#14% banter (dangerous)

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

y'all it's uh. it's Done. and this "random lil snippet just because i think it'd be Neat :)" clocks in at um. 10k, give or take

delighted to report that one of my all-time favorite pastimes CONTINUES to be nerfing the absolute shit out of lucius and watching him figure out how to win Anyway :)

in related news: four (4) hours of writing time on this random-ass wednesday fixed me, more news at 11

[moondirti]

13. A CHALLENGE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter twelve / chapter fourteen ⇀

summary: you ask for a challenge. miguel gives you one worth your salt

mature | 10.2k words warnings: praise kink, mentorship with benefits, sparring, sexual tension, loads of banter/flirting, mild angst, sexual fantasies (including blowjobs), insecurity, blood and injury, mentions of death, dirty talk, arousal notes: i know y'all hate me after that end

Sunday, 14:45

“How long’s it been?” You urge, voice strained with thinning breath. 

Miguel – for all his insistence that you push yourself beyond normal measure – doesn’t seem to hear you, gazing off into a distant corner. His forehead looks especially flickable from this angle, in this particular moment, and you have to curl your fist to quell the urge as it arises.

“Hm?” He hums, finally snapping out of it when you walk to the stretch of ceiling above him, intruding on his eyeline. The conditioned air of the gym itches the parts of you that are damp with sweat, particularly that exposed by your drooping shirt, draped under your bra to reveal your abdomen. Gooseflesh pocks your skin.

“The time.” 

“Right.” He blinks, lifting his wrist to pause the stopwatch he’d set, then makes a small noise. “Double the last. You’re getting better.” 

“Yeah, well–” To dispense the effects his praise has on you, you turn to make your way over to the pull-up bars at the back. They were your means of getting up on the ceiling, and they’re your way off. “S’not really difficult. I’m just hanging, trying not to throw up.”

“You could start practising on walls. It’d make the whole ‘getting down’ process easier.” He says, almost admonishes. As good as you’ve gotten at defying gravity upside down, you’ve stayed clear of testing your luck by doing so perpendicularly. “Not to mention, accessible. You won’t always have conveniently placed support to help you.” 

“I don’t quite trust it yet.” Because you don’t, and it’s hard to imagine you will. The whole idea feels like a big fuck you to every physics lesson you’ve ever digested. “It makes no sense.” Swinging off the bar, you make sure to land on a wide stance to prevent your tumble. Your extremities have long since numbed, and you’ve already learnt your lesson on how that generates a lack of stability for the first few seconds until adjustment. “If everything in the universe operates on the same laws, I won’t be the exception.” 

“You’re right.” Miguel ducks to fetch the bottle you left beside him, handing it over before you can ask. “You wouldn’t be. Several spiders manage it just fine.” 

“Several spiders also have several one-ups on me.” The cold slice of water cuts through your thirst, tamping the headache you could sense starting at your sinuses. Recovery, in absolute contrast to your endurance, has cut by half. You’re recuperating from exertion a lot quicker than before.

“Like?” 

“Failsafes in case they fall. Web-shooters, assistive gear.” You neglect to broach the topic of your own infallible; him, never too far out of reach. Not only would its mention go against your point, you’re still unsure of the nature of his aid – whether he would catch you if the severity of the situation did not call for it. If he’s here because you need him, or in commitment to a duty beyond your understanding. 

(Tallying what you know about Miguel, you’d bet on the latter.)

“Everyone starts somewhere.”

“Very helpful, thanks.” You’d offer him your drink, but even the thought of his lips touching where yours once did makes you flush with molten heat. Late at night, tucked on your bed as you watch the highway leading to Second Base, you strain to remember what they felt like, mashed to yours in a laser confined cell. If you knew back then how things would end up, maybe you would’ve savoured it for longer. “Experience too. With the constant danger they face, they pretty much have to equip every skill at their disposal.” 

“Is that what you want, then – danger?” He teases, mouth curling in a downwards smile. You’re too quick to shake your head. That word, want, still haunts you.

“You’re missing the point.” 

“Am I, now.” 

“I’m just saying,” Biting your cheek, you scramble for a fitting sentiment. Nothing quite encapsulates the crux of your little tangent, and you can’t help but compare yourself to Miguel. No matter how far the conversation strays, he always finds a link to tie it altogether. Unshakeable, poised. Like the sun, pulling comets into its orbit until they shine brilliantly, their tails forged under the radiation pressure. “A challenge might hit your lessons closer to home. Y’know, thrill, adrenaline – forcing me to resort to lengths I wouldn’t typically go to, instilling in me all the marks you want me to land on.” 

(But if he’s the sun, what would that make you? Pluto, far on the other side of the solar spectrum, barely doing enough to keep its cosmic status? Even dwarf planets have their pull, some force strong enough to accrete nearby matter, and so it seems ill-fitting.)

Your mentor accepts your argument regardless, nodding minutely. 

(Perhaps you’re the comet itself – coming from nowhere, heading nowhere, meant for the one, singular event that could give your existence meaning. That crossing paths with a star, to burn brightly in its influence before dissolving into nothing.)

“Similar to the planking exercise we do. Up the stakes and simulate something real for you.” 

We. Your stomach lurches to your chest and you have to swallow it back before speaking. “Y-Yeah.” 

“Te entiendo. Alright.” He agrees. “If that’ll get you to make progress. Come.” You follow him to the centre of the room, stumbling over hurried strides until you reach the combat training mat. “You remember our first day here.” 

“Feels like centuries ago, but yes.” You respond, assuming he means the premiere lesson of yours, betiding this very spot. You’d christened it by letting him fuck your throat, and that’ll forever be the memory that occurs to you so long as you keep returning to this gym. It’s hard to forget.

“What did I ask you to do?” 

“Er– Pin you down.” Your pitch drops an octave in an effort to mock him. “Three seconds, and you’ll have proved your point.” His inflection is tough to nail down, though – unique to the broad-shouldered form that affords his vocal folds more space, subtly curled where his accent comes through. You end up sounding like a parched frog more than you do him. 

He shakes his head, nose twitching. It’s a vague quirk that says nothing about his amusement. 

“As I recall it, you couldn’t.” 

“As I recall, I was kept quite busy.” You, of course, are referring to his cock and it’s wedging into your mouth. And if he didn’t get the implication on word alone, then your lewd miming of the act fills in what gaps remain. Miguel sighs, waiting for your redolence to subside to continue. Though his weight shifts from one foot to the other, like he’s ridding himself of the tension that swells at your suggestion, and the small action speaks louder than what he likely intends. To think that you might have the same effect on him as he does you, however physical, is a tempting thing. 

“Before that.” 

You acquiesce, arm flopping uselessly to your side. “Sure. Though to be fair, I’ve no knowledge on how.”

“Good.” He crosses his arms. “We’re going to try again.” 

“Right now?” 

“No.” 

“Well don’t keep me in suspense,” Rolling your eyes, you start to fold your sleeves to sit above the elbow. “Or next thing I know, I’m trapped in a cage with Rhino and a knife for defence.” 

That drives a chuckle from him. It’s warm and coarse and low, and with the way your stomach churns at the sound, you hardly care that it’s at your expense. “Proper spectacle that would be. You wouldn’t last ten minutes. The best I’d give you is a weaponless Vulture.” 

“Are you forgetting that I took down a symbiote on my own? Where your first instinct was to throw punches at it.” You huff. “They’re regenerative!” 

“An oversight on my part. ‘Course, I didn’t want to get involved in the first place.” His chin practically sits on his chest now, tipped down to look you face-to-face. It’s the way through which you realise how close you’ve gotten, nose millimetres away from his forearm. He smells infuriatingly clean – fresh patchouli aftershave, soap, clothes fragranced from the laundry, familiar only because you use the same detergent. “Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately for you, your opponent continues to be me.”

“And you want us to wrestle.” 

“Given a few caveats.” He shrugs when your expression pinches. “To make it more real.” 

“Okay…” 

“Today will continue as is. I’m going to teach you the basics of taking down a larger opponent and we’ll drill it until you understand.” You cut his explanation into small fragments for better digestion – takedown, larger than you, drills – and show your attendance with wide eyes, following as he circles you. “Pinning me down in a static setting is simple enough. Your challenge is to do so unexpectedly, somewhere outside of this gym. Within the next week, I want you to sneak up on me and staple me to the ground for upwards of three seconds. Anywhere, any time of the day; so long as you aren’t following me on missions, it’s all up to you. Take me by surprise, use it to your advantage. But remember–” 

You cock your head, earnest. As he speaks again, it’s seven trumpets to armageddon, deep punctures to the anticipative silence you’ve built.

“When you come for me, I won’t be holding back.” 

Ribs echoing with the rattle of your rapid heartbeat, you wipe your palms on the loose fabric of your sweats and take longer than you perhaps need to register his dare. He wants you to act much like a hero would on a stealth operation. That’s fine. You can do that. You’ll be taught on how to disable him and all that’s left is the matter of covertness, in which you have an advantage given your newfound ability to walk on the overturned pathways of HQ. Except–

“Wouldn’t your spider-sense–” 

He shakes his head. No. And though he doesn’t state it explicitly, you’re reminded of his claws and how divergent they are to the standard spider-power. It seems, then, that he differs in more ways than one. No enhanced intuition. You couldn’t imagine. 

But it’s new. Exciting. It’s exactly what you needed, and again, you’re left wondering how he’s gotten so good at reading you. If in place for his deficits, he’d been granted a supernatural knowledge on body language. Even now he’s looking, studying your restrained appearance for a hint of your feelings on the subject. You give it to him with a devilish smile.

“That the best you got?” 

“Big talk.” He winds around you, positioning behind your back. “We’ll see how you feel in seven days.” 

“Glorious, having kicked your ass ‘n’ all.” 

“Okay, sparks. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Miguel says, before patting your hip. His hand is heavy, and you brace yourself against the urge to shiver under it. “Most people are left leg-leaning. Not always, but it’s a statistic you can count on for learning. Put it forward. I’ll show you how it’s done.” 

You do as he says, adjusting to an open posture, slanting your torso so your head faces the same direction as your left foot. The man appears in front of you after making a few corrections, mirroring your effort. 

“Because I’m anticipating what leg you’ll resort to, I’ll bring my right leg forth. Always match same side foot. It’ll give you leverage towards your opponent’s vulnerable areas.” You sway a bit when his muscles stretch the taut material of his shirt. As you try to picture what more is hidden by his civilian clothes, it occurs to you that you’ve never seen him nude enough to make that a possible feat. “Assuming you’re shorter than them, aiming for their lower half is your most efficient bet. But you want their focus away from it when you make the jump.” 

Blinking, you reorient yourself away from your tangent. “Right.” 

“So you’re going to reach.” 

“Rea–” 

Suddenly, he’s grabbing for your face. It’s swift and done with enough aggression that you don’t process what you’re doing until your arms come up to defend it. Split second instinct, your spider sense combing through the hairs on your neck. And he takes the obliviously-given opportunity to duck, hooking his foot behind yours, back hand wrapping around your knee to grip onto his other. His head pushes up on your ribs to stand you on one leg, off balance, and faster than it started, it stops. The attack throws you backward, slamming you onto the cushioned floor. Air syphons out of your lungs. 

“When they’re down, you don’t hesitate to straddle them.” He adds. “The blow will probably knock their limbs to the side.” He bridges over you, lowering so that his knees touch the surface above your shoulders and his feet anchor onto the bits below. His weight rests on your upper arms now. You, despite the loss, can’t help but flick your gaze down to his crotch. If he notices, he doesn’t comment on it. “The technique’s called stapling. Pressing down on two points to completely immobilise.”

“Feels awfully familiar.” You grin, only to choke on the spit accumulating by the back of your throat when he not only acknowledges your innuendo, but reciprocates. 

“Used to being on the bottom?” Huffed sardonically, with all the constituents of a flirt yet none of the sticky-sweet charm. And he doesn’t give your stunned-self a chance to quip back either, rising and gesturing that you do the same. You scramble off your back, rubbing the sore spots left by his grip, watching him warily. It’s facile to convince yourself that it didn’t really happen at all. “Your turn. Right foot forth this time. Remember, reach and duck.” 

You stay locked onto him when you throw your fist up at his face, stopping shy of his jaw. He isn’t as ignorant as to believe you, but his elbows draw away from his hips to allow space for your consequent assault. Squatting, you step forward to completely embrace his left leg. Quick calculations tell you that his weakest point is at his knee, so you lower your clutch around it, cheek squishing onto his stomach, before lifting the appendage off the ground. It isn’t heavy on you, all his mass directed to the back leg he now has to balance on. 

And then– 

And then… what? 

He’d done it so briskly that you completely missed his method. 

“Tell me what you did wrong.” Miguel examines. He’s got your head scissored in one strong arm, and if you weren’t struggling to comprehend how he gained the upper-hand, you’d be salivating with how potent his cologne is from this distance. 

You mutter a faint “Agreeing to this.” and hope your bowed pose muffles it enough.

“Overcommitting. If I wanted to, I could shove your neck downward and take you on from behind.” He shakes you off his leg. “Don’t put your chest on my thigh. Lace your right shoulder over it so that your crown hits my ribs. Yeah, that’s it.” He smooths his hand over your back. It’s merely a graze and almost enough to have you collapse out of position entirely. “See how your head is preventing my arm from leaning on you? Good. Now use that, knoc– oomf.” 

You don’t let him finish, driving him up until he tips backwards. The gratification stalls you for a split-moment, pride trembling up your frame, knocking your bones together. But he raises an eyebrow at you from the ground, and you remember the second part of the expectation.

(If this were the real thing, you’d be squashed by now. He’s holding back, guiding you semi-gently through this practice round.) 

With no further ado, you seat yourself on his abdomen. His biceps are too large to pin your calves to while keeping both your knees and toes to the ground, so you spread until you can do so over the bends of his arms. Your pelvis aches with the near-split, and you find you couldn’t care less, shivering in high delight. 

“Huh. Would you look at that.” You wiggle to reinforce your point. “And how did I do for my first time?” 

(Admittedly, it’s a much milder line than what you had in mind; but even you have your limits, and congratulating him on taking your wrestle-victory virginity is just out of bounds.) 

“Everyone starts somewhere.” He says, purposefully echoing his earlier attitude, recognizant of how it irritated you so. The answer pops your ego before it could begin to surmount to anything. “But you wavered, don’t pretend I didn’t see that. Get off. We’re going again.” 

Tuesday, 22:00

Your first attempt at his challenge comes late. 

The logic felt elementary; wait a day before trying anything so he’s caught further off his guard. It was a plan born with sights on his warning – when you come for me, I won’t be holding back – and, admittedly, your anxiety to it. This new equanimity you find yourself within is fragile, a compromise held up on couth alone. You’ve fought Miguel at his best, with claws reared and fangs snarled right at you. It never ended cleanly. And if either of you lose sight of the labour that is keeping it civil – away from that exact past – you’re terrified that things will shatter in pieces that tear you apart.

(There also remains the knowledge that you’d lose, sorely, should the match be equal.)

So, you didn’t want to give him the opportunity to resist at all. To your sleep-deprived self, there were a few steps in ensuring that: 

Find him late at night, following a presumably long day, having just been lulled into faux comfort by his last meal before retiring. Beyond the fact that you skipped a day since his initial proposal to act on it – with a belly full of food, the lights of HQ dimmed low, and a drowsy filter cast by work, he’ll grow lax. Complaisant. At least, that was your theory, based on patterns you’ve observed in yourself. And it had been solid enough to ground your hopes on, especially when all that was required of you is to disarm him. 

Only as you wait for him to emerge from the cafeteria do you realise the various other factors you forgot to take into account. Ones that complicate your lattermost objective.

The bridge is still, a thick cover of quiet befalling the sector. Bobbing outside the asymmetric windows is a waning gibbous moon, its luminescence casting lurid shadows onto the carpets and columns surrounding you. You sit, crouched behind a bench on an offside seating area, tracing patterns onto an adjacent palisade with your eyes. The moulding on it is triangular, like everything else in this building, and the task is mind-numbing enough that it hits you, then and there. Entirely too late. 

He only taught you the one way of tackling your opponent. 

Head on, with no room for stealth in your approach. Unless Miguel comes out of the cafeteria with a blindfold on, he’ll see you running towards him and squander the endeavour with ease. It’s like you to resort to your worst suspicions when cornered, so you can’t help but believe he did that on purpose. Either to test your ingenuity, or for some other convoluted reason you’ve no mind to get to right now. 

Fuck. That bastard. 

Should you back down now, you won’t trust yourself to face him tomorrow. Already, you’ve stalled for far too long, prudent to the approaching deadline. A week's time. Seven days to prove you’re worth your salt, to overcome the obstacles he’s thrown your way. Unlike your other exercises, you weren’t guaranteed anything in return for mastering this. He probably expects you to want it so bad that you become motivationally self-sufficient. And he’d be right. You do. Christ, you’d asked for it – this much needed intervention on the monotony you’ve been living in. It’s given you something to do beyond your lessons, and a victory might encourage him to design more like it. So–

You’ll stay. Work something out – an alternative plan. He hasn’t been in the caf for long. Given the chance he chose to have a sit down meal, you’ll have time. 

“Lyla.” 

The artificial intelligence flickers into being above you, hovering at your shoulder. She appears wildered, blinking owlishly at the source of her summon. You’d never called on her before – until now, you didn’t think you could. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and your throwing caution to the wind seems to have paid off. 

That is, if she’s willing to proffer Miguel’s position. 

“Upgraded from haunting worlds to our very own HQ?” 

You shrug, blaisé to the jab you’ve heard so often. “Promise I’m on my best behaviour.” 

“My, my.” She belly flops onto a nonexistent surface, still level with your nose, to shelf her chin onto her hands and kick her feet behind her. A small smile worms its way onto your expression when you notice her attire; a silk set of pyjamas, bunny slippers and a heart-shaped sleeping mask, pushed back to keep her bangs off her forehead. “Wonder what the boss has to say about that.” 

