#but the fandom can have this hostile edge sometimes even on here

[rawliverandcigarettes]

Speaking of my last reblog, sometimes I still think about how I was once publically dragged through the mud unprompted for daring to tag that I thought the Citadel was less than stellar, and then, after pointing out that this universe's economy was interconnected and that the Citadel benefited from a lot of good publicity while hiding its deeply corrupted innards to "justify myself", I received back a wild collection of ad hominems and name-calling accusing me to want to be sad on purpose, not understand how money worked, and also of "projecting my feelings about Brazil" on the franchise (it was during the elections where Bolsonaro won), which was inherently inappropriate to do apparently.

And a bunch of people unfollowed me over that! :D

So yeah hard to me not to think the fandom has kind of a bias towards one given so-called "neutral" perspective, even if I feel like it has overall gotten a little better (as in: I now see posts like the one I just reblogged).

[whumpster-fire]

Well apparently I'm back in the FNAF fandom now, so here are some headcanons about my favorite pathetic, skrunkly, strangely adorable engineering disaster, Mangle. From, like, an AU where the restaurant stays open for longer than a month and the animatronics are a bit less hostile / not possessed, just machines with horribly overengineered AI.

I'm sorry I know toddlers are comically destructive, but I do not buy Mangle actually being dismembered by them. Breaking down repeatedly / being damaged by slips and falls / having suit pieces fail or fall off, sure, but I don't think a machine that can easily overpower and kill an adult human would get its limbs torn off by a bunch of rowdy kids. I think "take apart / put together attraction" has got to be an inside joke and Mangle's current state is a result of being attacked by something much stronger than a child: either a disgruntled employee who was sick of wasting so much time trying to fix the same unreliable piece of junk, or one or more of the other animatronics.

Also someone or something clearly keeps repairing her. Either it's some chucklehead mechanic with too much spare time who's trying to see how many extra / mismatched limbs they can add before management does something about it or something non-human that has a vague idea of how to attach parts to each other in a "functional" way but has no idea what shape a Toy Foxy endoskeleton is supposed to be.

Despite this Mangle's level of activity varies a lot from night to night and week to week depending on whether she has enough working actuators and sensors to do more than flop around. She can't really stand and walk around in the tripedal pose she's normally depicted in most of the time because it's rare for at least one hip/knee/ankle joint to not be unpowered, jammed, or have position/force sensors out. Also having three legs splayed out like that makes balancing her long neck/arms easier but it's basically a stress position and uses too much energy to maintain for very long.

The restaurant has exposed steel roof trusses like a warehouse which is how Mangle moves around on the ceiling. She's learned to hook her various exposed parts onto the trusses to hang there without using effort. Management are not thrilled about this because she keeps breaking overhead lights, ceiling fans, exit signs, and stuff like that.

Freddy's has a big plastic tube climbing structure, I don't care if it's not in the games come on it should be like Chuck E Cheese. The outside of the structure has scrapes and gouges because Mangle likes climbing it to get to the trusses. She sometimes hides inside it too because the other animatronics either can't fit or don't have good enough motion control to crawl through tight spaces with a height difference, so it's a good place to avoid everyone.

The ceiling also has a series of rails to let the prize puppet navigate the restaurant. Half of these are bent or otherwise messed up from having an animatronic that is way heavier than the puppet trying to hang from them.

Mangle gets stuck on the ceiling at least once a week and it's so pathetic every time, like a cat getting its claws hooked on a curtain. Usually this is another annoyance for the opening shift / actually a safety hazard because even if her motors are locked out after 6 AM, getting on a stepladder and trying to dislodge a heavy, awkward bundle of exposed edges and pinch points is playing OSHA Violation Bingo. Welcome to Freddy Fazbear's Pizza.

She's gotten stuck in the security office twice. The first time, the guard was driven insane by having to listen to four hours of uninterrupted static / having an animatronic that could kill him in the office for most of the night, and he quit as soon as his shift was over. Jeremy stood up on his desk with the Freddy mask on and carefully dislodged the part that was stuck. He also noticed that Mangle was panicking about being trapped with important wires about to be yanked out, and handled the situation like he was untangling a panicking 300 lb mechanical cat from a curtain.

The end result of this was Mangle falling from the ceiling and yanking the Freddy mask off by accident. However, the facial recognition bug that affects the other toy animatronics isn't a thing with Mangle because ironically her visual processing has ended up better than what the toy animatronics were originally programmed with because of how much she's had to adjust to having working eyes in two independently moving heads / having eyes frequently fail / having her head be sideways or upside down most of the time. Jeremy is now one of the only people she trusts and she frequently hangs out in his office.

An unforeseen result of this is that one time the puppet tried to jump Jeremy and got clotheslined right off its strings.

Toy Foxy was actually designed to have easily interchangeable parts. The idea was that they could switch between giving her a normal hand, a hook, or a hand puppet with a second endoskeleton head. At this point Mangle contains parts of all her swappable arms, as well as random spares and parts that were supposed to be spares for the old model animatronics.

Related Tangent: Foxy's hook is supposed to be rubber because not even Fazbear Entertainment is dumb enough to give a children's entertainment robot a sharp metal weapon. However a metal hook was made for him, because they decided to advertise Foxy's debut with a commercial where they filmed him doing some sort of pirate stunt like swinging from a ship's rigging. This naturally was never supposed to be installed in the actual restaurant. In the time of FNAF 1 it somehow got put on him but the staff who saw the empty box in the parts room thought it got thrown out and didn't check if it was on the actual animatronic. Nobody noticed except some unfortunate night guards. In the time of FNAF 2 however, Foxy's horrifying steel meat hook wound up on Mangle for several days, until she got it impaled through the side of an air duct and was trapped there for the rest of the night. Nobody knows how it got attached to her but the working theory is some kid got into the parts and services room when no one was looking.

Months later, there's still tape over the hole in the duct.

Jeremy got management to finally fix Mangle's speakers because six hours of static is still annoying as hell. He has now discovered that she does not have enough preprogrammed jokes, stories, and sea shanties to last a whole shift, so he's started bringing in books and cassette tapes to expand her repertoire.

[gatalentan]

We love and support your AvaMel side but I always laugh when I see something about them bc I remember that Janelle’s tweet 🤣🤣

Ok so for those who don't know, Janelle got tagged in an AvaMel ship fanvid, and replied to one of the quote retweets on that fanvid. I've censored op here for privacy:

Two things can be true:

1. Janelle is allowed to be weirded out by being tagged/seeing ship content. That's her face & those are her co-workers. She's a very private person who mostly keeps fans at arms-length and that's healthy. Ava isn't Janelle, but she has her face (and so does Lisa), so fanvids in particular when accompanied by an explicit caption I can imagine would be really weird to see. As fans we know the diff between real-person and fictional shipping but from her perspective you can see how that would be more nuanced and complicated. Unfortunately, the Twitter algorithm now puts stuff on your feed - regardless of if you follow them or not - based on how it has pigeonholed you, and as a person who sometimes tweets about Abbott/Ava because it's her job, the algo assumes shes a fan and dishes up Abbott fandom content to her whether she likes it or not, so she sees stuff she doesn't wanna see even if she isn't tagged; she wasn't tagged in that QRT, but she still saw it, so we can see that's what happened here. A big problem there is that seeing stuff that makes them uncomfortable can make actors change how they approach the character(s) in future which sucks for everyone. We can't control the algo but on the whole it's better to not try and expose actors to ship content as much as possible because there's scores of ships where the actors became hostile to shippers as a result of being repeatedly exposed to content they don't want to see, or even just getting fatigued by an unintended ship overshadowing the rest of their acting effort. Unfortunately social media giving a lot of access to celebrities is a very double edged sword and difficult to balance, especially when some actors (cough lisa cough) are so far over the line of what's considered normal fan interactions that it gives unrealistic expectations for celebrities that are more private. Actors aren't your best friends, they don't owe you interactions or unconditional support just because you're a fan, they're strangers and real people with their own thoughts and feelings. Everyone has their own limits and boundaries and are allowed to express that and they're entitled to not be comfortable with fan work that uses their image.

2. Actors/creators not supporting a ship doesn't mean we still shouldn't be allowed to play in the sandbox. Work Wives isn't gonna be canon either, but that's not going to stop me from enjoying it. I'm 32 and if I didn't ship stuff just because it didn't have creator support I'd have spent twenty years with nothing to ship at all. As queers we have to carve our own space out where we can see people like us and make a meal out of scraps because otherwise we wouldn't get to engage with media the same way cishet people take for granted. Unless a show is Queer™️, a vehicle for a character's queerness and a major topic of discussion, we rarely get canon queer characters, let alone characters where it's treated respectfully without one of the pair getting fridged or dying. Even The L Word, Queer™️ as it was, killed off one of a major pairing. We deserve to see ourselves across the whole spectrum of genres, not just in Queer™️ TV, but it simply isn't there, so we make it for ourselves in fanwork. In fanwork you can play with these characters however you want. You can give them a soft landing where they're safe (or the opposite, explore darker themes for a light-hearted show). You can give them the type of stories that would never have the space to breathe in the works they came from. You can take them out of their environment completely and put them somewhere else, you can change one thing that changes their whole dynamic, or you can just write absolute filth. Either way, fundamentally they're fictional characters, they do not exist and they don't have free will, only what you put into them as a viewer. We're not about to make Janelle make out with Lisa, but in fiction, Ava and Mel can, and as fictional characters they represent a dynamic we don't see a ton of with two older women, not teenagers/young adults which is the predominant type of representation we get for WLW in TV. So I'm gonna keep shipping AvaMel, I'm just, y'know. Not gonna put it where Janelle might see it. Easy.

Some good vids on this topic: Is Shipping Gay Culture? (James Somerton) | Artists & Fandoms (Philosophy Tube) | Parasocial Relationships: Strangers Aren't Your Friends (Naomi Cannibal) | An Exhaustive Defense of Fanfiction (Sarah Z) | Why We Ship Characters (The Take)

[fozmeadows]

race & culture in fandom

For the past decade, English language fanwriting culture post the days of LiveJournal and Strikethrough has been hugely shaped by a handful of megafandoms that exploded across AO3 and tumblr – I’m talking Supernatural, Teen Wolf, Dr Who, the MCU, Harry Potter, Star Wars, BBC Sherlock – which have all been overwhelmingly white. I don’t mean in terms of the fans themselves, although whiteness also figures prominently in said fandoms: I mean that the source materials themselves feature very few POC, and the ones who are there tended to be done dirty by the creators.

Periodically, this has led POC in fandom to point out, extremely reasonably, that even where non-white characters do get central roles in various media properties, they’re often overlooked by fandom at large, such that the popular focus stays primarily on the white characters. Sometimes this happened (it was argued) because the POC characters were secondary to begin with and as such attracted less fan devotion (although this has never stopped fandoms from picking a random white gremlin from the background cast and elevating them to the status of Fave); at other times, however, there has been a clear trend of sidelining POC leads in favour of white alternatives (as per Finn, Poe and Rose Tico being edged out in Star Wars shipping by Hux, Kylo and Rey). I mention this, not to demonize individuals whose preferred ships happen to involve white characters, but to point out the collective impact these trends can have on POC in fandom spaces: it’s not bad to ship what you ship, but that doesn’t mean there’s no utility in analysing what’s popular and why through a racial lens.

All this being so, it feels increasingly salient that fanwriting culture as exists right now developed under the influence and in the shadow of these white-dominated fandoms – specifically, the taboo against criticizing or critiquing fics for any reason. Certainly, there’s a hell of a lot of value to Don’t Like, Don’t Read as a general policy, especially when it comes to the darker, kinkier side of ficwriting, and whether the context is professional or recreational, offering someone direct, unsolicited feedback on their writing style is a dick move. But on the flipside, the anti-criticism culture in fanwriting has consistently worked against fans of colour who speak out about racist tropes, fan ignorance and hurtful portrayals of living cultures. Voicing anything negative about works created for free is seen as violating a core rule of ficwriting culture – but as that culture has been foundationally shaped by white fandoms, white characters and, overwhelmingly, white ideas about what’s allowed and what isn’t, we ought to consider that all critical contexts are not created equal.

Right now, the rise of C-drama (and K-drama, and J-drama) fandoms is seeing a surge of white creators – myself included – writing fics for fandoms in which no white people exist, and where the cultural context which informs the canon is different to western norms. Which isn’t to say that no popular fandoms focused on POC have existed before now – K-pop RPF and anime fandoms, for example, have been big for a while. But with the success of The Untamed, more western fans are investing in stories whose plots, references, characterization and settings are so fundamentally rooted in real Chinese history and living Chinese culture that it’s not really possible to write around it. And yet, inevitably, too many in fandom are trying to do just that, treating respect for Chinese culture or an attempt to understand it as optional extras – because surely, fandom shouldn’t feel like work. If you’re writing something for free, on your own time, for your own pleasure, why should anyone else get to demand that you research the subject matter first?

Because it matters, is the short answer. Because race and culture are not made-up things like lightsabers and werewolves that you can alter, mock or misunderstand without the risk of hurting or marginalizing actual real people – and because, quite frankly, we already know that fandom is capable of drawing lines in the sand where it chooses. When Brony culture first reared its head (hah), the online fandom for My Little Pony – which, like the other fandoms we’re discussing here, is overwhelmingly female – was initially welcoming. It felt like progress, that so many straight men could identify with such a feminine show; a potential sign that maybe, we were finally leaving the era of mainstream hypermasculine fandom bullshit behind, at least in this one arena. And then, in pretty much the blink of an eye, things got overwhelmingly bad. Artists drawing hardcorn porn didn’t tag their works as adult, leading to those images flooding the public search results for a children’s show. Women were edged out of their own spaces. Bronies got aggressive, posting harsh, ugly criticism of artists whose gijinka interpretations of the Mane Six as humans were deemed insufficiently fuckable.

The resulting fandom conflict was deeply unpleasant, but in the end, the verdict was laid down loud and clear: if you cannot comport yourself like a decent fucking person – if your base mode of engagement within a fandom is to coopt it from the original audience and declare it newly cool only because you’re into it now; if you do not, at the very least, attempt to understand and respect the original context so as to engage appropriately (in this case, by acknowledging that the media you’re consuming was foundational to many women who were there before you and is still consumed by minors, and tagging your goddamn porn) – then the rest of fandom will treat you like a social biohazard, and rightly so.

Here’s the thing, fellow white people: when it comes to C-drama fandoms and other non-white, non-western properties? We are the Bronies.

Not, I hasten to add, in terms of toxic fuckery – though if we don’t get our collective shit together, I’m not taking that darkest timeline off the table. What I mean is that, by virtue of the whiteminding which, both consciously and unconsciously, has shaped current fan culture, particularly in terms of ficwriting conventions, we’re collectively acting as though we’re the primary audience for narratives that weren’t actually made with us in mind, being hostile dicks to Chinese and Chinese diaspora fans when they take the time to point out what we’re getting wrong. We’re bristling because we’ve conceived of ficwriting as a place wherein No Criticism Occurs without questioning how this culture, while valuable in some respects, also serves to uphold, excuse and perpetuate microaggresions and other forms of racism, lashing out or falling back on passive aggression when POC, quite understandably, talk about how they’re sick and tired of our bullshit.

An analogy: one of the most helpful and important tags on AO3 is the one for homophobia, not just because it allows readers to brace for or opt out of reading content they might find distressing, but because it lets the reader know that the writer knows what homophobia is, and is employing it deliberately. When this concept is tagged, I – like many others – often feel more able to read about it than I do when it crops up in untagged works of commercial fiction, film or TV, because I don’t have to worry that the author thinks what they’re depicting is okay. I can say definitively, “yes, the author knows this is messed up, but has elected to tell a messed up story, a fact that will be obvious to anyone who reads this,” instead of worrying that someone will see a fucked up story blind and think “oh, I guess that’s fine.” The contextual framing matters, is the point – which is why it’s so jarring and unpleasant on those rare occasions when I do stumble on a fic whose author has legitimately mistaken homophobic microaggressions for cute banter. This is why, in a ficwriting culture that otherwise aggressively dislikes criticism, the request to tag for a certain thing – while still sometimes fraught – is generally permitted: it helps everyone to have a good time and to curate their fan experience appropriately.

But when white and/or western fans fail to educate ourselves about race, culture and the history of other countries and proceed to deploy that ignorance in our writing, we’re not tagging for racism as a thing we’ve explored deliberately; we’re just being ignorant at best and hateful at worst, which means fans of colour don’t know to avoid or brace for the content of those works until they get hit in the face with microaggresions and/or outright racism. Instead, the burden is placed on them to navigate a minefield not of their creation: which fans can be trusted to write respectfully? Who, if they make an error, will listen and apologise if the error is explained? Who, if lived experience, personal translations or cultural insights are shared, can be counted on to acknowledge those contributions rather than taking sole credit? Too often, fans of colour are being made to feel like guests in their own house, while white fans act like a tone-policing HOA.

Point being: fandom and ficwriting cultures as they currently exist badly need to confront the implicit acceptance of racism and cultural bias that underlies a lot of community rules about engagement and criticism, and that needs to start with white and western fans. We don’t want to be the new Bronies, guys. We need to do better.  

[idreamtofmanderleyagain]

On the subject of Pinhead's gender expression in fandom:

(warning for vague references to kink)

It's interestiing to see how people filter his complexity through such extremes. I'm not sure how to put my finger on what exactly is happening. I think it's kind of a double edged sword, because on the one hand, we have this wide range of possible interperetations of the character and everybody gets the space to explore what appeals to them or what they can identify with.

On the other hand, some of what I've seen, especially when combined with Dom/sub explorations, has kind of pushed some gender essentialism buttons, but at the same time I'm not sure if that really even counts when it's inherently queer. But I will come back to that in a second.

Now, I want to be clear here, I'm not cricicizing anyone's personal exploration of the character. I do not own him or dictate how people want to see him. If you know anything about Hellraiser, you know that in The Hellbound Heart the cenobites are agender, as in they have physically and emotionally trancended all human concepts of gender. One could personally consider that to also mean non-binary. The cenobite closest to Pinhead (there is no true Pinhead in the novella) had a feminine voice. So of course, even canonically the cenobites can really be anything you want to dream they are and as far as I'm concerned that is how it always should be.

That said, I think the many different ways I've seen this character depicted reveals something about our ideas of gender, and I want to explore that topic. Does that make sense?

Also, for right now, I want to focus on Doug Bradley's Pinhead, because he is generally the one being interpereted and re-interpereted by fandom (and canon).

First off, let's clarify: Personally, I interperet Doug's Pinhead as masculine leaning, but gender-non-conforming. I think Doug sees him (and Elliot Spencer) as identifying as male, so it's unclear to me if non-binary is a label that is canonically true for this version (although novella canon makes this ambiguous). While Pinhead's outfit is technically based on a priest's cassock, Doug has called it a "skirt" before and this was in reference to the gender expression of the character. He has also made a subtle reference to the idea that elements of the societal expectations that contributed to Elliot's distress included expectations of men at that time period.

Furthermore, while this is not about gender (but we'll get to that), in regards to kink I would consider Doug's Pinhead to be a switch that leans heavily towards Dominant. Elliot may be more of a true switch, but that's a conversation for another day.

I say all that because generally speaking when I see other people from all different kinds of backgrounds interperet this character, one of several things happen:

Complexity of gender is totally absent, bordering on the interpereter resenting or being discomforted by anything else but seeing Pinhead/Elliot as a Dude (tm). He is familiar to what we know, but the interpereter is unwilling to engage with these ideas further. No real interest where he fits on the kinky spectrum, possibly because interpereter does not have that aspect within their awareness.

Straight male interpereters who are actively hostile towards the complexity of the cenobites, an thus filter Pinhead/Elliot directly through a misogynstic hypermasculinity, his teeth bared as he threatens to tear the new scantily clad bombshell to pieces for the audience. Sometimes his skirt is even replaced with pants. Dominant in the domineering and toxic sense, because the interpereter has no idea what kink actually is (he probably thinks it's "wanting to hurt women").

He is depicted as hypermasculine, but it's in a destinctly gay hat. This version feels more fetishistic, attributes very overblown for a specific gaze. Sometimes his top is off and his muscles are beefy. He's probably not a misogynist, but he also is no longer really appealing to a female gaze. He's a character designed to interact with other men. This version is almost always depicted as Dominant.

The character is interpereted as hyperfeminine, soft, and demure. Masculine features are removed, their hips have deep curves, etc. Sometimes shipped with masculine leaning characters, but almost never with women. This version almost always feels like they are depicted as submissive.

So, I hope the patterns I've been noticing are more clear here. There's something going on that I'm struggling to really put my finger on, but it's...interesting. Like I said, I have no issues with any individual's personal preference for where Pinhead fits on the gender spectrum (except the hypermasculine misogynist. He can go). I am not suggesting there is anything wrong with one depiction or another. Rather, it's the overall pattern gives me pause. Why does he only exist in the absolute extremes of gender? And why do we attribute submissive or dominant characteristics directly to how feminine or masculine he is?

Particularly because Doug's Pinhead, the one most of us started with, is already gender-non-conforming at the very least (and probably has a complex dynamic when it comes to kink). He has a subtlety to him that feels true to life for many people who exist somewhere in the middle of the gender spectrum. And yet for the most part, we seem collectively uninterested in exploring what is already there. Futhermore, his relationship to kink may not be so directly informed by gender the way that we've collectively seemed to treat it.

I would be interested to hear from non-binary folks about their thoughts on this subject and this post. I imagine there is a lot of context lost for me because I am cisgender. Do you think there is something worth examining here? Am I way off base? How represented/unrepresented does this environment make you feel? How do you personally view this character?

[scuttling]

Bully

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/Latina OFC Sophie Cortes Word Count: 2,249 Tags: SFW, Pre-relationship, Supportive Aaron Summary: A case in Chicago means the team is introduced to someone from Sophie's past. Collection: Sophie Cortes timeline, 0-6 Months at the BAU (See Masterlist for reading order) Link to AO3 or read below! “Alright, we’ve got a case in Chicago,” JJ says as they gather in the briefing room on a Wednesday morning. “The detective there is… how do I put this? He’s a real asshole, but they need our help, so just prepare yourselves for one of those.” She passes out the case file, and Cortes tenses beside Hotch, a shift in demeanor he can almost feel, though they are sitting a foot apart.

