#and has a dim view of human politics in any case

[paragonrobits]

Inquisitor: Good news time, bad news time! But it's only bad news from a certain perspective.

Iron Bull: Right, let's hear it.

Inquisitor: The good news is, it will be a LOT easier to enact all the reforms that I had in mind. Tearing down the Chantry and building something better in its place, removing the alienages, restoring the Dales to the Dalish clans, and completely removing the Circle forever.

Varrick: Sounds great! So.... what's the bad news, eh?

Inquisitor: I made this possible by creating a giant rift that sucked up Val Royeaux, permanently destroying all Chantry leadership and creating a massive power vacuum that we fortunately can fill and establish a new system of our choosing.

Inquisitor: Like I said though; it's only bad from a specific point of view. The point of view of people who liked keeping mages locked up for Templars to abuse and elves barred from their homelands, generally. And I really don't give a damn what they think anyway.

Varrick: ...Huh. Hang on, I gotta contact someone. Anders owes me money now.

[sylverstorms]

Cassandra x Maiden----Anonymity Ch.3

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Your quiet days in castle Dimitrescu met their end the moment Cassandra took an interest in you.

You should have known. Perhaps you did know and just didn’t want to admit it.

The woman –vampire, mutant, what even are they— is a bipolar sadist.

One night she may be walking down the halls sending you a sexy wink under her hood as she passes you by, the next she could show up out of nowhere and cut you ‘hello’ with her sickle, scoop up the blood with her thumb to taste, then disappear again. The evening after that, she may not even give a damn about you, may not spare you a single fleeting glance, like even the notion you could be worth her time is laughable.

And it is, isn’t it.

Humans are nothing to them. Your significance is below that of a pet. You may as well be livestock. It doesn’t matter, though, so long as you continue to breathe and remain intact. They’re the two essential factors to escaping. All else is secondary.

It doesn’t matter how Cassandra views you.

You don’t even like her.

What is there to even be drawn to? She’s covered in blood more often than not. The scent of iron usually drowns out her perfume. She’s capricious and cruel and the living personification of an unsheathed knife. You prefer your routes safer. Playful, creative pretty girls that are good for you and most importantly, sane.

Whatever weird tricks your brain and hormones are playing where she stars –you hate it, what is wrong with you— they’re just delusions, you reason, born from her questionable flirting and your time in captivity. It’s just a really bothersome case of Stockholm Syndrome you’re developing. And it has to stop.

Another week passes. You don’t see her.

You are on another night shift when you hear the telltale buzzing of insects down the corridor. Hervoice reaches your ear afterwards;

“Ugh, Bela, you never complain about anything. It’s so annoying.” Two pairs of heels steadily tap towards you.

“I leave it to you and Dani to cover for me, since you complain about everything.” The quieter sister drawls. You can easily picture her roll her eyes as she says it.

“You know, you really should sound more thankful I came with you in this unearthly cold.”

“I gave you the option not to—”

“Just to have you rummage through that bookshop for what was definitely the most boring twenty minutes of my life.” Cassandra continues.

From the fleeting glance you steal at them, the entirety of her attention is on Bela. You don’t think she’ll notice you as you continue polishing the corridor’s decorations. It’s just another one of these nights where you don’t exist and you’re deeply glad for it. Not just for yourself, but also the other maids.

“I thought I was going to die of frostbite.” she growls, shaking the elder sister’s arm.

“Technically, you can’t.” Bela shakes hers back.

It would be… cute, if they were any normal family. But you are quick to remind yourself of what they really are. Devils in human form. Monsters that took you from your home and trapped you here, to clean after their mess, with the threat of death looming over your head every second.

Their steps pass you by. You can almost breathe normally again, when—

Cassandra stops.

“Not even going to tell me hello?” The hurt in her voice can’t be genuine, you tell yourself as you turn around to face her. She’s closer than you thought, enough for you to be able to make out the tiny melting snowflakes caught in her long lashes.

“Um—hello.” you say, awkwardly.

“Cassandra.” Bela lets out a soft sigh.

“Bye, Bela.” The brunette pointedly speaks over her shoulder.

And to your horror… “Just keep in mind what mother said about the maids.” the eldest sister leaves you alone with her.

Each further step until the blonde disappears from view fills you with dread. Cassandra has that spark in her eye that you’ve learned to not associate with anything good. She’s completely still until she’s sure the two of you won’t be overheard or interrupted.

Then, she moves.

Her hands all too easily shove you against the wall. It’s more startling than painful, you realize, when your back doesn’t protest much at the collision.

Cassandra maintains eye contact with you as she tugs at the fingers of her gloves. You cannot fathom why it looks that sexy, the way she pulls them off, whether it is intentional or not.

“Plaything.” she says. Another new nickname for you. Not that you ever expected her to care to know your name. “I’m terribly cold.” she doesn’t seem to be lying, though the soft pout that curves her mouth is surely for effect.

It’s a test and your wellbeing depends on it.

Only, you have no idea what you’re supposed to do. Ruling your nerves under control, you decide to start slow. “Shall I light the fireplace in your room, my lady?”

“Maybe I want something more… immediate.” she replies, raising her hand to your neck.

The second her freezing skin touches your flesh, you cannot help but flinch. It feels like a slightly softer block of ice. Cassandra’s eyes creak at the corners. Of course, the sadist is enjoying your torment. Slowly, her fingers move under the collar of your black button-up shirt, which only makes it worse. The cold spreads, a peculiar tingle at your stomach with it.

“Well?” she asks. You get the memo that just sitting back and letting her have her way isn’t going to work, this time. You call upon all the willpower you possess and act.

Carefully, your hands rise to meet her own. You aren’t looking at her in the eyes –you don’t think you could— as your fingers wrap around hers and bring them in front of you, close to your body, warmed from hours of work. Instead, your gaze locks on the golden jewel decorating the chocker at her throat, before falling down, to your point of contact.

It is not the first time you see her hands without gloves on, but it only now hits you just how dainty they look. Her nails, filed round, are dyed a darker shade of crimson, stark against the white of her skin. There isn’t a single blemish or uneven spot you can feel on her palm. It is a princess’ hand you seem to be holding, not a killer’s.

But appearances can be deceiving.

The very corner of Cassandra’s lip curls up, amused or pleased or both. She then reaches forward, at the lowest clasped button of your shirt… and frees it open. You’re sure you aren’t breathing. Two more buttons are released. Her fingers, at least now considerably warmer, splay against your stomach. Something inside you quivers like a flickering candlefire.

You don’t want her touch.

But a traitorous, weak part of you has already decided that it does.

“You work out?” it is merely a whisper between you. She presses a little closer, entirely unashamed to be feeling the contours of your middle up while you’re burning with embarrassment.

“…probably the days of working in the fields.” you say, voice low because it cannot be trusted any higher. She’s doing a little thing with her thumb over your skin that you desperately want to deny turns you on.

Thanks to her you’re now freezing and burning at the same time.

Cassandra just stays like that for a few more seconds.

“Draw me a hot bath.” she eventually orders and extracts herself from you as if she’s not remotely happy with her own decision.

-

-

You don’t really know how she likes her bath and she doesn’t tell you.

All you can do as you test the water on your hand is pray. Your mind isn’t really working right after the touching at the hallway, but your survival instincts are strong still. Strong enough to remind you that Cassandra likes to be treated like royalty above all, so bubbles are your best friend in this. The more, the merrier.

The Dimitrescu daughter does not ask if the bath is ready when she comes in. You aren’t used to her being so silent, so you turn to see if something is wrong –but immediately regret it when the heavy robe clinging to her body drops down. The only glimpse you catch is of the fabric pooling at her feet like a shadow.

Your eyes stay glued on the queen-sized bathtub, even when she approaches. They turn to the side as she enters it.

You want to ask if the water is fine, but you can’t find your voice. You lose even your train of thought when she lets out a small hiss as she sinks in, replaced by a moan once she’s completely settled back, neck tilted and eyes closed in bliss. The polite thing is to let her bathe in peace, so you move to do just that.

Cassandra has other plans.

Her hand shoots out of the tub to wrap around your wrist, inescapable as an iron shackle. Those intense yellowish eyes are on you again and they seem to be glowing under the dim lights.

“No.” she says. “Massage. Now.”

Ah, great. You think. You’ve spoiled her. But if giving Cassandra massages is what is going to keep your hands attached to your body, you won’t complain. It’s just that… you can’t really focus right now. None of your thoughts are right or remotely what they should be. You need time off from her, rather than touching her.

Thankfully, the moans are kept to a minimum and there is no teasing. She is utterly relaxed, only giving the occasional command for higher or lower. It does kind of kill you when at one point she whispers “Right there.” but you are able to move past it.

You leave fresh towels beside her when you’re finally allowed to leave. Back in her bedroom, you light the fireplace in a way that you make sure will last through the day, while she’ll be asleep. The plan is to leave before she returns, but she’s already there by the time you’re finished with the preparations.

And –you’re trapped.

Because, again, she’s changing and you have to look away to preserve your sanity and probably your eyes. “No peeping, now.” she calls over her shoulder. You know better than to dare.

You keep your hands busy arranging bottles and boxes at her vanity until she’s done. Cassandra does that ‘flashing’ thing where she’s on one side of the room one moment and right behind you the next. You only then notice a little insect flying back into her form. It was spying on you.

“You didn’t even look near me, huh.” she says it like ‘congratulations, you passed’, but there’s a bitter undertone of disappointment in her voice.

She’s only feeling down that you didn’t give her an excuse to slice at your face, you think. Then again, does she really need one?

“I wouldn’t, my lady.” you assure. “If I may be excused—”

“Did I say you can go?” she turns you around, none-too-gently, her hands on your biceps tight. You’re effectively pinned against her and the vanity, but you have much bigger problems to worry about, when you take in what she’s wearing.

Cassandra is clad in a flimsy nightrobe that leaves little to the imagination, the fabric nearly see-through. You can see the edges of her lacy underwear underneath it, how nicely it sits against her perfect curves. To make matters even worse, the robe ends at about mid-thigh and your eye catches the expanse of creamy skin on display.

Your brain nearly melts.

“I don’t know what it is about you, plaything, but you’re working up my appetite.” she confesses, pressing into you, pressing you harder into the furniture. You try to think of literally anything else than how well her thigh is slotted between your legs.

If you’re supposed to look away from her lidded eyes, however, you can’t. And if you’re not supposed to feel the echo of her nails on your arm all the way down to your center, you can’t. You are definitely not supposed to be so achingly curious about her bow-shaped lips. But you just can’t.

“You’re working me up.” she breathes, so close you can feel the ghost of her lower lip on yours.

And then –her mouth is on you and you forget how to breathe. Your eyes close and just feel, instead. If this is how you die, maybe it isn’t such a bad way to go. It’s been too long since you kissed anyone, seems like ages ago now, but you gradually remember how to move once you allow your muscles to unlock.

Not looking at her makes it easier. Her lips are balmy and smooth and slide so good on your own you can’t think at all, much less of what she’s capable of. You would have guessed her to be aggressive, but Cassandra is oddly hesitant, the only thing hard about her being her grip.

You’re not sure what you’re doing or how you get so bold, but your hands trail up to her waist and pull her in. The little hitch in her breath threatens to break you. It provides the perfect opening to part her lips with your tongue. As soon as it touches hers, she moans low in her throat and slowly drags her hips against your thigh.

Oh. God.

There’s a hollow ache in your stomach. You’re shamefully wet for her. The voice of reason is mute in your head, until you’re forced to break your liplock to breathe and it only then hits you what you’ve just done.

Cassandra’s lips are insistent on your jawline, on the vulnerable spot under your ear. Her open-mouthed kisses are just hard enough, at first, but then start to border on painful. Your heart skips a beat when you feel the press of teeth, yet she rips herself off of you before she bites down.

“Ugh. I’m… so thirsty.” she says it lightly, but her voice is hoarse and something about her body language gives you the impression she’s hurting. “You should leave. Fast.”

You almost make the mistake of reaching for her. Almost.

Cassandra turns away from the temptation of your veins.

For both your sakes –mostly for yours— you hurry out of her room and never stop to look back.

[ohworm-writes]

#01 - Tape One | series masterlist

⮞ Beta Reader - @jschllatt​ ! thank you so much for proofreading this for me !

⮞ Pairing - Monster!Technoblade x Monster-Hunter!Reader ⮞ Summary - A sleepless night and a hazy mind aren’t the smartest thing to bring along on a solo mission that could end in your demise, but what’s the worst that could happen? ⮞ Rating - Mature (SFW) ⮞ Warnings - cursing , weapons ( hatchet, crossbow, gun ) , slight anxiety ⮞ Word Count - 2.8k ⮞ Taglist - Open! Send an Ask or DM to be added

@ohworm-writes​​​ copyright 2021 | do not repost

Time is a finicky thing. It's a social construct created by humans as a desperate grasp at something they can control. Of course, they can't control the sun or the stars. That would be insane, would it not? Humans were the people who gave time meaning. If not for them, we would only see it as darkness and light, not the hours we've put between them. How was it they made up such an important idea, something key to their everyday lives, that only they as a race use? Humans are the only ones who use time, their actions simply affect everything else. 

Take canines, for example. Their genetics tell them when they are to hunt, to mate, to kill. They don't depend on the hours or the days, that itself is a foolish thing to them. Why would they need to know it? They know that once the sun has set; the hunt is on. With humans around, they have disrupted the balance of it. These once feared predators depend on the hand of a human to feast. They depend on an electronic clock to sate their pangs of hunger. 

Looking at it, how would humans be without time? Would the world crumble? Would everything they had once known to be true turn out to simply be a lie? Mayhaps-but that is the beauty of it all. The beauty of chaos, the beauty of the world closing its curtains in the final act. And when the crowd asks for an encore, who would the world be to deny their wishes?

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock-

The tick of the clock snaps you back to reality like whiplash, your previous thoughts fleeting from your mind in an instant. Your eyes are blurry, everything around you set in a foggy haze. Even aside from daydreaming, everything felt fuzzy. The clock didn’t help with it, the constant noise only setting you on edge more than you already were. 

How long had it been? Hours, maybe? A few minutes? You couldn’t tell, and frankly, you couldn’t care either. Letting out a small sigh, you pinch the skin between your brows, slumping over as you try to ground yourself. You open your eyes after a moment, the blurriness from before subsiding for the most part. Now, you found yourself met with the sight of several manila folders and post-it notes scattered across the mattress you found yourself on. 

Ah, yes- so that’s why you had been up at such an ungodly hour. Your mission. The suicide mission they had assigned you to. Good gods above, how long had you been awake for? Taking in the organized chaos that was your bed currently, it made you grimace. How many files did they have on a single monster? Sure, you wanted to be prepared, but this was absurd. 

However, that apparent thought had never crossed your mind in the previous hours, evidence being the bags forming under your eyes and the overall stiffness of your body. Taking the folder that had found itself on your lap, you flipped it open, reading over the open page. 

“Upon a prior expedition, Piglins seem to be tame around those wearing gold items. Whether it be armor or simple jewelry, they seem to be passive towards those wearing the metal. One scout found themselves near the beasts, but said creatures left him alone upon seeing the gold wedding ring around his finger.”

You squint your eyes, trying to make sense of the next sentence. Was that a Y, or a T? Gods above, you were exhausted. Letting the folder drop back onto your lap, you bring your palms up to your eyes, rubbing harshly to keep a hold of your consciousness. You’d be able to look at the files whilst on the road. Sleep was more important right now if you wanted to survive until the next day.

Knowing the casino’s fellow patrons, they’d probably get a kick out of seeing you leave all drowsy and such. Hell, that wouldn’t come close to how entertaining it would be to them if you didn’t return. With a groan and a sigh, you begin gathering all the files. Paper-clipping a few together here, stapling a few there until the process was complete. Looking at the files stacked together, you really were in over your head. The number of files was making your head dizzy, not counting how sleep-deprived you were in the current moment. 

Placing the folders in a neat stack on the floor beside your bed, you finally let your body relax. Your back falls against the mattress, sinking into it almost instantly. It was nowhere near comfortable on a normal day. The mattress was hard, firm, and wildly uncomfortable, but now? You might as well have been sleeping on a cloud. Before your hazy mind could even process it, you were out like a light, left to your own devices in the world of unconsciousness. 

05:30 in the morning. Who in their right mind decides that the crack of dawn is an appropriate time to wake up? Quackity, apparently, because that’s exactly the person who was pounding relentlessly on your door. The loud and sudden noise is enough to make you jolt upright in your bed. Your foggy mind can’t even process what is happening, much less when he speaks.

“It’s 05:30! Get up! You leave in the next hour, c’mon! You’ll be burning daylight before you know it, so get your ass ‘outta bed!” His shrill voice is enough to get you to peek your eyes open, immediately met with the darkness of the room. With the warm sheets you found yourself in, the comforting dimness of the room, you almost fall back asleep then and there. Almost being our keyword here, because you wouldn’t want to make Quackity mad, now would you?

With a groan, you’re able to kick the sheets off of the bed, successfully leaving you out in the open as the cool air of the room sets across your warm body. It sends a shiver running through you, effectively allowing goosebumps to settle across your skin. The feeling is unpleasant, but that’s the point of it. With minimal effort, you sit yourself up in the bed, immediately regretting your actions. 

Your muscles are tight, making every turn and twist of your body painful. A silent scream rips through your throat as you stretch your arms above your head, only to turn into a satisfied groan as your muscles relax. One would have thought that the richest hotel in the city would at least have comfortable beds, but apparently not. No, instead, you were better off sleeping on the carpet, which you could proudly admit was comfier than your own mattress. 

Looking out the small prison-like window your room provided, the sun hadn’t even risen yet. The sky, a blur of dark blues and purples sprinkled with stars, was your only greeting. You could see the lighter hues begin to peek over the horizon from where you sat. A masterpiece from your window, who would have thought?

Aside from the awe-inducing view, you yourself felt far from it. You had a lot to do in the span of an hour. A short time span, but it was feasible. With hurried motions, you’re able to dress in form-fitting attire; something not too tight, but at the same time not too loose. It was important to wear such clothing in these times. Something too tight could leave you breathless, in this case, vulnerable. If it were to be too loose, it could get caught on something or weigh you down. That shouldn’t have to explain why that would be unfortunate. 

Style aside, you now had to tackle the process that was your files. The ones you had obtained were a copy. They’d never give you the original without a backup in store. That would simply be foolish. Instead, you’d been given a clean copy of said files, all neatly tucked into their respective folders. Of course, that neatness had been your doing alone. 

You made quick use of your time, neatly tucking the folders and files alike into your bag. The bag itself was less of a bag and more of a backpack, however, it served both uses. The fabric was weatherproof, as you liked it. It was strong, not even a tear could be seen over it. It had lasted you all your time here so far. Hopefully, it would survive the rest of the way. 

With your bag fully prepared with your files, clothes, and things of the like, you set out for the armory. Swinging open your door rather roughly, you make your way down the halls, turning here and there and speeding down a flight of steps or two. Checking a clock on the wall as you amble down the halls, you see that you have just under 20 minutes before Quackity is on your ass. Perfect.

With a final descent into the basement of the building, you reach the armory. The place itself is impressive, with one wall lined up entirely with weapons. Guns, crossbows, blades; any weapon of destruction that you wanted was here. The rest of the open room stayed reserved for a shooting range. Was it the smartest option that it was indoors? Maybe not, but would you rather be shooting outside where beasts of unknown origins could hear you? Hell no.

The man running the armory shoots you a look as you enter. Some could interpret it as a glare, but to you, it was nothing short of a hopeful wish for your demise. Unfortunate maybe, but you couldn’t be one to judge. Politely, you offer a wave. Nothing flashy or energetic, simply the bare minimum. 

You don’t look to see if he responds in any way, as you probably wouldn’t be met with anything. Instead, you turn your attention to the wall. They really had any weapon you could need here, didn’t they? Every single one was in pristine condition, that you could see at least. 

You would have never touched a weapon in the old world, that you knew as fact. Why would you if you didn’t have a reason to? Why so much as place a finger upon something that could cause harm, when you could put your efforts into something else? Those thoughts, ones that you used to have, have been long forgotten as of now. 

Taking a moment to admire them, you reach for a sleek, black crossbow. Weighing it in your hands, you press the stock against your shoulder and take a step behind you towards the range. It feels nice in your hands, not too heavy nor light. You take one arrow from the attached quiver, loading it with a quick move of your hand. Turning around, you kneel down and peer through the scope at the hay targets 15 yards away from your current position. 

You hover your finger above the trigger, lining up your sights with the yellow center of the target. At that moment, nothing else matters. Not the man behind the counter, giving you shady looks as he watches you with an unimpressed look. Not that mission, the simple task that weighed your life in its hands like a god. Nothing. The only thing that mattered now was you and the target. 

You steady the crossbow, using your other hand to hold it up. If you missed this, how could you survive in the field? Your eyes arrow in on the small, yellow circle in the center of the target. It wouldn’t be too hard to hit it, considering there was no wind nor monsters chasing you at the moment. You wanted to hit the minuscule black dot in the center. 

With a sharp breath in, you fire. The arrow fires, flying through the arrow and straight towards the target. The man behind the counter raises an eyebrow, watching the arrow as it rips into the target. He lets out an annoyed huff, already heading under the counter to get a full quiver for you. Bullseye.

You smile to yourself softly, the good feeling of accomplishment flowing through you. Letting the weapon rest against your side, you turn back to the wall. With your primary weapon figured out, now you needed a melee and possibly a secondary weapon as well. 

You choose something less flashy for your secondary, simple G17. The pistol isn’t your favorite, but it’d be better to have it than nothing. You had one when you first started out, the damn thing jamming too many times for your liking. Granted, you didn’t have sufficient ammo for the gun, but you’d rather it worked in life-threatening situations than not. 

Now all you needed was a melee weapon. Easier said than done, seeing the sheer amount of different options at your disposal. You didn’t need something flashy, nor did you want it. You let out a quiet laugh as you look over some of the more… unusual options. Good gods, as much as you wanted it, you didn’t need a damn sword with you. 

Looking back to the more tactical options, something catches your eye. A steel hatchet, an awfully beautiful one at that. The dark metal shines against the flickering lights of the armory, the edge of the blade reflecting your own features. You grip the handle, prying it off the wall, and hold it tightly. It was a lot lighter than you’d thought, feeling at home as you curled your fingers around it. 

It was on the smaller side, but that only added to it. Gracefully, you toss it from one hand to the other, feeling the difference between the two. You’d wield it in your dominant hand, but it’s worth the effort to try with both. With a nod to yourself, you grab all three weapons and head to the man behind the counter. 

He’s just as unamused as he looked when you first entered, scrunching up his nose as you place the weaponry on the concrete counter, the items clinking together in the process. He ducks under your line of sight, grumbling to himself. Within a few seconds, he pops back up, all the supplies you’d need in his arms. 

A quiver, hatchet cover, ammo; anything you’d need for however long the mission would be. His tone is bored as he asks for payment, sliding your things across the counter with his hand held out. Reaching into one pocket of your bag, you pull out four poker chips, a mocking smile on either red or blue side. 

His eyes widen as you drop them into his palm, staring at them with confusion. His voice almost hints at that of anger as he speaks up, voice gravelly. “I said two, not four. Are you an idiot?” His eyes are dark when they look into your own. You shrug your shoulders nonchalantly, grabbing your things and clipping them to your bag. “Consider it my thanks, Phineas.”

His mouth is agape as you leave, lifting your hand up as a ‘farewell’ while you head out the door. As your footsteps fall heavy against the floor, you contemplate your prior decision. Chips were the casino’s idea of money. You received chips if you did particularly excellent work on something, which was rare for most. Four chips for your safety didn’t seem like too far of a stretch. One would pay the world for their life, would they not?

Your steps echo down the halls as you make your way towards the main door, anxiety bubbling up. Gods, you were going to die on this mission, weren’t you? A solo mission against one of the most powerful beasts you had ever read about? You might as well have been writing your will then and there. The carpet of the lobby muffles your steps, leaving you to listen with no distraction to your racing mind. 

Was this the last time you would step foot in the casino? You squeeze your eyes tightly, stopping in your tracks right in front of the door, letting out a groan. Fuck, you were overthinking this. Even if you didn’t make it to tomorrow, at least you made it this far, right? With a little pep talk to yourself, you push open one of the glass doors and step out into the darkness that lays outside of the casino. 