“The boss can’t know I’m here.”  

“My lips are sealed.” After miming the action, she glitches onto the ground in front of you, peeking from behind the bench to spy on the automatic doors leading into the cafeteria, much like you’re doing. “What’s with the secrecy? Please tell me this is a proposal. You’re certainly underdressed, but we can work what we’ve got. Oo!” She straightens to a ram-rod posture, alongside the exclamation mark that pops above her head,  clothes returning to normal and a clipboard materialising in her hand. “We can add a little jeuje to the space. What’re we thinking? Flowers–” An orange array of digital peonies projects onto the bridge, fat and blossoming with accelerated speed. “Or streamers?” The petals are soon replaced by banners and curled ribbons, drooping from overarching beams. 

Face molten with panic – and a hint of mortification – you wave through her incorporeal form to hurriedly interrupt her tangent. You can only hope that none of the commotion gave away your primacy. 

“No!” Whisper shouting, you bow your head to the floor to look her in the eye. “Nothing like that. Listen, I just need you to watch Miguel and report back to me on his status. Preferably, before he exits the cafeteria. It’ll help me anticipate his approach while I think of what to do next.” 

“Hmmm.” The lifeform approximation takes her sweet time considering it. Your gaze oscillates anxiously between her and the door, your body in perpetual flight or fight. Any longer, and you’re afraid quick-trigger reflex will have you jumping regardless of whether he emerges or not. “Don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I gotcha. Double agent Lyla, at your command!” 

And then, she disappears. 

Her aid does not reassure you. Baby hairs tickle your nape, matted with sweat. The condition persists, extending to your palms, which lay pressed to the tiled floor to tamp the perspiration seeping from them. Adrenaline – the very response you’d predicted – makes you sick and dizzy despite, bubbling up your gut in violent bursts. For all that you should be focusing on a course of action, her words claim a monopoly in your mind. 

Double agent. 

Do you want to know? 

No, you decide. Not now. Whatever it is, it’s bound to hinder your performance. You settle back down.

Moments later, she crops back up. 

“He’s on his way. If I were you, I’d up and turn around. He looks hangry.” 

“Thanks, Lyla.” It’s about the worst thing she can say to you right now. “Go back to… sleep.” 

Giving a final bow of her head, she departs. Her exit marks the milliseconds before Miguel’s entrance – sacred suspense stretching, spreading, only to implode by the schwip of the automatic door. It unlatches, layer by layer, to reveal a wide silhouette, framed by the bright fluorescents of the still-open cafeteria. 

She’s right. Based on posture alone, you can tell he isn’t in the best of moods. It’s the only clarity you’re afforded as the entryway closes off, plunging him – and you – into the void of your surroundings. You strain to see where he begins or ends now, navy-suit obscuring his edges, punctuated only by the red accents on his chest. They become your indication on how and where he moves, the angling of the lines informing you that he’s headed straight towards you. 

In complete contrast to the plod he takes on, your internal dialogue is a tangled mess of stray worries. An old, feral part of you – the girl who had to fend for herself for a year, untreated to the woes and safeties of regular food and board – claws out with a vengeance. She’s scared, she has nothing to lose, she’s plump with horror at the sight of a prowling hero, which had only meant one thing for her – and the sheer force of it all crushes you into choked submission. Perhaps it’s foolish to think you’ve moved on from your past when old habits return so easily. So she is still you, and it takes a good bit of convincing – of spotting and counting backwards from ten and breathing real slow – to prioritise your objective in face of the sudden regression. 

By the time you manage it, in fact, he’s already a few paces away. 

There goes your plan. 

Frantically, you spring off your haunches, shooting to the side to hinder his track in an bid to salvage what’s left of it. It’s clumsy, lacking all the grace necessary for you to have even the chance of success, and when he stutters short of stepping on you, you make matters worse by curling around his ankles, striving to destabilise him by tugging at the roots of his support. 

It fails. Obviously. 

(In a rather anticlimactic way.)

He releases an exasperated sigh, staring down at your writhing form with what you can only imagine is regret at having ever agreed to this. “What are you doing?” 

“Um–” You stop, glancing at him with one, hesitant eye. “Tackling you.” 

Miguel blinks. Once. Twice. His foot bounces, pushing you off. Then– 

“Up, before you hurt yourself.” Unphased. Strict.

You clamber to a stand. He gives you a once over, shakes his head, and brushes past you to continue his route. As he walks off, you catch a quiet huff, followed by a mutter – the reflection meant only for himself to hear.  “Tackling me. Honestly.”

Wednesday, 10:20

Your second attempt finds you asleep under his desk.

Not deliberately, of course. You didn’t drag a pillow and comforter to his lab like an impromptu nap would lend you an upper hand. The position that brought it forth is hardly even a comfortable one – tucked under a squat table that has you bending your neck to fit, raised high off the ground on a hovering platform, in a cavernous office whose only lightsource seems to be the overhead aperture and orange monitors. They beep multiversal jargon and blare the occasional alarm, which never fails to send your heart rate sky-high – and if you hadn’t at all been convinced in your plot, then you would’ve left after the first couple minutes wait. 

It’s torturous. Depressing. How he’s able to think, let alone work here, is beyond you. It can only be an optimal environment for what you set out to do – and perhaps that’s a point you should take up with him, should he care about being snuck up on by a more competent threat. 

But you dozed off anyway, made weary with all your fretting, legs pressed close to your breast, cheek slotted upon them. It was cold, and he hadn’t arrived yet – off being the responsible spider-hero that he is, conducting city patrol while you tarry for the opportune – and Hobie’s gifted cardigan is snug enough around your frame that it serves as a blanket of sorts. Your course of action, set on an unremitting loop in your mind, was the last straw – a lullaby, cradling you down onto security. Fully drafted, practised, with no room for mistakes given the lessons you learnt last time. 

Even submerged in sleep, it’s all you think about. 

On account of an oversight, you’d panicked. Lept at him with no regard for the tactics you’ve learnt, instead of rerouting an alternative or preparing for contingencies. He’d taught you to tackle him head-on, and while that isn’t ideal for the covert-component of this challenge – like on that bridge, where he would’ve seen you coming from miles away – you can still make do with what you’ve got. That’s why you’re here, early in the morning, waiting for him to come to you, all while remaining oblivious to your presence under his desk. Not only does it grant you cover while he stands mere centimetres away, it ensures his hands are too busy to defend him when you strike, raised to tap away at his screens.

Those are the foundations you worked out on your chagrined walk home last night. The logistics – intricacies you have to calculate spontaneously – can be dealt with as they come up. Like sneaking in undetected. (Accomplished successfully.) Or whether space will allow you to lunge out onto him when he appears. (You practised it first thing – one eye on the door in case he comes in – and established that with a bit of improvisation, it’s possible.)

Your fingers twitch, triggered by muscle memory into acting the attack out on a smaller scale. It’s odd that you recognise it – still somewhat unconscious, suspended in an hypnopompic state where both your dreams and reality intersect. Elements of both topple over one another, porcelain dominoes that splinter on impact. You feel your fingers twitch, yes, and the scrape of your chapped lips – things you abstractedly assign as real – but they’re strewn between memories that run like worn film, singed at the edges. 

A warm hand cupping your neck, callused fingers rubbing lightly over the curve of your shoulder. Shallow breaths, fanned across your lashes, struggled in keeping still. 

Multi-coloured motes, flipping through a catalogue of colours in dark corners. 

A headache, nipping the nerves leading to your brain. Pain, excruciatingly itchy above your elbow, up the back of your arm. Whiplash, smouldering agony across the junction of your shoulder. 

A voice, hummed from the depths of a broad chest. Resonant, rugged. ‘Don’t move’ – the demand so steady it could’ve been gospel. Him, keeping you stable. Him, the only constant you know.

For a moment, you believe you’re still there. Buried under mounds of grey rubble, nestled on his lap. Oxygen depleted, injuries severe. No hope of escaping or checking in on the population of Earth-15, whose fate you screwed by merely existing on the same plane. The past number of weeks were fable, then, conjured by your sick mind to help you die easy. Creating a story besides the one that ended you; where you and Miguel worked something out.

And if it’s true – if you truly imagined it all – then that’d entail you never grew out of your hatred. You never got to rest on a bed, or take a shower, or bask in a filling meal again. It’d mean you didn’t leave any legacy beyond that of Wraith; destroyer of worlds, bane of his existence. 

(And that you never counted as anything more to him than just that.)

Gradually, the pseudo-dream morphs into a nightmare born of stressful thought, and at its peak, it shakes you so hard you wake up. Bones jolting out of your skin, legs ready to kick outwards; raptured in fight-or-flight until you remember where you are, why it’s so cramped – because his desk is obnoxiously short and not because a building toppled over you – and how you got here. 

You’re thankful you’re able to collect yourself so swiftly. Had you smacked your head on the belly of the table, or otherwise panickedly flailed about, then you would have alerted the man currently standing in front of you. His upper body is cut off from your sight, but you’d recognise those muscled thighs anywhere. Clad in his digital suit, little patterns shimmering on its surface. You see them clearer in your proximity, correlating them to the figures you’d observed on his monitors. Parallel lines and concentric circles, like maps of the spider-verse projected onto a navy backdrop. 

How long were you out?

Despite your semi-awareness to your surroundings, you hadn’t heard him come in. Nor did you feel the platform drop to allow him to step onto it. You brush the confusion off, figuring it’d do you no good, and rub the drowsiness from your eyes while catching yourself up to speed. 

You’re here to tackle him. The voice in your head begins chanting the plan again; leap out, grab his forward leg, ram his ribs with your head and pray it’s enough to tip him over. That’s one.

Two: you’re a quiet sleeper. You can’t imagine the embarrassment had you not been – if he were to catch you napping in his office by following the sound of your groans. You suppose it’s a frivolous thing to get hung up on, but you remember how your college roommate would talk during her nightmares. It never failed to capture your attention, even with headphones clasped tightly to your ears.  

Which leads into your third remark– 

He doesn’t realise you’re here; the most important thing considering. You’re still in the clear to go ahead. 

Right now, Miguel is a smidge too far away for it to work out. You knead the sore flesh of your nape, stalking his feet for the slightest movement. They stand on the other side of the platform, verging near its brink, tapping in cogitation. Then, when he swipes a screen away from his direct view, his weight leans onto the back one. The manoeuvre brings his pelvis lower, cut-off rising to his midriff. It’s all you can do to remain dignified, gaze locked on anywhere except his hamstrings and where they round out to form a pronounced behind. 

Would it be wrong for you to abandon your objective on justification of lust? It strokes some primal part of you seeing him so dedicated to his work. You’re instantly overwhelmed with the urge to crawl out and service him like this, on your knees, while he maintains his concentration. To give him a soft mouth, soft hands, maybe elicit an iota of pride over how well you behave. It’s depraved – you won’t deny it – but in your darkest moments, nothing consoles you like the thought of his unequivocal praise. Acceptance. There’s no one it would matter more from. 

(No one it could matter more from. It’s true that he’s the only constant presence you’d ever had, even before your world went to ruin. Though you’re unsure of whether it’s in good providence, or if you’ll ever fully accept the fact.)

Miguel steps closer. You repress the reverie, slapping yourself softly to land back on target. A bit more to his left– yes, that’s it. He’s in front of you now. 

When you’d practised, your head had to be out from underneath the desk for the manoeuvre to work. Pushing up into a squat, you shuffle forward. All you need is a distraction so he doesn’t catch you peeking out in his peripheral, and it comes in the form of child laughter. 

Distant, as though it’s been passed through a speaker. With the way it repeats, incessant like that of a fond video playing over and over, you can appreciate that it isn’t happening live. Perhaps it’s a subject he’s keeping his eye on, or he’s slacking off with a movie. Not that it matters, of course – so long as he’s honed in on anything other than you.

His knee is at your eyeline. You scoot further. The low metal of the desk slips over your head. Now or never. 

Pouncing, you wrap a gable grip around the bend of his leg, using the momentum of your squat to spring upwards. It’s bull-like when your forehead slams onto the exposed expanse of his ribs, toes skidding for acceleration as you force him to balance on the one limb, driving onward. The force could’ve concussed, had he not been cushioned by brawn. It’s certainly enough to almost throw him over, in any case. He stumbles backward, arm slipping across your back, and the scuffle is so promising that you let yourself relax slightly.

That’s your fault, you admit. 

He exploits the slip-up to wrench your arms off from around his knee, using the appendages to pull you out from underneath him. With a frankly painful tug at the wrists, he twists you so your back is facing him, before pinning them in one strong grip. You’re shoved onto his desk that way, unceremoniously bent at the hip, nose ramming into the reinforced durasteel. Warmth trickles from it. A metallic taste fills the back of your mouth. 

“¡Maldita sea! What the hell?”

Pain crackles up your nose, where ichor continues to bloom and slip from your nostrils. His aggression perhaps shouldn’t surprise you – he did say he wouldn’t be holding back – but it’s parallel to the treatment you received as Wraith, and you can’t help but assume that he resorted to what he was used to in all the adrenaline.

“That hurts.” Groaning, you wiggle your fingers in a plea for release. His pelvis flattens on the plump of your ass, and it burns the longer he continues to press into you. The situation is almost reminiscent of the fantasies you create when alone; rough-treatment and all.

“Christ.” He hisses, backing off at once. Despite asking for it, you mourn his absence, rubbing the brand left by his clothed crotch, sheepishly turning back to look at him. The instant he sobers up, he’s opening the drawer to his left. “I didn’t realise it was you.” 

“Who else...” You murmur, ducking to shield your bloody nose from his attention. It’s done in vain, though – he already has a towel in hand, heading towards your face. Erroneously, you think he’s passing it to you and reach out to grab it – only to brush across his knuckles when he instead presses the white cotton to your lip. “Security that big of an issue?” 

“You got in, didn’t you.” 

“Har har.” As the red is wiped off your skin, he steadily lets you take over, dropping the towel to allow you to tamp the flow on your own. 

“How long have you been under there?” 

“Ah–” You pretend to occupy yourself with the task at hand, waiting for the heat to diffuse from your cheeks before you speak again. “Depends on what time it is.” 

“Half past ten.” 

“Two hours then.” You’d come in at eight. “Give or take.” 

“I’ve been here for one.” He adds, prodding for a more satisfying explanation. 

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t snooping for intel or anything.” A necessary preface and not at all a bid to steel yourself for your confession, the prospect of doing so filling you with shame. “I fell asleep.” 

“You–” Like his stutter, his brows spasm at a rapid pace, creasing together in a flash before smoothing out to form a more pleasant expression. With eyelids fluttered shut and lips quirked at the edges. Amusement. Your stomach cartwheels. “You fell asleep.” 

“Sure.” In complete contrast, you imagine your expression is solemn. Loss is an ugly and hopeless beast, roaring in your gut. You place the towel on his desk, starting to make your way out with a petulant march. “Like this place isn’t built for it, you gloomy jerk. I mean, where are the lights?”

(If he managed to overpower you despite doing everything correctly, then what chance have you got?) 

The universe has a sick sense of humour too, it seems. Your argument is interrupted by the border of the platform, where you teeter over a fifteen foot drop. Fear blazes through your nerves, suddenly awake with the knowledge that you’re hovering mid air, no fence or handrails to hold you in. 

Miguel chuckles from behind you, sounding way too pleased with himself when he asks. “You need help getting down?”

You throw a dirty glare over your shoulder, hoping it compensates for the humility you have to succumb to. “Yes.” 

His arms stay crossed over his chest, holding out. 

Fucking fine. 

“Please.”

Thursday, 13:05

You plonk the heavy bag of scraps onto your table, sighing in relief as the weight redistributes off of you. 

All morning, you’ve snooped around HQ with a nimble hand. It’s vast, after all, with many winding halls and unfrequented corners, of which you’re probably the only person to have walked through in weeks. Accompanying you, a makeshift pouch and a cover-up story; if any outsider should inquire – then you’re exploring the building that’s been your home for the last month. It would be suspicious, if the venture could not be so easily misconstrued.

No. You’re not worried. Far from it, in fact. You’re sure that the gadgets you pilfered won’t be missed. Some even had a thin coating of dust when you picked them up, their uses long neglected in favour of newer technologies. You’re merely giving them a new purpose, reshaping bits and bobs to suit your goal. 

(A far-fetched one, for certain. But it’s wild enough that he won’t expect it. 

That’s what you need. To stop playing by his rules.)

“Lyla.”

The AI glitches into translucency at your beckon, saluting as though you were a general and she a cadet. “Lyla á la espionage, reporting for duty!” 

“No. Not this time.” 

“Theeeen…” 

“Can I count on your discretion?” Squinting, you stare straight through her pink-heart glasses, like lying is an expected part of her programming. Her last remark occupies a small portion of your mind. Double agent. You still haven’t asked, and you’re running at a speed too fast to jump over that hurdle now.

“Perhaps.” 

Shaking your head, you do away with the ambiguity. “I’m hoping you’re good with tech.” You say anyway. “I need help.” 

She only grins, wickedly, skipping over to peer into your bag. You spread it open for her, laying out the stolen paraphernalia. Then–

“Wraithy.” She adjusts the moniker so that it rhymes with baby. “I am tech.”

Saturday, 2:00

Nueva York streaks past you in blurs of blue and purple. 

The sky lifts its buildings from the top up, spires pierced into its inky surface. You count the panels that pose a stark, golden contrast to the night-drenched landscape, lit up by residents whose lives are framed in the tiny windows. It’s a worthwhile distraction from the vertigo damaging your systems – all your efforts directed in looking forward, not up, as the ground shrinks farther and farther away above you. Yet with every metre, your distress worsens, distending to become a ferocious force. 

Eventually, not even city gazing is enough.

