#i LOVE bread and puppet

[squash1]

bread & puppet’s cheap art manifesto is essentially just the summary, the point, the idea of the dreamer trilogy.

art is inside of the world. art is green trees. art wakes up sleepers.

[lilybug-02]

I'd love to see more about that muppet au, especially since two puppet-horror media has made some traction!

Ha! Maybe… I’m taking a break from some art things. And stuff like that is usually a one time thing. I’ll have to say the Deltarune Sesame Street would not resemble any horror genres. It’s just a cute little AU.

[banhbotloc]

[ID: art of a leek, surrounded by garlic cloves and bulbs as well as many sparkles and speckles in a green frame. The art is done in a stenciled folk style with black outlines. End ID]

leek with garlic acrylic paint on paper, applied with cut paper stencil 2023

[goldengalaxy99]

Finished the book and one thing I absolutely HATED is how Snow drags out Haymitch's torment. Once the games are over and Haymitch is forced into submission, Snow milks that shit for days on end. He puts him in a gilded cage!!!! And he makes him play the role of the good little propaganda puppet. All the while endlessly feeding him milk and bread. Snow is absolutely deranged

And he tries to do the same thing with Katniss. In catching fire, once she realizes the danger her loved ones are in, Katniss is ready to play the role of the puppet - to do everything she can to convince Snow and Panem.

Snow immediately starts puppeting her into this twisted, deranged image by having the capitol vote on her wedding dress and by making her wear it for the interviews.

But Cinna undermines all that! He frees Katniss from Snow's grasp and helps her reclaim her dignity. He transforms her from Snow's propaganda puppet into the greatest symbol of the rebellion. Cinna gives her wings to fly free... and it's the biggest fuck you to Snow

[see-arcane]

You know the one good thing about being a pessimist?

It feels great to be proven wrong.

Bravo, Bobby Egg.

I was so happily surprised by this. This film went through a fantastic puberty between the leaked script and the screen. The main points to note:

-No, Ellen is not hot for Count Orlok. She and Thomas are 110% in love. There are even certain Harker-flavored quotes thrown in to prove as much. (Details under the cut.)

-Count Orlok is a terrifying bastard and a half. Significantly more imposing than classic Orlok’s spindly rigor mortis-stiff figure and only wearing a sliver of Dracula’s performative charm. He is a Devil-Death archetype playing a monster who operates in deceit and contracts to wring out what he wants. That and a lot of corpses.

-This film is so beautiful. No gothic touch is skipped.

In sum, I more than like this film. I love it. It isn’t perfect, because no film can be, but damn. I am so proud of this nightmare you made, Bobby Egg.

SPOILERS FOR Nosferatu (2024) BELOW

-Getting some cons out of the way. There are points where a few of the actors lean maybe a bit too heavy on the ham-and-cheese in their deliveries (I’ll not blame the kids, they’re very young, but yeesh. That’s some cartoon acting.)

Yes, the g-slur is still used; though while I wish it hadn’t appeared in Eggers’ script at all, it does make sense within the context of the setting, i.e. Thomas and the Innkeeper probably only having the one word they know, same as in Dracula. And yes, naked teenage girl-on-a-horse does happen for the vampire hunt scene. Whee.

-Now, an early pro: Eggers nixed the ‘hot teen girl tries to pickpocket Thomas’ bit, and the ‘land of phantoms and thieves’ line never happens. All that happens after Thomas wakes in the inn—post witnessing the vampire slaying in the local graveyard, mud on his shoes to prove it was real—is he discovers himself utterly alone. No people, no horse. Cue the long walk.

-Ellen doing the ‘Come to me,’ bit early on is her in adolescence. It’s revealed that her Weird Girl elements have been turned up to 11, tragic lonely past included (replete with dad threatening to send her to a madhouse), and her prayer was just for company. The psychic ping was picked up by Orlok, who took advantage, turning an isolated and desperate barely-more-than-a-kid’s wish into a ‘covenant.’

-Thomas was met not long after this, cue them being genuinely in love <3

-Knock Does Not Jerk Off On Screen. If he does, his back is to us, and Little Knock is covered with some occult tablet or suchlike while he’s doing his ritual business. Also he kills a guy in his cell. Using his teeth.

-Castle time! Thomas is greeted by a driverless carriage at a crossroads and seems to be hypnotized into stepping in. A lot of things Thomas does once in Orlok’s territory seem to very clearly have psychic puppet strings attached. That and some increasing terror on Thomas’ part. There is no warm Dracula-style welcome from Orlok when he arrives, but a terse and strange leading to the dinner table where paperwork is demanded.

- We get a glimpse of this version of the Count’s ego. Thomas calls him sir. Orlok demands Thomas address him as my lord. And then we get the bread cutting scene. Thomas’ thumb bleeds. Orlok get far too interested. His voice, a very guttural and rasping bass, turns into something closer to an animal trilling and growling. Thomas is paralyzed beside the fire; cut away as Orlok closes in.

-Ellen and Anna Harding have a bit of a Mina and Lucy deal going on at the beach. It’s sweet <3 (Prepare for pain </3)

 - Orlok starts getting tricky. He 1) borrows (steals) Ellen’s locket from Thomas and 2) Tricks Thomas into signing a contract to ‘sell’ Ellen/break their marriage via a strange contract in a language Thomas can’t read, with Orlok using the prop of some gold to imply that this is merely a document in ~his native language~ to complete the property sale. Thomas signs, less for the gold than to be gone from the castle and back to Ellen…only for Orlok to insist Thomas is not well. He must stay the night.

- No mind games here. Just Thomas pleading to leave and Orlok’s parting word being that he will stay, and that he will obey his orders.

-Orlok has already chomped Thomas on the tiddy as of last night. Next night, after Thomas almost lands a blow on him in the coffin—Orlok sleeps with his Orcock out in the box, by the way, alongside several rats—Orlok wills Thomas to unlock the door he shut between them. Cue Thomas being tranced onto the bed, pounced on, and basically dry-humped by Orlok as he drinks Thomas all but dry. Thomas is left that way, only to be woken by Orlok’s wolves—he has those too!—and go clambering out the window, dropping to the river below.

-Orlok makes Ellen’s life hell. Holy fuck. The 1838 quality ‘medicine’ definitely doesn’t help—corsets for correcting posture, draining blood because there’s too much in there, binding to the bedposts to stop sleepwalking, general drugging etc etc—but FUCK. Lily-Rose Depp did a great and terrible job of reproducing shaking fits and some of the faces and sounds she made had me thinking I might choke on my own tongue. And for all the sexually provocative poses/noises that happen, every time she comes out of it it’s clear that she hates this. It’s on par with psychic rape.

-The only times we see Ellen respond positively~ to Orlok’s dream-advances is when she’s telling Thomas about the ‘marrying Death’ dream where everyone died and she was deliriously happy and then the infamous trailer line about Thomas not being able to satisfy her as Orlok can~~~

Well guess what.

Guess fucking what.

That was Orlok leaning on her brain. The same way he did to Thomas when, eventually, after the nuns rescue him and pray the plague/vampirism out and he makes it home while half-dead, he lays in bed with Ellen and gets a panic attack combined with Orlok’s image being grafted over Ellen’s face…

…a reverse of the illusion Orlok gave him in the castle, with Thomas imagining it was Ellen on top of him instead. The effect terrifies Thomas all over again and he unwittingly tosses Ellen away, I can't breathe, get off of me, get off!

-Orlok does his murder snacking. Knock, who escaped, offers to find and kill Thomas to please the Count, literally on his hands and knees. Orlok calls him a dog and backhands him, insisting Ellen must be given, not stolen.

-Orlok has already visited Ellen by this time. He presses her to keep her deal with him. She tells him, flat out, I abhor you. In response, Orlok grabs her and chucks her like a ragdoll in a rage. He fumes, telling her he will give her three nights to pledge herself to him, and in the meantime he will start killing. (RIP to Anna and her little girls, the latter of whom ORLOK KILLS IN FRONT OF HER, EATING THEIR THROATS OUT AS SHE ENTERS THEIR ROOM.)

-Before all that, he spins bullshit about Thomas ~selling her to him for mere gold~. A technical truth that Ellen, mid-Orlok spell, spits back at Thomas amid a rage, along with details that are likewise based in only a granule of reality; but which Orlok did not mention in their scene together. Things like Thomas being weak and childish, that he ‘fell into Orlok’s arms like a fainting woman.’ Interesting choice of spin there, Orlok. But whatever.

This all culminates in what is either reality or a dream or a blend of both as Thomas makes sudden desperate love to her, Ellen weirdly heady about it, telling him yes yes yes they will show Orlok their love. Cue her snapping back to full cognizance (awake? dreaming?) as her eyes and mouth spurt blood in a vision. She collapses in fear and tears as Thomas holds her. AND THEN:

-Ellen. Drops. The I am unclean line. She wants Thomas away from her, she is not worthy, she puts him in danger.

-Thomas goes full Jonathan and clings to her. Nonsense. I love you. I love you. I love you.

-V i n d i c a t i o n

-Anyway.

-Dafoe-Von Franz-Van Helsing is a kooky science occultist. Finds a book that Knock had which fills the role of highlighting Orlok as Solomonari (hey, Scholomance shout out!) and Knock as a would-be beneficiary. Also includes the ‘maiden offers her body and blood to the monster to kill it via sunrise’ bit.

-While he reads this, he does NOT actually spell any of these details out to Ellen when they have their secret mini talk about tricking Thomas into hunting for the coffin with him and Sievers. He gives her a big ~you're the only one who can save us magic maiden martyr~ pep talk, but that's it. Meanwhile, Ellen was already preparing to offer herself to save Thomas and whoever’s left in Wisborg. Not the same kind of agency as the original, but still better than I was expecting.

-Harding, Thomas’ rich friend whose wife and children got drinked to death, dies of plague in the family tomb. They burn the bodies.

-In the ruin Orlok bought, cue the iron stake slamming down as they open the coffin..! But whoops. Knock’s in the box, not Orlok. Von Franz says Ellen offering herself is the only way~ Thomas doesn’t waste time throttling him, just makes a run for their home.

-Too late, of course. Orlok is there (with a very cool homage to the original stalking shadow silhouette routine) and Ellen welcomes him. While they are both naked in bed and it’s implied that they are/or intend to have sex, the bulk of the scene centers on Orlok taking Ellen’s blood from her breast. No clear shot of the Orcock on screen for that bit—Bobby Egg saved that pleasure for the Count flashing Thomas at the castle.

-Orlok’s death throes. Are so. Fucking. Cool. Definitely up there with one of the best vampiric demises I’ve ever seen on film. No spoilers there. You’ve got to see it.

-Heartbreak o’ Clock as Thomas bursts in just as Orlok has died and as Ellen is dying under him. There’s time for them to hold hands. And then she’s gone.

-We close on Von Franz popping up with some poetic soliloquy shit and a bunch of lilacs. The final beat is an overhead shot of Ellen, the Maiden, laying under the now-skeletal Orlok, as Death. Looks almost like a painting. Unlike the implication in the leaked script, she does not look happy/at peace. Simply asleep. The End.

-Other important notes:

1) Orlok has a little combover’s worth of hair on top and mighty and powerful ‘stache. Not Dracula-white, but it is there. Finally.

 2) The guy who plays Dr. Sievers has Alan Rickman’s voice. If he isn’t in opera, he should be.

3) I was too late to get a popcorn coffin box. I shall be in mourning until the New Year.

4) Bobby Egg if you can give me one more gift, let it be a deleted scene of Thomas beating Von Franz over the head with the iron stake, please and thank you <3

[youremyonlyhope]

(For the record, I have not watched Lux yet, I'm almost a season behind at this point. So keep that in mind)

All transcripts come from chakoteya.net

A few years after Martha left the Tardis, we took a small step forward with a few scenes in Thin Ice, written by Sarah Dollard, between Twelve and Bill:

BILL: Wait, you want to go out there? DOCTOR: You don't? BILL: It's 1814. (Bill points to her face.) BILL: Melanin. DOCTOR: Yes? BILL: Slavery is still totally a thing. DOCTOR: Yes, so it is. BILL: It might be, like, dangerous out there. DOCTOR: Definitely dangerous. BILL: So, how do we stay out of trouble? DOCTOR: Well, I'm not the right person to ask.

Agreeing that it's potentially dangerous for Bill, not downplaying it, but also not really addressing it. Maybe he didn't think of it until she brought it up, or maybe he had but wasn't worried. Still, it's nearly the exact same thing Martha had said, and this is a better response than brushing it off. Then a few minutes later:

BILL: Interesting. DOCTOR: What is? BILL: Regency England. Bit more Black than they show in the movies. DOCTOR: So was Jesus. History's a whitewash.

Maybe he didn't elaborate earlier because he wanted to see her notice the diversity for herself. Maybe he really didn't think of there being any reason for her to be concerned until she said so, and also knew that validating her observation would reassure her. Not amazing, but still a definite step forward from "Walk around like you own the place."

And then we get The Scene:

SUTCLIFFE: Doctor Disco, from the Fairford Club! Obviously, one aspires to membership, but to actually be considered for (Sees Bill.) SUTCLIFFE: Who, who let this creature in here? On your feet, girl, in the presence of your betters. (The Doctor taps Sutcliffe on the shoulder then punches him on jaw very, very hard.) DOCTOR: He's human. Thirty one years of age. Low on iron. BILL: Yeah, that was pretty convincing racism for an extra-terrestrial. DOCTOR: My thoughts exactly.

The last time the Doctor witnessed racism aimed at their companion, it was when Shakespeare called Martha a "blackamoor lady" among other outdated terms, and all Ten did was say it was "political correctness gone mad," tell Shakespeare she was from "Freedonia," and immediately to change the subject. Martha faced other racist comments and insults during her time in 1912, but Ten didn't witness them (as Ten, he witnessed some as John Smith). This time, when Twelve witnesses someone literally dehumanize Bill and say that she needs to stand for her betters, he punches him. Sure, Twelve plays it off afterwards by also stating what he was able to learn about the guy from touching him, but how often do we ever see the Doctor react in violence? If the Doctor can get that info from touching someone, it still says a lot that Twelve chose his method of touching to be to punch the guy who just insulted his adopted granddaughter companion because of her race.

It was a real step forward. Maybe Moffat could have been a bit more on the nose (like the punch) about saying "racism is bad" during Bill's season, but still. A far more clear indication of where the Doctor stands on racism rather than just "I'm not even human" and moving on.

Then we get to Rosa. Specifically written by Malorie Blackman and Chris Chibnall. Say what you want about Chibnall's era, he made sure to bring in writers of color, especially when the episode heavily involves their individual cultures (for example, Malorie Blackman for Rosa and Vinay Patel for Demons of the Punjab). Rosa was an episode that faced racism head-on. Some people thought it was heavy-handed but well intended, some people raged at how "woke" it was and tried to review bomb it, and others thought it didn't go far enough.

From the first minutes, we see the real unfortunate truth of living while Black in the Jim Crow South. Ryan is figuratively and literally slapped in the face by it immediately.

YASMIN: Real-life 1950s. Time travel's awesome. (A passing woman drops her glove, Ryan picks it up.) RYAN: Excuse me. Excuse me. You dropped this. (Her husband slaps Ryan across the face, hard.) RYAN: Hey. (Graham grabs Ryan.) STEELE: Get your filthy black hands off my wife. ... ... DOCTOR: We don't want any trouble. STEELE: I don't know how it goes where you folks are from, but your boy, he'll be swinging from a tree with a noose for a neckerchief if he touches a white woman in Montgomery.

Yasmin and Graham try to intervene, especially Yaz since she had trained as a police officer, but as modern-day Brits they just don't fully get the severity of the situation yet. Thirteen is well out of her depth, all she can say is "Whoa. Stop." and "We don't want any trouble." before Rosa Parks comes in to defuse the situation, because she knows exactly how to having lived it and fought it.

Yaz wasn't safe from the racism either, of course. She's Pakistani, but is mistaken for Mexican. Her existence shows the cracks in the racist system of Jim Crow because she doesn't fit neatly into the two "white" or "colored" boxes. "The driver let me on at the front of the bus. What does that mean for where I sit? Obviously not a lot of Pakistani heritage around here. Does coloured just mean Black in 1955? Guess I'll park my South Asian-Mexican backside in the white section, then, and let's see what happens." While hiding from police, she and Ryan get a chance to talk about how there is still racism in the modern day, and how they were both taught from a young age that they need to "Never give them the excuse." It ultimately ends with them finding comfort in knowing that the people they're meeting right now in the 50s, they are not the ones who win in the end.

At the same time that Ryan and Yaz are hiding, we see the policeman direct a racist insult about her companions towards the Doctor.

MASON: Y'all happen to know a couple of... mongrels, hmm? Negro boy, Mexican girl? DOCTOR: I don't recognise anyone by that description. MASON: Huh. See, the er, negro's been going around picking fights with upstanding citizens. Now, you appreciate it's er, an offence to harbour coloureds in a room here. DOCTOR: We're not harbouring anyone who doesn't have a right to be here.

She doesn't fully stand up to the policeman, because she's now a woman and is unwillingly pretending to be married to Graham, so she knows she doesn't have much power in this situation. She doesn't want to make more trouble, but she also still wants to defy the man calling her friends "mongrels." She and Graham use their white privilege to get the policeman to leave their hotel without looking deeper. Much better than where we started in Shakespeare Code. Rosa's not a perfect episode, but it still made me, a half-Black woman, cry like a baby by the end.

Bonus for Chibnall, a post from a few years ago where (in peer reviewed tags) I talked about the Torchwood episode Captain Jack Harkness, by Catherine Tregenna, and Toshiko Sato's concerns about anti-Japanese racism while stuck in the 1940s. That episode aired in on January 1st 2007, and Chibnall was a co-producer and the unofficial head writer of the first 2 Torchwood seasons, so already Chibnall had a better handling of a character of color's racism concerns when time traveling three months before the Shakespeare Code aired.

So, that's what we got from Moffat and Chibnall's eras. Then RTD comes back and casts Ncuti Gatwa as the first* Black Doctor (*first full time with at least one full season as the proper main character, but the Fugitive Doctor was the first Black Doctor overall). I've been scared ever since Ncuti's first announcement because I remember how RTD treated Martha. I have not caught up to Lux yet, but this scene is too similar to Shakespeare Code. It's like we took a good few steps forward, and then 18 years later we fell down and rolled backwards again.

It could be not as bad in-context. Like I said, I have not seen the episode yet. I don't know what was said or happened before this that shocked and upset Belinda. But I'm assuming from the fact I've seen this scene referenced a few times in different posts that it's not much better even with context and that the issue is not brought up again later on. I think that even if Fifteen's response was changed to something like "I know... I know. We can talk about it later. Right now, we are busy." then there'd be less disappointment in the fandom because he'd at least acknowledge how hurt Belinda feels. Add in an actual scene later in the episode where they can have a short debrief about it and that's even better. Maybe we the audience are meant to assume that "Save it for later" really does imply that they will actually talk about it later and it's just offscreen. Sure, if there really is a later time that she can talk about it, then that's marginally better than "Walk about like you own the place, works for me," but I was really hoping for more from having a Black Doctor in a show about time travel. I was hoping for more, but knowing RTD I wasn't really expecting much more. I'm disappointed, but not shocked.