“Oi.” 

The voice makes you wince involuntarily. Turning to your left, you see the familiar mop of jet black hair leaning up against one of the casino’s walls. Your hands find themselves at your bag’s straps, pulling them tightly against you as you meet his gaze. 

“Quackity.” Your voice comes out small, not something that you liked. His breath comes out in a puff, the cold temperature of the morning making the sight visible. Like a dragon, you think in the back of your mind. The childish thought is tossed aside as he pushes off of the wall, watching as he rubs his hands together and making his way past you. He stops at your side, not looking over at you. No, he just looks ahead as the sun rises behind you. 

“Come back, won’t you?”

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⮞ Technoblade Route Taglist - @cutiebear45 @kiki-is-the-name @hololizard @sunshinebutnotrainbows @valkyrieidunn @dominickle @err0rnan0 @lacunaanonymoused @ura-writes @jaciahbabes @mega-trash-cringe​ 

⮞ Author’s Note - After long last, another tape! I went through quite the rough patch with this one. It took me a long time to finally find some inspiration, but this is evidence enough that I did somehow. I’m hoping to update next Sunday, possibly earlier, but we’ll have to see what my mind deems fit. 

[introvertguide]

A Clockwork Orange (1971); AFI #70

The current movie under review is a well known but not often watched work from Stanley Kubrick, A Clockwork Orange (1971). It is one of the best known acting performances of Malcolm McDowell and it occurred very early on in his career. It turns out that McDowell plays a very good crazy. The movie was nominated for many of the major awards at the Oscars (Best Picture, Best Director, Best Screenplay, Best Editing) but didn’t win any because it went against The French Connection and Kubrick’s movie was so filled with explicit rape scenes that it was originally rated X. I am not one to judge a director’s vision, but it seems like the movie would have done a lot better without all the weird rape scenes. There is a lot of very beautiful cinematography as well, which makes the juxtaposition to the sex and violence all the more jarring. Let’s go over the plot and I will keep track of the violence:

SPOILER WARNING!!! THIS MOVIE PLOT IS ABOUT TO BE COMPLETELY SPOILED SO DON’T READ AHEAD UNTIL YOU HAVE SEEN IT ON YOUR OWN!!! UNLESS, OF COURSE, YOU WANT TO BE ABLE TO KNOW AND REFERENCE THE MOVIE WITHOUT DEALING WITH ALL THE RAPE. IN THAT CASE, GO AHEAD AND READ AWAY!!!

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In a futuristic Britain, Alex DeLarge (Malcolm McDowell) is the leader of a gang of minions he calls "droogs": Georgie, Dim and Pete. One night, after getting intoxicated on drug-laden "milk-plus", they engage in an evening of "ultra-violence", which includes a fight with a rival gang who are busy raping a girl (weird sexual assault #1 and violence #1). They drive to the country home of writer Frank Alexander and trick his wife into letting them inside. They beat Alexander to the point of crippling him, and Alex rapes Alexander's wife while singing "Singin' in the Rain" (weird sexual assault #2 and violence #2; this scene was cut down in the US to get an R rating). The next day, while truant from school, Alex is approached by his probation officer, PR Deltoid, who is aware of Alex's activities and cautions him. He does it at Alex’s house while on his bed and Alex is just in his underwear and Deltoid socks Alex in the nuts. Alex goes out that day and meets two girls and brings them home to have fast forward sex with them simultaneously (weird sex but not assault).

Alex's droogs express discontent with petty crime and want more equality and high-yield thefts, but Alex asserts his authority by attacking them (violence #3). Later, Alex invades the home of a wealthy "cat-lady" and bludgeons her with a phallic sculpture while his droogs remain outside (violence #4). On hearing sirens, Alex tries to flee but Dim smashes a bottle in his face, stunning Alex and leaving him to be arrested. With Alex in custody, Deltoid gloats that the cat-lady died, making Alex a murderer. He is sentenced to fourteen years in prison. His entry into the prison is shown in painful detail including a strip search for drugs. This includes a guard checking Alex’s butthole for drugs (which was cut down for an R rating in the US).

Two years into the sentence, Alex eagerly takes up an offer to be a test subject for the Minister of the Interior's new Ludovico technique, an experimental aversion therapy for rehabilitating criminals within two weeks. Alex is strapped to a chair, his eyes are clamped open and he is injected with drugs. He is then forced to watch films of sex and violence (weird sexual assault #3 and violence #5), some of which are accompanied by the music of his favorite composer, Ludwig van Beethoven. Alex becomes nauseated by the films and, fearing the technique will make him sick upon hearing Beethoven, begs for an end to the treatment.

Two weeks later, the Minister demonstrates Alex's rehabilitation to a gathering of officials. Alex is unable to fight back against an actor who taunts and attacks him (violence #6) and becomes ill wanting sex with a topless woman (attempted sexual assault?). The prison chaplain complains that Alex has been robbed of his free will; however, the Minister asserts that the Ludovico technique will cut crime and alleviate crowding in prisons.

Alex is released from jail, only to find that the police have sold his possessions as compensation to his victims and his parents have let out his room. Alex encounters an elderly vagrant whom he attacked years earlier, and the vagrant and his friends attack him. Alex is saved by two policemen but is shocked to find they are his former droogs Dim and Georgie. They drive him to the countryside, beat him up, and nearly drown him before abandoning him (violence #7). Alex barely makes it to the doorstep of a nearby home before collapsing.

Alex wakes up to find himself in the home of Mr. Alexander, who is now confined to a wheelchair. Alexander does not recognize Alex from the previous attack but knows of Alex and the Ludovico technique from the newspapers. He sees Alex as a political weapon and prepares to present him to his colleagues. While bathing, Alex breaks into "Singin' in the Rain", causing Alexander to realize that Alex was the person who assaulted his wife and him. With help from his colleagues, Alexander drugs Alex and locks him in an upstairs bedroom. He then plays Beethoven's Ninth Symphony loudly from the floor below. Unable to withstand the sickening pain, Alex attempts suicide by jumping out the window.

Alex wakes up in a hospital with broken bones. While being given a series of psychological tests, he finds that he no longer has aversions to violence and sex. The Minister arrives and apologizes to Alex. He offers to take care of Alex and get him a job in return for his co-operation with his election campaign and public relations counter offensive. As a sign of good will, the Minister brings in a stereo system playing Beethoven's Ninth. Alex then contemplates violence and has vivid thoughts of having sex with a woman in front of an approving crowd (weird sex), and thinks to himself, "I was cured, all right!"

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The book did not have as much of a downbeat ending as the film. There was a final chapter that explained that Alex had actually become cured and wasn’t obsessed with sex and violence. This final chapter was actually added after the book was published for American audiences and Kubrick, who lived in London, was unaware of it and didn’t include this in his movie. Upon being made aware of the new ending, he did not like it and ignored it completely. I think this was probably the right idea because it would have been a lot less memorable if it would have had a nice happy ending.

I find it interesting that the AFI has claimed this movie for America when it is clearly British. The movie is based on a well known British novel from a well known British author who was speaking out against American psychologists who were promoting behaviorism and cognitive behavioral therapy. The movie is set and filmed completely in London, England with an all British cast. The movie is also filled with artwork from famous British artists that were popular in 60s swinging London. The only claim America has is that it was not banned under the relatively new MPAA ratings, it was only heavily restricted with an X rating. England, however, stopped showing the movie because of the backlash from the religious right and the film was not available in the UK from 1973 to 1999. 

I watched the unrated version with commentary by Malcolm McDowell and his insight made for a much more interesting watch. It became apparent that Kubrick did not care much about the safety of his actors. The director had a hard time getting the actresses being raped to exude the fear he wanted since they were impowered British art students and were legitimately having fun. Kubrick did not want fun, he wanted realistic assault and trauma, dragging out these scenes with dozens of takes. Malcolm McDowell was physically injured when his character was assaulted on stage during the Ludovico demonstration. He was also afraid for his safety when he was being drowned by his former droogs. Finally, McDowell’s cornea was scratched when they were wedged open for the conditioning scene and the actor was temporarily blinded for weeks. 

It seems like I am being harsh on this movie and that I don’t like it, but I find it fascinating to the point that I have seen it a dozen times. The use of the false eyelashes on the top and bottom of only one eye gives Alex this look of having two sides. The use of blocking to show the allegiances of characters towards and against each other is directing along the lines of Orson Welles. The use of the music diegetically throughout that causes Alex’s condition is truly creative. McDowell was a great choice for the lead because his face is so expressive. I have not seen a better “happy angry” face with the exception of maybe Jack Nicolson. In so many ways, it truly is a great movie.

One reason for so many viewings is that I have seen this in some of my psychology courses, specifically in cognitive and behavioral classes. The whole Ludovico technique is supposed to malign the work of Watson and Skinner as reducing the reason behind one’s actions down to the environment, removing the idea of free will. When using behavioral therapy, do we just alter the stimulus and response so that a person has no choice but to obey? If so, is that taking away their freedom of choice thus making them less human? If a person simply chooses to be bad, is it their right to do so and they must face those consequences without outside influence forcing them to change? All very good questions that are brought up by this movie. 

So does this film belong on the AFI top 100? I am going to say no. It is a British film in every way except for the director, so much so that this movie is ranked by the BFI. It was rejected in the UK for a long period of time while it became somewhat of a cult classic in the US, but this doesn’t make it an American film. It is worthy based on quality, but is disqualified by location. So would I recommend it? Well...no. I like the film and it is fascinating at a psychological level, but it is a lot of art for art’s sake without consideration for humanity. The message is horrifically bleak and the movie is very uncomfortable to watch at times, and most viewers don’t want to be challenged in that way. If you want a movie that will purposefully offend you and test your sensibilities, then give it a try. If you want a fun or funny movie with a happy ending, then this is most definitely not the movie for you.

[shiftylinguini]

Do you take prompts? If not, have a nice day, but if so, I love your Bound series, and I was wondering if you'd consider a prequel about Remus first realizing that he's both desperate for, and desperately possessive of, Sirius, when they were back in school.

YES, hello, I do, however it goes without saying that it takes me forever to actually post them LOL. Anyway, I wrote this yonks ago and tidied it up this afternoon because I was in a Mood, and here we go. 

Warnings for jealousy, Hogwarts era, casual promiscuity and references to Sirius/OFC, werewolfy imagery, Irish Remus and general angst regarding boys being careless with each others’ feelings. enjoy! lol. 

It’s Halloween, and Remus is miserable.

***

It’s Halloween, and Remus is miserable.

There's a party in the dungeons; the Slytherins are hosting. "They're twats," James declared before he left their dorms, deliberately dishevelled in his pirate costume, a cutlass dangling from one hand and cider in the other. "But they throw a good piss up."

Peter agreed, predictably affable and struggling into his Peter Pan outfit. Sirius ignored them both, concentrating on doing his eyeliner right. He's a self-declared glam rock icon tonight, black glitter and flares and Marc Bolan curls. His pirate costume (second mate to James's Hook, of course) lay discarded on his bed in favour of something louder, more offensive, more Muggle.

They've all been too polite to ask why. (They all know it's because Regulus might be there).  

The party probably is good. Remus isn't there.

He was there, for an hour or so. Just long  enough for two chipped mugs of butterbeer heavily spiked with cheap whiskey and to see Sirius with his tongue down Margot Holdings' throat, his lipstick smearing crimson onto hers.

Remus begged off then, made his escape after throwing James some crap excuse about how the moon two nights ago was still making him feel woozy. James knew it was bullshit. He said nothing though, and let Remus scarper off like a kicked dog. James is the best of mates that way; he bulldozes through most conversations and into people's lives but he knows when to be quiet, how to keep a secret.

When to let Remus skulk off to their dorm to hide in his bunk and stew about Sirius.

Remus pulls the curtains tight. He kicks his shoes off, but leaves the rest of his costume as it is, pressing his face to the pillow and probably smearing lazy Dracula greasepaint all over it. It was a half-arsed effort, really. Three quarter-arsed, at best; Remus doesn't like dressing up as monsters. (He has enough of a time playing human).

He closes his eyes, then opens them again. He huffs grumpily against the pillow, wriggling to get comfortable and failing. He feels crap. He has no valid excuse for it―not one he's willing to admit to.

James knows about Remus and Sirius, and the bed hopping between them. He has ears, and eyes, and the dorm's not that big. It's not really a secret. The four of them just act like it's one, for everybody's sake.

Whatever it is, it's usually just a mess. And not a particularly monogamous one.

Remus has no reason to be upset about it. He and Sirius aren't an item. They're something, but Sirius isn't breaking any rules by snogging pretty girls under dimmed party lights. It might be nice if he didn't do it in front of Remus, but it also might be nice if he hadn't tried to make Remus a murderer two years ago. There's a lot of ways they could be nicer to each other. In perspective, the kissing doesn't seem that bad.

Remus could do the same, and might, if he trusted himself around anyone other than Sirius. (If there were girls as pretty as Sirius).

Remus doesn't trust himself with people other than Sirius, though. He's bookish and boring and plain and sometimes he daydreams about ripping his classmates apart. He's tall and pleasant and polite, and he's forever five years old, a rag doll in a wolf's jaws in a field in Ireland, changed and scarred. Sirius gets it, even if he can be a prick. He pushes buttons. He lights up the room. He gets under Remus's skin and makes him feel sane at the same time. He's one of the few people Remus trusts himself and the wolf around, even if he doesn't really trust Sirius anymore. Sirius fucked that right up for the both of them. It's confusing, but Remus is smart. He'll figure his way around it.

He devours books instead, pages and scrolls and tomes. He tries to be boring. He tries to be plain. He tries to be someone people like but mostly forget, the nice Irish lad tagging along with loud James and cocky Sirius and sweet Peter. He worries sometimes that he's doing it too well.

He tries not to think of Margot's hands on Sirius's waist, but he falls asleep to fevered images of them just the same.

***

Remus half-wakes to the <i>swish</i> of curtains flinging open. There's a low giggle and then the thump of platform boots hitting the floor.

"Moony." The bed dips. "Moooonyyy."

Remus is half asleep, surfacing from dreams he's already forgetting. He snuffles into his pillow, as if he can bury himself like a mole and back into sleep.

He's almost back asleep when he feels arms wrapping around his chest, Sirius spooning up behind him. He smells like alcohol, the remnants of cologne and clean sweat. He smells like someone else too; Remus shuts that thought down as quickly as he can, but it's too late. That little wolfy part of him that doesn't vanish with the full moon is always attuned to these things, pricking up its ears and growling low and threatening. Remus feels it in his belly. He's wide awake now.

"Sirius," he whispers, low and annoyed. He swallows. "You know this isn't your bed, yeah?" he grumbles.

Sirius laughs. He's drunk, loose and pliant. Remus doesn't know if that means he fucked her. He could tell, if he tried, if he let the wolf sniff her out. He's not going to do that though. He's got to have some self respect.

Sirius snake arms squeeze around him tighter. His knees are tucked up behind Remus's. "I couldn't find you," he slurs. "And then James said you were sad." Sirius exhales on a half yawn.

Remus waits, but Sirius doesn't say more, as if this is enough of an explanation as to why he's crawled into Remus's bed and wrapped around him like a vine.

Honestly, it is. Sirius can be complex, and sometimes he can be impressively simple.

And if Remus keeps his eyes shut, and doesn't look at the time on his watch, then he can pretend it's only been half an hour since he left the party―that Sirius noticed quickly and didn't stay on for hours, 'til dawn was approaching and the morning birds were chirping, didn't finger Margot behind a statue and kiss her neck until he left marks and then saunter back to his other mates, proud and loose-limbed and swigging whiskey before working up a sweat on the makeshift dance floor. That he didn't ask James as an afterthought once he'd had his fun, <i>hey, where did Mooney bugger off to?</i> That he didn't come and hop into Remus's bed as a way to end his night instead of the purpose of it.

It's a night thought. It's horse shit, and Remus knows it, but if he never sees the time then it will never be confirmed. If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, if your best mate is a careless prick but you weren't there to see it, then did it really happen?

Behind him, Sirius's breath gusts over the back of his neck, and then again. The rhythm of sleep. His chest rises and falls easily, pressed all up against Remus's back, hips flush against Remus's pyjama-clad thighs. Remus keeps his own breathing shallow, tries not to breathe him in. It makes his head spin a little, not quite enough oxygen getting into his lungs. He's wide awake, and so is the wolf, the scar on his shoulder prickling like pins and needles and his senses tingling too.

His pillow is going to smell like Sirius for days now after this, longer if he hides the case from the elves and doesn't let them wash it. He'll want to roll in it, smell like Sirius, rub his face over the plain cotton and mouth at it until his breath dampens the pillow and Remus can taste it on his tongue. He might let himself do it. He'll hate himself afterwards, but he might let himself all the same.

He blinks, his vision swimming a little from his half-held breath before he gasps down a lungful, and there it is. Sirius all around him, thick in the air. He smells sweet, and sleepy, relaxed and content, and with a bitter pang Remus can smell her too. The wolf inside him can smell her. Remus braces for the comforting lurch of anger, of rage, for gnashing teeth and snarling lips, but it doesn't come.

There's a whine building in his chest instead, something sad and bereft, hurt. It feels like ears pulled back against his head, like a soft muzzle pressed against the cold ground. It sounds like a kicked dog, crawling on its belly back for more anyway.

Remus sniffs, blinking the sting away from his eyes and feeling his lashes come away wet. He curls a fist into his blanket, fingers tense and his breath shaky as he alternates between short sharp breaths and letting himself breath Sirius in, his chest tight from more than Sirius's boa constrictor arms. His eyes droop eventually, his face sore from frowning, but sleep hovers in his periphery like the moon slipping out of view over a highway.

Remus is too smart to fall for Sirius. The wolf isn't.

***

[asgardianthot]

Hunting Season (sambucky) – Part 3

Series Masterlist

A/N: I know I promised this update over a week ago, and I’m sorry it took so long:/ I’ve felt really down for the past few days, I’m having a hard time with online classes and with my lack of serotonin lol. This was not my greatest week and I suspect it’s got to do with the quarantine. I know a lot of us are having a hard time coping with everything and it can be very stressful and draining. We’re all struggling to find the energy to do what we love, and *not* seizing our free time to create or be productive can make us feel very frustrated or disappointed – I just want you to know it’s okay to seize your free time to just rest, even if you haven’t done anything exhausting per se. Emotional draining is part of the global situation, and you have every right to simply exist. People are dying or losing loved ones – I think existing is more than enough right now.

Words: 3106

Summary: A shitty guy has entered the chat. You know who.

Bedtime had come, and Sam followed Bucky to their assigned room. It was, apparently, the one he had been using ever since he and Rebecca were old enough to stop sharing bunk beds. When Rumlow came into the picture, the family allowed the jolly couple to share the queen-sized bed. Hence, that was the set-up for Sam and Bucky.

"Yeah, I forgot to mention." Bucky apologized as they shut the door behind them.

The entire house seemed to have gone silent at that time of the night, making them feel like they should speak in a lower tone than usual.

"It's fine." Sam brushed it off while he kicked off his shoes near the door.

"Nah, man, I can sleep on the divan." Bucky shook his head, "I'll go get some blankets."

The last thing he wanted was to put Sam in any more uncomfortable situations. He was already in the most uncomfortable position anyone could ask of their friend, and Bucky felt guilty every single second of their stay, which had only lasted for less than a day so far.

"Dude, it's fine." Sam insisted, "Not like we've never shared a bed before."

Although they effectively had spent a number of after-parties in the same bed or the same couch, this setup felt a lot more intimate, somehow. Maybe it was the silk sheets, or the elegant shade of white which adorned the room, or the dim nightstand lights that made it all feel so cozy. Maybe it had to do with the fact that that's how boyfriends sleep, and them having to pretend to have that dynamic. Still, Sam wouldn't agree to Bucky's solution.

"Yeah, but it's seven nights." Bucky reminded him with a wince.

"If I get tired of you I'll send your ass to the divan." Sam ended the topic with that, stretching his arms to communicate his deep need of going to bed already, "I just wanna get some sleep, it's been a long* day."

Bucky snorted, "I told you." He smirked as he opened his bag to find his pajamas.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed. He had, in fact, agreed to this insanity. Clues and riddles and family drama and money*. He was there to help his best friend through a tough time, and that was his primary concern, but if he ever got too tired of the Barnes' crap, he could always remember the gold at the end of the rainbow. He let a loud sigh, almost like he was finally dropping off the weight of the 'boyfriend' act, and allowing himself to look exhausted. He dramatically dropped to the bed on his back.

"Two millions, right?" he raised an eyebrow at Bucky.

The appellee nodded, "Two millions."

-

Day 2

One of the many responsibilities the Barnes family had was continuously being good guests, which meant inviting relatives and neighbors and co-workers to spend a day or two in the lake house. Most of them had their own vacation residence nearby, or were vacation-buddies who could hop on their boats and grab lunch with the Barnes. Only a few guests would actually join the house accommodations and spend time with them. It was the case of a friend of Nana, one of Colin's co-workers, Aunt Ida's new boyfriend and distant cousin who would be spending the night, according to what Winnifred said during breakfast.

Sam had a hard time processing the fact that they had all that extra room for futile acquaintances; in fact, he very subtly lashed out at Bucky for allowing his family to set their staff in small bedrooms behind the kitchen when he had such luxuries. Bucky, head hanging low at the empty breakfast table, explained that even if he had Sam's revolutionary momentum and eloquence, his parents would never listen. 'I'm actually the last person who could change their entitled, outdated mentality', was the exact finishing sentence.

Sam once again got that sour reminder that he had to portray something for Bucky's parents. He had to pretend to be okay with the way Winnifred spoke to the maid through hand gestures instead of polite words. He had to pretend to act like he knew what the hell those big New York impresarios were talking about during the first tray of appetizers. Hell, he didn't even know that appetizers came in successions and that those successions were called 'trays', until now.

Most importantly, and at the moment Sam was standing in that big yard with freshly cut grass and a lake view, he had to pretend to belong. He had to walk among senior citizens with more money than they could spend in the few years they had left, young folk who looked like they had too much access to their daddy's bank accounts, and women who spoke exactly like Winnifred, as if different tones or voice inflexions belonged to a lesser class. Sam had to meet them all, and he had to act like he didn't feel as foreign as he'd ever felt.

"You're a saint, Sam." Bucky sneaked up on him and spoke in his ear, standing behind the lost man, "You can stop greeting wealthy dinosaurs now."

Sam realized he had done more than what was asked of him, and so, he dropped his shoulders in retreat. He turned around and gifted Bucky one tired smile.

"You okay?" the latter grabbed his shoulder tenderly, with concern, "This was too much, wasn't it? You should've called in sick like I-"

"I'm not traumatized by rich people, Bucky." Sam rolled his eyes, "I'm dating you, 'member?"

The verb caught Barnes by surprise, until he immediately remembered he meant the farce they were putting up for the family. However, during that millisecond of doubt, it felt like Sam was implying something with a double meaning that Bucky wasn't entirely sure disturbed him. In other words, he felt like Sam was flirting, but obviously, he was quickly reminded of the situation.

"I was just thinking what my mama would have said in a place like this." Sam confessed with a soft laughing tone.

The image was pretty funny. In the few times Bucky had spent time with Darlene, he was overly captivated by her strong personality. She was so caring, just like her son, but patience and subtlety weren't her strong suit.

"She would have been so... justifiably rude to all of them." Bucky dared to guess.

Sam chuckled, "Yeah."

"Would've ruined the mood for everybody." Bucky joined in the loud laughter.

The two were still smiling to themselves when Bucky's mom and Rebecca approached them, both holding cocktails in their hand.

"Whatcha talking about, lovebirds?" Rebecca teased them.

As much as she knew she couldn't raise the curtain to their farce, out of love for her brother, but also because engaging in a hassle like that one would take her out. That didn’t mean she couldn’t make this the most annoying family holiday Bucky had ever had.

"Mind your business." He replied dryly.

"James." The sibling’s mother reprimanded Bucky’s rudeness.”

"I was just messing around, ma’am." Sam jumped in his defense, effectively stopping the potential fight. "I'm not used to so much... elegance."

