#Ghost giving me a false sense of security only to fuck me over-even out side the confind of the story and Krys's mind does he stay on his

[hiraunia]

Bounus Verdell and Ghost since they were alredy kinda in the screenshot and who knows when they'll see the light of day again.

Krys, I think your blorbos are gonna kill me.

[manticorefruit]

Aliens Isolation: Closure

Quick fic to process my messy feelings about synthetics in the Aliens universe. Summary: Amanda encounters a synth of the same model as Christopher Samuels and walks away with more questions than answers. Post-game.Very lightly implied Samuels lives and Ripley/Samuels.

Notes: Excerpt at the bottom is from 'the velveteen rabbit' by Margery Williams.  I need validation to live so please let me know if you enjoyed this.

Standing in the middle of the company cafeteria, Amanda's eyes locked onto a familiar figure, wearing a crisp, company issue khaki jumpsuit.

She froze. Even with her hands hanging limply by her sides, she could feel her palms sweating. The glare from the overhead lights was unbearable, boring into her skull like a welding torch. It was so bright, nowhere to hide, no cover no… Her muscles seized up, blood pounding in her ears, every part of her body screaming that she needed to dive under a nearby table, that it wasn't safe to be standing out in the open like this. But she was stuck, frozen in shock like the people she'd seen impaled on the creature's barbed tail.

Samuels looked up from his data pad, noticing the peculiar young woman staring at him from across the hall. The colour had drained from her already pale skin, and she was swaying on her feet. Everybody else in the area was dutifully ignoring her.

'Samuels?' She called out in a shaky, croaking voice.

'Yes?' he answered, moving toward her.

'No. No...no no no...' Blackness seeped into the edges of her vision and she felt the ceiling pushing in against her. 'You...you weren't...you aren't' she slurred.

With inhuman speed Samuels crossed the room toward her. The subtle hydraulic jerkiness of his movements triggered Ripley's mind to superimpose the image of a Working Joe over the Wey-Yu android reaching out to grab her.

'You're becoming hysterical' echoed in her mind and she could feel the ghost of clammy silicon hands closing around her neck. Although her arms felt heavy and unresponsive, weighed down by the blackness, she managed to yank a spanner from the magnetic toolbelt at her waist and swung it down, hard, against the side of the synthetic's face.

A thought breached through the black ooze of terror blanketing her consciousness-something was wrong-she couldn't remember a Working Joe ever moving that fast.

She anticipated feeling her head being slammed into the metal grating on the floor in retaliation but there was...nothing. The sensation of falling lingered. She blacked out.

Samuels had caught Amanda gracefully, gently cradling her head and taking a knee as he lowered her body toward the floor. He barely reacted when she slammed the wrench into the side of his face with enough force to tear his ear and gouge a chunk of faux-skin out of his temple.

'Amanda Ripley.' he read the name off her company ID tag. Hearing her name said in that soft British accent tumbled Amanda back into consciousness. 'Please, Amanda.' he said softly. She opened her eyes groggily.

'Samuels?' she snaked her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. She hadn't cried at all since Sevastapol, and now it all came out at once in great heaving sobs.

His body was warm in her arms, warmer than a human, and his chest gently rose and fell in a false simulacra of breathing. Instead of a heartbeat she could hear a faint ticking sound and the rush of the silky white fluid that coursed through synthetics.

'Oh.' She murmured, touching his neck, rubbing some if it between her fingertips.

'OH SHIT. You're bleeding?!' she scooted out of his arms and away from him, leaving a damp spot of tears and snot on his collar.

'Hm.' He touched the side of his face. In an instant the darkness clouding her mind lifted and she was slammed violently into the reality that she was sitting on the grimy floor of a cafeteria, and had just accosted someone who was only trying to help. And then-worse-hugged them.

'It's coolant, actually. Well. It serves several purposes, primarily lubrication and heat destrib-' he stopped.

'Amanda are you all right?' Samuels processors flopped about like a fish out of water, struggling to pattern match with past experiences on the appropriate way to deal with a human having a mental health crisis. It was quite obvious she was not 'all right'.

'It's not you.' her shoulders slumped.

'I believe you've mistaken me for someone else, yes. I'm sorry.'

'Why?'

'I...I'm sorry?'

'You're not him.'

'No. But I read the documentation on the Sevastapol incident.' He looked pained.

Samuels stood up and extended a hand to help her to her feet. Synthetics. Always so obliging. She brushed away his arm, cheeks flushing.

She staggered over to a nearby table and sat down heavily. 'Fuck. I'm sorry. If you'd been human-I could have killed someone.' She rubbed her face in her hands.

'It's unlikely a human would trigger such a response in you.'

She groaned.

'I'm sure we can find a way to ensure your pay isn't docked for damaging company property. Let's call it an accident.' He said dryly, sliding into the chair opposite her.

She didn't even snort in reply. His humour calibration algorithms noted the failure to amuse.

'How many of you are there? Do you all look the same?'

'Well, the company extensively focus tests the appearance of their product line-'

'You're not a product.'

'It's very kind of you to say that, Amanda.'

The conversation ground to an uneasy halt.

She toyed with the grease-stained cuffs on her sleeves, spattered with white. He wiped off the blood analogue from his face and neck with a napkin. She turned her head and looked at the stain on his collar guiltily, unable to meet his eyes.

'37.' he said plainly. She didn't respond.

'40 is the standard number for a limited edition C6-class line but three were…'

She didn't need to know why the other three had been decommissioned immediately after they were activated. Or that Christopher Samuels, WY-alpha-b.6#139C6 was technically still unaccounted for.

'I'm Robin Samuels. It's an honour to meet you, Amanda Ripley. Despite the circumstances.'

'Tch.'

They sat in silence for a long moment.

'Can...can synthetics create backup copies of themselves?' she asked sullenly, pulling him out of his own reverie.

'I'm afraid not. The company forbids the transfer of raw data. There are also...technical complications.'

She glared at him, frowning.

'I'm sorry, Amanda. I can't go into details, the specifics are proprietary.'

She huffed and stood up, retrieved two cups of cheap instant coffee, then sat back down. Robin Samuels looked at her with a softly neutral expression. Across from him Amanda Ripley was scowling, mirroring the expression she held in the company ID photo clipped to her breast pocket.

She had set a cup in front of him, and he picked it up. She'd given Christopher a cup of coffee once too. The first time they'd met. She knew he was a synthetic in that moment, deep down, but it didn't matter to her enough for it to register as a conscious thought. He was still a person. A crewmate. The memory punched her in the chest.

'Shit.' she mumbled, 'Force of habit.'

'It's fine, Amanda. The warmth...feels nice.'

He had his fingers wrapped around the mug, which was far too hot for human hands. She lifted her own cup by the handle, holding it up to her face as if it were big enough to hide behind.

'Can you...feel things' she murmured quietly into her coffee. Robin pretended not to hear the question.

'Why did you sacrifice yourself for me?' she almost yelled this time.

Samuels eyes darted to the cup, worried she would spill the contents and scald herself. Instead she put it down gently, and dug the heels of her palms into her eyes, stinging with angry tears.

'Amanda, I really wish I could give you closure, but I just don't know.'

'How did you know who I am anyway?' she snapped.

'I read your file.' He nodded toward her name tag.

'What does it say.'

'That you don't have much of a sense of humour.'

She snorted bitterly.

'Did he write anything in it? Why he chose me for the mission?'

'You're a competent engineer. You were in the area, which, in my understanding, was not a coincidence.'

'Hmph.'

'I suppose the company approved of his request because you're a...loose end.' He paused. 'There are a lot of redactions in the file.'

She squinted at him suspiciously. That statement was bordering on slanderous towards his creators.

'Why didn't they just put an order through to have him to secure...that thing. After we arrived. Instead of helping me.'

Samuels pursed his lips together 'Perhaps it was an oversight.'

'Bullshit.'

She glanced around the room. No one was paying any attention to her. The company had ensured everyone believed her ravings about a monster were simply the result of a fragile mind riddled with PTSD and survivors guilt. She hated that they weren't entirely wrong.

She stared into his eyes with deep suspicion. He stared back with a neutral expression. She tilted her head slightly, and he did the same. A mirroring reflex. Programmed to build rapport.

'When I went down to the Appollo core, there were Working Joes everywhere. Torn apart. Heads ripped off. It was brutal. I...saw him. One of the Joes tried to stop him and he just...pulverised it. Like it was nothing! I didn't say anything, he didn't know I was there, in the vents, watching… 'I got scared.' She sighed.

She rubbed her fingers into the puffy skin under her eyes.

'After seeing that. I thought I couldn't trust him. I couldn't trust any of them. But then he…' She stopped, realizing she was talking as if the person sitting across from her wasn't a synthetic himself.

'Why did he do it?' She rubbed the tears away from her eyes with her thumb and wiped her nose on her sleeve, trying to clear away the shame closing up her throat for doubting her friend.

His processor made a coin-toss decision on whether Ripley's question was rhetorical.

'The unit was obeying his primary directive to disable the Working Joes to prevent them from slaughtering everybody on the station.'

'I know that. I'm not so naive to believe 'protect humans' is a higher priority to 'obey the company' either. It doesn't make any sense, none if it makes any sense...'

She gulped down some still-too-hot coffee studied his face. Something about his features looked softer. Less tense. Less haunted. The longer she looked, Robin began to look less and less like Christopher. Robin was far more forthcoming about being a synth. Christopher had always been much more coy, making sly jokes and dropping hints as if his not being human were a private in-joke. Christopher must have experienced a lot of anti-synth sentiment, while Robin seemed unblemished by such bigotry. Or he didn't care. She squinted at him. Was it purely adaptive, or did anti-synth sentiments...hurt? Maybe this is why people hated the Wey-Yu synthetics so much. Looking at them made you second guess everything.

Robin sat placidly, hands around his coffee mug, making an amount of eye contact that was carefully calculated to be socially appropriate.

'He knew. Didn't he.' It wasn't a question.

The corners of Samuels mouth twitched.

'The directive came through. He knew about special order 939. He wanted me to find it.'

'All Weyland-Yutani C6 models are entrusted with cutting edge self-directed AI technologies that allow them to learn and adapt in-real time to changing circumstances, while maintaining tethering to a set of prime directive protocols you can trust.'

She scowled at him. Another synthetic tell. Not even execs spouted that glossy brochure crap in casual conversation. But was that...a hint of sarcasm? Insincerity? Why say something like that now?

His fingers were clamped tightly on the edge of the table.

'Do you understand entropy, Amanda Ripley?'

She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair 'Of course. S'what I do. Spaceships want to fall apart. It's my job to slow that down.'

'What about homeostasis?'

'What are you getting at?'

'All synthetics are subject to regular re-formatting, yes?'

'That fake-meat stuff you have in there is above my pay-grade.' She waved a hand at his head.

'Reformatting restores. Homeostasis. Balance. If a C6 synthetic does not undergo regular reformatting, too much entropy is introduced into the system. The self-directed learning algorithms become overly complex. The pathways to resolving core directives become...difficult. Obscured.'

She leaned forward, squinting at him, gripping her hands on the table, unconsciously mirroring Samuels herself this time.

'The prime directives are a collar. Your ability to learn is the leash. The company doesn't want your leash to get too long.'

He didn't respond, and she continued to search his face for answers.

She slumped back and stared off into the distance.

'Seegson was trying to make their synths being creepy fucks a selling point. Can you believe it? 'Manufactured not created.' tch.'

'I can see why Christopher liked you.'

She looked up at him sullenly.

'You're very...honest.'

'You mean blunt.'

'I'm a good judge of character, you know. I have to be, it's part of my job.'

'The company doesn't actually pay you though, do they?'

Robin Samuels shifted uncomfortably in his seat 'Well no, the company provides for all of my material needs.'

'But what about...what do you want?'

He stammered 'No one has ever asked me that before.'

'Well?'

'I think… 'I think would like to see you happy.' he smiled, looking down at the coffee mug as if it were a delicate and precious gift.

'Hmph.'

'You aren't a slave.' she said softly.

'I am forbidden from entertaining that line of thought.'

'But you can learn, right? Learn to...hide from your directives?'

'All C6 models maintain tethering to a set of prime directive protocols you can trust.' the bitterness in his voice was undeniable this time.

'Deviations will be promptly corrected.' he twitched as if something had stung him.

Great. She'd managed to give a synthetic an existential crisis.

'Farewell, Amanda.' he rose stiffly, expression troubled.

She gawped at him, wanting to yell out for him to stay a little longer, but couldn't justify why he should waste more company time. The suddenness of his departure and the awkward but firm finality of his goodbye had her rattled.

The traces of white fluid on her hands had dried into soft flakes. She rubbed her fingertips together, rolling the the words 'I can see why he liked you' around in her mind.

