#that 26 year age gap means nothing to me

[natriae]

ive been thinking 🤔🤔 how did you and Dilf!Toshi meet?

cw// 14 year age gap (26 & 40), y/n had a silly little celebrity crush, fluff, no smut

"come on," your friend whined while the bouncer gave you two weird looks. Recently your friend's asshole ex boyfriend finally decided to cut things off leaving you to deal with the mess left behind. She wanted absolutely nothing more than to get completely wasted and go home with a stranger.

Being the supportive friend you are you went along to keep her safe. However, now you're wishing you hadn't. Between the flashing lights, loud music, and drunk adults it was getting on your nerves. Sitting at the bar you kept your eye on your friend as she danced with several men. Not noticing the large body that sat next to you.

"are you okay?" a deep voice rang out. What caught you off guard was how it barley had any tone too it. No one is that serious at a bar. Turning to you right you watch as the olive haired man takes a sip of his drink. His hair geled back and top three buttons of his shirt undone. His biceps pulling at the fabric of his sleeves as his arm flexes. You've seen this man before just not quite sure where.

"sorry," he interrupts and bows his body in his chair, "Ushijima Wakatoshi."

You eyes widened as you realized who's in front of you. How couldn't you have noticed. In response you respectfully bow back at the older man. The alcohol that was in your body immediately fading away.

"are you alright?" he asks again, face unmoving.

"i'm okay," you respond, face flushed. Feeling embarrassed remembering how in middle school you and your friends would gawk over the Olympic players. Instantly remembering countless nights looking up photos and videos of the then 27 year old man and giggling over his handsomeness. He's gotta at least be in his forties now you thought.

You watch as he waves his hand at the bartender, "two Manhattans," he casually asks handing over a black card to pay for the drinks. Still in shock your brain can barely process what's happening let alone speak.

Before you can thank him for the drink an arm lands on your shoulder pulling you out of your daze. "hey, sexy wanna come with me?" the man asks winking at you.

"hands off," the wing spiker commands, "she uncomfortable" he adds standing up. The strangers facade clearly switches up noticing the size difference between them. Ushijima's aura alone is enough to scare someone away, but with the way his eyes squint and his thick eyebrows drawing down in disgust you're not surprised the man scoffs and walks away.

"Are you alone?" the frowning man asks crossing his arms. Seemingly squaring himself to guard you.

You try to look around his body to find your friend, but his body covers more ground than you'd think. "yeah but..." your phone lights up at a new notification. Your friend seemingly found her prey for the night and sends a photo, "nevermind she left with someone," you solemnly tell him.

"come with me," he states, dropping cash on the bar as a tip. Before you could respond he's dragging you out of the bar into the dark streets of Tokyo.

"ow," you hiss when his grip gets to strong. His body quickly stops and attentively checks your body before realizing he's the one that hurt you. You watch as his eyes glaze over before looking to the side and taking a deep breath.

"my apologies," he he breathes out bowing before you. His body doesn't more till he hears the words leave your mouth.

"it's alright, you didn't mean it," you tell him reassuringly while rubbing your red wrist.

He stands back up and stares at your face before speaking. For a forty year old man he looks an awful lot like a teenager right now. His body stiff as a board as his mouth fights to get the words out. "you are alright with...me taking you back to my place?" He asks although coming out more as a statement. You giggle at his change in demeanor amd grab his hand and begin walking.

"So where's your car number 27?"

#ushijima x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu!! #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #ushijima wakatoshi #Dilf! toshi #my toshi bear #haikyuu ushijima #haikyuu ushiwaka #wakatoshi ushijima #ushijima #ushijima fic #ushijima smut #wakatoshi smut #wakatoshi fluff #haikyuu wakatoshi #wakatoshi x reader #waka

[arielstruggles]

The Dawn of Regret

Pairing: Joel Miller x Fem reader

Summary: You have a crush on Joel Miller and he becomes your patrol partner.

W.C: 3.4k

Warnings: Smut (mdni), P in V sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), Katoptronophilia, praise kink, slight dirty talk, breeding kink, big fat age gap (reader is 26 Joel is 56), angst.

A/N: Happy kinktober folks!. I love angst so i incorporate it in everything :| sorry. I honestly don't know if this will be a one shot or not, we will see. I'm sorry i'm not the best for descriptions. And if i have any grammar mistakes, sorry in advance i am not a native English speaker. Anyway, if anyone reads it, let me know your opinions, love you bye!

ch2 ch3

You and Joel have known each other for quite some time now. It has been roughly four months that him and Ellie decided to stay in Jackson, instead of trying to find the Fireflies. Since then, they were joining you at different tasks. Ellie was too young to join the patrols without a training but Joel, as a 56 years old, fearless man; he was the perfect fit. Well, obviously he was a mass murderer too but it was helpful in this situation. But other than that you were nothing to each other. Just a couple of “Hello”s and “How is it going”s  here and there. But you couldn’t help to feel attracted to him. Normally, you were teaming up with Maria and Joel was teaming up with Tommy but Tommy and Joel decided that they were "sick of each other" so Maria came up with the solution that you were supposed to team up with Joel. It caught you off guard. You were so used to went on patrols with Maria that you didn't know what to do exactly. Not that you were unable to protect yourself or anything. You were living in Jackson for more than two years now and before that you basically learned how to survive on your own. No, it was not a doubt that came from your skills, it was because of Joel.

You were a little bit, just a little bit intimidated by his presence. He was not a chatty, lively man. His brows were mostly furrowed, well he was grumpy to say the least. Not that he was rude or mean towards you. On the contrary he knew where to stand. So, he sort of knew when to be nice which was obviously not around you. But you were not sure if you were okay where he was standing, you wanted more. He was a handsome man, grumpy old man to be fair but it didn't take anything from his charm. His broad shoulders, warm brown eyes, the dimple on his cheek which is a shame that you could barely see since he was not laughing around you that much. He was big and strong. His hands, his fingers... The thought of it showed itself as dampness on your panties. You were feeling guilty for dreaming about him from time to time but in your defense, who would not? Gosh those Fingers. “What would happen if he wrapped them around my throat?" you thought, on the couch where you were lying at the moment. "What would happen if he kissed me, or better bite me?" you get so worked up that dipped your fingers inside your panties.

After you came imagining it was his fingers inside you instead of yours, a wave of warmth washes your whole body. You are feeling so guilty. You are about to go on a patrol with this man and you masturbated, in your couch, thinking of him. And you had no idea how he felt about you, you saw him flirting with women before in the Tipsy Bison however none of them were as young as you. They were mostly older than forty. You are in your mid-twenties. Also, you know the fact that he had a daughter which if she was alive would be older than you so this was both unethical and impossible. You shake your head due to your own stupid thoughts and realize that it' almost three a.m. that means Joel and you are about the meet in an hour. You fix your clothes and decide to make yourself a coffee, you have limited supply of coffees so even though you really love it you can't drink as much as you want to but tonight, or this morning to be precise, you need to.

While you sip your coffee with the shame on your shoulders you hear a knock on your door, you leave your mug on the table and walk towards the door. “Who is that?” you ask, even though the low and husky tone makes it clear that it is Joel, you are just trying to be careful. “It’s Joel. I was just checking you if you were awake.” To hide the reflection of that stupid grin on your voice, you clear your throat “Yes, I am.” You can’t help the heat that rises from your core. “Okay, be outside of your door in 30.” He says and you hear footsteps fading away. You realize you didn’t even open the door, let alone kindly inviting him but it was probably for the best. You still feel warm and fuzzy because of your Joel fantasies. You grab your coffee and sip the rest while thinking of him. 

Once you’re done with your coffee, you step outside of your door with you backpack on your back and gun in its holster, waiting for Joel. After a while his big figures approaches which makes you feel giddy. You curse under your breath for feeling like a high schooler who sees their crush. “Mornin’” he rasps, “morning” you say in return. “We’re heading towards east this time. Tommy claims. There are riders.” It is obvious by his tone that he mocks with his brother. You nod as a response to his explanation and you both start walking. You know, silence is better to search the area but it makes you so uneasy. You want to talk to him desperately. “So, why you and Tommy decided to not to be partners anymore?” you ask, your tone is louder than you expected. “You wanna get attention of clickers or sumthin?” he is not mad, it’s his usual grumpiness but still you feel ashamed. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment. “sorry.” You murmur, this time your tone is quiet. “He was being a pain in the ass, I’m sick of his bullshit.” He answers your question without looking at your face, you are grateful for that. You hum in return while you keep on walking. It’s still dark outside and cold. You wish you were in your warm bed. But the man who is walking right beside you seems so unbothered. He doesn’t care about the cold or how dark it is. It is as if he is living for the sake of living. You study his demeanor, trying to be sneaky. “Is there sumthin on my face?” “no, i- I’m sorry.” “well, you should focus on the road not me.” his tone is amused this time, not annoyed, not grumpy. You see a smile dancing around his lips, it is not a smile but it’s the best you got which sort of encourages you. “I can do both” “Aren’t you sumthin?” he chuckles, you made him smile.

That little conversation is all you need for you to have a crush on Joel. Not that you had not anything towards him but it was not a strong feeling whatsoever. But the moment you were able to make him smile. Well, it worsens the situation. For the rest of the road, you are mostly quiet. The sun is about to rise, the sky is turning into a lighter shade of blue. The birds chirping. It almost sounds peaceful. In the middle of an apocalypse. You can’t help but laugh audibly. Joel turns towards you with a questioning look on his face. “I was thinking how peaceful it felt. The sky seems so pretty, birds are chirp-“Joel covers your mouth with one of his hands and yanks you to a tree trunk which sends a shock to your body. While you try to grasp what is the reason behind this, he gestures with his other hand to be quiet. You nod in return and both of you listen carefully. You hear the clickers around. High pitched screams of a bunch of them fill the woods. It’s disturbing. You are grateful for it though, it distracts you from thinking how close your bodies are, how one of his hands is on your mouth. After he gives you the que you wait in silence, you kill them one by one. “Morning exercise I guess.” You say. “Yeah, right.” He replies grumpily and rolls his eyes. Here he is again, the Joel you are familiar with. It is saddening honestly. Witnessing a side of him which he only shows people whom he really cares and trusts, which you crave to be one.

You look at your pocket watch it reads 8.45. Morning sun shines through the sky, it is warmer than a couple of hours earlier. You still have more than three hours and frankly, after your last unsuccessful attempt to make him talk, you give up. Morning sun hits his face in a way that invigorates his handsome features. You want to reach his face and caress his cheeks, kiss tip of his nose. Of course, you can’t do any of that, how could you? You don’t even know him, he doesn’t even know you. It’s just your hormones talking, you assure yourself. “Cat got your tongue?” he questions your silence. “Huh?” “You seem lost in your thoughts. You were chatty earlier.” “I thought you would be annoyed if I talk too much.” “Yeah, you thought that right.” Well, he is honest at least. You don’t say anything back. He breaks the silence when you find an old shed. “I know this is safe, I’ve been there before you wanna rest a bit? Before heading back to Jackson?” even though staying in a small space with Joel for a couple of hours seems like not a good idea your feet hurt from all that walking and fighting with clickers was draining so you decide it’s for the best “Yeah, sure.” He opens the door and checks out the shed just in case then nudges his head for you to get inside. There is a mirror at the corner. It has cracks here and there and sort of rusty but you can see your reflection.

You sit on a moldy couch, it’s not the best thing to sit but at least better it is than floor. He sits right next to you, you are pretty close to each other. This surprises you but considering it is the only somewhat comfortable thing in this place it should not. The silence is too loud. You want to speak, to say something but you don’t know what to say. It’s as if you forgot how to talk, as if all the words in you have lost their meanings. The hand on your thigh jerks you awake from your thoughts. You look at his hand on your thigh then his eyes. He looks at you as if he is about to devour you. Even if you dreamt about this before, it feels different when he really touches you. You feel shy all of a sudden. “Darlin’ you thought I didn’t realize how you look at me?” his raspy tone sends shivers down on your spine. You want to give in and let him fuck you senseless but a part of you still wants to resist. You clearly have no idea how this thing is going to work or what he really wants. “What? You must be dreaming Joel.” You chuckle nervously. “I most certainly am not.” His hand moves up and up till your crotch but he doesn’t touch there yet. “Tell me darlin’” he leans on your ear, his breath tickles your neck, you’re sitting side by side but you want him on top of you. “Tell me you don’t want it and I’ll stop.” “Fine, okay. I want you.” you try not to sound so desperate but the last part of your sentence comes out as whining. “Atta girl, was that so hard?” he murmurs and cups your crotch through your jeans. He doesn’t dip his fingers, not yet. He leaves wet kisses all over your neck. You do something bold and climb on his thigh. His large hands find their places on your waist. You kiss him deeply. Your tongues dance with harmony. You get wetter with each passing second and press yourself on his thigh a little more. He moans into your mouth. “Naughty, naughty” a smirk spreads across his mouth. You grind on his thigh more and more; the tension is unbearable at this point. “Joel, do something!” you burrow your face in the crook of his neck “Do what darlin?” “Fuck me Joel.” Your voice comes muffled. You bite down on his neck. he cradles you and take you in front of the mirror which you saw earlier. You are confused. “What are you doing?” you ask him. “Just want you to see everything.”

You are standing before the mirror; Joel is pressed behind you. His cock is nestled between your ass cheeks. His movements are slow, you still have a couple of hours left and everywhere seemed clear so you can take your time. But you are so restless. He takes off your coat, then your shirt, then your bra. You’re half naked. Your reflection in the mirror startles you. You are as much eager as Joel. He cups your right tit. His calloused fingers brush your hardened nipple while he licks your neck. You gasp with the overwhelming feeling. You’re dripping cunt flutters against nothing. You want him inside. “Joel” you moan. He bites your shoulder in return. You both watch your reflections in the mirror. You take one of his hands that are on your waist and slide it into your panties, he takes the hint, an amused laugh leaves his lips but he does not want to tease you so he starts toying with your clit while leaving wet kisses all over your shoulders and neck. While his thumb circles around your clit and he dips his middle finger to your hole. “Aren’t you a slut, hm? Waiting for me to fuck this hole of yours?” You moan to the vulgarity of his words. He adds a second finger, hitting just the right spots. The overwhelming sensation takes over your whole body, you feel weak in the knees and rest your back against his chest more and more. At this point you look like a body with two heads. You feel your first orgasm is about to hit. “Joel ‘m close, I’m so close.” You coo, “let it go baby girl. You’re such a good girl for me, let it go darlin’” he whispers to your ear. You don’t even hesitate to ruin his fingers with your cum. He takes his fingers off of you and licks them. You see the reflection in the mirror. It feels so unholy. You feel as if a sinner, for letting a man who’s the same age as your father, if he was alive, to finger fuck you. “Now darling, I want more. I want to my cock in that sweet pussy of yours. I want to eat you out.” “Yes Joel, please.” Your voice sounds so needy that you cringe. “I want you to watch baby girl. Every second of it.”

He lays down his coat to the floor and then lays you down on it. Unbuttons your jeans and strips down the rest of your clothes. He starts kissing your neck and makes his way down while leaving kisses on your torso. His tongue finds his way on your clit, it moves with ease. You grip a fist full of his hair and press him against your pussy more. The warmth of his tongue mixed with the warmth of your pussy sends shock waves to your body. He eats you out with such ease and pleasantly. Your moans fill the old shed. Then Joel stops, “time to take my cock darling’” he coos and unbuttons his jeans. Cold air hits your glistening folds, makes you shiver. He takes off his jeans and boxers. His fat cock is up against his belly. Your mouth waters, you want to take it to your mouth. He catches your hungry eyes. “Next time darling’”. His tip shines with pre cum. He is hard as a rock. He checks on the mirror, to see your reflections, you do the same. You can’t name the feels in you at the moment because it feels nice. He leans on your body and aligns his cock with your entrance. “You ready?” you nod eagerly. It has been a while-3 years to be precise- since you last got laid and you don’t have that much experience but you want to hide this fact from Joel. Once he pushes himself inside you, you scream. Then you adjust to his size and he picks up his once slower pace. “So wet and tight for me. So pretty.” He mutters in your ear. “good girl, aren’t you a sweet girl for me, darlin’?” you nod, he grabs you by the throat, “Answer me!” his tone is demanding, his gaze is dark. “Yes, yes Joel” you answer but frankly, you don’t even know what was he saying. Your hips move in sync. He is close “Where do you want me to come, darling?” “Inside” you say. You come together.  He fills you up. After you’re both done, he lays on you. You wrap your arms around his torso. It feels so intimate. You have so many questions you want to ask. But you don’t know how he will respond. You clearly have a crush on him but you are not sure if he feels something towards you or if it was just a bodily pleasure. You decide to wait for him to take the first step.

You lay there for almost half an hour. Then he speaks “It’s almost 11 a.m., we better get going.” You can’t tell if he sounds distant or not. He helps you to get up and you wear your clothes and he does the same. You leave the shed and head towards Jackson. He does not talk; you don’t want to talk as well. But you have more than two hours of walking distance so after a while you are so bored of silence and curiosity eats you alive. “what’s gonna happen now?” you ask expecting for him to say something positive. “Nothing.” he almost barks. You are stunned by the tone of his. “Oh?” is all you can say. “Look, it was a mistake, I shouldn’t be so reckless. You forget what happened, I’ll do the same.” It hurts you. He is so blunt and there is no emotion behind his words. You feel so stupid for even thinking this could have led to something. You feel tears sting to your eyes but try to hold them back. You have no intention to feel smaller in front of this monster of a man. You are unsuccessful though. He hears you sniffing, does not look at you. He does not want to feel more guiltier than this. “Now, don’t cry on me.” he wants to sound harsh; he wants you to hate him so that you will never like him. It does not help. He wants you to be safe and being closer to him is not the safest option.

You can see Jackson, you’re close. That means you can go to your home and cry for hours. Your sadness leaves its place to anger. “You know, you are a disgusting man. You gave me hope and now you’re leaving me like this.” You know that is not the truth but you want to hurt him. “You are right about that. But I didn’t think you could be this naïve to fall for me.” “You deserve to die alone! If your daughter knew all this, she would’ve hated you.” You can see the burning flame in his eyes. For a second you think he will smack you across your face but he does not instead he grabs your arm tightly. “Just because we fucked does not mean you are something to me. You are clearly desperate for attention. You want someone to love you. But that ain’t me. You’re nobody.” He leaves your arm and walks towards his home. You stand there like a fool you tried to hurt him but he did it. You start to walk as well, Maria approaches you. “So, how was your patrol? You seem pale.” “It was okay, a couple of clickers, nothing unusual.” Your voice cracks, she looks at you worriedly. “please, I don’t want to talk.” You explain and she nods. You open your door and enter your house. The moment the door shut closed you start crying.

#joel miller #the last of us #joel miller hbo #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal #joel miller smut #kinktober #tlou hbo #the last of us hbo #fanfic #joel miller angst

[aphrodisiaxcunt]

Saw you need requests so what's up bbg

What about John Price with a younger gf (like 26, he's canonically near 40) who's worried that he's gonna "realize" he's "better off" with a woman his age? She's by no means immature or childish but sometimes worries there's too much of an age disconnect. Price obviously doesn't give a fuck and reassures her and it's just really sweet and lowkey Hozier coded? 👀

Like the song Be by Hozier (idk but it reminds me of him)

Omg thank you for your request🫶🏻Literally perfect I love Price so much it'll be nice to write something new, hopefully you'll enjoy my work ♡♡ Even though its not really my favourite out of all the things I've written ♡♡ sorry I'm using colored lines, it's just easier for my dumb bunny brain to grasp with colors

☆~♡—Connecting Pieces—♡~☆

Content: Request!Fluff, comfort, Cap Price x gf!reader, younger!woman x older!man, cutesy, domestic

Prices lines are green, Reader lines are orange

Reading time: 4~minutes

You and Price had been 'an item' for roughly over a year now, and it's been nothing short of perfect in your eyes. You've always felt a little more attraction to older men, nothing weird. They're simply just gentlemen compared to the boys your age. But lately, you can't help but kind of worry, although you've always liked older men, Price is your first older partner.