You’ve trained on ceilings. On balconies. But the bottom-side of an elevator is another matter entirely, especially as it moves with zipping speed. You’re terrified that, at any moment, it’ll wobble and send you plummeting to your untimely death. And Miguel, who currently stands on the flip-end of it, won’t be able to process your presence or scream for help by the time you hit the ground.

That’s the calculated risk you convinced yourself into making when you sought him out today. It’s evolved beyond the point of learning a lesson, or whatever prompt you’d initially proposed to get him to agree to this. Now, or in the way it has been for the past two days, it’s personal. Your ego is bruised but not battered yet, and if the cuffs on your forearms have any sway in it, then you’ll get your solatium soon enough. 

The apparatus is impressive, by standards of the day it took to hurriedly construct it. A smooth fit to your wrist, with narrowly hammered metal and a small compartment designed to hold your personal, synthetic formula. Lyla had pulled schematics from a large archive, handing you one she deemed ‘friendly for beginners’. You begrudged the coddling, if only because you yourself were worried about your competency with it. 

You tested it, naturally. It’s functional. The fluid is durable, if not sticky. If worse comes to worse, you can rely on the prototype to catch yourself. That’s what you tell yourself, at least, all the way up to the top floor of HQ, which comes at a gradual halt of the lift.

Eager, you hook your fingers over the brim of the platform before flipping over to the right side up. You somersault so your landing isn’t as heavy-footed, and blood bursts down to your numb legs as you reorient yourself with gravity. It’s all you can do to wait until you regain feeling in them, before following the man out the door. 

He’s multiple steps ahead already, traipsing with a tired gait. You match it, careful to set your toes down first so as to not make noise. The floor isn’t one you’ve been to – and it isn’t so much a floor as it is a singular hallway, lined with tilt-and-turn glass windows that gleam like all futuristic things do. The aesthetic is juxtaposed by a frankly retro carpet, shades of yellow and brown cut into a pattern you recognise from the bridges in the lobby. 

Plastered to the edge, away from the subjection of the spotlights down the middle, you wonder where he’s going. It’s gotten late – you’ve been shadowing him for the better half of a day, since Friday afternoon after your lesson. The plan was to tackle him on his way out, right as he was about to leave to go home, but it’s two a.m. now and he’s at work. Still in hero attire. Wandering a corridor you’ve no reference to, with sight set on the door at its end. 

If he waited this long to get to it, then it must be important. That’s what you argue against, anyway – that he likely arranged to complete this task at night when he would be ensured total privacy. How questionable is it, then, that you’re violating that?

You could turn back now, find him later instead. Yet today marks your final day before the deadline he set expires, and you want at least one more chance to try should this attempt turn to shit. 

The right glove of Miguel’s suit disappears, digital projection flickering to white as the nanotech retracts into his palm. You notice the act only because his fingers soon flick out, a key pinched between them. It’s red and patterned with the same arithmetic lines as his ensemble.

Smart. 

Once he arrives at the door, he uses the pass to unlock it. It comes open with an effortless swish, sliding completely open to allow him access. He lingers for too long, though, and you press closer to the wall in case he suspects your pursuit. He doesn’t turn around though, instead hitting a setting on his watch that causes the entryway to slip shut. 

Before you can catch up. Before you can sneak in.

Your heart drops. 

Floundering, you run to pull at the lock. It doesn’t budge. Nor are there any other ways in, the narrow hall composed solely of this door at one end and the elevator on the other. You can’t go in by any manner except pass through, and with every slap of your hand on the wall, it becomes increasingly apparent that your powers won’t miraculously emerge like they have before.

Nails digging into a fist, you reassure yourself that not all is lost if you give up now. It’s an unofficial loss, made outside the scrutiny of anyone besides yourself. And though you’ll kick yourself to sleep over being so inept in your own abilities, at least he won’t come to the same conclusion. That’s what matters – doesn’t it? His opinion of you.

Giving a final, aggravated sigh, you’re about to relent when you catch sight of it – a silver lining, adjacent to you. Levelled on the same plane as the door, separated only by the right wall of the hallway, opened to the high atmosphere air – a casement, hinged to a window much like the one you ogle at it through. Leading into the room he just entered. Just a short jump and swing away. 

You shiver at the notion, first instinct loud and conclusive. No. Absolutely, positively not. It’s a ‘jump’ over a hundred-story fall. Even if you manage to crawl out of the first opening with your sanity intact, you’re nowhere near experienced enough to make it to the second. Unless–

Your belly lurches with pre-emptive nausea, and you sink to your knees to massage it without retching. You can’t believe you actually consider the reckless idea, sitting with your poor excuses for web shooters, triggers flat on your palm, looking far flimsier than anything you could trust. Your refusal to walk on walls comes back with a vengeance, laughing in mocking echoes at the simple obstacle you can’t overcome. 

Whispering, you try your last alternate. “Lyla.” 

There’s a lag before she appears, glasses skewed upon her nose. “Huh.” 

“Do you…” You rasp, swallowing the bile surging up the back of your throat. “D’you think you could, y’know–” When words fail, you gesture to the locked door with the cock of your head. 

“Oh-ho-ho. No can do. I’ve done a lotta favours for you sister, but this is crossing the line.” 

“Okay. Okay, sorry for asking.” Your chest tightens. The corridor narrows. The shapes on the carpet warp to resemble the plunge off the end of a skyscraper. You have to ask to abate the panic. “What’s in there, anyway?” 

“Find out on your own accord.” She doesn’t take the bait, fur coat rising with a brief shrug of her shoulders. “Good luck.” 

And in a blink, you’re on your own again. 

You must sit like that for half an hour, rocking back and forth in anxiety that refuses to settle. It gnaws on your energy until the passion depletes, draining out, leaving you to wallow as an empty husk. Every so often, you press your cheek to the cool glass spanning the side of the hallway, wishing the problem had magically amended itself since the last you checked. But the ground remains where it is, bottoming endlessly down below, and so does the window to the room, built just out of reach. 

Of your concerns, there’s a resounding question that doesn’t quite fit. Its edges and curves search for a spot to click into place, but you aren’t able to find it – not until you give the piece further contemplation. 

Why haven’t you left?

If you’d given up hope, then why haven’t you gathered your wounded pride and salvaged the rest of your night? You could’ve been in bed by now, cosy under a heavy comforter, ruminating over your failure in a safer setting. Yet you’ve chosen to stay and prolong your torture, egged on by the reminder of what you couldn’t do. 

You’re not waiting for him to emerge. That hadn’t even occurred to you. 

(And a tiny part of you already knows the answer, keening by the base of your skull. It just takes some work to admit.)

It’s that stupid, idiotic, dangerous philosophy he’s instilled in you. The ideology that gets heroes killed. The conviction that marks scars on their body or gives them the peace of mind when walking on walls and swinging across heights that could permanently ruin them. 

What had you spread out underneath him, cupping your knees while his tongue lathered your wet cunt. Or when his fingers shoved into your pants, scissoring you open to the seconds on his stopwatch. The thing that’s kept you coming, fighting, over and over again despite receiving the brunt end of your endeavours every time. 

Resilience.

You’ve internalised it. You’re here, where you wouldn't have stayed a month ago. And it’s forcing you to face the second lesson he’s been trying to teach; a value impossibly scarier. Courage. 

You know you won’t rest until you embody that too. 

Rising, you take your first step towards it by unlatching the fastener to the window in front of you. The pane upturns, pitching open like a gluttonous mouth. Frigid wind rushes in, biting at your cheeks. You breathe in the crisp freshness of it and ignore the threat it might pose to your welfare. Pessimism is a hulking burden. It’ll only weigh you down.

The rest follow in a clumsy sequence. 

You sit on the edge, sticking the soles of your shoes onto the wall outside. It fixes in that newly familiar way, like how it does when you’re upside down, sucking onto the perpendicular surface. You don’t stand up despite the mild relief that washes through you, though – you understand now not to let your guard down until the task is done.

Keeping a firm grip around the window for stability, you scoot off the support it provides your bottom. You’re hanging out, posted on the external side of the hallway. There’s nothing but air underneath you. You don’t linger to process it, moving on to the next operation before dread knocks you out. 

Tapping the button on your free hand, you test your web shooter one last time. Once to equip, twice to release. Once to equip, twice to realise. 

When you sling it to the adjacent slot, your gaze is bolted forward. Never, ever down. Nothing exists, you cry to yourself, nothing exists but this small jump. And the web holds firm when you tug on it. You’ve tested the fluid against your own mass. It’s held strong. You’d have to be a novice scientist to have overlooked that; and you’ll be fine. 

Nothing exists beyond this small jump. 

(Except for maybe the cosmic forces you pray to. You invoke God, the sun, the stars. Even the moon, who gently glows down on you. It hits you, then, that you’re the closest you’ve ever been to any of them. 

That verity reassures you just enough.) 

You jump forward.

Tears bud on the corners of your eyes, scleras burning with the whip of air, sinuses scorching alongside it. Your organs hurtle to your feet, and your heart beats like bullets to your chest. It’s a vile, sickening sensation – akin only to the paralysing disbelief after finding out you’d brought an early apocalypse to your world. Nothing has required more bravery from you than enduring it, but…

You don’t fall. 

In fact, your angling is so flawless that you glide into the space between the window frame and casement. The grace ends there, however, as momentum throws you hard onto a piece of furniture, toppling over it to smack head-first on the tiled floor. Pain blazes up your shoulder, jerked back by the web you forgot to release. You blink to diffuse the black dotting your vision, slowly coming to terms with the havoc you’ve wrought. The commotion had made way more noise than intended, and it seems you aren’t the only one who thinks so. 

Sure enough, the light in the next room flicks off. It’s a choice made with the careful contemplation of a trained hero; if Miguel suspects an intruder, then he knows that he’d have the upper hand in the dark, within this space he’s far more familiar with. You feel around for the seat you tripped over, crawling behind it for cover. 

As your vision adjusts, you’re able to make out the advent of his faint silhouette. His pants are looser than that of his suit, his arms bare – judging by the fleshy colour, hardly illuminated by the ambient lighting outside. The change would confuse you had you not been honed in on your challenge, reconciling stealth as you calculate your next course of  action. The pound-force per square inch of your splitter-web function isn’t high enough to shoot across the distance you want – that being the expanse between you – so either you move closer, or he does. 

The circumstance mirrors how things played out in this lab. Although this time, he creeps away, cautiously navigating the space with a prowess that can only be explained with night vision. Perhaps it’s a part of his spider-granted abilities, or otherwise he frequents the foyer often enough to know when to side-step to avoid incoming furniture. 

Unfortunately for you, you don’t have either luxury. Thrill rockets within you, striking every nerve like a pinball game gone wild, fuelled by the fortitude your indiscreet stunt afforded you. He’s taking far too long to search his surroundings; at the rate it’s going, you’ll have lost your will before he comes close enough to wrestle onto the floor. You decide it’s much too intoxicating a sentiment to sacrifice, then, settling on the former bet. 

Move closer it is. 

You don’t run at him like you’re inclined to do. That hadn’t resulted in your favour the last time. Instead, you stay on all fours, bound inching in the opposite direction he takes on. You use the bulky chattels surrounding you to escape his notice, ducking behind the shaded shapes until you’re mere inches away. 

The web shooters practically hum on your flesh now, mimicking your excitement as you point them to the angles intersecting his arms and torso. You hope your aim is as good in this less perilous scenario, the ploy contingent on your initial shot. Binding his extremities together would reduce possible scrimmages to zero, which buffs your chances of pinning him down to a pretty percentage.

And you make sure he spots you before you fire. 

(Nothing satisfies like the slight widening of his eyes when he realises it’s you.)

The bombardment allows him no room to escape, discharged in every possible way as you run a three-sixty around his thrashing form. Your webs secure his arms, yes – but also his legs to one another, and his hands flush to his hips. For extra measure, you even go so far as to switch into long-form shots to wrap the final product once, twice, thrice, so he’s adequately swaddled and cuffed. 

You don’t know how he’s still standing once you’re done. It can be seen as rubbing it in at this point when you tip him onto his back – but really, you just want to hit every aim he’d set out for you.

Within the next week. Check. 

Sneak up on me. Check. 

Anywhere, any time of day. Check. 

Staple me to the ground for upwards of three seconds. 

As you crouch down to straddle his abdomen, you count. Check. Check. 

Miguel’s face is hard to read, shrouded and pursed in an indecipherable lour. You bite your lip with the appreciation that, despite his vague disapproval, your pride is still wholly valid. 

“I won.” You croak, voice hoarse with misuse. 

He shakes his head, slowly, then quicker when you combat it with an eager nods. 

“I won. I won. I wo–” 

“Web-shooters were never part of the challenge. ” 

“Call it ingenuity,” You smirk, tapping on the metal contraptions. “You should add it to your list of traits befitting a hero.” 

“Let me go.” He growls.

“Not until you admit it.” 

“Let me go.” Firmer. It's smouldered by a fire you can’t locate the source of, for all that his tone rings familiar. 

“C’mon, O’hara. I can see how badly you want to cut me the credit.” Arching down, you only mean for your next bribe to be heard more clearly, yet your chin brushes against his and his cologne hits you like a brick wall. Tension crackles in the same way it did then – when you’d been at the wheel of a cop car, hurtling towards a fate that’d always been coming for you. Promising ruin. Promising change in the sense that things could never be the same again. “It’s as much of a victory for you as my mentor, I think.” 

“Hardly, seeing as you followed me home.” 

(Home.

Of course it doesn’t go in the way you expect, though. Nothing ever does.)

“Wh–” All of a sudden, things start to make a whole lot more sense. You look around like the revelation will paint your setting in new colours. “You live at work?” 

“I own the building.”

Your bravado shrivels to a minute thing, becoming a fraction of what it was. Just like that, he captures the upper hand again, all the while still dormant underneath you. The sun – you remind yourself. Always the sun to your comet. 

“Alright, well.” You mumble, nipping the soft tissue of your cheeks. “I still won.” Though the proclamation holds foolish meaning now; not at all worthy of the lengths you went to. 

Miguel’s hips thrust up, jostling your thighs, which remain pressed on him. Your core keels with the movement.

“Let me go.” He emphasises again. You shift to do exactly as he says, succumbing to the crushing pressure of your diffidence – only to be interrupted by his continued warning. It’s tricky. Devastating. It stops you right in your tracks, tearing the fibres of your chest apart with mad violence. Yet the implosion is only as powerful as the various fantasies that’ve gone into this very moment, and you can only attribute your reaction to your depraved self and not the filthy words that exit his mouth.

In truth, you have to hold on to his leg to make sure you heard him right. 

“Lest I change my mind about fucking you silly, you bold little thing.”

chapter fourteen

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[nobody-viii]

The Turks - Context Clues (The Kids Are Alright)

@accala posted an excellent inquisitive post about the Turks here and their motivations and to add some The Kids Are Alright: A Turks Side Story book context, imma leave this here. Couldn't find the quote I was looking for, but here's some things I found interesting. NOTE: I feel like Advent Children did the Turks a little dirty, but I really loved the banter as a kid. This book has some of the same campy shortcomings, but take it or leave it, here's what I found.

1.) The Healen Lodge from Advent Children was an R&R facility for Shinra, universally accepted as the worst one by employees. The Turks/Rufus chose it for its tactical advantages, but it also shows how far back on their heels they were. "The Shinra empire had ruled most of the world up until two short years ago, and it didn't sit right with Elena that the company president had to live in such a desolate place. Yes, medical treatment was available, security was way better away from the city, and the commute was only two hours by car; the staff could have had it much worse." - pg. 14

2.) The abandoned rec hall was being used by Shinra as a lab to convert SOLDIER stimulants into geostigma treatments. The project was Elena's idea, with the resulting medication being donated free of charge to city medical professionals and the WRO. (pp. 16-17)

3.) Reno & Rude were sent into the city to retrieve a stolen item from a teenager (read the book for details I'm too lazy to go into it), and when he started crying and shaking, Reno and Rude switched to a new script. "Aw, look. The kid's really scared." The redhead sounded sympathetic now. "That's what we came to do," the bald one pointed out. And: "Now, we put on our best tough-guys acts on the way over, so we can't just leave without roughing anyone up," said the redhead. "Our job is to teach a lesson to anyone who tries to mess with us." I was still scrambling for an explanation to give them. "Y-you mean, kill me?" was what came out instead. My voice even cracked for good measure. "That's one way to teach a lesson. But we're trying to strike a balance for Shinra, here. We want everyone to love us and maybe be a little bit scared. Killing you would have the opposite effect." (pg. 23) Reno opted to punch the kid in the face, then tell him to keep his chin up, so...balance? Sure. Shinra is, at this point, technically trying to figure out their PR while simultaneously leaning on old habits. Also, the kid calls Reno and Rude a knife and a fork and I thought that was funny.

4.) Reno is described as someone who looked like he 'turned delinquent as a teenager and never grew out of it, like those kids in the Sector Eight warehouses who I still hated and admired in equal measure.' (pg. 23)

5.) Elena roughs up one of the protagonists, but reins herself in when context is presented: She'd paid a visit intending to break Fabio's dominant arm, but when she saw him fight back to protect the child, she changed her plan. Her objective was to punish a thief, not deprive a child with geostigma of his only guardian. (pg. 47)

6.) Reno calls a doctor for the guy he roughed up. Kyrie nodded. "I figured, these guys must have phones, so I asked them to call Dr. Drake. 'Evan's in a bad way 'cause you guys beat him up,' I told them. And guess what? They said they don't know any Evan. So I lost it and said, 'Yeah, 'cause Evan's the one you whaled on when you mixed him up with Fabio. You owe him..... So then the redhead--his name's Reno--he called a doctor. Not Dr. Drake, he said, but a good one..." (pg. 55)

7.) Evan (the protagonist) is trying to work out who would be the easiest Turk to try to forge an alliance with and we get a glimpse of how the Turks are perceived by outsiders (Tseng is an unknown entity to Evan at this time): The most dangerous one was probably the lady Turk who went after Fabio. A close second would be the slab of muscle out there, Rude. Maybe the redhead Reno was more on our level. I thought back to my first impression of him--the grown-up teenage delinquent. Guys like that generally looked out for their own. A sense of solidarity. There had to be an angle I could work. (pg. 57)

8.) There's a whole scene where Evan and Kyrie try to ambush Rude. They choke him, break a chair over him, kick, scratch, the whole shebang and he just brushes himself off and manhandles them to a car (which made me laugh).

