, he lifts your head up to meet his gaze, the touch surprisingly gentle for a being so brutish. "You have incredible power. The power to heal, to restore life. But you use it to prolong the pathetic existence of those who will never understand you. Will never appreciate you." His thumb lightly brushes your cheek, a stark contrast to his harsh words.

"I don't expect anything in return." You tell him and he withdraws his touch slightly.

"You don't. You heal without thought of reward. You heal addicts who will only destroy themselves further. The criminals who would reoffend. The elderly who will die within the year. You waste your potential." You take a shaky breath, the words like physical blows to your chest, winding you.

"But killing? I can't just stand by and..." He pulls away completely, wandering around the cramped clinic, studying the jars of salve and bundles of bandages.

"Killing is sometimes a mercy. Ending suffering that cannot be healed, removing that which only serves to drown others. Is it not more moral to create a world where suffering is minimised? Where only the strong live?" You don't reply, unable to find your voice in the midst of such moral turmoil. Or could it be the sound of his voice, the tone in which he takes with you? He clearly holds you in high regard, sees you as someone worth recruiting. You're certain not everyone would have such luck. "You hesitate because you believe yourself to be merciful, my child. But mercy is a luxury that the weak cannot afford. Imagine a world where disease does not exist, where pain is a fleeting memory; a haven." You manage to will your lips to move again.

"But wh-who are you to decide what's strength and what's weakness?"

"Strength is power, adaptability, survival. Weakness is frailty, dependency, extinction." He answers without hesitation. Your jaw snaps closed at the power behind his words, the sheer conviction. You take a moment to collect yourself.

"... How... How many would be left?" You ask, dreading the answer he'll give.

"Only the strong. The survivors. A tenth of the population, perhaps." He shrugs, as if the idea of billions of deaths is of little consequence. "A purified world, free from the shackles of human weakness."

"But then what? There'll still be a hierarchy, by your logic. There'll still be weak among the strong." You try to reason with him but it doesn't faze him.

"True. But the gap will be smaller. The weakest of the strong will be stronger than the strongest of the weak." He watches you intently, dark eyes seemingly amused with the challenge of your questions. Still, the amusement doesn't reach the rest of his face, remaining completely stoic. "And those who are truly weak among the strong will be eliminated. Like parasites."

"No... I could never..."

"You cannot stomach the idea of killing the lessers. You would let them breed, let their numbers grow. You would watch disease spread, watch suffering continue. You are a healer. You see only life, not the logical solution." He studies you carefully. It's clear he wasn't expecting such resistance from you. It takes considerable energy on your part.

"No, I see cruelty and... And pain and death." You tell him and he nods in understanding.

"Ah. You see the result of weakness; the drain on resources, the spread of infection, the burden on others." Stepping closer, he forces you to crane you neck to keep his gaze. "You heal one man, he has ten children who are equally pathetic. Is that not cruelty? Is that not creating more suffering?" A long, heavy silence blankets the small room. You feel claustrophobic, trapped. The logic is sound but the morals are nonexistent. "You have no answer because you cannot argue with practicality. You heal because you cannot bear to see suffering, not because it is the right thing to do. You prolong the lives of the weak, ensuring more are born, creating an endless cycle of misery." Every word drops a leaden weight in your chest, cold dread building and building and building... "You are the problem."

You jerk your head up to look at him fiercely, your eyes blazing.

"Then why seek me out?" You demand as you jolt to your feet, fingers curled against your palms, nails biting into the flesh.

"Because you are the epitome of the problem. You have the power to heal, to prolong life, to create more weak. You are the most dangerous enemy to my cause." Fear lances through your chest and you stumble back slightly, gripping your workbench, as he steps closer. "But you could also be the solution, little one." You swallow thickly, your pulse hammering in your neck.

"'Solution'?"

"Imagine if you stopped healing. Imagine if you let the weak die. Imagine if you only healed the strong, ensured their survival and propagation." He leans forward, ducking his head to remove his cowl, finally revealing his entire face from the shadows. "You could become the architect of a new world, not the splint on a dying one." A tender hand finds your jaw. "Come, let me show you something." His thumb touches the crease of your brow.

"Wh-What?" Your voice is shaky, breathless. His touch somehow draws the air from your lungs, forcing it to catch in your throat.

"A vision..." Your eyes flutter closed...

