#I stumbled across this picture when looking for pictures of a courtroom

[xreanimatedcorpse]

My contribution to the Danbert trial without Danbert

[ceilidho]

He’s late for his own trial.

You’ve been standing outside the courthouse for what feels like twenty minutes now, tapping your heel on the ground and checking your watch for the umpteenth time. The two of you are already supposed to be inside the courtroom getting set up and going over the details of his case, but instead of grabbing a coffee at the shop across the street and combing over the case notes, you’ll be pressed to even get a couple hissed whispers out between you two before the judge steps up to the bench. 

You think about calling your client again, but that thought quickly evaporates when the sound of muffled heavy metal rumbles out of the gunmetal sedan that just pulled into the parking lot at around thirty miles an hour. You take a deep breath when he parks, already trying to talk yourself out of the bad mood you’re in.

In the back of your mind, you’re about eighty percent sure that there’s no way you’re leaving today without a guilty conviction. When Johnny steps out of the car, the cheap sunglasses obscuring his eyes do nothing to distract from the way he’s obviously hungover. He’s buttoning up his suit jacket from the middle button as he walks up the stone steps towards you, sliding his sunglasses into the breast pocket. 

“Don’t you look sharp,” you remark dryly when he’s close enough to lock eyes with you. You have to force down a shudder that threatens to ripple down your spine at the cocky grin that spreads over his face. 

You’re obviously being facetious. Johnny’s suit is two sizes too small for him—it looks like the last time he wore it was to his high school graduation and he’s grown at least a foot since then—and his shirt and pants are rumpled like he wore them to bed the night before. The scruff sprouting from his cheeks and chin also supports that notion; he’s still rubbing the sleep out of his eye when he walks up to you.

“‘N’ ye look—I wanna say exquisite, but we should probably keep it professional, huh?” 

He winks down at you and the twinkle in his eye infuriates you as much as it ingratiates you. You didn’t spend nearly ten years working your way through undergrad, law school, and years as a public defender to start preening at the attention of the first cute guy you’ve had to represent in your career. 

“I think we passed ‘professional’ after the seventh pass you made at me.”

“‘N’ it won’t be the last. Anyway, stop wasting time—let’s get this show on the road,” he says, side-stepping around you towards the court doors. “I’m not going to jail because someone wanted to flirt with me before my trial.” 

Your jaw drops. He acts like he isn't in this situation because he was accused of holding up a gas station six months ago. You think he’s about to brush past you until you feel a hand plant itself on the middle of your back and push you forward, making you almost stumble into the courthouse. 

“Anyway, we can pick up this conversation in the bog during the break if yer that hot for it,” he murmurs into your ear before you’re separated and searched upon entering the courthouse. Your cheeks do not—absolutely do not—heat up at his tone of voice. 

You’re right in that the two of you barely have any time to prepare. The prosecution is already set up at their table and even the court reporter and judge’s clerk are already present. You squirm at a side-eye from the other counsel, hurrying Johnny over to your table and spending the next ten minutes with your lips practically pressed against his ear.

All throughout the trial, he leans back in his chair and looks like the picture of a petulant child who’s been dragged along by his parent. If you could sink your head into your palms without immediately losing face in front of the judge, you would; all he had to do—and you’d reminded him this for weeks before the trial—was sit straight and not roll his eyes when the prosecution brought up their witnesses. He can’t even manage that.

Somehow though, miraculously almost—and in your defense, even Johnny looks shocked when the verdict is rendered—he’s not found guilty. You’re still a little shell shocked walking out of the courthouse, the sunlight making you squint and then a cup a hand around your eyes. 

He fits a big hand around your waist when you’re about to part ways with him, pulling you back into his chest. Your head whips up to stare at him, ignoring the clench in your belly when his fingers curl into your flesh and that same smug grin quirks up on his lips.

“Why don’t we go grab a drink to celebrate our win, hen?” he suggests. 

“I don’t grab drinks with clients,” you snap, trying to put some distance between you and him. 

Johnny leans down a bit more, always towering over you, until his face is so close that you almost go cross-eyed. “We dinnae have to go out then. We can just go back to my car. Ah can show you how much ah pure appreciate a’ ye did fer me.”

“I don’t need your thanks, I get paid for this—”

“Baby,” he murmurs, stressing the word out, and the moment suddenly feels cramped and intimate, despite the fact that you’re standing in the middle of a crowded parking lot. “Just let me eat ye out in th' backseat.”

You’re stunned for all of ten seconds before you try to glance inconspicuously around the parking lot. It doesn’t look like anyone’s paying attention. Johnny notices it at the same time as you and his smile goes devilish, teeth showing behind his lips. 

“Aye, ah ken that look. Come on—I ken a spot down th’ road where we can park.”

[oreoambitions]

Previous Draft // Ao3

The courthouse doors open with a bang, and the sound of conversation tumbles out of the atrium and onto the courthouse steps. Security flanks Lena on either side, two uniformed bodies ahead to break the crowd, two behind to keep it from closing in around her. Lena keeps her head up, confident in the knowledge that she will appear to take this all in stride. In truth, she crosses the atrium in a sort of daze.

There are moments in a person’s life when time sticks and stutters, moments that linger beyond their natural boundaries, that creep and haunt and niggle at the mind. As she steps out through the courthouse doors, she understands that this is one of them. Time hesitates for her even as she passes into the chaos of lights and cameras outside, towards the waiting crowd of journalists shouting over one another in a fashion not conducive to anyone’s questions ever actually getting answered.

For an instant she’s back on the witness stand: the defense is demanding Supergirl’s name, and the judge is not intervening; the words I plead the fifth are heavy on her lips. That moment has passed, and it hasn’t. There will be ripples. All Lena can do about it now is try to keep those ripples to a minimum, for Kara’s sake; she must say nothing to anyone until they’ve had a chance to talk alone.

“Ms. Luthor.” 

The officer at her side encourages her forward, not quite touching her back with one hovering hand. Lena realizes with a start that she’s paused halfway down the courthouse steps. At the bottom, Supergirl drops out of the sky in a dramatic, press pleasing fashion. That soft warm smile is another echo of the courtroom, and Lena is reminded that Kara intentionally slipped out of the courthouse another way and circled back for the cameras. Lena has, rather uncharacteristically, committed a critical error in a critical moment, and now Kara is covering for her with theatrics.

It’s working. The cameras turn on Kara as Lena makes it down the last few steps and into her waiting embrace.

“I’m sorry,” she begins, half stumbling as Kara pulls her close, closer than usual, one hand hot at the back of her neck.

Kara turns her shoulder to shield Lena from the bulk of the cameras. “Not here,” she murmurs, so low that Lena is almost not certain she’s heard it. And then Kara pulls back, not quite far enough, and Lena is acutely and self-consciously aware of the sound of camera shutters snapping all around them, the closeness of Kara’s body, the gut wrenching feeling that the eyes of the nation are on them and the stage lights are all lit up and she doesn’t know her lines.

The judge should have intervened. Her mind keeps catching on that point, on the heavy pause in the courtroom, Kara’s expressionless face, the pounding of her own heart, the irrelevance of the question. It feels as though if she stays in that moment long enough, pictures it clearly enough, the judge will step in and this story will play out another way.

Time, of course, does not work like that. It stutters and sticks only in her mind, while in the real world the press clamors and Kara’s cape flutters in the quickening wind. 

“I’m so proud of you,” Kara is saying, her voice pitched so that the waiting journalists might catch words that, God willing, sound hollow to Lena’s ears only. “You were amazing in there.”

Lena is thinking about what the headlines are going to say tomorrow. Luthor and Super: Partners in More Than Crimefighting. Or perhaps, Luthor Makes False Marriage Claim on Witness Stand, Investigation to Follow.

Kara cups Lena’s face with one hand, and she snaps back to reality. She has about half a breath to catch up with what’s happening before Kara is closing the distance between them, and she hates to be a walking cliche, but oh. This is not how she has imagined their first kiss might go - not that she’s ready to admit to anyone except maybe Sam that she’s imagined their first kiss at all - and for a sickening second she feels nothing but regret. But then Kara’s lips are on hers, softer than her imagination has ever accounted for, and Lena is melting into her, kissing her back just at the edge of what might be considered chaste.

It’s an act, of course. If Lena’s heart flutters where she knows perfectly well Kara can hear it, can feel it, that’s just the nerves of the whole situation. Kara is, after all, kissing her on the mouth right there in front of God and everybody, shutters clicking all around them, reporters laughing and cheering in the background. It’s not unreasonable to feel a little something; her secret is still safe.

When Kara breaks the kiss, Lena chases after her mouth, and not for show. There’s that soft smile again, lipstick a little smudged, and perhaps she’s imagining things but Kara’s eyes seem warmer than they did before. 

Kara drops a second kiss onto Lena’s forehead. “Can I take you home?” she asks, her voice still pitched for the journalists on the steps.

“Please,” Lena replies. 

She tucks herself back into Kara’s chest as strong arms close around her. If anyone asks, it’s for the cameras. There’s a car waiting for her, and a driver who will have to be well compensated for the waste of his time, but it’s better if the press sees that she and Supergirl are leaving together, isn’t it? And nothing could be more memorable, more pressworthy, than flight.

And, Lena thinks, it’s better because, selfishly, she wants to prolong this moment of closeness. She wants to soak it all in: Kara’s smell, the brush of her hair across Lena’s cheek, the preparatory breath before takeoff. This is the moment Lena wishes would slow down for her, just this last moment when she can imagine to herself that what happened in the courtroom was a bad dream of little consequence, and that nothing between her and Kara will ever have to change.

///

Kara does not take Lena home. They fly instead over the wide arc of National City’s suburbs and into the foothills, and from there a little further still until they’ve reached the mountains above the city. Kara deposits them in a valley on the leeward side of a low peak dotted half with shrubbery and half with scraggled conifers, the names of which Lena has to admit she does not know. She rubs feeling and warmth back into her arms and resists the urge to ask where they are while Kara paces, the agitation and anxiety in the lines of her body a clear departure from the soft warmth on display outside the courthouse. When she rounds on Lena, it feels like the inevitable fruition of Lena’s mistakes.

“You told them we were married? Lena!”

“Technically I didn’t use those words.”

“Oh okay, so between my wife and my priest, which role did you think the court was going to assume you were alluding to?”

“What was I supposed to say? They had me backed into a corner.”

“It wasn’t relevant to the case! This was about Lilian. It had nothing to do-”

“It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t relevant, because the judge wasn’t intervening. I just- I panicked. I had to say something. I wasn’t going to lie under oath, and even if I were willing, what could I have said? Should I have thrown out some other name, thrown someone else under the bus? And what then, when it became obvious to the nation that I’d lied-”

“Oh, and you thought this was better? What are you going to say when they want proof? There’s no documentation. There was no wedding to document. Supergirl doesn’t exist as a legal entity, you can’t just-”

“Kara, I-”

“It’s just not like you not to think things through.”

They stand there staring at one another, Kara’s jaw clenched, Lena’s arms crossed tight across her chest. The sun is going to go down soon; Lena is already shivering a little in the shadow of the mountain. This is a mess, and it’s a mess of her own making, and she doesn’t know how to unmake it out here in the gathering dark.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I could have - I should have refused to answer. But then they’d have held me in contempt and thrown me in prison. And I’m willing to go to prison for you, Kara, believe me, but then you’d have broken me out because you’re a beautiful idiot, and where would that leave us?”

Kara’s mouth twitches up a little at the corners, and then she laughs outright. “I would have,” she admits. “What a mess that would be.”

“I know I messed up,” Lena offers.

“You were trying to protect me.” Kara scuffs one boot in the dirt. “They’ll try to hit you with perjury charges; you know they will. You might wind up in prison at the end of this anyway.”

Lena nods. She does know this. Some part of her knew it the moment the words I plead the fifth left her mouth, and yet, everything she’s protested to Kara is true. Those words were the only road open to her so long as that judge remained silent.

“Well,” Lena says, “You don’t grow up in the Luthor household without learning a thing or two about the loopholes of the legal system. Burden of proof lies with the prosecution; it would be very difficult to prove that a wedding didn’t happen.”

Kara tsks and turns on her heel to stare out over the valley. “Supergirl isn’t a legal entity. They could challenge you on the grounds that you can’t be legally married to someone who doesn’t legally exist. And if they found a judge more sympathetic to Lex than to you….”

“Not a difficult thing to find,” Lena admits. She stands in the fear and the evening chill for a long moment “I meant what I said, Kara. If I go to prison over this, so be it. Anything to protect you.” Anything for the woman I love, she wants to say, but Kara isn’t ready for that. Might never be ready for that. And neither, truthfully, is Lena.

Kara’s fingers have found the edge of her cape, and now she’s worrying at it in the fading light. She doesn’t look back at Lena for what feels like a long time, and when she does her expression is guarded. “I want you to promise me you’re going to hear me out before you say anything.”

“Okay….” Lena says. She tries to wrestle down her questions, her curiosities, her reservations. Anything for Kara, after all.

Kara takes a deep breath, looking for all the world like she’s readying herself to make a national address. “I have a terrible idea.”

[skzsauce01]

King of Hearts

Synopsis: The king of hearts has a very special surprise planned for his queen. Heavy inspiration from Alice in Wonderland and Alice Through the Looking Glass.

Warning: murder

Word Count: 4.5k

Pairing: fem!reader x king!Chan

The throne room looks best at night when the moonlight spills through the giant glass windows and illuminates the wall of weapons behind the throne. It is an odd array of mostly clubs, maces, and swords, but dead center in the wall and above the plush red velvet seat of the king is a heavy double-bladed axe. Crafted and honed to be as sharp as a diamond knife, it is the perfect tool for executions.

Tomorrow evening it’s gleaming, polished surface will splattered with the blood of a queen.

The king allows himself to admire his collection of weaponry for another minute before returning to his bedchambers where his wife is surely missing his warm presence.

“Good morning, sweet tart,” your husband purrs into your ear. “It’s a special day today.”

You have been awake for the past hour, pretending to be fast asleep when you were actually sneaking glances of Chan in various states of undress. However, you keep your eyes closed and your breathing steady, knowing that he will start planting kisses down your jaw if you’re not awake soon.

“I know you’re not really sleeping,” he continues. He taps the corner of your mouth, and you try not to smile. “I saw you looking earlier.”

You give up the charade and sit up. “Can you blame me?” you grin. “You always dress so nicely for court trials. How many are on the agenda today?”

“Four,” he replies, pulling you closer to him. You playfully squirm in his embrace, and he placates you with exactly four kisses on the crown of your head. “Will you be attending?”

You sink into him and wish you could stay there all day. Just the thought of your own schedule tires you. “I have to ‘entertain’ my sister.”

Chan’s throaty chuckle rumbles against your cheek. “Just until dinnertime, sweet tart. Then you’ll be free.”

“I know. Thank goodness she’ll be busy after dinner.”

Reluctantly you let go of your husband and stumble out of bed. Your dreadful sister will nag at you in that awful harpy-esque way of hers if you’re even a second late to breakfast. Chan makes a feeble attempt to grab your wrist before following you to the vanity.

“Is the king not needed in court yet?” you tease as you brush out the tangles in your hair.

He wraps his arms around your shoulders and presses his cheek against yours. “I’m missing something.”

It’s a silly tradition from your courting days: a kiss for each departure. He insisted on keeping it even when the two of you married, and you happily obliged. You turn to peck him on the cheek, but he twists his head so that your lips land onto his. He laughs at your noise of surprise and kisses you like he’s never going to see you again. It has been a while since Chan has been this intimate with you, and you eagerly return his affections.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” you remark when he finally pulls away. You feel warm all over, but Chan is as composed as ever.

He smiles, full dimples showing. “It’s a special day today.”

“Goodbye, darling,” you say as you watch him leave the room through the vanity mirror.

He gives you one last glance before disappearing through the door. You note that he didn’t bother to fix his mussed up hair and giggle when you picture how he’ll look with the crown on his head.

It’s a good start to a bad day.

“You’re late,” is what your older sister greets you with.

You sit across from her at the dining table and do your best not to scowl. You wonder how the servants feel about her. There are none in the room, so in typical fashion, she must have dismissed them for one negligible reason or another. “Good morning to you too, Nari.”

“What are you wearing? Does this kingdom only wear red and black?” she continues. She picks up her cup of tea and stares at you above the lip, waiting for you to explain. Even with a team of royal advisors and a sister married to a foreign king, she still refuses to learn anything about kingdoms other than her own.

You sigh and try to remember Chan’s words. You only have to suffer through this until dinner and then your sister will finally be gone. “It’s a court day, so everyone wears red and black. It’s custom.”

“You and your frivolous trials,” she scoffs. “What’s the point when they’re all guilty anyway? So, are you going to ask about my trip? Where are your manners, little sister?”

You’re certain she means well when she nags you, but it doesn’t make it any less irritating. “How is everything at home?” you ask instead, knowing that will produce a shorter answer.

“Fine. Felix is ruling in my stead, but most of my advisors are with him, so he’ll have no trouble with it.” Nari picks up a scone topped with confectioner’s sugar and eyes it curiously before taking a bite. “Your sweets are quite good.”

You primly nod and pour yourself a cup of tea. Breakfast is mostly silent, and you’re glad that you nor your sister care to make conversation. You can barely stand her when she’s in a tolerable mood, and it seems like she’s nothing of the sort today. Her usual haughty disposition is only tempered by her breakfast of sweets. Nari seems to be enjoying the food with less complaints than usual, and you feel just a bit smug.

When the servants come to clear away the plates, you hollowly suggest to show Nari the rose gardens. She cheerfully agrees and links arms with you as you lead her outside.

It’s an uncomfortable feeling to have her so close to you after you haven’t seen her in a year. It’s even odder when you realize that she hasn’t linked arms with you since you were five and she eight. You mindlessly point out a few varieties of flowers on the way to the garden and wonder why your normally cold sister has turned warm.