Hopefully, there are later episodes in the season where they actually tackle the issue of racism because if both the Doctor and companion are people of color, it's harder to keep brushing it off. Hopefully, this scene is meant to be foreshadowing. Hopefully, I'm not just grasping at straws for excuses.

If I had a nickel for everytime the medical related companion of colour was told to not gaf about racism in her first historical story in the RTD era I'd have 2 nickels. That's not a lot but its strange it's happened twice.

'Fifteen needs to apologise to Martha' From the looks of it he'd prolly treat her the same babes 🥴🥴

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Ahhhh I've been waiting for your requests to open, I've been following you since your first Price fic and never had an idea to request until like 2 weeks ago 😫 so, I've been thinking, what about being in a relationship with Keegan but getting separated when ODIN hits the earth and not meeting again until about 5 years later? 👀 Love your writing, hope you have a great day 🩵 :)

For The Weak And Weary

PAIRING: Keegan P. Russ x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: When ODIN struck you had thought he had died, sky alight with fire. It had taken years to accept it, much less live with it. But after Dallas falls, would you get a glimpse of your Lover's phantom again?

WORDCOUNT: 6.2k

WARNINGS: Angst, depressive thoughts, PTSD insinuations, gore, wounds, blood, death, canon-typical violence, (1) suggestive joke, alcohol, hallucinations, fluffy reunion, tears, verbal arguments, etc.

A/N: Just because I'm a sucker for sticking to the game timeline I made it ten years, lol. Enjoy, Anon! Very fun prompt.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You could never make sense of what Keegan went through in 2005 during Operation Sand Viper. It would be pointless to try and wrap your head around it from what little you knew. All that mattered was that when he came back on leave, something in his eyes was…damaged. Hell, he’d only been sixteen—the both of you had known each other since you were kids, you knew when something was wrong.

And this was entirely new to you.

He smiled less and snapped more; got spooked when you dropped something in his family's kitchen like a grenade had gone off. Maybe, you reasoned, he thought one actually had. 

But through it all, you could still see how much he cared about you. When you were old enough you’d both moved into a nice place in the suburbs and started a relationship—a life shared between the two of you. 

You knew he loved you from the way he’d grip you close at night and breathe into your scalp. How when you were sick from the take-out dinner he’d brought home, Keegan would hold back your hair and rub circles into your spine as you threw up. He never shied away from telling you how beautiful you were; prided himself on it. Keegan loved to show you off.

But there were times back then when you wondered if the same Keegan that had been so fulfilled to join Ghosts had died, and, in fact, a phantom was instead puppeting his skin. He was so quiet now.

If you’d known that the world was going to end on July 10th, 2017, you’d have never let him walk out that door angry. You would have grabbed his hand and pressed your lips to his, whispered affirmations into his flesh and sobbed at the cruelty of it all.

“I can’t keep pretending that you’re okay!” You yell, tears in your eyes, at the man standing tense in the kitchen doorway. Blank blue eyes stare lifelessly. “Keegan—this is killing you.” 

It was early morning by then, and the neighborhood was quiet. The house that the both of you had moved into years ago was littered with the remnants of a happy home. Pictures on the walls, dishes in the sink, and freshly baked bread on the counter. All you’d tried to do was give Keegan a hug, slipping your hands around his waist when you’d entered. 

He’d balked back, jerking to the side and nearly elbowed you in the gut before he saw your wide eyes and stopped himself. The way he’d looked at you…how could eyes be so dead?

“You need to talk to someone,” you put your foot down, shaking your head. “I-I don’t know a therapist or…or someone who can get you proper help because I can’t keep acting like I can live like this.” 

Every mission, every time he went away, it always got worse. 

Keegan’s eyes get sharp, hands at his sides clenching. He speaks in a low growl. “I don’t need to talk to a shrink, alright? I’m fine, you just startled me.”

“Bullshit,” your mouth hisses, glaring. “You thought you were back in ‘05.”

The man points at you, strong jaw clenching, “Don’t.”

“Keegan,” you plead, “please, I love you! I don’t care about this, I just want you to be alright. To be able to live your life—”

“What you want is to try and change me!” The black-haired man barks. Your eyes blink in shock. Keegan rarely yelled. “I already told you I was fine, why don’t you get off my back all the time?” His eyes flash, pupils going to slits as his hands shake at his sides. Why did he look scared? Your breath stills, lips slightly open, with tears dripping to the tile. “Fuck, it’s like I can’t come home without you pesterin’ me ‘bout something!” 

A stiff silence falls.

“Kee—” He snaps a hand to his mouth and rubs at his stubble, suddenly unable to look at you.

“...Forget it.” It’s low and shaky how he says it, eyes wide, before he darts into the foyer and slips into his boots. You listen to the sounds of panicked shuffling before the man wrenches open the front door and slams it shut behind him. One of the picture frames falls and hits the ground with a shattering of glass.

You flinch and tense, taking down a terse breath and sniffling tightly. Trying to get your lungs to work properly, your feet take you over to the picture as they feel weak and uneven; a stuttering mess of steps before you bend down. Your fingers bleed as they shift the glass away, taking out the image of you and Keegan on your hike through the mountains. 

Smiling faces mock you, and you break at the bright and open affection Keegan wears as he looks down at you—eyebrows curved up and smirk like a knife to the chest. 

You loved him so much it hurt to breathe when he was away. 

He had needed time, you knew, but what you didn’t know was that time wouldn’t be available. Around noon the world had opened into a ball of fire and death. 27 million dead. Los Angeles, San Diego, Phoenix, Houston, and Miami…all gone…at least, that was what everyone in Dallas was telling you. 

When Keegan had been away taking a walk to calm himself, you’d been home alone. The earth caved, the ground shook; houses burst like balloons. By the time you’d crawled from the rubble of your home, all you had was the picture and the clothes on your back. People were screaming—you were screaming. But you knew that you couldn’t stay here if you wanted to survive. 

And then you’d made it to Dallas by sheer luck and the few tricks Keegan had taught you; had thought that he had died in that first strike by the Federation. You carried that guilt and self-hatred for not holding your tongue for a few more hours. 

So much could have been different in these ten years. Better. You never got over him for even a second. 

But the reality was that you couldn’t think about all of that now, because if you didn’t focus on holding your breath you would be dead in the next three seconds. 

Your hand is anchored to the body of your sniper rifle, finger hovering over the trigger as you hide behind the outcropping of rubble in the decimated cityscape; the air is hot and humid despite the weight of the night. It sticks to your skin in a sheen of violent sweat. Yet it’s still not as potent as the blood. 

Teeth gritted, you hold back whimpers as Federation soldiers stalk the grounds, scores of them—legions. An entire army that had breached the walls and executed everyone insight, soldiers, civilians, if it once moved it didn’t anymore. The burning in your shoulder was agonizing, head smashing itself back to the rubble in an attempt to stifle your own ragged need to scream into the night as layers had peeled back to allow a bullet to pass through. 

In the ten years you’d been here, you’d taken up the mantle of quite the sharpshooter; pulling on Keegan’s lessons when he was on leave and wanted to bring you to the firing range. You had even picked a rifle similar to the one back in your destroyed home—held in a plastic case and treated like royalty by your long-deceased lover. It wasn’t the same, but the jet-black Lynx made you steady like the picture in your breast pocket did. 

A reminder of what was lost and why you had picked the knock-off up in the first place.

Footsteps get closer as the sweep of a flashlight cards above your skull, if possible you go even more still, lips pulled in and heart rampaging. There were barked orders and yelling, but no more screaming. 

How long had you been unconscious after taking that shot to the shoulder? Fear was breeding with horror—was…was everyone dead?

Spanish is loudly called not five feet away, and the flashlight leaves as your breath does. You let off a quiet gasp and suck down air greedily. Eyes flashing from one shadow to another, you look for any opportunity to slip away from the city. In the wind, you could smell fire, and taste it on your tongue as you licked your lips. 

All around you can see the limp shadows of bodies and the apartments, large skyscrapers were on fire deep in their frames. The city was entirely lost.

How the federation got into the walls you would never know, though there was concern about the enemy soldiers rounding up civilians outside the walls and executing them. Maybe one cracked before the bullet entered their skull.

You bite hard into your lip to force back your pain. Trying to shoot a rifle would be useless at this point, you might as well have lost the limb. Slinging the gun’s strap over your head, you look back and forth along your visible perimeter, checking for hostiles as you unsheathe your combat knife and cradle your limp arm to your chest. 

If only Keegan could see you now.

Rounds of gunfire make the air burn with urgency, and you take the time to peek out behind as sweat makes a trail down your dirty face, dripping off of your chin as you breathe like a wheezing dog. Your wound needed tending, and you had the med pack on your vest with the supplies, but you can’t do it here.

Where’s safe? If Dallas has fallen…is there anywhere that’s still standing? A location hits your brain as your gaze darts from one abandoned street to another. You take a deep breath and whine as you force your legs to stand and move quickly, feet shifting as quietly as you’re able to make them. 

“Fort Santa Monica.” Now a stronghold, you’d heard US soldiers here talking about the large presence of military power out in California—numbers so great they rivaled those that had lived in Dallas. 

You stumble over a spasming body and slam your uninjured shoulder into the bulk of the building’s wall, groaning loudly like a wounded boar. 

“Fuck!” If you made it out of the city, that would be where you would have to go; to warn them of what was coming. The Federation had found a way inside the Dallas wall, and that meant if they had enough tenacity, they could do it to them too. 

Everything would be done if another city fell.  

Holding your knife tighter, you push off the wall and grit your teeth harder, mind running on that edge of hysteria and forced calm. It’s in these moments where you have to pull on old memories to keep you going—even if they end up hurting more than the open wounds you carry. 

Keegan had his bad moments, but you always got through them together. Years and years of knowing each other inside and out; memorizing bodies and thoughts like they were second nature. He would want you to keep fighting, tell you to get your ass in gear and go…and you would never let him down. 

You owed him that much even if some days you wanted more than anything to join him. 

Blade in hand, you hear muttered speech from up the alleyway and pause, feet splayed but still swaying as you come to a slow stop. Your ears ring at garbled sentences, foreign words spilling into one another. 

Panting, you listen closely, limbs vibrating. More gunfire echoes over the air, screams and death that get ingrained into your head like a brand into sizzling flesh. Skyscrapers burned and buildings fell with great earthquake booms. Everything is under a sheen of distance.

Get out of the city. Get to Fort Santa Monica.

“Kill who I have to,” you slur out, itching at your neck as you leave a trail of blood behind you. A single pair of footsteps walk quickly forward near your corner and you hold your breath, bringing up your knife as pain pounds in your arm. 

Deep blue eyes sit in the back of your mind, counting you down as they always did.

Keep your arm steady for me, Doll, a phantom tells you. Breathe...

When the first shadow of a Fed soldier graces your eyes, you strike. 

—

It’s roughly nineteen days from Dallas to Santa Monica, and that was if you kept up at a steady walking pace. If the crude sling you’d fashioned from bandages found in your med pack was any indicator, it would be double that. 

On the first day, you had hiked half-dead over the destroyed landscape of what remained of the USA, licking your wounds and counting your losses. You’d had your pick of abandoned houses, taking a red brick one just because it looked nice and you were about to pass out from blood loss. The only reason you’d made it this far was that the bullet had thankfully passed right through you, making sure that if you moved too suddenly no more damage was being done internally. You packed it with a sterile rag.

Sitting in the home, pictures gathering dust on the fireplace mantle, you tipped back a bottle of whisky you’d found in one of the bedrooms, grimacing at the sting. It was better to be drunk for what you were about to do. 

Heating up your combat knife in the fire you had started in the hearth, you watched the metal grow an eye-flinching white as you stared off into nothingness. 

“You remember when you showed me that scar, Keegan?” You always talked to him. Others had given you shit for it, but they knew the purpose. If you didn’t talk to someone, even a ghost, you would give up. 

The guilt was eating you alive, and it would overtake you eventually. Hadn’t in ten years, but it would…you knew it, everyone did. 

Keegan was everything, and nothing looked the same when you lost him.

“The one on your thigh?” Pulling the knife back, you turn to the leaking flesh of your shoulder, gushing blood as black desecrates the sides of your eyes. You’d taken off your vest and shirt. If you tried hard enough you could imagine Keegan standing in the corner, watching. Always watching. “You said you had to dig a bullet out and cauterize the wound—when I asked you said you barely felt it over all the adrenaline.”

The ghost tilts its head, eyes sad and lips pulling taunt. Your lungs take in a shaky inhale and your hand quivers; only you feel how your eyes burn with unshed tears. 

“I never thought about it before,” right as you growl and shove the knife into your skin, you bark out in fear, “But I think you were fucking lying!” 

On day two, you knew you had to avoid the remains of Fort Worth, so you decided to increase your distance and cut that landmark out entirely—too many remnants of Federation. They were everywhere now, and you needed to keep low; get out of Texas. You scavenged properties and took stock. 

Four magazines for your Lynx, a pouch with five protein bars, one bottle of water attached to your belt, and your knife. Normally you’d have a pistol at your thigh, but you’d used it up in the firefight back home. When you’d woken back up, it had been gone.

And, of course, you had the picture. You kissed Keegan’s face and placed it back in your breast pocket, caressing the material softly before clearing your throat and addressing the obvious. 

With what you had getting to California was a pipe dream. 

You’d been on the radio all day, clicking through channels and pleading for anyone alive to reach out. Nothing. Static. 

I’m the only one left. The thought was intoxicating, pounding in your skull like your hangover. Everyone is dead. 

While you had become somewhat of a loner in the last ten years, especially with the few months you’d been by yourself in the beginning, Dallas had given you a chance to build bonds again. Ten years, and in an instant it was all wiped out. 

It rang a devastating bell.

Somehow, you had cheated death where so many others had failed—not only in Texas, but back with ODIN too. You had survived, but somehow Keegan hadn’t. 

Keegan, the one who never spoke about ‘05 and jerked awake from nightmares years later because of it. Keegan, who wanted nothing more than to stay at your side when he was home and keep you on his chest when watching movies. Keegan, the love of your life.

The only love of your life. 

“I really wish you were here,” you mutter, grimacing as your arm gets jostled as you stumble over a piece of rusted metal in the empty street. “Who gave you the right to go away before me, huh? We were supposed to grow old together, Russ. You promised me that.” 

Garbage gets blown over the road when a hot breeze shifts the air, bringing the scent of dirt and the noise of rustling trees. Nature has reclaimed the towns and suburbs—great patches of ivy and long grass that rise to your hips. But the silence was a curse.

The only thing keeping you going is the thought of delivering your warning to Santa Monica, from there…

Your lips thinned. What even was there left? How many times could you go from one place to another, starting over with stories of your past and having to brush the pitying looks off as you fake a smile? 

Shaking your head, you recall memories from the better days as the light gets low in the sky. 

“You’re doin’ too much, Sweet Thing,” Keegan mutters, and you turn from the stove top with a bright smile to face him. 

He had just gotten out of the shower, towel ruffling through his dark hair as he stands in the kitchen entrance and watches you cook for him. The shirt hangs off of his wide shoulders, and gray sweatpants are loose over his formed hips—his strong brow line raises in a casual expression. 

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t like it,” you tease, hearing his low chuckles as you turn back to your pan. “You look good, y’know.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Keegan grunts, smirking, and his feet pad over to you, tossing the towel to the counter as his presence looms over your back. Large hands grab onto your hips and a nose burrows into your hair; inhaling deeply before gradually melting to the curve of your spine. 

You smile and hum, pushing back so you can rest on his chest. A chin sets itself on your head, deep massaging fingers making you pur as they bunch your sleep shorts.

It was late—nearly two in the morning. Keegan had only gotten home a short while ago, but sleep wasn’t going to stop you from spoiling him. A wine bottle was on the island counter, two glasses, and the food was nearly done from what you could scrounge up on short notice.

“...Good to be back,” the man grumbles into you, kissing your head and slowly sweeping his arms around your waist as you sighed softly at the contact. 

Your face gains heat. 

“Well, I’d sure hope so, or else this would be awkward.” You huff to hide the bright smile in your voice. But like a moth to flame, you hear, as well as feel, Keegan chuckle against your spine. His grip squeezes you for a moment. 

“How was it when I was away?” He asks as you move around the contents in the pan, nose brushing your neck as his lips travel to kiss behind your ear. He breathes against the flesh as his low rasp makes you shiver. “Any trouble?”

“Negative, Sergeant,” you raise a brow and smirk over your shoulder at him, seeing his blues spark as he gazes hard into your eyes. A faint twitch to his lips is what you get before his hand captures your cheek; anchoring your face as he descends to connect his mouth to yours.

He sighs into it, arm still around your waist—tight as if you were a pillow. 

“Keep talkin’ like that and we won’t have to wait long for dessert, will we?” 

Days three through seven were uneventful beyond the constant agony of your arm and tired legs, but on day eight amid a waterless walk in the sweltering heat was when the hallucinations began. 

Keegan walks beside you, his footsteps mirroring your own as sweat pools down your forehead and drips off your nose. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at you—he just walks, looking exactly like he did the day he died. 

At first, you’d flinched back and blinked wildly at the sight, panting, but then he’d disappeared and your heart had shattered. It worried you with what you were seeing, but it was also a strange comfort to be able to ramble to…something, even if it wasn’t real. Hungry and with a dry tongue, you were on the verge of calling it quits.

So on day eleven, without a wild animal in sight to give you a proper food source and all the water having to be purified, you started talking to him while licking the inside wrapper of your last protein bar. 

“But I never understood why you hated sleeping in shirts,” you licked your lips to get the remnants of granola off of your flesh, pushing away the greasy sheen from your cheeks. Your arm was burning up—every heartbeat was felt as it moved the skin around red and infected flesh up and down. Puss was leaking out from the crude stitches you had made of embroidery thread from that first house you’d found. 

“And you always kept the room freezing.” Continuing, you drop the wrapper to the ground and then take the meat of your fingers and get what little flavor you can off of them, grunting through realization. “That was a ploy to have me use you for heat, wasn’t it? Jesus.” 

The man in the corner of your vision smirks, tilting his head and chuckling from where he leans against a tree trunk. 

“Yeah, that’s right. Knew it.” Glaring at nothing, you stand from your overturned stump and nearly fall right back over, stomach yelling at you as your vision swirls. 

You dig a hand into your hair and grip at the strands, pulling and groaning. “...God.” 

Keegan comes over and stands above you, your eyes staring down at his feet as you get light-headed. You focus on his shoelaces, counting the Xs and taking down shaky breaths. When you blink like a cat with dirt on its face, the shoes are gone entirely and you stand back up to your full height.