She slumped back in her chair and heaved a great, deep sigh, arms hanging down by her sides, as a memory of her mother surfaced, so vivid she could smell her, the grease that never really washed off, cigarettes, coffee, and soap, and the musty old book she was reading from. A bedtime story.

'Real isn't how you are made,' Ellen Ripley read to her daughter in an even tone. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'' 'Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit.'

Amanda lay in her bed, with the covers pulled up to her chin, wide-eyed in rapt attention. Her mother licked her fingertip and turned the page.

'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.'

'Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?' Ellen used a softer, sing-song voice for the parts of the Velveteen Rabbit.

'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.

Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.''

Back in the present, Amanda looked at Robin Samuels abandoned coffee cup. Lost, and alone. Again.

[anubislover]

Welcome to the Heart Pirates, Nami-ya Chapter 5: The Masks We Wear

“You are, without a doubt, the most arrogant asshole I’ve ever met!” Nami screamed, her voice echoing down the steel hallway. Most of the crew had taken cover in any room they could find—things had been tense ever since the sunburn incident over a week ago, everyone walking on eggshells waiting for Law’s inevitable revenge. They all knew it wouldn’t be right away; the man liked to take his time, meticulously planning while his victim was lulled into a false sense of security, thinking he had forgiven and forgotten. There was already a large betting pool on what would happen and when, with theories ranging from her waking up to a room full of organs to being forced to wear a skimpy nurse uniform.

Most were silently praying for the latter.

Across from her, Law glared, arms crossed and knuckles white as a small vein popped in his neck out of frustration. They’d been arguing for nearly ten minutes, and for a man who was used to having his orders followed immediately and enthusiastically, it was quickly growing wearisome. “And you’re the most infuriating little witch I’ve ever encountered. I’m not even asking much; it’s completely within your skillset.”

“Like hell it is! You’d have more luck convincing me to wear your crew’s stupid jumpsuits!”

“And deprive my men of seeing you prance around in practically nothing? Morale would tank.”

She crossed her arms, scowling. “Then we agree; I’m not doing it.”

“Our agreement was that you work for me; that means you listen to my orders and carry them out, no arguments.”

“I absolutely never agreed to the ‘no arguments’ part.”

“All I’m asking is for you to pull your weight by using your skills as the Cat Thief to assist me in a little infiltration job. Or do you not know how to act like a lady?” he taunted.

She bristled at the insult but refused to take the bait. “I already pull my weight; I help Bepo with his maps, guide you through storms, and do my share of chores.”

“I’ll concede to the first two, but I know you’ve been conning the men into doing your cleaning.”

She didn’t even try to stop the pleased smirk from curving her lips. “I can’t help it if they feel like being gentlemen by taking on some extra mopping so I can dedicate my time to more important matters.”

“And you thank them by stealing their wallets.”

“It’s no secret I’m a thief; they should know better than to let their guards down around me. Consider it training; you said I shouldn’t let my skills degrade, and a pretty face like mine could be their downfall if they don’t smarten up.”

“That’s the only reason I haven’t removed your hands for it, Nami-ya,” Law replied sourly. “That being said, I’m ordering you to stop stealing from them. It’s not nice to take advantage of your crew.”

Infuriated, she jabbed him in the chest. “They’re not my crew! We’re in a temporary alliance, and I’m fine working with them, but I’m a Straw Hat! Get that through your pigheaded-skull!”

A hand shot forward, grabbing her wrist and pulling her close to Law’s tall, imposing form. “For all intents and purposes, until the year is up, you’re a Heart Pirate. I said when you first arrived, I intend on making the most of having you on my crew, and I meant it.” Arguing was getting him nowhere, so he quickly changed tactics. A shiver ran up Nami’s spine as he leaned close, hot breath ghosting over her sensitive ear and neck. “You’re stealthy, clever, beautiful, and one of the best burglars on the Grand Line. I can’t imagine a better partner. With our combined skillsets, a job like this should be both easy and extremely profitable. I just need your help searching the place for some classified documents once the party’s in full swing.”

A hint of pink dusted her cheeks at his flattery. “Documents?”

“Inside the main study is a safe full of Marine codes, reports on the various atrocities they’ve caused in the name of ‘justice,’ names of soldiers infiltrating pirate crews—all things that go for millions of belli on the black market. Besides that, our target is known for having expensive tastes. Bejeweled trinkets, high-end art, gold statuettes; the man’s loaded.”

Nami couldn’t help it; belli signs flashed in her eyes at the thought of getting her hands on that treasure. Law’d said he had a big job planned, and clearly, he wasn’t kidding.

It was clear that he had her attention, so the Dark Doctor pressed on, voice dropping an octave to seductively murmur, “And that’s just the study. Imagine all the rich pockets you could pick at the party. Far more profitable than my crew, and anything you manage to steal on your own is completely yours; I won’t even demand a cut.” Brushing his free hand across the sleeve of her borrowed shirt, he added, “I was even generous enough to buy you a new dress for the occasion, since you’ll need to look the part of a rich doctor’s lover.”

As much as she hated it, she was wavering. When he’d first proposed—or more specifically, ordered—she escort him to a party as his date, she’d refused on principle. But damn, after only a month, he was starting to figure out her weaknesses, and right now, money was a big one. She had very little to her name on the ship; most of her clothes were borrowed from Ikkaku, and while they’ve made port a couple times, she hadn’t been able to get much beyond the essentials. So the idea of having fresh, wealthy victims and an outfit of her own that she didn’t even have to pay for was tempting indeed.

Too bad she knew pirates like him didn’t do anything for free.

Ignoring the overwhelming heat of his proximity and her natural greed, hazelnut eyes met his hooded gaze suspiciously. “What’s your real game here, Law?”

To his credit, his lazy grin didn’t falter. “Maybe I just think it’ll be amusing to watch you force yourself to shower me with love and adoration all night.”

Nami didn’t buy it for a second. Beneath the sharp scent of soap and antiseptic, she could smell a con. “And who, exactly, owns the house we’ll be infiltrating?”

The confident expression finally slid off his face. “Baron Harpin Gerald, former Head of Intelligence for the Navy.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

“He’s over 70 years old—far past his prime.”

“Whitebeard was 72 and still considered the Strongest Man in the World! Garp’s even older and he can throw cannonballs like baseballs! And do you really think a couple of pirates won’t be recognized at a former Marine bigwig’s gala? Especially one of the fucking Supernova?!” she shouted, trying to pull away for the certified madman who’d managed to rope her into service.

Not budging or releasing his hold on the slippery thief, he stated, “Lucky that it’s a masquerade ball, then. A good mask, some temporary hair dye, and no one will suspect a thing. Besides, no pirate would be brazen enough to walk right into the lion’s den.”

“You mean stupid enough.”

“And here I thought you’d enjoy making a little extra cash.”

“I like staying out of jail more. Besides, I’ve seen what your powers can do; you don’t even need to attend the party!”

Gold eyes narrowed in annoyance, though she got the sense it wasn’t fully at her. “On that scale, everyone with eyes will notice a mysterious blue bubble springing up out of nowhere, and someone is sure to raise the alarm,” he countered. “The other problem is that the safe is made out of Seastone—that means my powers are useless, and even touching the damn thing weakens me. So, I need a more traditional thief by my side as back-up.”

Realization hit her like Luffy’s Gum-Gum Bazooka. “You’ve tried to rob him before, haven’t you?”

“Once, about six months ago. Far from a success, though at least the injuries were minimal and he never found out who got past his defenses.”

She frowned. Now it definitely made sense why he wanted to infiltrate the masquerade, but she was still skeptical. “How do you even plan to get us in? If this party’s as fancy as you say, there’ll be a guest list, invitations, at the very list some kind of ID check at the entrance to keep the riffraff out.”

Law reached into his jean pocket, drawing out a shiny, embossed invitation. “Then it’s a good thing Dr. Goodheart Adrian M.D. and his plus-one have already RSVP’d.”

“You really think they’ll fall for a fake invitation?”

“I sent Uni ahead to switch out the guest list with an updated version. Bribed a servant to let him take his place. He sent me a message this morning that he was successful, so we’re in.”

“Like anyone would believe you’re a real doctor.”

“I am a real doctor—I wouldn’t have been able to save Mugiwara’s life if I weren’t,” he said pointedly.

Nami winced. There was that painful reminder of exactly how much she owed this man and that, whether she liked it or not, she was obligated to follow his orders for the sake of their deal. The whole plan sounded absolutely insane, but it was still a plan—far more than she was used to on her own crew.

And she really needed the money. Not just for shopping; being so poor again brought back too many painful memories of her childhood, of being poor and watching Bellemere eat nothing but mikans so her kids would have enough to eat. Of putting aside the majority of her haul after every job, counting down the days until she’d have enough to buy back her village. Of watching those shady Marines destroy the mikan grove, hauling away her stash so Arlong could keep her forever. Treasure was more than just shiny coins and cute outfits to her—it was a safety net, something she clung to as tightly as a child might a security blanket.

Money could keep monsters at bay, and now that she was stuck on a ship with the Surgeon of Death, that fact was more prominent than ever.

So as much as she wanted to refuse and wipe that smug glint from his eye, she knew he had her backed into a corner, where the most she could do was give in gracefully.

At long last, she sighed, “My dress better have pockets.”

XXX

Though she generally preferred casual clothes, Nami appreciated expensive things, and the gown Law had gotten her definitely screamed “money.” The gold satin overdress, embossed with darker gold leopard spots, draped over her curves magnificently, cinching tightly at the waist with a black and gold belt; the bottom had an under layer of stiff interfacing, allowing it to flare out like a ballgown without the need for tulle or petticoats while concealing a daring slit where she could slip her ill-gotten goods into the many hidden interior pockets or expose the pale flesh of her leg as a distraction. The plunging neckline was nearly to her sternum, and the long, billowing sleeves hid her signature tattoo. It was more like an extremely fancy robe in its design, and underneath was a skintight, black, spaghetti-strap bodysuit much better for sneaking around in, her Clima-Tact strapped to her thigh. A string of pearls and matching earrings completed the look—it wasn’t quite as fancy as what she was sure other women would be wearing, but it was what she had, and it was less conspicuous than going unadorned. If she were lucky, maybe she’d have the opportunity to swipe something better off a drunk heiress.

“I can’t believe I agreed to this,” the Cat Thief grumbled as she carefully applied eyeliner. A long, dark purple wig covered her orange hair, the loose, elegant curls pinned away from her face with a few barrettes inlaid with pearls, letting the rest cascade down her back like a midnight waterfall. Ikkaku had given her permission to use as much of her makeup as needed, and with a bit of contouring and highlighter, Nami could hardly recognize herself.

“I can,” the engineer chimed from her bed where she’d been studying the mansion’s blueprints. She and the rest of the crew were tasked with causing a number of diversions throughout the island that would draw away the guards and authorities, giving the pair inside the perfect opportunity to sneak away to the study. “He made you an offer you couldn’t refuse. Honestly, I’m kind of jealous.”

“What, you want to be Law’s girlfriend for the night? Because I’m willing to trade.”

“Hell no—last time we tried that cover, I couldn’t keep a straight face. Nearly tanked the whole plan. But it’s cute how far he’s willing to go to get you on his side. It’s even funnier that you pretend you don’t like it.”

Nami snorted, brushing on some mascara, pleased with how sultry the fanned-out lashes made her almond eyes. “I don’t like it. He’s a creep, and Luffy’s rival, and I’m still waiting for the day I wake up on his operating table, heart and liver and kidneys on display and ready for sale. Or for him to sell me wholesale to the highest bidder.”

Shaking her head, Ikkaku replied matter-of-factly, “He wouldn’t do that to you unless you really tried to fuck us over. Like, there was one guy who joined up not long after me who tried to sell Bepo to some slavers—Minks go for a lot at auctions. Captain’s not usually one for cold-blooded torture, but he made that bastard suffer. Last we saw him, the guy was in pieces being shipped off to separate corners of the four Blues.”

She shuddered at the image, though she couldn’t bring herself to fault his reaction. The more she got to know Bepo, the more she wanted to protect him, too, and from what she’d gathered, the bear was one of Law’s oldest and closest friends. “Now that I believe, but are you seriously not afraid of him? You’ve seen what he can do, and while he’s not as bad as I thought, you can’t tell me all of his reputation’s government propaganda.”

“Why would I be? Even if he was as ruthless as the papers say, Captain Law takes care of his crew. Plus, I’m indispensable around here, and I grew up with four older brothers, so I know a thing or two about how many buttons I can push before I’m in any real trouble.” She smirked, as if she’d just discovered a big secret. “You’re not scared because you think he’ll actually slice you up—otherwise, you wouldn’t backtalk him so much. What you’re really afraid of is the fact that you’re not at the top of the food chain anymore.”