“Is everything alright?” you ask once you have led her to the middle of the garden. The sweet scent of the roses always relaxes you, and hopefully they will do the same for Nari. “You’re acting strange all of a sudden.”

She lets you go and stands in front of you. “Your husband. I don’t like him.”

“We courted for two years,” you remind her, frowning at the memory of her telling you the same thing when Chan first arrived at your home. “And we’re married now. I know you don’t like him, but there’s nothing you can do now.”

She shakes her head. “Do you know what the village girls call him? I stopped in town yesterday, and all the girls could talk about was Chan, the King of Hearts! They went on and on about his ‘perfect face’ and ‘perfect body.’ Think about what he’s done to get such a name!”

“Be an eligible, handsome future king?” You sigh and grab a nearby rose to stick your nose in. You will not give her the satisfaction of setting you off. “Nari,” you begin, your terse voice muffled by the petals, “it’s natural that you want to protect me, but if you’re only here to criticize Chan, then I’m not sure what to do with you during your stay.”

“I saw him stare at me when I arrived last night,” she protests. “Like an animal, unabashed.”

You almost snort at her claim. If anything, Chan dislikes Nari more than you do due to her constant nitpicks of him during the courting years. The incessant “You will never be good enough for her” and “Stay away from my siblings” surprisingly did not deter him from proposing to you.

“I’m sure it was disdain, not lust,” you dryly reply.

“I feel like I’m being watched in this place,” she continues, ignoring your remark. “I don’t trust him or anyone here.”

No wonder why she suddenly put on a facade the moment the servants stepped in the dining room.

“What do you think of the garden?” you ask to change the subject. You cannot fight with her on court day and with so many guests in the castle. “These are our prized roses. Chan said it took the gardeners and florists years to breed them.”

Nari glances at the flower you hold and purses her lips. “It looks like someone painted a white rose red. There’s still spots of white on them. You’re certain they were bred and not painted?”

You swallow the retort in your throat and reach out for another rose to inhale. Nari is just being Nari.

“How about a game of croquet?” You take her elbow and start leading her to the croquet court without waiting for a response. “I think you’ll enjoy it. I’ll teach you how to play.”

Nari roughly snatches her arm back, and her eyes flash with an unfamiliar fire. “You’re not taking any of this seriously, little sister. All the village tarts have likely been with him already, so you mean nothing to him! Isn’t that his cute, little pet name for you too? ‘Sweet tart?’ You’re pathetic.”

For all Nari has said in the past, she has never directly insulted you like this. The fragile restraint you have on your emotions snaps.

“You just hate Chan because he didn’t want to marry you!” you shout, pointing an accusing finger at her. “You’re just bitter that he chose me instead of you! And do you know why he and no one else likes you? Because you’re a cold, angry, bitter hag that nitpicks everything! And you think you’re such a perfect ruler, but the truth is that your advisors hate you and like Felix better! I bet the entire kingdom is happier without you!”

It comes out in one long breath, and you’re red in the face from screaming years of pent up feelings at your sister. It feels good to let it all out. With a sick sense of delight, you watch as Nari turns scarlet and as her eyes gloss over with tears.

“I’m going back to my chambers,” she frostily says.

She pushes past you, and you don’t try to follow her. Even though it’s a longer way back to the castle, you take the opposite path and head to the courtroom.

At least someone will be happy to see you.

You appear placid when you enter the courtroom, which is just the throne room with extra chairs for the jury and audience. Everyone stares at you as you walk to the empty seat reserved for you at king’s side.

“Hello, darling,” you whisper to him as you fluff out your skirts. “My sister decided to retire early to her room.”

He nods in reply and turns back to the defendant. “Proceed.”

Despite his reserved facade, he places one hand on top of yours and starts fiddling with your fingers to try and make you burst out into laughter. It’s a game you and him play during court days, and he has won the past three rounds. However, by the time the defendant is found guilty, neither of you have broken each other.

Chan calls to break for afternoon tea, but you and him linger in the empty room.

He helps you up from your seat and pulls you into an embrace in one fluid motion. “Court is much more fun with you,” he sighs into your hair. “Have I mentioned how stunning you look in red?”

“Only every time I wear it.” You reach up and brush a stray curl from his temple. “Might I say, you look even more handsome than when I saw you this morning.”

“It must be all the guilty verdicts. Are you going to watch the executions in the evening?”

“I always do.” Your eyes fall onto the double-bladed axe above the throne. “It’s my favorite part of court day.”

“I think you’ll enjoy today’s very much.” He slips his arm from your waist to your hands and begins leading you to the dining hall. “I heard the cook made jam tarts for tea today. Your favorite.”

You lean into him and smile at his pleased expression. “You requested them, didn’t you? She hasn’t made them in ages!”

“Sweet tarts for my sweet tart,” he playfully says, kissing your fingertips and making you giggle. “I thought they would make afternoon tea with your sister less awful.”

The mere mention of Nari turns your mood sour. “I hope she skips tea.”

“Did you two quarrel?”

“When do we not?”

Two servants open the door to the dining hall, and to your vast disappointment, you spot Nari seated at an empty table by a window, a cup of tea in hand. Her head is turned, and you can’t see her face, but she is the only person in the room not wearing red and black.

You hesitate by the door, and Chan nudges you toward her. “Your sister’s here.”

“Don’t you hate Nari?” you try. “Please don’t make me talk to her.”

“I do, but politics. She’s my sister-in-law” — he doesn’t even bother to hide the disgust in his voice  — “and the queen of a foreign kingdom. You hate her less than I do.”

The last part is debatable. “I get a front seat at the executions tonight,” you negotiate. “And jam tarts for tea for the rest of the week.”

Chan gratefully kisses your cheek and murmurs into your ear, “You can request jam tarts from the cook whenever you like, you know. I’ll see you after.”

You should have demanded more, like handling executions instead of getting a front row seat to them. He would have never agreed to that.

While he leaves to chat with some aristocrats about the past trials, you stiffly walk towards your sister. You take the empty chair in front of her and curtly say a greeting. She says nothing and instead pours you a cup of tea. For a minute, the two of you choose to sip your drinks and nibble on the quiches and tarts.

“Have you come to apologize?” Nari says in a strange brittle way. She finally looks up from the table, and you see that her eyes are ringed with red.

You want to say no because you haven’t, but a small part of you feels guilty for making her cry. As far as you remember, Nari stopped crying when she was eight.

However, you’re still upset. “No because you’ve never apologized to me. For saying all those things about me and for being rude to Chan all the time.”

“I meant all those things.”

“So did I.”

Another silence. You sneak glances at her, and judging by the fact that she’s still chewing on the same mini quiche from two minutes ago, she’s barely holding it together.

“Here,” you abruptly say, placing a raspberry jam tart on her plate. “I know you like sweets better.”

You can see her debating whether she should take your peace offering or not. Her jaw is set as she looks down at it, but her fingers twitch like she wants to grab it and taste it.

“It’s good, I promise.”

She takes a cautious bite of it and slowly reaches for another from the tower of treats. In the meantime, you refill your cups with more tea and smirk when you see the content expression Nari has when she finishes the tart. Across the room, Chan gives you an encouraging smile at your efforts.

“How’s Felix?” you ask. Your little brother is usually a safe topic. “He’s going to be old enough to be king soon, isn’t he?”

“According to you, he’ll make a much better ruler than me,” she sniffs.  “But I’m the eldest, so I was always going to be queen. Unlike whatever nonsensical laws you have here.”

She says ‘here’ like she said ‘pathetic’ earlier. Nari says something about Felix and how his studies are going, but you’re too concerned with keeping your anger in check to hear it.

“You can never leave anything alone, can you?” you snap in the midst of her spiel. You wrap all of the tarts — yes, every single one from the tea tower, much to your sister’s dismay — in a bundle of napkins and stand up. “I’ll see you at dinner, Nari.”

You hear her huff a reply about how immature you’re being, but you don’t care. On your way back to the courtroom, someone grabs your wrist and spins you toward them.

You already know it’s Chan. “I tried but—”

“Are you really going to take all those tarts and share none with me?”

“Oh?” You hold out the napkins and let him pick between raspberry jam and lemon curd. “You’re not here to come tell me to make nice with my sister?”

“I saw it wasn’t going well, so I called for court to resume in ten minutes,” he says, licking the leftover jam from his fingers. He smiles reassuringly at you. “Don’t lose your pretty head over her. She’s…”

“Annoying? Rude? Deserving of none of our kindness?”

He stifles a laugh at your tone and starts leading to the courtroom. “Difficult,” is what he finally settles upon, but you can hear the exasperation in his voice. “She won’t be a problem for you much longer though.”

“I can hardly wait until tomorrow,” you sigh. “Goodbye, dreadful Nari.”

All the pastries are finished by the time you and Chan take your designated seats. No one else has arrived yet, so Chan takes off his crown and rests his head on your shoulders. He contently sighs and nestles his face into the crook of your neck.

“I think you’ll like this trial,” he mumbles, his tickly breath making you giggle. “It’s why jam tarts have been a scarcity for the past two weeks.”

“Is the cook on the stand?” you joke. The double doors to the throne room start to open, and you raise your shoulder. “Darling.”

Within seconds, King Bang Chan is back and your adoring husband shelved away. More people fill the empty seats in the room, and you watch the entrance carefully to ensure your sister hasn’t decided to show up and make your day worse. It’s unlikely since she is bound to be upset, but you can never be too sure. As expected though, she never arrives, and you sigh in relief. When the trial begins, Chan’s hand is over yours, fiddling with your fingers again. You gladly continue the game as the defendant enters in chains, flocked by two guards.

However, no one wins. The trial is quickly over as the knave is soon found guilty of stealing fruit preserves from the royal kitchen. After the courtroom clears out and you and Chan exchange departing kisses, you retire to your chambers to get dressed for dinner while he goes off elsewhere to attend to more kingly duties.

You don’t see him again until you have finished your bath and the maids are pinning up your hair. Through the vanity mirror, you watch as he enters the bedchambers with his crown missing, hair mussed, and the top of his shirt unbuttoned.

“Hello, darling,” you call out, noticing his satisfied smile. “I see you enjoyed whatever it was that you were doing earlier.”

He gestures for the maids to leave, and they do so in a hurry. He walks over to you and wraps his arms around your shoulders, pressing his lips to your neck at the same time. Every part of you is hyper aware of his proximity when he mumbles, “I did.”

He protests when you lean away and weakly cite your delicate half-done updo. Despite his feelings, he gives you a kiss on your temple and goes to take his bath; dinner will be starting in an hour.

Unsure of what to make of Chan’s reply, you call the maids back in and sit like a statue while they finish your hair. Nari is wrong, you tell yourself. She doesn’t know a single thing about your husband.

Her accusations of him, however, swirl around in your head, and they are all you can think about when there are no more hair tugging and pin stabbings. When Chan emerges from his bath, whistling the cheery execution song, he grins at you and says in tune, “Have I mentioned you look beautiful in red?”

A different kind of chill washes over you, but you still reply back with a stiff smile. “Only every time I wear it.”

He walks over to you and wraps one arm around your shoulders. The scent of soap and cologne that you typically find so comforting is suddenly pungent and overpowering. You can see that his other arm is hidden behind his back, and you can’t look anywhere else.

“Here,” he says. He tucks a red-and-white rose behind your hair, and you jump a bit when you feel the dampness of the petals against your skin. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice these in the bath. They’re your favorite.”

“It’s been a long day,” you tell him. You abruptly stand up and nod to the door. “Should we get to dinner?”

He loops his arm around your waist and leads you to the dining hall. “Were those tarts not filling enough?” he teases. “Or are you just excited for the executions after?”

“I suppose both.”

The finale of court day is the last thing on your mind.

Dinner passes by in a blur. For the first time of the day, you actively look around for Nari and are shocked and disappointed when she doesn’t show up. Maybe you should have been kinder. You airily laugh at the jokes the aristocrats make and make a few of your own about the trials, but your mind and eyes go back to Chan. He sits at the head of the table and merrily cheers with others over another successful court day. You catch him gazing lovingly at you occasionally, and you don’t know what to think anymore.

Soon, the crowd gathers to the execution site outside where servants have set up chairs and lit lanterns. As promised, Chan lets you have the best seat in the house. You sit quietly while he changes into his executioner’s robes and while he is presented with his double-bladed axe.

The guards bring the criminals from the prison, their heavy chains clanging against one another. Four guilty verdicts, four heads to roll. You normally would be thrilled by this prospect, but tonight’s jubilation has been dulled. Nevertheless, you clap after each punishment and admire how clean the cuts are. The wooden chopping block soon drips with blood, and a metallic tang fills the air.

A servant comes to dispose of all the remains, and most of the audience turns to leave, but Chan still lingers around.

“There’s still one more execution left,” he announces. He wipes the blade clean and nods at the guards. “A very special one I planned in surprise for my wife.”

You hear the gasps before you can even process his words. You turn to find out what the fuss is about, and your eyes grow wide when you spot a familiar lily-white dress through the crowd.

“Darling,” you shakily ask, “what is this?”

Chan grins widely at you and readjusts the axe in his grip. “You’re going to be the queen of two kingdoms, sweet tart.”

The guards force your sister to stop in front of you, and Chan rips off the gag in front of her mouth. Nari doesn’t say a word, but the look in her eye says it all: “I told you so.”

“What is this?” you repeat. You wring your hands in the folds of your skirts and try to figure out what exactly is happening.

Your sister is about to be executed for unknown reasons, your husband seems rather nonchalant about the whole situation, and you suppose you are as well. With the chains manacled around her wrists and the guards standing behind her, Nari feels like just another criminal to be punished.

“For starters, you and I don’t like her,” Chan says, walking closer. He glances over at Nari. “She’s a terrible queen, and from what I’ve been told by my advisors, she’s too busy with pretending to be a queen to actually rule.”

“He’s a liar!” Nari spits out, flushing bright red at the allegation. “Don’t you forget that he has mistresses all over town and that you’re just another pretty plaything to him!”

The audience, having heard her accusations, gasps again, and a wave of whispers rolls through the crowd. You glance over at Chan to see his reaction.

He looks terrifying.

His usual cool composure is streaked with anger so hot, you can almost feel it radiating off of him. He thickly swallows, and his hand bearing the bloodstained axe starts to shake. His breathing turns ragged when he finally looks at Nari.

“You think that I would have an affair? You think I would be disloyal to her?” The next sentence comes out in a cold, calm breath. “I’ll execute you on that charge alone.”

“Wait!” you shout at Chan before he can drag her to the execution block. More quietly, you say, “Explain yourself. When you came into the room.”

His face softens as he realizes the implications of his earlier appearance. He cups your face with his free hand. “I was getting your sister taken to the prison. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t go on her own accord, so there was a bit of a scuffle. The guards took care of her later though. I could never be disloyal to you, Y/N.”

No pet names, no teasing. He’s dead serious.

You switch back to your sister, who is still clinging firm to her beliefs. Look at her steadfast expression! “You’re the liar,” you sardonically laugh. “You almost made me believe your lies! You… you almost turned me against my husband! And what for? Your own jealousy?”

“To protect you! And I was right too!” She sharply nods at the crowd of aristocrats. “Look at this madness! Court days and execution parties?”

“Like you don’t order the deaths of criminals yourself!” You motion for the guards to take her to the execution block. You hate her so much right now, and you can barely see past the haze of red overtaking your vision. “Goodbye, Nari.”

“So you’re just going to let him kill me?” she yells. She tries to grab your shoulders at the last second, but the guards pull her back. “He’s an awful man, killing me for such a petty reason! And you’re pathetic for standing by him!”

Pathetic.

It echoes in your ears, and you want to snatch the axe out of Chan’s hands and do it yourself. However, you instead bite out, “Shut up. It’s the least you can do to apologize to me.”

Chan cleans the blade with the cloth from Nari’s gag, and you watch as the white fabric gets painted with scarlet like your sister’s stupid notion about the roses. He raises the axe over her head, and the metal flashes in the lantern light.

You look your sister in the eye. “Off with your head.”

And off her head goes.

~ ad.gray

[ncssian]

A Favor: Part Seven

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

a/n: so this chapter doesn't exactly have a hay bale maze but it has something even better :)

***

Being a legal consultant is surprisingly easy.

Years of studying business law in order to take down big corporations in the courtroom is now being used to help a big corporation— Nesta wants to be disgusted at the state of her morals. Fortunately for her, all the issues that have come across her desk so far are minor negotiation matters. The way Night Court Inc. is run is virtually perfect, and she almost hopes a blatant lawsuit drops into her lap just so she can give Rhysand and his sycophantic workers hell.

Though Nesta knows better than to dream big. This is essentially busy work that Night Court’s actual lawyers don't have time to do, but she's grateful for it either way. She's grateful for the man who got her this job even more.

When her car finally gets back from the auto shop one sunny November morning, Cassian suggests they go out to celebrate.

“Celebrate what?” Nesta says. “Not having to rely on you for rides anymore?”

“Exactly that.” Cassian grins and leans his elbow against the kitchen counter. “There’s a fall festival an hour north of here that pops up every year. There's good food and hot cider. Let’s go.” He nudges her excitedly.

Nesta narrows her eyes at him. “You’ve been planning this,” she accuses.

“I go every year,” he shrugs. “Come on, we have the whole day ahead of us.”

He makes pleading puppy eyes that have absolutely no effect on Nesta, but she doesn't want to hurt his ego by letting him know that.

There is nothing appealing to her about going out into the cold and doing autumn-related activities, so she surprises herself and Cassian both when she agrees to go. He rewards her with a wide smile and tells her to get ready.

Nesta feels oddly giddy afterward. She can't recognize the feeling, so she tamps down on it while she gets dressed and braids her hair.

Outside, her burgeoning smile drops when she sees Cassian getting the truck started. “I thought the point of this was that we could use my car now.” She gestures to her beat up blue sedan, a sad little thing parked next to Cassian’s fancy truck.

“Nes, if I thought your car could go anywhere near a mountain road without falling to pieces, I would get in it without hesitation.”