"You mean all these old and dull people in fancy clothes?" the woman suggested her own disappointment regarding her guests, and nodding happily when she noticed Sam’s surprised grin. "Trust me, lots of us have a hard time adjusting to them."

"Some of us think we shouldn't adjust, but the other way around." Rebecca reproached, which earned her a single head tilt from her less confrontational mother.

Wilson took the opportunity to be the lovable, polite boyfriend, "Are you having trouble with these men too, Ms. Barnes?" he asked with a gracious smile that accentuated his cheekbones.

"I wouldn't call it trouble." She, expectedly, diminished her statement to avoid being interpreted as discontent.

Rebecca gave up on the eye-rolling to start using an annoyed, distant glare. As much as she had always been closest to her mother than Bucky ever had been, their ways of dealing with their life and other people were very different, along with their worldviews.

"They're bigots, big surprise." The young woman used a rude sarcastic tone, yet got no reaction from her Winnifred, who was now decided in de-aggravating the topic of conversation.

"Our friends tend to be on the conservative side.” She said before waving her hand in her own defense, “Don't get me wrong, I'm no liberal."

Bucky snorted, "No one was thinking that, mom."

Sam merely pressed his lips together in order to stop a smirk from becoming too visible.

"But lots of them are very behind time.” Winnifred continued nonetheless, “Treating their wives like housemaids, interrupting me..."

The irony was so palpable, all three younger characters could barely conceal their own personalized expressions, which varied from shock to laughter, because Winnifred Barnes treated her housemaids like lesser humans and interrupted everyone. Sam gave Rebecca a look, which she replied with a nod that implied ‘I know’. She then drew a zip line across her mouth for him to drop it.

It had also been Winnifred herself who stood by George when Rebecca went to a Women's March with her friends and the married couple believed it to be 'too dangerous' because who knows what kind of people can be in a march! Giving credit where credit was due, however, Winnifred had her daughter's back when a family friend grabbed her butt in her sixteenth birthday, and Rebecca, being the strongly voiced person that she’s always been, let everyone know ‘what kind of perverts his father hung out with’.

"Yes, they’re keen on the rich male supremacy around here.” Rebecca sighed, unable to keep listening to her mom pretend to know what she was talking about, and willing to change the subject to go back to bullying her brother, “It's a bummer. So, guys..."

"Oh." Winnifred suddenly said, fixating her eyes on something in particular, past her company.

"What?"

The three followed Winnifred’s view and found a man most of them recognized perfectly. The dark hair gelled back, the expensive but tasteless clothes, and the way he stood his ground like he owned it. It was a look that had once enamored Bucky, but it seemed more like a horrible nightmare right now.

As soon as Sam noticed James’ breath hitch and his face freeze, Sam knew that it was Brock Rumlow. He had only seen the devil through social media pictures, and he wasn’t very recognizable from afar, but the reaction it brought Bucky was hard to miss.

Apparently, Rebecca was even more upset than Sam about the man’s presence.

"What the fuck is he doing here?" she let out with deep rage.

"Rebecca!" her mother prioritized the lady’s manners over the downright astonishing situation.

Rebecca ignored it, "Who invited him?" she whisper-shouted.

"I believe it was your uncle Teddy.” As soon as the woman realized everyone’s stare in reaction to her nonchalant way of speaking, she placed a hand on her son’s arm, “He didn't know, James. What was he supposed to do? Un-invite him?"

"I'm lost. Why is he here?" Sam cut in.

"Oh, don’t worry about him, Samuel!” She gave him a very inappropriate smile for the occasion, “He's a family friend. His father and George are business buddies."

Sam realized he had missed a big part of the information. He knew Bucky had met Rumlow through family contacts, and that they have known of each other’s existence for a couple of years before they actually got to know each other. What he had no idea of, was the close relationship between the Barnes and Rumlow fathers. Had he known, he would have expected the ex-boyfriend to show up, but judging by his fake boyfriend’s state, Bucky wasn’t expecting it either. Probably because he was underestimating Brock’s maliciousness and hoping he wouldn’t invade his space.

Sam spoke directly to Bucky, using a calming tone, "You wanna go somewhere else?" he offered an out.

Unfortunately, before Bucky could reply, Rumlow saw him and began walking directly to him.

Bucky took a sharp breath, "Too late now."

Nobody said a word until Brock joined them.

"Ma'am.” He politely nodded in Winnifred’s direction, then turned to his former partner with a false smile, “James. Care for a walk?"

Bucky knew he was speaking a lot more formally than usual, because Winnifred was there. Care for a walk was just a fancy way of spitting out ‘let’s talk’, and Bucky despised that offer with every fiber of his being, but he wasn’t able to respond. His tongue was tied. He clenched his jaw, feeling powerless, and was rescued by Sam, who extended his hand.

"Samuel Wilson.” He gave Brock a big, play-pretend grin, “And you are...?"

It wasn’t a surprise that Rumlow was being rude, as he had been ignoring Sam and Rebecca’s presence like they weren’t even there.

"Brock Rumlow." He shook the man’s hand.

When Sam dropped his hand away from Rumlow’s, he took Bucky’s in his, as a painfully obvious demonstration of their romantic involvement. Brock lowered his eyes towards the intertwined fingers and bit the inside of his cheek, before nodding with a partially amused expression on his face.

"I take it you're..." Brock tempted, earning an affirmative look from Sam, "And I take it you know who I am."

Wilson tilted his head, "You just told me, you're Brock."

"This doesn't have to be awkward.” The unwelcome man smiled, glancing at Winnifred to make sure she approved of his manners, but even she kept looking away, “We both know James and I-"

"Look, Brock.” Wilson cut him off, “Nobody here really cares. Do you care, love?" He asked Bucky.

Bucky couldn’t help but smirk at Sam’s successful act, "Irrelevant." He agreed.

"Unless... it matters to you, Brock.” Sam frowned sadly, putting up the most condescending act he had ever pulled, “In that case, I'm sorry if this is painful."

If looks could talk, Rumlow’s would have stated a very easy ‘fuck you’.

"We'll see ourselves out, actually. Nice to meet you." He said, then turned away.

Bucky gifted his ex a fake host smile, "Have a good one."

As soon as the couple went back inside the house, Bucky let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He murmured grateful words as the noise of the gathering outside became muffled, and Sam squeezed his hand, which he was still holding. As a matter of fact, they didn’t let go of each other for a while.

-

"I brought us some food." Sam announced when he reached the top of the stairs.

Bucky had hid himself in the small living room which welcomed guests to the second floor. He was sitting on the couch, watching crappy TV, avoiding the large amount of people talking downstairs.

"You sneaked lunch up here?" He asked with surprise.

"Yes, Bucky, I stole two plates of crab risotto and an apple sorbet.” Sam mocked his naivety with sarcasm, “I made sandwiches in the kitchen, you doofus."

Bucky usually felt less than Sam at many things. Sam was smarter, he was resilient, he was hardworking and he was happier than him, most of the times. Seeing Sam in his messed up world only fomented that, because Sam was a fish out the water among the Barnes and their guests, and still, he glowed brighter. He was better than anyone Bucky had grown up with, and certainly better than himself. That’s why Sam had probably asked the kitchen staff if he could bother them for a second while he made two sandwiches, and he probably talked to them the entire time, and he probably let them speak longer than he did because he didn’t want to seem rude.

Bucky just knew that’s what he had done, while, if he were by himself, he probably would have skipped lunch and snacked on leftovers later, when no one was looking.

"What did I do to deserve you?" he sighed, receiving the plate Sam had prepared him.

The appreciation made Sam feel fuzzy. As much as he loved helping Bucky because he was his best friend, he never wanted Bucky to depend on his help. And yet, this time, he liked the idea of being needed by him.

He shook off the idea and sat on the couch, "That's a good question."

"I think God sent you when he saw how shitty everyone else in my life is."

Wilson laughed, shifting closer to Bucky’s and taking a big bite of his sandwich.

"Becca ain't so bad.” He remarked with his mouth full, “She comes around eventually."

"Yeah, she does." James agreed, thinking of how protective the young woman had become as soon as she saw the man who hurt her brother.

"You ever get tired of getting all your parents' shit when you watch her get away with stuff?"

Bucky shrugged. "I'd do anything for her. And they already see me a certain way, might as well protect her from that."

Wilson smiled to him, a warm sensation taking over his chest, "You're really good to her."

As much as Barnes wanted to take the compliment, the exchange had become too intimate, and if there was one thing Bucky had been rejecting during the whole boyfriend act, was intimacy between them. He feared he might get confused.

"You trying to pamper me, Wilson?" he bumped Sam’s shoulder playfully.

The latter rolled his eyes, and they went back to the TV show on screen while they ate. A few minutes later, something was twirling around Sam’s head so heavily, that he had to speak out.

"Hey, uh... A bit of- a really foggy bit of what I said when I was blacked out might have come back to me." He told Bucky, avoiding eye-contact.

James knew exactly what that was. Sam had just seen Rumlow for the first time, which brought back a very specific part of the conversation they both had, but only Bucky remembered.

"You remembered shitting on Brock?" he raised an eyebrow, amused.

"I mean, I'm not sure, but I bet I didn't have anything nice to say about him."

"Nothing you hadn't said before." Bucky lied.

Sam most certainly had said some things about the ex-boyfriend that he had been keeping to himself, and only had the guts to let out while blackout drunk.

They sat back and switched the channels, finding a better movie to watch, ignoring the lunch party completely. Eventually, Bucky found himself laying on Sam's chest, sort of sided, but he was too comfortable to move away.

[xhxhxhx]

Saw something in the further reading section of Michael Kulikowski’s Imperial Tragedy (Profile, 2019) today:

There are countless books on the fall of the western Roman empire, and more appear annually, with variable scholarly trappings but nearly all quite conventional. Still, ripping yarns and neo-Victorian analyses can be found in any bookshop. So, for those so inclined, can thinly disguised nativist tracts on how immigration (and ‘immigrant violence’) brought down the empire. To name names would be invidious.

I thought this was a dig at Peter Heather, Professor of Medieval History at King’s College London and author of The Fall of the Roman Empire (Oxford, 2005) and Empires and Barbarians (Oxford, 2009), so I looked it up and discovered that not only was I right, but Kulikowski has serious beef with the guy:

Peter Heather has been fiercely criticized by members of the so-called Toronto School of History. Michael Kulikowski, who belongs to this group, has accused Heather of neo-romanticism and of wishing "to revive a biological approach to ethnicity". Kulikowski claims that Heather "manifests a clear methodological affinity" to the 19th-century writer of the Goths Henry Bradley.

But Kulikowki’s beef is nothing next to the righteous fury of Guy Halsall, Professor of History at the University of York:

Guy Halsall has identified Peter Heather as the leader of a "counter-revisionist offensive against more subtle ways of thinking" about the Migration Period. Halsall accuses this group, which is strongly associated with University of Oxford, of "bizarre reasoning" and of purveying a "deeply irresponsible history". Halsall writes that Heather and the Oxford historians have been responsible for "an academic counter-revolution" of wide importance, and accuses them of deliberately contributing to the rise of "far-right extremists".

Halsall got so mad at Heather, first at the 2011 Leeds International Medieval Conference and then online, at his blog, that he threatened to leave academia entirely:

Well, it's more or less a year since I started doing this blogging lark 'seriously' (the inverted commas are obviously necessary).  And, as they say, what a roller-coaster of a year it's been.  I've shut down the blog twice, brought it back twice, come to the verge of formal complaints being sent to my university twice (once justifiably, once most certainly not), lost at least one friend, lost 99% of the respect I had for someone I had hitherto held in high esteem, quite possibly lost the chance of a job I wanted because of this blog, taken some pretty visceral abuse, and so on.  All good fun!

On the other hand I have learnt some lessons.  One is that even bastards have feelings.  Another is that if you have twenty-odd followers and maybe 100 hits a day, that (allowing for hits from people looking for something else, like Elizabeth Kostova's novel The Historian or ever-popular balding guitarist The Edge) does not mean that  only twenty or thirty people in the whole wide world read your blog.   Thus you need to be a bit more careful about what you say and how you say it.  I've also learnt that eminent historians don't always read what you write very carefully, and just how deeply-ingrained the elitist culture of the British historical profession is, as well as just how few principles are actually held by the overwhelming majority of the practitioners of said profession.  And this in response to something that I actually thought long and hard about how I wrote.

And as a result of all this I have realised that no good is going to come of me continuing to smack my head against the glass ceiling that those of us not from 'a particular socio-educational background' (you know the one) eventually run up against.  I have instead come to the decision, essentially, to give up on it and 'seek my fortune' elsewhere than in the confines of the academic career-path, as it is now constructed in the UK at any rate.*  I'm actually quite excited about this as I think it offers a lot of possibilities, creatively and ethically.  It's been a liberating decision.  Those of you who know that I set most store by the writings of those co-opted into the canon of the existentialists (almost none of whom ever called themselves by that name) will appreciate exactly why I am proud of this decision.

To some extent it makes up for the bad faith I showed in backing down and removing my post on why it matters to get angry about the lazy and irresponsible (indeed, yes, just downright knuckle-headed) way in which some historians in and/or produced by our most prestigious Thames Valley-based university write about politically and socially sensitive topics like migrations.

Halsall ultimately sanitized the 2011 IMC paper that started the war with Heather --  the neutered version is still up on his blog -- but the original was apparently quite something:

Perhaps unsurprisingly for those who’ve heard him speak or read him on the Internet, this was the one that really started the war. [Edit: and, indeed, some changes have been made to these paragraphs by request of one of those involved.] The consequences, if not of this actual speech, at least of its subsequent display on the Internet, have been various, unpleasant and generally regrettable, and I don’t want any of them myself.

Thankfully, the purged parts of the original were reproduced by some noble soul on the Civilization Fanatics forums before they were lost to the ages:

Thus we can have Ward-Perkins’ sneering parody of late antiquity studies and Peter Heather’s distortions of counter-arguments. In many people’s minds the choices before us are evidently, either, that nothing happened, or, that there was a huge catastrophe caused entirely by invading barbarians. Obviously this is not the case. Plenty of people other than me -- most famously, Walter Pohl -- have written about serious, dramatic change happening in the fifth century without blaming it on the barbarians and without denying that there were migrations in the fifth century. Yet this -- if I dare call it such -- third way seems nevertheless to be very much a minority position.

But I am not convinced that a simple lack of exposure to sensible alternatives really explains the continuing, fanatical devotion to the idea of the barbarian migrations, especially outside the academy.

I have recently said that:

“When a British historian places an argument that the Roman Empire fell because of the immigration of large numbers of barbarians next to arguments that the end of Rome was the end of civilisation and that we need to take care to preserve our own civilisation, when another British historian writes sentences saying “the connection between immigrant violence and the collapse of the western Empire could not be more direct” [a direct quote from Peter Heather’s Empires and Barbarians (Oxford, 2009)], and especially when the arguments of both involve considerable distortions of the evidence to fit their theories, one cannot help but wonder whether these authors are wicked, irresponsible or merely stupid.”

Obviously, these are not mutually exclusive alternatives.

Are these writers setting themselves up as ideologues of the xenophobic Right or have they simply not realised the uses to which such careless thinking and phrasing can be put? You can draw your own conclusions, although it is worth noting that Ward-Perkins has been happy enough to write on this subject for the neo-liberal magazine Standpoint, which regularly publishes pieces attacking multiculturalism. There comes a point when one has to admit that actually the most charitable explanation for all this really is that these writers are simply a bit dim.

Outside academic circles, it is certainly the case that the adhesion to the idea of barbarian invasion has a heavily right-wing political dimension. Apart from the barbarians’ role as metaphor, already discussed, it is worth, very briefly, thinking about the other reasons why people are so ready to pin the blame on the barbarians. Slavoj Zizek’s Lacanian analysis of antisemitism provides some valuable ways forward. Essentially, the barbarian, like the figure of the Jew, acts as a screen between the subject and a confrontation with the Real, which Zizek sees, slightly differently from Lacan, as the pre-symbolised; things that haven’t been or can’t or won’t be encompassed in a world view. Zizek showed that arguments that “the Jews aren’t like that” are almost never effective against anti-Semites because what real Jews (or actual immigrants, one might say) are like is not the point. Similarly, arguments about the empirical reality of the fifth-century cut little weight with those wedded to the idea of Barbarian Invasion. Just as the anti-Semite takes factual evidence as more proof of the existence of the international Zionist conspiracy, the right-wing devotee of the Barbarian Invasions sees factual counter-arguments as manifestations of the liberal, left-wing academy peddling its dangerous multicultural political correctness. I have read a great deal of this on internet discussion lists -- including a review of my own book, and one of James O’Donnell’s! Michael Kulikowski received a similarly-phrased review from a right-wing academic ancient historian.

The barbarian is the classic “subject presumed to”. The barbarian can change the world; he can bring down empires; he can create kingdoms. The barbarian dominates history. “He” is not like “us”, enmeshed in our laws, our little lives and petty responsibilities. The barbarians -- and you only need to read Peter Heather to see this -- are peoples with “coherent aims” (a quote), which they set out single-mindedly to achieve. No people in the whole of recorded human history have ever had single coherent sets of aims. Well -- none other than the barbarians anyway.

Halsall has never resiled from his belief that Heather was essentially a fascist, nor backed away from his commitment to resign from his post in righteous indignation -- maybe not in 2011, or 2019, but certainly by 2023 at the very latest:

My anger about all this is justly infamous but has been badly misrepresented.  I do think that some things are worth getting angry about, and the misuse of the Barbarian Migrations and the End of the Roman Empire to fuel xenophobia and racism, and the way some modern authors pander to this, is one such.  However, to look at the origins of this ire and animus, I invite you to compare my engagement with Peter Heather’s work in Barbarian Migrations, and its tone, with Heather’s engagement – if you can call it that – with my work, and its tone, in Empires and Barbarians.  I never expect to be agreed with; I do expect basic academic courtesy to be reciprocated.  If people see fit to treat me intellectually as a second-class citizen, the gloves will come off.  That may stem from my own biography as (unlike so many) a first-generation academic not educated at the 'right' schools and universities, but there we are.  I will be leaving the profession within the next four years (well done, guys) so I have nothing to lose by not apologising for that.

Kulikowski might have gotten in a good dig, but Halsall will always be a true master of the art of Being Mad Online.

[fishgoose]

2:54 AM

name: 2:54 AM rating: T + relationship: Genji/Mercy ( gency ) type: fluff, hurt/comfort warnings: loss of limbs, body horror, medical procedures, not beta read, my first fanfiction in like, 10 years. 

summary: They bring her Genji Shimada at 2:54 AM on a Wednesday. Or, how one minute in the morning became significant to Angela Ziegler and Genji Shimada.

AO3 Link

He’s brought to her at 2:54 AM on a Wednesday. 

She awoke from a light sleep in her quarters at a hurried knock on her door - a rapt pulsing of fist and a call of her name. Angela springs to full wakefulness on reflex, years of time spent in hospital on-call rooms keeping her trained to the art of ‘no sleep necessary.’ She answers with all the appearance of a woman having just rolled out of bed… but none of the grace. Baleful blues behold Captain Amari with no small hint of surprise. It’s not unusual for her to receive late night calls from her superiors - especially in the event of an emergency. But Ana Amari was, without a doubt, the firmest advocate for Angela Ziegler receiving a healthy amount of sleep. So for her to be here, disturbing the doctor from a much needed rest-

“We have an emergency.”

A nod is all Captain Amari receives, before she spins into action. She and the sniper rush towards the medbay - Angela half undressing/dressing on the walk there. It’s not an unfamiliar rhythm. Ana taking bits of her clothing while she shrugs on scrubs, a lab coat, even offers her a hair tie and speaks to her in rapid, hushed tones so as not to wake the quiet halls. She’s not sure why. Everybody in Overwatch is an insomniac anyway. Regardless it’s clear Ana had been braced for this… and that fills her with more dread than necessary. 

“Agent McCree and Commander Reyes have just returned from Hanamura. They have brought an individual back with them. Genji Shimada-” A holopad is passed to her fingers, and Angela does not think to ask why Jesse and Gabriel were in Hanamura, Japan - or why there is already a file on ‘Genji Shimada.’ That part of her brain shuts off - the suspicious, distrusting part - and instead, the doctor takes over. “He sustained multiple traumatic injuries after an altercation with his elder brother. Angela, it’s-”

                “Angie!”

Her gaze shoots up on reflex at the familiar nickname, the punctuation of a hurried drawl at the edge. Ana’s words die out as she catches sight of McCree - catches sight of the amount of blood saturating the black of his clothing, on his face, in his hair, his gloves… His spurs click as he covers the distance between them, not quite halting her but enough to slow her pace. She sees Reyes over his shoulder, bickering in front of a bed with Morrison. They’re like two snakes locked in a tangle, their gazes furious, McCree’s gaze filled with trepidation, and Ana is trying to say something but-             “Move.”

She speaks it to all of them, and surprisingly they obey - each conversation dying simultaneously, as if the music had been stopped. She moves through the medbay doors to the surrounded table, where a few of her specialists already fluttered about - speaking in even quieter tones, placing I.V.s, hooking up various beeping machines, and trying so damned hard to stop the continuous rain of blood that seemed to fall from the young man upon her operating table. 

Angela Ziegler is not unused to carnage. She is the best of the best. She has seen what violence and war does to other living beings, human and omnic and animal alike. As the best of the best, the most brutal of cases find her, and yet this… what had happened to the man before her… There is a squeezing in her chest, and she steps in closer… personnel parting like waves in a deep blue sea. 

               “Talk.” She commands, and it’s Reyes that fills her in. 

Hanzo Shimada, heir to the Shimada clan (a name she knew in passing, though she wished she did not) had cut down his younger brother at the behest of clan elders. Cut down was a bit of an understatement, in her opinion. Such brutality was not lost on her. This was not a systematic killing… It was violent and passionate. Blades and dragons, they’d told her - and while she had to question the last bit, the brutal cut to his chest, his legs, arms… everything was butchered in some way or another, and it’s only through years of schooling and training that she is able to shut off the bleeding heart part of her, and become the doctor. 

Angela does not question, again, why the hell Blackwatch was hanging around at this precisely fortuitous moment. She does not question, again, why it seemed everyone had been prepared for this except for her (and obviously, her patient). He finishes his words in under thirty seconds, and it takes ten more for her to banish everyone short of her and the necessary personnel from her lab and begin doing what is necessary to save a life… no matter the reason, and no matter the cost. 

She is in the process of setting up localized biotic fields while her assistants put a closer view of Genji’s injuries up upon the holo-vid. She is a professional, a woman of finesse. There are no moments of hesitation when she works - no pausing to make sure. This is her domain and there is a life to be saved, and so she would save it. By all conclusions, Genji Shimada should have long since been sedated - especially considering she was about to begin the most major surgeries of her life upon him. 

A shaky hand (his left, not his right) finds her gloved wrist, and Angela jolts with surprise. It leaves a trail of blood upon her - but her gaze instantly meets his own and what she sees makes her heart break. Fear and sadness, so prevalent in eyes that were once as warm as tilled earth - a handsome face, beneath his oxygen mask, and bloodied lips narrowed in agony. His grip is light, so terribly weak, but that does not stop her from covering his hand with her own, letting her hues lock with his, and saying low enough that only he could hear her…                       “I’ve got you.”

----------

It’s 8:32 PM when she thinks he’ll make it through the night.

Angela comes out of that operating room a different woman, and Genji will wake up a different man. 

It’s McCree that’s waiting for her, a cup of coffee in hand and a hot towel in the other. She wants to question if he’s been here the whole damn time, but judging by the fact he’s no longer covered in Genji’s blood, she assumes it’s safe to say no, he has not. Now it’s her turn, of course… to be covered in his blood, even if she’d stripped out of those scrubs and coat and mask, she still feels it on here, the weight of it, the weight of his life and how despite saving him, despite giving him a chance to live-

Perhaps he didn’t want to live this way. 

Jesse is smart enough to not say anything when she sits down on the sofa in her own office. He’s smart enough to not turn those amber eyes on her either, for fear of awakening the angry, questioning beast that roils beneath her skin. Instead, he lets her lean on him and rest her gaze. Her brief dreams are filled with visions of Genji - the horror in those darkened hues, and the sprays of blood from a blade as a faceless man cuts him down. 