“Please tell me, just to ease my mind, JJ—it’s not the 54th precinct, right?” She looks up with a grimace, and JJ nods.

“Sounds like you know the guy. Detective Jeffrey?”

“Fuck. Yes, I know him.” She puts an elbow on the table, leans her forehead into her hand, sighs. “He’s like the anti-Hotch: cruel, impulsive, hotheaded, blames his failures on his coworkers. This guy is going to give us grief the whole way, especially if I’m there.”

“Is there a reason for him to be aggressive toward you? Did you pass him up for promotions, accolades?” he asks, and she looks up at him, frowns.

“He’s a misogynist, and a racist, for starters. Wanted a spot on the tactical response team and didn’t get it because he can’t take orders, which had nothing to do with me, but you know how narcissists project.”

“Nothing is actually ever their fault,” Reid says, filling in the blanks.

“Exactly. I was the most convenient target for his anger. So, of course I want to do my part, I’m just letting you know there’s a lot of hostility there so you aren’t blindsided.” The team seems collectively a little more tense—no one messes with one of their own—and Hotch nods thoughtfully.

“You’re with me while we’re there, then. If he wants to give you a hard time, we won’t make it easy.”

“Okay. Thanks.” She exhales, turns back to the case file, and JJ continues with the briefing.

He takes her aside once they’re on the jet.

“Can we talk for a moment?” he asks, standing by the open seat next to hers, and she gestures to it.

“Sure. Is it about what I said earlier, about Jeffrey?”

“Yes and no. I trust your judgement; if this guy is going to be a pain in our ass, I want to have a game plan going in so things move as smoothly as possible.” She closes the folder in her lap, nods, gives him her full attention. “First and foremost, you can not let him get to you.” She leans back against the window, sighs.

“I know. It’s just hard, like going back to high school and facing your old bully.”

“I get it. From what you’ve told me, this guy is going to have all of us on edge, but you know the precinct, the area, some of the officers; the team is going to look to you a lot while we’re here. You need to be firm, authoritative, but not antagonistic. Most importantly, you need to be confident. Don’t second guess yourself because of this jerk we’re dealing with.”

“I know that giving in and getting mad is what he wants, so I’m going to try my damndest not to give it to him.” She laughs a little, like it’s easier said than done, and he maintains eye contact, wills her to see how much he really does trust her with this. “I really appreciate this, Hotch.”

“It’s what I’m here for.”

“I know. But you show your faith when it really matters, and not everyone in your position does that. You should know how much it means to us.” Her words warm his heart, and not just because it’s her who’s saying them. He knows he comes off like a drill sergeant sometimes, but it’s all for good reason. He just wants to take care of his team, keep them safe.

“Thank you. The job is tough; I try to support you guys anyway I can.”

“It shows. Thanks for having my back,” she says softly, tilting her head, and then she sighs and smiles, sits up in her seat. He’s known her long enough to be able to tell when things are getting a little too heavy for her, knows she’s looking for lightness, now. “If we have time for drinks after this case, we have to go to Tito’s, just putting it out there.” Morgan hears her, leans over from his seat across the aisle.

“Tito’s! I haven’t been there in years.”

“Neither have I. They have the best portobello tacos in Chicago. Drowning in chimichurri,” she says to Hotch, and he smiles a little at her excitement. “Give me a Corona and lime and a plate of tacos and I’ll forget all about Douglas fucking Jeffrey.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” he says, and he spends the rest of the trip sitting between the two of them as they reminisce about their favorite things about Chicago.

He actually really enjoys it.

When they arrive at the precinct, she is decidedly less jovial, and Hotch immediately understands why, when he introduces himself to Detective Jeffrey.

“Cortes, good to see you again,” he greets, while his expression tells a different story entirely. “Are you his... assistant?” He pretends to be confused, and JJ bristles beside them at the implication, but Sophie remains impassive, doesn’t even look tense. It’s possible his pep talk had more impact than he thought.

“She is no one’s assistant, she’s a supervisory special agent with the FBI just like me, and she will be taking point on this case. I expect you to defer to her expertise,” Hotch informs him with no room for misunderstanding in his tone. Again, if she’s surprised, she doesn’t show it, just continues reading over the case file provided.

“No offense, but this is a serial killer we’re talking about. It’s worlds away from chatting up a meth addict CI in a McDonald's parking lot.” She does close the file at that, and it appears to him that she can handle personal insults just fine, but that jabs at her work are where she gets defensive.

“You wouldn’t have closed half of your cases if it weren’t for my CIs, and you know it. But I’m not in Intelligence anymore, I’m a profiler, and I’m good at what I do.” She crosses her arms, exhales, and turns away from him, a clear dismissal. “Hotch, Prentiss, and I will go to the crime scene. Reid and Gideon will meet with the second victim’s wife, Morgan and JJ will work victimology, and we’ll reconvene here.”

“You got it, boss,” Morgan says, taking a seat, and in times like these he is really proud of his team. He knows as well as Sophie what it means to show Jeffrey that an alpha male like Morgan will take her orders, and Morgan took them and ran. He hides a smile.

They are unfortunately stuck with the detective when they are rerouted to a new crime scene as another body is found, but Hotch isn't worried. It will be a great place for her to show him what she can do.

“What do we know about the victim so far?” Sophie asks Jeffrey, her posture open.

“Sheila Lapinski, 27, hooker.” Prentiss rolls her eyes behind his back. “No one has reported her missing, no next of kin anywhere we can find. Coroner puts her time of death between 3 and 5 AM.”

“Does she have a record?”

“Osele’s pulling it now,” he says with a sigh, and she stops scanning the scene, looks to him with a cocked brow.

“Then how do you know she’s a prostitute?” He chuckles, puts out his hands like the answer is obvious.

“You know where we are. They’re like fleas around here, infesting, multiplying.” Cortes crouches down and lifts the sheet covering the victim, who is wearing a cardigan, pencil skirt, and flat shoes.

“She dressed like a prostitute to either of you?” she asks, looking up at Hotch and Prentiss, and he shakes his head, though he’s not sure why he’s surprised; the detective may actually be worse than she described him. Prentiss bends down, looks like she’s trying not to smile.

“No. She looks more like a school teacher, actually.”

“I’m telling you, they call this—pardon my French—” Sophie stands, crossing her arms, and cuts Jeffrey off.

“Pussy Alley. I know what guys like you call it. But you have no evidence this woman is a sex worker, and if she’s not, it’s extremely important that we find out how and why she was dumped here.” An older, bearded detective walks up to them, notebook open, and he smiles at her.

“Hey, Cortes. Nice to see you again, though not under the circumstances.”

“You too, Osele; these are Agents Hotchner and Prentiss. I worked with Osele in Intelligence way back when.” They all shake hands, and she nods to his notebook. “You have her record?"

“Yep, she’s squeaky clean. Not so much as a parking ticket.” Sophie shares a look with the both of them, and Jeffrey splutters.

“That’s—that’s not possible.”

“I think you’ll find that plenty is possible when you open your eyes, Detective,” Hotch can’t resist replying. Cortes crouches down again.

“There are no signs of a struggle. The bottoms of her shoes aren’t worn. Her clothes are clean, not cheap; hair done recently, not cheap.” Jeffrey puts his hands on his hips, all but rolls his eyes.

“Ah, there’s some hard hitting detective work.”

“You’re not even attempting to prove your theory that she’s a prostitute, so we’re disproving it for you,” Prentiss explains, pulling out her phone. “Easily. Garcia,” she begins, and she steps away from them to talk to the tech.

“What else do you see?” Hotch asks softly, meeting her on her level. “Anything that indicates occupation?” Her eyes are focused as she scans the victim, lifts her hand to examine her nails, her lip to examine her teeth.

“She has ink smudges on her hands, so she could be a teacher, but she could also be a receptionist, writer, accountant, secretary, bank teller… any type of administrative professional. She’s got a fresh manicure, teeth are in good health, so I’d bet she’s got insurance or has had it recently. No wedding ring, she’s too old to be on her parents’, so all signs point to a steady job.”

“Okay, there is no god damn way you can tell if she’s got health insurance just by looking at her.” She stands, and Hotch follows, covering the body with the sheet.

“No, you’re right, I can’t. It’s an educated guess based on analysis and not snap judgement. Do you have any insight into this case, aside from the fact that you think she’s a sex worker because of where she was found?”

“There’s not much to go on. Sometimes these cases go unsolved.” It’s then that Prentiss returns to them, and this time she is smiling.

“I had Garcia run our victim’s info, and it doesn’t look like she’s currently employed—no recent bank deposits, appears to be living off of her savings.”

“So not a teacher after all,” Jeffrey states, looking smug, and Hotch waits patiently, because he knows there’s more.

“Not right now, but she just moved to the area from a suburb called Evanston, and she was a third grade teacher there for two years. Private school, really nice place. Great insurance.” Sophie looks at her like something she said clicked, and she pulls out her phone.

“The ink on the heel of her hand could be from a newspaper; maybe she’s job hunting.”

“Wasn’t our first guy unemployed?” Prentiss recalls. “We should have Gideon and Reid ask his wife if he’s been job hunting. Could be a connection.”

“I’ll call Reid.” The fact that the victims were job hunting is what breaks the case. They work late into the evening, but they’re actually able to find the unsub—a man posing as a prospective employer only to people who are new to the area—relatively quickly once they put it all together.

The officers who remember Sophie from her time in Chicago are all clearly impressed with her and the team, and it makes him very, very proud.

Jeffrey clearly hates how quickly they solved the case, and he enjoys that, too.

That night, they do make it to Tito’s for drinks and Mexican food, and the team goes around the table and talks about their ‘Jeffreys’ in honor of Sophie showing up hers.

Morgan buys them all a round of Coronas in her honor as well, and later, Sophie offers to buy another; Hotch heads up the bar to help her carry.

“Since we’re here another night, is there anyone you’re going to try to see? Catch up with?” he asks while they wait for a few of the drinks. She smiles softly, tucks a hand under her chin thoughtfully.

“No, there’s nothing for me here anymore. Coming back, facing Jeffrey, was my last battle to fight, and you made that possible, so thank you.”

“It was my pleasure to see him knocked down a peg… and to watch you shine.” She reaches out, covers his hand with her own, which he did not expect, and nods back to the table with the rest of their coworkers, their friends.

“Come on. We’re going to have to rein them in soon. I could use a little back up.”

“Any time."

[hufflautia]

A Hidden Darkness

A/N: I wish I had thought of this idea in time for Halloween.

Warnings: This story is a little creepy and has something to do with the supernatural. If you are not comfortable with that kind of stuff, avoid this fic. 

Dedicated to @sophiexteresa; thank you for helping me out with British slang :’) 

Summary: Slytherin notices that Hufflepuff is acting strange...a little too strange. 

Boom!

Ravenclaw immediately drew back from the table, laughing as he pointed at Slytherin; the mini-explosion singed the edges of his hair. 

“Bloody hell,” Slytherin grumbled, gingerly rubbing his slightly-burned face. “This game is a load of bollocks.” 

He raised an eyebrow as he gathered the remaining cards. “Mate, you were the one who wanted to play Exploding Snap.” 

“Yeah, because I wanted the cards to explode in your face.” 

Ravenclaw rolled his eyes and grabbed a handful of popcorn, chucking it at him. 

Slytherin managed to block the attack with his hand, but some landed on his shoulder. As he brushed the popcorn off, he suddenly felt something prodding at the back of his neck. It felt like someone was...sniffing his hair? 

He turned around and saw Hufflepuff standing there, her face so close to his that he could feel her breath. “Hey,” he smiled, not registering the fact that it was likely she who just sniffed him. “Alright?” 

Hufflepuff gave him a blinding smile and grabbed his hand. “I need you,” she replied, tugging him out of his chair. 

“But I’m—” 

“Playing cards with Ravenclaw? You can do that later.” 

As she led him out of the Great Hall, Slytherin wondered how she knew what he was gonna say. He brushed it off quickly; she could clearly see what they were doing. However, something was definitely strange about her. Hufflepuff would usually greet Ravenclaw kindly if she saw him, but she barely spared him a second glance. 

Hufflepuff came to a stop after they passed through the entrance of the Great Hall and turned to face him. “I need to ask you something.” 

“Why couldn’t you just ask me before?” 

“Because Ravenclaw was there.” 

He frowned and said, “But you’ve never had a problem with him before.” 

She made a face at him. “He’s an ickle know-it-all. Should’ve socked him in the face, I should.” 

He was taken aback—Hufflepuff never behaved like this. She was always sweet and kind, but she was the complete opposite now. 

“What’s up with you,” he asked. “You’re acting like a completely different person. And ickle? You’ve never said that before.” 

She glared at him. “People change, Slytherin. Besides, I didn’t bring you out there just for you to berate me.” Her tone was calm, but Slytherin could sense the repressed hostility hidden beneath her words. 

She seemed to realize that he was staring at her strangely because, in the next moment, she suddenly straightened up and smiled at him widely. "But no reason to fuss about it any longer," she cooed in an oily voice, pinching his cheek. "You're here now, and that's all that matters." 

Slytherin studied her face and immediately picked up on the fact that her smile was forced. "Right then," he said slowly, still put off by her demeanor. "What was it you wanted to ask?" 

Her expression immediately darkened, and she stepped forward. He fought the urge to take a step back. What was going on with him? This was his girlfriend he was dealing with. She never meant any harm...so why did he feel so uneasy? Her next words sent chills down his spine. 

"Would you be able to tell if someone—no, if something were to possess my body?" 

Slytherin stared at her, hoping that she would crack a smile and burst out laughing, saying that it was just a prank and she successfully fooled him. 

However, she did no such thing. Instead, she stared at him with those dark eyes that he usually found endearing, but there was a coldness to them. An emptiness. 

"I..." He trailed off, unsure of what to say. What could he say? A feeling of discomfort festered within him, and he spoke again. “Uh, maybe? I think it'd be obvious if you started climbing on the walls or something.” 

Nodding, Hufflepuff seemed to mull over his answer before her face broke into a huge smile. “Alrighty then.” She suddenly plucked a piece of popcorn that had been lying in the collar of his shirt and popped it in her mouth. “Can I watch you play Exploding Snap with Ravenclunk?”  

“I thought you didn’t like Ravenclunk.” 

“I wanna see the cards explode in his face,” she shrugged. 

Slytherin hummed a laugh, momentarily forgetting how unusual she was acting, and began leading her back into the Great Hall. He felt a tug at his hand and turned back, only for Hufflepuff to smash her face onto his. 

The kiss was rough and sloppy, an alarming contrast to how they normally kissed. Drawing his bottom lip between her teeth, she bit down hard enough to make him pull away abruptly. He gingerly touched his lip and found his fingers to be stained with blood. He looked back up at her, shocked.  

A bit of his blood smeared across her teeth, she smiled coyly. “Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry in the slightest bit. “You know I get carried away sometimes…” 

Slytherin didn’t respond and simply stood there like a statue, face awash with horror as he stared at her. 

“I’ve gotta go now. I have lots to do today.” With that, she ambled away, leaving Slytherin standing there and looking as if he had just seen a ghost. 

Hufflepuff wandered through the corridors, letting her hands brush against the cobblestone wall as she inhaled the sweet smell drifting from the Kitchens.  

I have to admit, the voice cackled. This is quite luxurious. It’s interesting to be human for once. Smell, taste, touch. I have much to explore.  ��

Please, Hufflepuff begged, trapped within the confines of her body against her own will. Let me go! 

Peeves laughed gleefully inside her mind. 

But I’m having so much fun.

FIN.

~

Check out my masterlist! | Kind comments and reblogs are most appreciated :)

Author’s note: 

This may be my least favorite fic out of all that I have written. Last night, when I was writing it, I didn’t feel happy and a part of me wanted to discard what I wrote so far because I was like “jessica this is so dumb” but I didn’t wanna throw out what I wrote so far. I’m not even sure if Peeves is able to possess someone’s body, and after I finished writing, I thought “well what if I keep it ambiguous and it’s just some random demon?”. However, I had done some research on how Peeves talks, hence the “ickly”, and I didn’t wanna take out the hints of Hufflepuff not really being Hufflepuff. In addition, it doesn’t seem very hogwarts-like or harry potter related if it were just a random demon. That’s why I thought Filch to be the best option. I thought of this idea yesterday when my sister was acting creepy while we were in the bathroom in the morning. I was brushing my teeth and she was on the toilet, and she straightup looked at me with dead eyes and asked “Would you be able to tell if a demon possessed me?” and I was like

She was twitching and everything, and as I was walking out of the bathroom, she came up right behind me and SNIFFED MY HAIR. Yea, so that was my inspiration for this fic. My initial idea for the ending was that as Hufflepuff walks back with Slytherin to the table, her eyes glow a little and she smiles wickedly. However, I was like hmmmm what if she bits his lips and he bleeds a little?.. Yea, don’t ask me why I thought that. I don’t think I would ever write a fic that includes that bit because slytherpuff doesn’t have that rough-love type of vibe, so I just thought, oh whatever might as well do that now when I have the chance.  

In other news, happy March! This is gonna be the month in which I get the rest of my college results and I am a little nervous. Also, I’m going to go on a hiatus because I feel myself going down a spiral right now and it’s likely because my period is coming😀😀😀😀😀😀😀😀😀😀What fun, am I right??? I get bad PMS, so I’m just gonna leave and focus on my own wellbeing for some time because I tend to get depressed during my period. I might write a bunch of stories and then come out from the dark and then post consistently. I think I am kind of posting consistently already; I have never posted as many fics as I had in February, which is interesting and hopefully not a once-in-a-lifetime thing because I’m done with the college process but now I also have to deal with my own issues in terms of mental health and stuff. It sucks but I will get better. 

I hope you enjoyed reading this fic. Let me know what you think! 

Tags: slytherpuff-shenanigans @axieleration @sunnniiee @just--another--bean​ @determinedpines @zenobiagrace @asterinflower @cinnamon-roll-unicorn @mossy-axolotl @dumbbitch11 @hitchhiker-of-the-galaxy @notsowiseravenclaw  @arianatorpotterhead @eatacrackerandstop @luciferswife16 @walkinganomaly @asunshinepuff @lewispoolerpayton @adreameratdawn @thewitcheswords @oncergleekpotterhead @princessstoopid @stardustzainy @flvrqnce @multi-fandom-nutjob @eunnieah @iamahufflepuff @1hufflepuff @introvertedrae @princessstoopid @jasminedayz @magnoliamermaid @HOPEFUL-HUFFLEPUFF-PEEVES @peanut-in-the-goal @pufflehuff929 @sophiexteresa @da-fox-rangerrr @dawinehouse @shipping-book-keeper @xxavaloraxx @silverhetdanes @im-a-solanum-lycopersicum @elegantcroissantplaidpony @theoriginaljohnwatsonsblog @theoriginalsherlockholmesblog @vickeyunicorn @arianatorpotterhead @hmilkwhoney @simpering-simpleton @grandcyclecreation @sweetinvisiblewriter @marvelenthusiast10 @mvlpksvthisht @qiaopa @beardedhumanoid @jadefox05 @justanotherperson @inkedintothepaper @minty-malfoy @trippy-morgan @fangirlgeekandfreak @boilyourteeth @absentmindeduniverse @colettedelaurel @halfelven1 @happy-puff @coloring-bud @in-love-with-remus-lupin @autumnpleaves @crakencc @flyme--tothemoon @hedgepuffgirl @littleemotionalpanda @pancakes-and-sugar @korra4321 @aquietkindofthunder @qixnsriess @porksoba @thatfann @hellounicorn @i-have-a-bad-feeling @aasa2102 @zuko-28 @annie-mcl @clementines-x @writtenfoxscreams @randomwriter23 @cryingabtwandavision @coolninjavoid @urfaveslytherin @malfoys-demigod @tumlbr-trasher @violayaxley @wolfpack-arts-industries99 @zainieees-stuff @milk-leaves @priii @capt-sparrow @blueberry-9-pancakes @stressy-depressy   

[silence-burns]

Please Hate Me //part 40

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on: “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine​ Who would have thought that babysitting a god could be so much fun?

Genre: slow-burn, enemies to lovers, smut - please go easy on me, this is my first smut

"Darling, as much as I appreciate your concern, I'm still not dead," Loki mumbled, his head thrown back. 

You shushed him, lighting yet another candle and staging it around the bathtub. A shelf in the bathing chamber was full of them, just waiting to be used. 

Loki sighed as the flickering flame joined the others like a lone violin bringing an entire orchestra together.

The water was a blessing made of warm touches and muscles slowly relaxing. Whatever oils and foams you added to the bath were clearly a good choice judging by the soft, fresh aroma filling the air. Loki was not sure how long he had spent in the tub, and he cared little in finding out.

Your hands worked wonders on his scalp and he couldn't help a small groan from leaving his lips. 

"Someone's enjoying himself," you said into his ear, fingers washing the soap from his neck. The loose robe draped over your shoulders slowly came undone the more you moved. He kept an eye on it from under lowered lashes.

Loki wished you'd join him in the tub.

The air was heavy, and not only because of the steam fogging up the room. 

"How could I not?" he asked, craning his neck to look at your kneeling form behind his back. 

You put some of the foam on his nose. Loki didn't mind, and even if he did, he did nothing to stop you. He was spread lazily in the huge tub sunk into the polished, tiled floor. He took up much of the space, and looked good doing so, with the thick foam covering most of him, and only certain, oiled parts of his body rising above it like a greek statue half-submerged in the ocean.

Your fingers followed the curved lines of his arm and down to his hand, raising goosebumps in their wake. Loki's chest rose with an uneven breath.

You were glad about his magic working again - Loki spent a lot of time healing the cuts and bruises you'd  earned during the day's events. You could certainly get used to having injuries wiped away so easily. And you could certainly get used to having him so close. 

The robe's sleeve slid a little further, uncovering some collarbone that Loki wanted nothing more than to taste. 