It's as close to apologetic sympathy as she’ll get from him, so she only grumbles a little before climbing into the passenger seat she's gotten all too familiar with.

The door slams as Cassian gets in the driver’s seat, and something on the dashboard catches Nesta’s attention. Reaching out, she picks up one of her coloring books and her zipper bag full of markers and pencils.

She glances at Cassian. “Is this for me?”

He looks up from where he’s buckling his seatbelt. “Oh, I just picked it up on my way out. Cell signal gets spotty the closer we get to the mountains, so you might get bored.”

Nesta looks down at the coloring book she's clutching, surprised.

“Did you want anything else before we leave?” Cassian says. “I can run inside and pick up some books.”

“No— no, this is good,” she says softly. She flips the page open to a fresh landscape scene, black on white lines staring back at her. “Thank you.”

She unzips her pencil bag with a new reverence, barely noticing as they pull out of the driveway and head for the highway leading out of town.

Nesta is intent on her coloring the entire ride, falling far too easily into that little bubble of her own mind where she forgets that other things and people exist. Cassian, unlike most people, doesn't seem to mind this. He's content with driving in the quiet, the only sound the soft crackle of the radio and the scratch of Nesta’s pencils.

She’s trying to get the blue shades of the lake just right when she feels the truck start to slow, and she looks up to see that they're in some kind of parking lot. Ahead, a market-carnival setup sits at the base of the mountains, and it sprawls as far as her eyes can see. “We’re here already?”

“Yeah.” Cassian glances at her hesitantly. “Is it lame?” He gestures to the autumn-themed affair, as if he’ll turn around and drive them right back home if it isn't to Nesta’s liking.

Nesta can’t pay the festival any attention yet. “I’m not done with this picture yet,” she says simply. She holds it up for Cassian to see, even though he probably can't tell that the mostly-completed picture is still missing a couple of details.

He just says, “We’ll wait till you're finished, then.”

She brightens with relief, and takes her time adjusting the colors of the landscape to her liking. As soon as she's satisfied with what she has, though, she throws her pencils and book down like they're on fire and grabs her coat. “Let's go,” she demands.

If Cassian is surprised at her sudden change of pace, he hides it well and follows Nesta onto the fairground. “Slow down,” he calls for her.

Perhaps the fall season isn't terrible, Nesta thinks as they buy warm candied apples. The air smells nice and the weather is brisk and Cassian stands so close to her that she never quite gets cold.

It feels almost like a date.

Nesta glances at Cassian from the corner of her eye as she chews on her apple. Wind ruffles his hair and his brown cheeks are flushed red, but he looks content. It's too bad they're just friends, because this would have been a nice date.

She has to stop her train of thought before she gets distracted by how Cassian’s hand isn't holding anything, and how her hand isn't holding anything, and maybe their hands should—

She makes a fist with her free hand and shoves it into her coat pocket. This is why she doesn't usually have friends, she remembers— because she can never stop hungering for more.

Nesta and Cassian’s not-date is spent with Cassian throwing his money at every other thing he sees on sale, and Nesta biting her tongue at the unnecessary waste of it all.

“Eight dollars for a cup of cider? Come on, you're being scammed.” Nesta pulls at his elbow, trying to lead him away from the drinks stand.

“But it comes in one of those cute little jars,” Cassian protests as he’s pulled away.

There’s a laughably small hay-bale maze that they complete in less than three minutes, thanks to Cassian being tall enough to see over the hay bales. Then there’s a ferris wheel that Nesta adamantly refuses to get onto, regardless of how high it goes or not. And then, without either of them noticing, the sun starts slipping behind the mountains.

With her arms full of bags of snacks and random knickknacks that she’ll never need in her life, Nesta finds herself back in the market area.

There’s a painting at an art stand that has caught her attention. Something about the brush strokes and choice of color palette… it reminds her of Feyre’s art style. Amateur, but warm and comforting, clearly made with love and dedication. She approaches the elder salesman carefully, only wanting a closer look at the piece.

It’s of a glittering forest in the peak of autumn, ruby and flame-colored leaves littering the scene. An unwalked pathway cuts through the scene, and a longing Nesta can’t place swells in her stomach.

“My daughter painted this one,” the salesman says to her, pride peeking through his voice. She glances up at the kind-faced man. “Only this one?” she asks. The rest of the paintings don’t have the same art style, Feyre’s style.

“Yes.” He places a protective hand over the canvas. “She’s still learning, but she’s got heart and potential. One day she’ll be a better artist than me.”

Nesta blinks at his words. “How much is it?”

“How much do you have?”

She looks down at her hands full of shopping bags and realizes not one of them is carrying her wallet. “Oh, I must have left my money with my—” She glances up then and looks around. “Cassian?”

He was just here with her. They were walking together and she took note of the pretty fairy lights that were starting to turn on, and then she saw the art stand. She scans the milling crowd for a glimpse of his face, but it’s five p.m. and fully dark now.

Unease starts to pump in her chest. “Cassian?” she calls again. She wanders away from the art stand, painting and salesman forgotten. Maneuvering her full hands, she wrangles her phone out of her back pocket and turns it on. Just as she suspected— no signal. Waving it high in the air doesn’t do much for her either.

Shoving her phone back in her pocket, Nesta takes a strained breath and resolves to keep looking. If she can’t find him, she can always make her way back to the parking lot—

Something shoves hard into Nesta’s back, and her glasses slip right off her nose in the collision. She feels a metallic crunch under her boot and gasps. Suddenly there are people everywhere, heading in the opposite direction that she is, and whoever bumped into her yells a quick apology that gets lost in the crush of bodies.

Nesta stumbles out of the crowd, blinking quickly. She can’t see a thing, and the fairy lights are now blurry orbs. “My glasses—” she says to nobody. She scans the flattened grass and dirt furiously, squinting until she gets a headache, but she can’t find them. “Shit.”

She ends up roaming out of the market area, finding herself back on the fairgrounds. There are a few tents around her, but they're empty and the noise has died down. She doesn’t know where she’s going.

At one point, Nesta simply drops her bags and keeps walking without them. She barely notices leaving them behind. The magic has drained out of the festival, and she just wants to find her way back to Cassian’s truck. If the ferris wheel is that way, then the exit should be that way… she thinks.

She looks around in the dark, frustrated tears rising at her inability to recognize anything. She's alone. She’s cold. She was abandoned.

Nesta doesn't know how long she stands there, hopeless in some deserted corner of the fairgrounds. She forgets what she's supposed to be doing, and just stands there staring at nothing. Escaping to a numbing void in her mind.

The desperate call of her name brings her back to earth.

Blinking, Nesta turns around to find a tall figure heading towards her. Cassian.

He’s holding something in his hand, she can tell, but he drops it when he sees her face and breaks into a run.

“Nesta!” Hard warmth crashes into her as strong arms grab her and yank her close. Her face presses into his chest, and hot tears fall despite the lingering numbness.

“Where did you go?” Cassian is demanding. “You had me so fucking scared—”

“I lost my glasses,” she says weakly into the wool of his coat.

“I know.” He goes from stroking her back to clutching her face. His thumbs rub at the wetness beneath her eyes, and finally she can see his face. He’s close enough that she can read every detail, their foreheads pressed tightly together. He isn't letting go.

She presses her lips together. “I lost you.”

“I know.”

In the next moment, Nesta feels everything all at once: Cassian’s heavy breath on her face, his fingers digging into her scalp, his hazel eyes looking relieved and apologetic and terrified at the same time. His heartbeat racing beneath her hands.

For the briefest eternity, Nesta and Cassian share the same mind. They are thinking the exact same thing.

There’s a moment of painful hesitation, where Nesta has the opportunity to pull away. She doesn't take it, and by then it's too late— Cassian’s mouth is on hers.

Oh. Oh.

Nesta buckles a little under the weight of his kiss, but he holds her upright with his grip. His fingers wind so tightly into her braid she worries he might undo the whole thing, but then she's tucking her cold hands into the warmth of his sweater and wow, what a wonderful end to a terrible night.

His lips break from hers for a breath, only to come in again and kiss her deeper this time. A helpless noise escapes from one or both of them. She’s unraveling with every stroke of his tongue, and she thinks distantly that if kisses were flavored, this one would be sweet enough to make her teeth ache.

It's over far too soon, with Cassian’s series of kisses slowing until they stop completely. He pulls back far enough that they both have room to breathe, and with oxygen comes sharp reality.

For once, Nesta has no words. Her thought process is a tape jammed on a few moments ago, so Cassian is the one that has to slowly drop his hands from her hair and clear his throat.

“Let's go home,” is all he says.

***

The drive back to the cabin is silent. Nesta puts her earbuds in and turns on music as soon as they get in the truck, and halfway home Cassian glances over and realizes she's fallen asleep.

His knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and it's a struggle to keep his eyes on the headlight-lit road ahead.

Losing track of Nesta with no way to contact her was one thing, but nothing scared Cassian more than when his eyes caught the metallic glint of broken gold rims in the trampled dirt of the marketplace.

After running from stall to stall searching for Nesta, only one man was able to give Cassian a straight answer. “She was looking at some art and then she went that way,” the old salesman pointed. “She seemed upset; I think she was looking for you.”

The pieces of Nesta's glasses sit in a bag in the backseat now, tucked alongside a canvas painting of an autumn landscape.

The relief Cassian felt when he found her in one piece, when she turned to him with the saddest eyes— he was more cemented in his feelings for her in that moment than in any late night he’d spent dreaming about her.

And when she looked at him like that, fighting not to cry… it was over for him. Weeks of restraint that he hadn't even noticed building up snapped at the last second, until he was kissing Nesta like it was his final dying wish. All of it, utterly over.

He glances over to her now, where she sleeps with her head against the fogged window, exhausted after the day she's had. His hands twitch with the temptation to reach out and touch her.

Gravel crunches as Cassian pulls up into the driveway, and he looks at Nesta again and sighs. He almost goes to wake her, but changes his mind at the last moment and gets out of the car instead. Circling around to the passenger side, he opens the door and carefully lifts her out of her seat.

Her head lolls against his chest, but she doesn't wake. Stress and high emotions have no doubt knocked her out for the rest of the night.

Realizing there's no way to unlock the front door while holding Nesta, Cassian has to circle around to the back of the cabin, entering through the open kitchen door and carrying her on silent feet up the stairs.

Once she's safely tucked in her bed, Cassian can relax his shoulders for the first time all night. Later, he sits down in the half-lit kitchen with Nesta’s broken glasses before him. The frame is split right down the middle, but he already knows Nesta won't allow him to get her a new pair. He’ll need wire and some pliers.

Tying his hair back, he settles down and gets to work.

***

a/n: i'm trying to apologize less for my work but this chapter is not only short and late but also super iffy in terms of writing quality 🥴 so im sorry. if my secret snowflake gift has anything to do with it part 8 will also be a little late (i'm looking for balance guys i really am).

tagging: @ladywitchling @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @sensitiveillyrian @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @queenestarcheron @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @humanexile @that-golden-lyre @agentsofsheilds @mercy-is-alive @cassiansbigwingspan @laylaameer01

[dadsbongos]

crisped

Insert Coin - Chapter 1.c / Series Masterlist

Loading everyone onto the contraption, (Y/n) was last to enter the elevator, sliding up beside Hajime and glancing around at her peers.

One of them was a murderer.

One of them would die.

Well, assuming they had all their evidence.

Clenching her eyes shut, (Y/n) ignored the doubts swelling deep within her gut, trying to ignore the creeping sense of dread looming inside the metal box going down.

Down…

Down.

down

Entering the trial room, (Y/n) wanted to toss up what little she’d eaten that day at how extravagant the whole decor was.

Byakuya might’ve liked it.

Shaking her head, (Y/n) huffed, stumbling over to a podium in the circle as the others did. Hands shaking as she gripped the wood in front of her for purchase, Monokuma began explaining the process of the trial - only serving to bunch the knots inside (Y/n)’s stomach tighter.

She finally forced herself to stand straight and look around, eyes going from her left - Nekomaru Nidai - to her right - Sonia Nevermind - back to her left. Byakuya Togami.

“Didn’t that Byakuya bastard get killed in the dining hall, huh? Then everyone there is a fuckin’ suspect,” Fuyuhiko grinned as if he’d just earned some leg up against everyone else at the trial.

(Y/n) looked over to Nagito once again, then to his hands, and back at his face.

“...there’s something I have to do.”

“BE CAREFUL! The first kill will happen tonight. Someone will definitely kill someone.”

Night-vision goggles.

Green paint.

Knife.

“Helloooo, Ultimate Bimbo, you in there?!” Hiyoko shouted at (Y/n).

“H-huh?”

“We’re asking you a fuckin’ question!” Fuyuhiko followed up, “Shove your head up your ass when we won’t die because of it!”

Nagito gave the girl a sympathetic beam, “Go easy on her, there was just a murder after all. Besides, she was closer to Byakuya than any of us were.”

Hajime quirked a brow, “We’re asking about the cases Byakuya brought in. Do you know what was in them?”

“Oh, yes, sorry,” (Y/n) shook her head, rubbing at her arm awkwardly under the stare of her classmates, “The night-vision goggles is what you mean, correct? Yes, they were in his case. He’d brought them in the event of, well, a blackout.”

“And the knife wasn’t in there, right?”

“Right,” she nodded sternly, “he’d definitely had to have found it under that table.”

“But why?” Mahiru burst out, hands on her hips.

“Well,” (Y/n) crossed her arms, brows drawing tight towards her face in slight hesitance, “Byakuya knew something would happen tonight.”

“(Y/n),” Hajime interrupted, unrolling a piece of paper from his pocket, “you’re talking about this murder threat, right?”

“Exactly,” she agreed, “he’d shown me the threat yesterday while we were planning the party.”

“By gathering everyone in one place, he tried to create a situation where everyone could keep tabs on each other,” Nagito tapped his temple, “In doing so, he tried to put the writer of the letter in a situation where they couldn’t act.”

“He couldn’t risk ignoring it, and he knew that everyone might panic if he said anything,” (Y/n) followed up, “We weren’t sure who wrote it, even now… I’m not totally certain…”

But she had a guess.

But a guess was never quite good enough.

“I have (Y/n)!” Hajime called, pointing to the girl, “During the blackout, we were together.”

“Yeah, he grabbed onto me during the blackout, so I can say without a doubt Hajime has an alibi.”

“Hmm,” Teruteru rubbed at his chin, “Grabbed onto you, you say? Grabbed what?”

(Y/n)’s brows furrowed, “My arm, and can you please keep your mind out of the gutter, a man has died.”

Once again, her gaze floated to the black-and-white photo of Byakuya. His stern, commanding face crossed out with what (Y/n) could only hope was paint suspiciously colored in the fashion of blood. Her fingers intertwined before scrambling apart, only to knot together once again. She felt her lungs shrink and burn at the sight of his picture.

He called out for her. He needed her. Right before he died, he called for her.

She doesn’t know what she possibly would’ve done to help, but she’s sure she could have. She’s sure she could’ve stopped his murder. She’s sure his blood is on her hands.

“Isn’t that right… Teruteru Hanamura?!”

She wasn’t even paying attention to the trial. (Y/n) looked over as Teruteru screamed and wailed in defiance, none of the others on his side.

A voting panel lit up the wood at (Y/n)’s podium, all her classmates’ faces illuminated with the exception of Byakuya Togami - in his stead was a dim, black-and-white likeness. If it wasn’t for Hajime, (Y/n) wouldn’t even know who to vote for.

With heavy heart and shaking fingers, (Y/n) voted for the Ultimate Chef as the murderer of the Ultimate Affluent Progeny.

Once all the votes were tallied, Monokuma giggled to himself before dragging out a large gavel from seemingly nowhere and banging down on a red button, “I have prepared a very special punishment for the Ultimate Cook, Teruteru Hanamura! It’s Punishment Time!”

Rivulets of sweat and tears rolled down Teruteru’s cheeks, his teeth gritting and grinding with absolute dread, mortification bubbling just below the skin. This is it.

His death.

His repentance.

A claw on thick chain shot out and directly latched around the criminal’s neck before dragging him violently across the floor and through heavy, metal-barred gates. They slammed shut as soon as Teruteru was pulled through.

Deep-Fried Teruteru

Battered.

Breaded.

Boiled.

(Y/n) watched, horrified, alongside her classmates on the large projection screen as Teruteru Hanamura was punished for his irredeemable crime. As he was cooked alive.

As Monokuma dismissed the teenagers, they slowly moved out of the courtroom and towards the cottages. (Y/n) looked onwards at Hajime and Nagito, brows furrowed.

"Let's cut to the chase... You're correct! It was my doing all along!"

“I was only trying to stop Nagito from murdering one of you!”

“I saw him. I saw Nagito, in the middle of cleaning duty, putting the knife under the table!”

“Byakuya was probably trying to… protect Nagito.”

“So Byakuya gave his life to protect Nagito? Even though he was trying to take the knife?”

It’s all his fault. It’s his fault. It’s his fault. It’s his fault. It’s his fault. It’s his fault. It’s his fault. It’s his fault. It’s his fault. It’s his fault. It’s his fault.

Byakuya Togami is dead because of Nagito. Teruteru Hanamura is dead because of Nagito.

Byakuya.

Byakuya was dead. And there was nothing (Y/n) could do.

Quietly, (Y/n) approached the boy freshly living on her mind. She tapped his shoulder, pressing her lips into a tight up curl despite his clear shock. Hajime’s eyes widened at the display before shaking his head and walking away.

Ignoring the brunette’s exit, (Y/n) spoke to the boy before her, “Hey, Nagito,” she forced her smile to be livelier, “wanna… walk back to our cottages together?”

“Don’t worry, as long as I’m the leader, I won’t let anyone become a victim.”

Then she wouldn’t either. Even if it meant giving her life… just like Byakuya.