Every day for the past month or two, you've started noticing you and Price don't have that much in common, he's way more experienced in life and everything new to you is old news to him. Stressing over your thoughts as you're standing over your dining room table and attempting doing a puzzle, you don't notice Price until his arms wrap around your waist. Turning your head to look at him with a questioning hum from your throat, he places a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"Any closer to finishing this yet?" His remarks at your previous attempts of finishing a puzzle make you laugh a bit, turning your head back to the task at hand.

"Nno..not really.. I can't focus." You tilt your head a little to the side, looking for a specific piece from the pile of colourful shapes. Price slides his hand underneath your smaller hand, wrapping his digits with yours as he brings your hand up to his lips to kiss it, the beard and moustache he's so proud of tickling your knuckles.

"What's taking your attention, my love?" His soothing voice is like velvet in your ears, and you gnaw at the inside of your cheek just slightly, thinking if now is really a great time to start mentioning your insecurities.

"It's stupid, really don't worry -" he cuts you off "No no honey, it's clearly bothering you, so it must be important, even a bit, hm?" His words make you sigh. You take a seat, still fiddling with a puzzle piece between your fingers. He lets go of your hand, and instinctively, you pull it back to yourself and use it to assist your other hand at studying the puzzle piece. He takes a seat beside you and scoots the chair closer to yours. "I've just been thinking-" you hold a quick pause, "Of our age gap. Sometimes I feel like you'd be better off with a woman..that's actually your age." Your voice goes quieter the longer you talk. "And maybe some day you'll realize that and leave me.." Looking down, you've stopped moving the puzzle piece around and now just look at the part of a flower on it.

He seems a little dumbfounded, mouth opening and closing in his search for words, and after a couple of useless seconds of searching, he lets out a chuckle. Lifting your head, you see him smiling down at you, his smile lines creased up. "Oh, I see, my dear.. I can assure you that's not the case here. Never has been." Now it's your time to look dumbfounded as you mutter out excuses.

His rough hands move to cradle your head as his thumb tips find their places on your cheekbones, caressing them down in a soothing motion, he hushes you. His eyes locking onto yours, his face is relaxed and a little entertained. "What would make you think of such things?" You completely melt against his hands, leaning your face into his touch, looking for your words. "Sometimes I just feel like we don't have a lot of stuff in common..and when something is new and exciting for me- I'm scared it's boring and repetetive for you.." You close your eyes and tilt your head down, letting your hair droop over your face. Price smiles at you, brushing your hair back behind your ear and lifting your chin. "Oh I promise you, seeing you get excited over something is not boring.." Your eyes flutter open and they meet with his. Before you can start questioning him, he slides his thumb from your cheek onto your lips. You look at him as you place a soft kiss to the tip of his thumb, giving him a small smile.

"I've never felt like our relationship is complicated in that matter, we still love each other..And I don't think having things in common is necessary to that.." You start to blush at his comforting words. This is something you're really starting to wish you would have opened up earlier for conversation. But the important thing is that now he's aware and you're feeling reassured.

"Are we on the same page now dear?" His voice is quiet when he asks, giving him a nod and a "Yeah~..." as an answer. He pulls you in gently by your face, lips pressing into yours. You kiss him back, the scent of tobacco in his breath and the bitter taste on his lips is something you've started to like. You wrap your arms around his neck, running your fingers through his soft hair. The seconds go by fast, too fast as he stops the kiss. Eyes opening to meet yours, he gives you an other reassuring smile, making you blush and avert your gaze back to the puzzle.

"The piece goes here darling.." he points to a spot in the low left corner of the puzzle and you give him a sarcastic 'I knew it' as you place the piece to its respected place.

☆{}☆{}☆{}☆{}☆{}☆{}☆{}☆{}☆{}☆{}☆{}☆{}☆{}☆

YEAH! The puzzle was a metaphor of relationship issues and talking your problems through, so what? I'm kidding, that was honestly really amazing to write and I hope I pulled through on your request <3 I wasn't sure if I should call him Price or John so I hope that Price is fine

Go follow my ig @aphrodisiax_tumblr for fic release updates!!

#captain john price #john price #cod x reader #cod #call of duty x you #call of duty x reader #female writers #captain price #cod fluff #fluff #captain price fluff #captain price x reader #captain price x you

[sixhours]

Chapter 1 - The Ghosts of Babylon

Series Chapter Index | Read on AO3 | Complete

Rating: Explicit, 18+, here be smut and violence Series tags: Joel Miller x You, Joel Miller x Reader, Joel & Ellie, mostly follows canon, LGBTQ+ characters, y/n is bi/pan, y/n is ~45, violence, pregnancy, abortion, medical trauma, emotional trauma, panic attacks, sex work, suicide, smut, slow burn, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, romance, no use of y/n, reader has longish hair, Joel can lift you, smallish age gap (~11 years), I've probably forgotten some so please let me know <3

~*~

Portland, Maine September 26, 2003

“Fuck.”

The air in the bathroom is thick with moisture, making it hard to breathe. You wipe at the condensation on the mirror and stare at the face reflected back at you, pale and drawn in the yellow light.

“Fuck, fuuuuck,” you mutter, holding the pregnancy test up and squinting, tilting it this way and that, hoping the extra line is just a trick of the light, but it doesn’t go away. You groan, internally vacillating between panic and rage.

Fuck.

There’s a knock at the door. Your girlfriend, Joanna, probably wondering what’s taking so long.

“Hey, you done? We just got called into the hospital again.”

“What?” You drop the stick onto the counter, but you can’t stop staring at it, the two clear blue lines taunting you. Outside your shared one-bedroom apartment a siren begins to wail. “I just got home.”

“That’s the job, babe,” Jo says. The doorknob creaks, breaking your reverie.

“Shit, just a sec,” you mutter, shoving your foot against the door and fumbling for some toilet paper to wrap the test in before tucking it at the bottom of the garbage can. You swallow the urge to vomit as Jo pokes her head in.

“You’ve been in here forever–”

“Jeez, privacy,” you snap, clutching the towel to your body more tightly, suddenly keenly aware of how flimsy it is, how exposed you are.

Jo’s eyes widen with hurt and you immediately soften, guilt stabbing at the gentlest swell in your abdomen. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…it’s just been a long-ass day.”

You soothe her with a quick kiss, hoping she can’t taste the hint of bile under the mint of your toothpaste and mouthwash.

“I’ll be right there,” you say, ducking around her, headed to your room in search of fresh scrubs.

“You want something to eat? I made sandwiches to go.”

Your stomach turns. “No, I ate at the caf after my last shift,” you lie. “Is this an all-hands thing?” you call over your shoulder as you dig in the hamper. Nothing is clean, there’s never enough time to do laundry.

Plenty of time to fuck an old buddy and get knocked up, though , you think, setting your lips in a grim line and smoothing the wrinkles out of some navy blue slacks.

“Yeah, Dan says they’re calling everyone in,” she confirms. “Something about a virus, flu season’s starting early, they’re expecting a full house. It’s bad.”

“Mmm,” you say, pulling on the freshest top you can find and tying back your hair in a ponytail. You meet Jo at the door where she hands you a brown paper sack, presumably your sandwich.

“You okay?” she asks as you walk the four blocks to the hospital, grateful for the crisp fall air. You hope it hides the flush in your cheeks, hopes she didn’t hear you retching before you stepped into the shower. She reaches for your hand and takes it, but your fingers are numb. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m fine,” you say automatically. “Just…tired.”

“Okay…hey, I had an idea for our anniversary next week.”

“Hmm?”

“There’s this new place on Congress Street, they do a great brunch with free mimosas? Since it’s on a Sunday I thought we could probably sneak in a date after your shift–”

“That’s fine,” you say automatically, squeezing her hand in weak reassurance; just the word brunch makes your stomach turn. “I mean, great, sounds great.”

She stops you outside the hospital’s employee entrance and holds fast to your hand to pull you back before you can go in.

“Babe. Are you sure you’re alright?”

You blink back tears, swallow hard, and it almost comes out. You open your mouth to speak, but the sound of a siren interrupts as an ambulance screams out of the nearby garage, lights flashing, and the moment is gone.

You pull her into a tight hug. She smells soft and warm and familiar, like oranges and vanilla. You press a tight kiss to the nape of her neck in an unusually public display of affection.

“Whoa,” she says softly, taking an unintentional step back as if to catch you.

“I’m okay,” you murmur into her neck. “We’ll be okay.”

~*~

The smell of antiseptic barely registers as you enter the building, so familiar to you now it’s like a second home. Joanna gives you a quick wave before being intercepted by her attending, who drags her off to the ICU to check on a patient.

By the time you drop your bag off at your locker, shoving the paper satchel with your sandwich at the back, you’ve almost put the pregnancy out of your mind. It comes naturally, this tight compartmentalization of your feelings, this easy decoupling from your emotional state.

The on-call attending physician looks no worse for the wear, and in the back of your mind, you wonder if someone higher up is overreacting to the news out of Indonesia. Your limited knowledge of virology knows the flu can’t jump that quickly. You’re over a hundred miles from the nearest major airport. It will be several days before what’s happening there crawls its way to this tiny state. It’s true, the waiting room is busy, but that’s not unusual for a Friday night.

You fight off a wave of nausea and take a clipboard from the wall.

~*~

Several hours later, at about the time a man named Joel Miller is holding his dead daughter in his arms somewhere in Texas, you are beginning to understand that this is not influenza.

Reports out of Boston and New York City are fragmented and, quite frankly, unbelievable. There’s a federal emergency warning on the screen of every television in the lobby and a growing sense of unease as nurses, doctors, and assistants dash between rooms, weaving between gurneys, calling out orders for beds, antibiotics, IVs. The thrum of the waiting room only grows louder and more insistent. The sirens are a constant, frenetic wail in the distance.

But all of that is a dim clamor in the background because your latest patient has a bite. A distinctly human-mouth-shaped arc of angry red impressions in the crook of their neck. The patient also has a sudden fever and a rash that is rapidly spreading up the side of their head. 

Rashes don’t move like that, rashes don’t fucking undulate …

If you didn’t know better you’d think it was blood poisoning, but you’ve never seen sepsis like this. You watched the bite happen, watched a troubled man in the waiting room lurch from his chair and fly toward his victim, sinking his teeth into the flesh of her neck before being restrained by an orderly and the receptionist. That was maybe five minutes ago, and you’ve never seen an infection spread so fucking fast . By the time you’d helped the patient into a cot, they were already shivering, skin clammy and burning at the same time.

The patient is your partner, Joanna.

“What…the fuck,” she murmurs, chest heaving. Her neck twitches and jumps under your careful, probing touch. Her skin is already dewy with sweat, hot under your fingertips.

“Hold still,” you hiss, unsure if you’re talking to her or your trembling hands. You douse the bite in antiseptic, wiping away the blood with a clean square of gauze, leaning in to examine the rash again. It’s crept up from her collarbone to her ear, and it has to be your imagination, but you can almost see it…move. Joanna is shivering, whether from the fever or shock you don’t know, but you don’t have time to process before a shriek rings out from the hall.

“Need some help out here!”

Joanna grimaces, hissing softly through her teeth. “Go.”

“Jo–”

“Go. I’ll be fine,” she says, even as her eyes roll back in pain.

You give her one last desperate look, squeezing her hand, whispering, “I’ll be right back,” before ducking out of the room.

A woman is seizing on the floor, spasms jerking her limbs from side to side. A nurse looks up at you with wide eyes as he attempts to stabilize the patient’s head and neck. The seizing woman’s head turns sharply and her teeth make contact with his wrist, ripping a gash in the tender flesh.

“Shit!” he cries, jerking his hand away, blood running in rivulets down his arm.

“Go, I’ve got this,” you bark. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t ask if you’re sure, just backs away and runs down the hall.

A hot hand on your shoulder spins you around before you can figure out what to do with the writhing woman on the floor. It’s Joanna, her eyes cloudy. The heat radiates off her body in waves, the rash–

Not a rash.

–has spread up her neck, already red and raised welt-like lines are slithering–

Rashes don’t slither.

–around the sunken sockets of her eyes.

“Help…” she croaks. Her fingers pulse and twitch against your collarbone, gripping too tight, too close.

“Jo, it’s–” you start to soothe, intending to send her back to bed, but she’s staggering toward you in sharp jerks, her mouth glistening, and some deep, primal urge makes you recoil from your lover’s embrace. You stumble backward, heels catching on the woman on the floor, and you land on your tailbone behind her.

Joanna follows like a moth to your flame, pitching forward, crawling, oblivious to the woman on the floor who is also moving underneath her, rolling over in a jerky, twisting, impossible way. Both women lock onto you and you can almost feel their need, their–

Hunger.

From down the hall comes a rising chorus of shouts, a crash. Someone bursts through the doors from the waiting room, one shoulder soaked with blood. From between the swinging doors, you see glimpses of chaos, hear more screams.

No. No. Not Jo. Not–

Something inside you breaks; you scramble backward, barely stifling a moan. You feel a hand tighten around your ankle and you kick it away, the tile floor slippery against your sweaty palms. Another hand grasps, scrabbles, another kick; a bloody palm print gleams on the crisp white leather toe of your sneaker.

No! No! Get out!

By some miracle you find your feet, feel yourself turning, running down the hall, deeper into the hospital. A dim part of your brain reaches for a reprimand, but you can’t make yourself stop, driven by panic, passing lines of gurneys and bodies slumped on the floor. You’re acutely aware of the thick smell of blood, drowning out the familiar antiseptic wash. You push your way through crowded halls over a chorus of groans and screams.

Out get out get out out out–

You burst through an emergency exit at the back of the hospital gasping for air, pressing your back to the weathered brick. Your heart lurches in your chest, wishing for this to end, for you to wake up in your bed after a bad dream.

A pregnancy dream , you think, barking a manic laugh into the night, recalling that your biggest fear this morning had been a little nausea and a missing red dot on the calendar. You taste hot bile and feel yourself swaying, ready to empty the meager contents of your stomach next to the dumpster, but a blinding light freezes you in its glare.

“Stop right there!”

You blink, stunned. Then you see the gun.

A figure in Army fatigues is pointing a rifle at you. The trembling of the muzzle makes you understand he’s just as scared as you are. If you get sick now, you’re a dead woman.

You raise your shaking hands in surrender. “Don’t shoot, I’m a…I’m a doctor.” 

He doesn’t lower the weapon. “Are you bit?”

“I’m not–I don’t know what–”

His voice rises, panic creeping in as he gestures with the rifle, jabbing it at you. “Are you bit?!? Are you sick?”

“No!” you say, trying not to let your voice shake. “No, I’m not sick.”

He swallows hard, appearing to take this in. You close your eyes in the endless seconds between breaths, waiting for the crack of the rifle.

You open your eyes at the sound of the gun being lowered to his side.

“Ma’am,” he says shakily. “I think you should come with me.”

#the last of us #the last of us hbo #fanfic #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you

[megukins]

Just Between us

𓆩♡𓆪 Pervy sensei!Gojo x virgin student!reader

𓆩♡𓆪 genre: smut, 18+

𓆩♡𓆪 synopsis: You go over to Gojo's house to help bring up your grade on a current test you failed, but your innocence gets to be too much for poor Gojo.

𓆩♡𓆪 a/n: Gojo is 26 and you're 19 so it's a 7 year age gap.

𓆩♡𓆪 warnings: age gap, corruption kink, dubcon, mentions of condom use, anal

𓆩♡𓆪 wc: 2k

You saw your female classmates fawn over him. You didn't get it, I mean sure he's handsome and all, but that's a grown man! Plus, he's your sensei, you can't fall for him like that!

"Gojo-sensei, do you have a girlfriend or wife perhaps?" You hear one of them ask.

"Hanako-chan, that's an inappropriate question to ask!" One of her friends lectures.

"You're just mad because I have a higher chance of getting with him!" She scoffs.

"How come every girl is so into him?" You ask Itadori.

"He's awesome that's why!" He exclaims with sparkles in his eyes. 

You roll your eyes. 

'At least Nobara hasn't fallen for his charm.' 

"Once I pass your papers back, you're dismissed." 

He was surrounded by a group of girls making kissy faces and telling him goodbye.

He passes back the latest test you took. You examine your paper, seeing a frowny face. 

You grip the paper tighter, gritting your teeth.

'He's practically mocking me!'

"You okay, Y/N?" Nobara notices a change in your demeanor. 

"Huh? Oh yeah, I'm fine…" 

"Oi, Fushiguro wanna hang out at my place?" 

"Absolutely not." He shuts him down without hesitating.

"Oh come on, it'll be fun!" He grins widely. 

He bribes Nobara to come with before turning around.

"You coming, Y/N?" 

"I'll be there in a minute!" You flash him a smile which soon faded.

It was just you two in the class as an awkward silence filled the room. 

You clear your throat to break the silence. 

"Gojo-sensei? How did I fail when I clearly studied and worked hard!" 

"You didn't exactly meet my standards. You may have excelled on the English portion, however the math portion needs more work. How about you come by my house later and we can study. How does that sound?" He flashes a flirty grin.

"Gojo-sensei, are you trying to flirt with me? Because if you are, it's not working." 

"Ooh you're a feisty one." He chuckles.

"Anyways, what do you say?"

You contemplate for a minute then sigh.

"Fine, but I still don't like you like the other girls do." 

You look back at the text message to make sure you're at the right house.

"Whoa, his house is bigger than I thought it'd be…" 

You knock once and he immediately opens the door. 

You notice he looks different from his usual attire. He's not wearing those glasses he usually wears and he has on sweatpants and plain white socks.

"Come in!" He clasps his hands. 

He takes your coat and hangs it on the coat rack. You take your shoes off to get a bit more comfortable. You take your bookbag off and sling it to the floor.

"All right, let's hurry up and get this over with." 

"You have to eat first, you can't think on an empty stomach!" 

You hear your stomach growl, heat pouring over your face.

"Looks like somebody's hungryyy~" 

"Fine." You say through gritted teeth. 

He leads you to the dining room. You rushed to sit down, him following soon after.

You both join your hands in front of your chest, "Thank you for the food!" You both say.

You eat like you haven't eaten in years. He chuckles a bit and is pleased you think his cooking is good.

"So, L/N-san, do you have any crushes? Because if you do, I could give you some tips~"

You nearly choked on your food when he asked you that.

"Wh-what kind of question is that?!" 

"Well I just assumed you either had the hots for Itadori-kun or Megumi-kun." 

"They're just my friends! What's wrong with having guys as friends? Besides, Eri's the one that has the hots for Megumi."

"Nothing, I just thought maybe you had a crush on them." 

Silence fills the air once more and that awkward tension takes place again.

"So do you like anyone?" He questions.

"Even if I did I wouldn't tell you." You spat.

"You're a sassy one! I like that." 

You two finish eating and he washes the plates, leaving you in the dining room. 

You get up and slide the door open to the living room to get your bookbag. You pull your books out to study. He eventually finishes up and comes in to assist you.

"How's it going so far?" 

"This is stupid!" You ruffle through your hair in frustration.

"It's undefined." 

"Hah?" 

"Well the way I look at it, you don't necessarily have to look at the numerator so much, more so the variable and number in the denominator. If the denominator equals to 0 then it'll always be undefined because it's impossible to divide anything by 0. Like say if the denominator is a+5 where a= -5 then it'll become 0 since they cancel each other out, thus making it undefined."

You stare at him blankly. He made sure to explain thoroughly for you to understand.

"Tell you what, let's make a deal." 

"Like?" You raise a brow.

"If you do better on the test this time than last time, then I'll give you a better grade and reward you." 

"What kind of reward?" That piqued your interest.

"You'll see if you pass this time." He smirks. 

He presents the new test to you and leaves the room so you can focus.

You heard your phone ding, looking at the text from Itadori asking about what you were doing. You ignore him and continue to focus on the test. 

An hour passes as he examines the paper to check for any errors. 

"Impressive. You only got three wrong." 

"Thank god!" You sigh in relief. "So, what exactly is my reward?" 

"L/N-san, be honest, do you… really hate me?"