“...Keegan?” You ask after a moment, the words disappearing into the trees, but no one’s around. 

Your sight goes to your wound and your jaw tightens, moments of clarity slipping in as a knife would into your consciousness before the curtain settles once more. 

You bend over and vomit what little nutrients you had, spending day twelve sleeping through a fit of nightmares and fever-induced delirium.

Nothing about the remainder of the time you can recall to memory—bits and pieces always flash through on long nights, but they’re only walking montages. Dragging feet, looking at your hand as if it was a foreign object as you turned it back and forth; everything in a sheen of sickness. Days and days and days. Little food. Less water. 

More than one-thousand miles.

But somehow, the Wall peels out in front of you as you crash through the foliage, your body giving out and collapsing down a large decline. Bouncing and getting jostled by rocks, you come to a stop without the strength to get back up, staring blankly ahead as your head connects with concrete. Your mouth is open in broken inhales, pain not even registering. 

Shouts echo, the pound of rapid feet. 

Green eyes meet yours, a youthful face with a beanie and stubble. He’s saying something to you, glancing over your gear and your obvious near-death situation—his hand jostles the side of your face. But your eyes shift behind him gradually, attention falling to someone more important. 

Before you finally let yourself rest, you stare at the smiling face of your steadfast phantom.

—

The doctors and nurses at Fort Santa Monica were nice, if a bit secretive about the entire operation. Seeing as you weren’t an official soldier, no dog tags or patches—no name in the database—everyone was a bit hesitant to tell you anything. 

Until you said you were from Dallas, of course. 

But no one was eager to rush you in your state, even if the information was dire. You had been hooked up to an IV and bedridden for a week straight; talking to nothing on account of the dehydration and electrolyte imbalances. Some days you spend unconscious. 

But what really pissed you off when you got back into it, was the fact that they had taken your Lynx and your gear—your picture.

You’d almost grappled onto the first nurse you’d seen when you’d woken without it. It was a beacon, your prized possession of damaged corners and taped tears. Water damage that may or may not have been from sobbing fits in the first five years. 

In fact, that was the entire reason you had snuck out so late in the first place. 

Stalking down the hallway in the white shirt and camo pants that had been given to you on the fifth morning you had woken up here, you pad along with no shoes, only plain gray socks. You limp with bandaged flesh all along your healing shoulder and your feet. 

The doctor had explained that you’d entirely skinned the bottoms and your heels were a mess of blisters and open wounds. 

“Take my property,” you grumble under your breath, shuffling along and rubbing at the back of your neck. “What gives them the right?” 

You weren’t going to stop until you found it. 

Reading the name tags on the walls, you silently wonder where they would have taken your stuff as you slip out of the medical ward, listening to the buzzing of the lights and frowning. As you’re limping along the next hallway, a man suddenly turns the corner on nearly silent feet. 

“Woah!” You halt immediately, heart jumping in your chest. A hand catches your shoulder before you run headlong into him. 

Green eyes lock with your own, wide and blinking quickly. Brows furrow and you’re quickly looked over before a slow, teasing remark enters the air, you listen with a growing heat on your neck.

“Y’know, I could have sworn you were supposed to be in bed, Ma’am. I miss something here?” The man who had found you. 

“Wouldn’t know,” you say blandly, blinking up at him and taking a careful step back. This brunette had a casual air to him—still in his gear despite the time. He folds his arms and tilts his head at you, smirking. “If you’ll excuse me.” 

You begin to walk forward, slipping past him and hoping you won’t get snitched on. Except it seems you’ll be having a shadow, as not a few seconds later a smooth chuckle meets your ears and the man walks beside you. 

“I think I’ll be taggin’ along if you don’t mind. Security and all.” He turns to face you, sticking out his opposite hand. “Hesh.”

“That supposed to be some kind of nickname, Kid?” You raise a stiff brow but participate in the handshake nonetheless. His grip is firm but not hard. 

Hesh blinks at you, eyes swimming with amusement before he shrugs in a boyish way and shakes his head with a laugh. “Hell, you remind me of someone, Ma’am.” A moment passes in silence as you study the area. The man huffs, “Where exactly are we off to?” 

“Wonderland,” your lips grumble, tired and wanting to sleep but not until you find your picture. Hesh sighs but you can still hear the hilarity inside of it. 

“Alright then…don’t know if you’re going to be finding a shrinking potion anytime soon, though. We’re in low stock.”

“Very funny,” your eyes send a dry look, but you relent when he prods you with his eyes, taking a corner. “I’m looking for my vest.” Hesh blinks at you in curiosity, letting you elaborate as you motion to your upper shoulder. “My pouch has some of my personal belongings. I don’t like being away from it.” 

“Oh,” the brunette nods a few times, his beanie jerking along. “Yeah, that’s no problem.” A hand is waved and you stare in confusion as he pivots. “C’mon, I’ll get you there.” 

Your eyes burn into his back before you immediately speed after. 

“Why so eager to help?” Hesh smirks at your question. 

“As I see it, if you went over nineteen days of hard hiking just to get to us, you should at least be able to keep your stuff on you, Ma’am.” Your lips flicker in a smile. 

“You’d be the first.” You tell him your name and miss the slight emotion it provokes in his eyes, head lightly pulling to the side but ultimately saying nothing. Hesh shrugs with a grunt, leading you to a meeting room on the opposite side of the building. 

Yelling is on the other side.

“Elias, how long has this been kept from me?!” The voice makes your head perk, evoking something inside of your chest. Hesh seems taken aback too, holding up a hand to you for momentary silence—not that you had to be told. 

“Keegan, I can’t have that happen. She needs to recover and you being there could jeopardize that. We need what she knows about Dallas.” Your body stills to a near-frozen state, and it’s comedic how your entire face falls to a blank slate. Wait a second.

…Keegan?

“She belongs with me—I thought she fucking died and she’s been here for who knows how long?! Why wasn’t I informed?” Rampaging feet suddenly sound off, going to the door at break-neck speed.

“Son, that’s not a good idea. This is what I was worried would happen if you found out.”

“I didn’t exactly ask, did I? As far as I’m concerned, nothing else matters besides getting back to my Girl,” the bark is ferocious and violent, more of an animal’s than a man’s. “Now where the hell did you put her before I tear this damn fort apart and—” You shove at the door before Hesh can grab you, throwing it open and letting it hit the opposite wall with a great boom of wood. 

Your wild eyes instantaneously lock into sharp blues, pulse pounding in your ears. It’s like all the air is taken from your lungs in a great punch. 

Oh, he’s so similar to how you remembered him to be ten years ago. 

Keegan stands only a few feet away, turned in your direction with his eyes so wide and small you might faint. There’s black face paint in his sockets, making the cerulean all the more bright and shocking to the senses. He’s still tall, still built, if only a bit more rugged than when ODIN struck—there are lines on his forehead and his scars are more faded. Small differences in the way he holds himself like the difference between a rabbit and a hare. Keegan’s black locks are shorter now, but still…his.

Lips part in silent shock, an entire halt of your nervous system. 

The entire universe holds its tongue as you two stare at each other; walls and rooms blur into a mess of matter and reality—this couldn’t be real. 

Keegan’s feet shift for a moment as if to steady himself as his fingers twitch. In his hand, he holds your picture, his body covered in gear and weapons. He blinks as you tell yourself he’s a phantom, simply that same ghost come back to haunt you as tears sting the backs of your eyes. But then he speaks, and it’s the same voice you had slowly lost the ability to remember in year three. 

“...Sweetheart?”

His ghost never spoke. His ghost could not imitate the phonics of his speech or the rhythm of his throat. His ghost could not make you recall the memories you’d long since boxed up.

You jerk forward just as he does, bodies colliding into a feral grip of flesh and fabric, hands latching and faces burying. Sobs rip from you as Keegan’s shaky breath echoes right next to your ear—his chest hitching and arms snatching your waist and lifting you up as easily as he always had. He holds you up without any thought of putting you down, legging your legs dangle as Elias slowly exits the room and corrals a highly confused Hesh with him.

The door shuts, but neither of you notices. 

“Keegan—” Your voice is high with emotion, hardly believing what you're seeing—what you’re touching. “Oh, my God.” 

He had been alive all this time? Ten whole years and you’d thought he was dead. But by the way he was barely letting you breathe from in his iron clutch, you imagined Keegan had thought the same about you. It was…incomprehensible. 

“Shh,” he whispers, his shushes cracking and flinching between broken gasps of your name. “Shh.” He sets you down on the floor only to have his firm hands travel to your cheeks, turning your head to each side in a desperate need to understand if you were really there.

Keegan’s eyes are wet, but no tears let themselves fall quite yet. 

“I’m so sorry!” You hiccup and the man kisses your cheeks—your browline and nose. Every piece of you he can as you both stay so intimate you might melt into one another. “I thought you were gone, I-I should have stayed and looked for you, I didn’t—”

“You’re alive?” Keegan’s hands rub across your body, gripping and tugging you closer and closer. “My Girl’s alive?” 

His tears drip to your face as he hovers above you, and you both shake with the weight of years. 

“Me?” Your chuckle through sobs—you want to scream and wail at the same time. Blue eyes flutter and ragged breaths puff on your forehead. “What about you, you asshole?” 

Keegan shakes his head, and you stare deeply into him, hands coming up to cup his cheeks as he sags forward. He had stubble now, spreading out to grate your flesh. 

The man forces a weak huff. 

“Christ,” is all he mutters before he presses his lips to yours in a kiss so unyielding you expect to have your air stolen. Ten years to feel him kissing you again—to feel his warm flesh under your hands and his heart rampage into you. 

You’d do it all over if it still amounted to this.

Your body shivers and you reciprocate with just as much fervor; this emotion of relief is so overwhelming and all-consuming that it makes your head light. You suck down quick breaths between the sensation of your lips meeting, Keegan doing the same. 

Unconsciousness was better than letting him leave again, your lover sharing that sentiment as chests slid against one another. Soft hair slips through your fingers as you grip Keegan’s hair, cascading through locks as he groans into your lips and tries to hide his tears from you. 

He pulls away and immensely shoves his head into your neck. 

“You’re here,” he whispers quickly. A hand quivers at the back of your head as your tears wet his gear. “You’re right here. You came back to me, didn’t you, Doll?” 

You cry, “I’m here, Keegan.” The man sobs when he hears you say his name, his knees giving out as you both fall to the floor and not letting the other move beyond the caress of skin and lips.

“I missed you,” Keegan gasps, “so much. Don’t you understand? I was nothing without you. You took it all from me, everything. Every damn thing.” 

You press kisses to his neck and racing pulse, healing him inside and out without even realizing it; it was only fair, he was doing the same back to you. 

The picture lays long forgotten on the floor.

“Never let me go,” your voice forces out, as he rocks you back and forth like a child. “Never again, Keegan. Please, I love you too much to go through that again.”

“Never,” he immediately promises, pulling back and kissing your lips again—neither can stop themselves from this. Blues eyes blink quickly, cataloging your face and every little blemish he’d have to relearn and study; to find the story behind. Keegan had never been happier. He felt like he might break from it. “Over my dead body, I’m never lettin’ you out of my sight. You’re stuck with me.”

You laugh genuinely for the first time in ten years and say you’d like nothing better as he pulls you back in and plants his mouth to yours in reverent worship. His arms trapping you to him as yours do just the same.

Not to leave again anytime soon. 

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

[almostwisegalaxy]

What does hell look like for both of us

Geum Seongje x Twisted fem!reader

Dark romance. Yeah. This bastard finally got what he deserved. Not to be romanticized. If you see a reference to a featherweight somewhere made with it. She's a homeless junkie who that's alimente not well.. She's got to be 50 kilos as well. ಠ⁠_⁠ʖ⁠ಠ

..................................................................................

Behind the gutted gas station, where the dead neon lights hadn't flickered in years, a gust of wind rustled plastic bags caught in the drainage grates. The air was heavy with grime and defeat. Junkies roamed like stray dogs between the empty pumps, looking for a fix, a light, a shred of a glance. Geum Seongje was coming out of a fight. Nothing unusual. He'd bitten, ripped, punched, until silence replaced the screams. But that night, it had left him empty. Nothing. No exhilaration. Just that nauseating emptiness clinging to his gut like fuel oil.

He was walking away, thinking of nothing, ready to snuff out a cigarette against his tongue just to feel something, when he saw Y/N. On her knees.

In front of a dealer with a wide smile and dead eyes. She was begging. Her voice broke into a seeping murmur, an almost loving sigh: "You said you wouldn't forget me, right? I've been good today, wanna see? Just give me a little..."

Her hand trembled as she grazed the guy's jeans, like one touches a cracked idol, a rotten god. The dealer looked at her like one looks at an overturned trash can in a garden. He was proud. He stood tall. Superior. As if the disgust surrounding him made him cleaner.

Seongje stopped. Intrigued, at first. He thought about making fun of it, taking a picture, posting it on a forum, to make the others at the Union laugh. But it didn't make him laugh. Not really. He felt a dark heat rising within him. Contempt. Disgust. And then something more troubling. A violent urge. Not for sex. For destruction. He wanted to destroy, again. Destroy her. Destroy him.

He hit the dealer without a word. Just like that. A punch to the throat, dry, surgical. The other choked, falling like a puppet on a severed string. Seongje hadn't even looked. No hatred. No justice. Just the brutal, clean gesture.

He turned on his heel, ready to leave, when he heard her: "Mister?"

He frowned.

"I can last a long time. You can give me the stuff afterwards. I'm not annoying, I swear."

Her voice was destroyed. Nothing but breath and humiliation. A dead voice that still moved.

He turned around slowly. She was looking at him with those empty eyes, shining with craving, hunger, terror. She took him for another dealer. Another solution. Another key.

"You disgust me."

She didn't even hear him. Or she didn't care. She almost crawled towards him, whispering words usually said in a bed, but without warmth. Without meaning. Just there, laid out like pieces of stale bread on a grimy table.

"I'm gentle. You'll like me, I can bend however you want. Come on... you're not like the others, are you? You want me to do it well, I can. I've learned. I can..."

"You're disgusting."

It just came out. Not a judgment. A statement. He looked at her like one looks at a ruin. Not out of disgust. But out of a desire to set it on fire. She had no pride. And that fascinated him. Like an already broken sculpture that one would want to smash even more.

Then she screamed. A long scream, as if her insides were cracking. She pounded her fist, clawed at the air, cried without tears.

"I'm hurting, damn it, don't you understand?! You don't know what it's like! You've never needed, never! I don't want to be cold anymore, I don't want to tremble anymore! You have no right to look at me like that!"

He pushed her away. A sudden gesture. She fell, slid on the asphalt. Her cheek scraped against the ground.

She had a seizure. A real one. Not a tantrum. The withdrawal was crushing her. Her arms trembled. Her body folded in on itself like a wet cloth. She gasped, clawed at the ground with her nails. Then she started to cry. A muffled, shameful sob. Not a complaint. A confession.

And he saw. The marks.

The old marks on her arms. Not hidden. Not justified. Just there. As if she was saying: "I've already lost."

He stared at her. For a long time. He crouched down. Took her face in his hands. He said nothing. He looked at her like a kid looks at an animal crushed on the road. Fascinated. Disgusted. Liking it.

Then he picked her up. Without knowing why. Not out of pity. He didn't know that word. He lifted her like a sack, threw her over his shoulder. She was light as a promise never kept.

He didn't know where he was taking her. He didn't care.

But one thing was clear. He had found her. His new toy.

Not prey. Not love. An obsession. Something to destroy gently, slowly. Something that would take up all his time. That would fill his nights with demons, his thoughts with sweet poison.

He was short of breath. Like after a good drug. Like after a broken bone under his hand.

But it wasn't a fight.

It was worse.

It was her.

And since that night, he's come back. Again. And again. Without understanding. Just to feel that prick under his skin. That soft burn that says: "You're still alive, you bastard."

---

It was raining that day. A sticky, gooey, ugly rain. The kind that clings to your clothes like a dirty hand. He came back, for no reason, no purpose. Just because he needed to. Like you need to smoke after a cigarette. Like you need to bleed after a scar. He was there, and so was she.

Y/N. Crouched under a filthy awning, chewing gum stuck to her sole, acidic sweat under her armpits. She shivered, disheveled, exhausted, with that disconnected look. The look of a beaten animal still waiting to be caressed.

"You wanna pay for my fix? Or you want my ass? It's the same."

She said it in a neutral, mechanical tone, without provocation. Not a word too many, not a charming sigh. Just a price. A routine. He looked at her for a long time. It was perfect. It was sublime. She was his opposite. His mirror. A slower fall. Dirtier.

He smiled, a deathly grimace, like a guy watching a fly drown in vomit. A sound came from his throat, halfway between laughter and boredom.

"Ass, drugs... You think that pays? You think it's a trade, huh? Cheap junkie."

He leaned towards her, his breath warm and mocking.

"But you already signed. It's not a price you owe. It's your carcass, every day."

He added nothing. He placed a plastic bag in front of her. Inside: a tuna sandwich, a packet of chips, a donut. She grimaced. As if it were shit. And yet, she ate. Her hands trembled. Her mouth dirty. He watched her. Fascinated. She was as addicted to food as she was to crack. It was funny. Ugly and funny. The path to her soul went through her empty stomach.

One evening, he asked:

"What's your name?"

She stared at him, eyes narrowed, brain too slow.

"It's dead. I'll give it to you when you deserve it."

He laughed. A real laugh. He thought: this one, she deserves to be broken properly. Slowly. Gently. From the inside.

Then there was that night, under the bridge, when she told him a memory. She was six years old. Her mother had locked her in a bathroom for three days while she was screwing a guy in the bedroom. She had eaten a roll of toilet paper to survive. She said it like reciting a recipe. Without filter. Without shame. He didn't know if it was true. But he knew he was the only one who had heard it. And that was all that mattered.

One evening, she kissed him on the cheek. A small gesture. Nothing. But in his head, something had broken. A string. An attachment. He didn't understand. He didn't like it. It tightened his stomach. It made him warm. It made him want to bite.

He thought of her constantly. Her raspy voice. Her dirty hands. Her too-thin legs. He wanted her to be his. Not to love her. No. To possess her. To contain her. To crush her in the palm of his hand.

He couldn't stand knowing she was with others anymore. Those other guys. Those dealers, those scumbags, those mouths full of her saliva. She sold herself for a line, for a trace, for a sigh. It drove him crazy. Not jealous. Sick.

One evening, he arrived too late. Y/N had been hit. Her face was swollen. A black eye. A busted lip. She laughed. She said: "I didn't let him. I bit his cheek."

Seongje didn't answer. He knew who it was. He knew where to find him. He went there. And he massacred him. No screams. No anger. Just silence and blood. He washed his hands in a puddle. Then he came back. Y/N snuggled against him. Like a child. He breathed in her smell. Grime, powder, unrinsed shampoo. She was beautiful. Dirty, tired. But beautiful. With a strange beauty that attracts monsters.

He was one. And she knew it.

