#the dead will always outnumber the living

[boartits]

I can be a ghost inside your head, to all of you. I can speak without sounds and crawl inside your skull. don't you know that I want to be a part of you?

[bwv572]

The wikipedia article for dead internet theory is one of the best examples I've seen of just how retarded wikipedia has become. The entire article was created just to dismiss the concept as a conspiracy theory. This is the opening sentence:

The dead Internet theory is an online conspiracy theory that asserts, due to a coordinated and intentional effort, the Internet now consists mainly of bot activity and automatically generated content manipulated by algorithmic curation to control the population and minimize organic human activity.[1][2][3][4][5] 

And you might think to yourself, wait, there's nothing about this phenomenon that requires a conspiracy. That bots would eventually outnumber humans is the inevitable product of 30+ years of bot and AI development, helped by the fact that just one person can run 100+ bots. We all know bot farms exist and that states have their hand in AI development, but just as many bots are run by normal people, and no amount of this is actually coordinated for some larger explicitly stated end: it's actually complete chaos with no end goal, with individual actors working for fun, for research, or for whatever other benefit, with no real concern for how their botting affects other networks or "civilians".

And the talk page thought of all these points. The editors responded to the above objection with "we have reliable sources that call it a conspiracy theory. Check those citations".

The more obvious position, the one actually used by the people who came up with the term to begin with, wouldn't have ever stated itself as "not a conspiracy", because no conspiracy was even being alleged, thus no "reliable sources" can be cited with the explicit claim "the following theory is not intended to be a conspiracy theory"

The kicker is that you click the reliable sources they quote, and the first one never alleges a conspiracy to begin with, it posits that it is a "speculation about the future of the internet". The second article calls it a "conspiracy theory", but in the colloquial sense of an "out there idea", which is a usage I have always hated. For instance, people call "bigfoot" a conspiracy theory - a conspiracy is a secret coordinated plan to commit a crime - that some big humanoid animal lives in the woods is not a plan to commit a crime. The "conspiracy theory" that "the moon isn't real" isn't a plan to commit a crime. These are just memes.

But, a "reliable source" written by a millennial woman used the term as a meme and now wikipedia cites it as an actual conspiracy and you're not allowed to change that framing unless you join a wikipedia council and vote to completely overhaul the editorial framing of this article.

There are much worse instances of this, but this is a good example of how retarded this all is because you don't really need a position on the article to understand that you don't need to frame it in that way for any of the information in the article to make sense.

[thelostconsultant]

Playing house (1/2)

pairing: Max Verstappen x reader

summary: Max's father is coming to Monaco to hand over the keys to his kingdom, but he has one condition--he wants to see that his son is in a committed relationship. This is where you come in.

note: mafia!AU. Merc!reader is based on V from Cyberpunk 2077, minus the cyberware. This will be a two-part thing, at least that's the plan now. Oh, and this is unedited. (Hey, don't judge, I'm in the middle of a depressive episode, it's a miracle that I can write.)

The fixer who offered that thievery gig didn’t say much, only that the person who was supposed to pick up the portable SSD you stole was captured by Max Verstappen’s men. Now you have to go and pick up the item yourself from the drop point, then somehow manage to survive until the fixer sends someone else for it. 

But when you lock the door of your apartment and lean against it after getting the drive, you hear a strange sound coming from the living room. The sound of someone shifting their weight, causing the wooden floor to creak. Cursing under your breath, you quickly open the door again to bolt out and get as far as you can, but they were expecting this, because a man was standing in the door to keep you inside.

“Don’t be silly, I just want to talk,” you hear a voice from inside, the tone a mixture of sweet and nurturing, as if he was trying to convince a little child not to start sulking. 

There’s an unmistakable accent, and the voice is also familiar, as if you have heard it before. Not in person, but on a recording of some sort. It takes a few moments for the pieces of the puzzle to fall into place, but before you could move your feet to head to the living room, you have your answer: the one and only Max Verstappen is here in your living room. You have a gun, but you’re outnumbered for sure, you wouldn’t get far if you tried anything.

After gulping and taking a deep breath, you head to where the man is waiting for you, only to find him looking at the framed photos on a table under the window. It enrages you, really, the lack of respect for your privacy. He invades your home, he’s going through your personal items, and you can’t help but wonder if he had gone through your walk-in closet in the bedroom. 

When he finally turns to you, there’s a smile on his face that reaches his blue eyes, and for a moment you wonder what’s gotten into him. Isn’t he here to kill you for the drive? But maybe this kind look is just a trap, he wants to coerce you into cooperating without putting up a fight. Then again, you promised to keep the item safe, giving it up without a fight would surely not help your reputation.

The silence in the room stretches out for minutes, and he eventually gets bored, breaking eye contact to go and take another look at your living room. He stops in front of the shelf with a collection of perfumes, and without even glancing at you for permission, he begins to take a closer look at them and their scents, one by one. Not like he needs your permission, you aren’t exactly in the position to tell him what he can and cannot do.

But then he turns to you with one of the bottles in hand. It’s the unmistakable triangle one with the dark pink liquid inside, the Prada Paradoxe Intense you received as a gift. It’s pleasant, but you somehow always forget about it. How could he find the only one you barely use? Max seems to notice that you’re thinking about something, and he steps closer to you with an almost friendly smile.

“You don’t really like this one, do you?” he wonders. You refuse to answer, not until he finally tells you what he wants. When he realizes that, he lets out a sigh and returns to the shelf to put the bottle back to its place. “You know, I don’t want you dead. It would be a shame to kill someone like you. You’re getting noticed. You’re a professional, discreet and efficient, and no wonder fixers are finding you with more and more gigs.”

Though you should be a little relieved after being told he doesn’t want to kill you, you can’t help but think about where he’s going with this. Why is he talking? Why doesn’t he simply take the drive and leave? It doesn’t really make sense, it’s impossible to tell what he’s planning with you. Because there must be a plan, he definitely wants something he’s yet to tell you.

His phone suddenly beeps, and he looks a little taken aback for a brief moment when he reads the message. You don’t move, you don’t make a sound, you don’t even dare to ask anything. Your usual snarky comments are nowhere to be found, which is the result of the ambiguous aura of his that makes you feel threatened and calm at the same time. There’s something about him that unnerves you, but right now all you can think about is survival. 

Max looks back your way, the smile returning the moment his eyes land on you. “Please, don’t look at me like that. I don’t want to hurt you. But I need something from you,” he says. 

Your eyes narrow because you know what he wants. The item he’s looking for is in your bag, and at this point you would hand it over to him in return for your freedom. Maybe the fixer and his client wouldn’t be happy, but right now that’s the least of your worries. They can’t win this. If you don’t give them the drive on your own free will, they will zero you and fish it out of the bag themselves. 

Nodding, you slowly peel off the backpack, and once he stops his man from shooting you, you offer it to him. But he doesn’t seem interested, in fact, he watches you with a slightly confused frown. “The drive. It’s in the bag,” you tell him.

“I don’t need that drive, I can get what’s on it elsewhere,” he begins to explain as he steps closer and gently puts a hand on yours to make you lower the backpack. “It’s you I want. You’re talented, you shouldn’t waste that on these stupid little gigs. Work for me, and in return I’ll give you whatever you want.”

You drop the bag as you gasp and instinctively take a step back. Working for him? He must be joking. Sure, you’re not stupid, you know he holds the kind of power many people can only dream about, no fixer could give you prestigious jobs like he would, and he probably pays a lot better too, but… Working for him would mean you sold your soul to the Devil. Would it be worth it?

There’s something about the way he watches you, something that makes you uncomfortable. Those baby blue eyes are intense, and they don’t miss anything, you’re sure he even keeps track of how many times you breathe in and out. You have a feeling that it’s not just about the job. He doesn’t need a merc to work for him, there has to be another reason why he picked you from all people. 

“What if I say no?” you wonder out loud.

Max nods. “Now, that would be a problem. But why would you refuse? I would treat you right, trust me,” he says, and then he gently sweeps a strand of hair behind your ear before pulling his hand away, making sure his fingers brush your jawline. 

For a moment you stop breathing as your brain is trying to process what just happened. Was he like this with everyone? From what you’ve heard about him, he isn’t exactly a nice guy when it comes to business, yet now his voice is sweet like honey, as if he was trying to coerce you to say yes to him. What if this is personal? What if this has nothing to do with you being a merc?

“What is this really about? You have your own foot soldiers, you don’t need me,” you tell him quietly, suddenly a little afraid of his answer as your gut is telling you he will say something you won’t like.

He turns to the man who’s standing by the door, then signals him to leave. Once he’s gone, Max tilts his head to the side with a soft smile. “I have a little… problem. I need a partner for certain reasons. Someone who knows who I am, someone who could be… my equal. Think of this as a gig. I’ll pay well, way better than other jobs would.”

“How long would this job last? And what exactly would I have to do?” 

There’s an amused smirk on his lips as he watches you, his eyes never leaving your face. “I don’t know, it will last while it lasts. And what will you do? Well, you look pretty on my side. Maybe you’ll give us your opinion about certain matters,” he replies.

Great, so he only wants a good-looking doll. “Hire an escort.” The roll of his eyes tells you that he’s not impressed with your suggestion. “Can I think about it?”

Max nods as he takes a step back. “I’ll make myself a coffee. You have time until I drink it,” he says, then heads to the kitchen as if he was home. 

The way he tries to get an answer out of you so fast tells you there must be a reason why he’s in such a hurry. He needs your help, and maybe he doesn’t have many options. Or he’s lying to you because he wants to make sure you say yes. Either way, you really don’t have a choice. Knowing who he is, you’re sure he could force you to do this, maybe by threatening your loved ones. When he returns and sits in the armchair, legs crossed while he takes a sip of the warm drink, you gulp and let out a sigh to prepare yourself to speak. 

“Since I highly doubt I have a choice,” you begin, instantly earning a surprised look from him, “fine, I’ll do it. But it’s strictly business.”

There’s a strange glint crossing his eyes, but it disappears as fast as it showed up. “Good. Pack some essentials, we’re leaving soon. Oh, and only pack one or two sets of clothes, I’ll get someone to buy you new things anyway. You’ve got to dress the part after all,” he tells you with a satisfied smile.

Your eyes narrow in confusion as you take a better look at the Red Bull F1 team merch he’s wearing now, wondering how he’s the one talking about fashion choices. He follows your gaze, quickly understanding what bothers you, because he flashes a smile at you with a barely visible shake of his head. 

“It’s race day and I support my favorite team. I do normal things, you know,” he says.

Normal things. Sure. And here you were, assuming that leading the biggest underground organization in Monaco is a job that takes up all of his time. But now that he had the chance to mention his favorite sport, you saw a glimpse of a version of him that wasn’t a criminal, that wasn’t a cold-blooded monster. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as you thought. Well, okay, he probably was.

Deciding to drop the conversation, you go to your bedroom and pull out a suitcase from the walk-in closet. Max said he would buy you clothes, so you follow his instructions and only pack what you really need. Once the suitcase is zipped shut, you sit on the edge of the bed with your phone in hand, wondering if you should call your best friend so at least one person would know you’re disappearing on your own free will.

But as you think about it, you realize that a phone call would be dangerous, you have no idea if anyone’s eavesdropping from the hallway, so you simply type a message that you’ll be unavailable for a short while. It couldn’t last longer than a week, right? Now that you think about it, you have to realize that this is a dangerous game you’re playing. You only know the stories about him—those Grimm’s fairy tales level stories that scare so many people in the underworld.

Until now, while your job isn’t always legal, you’ve been known for helping the cops every once in a while. But if you semi-publicly side with Max, things can change for good, and not necessarily in the right way. Even if you say you were only doing this temporarily for, like, casual sex, there would be a permanent target on your back. Some might assume you still have ties to him, some might think he still has a soft spot for you and can get to him if they hurt you… 

Going with him now is a double edged sword, but you don’t have a choice if you want to live. This is your life now, it’s time to accept it. Whatever happens after this job is something you can’t avoid. It’s annoying–no, it’s actually quite depressing as you think about it. You could just as well stay in his circles and work for him later too. 

Just when the existential crisis could truly kick in, there’s a knock on the door and Max pokes his head around seconds later. “Ready? We should leave now,” he informs you. There’s a gentle edge to his voice, something way softer than what you heard before. 

After a nod, you pick up the suitcase, but he walks over to you to take the handle from your hand. The two of you, followed by the man who’s been waiting in the hallway apparently, make your way to his car, a simple black Audi SUV that doesn’t really get people’s attention in a place where supercars can be found on every corner. 

You and Max sit in the back, and even though he’s busy typing something on his phone, you notice that he keeps glancing your way. Just brief, easily missable looks, but you still notice, because you can feel the way he’s staring at you. When you turn to him with eyebrows raised in question, he clears his throat and turns away. 

The rest of the car ride passes in the same silence, except he does his best not to look at you again. You can’t help but wonder what’s going through his head. Is it as loud inside as it is in yours? Because here you are with a brain in overdrive, fear and curiosity battling for the lead in there. On the one hand, he’s known for being ruthless and sometimes even cruel, but on the other, from what you’ve seen so far, he’s not that bad. But maybe he’s just desperate. When he told you he needed a partner, there was something in his eyes–annoyance, maybe–that told you he doesn’t really have a choice in this matter. 

The car soon parks in an underground garage, and you’re led to a beautiful apartment on the top floor, with a view so amazing that you can barely stop looking out the window. Out of the corner of your eye you can see Max watching you with a smile, but he doesn’t say anything, and eventually he moves to the living room to turn on the TV and open the F1TV app on it. Of course, the race he was talking about. Unsure of how to proceed, you move closer to him, but you just wait silently in the border of the hall and the other room. You wonder how long it will take someone to take pity on you and tell you things like where your room is. 

“Come, sit,” Max speaks up suddenly, patting the empty side of the couch. “Watch the race with me.” Knowing better than to refuse, you obediently go there and put your bag at the edge of the couch before sitting down, leaving quite a lot of space between you and the man. “Oh, by the way, put your phone on the coffee table, please. Daniel and a friend of mine are out to buy you some new clothes and shoes, and they’ll stop to get you a new phone too. Wouldn’t want anyone to track your location, right?” There’s a small smile on his lips that makes you want to punch him in the face. 

In the next two hours you watch the race, and since you admittedly don’t know much about F1, he takes it on himself to teach you the basics. To your surprise, it’s not at all boring, but you can feel you would need a little more time and slightly different circumstances to become a lot more invested in this sport. Max can see that, because he stops talking about it as soon as the race ends. When you try to fight back a yawn, he looks at you with a curious look in his blue eyes. 

“Did you sleep last night?” Of course he knows you had a very long night, one you spent with a friend in a club to celebrate the successful gig–well, at that point, you thought it was done. So you decide not to lie and nod, surprised to see an understanding look on his face as he leans back and points towards the hallway. “The second room on the right is the guest bedroom. Your suitcase is already inside. Go, take a nap. We’ll order something to eat after you wake up, and we’ll begin the learning sessions,” he says. 

“Learning session?” you ask, profoundly confused by this. 

He nods. “Like I said, I need you as a partner. My father will come here the day after tomorrow, and we’ll have dinner with him. He wants to meet my girlfriend. You’ll need to know a lot of things about me, I’ll also need to know a lot of things about you, and we also need to learn the story of how we met and how we live as a couple,” he explains casually, as if it was perfectly normal. 

Even though you vaguely knew what this job was about, you’re still surprised when you hear the details. You have a day and a half to learn, but you’re not afraid of that. You’re afraid of learning more about him, because that knowledge can be dangerous in the long run. But there is one thing that bothers you, one little detail that makes you question a few things. “Do you have a real girlfriend? If so, why not introduce her to your father?” you wonder. 

Max flashes a sad smile at you. “I don’t have time to date. And my father… Well, he has high expectations. He always told me I shouldn’t waste my time on airheads, so I needed someone like you to play the part. He will like you, I’m sure of it.”

“And why can’t you just admit you’re not dating anyone?”

At first, he opens his mouth to answer, but then he falls silent. The gears in his head are visibly turning, and it takes him a minute to finally speak up. “He’s willing to finally retire and let me handle things in the Netherlands too. But he only lets me take over if I’m in a serious relationship,” he says. 

“Serious relationship? And what if he wants to see us together after this meeting? You’ll threaten me again to play along?” 

His jaw tightens at this, but he doesn’t lash out. He’s perfectly calm when he speaks up again. “I’ll figure something out, don’t worry about that.”

Letting out a sigh, you pick up your bag and head to your room without saying anything. You can once again feel his eyes on you, and for a brief moment you even feel bad for him. It’s a lot of pressure he’s under, and it’s obvious that he really wants this. But you have a small voice in the back of your mind telling you that he doesn’t want control in another country, he wants his father to be out of the picture. There have been rumors about his troubled relationship with his father, and if even half of it is true, you wouldn’t want to be in his place. 

In the evening, after you emerged from your room, you only find an unknown man in the living room, flipping through the channels to see if there’s anything on TV that catches his attention. After some hesitation, you clear your throat to let him know you’re there, and he turns around to look at you with a big, contagious smile on his face. As it turns out, he’s Daniel, the man Max briefly mentioned in the afternoon, his right hand man as you now learn. Your host is out on an unexpected meeting, but he left instructions to order you something to eat while he’s away. 

After the introductions and the food order, your companion for the evening shows you the dozen shopping bags that are waiting for you in the hall, full of clothes and shoes that he thought you would like. While you wait for the dinner, you check the bags and realize that Daniel certainly has a good taste if it was him who chose them. All of them are designer clothes, things you would never buy for yourself, but they are undeniably pretty.