------

It’s 11:27 PM when she rips Morrison and Reyes both new assholes. 

They’d been expecting it, of course - the way Angela (politely) demands to know what the fuck is going on, and then listening to them tell her - just exactly why - they had brought her Genji Shimada in the first place. An asset, they say, to Overwatch and Blackwatch - especially coming from a criminal family. They were lucky, in a way, that Angela had been so exhausted - otherwise, perhaps, she might have gone completely nuclear in Jack’s office, and subsequently destroyed two of S.E.Ps pride and joy. That does not stop her, however, from (again, politely) telling them how she felt about the situation, telling them both to seek her permission before seeing him (ranked be damned) and then to have a lovely evening, thank you very much.

She wished the doors weren’t sliding so she could slam them behind her. 

--------

It’s 2:54 AM on Thursday when he wakes up for a short time. 

Angela is there when he does - holopad in hand, documenting something. Genji sees her through a blurry lens… his gaze unfocused, not blind but just… lacking something. The dimmed lighting causes her hair to appear luminous around her pretty features, soft and serene and utterly angelic. Perhaps were he able to speak, and perhaps were he the Genji from not even a week ago… he would have made a comment on it, made a pass at her. Instead, he lets his fingers flex against the bed sheets… and she notices, because of course she does. 

Her face splits in surprise… so open, so lovely, and he finds it curious almost. She smiles at him in a way that is painfully tender (why? Does he deserve that?) and leans down to adjust a bit of wiring near the half of his body that he struggles to find any sensation on. His mind is addled by drugs, by the dull throb of pain manipulated by said drugs… and when she speaks, it sounds like it’s through a tube but… he wants to hear her say more.

“Hello, Mr. Shimada.” Warm. She was so warm in a sea of cold numbness. “You’re safe now.”

He knows he’s not, but the last thing he sees before falling asleep is her… and he finds it difficult to argue with that. 

-------- 

It’s 2:54 AM five months from the day he woke up that he’s able to stand on his own two feet again. 

Five months, five long and grueling months that they had been through those surgeries. Amputations, synthetic manipulations, rerouting of organs, cybernetic enhancements… With each one that he would awaken from, Genji would thank her, but with each one - his gaze would grow more and more dull. Now, however, he looks brighter than she’s seen him in months… able to move, to take shaky, quiet steps about his room, Angela at his side but Genji still wholly... freely independent. It’s not lost on her that he refuses to demonstrate much of his progress in the presence of others, but that’d be their secret for awhile longer. This was his recovery, after all. 

They’d worked on his legs last, having started from top down, essentially. Countless sleepless nights spent awake, either by his side or in her quarters, puzzling out ways to make him more comfortable, more happy. It was not about brutal efficiency for her, not about the weaponry. But Genji wanted to be fast - wanted to be as fearsome as he had been… and so she obliged, with the assistance of others, and limb by limb, bit by bit, he was rebuilt. 

But she knew he hated it, when he thought she wasn’t looking. She knew it in the way he spoke as little as possible, how he refused to see himself in the mirror… She just knew. 

-------

It’s 7:00 AM, a year, 3 months, and 2 days from the day he was brought to her that he goes on his first mission with Blackwatch. 

Angela had never railed more loudly against something in her life. Was his body healed? Yes. Were his cybernetics perfect? Yes. But his mind? She saw the fracture of that psyche - saw the way it was still in pieces and breaking steadily. She had gone after both Morrison and Reyes like a woman possessed, quiet anger and determination that put the fear of god in most… but it was actually Genji that had told her to stand down. 

The conversation is like a fresh wound on her heart. 

“Leave it be, Dr. Ziegler. I will make myself useful.”

Humiliating and painful. Lovely. 

-------

It’s 6:31 PM 18 days after the departure for their mission that they return. 

Everything had gone smoothly. Genji had the highest kill count among them all, and had sustained only minor damage. 

Angela fixes him up without saying a word. 

-------

It’s 2:54 AM three months after that first mission that he shows up at her office with a cup of coffee. 

She stares at him like he’s grown three heads (or she’s hallucinating, perhaps) but takes the beverage anyway. Genji is not much of a conversationalist by nature but he goads her into speaking anyway much to her surprise - asking about her current research, what she was continuing to develop… and they fall back into an easy rhythm and a familiar pattern. He does not laugh, and he does not smile - but she does not need him to. Angela can see everything in those crimson eyes, computerized or not, that she needs to know. 

They flicker when she makes a particularly jovial comment about McCree. It’s his version of a laugh. 

They fall into a pattern after that… 2:54 AM, Genji was always there - either with coffee or to drink hers. On nights he was away on missions, she woke up at that time anyway, wondering why. 

------

It’s 1:17 AM in King’s Row, London a few years later that he catches her as she falls.

The swift response Valkyrie suit was not without its issues, but she was keen to assist in the field when necessary. Her own enhancements at her spine kept her maneuvering easily, light as a bird and quick in the air. It’s her own fault, really, sloppiness in her attempt to get to priority targets as quickly as possible. The pulse shot connects with her left wing and sends not only a lance of agony down her spine - but a burst of pressure and air as she begins plummeting towards earth. 

All she can hear is the rush of the wind by her ears, vision filled with city lights and stars and a strange sense of peace fills her… deliberate and quiet… 

Until crimson and black is in her gaze, and strong arms… one real, one cybernetic, embrace her frame. In her ear, a prayer:

                    “I’ve got you, Angela.”

Four hours later, back on the dropship, she’s staring at him with her mouth agape. 

                  “You called me Angela.”

------

It’s 2:52 AM three weeks later that he tries to kiss her for the first time. 

It comes as such a surprise that she nearly lets him - as she’s in the midst of adjusting his faceplate, bending out a bit of metal and reshaping to more snuggly fit. It would have happened - were she not quick on her feet. She’s leaned inwards, plating clutched in her hands and ready to click into place when he dips in - going for the plump swell of her peach tiers but… 

Two fingers meet him instead, and he is scowling.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Genji?”

“...”

She realizes her mistake the second silence befalls them. Realizes the amount of courage it must have taken for him to even try at all. Their chemistry was undeniable… everyone could see it, and their attachment ran deep. But here was a man discomforted by his own existence, his appearance, and Angela had just rejected some amount of physical affection and-- she finishes snapping the bolt into place, and he looks ready to run. Angela does not respond with trepidation, but instead offers him a sweet sweet smile as she leans inwards, breath ghosting over his scarred lips.

“It’s not 2:54 AM.”

The emotions that cycle through Genji’s hues at her statement are almost tangible to her: questioning, confusion, awareness, understanding, irritation, then mirth. She wants to laugh but she doesn’t… instead her gaze dances with her delight, at 2:53 AM, and he thinks she’s the most beautiful thing in the world. They use that minute… just that minute, to drink one another in… 

At 2:54 AM they kiss for the first time.

[bisexualpirateheart]

18.'I'd say you make my heart pound but well...You know'-Miranda Barlow/Idelle for Halloween asks ❤

                                   ~ A Visit To the Opera ~

Miranda takes her seat in the opera box and looks around with interest. The invitation had been unsigned but she already knows exactly who had sent it...

She tries to remember the last time she had seen Idelle. Well over a decade at least, she decides at last. After a while the years often blurred together and Miranda mostly only remembers them by the fashions. Fashions had been better in other years, in her opinion. Though they were easy and convenient nowadays, she misses the flare and inspiration of the old days.

The opera at least is a good excuse to get dressed up and she has a feeling that was why Idelle had chosen it. Well, one of them at least.

She reaches for her opera glasses and glances around. She’s a little early, but no matter.

A footstep soft as velvet behind her. Miranda’s ready in case it isn’t her expected hostess, but all the same she doesn’t turn.

“Have you grown so complacent?" A voice purrs in her ear as familiar lips brush the curve of it.

Miranda smiles then, turning her head so she can greet her lover with a kiss. "I knew it was you."

Idelle's lips are cool as her own, but Miranda likes to imagine the warmth that used to be there. It’s been well over a century since she had turned Idelle. First she had kept the girl as her personal maid, but eventually Miranda had grown attached to her and turned her. After seducing her of course. It was not difficult. Miranda had seen Idelle watching her and her guests, felt her eyes upon them when they were in bed together. She had never tried to persuade the girl to join her and her companions for she wanted Idelle to join her of her own free will, and at last she had.

Miranda smiles.

"What're you thinking of?" Idelle sits in the seat beside her, removing her hat and glancing around the opera house, much as Miranda had done. She wears a creamy silk dress that plays well to her pale skin and the rouge on her cheeks is as good as true color.

"I'm thinking of when I turned you." She murmurs. "It's a favorite memory, after all."

Idelle's smile answers her own. "I think of that night sometimes. and all the ones after." She brushes her hand along her bodice. "At times when I can't sleep or the one I’ve taken to bed hasn't afforded me enough pleasure."

"Tis a pity when that happens." Miranda agrees.

"It's not too often." Idelle tells her with a wicked grin.

"So what made you think of the opera?"

"I missed you." Idelle says simply. "It's been too long and I thought...why not?"

"A perfect excuse." Miranda smiles. “And the game?" There is always a game.

Idelle's grin is infectious.  "If you come three times before the opera ends, I win. If you don't, you win."

Miranda smiles. "That sounds like a delightful challenge."

She's interested to see what sort of tricks Idelle has in mind for tonight. It isn't as though they haven't played these games before. But whereas Idelle is only a mere three hundred years old or so, Miranda is much much older than her. She's had centuries of knowing herself and teaching lovers the way to please her, and feeding her own desires. If a mere mortal had challenged her to this she would have laughed in their face, but Idelle is different.

Before she was Miranda's maidservant and lover, she had been a prostitute, working out of a brothel that Miranda had visited once when she was bored one dull rainy evening. She had been pleased by the girl and taken her for her own maid, offering far more money than she was getting paid in the brothel, simply to come and be a maid in her own home.

And then, well...Miranda smiles at the memory of turning the woman. How satisfying it had been to seduce Idelle and make her her own.

And now here they are.

She leans back in her seat as the lights dim. Idelle settles more comfortably in her own seat. It isn't until they're nearly through the first act that Idelle makes her move. Her hand brushes Miranda's arm, stroking it lightly with her fingertips. Slowly, she draws her fingers along the slender curve of Miranda's arm up to her bare shoulder, and there Idelle drops a silent kiss upon her skin. She keeps stroking the inner curve of Miranda's arm while she mouths soft, sweet kisses along the dip of Miranda's shoulder and throat.

Miranda shivers only a little. She wonders if Idelle will bite her. It's always been part of their lovemaking on and off, and she grows aroused at the thought of Idelle's fangs sinking into her neck, mirroring the delicious moment when Miranda had first turned her.

Idelle's hand grows bolder, dipping down inside the bodice of Miranda's dress. She skims her fingernails over the swell of Miranda's breast as she sucks a lovemark into the side of Miranda's throat.

Miranda arches into the sensation, loving the way Idelle's lips always feel on her. She feels her arousal growing, and it's only the first time, she can surrender a little to the game. After all, it's been such a long time and she wants to enjoy tonight. She parts her legs beneath her skirts and offers a soft moan.

Idelle laughs lightly against her throat. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing." She kisses the words into Miranda's skin. She cups Miranda's breast, tracing her nails all around the tip.

"Don't think you don't want to do it." Miranda whispers back.

“Of course I do.” Idelle breathes. “I always want to make you come.” Idelle turns her head and kisses her on the mouth. She deepens the kiss as she strokes and teases Miranda's breast before sliding her hand to the other and squeezing it as well.

The need between Miranda's legs grows heavier. She likes to think her skin feels hot, or rather the memory of it warms her. The longer Idelle touches her elsewhere, the more she aches for it. It would be embarrassing, if it were anyone else. It's not as though she hasn't fucked anyone since the last time they were together. There have been many lovers in Miranda's bed, some vampire, some human, since that time.

But there is something special about being with not only another vampire, but one you made yourself. Miranda would never say this to any of her others, but Idelle is possibly her favorite. She had fallen seamlessly into the vampire way of life, simply reveling in it. There had been a few mistakes along the way of course. That was to be expected. But overall Miranda had guided her and taught her well and Idelle had been a model pupil.

Now though as Miranda leans into the persuasive touch of Idelle's lips trailing back down her throat, she simply enjoys the ache in her cunt. She enjoyed sex before she was a vampire and has reveled in it ever since then. The desire and lust within her has never faded and she doesn't believe it ever will.

Idelle moves in her seat so she's sitting behind Miranda on the chaise. Both her hands are inside Miranda's bodice now. If anyone looked into their box, they would see the debauchery happening there and Miranda grows wetter thinking of some unsuspecting, slightly bored opera guest glancing their direction and being caught by the sight. Shocked and aroused perhaps, though they wouldn't want to admit it. Perhaps they would touch themselves, brought to an unexpected passion by the spectacle of the two women in the dark opera box.

"What're you thinking of now?" Idelle nips at her ear slightly, still caressing Miranda's breasts.

"If someone happened to see us." Miranda tells her. The opera house is dark. It's unlikely, but the scenario is still pleasant to think of. She feels Idelle chuckle against her throat.

"Remember Rome."

Miranda stifles a laugh. "I do indeed."

Idelle's hands finally touch her nipples, toying with them idly, pinching them until Miranda has to bite her lip from crying out. She's so aroused by now that she knows this first one will barely be any surrender at all. She's practically given it to Idelle on a platter.

Idelle grazes her neck again with just the hint of fangs and Miranda shudders faintly as her first orgasm of the night ripples through her.

Idelle settles back on her side of the chaise lounge with a satisfied smirk.

Miranda takes a sip of wine and composes herself. "You really are looking lovely tonight."

"As are you." Idelle returns. The rouge on her cheeks suits her and the stylish low cut of her bodice suits her very well. Miranda thinks of the way her skin feels under her lips and smiles to herself.

She fans herself lightly, turning to actually gaze at the opera.

Out of the corner of her eye she can see Idelle watching her. Miranda's lips curve upward into a smile. "That first one was very nice." She murmurs. “I'd say you make my heart pound but well...you know.”

Idelle stifles a laugh. She takes a sip of wine. "Good."

She looks innocent enough when Miranda glances her way, but Miranda knows the girl is up to something the second time around. She waits, half focused on the opera, half on what Idelle is scheming. But her mind is easily distracted, and she finds herself thinking of the past once more.

The second time after the intermission where they've sipped champagne and chatted politely, Idelle merely waits for the lights to dim again before slipping off the chaise. She draws Miranda's skirts up to her waist, stroking along the insides of her thighs through her silken underclothes.

She brushes her fingers ever so softly upward in smooth circular strokes. Each of them sends little zings of pleasure through Miranda's body. She can feel herself quivering as Idelle draws higher and higher, closer and closer to her aching clit.

And then just when Idelle's fingers are right there, she draws back, starting again at Miranda's knees.

"Such a tease." Miranda breathes.

Idelle smiles up at her. "I said I wanted to make you come. I didn't say it would be quickly."

From her position above on the chaise lounge Miranda has an excellent view of Idelle's bodice. She gazes at it affectionately as Idelle leans in again, still stroking her skin.

With the tips of her fingers, Miranda reaches down to nudge at the stiff lacing along Idelle's bodice. She tugs a little, and then reaches for the lace, undoing it just a little.

"What're you playing at?"

"It's only fair that I should get to see you." Miranda says. "It's been too long." With those words, she tugs at Idelle's bodice a little more and there, finally, her aim is achieved. The tips of Idelle's nipples are freed from their imprisonment.

Idelle rests her chin on Miranda's knee, still lazily stroking her inner thigh. and then without warning, she raises her other hand and slips two fingers straight into Miranda’s waiting slit. Miranda catches the groan trying to escape her at the sensation. She spreads her legs as wide as she can with Idelle sitting between her thighs. She leans down, slipping one hand inside Idelle's bodice, stroking the full swell of her breast.

Idelle's fingers move almost lazily inside her cunt, but still she doesn't touch Miranda's clit. By now Miranda is practically throbbing with need and still Idelle's fingers move idly in and out of her, curling now and then, making Miranda shudder. Her breasts rise and fall with need. She wants Idelle's hands on her, all over her. Her legs tremble, wanting to wrap around Idelle's body and draw her close.

It's not enough. She needs more. "Please." She gasps. "Please."

Idelle smirks. She adds a third finger and Miranda moans again, watching her fingers move between her legs. Her breasts pressed Miranda's legs as she toys with her. The reddened tips taunting her, begging for her mouth there. Her clit feels so hot Miranda fears she will explode with desire if Idelle doesn't touch her soon.

As though she can read her mind, Idelle leans down and breathes softly right over her clit. The warm breath from her mouth make Miranda's clit tingle. She feels as though she's dripping with desire and Idelle laughs, drawing her fingers out of her cunt and licking them before pushing them back inside her. Deeper this time, fucking her more steadily as she rubs the tips of her nipples against Miranda’s thigh.

And then she pulls them free again and lowers her head. She grazes Miranda's throbbing clit with her teeth, teasing and nipping, sucking sharply again and again until Miranda is shaking all over with the steady rush of her second orgasm. Her handkerchief is crumpled and shoved between her lips, keeping herself from screaming aloud in the crowded opera house.

Idelle nips her still sensitive clit a final time and Miranda shudders helplessly. If Idelle keeps going, she'll come a third time here and now. They both know that now. She waits, feeling the sweat dry on her skin, and the throbbing sensation subsides a little between her leg, but only a little.

Idelle settles back in her seat a second time.

Miranda smooths her skirts down over her legs.

The opera plays on.

"More wine?" Idelle asks so innocently that Miranda has to smile.

"Please." She takes out her fan to cool her cheeks as she glances around. No one has observed their behavior or Idelle slipping back into her seat.

Idelle refills her glass and then her gaze lingers upon the fan in Miranda's hand. Miranda's breath catches. She knows exactly what Idelle is thinking and her cunt throbs in response. Idelle licks her lips in a decided way and smiles at her.

She takes the fan from Miranda's fingertips and runs her thumb over the ivory handle. With a wicked grin she reaches for Miranda's skirts again.

Miranda bites her lip as Idelle eases the fan handle inside her. It's delicate and smooth, a slim teasing weight inside her cunt. Idelle wields it deftly within her, fucking her with long steady strokes.

Miranda takes a sip of wine as she does. Normally the simple motion of the fan inside her wouldn't be enough to simply make her come but after the two previous orgasms she's feeling so delightfully aroused. Her clit is sharply sensitive and her cunt dearly aches for more attention.

She drains her wine and sets the glass aside. Idelle watches her as she does, moving her other hand to toy with Miranda's clit. A light brush or two of her nail and Miranda feels her cunt tightening, limbs falling open and eager for more.

Miranda closes her eyes briefly even as the sight of Idelle's fingers working between her thighs is a pleasing one. She focuses on the sensation of how Idelle fucks her with the fan handle. Each stroke leaves her eager and breathless. Idelle's featherlight teasing over her clit is both sweet and agonizing after the last orgasm.

Miranda feels herself tipping over the edge again and then Idelle grasps her clit between finger and thumb, giving her cunt one last tight stroke and Miranda comes with an unladylike moan.

She feels her body settle. The opera house air is stale and she desires suddenly to be outside.

Miranda opens her eyes. The fan handle sticks indelicately between her legs and she watches it with satisfied amusement before Idelle removes it. Idelle licks the handle before returning it to Miranda's handbag.

"There." She says as Miranda smooths her skirts a final time. "I do believe I've won."

"I do believe you're right." Miranda murmurs.

She gazes at Idelle fondly. "I've taken a house in Belgravia Square for the season." She strokes Idelle's face. "Come home with me and claim your prize."

"Of course." Idelle kisses her. "I picked up a new cock and harness while I was in Paris last and have been waiting to be with you again to try it out."

Miranda laughs and they settle down to watch the last of the opera together with their wine before they return home and enjoy the rest of the night.

[newstfionline]

Saturday, January 16, 2021

Hot again: 2020 sets yet another global temperature record (AP) Earth’s rising fever hit or neared record hot temperature levels in 2020, global weather groups reported Thursday. While NASA and a couple of other measurement groups said 2020 passed or essentially tied 2016 as the hottest year on record, more agencies, including the National Oceanic Atmospheric Administration, said last year came in a close second or third. The differences in rankings mostly turned on how scientists accounted for data gaps in the Arctic, which is warming faster than the rest of the globe. All the monitoring agencies agree the six warmest years on record have been the six years since 2015. The 10 warmest have all occurred since 2005. Temperatures the last six or seven years “really hint at an acceleration in the rise of global temperatures,” said Russ Vose, analysis branch chief at NOAA’s National Centers for Environmental Information.

A siege on the U.S. Capitol, a strike against democracy worldwide (Washington Post) As the Trump administration sought to drive Venezuelan autocrat Nicolás Maduro from power, activist Jorge Barragán embraced the effort as the good and moral crusade of the world’s greatest democracy. Then came the siege on the U.S. Capitol. The 22-year-old student activist watched “in shock” from his hometown in western Venezuela last week as a mob inspired by President Trump invaded Congress to attempt to overturn an election loss. Barragán could not pull away from the YouTube images showing the pro-Trump marauders acting very much like Maduro’s colectivos—the extraofficial thugs that keep opponents in check and a dictator in charge. “Our main ally in the fight for democracy has tumbled,” Barragán said. “What does that mean for us?” Four years of Trump had already dimmed the United States’ democratic bona fides. From Egypt to Honduras to Saudi Arabia to North Korea, Trump signaled tolerance for human rights abuses. Analysts now warn of a herculean task ahead for Biden. Global inequality, historic migration and deep polarization have driven satisfaction with democracy to disturbing lows. Biden could be weakened by the millions of Trump voters who still say his victory was illegitimate. Meanwhile, any attempt to preach the rule of law to [other nations] could draw calls to get his own house in order first.

Biden Outlines $1.9 Trillion Spending Package to Combat Virus and Downturn (NYT) President-elect Joseph R. Biden Jr. on Thursday proposed a $1.9 trillion rescue package to combat the economic downturn and the Covid-19 crisis, outlining the type of sweeping aid that Democrats have demanded for months and signaling the shift in the federal government’s pandemic response as Mr. Biden prepares to take office. The package includes more than $400 billion to combat the pandemic directly, including money to accelerate vaccine deployment and to safely reopen most schools within 100 days. Another $350 billion would help state and local governments bridge budget shortfalls, while the plan would also include $1,400 direct payments to individuals, more generous unemployment benefits, federally mandated paid leave for workers and large subsidies for child care costs. It is unclear how easily Mr. Biden can secure enough votes for a plan of such ambition and expense, especially in the Senate.

Mexico declines to prosecute ex-Defense Minister Cienfuegos on drug charges (Washington Post) Three months after Mexico’s former defense minister was arrested in Los Angeles on drug-trafficking charges—a shocking move that would strain U.S.-Mexican relations—the case came to a close on Thursday night, after Mexican authorities decided not to pursue charges against Gen. Salvador Cienfuegos. The U.S. Justice Department had initially billed the case against Cienfuegos as a blockbuster. The retired military leader was arrested on Oct. 15 on arrival at the Los Angeles airport on charges he had helped the H-2 cartel send thousands of kilos of heroin, cocaine and methamphetamines to the United States. But weeks later, after intense pressure from the Mexican government, the Justice Department made the highly unusual decision to drop the charges and send him home for investigation. The case illustrated the power of Mexico’s military, which has become the main force fighting the country’s criminal cartels. Under President Andrés Manuel López Obrador, the armed forces have also assumed a variety of other roles—running ports, delivering vaccines during the coronavirus pandemic, and building airports and other infrastructure projects. Many senior military officials were outraged at the detention of Cienfuegos, whom they viewed as an honest leader. They feared the U.S. arrest might lead to future investigations against other members of the armed forces, according to analysts and officials. Stung by the anger among the military and Mexican politicians, López Obrador threatened to limit anti-drug cooperation with Washington.