9.) Reno and Rude take the protagonists towards Healen in a truck and there's a few moments I found interesting. "So anyway..." Reno was looking at me in the rearview mirror. "Sorry about the shiner, dude. We totally did think you were Fabio. But y'know, I'm impressed you stayed mum and protected your buddy," Reno went on. "Even if you were about to piss your pants." (lol) Then, "Some of us have been slower to to adapt to the new way of doing things," Reno continued. "How many Turks are left?" asked Kyrie. "Can't tell you. That's Shinra's most closely guarded secret." "It's just you three, isn't it?" "Not telling." "But I'm right." "Yeah, you keep thinking that." (pg.63) Rude sleeps through the majority of the ride despite Reno trying to keep him awake. They talk quite a bit about Aerith, because Kyrie and Reno both knew her. Reno warns them not to get mixed up with Shinra's science department.

10.) Evan gets introduced to Rufus for the first time after believing the former president has been dead for two years and Tseng finally exists in this book for two seconds. "He's alive...?" Evan was still speaking to Reno. "I am. The decoy who took my place is not," Rufus replied. "You're a candidate for the position--and from what I can see, you'll do." Evan's jaw dropped, and he stared agape at Reno, then Rufus, then Tseng. Tseng looked down at the ground, trying to hide his laughter. Evan's description of Tseng: He looked like a Turk, too. The very definition of one, in fact. Reno and Rude both showed an awkward humanity--well, sporadically in the latter's case--but this guy was pure ice.

11.) An ill-conceived escape attempt by Evan and crew sees Rufus temporarily kidnapped, as Tseng and Elena are investigating an explosion. Reno and Rude try to stop it, but are ordered back. "Reno, stay back!" Reno obediently halted. I had expected to see fury in his eyes, but all I say was sorrow. Surprisingly, I felt a pang in my chest, too. But there was no other way. I pulled Kyrie's knife from my pocket and opened it--a sad, flimsy little blade, but it could still slice open a throat. "Hey, don't be stupid." I ignored Reno and held the knife to Rufus Shinra's neck. Then, "Reno, take Rude and check on the lab." Suddenly Rufus was giving orders. "Tell Tseng not to get involved here." "Wait, what? Boss, are you sure?!" "Don't worry. I'm as interested in staying alive as you are." Reno reluctantly descended the stairs, glancing over his shoulder almost every step. (pg. 77)

12.) Reno and Rude talk about family and have a lil tiff. "If I found out about a brother I'd never seen, I'd make way more of an effort than those two," Reno insisted. "That right?" Rude said. My colleagues are all I need. "You're not much into family, eh, Rude?" "I'm a Turk," Rude said flatly. "Coolheaded and cold-blooded." He turned and headed for the truck. "Hey, Rude. You pissed at me?" Reno called, an unabashed whine. "C'mon, man. You can't cold-zone me now. Tseng and Elena aren't answering my calls, and the boss just tells me to finish the monument. I know they're starting something awesome without us. We're outcasts! Me and you, you and me. If we don't stick together, then what?" Rude looked back. "Tseng isn't answering calls?" (pg. 94) Reno goes off several times throughout this book about how he'd act if he got the chance to meet family, which makes me wonder about him. "So how'd it feel, meeting your brother?" "I don't think it's sunk in yet." "Well, it's a process, I guess," said Reno. "But you gotta visit once in a while, you know? Then you'll get to figure each other out. Break the ice." (pg. 97)

13.) Reno and Rude are actually partially responsible for the monument in the city. This lil bit kinda gives weight to how long they've been in Shinra. Evan was one of those types who wasn't quite grounded in reality but was full of bravado. A show-off. A scared kid determined to buck people's expectations by pretending he had no fear. And if he kept it up, he was gonna do something stupid enough to get himself killed. Both Reno and Rude had known too many kids like that, from rookie Turks to infantrymen to SOLDIER operatives wet behind the ears from mako infusion tanks.

14.) Reno & Rude get amused by Kyrie treating them like they're not scary. The concern over redemption makes an appearance. "Now what?" Rude stepped closer from his vantage point. Apparently, he'd been watching the whole time. He was pretending he didn't care, but inwardly, Reno was convinced, Rude was intrigued by every act of the farce. Which only made the whole thing funnier. "She said she's hungry," said Reno. "So she's gonna grab something to eat." "It's like she's never heard of the Turks. It's almost refreshing," Rude remarked. So this is what happens when Shinra wins hearts and minds. Reno chuckled again but then remembered that the girl was still afraid of them. He'd seen the goosebumps on her arms. Her toothless threats were her way of gauging the danger he and Rude presented. Evan might trust them, but not Kyrie. Despite what Rude said, she knew what they were and what they were capable of. "You know," said Rude. "She reminds me of Aerith." "Yeah, I was thinkin' that too." Maybe helping them out will redeem us, at least a little bit, he thought. A guy can hope. (pg. 106)

15.) Shinra's resources are thin...and that chopper that ate it in AC was one of the last ones left (cue gross sobbing because in the words of a certain Puppy, Shinra makes good stuff). No one knew exactly how many helicopters the Shinra Company used to have. Within a half a year of Meteorfall, many of them had been looted. Accidents, mechanicals, and other circumstances had taken out others, and now Rufus Shinra and the Turks were left with only three. But even with so few, it was a constant battle to keep them in working order. Also, Rude has mechanical experience and is the one on repairs.

16.) A civilian points out the flaws in Reno's hopes for the future of the Turks. "Well, to be honest, maybe my opinion of you guys is changin'." Doyle looked at Reno again with a level stare. "You're up to better things." Reno couldn't help averting his eyes. Unless it came from a fellow Turk, approval tended to make him uncomfortable. "The monument and the medicine are only one step, you know. Just wait. It might take a while, but Shinra's gonna get off the ground again. Rise again, you hear?" That general idea had been floating around in his head for some time. This was the first time he'd said it aloud. "How?" Doyle scowled, his thick eyebrows lowering. Reno cursed himself for the thoughtless comment. "Can't tell you." "Yeah, I figured. But no one is going to let a violent regime lord it over them again. Not anymore. You tell your president that."

17.) Tseng and Elena bring up the notion of inviting old Turks back into the fold. "For any one person, finding it (Jenova's head) may well seem like a futile task. But there is still a nonzero chance. Either way, staying in contact with our agents and meeting regularly are essential to maintaining organizational cohesion." " But how many...?" Elena glanced around and spoke in a stage whisper. "How many former Turks can we expect to help us?" In his mind, Tseng saw the faces of the old Turks, his former subordinates. Of those, he had made contact with-- They get interrupted and Elena rushes off to investigate something. Tseng watched his operative go with a wry smile. Below the hem of her sundress, old scars marked her legs. Once you joined the Turks, you were in for life. Even those who tried to get out and build new lives could be summoned back with a single phone call. Maybe it was a cruel call to make, Tseng thought. and he sighed.

18.) Reno & Rude defy a direct order from Tseng. "Dumbass," Reno muttered. "What are you waiting for? Engage!" Tseng's command rang from the speakers. "Evan's down there," Rude answered in Reno's stead. "He's already done for," said Tseng. "Fire." "No can do," said Reno. "Reno." Tseng made his name a sharp rebuke. "He's our friend." "Fine. Let me briefly explain--" Tseng's voice abruptly cut out. "Radio trouble," Rude mumbled, his hand drifting away from the radio's master switch.

There are a lot of quirky, funny, violent, or neato moments I didn't list, so check out the book if you want more insight. Hope this gave you some headcanon fodder.

[moonteaa]

your dad teba stuff has me frothing at the mouth like a squirrel that needs to be put down. You got any head cannons to share?

AGH!! Thank you!! Hehe 🤍🏹

AND OH BOY DO I EVER!! Let’s see..

1. Teba literally sees every single member as his own, but definitely imprinted immediately when it came to Zelda and Riju. Teba now has 2 teenage daughters and he loves them. They banter and tease each other and Teba sometimes has to deal with typical teenage girl angst and it’s both hilarious and endearing 😭

2. If someone made Zelda cry, well Teba is gonna take that PERSONALLY. You’ll be dead where you stand if a single tear falls from Zelda’s eyes.

3. Teba is FULL of puns and terrible dad jokes. And he’s very nonchalant about it too 😭 the others will absolutely eat it up LMFAO but Zelda will literally look at him like “WHY” (he loves to annoy her like that.)

4. Teba has this paternal instinct to wrap his wings or place his wings over the others when there’s danger. It does not matter if they can handle themselves, he’ll just shield them instinctively.

5. That goes for weathers too, if it’s raining or the sun is too hot, he’ll place his wing over any of the others as means to shield them.

6. If Kass is performing a song and each member is joining in on a dance, Zelda will constantly want him to join in. Though he refuses at first, Sidon will push him towards the others and practically force him to join with a wide smile on his face, much to Teba’s dismay HAHA but he’ll have fun and if it makes Zelda happy then he’ll accept.

7. When they’re all done traveling and camping out, Teba will either (not sleep at all) or wake up in the middle of the night to do a run down and check on everyone as they sleep just to make sure they’re doing okay and not in danger or having any nightmares.

8. If one of them has nightmares, Teba is immediately there for them and stays up with them until they fall back asleep.

9. He’s protective. Like FEROCIOUSLY PROTECTIVE. You touch a single hair on their head? You’re dead.

10. If someone even dares to try to be mean to Zelda, or blame her for the events of the calamity or Hylia forbid, CALL HER A FAILURE? Oooof..you will be taken care of before those words can even leave your MOUTH.

11. Teba nicknames Zelda Sparrow/Linnet. The first time he did, it made Zelda cry because it reminded her of Urbosa and her mom (little bird) ☹️ Teba didn’t even realize he had nicknamed her something so close to Zelda’s moms. He felt so bad about it and thought he had done something bad by calling her that, but Zelda reassures him that it just means a lot to her. 🥹😭 🤍

12. The reason Teba calls Zelda sparrow is because she small and it literally translates to “little bird” and as to why he calls her linnet, is because Zelda has a pretty singing voice like a linnet bird. (I headcanon that Zelda has a hidden talent for singing 🤍)

13. If Riju asks Teba to look after one of her sand seal plushies, yeah he’s guarding that plush with his LIFE.

14. Teba taught Zelda archery

15. Teba and Zelda often go on little trips together and when Zelda begins to happily chat and geek out about ancient history and sheikah tech or what not, Teba happily listens and indulges with her. He even actually enjoys learning about it and discovering things with her.

16. If Teba finds some ancient looking artifact he’ll immediately tell Zelda or give it to her because he knows how much she loves to study it.

17. He constantly makes sure they’re all appropriately dressed for the colder weathers

18. Can and WILL intervene on a creep that’s trying to hit on Zelda or Riju. He will go feral and probably shoot any creeps with a bundle of bomb arrows. LOL

19. Absolutely helps Link try to get with Zelda (but he still also feels a little protective? Like?? Duh, it’s link. Ofc they’re gonna be together but he’s a dad, he can’t help feeling a little protective of Zelda at times even if it’s Link HAHA)

20. Each of them have all accidentally called him dad and he just accepts it at this point.

21. Teba wants to throw hands (wings?) with King Rhoam.

23. despite how close they are, in the beginning Zelda actually had a hard time trying to get comfortable with Teba for a short time. Because her experience with her dad wasn’t BEST, it was absolutely bewildering to see Teba be such a supportive and good father figure to everyone, she’s not used to that. She would watch them all interacting and analyze it, trying to understand but couldn’t. Teba however, was always very good to her and they quickly got really close and bonded.

24. Teba shows parental affection by placing his forehead against the others

25. Tulin now has 5 older siblings 🤍

(I HAVE SO MANY MORE ID BE HAPPY TO SHARE MORE IF THATS WHAT YOU ALL WOULD LIKE LOL)

[otasuneweek]

Welcome to Otasune Week 2023!

This is a week long celebration of the pairing of Solid Snake and Otacon which will run from September 10-16.

Here are our guidelines for participation.

Use the tab #OtasuneWeek23 within the first five tags of your tumblr post. It also helps if you @ us in your post.

Please also tag for any triggering content, especially on tumblr.

On AO3, use the tag OtasuneWeek23 and add to our AO3 collection.

On Twitter, use #OtasuneWeek23 or tag our Twitter.

NSFW content is allowed, but please make sure to tag appropriately.

Gen and ship content are both acceptable, but the focus should be on Otacon and Solid Snake.

Late entries are always accepted! However, if the event has passed, you may way to send us a link or submit your post for visibility.

Always feel free to send us an ask or to tag us if you have questions or want to bring something to our attention.

Below the read more is a more in depth look at our prompts. However, feel free to interpret them however you like. These are meant for inspiration!

Have fun!

September 10 - Flowers

The MGS series loves it's flowers, from blue roses to Star of Bethlehem flowers. Flowers can mean a wide variety of things, whether as a gift or if they're being coughed up, hanahaki style. What they mean to Snake and Otacon (if anything at all) is up to you!

September 11 - During the Mission

We only see a few missions playing out over the course of Philanthropy. What happens during the rest? Danger, banter, injuries, flirting, bad idioms and more!

September 12 - Nightmares

Snake and Otacon have been through hell. And that can lead to nightmares, which becomes especially noticeable when you live in each other's pockets. But sometimes, the worst nightmares are when you're awake...

September 13 - In Sickness and in Health

Philanthropy is a commitment, and that isn't just for the big missions. It's also for the little problems along the way: like if one of them gets sick. And if you'd like to run with the wedding imagery this prompt provokes, by all means!

September 14 - Supernatural

A celebration of the supernatural elements of Metal Gear Solid! Vampires, psychics, ghosts, parasites, and so much more. Canon and AUs are both welcome!

September 15 - Alternate Univere

A day for any sort of AU fic you could like! Fix-it, Canon Divergence, Coffee Shop, University, Zombie Apocalypse, Superheroes, Soulmates, Time Travel, ABO. The floor is yours!

September 16 - Free Day

There are no rules! Today is a day to fly free. Write whatever is in your heart about Otasune.

[welcometololaland]

almost uploaded a picture of my bank statement instead of this header! happy days!

thanks for the tags @hippolotamus @kiwiana-writes @happiness-of-the-pursuit @rmd-writes

@nancygillianmvp @terramous @tellmegoodbye @freneticfloetry @beautifulhigh

@orchidscript @myheartalivewrites and @strandnreyes (don't think that was a real tag but i'm taking it anyway to force you to love me).

1. How many works do you have on Ao3?

49 (last time it was 46 but i feel like that isn't enough of a difference? disappointed in myself dfhskjh)

2. What's your Ao3 bodycount word count?

1,119,086 which does include some co-writes, but I also have around 200k of unposted WIP in my google docs so i'm counting it (including a fully written fic - someone put their hands around my neck and force me to edit it PLEASE).

3. Which fandoms do you write for?

red white and royal blue, 911 lone star, top gun maverick (flirting with winter's orbit always)

4. Top 5 fics by kudos?

the order of these has changed but not the identity:

Speak for Yourself (RWRB) (you know when eminem said he'd never be able to top My Name Is? this is my version of that)

Fifty First Dates (RWRB) (oodie agenda reigns supreme)

The RIng-In (Lone Star) (otherwise, lone star is in danger of being eviscerated from this top 5 lmao)

(Not) A Cinderella Story (RWRB) (NDAs are hot, apparently)

Cursed is a State of Mind (RWRB) (cursed caffeine is the main drawcard let's not lie)

5. Do you respond to comments?

i try my absolute best to. i am currently really behind and i apologise for that (the problem is, i reply to comments before i post anything and i haven't posted anything in ages).

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

serious answer - Contaminated

my answer - oh baby i'm a fool for you because we never find out if they actually watch twilight and that's a damn shame

7. What is the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

literally everything else - i don't really do open endings or sad endings! in the words of the great philosopher, skepta: "nah, that's not me."

8. Do you get hate on fics?

i used to, but i haven't in ages! thank god for that.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

yes, although i have to say i've been moving away from pwp lately. i feel my best smut is written into longer fics where the sex serves a plot or characterisation purpose within the frame of the overarching narrative.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

yes, a RWRB/LS but i never finished it. ALTA is a veronica mars inspired tarlos fic which kind of feels like a crossover at times.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not to my knowledge :)

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

yes! Phonography (Lone Star) has been translated, as has Baby, Make Your Move (Lone Star) and Warm Whispers (Lone Star). I'm very grateful to the incredible people who have made these translations happen - you are so talented.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic?

yes, many with @dustratcentral. I also wrote a chapter of a co-written fic with a whole bunch of incredible RWRB authors called never the same twice.

@rmd-writes and I have created (Un)Professional Services and (upcoming) Call Me (By Your Name).

The Rainbow Fish was co-written with @strandnreyes.

I love co-writing so much and I am always open to anyone who wants to give it a go!

14. What's your all time favourite ship?

me + my unposted wips.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

probably the aforementioned crossover which was apparently also my answer last time.

16. What are your writing strengths?

i'm allergic to giving myself compliments but i would say maybe dialogue/banter and worldbuilding.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

keeping things short. also, exposition.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

kinda scared to because i don't speak any other languages and i'm so hesitant to annoy my very talented multi-lingual friends with my annoying questions.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

we don't talk about that.