An hour later you’re both sitting by the dinner table, chatting about how he ended up working for Max, and he tells you details you’re not even sure you should know. But Daniel sees the uncertainty in your eyes, which is why he puts down his fork and knife in preparation for a speech. “Listen, you’ll have to be prepared. This game Max is playing? You need to have the answers to questions, you need to know these little details to play your role in a more believable way. So just listen and learn, okay? I’m sure Max will also tell you a lot of things,” he explains. 

“What is he like? Like you said, he’ll probably talk about himself too, but maybe as an outsider you can tell me something he wouldn’t mention,” you say as you push your plate away and lean back in your chair to give him your full attention. 

Daniel begins to talk. Max has two cats who are temporarily locked into his bedroom as he wants to introduce the three of you to each other himself. They are his furry children, he loves cats, so if you want to calm him down or avert his thoughts, just find a cute video with cats and show it to him. Then there’s the sim rig in the living room that you noticed earlier, one of the few hobbies he has. He plays padel with his friends every now and then, and he watches an insane amount of F1 and MotoGP. If we don’t count his leadership of one of Monaco’s biggest crime organizations, he’s apparently a pretty normal guy. 

You ask about his family, but he only shakes his head and tells you he would rather let him talk about it himself. This is a sign that there’s some touchy subject he doesn’t feel allowed to talk about, something that is probably important, so you make a mental note to corner Max about it later. 

That’s when he remembers he’s supposed to give you the phone he bought in the afternoon, and it’s already set up. And there’s a text from Max: The meeting lasts longer than expected. Don’t wait up. With a sigh, you put it on the table so Daniel can see what it is. He lets out a low hum, then suddenly stands up, already reaching for the plates. You pick up the glasses and go after him into the kitchen, following his lead as he puts them in the dishwasher.

“Why don’t you go home?” you wonder out loud. 

Daniel looks surprised for a moment, then a warm smile appears on his lips. “I have to stay until he gets back. Just to make sure you’re okay,” he adds.

“I can protect myself.”

“We know.”

So this isn’t about keeping you safe, Max just wants to make sure you don’t leave while he’s gone. It’s not that hard to figure it out, but for now you’d rather not tell that to Daniel. Which is why you nod and fake a yawn, then tell him it’s time to go to bed after such a long day. He’s a nice guy, you don’t want to lie to him, but right now you can’t fully trust anyone. You need to tiptoe around them, playing it smart for now. 

“Hey,” he calls after you. You turn back with a questioning hum, and he walks over to you with an uncertain look in his eyes. “He’s not a bad guy, and he gave you a choice when he offered you the job. I know, I know, it probably didn’t feel like it,” he says with his hands held up when he saw you open your mouth. “But he admires you. Professionally, of course. Ever since you began to earn a name for yourself, he’s been following your career. Just give him a chance.”

You nod, still having a hard time believing him. 

In the safety of your room, you can’t help but take a look around, wondering if you should check for hidden cameras, but then you decide against it. Even if you found one, there would be nothing you could do, because confronting them about it would lead nowhere. His home, his rules, and you’re not exactly in the position to object. Not like you would like to do anything they can’t see. But in the same way, you’re quite sure the phone has spyware too, they’re keeping track of what you do on it–who you’re calling, who gets a message, what social media apps you’re using. 

You’re on your own. 

//////

“Hey, it’s time to wake up.” 

With a groan, you turn your head to see who’s disturbing you, and to your surprise, you find Max standing in the door of your room. He’s wearing shorts with a simple gray shirt, looking sleepy as if he has just woken up himself not long ago. You shake your head and turn back on your side, even pulling the blanket over your head, but he’s not having it. Seconds later you feel the mattress dip on your side when he sits on the edge of the bed and gently peels the blanket back to your shoulders. 

“Look, I know it’s early, but we have a lot to talk about. We need to prepare for tomorrow, okay?” he says, surprising you with how gentle his tone is now. 

You sigh and sit up, resting your back against the headrest as you take a closer look at him. Could it be that he’s not as bad as you always thought? No. It’s just a trap, he’s only trying to earn your trust to manipulate you more successfully. You’re nothing more than a pawn in this game of chess, he uses you to convince his father to give him the keys to his empire. 

There’s a minute or two that passes in complete silence, but you can see the glint in his eyes that tells you he knows what you’re thinking about, and he doesn’t look happy about it. With a sigh, he hesitantly puts a hand on yours and looks you in the eye. “I’m not acting like I was nice, I really am like that. Especially with you,” he adds so quietly you almost miss it.

“What does that supposed to mean?” 

He looks away and bites the inside of his cheek. “Maybe I’ve been keeping an eye on you for a while,” he finally admits, still avoiding your eyes. 

You can’t help but laugh at that. Daniel did mention that last night, it shouldn’t surprise you, but the way he just said these words? Strange. “If I didn’t know better, I would say it sounds like you have a crush on me or something.”

He rolls his eyes, but you can see how flustered he is, his cheeks turning into a bright shade of red within seconds. It’s hard to hide the small smile that wants to creep on your lips, because seeing the big, scary crime lord acting like some stupid schoolgirl is truly entertaining. While a voice in the back of your mind keeps telling you he’s lying, there’s something about the way he looks like he’s still half asleep that makes you wonder if he could even lie at this time of the day.

“Anyway,” he says after clearing his throat, “get ready. I’ll make some coffee and breakfast. Meet you in the kitchen.”

With that, he stands up and exits the room, leaving you thinking about why he’s acting like that. Yesterday he was way colder, giving you no choice but to come with him, but today he seems nice, and you can’t help but wonder if Daniel was telling the truth last night. Having breakfast with him only makes you more confused, because Max is super nice, smiling and laughing a lot as he tells you stories about his childhood. 

Throughout the day, you learn a lot about him, and in return he learns a lot about you. Having done his research, there are things he already knows, but he only lets this show when he asks you questions to clarify details. You notice the differences when he talks about his family, like the small smile and kind tone while he tells you about his mother and sister, and the deep breath he takes every time before talking about his father.

And then in the afternoon he says something that surprises you. Photos. You need photos of the two of you to make things more believable. It’s not that his father is such a big fan of taking a look at photographs, but if your story is that you’ve been together for a while, it would be only natural to find some scattered around your shared home. But how do you do that in such a short amount of time? Well, he has already thought of that.

He has a friend, Lando, who loves to take photos in his free time, and he promised to join you for the afternoon and the evening to help. He’ll instruct you when you do some selfies in his home or elsewhere, then he’s going to take photos with a phone as if you asked someone to help, then prepare his camera to do some professional shots too. All while changing from one outfit into another, sometimes even taking the time to have a small team change your hair and makeup.

Max is going a little overboard with this and he knows that, but it’s necessary to make sure there’s no room left for error according to him. So, despite not feeling energized enough to smile for the camera, you pull yourself together just enough to play the part well. You know you have to make his father believe you’re his girlfriend, but having his arm around you and feeling his body being pressed to yours is really weird at first. But then you manage to loosen up, even laughing at his stupid jokes that he keeps telling you to make you smile, and Lando is thrilled as he goes through the pictures on the locations.

It’s almost midnight, and the three of you are sitting on the couch, with Max being in the middle, an arm casually resting on the back of the couch behind you, while Lando is on his other side, carefully curating your new portfolio. Every once in a while he giggles, but when you or Max ask him what it is, he just waves his hand and moves on.  

“If I didn’t know better, I would say you two are the cutest couple I’ve ever seen,” Lando eventually says with a wide smile as he turns his laptop to show you a photo. 

The photo in question shows you sitting on the beach with your head resting on his shoulder, and he’s looking down at you with a shockingly sweet and loving smile, as if being in love with you was the most natural thing in the world. You glance over at him out of the corner of your eye, and there’s that smile again for a moment while he watches the screen. He says something to his friend, but his words simply don’t stick around long enough to be processed by your brain.

You’re only snapped out of your thoughts by the sound of the laptop closing. “Alright, Daniel can pick up the photos tomorrow. I have picture frames that go well with your apartment’s design, so you’ll only have to put them in their rightful places,” Lando announces as he carefully puts his laptop into the backpack. 

“Thanks, mate,” Max says with a smile as they shake hands.

The Brit waves goodbye before heading to the front door, leaving you alone in the apartment. For a few minutes you’re sitting there in silence, a short break he spends checking his emails while you’re playing with one of his cats. Even though you’re tired, you try to avoid letting it show, but somehow he notices, because he soon puts the phone away and turns to you with a kind smile. He doesn’t say a word, only motions toward the hallway with his hand as he mouths, ‘go.’

With a nod, you stand up and take a few steps away from him, but something feels off about Max. You turn back your head to look at him, and even though he’s once again scrolling his phone, you can see it on his face that he’s not just troubled, he’s also nervous as hell. Yes, he’s good at hiding it, but you can see the signs. Cursing under your breath, you take a deep breath and turn around properly. “Hey, Max?” you ask softly, earning a surprised look from him. “Wanna talk about it?”

His eyes narrow in confusion. “About what?” he asks, sounding honestly lost. 

Letting out a long breath, you sit back next to him and poke his temple with your pointer finger. “About what’s going on in this gorgeous head of yours.” You regret your choice of word right away, but there’s no way to take it back now, and he certainly noticed too. 

“Gorgeous?” Max repeats with a wide grin, and when you roll your eyes at him, he shakes his head. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. Don’t worry about it.”

“Does it have anything to do with your dad coming tomorrow?” 

His jaw clenches at the question, but he doesn’t respond right away. Those blue eyes of his turn to the window, focusing on the view of the port below, but his brain is in overdrive, that’s clear as day. When you begin to suspect that he’s not planning on answering, you put a hand on his, even letting your thumb run over his knuckles in a soothing manner. He looks down at his hand and turns it just enough to wrap his fingers around yours, holding onto you as if this would ground him and calm his racing thoughts.

While yesterday you were defiant, this morning you promised yourself to play along and be nice, and apparently he appreciates it. No, maybe it’s not appreciation, maybe… Well, maybe he misunderstands it. Maybe he takes it as a sign that you have a soft spot for him too, after all he made it clear that he’s been keeping an eye on you for a while now. Max wants something from you, something that goes beyond a simple companionship, and this fake relationship might be his only chance to get this close to you.

You’re pulled out of your thoughts when he gently puts a finger under your chin, making you look up at him as he leans a little closer. “You know,” he begins hesitantly, showing you a vulnerable side of him that’s not even close to the image people in your circles have in mind, “my dad might wonder why I don’t kiss my girlfriend when he’s around. So maybe… Maybe we should practice.”

Sure, you have your moments, but you’re not entirely stupid, you can tell it’s not strictly about your upcoming play. He just wants to kiss you, plain and simple, and you don’t know how you feel about this. What would you do if he was a normal guy, someone who has nothing to do with the world of organized crime? He’s undeniably handsome, and today he was nice to you, even nicer than some of your previous boyfriends.

Then again, he’s probably just playing with you, and you can’t be some stupid girl who falls for his charm. Who knows how many women have already heard this story, that the great Max Verstappen had been keeping an eye on them and now wants to spend more time with them. You would be another victim, nothing more. 

“I really should get some sleep. I would probably mess up big time if I met your dad half-asleep,” you reply with a nervous smile after pulling your hand away and slowly getting on your feet. 

He looks confused for a second, but then he follows your lead and stands up as well, watching you with wide eyes. There’s something he wants to say, but he’s hesitating, and eventually he lets out a defeated sigh and nods. “Sure. Sleep tight,” he says quietly.

“Goodnight, Max.”

//////

The day has come. Jos Verstappen set foot in Monaco, and the tension in the air is palpable. Max is tense, he’s pacing his office like a caged lion, responding to questions in extremely short sentences. Eventually, he closes the door, so you’re left in the rest of the apartment with his right hand man, Daniel. He’s also nervous, but you guess it’s just a residue of his boss’ own feelings.

You sit on the barstool next to his in the kitchen, your fingertip running around the edge of the glass as you think about where to start. “Have you met his dad?” you ask him when you’re finally ready to turn to him.

His smile disappears in an instant, and he lets out a troubled sigh. “He’s a real piece of work, let’s stick with that.” He looks away, but you can see he wants to say more, something that you should probably know about the older Verstappen. You gently nudge his arm with your elbow, causing him to turn back to you. “He will grill you, expect that. In his eyes, no one is good enough for his son, and I’m sure he will do his research after meeting you.”

Nodding, you take a sip of your iced tea and begin to wonder what else is there. “I assume a merc isn’t who he would like to see on his son’s side,” you note. 

Daniel shifts in the chair just enough to face you. “It’s not that you’re a merc. It’s the fact you’re not really together. If Jos tries to learn more about the two of you, he’ll bump into walls, because obviously no one will know what he means. Max now has to convince him that you’ve been keeping this under wraps, but you already know this.”

“Yeah, he did mention that,” you confirm with a nod. “Listen, there’s something I wanted to ask. When I got here, you told me Max admired me. What does that mean exactly?”

A nervous grin appears on his face as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, no, I should have known this would happen. He really is terrible at hiding it, I guess.”

“Hiding what?”

“I’m not saying he has some Helga Pataki-style shrine of you in his closet, but… You know, he might have some stupid crush on you,” Daniel explains.

“Who’s Helga?”

Pain becomes visible on his face, and for a brief moment you expect him to start crying. “You guys are so young, you don’t even know Hey, Arnold, do you? God, I feel like a boomer.” He turns his coffee mug, but doesn’t raise it to drink. “Anyway, in that cartoon there was a girl, Helga, who acted kinda hostile with Arnold, but secretly she was obsessed with him and even had a shrine of him in the back of her closet.”

You raise an eyebrow as you try to process what he just said. So, unless Daniel is part of some elaborate scheme, Max might truly like you. In this case, Max picked you for this job because it would be easier for him to play house with someone he has real feelings for. These emotions could cause problems later on, they could easily turn into something violent after this whole play ended. You’re fucked. Damn it. 

“No need to worry about him. I know he can be ruthless, but you have nothing to worry about. He could never hurt you. Trust me,” he adds with a warm smile. 

The two of you sit there in comfortable silence for a while, which is only disturbed by a familiar voice calling out from the end of the hallway. “Y/N, could you come in?” With a sigh, you pat Daniel on the shoulder and head to the office to see what Max wants from you. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the desk with a troubled look on his face, and he avoids your face when you stop in front of him. Something is bothering him, and you guess that something is his father’s arrival. Ever since he received the message that his father’s plane touched the ground, he’s been extremely tense and irritated, and he’s been clearly avoiding you until now. But in a matter of hours you’re expected to meet him in a restaurant, he can’t stay away forever.

For a moment you think about putting a hand on his shoulder, just to give him a little pat to make him look at you. But then you decide against it, because you don’t want him to think you have a soft spot for him. Who knows where that would lead? Let’s just keep a safe distance for now. “What’s going on?” you ask him.

Max finally looks at you, and you can see the hesitation in his blue eyes. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry for wasting your time, Daniel will take you home,” he announces. 

Your brain needs a moment to restart and process what you just heard. “And your dad?”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“Max,” you say softly as you take a step closer, but he holds up a hand to stop you. “Why are you doing this?”

“I had time to think, and… I can’t do this to you. You were right, I could just hire an escort or someone to play the role. I’ll tell my dad I’ll meet him tomorrow, and that will give me time to get someone else ready,” he explains, then gets off the desk, motioning towards the door. “Pack your things, I’ll discuss a few things with Daniel until you’re ready to go.”

Shaking your head, you reach out to take his hand. He’s clearly surprised, because he pulls it away as if you’ve just burned him. “Why? Did I do something wrong?” The only answer is a shake of his head. “Then what’s going on? We know everything we need to know about each other, why would you bother going through this again?” you ask with a confused frown.

Max lets out a sigh, then bites his lower lip. “I made a mistake. I trust you, I know you won’t turn what you know against me. Now, pack your suitcase and leave.” Gulping, you nod, and turn to head back to your room, but he suddenly speaks up again. “Thank you. For everything.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

You can’t help but wonder why these words tasted so bitter as you said them. Sure, you spent a lot of time getting to learn everything, but you wanted to get away from him, you didn’t trust him, so you should be happy now. Yet, as you’re packing your suitcase, you can’t help but think about the past two days. Maybe there’s a part of you somewhere deep down that’s sad it’s over so soon. Maybe this part actually grew to like Max. 

Well, maybe it’s not just a small part.

[just-dreaming-marvel]

Love That Burns ~ 35

LOVE THAT BURNS MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 3,090ish

Summary: You and Logan fight to save Mariko.

Warnings: wounds, fighting, near death experiences

Notes: I have loved all the reactions I've received! Please keep them coming. They all mean so much to me! This is the last chapter before we start on the two different endings! Ending 1 will come out before ending 2. Also, before the ending 1 starts coming out, I'm going to post the one-shot for this series about their everyday lives from the ten year gap.

Reminder: I DO NOT do taglists. Please don’t ask. Please follow and interact! I appreciate any reblogs, likes, comments, and asks! 

You gasped as you woke up naked on the medical bed you had died on. Looking around, you could tell that you were alone. Meaning that Logan had followed through with going to save Mariko, which was what you had asked of him. You were honestly surprised that you had risen from the dead again, but you couldn't waste any more time. You needed to get to Logan.

You quickly found some clothes to wear and the location of Yashida’s birthplace. Thankfully, rich people always had a few cars lying around, and you were off. Racing to get to Logan before he did anything incredibly stupid.

~~~

Logan’s anger was fueling him forward. He needed to rescue Mariko and finish off Dr. Green. He needed to get his revenge for you. When Logan arrived at the town, he was met with Harada, waiting in the streets for him. Logan could sense that there were others nearby, hiding in the shadows.

“I see you’ve come to fight,” Harada stated, coming towards Logan. “It’s pointless. You’re outnumbered. The Black Clan has protected the House of Yashida for 700 years.”

The Black Clan began emerging from the shadows, from the alleys and the rooftops.

“Is that all the men you brought?” Logan challenged. “I’m going to get to Mariko.”

“We are grateful for your protection of Mariko. But there is one more sacrifice you must make for her family.”

“Go fuck yourself, pretty boy.”

Harada yelled, and the fighting began. It didn’t take long for the other Black Clan members to jump down and join, with more continuing to appear on the rooftops. Hard ordered them to begin firing arrows as Logan started to run through the streets. Logan got halfway through town before the arrows began to have heavy wires attached. Logan grunted as he tried to continue on despite the resistance of the wires. He groaned as a poisoned arrow hit the middle of his back. His vision began to blur, but Logan continued to move forward. The Black Clan continued to shoot wired arrows into his back until Logan collapsed face-first into the snow.