[darkcozyforest]

For Once in Your Life Don’t Argue

Pairing: Rafael Barba x Reader

Word Count: 1.3K

Warnings: Angst, Mention of guns, shootings, rape, blood

Author’s Note: Request by @woakiees Trying to get back into writing and this is my first piece in over a year.

Everything was going fine and that is exactly what worried you. In the last few years you hadn’t necessarily become cynical but were very skeptical of good days. The weeks where everything seemed to be going perfectly were when you were the most on edge, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. So as you walked toward the courthouse steps to meet your boyfriend for lunch a million thoughts were going through your head about things you may have forgotten or things that could go wrong. The case he was trying had given you no reason to worry but you did as you would with any case, ever since he gave some hitman his home address, trying to be a hero.

As you made your way towards the courtroom, you bumped into Sonny waiting for the elevator. He always seemed so cool and collected in his own awkward way and you envied that about him. Something today was different though, his usually slicked back neat appearance seemed a little more ruffled, hair a mess, tie crooked, and where his demeanor used to rub off on you and helped to wash away the racing of your thoughts, this version of him only made the hair on the back of your neck stand.

Something was wrong.

Almost as if he could hear your thoughts, he turned and straightened as he saw you standing behind him.

“Hey Y/N, what uh-- what’re you doin’ here?”

“Meeting Raf for lunch, I assumed they were getting ready to break like they usually do. Is everything alright?”

“No, yea, everything’s fine, just a snag. But it’s gonna be fine. Barba might be runnin’ a little longer than normal though, the defense has been givin’ him hell.”

“Oh okay well, I’ll just wait with you if that’s alright. Are you heading in?”

“I don’t know if that’s a great idea Y/N, this case…”

“Sonny I’ve sat in on his trials before, it’ll be fine.”

Before he could protest more, you slid quietly in and found a spot in the back row. It was less about watching the trial and more about just being able to lay eyes on Rafael to make sure he was okay. After you had seen Sonny, your heart had begun to race and this helped to ease the rising tension.

He was in full swing when you snuck in, in the middle of what seemed a cross-examination that always was so effortless to him. He did it with such ease it was almost like watching a dance.

“Oh sure I get it boys will be boys and you were just a boy trying to have a little fun, why should that be something to get punished for? She should be honored that you picked her after all? Is that it? She was lucky?”

“Of course she was lucky! Nobody wanted her and I did her a favor!”

There was a pause in the courtroom almost as if a wave of silence pushed it all of the air out of the room.

“You did her a favor..is this what you call a favor Mr. Turner?” He held up a photograph of the victim. “Raping her, beating her within an inch of her life and leaving her for dead behind a dumpster? And when she was found she was rushed to hospital, went into a coma and put on a ventilator, only to die from the injuries she sustained a week later. Is that the favor you were talking about? No further questions.”

He started to walk back to his desk and as he turned he caught sight of you in the back and froze for just a moment before sitting down. He reached for his cell and after a second and sat it on his desk at the same time you felt a buzz in your pocket.

-You need to get out of here

-It’s fine. I’ll just wait here until you’re finished. I like watching you work. ;)

-Don’t argue. Just do it!

-Raf it’s fine. I’ve watched you a million times before.

The judge’s voice made your head snap up. You had no idea what was going on with these boys today, why neither of them wanted you in the courtroom? Rafael had never had an issue before. The feeling you got when you saw Sonny at the elevator started creeping its way back up your spine.

“I think, gentlemen, that we will stop there for lunch. We’ll hear your closing arguments when we return.”

She started out of the room and as the crowd rose you made your way toward your boyfriend. Getting your arms around him was the only thing on your mind. Weaving through the crowd you arrived at the last place you’d laid eyes on him.

“So what was so urgent that you needed me to leave as soon as I — ”

“Hold still. Sir--Sir you need to stop. Sir- I need back up!”

In a flash, the defendant had shoved the court officer to the wall and pulled his gun. Rafael pushed you back before shouting for you to run, but you were frozen. Everything moved in slow motion as the man across the aisle set his sights on Rafael and then shifted to you.

“Y/N, go! Now!”

A tug on the back of your jacket knocked you to the ground and you hit your head on a bench, the breath shooting out of your lungs and vision becoming foggy. You tried to scramble to your feet, to get back to your boyfriend who was no longer in your line of sight but stumbled backwards just as quickly as you had risen. You felt yourself getting ready to pass out just as a scream pierced through the tunnel you felt yourself collapsing into as shots rang out and your eyes frantically tried to search for Rafael.

“Call a bus” was the last thing you heard before you gave way to unconsciousness, hoping, praying to anyone who would listen that it wasn’t meant for him.

--

The images replayed in your head over and over, the sound of gunshots and the picture of the man you loved, his face twisted in a mixture of anger and fear. Reaching out to him and trying to run but always being one step too far. Tears began a steady stream down your face as you found yourself alone in the hospital room, a dull ache on the side of your head from being slammed against something you didn’t quite remember. If he wasn’t in this room standing next to you then he wasn’t going to be.

The door opened but you buried your face in your hands, you knew something was off and still you didn’t listen and because of that he was gone. He would have run to safety if you hadn’t been there, been more on guard. This was on you.

“He’s dead, isn’t he,” you said unmoving, afraid to look up into the face of whoever they had sent in to deliver the news.

“Well I sure hope not mi amor, otherwise this is one interesting out of body experience.”

Snapping up and looking into those beautiful green eyes you let out one of the loudest sobs and reached for him.

“Rafi, I thought--”

He walked to you, crawling into the bed and pulling you to him, calming your fears. He knew what you thought, it was the same thing he had thought about you when he had seen all the blood after Carisi had shoved you a little too hard out of the way trying to protect you and take down the shooter. He’d have to thank him later for blocking you but chastise his methods. Couldn’t let his ego get too big.

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen.”

“It’s fine. But next time I tell you to leave or a detective tells you it's not a good idea to go, for once in your life, don’t argue. Just do it.

[mickeymouse-moshpit]

street lights, people

A/N: In the biker AU I learned about through the amazing @maybege‘s Biker!Paz and Biker!Boba upcoming stories, I created a pediatrician!reader who falls in love (eventually, I’m talking a few parts here) with Biker!Fennec Shand. I use as much gender neutral language as possible, but reader is AFAB and uses she/they pronouns. Also hi, May! it’s me that anon who dropped by a couple times. I hope you all enjoy this, I'm sorry there isn’t more Fennec/peds!reader interaction, but I will have more in the future I promise!

P.s: let’s all suspend our disbelief when it comes to the judge doing strange things, had to have conflict somewhere

Summary: When the local pediatrician has to go to a hearing for one of her patients, she stumbles across Fennec Shand, the head of the local chapter of Bikers Against Child Abuse (BACA). 

Rating: T for now, E in the future (possibly) 

Warnings: References to past child abuse, domestic violence, NO descriptions of the actual acts

Chapter One: January 8th

“Okay, Seb. You look good, I don’t see any reason why you can’t go back to school on Monday.”

“Really, Doc? I can’t even stay out one more week?”

“Sorry, bud. I know another week of winter break would be nice, but you gotta go back to the real world. Sucks, but I got told nope too when I asked for Monday off.”

“Fiiiiiine I’ll go back.”

“Good, good. Mom, how are we feeling today?”

“Much better, things have been stable at home but I’m nervous that something is going to happen tonight.”

“Do you have BACA’s contact? If not, I can get Max to give it to you when you check out. They can swing by tonight after the hearing to make sure nothing happens to you and Seb.”

“Oh, I didn’t think of that. Do you think they would mind?”

“From what I’ve seen, they won’t mind at all. When I was in residency, there was a kiddo that the chapter there took day and night shifts for three weeks while the father was out on bail while the trial happened. If a kid needs it, they’ll make it happen.”

“Thank you, for everything. Will we see you this afternoon?”

“For sure, I’ve got to get all my notes signed then I’ll be heading over there.”

“Doc, will you sit with me after you’re finished?”

“Of course, Seb. Do you want me to bring anything with me?”

“Do you have any of those peanut butter cookies?”

“Seb! She’s a busy person!”

“It’s okay, and yes I do. I made them last night just in case you might want some today.” You smiled at him and he beamed back. “Okay you two, head on out and Max will take care of you. I’ll see you over there.”

Seb bounced out of the room, his mom following behind them.

You shook your head and headed out of the exam room and into your office, closing the door behind you. You unlocked your computer and pulled up his chart, finished typing up the note you had started that morning before he arrived. You read and reread the note, making sure it was as accurate and representative of Seb’s course since discharge from the hospital as you could make it without having seen him every day. Finally satisfied, you signed it and called CPS to make sure they knew it was done.

You leaned back in the black leather chair, pondering how much of your credibility you would lose if you showed up in the Winnie the Pooh dress you had worn because of the proportion of toddlers on the schedule that morning. You sighed and pushed yourself up and toward the hook on the door to your office and pulled down the suit that lived there. It was plain black but tailored perfectly. You cut an imposing picture when you paired it with the sharp white button down and simple black pumps that you wore when you needed a confidence boost. You slid the pants on, and ditched the dress before buttoning up the shirt and tucking it in. You put the jacket on, then your boots. The pumps would have to wait until you got to the courthouse, seeing as they were currently sitting on the passenger seat of your car. You gathered your things and made sure the computer was locked again before clicking off the lights and shutting the door behind you.

You stopped at the front desk where Max handed you the sealed manilla envelope that held the morning’s note before they went to lunch. You grabbed your overcoat, the soft wool soothing under your fingertips as you put it on over your suit. It had started to snow while you were in clinic, coating everything with fresh white powder. You would be more excited about it if you weren’t about to go have a hand in deciding a young kid’s fate. You shivered as you turned on the seat warmer and let the car warm up while you plugged your phone in and got your seatbelt on. You pulled out of the spot and onto the highway.

***

You sat for a moment more, closing your eyes and taking a few deep breaths, counting in and out. Satisfied, you made sure the document was in your briefcase before putting on your dress shoes and getting out. You stepped carefully, not wanting to show up wet and shivering from the snow. You smiled when you saw the few bikes parked outside the courthouse. You knew BACA had been working with Seb and his family as long as you knew him, but this was the first time you had been to the courthouse for a hearing.

You almost made it inside but skidded on a small patch of ice a few feet from the door. You would have fallen, but a couple of strong arms grabbed and steadied you.

“Whoa, there! I would ask where the non-skid footwear is but the more important thing, are you okay?”

You looked at the woman who had caught you, struck dumb for a moment. She was wearing a leather jacket with a charcoal grey wool sweater underneath. Her hair was pulled into a braid that disappeared down her back and she was wearing a smirk that made you blush.

“Sorry about that. I almost made it too, ugh! Yeah, I’m fine. I remembered too late that my boots don’t fit in my briefcase so had to risk it. Thanks for saving me.”

She kept one hand on your midback as you walked through the door.

“It’s no problem, just maybe wear the boots next time.” She let you go as you got past the mats that kept the floors from being too slippery. You nodded in response and walked to the stairs that led up to the courtrooms. You steadied your breathing as you walked up the marble. You pushed the door and stepped inside, sitting just behind Seb and his mom.

***

“… and plan for follow up in four weeks, or sooner if needed.” You finished reading the note.

“Thank you, doctor. You may step down. We will reconvene after a fifteen-minute recess.” The judged banged the gavel once and left for their chambers.

You made it down the step in one piece and headed for the door, grabbing your briefcase as you went. You wanted a drink of water and needed to give Seb his cookies before he had to go back inside. You grabbed your briefcase and sat down on the bench with Seb. His mom was a few feet away, whispering to the lawyer and social worker on the case. She looked worried.

“How’re you feeling, kiddo?” You pulled a water bottle and the baggie of cookies out, handing them to Seb before getting out your own water.

“I’m okay, I think.” He took a sip of water. “Mom’s worried, she won’t say anything to me, but I know she is.”

“She’s your mom and doesn’t have control over this outcome. That’s enough to make anyone worry. Are you worried?”

“I don’t know, a little. This time it was really bad, and I know we’ve got plans for leaving but it just hasn’t happened yet. I think something happened, but I don’t know. I don’t want to leave.”

“It’s okay to be worried, whatever happens, you two will take it in stride. You’ve got a lot of people rooting for you.”

“Thanks, Doc. And thanks for the cookies, I know mom wasn’t happy I asked about them but I’m really glad you made them.”

“No problem, Seb.” You took the cookie he offered and savored it, wondering what the new judge was going to say. They were new to the town, new to the case. You just hoped they would be fair.

***

You walked out of the marble building with a silent Seb and mom beside you. 30 days. They had 30 days to find a way out of that house or Seb would be sent to live with his grandparents two counties away and barred from seeing his mom until she was out of the house. You could have sworn you heard disgust when you heard the judge reference Seb’s mom. But the gavel had fallen and now there was an due date on the plan.

***

You considered yourself lucky that you had avoided any more stumbles between your car and the door of the pub. You swirled the whiskey in your glass and took a sip, savoring the flavors that washed over your tongue. You didn’t usually come here, but as you started to drive home, you found your mind running around and around the afternoon’s events and you couldn’t make them stop.

Unknown to you, Fennec was sitting in the same pub, watching you. She took a sip of the beer she had been nursing for the last thirty minutes since you walked in.

“I’m just glad she’s got her boots on,” she mumbled to Boba.

“Would you just go talk to her? You haven’t stopped staring or shut up about her since she walked in.” He was nothing if not an effective wingman.

“I don’t know, will she think I’m following her? She’s some new in town lawyer type that probably doesn’t go for that.”

“Shand, if you don’t go make a move, I’m going to go point you out to her myself.” Boba had done it before.

“Fine, fine.” She scooched out of the booth, leather jacket squeaking against the vinyl as she got up. She tugged at the sleeves as she sidled up to the opposite end from where you were.

“Another one, Fennec?”

“No, I want to buy her next round.” She nodded in your direction, wondering what it would be.

“Sure thing.” The bartender side stepped away out of Fennec’s line of sight and filled a glass with ice and club soda. He finished it with a slice of lime before setting it down in front of you.

“What’s this?” You looked up with your brow wrinkled.

“Lady with the braid over there wanted to buy your next round but I remembered what you told me last time someone wanted to do that.”

“Oh, thanks.” You looked in her direction, meeting her gaze. You gave a small wave to thank her and she disappeared into the growing crowd. You went back to your drink and finished the whiskey off. You felt a familiar hand on your midback as she sat on the stool next to yours.

“Good to see you’ve got appropriate footwear on.” There was her smirk again.

“Well, they just go so much better with a suit and slush,” you quipped at her. “I don’t make it a habit of falling into the arms of strangers, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sure, I’m just glad they were mine.” Your eyes widened ever so slightly. “And I’m also glad you accepted…whatever the hell that is. I’m Fennec by the way.”

“Inside joke with the bartender.” You winked at her before giving her your name.

“How have you been in town long enough to have inside jokes with Karga?”

“I’ve lived here two and a half years, that’s plenty of time, don’t you think?” It was her turn to wrinkle her brow. “What, didn’t think I knew what winter was or something?”

“I—I don’t know. I thought—two and a half years and you didn’t know the steps ice over?”

“First time going in the winter, usually I give my depositions in a conference room in the office building around the corner from the courthouse.”

“Dep—you’re not a lawyer?” You pressed your lips together as you suppressed a laugh. “From how you walked away from me I thought you were about to put away a murderer or something.”

“No, I’m a pediatrician. I work with CPS and do advocacy work for my kiddos in bad situations. This was the first time a judge actually wanted me to read my note into the record at a hearing, something about they wanted to make a decision today and didn’t want to wait on me.”

“Wait, you were there for Seb?” She set her hand on your forearm. “How did I not know? BACA is supposed to know all the people coming in for a case.”

“Not sure.” You took a sip of the club soda. “I didn’t even know I was going to be there until three days ago when I got a call.”

“Huh. Well, I have to say I’m glad you were there, even though the circumstances weren’t ideal.” Her thigh bumped yours and her hand came up to brush your hair out of your face. “And while I don’t think you should wear those shoes outside again, I’m happy I was there to catch you.”

“Me too.” You let out a small huff of laughter. “BACA head, yeah?”

“Yeah, just appointed a few months ago after the last guy retired.”

“I like women in powerful roles.” You held her gaze and you let your knee bump hers this time.

“Bye, Shand. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Fennec could hear Boba laughing as he strode out of the pub after clapping her on the shoulder. Wingman indeed, you were looking at your drink again.

“Hey, don’t mind him. He can be a dick sometimes, but he means well.” She rested a hand on your shoulder as you turned to face her fully. You tilted your head and you held eye contact for a moment.

“It’s okay, we’ve all got those friends, mine just happen to be working tonight.” You chanced a glance at your watch. “Which, I actually need to leave soon. I have to be at the hospital early in the morning to round or the residents will have my head. I would go tonight, but the whiskey and the afternoon in court make that a no go.”

Fennec rested a hand on your knee while she reached for a napkin and the pen you had signed the bill with. She scribbled something and folded it before tucking it into the pocket on your suit jacket.

“Text me when you get home.” She slid off the stool and pressed a kiss to your cheek. “See you around, Doc.”

[starlene]

So here we go! The story my muse whispered into my ear yesterday is done. As always, I based it on the musical, but I don't think there's anything major in here that contradicts the book canon either, for those of you who are more into that!

Words of love

Gabriel John Utterson wants to confess his feelings to Henry Jekyll – if only words will co-operate.

Gabriel John Utterson never did anything spontaneously.

Behind his back, people sometimes called him boring, but personally, John simply thought of himself as a rational, methodical person. Career-wise, he vastly preferred paperwork to any high-intensity courtroom battles, and outside work, he mostly stuck to his routines. In short, his ideal life included predictable outcomes, no shocks and no surprises.

So, when the understanding had dawned upon him that he could no longer keep on living without confessing his love to Henry Jekyll, it had only been the first step in a process that would take weeks – a painstaking process to plan the most appropriate confession possible.

