#court of darkness ms

[overheardbyvarioustherapists]

Fenn: Father, this is my paramour, MC. MC: It's a pleasure to meet you, your majesty. Louis-Ernest: Please, call me "daddy." MC: Fenn: MC: With all due respect, I must politely decline.

[m1d-45]

for all to see

summary: fontaine’s court of law is questionable on a good day. on a bad day? well…

word count: ~1.2k

-> warnings: you die, blood mention, spoilers for fontaine archon quest (only names of things), potentially ooc neuvillette(?)

-> gn reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr

< masterlist >

despite being the nation of justice, fontaine was not known for its fairness.

trials took place in opera houses, the prosecution focused not on proving their claim, but to put on a show. the citizens didn’t care for the outcome if it wasn’t amusing, the archon known for throwing fits if things were too boring. to survive was to be entertaining, painting as many coats of shimmering blue over your soul until it was shiny enough to go outside.

obtuse laws hid around every corner. no floating objects for the first three days of each month. no fonta was to be brought into any government buildings, unless the date was a prime number, in which case it could be any flavor but strawberry. mechanical pens had long since been invented, but had to be classed as a meka, which required a permit that far outweighed the price of the pen itself.

nothing made sense. even neuvilette, as well versed in the law as he was, did not understand the reasoning behind most of these rules.

however, there was one that he backed entirely, the very first law ever established in fontaine—arguably in teyvat as a whole, the very notion of such a crime pulling disgust regardless of origin.

‘Any person or persons found to be impersonating the divine creator, with the exceptions of roles within an opera or other such performance, shall be punished with the full extent of the law, up to and including the death penalty.’

“defendant, do you have any evidence to refute ms furina’s claims?”

you said nothing, staring down at your hands. you’d stopped pulling at the cuffs that bound you to the railing, leaving you still as stone. your entire appearance was disheveled, a result of the nearly year’s long hunt for you. part of him felt pity, but he quickly dismissed it. you deserved this—provided you didn’t, somehow, have evidence to the contrary…

you looked up, overgrown hair falling into tired eyes. you were dirty, dark crusts of blood lining hairline scratches all over your face and arms. you didn’t say a word, but he found himself avoiding your sharp gaze quickly, inspecting your wrists instead. raw, angry, the metal cuffs unkind.

“if you wish to think, say so. if your silence continues, i will be forced to move on.”

you looked back down to the banister wordlessly, the crowd murmuring at your silence. he ignored them.

“we now turn to the oratrice mecanique d'analyse cardinale to render the final verdict on the charges.”

the oratrice clicked and clunked, gears spinning and meshing as the machine drew its conclusion. blue faith filled the tubes within the walls, collecting, then were pulled back in relative quiet. now would be when the scales would return to normal, but he hadn’t heard them tilt at all during the trial… he pushed aside that train of thought once again. he was getting distracted too easily considering the importance of this trial.

he picked up the verdict from the oratrice, addressing the crowd. “according to the judgement of the oratrice mechanique d’analyse cardinale, the defendant is…” his breath skips as he opened the small folder, something in his chest twisting violently. “…innocent?”

how?

furina sat up in a hurry, the audience clamoring for reasoning, but he barely hears anything. if the oratrice itself declared you innocent, then…

behind furina, his god also stands, cold eyes staring into the crowd. “calm down, everyone. it’s clear this fraud has simply tampered with the oratrice.” your head snapped up as neuvillette closed the pages from the oratrice, sending it back down the chute.

“my god, i can personally assure you that the defendant has not had the opportunity to-“

“silence.”

he bowed his head when they turned to him, mouth dry. something was off about the situation, but what?

“since we clearly have all the evidence in front of us, i think we can safely override the oratrice’s rule.”

“divine one, in fontaine law it clearly states that the oratrice-“

“and i’ve stated that it can be overruled. which is more important, fontaine’s laws or divine laws?” he couldn’t speak. “clorinde, my bow.”

he watched as clorinde produced a bow, as quiet as the crowd below. nobody could say a word—the death penalty hadn’t been imposed in fontaine for years… but this was a special case..

black steel arrows reflected light into his eyes as the creator pointed them at you, his heart thundering. the air was always polluted in fontaine, but it felt twice as oppressive now.

“chief justice. i can’t get a clean shot.”

neuvillette bowed once more, feeling cold. he weaved through the private hallways of the opera house, making his way to the defendant’s balcony.

he didn’t even know your name. you’d refused to give it- refused to say anything, really. how his god had arrived at this verdict was beyond him… but he could not overrule the divine. he opened the door to the balcony, uncertainly stepping to your side.

this was wrong. he could hear it begin to rain, water pattering against the windows, but all he could tangibly feel was confusion. he knew something was wrong, but what?

he lifted his hand but you beat him to it, lifting your head as you turned to face him. “step back,” you mumbled, and he found himself obeying in the split second before the arrow struck. bright blue blood flew into the air, landing right where he would have been.

you didn’t want him to get blood on his clothing.

the rain picked up, lightning striking close and shaking the floor beneath him. the whole house gasped, all eyes turned to you as you collapsed. he couldn’t look away, not when he heard the sound of a sword—clorinde’s, likely, furina was never one for a fight—or the shouts of the gardes. he was paralyzed, watching blue spread out beneath you, reaching the edge of the balcony and beginning to drip.

he’d known. he’d felt it. and yet he was powerless to stop your death, the one he- the one they all perceived as divine pinning down teyvat. he should have known from the moment they overruled the oratrice, should have seen the blue tint to your scratches, should have asked for more evidence before- before—

rain came down in hails, his hands shaking as he stared at the injustice before him.

[battymommastuff]

The Other Side

Batmom x Batman, Batmom x Batfamily

Prompt: While digging through the attic, Dick Grayson and Jason Todd uncover a secret about their adoptive mother. A secret that reveals the true, and dark story of the most loved couple in Gotham City

!!TW!! - MENTIONS OF SA AND OTHER DARK THEMES

Part 1 Part 2 Masterlist

!!DISCLAIMER!! - This likely won't be comic accurate (Obviously), but I did draw inspiration from the comics. If you are looking for something accurate, then this fanfic isn't for you.

You didn't get a chance to address the deep voice before a cloth was covering your face and the world went dark. A throbbing pain came next when you awoke. You were laying on a very luxurious bed. Looking down, you saw that you were still in your same clothing. Just a silk robe that covered your underwear. Your heart was racing as you looked around the room. Whoever lived here, lived in style. Everything looked as if it would cost you bodily organs to own. 

Before the shock could wear off, the two massive double doors opened, and a man walked into the room. A mask covering his face, and his eyes watched you carefully. Your body visibly shrunk as you stared at the intimidating man across the room from you, "Ms. (L/N), I do want to apologize for the rather harsh retrieval of you. We have to take precautionary measures these days." The man said while stepping closer to you. He stepped into the moonlight, and you finally saw every detail of his mask. A golden bird mask...no owl mask. What the hell is going on? 

"W-What do you want with me?" You asked, moving off of the bed once he got too close to you. The bed now served as a barrier between you and your kidnapper, but it didn't provide any comfort for you. All you could think of was being raped, and sold on the black market. Gotham City wasn't the safest city, but you never thought this would happen to you. How did this happen? There was always security watching over the bunk area every night to make sure this never happened. How did these men get in to kidnap you? Whatever the reason, you didn't feel safe with the circus anymore. 

"To give you a chance...a chance to be apart of something great. My organization works from the shadows to ensure the safety of our beautiful city..." Beautiful isn't a word you would use, but sure, "You possess a talent that could be beneficial to our cause." The man picked up a remote and turned the tv on. What played was several of your acts and some of your rehearsals. All taken from vantage points, and places that you wouldn't have noticed someone watching you, "We've come to realize that our organization is seen as a myth, a boogeyman. Many criminals fear us, and with your talents...we could harness that fear." He stepped around the bed and started making his way towards you once again. The fear you felt kept your legs from moving, so this time he got uncomfortably close to you, "Join us (Y/N). Join us and help us purge Gotham of everything that taints it." 

The Court of Owls. One of Gotham's scariest myths. You've heard whispers of them while spending days in the city. Some of your fellow performers even mentioned them once or twice. Everything you've ever heard was never good. This cult believes they are doing the right thing, but are harming so many in the process. You couldn't join them...you couldn't live your life in the shadows. What could ever be so wonderful about someone so full of darkness? It seemed that the man saw what you were thinking, and he backed away, "Such a shame...you would have been such a valuable asset. I'm afraid if you won't join us, then we have to do away with you. You will pose a risk to all of us." The man turned his back towards you, and you knew now was your chance. Grabbing the closest thing to you; a lamp, you hit him over the bed. The man dropped to the ground, and you ran to the window. Luckily you weren't too high from the ground, so you pushed the window open and climbed out. 

You could hear voices and yelling as you dashed into the dark, raining city. You hadn't a clue where you were going, but anywhere would be better than this. The circus would be the first place they would look, so you had to find somewhere new. You could hear footsteps behind you as well as some above you. They were after you, and they were fast. Thankfully, your breathing training worked wonders. Still you were no match for these skilled men. They managed to corner you into a dead end alley. This is it. The place where your dead body would be found. It all ended here. The vile smell of puke, piss, and garbage filled your nose as you looked around at the court members closing in on you, "P-Please...I promise I won't tell anyone. Just let me go." You pleaded, but it seemed to fall on deaf ears. From behind you were pushed to your knees, and you could see your reflection in the blade meant for your death. 

The member lifted the blade up, but before it could meet your skin...a rope wrapped around their wrist. With a scream, they were pulled into the darkness. It felt as if all sound in the city stopped...everything went quiet. You felt fear before, but this was a new level of fear. A fear that you never would forget. A black shadow flew by, grabbing another member. This caused the rest of them to ignore you, and turned their attention to their surroundings. Now would have been the perfect time to run, but your legs were screaming. The adrenaline was wearing off, and it felt like you couldn't move an inch. A bolt of lightning flashed through the sky, right as a shadow covered the alley...a shadow of a bat. The mysterious savior dropped down on one of the members, and a fight broke out. You could only watch in awe as your savior took down every single member without much struggle. Once it was over, the figure turned towards you. Again the lighting allowed you a glimpse of him. The bat symbol of his chest matched the one in the night sky. 

"Batman..." You whispered, with relief before your eyes rolled back and you slumped to the ground. Batman walked towards you, and gently picked you up from the ground. He didn't see any visible injuries besides little scrapes on your knees from being pushed to the ground. Even now you were just as beautiful as you were while performing. He held you close and summoned the Batmobile. No hospital in Gotham would be safe enough for you. He needed to take you to the batcave. There you would be safe, and he could question you. 

"Alfred, get the med-bay ready. We have a guest." Batman said into his comms, after sitting you in the passenger seat. Your head leaned on the window, but your lips were starting to turn blue. Judging from your attire, you must have been getting ready for bed. With one final look over to make sure you were secure, he raced off into the streets of Gotham to the batcave.

TAGLIST

@maxinehufflepuffprincess @tayswhp @rainycloud858 @luna-zendra-star @starlets-things @simpfourmarvel @kawaistrawberry21 @js-favnanadoongi @kodzukenmaaa @xxrougefangxx @pixviee @discocactus-world @b4tm4nn @minimoxha @crutoyu @nightw-izhu @legendarylearner18 @mangegeek17 @pixiedust0604 @that-one-fangirl69

[primofate]

A Shot in The Dark (Chapter 1) Wriothesley x fem!reader

Summary: As the upcoming Weapons Master of the town, you've started to take more responsibilities in your father's shop. Little did you know that taking up this job would cause you to get thrown into the messy world of criminals and the messy world of confusing feelings for the Duke of Meropide.

Warnings: Slow burn, this is gunna be long. Like Ruthless Prince long, maybe. Nothing much happens. This is the first chapter after all. Excuse any mistakes, I am a busy mother.

Author's Notes: Tell me what you think?

Read other parts: Coming Soon

In the shop, a quiet tick-tock rang around as you stood behind the counter, drumming your fingers against the table, watching as the short hand of the wooden clock slowly inches towards the number 7.

You take a deep breath through your nose, squaring your shoulders up, holding the air in your chest for a second before puffing everything out in one go.

It was your first time alone in the shop, and while your father didn’t have a lot of customers these days, you heard that he was quite the sought-after weapons master back in the old times.

A small chime takes you out of your reverie. That was your cue that the day had to start, going around the counter with a slight hum, opening the door to the outside and flipping the store sign “Open”.

You took a moment to look around the small street of Vasari Passage. From where you stood at the shop’s entrance, you had a good view of the swirling fountain in the middle of the Court of Fontaine. There are a few other shops lining the street: the snack shop, the fruit stand, up a set of stairs was the House of Hearth and further down the street was Café Lutece.

It was a nice location, close to the entrance to the city and walking distance to food if you were too busy or too lazy to cook for yourself that day. The shop was on the ground floor, but your father and you resided above the shop, one floor up.

The apartment was rather modest. A two bedroom with wooden floors that now sort of groaned when you stepped on certain places. A dining room that also served as a living room, a 4-seater table in the middle with a fireplace off to the side. A kitchen, where your mother used to spend all her time, cooking up something wonderful for the family. And lastly, one bathroom that was strangely quite spacious with a bath and built in shower.

You pull the shop door open once again, a small ring from the tiny bell hanging above reverberating in your ears. You had only taken a few steps forward, barely even reaching the counter when the tiny bell rang again, followed by the closing sound of the door.

“Welcome to Hammer and Hand, how can I—” you twist around just as you reach the counter and there stood a very, very familiar face. “Oh, Ms. Clorinde,”

No, you had never spoken to her before. Nor were you in any way acquainted. But she was someone that everyone knew and as soon as her name left your lips you felt nervousness crash into you, as if a wave of Primordial Sea water was trying to pull you under its depths.

Clorinde regarded the shop briefly. Looking up at the shelves on the left and right. Surveying the carpet on the floor. Eyes glancing at the several chairs littered around for waiting customers. Then, she looked at you. “…I heard that there might be someone who could take a look at my pistol,” she wasn’t asking a question and she sounded as if she might be in a hurry.

“That would be me,” you sighed out with a forced smile, hands fumbling under the counter to take out a sleek, velvet-lined, black box for the Champion Duelist to rest her weapon in.

A quick click-clack of her heels, Clorinde placing the pistolet into the box and you, hovering your hands above it. “May I?”

Clorinde made a quick sound of approval, and your hands gently took the weapon, now examining it for what might be wrong.

Clorinde peered at you through her hat, just a quick look.

Truth be told, she wasn’t the kind to judge others by appearance…but you looked very, very young to be a weapons master. After a moment of silence, just the little clinks and ticks of your hands tapping on the pistol, Clorinde decided to speak up. “…I was told the shop owner was a man,” She kept her eyes on you to gauge for a reaction, perhaps wary that she might have offended you.

On the contrary, you were unphased, and didn’t take your eyes off her pistol. “My father,” you curtly answered, eyes narrowing at the frame of the gun. “He’s off on vacation at the moment…He hasn’t been on one in a while so I’m stepping in for him for a bit,”

Clorinde made a sound of understanding. That made more sense. “…Everyone needs a vacation,” she said in a different tone to what she used earlier, almost as if she was striking up a casual conversation.

This caught your attention the slightest bit, eyes involuntarily dragging up, meeting hers, then awkwardly breaking the gaze in a split second, going back to the weapon.

“There seems to be a problem with the firing pin, Ms. Clorinde,” you lay the pistol back on the velvet box, then take out a number of small trinkets and tools that would help you open the weapon.

You didn’t talk as you worked, Clorinde was mostly impressed by how much you knew of a weapon you just met, and how your hands were almost as steady as hers when she took aim.

“…You use this often?” She hears you ask and she takes a moment to reply.

“…You could say that,” again, she replies in a short manner.

You let out a little hum in thought. In the next 5 minutes you spend some time taking out different types of firing pins. You explain what each one does. One valued speed. One was a chunkier, sturdier type. One was absorbent of elemental energy, so on so forth. Clorinde explained what she usually used the pistol for, and what attribute she valued over others.

With that, the firing pin was easily replaced and the pistol felt as good as new in her hands.

“My sincere thanks,” Clorinde nods her head, and for the first time that morning sent a small yet satisfied smile your way.

“My pleasure, Ms. Clorinde, do come back if there’s anything else wrong with it, or if it doesn’t feel right in your hands,” you keep your back straight and tense until the Champion Duelist walks out and the door creaks closed. You puff out another sigh of relief, shoulders slumping and yourself crumpling on the counter.

“Of course my first customer has to be a celebrity!” You freak out on your own, cheek pressed against the table and trying to replay the whole interaction in your mind. If you had said anything weird or awkward, if you had stumbled over your words at all—a little CLINK had you scrambling straight up and smiling at the door yet again. “Welcome to—”

“I just came back to warn you,” Clorinde was only halfway into your shop. She paused for a moment, wondering if she should have said anything at all. “You might get a few more…odd customers in the next few days,”

She didn’t explain herself, and you were thoroughly confused. What exactly was her definition of “odd”? The Duelist had already left before you could say anything, not that you could think of anything to say anyway.

The rest of the day had actually been quite slow, despite Clorinde’s warning. A few gardes came by, an aspiring duelist, a collector…Nothing as surprising as your very first customer of the day.

From 7 in the morning it had turned into 7 in the evening. The short hand of the clock started yet again inching closer to the number 7…it was then, yet again, that the door rattled open and in came a rather grand looking young man, different from all the other customers of the day.

Wriothesley had a greeting at the tip of his tongue. “Hey old man,” or something of the sort. Except, he didn’t see an old man at the counter. “Uhh…” he started, looking around the place as if he was lost.

Something about this man seemed familiar, but you couldn’t place your finger on it.

“If you’re looking for my father, he’s on vacation at the moment,” You help him out, knowing that he probably wasn’t expecting to see you manning the shop. Your eyes dropped to the gauntlets tucked under his arm. “Were you wanting to get those looked at?” Head jerking forward to signal towards his gauntlets.

Wriothesley stood like a deer in headlights in the middle of your shop, now looking more surprised than ever. His eyes narrowed and his hand came up halfway to point at you shyly “You’re Y/N?”

You were taken aback, eyes evidently widening. “…Yes…? Do I…know you?” It was your turn to squint your eyes at him. His black hair was a little unruly, his build was of a seasoned fighter’s. The coat draped on his back gave him a sense of importance, and the way he carried himself screamed of confidence.

No. No lightbulbs came up to give you a clue.

You could only smile sheepishly when he didn’t offer an answer and you had to speak up in the silence. “I’m sorry, I don’t really recall where we met,”

It was only then did he chuckle and finally stepped forward to meet you at the counter, placing his gauntlets atop it. “I don’t blame you. Anyway,” he brushed away the subject quickly and proceeded to tell you that his gauntlets had been feeling a little “clunky”.

You, in all your consciousness, felt horrible that you didn’t recognize someone who seemingly knew who you were. The man, however, seemed like he didn’t want to breach the subject anymore.