Violet light seeped through the windows and the light breeze from outside playing with the thin curtains. A few yellowish lights passed through them soundlessly, hovering in the air for a moment before disappearing again. 

"I wish this peace could last," you said into Loki's shoulder. 

"It's not like I enjoy being chased by spiders the size of a cow either. The Edge isn't always so… hostile, though, we just chose a bad time to pay it a visit." 

"How many times have you been here?" 

"Twice, as a part of my father's court during official visitations. The first time happened when I was a child and had read hundreds of volumes about this place. I wanted absolutely nothing more than to visit its secret treasure trove. It's speculated to contain some truly marvelous things, but no one from the outside has ever seen it in person."

"I think I can see where this is going…" 

Loki felt your smile in the crook of his neck, raising goosebumps. 

"It didn't take me long to excuse myself from the welcoming feast, but sadly, neither did it take long for Thor to notice my absence. By the time he caught up to me, I had already been halfway through the locks and protection spells, so we both agreed to have just one look inside, just a peek, really."

"Was it worth it?" 

Loki's face lit up with the memories. "It was more than worth it, love. I only saw it for a few seconds, but the sheer aura of the collection was enough to take my breath away. The Edge is a space of high magical density, and the things that sometimes grow or appear here are one of a kind. I wish I had seen more, but I only had a few seconds before Thor waltzed into one of the traps…"

"So you overlooked some?" 

"I didn't," Loki stated with dignity. "I simply didn't think anyone would be stupid enough not to notice that one. I admit I might've overestimated my brother's wits, but that's all." He raised a hand and waved it as if he were dismissing the thought. 

"Wait, is that why Thor's no longer welcome here? He mentioned an old incident. So you left him there to take all the blame?" 

A barely noticeable blush crept onto Loki's cheeks. 

"That was not my plan. I had only recently begun training with teleportation, and in my childish pride I thought I'd manage to get us both to safety. A few miscalculations later, I found myself in that beautiful river near the castle walls, and Thor was left in the trove, where he was taken care of long before I managed to scramble to the riverbank and back to the feast. "

"Your father must've been delighted."

Loki closed his eyes. The rage of Odin on that day was something the Asgardian were talking about for weeks to come. "...you've got no idea."

You chuckled and kissed his cheek before standing up. "Don't think about him now. Focus on something more pleasant. We've earned ourselves an evening off." 

Loki watched you head toward the bedroom. The robe you wore was a thin, flimsy thing that fluttered over your knees and occasionally rode higher. Despite the bath turning cold, Loki was far from feeling its chill. To think that even after almost having been killed on the same day, you were still in the mood for jokes and teasing… He was lucky. Very lucky. 

There was little he could do to show his gratitude - being locked up in that suite made things difficult from a logistical side, but there were still a few ideas up his sleeve. 

Loki got out of the tub, sprinkling the scented water around the tiles. A few wild faeries - strange, bird-like creatures the size of a sparrow - were chittering outside the window, apparently arguing over a dead bug's corpse. Loki eyed them carefully while he took a robe in palest shades of green, but nothing suggested they were thinking about entering the bathroom. Still, Loki made sure to close the door firmly behind him. The last thing he needed right now were third-party intruders. 

The carpet was soft under his bare feet as Loki neared the chimney. Fire slid down his fingers and burrowed into the wood. You watched him, sprawled on the bed. 

"Someone's in a good mood," you noticed. Light played tricks with the shadows over your face. 

Loki stalked closer with a smile that made your heart skip a beat. The mattress moved under him as he laid down next to you - close enough to let you feel the heat radiating from him. 

"Why shouldn't I be?" he asked in a voice low and pleasant. 

"I didn't think being chased by a monster had that effect on you." 

"Maybe it was the company that made it that way?" 

You couldn't help the soft smile from spreading across your lips, despite how cheesy he sounded. And why should you try to stop it? You were happy. The Edge was not exactly what you thought it'd be. Its magic was stranger than you'd prefer. The investigation got more and more complicated, which made this whole situation widely different from what you'd expected. And yet, there was no denying that there were still moments of simple, unapologetic fun. There were moments of wonder. And there was the person that made everything better. 

"I love you," you said, hand brushing over Loki's brow. 

He kissed the inside of your palm. "How convenient then, that I share this feeling." 

He leaned over you, doing what he'd imagined a hundred times. He'd never get tired of how sweet your lips felt on his, moving slowly and patiently, learning every part of him. A half-breathed groan escaped him when Loki felt you open up. Blush blossomed on his face as he mapped the soft inside of your mouth with his tongue.

Your arms wrapped tightly around Loki's shoulders, pulling him further onto you, and he was more than happy to oblige. Your bodies joined, sharing the warmth and the softness, save for the thin pieces of clothing still somehow between you. Loki could feel you moving, your muscles tense and shifting with every stroke of his hand venturing over your side. 

Cautiously, Loki slid his leg between yours, in a question and a plea. He wouldn't push you into anything you didn't want, so he waited for you to choose. 

You felt him smile into the kiss that was stealing your breath away quite literally, as Loki settled between the legs you opened for him. With the heat rising in every place he touched, you couldn't help but nudge his hips even closer, too needy to wait. 

Loki devoured every whimper you fed him like a starving man. He accepted the silent request your knee was writing on his hip, and pulled more of his weight on you, his flustered face a mirror to yours. 

"Is this okay?" he whispered into the soft skin of your cheek, flushed and shining with a thin layer of sweat. His hand froze around the hem of your robe, your bare skin so close he could almost feel it, but wouldn't dare to just yet. 

"Yes," said the lips already swollen, half bare without the cover of his. 

Loki felt his body start at the intensity in that word, and he couldn't help but mark his thanks into your skin, and over the soft, sensitive edge of your earlobe that sent the shivers down your back and made your fingers clutch his hair oh, so tightly. 

"Are you sure?" 

The bastard toyed with the fabric, his knuckles brushing ever so slightly over the skin that was more than ready to be painted by his touch. He twirled it between his fingers in a manner that made you imagine all sorts of things they were capable of elsewhere. 

"You really are an asshole, Loki," your voice came out raspier than you expected. 

"Isn't that why you love me?" 

The heavy-lidded mess you'd become looked at him in a way that made Loki's resolve melt between one heartbeat and another. 

"Of course it is." 

A sigh escaped him, barely audible over the blood pulsating in his veins. It sang poems he wrote down word by word over the accepting curve of your neck as he moved slowly, meticulously down, not sparing an inch of skin from his attention. It tasted like heaven and he made sure you felt it with every nip and lick he took, tasting your desire on his tongue. 

His hand finally listened to your requests, and left your robe, moving it carefully away. The calloused fingers palmed at your heated thigh, drawing patterns of devotion with each stroke they made. The goosebumps he could feel made his hand shake just a little, as if he was struggling to keep it from squeezing too hard and too needily. Loki wanted to take his time on you, expressing everything that had been growing in his heart for so long, in every way his dreams had already teased him with. It'd been so difficult to stay focused and slow when all he wanted to do was devour you whole, to claw and bite his name into your very being so thoroughly no one would ever dare mistake who you chose to stay by your side, in this world and all the others. 

Loki growled your name into your collarbone with lips of a heathen discovering the absolute. His hand reached in the dark, following the curve of your hip to the soft expanse of your belly. Your robe was hitched higher as he went, and you whimpered at the fabric still separating you. You fumbled with it impatiently, blinded and deafened by the only thing that mattered, by the only person who would ever matter, to the point where everything else felt irrelevant and not needed, and so annoyingly in your way. 

Faster than you could notice, Loki stopped your hands with a wicked gaze and a smile that made your hips buckle. "Patience, my love, is a virtue." 

"...I don't need virtues, I need you closer, and now." 

Loki's mouth went dry as he let your hand slip from his grasp and slid over the soft fabric of his own robe. 

With a gentleness that broke his heart into a million shards, you brushed its edge off his collarbone and then further down his arm when he didn't protest. His chest heaved slightly as you reached to his rapid heartbeat and stopped your hand there. 

The muscles shifted under his velvety skin as Loki moved back to where he finished. Something ached in his chest, and his throat clenched as the kisses he trailed over your chest and stomach became more sloppy, and heated, and did wonders to the feeling rising in your core, so close to where his mouth now hovered--

The intensity of his heavy-lidded gaze was enough proof of his own pleasure. You might've wanted to say something in the moment you looked down at him, settled between your legs like he owned every inch of bare flesh, all now exposed to, and for, him. Loki smiled, holding your eyes as he slung your leg over his shoulder and lowered himself again. 

A throaty curse ripped from your lips as Loki licked, and sucked, and devoured what'd been rising in you throughout that night. Your hands flew back into his hair, burrowing in the soft strands brushing over your skin like feathers. 

Release rippled through your body, and you felt pleasure wash over you, over every place Loki had left his signature. One of his hands splayed over your hips, holding them in place as the other one, alongside his tongue, worked you through it until you were just a weak, shuddering mess gasping for breath on the silk covers of the bed. The velvety darkness did little to hide the sweat coating your limp body, and the blush radiating off your cheeks. The fireplace was still alive, and its light touched the few surfaces it could reach with tenderness reserved only for certain nights. The light brushed over your hand, still clutching the bed sheets tightly. It lightened up the curve of Loki's back as he let his robe fall off, exposing flesh, desire and the eyes burrowed into yours as if nothing else in the world was worth admiring. He rose on his knees, admiring his work with pride seeping out of his every pore. 

It also shined over the glistening mess around his lips and chin, where saliva and your juices mixed. And it showed the bastard putting his fingers, covered in it too, straight up to that damned mouth and licking them clean. 

"Thank you for the meal," he grinned, memorizing every piece of you laid out in front of him. 

You nudged him with a trembling leg, already missing his touch. 

"Where is mine?" you cooed softly, and watched the light flash in his eyes at the rasp and raw need in your words. 

Loki stretched over you again, pushing you closer and closer to him, until there was nothing separating your bodies. His hand found its way underneath your back, holding you with both gentleness and demand, as he positioned himself where he had always wanted to be. 

And as he entered where his fingers used to be just moments ago, he felt your back arch even more into him, and he drank the moan that escaped from your perfect trembling lips, and drowned in it as you moved together, nothing more than two separate beings that had finally became one, and nothing less. 

The world shattered around you, blurring the edges. Your nails dug into the flesh of Loki’s back. The moment of bliss lasted as the final waves turned into shivers and then into an embrace so tight it was barely different from the heated moments. But it was all you needed right then, and so the two of you stayed together, limbs interlaced, and fingers grasping for a hold as the night darkened, and sleep finally took you over.

*

A/N: I really hope this wasn’t weird, I’ve never written smut in my life, so please be merciful on me! I kept the reader gender neutral through the whole series, so I did my best to  keep it that way even in smut, although it was really hard.

[abirdonalilactree]

First gay ship I watched that actually became canon. (kinda toxic tho-)

Y'all remember the first time you saw your gay ship become canon? I suppose for many of you it was Supernatural. 

For me it was back in 2013 when the series finale of Rules of Engagement came out, which is pretty early if you are talking about gay stuff. Not only did we get a slowburn spanning over several seasons, it also ended in a gay wedding.

In this essay I will talk about why this ship is so important to me and why it also was toxic as feck.

The show is about two couples and their single friend, all at different stages in their relationships, deal with the complications of dating, commitment, and marriage. From season three on, there kinda is a slow burn until season seven ends with the two unmarried couples getting married as well.

What started as a horrible boss messing with his assistant turned into a surprising love story.

 I'm not sure why I came back to this series after so many years in the first place. Some of the jokes are quite offensive so here is a warning for that. But on the other hand, all episodes are up on YouTube for free soo… Right now, in the September of 2021 we have exactly 20 fics on Ao3 by amazing authors. We are a really small fandom. The show ended in 2013 but like three or four people are still here.

Let me introduce the main characters:

The married couple consists of Jeff and Audrey Bingham. Jeff has been a financial manager and husband of Audrey since 1995. He has a rather deadpan, cold and sardonic personality and sense of self, particularly when dealing with Russell and Adam, but he is not sadistic or unkind, thereby rendering these traits as merely ironic and biting humor. He loves sports, shuns anything that might resemble sensitivity and often views his marriage as a competition or war, refusing to let Audrey "win" the upper hand at anything.

Audrey is an editor at Indoor Living magazine before later resigning and the assertive, modern wife of Jeff. She tolerates her husband's insensitivity because she knows he is not malicious and will do whatever it takes to make the situation right once he realizes his mistake. As a couple, they both can be very condescending and manipulative towards each other, in order to gain the upper hand, and typically don't like to concede to the other that they were wrong.

Adam Rhodes, a sensitive and well-meaning, but extremely naive and super extremely stupid, co-worker of Russell and Timmy, and Jennifer's fiancé throughout the series until they are married in the series finale. He is a neighbor of Jeff and Audrey, looks up to Jeff, and often acts on Jeff's relationship advice -This usually results in making the situation worse for himself. Jennifer Morgan is the fiancée and eventual wife of Adam, who endures his faults because of his good looks. She is very self-conscious of him, and will often try to spare him from embarrassment.

Timir "Timmy" Patel was introduced in season 3 and became a season regular from season 4-7. He first appears when Russell hires him as his assistant.  Although he is fluent in seven languages and holds an MBA, Timmy is often forced to do menial work or to solve Russell's trivial problems which often annoys Timmy. While many of Russell's schemes disgust him, Timmy will often see them through so that he can enjoy Russell's deserved penalty. 

Russell Dunbar on the other hand is wealthy, only due to his trust fund, which he uses to impress and seduce women. He is presented as a seedy and sleazy man who only cares about how many women he can get. However, it is shown that he has a softer side. His relationships within the group are seemingly conflicted, many of the group dislike his behaviour and mock him, as they do everyone else, but it seems that he expresses just as much distaste for them as he does not choose to invite them places unless he needs them to. Through Timmy, he is analysed by a psychiatrist to have sociopathic tendencies which explains his destructive behaviour.

He is also self absorbed and immature.

...But the thing is sometimes he isn’t.

While all three relationships show a lot of signs of toxicity, Timmy and Russell’s relationship is certainly the most destructive one. Which is mostly Russell’s fault.

But let me show you.

From a psychological point of view, their relationship ticks most of the boxes of a toxic relationship.

Toxic communication

Instead of treating each other with kindness, most of their conversations are filled with sarcasm, criticism, or overt hostility. Yet sometimes kindness is in fact seeking through.

Jealousy

There is so, so much jealousy going on. Russell really does everything to not allow Timmy to get together with a woman. Although only as the show goes on, it becomes clear that Russell is jealous because he has fallen for Timmy.

Controlling behaviors

Russell is questioning where Timmy is all the time or becoming overly upset when he doesn’t immediately answer texts are both signs of controlling behavior, which can contribute to toxicity in a relationship. And it gets so much worse than that. But more to that later.

Resentment

Yes.

Dishonesty

Yes. ALL the time.

Patterns of disrespect

Being chronically late, casually “forgetting” events, and other behaviors that show disrespect for each other's time are a red flag. This makes it red flag number six. 

Constant stress

A normal amount of tension runs through every relationship, but finding oneself constantly on edge is an indicator that something’s off. Yet another red flag.

This ongoing stress can take a toll on the physical and emotional health of a person. Which is one hundred percent happening.

Ignoring needs

Going along with whatever one partner wants to do, even when it goes against the wishes or comfort level of the other one. From his first episode in the show on, Timmy is forced to do absurd stuff he doesn’t want to do and honestly no one should do for their boss.

Lost relationships

Stopping to spend time with friends and family, either to avoid conflict with a partner or to get around having to explain what’s happening in the relationship.

Hoping for change

One might stay in a relationship because they see the other person’s potential or think that if they just change themselves and their actions, their partner will change as well. And it’s the little moments when Russell shows for only moments the tiniest bit of being a good person that make Timmy stay with him.

Walking on eggshells

One worries that by bringing up problems, they’ll provoke extreme tension, so they become conflict avoidant and keep any issues to themselves.

Lack of support however is arguably not always one of their problems. But we’ll come back to that.

And still, they share their sweet moments.

The following clip, made by CBS itself shows really well how it is for them to work with each other.

https://youtu.be/GfPI3HgMYoI

And then there is character development. Here the group of friends talks about Jeff lying to his wife about another friends bachelor party because he doesn’t want to spend time with her aunt.

https://youtu.be/LQPIFcrBltQ

Russell doesn't want to get married, clearly. This clip also conveys pretty well how horrible those people are. 

There is this tension and the gay jokes. This clip also shows really well how manipulative Russell -tries- to be.

https://youtu.be/XkdycXzX4ag

And then there are moments like these: In season 6 Timmy wanted to impress a woman who only wants to date singers so Russell teaches him how to play the guitar with the ulterior motive of Timmy embarrassing himself in front of the whole company. This idea backfires when Russell realises that he can’t watch Timmy suffer like that and he joins on stage and they start this duet that’s like super gay.

https://youtu.be/UH3P_LfBBQo

To be with you by Mr Big is an interesting choice of song. -Not only because it’s quite romantic but also because the lyrics seem to be surprisingly fitting at second glance.

Let’s analyze it because Music is an important aspect.

“One of the great unrequited love songs, "To Be With You" has a true story behind it. Mr. Big lead singer Eric Martin wrote the song when he was still a teenager - 16 or 17 in his estimation. The girl was Patricia Reynolds, and he had it bad for her.

"We were really, really good friends," Martin said in a Songfacts interview. "I was totally enamored with this woman. She was beautiful. Smart. I mean, brains, beauty, break down the walls, made me crawl on my belly like a reptile!

I just loved this woman, but she just wanted to be my friend. She'd have tons of boyfriends, and maybe she misconstrued promiscuity for love. But I wanted to be the knight in shining armor. That's what I was, a knight in shining armor. But basically, I didn't get my feet wet. I wrote it about how I would have done anything to just be more than a friend and a confidante."”

-https://www.songfacts.com/facts/mr-big/to-be-with-you

So much to the history of the song. Do you see the parallels? Do you see them? Do you?

Anyway. When Russell joins Timmy on the stage, he starts with the lines:

Build up your confidence

So you can be on top for once

Wake up, who cares about

Little boys that talk too much

I think this has to be taken literally. Not sure how much I should go into detail here. 

This however brings us back to the point of support from our list earlier.

I've seen it all go down

The game of love was all rained out

So come on baby, come on over

Let me be the one to hold you

I'm the one who wants to be with you (I'm the one, yeah)

Deep inside I hope you feel it too (feel it too)

Waited on a line of greens and blues (waited on a line yeah)

Just to be the next to be with you

That’s kinda Gay.

There are jokes all over the seasons that Timmy and Russell are gay but it becomes most clear that Russell is in love with Timmy, in the last season, when Timmy leaves to go on vacation and Russell misses him so much that he gets a girlfriend and turns her into a copy of Timmy.

Things get worse when Timmy finds out that Russell completely lost his marbles and chipped him to always know his whereabouts. This finally makes Timmy leave the company and get a new job where he finally gets treated with respect. It is shown how they miss each other despite everything. But then Timmy loses his work Visa which turns out to be completely Russell’s fault.

Right after Jenn and Adam marry in the last episode, Russell proposes to Timmy so he can stay in America but it becomes clear that there is more than his conscience that made him do this.

Russell turning his girlfriend into Timmy. (There is no heterosexual explanation for this):

https://youtu.be/sX1xTybc6vI

Timmy finding out how much Russell really stalks him. (like. he is totally in love with him):

https://youtu.be/jPWKdwpXCLU

Their Wedding (seems pretty gay to me):

https://youtu.be/Ymp-zaTmnD8

 You need to see the whole show as it is. A bunch of horrible people that are made fun of.

Furthermore you could argue that they don’t actually kiss. But maybe marriage is even more meaningful. 

I suppose that since we get so little representation, we like to clasp onto everything we can get. Because when I watched this I was too young to understand how offensive the shit they talk about really is. But after all it meant a lot to my gay little heart.

So many years later I gotta say that it needs to be said that it’s a toxic relationship after all. Don’t try it at home. Don’t try it with your boss or assisstant.

In the end it’s a green card marriage. But there is this whole arch of Russell falling in love with Timmy. Most clearly in the last three episodes but also starting a lot earlier. It’s a slow burn after all. It’s never said out loud but we got two bisexual characters right there.

Now I’m asking around my friends what their first gay ship was that became canon. The results really show that we don’t get enough representation in series. Just wow.

Hannigram became canon. kinda. They jumped off a cliff together instead of kissing. That one dude from supernatural you guys keep talking about got sent to super gay hell after confessing.

What I want to say is I just wanna see a healthy gay ship become canon some day.

Thanks for reading!

...So what was your first gay ship that became canon? 

[mrslittletall]

For the whump list 22 for Djura or 19 for the Blood Crow of Cainhurst? c:

Title: Doubt Fandom: Bloodborne Characters: Eileen the Crow, Bloody Crow of Cainhurst Word Count: 991 AO3-Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31169114

Summary: Eileen and her student have a talk about their line of work.

(Author's note: 19: Blurred Words

This is on the shorter side, because it is more a conversation between two characters. Bloodborne is a very complex game and I like to think that the characters in it are complex as well, so I explore this in here a little bit. I am going with the theory that the Bloody Crow has been Eileen's student.)

Eileen found her student sitting on the edge of Oedon Chapel, overlooking the graveyard. She frowned at the bottle in his hand, from the form and colour it was obvious that it wasn't filled with water.

“What are you doing?”, she asked. “Where have you even found this? To my knowledge, there isn't much alcohol being produced in Yharnam.”

“Doesn't mean that it doesn't exist.”, he replied. One time he might have had a name, but it got shed when he took up the mantle of the Bloody Crow of Cainhurst, though, it wasn't like he stepped into a great bloodline of knights, Cainhurst had been wiped out years ago. He still had been a child in training, having managed to flee the massacre somehow. Eileen had found him and taken him as her student, intending to show him the way of the Hunters of Hunters.