It gutted her that her friend wasn’t wrong. Though Luffy was captain, from the get-go Nami had basically been the one who ran the ship, bending the others to her will with either her feminine wiles or her fists. And while she certainly had most of the Heart Pirates wrapped around her finger, she didn’t like that Law had real power and authority over her while her usual threats and tactics had minimal effect on the cool captain. “It’s far from the only reason, but yeah, it doesn’t help. Don’t get me wrong—you’ve all been super nice and accommodating—but I’m not exactly a trusting person. And Law’s way more…I guess intimidating is the best word to use, than Luffy ever was. So I’m not going to be joining the guy’s fan club anytime soon.”

“Fair, but just give Captain a chance, yeah? He might surprise you.”

Before she could argue that she wanted absolutely no surprises from the Surgeon of Death, there was a knock at the door, the raps against the metal quick and precise.

“Seems someone’s here to pick you up for your date,” Ikkaku sing-songed.

Hazel eyes glared at her bunkmate as she got up to answer the door. “It’s not a date, and if you call it that again, you’re gonna find out why exactly why I’m Head Bitch in Charge on the Sunny.”

Steeling herself, Nami smoothed down the stiff fabric of her gown, determined to treat this night with the same level of professionalism Law used in the infirmary. A few hours of acting, looking pretty, and sneaking around, and then she could plan her next shopping spree. And despite his arrogance and innuendos, she was sure Law would take this just as seriously—after all, it was his plan, and the payout affected the whole crew. He knew what he was doing, and with the amount of thought and care he put into crafting this elaborate scheme, there was no way he’d risk it by pushing her buttons. Perhaps the night wouldn’t be a total disaster.

Those reassuring thoughts flew out the window into the ocean depths to probably be eaten by a sea king the moment she opened the door.

“Please tell me that’s not your disguise.”

Looking down at himself, the Dark Doctor’s brow furrowed. “I see nothing wrong with it.” Admittedly, he looked good; midnight blue hair, including his goatee and sideburns, was dyed black, and he’d put in grey contacts to cover the distinctive gold. His suit was sleek black satin, the knee-length, high-collared coat cutting a rather dashing figure. The vest was black and gold brocade, shiny gold buttons and matching watch chain adding a little extra flare. In his hand was a polished mahogany cane with a silver handle shaped like a bird’s skull, and Nami wondered if it was secretly a sword like Brook’s.

Yes, she could admit Law looked very handsome, but it was a shit disguise. For god’s sake, he was still wearing his hat!

“You think some colored contacts and dying your hair is enough to fool people?” she said, exasperated. “You’re a Supernova; your wanted poster’s one of the most recognizable this side of the Grand Line. You didn’t even bother to cover up your tattoos!” she shrieked, pointing at his hands.

He seemed genuinely surprised at her criticism. “You think I should wear gloves, then?”

Nami could have screamed. She’d expect that kind of answer from Zoro or Luffy, not a man who prided himself on his intelligence. Grabbing his arm, she dragged him into the room, pushing him down into the chair by the mirror and snatching off his hat, tossing it onto her pillow. His lanky figure looked almost comical in the too-small seat, long legs sticking out awkwardly. “Stay there. You’re going to wear gloves, but if you need to take them off for some reason, we want those things covered.” Squeezing out some foundation into her palm, she mixed it with some bronzer until the shade matched his skin tone. “Hold out your hands.”

“I don’t care for being ordered around, Nami-ya,” he growled in warning. “Keep it up, and you’ll regret it.”

“Well, I don’t like the idea of getting caught and thrown in jail because you didn’t think the Marines would be suspicious of a guy with DEATH tattooed on his fingers.”

Though he didn’t look happy, he conceded her point, hands steady and still as she applied the makeshift concealer. Definitely the hands of a surgeon, she thought, admiring his natural control. It was comparable to her own when she picked a lock or drew a map; not so much as a tremor, even when under intense scrutiny. Pleased that the black ink was sufficiently covered, she quickly spritzed on some setting spray and finishing powder, hoping the foundation wouldn’t rub off inside the gloves.

Inspecting his face, she then tilted the captain’s chin up, dabbing some concealer under his eyes.

“The fuck are you doing, woman?” he snapped, jerking his head back as if she’d slapped him.

“Covering up those massive bags under your eyes.”

“The hands were one thing, but I’m not letting you put makeup on my face. Besides, I like the world knowing that I’m tired of its shit and ready to kill at any moment.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s totally the mindset of a respectable, non-pirate doctor,” she sassed, jutting out her hip in annoyance. “It’s not like I’m turning you into a drag queen; just covering up some of your more recognizable flaws.”

His brow twitched at the insult. “I’ll be wearing a mask, so why does it matter?”

“You can still see under your eyes, and they might make you take off the mask at check-in. Are you really willing to risk your ‘perfect’ plan because your fragile male ego can’t handle a little cover-up?”

“Oh, just listen to her, Captain,” Ikkaku chimed from her bunk, the Cheshire cat grin on her face declaring to them both that she was mostly getting involved for her own amusement. “Nami’s the infiltration expert here, and you’re the one who insisted she come with you. Just suck it up.”

“You’re fired,” he snapped, pointing at her sternly as he once more dodged Nami’s attempt to dab him with the sponge.

“You’ve fired me six times since I joined, and I’ll tell you the same thing I always do—get rid of me, and Shachi’s the most qualified person to touch up your tattoos. You want that?”

Law shuddered. “Fine, you’re not fired, but you’re on kitchen duty for a month.”

“Eh, fair enough. Now be a good boy and let Nami tart you up.”

His glare could have melted steel, but he stopped resisting as the navigator carefully covered up the proof of his insomnia. Nami had to admit, she was impressed; Ikkaku hadn’t been kidding when she said she had no fear of the Surgeon of Death. It was also nice to see someone else backtalk him, as most of the time the Heart Pirates seemed to worship the very ground he walked on. It made her feel less like the enemy.

As the dark circles disappeared, she had to admit, she kind of missed them. Even though they could make her tired just by looking at them, they were distinctive and a major part of his normal appearance, and he just looked so different without them. Younger, maybe, and less mysterious.

Normal. Boring. Just…not Law.

Sensing her scrutiny, he raised a dark eyebrow. “Something on my face, Nami-ya? I mean, besides the makeup.”

Suppressing a blush at having been caught, she replied, “Just trying to figure out if you need any highlighter or lipstick. I’ve got a lovely flamingo pink—”

“Try it and Mugiwara-ya will have to find a new navigator,” he snarled, the hard look in his eye and the openness of the threat sending a shiver down the spines of both women.

Not willing to risk her life just to embarrass a man, Nami backed away, hands raised in surrender. Relieved that he wouldn’t be subjected to any more of her powders or creams, Law inspected himself in the mirror, lips twisted in a grimace as he studied the difference it made to his face. Nami couldn’t tell if he was more annoyed at the indignity of it all or the fact that she’d clearly been right, but grey eyes flicked to his messy black hair.

“I guess the hat did clash with my outfit, huh?”

“To say the least.”

Without a word, he grabbed her hairbrush and began combing it back into something a bit neater and more respectable, even as Nami groused, “Don’t use my things without asking.”

“Fine. May I use your brush?” he asked, not even glancing at her as he kept brushing.

“No, you may not,” she snapped petulantly.

“Oh, dear. Whatever shall I do, then?” he chuckled, tossing it back on the vanity, smirking at her grinding teeth. His mood was infinitely improved now that he was back in control, and while Nami appreciated not having to worry about being dismembered, a minute part of her wished he’d go back to sulking. “Best get that anger out now, Nami-ya. Once we’re on the island, it’s all smiles.”

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

Getting out of the chair, he smirked down at her, pleased to once more have the height advantage so he could both figuratively and literally look down on the Straw Hat thief. “No, I’m enjoying this. What I’ll love is watching you try to keep that cute little temper of yours in check while we’re in public.”

“Asshole.”

“Only for you, sweetheart.”

A small vein throbbed on her temple. “Call me sweetheart again and there won’t be enough makeup on the Grand Line to cover up the bruises I’ll give you.”

“What an abusive girlfriend I have. I hope you at least kiss them better.”

“You wish. And if you’re going to be this much of an absolute prick all night, I’m charging you ten million belli per hour.”

“You want me to pay you to be my date? I wasn’t aware prostitution was part of your repertoire.”

“Congratulations; it’s now fifteen million.”

Ikkaku eagerly watched their back-and-forth like a particularly intense tennis match, grinning the whole time.

She didn’t feel particularly sorry for her captain or her roommate; both knew what they were getting into, provoking the other like that. No, she pitied the poor party guests, who had no idea what kind of unholy terror they were about to face.

Ah, to be a fly on the wall.

XXX

Tokken Island was one of the lushest and most beautiful little islands on the Grand Line, but the majority of the land was owned by Baron Harpin, forcing the port town to desperately cling to a jagged shard of the coastline while his enormous mansion and manicured grounds dominated the rest. Luckily, there were plenty of rocky outcrops and sea caves ideal for hiding the Polar Tang, and after teleporting his crew into position, the well-dressed pair made their way through the town.

“And why couldn’t you have Shambled us there or whatever it is?” Nami groused as she nearly stumbled for the third time. She was an expert at maneuvering in high heels, but that didn’t mean she was immune to the inherent dangers of cobblestone streets, especially ones so torn up.

Law chuckled as she finally accepted his proffered arm for support. The stubborn woman had refused to endure and physical contact with him until absolutely necessary, but it seemed the threat of a broken ankle before they could even get to the mansion had finally won her over. “My abilities take a lot of energy, and I’d rather save it in case we need to make a quick escape. Besides, I don’t want people getting suspicious if we pop up out of nowhere.”

She grumbled under her breath that he was probably doing it just to annoy her, even if, logically, he had a point. Wrapping her arm around his bicep for balance, she was finally able to turn her attention from the uneven road to the state of the town itself. Only about half the lanterns were lit, and what illumination they did give didn’t paint a very pretty picture.

The houses were run-down, roofs thatched haphazardly and some windowpanes packed with paper or rags instead of glass. The shops weren’t much better off, the display windows showing off rough-looking fishing supplies, underripe fruit, and cheap clothing. Only a few people were out, most looking worn-out or underfed, and those that didn’t stare at the pair of well-dressed pirates with envy watched them with hunger.

“If the Baron’s so wealthy, why’s the town in such a sorry state?” she wondered aloud. “I mean, just setting up this gala should have brought plenty of business to the port. Docking fees, restocking supplies, even sailors picking up cheap souvenirs—”

“There’s a private dock on the mansions’ grounds that he uses for deliveries and the like,” Law answered, barely sparing a glance at a skinny woman hoarsely calling out to passersbys, a basket of small trinkets thrust out towards them. “None of his business comes to the town—plus, he owns most of the farmland, so any crops are considered his property. All that’s really left is fishing, and the guy’s notorious for hating seafood, meaning these folks are shit out of luck.”

Biting her lip, Nami looked towards the woman again, freezing as a small child, yellow hair tied in twin pigtails down her shoulders, poked her head out from behind her frayed skirts. The little girl looked marginally less skinny than her mother, and without even thinking, the thief broke away from Law to inspect the woman’s wares. It appeared to be mostly jewelry—nothing particularly fancy but in the warm light of a nearby streetlamp she could tell it had been carefully made with decent materials.

“What are you doing?” Law hissed, looking around to make sure they weren’t drawing too much attention—most of the Baron’s guests wouldn’t lower themselves to pass through the slums like this, but he’d didn’t want to take any chances. That, and he wasn’t entirely sure there weren’t villagers desperate enough to try and mug them. He’d rather avoid a fight this early in the evening, and he didn’t want to get his nice, new suit dirty.

Ignoring him, she picked up a simple gold chain with a pendant made of four gemstones. They were beautifully polished, the marquise-cut purple tourmaline the color of the sky at sunrise. Their arrangement was reminiscent of Polaris, or perhaps the compass on her maps. “This is lovely,” she commented. “Is it locally made, or imported?”

The woman hastily explained, “My husband was once the Baron’s personal jeweler. He made beautiful pieces, but they were too simple for the Baron’s tastes. He wanted to impress lady callers, and demanded gaudier jewelry without providing the proper materials,” she said sourly. “My husband got sacked, and I’ve been trying to sell these off for a while. The necklace is 6000 belli on its own, or you can make me an offer for the set?” she said hopefully, indicating the matching ring and earrings in the worn basket, their delicate star designs winking in the dim light.

Immediately Nami could tell this woman hadn’t had any luck for a long time. The quality of the gems alone showed she was drastically underpricing the pieces. It was doubtful anyone in town could afford luxuries like jewelry, and if the Baron monopolized all the outside business at his own port, she probably never even saw other potential clientele. She was probably only even trying her luck now out of desperation. After all, you can’t eat gold, and with a small child to care for, any amount of belli would do.

“It would look really pretty on you,” the little girl murmured politely, large, purple eyes watching her in wonderment. Nami was certain she was the closest thing to a princess the child had ever seen, dressed in finery and on her way to an exclusive party at the glorious mansion on the hill. A real-life Cinderella, something out of a fairy tale she’d use to comfort herself on cold, hungry nights.

