#this ended up way longer than I meant

[granadahvlmes]

"A Scandal in Bohemia" and Watson's Loyalty

This is (hopefully) the first in a series of short essays inspired by @fruitviking on the following prompt:

Someone (I would like it to be me but I don't have the time right now) ought to write an essay on the recontextualising of the Adventures and Memoirs stories in light of the fact that they are written posthumously.

[dusts off English lit degree]

In A Scandal in Bohemia, when Holmes says, “I am lost without my Boswell,” the moment reveals a rare vulnerability in a man known for his logic and detachment. At first, it might seem like a wry compliment, gentle teasing between companions, a simple nod to Watson’s steady presence. But through the lens of grief, this statement becomes deeper—a quiet acknowledgment of need.

In Watson’s retelling, this moment sharpens, infused with regret and the weight of hindsight. Holmes’s composed words might conceal a hidden desperation, a recognition that even the sharpest mind is not immune to loneliness. To Watson, this may appear not only as a compliment but as a glimpse into Holmes’s unspoken fears: that his brilliance was both his gift and his burden, with Watson as the one who helped carry it.

Holmes’s insistence that Watson stay for the case, despite Watson’s new marriage and independent life, feels urgent—a plea from a man who knows the power of his own solitude, and its limits. Does Watson recall this moment as proof of their unbreakable bond, or because it reminds him of the times he wasn’t there? Does this request, framed as practical, linger in Watson’s memory as one of Holmes’s unspoken vulnerabilities—left unanswered?

Holmes famously immortalizes Irene Adler as “the woman,” the one who outsmarted him and forever altered his perception of her. In that same moment, Holmes immortalizes Watson—not just as his chronicler but as the companion who makes the crushing weight of genius bearable. For Watson, this elevation is bittersweet. Being Holmes’s “Boswell” is both an honor and an unbearable standard, one he tried to meet but that feels incomplete in Holmes’s absence.

Watson may not ask outright, but certain questions haunt his memories: Did I notice the strain in his words? Did I stay when I should have, or leave too quickly for my own life’s comforts? These unspoken doubts turn happy recollections into shadows of regret.

The story’s final scenes grow more poignant through the lens of Watson’s grief. Irene Adler’s escape, which Holmes accepts with his usual stoicism, mirrors Watson’s quiet futility in revisiting their cases. He can record them, preserve them, even celebrate them—but he cannot relive them. In this light, Holmes’s insistence that Watson stay feels less about Adler’s mystery and more about their shared legacy. Watson, writing later with the ache of loss, might linger on this moment because it represents what he fears he overlooked: the quiet but profound reliance Holmes placed on him.

For Holmes, Adler was a woman who surpassed his expectations. For Watson, he was the man who grounded Holmes. Yet in looking back, Watson’s reflections are laced with anguish. Did Holmes lean on him too much, or did Watson fail to see the needs Holmes hid behind his brilliance? If Holmes was lost without his Boswell, Watson now finds himself equally lost—haunted by the thought that he never fully grasped how much his presence mattered.

The story’s ending, set against the eventual shadow of Reichenbach, shifts from triumph to quiet devastation. Holmes’s request that Watson stay echoes as a memory Watson cannot release—a lingering question without resolution. It serves as a reminder not just of their bond but of time’s fragility, of the chances Watson fears he missed to do more or be more.

Watson’s recollections carry an undercurrent of unease, a subtle sense that the connection he shared with Holmes was fleeting. The specter of Reichenbach looms just out of reach, turning A Scandal in Bohemia from a clever victory over an adversary into a poignant elegy for moments Watson never realized were slipping away.

In the end, Holmes’s declaration—“I am lost without my Boswell”—resonates throughout Watson’s narrative, a refrain of need he cannot silence. It is a reminder of the times he stood by Holmes and the moments he could not, of the irrevocable cost of those silences, made heavier by the weight of grief.

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

There's something in the differing emphasis that Brad and Hunter and Charles place on the phrase "good guy" that really affected me on my first watch and hit even harder on my second. I'm going to try and put it into words.

When Brad and Hunter say it, they say "we're good guys", as in, good at everything a guy "should" be good at - good at sports, popular with the ladies, on their way to a good university. But they turn out to be total shitheads. They don't care about being "good", they just care about their reputation, how they're perceived. It's status and power - they're good guys and they feel entitled to do whatever they want.

But when Charles, feeling betrayed by this reveal of their character, says he wanted them to be good guys, the emphasis is completely different. Charles wants to be a "good guy". He doesn't want to be a "bad guy".

The emphasis is on good, because that's really the crux of Charles' greatest fears, isn't it?

When Charles wants to be a good guy, he doesn't mean it the way Brad and Hunter do; that veneer of goodness that comes with popularity. He means that nothing he did was ever good enough for his dad. Doing the good thing and helping that kid his "friends" were beating up literally got him killed. Trying to stop Devlin only got him trapped in the loop, stuck until his friends freed him, only able to watch helplessly as a mother and her innocent children get slashed to death before his eyes.

And it's this helplessness that is the thing that truly sets him off at the end of episode 4.

It always struck me just how much of his breakdown there, for as much as he finally gives a voice to his own hurt at the injustice of his situation, was still about other people. Because he was secure-ish, at one point, when he was Edwin's partner and protector. He thought he did a good job at it anyways, but guess not, because something obviously happened with Edwin and he's not talking to him about it. And he likes to think he did good with solving cases, but Crystal is still hurting and haunted by a demon and nearly threw herself off a cliff earlier that day because she wants her parents so badly, and he's no closer to helping her solve that. And all of it, every single part of it, is a reflection of his own unresolved trauma; that he never "made it better" and he can't, so now he tries to be good enough for other people, but that isn't working anymore either, and now someone is threatening to take Edwin away, and even this final shocking act of anger and violence is still in service of protecting; of saving someone from the suffering he was never able to escape except by fucking dying.

His anger, really, stems from the injustice of it all, and the abuse of power by guys who can get away with it because they're guys, when they should've, could've, been good to others instead. It's a large part of why he projected so strongly onto Brad and Hunter - they did everything right, they were good guys who got screwed over, because even if everyone seems to love you, there's always that one person you can never please, right? Who will hurt you, no matter how good you are. When it's revealed that Brad and Hunter are far more like his bullies, like Devlin, like his dad, than he'd thought - controlling, intolerant, cruel to those who "step out of line" - Charles feels betrayed and horrified because he related to them... so what does that say about him?

But here's one major difference that Charles does not seem to recognize well. Charles has never had the power in these situations. He was the victim, and his being the victim is through no fault of his own, but the fault of those who decided to be cruel. It is certainly not contingent on how good he is. Being good in the eyes of people who want to hurt you will not stop them from hurting you.

When he lashes out at the Night Nurse, it's out of helplessness and rage. Once again, he's pitted against someone who holds more power than he does and is threatening harm, and he's just been bitterly, brutally reminded that a smile and a helping hand and a firm word never, ever worked to make it stop. There's only one other way he can think of to shift the balance of power, and he's finally livid enough to actually do it. This violence is a desperate attempt to finally overcome yet another force much greater than him, a transdimensional entity that has unjustly arrived to take his best friend to Hell. And Charles wins, he did it, he stopped her, at least for the moment. But at what cost, when he looks at his friends and can't tell whether they look more scared for him or of him? And can he blame them, when he's clearly scared of his own anger and how overwhelming it is now that it's been let out?

Because he tries so hard to be good and it's never good enough to stop the suffering. Because that anger rose to the surface so easily and maybe that means he's not good at all.

But of course, Charles once again misses something important here - there is a distinction in why that anger exists. His dad, Devlin, and Brad and Hunter get angry because their power over others makes them feel they have a right to punish when things don't go their way. Charles gets angry because he feels more helpless than he'd care to admit, and seeing cruelty inflicted onto others by those with power makes him want to cut them down to size.

And herein lies the second major difference. Charles... is a kind person, at heart. He's genuine. He really does likes helping out, he likes making people happy, he doesn't turn people away who need help, he's friendly and protective. The scene where Edwin pulls him out of his fear that he's somehow bad even though he really doesn't want to be, is outright one of my favourite scenes for what it brings to both of their characters. Edwin knows exactly what to say. While it's always good to check your behaviour, to apologize and take accountability - because no one can be good all the time, and even the most well-intentioned of us will mess up sometimes - Edwin is right.

"Bad guys do not worry about being bad guys."

[141trash]

rating: sfw (brief mentions of sex, but no graphic anything)

Captain John Price x Reader

AN: Somehow this ended up with very little actual Price in it, but I have plans and he will be more prominent. I just have word vomit rn and needed to get everything down

imagine having a one time fling with Price after your husband leaves you for another one because you just can't seem to get pregnant and he wants a family.

It was a good romp, he was a bit gruff, but was super sweet afterwards with the aftercare. he even stayed to buy you breakfast the next morning. Months later you've been focused on yourself, getting your life together and learning what it means to move on.

Only you've been feeling rather ill the last couple days. And then you remember you're late. Which isn't entirely unusual, sometimes you miss a period when you're stressed and the last couple months finding your feet have been stressful. Still you go to the doctors and its there you remember your night with Price, definitely can't remember if he used a condom or not, and you know you hadn't been on birth control since previously you'd been trying for a baby.

Oops you're pregnant.

The timeline fits that it's his and not your now ex-husband's and part of you is instantly hugely relieved about that.

You leave the doctor's office in a bit of a daze. It doesn't sink in until you're stumbling your way into the cafe you own/manage and you promptly dissolve into a fit of tears in the backroom, much to your teeny bopper part timer's utter horror.