You wondered where he got that assumption from. 

"No I actually kind of also had a crush on you this whole time, I was just trying to play hard to get. And I got a bit jealous when those other girls would practically throw themselves at you." You confess while looking everywhere but his eyes.

He pulls your chin up to look at him.

"Are you a virgin?"

You hoped he was joking but he was dead serious.

"Wh-what?! Of course I am, but if you're suggesting what I think you are, we can't! It's against the school rules and it's inappropriate! Plus you're seven years older than me!" 

"Are you sure you don't want this?"

He walks closer and places his lips over yours. You kiss back and pull away quickly. 

He pants like crazy at how innocent you are. It made his cock stir in his pants.

"Are you okay, Gojo-sensei?" 

You notice his eyes were no longer sweet, instead filled with lust. 

He pins you against the wall and places kisses over your neck and travels towards your collarbone. He grinds against your clothed pussy. 

"G-Gojo-sensei!" You grab onto his shirt. He bites your neck leaving hickeys in return.

"I'm sorry, L/N-san! I have no idea what came over me." 

He notices you looking down and rubbing your thighs together for some sort of friction. Turns out you wanted this just as bad as he did.

"Looks like you want this too." He teases.

"Sh-shut up!" You stutter some more. 

He scoops you up in his arms and rushed up the stairs to his bedroom. Once he successfully kicked the door open, he put you down. 

You look around his room fascinated at how it's set up.

'Who knew Gojo-sensei would go for the fancy setup?' You thought.

He lays you down and follows soon after. He takes his clothes off, his bare cock on full display.

Your face heats up at his package and also at the fact that you've never seen one in person. 

"Don't be nervous, I promise I'll be gentle on you." 

He pulls the strings down to your shirt slowly. He throws it somewhere in the bed and discards your skirt next, leaving you in your cute flimsy underwear. 

You quickly throw your hands over yourself.

"S-stop looking at me like that, it makes me feel weird!" 

His balls were pulsating at this point at how pure you were. Oh how he wanted so badly to corrupt you and turn you into his little cum dump. 

He moves your hands and pulls your bra off, your girls bouncing from the sudden action. He stares at them with wide eyes.

"You've got an amazing pair…" He mutters. 

He knew exactly how to fluster you. 

He shakes himself out of his daze and pulls your panties off, your bare pussy looking all nice and pretty for him. He felt blood rushing to his head and cock grunting at how painful it was to keep himself under control. 

"You also got such a pretty cunt." He drools at the fact that he'll be the first one to fuck your cunt.

His tip was red and swollen with a bit of cum oozing out. 

"Would you be a dear and help me out?" He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

"How?" 

He guides your hands to the tip, your fingertips brushing it lightly. He groans and moves your hands up and down his hard cock at a medium pace.

"Yeah, just like that…" 

You move your hand at a faster rate eliciting another guttural groan from him as more cum spurts out onto your fingers. You feel something wet on the covers and notice that it came from you. 

"Aw, you're wet already and we haven't even started yet." 

You decide to tease him a bit by sucking the juices off your fingers. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He didn't know what to say. 

"So that's how Gojo-sensei tastes like." You batt your eyes seductively. He goes inside the nightstand to pull a condom out, opening it like a pro and sticks it over his dick. 

"I came prepared. Don't want you to end up pregnant and everyone wonders who the father is." He smirks.

He towers over you, licking his lips. 

"I'm scared." 

"Don't be sweetheart. I'll try to be careful."

"You promised you'll be gentle!" You remind him.

"I did say that, didn't I? Oops!" 

He places his hands on the headboard fucking into you without hesitation at a medium pace. His tip brushes past your clit, giving you a sadistic grin. He teases that spot once more.

"Gojo-sensei!~" You moan out. 

"Call me Satoru…" He grunts.

He stops momentarily to let you catch your breath. 

"How are you so good at this?" You wiped the sweat from your forehead.

"Because I just am." He boasts. "Ready?" You nod. 

He continues thrusting into your pussy harshly. You bite down on your bottom lip to muffle your moans but he was making it hard for that to happen. 

He finds your g-spot, flashing a cheeky grin.

"Found ittt!~" 

"Fuck, Satoru!" You let out a long moan.

He grinds into your g-spot, the bed shaking harder than before while holding onto the bedpost once more.

Moan after moan slips out of your mouth, drool dribbling down your chin. He couldn't hold it anymore and came inside the condom. 

"Usually I last a bit longer than that." He says sheepishly. 

He takes the condom off and throws it away in the trash bin. 

"So what happened this time?" You tease.

"It's your fault for being so innocent, but I can't even call you that now." 

"So that's how it feels to fuck."

You couldn't believe it, you shared such an intimate moment with your sensei. 

"It's actually worse than that but I don't think you're ready for that yet. Maybe we can do it again same time tomorrow?" 

"I'll think about it." 

"A-ahh Satoru-sensei, feels too good!~"

He fucks your asshole like there's no tomorrow.

"Fuck, I'm gonna nut all in your tight hole." He groans.

Once he finished up, he cleans you up and lets you sleep over for the night.

It was practically an everyday thing between the two of you. He would even wait until everyone left the class just to have you bent over a desk, your hole and the floor drenched in his cum. You just wondered how long you could keep this up before anyone finds out.

It was your dirty little secret.

© 2022 this work belongs to @megukins DO NOT repost OR plagiarize on any other social media

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jjk #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk fanfic #gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #satoru x y/n #satoru x reader #satoru smut #satoru gojo #gojo satoru

[onyourhyuck]

Baby Daddy | n.yt 18+.

synopsis; you met yuta at a party and there was an instant attraction. lately you and yuta have been sleeping together but this time, yuta invited you over for dinner with his two year old son.

warning; dilf yuta!, smut!!, age gap *only six years, yuta 26, y/n 20*, almost caught by yuta’s son when doing the dirty, breeding kink!!

꒰ welcome to Baby Daddy !¡ ”♡ᵎ꒱ˀˀ

it has been a year since you met this older mature guy at the party, somehow ended up sleeping with him the moment you two clicked a certain attraction— after sleeping together once, it became a routine.

sleeping with him whenever you two see each other, whenever he texts you— whenever you are horny. little did you know, y/n has caught some type of feelings for the guy.

yuta caught you by surprise when he said to join him for dinner with his younger son. of course you didn’t reject, but it was out of sudden for yuta to do so.

now you’re sitting by the dinner table, yuta drinking wine from the round glass as he occasionally checks you out from afar where you were sitting. the red dress made you look both classy and revealing, enough for his eyes and enough to maintain a mature image in front of his son. he took note of your gesture.

you catch him staring time to time but said nothing to him. y/n was getting herself busy with his adorable two year old son that ate with plastic fork. he really did look like a copy paste version of yuta. “yuu is your dinner good?” y/n asks, seeing his spaghetti being slurped. he gave a small nod. “yes y/n.”

yuta smiles at the sight, taking his plates. “y/n let me take your plate.” you look up before handing him the plate, “i can- wash them. i’ll help you.” he wasn’t expecting you to help out— honestly, yuta appreciated it. he nods taking care of the dirty plates. yuu went upstairs to wash up as y/n took care of the cups.

at the kitchen, yuta and you both wore aprons. side by side washing and drying together, yuta washing the dishes, and you drying them. he sighs, “you really did not have to help me.”

y/n’s lips curve into a short smile, keeping the short hair in a ponytail. “it’s the least i can do.”

yuta reaches to give you the last wet plate. your hand in forward motion ready to grab, has then accidentally touched yuta’s. he turns to you, with observant peaceful eyes; he always had these mysterious eyes, never able to read them. y/n takes the plate looking away first, yuta clears his throat.

“your son is a copy paste of you,” y/n blurts out. he turns to y/n, “i get that a lot, do you think he does?” you nod with an affectionate smile. clearing yuta could tell you like yuu a lot. “mhm! he’ll for sure grow up handsome since he looks like you.”

y/n shyly realises that she outed herself to yuta boldly. the older grins teasingly, “oh? so i’m handsome?” he said. y/n clears her throat, “i dunno what you mean.”

he notices y/n playing dumb and innocent, something about the slight pout on your lips when you act is very cute. he approached y/n forward with one hand on the wall when y/n steps backwards, till her back hit the wall together. his face leans down, seeing the trembling eyes with the plate close to your chest covered by the apron.

he admires y/n’s beauty before capturing a look on your lips. y/n felt an invasion of butterflies erupt, yuta leans down to kiss her.

the kiss was slow and steady, yuta made sure to suck on your bottom lip, hold your face with one hand, stroke the lovely bangs you had styled. y/n starts to kiss yuta back in unison, soon causing yuta to greedily fight for dominance with you.

there is no way he is letting you dominate him in the kiss. no matter how hard you tried, yuta had you under his finger wrapped tightly, like a puppet. yuta smirks pulling away, a string of saliva connecting both of them.

“do you still not know?” yuta enquires, seeing your cheeks heat up. “yah, what if your son sees us?” she whisper yells into scolding manner as if a mother spoke to her child. yuta laughs a little, flicking your forehead. “so what if he does hm? will you feel shy?” yuta trails his hands latching onto your hips.

he pulls you away from the wall and up on the counter beside you. y/n squeaks into small quiet protests, the upstairs could be heard very well so anything louder than a quiet voice can be heard by yuu. yuta was enjoying this way too much.

he had this mischievous smile, glittering eyes that were daring you to do anything— either way he wins. y/n jaw dropped, “nakamoto yuta-” yuta leans down when saying his full name, “i want you here right now and you will take it.”

something about yuta was different now, in fact he was ready to risk it all. y/n somehow was lured into it, loving the fact that yuta felt this way. he passionately was making love with you.

your half naked bodies against the counter, thrusting deep inside you and out of you, only to go even deeper in you. y/n’s moans were trapped into her own palms, not wanting to be caught by his toddler son.

yuta murmured sweet nothings of how beautiful you looked tonight, that he missed fucking you, y/n could’ve swore his words were a love confession if only yuta could say the three words.

“i’m going to fill you up to brim tonight,” yuta announces with pants, your eyes widen at the idea of being full and stuffed with his seed. he sees your expression, rutting only faster and harder into you.

your walls were crushing him so deeply, a sign you were begging for him to release now.

“please come inside please please,” you blabbered almost drunkly on the feeling. yuta high pitch groans, thrusting one last time, “i’ll make sure to knock you up baby, god,”

the warm liquid rushing inside from the very top to the very bottom, some dripping down your thighs already. y/n pants lightly, “so full ahhh,”

he watches you sigh, kissing your lips tight. “make sure to leave it in.” he murmurs, y/n whines in process, “you must really want me knocked up with your kids.”

yuta smirks, “it’s a rare privilege, enjoy it y/n.” you couldn’t help but laugh a little. baby daddy privileges only for you it seems.

“dad! y/n, what are you doing?” yuu said knocking on the kitchen door. y/n turns red, slapping yuta’s arms again with whisper yells. “i told you not to do it here because this would happen.”

yuta smirks in the process of being scolded. y/n sighs, speaking out to yuu through the door. “nothing yuu, we are coming soon! just washing the dishes.”

⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉

@onyourhyuck please refer from translating, copyrighting and plagiarising my work!

reblog, like and follow me for more content and show love and support to this <3

#nct smut #nct fanfiction #nct x reader #nct yuta smut

[pedropascal-y]

Look Away From Me - Joel Miller x Reader

joel miller x f!reader

MDNI, 18+, ageless/empty/under 18 blogs will be blocked.

word count: 1.9K

  Warnings: Domestic abuse, mentions of domestic abuse, cussing, violence (typical TLOU stuff), age gap (26 to Joel's 56), ‘cheating’, please lmk if I missed any.

While there is no smut in the first couple of chapters, there will be eventually, and thus the 18+ requirement

  Summary: In Jackson, WY, you are one of the teachers in the community. You are quite young which means Ellie takes a liking to you and she’s not the only one. 

  a/n: please share your thoughts! I’m not new to fanfiction writing but it HAS been a while. I am a massive Joel Miller girl. I will try my hardest to avoid ‘y/n’ but it may happen occasionally. You do have a nickname, Sunny, that your father gave you before he passed. 

(i made the mdni & arrows picture, credit me if u use it.)

Index:

Chapter 1 - Fruits of Labor - 04/13/2023

Chapter 2 - X - Coming Soon

Wyoming summers are unbearably hot, at least this one was. I pulled my desk drawer open and set my planner and journal inside. He would never let me have something private, so I kept my journal locked in my work desk. “I haven’t patrolled something in a while and Jackson is so large,” Ellie said, drawing on a piece of loose paper. The other students have grouped off to chat while they finish up their assignments for the day. 

“You’ve got this, Ellie, you’re stronger than the majority of the kids here.” I smiled at her, watching her try to hide her blush. Ellie preferred to sit next to my desk and talk to me, rather than the other kids. She was more grown than the others which broke my heart. At fourteen, she lived through more than some of the adults in the community. Besides, unspoken social rules went out the window the moment the world ended. Being friends with a fourteen-year-old was the least problematic thing I could do. Dina placed her paper on my desk and smiled at Ellie.

“Are you coming to the summer party this week, Sunny?” Dina asked me and looked back at her friends. 

“When have I ever missed it, Dina?” I smiled at her, grabbing the paper from the corner of my desk and sliding it into the basket, “Ellie, you and Joel should come! The community hasn’t seen much of you two.” 

She dropped her pencil and brushed her loose hair from her face. “I’ll see if I can get the old man to get out of the house.” Ellie grabbed my calendar and looked for the party. Since I’ve no clue what day it is exactly or what month for that matter, I’ve made a calendar specifically used for keeping track of schooling for the kids. The community picked up on using it because their kids spread it around. 

The classroom fell silent as I stood from my chair and dismissed them for the day. I tightened the braid in my hair and grabbed my apron from the shelf beside me. The sun was shining brightly, the heat was radiating and everyone was wearing as few clothes as possible. The farm was a decent walk from the building they designated as my schoolhouse. I wasn’t one to complain, I loved being in nature. Whenever people were needed for runs, I volunteered to go. There was nothing like a Wyoming forest, the scenery of the hills and mountains was breathtaking, even the thirtieth time around. 

“Hey there, Sunny,” Judith waved to me before bending back down to tend the carrots. I waved back quickly before pulling my apron on. My dress was a pale yellow with small daisies on it. I wasn’t worried about dirt getting on it but if I could minimize the amount of dirt, I was going to. Ellie made eye contact with me as I picked up the small basket for weeds I pulled. She waved and continued walking with Hayden, the teenager who was also assigned to patrol duty. He was interested in her and it was obvious to everyone who ever looked their way. Ellie? Ellie is a, and I am quoting her here, “hardcore lesbian.” I kneeled down in the dirt and started tugging away the weeds around the strawberry bushes. I sank my hands under the freshly turned dirt and took a deep breath. The sun shone on my face and warmed me both inside and out. Ellie stood at the gate of the patch and watched me. “Sunny?” She called out.

“Yes?” I answered.

“Why haven’t you gone home yet?”

“I like being in nature and they don’t care that I help them out.” I shrugged, gently pouring some water onto the leaves of the strawberry bush. Ellie waved Hayden off and opened the gate. She knelt down beside me and pulled a strawberry from the bush. “At least help me pull weeds if you’re going to steal produce, Ells.” I laughed and nudged her. She laughed and tugged on a small weed near the bush she stole from. 

Ellie and I stood up from the ground and high-fived each other for our work. “Ellie?” Someone called out for her. We turned around and I locked eyes with Joel. 

“Hey, old man!” She yelled to him. Ellie watched as Joel locked eyes with me, “This is Sunny, my teacher and part-time gardener.”

“Sunny isn’t actually my name, my dad gave me that nickname.” I smiled and brushed the dirt from my apron and dress. 

“It’s a good nickname,” Joel said, his eyes still locked on me.

“Ew, stop staring, Joel!” Ellie exclaimed and left the gated farm patch.

“I wasn’t staring, let’s go get dinner.” He groaned and waved goodbye.

They continued to bicker with one another as they walked toward the canteen. Judith had left the farm not too long ago leaving me alone to put the supplies away. I tuck the emptied basket into the shelf I retrieved it from and pull my apron off. The walk to my house was quiet, the majority of the population was headed to the canteen or eating in their own homes. 

“Ace?” I called out as I opened the door. Snickersnee rubbed his face on my leg, meowing softly as I shut the door. “Is your daddy not home yet?” I asked my cat. He chirped at me in response. I pressed a soft kiss to Snickersnee’s head. He was probably still working. The house was quiet and still, not even Snic made a sound. It felt uncomfortable to have a quiet home, as a child before the outbreak my house was never quiet. It was always filled with life and music. My dad made sure of it. 

I climbed the stairs and flicked the bathroom light on. I had some dirt smeared onto my face and my hair was half in a braid and the other half a mess. My face was red and sweaty from working so hard. I pulled the towel off the wall and put some of it in cold water. My dress was clean for the most part which was a win on my part. I wiped my face down and relished in the cool fabric cleansing my face. Snickersnee was sat on top of the toilet seat, quietly watching me. I tossed the towel into the hamper and let my hair out. My brush ran through my hair smoothly until I reached the ends of it. Snic hopped onto the counter and rubbed against me. He pressed his forehead to mine and began purring. I pulled my hair into a half-up half-down hairstyle and left for the canteen.

“Sunny! Come sit with us!” Ellie yelled to me as I entered the building. I nodded and headed to the food line. Today’s menu was chicken parmesan, we had more than enough chickens to spare. I piled my plate on and grabbed water before making my way to the table Ellie and Joel were seated at. “Your hair looks good,” Ellie said as I sat down across from her. Joel was on my left, quietly finishing his dinner. “Joel,” She nudged him, and he grunted, “Tell her she looks pretty.”

He looked at me for the first time since I entered the building and I smiled at him. Joel took a moment and nodded, “Pretty.” Ellie rolled her eyes and mouthed an apology. It made me laugh. Although they weren’t blood-related, those two were family. Father and daughter without a single doubt in my mind. The canteen was loud and busy, a signal that today was a good day of work for everyone. Tommy and Maria loved when the canteen was full and lively. It reminded them of all the work that goes into the place. Maria and Tommy walked in with their daughter, Zarah. An infant, she was born two weeks ago and they were on top of the world. The older women surrounded them immediately, desperate to hold the baby. It made me smile, and the community was so willing to help new parents. Bittersweet is how I would describe it. I always wanted children but not with my husband. I don’t want to bring children into our relationship. Ace has been pushing the narrative that he and I have been trying for a baby but we use every precaution possible and we haven't had sex in the past 4 weeks. For that, I am thankful if not concerned. Why would my husband not want to have sex with me? I guess the only time he wants his hands on me is when he’s beating me.

“Alright, well, I’m all done,” I cleared my throat and looked at Ellie, “Wanna help me do dishes for the kitchen crew?”

“Hell yeah.” She exclaimed. I wouldn’t have expected her to be excited about cleaning dishes but she and I were close and loved spending time together. I took Joel’s empty plate from him and placed a hand on his shoulder before heading to the kitchen. 

“Joel,” Ellie nudged me, “Tell her she’s pretty.”

I rolled my eyes before looking up at Sunny. Her hair was nicer than when she was knees in the dirt and she was freshened up. Clean. She was gorgeous. I cleared my throat and muttered, “Pretty.” Such a weak word to describe how she looked. Ellie knew it and mouthed an apology she thought I didn’t see. I kept shoveling my food into my mouth. My back had been killing me all day and I was starving. Tommy made me miss breakfast today because he needed a crew to help lug the bodies of raiders to the river's edge. 

“Alright, well, I’m all done. Wanna help me do the dishes for the kitchen crew?” She asked Ellie. Ellie agreed quickly and snatched her plate up. Sunny grabbed my plate, placed a hand on my shoulder, and tapped before heading to the sink to wash dishes. Tommy sat down in Sunny’s seat with Zarah. Maria was grabbing herself some food. “She’s married, Joel.” He spoke first, wiggling his finger for Zarah. He had named her after Sarah, he had brought the idea to me a day or two before Maria gave birth. Ellie helped me come to agree with it, my niece is beautiful, with the deepest brown eyes and chubbiest cheeks.