~~~

You followed the tracks of a fight in the snow once you reached the town. Your heart clenched at the sight of the clear marks of someone being dragged. You knew it had to be Logan. You continued to follow the tracks, slipping into the large house on the hill. With your powers fully restored, it was easy to take down the Black Clan members in your way. Eventually, you reached the center of the building, revealing to be a large, open lab spanning the whole building. 

Glancing down, you saw Logan locked up in some machine that kept his hands facing outward. You could see him moving slightly and groaning like he was waking up. With a sudden tug, you could see Logan trying to free himself. Slowly and quietly, you began to sneak down.

“Stand back," Dr. Green ordered the nearby Black Clan members as she waltzed up. “There is no need.”

“Where’s Mariko?” Logan demanded. “Where is she?”

“Are you pinning for someone who is not your wife? For shame. Where is your wife anyway?” Logan simply growled. “Did she not make it? Too weak?”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Dr. Green smirked before looking away at the giant samurai nearby. “Impressive, no? He is made of adamantium, just like you.” Logan continued to try to break free. “Oh, Logan, you know what, I get it. You’re frustrated.” 

She pressed some buttons, moving the machine that Logan was stuck in forward. The machine pulled his arms forward, away from his body. Logan kept heaving breaths as the machine kept him still, drilling into him and inflicting pain.

“I know Mariko is here,” Logan panted. “I want to see her.”

"You want answers,” Dr. Green stated.

“Yes, I want answers!”

“I’m sorry, I wish I could say more, but I was hired in part for my discretion.” Dr. Green leaned forward, up against the machine, taunting Logan. 

“I’m sure you were."

“That and a certain talent for combining biochemistry and metaphysics. High-grade toxins are my specialty. It helps to be genetically immune to every poison known to man, as I am. And immune to the toxin of man himself… as I am.”

“I’ll tell you what, you twisted mutant bitch, why don’t you open these bracelets, and we'll see who’s made of what?” Logan released his claws. Almost as soon as he did, the machine clamped down further around his fists, preventing his claws from retracting.

“The claws,” Dr. Green smiled. "Now we can begin. The suppressant bug you found inside of you and your wife was mine. You took it out on your own. I didn’t see that coming. Did you take your wife's out, too? Is that why she’s not here?”

“You don’t deserve to talk about her!”

“You are strong. You have courage. Real courage. But that won’t help much now.”

The giant metal samurai ripped itself free from the wires it was connected to. It stomped over to Logan, going around him, before stopping in front. You arrived on the same floor they were on in time to see the giant samurai pull a huge sword out and line it up with Logan’s claws. Your eyes widened as you noticed the sword heat up as it lifted. You rushed over and threw yourself between Logan and the samurai.

“Stop!” You shouted. 

The samurai lost its concentration, hitting the back of the machine Logan was in, throwing you, Logan, and Dr. Green around while the samurai fell back. Logan grunted as he landed on his knees.

“Y/N!” He yelled.

You looked up and over at him, shooting him a smile. “Hey, handsome,” you breathed out. “Miss me?”

Logan opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, he noticed the samurai getting back up. Slamming the leftover wrist clamp against the stairs, it came clattering off. He ran over to you and grabbed your hand, tugging you up harshly to stumble against his chest. His lips quickly captured yours for a brief kiss.

“You gotta stop doing that, sweetheart,” he whispered. 

“Gotta keep you on your toes somehow, honey,” you replied with a smirk.

He smirked back. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” The samurai stomping closer caused Logan to start to drag you in the opposite direction. “Run! Go!”

You and Logan ran side-by-side. You noticed Dr. Green rushing to cut you off. You threw your hands out, launching her over the railing and down a few floors in a ball of flames. Harada and Mariko rushed out of a room a few floors up.

“Go!” Logan urged, waving them off. “Run!”

The two of you began running down the stairs. The giant samurai jumped down to the level you had reached. Logan let out a roar as he flung himself at the samurai, causing himself and the samurai to fall down a few levels.

“Logan!” You screamed, looking over the railing to see him squaring up with the samurai. 

You spun around and tried to take the stairs two at a time to get to Logan. You could hear him groaning, straining to keep the samurai’s sword still as he used his claws as a shield. You reached the floor in time to see the samurai pull out a second sword that was quickly heating up. Using the railing, you launched yourself onto the back of the samurai and took hold of the heated sword with one of your hands. You focused on heating the sword up further, causing it to begin to lose its shape. It dropped the melting sword and reached back. It grabbed you and threw you over the railing.

“Y/N!” Logan roared.

You cried out in pain as you harshly landed a few floors down. You could hear Logan and the samurai fighting for a few moments before you heard a thud close by. Logan was quickly kneeling beside you, checking you over.

“Are you okay?” He asked, eyes still frantically searching you over. He carefully helped you sit up.

“Honestly, I’m ready to go home,” you responded.

He let out a hearty chuckle. “Me, too, darling.”

The samurai dropped down onto the level the two of you were on. Logan pulled you up and dragged you over to the electrical boxes. Using his claws, he ruined the boxes, turning off most of the lights in the building. You and Logan quietly hid behind nearby posts as the samurai searched for the two of you. The samurai passed the two of you, allowing Logan to jump on its back and retrieve another sword it had. 

“Y/N!” Logan shouted. 

He tossed you the sword, and you caught it. Holding it with both hands, you began to heat it up. The samurai spun around, kicking Logan down, allowing you to cut the head off the samurai. Logan launched himself at the samurai again, forcing him and the metal monster down to the bottom floor. The samurai slammed against the wall, breaking a hole into it that Logan was launched through.

“Logan!” You yelled.

You ran down the flights of stairs as Logan climbed back into the building. You dropped to your knees in front of him, the two of you quickly wrapping your arms around each other. In a blink of an eye, the samurai grabbed your ankles and tore you from Logan’s grasp.

“No!” Logan shouted, hands barely brushing against your arms as you’re torn out of reach.

The samurai spun you around and grasped onto your hands. The metal clamped against your wrists, and three drills from each of the metal hands appeared and began drilling into your fists, right into your bones. You screamed out in pain.

“Let her go!” Logan demanded.

The middle of the samurai opened up to reveal Yashida.

“Logan-san,” he greeted. “Don't look so shocked. With you at my side, I survived Nagasaki. Surely, I could survive this.” You let out another scream as the drills pushed further into you. “It’s alright. It won’t take long.”

“What are you doing to her?!” Logan didn't know what move to make without hurting you.

“Dr. Green and I have been waiting. It’s only this armor that's kept me alive. We built it to make me strong so I can take what you would not give. And transfer your unwanted healing to my body. It’s only by mere coincidence that your wife could also provide what you would not give. My legacy must be preserved. Your mistake was to believe that a life without end can have no meaning. It is the only life that can.”

Logan was watching as the life slowly drained from your body. You were growing older while Yashida was growing younger. He couldn’t get his eyes to look away from you. He couldn’t force himself to move.

“Logan!” Yukio shouted, throwing one of the large swords in his direction.

Logan caught it, gripping it with both hands, causing it to heat up. He stood up and, with a shout, threw the sword into Yashida’s head. The metal hands retracted the drills and let you go. Logan caught you before you could collapse onto the ground. Yashida stumbled back, gasping for breath, before falling out of the building to his death.

“Sweetheart,” Logan shook you, trying to get you to gain consciousness. “Wake up… I really can’t handle this again… I need you to wake up.” Yukio slowly came over, watching the scene. “Come on, honey.” 

The only hope Logan had was the fact that you were still breathing. You had to wake up. Yukio placed a hand on Logan’s shoulder.

“We need to get her some medical attention,” Yukio said.

Logan nodded, hoisting you further up into his arms before standing up. Yukio led the way out, where Mariko and Harada were waiting safely.

“Logan! Y/N!” Mariko exclaimed, rushing towards Logan. “Oh my gosh!” Mariko looked you over, immediately seeing your increase in age. “We need to get her to a hospital.”

“No,” Logan pulled you closer. “Too dangerous.”

“Logan, I have my grandfather’s business under my control. I have resources. The two of you have helped me so much. Please let me return the favor.”

“Mariko can help,” Harada agreed.

Logan scoffed. “Not really caring for your word right now, bub,” he muttered.

“Trust me,” Mariko pressed. “I won’t let any happen to either of you anymore.”

~~~

Logan snarled at anyone who tried to pry you from his arms the moment Mariko had the group escorted to a private wing of a nearby hospital. Yukio and Mariko had to work together to coax him into setting you on the bed. He insisted on staying near you the entire time. 

The doctor Mariko had called in specialized in mutants, giving Logan hope and making him even more cautious. Logan’s eyes created a rotation going from your rising chest, your face, to the monitors and back. He wanted to know everything and not miss a second of anything. He stood on the edge of every room you were brought into, like a constant guarding shadow. Mariko and Yukio took turns trying to get Logan to rest, but he couldn’t leave you.

It took a few hours for the doctor to get any results from the tests they had run. The doctor informed the group that you were slowly healing and de-aging. They said that you’d be fine in a day or two and would most likely sleep the entire time. The doctor encouraged the group to keep you there until you woke up, and Logan reluctantly agreed. 

“There's one other thing,” the doctor added, after updating the group. “I talked to Dr. McCoy on the phone, and he informed me of the incident that happened ten years ago when Y/N returned from the dead like a Phoenix.”

“What about it?” Logan asked. 

“Was that the only time?”

“No. She did it about a day ago.”

“That would explain what we saw in the blood we took.”

Logan took a protective step closer. “What did you see, doc?”

“Mr. Howlett, your wife is a powerful mutant, but when she rises from the dead like that, it sucks away at some of her abilities. The tests we ran and compared to previous tests that Dr. McCoy had run, show that her mutation is slowly decaying.”

“Are you saying that she’s dying?”

“Not exactly. She could still live another hundred years as long as she is careful. The more she rises from the dead, the faster her mutation will decay, meaning the faster—“

“She’ll die… Can she use the other parts of her mutant?”

“Of course. But I would be wary of bringing her into any more life-threatening situations. I have sent our findings to Dr. McCoy for his records, and so that he can keep track of Y/N himself.”

Logan clenched his jaw as he stared at you, processing the information. Mariko stepped forward and placed a hand on Logan’s back.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Mariko said.

“Of course,” the doctor replied. “I’ll be around if there’s anything you need.” 

The doctor left as Logan walked over to your bedside. You were slowly returning to the woman he knew. But, even if you hadn’t, Logan would have loved you anyway.

“I need to take her home,” Logan murmured.

“I’ll have the plane ready for as soon as she wakes,” Mariko said.

“No,” Logan shook his head. “I need to get her home now.”

“Logan—“

“I appreciate what you’ve done. But it’s my duty to take care of her and the best way I can manage that is at home.”

“If you’re sure.” Logan nodded, causing Mariko to sigh. “I’ll go make the calls.”

Mariko left to go to as she said. Logan gently took your hand and lifted it up, pressing a kiss to the back of it.

“We’re going home, sweetheart,” Logan whispered. “And we’ll never leave again.”

~~~

You needed to move, but you were trapped. The familiar weight of Logan’s arms around your waist was comforting, with his head resting on your shoulder. But you felt like you hadn’t moved in days; your muscles were stiff. As you slowly opened your eyes, you quickly realized that you were no longer in Japan. You were home. Logan’s head was on your shoulder, with his arms around you, keeping you against his bare chest. You lifted your arm and began scratching Logan’s arm. He groaned as he began to wake.

“Sweetheart?” He mumbled into your neck.

“It’s me,” you whispered.

Logan’s head lifted to fully look at you as his arms tightened around you. “You have to stop worrying me… I can’t take anymore.”

“I'm sorry. I’ll try hard not to.” Logan leaned down and kissed you softly. “When did we get home?”

“Last night. The doctor cleared you, and I wanted you home.”

You reached up and cupped Logan’s cheek. You could tell that the concern was still lingering. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“I know, darling.” Logan grabbed your wrist and turned his head to kiss the palm of his hand. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Logan then explained what the doctor had found out about your ability to rise from the dead. You could feel Logan trembling as he spoke, like he was finally letting all his concerns out. Once he was finished, you pulled him to lay on top of you. Logan was careful not to fully put his whole weight on you but appreciated you holding him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you quietly promised Logan.

“No more danger,” Logan muttered. “No more missions.” He pulled back enough to allow your eyes to meet. “I need you safe. I need you here.”

“I won’t promise that unless you can promise the same thing… I can't lose you either.”

“I’m not the one with the habit of dying.”

“I promise I don't try to.”

“I know, sweetheart… Alright, no missions. No danger. For either of us.” He leaned down and gave you a brief kiss. “I never asked, how are you feeling?”

You smiled up at him. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“I’ll let you know if it changes, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I do have one thing, though.”

“Anything.”

“Can we stay in bed all day?”

Logan gave a hardy laugh as he wrapped you in his arms and rolled over so you were on top of him. “Sounds like a plan, sweetheart.”

Ending 1 next chapter > (days of future past - completed)

Ending 2 next chapter > (logan & deadpool and wolverine - ongoing)

[respectthepetty]

Spare Me Your Mercy Thoughts

I have waited almost four years for this show since MDL made a placeholder for Euthanasia in early-2021, and now that it is here, I'm going to gush about all the ways I love it!

Just like a few of Dr. Sammon's other shows airing around the holidays (Manner of Death, Dead Friend Forever, and Petrichor), I'm thankful I got the first episode of Spare Me Your Mercy on Thanksgiving and the last will come on Christmas because this is the exact show I need for the holiday season since it began the entire series with Tew, the cop, having to perform euthanasia on an animal.

I grew up and still live in a rural area where cattle far outnumber the actual folks, so I fully understand euthanasia is a good death as the word implies, so I will not be struggling through the premise of this show, and I have faith the show won't either because when Tew fired the gun, the scene was peaceful.

And the show is making some pointed remarks about how things operate outside of bigger cities since Kan specifically mentioned he has about 2,500 patients. When the other officer asked the nurses if Kan had a long queue, they didn't even respond. Kan also clarified that his specialty is palliative care, so he has to monitor a wide range of long-term illnesses, so even though Tew might actually be from this place, he is now the outsider and out of his depth before he even started.

Sidenote: I cannot be mad at a nurse, even if one of them turns out bad because the way they all protect Kan from the police is the teamwork I love to see.

The red light to notify the office the doctor is seeing a patient coming on right after Kan responded to the nurse that it wasn't a murder case yet was perfection.

I already knew Kan was going to be my favorite character, but Tor is doing amazing showing the layers Kan has, as expected. Kan tells Tor he can cry and shows him kindness, but when pushed, Kan makes small digs about how people should spend the last moments of someone's life cherishing them when rudely questioned by Tew regarding the unexpected deaths knowing Tew did not get to see his mother before she died. He also made a subtle display of knowing where things were located in the house because he is in control.

The way he slid his LINE information into the conversation AFTER indirectly telling Tew he was being emotional due to his grief is why I'm excited to see another version of Manner of Death's Tan. Kan probably does like Tew but he stays focused and calculated.

He is terrifying without there being any concrete detail to pinpoint on why he is scary. Som, while describing people being possessed by evil murderous spirits, was terrified of Kan, and the transition from Som telling his story to Kan appearing at the exact moment Som was going to state what human form the evil spirits take was brilliant.

But what's even more terrifying is the treatment of the terminally ill. They are viewed as a burden, locked away, and isolated.

And Tew witnessed it. He got a glimpse of what Kan sees daily, so the show is already building up a case in defense of Kan's actions. If he is performing euthanasia, Tew could understand. He heard the goat's bell. He knew it was still alive, but he decided to end its suffering, cleanly and swiftly, which is what euthanasia is. He saw that man left behind by his family and even moved to go get him. And he was bothered when the man's daughter stated her reasoning for leaving him out there alone.

He also stopped Kan from continuing to question Som. Therefore, the true conflict has been set. Tew, whose job is to discover the truth, doesn't need it if it causes pain, but Kan's entire job is making pain manageable.

And I always want to trust a woman, but as suspicious as the director is being about everything, babygirl would be the perfect person to attempt euthanasia since the dead would end up on her table where she could claim the death was the result of the illness.

Because euthanasia is a good death.

And this ain't it.

He understands that.

But someone doesn't.

[aliciavance4228]

Here Are A Few Things From Greek Mythology Which Not Only That Make Sense, But Are Actually Quite Briliant

1. The children of Ares (war, combat, bloodlust) and Aphrodite (beauty, sex) are: Eros (love), Anteros (requited love), Himeros (uncontrollable immediate desire), Pothos (longing desire), Harmonia (harmony), Phobos (fear) and Deimos (panic/terror); which are all of the emotions that can happen in a relationship between the foul-tempered abusive jock and the pretty girl. The ancient Greeks understood relationships.

2. Perseus is the son of Zeus. Why didn't Hera go after him or his mother? Because they're from Argos, and she's the patron of that city.