You find yourself in a grand tomb, the walls gleaming with glowing ancient patterns and symbols. The light radiating from them illuminates the chamber in rhythmic pulses. A lone, carved stone slab is situated at the centre of the space and on it; a man, stripped bare, his skin golden in the dim light. He's motionless as you move toward him, not stirring, even as your feet scrape softly on the sandstone floor. The ancient one's voice remains with you, echoing throughout the chamber while being a whisper in your ear, his breath warm on your neck.

This is where it all began, where I took my first steps into this world, reborn in a stronger vessel. I could have chosen anyone but I chose him. Because I saw potential.

As you grow closer, you gently lay a hand on the man's shoulder, the flesh still warm.

"He was 'strong', as you like to put it?" You ask and the next words carry a note of approval.

Yes. Strong of body, strong of mind. Unbroken despite the torment he endured. A survivor.

Your fingers find the man's motionless face. You feel the slightest stubble under your fingertips. His dark lashes cast shadows across his cheekbones. He's beautiful. "Who was he?"

His name was Setep. An Egyptian slave, brutalised and discarded by society. Yet he endured, his spirit unbreakable. He was the ideal vessel for my rebirth.

"Brutalised?"

Yes. Whipped, starved, raped. They were not kind to their slaves.

You nod slowly in understanding, your brow furrowing. "And neither would you be kind to the 'weak'." You point out absently, trailing a fingertip over Setep's still profile. His skin is weathered yet it still has a slight glow when the light hits it just right.

No, I would not be kind. They should be killed, not coddled... Yet he did nothing to deserve his treatment.

He sounds almost remorseful and it makes your chest ache. "Setep... Was he happy to join you?"

'Happy'? He was grateful. Grateful for a chance to escape, to become something more.

A heavy sigh breezes through you as you gaze down at him, as if willing him to speak. Your thumb traces the soft petals of his lips. "He was beautiful."

He was. And now, through him, I live again. Stronger than ever. His beauty served its purpose; his body became my temple.

Your voice is soft, airy, when you reply, your focus on the man before you, full of life yet motionless and statuesque. "You desecrated his temple..."

I purified it, transformed it into something divine.

There's a solemnness in the air, a deep sadness that seeps into your bones, making tears spring to your eyes.

Yet you mourn him.

A nod. "He deserved understanding, gentleness, kindness. You manipulated him, played on his fears and his pain."

And what good would kindness have done him? He was a slave, broken and used. I gave him a purpose. I offered him power, immortality. What more could he want?

You pause, still taking in the man's face, still motionless, still gleaming in the low, pulsating light. His visage stirs something within you, the vulnerability of him. The ancient one speaks of power and strength but here lies his vessel; unprotected, soft, weak. "Is there a part of him inside you or did he...leave when you took his body?" You ask softly and there's a pregnant pause.

He is a part of me now. His essence, his soul, bound to mine. But the man he was? No, he is gone, consumed by the god he became... Why?

You place a gently hand over his heart, feeling a slow, steady beat there. "I was wondering...if I could talk to him. In here."

Hmm... His mind is fractured, merged with mine. He barely exists separately. Yet... You may try conversing with him. See if any part of the slave boy remains.

You nod again and swallow, clearing your throat quietly before calling out, careful not to startle him, should he wake. "Setep...?" At first, there's no response, no movement. Then, faintly, like a whisper on the wind, you hear a voice; soft, timid, a stark contract to the ancient one's powerful, cloying presence.

"Yes? Who calls me?" He rouses slightly, eyes flickering open, a deep, rich brown, like mahogany. You smile warmly, relieved that you can communicate with him without a language barrier thanks to the nature of the vision.

"Don't worry, I'm a healer." You tell him.

"A healer? Like the gods I prayed to? I've not felt such gentle hands in...so long." He replies.

"Just a healer." You move to sit on the slab, near his hip, while giving him space as to not crowd him. "Did you really want to be used as a vessel for him? For the thing, the being, that took your body?" He turns his head, eyes shining tears that refuse to fall.

"He promised so much; no pain, no fear, no torment..." He pauses, swallowing hard before looking at you. "Was it wrong?" You take a breath and let it out slowly before taking his hands in yours, trying to give him some form of comfort, even in this form; when the damage has been done.

"We all make mistakes; god or no."

"Even the gods err then? Perhaps I should have refused... But how could I?" A rueful laugh escapes him. "Refuse divinity? Ridiculous for one who'd known only chains and lashes." You give him a sad yet encouraging smile.

