#Withdrew Warrant

[awakenlng369]

CDER FOR CANCELLED RAILWAY FINE - No Judicial Authority

What it Means: Processed or shared your personal data unlawfully, constituting a data breach under the UK GDPR. Failed to follow proper court procedures by carrying out enforcement without the required warrant or authority, causing distress. What is UK GDPR? ::::::::::: Legal Grounds for Your Claim: 1 Data Breach (UK GDPR and Data Protection Act 2018): ◦ If the enforcement company or local…

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Danton getting warned about his upcoming arrest compilation

One day I told Danton: ”Your carelessness surprises me, I understand nothing of your apathy. Don’t you see Robespierre is conspiring to lose you? Won’t you do anything to prevent it?” ”If I thought that he has so much as thought about it, [Danton replied], I would eat his entrails!” Five or six days later, this man so terrible allowed himself to be arrested like a child and slaughtered like a lamb. Mémoires sur la Convention et le Directoire (1827) by Antoine-Clair Thibaudeau, page 60.

One morning Panis entered [Danton’s] office and found him warming himself by the fire and playing with his nephew, who was still a child. Here, read your proscription and mine! [he said]. And he presents him with a draft of an arrest warrant, written by a member of the government committees. Danton, having read it, replied coldly: They will not dare!... Panis, in despair, withdrew. (M. Menuel, this nephew of Danton, told me about this meeting. Panis had also told it to a few people who confirmed it to me). Histoire de la Révolution française: 1789-1796 (1851) by Nicolas Villiaumé, page 188.

The day before the arrest of Danton and Camille Desmoulins, he (Rousselin de Saint-Albin) ran panting to both of them several times, he engaged them, begged them to be on guard at a time when Robespierre and Billaud were plotting their downfall. But Danton thought he was too strong to listen to a warning that would have saved him. “They will not dare,” he said; then, looking at himself in a mirror:“Let us not fear anything, children that you are! See my head, doesn't it sit well on my shoulders? And why would they want to kill me? What's the point? Among some friends who were present at this interview, one said: ”There are many proscribed deputies who fortunately escaped. Dulaure, Doulcet, Louvet retired to Switzerland. What prevents you from absenting yourself for at least some time?” Danton replied: “What does it mean to absent yourself? Isn’t that emigrating? Do we take our homeland with the sole of our shoe?” Camille shared this opinion. Alas! It was blind security. ”I want,” he said, as he repeated going to the scaffold, ”I want to share the fate of Danton, whatever it may be.”  Œuvres de Camille Desmoulins (1874) by Jules Claretie, volume 2, page 393. Claretie claims this anecdote originates from the mouth of Desmoulins’ mother-in-law.

The two committees signed arrest warrants against Danton, Desmoulins, Philippeaux and Lacroix for the following night. In the morning, Marat's sister, having learned about it through the indiscretion of an employee of the Committee of Public Safety, who had heard a few words, ran to warn Danton. As he had already left for the Assembly, she went there and called out for him.  “Mount the rostrum,” she said to him. ”You have no time to lose, because the rumor is that you have already been arrested: the opportunity is favorable: Tallien presides: your friends are numerous, and your eloquence will crush the committees. In circumstances such as these, it is the one who attacks who wins.”  ”I would have to proscribe them, replied Danton; because I know Billaud and Robespierre: they are relentless.”  ”But since they want your head, take, if necessary, theirs, remember that, without you, Robespierre will very quickly be swallowed up himself. My brother told me the day before his death that he was only good at making speeches, that he understood nothing about government, and that he would lose his head at the first crisis. If he abandons you, his friend, you, the man of August 10, he is only a villain; he must perish. Collect your thoughts for an hour, and mount the rostrum: change the committees; proscribe them if necessary.  "Well! Once they have me arrested, would I not be acquitted by the revolutionary tribunal and brought back in triumph, to the Convention, like the Friend of the People was? Then my enemies will be confounded and order will be restored without bloodshed.”  ”Don't be fooled: last year the tribunal was impartial; now it is only the slave of the committees, which after having hindered the defense of the Girondins and that of Vincent, will prevent you from speaking.” Danton fell into reverie.   “Above all, remember,” added Mademoiselle Marat, “that you must neither flee nor hide. Several patriots, in their friendship, have proposed it to you; you were even offered asylum. Danton has no other place than the rostrum. Get up there without delay; this is not just about your salvation, but of that of all of your friends, but of the salvation of the republic. Farewell."  Danton shook her hand and left her, promising to not lose time. Histoire de la Révolution française: 1789-1796 (1851) by Nicolas Villiaumé, page 279. Villiaumé had gotten in contact with Albertine Marat before her death, so it’s most likely she herself this anecdote originates from.

”Oh! If I had known that they would arrest me,” cried Lacroix [at the Luxembourg prison]. ”I knew it,” Danton replied, people came and warned me, and I couldn’t believe it.”  ”Trois mémoires de la collection de Nougatet” cited in Histoire parlementaire de la Révolution Française, volume 32, page 210.

Danton, placed in a cell next to Westermann [in the Conciergerie], didn’t stop talking, less to be heard by Westermann than by us. […] Here are some phrases I retained: […] ”I knew I would get arrested.” Mémoires d’un detenu pour servir à l’histoire de la tyrannie de Robespierre(1795) by Honoré Riouffe, page 88.

[newsinfocus]

Executive Orders, Day 1:

Withdrawing from the World Health Organization (WHO)

Delay enforcing the TikTok ban for 75 days - instructs DOJ not to enforce the law.

Hiring freeze across the federal government

Revoked a Biden EO that sought to end the use of chokeholds by federal agents and reduce the # of no-knock warrants

Revoked a Biden EO that would end the use of private prisons

Declared a national emergency at the southern border

Deny birth right citizenship from the children of non-citizens (this is against the 14th amendment)

Designates cartel organizations as "foreign terrorist organizations"

Full pardons for 1500 Jan 6 defendants

Revoked a Biden EO that directed the federal government to rebuild the US refugee program

Revoked a Biden EO that created a task force to reunify families separated at the southern border

Require federal employees to return to full-time, in person work

Withdrew from Paris climate agreement

More to come ...

[piepiepiemag]

Blown Cover

Montague (Fortnite) x !(GN)Reader

Summary: you're a silly spy, on a silly mission, getting caught by some silly french dude.

Tags from AO3: No Y/N, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hostage Situations, Touch Starved Montague (Fortnite), Touched starved Reader, Codependency, Everyone in this fic has BPD, Whatever the opposite of a slow burn is, Proofread (but badly), Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POC Friendly, Unhealthy Power Dynamics

The mission set out for you was by no means easy, but at least he instructions were simple enough. Enter the Grand Glacier Hotel. Get your hands on Montague’s relic. Return back to the agency.

You were sent out for a reason, your boss completely trusted that you could finish the job without a single problem, so the fact that you got caught while still on the first step of the plan was unbelievably embarrassing. You were by no means a rookie, but you definitely felt like one now.

This guy was too smart. All of his abilities way beyond yours. You practically lost the game the moment you decided to play it, and now there you were, captured in the vault below the hotel.

As you slowly came to, all you could see in the dimly lit room was the man in front of you, and the lustre of the artifact hanging from his neck. It was so close. If you could just reach out your hand and grab it, it would all be over.

But alas your hands were tightly bound behind your back. Same with your legs, making you sit in a somewhat uncomfortable position while leaning your back against the wall.

Your captor pulled out a chair from the far end of the room and brought it in front of you, sitting down in complete silence.

“Why did you come here?” - his voice was less intimidating than you expected it to be, it was almost soft, with a hint of a french accent. You just stared at him, wordless.

“What was the goal of your mission?” - he asked again, his face slowly contorting in frustration. You didn’t say anything. That’s what you were taught to do in a situation like this. Cooperation wasn’t your strong suit anyway. - “Did you come here for this?”

He motioned at the diamond relic but he was met with nothing once again.

Montague was getting increasingly fed up with your silence, pulling his pistol out of its holster and pointing it at your forehead. For a few seconds you still considered if answering would even be worth it, warranting him to dig the barrel of the gun deeper into your skin.

“Yes, for the artifact.” - you groaned, the sharp pain making it even harder to think. - “But I don’t know what it was for. I was never told.”

You lied without even a flinch of your face. You obviously knew what it was for. Even if your boss didn’t tell you, you could guess. It was an attempt to combat his curse. If it was as powerful as they said, then maybe the diamond relic would be able to help him control his golden touch.

You were willing to do anything in your power to help him. And look where that got you.

“Good job.” - he said as he withdrew his gun voice almost sultry. The sound of that made you feel kind of gross, but you had to consider if this could be your way out. Just maybe he would be low enough to fall for it.

“You know, i could do even better if you got these cuffs off of me..” - you batted your eyelashes as you whispered in a low tone, motioning at your hands behind your back.

He looked back at you, his face showing utter horror and disgust, like he was trying to say “How dare you even assume i would do something like that?” with just his eyes. He took a few seconds before regaining his composure.

“The Rules of War are a thing for a reason. Don’t even try.” - with that he got up from his chair and walked over to the desk at the far end of the room. Worth a try anyways.

He looked over all the things he had taken off of you. Guns, guns, more guns, your earpiece, phone, emergency med kit and various other items. Most of these have been taken apart while you were out cold, to see if they had any tracking devices inside of them. Unsurprisingly, a lot of them did. Montague left them on on purpose. He mused over them for a few more minutes before turning back towards you.

“Give your boss a call for me, will you?” - His voice sounded more threatening now, obviously not willing to take no for an answer. You didn’t even want to try. With your earpiece having been disassembled and laid out on his desk he had no choice but to grab your phone.

He grabbed it, then leisurely walked up to were you were sitting. He reached behind you in an attempt to activate the fingerprint lock but you stopped him.

“Won’t work. My fingers are fried” - you wiggled your hands for good measure as you sighed, recalling the pain of having your fingerprints permanently removed. The scars were ugly too but it is what it is. You were a spy after all. Things like that were necessary. Just a part of the job.

He thought about it only for a second before holding the phone in front of your face, activating the face id system. It unlocked without a hitch and he started scrolling through the contacts.

“Under M. He’s the only one.” - you said as he followed your instructions. He swiped his finger on the screen a few times before finally settling on the one he needed.

“Midass?” - He raised an eyebrow and you would have laughed if it wasn’t for your current predicament. You just nodded.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

“Agent?” - on the fourth beep he finally picked up, his voice echoing through the room.

“Midas-” - you gasped out instinctively, almost falling over as you struggled to get closer to the phone, like reaching it would save you. Never in your life would you have thought you'd be so happy to hear his voice. You quickly stopped in your tracks as you felt the cold barrel of his gun press against the back of your head, as if to signal “stay in your lane”.

“I have something dear to you. If you want it back, i’d suggest getting it yourself. Come alone and unarmed” - and with these simple instructions he hung up.

Shit. You should have know Montague didn’t want a ransom or anything superficial like that. Not only did you cause trouble for yourself but the agency and your boss too. You could only imagine the talk he would give you afterwards. Of course, you would have to return alive for that. And the chances of that were dropping lower and lower by the minute.

Would he even risk it to come and get you? Right now, you were as good as dead.

Montague glanced over the items on the desk again, eyes wandering to the rest of your gear on the floor, including your shoes. He turned his gaze towards you.

“Maybe you wouldn’t have been caught if you wore normal shoes.”

This fucking guy. Not only was this situation insanely humiliating, no, he also had to jab at the thing you’re the most sensitive about. Those platforms were an extension of you at this point. You had to beg Midas on three separate occasions to be able to wear them to missions, and now this pompous french fuck decided to roast them as well.

“Insecure I’m taller than you with them?” - a truly weak rebuttal left your mouth as you grumbled to yourself. He was already pretty tall, but you just couldn’t let this one go without saying anything back.

He let out something that almost resembled a genuine laugh, before turning on his heels and heading towards the door of the vault. Good riddance. His shoes looked even dumber than yours anyways.

“I’ll be back.” - with that he opened the door and two guards walked in, taking his place. He left to god knows where and now you were there with twice as many eyes on you. It would be stupid to try anything sneaky like this.

The guards were silent, not even chatting amongst themselves, and for a while you just sat around and watched them. They seemed even less willing to communicate than you, so not having anything better to do you slid down against the wall and closed your eyes. Whatever they used to knock you out with still lingered in your system, making you more tired than usual. Just a moment of rest won’t hurt.

The next morning you woke up to the loud creaking of the vault door, the reddish gold sunrise barely creeping into the dark room. In the doorway stood a figure that you could only barely make out, a tall man in a suit, and your heart almost skipped a beat.

Was he..?

Your hopes shattered just as quickly when he stepped closer.

It wasn’t Midas.

Without his long coat Montague’s silhouette looked eerily similar, but maybe it was just the weirdo rich guy aura they both exuded. Imposing, elegant in their every move. Heads up their own asses probably.

He was carrying something in his hand but you didn’t care to look at him any longer after that. You lowered your gaze to the floor as you turned your whole body to the side. The severity of your situation was quickly dawning on you.

It must have been at least 6 hours since the call was placed. If he hasn’t gotten here in that time there’s a chance he never will. Maybe you weren’t as important as you thought you were.

“Expected someone else?” - Montague asked in his usual prickly way but you tuned him out entirely. You tried to keep it together as best as you could but it was futile. Who cares about protocols at this point. You just wanted to cry.

“Hey..” - he approached again, tone much softer this time. He kneeled down in front of you, getting dust and grime all over his expensive pair of pants. You immediately tensed up as he reached out towards you, only for him to wipe the wayward tears, that you couldn’t hold back, off of your face. - “Maybe it’s a long way here.”

You shrugged out of his touch. The last person you wanted comforting from was the guy who got you into this mess to begin with.

At the same time, it wasn’t all bad. You couldn’t recall the last time someone touched you like this, trying to be comforting, without any malice or intent to hurt.

It was pathetic, but you almost craved more.

After a bit of silence, that probably felt longer than it was he spoke up again.

“I brought you breakfast.” - his words finally piqued your interest and you looked up at him. In his hand was a small plate packed with exquisite looking pastries and fruits. You also had access to expensive looking food at the agency but you never really had time to treat yourself to breakfasts there. Work always came first.

Up until this point you didn’t really consider just how hungry you were. He could have offered you moldy bread and you still would have taken it. Unless there was a catch.

“You’re going to poison me now or what?” - you scrunched up your nose at him, voice still a bit hoarse from crying. He didn’t seem too phased by it, at this point you just looked like a sad, wet kitten he found at the side of the road, trying to keep up a tough act.

“Would it make sense for me to poison you before your boss even gets here?” - he gave a knowing half smile before picking up one of the croissants from the plate and taking a bite. You studied his face, making note of every move as he chewed and swallowed his food. That was enough to convince you and you sat up, struggling a bit against your bonds.

He picked up the other pastry from the plate and reached it towards your mouth, unwilling to untie you just yet. You thought about it for a second before finally taking a bite.

It was really good. So soft and sweet, nothing like the ones you were used to before being hired by the agency. The days of eating cheap, cardboard flavoured croissants were long gone, yet you could still recall them like it was yesterday. This job and by proxy your boss really saved your life. You felt like no matter how much work you put in, it was never enough to repay him for it.

By the time you finished that thought your food was gone as well, and Montague reached for the bright red strawberries that were laid out in a flower like shape on the plate. You watched as his hands moved down so delicately, then up towards you. You caught his gaze, fixed right on you and your stomach churned a little.

Being hand fed like this already felt almost intimate, but the way he looked at you just made it so much more worse.

Seeing him from up close, you could really tell just how attractive he was, not like it was hard to tell beforehand. His mismatched eyes were captivating on their own, but his features made them even more striking. He was a very pretty man, and he knew it. If he told you he was a model you wouldn’t even question it. Not even the scars across his face could ruin this perfect image, they only enhanced it further.

You tried to shoo these thoughts away as you continued to eat, even as his fingers slightly brushed against your lips occasionally. Getting flustered over the man holding you captive would be the lowest point of your career. Even lower than getting caught upon entering the location of your mission.

“Was it good?” - he asked with a small smile on his face. It was probably easy to tell by the way you ravaged that croissant, like it was your last meal on this earth.

“Yes, Sir.” - you face immediately turned pale as you realised what you just said out loud. You coughed a little to clear your throat before your voice fully left you.- “No I mean- Sorry just- Force of habit.”

He found it amusing enough, laughing a little to himself. You must have looked real stupid there. Almost a freudian slip. You decided to change the topic immediately lest he decided to ask about it.

“Can I have a cigarette please?” - you mumbled in a tone much meeker than you usually would. He nodded, rummaging through his pocket before pulling out a small black box. Treasurer. Is this really what all the rich guys smoke? You shouldn’t have been surprised, but at least this one was familiar.

Montague leisurely reached into the box, pulling out a cigarette fully coated in black. It looked cool, you’ll give him that. He held it towards your mouth and you parted your lips just enough for it to fit. Then he pulled out a lighter from his pocket and flicked it a few times before it finally lit up, the golden flame taking over the once dark cigarette. This felt even weirder than being hand fed.

You inhaled slowly. A habit this nasty shouldn’t feel this good. But after what happened yesterday, this was exactly what you needed. You exhaled the smoke, trying not aim for his face since he was gracious enough to share it with you. He reached for it and took it out of your mouth to flick the end off. This continued on for a little before he spoke up.

“It must have been uncomfortable to sleep down here. I’m willing to lend you a room up in the hotel, if you wish so.” - his face was devoid of any malice but you didn’t trust it for a second. Why would he want to do that for his hostage? Out of the kindness of his heart? Most definitely not.

But he was right, the vault was cold and dark, despite its lavish looks. You were used to camping out in uncomfortable places from time to time, but the thought of sleeping in a normal, warm bed was just too enticing.

“What’s the catch?” - you asked bluntly, studying his face, waiting for the moment he slipped up. This sounded way too good to be true. Such an easy bait, something only an idiot would fall for.

“Must there always be one?” - he gave you a half smile but he quickly realised you weren’t buying his theatrics at all. You saw right through him, though it wasn’t that hard.

You took a long drag from your cigarette in place on an answer.

