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dorki-c · 3 years

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My Guardian Demon |Chapter 1, Part 2: Two Dreams

Relationship: Izuku Midoriya X (Reader)

Rating: 16+

A/N: Hey! Hey! Hey! Everybody! I just wanted to let you all know that in the beginning of this series like prologue story arc wise, I will only be highlighting the main points of said story arc.

TW: Suffocation and depiction of injury!

[Masterlist] [<--- Previous| Next --->]

(Song reccomendation for this chapter: Feeling Good by Michael Bublé)

PROMPT QUESTION FOR THIS STORY ARC: Are all demons ‘bad’?

When leaving the school gates with a silent warning that he gave to (y/n), there were a few minor details bothering him when traversing through the empty streets leading home.

At least he was able to walk alone to clear the commotion of todays events.

Sure, Izuku was used to Bakugou’s harassment towards him. For the most part, his mind always filtered out the nasty phrases that were thrown at him for the longest time.

However, what Bakugou had said was completely out of line.

Telling Izuku to commit suicide? Wow, what a great friend he was (if you could even call him that…).

Though the green-haired boy could easily say that about (y/n) as well. Even though its him and his stupid demon against society.

Was he sure that something may happen today? No, absolutely not. Even when turning a corner of the semi-suburban area that was closest to Aldera Junior High school, Izuku isn’t clairvoyant to anything that involves him.

Nope, not at all.

Even when making his way under the dark tunnel (to which he ignores his demon trying to hold him back from going in there, saying something along the lines of “W-w-wait! I don’t want to go down this way…”), Izuku still holds his head up high and ventures down the tunnel.

Like I said before, the green-haired boy isn’t clairvoyant that involves around him.

Plus, that shouldn’t exempt him from being cautious about what might lurk in the shadows.

Until this point, (y/n) only spoke in short sentences, though the only thing that caught Izuku off guard was the shaky utterance of “Izuku…L-Look behind you!”

He regrets looking behind him; A thing manifesting as a large murky green glob, paired with two large eyes and razor layered teeth (that scarcely resembled shark teeth), loomed over the 14 year old’s body.

I-I-It’s a villain!

As soon as Izuku blinked, one moment he was free and scrambling to his feet (fearful of the sludge villain) and the next, his body was trapped in something slimy… The green sludge body dripped with viscous thick globs as it wrapped like a vice around the boy. With a waterfall of pleading cut short and shown through desperate green eyes as Izuku squirmed annoyingly to the villain, there was no chance of escaping because he would be dead “in a minute” tops.

In a vain attempt to free Izuku from the grasps of the villain, the demon’s futile attempts to scratch away at the slime, only resulted in their misty hands to pass through the slime like their hand was non-existent.

Fuck—If a damn hero isn’t going to save Izuku, then it has to be his demon’s duty to do so.

Though it’s quite challenging for (y/n) to grip Izuku’s shoulders and pull him forward, it doesn’t have enough energy to stall for time.

Was fate cursing (y/n) again? The sun was up high in the sky, yet it always deceived the unguarded and weakest of them all. Didn’t it? If it wasn’t for the saving grace of a frisbee object hitting the villain in the eye, the sludge villain recoiled backwards and (thankfully) released its hostage, where the boy’s limp body met face first into the pavement.

Staying close to Izuku’s unconscious body, (y/n) watched as the pro-hero blatantly invaded their owner’s space and didn’t hear their screeching of something along the words of “DISGUSTING!!!” and “AAAAAAAH BEGONE! BEGONE! BEGONE!!” And the boy wasn’t woken up because of the cheek slaps, it was because of (y/n)’s obnoxious protests of the pro-hero’s cheek slaps.

Let’s not forget the loudest sigh released by the demon when one, Izuku (finally) woke himself up, and two, when that (god forsaken flimsy, annoying, outrageous) hero, was actually the number 1 hero, has retracted his hand from the demon’s owner.

(And (y/n) definitely called the number one hero “a filthy maggot that is followed by an equally filthy contra-” before they were tuned out of Izuku’s ears.)

“Ah! Thought we lost you there!” Announced the hero (to nobody in particular).

This, unfortunately, caused Izuku to pale- where it practically looked like his whole face lost all of its colour, including his eyes- and for (y/n) to think (if they even have thoughts in the first place…) that if there was a camera pointed straight at their face, it would show the most horrifying deadpanned expression on the demon’s non-existent face which would break the camera lens.

Screaming and scampering backwards, Izuku only managed to utter the words “C-C-CAN I HAVE AN AUTOGRAPH!!” before seeing his notebook (which was coincidently fish food a couple of minutes ago) signed by the hero and bowing to said hero out of gratefulness, although knowing their owner; (y/n) figured that Izuku would obviously cherish this autograph as a ‘family heirloom’.

(Izuku may or may not have blurted that out in the moment. Oh well. You can’t take everything you say back.)

“I have a question…” Murmured the green haired boy as the hero turned tail to “deliver this villain to the police station!” Sadly, the hero didn’t hear him and was about to leave the boy, where his demon was shaking their head in disappointment- “Why bother asking him?” Whispered (y/n), leaving the faint trace of their empty temperature to scarcely brush his cheek, “The man in front of you is a mere façade of bravery.” - it’s not like Izuku cares about his demon’s opinion.

Even when it’s in situations like this.

(And by situations, I mean when Izuku and his demon are clutching for dear life on the infamous hero’s legs when flying more than fifty feet above the ground.)

Looking below his feet, Izuku is always reminded that great power also has a greater price to it.

And well, All Might would probably agree (if it weren’t for being airborne).

Additionally, why did it look like you were enjoying him scream in fear for his life, when you know that if he dies, you die too.

(Was his demon secretly a sadist?!)

The landing was rocky and rough, but at least his feet managed to stand on their own after a few moments of wobbling and the small rub of your hand against his to beckon him to stand “tall and proud for being uniquely him”.

Glancing towards the hero, (y/n) scoffed in disgust at the retreating soldier whereas Izuku only begged him to “Wait,” continuing along with an unspoken prayer casted off to the sky and “one second!” to remain.

“No!”

It’s typical of a hero to say that word, but situations like this aren’t.

“I don’t have any time.” --- “I have to know!” --- “Why do you bother with him, Izuku?”

The years of quirklessness weren’t new to him. Though he wanted more.

“Even if everyone thinks I’m useless…” Izuku wanted more fulfilment for himself.

“Despite what anybody thinks.” (Y/n) wanted freedom for themself.

“I need to know.” The two of them had dreams.

“Is It possible to become a hero, without a quirk?” Even with a fearless grin, the man before the aftermath was the symbol of peace.

Well to put it simply, the embodiment of peace was secretly a human coat hanger. Now, how would the murky red demon and green haired boy react to said human coat hanger?

Uh…Yeah, they’re both screaming; Izuku was doing it out of horror, (y/n) was doing it out of disgust.

(This is a typical occurrence.)

“WHERE’S ALLMIGHT?!” The worn-down skeleton of a man looked like a couple of popsicle sticks were stuck together with Elmer’s glue as the artist called it a day. Looking left to right, then again, and finally- just for good luck- glanced left and right, as society always said, “Third time is the charm”.

“You! You’re not him!” Izuku profoundly screeched, where in fact both his demon and scrawny adult rolled their eyes. “Izuku, you don’t even have his birth certificate to prove that he—” Though poor (y/n) got cut off by Allmight proclaiming “You know how guys at pools like to suck in their muscles and flex at the same time?” The flaxen haired male then said “I’m kind of like that…” which did nothing to soothe the teenager’s shock.

“What! No! Allmight isn’t some scrawny—old—depressed looking human being!” Oh boy, your owner was as stubborn as an old mule.

“Izuku, stop what your—” Again, (y/n) was cut off by another person, “All Might’s is a hero with a fearless grin who beats every obstacle!”

“Kid, there’s plenty of fear behind a smile. Don’t be fooled.” The rustling of a white shirt caught the attention of the demon and human alike. And what it revealed…well…it was pretty nauseating.

“Pretty gross, isn’t it?”

The merged sickening stitching of skin pulled together in a makeshift attempt to preserve as the hero’s body, at the epicentre of the wound was a thick encircled glob of pink that seemed to allow an abundance of conjoined violet speckles to extend outwards in an attempt to infect the rest of his body.

“I got this in a fight around five years ago.” Relaxing his body, and moving the shirt downwards, the hero continued, “My respiratory system was destroyed, I lost my stomach, and the rest is history.” Even if his shitty joke didn’t lift the depressing tone of reality, all Izuku could do is stand there in shock—maybe a tad bit of horror— however he would’ve never thought that the one and only top hero of Japan had an injury!

(Izuku’s naïve thinking always rubbed his demon the wrong way sometimes.)

“W-wait! Does that mean Toxic Chainsaw gave you this injury!” Chuckling and turning his glance to the side, All Might shook his head. “I’m impressed, you know your stuff- however, that punk couldn’t land a couple hits on me, even if they wanted to.” “Most of the world wouldn’t have known about this fight, regardless of how much you dug through any news articles.”

(And most of the world would’ve never known about the deadly purple miasma growing on their precious hero’s body.) .

“This job isn’t easy, and to be nice—” At least Izuku would listen to All Might, whereas he ignored you at least 50% of the time, “—I think you would be better off picking a better profession, like a Police officer!”

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

“I mean he is right…” (Y/n) said to Izuku, as they continued their trek back home, with the boy loathful to agree at the red mist’s statement.

“Heroism isn’t easy.” Maybe he should give up his dream?

“You saw how disgusting his wound was.” He could be horribly injuried like All Might if he tries. “It’s practically oozing with miasma.” But Izuku can’t bring himself to give up his dream.

And if Izuku ever asked you to give up your dream of freedom, you would answer back with defiance.

“I know it isn’t easy (y/n).”

“I know I could die or get a wound like that.”

“But I’m not giving up on my dream, if you aren’t going to give up on yours.”

Alas, the gloriously golden sun highlighted the features of the old dusk that was soon turning into their new dawn.

(And might I say, if society got in their way, they will pay their dues the hard way.)

Taglist:

@glitterfreezed, @izukubabe, @sweater-weather-seven, @nyanyabisjjj, @quietlegends, @dragonsdreamoffire, @candybabey, @honeylavender13

CREDITS:

All content and art used within this story belongs to their respective owners. PLAGARISM WILL NOT BE TOLERATED!

Art credits: Dorki-C and @glitterfreezed

[MASTERLIST OF “My Guardian Demon”] [MAIN MASTERLIST]

#Izuku midoriya bnha #Izuku midoriya mha #Izuku midoriya #Izuku midoriya x y/n #Mha Au #Bnha au #Toshinori Yagi #Toshinori Yagi mha #All Might bnha #All Might mha #mha x reader #Mha x y/n #bnha x y/n #bnha x reader #Izuku Midoriya X Reader

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sabineelectricheart · 3 years

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Past Premises

Summary: Sylvain has a strict view of the world. His professor challenges it.

Rating: T - Suitable for teens, 13 years and older, with some violence, minor coarse language, and minor suggestive adult themes.

Words: 4600

Notes: It turned out to be quite long, but I find I like it. I hope you do, too.

Sylvain Gautier said he would never trust anyone because humans were self-serving and fundamentally flawed in all capacities.

That changed with Byleth Eisner.

Truth be told, the nobleman did not really believe in the inherent goodness in his fellow human. He is not blind, as a general rule, people just sucked. They were useless unless you could use them for something, and so it was better to find a way to exploit their weaknesses and harness their strengths, kicking them to the curb before you were kicked yourself.

Of course, he has been friends with Felix for so long, he cannot help but exclude his single-minded partner-in-arms from this narrative. He supposes he also feels a dutiful fondness for Dimitri, and he would feel rather irritated if someone took advantage of the naiveté of Mercedes or Ashe or even Annette and Ingrid, but still. Exploit for not being exploited.

However, despite not feeling any particular allegiance or shared history, he came to found out that Byleth was different. She changed his outlook in life.

Sylvain treated her very differently, and not different in the same deferent but contemptuous manner he treated Manuela and Hanneman. He genuinely respected and cherished his professor; in a way he cannot remember ever doing with absolutely anyone.

He wonders why. Maybe it was because of how she treated their class. She was patient and accommodating of all their idiosyncrasies, but knew exactly when and where to press them to be better. She was a stabilizing presence for Dimitri, she helped Mercedes harden and Felix soften, she encouraged Dedue to face his trauma, encouraged Annette to mend fences with her estranged father and Ashe to face the realities about his patron.