He masturbated thinking of her. Not naked. Vomiting. Screaming. Collapsing. He imagined her tears on his chest. Her claws on his skin. And he came shamelessly.

He didn't understand. He didn't love. He consumed. Like her. But she needed powder. He needed her screams.

He would watch her sleep sometimes. Not long. Just long enough to want to steal a piece of her. A tooth. An eyelid. A memory. He thought of her like a drug. Worse than anything she snorted. She made him dependent. She filled a void he didn't know he had. She made him believe he still existed.

He told himself: "I'll save her. But in my own way." That is, make her unable to flee. Give her just enough so she wouldn't die. But never enough for her to leave. He wanted her to beg, to cry, to hate him. To love him. To confuse him with Benefactor , with the dope, with the end of the world.

He wanted every sigh she let out to be an offering. A trace. Another padlock around her throat. She was no longer Y/N. She was his thing. His project. His slow destruction.

He offered her meals. But never drugs. He wanted her to need him. Not to get high. To survive. He wanted the pain of withdrawal to be associated with his face. For her to think of him when she trembled.

She resisted. She rebelled sometimes. She screamed. She said she hated him. That she would kill him. And he smiled. He hit her sometimes. Just enough for her to understand that he could. But not too much. Not yet.

One day, she told him:

"You're worse than the drugs. You infiltrate, you dig. And then you laugh."

He didn't deny it. He didn't know how to lie. He knew how to manipulate, yes. But he never lied. It wasn't necessary. She was already his.

But here's the thing.

He hadn't realized he was getting attached to a mask. A mirage. Y/N wasn't just a rag. She was playing. She was observing. She was testing. She was learning his habits, his rituals. She was noting his flaws. She was remembering his schedule.

And the best part?

He wouldn't get out of this anytime soon.

He had become attached to an illusion. And that illusion, one day, would break him harder than anything he had ever hit.

---

He didn't know why he'd come back. Not really. It wasn't love. He didn't know that word. It wasn't desire either. Not true desire. It was a craving. An emptiness. A kind of parasite in his gut, pounding at his insides, saying: "Go see her." And he went to see her. Again. Y/N. His rag. His poison. His sewer princess.

It was still raining. One of those thick, greasy, almost living rains. It streamed down his clothes, dripped down his neck, clung to his skin like forgotten cum. He walked, jaw clenched, hands in his pockets. He thought of her. Her broken-doll appearance. Her split lip. Her smell of misery.

And he saw her. Again. Huddled near the metro entrance. Too thin. Too much makeup. Negotiating with a guy. Old. Disgusting. Drool at the corner of his lips. She smiled. A mechanical smile. A survival smile. A goddamn grimace that ravaged something inside him.

Seongje saw red.

He didn't yell. He didn't charge. He approached slowly. And then he struck. The old man. Right in the temple. He fell like a sack of shit. Y/N jumped, eyes wide, but not truly surprised. She just said:

"Damn, did you snap again?"

He didn't look at her. He just grabbed her arm. Hard. Too hard. And he walked. Dragged her behind him. Like a dog. She protested. Not too much. Just enough to seem like resistance. He said nothing. He walked. Almost fuming with rage. His heart was in his throat, and his head was full of screams. Not against her. Against everything. Against himself. Against this need to keep her, to possess her, to tear her apart.

He took her to that two-room apartment. He had rented it, paid for it, cleaned it. Furnished it. Not much. Just a bed. A table. A shower. Clean sheets. Stain-free walls. Curtains without holes. A kitchenette. Silence. A nest. A prison.

Y/N entered. She stopped. Mouth slightly open. Eyes wide. A laugh escaped her. Not mocking. Almost wonder-struck.

"Holy shit... You did this for me?"

She spun around. Touched the walls. Hopped. Smiled. He watched her. And suddenly, it struck him. She wasn't listening to him. She never listened. She was dancing in HIS gesture. In HIS proof. She didn't hear his anger, his rage, his need to say: "YOU'RE MINE."

He slammed the door. Hard. She flinched.

"ARE YOU GOING TO STOP SMILING, DAMN IT?!"

She froze.

"You think this is a game? You think I'm doing this to watch you play princess? WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?! WHO ARE YOU TO DESERVE THIS?!"

He grabbed her by the shoulders. Shook her. She whimpered. He saw red again.

"You want to die in the street? You want to get fucked by rats again? You think I'm going to watch you spread your legs for a hit?!"

"THIS ISN'T YOUR HOME, BITCH! I'm the one paying, I'm the one who brought you here, I'm the one who pulled you out of your shit! You, you were getting FUCKED AGAINST A WALL FOR A LINE! And now you're playing princess?! What do you take me for?! You think this is Disneyland?!"

He screamed, the veins in his neck ready to burst. He grabbed her by the hair, slammed her against the wall. Not too hard. Just enough for her to feel the difference between her street and what he was offering her. She stared at him. Mute. He shook his head, mad with rage.

"You're going to listen to me, damn it. You're not bringing your dealers here. You're not selling yourself. You're not disappearing. You're not going to make me spin like shit, OK? YOU'RE MINE NOW. You breathe because I want you to. You eat because I feed you. You sleep because I give you the right. You're my project, my property, MY FUCKING THING!"

He spat on the ground, as if to exorcise his own weakness. He hit her. A slap. Loud. Painful. Then another. She collapsed onto the mattress. He approached, panting, looking at her thin, broken body. She trembled.

She trembled. Tears in her eyes. Silent. A small broken thing. He saw her back away. Back against the wall. Hands crossed. She murmured:

"You scare me..."

And then, everything changed.

He felt guilt. Real guilt. That filth that clings to the skin like dried blood. He hated it. His stomach twisted. His throat tightened. He wanted to say sorry. He didn't know how. He didn't know how to do it.

He sat down. Against the door. Breathed hard. He sweated with chills. Head between his knees. Heart in disarray.

"I just want you to stay. For you not to die. I just want to keep you, OK?"

And Y/N, she watched. Still with her back to the wall. Eyes shining. But not with fear. No. With pleasure. With triumph. A small sadistic spark in her gaze.

Y/N'S POV

She thought:

What a joke.

"You scare me"...

Ah, you poor fool. Punching bag. He'd believed it. Every word. Every tear. He'd swallowed it like a kid swallows a monster story. He'd gotten on his knees. Touching. Pathetic. And so easy.

Idiot.

He walked the walk. Like all the others. But he's better. He hits better. He screws better. He bleeds better. And he even knows how to find an apartment. Hahaha.

He's not like the bums in the street. He wants to save you. And that's his weakness.

She licked her lips.

He's already mine. I'm going to break him. Slowly. He thinks he dominates me, that dog. But I have the leash. I have fangs under my tongue.

She approached softly. Knees bent. Silent. She squatted in front of him.

"You're different. You're not like the others. You don't disgust me."

He raised his head. Looked at her. A flame, a doubt, an opening. She took advantage. She slid her hand against his cheek. Soft. Controlled.

"You're the only one who's ever looked at me as anything but a f***hole."

A lie.

"You might be crazy, but... you have a heart. It beats. It's dirty. But it beats."

Manipulation.

And he believed it. He believed in that tenderness. In that closeness. His heart tightened. He took her in his arms. Hard. Too hard. As if she could disappear.

He wanted her to love him.

He wanted her to look at him like a man. Not like a monster. He wanted her to think of him when she cried, not of the drugs. He wanted to be her fix.

But Y/N, she was already thinking ahead. She was thinking about how to wear him down. How to turn his rage against him. To make him implode from the inside.

She thought:

Damn, you're really pathetic. But I'll make you believe you're special. And you'll lick my feet while I strangle you from the inside.

I'm going to eat you up. I'm going to empty you. And when you have nothing left, I'll leave. Like a queen.

She closed her eyes, rested her head against his chest. Listened to his heartbeat. That rhythm of a beaten dog. She smiled. Faintly.

And murmured:

"Thank you..."

But she thought:

Die, asshole. Die of love. Die of craving.

---

A Few Weeks Later

He wouldn’t have known when it happened. Maybe the first time she came out of the bathroom, clean. Wet hair pulled back. Wearing a t-shirt too big for her, nothing underneath. Skin pale from water too hot. Eyes still hazy from a poorly hidden high. But he had seen her. REALLY seen her. And something snapped. A nerve. A vein. A boundary.

Seongje had never considered himself in love. That word was for the weak, the stupid, the teenagers. He wasn't that. He was something else. A rabid dog. A lost guy. But not in love. Not... on his knees. Yet he spent his days staring at her. Every movement. Every twitch. He devoured her with his eyes. Obsessed over her. She moved, he followed. She spoke, he memorized every word. And when she said nothing, he still heard her. The silence between them had become sexual, almost sticky.

Seongje wouldn’t have known how to say it out loud. But sometimes, when he looked at her, he felt afraid. Afraid of what he saw. Afraid of what she was becoming. Too real. Too alive. He had pulled her from the gutter. He had seen her shake, vomit, beg. And now she was smiling. She was glowing. Like a normal girl. Like a girl who could leave.

Y/N had caught on fast.

She dressed better now. Made sure her makeup was clean. Skin without sores. A cheap perfume that killed Seongje from the inside. Every time she got too close, he felt his cock harden in his jeans. And yet, she did nothing. She passed by. Brushed against him. Spoke softly. Looked at him with that half-childish, half-sadistic smile. And he caved.

Y/N no longer smelled like sweat, piss, dope. She started washing. Combing her hair. Even smiling differently. Clean nails. Clothes she bought, not scavenged. Simple dresses. But chosen.

And she was beautiful. Almost too much.

She touched him, too. When he was on edge, when he smelled heroin in her gaze, he exploded. He screamed. Broke things. Wanted to hit her, sometimes. Not out of sadism. Out of fear. Out of helplessness. And she, she would come. Press her cold hands against his chest. Kiss his neck. Gently. With that fake tenderness of a porn actress playing the sweet girlfriend.

— “Shhh... Look at me. I’m here. Calm down. You don’t need to scream. Just need me.”

And she was right. He calmed down. Every time. His whole body unraveled under her hands. When she placed her fingers on his shoulders, his arms, his chest, he felt like melting. Sometimes she undressed him with just a look. No need for sex. Just being there. Breathing near him. And he obeyed. Like a good dog.

He sometimes caught her, syringe in hand, ready to scream, ready to destroy everything. And she, she would come. Press her breasts against him. Put her mouth on his. Kissed him with a feverish hunger. Wet kisses. Slow. Almost loving. She panted in his ear:

— “You’re my guard dog. My man. My favorite poison. Let me... Just one last time, okay?”

He gave in. Always. And after, he locked himself alone in the bathroom. Fists clenched. Hating himself for loving her like that.

She had changed her look. Straightened hair. Tight clothes. Skirt. Little black top. A bit too sexy to go out. He panicked.

— “Where do you think you're going dressed like that?”

She smiled.

— “Nowhere. I do this for you. I want to be pretty for you. Isn’t that what you want?”

He didn’t answer. Swallowed hard. Hardened again under his jeans. And later, she started talking like him. Same insults. Same tone. Same dark looks.

— “Move it, asshole, you're annoying.”

He turned, ready to hit her. And he saw her laughing eyes. That disgusting game she played. She wanted to be him. Merge with him. Dissolve into his madness. He came that night just watching her sleep.

And he got used to it.

She had his same bark now. She repeated his insults like caresses. One day, she told him:

— “What do you think, asshole? That I need you?”

He burst out laughing. So did she. Then they fucked on the table, knocking over the pasta he had just cooked.

Afterward, she lit a cigarette and continued, softly:

— “You’re my guard dog. My emotional junkie. My fucking deranged teddy bear. And I’m your trash queen.”

He didn’t know what to say. He just laid his head on her stomach and breathed. Slowly. Deeply. As if she were his last breath of air.

And she felt it. She felt everything.

He was in total ecstasy. A junkie, yeah. But not for dope. Not for powder. Just for her. Her words. Her looks. Her silences. He waited for her slightest reactions like a dog waits for a bone.

***

Then there was that sentence. That moment.

They were sitting on the floor, backs to the wall. He smoked. She trembled. A nasty withdrawal. She said:

— “I’m not a project. I’m a wreck. And I need someone sick enough to love me... So, will you be the psycho who loves me?”

He felt pierced through. He said yes.

— “Yes, fuck. Of course. Whatever you want. Kill me if you want. But love me. Don’t leave.”

And she kissed him. For a long time. Deeply. Her tongue against his. Her mouth devouring him. No passion. No love. A mutual addiction. He put everything he couldn’t say into that kiss. His fears, his tenderness, his needs. She, she swallowed him whole.

And she came, silently, tasting his weakness. Tasting the pliable doll he had become.

***

One day, he went out. A meeting with The Union, Baek-jin’s gang. It dragged on. Too long. When he returned, she was waiting. Arms crossed. Frozen face.

— “Did you have fun with your whores?”

He blinked.

Confusion.

— “What?”

— “I saw you with them. Those two girls. Cute. Smiling. Eyeing you like you were their dealer.”

He growled. Raised his hands.

— “They’re gang members, Y/N. Stop acting jealous.”

— “Jealous? Jealous? Do I look like a normal chick to you? You think I won’t freak seeing you with other junkies? Huh? Got more girls you’re saving? How many projects you working on, you fucking asshole?!”

He exploded. Screamed. Threw a chair. Punched a wall. She stepped back. Pretended to be scared. He shouted:

— “SHUT UP! YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT! YOU’RE CRAZY!”

And she stepped back again, hands up. Eyes gleaming.

— “I’m crazy? I’m the crazy one now?!”

She burst into tears. Screamed. Then suddenly collapsed. On the floor. Convulsing. Screaming. A bad trip. Real or fake? He didn’t know. He ran to her.

— “Y/N?! Y/N fuck answer me!”

She thrashed. Screamed nonsense.

— “You left... You left... You left me... I don’t want... I don’t want you to leave…”

She trembled. Screamed. Tore her t-shirt. Scratched herself. He panicked. Held her. Tight. She foamed. Screamed. He cried. Really. Real tears. He shook.

— “I swear… I swear I don’t know them… I love you, fuck. You’re all I have. Don’t die. Don’t fucking die now…”

She calmed down after an hour. Slowly. Breathed hard. Laid her head against his chest. Whispered:

— “You’re my only refuge…”

He closed his eyes. And bled inside. Because he NEEDED to hear that. Because she had made him addicted. Because she was his poison. Because she had won.

She had made him dependent. Hooked on her. She had turned him inside out. And he loved her.

He loved her like a madman. Like a wreck. Like a dog.

He fell asleep with her in his arms. Breathing her scent. And he thought:

I’m dying. But I’m hers. And that’s all I have.

And she, in her sleep, smiled.

Another point for Y/N.

***

That night, she watched him sleep. Shirtless, tense body, clenched jaw even in sleep. He dreamt badly. She smiled.

In her pocket, she hid a small baggie. Gifted by an old contact – a remnant of her past, a temptation she had sworn off. But now, it was different: it wasn’t for her. It was for him.

The next morning, she woke him gently, naked under a t-shirt too big for Seongje.

— “I have a gift.”

He raised an eyebrow. He never understood her moods.

— “A real sign of trust. Want to try it with me? Just once.”

In the hollow of her palm, she revealed the powder. Fine, pure. White as a promise.

He turned pale.

— “Are you serious?”

— “It’s just… for me. For us.”

Her voice was soft. She placed her hand on his neck. She knew how to break him. He was afraid, but looked at her like a beaten puppy. He wanted to love her so badly, he was ready to betray himself.

She had won.

They lay down. She rolled, cut, prepared. Guided his movements. He trembled, but let her do it.

When he inhaled, it was like his world imploded. Silence thickened. Time dilated. And she watched him melt, slowly, as if he emptied himself completely.

Y/N leaned in, whispered in his ear:

— “You’re mine now. For real.”

And she laughed.

***

The next day, he felt dirty. He said nothing. Avoided her eyes.

She, she was radiant. She had infected him. That was her plan.

She had converted him to her hell.

He wanted to save me. Now, he’ll have to save himself from me. Too late.

---

Here is the full English translation of your powerful and emotionally intense narrative, with "Emma" replaced by Y/N as requested:

---

POV SEONGJE

He felt like he was constantly walking on eggshells with her.

Him. Seongje. The guy whose mere presence could silence entire rooms. The one no one dared interrupt, the one people avoided even when he said nothing. The one whose single glance could make men the size of three wardrobes back off. That guy—that guy—was now lowering his eyes in front of a lost girl, holding his breath whenever she frowned.

A cosmic slap to his ego. A dirty irony that clung to him like cold sweat.

She lost it over nothing.

An unanswered message. A glance that lingered too long on a waitress. A conversation with Baek-jin she didn’t like.

And that was it. The sighs, the sharp silences, the midnight meltdowns. He tried talking to her, understanding her, reassuring her. But she always came back to the same place: suspicion. That slow, steady venom.

Nothing was normal anymore.

She freaked out over nothing. All the time. Every day. A dish left in the wrong place, a message left on read, a glance too long at some other chick. Even Baek-jin—she wanted his head. Just because he’d clapped him on the shoulder. Because he dared laugh with him.

And him? He was there… holding his breath every time she opened her mouth.

Y/N wasn’t jealous.

Y/N watched.

And that’s what drove him mad: he wanted to believe her when she smiled. When she rested her head on his shoulder. When she came to pick him up at HQ with that soft voice and wide eyes like bottomless wells. When she cooked for him, dancing barefoot on the tiles, like life could be sweet, like she wanted to make him happy.

And every time he started to relax, to believe in them, she’d drop a single line.

A poison.

— “Who were you with for those two hours, huh?”

— “You don’t want me, is that it? You’re thinking of someone else?”

— “You think I’m too dumb to see how she looks at you?”

Always followed by a bite. A doubt. A sweet, sharp kind of cruelty.

He felt drained. Driven by her. Controlled like a fucking puppet. And the worst part? No one around dared say a word.

This wasn’t love—it was a hostage situation with morning kisses.

She cooked for him sometimes. When she felt like it. She’d put effort into it like she was being graded. And then, right after:

— “You didn’t even say thank you. Were you thinking of her when you ate that?”

Her? Who the fuck was "her"?

But he didn’t dare ask. Afraid to set off another fire.

She’d come pick him up from meetings. Storm down like a maniac if he didn’t answer.

— “Where were you? Fucking one of your Union groupies, is that it?”

She’d shout. In front of everyone. Even the guys didn’t dare meet his eyes after that.

There’d be silence. A thick, awkward quiet. And her… she’d cling to his arm like nothing had happened. Like she’d just exercised a basic right.

***

A few days later

Outside The Union hideout, late afternoon

Baek-jin is leaning against a wall, cigarette hanging from his lips, looking exaggeratedly relaxed. Seongje has just walked over after defusing another public scene caused by Y/N. She almost went off on a girl for looking at him.

Baek-jin speaks without turning his head.

— “She still barking, your bitch?”