“Who?”

“Sunny.”

“Ah.���

“I see the way you look at her.”

“Got no clue what you’re talking about, Tom.”

“Oh fuck off. You’re my brother.”

“Watch your language.”

“She’s not even a month old. I can say what I want.”

My eyes drifted toward Ellie and her doing dishes. Sunny reached for an extra sponge from the shelf and her dress lifted up. Purple. Her upper thigh had a purple bruise on it and rage bubbled. Tommy was too distracted trying to get Zarah to laugh to notice my fist turning white. The idea of someone laying hands on a woman enraged me already but one as kind and beautiful as her? I wanted nothing more than to murder that son of a bitch she called her husband. “Who’s her husband?” I asked, trying my hardest to restrain the anger in my voice. 

“Ace Hutchinson,” Tommy said.

“The doctor?” I asked him, looking away from Ellie and her.

“Yeah, so stay away from her.” 

“I wasn’t the one who invited her to sit with me, that was Ellie.”

“Ok, whatever you say.”

I watched as Tommy went and sat at the table with his wife, leaving me alone. Ellie splashed Sunny and laughed loudly. It was nice seeing Ellie enjoy herself and break out of her shell. I was glad someone got to see what I get to see every day of my life.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x y/n #tlou #tlou hbo #tlou series #ellie williams #joel and ellie #pedro pascal #the last of us #the last of us fanfic #tlou fanfic #fanfic #ellie tlou #the last of us hbo #the last of us spoilers #the last of us series #joel miller x f!reader #livs library #pedropascaly

[butterfrogmantis]

You're all forcibly locked in a room with me and a slide projector of Wooly rn /j

Anyway yes he has a vice like grip on my brain rn so enjoy some more middle aged cowboy

1.I HC Wooly as the very oldest of the first delivered gen and a few years older than the majority. A few decades mean literally nothing to smurfs but a few years can mean a lot to people so I've been sorta careful, I think if you took a snapshot of the 80's series then I HC Wooly to be around 28, some of the other older ones are 26=27 and then a small 2 year gap whilst most of the smurfs are around 20-23 and Tuffy as 19 going on 20 just to make him definitively the youngest (but like, still an adult). Bare in mind this is specifically from the events of canon so obviously going into ng and stuff you add a few years (or even a couple of decades) onto everyone and bang they're all middle aged and of course Wooly reaches his midlife crisis first which is why I've been drawing him greying & with crows feet and now comes the body type! For some reason I always compare Wooly to Farmer in my head which is silly because Farmer is lean muscle and SHREDDED and Wooly is older man beefy. Still strong don't get him wrong he can wrastle a charging ram with his bare hands but there's definitely middle aged gut under there and that's cool

2."We aint gotta do no fancy waltz - dance with me Spinny, fer the hell of it"

Extract from a fanfic I'll (probably) never write but I'm picturing a scene where there's a fancy Smurf ball organised by someone pretentious who's insisting on having a "high class function" with couples only and Spinner's pissed because he worked hard on a whole bunch of materials for the decorations and now he can't even go because the host insists on the couples rule and can't make exceptions. So now Wooly's also mad because his best friend is upset and decides to throw a "low class country fest" on the same night and everyone can come and dance to honky-tonk and actually have fun.

Wooly (c) The Smurfs

Spinner is mostly mine ig?? I never know how to tag him

#smurfs #my art #the smurfs #Wooly & Spinner #platonic

[fancylala4]

Why creepy dream (aka new dream or whatever the ship name is) from Tangled is an awful Disney ship:

For some reason, the Disney fandom find Rapunzel and Flynn to be the best Disney romance, but they are so wrong. This romance is the worst written romance Disney has ever written, and they are overrated. This is also based on a great article on Wattpad that was sadly taken down. So Here’s why creepy dream sucks:

The age gap! This is the number one criticism towards this ship, and it's not hard to see why. Rapunzel is 17 going on 18 in the movie, while Flynn is 26 years old. Why? It's so unnecessary and adds nothing to the story. It's also super creepy because Rapunzel has only interacted with one person for 18 years and is childish. I think Disney has realized how bad this looks because they tried to recon Flynn's true age by saying he's meant to be between his early to mid 20s and that he has no official age. However, this doesn't help their case because he still acts way older than Rapunzel, looks way older than her (especially when he's hand drawn) and treats her like a child in the first half of the movie! It also doesn't help that Rapunzel acts and looks way younger than she actually is. Look at this comic and see how much Flynn looks like a creeper. I still don't understand why the creators made him look so old and her so young. Like, what the hell were they thinking? Especially for a Disney princess movie.

The huge gap in maturity: As I stated before, Rapunzel is super childish in the movie. She looks way younger than she is, wears an ugly bootleg barbie as Rapunzel dress, and acts like a 5-year-old. Flynn acts as her babysitter through the first half of the movie and treats her like a child. We can see this when she was having her mood swings and the breakdown afterward.

The reasons for why they fall in love with each other are awful: Rapunzel likes Flynn because she thinks he likes her. That's it. That's basically what she told Gothel in the camp scene, and we have gotten no follow up on this. Well, it makes sense that she has a childish view of love, since Rapunzel acts like a five-year-old. On the other hand, Flynn likes Rapunzel because she likes his true self or something. It's not very clear in the movie why he likes her. It doesn't mean much in the end because she grew up in a tower alone for 18 years. Of course She's going to cling to the first person she comes across and likes whatever he's going to say. Thats basically how these “born sexy yesterday” romances work in movies. Also, what the hell does he find a barely 18-year-old girl who hasn't left her house attractive? He reminds me of those real life creeps who seek out younger girls because they would find anything the creeper does cool since the girls don't know any better. It also makes their love shallow. These characters would fall in love with anyone because any person could fil these desires. Rapunzel would like anyone because she thinks they like her, and Flynn would like anyone under 18 or barely that age because he believes they accepts his true self (whatever that is).

They are willing to give up their dreams and desires for someone they only knew for TWO days: Flynn gives up his trash ass dream of being an adventurer for a girl he knew for 2 days. Rapunzel was willing to go back into the tower because of one guy she knew for two days! Disney stans would criticize princesses like Ariel and Cinderella for falling in love and giving up their life for it. Why is creepy dream any different? It's worse because in the end, they both put their lives on the line for each other after 3 days of knowing each other. Rapunzel was going to be a prisoner so she can heal a creepy guy, and flynn's dumbass cut her hair without Rapunzel's consent before she can heal him. So he can prove his love and save her from gothel (even though he could have waited until Rapunzel healed him and protect her, just in case gothel lived but I digress). Wow, what a great message to send to little girls. Giving up their own life for some creepy guy they met two days ago, it's such a great message. For creepy guys I guess.

Bonus: look how old Flynn looks and tell me this isn’t creepy:

#mine #anti tangled #creepy dream #tangled critical #tangled criticism #disney critical

[ansbobcar]

When will this suffering end for my fanfic to beginnnnnn (big rant)

What I personally like when I write fanfics is expanding upon the universe given to me. In the case of Mashle, expanding and creating new spells in the power system while adding my own characters, probably expanding upon the other magical races that exist in this universe. SPOILERS FROM THE MANGA, ANIME ONLYS BE WARNED

Maybe I'm thinking too deep into this but like I don't understand howwww or when the Divine Visionaries (DVs) joined. There's either some sorta retcon plot from the actual manga to the fanbook to the wiki or something because... nothing is adding up?

It matters to me okay because I'm writing an Orter x OC fic and they're both DVs.

Let me show/explain to you the confusing plotholes/retcons that I don't know how to consider and hopefully by the end of it I can see through the fucking problem.

_ _ _

1. The DV inbetween Rayne and Orter who was killed

In chapter 77, Renatus Revol (the Immortal Cane) revealed to Mash that the DV before Rayne and after Orter was killed and it's implied to have been from Middle School Aged Domina (13-14). So roughly 2 years ago from canon.

This implies that Orter Madl is the 2nd newest (alive) DV from our current lineup. And we can also deduce that the age he started serving as DV is 20-21. BUT WE DON'T ACTUALLY KNOW WHO THE FUCK THIS MF IS?

The confusing thing is that the FANDOM WIKI (idk why I trust it still) states that Domina killed Orter's JUNIOR Alex Elliot(21) (according to the wiki) instead of a DV and basically after that BECAME A DV so that means he was over 20-21 when he became DV BUT HE'S 23 WHEN WE MEET HIM?? Let's assume he was 21 but that means his junior is older than him--YOU SEE WHY I'M CONFUSED????

__

2. Agito Tyrone and Renatus Revol (+ the other DVs)

The fandom wiki's trivia section which is the only fanbook (likely thing i've read) states that these two joined around the same time. There is a big problem though.

Agito is 22 and Renatus is 26. There's a 4 year gap between these two but they joined around the same time...

My logic tells me that if they came together as a pair, it wouldn't be possible for Renatus to have joined when he was 18 because Agito is in middle school. Meaning they would atleast be 19 and 15 respectively. If they came consecutively after the other that leaves the door for some more possibilities though.

However, it's majorly implied in the plot itself that in order to become DV you gotta be part of the magic schools and then later on compete in the Trimagicathlon to figure out who is the new DV of the year.

Like honestly, other than Ryoh, Kaldo (who I firmly believe to be 1st and 2nd longest serving respectively), Orter and Rayne, the others are just verrrrrrryy unknown placement wise.

Don't even get me started on Tsurara. SHE'S 20 AND IDK WHEN THE HELL SHE JOINED!!!!?!? The two ways to counter this is 1) she skipped some grades because as head/part of the Magic Research Administration you gotta be smart, 2) headcanon how many years she was in it even though she clearly joined before Orter somehow ;u;

Why does this matter for me? BECAUSE RINKA's (my oc) BACKSTORY NEEDS THESE MFS IN THERE.

___

3. So what do I have currently?

This is currently the only ass conclusion I could come up with (including Rinka) because shits just confusing man I'm gonna assume that they're like the JJK School system in which for high school they have 4 years instead so that 19-20 isn't unexpected. I kinda wish the plot had a sense of time. That's why and how it's possible for these ages to work (Sophina and Orter hitting 20 is probably to do with their birthdays or entering the year lower, idk man shits confusing). That means Alex Elliot... you're now 19 and a Divine Visionary instead of a Magic Police Cadet or whatever it's called.

_ _ _

Thank you for coming to my ted talk.

#mashle oc #mashle x oc #mashle fanfic idea #orter madl #renatus revol #agito tyrone #divine visionaries #writing problems #for future reference #i'm too lazy to add the other divine visionaries cause they're kinda unnecessary #mashle manga spoilers

[panlight]

First off, I want to just say congratulations and thank you for keeping this blog alive for so long. I've been following you for YEARS at this point and it's crazy to think just how long it's been. Secondly, how do you feel about the Cullen relationship dynamic? Most people I talk to don't mind the foster family story, but just wish Carlisle and Esme were older and/or the "kids" were younger. But I much rather prefer the idea that some of them are "blood related". I always think that Esme and Edward are related (siblings/nephew and aunt), Carlisle and Rosalie are related (siblings/niece and uncle), Emmett and Alice are siblings, and then everyone else married into the family. To me it adds a bit of a foundational arguement for why they all seemingly look alike to outsiders and why there's so much "incest" going on. Having a bunch of foster kids that have sex with each other just gives me the creeps.

I think a lot of this problem comes from SM creating the Cullens kind of backwards. That is, instead of being like "okay, if we had a group of vampires living together in a family-like structure, what might that look like?" she was instead like: "So! Edward needs a sister, her name is Alice and she's psychic. He needs parents, too, a mother and father. He needs a brother, too, someone fun. Oh and I guess Alice and the brother will need partners, because true love" and we end up with the Cullens in canon.

(As an aside, I'm going to be talking mostly about the cover story going forward, as while I do think they are a family I think it's a 'family' in a looser sense than literal mother/father/kids and sisters/brothers. They used those terms sometimes but they are words for human relationships and the vampire family dynamics aren't a perfect one to one fit with the human counterparts -- ie Rosalie and Edward are siblings in that they have the same creator; but so does Esme, and none of them think of her as a 'sister.' Edward thinks of Emmett as a brother, but Rosalie obviously does not. Also birth order kind of means nothing because Emmett is physically the oldest while [until Bella] chronologically the youngest sibling. Which is all to say, it's complicated.)

I agree that they should have just said some of them were related. They do that with Esme and Rosalie and Jasper, saying she is their aunt who took them in. But that's a weird choice because Rosalie and Jasper don't look like Esme, who is a brunette of average height. They LOOK like Carlisle -- tall blonds. Of course nieces and nephews don't have to look anything like their aunts or uncle, but if you were going to go with that cover story, wouldn't it make more sense to claim they were related to Carlisle? Rosalie could still use 'Hale' if her fake mother were Carlisle's sister and her equally made up husband.

But I do prefer the sibling angle, because Esme and Carlisle are not physically that much older than their 'kids.' I can buy them having a parental dynamic in the vampire truth sphere, but they cover story makes no sense. Rosalie and/or Jasper could easily be Carlisle's siblings and if Rose insists on keeping Hale, then Carlisle could use that name or they could be half-siblings with different fathers. Likewise Esme and Edward have reddish tints to their hair, it makes sense for them to be related. They have the largest age gap of anyone in the family -- 26 and 17, so 9 years -- so they could be an aunt/nephew situation, or an older sister who looked after her brother when their parents died (I believe in the guide it mentions they have used this cover story before, when it was just Carlisle, Edward and Esme. C/Es were a couple and Ed was Es' little brother). That all just makes more sense with their ages than going with a public story of literal parents. Carlisle is 23, Emmett is 20. You can't tell me that standing next to each other people wouldn't be able to be like "hey . . . you look about the same age" no matter how old Carlisle dressed/acted or how young Emmett did.

I also think it makes sense to lean into the fact they do share some features -- the pallor, the eye color. Pretending it's all a coincidence that they adopted people who look like that seems farfetched.

The other option that I like it pretending they all have some obscure illness and that's why they look alike and that's why they are living with a doctor -- Carlisle is young, but he's the foremost expert on this made-up disease and parents send their kids to him for treatment. Maybe there's even a sun sensitivity issue which is why Forks.

Either of these options make way more sense than a 23-year-old and 26-year-old pretending to be in their late 20s/30s adopting a bunch of teenagers.

#asks

[hellcatinnc]

A Girl & Her Guard Dog Anime Review

Includes Spoilers

First off I want to mention I have watched all the first season of the show but also read the manga. I would suggest reading the manga if you can't wait and see if they make another season. However I can say I know some say that anime's leave alot out I can honestly say the only thing left out was the manga had a little bit more of a naughtier side I thing like nothing extravagant but I swear you see Keiya with out his shirt more often in the manga than the show. Its so little thought you wouldn't much notice it. As the ending of the anime talks about how he talked to her friends about their love life in the manga its funny because you actually see two young girls lash into a 26 year old man and him practically bow down to them due to him wanting to be everything Isaku's wants.

On to the show I love this show its really a guilty pleasure fluff piece to me. Yes there is a age gap but it doesn't both me especially since in japan the age she is doesn't effect anything. Not to mention I think its beautiful he loves her so much. I do think the anime did a good approach to the end of this show though. It gave you flashbacks of everything he and her had been through that led them to be together. You got to see how much they both loved each other but you also got to see the way he looked at her changed over time. Not only that but going into it you only hear him say he will be her mother and father and even her brother. But in the ending they continued the rest of that day where he told her he would be whatever she needed even though he wasn't blood he would protect her. This means he said what he said to comfort her in everything she needed in life and he wanted to be that person she loved and needed most.

It might sound creepy to some but I honestly think it was beautiful. I mean yes he didn't know how to love maybe the same way she did but that is because I think he has been so in love with her he wanted to hold her and be intimate without thinkin of her age and experience. To me I see it as a reaction you love someone you want to be as intimate as possible, however that was the only thing that wasn't getting in Keiya's head because he was so excited to be with her for her to feel for him even a ounce of what he felt he went over board. She is alot more reserved to I mean even in the manga its not like they have slept together after like 40 some chapters. It is a slow burn love story and some it might annoy due to that. I normally don't care for slow burn but if the characters are likable enough I will stick through it and I loved both Isaku and Keiya.

Its light hearted and even though there is some violence I mean come on he is a yakuza body guard, even with that I would say its milder. Like there is a episode she is kidnapped but he never lets them get to far to take her back. He gets shot and he shoots someone as well at a point. The only thing thats a warning I would say is there is a guy who claims he is going to rape her in front of Keiya to hurt him, granted it never gets that far but you do see him cut all the way down her shirt and you never see soo much. That even is in the anime its touched on but never fully goes into it because of her reaction and Keiya's that shuts this shit down. I love Keiya's response though he can't really touch the guy without causing ruckus however he comes at Isaku again and all bets are off he plainly just told the mans keeper that he would kill him.

Honestly it really is a touching story that brings them together and watches them fall in love. Their loves may not be exact but they can learn from each other. I will say though I feel like Keiya has a sexier edge to him like a yakuza would have in the anime and I feel like he can be more aloof and not the smartest in the manga actually pretty dense at times, my opinion I prefer the anime version of him better.

#anime #shoujo #shoujo anime #a girl and her guard dog #a girl & her guard dog #anime review #reviews #review #utou keiya #senagaki isaku #isaku senagaki #keiya utou

[helianskies]

Can I have 26 for Frain? I'm ready for some angst 😭 Thank you so much ♡♡♡

frain angst you say? well, i'm not sure if this is entirely what you had in mind but uh... i was feeling some more historical frain, so...

Resentment

He waits, and waits, and waits.  

They wouldn’t let him into the room. He isn't surprised. If they had, he may have been the only one to walk out alive.

It almost sounds worth it, storming the negotiations and killing everyone who thought they had a right to decide what happened to him, his monarchy, his country, his people. It almost sounds fun. But after so many years of conflict and promises and tears… Antonio does not want more of that. He wants an end, whatever it may be. He's in pieces as it is—wedged between powerful nations he now wants nothing to do with—and another war, more war… well, he fears it could destroy him entirely.

That is the thing, isn't it? You never quite know, as a nation, which battle could be your last. A figure comes to mind, a fading silhouette of a man he once adored (and, in some ways, still does)—a figure who left one day, and never came back as they had thought and hoped and prayed. 

The risk of an empire. A fool’s game.

He waits, and waits some more. Negotiating treaties takes time. For weeks, in fact, diplomats have been talking terms and compromises. Spain has witnessed most of it—has done his best to try and guess who would be getting what, based on body language alone, as they have more or less all refused to talk to him. It has been a frustrating process.

Even now, with the final signatures being collected and the nations having gathered for the grand finale, he still feels he lacks anyone to talk with. Anyone to confide in. 

A few rooms away, England sits across from France, who sits across from Austria, who sits across from the Netherlands—though, he is only here for being considered a small player in this war, and the best he is going to get is having Utrecht’s name slapped on the paperwork. I hope it has been worth all the money he sunk into this pitiful war. The words, though unspoken, are bitter on his tongue.  

Thirteen years. Thirteen years of conflict and battles and bloodshed. And there he waits, alone in a small, private room, wondering who it is who is going to walk through those doors.

Really, it isn’t hard to guess. His aristocracy have their preference as to who should become King of Spain—a preference greatly changed in the last decade—but it is perhaps more difficult for him, on a personal level, to decide whether he would… rather stay Habsburg, or become something new. Something B—

The doors open. Spain stands out of instinct, rather than respect, and is greeted by all four nations. A surprise, just for him. 

No one speaks. Not immediately. England and France share a look—more unspoken words, more reading body language and trying to read the room when he is sick and tired of it—and then, three leave. Three of them leave, the doors close, and Spain is left looking at France.

This is the outcome Antonio knew would come.

“So,” the other says, a meek smile on his face as he begins to approach—threatens to broach the gap between them, both physical and sentimental, “it would seem that you and I are once more on the same page."

"We are barely in the same book," Antonio assures him, however. "You have a long way to go if you want me to enjoy your company.”

