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noonmutter · 4 months

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Adjudication pt. 2

DWC May 2024 Day 3: Shame/Favorite

(As always, this one got a lot longer than the first. If you're not interested in a whole lotta dialogue, you're gonna be real disappointed.)

"You never carry me around like that."

"Shut up an' eat yer pancakes."

Caythaes pouted some, but it was hard to maintain a pout while eating warm pancakes. After swallowing the current mouthful, their eyes slid across the table to their guest. "Did uh... did he do something special to- to deserve this treatment?"

Shedwyn shrugged as she hung her apron on the hook by the stove and settled into the seat next to Tulford, still bound and gagged in his own spot at the table. "Not really special, he only threw a knife at Terry."

"That's it? Not even- Not even a brick? Or a bomb? T- please tell me he- he at least had a rallying cry before he threw it. Like- 'Down with the monarchy!' or- or 'No taxation without representation!' Maybe even- maybe something like, 'That's for George, you self-righteous prick!'"

"Not a word. In tha' regard, 'e at least 'ad some sense." Terry gave their utterly bewildered captive a little pinch on the cheek, then tromped off to take a shower.

Shedwyn followed up with a ruffling of Tulford's tawny hair, "Cute, but young and dumb."

"Ass- Assassass-" Cay paused, then cleared their throat and started again. "Assassinations do very little to- to change the system, you know. S-sure, you get rid of ONE asshole, but- but there's no guarantee that- that they're not going to be replaced with an- with an even BIGGER asshole. And- and I think in this case, you'd- you'd get a very angry Lady Shedwyn in place of Terry, since. You know. Noble inheritance rights and all that."

They waved a hand with a shrug, pausing only to take another bite. "You'd- you'd be better off doing grassroots campaigning with- within your community. Form mutual aid groups, com-compile lists of grievances and work together to- to make Terry's life miserable by- by refusing to work until your demands are met!"

As Cay got excited, they stood up, thumping their fist on the table lightly to punctuate each consecutive statement, pancakes now forgotten. "Start with infrastructure! Demand b-better roads! G-government funded public schools! Public works programs! Form unions for- for laborers and guilds for artisans! Make- make your home better by- by demanding equal rights! One voice, one vote! Challenge authority! Ask questions, require answers! Healthcare for the sick, the injured, and the elderly!"

Shedwyn very flatly watched Cay go, frowning only when the kids started to get excitable. "Tsk." She flicked a speck of bacon at Cay's face. "We're already doing all that, silly. But it's not nice to project our views onto him!" Cay had seen the bubbly ditz act before, but never in front of company unless she was conning a merchant to get a better price or get him to trip over himself in a lie. "Maybe this is all a big misunderstanding!"

Tulford didn't really have any choice but to listen, with his mouth taped up, and his hands bound, and the absolute certainty that the creepy half-elf with the knives was still skulking around somewhere with eyes on him. It was hard to say if he was even still capable of blinking any way but owlishly anymore, in the face of Cay's rant.

And then Toby, kind, observant, helpful Toby, said, "It's not nice to talk at somebody, Uncle Cay," and ripped the tape off his mouth. After a small explosion of noise, Toby gave a thoughtful look at the tape in his hand, then said, "It's not nice to swear at the table either, Mister Tulford," and went back to serving his younger brothers their pancakes.

"I'm- I'm not projecting, I'm just. Informing..." Cay mumbled as they sat back down, looking up at Shedwyn like a kicked puppy. Dipping a napkin in a glass of water, they began to clean some of the mud from Tulford's face, blithely ignoring any sounds of protest. "He- he threw a knife at Terry, that's- he's clearly ignorant to- to the many alternative methods of-"

They paused, taking a really good look at the spot they'd cleaned away. Combined with the perplexingly parental treatment from the Ambroces, the indignant rage on Tulford's face put something of a spotlight on just how young he was underneath all the road grime. "Oh my gosh, y-you're a baby! L-look at you, not- not a single wrinkle on your face!"