Of course, John conceded, the smartest course of action would be to say nothing at all. He had no idea how Henry might respond, so it would be the safest choice to content himself with Henry's friendship and nothing more than that. It was just that lately, that had stopped feeling like an acceptable option. For a while now, there had been a tiny nagging suspicion in the back of John's mind, just loud enough to be quite impossible to ignore and getting louder by the day, that Henry might share at least some of his feelings. What if the same sort of visions ran through both of their minds when they sat by the fire having a late-night chat? What if friendship wasn't all his best friend desired, either? And, a terrifying thought struck him, what if something happened to Henry before John gave him the chance to find out about his feelings?

At first, John considered sending Henry a letter. After a careful examination of all sides of the issue, however, he decided that even the slightest risk of his writing ending up in the wrong hands – Poole’s, or Maisie the housemaid’s, or anyone else’s – outweighed the reward of being able to write down just the right words.

He would have to meet Henry to speak with him in person. And for that to succeed, he would have to sit down, imagine the situation the best he could, and plan his every word in advance.

"I wanted to ask you if I may share some of my thoughts with you tonight," imaginary John would begin, and imaginary Henry would nod. "If you wish to hear no more, just tell me, and I will keep quiet from then on," he would then continue, and imaginary Henry would listen, silently focusing on his every word.

"Henry, remember that day when we were starting our second year in university," imaginary John went on, but real John shook his head. No, he probably wouldn't – and besides, if all went well, there would be plenty of time for such recollections later on. Better to focus on the present.

"Henry, you must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you–" dear God, no, even imaginary John couldn't say something like that without blushing. Maybe something a little simpler.

"Henry, I love you," imaginary John tried again, and real John nodded. That would be a good, straightforward start, though it might require some explanation when moving forward. Imaginary John took a little pause and went on.

"I've been in love with you as long as I can remember. You are the most extraordinary, ambitious, intelligent, handsome, enticing–" real John put a stop to imaginary John's rhapsody. It was all true, of course… but maybe a little less would do.

"–intelligent person I've ever met. Though I know it's highly unusual, I've never met anyone else who made me feel the same, and I wish to stay by your side for the rest of my life." That felt better. Sometimes, when imaginary John said these words, he saw an expression of warmth and affection on imaginary Henry's face – but sometimes, his face instead took on an expression of confusion and unease. Better add some caveat so real Henry would not end up looking the same.

"I however understand if you cannot reciprocate my feelings. Holding you so close to my heart, I simply didn’t want to go on any longer without letting you know what you mean to me," imaginary John went on. A little melancholic, perhaps, but that would do. Now, only a finishing touch was needed.

"Please know that no matter what, I will always respect and love you."

There! Imaginary John had finished his speech. For a moment or two, imaginary Henry pondered everything he had just heard, and then… well, then the mental picture got rather foggy. Real John was certain that his secrets would always be safe with Henry, whatever they were, but beyond that, he had no idea how Henry might react.

Only one way to find out. It was time to put the plan into action.

~

Sitting in Henry's library across from his friend, John felt like his own insides just might crawl out of his body to strangle him. Could any declaration of love, indeed anything on earth at all, be worth feeling so horribly agitated?

Had his nerves not completely blinded his senses, John would've noticed a worried look on Henry's face. Despite his grand plans of using science to rid the world of this evil and that, Henry didn't often show empathy towards his friends – but this was so unusual of John, demanding to have a strictly private meeting and vehemently refusing to say what it was for, that Henry felt certain there was something wrong with his best friend. And now John was sitting on Henry's couch, face completely drained of all colour. What if he was deadly ill and had come to Henry to ask for a cure, and what if Henry couldn't come up with one?

"John, please, speak your mind. Why did you want to meet me tonight?"

No way out for John now but to say his part.

"I wanted to ask you if I may share some of my thoughts with you," he began, nervous enough to keel over, and Henry nodded. "If you wish–"

John trailed off. What was it he’d been planning to say next? Maybe it would be better to start over, so he could get the words flowing correctly.

"I wanted to ask, and, if you wish, I–" John lost his train of thought again. It felt like the words he had repeated to himself over and over again were slipping away from him.

"If you wish, tonight, may I–"

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. John had a vague notion he had planned a full speech once, but he had no recollection of it anymore. Whatever had compelled him to attempt this in the first place, he briefly wondered, and why had he let the madness go this far, so far that forever holding his peace was no longer an option?

John started over one more time, swearing under his breath, so flustered he hardly knew which words were spoken only in his mind and which ones out loud, and the unwanted realisation of how handsome Henry looked tonight snaking its way into his consciousness… before he could put a stop to it, John's last attempt at speaking his mind stumbled its way out of his mouth.

"I wanted to ask, may I fuck you?"

Oh God. Oh fuck.

The silence that ensued was loud enough to break eardrums, but there was no way in hell or earth John was going to say another word now. Had he been looking, he would've found Henry's blank expression frustratingly hard to read – but seeing how he had buried his face in his hands with the firm intention of never, ever looking towards Henry's general direction again, he had no idea.

After an eternity and a half, Henry spoke.

"Well. I can certainly understand why you wanted to make sure no one else was around to hear that."

He rose from his chair and walked towards the library door, a door that separated his private rooms from the hallway. All the while, he talked quietly, almost to himself.

"Poole has a day off today, and Maisie is staying with her mother to take care of her for a while, but just to be absolutely certain…"

John heard a key turn in a lock.

"Though to be quite honest, knowing you, I'm just surprised that you didn't put the request down in writing and submit it two weeks in advance." Before John knew it, Henry was sitting next to him on the couch, so close their legs almost touched.

"But you meant that seriously, right?"

John managed a nod.

"Good. It's a bit of an unexpected proposition, but my answer is yes."

Raising his eyes to meet Henry's, John was greeted with a mischievous smile – and, suddenly, a hand on his thigh.

"So what are you waiting for?"

Though his outburst had hardly been the carefully constructed declaration of everlasting love he had planned… well, a thought flashed through John’s mind, maybe there were certain upsides to leading a spontaneous life after all.

[adozentothedawn]

If you're still doing them, could I request a fill of the Pine (Hope, Pity) prompt from your flower prompt list? Seems like an interesting combination of themes to work with!

So... this escalated a bit, but then what doesn’t with me? Hope you enjoy!

-

The large courtroom was filled to the brim with people and Favaen was felt like she was being squashed. She wasn’t usually one to mind large amounts of people, but this time she felt out of place and ignored, without an actual reason for being here. The people around her whispered to each other, contempt filling their voices and making them ring far louder than they were meant to. Feet shuffled, arms swung around, faces contorted in anger, and the air was filled with malicious excitement. Favaen felt herself freeze, shoulders pulled up and legs ready to pounce, making herself a smaller target while preparing to defend herself, like she’d learnt back in the Magran temple. Not that it was truly of any use. No one here would physically attack her. Everyone in this room who might mean her harm had better ways to do so.

A hand landed on her shoulder, squeezing comfortingly, and Favaen looked up to Ydona, though it wasn’t much of an up anymore. Soon she would be taller than her mentor. The older woman gave her an encouraging smile, and even without hearing the words, Favaen knew what she was telling her. She’d heard the words many times before. “I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Favaen nodded, shuffling closer to Ydona’s side. If asked later she would deny it with vengeance, after all, she wasn’t a child anymore, but in that cramped room where no one would see, she reached for her mentor’s hand, clinging to it as though her life depended on it. The older woman showed no sign of noticing, only firmly holding on to Favaen as they were looking out over the fenced off area in the middle of the room, where a Woedican priest was preparing for the trial ahead.

The air was getting thicker, not only in the metaphorical way, and Favaen had to supress a cough. The Woedican priest was burning frankly ridiculous amounts of incense, and as it was a closed off room it couldn’t escape into the air around, as it would at an Eothasian service or at the beginning of a hunt of Galawain. Both Abydon’s and Magran’s priests knew better than to spread so much of the blessed fragrance in an enclosed space. Apparently Woedica was of a different opinion.

Finally, the priest seemed satisfied and took his place at the bench at the head of the room. The guards loudly stomped their spears on the ground and the room grew quiet. The silence did nothing to calm Favaen’s nerves though. Resentment and scorn were still burning as strongly as the insence, causing her skin to crawl uncomfortably, all too aware of what these emotions felt like, and what they could make someone do.

The doors leading into the empty area opened with force, banging into the wall, and making Favaen flinch at the noise. Another guard came in, dragging someone behind him by a chain connecting to a collar around their neck. As they passed them by, Favaen could see that it was a male orlan, barely clothed and fur matted with blood. One of his ears was torn, and the tip only hanging off a piece of skin in a gruesome display of cruelty. Favaen gagged, shutting her mouth as tightly as she could.

The man scowled at every one of the nobles he limped past, seething with as much hatred as everyone around him as he glared burning holes into every single person in his line of sight. Including Favaen. A shiver ran down her spine at the sight, both of fear and guilt, and even a small spark of defensive anger. She inched even closer to Ydona, seeking shelter as much from the malice around her, as from the turmoil it caused in herself.

In front of the bench with the priest the orlan was forced to his knees as the guard forcefully yanked on the chain and toppled him, his knees hitting the marble floor with a crack.

The priest started reading aloud the accusations against the man. Or not man, but property, technically. A slave that had killed his master, a well renowned noble, in an attempt to escape. Favaen had known this, had known why they were here, but actually seeing it was a different matter. She was torn in her judgment. On the one hand he’d killed someone, someone who had trusted him. Stabbed them in their sleep. On the other hand, she could see his injuries. Many of them too old to be from his time in jail.

Looking for an answer she turned to Ydona, but her mentor had no eyes for in that moment. Spine straight and rigid she watched over the proceedings, face tighter than Favaen had ever seen on her.

No richer for an answer she turned back to the trial just in time to see the priest end the accusations. The silence didn’t last, for as soon as the slaves muzzle was removed to allow him a comment, nothing more than a formality, he started cursing. Spit flying from his mouth he screamed all his hatred and despair into the priest’s face, who looked on, unimpressed. One hand movement by the Woedican priest and the muzzle was forced back onto the slave’s face, whose struggling grew more and more desperate, blood running in thin lines from under the shackles.

The priest spoke his verdict, death, to be carried out immediately. The room exploded with cheers. Shouts of agreement, slurs, promises of even more violence and the heady scent of incense filled the heated air. Favaen could feel her blood run cold. She hadn’t had any illusions about what would happen here this day, but she hadn’t been prepared for this aggression, this undiluted hatred, even as she herself couldn’t help but silently condemn the man shaking on the floor.

“I object.” The voice, though calm and almost soft, carried through the room, over the hatred and anger and with the same authority the Woedican priest had spoken with. Favaen looked up in surprise and looked at her mentor, whose face had taken on a look of serenity and peace that Favaen couldn’t help but envy. Ydona did not look at her, but squeezed her hand tightly, assuring her without taking her eyes of the judge, who didn’t seem surprised at the interruption.

The people quieted again, throwing the pair of Eothasians annoyed looks, tainted with disdain and disapproval. Favaen shrivelled under the damning attention, feeling almost like a toddler with the way she clung to her mentor.

“Cite your name and authority,” the judge ordered, his cold and unfeeling voice in stark contrast to the heated tempers of the audience.

“I am Mother Ydona, representative of the Abbey of the Dawnstars. I come offering sanctuary.” The judge nodded and gestured for the guards to take the muzzle off once again. Favaen didn’t know what she had expected, the still seething and burning hatred in the slave’s eyes hadn’t been it. Even though he was shaking where he was kneeling, fear radiating off him like warmth off the rising sun, he spit onto the floor in their direction.

“I don’t need your sanctuary, bitch!” he growled, salvia and blood spraying from his mouth. The muzzle was immediately shoved back over his mouth. Favaen watched the struggle in front of her, watched as the slave was slapped across the face as he attempted to bite the guard, and could do nothing but stare. She was outraged at the disrespect and at the same time sorry that this was happening at all, that a sentient being was treated like this.

Next to her she could feel her mentor deflate somewhat, still a firm pillar of support, but clearly saddened by the reaction displayed before her.

“The offer of Eothas’ sanctuary has been rejected. The sentence will be carried out immediately.” Ydona accepted the judge’s words with a nod, and stepped back a little, never letting go of Favaen’s hand.

The execution following was a gruesome scene, and Favaen couldn’t tear her eyes away from it. Blood sprayed over the floor, though not far enough to reach the cheering spectators. The corpse, only just a living, struggling kith, was still twitching as it lied on the ground. All those people around her, most of them nobles, priding themselves on their sophistication, revelling in the violence before them.

Favaen had seen blood and even death before. Of course she had, as an acolyte of Galawain or Magran you couldn’t avoid it. Technically she’d even killed before, a boar on her first actual hunt. This was different. This wasn’t a hunt for food or a controlled duel. This was a slaughter.

The execution was over, and still Favaen couldn’t stop staring. She was frozen on the spot, her thoughts circling over and over as she watched the blood run across the marble like thick juice, odd glints of light reflecting off the fluid. She didn’t know if it was the shock, the incense, or something else, but her feet were rooted to the floor so firmly, not even the shifting masses of people around her were enough to push her away. She felt as if the blood was flooding ever closer to her, extending accusing fingers of carnal rivulets, coming closer as if to choke her for her part in this, however passive.

Only when a familiar hand, far softer and gentler than her own, callused from years at the forge, landed on her shoulder and firmly pulled her away from the scene could she tear her eyes off the crimson sea of gore that hadn’t spread as far as the closest observer’s ornate boots. She stumbled along with the pull, blindly tripping after her mentor and through the mass of people, the smoke, and her own thoughts, knowing she would never find her way out alone.

In what felt both like an eternity and no time at all, Favaen found herself in front of the courthouse, the comforting rays of light shining from the afternoon sun caressing her face. Still caught in the memory of the last few minutes, she lifted her head and marvelled at Eothas brilliance, letting Him burn away the terrible pictures seared into her eyes.

After a while of losing herself in the warmth and comfort of the one she held so dear, she remembered that she hadn’t been alone. Blinking and slowly returning to reality, she looked around and saw her mentor, one hand still on Favaen’s shoulder, the other one holding Favaen’s own, a concerned but understanding expression on her face.

All at once Favaen felt herself crumble as the last bits of shock fell away, and she burst into tears. Immediately Ydona’s face fell as well, and she pulled Favaen into a tight embrace. Ugly sobs wrecking her body and streams of tears running down her cheeks, Favaen nuzzled her face into her mentor’s… no, mother’s shoulder, and let all that confusion and hurt and pain flood out of her like she’d done only once before. It didn’t matter that they were standing right before one of the biggest public spaces in the city, the world had vanished right alongside her composure. All that remained were the soft robes and gentle arms around her, the quiet humming in her ear, the gentle hand in her hair, and the comforting warmth of the sun overhead.

“I’m sorry, little one.” Favaen felt more than heard the words mumbled against her forehead, and though at any other time she would have protested, in this moment she didn’t mind the nickname.

It took quite a long while for the tears to dry and her sobbing to turn into quiet hiccups. It wasn’t that it didn’t hurt anymore, buts she simply ran out of tears to shed. Once she had calmed down somewhat Ydona pulled away, and Favaen couldn’t suppress the small sound of objection in between the sniffling. Ydona didn’t go far though, just moving enough to gently take Favaen’s face between her hands.

“I know it hurts, and I understand that you might not want to hear this right now, but I need you to understand that I didn’t bring you here to punish you,” she said, her grip on Favaen’s face both tender and comforting, as well as firm and not giving her a chance to look away. Through still glistening tears, Favaen look into her mother’s eyes, finding them full of solemn gravity, that she knew only from the few funeral rites she’d seen. Though wasn’t this what this was? A funeral for the part of her that had never seen such cruelty.

“What you saw in there was a tragedy born from another tragedy, born from many tragedies before that. What this man did, wasn’t right, just like what was done to him. What we as Eothas’ heralds must do, is pity these people, show compassion to them, and offer them a better way. Continuing this spiral and anger and vengeance, no matter how justified, would only bring more suffering. We must be the farmers planting the seeds of mercy if we want to see it in the world. But Favaen, though we must lead by example, do not ever forget that you have people to confide in. There are others who share our hope for the future, no matter if they follow our god or not. Lead them, but if you trust them, trust them enough to lead themselves sometimes.” Favaen nodded tearfully. Though she found it difficult to understand the words, deep in herself she knew them to be true. A small smile found its way onto Ydona’s face.

“Look at it like this, a seed cannot grow if you sit on it.” Through her slowly drying tears Favaen giggled, feeling slightly better, though what she had seen still gnawed at her and undoubtedly would for many years to come. And perhaps that was the point, she thought. To be bothered by these things, so that you may never stop striving to be better. To never stop hoping and working for another dawn and spring.

Something about her musing must have shown on her face, for Ydona’s smile grew even warmer and she pressed a soft kiss on Favaen’s forehead. After lingering for a few seconds, she pulled away again and offered Favaen her hand.

“Now, would you like to help me send him off?” Thankfully Favaen took the hand offered to her. Though it sounded strange, a funeral did sound like a good idea. Though a part of her had died in there along with the slave, she promised herself and Eothas in silence that she would make the most of it. She would lay to rest what had been lost this day, and make sure that a brighter future would bloom from it.

Together they made their way back home, always under the watchful gaze of Eothas, who they knew would lead them on to that better future they were hoping for.

[projectsoleil]

NOW STREAMING... MOON ROVER ADVENTURES S5EP18: THE SUNRISE FINALE | GABRIELLE MORNINGSTAR | CHAPTER 3 EXECUTION

Gabi finds himself in the arms of a couple people as the votes finish being counted, as his fate is decided. The hugs are returned as tightly as possible, clutching with every ounce of strength left in him, until the other person is shaking with him. When they pull away, he whispers thanks. 

(Being held is only reminding him of the arms of the few he wants nothing more than to be in right now—face buried in Abe's shoulder, hidden against his chest with his lips pressed to the crown of his head; the soothing touch of Pheo's damaged hands through his curls, soft whispers of assurance; the swirling heat of a hearth and the unwavering, unshaking, protective embrace of Gale. Gabi rubs the heel of his hand over the tears burning down his cheeks instead, head down, and casts his gaze to—)

(—Hawk?)