20. Favourite fic you've written?

probably still Love Game because the experience was just so amazing and i never wanted to stop writing it.

heaps of people have already done this so leaving an open tag and also a couple of suggestions under the cut but apologies if you've already participated or been tagged 7 million times:

@bonheur-cafe @theghostofashton @thebumblecee @indomitable-love @eclectic-sassycoweyes

@tailoredshirt @vineofroses @liminalmemories21 @mikibwrites @birdclowns

@ladytessa74 @basilsunrise @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @rosedavid @sanjuwrites

@alrightbuckaroo @three-drink-amy @marjansmarwani @dumbpeachjuice @doublel27

@lemonlyman-dotcom @blueink3 @ambiguouspenny @clottedcreamfudge @emmalostinwonderland

@sail-not-drift @inexplicablymine @celeritas2997 @cricketnationrise @reyesstrand

@goodways @carlos-in-glasses @heartstringsduet @sunshinestrand @sherryvalli

[toxicanonymity]

Low key wishing there were Joelkémon cards to collect ngl

Omg me too. / Blog FAQs

ABOUT: these are just joels i write. an anon called them joelkemons because i would strategically select a joel from my collection to tackle certain requests, and it caught on.

ACTUAL CARDS HERE by @gasolinerainbowpuddles

Trouble Joel Signature Appearance: Tight jeans & tee Calls you: Trouble, sugar, baby Attack: That horny look Charge attack: Banter Tagline: You really are trouble Birthday: March 11 Evolves From: Just the Tip (joel master list)

Night Walks Joel Signature appearance: PJ pants Calls you: Pumpkin, baby Attack: Dirty talk Charge attack: Shotgunning Catchphrase: Hell yeah Tagline: Lift heavy, talk dirty, smoke weed Birthday: March 21

Raider Joel Signature appearance: Tactical jeggings Calls you: Sweet pea, baby Attack: Too-tight hug Charge attack: Dark fluff Tagline: It's for your own good, sweet pea Birthday: March 24

Free Use Joel (Demoted out of the prime time brothel) Signature Appearance: Blue collar Calls you: Baby, if he even addresses you Attack: Use Charge attack: Manhandling Tagline: Not til I'm tricklin' down your thigh baby Birthday: April 1 Comes With: Tommy Optional

Speakeasy Joel (Demoted out of the prime time brothel) Signature appearance: Visible erection Calls you: Baby Attack: PDA Charge attack: Showing you off Tagline: C'mere Birthday: April 3 Evolves From: For Survival (joel master list)

Stepdad Joel Signature Appearance: Joggers, glasses Calls you: Sweetheart, baby  Attack: Inner thigh rest Charge attack: Crying and jacking off Tagline: You're tryin' to kill me Birthday: April 7

Lincoln Joel Sig. appearance: shirt tucked-in, combed hair Calls you: Peaches, darlin', baby Attack: Comforting embrace Charge attack: Sex Ed Tagline: It's s'posed to feel good Birthday: April 19

Thighs Out Joel Signature Appearance: Mid-thigh shorts Calls you: Baby Attack: Full-body press, woo Charge attack: Say stop Tagline: Sky's out, thighs out Birthday: April 29

Slasher Joel Signature Appearance: Blue jumpsuit.  Calls you: Sweetheart, baby.   Attack: get curious Charge attack: near-death experience Birthday: May 11 Catchphrase: Real dangerous out here

Vampire Joel Appearance: Long cardigan with standing collar Calls you: Sweetheart, his special one Attack: Apologetic blood sucking Charge attack: Trying his best Birthday: June 11 Catchphrase: You taste so special

Jojo Signature appearance: heavily tattooed Calls you: Baby, jailbird or buttercup Attack: Dirty talk Charge attacks: Dick print, doing lines Catchphrase: Be good Birthday: August 14 Comes with: Mabel

[celaenaeiln]

Out of curiosity and admittedly it’s been a bit since I touched my collection of New Teen Titans books but for the sake of it;

Has Dick ever recognized similarities between say Slade and Bruce in terms of how they operate, their behavior with their allies, loved ones and how they interact with him in particular, just they happen being in opposite sides of the spectrum between good and bad?

okay I don't know if Dick has explicitly recognized the similarities between Slade and Bruce but Slade was created to be a darker version of Bruce.

Evidence of this lies in the way Dick treats Slade vs the way he treats Bruce. The parallels are uncanny.

Deathstroke the Terminator (1991) Issue #14

"I want to talk to him--not be the one who brings him down."

This is exactly how Dick treats Bruce on his worst days.

Batman (2016) Issue #137

"I'm gonna head into Gotham to see if I can talk Bruce off his 'moral ledge'."

Note that Bruce here is the worst version of himself. He's gone almost evil, completely out of control. This is who Slade Wilson is supposed to be.

But at the same time, when someone hurts his family, Dick doesn't hold back at all.

Batman and Robin (2009) Issue #12

Batman (2016) Issue #138

Their relationship is extremely interesting because as we know, Bruce hinges on Dick to keep his sanity together. To prevent him from going to the dark side.

Slade and Bruce are essentially the same person. They both have fathers that left them, they both have sons that died, and they both are manipulative and abusive of their children. They're just two sides of a coin which is why Dick's rivalry with Slade is so interesting. Since Dick exists as a source of light for Bruce's darkness, he would view a dark Batman to be the exact opposite of everything he's fighting for.

However there are several instances in the comics where Dick treats Slade more as a dangerous ally rather an enemy but that's when Slade's not actively fighting him. He treats Slade the same way he treats Bruce but in a more wary sense because they're not on the same side. Maybe subconsciously Dick sees Bruce in Slade which is why he just banters back and forth with Slade on their better occasions but still fights him like a villain.

All this considered, it only makes sense why DC keeps writing Slade as the Moriarty to Dick's Sherlock.

[strangeshoepatrolbandit]

Hi so I enjoyed Ur brotherly love series and decided to request a side chaoter.

Can u please write something for y/n and Dick since I don't think we had much of their pov or like interactions during the series just something fun and light w them bantering and one of them says these to the other

9. "Somebody's cranky." "Somebody needs to shut up."

14. "Do I look good?" "No." "Very funny."

Thank u love! 💖

Brotherly Love

Short story

Prompts: 9 and 14

Warnings: Reader playfully tells Dick to die,

Heheheh

I ♡ Dick Grayson.

Series Masterlist

~☆~

"Good morning, Y/N!" Dick greeted as you walked into the kitchen.

"Mmm, Die..." You mumbled, looking through the pantry. Nobody was home, Bruce was at work, Damian was off doing his own thing, Alfred was running errands, and your other two brothers didn't live at the Manor anymore. Dick was the only person there, other than yourself.

"Somebody's cranky." Dick teased.

"Somebody needs to shut up." You spat back, picking out a box of cereal, then moved over to the fridge for some milk. Dick let out a chuckle as he reached into cupboards for a bowl, then moved over to a drawer to retrieve a spoon.

"Mmm" was all you mustered up when he handed you the dish and utensil. You quickly prepared your breakfast then put up the ingredients. You picked up the bowl and walked over to the breakfast bar, sitting down on one of the tall chairs.

You looked over at Dick, who was wearing black slacks and a blue button up. "Why are you so dressed up?" You asked, mouth full of cereal.

"Goin' on a date." He smiled, subconsciously smoothing out his shirt. "Do I look good?"

"No." You told him with a dead voice, hiding the smile on your face as you took in another scoop of cereal.

"Very funny." He deadpanned, voice dripping in sarcasm.

As you continued to munch on your breakfast, Dick walked over and leaned in to press a kiss to the side of your head before walking off, leaving you to snicker at your comment.

~☆~

Yuhhh..this was beautiful, thank you Venomsvl...

Taglist: @sanjanapm

@unofficial-jaytodd-wife

@texaschainslvt

@godknows-shetried

@wendds

@celestair

@lorosette

@knoxx-seresinbradshaw

@agent-nobody-knows

@5sos-wdw

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@simligul

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@greengarsstuff

@illya-roma

@luna025

@fruittiest-of-loops

@classymusicgalaxy

@randomlyappearingartist

@bluejay390

@venomsvl

@marvelworldlover

@ceshacat

@killercranberries

@hypnobanditprofessorhorse-blog

@greenkiki

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@esposadomd

@american-idiot21

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@dangerous-girls-world

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@cherry-peach-flavored

@kerosene-demon

@serendippindots

@bluerasberryfairyland

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

All Along the Watchtower (chapter 7)

[Can also be read on AO3]

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!OC (3rd person POV)

Word count: 4.7k

Warnings: Minors DNI - no major warnings this time besides some angsty thoughts, mentions of human trafficking, smoking, and swearing

Otherwise, get ready for lots of flirting and banter

Summary: Upon return to the safehouse Rory and Price decide on their next steps to deal with Zorokov and face some of the skeletons in Rory's closet.

A/N: Rory Sinclair is a dual citizen (both Canada and the UK) who's been living in the UK since she was 14. She is 28 at the time of this fic, Price is 32. This series is set in 2017 before the events of the first MW game. Rory's thoughts are bold and italicized, other italics are used for emphasis

October 18, 2017 01:30 - Safehouse

Price stood against the frosty window, red flashing neon lights from the hotel sign outside painting streaks along the wall as coils of grey smoke drifted from the end of his cigar he puffed away on, clouds of it billowing from his mouth as he exhaled. Steady, cold eyes stared out from under his furrowed brow as he held his tablet and conversed with Laswell. 

Rory tucked herself on the side of her bed, crossing one leg and folding it under the other as she lit her cigarette and listened to the two of them discuss how the mission had gone so far, the intel they collected, the freedom of the hostages saved, and what the next steps were, all the while feeling like she was a kid in detention. What had happened in that club was not her greatest hour and hardly the defining moment of her career (she hoped for this mission as well). Sure she’d saved the lives of those women, but there was certainly a new form of tension between her and the Captain – one she could have done without. She hadn't come this far in her career to fuck it all up now and get herself chained to a desk from here on. 

“ The laptop was a good find. Searching it now. ” Laswell’s voice filled the small hotel room while Rory held an ice pack to her shoulder, her fingers trembling as they clung to the plastic bag, still feeling the ache from the fight she had been in earlier. She pulled the cigarette from her lips and exhaled, some of the stress momentarily relieved as she was hit by another dose of nicotine. 

“Went through enough trouble to get it.”

Her ears burned as Price's condemning glare landed on her. Embarrassment and her wounded pride festered inside. For all her skill and her cool, calm demeanour she still fell prey to that part of her that wanted every reminder in her head of that mission removed by any means necessary, even putting herself and others in danger. It was hot-headed and foolhardy, not the move of someone who wanted to be a leader, not the decision someone with her experience should ever make. 

She looked up at the captain just as he turned away, his back facing her and (taking the hint) got up and headed into the bathroom, the toilet lid serving as her seat as she continued icing her aches and pains away. 

Pulling the sweater over her head, slowly rolling the bulk of knitted material off of her torso, she sat there in just the thin material of her bra, letting the shock of freezing ice hit her bare skin. Wincing, Rory bit her lip, exhaling smoke through her nostrils forcefully. The red swelling on her arm and shoulder had already given way to dark blue and purple bruising in tortoiseshell patches along her skin. Deep inside the tender muscle she felt the sting pulsating, the pain hidden far below the surface.

Even with the door shut she could still hear the hoarse whispers of Price from the other room as he continued talking with Laswell. 

“ How’s the sergeant doing? ”

“SRR having her on desk duty might’ve been for good reason. Girl nearly botched the whole damn op.”

Tossing the bag of half melted ice into the sink beside her, Rory continued to smoke, sitting in the flickering fluorescent lights, beating herself up more about what she had done than the Bratva enforcer ever had. It was a nightmare. She had worked rigorously to get to this point in her career, tireless in her efforts. This was her shot to impress a special forces officer with her skills that could get her back out into the field and instead she was letting the shit that resided in the back of her head take the lead. She was better than all this. He had every right to say that about her. The situation only stung more knowing that this was all some vain attempt to prove that she wasn’t that twenty three year old corporal in the bathroom stall anymore, that she wasn’t young and impulsive, that she had changed. 

Her hand shook as she held the cigarette, the ash falling off the end as she rubbed at her tired eyes. Saving those girls was the right move, it was the only move. It was the one her mother would have wanted her to make. Fighting for something that was right. Doing a little good to make up for all the bad she had done. That was the kind of person she had been raised as. The kindness of the ‘Lamb’, a direct result of her upbringing under the gentle wing of a woman who had always put others first before herself. Not the violent thing she had been trained to become, forced to morph into in order to survive in a cruel and unforgiving world filled with enemies. 

“Thought you said she had experience with this sort of thing?”

“ She does . Plenty .”

More experience than Rory cared to admit, than her record would allow to show. Redactions upon redactions and black ink that hid all the things that had been asked of her. Things she willingly did. For the greater good. 

Price grunted, “At least she can fight.”

That felt more like a sucker punch to the gut than a compliment. The reason she was sure the SRR had recruited her. Tired and worn out, bi-weekly visits to the therapist, pills to help her sleep – but at least she could fight. At least she had experience. At least she knew just how fucked the world was. How corrupt and fallible the system was, how rules were made to be broken just like people. They couldn’t lose that, could they? Her skills, her achievements, they were useful even as her hands shook. She could turn off her morality because someone with more patches and medals on their uniform told her so. At least she could fight. 

“ The intel you found, it's a rabbit hole, John. Just when we think we've found the bottom another trail opens. This goes deep and Zorokov's name keeps popping up all along the way .”

“Any other names stickin’ out?”

“ Yeah , hold on a minute .” Laswell cut off for a moment, leaving Rory in the silence of the bathroom as she sucked on the filter of her cigarette and breathed in the burning sensation of smoke that charred every branch of her lungs. “ Abdullah Al Ghulam. He's apparently under protection. An asset. Was supposed to be keeping his nose clean in Dubai .”

She froze. God, that name would never stop haunting her . Just when she thought one door to her memory closed, another was kicked wide open. Crushing the cigarette butt into the sink, she walked back into the room as she pulled her sweater on carefully, trying not to agitate her shoulder further. Not bothering to wait for the captain’s reaction to her return before speaking, “Al Ghulam never should have been given protection. My squad should have taken him out in Syria when we had the chance.”

Price looked up from his tablet, his eyes burning into her. “Pardon?”

Pulling at the thick fibres hanging loosely around her waist, straightening out the sweater to lay flat, Rory continued, “Abdullah Al Ghulam. The black mission before my transfer. That was who my squad was sent to intercept. He was an arms dealer assisting the insurgency in Iraq.”

“ You’ve dealt with him before? Why wasn’t he removed ?” Laswell asked, a flurry of keystrokes audible from her end. 

“The CIA officer we were working with had orders to keep him alive.”

“Of course,” Price groaned.

Laswell’s voice came through once more. “ Who was the officer on that mission, Sergeant? ”

“Officer Roger Walker.”

“ I’ve had dealings with him ,” Laswell replied with a heavy sigh. 

“He’s a charming fellow.” The venom in Rory’s voice wasn’t lost on anyone. 

“ I’ll look into his mission report for that op, see what I can dig up. Might give us some more fuel for the fire. Meanwhile –”

“Meanwhile, Zorokov is still making deals and walking around a free man,” Price interjected.

“ He’s still our priority here, getting to him is imperative. With the trace we have working we know there’s a meeting coming up between him and a few of his connections. Has it marked in the calendar as ‘Helios’ at nine pm on the 25th. From what I can tell, it’s a nightclub. Apparently it's the home for many of his dealings, out of the sight of prying eyes while under everyone’s nose .”

Price rolled his eyes to look up at the ceiling, visibly unimpressed with the thought of having to go to another club. “Christ,” he rasped.

“Relax, sir. You can’t go in there anyway, Zorokov’s probably already been made aware of you.” Rory looked at him with a smirk. “Besides, we both know you don’t like the music.” Rather than focus on her mistakes, she couldn’t help but make light of the situation, anything to make her feel a little less like a ball and chain that Price was forced to drag around. 

Lifting his brow, the corners of Price's mouth just starting to curl. “So what, you’re offering to go in my stead? If he knows about me, he’s going to know you too – especially after your little jailbreak.”

She let the jab roll off her back like water. “Maybe. That’s a risk we’ll have to take. If anyone’s going to be able to get close to him, it’s me. No matter how well guarded a man thinks he is, when it comes to women, the brain might not be the one in control.”

The pause afforded between them was thick, that awkward elephant in the room still swaying its trunk. Professionalism was a tactful barrier keeping them from doing something they might regret. The rosy blush on Price’s cheeks faded while a grimace crept back up his face, the little flexes in each of his features letting her know something wasn’t sitting right with him even as he tried to remain stony.

“And considering Al Ghulam is tied up into this as well, there’s a friend of mine who I think could help,” Rory continued. 

“A friend?” His brow rose. His body, a wall of muscle, stiffened.

“An MI6 agent. Andrew Owen.”

He sneered at the thought. “I don’t like to work with people I’ve never met before. I need to be able to trust who I’ve got covering my six. Not the biggest fan of intelligence personnel either – no offence, Kate.”

“ None taken. ”

Rory crossed her arms over her chest and shrugged her shoulders. “You’re working with me.” She tipped her head to the side and stared him down in a challenge. 

For all intents and purposes, Price really didn’t know her other than in the biblical sense. He might have picked around in her head a little, barely scraping the surface, but he had an opinion of her now even if it wasn’t the full picture. He failed to remember she was also military intelligence. She might have screwed up her last shot, but this was an opportunity to save her bacon, to prove her skills in another capacity. Deep recon .

“That's different.”

“Is it?” She didn't see how.

Ignoring her question completely, Price continued, “How do you plan on getting to Zorokov? Gonna start more trouble?” He eyed her up and down with a low hum. 

Rory smiled and dropped her hands to her hips, her confidence spilling over in the moment, reminding the captain of the pretty woman who had once grabbed his attention five years ago. “Just have to use my feminine wiles and sweet talk the prick, yeah?” She said with a simple shrug of her shoulder and a flutter of her lashes. 

“You’re willing to be bait?” 