The professor even managed to make Sylvain himself make peace with what happened to Miklan, a feat so great they should commemorate her a statue in Fhirdiad.

It was hard to find much fault with Byleth Eisner, and the nobleman found himself increasingly unwilling to try.

*_*_*_*_*

Sylvain Gautier said he would never care about what anyone thought of him, because fuck them, thank you very much.

That changed with Byleth Eisner.

When she had shown up with absolutely no warning, she turned everything on its head, which was quite rude, in his opinion. He was very used to being fawned over by girls, but she revealed quickly that she was cut from a very different cloth.

What she found interesting was not what most girls found interesting, probably forged on a life of violence and want and whatever happens when you are raised on a mercenary band, and that immunity to the generally feminine proclivities included Sylavin himself.

He never had to try before to make anyone like him, it just seemed to come with the territory. His Crest did the heavy-lifting for him, and the Gautier charm and beauty closed the deal. The few people who did not like him, drops in the ocean that they were, were not worth his time.

Byleth was different for some reason, though. There was something about her that made him self-conscious and awkwardly aware of things he said or did that she might frown upon.

Goddess, frown, she did. She found him to be exceedingly arrogant, sexist, and in possession of an exceptionally large ego. She was thoroughly unimpressed by the way he used his status as a crest-having nobleman to manipulate people, especially women, into doing things for him.

They were little things, mind you, like getting a snack from the kitchens or covering for him during a detention, he was not so uncouth into manipulating naïve girls into his bed, but it made no difference to her. She thought it was particularly deplorable the way he approached his interactions with girls.

“You present as if you feel like they owe you a date just because you lowered yourself to look at them.” She had said with cold judgement one evening. “It is frankly disgusting.”

He felt downright chastised, and, much to his shock, he felt extremely guilty and embarrassed that he did anything to appear like a filthy philanderer to her.

It was then he realized he cared about what Byleth Eisner thought of him. He cared a lot.

*_*_*_*_*

Sylvain Gautier never believed that he was manipulative.

That changed with Byleth Eisner.

Sylvain tended to believe he was better than everyone else. That made it pretty effortless to hone in on easy targets for particularly exploitative manipulations, because he would feel little guilt. Some of these services were mostly benign and turned out fine in the end, with only mild humiliation or a few hours of work lost on the part of the victim.

However, sometimes, he disregarded every conceivable limit.

There is no way for a man to know when was the last time the woman has bled, and so Sylvain usually trusted whatever his bedfellow would tell him. He tried to take his own precautions, pulling out and finishing on his hand, but there were times that he loses himself in the act.

One such instances, with a particularly cunning kitchen maid, had her saying she was pregnant with his child. So, he took the easy way out and tried to vanish from her reach. To that end, he manipulated Ashe to ceding his bedroom. It was fine, the archer was more than glad for helping his classmate, even if it meant having to sleep on the entrance hall and dressing at the sauna changing room. It was all very benign.

Byleth, however, did not think it was benign at all. In fact, she made it a point to single him out in the dormitories when it was the most occupied in order to humiliate him as an almost-punishment.

“Serves you right!” She had said scathingly, while throwing him out of the bedroom by the ears and throwing his clothes out the door, the entire academy coming around to see. “You do not think of anyone but yourself. You do not care who you hurt as long as you get your piece of the pie out of it. You're lonely on the inside, and some day, you will end up actually being alone. Who would want to be friends with someone they can never be sure is trustworthy? Pathetic!”

Sylvain was humiliated, and at first, he was infuriated. She had no clue what he was like and who he was, so her accusations and presumptions were baseless. With time, though, he slowly began to admit she may have been right. Ashe really should not have let him take over his room, and regardless of any moral failings of the kitchen maid, what they did took them both, and he had a responsibility to foot.

Finally, Sylvain started to feel guilty. He compensated his classmate with a new, illuminated copy of Loog and the Maiden of Wind, and tried to assume paternity of the kitchen maid’s unborn child, at least for the time being, but his professor had the forethought of taking her to an exam and Manuela concluded she was not pregnant at all.

He realized Byleth was the first girl to ever stand up to him, not counting his own horrible mother. No one ever dared talk to the heir of Margraviate Gautier the way Byleth had spoken to him that night, and he had to admit he thought that that was pretty admirable. While he did not necessarily enjoy being humiliated in front of the entire high society in Fódlan and surroundings, it did make an impact.

Not long after, he began to notice the way the light would catch her eyes during dusk, turning them from sea blue to almost green. He noticed that, in the morning, she put a thin layer of butter on her toast followed by an equally thin layer of jam, which she would eat while reading the Acta Archiepiscopae, the daily publication of the acts and orders of the Church of Seiros. He noticed that before morning classes she would put two pins in her unruly hair to keep them away from her face, and by lunch, they would have already broken free without her notice. She always noticed after lunch, though, and instead she would put her hair in a bun on top of her head. He noticed that her hands were prone to chap in the cold, and that the balm she used smelt like peppermint.

Most of all, he noticed that, now, when she looked at him, he felt nervous and his heart would speed up. Most peculiar.

With a snicker, Ingrid told him that what he had were feelings for Byleth Eisner. Blinking owlishly, Sylvain realized she might be right.

*_*_*_*_*

Sylvain Gautier had never once been turned down by a girl he had asked out, not when they were fresh conquests and not him revisiting those girls particularly talented in bed. Not once.

That changed with Byleth Eisner.

The first time Sylvain asked Byleth out, she thought it was a joke, and he could not believe it. Any other girl would have swooned just because he was talking to her, but not Byleth.

She thought the whole idea was hilarious, preposterous really. Her outrageous response? A flat no! She turned him down flat and Sylvain was not prepared to approach a situation like that, because it simply was not done.

The second time Sylvain asked Byleth out, she had the audacity to get irritated with him. Irritated! The nerve! She acted as though he were a gnat that kept flying around in her face and one that always came back, no matter how hard she tried to shoo it away.

The third time Sylvain asked Byleth out, she was well tired of his persistence and yelled at him to leave her be.

“This is highly inappropriate, and even if it were not, I have no interest or intention of ever going out with the likes of you.” She had raved with a look of utter contempt on her face. “You are not to be trusted, Sylvain Gautier, and I am not a fool.”

Needless to say, he was speechless. He began to realize that he was turning into a stupid character from a stupid novel like Loog and the Maiden of Wind, and then became depressed because his only options at that moment were to either become a brood like Dimitri or an ingénue like Ashe, and neither seemed particularly enticing.

He also realized he would do just about anything, within reason, to make Byleth Eisner like him and, hopefully, date him.

*_*_*_*_*

Sylvain Gautier said he never gossiped, and that gossip was "women's talk".

That changed with Byleth Eisner.

Sylvain never really cared for propriety, but if there was something that he begrudgingly respected was privacy and self-determination. Gossip was just uncouth. However, he was determined to find out what made Byleth tick, but he would never figure it out by talking to her, and so some recognition could not be beneath him.

It was not that he did not want to talk to her, but she was so disturbingly stoic and cagey about her own life, it made him shudder with unease. The only moments she showed genuine emotion was when her students needed support, and in his case, this usually translated to exasperation and tough love. When he really thought about it, he was not sure why he actually liked her when he knew next to nothing about her, but the heart wants what the heart wants, he had mused with an internal dramatic sigh.

Sylvain decided that in order to discover what made Byleth Eisner, Byleth Eisner, he would have to, ugh, gossip. It pained him to have to stoop to gossiping and eavesdropping. He dearly hopes he is not found out, if not for his pride, for the absolute ass-kicking he would receive from his professor dearest.

He targeted the girls of his class, specifically Mercedes, Annette and Ingrid, approaching them one day to ask them about her. He realized right away that that was a big mistake. Not only were they unwilling to talk about Byleth, they took advantage of the opportunity of actually speaking to Sylvain face-to-face by descending upon him like wrathful harpies to berate him for consistently badgering her. Needless to say, he never tried that one again.

After a very regretful drunken tryst with Manuela trying to extract information, Sylvain decided his best course of action was to use magic and his sneaking abilities to listen in on his professor’s conversations. He did not really want to do it because he felt like it just proved Byleth's point, but he was desperate at that point and was almost begging on his knees to Jeralt for if only a kernel of information.

During one particular instance, he hit a jackpot. Dorothea and Byleth were talking about nobles, Sylvain in more specific terms, in what was clearly meant to be a private conversation.

“I might be more inclined to give Sylvain a chance if he was not that much of an entitled bastard.” Byleth had said. “I wonder if this is consequence of his Crest.”

Sylvain would not deny that he was hurt by that. He wanted Byleth to like him, and wanted her to see someone good and noble and loyal.

It was then and there that Sylvain Gautier swore he would change Byleth Eisner's mind, and to prove he meant it, he vowed it on the Goddess Tower on the monastery’s anniversary a few Moons later.

*_*_*_*_*

Sylvain Gautier said he would never change for anyone or anything.

That changed with Byleth Eisner.

After witnessing that conversation between Dorothea and Byleth, Sylvain worked incredibly hard to be a person his professor would be proud to know. He became responsible and tried to carry his own weight around the monastery. He became more respectful of the girls who approached him, and he never approached any on his own. He also really tried to deflate his huge head and treat people like they were his equals.

The first time he saw Byleth's shocked reaction to the new him, he did a jig inside his head because he knew his personality shift was something that she never thought he was capable of.

The longer he spent working towards change, the more impressed she became, though she would not care to admit it.

Sylvain had to confess that, at first, he only tried to change so that Byleth's opinion of him would improve. However, he found that as time went on, it became easier and more rewarding to help others and treat them with respect. He realized that, before, people told him what he wanted to hear so that he would like them. Becoming more approachable made it easier to foster real friendships instead of fake ones, which he, begrudgingly, admitted was better than being worshipped.

Still, it did funny things to Sylvain's heart to see Byleth begin to smile at him instead of sigh disapprovingly.

The nobleman vowed that he would keep trying to prove himself to Professor Eisner, so he never had to be without her smile again.

*_*_*_*_*

Sylvain Gautier, deep down, never believed he needed anyone.

That changed with Byleth Eisner.

At the ripe old age of twenty, Sylvain started getting restless. With the growing discord that was blooming from the approaching war, he began to feel useless and like he wanted to get in on the action.

It could have been that the opposing side mostly consisted of those he had broken bread for years at the monastery, or that Dimitri’s leadership was questionable at best and disastrous at worse, or that he could sense impending danger like electricity across his skin. It could have been a combination of the it all.

Either way, his mood was generally poor and Byleth found herself to be taking the brunt of his temper more often than not. After a while, she could not bear to continue shouldering his anger as if she were the cause of it and, as a result, she left him. With reason, as he could not find fault in leaving someone who has, repeatedly, threatened to kill and/or force upon marriage to her for her Crest.

Not fifteen days later, the Archbishop turned into a dragon and ate her whole, presumably killing her.

Fuck.

Sylvain' world tilted on its axis and it felt like he was dying. For months, Byleth had been the anchor he had tethered himself to, and she had kept him afloat when he felt like he was going to drown.

His professor had been the reason he became the man that he was, so who was he without her? When they were together, in the deceivingly idyll of school, he had taken for granted her unwavering presence in his life and with her gone, he realized how much he truly needed her, how much he had always needed her.

After the war began, Sylvain assumed the traditional duties of Margrave Gautier and patrolled the border with Sreng, making it clear to those filthy barbarians that they would not be able to catch the kingdom unprotected.

He cried himself to sleep for a week straight when he came home on leave one day to a regretful Alois, who carried with him the Lance of Ruin, found amongst the wreckage of the monastery. It had been so surreal until that point, but holding the weapon he had entrusted to her care in his hand was a physical reminder that she was really gone.

It took a literal slap in the face from Ingrid to wake him up out of his funk. She took no mercy on him, and pointed out how pathetic he had become in Byleth's absence.

“She died defending us, protecting us, you useless waste of space!” The blonde knight barked at her former classmate. “She died so that megalomaniac dictator with horns would not kill us all! The least you can do is get off your fat, smelly arse and do something about it!”

Even though he took no pleasure in hearing that his beloved died so he could live, Ingrid’s speech reminded him that, while the professor would not be coming back, he had to act as if she were. To birth upon a world where she would be glad to live in.

So he did, for four long years, until the day Dimitri had made them promise to return to the monastery. For a blessing of the Goddess, Byleth never came back on a promise and miraculously attended their reunion, too, coming back into the Blue Lions’ fold, from where she should have never left.