Hawk crashes to the floor in an awful thump, convulsing on the ground while Tyr’s expression remains one that wasn’t joy at the situation, rather, dread at what was coming next. From Hawk, their attention went to Gabi, who's pupils were shrunk, trembling.

[Mr. Morningstar...it’s time...]

Tyr approaches Gabi slowly and offers their nub to him, though instead of taking it, the young man scoops Tyr up into his arms, holding him like one would a toddler or cat. For another hug, or in hopes to keep him from shooting at anyone else? From AI-T's podium, Rover suddenly goes rigid, and looking more robot-like than he ever has, turns and starts walking stiffly towards them. The redheaded bot stops once they get to the usual spot by the wall, and Gabi turns to look at him momentarily. A hand is lifted, and albeit shaky, presses against the center of the star on Rover's chest. The door in the wall pulls open, and as they turn back to give the room one last look, Fenrir, who has been silently waiting, shoves his phone against Maxwell's chest, then along with Galehaut, jumps to attention—bolting towards them.

"Fuck all that! Fuck all this!" Galehaut shouts. "When I said on our own terms, I meant it! Moon, I'm not gonna let them—!"

As they quickly approach, Tyr offers a small apology to the one that held them in his arms...

[I am sorry, Mr. Morningstar.]

They raise their nub, and like with Hawk, out launches a small pod shaped object that latches onto both of them and sends a powerful shock through their bodies. 

Ah—Gabi grips Tyr tightly to his chest and makes a terrible, strangled sound as the two join Hawk on the floor. His gaze rips from them to stare wide-eyed and glossy at the rest of the room. He shakes his head a few times, backing up, backing up. Lips parted, like he's trying to say something, but his voice never reaches them—Rover steps between Gabi and the rest of you, obscuring the smaller body from view. The bot looks over his shoulder and gives the room an empty, dark, protective look, before the door slams shut, taking them away. 

A minute passes...two...three...until finally the screen lights up with the single message:

PLEASE ENJOY THE PRESENTATION WE HAVE PREPARED

before fading back to black.

[TW: DESCRIPTIONS OF BEING BEATEN, GORE] 

…

The lights dim, casting your cohort into a spill of long stretching shadows. There's a brief silence that follows, until a familiar, cheery theme song begins to chime through the room, growing in volume as the television screen flickers to life.

♫♪ i can reach all the stars in the sky with you by my side! ♪♫

The obnoxious tune of children singing is accompanied with a cartoon music video of what looks like a television show—shooting stars fall across the screen in a sparkly transition effect, opening up to the robot you’ve all grown familiar with over the course of the last month, cartoonified and walking around the moon to the beat of the song. 

♫♪ and if we don't make it today, we'll try, try, try again another day! ♪♫

He's decked out in his hero suit, grinning ear to ear at the audience, and begins leaping from the moon to another planet. It plays in this sort of loop, with Moon Rover marching on rotating planets, waving at passing cartoon versions of.. well, you! He passes by Fenrir and gives him two high-fives, Snapshot he hip-checks, waving at Zero Sum and Oleander on a water-themed planet, Angel they clang a wine glass with...

♫♪ so let's shoot for the stars, and hang out on the moon, and together we'll be anything, anything, anything we've ever wanted to be! ♪♫

It ends with Moon Rover landing on the Earth, joining the rest of the show's cast. Heroes and villains in dramatic poses, making up your full group, including Collin and Ivo hovering by the sides of the screen. 

Well... it includes everyone but one.

We zoom in on the cartoon Rover, who winks at the audience and gestures to follow him, before turning around into a transition. When the scene returns, we're joined with the real Rover, standing in what looks like the middle of the foyer of a massive house. He grins bright, wide, and opens his arms up to the viewers. 

“HEYY, STAR TROOP! ‘m so glad y’were able to tune in today!" 

He places his hands on his hips, leaning forward into the camera. 

“Y’ready for today’s mission? T’day we got somethin’ a little different — we’re takin’ a trip back t’my childhood home! Keheh—betcha thought I lived in a rocket, yeah? Nope! I came from a house, just like yours!” 

The hero beams at the audience and takes a step back, allowing the camera to sweep over the area better: yeah, he is in a foyer—the main entrance of a mansion—except, it’s as if someone has destroyed the place. Pictures are ripped from the wall, furniture toppled over--there’s areas that are just straight up blown up, holes broken through walls, the chandelier hanging slanted, too covered in char to glisten anymore, parts of the staircases caved in. Tire marks are burnt into the floor, the walls, the ceiling.   

There’s a 360 degree pan of the entrance, before it stops on Rover, where he’s gesturing to follow him again. He walks over broken wood and ash, until he gets to a form laying on the floor behind a fallen loveseat: bound at the wrists and ankles, Moon is trying to wiggle himself free.  

“Today we’ve got a suuuuper special guest!” He squats down next to Moon, grabbing a fistfull of his hair and pulling his head up off the floor. The boy winces, pieces of glass and dirt stuck into his cheeks. “The villain who hurt poor, poor Venus! An' subsequently hurt loads more through his choices! I already went ahead an' caught him, so, of course, all what's left is teachin' this no-good hooligan a lesson! Will you help me, Star Troop??"

There’s a blur of movement, and the binds on Moon’s hands and feet are cut—he immediately goes to scramble away, but with a simple step on the corner of his hoodie, he slams back to the ground. Nonchalantly, without hesitation or warning, Rover kicks Moon in the stomach—knocking him backwards in a cry.

Despite being kicked aside like a limp doll, Moon pushes himself up onto his elbows, grimacing, and begins crawling. Rover strolls slowly after him, easy and with a bounce to his step. When he reaches him, he bends down to grab the collar of his shirt, pick him up, and punch him directly in the jaw. It isn't pretty, the next seconds—if this were cinematic in any definition of the word, the moment would be done through silhouettes, the shadow of Rover pulling his arm back and bringing it down mercilessly into the smaller man's form, the ugly sounds of flesh being beaten being the only sense of how awful it is.

You don't get that pleasure. You see it all: no pretty cuts or dramatic angles to censor the boy's face splitting open, blood spilling up from fractured ribs into wet coughs, red splattering across Rover's hero costume. If anyone else was in his place, literally anyone else in the courtroom, this would be solved in an instant — a magma punch, a swipe of a sword, the crack of lightning, and this wouldn’t even be a fight. But Moon isn’t a hero. Not in the super-deep, metaphoric sort of way, but just that: Moon was a civilian. 

He’s dropped to the ground in a gross crack, whining, but moving regardless. He scrambles to his feet this time, using the help of a chair thrown on its side. He runs. He isn’t fast, especially now with his hand clutched to his chest, wheezing, but he runs… not to the front door like you’d expect, but deeper into the mansion. Rover walks behind him, chatting to the audience, you suppose, but now you’re following Moon. 

A door is flug open, and he staggers into a huge workshop. For someone who is frequently found scrawling on his arms to organize roaring thoughts and ideas, the place is surprisingly spotless, orgazined: filled with tools and kilns and forges and anvils. Computer software you know costs millions just by the sight. The young man’s eyes dart desperately around the room, and he makes a bee-line for the back wall full of displayed gear. A weapon? Is he looking for something to use? He grabs a pair of gauntlets first, something similar to Galehaut’s color scheme, before throwing them on the ground. A pair of yellow lense goggles—no. A botched looking race car—no. A pair of motorized wheelies—no. Equipment, equipment, equipment! He didn’t make weapons! He didn’t— 

“Found ya!” 

—whack!— 

Something whizzes past Moon’s head, smacking his hand away from the wall in the process. He turns around, and a small, helicopter-like birdbot is hovering in the air in front of him. Moon blinks, and then the bird shoots forward, whacking him a few more times in the head. It looks less like it hurts, and more like it’s just a distraction. The boy stumbles to the side, tripping over a small dogbot waddling by his feet. He crashes into the wall, and an array of different gear topples over.

It’s more pathetic than tragic, watching his own work fall on his head. He collapses under the weight, but ever-stubborn, ever-determined, ever-unbreakable, Moon whines and pushes his way out, tries to get to his feet once, fails, twice, fails again, and on the third—

—on the third, a red hand snaps forward and grips his throat, pulls him free, and dangles him up into the air, grinning widely. 

“Didn’t think y’could run, didja? Y’know, people want y’blood! They voted for it! Y’think I could let down the Star Troop now?? After how badly ya did?? They need someone they can trust, afterall!”

Moon grips Rover’s forearm with both his hands, clawing weakly at his gloves. The tips of his toes can just barely reach the pile of gear beneath him, so he’s at the very least got a bit of footing. Not that it matters—it’s no use, of course it’s no use—Moon reaches out to push at his bot’s face, push him away, do anything, anything— ah, wait? No.. he’s.. 

With a trembling hand, Moon sinks three of his fingers into the back of Rover’s head, prompting a hatch to pull away and open up in his chest, exposing a variety of wires and a pinpad. Rover doesn’t seem concerned, just keeps on holding Moon by the neck, even as the blonde starts fumbling a code in the pad.

He's dying. A small red button opens up between all the switches and buttons in Rover’s chest, and Moon's frantic, desperate reaching for the button slows down considerably. Really, it's kind of anti-climatic for a death, nevermind a supposed fantastical execution. Maybe that was what Moon deserved, though — something quiet, uneventful, alone. 

Click! 

...Just kidding! He presses the button. Rover’s grip falls away immediately, dropping Moon in a heap on the floor and leaving him doubled over, gasping and coughing, gulping down air like he'd been drowning. In front of him, Rover’s expression seems frozen, and his body begins… going limp? No, no.. it almost looks like he’s.. shutting down? A second later, Rover has joined Moon on his knees in front of him, his smile frozen, his shoulders slumping, his right eye flashing red. His right eye flashing red.. slowly. 

“...keh..” 

There is hardly any distance between the two, but when Moon pushes himself up and wraps his arms around his robot, hooking his chin on his shoulder, the effort looks akin to dragging your hands down a wall of glass shards. 

“...’bout.. time we wrapped this up, huh?” His voice would’ve been impossible to hear had this not been meant for entertainment — hoarse, whisper-quiet.

The sentence seems to, somehow, despite the red light increasing in speed, prompt a corrupt, laggy voice to start speaking: “..S-S-SHOOT FOR THE STARS—!” 

“—even.. if y’miss..” 

Moon grabs fistfulls of the back of Rover’s suit, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“..you’ll land on the—!”

…

…

[♫♪♫♪♫♪] 

The screen blacks out, rattling — the sound from the speakers blowing out from sheer force of the explosion. You… you feel like you should feel it in the courtroom—the floor shaking and rumbling beneath you, but you don’t. Somehow, it makes it feel more empty. More far away. 

As the scene settles, the dust and smoke beginning to clear, you notice blood splattered on the lense of the camera—blurred and out of focus, but unmistakably blood. Debris and metal parts are scattered everywhere, wires twisted and still burning like lit fuses. Something drips from the ceiling, and you're unsure if it's blood or a combination of that and flesh. But more importantly, you see the remains of a human body — the parts you'd never want to see; splintered bone, limbs still stuck in clothes, a head in the corner of the scene, blonde hair smoking, lulling on the slanted floor, and what you catch sight of his face is burnt through to the inside of his mouth, burnt through to his skull.

He looks like he was screaming, and though you know he wasn't in his last moments, this image will likely be the thing you remember when you think of him.

...

Life is continuous. 

Tonight, the sky will finish clearing the storm and the moon will glow across the horizon like it has every other night, and how it will continue to shine for every other night after this. For nothing has really changed—and that's the bonus of playing a stage hero robot that could be replicated, right? Built on? Upgraded? For years and years and years to come, beyond your short life, he can still do something amazing without you. 

Yeah, the world will keep going on without you. 

You wanted that.

(Didn't you?) 

[Gabrielle & Rover Morningstar have been executed.] 

(thank you han for the art!)

[suckerforsmylex]

I Think I Made You Up Inside My Head - Pt. 5

“I fancied you’d return the way you said,

But I grow old and I forget your name.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)” - Sylvia Plath, Mad Girls Love Song

 You set the mail down and step back slowly.  This has to be an elaborate joke.  Yes, the Joker impersonator that toyed with you and then leaped out your patio door planted these pieces of “Gotham mail.”  He must be really eager to make you think you live in Gotham City.  This has to be part of the “arrangement” he was referring to.   Fucking nutcase.  

But why can’t I remember anything except my name?

You start to scroll through your phone for familiar names.  

Vern.  Nope. Harvey.  Not ringing any bells. Janice. Nothing.  Hunan Wok.  Really? I have the local Chinese food spot saved in here?  HQ.  WTF is this? Headquarters? Headquarters to what? No clue. Mom. Yes mom!

You realize that you can’t recall what she looks like, but have a good feeling about calling her anyway. By now it’s about 4:30 in the morning but you call anyway.  She’ll get it.  An icy sensation creeps down the back of your neck as you realize that you can’t remember much at all about yourself. As you dial, you rummage through your living room for anything that will tell you more about your life, holding the phone in place between your right ear and shoulder, while frantically looking for items that will revive your memory.  There is barely anything in your apartment.  In fact, it’s a minimalist’s dream, right out of an interior design magazine.  Everything is metal, glass and leather.  You do find a half empty Starbucks cup on your coffee table and give it a sniff.  It’s pumpkin spice.  

So, it’s between September and December.  It’s not cold so September or early October sounds about right.   You check the date in your phone and its September 18th.  

After about four rings, a sleepy voice answers.  “Hello?  Are you ok? ”  “No…no mom, something���s wrong,” you choke out.  You recognize the sound of her voice and are grateful for it.  A number of mother-daughter memories flood back to you:  Cleaning your childhood house together while playing music and dancing.  Arguments over an old boyfriend – hers not yours. Midnight pancakes and gossip at the dining room table.  

 “What is it, hun?” Your mother is fully awake now.  “Mom, someone broke in and tried to…he threatened me and told me not to leave.”  You leave the whole sexual element out. It feels too embarrassing to mention. “What?  Oh my God, did you call the police?  Is he still there?  Do you know him? Oh my god I’m flying out to you.”  

Flying out?  

“Mom wait…I…I’m having a hard time understanding…you don’t live…nearby?”  There is a long silence.  “You know I live in Sacramento.”  Her voice is slow and sing-songy like she’s explaining it to a baby.   Your mom’s voice shifts and you hear frustration and what sounds like disappointment.  “Christ, it’s been five years since I sold the Gotham place.”  “Go..Gotham place?”  You are stuttering now.

“Have you been drinking again?  Please don’t tell me you are back off the meds.  Sweetie, we talked about this!”  

Meds?  “I can’t keep doing this with you.  It’s 1:45 in the morning over here!  I have work in the morning.  Please tell me that you are going to take the Haldol.  Go to sleep and call me a little later.  It’s going to be ok.  Call Dr. Leland when you wake up and schedule a session.”  

The phone is dead now.   You run to the bathroom and check the medicine cabinet. Sure enough, there is a bottle of Haldol in there.  A quick google search on your phone reveals that Haldol is used to treat Schizophrenia, amongst other things.  I need to sit down.  You stumble back into your bedroom and sit on the bed noticing the pictures on the walls. There is a picture of you smiling broadly in a skirt suit and briefcase.  You are standing in front of a courthouse.  Another frame holds a diploma…from Gotham City University.  

Gotham!  This is a comic book world.  Why am I in it?   Oh my God, is he the real Joker? Fuck!  

Another frame holds a certificate that reads “Certified Court Reporter.”  You throw open your closet and discover that it is split down the middle as if two different people live with you.  

On the right side of the closet: Pencil skirts in black, blue, nude and oxblood. Secretary blouses.  Pearls.  Monogram chains.  Numerous pairs of pumps in black and tan.  Briefcases made of good, smooth leather.  You notice a case holding a kind of weird typewriter in it.  You open it up fully and read the words “steno-graph”.  I really am a court reporter? Huh.  I guess that’s pretty cool.  I can’t be that nuts if I’m a Court Reporter, right?  

On the left side of your closet:  Bodycon dresses and miniskirts.  Short, strappy and lacy dresses.  Lots of sparkly dresses in gold, silver and glittery fabric. Short shorts, crop tops and tons of knee-high socks.  Thigh high boots and stilettos.  Quilted mini backpacks.  Big, gold chains.  You realize that you are smiling broadly as you finger through the gold chains.  A memory of you laughing madly, covered in gold chains and diamonds rushes back to you.  You can hear other laughter in the memory but you can’t pinpoint who it comes from.  You close your eyes and let yourself become immersed in another recollection that rapidly comes to you.  

The memory unfolds before you like a dream and then you’re there, witnessing when you jogged into the same courthouse from the picture in your bedroom, dressed in one of your pencil skirt/secretary blouse ensembles. Your hair was pinned up in a loose chignon and you were carrying your steno-graph.  The plaque on the side of the courthouse read “The Solomon Wayne Courthouse.”

“Your late. The trial is about to start.  You better get in there before the judge gets in there.”  A sharply dressed man called out to you while standing under a metal detector.  He was getting scanned with a hand-wand by a security guard.  You called out loudly and out of breath, “Thanks Harvey!  Janice, can I cut in front of you?”  An older blonde turned to you and sighed while shaking her head.  “This is becoming a habit.  Just go.” You rushed past gratefully.  “Thank you!  My Uber was late again. Here – take my coffee, I don’t have time to drink it,” you said as you shoved your coffee into her hand.  You put your arms up and ran through the scanner as the security guard shook her head.  “I don’t drink coffee!”  Janice yelled out to you as you ran into the court room.

You had just enough time to set up the steno-graph as they were letting in the defendant.  He walked in an orange jumpsuit.  You remember his snowy skin.  It was so pale against the bright green hair.  His lips were crimson with a mouth full of metal.  This was the first time that you laid eyes on the Joker in the flesh.  You had followed his petty crimes before but this was the first time you shared the same air in the same room.  