Seongje swallows hard, tense, hands stuffed into his tracksuit pockets.

— “Shut the fuck up, Baek-jin. Not the time.”

Baek-jin smirks, takes a long drag.

— “No, but seriously. You can’t control her anymore. It’s funny. The guy they used to call ‘Wolf’—now lowering his head because his girl throws fits at every skirt in sight.”

He stands up, slowly walking over, cigarette dangling between two fingers. His voice lowers. Becomes sharp.

— “Get your girl on a leash, Seongje. She’s screwing with my business. And you know I don’t tolerate that.”

Seongje finally looks up. There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.

— “She hasn’t hurt anyone.”

Baek-jin raises his eyebrows.

— “Not yet. But she’s close. She stares at people like she’s ready to stab someone. And you? You just sigh? What—lost your bite?”

A brutal silence. Baek-jin steps closer.

— “Forgot who put you back on your throne?”

His voice gets harder.

— “Need me to remind you you’re no king here? You’re just my well-trained dog. So if your animal starts biting… I’ll be the one to put it down.”

A chill runs up Seongje’s spine. He says nothing, jaw clenched. Baek-jin leans in.

— “You were always good at unleashing violence. But love? Not your thing. Look what she’s done to you. Look at yourself.”

He steps back, sneering.

— “Pathetic.”

Baek-jin drops his cigarette, crushes it underfoot, walks off. Seongje stands still. Clenched fists. Knuckles white. But he doesn’t move. He swallows his rage. For now.

He loved her. He clung to her like a drowning man to wreckage.

But deep down, it was eating him alive. He felt it.

***

He comes home early that day. For once. No fights. No deals. No meetings. He even picked up noodles—her favorite kind. A dumb gesture. A couple’s thing. A rare, fragile kindness.

But the room is empty.

He sits. Waits. Smokes two cigarettes. Then gets up. Starts rummaging—not really looking. Just habit. A born paranoiac.

And there it is. Under a cushion. Poorly hidden. Too poorly hidden to be a real secret. More like a trap. Or a test.

A notebook.

Black. Worn. Chewed-up corners. He recognizes it. Thought it was just an old journal.

He opens it.

First page: a sketch. Sloppy. Him, with a syringe in his neck. Crow wings. A torn heart.

And then pages and pages of words. Not love notes. No. Twisted things. Ugly thoughts. Dry-inked screams.

> “He thinks he loves me. He devours me. He wants to own me. He’s a fucking emotional parasite, nothing more.”

“He wants to play hero but he’s more toxic than my dealer.”

“I fake it. Every day. And he gets off on it. On my broken doll act. He wants me to bleed for him.”

> “Seongje smothers me. I can’t stand his stare, the way he needs to know everything. He thinks it’s love, but he’s choking me like a leash. One day I’ll gouge his eyes out so he stops watching me.”

> “He touches me like a kid discovering a squashed frog. Fascinated. Gross. Curious. I want to puke when he says ‘I love you.’”

> “He fucks me like a desperate dog but wants me to love him like a poet.”

> “I fake everything. Always. Except when I force myself to smile so he won’t suspect. He’s so dumb, he thinks I need him. But he’s the addict. He’s mine. I could get him to jump off a roof if I begged just right.”

> “Seongje = worm disguised as a king. No balls. Just obsession.”

> “This is love, Geum-style: a broken brain and a cock always hard. Always ready to fuck you up.”

Every word. A shock.

Every line. An intimate betrayal.

She had dissected him. Observed him. Stripped him to the bone. She’d written things she’d never dare say out loud. Things she’d screamed in her rages, that he’d thought were exaggerations.

They weren’t. They were planned. Calculated.

He stood frozen. A long time. Notebook in hand. Breath shallow. Then he heard her come in.

She was whistling.

Like nothing had happened.

And something inside him broke.

Not a crack.

A fracture. Clean. Deep. Like a dam splitting open.

He stood up.

Watched her come in, smiling—and didn’t even think.

He threw the notebook at her feet. Hard.

— “Explain. Now.”

She smiled at first. Thought it was a joke.

Then she saw his eyes.

She stepped back.

— “You… you’re going through my stuff now? Wow. Real respectful.”

He stepped closer.

— “You left me no choice.”

He grabbed her arms. Hard. Too hard. Slammed her against the wall. His face inches from hers.

— “You write that I touch you like a dog. That I smother you. That you fake everything. That you’ll gouge my eyes out?!”

She whimpered. Denied. Cried. Screamed “I love you! I love you!”

He didn’t care.

He shook her.

— “You wrote you could drive me to suicide. You wrote I have no balls. That you’d make me jump off a roof!”

He saw himself becoming the old him. Before her. Before the addiction. He wanted to hit her. To make her feel his pain. But he stopped. Just in time.

Not out of kindness.

Out of fear—of himself.

She collapsed to the floor. Screamed. Sobbed. Twisted the narrative to play victim. But her tears rang false. And now, he knew it.

She was lying. Again.

Later. Silence. A sticky, sick calm. Seongje sitting on the bed. Nothing left to yell. Just this feeling of being hollowed out. Like she’d drained all the blood from his veins.

Then she came back. With a piece of paper.

She read aloud.

— “You locked me up for three days when I was in withdrawal.”

— “You fucked me without asking if I was even really there, really conscious.”

— “You hit me. Even if it ‘wasn’t hard.’ Even if you said sorry.”

— “You control everything. You want to know where I go, who I’m with. You’re paranoid. Sick. You scare me.”

— “You told your mom I was just a whore.

You made me bleed. You insulted me. You spat on me.

You said I was only good for moaning.

You still think about your ex.

You don’t want to love me. You want to own me.”

She was lying. A little. Exaggerating. A lot.

But some lines… hit home.

And she ended it, voice raw, trembling, almost tender:

— “And despite all that, I love you. Can you imagine my pain?”

A shiver.

Not of anger.

Of fear.

He felt his heart slam against his ribs. Something filthy rising from his gut. Not nausea. Realization.

She wasn’t his victim.

She was his tormentor.

And she knew exactly what she was doing.

He saw every smile again. Every night spent together. Every bit of tenderness offered like a gift. And he understood: she only ever showed him what she wanted him to see. Nothing more.

She wasn’t broken.

She was programmed to manipulate.

And she’d won.

Because he’d fallen in love with an image. A mirage.

Y/N wasn’t a wounded lover.

Y/N was a poison—taken drop by drop.

And he hadn’t seen the worst yet.

---

Y/N was becoming more and more paranoid. More and more. She no longer settled for just crises. She invented the reasons.

Everything was good to test his reaction. She was playing a game. And Seongje struggled within rules she constantly changed.

She changed her perfume. A detail. Almost nothing. But not for him.

***

One morning, she came out of the bathroom, towel around her hips, wet hair, and a new scent clinging to her skin. Not the one he knew, not the one he had learned to associate with her sheets, with her kidneys, with their life together. A woodier, harsher scent. A man's note. A man's perfume.

Seongje said nothing. He watched her pass by, a knot in his stomach. He sniffed her like an animal tracking a lie. But she didn’t flinch. She acted as if nothing was wrong. Light dance, slow movements. She served him coffee. He didn’t touch it.

Two days later, she came home late. Too late. She almost staggered, but not from alcohol. Just... blurry. Cold. Different.

She leaned toward him, kissed him on the lips. He still smelled that strange scent. She sat on the couch and silently lit a cigarette.

— Where were you?

She shrugged.

— I went for a walk. I needed air.

He bit his cheek, stared at the floor. Then, after a long silence:

— Did you sleep with someone?

— "Do you think I need to answer you?"

She burst out laughing. A broken laugh. Joyless. Then she stared at him, long.

— You left me. For too long. I was cold. That’s all.

Her voice was flat. Her gaze empty. As if she were talking about the weather. As if it didn’t matter.

Something broke inside him, again. He stood up, heart in shambles.

— That was a joke, right? You love me. You love me, right?

He approached, took her by the nape and kissed her. Wildly. Almost violently. She didn’t move. She let it happen. Inert. A body without response. A body from the past. And that silence was worse than a scream.

***

Days passed. Heavier and crazier.

Then he noticed it. That gesture she made. Often. Too often.

Her hand resting on her belly. Not really voluntary. Unconscious. Protective. First once. Then twice. Ten. Twenty. Always the same touch. Like a timid, automatic caress. And Seongje saw. Understood.

She was pregnant.

He said nothing. Not right away. But he searched. Again.

And found the bag. The pharmacy bag.

Vitamins. Folic acid. Iron. Omega 3. Nothing trivial. Nothing insignificant.

He entered the bathroom. Threw the sachet on the floor.

— What’s wrong with you? Besides being a junkie, you’re anemic?

She came out, hair messy, a t-shirt too big on her back, and looked at him without answering. She understood.

— Is that it? You...

She cut him off.

— You guessed all by yourself, little genius?

She smiled. A split smile. Cruel.

Seongje felt the ground give way. He didn’t know whether to cry or scream.

— Is it mine?

And then, the world tilted.

Her face changed.

— Excuse me?

She stared at him as if he had just called her a “whore” in front of her mother.

— You’re asking me that? After all I’ve endured?!

Her voice rose. Suddenly.

— DO YOU THINK I’M WHO?! HUH?! A STREET SLUT? YOU THINK I SPREAD MY LEGS FOR ANYONE?!

He wanted to answer. She didn’t let him. She threw a lamp against the wall. Screamed. Punched the walls with her fists. Then slammed the door.

She disappeared for a week. No news. No messages. The void.

When she came back, she was different. Darker. Hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones. She reeked of drugs, night, and pain.

He was sitting, waiting for her. He had prepared words. But seeing her, everything collapsed.

— Where were you?

She looked up at him, didn’t answer.

— You don’t have the right to leave like that. What the hell are you doing? You’re pregnant, damn it!

She laughed. A hollow laugh. Bottomless.

He approached, tried to take her by the shoulders.

— Don’t touch me.

He insisted. She grabbed a bottle. And smashed it on his head.

The glass flew. Blood flowed. And Seongje fainted.

***

When he woke up, the pain was sharp, pulsating. His forehead sticky, crusted with dried blood. He tried to move. His wrists burned. Tied. To the radiators. With a leather belt.

The light was dim. The air heavy with a harsh scent. Her scent. Their apartment. Blood.

And her voice. Soft. Almost sung.

— Look at your father. He’s already dead, but he doesn’t know it yet.

He opened his eyes slightly. She was there. Sitting opposite. Unmade-up. Hair disheveled. In a nightshirt.

She stared at her belly. She spoke to it. To that embryo. That future.

Seongje tried to speak. Nothing came out. His tongue was thick. His throat dry. The metallic taste of blood on his lips.

And she looked at him. Finally. Like an entomologist watching an insect. Curious. Detached. Almost amused.

— You’re not so cocky now, huh?

She approached. Slowly. Their faces just inches apart. He felt her breath. Warm. Sweet. Nauseating.

— You know what I realized?

She placed a finger on his cheek, slowly.

— That you like to suffer. You like it when I humiliate you. It turns you on.

He shivered. With fear. And something else. Shame. A dirty shame.

— You like me to tie you up. You like being my dog.

She straightened up. Took off her nightshirt. Naked. With disturbing ease.

— Even now, with your blood flowing, you still have an erection, you filthy bastard.

She laughed. A deep laugh. Soft. Inhuman.

— You think you have the power. But you never did. From day one. I’m the one holding your leash.

She crouched in front of him. Caressed his hair, chin, chest.

— You’ll have to love me twice as much now. Because there will be two of us hating you if you mess up.

A silence. Long. Sticky.

— "You’ve always been beautiful when you suffer."

He tried to speak. His throat was dry.

— "Y/N… what are you doing…"

She tilted her head, curious. Like a child in front of an insect.

— "I was wondering… how long it would take you to beg. To cry. To tell me you love me."

She came closer. Slowly. The knife slid over his cheek. Gently. Not to hurt. To mark. She was laying down her domination like a filthy caress.

— "Do you still think I’m a victim? Huh, Seongje?"

She climbed on him. Sat on his thighs. He felt her warmth, her scent, her hair brushing him. And he shivered. With fear. Shame. And a twisted desire.

— "You’ve always liked that. Being dominated. That’s your thing, right?"

She slowly opened her shirt. He shivered. Not from the cold. From her. She took her time. Savored every second. Her breath on his neck. Her weight. Her tongue on his ear.

— "You think I’m the crazy one. But you’re the junkie. Addicted to me. To my scent. To my screams. To my filth."

He closed his eyes. She blew harder.

— "Do you love me?"

He nodded. Almost against himself.

— "Say it."

— "I love you…"

She smiled. A magnificent and hideous grimace.

— "I’m going to teach you how to die for me."

She plunged the knife into the floor, between his legs. A sharp sound. He jumped. She laughed.

— "Were you scared?"

He didn’t answer.

She slapped him. Hard. A moist, painful slap.

— "I SAID: WERE YOU SCARED?!"

He screamed. A torn yes. She looked at him, panting. Triumphant. She had just broken him.

Then she kissed him. Mouth open. Deep. As if she wanted to devour him.

Their breath mingled. A sick heat enveloped them. He felt his tears fall, not knowing if he cried from pain, desire, or disgust with himself.

She whispered in his ear:

— "That’s love. Now, you’re mine. Forever."

And in that burning silence, he understood he would never escape this circle. She had taken everything. Even his fear belonged to her.

And he wanted more.

And she kissed him. Slowly. Like a sentence.

Seongje closed his eyes. A tear fell. Not pain. Not rage. Just… acceptance.

Y/N was his poison. And he was already contaminated.

..................................................................................

How Emma sees Seongje :

₍⁠₍⁠ ⁠◝⁠(⁠　ﾟ⁠∀⁠ ﾟ⁠ ⁠)⁠◟⁠ ⁠⁾⁠⁾

[baby-you-you]

would it be okay if you did some lamb regressor things?:3 /nf <3

definitely <3 enjoy this! I sure enjoyed making it hehe

Lamb Regressor Things !!

🐑 Activities

Cuddling with stuffies under a soft blanket Gentle brushing or pretend grooming games Listening to lullabies or nature sounds (like meadow birds, soft wind) Rocking back and forth like a lamb in a field Pretend grazing: playing with toy food or chewing plush leaves Drawing simple lambs, sheepdogs, or flower fields Playing with felt animals or barnyard figurines Watching soft farm-themed shows (Timmy Time, Guess How Much I Love You) Having slow, quiet tea parties with plushies Snuggle time!!!!

🐑 clothes

Cream or pastel onesies and footie pajamas Clothes with lamb ears, tails, or wooly textures (Or just wool coats) Sherpa or minky-lined hoodies Knit hats or bonnets with floppy ears Light cotton dresses or jumpers with floral or cloud prints Pastel rompers or bloomers with bows Cotton/wool shirts, jammies, or sweaters (BE CAREFUL IN SUMMER! DON'T OVERHEAT <3) Fluffy robes or shawls for snuggle time Binkie/paci with lamb clips

🐑 toys

Lamb or sheep plushies (especially weighted or big ones!) Taggie blankets or soft comfort objects Baby rattles/baby toys with soft jingles Barnyard animal finger puppets Sensory toys! (nee-doh, sensory balls) Stacking toys shaped like farm animals or hay bales Cloth books with simple textures and animal stories Baskets for “collecting” pretend grass, flowers, or fruits

🐑 games

Peekaboo with blankets or lamb puppets Pretending to nap in a field with “fluffy clouds” (pillows) Gentle shepherd-and-lamb roleplay Matching or memory games with animal cards Stacking blocks “Lamb spa day” — brushing and dressing up plushies Color sorting games with “flowers” or “pasture pebbles"

🐑 foods/drinks

Warm milk or toddler-style milk drinks Applasauce or mashed fruit Animal crackers or yogurt melts Oatmeal with honey or cinnamon Soft bread rollsor biscuits Cut fruit in flower or star shapes Mini muffins Cottage cheese or yogurt with soft berries Rice cakes with a thin layer of jam or butter Sippy cup “meadow juice” (apple or pear juice) “Cloud pudding” (whipped cream or vanilla pudding with sprinkles)

🐑 nicknames!!!

Little lamb Lamby Little wooly Woolie Wooly fleecebean Baba Ewe Little ewe Little baa meadowbaby wool fluff Floof muffin

[the-edge-of-truth-and-deciet]

Shadow Milk x Gn! Puppeteer reader

Okay so I’ve seen many portrayals of beasts x readers. Sooo I wanted to give it a go keep in mind I’m making the reader up in a way that I would believe the beasts would have the best chance of loving. It may not be totally healthy at times but then neither are the beasts.

When one knows all, what is there left to even lie about?

Shadow milks mind was an ever expanding labyrinth. The truth, bitter worse than any medicine could be.

He was saving everyone, he was saving them all!

His words sweet as sugar to the tongue, akin to music to other cookies ears.

It was healing. He was doing much better than the the witches would have.Much better than they would have cared too.

But still…. cookies found a way to be ungrateful.

Disguised in primroses his dough smelling of sweets, paper and gloss. Bows in his hair shadow milk was amongst cookie kind again. So incredibly bored.

He had heard of his other half..His soul jam taken. His thoughts turned like an endless carousel. Shadow Milk’s heels beautiful deceitful and shiny. Clicking across the kingdoms floor.

He hadn’t bothered to learn the name.

This place was so beautiful, so fragile like cookies minds..

He watched as men wandered late for work putting so much stock in their mundane lives.

As if any of it mattered at all.

Their names wouldn’t even make a margin in a book..yet they lived so full of joy..ignorance was a bliss he was never allowed.

So he watched that was all he was ever did, in his early days as a Sage gazing upon his students. Watching as they to learnt new concepts excitement bleeding into their jam.

In a way he would never get to experience. He had been baked with it, full of it from the beginning, written by witches and encased by purpose.

He watched with detachment, or perhaps a cruel amusement?

This kingdom

Watching …the king parade around helping people best he could ..people smiling brightly at him..oh how revolting.

One whisper here…

An uprising disguised as a protest.

Distrust would fester as deep as the very caramel that bound some of them together.

He had watched it a thousand times.

It held no novelty to make this place fall.

Perhaps he’d get Black sapphire to do it..

He loved watching how proud he’d get..the way he’d try to hide it, lie to the master of deceit could you believe that..? Unlike Candy apple cookie, he played indifferent.

But he was far to easy to read.

Like students he’d had in the past.

Regardless, he passed a bakery, fresh bread wafting around. He’d never need to eat.. Star jellies, an unnecessary indulgence for him. Though his dough protested.

It never used to

He stumbled.

A few cookies turned, concerned or allured. His disguise. It was amazing after all, He was a dainty young lady loosing her balance. His hair fluttering by his face.Shadow Milks eyes shut. Teeth grit. when he got his hands on that Faerie’s blasted kingdom..death was to kind for that elder…his sanctuary should fall quick and fast.