“Hmm…?” You bring your hand up to your chin as he finishes complaining about his gauntlets. You scour over them with your eyes and notice a few marks on the glossy finish of it. “This looks like…it’s been damaged,” you rub a finger over the area you’re talking about. “…by…a pistol…” An image of Clorinde passes through your head. "...Are you…a criminal?” You look up to your current customer, a mix of worry and intrigue etched on your face.

Wriothesley blinks, and suddenly bursts into short laughter. “Me? Not recently no,” he answers with a chuckle on his lips.

Then why would Ms. Clorinde shoot at you? Was your first thought. He cuts through your thinking quite fast.

“You can tell this is a pistol mark?” Wriothesley didn’t hide that he was impressed.

“Specifically Ms. Clorinde’s…” You take your hand away from his gauntlet, now wary of your visitor. “Why would she shoot at you?”

“You can even tell it’s Clorinde’s?” He barked out another set of laughter, running his hand through his hair in the process.

“Well…She came by this morning and I had a good look at her pistol, so…” You didn’t elaborate that Clorinde’s pistol was a special kind, it was easy to tell that the marks left on his gauntlets was definitely from her pistol.

“Oh did she?” He seemed to be a very chipper guy. Everything you said, he was somewhat amused by it. It was then that he dismissively waved a hand. “It’s alright, we were just…sparring. I’m the one who told her to come ‘round to your old man’s shop. We went at it too hard and…well, more customers for you,”

“Uh huh…” you start, still unsure. “Well, in any case, I’d like to have your name, please? It’s just good manners to know your customer’s name,” You smile a bit, and quickly add under a whisper “or in this case, my potential killer's,”

Wriothesley hears you, another chuckle emanating from his chest. “It’s Wriothesley,”

Something clicks in your mind. A very, very far off memory.

“…Oh!” One of your hand involuntarily shoots up to your mouth, at the same time your eyes widen, you stare at him “Wriothesley!?” You look him over, up and down, then back to his face. “You…You grew up a lot!”

“So did you!” He has a sincere smile on his face, arms crossing and looking rather proud.

“Oh, oh my Archons,” your hands fumble to find each other and you gather yourself once again, straightening up “I didn’t realize it was you, I’m so sorry. Oh and you’re the Duke now, right? I’m SO sorry, I didn’t mean to call you a criminal—or a killer!” Your words start to skim over each other in your embarrassment and desperation to explain yourself.

Wriothesley gives somewhat of an awkward and guarded smile, if only you knew, “It’s not a problem, just…call me Wriothesley,”

“Right... Right! Erm…” You focus your attention back to his gauntlets. “So these are, uh…just needs a bit of polishing and erm…” You’re still trying to gather your racing thoughts. There were bits and pieces of memories coming back to you that were connected to him. Most of them were from your father, and you quickly recalled that you’d met the Duke as a teenager, just a few odd times, really not a lot. “I have a suspicion as to why you think it’s getting clunky…”

You reach under the table again to look for a tape measure, “Do you mind if I measure your hands?” somehow getting most of your brain and thinking back, you ask him to extend one of his arms out and he complies rather easily.

As usual, you quietly work. Taking various measurements of his wrist, fingers, arm length and the sort.

“…You’ve gotten really good at this,” he remarks, just to fill in the silence. You maintain your concentration and mumble back absentmindedly.

“Mmhmm…Well, I did study this in school…and my father has taught me a lot,”

Wriothesley had wanted to comment that yours was still an extraordinary skill. He didn’t think that you’d be so good at assessing weapons and finding solutions for it, he dare thought that you were getting even better than your old man, but he kept quiet, seeing your concentration.

“As I thought,” you breathe out, rolling the tape measure back into a circle. “Your gauntlets are a tad bit small on you now…you’ve probably gained a bit of muscle, or something,”

“Oh,” was all he could let out, not expecting the answer to be so simple.

“I can resize it…but…” you glance at the clock. 7:32 pm. Way past closing time. “…You can leave it with me and pick it up tomorrow or…come back with it tomorrow? I imagine you might not want to part with it, even just for a night,” You don’t know what the duties of a Duke are, but if he was in charge of Meropide… you guessed that the one thing he really needed with him was his weapon. “I mean, it still fits you, it’s just… not in optimal shape.”

“I understand,” he moves to take the gauntlets back with him, but gives you an appreciative nod. “I’ll come back tomorrow morning then,”

“Okay,” you whisper, holding his gaze, the edges of your mouth turning up the slightest bit. “See you tomorrow then,”

Wriothesley keeps your gaze for only a few moments longer before he gathered his weapon and tucked it under his arm again. He then returns your smile, briefly. He steps away to turn, his coat swaying with him. “See ya,” he throws a hand back as a goodbye and as he exits the store, it is suddenly quiet.

You stand there for a moment to replay the interaction. The quiet helps you organize your thoughts. You can’t help but think that he had grown up to be a good man, and there was no denying that he was good looking—anyone with eyes could see that—you hum a bit, and keep the thoughts to yourself.

You close the shop up, feeling rather good of how the unexpected events of the day unfolded, and went to sleep easily.

Chapter 1: End

I’ve published The Ruthless Prince (Reader x Scaramouche) on paperback. Click here.

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Here’s the masterlist:

Masterlist

[hedwig221b]

Do you have any suggestions for stories similar to your Don’t Kiss and Tell or Incandescent? It’s hard to find Paige not being a love to Derek

uh, sorta, kinda... let's see if these ones will tickle your fancy

Unprofessional, Ms. Blake. But ARMS. by lalalathisisme

Ms. Blake, Erica's first grade teacher, may have a tiny crush on Mr. Hale, Erica's dad. He's tall, dark, and handsome and she has to remind herself to be professional and try not to climb Mr. Hale like a tree when he comes to pick Erica up after school. It doesn't help that he is completely adorable with his daughter – laughing and smiling and thoroughly impressed by every piece of macaroni-and-glue art that Erica makes. And every day he greets her with a hug, asking her how her day went. And he even says hello to Ms. Blake (“Jennifer” she insists, and yet he still calls her Ms. Blake) when he picks Erica up, looking like he actually cares to hear the random things that happened in class. She doesn't pry. She doesn't even know how to do it without seeming highly suspect. But as it happens, sometimes information is offered up relating to a class project, and she files them away in her brain in the folder titled 'This Is Unprofessional But Jesus, Have You SEEN His Arms?'

Professor D. Hale series by har1ey_quinn

A series of outsider POVs on Professor Hale and his significant other (with some guest appearances from the pack)

His by neil4god

He was always alone, head stuck in a book or glued to his phone. He never seemed to talk to anyone, was too busy running from class to the library and back again. Kent couldn't help but feel bad for him, after all he was his room-mate and he could see just how alone the poor guy was. At least, that's what he assumed, turned out he didn't know the first thing about Stilinski.

The life of the irresistibly oblivious Stiles series by Nosiddam1

Just a series of cute fluffy one shots where Stiles is irresistible or oblivious or both and who only has eyes for Derek.

The Way You Look At Him by neil4god

Their relationship wasn't perfect, no-one's ever was, but she didn't know how broken it was until she met Stiles. Derek never smiled at her like that, he didn't rush home early from work to make her dinner or pick up her favourite snacks like he did for Stiles. Derek didn't look at her the way he looked at Stiles and she was starting to think that maybe Derek wasn't a commitment-phobe like she thought, maybe he just didn't want to commit to her.

Too Little Too Late by SolariaLunar21

Danny's always had a secret crush on Stiles Stilinski but never hopes for more until he over-hears Scott and Stiles talking about the other boy coming out to his Dad as bi.

2, 4, 6, 8, Who's Gunna Get The Date? by rebekahdarian

The five times a cheerleader asked Derek out on a date, and the one time he said yes.

Cursed

It’s just not fair. Stiles loves Derek but Derek never notices him. Why would he notice a Tea Cup? Besides, it’s not like he’s able to break the curse. It’s not like he can make Derek human again. Derek’s stuck in Beta form, Stiles’ a tea cup. They’re cursed.

Incandescent

“You are trying to court our alpha,” sang Lydia. “Surely you realize that he does not reciprocate.” “He doesn’t stop it.” There was no point in lying. Paige was courting Derek. She would be a fool not to. “He doesn’t care to.” Lydia arched her thin eyebrow. “Why do you think he’s still searching for his mate, hmm? Why didn’t he stop once you were here? You think you can annoy him into sleeping with you?” Lydia laughed. “He is a born wolf, darling. He will not fuck you if you are not his.”

Don't Kiss and Tell

Paige has finally got the boyfriend she always wanted. The only thing is, said boyfriend doesn't touch her, doesn't kiss her and spends all his time with Stiles Stilinski. You'd think they were dating, or something…

Untouchable

The day Stiles Stilinski entered the Berkeley campus was the day all the alphas went absolutely fucking nuts. See, omegas were rare, even more than redheads. Got to be extremely fucking lucky to even see one in a lifetime. They were supposed to be these ethereal creatures of beauty and elegance, irresistible and blinding. And Stiles Stilinski was exactly that.

Other fic recs: angsty fics | possessive Derek | historical AU | baby/mpreg | outsider POV | smut | mafia | hurt/comfort | magical!Stiles | Stiles gets kicked out of the pack | BAMF!Stiles | omegaverse | witch!Stiles | creature!Stiles | bad friend Scott | pack mom!Stiles

[leonkennedybreedingkink]

NEUTRON STAR

real dad!leon kennedy x reader

tags: dddne. discussion of incest and noncon, implied child abuse (one line), spit, vomit discussion, hallucinations, victim blaming, discussion of ptsd and anxious behaviors (from personal experience). reference to my dark vanessa btw.

Session transcript, October twenty-first, 2018. [15:03]

Patient: Kennedy

”Ms. Kennedy, would you tell me why you’re here?” Your therapist asks after five minutes of silence, her pen writing the date and time on the right corner of her legal pad.

[Silence.]

A steadying inhale. “The court ordered me to.”

More scratching. ”And why is that?”

“They say I’m traumatized.” You answer, audible clicking noises as you pick at your cuticles.

“Why is that?” Your therapist asks, eternally patient and blank.

“‘Cause my dad and I had sex.”

The pen stops scratching, then scratches again briefly. “Would you elaborate?”

You scoff audibly.

[Silence.]

“My dad and I had sex. That’s it.”

More scratching. “What led to that event?”

A long sigh through one’s nose. “Um, I came home from college for the weekend. I was hanging out with my dad and doing nothing when I… felt weird. My, my wine tasted salty, I almost spat it out.”

Scratching. Patient’s wine was drugged by father.

“My head… felt fuzzy. Couldn’t move my arms or legs, they felt so heavy. I thought I was gonna throw up and choke on it, like Jane.”

”Jane? Is this a friend of yours?”

”No, um. Breaking Bad. She was Jesse’s girlfriend. She did a speedball with him and Walter rolled her onto her back on accident. When she puked, she choked on it and died.” More clicking. “That’s what I mean.”

”I see.” Scratching as she writes down the events in order. “You may continue.”

”Anyway, uh,” Your voice wobbles slightly. “I was in and out of it. Dad, um.” You clear your throat.

[Silence.]

”He… pulled down my pants, my sweatpants. He… fingered me, and it hurt, cause I was dry. Despite the wine.” Your voice lowers ashamedly. “I came.”

Patient focusing on smaller details outside of rape by her father.

“Then he pulled down his pants and got on top of me.” Sniff, sniff. Rustling as your therapist hands you a tissue box. “Thank you.”

”You’re welcome.”

You clear your throat. “Then we had sex. He drooled in my mouth. I was… I was drooling a lot, there was a wet spot on the couch the day after. I threw up the entire day afterward.”

The scratching stops. Insistence on ‘sex’ instead of rape. ”Was this… a pattern?”

A loud sniffle. “Pattern?”

”Did he violate other women?”

”I don’t fucking know.” You blow your nose and toss the tissue out. “How do I know they didn’t want it, if he did?”

Patient blames other hypothetical victims.

”Did he violate you any more after this initial encounter?”

A derisive laugh from you. “It wasn’t a violation, it was sex. With him. The law says a lot of things are wrong without taking nuance into account.”

A scratch as your therapist underlines insistence on ‘sex’ instead of rape. “How often did your encounters with your father occur?”

Your voice lowers. ”At least twice a week.”

Violations from father at least twice a week.

“All the specifics.” You snort, blowing your nose again and throwing out the tissue. A soft squelching noise as you squirt some hand sanitizer into your hand and the wet sound of you rubbing your irritated and chafed hands together.

Patient compulsively washes hands.

“Is this the point where you diagnose me?”

“No, that comes after a few more sessions of getting to know you.”

Another derisive laugh.

”Are there any encounters with your father that stick out in your mind?”

”Chickenshit.”

[Silence.]

”I’m sorry?”

“You’re a chickenshit.”

”Why is that?”

“You won't call it what it really is. It’s just sex, it doesn’t mean anything.”

Patient is in denial.

A deep inhale from your therapist. “What you just described to me sounds like no consensual sexual encounter I’d ever heard of. Are there any encounters with your father that stick out in your mind?”

Clicking. Clicking. Clicking. “We went hunting over Thanksgiving break. Mom died close to Thanksgiving. We, uh, went up to the cabin and got settled in before we had sex again. He made me promise not to tell anyone, afterward.” Pause, dead air. “And I didn’t.”

First encounter: Patient was home for the weekend from college and was drinking. Father drugged her wine and raped her on the couch. Patient threw up all day and the day after.

Second encounter: brought patient up to a cabin to go hunting, raped her, and made her promise never to tell anyone. Patient followed instructions.

”We went hunting in the morning and brought home a doe. I thought—“ Your voice breaks and you clear your throat. “When dad slung her over her shoulder, I saw myself. And when he showed me how to butcher a deer and when I was butchering it, I saw myself again.”

Patient hallucinated herself as the deer her father killed and brought home for meat.

“I threw up outside.”

“That must’ve been distressing.”

A snort. “You think?”

Scratching. Patient extremely defensive as a response to long-term trauma—uses sarcasm and humor to deflect.

”Is there anything about your relationship that sticks out in your mind? Did he manipulate you?”

A haughty scoff. “Him sharing his feelings isn’t manipulation. That’s what’s wrong with psychiatry, it pathologizes normal human behavior.”

Patient exhibiting protective behaviors over her father, herself, and their relationship. Cognitive dissonance to distance herself from what happened as a protective measure.

“What feelings did he share with you?”

[Silence.]

”That he was lonely.” Your voice quiets down. “He’s my only family, and I’m his only family. We’ve only got one another, since mom died. He didn’t wanna lose me. That’s why we got so close.”

Use of present tense when describing her and her father’s relationship. Father employed emotional manipulation to groom patient into accepting a sexual relationship after the second rape.

“So your father intentionally isolated you from everyone else and made you feel as though you were the only one who could save him.” Your therapist says patiently.

”No, he didn’t.” You say stonily. “I still had friends and people I could talk to. He never took my keys or anything like that.”

”I mean emotional isolation. Your father very carefully whittled you away from your friends and made you feel as though you only could be understood by him.”

”Well, he didn’t, no matter what the DSM or ABC or whatever the fuck says. He’s my dad, he’d never hurt me.”

Stomping, and a door slamming shut.

Patient has hit a wall when it comes to recovery: cannot fathom her father raping her willfully and has mental walls in place to avoid reality of incestuous sexual abuse.

Session three transcript, November fourth, 2018. [29:58]

Patient: Kennedy

“Before we get started, I’d like to thank you for coming in for another session with me.”

”The lawyers are paying for it, figured I wouldn’t waste their money.” Click, click.

“Right, I see.” Patient is not coming of her own volition. “Actually, I’d wanted to ask you a question before we continue from last time, if that’s alright with you.”

”Uh, okay. Shoot.” Rustling as you adjust yourself.

”Since your father’s incarceration, how have you been sleeping?”

[Silence.]

“Not well.” You don’t speak very loudly, it’s hard to hear over the recording. “I have to down a bunch of nyquil every night just to go to sleep. And even then, um… I don’t sleep well. I have a bunch of waking interruptions and nightmares.”

“Would you be willing to tell me what the nightmares entail?”

Rustling as you shift again. ”It’s dad. Always him.” You clear your throat. “It’s almost always the first time we had sex, too. I… can always taste the wine. And… my tears.” Your voice wobbles. “And… the pain. Like he was gouging at me from the inside. Even after I came.”

A sniffle and rustle as you take the tissue box. “Thank you.”

”What happens after you wake up?”

”I can’t sleep. I don’t. I get up and watch TV or play on my phone, since there’s—“ You cut yourself off, blowing your nose.

Scratching of a pen. Patient has nightmares and acute stress response to said nightmares. Patient afflicted by insomnia.

“Since what?”

”Since there’s nobody else for me to wake up. I slept better when we slept in the same bed.” You murmur, almost inaudible. “My dad and I, I mean. He… it was like having an octopus in the bed. I’d always wake up sweating because he runs so hot and he’d be clinging to me. I didn’t sleep in his bed until after our second time.” Your words muffle as you put your face in your hands.

More scratching. Patient and father codependent, typical of familial abuse survivors.

“Is there anything else you’re experiencing since your father’s incarceration?”

Cracking as you pop your knuckles nervously. “I can’t see police lights anymore. I… they make me hyperventilate. I feel like I can’t breathe. I can’t watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer anymore.”

Scratching: trauma responses to related stimuli (e.g., police lights).

”How come?”

”I got to season six in my rewatch. And… Buffy’s almost raped by her boyfriend in an episode. Onscreen, violently.”

[Uncomfortable silence.]

“I couldn’t see, and I was back on the couch with him on top of me. I felt… phantom pain. And I was crying. I couldn’t stop.” Your voice breaks and you pull a tissue from the box, blowing your nose and throwing it out. Wet squelching as you sanitize your irritated hands.

Your therapist adds, patient exhibits trauma response to sexual abuse related stimuli. Beneath your name, she writes Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder with anxious facets.

“And all—“ your voice breaks, soft sniffles leaving you as you try to keep it together, “all I can think is that I wanted it. I must’ve told him, shown him, something. I must have.”

Rustling as your therapist stands up, pouring a glass of water from a pitcher.

“Thank you.” Your voice is wet and raw as you take the cup, soft swallows echoing through the recording.

Brief silence as your therapist waits for you to compose yourself. “I think we should have a discussion about personal responsibility.”

A mirthless chuckle. “I’m sure. Isn’t this the part where you coddle me and tell me that I didn’t do anything wrong?”

”It is, because you didn’t. Let’s unpack this.”

A groan under your breath. “Goodie.”

”So, what makes you think you did something to tell him you wanted him to have sex with you?” Patience, must meet the patient where they’re at.

”I… I don’t know.” Your voice quiets like your head dips forward. “Maybe it was unconscious.”

”I see. You wanted your father to have sex with you. But you saying that you wanted it and broadcasted it to him unconsciously doesn’t answer why he had to drug you.”

Footsteps and muffled sniffles and sobs, a door opening and shutting.

Your therapist lets her last client out for the day, locking the practices’ doors behind her and walking out to her car in the lot, heels clicking on the pavement and sidewalk. Her phone rings in her bag and she pauses, pulling open her bag and fishing through the mess in her bag to pull her phone out.