After looking at each one of them in awestruck appraisal, she hugged Sylvain tightly. He was not sure who cried harder then.

He would never take Byleth Eisner for granted ever again.

*_*_*_*_*

Sylvain Gautier never really cared for romance.

That changed with Byleth Eisner.

On the day that Byleth finally agreed to go out with him, in the middle of a terrible, terrible war, Sylvain immediately grabbed his horse and did a parade around the monastery and the village below to share on his happiness, all while whooping and cheering.

It was not until he returned to the stables and placed his horse on a pen for the page to feed it that he realized he had absolutely no idea about what to do in a relationship.

Sylvain never had a girlfriend before. He had plenty of casual flings, but he never made an effort to stick with one girl because, frankly, he just did not care for the idea. However, with Byleth, the things he felt for her ran far deeper than anything he had ever experienced before, so deep that he entered entirely unexplored territory.

He was terrified. He is a good-for-nothing, after all, he had no business with love.

To be perfectly honest, he got such a case of cold feet that he very nearly broke things off with Byleth before they had even begun, but, with a firm word from Ingrid, some eye rolls from Felix, and several incredulous squeaks from Mercedes, Sylvain finally calmed down and came to his senses. He realized he had something special with his former professor, and while it was scary, it was also exhilarating and exciting.

Regardless, Sylvain did not know how to do the whole romance thing. Do girls even actually like flowers and candy, he had wondered. He came to the conclusion that he had no choice but to ask Dorothea, despite being quite frightened by the prospect of being chased around by an angry swordwoman or worse, laughed off the monastery.

In the end, he was extremely grateful that he did, because he was completely off base. He figured he should have known better, since Byleth had been defying expectations ever since he met her. After taking her to a horseback stroll through the woods around the monastery, they had a nice picnic by a pond, followed by a few matches of checkers.

He knew he did the right thing when, upon returning to the dormitories, Byleth turned and beamed at him.

She could weaponize that smile, he had thought as his heart arrested in his chest and his palms started sweating. She's going to kill me some day.

One night, a year into their relationship, as he stared at her while she was sleeping on his chest, he knew with certainty that Byleth Eisner was one of the best things that had ever happened to him.

*_*_*_*_*

Sylvain Gautier would never admit to being scared, ever.

That changed with Byleth Eisner.

As the war continued to strengthen around them, Byleth and Dimitri were repetitively called away for missions due to their unique skill sets, and Sylvain was sick with worry for his girlfriend and crazed monarch. It was a constant source of stress, and at times, he could not even stomach eating.

While the attack on Enbarr advanced to a glorious closing act, Dimitri returned from his latest mission to the Imperial Palace with Edelgard’s head on his left hand and a maniacal laugh on his lips. Byleth did not return at all.

When Sylvain heard the news, he had thrown up because he knew the outcome could not possibly be good.

The Blue Lions became increasingly more agitated the longer Byleth was gone, and after a month and a half missing, the Church gravely made the decision to pronounce her missing, presumed dead once more.

The news devastated her former students, but none other more than Sylvain, who reverted into a shell of a man once again. He never imagined he could feel devastation beyond what he had felt when the green-haired woman disappeared for the first time, but this certainly trumped that feeling a hundred times over.

Sylvain could not help but to think that the more you have, the more painful it is to lose. Six years ago, he lost a professor, now, he lost the love of his life. He could not stop picturing the little girl with green spike hair like hers and amber eyes like his. He had the image of a tranquil life up north, of days of horse-riding and peacekeeping and nights of devoted love underneath thick furs burned into the back of his eyelids.

Most of all, as he fingered the plain Gautier box holding a simple band with a simple stone. He could not stop imagining what it would have been like being able to say I love you, Lady Gautier before they went to sleep every night and as he woke up next to her every morning.

It was a stormy night when a dark figure entered the Royal Palace of Fhirdiad. The Blue Lions were gathered in preparation for the peace talks that would begin to be held amongst the Kingdom and the former Alliance and Imperial noble houses. It was concerning, as every guest was accounted for, and no one was supposed to waltz into the King’s residence so inconspicuously.

However, when Byleth limped through the banquet hall door and slumped against the door frame, thoroughly ragged and covered in scratches, bruises, and blood, it turned into pandemonium. Sylvain felt like the air had been sucked from his lungs as his legs gave way beneath him, and he no longer felt like he was inside his own body.

For the first time since she went missing, the newly-anointed margrave sobbed until he was physically unable to cry anymore.

It took several weeks for Byleth to fully recover, and almost an entire year for Sylvain to let her out of his sight. While it left her thoroughly rankled, after a while she understood that he was just scared and let the issue lie.

The experience was something he never wanted to relive for a third time, and it taught him a valuable lesson. Life is short.

Even though they had not talked much about the future and she was completely blindsided, Byleth Eisner said yes when Sylvain proposed.

*_*_*_*_*

For his entire life, Sylvain Gautier never believed he would have true purpose or meaning in his empty life.

That changed with Lady Byleth Gautier… and Cordelia Gautier, his two girls and the absolute centre of his entire universe.

Following the war and Edelgard’s defeat, Sylvain married Byleth in a small ceremony surrounded by only close friends in their new territory. Alois was entrusted with giving away the bride, which he did while crying obnoxiously, and Dimitri was to officiate.

A little over a year later, Byleth bounced her own daughter around their large, northern manor, covered in furs and shivering with the winter cold, but always so very happy to be there.

She did not notice and would not know for several years, but Sylvain filled up at least an entire sketchbook of renditions of just her and Cordelia. Every so often, he would secretively look at the pictures and smile to himself, letting the warm feeling in his chest fill his entire body.

Years later, Sylvain would look back on his life with his wife and feel content. His daughter would be worried about leaving so far south to Garreg Mach for school, after her magic aptitudes did not warrant an acceptance to the academy in Fhirdiad. Her mother would assure her it did not matter where she would go, they would be always with her, and she would glare at Sylvain when he would jokingly whisper behind his hand, “As long as it isn’t Enbarr”.

Cordelia would end up being as intelligent as her mother and a bit of a heartbreaker like her father, much to Sylvain' displeasure. Where's my lance when I need it?, He would think with a glower. In the end, she would settle, shockingly, on Lady Varley’s son and moved permanently into Imperial territory, which pained her father so, but he was happy if she was happy.

As the years passed them by, they brought children, grandchildren, godchildren, fortune and happiness beyond belief. For their entire lives, every so often with adoration in her still-green eyes, Byleth would murmur to him, “I love you. Thank you for the opportunity to live out this wonderful life.”

Sylvain Gautier had had a lot of never’s in his life, of denials and ordeals. It took Byleth Gautier (née Eisner) to change everything for the better. After so many years chasing the next high, he was pleased in his staunch belief that there was not a single experience he wishes he had had, and that is the most important thing for him.

*_*_*_*_*

Fire Emblem Masterlist

Three Houses Masterlist

#fire emblem #Sylvain Gautier

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basicsofislam · 5 years

Text

ISLAM 101: ISLAMIC PRACTICE: Part 8

IDEAL GENERATIONS: Part 2

A true person of ideals is also a person of wisdom.

While observing everything from the comprehensive realm of reason, they also assess everything with the measures of their appreciative heart, testing them through the criteria of self-criticism and self-supervision, kneading and forming them in the crucible of reason, and always trying to possess and take further the radiance of the mind and the light of the heart in equal harness.

A person of ideals is a true example of responsibility to the society in which they live.

To reach their targets, the first of which is, of course, the pleasure of their Creator, they sacrifice everything that God has bestowed on them, without giving the matter a second thought; they have no fear or concern for anything worldly, their heart is captivated by nothing other than God; they have neither ambition for individual happiness nor worry about unhappiness; they are a savior, a hero of the spirit, they do not mind being in hellfire, so long as their ideals and their country are everlastingly firm, stable, and permanent.

A person of ideals and high standing feels respect for the values they are attached to with profound self-supervision, performing their duties in the exhilaration of worship, and living as a hero of love and enthusiasm.

Agreeing with and abiding by the truth with minutely meticulous sensitivity they always exercise their preference for sublime ideals. They are always in a struggle in the depths of their heart, a struggle to be the master of their self at all times; they have been sentenced to being a slave to the truth, they are disinterested and indifferent to positions and titles, and they see fame, covetousness, and fondness of comfort and ease as a fatal poison. That is why such people always win where they have an opportunity to win and turn unfavorable circumstances to their advantage.

Walking on this path along with the glorious spirits, such a person is so sincerely devoted to the Will of God that the storms of ambitions which hit them intensify and consolidate their sense of right, justice, and right-mindedness; floods of hatred, grudge, and malice enthuse the springs of love and compassion in their soul; they ignore and tread upon the gifts and blessings that ordinary people are caught up with and they oppose retaliation.

We do not need anything else but exemplary people of high character and ideals. These exalted souls of the highest ideals will realize the re-establishment of our nation in the coming years. These heroic people, the yeast of whose existence is faith, love, wisdom, and insight, have not yielded to or been shaken by the numerous attacks that came from within and without over almost ten centuries. Perhaps they have shrunk a bit and become a little smaller. However, by acquiring some strength and firmness, they have come to a level where they can settle their accounts with the future, and have observed the age and bided their time to take over the duty with an extraordinary power of the spirit.

It is a fact that over the last few ages, love, wisdom, insight, and the consciousness of responsibility have shrunk and simple daily matters have replaced the great ideals. Of course, it is not possible to say that we have done nothing in the name of reform within that period. However, the things put forward remain nothing more than low mimicry and sound effects. Such blind imitation, as a disguise for the introduction of vice and immorality into the thought of the nation, and as a means that leads to the destruction of its spirit, has brought about more harm than good. When the nation was bleeding from the injuries inflicted, one after another, on the community’s stamina, the real problem was not diagnosed, the way to cure and treat it was not known or defined, and incorrect treatment and meddling caused the masses to be paralyzed. The effects of the crises of the last few pages are still making themselves felt today in flares, eruptions, and centrifugal outbursts of rage.

Therefore, just like before, if we do not deal with the true causes of the problems, if we do not approach and treat individual, familial, and social problems with the ability, sensitivity, and skill of surgeons, if we are not saved from the swamp of vice, immorality, and filthy affairs and dealings from which we have been struggling to extricate ourselves for the last few ages, we will run into errors, one after the other, while looking for remedies; our crises will get much worse and deepen, and we will never be relieved from the vicious circle of crises and depressions.

It doesn’t matter if those who hold the reins continue in their age-old obstinacy. We have deep absolute trust in the ideal generations whose thoughts, feelings, and actions turn to the future, who are attached and devoted to their country, people, and ideals, who are focused to serve and contribute to people, indeed to all of humanity, who are taut and ready to be released, like the string of a bow, to serve all with the understanding and consciousness of responsibility. We trust that they will tackle and overcome all negativity and make the newest developments come true. One day, their strong desires and wishes, their love and longing to serve people will penetrate into all sections of society and will turn into seeds that flourish wherever they fall. This approach, which will eradicate the so-called realities of materialism and corporeality, will certainly embroider once more the canvas of its spirit with its own worldview and plan of action.

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thesinglesjukebox · 6 years

Video

youtube

RóISíN MURPHY - PLAYTHING [6.90] The hour after all the dreams...