Pregnant. You're fucking pregnant. You're elated, over the moon because you had always wanted kids. (yeah adoption's a thing, but in some places its really hard to adopt if you're single and you weren't ready for another relationship after the last trainwreck). You're also fucking terrified because holy shit you have no plan. Nothing is ready. You live in a tiny flat in the city with one bedroom because why would you need more than that?

Your friend appears in the back room as your mind is going a million miles a minute, turns out your part timer had panicked and called her. You breakdown again in her arms and tell her the news. She reminds you that you're not alone even though you're not in a relationship and that you will have all the support that you need.

With her help you start to prepare for the baby. Things move quickly, you're so busy getting things ready, searching for a larger flat, buying things, filling your head with every single bit of parenting knowledge you can get your head on. All your regular customers say that you're glowing, they've never seen you happier.

You've recorded every little thing since finding out you were pregnant. kept print outs of every scan. More than once you find yourself staring out the window, guiltily wondering about whether or not Price would have wanted to know. Not that you have any way of contacting him. You knew he was military, from the dog tags he'd had hanging around his neck, but not much more.

The first time you feel the baby kicking is when you're in the middle of a shift. Its the slow time of day so you're cleaning up the tables when you gasp suddenly. The girl behind the counter is by your side in an instant, babbling questions making sure you're okay. She's sweet and like your friend has been beside you since you found out.

"I'm fine Cally. The baby kicked." you announce, beaming brightly. She squeals and begs to be allowed to feel next time the baby kicks. Before you can do more the bell above the door dings and you both automatically turn, your customer service smiles back on. Only.

"John?" Your mouth drops open in surprise. Standing there looking oddly sheepish is the man you hadn't thought you'd ever see again. The man whose baby was currently kicking as if demanding your attention.

His eyes sweep over you appreciatively, though when he sees your obvious pregnancy he freezes. The shock of seeing him makes your legs weak. Cally lets out a panicked yelp when you knees buckle, but he's already darting forward, catching your arms gently and helping you to a seat.

"Careful there sweetheart." he says and god does that warm your chest. You remember the last time you heard him say that, it had been when you'd bumped into him in the bar.

"What are you doing here?" you ask breathlessly as Cally scurries off to get you a drink and he glances at you for permission before pulling a chair up next to you.

"Remembered you talking about your dream of opening a café. When i got back to town I spotted the name nd wondered if it was just a coincidence." he tells you, but you can see his eyes keep drifting towards your stomach. He's obviously trying to figure out if its his. But it takes a moment for you to respond because you can't believe that he remembered that. It'd been an offhanded comment you'd made while the two of you had been enjoying late night takeout before going at it another round.

Shaking yourself out of your thoughts you put a hand over his, biting your lip, "Listen. I. I don't want you to feel obligated or anything. I would have told you sooner only I didn't have any way to contact you."

"It's mine." he says for you. You nod, cursing inwardly when tears start to sting your eyes.

You take a deep breath to calm yourself.

"Like I said. I'm doing fine. I don't expect anything from you. I've got a plan. I'm looking for bigger flats."

He stares at you in silence, expression unreadable. You worry for a minute about what he's going to say. You've been prone to overthinking everything since becoming pregnant and now suddenly having the father of your child reappearing in your life. It's a lot.

John squeezes your hand gently halting the panic as you look back up at him.

"I would very much like to be able to meet the kid when they get here. If you'd let me." he tells you hesitantly, "Being in the Military I don't know how often I'd be able to be around, but if you let me I'd like to be in their life."

All of your emotions flood you like a tidal wave at his confession. You burst into tears, letting him pull you into a firm, but careful hug.

"Yes. Of course. I just didn't want you to feel like I was pressuring you. You have every right to know them too." You promise tearfully, smiling at him as he thumbs the tears from your cheeks.

He insists on exchanging numbers so he can contact you and in case you need anything. He won't always be able to answer, but he promises to do his best. Then he bashfully asks if you'll tell him about what's happened so far. Shyly you tell him you've written the entire experience and kept the scans.

He eventually leaves you to get back to work, but the copy of the ultrasound photos you kept in your wallet is tucked into his jacket pocket and he promised to meet you at your flat for dinner and to collect your pregnancy journal so he can catch up on everything.

[bleue-flora]

You know, I feel like we don’t talk enough about how sensitive and painful scar tissue is. Maybe because most people haven’t had stitches and huge, deep cuts. But let me just share as someone who’s had quite a few surgeries and injuries, scars are really tender. Like I cut the side of my pinky pretty deeply and I couldn’t wear rings on my ring finger for like a year because the ring rubbing against it hurt so much. And after I got my eyebrow stitched up, I couldn’t pencil my brow for about a year and whenever my sunglasses bumped against it, it hurt so badly. The surgery scar I have on the base of my thumb from when I was 4 years old still hurts if I’m stretching or using my thumb too much. The bigger the scar the worse it is too, which makes sense. I have two scars about half a foot long on the inside of both of my knees and they took forever to not be super painful to touch, even now they can be a little sensitive. All that to say, even when a character’s injuries are healed they would still have a lot of pain and tenderness going on from any sort of touch, even months after, especially in the places with the most nerves. Just something to think about…

[dragonanon]

can you do a chapter based on your Death!Reader and God!Brother hcs where Death wakes up from her sleep and goes to Heaven to check up on her brother's children and everyone is obviously terrified of her?

Hmmm…I’m not typically one to do requests because the urge to write is so sporadic and random for me. BUT I have been thinking about the initial confrontation in Heaven for a while now, so here are some head cannons for that. >w>

——

- It’s a typical perfect day in Heaven…Until it isn’t. Having seen what had become of your realm and learning Heaven was to blame for it, you’re on your way to rip someone a new asshole.

- Screams erupt from the Angels as the ground begins to shake and the bright sky darkens. Sera and Emily rush out just in time to join the Angels in watching in abject terror as a massive pool of darkness forms on the ground, and from it slowly rises a menacing figure.

- The figure is massive, and it only continues to rise until even the tallest building barely reaches its hips. Its six long horns twist and arch toward the sky, only making the figure appear even taller. Upon reaching its full height, the figure spreads its six mighty wings, each one sporting a menacingly sharp claw and all as shrouded in darkness as the rest of the figure.

- As its wings blot out the sun further, the figure opens its many blazing white eyes; two where you’d normally expect to see eyes, a third in the center of its forehead, and dozens more scattered across its wings and body.

- Sera lost all color as soon as she saw the figure rising, and somehow lost even MORE color when the figure opened all of its eyes. She looks like she shit herself, and Emily is panicking, trying desperately to get Sera to tell her what’s going on; she’s never seen the older Seraph look so terrified.

- With this unimaginably imposing figure now looming over Heaven, Adam decides this is the PERFECT time to attack, having been dumb enough to think this was a Demon attacking Heaven.

- The exorcists fly up towards the figure, ready to attack. This only angers the figure further however, and with a rumble that shakes the ground itself, the figure merely flaps its wings; creating a gust of wind so powerful it knocks all the exorcists back onto the ground.

- It’s at this point Sera FINALLY snaps out of it, rushing to Adam in mad panic and damn nearly strangling him while telling him to call off the exorcists. Which he does, albeit with some reluctance.

- This doesn’t stop him from asking Sera what gives, and her response is “Adam you absolute fucking fool, that is DEATH!”

- Now it’s Adam’s turn to look like he shit himself. “Death? As in, “the big man himself’s younger sister” Death?? As in, “the baddest bitch you’ve EVER seen, but can kill ANYTHING by just touching it” Death??? THAT fucking Death????” Ignoring that last statement, Sera’s frantic nodding in confirmation confirms to Adam that he has indeed fucked up. Big time. Adam then proceeds to lose all color in his face and practically cowers behind Sera as she cautiously approaches you, mentally preparing herself to be reaped on the spot.

- Back to your perspective however, you’re fucking PISSED. So pissed that you don’t even notice or stop to think that most of Heaven’s inhabitants likely have NO CLUE who you are, and are likely legitimately fearing for their lives. Meanwhile for all the older Angels and Angelic beings who’ve been alive long enough to have known you before you went to sleep, like Sera, they’re all still very much afraid, but it’s more in line with the “oh shit mom’s home early and she saw the mess we made in the kitchen, she’s gonna kill us!” kind of fear.

- The fact that they sent exorcists at you makes you even angrier. Like for starters, how fucking weak do they think you are that you could be stopped by just some low level Angelic beings with pointy sticks?? And then the audacity to even attack you to begin with, like THEY weren’t the ones who fucked up and you’re just some kind of strange intruder needing to be slain?? The INDIGNITY of it all!

- Your voice booms throughout Heaven, making even the ground tremble at the sheer intensity of it. “WHO DID IT?” You’re met with only silence, so you ask again with more force. “MY REALM IS A COMPLETE MESS WITH MILLIONS OF DISPLACED SOULS RIGHT NOW. SO AGAIN I ASK, WHICH ONE OF YOU FLAT FOOT CHILDREN DID THIS?!”

- Sera replies, voice trembling slightly. “Are…Are you talking about the exterminations? “IF THAT IS WHAT YOU’RE CALLING THIS MOCKERY OF MY WORK, THEN YES.” Sera looks visibly confused and concerned. “But…That SHOULDN’T be possible!…The exterminations KILL the Sinners; their souls should be gone, not stuck in Limbo! There has to be some kind of mistake here!”

- Hearing this, you can’t help but let out a brief but harsh cackle, making the ground jolt from the abruptness. “DEAR YOU HONESTLY THINK A SOUL COULD BE SO EASY TO DESTROY? A SOUL IS A POWERFUL THING FOR A REASON CHILD, IF THEY WERE SO EASILY DESTROYED THEN NONE OF YOU WOULD BE STANDING HERE BEFORE ME NOW!…SO ONCE AGAIN, WHO. DID. THIS?! AND SO HELP ME, IF I HAVE TO ASK AGAIN THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES.”