“Still doesn't explain where you got it.”, Eileen retorted, leaning against the wall, thinking about how slow the Bloody Crow had grown. It was the effect of the blood in his veins, the tainted blood of Cainhurst. Even though he should be around forty years old, when he removed the mask, he would look like he was starting his twentieth year.

“I just have to walk around.”, he snapped. “And they throw it at me from their windows. I can hear them talking. Vileblood, they say. Cainhurst is not welcome in this town. They show me their disdain by giving me what they think is lesser. They engorge themselves on the blood and have only their scraps left for me.”

Eileen waited for a few seconds before replying. “So you decided to drink your brains out with some cheap booze that got hurled at you from some window?”

“Not exactly. And I don't believe for one second that you don't know why.”

He got her there. Yharnam was known for being wary of outsiders, and they were downright hostile to anyone from Cainhurst. Walking around in the signature armour of Queen Annalise's elites was an open invitation for their harassment. Eileen didn't agree with them of course, she just couldn't convince her student to take his garb off to not ignite their rage.

“You are worried about the hunt.”, she said, her arms crossed. “Or more, about our line of works.”

Hunters of Hunters... it wasn't an easy job, but someone had to do it. Someone had to take the Hunters out that had gotten blood drunk, that would slay friend and foe alike, the Hunters which had become a danger to the Hunt.

There was a faint nod of her student's head, or maybe he had just twitched when she had spoken, Eileen wasn't too sure. He took another swig of the battle and the next time he spoke, his words were blurred, and she didn't know if it was of the alcohol or because of something else.

“What if it happens to me? I can feel it, the blood inside myself. The blood they call vile. What if it overtakes me? What shall I do then?”

“It isn't even said that it will happen.”, Eileen said. “Your people-”

“Weren't the honourable knights that the stories try to make them out to be. I have seen it, Eileen, the lavish feasts they have held. That was nothing more but a bloody massacre. They did it in honour of the queen. I was about to become one of them. That is why I sometimes fear the blood in my veins...”

“Look at you talking, you almost sound like you want to say that the church was right about Cainhurst.”, Eileen said, kind of interested if she would hit a nerve. The way he clenched the bottle, she certainly did.

“Of course not! That was another kind of massacre! I would have been caught in it too, if I wouldn't have been able to flee...” Another swig of the bottle, making his next words a bit slurred. “It's just... all of them have been awful. My people, the church. There is no black or white. They all thought they did the right thing. They were convinced it is the right thing. Who even tells you if you are doing the right thing? The Hunters we hunt, do you think they are glad that we killed them?”

Eileen needed a moment to collect her thoughts. For apparently being drunk, her student had quite deep thoughts about the whole situation. In the end, she decided to answer him: “It doesn't matter if they think if we have been in the wrong or in the right. The hunting of Hunters is our job and we are the only one who are doing it. If we start to think about the why, we will only get qualms.”

Eileen stepped over and snatched the bottle out of the Bloody Crow's hand, he hissed in discontent, but in the end, let his hands fall down on his lap, murmuring something.

“Can you repeat that?”, Eileen asked, sitting down next to him.

“I said, if my blood overtakes me after all, and all I want to do is have lavish feasts with my prey, what will you do?”

“Then I will hunt you.”, Eileen said without hesitation. “For the hunting of Hunters is my job, and I can't stop solely because my student is involved. I expect for you to do the same thing should my blood lust overcome me.”

A long silence stretched between them, a silence in which Eileen started to gaze at the bottle and ask herself if a little sip would hurt, when her student spoke again.

“Thank you.”, he said.

Eileen felt herself smile under her mask. “Come then.”, she said. “The night is still young and we still have Hunters to hunt. Because the hunting of Hunters should be left to us.” (Author's note: We don't know much about Bloody Crow of Cainhurst and in my timeline Cainhurst has been wiped out decades ago, so I like to think that the Crow in game was a survivor who somehow managed to get picked up by Eileen, because he wears the crowfeather mantle as well. That have been all the prompts for the March of Whumps! I may fill out the others with my own ideas and characters, but we'll see. For now I will close this series.)

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

NSFW Alphabet: Crosshair

A/N: Not officially a request, but I thought I’d better cover the whole Bad Batch while I’m at it. And as a reminder, remember to REBLOG AND COMMENT IF YOU LIKE THIS!!! The tumblr tags are fickle at best and it’s the only real way to support creators on this hellsite.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He’s always stuck between wanting to keep your body against him, but at the same time not wanting to come across as needy. He’ll probably start kissing your shoulders and neck, before nipping at the skin and telling you to go take a shower. Once you do, he’ll try to play it cool like, “you can stick around if you want, not that I care either way”. But, he does. He does care.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He likes your waist. Odd, but true. It’s the natural place to put his hands when he pulls you close to him. He likes the way you shiver when he runs his fingers along your skin. Not to mention it’s the perfect place to grip you as his fucks you senseless.

For himself, he likes his legs. Yeah, they’re not as thick or muscular compared to regs, but they’re distinctly his. Plus even if he’s not any taller, it helps with the illusion that he is.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

His favorite place to cum is all over your chest and stomach. Seeing you a sweating, blissed out mess with his cum sticking to your skin is the single hottest image his mind can come up with. Second only to you hazily swiping his cum onto you finger and sucking with a moan.

You better be prepared if you do that because you won’t be able to walk the next day.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He has an impressive collection of dirty holos you’ve sent to him while away on missions.  He’s kept every single one.  It’s gotten to the point where he just picks a random holo and that’s the fantasy he indulges in to get himself off until he can see you again.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Like the rest of the batch, he’s had a pretty healthy string of one night stands since leaving Kamino. He actually has the most notches on his bed post which he is not ashamed to bring up whenever Wrecker is getting just a little too cocky. So, he’s pretty experienced all things considered.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Taking you from behind and against a wall. That’s the popular image of him in the fandom and I’m ain’t here to dispute it.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Not funny, but he’s definitely a smug asshole who can’t help but comment on every sound you make.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He keeps it pretty well groomed down there, almost complete shaven.  Also, dark hair down below, if you’re curious. 

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

It’s very rare for Crosshair to be emotional in bed.  He uses sex more as a way to get rid of tension or get a solid hit of dopamine.  Actually being open with someone is not something he’s comfortable with.

The most intimate he gets is when he feels he might lose you, either in the field or to another man.  Then, he uses it as a way to assure himself you’re with him and his. In that case, it can get pretty intense.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He jacks off often, before and after meeting you.  He’s got a higher sex drive than his brothers and needs someway to work off the tension after a mission.  He prefers doing it in the shower when he has the time, but he’ll honestly whip it out anyplace where he can get some privacy for fifteen minutes.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Let it be recorded that Crosshair is not only a Dom, but the only true Dom in entire Grand Army of the Republic. (With the exception of Commander Wolffe.)

Seriously, the man likes nothing more than pinning you down and using your body as his personally fuck toy.  His ultimate fantasy is keeping you tied up in various positions, your body spread open and willing for him to use whenever the mood strikes him.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anywhere with a relatively flat surface. I cannot emphasize how much he does not care where he does it: bedroom, shower, locker room, bar bathroom, sparring room, between a couple of boulders out of view of the rest of the Bad Batch. He does not care.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

His ego...let me explain.

There are two ways to really get him going, but they both come down to how they effect his ego.

Number one, praise.  If you compliment him on a shot, confirm that he did, in fact, beat Wrecker at something, or rasp a dirty promise in his ear that he’s the only man who has ever made you cum that hard; that’ll get him going more than anything.

Number two, jealously.  If he sees another man actively flirting with you, he’ll all but sling you over his shoulder and carry you to the closest abandoned alley he can find to fuck you senseless.  He doesn’t care if you were interested in the guy flirting with you or not, you’re his and he needs to remind himself and you of that.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Humiliation for him is a no go. There’s the more obvious stuff, like the idea of you putting him on a leash or something equally degrading just gets him frustrated, and not in a sexy way.  But, more specifically verbal humiliation. He genuinely gets upset if you’re the one to say he’s not good enough for you in some capacity or compare him negatively to somebody else. That’ll kill the mood in seconds.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Much prefers receiving to giving.  Seeing you on your knees with his cock in your mouth his heaven.  And being able to cum all over your face and chest when he’s done? He’s in heaven.

That being said, he’s not bad at giving, he just ends up mostly using his fingers while he runs his mouth.  He can’t help it.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Fast and rough, like all the time.  He basically has no other mode.  Now, whether it’s more intense with pent up emotions or a fun stress reliever depends on his mood.  Either way, if you’re not a sweating, panting mess by the end of it he feels like he’s failed in some way.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Yes.  He’s going to say yes to quickies.  Where ever and whenever is good for him.  But, don’t think it’s really over when it’s over.  He only considers it a preview of what he’s going to do to you once you actually get some time and a little more privacy.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He’s certainly willing to try different positions and kinks, but he’s not big on getting more toys in the mix.  He’s more than happy to tie you up and spank you, but he’s not so keen on adding a paddle or something like that, if that makes any kind of sense.  It’s about his body and what he can do to you.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Just as good as every other clone, with a fantastic recovery time. A solid average of three rounds per night lasting as long as either of you can stand it.

That all being said, he’s in constant competition with himself on how long he can last and for how many rounds.

Current record for time is two hours before he came once with you cumming a total of five times. Current round total is him cumming five times in one night while you lost count of yours.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Surprisingly not his thing. He’s got some cuffs he uses on occasion with you, but not much else. Like I said, he’s in competition with himself, not him and a toy.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He doesn’t tease often, but when he does, he’s an asshole.  He’ll keep you pinned down, lazily rubbing the tip of his cock against your opening, never fully going in until you’re squirming and begging him to just fuck you already.  Sometimes he will and sometimes, he’ll leave you hanging there.  It all depends on his mood.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Not especially. In the beginning he keeps it almost conversational, as he talks dirty into your ear. But, it all changes when he comes to the end. It’s like whatever control he had over his vocal cords gets shut off. He curses a lot combined with grunts and borederline feral growls as he rams his cock harder and deeper into you.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Crosshair has a real jealously streak, especially when it comes to regs. 

While he’s confident in his abilities, he’s aware more than Wrecker or even Tech that they’re basically a bunch of freaks the Republic likes to keep under wraps.  A funny little lab experiment.  While regs were made just as much as he was, they actually have a chance at being...well, normal after all is said and done.  He’s not sure he’ll ever be normal.  So, the fear of you realizing you’re dating an actual freak of nature weighs on him constantly.

He needs to remind himself that you’re with him, that you chose him and you’re not going to walk away.  It drives him crazy that you make him feel that way, but it’s the truth.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Just as long as his clone brothers (a solid 8-inches), but not as thick.  Not that he need that extra edge.  His talent is precision after all.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

I’d say he has the highest of the batch, actually getting agitated if he hasn’t had a good fuck in more than a few days.  His hand can only do so much for him before he gets down right hostile.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

I’d say it takes him a solid half-hour to finally fall asleep after sex. He’d never tell you, but he likes the feeling of you asleep in his arms. He’ll savor it for as long as he can.

[nanoland]

Ponder on the Narrow House

fandom: Lucifer

main characters: Mazikeen, Eve, Michael

pairings: Mazikeen/Eve/Michael 

summary: In which Mazikeen isn't finished with Michael yet. 

warnings: Violence, gun violence, trauma, dehumanization, outdoor sex. 

0 

In 2019, Fodor’s had crowned LAX the worst airport on Planet Earth, comparing it – much to Mazikeen’s amusement – to Dante Alighieri’s Hell.

She couldn’t comment on the comparison’s accuracy; she’d never read Divina Comedia. Human poetry bored her.

Up against the real thing, however? Hell was quieter, cleaner, and smelt better than Los Angeles International, and it wasn’t even close.

Granted, Mazikeen was biased. Hell was her home and she liked it quite a lot. But surely even a human – even an angel – would sooner take a stint in one of Lucifer’s loops than spend more than thirty minutes in Terminal 3.

Yet there he was, leaning against the wall, watching the bustling crowd with a faint smile on his face, like a man in the park resting his eyes on the ducks. Perfectly content.

“Do you know,” he said as she approached him, “that around forty percent of all humans are scared of flying?” 

She hadn’t been sure how this encounter would go and, being innately practical, had dressed accordingly. Black satin skirt, flattering and loose enough to both conceal several demon daggers (invisible to the full-body scanner she’d just sauntered through) and not impede her reaction time in a fight. Red silk wrap blouse, easily unwrapped to serve as a garrotte or tourniquet. Hair down, curled, dyed pitch black with bronze-gold streaks – possibly a tactical disadvantage if he grabbed it, but possibly a distraction. She knew he liked her hair.

When she was satisfied he wasn’t about to lunge for her throat, she took a gamble and moved in to lean against the wall alongside him, following his gaze. “Not surprising. Think of it from their perspective. They don’t have wings. Actually – huh. I guess that’s a perspective you can sympathise with now.”

He sneered. “You’re trying to bait me, Miss Mazikeen. That’s cute. But I’m not in the mood, dollface. This? This is me time. I’ve had a shitty few days and I came here specifically to soak up these idiot mortals’ fear and chill out. Get lost. Go play with my twin if you’re so starved for entertainment.”

Mazikeen stretched. “That’s the problem. He’s hanging out with the rest of your lousy family. Gabriel. Raziel. Jophiel. Now that he’s in charge, they’re all trying to crawl up his ass. It’s pathetic. And annoying.”

His jaw clenched and she knew exactly what he was thinking: ‘That should have been me.’

“Also,” she added, after a pause, “they don’t like me. Most of them have never met a demon. There’s no outright hostility but… they talk to me like I’m some gross exotic pet Lucifer found and adopted.”

“They’re afraid of you.”

“Bullshit.”

“Nope. I’m wrong about some things. Never about fear. They can tell how much you matter to him, how much he’d do for you and vis versa, and it scares them shitless. Chloe Decker they can understand – she was Dad’s gift, after all. You, though? Lucy was never supposed to love you. No one was.”

She fiddled with her earring; big, gold, shaped like a swallow with rubies dotting its tail feathers. A gift from Eve. “Whatever. Anyway, that’s why I’m here. With you. Instead of them. You’re the worst, most obnoxious, most cowardly creep ever. I mean it. Christ, do you suck. But you always talked to me like I was a person. Right from the beginning.”

Ugliness flared behind his eyes. “Seriously? Now you’re being nice? Lucifer sent his general to console me? Ha! That’s how pitiful he thinks I am?”

“Pfft – no. Lucifer doesn’t give a crap about you. I’m here because I wanna offer you a job, moron.”

“A… job.”

“Yep. Ever heard of ‘bounty-hunting’?”

He nodded. Slowly. Smirking, she pushed off the wall and twirled on her six-inch heels to face him.

“Here’s the thing, o Angel of Dread; I’ve spent centuries in Hell learning how to terrify people. I look at you and you know what I see? Potential. Sure, you’re rough around the edges. Still got some celestial baby fat clinging to you. Still a little squeamish when it comes to certain tricks of the trade. But Mikey, honey, six months under my tutelage and I think we can turn you into a bona fide fucking nightmare.”

She let the skin on her face’s left side melt away and grinned at him. “So? How about it?”

“Eh,” he said after taking one last glance around the terminal. “Fuck it. Why not? Nothing better to do.” 

0 

“Los Angeles is kinda like me,” Mazikeen told him, taking off her red-lensed cat-eye sunglasses as she strutted down the pier.

“Doesn’t have a soul?”

A withering glare. “Tough. Pretty on the outside, mean on the inside. It’s easy to make enemies around here and when you’ve made ‘em, you need to stay on your toes. Stay nimble. Stay mobile. Ready to fight or flee at any moment.”

Michael nodded. “And that’s how you justify living on a tugboat.”

“Ahoy!” called Eve, standing on the deck in a polka dot bikini and pirate hat Mazikeen had presumably stolen for her off the set of some summer blockbuster or other being shot nearby, the salty breeze playing with her hair.

“It’s a yacht,” Mazikeen growled.

“No. That’s a yacht,” Michael replied, pointing to the gleaming white MCY 70 Skylounge docked nearby. “What you have is a glorified raft that can, at best, accommodate two people and maybe a toaster.”

He should, perhaps, be trying harder to ingratiate himself with his new boss.

But he was tired.

Getting in his face, she snapped, “Hey! That’s our headquarters, asshole. Show some respect.”

“It’s covered in seagull crap. It looks older than me. There’s a very obvious bloodstain on the helm. Jesus, doesn’t Lucifer pay you?”

She pushed him into the sea.

Offering him a hand when he bobbed to the surface, Eve said, “Don’t take it personally. She’s just mad because we weren’t able to steal a bigger one.”

0 

It was while Michael was towelling himself dry down below decks that the chunky-faced cop wandered in, took one look at him, and strode across the room.

“Mister Espinoza,” he drawled, “what can I-… oh. Oh, wow, you really thought that was going to work, huh?”

Curled up on the floor, clutching the fist he’d very mistakenly slammed into Michael’s jaw, Dan hissed, “Fuck you. You killed me.”

“Poppycock. I had you killed. That’s entirely different, buddy.”

Dan staggered to his feet and shouted, “Maze! Eve! What the hell is he doing here?”

Taking off his wet jacket and draping it over the rack alongside the towel, Michael said, “I was invited, thank you very much. No one told me you were part of the arrangement.”

“What arrangement, asshole?” Dan snapped, turning red. “I’m just here to help Maze fix her boat’s engine.”

“Oh. You don’t work with her, then? No, I suppose you wouldn’t. As we’ve established, you’re entirely too killable.”

“You sleazy son-of-a… Maze! Get down here!”

Grumbling, Michael’s new boss stalked below deck carrying a crate of beer on her left shoulder and a sleeping bag under her right arm. “Goddammit – Dan, I told you to wait. Is your hand bleeding, you big meathead? We seriously just dragged your ass out of Hell and you couldn’t go two whole days before breaking yourself again? Ugh. You’re impossible. You’re worse than Decker.”

“Maze, d’you wanna explain what the actual fuck Lucifer’s psycho twin is doing here?”

“Interning,” Michael said, cheerfully.

His face now practically purple, Dan half-yelled, “What is he talking about? This is not okay, Maze! Does Chloe know? Does Amenadiel? Why is he even still on Earth? Lucifer’s God now; can’t he stick him on Mars or turn him into a bug or something?”

“Look, Dan, just calm down-…” she began.

“I died! I actually, literally, physically died! Because of him! No, I’m not going to calm down!”

Michael scoffed. “Please. Like that’s what you’re really upset about. You’re not angry about dying. You’re not angry at all. You’re scared, buttercup. And not just of me; of her, of Lucifer, of everything, and to be honest, I didn’t even need to use the ol’ angel juice to work that out.”

Mazikeen set down her cargo, pulled a knife from her belt, and flung it. It embedded itself five inches deep in the floor between them. “This? This is not Lux, dickheads. Mortals and celestials don’t hang out here to have a good time while I sit behind the bar and tolerate them. This crummy, crusty-ass, piece of crap boat is my domain. Here, I don’t have to put up with one femtometre of your bullshit. If you want to fight, do it somewhere else. If you want to fuck, do it quick and clean up afterwards. If you want to make yourselves useful, help me get the weapons on board.”

“Wait – wait, weapons? What weapons?” said Dan to her retreating back. “You said you were going fishing. Maze! What weapons?” 

0 

“Where’s all your stuff?” Eve asked when she showed him to his tiny cabin.

“I’m an archangel. I don’t have ‘stuff’.”

(Michael had already decided he didn’t like her. She was bubbly.)

“Heh. You should travel with Lucy sometime. We went to Vancouver for a weekend and he brought seven bags, five watches, and six pairs of shoes. Okay, do you – uh, do you at least have a change of clothes? Because those look kinda soggy.”

To his annoyance – and embarrassment – she spend twenty minutes hunting down a shirt and pants that would fit him.

“They’re mine,” she said, dropping them into his lap. “But I bought them to sleep in and I like loose pyjamas, so they’re a dozen sizes too big on me. Oh! Also found you this.”

She presented a hot water bottle in the shape of a fat, cuddly sheep.

He accepted it carefully, wondering if it was booby-trapped. “You’re Lucifer’s ex, right?”

“Er… yep? Amongst other things. The Original Sinner. First Woman, First Wife, First Mother. Mother of Mankind. Second Human. First Knowledgeable Human. But sure, I was also your brother’s girlfriend for a while.”

“And now you’re Mazikeen’s. Do you also work with her?”

“Sure do!” she said, interpreting the question as an invitation to sit down next to him. “I’m The Choronzon’s captain. That’s our boat’s name. My idea. I know she’s not much to look at but she’s got so much history. There’ve been fourteen homicides on her! Plus, she’s fast; way, way faster than she looks. And I know the beds are hard, but we’ve got three hammocks stashed away and getting them set up is easy as pie.”

“Wow. Those suckers up in the Silver City don’t know what they’re missing.”

She nodded, blinking slowly. “Hmm. Maze was right. You are mean. That’s cool. I get on well with mean people. Anyway, just in case she hasn’t told you; we’ve got a job lined up and we’ll be setting sail tomorrow at dawn. You get seasick? Not a problem; we’ve got a medical kit full of antiemetics. On that note, should we pick up something for you before we leave shore?”

“No.”

“You sure? Just that – uh – I mean, my third son, Seth, the one nobody talks about – he also had pretty severe scoliosis. Wasn’t a whole lot we could do about it back then. But these days they’ve got tons of stuff; opiods and anti-inflammatories and memory foam. Science is so, so cool. And I’m going shopping for sunscreen anyway, so dropping by the pharmacy wouldn’t be a problem.”

For a moment, he reviewed a list of responses that would deeply, profoundly hurt her, responses that would ensure she didn’t approach him again.

But he was tired, tired, tired.

“Here.”

He took a folded piece of A4 paper from his pocket and handed it to her. “These are what the last human doctor I went to recommended. Getting hold of those three I’ve circled is tricky, but I know a guy. Call him on that number down there and he’ll meet you wherever. If he gives you any trouble, remind him that Michael knows about the vacuum cleaner. That’ll shut him up.”

As soon as she’d bounced out of the room, he shut the door, locked it, and laid down to sleep. 