It’s you.

You’d reluctantly accepted her phone number after session eight, for use during emergencies.

She picks up, putting her bag back over her shoulder and walking to her car. She unlocks it and tosses her bag in the passenger seat.

“Ms. Kennedy?” She asks after a period of quiet sobbing on your end of the line.

”He—“ You clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle a loud sob. “He said he didn’t want to see me. Ever. And I’m no daughter of his. He—He thinks I sold him out and left him to rot.” The last word trails off into sob into your palm, wet and ragged inhales almost painful to listen to.

Oh. You’d gone to visit him today, you’d made a remark about that after the last session.

“I didn’t, I told him I kept the promise, I swore to him.” You’re nearly incomprehensible through your tears. “It was those other bitches who’d made that complaint and got him locked up, it wasn’t me.”

Your therapist listens silently, heart breaking with every sob.

”And he’d—“ A dry sob. “He’d told me that he loved me so much, that what we did was a natural extension of his love for me as his daughter, that he didn’t want to lose me, he needed me like air. Did he lie? Was it all a lie? He’s my only family, he’s all I’ve got.”

You sob between your words. “He’s all I’ve got and he’s cut me off. I have nobody. And I—I felt so small, like I was nine and he was having a fit again, breaking glasses and all that shit.”

A pause as you keep sobbing, making no effort to muffle yourself. “I wish my mom was here. I wish he was here. I just want—“ A pained inhale.

Your therapist cries with you.

“I just want a hug. He’s my dad, and I love him, and I just want one last hug.”

She sits in silence with you, intermittent sniffing coming through the receiver. Eventually, you blow your nose and sanitize your hands.

“If it’s not a love story, what is it?” Your voice comes through, heartbreakingly small and raw.

You know the answer: rape, incest, abuse of power, emotional manipulation and abuse.

“I… I need it to be a love story. It has to be, because I have nothing left if it isn’t.”

[hauntedestheart]

A Business Investment (FxM Body Swap)

Another story from the world of business.

Mason McKinley was sure he was going to be a famous actor someday- he just needed the world to realize it.

Growing up in his small midwestern hometown where he was the hottest guy around, it had felt like being the star was his birthright. He'd netted the lead in every school play since elementary school, modelled for local catalogues, even won homecoming AND prom king. 6'4'', a killer jawline, luscious blonde hair and bright blue eyes, literally the poster boy for the local gym… how could Kentucky not be in the palm of his hand? All he had to do was wear a nice tight shirt that showed off his muscles and flash that pretty smile of his and anything he wanted fell into his lap.

It didn't take long for Hollywood to give him a reality check- turned out that Mason was not actually a very good actor, and once he was up against talented dreamboats rather than the wimps in drama club, his star came crashing down to earth.

After six years in the business and his claims to fame were a handful of minor background roles in some long running procedurals, some poorly reviewed theatre, and an embarrassing ad spot for STD testing that everyone back home was still making fun of him for.

In the small pond he'd been biggest fish around, but out in the ocean? He floundered.

While he was waiting for his big break, Mason needed a survival job, and thanks to some other actor friends he'd gotten employed as an attendant at an expensive country club. The young actor hoped that one day a big shot producer would come in, see him, and cast him on the spot, but since that hadn't happened yet he spent his days fetching water bottles and chasing after lost tennis balls. Not exactly his Hollywood dream.

Still, the tight white shorts of the uniform made his ass look amazing and if he flirted with the wealthy old clientele of the club, he took home a killing in tips. Being a corn fed midwestern hunk made him "exotic" to rich out-of-touch Californians, and Mason had no qualms about debasing himself a bit for some cash. A little wink here, a flex there, a look the other way when someone got a little handsy… it paid the bills.

He had his limits though.

"Yoo-hoo!" A shrill voice rang out across the tennis court and Mason winced- luckily his acting skills allowed him to smooth the disgust from his face before he turned around to greet the plump middle aged woman who had materialized beside him.

"It's good to see you again Ms. Grant," he lied through his pretty white teeth, and he was feeling generous so he threw in an extra lie for free. "You look lovely today. Is your hair different?"

It was a stupid question- as the head of some kind of beauty company the woman was always changing her look, in this case from a dark black perm to a platinum blonde bob -but Ms. Grant still let out a surprised gasp and tilted her head side to side as if she were modelling the latest fashion. It was not a good look, but Mason dug deep into his Stanislavski training and managed to keep a smile on his face.

"You like? I just had it done. I think it makes me look younger, don't you? If you're not careful, one of these days I'm going to snap you up!" Ms. Grant threw her head back and let out a stage giggle, and Mason bit his tongue so he wouldn't burst out laughing himself. An attempt at a seductive expression appeared on her face and she 'casually' reached over and gave Mason's bicep a less-than-innocent pat. "And please, I've told you a million times, call me Seraphina."

Your name is Susan, Mason thought. "Of course Seraphina," Mason said.

Her hand was still on his arm, one thumb trailing idly over the curve of his muscles, and Mason gave a polite nod before escaping to ready some equipment, peeking over his shoulder to confirm that Ms. Grant was staring at his tight butt when he bent over to pick up some tennis rackets. He smirked and made sure to arch his back to give her a little show before he straightened up- it never hurt to keep the clients happy.

Ms. Grant honestly wasn't that bad, but she was a herald of destruction, because if she was here, then The California Business Women's Association weren't far behind.

The California Business Women's Association was supposed to be an organization for high powered business women looking to network, but the meetings were really just an excuse for rich bitches to brag about their success and tear each other down… with a smile, of course. Mason thought of them as the Real Housewives of the Wall Street (never mind that Wall Street was on the far coast) and while he got a sick pleasure out of observing their gossip and backstabbing, they were one of his least favorite groups to work with.

Normally a hot piece of meat like Mason could make a killing off of a bunch of mostly single women over thirty, but Dominique Banks (pharmaceuticals CEO and undisputed alpha bitch of the group) made it damn near impossible for him to schmooze. A very public divorce several years ago had made Dominique into something of a misandrist and now she did her best to chastise and shame the other women whenever they tried to engage in any talk of men, let alone flirt with the cute hunk bringing them their towels.

(Mason assumed that was why Ms. Grant showed up early to objectify him as much as possible before Dominique was there to judge her for it.)

Dominique herself descended on the court a minute later with the rest of the ladies in tow, and soon the court was filled with women in expensive active gear (some with the tags still on) milling about and pretending to warm up for a few rounds of low intensity tennis. Mason busied himself offering to take care of coats and bags while also doing his best to eavesdrop on the latest gossip.

Currently, Dominique was complaining to a trio of women about a member of the group who seemed to be running late.

"I think it's irresponsible of her to be so tardy," Dominique said, pushing deeper into an impressive lunge- she was one of the few in the group who actually kept up with her personal trainer despite a busy schedule, something she loved to lord over the other women. "I'm starting to question if she should even be a member of the CBWA."

"Maybe she had a work emergency?" one of her companions offered, watching with mild interest as Dominique stretched her calves. "She did just get that big promotion."

"'Big promotion?'" Dominique scoffed and turned her nose up. "Be serious Lucille, she's a middle manager whose office happens to be on the top floor… or a few floors down from it I suppose." The shade drew a small titter out of the other women, and Dominique smirked. "We all have demanding jobs, but we still make time every month to come to these meetings because it's important for us to connect as women in the male-dominated professional world. We're a sisterhood! If we don't look out for each other, who will? Which is exactly why we need to make an example of her."

Mason had a pretty good idea who they were talking about. There was only one woman in the group who Dominique couldn't stand- coincidentally the only woman in the group who ever stood up to her. But before the young man could search the group for a head of red hair to see if he was correct, a voice boomed out, and everyone's eyes were drawn to a newcomer who was making their way onto the court.

"Sorry I'm late ladies!"

Like a scene from a movie, sauntering across the green pavement was one of the hottest guys Mason had ever seen. He was brown skinned with carefully coiffed black hair and the kind of face that Mason usually only saw in the castings for his modelling gigs- a striking appearance enhanced by the way his eyes burned an unnaturally bright, electric blue. Tall and broad, the tight grey jacket he wore did little to disguise the bulk of his build… and if the fit of his compression shorts was to be believed, he'd brought his own tennis balls to the court.

Mason's jaw dropped, and he nearly dropped a basket of tennis balls with it before he gathered his senses and caught himself at the last second. The sexy stranger wasn't on staff (Mason would have heard if such an Adonis had been hired) but most of the members of the country club were old and gross, so who was this guy? A private trainer hired by a client? A socialite's new trophy husband? Some Middle Eastern prince?

"Thanks for waiting," the man said, making his way towards the benches with a fancy (seemingly brand new) equipment bag bouncing on his hip. "It's been so busy at work with the new startup we're launching, but I managed to move some things around to make room at the last minute."

Mystery stud unzipped his jacket as he walked and stowed it in the bag, revealing a tight grey top that bared huge, muscular arms, and was cut just low enough to allow a tasteful peek of his furry pecs. He looked down at himself and then tugged on his shirt, adjusting it so that it showed even more of his ample chest, which he made bounce a few times. A satisfied little smile came to his full lips at the sight, and when he looked back up at the CBWA, it seemed like half of the organization swooned.

Mason was feeling a little weak in the knees himself, but as much as he'd rather drool over the guy, he did technically have a job to do. He in front of the man and held a hand out, stopping the newcomer before he could join the cluster of speechless businesswomen. "Uh, excuse me sir, this court has been booked for private use by a group already."

"I'm aware," the man gave a chuckle (he was looking at Mason like he thought Mason was an idiot, but somehow, condescension was a good look on him) and tossed his curly black hair. "And I'm a member of the group- Terry Walker. Some of my eggheads at the lab cooked up a new kind of body transferal device and I've been experimenting with it in the workplace. Didn't have time to switch back before the meeting, so I figured, why the hell not?" He winked and thumped a fist into his meaty pecs a few times. "Take the thing out for a spin."

"Oh, body swapping! I think I read something about that!" Ms. Grant exclaimed, and several of the other woman in the group murmured their agreement. Mason had a hazy recollection of getting a note from his boss about something that morning, probably this, but he was saved from having to apologize when Dominique shoved him out of the way.

"You are not Terry Walker," the woman snapped, squaring her legs and and raising her chin like a lioness preparing to protect her territory. "What the hell kind of stunt is this? Did Terry hire a stripper as some kind of joke?"

The man laughed a warm, rich laugh. "You're not the first person to say that but no, believe it or not I borrowed this body from one of the guys who works in my lab. Tariq or something like that? I can never keep track of these things." He kept an easy smile on his face and shrugged his broad shoulders, intentionally stretching his shoulders back to bare his impressive wingspan. "And I'm the real deal- they wouldn't have let me in if I couldn't prove it. I look good, right ladies?"

The man's arms came up into a double bicep flex and Mason didn't know if he should be jealous of the man's muscles (those peaks) or massively turned on by them. The women were having less trouble deciding what to do and many of them were beginning to to swoon, only to straighten their spines when Dominique shot them a withering look out of the corner of her eye.

She turned back around and drew herself up to her full height (she was the tallest woman of the group, but this man had several inches on her and it was clearly grinding her gears) and jabbed a finger at the alleged impostor.

"You can't seriously expect us to believe this nonsense," she scoffed, drawing a chorus of murmurs from the flock of ladies behind her.

A sly smile came to the man's lips. "What do you mean? This is that exciting new project that I've been working on that I posted about it in the organization's official Slack, remember?" One of his bushy eyebrows shot up and he eyed Dominique pointedly. "You've been reading the Slack, haven't you Dominique? I seem to recall you saying it's so important to stay updated- but I guess you've probably been too busy lately to keep up with what's going on with your CBWA sisters. All those patent lawsuits and meetings about alimony must take up so much of your time!"

The vicious barb made several of the women gasp, and even Mason felt a chill run down his spine. In the corner of Dominique's forehead, a vein was throbbing like it was about to burst, but the rest of her expression was frighteningly neutral. Then, her lips pressed into a snarl that tried to pass as a smile.

"Yes, it can be so time consuming being being the head of a company," Dominique said, voice dripping with venom. "You're so lucky you don't have to deal with all that stress Terry. And don't worry yourself about my alimony, I'm just glad I was at least married once unlike-"

The woman realized her mistake too late, and Terry Walker smirked triumphantly.

"No comment on the patent lawsuits?" Walker added, just to salt the wound, and then she brushed past Mason (who shivered at the momentary contact with her large, solid body) and flung her bag down on the benches.

She bent down to rifle through it, giving everyone an eyeful of the tight, muscular male ass that was just barely concealed by her tight grey tennis shorts, and Mason clocked a subtle arch in her back. It was the same trick Mason used to make his butt look juicier when he was hustling for tips, and now that he was on the receiving end of it, he understood why it worked. Mason wasn't ashamed of his own ass (quite the opposite actually), but thought if he had that thing, he'd be unstoppable.

The other women converged on Terry like flies on honey, buzzing about as they all tried to get her attention.

"How did you-" "Look at that-" "So do you really have a-" "I NEED to-" "When is it-" "You have to got to let-" "Where the hell did you find-" "Please can I feel-"

The gaggle of women were all talking at once, making it difficult to make out any one question, but Mason didn't need a transcript to understand what the main topic of discussion was. Everyone was fascinated by the body Walker had borrowed, and who could blame them? A tall, handsome, muscular man with bronze skin and piercing unnaturally electric blue eyes… Mason was half tempted to dive into the crowd himself to get a closer look.

Terry, for her part, was taking the onslaught in stride, basking in the attention and tossing out answers where she could. But her new body did most of the talking as she flexed one of her huge arms in response to someone's question, bouncing the bicep up and down like a softball. She generously leaned down and extended the arm, giving the other women a chance to feel, which they all instantly took advantage of, practically hanging off of the muscled limb like it was a jungle gym.

"Okay, that's ENOUGH ladies!" Dominique snapped- or rather clapped, several times, loudly. All eyes turned to her and the women cowed, drifting away from the hunky man in their midst and falling back into line. After a tense moment of silence, Dominique raised her voice again. "Now, since we're finally all here, are we just going to stand around talking, or are we going to play?" She hefted her tennis racket over her shoulder like it was a weapon and waved her hand at the group. "We'll start off with pairs, everyone partner up."

Pandemonium ensued as all of the women scrambled to grab Terry by the arm, and Dominique was practically steaming.

"Never mind, we're doing singles."

---

Terry trounced the others, of course.

Using the body of a ripped athletic young man in the prime of his life gave her a significant advantage, but perhaps her opponents would have stood a better chance if they hadn't been so distracted staring at the ostentatious mass of flesh that was bouncing around in her loose tennis shorts as she bounded around the court. More than one match had been lost before it began when Terry's opponent's eyes were so trained on the way that hefty bulge jumped when she did that they completely missed her serving them the ball.

The sight of Terry's borrowed body on the court was a sight to behold, all muscle and bronzed skin. The shorts she had selected were shamelessly short, baring as much of the young man's strong, thick thighs as could be considered decent, and those powerful legs pumped like pistons as she used them to dart around the court- the constant action caused the shorts to ride up further as the games went along until they were being devoured by his massive ass cheeks.

Mason found himself mesmerized by the way her body's hairy pecs, which heaved up and down beneath her shirt as she ran, and it was almost funny how on a court full of women, it was the man's chest that was bouncing the most. This only became more noticeable as the matches wore on and her masculine body became sweatier and sweatier, soaking the thin gray fabric of her shirt until it began to cling to her flesh and highlight just how muscular the body she'd brought for the day was.

After an intense final showdown between Terry and Dominique (during which Dominique had been unable to score a single point, resulting her throwing down her racket and screaming at Mason for something or other), the women retreated to the outdoor lounge area where couches and tables were shaded by umbrellas, and Mason did his best to eavesdrop as he served them drinks.

"It's just been incredible ladies," Terry was telling them. The couches were arranged in a "U" shape and she sat at the direct center, leaned back with her muscular arms folded behind her head to give everyone a view of her hairy armpits. Legs sprawled wide of course, just to draw eyes to the heavy bulge that sat between her legs. "I mean we all know how hard it is for women in the workplace, but I still wasn't ready for how much easier it would be as a man! I've started swapping into a male body for all of my meetings and they've never gone smoother."

"You see, men are animals," she continued, snapping her fingers at Mason to bring her a drink. "And animals respect an alpha. That's why they have all of these stupid male rituals- handshakes and bourbon and cigars and all that. When I walk into a boardroom and I'm the tallest, the strongest…" Terry's eyes glanced down suggestively towards her bulging crotch. "the biggest, then men have to listen to me. It's almost disgusting how simple it is."

"Don't you think that kind of thinking undermines the work that we do here at this organization?" Dominique chimed in. Not to be outdone, she'd pulled up a chair so she could sit at the opening of the "U" opposite Terry, and she glared across the space at the smiling male bodied woman. "How are men supposed to learn to respect us when we act like the only way to get ahead is to become one of them? We're supposed to be empowering women, and you're jumping ship like a rat."

"I'm feeling pretty empowered right now actually." Terry slipped one of the arms out from behind her head and flexed it, bouncing the thick bicep up and down a few times, drawing a chorus of giggles from the assembled women, and Dominique frowned. A cocky smile crossed Terry's borrowed face and her sparkling blue eyes glittered in the light, and she casually rubbed at the thin layer of stubble that was starting to sprout on her chiseled jawline. Slowly, as she spoke, her hands began drifting down the masculine body she had rented.

"You do bring up a good point Dominique- I have no intention of becoming a man full-time, this body is just temporary. I'm a woman through and through, but if I can take advantage of the privileges of being a man to get ahead, why wouldn't I? Men only understand power and they won't respect us until we have it. They say, talk softly and carry a big stick, and this…" Terry's hands had reached her crotch and she grabbed at it, hefting the bulge up and down a few times. Everyone was mesmerized. "This is my stick. Today, I'm blending in with the boys' club. Tomorrow? I own it."

Mason was starting to get hard in his own shorts at this point, and he cursed, sticking his fingers into his pockets and trying to adjust himself so it was less obvious.

(A bit of bulge was good for business but standing in front of all those women with a full blown erection was just embarrassing.)

A bit flustered, he dutifully marched over to Terry and handed her the drink she had requested earlier- she didn't thank him, but she did throw him a wink, and it was so sexy on that guy's face that Mason felt his cock twitch. From the way the other women were staring, he was sure they had all noticed, and he jogged off with a red face.

"And there are recreational uses for a male body," Terry commented, stroking herself as she watched Mason's ass bouncing away. "Obviously."

"Walker, that is highly inappropriate!" Dominique slammed her glass down on the table in front of her, splashing orange liquid everywhere. "Sexual harassment is a serious issue, and furthermore, this is a professional organization. Nobody wants to hear about that!"

"Shut up, yes we do!" Ms. Grant shouted, and Dominique was so caught by surprise that her mouth snapped shut. All of the women turned away from her and leaned in towards Terry, ready to hang on her every word. "Give us all the details Terry."