You couldn’t help but stare as he was seated on the bench handcuffed.  He looked all around the courtroom and laughed as his lawyer tried to consult him.  His lawyer seemed nervous as Joker lunged forward making a biting motion with his mouth.  As he looked around the room again, Joker locked eyes with you and smirked and a vicious grin spread across his face.  You blushed brightly and crossed your legs. It felt as if the room was on fire as he began to cackle, the sound of the “HA HA HA HA HA,” filling your ears. 

You were embarrassed by your arousal, but you grinned back, your hand raising your pencil skirt and rubbing the outside of your panties under the wooden desk.  Your purse sat underneath your chair, a red fabric peeking out of it.

Your cell phone buzzes, snapping you out of the memory.  It reads:

[Here’s Frost’s number xxx-xxxx. Stay put. I’ve got eyes on you. Don’t you dare move.]  

You look around panicked. 

He has eyes on me.  What does that mean?  Oh my God what have I done.         

[hufflly-puffs]

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

Chapter 13: The Muggle-Born Registration Commission

“‘Ah, well. It’s only a matter of time,’ said Thicknesse. ‘If you ask me, the blood traitors are as bad as the Mudbloods. Good day, Runcorn.’” – First of all, the term ‘Mudblood’ has now become acceptable. The Minister of Magic uses it in public, a word that a few years ago was generally seen as an incredible hurtful insult. Second, we know that Thicknesse is under the Imperius Curse and that me wonder how exactly that Curse works. Do you only cast it once, do you have to renew the Curse? I guess that depends on the victim and how strong their will is to fight back. How precise do the instructions have to be? I mean Thicknesse isn’t just forced to do a single action but instead to completely change the Ministry policy. How much of the old Thicknesse is still there? Did he already agree with many of the ideas of the Death Eaters, which would have made him an easier target? Controlling the Minster and at large the entire Ministry is a really complex task, especially in the way Lupin described: that people would get suspicious of the new Ministry policy, but not enough to openly rebel against it.

“Panic pulsed in the pit of his stomach. As he passed gleaming wooden door after gleaming wooden door, each bearing a small plaque with the owner’s name and occupation upon it, the might of the Ministry, its complexity, its impenetrability, seemed to force themselves upon him so that the plan he had been carefully concocting with Ron and Hermione over the past four weeks seemed laughably childish. They had concentrated all their efforts on getting inside without being detected: they had not given a moment’s thought to what they would do if they were forced to separate.” – They are completely underprepared and they lack the resources to get more prepared. Not just by infiltrating the Ministry but with their entire plan to hunt down Horcruxes and destroy them. It was simply a chance of luck that they found out who R.A.B. is (they could have hide anywhere else than Grimmauld Place) or that Umbridge would be wearing the locket instead of keeping at safe at home for example. There are still just three teenagers, not even fully educated, stumbling into this, not knowing what they do, leaving a mess everywhere. Thanks Dumbledore.

“They were all waving and twiddling their wands in unison, and squares of coloured paper were flying in every direction like little pink kites. After a few seconds, Harry realised that there was a rhythm to the proceedings, that the papers all formed the same pattern, and after a few more seconds he realised that what he was watching was the creation of pamphlets, that the paper squares were pages, which when assembled, folded and magicked into place, fell into neat stacks beside each witch or wizard.” – It was at an episode of the ‘Witch Please’ podcast (I think this one) where they had wondered why the Ministry would make every single pamphlet individually instead of using a printing press or something like that. It seems like an incredible dull repetitive work, so perhaps it is meant as a punishment and degradation to those doing it.

“MUDBLOODS and the Dangers They Pose to a Peaceful Pure-Blood Society Beneath the title was a picture of a red rose, with a simpering face in the middle of its petals, being strangled by a green weed with fangs and a scowl.” – Again, the term ‘Mublood’ is used, this time on an official Ministry pamphlet, which therefore makes it socially acceptable now to use it everywhere. Also the red rose of course is a symbol for England, so subtextually the new regime in the Wizarding World is associated with nationalism. Which kinda makes sense given that it resembles every fascist regime ever known.

“The witch glanced towards the shining mahogany door facing the space full of pamphlet-makers; Harry looked too, and rage reared in him like a snake. Where there might have been a peephole on a Muggle front door, a large, round eye with a bright blue iris had been set into the wood; an eye that was shockingly familiar to anybody who had known Alastor Moody.” – Using body parts of defeated enemies (or rather their victims) is – what a surprise – also a thing Nazis did. It displays a complete lack of empathy and respect for the deceased. Also, I wonder how exactly the eye works. Apparently it does not need access to a body in order to work; the way Harry describes it later it almost works like a peephole. Of course we don’t know if the magical eye had completely replaced Mad Eye’s natural eye or if enough of it was still left to use the new eye as reinforcement.

“‘Undesirable Number One,’ Harry muttered under his breath as he replaced Mr Weasley’s folder and shut the drawer. He had an idea he knew who that was, and sure enough, as he straightened up and glanced around the office for fresh hiding places, he saw a poster of himself on the wall, with the words UNDESIRABLE NO. 1 emblazoned across his chest. A little pink note was stuck to it, with a picture of a kitten in the corner. Harry moved across to read it and saw that Umbridge had written ‘To be punished’.” – That little note makes the whole thing so ridiculous, as if they were still at Hogwarts and Umbridge would still be fighting her own little vendetta against Harry, instead of Harry becoming a public enemy, with a death sentence hanging over his head.

“Harry opened the book at random and saw a full-page photograph of two teenage boys, both laughing immoderately with their arms around each other’s shoulders. Dumbledore, now with elbow-length hair, had grown a tiny, wispy beard that recalled the one on Krum’s chin that had so annoyed Ron. The boy who roared in silent amusement beside Dumbledore had a gleeful, wild look about him. His golden hair fell in curls to his shoulders. Harry wondered whether it was a young Doge, but before he could check the caption, the door of the office opened.” – I think this moment works great by comparison to the moment when Harry had found the photo of the Marauders in Sirius’s old room. Back then he knew all the people in the photograph, he knew what would later happen to them, how one would betray the others. He knew the context. But at the same time he had wondered if he had projected something in this photograph because of his knowledge. This time Harry does not know who the second person in the photograph is, the relationship between the two men, ect. He is lacking context. He only sees two friends, without knowing what will happen to them in the future, only a single moment captured in time.

Arthur Weasley confronting (who he assumes is) Runcorn is less brave and much more recklessly stupidity. He knows that his family is being watched, that despite being a pure-blood he is not safe, as he (and his family) are considered to be blood traitors. On top of that he is also in the Order and it is known how close the Weasley family is to Harry Potter. And yet Arthur confronts a very powerful member of the Ministry, a man that we know shows little to no mercy to people this new regime considers not worthy enough. Sometimes it is the best to say nothing at all, despite your anger, in order to keep yourself (and your loved ones) safe. Choose your battles.

“He did it instinctively, without any sort of plan, because he hated the sight of her walking alone into the dungeon: as the door began to swing closed, he slipped into the courtroom behind her.” – I mean it is kinda your fault that her husband isn’t with her today. But this is also who Harry is; deciding on instinct alone, doing something because it is the right thing to do, without a detailed plan.

“At the foot of the platform a bright silver, long-haired cat prowled up and down, up and down, and Harry realised that it was there to protect the prosecutors from the despair that emanated from the Dementors: that was for the accused to feel, not the accusers.” – This is such a cruel display of power. The accused are there to defend themselves, to fight for their lives, and yet they are surrounded by Dementors, as if they are already found guilty, with every kind of hope and strength drained from them. I sincerely doubt that any of the accused leaves this court room as a free man or woman; this is nothing more than a show trial, to demonstrate the absolute power the Ministry has over these people.

“The Patronus, he was sure, was Umbridge’s, and it glowed brightly because she was so happy here, in her element, upholding the twisted laws she had helped to write.” – And this is the reason why Umbridge is the best villain in the series to me, the most frightening, not Voldemort. Voldemort is abstract, almost like a comic book villain. Umbridge though is very real; everyone knows someone like Umbridge. She does not care about ideologies, she only cares about power, and she does everything to abuse said power. She is a sadist through and through, feeding on the despair of others.

“‘I’m behind you,’ he whispered into Hermione’s ear. As he had expected, she jumped so violently she nearly overturned the bottle of ink with which she was supposed to be recording the interview, but both Umbridge and Yaxley were concentrating upon Mrs Cattermole, and this went unnoticed.” – One of the differences between Harry and Hermione is that Hermione hates to do anything unprepared. She always needs to know as much as she can before entering a new situation. Harry is much better as her at improvising and adjusting to new situation. He thinks quick and makes decisions in the heat of the moment, without thinking about the consequences. He needed to learn that skill in order to survive. In the middle of a fight you don’t have the time to analyse the situation and figure out what to do next. You act on instinct. Which is why Harry in this moment is much calmer than Hermione.

“‘T – took?’ sobbed Mrs Cattermole. ‘I didn’t t – take it from anybody. I b – bought it when I was eleven years old. It – it – it – chose me.’” – In this book we learn quite a few things about wandlore and especially the ownership of a wand. We also learn how special the relationship between a wizard/witch and their wand is – the wand becomes a part of them, without it (or when they forced to use a different wand) they feel incomplete. What Mary Cattermole describes here is such an essential part in every wizard/witch’s life – the moment you get your wand, the wand that chooses you, to make it your own. And Umbridge (and the Ministry) takes this moment away, abuses it and reframes it, to fit their own propaganda.

“‘Expec – expecto patronum,’ said Hermione. Nothing happened. ‘It’s the only spell she ever has trouble with,’ Harry told a completely bemused Mrs Cattermole. ‘Bit unfortunate, really … come on, Hermione …’” – We know of two spells that Harry is particularly good at that Ron and Hermione aren’t. Harry is able to fight of the Imperius Curse and he was able to produce a Patronus at a very young age. Both requires a strong will. However I think the reason why Hermione has trouble doing the Patronus Charm is because she is the most emotional of the three. She cries easily and she constantly puts herself under pressure. Even though Hermione has not lived through the same horrors as Harry the Dementors influence her more. Harry has through all the trauma he has experienced built up resilience. And after all this is only the second time Hermione encounters Dementors (the first time she fainted).

“Hermione’s Patronus vanished with a pop as she turned a horror-struck face to Harry. ‘Harry, if we’re trapped here –!’ ‘We won’t be if we move fast,’ said Harry. He addressed the silent group behind them, who were all gawping at him. ‘Who’s got wands?’ About half of them raised their hands. ‘OK, all of you who haven’t got wands need to attach yourself to somebody who has. We’ll need to be fast – before they stop us. Come on.’” – Again we see how different Hermione and Harry react in an unknown situation. Hermione panics – her Patronus vanishes because she can no longer concentrate. Harry on the other hand immediately seizes the initiative and takes over a leader role and gives commands, making sure everyone is safe. He has all the qualities that will make him later a great Auror.

[delfinqs]

*  𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄  ,  DELFINA  SERRANO.

i think i just saw DELFINA SERRANO looking down at their phone in the middle of lecture hall . i wonder if they think that will help them get through their MASS COMMUNICATION major . i’m sure professor baker doesn’t mind , though , especially since RONNIE can be so + DEBONAIR . then again , SHE can be a little - VAGUE , so maybe prof b will mind after all . what do you think is catching their attention all of a sudden ? surely it can’t be more pictures of RED CARPET LOOKS . hey , you know , sometimes they really remind me of PRESSING YOUR LIPS AGAINST MIRRORS TO LEAVE YOUR MARK, WEARING SUNGLASSES INDOORS TO HIDE LAST NIGHT’S MISTAKES, DIRTY JOKES AT INAPPROPRIATE TIMES , but maybe that’s just me . oh well . i hope their THIRD year is treating them well !

𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐄 𝐈.   𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐀𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐘𝐂𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐀 𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐆𝐀

originally  born  in  manhattan ,  new  york  ,  prycilla  ortega  was  the  healthy  baby girl  to  joselyn  bolivar  &  henry  ortega  ;  two  sixteen  year  olds  who  were  obviously  not  ready  to  take  on  the  responsibility  of  being  parents .  though  as  much  as  joselyn  knew  she  wasn’t  fit  for  the  role  ,  she  still  desired  to  be  a  great  mother  --  to  look  after  her .  henry  on  the  other  hand  knew  that  for  the  sake  of  both  of  them  ,  that  a baby  shouldn’t  be  in  their  lives  .  they  both  had  major  plans  for  the  future  and  didn’t  need  that  changing  because  of  some  child .  so  ,  after  neglecting  the  baby’s  presence  for  2  months  ,  henry  decided  that  he’d  try  and  be  a  good  father  .  so  he  introduced  the  idea  of  daddy - daughter  day  ,  to  get  to  know  her  better .  joselyn  was  reluctant  since  it  was  strange  how  he  suddenly  cared  for  her  ,  but  felt  like  this  was  the  start  of  becoming  a  beautiful  family .  so  she  handed  her  precious  angel  to  him  ,  not  knowing  that  as  soon  as  the  baby  was  in  his  arms  ,  her  name  would  no  longer  be  prycilla  ortega ,  but  DELFINA  SERRANO  ;  the  daughter  of  ceo  josiah  serrano  and  laywer  antonia  del  rios  -  serrano .

how  this  came  about  is  a  wild  tale .  antonia  wasn’t  able  to  reproduce  her  own  children  due  to  complications  within  her  body .  both  her  and  her  husband  wasn’t  their  own  child  ,  so  the  idea  of  adoption  was  currently  racking  both  of  their  minds .  it  was  when  antonia  stumbled  upon  a  conversation  that  henry  was  having  with  a  friend  on  wanting  to  give  the  baby  up .  she  then  found  herself  awing  at  the  baby  photos  he  was  showing  her  and  texting  her  josiah  to  wire  money  to  the  young  man’s  account .  because  once  antonia  del  rios - serrano  has  her  mind  made  up  on  something  ,  there  was  no  turning  back .

when  joselyn  noticed  that  her  child  didn’t  come  back  with  henry  ,  all  hell  broke  loose  .  she  knew  she  shouldn’t  have  trusted  him  with  her  .  so  she  began  to  search  for  her  ,  not  needing  any  help  from  anyone  .  because  at  the  end  of  the  day  ,  HER BABY  was  all  she  needed.

𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐈.  𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐀𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐎

her  life  was  okay .  nothing  too  glamorous  as  mother  dearest  was  constantly  meeting  with  clients  while  being  in  and  out  of  the  courtroom  as  her  father’s  nose  was  stuck  inside  business  deals  and  conferences  halfway  across  the  globe.  so  really  ,  her  childhood  was  fine .  it  was  when  she  got  older  that  made  her  realize  that  maybe  it  wasn’t  all  that  peachy .

once  hitting  the  age  of  9 ,  her  parents  decided  that  it  was  time  for  her  to  start  following  in  their  footsteps .  only  problem  is  that  she  hated  lawyers  and  business  people  because  of  how  she  witness  her  family  be  exhausted  and  angry  24/7.  still ,  she  was  young  and  naive  so  they  thought  her  opinion  was  hella  stupid .

going  into  her  school  life  ,  she  constantly  found  herself  getting  into  things  that  other  people  liked .  did  she  like  them  ?  not  really ,  but  everyone  else  did .  it  made  them  happy  ,  so  maybe  that  could  do  the  same  for  her .

yeah  that  didn’t  work .  delfina  didn’t  find  it  fair  that  everyone  had  something  to  be  happy  for  ;  meanwhile  she  was  stuck  sitting  in  cold  offices  until  the  parent  she  was  at  work  with  would  get  off .

the  only  good  thing  that  came  out  of  this  was  that  her  people’s  skills  was  out  of  this  world .  she  could  literally  hold  a  conversation  with  an  adult  for  hours  on  top  of  hours . quite  sociable  for  a  kid  who  plays  with  the  stapler  and  tape  as  if  they’re  dolls .

this  went  on  for  years ,  up  until  her  senior  year  in  high  school .  she  was  well - known  (  not  popular - 2  different  things )  and  was  surrounded  by  people  who  were  still  trying  to  figure  out  their  lives  .  but  it  was  their  lives  they  were  figuring  out  ,  not  some  make-believe  forced  reality  that  delfina  was  currently  involved  in.

she  spoke  to  her  parents  about  this  and  only  got  into  a  heated  argument  with them  in  result .  they  didn’t  think  she’d  be  successful  anywhere  else  because  she  was  a pro  in  their  line  of  work .  but  that’s  only  because  they  threw  her  into  their  careers  instead  of  letting  her  have  freedom  of  her  own  life .

so  when  she  got  to  powell  ,  she  immediately  said  screw  her  parents  and  decided  to  figure  out  who  exactly  DELFINA  SERRANO  was. 

𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐄  𝐈𝐈𝐈.  𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 ( 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 )

in  her  freshman  year  in  college  she  was  exposed  to  the  world  of  drugs .  she  soon  found  herself  getting  into  the  pill  scene  (  since  she  didn’t  believe  they  were  that  strong  )  but  proved  herself  wrong  once  trying  out  xanax  for  the  first  time  .  she  felt  as  if  she  was  floating  on  her  cloud  and  everything  just  seemed  so  calm .  she  began  to  grow  a  liking  towards  them  and  only  buys  them  when  necessary .

after  confessing  to  her  parents  that  she  took  the  major  in  mass  comm.  her  mother  started  to  distance  herself  from  the  girl.  her  father  grew  to  accept  the  fact  that  she  wasn’t  like  him  but  her  mom  wasn’t  having  it.

she’s  a  social  butterfly  who  loves  talking  to  new  people  and  getting  to  know  others .  can  be  seen  at  a  sports  game  supporting  the  hell  out  of  her  team .

she  doesn’t  try  to  be  noisy  ,  just  easily  excitable  and  love  hearing  about  how  her  friend’s  day  went  .  it  keeps  her  sane.

okay  i’m  done .  i  would  add  in  more  but  i  really  wanna  get  this  out.  btw , the name’s ocean , i’m 18 and i don’t have a discord but i am making one . peace out !