Josh Love: Overpowered was one of my favorite albums of 2007, and this latest batch of singles Murphy has made with legendary producer Maurice Fulton represents the closest she's come to date to recapturing that record's infectious, luxurious disco-pop grandeur. Murphy assumes her natural role of defiant diva with theatricality and sass, while the track itself is propulsive yet also gloriously unhurried. The near-wordless final minute and a half could have gone on another five as far as I'm concerned. [7]

Katherine St Asaph: Earlier this month, Róisín Murphy tweeted about the industry's indifference to her "good and surprising records," a spot-on and thoroughly depressing assessment. Part of it's the industry's indifference to women older than 25 and/or one hype cycle. (Murphy, in the Guardian: "Certain images are stuck in people's minds about me. Like the Time Is Now video, God forbid, which is like a fucking Timotei ad. They forget the strength in it, and just think: 'A lovely blondie girl with her hair flowing.' It's difficult to overcome what that leaves in people's minds, but I try!") Part, I suspect, is a particularly frustrating bit of human nature: an odd fatigue with artists that are consistently good and sometimes great. Like everything else Murphy has released this year with Maurice Fulton, "Plaything" is an intelligent, immaculately crafted bit of music, combining the house immediacy of Overpowered with the slowly unspooling nature of Hairless Toys with her perennial theme of the exquisite agony of being played. If I'm not as partial to it as "All My Dreams," it's because I prefer danger in my music to exaltation -- or, to play A-side/B-side, prefer "Let Me Know" to "Sunshine." The anticipation before a bad decision is always better than the decision itself. [7]

Alfred Soto: Much of Roisin Murphy's post-Overpowered output registers as theoretical dance music: the filigrees are gorgeous, the vocals swagger, and the lyrics never fail to raise an eyebrow, but the hips don't move. The clavlnet on "Plaything" could go faster, but Murphy's come up with her catchiest refrain in years. [7]

Iain Mew: "Play with me til you get bored" -- the hook and also her approach to the song's structure, with results equally fleeting and absorbing. [6]

Ryo Miyauchi: A much more straightforward warehouse beat than "All My Dreams" yet just as insular, thanks to a chorus that seethes with bottled-up frustration. Róisín doesn't actually ask for much: a relationship a little above platonic, just to fool around. But even then, she sounds like she got cheated out of what was supposed to be a fun, casual exchange; like there's no worse fate than being just a toy.="+1">="+1"> [7]

Will Adams: It's fun to play, not fun to be played with. This is the tension that drives "Plaything"'s narrative, perfectly matched by a track that's at once seductive, with grooving basslines and clavinets sparkling above, and alienating, with vocals and percussion shivering into a feedback loop. That duality is most exemplified in the "nothing, plaything" hook -- it's a catchy taunt and a acidic dismissal -- but the true core is the devastating admission tucked into the exact midpoint: "I got feelings, too." [9]

Vikram Joseph: For all the hype showered on "All My Dreams" and its evident sonic adventurousness, it left me rather cold. Unfortunately, "Plaything" doesn't do any more for me. It's anchored by a lightly syncopated but ultimately charmless house beat and coated in a slippery layer of disco sleaze. If I were to personify it, it'd be as a cocky, sharply-dressed city boy, perhaps objectively handsome but not someone you'd care to bring home. [4]

Stephen Eisermann: Like those run-down gay clubs, "Plaything" is both grimy and filthy, while also maintaining some level of polish. Róisín's lyrics wrap around her cold, staccato vocals, and what we're left with is a dark, dance-pop triumph to dance moodily to. [7]

Hazel Southwell: This isn't instant -- which isn't a bad thing, because it absolutely bears repetitive listening -- but bits grab at you instantly; the Hot Chip-esque hook, the glorious disco glitter of I know I mean nothing to you, still I can't bring myself to hate. Róisín sounds as gorgeously warm as ever while the song is spiky pain. If this leads to an album I feel like I'm probably going to like the last third of it way too much. [7]

Dorian Sinclair: Róisín Murphy's voice is strong and clear, and "Plaything" wisely chooses to place it front and centre. Whether she's sighing through the verse or strutting on the hook, the confidence and style of her delivery keeps me rapt. Pair that with the sinuous vamp of the synths and it's a recipe for success, pinch of salt or no. [8]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox ]

#roisin murphy #maurice fulton #music #new music #music video #music writing #music reviews

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sarahw-world · 7 years

Text

My first fanfic: “A Dark Heart”

Summary: Vegeta and Bulma land on Planet Z365...

Notes: Hi guys! Here's the new chapter!

I was actually working on the second chapter of my "Yellow Roses" story, but I had this one already half-written and I've chosen to finish it first and give you all a little update so you won't have to wait so long.

This was really, really hard to write, but I hope you like it...

You can also read it on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/9066958/chapters/28584436

And on fanfiction.net:

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12294658/26/A-Dark-Heart

Chapter 26: A Binding Promise

Bulma stepped into the space ship’s main living area after having just gotten dressed hurriedly inside one of the small cabins. Within a matter of minutes, they’d finally approach Planet Z365 and make preparations for landing on its reddish, humid surface.

The initial idea had been for them to shower and get ready a lot sooner in order to face Krillin, Yamcha and Vegeta’s bizarre army of men but, as usual, things hadn’t gone according to plan. Her Prince getting a glimpse of her alluring naked body walking pass him towards their small bathroom was all it’d taken for him to grab her and have his way with her, once again, on their still unmade king-sized bed. By the time he’d had her laying completely spent beneath him, there was barely any time left for both lovers to prepare.

Vegeta was already standing by the central control console, adjusting the pair of white gloves of the new armor Bulma had built for him and offering her a subtle side-glance when she finally joined him and stood right beside him.

She instantly noticed a manifest change in his demeanor, as if he were mentally preparing himself to face the grotesque militia he himself had arranged. Even though by now Bulma had already gotten used to the Saiyan’s behavior, after having learnt, in the very early stages of their relationship, that Vegeta had a tendency to hide his weaknesses behind a carefully crafted mask of pride and indifference, she couldn’t help but feel a tinge of melancholy whenever she witnessed her mate’s mesmerizing metamorphosis. It was as if he were an actor playing a carefully constructed part he’d been tenaciously rehearsing throughout an entire lifetime.

In all truth, Bulma had grown to feel lucky, almost privileged, that her relationship with her mate had grown and evolved so much that she now had the absolute certainty of being the only person in the entire Universe fortunate enough to be able to experience, and share, Vegeta’s softer, almost vulnerable side.

Back on Earth, Bulma had already caught subtle glimpses, here and there, of Vegeta lowering his guard slightly in the presence of her friends and family. Sure, he was never the warmest of companions, but she could tell that the Saiyan warrior had grown to, at least partially, accept that he was, whether he liked it or not, amongst comrades; a motley crew of fighters who always fought together as a team, standing by each other’s side at all times, to the point of sacrificing their own safety and, under extreme circumstances, their own lives, to protect the people they loved the most.

If her Prince eventually chose to turn his back on her and fully embrace this existence of dominance and insatiable quest for power, Bulma knew he’d never find the peace she truly believed he deserved.

After all, this wouldn’t be a simple case of building a façade of aloofness in a friendly, welcoming place like her home planet. If her man adopted the life of a supreme ruler, it certainly wouldn’t be an easy one. He’d spend the rest of his days living in a dangerous, hostile environment, constantly watching his back and without a single trustworthy being by his side, until some form of betrayal would take his life in the end. The mere mental image of Vegeta having to live under such terrible, inhuman circumstances, made Bulma shiver in complete horror.

And the physical danger wasn’t even her only concern regarding his mate’s choices, but his psychological well-being too. The heiress knew all too well the enormous amount of pressure that holding a position of power entailed. She’d observed it in her own father through the years, ever since she was a little girl who loved sneaking inside of Dr. Briefs’ central offices, back in West City. Of course, lab work had always been fun for both her dad and herself, but as years went by and she grew up, developing a greater awareness of her surroundings, she’d come to understand that there was another side of her father’s company that relied heavily on its founder’s leadership abilities and, now that Bulma was finally starting the process of being groomed into someday inheriting that position of power, she’d gotten a first taste of the heavy responsibilities attached to it, understanding that it wasn’t quite as easy as it appeared to be.

The saddest part was that his father had been fortunate enough to have a wife and two little daughters awaiting him back at home every day, showering him with love and affection and helping him disconnect, at least momentarily, from the weighty pressures of his daily life. However, if Vegeta chose to play the role of some evil Intergalactic Overlord, without her and Trunks by his side, he’d be utterly alone and, the very thought of it, made her eyes sting with unshed tears of grief and compassion.

During that last, almost surreal night they’d spent together on Planet Virggo, Bulma had finally been able to experience, in her own flesh, what inhabiting Vegeta’s mind was genuinely like. His was a psyche filled with filthy, terrifying demons and dark ghosts, haunting and tormenting him relentlessly, over and over again, without respite.

She recalled her tête-à-tête with Dende, back on The Lookout, when the young God had alluded to some mysterious conversations he’d maintained with older, more experienced Gods, who’d disclosed certain aspects of Vegeta’s past to him. The Namekian boy hadn’t shared any specific details of such revelations, but he’d confirmed that this new knowledge had made him look at the Saiyan Prince in a new light, and Bulma found it impossible to forget his admission to being surprised that the warrior hadn’t committed even worse sins that the ones he’d carried out already, given his obscure, dreadful background.

After Vegeta’s revelation, when he’d reluctantly acknowledged that a powerful Saiyan bond had developed between them and that her spine-chilling, disturbing dream had been more than just a figment of her imagination, Bulma had been able to comprehend, at last, just how seriously damaged her lover really was, and her heart had broken for him, wanting more than ever to bring him back home with her and their child, in hopes that a life of peace would someday help him heal and recover from his torturous history. If he didn’t, she knew Vegeta’s broken mind would snap and succumb to madness sooner or later, and the Gods only knew what kind of mayhem could ensue if such a terrifying scenario ever took place. But the choice was his and his alone to make and, so far, the only thing her mate had given away was a series of confusing, contradictory signals.

Towards the end of their more than satisfactory stay on the pleasure planet, Bulma’s hopes for a future together had been higher than ever but, ever since they’d embarked on their return trip to Planet Z365, the earthling had sadly detected a more than palpable change in her mate’s attitude.

Indeed, Vegeta had grown sulkier, and much less talkative than he’d been during their prior week together, making Bulma feel as if they’d taken another step backwards in their still too fragile relationship. The topic of their bond had never been brought up again, and the woman was secretly grateful that their joint nightmare had turned out to be an isolated episode so far. During the few hours Vegeta had left her on her own after that incident, she’d managed to put all the pieces together, realizing that the highly sinister scenery she’d been privy to was not an illusion but a memory, an actual recollection of Vegeta’s childhood experiences no less. This discovery had turned out to be a cathartic experience, offering her, ultimately, a greater understanding of the reasons behind her lover’s secretive personality and his mysteriously unexpected departure from Earth.

Thus, Bulma had reached the conclusion that there was a good chance that Vegeta had abandoned her, not because he didn’t love or at least want her in some capacity, but in order to protect her from the raging Hell that was his mind and, very possibly, to shield himself from the humiliation of another being having free, unlimited access to the most intimate and shameful events from his past life.

As a result, their journey had been filled with long, uncomfortable silences and, ironically, endless marathon sessions of mind-blowing, passionate sex. It was as if her Prince was trying to compensate for his worrisome lack of words by expressing through his actions what he lacked the courage or the emotional skills to convey in any other manner, leaving Bulma utterly confused and equally depressed.

There was nothing in the world she loved more than making love to her Saiyan Prince, and no other man had ever made her feel as wanted and desired as he had. But, it wasn’t the act of sex itself what baffled and gave her reason for concern; it was the way in which Vegeta would take her, with a frenzied, needy desperation she’d never experienced before. He was both domineering and powerful and, yet, there was an almost childlike vulnerability in him that disconcerted her entirely, going far beyond the usual manner in which he’d usually kiss or hold her. After their never-ending hours of ardent lovemaking, followed by countless moments of unnervingly peaceful silence, they’d both lay exhaustedly in each other’s arms, where Vegeta would hold her as zealously as a lost kid clinging to a life preserver and no words were exchanged, other than the intense moans and feverish expressions of love and encouragement pronounced in the heat of their fervent coupling.

Overall, there was an immense sensation of hopelessness and disappointment lingering heavily in Bulma’s mind, an oppressive feeling inside her chest which gave her the impression that her lover was just as indecisive, if not more, as he’d been when they’d first been reunited. The almost obsessive way in which he’d ravished and possessed her for the past few days, far from bringing her peace of mind, had placed her in a constant pessimistic state, having the disconsolate suspicion that Vegeta’s true intentions were to have his fill of her, taking as much as he could from her body before he’d make the inexorable choice of letting her go, pushing her far away from his life in the end.

“Bulma?” A curious, masculine voice asked, bringing her back from the glum train of thought running furiously through her mind.

She blinked a few times distractedly, finally setting her questioning eyes on her mate.

“Yeah?”

“I said, it looks like there’s a storm taking place in the area surrounding our destination,” Vegeta explained in a low, strangely patient voice, as he examined her with a quizzical frown on his face.

“Oh… Right…” Bulma mumbled shyly, glancing at the large screen in front of her once more. “It looks like a minor storm, right?”

The Saiyan merely grunted, nodding in agreement without even bothering to look at the monitor, his inquisitive eyes still stubbornly fixated on her, as if that could actually offer him a glimpse of what was really going on inside of his beautiful woman’s mind in that moment.

“Well… It shouldn’t be a problem,” Bulma concluded with renewed confidence. “I’ve even managed to land this ship on an iced surface, so a bit of rain is no big deal.”