3. The story of Heracles states that Hera tricked Zeus into saying that the next king of Argos shall be the next male born. Of course, she manipulates events to happen so that Heracles's cousin Eurystheus is born first - thus making him the rightful king. But wait - Heracles has a twin. (Iphicles) So why go for his cousin, and not his fraternal twin to really rub salt in it with Zeus ("Hey, Alcmene's son is the next rightful king - Ain't no rule saying it had to be Heracles, haha!")? It makes a bit of sense actually - by making Eurystheus the next born child, she ensures that it's not Heracles. If she induced labour in Alcmene, there was still a chance Heracles could have been the first one born - and not Iphicles.

4. Why would the relatively amiable Hades kidnap Persephone to make her his bride? Well, according to some sources, he did that after asking Zeus for relationship advice. Given the fact that Zeus has raped and/or kidnapped plenty of women (and poor, minor Ganymede) just 'cause he felt like it, it isn't surprising that his advice would involve something like that.

5. Every source and most people tend to think Hades got the worst and Zeus the best of the deal when they divided up the world, but actually it's kinda balanced because all three of the brothers' domains come with some great perks. Zeus' is obvious, but consider this: Poseidon got the element that covers about two thirds of the planet, with earthquakes to boot, and for Greeks travelling by sea was something of a necessity, while Hades got all of the minerals and gemstones, and as many point out, the one biggest flaw of humanity is that the dead have always and will always outnumber the living.

6. Most stories of Andromeda mention that she was supposed to be eaten by a monster because her mother Cassiopeia blasphemed and made Poseidon mad by claiming Andromeda was more beautiful than the Nereids. All nice and good as the Nereids were supposed to be extremely beautiful, including Amphitrite, Poseidon's wife herself, but the thing comes in when you remember that the Nereids had a brother called Nerites, who was even more beautiful than them, and who was Poseidon's first serious relationship besides his wife. No wonder he got pissed off, she was badmouthing both his wife and his boyfriend!

7. There's some poetic justice in the fact that Narcissus, who saw himself as an unattainable treasure, got transformed into a flower — something that literally anybody can take and do with as they wish.

8. The anger the Olympians felt when they discovered Tantalus' crime makes even more sense when you remember that at least Hera, Poseidon, Hestia and Demeter (Hades wasn't present at the time) all know how it feels to be eaten by your own father.

For Hades' part, it certainly explains why he'd give Tantalus such a torturous punishment in the afterlife.

Made worse by Tantalus being the son of ZEUS.

9. Why are all the gods (save Hestia) prone to so much hypocrisy, violence, sexual assault, and abuse? Well, each god is typically associated with either an aspect of nature (such as the oceans, plants, weather, etc.) or emotions and biological reactions (bloodlust, love, sexuality). As such, the gods are less like people, and more akin to forces of nature; the gods, like nature, are indifferent to humanity, so sometimes they’ll harm people when they’re angry, reward people when they’re happy, etc.

10. Some of Typhon and Echidna's offspring, such as Cerberus, Ladon, the Caucasian Eagle and the Colchian Dragon were utilized by the Olympians in some way despite the fact that they were the offspring of their Nr. 1 Enemy. Sounds odd...but when you think about it, it's actually genius. It's an excellent way to prevent the monsters from running wild and destroying stuff, whilst simultaneously taking advantage of their destructive tendencies.

11. Why is Hades such a faithful husband (Leuke and Minthe were later Roman additions) when both of his brothers are pretty unfaithful? Well, Hades has a very important job that never seems to end. He’s in charge of the Underworld and since someone is always dying, Hades is always very busy which means that he didn’t have time nor interest in having affairs. Also many couples were likely to be together in death. Perhaps Hades saw through those couples what it means to be a good husband. It does help that Hades is also far more mature than his brothers.

12. Nyx is one of the few beings Zeus is too afraid to face, having let her son Hypnos get away with messing with him since he went to his mom. Why's he scared of her in particular and not other primordial deities like Gaea? Depending on the myth Nyx is the mother of many personified concepts, and that includes the Fates...aka the one force even gods like Zeus can't overcome. Imagine how outclassed Zeus'd be if he had to fight their mom!

13. Why is Hestia the least problematic deity out of all Olympians? Cronus ate five of his children, and she was in there the longest. Perhaps the reason Hestia is the sanest and nicest of the six Olympians is because she as the oldest was forced to mature faster in order to take care of her younger siblings while they were trapped in their father's stomach. Hades being the second oldest and first son similarly assumed this role as well. Then we have Demeter, then Poseidon, then Hera and Zeus. While not a perfect graph, you could graph 'reasonable behavior' as being tied to 'who spent the longest in his stomach'.

Credits: TV Tropes

[marstonsboy]

had another evil thought that spiralled out of control. indulge me for a moment:

over the years, people start arriving on a near empty plot of land west of blackwater. it’s uncertain who got there first: bessie matthews, beatrice and lyle morgan, eliza, isaac morgan, etc.— but more and more people show up until it’s something of a community. jenny kirk, mac and davey callander. then soon after, jake adler, sean macguire, kieran duffy, hosea matthews, lenny summers, molly o’shea, eagle flies, susan grimshaw. more and more in such a short amount of time. arthur morgan is the last, and suddenly the deaths stop.

after a sudden stretch of years with little newcomers, a house starts taking shape. soon enough the house is a home, and peculiar things can be found all over: a dog barking where no one can find it. echoes of campfire songs going late into the night. photos of john and abigail’s wedding, attended by what remained of their family. a taxidermy squirrel that appears back on the mantle no matter how many times you throw it out, wearing a very familiar hat. in just a few years a heartbreakingly young girl comes home, bearing a strong resemblance to one abigail marston.

then, gunshots. john marston and uncle are the next to arrive.

in the next few years, the house is eerily quiet. the residents see it falling into disrepair, but they can’t do anything about it. the dog stops barking, the campfire has gone cold and won’t relight. abigail marston is next, and though they’re happy to see her, the arrival brings up a question. what happens to jack now?

the livestock are gone, and the house is dusty, all but stripped of the knickknacks and personality that built up over the years, like someone found it all too painful to look at. john’s hat and guns, once tucked away inside a box beneath the bed, vanish the night after abigail arrives. newspapers come to the door, announcing the death of former government agent edgar ross.

soon after, a wanted poster, bearing the name “john marston jr.” and a sketch resembling the boy’s namesake so much that it has john himself stumbling back. jack was only a boy when he left, and now he’s wanted dead or alive, with a price over his head that could rival some of his uncles and aunts back in the day.

every year that passes without any sign of jack is a relief. the house doesn’t change much, still abandoned, but letters come in. mary-beth gaskill, tilly jackson, simon pearson, sadie adler, charles smith— old friends and family, checking in on him. none of them reach the recipient, as he is not home, but they’re filled to the brim with love, letting him know that he isn’t alone. that he always has a home with them, if he wants it.

one day, john spots a book he doesn’t recognize on the shelf by the piano, and he stops. “Red Dead” by a J. Marston. it doesn’t take much to figure out who that could be. he opens it, flips through, and reads it to abigail. the kinder parts get read to their daughter, ecstatic to learn about how her older brother is doing. their son did become a writer after all, even if everything he’s written speaks volumes of his grief, his anger. the loneliness he’s endured since losing his family, and killing edgar ross.

arthur morgan opens his old journal to find several entries and sketches from john, but also many new ones from jack. his handwriting is just as clumsy as his father’s, but his drawings are more refined. little portraits of the gang members that lived and scribbly sketches of what the world is becoming in their absence decorate the pages. war, cars outnumbering horses, and a very detailed drawing of a revolver none of them have ever seen before.

he’s all grown up, and good lord is he angry. he’s mourning, and hurt, and he’s lost so much, but he’s still undoubtedly jack marston. he draws dogs and writes about missing rufus, slipping strays some food from his bag whenever he sees them. sometimes he’ll write a dry, sarcastic joke that speaks of his father’s influence, or mention missing his momma’s cooking, “even though it was hardly edible,” which makes abigail roll her eyes. he hates fishing and prefers to lose hours of the day with his nose in a book. the best maintained part of beecher’s hope is the graves on that hill, which gain new flowers every week. sometimes, if they listen close, they can hear him talking, telling his ma and pa what he’s been up to, though he saves the grisly details for his book.

and when jack marston finally does walk through that door, much older than when anyone he knew last saw him but far too young to die, he is welcomed home with open arms. because no matter what he’s done, and no matter how much he may hate himself, he will always have a home here with people who love him, and who can’t wait to get to know him all over again.

[koiiiji]

halloween special! fantasy AU

tw ; long post, hints of unhealthy behaviour

starring ; Sangho Choi, Yoo Wooin, Joker, Kwon Hyuk, Chris d'Char

author's note i feel like i went a little too far.... MDNI!!! AGELESS/EMPTY BLOGS DNI, I WILL BLOCK YOU

Sangho Choi

dark elf

the aftermath of the battle lay heavy on the camp. bodies of the wounded were scattered across the muddy grounds, the air thick with the scent of blood and ash. Sangho strode through the chaos, his armor still smeared with grime and blood, his expression unreadable, calm as always. the Moriquendi (dark elves) commander moved like a force of nature, cold and unwavering — a stark contrast to the exhaustion that gripped his troops.

he had led them to victory, but at a cost. the dead outnumbered the living, both the humans and dwarves who fought alongside them counted their losses, and just as the Moriquendi mourned dead ones in silence. Sangho, ever composed, was the eye of the storm, his reputation as a warrior known throughout the realms. despite the losses, his people looked to him with deep respect. they always had.

he had earned that respect — not through birthright or privilege, but through sheer strength and leadership. the Moriquendi might have been forsaken by the gods, forgotten and separated for centuries, but Sangho had become their pillar of power, their anchor, the one brought them all together again. his connection to his people was ironclad, built not on divine grace, but on blood, grit, and unrelenting will.

Sangho had no need for magic, for poetry, for the lofty ideals of the highest elves. he had the blade. and that was enough.

but as the silver banners of the Calaquendi approached the camp, a bitterness stirred in his chest. he stood tall, his posture rigid as he watched them ride in — untouched by the dirt, by the blood. their horses were pristine, their armor shining like the stars, and their faces were serene, as if the horrors of war had never touched them.

they hadn’t fought in this battle. they had only come now, after the dust had settled, with their supplies, their medicines, their immaculate presence. it was an insult, in a way, a reminder that they saw themselves as above it all.

but it wasn’t the Calaquendi warriors that made his jaw tighten.

it was you.

you rode at the front of the procession on her snow-white horse, a figure of grace and elegance. the princess. your silver hair cascaded down your back, catching the last rays of the setting sun, and your soft eyes surveyed the camp with a quiet sadness. you was everything the Calaquendi were — untouched, unearthly, and so far removed from the blood and dirt that clung to Sangho and his people.

it had been years since he had last seen you, but the sight of you was enough to stir something deep within him. something he had long tried to bury...

he had been a young elf then, barely into his teenage years, when he had been granted the rare privilege to train under the Calaquendi’s finest warriors. it had been an honor, or so everyone had told him. a rare opportunity for a Moriquendi to learn from the higher elves, to study the art of combat, leadership, and strategy.

they had treated him like a curiosity — an outsider, lower. he had heard the whispers, felt the judgment. the older elves had made no effort to hide their disdain for the Moriquendi, for the path they had chosen long ago.

but you had been different. you had shown him kindness, even as a child. your curiosity about him had seemed genuine, your warmth in stark contrast to the cold indifference of her people.

you had even tried to teach him magic once, your face full of innocent excitement. "it’s simple, Sangho," you had said, hand glowing with a soft, golden light. but the magic had never come for him. his people had no connection to it, no divine light in their veins. the magic that flowed so easily for you would never be his. he had felt like a shadow in your presence, a reminder of the gulf between them.

and though you had never mocked him for it, it had planted a seed of resentment in him that had only grown with time.

Sangho tore his gaze away from you as your contingent dismounted. his expression remained cold, controlled. he had long mastered the art of concealing his thoughts, of keeping his emotions locked behind a calm exterior. but seeing you again — untouched by the war that had scarred him and his people — it stirred something dark inside him. a flicker of jealousy. of anger.

and yet, something else.

you approached the gathered commanders, your voice soft but clear as you addressed them. "we have come to help," you said, tone calm, diplomatic. "our healers will tend to your wounded. we have brought provisions, weapons, and aid for the battles ahead."

Sangho stood at a distance, watching you as you spoke. his armor was still stained with the blood of his enemies, a stark contrast to your pristine appearance.

and as he watched you, that familiar ache stirred in his chest, the same one he had felt all those years ago when you had smiled at him and tried to teach him what he could never possess. you was everything he resented, everything he envied.

and yet, he could never bring himself to hate you.

you caught his gaze, soft eyes meeting his across the camp. for a moment, the world seemed to still. your lips curved into a small, familiar smile, the kind you had given him all those years ago — full of warmth, of recognition.

"Commander," you greeted him, voice gentle echoed in his head. the sound of your voice, calling his title in his head, sent a chill down his spine.

he inclined his head slightly, his expression remaining cold, though his heart raced beneath the surface. "Princess," he replied, his voice low, edged with a bitterness.

Yoo Wooin

pirate

the cliffs were a place of solitude, where you often came to escape the noise of the coastal town. tonight, however, when the sun had almost disappeared below the horizon, and dark blue heavy clouds foreshadowed the storm, the wind screamed through the rocks, carrying whispers of danger as you peered out at the sea. moon wasn't shown yet, but the crashing waves couldn't hide it from your gaze — the legendary ship.

it looked like something out of a nightmare. dark hull was barely visible in the distance, but it's tattered black sails were unmistakable. the ship that had haunted the town’s legends for centuries.

you had only meant to look. just a glimpse, out of curiosity. no one could have warned you how close it would come to shore tonight.

as you turned to head back up the cliffs, the sharp crack of twigs underfoot made you freeze. before you could even gasp, rough, filthy hands clamped over your mouth. the scent of sweat and saltwater hit your nose as you struggled, panic surging through veins.

“shhh, lass, don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” a gruff voice snarled in your ear.

your eyes widened in terror as you was yanked backward, feet sliding helplessly on the slick, rocky ground. two men held you tightly, their laughter low and malicious. one of them, burly and reeking of rum, grabbed your wrists, twisting them behind your back painfully as the other kept his filthy hand pressed firmly over your mouth.

“look what we found wanderin’ near the cliffs,” the first man sneered. his breath was hot and foul against your cheek. “tet the captain’ll like this one. she’s a pretty little thing, ain’t she?”

terror tightened in your chest as they dragged you down the narrow path, where was the boat beached.

your muffled cries lost to the storm.

your heart raced as the ship came into view again, when your kidnappers rowing back to the ship, and all the warnings from the townsfolk echoed in your mind. the ghost ship wasn't just a story. it was real — and you were being taken aboard.

the men hauled you up onto the deck, laughing and exchanging crude comments about you as they did. wood beneath your feet was old, splintered, and smelled of rot and seawater. panic surged in your chest as you was thrown down onto the deck, your wrists still bound with some dirty rag behind you, mouth dry with fear.

your breath came in short gasps, and when you looked up, your blood ran cold.

there, in the shadows, was him.

Wooin stood at the helm, leaning casually against the ship’s railing with an almost lazy posture, his black hair tousled by the storm, his shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders. his eyes were sharp — too sharp — and his grin was… wrong. wicked. crazy. it was a smile that held danger, and something far darker. and before you could even struggle to your feet, his sliced through the air, dark and sharp.

“now, now, what have we here?”

“looks like you boys brought me a little gift,” he drawled, eyes locking on you with a gaze that sent shivers down your spine. “and here i thought tonight was going to be boring.”

pirates laughed as they shoved you closer to him. “caught her spyin' near the cliffs, Captain. figured you'd want first dibs”

Wooin crouched down in front of you, his grin widening as he looked you up and down. his gaze was dark and predatory, lingering a little too long on your trembling form. he leaned in close, the scent of seawater and smoke clinging to you as he cocked his head.

“you wanted to see the ship up close, sweetheart? well, too bad, we don't let go of such precious things like you back,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “though i gotta say, you’re braver than most. or maybe just stupider.”

his fingers trailed along your cheek, smudging the dirt the other pirates had left behind. his touch was cold and sent a wave of fear rippling through you. “you’ve got a pretty little mouth,” he mused darkly, thumb brushing against your lips. “i bet it can do real sweet job, don’t it?”

you jerked your head back, heart pounding wildly in your chest, but that only made him laugh.

“oh, feisty, i like that.” Wooin’s grin twisted into something even darker, and his eyes flickered with amusement. “you might last longer than i thought.”

he stood up, his hand curling around your arm as he pulled you to your feet in one quick motion, yanking you against him. “what's your name, little mouse?” Wooin asked, his voice soft, almost sweet. but the sweetness was poisoned, mocking. when you didn’t answer right away, his grin faltered, and his expression twisted with impatience.

before you could speak, Wooin's hand shot out, gripping your jaw tightly, forcing you to meet his gaze. his eyes were wild now, gleaming with something dangerous and unhinged.

“don’t be shy now,” he growled, his fingers digging into your skin. “you’re gonna tell me your name, or i’ll have my boys get it out of you another way. and trust me, sweetheart, you don’t want that.”

your heart raced, and you managed to stammer, “it’s [y/n].”

“good.” Wooin released you with a smirk, standing back up. he turned to his crew with a wicked grin. “what do you think, boys? think we can make use of her?”

the pirates around you roared with laughter, and Wooin stepped back, letting his eyes wander over your form again with a wild glint. “don’t worry, sweetheart. i’ll make sure you’re well taken care of. you’ll just have to earn your keep.”

he threw a wink at you, but it wasn’t charming. it was crude, full of filthy implications. “we’ve got plenty of work for pretty things like you aboard the Sabbath.”

you struggled against the ropes around your wrists, heart pounding as you felt the weight of his words. there was no escaping the look in his eyes — dark and unrelenting. this wasn’t just a game to him. it was a hunt. and you was his prey.

but then, just as quickly as his touch had been possessive, he pulled away, mercilessly ripping off your outer dress, which you covered yourself with, slipping out of the house, leaving you only in a thin, white night dress. he slowly held the cloth to his nose, inhaling the scent of perfumes and oils, rolling his eyes with perverted pleasure. the second later he turned to his crew, spinning on his heel and threw the coat into a crowd of pirates. “still warm and smell like woman, boys” he barked to his men, his tone light but commanding.

the crew burst into vile, disgusting laughter, stretching and tearing the fabric, trying to snatch a piece for themselves, while the captain took the main delicacy.