- Whilst Sera is dumbfounded by this revelation, Adam sees a golden opportunity to save his ass and points at Sera. “I-It was her! Yeah it was all fucking HER idea! I-I tried to tell her it was stupid, b-but she just REALLY wanted to go down and kill those bast- Demons! Yeah she REALLY wanted to kill all those poor Demons, can ya fucking believe this shit?!”

- Before Sera can defend herself, the darkness seems to intensify, and she can just FEEL every one of your eyes glaring daggers into her. “SERA…YOU SIGNED OFF ON THIS?? YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF, I EXPECTED SO MUCH BETTER FROM YOU! I LEFT EXPLICIT INSTRUCTIONS FOR HEAVEN AND HELL TO WORK TOGETHER TO SORT SOULS FOR THIS VERY REASON! AND NOW BECAUSE OF THESE BARBARIC “EXTERMINATIONS”, YOU’VE COMPLETELY DESTROYED THE BALANCE I WORKED SO HARD TO CREATE AND MAINTAIN. I HOPE YOU’RE PROUD OF YOURSELF, BECAUSE I’M CERTAINLY NOT!”

- It’s a strange and mildly amusing sight to see the head seraph get scolded like a misbehaving child by this massive dark entity. But here we are anyway!

- At one point during the tongue lashing you’re giving to your niece, Emily buts in and asks for an explanation for what’s going on; having not heard Sera’s previous explanation to Adam apparently.

- Your temper flares for a brief moment, and you just about launched into another lecture at the little shit who DARED interrupt you. But upon seeing Emily, you softened considerably, seeing that she was young and TRULY didn’t understand what was happening.

- “AH…I APOLOGIZE DEAR, BUT I DON’T THINK I RECOGNIZE YOU…COME CLOSER LITTLE ONE SO I CAN SEE YOU.” You slowly crouch down and lower your hand, offering Emily to climb onto it. Emily is hesitant, obviously a bit scared of you. But Sera encourages her to go to you, she knows that you won’t hurt Emily and it’s high time she meets her aunt anyway.

- With the small seraph in hand, you stand back up to your full height and bring her closer to your face. Now FINALLY able to see her properly, you speak. “YOU’RE FAIRLY YOUNG FOR A SERAPH…YOU MUST’VE BEEN BORN DURING MY SLUMBER, AND IN THAT CASE I APOLOGIZE THIS HAD TO BE OUR FIRST MEETING. TELL ME, WHAT IS YOUR NAME CHILD?”

- Her voice trembling slightly, Emily tells you her name and then asks who you are and asks if you’re a seraph like her and Sera. The innocent question gets a genuine laugh out of you, and despite it shaking the ground it’s a lovely sound. “OH CHILD, I AM FAR FROM BEING A SERAPH. THOUGH I CAN SEE WHY YOU WOULD THINK THAT. YOU WERE ALL MADE IN MY IMAGE AFTER ALL.”

- Seeing the visible confusion on Emily’s face, you elaborated. “LONG AGO, YOUR FATHER WANTED TO SHOW HIS APPRECIATION OF ME. SO FOR HIS FIRST SENTIENT CREATIONS, THE SERAPHIM, HE BASED THEM ALL ON ME.” Emily looks surprised, and follows up by asking how you know God.

- You give another genuine laugh at her question. “SWEETY I’M HIS YOUNGER SISTER, I AM “DEATH”, THE GODDESS OF WELL…DEATH. BUT YOU CAN CALL ME “D” OR “AUNT D”, MOST OF YOUR SIBLINGS DO.” Emily’s mind is blown “Wait! YOU’RE aunt D?! Sera told me all kinds of stories about you before you went to sleep, like the time you got into an argument with Father over his invention of the “Snuggie”. I never thought I’d get to meet you!”

- “IT WAS LITERALLY JUST A BATHROBE YOU WORE BACKWARDS, AND I STILL CAN’T BELIEVE HE THOUGHT THAT WAS AT ALL CLEVER.” You huff, feeling amusement and mild irritation at that memory.

- “SPEAKING OF YOUR FATHER, WHERE IS HE?” Sera speaks up, having managed to recollect herself, and explains that no one has seen or heard a word from God since before you went to sleep.

- The irritated snarl that leaves your throat sounds like thunder and shakes the ground, making everyone tremble with fear. “THAT LAZY BASTARD HAD ONE FUCKING JOB, WATCH HIS DAMN KIDS, AND HE COULDN’T EVEN DO THAT?! NO WONDER THIS ALL HAPPENED THEN, HE LEFT YOU ALL UNSUPERVISED!”

- Bending over, you carefully set Emily down before standing back up. “I HATE TO CUT MY INTRODUCTION SHORT, BUT APPARENTLY I NEED TO GO AND HAVE A LITTLE CHAT WITH YOUR FATHER.” You stare pointedly at Sera and continue. “DON’T THINK THIS MEANS YOU’RE ENTIRELY OFF THE HOOK EITHER. WHILE YES, YOUR FATHER’S ABSENCE IS MOSTLY TO BLAME FOR THIS DEBACLE, YOU ALSO KNOW BETTER THAN TO DO SUCH TERRIBLE THINGS. WE WILL BE DISCUSSING THIS MORE ONCE I FINISH WITH YOUR FATHER, AND IF I COME BACK AND FIND OUT YOU HELD ANY MORE OF THESE “EXTERMINATIONS” I WILL TURN YOU INTO A HOLLOW! DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?” Looking at the ground, Sera nods and says “Yes Auntie D…”

- Satisfied with that response, you bid everyone farewell and slowly melt back into the ground, completely disappearing. Once you’re gone, the sunlight is back and it’s as if you were never there.

- Now the seraphim have to soothe the murmuring crowd while Sera starts attempting to get in contact with Lucifer to let him know that “Hey Aunt D found out about the exterminations and is NOT happy about it. She just got done yelling at me, and now she’s on her way to go read Father the riot act. Just warning you now because once she’s done with him, you’re probably gonna be next.”

- Lucifer receives the message and is now frantically trying to create peace offerings in hopes they’ll make you more amicable, while also preemptively planning his own funeral in case the peace offerings don’t work.

- Meanwhile in God’s palace, God is currently relaxing in an elaborate hot tub and watching American football on an absurdly large TV whilst drinking wine like it’s water. He’s pretty drunk and having a grand time yelling at the TV.

- His fun is interrupted through by you literally kicking in the door and storming in, you’ve shrunken down to your smaller size so all your features are actually visible now and not covered in darkness as you glare at your older brother with an intensity that could peel paint.

- God startled momentarily before seeing it’s you and giving you a dopey smile. He’s also in his smaller form, so that makes things slightly easier for you. “Ohhh heeeyyy Death!…You startled me thereee…It’zzzz beeen awhillle, huh?” You scoff at his slurred speech, in disbelief that he could be so drunk right now.

- “Yes, it HAS been awhile. Good to see that you still choose to spend your days getting completely wasted instead of tending to your children.” You answer tersely, and God rolls his eyes. “Zzstill the saaame old ssstuck up bitch…Tha kidzz are fahine Deee! Yyyoou should cohme haave ah drink wib meee.”

- You ignore God’s offer for a drink and cut right to the chase. “No, your kids are NOT fine! When was the last time you checked in on them?! Do you even know what they’re up to right now??!” God dismissively waves his hand and chugs more wine. “I juzzt checked on thhhem ah couple decades aghooo..They’rrre prohably makinnn neeewh liffe.”

- “God that is a load of shit, and you know it! I was JUST down in Heaven, and the seraphim told me that you haven’t seen or spoken to ANY of them since I left to take my nap eons ago! And furthermore, while you’ve been in here drinking the day away, your children have COMPLETELY destroyed the balance we created! They’ve been mass slaughtering Demons annually for millennia now, and Limbo is a complete disaster right now because of this!” Hearing this, God looks down at his bottle of whine, embarrassed, and mumbles an awkward “oh”.

- Silence hangs heavy in the air for a moment before God clears his throat and says. “Zzsooo…You’rrree NNOT gooing to drink wiff me?” At this you snap and snatch the wine bottle from God and chuck it at the TV, smashing the bottle and the TV. God shouts in anger but before he can ask you wtf that was for, you just lay into him. Calling him a deadbeat and pathetic excuse of a deity.

- “How can you just sit in here day after day, while your CHILDREN are out there causing such mayhem! Do you not love your children all??!” God is shouting back at you, his anger having sobered him up some so he’s not slurring as much. “How DARE you accuse me of not loving my children! I would giive ANYTHING for them and you know that!”

- “Then fucking ACT like it!! Don’t just sit in here and rot your mind with booze and TV!” God growls. “I don’t need you to tell meee how to handle my children! Why do you even care?! It’zzz not like they’re yours anyway!”

- “I care because they are part of MY family, and I want my family to be safe and happy, something that you couldn’t give less of a shit about apparently!” God throws his hands up at this point “Well what do you want from me Death, go hhhold their handz?! My children are ALL capable of thinking and being on their own, they don’t NEED me to do shit for them!”

- “That doesn’t mean that they don’t still need you there emotionally! But with the way you act maybe it’s best you ARE never there! After all, what use could any of them get from your pathetic drunk ass!!” This clearly struck a nerve as God points back at the door you came in through and roars at you to get the fuck out of his house. Growling, you give a harsh “Fine!” and tell him he can sit and be a drunk deadbeat all he wants because you’re done with him and his shit, and he’s NEVER to contact you again unless it’s in regards to his children or business.