"Sit with me." Slowly, hesitantly, he sits up, curling his legs under himself and resting his head on your shoulder, like a cat seeking warmth. He feels fragile, breakable, unlike the being occupying his body in the present.

"You are kind." He whispers, his voice muffled against your shoulder. "Too kind for a god."

"I'm not a god." And he lifts his head slightly, glancing at you with a faint, sad smile.

"No, of course not. Gods do not comfort. They only command." He shifts closer, seeking comfort and connection; things long denied him. "What are you then?"

"Just a healer."

You sit in silence for a while. You're unsure if it's minutes or hours but it's comfortable, accompanied by the soft humming that fills the chamber. It feels safe.

Finally, you feel fingers in your hair, threading through the strands, and you turn your head to look at him. His face is filled with affection, a desperate yearning.

"As a slave, I was never allowed such comforts. No kindness, no soft touches..." His voice trails off as his fingers lightly pass through your hair before trailing down to your jawline, turning your head until you face him. Dark eyes flick down to your lips, his brow furrowing. "May I...?" He asks, voice soft, timid, eyes captivated by your lips, soft, pink, inviting. You find yourself nodding before you even register.

Slowly, tentatively, Setep closes the distance between you. His lips are dry and slightly chapped. He kisses hesitantly, as if he expects you to pull away, to strike him for daring such familiarity. You hold his hands, rubbing his knuckles with your thumbs, and a soft, surprised sound escapes him at your encouragement. Worn, calloused fingertips brush your palm. This is foreign, beautiful, like Setep himself...

The vision falls away, like sand through your fingers, and you find yourself kissing the ancient one. Strong arms wrap around you possessively, his tongue invading your mouth in a fierce, dominant kiss. You would try to pull away but he has you, like a rabbit in a snare. He tricked you. Setep was nothing but a distraction. But now you're too late.

You gasp at the sudden shift as large hands splay across the small of your back. He kisses you brutally; a far cry from the tenderness you shared with his host. A growl rumbles through him, seeming to shake the very air around you. You whine softly, feeling your resistance beginning to weaken in the wake of his forcefulness. It isn't unwelcome however; words echoing in your mind like whispers on the wind, chipping away at your morality like winds across ancient dunes.

He hoists you up by your thighs and lifts you onto the workbench, stepping between your legs. His lips descend upon your neck sharply, sucking bruises there, as he ruts against you. Something wells up inside you, something weak that manages to escape your lips.

"N-No... I shouldn't... I can't..."

"Shhh..." He coos in your ear, broad hands gripping your thighs as he presses himself against you. "You cannot deny me, little one." Warmth spreads through your frame from every point of contact, where your bodies meet. It slithers under your skin, like snakes under sand, fangs sinking deep into the flesh and imbuing you with such raw, unfiltered power.

"Wh-What... What're you...doing?" You manage as he runs his knuckles along the side of your neck, sending sparks darting across muscles and ligaments, a dim glow emanating from within.

"Giving you a taste of my power." He purrs in response. "I can make you so much stronger, so much more than you are. You will raise an undead army for me, pawns who will dispatch the weak at our command." His eyes burn with intensity as they roam over you, your body slowly succumbing to his power. "Imagine what we could do together..."

"Together...?" You echo weakly.

"Yes, together." The low rumble of his voice is filled with a kind of ancient desire that cries out to something deep and primal within you, something you can't deny or repress. "You could be mine, my equal. We could rule this world, heal and destroy as we please." With a touch of his hand, your clothes turn to dust, brushing over your skin to pool on the workbench and drift onto the floor. There's no shame, here. He knows you; your life, your mind, your very soul. What is mere flesh to one who knows you so deeply? "Just let me in..."

"No... Please..." You struggle weakly against him, something within you praying to be free. You know it's fruitless. There's no escaping him now.

"Yes." A hand closes around your throat, not tight, just there, his power blooming through you. His other hand moves between your thighs, fingers spreading you open for him, baring the soft, pink flesh there. "Give in. Let me have you and I will make you a god..."

You relent. You realise now that it was inevitable. Every second of your life was leading up to this moment of pure euphoria, claimed by this ancient being, being given power beyond anything you'd ever considered, ever imagined. You let him in completely, his voice in your ears, his breath on your neck, his hands roaming wherever they please.

He purrs triumphantly, feeling your resistance crumble. "That's it. Embrace the power, embrace me." Dark energy ebbs and flows, creeping through you until it infests your grey matter, nesting and laying waste to everything you ever stood for. "You are mine now, my prince. Together, we shall remake this world."