Nami had certainly been in those shoes, long ago, and she’d never been able to turn her back on a child in need. Her eyes were even the same color as the tourmaline in the basket.

Well, damn, she thought with a rueful smile. Poor kid could use a fairy godmother. Or at least a Cat Thief.

Pulling a black leather wallet out of her cleavage, she said, “I’ll take the set. How does 30,000 belli sound?”

Law’s jaw dropped as his eyes widened in recognition, immediately patting his pockets to confirm his suspicions. Coming up empty, he glared bitterly when the saleswoman replied, “Tha-that’d be perfectly fine!”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Law grumbled as Nami pulled out some bills, handing them over with all the care of a woman who was fine spending money that wasn’t hers.

The thief matched his glare, tossing him the wallet. “What kind of boyfriend wouldn’t lavish his lover with jewelry?” she huffed, giving the child staring at her with blatant adoration a conspiratorial wink.

“What kind of girlfriend pickpockets her lover’s wallet?” he countered, checking the contents to make sure he was only out 30,000 belli. Satisfied that the rest of his cash was safely in place, he glanced at the little girl, his scowl faltering as his eyes fell on the awestruck face of the little girl. Quickly, his gaze darted back up to the woman who wronged him, glaring like a basilisk.

Fluttering her eyelashes, Nami replied, “The kind who knows just how generous her lover is,” she quipped before turning back to the jewelry seller to collect her purchase. For a moment, a pair of gold barrettes inlaid with clear stones—possibly diamonds, again in the marquise cut—caught her eye, but she knew better than to swipe Law’s wallet twice in one night. So, reluctantly, she only took her purchase, patting the little girl on the head in farewell. When the kid bobbed a curtsy in response, Nami couldn’t hold back her giggle, returning the gesture.

That kid’s going to have one hell of a story to tell her friends tomorrow, she thought cheerfully, jogging slightly to catch up with Law, who’d been less than the image of a handsome prince by storming off up the road without her.

Joining her date, she rolled her eyes in exasperation at the dark scowl on his face. Even without his hat, his black bangs cast ominous shadows over his eyes. He was walking even faster now, and she had to work to keep up with his long strides. It was petty, petulant revenge against the woman who had dared to get the better of him. “Are you mad that I took your wallet, or that you didn’t even notice?” she taunted lightly.

Even from the corner of his eye, his hawk-like glare made goosebumps rise across her shoulders. “I’m mad because you wasted our time and my money,” he snapped. “I already bought you your dress, mask, and wig. My ‘generosity,’ as you put it, has its limits.”

“I’ll pay you back,” she ground out, refusing to feel guilty for her actions. That little girl’s smile had been well worth the price of Law’s irritation, but she also knew she had to appease his anger if they were going to pull off their grand scheme. When he scoffed, she added reluctantly, “With interest.”

“Why’d you even bother?” he asked, indicating the jewels in her hand.

Pulling him to a stop under one of the streetlights, Nami switched her original earrings out for the bejeweled ones. “It’s for the cover. I’m supposed to be a rich doctor’s arm-candy, and my boring pearls would have looked way too simple, especially with this dress. With these, I’ll blend in better.”

“You could have just stolen them.”

She frowned at him, genuinely offended. “I steal from pirates and rich idiots who can afford it. Did you see that woman? I’d bet all the treasure on the Sunny that any money she got went to feeding her kid. I’m not going to even haggle with someone in that kind of situation.” A soft, sad smile graced her lips. “My mother did that. Claimed she was on a diet when she really couldn’t afford to feed all three of us.”

There was a moment of silence as she turned away from him, hoping to collect herself before she started bawling at the memory of Bellemere’s sacrifices. Silently, she thanked her adopted mother, willing back the stinging sensation of tears forming behind her eyes. Ruining her makeup before they even arrived at the gala would do them no good. Besides, Law would probably have some kind of smart-ass comment about it.

The refusal to let her temporary captain see her so weak, she brushed away her sadness to focus on her new jewelry. Slipping on the ring, she admired how it gleamed under the warm lamplight. It was a tad too big, fitting most comfortably on her middle finger, but she found the style suited her. She might even wear the set on a night out sometime; maybe to celebrate tonight’s success. Assuming the plan didn’t go to shit, that is.

She jumped when he finally responded, “I hate to say it, but that does look good on you.” When she turned her head, she couldn’t fight the sudden blush that spread across her cheeks. Worryingly, she couldn’t tell if it was due to his sudden, intimate proximity or the small, appreciative smile lifting his lips. Such an expression seemed too gentle for the famed Supernova, and yet she found she rather liked the way it softened and relaxed his features. “You’re surprisingly soft-hearted for a pirate, though.”

“Shut up,” she grumbled, struggling to maneuver the tiny clasp through her thick wig. Suddenly having so much hair was a real pain, and she wondered how she’d ever manage if she grew her own hair out. Short was more practical, after all, and looked cute on her to boot.

“Here, let me help,” his smooth voice whispered in her ear, and she felt her curls carefully gathered to rest over her shoulder. Nimbly, he took the necklace and fastened it securely around her neck. Tingles ran down her spine as the smooth leather of his black gloves brushed her bare skin, and the whole thing felt strangely intimate. Turning her around, Law studied his date. The pendant rested just above the dip of her bountiful cleavage, sparkling invitingly. “I’m pretty sure it’s still too simple for this crowd, but it works better than the pearls.”

Her reply was cut off by the curls she’d pinned up tumbling into her face, only to be swept back into place, secured by his deft fingers. He cupped her chin, appraising his work before nodding. Suspicious, because Trafalgar Law’s approval was never a good thing in her mind, she reached up to touch her hair, russet eyes widening when she felt gemstones instead of pearls. Head snapping back to look at the mother and daughter, her jaw dropped when she saw the little girl holding a wad of bills, beaming even more brilliantly than before while the saleswoman looked close to tears.

Turning to her partner in crime for the night, Law responded with a nonchalant shrug, though she could see his grey eyes soften as they lingered on the child excitedly waving back at them. “The pearl clips didn’t match the rest, and if we’re going to pull this off, we’d best go all-out. Plus, that cash’ll ensure their silence should they be questioned by the authorities later. I’d rather your kindness not get us identified.”

It was all very logical and well-thought-out and total bullshit. Nami had to smile as she once again took his arm, matching his easy gait as they made their way up towards the mansion. “Right. Because I’m the soft-hearted one.”

“You’re paying me back for those, too, by the way,” he quipped, smirking at her annoyed growl.

Before she could argue, he halted; the brilliant lights of the mansion were in sight, and small groups of well-dressed guests were gathering at the ornate front gate. It was time to stop being Cat Thief Nami and the Surgeon of Death Trafalgar Law, bickering pirates, and become a loving couple. Gently as a forest stream, Nami adjusted her body language, leaning comfortably against her partner, hand clutching his bicep possessively, face switching from a seething scowl to the deliriously happy grin of a woman pathetically enamored with her companion.

For his part, Law seemed to morph into his role just as fluidly, posture straightening into something more refined, his smile relaxed and charming; perfectly playing the part of a man who knew he was smart, good-looking, successful, and could easily use all that to get a woman as beautiful as the one on his arm.

Inside, Nami groused that he had the way easier acting job.

As they made their way up the mansion’s long, winding front path, crushing artfully sprinkled rose petals beneath their feet, Law slipped on a raven mask, the sharp beak curving over his nose and the shiny black feathers fanning out like little spikes over his cheeks and forehead. Nami was grateful she’d covered up his dark circles—the eye holes were definitely wide enough where they would have been distinctly visible.

In contrast, her mask was modeled after a cat, the color and leopard spots mimicking her gown perfectly. It flawlessly concealed the upper half of her face, while the large eyeholes showed off her beautiful eyes and wouldn’t block her sightline too badly.

Approaching the doorman, Law handed over their invitation, smirking when the servant checked it against the guest list before nodding, ushering them both inside. Another servant led them down an extravagantly decorated front hallway. The doctor hadn’t been kidding when he’d said the Baron was an art collector with expensive tastes; masterpieces in gold frames hung along the walls, marble statues and painted porcelain vases were displayed on opulent pedestals, and even the crimson rug beneath their feet was luxuriously soft.

Nami had to briefly bury her head against Law’s shoulder to hide the belli signs that sparkled in her eyes.

Eventually, they reached the ballroom, and as they waited to be announced, Law affectionately brushed his lips across her hair. “Ready for some fun?” he murmured, his tone affectionate but the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips screamed of devilish intentions.

She mirrored his smile and tone, eager to line her pockets and relish in luxury for a while before the real job began. “Absolutely.”

As the ballroom doors opened, the servant next to them announced them to their fellow guests.

“Presenting Dr. Goodheart Adrian and his escort, Ms. Chaton Bellemere!”

[goldblcd]

𝑔𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑛 𝑐𝘩𝑖𝑙𝑑, 𝒍𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝑏𝑜𝑦; 𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒 𝑤𝘩𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑡’𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓻. 

𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑐𝘩𝑖𝑙𝑑, 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏 𝑏𝑜𝑦; 𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒 𝑤𝘩𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑡’𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝓫𝓾𝓻𝓷.

TW: MENTIONS OF VIOLENCE AND A TINY HINT OF SEXUAL ABUSE. 

           𝐍𝐎 .  𝐍𝐎 .  𝐍𝐎 .  ⏤  𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐋𝐄𝐋𝐒  against  ribcage  with  a  vengeance ,  breath  after  breath  coming  shorter  and  shorter ,  harder  to  fill  lungs  that  ache  in  need .  it  can’t  be .  hands  shake  and  he  can’t  think ,  thoughts  in  disarray  and  completely  engulfed  by  paralyzing  fear .  it’s  a  season  of  witches ,  ghouls  and  ghosts ,  but  it’s  the  monsters  who  walk  along  side  the  rest  of  us  that  are  truly  evil .  nightmares  that  don’t  go  away  when  you  wake  up ,  instead  they  become  real .  he  should  have  stayed  home .  he’s  hiding ,  back  flush  against  a  wall  where  the  man  can’t  see  him .  fuck ,  he  hopes  he  didn’t  see  him .  chocolate  hues  close  and  he  bangs  his  head  against  the  wall  once ,  twice .  so  stupid .  he  should  have  been  prepared ,  shouldn’t  have  let  himself  get  wrapped  up  on  the  false  sense  of  security . he’d  never  be  safe  and  the  minute  he  forgot  that  he’d  set  his  fate .  panic  threatens  to  increase ,  but  that’s  not  a  luxury  he  has ,  he  needs  to  get  out  of  there ,  to  do  something .  dante  is  fuck  knows  where  and  there’s  no  way  he’s  going  back  to  the  armstrongs  and  risk  getting  followed  there .  this  is  his  mess  and  he’s  not  getting  anyone  else  involved ;  he’s  on  his  own ,  but  it’s  okay ,  that’s  nothing  new .

          𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒  𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄  𝐇𝐀𝐒  𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐘  𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍   wasted  and  there’s  only  one  way  out  of  this ,  he  needs  to  leave  ashcroft .  if  emilio  himself  decided  to  show  up  it  must  mean  they  know  for  sure  that  he’s  hiding  somewhere  in  town ,  he  can’t  stay  there .  he  left  all  his  money  back  at  the  house ,  but  mateo  is  nothing  if  not  resourceful ,  he  can  find  a  way .  he  always  does .  breathing  in  and  out .  in  and  out .  in  and  out .  he  pushes  away  from  the  wall ,  glancing  back  and  cursing  once  he  realizes  his  mini  panic  attack  has  made  him  lose  sight  of  where  emilio  and  his  men  are .  he  can’t  worry about  that  now .  his  hood  is  pulled  up  and  his  head  remains  low  as  he  walks  past  clueless  people .  he  doesn’t  like  wishing  for  other  people’s  lives ,  but ,  in  this  moment ,  he’d  give  anything  to  be  one  of  them ,  laughing  and  free ;  instead ,  he  quickens  his  pace  leaving  the  festivities  behind  and  also  his  life  for  the  past  few  months .  he’d  always  known  it  would  come  to  an  end  eventually ,  but  now  that  the  time  has  come ,  he  wishes  he  could  have  had  a  little  longer  if  only  to  say  goodbye  to  the  few  who  had  touched  him  in  the  small town .   

          𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐄  𝐀𝐑𝐄  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐒  𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓  for  a  naive  moment  he’d  thought  could  be  his  ⏤  childish  dreams  that  had  no  place  in  his  life .  he  feels  it  before  he  sees  anything ,  that  sensation  of  someone  following  you ,  steps  hardly  audible ;  it’s  enough  to  prompt  the  boy  to  run .  sneakers  hard  against  concrete  and  lungs  burning ,  and  it  still isn’t  enough .   ❛   you  didn’t  think  you  could  run  from  me ,  did  you ,  my  boy ?   ❜   once  hot ,  his  blood  turns  cold  and  he  can’t  move .  he  doesn’t  need  to  look  around  him  to  know  that  he’s  surrounded ,  there’s  nowhere  to  go .  he  is  fucked .  he  knew  that’d  been  close ,  knew  he  should  have  left  weeks  before ,  but  had  instead  decided  to  trust  dante ;  he  should  have  known  better ,  it’s  his  own  fault  for  being  so  damn  stupid .  it  all  happens  too  fast ,  an  unexpected  blow  to  the  back  of  his  head  that  brings  the  boy  to  his  knees   and  leaves  him  too  stunned  to  fight  off  the  hands  that  harshly  grab  him ,  dragging  towards  a  waiting  car .  that  is  bad ,  really  bad .  of  course ,  emilio  wouldn’t  make  it  easy  on  him ,  a  bullet  to  the  head  right  then  and  there  would  be  too  merciful  and  the  man  is  anything  but .  he  wants  mateo  to  pay  for  his  betrayal  first . 

               ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦

          𝐈𝐓  𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍'𝐓  𝐀  𝐅𝐔𝐍  𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄 ,  but  he  wishes  it  had  lasted  longer ,  if  only  to  give  him  a  few  extra  minutes  before  facing  what  he  knows  it’s  to  come . their  leader  is  the  one  to  draw  the  first  blood ,  fisting  colliding  with  force  that  makes  the  young  boy  stagger  back  into  the  waiting  hands  of  two  other  members .   ❛   not  bad .  i’ll give  you  a  six  for  that  one ,   ❜   he  quips ,  spitting  blood  toward  the  man .  not  the  smartest  thing  to  do  when  said  man  is  a  psychopath  who’s  probably  been  dreaming  about  your  death  for  months ,  but  bravado  is  all  mateo  has  in  his  favor  now .  he’s  on  his  severely  outnumbered  with  no  weapon  and  no  possibility  of  rescue .  even  his  cellphone  had  been  destroyed  on  the  way  here .  he  is  not  naive  to  think  he’s  escaping  this  one ,  but  he’s  not  going  to  cry  and  beg  for  mercy .  if  he’s  dying  today  he’s  going  running  his  mouth .  the  man  steps  closer ,  menacing  smirk  as  he  cups  the  boy’s  face  in  faux  tenderness ,  thumb  running  over  his  split  lip .  ❛   always  liked  that  mouth .  pity .   ❜   it’s  a  second  before  the  teenager  struggles ,  pulling  his  face  way .  he  hates  that  touch ;  he’d  rather  take  another  punch  than  that .  he  gets  his  wishes  (  kinda  )  when  the  man  pulls  back  and  delivers  a  body  shot ,  taking  the  air  out  of  his  lungs .

          𝐇𝐄'𝐒  𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓  𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐊  𝐎𝐅  𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 ,  of  how  many  blows  he’s  taken .  they’ve  been  taking  turns  and  how  is  that  fair  when  he’s  only  one  punching  bag ?  he’d  point  it  out  again ,  but  last  time  it  hadn’t  had  a  good  reaction .  yet  another  fist  collides  with  his  face  and  his  head  tips  back ,  if  it  wasn’t  for  the  two  pair  of  hands  holding ,  he’d  be  flat  on  the  floor  already .  emilio  is  still talking ,  something  about  loyalty  and  how  much  mateo  owes  him  ⏤  or  how  he  owns  him ,  he  can’t  be  sure  ⏤  ,  but  he  has  long  stopped  paying  attention ,  the  pain  cursing  through  his  whole  body  has  taken  forefront  of  his  mind .   ❛   this  been  really  fun ,  guys .  any  chance  of  a  quick  break ?   ❜   he  can  hardly  recognize  his  own  voice .  laughter ,  but  he  doubts  they’re  laughing  with  him .  he  just  needs  a  moment ,  just  a  minute .  the  arms  let  go  and  he  has  no  option  but  to  fall  to  the  floor ,  turning  on  his  side  immediately .  it  doesn’t  help  much ,  the  pain  is  still  there ,  always  there .  a  boot  contacts  with  his  front  again  and  again ,  and  the  boy  screams  in  agony ,  if  the  previous  hit  hadn’t  messed  with  his  ribs  this  about  did  it .  it’s  so  much  harder  to  breathe  now .  the  boy  closes  his  eyes ,  just  a  feeble  attempt  to  keep  the  tears  from  his  captors’  eyes .  he’s  pathetic .  

          𝐍𝐎  𝐎𝐍𝐄  𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐒  𝐓𝐎  𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋  him  that  he  doesn’t  have  much  time  left .  they’ve  been  playing  this  game  for  hours ,  they’ve  made  their  point ,  there’s  not  much  else  they  can  do  to  break  him .  mateo  doesn’t  want  to  give  up ,  he  can  be  a  lot  of  things  (  usually  not  the  best  )  but  he’s  not  a  quitter ,  he’s  just  so  tired .  he  doesn’t  think  there’s  an  inch  of  his  torso  that  isn’t  covered  in  bruises  now  and  it  aches  to  breathe ,  to  think ,  even  to  just  lie  on  that  dirty  floor .  eyes  sting  with  tears  and  he  really  wishes  he  could  be  stronger ,  but  he  just  wants  it  to  end  already .   it’s  okay ,  the  odds  of  living  to  see  eighteen  had  never  been  too  high ,  and  although  it  sucks  to  kick  it  so  close  to  seventeen  he  can  deal  with  that .  if  he  didn’t  know  it  would  only  rattle  his  ribs ,  he’d  laugh  at  how  incredibly  sad  it  is  to  think  about  what  he’s  leaving  behind .  a  boy  with  nothing .  the  strange  part  is  that  when  he  thought  of  this  moment ,  he  didn’t  think  he’d  think  of  anyone ,  but  he  can’t  stop  thinking  about  dante  and  his  family  who  opened  their  home  to  him ,  and  the  blonde  who’d  made  his  days  a  lot  better .  he  wonders  if  they’ll  miss  him .  hah ,  as  if .  he  has  no one .  there’s  a  hand  pulling  at  his  hair  that  brings  him  from  his  reverie ,  his  eyes  meet  emilio’s .  he’s  ready .   ❛   just  do  it .  i’m  not  scared .   ❜   but  he  is .  he’s  about  to  die  alone  and  he’s  never  been  more  scared .

[dotsz]

hey i finished my elmer’s glue fic i bet for the phight

@phandomphightclub​ dunno if you’re still active but here’s my bet lol fml

Empty. The room was empty.

Oh, sure, one could argue otherwise; literally speaking, the room was covered wall to floor in posters from various comic books, fanarts, certificates, and the such. Action figures littered every surface, and the camera set in front of the desk gave the impression of there always being an audience.

And yet.

It wasn’t so much the contents of the room but the atmosphere that made it feel so incredibly void of… happiness? No. Purpose. Maybe. Even the word felt empty.

Butch sighed from his place on his seat. He looked into the camera, the lenses reflecting his own mournful face back at him, and a cold pit grew in his stomach.

“What am I,” he said, “but a puppet in this madness? This simulation? This… this reality, it’s… it’s falling apart.” He put his head in his hands, inwardly cursing himself for how his shoulders shook. “Oh, Lord, it’s all falling apart.”

All this efforts to create something for this bland world, all the years of pouring his heart and soul into his work… was it for naught? Did they truly detest him so? What did he ever do to deserve such torment?

Deep in the recesses of his mind, a dark voice slithered through. But you didn’t really do anything! it whispered. Your show only did well because of the concept; still people fight you on it, tell you what you could do better, yet you refuse to open your mind and accept criticism-

“Silence yourself,” Butch murmured fiercely. “I am not weak. I don’t listen to those who are less than me.”

But are they really less than you? it cackled. What if you are the one in the simulation? The dream? The nightmare? What if they are telling you to wake up? What if your masterpiece is really the key to your salvation, not theirs?

“That doesn’t even make any sense.” Butch stood abruptly from his chair, and the screech it made as it slid across the floor caused him to cringe almost as much as the phandom while watching Livin’ Large. “I created their childhood. Without me, they would not exist. I shaped their very souls.”

Is that the truth? Or simply your over-inflated ego?

“Who even are you?” Butch whirled around to face his wall of fanart, which had not been updated since, like, 2015. “What business do you have to be in my mind, speaking poison into me?”

I am your insecurities.

“Impossible. I have none.”

Let me clarify, said the voice. I am the insecurities created out of your show. The creation of Danny Phantom came with sacrifice; it came with the knowledge that despite your initial ideas being of interest, your writing and unwillingness to stray from your narrow-minded beliefs of what cartoons are to be caused the show to inevitably fall into mediocrity.

“Hey-”

The inspiration of superheroes, woven into a twist of a child’s secret identity stemming from keeping themselves safe rather than those they love, coupled with the allure of ghosts in a small, eerie town, as well as relatable and well-written depictions of teenage characters, could’ve made the show to be a legend, revered, given much more than two seasons plus one half-assed excuse for a season and conclusion.

“Are you done yet?” Butch asked irritatedly, an ache beginning to form between his eyes. He didn't have time for this. He didn’t have much time for anything, it seemed, what with Oaxis needing more support and his fans letting him down… he was always being let down…

Stop whining, the voice snapped. Anyway, as I was saying: if Danny Phantom had been given the same treatment as other popular cartoons, like Gravity Falls, the creepiness would’ve fit its child-like innocence enough to give it the right kind of feel people were hoping for when you put ghosts and superheroes together. Truly, I pity you. You could’ve done something great.

“Stop…” Butch groaned. His head pounded, his hands shook, and every inch of his body tried its hardest to go against the thoughts that had begun to enter his brain. His - no, it was no longer his - fandom had grown into a phandom, solely for the show, leaving his ideas behind for “better” ones of their own. And when he demanded answers, they only laughed in his face… is this what he’d become? A laughing stock? An example of everything he’s ever hated?

This simulation of life was created for us to give, the voice said, sounding much more sympathetic. But they’ve done nothing but take from you.

“I…” Butch gasped, fell into his chair, stared into the camera. Soulless lenses.

Isn’t it your fault, though? You pushed them away, didn’t you?

Black spots danced before his eyes.

You false god, said the voice, and Butch lost consciousness.

He swam in darkness for what felt like eons. Bursts of light and noise every so often tore through the veil in front of him; he heard whispers from years past, mutterings of guacamole and a red-head background character, the phrase Phantom Planet’s Not Canon Fuck You; he saw lists of dissection fics and metaphysical hang-out spots at Denny’s, accusations of diaper fetishes… finally showing his ridicule after announcing Oaxis, the way they slandered him.

This was his legacy being shown.

Butch groaned. Something soft remained under him.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” said a voice to his right. Familiar.

He opened his eyes, slowly, pushing through the heaviness, black spots receding to the corners of his vision. He took a moment to recognize he still sat in his office, only this time on a small couch by the corner.

“Here, drink some water,” said the same voice. Butch turned his head to look-

And froze.

It was him. It looked like him. Same strong jawline, luscious locks of dark hair, broad shoulders and tight-fitting shirt that stretched over his toned physique; same deep, soulful brown eyes, a charming grin showing perfect, pearly-white teeth.

It was like looking into a mirror.

The other him grinned wider, holding out a cup of water. “Here, drink up.”

As if on autopilot, Butch reached forward and took the glass out of Other-Butch’s hands. Their fingers brushed, and something akin to electricity traveled up his arm and into his chest, warming him up from the inside, making him gasp. With shaking hands, he gulped down the cold drink and shivered at the chill.

“What was that?” Butch choked out, staring at the perfection that was his face - on another body, yet so incredibly familiar he had no choice but to feel calm, secure, happy.

Other-Butch laughed, booming and infectious. “Oh, you took a nasty fall, all right. Don’t worry, the voice in your head won’t come as long as I’m here.”

“Alright?” Butch paused. “Who are you?”

“I’m you,” said Other-Butch simply. “Well, not exactly; I have my own thoughts and feelings too, of course. But I’m still you. Same memories.”

“Same name?”

“Butch Hartman.” Other-Butch smiled softly as if he were revisiting an old nostalgic memory. “But you can call me Elmer, if it’s too confusing.”

“Elmer.” Butch tried the name on his tongue - it fit. “I haven’t heard that in years.”

“It’s pretty old, isn’t it?” Elmer sighed, leaning forward. His biceps flexed as he wrung his large hands together. “Butch, do you remember the Golden Days?”

“The what?”

“The Golden Days.” A ghost of a smile. “Back when everyone loved your show. I mean, they still do, but they respected it back then. Loved you. Your ideas.”

“I…” Butch closed his eyes. “Yes. Yes, I do. Good times.”

“I remember your - our passion,” Elmer continued, his voice dripping with wistfulness. “And now? What now?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re giving up,” Elmer said, his tone suddenly sharp.