- You stomp out of God’s palace and return to Limbo, wanting to start working on getting things cleaned up and cool off some before you go check on things in Hell.

- Once you’re gone though, God slumps his shoulders and hangs his head. With your venomous words echoing his head, he summons another bottle of wine and begins chugging it while he trudges into his bedchambers.

- He flops down onto the bed and picks up a framed photo and slowly brings it closer to his face. It’s an old photo, one taken shortly after God created the first few seraphim. You and God are both standing next to each other, arms around each other’s shoulders and leaning in close while the first seraphim all stand in between the two of you. Everyone is absolutely beaming, and God looks especially happy; so proud of his creations.

- Tears drop onto the photo as God remembers how things used to be back then, back when he was actually NEEDED by those around him and wasn’t just some brand figure who’s only job is to smile and wave. Even as he slowly sets the photo down, tears continue to fall and he holds his head in his hands. “…I’m sorry I’m so damn useless…Hopefully you’ll forgive me someday…Not that I deserve it though…I’m…so fucking sorry…” No one is there to hear God’s sobs, and eventually he passes out. He’d rather be dreaming of happier times anyway.

[designernishiki]

it’s kinda funny to me how that dumb scene in kiwami 1 of majima getting shot and left for dead in the harbor was basically just added as a half-assed way to explain majima not being around for a bit of the plot, but they accidentally(?) just made it seem like start of a chain reaction where majima ended up feeling slighted and heartbroken after being abandoned like that and then lashed out about it via smashing a big truck into the building kiryu was in. and yeah that isn’t inherently a romantic thing as-is but then they go and add the part where majima grabs a hostess and performatively hits on her as in-kiryu’s-face as possible, she says she’s already in love with someone, and majima lets her go immediately, no questions asked, making a big fucking point of it just to say see THAT kiryu? I appreciate when people are HONEST about their FEELINGS. people who won’t just BACKSTAB someone who CARES about them to save themselves. is that so crazy kiryu?? huh??? anyway make it up to me get down here and fight me right fucking now

[m4gp13]

this is kind of inspired by @bvckbiter and their TA hybrid/shifter au and I love it because I love demigods being weirder! They're only HALF human.

I love the idea of demigods having a very noticeable aura around them (that they canonically have and can be canonically picked up on by other demigods) that mortals can vaguely feel, like a bad vibe, in a similar way that gods have a very strong aura of power. When Percy meets Hades, he can feel his divinity and feels like he should be deferring to Hades. Demigods could (*cough cough* should *cough cough*) have a watered-down version of this.

It lends itself really well to this sense of the 'perpetual foreigner' that demigods must experience. They're too human for their godly parents and they're too godly for the mortal world. This is why places like CHB and CJ are important. These characters can only find solace and community with each other and this is why the characters fight so hard to protect these places!

Aside from illustrating the gap between demigods and the mortal world, it also plays very nicely into the disability metaphor from which the series is built. As someone with hidden disabilities, I know how common of a thing it is for people to know there's something off with me, but they can feel it. We just have a 'weird vibe' that neurotypicals find off-putting. It's no fault of our own and it's not something we can control, this is just what we're like but it serves to push away the people around us and act as a barrier to their ability to understand us. Sound familiar????? It should! The og series is so laden with themes and metaphors surrounding hidden disabilities that this has to be intentional and I wish Rick had gone further with it.

It would have been great to see more of the completely regular mortals in the pjoverse and how they interact with this totally alien world and characters who only have one foot in each world. We should have gotten more from Paul, from Rachel, from Piper's dad, from Annabeth's stepmother (AND BROTHERS!!!)

Demigods may only be half god, but they're also only half human, and that side of their lives is criminally under-explored.

[blindmagdalena]

A Transactional Relationship ( Homelander x Victoria Neuman )

18+ 2.7k mild coercion, transactional sex, blood/period, cunnilingus.

In exchange for aiding her in her political campaign, Homelander makes an outlandish request of Victoria. She attempts to dissuade him, but what's a little blood between two serial killers?

people have been asking me for a fic where Homie earns his red wings since i started writing him. i've done it. written for this prompt by @deliciouskeys! 🖤

Throughout Victoria’s life, she’s come to terms with a great number of what she would consider to be necessary evils, and there is no better example of this than being forced into doing business with Homelander.

Admittedly though, there is some satisfaction to be found in dropping in on him unannounced. It’s late enough in the evening that she doesn’t risk drawing undue attention to herself, and perhaps enough that she’ll catch Homelander entirely unawares. 

As she waits at his door, part of her wonders if he’ll answer it in cute little American flag pajamas.

She could use a good laugh.

Victoria straightens up slightly when the door swings open. To her delight, Homelander does look properly caught off guard. 

No pajamas, though. Too bad.

His brows are reaching for his hairline, his lips parted in bewilderment, though the curve of them melts slowly into an incredulous smile as he looks around her, confirming that she is, in fact, alone.

“If it isn’t my good friend Vicky Neuman,” he says, forearm braced in the doorway. “Don’t tell me Singer’s got you campaigning door to door for him.”

“Singer doesn’t know about this,” she says brusquely. They both know that. He just takes pleasure in making her out to be a lackey. “Are you going to let me in or not?”

His expression falters at that, gaze dipping to give her a once over. She’s not dressed any differently than usual, but he’s looking at her like she just broke out into a completely different language. After a beat, he turns sideways and extends his arm, gesturing her inside.

The door closes behind her with all the weight of an iron gate, and what greets her on the other side of it renders her momentarily speechless. The rich, dark walls of Homelander’s penthouse are decorated nearly floor to ceiling with replica paintings of various historical Americana. Historical figures–primarily presidents–spy her every step into the house while gaudy statues adorn every corner she rounds, all of them leering at her with hollow stone eyes. 

She knows she wears her distaste plainly because Homelander is quick to say, “I didn’t have much say in the decor.”

“I don’t believe you,” she responds simply, giving the statue of Atlas a poke. It’s solid marble. Vought clearly spared no expense in Homelander’s eerie little superhuman terrarium. It reminds her of a themed fish tank.

God knows she’d much rather be on the outside of the glass, tapping at it just to see how he squirms.

“Rude,” he snorts, though he doesn’t press the matter. Caught him.

It’s obvious even in casual conversation that Homelander isn’t accustomed to being contradicted or corrected. He watches her with an unsettling sort of bemusement, and there are times where she gets the sense he says things just to see if she’ll refute him. She makes a point to keep it up.

“Please, sit,” he says, gesturing to a stiff looking sofa that has a very large American flag mural for a background.  Of course it does.

“That’s not necessary, I’ll be quick,” she says, reaching into her bag.

“Ah, ah, ah. I insist. Sit. I won’t listen to a word you say until you do,” he says, causing her to look sharply back up at him. He’s smiling cordially, arms folded behind his back. No matter how garishly they dress him or how lightly they bleach his hair, there are moments when the predator lurking beneath cannot be disguised.

Her upper lip twitches, her initial satisfaction with whatever she thought she had accomplished–inconveniencing him?–disappearing in a flash. Of all the things in this world to despise, men and their insufferable little power trips sprinkled into every interaction certainly rank the highest. With an unfriendly smile, she sits and brandishes a thin ring binder from her bag, offering it to him.

“Don’t tell me it’s another senator,” he says, taking the binder from her. He begins flipping through. Despite his insistence that she sit, he remains looming over her. She leans back against the couch, disinterested in being face to face with that ridiculous codpiece of his.

“Nothing so exciting. More of a laundry list. Simple but tedious tasks. You can handle that, I’m sure,” she says, trying to keep too much of the venom on her tongue from permeating her words. 

“I’m not your errand boy, Vicky,” he says, lacking any of her vitriol. He actually seems to be in a strangely pleasant mood. Still, she loathes how ugly he’s made her name with his snide use of that little nickname. His brows pinch as he reads. “Scholarships for Godolkin?”

“Pawns on a chess board,” she says vaguely. “Keep reading.”

He does. After a few more pages he scoffs out a half-laugh, closing the binder. “You want me to shmooze for you?” He asks, gesturing with it.

“An election is nothing but schmoozing. Your side is pro-supe, and we need that. Like I said: simple but tedious tasks. Nothing you aren’t already used to,” she says, crossing her legs.

Homelander looks down his nose at her, studying her while he absently taps the binder against his palm. “And… What do I get out of this little transaction?”

She really wishes he wouldn’t play coy. As if they haven’t established this already. “Quid pro quo,” she says, lifting her hands in an open gesture. “Tell me what it is you want. We negotiate from there.”

He gets a look to him that tells her that’s exactly what he wanted to hear. Casually, he tosses the binder onto the far end of the couch. “Alright,” he says, and to her confusion, he lowers himself into a kneel. She draws her legs more snugly to the couch, but it doesn’t stop him from putting a hand on her knee. “I want to taste you.”

His words are immediately followed by a piercing ring in her ears, like the blare of sirens. She stares numbly at him, replaying the words again and again in her mind until they begin to lose their meaning.

“Excuse me?”

“C’mon, Vicky. Don’t play dumb with me. You really think I believe you came here to ask me to run errands?” As he speaks, he pries her legs out of the tight cross she’d put them in. She fights it, but you wouldn’t know it by watching them. The machine press of his strength is so overwhelming, so utterly insurmountable, she’s briefly dumbstruck by the feel of it. “You know what I think? I think you like having me in your back pocket. I think you enjoy feeling like you can control me, showing up out of the blue for your petty little favors,” he says with a truly feline look of self-satisfaction, settling on his knees between her legs. “But y’know what else I think? I think… I can do so much more.”