Terry took a sip of her drink, milking the anticipation. As Mason busied himself wiping up Dominique's mess, he kept his eyes trained on Terry- the straw Mason had given her was a larger one usually reserved for boba, but he'd felt a burning need to see what those plush lips looked like curled up and sucking on something thick. The sight did not disappoint, nor did it help calm his pesky erection.

Finally, Walker spoke. "Well… you all remember Marcos, right?"

"Your pool boy?" Ms. Grant gasped, and all of the women burst out into a titter of excitement. The handsome young man had been something of a celebrity for the group ever since they'd had a mixer at Walker's house, and they were always asking her for updates. "You didn't!"

"Oh I did," Terry smirked and popped her pecs cockily. "Quite a few times actually. I never thought I'd get the chance- I just kept him on the payroll because he was pretty to look at -but it turns out he was very attracted to this body. He was begging for my cock and I…" Her hips shifted, a long, lazy thrust into the air, and the outline of the long and thick cock in question made itself known- she was getting hard. "I was happy to give him what he wanted."

"Haven't studies shown that the male orgasm is less intense than the female orgasm?" Dominique cut in, trying to land another barb, but Terry just shrugged her off.

"It felt pretty good to me when I was fucking a sexy twenty-six year old," Terry's hands were on her crotch, and everyone's eyes were glued to it as well as she began to stroke herself up and down through the thin fabric. Her borrowed voice, warm and rich, dropped to a husky growl. "But the appeal is in more than just the orgasm, it's the experience. It's about getting to be the one on top and in charge. I've been fucked by so many men in my life that getting to be the one doing the fucking was goddamn cathartic- and it isn't like some plastic strap-on, I got to use eight inches of top of the line cock to do the job."

"And these muscles!" Wrenching one hand away from her nethers, she shoved it roughly beneath her shirt, the fabric riding up and offering a peak of her host's sculpted brown torso as she groped one of his pecs. From the way her fingers were moving beneath the fabric, she seemed to be tweaking one of his nipples. "FUCK this guy is so goddamned strong! I'M so strong! I threw him around like a ragdoll and he thanked me for it, he sucked on my tits and begged me to manhandle him. I was the man. I was in control."

"Fuck!" A masculine grunt escaped her lips, and she began to stroke herself harder. Now fully hard, the tip of her cock was peeking out of the waistband of her shorts (allowing everyone to see that her host was in fact, circumcised) and it bobbed up and down as she thrust into her own hand. "There's something incredibly… visceral about being able to shove yourself inside of a man, I wouldn't even begin to know how to describe it. But it feels incredible. It feels… it feels…"

And then the rest of the sentence was a wordless roar of pleasure as she ejaculated, grinding her hand up and down the length of her shaft like a man possessed… which in a sense is exactly what she was. The mushroom head of her borrowed penis throbbed as it spewed out an impressive load of semen, staining her shirt, her face, even splattering onto the cushions next to her and the table before her, and she slumped back onto the cushions in a heap. Panting, her huge chest heaved up and down, and she waved at Mason.

Like everyone else in attendance, he stared dumbly at the debauched man in front of him for a moment until he remembered his job and realized what she wanted- usually the towels were only for sweat, but he supposed they'd work just as well for cum. But when he offered her one, she just rolled her electric blue eyes and stripped her shirt off, leading to a chorus of gasps as her borrowed body's furry muscles were fully unveiled. Wordlessly, she gestured to the mess that dotted her torso.

Mason's mouth was suddenly dry but he didn't dare swallow- swallowing was the last thing he wanted to be thinking about in this particular moment. He felt the heavy eyes of the entire CBWA on him as he dropped to his knees in front of the strapping male figure, and the young actor had been in Hollywood long enough to recognize when he was being asked to play a role.

And he had auditioned for enough productions that were basically soft-core porn to know how to play this one.

He casually ran his fingers through his hair, fluffing his golden locks, and plastered a smile on his face as he peeked up at Terry, looking for all the world like an innocent wide eyed farm boy eager to serve like no one was watching. White spunk was already starting to dry in the forest of chest hair so Mason doused his towel with water from a glass on the table to better scrub it out, meaning there was just a thin sheet of wet fabric between his hands and the perfectly sculpted body that Terry Walker had claimed for the day, so it didn't take much acting for Mason behave like he was turned on.

The young actor cheated out and angled his torso slightly so the horde of horny businesswomen watching could get a good view of his own muscular torso as he worked, perversely eager to remind his clients that there was more than one stud on the court that day. He took his time working Terry's pecs, squeezing them slightly under the guise of scraping out some particularly hard to remove spunk, and then worked his way down to her abs, digging his fingers into the crags of her six pack to make sure he got out every little speck.

And when he reached the waistband of her shorts, he let his fingers drift along the deep v of muscle that vanished beneath, teasing everyone that he might go deeper, before he reluctantly pulled himself back.

Drawing up to his feet, he dusted his knees off, and then he noticed Walker's drink- semen dotted the rim of the glass and a thin layer of white was laying atop the liquid inside. He reached for it to take it away, but Walker stopped him. She grabbed the drink herself and slowly, deliberately, licked the rim, then downed the remainder of the glass in one swallow. Only then did she let him walk away.

Terry, shirtless and smug, smiled at the other women of the CBWA, who sat there speechless. Mouths were hanging open, some of them were fanning themselves, Ms. Grant's right hand was tucked beneath her skirt, and an unexpected voice broke the silence.

"How can I try that out?" Dominique asked, her voice strained and almost desperate, and then the floodgates opened and all of the other woman began chattering. Terry lifted up a hand and everyone went silent.

"Well as luck would have it, I'm actually starting my own company to distribute this particular service, and we're working on acquiring some seed funding." A bushy eyebrow raised. "I don't suppose any of you ladies would be interested?"

"You want our money?" One of the women asked, and Terry shrugged.

"I'm offering you all an investment opportunity. Isn't that the point of this group? To uplift each other?" She smiled across the table at Dominique, who for once kept her mouth shut and bowed her head. Terry sniffed triumphantly. "But I promise that this is a surefire win. Anyone interested can message me and I can set up an appointment so you can test the technology yourself- I'm sure the experience will uplift you like nothing else."

At that, she rose to her feet, allowing everyone to see that her tenacious rental dick was already half-hard again.

"Feel free to bring your own boys too, we've got lawyers and payment plans already drafted up. Pick someone you wanna be, and we can make it happen."

Then she walked away, her exit an unofficial signal to the other women that the meeting was now over, and everyone began to disperse. The women were abuzz with excitement, but Mason kept his eyes trained on Terry Walker as she sauntered off, eager to get one last look at her borrowed body's incredible ass.

What, he wondered to himself, would these meetings look like if the entire CBWA hopped on the same train as her? Mason imagined the tennis court full of ripped, shirtless men, frolicking about playing tennis in little shorts. It was such a pleasant image that it almost made up for the fact that he'd received no tips that day.

Shit, he thought to himself, crashing back to Earth as he remembered the rent payment he had due in a few days.

"Yoo-hoo!" A shrill voice rang out, and Mason saw Ms. Grant walking over towards him. She was wiping one of her hands on her skirt, and there was hunger in her eyes. "Dear, could we talk for a moment?"

Mason's stomach sank- he had an idea what she was going to ask him about. And unfortunately, he knew what his answer would be too.

[bellaxgiornata]

All These Years [Part 12: "Considering the Offer"]

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

[You can find the full series summary and masterlist of installments for All These Years here.]

Warnings/tags: 18+ for this series; contains emotional hurt with no comfort until the final installments, angst, pining, friends to lovers, slowburn, and eventually smut

Word Count: 3.5k

a/n: Another painful installment that is about to bring us to what I consider to be the worst angst of this whole series next. This one certainly hurts, though. Feedback is always appreciated--and so are theories about what happens next even if my lips are sealed!

Tag list: @acharliecoxedfan @theetherealbloom @rotscinema @magnumstyles @roseallisonparker @ofmusesandsecrets @readerhead @paracosmic-murdock @v4leoftears @why-always-me-gosh-please @redbircl @keepingitlokiii @yarrystyleeza @mattkinsella @ms-murdockswift @margoo0 @1988-fiend @lockleywife @strangeobsessed @justalittlebitbored @am-3-thyst @buckybarnes-1917 @thora-jane @lionalsowrites @cloudroomblog @prince-tassel @danzer8705 @yourlocalbentspine @harperdoodle @hollandorks

“Look at us!” Foggy exclaimed, raising his beer bottle high up in the air, clearly still wound up from the win in court earlier today as his eyes scanned over everyone around the table. “All of us together again tonight! How often does that happen?”

“Well, not all of us,” Karen pointed out, nudging you beside her with her elbow. “We are missing Adam tonight.”

Foggy held up a hand, shooting you an apologetic smile as he shook his head. Internally you cringed, your heart aching at the mention of Adam, but you bit your tongue and kept your mouth shut. You weren’t about to correct anyone, not tonight. Especially when you weren’t prepared to come up with a partial truth as to why he actually wasn't here, because you needed some reason that would make it past Matt’s human lie detector abilities that you always kept in mind if you were to tell them the truth. And currently you weren’t in the mood to think of one.

“You’re right, Karen, I’m sorry. We aren’t all fully together tonight,” Foggy amended. “We are, unfortunately, one person short this evening.”

“Though you did manage to wrangle me back to Josie’s,” Marci said, her arm still wrapped around Foggy’s waist. “And how you managed that again remains a mystery.”

Marci’s eyes dropped down to her glass, openly studying it with distaste. She’d often made it clear she wasn’t a fan of coming out to Josie’s, preferring that you would all someday make your ritual hangout place at a nicer bar.

“At least this time I wasn’t the one who was unavailable,” Erica said, her slender arm casually draped over Matt’s shoulder. 

Inevitably her voice drew your gaze all the way across the table. Her attention was focused on Matt, a smile crossing her pretty face. A sharp pang of jealousy struck you like a white hot fire in your veins when you saw Matt turn his focus on the beautiful dark blonde sitting beside him, a large smile forming on his own lips underneath his glasses as he leaned in towards her.

“You’re right, for once I got you out of the office and all to myself,” he playfully teased. “Which certainly doesn’t happen often enough.”

He leaned in to place a lingering kiss on her cheek and your eyes quickly dropped down to your beer before you, your fingers running along the condensation of the bottle. You did your best to try to ignore the sound of Erica’s giggle and the feel of your erratically beating heart at what was happening across the table. Pressing your lips firmly together, you fought hard to keep them from visibly trembling. Out of the corner of your eye you noticed Karen was looking at you, but you tried your best to ignore that, too. 

It had been a little over four months now since you’d learned Matt wasn’t dead, having found out when you’d seen him sitting and having a drink with your friends at Father Lantom’s wake. It was only a couple of months after that when Marci–who’d begun dating Foggy recently–had introduced Matt to one of the lawyers at her firm. Erica Kaminski. And he’d quickly grown fond of her real fast.

You'd met her a few weeks after you'd heard Matt first talking about her. She was apparently an impressive defense attorney herself, one who was incredibly busy and very focused and passionate about her work. She was sweet, too. Nice. Which made it absolutely impossible to hate her despite how beautiful, confident, charismatic, and successful she was. She was practically Matt's perfect match, even if she wasn't necessarily as crazy about taking on pro bono cases like he was. 

They looked perfect together, too, with his dark hair, handsome face, and the strong build not very well hidden underneath his suits next to her lithe and leggy form and her model-like face and perfect hair. They looked like some sort of power couple and it physically pained you to see them together whenever you did. Especially whenever you saw Matt leaning over to give her sweet kisses to the cheek or the forehead–even worse when you had to witness a passionate kiss on the lips. Every single time it always felt like your heart was further withering inside of your chest, gradually shriveling up into a goddamn raisin. 

She didn’t know about Matt’s alter ego, though. Nor did she know about his heightened senses. And Matt had made it very clear that none of you were to say anything about it to her. You’d understood why at first, but as the weeks wore on and Matt seemed further smitten with this woman, you’d started to wonder how things were going to continue on if he didn’t tell her the truth. How could he have a relationship with someone if they didn’t really know who he was? How could he know she really wanted to be with him– all of him–if she didn’t know there was more that he wasn’t telling her? You’d kept your mouth shut about it, but you’d always bitterly thought he was making the wrong decision by planning to keep her in the dark. Not that you felt she needed to know everything after only two and a half months, but with the way these two seemed to be going–at least with how Matt talked about her–you had a feeling she’d be reaching a point where she deserved to know the truth. And Matt deserved to be with someone who loved that other side of him, too. 

Though admittedly, you felt like Matt was far more into Erica than she was into him. Not necessarily in a bad way on her part, but you often got the she’s-very-married-to-her-career sort of vibe from her. She was often unavailable to make plans with Matt, usually too focused on something with work. Sometimes work would even call her away when she’d been out–even if she was on a date with Matt. Whereas Matt had latched onto Erica like he’d had back at Columbia when he’d met Elektra. It almost seemed like some level of an unhealthy co-dependency he’d formed with her that you couldn’t quite make sense of, though of course you would never ask him about it. You figured it had something to do with whatever had happened to him after Midland, but he always seemed so happy with her that you’d tried to ignore it.

But as you spotted them kissing across the table out of your peripheral, you felt like you were about to be sick. As if she noticed exactly what was going on, Karen leaned over towards you.

“Want to grab another drink with me?” she asked.

You nodded, lips still firmly pressed together as you instantly pushed your chair back. Sliding off of it, you maneuvered around Foggy and Marci before making a straight line for the bar counter, your eyes locked on Josie pouring out a beer behind it.

“Something’s going on with you,” Karen pointed out as she fell in step beside you. “It’s written all over your face.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered.

Karen snorted, shaking her head. “Okay, I may not be Matt, but even I know that’s a lie,” she shot back.

You sighed as the pair of you reached the counter, leaning forward to rest your elbows up onto it. Turning, you glanced at Karen’s inquisitive and concerned face beside you. One of her brows rose onto her forehead in a silent question. Your eyes slowly slid back to the table your friends were at, a frown slipping onto your face as you spotted Foggy and Matt both focused on their girlfriends. Really, though, the nauseous feeling in your stomach was due to the intense focus Matt had on Erica and the hand he had on her knee as he was talking to her. Biting your tongue, your focus returned to Karen.

“Are we still grabbing brunch tomorrow?” you asked her.

She nodded quickly. “Yeah, I was planning on it,” she answered. “Why?”

“I’ll tell you everything then,” you told her, your focus shifting on Josie as she made her way towards the pair of you. “When it’s just us.”

The waitress placed the plate of eggs benedict in front of you and you thanked her softly as she did. The food looked good–as it always did here–but admittedly your stomach was churning a little at the conversation you knew you were about to continue. Eyes glancing back up, you saw Karen across the booth from you still staring at you unblinkingly, her mind clearly still on the conversation that had been interrupted just now. When the waitress placed Karen’s food in front of her, Karen muttered a ‘thank you’ quickly, but her gaze never left you.

“Is there anything else I can get for you two?” the chipper waitress asked, her focus darting between you and Karen.

“I think we’re good,” you answered, shooting her a tense smile. “Thank you.”

She nodded before turning and heading off to a nearby table. Karen immediately leaned forward across the table towards you, her blue eyes intense as she ignored the steaming plate now between where her elbows rested on the table.

“Okay, let’s back up and go back to where we were,” she said. “You were offered a new position?”

“Yeah,” you said, picking up your mimosa. You felt like one was not going to be enough for this conversation. “My boss has loved my initiative ever since…well, you know.”

Karen’s face fell immediately, a frown pulling at her lips. “I’m sorry about that,” she apologized, her eyes softening from the piercing stare she’d had for the past few minutes. “I really am, we shouldn’t have–”

You waved a hand, cutting her off as you clutched your mimosa tighter in the other. “Hey, it’s over, right? What’s done is done. None of you can take it back and you and Foggy have apologized like a thousand times already. And Matt probably ten times as much,” you muttered, drawing the glass to your mouth for a drink. Swallowing the cold liquid down, you added, “It is what it is at this point. I know why you all did it, but that doesn’t make it hurt less when I think about it.”

Across the table, Karen sat back in the booth. A look of guilt had taken residence on her face and you felt bad, but you weren’t about to console her for what had happened. Because admittedly that image of the three of them in Nelson’s jovially chatting when you walked in still plagued your mind some nights. As did the image of Matt and Erica kissing.

“But yes, my company has been doing well this past year and they’ve been focused on expanding,” you continued, bringing the conversation back around. “My boss has been loving my dedication to my work and the things I’ve been producing for the company, so he wanted to offer me the new position opening up first.”

“What’s it include?” she asked carefully.

“A massive pay increase,” you told her. “Like...almost double my salary now.”

Karen’s eyes grew wide across the table, her jaw dropping. “Are you fucking serious?” she breathed out. “You already make a good living–and they would almost double that?”

You nodded, shifting uncomfortably in your seat. Karen’s eyes immediately caught the movement and they instantly narrowed at you.

“What else does it include?” she asked.

“Well, like I said,” you continued a little nervously, “my company is expanding. Outside of New York City.”

You saw the moment realization dawned and her face fell across from you, her shoulders dropping at the information. “How far outside of New York City?” she asked.

Biting your lip, your focus dropped down to your plate of untouched food. Nervously your fingers fidgeted with the fork on the table. Karen was the first of your friend group you were telling all of this to.

“Los Angeles,” you told her.

You winced at the sharp intake of breath across the table, your eyes slowly making their way back up to her face. One of her hands had flown up, covering up half the look of shock now present there. Your stomach felt like it dropped to the floor, your appetite quickly leaving you. 

“So you’re leaving?” she whispered.

You shrugged a shoulder lightly in response. “I mean, I haven’t accepted anything,” you replied. “They offered me the position two weeks ago. They aren’t exactly in a rush right now for an answer because they’re still getting the new office together out there. But they really want me for this position. I’m pretty sure my boss is prepared to beg.”

“That’s–that’s incredible,” Karen said, a sad smile on her face as her hand fell back to her lap. “Really, that’s amazing.”

“Thanks,” you muttered.

“So–so what’re you thinking, then?” she asked. “I imagine you’ve been thinking about it for a bit now.”

“I–I’m considering it,” you confessed, heart hammering in your chest as you did. “Really considering it, actually. That’s a lot of money. I’ve never been that far west, either.”

“What about Adam?” Karen immediately asked. “What’s he say about all of this?”

Taking a deep breath, you sat back in the booth now, entirely ignoring your plate of food. Exhaling roughly, you prepared to drop another bomb on Karen.

“We broke up,” you told her.

“ What ?” she asked in disbelief. “Why? When? You two were doing amazing, what happened?”

Your eyes dropped down to your lap. Nervously you were wringing your hands together, your chest feeling tight.

“Almost two weeks ago,” you answered. “Shortly after I got the offer. I was thinking about it for a few days, mulling it over, you know? And I knew I needed to tell him about it because it’s not like I could just make a big decision like that on my own. But he–he really didn’t want to leave New York. His family is here and he loves where he works.” You paused, your eyes still unable to meet Karen’s. “He asked me to stay here with him. Wanted me to move in. Talked about…wanting more with me.”