The clink of wood broke his thoughts, he had fallen to a bench it was covered with ornate wooden carvings of bear jellies, done recently..by sugar gnomes.. Feet throbbing his dough weakened beyond belief, he cursed he simply couldn’t float! It would ruin his act and Shadow Milk was everything but a bad actor.

When his eyes opened ornate and cerulean. He saw you..A tall cookie, your fingers long and slender holding strings attached to puppets..they were beautiful and detailed steeped in talent. Painted well, wooden in nature. Shadow milk’s interest was peeked. Stories..stories were always a treasure.

As the Sage he had never been one for them..he could usually guess the ending.. now a days he still could, cookies were so predictable the same tale again and again. Always one of heroism..to make themselves feel good, to lie to themselves. To pretend the world was worth saving once more.

Regardless his eyes were focused on you, on the street performer.

You were stunning in your execution, each finger moved with prescieian as your characters. Your puppets bent to you. A story on a humble stage the curtains red and hand made hot glue still clinging to the edges. Your face screwed in concentration as you told the tale old and practised.

A knight a dragon and a princess at play, children swarmed you your hat on the well paved road collecting gold from exasperated parents and ecstatic children desperate to see how it ends.

Shadow Milk scoffed his eyes straying once more, just another redundant tale.

It didn’t matter how glossy your lips looked, how your voice changed for every character that you played. Deep and commanding for the dragon, sweet and high for the princess and young and brave for the prince.

The end would be the same he had seen it before.

So he shut his eyes once more, yet he couldn’t burn you form his brain the way you smiled at every child’s excitement like a novelty the way you seemed so invested in your story. He found a smirk on his face when your voice ramped up for the conclusion.

The swish of crude curtains, a light hint of the fragrance you had used.

The children’s excited voices, their yells reached him here..he grimaced they sounded like Candy apple cookie..heavens that girl wouldn’t leave him alone.

“Tell us! Does the princess escape?”

“Is the prince okay?”

“The dragon must feel really bad huh?”

Your laugh rang over them all as you concluded the tale, your fingers nimble the sound of wood hitting Shadow Milks ears with finality. As the dragon slammed against the humbly crafted stage, the children clapped and parents handed you the gold you were owed..

Some exasperated, others happy to get going..the rare few enjoying it. The coins glittered in the moonlight amongst your hat you smiled, dusk was turning to a cool starry night it was about time to leave.

Shadow Milk watched as you stood, hands nimble and gentle like the worlds most beautiful sculpture had gained sentience and moved. Brushing the coins into your pocket, hat firmly on your head. You began to pack up each puppet. Strings smoothened with such care..

Shadow Milk didn’t know what possessed him to stand, still as a beautiful lady his intentions concealed and hidden behind charm..Perhaps it was your content. Such a basic story..

Your skill was being wasted . Yes that was it! Obviously he couldn’t stand seeing a fellow puppeteer be satisfied with such a boorish tale..He’d show you a whole new world of story’s and eventually a whole new world of lies..

You’ll forget wether one begins and one ends.

It was your skill that was all. Nothing to do with your radiance..Nothing to do with the fact that you were a simple cookie, nothing like him at all, and yet his eyes still lingered.

On the curve of your lip

the lilt of your voice

the hue of your eyes

the way the moon reflected across your skin.

It had nothing to do with that at all. He was above such things after all he knew all.

So when the beautiful “Lady Milk crown” approached you..and complained of a cake hound attack, her legs oh so weak to walk. You picked her up with no strain offering to get her home..

Only for her to proclaim her noble status, her fascination with you.

Asking if you’d perform in her court with her stories.

Your stomachs flipped you hadn’t been able to land stable employment for a while..Sure spinning stories was a passion..But gold kept the jelly on the table..

So without a shred of doubt in your eyes you nodded ecstatic.

This lady was offering you to be a jester!

Little did you know you were already speaking to one.

You didn’t know when your legs carried you off to your own home instead of hers. Her words soft in your ear unable to be ignored.

When did “Lady Milk crown” settle on your couch..Why were you offering her your bed?Rambling about its comfort level compared to the couch?

Why did she take you up on that?

Regardless you were giddy someone liked your performance!

Someone wanted you to perform for them. Someone stunning and sweet, someone who would pay you for your creativity. That same creativity that flowed easier than the soda streams on far away islands.

Shadow Milk couldn’t wait..

A world of stories corruption was in your future, all at his hand..

He’d hope you keep looking at him with such reverence even when you knew the truth of it all..

Then again watching your face crumple in confusion the deceit having poisoned your mind. As he revealed himself to be the beast he was..that was good too.

[tanzakukun]

Yoojin’s built is scrawny. He doesn’t have a degree. He’s an F-class and a support at that. He wants to be the protagonist, because then, he would be strong. And he would be so strong he can protect everyone and no one else has to suffer but him. Most importantly, as the protagonist, he would always be needed by others.

But he wasn’t made to be in that spotlight. He sees Sung Hyunje, handsome, powerful, experienced, mature and skilled in everything he puts his mind into. Everyone is naturally drawn to him. Everyone finds Sung Hyunje useful. Sung Hyunje will always be needed by others, and he will always appear impeccable while at it.

But the picture-perfect protagonist is tired of the genre he was nurtured by his transcendent step mom god to fit into. He doesn’t want to be a puppet of someone else’s will, of a world and society accepting him only for the roles they have for me. The protagonist is a free spirit who has been killed by being turned into someone who can move others but cannot be moved by the very people who he’s been destined to protect.

The closest to Sung Hyunje’s existence is Han Yoohyun, an incarnate of fire forced to live in the shell of human. Yoohyun is driven by his instinct, no different than Hyunje being controlled by his destiny. In another story, they would have been each other’s nemesis. The protagonist who watches over others because he was chosen by a higher power to do so, and the villain whose nature is to destroy and burn all creations down until his life sizzles out. But the villain doesn’t. He fights his nature. He willingly puts himself through the suffering of rejecting his instincts to stay close to a scrawny F-Class without any notable achievements.

Yoojin loves the attention Hyunje gives him and is taken aback when the ahjussi protagonist isn’t the benevolent protector he was shaped to be. When Hyunje, who was made exactly as the protagonist Yoojin imagined, rebels by craving to be an individual of his own choices. He’s whimsical. He gets bored easily. He peels the crusts off his bread. He’s never had anyone sing him “Happy Birthday.”

Yoojin makes fun of him, and Hyunje goes, “lol fair”. Yoojin sees holes in the protagonist, and he’s thrilled by how he can put down someone whose very role he wants to be. He’s envious of Hyunje. He wished he was Sung Hyunje. Resentment doesn’t grow. Instead, there’s only Yoojin’s self-hatred being fueled by seeing on Hyunje, who has everything, how Yoojin is sorely lacking.

He doesn’t put himself against Hyunje, only against himself. Yoojin is his own worst enemy. When he relishes in criticizing Hyunje, it’s soothing his own ego being constantly bruised by his ideals.

“You’re exactly who I wish I was. But I see you’re not perfect either, which also makes me feel good because it means that maybe, I don’t have to be so hard on myself. If Sung Hyunje, the protagonist, isn’t all that in reality, then my unreachable expectations of myself seems rather foolish now.”

Hyunje makes Yoojin feels more at peace with himself this way. And when Yoojin pities Hyunje for the small wonders of life he’s not known, it’s an act once more that soothes Yoojin’s own ego. The understanding and humanity Yoojin directs to Hyunje are - subconciously - also acts of kindness toward himself.

And we all know how Yoojin is exceptionally struggling with self-love.

Hyunje picks up on the bits and pieces of the person known as Han Yoojin. He is a complicated soul who deserves love and care. He is an ordinary person who is seeking a way to be happy, just like Hyunje. Hyunje, who had always put himself first, having lived lives chained to someone else’s desire, chooses Yoojin’s happiness over his own. This isn’t a form a sacrifice. It doesn’t go against Hyunje’s personality. Hyunje seeks to make decisions of his own, and Yoonjin is simply that choice he proudly decided.

For the plot, the protagonist has accomplished his heroic deed. This was the story Yoojin wanted for himself as a main character. Someone who would give himself up for someone else’s happiness. Hyunje made him realize this was not the story he wanted for himself, nor a story he would want for anyone. If lets Hyunje do exactly what all main characters do, then Yoojin’s demons that he had been coming in terms with would win.

I absolutely love jinjae for being two souls who have not been made for each other, but are encounters at the right time and moment that helped the other grow.

[dessertpanda]

A Happy Family

Warning: Death, graphic, spoiler, sad ( part of my OC) Mention of Sex as well, language, slight yander, children, mention of suisisde... Just really sad

Master List pt2

Ace x Thick Fem reader…

Y/N sat on the edge of the boat slowly drifting in and out of reality…

"Ace I love you," Y/N giggled happily, holding her boyfriend's hand tightly as they walked around the dark deck of the Mobey dick.

" Y/N, I love you too but Pops would kill me if he knew we were dating," Ace said looking down. [ Y/N Newgate Blood daughter of Edward Newgate - Whitebeard, Y/N has a devil fruit inspired by Xibalba and La Mureta. She uses dead bodies as Puppets… often as La Mureta to show her appreciation for them allowing her strength… Xibalba.. was a far darker force. She also might be one of the physically strongest on the ship, she is 19 years old and is a little thicker than most girls both in muscle and chub. She loves to fight and eat]

" When are you going to tell him," she whined turning towards Ace, pinning him to the railing. With a soft gasp, her sudden boldness caught him by surprise.

" L-later, I promise," he said blushing from the closeness as he slowly leaned into the girl, glancing at her lips before successfully capturing them. Lost in their own little world, they failed to notice the blue phoenix that flew through the air on watch.

Marco POV " and then they kissed," Marco said as the other commanders looked at him, following along with his heavily detailed story about what he had just witnessed the night before. Sitting around the table enjoying their breakfast

" No way, Pops is gonna kill him," Thatch said laughing.

" No kidding," Izo said also joining in.

" Do you think they did it?" Vista asked with a big smile.

" Did what?" Jozu asked taking a bite of bread.

" You mean the Nasty?!!" Marco gasped at the idea. Not particularly fawn at thinking about his adopted brother and sister in such a light. 'surly Ace was not that stupid'

" I did see Y/N walking funny earlier," Izo said with a wide smile. The others cackled at his implication.

"Let's go see," Thatch said standing up and walking towards Y/N's room.

" I don't know," Marco said hesitantly. What if they were doing it? What if Pops found out they were peaking on his daughter?

" Ace stop" A small whine was heard through the door, followed by the softest moan.

"Aww come on you know you love it" Ace's voice was deep and Husky. You could practically hear the sex off it.

" ARE THEY ACTUALLY" Izo whispered\yelled. Marco and Vista quickly smacked him upside the head to shut him up.

" Ace's noooo your hands are c-cold" They could hear the springs of the mattress shifting. "ah Ace yes~"

" That's it I'm leaving," Marco whispered as he started to walk away with the other commander not far behind him.

(Normal)

Ace ran his hands up Y/N's bare legs towards her stomach and to her chest. "See? I warmed them up for you, " he chuckled mischievously, lowering his head to lay gentle kisses up her bare neck. "Mmm. Princess," He gently inhaled, taking in her soft smell. As he shifted, pulling her closer again… both jumped at the booming voice of Whitebeard.

" Y/N Sweetie, come and have a drink with me"

" Shit" Ace whispered as he quickly moved to dress the two. Reaching for his shorts, throwing her shirt and jeans at her, to top it off he gently set his hat upon her lamp with her headband tied around it.

" Ah Ace, you're in here too perfect," WhiteBeard said as he opened the door, smiling at the sight of the two people he had been hunting for in the same spot.

" Papa! Sorry, Ace was asking about a battle formation," Y/N said pulling a paper with multiple drawings of stick figures all over it. " See," she said handing him the paper. Now each of them sat on different sides of the bed, acting as if it was a table. The large man smirked and glanced between the two.

" GAHHAHA" He laughed. Holding up the paper with a proud look on his face " This is why you are our stagiest," He said as he ducked under the door and strolled out " COME OUT WHEN YOU'RE DONE," Ace was flabbergasted as to where exactly she had pulled that out of…

" Where the hell did you pull that out of!?" Ace asked slowly getting up off the bed, gently picking up his hat, and handing the headband to her.

" I'm always prepared," Sticking her tongue out before running out of the room in her black jeans, sleeveless turtle-neck, and her signature headband securely tied around her head. Ace could only chuckle, watching as she dashed out leaving him to gather himself complete. He sat for a moment, staring at the floor… contemplating when the best time to confess to pops about what he's been doing.

" So Acey Boys fucking the princess?" Ace's head shot up only to meet with the eyes of a phoenix. His eyes widened ever so slightly, realizing he was so lost in thought he failed to hear the footsteps of Marco.

" Marco, w-what do you mean"

" We heard last night, all of it" This time it was Izo. Ace shifted his gaze to the new man.

"I-I"

" Remember boy you're just a guard and she'll be the queen," Vista said leaning against the door.

" I don't know what-" Ace started to protest but was cut off.

" Ace, Remember Not all stories end happily," Thatch said putting a hand on his shoulder.

" W-what are you talking about" Fed up with their constant interruptions, he clenched his fist, trying to understand why they were there.

" POPS IS GONNA KILL YOU" They all busted out laughing. Ace took a gulp of air and began to sweat. Realizing exactly why… he had been figured out… and he was so fucked…

Time Skip- 2 months

As the months moved, Y/n had been noticing soft changes in her body. She had gained weight, not nearly as much energy… and a strange sensation. So… she found Ace… and Marco… and an hour later… she found a positive pregnancy test.

(3 months later)

"Y/N my dear, why aren't you drinking?" Her father asked handing her a mug. She had been able to hide the facts so easily, having just come off a long mission not too long ago… but her bump was quite prominent, and coming up with excuses to not drink… was becoming harder.

" Sorry, Papa I'm not in the mood," she said gently setting her hand on her stomach. Subconsciously rubbing it in gentle circles to comfort herself. Now Newgate was a smart man so he knew something was off. He's had a feeling for a while now.

"Y/N, is there something you're not telling me? You love to drink" He asked looking down at the girl who was wearing a much baggier sweater than usual and hunched slightly over her midsection.

" Yes papa," she whispered. Growing tired of hiding… especially from her father.

" Would you like to talk about it?" He asked as he picked her up and set her on the arm of his chair. Removing the mug he had handed her, setting it off to the side and out of the way.

" I-I'm pregnant" She whispered. Not having the complete confidence to tell him… still unsure of his reaction.

" W-what was that?" He asked, he had heard her the first time… but just to allow the news to completely settle in.

" I'm Pregnant," she said louder, eyes closed tightly, lifting her shirt to reveal the small bump that had begun to show. It was barely noticeable through her natural chub… but if you knew Y/n… you could tell. Oh, and he could certainly tell. Staring at her for a moment. Eyes wide and mouth slightly a jar.

" Y-Y/n, I'M gonna be a GRANDPA?" he questioned a bright smile overtaking his face. Throwing his head back and cackling in laughter, practically shaking the ship. Staring up at the sky for a moment before refocusing on her, now a much softer and loving smile present.

" Yes Papa," she said smiling up at her father. He was so excited, I mean… a baby on a pirate ship… talk about unheard of.

" W-Wait before I get ahead of myself, who's is it?" She stiffened slightly. Knowing Ace had yet to tell him…Her silence concerned him… fearful that the child's real father would be absent… " Princess please tell me it's not some random man?" she quickly shook her head, slightly offended by his assumption.

" NO! No of course not Papa, It's one of the commanders," she said covering her face. Knowing she had just redirected the responsibility onto Ace… as well as the others who knew of her pregnancy.

" COMMANDERS" his voice boomed throughout the whole ship. Catching the attention of all, even Thatch who was tucked away in the kitchen… with a gut feeling telling him to hide.

" Yes Pops," they asked as they were all suddenly lined up in front of him. Some are sweating, others smirking… Ace in particular was sweating… Now don't question it. He was so excited… to think… someone like him could have so much… be given a girlfriend… now a child. No matter what happened right now… he was going to take full responsibility for her… his gift… his baby.

" My sweet daughter here has just informed me that she is holding one of your offspring.. so which one is it?" They all looked at each other. Studying their reactions and movements… trying to catch the culprit before he came out himself.

" IT'S ACE'S" "IT'S MINE" Slightly taken back by the number of voices, the others looked at each other. The answer having been lost in the shouts. "MINE! IT'S MINE" Ace quickly spoke again, raising his hand high, a proud smile on his face. He was so happy to finally say that out loud… even though Pops offered him a death glare in return. "I… We've been dating for a year now…" He smiled softly, turning his down to the ground to avoid the stare.

" Is he the farther Y/N?" He asked looking back to his daughter.

" Yes Papa," she said smiling. Glad to know that Ace was so proud of them… their relationship

" GAHAAGAGAHAGAHA" Pops laughed. " THEN WE SHOULD CELEBRATE" he yelled. " Ace my boy," he said looking down at him and lifting his drink in a toasting matter " Take care of her, She has some dangerous blood running through her and that child as well," he said handing Ace a Drink. "hehe now adding you into the bunch," Ace only nodded softly, a silent promise that he had already made long ago.

"Right"

Time Skip to Alabasta. (about a year later… maybe more)

Ace POV " This is my brother Ace." Luffy was parading Ace around like a trophy. "He's so strong, but I can beat him," he said with a large smile. Slinging his arm over Ace's shoulder, dragging him closer.

"As if." Shoving his head down. " I would like to apologize for causing any trouble", Ace bowed and apologized for anything that his brother had done while adventuring.

" Are you two really related" Nami asked, glancing between the two, seeing the resemblance but not quite convinced.

" Yep, well kinda," Tired from the journey Ace really didn't feel like explaining the whole Sake tradition. "You see-" he was quickly interrupted by the swordsman, his voice carrying from the crow's nest of the small ship.

" HEADS UP THERE'S A BOAT COMING THIS WAY!" Running over to the side to see who it was, Ace smiled at the sight. There riding in the Striker was his beautiful wife carrying his tinny 1-year-old son.

" It's ok I know her," She carefully pulled up close to the Going Marry, waving softly at Ace and the others. Quickly jumping from the boat Ace swiftly moved to help her. " Hi babe and baby," He said kissing the tops of both their heads.

" Dada!" Sabo giggled making grabby hands. He was quite good at speaking… Pops claimed it was because he technically had a bit of giant in him, much like Y/n did. Saying something like they develop faster or something.

" Hello, little man!" Ace smiled, gently taking him from Y/N's arms. "here let me," Picking her up as well before jumping back onto his brother's ship.

" You know I can fly right?" She asked with a raised brow but wrapped her arms around his neck regardless.

" I know but I still love carrying you" Landing back on the ship, the others stared to crowd the small family. Luffy specifically was infatuated with the woman and the little boy.

" Ace, Who is she?" Luffy asked running up to her, lapping around her. A slightly confused look on her face.

" Hello, I'm Portgas D Y/n!" She said holding her hand out. Smiling softly, Ace's description matched the boy perfectly.