Wooin grabbed your arm, roughly dragging you after him in captain's cabin, and shot you just one look, his grin sharper than ever. “I’ve got a few things to take care of, sweetheart. But don’t worry. I’ll find time soon to… get to know you better.”

Joker

hunter

the forest was thick, dark, and damp, its shadows pooling like ink beneath the heavy canopy. you’d been warned to stay away from the hunter’s paths, to keep to the glades where the light filtered through, safe among the trees and the chattering birds. but curiosity and confidence had tugged you deeper into the wild, to places no forest nymph dared venture. and now here you were — ensnared, tangled like prey in a coarse net that cut into your skin each time you struggled.

you’d heard the rumors, all the horrific things that were said of him. some called him a monster, some a demon, a creature more vile than ogres, with hands heavy enough to crush bone and a heart darker than the forest’s shadowed depths.

a man.

rumors said he hunted fae-folk for sport, skinned nymphs and fauns alive to sell their wings and antlers and sometimes even kept it as twisted trophies. so you lay frozen, terror blooming inside you as footsteps approached, slow and deliberate, until he was there, looking down at you with a gaze as indifferent as a hawk's, cold and calculating.

“caught yourself in a trap, didn’t you?” his voice was low, almost lazy, devoid of emotion but carrying a harsh edge that set your heart racing faster. he crouched, studying you with the cool, detached interest of a creature observing something wounded, something lesser.

you couldn’t hold back a soft whimper, the plea tumbling out in a trembling whisper. “please… please don’t eat me… or… or sell me, or… take my wings.” your voice shook, barely above a whisper, but you couldn’t help it. every ounce of courage had leaked from you, leaving only desperation.

his expression remained unchanged, his eyes traveling over you without a hint of sympathy or mercy. he clicked his tongue, almost in disdain. “sell you or eat you, huh?” he scoffed softly, as though the very idea bored him. “too small to do any of this to you...”

he leaned closer, his face shrouded by the hood he wore, but even then, you could make out the glint of something dangerous in his gaze, a still cruelty inherent to human, that made your skin prickle. he pulled a long, thin knife from his belt, its blade dull and wicked-looking. your heart pounded faster, your breath quick and shallow as he dragged the blade along the net, slicing through its binds with practiced precision.

but he didn’t stop with the net.

as he worked, he let out a slow, almost mocking sigh, his tone low and chillingly void of anything warm. “i never thought fae-folk would be this… naive. falling right into a trap. maybe all those rumors are true. that you’re not as clever as you all like to pretend.”

he cut through the last of the net, letting it fall loose around you, and before you could think to scramble free, he had you by the wrists, pinning them above your head with a grip that felt like iron. you writhed, pulling against his hold, but his strength was unyielding, and his gaze never shifted, never softened.

“look at you,” he murmured, almost to himself, though there was a cruel twist to his voice. “tiny thing… so fragile.” the knife moved again, glinting faintly as he drew it closer, tracing it along the edge of your silken garb, dragging it just close enough to raise the fine hairs on your skin.

the first cut was slow, methodical, stripping you of the flimsy fabric with a disturbing calm, his face as devoid of emotion as it had been when he’d found you. his touch was cold as he worked, peeling away every last layer of your garb until your skin was bare beneath the dappled light filtering through the foliage of the trees.

your throat tightened, a frantic plea catching in your throat as he studied you, his gaze a chillingly dispassionate assessment of your form. “what are you so afraid of?” his question was flat, the hint of a smirk nowhere to be found, replaced instead by an unsettling, empty gaze. “i told you i wouldn’t eat you. or sell you.”

he tilted his head, as though considering something, his eyes roaming over you with a detached curiosity, nothing soft or familiar to be found in that stare. “i’ve seen plenty of your kind before,” he continued. “fragile little things. quick to beg, easy to break.” he tightened his grip on your wrists, as his other hand slips to your chest, cupping one and tweaking your nipple, watching as you flinched, his expression as cool and collected as before.

with a final, dispassionate glance, he dropped your wrists, letting you fall back against the forest floor. you felt the earth cold against your skin, and for a moment, you dared to believe he might leave, that his curiosity had passed.

but he didn’t move. he just stood there, studying you in silence, as if weighing his options, calculating something you couldn’t comprehend. finally, he spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper, chillingly calm.

“run.”

Chris d'Char

draugr (scandinavian zombie)

the moment you stepped into the cave, you felt something watching. air was thick with the scent of earth and decay, damp and oppressive, pressing down as you pushed further into the cavernous dark. your heart pounded, but you pressed on, forcing yourself to ignore the prickling dread. you were here for a treasure whispered about in a village. most wouldn’t have dared come this far.

yet, the stories didn’t come close to capturing the reality.

the flicker of your torch swept across a wide, shadowy space — a stone altar strewn with tarnished gold and faded relics. you were about to reach out when the cave itself seemed to exhale, a sound so low and menacing that it sent an icy jolt straight through you. and then he emerged from the shadows.

the figure was massive, towering, and unmistakably dead. his armor, dark and corroded, seemed to weigh him down, each piece like ancient, heavy iron strapped to bone. his shoulders were broad and hulking, and he moved with an unnatural stillness that made every muscle in your body seize in place. the hood shadowed most of his face, but his eyes… they gleamed green, faintly lit with a supernatural glow that pierced the darkness with an intensity that made you want to run.

but you couldn’t.

your legs felt rooted to the ground, every part of you alive with a fear that bordered on primal. his gaze fixed on you, narrowed and piercing, and he moved closer, each step slow, deliberate. the sound of his boots echoed against the stone walls, mingling with a faint rasping that you quickly realized was his breath — deep, hollow, and cold as death itself. the closer he came, the more you felt the chill radiating from him, a cold that soaked through your skin, settling into your bones, making you feel like prey frozen in the gaze of a predator.

“you…” his throat, mouth and vocal cords were clearly damaged, and sound coming from him was more like wheezing and coughing with something rumbling, a sound coming from his chest. yet it was a deep enough, gravelly rasp that sent an involuntary shudder down your spine. each word felt like stone grinding against stone, a sound that wasn’t meant for the ears of the living. “another thief come to desecrate my tomb?”

he loomed over you, nearly a foot taller, and though his face remained mostly hidden, you could see the lines of hardened bone, twisted by time. he looked like something that had clawed its way out of the underworld, not just some story told to frighten children. you could feel his anger like a physical force, pressing against you, filling the air with a menacing weight that made your breath hitch.

“i —” you stammered, barely managing to find your voice. your hands shook, your mind racing with excuses, explanations — anything that might soothe the wrath of this ancient creature. “i didn’t think — i mean, i didn’t know you were… real.”

the words sounded foolish, childish, even to you, but you could feel his gaze intensify, piercing and unwavering.

“you mortals never think,” he growled, taking another slow, deliberate step toward you. you pressed back against the cold stone of the altar, every instinct screaming to run, yet trapped by his gaze. “and yet you come, chasing gold and glory. seeking what you have not earned.” he let his words hang in the air, thick and heavy with disdain.

as he spoke, you noticed the faint gleam of a blade strapped to his side, its edge worn but sharp, and you had no doubt it would slice through you in a heartbeat if he chose to use it.

“what… drives a mortal to invade a place meant for the dead?” he croaked, his tone less angry now, but still dripping with suspicion. there was a twisted curiosity there, mingling with his disdain, as though he were scrutinizing you, searching for an answer that would make sense of your presence here.

you swallowed, trying to steady yourself enough to speak, though your voice trembled as you answered. “i… i heard about the treasures here. i thought it was just…story. just an old story to scare children.” you hesitated, meeting his gaze as best you could, even as a chill washed over you, every inch of your skin prickling with fear. “i didn’t think… that it would be guarded.”

he tilted his head, an unreadable expression crossing his shadowed face. his lips twisted into what might have been a sneer, or perhaps a smirk — it was impossible to tell. “it was men who came before,” he hissed, almost to himself. his gaze flickered over you, as though he were assessing something different, some detail about you that set you apart from the others who had come before. “yet here you are. foolish…”

his tone was chillingly indifferent, a touch of dark amusement cutting through his fury. as he took a final step, closing the distance between you, you could feel his cold breath brush against your face, a touch that felt like a warning as his eyes bore into you. his voice dropped to a low, rumbling whisper. “do you know what fate awaits those who disturb the peace of the dead?”

you shook your head, not trusting your voice. every instinct screamed to flee, yet you were captivated by your own terror.

Chris’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, and in that silence, you sensed something change. he was still terrifying, still monstrous, but a flicker of curiosity had joined the malice in his stare. it was as if your presence had stirred something within him, something that hadn’t stirred in centuries.

“tell me, mortal,” he said, his voice low, almost thoughtful, “what makes you any different from the fools who came before you?”

and as his eyes met yours, sharp and unyielding, you felt as though you were being weighed, measured by an ancient creature. he was no mere guardian, no simple guard to be outrun or outwitted. he was a spirit bound by death and anger, as much a part of the treasure he guarded as any piece of gold. and yet, against every instinct, every shred of reason, you felt the barest hint of intrigue flicker in his gaze.

Kwon Hyuk

poltergaist

moving into the apartment was a compromise between your budget and your nerves. the place wasn’t much — peeling paint, narrow halls that sighed with age, the endless creaks that echoed even when you were alone. but rent was cheap, and as a student, you needed cheap more than you needed comfort.

it started innocently enough — little things, easily explained. doors closed just after you left them open, faint scratching sounds from within the walls, lights flickering overhead. you convinced yourself it was nothing, brushing it off as an old building settling. but then, the noises became louder. clearer. as if someone — or something — was listening, waiting.

the feeling of being watched crept into your bones. you’d catch glimpses in the corners of mirrors, shadows moving when you were perfectly still. a prickling sensation would crawl up your spine when you turned off the lights, only to grow stronger, more pointed. some nights, as you lay in bed, you swore you could feel cold air ruffling your hair, a whisper-light touch that disappeared when you jolted up to check. each time you looked, the room was empty, but the feeling of dread lingered, thick and oppressive.

then, it escalated.

you came home one evening to find the kitchen in disarray — cups and plates carefully stacked into a pyramid on the counter, all balanced so precariously that you only had to breathe near them for it to come crashing down. it felt like a taunt, a child’s game, and yet it left your hands shaking. you cleaned it up, all the while feeling the icy weight of unseen eyes watching, almost amused.

in the following days, the disturbances grew darker. doors no longer merely closed but slammed, hard enough to rattle the walls. your belongings would appear in places you’d never left them — your phone in the freezer, your books stacked upside down, your shoes arranged in pairs by your bed. one night, you found the word HELLO written across the bathroom mirror in streaks of condensation, though you hadn’t showered.

each night became a test of endurance. scratches appeared on the walls, faint at first, but then louder, more insistent, like nails scraping down to get your attention. the sound would follow you from room to room, echoing in the dead silence, growing fiercer when you tried to ignore it. then the lights began to flicker not randomly but in patterns, on and off in a slow, mocking rhythm that felt like it was waiting for you to notice.

and you did.

one night, exhausted and desperate for sleep, you turned off the lights and crawled into bed, willing yourself to ignore the eerie sensations that had become part of your every day. just as you started to drift off, you heard floorboards creaked, as if someone was cautiously tiptoeing closer and closer to the bed. a weight pressed down on the foot of the bed, heavy and cold, slowly sinking in beside you. your body froze in terror, heart racing as you held your breath. the bed dipped, creaking under an unseen presence, as if someone had settled right next to you.

you lay still, paralyzed, as icy fingers trailed up your arm, tracing your skin with a sensation so foreign, so unnatural, that it sent a chill down your spine. the cold touched your cheek, feather-light and lingering, like the brush of lips against your skin. your breath hitched, and the room fell silent. the pressure lifted, but the feeling of something lurking stayed, hovering just outside your reach.

that was when the messages began.

written in dust on your desk, scrawled in barely-there letters:

miss me? i’m here.

they showed up on your bathroom mirror, traced in streaks of moisture, smeared across your textbooks in faint pencil. each word a reminder that you were not alone, that he was there, hidden in the shadows, watching, listening.

one evening, exhausted and drained, you decided to ignore the signs. you’d convinced yourself that it was all in your head, a trick of nerves and exhaustion. but that night, he grew angry.

the temperature in the room plummeted, your breath misting in the air. walls shuddered as something invisible began slamming doors, cabinets, drawers, every corner of the apartment alive with rage. a framed photo fell from the wall, shattering at your feet, its glass shards scattering like ice. you stumbled back, your heart racing as the lights flickered, plunging the room into pitch black.

and then, in the silence, you heard it: a low, chilling whisper close to your ear, so close that it brushed against your skin.

don’t ignore me.

you screamed and stumbled away, turning on every light in a panic. but the apartment remained quiet, the air heavy with a quiet menace that settled into your bones, making it clear that the walls themselves seemed to cling to you. and as you glanced back at the broken glass, you saw a final message scratched into the dust beneath your feet:

i wanna play.

and you knew, with a sickening twist in your stomach, that this was no ordinary haunting. that he — whoever he was — wanted you there, bound to the apartment just as he was, with a twisted affection buried in every scrape, every chill, every whisper.

MASTERLIST

[barelylivingscholar]

Arlecchino, with a daughter pt.6

I've been training my combat abilities with some of the harbingers, namely Signora, Pulcinella, and of course, Pantalone. I had not expected the sudden collaboration due to the tension around me. Whenever they are able to get to hang around me, it always end up with the question, "Is Regrator treating you well?" or the casual "You are free to live with me, if Regrator isn't able to accommodate you." Things like these makes me feel... Weird, but it is good to be wanted. But I wish it didn't feel so suffocating all the time. Lately, I've been having more nightmares, and panic attacks about the Knave... Making me grow restless and more ambitious to be able to heal from it... It was never easy from the start. Everything about the Knave makes me feel sick. I never cared to understand the reason behind her actions, because in the end, what is there to know, when her intentions were never pure from the start. Both Pantalone and Pulcinella told me about what's to know about her, and it makes me more angrier that the Knave was capable of doing such things... They fed me lies, lies that spiked my hatred for her. Until one afternoon, I fell into darkness. Endless darkness that had consumed my entire environment, different from Snezhnaya, everything appears endless, and devoid from any form of life. Enemies were fast approaching, I had to dispatch them. I draw my percussion-lock rifled musket, and started to fight off the horde. Occasionally switching to my rapier as my bullets began to wane... I became outnumbered, and surely enough I was swarmed with creatures that I have not encountered, some that were familiar. I was bound to be dead. The feeling of dread creeps up on me. In truth, I was scared to die, because I had just rediscovered my will to live during my time with Pantalone. It was too early, for me to perish without even getting the chance to see the Knave fall from her grace. It doesn't fuel my urge to fight at all. What rekindled my fighting spirit was when I saw someone, fighting their way up to reach me. I had to match their movements, I couldn't afford to lose here. It seemed like hours of endless fighting, but we managed. I lived. I collapsed from exhaustion. The mysterious woman caught me before I could land on the ground. I awoke to a woman observing a medallion...? I couldn't tell since my vision was blurry. The woman took notice of me when I slowly regained my consciousness. I see her holding up a vision. She stared at me blankly, then tossed me the vision. It was a geo vision. I sighed in relief knowing that I wouldn't have to use a delusion. For almost dying, they decided to grant me power? It was getting ridiculous. I then looked up to the lady, and thanked her for saving me from the verge of death. "...Thank you." The unknown woman sighed. "What led you here was your high ambitions." I struggled to grab a hold of myself as I feel the weight of of my actions from before. The woman sighed at the sight of the young girl slowly attempting to get back up. She was not supposed to be speaking with the girl, as she had no desire to speak with weaklings. But after seeing the girl's ability to withstand horde after horde, she decides that she is worthy to communicate with. The girl looked up at her, confused as to what she meant by that. She then elaborated further. "People do not easily fall here. Certain conditions are met before being able to traverse this realm. I barely even processed the words before responding, "...Which is why I'm here. Is there any way out?" She observed the girl who does not seemed to be disturbed by the events that had unfolded. "There is. But time will pass in long periods before you are able to get back to where you're from. Time passes differently in here." Again, the child's indifference to her situation has her interest peaked. She was eerily calm for a child.