Her eyes never left his gaze, pumping herself up on the inside, refusing to back down. “I know what my strengths are.” 

Price’s eyes roamed over her once more, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. She was sure he was picturing how she had looked that night in the bar, the woman he had been seduced by. “Shouldn’t be too much of a problem for you to catch his attention.” His eyes seemed to twinkle at her as he said it, the smirk on his face causing the lines on his face to crinkle as he gave a quick little thrust of his pelvis and bounced on his heels. 

Rory rolled her eyes and huffed quietly. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t try and chat me up in Russian.”

“If he does, you can always just smile and nod – he’d probably like that.” He paused and his grin got wider. “Just open with that posh girl accent you’ve built up and I’m sure he’ll have no problem usin’ the Queen’s English with ya.”

“Oh, cheers.” She couldn’t help but laugh as he took the piss out of her.

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing, Sergeant.” He spoke with a warm rumble, softening up to her. “You certainly sound more English than the first time I met you, can hardly tell you’re even Canadian anymore.”

“Yeah, well, time’ll do that to a person.”

He leaned forward slightly, lowering his head to meet her eye line, his voice quieter. “It suits you.”

Rory cocked her brow, taken aback by the compliment given out of the blue. Her lips parted, eyes widening. Doe-like . “Really?”

“Yeah. I like it.” 

She pursed her lips and furrowed her brow, her jaw clenching tight. Not sure how to take it. It was just a little too friendly. He seemed a little too comfortable being playful with her now, even with Laswell on the line listening in, especially after the way she had acted earlier.

“Right,” he ran a hand through his hair and dropped his eyes from her to return to his tablet. Putting on the airs of the stoic captain once more. “Get in touch with Owen. We’ll start working on getting you nice and personal with Zorokov.”

“ Good luck out there. The both of you. ”

“Thanks, Kate.” He ended the call with Laswell and looked over at Rory once more, pausing to size her up. “You sure you’re ready for this? Going in undercover?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done it.” Sliding her hands over her hips, she rested them in the back pockets of her jeans. Casual . Hoping she appeared relaxed. 

“This isn’t like recon out in the field though, is it? You’d be up close. On your own. I can’t have your switch flipping.”

“I’m aware. I know that this is our best chance of getting to him, nabbing him and interrogating him.” Her eyes fell as her mouth drew into a straight line, she knew how easily this situation could make her flip. “I’ll deal with the personal shit.”

Heaving out a sigh, Price bit his lip. “Contact your mate, get him out here, soon as,” he ordered, pointing his finger at her as he did so. “The quicker we can get the hell out of this shithole, the better.” 

“Yes, sir.”

Crossing the room, he walked over to his bed and tossed the tablet into his duffel. Stretching his neck from side to side as he sat down, he finished smoking the last of his cigar, his impenetrable gaze shifting sideways as he kept her in his periphery. 

Rory dug into her bag and pulled out her cellphone, scrolling through her list of contacts before her thumb hovered over her old lieutenant’s name. She always knew letting Al Ghulam go into CIA hands was the wrong decision, it was a little too late to say ‘I told you so’, but she might finally get some closure on an old scar and it would be nice to do so with an old friend at her side, someone who knew just how bad the bastard was.

The dial tone in her ear rang several times before Andrew answered, his smile apparent in his voice. “ Sinclair! ”

She paced along the floor beside her bed, a few steps to the left and then back to the right, glancing up every now and again to notice Price still watching her out of the corner of his eye. “Andy, I need you.”

“ Say no more, darling. What do you need? ”

Her thumb had drifted up towards her mouth and her nail sat between her teeth. “Working an op –”

“ You’re out in the field again? ”

The concern in his voice, she could hear it plain as day. Andrew had been the only person she could really talk to about what she had seen because he had lived it too. He knew just how badly it had affected her. The nightmares. The tremors. He was the only one with the clearance to know, not to mention the threat that still loomed over her from Walker about wiretapping. Even if she wanted to tell her father about what had happened to his only daughter, she couldn’t. All she had was Andy.

“Yeah. Russia.”

“ Jesus, you’re a ways from home. ”

Price stared at her from over his shoulder and she had to avert her eyes, going back to pacing in front of the bed. “Can’t go into full details but I need you to do a little shopping for me before you meet me here. And I need you to bring a very easily concealable wire with you.”

“ Consider me intrigued .”

“Going in undercover. Need to catch some prey. It requires using some… assets .”

“ Showing a little leg for a cause? ”

Her smirk grew. “I trust your judgement, Andy.”

“ You might regret saying that .” His laugh was warm and genuine, he’d never been above teasing her with playful banter.

“Shut it,” she said with a laugh. “Need you out this way ASAP.”

“ I’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail .” Rory rolled her eyes. “ Text me your measurements, yeah? ”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll send you details in a bit. Just hurry up.”

“ See you soon .”

Upon hanging up her phone she noticed the way Price’s eyes seemed to have narrowed, the crow's feet by his eyes creasing further. “It’s late. We should get some rest.” With that, he stood up and moved for the bathroom. 

She would be lucky if sleep came to her tonight.  

---

It had started to rain in the early morning hours, droplets spilling down the single glass pane cutting long streaks through the frost that clung to the window, the red neon lights filtering through and creating bubbled patterns on the wall. Rory sat wearing little besides a tee shirt and her panties on the radiator looking out the window, cracked open just enough to let a cold breeze through the room. Slipping a cigarette from the pack, she lit it and inhaled deeply while closing her eyes, breathing in the nicotine and the night. Running her fingers through her hair, she brushed the dark tresses over to part on the opposite side. 

Lost in the haze of smoke that surrounded her head, she was startled by John’s gruff voice, made thicker by the sleep he’d just stirred from. “You’re awake?” Rubbing at his beard, he rolled over in his bed to sit on the side of it, wearing only his boxer briefs as his steely gaze bore into her from the dark as he watched her. “What’re you doin’ up?”

She took another drag of her cigarette before looking at him, exhaling out a stream of smoke like a chimney. "Can't sleep. It's not a rare thing for me."

Stretching out his back with a groan, he continued to watch her. "Somethin’ bothering you, Sergeant?"

"Not particularly,” she hummed. “Suppose it's just a good night for a smoke."

He chuckled and got up, grabbing his own cigar and lighter from his bedside table. "Mind if I join you?"

“Like I could stop you,” she said with a smirk, her gaze traveling with him as he took a spot near her on the wall by the window. It was the first time she had really been given the chance to see him in all his glory. Even when they had been together five years ago, they were both at least partially dressed. Seeing him like this was rather eye opening and Rory couldn’t help but take in all the sights along Price’s body. Every scar, each freckle, the hair that carpeted his chest, trailing down his stomach, and covered his muscular limbs. 

"You’d be surprised." He smirked as he caught her eyes roaming over him, but he didn’t bring attention to it, rather basking in it instead. “New habit?”

“This?” Rory motioned with the cigarette in her hand. “God, no.” She laughed quietly and took another drag from it. "Been smoking these since I was 16. Used to sneak out to the pitch behind the school with my mates for a fag and watch the lads play footie."

"You rebel," John said with another chuckle. Lifting his lighter to the tip of his cigar, he let the flame dance against it until it began to smoke, burning in the dark.

"I’m surprised you didn’t taste it on my breath before." She tapped her cigarette ashes out the window and stared at the orange glow across from her, like a moth to a flame she felt drawn to him.

“I haven’t tasted much in years,” he said, chomping down on his cigar, letting the smoke billow from his nostrils. 

She giggled quietly and her eyes rose to watch the embers at the end of the cigar burning with the same vigor as the ones that had begun to flicker in her gut. Her mouth suddenly went dry, finding it difficult to swallow. Her breath hitching as her mind tried to process the thoughts that didn’t revolve around the handsome man that stood before her. When she finally gained some clarity of thought between puffs of her cigarette, her smile faded as she spoke, "There is something, Captain."

"'Course."

His voice was gravelly at this time of night, and as he came to lean against the wall beside the window with his shoulder, drawing himself a little closer towards her, she seemed to find it hard to ask the question that she’d been carrying for some time. 

"Why was I the one chosen for this mission?"

"You'd have to ask Laswell that one," he said with a grumble.

Warm hazel eyes tried to read his expression as shadows streaked across his face. “You didn't have a hand in it at all?"

"Not a one. Scout's honor,” he said with a nod. “Trust me, seeing you board that helo was one hell of a shock to me too."

A smile broke out across her face. "Liar. You didn't even know it was me." She tapped her cigarette ashes out the window and smirked around it as she brought it back to sit between her lips.

He flexed his shoulders, crossing his arms over his chest. "Maybe not right away. You’d cut your hair and your accent’s gotten thicker too, but the moment I heard you say Rory, well , then it all clicked into place."

“Oh, did it now?” She’d forgotten how very little she was wearing until the moment she noticed his eyes wander up the length of her legs, a hint of desire in his gaze before meeting hers with a warm glint. Pulling down on the hem of her shirt – what little good it did – she stared back at him. “We’re supposed to be professionals, remember ?”

His eyes flitted away from her, pulling the cigar from his mouth to blow out a plume of smoke. “Forgive me, Sergeant. There’s only so much a man can take before his body betrays his will.”

“You have been doing a very good job considering we’ve been trapped together like this. I’ll give you that.”

He cleared his throat, averting his gaze from her as best he could. Rubbing at his neck as he tried to change subjects. “Back there…seeing that side of you...the knife.”

The cigarette in her mouth glowed as she inhaled with a heavy breath, sighing out the stream of smoke. “I’m not particularly fond of having to be like that. I do what I have to. Intimidation, fear – they’re good weapons. But I’m not some sadist, I don’t enjoy it.”

“Wasn’t going to say that you do. You don’t stay a soldier for as long as we have without getting your hands dirty. I’m no innocent here myself.”

Tapping her cigarette out the opening once more, she leaned back against the window frame and closed her eyes taking a deep breath before returning the cigarette to her lips. “Getting my hands dirty…I know all about that.” She huffed out a laugh and took the cigarette from her mouth before resting her hands on her knees, the smoke trailing in wisps up from the cigarette’s ashy tip. “The mission I worked before this, the one that got me transferred. Al Ghulam . It was supposed to just be the usual joint CIA mission tracking weapon shipments.” A tremor shook through hand and she was quick to start rubbing at her knuckles, trying to work out the ghosts that seemed to haunt her nerves below. “I don’t know where the intel went wrong, but we stumbled upon something else instead.” She paused and pressed her forehead to the cold glass beside her. Her stare blank as she looked down at the street below. Her voice a quiet whisper as it cracked. “Human trafficking ring. I’ll never forget seeing women and children being penned like animals, bought and sold like property. Starving…Treated like dog shit.”  

He pulled the cigar from his mouth, his brow furrowed as he stared at her, muttering a hushed “Jesus” under his breath.

“These bastards trade them like they’re on the fucking stock exchange.” She blinked several times and glanced over at him. “I’m sorry if I went off the rails back there. I just –” She shook her head, running her fingers through her hair again. “Knowing the absolute lows of humanity isn’t something I can always keep locked in the vault, you know?” Looking up at him, Rory lifted her brow, hoping they might come to some sort of understanding.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t follow orders and that I acted on my own accord. I wouldn’t be like that for any other reason. It won’t happen again, Captain.” She gave him a soft grin, placating him.

Taking another long drag of his cigar, he blew smoke and sighed. “See that it doesn’t. We’re here to get intel to fight a war, Sinclair. Not get revenge. I don’t need you actin’ like a fuckin’ muppet on my watch.”

Cracking a wide grin, a laugh leaked out of her against her will. “I deserve that.”

“Goddamn right you do.” His teasing smirk returned, the crow’s feet around his eyes crinkling. “But considering the shit you’ve seen I'm surprised you can even crack a bloody grin at all.”

Rory shrugged, tipping her head to the side, feeling vulnerable for just a brief moment. “That's just life though, isn't it? It's the fucking pits, and then we die, and that's that. No point letting it ruin what bit of good there is.”

His brow knit together, but he kept his cocky grin as he continued to look at her. Not adding to her discussion, instead appearing as though he was debating something in his head, the cogs spinning behind his eyes.

Basking in the red neon light, she smiled softly at him. “You're looking at me like I've just grown an extra head, John.”

“ John ? We're back to a first name basis, eh?”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” 

“Not exactly professional, is it?” He lowered his head and looked up at her through his raised brow, the lines in his forehead creasing. A spark in his self-assured stare.

“No, I suppose not.”

“You s'pose right.” He stubbed out his cigar on the windowsill. “Get some sleep, Sinclair.” He patted her leg with his large, rough hand and then moved back to his bed. 

The warmth from where he had touched her lingered, her fingers grazing over where his calloused hand had been as if she could still feel him there. Her ogle followed him as he settled back into his bed, spending just a little too long focusing on his body. 

Fuck. 

She was falling despite herself. 

[lola-legendary]

Octopath Musical Concept

@beantothemax @throne-anguis

4 sections, each contains 1 of everyone’s chapters. 57 songs total.

Explanation:

Track Number: Character chapter belongs to | Name of Song (Where it’s played)

long post under cut

Section 1

01: Ophilia | Flamesgrace’s Cleric (Ophilia’s Song)

02: Cyrus | Mysterious Beneath (Dungeons)

03: Tressa | Let’s Find Treasure! (Tressa’s Song)

04: Olberic | Unbending Blade (Olberic’s Song)

05: Primrose | Dancer, Dancer (Primrose’s Song)

06: Alfyn | Got Your Back (Alfyn’s Song)

07: Therion | Stay Wary (Danger approaching motif)

08: H’annit | IT’S A FREAKING CAT (H’annit’s Song)

Section 2

09: Therion | Noblecourt…? (… Noblecourt.)

10: Therion | Batty Scholars (No Offense, Cyrus) (Orlick Battle)

11: Alfyn | Hurt, then Heal (Olberic - Alfyn conversation)

12: Alfyn | Sometimes It’s Better This Way (after Vanessa is defeated)

13: H’annit | Picking Up the Scent (Stoneguard)

14: H’annit | Master! (Finding Z’aanta)

15: Ophilia | Child (Meeting Emil)

16: Ophilia | Dog. (Fighting the wolf)

17: Tressa | Capitalism!!! (Tressa, Quarrycrest)

18: Tressa | Damnit, Morlock! (Battling Morlock)

19: Cyrus | Odette (Meeting Odette) [this is an Odette solo by the way. I have no idea which one of the travelers named this.]

20: Cyrus | Oh, No, Anything But The Weird Blood Sacrifices! (Fighting Gideon?)

21: Olberic | Friends, I Suppose (Meeting Ned and Cecily)

22: Olberic | And I Your Shield (Tournament)

23: Primrose | Old Acquaintance (Meeting Arianna)

24: Primrose | Left Wing (Killing Rufus)

Section 3

25: H’annit | The Seer (Meeting Susanna)

26: H’annit | DRAGON! (Fighting the dragon)

27: Primrose | Deja Vu (Noblecourt, again)

28: Primrose | Clipped Wings (Killing Albus)

29: Ophilia | No Harm (Before boss battle)

30: Ophilia | Scholar and Cleric (After Mystery Man and Shady Figure are defeated)

31: Cyrus | Fallen Down (Kidnapping) [This “song” is more of a script with music, but it counts]

32: Cyrus | Therese (Lucia’s location revelation)

33: Olberic | To What End (Party Banter)

34: Olberic | Unbending, not Unbreaking (Battle against Erhardt)

35: Therion | Don’t Be a Fool (Battle against Gareth)

36: Therion | Memories (Sharing backstory/Therion's Song)

37: Alfyn | Miguel (Battling Miguel)

38: Alfyn | Doubt (Party Banter)

39: Tressa | Edbart's Shield (Banter with Cyrus and Olberic)

40: Tressa | My Treasure (Party Banter)

Section 4

41: Therion | Hideaway (Approaching and entering Northreach)

42: Therion | Darius (Battling Darius) [everyone gets to take a chance to diss him]

43: Ophilia | Dread (Entering Wispermill)

44: Ophilia | No Longer Human (Battling Mattias)

45: Tressa | Esmeralda (Battling Esmeralda)

46: Tressa | My Treasure (Reprise) (The auction)

47: Primrose | Play the Part (Entering Everhold)

48: Primrose | Puppets (Battling Simeon)

49: H'annit | Petrified (Battling Redeye)

50: H'annit | Family (Party Banter)

51: Olberic | Monster (Battling Werner)

52: Olberic | My Purpose (Battling Werner) [Follows previous song directly]

Bonus Track: Cyrus | We Care About You (Party Banter) [Only observed live]

53: Alfyn | Never Give Up (Alfyn regains confidence in his abilities and purpose)

54: Alfyn | Big Birb (Battling Eagle)

55: Cyrus | Love (Before Lucia Battle) [It's basically a love song from Lucia to Cyrus, who is very confused about what the fuck is happening and why this creepy woman is confessing to him]

56: Cyrus | How To Go On From Here (Decoding the Mural/Cyrus' Song) [This is Cyrus' ONLY song. The only song that he has notes to his words.]

Epilogue

57: All | Going Back To Life (Everyone goes home and continues what they were doing a changed person)

Bonus Track 2: Cyrus | Galdera (Performed offstage) [Cyrus reads into the microphone. No singing involved.]

Bonus Track 3: All | Last Goodbye (Credits)

whew. That was tiring.

[itsdappleagain]

i know csweekly is on hold now, but I still have to catch up on The Luchadora Tango Caper, so here it is!!

Season 3 is maybe my least favorite season out of any of them, but I still love it, so I'm really excited to get into this!