"I'm not ignorant, I'm not a bloody baby, and what the bloody hell is happening right now?!"

"S-sorry," Cay murmured, flashing Tulford a sheepish grin and a shrug. "I- I have a hard time with human ages, es-especially between the ages of uh... 16 and 30? I- I can't really tell how mature humans are un-until they start getting in a few wrinkles."

"Family breakfast. The most important meal of the day, so eat up!" There was something uncomfortably keen--he might have used the word 'predatory,' if he'd had the presence of mind--in the way Shedwyn looked him up and down before adding, "You're going to need your strength."

Cay passed Toby a plate of pancakes so that he could help Tulford eat, which after a few deeply suspicious looks at the first forkful, he did finally do. If they were gonna kill him, they'd have already done it by now, right? And pancakes were hard to resist for long. There was no way these people knew they were his favorite food, right?

"I'm- I'm Caythaes, by the way. Lady Shedwyn's Boy Toy." They paused, then looked to Shedwyn. "Or- or is it consort now? Do- do I get a fancy title to make our relationship sound less scandalous?" Another pause as Cay's eyes go wide. "Oh no. Or- or should I have just not said anything at all?"

"I knew it" tumbled out of Tulford's mouth as soon as 'consort' hit his ears. The scowl he aimed Shedwyn's way was very familiar, since Terry used to have roughly the same one all the time when he and Cay first met. It lost a lot of its punch when he was doing it over a mouthful of pancake, though.

Shedwyn merely giggled, even as she rolled her eyes at Tulford's disgust. With the big table and all the kids she was a little too far away to reach out to physically comfort Cay, but the desire was there in her tone (not that Cay needed it, having completely ignored Tulford's reaction). "You're not a secret, Caythaes. Not ever." She brightened visibly, "And, unless you prefer 'consort,' I think we can leave that off until Terry and I take you somewhere formal, hm?"

"Oh. Oh good," they sighed, laughing softly and giving Shedwyn a reassuring smile. "I'm fine with- with whatever, I just, uh- Well, there's- there's a lot of rules to Nobility, isn't there?

"I'm- I'm still learning a lot of it, myself," they added, turning their smile on Tulford and giving his shoulder a friendly pat. "If- If you can't trust Terry, you can- you can at least trust me as- as a fellow commoner and laborer. I was- I was known back home as a rabble rouser, you know."

Finally, the kettle whistled, and Shedwyn got up to make a pot of tea. "Has Terry ever told you that he wanted to join the revolution and help overthrow Genn Greymane? And now here he is, hand-picked by Queen Tess. All this land here in Duskwood was bought specifically to get and keep it out of the hands of the 'nobs,' just like Keel, and now it's a barony. Life's funny like that." Shedwyn didn't feel it necessary to include that she was the one that grabbed up the land in Duskwood and Terry had taken the inspiration directly from her. "As far as you and the 'rules,' half those people already have their own 'secret' lovers. And unlike most of them, ours can't have children."

"I can have children..." Caythaes mumbles, because that was clearly the most important thing Shedwyn said. "I think," they add, pouting as they look over their purple hand, ears tipping downwards as the pout becomes a frown. It doesn't last long, and Caythaes shrugs, flopping back into their chair. "Anyway, I don't want kids. I'm- I'm perfectly happy with being the weird uncle."

"Tea or coffee, Tulford?"

Their captive audience had been struggling to keep up, head pivoting back and forth like watching a tennis match. It was hard to yell epithets when the people holding you hostage and being frickin' wierd at you were barely even paying attention to you. It didn't help that what they're saying was fascinating, in an additionally 'what the fuck' sort of way. Which mostly meant by the time he was addressed, his expression was back to 'what the fuck' again and all he could do for a second once he looked at Shedwyn was blink while he rebooted.

Then, he spat in her face. "Iunno what wierd-ass game you're playin' but I'm not joining in."