[tmarie82]

Truths and Lies

Pairing: Naomi x F!MC (Marin)

Book: Veil of Secrets

Word Count: ~1,500

Rating:  PG-13 (for Marin's potty mouth 🤭)

Author’s Note:  Another installment of the angsty Naomi x Marin x Flynn love triangle mess, following Numb and then Just for the Day.  Sh*t's about to hit the fan, people. 🤷🏼‍♀️

Please let me know if you would like to be added to my tag list.  You can find all of my fics here - MASTERLIST

~~~~~~~~~~

The ride back to Naomi’s house had been quiet, both women deep in their own thoughts as they trotted back to the real world.  Marin kept sneaking glances over to Naomi, the soft satisfied grin on her full lips instilling both joy and guilt in her at the same time.  Luckily Naomi didn’t seem to notice Marin’s inner turmoil, continuing to ride along in blissful ignorance through the peaceful meadow at dusk.  And when the car arrived to take her back into town, when Naomi held her so tight and kissed her so gently farewell, Marin knew she had missed her opportunity to divulge the truth of her mistakes.

That night lying alone in her bed at the B&B, Marin’s exhausted body finally gave in to sleep.  But instead of the much-needed peaceful slumber she sought, she was restless, tossing and turning in the sweat-soaked sheets. Plagued with visions of Kate’s fragile figure covered in dirt in the basement of that abandoned shack, of Tanner’s limp body slumped over lifeless in the armchair on his boat, of Flynn lying asleep under the stars as she slipped away into the night ...and last, of Naomi’s lips curved in a slight grin as she leaned forward to kiss her in the hay, silencing Marin’s confession yet again.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, a groggy Marin dragged herself out of bed as the alarm sounded on her phone at 7:00am.  It was hard to understand how she could be so groggy when she really hadn’t slept anyway.  She fumbled with the one-cup coffee-maker on the desk in her room, groaning as she found the water reservoir was empty.  “I just need coffeeeeeeee ...” she groaned and stumbled into the bathroom to fill it.  

About 15 minutes, a warm shower and half a cup of coffee later, Marin was beginning to feel halfway human as she started dressing for the day.  She slipped into her most conservative and least wrinkled outfit, a pair of slacks with a blouse and a sweater vest, before tousling her damp hair and quickly weaving it into a loose side braid down her shoulder.  She studied her appearance in the mirror, obviously fatigued but at least pulled together, and said a quick prayer that it would be enough to impress the jury at Kate’s trial today.

~~~~~~~~~~

“And so, in conclusion, I think that Kate’s mannerisms and reputation speak to her overall character.  She has a big heart and she is kind to a fault.  There is no doubt in my mind that Kate couldn’t be capable of killing Tanner.”  Marin ended her response to Grant’s inquiry, flashing a reassuring smile to her redheaded friend before settling back against the chair on the witness stand.  

So far she felt the trial was going well today, Grant shooting holes through the DA’s arguments and having several witnesses (including Marin herself) painting a vivid picture of the sweet and caring Kate.  And the jury seemed to be eating it all up, with soft understanding expressions and nods as Marin outlined her relationship with Kate.  So far, so good.

“Thank you, Marin.” Grant tipped his head towards her, an appreciative smirk on his lips.  “No further questions, Your Honor.”  

“Thank you Mr. Emerson ...” the judge spoke dryly, no hint of any emotion on her face. “Mr. Hornby, would you like to address the witness?”

“Yes, Your Honor, thank you.”  DA Mac Hornby glided out from behind the table where he had been perched and walked slowly toward Marin on the stand.  A chill ran down Marin’s spine as he approached ... for while anyone else in the courtroom could only see the fake smile plastered across his face, looking at him straight on and up close she could detect something cold and devious underneath his show face.

“Good morning, Marin.  Thank you so much for your cooperation this morning.  I know we all want to get to the bottom of this and ensure justice has been rendered.”  His eyed crinkled at the sides in his smug grin, delivering the pleasantries he’d no doubt perfected after years and years of practice.  Shit, he’s good, Marin noted.

Hornby’s questioning started out simple enough, asking Marin about her childhood, her parents, her career ... everything illustrating her wholesome lifestyle.  Marin explained how she got into journalism, growing up playing reporter on the playground at school during recess.  The jury seemed content with her responses, and occasionally one or two would even chuckle at her colorful descriptions.  Everything seemed to be working in Marin’s, and therefore in Kate’s, favor.  What is he getting at?  Why is he going so easy on me?

“So Marin, it seems to me like you’re just the typical All-American girl.  Good citizen, hard worker, loyal friend ... just like your best friend Kate here.” Marin’s inner journalist squirmed with unease.  “But things, and people, aren’t always what they seem on the surface, now are they?”  Shit, Marin gulped.  Here comes the bomb. “Despite her good-natured demeanour, Kate O’Malley has some skeletons in her closet.  A rough childhood, a father that abandoned them ... and even her brother Flynn, who she’s very close to, was just released from prison.  Is that correct?”  He arched his brow at his last question, a devilish gleam in his eyes.  

“That’s not exactly true-“ Marin started.

“Yes or no?  It’s a simple question.” Hornby cut in.

Marin’s eyes flitted to Flynn sitting in the row behind Grant and Kate, his eyes narrowed and cheeks flushed with anger.  Despite his obvious frustration, he simply nodded his head in assent.  Her voice was shaky as she replied.  “Yes, that's correct.”  She lowered her eyes to her lap, anxiously fiddling with the hem of her skirt.  

“Thank you, Marin.”  Hornby replied curtly.  He paced in front of the witness stand for a moment, rubbing his hand along his jaw in silence.  The silence, the anticipation, was deafening as Marin waited patiently for the DA’s next question.  He cleared his throat but continued to pace aimlessly in front of her when he fired his next attack.  “And this same brother, Flynn, the ex-convinct ... is it not true that you two have been involved, both romantically and physically, since you arrived in Birchport?”

Marin heard a shocked gasp from the jury as she raised her gaze to Hornby’s face, her jaw open slightly in surprise. “I, uh ...” She glanced to Flynn, who was silently fuming on the bench, his head in his hands ... and then to Kate, a confused look on her face she glanced between Marin and her brother behind her.  In the corner of her vision Marin saw a familiar figure towards the back of the room, the dark-haired bronze beauty shifting uneasily against the back wall.  Marin met Naomi’s stare, a fretful look behind her glossy eyes as she bit her lip nervously.  Marin hadn’t even seen her come in ... her stomach churned, all the guilt and emotions from the past few days bubbling to the surface.

“Answer the question, please.”  Marin glanced back to Hornby’s sneering face.  “Did you or did you not have a relations with Kate O’Malley’s ex-convict brother?”  

Marin sat up tall, chin jutted forward as she fiercely stared down the legal bully in front of her.  But strong and proud couldn’t get her out of this one.  Her gaze softened and her eyes shone with remorseful tears as she turned back to Naomi.  “Yes.  Yes, I did.”  She felt a stabbing pain in her chest as she watched Naomi simply close her eyes, inhaling a deep breath before looking down to the floor at her feet.

Marin tuned out the murmurs in the courtroom, avoiding the judging stares and focused on the one person standing in the back that wasn’t looking at her.  Look up!  She pleaded internally, Just look at me!  But her thoughts were swiftly interrupted as DA Hornby continued to press on in his interrogation.

“Thank you for your honesty, Marin.”  There was that smug grin again.  It took every ounce of self control Marin had left to not stand up and slap that smug grin off his rancid old face as he turned to the jury.  “So it would seem that the witness here has a very complicated and close relationship to the O’Malley family.  Relationships that she would be willing to protect at any cost, I would reason.”  He turned back to look at Marin with a cold stare.  “Based on this I have a hard time believing any character assessments from the witness at all.”  He nodded towards the judge- “I rest my case, Your Honor.”- before sitting back down in his seat.

Marin sat, stunned and silent as she watched Hornby’s closing statement unfold in front of her.  Once he was sitting back down she slowly blinked, awakening from her trance before averting her eyes again to the back of the room.  Only this time instead of finding her target, she found herself staring at an empty spot along the back wall where Naomi had been.

To be continued ...

~~~~~~~~~~

Tagging: @simplyaiden-blog @mfackenthal @lizeboredom @walkerismychoice @boneandfur @laniquelove @choices-fanatic @liam-rhys @the-everlasting-dream @client327 @kamybelen-blog @butindeed @enmchoices @drakelover78 @kamilah-sayeed-xoxo @parkerattano @asprankle @innerpostmentality @jadedpixiescribbles @crookedslimecreatorpasta @choiceswreckedme @debramcg1106 @mymandrake @alesana45 @christopher-powell @eileendannie @diavolosprincess @lazychic28 @clarissafics @blackcatkita @bella-ca @writtenbycandy @stopforamoment @mind-reader1 @snyggflicka @pbchoicesobsessed @miss-cordonia @mrswalkerwrites @speedyoperarascalparty @viktoriapetit @flowerpowell

[hpconsentfest]

Weekly Roundup 1

Hey All! Here’s our first HD Consent Fest Weekly Roundup! If you’ve missed some of the works as they’ve been released, here’s the list of what was posted this week. 

Thanks to all the creators, (cheer)readers, and commenters for getting the fest of to a cracking start! <3

ART:

Title: Suits and Serenity Artist: Anonymous Prompt: 3: One works as a public defender, the other works for the prosecutor’s office. The sparks fly both in and out of the courtroom. # 3 Rating: PG Warnings/Content Notes: Established married relationship Summary: “You looked hot out there today.” “Don’t I always?” “Mhm, can I kiss you now?” "I thought you’d never ask” Medium: Digital Art Artist’s Notes: So, I decided not to go with explicitly showing what they do after Harry attains Draco’s consent, because I felt it would take away from the essence of the art. My vision is to show that even after years of their marriage, Harry and Draco still ask for each other’s consent. They look comfortable in the drawing due to an established relationship, but that doesn’t mean that it would stop them from asking each other’s permission before just kissing. Thank you to the mods for arranging such a wonderful fest! It truly has been a pleasure!

Suits and Serenity

FIC:

Title: Start a Revolution (From My Bed) Author: Anonymous Prompt: # 54 Rating: T Warnings/Content Notes: Eighth Year, Coming of Age, Pining, Humour, Persons of Colour Hermione Granger and Harry Potter, Supportive Ron Weasley, Friendship, Open/Hopeful Ending, Sexism, Racism, Very Brief Mention of Past Abortion, Gender Studies, Party, Alcohol, Breakfast, Jam, Footnotes, Crafts Summary: Harry’s coming of age starts at breakfast. A peek into the lives of the Eighth Years as they become bona fide feminists over jam and croquet. Featuring the fear of growing apart, Blur and a pink cravat. Word Count: 29755 Author’s Notes: The title is taken from ‘Don’t Look Back in Anger’ by Oasis. Many thanks to the mods, my alpha and my betas. This couldn’t have happened without you.

Start a Revolution (From My Bed)

Title: Cold Like Fire Author: Anonymous Prompt: Draco giving a “Consent is Sexy” training at the Ministry after there had been problems with witches and wizards being harassed. Draco using Harry to demonstrate ways to ask for consent? Rating: Mature Warnings/Content Notes: Discussions of consent theory, reference to rape in theory only Summary: Head Auror, Harry Potter, had no problem with mandatory consent training for his team. He’d actually been looking forward to it, that is until he discovered who the teacher was. Now, he had no idea how he was going to get through the training without throwing a hex at Draco Malfoy. Or a punch. Word Count: 12k Author’s Notes: Love to my beta BB.

Cold Like Fire

Title: A Gift for Draco Author: Anonymous Prompt: #66 - When Harry can’t think of a Valentines present for Draco, he teams up with budding photographer Pansy Parkinson to take nudes (the photos can only be seen by the person who gave them and the person they’re given to) all over Hogwarts to surprise his boyfriend. # 66 Rating: Explicit Warnings/Content Notes: No Warnings Apply Summary:Though their new relationship is going well, both Harry and Draco have trouble communicating and are holding back from taking things to the next level–both emotionally and sexually. When Harry decides he is ready for more, he stumbles over how to start the conversation, but figures out a plan with the help of his friends. He comes up with the perfect Valentine’s Day gift to show Draco trust, commitment, and desire: sexy pictures of his naked arse. Thankfully, Pansy Parkinson has a camera and is willing to help… Word Count: 33,492 Author’s Notes: Huge thank you to the Mods for this awesome, positive sexy Consent Fest! It was a lot of fun to explore themes of consent, changing boundaries, and finding creative ways to communicate consent in a relationship. Many thanks to my beta, D, who fixed typos, workshopped dialogue, and squished a bunch of ramblings into a story with a theme. Disclaimer - I don’t own them.

A Gift for Draco

Title: When Nightmares Lead to Day Dreams Author: Anonymous Prompt: #22 Rating: Explicit Warning/Content Notes: No archive warnings apply Summary: Harry Potter didn’t want to return to Hogwarts for 8th year, concerned that the castle held too many terrible memories. Lacking any other plan, though, he agreed. He soon discovered how right AND how wrong he was. Word Count: 9,231 Author’s Notes: First, I want to thank the ConsentFest Mods for pulling this incredibly timely and important fest together. I also want to applaud their patience with a newbie like me who doesn’t know time management if it blocked my schedule itself. The prompts for this fest were beyond amazing and I had such a hard time narrowing down the selection. I only hope I have been able to please my prompter and help explore ideas of consent. Secondly, I literally would not be half the writer I am without my amazing, selfless Betas that came together and spent their weekend working with me. To C and G - you are my literal baby angels and I am so happy we have been able to connect over this crazy, intoxicating world of Harry Potter Fanfic!

When Nightmares Lead to Day Dreams

Title: I Don’t Want This to Be a Mistake Author: Anonymous Prompt: # 49 Rating: Explicit Warnings/Content Notes: Lots of sexual tension, professor!Harry, Father!Draco Summary: Consent can be tricky when Harry is Scorpius’ professor. Word Count: 5500 Author’s Notes: A big thanks to my beta, L!

I Don’t Want This to Be a Mistake

Title: Treat Your Body Like A Temple Author: Anonymous Prompt: Whether it be for kissing, touching, or sucking, Harry’s gotten into the habit of breathing, “May I?” against Draco’s skin. #20 Rating: mature Warnings/Content Notes: No Archive Warnings Apply Summary: It hadn’t been easy, and it hadn’t been fast, but after many years Harry had finally gained Draco’s trust. Now he woke up next to him every day, and he knew just the way to show the Slytherin how grateful he was for that. Word Count: 1707 Author’s Notes: Beta-read by the wonderful MM (thank you love<3). This was my first attempt at smut, so I do hope it was somewhat decent. It was great fun to write this, especially for this amazing fest. Consent is such an important subject, and it should get more attention. I hope I did that in this ficlet. Great thank you to the mods of the fest why reminded my dumb ass to submit this after I sort-of completly forgot, whoops.

Treat Your Body Like A Temple

Title: Bloody Tease Author: Anonymous Prompt: # 50 - Harry gives consent loudly and with delicious details, but somehow Draco just isn’t convinced. (Or basically Draco teases Harry mercilessly). Rating: E Warnings/Content Notes: Explicit sexual content Summary: Draco wants to be sure that Harry is willing. Very, very sure. Word Count: 1433 Author’s Notes: Thank you to s for the beta on this fic.

Bloody Tease

Title: Have Me Then Author: Anonymous Prompt: OWN Rating: NC-17 Warnings/Content Notes: unenthusiastic consensual sex between Draco and another character (detailed in the notes before the fic on AO3, explaining this tag better), infidelity, Female Draco, Canon What Canon, Alive Sirius, Cousin Incest (heavily implied, not visual), Misogyny, Slut Shaming By Another Character Summary: In Draco’s world, women are expected to be demure, non-lusting creatures. They are expected to be devoted while their husbands cater to base desires with women of the evening. All passions they are permitted lie between dusty, well-worn pages of romance novels. Draco doesn’t want to be that woman, but as she spends her days—unfulfilled—in the arms of a boring lover she dreams of more. Potter is so much more than she could imagine. Word Count: 3,632 Author’s Notes: Decided to do before for a brief warning. Draco consents to sleep with Theo, but when they are together she clearly is unenthusiastic and fulfilling a duty. This might be traumatic for some. I did not write it with the intention of dubious consent and K my beta, and one of the mods of the fest, assured me it was within the bounds of the fest. It was written to showcase how she wants better than what she is getting with him. The idea of consent that I tried to work with was that Draco has been raised in shame and Harry is patient with her, asking her to voice what she wants from/with him—as explicitly as she can. It is supposed to be a woman finding her own agency in sex, and knowing that it is okay to want more and not settling for anything less. IDK if it came across like that, I kinda wrote it in two days since I had a lot going on and forgot I had a deadline. It was definitely intended to be longer.

Tagged “Always A Girl” because I kept getting traffic on a thing and some DM’s asking for a continuation. This ISN’T a continuation but *jazz hands* more Female Draco.

Have Me Then

Title: A Hag, a Hex, a Tale of Redemption Author: Anonymous Prompt: # 58 Rating: E Warnings/Content Notes: Fuck or die, hags, curses, wandcraft, wandmaker Harry Potter, Muggle life, clubbing, tattoos, mild recreational drug use, angst, falling in love, getting together, kiss consent, safe sex, anal sex, oral sex, non-penetrative sex, switching, minor Ron/Hermione Summary: A fuck-or-die fairytale in which Draco Malfoy lives a despicable and unapologetic life — that is, until he’s cursed to die unless he can fall in love with and fuck Harry Potter. Word Count: 43,345 Author’s Notes: Huge thanks to the crew—you know who you are.

A Hag, a Hex, a Tale of Redemption