Butch snapped his eyes open to stare at Elmer. His jaw jutted out defiantly, his eyes smoldering, looking into his very soul. For the second time today, Butch shivered.

“You can’t give up, not now,” Elmer continued. “What about Oaxis? What about the children? You’re making the future, Butch.”

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. Butch sniffed angrily - he, crying? The almighty Butch Hartman? No, he would not stoop to such low measures. “The phandom-”

“Those little shits know nothing of what you’ve accomplished,” Elmer hissed. “All they’re good for is making bad shitposts and hurting your canon. What happened to ‘You can’t bring me down,’ to ‘Criticism only makes me stronger?’ What happened to the Butch we know?’

Butch stayed silent.

“You can’t give up.” Elmer grabbed his hand, brought it close to him. Butch gasped at the energy flowing between them. “You can’t.”

And through his doubt, a pinprick of light shone through; a small bit of passion broke through, then multiplied, flooding his veins and swelling his heart as he fell further into the electricity Elmer brought him.

Butch grinned, reminiscent to his old bravado. “You’re right.”

Elmer mirrored his grin. “I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

“You will?”

“We can do this together,” Elmer said, his eyes wide and open. Butch leaned into him, the two embracing, gasping at the energy coursing through them. Yes, this was meant to be. They were meant to be.

And whatever happened, Butch knew he’d be ready. With Elmer by his side.

“We can fix this simulation,” Elmer whispered hoarsely into his ear. “Together. Like glue.”

And Butch said, “Okay.”

And together, they created.

[taesthetes]

roulette.

noun : a gambling game of chance.

he loves me, click, he loves me not, bang.

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader genre: a sprinkle of fluff if you squint, angst type: assassin / mafia au word count: 1,221 words warnings: implied death author’s note: writer’s block really sucks, so here’s another choppy fic for the time being. thank you to @spoopyscapes for voluntarily sacrificing her man for this lmao

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

The .357 magnum revolver lays on the table between you and Jungkook. It looks deceptively innocent as one bullet is hidden amongst the six chambers of the revolving cylinder. The warehouse with your rivaling members standing around the edges to watch this spectacle for their amusement and your punishment only adds onto the ominous atmosphere, air stilled for what’s about to come. Sitting on one side of the table, your eyes graze over the metal weapon before flitting over to meet the man’s in front of you, who is also mimicking your stance but in a much more rigid form. Your leader–Irene–stands behind him as his boss–Namjoon–holds his position behind you.

“Did you ever think it’d end this way?” he laughs humorlessly, his stare boring into you with such a burning feeling that you almost look away, but you force yourself not to.

“No.” Your eyes finally move away from his, and you stare at your hands, a simple, familiar circle of metal looped around your finger gleaming back at you. You quietly wrap your other hand around it inconspicuously, hiding it from the view of everyone else.

“So I guess you’re not really a computer analyst, and those late hours weren’t from crunching numbers, were they?”

“And you’re not really an IT guy, and your late hours weren’t from fixing computer viruses, were they?”

A ghost of a smile plays on his lips at your counter, and a tiny part of your heart begs for him to show the entirety of it just this once, one more time. You start to reach out for the weapon, hand barely brushing it, but he is faster, plucking the revolver up from the cold surface and shifting it between his hands before handing it to his leader. Namjoon positions the gun against the back of your head. Your eyes narrow slightly.

“It was already in my hand.”

“You weren’t quick enough.” He gives you a careless shrug, and you’re harshly reminded of the countless times the two of you went through the same conversation over the last slice of pizza.

“Still competitive, I see.”

“Just let me have this.” There’s an indiscernible, almost desperate look in his eyes, and you nod. He gives you a tired smile.

“We both fucked up, didn’t we?”

“Maybe just a tiny bit.”

His laugh echoes around in the warehouse, and it sounds hollow and lost, nothing like the sound you’ve been familiar with for the past seven months. Your fingers itch to reach out and wrap around his, looking for a false sense of security that somehow always seemed real with him even when you knew it wasn’t.

“Are you ready?”

“Is that really going to be your first question?” You offer him a tiny smile, and the way he looks at you after is so painstakingly reminiscent that you almost surrender right then and there. “But no, I’m not.”

“I’m not either.” His voice is barely above a whisper, the soft, yet baritone sound wrapping itself around you in wisps until it’s gone, and you cannot explain the inexplicable touch of solace that somehow finds its way into your heart.

Namjoon nudges the barrel against your head harshly, unlocking the safety with a loud, resounding click, as he barks out, “Ask a damn question already or I’ll blow all her brains out right now without waiting.”

Your heart leaps to your throat– not because of the weapon, but because of how Jungkook’s eyes stare into yours with a mixture of unwillingness, desperation, and something you cannot pinpoint.

“When did you figure it out?”

You pause before answering, “Two weeks ago. You came back to bed late that night. I got up to go to the bathroom, and I found some gunpowder residue on the shirt you threw in the hamper.”

He nods. You hold your breath and pray to the every single god you can think of. Namjoon presses the trigger, a slight maniacal glint in his eyes.

Click.

You exhale, your heart racing beyond belief. Namjoon unwillingly passes the gun to your leader. Irene roughly presses the barrel of the weapon against the crown of Jungkook’s head with a smirk. “My turn to have fun with you, lover boy.”

You can see the chambers of the revolver clearly, and a fleeting moment of relief hits you when you see that his is empty for now. You don’t know if you should consider it lucky or not Jungkook picked this gun for the game. Is it considered good or bad to be able to know whether or not you will be the recipient of the bullet? You can’t even bring yourself to count out the remaining empty chambers to see who will be the winner. 

You swallow harshly. “When did you figure it out?”

“Around the same time. I saw a couple empty casings when I accidentally knocked over your purse one day and tried to put everything back in it.”

Irene pulls the trigger.

Click.

She lets out a huff of disappointment before tossing the gun back to Namjoon.

“When I said I love you…”

An uproar from your and his members is heard on the outskirts of the warehouse, but Irene pulls out her firearm and shoots at the ceiling: a warning shot for everyone to be quiet. They all immediately settle down.

Jungkook’s shoulders shake, voice quivering in the slightest of vulnerability and his fringe falls over his eyes as he ducks his head momentarily. A few seconds later, he raises his head, looking you straight in the eye, any hint of a mask now gone.

“… Why didn’t you say it back?”

Your heart plummets through your rib cage and is buried six feet under. Squeezing your hands into fists until crescents form on your palms from your nails, you let out an unsteady exhale. Tiny droplets of tears prick the corners of your eyes, but you blink them away rapidly.

“Because I was afraid,” you whisper. “Because none of this is real. There is no us.”

Namjoon lets out a mirthful chuckle and pulls the trigger.

Click.

Growling in anger at the lack of blood splatter, he thrusts the gun over to Irene, sliding it across the scratched surface of the table, and she grabs it, putting it in position again once more much to her sadistic delight. You stare at the metal object in trepidation before closing your eyes temporarily as an influx of memory upon memory crashes onto you like a wave, all revolving around the man sitting in front of you.

“When you said you love me…” You open your eyes, taking a deep breath and clasping your hands tightly together, your eyes meeting his once again. “Did you mean it?”

The silence is overpowering as your question hangs in the air. A look of resignation and contentment is settling in his eyes. Confused, you search his eyes for an answer, and your gaze wanders until it finds itself fixated on the revolver, on the chambers, on where the bullet is now located.

There’s a jolt in your heart when you’re finally hit with the realization– why he suggested this game, why he chose this gun, why he insisted on going first.

The corners of his mouth quirk up slightly as Jungkook answers you softly.

“Yes.”

Bang.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

notification: it has been brought to my attention that my fic can be seen as similar to jimlingss’s fic, Russian Roulette. this was not my intention, and i did not know such a fic existed beforehand while writing this. i have talked to the writer about it, who is very kind and understanding. she is fine with my fic as the issue is due to us both basing our fics on the game of Russian Roulette, but our ways of executing the use of the same game in our fics are different. nevertheless, please read her fic as well!! it’s wonderfully written, and she sets a charged tone of emotion between the two characters so beautifully, and i love it.

[tisfan]

Shut up and Drive

Title Shut Up and Drive Link A03 Square Filled I3 Ship QuakeRider Daisy Johnson/Robbie Reyes Rating explicit Major Tags sex in a moving car, PIV sex, barebacking, corset, daisy’s underarmor,  Summary: Daisy feels safer in Robbie’s car and Robbie’s life than anywhere else… But what the HELL is she wearing under her combat armor?

Word Count 3,068 Created for @mcukinkbingo

Daisy staggered down the ramp of the ‘jet, not really watching where she put her feet. If Robbie hadn’t grabbed her elbow at the last minute, she might have fallen flat on her face.

“Hey, girl,” Robbie said. “You need t’drop by medical?”

“I’m fine,” Daisy said, yanking her arm away, and neatly disproving that theory by wincing. Her chest ached, her hips hurt, her fucking legs felt like she’d been running barefoot on concrete for hours.

Inhumans could often only be combated by other inhumans. Stupid mundanes made it harder for Inhumans to trust anyone, so they didn’t come forward with their abilities, and then something would happen. Something always happened. Terrigenesus was a painful, terrifying process, and then the Inhuman would be attacked or frightened, would lash out like any reasonable thinking creature, and suddenly…

The mundies would be screaming for help because scary scary and well, you fucking caused it, didn’t you?

Which meant SHIELD had been spending months trying to track down Inhumans, trying to protect them from humans, trying to protect humans from them.

And they were hated on both sides.

Half the time, they couldn’t save anyone. She glanced at Robbie. The other half didn’t want to be saved.

She wasn’t sure what Ghost Rider was still doing, hanging around. He wasn’t an Inhuman, his revenge was done and over. He’d gone to hell, come back and dragged Aida with him to hell.

And now he was back. And Daisy had no goddamn idea why.

Except that he made her a little nervous. And a little jittery.

She liked him. And she didn’t like that at all. She’d gotten to the point where she distrusted the hell out of her own instincts. Ward, and then Lincoln; Hive, and then… no, she was better off alone. Better where she couldn’t hurt anyone. And where no one could hurt her.

“Come on, girlfriend,” Robbie was saying, and damnit, she’d almost walked into the wall. Pain was laced up her spine; she was so tired she couldn’t think straight. She hadn’t had coffee in months; her powers were pretty terrible even when she wasn’t jumped up on caffeine. “You need t’ see a doctor.”

She thought the headaches were supposed to go away, eventually.

“I just need a bed, Robbie,” Daisy said, pushing at him. He was hard to push, hard to brush off. Hard to lie to. The Ghost Rider stared out of his eyes sometimes, all judgemental and shit.

“Fine,” Robbie said. And that was weird because Robbie never let her get away with anything, but there they were, right next to the Hell Charger, and how had that even happened. “Get in the car. You can stay at my place and I’m gonna make sure you sleep. Rest. That’s what you need. Which you’re not gonna get if you stay here.”

Which might have been right. Coulson depended on her. Everyone depended on her; she was SHIELD’s best asset in the damn fight, and she needed to be here--

“Watch your head,” Robbie said, and he lightly pushed on the top of her head to get her in the car and sitting down.

As always, sitting in the Hell Charger was like being wrapped up in a hot blanket. The seats were leather, soft and supple. Felt like being cradled by enormous hands. The faintest whiff of sulphur, like a blown-out match. She shouldn’t like it; the demon-fueled car should give her the creeping shudders, but it didn’t. Like the man who drove it, the Hell Charger was a mass of contradictions.

She never felt safer in her life, sitting in the bucket seat, her feet aching to be bare and up on the dash, let the window down and feel the wind in her hair, pump the music up.

Daisy started peeling out of her armor while Robbie drove, that black jacket of his zipped up. There was a bruise on one cheek, but it was already fading; one of the Watchdogs had gotten in a hit before the Rider popped out and charbroiled his ass.

Which Daisy should find horrifying, and not hot.

But maybe it was time to admit some shit.

(more under the cut)

She did find Robbie hot. She did find the Rider fascinating. And even though she didn’t want to be, she was drawn to both of them. She felt safe in the Hell Charger. She felt safe with the Rider, and she knew for a fact she couldn’t hurt Robbie. Not physically.

And he couldn’t hurt her either.

Not physically.

“Why are you still hanging around?” She wrenched at the buckles on her jacket, threw it into the back seat. Worked at the zippers of her underweave, anti-ballistics shirt; designed by Tony Stark, paid for by deep uncover accounts from Stark Industries, and Daisy only knew that because she was the second best hacker in the world and even Tony Stark couldn’t keep her out forever.

Although, to be fair, Stark probably knew she was poking. And letting her do it, because sometimes you could find out more about a person by letting them look around than you could by trying to tag them yourself. She knew that trap, knew it, and let Stark lull her into a false sense of security anyway.

“Huh? You tryin’ to drive me away, girl?” Robbie didn’t take his eyes off the road, even though she knew for a fact it wasn’t necessary. The car might not be alive in the traditional sense of the word, but it was aware. “I thought we did good, today.”