0

It was night when he awoke.  

He went upstairs to find Mazikeen and Eve sitting on the deck, admiring what stars could be seen through Los Angeles’ perpetual light pollution and sharing a pizza.

“Mickey! Get over here,” called Mazikeen, clad in a black dressing down and slippers shaped like plump pink pigs.

“It’s freezing,” he complained.

She snickered and threw him the prickly blanket that had been resting over her knees. “Wimp. Eve told you about the job, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how to use any weapons?” Eve asked. “Maze sticks with her knives most of the time. I prefer my traps and crossbow. But we’ve got guns, if that’s more your speed.”

They were clearly expecting him to sit down. Eve had even scooted to the left to make room.

He opened the blanket up and wrapped it around his shoulders, remaining standing. “Can I ask a question? What, precisely, is my role here?”

“For now, you’re a meat shield,” said Mazikeen, talking through a mouthful of pepperoni and violently yellow cheese. “Me and Eve are both vulnerable to bullets. I mean – I’m less vulnerable, obviously. But I don’t hate any of my relatives enough to go about finding out exactly how many bullets it takes to snuff a demon. So your job, at least tomorrow, is just to soak up enemy fire until we’ve got our hands on the target.”

Scowling, he said, “Getting shot does hurt, you know.”

“Yeah,” she replied, eyes shining with spite. “Dan sure seemed to think so.”

When the tense silence had stretched for over thirty seconds, Eve clapped her hands, smiling anxiously, and said, “So! Anyone up for rummy?” 

0 

Along the California coastline, the cruise ship Illustrious Voyager bore four thousand three hundred and ten passengers, one thousand two hundred and ninety-six crewmembers, and two guide dogs.

Five thousand six hundred and eight souls, in total.

At around 4pm, without anyone noticing, that number became five thousand six hundred and nine.

Hands clasped behind her back, Eve strolled down the promenade, admiring the vessel’s size and beauty. This fresh new millennium’s wealth astonished her. Sickened, sometimes. Entranced, sometimes. But always astonished.

Back in the garden, they’d slept on and under rocks. When it rained, they got wet. When large animals came by, they hid. No weapons. No shelter. No blankets. The only resource they’d had in abundance was food. Good grief – so much food. God had been so proud of all the different fruits and nuts and mushrooms he’d made available to them, and Adam had been so grateful. Eve supposed she had been, too.

It hadn’t stopped her from one day approaching her husband and the plump rabbits resting in his lap – two of several dozen pets – and asking if he didn’t think the cold nights would be much more endurable if they each had a warm pair of fur slippers.

Then she’d met Lucifer. Fallen in love. Bitten the apple. Learned how powerful he and his Father truly were. That was when the real questions, the sticky, prickly questions, had come bubbling up.

If Lucifer has such a vast family, with so many siblings, why can’t I have even one? she’d asked the sky. Why is Adam all I get?

And later: If You can simply bring people into existence, why must I scream and bleed and shit myself in order to have children? Am I doing it wrong? Is there another way? If there isn’t, why not?

And later: Why is nothing fair?

And, most recently, after meeting Mazikeen: Why isn’t everything at least equally unfair? Why do humans get a world of options while Maze and her family are expected to serve angels from birth to death? Why isn’t Maze allowed into Heaven, even after an eternity of loyalty and hard work?

“Sorry,” she said, flashing white teeth at a passing crewmember. “I’m trying to find a friend of mine. Can you tell me how to get to Room 835?”

Half an hour later, there was a splash and the ship’s population dropped to five thousand six hundred and seven.

Before binding his arms and legs, Eve had secured Andrew Bismarck’s lifejacket and gagged him. Furious and helpless, he bobbed alongside her as the ship moved on and Mazikeen rowed up in her inflatable raft, wearing a sunset-orange swimsuit.

“Should I be worried about those, babe?” she asked as she gripped Bismarck’s lifejacket and hauled him out of the water.

Eve smiled at the dolphin pod swimming in playful loops around her, and patted the nearest one’s nose. “No. They’re my friends.”

The inflatable wasn’t big enough for three people, so Eve held on to a friend’s dorsal fin and let him drag her back to The Choronzon.

Michael stood on the deck, looking bored. As they climbed aboard, their prisoner slung over Mazikeen’s shoulder, he drawled, “Seriously? This sad specimen’s worth two million dollars?”

“Actually, his net worth is eight hundred million,” said Mazikeen, dumping him down. “Two million is just what his ex-wife is willing and able to pay.”

Wringing out her hair, Eve added, “She took half his money in the divorce but she gave almost all of it to a chimpanzee shelter. I really like her!”

His lip curled. “How delightfully sordid. Isn’t this all a little beneath you, Ms Mazikeen? I mean, you’re a big deal in Hell. High Commander of Lucifer’s legions, head advisor to the king himself. Aren’t you worried taking jobs like this diminishes you?”

Busy handcuffing Bismarck to the railing, Mazikeen said, “Eve, honey? Do me a favour?”

“Boop!” Eve chirped, having already snuck up behind Michael, and pushed him overboard.

“I know it’s your whole gimmick,” Mazikeen called down as he splashed and spluttered, his face red with princely indignation. “And I know you don’t have a lot else going for you. But the next time you try that on me, I will stop being nice. Kapish?”

“Kapish,” he muttered.

The Choronzon had barely travelled a mile before Eve spotted Bismarck’s henchmen coming after them.

“Someone gimme details!” shouted Mazikeen, busy putting a bulletproof vest on over her bikini and opening up the box she’d told Dan contained a fishing rod, not a halberd.

Eve peered through her binoculars. “Two speedboats. Twelve guys on jet skis. Guns everywhere.”

“Heh. Awesome. Mickey – move that tight ass to the front and make like a nice juicy target.”

“Wait, what about-…” Michael began, trailing off as Mazikeen dove gracefully into the sea.

Bouncing from foot to foot, Eve shot him a grin. “Don’t look so glum, sourpuss. This is the fun part.”

She’d never spoken to Michael in Heaven, despite the millennia they’d both resided only two miles apart, her in a lakeside cottage on the outskirts of the Silver City, him in the crystal palace in its centre.

Granted, she’d not exactly had a warm and fuzzy relationship with any of Lucifer’s siblings. They all knew what had happened in the garden. Some had been nice – Amenadiel had visited often, even though he’d never had much to say and they’d spent their time together skipping stones across the lake’s surface. But the others had kept her at a distance. She was a bad influence.

Michael, however, was the only angel she’d not ever said one word to.

She’d seen him, now and then, in the early days, when she was the only human in Heaven and, as such, grudgingly invited to divine family get-togethers. On those occasions, she’d spent too much time feeling awkward and out-of-place to pay attention to the sullen figure lurking in whatever shadows were available. The one time she’d glanced his way, it had been to marvel at the stories of people getting the twins mixed up; beyond the raw basics of bone structure, Michael couldn’t have looked less like her old lover.

Bullets sprayed across the hull. Humming, Eve stepped daintily into Michael’s shadow, seconds before they started bouncing off his shoulders and chest.

“It is beneath her,” he muttered.

She made an ambiguous noise. “How d’you figure?”

There came a shout and a splash from the nearest jet ski. The bullets stopped.

“C’mon. She’s Mazikeen. Everyone in the Silver City knows about Mazikeen. Ordinarily, we couldn’t give two dry shits about Lucifer’s minions, but her? She’s a minor celebrity. The power behind Hell’s throne. Christ, it’s no secret my beloved twin couldn’t govern his way out of a paper bag.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling fondly. “He’s kind of bad at everything. Except music. He’s a great musician.”

More shouting. More shooting. More bullets bouncing off Michael’s torso. Mazikeen rode by, one hand gripping her newly-acquired jet ski’s throttle lever, the other clutching her bloodstained halberd. Watching her circle the enemy, Eve was reminded of a sheep dog.

Michael went on: “And then there’s the fact that for a while, everyone thought Lucifer was going to marry her. It was all anyone could talk about. Jophiel was taking bets on when the proposal would happen. She’d have been High Commander and the Queen of Hell. Instead? All of a sudden, Lucifer takes an indefinite vacay to the mortal realm, drags her with him, and next thing anyone knows, she’s working behind a bar.”

The remaining jet skis and their terrified, wounded riders had been neatly rounded up, which meant it was time for Eve to open her purse.

“Um – how long have those been in there?” asked Michael, watching her take out three grenades.

“You want one?” she offered. “Don’t forget to take the pin out before you throw it. I did that my first time.”  

One thing to be said for millions of dull, dull years spent sitting next to God’s Greatest Warrior, skipping stones across a lake; your aim got good.

The first blast was a warning, not close enough to actually kill any of Bismarck’s men, though the resultant waves did knock several into the water. They tried to retreat, turning their vehicles around, only to remember Mazikeen, corralling them single-handed and now armed with machine guns she’d confiscated from those already bested.

When they saw the second and third grenade incoming, they gave up and abandoned the jet skis, jumping into the sea and swimming for their lives.

“Fuck!” Michael yelped, blocking his ears at the concomitant explosions.

Gazing past the debris and smoke, Eve saw Mazikeen head for the nearest of the two speedboats. Its occupants, preoccupied with aiming a rocket launcher at The Choronzon, saw her coming far too late.

“I get your point,” said Eve, as her girlfriend and her halberd made short work of the crew. “But that’s a really… how can I put this? It’s a really angelic way of looking at things. Maze doesn’t consider anything ‘beneath her’.”

“Wow. Sick burn. You’re basically admitting she has no pride.”

“Oh, she’s got pride. Tons of pride. Her pride’s just dependant on how well she does a job, not on the type of job she has. She wasn’t happy working at Lux, but that wasn’t because she thought bartending was ‘beneath her’; it was because she prefers doing things she’s good at. Customer service isn’t really one of her strengths.”

The second speedboat was abandoned by its crew mere seconds before Mazikeen rammed the first speedboat into it, cackling victoriously.

“Actually,” Eve said, moving from Michael’s shadow to where Mazikeen had earlier set a crate of peach soda – her favourite – out on the deck, “now that you mention it, I guess I’m the one with no pride. Haven’t really ever had anything to be proud of. Your Dad never gave me the chance. I was never meant to do things. I was just meant to be.”

Michael snorted. “Lucky you. Trust me; he may have softened in his later years, but back in the day he never, ever stopped riding our asses. You think Lucy really rebelled because he had better plans for how the universe should be run? Because he was an innovator? Nope. Lazy dick just hated being told to do his chores.”

By the time Mazikeen swam back to them, saltwater had washed off the blood and her ponytail had come loose.

“Oh, hey,” said Eve, gripping her hand and pulling her up. “A mermaid.”

After pressing a rough kiss to her cheek and taking a swig of peach soda, Mazikeen asked, “You okay? He did his job?”

Eve patted the angel’s shoulder – the one that wouldn’t hurt. “He was terrific! Awesome addition to the team.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Michael mumbled.

Ignoring him, Mazikeen snatched up a towel to dry her hair. “Glad to hear it. Alright! Let’s get Bismarck back to shore, get paid, and find a place to have dinner so we can toast Team Hellrazor’s first successful mission.”

“R-A-Z-O-R,” Eve informed Michael. “To make it cooler.” 

0 

Bombshell curls. The only way to celebrate victory.

“Should I even ask why your hair smells like burning plastic?” asked Britney, a sixty-four year old veteran stylist with spectacles and a bright blue bob. She’d worked in Hollywood since she was seventeen and her skilled hands, according to rumour, had tended to Viola Davis herself.

Mazikeen flipped through a magazine with the hand that wasn’t getting its nails painted red-gold by two assistants down on their knees, as intensely focused as if they were touching up The Last Supper. “Blew up some jet skis. Don’t worry about it.”

Picking up the curling iron, Britney said, “That handsome guy you and Eve came in with… new boyfriend?”

“Ha! No. Not in a million years. He’s my intern.”

Eve had only wanted a trim and, as soon as it was done, had dragged Michael away to shop for books and shoes. She was trying, without much subtlety, to work out what he liked; what he did for fun; if he was even capable of having fun. Waste of time, in Mazikeen’s opinion, especially considering that before the end of the week he’d probably run away to some dark hole where he could get back to wallowing in his bitterness. But maybe not. Eve clearly had hope and Mazikeen trusted her judgement.

As the assistants moved on to her other hand, her phone buzzed.

Glancing up to meet Britney’s gaze in the mirror, Mazikeen said, “Get that for me? My nails are wet and it’s probably Eve. Word’s got out what happens to all other humans who call me on a Saturday.”

The older woman’s blue eyebrows bounced as she picked up the phone. “Might be that tasty boss of yours!”

“Nope,” she muttered, old unhappiness flaring hot in her heart. “He only ever calls when he wants me to do something and right now, there’s nothing he can’t do himself.”

Britney held the phone up in front of her face.

There was a message from Linda.

Charlie’s missing his Auntie Maze – see u for dinner Tuesday? J <3

“Uh – are you crying?” asked Britney.

“No!” she snapped. “Just… shut up. Reply for me. Say yes. And add a knife emoji. I always use knife emojis.”

Just then, a white woman with long brown hair and skinny jeans strode purposefully into the salon.

Britney tutted and held up a hand. “Ma’am? I’m sorry, but Ms Smith has booked the entire…”

She trailed off as the woman’s eyes flashed red.

“Chantinelle,” Mazikeen greeted, spinning the chair round and crossing her legs regally. “It’s okay, Britney. She’s a friend. Well – an ally.”

Gravel-voiced, like she smoked heavily, the other demon drawled, “I’m touched, your great and gracious Majesty.”

Mazikeen snickered. “Bitch, get over here.”

With a smirk, Chantinelle marched over and planted a fierce kiss on her cheek.

“What news from Hell?” Mazikeen asked her sister.

Chantinelle briefed her while Britney and the others finished up her curls and manicure. They spoke in Lilim, Chantinelle parking her denim-clad butt on the vanity next to an arsenal of combs and keeping one eye on the door. She’d already tried twice to convince Mazikeen that a queen needed a bodyguard, to no avail.

When their meeting was concluded, Britney said, “So you’re from Holland, right? Oh! It’s a lovely country. My cousin lives there and she’s always telling me to visit.”

(Britney knew they weren’t from Holland. Britney knew they weren’t from Earth. Britney was one of those people who coped with uncomfortable realities like demons in her workplace by ignoring them.)

“Will you be coming home soon?” Chantinelle asked before she left.

Studying her reflection – avoiding her sister’s gaze – Mazikeen said, “Mmm. Yeah. Soon. Just got a few things to finish up here.”

“Well, don’t keep us waiting too long. The family misses you. I mean – it’s been years, y’know?”

“I know. I do.”

“I didn’t know you had a family,” Britney commented after Chantinelle had gone. “How come you never talk about them?”

Mazikeen handed over a wad of blood-spattered cash. “Eh. After a while, I figured out that nobody likes it when I do.”

She began making her way across the mall to Eve’s favourite shoe shop, then stopped when she approached the arcade and heard her girlfriend’s laugh over the beeps and buzzes of various games.

Unsurprised, she wandered in and found her on the Dance Dance Revolution platform, barefoot and skirt twirling as she beat the shit out of someone’s high score, surrounded by a crowd of cheering, applauding onlookers.

Michael stood off to the side, clutching three bulging shopping bags and looking mortified.

“I couldn’t stop her,” he hissed to Mazikeen. “What the hell? What the actual hell? I thought you were trying to maintain a reputation on this crummy rock! What’re your enemies going to think if this is how your allies behave in public?”

“I figure they’ll think something like, ‘Oh my God, she’s tapping that? I am going to literally die of jealousy’,” Mazikeen said, kicking off her stilettos and handing them to him. “Go fetch us some bottled water, wimp. We’ll be here for a while.”

Eve’s competitor on the adjacent platform yelped as Mazikeen shoved him off and took his place.

“Hi, pretty lady,” said Eve, her eyes sparkling. “You know I’ve been dancing for millions of years, right?”

Mazikeen grinned at her and tossed back her bombshell curls. “Bring it, beautiful.”  

Out the corner of her eye, she saw Michael blush bright red. 

0 

What was he doing here?

“We are fifteen miles over the speed limit!”

Mazikeen cackled and drove faster. In the seat beside her, Eve punched the air and turned up the radio until Michael thought Rihanna’s voice would burst even his divine eardrums. (Contrary to his brother’s accusations, he did, in fact, enjoy some types of music. Just not when it was loud or fast-paced.)

“May I remind you of a crucial fact?” he demanded, having to shout to be heard. “It’s not me who’ll die if this thing flips! Angel, remember? You two are the ones who’ll be splattered all over the road! Hello? Is anybody listening to me?”

“I’m a fine-tuned supersonic speed machine,” Mazikeen sang.

The desert outside the cherry-red convertible they’d stolen in Las Vegas was a sickening blur and he hated it. Not that he’d never travelled this fast – though he was slower than just about all his siblings in the air, he could still outpace a jet. But flying under his own power couldn’t be compared to being trapped in this hideous human death trap under the command of a demon and a madwoman.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, this time to himself, gripping his seatbelt with both hands like it was the neck of an angry serpent. “Whatever happens. Even if we crash. They’ll die. I’ll be fine.”

“Hey!” called Eve, turning to look at him, squinting. “Are you really not having fun? Maze! Slow down! He’s not having fun.”

Mazikeen groaned but brought them back to a less terrifying percentage of light speed, while Eve undid her seatbelt and climbed into the back with Michael.

He sputtered. “Jesus H. Christ – you’re not supposed to do that while the vehicle is moving. Rules exist for a reason, goddammit.”

“I’m sorry we freaked you out,” Eve told him, with… confusing sincerity.

None of his siblings had ever apologised for frightening him, Lucifer least of all (“Aww – don’t be so nervous, brother!” and a golden laugh from the brave, adventurous Morningstar after he’d enticed Michael to fly with him into a hurricane for fun and the noise and sight of it had made his twin cry).

When Michael was young, he’d assumed that was because apologies were for lesser beings, like mortals – except that when he’d discovered his latent talent for underhanded pranks, his siblings had all turned around and demanded apologies from him. The pranks had become progressively mean-spirited after that.

Waiting for the other shoe to drop – for the punchline – he said, carefully, “It’s fine.”

The wind had blown Eve’s hair all over the place. As she brushed it out of her eyes, he was reminded that today she’d chosen to wear one of her thin white summer dresses, this one low-cut enough to make it clear that that was all she was wearing.

Now mischievous, she winked at him. “But you know… if I made a habit of following those rules you like so much, I’d still be married and bored out of my mind. Wanna kiss?”

He nearly jumped out of the car.

“Uh,” he croaked.

His gaze flickered past Eve’s inquisitive face to the back of Mazikeen’s head. How long did he have? How many milliseconds left before she turned around and tore out his throat in a fit of frenzied jealousy?

“Hell, yeah!” Mazikeen cheered, throwing up the horns. “One of you take a picture for me. Or, better yet, move over so I can see you in the rear view mirror.”

Eve’s chin tilted downwards as she examined Michael. “I dunno. Doesn’t seem like he’s into it. Er – yikes. Actually, I think he’s gonna throw up. Might wanna pull over, babe.”

“I’m not going to throw up! I just need… just need air. Could you sit back for a moment?” he hissed.

She did so and he got his breathing under control. Crap, his shoulder hurt so much today.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, fidgeting. “I didn’t mean to-…”

“Is this because of him?” Michael snarled, suddenly furious.

“What?”

“Him! Lucifer! He dumped you, yeah? And now you’re – what, trying to get back at him by hitting on me? Or is it just because I look like him so I’m the best substitute you can get, or-…”

She slapped him.

It hurt.

(It really did. What? Since when did getting hit by mortals hurt?)

Mazikeen whistled approvingly.

“No,” said Eve, half-growling. “I’m not like that. I don’t use people like that, Michael.”

He touched the part of his face where her skin had met his. It felt hot. Tingly. He swallowed. “Um – right. Got it.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

The anger in her eyes subsided. “Good. Now, would you like to kiss me or not? It’s fine if you don’t want to. You’ll still be part of the team. This is just for fun.”

Feeling oafish and off-kilter, he gestured at Mazikeen. “Won’t she mind?”

“Nope!” Mazikeen volunteered without hesitation.

Eve, exasperated, huffed, “I already asked her if she’d mind. Do you really think I’d put the offer on the table if I hadn’t? Whatever they say about me in the Silver City, I’m neither frivolous nor disloyal. I didn’t go behind Adam’s back when I fell in love with your brother; I told him to his face what I was doing.”

“Oh. Didn’t know that.”

“Because he didn’t tell anyone. He didn’t care. Adam was a decent man who didn’t love me at all. But Maze does, and I love her, and we’ve decided this is something we’re both okay with.”

“Yeah, most demons are poly,” Mazikeen told him. “As long as everyone’s on board and on the same page, you can hook up with whoever you like.”

“Last chance: kiss or no kiss?” said Eve.

She was close enough now for him to smell her perfume. His chest felt tight. “I don’t like ultimatums.”

“Okay. How about wagers? I bet you anything I’m the best kisser you’ve ever met. Or requests? Please, please kiss me, Michael. Or-…”

She was so warm. Her breath flowing into his mouth felt like drinking hot chocolate on a Winter’s night, sugary heat poured down his throat and filling up his whole chest.

His bones seemed to melt. He slid down the seat, half-pushed, until he lay almost flat with her on top of him, cradling his face in her hands, her thumbs making slow, comforting circles on his jaw.

“Ghnnff-fu-fuck,” he slurred.

That he was hard, and had been hard ever since he’d noticed how low-cut her dress was, seemed almost irrelevant in the face of far more interesting observations, like the soft grunts she made or the way her breasts felt pressed tight against him, until she slid a thigh between his legs.

He cried out. Arched.

“There you go,” she purred against his neck.

Elegant and effortless, she took off her shoes and her panties, and slid down onto his cock with a soft, fluttering sigh. Grabbed his hand and raised it to cover one of her nipples.

Just before he came, he opened his eyes and gazed up, and the sun had moved behind her, draining all but her edges of definition, and the wind had picked up her hair again and sent it billowing up and out, like dark wings. Like his wings.