“I’ve looked through your records. You seem quite capable.” - he said, very matter of fact. You weren’t exactly sure where he was going with this, so you just stared at him, somewhat confused. - “I want you to join my team.”

He must have been out of his mind to even suggest that.

“You want to hire me even after I got caught by you?” - you huffed out a strained laugh, raising an eyebrow. This must be some sort of a sick joke on his end. A way to further humiliate you. And yet he seemed so strangely sincere about it.

“Oh, don’t take that to heart.” - he laughed, swiping his thumb over your cheek. So demeaning, but almost comforting in a way. - “You had no chance against me.”

What a punchable face he had.

“You must be real stupid if you think I’d betray my boss for you.” - you blurted out. You squinted your eyes, full of anger at the implication. The fact that he even thought about it for a second pissed you off, let alone presenting it to you as an option.

He took a firm hold of your chin as to not let you look away. He wanted all of your attention on him, and for you to know who’s still the one in control. You felt chills running down your spine.

“No no, who said betray? Take it more as.. cooperation between two parties. A truce if you will.” - that sly smirk on his face made you all the more frustrated. Just what did he even mean by that? A truce for what exactly? Your head was running wild with ideas, but either way, it was not like you really had a choice.

“So?” - his voice interjected into your racing thoughts, as you were trying to imagine every scenario and how they could play out based on your answer. None of the ones where you said “no” ended well.

“Fine, I’ll do what you want.” - you sighed in defeat, lowering your gaze as much as you could, while he still had a hold of you. - “Just don’t hurt anyone from the agency. Please.”

“Mhm, good. I can do that. That is, if they don’t attack first." - he stroked your cheek a few more times, almost sickeningly affectionately. Then his grip on your chin lessened and soon enough he let go of you entirely. It was good to know that you were both on the same page about the possible rescue efforts. If Midas was coming to get you he was definitely not coming alone, no matter what the conditions were. But it didn’t seem like he minded that. Maybe he was betting on that possibility.

Montague put out the remainder of the cigarette on the ground, smearing the ash across the expensive looking carpet. He would have to get that replaced.

He leaned in closer to you as he pulled out a small, shiny switchblade from his pocket and reached for your legs, cutting the rope around them with a few calculated motions. For a moment you though he was going to cut clean into you, but clearly this wasn’t his first rodeo. Either way he seemed a little too confident in his abilities.

He took his time untangling the rope from around your legs, making sure to take in the sight in the process. He reached for your shoes and promptly dropped them in front of you. The moment you managed to struggle yourself into them the world seemed just a bit brighter. Comfy, at last.

After he was done he stood up and dusted off his pants. Those needed to be replaced as well.

He reached out his arms towards you, taking a firm grip on your shoulders as he pulled you up from the ground. Your legs were still too shaky for you to stand, after being cramped in one position for so long, but he expected it, pulling you just a bit closer to himself for balance. Too close. You could practically smell the expensive cologne he was wearing, something with sandalwood and a touch of vanilla. You swallowed hard. If you let your mind wander just a bit too long you might have rested your head on his shoulder.

His right arm snaked around your waist to get a better hold on you, and for a second you almost thought it felt nice. That was until you felt something cold and metallic press against the other side of your body. A gun. Of course. Even if it was just for show, it still made you consider every step you took. You were still planning to use those organs he was aiming at.

The walk up to the first floor of the hotel was long and awkward. You didn’t exactly have the time to look around and take in the sights when you first got here, so you tried your best to memorise where everything was.

The hotel was beautiful and lavish, all the walls and pillars trimmed in gold and decorated in a way that just screamed rich. Some of it was definitely expensive just for the sake of it, but the end result was still impressive nonetheless.

A vacation here would have been nice. Guess that’s off the list now.

He finally stopped in front of a door that didn’t seem any different from the others at a first glance, pulling out his keys from his pocket and unlocking it.

The moment you stepped in you noticed just how suspicious it all was. Guns and weapons mounted on the wall, an expensive looking laptop and monitors sitting on the desk, the luxury clothing peeking out of the halfway open closet.

So there was another catch. This must be his room.

Your racing thoughts got even more hazy as he stopped in front of the king sized bed, motioning for you to take a seat. You reluctantly did so.

“It would be inappropriate to keep you tied up now that you’re a part of my team.” - he said, pulling out his switchblade and reaching towards you back for your hands. - “ I’ll take this off, if you promise to behave.”

“I’ll try to..” - you sighed, leaning forward a bit to give him better access. He cut through the rope in one swift motion, slicing through it like it was melting butter. Just how many times did he have to do this..

You pulled your hands into your lap, hissing in pain as you ran your fingers over the rope burn. You might have struggled too much for your own good back at the vault. It didn’t matter though, you were at least free now. In theory.

Montague’s gaze softened as he reached for your hands, cradling them in his own, something close to actual remorse flashing over his eyes for a second. You weren’t sure if you should buy it. You couldn’t tell if anything he ever said was truly genuine. A flurry of thoughts raced through your head.

You could kill him right now. He’s defenceless. Distracted. You could snap his neck any second. And yet you decided not to.

He sighed quietly, pulling your hands up to him before placing soft kisses all over your torn skin. His lips were so warm, it made you feel dizzy, unable to pull your hand back, and unable to want to as well. You stared at him, expression unchanging and mind blank, but unable to hide just how hot your face was getting. If this was his way of apologising, then he managed to do a good job.

After a few seconds he pulled away, turning towards the entrance and promptly locking the door.

“I’ll run you a bath if you want.” - he said, walking towards the bathroom door. He opened it, revealing a large room full of white and greenish furnishings, packed to the brim with bath and beauty products. - “Im sure it would feel nice to relax a bit. I can bring you clean clothes as well.”

You were still a bit too starstruck by his previous actions to react, staring at your bruised hands, mind replaying the image over and over again. It took you a moment before you finally managed to get your head straight and answer him.

“Will you be watching me or..?” - you raised an eyebrow, finally back to your suspicious self. Montague chuckled, visibly unsure about you being truly serious. The tides have turned.

“Of course not. You said you would behave, haven’t you?” - with that he walked into the bathroom, towards the white marble bathtub, opening the tap and watching the hot mist rise up from it. - “Besides, this room has no windows. I trust you won’t break down the wall while I’m not looking.”

He smirked, unaware of the fact that you have in fact done that on more than one occasion before. You didn’t have the explosives, nor the nerve to do it in such a cramped room though.

“Thank you..” - you muttered, unusually quiet. You got off the bed and walked towards the room, closing the door and twisting the lock quickly. You scanned the door with your eyes, leaning in close to make sure you couldn’t see through any of the cracks.

Next you strolled around the room, checking for any possible places a camera could be hidden. All clear. Maybe he did do this out of the kindness of his heart for once. It never hurt to be cautious though..

You walked up to the bathtub and stripped of your dusty clothes, leaving them in a pile as you stepped into the water.

Many different brands of shampoos, conditioners and body washes lined the side of the tub, but the ones that caught your attention was the bath salts. You opened them one by one, smelling them and pondering on the best choice. Once you picked the winner you poured probably more than you should have into the tub, enjoying the relaxing atmosphere it brought.

You did the same for the rest of the products, deciding to waste as much time as you possibly could. It was nice to have some time for yourself for once, even if it had to come at a situation like this. With the conditioners applied, you sunk down into the tub, laying your head on the edge and closing your eyes. You kept wondering about how all of this had happened.

Why were you immediately suspicious to him upon entering the hotel? Your best guess was that he must have already had some info on you, but you couldn’t be for sure.

Montague was a frustrating enigma. On a first glance you wouldn’t have written him down as a master thief and manipulator, maybe just some rich pretty boy with a strange taste in jewellery. That just meant he was good at his job and even better at hiding his darker side.

Half the things he said he did so with that annoyingly charming smirk, like he knew he was playing everyone in the room and he just couldn’t help but let it slip sometimes. He was a true megalomaniac, but you were somewhat familiar with his kind by now.

His relic was even more of a mystery, it’s origin and full properties and powers all unknown. According to one witness he could turn his body parts into pure diamond with it. Some said his whole body can be transformed into it. You had to wonder if it he might harm himself while doing that. If the diamonds might stay lodged into his skin after. If it ever leaves a scar..

Your mind wandered, trying to imagine where his scars could be formed. Maybe across the arm he uses? Maybe on his chest, where it’s the closest to? Maybe through his legs, running down his thighs or-

You shot up from the water, snapping your eyes open, having had just about enough of those fantasies. You were certainly out of line now, the nagging thoughts in your head reminding you about how he also takes baths here, pushing images into your mind, not making your situation any better.

You washed your hair off and pulled the plug, letting the now colourful water flow down the drain. You reached for the towel that was previously placed by him on the sink. Relishing in its softness, you stepped in front of the mirror, beginning to dry your hair, using all the products laid out for it.

Once you were done with that you finally took a close look at the massive skincare collection standing in front of his mirror, which you have been eyeing the entire time.

It was a lot. By any standards. You carefully looked over and studied all of them before deciding on what to do.

You took them one by one and applied them, having the time of your life in the meantime. You were honestly kind of jealous of his collection. This time you didn’t exactly care about how they would affect your skin, you were hellbent on using up as many as you could. Have a little revenge. Make him think he’s safe when he’s reaching for his favourite lotion, only to find out that it’s empty.

Once you were done with your petty crime of passion you looked towards the door. Maybe he forgot about the clothes. If push comes to shove you could wear the same ones again.

“Can i have the clean clothes please?” - you raised your voice loud enough for him to hear. You heard faint ruffling from the other side before he got close enough for you to speak.

“Open the door and i’ll hand then in.” - you considered your options before twisting the lock. With the door slightly agape, you saw his hand peek in, holding onto a pair of greyish black clothes. The moment you took it from him his hand retracted and you shut the door again.

The clothes were plain but cute. Not exactly your style, but you still found them charming. You got dressed and looked at yourself in the mirror. This change in looks made you feel somewhat uncomfortable. It was like you were looking at a completely different person. Your old uniform and disguise filled you with a sense of belonging, like you were tied to the agency as long as you had it on. You didn’t want to think about it much so you headed for the door and stepped outside.

Montague was sitting at his desk, busy looking over the security camera footage displayed on his monitors, and what looked to be your files open on his laptop. That was not a flattering picture. It must have been taken close to when you joined the agency, based on the hair style you had.

You walked up to the bed and sat down on the edge, dangling your legs in the air absentmindedly. He seemed so occupied with skipping through the cameras that your weren’t even sure he noticed you coming back. You glanced around the room, looking for anything interesting you could occupy yourself with.

Your eyes landed on some magazines on the bedside table, the image on the cover already intriguing. It must have been an older picture, based on the fact that the Montague you saw on it was more younger looking, his face softer and his scar nowhere to be seen.

So he was a model.

You flipped it open, Montague quickly looking over his shoulder towards the noise. He took a long look at you before giving a half smile and turning back to his work. Reading through the pages seemed to be less rewarding than you imagined, most of it only talking about the fake persona he built up to the public.

His rags to riches story told in there was interesting, for sure, but knowing the real details made the false tale far less awe inspiring. He didn’t just climb the ladder of society like the papers said, he practically stole his way to the top. Unethical, but the truth was far more impressive to you.

You felt like you had it more easy compared to him, coming from a similar background but being taken under by someone who was already powerful, while Montague had became that powerful person by his own hands.

In the end, both of you had to do bad things to get to where you were now. Even then, you never once regretted joining the agency.

Lost in thought you stared at the picture in front of you, only seeing him get up and sit next to you from the corner of your eye. You closed the magazine and set it aside, looking up at him, having a question you wanted answered for a while now.

The air seemd to grow heavy as you two stared at each other, neither of you breaking the silence. You traced the scar on his eyebrow with your eyes, running over the jagged lines over and over again. You needed to focus.

“Why did you want me on your team?” - you finally managed to force out the question, eagerly waiting for his reaction. There was really no good reason for him to do that. You’ve shown yourself to be unreliable and a clutz by getting caught so early. He could have just asked for the agency to cooperate and give you back to them. No matter how many times you thought about it, there was no good reason.

“I like you.”

Oh.

His answer was curt, almost surprised that this wasn’t clear to you. It felt like a molotov has just been thrown into your brain, your frenzied thoughts getting even more incoherent by the second. Did he? Was that why he was so nice to you? That didn’t seem right and even if it was true what would that even change and how-

He chuckled, clearly amused by your reaction as you just sat there staring at him, face noticeably red. You sighed, nodding your head in understanding, unable and unwilling to say anything in case that would make things worse.

You knew how you felt, it was obvious, and if he was good enough at reading people then he probably did too.

“Why are you so devoted to your agency?” - he changed the subject, taking your question as a green light to dig into you and unearth your secrets. You didn’t really mind it.

“It’s hard to explain..” - you sighed, scooting up towards middle of the bed and sitting cross legged. He looked at you for a second as if to ask for permission and you nodded, letting him sit on the bed properly and a bit closer to you. - “My boss, Midas he’s.. he’s just done so much for me.”

“Like mutilating your fingers?” - Montague asked, raising an eyebrow. Your expression immediately changed, not expecting him to go there.

“Not that��s-“ - you gasped out, tone very defensive. You turned your palms towards you, looking over the scar tissue that was left behind, speaking more quietly now. - “You misunderstood, it was never his idea. I did it because i wanted to do a better job.. for him…”

He gave you a small nod, understanding but not fully satisfied with the answer. You continued.

“He helped me out of a bad living situation by offering me a job at the agency. I was able to achieve and learn so much thanks to him.” - you smiled a little to yourself as you recalled the memories. It hasn’t been that long since you were gone, but you missed your team so much. - “I’ve been trying to do my job perfectly but i felt like no matter how much i work put in i would never be able to repay him. And now i’m here, getting myself in trouble and giving him more work..”

“If he truly cares, he will come and rescue you, no matter what.” - Montague sighed, raising his arm towards you and gently stroking your cheek. The sudden closeness made you freeze up for a second. - “And if he doesn’t.. this isn’t the worst place for you to stay at.”

His words and actions were so comforting, you almost forgot this situation was partially his fault. You stopped blaming him for it a while ago, even if you couldn’t trust him fully you felt like you could at least relate to him, and that made you feel a bit better. Getting pulled out of your comfort zone like this wasn’t the worst thing that could happen, now that you two were on better terms. It was hard to admit, but you enjoyed being around Montague.

You looked back at him but he didn’t say a word, he was staring at you intently, his eyes flickering across your features.

The tension was thick enough to cut at this point. You caught his glance again.

“What is it?” - you questioned with an almost dumbfounded tone, unable to imagine what was going though his head. His gaze shifted from your eyes to your lips again.

“Can I kiss you?”

Oh.

Oh.

That strangely blunt question, his careful tone, his half smile, that stupidly charming face, all of it was too much. You just stared at him, face hot and mouth slightly agape.

It’s not like you weren’t thinking about it since the moment you laid eyes on him. Even if you knew it was selfish, careless and very very dumb, your body was telling you the complete opposite.

“I mean.. if you.. yeah..”- you turned your eyes away from him, onto your slightly shaking hands. God, you were acting so idiotic. Like a teenager upon being faced with their first crush. It was almost laughable.

He reached out a hand and lifted your chin up so you could look at him again. A sense of danger coursed through your entire body as he leaned in closer, so close that your faces were almost touching.

“Please say you want it, then.” - he said, leaning in closer to your neck, almost begging, voice low and hoarse. Your head was spinning, all rational thoughts leaving you behind with each shallow breath you took. You could feel his hot breath tickling against your skin.

“Please kiss me.”

He raised his head and you could see his smile widen as he closed the distance between you two, his lips meeting yours so softly that it almost hurt.

He closed his eyes as his arm trailed down to your neck, then your shoulder, his other hand tilting your chin up just enough to reach him.

You kept your eyes wide open, almost frozen in place for a second. You wanted this so badly, so why was every cell of your body suddenly screaming for you to stop?

He noticed your shock just as quickly, pulling away immediately upon sensing that something was wrong.

“You’re.. supposed to close your eyes, you know..” - he huffed out a laugh, trying to break through the awkward air that sprung up around you two. His eyes were looking you up and down, trying to understand what the problem was. This wasn’t the right situation to mess around in, for sure, but he thought you were both on the same page.

“…sorry.” - you finally spoke up, looking at everything in the room except him in the process. - “Im just.. a little nervous.”

That was an understatement. It’s been so long since you last felt the warm hands of another person on you like this, it was almost alarming now. You frequently began to associate that feeling with an attempt on your life, which wasn’t the most unusual in your field of work. The better you got at your job, the less people managed to reach you. Familiarity was only to be found in the cold, dead touch of those who stood in your path.

He nodded, thinking about your words, body language and everything else that could have been unsaid. He decided to pull his hands back and place them in his lap, almost as if he was waiting to be cuffed. He was surprisingly good at reading people.

“No need to worry, sweetheart.” - he smiled softly, leaning back a little as he sat. You groaned in annoyance, the nickname making you blush even more and sending swarms of butterflies to your stomach. - “You’re the one in control here.”

That seemed to have calmed your nerves a little. You took a deep breath as you got up, debating for a fraction of a second if you should sit on his lap but ultimately deciding against it. You still had a bit of your common sense left after all.

You sat down on your knees in front of him and reached your hand out, caressing his stubbled face in an amused way.

“You’re really pretty.” - you mumbled, almost too quiet for him to hear. His eyes crinkled as a genuine smile peeked through his facade. You wondered what he really was like under all these layers of lies, if he was truly trustworthy, or someone more despicable than you could ever imagine.

Only time would tell, and you decided to shove those thoughts away for now. You leaned in closer, your lips melting in a warm embrace.

Your left hand trailed behind his neck while your right found its way into his hair, playfully ruffling into it. He laughed into the kiss and your heart almost skipped a beat. This whole thing was honestly comedic but you didn’t care. You never realised how much you actually craved this. Just to have someone treat you like you were precious. Let it be a lie or not.

The world around you ceased to exist for a moment, just you and him, in this fucked up situation, breaking all the rules you set up for yourself.

You pulled away for air, both of your faces flushed, his pupils wide like he just sampled all the drugs money could buy. It was almost silly. You swiped your thumb over his face, whispering praises in your native tongue that he didn’t need to understand.