The couple shared another one of those awkward silences that had, sadly, become far too common lately and, after Bulma reluctantly admitted to herself that they wouldn’t really be discussing crucial matters until they reached their last stop, she chose to focus on the task at hand and try to land their ship as smoothly and safely as possible.

“All right,” she declared decisively, taking a seat on the pilot’s chair with self-assurance. “It’s better if I take care of it, then…”

Without questioning her resolute attitude, Vegeta sat by her side on the co-pilot’s seat, fastening his safety belt as he studied his little mate’s every gesture with avid interest.

The subtle but unmistakable frown present on her flawless features, and the way she was nervously chewing on one of her thumbnails, revealed an apprehension that went far beyond the slight tension that preceded their usually trouble-free landings. Indeed, Bulma kept anxiously tapping the long fingers of one hand on the hard surface of the vehicle’s controls while now timidly biting on her lower lip, typing in the required commands on the computer with the other.

By now, the warrior was painfully aware of how wrong his behavior had been on their return trip, knowing that his woman had most likely expected to finally be able to exchange views on their relationship status with him before having to face her friends again.

He was a coward.

An irresolute coward who’d much rather postpone indefinitely the most important decision he’d ever have to make rather than gathering the courage to even seriously consider Bulma’s offer of going back home with her and their infant son and discussing it in depth with her.

Now, mere minutes before reaching their destination and having to deal with the reality they’d so badly attempted to avoid during their brief but incredibly gratifying escapade, Vegeta knew the time had come for him to face their complex situation and make a choice, and the flagrant truth was that he still had no idea what that choice would be.

During that last lugubrious night on Virggo, as he’d made passionate love to his stunning woman, the temptation of choosing to listen to his heart over his brain, if only for once in his life, had been larger than ever. His heart, which had already been conquered slowly but implacably by Bulma’s kind spirit, was now desperate to believe that a life of peace and serenity could be a real possibility for him, especially now that his shockingly brave mate had learnt the truth about their Saiyan bond and, knowing the emotional danger and pain it entailed, she’d still begged him to come back to her.

Nonetheless, a dark corner of his mind, in truth more cowardly than rational, chose to rebel against the image of a life he felt he’d never been born to live and, every single time that Vegeta tried to picture what living on Earth would be like, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever turn out to be everything his woman expected of him. There was still an essential part of his being who craved loneliness above all things, even more than strength or power, not because he didn’t relish the incredibly fulfilling times he shared with Bulma, but because a lonely life was a simpler life, an existence with no moral or sentimental obligations where a warrior like him would only have to selfishly care about his needs and no one else’s.

Paradoxically, the closer he got to Bulma, the more he found himself willing to take the chance of giving up on the easiness of isolation if that meant not having to renounce to the only woman he’d ever truly cared about.

“Six minutes left,” Bulma announced, her pensive eyes never abandoning the screen. “What about the defensive shield?”

“I disconnected it already,” Vegeta simply replied.

The woman turned around and looked at him in mild shock. “You can do that?”

“Of course,” he chuckled playfully, a knowing glint in his eye. “It’s my planet, after all,” the warrior explained, holding a small, square-shaped device in one of his gloved hands, which Bulma guessed was some kind of miniature remote control, that he straightaway hid inside his armor.

“Fair enough,” the earthling concluded, raising her head proudly and taking in a deep breath, placing both hands firmly on the controls.

“Here we go…”

The spot Vegeta had chosen to land on was situated quite close to the luxurious palace, but far enough from it so as not to cause any damage to the building in case of any unanticipated error in their calculations. The landing had gone quite smoothly, but the storm had turned out to be rainier than predicted, making the surface of the scarlet planet a muddy and unstable one.

Bulma unfastened her chair’s safety belt with unsteady hands, standing on slightly wobbly legs. A sudden sense of déjà vu engulfed her at the memory of the night they’d departed from the very same place they’d just arrived in, when Vegeta had run to her side the minute he’d noticed something was wrong with her. The only difference was that, back then, she’d suffered from the effects of a severely empty stomach, while now she only felt lightheaded from the rougher than expected landing. Either way, her mate was, once again, by her side, instantly placing his strong hands firmly on both sides of her waist, incapable of hiding his obvious concern.

“Are you alright?” He asked in a husky, intimate voice, feeling like a doting fool for caring so much about this small, much too frail woman.

“Yeah…” Bulma whispered bashfully, unable to stop a rush of crimson from reaching her flushed cheeks.

Vegeta smirked shrewdly, amused by how easily flustered his mate could get by his near presence. The potent aroma of their recent lovemaking still wafted heavily around both lovers and, even though he knew it wasn’t wise to face his men with her scent all over him, his most primitive, territorial side, enjoyed the idea of every single male on the planet indisputably knowing that she was his and his alone.

“Wow…” Bulma said softly, her voice laced with amazement. “It’s pouring out there…”

The warrior looked through the same window Bulma was staring at, instantly discerning the huge storm taking place outside.

“Storms such as this one are pretty common here,” he explained collectedly, gingerly releasing her body with one final, questioning look. She assented timidly, quietly letting him know that she was now able to stand on her own, and Vegeta nodded back, finally letting go of her and walking towards the main window, inspecting the scene transpiring outside. Three of his men were already awaiting them, standing expectantly in the dark of night while carrying electrical lanterns, apparently unbothered by the heavy downpour of water falling on them.

“You will wait inside the ship until I call for you,” the Prince instructed in a low but steady voice as he re-adjusted his white gloves and straightened up his posture, sensing Bulma approaching him from behind.

His firm command swiftly caught the earthling’s attention. She was already expecting this change in his demeanor, especially now that he was about to become Lord Vegeta for the sake of his outrageous army of renegades, but here, standing coyly by his side, one single glance told her something was seriously troubling him.

“Vegeta… What…?”

“Do not argue with me on this, Bulma,” he interjected authoritatively, never taking his watchful eyes off the three obscure figures standing somberly under the heavy waters.

Under different circumstances, Bulma’s fearless and intrepidly rebellious nature would try to complain and defy his inflexible orders but, now, she could tell Vegeta was dead serious. The fierce scowl creasing his stern features, and the almost electric aura surrounding his compact body, let her know something perturbing was about to take place. After all the time they’d spent together, the woman could easily recognize the physical tension in his body language whenever her Prince was scanning or analyzing his surroundings in search of some unknown, impending danger.

“All right…” She replied reservedly. “I’ll wait.”

With a sharp nod, Vegeta left her side, walking decidedly towards the large exit door while Bulma waited by the window, watching with great curiosity the scene happening outside. After typing in the numeric codes, the gate opened, and the warrior stood patiently in a proud, confident stance, looking every inch the Saiyan Prince that he truly was and making Bulma momentarily forget about her nervousness as she admired his perfection, feeling almost giddy with excitement. For all his faults, there was something about her man that still drove her absolutely mad with desire, attracting her to him like a feathery butterfly to a bright, torrid candle.

Vegeta descended the metallic ramp at a calm, self-assured pace, inwardly pleased to see his men bowing reverently already, patiently waiting for their Master to reach the spot they were standing at. By the time Vegeta joined his soldiers, he was half-covered in mud and completely soaked to the bone, but this did not diminish in any way the immense amount of respect and regard his warriors seemed to profess him.

“Soldiers,” he greeted in a neutral but commanding tone, standing cross-armed right in front of them.

The three men replied almost at once. “My Lord…”

“You may stand now,” Vegeta simply ordered, making the men equally obey in unison.

“It’s good to have you back, My Lord,” Dodonne replied respectfully. “You have been missed…”

The Prince tilted his head to the side slightly, squinting imperceptibly with interest.

Something was wrong, he could feel it…

“Was I?” He asked sharply. “May I ask why?”

The three soldiers exchanged nervous, almost fearful furtive glances, as if they were trying to decide which one of them would break whatever news they had to announce to their terrifying Master. Dodonne, the pink alien, was distinctively the jumpiest out of the three, followed by one of those purplish fish-faced warriors whose names Vegeta could almost never recall. Only Kishoo, the tallest one, seemed to still be able to maintain his composure somehow, and proof of that was the fact that he was the one finally brave enough to break the tense, unnerving silence floating in the air.

“There… There was an incident, My Lord…” He explained, his voiced oddly confident but still sheathed in fear.

“What kind?”

“It…” Kishoo released a shaky breath, swallowing audibly before disclosing his confession to the Saiyan Prince. “It had to do with those… Those men you left to our care…”

“You mean the guests I left to your care?” Vegeta corrected harshly. “What about them?”

Kishoo peeked at the other two soldiers once again before stuttering. “Th-They… Well…”

“Nevermind,” the Saiyan cut him off, dangerously close to losing his scarce patience already. “Whatever it is, I’m sure they will be more than capable of telling me themselves. Bring them to me,” he ordered gravely.

“M-My Lord… I-I think…” Dodonne retorted, now clearly frightened by his Master’s immediate request.

“I said, bring them to me,” Vegeta demanded once more, his low, chilling voice instantly throwing his men into a frenzied fright.

After exchanging another round of terrified looks, Dodonne reluctantly chose to be the one to fulfill his Lord’s wishes and, after newly bowing nervously, he turned around, walking anxiously towards one of the sides of the cold, marbled palace. Vegeta raised an eyebrow undetectably at that, knowing far too well that it was the spot where the building’s dungeons were located, and he wondered in dread what had possibly gone wrong for the two weaklings to end up locked up in such a filthy, disgusting place.

The high-strung tension lingering heavily in the atmosphere reached a high-fevered peak as minutes went by, perilously intensified by Vegeta’s excruciating awareness of Bulma witnessing the entire scene from their ship, and his worst fears materialized when Dodonne came back accompanied by one prisoner instead of two.

Vegeta’s face remained immobile, but his inner fury kept growing as the realization of what had truly transpired on his planet while he’d been away finally hit him.

“Where is the other one?” He half-asked half-commanded to the now openly terrified trio of alien soldiers.

“M-My Lord… You see… H-He… Th-They…”

“He’s dead,” the earthling spoke in a soft, extremely fatigued voice.

The Prince snarled in pure disgust, both at the meaning behind the human’s words and the appalling state he was in; he was completely covered in dirt, not just the mud from the almost monsoonal rains, but actual filth, as if he hadn’t been allowed to shower or bathe for days. A quick scrutiny told him he was still quite healthy, despite the minor wounds and scrapes covering his body, highly visible through his tattered clothes. There’d been a fight, that much he knew, and the outcome had, unsurprisingly, not been favorable for Bulma’s comrades, after all. The man’s voice was muffled by his own enervation, and his entire form trembled, barely able to stand on his own. He looked crushed, his shoulders slightly hunched as he kept staring miserably at the ground while the abundant waters kept pouring over his defeated figure.

It truly was a deplorable spectacle…

“All of you! Step aside!” Vegeta bellowed furiously, his enraged tone immediately forcing the three men to anxiously take a few steps back as their Master approached their mysterious prisoner.

At once, the Saiyan grabbed the handcuffs restraining the earthling’s wrists which, unlike regular cuffs, were designed to subdue and minimize his ki. Of course, such an invention had its limitations, and it would prove itself to be useless with someone with a strength like Vegeta’s but, on someone with a minor ki level such as the human standing beside him, they’d turn him virtually defenseless.

“What happened?” The Prince heatedly asked the earthling, directly and without contemplations. “Who did this?”

“Ve-Vegeta… I… I don’t know…” The weaker man stammered meekly, unafraid of the Saiyan’s rage but utterly confused and overwhelmed by the situation. “It… It was one man… Th-There was an argument… I… I just… They were drunk…” The human covered his face with his still chained hands in a pathetic attempt at hiding his face as he broke into loud, choked sobs. “He… He’s dead… He’s just… Dead…”

“No…” A feminine voice abruptly whispered in horror, stealing the attention of every single male present.

Unbeknownst to Vegeta, Bulma had run to join them the minute she’d seen one of those nasty aliens bringing only one of her friends back with him, and she stood in the rain, her slender arms wrapped protectively around herself, shivering and shaking her head hysterically, unwilling to admit that one of her best friends was now gone forevermore.

“N-No… No… No…” She kept mumbling under her mate’s aghast eye.

Vegeta could tell she was in a state of complete and absolute shock, and very, very few times had he ever seen his woman in such condition. She was now clutching the shorter human’s gi, begging, praying desperately that this was nothing more than another petrifying nightmare, like the one she’d suffered back in Virggo.