“Michael! Ah!”

The car stopped.

“Huh,” said Mazikeen. “There’s something you don’t see every day.”

She pointed. Panting, they both followed her finger.

Across the sky, from one horizon to the next, the clouds had arranged themselves into the words

I LOVE YOU DETECTIVE !!!!

-LM

“Oh, crud,” said Eve. 

0 

Fuck the next bounty.

After thinking about it for ten seconds, Mazikeen turned them around and started driving straight for Los Angeles.

Eve can talk to him. Not me. He needs to talk to someone, and Eve will do.

Barely half a mile later, Amenadiel dropped out of the sky and landed in the middle of the road, just far enough away for her to bring the car to a screeching halt before it would otherwise have slammed into him like wet clay into a steel wall.

“We’ve got a problem,” he said, looking exhausted.

She snorted and pointed skyward. “Yeah. This? Not gonna lie, I was expecting something like this. But I thought it would take, like, at least a month.”

Wincing, Amenadiel said, “No, that’s… that’s a different problem and Chloe’s promised to discuss it with him. Maze, we need you back at Lux. Now.”

“Hi, Amenadiel!” Eve called, waving.

He succeeded in smiling at her without even glancing at Michael, despite his younger brother sitting right at her side, glaring fixedly.

“Why?” demanded Mazikeen, tensely drumming her fingers on the wheel. (Inner voice hissing, Shouldn’t have left him alone, you dumb bitch, you’ve been doing this for centuries and you know what he’s like when you leave him alone for more than five minutes.) “Seriously – what could he possibly need me for? He’s God.”

Sighing, Amenadiel put his wings away. “Mazikeen, we’re all well aware that Lucy often… has difficulty focusing. To put it mildly. There’s a lot more for him to focus on now than ever before. He’s trying to undo climate change. To that end, he started refreezing all the melted ice in the Arctic. But he did it too quickly and, resultantly, there are several hundred trapped ships we need to save and several thousand dead penguins to resurrect and, to be honest, he hasn’t really got the hang of resurrection yet – you remember what Dan looked like for the first few hours after Lucifer brought him back to life…”

“Eurgh. Yeah. Yuck. Totes not the kinda shit you’d wanna see in Happy Feet.”

Michael was snickering.

“Right. And then there are all the changes he’s been making locally,” Amenadiel went on. “The expansion of Lux, the overnight disappearance of all Los Angeles’ firearms, his deciding that the city’s white supremacist population should grow a third ear so they can be easily identified, and, well, it turns out that a lot of Chloe’s colleagues at the police station-…”

“I get it, I get it. Chaos everywhere. As usual. What, exactly, is the problem he wants me to fix?”

Amenadiel exhaled heavily. “The demons. The ones you brought from Hell to help us defeat Michael.”

“Oh, so you do remember I exist,” Michael muttered.

Stonily ignoring him, Amenadiel said, “They’re still on Earth and they’re causing trouble. The one called Dromos, in particular. He’s gathered followers and they’ve surrounded Lux.”

Her brother’s face – his real face, not the human puppet he wore – flashed through her mind’s eye; a memory from when they were unruly children and had raced through Hell together, using the stone pillars that they’d not yet known were cells as an obstacle course. She’d been faster; he, more athletic. Together with a few cousins, they’d made a fearsome team, and not even their meanest older siblings had bullied them.

She folded her arms and looked away. “They’re demons. Lucifer can deal with them. Snap his fingers and turn them into rats or whatever. Make them explode.”

“Mazikeen,” Eve murmured, soft and low, touching her shoulder. “You don’t want that. They’re your family.”

Amenadiel blinked, as though that hadn’t occurred to him. “Er… yes, there’s that. There’s also the fact that Lucifer doesn’t want all of humanity to see him as the type of God who casually annihilates his enemies; a harsh, vindictive God. He wants to be liked. To be loved.”

“Fine. So why don’t you and the other angels sort it out?”

“Come now, Maze. A bunch of angels and a bunch of demons waging war in the midst of a bustling city? Humans will die. But you’re the Queen of Hell now and, by extension, the Queen of Demons. If you command Dromos to stand down, he will. This can all be resolved peacefully.”

Eve’s fingertips were cool against her skin.

Mazikeen looked back at the sky. The cloud letters were starting to dissolve. “What does he want?”

“Who?”

“Dromos. He doesn’t act on instinct. He’s a planner. He wants something.”

Shrugging, Amenadiel said, “He shouted at me about demanding an audience with the king. I didn’t ask for details. I don’t really care. Dromos isn’t someone I’m inclined to listen to at the best of times. The last time the wretch showed his face on Earth, he kidnapped my son.”

“Mmm. Kinda like your sister was gonna do. Kinda like you were gonna do, now that I think about it.”

“Maze!” he gasped, sounding shocked and hurt. “You can’t compared poor Remiel’s misguided actions to-…”

“I’ll do it,” she interrupted. “Take me to Lux. Now.”

“Excuse me? What about us?” snapped Michael.

Mazikeen met Eve’s gentle gaze. “You don’t need to be involved in this. My family drama, it – it’s not pretty.”

“My son killed my son,” said Eve, taking her hand. “My husband loved another woman. I’m used to drama.”

Swallowing, Mazikeen glanced at Michael. “And you, wimp?”

Feigning disinterest – feigning it badly – he said, “You showed up to my last domestic dispute. Guess this’ll make us square.”

“I’ve only got two arms. I can’t carry all of you,” Amenadiel pointed out.

Mazikeen rubbed her chin. “No… but you can carry the car, right?” 

0 

He didn’t have time for this. There was so much to do.

“World hunger,” he recited as he bounced from one laptop to the next, all twenty-three of them displaying a different article or video by a leading scientific or sociological mind, “wealth inequality, pollution, cancer, droughts, racism, elderly abuse, housing shortages, cruelty to animals…”

“Lucifer,” said Linda patiently, sitting on his best couch with her legs crossed, a cup of coffee and a laptop of her own beside her. “You said you wanted my advice as to how you should manage this whole ‘being God’ business.”

“I do, doctor! Very much. Your input is invaluable. Blast, where did I put that map of Alaska? I’m thinking of making it bigger; slotting it in alongside the Arctic to help stabilise all that new ice.”

“Right. Thanks. So here – here is what I’m suggesting now; slow down. Seriously. Take a breath, step back, and think your next move through.”

He scoffed. “‘Slow down’? Doctor, I need to work at least three times faster if I’m to keep up with everything. There are people suffering everywhere, millions of them! There are sinners in need of punishment! I’m seriously considering asking Chloe to be my Deputy God. I never imagined omnipotence would entail so much paperwork and she’s always been better at that than me.”

Outside the penthouse, many stories below, the chanting grew louder. None of the human police officers, journalists, and gawkers who’d gathered to watch could understand it; it was in Lilim.

Cursing, Lucifer strode to the balcony and shouted down, “For the last time, would you all kindly piss off? I’m trying to fix an entire planet here!”

He heard the elevator open and moaned. “Detective, not now. Please. I’m very sorry I haven’t returned your calls – I swear I’m not avoiding you – it’s just that I’ve got a lot on my plate today and we did already agree to meet for supper at-…”

“Lucifer,” said Linda, sounding terrified.

“Lucifer,” said someone else, sounding irritable.

Now that he was God, rage didn’t turn his eyes red anymore. It turned them gold and blindingly bright, like spotlights. Fists clenched, he turned to see Dromos step into the penthouse, once again clad in the flesh of the late Father Kinley and wearing a leather jacket.

“Nice trick, making all the doors disappear. Finally decided to climb up the side of the building with a sledgehammer and burrow my way through into the elevator shaft,” said the demon, hands in his pockets and concrete dust coating his beard and his bald head. “I want to talk to you, sire.”

Storming across the room while Linda remained frozen, white-faced, on the couch, Lucifer snarled, “You! You have the nerve to come here, to stand before me, after what you did to my nephew?”

He took Dromos by the neck and lifted him off the ground, his wings opening in fury (he had six of them now).

Stoical even as he choked, Dromos said, “I need. To talk. I will leave immediately afterwards.”

“Oh, you’ll leave, alright! You’ll be lucky if I don’t throw you into an active volcano, you accursed traitor!”

Dromos’ stolen skin began to sizzle beneath his fingers. He waited until the demon’s face was wrinkled with pain before throwing him to the floor hard enough to crack the wood and make a crater.

“I will leave,” Dromos gasped, coughing up blood, “when I have spoken.”

“What could you possibly have to say for yourself? Kidnapper. Child-thief.”

Still on the couch, Linda said tremulously, “Lucifer, you’re… you’re hurting him. Stop it. Please.”

“Let us stay!” shouted Dromos, and coughed again before dragging himself up onto his knees. “On Earth. That’s what I came to say. Let your erstwhile subjects stay on Earth if they choose – at least, those who served you in the battle against Michael. Don’t force them to return to Hell. Let them, let us choose where we live, going forward. That’s my request, your Majesty. My only request.”

Lucifer boggled at him. “Is that a joke? Demons? On Earth, indefinitely, unsupervised? Are you out of your tiny mind, Dromos?”

Baring teeth, Dromos said, “Why not? What does it matter to you now? You’ve got everything you could possibly want. Everything anyone could possibly want! All we’re asking is the freedom to come and go as we please.”

“No.”

He spoke the word bluntly, and then he stepped back, adjusting his cuffs. Regaining his composure. “Never. You’re dangerous and untrustworthy. This world is for humans, not you. Good grief, haven’t I got enough to preoccupy my mind, without the added stress of demons rampaging around town?”

“We won’t rampage. We just-…”

“Why are you even coming to me with this? Mazikeen’s the new Queen of Hell. Didn’t you get the memo?”

Dromos wiped blood from his lips. “I don’t know if my sister and I are on speaking terms right now. And she may be Queen, but you’re God; I assumed you would be tasked with such decisions. After all, there’s never been a demon in charge of Hell before. We were told – we were always told – that only angels could rule us. I don’t doubt Mazikeen’s competence, but I…”

He seemed to run out of steam, spreading his hands and finishing weakly, “Lucifer, you’re the king. You’ve been the king for millions of years. For my entire life. Look, if you really don’t want us leaving Hell, then can you at least use your newfound power to improve it? Let us have the things mortals enjoy? Pianos, dogs, blankets, weekends, all that stuff?”

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “That would rather defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it? Hell is supposed to be a place of punishment. The ultimate consequence awaiting sinners. I need a carrot and a stick, Dromos. How else am I supposed to convince people to behave if I don’t? Imagine a rapist arriving in Hell and being confronted with demons playing pianos and walking their dogs. Wouldn’t have quite the desired effect, would it?”

Dromos was quiet for a moment, then said without inflection, “Perhaps you could find somewhere else to put rapists. Somewhere other than our home.”

Throwing up his arms, Lucifer said, “More demands! Don’t you see how selfish you’re being? Here I am, doing my best to end all suffering, and you’re complaining about babysitting a few evil-doers – which, might I remind you, is your job. Nay, your very reason for existence. Always has been. Why’re you getting stroppy about it now?”

“I think,” Linda began, taking a tentative step forward before stopping and clearing her throat. “Excuse me. May I interrupt? Um. Okay, so I think that maybe Dromos has a point here, Lucifer.”

“Doctor! This is the creature that stole your baby!”

“Yes, I know. And I’m not saying I forgive him for that, but…”

“I wasn’t going to eat the brat,” Dromos grumbled. “I was going to make him a king.”

“You took him away from his mother!” Lucifer shouted.

“Gentlemen!” said Linda, sharply. “Please! Let’s try to talk this through like adults.”

Overcome with frustration, and only vaguely aware that he’d not been sleeping well lately, Lucifer kicked the nearest chair. “I can’t believe you’re siding with him, doctor.”

“I’m not siding with anyone. I-…”

“You don’t know these people like I do. You didn’t spend millions of years in Hell alongside them. The only demon you’ve ever gotten acquainted with is Maze, and she’s not like the others; even without a soul, she’s learned how to behave like a more-or-less civilised adult, barring the occasional tantrum. But your average, baseline demon has nothing to them besides wrath and cruelty. Lilith made them to be weapons and that’s all they really are. I mean – just imagine, for a moment, how hard it was for me. To go from the Silver City, the most beautiful place ever created, to a lightless nightmare realm full of these bloodthirsty animals. To be surrounded by them, for endless eons, while they nattered mindlessly on and on about how much they love torture and pain and…”  

He trailed off. Linda and Dromos were both looking past him.

To the elevator. Where – oh – Mazikeen was standing.

Where Mazikeen was crying.

No sobs, not like when Dan had died. No expression at all, really. Just open eyes, motionless muscles, and steady tears.

Before Lucifer could say a word, she pressed the button to close the elevator doors.

“Wait!” he yelped, sprinting over to stop them.

He needn’t have bothered. Now that he was God, objects did whatever he told them to do. The doors stilled, half-open.

“That sounded wrong,” he acknowledged, clasping her shoulders in apology. “You completely missed the context. What I was trying to say was-…”

“Don’t touch me.”

It was a phrase he’d heard many times before from mortal lovers to whom he had accidentally revealed his Devil Face. Some of them said it in horror. Some of them, the religious ones, said it in anger.

Mazikeen looked neither horrified nor angry. She looked sick. As though the very sight of him turned her stomach.

Lumbering over, Dromos stepped into the elevator alongside her and pointedly pressed the button again. With no idea what to do or say, Lucifer allowed the machinery to work.

The elevator closed.

“What have I done?” he asked Linda. 

0  

Nothing I didn’t know.

“Maze?” called Eve, waiting by the car with the others as Mazikeen stepped out of Lux’s front door and into the sunlight.

The door hadn’t been there when they’d arrived. She’d been forced to use Dromos’ route. Lucifer must have decided to put it back. He could do that now. Just decide things. Didn’t need servants, nor followers, nor anyone. Sure didn’t need a ‘more-or-less civilised adult’ whose kin were animals.

“Maze! Wait!”

Mazikeen didn’t know where she was going, only that she was walking very quickly and felt that she’d die if she stopped. She heard Eve’s heels patter on the pavement and heard her say her name a third time, quiet and worried, and that was what stilled her feet.

“What happened?” murmured Eve, cupping her face.

The fifty or so demons who’d been standing around outside Lux when Amenadiel had set the car and its passengers down were still there. Instead of chanting to get their king’s attention, they were now looking at her.

Michael and Amenadiel stood among them, the latter having been trying to convince them to stop blocking traffic.

Which was what she should have been doing. It was what he’d brought her here to do. But she’d been gripped by a sudden, violent need to see Lucifer, to check on him, just quickly, before tending to her siblings. Once a bodyguard, always a bodyguard.

Except that wasn’t what I was. Not to him. To him, I was a Rottweiler on a leash.

“Are you alright?” asked Amenadiel, his eyes overflowing with concern.

That was what cracked her.

To him. Not to everyone. Not to Eve, or Amenadiel, or Linda. It’s not that I’m incapable of earning love and respect.

I’m just incapable of earning his.

Her legs gave out. She crumpled against Lux’s outside wall and started to weep properly, loud and bitter.

Eve immediately dropped down beside her, holding her tight. Michael shuffled closer, rubbing his shoulder while his mouth opened and shut, testing out sentences that were never spoken.

Then Dromos was there, kneeling, his face sad and tired.

“We did what we were told,” she said to him in Lilim, through sniffles. “We obeyed. We were loyal. We… we…”

“We are alone, sister,” he replied. “But I think we always were.”

“We obeyed!”

“We obeyed Lilith and she left. We obeyed Lucifer and he left. No one wants us, Mazikeen. It’s just the truth.”

She took a shuddering breath and squeezed her eyes shut. “No. I want us.”

Seizing his jacket’s shoulder, she hauled herself to her feet and addressed the crowd, her voice raw: “I want you! You’re my family and I want you! And I swear I will be the queen you deserve, for as long as you’ll have me!”

Her human skin fell away, the left side of her face turning cold, bony, and brittle.

Stepping back to join their siblings, Dromos asked hesitantly, “What would you have us do, then, my queen? What are your orders?”

Hurriedly drying her eyes, she studied them one by one. “Whoever wants to can stay here. But I’m going home. Hell is going to be ours, Dromos. No more damned souls. No more angels. It’s ours now and we’re going to make it into something we can love.”

She turned to face Eve and Michael, her heart pounding. “You’ll come with me, yeah? You’ll stand with me?”

“Always,” said Eve, closing in to kiss her.

“Whatever,” Michael muttered, clearly just relieved that the crying part was over.

Amenadiel sighed, shaking his head gravely. “Mazikeen, are you sure this is what you want? You won’t be able to leave Hell on your own – you’ll need to contact me.”

“Yeah. At least until this one grows his feathers back,” she said, gesturing at Michael. “That’s okay. You’ll always come when I call, right?”

“Of course. You’re my friend, Maze. I’m sorry if I haven’t said that often enough.”

Fuck it. Cringing on the inside, Mazikeen drew Amenadiel into a quick, gruff hug. “You too, idiot.”

TO BE CONTINUED

[bluntforcefem]

ex and schezo for thh ask thing :o!!

thank you fall i am kissing you on your (not bald) head. under a cut because it got long

ex!!

favorite thing about them: he's KIND and GENTLE and FUNNY and even though he has the weight of the world on his shoulders and misses his family and wants to not be alone anymore he still never wants to put that on other people. fucking. selfless motherfucker who cares so goddamn much (shakes him so affectionately)

least favorite thing about them: i think he should be remembered now that there's a direct link to the edge of the universe. i don't like that they're just like yeah no they still forget once they leave. that's stupid. he deserves better

favorite line: “I was sad I was alone. I was sad I'd been forgotten. I know that's selfish... I wanted to ignore my feelings. But I couldn't stop it.���

brOTP: i have a lot of feelings abt tee & ex and basically everyone on the ss tetra & ex and squares + marle & ex but. BUT. hear me out. lemres and ex friends. lemres finds his way to the edge of the universe “don't worry about it”-style and shares both gossip and candy. ex is a very good listener (and when visitors get more frequent he has gossip of his own to share)

OTP: i don't ship ex with people

nOTP: besides the obvious gross shit i. can't think of anyone people ship him w lmao

random headcanon: he eventually learns how to manipulate the fabric of the edge of the universe and creates a house for him and any guests. since the house is an extension of himself, it's a little haunted, and changes day to day in layout and rooms (some stay relatively consistent, as anchors.) it responds to ex's emotions and will pretty easily, but can get a little twisty and complicated and spiral-y when ex is having a particularly rough time

unpopular opinion: idk i don't see people have thoughts on ex. i guess i think that ex and ess do have a chance at reconciling even if it'll never be the same or as close as it could've been which is something the games definitely don't like to hint at

song i associate with them: i have a whole ex playlist but particularly stipulation by go! child (who am i if i am not remembered)

favorite picture of them: point :)

schezo!!

favorite thing about them: whatever the FUCK is going on with this guy's backstory is so fun but also its so funny that he's just kind of fallen into being a bit of a comedy relief clown now

least favorite thing about them: his unintentional innuendos are funny but god do they make my entire body cringe sometimes

favorite line: this entire video is full of them

brOTP: arle and schezo are wlw/mlm hostility friendship solidarity and it's so important to me. i don't know a lot about witch but i also like her :] the besties. also schezo co-mentors klug w lemres

OTP: lemres and schezo should kiss

nOTP: gross shit obv. i don't know who people ship him with otherwise! i'm not in this fandom

random headcanon: here's an assortment—he's autistic, he does not want to move out of the cave but ends up doing so to move in with lemres after a close call with injury and sickness in the cold, one time ayashii possessed him for a while though a comedy of errors and they have not overcome THAT particular hurdle in their relationship, he likes to cook, he's very haunted. trans gay man.

unpopular opinion: i don't know what people in the fandom think of this guy. idk. i think he's pretty competent and i think if he wasn't stuck in the comedy genre he'd be pretty intimidating actually

song i associate with them: everything right is wrong again by they might be giants

favorite image of them: he's startled!

[galaxywhump]

Drowning Sorrows

Trope: Drowning Fandom: Original Work

[Masterlist]

[blue for requested, red for completed]

Timeline: set after Stabbed.