Amused, you wiped the small string of saliva from his chin.

“Mon Dieu..”- he groaned, mouth agape, almost unable to find his words. - “Please do that again.”

You smirked, leaning back to him. You teased him for a few seconds, grazing his lips with yours, not fully giving in, until he looked up at you. His eyes half lidded, but face screaming annoyed. You huffed out a laugh. He was so stupidly attractive, it was almost surreal. Of course you couldn’t help but want to play with him a little.

You smiled a little, amused by his reaction before finally kissing him again. You felt like you could stay like this forever.

Until a strange sound caught your attention. You weren’t exactly sure where to put it, at first it sounded like drilling, or rattling outside. You tried to ignore it and focus on him, but the more you listened the clearer it was.

Your heartbeat started to quicken.

It was a car.

The realisation crossed your mind and you shot up from the bed, leaving Montague confused until he finally caught the sound himself. He knew damn well what it was and what it meant.

He got up from the bed and grabbed his jacket, hurriedly putting it on, his shoes following after. He leaned over his desk to look at the cameras, but couldn’t find a thing on them.

You reached for your platforms and slid into them as quick as you could, watching from the corner of your eye as Montague stuffed something into his pocket, but paying it no mind.

You were barely able to think, completely forgetting about the weather and putting on something warm before walking towards the door. He opened it wordlessly and lead you down the stairs, towards the entrance of the hotel. Everything was eerily quiet in the hall, somewhat usual for the late evening.

You stepped out of the golden trimmed gate and the chilly air suddenly hit you. This kind of weather wasn’t exactly what you were used to. You tugged at the hem of your shirt in an attempt to cover yourself up a bit more, eventually groaning defeat, a small mist cloud forming from your breath. It reminded you of the time when you were only pretending to smoke as a child.

Lost in thought you vaguely focused your eyes on the horizon, almost jumping as you felt something touch your shoulders.

“You’re going to get cold like this.” - Montague sighed, wrapping his long coat around you. You grabbed the edges and pulled them even closer to yourself in an attempt escape the biting cold.

The coat smelled like him. You closed your eyes for a second, imaging his arms in place of the soft fabric.

This distraction wasn’t long lived though, as you noticed something glistening in the distance, the sound growing closer and closer by the second.

The source of the noise finally dipped into view over the horizon, it was the roaring engine of the pitch black sports car that you were oh so familiar with. As it got closer you noticed how more than half of it was glimmering gold in the sun’s light, almost blinding to the eye. It was shocking to say the least. You couldn’t see through the darkened windows but you had a pretty good idea of who could be driving it.

It took a sharp turn then came to a sudden halt in front of the stairway, drifting through the dirt and ripping up the layer of snow that sat on top of it. A man in a suit jumped out hastily, and you swallowed hard.

It was him.

It really was him.

He didn’t leave you behind.

One look at him sent shivers down your spine. His hair was a mess, falling on his face and in front of his eyes. His tie was halfway undone, his jacket, the cuffs of his sleeves, and his pants all speckled and tainted gold. And the look on his face…

You’ve seen him angry plenty of times before, but never like this. He looked terrifying. The knot in your stomach tightened as a he took a few quick steps forward, looking up at the top of the stairs where you two were standing.

“You..” - you could hear him groan through gritted teeth. In the flash of an eye he pulled out a golden pistol and aimed it at the man standing next to you. Your eyes widened.

“Wait!” - You could barely react as three shots rang out and you quickly snapped towards their target.

The bullets fell to the ground, clanking loudly as they rolled down the stairs.

Montague’s face screamed shock, even though he most likely expected this scenario. It all happened so quickly, almost too fast for him to react. His chest rose and fell under the heavy weight of the protective diamond barrier he created just in time. He laughed out as Midas lowered his gun.

“What a rude introduction..” - he was immediately back at his usual snarkiness and you had to wonder if he understood just how close to death he was right there. He was good at hiding it, but you could see the drops of sweat rolling down his cheek, and how his hands were shaking ever so slightly. That first shot landed a little too close for comfort.

Midas’ face hasn’t changed for a second, his tired eyes focusing only on Montague’s every move, watching him like a predator waiting for his prey. If you hadn’t stopped him, he most likely would have torn him apart by now. If there was one thing he despised, it was others taking what’s his.

Montague cleared his throat.

“Your agent has already agreed to my deal. I’ll let them go for now, in exchange for you lending me some help. Sounds fair, doesn’t it?” - he smirked, his words making your stomach churn. You did agree, yes, but it’s not like it was a fair deal, nor did you know the full extent of it. You wondered just how badly you might have messed up this time.

Still, you were glad he didn’t attack Midas right after he tried to shoot him point blank. Maybe your words actually reached some part of him. Maybe he understood how important he was to you.

“And what the catch?” - Midas asked immediately. Montague just scoffed, you two really did think alike. He raised a hand as if he was making the offer of a lifetime.

“They will stay as a part of my team, while your agency aids me in dethroning the gods. That is also your goal, yes?” - his tone turned serious, his face losing the fake smile just as quick.

So that’s what this was all for. You could barely believe it, he was crazy for sure, but going up against the gods still seemed too far fetched. Midas on the other hand didn’t seem shocked in the slightest. He looked intrigued as he took a few moments to think before answering.

“In that case, I agree to your deal.” - They were both out of their minds. You took a few deep breaths, taking all of the information in. You understood Midas’ reasons very well. He was kept locked up by them for so long after all, of course he would want to take his revenge. If that’s what he truly wanted, then you would throw your life on the line as well.

“Mhm, good.” - Montague smiled, content, as he nudged your back with the gun he was hiding behind himself. Some things never change. - “Go on.”

And just like that, you were free. Truly free this time.

Your thoughts finally cleared as the stress and worry of the situation slowly left your brain. All you could focus on now was the man standing at the bottom of the staircase.

You broke into a sprint, almost tripping at the speed you were running. You ran as if your life depended on it, like he would disappear if you didn’t reach him in time.

Tears pricked at you eyes as his face softened, and against your better judgement you practically jumped into his arms.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I thought you’d never come, I’m sorry, I’ll never make a mistake like this again!” - You sobbed against his chest, words held back for so long finally spilling out all at once, your tears staining the expensive material of his shirt. You held onto him so tight your muscles started to hurt, all signs of professionalism thrown out the window by now.

“Careful! I’m barely able to-“ - He quickly raised his hands to avoid touching you.

“I know. I’m sorry, Sir.” - You sniffed a little as you let go, trying to regain some of your composure. This would definitely not be allowed in the office. But he didn’t look like he minded it much, he just seemed glad that you were alive and unharmed.

In truth, all he wanted to do was to run his fingers through your hair and make sure you were truly okay. He knew better than to do that though, not in the state he was in. He let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding in.

“It’s okay now. I’m here.”

The plan was in motion. Everything worked out just as he had wanted it to. And yet Montague could not shake off the uneasy feeling he was having, digging his nails into his own skin so hard that it drew blood. It all went well, and yet he was still so worked up over you clutching onto that man, like he was your lifeline.

Several other people got out of the car by then, a lady in black, a girl with dark braids and a tall cat. You waved and ran up to them, crying even more than before.

He couldn’t fully hear what you were saying, but he could guess. A tearful reunion, a beautiful way to end things. It’s been a while since he last felt emotions this strong and overwhelming. He was overreacting, and he knew it, but he was still unable to get himself to think straight.

He had you in the palm of his hand, and he was not willing to let you go now. That soft gaze, those gentle touches, the taste of your lips, he wanted it all for himself.

Maybe an unforeseen accident, a terrible tragedy, a mistake that would cost his life or maybe…

He saw you turn around and look back at him, a soft smile on your face. You were smiling at him. A genuine, kind gesture. It made his heart flutter.

…maybe those won’t be necessary.

[luvmyoui]

jealous

myoui mina x fem!reader

genre: angst, fluff

warnings: gaslighting, self sabotage, cursing

word count: 2k

synopsis: "you could have anyone you want, why would you wanna be with me

a/n: apology for not posting i'll know😞😞😞 also i wrote the summary for this w one song in mind, wrote this while listening to another, then quoted a completely other song😭😭😭

“Just leave me around already!” you shouted out, stomping over to your shared room with Mina slamming the door. 

Mina stood there, dumbstruck. Never had you ever used a tone like that with her, but these past few weeks you seemed to only be picking fights. Mina obviously was intensely worried, she couldn't help but wonder what she had done to get you so upset. 

Your relationship with Mina was nearing perfect, well that was until your mind decided to start fucking with you. You knew it was wrong, Mina hadn't done anything to warrant such a reaction from you. You had just come home from work, and Mina, who had also just arrived at home, asked about your day. She could only assume that your boss had been extremely bitchy with you with how you reacted to the question.

When the door to your room slammed and you twisted the lock, you slid down to the floor, cradling your head in your hands. “fuck, fuck, FUCK!” you mumbled out, talking to yourself. You deeply regretted what you had said to her, you knew she was tired, she had also just come back from a full day of work. You hated that you potentially hurt her. But that's what she’d eventually do to you right? Someone like her could never truly like someone like you. How could such a perfect person love someone so imperfect? 

You loved her, you did, with all that you were. But the lingering thought that she could leave you the moment she found another woman attractive never left. She could have anyone in the world, why would she want to stay with you? You were only lessening the blow for when it finally came, detaching yourself from her so when she left it wouldn't hurt. If this was really meant to lessen your hurt, then why was it that every time you saw her face fall at your mean words that your heart shattered a bit more in your chest. Treating Mina like this hurt you more than you thought imaginable.

These insecurities had never been present before, you were never one to be insecure nor jealous. Seeing Mina with Sana though, it reminded you of everything you were not. The way Sana’s hand slid up Mina’s arm, the way Mina would laugh it off, not removing the hand on her. You could feel it coursing through your veins, envy. You would never be able to compare to Sana, not her long straight beautiful hair, nor her cute smile. Hell, you thought that you’d choose her too had you been mina. Sana was everything you were not, everything you were not and more. She was everything you were and weren't. 

Seeing mina return the flirtations had you overcome with sadness, why would she indulge in that with a girlfriend. You didn't know Sana, not at all. Maybe if you did, you would’ve known that Sana was like a sister to Mina, that she had grown up with Sana. That Sana was nothing more than a best friend that liked intimacy. But of course, you didn't know, you didn't know and so you did the only thing you knew to do. You withdrew, you started to distance yourself from Mina, often being rude and dismissive. 

You could tell it hurt her, but she never said anything back. Not wanting to let her anger get the best of her and accidentally say something that might hurt you. How considerate she was, even while getting told to shut up. She loved you, and hurt was the last thing she’d want to see on your pretty face. She knew where the line was drawn and no matter how much you crossed it, she refused to. 

letting out a sigh, Mina let herself fall back onto the couch behind her. she would talk to you later when you weren't as mad. she thought back to these last few weeks. how drastically your behavior had changed. Where you used to constantly be all over her, always touching her in some way. she now found that you’d barely ever lay a finger on her, often flinching when she initiated physical contact. this hurt her greatly, she just couldn’t seem to understand what brought on this change. 

The longer she waited, the more overcome with exhaustion she became. Her schedule today had been packed, with interviews and more things of the sort. She hadn’t even eaten dinner, nor changed, having come home just a minute before you. sooner than later, she succumbed to the exhaustion, falling asleep on the couch. 

You awoke the next morning, curled up on the bed you shared with Mina, puffy eyed. you checked the time on your phone, seeing that it was five am. One more hour ‘til your work starts. you looked around, noticing that the big bed was empty. A sigh fell from your mouth, sadness and self hatred overwhelming you once again. The reasonable side of your mind yelled at you to wake up and stop doing this. Sadly, the other part of your head was screaming louder at you. whispering that promises would be broken, she’d just leave you in the end. 

You got out of bed and went to go take a shower and get ready. Upon leaving your room after getting ready, you found Mina curled up on the sofa very clearly shivering. You could hear the cracking of your heart from within. in that moment you didn’t care a bit for the voices screaming at you. You only cared for the girl who might catch a cold in her own house.

You picked her up bridal style and carried her over to the bed. You refused to be stopped by the fact that you weren’t strong enough to carry her and pushed through. With your will, came power, the strength to carry her smoothly suddenly entered your body. You carried her to your shared room with her and tucked her in bed. You turned on the small heater next to the bed and faced it towards her. 

You left a soft kiss on her forehead and then left for work. Breakfast was overrated anyways.

Unlike every other day, today you came home to the beautiful face of Mina painted with anger. you didn’t acknowledge the obvious anger on her face and just brushed past her to the kitchen. Before you could take a step in that direction you found yourself being aggressively pulled back. a yelp escaped your lips at how unexpected it was. 

“Sit down.” Mina said, her voice tone serious and commanding. If you were anyone else you definitely would’ve. but you were you in the end. 

“I’m hungry-“ 

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” Her voice held no room for arguments, and even you knew better than to argue. 

Following her command, you sat. She sat down next to you on the couch and took your hand in hers staring deeply into your cold eyes. She couldn’t figure out what you were thinking, your eyes now cold, a stark contrast from how they used to be. 

“Baby please, talk to me. I know something’s bothering you, please, just talk to me.” Mina softly begged, her thumb drawing circles on the back of your hand. 

“i- uh-“ As soon as you felt your resolve dropping by the slightest, it all came back in a flash. Her flirting with Sana, everything. You pulled your hand away from Mina, so fast one might’ve thought it was a burn. 

“I don't know what you’re talking about. You’re probably just imagining things.” You said standing up and attempting to walk away. 

“y/n please, i know something’s up.” Mina once again pleaded, grabbing your hand, stopping you from leaving

“Nothings fucking up. You’re literally making shit up, and fucking let go of me. You’re so fucking annoying.” You said once again ripping your hand away from Mina's grip.

This time Mina didn’t allow it, gripping your hand tighter in response to you trying to pull your hand away. She pulled you back onto the couch and this time she stood up. 

“Just tell me what's wrong, and stop giving me so much attitude! You’re not my teenage fucking daughter that im just gonna put up with this!” Mina yelled, angry at the words you were spitting at her. 

“I- i think we should break up.” you stuttered out, in hesitance averting your gaze from Mina’s. 

“No.” she said flatly

“W-what?” you questioned, the possibility of this response never crossed your mind. Your gaze shifted back to Mina, trying to gauge her feelings, you couldn't though. You couldn't figure out what was going on behind those dark eyes of hers. You felt the the tables had just been flipped, you were now in her shoes. On the receiving end of her anger.

“There won't be a breakup until you explain why.” Mina said in the most monotone voice you’d ever heard from her. 

“I just- i dont l-love you anymore.” 

“Stop lying, you aren't fooling anyone with that.” Mina said, a laugh accompanying her words, you could practically feel the condescension dripping off her words.

You could feel the suffocating feeling in your throat creeping in, why couldn't she just understand and leave you alone. “I dont- i dont love you anymore. Just let me fucking leave!” you yelled out the end, frustration overtaking you.

You could feel the tears forming, the familiar feeling of butterflies in your stomach. Not the good kind of butterflies though, the ones that came along with a feeling of dread, the ones that you hated. 

“Stop fucking lying and just spit it out! What is going on with you?!” Mina shouted at you. You felt incredibly small at her shouts, sure you had done the same, but you had always been overly sensitive. You could feel the water leaking out of your eyes before you knew it. 

Mina was being so mean to you, she had never raised her voice at you before. You had taken her kindness for granted and now you were faced with the opposite of it. “J-just l-leave me alone.” you hiccuped out, covering your face in embarrassment. 

Why did you have to cry now of all times? You cursed your body for giving this kind of reaction to her shouting.

“Baby, please. Just talk to me.” Mina said, much softer this time, wrapping her arms around you. 

You found yourself instinctively cuddling into her embrace, shaking in her arms. “Why should I even stay with you if you're just gonna leave me in the end?” you mumbled into her chest.

Mina’s eyes widened at this, she held your shoulders and pulled you away to look you in your eyes. “Why would you even think that?” Mina questioned, clearly taken aback by your assumption. Had she done anything to make you feel that way?

“You're just gonna leave me for a prettier girl like Sana when you get tired of me.” You mumbled, pushing yourself back into her chest, embarrassed for talking about your emotions. 

“Babe, Sana’s like my little sister. And why would I leave someone as pretty as you. I don't think anyone could even come close to you in terms of beauty.” Mina said, holding you tight and kissing your head. 

“I don't know, I just saw you with Sana and just I don't know, it made me realize that you're way out of my league and you could just- leave me anytime.” 

“But I don't wanna leave you for anyone. I love you not anyone else.” Mina softly whispered into your ear. 

“I'm sorry,” you whimpered out, pulling your head out of her chest to look in her eyes as you pouted. “I’ve been such a bitch to you. I don't know how you put up with me.”

“I’d rather fight with you all night than spend a peaceful night with someone else.” Mina whispered out before softly connecting your lips with hers.

You could only be left in awe at the fact that it was always you she chose. 

[goodlucktai]

could you write something about the crew saving sanji from captivity, like maybe he was caught by marines or somthing, and they hadnt been feeding him, and the crew gets to cook for sanji for once or something like that?

x

It made sense that they would run into a halfway intelligent Marine grunt sooner or later. 

“You don’t fight with your hands much,” he said, opening the file on the table in between them. “Weak arms? Nah, I’ve never heard of a sailor with weak arms. There must be another reason.”

He wasn’t anyone special. Sanji was familiar enough with the uniforms by now to tell at a glance that he wasn’t decorated the way the real heavy hitters were. Chief Petty Officer, maybe. Warrant Officer at best. 

Sanji was a Straw Hat. He wasn’t going to break a sweat for anyone less than a Vice-Admiral. He made sure to say as much, to clear up any misunderstandings. The officer didn’t appreciate hearing it for some reason. 

He put out a hand without looking up from the file. A guard by the door stepped forward and placed something in his palm. 

It was a ball-peen hammer. 

“You’re the cook. That’s why you protect your hands. You wouldn’t have a place in that famous crew of yours if you lost those.”