Notes under the cut as always and please ignore the fact that I'm a month late on this thx

NEW CASTLE!!! NEW CASTLE YAYYY

sometimes I think this whole series is Maelstrom just talking about shit for like 14 hours

cleo sympathizing with guys in skirts <3 she knows ur struggle boys

love how they slapped up a giant glowing green world map and copper sulfate burning chandeliers before they put in insulation or heat

brunt, girl, calm down. they were just doing their evil minion bagpipe job

british on british violence

that was such a cute nod when this season first dropped. haha theres been no sign of her all summer because of the hiatus you are so clever

they rlly thought they had something with the turn them against each other thing. i cant believe they thought they tvy7 rating would let shadowsan and carmen kill each other 🙄

"carmen is DEAD" (cheery tango music)

i mean it works because we know hes wrong and stupid but like

no offense but the tango dancers are animated in a way that is reminiscent of a kid manually moving their barbie dolls legs to make them walk

our girl <3

tell me why dropping 200 feet onto the top of the metal detector was more sneaky than literally anything else she could have done

ok. yes. but the fact she is robbing it does not negate the fact that she will be on the news for breaking into a bank dsjfsdghfkdsa

1021 is the number on the box- could it mean something? in a strictly doylist sense. october 21st doesn't seem to have any significant holidays...I can't find anything, might just be a random number set.

good god the "i...have his eyes." hits me like a truck every time

gina pulled it out with the voice acting in this one

she WAS a very cute baby

"another" link girl what else has there been you should be ecstatic

ayyy its the character literally everyone except spintrap-stan and amaryllis solely remember for being voiced by dante basco

i love how snarky carmen immediately gets. if he knows her name and what she looks like, obviously he's an operative, so she gets to have a little fun in immediately declining him while still gaining valuable information, almost immediately, about who he is and what his talent will be

everyone is very stretched today

this is not my favorite fight scene honestly (at least until flytrap gets here. dont even get me started on her fighting style im in love with it) because its literally just like ooh. he kicks. she dodges. wow. they really do try with the tango parallels but idk

wow!! other people can kick too??? who knew

she protected the face

cutely runs into oncoming traffic

those cars were not even slowing down girl they were just like HONK MOVE OR DIE

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS FLYTRAP MY GIRL

okay mini rant incoming i already did a post on this like a billion years ago but flytrap is one of my favorites because in my opinion she and paper star are the most dangerous villains we ever see in the show. let me. try to find that post actually

yeah here it is

flytrap is also so hot and has the same va as luz so she's just top tier. idk if the team put half the episode budget into celebrity voice actors and thats why we only got 5 episodes but you know what

love how carmen is literally stopping her attempts to get free to banter. girl. stop

shadowsan <3

love how they do not even bother showing the fight they just get their asses handed to them

why didnt they start in veracruz just asking

not the table

ok guys. you can stop with the tango thing now. its okay

that little conversation between ivy and shadowsan is so good

comrades??? sir its not the cold war

article from 17 years ago, thank you for that easy to understand slang

carmen plot armored her way out of getting her skull smashed in on that train so hard that she made maelstrom stupid

its canon both in and outside of the show that color theory is so prevalent that any sort of red at all immediately signals carmen

the colors are so beautiful in this scene. carmen doesnt have her coat or jacket on, everythings just a little desaturated as she searches

THE ACME GANG <3333

not the finger guns and glasses wheeze hes such a loser i love him

THE FORESHADOWING TO EGYPT WITH THE PYRAMIDS ON HER LAPTOP!!!!

love how all we get of julia this season is her being pissed off and then leaving

he was such an asshole for closing her laptop why did he do that 😭

has carmen just been ignoring vile missions for the last season of the year to research her mom or

girlie is so sad about everything

ah yes, the door, the thing you wish to have opened, the best place to lean your full body against after you knock,

i'M SOrry. did you NOT attend a school for THIEVES

HSDGGDG HEY. just broke into your house. im your long lost daughter

i love how she goes DONT TOUCH ANYTHING and then immediately drags her whole arm across the wall and cabinet

also her face when she sees the masks is perfect

okay be honest how many of you have replayed carmen saying maybe mommy at least once. who. raise your hands

shes sooo buff

love how everyone is taking this so seriously and then carmen is just completely apathetic about anything thats going on

dont deadname lupe, carmen

her hair catching a gust of indoor wind for the sole purpose of making her look sick as hell in her intro card is so iconic

as ivy absolutely obliterating zack in the foreground is so fucking funny

she got that "EH EH EH." titter of "HEY NO. DONT YOU DO THAT" down scary well

devineaux strutting im sobbing. julia was doing SO well and then she got paired with devineaux AGAIN

that cab driver looks so concerned about the hulking texan in his backseat

remember when the trailer dropped and we thought those roses were for julia. good times

everyone narrowly avoiding each other as they pull in

you just know ivy smacked zack when he protested to decoy time hdsafhadsg

gotta say the "EH?" while getsuring to the trophies is fucking hilarious. obviously julia knows she wouldnt go after those but its so funny

i do love the way carmen just shrinks any time brunt appears. she is soooo traumatized

VAMOOSE EL MASKO SHES SO ACCURATREIUSDHKFSKHFD SHES EXACTLY WHAT MIDDLE AGED AMERICAN SOUTHERNERS SOUND LIKE

LUPE IS SO FUCKING COOL

devineaux showcasing his braincells for a spilt second this episode

ah, so begins the not a good time mantra

devineaux getting absolutely decimated because he thinks coach brunt thinks hes handsome is so funny

the referee watching two apparent civilians enter the ring: 🙂

carmen is so funny here. she uncuffs herself and then just leaves devineaux to die like fuck his ass he can get smooshed

carmen getting increasingly mad at devineaux while she drags him places is my favorite part of the episode

also, either carmen got stronger or devineaux had a few bouts of crazed research where he didnt eat, but she can drag him easily now as opposed to when she was struggling back at the trap in poitiers

they put this shot in the trailer and without context it just looked like carmen was standing there glaring at brunt menacingly

the cat burglar <3

worst fucking ref on the planet i love him

was carmen stopping to listen to julia's voice i would like to think so

ah the devineaux and cars gag. i mean, to be fair, it wasnt his fault this time

starts beatboxing

carmen really just dumped her whole life story on lupe thats so funny. girlie started the day preparing for a match, got her house broken into, and then ended the day learning about a global crime syndicate

they really ended s2 going THE NEXT SEASON WILL FOCUS ON CARMENS MOM and then started s3 going well actually um okay so

theres our transition sentence

lupe's yellow and blue palette btw!! cs color theory i love you

lupe is more of a mom than carlotta ever gets to be thats sad honestly

carmens little smile ough

here is a shot that very succinctly illustrates the dynamics in the coming seasons. the three at the table stand strong- always have. roundy is basically a footnote no one cares about him and then brunt...brunt is sort of on the edge. this carries over all the way into s4 when malestrom tries to drown her

oh my god i forgot about the weird halloween thing the faculty has going on this season i love it

my analysis is right in time for spooky season >:) halloween IS nearly upon us!!!

OKAY well my thoughts on the luchadora tango caper...pretty good. honestly its kind of net zero information because we introduce the premise of finding carmens mom and then immediately abandon it but it sets up um....well....it sets up....what does it set up

anyway- not my favorite episode, even though lupe is fucking awesome. i think it suffers a little from deviating from that classic caper structure and jumping around, but it does its job as an introductory episode.

until we return, sayonara, mon amigos!

[curlytheintrovert]

My Favorite Papa Joel Moments (Pt.5):

🦠 When, in the stables, he tries to act like he’s giving Ellie a choice in who she travels with. Bullshit. He knows he’s unable to leave her, no matter how hard he may have tried to force it. No matter how harsh he was to Ellie the night before he still can’t be apart from her. And Ellie is so so quick to accept him, it’s hysterical. The look he gives when she slams her bag into his chest…that tiny smirk, like he’s trying not to let it show how relieved he felt.

🦠 How once they get on that horse, their bond is out in the open, and breathing for the first time. Joel confirmed it the night before with “Course I do” and Ellie confirmed it with “Let’s go” She lovingly rests her head on his back, he’s smiling, Joel is actually teaching her things like a dad would and their banter is back. They are father and daughter now, for better or worse.

🦠 The look on Joel’s face when he gets stabbed at the university. My theory is that not once did he think of himself, even as blood gushes down his abdomen. The way he just stares at Ellie and nothing but her…I’m hurt which means Ellie is in danger. I failed her already. I’m not the strong hero she needed, and now she can see it.

🦠 In the basement when Joel is laying on the mattress, the way he grabs Ellie when she first puts pressure on his wound is strangely sweet to me. The dire situation is forcing him to rely on this 14 year old girl, and he’s not able to hide behind his gruffness anymore. She’s all he has. Followed then by weakly ordering Ellie to leave Joel is trying his best to get her safe, which is not with him anymore. How he pushes her away is meant to be harsh and to drive his point home, but you see in his eyes he hates having done it. Is this really how they’re going to part ways, possibly forever? Joel clearly doesn’t want her to leave but that constant nightmare fear won’t allow her to stay. Then when Ellie quickly does do what he says, and it appears she’s abandoning him, he’s sorrowful. They’re really parting ways and this may be the last time he sees her. She’s going to be alone and he won’t be able to protect her anymore. Did he even tell her how much she meant to him? That single tear down his face says so much without words and I’m crying too, damn it.😭

[buttercupsandboys]

Sunshine & Rainbows

Alfie Solomons x Livy (OFC) — Chapter 15

18+ NSFW - minors don’t interact 🙅🏻‍♀️

MASTERLIST | READ ON AO3

CHAPTER 15: only love could hurt like this

Summary: The Shelby women torment Alfie and secrets are revealed ...

TW: language typical of Peaky Blinders, a touch of angst

Word count: 3273

A/N: It’s been a while, so here’s a super quick recap! (Or click here to read Chapter 14 again!)

Alfie found out Livy was missing, then beat the crap out of Tommy. A few hours later, Polly and Esme show up at his hotel room ...

This chapter picks up right where we left off. 

“Well, go on then,” Alfie demands. “We haven’t got all fucking night. Where is she?”

Polly chuckles darkly, looking far too amused for his liking. She takes a moment to light a cigarette, raising it to her painted lips before replying. “And what makes you think I’m just going to hand over that information?”

Fucking hell.

The room goes deathly silent, save for the ominous tick of the clock, reminiscent of a bomb just waiting to explode.

… much like Alfie's stormy expression.

He’s exhausted, and his patience has officially run out. A volatile mix at the best of times, but with Livy gone, the look on his face is more than a threat. It’s a promise of violence.

But Polly doesn’t notice or, more likely, doesn’t care. Instead of backing down, like any sensible being, she stands with one hand on her hip and the other in the air, smoke dancing from her fingers, chin raised like the Queen of fucking England.

“‘Cause that’s what you said, ain’t it?” He glares at her through narrowed eyes. “You asked if I wanted to find Livy.”

“Exactly,” she smirks. “I asked if you wanted to find her. I didn’t say I would tell you where she is.”

Alfie considers snatching her cigarette and shoving it down her slender throat. Polly’s asking for trouble, pushing his buttons at the worst possible time, and they all know it. It’s almost like she wants to see him lose his temper, or at least expects it.

But he is nothing, if not unpredictable.

Despite the displeasure written across his features, Alfie remains seated. He doesn’t speak, barely even blinks as he raises his fist and cracks his knuckles, slowly and methodically, one by one.

The women watch on, seemingly unfazed, but the longer Alfie sits and stares, face like a predator stalking his prey, the more their facade begins to crumble. They are bold, not stupid, or so it seems. The minutes pass, and Polly takes a hesitant step backwards, Esme following suit, dropping her boots to the floor as they brace for an explosion.

Alfie surprises them all. He should be fucking furious, but his blood cools when he recognises this for what it is: a negotiation. And despite the high stakes, the familiarity of it all is comforting.

This is one game he knows how to play.

“Right, then.” Alfie grins as he leans back and spreads his arms wide. Everything is still fucked, Livy is still fucking missing, but at least he has something to work with. “Let’s talk, love. Why don’t you tell me what you want, yeah?”

“For you to fuck off,” Esme mutters, confidence restored now that the danger has passed.

Polly shoots her a stern look before returning to Alfie. “What makes you think I want anything, Mr Solomons?” she asks, cool and composed behind a cloud of smoke.

Alfie laughs; in another time, another place, he might genuinely enjoy their banter.

“Don’t play coy, sweetie. It’s three in the fucking morning. Now she”—Alfie waves in Esme’s general direction—“she might be here for Livy. But you?” he huffs. “You’ve got too much Shelby in you.”

Polly’s mouth falls open, a retort on the tip of her tongue, but Alfie cuts her off with a raised palm.

“I don’t want to hear it, yeah. Normally I’m happy to go along with these little games you fucking gypsies love so fucking much. But tonight, I’m going to need you to get to the point, ya hear?”

Alfie watches as Polly visibly bristles, her lips pressed in a firm line, her spine impossibly straighter. But the Shelby matriarch quickly recovers.

“Of course, Mr Solomons,” she replies, her voice and smile sickly sweet. “You’re obviously a very intelligent man.”

Polly waits for a reaction, but unfortunately for her, Alfie is a very intelligent man. So he ignores the trite tactic and gives her 30 fucking seconds to explain herself. The clock continues to tick, and he resumes cracking his knuckles; it’s a veritable symphony of unspoken aggression.

“Fine,” Polly huffs, rolling her dark eyes when it becomes clear they're doing this on his terms. “I need your help,” she reluctantly admits. “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I have a son….”

Livy wiggles her toes, delighting in the morning dew against her bare skin. The sun is low on the horizon, but it’s already promising to be a beautiful day. The air is crisp, the birds are singing, and she half expects rainbows to fall from the sky. She breathes deeply and, for a few minutes, finds peace.

Almost.

Because then she remembers what brought her here.

With a groan, Livy flops on the grass, not caring about her state of dress—or her hair, for that matter, her scarlet locks tangled, free from adornments save for a few twigs and burrs. She’s feeling quite sorry for herself as she drapes her arm across her eyes, the weight pressing her into the damp earth. If only it would open and swallow her whole.

“Well, Holy Lord God, it’s Livy Lou, queen of the fairies. What would your father say if he saw you like this?”

Livy smiles at the familiar voice, lips curling despite her melancholy.

“That we should bury our sorrows and rise like the sun,” she recites.

“Rise like the sun,” Aberama repeats as he drops into the grass beside her, stretching his long legs and propping himself on an elbow. “A mighty wise man, your William.”

She hums in agreement, grateful for the company, and together they sit in comfortable silence, watching the sun rise higher in the sky. Minutes pass until it blinds—not the light but the unfettered hope that for once feels so fucking foreign—and Livy turns away, tracing the ground, wishing she could take her father’s advice.

But her sorrows refuse to stay buried.

As she inspects the dirt beneath her brightly painted nails, Livy can’t help but wonder if she made the right decision. Which is strange in and of itself; usually, she’s so confident, trusting her gut and following it faithfully, eyes on the horizon, never looking back. It’s her life’s motto and often the only thing keeping her sane.

Except now she’s in love with Alfie—and doesn’t that just change everything?

She wipes her hands on her dress and closes her eyes to avoid Aberama’s curious gaze. Being here with him reminds Livy of those first months after escaping Bernard. It was all new then; the kind faces and open fires that chased away the darkness, smoke and songs accompanying them into the night. As joy and laughter replaced fear and pain, she was, in many ways, reborn.

How fitting that she should find herself here again.

Last night was a turning point, and Livy knows it, although she’s not ready to face the truth. Instead, it would be easier to ignore altogether, to fall into the comfortable rhythm of life on the road and let it consume her as she rides out this chapter.

With enough time and enough whiskey (or perhaps that broody Shelby gin), she might come to see this nightmare as a blessing in disguise. Livy was truthful with Esme; she missed the life, the freedom, even the creaky wheels beneath her bed.

One door closes, another opens—right?

Livy snorts before she can stop herself, drawing another look from Aberama, who she continues to ignore. Her usual optimism has bolted, much like Cyril, who is off in the bushes chasing a rabbit. This is no blessing, of that she’s sure. More like a lesson—the universe punishing her for holding too tightly onto something that was never hers to begin with.

Of course, Livy knew this day would come, but she wasn’t expecting this.

Only love could hurt like this.

His scent still lingers on her skin—warm and slightly spiced, like rum and sweat and home—and despite everything, a part of her wants him back. She misses Alfie dreadfully; those beautiful lips, maddeningly distracting as they trace the valley of her breasts, his whiskers teasing her flesh, leaving his mark behind.

Just like the mark he left on her soul, and he should be hers, even though logic and reason tell her to run and run and run.

And she will because as much as Livy hates to admit it, the truth is she’s terrified.

Not of Bernard McCall or Thomas Shelby, as one would reasonably expect…

No, Livy is afraid of Alfie.

Because if he knew about Bernard and still chose to do business with him, he couldn’t possibly love her back.

And how on earth is she supposed to survive that kind of heartbreak?

Livy shakes her head.

She’s always been impulsive, but she’s never been in love, and sometimes it’s easier to give everything up than to have it all taken from you.

She picks a blade of grass and pretends to be fascinated by the vibrant shade of green when Aberama reaches over and plucks it from her fingers.

“You know…” He pauses, eyeing Livy from beneath his low-slung hat. “I didn’t expect to see you again. At least, not anytime soon.”

Livy blushes at the unspoken question, her thick lashes kissing her cheeks as she averts her eyes. How can she explain when she barely understands herself? Everything is jumbled, and she’s never felt so confused.

“Yes, well, you see …”

She bites her lip and considers how much to share with Aberama. He’s fiercely protective of those he considers family, and Livy’s fortunate to count herself among the few not related by blood. But she doesn’t want to see a bullet with Alfie’s name on it. At least not yet.

“I’m taking precautions,” she finally replies. “Keeping a low profile for a bit.”

“Precautions?” Aberama repeats. He stares for a long minute before wiping his palm on his thigh and extending his hand. “Well, come on then. You know the promise I made to your father.”

Livy nods in relief and accepts his hand as he pulls her to her feet. She’s grateful for the help—and the lack of questions—but it’s still too much. The weight of everything is drowning her, and she needs a distraction, something familiar to ease her troubled mind.