"Y-Yes... Together..." Is all you can muster before he pushes away his amour and slides inside you.

The pain is glorious, singing through your veins. Somewhere there's screaming but it sounds so distant. You're safe here, with him. Warm, nestled close, with him seated inside you, aching and throbbing, stretching you far beyond what you previously thought possible. He's so impossibly deep; both physically and mentally. You can't escape him, even if you wanted to. But you don't. Not anymore.

"I will give you everything; power, pleasure... Everything." He promises, rocking his hips against yours and sending pleasure rocketing through your nervous system. Every movement has sparks bursting behind your eyes, bliss and torment mingling and melding until they become indistinguishable from one another. "My little prince..."

Time becomes fluid as you linger in a state of complete overwhelm. He moves inside you for what feels like hours, destroying your body as he destroyed everything else before. You scream, you sob, you laugh, you cry. Every emotion, every sensation, all at once, as the cosmos explodes, the heat arcing all throughout your body, until your limbs ache from the stimulation and your insides quiver.

Finally, you feel his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hips and he tosses his head back, eyes flashing a stormy grey. He fills you to the very brim as he breathes heavy, head bowing into the curve of your neck, teeth buried into the tender skin there. "Take it all, little one..." He drives into you harder with each conclusive thrust, ensuring every drop finds its mark. He holds you close against him as your bodies tremble with shared ecstacy. "Yes, my little prince..."

"Thank you, my lord..."

[not-poignant]

Hi!

I was wondering if you had advice about deciding what writing project to work on. I often have a lot of ideas I'm excited about at once, but get a sort of paralyzing anxiety when trying to think of the "right" project to pick. Do you experience anything like this? How do you choose which of your ideas to write?

(Also your writing is such a source of joy for me, thank you so much for sharing it <3)

There is no "right" project to pick! The right one is the one that feels good in the moment. If you're trying to pressure yourself to write the "right" story I can't really help you on that specifically, because I don't work that way. I don't think 'this is the right story to work on today' has ever entered my head, and sometimes that kind of pressure/perfectionism is less about which story you want to work on, and more about something else you might need to reflect on. It's really not about right or wrong.

For me, I will sometimes let myself work on multiple stories a day if the feeling is that intense. (It's often not, I think because my stories/brain trust that I will get to everything, or most things, eventually).

Like, I might have days where I'm like '200 words on this, this, and this project.' And just keep an eye on the word counter and stop once I reach it and switch over. Often, I find that I feel a burning drive to keep going on the project I started with (and less rarely, the second), which gives me a good idea of what I really wanted to be working on, and also gets a lot more words down on that project.

You can just work on multiple projects on the same day!

Outside of that, since you're talking about ideas and not necessarily things that are planned/plotted/have even character names etc. sometimes you choose based on which ones you're most ready to start.

And sometimes you choose based on what's most realistic.

You absolutely should have a document where you write down all your ideas, so that they're at least out on a screen / paper, because it's important to not contain them in your head 24/7. Often a lot of ideas feel urgent because they're not yet documented, and so there's that 'I don't want to forget this.' So don't, write it down. Even if you end up with 40 ideas. Sometimes in writing them down you quickly realise which ones only need a sentence to get the idea down, and which ones might need a few pages (that also gives you a sense of what you're more likely to be ready to work on!)

I pick ideas based off a few things, and it might (and should) be different to yours, if you're only writing as a hobby. (I feel like professional authors have extra metrics to consider, that leisure writers really shouldn't pressure themselves with).

Stories I pick are based on:

Does my idea have an ending, a strong ensemble of characters and does it feel hooky/fun to write/read. (Does the idea of writing it excite me more than the idea itself?)

Will this let me get paid through Patreon/Ream? (Is this serial replacing another serial that folks are paying early access for?) Does this have a level of trope/intensity/scale that I look for in early access serials?

Is it tonally different from some of the other things I'm writing? (Too many stories that are the same and I get bored)

Is something about this resisting my writing it? (I.e. Do I have characters but no plot? (I can't write just based on 'vibes' lol). Is there plot but the characters are weak? Can I hear the character voices in advance?) Then I will put it aside.

Is this a genre/trope/etc. that I have enjoyed reading myself personally before?

Do I think this will be fun?