Karen once again sucked in an audible breath across the table. Your fingers only fidgeted faster in your lap at the sound.

“He wanted to marry you?” Karen asked.

Swallowing hard, you nodded. The far too familiar sting of tears were in your eyes again and you fought to blink them back.

“I liked Adam a lot,” you admitted, your focus finally returning to Karen. “I really did. He’s an amazing man, really. And I–I tried to love him.” You sniffled, trying to fight down the emotion you felt rising inside of you. “I really, really tried with him. For a long time in the beginning when I was with him, I didn’t think about Matt. And it was nice. But then Matt he–he met Erica a couple of months ago and hearing him talk about her, seeing them together–”

You broke off, your eyes closing as a few tears fell down your cheeks. Shaking your head, you tried to continue.

“It made me realize I still love Matt,” you admitted. “After all of this time, no matter what I do or what he does, I can’t seem to stop loving him. And I’d been feeling that for a couple of months now but I just–just kept trying to push it down. But when I was offered this position and I needed to talk to Adam and he wanted those things with me…I realized it wasn’t him. He’s not the one I wanted those things with.”

Karen said your name softly, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“And then I–I remembered what you said,” you continued, a few more tears running down your cheeks as you spoke. “Last year. About moving away and I–” the words felt like they were getting stuck in your throat as you tried to force them out, “–I think you were onto something. Because I can’t live like this, Karen.”

A few tears fell down her own cheeks as she listened to you, one of her hands darting up to wipe them away. Shaking your head roughly, you continued on.

“I can’t stay here being in love with someone who will never love me back,” you told her. “I can’t continue to watch him with Erica anymore. Every time they kiss I feel like my heart is being torn to shreds. I just can’t do it anymore. And seeing him with her made me realize that if–if he were to propose to someone, I think it would kill me. So I…think I need to leave before that happens.”

Across the table, Karen inhaled a shaky breath. A few more tears slipped out of her eyes and you watched as she tried to blink them back, her focus shifting to the window beside the two of you.

“It sounds like you’re already decided then,” Karen said softly.

Pressing your lips together, you nodded. “I think so,” you admitted. “My heart is begging me not to go, I can feel it, but my head is telling me to get out. It’s been years of this pining and it’s–it’s keeping me from really being happy, you know? It’s not right to be this in love with someone who doesn’t feel the same way. And this incredible opportunity just fell into my lap and I–I think I should take it.”

“Does Foggy know?” she asked, her attention returning to you. “Judging by how happy he was last night, I’m guessing he doesn’t.”

You shook your head slowly. “No,” you told her. “So far I’ve only told you. I knew you’d be upset but…I know Foggy is going to have a hard time with this.”

Karen huffed out a humorless laugh, nodding as she wiped away a few tears on her cheeks. “Yeah, he’s definitely not going to handle this news too well,” she agreed. 

“I might not tell him quite yet,” you admitted with a wince. “So if you could just keep this between us for now, I’d appreciate it.”

Instantly her eyes narrowed back at you. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat under her piercing gaze.

“I plan to tell him when I’ve gotten things more finalized,” you assured her. “You know, once I’ve accepted the offer officially and am actually looking at apartments out there. There’s no need to upset Foggy too soon in case something falls through. I just…don’t want to say something unless I know it’s for sure happening. But I needed to talk to someone about it.”

Karen’s expression softened as she offered you another sad smile, nodding as she did. “I understand,” she said. “So I’m guessing you’re going to tell Matt at the same time as Foggy then?” she asked.

Heart twisting in your chest at her question, you felt that all too familiar hollow ache gnawing at you. You honestly didn’t know how you were going to tell Matt this news, let alone actually say goodbye to him. It wasn’t something you wanted to think about because it hurt too much.

“Probably not at the same time, no,” you whispered, eyes dropping down to your still untouched plate of food. “He's been so happy lately with Erica. Happier than I've seen him in awhile. I don’t want to ruin that for him. And I don’t–don’t know how I’m going to tell him, either. He deserves to know at some point but I–I don’t even know how I’ll have the strength to tell him I’m leaving. To actually say goodbye to him.”

The tears were welling up again in your eyes and you fought hard to blink them back down. The thought of permanently saying goodbye to Matt felt like a small death in itself. Like you’d be leaving your heart in New York and dragging a shell of yourself across the country to L.A. 

But what other choice did you have? Did you really want to stay here and watch him fall in love with Erica? And if it wasn’t her, surely it would be someone else. Could you really just sit there and watch it happen? Watch him tell some other woman that wasn’t you that he loved her? Hear that he’d gotten engaged? Attend his goddamn wedding and be forced to watch him join his life to someone else's forever in front of your very eyes? 

You knew the answer was no. You could never do that. What you’d said to Karen was the truth–watching Matt marry someone else would absolutely kill you. With how long you’d spent wanting him– loving him–there was no way you could watch him make a life with someone else. No way that you could pretend he was only your best friend. 

Leaving New York was the only option left that you hadn’t tried yet.

“I’ll tell him eventually,” you promised, both to Karen and yourself, “but not yet. I–I can’t talk to Matt about this just yet.”

[END NOTES]

I'm sharing end notes again on this series because I feel like y'all need it. Especially because I literally wrote this one up really fast today and hope everything came across!

So Matt is dating Erica and seems quite into her. And Reader has once again ended things with Adam despite how good things were going with him because she's still in love with Matt. All it took was her seeing him so crazy about someone else for her to realize she still has feelings for him. But that little seed of thought Karen planted awhile back never truly went away and now Reader is being offered an amazing new position in L.A. in the coming months that she's planning to accept. Which means bye bye Hell's Kitchen, hello California. And in turn, bye bye Matty.

So what happens next? Because Matt is about to learn VERY soon who Reader has really been in love with...but will she stay or will she go?

The next installment is titled "Breaking the News" and I do have a title for the one following, but I think I'll hold onto that until y'all get the next installment. Because I want to keep you guessing where this is going. I'm cruel like that 🙃

[patriottruth]

The Next Stage of This Chess Game to Protect All Democracies and Free Peoples of the World is Joining the Democracy-Loving Freedom-Fighters on Bluesky. This is my 47th message on behalf of the only legally qualified 47th President of the United States, Kamala Harris.

Leading up to, and immediately after the U.S. election on November 5, 2024, the MAGA/QANON trolls were feeling pretty emboldened here on Tumblr. Each one of you here on Tumblr have joined together and massively reduced the MAGA/QANON trolls influence in your Tumblr social/safe space.

You've literally driven away the darkness of their lies, hate, and misinformation with the light of your love, the truth, and the law. If you'd like to meet a lot of other like-minded democracy-loving freedom-fighters like yourselves, they're gathering, organizing, and fighting to protect all democracies and free peoples of the world over on Bluesky.

You can find the Bluesky accounts for Marc Elias, Democracy Docket, CREW/Citizens for Responsibility and Ethics in Washington, Glenn Kirshner, Harry Litman, Michael Popok, Andrew Weissmann, Brad Moss, Adam Kinzinger, Democratic Leaders Chuck Schumer and Hakeem Jeffries, the MeidasTouch Network that's beating Fox News and Joe Rogan in the viewship ratings, the Lincoln Project, Brian Tyler Cohen, and many, many more by following those accounts and the people they've curated for you in their starter packs.

Here are a collection of messages with information that none of the democracy-loving freedom-fighters over on Bluesky are talking about. Please help me share this information with as many people as possible on Bluesky. Bluesky is where this information will go mainstream and spread like unstoppable and invevitable wildfire to stop donald trump from ever holding any federal or state office in the United States again; either now, or in the future. Thanks in advance if you choose to join the fight for all democracies and free peoples of the world over on Bluesky.

On 12/17/2024, state electors & governors attempting to vote for, & create certificates of ascertainment to elect, disqualified insurrectionist Donald J. Trump would be instantly disqualified from holding any office per Sec3/14A of the U.S. Constitution, thereby rendering all their actions unlawful.

Under Section 3 of the 14th Amendment, any person who has sworn an oath to support the U.S. Constitution in order to hold either a state or federal office, and then engaged in rebellion against the United States, or provided assistance to any insurrectionist, is disqualified from being an elector.

Under Section 3 of the 14th Amendment, any person who has sworn an oath to support the U.S. Constitution in order to hold either a state or federal office, and then engaged in rebellion against the United States, or provided assistance to any insurrectionist, is disqualified from being a governor.

Donald J. Trump is a disqualified insurrectionist attempting to hold federal office in violation of Section 3 of the 14th Amendment. A U.S. electoral vote, or a ruling of the U.S. Supreme Court, can't clear his insurrectionist disqualification; only a two-thirds vote of the House and Senate can.

State electors and governors in AL, AK, AZ, AR, FL, GA, ID, IN, IA, KS, KY, LA, ME, MI, MS, MO, MT, NE, NV, NC, ND, OH, OK, PA, SC, SD, TN, TX, UT, WV, WI, and WY attempting to vote for, or create certificates of ascertainment to elect, Donald J. Trump would be engaging in federal election crimes.

On March 4th, 2024, SCOTUS advised Donald Trump to have 87 Democrats in both houses of Congress remove his insurrectionist disqualification from holding any federal office again; because if he didn't, nothing could stop Democrats in the House and Senate from disqualifying him. He failed to do so.

SCOTUS can't force any state electors or governors to disqualify themselves from holding any state office by violating Section 3 of the 14th Amendment by giving aid & comfort to a criminally indicted and federally prosecuted disqualified insurrectionist presidential candidate named Donald J. Trump.

Kamala Harris' Existing Electoral College Votes: 226 + 89 Electoral College Votes From Democrat Governors in Arizona, Kansas, Kentucky, Maine, Michigan, North Carolina, Pennsylvania, and Wisconsin = 315 Electoral College Votes (Better-Than-2020 Landslide Victory!). Those 89 votes belong to Kamala.

State electors and governors could be engaging in fraud by an elections official, conspiracy against the United States, corruptly obstructing, influencing, and impeding an official proceeding, and conspiracy against rights by giving any assistance to disqualified insurrectionist Donald J. Trump.

The SCOTUS "Berger test" states that to disqualify ANY judge in the United States of America: 1) a party files an affidavit claiming personal bias or prejudice demonstrating an "objectionable inclination or disposition of the judge" and 2) claim of bias is based on facts antedating the trial.

Due to MAGA SCOTUS' ridiculous unconstitutional Anderson opinions regarding federal enforcement of Sec3/14A against Donald Trump; and per the SCOTUS "Berger Test," Donald Trump's MAGA SCOTUS can no longer accept any cases pertaining to any issue in any civil or criminal case involving Donald Trump.

Once you've stacked those messages up as your starter posts to identify yourselves to other democracy-loving freedom fighters on Bluesky, if you want to send a message to all the MAGA/QANON cult trolls and so-called "patriots," you can help them reevaluate their so-called "patriotism" and "special/superior knowledge" by parking/pinning this message at the top. And if you really want to address the darkness of their hate, lies, and misinformation, feel free to download this image and use it as your avatar. If there are hundreds or thousands of us using this patriotic avatar over on Bluesky, the MAGA/QANON cult will see us as an organized force of love, the truth, and the law that's come to drive them and their darkness of lies, hate, and misinformation off of Bluesky and back over to "Dark MAGA X" where they belong.

September 18, 1793 – The first cornerstone of the United States Capitol is laid by George Washington.

"IC"/I See on Earth's sun September 18, 2013 https://suntoday.lmsal.com/sdomedia/SunInTime/2013/09/18/l0193.jpg

[cloverthebarbearian]

The Party

Rolan/GN Tav No smut (yet) just, angst? Fluff? And initial encounters. Tav is intentionally left as nonspecific as possible but in my mind palace they are a human fighter. Word Count: 3,195 (P.2 Alone Together)

Sharing a drink with the hero of the hour. His lips against the same cup theirs having embraced the entire evening. It suddenly left him feeling… sheepish? No, something else. Deeper. Warmer. Rolan swallowed, a lump forming in his throat. This was all just incredibly inappropriate, he thought. But instead of taking back their drink, Tav just smiled, and further held their cup out towards Rolan's lips. "It's alright," they said, "It's almost empty. We can finish it off together." He let the moment linger, weighing his circumstances. This is a party, after all. However unfamiliar an environment this is for him, it was clear to Rolan that everyone around them was here to relax and have fun. Fun, with his hero.

(This is my first ever fic if anyone is mean to me about it I WILL cry anyways pls enjoy!)

"Well?" Shadowheart's eyebrow raised as she swirled her wine around her chalice.

"'Well', what?" Tav returned, watching their rescued merry band of tieflings mingle and drink around the campsite. Just that morning, they stood together to defend the grove against this 'Absolute' worshiping goblin hoard. It set Tav's heart at ease to see them all safe. Relaxed. Happy. Even if they knew by morning, they'd be back on the road, facing any and every danger that lurked on their way to Baldur's Gate.

But tonight? Tonight was for celebrating.

"Well," Shadowheart continued, "I've noticed nearly everyone's been coupling off tonight. Those tiefling lovebirds have been cuddling by the water since they got here."

"And? They've been attached at the hip since we met them."

"And that cute bard girl's somehow gotten herself mixed up with little Miss Pony-tail," she raised her glass and smiled to Alfira and Lakrissa, who were not-so-subtly cuddling up by the fire.

Tav turned their drinking horn to their lips and smiled, "They are quite cute together."

"Karlach's been flirting with Dammon, I think? She keeps punching his arm, which I believe she thinks is flirting. Or maybe she's just drunk… Hells, I swear I even saw Astarion sneaking off with Lae'zel, of all people."

The wine nearly shot from Tav's nose at that, "You're kidding!"

Shadowheart laughed, shrugging her shoulders, "I know Astarion's quite the flirt. But I'd assumed Lae'zel had a bit more self respect."

Tav gasped with a smile, elbowing their companion as they both kept a steady watch over the party.

"My point being," Shadowheart continued, "The last few days have been exhausting. Who knows when we'll have another chance to relax like this."

Tav gingerly placed their hand over their heart, faux shock dripping from their voice. "My goodness, Ms. Lady of the Dark, are you attempting to court me?"

"Ha! I'm sure you'd like that," Shadowheart said with a teasing glance, "But I'm afraid the wine's already got me spoken for." With that, she gulped down the last of her chalice and sighed, "What I was suggesting," she side stepped to Tav's shoulder, matching their gaze into the crowd, "Was perhaps a certain wizard. One I've noticed you continue to observe. One bound for greatness under an apprenticeship in Baldur's Gate? Before he's become too famous to remember us great Saviors of the Grove." Her voice took on a playful tease as Tav's cheeks began to burn, a slight tingle reaching their ears. Hopefully, they could pass this off on the alcohol. Considering they'd never admit Shadowheart's intuition was spot-on.

"He seems quite busy putting on a show for his siblings, at the moment," Tav said, smiling, though a bit feeble.

"Don't tell me our big bad leader is shy!" Shadowheart teased once more, "Taking on a goblin cult, lead by a terrifying drow warrior, and they don't even bat an eye. But Gods forbid they speak to a handsome tiefling!" Shadowheart's voice was starting to rise. People's heads were turning, and Tav couldn't tell if she was intentionally trying to embarrass them, or if she was truly just a bit too drunk off the cheap booze.

"Shadowheart! By the Hells - Okay, if I go over there will you please just, maybe, be quiet? Go to bed and - Gods - have some water, perhaps?" Tav's cheeks were flushed in full now, well past a point of being able to blame the wine. Shadowheart laughed to herself again, clearly more composed than she was letting on.

"I'm a big girl, but thank you for caring," She smiled once more, picking up a canteen instead of another bottle, "And I will be going to rest. But you-" her finger gently poked into Tav's shoulder, "- are going to tell me all about it tomorrow."

Tav rolled their eyes, "Yes, I'm sure you'll be utterly enthralled as I regale you with some bardic novella of Master Lorroakan's greatest deeds, or something to that effect."

They began walking away from Shadowheart's tent, making their way back into the mingling crowd. After her outburst, Tav didn't want to walk straight up to Rolan, lest he somehow connect the conversation back to him. No, they couldn't risk it. Instead, they looked for their favorite camping companion - Scratch! Who was quickly found surrounded by tieflings. Mostly the children, but even Zevlor was standing near, smiling at the scene.

"Hey, Scratch!" Tav called out, waving his favorite ball in their hand, "Wanna fetch, boy?"

Scratch barked excitedly, play bowing, tail wagging. The children around him broke apart, giggling expectantly. Tav threw the ball as far as they could across the camp, and watched as Scratch made a break for it. Weaving through the crowds of party-goer's to retrieve his prize. He quickly returned with the slobbery toy in his jaws. But instead of rushing back to Tav, he trotted back into the group of children, all of whom were very excited to play a game with their new best friend.

So much for that out.

Tav took a moment to look around the camp. True to Shadowheart's observations, they saw Karlach laughing heavily, one hand slapping against Dammon's back, the other holding a spilling tankard. Though, by no means did Dammon seem uncomfortable. And to Tav's surprise, Lae'zel and Astarion were seemingly absent. Where could they have gone off too -

"Hey! Tav!"

Tav spun around to follow the voice calling for them, only to see Lia waving frantically, motioning them to come over. They smiled and waved in return, their stomach doing cartwheels. Of course this would become unavoidable. The Gods so love to tease me. They took a mighty sip of wine as they walked over.

"Tav, please tell our brother here that, if it weren't for you lot, we all would have been the main course in some sick goblin buffet!"

Rolan's eyes rolled and his teeth bared into a scoff, "Lia, please, that is not at all what I was implying."

"Really, now? Because it sounded like you seem to believe you could've fought off that whole hoard all on your own, for some bloody reason," she said with a smile, winking at Tav. It was very clear she was simply arguing for the sake of seeing her eldest brother get himself worked up. She turned her own tankard to her lips and pouted playfully, "What would you have even done? Cast 'Rolan's Shimmering Sparkles' and hope they'd be distracted long enough to make a run for it?"

Cal laughed, clearly a bit too drunk for Rolan's liking, "Heh, 'Rolan's Shimmering Sparkles'. I like that. Is that a real spell?" He turned to his brother in inebriated earnest. Rolan looked up into the sky. He was no devote worshiper of any Pantheon, but Mystra did bless him with access to the weave. He wondered if she were capable of divine intervention, striking him down with a lightning bolt in this very moment. A heavy, exhausted sigh escaped him.

"Lia, all I said was I wish I had gotten a chance to show those goblins some real magic," Rolan caught himself in the moment, casually glancing to see if Gale was somewhere within earshot. Tav couldn't help but smile at the thought of someone telling Gale, Mystra's ex-Lover, that his magic was sub-par. When Rolan realized the party's resident wizard was nowhere near, he cleared his throat, "And Cal, no. 'Shimmering Sparkles' is not a real spell," his glance caught Tav's eyes for a moment, "Although… I do have my own spin on Dancing Lights that I've been working on. If… If anyone were so inclined as to wish for a demonstration," he stated, puffing his chest out ever so slightly.

"I-" Tav was immediately interrupted by a very drunken Cal.