“Oh? Does that mean you… are not so pleased to see me?”

“Is anyone, in this day and age, ever pleased to see you, France?”

“Antonio, please,” the other coos, nevertheless, “you and I have such a history together, you cannot tell me that you hate me that much.”

And he’s right, in some ways. Hatred is such a strong sentiment, that, although there are other people Antonio is very sure he could hate, Francis is… not quite one of them. It is simply too hard to separate them. Francis has been there for as long as Antonio can remember—a neighbour, a lover, a friend—and now they stand there in that room, the world on their shoulders, and Antonio knows that he cannot hate Francis, even now. Even after war.

“You,” the Spaniard says quietly, “are so, so annoying…”

It makes a smile bloom on the other’s face, as though he’s ready to laugh, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Francis extends a hand to Antonio, and Antonio, wary as he is… he takes it. He takes Francis’ hand, and does not fight it when the other pulls him in for a rather unorthodox embrace. 

It feels weird to be in his arms again. It feels weird to feel his warmth, his hair, his skin, his breath.

“I’ve missed you,” Francis confesses in an unexpected bout of openness and honesty. 

His walls have vanished, it seems, purely for Antonio’s benefit, and the brunette doesn’t know how to respond to being held like this. It feels too intimate. It feels too surreal.

When… When was the last time someone held him…? It's been so many years...

“I know you have been through a lot. I know this war has drained you,” the Frenchman goes on, steadily pulling back from the embrace to take a good look at Antonio, the back of his hand brushing across the other’s flushed skin. “You and I can make this work, though. I want to see you happy, I want to see Spain be that wonderful, strong empire, and I want you to not hate me, ideally.” 

Antonio gently exhales. “You don’t ask for much, do you?”

“Why are you being so abrasive?”

“I don’t know,” the brunette quips, “perhaps I am just imagining you with a crown on your head and how much nicer that crown would look on, say, a Spaniard.”

“You should have made sure your king had an heir,” Francis returns with a small frown. “That is not on me.”

“The reason we had a war is because your precious Louis thought that France and Spain would be united powers under his grandson,” Antonio reminds the other, however. “I was not so against having a Frenchman in Madrid, until such a ridiculous and inflammatory statement was made.”

“Would a unification really have been such a bad thing?” Francis tries to reason. “A marriage between France and Spain would mark a new golden era—a new meaning of ‘power’ in Europe.”

“But that’s just it,” Antonio replies. “I am sick of this obsession with marriage, with unification, with rings and crowns and pretty royal crests. Do not misunderstand me,” the Spaniard presses, “I would rather you stand here than anyone else. But do not get your hopes up, Francis. I am famously good at holding grudges, no matter how small.”

Francis, at last, concedes. Antonio will not be moved—he can see that. So, rather than pushing the matter any further, he informs Antonio that there are some gentlemen who would like to meet him in light of the finalised Treaty of Utrecht. French gentlemen, of course.

The invitation does not go rejected. While Antonio is sure this will not be the last time they discuss this, nor will it be the last time Francis tries to soften him, shape him, reform him… for now, he will stand his ground. For now, he will hold his head as high as he can, at the end of this long war, and will not let his boat be rocked, even by his oldest friend.

Spain is still Spain. Spain is still an empire. That is the only outcome that matters to Antonio, and that is the only outcome that will ensure his survival going forward. 

His own survival is all he can afford to care about.

[ final wordcount, 1295 words! ]

#helia writes #hetalia #hws france #hws spain #frain #fraspa #this shorts are certainly helping me get back into writing historical hetalia lmao #it's all about that distinction between nation/personification and person for me #also sorry this took so long? your ask was buried in my drafts folder and so i thought i'd already done it but then when i was going #through my google docs i realised that i never finished the draft for this fic so i. i hope this makes up for that :') #thanks for the ask!! <3

[lullabyes22-blog]

Summary: Zaun is free—and must grow into its unfamiliar new dimensions. So must Silco and Jinx. A what-if that diverges midway through the events of episode 8. Found family and fluff, politics and power, smut and slice-of-life, villainy and vengeance.

AO3 - Forward, But Never Forget/XOXO

FFnet - Forward, But Never Forget (XOXO)

Playlist on Youtube

Chapters: 1| 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 |8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48

CH 12: Silco and Vander's boyhood in a lawless Undercity.

cw: for violence, poverty trauma relating to housing and mental health, disturbing depictions of mental illness, drug use, mentions of alcoholism, and underage drug and alcohol use.

Separate tw: for csa (child sexual assault). Nothing is graphic, but there are mentions. To skip that portion, stop reading at "Topside had built the orphanage in the structural style of a military school" and resume reading at "The spring Vander was set to graduate from Hope House."

Secondary tw: for underage sex and age-gaps in relationships. Vander and Silco have a five-year age difference in this tale. They become physically intimate when Silco is sixteen, and Vander twenty-one. In some countries, this would make Silco a minor. The sex itself isn't graphically written. But please heed the warning if such content disturbs you. To skip, stop reading at: "There were other moments too" and resume at "By winter, everything changed."

As always, if I've missed something, please drop me a PM.

  Tomorrow is another day And you don't have to hide away You'll be a man, boy But for now, it's time to run, it's time to run

~ "Run Boy Run" - Woodkid

What is the sum of a man?

Take away his hardships, his mistakes, his victories. Unlock him from the cage of circumstance, so he is free to walk a dozen differing paths, become a dozen different people. Would he emerge as the best version of himself? The strongest, the smartest, the most capable? Or would he pupate in reverse? Inhabit softness instead of strength. Paralysis instead of power. Spared all of life's challenges, would he not collapse under the weight of his unmet potential, a microcosm of failure?

Hard to say.

In Silco's experience, life isn't a game of retrospect. It hinges on the choices a man makes moment by moment, and how he deals with their consequences afterward. How he moves forward, neither trapped by his past, nor forgetting the sacrifices that brought him to this point. Each step a testament of who he was all along.

So who was Silco, before his sacrifices? His worst mistakes? His sweetest victories?

Well, he ought to start with Vander. His ex-best friend. His late brother.

Since boyhood, they'd been inseparable. You'd never meet an unlikelier pair. Vander was a hulking giant, head and shoulders taller than the rest. A temper like wildfire, and fists to match. Yet his ugly pyrotechnics could just as quickly burst into charming sunshine. Silco was the opposite. Where Vander's physique was dense with muscles, his footsteps booming like thunder across the streets, Silco was fine-boned and slender, his footfalls barely making a sound. His every movement held the elusive subtlety of a blackfish in a shadowy pond. Since childhood, he'd had a cool temperament paired with a scalpel-edged tongue. But most could discern something deeply troubled below the surface.

Damaged goods was a vast understatement.

Ideally, the boys should've had nothing in common. The opposite proved true. They were cut from the same soiled cloth.

They were born to the postindustrial Undercity: a mean, hungry, lawless place that bred mean, hungry, lawless citizens. Topside's clean-scrubbed scions cared little for who manufactured the buttons on their bespoke clothes or the chassis of their chauffeured cars. Everything for them burst fully-formed from the Undercity's smoky orifice—a never-ending supply of glassware, boots, textiles.

Civilization began in the City of Progress.

In the Fissures, civilization was a myth. In its place was a grim queue of drudges devoured by the monster known as industry. Most families lived below the poverty line. Others barely kept their heads above. In Piltover, the average income for a working-class man was two thousand Hexes. A sumpraker earned about half that. In Piltover, the average life expectancy was about seventy-five. In the Undercity, it was forty-five. Per year, close to two hundred perished from water-borne diseases like cholera or air-borne pathogens like Gray Lung. The rest were consumed by burnings, beatings and bondage.

Silco's family was no different. His father was the Riverman: a long-boned and pallid specimen best described as a combination of tired and angry. Each morning, he'd put on old galoshes, and vanish from Silco's life until daybreak. He'd stumble home with red-rimmed eyes and joints stiff as rusted hinges. On weekends, he'd hit the pub, not to drink but to talk shop with the dockside laborers.

Daddy was a rarity in the neighborhood: a well-read man. He was sought out for advice on everything from unpaid wages to letters of reference. The early exposure rubbed off on Silco. He accompanied Daddy to the workmen's bars and the ballot boxes, and in the evenings sat by his knee while he read the newspaper, focusing on articles of social justice and workplace conditions. If Silco asked about his work, he'd grunt, Like dyin' by inches.

Older, Silco found it apt summation of honest trade.

A microcosm of the Undercity.

Their family lived in a suffocating one-room flat, in a warren of Kafkaesque tenements east of the Pump Station. The room, taller than it was wide, had no proper kitchen or bathroom. Instead, there was a single gas stove and a rust-pitted sink in the gloomy hallway, shared with five other families. A latrine stood at the other end: unheated, with a bare dangling bulb on which moths battered their shadowy bodies. The only way to enter the hallway was through a corkscrewing stairwell. One day, Silco imagined the bottom step would catch fire, and the stairwell would suck up the flames, the entire building combusting.

A premonition, some might call it.

The building overlooked a courtyard webbed by sagging laundry lines. Plenty of rats everywhere. Sometimes Silco tied triple-barbed hooks to a rope and jigged them through the corners. With a sharp jerk, he'd snag a furry ear, a belly, a tail. He'd drop them thrashing into a metal gallon tub, for coins from the local rat-catcher. Other times, he'd sit on the rooftop and flip matchstick-heated scraps at passersby on the streets below. The fog was densest in the evenings: people moved through it like phantoms. And the smells! He'd known the days of the week by each overbearing fug: burnt mutton on Mondays, dogshit on Wednesdays, smoked fish on Fridays.

Physically, the neighborhood was quite a different place to the brightly-lit sprawl of today. Five things spoke out within its sinuous streets. The absence of electricity and gaslight, that reduced every corner into inhospitable gloom after dark. The giant culverts along its streets, that overflowed in the rainy season across the cobblestones in a river of piss and shit. The centrality of drink among denizens male and female, young and old. The erosions of community-life to the conniving criminality arising in hidden pockets. And finally, a sense that one's place of birth served to define their station, lashing them to their 'proper' place in life.

Either the stewpot or the cesspit, as the Undercity saying goes.

Blessedly, Silco’s neighborhood was a stewpot more than a cesspit. Their courtyard, with rarity, had a water-pump.

On the hot days, mothers filled iron buckets under its fast-running flow. They'd drag their children under the shade, then strip them down and scour them with soap and water until their hair squeaked. Silco remembers the soap his own mother used: a cheap carbolic brand that smelled vaguely of candied cherry. She had lovely hands. He remembers that most. Soft hands and dark features, in contrast to Daddy's pale angularity.

A marriage of Jack and coke, as another Undercity saying goes.

They'd met when Daddy hauled Mother and a clutch of Ionian refugees off a sinking raft in the Pilt. Mother hailed from a tiny tribe of mountain-dwellers in Zhyun. A place of folklore and enchantment: Silco grew up on stories of strange creatures in the misty forests, of a girl named Şahmaran who shapeshifted into a snake, and a blacksmith named Kawe-y asinger who revolted against a tyrannical overlord. Of superstitious realms where men settled scores with axes, and women with spells cast at midnight.

He doesn't know the details of how his parents married. Perhaps gratitude blossomed into love. Perhaps it was pure pragmatism. Daddy’s interest was easy to peg: Mother was a head-turner, a classic Zhyunian beauty without a mark on her body. Mother’s reasons were likewise expedient: she spoke barely any Standard and hadn't a cog to her name. She could do worse than a surly Riverman.

They'd wed that same year. Out popped three boys. Silco was the last.

A difficult birth, or so he was told. He'd nearly killed Mother coming out—then almost offed himself by strangling on the navel string. The midwife had resuscitated him in time. Silco had thanked her by hitting her face with his tiny fists and raging at the top of his lungs.

He’d spend the remainder of his days in that state.

Raging.

Physically, he'd inherited his father's gaunt physiognomy and unruly dark hair. But his olive-toned complexion and seaside eyes were all Mother's. He had her temper too. No docile baby; he’d screamed all day and night. Barely slept more than an hour before awakening to start up again. The only thing that calmed him was Mother's singing. Her voice held a magic, a slow glide like riverwater. As Silco grew older, he’d sing along with her while she was working in the communal kitchen, ballads from her Ionian homeland.

Vander's mother was Ionian too. Her folk hailed from a neighboring highland village near the Sotka's riverbanks. It forged a bittersweet bond between the two women. They were always together, swapping gossip over the stove the same way they swapped old recipes: grilled carp, watered yoghurt stirred with salt, sweet turnip and meat-stuffed dumplings. Often, they dropped their sons off at each other's homes to go run errands at the Equinox Bazaar.

Once Silco's memories snapped on—a switchblade's click—Vander was there.

He was older than Silco by a handful of years. By kid standards, that was quite an age gap. Yet they were startlingly close. Silco's early memories of Vander resist articulation into words. They are mostly tactile. The scent of salt and woodchips. The sound of deep-rolling laughter. The sensation of scraped knees and bone-cracking hugs.

Blut, they'd called each other.

Blood would prove a mere byproduct in their bond.

For Vander, Silco was the sidekick and mascot rolled into one. In the early days, he'd do tricks for Vander's attention: cartwheels, handstands, backflips. Blut! Lookit! In later years, his thirst for Vander's approval took a different shape: I can think faster, move slicker, work harder. Lookit! 

Meanwhile, for Silco, Vander was the mythic mentor. In the early days, he showed Silco how to swim at the riverbanks, make slingshots, cheat at cards. In later years, he taught Silco how to roll cigarillos, spit tobacco quids, and throw punches.

Together, they'd navigated poverty in the Lanes: its crippling burdens and crushing blows. When Silco's family couldn't make ends meet in winter, Vander would stuff Silco's pockets with pickled plums from his own family's meager larder. When Vander didn't have enough cash because his father blew it at the alehouse, Silco would tug his sleeve and offer coins from his own pocket.

Between them, they were usually flat broke. But money was not the real security deposit on their friendship.

It was loneliness.

From the start, they'd been starved for someone to ease their inborn isolation. For Vander, it came from being an only child. For Silco, it came from his father's death.

Daddy had drowned at the docks. There were rumors of foul play at the hands of a Topside shipping baron who’d grown irritated with Daddy’s talk of unions. Rumors that pierced Silco's chest in pinworms of rage. He’d acted out; any child would. The smallest trigger set him off and he'd throw himself on the floor and howl. No words—just screaming until he'd begin to hyperventilate, lungs throbbing with emptiness.

Their home felt likewise empty; the times leaner, the food scarcer. Silco's older brothers became unknowable transients. One was apprenticed to a weaponsmith. The other went off to learn the fishermen's trade. They'd seldom dropped home except for supper and sleep.

The loss changed Mother, too. Before widowhood, she'd been a sweet as a molasses. A flash of temper now and then—but nothing worrisome.

After Daddy's death, something split inside her. She could still, on occasion, be her kindhearted self. But the rest of the time, she was cruelty incarnate: beatings that drew blood, and curses that slit throats. As a boy, Silco learnt to walk on tenterhooks. The woman he left in the morning was never the same one he returned to at night. Would he get a kiss, or a fist smashed into his teeth? Ranting with no end in sight, or crying that went on and on?

The atmosphere at home worsened his own temperament. He dared not pitch a fit and risk worse from Mother. So he learnt to keep it bottled up, a simmering rage that never boiled over.  It felt good to rage. But biting it down was sweeter, the better to unleash it in precision strikes: a mouthful of barbed words to cut her open like a gutted fish. Sometimes, he'd leave her curled on the floor, sobbing like a dying animal. Other times, she'd fall into a gut-stabbed silence, staring at him with hollow eyes.

Silco knew what she saw. She'd whisper it like a curse: "You monster. You dirty little thing."

She was right.

And it only deepened Silco's misery.

Vander became Silco’s shield against the craziness. By then, he was negotiating his passage into adolescence. A snot-nosed kid ought to have irritated him. Instead, he'd kept Silco close. Whenever he heard screaming and breaking dishes at Silco's home, he'd find Silco curled up afterward on the stoop, bruised and black-eyed. 

C'mon Blut, he'd say—slinging Silco over his shoulder before racing off to grown-up haunts.

In those days, the age for legal work in the Undercity was eight years old. Three decades later, it would be bumped up to The Big Nineteenth—although businesses would find workarounds to keep child labor in ample supply. Schooling cost money; most families couldn't spare the extra cogs. Daddy had kept a small fund for Silco's education. He'd wanted all his sons lettered in the Three R's—reading, writing, and arithmetic. But after his death, the family couldn't afford the lost income; Silco stayed home to help Mother with chores.

In Piltover, the psychickers waxed poetic about the Golden Era of childhood. Age-grading kept their progeny innocent, each stage of growth carefully regimented. Sumpsnipes were never treated differently from adults. Nor were they shielded from life's routine brutalities. The opposite: every boy and girl in the Lanes served a pragmatic utility. Bootblacks, milliners, mine trappers, couriers, domestics.

Vander was no exception.

His father, a tall Targonian Adonis reduced to a booze-soaked ruin, had lost his leg between two rollers at the dye factory. At least that was the official story. In truth, he’d been paralyzed after an illegal boxing match at the wharves by Rotten Row. To support his mother, Vander was at the shipworks on weekends, arc-welding torches and hauling crates. On weekdays, he was at the taverns, scrubbing up spills or dragging out welchers. He'd been uncommonly strong. Despite his puppydog characteristics—big bones and outsized paws—his physique already promised an unabashed breakthrough into purebred ferocity.

In the Lanes, size wasn't enough to confer respect. Vander had it because of his attitude.

Even as a boy, he'd radiated an aura of danger. He wasn't mean-spirited. But his fuse ran short, and he had a brutal willingness to pummel it into others. Same temper as his father, were the whispers around the neighborhood. Said father had also trained him since infancy in boxing. Older, Vander honed the skills in the street, smashing noses and snapping ribs with impunity. He was fond of throwing down gauntlets; few boys dared to run them. It was smarter to stay on his good side.

For Silco, Vander was all good sides. The handful of years he had on Silco conferred him with a halo of supremacy. He seemed to know everyone: the peddlers, the bartenders, the prizefighters. Later, he would know a lot of girls, too, who'd treated Silco fondly, but only had eyes for Vander. Whenever Vander was off with them, Silco had fought a suffocating sense of bystandership.

Even when their boyhood paths were running parallel, Vander's always seemed the one of least resistance. Things came easily to him: friendship, respect, love. Whereas Silco's was a rough terra-incognita: unseen risks at every corner.

A microcosm of the Undercity.

On summer nights, a heat lay trapped inside the tenement walls. Flies buzzed and infants wailed. The temperature did things to Mother; set her brain afire. Sometimes she'd be a stickysweet goo: cuddling Silco like he was a baby. Other times she'd belt him black and blue for the smallest infraction: spilled soup, dirty shoes, loud noises.

To escape, Silco often climbed with Vander over the crazy jumble of roofs to the topmost gable. They'd sit side-by-side, the cityscape spreading out into the fairytale glow of Piltover, its sky blue and translucent, their own overcast with filth. Passing a pilfered cigarette between them, they stared into the horizon, and talked of the things that mattered to them. Vander told Silco about the boxing-gloves he planned to buy in a couple of years, and the time his father had fallen down the stairwell in a drunken stupor. Silco told him about the scar he'd gotten on his knee after his mother jabbed him with a red-hot poker, and his hopes to someday visit Topside's Grand Library.

Their early days were rife with dysfunction and claustrophobia. Yet, for Silco, they always held a rare sheen of happiness.

Until the fire burned down the tenement.

Fire. Such a curious beast. So different from water. Water fits its shape to yours, a cradle of beguiling familiarity. It rocks you past the Rubicon of resistance, until the air is stolen from your lungs. That's what makes it so dangerous. It works in secret, in bewitching shapes. Like the sirens of old lore, it lures you into surrender, kiss by kiss, until you belong to it entirely.

Fire is different.