“Well, you’re partly right, at least,” Sanji admitted. “For someone stupid enough to spectacularly piss my captain off, that’s far more than I expected.”

The extraction team arrived in the form of an unhinged skeleton and a six-foot-tall reindeer that tossed his knife-point antlers hard enough to put a decent-sized hole in the doorframe, but only after two fingers were mangled on Sanji’s right hand and one was freshly broken on his left. 

The officer whirled around at the sudden appearance of uninvited company—surprised for just a moment, and then gray-faced with fear. 

“About time,” Sanji snarked, and wrenched his shackled hands hard enough that the chain links binding him to the floor snapped. He stood, stretched his spine, and flicked a disinterested look at the Marine officer, who went melting towards the back of the room on legs that wobbled like jelly. Disregarding him, Sanji added, “Did Robin have time to get those files she wanted? I stalled for ages.”

For a beat, neither of his nakama answered him. Then Brook’s jaw made a cracking noise like a gunshot, the way it does when he’s grinding his teeth, and Chopper shrieked, “Your hands!!”

Sanji glanced down at them. “Oh, yeah. Our mutual friend over there wasn’t very creative.” 

It hurt like a bitch, but it was far from the worst thing he’d ever felt. If it had gone much further, he might have seriously considered deviating from the plan, but a few broken bones? His brothers used to do that just for fun. 

Brook tossed his guitar over his shoulder, where it hung against his back by the strap looped across his chest, and withdrew his sword instead. 

“I can be very creative,” he said, sing-song. 

“We’re leaving!” Chopper proclaimed, and herded Sanji toward the door with his antlers. Sanji went, amused by the pushiness. 

It’s much less amusing an hour later, when his fingers are splinted and wrapped carefully, and Chopper tells him in no uncertain terms that he’s banned from work until Chopper’s satisfied with how they’ve healed. 

Sanji agrees easily, because Chopper is equal parts adorable and terrifying when it comes to the health and safety of their family. But when he slips into the galley to begin preparing supper, the reindeer is right on his heels, scolding, “Sanji! That’s work!”

“Hardly,” he scoffs. Then, “Wait, are you serious?”

Chopper throws up his little hooves, as exasperated as any healthcare professional four times his age. “Why would I joke? Your bones are broken. Put down that spatula or I’ll scream!”

Sanji puts down the spatula. He’s never felt this wrong-footed before in his life. What does one do in a kitchen they aren’t allowed to cook in? He shifts his weight and looks sideways at the pantry.

“Oh my god,” Nami says. She points at the table. “Sit.”

“This feels kind of absurd,” he says. 

“So it’s completely on-brand, then,” Usopp says, frog-marching him to a chair. “Good to know.”

Sanji lets himself be bullied with a scowl, and tucks his hands under the table where they can’t get him into any more trouble. Zoro, from the other side of the table, snorts into his tankard. Carrot drapes herself over Sanji’s shoulders, faux-sympathetic, but her chest rumbles with subvocal animal laughter. Franky and Jimbei are grinning openly.

It’s not funny. It’s time to eat. After all that action, their bodies need to replenish nutrients. They need carbs and proteins. He could at least be making smoothies while everyone argues with him—he can multitask!  

Luffy, whose face has been a thundercloud ever since they returned to Sunny, leaving the Marine base actively on fire in their wake, brightens suddenly. 

“I got it!” he announces, and that’s his trainwreck tone of voice. The very familiar, always inevitable, ‘you can try to stop me but it’ll just end in tears if you do’ tone of voice. Sanji braces himself, but nothing could have prepared him for Luffy cheerfully declaring, “We’ll make dinner!”

“Uh, no,” Sanji says quickly.

“Captain’s orders,” Robin says peacefully. 

She was angry with him before—in that careful, soft-spoken way she gets angry with her nakama that always leaves them feeling lower than dirt—for letting himself get hurt in even this unremarkable capacity. But now she meets his eyes with a smile that only the people aboard this ship are privileged to see, and he fumbles his half of the argument before he even has a chance to make it. 

Within that time, half his crew have migrated to the kitchen proper, and Nami is heaving open the huge recipe book that lives in place of pride on the counter. 

“Hey, hey, Sanji!” Luffy yells. “What do you want to eat?”

“This is really unnecessary,” he says, shifting to stand. Carrot becomes deadweight on his back, dangling there like the world’s weirdest scarf. 

“We’ll survive without five star food for a few days,” Jimbei says dryly. “If I were you, I’d answer their question before they take matters into their own hands and decide for you.”

In the kitchen, things are already rapidly devolving. There’s a lot of clamoring around and shoving of shoulders. This crew would never agree on anything they couldn’t argue about for hours first. Luffy clambers up onto Yamato’s back to get a bird’s-eye view of the recipe book, stretching an arm over Nami’s own shoulder to point out every dish that catches his eye. Yamato is a cheerful, agreeable jungle-gym, not even batting an eye when Luffy’s grip on one of his horns causes his head to tilt slowly to the left. 

If Sanji had known letting that measly little officer play his shitty power games would end like this, he would have kicked the creep in the mouth hard enough to shut him up permanently. 

He taps his bandaged fingers against his knees, frustrated and restless. Normally his friends’ stubbornness is weaponized against other people. He doesn’t like being on this end and he doesn’t understand why it’s happening. 

“They want it to be special for you,” Zoro says suddenly, interjecting for the first time all night with that infallible wisdom he likes to pull out of thin air when it suits him. Then he takes another drink and adds, “God knows why.”

There’s nothing Sanji can do for a moment but stare at him. From the corner of his eye, he can see Robin and Jimbei’s knowing smiles, Franky looking as though he’s about to laugh. Carrot is still purring, tickled pink by the whole thing. All around them, Sunny shifts and groans as she bears them across the sea, and somehow it sounds like she’s in on it, too. 

Sanji, who can’t remember the last time anyone cooked for him, refuses to feel touched. Honestly. This isn’t touching, it’s goddamn annoying—but he might as well let them have their fun, right?

“French toast,” he finally says. Not very loud, all things considered. But the anarchy in the kitchen comes to a sudden halt, and Luffy’s smile is bright enough to put that sun god lurking inside him to shame.

“With strawberries and cream,” he says importantly. “I remember! Sanji’s favorite!”

“Oh, that sounds good,” Yamato exclaims, still standing at a weird angle and unbothered by it. Next to him, Brook is imitating the pose, for no immediately apparent reason. “Do we have strawberries?”

“Strawberries!” Chopper yells, in what is either accord or a demand, and Usopp opens the fridge to investigate.

Sanji lets his chin sink into one of his hands, overseeing the chaos from his seat at the table. That itchy, uneasy feeling in his chest settles down. Now he just feels reluctantly fond.

He can’t help thinking about what the officer said to him back on the base. 

Sanji is a cook, and he does protect his hands, but that’s the extent of what the self-important stranger got correct. Luffy would drag him back from hell if he died, so the idea of being cut free because his usefulness has expired is outright laughable. Sanji doesn’t need to secure his place here. 

The reality is much simpler—providing food for the people that he loves is a privilege, one he doesn’t take lightly. It just honestly hadn’t occurred to him until now that the street goes both ways. 

Dinner preparation takes twice as long as it should that night.

Somehow, it tastes twice as sweet. 

[scotianostra]

On February 9th in 1587, news reached London of Mary, Queen of Scots execution the previous day.

The people went wild with joy, church bells were rung out in celebration, guns thundered a salute, bonfires were lit in celebration and there were impromptu feasts held in every street.

Elizabeth however, did not greet the news with the same enthusiasm! It is said she had signed the death warrant in anger when she was told that Mary had plotted against her to be the figurehead of a Catholic uprising in England. It is also claimed that she withdrew the warrant but it was retained by her spymaster Walsingham.

Historians still debate how much Mary knew about the plot to overthrow Elizabeth.

It is a fact that the English Queen became almost hysterical. Her biographer William Camden, wrote that

“her countenance changed, her words faltered, and with excessive sorrow she was in a manner astonished, insomuch as she gave herself over to grief, putting herself into mourning weeds and shedding abundance of tears”.

Her rage was vengeful against those who had acted on her behalf. They had expected her anger, but not quite this extreme! Some fled home, others were banished, and Davison who had carried the warrant to Fotheringay, was imprisoned in the Tower of London.

Elizabeth wrote to James VI, telling him that his mother’s execution had happened without her knowledge, and whilst James at first displayed grief, he did not want to alienate Elizabeth, and told a group of angry nobles that he believed Elizabeth was genuine in her grief and would not do anything to effect the Anglo-Scottish alliance.

It was three weeks before news of Mary’s execution reached France, where there was widespread distress at the death of the King’s sister-in-law. The English Ambassador reported:

“I never saw a thing more hated by little, great, old, young and of all religions than the Queen of Scots’ death, and especially the manner of it. I would to God it had not been in this time”

On 12th March 1587 as a part of French national mourning a requiem mass was held at Notre Dame attended by Henri III, Catherine de Medici, and many of Mary’s Guise relations including her uncle, Elbeuf. A moving eulogy was given by Renauld de Beaune, Archbishop of Bourges, recalling the days of her youth and the spectacle of her magnificent wedding ceremony in Paris. It seemed to him ‘as if God had chosen to render her virtues more glorious than her afflictions’. She had become a cult figure.

It’s a disgrace the Scottish nation were denied a similar mark of respect for Mary, remember many Scots still thought of her as our rightful Monarch, although it has been said that in Scotland there was displays of anger towards Elizabeth for what had happened - despite the fact that they had forced Mary’s abdication twenty years earlier.

In the eyes of Catholic Europe, Mary was a Martyr, wrongfully put to death by the ‘heretic Elizabeth’. Philip of Spain believed it was his duty to avenge Mary’s death.

Nevertheless, Scotland and France did not act in revenge for Mary. Philip did however, with the Armada as we know. But this did not quite have the desired affect, thanks largely to the weather. It is ironic to think that Mary’s death gave both herself and Elizabeth their finest hour, Mary became the Martyr that she wanted to be, while Elizabeth became 'Gloriana’, with the “heart and stomach of a King”.

I will finish this post and go back briefly to Mary’s execution. Those present that day spoke of her great courage and dignity, just under 61 years later her grandson Charles I was also executed with the same bravery shown, whatever the faults or follies of the House of Stuart, its sons and daughters, with rare exceptions, have at least known how to die.

The pics show the death mask of Mary, her tomb in Westminster Abbey and a replica in The Museum of Scotland, Edinburgh.

[heylavellan]

Happy Friday and welcome to DADWC! How about "I’ve never been more certain of anything than I am of us, even in the middle of all this chaos." for Zevran/Warden? ✨

I mushed these two together! They work nicely. @lasatfat

Fic beneath the cut! Spoilers for post-landsmeet. World state is a bit vague but you know. Anyway, fic beneath the cut!

It was a risky plan, but Ramsay knew it was the best option they had. "You're sure you can set that up within two minutes?" they checked, rubbing their forehead. Zevran was talented, sure, but there were still limits to what he was capable of.

A warm hand cupped her cheek, causing their eyes to glance at the elf it belonged to. "You know me, I can last two minutes or practically an eternity," he teased, before planting a kiss on her cheek. Of course Zevran would think of their favourite pastime. And he could last quite long if he needed to... A soft chuckle pulled Ramsay's mind out of the gutter. They grabbed his hand, squeezing it once before letting go.

"Well, I need you to be done in two minutes. As attractive as your smear would be, I doubt it would be as skilled a masseuse as I'm going to need after this," she sighed. She gestured to a few folk behind them to bring a selection of items and spat out orders to the remaining folk.

As Zevran took the proffered items, he shot a twisted grin toward his partner. "Two minutes. I still plan on ravaging you in celebration," he chirped, before seemingly melding into the shadows. Ramsay hated how he could do that, just disappear before your eyes. It was, frankly, unsettling.

So they started counting. Fifteen seconds pass. Thirty. Then on forty-five they heard the first explosion and a surge of mist in the air. Ramsay slid her blades out of their sheathes as they counted under their breath.

Sixty seconds heralded the cry of an ogre. Shit. If it got to Zev before he could finish laying traps and planting explosives, he wouldn't make it out alive. But the other attackers at the gate were relying on him, Alistair was relying on him, and so were most of the people of Denerim.

By seventy-five seconds, Ramsay was itching to attack. The first few darkspawn were pouring through destroyed buildings and the damaged walls. Not enough though. The horde needed to come, and the call of their blood wasn't enough with the overwhelming song of the archdemon. Zevran was nowhere to be seen, but the explosions seemed to be drawing nearer.

She knew her archers had itchy trigger fingers as more hurlocks and genlocks started to filter into the clearing. More than anything she wanted to plunge her daggers into them and watch them bleed. But only ninety seconds had elapsed and she had left her impatience in the ruins of Highever. She signalled them to ready their bows.

Ramsay glanced over their shoulder to assess how much damage the other squads had taken. They were faltering back, and the warden was all too aware of how little time they had. One hundred and five seconds had passed and she needed Zevran to show in fifteen. She squinted, trying to make out any sign that he was alive.

Two minutes. Ramsay couldn't find Zevran and darkspawn weren't entering the clearing fast enough to warrant an assault. More than anything, her mind screamed to charge anyway. He had to be there, had to come back. Had to be at their side when they slew the archdemon. Yet she couldn't sacrifice Denerim for Zevran. As much as she wanted to.

She jumped at an arm wrapping itself around her shoulders. "Andraste's firm ass cheeks, don't scare me like that. We nearly left," Ramsay growled, slapping the person suddenly at her side. Even in the clamour of battle, they know it's Zevran based on the shape of his armour. "You need to get better with timing."

"Archers, forty five! Draw!" she shouted. The arm on her shoulders withdrew, likely to pull out his swords. They felt hands rummaging on their belt, a few quiet words explaining her acid coating was being swapped for fleshrot. Additional health poultices were slid into boots and pockets, before he kissed her cheek.

Any response Ramsay gave was drowned out by simultaneous explosions. Tainted bodies flooded into the clearing, scrambling into traps and tripping over one another. Zevran ignited a flare as Ramsay's lieutenant ordered the archers to fire. "Got my back?" Zevran asked, rocking on his toes as he prepared to dash into battle.

"Always. For some reason I trust an assassin with watching my back in battle," they confirmed before initiating the melee. Their unit was outmatched, but the flare should rally nearby units to their location.

In the thick of battle was where Ramsay felt most safe. No worrying about courtly manners or upsetting Father's allies. No distressing their parents over the lack of a suitable match. And definitely no concern over saying the right thing. Those things made battle easy, but their assassin, their Crow, their Zevran? Zevran parried the blows she couldn't see and would treat the wounds he couldn't block, the same as she did for him. They fought as one.

They wanted it no other way. The two of them cleared a path to the gates of Denerim, with the help of converging troops. As they broke through the gates, Zevran and Ramsay managed to pull aside, for a moment alone.

"How are you doing my love? Surely, you're not tired already," he smirked, pulling Ramsay into a tight hug. Blood and guts were spattered on his face. They took one of the larger chunks out of his hair and smeared away some of the drops running down his face. They never got a good look at him in battle, and if he was half as attractive as he was in the aftermath the pair would never get any fighting done.

They place a hand on his chest and nestle their head in the crook of his neck. "We're just getting started. We haven't made it to the good bits," she responded, enjoying the heat radiating off him. They traced the ornamentation on his breast. Zev hummed and pressed a kiss into their hair.

Ramsay kissed his neck before leaning back to look him in his eyes. "I hope you know when we're in battle I trust you with my life," they sighed. She focused on his lips, wanting to kiss him senseless. But now wasn't the time or place.

"And I you. When I feel your blade slide by and stab someone I miss, that's when I am most sure about us. Even in the chaos, you're there," Zev responded huskily. They see a look in his face, one that suggested he desired them carnally. A look that also knew that their enjoyment of each other would have to wait.

They knew he craved battling alongside them. But to fight an archdemon, a dragon? She couldn't ask that of him. "I don't want to lose you," she whispered, a small tremble in her voice. "I might die. You might die. I can't ask you to fight the archdemon with me."

Zevran tightened his grip on them, as if they could be impossibly closer. "I would rather die at your side, knowing I tried to save you. If I lived knowing it might have been different were I at your side..." he urged. His voice cracked, trailing off. "Let me fight with you. That way the ravishing part can come quicker."

Ramsay looked up at the blond elf and nodded. "Okay," they stated.

"Okay?" Zevran responded.

"Together. We'll survive together," they decided, before pulling him into a crushing kiss.