"Yes, brother! Rolan's Shimmering Sparkles!" He nearly fell off the boulder he was sat upon caught up in his excitement. Lia linked her slightly more sober arm into his to keep him balanced, encouraging Rolan further.

"Go on then. Let's see what makes your spell so special."

"Patience, you two," Rolan stretched out his arms, shaking his neck and shoulders loose, "Have you no respect for showmanship?"

"Having performance issues, Rolan?" Cal retorted in a cheeky mock-whisper.

Rolan rolled his eyes, "Oh, hush you," he replied, centering himself once again in preparation of his spell.

Most of Tav's familiarity with magic came from seeing Gale in combat. It was interesting to them - fascinating, really - seeing another wizard's process. Dancing lights wasn't a spell Gale used often. Yet they could tell right away, the way Rolan worked with the weave was different. Gale always acted like the weave was Mystra herself - to be revered and respected, always somewhat fearful of its fickle nature. And Gale treated the weave as he treated Mystra, as if he had to prove to himself that he was capable enough to work with her, for her. That he knew everything naturally and intimately enough that magic just came to him. Even if Tav always felt like that was a load of crap.

But Rolan? He treated it like a science. As though he were a craftsman, a Master of his trade. Its like he studied the weave to a perfect formula. There was a practiced structure to his movements. As if he could pinpoint where the exact aspect of the weave he needed was located, and then simply pull it from thin air itself. Something about it made Tav's heart race.

He brought his hands before his chest, right above his diaphragm.

"And… Behold!" His arms outstretched, and a rippling wave of lights, indigo and magenta, flowed from his body, carrying themselves up and out into the air. It were almost as if a portion of the Tears of Selûne itself had fallen from the skies and brought itself flowing through the campgrounds. Tav brought their hands together into an enthusiastic applause. Or as enthusiastic as one can be with a drinking horn of wine in their hands.

"Adoring applause?" Rolan cooed with a smile, dipping into a bow, "You're too kind."

"Remember when he could barely cast that?" Lia playfully chastised, gently elbowing her brother in the rib.

Cal chuckled, sighing like a proud father, "They grow up so fast, don't they?"

Rolan smiled and shook his head. A genuine smile, Tav noted. Something they weren't sure they had ever seen from Rolan before.

"Never have I met such troglodytes," he commented, "Now, pass the wine."

Cal stood up to pass Rolan the bottle he had been milking, only to stumble over himself when trying to sit back down.

"Woah there, big fella! Easy now," Lia giggled, reaching up to help Cal find his balance, "I think we had better find you something to… eat? Drink? Or a quiet place to vomit, perhaps?"

Cal shook his head, waving a hand in the air, "You worry too much! I'm perfectly-" his words trailed off as he caught his stomach, "Actually, Lia, you may have a point," Lia rolled her eyes with a smile.

"Playing babysitter once again," she hooked her arm below Cal's shoulder, "I'm gonna get the lightweight somewhere decent to rest." She glanced to Tav, the back to Rolan with a smirk, "You two don't have too much fun without us."

Rolan's tail suddenly swished and thudded against the ground, almost frightening himself with the reaction. Lia and Cal both laughed as they walked off. Rolan gripped his wine bottle tightly, bringing a large gulp to his lips. He laughed. A tired laugh, shaking his head.

"Its a wonder why I love those two idiots," he said in a strained tone, almost as if he were trying to convince himself.

"Isn't that the whole point of family?" Tav said quietly, trying to tease.

He choked on another sip of wine, Tav getting the idea perhaps Rolan had forgotten they were even still there for a moment. And Rolan suddenly realizing his vulnerability.

"Um. You won't… tell them I said that, will you? Surely it's the wine talking, but I'll also deny it if you do."

Tav laughed.

"Gods forbid you love your family," they teased.

Rolan smiled again, weakly, then hid it with a scoff, "Of course I love them, I just can't let them hear me say it. Lia would use it against me for the next three months. Minimum," he spat out. Perhaps a bit too harshly, he thought, turning the bottle to his lips once more. Only to find it empty.

"Oh, bother," he muttered to himself, tipping the bottle over, spilling one single drop of purple-red liquid into the dirt. Tav hesitated briefly, before offering their own drinking horn. Tav hadn't met many tieflings before stumbling upon these refugees, so they couldn't be certain, but they swore they saw Rolan's deep red cheeks flush a shade darker.

"I… N-No, it's fine. I've had quite enough to drink already," Rolan wavered, laughing awkwardly. Not an entire lie. He was surely feeling the muddling effects of the evenings festivities. But this hesitation was much more… personal. Sharing a drink with the hero of the hour. His lips against the same cup theirs having embraced the entire evening. It suddenly left him feeling… sheepish? No, something else. Deeper. Warmer. Rolan swallowed, a lump forming in his throat. This was all just incredibly inappropriate, he thought. But instead of taking back their drink, Tav just smiled, and further held their cup out towards Rolan's lips.

"It's alright," they said, "It's almost empty. We can finish it off together."

He let the moment linger, weighing his circumstances. This is a party, after all. However unfamiliar an environment this is for him, it was clear to Rolan that everyone around them was here to relax and have fun.

Fun, with his hero. He reached out, taking the cup from their hands, their fingers overlapping in the exchange.

"I, uh… I thank you, my friend," he smiled and gave a slight bow. Always so formal, Tav thought. They almost wished Cal or Lia would come back, just to see him act a bit more relaxed again.

Almost.

Rolan's sips were small, and slow. He wasn't sure how much to drink, how much to share. And the moment he put his lips against the rim of the horn, he was reminded of Tav's lips once again. Suddenly struck with an internal battle of wanting to keep his mouth here for as long as he could, and wanting to get the moment over with out of sheer, self imposed embarrassment. One small sip, and then another. Tav tried desperately not to stare at the way his throat bobbed every time he swallowed.

Once finished, he handed the cup back to Tav, who took a sip of their own, finishing the last of the drink off. They reached their fingers up to catch a small spill of wine from dripping around the corner of their mouth.

And suddenly, it was so very apparent that it was now just them. An awkward silence growing over the both of them. One which Tav broke first.

"So," their voice immediately cracked, leading them to clear their throat and laugh at the social blunder, "Um, you must be excited to finally get out of the grove, yeah?"

Rolan laughed in a tone that to an unfamiliar ear likely would've sounded mocking.

"By the Hells, yes. I am so incredibly happy to finally get out of this filthy quagmire. Once we reach Baldur's Gate, perhaps I can engage in a civilized conversation for the first time in weeks," once again, Rolan immediately felt himself bite back his words.

"That is… Not to say your company isn't more than engaging. I-I'm just so use to speaking with Cal and Lia. They've never had much interest in… learned topics. I mean, Cal likes to read, at least. But it's all adventure novels. The Illustrious Tales of Balduran or some similar drivel. Nothing with any merit," he glanced over at Tav, who was just staring at him. Their eyes wide, their mouth just barely parted. Rolan stiffened, feeling his cheeks flush once again, ever so slightly.

"Ah, I see I am rambling quite a bit and, uh, likely boring you," he said, trying to sound flippant. Tav blinked suddenly, locking back into his focus.

"What? No!" Their hand flew out and touched his arm, "I love listening to you speak about… well, anything, to be honest." They laughed to themselves, "Sorry if I seemed bored, I suppose. I just, um," suddenly, their face felt warm, their words catching in their throat.

Rolan's attention still set on them, on the feeling of their hand squeezing his forearm, "You…?" he continued their thought. Tav took a deep breath in, and smiled.

"You really… Light up. When you talk about your family," Tav finally let out, "Even to complain about them. It gets you talking. Like, really talking. And it just makes me happy, to see you happy," their voice trails off as they realize what they're saying. Then, they laugh again, releasing his arm, "I suppose now it's my turn to blame the wine. Speaking of which, maybe I should get us some more?"

Rolan smiled, almost reaching out to touch their wrist in response, but stopping himself, "I… yes. Um, well," he cleared his throat, "No offense to Zevlor, I know he did his best with the supplies, but, this wine is… ah, I think the word I heard your pale elven partner regard it as was 'piss' earlier, did I not?"

Tav laughed again.

"Yes, Astarion. I believe he did."

"Well," Rolan turned toward his companion for the evening, smoothing his hands across the front of his robes, "I actually have a lovely vintage of Arabellan Dry back in my belongings. I was going to save it for when we reach Baldur's Gate, to celebrate my apprenticeship. But, perhaps…?"

Tav's heart was suddenly racing, their stomach a bundle of nerves. A smile crept up their face as the flush built on their cheeks. They gingerly placed their hand over their heart, and spoke in a cool, coy manner.

"My goodness, Mr. Future Arch-Wizard of Baldur's Gate, are you… attempting to court me?"

Suddenly, Rolan's face went hot. Even with Tav's limited tiefling experience, it was wholly apparent. Immediately, Tav began laughing once more, nearly doubling over at the severity of his reaction.

"Sorry, sorry!" The reached out for his hand, "I'm only teasing, Rolan. Yes, we can go have a bottle of wine together. I'm starting to get tired of all this noise anyway," they waved a hand around, gesturing to the festivities around them.

Tav hooked their arm into Rolan's, looking up into his eyes. The burning yellow-gold and the hell's touched black vastness behind it. Rolan said a silent prayer to any God listening, thank the stars the likelihood of Tav hearing his heartbeat through his arm alone were slim. He felt as if his chest were on the brink of bursting. Still locked in his gaze, Tav smiled and tilted their head.

"Well? Lead the way, Mr. Wizard."

[cowgurrrl]

Angel of Small Death

Pairing: Matt Murdock x lawyer!reader

Author’s note: this may or may not turn into a series plan accordingly

Summary: Nothing seems to go your way around your college rival, Matt Murdock [3.8k]

Warnings: June didn't go to law school so take all legal talk with a grain of salt, discussions of custody cases/child abuse charges, A shitty father, mentions of the Red Room/Widows, canonical type violence, Matt Murdock being a menace to society, set in season one of Daredevil (~2014)

You're fuming when you walk into court. The familiar smug smile at the opposing table doesn't do anything to deter your anger. You slam your briefcase down on the table and stand before Judge Harlow. 

"Good morning, Miss-"

"Your Honor, I find it highly inappropriate I was not informed of Mr. Parsons hiring new counsel. Not only that, but he hired new counsel three hours before our hearing today. There is no possible way for this proceeding to be fair without his counsel being adequately brought up to speed. For this reason, I am petitioning for another court date to be held so Mr. Murdock can be properly briefed about the case." Your words are cutting and exact, as you were trained to make them. In law school, your classmates rarely wanted to go against you in mock trial. Moments like this, when your frustration rises to the surface, make you realize why. The dark-haired man with red glasses clears his throat from the opposite table as he stands. It takes everything in you to remain professional. 

"With all due respect, your Honor, I believe opposing counsel is just stalling. I have reviewed all the necessary documentation, and it is my fault that Mr. Parsons was pressed for time in finding new representation," Matt says. "Mr. Parsons just wants to resolve this issue as soon as possible so his daughter can be brought home safely after such a… harrowing experience with her sister."

"Ms. Parsons is currently being held without bond at Riker's on an unsubstantiated charge that has no bearing on her ability to raise Bea. This judicial hurdle is a hardship I would think Mr. Murdock would be sensitive to considering his status as a defense attorney and not a family lawyer." You retort, and Matt scoffs. You whip around to face him and find him shaking his head as his fingers flex around his cane.

"Do you consider robbery an unsubstantiated charge when it's caught on video and has multiple witnesses willing to testify to what they saw?" 

"Mr. Murdock, if your father kicked you and your thirteen-year-old sister out of the house in the middle of a New York winter, how would you, at eighteen years old, handle it?"

"Order!" Judge Harlow bangs her gavel several times to get everyone's attention, and you take a deep breath. "All of your concerns have been made abundantly clear, counselors, but if Mr. Murdock says he feels prepared, I will have to believe him. However, I do apologize on behalf of Mr. Murdock's office for not properly warning you of this matter, and I trust that he and his office will not make the same mistake again. Now, can we please get on with today's matter without another outburst?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Matt says, that stupid charm dripping from his voice. You bite the inside of your cheek and summon whatever willpower you have left.

"Yes, Your Honor." You say before returning to your table and gathering the relevant documents for the day's hearing. 

Robert Parsons is not the first shitty father you've had to deal with in all your years of family law. However, he might be one of the worst. Bea and Morgan's mother, Diana, died in the 2012 attack on New York. Since then, Robert, an NYPD officer, has been able to keep his emotional and physical abuse of his daughters under the radar until this winter when he kicked the girls out after he found out Bea snuck out of the house. He said he was "teaching them a lesson about discipline." Morgan, a kid herself, panicked when Bea spiked a fever and tried to steal Tylenol and some food from a local bodega. A fight broke out between Morgan and the cashier, and the police (her dad) were called. You've been trying to help them since Megan came to you at sixteen, but the system has been working against you at every turn. It doesn't help that the NYPD doesn't protect anyone as well as they protect their own. 

So, the fact that the asshole changed counsel three hours before one of the most important custody hearings of your entire year was enough to make your blood boil. The fact that the person representing him is none other than your law school rival, Matt Murdock, made you want to scream. Matt Murdock: Columbia's golden boy, a childhood hero who sacrificed his vision to save an old man's life, Battlin' Jack's son (RE: orphan), the guy who made all the girls in your classes swoon, the guy who told you that family law was a waste of your time. "You just wanna deal with whiny kids all day?" He asked you when you got your internship at one of the top family law firms in the city. For a kid who grew up in an orphanage, you would think he'd have a little more compassion for people who deal with "whiny kids." 

It doesn't matter because that was years ago, and you've since worked your way up the ladder to become one of the state's best, most aggressive family lawyers. People come from all over just to get you to represent them against abusive ex-husbands or piss-poor foster parents. You do good work. You know you do. You also know that Matt does, too. You've kept up with him since he graduated, mainly to compare career tracks and see if the days of winning smiles and perfect dark hair would ever end, but of course, it hasn't. Being on his own time in his own law firm suits him, and you hate that it does. 

Maybe that's why you show him absolutely no mercy in the court proceedings. You pull every piece of evidence you have that shows neglect, abuse, or even just a smidgen of the mental anguish he's put those girls through. Matt quickly and impressively pivots and challenges that this is not a criminal court and you're going above and beyond what's necessary. You argue about where Bea should go for about fifteen minutes while the custody arrangement is still in the air. You contest that Bea should go upstate with her maternal grandmother, Susan, while Matt says she should go back with her father after the emotional distress of Morgan's arrest. 

"Do you honestly believe the best thing for a child undergoing such stress is to move her miles away from the only home she's ever known?" Matt asks incredulously, cocking his head in your direction. You narrow your eyes at him even though you know he can't see you and square your shoulders.

"No, but being away from the man with child abuse charges pending might."

"Mr. Parsons is ready and willing to testify in a court of law that Morgan ran off with her sister in the middle of the night, and he was deploying his squadron to help locate the missing children. However, we aren't here to talk about that. We're here to talk about the safest place for Bea, which could later unfold into where she lives permanently until she becomes a legal adult. Do you really feel comfortable enlisting an elderly woman in the care of a rowdy teenager?"

"Thank you, Mr. Murdock, for the reminder of what today's hearing is actually about. I would've worried you were too ready to treat Mr. Parsons as a defendant." You snap, and Judge Harlow calls to order again. You exhale long through your nose and turn to face her. 

"While I appreciate your passion for this case, I encourage you two to find it within yourselves to keep these proceedings as professional as possible," she says. You recognize the tone. It's legalese for "shut the fuck up before you give me a reason to kick you out of my courtroom." "Beatrice Parsons will stay in her current foster home with supervised visits from her grandmother, Susan Kelsey. Given the emotional state of the child, I will not be releasing visitation time to the father until we see an improvement." 

"And Ms. Parsons, Your Honor? Will she be allowed to visit Bea upon her release?" You ask. 

"That is a matter we can revisit upon Ms. Parsons' release from Riker's. Until then, the only allowed contact with the child is her grandmother and the legal teams. We'll reconvene next Monday morning. Court is adjourned." With that, she bangs her gavel, and you're left reeling. Matt and Robert whisper to each other as you gather your paperwork and pack it away again. Your phone buzzes in your jacket, reminding you that you have to meet with another family regarding another custody agreement in two hours. You sigh and quickly make for the door when Matt and Robert start standing from their table. 

You're halfway to the elevator when you hear your name and reluctantly turn around. "Shit," you mumble as Matt taps his cane down the hallway. Thank God Robert is nowhere in sight, and you plaster on a fake smile for potential onlookers. "Mr. Murdock, how can I help you?"

"Well, I was hoping you could hold the elevator for me," he says. "And maybe we could strike a deal on our way down." You chuckle at his confidence and white knuckle the handles of your briefcase. 

"I don't think we could agree on anything within a thirty-second elevator ride, but I appreciate your enthusiasm."

"Really? Not even where I can buy you a coffee?" He asks as the elevator dings down the hallway. 

"Unfortunately not. I have another client meeting soon. I would've expected a man with his own practice to have similar meetings today, but I guess I was mistaken?" You say as you walk to the elevator. Matt follows suit, laughing at the dig. You press the button for the lobby, and the doors shut, and for a second, it's silent in the elevator. Years of competition and hate linger in the air.

"I've gotta say, I'm impressed with you." He says in a low voice like it's a secret, and you turn to look at him. "Yeah. It's really hard in this line of work to make quite as many enemies as you have." 

"It's not that hard to piss people off when you say they shouldn't have custody of their kids. Just like I'm sure people get pissed at you when you defend murderers."

"I don't defend murderers."

"Oh, Karen Page wasn't a murderer?" The name makes him still next to you as the doors finally open. "See you next Monday, Murdock." You say as you step out of the elevator, leaving Matt in the dust.

For the next week, you bounce between client meetings, hearings, mediations, visits to Morgan in Riker's, and late nights in the office, trying to find a way to take down Parsons and get Morgan out of jail. You would think being the daughter of a cop would be better in this kind of situation. You try to pull every string you can find, milk every connection, and almost beg any defense attorney you can corner for long enough. Still, Morgan remains in Riker's the night before the next hearing, and you're exhausted. 

Your phone rings that night, and you try not to make a habit of answering work calls outside of your normal hours, but the unrecognized number is too tempting to not pick up. "Let's make a deal," Matt says before you can even get out a proper greeting. You scoff and tuck your phone between your ear and shoulder as you close your curtains. 

"Make it worth my time, Murdock. I answered your call on a Sunday night before court." 

"I'm willing to defend Morgan in court and get her out of Riker's by the end of the week," he says. You're about to argue that it's a conflict of interest, that if he'd paid attention in the first semester classes of law school, he would've known that, but he beats you to it. "If you agree to drop this case and get Bea home."

"You're asking me to drop charges of child abuse and reckless endangerment of a minor."

"No, I'm asking you to drop the custody portion for now. The child abuse and endangerment charges will move onto criminal court, but that trial will be a waste of time if you don't have a witness like Morgan." He says. It's true. Even though Morgan is beyond the statute of limitations, Bea isn't. Jurors will be sympathetic to a victim but not a criminal. "No one else is gonna help her, and I'd much rather defend her than her father." 