“K-Krillin… Where is he?” Bulma asked in a hushed, desperate tone. “Where’s Yamcha? Where is he? P-Please…”

As it turned out, the Prince wasn’t the only one totally dumbfounded by Bulma’s erratic behavior, and not quite knowing what to say, Krillin held her hands tightly in a poor attempt to ground her somehow.

“Bulma… I’m… I’m s-sorry… I’m so sorry…” He whispered unhappily in her ear. “He… He’s gone… I tried to help him but…”

“No! Nooooo!” Bulma yelled in agony, falling to her knees and bringing the drained, bald man down with her. He raised his arms, trying to hug and comfort her the best way he could even though he was still pathetically subdued.

“Bulma…” Krillin muttered, sadly knowing already how futile his words would be, given how much Yamcha still meant to her. “Please… You need to calm down… I… I just… Gods! I’m sorry, Bulma… I’m so s…”

A loud thunder of fury and frustration suddenly boomed in the air, and the Saiyan Prince exploded in pure rage standing fiercely, surrounded by a cloud of blazing, golden flames. He set his turbulent teal eyes on the three stupefied soldiers, who were now openly trembling in sheer panic.

“WHO DID THIS?!” He roared ferociously, barely able to stop himself from murdering the three bastards in cold blood right in front of his woman, whose inconsolable tears were, ironically, the main reason behind his beastly wrath.

“Vegeta…” Krillin spoke wearily under his breath, still holding his fragile friend and clumsily petting her damp hair in a vain effort to soothe her. “I don’t know… I… He was…”

“The insurgent has already been terminated, My Lord,” Kishoo interjected, finally gathering the courage to inform his superior of the obscure event’s outcome.

“Is that so?” Vegeta asked the earthling for confirmation, not even bothering to look at the taller warrior speaking.

The monk nodded in agreement, but something in the fatigued man’s eyes and behavior told him there were hidden, unspoken details yet to be revealed. Finding it wiser to discuss matters privately with the earthling, Vegeta chose to pretend that Kishoo’s explanation was satisfactory enough, and he turned around, facing his men and crossing his arms authoritatively.

“Fair enough. Where are the rest of my men?” he enquired in a rough, ominous tone.

“Th-They’re all at the barracks, M-My Lord…” Dodonne informed, trusting that his Master was now pleased with the other soldier’s clarification, and ignoring just how mistaken he truly was.

“Any soldiers inside the palace?”

“N-No, Sir…”

“Good. I want all men inside their barracks until further notice. I will review the troops first thing in the morning. You are all dismissed.”

“My Lord,” the three warriors replied in unison, bowing one final time before proceeding to take flight, not before being interrupted once again by Vegeta.

“And, Dodonne?” He spoke firmly, looking the pink alien in the eye with an almost neutral, disconcerting calmness, instantly sending shivers down the soldier’s spine.

“Y-Yes, My Lord?”

“If any of the men gets anywhere near my palace, or tries to abandon my planet during the night, I will find and personally murder every single one of them.” He pronounced his sinister threat slowly, very slowly, savoring every looming word and viciously enjoying the look of absolute panic on the man’s face.

Oh, yes…

The pink, fat bastard had had something to do with the weakling’s murder, and he couldn’t wait until morning arrived in order to find out exactly what his role in the assassination had been so he could rip his filthy heart out and offer it to his woman on a silver platter.

“O-Of course, My Lord…”

Dodonne remained completely immobile in panicked expectation, awaiting any further orders from his Master, but Vegeta dismissed him with a simple grunt and a sharp nod, allowing the alien to finally leave his presence so he could enjoy his last night alive in this world. The Prince sneered, almost pitying the poor fucker incapable of recognizing just how close he was to the Gates of Hell already.

The Saiyan stood still, waiting stoically until the three soldiers were out of view. Once he made sure that the men were gone and at a safe distance, he powered down significantly, wanting nothing more right now than to comfort his tearfully desolate mate.

“Bulma…” he called, in a voice notably kinder than the one he employed when addressing his subordinates, but lacking the characteristic warmth reserved for their private times together, when it was just the two of them. After all, Krillin was still witnessing the unreal scene, and he had no intention of losing the weaker man’s respect by looking like some sentimental, devoted fool in front of him.

Bulma’s sobs never ceased, but she eventually relented, moving away from Krillin slowly, but clearly disoriented. Without the help of the artificial lights that Vegeta’s men had been carrying, she found herself helpless in the dark but, thankfully, her mate’s reassuring presence was at once by her side. His fingertips grazed her own, gently encouraging her to hold his hand, which she took without hesitation, and the Prince patiently coached her until she was finally able to stand unsteadily on her feet. Her petite, fragile body was still wrecked with tremors, looking as if her shaky legs were barely able to stand on their own.

Before she had the chance to open her mouth to speak, Vegeta held her with great care, carrying her in his arms as he immediately proceeded to walk on the way to the palace. Bulma hid her wet face in the curve of his neck, desperately clutching the collar of his shirt as she wept uncontrollably, painfully piercing the warrior’s blackened heart with every single shed tear.

“Follow me,” he instructed Krillin, who followed his orders straightaway, walking closely behind the couple. He was exhausted and malnourished, but relieved nonetheless, feeling safe at last, now that Vegeta had come back and, as the three of them strolled under the rain, he couldn’t help but marvel at the amount of affection Bulma and Vegeta were openly displaying right in front of him. Indeed, he knew some kind of a relationship had developed between his friend and the alien warrior, but he’d never seen them engage in a demonstration of physical intimacy such as the one taking place before his very eyes. The way the small woman kept hugging him, despite her obvious state of commotion, told him Bulma trusted her mate more than anyone, and such level of trust brought the human fighter some measure of confidence and hope that things would be alright in the end.

Once they reached their destination, the three of them entered the white palace, and Vegeta halted his steps right after crossing the luxurious building’s large gates.

“You see that large, red button over there?” The Prince asked, pointing towards it with a nod of his head and never letting go of his woman.

Krillin assented, quickly locating the object the Saiyan was referring to, situated right beside one of the massive doors.

“Press it,” Vegeta commanded. “And hold it until the green light beside it switches on”.

The monk followed Vegeta’s instructions, pushing the red button with some difficulty due to his still handcuffed hands. Once the green light was on, he let go of it, turning around with a quizzical look in his eye. “Anything else?” He asked tiredly.

“Yes, the buttons to the left,” Vegeta signaled. “Press the orange one three times in a row, then the blue one just once, and then the orange one twice again”.

Krillin newly did as he was told, reassured when a look of satisfaction crossed the Prince’s stern face.

“Good, follow me,” the Saiyan concluded, resuming his pace and walking through the never-ending lavish corridors, now barely illuminated by a limitless number of long, white candles.

“This is my room,” he announced confidently, suddenly stopping in front of two tall, wooden doors. “Open the doors for me and wait outside.”

The man followed his final orders without protest, standing by the semi-open gates as Vegeta walked into the place with Bulma still firmly trapped in his strong embrace. The Prince stood in the middle of the room for a moment, briefly sharpening his senses and scanning the place for any foreign ki signal that could mean any danger for him and his mate; once he concluded that they were the only ones in the room, he approached his enormous, king-sized bed, attempting to lay his woman there but, predictably, Bulma’s agitated, panicky state wouldn’t allow it.

“Vegeta…” She whispered frantically, her nails digging deeper into the rock-solid muscles of his neck. “D-Don’t go… Don’t leave me here alone! Please…!”

The memory of their last night in Virggo came back to him in full force, and he cursed himself once again for ever letting things with Bulma get as far as they already had.

This life wasn’t for her…

He’d always known it, of course, but now, seeing her delicate, tiny figure kneeling on that cold bed as she shivered, covered in damp, muddy clothes, he understood just how out of place his Bulma really was. She deserved better than a life of danger surrounded by sordid criminals with no concept of right or wrong, and who were incapable of following an order as simple as not killing a couple of harmless, weaker creatures.

She deserved better than him…

“Bulma…” He whispered, the unexpected tenderness in his voice surprising even him as he held her face delicately with gloved hands. “I’m not going anywhere. I just wish to speak to your friend for a moment.”

Bulma gaped at him while tears kept rolling down her wet, pale cheeks and, in the back of her cloudy mind, all she could think of was what a mistake this trip had turned out to be, just as pointless, apparently, as her efforts to bring Vegeta back from the dead. Seeing him previously dealing with his army of treacherous soldiers, who’d slaughtered one of her best friends seemingly without a second thought, made her realize it was very possible that all the time and energy she’d devoted to trying to help and heal her mate had been in vain.

What Bulma didn’t know was that, in that precise instant, her lover felt so appalled and outraged by the sight of her heartbroken state that he was closer than ever to just throwing everything away and going back to Earth with his woman. But he couldn’t; not before he discovered exactly what had happened in his absence and he made the sick, defiant bastards responsible pay for their insubordination and, most of all, for all the damage they’d caused to his mate.

“Okay…” She muttered in resignation, sighing blearily as she released him from her desperate, possessive touch and sited on the bed in acquiescence. “Do what you have to do…”

Vegeta gawked at her, astounded by how easily complacent she was all of a sudden, willing to let him leave her alone in spite of how clearly alarmed and upset she looked right now.

As if she’d finally given up on him…

He should be happy if that was the case, after all, he’d wanted her to leave since day one. He’d even recorded a message for her, trying to stop her from pursuing him, the moment he’d contacted her father and discovered her plans and, yet, the possibility that she’d actually surrender and abandon all hope regarding their relationship and the prospect of a future together, filled him with an astoundingly odd sense of despair.

But dwelling on his feelings was not something the warrior particularly enjoyed, especially not under their current circumstances, so he reached for a clean towel inside his private bathroom and wrapped it around his quivering mate, who’d remained sited on the bed, completely motionless. Her lifeless blue gaze evaded his when he explained, one final time, that he’d soon come back to her, her sad indifference feeling like the most brutal kick in the gut.

He exited the room and joined Krillin, who was now sitting dejectedly on one of the marbled benches situated in the extravagant, half-lit hallways.

“Don’t,” Vegeta instructed, removing the crippled man's handcuffs and seeing his struggles as he pitifully attempted to get up. “That won’t be necessary,” the Saiyan carried on, his tone somewhat less grim than usual.

Krillin nodded in gratitude, quite stunned by the Prince’s change of attitude. Even though he was still standing gravely in front of him, in his usual imposing, cross-armed stance, there was a rare softness in him, probably brought up by Bulma’s nearby presence.

“Tell me what happened,” he demanded directly.

“Well…” The monk started, running his hands drowsily across his worn-out, grimy face. “The first… The first night was okay, you know? We… We were allowed to sleep inside the palace, and we were mostly left alone… And then…”

“Then?”

He sighed jadedly, the memory of the second night’s events racing through his head at a million miles per hour. There hadn’t been a single moment, ever since Yamcha’s brutal murder, that Krillin hadn’t wondered whether there was something else he could have said or done in order to prevent the atrocious crime from happening. His delirious mind had obsessively replayed the incident over and over again, drowning in a tormenting guilt that consumed him like burning wildfire.

“Then… On… On the second night, that alien, the pink one who brought me to you today…”

“Dodonne?” Vegeta questioned knowingly, on one side satisfied that his first instincts regarding the pink bastard’s involvement in the carnage had been right, but enraged at his own inability to foresee what could occur if he left the two earthlings abandoned to their own luck.

“Yeah…” He muttered in a whisper, almost absent-mindedly. “Anyway… He came to us on the second night, and he said we didn’t have to be alone all the time and that we should join the other guys for dinner and… I… I actually told Yamcha it wasn’t a good idea, but he didn’t want to offend them and so… We said yes and we joined them outside.”

“In the barracks…”

“In the barracks, yeah… At first, it was alright. I mean… Those guys are tough, nothing like people from our planet, but they were nice enough… We ate and we… We had a few drinks and then…”

“Yes?” Vegeta prodded, finding it increasingly harder not to lose his patience with the bald man while his woman was probably crying her eyes out right now, totally alone in the other room.

“Well, the guys seemed to be a bit curious about us, and they asked us where we came from and stuff like that, like… What were we doing here, that sort of thing… We didn’t mention anything about our home planet, because Bulma warned us before we landed, you know… To protect the planet, and especially because of Trunks…”

The Prince’s fingers dug harder into his forearms at the mere mention of his son’s name, loathing to even envision what would happen if any of those schmucks ever learnt of his child’s existence.

“You did the right thing,” he finally replied.