@dadrunkwriting

[suspicious-whumping-egg]

Collector’s Bounty: Part 1

Welcome to my newest WIP! @whumplr-reader gave me the prompt “ransom doesn’t arrive, whumper needs to do some quick black market organ work to make up the money they thought they were getting”, and I loved it so much that I’m making a whole series about it. This is part 1. Tw: referenced/threatened human trafficking. Enjoy!

~~~

It turned out Jackson Hawthorne’s family didn’t care about him nearly as much as Aris had been counting on.

The Hawthorne family does not stoop to ransoms or blackmail. The law is on your case and rest assured, you will be caught.

A paltry, two-sentence note typed on crisp stationery had been left in lieu of the tens of thousands Aris had demanded.

And he needed that money. A hit job for his newest client had gone south, and if he couldn’t come up with enough cash to clean up the mess, he’d be paying in blood— this time, his own. He snatched up the note, crumbling it into his pocket and stalking out of the dilapidated warehouse towards his car. 

How dare they? 

Going 90 on the deserted byways back to his place did nothing to vent his frustration, so he had his favorite balisong in hand by the time he’d yanked the car into park, mindlessly flipping it through his fingers as he fumbled with his keys and headed towards the basement. 

Cliche, he knew. But also windowless, dark, and nearly soundproof. He’d fortified the door to the staircase, added a few extra bolts, but the room was otherwise unmodified. And for now, the only bloodstains littering the cement floor were an old, rusty brown. 

But not for long. 

If he couldn’t get a show from the family, he could have fun toying with his captive.

“Looks like your family doesn’t give a shit about you, Hawthorne,” Aris snapped as he slammed the door shut behind him, taking the stairs two at a time. Jackson was exactly how Aris had left him, albeit with signs of struggle. The chair he’d been tied to had shifted, rope burns smudged angrily around his wrists and ankles, the gag stuffed in his mouth was tangled and spit-soaked. But none of Aris’s friends had been dumb enough to lay a hand on him. 

“So here’s the deal,” he continued, stalking around the chair and raking a hand through his captive’s soft curls, his grip tightening when the man jerked away from the touch. “Just because your family won’t pay up doesn’t mean I don’t need the money. And right now, you’re still my most valuable asset. You’ve gotta make yourself useful somehow.”

He twirled the blade one more time before ghosting its tip over the man’s throat, steel dipping into arteries and sinew but not yet drawing blood. And for a rare moment, his captive stilled, eyes widening in terror, a gasp frozen in his lungs. 

“Make no mistake, you have plenty of worth to me, even dead. A human heart can sell for nearly a million bucks. That’s tempting, isn’t it? But Sebastian Hawthorne wouldn’t take well to his eldest son succumbing to some mystery killer, now, would he? And having a revenge-seeking millionaire on your ass isn’t the greatest way to maintain anonymity.” 

He removed the knife without fanfare, drumming his fingers against the back of the chair. “But sex sells, that’s what they say, anyway. Pretty young Hawthorne boy, one night only, anything goes?” He grinned and slipped the blade under his captive’s belt, giving it a playful tug. 

Jackson thrashed against the restraints on instinct, his terrified gaze hardening with rage. A string of furious retorts were muffled by the gag, surfacing as nothing more than a pathetic collection of desperate sounds. 

Aris shrugged. 

“I mean, not my cup of tea, but cash is cash,” he continued indifferently. “Although I have to say, Sebastian’s precious heir getting ruined by mob brats would warrant a revenge campaign equally vigorous.” 

He withdrew the knife once more, gazing dramatically into the distance as if lost in thought. A few beats of tense silence passed, then he slid the knife under the gag, cleaving through tattered fabric without fanfare.

“Don’t like my ideas, huh? How about you come up with something better?” 

Jackson stammered wordlessly, the ferocity of moments before draining away like it had never existed.  

“I— I— I uh—“ 

“Can’t think of anything?” Aris murmured. “Then it looks like we’ll have to stick with plan A.” 

“No— I— fuck— uh— I can wire money from his account— if you let me go— I know his passwords—” Jackson sputtered. “I’ll get it to you, if you let me go—” 

Aris laughed. “Let you go? I’ll stop you right there, pretty boy. You get out, you owe me nothing. I shoulda known you’d be too boring to have any good ideas. Guess we’ll go with my original idea, then.” 

“No! Please—” 

His thrashing grew so furious that the chair tipped over, throwing him to the ground with it.  

“Not that one, you can stop freaking out,” Aris snorted, nudging his captive’s face with his boot. “Aww. I almost don’t wanna put you back upright, you’re finally where you belong.” 

“But alas. It’d be a lot harder to get you out that way.” 

Jackson’s face lit with hope like a kid’s on Christmas morning, and Aris’s twisted smirk only grew. 

“Don’t look too excited, champ,” he mocked. “You’re not getting out of here in one piece or anything.” 

“I mean, you’ll be mostly in one piece, but a kidney sells for at least a hundred thousand bucks, sometimes two. Seems like a fair trade, doesn’t it? I get my money, you keep your life and go back home to mommy and daddy like nothing ever happened.” 

The thrashing recurred with renewed vigor, and Aris rolled his eyes, whipping his gun from his hip and holding it in front of Jackson’s face.  “What are you gonna do when you get out of that chair? Take me down with your bare hands before I blow your brains out? Get your hands on my keys, slip past me, and make it through the locks and out to my car before you realize it won’t start without my fingerprint?” He slid the gun back into its holster. 

“Face it, Hawthorne, you’re lucky I’m considering letting you go at all. You’re cute when you’re terrified. Probably even cuter covered in blood. I could just keep you. Cut some pretty designs into you, sell a kidney, a lung, some bone marrow every once in a while— a gram can go for three thousand, and that regenerates. Hurts like hell and all. Weakness, nausea, muscle pain, risks of nerve damage, and some massive needles are involved. Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?” 

Aris knelt down next to Jackson’s trussed-up form, glaring at him until he made eye contact. 

“Listen to me. I like a fighter. If you kick out at me, try anything  stupid, whatever, that’s only gonna make me want to keep you for good. By all means, make this fun for me. But it’s not in your best interest. Understand?” 

Jackson nodded shakily, gaze shifting to the floor. 

“Alright then, here’s the plan. I’m gonna cut these ropes, get you outta the chair, and handcuff you. You’re going to follow me to the car like a civilized person, and depending on your behavior, you’ll either get into the backseat or I’ll shove you into the trunk. Either way though, I’m gonna sedate you, which is a protection for you as much as me. Because we both already know you’ll be tempted to do something stupid like jumping out of the moving car. We’re gonna make it to my friend’s place, prep you for the procedure, and the rest… well that’s not your problem. Except that you’re probably gonna need to stay put for a couple of days afterwards while we monitor your vitals and make sure you won’t die as soon as you’re shipped back to the mansion. Any questions?” 

Jackson listened with a distant, hopeless expression, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes. He blinked them away, swallowing hard. Any real questions would go unanswered, he knew that much. 

“You really like hearing yourself talk, don’t you?” he muttered instead. 

Aris shrugged unapologetically. “Yep. You’ll get used to it.” 

With that, he sliced through the ropes on Jackson’s ankles, then freed his wrists. His captive slumped to the floor in a heap, not even bothering to catch himself. He just curled up and buried his face in his hands. 

“Come on, Hawthorne,” he said casually. “We don’t have all day.” 

“How bad does it hurt?” Jackson asked softly. “I— I know it’s gonna hurt. But… how bad is it?” 

Aris’s mocking smirk returned. 

“Poor thing. I’ll just let you know, it’s gonna be hell after you wake up. You’re gonna wake up and ask to be knocked right back out again, cause pain meds are an expense I’d rather not pay for. It’ll ease up after a week or so, I’m sure you can tough it out. If your family ends up being reasonable, you’ll make your way back to them soon enough and they can pump you with as much morphine as your spoiled little heart desires, how ‘bout that?” 

He heard the panicked hitch in Jackson’s breathing, watched as his eyes widened in terror, and plucked a syringe out of his jacket pocket. 

All this stress couldn’t be good for his body or anything inside it. 

“It’ll be over soon,” he said gently, holding the needle behind his back. With his other hand, he helped Jackson to his feet, then shifted to hold him by a shoulder before sinking the syringe into his neck, pushing the plunger in a smooth motion. 

“Wait— but—” Jackson stammered. “I— please— I— I’m—” 

“You’re too damn cute for your own good,” Aris murmured, cutting off his terrified babbling.  “I’ll spare a few bucks for the morphine, alright? Least I can do now that you know twenty thousand bucks is worth more than your life in your family’s eyes.” 

And in the midst of weak, half-slurred protests, Aris scooped up the Hawthorne heir in a bridal carry and hauled him off to his fate. 

Taglist: @burntcoffeewhump

[bright-tatters]

Tatters #57

Beginning of Part 2

The legal consequences to Fortune’s bloodbath were swift and brutal. Four of his agents had been killed while attacking the Council. Six were arrested after the fact. Fortune’s elusive friend Livia, a construct minded mostly by Marguerite, offered bail and was refused. A warrant went out for Fortune on the assumption that the operatives would testify against him.

Two refused. Three more described widely varying people who supposedly had given the orders. (All of those people were real, and had relayed messages from people who had gotten messages from Fortune, but what did the hands know of the mind?) One just started ranting about Council mind control devices and self-defense. Layer by slick layer, the case against Fortune fell apart. Reputable Tatters citizens could vouch that he had shown neither knowledge nor control over any kind of outside activity that night.

He didn’t even leave the Ward.

Oh, killing four powerful people did not get a pass just because the people with the Gleaze vials couldn’t be linked to the Travail mastermind. From then on it was war between the upper Wards and Tatterdemalion. Fortune withdrew his agents into Tatters and worked on suborning new people in the upper Wards. He filled newspapers with clinical descriptions of any and every piece of infrastructure leveled in Tatters. Just so people knew what the Council was up to.

The police invaded Tatters for the election to replace Leonard Ingrace, Councilor of Tatters, first Gleaze victim after Fortune’s maiming. Fortune didn’t even control the selection of prospective Councilors. He just took notes, and let a free and fair election go forward.

With a little bit of an endorsement. His candidate lost to a middle-aged and eager civil servant named Proserpina la Gran. It would have to do.

He stayed in his house most of the time. Oh, he gave orders. But he and his scar stayed at home.

[reconstructwriter]

Six Sentence Sunday Wednesday

I got your tag @ankahikoibaat just terrible at procrastinating this week!

Finally got back to Standing Above the Blood. Still dunno how this is gonna end but slightly more hopeful note for the Republic here...

“Surrender,” Windu repeated and withdrew what looked like an actual warrant. Anakin stared at it, as boggled by the sight as he had once been by the water in the room of a thousand fountains. When had he managed to get that? His heart clenched when he recognized the largest signature.

Then a red lightsaber slashed through the paper, destroying Padme’s cursive. The resolution, as Obi Wan might say, became uncivilized…

Tag You're It: @charmwasjess, @s-c-g-s-c-g, @panther-os, @amarcia, @amuser-96, @beskad, @gffa, @gallusrostromegalus

(but as always no pressure)

[daitranscripts]

Cassandra Conversation: Investigate

Tell Me About Yourself

Cassandra Masterpost

PC: I’d like to get to know you better.

Low/neutral approval [1]

High approval [2]

1 - Low/neutral approval

Cassandra: You would?

PC: Is that a problem?

Cassandra: Not entirely. I’m just curious as to your motivation

Dialogue options:

Flirt: I’d like us to be closer. [3] -Cassandra slightly disapproves

General: Just being friendly. [4] +Cassandra approves

General: Suspicious, aren’t you? [5] -Cassandra slightly disapproves

General: Just tell me. [6]

3 - Flirt: I’d like us to be closer. PC: Is there any harm in us becoming a little closer? Cassandra: Plenty. PC: (Chuckles.) Is that right? Cassandra: (Sighs.) As you wish. [11]

4 - General: Just being friendly. PC: No motivation beyond making things between us less… Cassandra: Antagonistic? PC: Exactly. Cassandra: (Sighs.) As you wish. [11]

5 - General: Suspicious, aren’t you? PC: You’re a very suspicious person, you know that? Cassandra: When it’s warranted. PC: I can see why you have so many friends. Cassandra: (Sighs.) As you wish. [11]

6 - General: Just tell me. PC: Just answer the question. [11]

2 - High approval:

Cassandra: There’s… not much to know.

Dialogue options:

Flirt: Such modesty! [7]

General: I’m not trying to pry. [8]

General: That can’t be true. [9]

General: Just tell me something. [10]

7 - Flirt: Such modesty! PC: (Laughs.) You’re being modest? Cassandra: Do you think me a braggart? PC: No. I think you’re interesting. Cassandra: (Sighs.) As you wish. [11]

8 - General: I’m not trying to pry. PC: If you don’t want to talk, I’ll— Cassandra: No, I just… oh, very well. [11]

9 - General: That can’t be true. PC: I’m sure that’s not true. Cassandra: (Sighs.) As you wish. [11]

10 - General: Just tell me something. PC: It’s not that hard, Cassandra. Just tell me something. Cassandra: (Sighs.) As you wish. [11]

11 - Scene continues.

Cassandra: My name is Cassandra Pentaghast, daughter of the royal house of Nevarra, seventy-eighth in line for the Nevarran throne. I joined the Seekers of Truth as a young woman, and was with the Order until they withdrew from the Chantry. I remained as the Divine’s Right Hand, carrying out her order to form the Inquisition–and here we are. That’s all there is to know, my [lord/lady].

12 - Dialogue options:

Investigate: You’re Nevarran royalty? [13]

Investigate: You worked for the Divine? [14]

General: That’s all for now. [15]

13 - Investigate: You’re Nevarran royalty? PC: You’re a member of Nevarra’s royal family? Cassandra: The Pentaghasts are a very large clan. Half of Cumberland could say the same. Herald: Really? Cassandra: No, but it feels that way. I have hundreds of relatives so distant, they need charts to prove we’re related at all. And they have them, oh, yes. The Pentaghasts value their precious blood like it runs with gold.

Dialogue options:

General: Is that why you left Nevarra? [16]

General: So you’re not on good terms. [17]

General: Others would be thankful. [18] -Cassandra slightly disapproves

16 - General: Is that why you left Nevarra? PC: And you joined the Seekers to get away from that? Cassandra: It was a life worth getting away from.[19]

17 - General: So you’re not on good terms. PC: So not on very good terms with your family, then? Cassandra: I do not visit, if that’s what you mean.[19]

18 - General: Others would be thankful. PC: You don’t think being noble gave you opportunities others don’t have? Cassandra: An opportunity to be decadent, perhaps. To be useless to anyone but myself. [19]

19 - Scene continues.

Cassandra: The Pentaghasts are famed for dragon-hunting, but few actually pursue the craft. Most are fat and lazy. They pay lip service to the Maker and care only for idle pleasures and past glories. My brother was all that kept me in Nevarra. Once he was gone, so was I.

20 - Dialogue options:

Investigate: Tell me about Nevarra. [21]

Investigate: What happened to your brother? [22]

[Back to 12]

21 - Investigate: Tell me about Nevarra. PC: You don’t seem to like your homeland much. Cassandra: My family polluted it for me. What little I saw of my homeland was through the bars of a gilded cage. My uncle treated me like a porcelain doll to be placed on a shelf and dusted only when necessary. Thus I did not see Nevarra, the real Nevarra, until much later. By then I realized I knew it not at all.

Dialogue options:

Special: What about your parents? [23]

[Back to 20]

23 - Special: What about parents? PC: Your uncle? What about your parents? Cassandra: They had the misfortune of taking the wrong side in the second attempt to overthrow King Markus. The king executed them, but spared my brother and I since we were family, and children at the time. Thus we were raised by my uncle, a Mortalitasi who preferred the company of his corpses to the living.

Dialogue options:

Special: “Mortalitasi”? [24]

[Back to 20]

24 - Special: “Mortalitasi”? PC: Your uncle was a… Mortalitasi? Cassandra: A death mage. He still is. My countrymen do not burn the dead; they bury them in special crypts. The Mortalitasi supervise the crypts, like priests. Uncle Vestalus oversees the Grand Necropolis. Nevarrans spend more time there honouring dead relatives than they do with living ones. It is odd to be so fascinated with death and its trappings. I will never understand it. [back to 20]

22 - Investigate: What happened to your brother? Cassandra (low approval): I’d rather not. Cassandra (neutral approval): I… would prefer not to speak of Anthony. Another time, perhaps.

Cassandra (high approval): Anthony was older than I, a dragon hunter who showed what a Pentaghast could truly be. I idolized him. I wanted to hunt dragons as he did, even though our uncle forbade it. Anthony promised to train me in secret. We would hunt together one day, brother and sister vanquishing the beasts of old. And then he died on me.

Dialogue options:

General: I shouldn’t have asked. [25]

General: That’s awful. [26]

General: How did he die? [27]

25 - General: I shouldn’t have asked. PC: I’m sorry–I shouldn’t have pried… Cassandra: No. It’s fine. [28]

26 - General: That’s awful. PC: That sounds really awful. Cassandra: It was the end of everything I knew. [28]

27 - General: How did he die? PC: Cassandra: A group of apostates wanted dragon blood, and wanted Anthony to get it for them. He refused, and they killed him for it. In front of me. I begged the Chantry to let me become a templar. Instead, they sent me to the Seekers. It took many years to let go of my drive for vengeance. [28]

28 - Scene continues.

Dialogue options:

General: I understand. [29] +Cassandra slightly approves

General: You blamed all mages? [30]

General: You didn’t let it go. [31] +Cassandra slightly disapproves

29 - General: I understand. PC: I think I understand how you felt. Cassandra: At times I could not breathe; the rage nearly choked me. [32]

30 - General: You blamed all mages? PC: So you blamed all mages for the actions of a few apostates? Cassandra: I was young. Magic was frightening. It all seemed pointless. [32]

31 - General: You didn’t let it go. PC: I’m not so sure you let it go. Cassandra: Not entirely, but now I know the hearts of men are to blame, not magic. [32]

32 - Scene continues.

Cassandra: I sometimes wonder how different my life would be if Anthony was still alive. Would I be a dragon hunter? Married to some noble fool, a mother of three? I cannot say. I take solace in believing the Maker has a plan, but… He is not always kind. [back to 20]

14 - Investigate: You worked for the Divine? PC: So you were the Right Hand to the Divine? Cassandra: To Divine Justinia, yes. And Divine Beatrix before her, in fact. The position is normally reserved for templars of the Knights-Divine, but my circumstances were… unusual. PC: Unusual how? Cassandra: You don’t know the story? Thank the Maker. I will tell you if you wish, but it isn’t as exciting as some drum it up to be. The short version is that I once saved the previous Divine’s life. My reward was becoming her Right Hand.

33 - Dialogue options:

Special: What is a right hand? [34]

Investigate: How did you become Right Hand? [35]

[Back to 12]

34 - Special: What is a right hand? PC: But what does a Right Hand do, exactly? Cassandra: What is your hand capable of? It gives, it takes, it beckons… it makes a fist. Leliana and I extended the Divine’s reach beyond the Grand Cathedral. We went where she could not. After Beatrix, I was tired of the position and wanted to return to the Seekers. But Justinia convinced me to stay. Her vision for the future gave me hope.

Dialogue options:

36 - Special: You believed in her.

[Back to 33]

36 - Special: You believed in her. PC: You thought she could really change things. Cassandra: Justinia knew the war was coming long before it began. She tried to avert it, but the forces arrayed against her were too strong. Sometimes you have to break a bone so it can be reset. That’s where the Inquisition comes in. It was to be the answer: a means to preserve as well as an agent for change. I only wish she had lived to see it.

35 - Investigate: How did you become Right Hand? PC: So, what’s the story about you becoming the Right Hand? Cassandra: Sweet Andraste, do you really want to hear that? It was, what–eighteen, twenty years ago? Some still discuss it like it happened yesterday. The tale gets bigger each time it’s told. I barely recognize myself within it now.

Dialogue options:

General: You’re being modest. [37] General: That’s how stories work. [38] General: So what happened? [39]

37 - General: You’re being modest. PC: I’m sure you’re just being modest. Cassandra: (Snorts.) I was there. I think I know what happened. [40]

38 - General: That’s how stories work. PC: That’s what happens with stories that become legends Cassandra: I am not a legend, nor was I then. I was a young woman, barely out of training. [40]

39 - General: So what happened? PC: You’re stalling. [40]

40 - Scene continues.