Requested by @procrastinatingsab​. This one’s pretty long, ~3,800 words.

cw: modern slavery, swearing, alcohol, referenced alcohol abuse, drowning, torture, creepy/intimate whumper, defiant whumpee (bordering on broken later), self-loating, degradation, restraints, brainwashing, humiliation, noncon/dubcon touching, emeto/vomiting, slight asphyxiation, referenced whipping, burns and starvation, mentions of snakes, astraphobia and Stockholm syndrome.

taglist: @faewhump​ @inky-whump​ @whole-and-apart-and-between​ @garbagewhump​ @slaintetowhump​ @moose-teeth​ @whatwasmyprevioususername​ @insanitywishes​ @special-spicy-chicken​ @redstainedsocks​ @luminouswhump​ @untilthepainstarts​ @lonesome--hunter​

~~~

“It’s nice to finally take a breather”, Berkeley sighs, sitting back and clasping his hands together behind his head. He stretches his legs out until he almost kicks Wren in the knee; he scowls and moves to the side. “Things have been crazy. But damn does it feel good to visit you two.”

“It’s not mutual”, Wren deadpans, already knowing he’s only going to be met with laughter.

“Speak for yourself, sweetheart. And don’t be rude to our dear friend.”

“Honestly?” Berkeley tilts his head to the side with a pout. “I’m still surprised you’re so liberal with him. Letting him talk back like that?”

“It’s entertaining”, Daniel says with a shrug, and Wren glares at him. “His attitude is part of his charm, really. I’d hate to see it gone. No fun in playing with a broken toy.”

I’m not your fucking toy. 

The mantra never makes it past his lips. He’d get laughed at anyway, and he’s a far cry from looking dignified enough for his protests to make any impact; he’s kneeling on the floor at the two men’s feet, his wrists immobilized behind his back - which has long become what feels like the most natural position - with leather restraints, brand new ones that Berkeley had just delivered from Earth and Daniel immediately wanted to try out.

A desperate part of Wren’s mind immediately clang to the relief that at least they weren’t freezing against his skin like regular handcuffs, and he almost cried at how pathetic it was.

At how pathetic he was.

“You have a point. He’s just too cute when he’s angry.”

“I’m right here, asshole”, Wren growls.

“Case in point.”

He keeps his gaze hostile, but he can feel himself deflating, once again unsure how to act, whether to stay quiet like a good obedient plaything - pathetic toy - or keep fighting and entertaining these monsters.

Hopeless, hopeless, hopeless.

“Come closer, Wren”, Daniel says in a soft voice, holding out his hand like he’s inviting a stray cat. Wren swallows, a mass of shame and helplessness forming in his throat, and for a moment he stays put, going over his options in his mind. In the end Daniel doesn’t need to repeat himself as Wren moves closer and leans forward, and Daniel’s hand rests on his head.

“Oh, that’s just too good.” Wren shudders and grits his teeth when Berkeley touches him as well, scratching behind his ear. “Good boy.”

“Fuck off”, he mutters, and Daniel seizes his chin and lifts it up to keep him from staring at the ground.

“Don’t overdo it, Berkeley”, he says, looking into Wren’s eyes, sparking with anger, with a warm smile. “He’s mine, don’t forget that.”

“I’d never!”, Berkeley laughs and simply watches them for a while before looking to the side, at the freshly restocked alcohol cabinet.

“Hey, Daniel”, he says, standing up. “You want a drink?”

“Sure.” Daniel smiles at Wren one more time before letting go and leaning back on the couch. “Got any whiskey in there?”

“I’ve got everything in there.”

Wren fixes his eyes on the floor while Berkeley prepares the drinks, trying to shut out the sounds of pouring and the voice of his weakness, which seems to have decided to rear its ugly head.

He wanted to quit, he really did - he just never imagined he’d be forced to do so after being sold into slavery.

Sometimes all he wants is a drink, a way to distance himself just for a moment, a sliver of his life on Earth, as miserable as it was.

“Hey, Rackham”, Berkeley says, and Wren looks at him reluctantly. “You want anything?”

He frowns and shakes his head despite the way his heart squeezes.

“Huh. Wren Rackham turning down an opportunity to get shit-faced. A miracle.” Berkeley grins at him and Wren averts his gaze again. “Come on, you’re among friends here. I won’t draw a dick on your forehead, I promise.”

As if that was the worst thing they could do to him if he was drunk.

“Thanks, that really made me reconsider”, he huffs. “I’m good.”

“That you are”, Daniel laughs, and Wren’s eyes narrow. “You can drink something if you want, sweetheart, at the very least to keep us company.”

“I’ve got flavored vodka in here”, Berkeley singsongs. “You like that stuff, don’t you?”

“I said I don’t want any fucking booze”, Wren growls, glancing at him with eyes lighting up with fury. “Even less if it’s from you, fucker.”

“Ouch.” Berkeley puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender. ”You cut me deep, babe.”

“Don’t fucking call me that”, Wren snaps. “And stop that fucking oh-so-friendly act already, you two-faced asshole.”

Berkeley snickers, going back to pouring alcohol, and Wren can’t stop a frustrated growl from escaping him. Two eternally unfazed douchebags have proven to be two too many.

“No need to get so worked up, sweetheart”, Daniel says, reaching to brush over Wren’s face with his knuckles, but he backs off to escape the touch, wincing at the static in his knees as he moves.

“Go fuck yourselves. Both of you.” The anger coursing through him feels good, no matter how useless it really is. “You know what, Berkeley? Give me the fucking booze, I don’t fucking care.”

“Is it just me, or has his swearing gotten even worse?” Berkeley shakes his head with a grimace, and Daniel shrugs with an apologetic smile that only fuels Wren’s fury. “But sure, as you wish, princess. Lemon vodka?”

“Sounds great”, Wren says through gritted teeth, and for a moment there’s silence as Berkeley pours two full shot glasses for him - before turning around and splashing the contents of one of them directly in Wren’s face.

He blinks and sputters, hit by a wave of shock and humiliation the size of a tsunami; the vodka trickles down his face, its sweet, harsh smell burning into his nostrils.

“What the fuck?!”, he shouts.

“Could you please not waste that?”, Daniel sighs, and Berkeley crouches down before Wren and firmly grabs him by the chin, forcing his head up.

“I’m wasting it on him anyway”, he says, holding the other glass closer to his face. “Okay, open up.”

“But why the fucking-”

“Why not? The look on your face was freakin’ hilarious.” He grins. “You can consider it punishment for that foul mouth of yours.”

“You fff- bastard”, Wren snarls, and the laughter that follows feels like a boulder pinning him to the ground. He doesn’t resist when Berkeley puts the glass to his lips - if everything else fails, the alcohol might at least wash some of the shame down.

“Tilt your head back on the count of three, Daniel would kill me if you choked”, Berkeley laughs, and Wren glares at him, but lets out a low hum of agreement. “One, two, three.”

He feels as if he was in military school again, trying hard liquor for the first time. The slightly sweet liquid flows down his throat with a sensation as if it was burning through the tissue, and he winces and shivers at how wrong it feels somehow, back to unfamiliar.

“One more?”, Berkeley offers with a patient smile, and he nods, giving him as hard a stare as he can. “You okay with that, Daniel?”

Wren exhales and fixes his eyes on the floor, focusing on the pleasant fire spreading through his body to stifle the emotions, each worse than the last, washing over him at the realization that Berkeley has just asked his owner for permission to give more alcohol to his plaything.

“Sure. He can have... two more, let’s say?”

It’s such a small thing, a simple question, a simple answer, but it’s enough to make it hard to breathe.

“Oh my god, that’s just too beautiful. He’s blushing!”

He blinks furiously and turns his head to the side; Berkeley’s presence has somehow amplified just how much control Daniel has over him. He has gotten used to it, he realizes. He has gotten used to the restraints, the muzzle, the very simple restriction of staying inside the house at all times unless Daniel takes him outside - but this new limit, this control over something as trivial as the amount of alcohol he’s apparently allowed to drink, weighs heavily on his stomach. At this point humiliation brings him almost physical pain with the way he’s talked about, the way he’s controlled, the way the vodka has dried on his face, leaving behind sticky residue from the sugar in the flavoring.

“Wren?” There’s a hint of what sounds like genuine concern in Daniel’s voice, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from whimpering. “You okay?”

“Like a pendulum, isn’t he? From pissed off to crybaby in seconds.” Berkeley works his fingers into Wren’s hair, still short, but grown out enough to get some kind of a grip, and forces his head up straight again. “Already close to tears. Such a nervous wreck.” He grins and his eyes light up. “Oh my god, Wren Wreckham. Perfect.”

“Fucking terrible”, Daniel groans, and Wren sniffles and looks away.

He just wants to disappear.

Be alone with Daniel again. He squeezes his eyes shut at the thought, but he can’t shake it off.

He’s been with Daniel for… a couple of months now, he thinks, the last indicator of the passage of time being a mention of two months, which seems like ages ago. And even though he’s constantly on edge, he has almost fallen into the rhythm. Berkeley, on the other hand, is an imponderable, unpredictable, and even with Daniel’s current sickening fondness and constant sweetheart-ing he still seems…

Safer.

It takes all his strength to fight down a sob.

He’s being brainwashed. Only a few months in and he’s already losing it - and what’s a few months compared to a lifetime? How long before he’s gone for good?

His head is spinning and he could start wailing right there and then like the shattered soon-to-be textbook example of Stockholm syndrome he is - but instead he manages to clear his throat and straighten his back.

“Just give me the booze”, he mutters. Anything to push those thoughts away, to run away from them like the coward he is-

Two more shots are enough to submerge his mind in pleasant fog. Daniel pulls him closer so that he’s kneeling at his feet again, and strokes his hair in steady, soothing motions. Wren doesn’t resist, doesn’t even say anything - instead he leans into the touch and lets his eyelids drop, half-listening to Daniel and Berkeley’s conversation, the subject thankfully not revolving around him anymore. Berkeley rambles on about anything and everything, casually juggling stories from his daily life, jokes, struggles at work and the most recent transactions in his side gig.

The alcohol swirling around in Wren’s brain makes it easier to ignore their voices, and he resorts to playing his favorite game - pretending he’s anywhere but here; in his current state he imagines himself in a shabby bar back on Earth, sitting somewhere in the corner, fiddling with an empty glass, just enjoying the peace, the quiet music, the pleasant buzz of conversations-

The sound of his name explodes in his drifting mind and his eyes blink open; the two men aren’t looking at him, discussing something, Daniel still stroking his head absentmindedly.

“Yeah, we’ve tried out a lot”, Daniel says, and Wren frowns, his up until now steady heartbeat picking up the pace. “Whipping, but that one you saw. Hot coals, now that was fun.”

Blood drains from his face as his eyes dart between Daniel and Berkeley, the latter’s lips arching in a smile that makes him tremble.

“And I was starving him at first, but that almost blew up in my face.” Daniel chuckles, almost embarrassed. “And…” He looks at Wren and grins seeing him back with them. “What else have we done together, sweetheart? I thought there was more.”

“You’ve really gone soft, Daniel”, Berkeley sighs, shaking his head.

“I already said I don’t want him broken.” Daniel shrugs and moves his hand down Wren’s face only to wince at the sticky vodka residue and let go. “Why do you ask, though?”

Wren’s gaze flickers to Berkeley, to his relaxed pose and dangerous smirk.

“Well… What haven’t you done, then? Because I was thinking we could try something new and exciting with your dear toy.”

“No”, Wren mumbles, and Daniel shushes him gently before turning to Berkeley with a thoughtful hum.

“Got something in mind?”

“No!”

“Shut it, Rackham, no one asked you”, Berkeley says with a condescending smile and a dismissive wave of a hand. “Cover his ears, let’s make it a surprise.”

All sound is cut off as Daniel cups his hands over Wren’s ears; he tries to shake his head, to protest, but Daniel just presses harder to keep him still. His heartbeat thuds in his head when he fixes his gaze on Berkeley, trying - and failing - to read from his lips what he can only imagine are chilling methods of torture.

After a while Berkeley gets up from the couch and leaves, and Daniel lets go of Wren’s head, making his ears ring.

“What the fuck is he-”

“It’s a surprise, sweetheart, but don’t worry”, Daniel murmurs, his voice calming, as if he was reassuring a child scared of going to the doctor, “it’ll be fun.”

Wren flinches; his instincts are urging him to get up from the ground, try to get away, but his hopeless reason keeps him put. What could he do? Run? Hide? Be dragged right back and punished on top of whatever Berkeley is preparing?

He can only watch, trembling all over, as Daniel gets up as well and goes up to one of the bookshelves.

“What are you doing?”, Wren asks, his voice shaking.

“As I said, it’ll be fun.” Daniel grins at him briefly and turns to rummage through the shelves. “Oh, this will be perfect”, he mutters and quickly pockets something small.

“What is that?...”

“Hey, it wouldn’t be a surprise if I just told you, would it?” Daniel approaches Wren again and smiles when he sees his eyes, a chaos of panic and intoxication. “You look so sad like this, sweetheart. Good thing we’ve come up with something to sober you up a bit.”

“No”, Wren chokes out, and Daniel just laughs, grabs his arms and pulls him up. He whimpers, his knee joints cracking after kneeling for so long, and his legs immediately buckle under him; Daniel’s grip gets tighter to keep him upright, and he starts dragging him towards the bathroom. “No, please!”

“Oh my god, is he begging you?” Berkeley sticks his head out of the bathroom with a smile bright like a thousand suns. “He’s so good!”

He steps aside to let them in; Wren struggles the whole time, but it’s futile, it’s always futile.

“Too bad you don’t have a bathtub, but this should be enough.”

He’s pushed to his knees in front of the shower - and in the shower there is a crate, one of the sturdy ones the supplies have been delivered in. It’s filled to the brim with water.

Berkeley grabs the collar of his shirt and twists the fabric in his hand to constrict Wren’s throat and keep him still.

They’re going to drown him. They’re going to drown him, and they’re going to enjoy every second of it.

“So, sweetheart”, Daniel says, leaning against the glass panel of the shower, “we’re going to play a fun little game.”

Wren shakes his head, fear clawing at his heart as he stares into the water.

“I have some simple trivia questions here”, Daniel continues, retrieving a deck of colorful cards from his pocket and holding it up in front of Wren’s face. “You’ll have five seconds to answer each of them. If time runs out or you answer wrong, you’re going underwater.”

“You’re sick”, Wren growls, but the last spark of anger flickers and goes out, replaced by panic and helplessness. He gasps when Berkeley yanks the fabric back, causing it to dig into his throat. Daniel sighs dramatically.

“I’ll let this one slide, but just so you know, any word that isn’t the correct answer is a wrong answer. So - first question!”

Wren exhales when the pressure on his throat lessens; he clenches his fists behind his back and tries to steady his breathing.

Maybe he can answer it. Maybe he can answer all of those. Maybe they will simply get bored.

“In meteorology, what name is given to a line of equal pressure on a map?”

What the fuck?

“A, isotherm, b, isobar, c, isochor, d, isoquant?”

His mind descends into chaos.

“Five”, Daniel starts, his voice laced with delight.

Berkeley presses down on Wren’s neck and he swallows.

“Four.”

Iso… wait, pressure? Pressure. What’s the- the thing-”

“Three.”

Barometer?

“Isobar!”, he says and his body tenses up as he waits to be pushed into the water.

“Correct!”, Daniel says in an overly cheerful of a gameshow host. “Next question… Oh, I’ve got some alcohol ones in here! How fitting. Okay: what flavor is framboise liqueur? This one isn’t multiple choice, so I hope you know this one.”

“And I hope you don’t”, Berkeley laughs, and Wren grits his teeth.

He doesn’t know.

“Five.”

So he’ll have to guess.

“Four.”

“Orange?”

“Wrong, it’s raspberry.”

It happens so fast he doesn’t even have time to take a breath before he’s pushed forward and his head is forced underwater. The shock from the freezing water forces the air out of his lungs, and he thrashes, but Berkeley presses down hard, too hard, and the rim of the crate digs into his ribs.

He’s pulled out just as his lungs start to burn, and he gulps air desperately, the sound of laughter hitting him with the force of a wrecking ball.

“You sure look more sober now”, Berkeley jeers. “Ready for another one?”

He’s not, but he doesn’t say anything, focused on quieting his breathing down enough to even hear the question.

“Bronze is mainly an alloy of tin and what other metal? A, brass, b, lead, c, iron, d, copper. Five.”

He knows the answer, or he thinks so, at least, but he decides to wait just a bit, make use of those few seconds to steady his breathing.

“Four. Three.”

“Come on, Rackham, you can’t be that stupid!”, Berkeley teases, and Wren scoffs.

“Copper”, he says and inhales sharply when Berkeley yanks his head back.

“Correct!” Daniel hums, drawing the next card. “Next: Anemophobia is the fear of what? A, spiders, b, the dark, c, fire, d, wind.”

He closes his eyes and swallows - he doesn’t know.

“Five, four, three…”

“The dark?”, he all but whispers and takes a deep breath.

“Wrong, wind.”

This time he manages to stay calm - until his lungs are burning and he’s still being held under the surface. He squirms and mmphs in pain, but it takes a solid while of panicking before Berkeley pulls him up.

“Hey, Wren”, Daniel says casually as he doubles over, sputtering and shuddering. “Do you know what your phobia’s called?”

“Wait, he has a phobia?” Berkeley ruffles Wren’s damp hair, and he grits his teeth.

“He does. So, let’s make it the next question. What’s your phobia called? Five-”

“Astraphobia”, Wren mutters, his face burning with shame.

Daniel knowing about his phobia is bad enough. Berkeley thrown into the mix makes him wish the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

“Good answer.”

“What’s that?”, Berkeley asks.

“Fear of storms”, Wren says before Daniel can answer for him. “You’re very-fucking-welcome.”

“We all have our fears, Rackham”, Berkeley snorts and sighs. “You know what I fear? Snakes. I can’t stand them.”

“I can’t stand you either”, Wren snaps, and the two men roar with laughter.

“That’s just mean, Rackham”, Berkeley chokes out, and Wren flinches when he receives a hefty slap upside the head.

“But a good one”, Daniel admits, drawing the next card. “Okay, but we’ve gotten off-track here.”

Wren fixes his gaze on the crate again, Berkeley nods and clears his throat, and the game continues.

“This one’s perfect for you, sweetheart: What does Vodka literally mean? Five.”

Wozniak told me once.

“Four.”

He sniffles. Wozniak. Parker. The League. Earth.

“Three.”

And he’s here, in Daniel’s bathroom, being tortured for his and Berkeley’s entertainment.

“Two.”

“Little water”, he mumbles.

“Correct! I knew you’d know this one.”

It goes on.

“What does the Q in IQ stand for? ...wrong, it’s quotient.”

His knees hurt. His ribs hurt. His lungs are on fire.

“What English word has the most definitions?”

“Set?”

“What, are you asking me?”

“S-set.”

“Correct.”

He sobs from relief and helplessness alike, and Berkeley snickers into his ear.

“What is ecchymosis? ...wrong, it’s a bruise.”

Squeezing his eyes shut until they hurt, his lungs rebelling against him, he starts to wonder if the sharp rim of the crate is going to cut through his skin at some point.

“What is defined as a straight line that touches a curve but continues on without crossing it in geometry?”

“What the hell?”, he chokes out, the word refusing to form a coherent whole in his mind, tears and water mixing together on his face.

“That’s nowhere near the correct answer, sweetheart. It’s a tangent.”

Black spots start to swirl before his eyes by the time Berkeley pulls him out of the water.

“You really are an idiot, Rackham”, he says, and Wren sobs harder, helpless, hopeless, too close to broken. “An idiot and a crybaby. Kinda pathetic if you ask me.”

I know.

He doesn’t even hear the next question, doesn’t even take a gulp of air to prepare.

He takes a deep breath when he’s underwater, though.

“Whoops”, Berkeley says when Wren stops moving; he pulls him out and clicks his tongue. “Yep, knocked out cold.”

Daniel curses under his breath and sets the cards aside.

“Oh, well”, he sighs, crouching down and brushing Wren’s wet hair away from his face, letting his hand linger on his cheek for a moment. “He’ll recover.”

They both grimace when Wren chokes and throws up water and vodka. Daniel gestures for Berkeley to let go and wraps his arms around Wren.

“I’ll stay with him here until he wakes up”, he says, laying him down on his side on the bath rug. “Poor thing. You know, it was funny, but you probably shouldn’t have called him an idiot, he doesn’t react well to that.”

“So? It was fun.” Berkeley grins at him, leaning against the wall, watching Wren with an amused expression.

Daniel rolls his eyes.

“Sure, but he had a goddamn breakdown and the game was cut short. That could have been more fun.”

“We should do that again sometime.”

Daniel looks down at Wren with a fond smile and strokes his cheek, his touch feather-light. He chuckles softly at the quiet whimper that follows, and lifts his gaze to look back at Berkeley.

“We absolutely should.”

Next

[concussed-to-pieces]

The Mettle Of A Man; Part Twelve

Fandom: Fallout (4)

Pairing: Eventual Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Enjoy!

Part One: ArcJet

Part Two: The Prydwen

Part Three: Orders

Part Four: Finding Brandis

Part Five: Weston Water And Oberland

Part Six: Meeting Preston And Matthew

Part Seven: Radstag And Radstorm

Part Eight: The Return To Sanctuary Hills

Part Nine: Domestic Ruminations

Part Ten: Institutionalized

Part Eleven: Two Weeks, Three Days

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains a brief scene of attempted sexual assault. Stay safe!]

Mark twenty-eight nuclear warheads .

  Backhand squinted down at the paper, up at Ingram and then back at the paper. "Oh, is that all?" She asked sarcastically. "What, you don't want me to grab milk and eggs while I'm out?"

  " Easy , smartass." Proctor Ingram laughed. "We know the general location. All we need is for you to sweep the area, get rid of hostiles and secure the payload. Simple!"

  "Yeah? Where's the general location then?" Backhand challenged.

  Ingram spread the map out on the desk, tapping the area circled in the lower left hand corner. "It's a military site, Prescott I think? One of our scribes was able to triangulate it using the documents you and Danse scooped from that veteran housing development."

  "In the Glowing Sea." Backhand groaned. "I had kind of hoped to never need to go back out there." I'd better start getting some damn perks for all the legwork I'm doing , she thought uncharitably.

  " Theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die ." Ingram quoted at her, laughing again when Vega grumbled under her breath. "C'mon Vega, you're like the Brotherhood's poster child for Commonwealth recruitment. Where's your Ad Victoriam spirit? You have to spearhead this, if only for the eventual publicity."

  "Ah, the press ." Backhand retorted. "Who's my backup, then?"

  "Your sponsor, obviously! Though I'm guessing after this you'll be welcomed into the fold for real." Ingram mused, her expression thoughtful. "Danse seemed better when I saw him last. I think the time off the Prydwen has really done him some good."

  Vega tried to hide her flush of pride, quickly asking, "Other than the lack of big boomers, how is Prime looking?"

  "Pretty good, I'd say! It was a real stroke of luck that you got us Madison back, even if working with her makes me want to set my pubes on fire." Ingram answered frankly. "We're both too stubborn to function well together, but sometimes we can shut up and actually get shit done. Those are the times I believe we might have a shot here."

  "Your confidence is overwhelming." Backhand said dryly. 

  The other woman gave her a lopsided grin. "I've seen too many ops go south to put all my eggs in one scientist's basket, Vega. At least we'll have the numbers of the Minutemen on our side in case Prime can't get off the ground."

  "Has Quinlan had any luck getting that information unscrambled? My buddy hit a dead end pretty early on with the encryption, and he's dying to know whether he actually helped or whether it's all junk data." 

  Truthfully Sturges had gotten much further than either of them had expected (the fact that he knew there was data on the tape at all was a miracle), but Ingram didn't exactly have to know that. The older woman's sigh didn't sound overly promising though.