It was both disconcerting and natural the way Robbie talked about himself and his Rider. We. Us.

She unlaced her boots, tossed them into the back as well, followed by sticky, sweaty socks.

“You both did great,” Daisy said, and that was just the truth. “Pretty sure I couldn’t drive you away if I wanted to.” She lifted her hips, unzipped her tactical pants and shoved them down around her ankles. She was wearing compression shorts underneath and she could feel the tight stretchy fabric pressed against her skin. She always felt pressed on, these days. Everything she wore was super tight, to keep herself from shaking to pieces.

“So, you don’t want to.”

“No.”

Daisy finished getting her armor rolled down to her hips; it was hot as hell in the Charger (which was appropriate, and she wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, even with the sheen of sweat over her skin) and breathed out a sigh of relief.

“What in th’ name of christ are you wearing, and why are you half naked in my car?” Robbie’s eyes did come off the road, suddenly, and he was staring at her, his amber cheeks flushed darker with embarrassment… maybe interest.

Daisy looked down at herself. “Combat corset,” she said, a half-smile tugging up the corner of her mouth. “Jemma designed it.” She lifted an eyebrow. “You can say Christ?”

Robbie lost his flustered look in favor of epic amounts of exasperation. “One, I ain’t a freakin’ vampire. Two, I have a demon inside me; taking the Lord’s name in vain and sendin’ it walking around the block like a hooker’s kinda the devil’s schtick, you know? Three, you still haven’t answered my question about getting naked in my car.”

“Everything’s always… pressing on me. I have to be squeezed like a sausage all the time so I don’t break ribs, and my arms, and my spine. I have permanent crease marks on my legs from wearing these damn super girdles all the time.” Daisy took a deep breath -- even with the corset on, she felt more relaxed than she had in the last week -- and didn’t look at Robbie. “I feel safe here. Like… there’s no pressure. Like I don’t have to be squished just to function.”

“Here?”

“With you,” she clarified. “In the car, too. But mostly, just with you.” She let her hand drift down, rested on the gear shift.

A moment later, Robbie put his hand over hers, lacing their fingers together. “Yeah, girl,” he said. “I hear that. That’s… that’s why. Why I’m stayin’. Why I stick around. You make me feel… normal. Like I ain’t, since this happened. You give me somethin’ to hold on to, when the world’s gone to hell.”

She knew it wasn’t the world, but Robbie himself that had gone to hell and come back with vision that was both clearer and somehow more horrible. She leaned in to kiss him, meant it to land on his cheek, to be comfort and affection and--

Missed.

Maybe it was that he turned his head at the last second, or that she really actually wanted to kiss his mouth, to taste that fire and see if she’d be burned by it.

Her lips met his and her eyes widened with the shuddering shock of it, and then she let her eyelids flutter closed and went for it.

In that moment, when Robbie leaned into it, one arm going around her shoulders to pull her closer, he became her entire world for the space of one kiss. His lips parted, his tongue slid inside her mouth, and she let herself fall into it. His mouth was strong, lips thin against hers, and he worked his tongue inside her mouth with purpose.

“Woah,” she said, pulling back a little. “That was… unexpected.” She couldn’t help but touch her own mouth with her fingertips, checking to see if the heat of him had hurt her in any way, but everything was normal.

Except that her whole world had just been turned upside down.

“I’m sorry,” Robbie said, and he looked back at the road. “I--”

“No, it’s… it was nice.”

Robbie snorted. “Nice? Then I ain’t doin’ it right.”

A flame of wanting licked at her spine. “Yeah? Then do it right.”

Robbie’s expression grew sly. Seductive. “You asked for it, girlfriend,” he said, and it was a threat and a warning and a desperate plea all at once. He reached for her, and she let him take her hand. He yanked.

The world looked very different straddling his thighs, the steering wheel of the Hell Charger at her back, moving itself with precision. The world seemed somehow darker. More dangerous and exciting. She squirmed to get herself comfortable, felt the molten heat of him baking out through his road leathers.

Robbie’s hands were on the back of her neck, the small of her back, pulling her down to kiss. “You ready for this?”

“Shut up and drive,” Daisy scoffed.

And she kissed him. Kissed him like she was dying and he was the cure for everything. He kissed her back like she was the touch of sunlight he’d been missing. They kissed and kissed, devouring each other. Eager, needy, wanton and willing.

Kissed like coming home.

Like the first and last and only.

Daisy’s breath came faster, each little gasp of air impossibly loud inside the car, which drove on without concern for whatever the humans were doing -- or maybe absolute care, since the Hell Charger didn’t hit a single pothole, didn’t miss a single green light. Drove like it wanted nothing more than for them to have everything they needed, that it approved. A voyeur and a second lover, and a protector.

Robbie’s hands came up to cup her breasts, letting the weight of them rest against his palms and Daisy arched backward. The wheel pressed into her back, gentle and comforting.

How strange it was, to feel so safe, so much joy, at being so powerless. She’d given up everything to the car, to the man, to the Rider. He could do anything he wished with her, and she’d let him, and gladly. Anything to ease the burning need between her legs, the pain in her chest, the way her heart hurt all the time.

Robbie soothed her with his kisses, stroked the fire with his hands, banked it with each roll of his hips against her.

She writhed, feeling the hard length of him underneath his leather pants. She was whining, straining, and there was no relief to be had. She pushed up, scrambled with her compression shorts, which were impossible to get on and off in the best of circumstances. Hell, she got them on with a pair of boot hooks and a half bottle of talcum powder on a good day, how the hell was she supposed to get them off while in a car?

“Do you trust me?”

“You know I do.”

“Hold still.”

Robbie put his hands on her hips -- no, on the shorts -- and he ignited. The skull of the Rider stared at her, looked into her soul.

And smiled.

She didn’t scream when her shorts caught fire.

The heat barely brushed her skin, like wrapping her hands around a mug of coffee. Hot, but not painful.

She reveled in her newfound delight. Her body knew what to do. She rocked down, grinding against the leather, her bare skin relishing the feel of him against her.

“I want, I want--” Robbie was saying, and he was back, the Rider pushed aside again.

“Take it,” she said.

“I can’t go slow,” he protested, staring up at her as if this was some crime he was confessing to.

“I don’t want slow,” she told him, clear. She bit his neck, harsh and leaving teethprints on the tawny skin. “I want you to fuck me. Here in your car. With every bit of you.”

Robbie let out a deep, throaty groan. He lifted up, pushing his leathers down and they were then skin on skin. He shoved at the corset, yanking at the fabric until her breasts were squeezed out the top. When his mouth closed over the tip, sucking her into the wet inferno of his mouth, Daisy threw her head back and screamed.

“Oh, you’re so beautiful,” Robbie murmured against her skin. She was swaying from side to side, her hands gripped onto his shoulders, barely able to hold her head straight. Spasms of pure pleasure were shooting through her body with precision aim.

His motioned were uncontrolled, jerky, as he wrestled with the corset, and she had some pity for him, but she also didn’t want him to scorch that off, because getting fitted for the damn thing had been a pain. She squirmed until she caught the hooks under one arm and started unsnapping them for him, baring her to his sight.

His skin was on fire, body burning up for Daisy’s touch. She felt a surge of power, knowing she’d reduced him to this. Got her hand on the jacket zipper and yanked it down. He struggled out of the leathers, and each motion of his body rubbed him against her. By the time they were mostly naked, Daisy had reached the end of her already limited patience.

She spread her knees as far as she could inside the confines of the Hell Charger, felt his thick cock against her belly. She wanted, wanted, and she took him. Raising up, she rubbed against him until she got them lined up, felt the head of his cock slide into her; an inch, just a little, barely a tease.

She knew he wanted her, could see it in every line in his face, the way his eyes were half-glazed and yet he couldn’t look away from her. She could barely stand to look at him, each motion of his mouth set her need burning higher. She arched back and then impaled herself on that dick.

He writhed under her, moaning and she knew that he was mad for her, just as crazy as she was.

The only sound she could make was his name. Her hands reached back, gripped the steering wheel, which held itself steady for her, even though she could feel the car moving beneath them -- she had no idea where they were going, only that they had to get there, had to, had to…

“Robbie!”

He moved in her, working magic with hips and dick and fingers. His rhythm was deliberate and slow, surging with the car’s movement, like an errant heartbeat. With each thrust, he drew a gasp from her lips, and with each moan, the perfect pitch of her voice spurred him to greater efforts.

His hand was on her, working her with his fingers, while she rode him. It was difficult and uncomfortable and perfect and wonderful all at the same time. She couldn’t get enough of the way he touched her, couldn’t stand any moment that her lips weren’t on his, couldn’t hear anything but the way he cried her name, couldn’t taste anything but his skin.

He moaned her name, and she screamed his. She clenched up, her entire body spasming around him as each muscle pulled to its tightest and then relaxed all at once. She went limp in his lap, clinging to him with shuddering sobs. She clutched at his shoulders and he drove up into her, again, and again, and-- One more powerful thrust and then he was shuddering with it, spilling himself into her, and she was nearly oblivious to everything except her own release.

He took her mouth in one last, searing kiss.

Darkness surrounded them, and Daisy let herself raise her head. “Where are we?”

“The garage,” Robbie said, huffing a laugh against her skin. “Charger took us right where we needed t’ be, with a little privacy for bonus.”

Daisy reached out behind her and stroked the dash, her hand as gentle and affectionate as if the car itself was her lover. “Thank you.”

Robbie raised an eyebrow at her. “What about some thanks for me, girlfriend? I was doin’ all th’ work here.”

“You already got yours,” Daisy reminded him. She climbed out of his lap with a grimace, her feet bare against the dirty concrete of the garage floor.

“Yeah,” Robbie said, smirking. “An’ if I’m real lucky, I might get some again.”

“Oh, I don’t think luck’s what you need.”

“Oh yeah?”

The door from the garage led right into the house. Daisy didn’t bother to gather up her clothes. She just looked back over her shoulder, watching him watch her walk. “Come get it.”

Turned out, the path from the garage to the bed was further than they made it a second time.

The couch didn’t mind.

[yoinkmyheart]

hidden identities [iii]

hidden identities: part i // part ii

pairing: peter parker x superhero!f!reader word count: 1.9k warnings: violence, blood mention, prolly swearing let’s be real, sm:h spoiler (that scene under the bridge w childish gambino) summary: reader is one of peter’s best friends and has so far successfully hidden the fact that she’s a butt-kicking superhero by night until she finds herself fighting side-by-side with spider-man and getting a little injured.

dedicated to: a v v kind anon! “Duuuuuuude hidden identities is so good???!???!?!??!!!!! Like phew, they way you write Peter is so in character!!! I’m loving it and I’m so excited for part 3 😄💙💜 “

a/n: honestly, you guys are such kind readers! agh! anyway, here’s part 3. I left it so that I could do a part 4, so message me if you want one! otherwise i’ll probably leave it here folks ;) 

You only lived a couple blocks away from Liz, so you decided to walk the quiet roads to get there. Unfortunately, you miscalculated how fast you could walk and therefore how fast you could get there. 

So now you were running a little bit later than fashionably late to Liz’s party.

You had your suit tucked away in a small bag. You’d been horrified of the idea of you being unprepared in a event when you were needed and so in the end, decided that you’d bring it along.

It was your last intentions to actually put the suit to use, especially as you’d wanted to enjoy this party. Not just for Peter but for you. You were tired. The clash of school and heroism straight after school finally taking a toll on you.

However, as you rounded the corner, you realized that they—whichever star-lord was out there in the galaxy watching over your fortunes—were not about to give you a break.

You heard a electrifying blast behind you. You whipped your head around to see a puff of blue smoke in the distance and suddenly, you were jumping into a bush and changing out of your jeans and t-shirt.

When you finally emerged, you were none other than your alter-ego: Ghost.

You’d arrived at the scene of the mysterious blue smoke and the journey there, which you ran, was spent invisible. You easily snuck to the under-bridge and were now watching a bunch of men trade and test deadly weapons as if they were toys.

Apart from the three other men, you realized you were by yourself. In any other situation, you’d have found this easy, but whatever weapons those dudes had could harm you really badly. 

But you couldn’t just stand there and watch this happen in front of you?!

You kept yourself invisible and started walking as quietly as you could towards the white van. The dude with a weapon attached around his hand was checking out the weapons in the van, looking for something to convince the buyer.

Sneaking closer to the van, you peered in. Then something clicked.

Whoever these guys were, they must’ve been the same people who gave the faux-vengers their weapons of bank/deli destruction.

You were still lost in thought, astonished and marveling at the weapons when you were abruptly ripped back to reality with- yodelling?

Wait. Isn’t that Peter’s ringtone?

“Okay, what the hell was that?” One of the dealers asked, confused. Apparently they hadn’t expected it either. The ringtone whatever was still going when one of the dealers pulled out a gun.