"So, what happens if Bea goes back and he beats the shit out of her?" You ask as your phone beeps with another notification. Matt starts a long ramble, but you're not fully listening. "Matt, I have another call coming in. Can we talk about this later?" You don't wait for a response. You just end the call and quickly press the red notification, a crackly voice coming in on the other end. 

"And you're sure that's the right amount?" Parsons asks, oblivious to your listening, and someone chuckles in response. 

"That is typically the starting payment," you recognize the accent and glance around your apartment, trying to come up with a plan. "Now, if you keep up the flow, we can discuss upping the payment."

"That shouldn't be a problem. It'll be smooth sailing once I get my kids out of the way. You can tell Mr. Dreykov that."

It's cold. Even under all your layers and your gear, it's cold. The city moves like a living beast all around you, its inhabitants oblivious to you hiding on a rooftop with a gun. It's been two hours since that phone call, and Parsons still isn't home. The call ended within a minute of the notification buzzing on your phone, but they didn't make any plans to meet up anywhere. And why would they if their business together is riding on the results of this custody case? You sigh, your mask pushing the air right back at you, as you sit back on your heels and glance at the night sky.

It's rare that you can ever see stars in New York, but sometimes, if you squint, you can catch little glimpses. You struggle to focus on constellations with the screeching of subway brakes and loud horns penetrating the otherwise peaceful night. You've been doing this for a long enough time that you no longer stress yourself out about things like this. It's work. It's what you're supposed to do, and you get away with it. With all the other masked idiots running around the city— not limited to The Masked Idiots that moved upstate after Stark Tower was destroyed— and the gangs, police are never able to track where bullets are coming from. If they happen to, it's just another job to finish. Not a big deal.

You look to Parson's apartment again and find it still dark and empty. It isn't until you go to adjust the scope that something shuffles behind you, and by that point, it's too late to stop the arms from wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you backward. You throw your head back until you hit something hard, and the grip on you falters enough for you to slip out. There's a mess of punches, kicks, and elbows thrown as you try to get away from your attacker, but with every movement, they seem to anticipate it before you do. It isn't long before you're pinned to a brick wall, too far from your gun, with a gloved hand wrapped around your throat.

"Why are you targeting him?" A deep voice asks above you, and you kick your feet under you, trying to get the upper hand, but he's too strong. His grip on your throat tightens, and you gasp for air. "Last chance." He threatens, and your head swims with no oxygen. 

"The recording," you croak. His hand loosens around your windpipe just enough for you to get more information out. "Listen to the recording. On the phone." He drops you as fast as he grabbed you, and you collapse to the ground in a heap of heavy breaths and gasps. You can hear an old, familiar voice in your head calling you pathetic and weak, but you ignore it to focus on getting breath in your lungs. 

"This is your phone?" The voice asks as he holds up your burner flip phone from 2007, and you scoff.

"Didn't realize I'd be interrogated for my choices in cellphones," you manage, and you imagine the eye roll rather than see it through the red of his mask. You've seen pictures of him before. You've read the articles calling him a vigilante, a wanna-be Avenger, a menace to society. You know him. He stares at you (through you?) carefully as he puts the phone to his ear and listens to the most recent recording from Parson's phone call. You wait for the muscle in his jaw to clench and unclench before pulling yourself to your feet and walking over to him. You take it as a good sign that he doesn't try to throw you off the building for moving and get close enough to him to make out the faint stubble on his square jaw.

"Parson's trafficking girls?" He asks, more to himself than anything, and you nod. "How'd you know about this?" 

"Parson's been receiving huge payouts from off-shore accounts for a few years. All it took was tapping the big mouth's phone to figure out who he was talking to and about what," you explain as you open your hand to ask for your phone back. He obliges, but not without a dramatic sigh. "Y'know, I thought you would've had a better idea of what goes on in the city, Devil Boy." 

"How has this not been flagged by anyone else?" He ignores your jab, much to your dismay.

"The Red Room has informants and Widows in almost every functional part of society. If they want something to stay quiet, they'll find a way."

"I thought Romanoff exposed them."

"Deykov made it impossible to cut ties with the Red Room and other Widows for years. Somehow, Romanoff got out. Barely, but she made it out. There's no way she'd do anything to piss them off now. Not when she's gotten this far," you say. "As far as the public knows, Black Widow is an Avenger and nothing more."

"You got out." 

"I'm not a Widow."

"No?" He asks, and you shake your head. "So, you just had a military-grade weapon and tactical gear lying around?"

"Can't a girl take herself on a shopping spree?" You ask, not willing to justify him with a real answer. The rooftop goes quiet as you think about what the next step is. 

"You don't have to kill him." He says softly, like he's anticipating your reaction. You bite the inside of your cheek and turn to him, annoyance building in your stomach.

"What did you just say to me?"

"I know you want him to suffer, and trust me, he will, but if you want things to change, you need to get information from him. To get information from him, he needs to stay alive."

"What are you? A fucking altar boy?"

"Those girls don't get justice if you kill him."

"Justice," you laugh. "He gets to kidnap, torture, and brainwash little girls, and I'm supposed to just let him rot in prison? Is that justice to you, Red?" He's silent, and you shake your head. "Yeah, I didn't think so." You're about to turn back to your gun and find a way to make him leave you alone when three police cars go speeding down the street behind an FDNY truck. They're speeding and more urgent in their driving than you've seen in a long time. A rogue thought pricks at the corner of your brain, and you mumble a curse. 

Quickly, you open your phone and jam a few buttons until the sound of a police scanner comes through the shitty speakers. "Explosion reported at the corner of Ninth Ave and West 42nd. Multiple casualties have already been reported by people at the scene," a voice reports on the other line, and you hold your breath. "Officer Robert Parsons was reportedly inside the bar when the gas line blew, and he is assumed dead." 

The first thing you do when you get to the office in the morning is file an emergency petition to assign temporary custody of Bea to her grandmother. You're almost positive it'll get approved, considering how there's no one else involved in this custody case. Now free from his obligation to Robert, Matt sent you an email early this morning saying he would defend Morgan in court. You didn't respond. There are too many moving parts to focus on to care about responding to a pity representation in court.

Robert was talking to somebody from the Red Room not even four hours before he died in a fiery explosion. FDNY ruled it as an accident, but you know better. Did he blabber to someone on the force about the off-shore accounts? Did Dreykov's men just finally decide he wasn't worth all the trouble anymore? Did they find out you tapped his phone? If they did, it's only a matter of time before someone finds you. All the hairs on the back of your neck stand up as you stare at the blinking cursor on your computer screen. Your secretary, Margaret, saying your name makes you jump harder than it should've.

"Oh! Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." She says in all her midwestern politeness, and you shake your head.

"I'm just a little jumpy this morning. Didn't get a lot of sleep last night." You wave her off, and she raises her eyebrows at you sympathetically.

"D'you want me to go get you a coffee?"

"No, thank you. I probably need to lay off coffee for a few hours," you sigh. "Did you need something from me?"

"Oh, yes. Someone called and left you a message... A Matt Murdock?" She says like she's hoping you'll recognize the name, and you nod.

"What'd he say?"

"He wanted to meet with you for lunch to discuss something. He didn't say what." Fucking Matt Murdock, you think. Finding a way to wiggle back into your life just because of one stupid case. "I can tell him no if you want me to."

"No, it's okay. I'll meet with him. We have some unfinished business together." You say, and she leaves to confirm lunch plans with Matt's office. You take a sip of your water, and your throat screams in pain from Devil Boy nearly choking you to death. The reminder that he knew about Parson's involvement with the Red Room before disappearing into the night makes your skin crawl. Another loose end to tie up at another time. Still, your head pounds with all the swirling information and the knowledge that there's no way you'll be getting rid of Matt Murdock anytime soon. "Shit."

[trlvsn]

it's always "unnecessary feelings" and "pull him out of the darkness" but never "you can hear it, can't you, athena? the cries of ms. woods's heart?"

[id of the first image: a screenshot from ace attorney: dual destinies with athena talking about juniper. she says "she's my dear, dear childhood friend, and she's also the client for this case. end of id]

[id for the second and third image: two screenshots of the dialogue between juniper and athena, in which juniper gives athena an orange for strength in court and athena holds it to her heart and cries over it. end of id].

[id for the fourth image: a screenshot of dialogue from dual destinies, with phoenix saying " you can hear it, can't you, athena? the cries of ms. woods's heart?". end of id]

[jules-writes-stories]

Eris Week 2024 | Day 6 | Modern AU | Read Chapter 1 on AO3

The Night Court Lounge | Tribeca NYC

The beautiful man knew Azriel was studying him. Broad shoulders tapered down to a long body beneath a perfectly tailored suit. He wasn’t built like Tamlin Rose or Helion Day. His strength was something different. This man was far more dangerous. He was like smoke, a viper in waiting. When he struck, one would not see it coming, and it would be deadly. 

Azriel’s hazel gaze met those gilded eyes. Bid on me. His eyes and body were betraying him and screaming out to this dangerous stranger. He looked at the long, pale fingers slowly making circles along the rim of his glass. How would those fingers feel inside him, slowly opening him up, pulling his hair, wrapped around his throat… 

He shifted, uncomfortably hard now. The male clocked the movement and slowly lifted his glass to his lips. He cocked his head to one side, seeming to study Azriel like one would a specimen, something rare and beautiful. It was somehow both demeaning and sexy, and Az would, at that moment, kneel at this man’s feet to have those eyes study him all night. 

“I hear ten thousand from Ms. Suriel.” Azriel snapped back into the moment. His eyes moved towards the elderly woman holding up her white flag. Oh god. Ok. He could sit with her. It would be like going to Bingo secretly with his aljada.

“Thirteen,” Tamlin called out again. And it went on for quite some time. Back and forth. Grandma Suriel had dropped out at twenty thousand. Lord Kal Winters topped out at twenty-five.

An androgynous figure wearing dark shades and a hooded sweatshirt joined at thirty thousand. Azriel could not tell their gender or age beyond the loose-fitting hoodie and sunglasses that dominated a round, pale face. A tuft of dark hair peeked out from beneath the hood. Their mouth was wide and painted purple, and their voice almost had a plurality to it. 

“Thirty thousand for Bryaxis,” Feyre called out. Bryaxis. The famous electronic DJ from Amsterdam. No one had ever seen their face before. Azriel was intrigued, wondering if he’d be the first. What would be this enigma’s kink?

“Forty thousand,” Helion immediately countered. 

Azriel was getting tired. A third of that would be plenty to pay his rent for a few months. And the Days seemed normal enough. He could handle them for a few hours. Besides, his legs were starting to go numb. 

He and Fey had devised a plan where he would tap his thigh three times when he was done, or tug his leash discretely if he felt uncomfortable with a bidder. He tapped his leg. One. Two. Three. 

Feyre looked down and nodded imperceptibly. Az looked up one last time at the golden eyed stranger. The sting of disappointment and a little rejection coiled through him. It was silly. He didn’t even know if this red-haired stranger was into men. But Az swore he’d seen the heat and sheer possession in those amber eyes… 

Feyre called out, “Forty thousand going once, twice, and—”

“Fifty thousand.” A smooth voice called out from the corner. Azriel clenched at the sound. It was like velvet and so sure of itself. 

Feyre’s shrewd eyes immediately clocked Azriel’s body language, the way the winged man sat up on his haunches at the red-haired man’s single bid. She smirked knowingly. “Sold to Eris Vanserra for fifty thousand dollars.”

Read all of Chapter 1 on AO3

Please let me know if you ever want on/off the taglist |

@the-darkestminds @fieldofdaisiies @mistandmemories @secret-third-thing @chunkypossum @erisweekofficial @talibunny30 @amalhe-kofee @shadowsandlint @queercontrarian @molcat07 @c-starstuff-man0 @lovely-vanserra-sunshine @hieragalbatorixdottir @brunetterebel010 @pippsmcgee

[xxoxobree]

Kill Bill?

Miles G. x Black!Fem!Reader

Summary: Miles Moved on But You Aren’t To Happy About It

WARNINGS: Aged Up, Dark Content, Delusional/Mentally Ill Reader , Death!

A/n: Tis was a request. Hope you like Anon 🫶🏽

You sat across from Miles' house in a car that he couldn't recognize, the windows tinted to shade your face just to be on the safe side. As you tapped your fingernails across the dashboard, you couldn't help but feel a mix of nervousness and anticipation. You knew you shouldn't be here, not after the restraining order he had against you, but love makes us do crazy things, doesn't it?

There he is - your heart skipped a beat as your head snapped towards his figure. You watched his every move, hidden behind the tinted glass. As he walked past the car, you couldn't resist calling out to him, your voice cracking from the overwhelming emotions you felt. "Hey baby," you said softly, your words barely audible.

It had been five days since you last saw him, that day in court where he looked so good in his suit that you nearly drooled at the sight. The memories of that day flooded your mind, the pain and longing for him. But now, you were just an observer from a distance, unable to be with him the way you wanted.

You watched him go inside his house, a lump forming in your throat. It was time for you to leave too, but not to go home. Instead, you drove off to therapy. It wasn't something you were initially interested in. You believed you were fine, that your love for Miles was enough to heal any wounds. But you attended therapy because if that was what it took to get Miles back, you would do it.

You entered the building twirling your keys in a circle, happy because you had just seen the love of your life. With a skip in your step, you took a seat, waiting for your name to be called, daydreaming about Miles and what he might be doing right now. The thought of his silly faces while watching a movie made you giggle, and you eagerly anticipated seeing those expressions again.

Suddenly, you were pulled out of your blissful thoughts as you heard your name called, "Y/n L/n." Letting out a frustrated sigh, you got up and walked into the therapist's room. The therapist, Ms. K, greeted you with a warm smile and extended her hands, gesturing for you to take a seat.

"Hello, Ms. L/n," she said kindly. "How are you today?"

"I'm fine," you replied. "Can we make this quick? I don't want to be here."

Ms. K nodded understandingly before proceeding with her usual questions, the ones you had answered the same way every time you came. But this time, something different happened. The therapist's response wasn't what you wanted to hear, and it echoed in your mind, unsettling you.

"There are other men, Y/n," Ms. K said gently. "Men who will actually share the same affection for you."

You screwed your face in distaste, feeling a mix of frustration and confusion. How could she possibly know what was best for you? Miles was the love of your life, and you couldn't imagine being with anyone else.

"What are you talking about? He loves me and I love him." Your face hardened. "Who does this lady think she is," you asked yourself internally.

"All I'm saying is don't limit yourself to Miles," she replied calmly.

"Whatever, are we done now?" you asked, gathering your things without waiting for a response. You left, still fuming at her audacity to speak about you and Miles.

You got in the car, speeding out of the parking lot. The anger still simmered within you as you thought about how you and Miles were going to prove everyone wrong. "We're fine, you'll see. We're gonna get married and have 7 kids," you huffed out.

Determined to see him again, you made a right turn, turning off your lights. You knew his street, and you had to see him. Parking on the opposite side, you waited anxiously. You knew he checked the mail at 5 PM every day.

Time passed slowly, and just as you were beginning to lose hope, he appeared. But it wasn't at 5 PM. It was 7 PM, dressed incredibly, making your heart skip a beat. His braids looked freshly done.

"You look so good, Papa," you said, using the nickname only you and his mother used.

You watched his every move as he opened the passenger side of his car door, and someone came out. Another girl. Your stomach turned, and your eyes instantly welled with tears as you covered your mouth. Your chest rapidly rose and fell when he hooked his arm around her waist. The sight was like a sharp knife, piercing through your heart.

You let out a scream, unable to contain the overwhelming emotions that were eating you inside. You couldn't believe what you were witnessing—Miles, your Miles, was cheating on you. A wave of anger and sadness washed over you.

Without a second thought, you put the car in reverse and sped off, leaving a trail of smoke behind you. The world outside became a blur as tears streamed down your face. The pain in your chest was unbearable, but you refused to let it consume you completely.

Once you arrived home, the tears continued to flow. Confusion engulfed your mind as you tried to make sense of why Miles would do such a thing. In court, he had whispered words of love,(He didn't 🤣) but now it seemed like a cruel joke. This separation was only temporary, he said, but how could you believe him after what you had just witnessed?

A thousand thoughts swirled in your mind as you lay in bed, unable to find comfort. Why did she get to have him? You loved him more than anyone ever could. Why did he want her? You knew you were so much better than her, and you were willing to be the best version of yourself for him.

You stared out of the window, at the dazzling lights of New York. As your gaze wandered, It began to click. She doesn't get to have him. No one can, if it isn't you. A mischievous smile slowly crept across your face as you began to plot and scheme in your head.

Your first plan of action was to send a text, a text you probably shouldn't have sent, but it was for Miles' own good. "Hey babe. I miss you sooo much. I saw you with that new 'bitch of the week.' Drop her, and we can get some lunch tomorrow." You clicked the send button, waiting for his response.

Almost immediately, a reply came through. "Y/n, leave me alone. You're crazy." His words stung, but you couldn't let it deter you. "Awee, pookie, crazy about you," you responded, trying to maintain a light-hearted tone. He left you on read. That was the signal to move on to the next phase of your plan. If he didn't want to meet tomorrow, you would meet now.

You slipped on your AirPods, drowning out the world with Aaliyah's classic song, "One in a Million." The rhythm pulsated through your ears as you rummaged through your drawers, pulling out black sweatpants, a black hoodie, and a black balaclava. It was time to embrace the shadows. Miles had bought you the all-black Air Force 1 high tops, which completed your dark ensemble.

You did a spin in the mirror, admiring your reflection with a wicked smile before heading towards your kitchen. You rummaged through the kitchen drawers until your fingers grazed against it - the biggest knife you owned. The cold steel sent a thrilling shiver down your spine as you slipped it discreetly into the pocket of your sweats.

With adrenaline coursing through your veins, you skipped out of the house and approached the blacked-out car waiting for you. Connecting your phone to the aux, you selected Mariah Carey's "We Belong Together" - a song that had deep meaning to you and Miles. As the music filled the air, you whispered, "I'm coming, baby," before speeding off towards Miles' house.

As you drove, tears streamed down your face, blurring your vision. Your emotions were overwhelming but you couldn't let them distract you from your mission. "I'm here, babe, for us," you declared between sobs, your voice filled with a mix of determination and madness.

The lyrics of the song resonated with your turbulent emotions, and you sang your heart out, oblivious to the world around you. The tears continued to flow, leaving streaks on your face as you navigated the streets towards your destination.

Arriving at Miles' house, you parked the car and stepped out, exhilaration radiating from every pore. With the song still playing in the background, you made your way to the back of the building, following the familiar path you had walked countless times before.

Climbing the fire escape, you moved with deliberate slowness, allowing each step to be a painful reminder of the memories you and Miles had shared in this very place. Tears mingled with a sense of longing as you replayed the moments in your mind, unable to let go of the love that had consumed you.