Krillin assented pensively. “I know. Bulma is one of my oldest friends, none of us would ever want anything bad to happen to Trunks…” He exhaled again, squeezing his eyes shut for an instant as he tried to compose himself so as to keep narrating the story to the clearly impatient Saiyan.

“One of the guys asked about Bulma… He asked if it was true that a woman had travelled with us. We… We didn’t really want to reveal much about her, you know… But then that pink one, before… Before we could come up with something to say he replied and he said… H-He…”

“You may speak freely,” Vegeta urged, sensing the man’s nervousness about reciting Dodonne’s words and having a pretty good idea of where this story was going already. “I know his words were not your words.”

“Yeah, I know, I just…” Krillin faltered tensely, feeling extremely uncomfortable about having to repeat the disgusting alien’s words regarding the extraordinary woman who was almost like a sister to him. “He said… He said something like, ‘Oh, I’ve seen her. And she’s a hot piece of ass’…”

At those words, Vegeta inhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose as he employed every single ounce of self-control in his power to stop himself from flying to the soldiers’ barracks and killing the fat prig, slowly and very, very painfully, right fucking now.

‘That filthy son of a bitch…’

The image of that gang of idiots discussing his woman, much less his woman’s beauty, made him feel sick to his stomach, and Bulma’s words back in the ship, telling him how different those men were from him, and how little honor they possessed, kept running manically across his rabid mind, making more and more sense with every passing minute, much to his shame.

“And then? What else?”

“Th-Then… A few guys laughed, you know, the way men laugh when they’re talking about women… And then one of them said that… That you were selfish, because Frieza… He… He always…”

“Yes?”

Krillin swallowed noticeably, bracing himself for the Prince’s reaction since, by now, it was clear as water just how much Bulma actually meant to the ferocious warrior, way more than him or even Yamcha could have ever guessed or anticipated.

“He… He said Frieza always… He always shared his whores…” He pronounced the last word in a hushed, shameful whisper, sounding evidently repulsed himself by the extremely offensive words directed towards the Prince’s woman.

Vegeta stayed completely silent, fearing that opening his mouth would make him lose whatever minuscule amount of composure he had left in him, and wordlessly waiting for the earthling to conclude his recollection as soon as possible.

“Th-That’s when Yamcha jumped and he… You know how he is…” There was a short pause as Krillin noticed his piercing mistake. “How he was…” He released another shaky breath, holding back the tears brimming in his already swollen eyes. “He wasn’t the strongest but… But he cared so much about Bulma that he… He couldn’t take it. So he jumped at the guy, and after that, it’s just… Everything’s a blur… The guy threatened him to keep his mouth shut, but Yamcha kept demanding an apology, to take it back, but the other guy just laughed at him and then…”

The bald man shook his head to himself, too burnt-out and dazed to even make some sense of the madness that had immediately ensued.

“He was fast… Very fast, Vegeta…”

“How did he die?”

“H-He… He was…” The words burnt in his sore throat, aching to be released but too painful to even see the light. “He was decapitated… I…” He sobbed, covering his face once more as he fought the disturbing, deeply traumatic memories. “I… I saw his h-head at my feet…”

The Prince gave Krillin a minute to recover, knowing by now just how deeply sentimental these earthlings truly were, especially regarding the people they loved and cared about. Back in the day, he’d committed atrocious, despicable deeds, many of which he wasn’t even proud of anymore, but his warlike nature had always allowed him to cope with bloodshed and unbearable violence in a way he knew many weaker races couldn’t handle.

“Was the assassin terminated just like my man reported?”

Krillin nodded silently in acquiescence, wiping off his moist eyes with the back of his shaky hand while he tried to regain his composure.

“It… It was the tall one, the one wh-who told you about it…”

“Kishoo?”

“Yeah… He didn’t hesitate, he j-just did it… He called the other man a traitor and just k-killed him in the spot…”

The Prince pondered this new information, newly satisfied that his instincts regarding the taller warrior had been right from the start. Out of all his men, Kishoo had always been his favorite by far, and he’d even pictured him as the one who’d eventually become his right-hand man. Terminating the betraying bastard without a second thought sounded like something a loyal soldier like him would do.

“How did you end up locked up in the dungeon, then?”

“Ah… That… That was his idea too…” Krillin explained, gradually getting a hold of himself. “He protected me immediately. H-He stood in front of me when the others were arguing about what… About what to do with me next…”

A cold, terrifying tremor run through the earthling’s spine at the mere thought of what those monsters could have done to him if the young soldier hadn’t stepped in to protect him, knowing too well that he would have ended up sharing Yamcha’s abhorrent fate.

“H-He suggested that they locked me up as a prisoner until you came back… And then… Then he spoke to me in private, right after they took me to that cell, and told me it was for my own protection, that… That it was easier for him to keep an eye on me this way and… A-And… That the men would calm down if they saw me locked up instead of running around the planet on my own…”

‘Clever…’ Vegeta thought to himself, impressed by the younger warrior’s perspicacity and quick-witted skills.

“I see…” The Prince concluded, wrapping up the conversation now that he had obtained all the information he required. “You see that door over there?” He asked pointing out with a nod of his head to the wooden door right beside the one from his own chambers.

“Y-Yeah?”

“That will be your room for tonight. Bathe, eat something and get some rest,” he simply ordered.

“I… I have no food…” The tired man answered, awfully famished after having spent almost an entire week living off of that revolting prison gruel he’d been fed as sole means of sustenance.

“Here,” Vegeta remarked, searching inside his armor for one of Bulma’s food capsules and handing it to the earthling. “Get some food in you, we’ll discuss matters in the morning.”

“Thank you, Vegeta,” Krillin responded with honest gratitude, grabbing the capsule and standing from the bench, not without difficulty, under the Saiyan’s watchful eye.

“Those buttons you pressed when we accessed the palace,” he informed intently. “You activated a protective shield around the building. It is high-tech and extremely sensitive, so rest assured that no one will be bothering us tonight. Not without us noticing anyway.”

The human made his way slowly to the door, standing precariously in front of it before giving Vegeta a final questioning glance and realizing that he looked deep in thought still, almost as if there were some final words struggling to fall from his harsh lips.

“Krillin…” He muttered at last, his voice firm but remarkably amiable.

“Yeah?”

“You defended my mate’s honor,” Vegeta stated solemnly, his proud, impenetrable eyes avoiding his as he spoke his startling words of appreciation. “I am indebted to you.”

Krillin gawked at the Prince in utter shock, not only had the arrogant warrior just pronounced his name, probably for the first time since he could recall, but he was now openly proclaiming that Bulma was his partner and, what was even more outrageous, his words surprisingly resembled a statement bursting with gratitude.

“There’s no debt, Vegeta,” the earthling interjected, his face softening into a small but warm smile. “Like I said, Bulma is one of my best friends. We all love and care about her.”

The Prince frowned slightly at Krillin’s frank expression of his feelings towards his woman. The absolute frankness that humans consistently demonstrated would never cease to amaze him, and somehow, a secret part of him sometimes envied their shameless displays of affection towards one another.

“Goodnight Vegeta,” the exhausted man whispered, noticing that the Saiyan had already crossed the line where his comfort zone ended when it came to showing his emotions, and there was nothing left for him to say.

With a curt nod and a grumble, Vegeta said his goodbyes, turning on his heels and heading towards his bedroom, not without pausing to make sure that Krillin had locked himself inside his chambers. Once he felt that that particular matter was taken care of, he got mentally prepared for dealing with the devastated woman awaiting him inside.

Only to find out that she wasn’t there…

A fleeting but excruciating flash of panic took hold of him when, after walking into his spacious rooms and verifying that the doors were locked too, he discovered that Bulma wasn’t siting on the bed, right where he’d left her, anymore. But the distant sounds of running water and the hot, thick steam floating heavily in the air instantly revealed that she was inside his private bathroom.

Vegeta ambled cautiously in the direction of his mate’s presence, following a messy trail of what he promptly recognized as Bulma’s damp, muddy clothes, laying carelessly across the soft burgundy carpet.

The heartbreaking scene taking place before his very eyes left him completely stupefied…

There, inside the opulent marble shower, a tiny, lonely figure sat on the white stoned floor, clad only in her skimpy underwear. She was pressing her long legs to her chest, her delicate chin leaning on her knees as she rocked gently like a lost, confused child. One of her arms encircled her bent legs protectively, while she anxiously bit on the thumbnail of the other hand, just as she’d done earlier, when they’d been about to land on the planet. She looked completely gone, like the traumatized, shell-shocked victim of the most brutal of all battles, her entire form trembling like a leaf, convulsing in pure stupor.

He stood by the door, stock-still as he contemplated his options. All he wanted to do right now was to reassure her, to bring her back from the state of sheer horror she was submerged in, making her understand that everything would be alright, that he’d pledge, even if it was the last undertaking he’d ever set out to achieve in his entire life, that things would go back to the way they were supposed to be.

So Vegeta made his move, quietly removing his dirty armor, undershirt, gloves and boots and dropping them unceremoniously on the floor, joining her underneath the sizzling stream of hot water.

“Bulma?” He called in the kindest, most soothing voice he could muster, kneeling on the ground so as not to appear intimidating, but not daring to taint her with his disquieting touch just yet.

Those reddened blue eyes kept stubbornly avoiding his and, for the longest time, he was a bundle of nerves. Her demoralizing silence made him fear that she’d forever be lost to him but, once more, his courageous little woman managed to find the strength to speak to him, even though he knew he didn’t deserve her words anymore, not after the absolute disappointment he’d proven himself to be, yet again.

“It’s my fault…” She whispered sadly, her flawless face contorted in doleful anguish. “This is all my fault…”

The Saiyan’s eyes widened both in shock and disbelief. He knew the death of the scarred faced human had brought Bulma inconsolable grief, but never had he imagined that it’d also awaken sentiments of guilt inside of her. The vision of his mate taking responsibility for the murder of the weaker man was, not only heartrending, but almost offensive, and the warrior would not, under any circumstances, allow the pure-hearted woman to carry such a heavy burden upon her shoulders.

“What foolishness is this?” He whispered harshly, so much so that he finally caught his staggered woman’s attention, who was now gaping at him, surprised to learn of her lover’s disagreement.

“It is, Vegeta… I…” She whimpered, fresh tears newly pooling in her unhappy eyes. “I should have stopped him… He… He wanted to come and I… I should have said no! I should have…”

The Prince grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her in his direction and bringing her body closer to his.

“Bulma, look at me,” he demanded, in a voice both gentle but inflexible. “You will take no responsibility for this, you hear me? These are my men!”

The grief-stricken woman shook her head nervously in denial, so consumed by guilt that she fully refused to accept her mate blaming himself. “N-No, Vegeta…. No! It was my…”

Vegeta’s large, strong hands cupped her face delicately, the tender touch of his rough thumbs gingerly caressing her wet, rosy cheeks calming her almost instantly. He pressed his brow against hers, uttering a soft whisper on her anxious lips.

“This wasn’t your fault, Bulma. None of this was your fault.”

His dark, uncompromising eyes and the obstinance lacing his voice left no room for argument, and Bulma merely assented timidly, losing herself in his burning gaze. If she didn’t know any better, she’d almost dare to say that it was he the one thoroughly overcome by guilt this time, but as always, her Saiyan remained an indecipherable enigma to her.

“He’s gone…” She lamented miserably, her small nails digging meekly into his bare chest. “He’s gone, Vegeta…”

His unblinking eyes examined her closely, struggling to suppress that disturbing, troublesome pressure that crushed his chest without mercy whenever he was forced to witness his Bulma in tears, and all that was left for him to do was to ask the only question worth asking.

“Do you trust me, Bulma?”

Bulma frowned and looked at him, promptly grasping the importance of her future answer. There was a rare tinge of distress thinly veiled behind the familiar intensity of his gestures and, without the shadow of a doubt, she vanished those unwelcomed fears forever with two simple words.

“I do,” she quickly replied, her voice soft but unwavering, deeply moved when a manifest sign of relief crossed his tense features, making her finally realize that the warrior was feeling just as remorseful about her friend’s terrible misfortune as she was.

“Then mark my words, woman,” Vegeta whispered, lifting her chin carefully as his warm breath ghosted her trembling lips. “I will fix things.”