Cassandra: To hear others tell it, I alone saved Divine Beatrix from a horde of dragons sent to assault the Grand Cathedral. Rather impressive for such a young Seeker, wouldn’t you say?

PC: And the truth is… ?

Cassandra: I stumbled upon a conspiracy to kill Beatrix. A templar knight-commander was at its heart. And there was a dragon battle at the Grand Cathedral, but I had help from loyal mages who rallied to the cause. They freed the dragons from magical control. Without them, the Divine and I would both have died. Yet I became the Right Hand, and they are forgotten.

41 - Dialogue options:

Investigate: What became of the mages? [42]

Flirt: You’re delightful. [43] +Cassandra slightly approves

General: You’re still a hero. [44]

General: Impressive! [45]

General: Typical of the Chantry. [46]

42 - Investigate: What became of the mages? PC: What happened to the mages that helped you? Cassandra: They went back to their Circles, with rewards and privileges and Most Holy’s gratitude. Many of them died at the Conclave. [back to 41]

43 - Flirt: You’re delightful. PC: (Chuckles.) You’re delightful, you know that? Cassandra: No, I do not know that. PC: Mm-hmm. Cassandra: I object. There is nothing “delightful” about me. PC: I beg to differ. Cassandra (if in Haven): (Sighs.) I think I preferred you in the stocks. Cassandra (if in Skyhold): (Sighs.) Who could have guessed the Inquisitor would be so odd? [back to 12]

44 - General: You’re still a hero. PC: I think you’re a hero, no matter how you downplay it. Cassandra: Fine, but it was twenty years ago. I will not rest upon my laurels. [back to 12]

45 - General: Impressive! PC: An impressive tale! I can see why people enjoy telling it. Cassandra: (Sighs.) Just wait ’til they start telling stories about you. [back to 12]

46 - General: Typical of the Chantry. PC: That’s rather typical of the Chantry, isn’t it? Cassandra: Even worse, few know of the knight-commander’s involvement at all. That sort of willful blindness needs to change. [back to 12]

15 - General: That’s all for now. PC: I’ll let you get back to work.

If the PC speaks to her again:

PC: I have some more questions.

Cassandra (low/neutral approval): Why am I not surprised? Cassandra (high approval): As you wish. [back to 12]

[bluehairmisfit]

Look okay yall are allowed, expected, even encouraged to ignore everything below the upcoming readmore. I'm only posting this here because I need to rant somewhere that isn't a brick wall, and I don't feel like dumping this in a vent channel for a school club.

(cw friendships and endings, anger, irritation, the things that come along with being autistic around people, etc. Abuse/trauma mentions. Talk of being a shitty friend/shitty person. All that good stuff. Lots of self-deprecation.)

I'm pissed off. I'm not showing it externally because there's just no fucking point to that but I want to do SOMETHING about it at this point and journaling it isn't enough anymore okay. I'm fucking irritated.

Like lemme start off with my high school crush. I have a friend who rants about his high school crush and I'm happy to listen, don't get me wrong, but I so badly want to rant back about mine because I thought we were friends and this person just kinda faded out of my life. And I'm irritated because I reached out and I tried to ask what I did wrong because I'm still very sure it was something I did. I have no clue what. The message containing the plea for information got no response, so I still don't know what I did, but it warranted whispering and pointing and I know that realistically I don't want to be friends or partners with someone like that but it still hurts in my chest when I think about it too hard, so I just have to try really fucking hard not to think of that person, as if I get a fucking choice in it.

And then there's my up-til-recently best friend. Like. There was a lot of shit that went wrong there on both fucking sides. I know this. Painfully-fucking-aware of the role I played. Because admittedly, I did something pretty similar to what my ex-crush did. We had an argument, and neither of us reached out. The thing is that we were both fucking HORRIBLE for each other and I could not do the things this friend wanted me to do without changing a lot of who I am as a person and how I naturally relate to people. I thought for the past two years that I was just an overall bad friend, and in hindsight, I was a bad friend to this specific person. But I have different friends that really like how I perform friendship.

So why the fuck would I sit there breaking someone else and being broken when I could just accept that things would not work out? It's not like I fully withdrew; I didn't break the DM silence, no, but I still liked and shared posts that this friend posted. I still tried in my own way because I was holding out hope that maybe we'd shift to acquaintances for a while and be able to try again later once we both had grown.

IT IS FULLY ON ME FOR NOT COMMUNICATING THIS DESIRE. I'm not saying it's not. But I talked about it in therapy, and I built the skills I would need to have this conversation, and every time I thought I was ready, I saw, vividly, intrusively, how it was likely to end.

And it's definitively, exceptionally selfish of me to say this.

But I decided I'd rather take advantage of the moot point we were at and just let shit happen, for better or worse.

Than to have to speak how I was feeling. And have it out in the open. And hear for the thousandth time what a terrible, shitty friend and person I am.

BUT MORE THAN THAT, the fucking CORE of why I'm pissed off has less to do with either of them (FUCK MICROSOFT FOR JUST GIVING ME A POPUP ABOUT PICTURES SAVED THAT SHOW ME AND MY HIGH SCHOOL CRUSH BTW. FUCK YOU).

The core of why I'm pissed off goes back to my fucking abuser, as everything seems to. Because that's the bitch that got me masking so hard in the first place for the sake of safety and survival and I'm pissed off that I ever fucking had to do that at all. Bullying contributed, yes, but she played such a major role in taking what was already stress-fracturing and just smashed it in finally.

Like I've changed so much about myself over the years, to the point that for a good chuck of late-middle to early-high school, I was a shell of a person. At some point I felt like I was waking up and seeing the people around me in a completely different way. I interacted with my siblings and learned about them as if I'd been away for years and just came back to fully-fledged tweens and teens.

I suppressed and changed and fucking. Ignored the idea of boundaries. To the point that honestly, now-ex-bestie was screwed over by all of this. Because when we became friends I was still so much more broken than I am today and he helped a lot but when shit went wrong it went SO wrong. And I never got the hang of boundaries or communication with him and I don't know why exactly I didn't feel safe but I didn't and I don't think that's entirely his fault.

But like. She fucked me up. I don't know a better way to say it.

And what actually pisses me off, the core thought that led to this entire, rambling, pain-in-the-ass blog post is the idea that I've changed myself so many times and I tried so hard to be what I thought people wanted me to be and I can't do that. I can't continue to do that because I'm fucking miserable, and aside from my partner and the remaining QPP that I haven't pushed away yet somehow, I have maybe three other friends who see me being myself, even as terrified as I was when that started, and embraced that person.

I'm rediscovering things about myself that I hadn't seen or remembered in years, and I'm becoming closer to my core self over time, and I value that greatly, but it should not have taken this much pain and suffering, whether that I've given or received, to get to this point. And I hate it and I regret the shit I've done but I just want to grow from this and move on and my stupid fucking brain sees tiny things and overreacts to them.

So I should be doing homework but instead I'm sitting on Tumblr, writing some fucking blog post trying to excuse everything I've done, to myself and others, to get to this point as if the ends could ever justify the means.

And I said I didn't really want people to read it but that's a lie. I'm just scared that people will finally tell me how terrible of a person I've been for the past 24 years. And confirm every bad thought I've ever had about myself. Because for every part of me that believes I've never deserved it, there's at least one part that believes I earned every single scar that exists on my body and mind.

[mostlydeadallday]

Lost Kin | Chapter XXXI | A Simple Task

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel | Hollow Knight, Quirrel Category: Gen Content Warnings: panic attacks, body horror, paranoia, flashbacks, referenced torture, memory loss, referenced abuse AO3: Lost Kin | Chapter XXXI | A Simple Task First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Chronological Notes: If you've seen the warning on Chapter 1 about pronouns, this applies especially to this chapter. Hollow's perception of themself vs. others' perception of them comes into direct conflict here, causing them significant distress, enough to also warrant a warning for unintentional misgendering.

○

The vessel watched.

It watched the strange cricket build a fire in the fireplace, then light it with a flint and steel from his satchel. It watched him bring clean water and hoist it into place over the fire. It watched him fetch soap, rags, everything Hornet would need to clean it, never venturing closer than arm’s reach, and only then to hand the supplies to her before stepping quickly away.

It watched him settle back against the hearth when he finished, watched him watch its sister, watch it, his gaze unflinchingly curious, like the tip of a scalpel prodding at all its wounds and imperfections.

He knew something.

It was not possible for him to be aware of its flaws. It had never met him before, and it had revealed nothing since he stepped through the door. It had not allowed itself to react when he flinched back in fear of it, when he reached for a weapon that was not there. It had not taken the offered comfort of its sister’s hand, though something shameful within it writhed pitifully as she withdrew. And now, when he sat in Hornet’s place on the hearth, one hand resting on his knee, seemingly doing nothing at all, it did not shrink from the warm pressure of his stare, the careful examination of its cracked shell and the infection that lingered there.

Why was he here?

That was not relevant. Its sister had requested that he come here, and that was more than it needed to know. She did not appear to need its protection, and the strange bug didn’t seem inclined to do anything but sit and stare. He carried nothing but that satchel on a belt around his waist, next to an empty loop where a nail would hang. The satchel was too small to conceal much besides a throwing knife, and he appeared too common to have the ability to cast soul-spells. Not harmless, from the way he carried himself, but peaceful.

Hornet turned away from him as she stepped around it, kneeling at its left side. “Would you turn so I can reach your back, please?”

A surge of fear took hold, sweeping its control out from under it. Its next breath hissed again, hooking somewhere in its chest and pulling tight. The cricket was watching, watching everything; he would see the pain it could not hide. Even now he had surely noticed the pause before it followed orders, noting each empty moment that scraped by, another black mark on a page already filled with ink.

Perhaps he was here to see just that. Perhaps its sister needed assistance in recording its failures, in determining a better use for it.

Its heart lurched against its shell, but it did as it was told.

The stump of its shoulder throbbed, as it always did, and dull spikes of pain pushed in under its chest-plates, the deepest cysts jostling and shifting as it moved. Its view of the cricket was obscured as the room flared into white fire, but the vessel kept moving, pulling itself forward with its single arm until it lay partly on its front, its back bared to the damp air, mask tilted to keep as much of the room in view as possible.

It was no longer quite so silent when it relaxed back onto the blankets, each inhale scraping through its throat like a claw over slate. It blinked, clearing the glinting light from its vision.

He was still watching. Even more closely, now.

It lay motionless, trying not to pant, though its vents gaped desperately wide with each inhale. He might attribute this weakness to its wounds—though those wounds in themselves were a failure. If it had been perfect, it would not have sustained any injury from sealing the Radiance away. It would be hanging there now, as still and quiet as the tomb it was meant to be, alive enough to entrap her, dead enough to keep her that way.

He would find out, sooner or later, if he did not suspect already.

This weakness, damning as it was, paled in comparison to what he would have seen had he entered the room a few minutes earlier: the supposed Pure Vessel quivering with fear and longing both, pressing its mask into its sister’s hesitant touch with all the urgency of a drowning thing gasping for air, thoroughly undone by the simple task of answering the questions she’d asked it.

She touched its shoulder now, near its neck, where the chitin was warped but not broken. “Thank you.” It heard her shift, dipping a rag into the water she had heated. “I am only going to touch your back, not your shoulder. None of the blisters here have refilled, and all the wounds seem to be closed.” A pause, punctuated by a rain of droplets as she squeezed out the rag. It did not flinch when she laid the warm fabric against its shell, nor did it relax when she swept the cloth across its shoulder blade.

The cricket did nothing but stare, one finger twitching where his hand dangled casually over the hearth.

Hornet wet the rag again, laying it across a new spot, keeping her hand there and allowing the heat to seep through its chitin. Gentle heat, barely warmer than her hands, nothing like the ever-building fire of the infection. Despite itself, the vessel’s shoulders dropped a fraction from their tense curl.

Fear struck through it anew. Had he seen? Had he noticed?

Its sister sighed, taking the rag away. She sat there, silent, and it could not see her face, yet it guessed she was disappointed. Why?

“You should try to relax. Sleep, if you can.” She sounded nearly as tired as it had ever heard her. “I may need to step away to speak with Quirrel, but I will go no farther than the next room.”

Sleep. If you can.

That was an order.

Sleeping would mean shutting its eyes on the stranger in the room. Sleeping would mean that he might be there to witness whatever panic seized it when it woke.

She laid the rag over its back again, and it suppressed a shudder. It might not have much choice, if she continued; its eyes already wanted to close, despite all its objections.

It would not know whether it could until it tried.

It did not want to sleep, not with the stranger—Quirrel—watching its every move, waiting for it to expose itself. Hornet was safe, she must be, she was clever, she would not turn her back on anyone she could not trust, but it did not, could not, extend that same faith. Not when every alarm in its head was ringing, and every inch of its body crawled with awareness of his stare.

An order. Not a request. She had ordered it to sleep. If it did not obey, that would be yet another failure, and she would have yet more cause to be disappointed with it. Its heart kicked into double rhythm, lungs aching to gasp, to suck in gulps of air as the edges of the room grew dim.

It would not. It would not be undone by something so simple. It would endure much worse, to make her pleased with it.

Gradually, the breathlessness faded, as it inhaled and exhaled at a measured pace.

Sleep.

Under the cold flood of fear that demanded it stay awake, that whispered to it of what it might miss, an undertow of exhaustion pulled. Exhaustion that only grew stronger as its sister laid the cloth to its back once more, rubbing in firm circles to clean the void from its carapace. The sweet aroma of the soap she was using drifted out into the room, plucking at memories of the Palace, of the heavy, waxy flowers that only bloomed when the kingslight faded and left the gardens dim and dew-drenched.

Its eyelids drifted half-shut before it snapped them open again. Its sister was speaking.

“Where should I begin,” she murmured, and sighed. It felt her hands slide from its shell, though she replaced them immediately after, working at a new spot that sent tingles up its spine and into its mask. It hurt, but in a foregone sort of way, an echo of pain that had once been much greater. As she kept up the steady pressure, even the echo faded, one voice in the clamor going silent.

The relief was unexpected, perhaps irrelevant, with so many other pains still demanding its attention. But its next breath was longer, slower, without its intent, and it could only be further relieved that its sister—and the stranger—did not notice.

“I was in Greenpath,” she was saying, moving the rag aside to scratch lightly at its back-plate with a claw, then rubbing over the spot again with fresh water. “I have not kept careful count, but it must have been near six days ago.”

Six days. It almost shuddered again, caught at the last moment by the sharpness of Quirrel’s attention. His gaze was shifting from it to its sister and back again, and it could see the questions tugging at him, but he said nothing, and only the crackle of the fire and the drum of the rain filled the silence.

Had it only been that long since she found it dying in the Crossroads? Since it flung its nail down into the dark, since it abandoned all pretense of being what it was meant to be?

Six days since it escaped the temple. Six days of reprieve from its punishment.

Six days that it should not have lived to see.

Six days of… of…

Its eyes flared open again.

“There was a sort of… shift in the world.” Hornet ground her fangs, and a tendril of fear tightened round its throat, but her dissatisfaction seemed to be with her loss for words, rather than with it. “I know not else how to describe it. I could feel that something had changed.”

Quirrel tilted his head, pondering, then nodded slowly. His voice was soft. “I felt much the same.”

“I wondered if others would, or only myself.” Her breath brushed its shoulder as she leaned over it, working at a notch in one of its plates. “I made for the temple at once, though it took longer than I wished. The Crossroads have been nigh-impassable since—”

A pause. A silence that it fell through, deeper, deeper.

Her next words dragged it back to the surface. “They were lying in the elevator when I found them.”

At first, it did not understand why the words felt wrong, only that they did, some invisible piece out of place, as if it had grasped for something and missed, or its teeth no longer fit inside its own mouth.

It—

They?

The word had nothing to do with it. The word was something cold that dug beneath its shell, something foreign, something not fit to be there.

“I was not sure at first whether I would have to kill them,” its sister continued, with no hint of doubt or hesitation. “In self-defense, or as a mercy. They were gravely injured, and I didn’t know if they would recognize me.”

The vessel’s head was spinning. Or perhaps the world was whirling rudely around it, thoughtless of the nausea currently creeping up its throat.

It was—

They—

What was she doing?

She had named it, spoken to it kindly, given it comfort and reassurance it did not deserve, and it had accepted what was not meant for it, knowing it would not have this forever, weak enough to steal what relief was given to it in error.

But if she had done it all while assuming that it was a person, something worthy of respect, something with desires, independence, rather than a thing to be handled, a tool to be used, a weapon to strike down the divine—

Oh, she was mistaken, she must be—

The fact that it had desires, that she had guessed correctly, was worse than if she had simply been wrong. If she had been wrong, it would not have cared.

She must know what it was meant to be. She must know how her father had spoken of it, to it. She must know that its flaws were what had destroyed her future, robbed her of her inheritance and doomed her people to madness and decay. She must not continue to treat it like this, as if it was worthy of respect.

It could not tell her otherwise. It could not correct her. It should not. It had no right to.

“Once I had concluded that they would not harm me, I decided to bring them here.” Hornet wrung out the rag again, keeping one hand on its back until she finished, then resumed the careful cleaning of its backplates. “Their condition has been more or less stable since then.”

Quirrel hummed in acknowledgement. For a desperate instant, it thought perhaps he would correct her, speaking up when it could not. Its memory was faulty, frayed and tattered with the years, and it did not recognize him, did not think he had ever encountered it before, but he spoke like one of the bugs of the old kingdom, not a foreigner, not a newcomer. Perhaps he knew how it should be addressed. Perhaps he had heard it spoken of, and could stop her from—from—

“They make quite the impression,” he said, with a rueful half-laugh. “I can see the resemblance.”

Its gut twisted. Whether he did not know how to properly refer to it, or whether he was deferring to its sister’s judgement, mattered little. It inhaled harshly, forgetting its resolve to hide its flaws in front of him, and then froze when he looked down at it, an inquiring tilt to his head.

Hornet’s scrubbing stopped, removing even that small solace, and she leaned forward to look down at it. “Hollow?”

There were not enough blankets left on the bed to cover it entirely, to wrap it up and hide it from the world, but its claws twitched at the traitorous thought. Even if there had been, it would still stick out, its body too large and ungainly to be anything but an awkward lump under the covers, even if it was hidden from view.

It could not achieve what it wanted. To be invisible, to be small enough to escape notice, ignored, unimportant.