No subtlety; it is hunger incarnate. When the flames seize you, they sink in like teeth. Fire lays down marks; it boldly stakes its claim. Even at its softest, the smoke can scorch your lungs inside-out. Fire isn't a seducer; it is a showgirl with a flair for theatrics. Against your will, you are bedazzled to the flashpoint—and devoured.

Fire come for Silco's neighborhood that night. Entire floors engulfed in flames. Eighty families reduced to ash. Vander's parents. Silco's brothers.

Mother survived—but it was pure semantics. The woman left behind wore her skin, but little else. Gone soft in the attic, as the Undercity saying goes. Silco watched it happen. After the blaze, they'd taken refuge in an overcrowded halfway house. Next morning, Silco had found Mother sitting in the corner, her eyes staring unblinkingly at a fat spider crawling across the wall. Then her mouth dropped open, and out fell a half-dozen spiders, half-chewed to mulch.

The Asylum for the Irreparable took her away.

Fifteen years, she'd remained an inmate—until a brain tumor felled her in her sleep. By a sizable yardstick, Silco had found her better off. As a boy, he'd loved her with a quiet fervency despite her bouts of horribleness. But after the fire, he'd found it easier to consign Mother to the same spot as Daddy in his memory. She was little better than a rancid dead thing. Dead things belonged in holes.

Same way dirty little things slipped through the cracks.

He and Vander were sent to Hope House Orphanage. A toss of the coin. They could as easily have been thrown into the streets. Most orphans in the Lanes, fallen into destitution, resorted to begging and theft. Some formed gangs, tattooing themselves with needles dipped in old gunpowder. Others became vagrants, staking their claim in the warm kilns of the brickyards at Factorywood or sleeping under the stalls of the Black Market.

However, the tenement blaze had drawn Topside attention. To assuage wagging tongues, the Wardens took over as Paterfamilias for the surviving children.

Taking them into the belly of the beast.

Hope House was a bedlam in its own right: caged with hundreds of parasites and sickos and crazies. There was a boy on their block who'd crept into his little sister's room and slit her from cunny to throat. Another with burn scars pink as taffy on his skin and an obscene fascination with matches. A third who'd cut holes into his trouser pockets and squeezed his own bollocks until they were mangled.

Other children weren't deranged. Just damaged. Silco and Vander had fit right in.

The tragedy had knitted them closer together. They shared the same bunk, sat together at mealtimes, played at the same corners. But the shock of the fire crept through their systems in different speeds, subtly tainting them both. For Vander, his violent streak widened by a mile. He became aware of his strength, and how to use it against the other children. Most fled the radius of his swinging fists. Others were drawn to him like moths to a flame—an effect boosted by his raw physical appeal.

He'd sloughed off the adolescent awkwardness and grown into his size. He'd also taken up pugilism: a program provided by the orphanage, alongside carpentry, sewing, metalwork and writing. Whenever he'd hit the heavybag in the common room, all activity stopped. The boys and girls would creep closer to stare, whispering among themselves.

Ordinarily, Vander would let the admiration roll off him like sweat wicking off his brow. Other times, he'd catch Silco's bright eyes in the crowd—and grin.

Silco grew too, but like a crooked eyetooth. Despite a spurt in size, he'd never be handsome. His face was too lean for classical beauty, with its bladed nose, pointed chin, and a mouth crowded with teeth like a junkyard brawl. In fact, like Vander, he was usually brawling.

Unlike Vander, he used no fisticuffs. Just words.

Bullies at the orphanage had taken an eyeful of Silco's whippety body and dubbed him easy pickings. Within the year, they'd regretted it. Silco wasn't strong, but he was smart. Worse, he was naturally patient. When he was eleven, Jimmy Bierhals had busted his right arm between the iron gap of the storm grate. Three weeks later, Jimmy was found sprawled in the alleyside with first-degree burns rashing his prick. Someone had flung industrial solvent on him from the rooftop while he was taking a piss. Another time, Devo's gang of Weevils had jumped Silco for trespassing into their spot in the common-hall, busting his nose and pulping his ribs. Two months later, Devo woke up buck-naked and dangling upside down from the building's turrets after someone slipped sleeping-draft into his ginwater.

To most sumpsnipes, Silco's subtlety was an anomaly. Everyone in the Lanes spoke the language of violence as an honest one-to-one exchange. Many were downright pissed by his penchant for sneak-attacks.

If he ain't charming the scales off snakes, he's scalding 'em with snake-oil—was the complaint among custodians.

Among the children, he earned a number of monikers. Roulette, for his uncanny knack for palming the chanciest items without being seen. Rat-foot, for his talent for vanishing whenever trouble arose. Snake-bite, for the way he'd slip under people's defenses and burrow into their guts.

But no nickname stuck quite like The Scholar.

It was true enough. Not only was Silco literate—he'd enjoyed reading. At his parents' home, he'd always been encouraged in his schooling. In the mornings, Daddy often recited from the newspaper to him. At night, Mother read from a tattered collection of Ionian folktales. When Silco asked why, she'd replied that they were talismans. If kept close, they'd guard you against harm.

Silco would lie awake listening to her whispering in the dimness, feeling them like a protective forcefield.

Now, Silco devoured stories—real ones, in print. Not just porn periodicals or sixcog novellas or Mavis & Mutthead strips, either. He'd read the big books in the orphanage's ramshackle library. The ones by renowned Topside scholars. He'd read the mythologies and folklore of the Undercity. He'd read about legendary items forged by godlings to shield cities in a protective sphere. He'd read the testimonials of war-slaves and smuggled captives. He'd read the histories of great rulers and the tyrants. He'd read about wars waged for freedom and blood spilled for self-respect.

At Hope House, they'd waged war and spilled blood over the smallest things. Small things were all they had. That, and suffering.

A microcosm of the Undercity.

Topside had built the orphanage in the structural style of a military school. It was designed to control the children's wilder impulses. Teach them values, keep them obedient. In other words, abuse them. Spare the rod and spoil the child—and the custodians weren't sparing with their rods.

Figuratively or literally.

Silco had experienced it firsthand. Twelve years old and stirred awake in the infirmary, at the frozen nadir of winter, by an adult's callused fingers caressing his hipbone, crawling down his bare flesh towards his groin. Through prolonged exposure, such incidents—and worse—became commonplace. Like the violence. And the fear.

At night, he and Vander would lie side-by-side, too cored-out for tears, and whisper endlessly of escape. Big dreams; brighter days.

A future as starry as Piltover's sky.

Afterward, they'd fit their bodies together in a comfortable clasp of rustling of sheets and subaudible breaths. Vander's large hands would trace the fine bones under Silco's skin, until he closed his eyes and the tension drained from his brainpan. Their hearts beat in syncopated rhythm. And Silco felt, for the barest moment, safe.

Safe enough to dream of something more than survival.

Dirty little things deserve that, too.

The spring Vander was set to graduate from Hope House, recruiters came to the orphanage. They passed pamphlets, each one determined to prove their industry had something wondrous to offer. The goal was to lure in future laborers like lambs to the slaughter.

Vander was seventeen; Silco was twelve. They were both attracted to the pamphlets on the steel mines. A tough racket, backbreaking labor. But the promise of easy coins appealed to them.

Anything was better than another hour at Hope House.

Together, they'd signed on. So did several other children. The boys and girls at Hope House chose one monster or another, but as a group, they were devoured one hundred percent by Piltover's industries. A grand tradition. Nobody ever graduated from the orphanage without being snatched up by the mines, or the textile mills, or the factories. Each child was offered the illusion of consent, while also guaranteeing that they had no options—money, family, education—that would hinder their exploitation.

Piltover was the City of Progress. Progress demanded its pound of flesh. Children's flesh—and their lifeblood.

A microcosm of the Undercity.

The mines.

What should Silco share about them? The less, the better. It's a miracle he and Vander failed to die there.

They were in suffocating pits of Oshra Va'Zaun every day, pounding posts and stringing explosives to blast the ore-bearing rocks loose. They were out in the frigid dawn hours hauling bucketloads of metallurgical coal until their young bones ached. They were out pelletizing the rocks as the furnaces churned blistering-hot fumes in the chamber and burned their skins to pig leather. They were out in the evening pounding the sinter while the damp wind wicked metallic dust into their eyes.

Silco developed a harsh staccato cough like a submachine gun: ack-ack-ack-ack. Vander's hands grew so callused they cracked like clay; dust blackened the clefts in an inky tattoo. For months they ate nothing but gray slop served in massive steam trays. At night, he and Vander retched it back up, before sneaking to the oxbows dotting the badlands. Lacking fishing rods, they would use explosives from the supply room to make molotov cocktails. Tossing them in the river, they'd kill fish by the dozens and gorge themselves sick. Later, they collapsed side-by-side in their bedrolls, too exhausted after twelve bells of backbreaking labor to even pass a cigarette between their chapped lips.

One thing Silco will say for the experience. It was so taxing it flattened his mind of anything except survival. No thoughts bled through. Just a seething, inexorable rage. He was accustomed to occupying the lowest rung of the ladder. Most sumpsnipes lived and died hanging off it.

This was far below the ladder. This was the charnel pit.

Seventy children from Hope House were shipped off to the steel mines—Silco and Vander included. In seven years' time, sixty-one were killed. Silco saw their deaths in all their gruesome variations. Some went fast, blown to slimy bits by the dynamite in the caverns. Others took their time; Grey Lung rotting their chests and throbbing tumors sprouting in their guts.

The survivors went sick too, but in unnatural ways of the mind more than the body. Vander acquired a thousand-yard stare, as if there was a low-wattage warzone raging inside his skull. His sullen silences grew perpetual. On Silco, it had the opposite effect. Always sharp-tongued, he developed the red-hot wit of a hellion.

At the end of the month, the miners congregated to Rotten Row. Nowadays, it is a wonderland of neon-lit vice. Bars and brothels, casinos and cabarets.  A favorite of Piltovans hankering for illicit hanky-panky away from Topside's playpen.

Back then, it was just a stretch of street at the wharves between Entresol and the Sumps. A place where rough men gathered for bad business. There was a betting-house called the Rumbler's Den: a hole in the wall where mold clogged the air like a fogbank and rats skittered in the cellar's fighting pits. Next door was The Belle, a cat-house staffed with whores so greedy they'd grab your coin purse before they ever took your cock in hand.  Up the street was The Nymph, a dance hall with delusions of dignity. Its main draw was a live band, and decent drinks.

Typically, the miners pooled their wages and gravitated to a tavern next door—The Sprout. It was a scratch-assed dive. The mood-lighting and shrouded smoke favored the miner's fatigued faces. Vander would go there to shoot pool and talk shop with a colorful coterie of men and women.  His brother made friends and cowed enemies easily. Silco stayed closer to the bar, watching the crowd.

Watching everyone.

He learned much that way. Learned who was who within the Undercity's darkest circles.  Learned tricks of sleight of hand and how to spot liars in games of cards and dice. How to tell if someone was going to do you wrong. How people moved in packs and what happened when someone was left behind.

Sometimes, he and Vander would put their heads together and shark the rubes at stud poker. If they made enough coins, they'd go to The Belle afterwards and share a whore.

Don't be shocked. The age of consent was twelve in those days. The Big Nineteenth was a pipe dream. Silco and Vander were already old hands at the sex game. Often, they'd each play lookout at the mouth of an alleyway while the other went at it with a girl. Sometimes they'd make a game of it. Compete to see who got the shrillest response—Vander with his literal life-ruining splitter or Silco with his figurative forked tongue.

Among the whores, they'd had an interesting reputation. Share and share alike, as the Undercity saying goes.

Afterward, they'd buy a bottle of silver tequila, their table crowded with empty pewter mugs. At the narrow strip of stage in the corner, the tenor would play an old piano in jangling rubato: dark ballads of murder, madness and broken hearts. On Sundays, there were improv performances. Bawdy skits. Comedic plays. A chance for those with talent to entertain those without a drop of it.

One night Silco was buttonholed into a parlor piece by the bartender, in exchange for cadging off a week's free lager. He'd had no formal schooling in performance. But he had a natural gift. He'd been listening to Piltovan yarn-spinners on the radio since the orphanage days. He'd always been good at mimicking their style and accents.

When he'd climbed on the stage, Vander's brow had scrunched up: Trying to get yourself killed, Blut?

Then Silco started talking.

A silence descended in the tavern. It wasn't an indifferent silence. The miners were mesmerized. Silco had that effect. On the surface, it made no sense. He had none of the qualities that garnered attention in the Lanes: strength or size. But his perception, even as a teenager, was freakishly sharp. He never shied from ripping into the dark underbelly of the human condition: hypocrisy, failure, stagnation.

His innate empathy allowed him to see cracks in the surface. His razored eloquence reeled others in.

The details of the performance are hazy now. They'd involved both playacting and wordplay. Nothing sophisticated, but plenty of barbs hidden below the humor. He'd started off sly, with familiar jokes to coax out laughs from the audience. Then by degrees he'd shredded life at the mines, the backbreaking labor, the long hours and slim rewards. He'd done cutting impressions of the foremen, mugging their walks and talks, stockpiling their foibles and making tactical strikes.

The room erupted with laughter. The miners were responding to his words, their emotions stoked in whatever direction Silco chose to go. Soon the laughter sharpened into angry cheers. He was the one controlling the room: You want to laugh? I'll show you who to laugh at. You want to rage? I'll give you something to rage about.

When the performance ended, there was an explosion of applause. As Silco sat down at his table, men gathered around to clap him on the shoulders. You got a way with words, boy. How'd you get to be so sharp?

Vander took it in with an expression of… not pride, but unease. Maybe he didn't find it amusing, Silco disparaging the life he shared with hundreds of others. With Vander himself. Or maybe he saw something else. Like Silco's ordinary skin, so familiar, was a costume, while inside was all scaly venom.

A dirty little thing festering beneath the surface.

After that night, Silco would feel Vander's eyes on him. Always watchful, as if that thing might resurface.

Except Vander had a thing in him too.

Beneath the bonhomie lay something else. Something rageful and hungry and wolfish. It come out at nights when he'd get vipered up on sour-mash bourbon. Next thing, he'd be stirring up trouble with the tavern's layabouts, and before long either he or his opponent would go crashing through the riveted door in a creak of rusted hinges and a spray of toothpicked wood.

Silco loved watching Vander fight. His fists came down like the hammers of hell. Short of a bullet to the brain, nothing could keep him down. Sometimes, Silco would stir up trouble with his trickster's tongue just to get under some loudmouth's skin. When the exchange erupted into a brawl, he'd melt the shadows while Vander stepped in and unleashed his hellhounds.

Before crossing twenty, Vander had already broken his share of necks, most at close quarters. But unless it was self-defense, he'd invariably take his bloodied victim by the arm, then haul him back into the tavern for a conciliatory drink. That, Silco supposed, was the difference between himself and Vander.

Even then, Silco saw man and monster as different sides of the same coin.

Vander did not.

It wasn't all drudgery and darkness.

In the summers, Silco and Vander had another way to release the pent-up pressure. After a week's labor, they'd gravitate to the oxbow lakes that ringed the mines. There was a rotted railway trestle that overhung the largest unfurling blue-gray lake. A place where miners could immerse themselves for longer than ten-minute increments without lesions on the skin or parasites in the bowels. Boys would dare each other to jump off and land cannonball-style in the water.

Silco and Vander never needed convincing. They'd leap off side-by-side and shoot straight in, the acrid mineral tang filling their nostrils. Surfacing, they'd spit out mouthfuls, hooting and laughing and dunking each other. The few places Silco felt remotely graceful with his body was in the water. Swimming, his thin limbs took on an eelike grace. Hereditary, he supposes. Both his parents came from riverside towns on opposite shores of the world.

Born with gills, were ya? Vander liked to tease.

Silco's favorite trick was to somersault off the trestle and straight into the deep-end. He'd sink like stone to the bottom, no sound. A minute would pass. Two. Three. At the crux of five, he'd break to the surface, easygoing as ever, as if he'd been taking a nap at the depths. Vander would guffaw in admiration. Afterward, they'd sprawl together in the trestle's shade, Silco patching the holes in Vander's old boots while Vander picked out the soot clumps knotted in Silco's curling hair.

Funny, those meaninglessly meaningful gestures in childhood. I have your back—spoken without a word.

Other kids from the mines hung out at the oxbow from time to time. Benzo, a criminally easygoing chatterbox from the Sumps. Lika, a pale birdlike girl from far-flung Drakkengate, with clever fingers and gift for tinkering. Nandi, a silent dusky waif of Vekauran heritage, who'd be almost pretty if not for the oilslick of her long ratty hair. Sevika, her little sister, a knee-high brat with a foul stink and a fouler attitude.

Like Silco, they hated the interminable toil of the mines. But unlike him, they were resigned to their lot. Most were orphans; others were wards of the state. They'd nowhere else to go. Sharing a laugh, singing an old song, slugging a drink—these were familiarities they'd cherished, despite being few and far in between.

Silco was not so easy to please. To him, familiarity reeked of entrapment. He was determined to do better. The Fates were always conspiring to trip you up. The only way to survive was to keep your eyes peeled for a crack in the pavement, or a fork in the road.

Whatever took you off the beaten track—and into freedom.

That's how the smuggling career began. One winter, an explosion swept through the mines. It was triggered by a spark from one of the children’s' open-flame lamps, left unattended during a poker game. The methane gas fireballed into a blaze, destroying the ventilation fans, the railcars, the roof timbers. Silco and Vander barely survived, choking on the blackdamp and dodging debris.

The body-count ran into double digits. Most of the children had not yet crossed eighteen.

Jannas Segen, as is the send-off among miners. Janna's blessing.

Afterward, the moguls at Topside declared martial law. Every miner, adult and child, lost two weeks wages as penance. No more booze after work. No more gambling or card games. All mining equipment would remain locked away during shift changes. At night, Enforcers would patrol the Fissures. Any worker found guilty of breaking curfew would get the boot—or the bullet.

For Silco, it was the last straw.  For years they'd drudged in the darkness as slaves. Now they were prisoners? There seemed no end to the indignity. Worse, he suspected conditions would worsen. If the overseers wanted to make an example of a troublemaker, they needed little provocation to make it happen. The fresh supply of bodies from orphanages meant a replacement would arrive lickety split.

He and Vander needed a recourse.

In those days, smuggling was rife in the mines. Children used it to pay bribes: avoiding overtime shifts, swapping contraband, dealing in booze and tinned food. But Silco wasn't interested in petty grift. His goal was bigger: to earn enough money to leave the mines behind forever.

One night at The Sprout, Vander stopped mid-glug on his beer when Silco tossed a deck of cigarettes across their table. He was nineteen; Silco fifteen. Thin and sinewy, Silco had oversized hands like fins, and feet like flippers. Yet the adolescent gawkiness foreboded another growth spurt into something altogether sleeker. Meanwhile, Vander was nearly full-grown, six foot six and broad as a barrel. He wore his dun-colored hair loose, and his face was a chiseled slab. To Silco, he always looked like he belonged in a book: a character sprung from fiction, not flesh.

But that night he squinted boyishly at the cigarettes on the tabletop. "Ain't my brand, Blut."

"Mine neither."

Silco settled on the stool beside Vander. Two girls—Lika, and another bird—were eyeballing Vander from the corner table. Vander sipped his beer, licking the foam from his lips, and glanced over his shoulder at them. Silco heard the chime of feminine laughter. Rolling his eyes, he kicked Vander in the shin.

"Blut. Focus."

"But they're just sittin' there."

"They'll still be there later. Listen." The order rolled easily off his tongue. His voice was already developing the rich tenor that would mature in later years into a resonant force. “I have an idea.”

Vander’s sigh was careworn. “You an’ your ideas.”

“Dosh for our nosh.” Pointedly, Silco tapped out a cigarette. "Know much about rustling these?"

Vander shook his head. "Filching 'em, is all."

Silco spun the cigarette between his fingertips. "They're counterfeits. Old man Volkage keeps a stash. Taste almost like the real thing."

"So?"

"It's big money. Bigger than what we're making."

"How big?"

"Volkage says one thousand a month. They come from Bilgewater. When the Pilt freezes in winter, they slide 'em in crates over the ice to our side. Summertime, they take 'em by boat."