UK has ‘largest population fall since the Second World War’ (The Independent) Up to 1.3 million immigrants have left the UK—the largest population fall since the Second World War—with coronavirus the likely cause, a study says. In London alone, almost 700,000 foreign-born residents are believed to have moved out, leading to a potential 8 per cent shrinking of the size of the capital, it argues. The study, by the government-funded Economic Statistics Centre of Excellence (ESCoE), draws a clear link with the devastation inflicted by the pandemic on sectors such as hospitality. “It seems that much of the burden of job losses during the pandemic has fallen on non-UK workers and that has manifested itself in return migration, rather than unemployment,” the authors concluded. “It seems that much of the burden of job losses during the pandemic has fallen on non-UK workers and that has manifested itself in return migration, rather than unemployment,” the authors concluded. Brexit is not being pinpointed as a cause of the sharp decline, but could yet have implications for filling jobs when the economic recovery comes.

Dutch government resigns over childcare subsidies scandal (Reuters) Prime Minister Mark Rutte announced the resignation of his government on Friday, accepting responsibility for years of mismanagement of childcare subsidies, which wrongfully drove thousands of families to financial ruin. The resignation follows a parliamentary inquiry last month that found bureaucrats at the tax service had wrongly accused families of fraud. The inquiry report said around 10,000 families had been forced to repay tens of thousands of euros of subsidies, in some cases leading to unemployment, bankruptcies and divorces, in what it called an “unprecedented injustice”. Many of the families were targeted based on their ethnic origin or dual nationalities, the tax office said last year.

Spain rejects virus confinement as most of Europe stays home (AP) While most of Europe kicked off 2021 with earlier curfews or stay-at-home orders, authorities in Spain insist the new coronavirus variant causing havoc elsewhere is not to blame for a sharp resurgence of cases and that the country can avoid a full lockdown even as its hospitals fill up. The government has been fending off drastic home confinement like the one that paralyzed the economy for nearly three months in the spring of 2020, the last time Spain could claim victory over the stubborn rising curve of cases. Unlike Portugal, which is going on a month-long lockdown Friday and doubling fines for those who don’t wear masks, officials in Spain insist it will be enough to take short, highly localized measures that restrict social gatherings without affecting the whole economy.

Merkel’s CDU Gathers to Choose New Leader (Foreign Policy) The next chair of Germany’s Christian Democratic Union (CDU), and possibly the next leader of the country, will be decided over the next two days, as 1,001 party delegates meet virtually to select a successor to Chancellor Angela Merkel as party leader. No matter who wins, they will not only have to live up to German expectations, but the world’s too. For the third year running, Germany topped a Gallup poll where respondents were asked to rate their approval of a country’s leadership. A Pew poll of 14 countries, taken in the summer, showed confidence in Angela Merkel was at all time highs.

U.S. forces in Afghanistan cut to 2,500, lowest level since 2001 (Washington Post) The Pentagon has reduced the number of U.S. troops in Afghanistan to 2,500, according to a statement Friday, completing a previously announced rapid drawdown despite a Congressional prohibition of the move and rising levels of violence in the country. “This drawdown brings U.S. forces in the country to their lowest levels since 2001,” said Acting Defense Secretary Christopher Miller in the statement. Miller also said “the United States is closer than ever to ending nearly two decades of war and welcoming in an Afghan-owned, Afghan-led peace process to achieve a political settlement and a permanent and comprehensive ceasefire.” But violence is increasing in many parts of Afghanistan, and peace talks in Qatar have made little progress since they were launched in September.

N.Korea holds huge military parade as Kim vows nuclear might (AP) North Korea displayed new submarine-launched ballistic missiles under development and other military hardware in a parade that underlined leader Kim Jong Un’s defiant calls to expand the country’s nuclear weapons program. State media said Kim took center stage in Thursday night’s parade celebrating a major ruling party meeting in which he vowed maximum efforts to bolster the nuclear and missile program that threatens Asian rivals and the American homeland to counter what he described as U.S. hostility. During an eight-day Workers’ Party congress that ended Tuesday, Kim also revealed plans to salvage the nation’s economy, hit by U.S.-led sanctions over his nuclear ambitions, pandemic-related border closures and natural disasters that wiped out crops. Kim’s comments are likely intended to pressure the incoming U.S. government of Joe Biden, who has previously called the North Korean leader a “thug” and accused Trump of chasing spectacle rather than meaningful curbs on the North’s nuclear capabilities. Kim has not ruled out talks, but said the fate of bilateral relations depends on whether Washington abandons its hostile policy toward North Korea.

Indonesia quake kills at least 42, injures hundreds (Reuters) A powerful earthquake killed at least 42 people and injured hundreds on Indonesia’s island of Sulawesi on Friday, trapping several under rubble and unleashing dozens of aftershocks as authorities warned of more quakes that could trigger a tsunami. Thousands of frightened residents fled their homes for higher ground when the magnitude 6.2-quake struck 6 km (4 miles) northeast of the town of Majene, at a depth of just 10 km, shortly before 1.30 a.m. The quake and aftershocks damaged more than 300 homes and two hotels, as well as flattening a hospital and the office of a regional governor. The heightened seismic activity set off three landslides, severed electricity supplies, and damaged bridges linking to regional hubs, such as the city of Makassar. Heavy rain was also worsening conditions for those seeking shelter.

Palestinians announce first elections in 15 years, on eve of Biden era (Reuters) Palestinian President Mahmoud Abbas announced parliamentary and presidential elections on Friday, the first in 15 years, in an effort to heal long-standing internal divisions. The move is widely seen as a response to criticism of the democratic legitimacy of Palestinian political institutions, including Abbas’s presidency. It also comes days before the inauguration of U.S. President-elect Joe Biden, with whom the Palestinians want to reset relations after they reached a low under President Donald Trump. According to a decree issued by Abbas’s office, the Palestinian Authority (PA), which has limited self-rule in the Israeli-occupied West Bank, will hold legislative elections on May 22 and a presidential vote on July 31. Hamas, the Islamist militant group which is Abbas’s main domestic rival, welcomed the announcement. But veteran West Bank analyst Hani al-Masri was sceptical that the elections would happen. He cited internal disagreements within Abbas’s Fatah and Hamas, and likely U.S., Israeli and European Union opposition to any Palestinian government including Hamas, which they regard as a terrorist group.

CNN’s correction of the week (Business Insider) After a tumultuous week in the US, most Americans could likely use a little humor. And they got it in the form of an amusing correction from CNN regarding what Democratic Rep. Ted Lieu of California grabbed during the Capitol siege. “CORRECTION: A previous version of this story misstated that Rep. Ted Lieu grabbed a crowbar before leaving his office. He grabbed a ProBar energy bar,” a correction for a CNN story states.

[arsmara]

Captive Prince model AU

-

Damen flinched at the loudness of his steps. He slowed his paced a little bit but he knew it couldn’t really be helped since this particular corridor in all its majestic arches and tinted windows seemed to be as deserted as the previous one he came through.

Damen didn’t know if this precise quietness in the whole campus was a constant state of the University of Vere or if it was merely a consequence of everyone already being gone to save the seats for the tournament that was about to take place in about an hour. He didn’t mind the silence, to be honest. The building was quite the sight to see, so being on your own and lost was not really an issue as much as a risk of finding yourself overwhelmed in its extravagance and detail with the turn of every corner.

The only problem was he couldn’t remember the way to the locker room and there was no soul around to ask.

He had been walking for the better part of the last hour and the daylight had already dimmed to a bright orange hue all around him.

Damen could vaguely recall Nikandros telling him to go across the first courtyard and past the fountain (“Wait, an actual fountain?” “Yes, Damen, a fountain with colored fishes. Pay attention”) and take the north corridor, so he had walked with no luck through not less than four courtyards with different sets of ostentatious gardens and although there were definitely people there frolicking about in the private sections, that was the kind of scene he’d dared not interrupt. Not even in desperate need for indications, as he was.

Veretians, he thought when a barely concealed giggle followed by a moany ‘ow’ rose from behind a neatly trimmed flowery bush. For all the fuss on nudity, Veretians were really a case in study on disregard for privacy when dealing with their perversions.

When finally spotting the exuberant fountain (hidden between a thick clump of blue hydrangeas) Damen found himself before two doors that he assumed divided men and women’s room. With a relieved sigh and after readjusting the heavy bag on his shoulder he opened the door in the left.

He suddenly found himself in a very illuminated space with tall windows that reached the ceiling in the entirety of the wall across from the door. The atmosphere was warm and thick with the smell of something chemical in nature, acidic and strong, that Damen could not identify but weirdly reminded him of the lemony cleaning products to scrub bathroom floors. Looking around he saw that there were no chairs or benches but a wide circle of easels each with a wooden stool placed behind.

And then, inevitably, his attention was dragged to the very center of this arrangement. There was a pale and luminous effigy of some sort, human sized and with white feathered wings, sitting on a makeshift dais right in front of him.

‘Alright, this is…definitely…not the locker room.’

Damen blinked into the scene so as to command the view to rearrange into something logical. A pale fraction of skin was visible in between feathers and creases of white fabric that wrapped around its slender body and pooled around it on the dais. Even partially covered by the wings one could see the strands of fair blond hair in the nape of a very human head.

Of all the things he would have expected to find when crossing a doorway in a foreign building in a foreign land, this was the farthest from it.

Then the creature turned his head slightly to the side and Damen saw that it was, actually, a man. A beautiful blonde half-naked winged man sitting in a pose that seemed elegant and tiresome at the same time. A halo of sunlight burned through the edges of his head and feathers making it seem as he had a glow coming from within. A true celestial vision right out of an akielon myth.  

Or one of his weirdest sexual fantasies.

“You’re letting the draft in.” The blonde spoke without lifting his eyes from the phone in his hand and with a hint of annoyance in his voice of someone who has repeated this too many times before.

Damen was actually letting the draft in, though. He had been holding the door handle this whole time frozen in the entrance for the whole minutes that it took him to make sense of the scene. Damen rushed to shut the door and the loud sound echoed in the vastness of the room. He soon realized that he should have stepped outside before doing so but he quickly brushed the thought away. It was too late for that.

“Sorry.” said Damen in veretian. He had been in Vere for the whole day and the language came naturally to him at this point. “I-- got lost.”

The other man turned to properly look at him for the first time. He had striking blue eyes that scanned him from head to toe only to stop at his chest. Damen felt like he might have been doing something to his heart because it skipped a beat in the process. He wondered how all of this could be so unusual but so enticing at the same time.

“I’m afraid you are way off route, sweetheart.”

Damen looked down to realize that the focus of his attention was at the insignia on his jersey.

He offered a slight smile “I know; I came to represent my university in the sport summit.”

“Did you now.”

“Yes, I’m looking for the locker room.”

The blonde stared at him for some more seconds before turning back to his phone “Next door.”

“Thank you,” it seemed like the polite thing to say instead of ‘what the fuck are you supposed to be’ as he so fervently wished to ask.

Who was Damen after all, to question veretian worshipping practices. Or whatever this was.

“Do you need instructions to leave the room too?”

With a start Damen saw that the blonde was again staring sideways at him with those grave blue eyes edged in displeasure at his presence. “I – thanks. I know my way out.”

“¿Do I have to escort you out then?”

In spite of the provocation, he felt the corner of his mouth rise. “I would very much like that, but I’m afraid your wings might not make it through the door.” He saw the slight shift in the blonde’s gaze and Damen savored the pinch of satisfaction to notice he did not expect an actual response, “they’re quite large.”

The man tilted his head like a cat assessing a confusing behavior in his prey.

“But you did make it through.”

Damen couldn’t help but laugh at that. The veretian was spikey, he wasn’t expecting that. He wasn’t expecting any of this, really.

“Feeling better now that you took that off your chest?” said Damen drunk in the thrill of the rare moment. He knew that his size could be striking outside of Akielos. It was even in Akielos at times.

A smirk appeared in that pale face and he felt a shiver run down his spine, “It’s always a pleasure to welcome our rival brothers from Akielos,” the blonde continued, “especially since you all always seem to be on edge in matters of patriotic honor to my outmost enjoyment.”

Veretians and Akielons weren’t enemies and they hadn’t been for centuries, but there was always a natural rivalry that rose whenever the nations crossed each other paths in any scale. Never going beyond teasing but often shifting into subtle statements of one’s superiority over the other in matters of politics, sports and arts. Anatomy was also a favorite topic, apparently.

This seemed like the usual friendly banter, although it was common knowledge that Veretians seemed to enjoy disguising their true intentions under flourish and sweet voices.

Some poisons are inconspicuous, he reminded himself.

“I’d say you don’t know enough Akielons to back your remarks” said Damen.

After a moment the blonde spoke. “You’d be right.”

He felt, strangely, slightly pleased by this notion.  

“Although you could still prove me right” The blonde continued with a defiance set in his stare “I haven’t even yet pointed out your barbaric tradition of stripping naked to fight on the dirt like animals trying to assert dominance.” he then faked a surprised look “Oh, is that what you came to do?”

“Wrestling, yes.” Damen felt his grin widen in wit. “And let’s not pretend that you had the cultural equivalent back then, only it ended in rape.”

The blonde glared at him “Someone has done his homework I see.”

“Someone is a political science major.” And had studied veretian language and culture for three semesters.

“Really? I was just wondering what your major was. That wasn’t my first option though.”

“What was it?”

“Barbarian.”

The barbed words of the veretian did nothing but encourage him to fight back, to keep the mood weird and spicy and see where it would take them. He held his tongue, however, as he now was noticing what he had overlooked in his initial shock. In a quick glimpse he noticed the canvases on the easels. There were splotches of colors starting to become shapes and some strokes giving volume to a close impression of the winged figure. Many shades of white, yellow and red. Blue for the sky behind, peeking in the background.

And for his eyes.

Ah. Everything was finally falling into place.

He had approached the easels in a seemingly unconscious impulse to study the paintings better, and when he raised his eyes he saw the man had followed his movement with a quiet tension locked in his jaw and frown. Damen felt a rush of regret at his own boldness. He should have asked before getting closer when they were alone in a room and he was still a stranger. He cleared his throat to casually ease back into conversation.

“So, are you a model?”

A pale eyebrow raised in his direction. “Do you think I’d wear wings and an open dress for personal choice?”

“Well,�� Damen openly studied the attire, earning a scorn of the guy himself in return, “that is actually a chiton, a traditional Akielon attire,” he smiled as he stepped a little closer, “and I wouldn’t dare judge you on choosing to wear it.”

“Is it?” His lips curved in a cold smirk, he seemed to be holding an insult somewhere in there.

“Yes.” Damen shrugged, and then his mouth quirked helplessly. “It suits you.”

The blonde rolled his eyes. “Spare me the compliments, I’m not able to kick your ass from this position.”

Damen felt his smile widen. “Even if you could move, you probably couldn’t beat me,” and added “I’m really good at wrestling.”

The model huffed a humorless laugh.

“I guess we’ll never know.”

‘I guess you could know if you wanted to’ Damen didn’t say. He wasn’t supposed to flirt with Veretians, he knew. He almost could hear Nikandros scolding him. And Kastor. And his father…

A sudden realization caught his eye as he looked around one more time. “Why would there be paintings and model but no artists present?”

“We're on a 20-minute break,” the model said, “but technically there is an artist present now,” he turned his blue gaze back to him. "I also attend this class.”

"Oh? And how do you manage to paint yourself while modelling at the same time?"

He stopped himself from answering right away, visibly hesitating as he likely realized that he was interacting with a stranger on private matters.

"We," he finally pointed at the easels around him "all have to model for this class." A frustrated look. "It’s my turn today.” He let his displeasure show in every word.

A startling sound erupted from the door behind him. Someone was trying to push it open quite unsuccessfully. Damen arched an eyebrow to the other man in the room and he just gave a look that seemed to say do as you please and went back to scroll through his phone. ‘alright’ thought Damen as he went to open the door and a dark haired man entered the room with two steamy paper cups in his hands and walked past Damen to sit on one of the stools beside the model.

The winged man groaned a protest. “Lazar, could you please not let the door open while I’m in this state of nudity?”

“Vannes is coming behind me,” said the man as he handed him one of the cups and with a mischievous grin and a bow added, “Your highness.”

“Thank you,” said the blonde without acknowledging the mocking title. “Vannes, close the door.”

Damen turn around and saw a woman standing in the doorway staring intensely at him to then stop at the blonde man.

“My my, Laurent has a visitor,” she declared with a hint of provocation in her charming tone.

Laurent.

Damen couldn’t stop the rush of triumphant satisfaction from showing in his face at this new piece of information, but he could feel the curious gaze of the newcomers piercing him still, so he smiled and said, “I was just passing to admire Veretian aesthetics.”

“I see. Did you find something pleasing to the eye?” she asked, ignoring the poorly concealed scowl in her direction.

“He was just entertaining me while you left me to rot here.” intervened Laurent in a calmed tone.

“Quit being a bitter old man, you’re gonna wrinkle” said Lazar.

“Grampa Laurent” added the woman sipping from her own cup.

“Do you realize” retorted Laurent “that I have the power to ruin your work just by slightly shifting my leg to the side” he smirked at the pure horror that showed in both their faces. “Yeah, I thought so.”

Damen very deliberately did not entertained the thought of his legs parting underneath the cloth.

“You’re really playing your cast iron bitch card today.” Said Lazar with a cold grin.

“What I’m doing,” Laurent retorted, “is merely trying to protect my remaining dignity.”

“I say you must be hallucinating as to believe you still have some dignity left.”

“I say that’s probably because I’ve inhaled all the turpentine in the air.”

“It is quite heavy to breath in here.” Damen noticed.

“Oh no, that’s just the sexual tension in the room.” Lazar said in a low voice to Damen.

Laurent pretended not to hear.

“Is your friend gonna join us the rest of the session?” asked the woman, eyeing at Damen’s full body while producing a case from her bag where she seemingly kept her brushes.

“He was leaving for the sport summit to celebrate the new alliance between us and the university of Akielos.” He stopped talking just to add. “And he’s not my friend.”

“Really?” asked Vannes with renewed interest. “Tell me, are there Akielon women among your team?”

“A few, yeah. Although it’s mostly men.”

Vannes and Lazar exchanged a look.

“Are you really considering dropping the session to go check on some sweaty muscles.” Asked Laurent.

“Laurent,” Lazar said “It’s Akielon sweaty muscles. In the nude.”

Damen blinked in amusement at that. “We don’t really compete in the nude anymore, you know.” At least not since a couple centuries ago.

“Anyway” added Vannes, “consider this a better alternative to an anatomy class.”

“We’re doing it in the name of art and beauty.” Said Lazar already heading to the door. “Tell Berenger we’re failing the class for a good cause.”

“I’m not telling him anything on your behalf.”

Damen saw them leave and then they were alone in the room again.

They stared for an awkward instant until Laurent broke the silence, “So?” Why are you still here, he didn’t have to articulate.

The truth was, Damen didn’t even know why he hadn’t left yet.

He wasn’t going to tell him that, of course.

“It seems you’re to remain here for a while longer.”

“Well, it seems like you are doing exactly the same thing still.”

Damen looked at his position on the dais. “You are not allowed to move at all?”

“Nothing escapes you, does it.”

“Do you need anything?” asked Damen. “Before I go, I mean.”

Laurent closed his mouth suddenly taken aback by the offer, like kindness was the last thing he would expect from Damen. He narrowed his eyes as trying to read into his real intentions.

Damen shrugged. “Fine.”

“Wait.”

Damen froze in place having already turned away. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch in an attempted smile but he knew better than to aggravate Laurent any more. Judging by all the words exchanged today, he seemed to be on edge by his situation.

He heard Laurent give a long-suffering sigh. “Would you plug my phone?” He held his phone up as to illustrate the request.

Damen was beaming to comply but he held back just enough to look as pleased as he felt but not as much as to rush into his proximity. He reached for the phone and the accidental brush of fingertips with each other brought a sudden spike in his heartbeat.

“Where’s the charger?” he asked.

Laurent pointed at one of the bags hanging on the nearest wall. “Outer pocket on the left side.”

Damen plugged his phone and when he did, the screen lighted up for a short moment. The picture displayed was a painting of a very green landscape with a brown horse looming in the background. The brush strokes where rough and noticeable in certain areas but it held a lot of detail in others. It was eerie and delicate and probably it was Laurent’s work. It felt very intimate to see it, it probably was rude to do so. Damen looked away.

Laurent cleared his throat.

“Thank you.”

Damen raised both eyebrows at him. “What, are you so humbled by me plugging your phone that you decide to yield now?”

Laurent gave a soft chuckle and Damen thought he would never recover from the ecstasy of it.

“I think we are both running out of time to continue our tête-à-tête.” Laurent smile seemed honest now.

Damen conceded with a nod.

“I should really go now. My team can’t hold up without me” And Nikandros most likely must be wishing a slow painful death upon him right now.

“Aren’t you confident.”

“I know it.”

“So you think you’ll do well?” Laurent added with a hint of amusement.

Damen let his determination show in his expression. After all, he knew the extent of his capabilities.

“I intend to win.” Todays was only a friendly match, the real competition came on Thursday, but Damen meant it all the same. He always aimed for victory.

Laurent’s gaze fell on him. “That is,” he said with a defying undertone “if you ever leave.”

Damen smiled “Goodbye, Laurent.” He made the word roll in his tongue with a touch of heavy accent that made the blonde blush slightly, or so he wanted to believe.

He made his way out without looking back, feeling a warm hint of euphoria in his chest that he blamed on the anticipation of the tournament instead of the brief encounter with the amusing scene in the art studio. The darkness outside the bright room suddenly felt too unappealing compared to the scrutiny of the pair of blue eyes left behind.

It almost made him forget once again where he was supposed to be right now.

This was already becoming ridiculous.

-

Laurent stretched his limbs to let the blood reach every corner of his aching body. Curse Lazar for suggesting the costume.

Of course, if he hadn’t wear anything he could have taken a break with the rest of them, and he blatantly refused to pose nude. But such an attire required not only to not cover himself for warmness sake in between sessions (blame the blasted feathers and their proneness to fall away), it also made it impossible to move at all, for if a dressed model broke the pose all the creases and exact placement of the folds could never be replicated again and the image would be compromised for the artists. It was, utterly, a deadly trap.

At least he got to keep his underwear on. Small victories, he thought.

The numbness of his legs after spending the last two and half hours sitting in the same position had luckily dimmed away as he discarded the wings and finally made his way to the locker room to get dressed.

It was dark outside and the campus was quiet now that the tournament had finished.

He wondered if the Akielon won. Then he stopped himself from thinking in the Akielon.

Laurent walked to his locker and opened it. He considered taking a shower for a moment, but it was late enough to risk losing the train. He could relax later, at home.

He let the fabric fall around him –the chiton, he thought with a bitter grin –, and shivered in the cold air on his skin. He then proceeded to look for his clothes inside.

A rush of fast paced steps cut through the silence and the sound of someone storming into the locker room set his senses on alert, tension locking into his limbs, ready to act.

Laurent waited for a second, assessing the possibilities, before he peaked from behind the locker row to see who it was.

“Oh” a familiar voice. “Hi, again.”

Of course it was him. Laurent rolled his eyes at his own bad luck.

He noticed Laurent standing in just his underwear and quickly averted his gaze with a sudden blush darkening his cheeks.

“Sorry, I um…” he then pointed forward and disappeared through the adjacent locker row.

“You seem to really be angling for eloquence, I see.”

He heard the man snort softly in reply. Laurent was silently grateful for his tact to not step into Laurent’s space when he was, impossibly, in a more exposed state of dressing that the previous one they'd encountered each other.

Or where he had encountered Laurent, more precisely.

“I came to retrieve something; I’ll be leaving right away.”

Laurent ignored him to continue working himself into his clothes. It felt amazing to have pants on after so many hours of just the nothing. He was focused in getting inside his oversized grey jumper that had been Auguste’s before, when he heard the other man clear his throat as looking for an opening in conversation.

"Yes?"

“Are you heading home?”

“I am.”

“Alone?”

Laurent stopped in his track. He went round the lockers to face the Akielon properly.

“Why?”

The man frowned slightly at this, “It’s late.”

“The train station is nearby.” Laurent shrugged.

The Akielon smiled reassuringly and showed a pair of car keys, “I had left my keys on top of the lockers.” He explained, and then, “I can take you.”

Laurent stared intently at him. He was positive the man, either moved by his noble Akielon code of honor or just his own kindness held no ill intentions beyond the offering. He showed an openness that was hard to ignore once you managed to look past all of that body (and honestly, there was a lot of it). That didn’t meant Laurent had to easily go with it.

“I’m perfectly capable of going on my own.”