I felt numb. Knowing that I'll be stuck here for months, or even years, decades... While the world that I'm supposed to be would pass for only days, or even weeks. It was supposed to drive me crazy. But it didn't. Maybe I wasn't recovering from the shock fully. "Oh... Okay then. I'm left to fight endlessly with creatures from the abyss, then?" Making the woman before her raise an eyebrow at her nonchalance. But the woman concludes the young girl's peculiar behavior as a side effect from already being corrupted by the abyss. "Not necessarily. You are the source of something being awakened." I wanted to ask more questions, but from the looks of it, the woman had no interest in holding long conversations. So I decided to keep things short. "I understand." Bowing my head to show my gratitude, the woman then halted me. "You're not going to last long without proper training. I'll train you in exchange for you to make things more interesting during your time here in the abyss..." This wasn't something that I can say no to, I barely knew my way around here. So of course, I accepted. Without knowing how brutal, harsh, and mind-breaking the experience was... Days have passed, with endless fighting, sparring with Skirk, with little to no breaks, I was bound to become mad... The thing that kept me from becoming mad was how the effects of the abyss kept altering my mind. I was not used to not being plagued by nightmares, thoughts, and especially the horrors of what I had experienced before... It felt peaceful, too peaceful that I start to see changes that I didn't know that I myself, am capable of. The abyss had changed me, in a way that I could not comprehend how. A month after endless fighting, I had gained some sense of morals. It had never occurred to me before, so this was likely due to the abyss's effects. Things felt out of place, as I was drastically changing into another person that I had not anticipated to be. I was never even the type of girl to put morals, above all. Despite my upbringing influencing who I was before, why did it suddenly all change to becoming righteous, and just? Since when was I ever a good person? Becoming virtuous was not part of the plan. Skirk was no stranger to the changes as well, noticing how my answers have changed from time to time. While we were on break, she asked something that made me think deeply about it. "You're strange, for a young girl who is but a child." "I am aware. I don't fit the standards of a "normal child." I was never normal to begin with. "A child from the hearth, raised to be a soldier for the Fatui, the mentality of a soldier, yet has the fragile mentality of a child. It is no wonder that the abyss was unable to corrupt you further into madness... You were already unstable, from the start. It is a miracle that your arrival to the abyss had changed you for the better. Tell me, after the effects of the abyss, what's your next move?" She could tell I was contemplating about how I will be able to move now that my ideologies have changed due to the temperament of the abyss... I summoned the geo percussion-lock rifled musket and shot it manually towards the opponent's head. "I'll remain in the Fatui. Changes will be made, regardless of the Tsaritsa's will. Justice is to be served, regardless of the ignorant, consequences are made. I am no different from the people who had fallen from the abyss. Being in an organization that is corrupt and unethical is ironic to begin with, perhaps I am there to inflict conflict, I will continue to cause tension and bring disharmony to them. My definition of rightness will be the standard, to all."

It had been 4 months since, and I was finally able to return to where I was. But this time, someone who I had not met before approached me. Judging from the description that Skirk, Pantalone, and Pulcinella had described him, this maybe is "Childe." He approaches me and enthusiastically greeted me. "You must be the disciple that I've been hearing from the old man and Regrator. Nice to meet you, I'm Childe. But you can call me Tartaglia." Before he could talk more, I cut him off. "So you're the one who is also a pupil of Skirk's." Making his eyes widen from shock; he was ecstatic to meet another student of his former master. But held back since you were still young. Too young to fight. "Oh, another fellow student of my former master! So I wasn't wrong about you falling in the abyss. 4 days have passed since your fall at the abyss. I assumed you know about how time works differently there, right?"

I nodded in response. "Yes. I know about it. Did anything happen while I was gone?" He chuckles. "Oh, a lot was going on while you were gone." Her expression hardened. "The Knave went ballistic on Regrator, you should've seen it in person! As well as La Signora, and the old man! Three of them were on Regrator's neck, chewing him for losing you." He stopped chuckling when he saw that I was not amused, at all. He scratched his head, his expression showed a nervous smile. "Well... I did tell them that maybe you fell into the abyss... Neither wanted to believe it until the old man made me look for you, but now you're here!" Making me shake my head and sigh. "The others haven't stopped searching, but I'll send someone after to tell them the news. But before that, why don't you hang out with me and share some stories with me as Skirk's pupils?" The man is persistent, he doesn't look like he'll take no for answer due to his eyes beaming with interest. "Lead the way." Looks like I'll be spending time with this strange man... We arrive at a dessert shop in Snezhnaya, he offers to buy me desserts despite my protests since I had enough mora to buy myself one... I was irritable to be honest since Tartaglia, treats me as a kid. He insists on calling him by his name. "After this, I'm going back to Pantalone's base." I say, he then responded, "Aw come on, I have been waiting to finally meet you. Let's chat more." I denied his attempts to stall me. "Tartaglia, I have to return to my mentor. He's looking for me, right?" He then counterargues, "But I already told an agent to inform them that you were found." I huffed at that. He only gave me a brotherly smile, to which I find annoying. "You know... If the Regrator mistreats you, I can-" I can't believe this is happening right now. I cut him off saying, "No. I'd rather stay at Signora's or Pulcinella's." I displayed a deadpan look, making him pout. "I have younger brothers and sisters for you to play with!" He attempts to bargain. "Erm... I'd still stay at Signora's or Pulcinella's." He looked determined to convince me. "I can be your big brother." Not sure if I want this guy to be my brother at all, he was overbearing. Too much for me. "No." After the back and forth conversation, he maintains a friendly aura during the exchange. The young girl was not an ordinary kid. She seemed too mature for her own age. Of course, the knave had something to do with it, she's crazy after all. Pantalone's a business man, so how can he take care of the child? The only sensible option here is him or the old man. But he's capable, he has his own siblings after all! He just needs to convince the girl to pick him over the others... She shouldn't be exposed to the Fatui at such an early age! She should be playing with toys, just like his siblings at home, protected, and sheltered from the harsh conditions of this climate. The Fatui is not a place for children. He of all people know that, except for the Knave. Who raises children to be child soldiers. But if it's the Tsaritsa's will... He can't do anything about the orphans of the Hearth. But he may be able to do something for this kid... He now sees why his fellow harbingers are fighting for this kid. He doesn't intend to lose at this custody case that they were having, even if no one looks at it that way. But he'll win. No matter what.

An: Kid gets thrown in the abyss, comes back out as fixed(?) 🤐🤐🤐 Not Childe at joining the ongoing child custody battle... 😶 *goes mia for days again* TOODLES!

[pursuitseternal]

“As long as you both shall live…”

UA Astarion x f!Reader | Ask Box is Open

CW: Heavy, HEAVY angst, hurt/comfort

Sharrans. You knew what they were the second you and Astarion laid eyes on them. Their armor, their weapons, the way darkness clung about them as they found your camp near sunrise.

You had dealt them too great a blow, dismantling their cloister in the City, killing their Mother Superior, and protecting the Chosen of their enemy from Shar’s wrath. That was months ago… months spent back on the road just you and him, journeying in the dark and hiding from the sun as you searched for any lead on how to protect Astarion from the sun. From burning to true death.

But now, just outside of Waterdeep, one day from meeting with Gale who had a promising lead… you were ambushed. The dark and purple armor, the Darkness spells, you were surrounded and outnumbered, even for you, Saviour of Baldur’s Gate and your powerful Vampire Rogue.

Horror grips your heart as you struggle to free yourself from the Justiciar who held you firm. His voice is a hiss, unearthly and serpentine, as if a forked tongue tickles your ear. “No one defies Shar without experiencing punishment. Yours, treacherous hero, will grant you the greatest loss yet…”

You kick, you scream, watching as it takes three more Justiciars to hold Astarion, to make him climb up the outcrop of rocks. Dark skies lighten, shades of purple and dark rose begin to gather at the horizon.

“How ironic that sunlight will bring Shar’s vengeance,” the Justiciar cackles in your ear.

“No,” you pant, your heart rapping painfully against your chest as it begins to dawn on you just how much you will lose. “No, Astarion!” You scream until your voice breaks. No amount of thrashing against your captor eases his grip. “Please!” You start to scream.

“No, don’t beg, darling!” he shouts down to you, his silken voice even now caressing your ear. “Don’t give them the satisfaction of breaking you, not you, my sweet.”

Beams of light begin to crawl up the side of the rocks, and it’s all you can do, to cry and shout “I love you” in your tear-streaked voice over and over again.

Your Vampire doesn’t give up, fighting and clawing and gnashing his fangs right up until the sunlight touches his feet and legs. Even then, he kicks with all the feral aggression you have loved about him from the moment he held a dagger to your throat.

You cling to that memory, to all the memories of him as you hear his flesh sizzling, his pale skin turning to white ash as dawn kisses him.

“I love you too, darling,” he manages one last word for you before he is nothing more than smoke and flakes in the wind.

“Astarion!” you scream, waking to find your bed in the Elfsong soaked with sweat. The dim room spins around you, head pounding and heart racing as if it’ll burst from the grief that tore through you.

In your dream… just a dream… you try to calm yourself, but your eyes need to see for themselves, your hands need to feel his cool skin in their touch. Just to be sure.

Your footsteps seem to echo, bare feet padding across the floor to where he’s trancing in his bed across the way.

He’s here, he’s here… you try to calm yourself, but it doesn’t help that he always, naturally looks dead.

A shaky hand reaches for his bare chest, but his eyes flash open before you can touch. “Hells, my love, your heart is about to burst from your chest.” His crimson eyes are blurry, one half open still as he yawns wide enough for you to stare at all his fangs. Lifting the covers, he pats the mattress next to you. “Come for a cudd—”

Before he can even finish his cute little phrase, you dive inside the cool sheet. It all pours out from you, the pain and the ghosts of imaginary grief. Your hands claw into his arm and neck, your tears running down hot on his corpse-cold chest. Every breath you take is his scent, herbs and citrus and that faint whiff of his body.

You wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. Even if he smells a bit of death.

At least it means he was with you, in your arms and in your life.

You can’t even manage a word, can’t bear to tell him the visions you had that felt too real. But Astarion doesn’t push, his fingers weaving through your damp hair to soothe you, his other arm bracing tightly around your back to keep you cradled against him.

“I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers in your ear. And you know it’s not the tadpoles that are still in your brain for him to read your thoughts.

It’s the way your hearts beat as one, one frantic living heart to share between you both. For as long as you both shall live.

Prompt here from @wtv-my-current-hyperfixation

[paingoes]

Rubies - Trial III

the prosecution makes its argument

(Content: living weapon whumpee, past trauma, referenced child abuse, referenced caning, past emotional abuse, war, guilt, parental death mention, child death mention, emotional whump, crying, angst, comfort)

In the Emperor’s quarters, the dead far outnumbered the living. Delta knelt upon the bearskin run and ran his fingers through its thick white fur. He wanted to reach for the mouth of it, to feel the teeth, but he dared not move without permission. The fresh cane marks along his calves made sure of that.

“Here, boy.”

The Emperor had taken to calling him boy, which he found strange and overfamiliar. To his handlers, he had always been One-Oh-Seven. More and more, it has simply been Delta. There was no need for numeration when there were no others.

He rose up off of the carpet, taking silent steps until he stood in front of the weary form of the old man. 

The doctor was nowhere to be seen. For this, he was grateful.

A hand heavy with time and with rings pressed against his forehead. Did he look sick? He didn’t mean to. The Emperor would find no fever there, at any rate. Delta ran cold.

“Are the stars all in alignment tonight, poppet?” He withdrew his hand. “Will today be a good day?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

There was no gap in between their words. There was no hesitation. He would be punished for lying just as quickly as for failing, so he was careful not to lie. Of course today would be a good day. 

Delta was excellent.

But the Emperor still searched him. It was not illness he had sensed. 

“Is everything alright?”

The concern in his voice only made the sting worse. Delta looked down in shame.

It was sullenness. That was all. He was cold all over, soaked with shame. It was bad, he knew. He was supposed to take all punishment without complaint, but Delta so seldom needed correction. It hurt all the more when it did come. He couldn’t get the chill of it to leave him. He’d been torn into. 

Unfit, the doctor had said. Unworthy of the privilege. Disgraceful.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Delta responded, the shame of it deepening. He hadn’t meant to sulk about it. He was only proving their point.

There was nothing wrong with his ability to perform, which is all the Emperor had really been asking. A little emotional hurt had never impacted his powers before — thank god for that. Today would be no exception.

With that, the Emperor rose up. Delta followed a half-step behind him. He was getting on in age. It was never hard to keep up.

They walked all the way past the war room, out onto the deck of the ship. The air was thin in the upper atmosphere, but it was getting more bearable upon the descent. There were a collection of advisors and generals gathered about by the railing. Delta kept his head bowed respectfully, careful not to look them dead on. With the Emperor there, he knew they wouldn’t dare touch him. But it was a deeply ingrained habit and one he saw no reason to break.

There was a pressure at his shoulder. It was meant to be reassuring, but it only scared him worse. He could see the target below. Its perimeter was painted in a pale orange color.

They wanted showy this time.

Space was made around him as they clicked the collar off of his neck. He closed his eyes. The light was painful. All the hearts beating so close were distracting. 

Disgraceful. He felt the sting of fear in his chest and prickling at his eyes. It was going to hurt. He was getting frigid in a way he hadn’t before. He didn’t want to be hurt.

He zeroed in on the target anyway, visualizing its delimitation among the pale. He wished they’d given him something to hold onto. All he had now were his own hands and his nails cutting indents into the palms. Showy. The world snapped as the target was turned to dust.

The collar clicked back on. Blood was already pooling in his throat and in his sinuses. The migraine aura descended. He swayed, but not fall. The Emperor’s hand steadied him there. It moved calming circles into his back. He heard the applause, but to him it sounded miles away.

“Incredible.” The Emperor had whispered into his ear. “You were wonderful.”

And like that, he was glowing. He couldn’t help it. He wasn’t supposed to feel a thing, but the warmth of the praise made itself at home in him. It was the only time he let himself feel anything close to pride — and he could have lived in its light. It was almost worth it. He felt sick enough to die and it was almost worth it.

~~~~~~

Silas placed the blank sheet of paper down onto the desk and slid it towards him. His expression was grim.

“I want you to write down every target you can remember hitting. Names and dates. It doesn’t have to be exact.”

The room was small and dark, not much bigger than a broom closet. Maryam sat beside him at the table. He had a legal right to keep her there — and thought he had not asked her to, she volunteered to accompany him. 

Delta rocked his leg a little as he felt at the rough graphite of the pencil.

He took the order for what it was. He had a good sense for it. There were some things he struggled to remember, but in general, his memory was better than most. He had been allowed no distractions. He’d had no choice but to focus in.

He started with the earlier days of his imperial career — the battleship he’d crushed on the water, the first show of strength before the purchase was made. And then there was all that came after. He was never told until the day of what he would be after, but he remembered them all the same.

Marisol

Pyrha

Holliday

Basalt

Clover

Killian

Versus

He wrote mechanically, appending the dates as best as he could. He’d already made up this list in his mind several times. He’d have offered it to Levon if things had gone differently, but as it stood, he’d never been given the chance.

Regina

Ursa

Deidra

Anatol

Timber

Jocobe

Weissan

He soon ran out of space on the page. He write in a smaller script around the margins.

“That’s enough,” Maryam said, eyeing the prosecutor nervously. Delta kept writing.

“You can stop now,” Silas agreed, reaching to take the paper back.

“I’m not done,” Delta snapped. 

He recoiled just as soon as he’d said it. He didn’t know where he’d gotten the nerve to speak like that, to talk back at all, and especially not to them. He dropped the pencil and drew back into the chair, fully expecting to get smacked in the mouth, bare minimum. 

The hit didn’t come. Silas took the paper and examined it without much reaction. It was a long list — and that was only with the Emperor. He hadn’t even gotten to Paris yet.

“Can I ask you something? For my own curiosity?” Silas said.

Delta looked up at him.

“About how far away from the target are you when activated?”

“…A mile, sir.” Delta tapped at the chair.

He nodded. “What’s the closest you’ve ever been to someone you’ve killed?”

He heard Maryam scoff beside him, but he thought it was a fair question, if an abrupt one. He had to think about it for a second. As the answer came to him, he felt the shock of ocean water, stealing just as much breath from him as it had the first time.

He held his hands up to demonstrate, having no other way to quantify the distance. Right up against his body. He’d garroted him, wrapped the chains around his neck and held him there. The water had done the rest. He hadn’t even used his powers.

“Daniel Martino,” he answered quietly, “The same night I got picked up.”

It was his most recent kill  — and if Levon’s word was anything to believe in, it would be the last. 

He hadn’t told anyone about it until now.

“Your handler?” Silas asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Silas and Maryam exchanged a look he could not read.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t fault you for that.” Silas folded the paper into his pocket.

The clemency caught him off guard. Delta looked down, embarrassed all the same.

~

The shades were drawn in the conference room. It was a stormy day outside — Delta could imagine how the static might’ve felt on his skin had he been out there. For now, all he could do was imagine it.

“Delta,” the prosecutor drew his attention back, “I asked you a question.”

Silas was sharper with him when there was a crowd. He was familiar with this tactic. It didn’t register to him as a surprise, only as a kind of dull pain.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Delta said weakly, but sincerely. “…Could you repeat it, please?”

He usually would not have been bold enough to make requests, but then he usually wouldn’t have zoned out in the first place.

“Were the accounts of lateral violence within the Institute true?” He asked, then clarified: “Were the students there encouraged to hurt one another?” 

“Yes, sir.” Delta closed his eyes. He did not need to guess the next question.

“Did you ever use your powers to injure the other students?”

Not because he wanted to. He didn’t know if he was allowed to answer with that. It had been a yes-or-no question — and his handlers had gotten mad whenever he tried to explain himself around it. He didn’t know if the same rules would apply here.

“Yes, sir.”

He caught the concerned looks of the others at the conference table. The council members had shown him no scorn so far, in spite of everything. He dreaded losing it. But in his mind, it was an inevitability. He couldn’t make himself look back.

“Did you ever kill any of them?”

It wasn’t the same as injuring. The administration had loved to use him as a threat long before he was in the imperial service. He’d always be the first they brought out they sent to scare the others into submission. After the first few times — cracked ribs, broken arms, and painful shocks — any actual violence wasn’t needed. The threat alone was enough.

That wasn’t the same as killing. While the punishment had been painful, the kills were quick. Those were for safety alone. Nobody ever died as a punishment. They died because they were about to kill everyone else.

It’d been a yes-or-no question. The answer was yes, obviously.

“Yes, sir.” 

He kept his eyes down. Kitty shifted a bit to his left. He didn’t want to see the way her face changed when she found out.

Silas ended his line of questioning. The lights dimmed further as the video began to play.

PYRHA 08

SOL 07

The caption showed against the grainy white backdrop. He could see the town in his mind before it was shown on the screen. It was before the disaster. Jade was pushed up into the edges of the home. All their streets were still cobblestone. From above, as he had seen it, the town looked to be built into a crescent moon shape. The blue tops of buildings stood out against the pale sand.

“…There was this burning, endless light…”

The voiceover played over still frames of the cloud. The images clipped together in animation. He saw the tip of the airship approaching the edge of the sky.

Whoever had produced the documentary had no knowledge of the cause. How could they? It was a superweapon, they were sure, but how could they have known what? 

All they could do was to quantify it. The ground temperature had reached the same peak as the sun. The duration lasted ten to fifteen seconds — 12.945 seconds, Delta corrected in his mind. There’d been no warning. 2,031 people had died. About five hundred families.

The focus was the math — and more than that, the footage. Few of his attacks had ever been so well documented. But almost as an aside, they had spoken to some of the eye witnesses.

A girl with chestnut brown hair smiled sadly into the camera as she held up the picture. The image quality changed again as a video from inside her house began to play. He could not tell if she was the infant or the child holding onto it inside the cedar living room. The camera shifted angles to capture their mother grinning on the couch, clapping along to the silent song. 

There was some primordial ache in him that would not sleep. It’d always burned too hot. After the first few times, he’d learned not to touch it.

He felt it burning now, pressed up against his skin with no escape.

“And my friends always made fun of me for being such a townie, because I had to ride the bus two hours just to get to school,” the girl chirped softly, “And I remember that morning, my mom telling me not to stay too long after classes. She wanted me to come straight home that day because-“

Her voice broke. 

“Because we were going to go out as a family.”

The clip cut away to the moment the sky tore open.

Delta stood up before he knew what he was doing. He stumbled blindly away from the table, pushing out into the hall.

He’d taken her parents from her. Ripped her away from them, the same way he’d been ripped away from his own. The loss cut through him sharper than he could ever remember. 

He was crying. He couldn’t stop it. The sorrow and fear enveloped him in equal measures. He’d walked out. He hadn’t been dismissed, he’d never walked out like that in all his life. But he couldn’t stand to hear anymore. He didn’t want them to see him cry.

He wanted his mom. It was silly. He didn’t even know what she looked like. She clearly hadn’t wanted him.

“Delta?” Levon called after him. He stopped dead. He was recall trained — he wouldn’t dare move farther. But he couldn’t bring himself to turn around. He didn’t think he could.

He sank to the floor instead. He tried to hide his tears, but his body shook from the effort. He was still good about being quiet when he was hurt. He was trying very hard to be good about it.

A soft sob escaped him anyway. Levon bent down onto the floor beside him.

“That was too far. I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened.” Levon placed one hand lightly onto his shoulderblade. His thumb worked over the knots that had formed there, so bound up and painful.

“I’m sorry,” Delta said. It was always the first thing to come out of his mouth these days, no matter how much they tried to correct it. 

He remembered how young he was at the time. He remembered how proud he’d been.

“I didn’t know,” Delta said through tears, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I know, baby,” Levon’s voice got quiet. It didn’t echo. No one else could have heard. “You’re okay. It’s okay.”

Then, even quieter, the admission: “It’s not your fault.”

Delta sobbed into his sleeve, leaning over so that his face almost touched the ground. He wished he could stop it. It was taking everything out of him.

He felt a gentle tug at his sleeve. It was an invitation. He accepted it before he could stop himself, too desperate for any semblance of comfort. Levon pulled him into the hug. His cries grew muffled as he hid his face in the fabric of the shirt.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” Levon said, the pain audible in his voice. He carded his hands through the boy’s hair, doing all he could to soothe him.

“I didn’t mean to,” came the soft whine in response.