  "Nothing yet. He and his scribes have been working as close to around the clock as they can get without disrupting Cade across the way. It's always a process in close quarters." The proctor hummed. "With any luck, maybe a few more days?"

  "I'll keep my fingers crossed." Backhand promised. "I know it'll probably all be considered confidential information, but still."

  …

  "No."

  " Excuse me, Paladin?" Arthur snarled.

  Danse stood by the door to the elder's quarters, his posture perfect. "I said no, Elder Maxson." He repeated. "I will not be engaging with you any longer." 

  "Dare I ask what has brought about this insubordination? " The younger man queried.

  Danse stood firm. "This is not insubordination, Elder Maxson. You have exploited me long enough and I refuse to let you continue."

  "I'll have you exiled, Paladin." Maxson threatened. "One word from me and your status goes up in smoke. We are on the brink of war with the Institute and you wish to weaken our ranks? You're a good soldier, Danse. Don't make me send you away."

  Danse shook his head. His hands, clasped at the small of his back, trembled nervously until he clenched them into fists. "I'm sorry, Elder Maxson, but I refuse to allow you to manipulate or abuse me any further." 

  "Are you disobeying a direct order from your elder, Danse?" 

  "I am simply-"

  A knock on the door to Maxson's quarters interrupted whatever Danse had intended to say, and a split second later Knight Vega poked her head around the door. "Apologies, Elder Maxson." The woman said with a salute. "I was unaware that you two were having a discussion. Paladin, we are departing in ten minutes."

  Arthur jerked his head to the side to indicate that Elizabeth should leave. " Get out , Vega." He barked. 

  She hesitated and Danse closed his eyes in defeat, knowing that he was screwed the second she departed.

  He heard the door close and Arthur was abruptly on him, one hand gripping the paladin's throat to force Danse's head against the wall as he tore at the zipper of the other man's jumpsuit. "You are going to fuck me, Danse, so I suggest you warm up to the idea." Maxson hissed against his ear.

  Danse felt nauseous, dirty as Arthur pawed at him. Say no, damn it! What's wrong with you?

  The only warning either man got was a barely-audible knock on the door before Paladin Brandis barged in. Arthur whirled on the older man, murder in his eyes for the barest second. " Brandis! " Maxson roared. "How many-"

  "I have sixteen new aspirants seeking to rise to knight or scribe, Elder Maxson!" Brandis waved a sheaf of papers at the younger man. "I also have seven squires who believe they are ready for evaluation to ascend to aspirant. Oh, was I interrupting something?" He remarked, blinking in a befuddled manner at the clearly-furious elder.

  Maxson stared back at the older paladin, his chest heaving. "Don't think for one goddamn second that I don't know exactly what you're up to, you old fool!" Arthur's blue eyes were fairly crackling with rage. 

  "Me? The only thing I'm up to is trying to get this paperwork taken care of." Brandis protested blandly. "You're so suspicious , Maxson. It won't do you any favors." Brandis seemed to finally notice Danse standing there slackjawed and the older paladin began to scold, "zip up your uniform, Danse! We're a military , not a frathouse!" His eyebrows raised, all but begging Danse to take the opening and flee.

  Danse gulped and floundered to apologize, zipping up his suit. He caught the barest glimpse of Maxson's thunderous glare before he turned tail and bolted. The cowardice burned at him, but really, what else could he do?

  He shouldered past Vega lurking just outside the door, and stormed down the catwalk to the grease pit without a word.

  Their aerial approach to the Glowing Sea was silent and riddled with turbulence. Danse could identify the territory of the area from a fair distance away, the way the radiation tinged the sky to a sinister yellowed bruise a sure indication.

  Waypoint Echo was precariously positioned on the very edge of the Glowing Sea. Danse felt a fair amount of trepidation as he and Knight Vega approached the area after they disembarked the vertibird. He had never ventured into the Glowing Sea, but he supposed there was no time like the present.

  He was glad to at least find a familiar face, although Haylen didn't appear happy to see him and Vega. The scribe looked tense, wary. Danse supposed he could understand that; the post was much less than favorably placed. They were only just outside the heavy haze of radiation, and the radstorms weren't inclined to remain stationary for too long. To say nothing of the deadly creatures that tended to emerge from the area and wander north. Waypoint Echo was not a hospitable assignment by any stretch of the imagination. 

  His scribe had never searched for the easy jobs. Danse felt a wave of pride for the woman he had sponsored back when she was nothing but an initiate. Haylen had rolled with the punches and become an admirable scribe, a loyal friend and an incredible asset to any team she joined. "Scribe Haylen!" He greeted her warmly with a salute. "Ad Victoriam. Another day, another assignment."

  "Paladin Danse," Haylen addressed him through gritted teeth, oddly not returning his salute. "Can I get a word with you before you depart? It's urgent." She was already grabbing his arm before he even nodded, the scribe leading him away from the camp. Knight Vega was listening intently while the other field scribe briefed her on their current situation and any observations they might have made.

  "Scribe Haylen, is something amiss?" The paladin asked, a little concerned once Haylen had moved him out of earshot of the encampment. 

  The petite woman whirled on him, looking more furious than Danse had ever seen her. " How could you not tell me?" She hissed. 

  Danse stared at her, bewildered. "I...what do you mean, Haylen?"

  "Don't play dumb with me, Danse! Quinlan got the list decoded. He knows . Maxson knows. Hell, maybe even Vega knows! Maybe she's leading you into a trap right now." Haylen took hold of his gauntlet once more. "Danse, you have to run ."

  "Haylen, I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about." Danse replied, thoroughly puzzled. What would Quinlan decoding the Institute information have to do with him?  

  Haylen's fingernails scraped at the worn red-orange paint denoting his rank as she gripped down even tighter. "Danse, you...do you really not…" she appeared to be trying to ask something, but couldn't seem to amass the words.

  "Take your time. Get your mind straight." Danse said kindly. "Whatever it is, I'll hear you out."

  She sobbed suddenly, her small frame rattled by the outburst. "Oh Danse , I'm so sorry." She whispered.

  …

  Backhand lingered on the edge of the camp, half-watching Haylen appear to argue with the paladin about something. Trouble in paradise? she wondered, turning the distress pulser for their endeavor over in her hands before she tucked it away in her satchel. 

  "Man, I guess whatever Rhys passed along to her earlier really has her in a twist." One of the other scribes commented. "I dunno' if I've ever seen her this heated."

  Danse thundered back towards the camp, leaving Haylen to call his name plaintively. "Ready to continue our mission, soldier?" He gritted the words out at Backhand. 

  Backhand raised an eyebrow at his sudden change of mood, but then recalled what she had interrupted earlier that morning and reasoned that he had more than every right to be a little testy. The woman simply nodded and fell into step behind him. "See you guys soon!" She said to the soldiers occupying Echo, waving in farewell. Haylen didn't wave back, the scribe looking wholly dejected. 

  Was she crying?

  "Hey Danse, is Haylen alright? She seemed upset." Backhand inquired after they had been walking for several minutes.

  "We had a discussion." was all Danse said in reply. His tone didn't exactly encourage further questioning, so Backhand decided that she should probably, maybe , just this once, not attempt to converse.

  "Sorry, didn't mean to pry." She mumbled. 

  "I'm certain you didn't. But we can't afford to be distracted on this mission." Danse instructed firmly. "There's too much at stake, Knight Vega."

  "Oh, absolutely!" Backhand agreed. 

  "I need you to take point during this engagement, as you're the one who knows where we're going." Danse paused, letting her come up alongside him. "We can't lose sight of what's important. If we do, the Institute has already won." 

  The paladin, in spite of his words, seemed out of sorts. Spacey , even. His grip on his rifle was uncharacteristically slack, especially considering how hostile their environment was. 

  Backhand was reminded of his behavior during their search for Brandis and she said as much, prodding the paladin to respond. "I'm fine. Just...thinking," he muttered. "I apologize, I'm not very good at following my own orders. I lecture you on distraction while also being distracted."

  "After this campaign is over, I vote for a little R and R. The proverbial run ashore. Sound good to you?" Backhand asked, tilting her head.

  Danse cleared his throat. "I wish I had your optimism." He said plainly. "Once the Institute hears we have these munitions, assuming the bombs are even here in the first place, it will be all-out war. I'm not so foolish to think they'll surrender or melt back into the shadows under the threat of our superior firepower. They will demand a live test." The paladin gestured vaguely around him at the blasted landscape. "I know for a fact that Maxson won't stop until the Institute is nothing but a fractured husk. The idea that there are innocent people down there, good people who will be slaughtered with the bad…" He shook his head. 

  "It's sobering." Backhand murmured in agreement, not sure why she was surprised by the paladin's display of humanity. She had been in and out of the Institute over the last few weeks, building a rapport with the various scientists and synths and also passing along pertinent information to the Brotherhood. All the while Shaun pressured her to take over his position, " before I am gone, Mother. " She hadn't known that Danse was actually listening to her field reports.

  "It's grotesque entrapment. People who wanted a better life, people who wanted to help the world, people who thought they were helping." Danse sounded disgusted and strangely upset. "Bodies snatched in the middle of the night, or lured in by the lie of bettering mankind!" He had turned to her as he ranted, his pauldrons rising and falling rapidly from the force of his body against the frame of his armor. "He's your son , Vega, how could he--"

  "He's not my son anymore." Backhand cut him off, stung by his heated words. "The man who leads the Institute may be related to me through biology, but he is not my son, Paladin Danse." She heaved a sigh, looking away. "I guess he really never was, in a way. His father...his father told me he wanted children. Once I got pregnant, though, it was like the reality of it became too much for him." Her laugh was a sad noise, mirthless and hollow. "And if he thought it was too much, imagine how I felt. I didn't really have a lot of agency in the matter, I just wanted to make him happy and when I realized that not even that could make him happy, I kind of lost it. Hence the divorce and stuff. I loved that baby more than anything in the world, but I know that I wasn't a great mom. I was in way over my head. Scared. Terrified . Alone. And then...then he was taken from me. Just like that."

  "Knight Vega, I...forgive my outburst, please. I didn't mean to imply that any of this is your fault." Danse mumbled. "I simply...I-I mean, I see you, the way you interact with the people of the Commonwealth, and I can't wrap my head around the fact that someone even tangentially related to you could be capable of such...heinous machinations."

  "I'm a byproduct of the Great War, Paladin Danse." Backhand smiled thinly. "A relic from times of pretend plenty. The Institute raised Shaun, shaped him into their perfect leader. He doesn't understand the struggles of the real world. He can't understand the ugliness of war, not like how someone who lived through it can." 

  "You would think the perfect leader would want what's best for his troops." Danse remarked.

  "He's dying , Danse. The only reason he thawed me out again is because he's dying, and the Institute wanted me to take over." Backhand confided, scoffing a little. "Can you even believe that shit? His board of directors really thought my altruistic, bleeding-heart ass would take over their body-snatching extravaganza. Hell, they seem confused every time I tell them to fuck off."

  "You turned them down?" 

  The bewilderment in his tone caught Backhand by surprise. " Yeah , Danse. Obviously."

  "The promise of returning the Commonwealth to its former glory wasn't enough to sway you?" The paladin queried, his voice laden with that rare sarcasm he employed. 

  Backhand chuckled wryly. "Did you forget the part where I've seen the Commonwealth at the peak of that former glory? It wasn't better. It was just a little less irradiated." She thumped her pauldron against his own after a moment. "Hey, I'm with you, okay? No matter what happens, we'll get through this and enjoy that sweet off-time." She promised. "I know you can't see, but I'm definitely smiling under here."

  "I can tell." Danse lapsed into contemplative silence, and Backhand wished she could see his expression. Something, anything to clue her in as to what he was thinking about. 

  They passed a crashed plane, the trail of wreckage from it extending well past Backhand's limited field of view. Danse tuned into its distress signal like a reflex, and Backhand half-listened to the mayday broadcast of Skylanes one-six-six-five. 

  "... left engine failure, we're out fifteen three at this time …"

  The plane had been coming in the day the bombs dropped. Due to its location in the Glowing Sea, Backhand could only assume no one had survived. She almost wanted to ask Danse to turn off the broadcast, but the signal quickly petered back out into static as they carefully descended the ridge past the plane.

  The shattered remains of sparse buildings jutted from the caustic ground like the incisors of a gargantuan beast, offering a semblance of shelter only to roving feral ghouls or ambitious mole rats.

  It was a man-made hellscape, awe inspiring in its grim misery, and Backhand felt like she understood Danse's taciturn mood a bit better now.

  Abruptly, a towering monolith was brought into sharp contrast against the green sky by a sullen flash of lightning. Backhand swallowed, unnerved by the stark stone structure that loomed up out of the wan light like a dark pyramid to a forgotten, terrible deity.

  She tried to shake off her fanciful thoughts, scolding herself for being so easily influenced. This wasn't some silly story, some maniac rumination on the subject of doomed expeditions and places where man shouldn't go. This was just one more thing that humanity had built.

  "And here we are." She announced needlessly. "You ready?"

  "My power armor is within nominal parameters, so I would say I'm as ready as I'll ever be." Danse replied simply. 

  Working together, they muscled the double doors open and cautiously made their way into the pyramid-like structure. Backhand grimaced at the bank vault-esque door that greeted them, raising an eyebrow and cocking her helmet at Danse. "I'll bet...fifty caps that I can just give this a spin and it'll bust wide open." She said confidently, resting a gauntlet on the handle.

  "Nice try, Vega." The paladin replied, his tone dry and humorless. "Don't forget we have a job to do."

  Vega grumbled to herself and spun the handle, watching the ancient tumblers creak and separate before the door slowly swung inwards. "Bingo." She breathed, stepping gingerly out onto the old catwalk. "Shit, it looks like ArcJet in here."

  "Remarkably similar." Danse agreed. "Be very cautious about what you shoot in here, we don't know what will explode. And remember to check your corners. I don't want to lose you to something we don't see." 

  Backhand swallowed hard, saluting while inclining her head to indicate that she received and returned the order. "Ad Victoriam, Paladin Danse."

  "Ad Victoriam, Knight Vega." 

  Silence hanging heavy in the air, Vega plodded down the rickety stairs of the catwalk. She briefly debated just hopping the railing and taking the plunge, but ultimately decided against it. The stiff gusts of wind from the door had stirred the centuries of dust into a thick haze, and warning lights still spiraled in amber circles, casting disorienting shadows over everything.

  "It would appear that this facility was converted into a launching silo as well." Danse commented, gesturing at the large gantry-like structure that took up the majority of space in the middle of the pyramid. 

  Down, down, down they went, past multiple security doors. Feral ghouls rose to greet them, some still clad in the tattered remains of army fatigues. 

  "I've had nightmares like this." Backhand admitted during a brief moment of reprieve while she painstakingly tapped away at the keys of a terminal. "Sergeant Cathan and the rest of my squadron turn into ferals and I have to put them down." Danse's heavy gauntlet landed on her pauldron, squeezed once, and then departed. "I know it's dumb to be worried about. They've been dead for…" Vega trailed off, finally getting the double blast doors open and turning off the weakly buzzing alarm in the same stroke. " That's it." She said in relief. 

  Danse took point during this secondary half of the expedition, the paladin staying unusually quiet. Backhand chalked it up to him focusing more on his targets, lest a stray laser hit one of the caged warheads. 

  Down into the bowels of Prescott they trudged, soldiering onwards through tunnels made tight by the bulk of their power armor. The headlamp on Danse's new helmet illuminated the cramped, half-collapsed areas as he scanned from three to nine and back again.

  "Left up here." Backhand broke the silence, directing him through a hole in the wall to circumvent a rubble-filled dead end and then overtaking him when he paused to check his rifle. "We should still be able to pick up the tunnel around this junk."

  "Affirmative." Danse replied shortly. "I would advise that we not attempt to clear any debris. We don't know what will collapse on us."

  Vega grimaced, "good point. That's why you're the paladin." Oddly, he made a scoffing sound, but she dismissed it as him being sarcastic again.

  When the tunnel finally opened up into an enormous room, Vega breathed a little easier. Ahead of them loomed a massive set of red double doors, tarnished with age but still holding strong. What appeared to be a control room was situated over the doors, and Backhand quickly spotted the stairs that would lead her upwards.

  The body sprawled across the top of the stairs gave her pause, however. It wasn't a feral ghoul, but a Child Of Atom. Backhand glanced up to the door to the control room, then back down at the body. 

  Up. Down. Up again.

  And she continued over the body, one massive gauntlet knocking comically gentle on the door.

  "Enter." Intoned a voice from inside the room. Behind her, she heard Danse's rifle hum as he primed it.

  " Easy , cowboy. Let me see if I can get this settled peacefully." Backhand whispered. She had no idea whether Danse had heard her or not, but she prayed he had as she set sabaton into the room. 

  The Children Of Atom had always been a ragged-looking bunch, their lives dedicated to the pursuit of " the Glow " and worship of what they called " the Great Divide ". This man was no exception, though the room was also occupied by a turret and assaultron. Two things no one wanted to deal with in close quarters.

  "Halt, stranger. You stand upon Atom's sacred ground." The religious fanatic announced grandly. "Speak your business or be divided where you stand."

  Backhand mused over her reply for a moment, finally stating, "we seek the Glow of Atom, my uh, brother ."

  " You? " The man scoffed, "you, who slaughtered Atom's most faithful as you stormed this compound?"

  "We sought to release them to Atom's embrace. Return them to the universe to be...divided anew. After all, matter cannot be created or destroyed, only repurposed," Vega replied smoothly, "as dictated by the Law of Conservation of Mass, writ by his most holy eminence Antoine Lavoisier." 

  "Ah, I see you are a scholar of the sacred texts as well!" The man remarked, a smile crossing his stern features. "Forgive my ignorance, sister. When I saw your armor, I feared that you came to destroy this holy ground." Backhand blinked behind her helmet. That had been strictly high school science bullshit, but she would take the victory. "I assume you wish to bask in Atom's Glow then, as one of his faithful?"

  "We seek to spread Atom's glory via the use of these munitions." Backhand explained. "Our organization requires these vehicles to distribute Atom's might. Please, permit us to utilize them."

  "You will put them to good use? That is all we can ask for!" The Child Of Atom's eyes filled with tears of what Vega could only assume was gratitude. "I had thought we would stand guard over this holy ground for all of time. Please, take this and prepare to enter His inner sanctum." He took her gauntlet and pressed a scrap of paper into it, gesturing at the worn-looking terminal on the table beside the sputtering turret. "Follow the brilliance of the Glow, and it shall lead you to the relics. May Atom's radiance warm your soul." He breathed, those teary blue eyes focused on the visor of her helm. 

  Vega inclined her head respectfully, praying that Danse would stand aside and let the man depart without a fight. Clearly she needn't have worried; the paladin obligingly shifted the bulk of his armor out of the way so the religious zealot could leave the room peacefully. 

  "' His most holy eminence' ?" Danse repeated, his tone wry. "You certainly have a gift, Knight Vega." 

  Backhand grinned under her helmet, reading the password off the scrap of paper and then carefully punching it into the terminal. "What can I say? A little diplomacy and a healthy sprinkling of mumbo-jumbo goes a long way." With a simple keystroke, the massive doors creaked open. The woman bowed as best as she could in her armor. "Shall we?" 

  Danse appeared to have returned to his silence, simply nodding and walking back out of the room.

  What's gotten into him? Backhand wondered.

Part Thirteen

[rocinantescoffeestop]

Whumptober2020: Day 8 – "Don’t Say Goodbye”

Fandom: MCU, Iron Man Characters: Tony Stark, Pepper Potts Universe: Mafia!AU Summary: After an unsuccessful attempt at detaching himself from his father’s empire, he resigns himself to an unfavourable reality: breaking up with Pepper Potts. (Both Tony and Pepper are 17 years old.)

Tag: @whumptober2020​

[Read on AO3 here.]

Tony lifts his fist to the door, but it takes him a few seconds of pause to muster enough courage to do this. This wasn’t just some party fling he can drop the night after, this was Pepper. Virginia Potts deserved an explanation. She deserved the world, and sadly, Tony resigned himself to not being the one to give it to her.

He rapped with his knuckles the door before fixing his eyes at the edge where stoop met house. With every passing second or two of no reply, he shuffled an inch backwards. It’s not too late to leave, part of him thought. You can still go out with her. He was tempted. His car (his dad’s, the one he borrowed without asking) stood  directly behind him. He fingered the keys in his right coat pocket, contemplating what a fake out would cost him.

The creak of the front door and his attention jumped to face front again. There she was, orange hair swept over one shoulder, her figure already clad in pastel, pinstriped pyjamas. He remembered them from their first night together. She had looked like an angel then, and she looked like one now: effortlessly graceful. His soul fought to rise. He battled it to the ground, knowing how undeserving he was to have her. After what he planned to do tonight, he deserved a slam of the door in his face, instead.

“I can’t see you,” he spit out.

Pepper blinked at him. “Tony? What do you mean?”

“It means I… It means what I said.” He commanded himself not to shiver with self-loathing. I don't want this, I don’t want this, how can you do this to her!?

She stepped away from the doorframe and crossed her arms.

“Why?”

“Why?” Tony repeated, unable to formulate any coherent thought in his head. “I can’t say that. This is just how it has to be. Okay? Don’t ask me that.”

“You’re okay with this?” she said, spitting a little.

“I’m not– I’m just... Pep. Pepper, I can’t do this right now.”

Her expression was already hostile, but now it soured even more.

“You’re going to tell me right now, Tony!”

He hung his head. The cement used for the stoop had an interesting pattern of pebbles, and he’d rather count them than stare at Pepper’s face. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to tell her, it was that he couldn’t. How did one simply explain that their father was the most notorious mob boss the West had ever seen? To a policeman’s daughter, no less. To the girl he loved! It was impossible either way for Pepper not to think any less of him.

“I... My dad...” He shook his head. The thought of outing his father left a rotten taste in his mouth. Perhaps his parents weren’t ideal, perhaps Howard did yell sometimes, but they were family, and family meant every member loved every other. “I wish I could.”

“Don’t you dare–.”

“Goodbye, Peps.”

Tony turned and left. Don’t look back, he thought on repeat. He’d lose all resolve if he did.