The exquisite woman sobbed in a delightful mixture of sorrow and relief, and she crushed her lips against her lover’s, drinking in his secret promise and sealing it with a binding kiss. Even though some of Vegeta’s mysteries had slowly unraveled just for her, she’d never know just how elated her Prince was to know that, against all odds, he still possessed her unshakeable trust. A trust he knew he didn’t deserve, but which he’d grown to value and cherish more than he’d ever care to admit, and only because it emanated from his woman’s bright heart.

Both lovers kissed for countless minutes, kneeling precariously underneath the warm stream of water as they held onto each other for dear life. Through his callous hands, caressing her enticing, ivory skin and melding her softness against him, and her long fingers urgently clutching the nape of his neck, they reminded each other that they were still alive, as they desperately clung, together, to the heartening thread of hope of Vegeta’s promising vow.

“I will make things right again,” he whispered ardently in her ear, feeling her pull him even closer as she buried her face in the crook of his neck, wanting nothing more than to hide from the cruel world they were living in, getting lost forever within his protectively fierce embrace.

“You have my promise, Bulma…”

Please don't hate me...

*sigh*

In the next chapter, Vegeta will reveal his plan to Bulma and they'll both begin its execution...

Thanks a lot for reading!

In case someone is interested in my other works, you can find them here:

http://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahW/pseuds/SarahW

https://www.fanfiction.net/u/8599955/SarahWDBZ

#vegebul #vegeta #bulma #fanfiction #fanfic #dbz #dragon ball z #writing #love #angst #a dark heart #apocalypse now #sarahw-world

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republicstandard · 6 years

Text

Archbishop Justin Welby and the Truth About the Economy

“All I’ve got is a red guitar, three chords, and the truth,” sings Bono, lead vocalist of rock band U2. If you want to call yourself a guitarist but don’t want to spend hours learning scales and chord progressions using diminished and augmented chords, learn three chords and accompany a simple song.

Justin Welby, Archbishop of Canterbury, is a three-chord guitarist. Like Bono, Welby’s got a red guitar and amplifier – his team of media hustlers who plant stories about their boss’s ability to play three chords and make the Archbishop sound like Andre Segovia playing Paganini.

Like Bono, Welby’s got three chords: reconciliation (remember his motherhood and apple pie address at the UN last month?), sex (the gay and transgender agenda) and equality (i.e. redistribution of wealth).

Welby doesn’t quite have the truth, either. Welby’s midweek rhapsody in red is shamelessly splashed on the front page of the Daily Mail (was the editor so desperate for a lead story?). This is followed by Welby’s “sermon to the nation” dragged across pages 6 and 7. Welby’s high-strung homily is an exercise in semantic subterfuge, moralistic flagellation, guilt stirring, hysteria-mongering laughable inanities, flagrant contradictions, Bible-misquoting, and plain porkies.

It’s like Harpo, Groucho, and Chico Marx coming together; this time reincarnated as Pope Francis, Jeremy Corbyn, and Justin Welby, all on steroids preaching the fifth gospel according to St. Marx.

Britain’s economy is broken, hollers Welby! Really? Are Britons queuing to buy toilet paper like the Venezuelans who have been distributing wealth for decades? Is Britain on the brink of an economic cataclysm like the Great Depression of 1929? Is the Bank of England printing £50million bank notes worth $1 US as in the days of the Weimar Republic when Germans had to trundle banknotes on a wheelbarrow to buy a loaf of bread?

Britain’s economy is booming. Welby sheepishly (shouldn’t it be "wolfishly"?) admits to this fact but swiftly shushes it as if it is a Victorian child who must be seen and not heard. Has Archbishop Justin never read Aesop’s fable of the boy who cried wolf?

Welby tries to make a case for poverty. He wails:

"Chronically low pay means that a hard day’s work no longer keeps people out of poverty today: today, a majority of the poor are working families,"

How does Welby measure poverty? By focusing on income trends alone? If so, he falls foul of a major methodological flaw researchers are typically guilty of in their quest for “data opportunism” and the motivation to prop up a certain ideological agenda.

Income data and consumption data provide very different perspectives on just who is poor, note economists Orazio Attanasio, Erich Battistin and Mario Padula in their monograph Inequality in Living Standards since 1980: Income Tells Only a Small Part of the Story.

"Income, after all, is valued mostly because it allows consumption. Therefore, studying consumption directly provides a better measure of distribution of wellbeing than study of income."

Empirical evidence shows that consumption-poor households do not coincide with income-poor households and income-poor households report consumption levels far greater than their level of income. In fact, consumption of the “income-poorest” household exceeds earnings. Thus, many Britons who are “income poor” are not “consumption poor”.

Britain’s Office for National Statistics defines "poor" people as those who cannot afford "four or more essential items" including a one-week annual holiday away from home, a color television, a washing machine, and a car! Its report states:

"The largest gap between persistently poor individuals and the whole population was the ability to afford a one-week annual holiday away from home."

Welby doesn’t tell us if he is talking about absolute or relative poverty, primary or secondary poverty. Absolute poverty refers to the actual needs of the poor. It is not measured by reference to the expenditure of those who are not poor. “A family is poor if it cannot afford to eat,” writes Sir Keith Joseph. “Primary poverty has been largely eliminated; the Beveridge revolution has been carried out,” writes Tony Crosland. You can be poor if you can’t afford basic needs; or you can be poor if you can’t afford things other than the basic necessities of life – like three holidays a year in Lanzarote.

Economist Mollie Orshansky, who developed the official poverty measure used in the US, underlined the difficulty in measuring poverty. She observes:

“Poverty, like beauty, lies in the eye of the beholder. Poverty is a value judgment; it is not something one can verify or demonstrate, except by inference or suggestion, even with a measure of error. To say who is poor is to use all sorts of value judgments.”

If Welby were really concerned about what he calls poverty, he would first analyze its causes so he can propose solutions. But not once is there any mention of what actually causes so-called poverty in Britain! Is it bad choices, lack of education, dropping out of high school, family breakdown, divorce, poor parenting, drug addiction, poor stewardship of resources, excessive expenditure, or excessive market-driven consumption? Welby won’t tell us!

Correspondingly, he would analyze the causes of wealth. Are rich people getting richer because they are stealing from the poor – as is the case with certain rich people who are lambasted by prophets like Amos and Isaiah? But if a person gets rich by hard work, thrift, wise decisions, luck and taking risks – the foundation of capitalism – why is it morally legitimate to take what rightfully belongs to him?

Welby’s bugbear is not poverty; it’s inequality. He doesn’t love the poor as much as he hates the rich. It’s not that Britain’s poor have too little; it’s that Britain’s wealthy have too much. “Today the wealthiest 10 percent of households own more than 900 times the wealth of the poorest 10 percent, and five times more than the bottom half of all households combined,” moans Welby.

Doesn’t Welby understand that the economy in 21st century capitalist Britain is not a zero-sum game? Doesn’t Welby understand wealth creation? To cite just one example, the creators of Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube (much as I dislike their ideology) are young men who become filthy rich not because they stole from the poor. Rather, people like me benefit enormously from these social media giants without paying a single penny.

Very disingenuously, the Archbishop seems to suggest that the rich are to blame because they have stolen from the poor. Hence, his solution is to tax the rich till they bleed. Then we scatter their loot so “poor” vultures can feast on it. Britain’s economy needs “fundamental reform” because it is not working for all, he claims, but his pet ideology of redistributionism took off in Britain over a century ago with Lloyd George’s budget for 1909-10, which introduced progressive taxation.

Economically, Welby’s proposals are disastrous. Has he learned nothing from history? When Roman emperors began levying increasingly heavy taxes, mainly on the wealthy, partly to eliminate the Senatorial class, economic growth slowed to a standstill. Once the wealthy were no longer able to pay the State’s bills, the burden fell on the lower classes and ordinary people suffered. It was the beginning of the end of the Roman Empire.

Welby mentions Mrs. Thatcher in his Daily Mail diatribe. But does he not know that Thatcher wrought her economic miracle by reducing and not raising taxes? Can he not take a peek across the pond and learn how Donald Trump is creating jobs, growing the economy and helping the poor by reducing, not raising taxes?

Morally, Welby’s proposals are perverse. Re-distribution is immoral because it deifies the state as supreme in relieving poverty. It also has a peculiar doctrine of sin, which holds that economic inequality is itself evil. It then conflates these two very disparate doctrines by wanting government to “supply a subsistence floor beneath which no one may fall” and even more perversely “institute a ceiling beyond which no one may rise”, according to French economist Bertrand de Jouvenel who highlighted the immorality of redistributionism at Corpus Christi College, Oxford in 1951.

Welby’s ideology is also morally corrosive. It undermines personal responsibility by transferring authority for crucial life-decisions from individuals to the State. The state supplies our basic needs and leaves us only to decide how we should spend our pocket money.

If the state is going to confiscate large sums from the rich, it must invest this wealth. The state is not only supremely inefficient at investing, but by doing so, it deprives us from taking any initiative. Economically, redistributionism “has not significantly alleviated poverty but has instead substantially institutionalized it”, writes de Jouvenel.

But it is in his recourse to a theological justification for redistributionism, that Welby’s semantic subterfuges are most misleading. He writes:

“As a Christian, I start with learning from Jesus Christ that people matter equally, are equally loved by God, and that justice in society matters deeply – a theme that runs throughout the Bible.”

Welby is right. We are all equal. God created humans in his image and likeness, declares Genesis. God so loved the world that he gave His only Son that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life, declares John’s gospel. But to conflate the Christian doctrine of the metaphysical conception of the implicit transcendent worth of each person with the collectivist doctrine of equality of outcomes is not only wicked, it is bad theology.

Welby’s second subterfuge is to conflate biblical justice with social justice. He wants to "hard-wire justice into the economy". That is alarming. You can’t hard-wire your brand of "justice" into a free market without a totalitarian regime enforcing it. Justice is not redistribution. It is not equality of material conditions. On the contrary, justice demands individual rewards proportionate to the individual endeavor. This makes redistribution unfair and unjust.

De Jouvenel rightly noted that it has become "a loose modern habit to call ‘just’ whatever is thought emotionally desirable". Austrian economist Friedrich Hayek lambasted the "‘Mirage’ of Social Justice" calling it "a quasi-religious belief with no content whatsoever". Social justice was a particularly dangerous superstition, he said, describing it as "that incubus which today makes fine sentiments the instruments for the destruction of all values of a free civilization", leading to "the destruction of the indispensable environment in which the traditional moral values alone can flourish, namely personal freedom".

Welby’s most sloppy attempt at proof-texting is his appeal to Jesus’ discourse on the Final Judgement (Matthew 25: 31-46). Jesus welcomes the sheep on his right hand commending them for feeding him when he was hungry, providing drink when thirsty, and so on. Puzzled, they ask when they have served Jesus in such a manner. Jesus explains:

“As you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.”

Welby twists this text to support his agenda:

“In that passage, He (Jesus) explicitly says that judgment is linked to justice, namely, in the way in which we treat those who are most vulnerable and weakest. Out of that extraordinary passage comes the Christian call to work for the common good and for the welfare of everyone in our society.”

Biblical scholars, however, point out that "the least of these my brothers” are Jesus’ disciples (or even the Jews). It is the ‘smallest brothers and sisters’ of Jesus who benefit from these acts of kindness and what is done to them is done to him", explains New Testament scholar R. T. France. So it is not a response to human need in general, but how people have responded to Jesus in the person of his representatives.

If Welby reads the verses preceding his proof text in Matthew’s gospel, he will be embarrassed by the parable of the talents. Here, the master entrusts the different sums of money to three servants according to their abilities and expects his servants to increase his asset value using the mechanisms of the market.

The first two servants double their master’s assets; the third servant is afraid to take risks. The master commends the first two servants for doubling his wealth and condemns the third servant for playing safe. Instead of redistributing wealth by taking it from the first two servants and giving it to the third servant, the master takes even the little that the third servant has and hands it over to the first servant who has the most money, saying, "For to everyone who has will more be given, and he will have an abundance. But from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away" (Matthew 25:29).

If Welby reads Matthew’s gospel to the end he will know that the primary Christian call, the Great Commission, is not to work for the common good and for the welfare of everyone – it is, in the words of Jesus Christ, to "go and make disciples of all nations".

The Archbishop of Canterbury is presiding over a failing church, which according to yesterday’s news has halved in membership in the last fifteen years in "unrelenting decline". Welby is neither Chancellor nor Governor of the Bank of England. As a three-chord guitarist, he shouldn’t pretend he is Django Reinhart.

Justin Welby wants to "hard-wire" justice into the economy. Christians should pray hard that Jesus Christ will hard-wire the gospel into Justin Welby.

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