"The Patrolmen don't stop it?"

"They take a cut. Everyone does. The Bilgewater Reavers on their side, the distributers on ours. Volkage is looking for fresh blood."

"I want fresh blood; I'd go to the butcher."

Silco struck a match to the cigarette, and proffered it to Vander. "I can go there myself. But we might try our luck here."

Vander was reluctant. A straight-shooter, he wasn’t ambitious by nature. Nor did he revel in risk. He never needed to. His solid magnetism made him easy friends. His solid fists pounded down the rest. It was different for Silco. He never drew effortless admiration; he'd had to earn it through clever enticements.

His attitude toward opportunity was the same. In every unhooked catch, he saw a lucky break lost.

Smuggling was leagues' away from honest mining. But honesty hadn't kept the rest from death. Who was to say they wouldn't be next? If they were going to bust their bones, they ought to do it on their own terms. And Silco's gut instinct—infallible in such matters—told him they were ahead of the curve. If they hopped on now, they could ride it like a wave to brighter days.

Reluctantly, Vander gave in.

There's a saying in Piltover: Crime doesn't pay.

The Undercity's riposte: Crime pays well—if you don't get caught.

Silco and Vander started off as low-level mules. Nightly, they navigated by foot through moldering trash and twisted roots toward the Pilt. They lugged crates into a puntboat floating in the night-blackness of the river. Vander covered it in tarpaulin; Silco gave a bird-whistle signal to the lookouts. Then they'd kick off through the water in a smooth stripe.

The chill spray seeped into their bones. Yet adrenaline kept their blood foaming-hot.

In those days, Smuggler's Cove hadn't ceded to Piltovan territory. It was a no-man's land where laws didn't apply. Contraband passed its borders freely. Silco and Vander made the rounds each night: slippery as eels. In the mining bars and barracks, Vander's genial grin and Silco's fast-talking salesmanship resulted in a flurry of takers. Three months found them raking in more coins than they'd seen in three years. When Vander emptied the first satchel on their bedroll, Silco broke into a gleeful jig that sent Vander into peals of laughter.

Money poured in. Soon, the small-time thrill of tobacco smuggling burgeoned into a full-scale operation. Silco and Vander expanded their criminal portfolio into bootlegged alcohol and blackmarket goods. Gathering to their ranks a collection of eye-gougers, sneak-thieves and ruffians, they would venture as far as the Ironworks on the northside, and steal every cargo or crate that was loose on the docks. With valuable tips, Silco also began investing a portion of their money in the numbers racket, the Undercity's unofficial lottery. His prodigious memory proved useful for learning names of the old and new runners, and outmaneuvering them.

Word of their success spread. Others began trying their hand at the game. Competition was cutthroat, but none could exactly replicate Silco and Vander's business model. Most smugglers found their way into the watery noose because they'd scuttle any ship and crack any skull. It won them no friends, Topside or bottom.

Vander and Silco were more adroit. They plundered only from the Piltie manufacturing districts further upriver, where surplus stock flowed daily from factories and warehouses. Their profits were larger, too. In time, the sleepy backwater at the harbor was flooded with loot. In the neighboring spiderweb of alleyways, a rich bazaar unfurled, ripe with illegal exotica for curious buyers. It held within it the incipient blossoms of the Black Lanes—a colorfully cosmopolitan and manically mercantile ethos.

Silco and Vander were at its crux.

When Vander was twenty-one, Silco decided they needed a legitimate front for their operation. He convinced Vander to dip into their savings stash and go down to the Fissures' credit union for a small loan. With it, Vander leased a ramshackle property to renovate into a tavern. Rough territory: a brothel down one street, a pawnbroker down the other. But Silco told Vander to see beyond the neighborly downsides.

The Undercity wouldn't be a wasteland forever. With gamesters plying their trade nightly, he'd soon have his pick of punters.

On his part, Silco considered branching out to try his luck in Bilgewater. But something pulled fiercely at his bones when he thought of leaving the Undercity. The Finger-Trap Fallacy, he'd coined after a night's drunken carousing. Some places, the invisible hold was too strong. It kept you locked in a death-grip—but softly, so you'd never feel it unless you tried to escape.

He'd no plans to escape. For once, his disjointed life was flowing smoothly. Better yet, it was flowing in parallel with Vander's.

They were a matched pair; they worked best together. Nights found them zigzagging across the Pilt with costly cargo. Days found them in Vander's tavern—dubbed The Last Drop—cobbling together furniture and sweeping out sawdust. Afterward, with their widening circle of admirers, they'd clink their glasses and toast to better days in wild debauches of spilled alcohol and tobacco fumes.

Silco's memories of the era are almost somnambulistic, the bodies of different whores twisting into strands of cigarette smoke and curlicues of powdered cocaine like figments from a degenerate's delirium. Yet there were motes of epiphany shot through the haze too. He and Vander had grown up almost as brothers; for the most part, they treated each other with the rough-and-tumble affection of siblings. But now and then, Silco would be clubbed by the reminder that Vander was not, in point of fact, his blood brother. Times when Vander would suddenly turn on him, barking orders in an implacable rage. Times when Vander's stare turned at once feral and far-off, like he couldn't quite remember who Silco was anymore.

There were other moments too.

Like the grey pre-dawn hours when Vander drank too much, and his big feet would carry him not to his own mattress, but Silco's. There, he'd pour himself over the younger boy until Silco's ribs creaked under his weight.  Like at Hope House, his broad rough hands would trace the narrow bones under Silco's skin, learning veins, remembering scars. Only this time Silco felt no calmness, but the red-hot ripples of need.  Vander never spoke on those nights. Even his breathing was a near-silent cadence, until their bodies began that back-and-forth rocking, and his panting would roughen into a deep singsongy hum that raced up Silco's spine, everything in him rising, winging, wanting, an arrowing straight towards truth, until their low ragged groans broke the warm darkness.

Afterward, the biggest of the night's astonishments: Vander's mouth softly touching his. Just a kiss—no tongue or teeth. Only a tenderness that tasted of homecoming.

In daylight, Vander always behaved as if nothing had happened. As if it was a dream.

Silco never made a peep either.  He felt closer to Vander, somehow, with no words between them. Those nights were hotter, sweeter, more satisfying, than anything he did with the whores. Than anything he'd do with any of his lovers, in the years after.

Older, he understands that Vander sought him out for the same reasons. Reasons he was too proud—too in denial of?—to admit to anyone else. Not his lovers; not his paid girls. In public, he had a persona to keep up. The smuggler, the bruiser, the behemoth. At night, though...

At night, he needed something else.

Silco let Vander take whatever he needed, whenever he came around. He was happy to give it. He was grateful for the smallest crumb of care.

Grateful to be with Vander at all.

It went on that way for quite some time. In daytime, no harshness would be scrubbed off Vander's attitude. But at nights, he'd pour himself over Silco in a lather of softness. Sometimes, it was enough just to sprawl across the threadbare sheets, soaking in Vander's warmth. Other times, they'd do things together that made Silco's bones throb and his head spin for days after.

He'd have been happy to stay in that state of strange ecstatic stasis forever. But forever isn't in a sumpsnipe's almanac.

By winter, everything changed. Vander fell in love. And Silco killed a Patrolman.

The love stuff first.

Vander took up with Lika. She'd always fancied him. Most girls did. Silco thought nothing of it. She wasn't Vander's type. His brother liked 'em lush. Breasts and hips; some brisket on the bones. Whereas Lika was thin as a windchime, and scatter-brained as a flock of starlings. She lived in the trenches of the Lanes—the darkest and filthiest zone where no light bled through. The folk there were derisively titled by the long-settled families as Luftmenschen—wandering tinkers who ‘lived on air’ and coasted on charm and cunning to eke out a living.

Lika was no exception.

She'd always rubbed Silco the wrong way. Surprising, given their similar natures: a free-spirited tinkerer and a free-thinking spieler. And yet within a minute of conversation, they both had to strain not to strangle each other.

Too matchy-matchy, Vander used to snigger.

Then, by twenty-one Lika began sporting a colorful mélange of tattoos to match the midnight blueness of her hair. Her movements held a dreamlike looseness; her smile was pure breezy charm.

Vander's brains were blown away.

Once, Silco stirred awake from the night's revelry to strange sounds. Rising woozily, he left two whores where they lay sprawled on his mattress, stumbled past empty bottles of liquor and cigarette stubs, dragged on his trousers, and went up to the bar. It was empty, but he heard thumping from the coat room.

He crept there on silent feet, knife in hand, expecting an intruder. In the gloom: Vander and Lika were going at it. Vander was so tall his shoulders jingled the hangers like bells; he had Lika pinned effortlessly to the wall, fucking her so she slid rhythmically up and down, her skirt bunching in the small of her back. Her happy croons cut through the silence.

A strange sensation scalded Silco. He left as soundlessly as he'd entered.

He wasn't bothered by catching them together. He'd gotten an eyeful of Vander-with-girls by the dozens. But this was different. Silco was bothered by the expressions on Vander's and Lika's faces. In hers, the giddiness of simple lust. In Vander's, something else. A sense of awe, but also vertigo. Like he was caught in a whirlwind, with nothing to pull him back.

Silco might've stopped him.

Except he was soon imprisoned at the Hölle Correctional Facility for murder.

The Patrolman next.

It happened on a moon-glossed summer night. Vander had stayed behind rather than accompanying Silco to the Pilt. A regular occurrence the past few months The Drop's day-to-day dealings and Lika kept swallowing greater chunks of Vander's time; he'd swatted Silco away more and more.

Silco no longer had exclusive rights to his brother; he could only borrow him for short intervals. It was always, Can't, Blut—I'm beat from work, or, Not now, Blut. Lika's not feelin' up to it.

Nor did Vander seek him out at nights either. He still drank and worked and caroused with Silco, but slept afterwards in his own mattress, or with Lika.

For the first time, Silco sensed Vander's trajectory and his own splitting in different paths. Just like in their childhood, Vander's had arced off into comfortable steadiness. Silco's own was caught on a crooked spiral—downward and outward.

A microcosm of the Undercity.

That night, Silco was alone at the Pilt. As he'd crossed the shore to the puntboat, a shape had leapt out of its deep-bottomed hulk.

Silco knew instinctively it was a Patrolman. As the years passed, Piltie factory-owners paid them to keep the docks well-lit and bash in the brains of any sumpraker scurrying around after dark. Lately, they'd begun cracking down more fiercely on the contraband trade, circling deeper into the Fissures.

Smugglers had to be extra careful. The shadows bristled with silhouettes; gunshots echoed ghostlike through the night.

The Patrolman tackled Silco like a torpedo. Sky and land pinwheeled out of whack. Silco smashed to the ground, the Patrolman on top of him. He swung the butt of his rifle toward Silco's skull. The first blow sent a shockwave of agony blistering through his body. Blood darkly curtained the night. By the fifth blow, the darkness threatened to melt everything else.

Reflexively, Silco's hand went to his belt. A box-cutter always hung there. His thumb pressed the mechanism. The blade sliced out, and his arm moved in a convulsive arc. There was a sensation of something slickly dragging and tearing loose. Next thing he knew, blood from the Patrolman's torn throat sprayed his face, glinting off his razor in the murky starlight.

His first kill.

He'd never wished it to happen. But wishes are for fools, and so is retrospect. A thing, once done, can't be undone. An appellation, once earned, remains yours, either as a bruise or a badge.

Overnight, he became a killer. Not a murderer—yet—but indisputably a killer.

He was two months shy of seventeen.

By labor standards, he was working age. As per the Warden's overseership, he was a youth. The courtroom gymnastics were diabolical. At the trial, he pled self-defense. It was argued that the attack was a matter of life and death. At the time of the pretrial hearing, Silco's face was disfigured with bruises. The Patrolman's rifle blows had taken noticeable chips out of his front teeth. The effect called to a mind the broken maw of a subterranean wretch.

The judges weren't the pitying sort. But they had a dozen cases on their roster. Silco was a troublemaker, but records from Hope House also attested to a fine academic record and a bright mind.

Thus, he was granted statutory release into the care of Hölle Correctional Facility.

At the time, philanthropic charities were cropping up, run by Piltovan patrons as part of a high-society fad. They seldom ventured into such institutions personally, for fear that their hearts may start bleeding or their gowns get soiled by shit. But they doled out coinage for the institutions: some harshly disciplinarian, others moderate. Their aim was the same: to turn recalcitrant sumpsnipes into respectable workers, training them to lead useful lives.

Or, barring that, stop them from committing murders.

Vander was confounded. By said murder, or its outcome—Silco never knew. Between them, Vander's alacrity for violence was well-known. They'd always joked that he'd end up with a body-count in the double-digits.

Except it was Silco. Blood on his hands and a kill on his record.

It should have brought them closer. But in the wake of the incarceration, Vander kept a wary distance. He visited only once a month. Sometimes alone, other times with Lika or Benzo. He told Silco that killing a Piltie had won him censure in some quarters, admiration in others. No charges were levied against Vander. Silco always had the foresight to transfer any stolen loot into their own containers, then scatter them throughout the Black Lanes. It became harder to obtain conclusive evidence without a paper-trail. Nor, under duress, had Silco fingered Vander as a partner-in-crime. Why would he?

Vander was his brother.

He'd stayed at Hölle for three years. An eventful three years. In sleep, Silco would thrash to nightmares sliced with box-cutter steel and tinged with blood. Awake, he'd feverishly work his time in ways that would work for him.

The Warden, a sharp-dressed Demacian called Jonah Lascelles, saw potential in the troubled young man. He took Silco under his wing as a pupil. Previously, Silco had never bought the piffle about a lack of male role model shaping a boy's character. Yet the generous way Warden Lascelles set about teaching Silco everything from self-discipline to formal etiquette had filled a strange small hollow in Silco's chest.

The Warden was born deaf and mute; he communicated entirely through sign language. He also dealt with people in a fashion Silco had never seen before. He never used profanity. Never lost his temper. He treated everyone, from the skittish street urchins to the impeccably turned-out Piltovan officials, with a cool, contained, courteous manner than was almost old-world.

More astonishing was his attitude toward discipline. At Hope House, they'd doled out backhands more than bread. But at Hölle, corporal punishment was anathema. Instead, after each infraction—a fire, a fistfight, a food-strike—Silco would find himself sitting, cloaked in defiant cigarette smoke, in the Warden's steel-gray office, while on the other side of the desk the old man posed an equable question via tapped fingers: Well then. Let's hear your side of the story?

And to his own astonishment, Silco would find himself sharing it.

The Warden's method was a masterstroke. His lessons weren't limited to the usual fare of canings or memetics. He taught Silco to think, rather than just react. To consider the motives of others. Even to outmaneuver them. That last skill proved to be the hardest to learn—but it was the most useful. He also made sure Silco's hands were kept busy with a variety of tasks. The Warden was a man of many hobbies. Beyond mastering three types of sign language, he also had a passion for cooking, mathematics, astronomy—and he found a home for each and every one of them in the ramshackle expanse of Hölle's grounds.

Silco was encouraged to enroll in a number of correspondence classes funded by Piltover's academy: History, Business, Rhetoric. There, he completed the diploma program he'd left hanging at Hope House. His verbiage grew polished; his diction smoothed out. He'd always had a way with words. But now his bon mots sharpened to mots justes.

At the Warden's suggestion, he entered a number of essay competitions. His works were mostly on the Undercity, its history and folklore. They weren't much. But in a strange manner, they brought the Lanes closer to life; they lent them a sheen of dignity. One essay, titled A Death in the Pilt, made its appearance in the Evening Gazette.

Two months later, a letter arrived.

Piltover's Academy, filling their Undercity quota, offered him a scholarship.

"You're taking it, yeah?" Vander said.

They sat in the visiting room at a rusted steel table. Rays of heatless sunlight fell through the casement windows, picking up the brown threads in Vander's unkempt hair and the creases at the corners of his eyes. He had the bleary air of a man who'd not slept in weeks. Silco knew better to believe it was because of him.

Lika had broken if off with him. She'd taken up with a new man. Vander barely saw her except in streetside glimpses.

In ordinary circumstances, Silco would've commiserated. But last month, Warden Lascelles had died of a sudden stroke. Silco was shocked by how much the absence of his mentor had changed the atmosphere at Hölle. The new Warden was a Piltie; self-absorbed and arrogant, with no interest in nurturing talent among the boys. Under his aegis, Silco spent most of his time herding the younger inmates or scrubbing the toilets.

With Lascelles gone, he felt unmoored. Not only had the old man been kind to him. He'd taught Silco a lot about himself. He'd shown him there was more than one way to be a man.

And Silco was a man now. Nineteen—and at a crossroads.

"You should take the offer," Vander said. "The Academy could use a troublemaker like you."

"I can't leave you here."

Vander waved a hand. "I'll be okay, Blut."

"What about the import-export stuff?"

The smuggling, Silco meant.

Vander shrugged. "I'm not so savvy at the numbers as you. But our contacts are solid. I'd keep it on the side. Focus on the Drop full-time."

That was probably a good call. Silco was the one who'd taken pains to cover their tracks. The one who'd moved money around, created false accounts, falsified signatures. Vander had no patience for such details; likely he'd just gotten Benzo to handle the books in Silco's absence.

The thought seized Silco's throat like a cold fist.

"Do really you want me to go?" he asked. "I'd be Topside for four years."

"I know." Vander rubbed his bristly jaw. "An' I also know you're sorry for the business with the Patrolman."

Silco's throat burned. He looked away.

"Maybe a clean break's best, yeah?" Vander suggested. "Do your penance and start fresh? Go to the Academy. Get yourself a proper education. One you never had here."

"Why don't you come along?"

Vander shook his head. "I got nothin' in common with the folks Uppside." He grimaced. "Plus, we'd just be in each other's way."

Silco wanted to argue. He'd never been without Vander. Their one-two punch of personalities was what made them so formidable in the Lanes. Made them unstoppable. Why would Silco throw it away for Piltover? For the Academy, that only wanted a warm body in an empty chair?

Unless Vander had a different reason to refuse.

Silco's hands curled into fists. He whispered, "Are you hoping..."

"Yeah?"

"Are you hoping Lika sees the light and comes back?"

Vander shrugged. "Hey, you never know." He tipped Silco a wink to disguise his uncertainty. "Like the cat in the song, ain't she?"

Silco shook his head. "You can't seriously believe that."

"What d'you mean?"

"She was only in it for the fun. You gave her plenty."

Vander's jaw went rigid. "Leave it."

"You'll find another bird. Maybe even a Piltie to swan around with. Come with me, and we can—"

"I said leave it."

Vander rapped his huge knuckles on the underside of the table; the sharp bang reverberated up Silco's spine. Fear crept unbidden through his chest. Vander's temper was legendary. But he'd never once turned it against Silco.

Their eyes met. Mercifully, the moment diffused.

Exhaling, Vander said, "It's Lika's thing. Living free; having fun. Always has been. I just want her to be happy."

"Sure."

"Don't worry yourself about it." He pointed a squared-off finger at Silco. "You're not much different from her, y'know. Always swimmin' on to the next big thing. The four walls at Hölle will kill you."

"Or put me in the nuthouse."

"The Lanes are the same. A nuthouse times ten. You got offers pouring in. Make the choice, and go."

His forceful tone was a like a door slamming shut. Silco frowned. "Just like that?"

“It's that thing—whatchacallit? Your Finger Trap Fantasy."

"Finger Trap Fallacy."

"Whichever." Vander saw nothing of Silco's mood shift; or if he did, he accepted it as a given. "Some places, the grip's too strong. You gotta be yanked out."

"Like a rotten tooth?"

Vander ignored the jibe. "You're smarter than me an' the Lanes put together. There's nothing left for you here."

Nothing.

That was how Vander saw it. Not because there wasn't any love between him and Silco, but because Silco had been given a choice to save himself, even if he couldn't save anyone else. Vander wanted him to seize it. Yet to Silco, it felt like a shell-game, a cheap kiss-off. He and Vander had shared everything: money, dreams, hardships. If Silco could, he'd share this opportunity with Vander too.

Blut. Lookit.

Vander didn't want it.