Nowhere in there do I worry at all about what's "right." Tbh, fun and the strength of the idea always take precedent. Falling Falling Stars for example was an insane choice to me, commercially, yet ended up doing well from a 'can I my bills' level I suspect because we all needed a pandemic fic and we weren't coping well at the time. I also think it's because I had a ton of fun writing it, and sometimes people can sense...an excitement in the story, or a charged-ness. Who knows. I know authors who can be successful writing stories they don't give a shit about, but I can't.

Anyway, yeah, take what works, discard the rest! There's no reason you have to pick one story to work on, and, make sure you're writing all your ideas down somewhere to clear out the cobwebs!

ETA: If you ever decide you don't love a story you've started with, change! You can just change your mind. There's no like, judge or jury out there who say you have to stick with something once you've started it. You don't!

[x-other-souled-x]

No. Nope.

Using language that systems may also use in a medical setting to describe their expereinces and go through treatment is not appropriation. Full stop.

There is no culture being exploited, unless you want to argue that the medical-industrial complex is a closed culture somehow.

Which I have definitely seen posts saying something dangerously close to this, and I urge you to not base your entire sense of self on the guys making money off of you. Even if they're helping, there's intentional siphoning of money from poor patients.

Secondly, language is a tool used to communicate. Words exist as "bodies" to a concept, and sometimes this concept is interpreted a little differently from person to person. There are a lot of words that mean several different things depending on the context. The most important thing is the setting which they're used in. A good ammount of medical terms are also words that are used by laymen in other contexts, meaning something different.

A system is a group of interrelated parts working together as a whole.

An Operating System (OS) is a system of code and software that tells the hardware what to do in order to make your computer run. There's agricultural systems, government systems, the solar system itself. Are these things appropriating the medical-industrial complex by existing as parts that make one whole thing work?

And before anyone splits hairs about this, I am not equating human life to computers or the government. These are examples of things that are literally defined AS SYSTEMS. The main takeaway you should be having here is that system is a broad term with many many applications outside of the medical-industrial complex. That one institution does not own the word nor the concept of being multiple parts (headmates/alters/whatever) working together.

The concept still exists and system still is a word outside of a medical context.

In other words, people would have eventually came to the conclusion of calling themselves systems regardless of if it was used in a medical context or not. It's not hard to put 2 and 2 together, to see parallels in concepts and expereinces and decide those words work just fine. Thank you for coming to my TEDtalk.

This is a post online, made by a trauma-formed system. I'm not going to have the time and foresight to cover every little nuance, and I don't care to be pedantic and pick apart small case instances. At the end of the day, this does not actually matter to how I live my life, how I get therapy, how we as a system have to work together. Endos using terms that are also used in a medical setting (but also used outside of medical settings) is not harmful to me in any way. And quite frankly, I think anti-endo witchunting has done more damage to us as a system trying to figure out how to navigate life than any endo friendly post has. I'm not arguing semantics, I'm going to go live my life and go outside and do my job and pay my bills like everyone else.

All this discourse around stealing terms and what you can and can't call yourself is so seriously unimportant in the grand scheme of things. You all sound so comfy and privileged to be worried about something so trivial as a word or three that is used in multiple contexts accross human language.

[silverynight]

Underworld

<---Previous

Part XX

Izuku suddenly wishes there was a way to communicate with Ashido directly. He still is going to try to contact Iida and even though he talked to him in the Olympus and found out he's a very nice god, Izuku still feels like he's not in the position to ask him for a favor because Izuku is just a demigod.

But he has to do it because he wants to deliver gifts to the immortals who were nice to him while he was staying there.

He has made a natural chewing toy (three actually) for Dynamight; it'll repair itself so the cute hell hound can play with it as many times as he wants.

He has a lot of flowers and flower crowns for his friends and a very special necklace for Katsuki. That one doesn't have any flowers but leaves, orange ones because Izuku has always thought that's Katsuki's color.

It also has a very special type of thorn for protection; Izuku designed it himself and applied a little bit of his powers to make it harmless to the user.

By the time Iida answers to his call, Izuku is nervous and slightly blushing.

The messenger is nice; he's a powerful and very efficient god who's polite with everyone so Izuku is not flustered because of him.

He's nervous because he hasn't gotten over the crush he has for the king of the underworld.

And, if Izuku is being honest, part of him hasn't made a real effort to get rid of it because having a crush feels nice and warm; it's like endless spring inside his heart.

"That's it, Midoriya?"

Izuku has to blink a couple of times in order to focus on the god in front of him.

"Yes, just tell her I'd like to see her," he nods, smiling at Iida before handing him a flower.