“I don’t want more,” she says through her teeth, jaw clenched. She grips the armrest of the couch tight enough to make the wood beneath the leather groan. “I want what I’m asking of you. Or are you incapable of following a simple agreement?”

He laughs, kneading both of her knees through her pants. “I’m abiding by the agreement. You said I could have whatever I want.”

He really just hears what he wants to hear. She narrows her eyes. “Not once did I say that.

“Don’t be pedantic. You asked what I wanted. I want this,” he says, sliding his hands up her thighs, thumbs pressing firm lines along the inside of her legs. “Just this. Just a taste. Just until you come.”

She slaps her hands down on top of his, halting his hands at her midthighs. “If I say no?”

Despite the minimal hold she has on him, his hands stay still under hers. It gets under her skin the way he looks up from her hands on his, how pleased he looks with the whole situation. She despises feeling like the mouse in this game between them.

Those gaudy eagle epaulets bounce as he shrugs. “Then there’s no deal. Your loss, honestly,” he says, evidently content to leave his hands right where they are.

“You’re disgusting,” she says, no longer withholding the acrimony from her voice. He looks unaffected by it–no, not unaffected. Amused. She gives his hands a shove and they lift away so easily she almost forgets how heavy they felt a second ago, poised in the air like a sign of surrender. She snaps her legs tightly shut. “Besides, it’s a bloody mess down there.”

“Oh, please,” Homelander scoffs, lowering his hands to either side of the couch, caging her in. “Don’t tell me that you, of all people, are squeamish about blood. You’ve already put blood on my hands, congresswoman. What’s a little on my tongue?”

“There is something profoundly wrong with you,” she says, feeling claustrophobic with the way he’s bracketing her in.

“And yet you haven’t said no,” he points out, leaning closer, pressing her knees into his sternum. She puts a hand on his shoulder to halt him and a little thrill runs up her spine when it works. She feels as though she’s holding a tiger at bay with her bare hands. His nostrils flare, taking in some scent that curves his parted lips into a faint smile. “In fact, you’re actually getting off on this.”

She briefly considers making her move. Boom. One big surge. All that hot blood rushing to his skull with such speed and force that not even that thick neanderthal skull can stay in one piece. Or maybe it would be the only thing that remains and all his blood and brain matter would just go shooting out of every orifice like a macabre sprinkler.

Victoria swallows the thought like bile, clearing her throat. If it doesn’t work, she’d be dead faster than a drop of blood left his nose.

“Fine,” she says eventually, ignoring the way it seems to fill his chest with air to hear. “In exchange for everything in that binder. Everything. No half-assing. Full measures taken.”

She can’t afford to lose. She keeps that in mind as she unbuttons her pants.

“Rest assured, Vicky. I’ve never half-assed anything in my life,” Homelander purrs, taking hold of her slacks and underwear in one go, helping to slide them down her legs. He slips her heels off with them, setting them aside.

Meanwhile, she slips out of her jacket, tossing it over the arm of the couch. It feels too strange to be so dressed only from the waist up. 

Looking back, it sincerely bewilders her to watch him take a moment to fold her slacks before he puts them down next to her neatly placed shoes.

There’s something freakishly clinical about him sometimes.

Turning, Homelander takes hold of her ankle, and slips her heel back on.

“What’re you doing?” She asks suspiciously.

He glances over at her, and for the first time, she doesn’t see arrogance or condescension in his expression. He looks a little sheepish, actually. “I like them,” he tells her simply, putting the other one back on as well. 

Deciding to let it go, Victoria leans back against the couch. Homelander eagerly nestles back between her legs, spreading them. She reaches backwards in an arch, behind her head, and grips the back of the couch, tense and thrumming with a sickly kind of anticipation that makes her gut churn. She glances down at him, and to her dismay, she finds him just staring between her thighs, gloved fingers digging into her inner thighs where he’s keeping them spread. 

“What? Do you even know what you’re–” looking for, she means to ask snidely, but the words turn into a hiss as he dips down and ruthlessly sucks her clit.

“Mmmmhm,” he hums. Even the sound of that is smug. The pull of his lips is indescribable, so relentless that it doesn’t feel human.

“Jesus Christ, Homelander,” she grits out, her other hand moving to grab a fistful of his–surprisingly soft–Barbie blond hair. “Softer. Your mouth feels like a goddamn Dyson,” says, giving his hair a harsh pull. It makes him moan. Embarrassingly, the combination of that noise and the way he instantly, obediently eases his mouth on her feels… good. Very good.

Initially, she’d resigned herself to closing her eyes and enduring him until the stimulation provided a bodily response that would satisfy him enough to stop. Instead, she watches him, taking in the sight of her hand balled up in his hair, his expression. His eyes are closed, head slightly tilted. He looks different like this, expression content. Downright blissful, even.

“Use your tongue,” she hears herself say, giving his hair another yank. Already she’s more of a participant than she told herself she would be, but if she’s going to do this, she may as well do as she pleases. He lets out a light grunt, flattening his tongue and nuzzling in against her, moving his head back and forth. It sends a spark of pleasure through her that makes her buck her hips, breaths coming in progressively more shallow huffs.

Lifting her leg, she catches her heel on his shoulder and jams it in, using it as leverage to grind up against his mouth while simultaneously pushing his head down. He’s so compliantly loose-limbed that she can almost believe she’s overpowering him. Using him. He makes an appreciative noise low in the back of his throat, holding her thighs tightly to either side of his head. 

She can tell from the way he’s rocking that he’s thrusting his hips, but there’s nothing for him to move against. He’s putting his all into laving his tongue in aggressive patterns, matching her energy as she fucks herself harder and faster on his tongue. Insufferable as he may be, he eats pussy well enough that she can feel herself climbing steadily towards the edge of climax.

All she has to do is come, and then this is over.

She gives his hair a sharp upward pull, but aside from a moan, his pace doesn’t lessen. “Stop,” she growls with another pull, and this time he lets her lift him. She doesn’t know why, but she knows she has to see him. Look him in the eye.

Their eyes meet, and the state of him makes something in her stomach lurch. He’s a fucking mess, blood smeared on his mouth and chin, tongue dragging hungrily along the seam of his lips. He looks drunk on her, eyes hazy and blown so black she can hardly see the eerily bright blue of them.

Victoria swallows, her mouth dry and her heart pounding. She holds him there, but he doesn’t speak, doesn’t protest. He just watches her, wholly pliant and awaiting her next move. He’s so utterly beneath her at this moment, stupid for the taste of her cunt and eager to please. It’s so intoxicating that it would make her angry if it didn’t feel so good.

She shoves him back down on an upward thrust of her hips and he moans for her. That tongue of his is immediately back on her, swirling as he absolutely devours her, hungrier for her than ever. This time she skyrockets back up to the precipice, biting back strained little moans. She doesn’t want him to know just how good it feels; the fact she’s actually going to finish is bad enough.

She bites down on her tongue and comes hard, her whole body tensing up as she all but crushes his head between her thighs, arching her back. Maddeningly, he licks her through her orgasm, moving his tongue with the pulse of her body with inhuman precision. It makes the aftershocks last twice as long, which leaves her limp and panting on the couch, his face pressed firmly between her thighs while she savors the process of coming down with his tongue still tracing languid figure-eights on her pussy.

“Enough,” she says eventually, lazily pushing him back with the heel she has on his shoulder. He falls back onto his ass with a satisfying thump, his hair thoroughly mussed and his face a mess. He smiles so dreamily at her, you’d think he was the one who came. He licks his lips in a slow, purposeful display that should make her roll her eyes. Instead, her sensitive clit throbs as she follows the movement of his tongue.

Fuck, she thinks woozily.

This may just be the beginning of a problem.

[camels-pen]

warning: eating disorders/food issues

-

"Something wrong with it?"

Usopp startled and snapped his head to the side. His nose jabbed Sanji's eye and they both hissed. Usopp jerked away to rub the tip of his nose.

"Fuck, I forgot about that," Sanji grumbled. There was a contrasting, fond smile on his face as rubbed his eye. "Anyway, the food?"

"What about it?"

"What's wrong with it?"

Usopp turned his gaze back to his plate. Plenty of pork chops piled high- at Luffy's request for a meat-filled dinner- and mashed potatoes with green beans on the side. His mouth salivated again just staring at it.

"Nothing," he said. "Just taking my time."

He could feel Sanji's unimpressed stare. "You've been 'taking your time' through the whole dinner. Everyone's already finished and left. The moss ball even finished the dishes, and we both know how he likes to dawdle."

Despite himself, Usopp giggled quietly. When it was his turn to do dishes, Zoro always took his time, waiting for Sanji to get frustrated with his speed and leave him to finish it alone. It was the perfect strategy to steal booze when Sanji wasn't looking, but it seemed Usopp had unknowingly thwarted his first sake stealing attempt after their reunion.

As if reading his mind, Sanji said, "I let him steal that alcohol, you know. I'm not that stupid." He huffed, voice sounding like he was pouting as he added, "It's the only damn way I can keep an eye on his shitty drinking habits. He'd constantly drink us dry otherwise, that damn mossheaded bastard."

Usopp giggled again and made the mistake of glancing up at him. Sanji was staring across the room at the kitchen, probably the place he'd put all the good booze. He'd confided in Usopp, once, that he had two hiding places for drinking alcohol: one, more obvious place, by the fridge for the cheap stuff, and another, hidden somewhere he wouldn't say, for all the more expensive and high quality stuff. He'd confidently crowed, on more than one occasion, that despite the cheap stuff always going missing, he'd never lost a drop of anything else. He always looked so smug saying that, and well, Usopp now knew why.