“Aberama, darling, do you still keep that blade inside your boot?”

He flashes a brilliant smile.

“What the fuck does Michael have to do with anything?” sputters Esme, the shock written across her tired face.

Polly ignores her, keeping her chin raised and eyes hard, refusing to wilt beneath Alfie’s probing stare.

“Michael has recently shown an interest in joining the family business,” she continues. “But Thomas has … ambitions that come with unnecessary risk. Risks I cannot allow my son to be exposed to.”

“Right…,” mutters Alfie, stroking his beard as he contemplates her words. It’s just as he suspected: a fucking mess. “And what the fuck does this have to do with me?”

“I need you to terminate the deal with Bernard McCall. Ensure Thomas no longer has access to Liverpool.”

“Why would you want that?”

“Does it matter?” she snaps. “Help me, and I’ll help you find Livy.”

His heart clenches at the sound of her name, and in that moment, he’d sign away his fortune, his bakery, anything to get her back.

But then he has a better idea.

“Tell me more about your business in Liverpool,” Alfie demands.

Her eyes flash darkly. “Our business is not your concern.” Polly exchanges a look with Esme, and her face softens. “But I’ll make you a deal, Mr Solomons. Agree to help me, and I’ll tell you more about Bernard McCall. And trust me, there are things you need to know.”

“Trust you,” Alfie repeats, the words hanging heavy in the air. “Right, well that’s just it, Mrs Gray. Trust is a fragile thing.” He strokes his jaw. “And what about your boy? Is he … fragile?”

Polly leaps forward. “Are you threatening—“

Alfie stands, towering over her with his broad frame. “I don’t make threats,” he warns, advancing slowly until she has to crane her neck to face him. “Now, you’re going to tell me about Liverpool, you’re going to tell me about Bernard, and you’re going to help me find Livy. If she’s safe, nothing will happen to your precious son, and in exchange, I will end things in Liverpool.”

She glares at him, and Alfie can only imagine the gypsy curse she’s placing on his black soul. But he’s already damned, so he returns her cold stare. Livy is all that matters now, and he’d deal with the devil—or worse, a Shelby—to get her back.

“Fine,” Polly finally agrees, spitting on her palm and extending it to him. Alfie responds in kind, and she nods, inhaling deeply from her cigarette.

“Thomas is working with a group of Americans who support the Bolsheviks,” she begins, taking a seat. “He’s importing weapons from them under the protection of Shelby Company Limited. But security is tight in London, which is why he needs Liverpool.”

Alfie briefly closes his eyes. “Fucking hell. Meddling with the Russians, that silly boy.”

She snorts. “Exactly. It’s going to blow up in his face, and I don’t want Micheal around when it does.”

“And what about Livy?” he asks sharply. “Don’t fucking tell me she has anything to do with—“

“No, not the Russians,” she reassures him. But something in her tone has him on edge.

“But what?” he demands.

Polly gives him a sad smile. “Alfie.” It's the first time she’s used his given name, and a chill runs down his spine. “I’m assuming you know that Livy had a … difficult past?”

A growl escapes from his chest, a feral sound, raw and violent. “Yeah, I fucking know. And when I find the fucker responsible….”

Alfie trails off at the look on the women’s faces.

No.

Oh, fuck no.

The table goes flying, splintering into pieces, just like his heart.

“Bernard?”

“Yes.” Polly and Esme reply in unison.

He wants to vomit.

Alfie has a strong stomach—after France, not much offends him—but when he thinks about Livy, he nearly drops to his knees.

And he will soon, to beg her forgiveness.

But for now, violence will have to do.

“I’m going to kill him. I’m going to fucking kill him.” He stalks forward, reaching for Polly, unable to stop himself. “Does he have her?” he roars, yanking her to her feet. “Does he fucking have her?”

Polly remains oddly calm. “No,” she assures him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Alfie lets go, visibly relieved. “Right, then where the fuck is she?”

Polly and Esme exchange another look, and he glances around for something else to throw.

“Stop with the fucking faces and tell me where to find Livy before I cut off your—”

“She doesn’t want to be found,” interrupts Polly.

“I don’t give a fuck what she wants—“

“Maybe that’s the problem,” snaps Esme, arms folded defiantly across her chest. “You men are all the same. How do we know you’re not working with Bernard?”

“Esme, shut up,” retorts Polly.

“No, you shut it. Neither of you care about her, it’s all about Michael with you, and fuck knows what he wants—“

“Enough,” roars Alfie, his temper at breaking point. “Fucking, enough. I love her, yeah, and that’s all you need to fucking know. So gather your shit, and let’s go get her.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence before Polly nods, looking relieved as she collects her bag and makes for the door. But Esme stares at him, eyes dark like the window to her soul.

“I don’t give a fuck what they say about you,” she announces, stalking forward until she’s toe to toe with him. The top of her head barely grazes his chin, but Esme speaks with a confidence that betrays her small frame. “If anything happens to her, it’s you that will be afraid of me. Do you understand? I’ll be watching you, Mr Solomons.”

She takes a few steps backwards. “Always watching,” she repeats before turning on her heel, leaving Alfie no choice but to follow.

Bloody Shelby women.

“Fuck off, no. Categorical.” Alfie pokes the side of the wagon with his cane. “That there, right, is a coffin on wheels. If you want to travel like the living dead, knock yourself out. But you see, for my people, it’s a matter of principle, ain’t it?”

Polly sighs. “Do you want to find Livy or not? We can’t go any further by car, and it’s too far to travel by foot. So unless you want to ride a horse, this is your only option.”

“Ride a fucking horse,” Alfie mutters as he steps forward and nearly loses a shoe in the mud. “This is just fucking perfect, innit? Drag me out in the middle of nowhere, in one of your curious gypo wagons, yeah? Then you put a bullet in my fucking skull, and when my poor Jewish soul is liberated from my body—“

“I can’t fucking do this,” mutters Polly, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. She takes a deep breath and gathers her strength. “Mr Solomons, please, I implore you. Get in the fucking wagon. If there’s any hope of finding Livy, we need to move quickly.”

Alfie nods and, for once, does as he’s told.

The mud and wagon had provided temporary distraction, but now his nausea returns with a vengeance. His head is spinning, his mind frantic, desperate to pinpoint the moment where everything went so horribly wrong. How the fuck did this happen? All his men—a network of spies, a fortune in bribes—and not one goddamn whisper about that bastard McCall.

Because they’re all bad men, but there are just some lines you don’t fucking cross.

Alfie grits his teeth and settles into the vardo (which is surprisingly comfortable, although he’ll never admit it) when the truth hits him squarely in the face.

Thomas fucking Shelby.

It’s the only explanation. Somehow he knew the truth about Bernard and Livy, and purposely kept it from him to protect the Liverpool deal.

Because of the fucking Russians.

Alfie groans and runs a hand down his face, recalling the conversation in Tommy’s office. It’s all coming together now, and it’s not fucking good. Livy is gone, and he’d bet his left nut both Bernard and Thomas are searching for her, making this whole fiasco a race against time.

And here he is—creeping across the countryside in a fucking box.

To make things worse, his fate lies in the hands of not one but two Shelby women and for all he knows, he’s riding headfirst into a trap. But what choice does he have? He’s armed and angry, a dangerous mix, fueled by emotions that are entirely new, fucking raw, and he will find Livy because right now nothing else matters.

Of course, what happens after he finds her is another story.

Fucking hell.

Just 24 hours ago, he was working up the courage to share his feelings. Now he’ll be lucky if she doesn’t cut his fucking balls off.

And that’s if Livy agrees to see him.

Alfie shakes his head and sits taller in his seat. He’s negotiated ‘deal or die’ offers with some of Britain’s most dangerous men, and this is Livy. His Livy. When he finds her, he won’t give her a choice. After all, it was God himself who delivered her to his doorstep.

Some things are meant to be, and once he has her in his arms, he won’t let her go again.

A/N: So ... let me know what you think! I really wanted this chapter to be longer, but honestly, I’ve been sitting on this for months. It got to a point where I think I just needed to publish it, so I could get creatively unstuck! 🙈

Or at least, let’s hope! 

Thanks to everyone still reading this story. I appreciate all of you xx

Tag List: @noz4a2 @confessionbrain​ @omgeternal​ @potter-solomons​​ @quarterpastmidnight​ @woofgocows​ @shaddixlife​ @redhead7799 @cillmequick​@goddessfuck @peakyscillian

[artaxlivs]

20 Questions for Writers

Tagged by @eriquin. Thank you!

1. How many works do you have on AO3? Forty-Five

2. What's your total AO3 word count? 419,731

3. What fandoms do you write for? Stranger Things, Marvel (specifically Hawkeye based), & recently, Teen Wolf

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos? (all Stranger Things)

Destroy the Silence (Drummer Steve)

An Accidental Flogging

The Second Worst Trip to Mordor Ever Taken

Even Flowers Have Their Dangers

Screw Todd, Steve's Her (His) Daddy Now

5. Do you respond to comments? Always

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? It's not angsty but this one will ruin your day and it's only 442 words: i was afraid to follow

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Almost all of my fics have happy endings but I am told that Something to Tweet About is a sticky sweet happy ending.

8. Do you get hate on fics? No but I don't write anything polarizing.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? Ohhhh I write smut. 😘

10. Do you write crossovers? Not really. I write "Fandom A in Fandom B's world" types sometimes but the characters don't crossover. I wrote a Dirty Dancing Stranger Things called Nobody's Baby.

11. Are any of your fics converted into podfics? Yes! I have two by amazing podders that I'm incredibly grateful to - check them out!

Destroy the Silence read by @rufusbear

Let Me Be Your Man (I Want to Hold Your Hand) by @thirdeye1234 (RattleandHum on Ao3)

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? My Destroy the Silence is currently being translated into Russian (It's not up yet or I'd link it!)

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? Nope.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship? Winterhawk (Hawkeye and the Winter Soldier)

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? Listen - don't come at me. I'm gonna finish all my WIPs, okay?

16. What are your writing strengths? Mmmm, story pacing, dialogue, good banter, humor, fluff, consent communication, character development and somehow working music into most of my fics.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? visual world building. I have aphantasia so sometimes I'll just forget to describe the world around them because I can't see it anyway.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? I think a few common words here and there are fine but not full sentences of a language you don't speak. Advice from Brandon Sanderson that I write by: be vague or you create plot holes and inconsistencies.

19. First fandom you wrote for? Winterhawk

20. Favorite fic you’ve written? Loaded question here. I'm gonna say two. My first is actually a Steve Rogers/Clint Barton series where Clint is a soldier and meets Steve Rogers during the war - he falls from the train, not Bucky. It's called A Bird By Any Other Name and I love it. My second is Even Flowers Have Their Dangers which is Stranger Things rewrite of the end of S4 and what I think S5 would look like if Steve and the kids had turned into werewolves in the tunnels in S2.

No pressure tags: @betrayedbycinnamon @carcrash429 @noxnthea @there-must-be-a-lock @river9noble

[esta-elavaris]

Hi!

Sooooo, I was wallowing in self pity because there was no HWFG (no pressure to write or update! I just can’t be normal about that story) so I went to check your ao3 and was surprised to see that you’re a fellow James Norrington truther! It inspired me to rewatch the first two pirates of the Caribbean movies and I kinda fell into the norrington rabbit hole again.

That made me read fallen through time and I honestly became OBSESSED so when I was done with the chapters you posted for that story I immediately turned to catch the wind and,,,,,,, [insert unhinged meme about ripping out guts]. I started reading it on Saturday and I couldn’t put it down so I read through two nights and am now tired as fuck, sitting at work, trying to appear busy while still reading your story. What have you done to me!!! I just read the wedding night chapter (I’m going insane, that had no business being so hot???) and honestly, that was so rewarding? Very well written smut aside, the slow burn was soooo good and there were moments where I had actual tears in my eyes??? Theo’s pain when she overheard Elizabeth accepting James‘ proposal? AH!!!! I adore their relationship. The banter, the soft moments, their conflict, their quiet conversations (though I must say I maybe even like it more in fallen through time? He’s just so mean, suspicious and stupid at times in that one, I live for that). I feel like theyre the definition of „she fell first, he fell harder“ and at one point i was really reminded of something I’ve read elsewhere… it was something like „you’re looking at me with purpose“ and that’s just so spot on for James? He’s so devoted to her it makes my heart melt.

On that note, it’s so impressive how much research you’ve done?! And how much thought you’ve put into everything? It’s not easy to write for that time period (I say as a person with two degrees in history lol), especially when it comes to balancing the cultural differences between norrington and Theo? That made everything even more fun to read.

And it’s so impressive how you manage to have this story follow the events of the movies but for it to never become boring or repetitive? You manage to capture the characters we all know and love so well while also making them your own. Your James, of course, is spot on, but also Elizabeth and will? And in all honesty, I maybe like your jack sparrow more than the canon one. He serves as comic relief so much that you sometimes forget he’s a seasoned pirate and much more intelligent, provident and even dangerous than one might think. He feels much more human in your story in my opinion. And that moment where he returns to Tortuga and confronts Theo about the cannibals? I laughed so loud that my bf woke up lol

Okay so I’ll stop rambling now, I just wanted to drop by to tell you how much I love your work and how glad I am that I checked out your norrington/theo stuff. Theo is amazing and I love them both so much. My boss just left the building and I sure will spend the rest of my time at work today reading, they don’t pay me enough anyway. I so hope that her attempt at changing James’ fate will work out and I’m very anxious but also excited to find out where this all goes!

Sending love and appreciation from Germany!

I know I'm on a tumblr break but this is too nice and it has me crying too much to leave it to gather dust in my inbox 🫠🫠🫠

Thank you so so so so SO much!!!

Honestly Catch the Wind will always have a special place in my heart (the people who have sat and watched me continue to talk about it ~14 months after it was finished are like "we know, babe") because I wrote it like, being somewhat fond of Norrington but mostly to get the idea for a Boromir fic out of my system, and instead I ended up sick over Norrington and still writing the Boromir fic anyway. Buuut I mean I got my favourite project so far out of it so I can't complain, I just laugh at how I played myself. Tbf tho, it was a great thing because POTC was a great stepping stone towards even more intimidating LOTR territory!

I'm so glad the smut was decent, too! That was the first story I've ever written it for and I was so nervous about it 💀 I do completely agree with your view on Theo and James as a couple though - the falling first/harder, and the "you're looking at me with purpose" both. I just don't think he'd ever be the type to get complacent. He's not a man who lays on the charm to win the girl, before thinking "what's the point in continuing to try?" once he "has" her. I see him as being such a ride or die, insanely loyal, "that is my WIFE", Gomez Addams coded guy, I love him for it. Those sitcom coded jokes where a guy hates his wife the second he marries her would be the very opposite of his kind of thing. That's why I had so much fun giving him that back in Theo, considering Elizabeth doesn't return his feelings in the movies.

And I mean, I don't think he's owed that from her and I don't think less of her for not returning those feelings, she can't help it (although I do raise my eyebrows at anybody who'd choose Will over The Noz, but people are allowed to be wrong ig), and I think if anything it'd be worse if she did marry him in the end without having that same level of feeling, but it was just so nice to give him someone as dedicated to him as he was to her in Theodora 🥹 I also think Boromir has a lot of that in him, so I'm very excited about his future with Sybil.

I'm also so thrilled to hear the research went appreciated - a lot of it was very fun, like if I hadn't done an Eng Lit/Creative Writing degree, I would've gone into history (I actually almost did do a second degree in history but the funding didn't work out, so I stick to just reading a lot, which I'm cool with), and like most of it was fun, but there were times when I was googling a) the origin of the coffee table, and b) 18th century equivalents of a coffee table/accent table at 4am for the sake of one throwaway line where I did wonder about my path in life. I swear, I deep-dived into it in the notes usually because I at least wanted to make it clear when I had done my research vs when I was knowingly deviating (a few unknowing mistakes did slip through but I think how much research otherwise went into it kind of makes people more willing to overlook a mistake here and there?) but also because it meant I could get more out of said research binges than just one unnoticeable line in a random paragraph 🤡

And JACK. God. I could write a dissertation on Jack. What they do to his character in movies 4/5 are 90% of the reason I don't like them and have only seen them once each. The other 10% is that uhhh they're just crap. Like it's so, so clear in the first three - mainly because of JD's fab acting - that the eccentric thing masks a lot of intelligence and cunning. He'll do his whole "weirdo" shtick, and I don't even think it's entirely an act, I think he is truly eccentric to an extent, but there'll just be these really brief moments where there's just a gleam in his eye, or he'll be suddenly serious for 0.5 seconds and you see what's going on behind the mask, and you realise it is a mask. Whereas in 4/5 it turns into a thing of "idiot who bumbles around and finds his way by sheer luck", which was never what he was in the trilogy.

I also think his crew's reaction to him shows that he is more than willing to be a hardass captain when it comes to it - the moment off of the top of my head is when Cotton's parrot goes "walk the plank" in movie two and his gun is immediately out and he's not happy and they all kinda startle a bit. But even without glimpses like that, like, they're pirates. If he was weak, and he wasn't willing to be stern and not take shit, they wouldn't follow him, and he wouldn't be half as infamous as he is. They know he's odd, but it's clear they respect him, so he must have earned that respect.

He was the one I was most scared of having to write going into this thing (along with Barbossa and Beckett), because he's so easy to get wrong. I'm always so, so thrilled when I hear I did him justice!

Okay, I have written you an entire dissertation here, so I'll stop now and just say again THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH!!!! 💜💜💜 I've read this like ten times since I first received it, it had me grinning like an idiot every single time, I'm so grateful -- and I hope you like what I have in store for HWFG! The wait shouldn't be tooo long, I'm taking April off of posting but not writing, so ideally I'll have something to post in the very beginning of May!

(and I'll reply to your other ask in a bit, I just wanted to make it clear I wasn't ignoring this!!)