" ACE YOU HAVE A SISTER!?" Luffy yelled. Not quite understanding the situation, causing Y/n and the others to chuckle.

" No, No, Luffy this is my Wife," Ace slightly facepalmed, but chuckled nonetheless.

" So she's like my sister now?" He asked looking her up and down lingering in places his eyes shouldn't, subconsciously of course! He had never seen a woman… be thick… yet so pretty. Alvida was ugly…until she turned skinny… Nami was skinny… Vivi… but she had a charm to her… a soft charm. One that even had Zoro doing a double take.

" Yep! And keep your grimy eyes off," Ace growled softly, shoving the younger boy's head sideways, tearing his gaze from Y/n.

" So you must be Luffy?" Ace watched as Y/N walked toward him. " It's nice to finally meet you" Pulling him into a huge hug which he gladly returned. " It's nice to meet all of you" Letting go and bowing to the others, Y/n couldn't hide the smile that graced her lips.

" Hello!" they all said, bowing back.

" I thought WhiteBeard had no females on his crew?" Zoro questioned, skeptically looking her up and down. He recognized her from her wanted poster… but always believed it was a typo.

" Yep! But I'm an exception," With a proud smile she pointed to her chest "See I'm his blood daughter!" The others, taken slightly aback by the news… Ussop and Chopper shaking softly at the news.

" Glade they're on our side," Ussop said under his breath. Hugging Chopper who also sighed in relief.

" And who's this little guy?" Nami asked while bending down to the small boy's level, a gentle smile on her lips.

" Ah! Sabo say hello," Y/N said pushing him forward. He was shy… always had been, but he was still brave in a strange aspect.

" H-hii" He stuttered before quickly waddling behind Y/N's legs to hide.

" Is he yours?" Sanji asked, chuckling softly at the boy's actions.

" Yep all mine," Ace smiled… enjoying his family all together for the first time. I watched as Y/N picked Sabo up and walked towards Luffy.

" This is your Uncle," She shifted Sabo allowing him to look at Luffy directly.

" Uncle!" Sabo giggled, reaching for the rubber man… "Love… you!" He hesitated, making sure he had the right words.

" Sabo huh?" Luffy allowed a sad smile to form… looking closely you could see the small tears forming. "I love ya too kid…" He chuckled, removing his straw hat before gently placing it on the boy's head. A near silent promise… that no matter what… he would protect him.

Another time Skip to War of Best.

Ace's POV (Don't usually do character perspective…. but for this just seemed necessary)

"So you really have a kid?" Jinbe asked. Adjusting his chains to what seemed a more comfortable position.

" Yeah and a beautiful wife, and so much more" I couldn't help but tear up. Thinking about her… Sabo… the life we could've had… If only I could have controlled myself. Listened to them, Pops, Maroc… Y/n… every damn second I can hear her pleading voice 'Ace… please… I know… I know but We need you! I need you! SABO NEEDS YOU' She sobbed that night… not even able to look me in the eyes as I dropped her off on that Island. I couldn't help it, I couldn't put her in that kind of danger… not her… not him. But yet, here I was in prison and I was about to leave my Wife all alone with my son permanently… And the last thing I told her was 'You don't understand'… Talk about an idiot. " I'm just happy she's ok," I said tears now streaming down my face.

I sat there softly crying, Jinbe only offering comforting words and a figurative shoulder to cry on… but then I heard footsteps… Heavy footsteps… assertive ones. Looking up… there he stood…Grandpa.

" Ace, I tried to help you," He spoke taking a seat. Glancing up at me and scoffing at my tears " M-man up and quit your crying," He said. The softest break in his voice caused him to stutter.

" Shut up old man, I-I" I couldn't finish my sentence, I took a breath, figuring it was useless to argue… settling on putting in my last request now. "Hey old man," I said softly, meeting his bloodshot eyes.

" What Brat?"

"There's a beautiful Woman out there who's most likely going to show up at some point please keep her safe," I said looking at him with pleading eyes. Watching as he sighed, moving his hand to rub his eyes.

" Is she a pirate?"

" Yes, but she's the mother to my child," God that hurt to say… to talk as if I'd never see her again. I couldn't stop them so I simply let the tears slide down my face. I wasn't scared to die no not at all… in fact ever since I was little… I believed I deserved it but… now I was scared to leave her and scared of what would happen to her. Then there's my son… god the minute they find him he would be killed… Slaughted on the spot for merely existing. " Old Man, My Son," I said laughing softly… practically begging at this point. " Please don't let them take him, or get near him" I took a soft breath " She will give her life for him but I'm afraid they will do anything for him, sigh with my blood and hers," He simply looked at me…

" Who's blood does she carry?" He asked as he started to stand, turning his back to me… looking at the exit.

" WhiteBeard's Himself," I said letting out a chuckle.

" Boy, you are asking a lot…" I could hear his lip quivering… and a soft sigh leaving his lips… "Why… Why did you have to go and get caught," A soft drip sounded as his tears landed on the floor. "DAMIT BOY WHY" He screamed… punching the floor and causing it to crack… "I will… I promise boy," He spoke, moving one foot in front of the other… walking towards the exit. "I… I promise… I won't let this government take anything else from you…Your life is more than enough,"

"Thank you," I smiled softly at his words… knowing at the very least… they would be fine. "For everything old man," I bowed as he disappeared from sight.

Time Skip Right before Ace's death

Y/N POV

I ducked, covering Luffy as we ran through the insanity of the war. I felt the earth shake… and watched with horror as the large cannon began to separate me from my dad.

" POPS" Marco and Vista yelled, stopping in their tracks to watch the man before them.

" WHY? PLEASE NO!" I was screaming as he separated us, forcing us to leave him " PAPA PLEASE… DON'T LEAVE US… DON'T LEAVE ME!" God, there was so much going on… we had Ace… we won… why couldn't we just leave… why couldn't I just have my happy ending…

"POPS NO!" Ace stood beside me trying to hold me back as I attempted to rush back to him. We could only watch, his body bloodied and broken… his white hair stained red… but yet… a proud smile on his face. Turning to look at his children… us… me.

" My children Before I go, tell me. Was I a good Farther?" he asked as a single tear ran down his face.

" YES PAPA! YOU WHERE THE BEST, DON'T EVER QUESTION IT" I yelled out to him. Knowing that… this would be the last time I'd hear him… his voice, his laugh… his smile… all of it was for the last time. I watched as his face contorted… his smile dropping… and his eyes… going blank… "PAPA!!!" I screamed, making a move to run but two strong arms stopped him. "Y/n… Y/n… you have a son to return to… please!" It was Marco… he held me tightly to my chest, trying to reason with me, "Sabo… needs you… so let's go… while we still can," I didn't want to… no, not my dad… my old man… leaving him here… it didn't feel right… but yet… I knew I had to.

"Right…"

"Tsk… what a pathetic excuse of a man," I halted at the comment… a harsh, deep, ridged voice spoke. Akainu stood, staring us down from a close distance… far too close for comfort. "To die… a Pirate… How hell bound is he…" Oh, he irked me… so much… but the thought of Sabo, being left with Rayleigh … not knowing why his mother never came back to him, sobered me up.

" SHUT UP YOU KNOW NOTHING OF HIM!" Ace roared at him, his voice booming with rage… fuck. I didn't have time to react. Not a word was said, nor was there a movement as Ace leaped, aiming right at Akainu. I watched in frozen horror, glancing around the battlefield in search of Luffy… find him… protect him… you promised him… was the only thing going through my head. Finding him a decent distance, I refocused on Ace going blow for blow with the Admiral. Blood flew, spit, punch after punch… Lava… Fire… it fused together oh so beautifully yet so terrifying all at the same time.

" ACE STOP!" I screamed trying to gain his attention… pull him away… anything. But… he continued on, landing a decent blow to Akainus's face, causing the man to stumble back slightly… allowing both a moment to refocus. I could see it… the way his eyes wandered to the weakest link on the front line… "LUFFY!" too late… too late… too late… I was… too late to notice, to react, to move, to… to stop him.

" FINE, I'LL JUST GO FOR YOU!" Akainu yelled as he made his way toward Luffy.

"NO!" Me and Ace yelled at the same time. Too late… too late… too late… far too late… I watched… in pure horror as Ace took the blow… not just any blow… no… a fatal one.

"A-ACEE" Luffy's voice was ear piercing… his scream… his horror…his sorrow… I ran… as fast as I could… watching… from what felt like a mile away.

"a-ACE" I screamed as he fell to the floor, " NO NO NO" I screamed running toward him. Finally, finally, I was making up ground… sliding to my keens next to Luffy, allowing the boy to fall onto my shoulder…

" Ace" Luffy whispered, his eyes rolling back, a scream etched onto his face while he passed out… sliding down my shoulder… into the bloodied ground…

"L-luf!" Before I could move to help… the gurgling of Ace… called for me.

" He-hey babe," He said softly coughing up blood. A stupid smile on his face… his eyes already droopy and face pailing fast. With gentle hands, I brought him to rest on my lap… watching as my tears dripped onto his face.

" A-Ace… No, please tell me you're ok," I said cleaning the blood from his lip. I knew he wasn't… but god did I wish he was… wish the blood was another stupid joke… wish this damn pool of blood was actually spilled juice… but unfortunately… it wasn't. There was no sweet scent to it… only bitter and iron… and the sounds weren't the crew laughing… no it was gunshots, screams… death. I glanced next to me Luffy was passed, his eyes white and mouth wide. " L-look what you did to him," I said chucking softly trying to lighten the mood. "scared him for life…"

"Y/N I -I'm sorry"

"For what? You have nothing to apologize for," I said letting the tears run free.

" I put a target on Sabo's back, with my blood," He said tears running as well. His goofy smile was replaced with a deep frown… taking a moment he coughed up more blood.

" Ace, love… any child I or you had was gonna be wanted from birth" I sighed as his breathing started too slow. I watched as the light became a little more dime in his eyes… Oh, what a time… to be in his final moments… and all he can think about is our son… God what a man. " I'm just happy that you're the father of my child" I lowered my head pressing a soft kiss to his lips. Tasting the iron from his blood… and salt from his sweat. Gently pulling away… just gazing down at his basically white face.

"Please Y/N, keep him safe," Ace said as the breath left his lips " And please follow Luffy… keep him safe" He gave a soft smile, lifting his head to kiss me, "mm and Find someone else to love… someone to hold you… care for you… love… you," his breath shuttered… lifting himself again to meet my lips… one… last… time. I smiled at the last kiss we would ever share, with my husband… with my soulmate… " Ace the love of my life I promise I will keep everyone safe but… I can't promise to find another," I couldn't bring myself to promise something like that… "I never said till death do us part…" I held his lips centimeters away from mine… "Because I refuse to separate after death… stuck with me for eternity"

"Thank… you… for loving me…" He coughed… blood spitting up… spilling onto my hair, face, clothes… everything… "Thank you… for… my greatest.." He huffed… trying to continue… fighting the darkness threatening to take him… "Gift… I-I… will find you again… I promise…promis…" I watched… as his eyes went dark… his stupid smile still resting on his face… his breathing stopping completely… My Ace… oh my Ace… was gone… but yet… I could only smile… knowing that in those seven seconds of his life flashing before his eyes… I was in there… and Sabo… Luffy, Pops… Garp… Thatch… Marco… and I'm sure… even Teach.

Narrators POV

"ACE" the crew screamed as he went limp. They watched… tearful… scared… making no movements as Y/n sat there… smiling but motionless with Ace still resting on her lap.

" Y/N!!" Marco yelled, deciding he couldn't leave his sister there alone any longer… Rushing over… he gently grabbed Luffy, quickly handing him over to Jinbe before turning back to her. "Y/n?" He softly spoke… tearing up at the sight in front of him… 'Ace…' His heart hurt… oh so badly… Thatch… Pops… now Ace… all ripped from his fingers. He was dragged out of his thoughts when the ground suddenly shook… stumbling away from her, the sheer Haki that was radiating off her was… terrifying.

"АНННННННН!" а scream of agony ripped from Her throat as if she had just been stabbed through the heart. It was ear-shattering and heartbreaking… no matter what side you were fighting for. " AAAACCCCEEEEE!" she cried out. Violently sobbing, simply staring down at his body… "AGHHH ACE!!"

" Y/N CALM DOWN" The crew was trying to get her to calm down, they knew her devil fruit… heavily intertwined with her anger and sorrow… Losing control now… means doubling the size of the casualties.

" No no no no NOOOO!" She screamed… her hair floating as she allowed her energy to flow freely… shaking the ground. " I'm done with this!" She rasped… voice hoarse and ragged. "I'll kill you," she muttered softly… before tearing her eyes from Ace and staring at Akainu "I'll KILL YOU!" she screamed as she gently removed the now lifeless body from her lap. Taking caution to lay his head on the ground softly… taking his hat into her hands and staring at it for a moment before setting it safely upon her head. "DEADLY PUPPET!"

Everyone froze as the dead bodies all around her started to move again ( Minus Ace). Mangeld and broken… bodies of Marines and Pirates moved… Standing at a still position… like mer puppets. Marco gasped softly… staring at her face… seeing the ice-cold stare she held, no remorse for those she was using as she would usually have… No emotion about the fact that her own brothers were being used… She was no longer Y/n in this moment… nor was she La Muerte no love… health… celebration… no she was Xibalba… dark… frighting… forgetting those she was using.

" Kill every Marine In site" She demanded. Her voice was dark, laced in venom… eyes a neon green, and hair a now spikey form. Everyone watched in horror as the number of dead bodies doubled as well as the number of her army.

" Y/N STOP THIS MADNESS" The crew called back while at the same time trying to get Luffy to safety. Jinbe was horrified… Ace spoke as if this woman was a saint… but what he saw now was straight out of hell.

"Love… that's what she's acting on," Vista spoke quickly… catching the terrified look on Jinbe's face. "The unhealthy kind"

"Y/n PLEASE!" Marco screamed

" NO THEY KILLED MY HUSBAND AND MY FARTHER, NO MARINE WILL LEAVE HERE ALIVE" She screamed, moving to search for the bastard that did it… that killed him. Locking eyes on him… she only smiled, dark and menacing. " AND YOU, YOU SON OF A BITCH, I'LL KILL YOU MYSELF" she pointed at Akainu and started to walk towards him.

" Bring it on 'Princess'" He said getting ready for a fight. Using air quotes to taunt her… trying to get her mentally over the edge. It was working.

" AKAINU I'LL KILL YOU THEN I'M GOING AFTER THAT FATASS UP THERE," she said pointing toward Teach. Who gasped at her words… not realizing he was gonna get dragged in so soon.

As another body hit the floor, the two were going at it. Lava was flying with each connection of kicks and punches. Blood, sweat, and tears were flying everywhere. Some are attacks missing and others are not.

" YOUR SON WILL DIE THE SAME WAY HIS FARTHER DID" Akainu yelled, ' I can break her' he thought. He was not expecting such a vigorous fight… especially from a woman. 'never believed that a broken-hearted woman… was far more dangerous than a greedy man…' She was proving his belief wrong now.

" AKAINU THAT'S ENOUGH" Garp yelled. ' I made a promise' he thought struggling under Son Goku. He needed to get to her… at the very least… be ready for if they moved to hunt for son… His great-grandson… 'Like hell they'll take her… or him!'

" Garp are you trading sides," He asked pushing Garp further into the ground.

" No but that Woman is my family and so is her child," he said finally getting out. Rushing to the battlefield… not getting involved but staying close just in case.

" YOU TOUCH MY SON I'LL BURN YOU IN HELL!" She screamed… sending a fist into Akainu, Haki covered and blood-lust-ridden. Hitting him so hard that he went flying… sailing into the canon that her father had made… Breathing heavily "Fuck… You!" Shifting her sight… Moving on from Akainu… hunting for the bitch bastard that started all this… "WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU TEA-AKK!" She gurgled when a sword impaled her chest… near deadly strick. "I- Who?" Y/n gasped… glancing behind her to see Marco… tear tear-ridden face and guilt-bound.

"I'm sorry little Sis… I promise I'll fix you up… but I can only allow so many siblings to die this day…" He whispered, pulling the sword from her chest… watching as she coughed up blood… before falling backward into the ground… landing right next to Ace. Turning her head… she gazed at his body… his face pale and eyes blank… but still his stupid… not his beautiful smile… edged onto his face forever. Reaching out softly… grasping his hand, she smiled.

"Unfortunately… Marco won't let me meet you yet…" She spoke softly… knowing full well that Marco would be back any second to heal her… "But… I'm glad… because I promise… I'll raise a perfect boy… a man… just like you," She smiled softly, allowing the darkness to take her. "Bye… bye my Ace."

"MAMA UNCLE LUFFY WANTS YOU!"

'Right!' Y/N was dragged out of her memories, reliving the past and the pleasure of her husband. It's been nearly 3 years since then, and now little Sabo stood smiling happily at the Age of 4. He looks exactly like him… his freckled-ridden face, dark eyes, hair, smile… not even an aspect of her in him. Only… Ace… and she wouldn't have it any other way.

" Think bout Papa again?" he asked sitting next to her, carefully grabbing her hand. Gently rubbing his thumb over her hand… a faint memory of his father doing so… was it his own?… or just one of when his mama would tell him of his dad?

" Yes sweetie, sorry," she said trying to wipe the little tears that were escaping.

" It's ok to cry Mama, I miss Papa too," he said now hugging his mother's arm. He did… so much… so young yet he knew he loved Ace… no His dad… he missed him… remembered him… needed him… loved him.

" Anyways, Where's Uncle Luffy?" She said getting off of Sunny's head. Picking Sabo up on the way.

" He's inside with Uncle Zoro," Sabo said pointing toward the kitchen door.

" Come on then! Let's see," she said slowly walking, Sabo went ahead and ran in front. Giggling as he threw the door open.

" I love you" Y/N was quick to turn around, looking for who said that. She sighed at the sight of her husband… a move… a technique she'd been practicing for years… now perfected.

" Thank you," she said smiling toward him. " For everything and I love you too" She took a step toward him and hugged the ghost, a familiar scent and touch made her smile…

" I'll be back don't worry," He said holding her face.

" I know, next week? Same time? " she asked.

"Same time," he said smiling back. She gently kissed him as he slowly faded away. God was she blessed to be a Devil fruit owner… especially of the Land of the Dead… both the forgotten and remembered… She got his spirit back to this world… not to complete her second part of this mission… completing his body… to be used as a successful vessel.

"Soon Mi amor… I'll have you back… and so will Luffy, Marco… Sabo…" She smirked… pulling out her notebook to make the final touches to her sketch… "Just need a compatible heart…"

"MAMA HURRY!!!"

"COMING LOVE!!" She giggled, tucking it safely into her pocket, before running to the Kitchen.

(okay so.... I sobbed writting this... Like being so for real... sobbed... I love Ace, he's my husband and his birthday was 4 days ago.... AGHHH... miss his greasy ass.... okay love you all! and also this took for ever so I promis PT2 for her healed heart will be out soon!