But then his eye- the left one now, and despite looking right at it, the change had still caught him off guard more than once- turned to Usopp and Usopp clammed up. Sanji stared at him, his eyebrow- this one curled on the opposite side, closer to his nose bridge than his ear- raised high on his forehead. "If you're well enough to laugh at Zoro, it can't be that bad."

Usopp gulped. Looked away. "I'm not sick," he said quietly. "The food looks great, Sanji, really. Eating is just..." He trailed off. Neither of them spoke for a long moment, only the sounds of their distant crewmates enjoying the sight of their descent to the ocean's floor filling the galley.

Sanji's arm slowly, hesitantly, laid on the back of his chair- Sanji didn't used to hesitate, but, he supposed, things had changed. He settled himself in the chair next to Usopp, rather than continue to lean over him, and said softly, "Eating is just...?"

Usopp stared at the grain on the table, studying the lines and deviations with an intense and sudden fascination.

"Usopp."

"It's hard," he mumbled.

Another silence, this one less expecting and more confused. Awkward.

"You ate fine at breakfast...?" Sanji said, voice lilting up at the end, almost in question.

Usopp snorted. 'Ate fine' was a kinder way of putting it. Usopp had demolished breakfast, nearly rivaling Luffy with how much and how quickly he ate. The usual sense of desperation had dimmed slightly, now that he was with his crew, but it was still there, dictating his eating habits. He would've felt more ashamed if he hadn't seen Luffy, Franky, and Brook eating in the exact same disgusting manner. Instead, he felt right at home.

He had wondered, privately, if something similar had happened to them. Had tossed around the idea of asking them about it. Then he would think back to how they used to eat, before. How it was exactly the same. How they had all basically cried that they'd so dearly missed Sanji's cooking. He couldn't blame them, he nearly sobbed over Sanji's pancakes- and then did sob over his hashbrowns.

"The island got hungry at dawn," he started. Stopped. Stared at the little vase of daisies at the centre of the table that Robin had gathered from her garden- now shared with Usopp. "It would close up. Then open. After, everything was... safe. For a little while."

He gulped again, cringing at his dry throat. He stared at the glass of water, a little wet stain under it. Luffy had bumped his glass earlier when he stole a few chops off of Usopp's pile.

Usopp didn't reach for it.

"You know, I was expecting grand stories of your heroics when you finally talked about where you were." Usopp shrunk in his seat. "No- no, come on I didn't mean it like that. I was just trying to make a joke."

"You should leave the jokes to the experts." Usopp's lip quirked. "Even Brook's better than you."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sanji scowled. "Brook wouldn't know a good joke if it kicked him upside the head."

Usopp giggled again, relaxing. "Admit it, you missed his skull jokes."

Sanji huffed. "...Maybe a little."

In the background, they could hear Zoro talking about taking a swim followed by a familiar thud and Nami yelling at him. They both giggled this time, leaning into each other.

"God, I missed everyone. I missed-" Sanji cut himself off and Usopp turned to look at him. There was a wobble to his lips and his visible eye stared intently at him. Usopp would almost say Sanji looked longing- yearning, even- if he didn't know better.

"I know," he said. "I missed everyone too." Sanji's eyes pinched a little at the corners, but Usopp didn't know why. He didn't linger on it long though, what with Sanji's smile as he pressed his temple to Usopp's for a moment. Usopp's heart would've beat wildly two years ago, but now all he felt was warm and content.

Sanji hummed in agreement and pulled away. Patting his pockets, likely for a cigarette. Usopp pulled the one tucked behind his ear, admiring the feel of soft blond hair a moment too long before handing it to him. Sanji chuckled and accepted it with a quiet thanks.

He lit it and sat back in his chair, relaxing with the first inhale. "Back to the important stuff." Usopp would argue all of that was important stuff. "You only felt safe to eat breakfast?"

Usopp shook his head. Then tilted it side to side. "No- well, sort of. It was never really safe, but..." He rolled the words around his mouth, feeling out the right ones while discarding others. "It was... easier. To eat a lot in the morning. Gather food later in the day. Then sleep when I got hungry closer to sunset."

Sanji blew out a puff of smoke. "You didn't have anyone to watch your back while you were eating?"

"I did." Usopp nodded, a sense of pride filling him as he puffed out his chest. "Heracles'n was a great friend and teacher! We took turns watching out for each other and, well, he's the reason I survived that island in the first place." He flexed one of his biceps. "He also helped me get a whole lot stronger!"

Sanji pursed his lips around his cigarette. "But you didn't eat dinner. Or lunch." Today nor in nearly two years, though Sanji likely meant the latter.

Usopp deflated, arm settling back down in his lap. "We couldn't stop moving until sunset. By then it was better to sleep and eat heap loads in the morning rather than risk dinner and not getting enough rest." He sighed. "Heracles'n was always telling me to eat more berries and fruit throughout the day, but..."

Sanji stared at him. "You had this-island-is-too-scary-so-I-can't-eat-anything-itis?"

Usopp scowled. "I'd like to see you keep up an appetite when you're constantly running and hiding from giant-"

Sanji used his arm to tug Usopp closer, so their sides were pressed together. He pressed his nose to Usopp's hair. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"What for?" Usopp whispered back.

Sanji didn't answer, his breaths warming Usopp's head. The galley had grown silent when he finally spoke, the others having found quieter activities or retired to their rooms.

"If I was stronger then- or quicker-"

"Sanji," Usopp said. "There's no way you would've been able to beat Kuma, back then."

Sanji shook his head. "I know, but maybe we could've been sent somewhere together."

There was a bittersweet, choking feeling in the back of Usopp's throat. A burning in his eyes. "You wouldn't have liked it there," he said, laying his head on Sanji's shoulder. "You would've hated it, actually."

"But I would've been with you."

Usopp laughed, the sound wet and brittle. "I wouldn't wish that island on anyone, Sanji, but least of all you. I'm not worth-"

A hand cupped his face, cutting him off as he was turned to face Sanji. His nose was bent, pressing against Sanji's cheek. "You worth a lot, Usopp. You're worth it to-" Sanji's cheeks dusted pink all of a sudden and he looked away. "You're worth a lot. And it would've been nice if I could have watched your back. Made sure you were eating well."

At a loss for words, Usopp turned back to the table, staring at his plate. The mashed potatoes were surely cold and hard by now and he was fairly certain a thick pork chop wouldn't stay down.

The green beans, maybe. Those could work.

He picked one up. His stomach rumbled. He lifted it to his mouth.

His hands shook.

He gulped again. Stared at his hand intensely.

Sanji's hand covered his own. A sudden, terrible spike of anxiety overwhelmed him and he held his breath, hoping Sanji wasn't going to just force him to eat it. He hated wasting food after all and it was already in Usopp's hand and Usopp himself just needed to quit cowering and just eat it already-

Sanji pulled his hand away from his mouth. The tension left Usopp in a rush. Shame took up where anxiety had left, but he forced himself to meet Sanji's eye. He knew what came next.

Before Sanji could say anything, Usopp blurted, "There was food. On the island. Not just fruits and berries and whatever game we could hunt. Pre-cooked food, I mean." Sanji's brow furrowed, but Usopp continued on. "There were these plants- and rivers- that had cake and burgers and ramen and- well, you get the idea. And the closer you got to the centre of the island, the more tasty the food got." He gulped. Coughed a little. Sanji reached for his glass, but Usopp grabbed his wrist in a tight hold. If he didn't get it all out now, he never would.

"I didn't meet Heracles'n immediately. I was on my own at first and- and I didn't completely trust him at first either." He laughed, the sound as self-deprecating as it felt. "The centre of the island, that's where its mouth is."

Sanji's eyebrow furrowed further. "So when you said the island 'got hungry'..."

Usopp nodded. "It was a trap to lure in prey." Quietly, he added, "Like me."

Sanji gasped, his eyes darting down, and wow, Usopp really should've re-thought the whole 'show off his new muscles by going shirtless' plan. He pulled away from Sanji, and pulled up the waist of his pants. "Staring at my stretch marks isn't going to change anything, y'know."

Sheepishly, Sanji said, "Sorry- sorry, I should know better." He held out his arms, with a sad little pout. "Come back?"

Usopp held out for a few moments, glaring at him, but he sighed and eventually gave in. "I hate you," he mumbled into Sanji's shoulder. Sanji patted his back in response.

The two of them sat there in silence once more. Usopp savoured the contact between them, like he had always dreamed of on Boin.

"You had to train yourself to avoid delicious looking foods, then," Sanji said quietly. Usopp nodded. "That makes sense. But then, breakfast?"

A new wave of shame, far heavier than the last. He dug his forehead into Sanji's shoulder. "I don't want to talk about it."

He didn't know how to explain how he had become some kind of wild animal during meals and he didn't want to explain. Heracles'n was already one person too many and earlier, the entire crew had seen him. His heart beat hard and fast in his chest at the reminder, a belated rush of fear to make up for his single minded focus at breakfast.

"Then I won't ask," Sanji said. "You should tell Chopper though-"

Usopp grimaced. "Eventually, but..."

Sanji sighed, pressing his cheek to Usopp's hair. "Okay, but can I make you something? Just a snack or tea or...?"

Usopp huffed. "Sanji-"

"I know, I know! But letting you go to bed hungry is..."

"Hard," Usopp finished for him, pulling away. "I know."

He wasn't going anywhere before Sanji fed him, of that he was sure, but it made Usopp's stomach queasy just thinking about all the snacks Sanji used to make before they were separated.