Finally, you reached his window, gazing through the glass at the room that once held the echoes of your laughter and whispers. The sight of his belongings stirred a mixture of anger, desperation, and possessiveness within you. You were determined to make him see that you belonged together, no matter the cost.

The knife pressed against your side, a chilling reminder of your intentions. You took a deep breath, your entire being filled with a deadly combination of love and obsession.

Captivated by a scene that shattered your heart. There he was, wrapped in the embrace of his girlfriend. A longing burned in your eyes, mirroring the longing in your heart.

Tears welled up in your eyes, streaming down your face as a mix of pain and anger consumed you. You whispered breathily, "If I can't have him, no one will." Determination filled your shattered heart as you slowly approached the window, a smile creeping onto your face.

Carefully, you picked the lock. Your eyes fell upon Miles, writhing in his sleep before finally sitting up.

As he gently caressed his girlfriend's cheek and placed a tender kiss on her temple, you watched, your chest tightening with each flicker of affection as he left the room. A pang of jealousy coursed through your veins, fueling the storm inside you. It was the perfect opportunity.

Silently, you slid open his window, the cool night air brushing against your skin. With steady hands, you retrieved the knife you had carried in your pocket, twirling it expertly between your fingers. Its glint in the moonlight reflected the darkness you were about to commit.

With each step towards his bed, the weight of your emotions grew heavier. The lines between love and obsession blurred, and you clutched the knife tightly, its sharpness digging into your palm as you stood beside his bed, watching his girlfriends peaceful slumber.

In the dimly lit room, the tension hung heavy in the air. The bed creaked under the weight of your body as you hovered over the girl, a menacing expression etched onto your face. She squirmed uneasily, her eyes still closed, trying to make sense of the situation.

"Is that you, Miles?" she whispered. But you remained silent, your cold gaze fixated on her. Without a word, you pressed a cold knife against her neck, causing her eyes to shoot open in terror.

"Shhh, if you scream, I'll kill you," you whispered coldly, relishing in the power you held over her. You pressed the blade harder against her throat, deliberately cutting off her airways, watching as she struggled to breathe while desperately trying to remain silent. The twisted pleasure you felt at her suffering sent a chilling thrill down your spine. This was her punishment for daring to come between you and your man.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps approached the door, interrupting the tense atmosphere. Miles was coming closer. The girl mustered a feeble whimper before you pressed the knife even harder, drawing a thin line of blood.

In a flash, Miles burst into the room, flicking on the lights. His eyes widened in disbelief as he took in the scene before him – you, straddling his girlfriend with a knife pressed against her throat. Shock and horror painted his face as he struggled to comprehend the twisted scene before him.

You removed your balaclava, revealing your face to Miles. A glimmer of affection danced in your eyes as you gazed at him, the one you loved so deeply. "Hey, Papa," you greeted him, your voice filled with a twisted kind of love. "You looked so handsome earlier," you added, a hint of longing in your tone.

Tears welled up in Miles' eyes, his voice pleading as he held his hands up in surrender. "Y/n, please," he begged desperately.

"What? She's fine," you laughed, a chilling sound that echoed through the room.

Miles knew you were a bit off in the head, but he never expected you to go this far. Fear filled him as he contemplated what you might do to his girlfriend, and what you might do to him.

"What do you actually care about her?" you said, your tone turning cold as a single tear rolled down your face. The glint of a knife caught the light, and you pressed it harder against her throat, causing her to struggle for breath.

"She doesn't deserve you," you muttered, your voice filled with a twisted mix of anger and jealousy.

"YOU'RE GONNA KILL HER, Y/N!" Miles screamed, his voice filled with terror.

You removed the knife from her neck, but before she could catch her breath, you quickly slashed her face, eliciting a cry of pain before placing the knife back to her throat.

"I don't care, Miles," you said, laughing cruelly in the girl's face, relishing in her tears. "You're really cute. I see why he'd like you. Too bad I messed up that pretty face."

"Come here, Miles," you commanded, your voice dripping with menace. He hesitated for a moment, torn between fear and helplessness. "Now, or I'll kill her. I swear I will."

With a quickening heartbeat, Miles reluctantly made his way over and took a seat next to you.

You were caught in a whirlwind of emotions as you uttered those words, "Give me a kiss." He leaned in, your lips met in a passionate embrace. In that moment, fireworks exploded in your mind, making it a kiss better than anything you could have ever imagined.

Your hand moved, the knife that had been pressed against the girl's neck found its way across Miles' throat. You had killed your ex.

As Miles's body fell backward, the light in his eyes fading away.. "I love you, Papa," you whispered, the words tinged with both love and something sinister.

Your attention swiftly shifted to the girl, a wicked smile curling your lips. The adrenaline coursing through your veins amplified the darkness within you. "Now, we can't have any witnesses, can we?" you chuckled, relishing in the power coursing through your veins.

She pleaded for her life, her eyes filled with terror and desperation. But her pleas fell on deaf ears, and just like Miles, she met her demise.

As you stood there, a blend of relief and calm washed over you. Stepping towards the window, you climbed out, leaving the scene of the crime behind. The moonlight illuminated your path as you made your way back to your car.

[preservationofnormalcy]

[The office is crowded when I make it in. A few dozen people in the waiting room of the simply-furnished building, weary eyed. Some waiting patiently, some not so patiently. As a slender man speaks tersely with a receptionist, I am unsure where to go. After I hesitate a moment, a man at the end of the desks waves at me. 

He is short, barely over five feet tall. He is bald on the top of his head, with bursts of frizzy hair on either side above his ears. His eyes inspect me from behind huge and thick glasses rimmed with a brassy metal, above a  brown corduroy suit with a green tie. When he speaks, he has a slight lisp and a heavy stammer.] 

F] Hello. Uh. Yes, h-hello madam. 

M] Ferdinand Mills? 

F] Yes. Yes, co-come here. May I have a word?

M] Yes, of course. 

F] I ch-choose the word, uh, ‘interview’. 

M] What? 

F] Nothing, nothing madam. Come, come.

[I am led back behind the counters, past small cubicles and offices. It looks like any other office building I’ve been in, if furnished a little more…vintage. Kelly greens and dark brown woods dominate the furniture, and brassy metal fixtures catch the somewhat dimmer light. I’m led into Ferdinand’s office, and immediately I see piles and piles of paperwork, stacked almost impossibly high in some places. His computer is buried in it, and for a moment I wonder about the heat. He sits at his desk and laces his fingers together.] 

F] I, umm. Was told of your c-coming, madam. What….what is your purpose here? 

M] I’m here to conduct a….to….. 

F] Mmmh? 

M] To….conduct a….what is happening, why can’t I—

F] You may, uh, have it back. 

M] Interview. Interview, interview. What the hell, I….oh. 

F] A p-parlor trick. Nothing, uh, more, Ms Hendricks. 

M] Why did you do that? 

F] Some, uh, new agents don’t quite understand the ru-rules. Think it’s a g-game. Until they’re uh….

[He gestures with his palm down and fingers wiggling.] 

F] On the end of a…string, madam. M-marionette. 

M] So you just…take something from them? 

F] B-better it be me, than, ah. Something else. Please. Y-your interview, madam. Your questions? 

M] As long as you don’t do that again. 

F] Queen’s, uh, honor. On the Court. 

M] ….what is your name and position?

F] I am called F-Ferdinand Mills, and I am the director of the Legal Extranormal Persons Office, as well as, ah, liaison to the North American Seelie Court. 

M] What do you do in either position? 

F] In the f-former, I am a social worker, ah. Mostly. We oversee the process of g-gaining legal personhood under the Office and the work that entails. It’s a little like….im-immigration. 

The latter position is m-mostly ceremonial. I help the Office train its staff on issues related to the Fa-Fair Folk and…perhaps the, ah. Challenges. 

M] What is legal personhood? 

F] B-before the 1937 Tom-Tommyknocker Accords, it was Office policy that non-humans were not g-giv–ah, extended the rights and privileges afforded to h-human citizens by the US constitution. Not, not that they applied to humans equally either…b-but I digress. The Accords provided a legal f-framework for providing citizenship and thus legal p-protection to non-human or sufficiently str-ah. Abnormal persons. 

M] Why is it called the Tommyknocker Accords? 

F] The camp-cam….effort was led by Tommyknockers, an ethnic group of Fair Folk that w-were among the first to im-immigrate with Cornish humans and took up residence mainly in m-mines. Their presence was, ah, of course never officially re-recognized by American authorities, but they often had union cards, paid for by their human c-coworkers. This s-sort of solidarity led the Tommyknockers to seek some kind of rights from the g-government, which gained the ear of the Office in the nine-ninetee-ah. In the 30’s. In return for the local S-seelie Court’s cooperation in protecting humans from the actions of r-rogue fae, fair folk would receive legal p-protection and citizenship, and c-considerations for those that can, ah, pass as human.

M] And this has been extended to…more than just fae?

F] V-very soon after it was started, work began on expanding it to lycanthropes, the undead, demons…by now there are art-artificial intelligences, homunculi, extraterrestrials…

M] Do you think the department is successful in its goals? 

F] Our g-goals are to help promote a culture of protection for those who may not have had it in the past. It’s a matter of civil rights. The astoundingly vast majority of people that come through here….all they want is to live p-peacefully and be left alone, more or, ah, less. 

I hope you-you can agree that people of all stripes should have a fundamental right to exist without legal d-discrimination or fear. Of course, given the Office’s secrecy standards, certain concessions have to be made. 

And, to be cyn-cynical, there’s also the goal of providing those people a route of, ah, legal redress. If we didn’t ex-extend certain protections to the extranormal population, they’d riot. And they’d be justified in, ah, doing so. 

M] That seems like an important point. What about your position as fae liaison. How did the Office’s cooperation with the NASC begin?

F] As the Accords were being f-formed, it was determined, primarily from the T-Tommyknockers, that enough Fair Folk had, ah, immigrated to North America that they had formed their own C-court. This would allow the local f-fae to determine their own law, culturally influenced by but separate from o-older Courts. The culture of this court was still diff-different than many in Europe and elsewhere, of course, and this probably contributed to the success of the Accords. M-many wanted a fresh start, for them-themselves, and with mortals. Some of them were half-human themselves. My f-father was among those present at the Accords, ah, in fact.

M] And this has been a successful relationship, in your opinion?

F] I know s-so. The country would be a very different place if we had powerful groups like the NASC opp-opposed to us.

M] I did want to ask about the, uh. Recon team—

F] I won’t s-s-speak on that without an ethics r-r-representative being p-present. 

M] I just wanted to know what their—

F] If LEP is imm-immigration, Recon is immigration en-enforcement. I have my i-issues with how the R-r-recon team conducts its— no, no, no, I won’t speak on it further. 

M] Are they the main enforcement and security agency in the Office?

F] I said I wouldn’t— nnnhf. F-first line. F-first contact. If it seems like too much for them, we call O-Sec. Then it’s out of our h-hands. Now if you please, if you’d like to kn-know more about R-recon, speak to someone in Recon. 

M] Do their operations bother you?

F] Ms Hendricks, I–

M] Or are they a necessary evil? 

F] N-n-no evil is necessary, Ms Hendricks. I won’t speak f-f-further on it. In fact, ah, I, uh, I believe we are done t-talking. Reschedule another interview if you m-must. 

(Buy the poster here!)

[azes-silliness]

Duty Bound

Neuvillette x gn!reader, Neuvillette angst no comfort An : Neuvillette my husband came home~ [and I came too^_^] Summary: He remembered but didn’t know everything, really. And he quite hated that. Word count: 1406 Maturity rating: >18 [MINORS MAY READ :3]

Warnings: Angst, I guess a bit tiring to read, injustice, problems with the legal systems

RULES ARE MEANT TO BE BROKEN

:3

ITS ALMOST CHRISTMAS!!!

18

DAYS TILL CHRISTMAS!!!!🥳🥳🥳🥳💯💯💯💯💪💪💪💪😋😋😋💙💙💙💙💙💙💙 Can a judge be convicted? Can a criminal give order? Chaos is just the dark end of judgement. "There can be no order without 'it'"

What a bittersweet memory that was, filled with broken promises and shattered bonds. Neuvillette stared down at Fontaine below him, light illuminating the shape of every building under a crescent moon. The fountain of Lucine shimmered under the light, ripples in the water almost forming the silhouette of a human. Of you. No, what was he thinking? You hair was much messier than the one in the water. Your body was much taller. This-that wasn't you. Or maybe it was. Not that he'd now who you became, after all.

"Right, Neuvillette? Did I get that?" "...Yes." "Okay Mr., Geez. Am I ready to help you carry your burden of saving Fontaine now?" "...You always have been." "Not what you said last time." "Apologies." "Your so uptight! I was kidding. Did you really believe me!?" "No. But I do believe you'd be quite upset if I showed my knowledge of that." "Awww...aren't you sweet? So considerate and husband material!" "Don't tease me."

“Your lucky grumpy, stoic men are my type!”

“…Yes.”

“Your making this awkward!” -- Neuvillette walked along the streets of the Court of Fontaine as rain lightly drizzled around him. He didn't see the need for an umbrella, as usual, ignoring the mystified glances of the people around him. Young melusines waved at him was he walked by excitedly, greeting him with a warm smile. It truly made him happy that the melusines held him with such admiration in their eyes.

He waved back at the small creatures, the smallest of smiles gracing his lips. It reminded him of a child to their parents.

"Melusines are so cute, aren't they!?" "Indeed they are. True treasures of Fontaine." "Awww...look at their ears! Hey! Hey! Can I pet you even a little, pretty please~?" "Y/n-" "A-ah! Ofcourse you can Ms.!" "See Neuvi? Asking is better than taking the immediate 'no'." "I see. Though of course I know that since I asked you, mhmm?" "Yep! No connection though-AW! Your so soft! Your ears are so smooth too! Do you have skincare!?" "..." "No Ms. I'd be happy to help you with your morning routine someday though!" "Neuvillette, I think I love melusines almost as much as you!" "Hm. Perhaps-" "Perhaps we can think of them like our children now!?" "...if they allow it."

“Why wouldn’t they? I’d be a great mother!”

“…I have decide not to comment on that.”

-- Neuvillette sat alone. Paperwork stacked high on his table as he worked tirelessly, reading and signing documents of meager to high importance. In truth, he hadn't had a proper rest in months, but with the new uprising in cases, he had been more busy than usual. 'Scandalous! Lady Furina reported-" "The Duke of Meropide caught-" "The Iudex seen-" Rumours had gotten more fabricated recently. It was sad how Neuvillette hardly had any idea how to deal with managing the publics words. No, that was your job. Was. "Whaat!? Neuvillette! Neuvillette! Did you hear about-" "Y/n. Don't speak too loudly please." "Oh. Er-Right! Did you hear about the scandal!? That daughter of the famous actor fell in love with a thief!" "Really? How interesting. Love does have its ways." "I met her before! She seemed really refined and elegant. I was so surprised!" "Is there proof for this so-called scandal?" "Yep! I saw them!" "Hm. I see. Why is this so interesting to you?" "...Uhm...because it's news. Is there something uninteresting about it...?" "No. Not at all. Apologies, but I have some work to finish. Would you mind...?" "Ack! Sorry, my bad, I forgot your officially a judge and Iudex now haha…you must be busy!." -- Neuvillette was seated on his dining table, eating his normal dinner. He quietly took a drink of water, then passed it to the only other seat on the table. He was static for a few moments, letting his breaths echo through the silent room before taking the goblet away from the empty seat. “I shall drink, then.” He murmured to no one in particular.

It was lonely.

Neuvillette missed the days where you would sit across him, telling stories about your recently acquired gossip or ranting about a co-worker. Then his halls were filled with laughter and liveliness.

Not this all-consuming silence.

“Ooo! Ooo! Right! I remember! Do you recall that boring bitchass-“

“Language, y/n.”

“Ack! Sorry. As I was saying though! Remember the boring, emo, lame co-worker who thinks he’s the main character from one of those Yae publishing house books!?”

“Yes. You talk about him nearly daily.”

“Haha…I guess so…! Anyyywayz! Basically his girlfriend broke up with him and it was revealed he was an abuser! He used his money to pay for silence! And domestic abuse was the least of his crimes!”

“Hm? I have not heard of this. Do you know his name?”

“Uh… P….something. I don’t know.”

“Ah. I see.”

“…Is something bothering you Neuvillette…? You seem…distant.”

“Hm? No. Nothing.”

“Uh huh…girly, of your going through-“

“Do not refer to me like that, please.”

“Fiine. If you tell me whats wrong.”

“There is nothing wrong, y/n.”

-- Neuvillette sat on his seat in the courtroom, a man accused of the severe crime of murder layed down below him. The man yelled excuses and screamed in denial, claiming such unrealistic stories that Neuvilette couldn’t help but feel disgusted with this man’s audacity. “I have told you. You are guilty. There is no doubt. All the evidence-“

“You’re just biased! You just don’t believe I could be innocent so you don’t look at the evidence with a clear mind! Whatever ‘justice’ you judge it with it just pessimism!” The man screamed, resisting any attempts at restraining him. The man’s face was filled with desperation, either for the truth of for a lie.

“…I look at it fairly. I am the Iudex. I am not wrong.” Neuvillette replied coldly, looking down upon him apathetically. His eyes glimmered with a hint of tiredness and exasperation, clearly wanting this case to finish.

“If it was your lover you would have looked deeper! You’d have read it over twice! You’d have-“

“Do not bring her into this. I will punish you even harsher for any attempt to soil her memory.” He shot him down immediately, glaring. How dare this…this…

How dare is nobody.

How dare this criminal.

His jaw tightened as he had to mentally restrain himself to give a life sentence. This man deserved it for his disrespect though. Tsk…

Must he constantly deal with these desecraters? You were a special case to him.

And it didn’t matter anyway how much he reread and went over the case.

It didn’t change anything how much he had desperately scoured for evidence to your innocence.

You were declared guilty in the end, despite his efforts.

It didn’t matter.

Just like this idiotic man’s case.

The man was obviously intimidated by the sudden yet expected show of defensiveness. “The justice system is flawed, Neuvillette!” He yelled, raising his voice as he jerked away from the guards restraining him. They were obviously already struggling with his continued resistance. Neuvillette decided it wise to get this over with already.

“…You are loud.” Neuvillette turned to the audience infront of him, glaring authoritatively, “This is fruitless. The accused is guilty. The punishment will be as is-40 years in the fortress of Meropide.” The crowd cheered, not one protesting against the rule of the judge. The man was forcibly dragged away by the guards, his pleas and curses drowned by the roaring voices filling the court.

But Neuvillette did look into it.

He really did.

Perhaps he was just rattled by the fact you were brought up by the accused.

Though the truth was…

The man was innocent.

Just like you.

Yet no one believed him.

Just like you.

Not even Neuvillette saw the truth.

So now the man who’s name he didn’t bother to learn was sentenced to the next years of his life in prison.

And Neuvillette didn’t know where he would go after that. Neuvillette didn’t even know if he would be recognizable after the hardship.

If he would even live through it.

Just…like you.

Yet this judge was duty-bound to let himself drown in that ignorance yet again.

“If he didn’t perhaps some memory would have flashed through his mind again.”