~~~

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @floral-comet-whump @littlebookworm69

@lordcatwich @human-123-person @paperprinxe @whomeidontknowthem @chiswhumpcorner

@bacillusinfection @dietofwormsofficial @ichortwine @whump-queen @lumpywhump

@jumpywhumpywriter

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

The Grand A-Z List of Whump 2/3

This list contains ~174 items listed I to Q

As always, I heavily encourage people to research topics thoroughly when writing as it is important to avoid stereotypes/misinformation. This list's intention is not to glorify/romanticise sensitive topics in any way.

This is a comprehensive list of injuries, Illnesses and tropes - including those from the Whumptober 2023 trope vote!

All submissions are listed in italics, and those who wanted to be tagged will be included at the end. If you have any more submissions: please send them via DM/my ask box.

[A-H] [R-Z] [NSFW List]

List below the cut:

I

ICU

Identity reveal

Ignorance is Bliss

Ignoring an Injury

Immersion foot syndromes (Prolonged exposure to damp and cold)

Immobilization

Immortal healed wrong

Immunodeficiency

Impalement

Improvised medicine/treatment

Indigestion

Infected (Blood, Wound, Tattoo etc)

Infested

Injured caretaker carrying an even more injured whumpee.

Injured whumpee instructs caretaker how to treat them.

Injury Discovery

Injury Revelation

Insecurity

Insomnia

Insults

Internal Bleeding

Interrogation

Interventions

Intimate whumper

Intubation

Involuntary whumper

Isolation

Isolation/Quarantine

Itching

J

Jailed

Jamais vu (The experience of being unfamiliar with a person or situation that is actually very familiar.)

Jealousy

Jet Lag

Jumping (to safety, forced to jump)

Just dying in general.

K

Keeping quiet because the enemy is nearby

Keeping the whumpee awake

Ketosis (body burning fat for energy)

Kidnapped by the opposing team

Kidnapping

Kidney Stones

Killed! (Again and again and again for the lovely immortal whumpees&lt;;3)

Kneeling

Knife through hand and into wall/floor

Knocked Out

L

Lab Rat

Laryngitis

Late realisation

Left for dead

Leprosy

Lichenberg scars/Lightning strike

Limited Medical Supplies

Live-Streamed/Broadcast torture

Lobotomy

Locked Up and Left Behind

Losing a Bet

Loss of appetite

Loss of reality

Lost (In the woods, city etc)

Lost voice

Low Blood Pressure

Lumbago (lower back pain)

Lupus

Lured into a trap

Lying

Lyme's disease

Lymphoma

M

Magical exhaustion

Magical healing

Magic whump (using spells to harm someone)

Manhandling

Major Character Death

Makeshift Splints

Malaria

Malnutrition

Manhandling

Mauled

Measles

Medical trauma

Medieval Torture

Memory Loss

Meningitis

Menstrual Cramps

Mental illness after being kidnapping (and addressing it)

Migraine

Military lovers

Military whump

Mind control/Manipulation

Miscommunication

Missing

Missing Person

Mistaken Identity

Misunderstanding

Mono

Mopping a sweaty brow with a cool cloth

Mudslides

Muffled Scream

Mugging

Multiple Sclerosis

Multiple Whumpees

Multiple Whumpers

Mumps

Muscular Atrophy

Mute

Muzzled

N

Nailed to a wall or floor

Nails digging into palms

Nail marks left in the whumpees skin

Natural Disasters

Nausea

Near-Death Experience

Necrosis

Neglect

Nerve damage

Nerve pain

Nightmares

No anesthesia

No goodbyes

Non-responsiveness

Nonhuman whumpee

Not allowed to die

Not Realizing They’re Injured

Nowhere else to go

Noxious (gas/fumes)

Numb

Numbness/Paralysis

O

Obsession (with finishing the mission, the whumper obsessed with the whumpee etc)

Open Fracture

Orthostatic hypotension (low blood pressure when standing)

Osteogenesis Imperfecta (brittle bone disease)

Outnumbered

Overdose

Overworked

Oxygen Deprivation

Oxygen Mask

P

Packing a wound

Panic attacks

Paralysis (this could be temporary or permanent)

Paranoia

Parent caring for sick child

Parkinson's

Passing out from pain

Passing out in arms

Permanent injuries that affect them long term

Phantom pain

Phobias (could lead to character stumbling and hurting themselves in an attempt to escape their fear)

Photographs/Polaroids ( Especially if they're of the kidnapped whumpee)

Physical Therapy

Piercing ripped out

Pinched nerve

Pinned Down/To The Wall

Plague

PMS

Pneumonia

Pneumothorax

Poisoning

Polio

Possession/possession recovery

Post-exertional malaise

Post-ictal confusion/any other symptoms (after a seizure)

POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome)

Power Fatigue

Praise (especially if it's from the whumper)

Pregnancy (morning sickness, self-conscious, hot flushes, tired and sleepy, general malaise, swollen feet, weird cravings...)

Presumed dead

Prisoner Exchange

Protecting friend from the whumpees own team (bonus points if doing it while injured)

Psychological Torture

Psychological Whump

Psychosis

PTSD

Pulled Muscles

Puncture Wounds

Q

Q-Fever

TAG LIST: Thank you very much to the following people for submitting ideas! (I apologise if some tags did not work, I'm not sure why tumblrs not letting me tag you!)

@I-eat-worlds | @greygullhaven | @letsgowhump | @cyberwhumper @firapolemos05 | @originaldeerhottub | @whumpilicious | @drawing-dinos82 | @carenrose | @stellarinuscronicles | @gottheseasonalblues | @marvelflame2010 | @sowhumpful | @avamcu | @courtneygacha | @lordofthewhumps | @autismmydearwatson | @kuddelmuddell | @the-most-handsome-ginger | @whirls-and-swirls | @painsandconfusion

[bsof-maarav]

it's good this is my only social media and that i've insulated myself from the worst of this place. i'm not watching that video. i understand the value in bearing witness. but for me, it's like this. i know what's been happening to the hostages already, i don't need to be convinced. i don't want to violate them further by watching the beginning of the worst part of their lives and i don't want to be even more secondhand traumatized either. it would make me less, not more, able to do what i can do to be of use to the hostages.

but even more than i'm not watching that video, i'm not watching the absolutely psychopathic response to it by the mobs who are indulging in an orgy of probably the two oldest forms of hatred in the world--misogyny and antisemitism.

when i heard this video would be released, i had that impulse to hope that maybe now my former friends and community would finally get it. but it's not the case. we've all known this whole time. there's been no mystery about what kind of violence the go-pro wearing terrorists are perpetrating. we've already seen enough to know, even without seeking it out. journalists have described it thoroughly as well. if someone says they need to see something more explicit for "proof," they're nothing but consumers of terrorist torture porn. it's pure רַע

i'm not even going to try writing any appeals about these womens' humanity because anyone who doesn't get it, that's because they don't want to get it and they probably never will. they're getting off on this dehumanizing violence and trying to join it as part of the virtual mob. they're empty people and they are not going to change.

we are looking directly at this hate, some of us for the first time, and it's a window through time, through which we can see what many generations of Jews, and particularly Jewish women, have seen before. the violence and hatred is unchanging. only the technology of the violence has changed. the violence itself has not. the hatred has not. we know more about every previous age now, more about how our ancestors' hearts felt when they were breaking, the fear and anger, the determination to survive and make something better.

it's unbearable to know how outnumbered we are, how much of the world is morally and ethically dead when it comes to us, and how many of them accept, deny, are indifferent to, or celebrate this violence against us. it always has been unbearable, untenable, and yet we're here: the latest in a long line of generations who move forward even when it feels impossible, and do what we can to make a better world for the next ones with the conviction that no one should be hurt like this. never again.

and now i'm going back to listening to Israeli music. because i try to experience some kind of peace and calm each day, whatever i can, so i will have some strength to send. through davening, i try to send strength to the hostages to help them survive. we're one family, and all deeply connected. i have to hope that it helps in some way.

if you want to say Mi Sheberach and Tehillim for these women and don't know how, please reach out. or just daven from the heart for them, dedicate it to their merit, say each of their names out loud. light an extra Shabbat candle for them. set an extra place at your table. put something about them in a public place to make their reality present there. you'll have to protect it from attack. but do it anyway.

and if you want to know what you can do to pressure your political representatives or organizations to do something to free these captives, and all of the captives, i'll be here to talk about that as well.

[dumpfrontdesk]

my super awesome detailed headcanons about dahlia (and damn) as a town because i can fully see it in my head because my brain is so huge (i have brainrot, send help!)

*ahem*

- dahlia's a very gloomy town, and it's raining more often than not. usually, it's dark with an overcast. sunny days are a rare thing in dahlia, must to the benefit of a small portion of the population (the fanged variety).

- many business holders in dahlia hold an 'informed unempowered' status, especially if they've been in the area for a long time.

- there's alot of failed development projects in dahlia, half-completed construction projects litter the towns edges.

- dahlia is in a dry county! (for non-american's, a dry county is a place that can't sell alcohol). if you want booze, your heading to the next town over.

- due to being a cornerstone city, the empowered population of dahlia outweighs that of the unempowered roughly 3 to 1.

- dahlia's home to many large cemeteries, some saying the dead outnumber the living in dahlia.

- dahlia's a town with an aging population, but, ever since closeknit set up camp, that's slowly changing.

- damn's campus isn't very large, it being nestled about 5 minutes outside of dahlia, out in the woods.

- there's a suspicious amount of blood drives in dahlia, running out of local clinics. 50% is going to people who actually need blood, the other 50% going to feed the vampire population in dahlia and the surrounding areas.

- on the topic of blooddrives, damn is littered with posters encouraging students (expection of demons) to donate. they're filled with stupid says like, "keep the feast off the street, donate today!"

- dahlia's a dying town, but, it was more impressive whenever wonderworld was still a thing.

- any real-estate development that try to start in dahlia or the surrounding area is *quickly* snubbed out by skyside.

- there's alot of shadowy overhangs in dahlia, and places to hide almost! most just think it's the local architecture, but it was truly designed with vampires in mind, incase they get caught in the day.

- it's not uncommon for some really big dogs to show up in dahlia's pounds, but, they're always gone the next day.

- the locals of dahlia are private individuals, and it's not a very welcoming place.

[gripefroot]

Sleepy Law?

For once, he doesn’t wake when the sun hits his face. 

For all his pretending and blustering and attitude, he’d been tired. Of course. The more he protested something, the more it was true. Something about a man that saw danger around every corner if he lowered his guard for even a moment, even with you. 

There was something comedic about the juxtaposition. His barking from the afternoon before: “No, I’m not tired! I’m fine!” compared to the sun rising long past dawn after he’d been out cold for nearly fourteen hours. But it was less amusing when the dark lines beneath his eyes were so visible, when the bright sun cleared his face into something almost boyish. 

He pushes himself too hard. He always did. 

The sun warms the bed, too, making it too hot for this time of year. But rather than get up and disturb Law’s rare rest, you stick a foot out of the blankets for some coolness and move closer to him. 

Every moment is precious. Every stolen evening, every late morning pried from the clutches of fate and time. “I’ll be back in three days,” or “I’ll try to be back by summer solstice.” Sometimes he made it, sometimes he didn’t. When he was late, the nights he should have been there were spent at the window, watching weather roll across the sea. Each blot was his ship returning - until it wasn’t. Anger and resentment broiled like hurricanes, then, but by the time he eventually came, gratitude that he was alive and safe and present overwhelmed everything else. Besides, greeting him by throwing a pot at his head wouldn’t guarantee he’d ever come again. 

This parting had been the longest yet. A year at sea, with only two headlines months apart to prove he had drowned or been killed or wasted away from some disease. No, he was whole, relatively healthy (if thinner than before) and walking up the crooked steps to your house, he’d even smiled. 

“I was worried you’d moved away,” he’d said. His sword balanced on his shoulder, which was unusual. Before, he’d left it on his ship.

“How would you find me then?” you’d teased back. Clay dried on your hands from a half-finished project, but it could be completed later. Law could only be greeted now. 

“I’d follow the dead greenery.” He nodded at the yard; yellow patches now outnumbered green, the first victim in dumping leftover glaze that didn’t fire the right color or scraps of impure clay. He hoisted the sword from his shoulder to set by the doorframe, where you stood, and that was when he’d smiled. 

It was fortunate he’d never minded mud on his clothes. 

He smelled of brine and fresh air. Not the most pleasant, but beneath it was him, and difficult to pull away. 

“Mind if I stay over?” he’d asked between kisses. Your foot had caught on the lip of the door, stumbling backwards, but his arms had kept you upright and squashed against his chest. 

“Have I ever?” The words came out strained. His kisses stole breath as much as they stole sanity. Rugged as his worn coat, harsh as the tattoos long-memorized. 

“There’s a first for everything.” 

“Well, not today.” Your hands on his chest, feeling him like you would mounds of fresh clay. Something he’d joked about before: his lips twisted, ready to joke again. “Do you want to wash up first?” 

“Yes. Then I have a present for you.”

Surely not the sword. What use would you have for a sword? Spending days and nights with clay, turning pots and glazing and firing them in the tiny hut nearby wasn’t the life of a warrior, and living alone in a rickety cottage on a bluff above a port town so small it could scarcely be called a port not the prime target of pirates. 

Law had ducked his head beneath the water pump in the yard, not even waiting for you to fetch a bar of soap, and yelped at how freezing cold the water was. 

He had, miraculously, survived. 

But no present came. Dinner had been eaten early between yawns and crabby remarks about how he wasn’t tired. Then he’d gone straight to your bed, knocking into tables on his way, and halfway through what had sounded like a salacious invitation he’d started snoring. Pants still on and everything. 

So you’d smiled and washed up quietly before crawling into bed next to him. It was easier to sleep when he was there…

He clutches a worn pillow to his face, stretched out on his belly with his torso bare. Lingering flakes from a sunburn grace his shoulders, and a new scar stretched over his ribs. Your fingers want to trace it, but you don’t, hovering in the air above the graceful shape. You’ll learn it better soon enough. 

“Were you going to say anything or just keep staring?” 

Oops. His even breathing had ceased. Lifting your head, you see his eyes slitted open, glinting beneath his long lashes. 

“You have a new one,” you say. 