Some of it must have shown on his face too, since Sanji was already holding up his hands and starting to look even more concerned. "It doesn't have to be anything special. I could just peel a tangerine for you or slice up some apples or juice some pears- I mean oranges! Why would anyone juice pears- oh, hm, I should check that sometime; remind me to write it down. Oh and maybe I could steep a really bitter tea, so you don't have to worry about drinking too much because I know you hate bitter things-"

And Usopp couldn't help himself. He laughed.

Sanji deflated, his brow furrowed in confusion, or maybe it was concern. Usopp didn't know, he was too busy laughing at the absurdity of Sanji being so anxious and speaking every rambling thought. It was adorable and Usopp couldn't help but reach up and squish Sanji's cheeks.

"I lo-" Sanji's eye widened and suddenly, Usopp didn't feel brave enough. "Lost my notebook. We'll have to use one of yours."

"O-Oh, yeah, sure." Sanji nodded, voice slightly muffled by his squished cheeks. He stared at Usopp, his eye asking another question.

Usopp looked away, his eyes landing on the fruit bowl on the bar counter. There were apples, bananas, and pears. He pulled his hands away. "...Nami will be mad at you." he said quietly, weakly.

Sanji sighed, a shaky, relieved little thing. He wrapped his arms around Usopp's middle, crushing him to his chest. "I think she'll forgive me," he said.

Boldly, Usopp added, "What if you made coffee?" The only coffee in the pantry was a fancy jar brought along from a Revolutionary base near a village that prided themselves on their harvest.

Sanji chuckled. "Robin would forgive me too."

Usopp hummed. "You seem awfully confident."

"I am," he said, pulling away completely, his chair squeaking against the floorboards as he stood. Sanji held out a hand, a smile on his lips. "If you don't believe me, let me show you."

And right here, Usopp could've chosen to laugh it off. Said something about not wanting to face Nami's wrath, much less Robin's. Fled the galley completely with an excuse or three and sleep in his workshop while ignoring any and all feelings of guilt. It would've been easy.

But he'd already accepted it. Acknowledged the inevitable consequences instead of turning down those anxious suggestions. How could he do anything else, in the face of such genuine care and concern? To leave now would just hurt them both and the last thing Usopp wanted to do was hurt Sanji.

And, well, he trusted Sanji, to do what he couldn't. Planned to trust him with his heart, at some point.

Trusting him with his stomach, in comparison, was as easy as breathing.

So, Usopp placed a steady hand in Sanji's own, a small, teasing smile on his face, and said, "Lead the way."

[ty-bayonet-betteridge]

3l!grian is frequently depicted as a tragic figure and sometimes i wonder if we even watched the same series

[zutaras-where-its-at]

zutara prompt: au in which zuko doesn’t know how to swim and katara teaches him while she’s still unsure whether they can trust him (at the beginning of his redemption arc)

she hates him. really, she does.

he’s a no-good, lying, son of a bitch, and if he hadn’t betrayed them in ba sing se, aang wouldn’t have a scar cratered in the skin of his back. she hates him.

except—

he just looks so…pathetic right now.

everyone else is carving graceful arcs in the water, whooping as they dive headfirst into the frigid-but-still-functioning pool they found in the western air temple. even toph—who notoriously can’t swim and hates being in water—wades casually in the shallow end next to teo.

but zuko won’t even get in.

the heavy look of dread that muddles his sharp features and curls his proud shoulders inward is enough to elicit a stab of sympathy in her for the scorned prince, and katara wonders at the fact that sympathy and hatred are apparently not mutually exclusive.

it’s pity that leads her to brush past him with hardly a glance as she says, “if you don’t know how to swim, you don’t have to get in.”

“i know how to swim,” he snaps, then flinches when he sees who he’s speaking to. calmer, he repeats, “i know how to swim.”

she just ticks a brow speculatively. “you sure?”

zuko has tried very hard to be extra civil with her the last week, but now, she can see just how difficult it is for him to keep the glare off of his face. “i’m sure.”

there’s something there, then. something hesitant and anxious and dark that twists his mouth and keeps his eyes from really looking at her. and katara—observant as she is—recognizes it for what it is.

“okay. so you’re scared.”

he looks stricken, suddenly, adam’s apple bobbing once up and down in his throat. he still won’t look at her. “i’m not.”

it’s sharper now, sitting just under the surface, so katara sinks her talons into it and tugs—“you don’t like the water. you’re afraid of it.”

“i’m not afraid of the fucking water, okay?” he inhales and bites his lip and balls up his fists, “it’s just cold, is all.”

“cold?” she drawls disbelievingly. in the background, aang hollers loudly as he cannonballs into the deep end. “aren’t you a firebender?”

at that, his gold gold gold eyes finally find her face, and she’s startled by the raw panic she sees in them. after a long moment, he seems to make up his mind about something. she watches as he gathers his words properly in his mouth and confesses quietly, “i almost drowned. in the north pole.”

she puts two and two together in record time—because she’d always wondered how he’d snuck into the heart of the northern water tribe under such intense war-time surveillance, had always been confused and resentful of the fact that he’d stolen aang out from right under her nose when she’d least expected it—and frowns.

she thinks about her childhood, how hakoda taught them to check for thin ice, carefully pick their fishing spots, and above all, what to do should they fall in. it’s been drilled in them since they were young, that the ocean is no joke, but the poles are a nightmare should you step wrong. hypothermia, hidden icebergs, the disorienting dark beneath the surface—

katara hates him.

but it’s just so pathetic and sad the way he watches them all with lonely eyes and a fear anyone could see from a mile away.

because all too soon, she’s convinced aang that there’s absolutely no way he and zuko are strong enough firebenders to heat up the swimming pool, and surely zuko hasn’t taught him well enough that they could actually do it in under five minutes, and really, she doubts zuko even knows how to control the temperature so it doesn’t boil them.

she hates him, but maybe—maybe she doesn’t.

[cadaverousdecay]

i’m so overwhelmed by things that shouldn’t be overwhelming...

[sadtrashking]

ive only seen bits of pine au so the day i piece it all together is going to go crazy trust

and i will probably not shut up in your ask box about it also trust

I look forward to that.

I gotta get me, crunch and oakley to figure out a good explanation for it. For now though there's two versions of it the normal pine au which is the usual one of q!tubbo/bo as we call him for convince escaping with sunny to the dsmp together and just them staying there, then there's the everything's fine version as it's grown to be called where after q!tubbo escapes and fit and pac find a way to visit him the federation is overthrown and a connection is made between the qsmp and dsmp.

The part that will get confusing is that the whole au is littered with our headcannons since it's more focused on just having fun with it.

[puppycheesecake]

Hey there! It is indeed very satisfiying to see CAS organized :O Could you share your process / sorting method? As I understand it I need to group all the stuff toghether in folders first. Do you dress up a sim with for example all your witch hats, search them in your folder and make a category out of it? That's how I thought I would do it but maybe you got a better way to do it :D (and if you want to have the CC sorted by creator do I need specific folders for tops, bottoms and full sets?)

Absolutely.

I dunno if there's an easier process or not, but I can tell you what I did.

I already had my Mods folder organized into folders and sub-folders, so for clothes and hair I just went into the respective folders and made a separate folder within for every creator, sorted alphabetically, then numbered them starting with 001. (In retrospect I should have started at like, 005 or something just to give myself a little wiggle room in case there was something I wanted to add at the top, but oh well.) Most CC has the creator's name in the filename, so that makes sorting it easy.

*** I number 001 instead of 01 or just 1 because when you open up your Mods folder in Sims4Studio to batch fix everything, it'll knock all your folders out of order unless there's three digits. Found that out the hard way. :T

I know the example in the tutorial didn't have their folders numbered and just has the creator name, but I'm not sure how they're managing that? I have all my folders numbered so I know what display index number I'm assigning them. (¤﹏¤) So ClumsyAlien hairs go in Mods -> Hair -> 005 ClumsyAlien, and I know when I batch fix it to set the CAS display index to 5. (And I'll know what to set the display index to for any new ClumsyAlien hairs I download in the future.)

*** On top of having folders for most creators I also have folders titled "A-C," "D-F," etc., for single pieces of CC that don't warrant their own creator folder. It keeps them loosely alphabetized. Like, if I only have a single shirt by Creator A and don't want to make an entire folder just for that, I can stick that shirt in folder A-C instead. The way I have it, I have creator folders at the top -> misc. alphabetical folders below them. So that shirt by Creator A won't be at the top of my CAS catalogue, but it'll be at the start of my "miscellaneous section" beneath all the creator sections.

For hats (or any category where I sort by function instead of creator), I open up a blank Sim in CAS, put whatever CC I want grouped together on them, save, then open them up in Tray Importer and drag all that CC into its own folder. Number the folder and batch fix as usual.

The example in the tutorial had them breaking up clothing by top/bottom/etc., but I don't really see the need for that, so I didn't do it. ¯_(ツ)_/¯

*** When numbering folders/batch fixing, it's probably smarter to do every other number (001, 003, 005) so you can go back and add in more folders later, but I was not smart. :V I've already got a couple new creator folders tacked on at the very bottom, whoops.

It's a long and super tedious process (hence why I'm doing it in batches and not fixing everything at once), but man, it has been so worth it. I only have clothes, hair, hats, glasses, and shoes done so far, but even just having those organized has cut down on my time spent scrolling through CAS searching for a piece of CC.

[maggacammara]

UM if ur still taking them … I would love to see 34. Bauble .. for whom or whatever < 3

Bauble

“Take your pick.”

Lying before Gale was a veritable cache of fine jewels and precious metals, ranging in color from bloodless opal to sanguine ruby, and each one hung from a tiny metal hook. The candlelight in Frey’s tent sent a warm glitter across the collection. Before the decision managed to overwhelm him, Gale caught sight of a pair of amethyst cabochons framed in silver. When he reached for them, however, a hand stayed his.