“I don’t doubt it. But I didn’t expect to find you again here and now I did, I won’t be able to rest easy knowing that I left you to go on your own at the risk of getting mugged or kidnapped.”

Laurent fought down a chuckle.

“Have you ever listened to yourself talk? I don’t know you, you could be a terrible driver and doom me to a very tragic accidental death or you could be a criminal, for all I know, luring me into your car to get your way with me.”

Something passed over the Akielon’s face then. For all his determination and air of leadership displayed before he now looked truly defeated by the mere thought of him hurting Laurent. Or maybe the thought of Laurent distrusting him.

“I would never touch you without your consent.”

Laurent deliberately brushed away the thought of the possible scenario in which he actually consented.

“Yes well, that isn’t happening tonight or ever.” Laurent grabbed his bag to walk out. It was late alright. “It’s not personal, it’s just a matter of common sense. I don’t even know your name.”

The Akielon’s eyes widened a fraction at this notion. Of course he had not realized.

“I’m Damianos,” he then added with a smile, “but my friends call me Damen.”

“Damianos” he tilted his head in acknowledgement. Not that it would matter, he still wasn’t going to go with him and this would likely be the last he’d see of Laurent.

He let the moment stretch as he checked on the time in his wrist watch. And when he turned for the door Damen interrupted once again his attempt to escape the overwhelming presence of him.

“What if,” he spoke slowly as to not scare Laurent any further. Not that Laurent was actually scared of him in the first place, “You drive us there.”

Laurent blinked into the picture of Damen purposely handling the keys to him in an act of foolish misplaced trust.

He truly would get himself killed at some point in his life.

“And you can hold on to my wallet and passport the whole time.”

Laurent gazed back into the Akielons honest expression. He didn’t know if the sudden interest he felt was towards the idea of him openly putting so much trust in Laurent or just the fact that he seemed to have the whole control of the situation; he knew that if he just told him to fuck off he’d leave him alone and yet –

He was actually starting to see the appeal in getting home earlier than expected.

-

[lavendersb]

A Moment of Delicacy

Chapter 1 - Kings and their Fellow Men

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Words: 5.7k

Summary: Broken people will seek those like them. A slow burn fic.

-

“Can you do that for me, dear?” His voice is low and filled with dangerous promises that make your fingers twitch with barely restrained excitement.

“This isn’t how I usually do this”

“I know. Think of it as a challenge my dear” He leans closer to you. You feel something move with him, it’s like the fantastical promise of a better life floats about him like a cloud. He smiles at your obvious desperation.

“Like a game”

 The sound of your spoon hitting the bottom of your empty stew bowl sounded like a gunshot going off in your small, empty house. You were suspicious, it was nearly 10 o’clock at night and you were undisturbed in your evening thus far. You had grown accustomed to your nightly visitors, a small but rather prominent gang of fools that terrorised your modest home tucked away in a remote corner of New Hanover. Each night they imposed themselves on your privacy, taunting you from outside your home and offering crude bargains for your safety. Each night you responded to them with the call of your shotgun.

You started to feel restless. Quickly you picked up your empty dinner plate and left it hastily in the sink of your little kitchen before briskly walking to you front door. Propped up beside the door is your rifle, sturdy and well used in recent weeks. It’s nothing too flashy, you can’t afford to be frivolous these days. It does its job, and that’s good enough for you at least.  

Snatching it up you move to the little hearth area near the front door. You sink into your father’s old armchair and hold the rifle over your lap, the chair has been moved from its usual place by the fire in favour of a view out of the window. From your seat you can see the little lantern that illuminates your front porch, and the one that is hung on a post in the grass away from your home, allowing you to see any incoming visitors.

You sink deeper into the chair. Its red fabric is worn in places and the stuffing is barely there, but you have neither the heart nor the money to have it fixed. The chair is one of the oldest things in your home, countless memories of your childhood revolve round the chair you’re sitting in.

You can clearly remember being sat on your fathers lap in this chair. Your godfather sits opposite you, his wife sat beside him on the low sofa as close as can be a picture of soulful fondness and love. They’re laughing at a joke your fathers told, one you can’t remember or were too young understand. You remember feeling for the first time since leaving your mother out east, you finally had a proper family again.

Your life has changed so much since then. Your godmother, dead for years now and your godfather too busy with his work to visit you, despite your almost monthly letter correspondence. Most drastically is the absence of your father who is buried beneath a modest gravestone in the Blackwater churchyard. Something in you stirs, though it’s been nearly a year since his passing, you still haven’t gotten used to that cold, lonely feeling that came as a result.

A noise startles you from your thoughts, and as has been the case for a the last few months, your grief is pushed aside in favour of your survival. It sounded like a whoop or wordless call, and echoes around your head in the silence of your home. You grip onto the shotgun tighter and lean forwards to take a look out of the window, nothing. There’s no movement in the darkness, and the lanterns out front don’t show anything different but that doesn’t calm the frantic beating of your heart.

Another sound comes out of the darkness, closer now, and distinctly human prompting you to jump from the chair and head straight for the door. You press your forehead against the wood of the door, try to quiet your breathing so you can listen out for whoever’s approaching your home, you can hear a low rumbling from somewhere nearby and your nose scrunches instinctively. You didn’t need to be a genius to recognise the sound of horses, five or six of them if their usual numbers are anything to go by.

The sound of the men carries over the sounds of their horses. Loud, abrasive to the ears and though you can’t make out the words distinctly, you can tell from their tone the men arriving are here to taunt and harass you again. You slide the latch open and reach for your key loop, you untie it from the waist of your skirt, quickly unlock your door and hide the keys in the draw of the side table.

You can hear the men outside now, probably circling their horses round as they laugh and call to each other. It’s with great displeasure that you note you can actually recognise some of the voices coming from outside, this has gone on for far too long. Turning the door handle you step out onto the porch.

“Here she is!” A faceless voice calls out from the darkness. You squint subtly to try and make out the speaker as your eyes slowly adjust to the night.

“Our lady of honour” the same voice finishes, and he’s followed by a chorus of unpleasant laughter. You can see the man now, recognise him even as one of the most regular of the gang to disrupt your evenings. He’s large, a great hulking man with thinning hair and a vile toothy grin. His voice as soft on the ear as gravel on tender skin. You stare him down preparing to begin your usual dance of defiance.

“Get out of here,” you warn shortly, raising your shotgun slightly to make a point of it. You’re tired, not ready to compromise or handle an argument, but your tone deals the venomous punch it needs to.

“No need for that sort of language darlin’” A tall, lean looking man calls out “that ain’t no way to treat a potential business partner”

A few men snicker at that, and you move the barrel of the shotgun to face their general direction in warning. You don’t want to fire, you’re dangerously aware of how much the ammunition costs, but you will if you have to.

“There isn’t anything ‘potential’ here. I’ve told you my decision and that’s final. Don’t mock my sensibility by suggesting you’re a business man of any sorts, you all are far too dim for that kind of critical thought” You snap.

“Now that aint polite at all,” The large one warns “we’re offerin’ to take you away. Keep you safe, and this is how you repay us?”

“Safety? That’s what they call being a whore for crooks like you is it?” You throw back venomously.

There’s a dangerous silence as the men look at you lowly. The laughing has long stopped, and your finger moves to rest against the trigger cautiously. The large man shuffles on his horse and speaks again.

“Now I think we’ve been playing this game damn near long enough now-“

“Yes at least we can agree on that” you interject coldly

He man stares at you angrily as his slightly skinnier companion nudges his horse forwards. Now in your line of site, his unholstered pistol glistens in the silver moonlight. The barrel winks at you tauntingly as it catches in the light.

“What I’m tryin’ to make a point of here, is we’re gonna give you one more week to make your decision. You can come over to our camp out in the forest, or we can take you their ourselves” the man nods to the shotgun in your hand, “Now we don’t want to do anything too extreme, we like our camp decorations to look pretty, but we aren’t opposed to using a little force”

“Get off my property” you snap as your blood runs cold. Lifting the shotgun, you aim towards the men in front of you.

“We’ll see you in a week or find us up in tall trees if you make your decision sooner” The man says with a satisfied smile, before turning his horse and spurring it onwards. With the thundering of hooves, the men disappear into the darkness leaving you alone on your porch. You listen until the sound of their voices and horses melt away and wait in the silence, breathing deeply and trying to rationalise your thoughts. Some part of you is irrationally scared, you supposed this had been coming for a long time with your constant rejections. Sure, the thought of returning to San Denis or traveling further east had crossed your mind, but now that you were being pushed into a corner, did you even have that option anymore?

Disappearing back into your house you slammed the door, bolting it shut and locking it tightly. With your heart hammering in your ears you closed the wooden shutters on each of your windows and retreated to your bedroom hastily. You stopped once inside, staring at the bedside table and debating with yourself.

You had held off on asking for help for so long, but now might be your only chance. Even if the letter didn’t get to him in time, if you left the location of the gang’s den in your letter, your godfather might be able to help get you free. You moved to sit on the edge of your bed, pulling open the bedside draw and fishing out the pile of neatly folded letters. The stack was bound with an off-white ribbon and contained a year’s worth of letters from your godfather that you often read in these times. You took the most recent letter from the stack and unfolded it, you skimmed over the general pleasantries, questions about your life, and wishes for your good health to find the little post-scriptum. An address and an alias to deliver the letter to sits tucked at the bottom as per usual, and you take this letter with you to the dressing table nearby the bed.

You take your pen and a fresh sheet of paper and lay them out in front of you, chewing at the inside of your mouth as you debate what to write.

Dear Mr O’Dowd

I apologize for the somewhat desperate tone this letter has been forced to take. It is with the greatest regret that I must inform you I have lied to you through or correspondences these last few months, I do so hope you can forgive me when I say I have unfortunately not been able to cope alone since my father’s passing.

A gang known as the O’Driscolls have been passing through these parts and have found pleasure in causing great discomfort to my nightly existence and have made rather apparent that I will join them, whether that is to my agency or not will be decided by the end of this week.

Since the death of my father I have been unable to return to work and so I have been financially burdened, and have no possible means to leave and start a new life elsewhere, as would be the most obvious solution in these circumstances.

And so in light of this I must ask that I could join you for the time being, until I can provide for myself again. My past work as a governess has given me skills I’m sure could be beneficial to your travelling workers, and if those fail to be useful, the particular skills I was taught in your company have not left me (I trust you understand what I am referencing to)

Should this letter not find you in time, you I beg that you come find me by “Tall Trees” not far from the town of Blackwater.

I urgently await your response,

 You hastily sign the letter, folding it up and sealing it properly and leaving it on your bedside table. You undress, ready for bed and lay your clothes out for the next day on the trunk at the foot of the bed and lay the letter on-top of your blouse. Tomorrow morning you will travel to blackwater and send the letter, but for now you have to try and sleep. You leave your shotgun beside your bedroom door just in case, climb into bed and blow the candle out.

  Hosea paced briskly into camp. his day had been quite uneventful, a ride into Armadillo that had needed to be done had taken up most of the morning, and now he was arriving back to the chaos of a camp ready to move. He could hardly say it was enjoyable.

In his age, Hosea had come to find that the noise of camp was only tolerable when he was in the best of spirits. Though he loved most of its members dearly, they did know how to get on his nerves quite comfortably.

Hosea’s tent had always been one of the last to be deconstructed for travel and today was no different, he went straight to the open tent, weaving through the noise of the gang to the outskirts of the camp.

He removed his hat, placing it unceremoniously on a crate and sitting himself down on his bed. He stretched, and leisurely opened his satchel. It contained herbs, mostly old ones from before they had arrived in the barren wasteland not far from Tumbleweed and between the plants nestled a letter Hosea had picked up earlier that day. He fishes it out and smiles as he unfolds it. He recognises the delicate font that addresses him by a false name and pries the envelope open, settling further into the shade of his tent as he prepares to read.

He finds himself at a loss once he finishes the letter. The woman who he knew since a young child was very clearly in trouble and urgently so. He had known this woman’s father from years ago, the two men had often worked together on elaborate cons, and in his time away from the gang Hosea had watched as the girl had learnt how to con and pick-pocket better than most. Hosea had been proud of how she operated with the assistance of himself and her father and didn’t doubt for a minute her use within the gang.

Taking the letter with him, Hosea leaves the cool of his tent into the abrasive heat of the midday sun. He spots Dutch on the opposite edge of the camp, smoking under the shade of the only tree with enough leaved to provide substantial shade and in heavy conversation with Arthur.

Hosea conceals his distress masterfully, approaching the two men. They’re enjoying a pleasant discussion, he can tell he can tell by the way Dutch’s voice carries over the noise around him. They’re joking about something or other. He almost feels bad for disrupting them.

“Hosea! Come here, I was just telling Arthur about that funny looking man we saw in town the other day” Dutch raises his cigarette to his lips, smiling around it as he waits for Hosea to comment, and he indulges his old friend, because he always does.

“Sure was a curious fellow wasn’t he. Can’t say I’ve seen many from high society round these parts before. Had the bowler hat and all”

“It’s a different world down here” Arthur says through his own cigarette.

“That it is,” Dutch says with a nod and sweeping gesture with his pointed fist “Far from the west, but this is a necessary interlude to our plans. Of that I am sure”

Arthur hums a half-hearted agreement and offers Hosea a cigarette. Hosea waves it off and Arthur shrugs as he takes it back.

“Dutch, I have to part from the gang for a couple days” Hosea says matter-of-factly. He’s found that this is often the best way to get what he needs from Dutch.

“And what do you mean by that?” He asks, voice dropping. Arthur bristles subtly and Hosea isn’t ignorant to the worried expression that paints his face.

“I mean only a couple of days,” Hosea assures, but neither of the men seem calmed by that “There’s a person I care very dearly for who is in great trouble. I’m going to collect her, bring her to camp and keep her out of harm’s way until she’s ready to move on.”

Dutch narrows his eyes, taking in what Hosea has told him with a defensive sort of attitude.

“You know we can’t take on any more members in the camp, especially if they aren’t bringing anything in” Dutch counters.

“I know Dutch, but she’s a talented pick-pocket-“

“All the girls are” Dutch throws back. Hosea straightens himself out as he prepares to make his point heard.

“She worked as a Governess in San Denis and Blackwater for influential and rich families. She has connections”

“So she’s the posh sort” Arthur adds

“Hardly, her family was dirt poor after paying for her education. Her father ran a few cons with me years back. I trusted him, and I trust her,”

Arthur takes a long drag of his cigarette as Dutch visibly debates the idea in his mind.

“Blackwater?” Dutch says finally.

“Yes, she doesn’t live too far from there” Hosea responds

“We was planning on heading out that way. We could go a little further, see what Blackwater can do for us”

Arthur looks between Dutch and Hosea silently, and Hosea nods.

“I’ll write to her then. Tell her to meet us in Blackwater come Thursday” Hosea says, satisfied he’s done his part.

“Make no promises. I want to meet her first, can’t just be taking any old fool into our ranks”

Hosea pauses for a moment and thinks. He trusts Dutch, always has done and probably always will do, but he also knows Dutch. He sees behind the scenes of Dutch’s people-collecting, Hosea knows how he operates and how he will only take in the most vulnerable people he can find, feed his ego as each new gang member owes him for their life. He’s probably established more debts than Strauss at this point.

A few different scenarios fly through Hosea’s head. He tries to decide what the outcomes of this might be. There’re too many pathways that this could take, and none of them all too reassuring so instead he decides to focus on his initial plan of helping you find your way again. He decides he’ll try to keep you as separate from the gang as he can, not that he doesn’t trust his little band of outlaws and their travelling companions, its just sometimes he has his doubts.

“Sure, Dutch. No promises” Hosea says as Dutch snubs his cigarette.

“I’ll see you when we head out” Dutch visibly shrugs off the conversation and leaves Hosea alone wit Arthur under the tree.

Arthur isn’t looking at Hosea, rather at a little brown bird that’s laded on a rock not too far away. Hosea see’s Arthur’s furrowed brows and watches the scrunch of his nose.

“What’s going on in that head of yours boy? I see you thinking”

Arthur makes a noise and pulls his cigarette from his mouth.

“You know me Hosea, I ain’t never been one for thinkin’”

“Oh sure,” Hosea quips sarcastically “You think about nothing but your next meal”

“Exactly” Arthur says, its empty and defensive humour. Hosea pauses before he speaks again, observing the dust that coats the tips of his boots first.

“What do you think about bringing in this girl?” he finally says.

Arthur tosses his cigarette away at that, stamping it out and turning to walk past Hosea.

“If you and Dutch think it’s alright, then I don’t care one bit what happens”

Hosea decides to leave it at that.

 The letter arrives on Wednesday.

You don’t even wait to get home before you open the letter. You tuck yourself into the corner of the Blackwater post office and tear into it, reading the cursive font faster that you can properly process the information. The message is brief, tells you that him and his “travelling workers” are moving towards Blackwater to search for work and him and his “colleague” would be at the Blackwater saloon come noon on Thursday, and that you should be ready to join them.

An instruction to pack lightly make you snort. That shouldn’t be difficult, seeing as you had hardly any valuables to bring with you.

Once home, you went straight to your bedroom. You crouched beside your bed, pulling out from underneath a trunk used for travelling. Its coated in a thin layer of dust, you haven’t used it since you returned from San Denis, but you hope that you might be getting a lot more use for it in the future.

You toss the trunk onto the bed, opening it and turning to your dresser. You pull from it a few skirts, blouses, a chemise, corset, and a few sets of bloomer and stockings. You pack them as neatly as you can, folding them tightly so that you can fit more into the averagely sized trunk. After a moment of deliberation, you take a shawl and use it to wrap your hairbrush, pocket mirror, and a pair of petty earrings. If you decide against them, you know you can always sell them in the future. You put the wrapped items into the trunk alongside a little fan and a tin of face powder.

You go to the kitchen, pull a revolver from the knife drawer and gather what little ammo you have left in the house. With the gun, ammo, a photograph of your father and, an old quilted blanket you finish packing, close the trunk and leave it by your bedroom door.

After dinner that night, you gather all the cutlery in the house, wrapping it in a cotton sheet and leave it on the kitchen table. Tomorrow you’ll take it to the general store and see if you can get any money for them. They’re not flashy, but they might get you something.

Finally, you feel satisfied that you’ve sorted yourself enough to leave home tomorrow. With the sun beginning to set, you turn to your father’s old armchair and move to sit down in it but stop just before you do. Instead you reach for the back of the chair, you manoeuvre it so that it sits where it used to before you had to move it. When you stand back to look at it, facing towards the fireplace, you feel the beginnings of tears threaten to spill. With the high back of the chair, it’s as though you could walk around it and your father would still be sat there, a book resting on his lap as he relaxes by the fire after a hard day at work. But there’s no fire lit, all the books in the house you have sold, and your father is dead in the ground.

Rubbing at your eyes you let out the shaky breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. You gingerly sit down on the chair, curling your legs up so that your sat completely on the chair. Your fists ball into the fabric of your skirt, and you allow yourself to have this moment of nostalgia before you go to bed. Before you leave your home again for good.

 When you wake, it’s morning. The cool morning light filters in through the curtains as your eyes groggily open. You rub at your face, and suddenly register what’s happening today.

“Shit!” You curse, jumping out of the chair and rushing to your room.

Here, you wash your face hurriedly, and attempt to calm your wild hair as best as possible. You change your clothes, pulling on a light blouse and dark blue skirt and putting what you changed out of into your travelling trunk. You inspect yourself in the mirror, and once you deem yourself presentable you head to the kitchen with your trunk, collect your overcoat and the wrapped cutlery.

You stop for a minute, take in the house as it is. You try not to look towards the red chair by the fireplace, but you do anyway. It hurts a little, but you pull your eyes away from it, step out onto the porch, lock the door, and leave.

 The cutlery had got you a handful of dollars. Not much, but with what little you already had, it was enough money to act as an escape route if you needed one. Holding your trunk tightly in your hand you walk through Blackwater, its nearly midday and you know Hosea will be here soon.

As you walk towards the saloon you notice a couple, young and well to do in lively conversation. They’re dressed in lovely expensive clothes and walk arm in arm. The man’s suit is spotless and perfectly fitted, and beneath her decorated hat, the young woman’s cheeks shine with a healthy pink glow. They look like prints that have strolled straight out of a magazine.

Whilst observing the couple you tripped, stumbling a little over a cobblestone and dropping your suitcase. Quickly you crouch down to collect it, stuffing the blouse that threatens to escape back into the trunk and fumbling with the claps. Another pair of hands appear and reach for your trunk, and you instinctively move to pull your belongings closer to you out of fear you might get stolen from, but you stop when you notice whose hands it is.

It’s the gentleman from the couple. He’s smiling cheerfully as he carefully helps you close the suitcase.

“Here, let me help you” His voice is bright as a whistle and you smile sheepishly back at him.

“Thank you. I was in a world of my own there” You laugh breathily as he stands the suitcase up and offers you his white gloved hand.

“Well it’s no harm to help a stranger in need” he replies as you stand.

His wife is close by now, her face just as bright and full as her young husband. Her blonde hair is swept away from her face elegantly and her eyes glitter with concern.

“Are you alright?” She says in a bright airy voice.

You find yourself blushing at her concern.

“I’m just fine, thank you” you smile.

“Oh here, take this” The woman says and fishes into her coat pocket.

You watch as she retrieves a little silk handkerchief and offers it out to you. Gingerly you take it from her little lace gloved hand and use it to dust your hands off.

“You must keep it,” she says “It matches your skirt”

It does, there’s a set of blue lavender embroided into the corners of the handkerchief.

“That it does” Her husband agrees.

“Thank you very much, both of you” You say with a smile, tucking the handkerchief into your own pocket.

“You’re very welcome. Take care now Ma’am” says the gentleman with a smile. He takes his wife’s arm, and the two of them walk off.

Continuing on, you walk towards the saloon, choosing to sit on a bench near the front and bask in the warmth of the crisp sunlight. You place the trunk beneath your seat and wait.

  “Now where did you find this little treasure then?” A voice from across the street breaks you from your relaxed spell. Looking up from where you’ve been waiting you take in the man walking towards you.

He’s dressed unusually. Not unattractively, but it still seems like a costume for a pantomime villain or a circus ringleader. His pinstriped suit is adorned with gold details, buttons and chains that catch the sunlight and wink at your eyes as he moves. Rings adorn his fingers in abundance making him seem like some sort of emperor, and you can’t help but think this might be the sort of man you’d steal from, had it not been for the elaborate duelling pistols that he has draped across his hips.

When you see Hosea beside him you stand, a grin automatically leaps across your face despite the somewhat uncomfortable introduction his friend had made.

“Well San Denis I believe, but before that out here in West Elizabeth” Hosea says as he takes you in.

Hosea extends an arm and pulls you towards him and you accept the embrace happily. It’s been too long since you’ve seen him in person. He’s aged so much, his stature a little less imposing than it used to be, but he carries his age in a way that very few can. It’s sort of like his character was supposed to be in this body and was simply waiting until it came to fruition.

“Thank you for this,” you said softly and earnestly, so that only Hosea can really hear. You’re still slightly wary of the man that’s come with him, not ready to trust him quite yet.

“It’s quite alright. Get your bag, let’s go inside” He says, turning you around “What do you think Dutch? Do we have time for a drink?”

The name hits you the second that Hosea says it. You’re reminded of stories that Hosea would tell you when you were younger of his partner in crime. A valiant outlaw king who lead his gang with a firm but fair hand and committed heists of such grandeur it made most other gunslingers look like children.

You’re suddenly aware of the fact your awe must have shown on your face, as Dutch laughs a little and puffs his chest up. You can practically see his ego glowing happily, the thought that he probably hasn’t been recognised for a while and is living for your childlike wonder passes through your mind.

“I should hope so” He says in his distinct voice, and gestures with his arm towards the door of the saloon.

Taking your trunk, you let the two men walk you into the saloon and take a seat by the window overlooking the street outside.

“I will say it was quite a surprise when Hosea wanted to bring you into our camp” Dutch says as he takes a seat opposite you, and you feel suddenly as though you’re about to be interrogated. Hosea gives you a look as if to say he can’t help you, and you settle back into your seat.