“Of course you noticed.” His voice is a rumble, fresh from slumber. 

“Of course I noticed,” you repeat, cheeks warming with embarrassment. But the corners of his mouth lift in a lazy smile. “It’s huge.” 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

“Can I?” A vague request, but he understands. Law responds with a grunt. His kind of affirmation. 

The new skin is smooth beneath your practiced fingertips, but where new meets old a thick, calloused rope of skin rivers around his ribs. Like a snake of clay to be shaped into a handle or a spigot. A handsome scar, to add to his others. Your fingers trace back up around his waist and to his back, to the very end of the scar. His skin breaks out in goosebumps, his ragged inhale breaking your concentration. 

Immediately you pull your hand away. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” He rolls onto his side, taking the interest of the scar away to face you. His eyes are more open now, but not by much, his hair sticking out every which way. Law props his head on his hand, surveying you with just as much scrutiny as you had him. But why? You have no scars, no discernable differences to clock from last year. 

The bed is small, not really built for two, but it has never bothered you or him. He can never be outside of arm’s reach. Instinctively your hand traces over his chest, finding comfort in the pattern of him. Patterns that find their way onto cups and mugs and bowls whenever missing him hurts too much. Most sold, some kept. You stop over his heart. 

He’s smiling again. 

“How long can you stay?” you ask. 

His smile disappears. It takes your contentment with it. 

“I have time,” Law says. 

Time. The only thing that could give you enough of him, and the only thing he couldn’t give. He gave his attention, his company, his loyalty, and his affection. Your hand rises to his face, stroking over old whiskers on his cheek with your thumb. He catches your wrist, holding it to nuzzle your palm with his nose, and then his lips. 

“You smell the same,” Law mutters, eyes closed. “Like the earth.” 

“You smell the same,” you whisper back. The effect of his nuzzle is the same as you touching his scar: goosebumps race up your arm and down your back. “Like freedom.” 

His eyes open. Dark and assuring, and always a little sad. “C’mere,” he grunts, and reaches for you. 

It was like he’d never been away. Nothing forgotten, nothing misremembered. His mouth finds the right places on your throat, your shoulders; skillfully he thumbs away the sleeves of your shirt to bare more skin to him. If anything proves his absence, it's how quickly the heat between your bodies becomes unbearable, how your blood pulses almost painfully. With a whimper of a sigh, your fingers hook into the waistband of his pants, his hair tickling your chin. 

“All in good time,” he promises your breasts, hand coming up to cup one. If you weren’t already so dizzy from the prelude, you’d tease him for addressing them rather than you. It had been an excellent joke for so long…

Soon the only noises are your soft pants, his quiet groans as the reacquaintion became clumsy. Clothes hit the floor, blankets pushed away, the awkward patters of skin-on-skin. No matter how bright the morning light through the window, there is no time to feel shamefully naked: only wonderfully so, and perfectly worshipped. His hair is thick between your fingers, his mouth hot on your sternum, and then your belly button. 

“But,” you lick your lips, wishing your throat wasn’t so dry and creaky. “But, we just - ”

“Just what?” Law kisses the inside of your thigh, eyes darting up to your face with a quirk of his brow. “Don’t want me to?” 

“I do, it’s only - ”

“Only what?” He prompts when words fail you. His hands cradle your hips, lifting and straightening them before him like a treasure map. 

“I want you,” you manage to whisper. The sun makes his black hair red at the edges, a trick of the light. 

“You’re getting me,” Law says. “And I’m getting you. Let’s start slow, huh?” 

As if you could refuse him when you aren’t a puddle on the bed. Slow is the last thing you want, but he made it sound like a dream. It is a dream; fast or slow or hurried or lazy. Always enough to make the little time you have sweeter. And never enough. Always and never, always and never. 

“Let me know,” his voice is as jagged as his scar, his hands shaking until he digs his fingers into your thighs. “Let me know…if you want me to stop.” 

He doesn't look like a man who could stop. And the pounding, the rushing - you couldn’t have asked him to stop for anything. 

His knees hit the floor with a thunk. Yours go over his shoulder as he sucked in a trembling breath, his shoulders twitching enough to make the dark lines look like they were convulsing. 

“Oh…” is all he says, and it’s the same noise you make when his lips touch yours, his tongue barely a hint of a caress. Your spine arches, pushing yourself closer to his mouth. He takes the hint, delving in with less ‘slow’ and more ‘I-haven’t-seen-you-in-a-year.’ He remembers. He remembers; every bit that makes your head spin and he does it like a conqueror, until the sheets are fisted in your hands and your breathing has gone frantic. 

“Law.” Your head twists to the side, air growing scarce and body feeling out of control. Wild and frenzied like an animal, jumping at every stroke of his tongue. “Please, oh - ”

He knows. He knows, he remembers. With a reverberating grunt that you can feel through your legs and belly, his fingers grip your thighs. It doesn’t feel possible, but the intensity swells and grows like the waves of the sea. 

“Stop biting your lip.” Law’s pause is enough to bring you down enough to comprehend his words. “Stop that. I wanna hear you. Here.” 

One of your fists is unclenched from the sheets, to weave your fingers between his, instead. A grip on reality, an anchor while sensation crashes through you. It’s only a moment later the wave hits: the force of pleasure battering through your body again and again. He doesn’t stop. He never does, not while each of your cries echo to the roof and back down again. 

When it becomes too much you gasp, and he stops. 

He knows. 

Law lifts his head, kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed and wiping his mouth on his discarded shirt. He smirks. “If nothing else,” he says casually, as if he hadn’t just made you climax with more fervor than a hurricane, “that makes me want to take you with me.”

Take you? With him? Where? Not on his ship, surely. 

Your expression must betray your bafflement, because he gives a rough laugh, tossing his shirt back down. 

“Oh, come on,” he says. “Surely you’ve thought of it yourself.” 

You hadn’t. 

His head tilts to the side, smirk fading. 

“You don’t want to come with me,” Law says. 

“No!” you blurt. “I mean - yes! I mean…that’s not what I’m saying. I’ve just never thought of it before. I hadn’t thought it was…possible.”

“And if it is?” 

Your heart hammers, from the aftershocks of orgasm and his question. “Possible?”

“Yeah. If I asked you to come with me.” He climbs over the bed on all fours. Normally you admire him; his tattoos and sculpted muscles. But your eyes are riveted on his face, on the strange sincerity shining in his eyes. 

“What would I do?” you ask. 

Law stops, hovering above you. You’re effectively trapped, but rather than confining, it’s comforting. Boundaries to bump up against, walls to keep you safe. His hair flops over his forehead, shadowing his features from the sun.

“Let me lick you anytime I want,” he jokes. 

So maybe it wasn’t sincerity after all. But you laugh, anyway, because laughing with him is always delicious, despite the heavy disappointment in your stomach. Reading into his joke would only hurt more. So you wind your arms around his neck, bringing him down for a languid, salty kiss. The weight of his body resting on yours transcends everything else, the craving for him lighting through your veins like popping fireworks. 

“How do you want me?” he asks before his teeth sink into the side of your neck. With his erection jabbing into your leg, the idea of options is surprising. 

“Like this,” you say. “Just like this.” 

Law releases your neck, his hips tucking between yours with familiarity. When his forehead rests against yours, his eyes are deep and bottomless for a moment before he closes them. 

“I mean it,” he murmurs. His hands unwrap your arms from his neck, bringing them down to the pillow to pin in place. “I’ll take you with me. You don’t have to do anything.” 

Does he mean that? Would he take you to sea just to…to what? Is he tired of coming back to this small island? Are you no longer worth it? 

Where is this going? A question flung into the stars, night after night, when Law is there and when he isn’t. Hope is difficult to cultivate year after year, but it blooms all the same at times like this. 

Where will you take me? 

A few thrusts gets him inside, enough to keep going. A few more have you moaning, tense in his grip as you move your hips to take him further. He groans, the further he gets, adding his own noises to yours. If this is where time stopped, if this could be forever, this is what you’d choose. Time and time again you’d choose. The sense of fullness, of complete joining - nothing has ever, ever, compared.

Law stops when he’s fully sheathed, panting for breath as his grip loosens on your wrists. Then his eyes open again; a mix of fierceness and tenderness that makes your heart want to explode. 

“Hey,” you say softly, wriggling your arms free to cup his face. He blinks several times. 

“Hey,” he says back, uncertain.  

“Thank you for coming back.” 

He huffs a laugh, a hint of a smile bringing more brightness than the sun. Resting his elbow by your head, he dips his to kiss your mouth. “I can’t stay away,” he says between that kiss and the next. 

His thrusts start slow, almost teasing. But they build fast, soon stroking a speed that breaks free as his kisses turn biting and his fingers find your hair. However he did it, each touch is a thousand starbursts at once, deepening the sensation in your core to spread across every limb, every muscle, every cell. Each stroke brings a small gasp from your lips to spill between his. 

“Don’t stop,” you beg at a higher-pitch than normal. Fingernails dig into his shoulders, hanging on for purchase as the legs of the bed scrape across the floor. Not the first time he’s done that, but it makes you want to laugh, all the same. 

“I’m not gonna!” His tongue is heavy against yours, his taste filling your senses. Touch, smell, all of it. With a shudder the bed hits the wall, and your shriek of unconstrained laughter has Law dragging himself away from you with a glare. But who wants to glare in the middle of sex? With another laugh you pull his head back down, lifting your hips against his for an angle that turns that kiss into a careening gasp. 

He knows. He knows, and remembers. He doesn’t stop, and he doesn’t slow. Your climax springs without warning, unable to continue the kissing in this condition. He doesn’t seem to mind, his head lowering to rest by yours as his groans start with a rumble. 

He continues long enough after the end of your orgasm for the delicious sensation to begin again before he jerks to a stop. A few more thrusts break his voice into a shivering bleat. 

The battering against the wall stops. And aren’t you so glad you have no neighbors? 

Your fingers run up and down his damp back, noting every rise and fall of muscle as he catches his breath. Even now, his weight isn’t uncomfortable. Because it’s him. It’s him and he’ll never be too much or too heavy. Blissfully your eyes drift shut, blocking out the morning light the tufts of black hair trying to cover it up. 

Law litters kisses along your hairline. Behind your ear, above it, and to your forehead, which must be as sweaty as his back. It doesn’t stop him. 

Then he kisses your eyes; first one, then the other. 

“Look at me?” A soft-spoken request. 

Look at him. And see what you don’t want. 

Your eyes open, hating that time brought this back. 

But Law smiles. He smiles as he gently smooths down your hair, his eyes skating over your face as if to memorize every pore. “Do you love me?” he asks. 

Now that is a question! Tempting you laugh, but you don’t. 

“Do the stars love one another?” you ask back, not quite hiding the bitterness in your voice. “Tracing and chasing their paths across the sky, never to touch except in dreams?” 

Law says nothing to that, but waits. 

“I love you,” you say. 

“That’s all I need,” he says. 

“What about what I need?” 

His face untwists from his smile into something confused, something a little belligerent. “I asked if you want to sail with me,” he says. “But I…”

“Didn’t mean it,” you finish. These conversations were like walking on broken glass. Delicate. Tentative. Someone was always bound to be hurt if rushed through. “The sea isn’t for me,” you tell him, hoping it will prevent a shard from breaking skin. 

But it seems to, anyway. Law frowns. “I wish it was,” he says.

So do I. But more than that, I wish you were for me. Not just sometimes, but always. 

He peels away at last, though if you had your way, he’d be in your bed forever. But he doesn’t go far: striding to the side of the bed where his pants had been tossed irreverently, scooping them up to rifle through the pockets. He pulled out something glinting, concealing it in his fist as he grins, returning to bed. Curious, you prop yourself onto an elbow. 

“Hold out your hand,” Law says. 

Dubiously you look for deception in his face, and see none. You put out your hand. 

Something cool and clinking drops into it. When he moves his hand away you see gold. Gold coins, strung together on a gold chain. A small one. 

“I can’t wear bracelets,” you say, bubbling into laughter. “Law! It’ll get covered in clay in ten seconds!” 

“It’s not a bracelet, you menace.” Law laughs, too, seizing your hand to pull your arm straight. He takes the bracelet-not-a-bracelet back. Evidently you’ve been judged too nonsensical to appreciate the gift yourself: he loops the chain around your upper arm, securing it with warm fingers. 

Oh. Not a bracelet. 

“I’m not stupid enough to get you a bracelet,” he says, quirking a brow in your direction. “Or a necklace. You’ve complained about those hanging into your work too. This won’t fall or dangle, so I thought it was the best option.” 

“You know what else doesn’t dangle?” Your fingers trace the gold coins. They’re hammered for texture; thin and delicate, reflecting the sunlight beautifully. “A crown. Next time, I want a crown.” 

Law’s laugh breaks into a bellow, filling every corner of the room with his mirth. You can count on one hand how many times you’ve heard that noise coming from him, and it prickles your skin with pleasure. 

“Fine,” he says, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Next time, a crown.” 

“Thank you,” you tell him. “For the gift. I mean it. I’m sorry for teasing.” 

“Don’t be. I love it.” 

“Do you love me?” The question blurts out without thinking. He jolts in surprise, eyes widening. “It’s only fair,” you say, trying to soften the abruptness of it. “You asked me. I get to ask you.” 

But his answer doesn’t come. Not right away. 

“Well, I’m not bringing jewelry for every woman in town,” Law says at last. 

“I hope you’re not licking them, either.”

He glares. You smirk. 

“I’ll answer your question,” he says. “But not today.” 

“When?” 

“When I return.” 

“Is there a reason you’re delaying?” you ask. “Do you need to break a prior engagement first? Let down any other lovers?” 

“No,” Law says. “None of that.” His teeth dig into his bottom lip. Something your teeth would like to do. He runs his fingers through his hair, sticking it on end. “If I tell you I love you,” he starts. Pauses. Takes a deep breath. “If I tell you I love you then I can’t leave. I wouldn’t.” Another pause, one that sinks his words past dread and into misery. “And I can’t…I can’t stay. Not yet.” 

“So,” you say. Your voice cracks a little. “You get to know I love you, but I have to wait in suspense for however?” 

His smile returns like the dawn. He leans over to kiss your forehead, wafting his manly scent over you. Inhaling deeply, the scent brands itself on your lungs. Never enough. “Luckily I know you like surprises. Besides, I thought you’d figure it out by now.”

Figure what out? Could he be any more vague? It was like searching for answers from a squirrel. A handsome, generous squirrel, but a squirrel all the same. 

“Oh, stop pouting,” Law laughs, attempting to smooth out your frown with a thumb. “Does the stream out back still have fish in it? I’ll catch breakfast.” He rises before you can answer, grabbing his pants once more. This time to pull them on. 

Ugh. Pants are the worst. 

“I’ll cook them too, if you want,” he says, buttoning the waistband with nimble fingers. You drag your eyes from his navel up to his face, with a very intelligent, 

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” He smiles. “You have clay beneath your fingernails.” 

Law disappears out the door before you can retort, and the view of his backside in his tight pants erases all thoughts from your head.

[gojosbf]

can u tell us about geto's goals/philosophies and his reasoning for them? or abt geto's mind overall (I wanna l read you yap abt him 😞) /nf

okay so buckle up i am going to talk from the very beginning

Geto wasn't meant to be a special grade, it was gojo's birth that caused shift in the balance of the world and suguru was born as a counter, he was doomed from the very beginning!! A special boy with two normal human parents was a rare case, he was a ticking time bomb since the start. His strong principles turned out to be his biggest weakness. When he was defending and lecturing gojo about how it is their responsibility as the strong ones to protect the weak he did not for once stop to think that the weak people he saves includes awful human beings too. He believed that what they as jujutsu sorcerers did was right and just, until they were hit by riko's death, that shock of watching a crowd cheering the death of a child was the first time he was facing real world, unlike gojo he always believed that he was putting himself through so much (ingesting curses which literally taste like a rag drenched in puke) for good people.

He believed in humanity and compassion, he thought that was his role, to protect, to save humans and it was his ideals that did not allow him to let gojo kill those cult members in the beginning. That was the first slap of cruelty to his face, then comes watching his best friend being overworked to the bone for the same people, then haibara's death because again! They're expected to protect normal people!! It does not matter if they die in the process or how outnumbered or untrained they're because that's their duty!! And then he visits the village where nanako and mimiko were kept in a cage and abused just because they happen to have cursed energy, the villagers refused to let those two little girls go even after geto assured them that the cursed spirit wasn't their doing. It was an event after event where he kept witnessing the ugliness of humanity, there was no logical explanation to their behaviour, he couldn't find a "meaning" in their actions neither was there any "meaning" in saving when all they perpetuate is violence and abuse and death, specially of his loved ones. For a 16 year old boy of course that was too much to bear. He did not want his friends to keep dying protecting people who couldn't care less whether the sorcerers die or live, who won't hesitate to throw them in harms way if it meant protecting themselves or for whatever selfish reasons they have, which is why he turned his attention to his loved ones who were risking their lives day and night. He saw what their future looked like: aka just a pile of dead bodies of all good sorcerers (and he was not wrong!). It was like a wake up call in worst way possible you know? He decided to become the villain if that meant his end goal could achieve a safe and happy environment for his loved ones to live and grow.

It's the "someone has to do the dirty work, someone has to have the blood on their hands to break the cycle" obviously it's not the best way of thinking but to him it seemed possible, gojo could do it, special grades have the ability to wipe out a country and he might've if he won against yuuta and captured rika. Not just that but his cult was literally build on killing and looting from rich scums, i am in no way trying to defend him but he always had his principles in check and followed them in his own twisted way even after leaving jujutsu high. (He did not attack anyone from jjk high either until it was absolutely necessary in yuuta's case). I think he did regret his decisions because in the novel it was mentioned that how his last words were from a man who has wiped himself away in pursuit of his goals for whom there was no turning back.