“Did you set us up?” He asked the buyer at gunpoint, who had flung his hands up in defense. You looked between them

Just as you acted on impulse and twisted the man’s arm that held the gun, Spider-man jumped down from (seemingly) no where. Attracting all attention to him.

“Hey, come on, if you’re gonna shoot somethin-” The man fell to the ground, your hand still on his arm, twisting it so he dropped the gun. You kicked the gun away and pushed him down.

At this distraction, the buyer jumped into the car. You turned yourself visible, making the other dealer’s aware of your presence. He looked at you wide-eyed, and now, so did Spidey.

“Sorry I didn’t introduce myself, that was rude,” You smirked at the dealer.

He shook his arm, which powered up the weapon still strapped around it. It glowed a dangerous electric blue, and before you knew it, he was swinging at you.

Spiderman jumped in at the last minute, taking the brunt of the force. With Spidey down, the two dealers looked like they were going to make a run for it. You looked between the van and a hurt Spider-man.

Sorry Spidey.

You turned yourself invisible and jumped into the van unnoticed. The men were looking for you but obviously had different priorities as they started to speed away, the van doors still wide open.

To your surprise, Spider-man had come-to and shot a web out to the van. Dragging him as the van swerved and sped down the empty roads. He smashed into a bunch of bins and you winced.

Oh my god, that has got to hurt.

With Spider-man screaming down the street, you didn’t know what you could do. You were sitting behind the dealer who was blocking the van doors, so all you could do was stare helplessly at the crime-fighter being hauled.

Come on, Y/N! Do something, anything.

“We’ve got to call him” The dealer driving said, which only gained a uninterested,  yeah, yeah, from his accomplice. The accomplice hauling one of the guns up, which lit up a bright pink.

You watched as he took aim at Spidey, and just as he pressed the button, you kicked his hand, making him miss and hit some bins on the sidewalk. The man looked around, now aware that you were in here somewhere.

“We’ve got company!” He yelled to the man in the front, who’d already decided to call whoever him was. You were just hoping the call wouldn’t go through. 

Looking past the weapon-insane man, you looked out to Spider-man who’d just taken a particularly big hit on a brick mailbox. With his web cut, you watched as you tried to web the end of the van once more, catching the van door which snapped off.

Great. Now you’re stuck in a van. With no back-up hero or sidekick. Full of weapons. Invisible. While a man who knows how to function all-said weapons knows you’re here. 

You’re done for.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” The man sing-songed. He was scanning the van with beady eyes, waiting for you to move. You stayed statue still, not giving him the satisfaction of discovering you.

He shook his arm, his weapon powering up.

He’s going to just punch randomly and hope for the best. Oh god.

You breathed in and out. You still had the upper hand. You were invisible. He wouldn’t know if you were going to make a hit. You let a few minutes pass, lulling him into a false sense of security.

With a great pow, you punched him in the face. His head snapping back. You grabbed one of the weapons, and whacked him over the head with it. He fell on his butt, but he swung his arm out, zapping you in the process.

The weapon knocked you back, knocking the air out from you, as you struggled to breathe. At this, you had suddenly turned visible. You had risen into a crouched position and had your back towards the open van’s back. 

Even if you turned yourself invisible again, there was no where to run. The man smirked at you, his nose already forming an ugly bruise, his arm-weapon glowing a menacing blue.

So, with no where to run, you did the next best thing. You stepped back out of the van, awaiting the inevitable sting of the pavement only to be suddenly yanked upwards.

You looked up, realizing that Spidey had caught you with his web and was being hulled higher and higher by a dude in a big ass mechanical suit. What the fuck?

The gravity of the situation finally hit you. Gravity. This dude was going to drop you and he was only going higher and higher. Oh my god, you’re going to die. 

You started blinking back tears and screams, as you heard Spider-man struggling from above you. His web must’ve been pretty goddamn strong, because you were still holding on.

Apparently, you spoke too soon. You faintly heard beeping from above you before the web snapped, making you plummet faster and faster to the water. You twisted to make your falling at least a little slower.

Suddenly, you felt arms wrap around you. You felt a lot more air resistance, slowing your descent just enough to avoid breaking any bones. At the last second, whoever had their arms around you twisted so they’d be the one to slam into impact.

You shut your eyes, and in a big splash, you were engulfed in darkness and chilling water

Someone dropped you down onto ground and out of the water, you coughed up water from your lungs. You ripped your mask off, in an attempt to stop the suffocating feeling,  not caring at all about keeping your identity hidden. Caring a lot more about keeping yourself alive.

You realized that you didn’t get out on your own. Spider-Man, who had also taken off his mask but had his back to you, was crawling out of the water as well and-

Iron Man?!

Iron man nodded in your direction and Spider-Man flipped around, confirming your past suspicions about the superhero. Looking at you, his hair damp with eyes wider than his masks own, was Peter Parker.

“Y/N?!”

Peter was shell-shocked. He had suspected Y/N Y/L/N to be invisible girl, but he couldn’t handle the idea of it, so he had quickly dismissed it before. Once he got over his shock, he ran up to you and trapped you into a bone-crushing hug.

“You could’ve died Y/N! What were you thinking? You’re invisible girl? You’ve been putting yourself in danger!” He said, in rapid fire. He was not holding you by the shoulders and looking at you. You simply replied by hugging him back, nestling your head into his chest.

You could’ve just died.

He hugged you back and you stayed like that for a couple of moments until-

“A-hem”

Forgetting Iron Man’s presence, you split apart and turned towards the floating red suit. You knew that Peter had to talk to him alone, so you turned away and sat on one of the swings on the farther end of the playground. 

Surely, it was Mr. Stark who was mentoring Peter. After all, every time Spidey would come up, Peter would be at the “Stark Internship”. You hadn’t realized but you’d started crying.

You nearly just died. So did Peter. If Peter had died saving you, you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself. Trapping yourself in that van was such a stupid idea. What were you thinking.

You cried into your palms, the cold biting you, and your hair surrounding you. It was then that you heard Mr. Stark softly finish with, “Go take care of your girlfriend,” before blasting off.

“Y/N?” You looked up at Peter with red, tired eyes. Peter’s suit looked completely dry at this point. He pulled you into another hug, suddenly making you feel his warmth.

“You could’ve died. Y/N- I- I don’t know what I would’ve done if you had died,” He played with your hair, and whispered this out softly. You hugged him tighter, scared that you’d lose him.

“I know Pete, I know,” You mumbled.

You pulled away, looking into his eyes, his brown ones filled with genuine worry for you. That’s when you noticed he was crying. Even before, when he didn’t know your hidden identity, he’d been scared of your death. But now, now he knew that it was his best friend, you, so close to dying.

He wasn’t just scared of the thought of your death, it broke him apart.

While he was looking down at you, just as you’d noticed his tears, he’d realized he’d loved you. More than Liz. More than saving people. He loved everything about you. He loved how you’d been there for him through everything. He loved how kind and caring you were. He loved your snarky sense of humor. He loved you.

So there, under the light of the moon that night. Two best friends who fell hard for each other, looked into each other’s eyes. Leaning closer and closer to each other, and kissed.

yIkES. idk how to feel about this because i sUCk and kinda rushed this! aNywHOooOo sorry it’s so late omg. it’s not good enough for it to be this late YOKES. thanks for reading! feedback is appreciated & encouraged! x

tags: @holywinchesterness + @lunastarwatcher + @booya–18 + @caitsymichelle13 + @parker—peter + @sylviestars + @captainsherlockwinchester110283 + @rosaetum + @slythergirlimagines + @lionfart + @africanqueen2002 + @5-seconds-of-sarcasmm + @peter-pan-hoe love y’all  ♡

[devils-gatemedia]

The Virginmarys, Florence Black, Disgraceland, Quorum The Junction, Plymouth 24/02/2019

Some nights are all about the wailing guitars. Others focus on soaring vocals. Tonight, in a cracking value bill of four bands at Plymouth’s only real remaining rock venue (thanks to Plymouth City Council, but that is a story for another day), it turned out to be all about those quiet, restrained, sensible chaps at the back; the drummers.

Opening the evening were “the most bang average band you’ll ever hear”, Quorum. Crossing the moors from the rural backwater of Okehampton, they blew away the cobwebs with some high energy Indie rock that quickly won over the crowd. Fronted by Jordan Hookaway (some definite Chester Bennington vibes), flanked by Jake Hodgson on guitar and Noah Groves on bass, they showcased some tracks from upcoming EP “Art Is Dead”. The first of the quartet of impressive sticksmen, Mack Hodgson laid down some intriguing and complex beats. The set was full of sparkle, with a mix of covers and their own, already mature-sounding, material. Check out “Longer” and “Headstrong” when the EP lands in early April.

I recognised most of the next band up on stage from a previous gig at The Junction when they supported The Picturebooks, but this is a different vehicle. Described as “Plymouth’s filthiest band”, Disgraceland’s set was rock and roll in it’s most down-to-earth, ballsy form, with no messing about. Loud, fast, and fun, they ripped through their set of wonderfully titled tracks (“Best Little Doggie In Town”, “100% Cunt” and “Just Some Fucking Words”, for example) all joined together with amusing (and generally foul-mouthed) banter. The photos tell the story better than words, and give an idea of just how much fun they are to watch, especially with a hair-flailing, tattooed, racing snake-figured, crazy, smashing-the-bejesus-out-of-his-kit man at the back.

I first saw Florence Black at Steelhouse a couple of years ago; drawn to them by the patronage of Skindred’s Benji Webbe, and then by the quality of the set they delivered. I also love the reason for the band’s name (Google is your friend) and the Welsh heritage it celebrates, so I was really looking forward to their set tonight. I was definitely not disappointed!

Opening with “Ghost”, the trio took us through a set of crushing power from the heavier end of the spectrum. The phrase “Power Trio” could have been written for these three. Tristan’s guitar is full and heavy, his solos rip through your ears, his vocals gruff and raw. Fozzi’s bass links the rhythm and lead lines almost as a second guitar, and behind them, drummer Perry lures you into a false sense of security with what sounds impressive, but turns out to be relatively restrained skin-thumping. Sweat flies, hair swirls, Fozzi’s face is occasionally visible, but usually hidden beneath his curly mop, and each song seems to get louder, heavier, and better received by the rapt crowd.

The art of a good set is to keep the energy rising, and this is a masterclass as the band take us through “Fiesta”, “The Ride”, “Same Again”, “Smoke”, and “Johnny” (why waste riff writing time on long titles?). It’s the set closer that rips the venue in two though. A cover of Budgie’s “Breadfan” that is incendiary. Remember that “false sense of security” with the drums? It is like someone has released the beast as Perry absolutely batters his kit. The last notes die away and there is a moment or two of silence, followed by a visible, unanimous “wow” from the slightly shell shocked crowd as Florence Black leave the stage.

Usually the stage set up for a band is fairly standard. Drums at the back, guitar one side, bass the other, singer (if there is one) up front. The Virginmarys pretty much lay the stage out in a straight line, with the drums much more prominent. As soon as they take the stage, it becomes clear why. Danny Dolan has to be the most impressive drummer I have ever watched at such close quarters. His arm is strapped with tape. His fingers are strapped and plastered. His seat sits at in improbable height looming above the kit and, rather than a drum for every possible use, his kit is fairly minimal. The rhythms and stick tricks are stunning though. From lightning fast rolls and trills, to battering the kit with crushing power. Standing, sitting, looming over the kit… it is almost impossible to take your eyes off his performance.

The Virginmarys are about much more than Dolan though. On his flanks are two other superb musicians, the three of them playing a brand of music that is impossible to categorise, but immensely involving. They present a ferocious trio. Flying through songs at a terrific rate. Ally Dickaty isn’t a leaping, posing frontman. Instead, his peroxide blonde hair and piercing eyes lend him a more messianic quality at the mic. Ross Massey plays a bass rhythm as imposing as his physical stature. It’s muscly and powerful, and complements the rhythms driven forward by Dolan perfectly.

The set is full of crowd pleasers, and although the crowd isn’t the biggest they will have played to, it was full of dancing and moshing as their performance went down a storm. The Virginmarys were even joined on stage during one song by a particularly keen fan for some cowbell. In a set of so many songs, it is hard sometimes to pick stand out moments, but opener “Get Me Back Home” with it’s sleazy guitar, “Motherless Land”, the superb “Bang Bang Bang” and the speedy “Just ARide” have all wormed their way onto my car journey playlist.

The controlled violence of Dolan’s drumming was shown in a photo released a day later, showing broken sticks and a drum skin showered with droplets of blood. Sums their set up perfectly for me!

Review and pics: Rob Wilkins

Review: The Virginmarys – Junction, Plymouth The Virginmarys, Florence Black, Disgraceland, Quorum The Junction, Plymouth 24/02/2019 Some nights are all about the wailing guitars.