Dutch calls for a set of whiskey’s that you accept gratefully, and he begins to press at you, though he does a masterful attempt at disguising his questions. You entertain him, giving him the answers you know he needs to hear, feed that broken ego by telling him how much you’ve heard of him, and how you truly have no other option but to ask for his help. You take care to place emphasis on how you’re entirely at his mercy in this situation. Subtly Hosea nods and smiles as he listens to you. He’s not looking at anyone in the conversation, but rather the fly that’s investigating the surface around his whisky glass. There’s something akin to pride that settles on his hardened features as you talk, and you’re acutely aware of the way this faded hero of the outlaw world dressed in kings’ clothes laps up your pity story with vigour as you lay it out in front of him.

“Well I’ll say it certainly seems like you’re in quite the situation” Dutch says as he runs a finger over the rim of his nearly empty whisky glass before flicking it and letting the dainty noise ring out. Hosea looks at Dutch then with expectancy.

“Yes, it’s become rather difficult”

Hosea raises an eyebrow at your hidden sarcasm, but Dutch doesn’t seem to pick up on it. This is a language that you and Hosea have studied thoroughly seems to travel over Dutch’s head. You now know why Hosea stays so close to him, you can tell this man would fall for any flattery trick you threw his way. He would be most easily manipulated if you needed to, he’s quite vulnerable to a con with that rusted crown falling over his eyes.

“You must understand that everyone in my gang is very dear to me, and the gang is very dear to them. They all pull their weight for the greater good of the family,” you can feel an offer hiding behind his teeth, just waiting for the right time to come out “would you do that? ‘Sing for your supper’ so to speak”

“Of course,” you offer without hesitation

He nods, leaning back in the chair slightly and looks at Hosea for a moment before turning back to you. He rests his hands upon the table, and now you can see the faint scars that hide beneath his golden rings.

“I want you to prove that to me,” He says, he looks like he’s presented you with a meal after you’ve been starving for months, benevolent and gracious.

“How?” you ask after a moment of seeking Hosea’s eyes.

“I want you to rob someone. Should be simple enough” Dutch looks past Hosea and out onto the street “Like him. I want you to steal something from him”

Your response gets trapped in your throat when you follow Dutch’s subtly pointed finger. There’s no question as to who he’s asking you to rob as the only people on view are the couple from earlier. Some voice in you tells you not to do anything, to reject the offer and suggest perhaps one of the men within the saloon, but there’s an air of finality it the way that Dutch had said it that makes you think it’ll do you no favours to try and change his choice. Yet despite this their little show of kindness had made you against the idea of stealing from them.

“Can you do that for me, dear?” His voice is low and filled with dangerous promises that make your fingers twitch with barely restrained excitement.

“This isn’t how I usually do this” you say, trying to hide your reluctance.

“I know. Think of it as a challenge my dear” He leans closer to you. You feel something move with him, it’s like the fantastical promise of a better life floats about him like a cloud. He smiles at your obvious desperation.

“Like a game”

-

You can also find this on AO3 by the way! Feel free to drop in an ask about what you want to see or anything you want to know!

[realactualfancontent]

A very late Christmas Special.

Emmaline, Lucy and Terrance hang out on Christmas night and tell ghost stories.

Lucy sprawled across the bench nearest her crypt, holding her hands above her to admire her new gloves in the faint moonlight. She was dressed almost entirely in new things and it felt wonderful. She really hadn’t been expecting anyone to think of her at all this year.

The bench itself, surrounding tombstones, and even the entrance to the Westenra crypt were all as well-dressed as she was, it was a last minute job, yes, but it was festive enough. If on some level, a little sad.

From a distance came the crunch of quiet feet on snow. Likely only Audible to Lucy, she perked up immediately, a blur of movement, and she was in a sitting position, pulling her new cloak around her tightly, before waving Emmaline over as she came into view.

The shorter woman was in full winter wear. Typically undecorated, although Lucy had to smile at the brooch she wore, costume jewellery of course, but Emmaline was very fond of the stars, and Lucy thought it suited her. Lucy’s perfectly white smile widened when she saw the box in Emmaline’s hands.

“Oh you brought a gift!” 

“Oh yeah, it’s just a little something. I guess you’re not doing the gift thing this year.” Lucy’s eyes darted once again to the brooch as she fought a smile. 

“Oh, no, I wasn’t really thinking about it this year.” Lucy offered an apologetic frown while congratulating herself on successfully being sneaky. 

"Should I open mine?“ 

"Yeah! I hope you like it.”

Lucy opened the small box and pulled the comb out carefully, holding it up to examine it more closely in dim moonlight.

"Oh, it’s lovely!“ She exclaimed, before using it to tuck a lock of hair into place.  "I’ll wear it all the time.” Her elongated canines caught the light as she beamed.

“Are those the fangs? Can I see them.” Emmaline moved impulsively to get a closer look at Lucy’s mouth. And the vampire stumbled back startled, preternatural grace not helping her here. 

“Oh, I’d rather,” she paused here. Wanting to impress upon her friend how being close to Lucy’s teeth was a monumentally risky thing to do.  But not wanting to frighten her off in the process.

"I’d just rather you didn’t.“ A weak smile of apology, one with no teeth.

"But I could show you how I turn into a bat if you’ like.” Perhaps that would prove a distraction. 

“If I’d like? YES I WOULD LIKE? Can you do mist too? What about wolves? CAN YOU TURN INTO A BUNCH OF RATS AT ONCE! LUCY SHOW ME THE RATS!”

Emmaline positively vibrated with energy. Bouncing on her heels ever so slightly as she let out her string of rapid questions. 

“Well, I can do some of that, just, give me a moment.” 

Lucy took a deep breath and thought bat thoughts. Then slipped seamlessly from one form to another. The tiny white bat flitted about Emmaline’s head to the other girl’s delight, flying quick circles, before shifting to the form of a fine mist that nearly blended with the snow, then back to a bat, then mist.

Emmaline watched with undivided fascination, missing the heavy footfalls that approached them.

“Showing off are we Miss Westenra?” Terrance Bagsby’s gruff voice called out, catching both of them off guard,  Lucy swirled gracelessly into her human form, a touch more dishevelled now than before.

“Oh, Mr. Bagsby you’re here!” Lucy exclaimed, waving excitedly to the older man. 

“You didn’t say you were bringing friends.” 

“It was rather list minute, it’s not a problem, is it?” In many respects it was still Mr. Bagsby’s graveyard, he worked there after all, and he was supposed to keep people out.

 He looked at the two young women and shrugged. "Nah, not really.“

 Lucy beamed in relief, "In that case, Mr. Terrance Bagsby this is Miss Emmaline Clarke, she’s a friend of mine from school, who I’ve recently become reacquainted with. And Miss Emmaline Clarke this is Mr. Terrance Bagsby, he works here and has been immensely helpful to me as of late.”

 “Chuffed to meet you.” Terrance said, doffing his hat in an excellent impression of a gentleman. 

“You too,” Emmaline said, extending her hand to shake. He took it not expecting the force Emmaline put into it.  Talking a mile a minute as she did.

 “I bet you see a lot of cool things working in a graveyard? Are there any other vampires around, what about ghosts? What about zombies?“

 “Oh, I’ve seen my share,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eye as he sized the girl up.

"Care for a story or two?“ He asked, and Emmaline’s whole face lit up. "More than anything.”

Terrance let out a soft laugh as he rifled in his coat pocket for something, coming up with a tarnished flask. 

“You two ’ll have to share seein’ as I was only expecting one of you only brought the two glasses.” He said, before taking a quick sip for himself. Before putting his bag on the snowy ground, holding out the flask.

"One of you hold onto this would you, I’ll get to story time in just a tic.“ Lucy took it politely, and waited for Terrance to finish rifling. 

"Where is that you want me to start by the way? Ghosts or ghouls?” He pulled out the tumblers and held them out for someone to take off his hands.

"Ghosts.“ Emmaline answered emphatically after a moment of deliberation, taking the glasses as she did.

"Good a place as any.” He shot her a quick grin. "Miss Westenra I’ve got something for you.“ He held out the bulbous package, haphazardly wrapped in brown paper. 

"Merry Chr- Happy Holidays.” Lucy handed him back the flask, and took it hastily. Tearing through the paper like a piranha. And frowning as she held the lantern up. 

“Figured it was practical, seein’ how it’s dark in there and all.” 

“Well, yes, but that’s not an issue for me.” Lucy said, trying not to sound to put out by such a practical gift. "I’ll just put it in the crypt, I have I something for you as well.“

She was gone in a blink. A blur. 

"Is she always so fast?” Emmaline asked, tremulous with excitement.

 “Unfortunately.”

She was back almost before he'd spoken, a small package in hand.

“I noticed there were holes in the old ones.“ Lucy offered. Terrance pocketed his flask again, to open it up, more carefully then Lucy had.

"New gloves?” He asked, an uncharacteristically fond smile on his face, “aren’t you thoughtful. I love ‘em.”

His glance shifted to Emmaline, who looked if not left out then at the very least antsy. 

"Sorry I don’t have anything for you miss. I’d split my sandwich if you like corned beef.“

"Sure, but you know what I really like?  Ghosts!” 

“Right, right, ghost stories. Guess I should start with the first one, the church grim.”

Terrance proceeded to spin a tale of the black dog that people saw so often skulking about. About how all graveyards have them, but Hampstead Heath’s was an especially terrible one. Real vicious, and quick to attack anyone who shouldn’t be skulking about.

Leading the girls on a walk as he did so, winding through tombstones and statues until he paused to lean up against a towering monument of an angel. 

"Was right here I saw it, I was behind this statue, sneaking up on some grave robbers and I saw those terrible eyes.“

He grinned at the girls, relishing the rapt attention of Emmaline and shifting discomfort of Lucy. Funny that a creature of the night was so easy to spook with these things.

"Of course I didn’t have time to warn them, and I know if I had I wouldn’t of been allowed to walk away, as soon as I could make the shape of it out, I turned to run. Sometimes, I think I can still hear the screams, especially here.”

And as if on cue there came a mournful howl through the tree branches. Lucy shuddered visibly. Emmaline jumped.

“Was that them?” 

“Might be, might be a lot of things.” 

“Oh can we stop, please,” Lucy sighed. 

“Ain't scared are you?” 

“Yeah! I bet you could kick a church grim’s butt!” 

“Oh, no.” Lucy demurred, tucking some stray hair behind her ear, and fidgeting with her new hair comb. "I’m really not suited to combat. Not even a tiny bit.“ 

"But don’t you have cool vampire powers?” 

“Well, yes, but, I just- don’t like violence.” 

“Maybe we should move along before we tempt fate then? Never know when old Grim might show up.”

 Lucy bristled again. Grabbing Emmaline by the arm and pulling her along, toward more familiar tombs. Leaving Terrance to follow behind them shaking his head.

When Lucy was back in her comfort zone, the Westenra Crypt, with its cheery last minute Christmas bows she stopped. And Terrance took a seat on one of the benches.

 “Either of you two want some whiskey? Little bit of liquid courage might help Miss Westenra prepare for round two.” 

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt, Emmaline?” 

“Sure!” Lucy got the tumblers and Terrance poured them both a shot.

"I'll just use this.  He said gesturing to the flask.

As everyone prepared to take their drink Lucy stopped them. 

“We should have a toast. It’s Christmas!” 

“Oh, yeah, a toast!” Emmaline thought that sounded like the kind of thing you should do at a Christmas party. "What too?“ 

"New friends, in unexpected places?” Terrance offered.

“Oh, that’s excellent! To new friends in unexpected places then!” Lucy motioned to clink glasses and the others joined.

Lucy shot back her drink like it was nothing, Terrance took a long swing, and Emmaline started coughing on the alcohol. 

“Sin- since when do you drink?” Emmaline asked, looking at Lucy who was quite at ease with her whiskey. 

“Only recently really, I barely feel it and it’s warm.” Lucy answered brightly, finding a tombstone to perch on, as Terrance had stolen the bench. 

“And I suppose it worked because I think I could stomach another ghost story. So long as we don’t go on any more walking tours.”

Despite her own discomfort the other two were having such fun, she couldn't bring herself to put a damper on it.

This was all the permission Terrance needed to into a story about the ghost of a small girl, or at least, what seemed to be a small girl… not that he could get very far into it without one question or another from Emmaline.

Eventually, with no shortage of interruptions and asides he made it through, first one story, then another, pausing a moment to ask Lucy something relevant. 

“Did you talk to your ghoul friends by the way?” 

“Oh yes, I told them to stop being messy.”

 “Thanks, now where was I? Right, thing in the crypt calling out to me, pretending to be my Gertrude, the fucking nerve. Of course, I didn’t go in. Probably ought to seal it up a little tighter.”

He carried on, finishing his tale and standing up a moment to stretch. "Alright, that’s it, three’s the magic number. Someone else’s turn.“ He was running out of stories, and the steam to tell them.

He looked from Emmaline to Lucy, as both of them declined. Emmaline demurring that she hadn’t actually seen anything supernatural. Lucy was the only monster she’d met really.

Lucy herself looked terribly awkward herself. "Just because I’m a vampire doesn’t mean I spend my time cavorting with the unknown. And every supernatural creature I have met has been terribly mundane upon further acquaintance.”

“Christ almighty, they’re ghost stories, they don’t have to be true.” Terrance sighed exasperatedly. 

"Come on, just make something up.“ 

Lucy fidgeted with lace cuffs, and Emmaline toyed with her empty tumbler. 

"It’s just for fun.”   Terrance coaxed.

“Well, I suppose we could, Emmaline, you know a lot about ghosts, you can come up with a ghost story can’t you?” 

Emmaline considered for a moment, looking thoughtful. “Alright. I guess I know one or two…” 

After an expectant pause Emmaline launched into the tale of The White Lady of Ogmore Castle, who guarded a treasure but would give half to any man brave enough to approach. However, when a fool tried to take all of it she turned her hands into sharp claws and stabbed into him. Making him waste away and die with her powerful ghost magic.

She entirely forgot to make it frightening, being far, far to excited about the concept of curses and treasure.

Lucy applauded politely as the other girl finished and let out a small yawn which she covered with her hand. Prompting Terrance to check his pocket watch.

“Think it’s about time we call it. I’m switching shifts soon, and I don’t want either of you getting caught here. Besides which sun’ll be up soon.”

Lucy let out another yawn before protesting childishly. "Nonsense!  I’m fine, really, the sunlight is hardly a bother!“

Terrance gave her a look. "Back in your crypt young lady. I’ll walk Miss Clarke to the gate.”

He rose, stretched and cracked his neck. Waiting for Lucy to seal herself back up for the day.

She trudged over to the doorway which still stood ajar and idled there. “Thank you both for coming to visit me." she offered. “No trouble at all love.” “Yeah, I can’t think of any place cooler to spend the holidays than a graveyard!”

And with that, and some more final holiday wishes Lucy slipped back to her coffin to sleep for the day, and Emmaline and Terrance made their way out of the graveyard and back to their homes.

Probably to do the same.

[calleo-bricriu]

"Why are you like this?"

(( I’d apologise for him, @absintheabsence but we both know that’d be an entire lie. A continuation of 1986. ))

Grindelwald had asked him that question more than once in the past few weeks, and it hadn't escaped Calleo that he'd asked the same thing a good forty-ish years ago as it was difficult not to. Half the time, the things Grindelwald had said or done, even with explanation, were things Calleo hadn't been able to ever fully wrap his head around.

Then again, wrapping one's head around someone else's madness is often difficult.

This time, he decided to answer what held a good chance of being a rhetorical question.

"Do you have any idea," Calleo briefly glanced up from a stack of papers he'd been going through, if only to gauge the general mood of the room, "when the last time I had any time at all away from work was?"

"1945. Early May," back to the papers, "and even now, I'm still working. It's impossible to get away from it entirely; I'm not sure what I'd do if I could at this point. Director Yandle retired, you know." The topmost piece of paper was signed and disappeared.

"Not dead retired, retired retired. 1976, about the time Voldemort was finally starting to be taken seriously as some sort of threat. Said he didn't want to deal with that sort of thing again and I ended up with his job." The way he was talking sounded more like a narration than a conversation in which another person was involved, likely on account of Calleo's main focus being clearly on the stack of papers he was still looking at. "Out of the three he hired to replace the three of yours he sacked, two of them fucked right off when told it would be their only opportunity to do so if they were leaning that way. Pity, really; if they'd stuck around a bit longer they might have realised--"

Dry laughter stopped him momentarily, even if it was more than a little inappropriate. "I told them if I found out they were, they'd find out how much worse I could be, which they took to mean they were free to leave unharmed; I forwarded their information up to Crouch who, I might add, ended up being demoted to a useless paper pushing job after that war for how over the top vicious he was in his belated response to Voldemort. A lot of executions and life terms in Azkaban without trials or with trials but without any evidence."

"So, that takes up a lot of time, all the overhead of running even a small department and doing the job I was doing prior because I'm not inclined to get the three I have now killed by handing it off entirely." Three more papers disappeared. "After that was over--it wasn't."

"I don't know how much you've heard over the past few decades, but there were a handful of things about Voldemort's death that didn't seem to alarm anyone, really; well," for the moment, Calleo did stop working on whatever he was working on and looked up, "not anyone who should have been alarmed--no, no, that's not accurate either. Nobody in a position that should have been alarmed was alarmed."

"I was alarmed; they never found a body, and that kid had the cast pattern of a killing curse burned onto his face. That's not supposed to happen. There are very, very few ways that could happen, even if it had backfired, it should have burned HIM, not his target. Anyway, it was less of a backfire and more of a 'Despite the high probability that I've done some extremely detailed and high level blood magic to make sure it's incredibly difficult to actually kill me, I never learned the basics and didn't even consider the possibility of protective blood magic stopping me from killing a child in front of his mother' sort of thing most likely."

He smiled brightly, "But, really, who would listen to the Librarian of Obscure and Terrible Things? Why would you even bother to ask someone like that if they might have some sort of idea there when it's so much easier to go with 'well, he's clearly dead because there were four people in the house and only three bodies, living or otherwise, nothing strange here.'" Whether he was being sarcastic or not wasn't immediately clear.

"Albus Dumbledore (( @everyheartbesure is 100% not allowed to lecture Calleo on his choice of vacation spots. :) )) noticed though, and I know he noticed because he wrote me in the immediate aftermath all but asking me to tell him he was being irrational and a bit insane for thinking that Voldemort wasn't merely or most sincerely dead,” Any seriousness or weight what he’d said to that point might have carried was dampened by the fact that he sung that last bit of phrasing, “which I couldn't do on account of what I said just prior to--" Calleo stopped and blinked at nothing a few times before laughing, "You know, I don't think I ever mentioned that we've been friends since about 1930! First and only person in my entire career to write me telling me he'd read some of my papers and followed that up with Transfiguration and not Dark Arts! You have no idea how tired I was and still am of people only ever having read THOSE papers and never the much less horrible, much more interesting ones I've done on Transfiguration!"

"At any rate, it was an invitation to collaborate on research if I wanted to. Which I did, obviously, and it turned out we got along exceptionally well! Well enough that Fawkes was trying and succeeding to preen my hair within thirty seconds of meeting him as well. Still does, which is odd, most animals avoid me," Calleo shrugged and part of his attention drifted back to the dwindling stack of papers in his lap, "Anyway, he wrote me about it primarily because he's always known where I work and what my work's primary focus has been, it'd just never really been a topic of discussion because it wasn't of interest to him and I don't care to push that sort of thing on people; he's still managed to never even look into the things I'm more well known for writing and by that point I'd asked him not to, at least, not while I wasn't around for a whole hell of a lot of reasons, chief of which being that it's all rather horrible and I would absolutely feel the need to explain myself through every terrible thing I've had published."

"But, the point is, he knew it was my area of expertise and the likely reality was--because of that expertise--likely a lot worse than he'd imagined, and he's not really wrong, I'm just so desensitised to it that it hardly registers as anything other than textbook knowledge half the time which meant it wasn't all that difficult to convince him to let me handle that side of the whole mess."

Another couple papers disappeared, "And it is a mess, make no mistake about that; the Ministry is adamant Voldemort is dead and any mention of the contrary all but gets a coordinated campaign of discreditation started against whoever won't toe the line. Unfortunately for them, the general view is that anyone working in the Archives is already a little bit to moderately mad, so it has no effect on me and I know a lot of people who either owe me a whole hell of a lot of favours or who have a vested interest in not letting another slightly genocidal Dark Lord get a foothold in continental Europe again. Goblins, mostly," Calleo grinned at his papers, "you didn't get them all, you know, I had three left by the end and only rebuilt from there. I still work just as closely with Lagraff, Koggot, and Aldig and they'd already started before Albus asked when I could GET started!"

"But, the most interesting thing I'd caught was while Voldemort was still counted among the living: The scraps of your little empire, the ones who hadn't been locked away for life or executed, they initially watched Voldemort with mild interest that quickly turned to open, hostile disdain as he kept flailing against an already ineffective, disorganised, panicked government and made no substantial public or political progress while trying to sell himself as something--better--to them. An odd number of them also hold positions in various governments and have either worked with me for years now which is, in some cases, exactly as awkward for them as you might imagine, or owe me a substantial number of favours or debt."

"And this?" Calleo twirled a finger at the ceiling of the dreary, depressing, and rather dim tower cell, "This is the closest thing to a holiday I've had in over forty years, and even then, even you have to have noticed that I routinely have to hop outside that window and away from the magic smothering nonsense of this building because if I'm muted or 'fuzzy' for too long, too many people notice and get a tiny bit alarmed."

"That's why I'm 'like this'! I haven't had a day off in forty six years and the last time I had any time away from work it was STILL up a tower locked in a room with you! Now that I think about it, every single time I've been away from the Ministry for any extended period of time, it's always ended with me somehow being stuck somewhere with you! You're the human equivalent of one of these things!" Calleo dug around in his pockets while he wrapped up that minor rant and pulled out--something--that was whipped across the room, aimed directly for Grindelwald's forehead.

It was--sticky and soft and a thin thread of it led back to Calleo's hand. The end that wound up on the side of the cell Grindelwald was on looked a bit gummy and a lot hand shaped.

[symflash]

Ultimate Spider-Man Symflash headcanons

Because I can’t write, I can’t draw, and I can’t pay other people to do it for me.

* The symbiote that's with Flash is a fragment of the larger chunk of symbiote that went down with the Helicarrier in season 1, episode 26, and not the brand new symbiote created in season 3, episode 2. Consequently, they remember Harry, but not the time the Goblin injected Peter with Venom (different fragment).

* Also, in this continuity, "Venom" is actually the name the symbiote picked for themself.

* Venom was a blank slate at their birth, like an infant, with zero concept of morals or social mores. They might've been able to suss it out by osmosis from their hosts' brains, if their most long-term host hadn't been Harry "I hate my dad and I wish he was dead" Osborn.

* Flash's and Venom's first dance as Agent Venom went something like this: Venom: “Okay, I think I've cracked the code. Every time I assert my personhood separate from my host, I get electrocuted to smithereens. So maybe if I... pretend to be an inanimate object, act super low-key, this new host won't notice, and I can delay my next near-death experience.” Flash: "This is awesome! You're awesome! What's your name? I'm Flash! Do you wanna be friends? Do you like football? Do you know what football is?" Venom: *tears streaming down their metaphorical face* "wHAt tHe fUcK Is goINg oN"

* That was not the moment Venom decided to bind themselves permanently to Flash, though. That happened after Beetle tried to hit them with a sonic blast. Venom was in pain, and Flash was telling them not to be scared, because Spider-Man would help them, they could trust Spidey. That was Venom's first exposure to the concept of trust. And after they saw that trust paid off, they decided to trust Flash. And their trust paid off. Flash: "Did you hear that, buddy? You won't have to leave after all! Isn't this great?" Venom:

* Flash's training period at SHIELD was mostly dedicated to teaching human morality to Venom and training himself to not refer to himself as "we" (it gives the people with the sonic guns twitchy trigger fingers).

* Sure, I could NOT shoehorn in Flash's comic book backstory. But I'm a slut for cheap angst, so I'm gonna. ** Flash didn't so much live at the gas station as he squatted there after running away from home. ** The smell of alcohol is a trigger for him. He drops off the radar on his 21st birthday because he's terrified his friends will try to take him to a bar.