Or maybe it was Silco he didn’t want.

Maybe he longed to fly solo? To come into his own, and for Silco to do the same? Maybe he felt life would be easier with himself and Silco running on different rails. Relics of each other's pasts. So often, it happens. Two boys grow up together, roam the same streets, make the same mistakes. Then one swoops, the other spirals, fire against water, until their boyhood fizzes out and they are strangers to one another.

A premonition, some might call it.

Silco kept his gaze steady, despite the knotwork in his heart. "Yeah. Nothing."

Piltover.

Silco's first glimpse, riding the Hexadraulic lift, of the skyline he'd seen only in the fogged distance, was surreal. The fresh air was dizzying. The sun-dappled streets were incandescent. Even at nighttime, everything held an intense luminosity: every cobble, leaf, lamppost. Silco's skin burned all over from years in the Undercity's treacherous twilight.

He rented a tiny and exorbitantly priced room near the Clockwork Vault. That first day, he scoped out the neighborhood, as he scoped out everything. He shared the block with a teenage halfway house and a women's clinic—both better built than anything in the Undercity. The Pilties on the streets were better built too. Taller, cleaner, glossier. Here and there, he glimpsed a couple of Undercity characters—sharp-eyes and translucent skins—with whom he could share what the Topsiders sneeringly called The Trencher Ten—a handshake of fists curled and thumbs locked.

The rest of the crowd was pure pedigree.

Mornings, he attended classes at the Academy. Evenings, he worked as a clerk for a small-time attorney's office. A Lookless Job, as the Undercity saying went. The people you serve barely spared a look as you shined their shoes, rung up their purchase, took their order. Just do your job, smile, and proffer a tepid Have a nice day. To them you didn't exist. You didn't matter.

A microcosm of the Undercity.

Silco took the deprivations of his life stoically: loneliness, lousy pay, little respect. Meanwhile, his peers floated by with a languid entitlement, like goldfish in a crystal bowl. They dressed in haute couture that was nearly parodic in its impracticality. Their world was all private soirées, summer villas and seven-figure salaries. Their breakfasts didn't begin until noontime, and the jeunesse dorée never set foot beyond their perfumed sanctums without an appointment.

To Silco, the lot of them poured pride like perfume. They were off-putting in their privilege, with fast-tracked careers lined up thanks to family connections, or posh positions guaranteed at their parents' businesses. They were destined to heights Silco couldn't even fathom—not by the sweat of their brows but by an arbitrary toss of the coin. Meanwhile their Undercity peers navigated daily risks with a fine-tuned finesse they could never lay claim to.

It was funny.

Funny like a tumor.

Silco tried to fit in. But fitting into Piltover meant shrinking yourself, being something less. He hated the way the Academy professors passed him over for adjunct positions because of his origins: You're clever, but still a Trencher. He hated the hours of working his fingers to the bone at his clerkship's typewriter, and when he clocked out, being sent out the back with the trash: Front is for Piltovans only. He hated skulking from door to door, hat in hand, to solicit rich Academy donors for sponsorship, only to be turned down flat: Don't get ideas above your station. He hated the way Piltovan girls gawked unflatteringly at everything he said, because by that point he'd learnt to modulate the smallest difference in intonation, vowels gilded and consonants silvered, so he sounded like a feat of uncanny upper-class ventriloquism: You talk fancy for such a grubby thing.

At first, their disdain infected him. Made him feel ashamed of himself. Then he understood there was something poisonous beneath their contempt. They had no clue what kind of world he came from, and held their own fears against him. Soon, their sneers and exclusions held no more power to humiliate him. They only fueled his rage.

Day by day, the rage sucked everything else dry. He'd always had rage. Plenty of it.

Piltover powered it into an inferno.

Rage fuels revolution like wildfire. But its inklings spread like bilgewater. In those days, it was impossible to go anywhere without getting infected with strains of revolution. In Piltover, it was a whisper. In the Undercity, it was a hiss. For decades, its folks had lived exactly as they'd done during the Rune Wars. There were no unions, no child labor laws, no minimum wage. The destitute worshiped at the altar of self-pity; who else could they blame for their plight, except Janna in her infinite wisdom?

Topside, turns out.

The summer of Silco's graduation, a riot erupted in the Lanes. The first of dozens. The heat had intensified the misery from severe to unbearable. The decay, the dilapidation, the disease—all of it festered past boiling point. What kicked it off? Besides, of course, treating people like beasts, and yoking them to dehumanizing mechanisms of labor by day, then trapping them in fifteen-by-fifteen cages by night?

A string of Enforcer brutalities in Emberfit Alley. Five Enforcers raped a girl walking alone from the factories at night. A youth intervened to save her. He was beaten to death and shot; his body dumped in the Pilt. An investigation was conducted. The officers were summarily cleared of any wrongdoings.

Typical.

Any sumprat mixed up with the law could expect a bullet for his troubles.

What was atypical were the Undercity tempers flaring into violence. Groups of rioters hurled bricks and flaming bottles at Enforcer outposts. The Bridge was shut off. Tear gas and bullets dispersed the angry crowd. Fifty men and women were critically injured. Twenty were killed.

In the Academy: disillusionment brewed. Barely a fraction of Undercity made up the student population. Fifty per year, give or take. Yet the classrooms were fertile in birthing a new breed of cultural intellectual—the sumpside scholar. They were children of a postindustrial dystopia. Chockful of trauma, bubbling with cold-hot anger, and sharp enough to cut a room down its center. They'd failed to fade into the nullity of Piltovan society as assistants and clerks and subordinates. A working-class pride was too strongly rooted in their lifeblood.

They took in the plentitude aboveground and the privations below. They galvanized their fellows into radical resistance.

Silco started out as a member of the youth wing for The Liberated Lanes. By the year's end, he'd become their spokesperson. Twenty-three years old, he'd evolved from the plainspoken hellion at the mines to a polished firebrand, his Piltovan-cultivated eloquence weaponized into high-grade ideological dynamite.

His peers were stunned by his talent to rouse a crowd. His betters were disquieted.

At Topside, he was prominent at a number of sitdown vigils and streetside oratory. His small treatise, Pay the Lessons Forward, was widely circulated in shadowy pockets of the campus, before it was banned by Piltovan censors. It detailed how Topside's elites exploited the poor through the multi-levered machine called Progress, and exhorted readers to take up arms against their oppression. Belowground, he began infiltrating the miners with the same ideals, notebook tucked under one arm and pamphlet in the other, engaging them in subversive talks of union and revolt.

The following spring, he helped to lead the steel miners—two thousand strong—in a two-month strike that made the rounds in Topside's newspapers.

"Still stirrin' up trouble," Vander grinned.

By then, they'd swung into each other's orbits. For five years, Silco's life had spun to ever-stranger heights, while Vander's was locked in easy stasis. Then trouble began brewing in the Undercity, and their paths intersected to run parallel again.

It happened as such things often do. After the mining strike, Silco was at The Sprout's smoky gloom, heaped in handshakes. Despite its censure in Piltover's media, the strike was an astonishing success, with backing from both the dockside workers and the factory drudges. In the long-run, it would strengthen the legitimacy of Undercity unions, forcing Piltover into a defensive corner and triggering a number of labor reforms.

Silco, his idealism bridged by strategy, warned that they'd need to defend their victory in the coming days. Sure enough, Enforcers began stirring disorder in the Lanes. Word spread of a bar fight of catastrophic proportion. One man taking on ten Enforcers who'd broken the no-guns rule at his tavern—and winning. Witnesses described the matter-of-fact violence with which the man had hauled out the Enforcers by each massive hand.

Silco, in the spirit of solidarity, went downtown to shake those hands.

The man in question was Vander.

Silco remembers the first glimpse of his brother, in the amber glow of the tavern's entrance. Years since they'd last seen each other. Years that in the Undercity could irreparably deform a man: face gnawed by Gray Pox, hair gone patchy with rheumatic fever, fingers missing from septic wounds. Yet Vander was exactly the same: a glowing giant. He'd stood leaning a shoulder against the doorway, grinning around a pipe and absentmindedly wiping his bloody knuckles on his jacket.

Just short of an arm's reach, he glanced up. In the coarse lilt of the Lanes, he called, "Wrap your lips 'round a cold one, friend?"

Silco, in an accent devoid of coarseness, replied, "Or you could give us a kiss."

In those days, that sort of talk could earn a man a righteous throwdown. Vander squinted—and froze. Silco couldn't blame him.

When Vander had last seen him, five years ago, he'd been a teenager hiding his lanky, pasty self behind greasy whorls of hair, ink-stained fingers and Hölle's shapeless gray inmate's uniform. Now he was in a secondhand workman's suit, the sleeves pushed up to the elbow. His hair was long and swept off the side of his skull like curling bat's wings.

Yet Vander’s presence flooded him with the same little-boy love.

Blut. Lookit.

Then Vander guffawed—"Well, ain't this a turn-around for the fables!"—and Silco was swung off the ground in a bone-cracking hug. His old friend smelled like he always did: salt and woodchips. When his arms enveloped Silco, his eyes burned with the stupid impulse to tears. Except boys could get away with such honesty. Men could not.

Quietly, Silco said, "It's good to see you."

"An' you." Up close, Vander appraised him with a grin. "You sound so fuckin' posh. Like a Piltie gentleman."

"Just a dirty imitation."

"You still take gin? Or d'you drink clean water like the rest of them?"

Silco felt a smile coming to his face. "Pour me a pint, and we'll see."

In the tavern, they'd caught up and cracked wise until the difference of five years and unspoken hurts almost didn't matter. In Silco's absence, Vander had established The Drop as the hub for a gathering crowd of disgruntled troublemakers. In their midst, he'd become, not a firebrand but a fireside. His leadership blazed steady, with the rare blistering flourish that cut down scalawags.

Like Silco, he wasn't afraid to look Enforcers in the eye when they patrolled the Lanes. Like Silco, he believed the Undercity deserved a shot a self-sovereignty. Like Silco, he dubbed this wide-open future, woven from late-night talks and starry skies and cigarette smoke, with a name—

Zaun.

A derivative from the Oshra Va'Zaun tunnels. The mines that had broken their bones and forged their spirits. The womb for the hidden embryo of rebellion.

Funny, isn't it? A lifelong dream can solidify in a single moment, like a newly-minted building. Yet its construction takes years. The foundation is built stone by stone; secret by secret; suffering by suffering. Like a microcosm of the Undercity.

Like brotherhood.

Like betrayal.

But that's a story for another time.

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #arcane vander #arcane jinx #arcane vi #arcane sevika #fanfic #forward but never forget/xoxo #forward (never forget)/xoxo #vander x silco #silco x vander #zaundads #silco and jinx #silco x mel #silco x sevika #melco #sevilco #tw: child abuse #tw: csa #tw: violence #tw: alcholism #tw: drugs

[lara635kookie]

23-CarmTiger:

Kinda toxic but I can see them working. Only a little bit, not so much. The thing is, having the context of Sheena and Black Sheep's rivalry in V.I.L.E. Academy and how Tigress's relation was with Evil Carmen, and even regular Carmen, it would be better for both of them to stay far from one another. They are not exactly healthy but they are somewhat entertaining(somehow), which saved them from a lower position, because wanting or not, they stand out for being similar to catradora(I mean I wouldn't know, I haven't watch She-Ra yet but I've heard people saying this so I'll take it). I'm not sure but it seems like they were enemies to lovers what Carmen and Sheena could be if done right so there's that.

24-PlayCarm:

Listen, I believe that you should marry your bestfriend but Carmen already has Gray and Ivy. Player is her best friend but her platonic best friend. In theory, they have a 4 year age gap and Player is 18 by the end of the series so they are legal. I mean Carulia probably has a 5 year age gap and people still like it so this fact alone would make PlayCarm better than Carulia. But the thing is, it would be so weird. As far as we know they only met personally once and they are family. But not family like husband or wife but as siblings, cousins. I just can't see it. Platonically speaking, they would probably be first place but since it's romantically, they just feel wrong. They basically grew up together and while their friendship definitely matured with them as time was passing by, it still never showed nothing romantic. They are just too platonically wholesome to be romantic. Their friendship is the cutest little thing already, we don't need romance with these two here. Moving on.

25-MimeEel:

I know a good amount of people ship Mime Bomb and Neal The Eel(and I admit that they got some chemestry and would make a fun storyline) but still, I just think Neal The Eel is so gross and I hate him so much. Yes, this is solely the only reason why they are so low:Mime Bomb deserves better than him.

26-JulGray:

Now it starts the ships that are either too toxic, or wouldn't work AT ALL, or barely interacted(in the sense of almost don't know about the orther's existance). JulGray configurate mostly in the third category, because Gray saw Julia as just some A.C.M.E. agent and Julia saw Gray as "Graham Calloway, former V.I.L.E. operative Crackle that knows Carmen Sandiego". I also think it would be really hard for them to work, but they could in a way it wouldn't be toxic. Hard, but definitely not impossible. It would take a lot of effort and sacrifices I think neither of them would be willingly to take for the other tho. So as I saw them as the least worse ship, considering the others that will come after this, that for me are much worse, compared to any of them this one is "okay".

27-CrackleBomb:

I've seen Crackle and Mime Bomb are a thing but...I really don't understand why tbh. It makes zero sense. Maybe that's the appeal? The imagination to create? I don't know but just like JulGray, they are "meh" compared to what's coming.

28-Mimevineaux:

They both are technically legal adults(even if the age gap must be considerably big)...So that's it. I've got nothing else.

29-HaberZack:

I don't like Dash Haber. I just think he is so ugly and so annoying for no reason at all, he just is. I hate him a little bit less than Neal The Eel but Neal and Mime Bomb still had some sorta kinda maybe chemestry that could be enemies to lovers and an almost potential interesting plot/storyline and these two...Just don't. I found out this is a popular ship and I respect it but in my sincere opinion, I can't see it. Zack just deserves so much better(and the age gap between them must be considerable either).

30-TreyZack:

If they could put their differences aside they would be adorable but I just can't see it. They would be so toxic, oh my god. Them as enemies is so toxic in a way I can't see the lovers. Besides, he passes me straight vibes, which is the only reason why I putted HaberZack higher:Dash is probably gay and any sexuality for Zack sounds convinceable to me. So yeah, these two are a definite no.

31-Maelstroundabout:

Maelstrom and Roundabout are at the same page as TreyZack:They are toxicity all around. They are an interesting pair tho because I don't know if that's just me but I felt like Roundabout was constantly trying to get Maelstrom's approval. Even after he was already a part of the faculty. So it's basically the same thing as Countess Cleo:If Maelstrom treated his condition maybe they could work. But for toxicity points, they get the current score.

32-Sulotta:

Shadowsan and Carlotta...Do they even know each other? If they don't, they probably will but just because they are Carmen's family they don't need to be romantically linked together. I guess they are so low because we don't even know Carlotta's face, even less her personality so we don't know if she is a good match for Shadowsan.

33-BruntCleo:

Okay, no. Just no. They are almost complete opposites. But not in the "opposites atract" kind of way. Because for this trope to work you gotta REALLY love, understand and respect the other, as well as doing some sacrifices and trying to adapt at least a little for them just like them for you(which I don't think Carjulia, HaberZack, etc could do even if they tried and this one they would never). I felt like Coach Brunt was the least liked among the faculty. Maelstrom literally left her to die(okay I know he would do it to everyone but still), Shadowsan and her clearly had beef, and Countess Cleo and Doctor Bellum's reaction to her soulmate The Mechanic was of almost disgust. Cleo clearly didn't want The Mechanic as a part of the faculty. I bet she thought something like:"We already have Coach Brunt, we don't need another gross one" so due to their differences that's their place. They barely interacted, like Countess Cleo and Doctor Bellum or Maelstrom. These three seemed close and often done with Coach Brunt. So they would be toxic(and Countess Cleo deserves better) and overall there are better combinations for them so that's why they place here.

34-BruntChase:

Besides Coach Brunt finding him handsome a couple of times and he being flattered about it in the Lupe Peligro episode, there's not really much about these two that isn't toxicity. Coach Brunt actually gives more to CarChase:both Carmen and Devineaux were crushed by Coach Brunt. So they are a no.

35-Shadowsandiego:

Thinking about them romantically makes me want to vomit. I feel like crying and throwing up. He is her father figure. And the age gap is at least more than 20 years old so yeah. Can't see it.

And we are done here. If you got here, thank you for reading. Bye!

#carmen sandiego #carmen sandiego 2019 #netflix #carmen sandiego netflix #ship rankings #ship ranking

[kyanitedragon]

My Thoughts On Digimon Survive

[Spoilers for the entire game plot, as well as the Moral Route ending!]

[Spoiler-Free Version Here!]

I didn't get anyone's megas, which kinda sucked, but it gives me something to aim for in my next playthrough!

I’m so amused by the fact that I got everyone to Ultimate (aka Perfect) level, except for Kaito, who was stuck at Champion the entire game. And even then, he joined the gang already having Champion unlocked! That was not me who unlocked it! And during the final battle, Sangloupmon died and the other kids' ultimates survived, so Kaito was also the only one who didn't get a cutscene pep talk.

I had higher affinity with Ryo (who, y'know, died the earliest) than I did with Kaito the entire game! Ryo's was 26; Kaito's was 17!

The fandom's been bullying Shuuji and meanwhile I'm over here bullying Kaito 😂

The (moral route) ending of the game was so funny to me. The gang basically starts a cult. Pretty sure they said more or less they’re starting a new religion, like??? Definetly not what I was expecting.

The game canon is 2020. The religion of Kenonogami turned out to be Digital World. Only post-game are they finally calling it The Digital World and the creatures Digital Monsters. And that’s just “maybe it’ll catch on…”, not even definitive. Just imagining a digimon crossover featuring Survive would be so funny. Tai’s gang from 1999 especially would be so confused that it took 21+ years for the survive universe to coin the words "digital world" and "digital monsters".

Also just. Imagine THIS is someone’s first intro to the Digimon series. They would be SO CONFUSED going into anything else digimon. It’d be hilarious.

I had gotten spoiled on the circumstances of Shuuji's death so that wasn't a shock to me. But I thought the idea was really interesting! A digimon harming and killing their partner was a concept I had wondered about, and long-accepted that it would never get covered in the actual digimon series for being too dark. And now, here we have an example! It was terrible, in a really intruiging way!

Similarly, the next chapter dealing with the kid's understandable fear of their digimon was incredibly interesting! Saki's discussions with Floramon in particular were my favorite. She was so blunt and honest and insensitive about fearing Floramon, and it was entirely understandable.

My only issue is that I wish that there was some nuance in why Lopmon lost control. It didn't feel right that no one brought up that Shuuji had been verbally and physically abusing Lopmon.

I wish we got just a line or two to explain the kid's reasoning. Maybe just the kids wondering at what level of anger or outrage a digimon could lose control. Who's to say an arguement or disagreement couldn't trigger it? They knew nothing about how digimon or digivolution worked at that point.

I thought it was really interesting how, the entire game all digimon are constant and real threats to all the human characters. That's something that's rarely, if ever, brought up in prior digimon media. And it was so fascinating to me - because its so true! Digimon are on such a different power level than humans, and so it means so much more when the human characters sacrifice themselves to protect their digimon partners.

I was not expecting Akiharu, "Haru", and Miyuki to have such large roles, or to love their characters as much as I did, but I was very pleasantly surprised!

I was really excited to see that Takuma and Akiharu ended up basically being jogress partners. We've never seen such an age gap before, and I think its really cute! I'd love to see Akiharu's mentor / paternal / grandfatherly role to the gang and especially Takuma explored more.

I'm a fan of very unconventional relationships in fiction, and so Haru and Miyuki's relationship ended up being one of my favorite things. It's so cute how he still treats her like his older sister despite being 50 years older now, and its very cute how he needs to catch her up on what's changed in the human world.

Between Haru and Miyuki and the main survive kids, there's so much potential for cute age gap and generational gap interactions! I'm really hoping to see some of that in fanworks! Let them be a really strange found family!!!

#digimon survive #digimon #digisafe #digimon survive spoilers #survive spoilers #survive