If it could not be what it was meant to be, could it not at least be forgotten?

The thought was poisonous, insidious, creeping into its failed mind as if it belonged there, as if it was not just another want that must be sought out and destroyed.

It was failing in so many ways, merely lying there, thinking, disobeying the command to fall asleep, giving in to weakness the moment it was distracted, revealing its flaws before this strange bug who had not even been there an hour—

Hornet’s hand was on its face, a warm weight beneath its eye, her palm slightly damp, smelling of flowers and soapsuds. The flutter of its breath against her wrist called to its attention just how quickly it was breathing, how far it had fallen, and how fast.

It could not stop. It was ruined now, unable even to maintain a façade of what it should be.

Perhaps this new word she used for it was a punishment. Perhaps it was meant to keep it in its place, to remind it that it had failed. To prevent it from retreating into the comforting illusion that it still had worth, that it might still be useful.

“Quirrel,” she said, and there was an oddness in her voice, a sharpness that felt like a shove, “would you go start some tea?”

Quirrel went still. Even the easy flick of his fingers stopped, and he looked intently at her, ignoring the vessel altogether.

It should not feel relieved.

“Tea,” the cricket said.

“Yes.” Hornet did not move, aside from a quick jerk of her head. “In the kitchen.”

The silence stretched just a beat too long, Quirrel still holding himself carefully, as if he might trigger some unseen trap by moving.

“Right,” he said at last, and stood. He reached back with his left hand and, after looking down at the empty space at his hip, hooked his fingers in his belt instead. “I expect that will take a while.”

Its sister did not reply, did not turn to watch him leave. She did nothing at all until he was gone, until faint sounds began to drift through the doorway, of cabinets opening and closing, items shifted about.

Then she sighed, and it felt the tension bleed out of her, felt the slight tremble of her claws against its mask as she stroked her thumb over its jaw.

It nearly shoved its face against her hand again, nearly begged for more of what she was giving it, but its heart was racing already, its breath coming short, and the stranger was still here—not in the room, not in sight, but it could not quash the creeping suspicion that he would know, that he would somehow find it out.

She seemed to understand, regardless.

“It’s all right,” she whispered, the words rasping softly through her fangs. “It’s all right.”

It was not.

It was not all right, she was wrong to handle it like this, so gently, as if it had not already broken. But oh—she was still here, and she had not stopped caring for it, ill-deserved as such treatment was, and something shriveled and starving within it was crying out for more.

She leaned back, and lifted her hand, and it thought for a desolate moment that she meant to leave it there alone, but she only reached to the side and picked up the rag again, running it in careful strokes down the vessel’s neck and between its shoulders, warmth seeping through its shell and into the knotted muscles beneath its armor.

The plates on its back were wide and tough, sloping gradually, meant to deflect blows from its neck and absorb the impact of its strikes. It did not think anyone had ever treated them so gently. Its father’s hands had been careful and deliberate when he inscribed the seals that bound it, but he wasted not a single motion, never touching it beyond what was required, and even then his fingertips would burn with soul, with freezing pain that it had had to block out, to shut away lest he sense that it was suffering.

Always, always, it lied.

Hornet’s hands were warm. Hornet’s hands did not burn, not like its father’s, not like the goddess’s rare, unwelcome touch.

And rather than touching it briskly, efficiently, or pressing to its shell like a branding iron as light surged forward to scorch away its darkness, Hornet’s hands… lingered.

Gentle, but not soft. Her palms and fingerpads were callused, and the shell overtop of her hands was nicked and scratched, much like its own.

Why was its attention fixed so firmly on this? On the warmth of the cloth trailing over its shoulder, on the idle touch of her free hand at the base of its neck? Why would she…

It was an ungainly thing, unfeeling and cold, and… why would she want…

Its eyes were so heavy.

The scant relief its sister offered brought the pain in the rest of its body into sharper focus. Every part of it ached, each limb its own dull throb. A memory dawned, a memory of restraints winding taut around its wrists, its ankles, pressure growing slowly as each one pulled in a separate direction, until the skin between its plates began to split, until the sockets of its joints strained and snapped open, until—

It jerked.

Awake, awake. That was not a dream—it did not dream—but a memory slotted out of place, something its exhausted mind had tripped over.

That was then.

The goddess was gone from it. It did not think anyone here was capable of pulling it apart. It was fairly certain it could not be useful any longer, if its limbs were torn from its real body. And its sister must believe there was something she could use it for.

The fear still took a long time to fade.

It must be truly fractured to remember such things now. To experience the pointless memories of its failure so vividly, even when it was as removed from its purpose as it had ever been.

Whatever its sister required of it, she would be disappointed if she expected its former perfection. Or perfection of any sort.

It could not currently feel much of anything about that. Strange.

It breathed, slowly, its focus drifting back to the present. The warmth. The water. The slow movement of its sister’s hand, up and down its back.

The stranger was still in the kitchen, but he had quieted now, into a general impression of shuffling motion, hushed and indistinct. Perhaps still looking for tea.

It had never seen its sister drink tea. She didn’t consume much of anything besides meat. Maybe the tea was for—

It jerked.

Awake, again.

Frustration wormed into its heart. She had asked it to sleep.

In a way, it did not have much choice. The roiling swirl of emotion beneath its shell did not seem to matter; it was falling asleep regardless, except that nerves, paranoia, something, kept yanking it back into awareness.

Hornet rubbed circles on its back. Water trickled down its shell and slipped into a gap between the plates, tickling its skin. Its breathing was a little slower now, at least, its chest not so tight nor so heavy.

It tried to relax, letting its head slump against the mattress, letting its fingers uncurl…

It was trying to do as she wanted.

It was trying.

It… it was…

○

They were finally asleep, but Hornet didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare stop moving.

She kept rubbing Hollow’s back, caressing in wide, unhurried circles, the rag no longer wet, the plates already clean. This was one of the few places their armor was untouched by the splits and cracks that marred the rest of them, this span of inches below the back of their neck, above the fractured exit wounds between their shoulders.

It was one of the few places she could be relatively sure she was not hurting them.

The spellwork on their back shivered in and out of sight as she brushed across it, calling to mind the seal on the temple door that bound the other vessel away. The seal on Hollow’s mask that tied them to life, to their suffering.

Confident as she had been at first that she could unravel that, she was not so sure now. The magics written across their mask and shell surely tied into each other, winding threads in and out until the multitude of seals and spells were bound tight together. Far more complicated—and far more difficult to undo. She could unwind simple spells, given sufficient time and concentration, but nothing about this was as simple as she had first thought. The temple door was, likewise, beyond her current skills.

Undoing either one—the seal on the temple or the seals on her sibling’s body—would have consequences she could not fully know until they were upon her. And unless she was given reason to contemplate it once more, she would not so much as touch the spellwork here. It might spell an end to their existence, a mercy killing long delayed, and she would not do such a thing, not while she had hope of not needing it.

To think that she had once considered this so carelessly. When she stood there staring down at her sibling as they lay dying at her feet, she had been mere moments from a decision that would kill them.

As she had killed so many others.

No more. She would not be forced or tricked or persuaded into such a thing again. Not while her mind was her own. Not while she drew breath to protest.

She let one finger slip from the rag to trace the silver runes. Fragmented by their wounds, entire glyphs obliterated by the cracks in their chitin, they shone nonetheless, the points and lines like twisting sparks and writhing smoke, a strange, cold fire burning against the darkness.

Did she still envy them for the time spent in the wyrm’s presence, as the sole focus of his attention? Had they been aware enough to want it, yearning perhaps as much as she did for his regard?

Or perhaps they hated him too, for the way he had used them. Perhaps they had rebelled against what he created them to be, an impossible thing, a walking tomb, a living sacrifice with no way to protest their own treatment. Silent, conscious, compliant, trapped, watching their own body transform to suit the needs of another.

Oh, gods… to think that they had been able to feel everything that was done to them, every moment of it, every new crack and blister, every twist of the knife…

It was a wonder and a horror both that they were still alive.

She watched for any hint that they might twitch awake again, any movement of their eyelids or jerk of their head. Waiting it out, watching them fight their own exhaustion, had been heartwrenching, though seeing the tension unwind from their limbs as soon as they finally surrendered was its own kind of torture.

They did not move. Except to breathe, shallow and scraping, still catching occasionally, as if at another terror she was not meant to witness.

Hornet shut her own eyes, and swayed a little, her hand falling briefly still on their back.

No. No, she couldn’t sleep now, she had things to do.

She hadn’t expected their first meeting with Quirrel to go well, exactly, and it surely could have gone much worse. But of course he had to arrive just when they were beginning to relax, just when they had started to show her what they wanted. Seeing how they froze, how they locked every limb tight in an effort not to flinch or quiver, brought to mind how unreadable they had been when she first found them, and cast their behavior toward her now into stark relief.

Despite everything, despite her being the worst person they could have chosen for this, they were beginning to trust her.

Enough to go alarmingly limp under her hands, as if her touch drained something vital out of them. Enough to fall asleep when she asked, even with a stranger in the house.

Her gaze twitched toward the kitchen. The small, intermittent sounds Quirrel was making half reassured her and half set her on edge. It was not as if she could forget that there was someone else here, when his scent lingered in the room even after he had left it. Faint, restrained, in a way, but noticeable. It had something in common with the cool, damp stone of the deepest caves, and with the resinous sap that ran from tackblood vines when she scored them with needle or claw.

It was not until now, when every one of her hunter’s senses were alert to another’s presence in her house, that she realized something she had been missing.

Spiders did not rely upon scent-speak as strongly as some other peoples of Hallownest. As little as she knew about her father’s species, in both godly form and mortal, she could not rule out that he might’ve had heightened capacity for smell, though if he had, it had not passed to her. She had been taught to use scent to hunt, to detect and track another’s and to cover her own, when necessary. But once she left Deepnest, all the other ways her people marked the world—in ritual, in courtship, in battle—had been meaningless.

She had been totally alone in the Palace. She could smell it in the air.

Every morning when she woke, with the first breaths that she took, she missed them. She had not known it then, but she would always be missing them, for the rest of her long, long life.

Perhaps she could be forgiven for not noting this sooner, with everything that had happened. Perhaps she had grown too used to being alone, to waking every morning with no presence in the room but her own.

Hollow had no scent.

None at all.

As far as she could recall, they never had. She had never had much cause to perceive it, for the times she had been near them had been scarce, and any time alone with them even scarcer.

But now that she had noticed, she knew that it was not only them. Every one of her voided siblings was the same. That would explain why she had often been surprised by their sudden appearance, and why the last one left alive—the one now sealed in the temple—had been so difficult to shake as she traveled through the thick tangle of Greenpath.

Was this some property of the void, an incidental effect of their conception, or intentional? Was this just one more way her father had stolen their voice, ensuring that they could not communicate even so much as their presence in a room?

She had gone so long merely accepting that vessels were lesser. How much had this reinforced that assumption, this stark lack of something all other living bugs carried?

The reek of infection on their body could reasonably have covered any natural scent they had when she first saved them. But now even that was nearly gone, and they were blank to her—she might as well have been alone in the room.

Even the string of dead tiktiks, currently draped over the mantlepiece, dripping rainwater, smelled like something that had once been alive.

Hunger and nausea twined together in her stomach, two fibers of the same cord. She hadn’t eaten anything fresh in days, since her last trip into the city, since before Hollow spoke to her.

That day was burned into her mind, she realized. As stark as a scorch mark upon cloth, dividing before and after. The day she had stopped believing her father’s lies. The day she had accepted that her sibling was alive.

It was the prospect of food that finally made her come awake, shaking off the drowsiness that had drifted down over her while she watched her sibling sleep. It likely wouldn’t be polite to devour Quirrel’s entire catch in one sitting, but she could have, in a heartbeat.

Laying the rag across the rim of the basin to dry, she rose slowly, wincing as her knees creaked, displacing the mattress as little as possible as she stepped off of it. Hollow didn’t so much as twitch. Once they managed to fall asleep, they seemed to sleep heavily. Well-deserved, after everything they’d been through.

She wasn’t exactly comfortable with the fact that she’d guessed they might fall asleep if she was touching them, and leveraged that to her advantage. Really, it was to their advantage, too; they needed to rest, and they had been too nervous to do it, and she hadn’t wanted to tell Quirrel the full tale while they were awake and listening. Even the abbreviated version had seemed to upset them, though she had no idea why.

Still, she had tried to set a boundary—only touching them when asked—and then immediately crossed it, as soon as it was convenient.

It was ever more evident that she had no idea what she was doing.

She snagged the blanket with one claw and pulled it up to Hollow’s waist. It was instinct, more than anything else, as she had no reason to do so besides sentiment. As an intentional gesture, perhaps it would reassure them somehow, like her mother had once strung fresh silk over her nest every night, surrounding her daughter in the kind of softness Deepnest so often withheld.

Hollow deserved softness as much as she had. More, given that their life had been even more barren of it than hers.

She shook herself. How long had she been standing here, staring down at them? The tiktiks weren’t getting any fresher, and Quirrel—

Quirrel was still waiting in the kitchen, likely bewildered, in the dark about everything. That observation was rapidly becoming literal; the windows had already dimmed to grey.

Hornet stepped over to the fireplace and retrieved Quirrel’s catch from the mantle, carefully not releasing the venom that surged to the tips of her fangs. Hours-old prey was infinitely more appetizing than what she’d been eating lately, and she almost could have kissed him for bringing it. Only that would be awkward, and most likely frightening.

Much as she wanted to devour them then and there, she would at least wait until she offered him a portion of his own catch. He might not recognize hunter’s etiquette, but her own impoliteness would nettle her.

Upon a little more thought, she also gathered up the papers she’d been using to transcribe the signs—quietly, eyeing her sibling all the while.

Then she took a deep breath, bracing for battle, and went to speak with Quirrel.

○

Taglist: @2amtime @moss-tombstone @slimeel Send an ask or reply to this post to be added to (or removed from) the taglist!

[noisydreamlandkoala]

The Queens Court

CHAPTER THREE:ASSEMBLE

YOUROFFICIALREPIRTER@BLONDIE

When the queen needs help, the king arrives without a need to be called.

#hedoesnotmindtobecontrolledsolongasitsbyher

Hot. That was the first thing that went through Marinette's mind when she saw the blonde. It had been three years since they once seen each other and the change was way too dramatic. He and gained a few inches and lot of muscles. His looks were out of this world.

Her eyes widened as feeling she thought she had left behind a long time ago began to resurface. Her heart began to beat frantically as the men in front of her continued speaking to her with that infuriating smirk on his face.

"What cat got your tongue," he asked getting up from the chaise and heading towards her. His movements looked almost seductive in the bluenette's eyes. He stood in front of her leaning over to whisper in her ear. "Cause I'm sure I haven't possessed it yet"

"Uhh," she said dumbly as her brain began to short circuit. She yelped as he swiftly pulled her fully onto the room shutting the trap.

"Now tell me my dear," he says slowly backing her onto the wall slamming his right hand next to her head while cradling her face with the other. "What exactly did I do that warrants being cut off for 3 years."

He brings his face to her neck inhaling her seance. "Not only that but I return to find you've found another man"

His hot breath set tingles across her skin. Marinette had turned beat red. She had utterly been rendered speechless, she thought she had a few more hours before she had to face Felix once again.

"Someone's been a very bad girl," he whispers drawing himself back from her neck and staring at her. "You trying to break my heart love"

"Break your heart?" she questions. As far as she knows they had never romantically been together.

"Yes love, a few months after our separation I come back to see you and find you confessing your love to my cousin of all people," he hisses.

"It was a a part of the act," I defend offended that he would think I'd ever fall in love with that spineless coward.

"Good, he did not seem like your type anyway," he said green eyes shining as he pressed a kiss on my nose. "Now tell me is falling in love with another man all apart of the act well?"

She had no answer for this question though it seemed as though her silence was confirmation enough for her. He sighed heart break clear in his eyes.

"Don't look at me like that," she said tears forming in the corner of her eyes. "Don't look at me as if you did not try to kiss Ladybug"

"Marinette sweetie you are Ladybug," he says causing her to look at him in shock. Felix registered her shocked features eyes widening. "Wait you thought I did not know?"

He hocked his finger on her chin forcing her to look at him. "Is that why you cut me off? Is that what pushed you to him?" he asked searching desperately for answers. "You you thought I would would betray my feelings for you"

Once again her, silence gave him all the answers he needed. "Marie I've loved you for as long as I knew what the word means, they never has and they never will be any other girl for me"

"I-i-i," she stuttered causing the boy to pull her closer to his chest as she began to sob.

"Shhh baby it's okay," he said as he hugged her.

What hurt more than knowing she had fallen for another men was hearing that he had caused her pain. He wiped the tears of her cheek. Pinning her to the wall once again as she began to calm down.

"Maybe we can still fix this," he said as he began to pamper her neck with little butterfly kisses. "Maybe I could make you forget all about this other man.

"How?" she whispered meeting his intense gaze with her own.

"By having you scream my name instead," he whispered breath tickling her lips as they were half centimeter apart. Bang.

The trap door opened causing both of them to jump. Felix groaned as he withdrew himself from hee, fixing the intruder with a glare fir interrupting their moment.

Chloe walked into the room unfazed by what she was walking into and the glare that was thrown her way.

"Good you're here," she said unbordered by the blonde's anger.

"I was just about to continue catching up with my queen before you disturbed," he bristled causing her to snort.

"Not so sure she's yours anymore, should have seen her throw aside another girl like a raf doll for touching what hers," Chloe said causing the boy to growl. "Our queen is quite possessive"

The blonde growled at the comment.

"Don't worry Chloe that won't last long, afterall I don't plan on letting the Queen go," he says running his hand down Marinette's cheek before pushing away, knowing very well whatever moment they were having had been disturbed.

"Well now that's done," Chloe says to their general direction. "Let's get down to business."