* Flash and Venom converse telepathically more often than they let on. They like to do Mystery Science Theatre 3000 running commentaries during boring meetings. They also do a psychic duet of Bohemian Rhapsody whenever a known mind reader walks into the room. Just in case.

* Venom thinks the fact that Flash was The Very First Host They Ever Took is the most romantic thing ever. ("It was destiny!") Flash is just embarrassed that their first meeting was so inauspicious. ("You came out of a toilet and I tried to feed Pete to you.")

* Venom can do a bang-up impersonation of Harry, and you can bet they use it to make fun of him at any opportunity. ** "Hurr burr, I have a limousine, a penthouse home and billions of dollars, and when my favorite Spider-Person doesn't reciprocate my gay crush *choking up* I don't cry about it."

* There was a brief period after "Anti-Venom" where Venom was too weak to speak to Flash, and Flash wasn't sure if they were dead or alive. ** Of course he cried; slut for cheap angst, remember?

* Flash has undiagnosed dyslexia. He didn't figure it out until Venom asked him why letters wiggle for him but not for Harry.

* Venom likes dandelions, especially ones growing out of cracks in the sidewalk. ** "They're considered weeds and eradicated on sight, and yet they're strong enough to break through rock, and hardy enough to survive in environments that would be inhospitable to all other plants. It's just... poeticcinema.jpg." *** "Buddy, you can beam a crisp and clear mental impression of any picture directly into my brain. There's literally no reason for you to say 'dot jay peg' out loud, ever."

* Peter & Co. keep making references to stuff Venom did that Venom has no memory of (because there's an entire branch of symbiotes that diverged from them, so they literally weren't around for those events). Flash decides to investigate and pulls up all SHIELD case reports about Venom. That's the first time he finds out how many symbiotes SHIELD has killed or attempted to kill. Venom can only shrug their metaphorical shoulders. People have been trying to murder them nearly from the moment of their birth. They didn't have a point of reference, so they'd just sort of assumed it was a normal part of life. They don't really understand why Flash is crying. And that makes Flash cry harder. ** And that's the story of how Flash got over his crush on Peter. *** Venom doesn't see much point in holding grudges. After all, if they ever express anger or try to retaliate over their treatment, they'll be stuffed in a jar at best and incinerated alive at worst. Luckily, Flash is a finely-tuned rage producing machine; he can be angry on both of their behalf.

* Flash encourages Venom to have their own hobbies separate from him. To facilitate this, Venom has permission to drive around Flash's body while he sleeps, provided they don't stray away from SHIELD headquarters and wake Flash up if there's an emergency. ** Venom likes looking up video tutorials for random things. And because they share a brain with Flash, he ends up learning things by proxy. (The morning he woke up fluent in American Sign Language was a trippy one). *** They're also into videogame speedruns, of all things.

* Scarlet Spider would very much like to forget the time he got up for a midnight snack and found Flash, with solid black eyes, hunching on top of a vending machine like a goblin, attempting to insert three chocolate bars into his mouth at once.

* Venom is the only one allowed to call Flash "Eugene". They're very territorial of their monopoly.

* Venom has a dim, dim view of father figures. Their genetic progenitor tried to murder them multiple times, and their only second-hand experiences of fathers are, well, Norman Osborn and Harrison Thompson.

* What's the point of having a foot long tongue if you don't use it to lick the bottom of your ice cream carton?

* Venom and Flash have such divergent music tastes, they need to have two separate playlists. (Flash likes punk rock and hair metal, Venom's into eurodance and chiptunes.)

* Incomplete list of animals Flash unironically thinks are cute: tarantulas ("Fuzzy!"), snakes ("Their tongues go blelele!"), amblypygids ("They cuddle their babies!"), velvet worms ("Their feet are so stubby!")

* Flash is actually pretty insecure about being Venom's host. He feels the only reason they stick with him is because he was the first person to be nice to them, and they could do better. ** Flash: "I mean, you give me superpowers, the means to get away from my old life, the opportunity to be somebody... but what do I give you in return? Maybe Doc Ock was right... maybe I AM a parasite." Venom:

* Actually, Flash is insecure about a lot of things. He's afraid Peter secretly resents him for the years of bullying, he fears that he's just fooled everyone into thinking that he's a good person and really he's just as much of a monster as his father, he's scared he's too stupid to make anything of himself and he'll become a deadbeat... it's a bunch of separate but interlocking self-esteem issues. ** Venom helps, though. It's useful to have an outside perspective to your own brain.

* Flash initially calls Venom an "it", because they're genderless and he doesn't have a lot of insight into gender politics and pronouns. He later learns about they/them pronouns, and asks if he can use it for Venom. Venom, who's used to being called "it" and knows even less about personal pronouns, is confused. They have a long discussion about dehumanizing language that ends with Venom shrugging their metaphorical shoulders and going "Sure, if it makes you feel better".

* Being a couple kind of sneaks up on them. In their defense, both of them have little to no experience in giving or receiving affection; they have trouble distinguishing different kinds of love (hence why Flash thought his giant gay crush on Peter was just wanting to be his best buddy).

* Cons of wearing actual clothes instead of a shapeshifted symbiote: Doing laundry. Pros of wearing actual clothes: Nobody can tell you're giving your boyfriend a fullbody cuddle under his shirt in public.

* They're both super affectionate and flirty. They both get super flustered and embarrassed when receiving affection and being flirted at. Together, they are a disaster.

[undertale-anomaly20]

Sooner or later you're gonna be mine x chubby! Reader

Chapter 1: The waitress and the mobster

Oh God, I was hearin da rumors, but I didnt believe hed actually do it. As if our town wasnt a big miserable wasteland of violence, misery and murder already, now hes actually welcomin their kind into it as well.

Frisk paused, her hairbrush in mid-stroke, as she heard the piano man grumble crudely under his breath. She hadnt sang in this club before and truth be told, it didnt have a great dressing room for performers to get all dolled up as many owners put it, so Frisk took it upon herself to dress up in the ladies bathroom.

After putting on her shimmery low-cut baby-blue dress and applying all that heavy makeup to her face, she exited the bathroom, leaving her aftershow clothes in one of the broken stalls and began brushing her hair on stage. It didnt take much to style it, which was one of the main reason why Frisk had cut it short into a bob hairstyle. One less stupid thing she had to worry about before she got on stage. Just brush it till it looks neat, put a flower in it and the crowds still think you look like a million bucks.

Not that Frisk cared too much about what her fans thought of her. All she wanted to do was sing, get paid and go home before she saw another fight break out between the members of her audience. Gang members erupting into violent and bloody fights in the middle of her songs were becoming more and more common over the last few months. And what were these fights over? Anything really. Gang members entering other gang territory, drug deals gone bad, gun deals wrong horribly bad. It didnt matter. The result was always the same: somebody would be leaving in a body bag.

Frisk hadnt gotten used to it, but she had definitely become quicker with dodging flying bullets and pieces of furniture that came her way.

She tried to deny it when she was younger, but now it was obvious. Her once pretty city was quickly sinking into corruption thanks largely to the mob groups that were overtaking large areas of her city. The dons and high-class mobsters ran everything from the small mom and pop stores to the police force. Even the citys officials were nothing more than corrupt individuals in nice suits with clean smiles. The good decent poor folks suffered the most, having to pay out protection fees but there were always ways to make money.

Everybody had a price. Everybody could endure or change themselves for money. Frisk knew. To her despair, she watched a number of her long-time friends get lost in the world of easy money and quick deaths. She had been to more funerals than birthdays parties this year alone. She could never blame them though.

Well everybody except her sister, (name).

(name) was one of the only people she could really trust and was one of the few people uncorrupted by this hell hole of a city. As children the both of them knew nothing but love and kindness with (name), being older by a few years, looking after her and protecting her even as the years had gone by she never stopped standing up for her and always flashing that big beautiful smile telling her 'it's gonna be ok' even if everything wasn't.

Frisk smiled at the though of her sister being there for her every step of the way in her life a little anoying but what was she to do (name) was very stubborn her big (eye colour) eyes that still held a little glimmer like she did when she was younger, her long thick (hair colour) hair that always seemed to shine no matter what the lighting was, her (skin colour) skin that alway had one or two burise on it and her body was alwasy as plump and smooth as ever. not to say her sister was overweight drastically but she tended to look down on herself at her body shape, even though she was what the pigs f this city considered 'fat' she had her curvy outline a bit, she had a bit above average size bust, plump lips and a big behind.

The world was going through a depression after all. And Frisk herself was not exactly a wealthy professional singer. Right now her gigs were seedy clubs with even seedier owners, whose businesses reeked of cigar smoke and strong booze and no matter how many times Frisk showered the smell seemed to linger.

And her nightly audiences were the lowest class of criminals. Not that Frisk judged on them on poverty levels. In fact, most of the best people she knew were struggling to get by. But when it all came down to the wire a rich mobster was just as bad as his poor lackey. Both types murder for money and power and both types will harm the innocent to get what they want.

Frisk really needed to get out. She just hadnt saved enough money yet. She may have been a popular singer in these types of bars, but the pay wasnt great. She made just enough to pay for her crappy apartment, her bills and the protection fee her local police force demanded of its residents.

The piano man saw her baffled look and pulled back the curtain even further so she could get a good look at her audience for the night.

She squinted through the cigarette smoke that lightly covered the many faces of her audience and tried to see what he was moaning about.

Look at the last table in the back. Youll see what Im talking about, toots.

Frisk did and gasped aloud. The piano man chuckled, letting her know she was indeed seeing what she was thought she was seeing.

Seeing Don Dee was a shock in itself. Even small fish like Frisk knew who he was just by looking at him. A top dog, a big shot, a huge fish...and the fact that he was sitting in this piece of shit of a bar was astounding in itself. The man was known for class and expensive taste. The suit he was wearing outshined all the cheap ones that almost all the other club patrons were wearing.

But the don being here wasnt the most shocking part. The most shocking part was his companion. The gentleman sitting beside the Don was...not from the city to say the least. And if he had entered the club by himself, he would have been killed instantly. But sitting with the Don made him untouchable. In fact, most patrons were going out of their way not to stare at him.

Say, is he- Frisk began, but stopped when the musician laughed again.

Yep. The Don himself is invitin monsters in the operation now. Can you believe that, toots? Disgustin monsters. Pfft...hes makin a mistake is what hes doin. Gonna lose all that respect. Monsters..Now this town really has sank as low as it can go.

Frisk frowned at his choice of words, and the effect they had on her, but continued to stare, even though she felt a little bad doing it. both her and (name) knew that people who differed from theri own race and in this case species shouldnt be stared at like they were some kind of spectacle, but Frisk really couldnt help herself.

Sure she heard all about the monsters that lived in the neighboring cities miles away from her own, and sure she knew they looked different from humans and their customs and politics were worlds apart from human, but to actually see one was...well it was something that deserved a second glance.

He was a massive monster. He was taller than any human Frisk had ever seen and he was wide too. Not fat, but there was no denying how incredibly powerful he looked. He made the Dons bodyguards look like little boys.

And his suit was even more impressive than the Dons if that were possible. His jacket, fedora hat and trousers were black, while his waist coat was an eye-catching red. Frisk wasnt too fond of that color, unless it was on her sister, but she had to admit the monster had style. A fat cigar was in his teeth and the smoke coming from it was strange. It wasnt gray smoke. It was red smoke and curled in unusual designs before it disappeared.

But his size and clothing were nothing compared to what he actually looked like. He had a huge smile on his face and despite the dimmed lights, Frisk saw a glimmering gold tooth flashing in his mouth every time the skeleton turned his head.

Out of the corner of her eyes she caught the flash of pink in the light and turned her attention towards the colour to see it was a pink heart hair pin. only one person she knew had that pin and it just so happened to be her sister that was the owner of said pin. her sister was wearing the standered waitress uniform aswell as having her hair tied into a high bun with the exeption of a few strands that fell in front of her face with that sweet smile on her face but Frisk knew it was fake she knew her sister hated dealing with these 'murdering pricks' as (name) liked to call them but they both needed the money and even with friks singing it's not enough.

Frisk watches her sister carrying a tray of alcohol towards Don Dees table. her heart practically stopped in worry for her sister as she watched her place the glass fill with the nasty brew in front of the don and a nother in front of the monster before walking away.

Damn freak, the piano man muttered and lowered the curtain.

Before the cheap bright red curtain could blocked her view, Frisk felt her heart jump in her throat. At the last second the skeleton turned his head to look where her sister was who, in turn, was looking back at him.

He took the cigar out of his mouth with two of his large bony fingers and winked at her. (name) quickly turned away with her head down before the curtain fell into place. That look...Frisk didnt understand why his friendly little gesture towards her sister sent a cold chill down her spine, but she tried to quickly dismissed it.

It doesnt matter, she thought to herself. Im sure (name)s not gonna talk to him if she can help it.

The piano man sat down at his piano, cracking his fingers and looking at Frisk. She hated the way his eyes wandered from her face and rested on her breasts. She glared at him, covering her chest with her arms. The man just shrugged coolly, completely unbothered.

Hey, I aint touching em toots. No law against lookin.

both her and her sister needed to get out of this city. Go somewhere nicer where smoke from cigarettes and guns didnt greet them every second of everyday. Where people actually cared if another person was killed. Maybe when she had enough saved up she could move to the country and where her sister wouldn't come home with brusies and bruised knuckles every week and that painful look in her eye that tells her 'I can't keep this up for much longer' as happy as her sister tried to be she wasn't dumb (name) had the same attitude as Frisk toward the city folk who misreated her and gave them the same amount that they gave her, absolutly none. Maybe they could live in a pretty cottage and start a garden. She couldnt remember the last time she saw a flower growing outside and she doubt that (name) could either.

She smiled faintly. Her mother always talked about starting a garden when Frisk was really little and-

But going back to our conversation, the Don really is makin a mistake. As soon as we let one monster in, more are gonna come. Just you wait. Im mean look at what happened when we started lettin the darkies in-

Frisk felt a shot of anger bloom in her chest.

Why dont you keep those disgusting thoughts to yourself and get ready for the show? Since the Don is here we cant afford you screwing things up. Word around the grapevine is that you arent the cream of the crop when it comes to playing that thing.

It was a lie of course. Frisk knew nothing about this man, but that didnt stop her from feeling a sort of smug satisfaction enter her as the piano mans face changed from cocky and arrogant to enraged and disgusted.

Goddamn, bleedin heart whore, he muttered loud enough for her to hear, but low enough so nobody else could here. You and your type are the reason why there are so much problems in this world. You treat the inferior a certain way and suddenly they start demandin to be treated that way by everybody…

Frisk smiled and continued brushing her hair, humming the songs she was going to sing for the audience tonight. It was always nice to be told that. Whenever somebody told her that or something similar to that, Frisk couldnt help but feel like she was more than just some seedy bar singer who sang for murderers and criminals.

The piano man and her didnt speak again and Frisk continued to brush her hair until the audience started to quiet down.

Showtime , Frisk thought grimly, no longer excited about being on stage.

The curtain parted and the horrible spotlight that hit her was nearly blinding, but before she could adjust to it, the piano started playing.

She sang the first song with ease and much to her disappointment the piano man didnt make one mistake. Guy knew his instrument. Too bad he was a racist prick.

For the most part, Frisk and (name) loved musicians. All that passion being played through their fingers or mouths and whenever either of them spoke to them they always wanted to be something more than what they were. Just like her, they dreamt of getting out of the city and being somewhere safe and pretty.

At one point when Frisk was younger and still wanted to make singing her lifes career she would dream of marrying a gentle musician. The two of them would become famous and sing at only the best clubs and have children who loved music and would sing and play too and-

Frisk never would have thought in a million years that she would grow to hate the talent she once cherished. The spotlight was always too bright, the places always reeked of blood and booze and the applause was laced with lewd comments about her body.

(name) had a more possible dream. As a child all she wanted was to settle down with a man and have children who she would sing lullabys to and fill her home with music and love but as she grew her body changed and her heart sank further down at every negative comment made her way.

She was too weak for this city. She knew, but thankfully none of these cruel people knew it. Her dad once told her that if you show any weakness to people like mobsters and criminals they would eat you alive. She had no doubt he had been correct. when Kailyn was told this she pu all her energy into making sure none of these corrupted bastards could do a damn thing to her sister.

Frisk longed for the day where her and (name) would sing for hours on end with smiles in their hearts, laughing at everything but the thing Frisk missed most was her sisters singing. Frisk knew as a child her sister had the better voice andbut she didn't mind if anything she worked hard to be just like her but this damn cities corrupted men and women with there words of hate and jelousy...(name) had done her best to protect Frisk from those words but she, herself, had been exposed to those words for too long and all those negatice comments about her apperance, as if there was anything wrong with how she looked, got to her making her do what those bastards wanted her to do.

Shut up.

After her first song ended, the applause was loud and hard. Frisk forced a smile on her face and blew a kiss into the crowd.

Now adjusted to the blinding light she looked at her audience her sisters face smiling up at her was one of the first she saw. Gray smoke blurred their faces but almost instantly her eyes were drawn to the skeletons red smoke. She looked at him and the look he was giving back to her nearly took her breath away. It was so intense. So...extreme and he never looked down or away from her.

Even when the Don was talking to him quietly about whatever crime-ridden business they had together, the skeleton would respond but never break his gaze away.

Frisk swallowed before she spoke.

Such a lovely crowd here tonight and I would like to take this opportunity to personally thank Mr. Dee for honoring me with his presence and tolerating my cat-screeching I like to call singing.

A rough round of laughter and applause reached Frisks ears. The old Don waved to the crowds and then offered her a wave as well. Forcing back the vomit and physically battling with herself to keep her smile on her face, Frisk blew a kiss directly at the old man who had killed so many people whether they were guilty or innocent. Whether they were a part of his gang or an innocent bystander.

We really need to get out of this town' Frisk thought as she began her next song.

She almost messed up a few of her notes. That skeletons red eyes had gone black as soon as she blew that kiss to the Don and she was having trouble focusing until she looked to her sister, who was on break watching her with that big ole smile she loved, then it seemed easier to sing knowing her sister could sit and watch like she did when the were children

don't worry sis, for once, I'm gonna be the one to save ya'

_____________________________________________________________________

(name)s side

(name) watched as the partons of the bar laughed to each other some of them were good people others not so much. there were those who were friendly, kind and nice those were the rare patrons that popped in once in a while and then there were the assholes hat showed up every god damn day and the degrading remarks they make at her or behind her back annoyed her more often than not but the lewd and disgusting remarks and cat calls they directed towards her younger sister made her blood boil.

oh how she wanted to bash them all over the head with their bottles but she knew better if she acted upon her wishes not only would it cost her the job she worked hard to get it would cost Frisk her job. she just smiled sweetly and agreed with the patrons to keep them happy no matter how much it sickened her to do so.

"hey doll! go another order for ya!" (name) turned to her boss ready to retreive her latest order just as she was about to reach for it she notied her boss looked nervous but why? this man is the most intimidating person she knows that is a good person at heart he's aken on multiple drunken patrons at once so what could sacre this man so bad that he was white as a ghost then it clicked only one person in the bar currently that would reduce this man to a fearful state like this was Don Dee.

(name) tried to keep calm and remembered why she worked here. for Frisk her baby sister she picked up the tray with both hands and made her way to the table. sure don dee made her nervous who wouldn't be around a man that could kill you with but a wave of his hand but once she was nearing the table her eyes weren't on the don but on the monster that sat nex to him.

He was a massive monster. He was taller than any human (name) had ever seen and he was wide too. Not fat, but there was no denying how incredibly powerful he looked. He made the Dons bodyguards look like little boys and his suit was even more impressive than the Dons if that were possible. His jacket, fedora hat and trousers were black, while his waist coat was an eye-catching red. Frisk wasnt too fond of that color, but she had to admit the monster had style. A fat cigar was in his teeth and the smoke coming from it was strange. It wasnt gray smoke. It was red smoke and curled in unusual designs before it disappeared.

But his size and clothing were nothing compared to what he actually looked like. He had a huge smile on his face and despite the dimmed lights, (name) saw a glimmering gold tooth flashing in his mouth every time the skeleton turned his head. In all honesty (name) thought the monster had some sort of charm to him shaking her head she made it to the table and placed the disgusting brew in front of the don making sure to smile sweetly then moved onto the monster. oh how she hated how people used that word as an insult spitting it out of their mouths like it was venom but what could you do she placed the small glass in front of him and smiled walking away she didn' make it that far before she felt eyes on her.

she turned around to meet the monsters red eye light gaze they were mesmorising, beautiful even, she felt like she couldn't look away he took the cigar out of his mouth with two of his large bony fingers and winked at her. (name) quickly turned away with her head down embarassed at being caught then sat down calling for her break.

Frisk scurried off stage after she finished her songs, pausing only briefly to wave at the handsome jazz band that was scheduled to play right after her. They returned the wave and started to do some playful and very cute cat-calling that wasnt lewd or vulgar at all her eyes soon found her sister waiting for her with her duffle bag in hand looks like she finished early.

both girls smiled to themsleves as they entered the empty bathroom, all the women in the audience have been waiting for that jazz band to play. They were becoming very popular and no doubt would make it big, and Frisk went into the broken stall where she left her clothes while (name) went into one of the wrking ones to change

Still some good guys out there' Frisk thought as she took off her painfully tight blue dress and put on her more preferred one. The fabric of her baggy blue and pink sweater dress was a warm and welcomed change from the dress she just had on.

She stuff the blue dress in her purse without a care and walked out of the stall to meet up with (name) who was wearing a baggy dress sweater and long skirt.

(name) turned around and snorted "tryin to give clowns a run for their money, sis?" she joked. Dont get it wrong, Frisk didnt mind some make-up every once in awhile, but the rouge on her cheeks was too bright. Her blue eye-shadow was too heavy and her red lipstick was too much. But thats the club owners always wanted. Thats what the men in her audience wanted.

With a frustrated growl she turned on the sink, took a handful of soap, mixed it with water and began scrubbing her face viciously. We need to get out of here, Frisk thought of the millionth time as she continued to scrub her face until her skin turned red while (name) brushed out her long hair from its up do taking out each pin and tie in it. "great job as always with the singin' sis. practically had the attention of everyone in the room" Frisk smiled at her sisters compliment "thanks but...it would have been better if you were up there with me" (name) sighed "sorry but no it's been too long and I'm the waitress you're the singer"

Niether of them heard the bathroom door open so when they heard the heavy footsteps they turned towards the noise The soap and water dripped from Frisks face and onto her dress as she stared at the massive skeleton who was blocking the exit as well as (name) moving the hair from her eyes. Frsik didnt even realize her mouth was open until the taste of bitter and slippery liquid soap burned her tongue. She quickly closed her lips and backed away from the skeleton.

His hands were in his pockets as he looked (name) up and down, his smile growing by the second. His gold tooth glittered menacingly against the bathroom lights. He took a step towards them.

No...please Frisk thought as she held her hands up in a weak attempt to create some kind of barrier between herself and the monster that was at least two heads taller than her while (name) took a step forwad ready to fight her eyes narrowed.

There was only one reason why a straight man would enter the womens bathroom and Frisk learned what it was when she first starting singing. The man who had attacked was big too. He had grabbed her and shoved her up against the stalls doors and would have done so much more if it hadnt been for a (name) looking for Frisk. that was the day Frisk saw for the first time her big sisters anger in full force the anger in her eyes was just terrifying. blood flying, bloody fists the man left a bloody pulp as one of the women comming in to use the rest room ran to get security to "remove" the man while Frisk held onto her sister beggin her to stop that he had enough.

Frisk opened her mouth to scream for help, but the music from the jazz band blasted through the door, letting Frisk know that her chance for calling for help and actually having someone hear her was gone.

She looked up at him and tried to smile at him. She didnt know what she was gonna say to try and talk him out of the thing he was going to do to her. And through her mind-numbing fear she actually took a second to wondered how a skeleton could do something like that. But she wasnt curious enough to find out.

Look mister, I dont want any trouble-

Frisk stopped her sentence, groaning in fear as the skeleton took his hands out of his pockets and reached into his jacket.

"Frisk I think I left my purse behind the bar would you mind going and looking for it?"

To be continued....

(hey guys this took a lot of courage for me to post this. It's a more updated version than in quotev and watt pad just a few tweeks. I hope you all enjoy this and let me know in the comments how you feel about this)