HAVE A GREAT DAY AND REMEMBER TO EAT,DRINK, AND LOVE YOURSELF BYEEEEEE LOVE YOU ALL

[mirrorcatcreditcard]

Luka analysis/ramble below

Contains Round 7/Final spoilers

Ya know, Luka must be such an incredibly hollowed out man with enough trauma to incapacitate a different human. Like seriously, he's the perfect representation for anyone stuck under the obsessive spiral of perfectionism and repression.

He's in his early thirties, and his only attainable achievements are being covetable human flesh and doing so well at music that any potential friends or colleagues he could have will die in front of him if he takes the time to do the only thing he's allowed to focus on—sing. The girl he loves and could never talk with like a "normal kid" (but it didn't matter then because she accepted him as he was) has traumatic flashbacks just seeing him. The knowledge that her existence is so highly illegal that any achievements he has made will mean nothing if he is seen loving her... That's heavy. And that's partially on the assumption he's seen the news as it's hard to miss. (It's hard to tell with his expressions.) The moment he sees Hyuna in Round 7, the facade and mimicry is gone. All that's left is the hollow and lonely man.

How many times has he seen people he may have liked, disliked, been curious about, hated, shared memories with- how many have died or been beaten before his eyes? How many times has he supressed the screams inside of him because he's not allowed to. He's a puppet off of the stage, strictly controlled and having his fate already decided for him as long as he can probably remember.

"His eyes are lifeless." "He's so cruel." "He's just manipulative." Tell me you can't get a clue without telling me you can't get a clue. There are so many things wrong with this man, and you're going to obsess over the fact that a victim still stuck in abuse has done "inhumane" things on a planet and in a universe surrounded by creatures that teach that inhumanity is the most normal response to have to human emotions. Do you even know how the brain works when stuck in a situation where you're constantly just surviving? I'll tell you because I have firsthand knowledge. You do anything to stay alive. Anything. If brainwashed, you will hurt people you love if you think it will save them/keep them safe. And when it's all said and done, you then further crawl into the shell of yourself with hope that the emotional/mental bombs don't put enough shrapnel into your fragile, hiding self to ensure you really don't wake up this time. Because then hurting the other person would have been for nothing. Because then you'll have failed the one goal you have—survival. Trauma changes how a human brain is shaped and formed. (It's a scientific fact; go look it up if you think I'm pulling your leg.) I wonder if that, on top of the insinuated neurodivergence, is enough to make the already born outcast and alien-proclaimed prince (meaning: he's above the other humans AND nobody can touch him on his throne that only get higher each new death near him) be considered "surviving" instead of the "thriving" people seem to think of him as doing. I wonder how much he'll have to go through before he's "traumatized enough" or "injured enough" for the fandom to have a crumb of empathy (or even sympathy) for him.

Even if you have dulled feelings or no specific attachments to others—being the indirect cause of so many deaths, watching blood splatter the stage in a competition so fierce that the surviving participant(s?) develop medical problems overtime, knowing this is your very bread and water and shelter but the ones watching and clicking buttons to ensure your survival see this as an event for pure entertainment and no true depth, having to live with no attachments because either you'll never see the person again or you'll never see the person again—this fucks up a person. Isolation is the reason people take the fast way out of this world. Isolation is the reason why people go mad. Isolation makes you beg the very air surrounding your existence to end you. Yet simultaneously, you want to live so bad, and you just can't understand why humans are like this because all of you should want to be dead by now, even if the voices around you speak of how you're the greatest and most privileged.

The first time around must have been terrifying. How did Luka feel winning something like that, achieving all the praise and great treatment as his body and mouth metaphorically dripped with still-warm blood? Did he feel like he fought and died a million times over? Was he cursing or tiredly resigned because winning means he has to do it all over again if your master wishes and his master is greedy? Was he thinking of Hyuna-A? Was the win so hollow and full of traumatic moments that he tucked it down once more because even for someone detached and bullied by his peers the entire ordeal had been too much? Was he rationalizing it? Did he feel like a sick bastard for his hunger for control on stage? I wonder how much he disassociates off-screen. I wonder if he ever stopped his habit of putting his mouth on things for sensory stimulation or if he just hides it behind closed doors to be publically presentable. I wonder if he's ever acted out, gotten punished severely, and never acted out again. When did Hyun-A escape? How much did he know about it? The only love he's been taught is the faux love between owner and owned. He's obsessed with control because he has no control over his life and the stage is the only place he gets it. Is it really so shocking that he declared Hyun-A as "his" in the past and wishes she'd let herself be owned by him? This entire thing is so fucked up, and I still don't know enough about this man to be satisfied.

Luka has been stuck in this loop of being a product that exists for public consumption for at least ten years, so please excuse him if he's tired and working on instincts to live and desire for control turned to lifeless (yet pretending to be full of it) and brokenly presenting art of which he knows/thinks the muse of will never see.

[arseholism]

[ Wow, you're seriously going to attempt reading about me?? Alright then, before we begin this long and tiresome charade, let's go over the basic information you NEED to know and understand.. ] [ NO! i do not want to subscribe to your OF] [ I don't "want" you. I don't "need" you. I don't want to "come see you". ] [ Please for the love of whatever you love most, do not bother telling me this post offended you]

[ Aw you look beautiful when you’re smiling! Love those shoes too ;) ]

[ Alright, get comfortable my darling ] [ I love people, i just don't find many interesting. So technically, the law of averages works against you.] [ You might be awesome.. please, feel welcome to change my mind ] [ Okay, Lets go. ] [ My name is Arias ]

[ You pronounced that wrong! ] [ I like coffee ] [ I like people. I wouldn't be able to live without people.] [ I love talking ] [ You don't know me ] [ You probably wouldn't understand me even if you did ] [ I'm From London ] [ I also live in Los Angeles, Sydney and New york ] [ Because i can ] [ I travel a lot ] [ I'm 6'3 ] [ I like short girls ] [ Not midgets. Short girls ] [ My dad's white, my mum's spanish .. Incase you wondered ]

[ I love American accents! They’re so fucking cute!! ]

[ I'm English ] [ Yes i have an accent, it's london with a hint of sydney] [ I like it.. ] [ No you probably will never hear it ] [ I've played Piano, Guitar and Violin since i was 4 ] [ I write lyrics and music when i'm bored ] [ No i will not write you a song ] [ Yes i can sing ] [ No i will not sing for you ] [ I love to cook ]

[ No i will not cook for you ] [ I'm blunt so i can be an arsehole ] [ I'm quite nice in general ] [ I'm passive, i really don't give a fuck ] [ Unless i care.. then I absolutely give a fuck ] [ I won't suck up just so you like me ] [ I do what I want ] [ I do not like cameras, in case you’re wondering why my page isn’t littered with selfies ] [ No i will not be your trick monkey ] [ or your human puppet ] [ enough. ] [ Make me smile, make me laugh, i'll get addicted to you ] [ I'm a cuddle whore ] [ I'm attracted to pretty faces and beautiful smiles ] [ I'm a dreamer ] [ I love to plan dreamy dates and sensational moments] [ I have sleep issues. I like my issues ] [ I love to read ] [ I think you're spiffy because you're still reading this ] [ I'm bored right now, so i may NEVER stop. ] [ I LOVE to cook. I even bake my own bread haha ] [ If you tak lyke dis, dun fuhkin tak 2 me mkay? ] [ Right. got that off my chest ] [ I swim, i run, i eat unhealthy, my body is so confused, but it's pretty to look at? ] [ I love music, i have way too much music for one guy ] [ I love kids, i have 3 god children and they rock my world ] [ I'm opinionated and judgemental, however, i will listen to your opinion and i will listen to your side of the story] [ I'm hopelessly romantic ] [ I'm very very very picky ] [ No. I'm not looking for anything or anyone ] [ Romance.. is so misunderstood ] [ I'm broken ] [ No. You can't fix me ] [ Wow. I didn't stop. You didn't stop. We're still here and we're meant to be *gushes* haha ] [ I'll probably adopt. ] [ I'm always bored ] [ I like conversation ] [ I love to read ] [ I don't like pictures, i figure that if there is something beautiful enough, it'll burn into my memory ] [ I however, do not want you to hit on me ] [ I can be very perverted ] [ No, this does not imply i want to talk dirty ] [ Or.. that i want you to talk dirty ] [ Please try not to be too creepy.. PRETTY PLEASE? ] [ I'm also very moralistic ] [ I love my imagnation ] [ I have a major oral fetish ] [ Do we have things in common? ] [ No, You could probably never be my dream girl ] [ I have never had a one night stand ] [ Yes, i'm very picky and fucking frustrating ] [ Are you Captain Entertainment? Sent to rescue me from the trescherous depths of boredom? ] [ Didn't think so.. ] [ I love cookies, they make me happy ] [ I love cold miserable rainy weather ] [ I'm cheeky ] [ I'm complicated ]

[ I'm curious ]

[ Did the brackets annoy you? ]

[ Stupid word count ]

[ Go on.. Judge me! ]

[ Message me if you still want more ]

[mizzcap]

anya x reader pretty please with a cherry on top??? she deserved better -m-

ofc my lovely!❤️

Synopsis: the Tuplar is saved! Expect they crash landed on- Aeaea?

ANYA × CIRCE!READER

TW: Jizzard (gets killed in part 2), slight gore mentioned, post crash curly appearance mentioned, possible allusion to rape

Reader is implied to be Female! However I will keep the pronouns vague as too allow for anyone to place themselves in the role!!

A bit of a song fic

-Anya was woken up the moment she felt a jolt rush through the ship

- tired eyes instinctively trailing off to Curly, almost wincing on instinct upon seeing the state of her captain. She will never be used to that sight

-jimmy was the first to find the hole in the ship, they crash landed on some kids of Island. Where they back home?

-no

-earth didn't have these weird.. cloud things

-Anya would later learn they were called Winions

-she was instructed to go first, despite Swansea insistence that the "Captain who carries all of the power should carry the burden of being first"

-the others trailed behind Anya (Swansea holding Curly) as she approached a tall set of palace door

A beautiful person in what seemed like a loose greyish toga that hung over their chest. Their waist was secured with a golden belt and they wore no shoes, though their ankles and wrists were adorned with golden bangles

Long pointed ears twitched upon seeing the group, More specifically when their eyes zoned in on Anya

A smile found its way onto their face as they hopped back a few steps, opening their arms as they allowed for the group to enter

"Come inside!"

"damn" Jimmy whispered and whistled, making Anya Cringe a bit as she hesitantly continued

"welcome to the best part of your lives" their hands ghosted down Swansea's shoulders

"go ahead and rest wherever you like!" Fingers ghosted over Curly's bandaged head as they slipped open a large door before they spun, facing Anya as the men walked into the room

"I've got you .. (Y/N)'s got you now"

Something about that felt more... reassuring- calming even. Anya blinked away tears she didn't realize we're forming as the witch-..

(Y/N)

Turned away as walked into the room, Anya following close by.

The room was lavish. Magenta and gold decorations covered the otherwise white walls. Giving it a sort of mythical or unreal light

"take a seat!" They insisted, handing pressing on Daisuke's shoulders as he plopped down on a cushioned seat.

Magenta wisps of light swirled as what looked to be trays of snacks and drinks were manifested, all with the words "Let me bring you all something to eat!"

"I bet you're tired from the time spent on your feet" they took place next to Jimmy, positioning their torso as their hands found his shoulders, hot breath in his ear "think of your past.. and your mistakes. They'll be the last mistakes you make..." They muttered lowly in his ears as he stuffed his face with the breads Infront of him

Squealing

Horrifying- horrible squealing broken through as she pulled away from Jimmy.

Jimmy fell to his knees, clawing at his neck in a panic as he tried peeling off the pig snout that once had been over where his mouth and nose was

Anya gasped and slapped hands over her ears, shutting her eyes. Tears welled up as more squeals followed soon after, turning into a trio of painful swine cries.

"stop! You're hurting them!" Anya pleaded.

Daisuke and Swansea. Honestly, fuck Jimmy.

"this is the price we pay to live" the being gently cupped their hands over Anya's ears, blocking her view of the Swines as they painfully transformed. Despite the two pairs of hands blocking the sound, Anya could still hear the witch as bold as day

Yellow cat-like eyes fixed on Anya's dark and downsloped ones. The yellow pair almost going softer as they stared into Anya's.

They slowly led Anya back out of the room "no one will find their way between my nymph's and I- their loving queen"

Fingers ghosted down Anya's cheek, pushing back loose hair that stuck to her face- the girl sweating from stress and anxiety.

"this is the price we pay to love" the queen frowned as they tried reassuring the nurse. Wide yet dark eyes darting behind the queen to try and see her friends. Worry welling in her chest for Daisuke, Swansea, and Curly..

Once again fuck Jimmy

"we draw the line and watch from above"

"you're playing with my friends and hurting them!" Anya protested, tears peaking from the corners of her eyes

"I don't play, I puppeteer" the queen's words were harsh a bit hurt as magenta wisps shut the door, blocking off the swines from Anya and (Y/N)

(I WILL MAKE A PART 2 SOON DW ❤️)

[desos-records]

Voting as Fire Extinguisher

Red Hood One-Shot

Thank you for the request!: id love to see a one shot about Jason & The Alley Homeless kids! Whatever you prefer! Just Fluff preferred [@little-snails-log]

Title makes more sense with the context of this great poem by Kyle Tran Myhre

Word Count: 1,207

CW: homelessness, swearing

-

Jason crouched on a rooftop staring across the street, through the rain and the dark, at the apartment complex where he grew up. He saw the creeping mildew and crumbling plaster, the peeling paint and broken glass. After returning to Gotham, part of him sincerely hoped someone had demolished the place, razed all of Crime Alley, and leveled the Hill. He'd considered doing it himself.

Two kids, huddled in the alley next to his old building, giggled together as they played with a flashlight, their clumsy shadow puppets fighting each other on the brick wall. They didn't seem to notice the rain. No one called them in, scolding them about catching a cold or staying up past bedtime. Jason wondered when they'd eaten last, wondered if the deli on the corner still handed out old bread if you asked and if these kids knew that old Mr. Bolognetti looked scary, but would give you ten bucks and a sandwich for sweeping the floor.

And that was why he didn't. That was why he kept coming back to the Alley, kept protecting it and the people here, even though watching his past play out again killed him a little. These kids couldn't help where they'd been born, but he could help it suck a little less.

On the wall of his old apartment complex, above the same dumpster he remembered hiding in to escape the gang bangers and the cops, someone had thrown up his red bat symbol in spray paint. They were all over the neighborhood. Little cardstock signs appeared in windows with the symbol drawn in red marker. Stickers had started cropping up on the back of street signs and power boxes with his helmet on them and reading: Welcome to the Red HOOD.

He kind of wanted one for his bike.

"Shit, it's cold," one of the kids said.

"Yeah. Come on, I know a spot by—" The other kid stopped. "What the…"

Jason watched as they found the box he'd left there for them, marked with his symbol in an attempt to gain the trust of the rightfully skittish kids. It had everything he could remember wanting on the street—real coats, waterproof camping blankets, can openers, water bottles, small radios, cards for the subway, protein bars and full-size candy bars, a few school supplies, some batteries for that flashlight, and good solid backpacks to hold it all.

"Holy shit!"

He listened to their excited clamor as they dug through the box, quickly dividing it up. A smile overtook him and he didn't even try to stop it. One of the kids, older brother maybe, a little bigger and able to carry more, took more of the load.

And then he looked up, scanning the rooftops. Jason crouched down farther just on instinct, but the movement only gave him away.

The kid smiled and waved, pointing him out to the other one. Jason battled briefly with himself, but then he waved back.

"I told you he was real! I told you!"

He didn't dare get closer to them. They had enough violence in their lives. Sometimes though, sometimes he couldn't help it. 

The next night, he checked their spot again, just to see, just to be sure.

"You sure do like this alley. Trying to muscle us out?"

Jason jumped in his skin and whirled around on his heel. He'd forgotten how sneaky kids like him could be, how second-nature stealth training had been.

The kid didn't flinch, but gave a long whistle. "That's one fancy bike helmet," he said in the same wide working class Gotham accent that Jason had never been able to completely knock as Robin—and it only came back with a vengeance after he resurrected.

The other one, a little girl, stood slightly behind him with wide wondering eyes. "Do you really kill people?" she asked, all bravery and sharp curiosity and, God, she could've been his sister. He would've liked having a sister.

He knelt down to be at their level, acutely aware of his height. "Sometimes," he said.

"You kill the bad guys, right?"

"That's right."

"Could you off my English teacher then?" the boy asked. "He won't get off my ass about my spelling."

"No."

At least you're going to school, Jason thought. He'd stopped somewhere between his mom getting sick and Bruce finding him.

"You're no fun," he said, smiling.

The little girl had gotten ahold of Jason's arm and, on instinct, he lifted it to bring her almost off her toes while she giggled. "How'd you get so big?"

"Magic," he said, which only made her laugh more.

The boy's smile turned soft even as he crossed his arms, watching the little girl swing on Jason's arm like monkey bars. "What'd you come back here for anyway?" he asked. "Drop the keys to your Batmobile?"

"No. I have a motorcycle."

"Not what I asked." And there it was, the knife in his voice put there by Gotham, bright eyes lit by chemical refineries, always sharp, always watching. He could spot a lie.

"One of those bad guys is planning to hurt a lot of people on this part of the Hill," Jason said. "I'm going to stop him, but I wanted to make sure you two were safe."

The boy blew out his lips. "Don't you worry about us, boss. I know my way around."

"I'm sure you do."

"Tell him about the new shelter!" the little girl said, letting go of Jason.

Little warning bells rang sharp in his head. Sometimes shelters were just that, but like everything else in Gotham, it could just as easily be a front.

Something in his body language must have tipped the boy off. "Yeah, I thought it was bullshit too, but…" He fidgeted and got quiet. "It's named after that kid who died."

"What kid?"

"The Wayne kid, the one who was in all the papers. He was from here, you know? Folks still talk about him sometimes."

Jason didn't breathe for a moment. His heart might have stopped all over again. Bruce wouldn't—

Actually, Bruce would. And of course, he wouldn't say anything or bother telling Jason about it. Actions speaking louder than words, as always. But it wasn't like it would've killed him.

"I don't know," the boy added, shrugging in his new coat. "I thought we might give it a shot."

"Good." Jason cleared his throat and hoped his voice modulator hid most of it. "I'll check it out, just in case."

The boy nodded and scuffed his shoe against the alley gravel. Then he held his hand out for the little girl, who took it immediately. He gave a crooked sort of salute as he led her away. "Guess we'll see you around then."

The girl called over her shoulder, waving to him, "Bye! Stay out of trouble!"

Someone must have told her that a lot. Jason certainly heard it often enough growing up here. He wondered how many of the people she knew were people he'd known, people who remembered him, still talked about him. Some of them might even remember his old joke.

I am the trouble.

But now, he thought maybe he was finally the right kind of trouble.