“Just not those ones,” Frey said in a stage whisper.

Gale raised an eyebrow.

“You’re only taking one, see,” he added, his tone normal, if slightly exasperated. “These two are… bonded. They can’t be separated.”

“Which two might be separated, then?”

Frey’s face lit up to be handed the choice he had clearly already made. He at least put on a show of indecision, his hands wavering over this pair and that one, before he settled on a rather simple set of jade obelisks on gold hooks. He eased one off of its velvet cushion and presented it to Gale quite seriously.

Gale feigned uncertainty. “Well, green is certainly most flattering on you, my love, but I’m not sure it suits me.”

Frey simultaneously basked in the flattery and rolled his eyes at Gale’s performance. “Let’s just try it on, shall we?” he said, beckoning Gale to sit on a low cushion near the makeshift vanity.

Gale obliged, sinking to a seat despite his knees aching in protest. Frey stood beside him, clearly reveling in every second of being slightly taller, and brushed Gale’s hair back from his ear. In the ornate mirror they had looted from some derelict mansion, Gale saw the scene reflected, watched Frey slip the symbol of Mystra out of his pierced ear, and felt—nothing.

No, not nothing. Physically, the sensation was so subtle as to be mistaken for an evening breeze, but as he watched his beloved’s hand close around that token, a strange sense of relief flooded Gale.

It was quickly replaced by the sharp pinch of Frey sliding a new piece of jewelry into his lobe with no warning. “Ow!” he said, though he managed not to flinch away until the earring was securely nestled into its spot. Frey put an arm around Gale’s shoulder, half apology and half I-know-you-already-forgive-me, and met his gaze in the reflection.

Both of their eyes went to the earring, the pale green dagger that stood out marvelously against Gale’s warm skin, that shone softly in the low light and was, indubitably, quite flattering.

“You made a good choice,” Frey whispered, squeezing his shoulder. Gale felt no urge to correct him.

[celestialtrolls]

A Day at the Fair

[precursor]

Infiltration was not your forte, especially through these means. Your usual route was out of reach and left you no choice; no matter what you searched, what keywords you used for the database records of Suits Carnival, the information was minimal. Despite the fact that bigger subjugglator organisations were supposed to be fleet-compliant, all that was written were things that even an idiotic outsider could have found out by looking at a map, and rough estimations with no basis in reality.

So your hand had been forced, and you had gone to visit the grounds themselves. Your fleet uniform had been set aside, donning your usual garb that you took to go sailing instead, topped by an inconspicuous dark hoodie. And the pièce de la résistance: face paint. You knew that walking into a carnival without some kind of face paint was a foolish endeavour, a way to be inevitably noticed faster than you could even search for ‘Creator Ceremiré’. So, a sloppy design was drawn on your face with disgusting oily make-up, forming something resembling a skull… or maybe more of a panda. You had aimed for a skull, but the dark circles painted around your eyes just made you feel stupid instead of potentially intimidating.

But, perhaps it was enough to get you in the gates, and at that point, what did it matter? From your personal research, conducted with your own hacked satellite, Suits Carnival was a sprawling mess of tents, caravans and buildings in construction, somewhere transitioning between an army of travelling clowns and a full-fledged city. There would be plenty of places to sit out of view to instead try and figure out what your ancestor looked like, and then to observe her powers in use.

-

Approaching the carnival itself is a nerve-wracking experience. You drove most of the way, hands clamped to the steering wheel, knuckles white. As you got closer however, your typical crystal growths started to seem from your skin, bonding your hands to your car, and you had to park it somewhere further afield before you started turning it into a useless statue, transformed by anxiety.

The extended journey time did not help your nerves, but one foot goes in front of the other, and the other, and the other, feeling each step inside your ribcage, and eventually, you see the walls of the city in the distance. There’s no feeling of relief that washes over you however, the sheer scale of the task you’ve set yourself dawning on you.

You hadn’t told anyone your plan. Obviously, telling Aelynn would have been foolish; she would have intervened somehow. But you didn’t mention it to your moirail either, and you are well past the point of beginning to regret that. You’re almost certain he could have given you some advice on how to approach a hostile - no, don’t think of it that way, it will only make you feel worse - unfamiliar carnival. You were alone. If you were spotted as an intruder, no one would even know what had happened.

It’s too late to turn back. It’s too late. The gates are in view of your real eyes now, a steady stream of people coming in and out, a van driving past you and flying right through without stopping. Was there no guard, no security? You keep your expression as blank and serious as usual, a task you had perfected from hours of dealing with your superiors in the fleet, and walk straight in, past the real subjugglators, their idle chatter not even making it past your ears as your heartbeat takes the stage.

The hardest part was done, was it not? You’d technically infiltrated the city safely. It makes you want to laugh from the ridiculousness of it. What the hell were you even worried about anway? This was a huge city, of course they weren’t taking IDs at the gate. Where did you think you were again, a fleet base? A weight lifts from your chest as you walk straight down the main road through the centre of the city, figuring that you’ll be able to see almost everything from there. How hard can it be to find someone who calls herself ‘Queen of Hearts, Ceremiré Nostam’? That’s not the name of someone who knows what subtlety is.

In your premature celebration, you don’t see the pair of men that take notice of you, eyebrows furrowing as they exchange a look. It isn’t until one of them, a tall, imposing man with horns that sweep behind his head and a white club symbol on his sleeve approaches you with a stride that way exceeds the speed of someone simply going about their business that you take notice, turning barely in time as he reaches towards your head.

A yelp of alarm escapes as instead he ends up grabbing your arm and yanks you towards him. You barely keep your balance and stumble, your left arm flailing about as a useless counterweight.

“Bold for a new face to wander around.” The sentence is short, but what goes unsaid is enough to send your neurotic brain into overdrive, and while once your mind would go blank at a moment like this, instead, you can feel something, a build up of energy, heat, power, and you almost know that at any second, your arm is about to burst with crystals, and you can barely even hold yourself back and he’s staring at you and waiting and you need to say something or he’s going to kill you and that’s going to be it and his grip is so strong you can feel your hand growing cold as the blood supply goes short an-

“Take it easy Haeren, this one’s my idiot.”

You were so laser-focused on your own impending doom that it completely knocks you out of your terrified state as a sturdy hand wraps around your shoulder, pulling you slightly away from ‘Haeren’ who regards the intrusion with a dark glare. The feeling in your arm, your chest, your heart, the power that was overwhelming you simply dissipates.

“More of a red flag if anything.” But your arm is released, and you pull it close to your chest as you’re guided to the side of someone somewhat familiar.

“Kerros?!” The voice that leaves your mouth barely sounds like yours, squeaky from the fear and cracking from your rushed attempt to collect yourself, and the dog-boy glances at you with an eyebrow raised, before continuing his conversation with the club-wearing man of few words. He’s relaxed, not even batting an eyelid and giving you a slightly reassuring shake as you reel to catch up with reality.

This… wasn’t a person you expected to run into. You didn’t expect to see anyone you knew, and while saying you ‘knew’ Kerros was a stretch, you were aware of him and had seen him in passing a few times, since he was, after all, your twin sister’s moirail. One of them, anyway. But surely, there was no way Aelynn was in a quadrant with someone that was actively a subjugglator? Your mind starts reeling again, but you see Kerros glance your way as some of the more physical symptoms of your distress begin to rear their head, and he wraps up his conversation.

“Anyway Hae, been great to hear your many words of wisdom as always, I’ll sort this one out, you go back to glaring at every poor passerby, yeah?” A raise of the hand in goodbye - a gesture that is not returned - and he turns away, pivoting you towards a sideroad. “Come on you.”

-

It’s not until you’ve turned a few corners that he speaks again, his calm face slowly turning a little tired, worn. “Funny seeing you at the Devil’s sacrament.” His tone is very clearly sardonic, but seeing him drop his act makes you feel a little bit better, no false pretences remaining. “We’re both dead if Aelynn hears about this, y'know?”

You stare at him a few moments longer, before you turn your head to look forward, taking a slight step away to lose his hand on your shoulder. He lets go without resistance, his hand dropping back into his pocket, but he watches you as you try and get your composure back, your expression slowly returning from wide-eyed panic to your usual facade. “Should you be here?” The only sentence you manage to form, and it’s accusatory at best. You would bite your tongue, if that wasn’t an exceptionally foolish idea.

“Should I be here? I live here. Don’t tell her that, or else I’ll drop you right in it with me.” He smiles, but you know well enough that it’s likely a real threat. “I’m taking you back to my place now, you can’t wander around like…”

He regards you with the expression of an artist examining a stain on a canvas, grimacing momentarily before averting his gaze back to the road ahead. “Like whatever the hell you’ve decided to do. You didn’t do your research before coming here, did you? And I mean real research, not begging the fleet to hand you the information on a silver platter.” He finishes his sentence before you can interject, and your face goes warm at the way he just so blatantly calls you out. Aelynn definitely complains to him about you, you can tell. “I thought you were the one with the brain cell, but you’re not so different.”

You don’t know how insulted you should be at that, but before you can come up with a reasonable protest, you’re crossing a driveway towards a small wooden house, something that looks like it might have once been on wheels, but been settled into the ground. Kerros pulls out a clump of keys from his pocket and opens the door, gesturing for you to enter first. Probably because he thinks you might make a run for it, and honestly, it’s not a terribly incorrect assumption to have. You’re not not considering it. But this is truly a hostile city, and you’re not sure you would make it out again.

No choice but to accept your fate, and you walk inside.

-