"There's no need!" Iida assures him, moving his arm up and down repeatedly. "This is basically my duty. You don't have to give me anything in return!"

"But I want to because you're my friend now!" Izuku insists, beaming at him.

"Oh... okay. T-Thanks."

"You're welcome!"

***

Izuku doesn't expect her to respond the same day, much less to visit him herself just a couple of minutes later.

He gets startled when she appears on his field, but gets over it quickly and rushes towards his friend to hug her.

"I'm glad to see you again too," she chuckles, pulling him a little bit closer before taking a few steps back. "Everyone misses you."

"I miss them too," Izuku nods, beaming as he adds, quite excited: "Would you take me to the underworld to pay them a visit? It doesn't have to be today..."

"I'll take you now!" She grins back.

"Really? But I don't want to... I mean we can schedule so I don't interrupt–"

"Nonsense!" She cuts him off, taking his hand. "You're always welcome in the underworld! Anytime!"

"Okay. Let's go then."

There's a sensation of familiarity as soon as he opens his eyes and realizes he's back exactly where he met Ashido for the first time.

It's been a while and he'd be lying if he didn't admit he missed that place more than anything... or maybe it's not just the place.

For a moment it feels like home.

"Do you want to go to the castle?"

"Not right now," he blurts out, looking around excitedly. "I have a lot of flower crowns for the little kids! Let's find them!"

As he did back when he first stayed in the underworld, Izuku spends a lot of time finding kids and putting flower crowns upon their heads to cheer them up.

They start calling him Queen, like the other ones did. He's still not sure why children always mistake him for the Queen of the underworld.

"Maybe they sense that we need a Queen," Ashido mumbles after Izuku says that last bit out loud and he can't help but blush when his friend winks at him.

"But I'm not..." He stops suddenly; the painful idea of Katsuki looking for and eventually finding some pretty goddess to marry crosses his mind.

Izuku shakes his head. No, it's fine; Katsuki is his friend and he deserves to be happy, he should be happy for him as well.

He really needs to get rid of his silly crush on him.

"Are you alri–"

"Izuku?"

"Kacchan!" As soon as Izuku says his name, the god of the dead rushes towards him and takes him in his arms as if they hadn't seen each other in ages.

"I thought you hated this place..."

"I don't," Izuku pushes him gently so he can see his face. "I told you I wanted to go back!"

"You did, but–"

"I brought you a gift!" The demigod cuts him off because he doesn't like to see him sad. He knows his gift will cheer him up. "Look! I made this necklace for you. It won't hurt you and you can use it as protection against–"

Katsuki puts it on immediately. He looks from the gift to Izuku like it's the best thing that could have happened to him.

"Is this in response to the gift I brought you the other day?"

"Well, of course..."

Katsuki's face lights up. He looks really handsome when he's absolutely happy. He takes Izuku's face in his hands and presses their foreheads together, prompting Izuku to blush.

"I'll give you your second gift soon, Izuku."

Second? Why would he give him a second gift? Izuku is suddenly confused but he doesn't have time to ask about it because Katsuki pulls him closer again and makes them appear inside the castle.

"Dynamight has missed you a lot."

Just right after he says that a huge hell hound comes running down the stairs, wagging his tail. He must've picked up Izuku's scent as soon as he entered the castle.

"Oi, be careful!" Katsuki warns the dog.

"It's alright, Kacchan!" Izuku smiles right before Dynamight reaches him. No, he doesn't manage to push him to the ground because Izuku is way stronger than he looks.

He can help but chuckle as he tries to give all three heads the attention they deserve and as much pats as Dynamight wants.

After a while Izuku finally gives the dog the toy he made for him.

"Midoriya!"

Both Kirishima and Kaminari embrace him at the same time, prompting Izuku to grin.

"I've missed you guys..."

"Are you going to stay?" Kaminari asks, almost hopeful.

"I just came to pay you a visit."

"Alright, that's enough," Katsuki growls, before pushing Kirishima and Kaminari away from Izuku.

When he feels Katsuki's hand on his waist, Izuku is glad he doesn't have his own flower crown on him otherwise it would have given him away. His cheeks turn slightly pink though.

"Come on, Bakubro... don't be that possessive! Midoriya is our friend!"

"SHUT UP!"

Izuku can't help but chuckle as soon as he hears them arguing and notices Ashido rolling her eyes at them.

He had missed this. All of it. And he has the feeling that even though he knows he has to go back to the mortal realm soon, this time it'd be even more difficult to leave his friends.

***

Next--->

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