"Right," Marinette says straightening up as she heads towards the blue eyed blonde. "Has everyone been contacted, I need an immediate status update."

"Well Aurora and her new partner Mireille have been updated on what's going on, the school shall be warned of the incoming storm tonight," Chloe states earning a nod from the other two. "Marc has been informed and is going to be here with the red head betrayer after classes end, traitors have officially been kicked out of the court, though I feel as though this has decreased our size dramatically. Lastly I feel as though you've already contacted your family"

"Yes Chloe I've contacted my family, don't worry much about our size I've got that covered," she said with a small smirk.

"Now love you know very well what that look does to me," Felix said snaking his arms around her waist, pulling her towards him.

Marinette huffed nudging the blonde with a quick behave aimed his way.

YOUROFFICIALREPIRTER@BLONDIE

I have what most would call the scoop of a life time. The court is back and they're after someone's head. Prepare yourself Dupont.

#itsabouttogodown

[mariacallous]

The second anniversary of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, on February 24th, and the continuing menace Vladimir Putin, Russia’s president, presents to Europe, were always going to overshadow this year’s Munich Security Conference. But as the annual gathering of bigwigs got under way, a series of additional blows fell. First came the death of Alexei Navalny, Russia’s foremost opposition leader, in a Siberian gulag on February 16th. The next day Ukraine’s army withdrew from the town of Avdiivka, handing Mr Putin his first military victory in almost a year. America’s Congress, meanwhile, showed no sign of passing a bill to dispense more military aid to Ukraine, which is starved of ammunition and therefore likely to suffer more setbacks on the battlefield. The auguries could scarcely have been more awful.

The deadlock in Congress reflects the baleful influence of Donald Trump, whose opposition to aid for Ukraine has cowed Republican lawmakers. It was the spectre of Mr Trump’s potential return to office in November’s presidential election that cast the darkest pall over Munich. A week earlier Mr Trump had explained what he would say to an ally in nato that had not spent as much as the alliance urges on defence and then suffered an invasion: “You’re delinquent? No, I would not protect you. In fact, I would encourage them [the invaders] to do whatever the hell they want.”

Combined harms

Russia’s ever-deepening belligerence, Ukraine’s deteriorating position and Mr Trump’s possible return to the White House have brought Europe to its most dangerous juncture in decades. The question is not just whether America will abandon Ukraine, but whether it might abandon Europe. For Europe to fill the space left by America’s absence would require much more than increased defence spending. It would have to revitalise its arms industry, design a new nuclear umbrella and come up with a new command structure.

In Munich the mood was fearful, but determined rather than panicked. American and European officials remain hopeful that more American munitions will eventually get to Ukraine, but they are also making contingencies. On February 17th Petr Pavel, the Czech president, said his country had “found” 800,000 shells that could be shipped within weeks. In an interview with The Economist Boris Pistorius, Germany’s defence minister, insisted that European arms production was increasing “as fast as possible” and said he was “very optimistic” that Europe could plug any gaps left by America.

Not everyone is so sanguine. If American aid were to evaporate entirely, Ukraine would probably lose, an American official tells The Economist. Mr Pistorius is correct that European arms production is rising fast; the continent should be able to produce shells at an annual rate of 1m-2m late this year, potentially outstripping America. But that may come too late for Ukraine, which needs some 1.5m per year according to Rheinmetall, a European arms manufacturer. A sense of wartime urgency is still lacking. European shell-makers export 40% of their production to non-EU countries other than Ukraine; when the European Commission proposed that Ukraine should be prioritised by law, member states refused. The continent’s arms firms complain that their order books remain too thin to warrant big investments in production lines.

A Ukrainian defeat would inflict a psychological blow on the West while emboldening Mr Putin. That does not mean he could take advantage right away. “There is no immediate threat to NATO,” says Admiral Rob Bauer, the head of NATO’s international military committee. Allies disagree over how long Russia would need to rebuild its forces to a pre-war standard, he says, and the timing depends in part on Western sanctions, but three to seven years is the range “a lot of people talk about”. The direction of travel is clear. “We can expect that within the next decade, NATO will face a Soviet-style mass army,” warned Estonia’s annual intelligence report, published on February 13th. The threat is not just a Russian invasion, but attacks and provocations which might test the limits of Article 5, NATO’s mutual-defence clause. “It cannot be ruled out that within a three- to five-year period, Russia will test Article 5 and NATO’s solidarity,” Denmark’s defence minister recently warned. But the concern is less the timing than the prospect of confronting Russia alone.

Change of station

Europe has thought about such a moment for years. In 2019 Emmanuel Macron, France’s president, told this newspaper that allies needed to “reassess the reality of what NATO is in the light of the commitment of the United States”. Mr Trump’s first term in office, in which he flirted with withdrawing from NATO and publicly sided with Mr Putin over his own intelligence agencies, served as a catalyst. The idea of European “strategic autonomy”, once pushed only by France, was embraced by other countries. Defence spending, which began rising after Russia’s first invasion of Ukraine in 2014, has increased dramatically. That year just three members of NATO met the alliance’s target of spending 2% of GDP on defence. Last year 11 countries did, ten of them in Europe (see chart 1). This year at least 18 of NATO’s 28 European members will hit the target. Europe’s total defence spending will reach around $380bn—about the same as Russia’s, after adjusting for Europe’s higher prices.

Those numbers flatter Europe, however. Its defence spending yields disproportionately little combat power, and its armed forces are less than the sum of their parts. The continent is years away from being able to defend itself from attack by a reconstituted Russian force. At last year’s summit, NATO leaders approved their first comprehensive national defence plans since the cold war. NATO officials say those plans require Europe to increase its existing (and unmet) targets for military capability by about a third. That, in turn, means Europe would have to spend around 50% more on defence than today, or about 3% of GDP. The only European members of NATO that currently reach that level are Poland and Greece, the latter flattered by bloated military pensions.

Anyway, more money is not enough. Almost all European armies are struggling to meet their recruitment targets, as is America’s. Moreover the rise in spending after 2014 delivered alarmingly little growth in combat capability. A recent paper by the International Institute of Strategic Studies (IISS), a think-tank in London, found that the number of combat battalions had barely increased since 2015 (France and Germany each added just one) or had even fallen, in Britain by five battalions. At a conference last year, an American general lamented that most European countries could field just one full-strength brigade (a formation of a few thousand troops), if that. Germany’s bold decision to deploy a full brigade to Lithuania, for instance, is likely to stretch its army severely.

Even when Europe can produce combat forces, they often lack the things needed to fight effectively for long periods: command-and-control capabilities, such as staff officers trained to run large headquarters; intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance, such as drones and satellites; logistics capabilities, including airlift; and ammunition to last for longer than a week or so. “The things that European militaries can do, they can do really well,” says Michael Kofman, a military expert, “but they typically can’t do a lot of them, they can’t do them for very long and they’re configured for the initial period of a war that the United States would lead.”

Poland is an instructive case. It is the poster boy for European rearmament. It will spend 4% of its GDP on defence this year, and splurges more than half of that money on equipment, far above NATO’s target of 20%. It is buying huge numbers of tanks, helicopters, howitzers and HIMARS rocket artillery—on the face of it, just what Europe needs. But under the previous government, says Konrad Muzyka, a defence analyst, it did so with little coherent planning and utter neglect of how to crew and sustain the equipment, with personnel numbers falling. Poland’s HIMARS launchers can hit targets 300km away, but its intelligence platforms cannot see that far. It relies on America for that.

One option would be for Europeans to pool their resources. For the past 16 years, for instance, a group of 12 European countries have jointly bought and operated a fleet of three long-range cargo aircraft—essentially a timeshare programme for airlift. In January Germany, the Netherlands, Romania and Spain teamed up to order 1,000 of the missiles used in the Patriot air-defence system, diving down the cost through bulk. The same approach could be taken in other areas, such as reconnaissance satellites.

The hitch is that countries with big defence industries—France, Germany, Italy and Spain—often fail to agree on how contracts should be split among their national arms-makers. There is also a trade-off between plugging holes quickly and building up the continent’s own defence industry. France is irked by a recent German-led scheme, the European Sky Shield Initiative, in which 21 European countries jointly buy air-defence systems, in part because it involves buying American and Israeli launchers alongside German ones. When Olaf Scholz, Germany’s chancellor, recently called for Europe to adopt a “war economy”, Benjamin Haddad, a French lawmaker in Emmanuel Macron’s Renaissance party, retorted, “It’s not by buying American equipment that we’re going to get there.” European arms-makers, he argued, will not hire workers and build production lines if they do not get orders.

These twin challenges—building up military capability and revitalising arms production—are formidable. Europe’s defence industry is less fragmented than many assume, says Jan Joel Andersson of the EU Institute for Security Studies in a recent paper: the continent makes fewer types of fighter jets and airborne radar planes than America, for instance. But there are inefficiencies. Countries often have different design priorities. France wants carrier-capable jets and lighter armoured vehicles; Germany prefers longer-range aircraft and heavier tanks. Europe-wide co-operation on tanks has consistently failed, writes Mr Andersson, and an ongoing Franco-German effort is in doubt.

The scale of the required changes raises broader economic, social and political questions. Germany’s military renaissance will be unaffordable without cutting other government spending or junking the country’s “debt brake”, which would require a constitutional amendment. Mr Pistorius says he is convinced that German society backs higher defence expenditure, but acknowledges, “We have to convince people that this might have an impact on other spending.” Thierry Breton, the EU commissioner in charge of defence, has proposed a €100bn ($108bn) defence fund to boost arms production. Kaja Kallas, Estonia’s prime minister, backed by Mr Macron and other leaders, has proposed that the EU fund such defence spending with joint borrowing, as it did the recovery fund it established during the covid-19 pandemic—a controversial idea among the thriftiest member-states.

Perhaps the hardest capability for Europe to replace is the one everyone hopes will never be needed. America is committed to using its nuclear weapons to defend European allies. That includes both its “strategic” nuclear forces, those in submarines, silos and bombers, and the smaller, shorter-range “non-strategic” B61 gravity bombs stored in bases across Europe, which can be dropped by several European air forces. Those weapons have served as the ultimate guarantee against Russian invasion. Yet an American president who declined to risk American troops to defend a European ally would hardly be likely to risk American cities in a nuclear exchange.

During Mr Trump’s first spell in office, that fear revived an old debate over how Europe might compensate for the loss of the American umbrella. Britain and France both possess nuclear weapons. But they have only 500 warheads between them, compared with America’s 5,000 and Russia’s nearly 6,000 (see chart 2 ). For advocates of “minimum” deterrence, that makes little difference: they think a few hundred warheads, more than enough to wipe out Moscow and other cities, will dissuade Mr Putin from any reckless adventure. Analysts of a more macabre bent think such lopsided megatonnage, and the disproportionate damage which Britain and France would suffer, give Mr Putin an advantage.

Nuclear posturing

This is not just a numerical problem. British nuclear weapons are assigned to NATO, whose Nuclear Planning Group (NPG) shapes policy on how nuclear weapons should be used. The deterrent is operationally independent: Britain can launch as it pleases. But it depends on America for the design of future warheads and draws from a common pool of missiles, which is kept on the other side of the Atlantic. If America were to sever all co-operation, British nuclear forces “would probably have a life expectancy measured in months rather than years”, according to an assessment published ten years ago. In contrast, France’s deterrent is entirely home-grown and more aloof from NATO: uniquely among NATO’s members, France does not participate in the NPG, though it has long said that its arsenal, “by its existence”, contributes to the alliance’s security.

Within NATO, nuclear issues were long on the “back burner”, says Admiral Bauer. That has changed in the past two years, with more and wider discussions on nuclear planning and deterrence. But NATO’s plans hinge on American forces; they do not say what should happen if America leaves. The question of how Britain and France might fill that gap is now percolating. On February 13th Christian Lindner, Germany’s finance minister and head of the pro-business Free Democratic Party, called in the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, a German newspaper, for a “rethink” of European nuclear arrangements. “Under what political and financial conditions would Paris and London be prepared to maintain or expand their own strategic capabilities for collective security?” he asked. “And vice versa, what contribution are we willing to make?”

Such musings have a long history. In the 1960s America and Europe pondered a “multilateral” nuclear force under joint control. Today, the idea that Britain or France would “share” the decision to use nuclear weapons is a non-starter, writes Bruno Tertrais, a French expert involved in the debate for decades, in a recent paper. Nor is France likely to join the NPG or assign its air-launched nuclear forces to NATO, he says. One option would be for the two countries to affirm more forcefully that their deterrents would, or at least could, protect allies. In 2020 Mr Macron stated that France’s “vital interests”—the issues over which it would contemplate nuclear use—“now have a European dimension” and offered a “strategic dialogue” with allies on this topic, a position he reiterated last year.

The question is how this would be made credible. In deterrence, the crucial issue is how to make adversaries (and allies) believe that a commitment is real, rather than a cheap diplomatic gesture that would be abandoned when the stakes become apocalyptic. Mr Tertrais proposes a range of options. At the tame end, France could simply promise to consult on nuclear use with its partners, time permitting. More radically, if the American umbrella had gone entirely, France could invite European partners to participate in nuclear operations, such as providing escort aircraft for bombers, joining a task force with the eventual successor to the Charles de Gaulle aircraft-carrier, which can host nukes, or even basing a few missiles in Germany. Such options might ultimately require “a common nuclear planning mechanism”, he says.

Mr Lindner’s talk of a European deterrent was largely dismissed by German officials who spoke to The Economist in Munich. But the nuclear question, involving as it does the deepest questions of sovereignty, identity and national survival, points to the vacuum that would be left if America abandons Europe. “There will be a European nuclear doctrine, a European deterrent, only when there are vital European interests, considered as such by the Europeans, and understood as such by others,” pronounced François Mitterrand, France’s president, in 1994. “We are far away from there.” Today Europe is closer, but not close enough. The same doubt that drove France to develop its own nuclear forces in the 1950s—would an American president sacrifice New York for Paris?—is replicated within Europe: would Mr Macron risk Toulouse for Tallinn?

The seemingly dry question of military command and control brings such issues to the fore. NATO is a political and diplomatic body. It is also a formidable bureaucracy that spends €3.3bn annually and operates a complex network of headquarters: a Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe (SHAPE) in Belgium, three big joint commands in America, the Netherlands and Italy, and a series of smaller ones below. These are the brains that would run any war with Russia. If Mr Trump withdrew from NATO overnight, Europeans would have to decide how to replace them.

An “EU-only” option would not work, says Daniel Fiott of the Elcano Royal Institute, a Spanish think-tank. In part that is because the EU’s own military headquarters is still small, inexperienced and incapable of overseeing high-intensity war. In part it is because this would exclude Britain, Europe’s largest defence spender, as well as other non-EU NATO members such as Canada, Norway and Turkey. An alternative would be for Europeans to inherit the rump NATO structures and keep the alliance alive without America. Whatever institution was chosen, it would have to be filled with skilled officers. Officials at SHAPE acknowledge that much of the serious planning falls on just a few countries. Among Europeans, says Olivier Schmitt, a professor at the Centre for War Studies in Denmark, only “the French, the Brits and maybe the Germans on a good day can send officers able to plan operations at the division and corps level”, precisely those needed in the event of a serious Russian attack.

The question of command is also intrinsically political. Mr Fiott doubts that EU member states could agree on a figure equivalent to the Supreme Allied Commander Europe, the alliance’s top general and, by custom, always an American. That epitomises how American dominance in Europe has suppressed intra-European disputes for decades, as captured in the cold-war quip that NATO’s purpose was to keep “the Americans in, the Russians out and the Germans down”. Sophia Besch of the Carnegie Endowment observes caustically that Europeans still defer to America on the biggest questions of European security: “My impression is that Americans often think more strategically about EU membership for Ukraine than many Europeans.” She sees little hope that Europe will bring bold new ideas to this year’s NATO summit in Washington in July, which will mark the alliance’s 75th anniversary.

It is certainly possible that the shock to European security will be less dramatic than feared. Perhaps America will pass an aid package. Perhaps Europe will scrape together enough shells to keep Ukraine solvent. Perhaps, even if Mr Trump wins, he will keep America in NATO, claiming credit for the fact that a majority of its members—and all of those along the eastern front, and thus most in need of protection—are no longer “delinquent”. Some European officials even muse that Mr Trump, who is fond of nuclear weapons, might take drastic steps such as meeting Poland’s demand to be included in nuclear-sharing arrangements. For the moment, there are still intense debates over how far Europe should hedge against American abandonment. Jens Stoltenberg, the secretary-general of NATO, has repeatedly warned that the idea is futile. “The European Union cannot defend Europe,” he said on February 14th. “Eighty per cent of NATO’s defence expenditures come from non-EU NATO allies.”

Forward-operating haste

Advocates of European self-sufficiency retort that building up a “European pillar” within NATO serves a triple purpose. It strengthens NATO as long as America remains, shows that Europe is committed to share the burden of collective defence and, if necessary, lays the groundwork in case of a future rupture. Higher defence spending, more arms production and more combat-capable forces will be necessary even if America remains in the alliance and under current war plans. Moreover, even the most Europhile of presidents could be forced to divert forces away from Europe if, for instance, America were to be pulled into a big war in Asia.

The difficult questions around command and control, and its implications for political leadership, are probably here to stay. In the worst case of a complete American exit from NATO, a “messy” solution would be needed, says Mr Fiott, perhaps one that would bring Europe’s overlapping institutions into greater alignment. He suggests some radical options, such as giving the EU a seat on the North Atlantic Council, NATO’s main decision-making body, or even a fusion of the posts of NATO secretary-general and president of the European Commission. Such notions still seem otherworldly. But less so with every passing week.