The kitchen fell immediately silent as all five children and Caythaes watched in anticipation. Even Corben and Ulfrich, the youngest of the bunch, had gone still and stopped eating.

Shedwyn blinked a few times, then smiled beatifically. “Water, then.” She picked up a napkin from the table to calmly wipe her cheek, then slid a rather large cup of pretty decent coffee in front of Cay. She took the opportunity to give them a kiss on the top of their head, and finally poured green tea for the rest of the table. Ulf turned up his nose at it, Corben batted the cup around while making mewing noises for a minute and then guzzled it, Junior opted for water instead, and Graeme and Toby swapped cups for no discernible reason.

“There’s no game here, Tulford. I don’t know what you went through before you got to the keep, but since we met you’ve been beaten, left in a cell, and strung across the back of an elderhorn for hours. You’re tired, dirty, hungry, and thirsty, and that is being remedied while my husband gets a good shower. You're free to join or even lead the discussion until then, or you can just enjoy the food and happy company."

Just like every other time someone had spat in Shedwyn Lias's face and gotten no-sold in response, Tulford could only stare angrily in silence, too baffled that he hadn't been punched to have a different response loaded. As the kids were given their green teas and the mild noise of multiple children under the ages of ten, Cay, and Shedwyn having breakfast resumed, he rebooted once again and just groaned.

She set the water, in a kid-safe wooden cup, in front of him. “Of course, the third alternative is to wait in a cold cell, with no food, no water, and no hospitality.”

Drinking from the cup would be tricky without the use of his hands, but Tulford seemed ready to try and manage up til Toby stuck a straw in it for him.

"I can- I can also provide some light healing, if- if you'd like," Caythaes offered, smiling happily up at Shedwyn and wiggling their ears as they sipped their coffee. "Despite all of this-" They gestured to their entire shadowflame self, "- I- I haven't lost my connection to Belore. The warmth of- of the Eternal Sun will soothe your aches and- and keep bruising to a minimum, at least.

"Y-you'll want to wait on the bath until this evening," they add, nodding sagely to themself. "I'll- I'll make sure one is prepared for you before dinner, that way- that way you can feel like a person again before you pass out. Do- do you like oranges and vanilla, by the way? Or- or are you a patchouli sort of guy."

If he could have, Tulford would've slammed his hands on the table. "I tried to kill your husband. And all that happened was getting my shit kicked in for a while, then a shitty nap. Why am I here right now?" After a few more sips and a minute to get himself riled up again, he added, "And fuck off with your bath shit already, elf. That's wierd. You're a wierd elf."

Shedwyn gave another airy, brainless giggle. "Ah, Tulford. Weird doesn't mean bad. But you have hit the nail directly on the head. Why are you here? Why did you try to kill my husband?"

"You threw a knife at Terrence Ambroce, Eonar's champion and- and the guy who committed Grand Theft Siege Engine! Among other things!" Cay added, their voice rising in pitch with each exclamation. "Why did you think that would work? Wh- why did you think you, a baby with- with likely no military training, I assume - could pull a- a fast one on someone old enough to- to be your uncle, at least, who's spent his life on the battlefield?

"F-face it, Tulferd, right? I'm- I'm bad with names..." Cay shook their head and waved a hand. "Anyway- y-you're here because y-you're young, stupid, and- and you made a stupid mistake and Terry's trying to- to be reasonable about it.

"Anyway, I'm not-" Cay pauses, huffs, and rolls their eyes with a shrug. "Okay, I am weird for an elf, but- but not because of the bath thing. That's- a hot bath with scented candles is- is nothing compared to- to what many elves get up to, especially the rich ones. I'm weird because- because I like getting dirty and playing in the mud. And also fake blood."

Now with no further distractions and the kids seemingly bored of mum and dad's new project, Tulford was able to focus on what really mattered: getting pissed at being insulted. He bristled, and despite his youth he did appear to have some bulk that made bristling at least a little impressive. At least, it would be if he weren't tied up. Most of it was further undercut by how red his face went right out the gate.

"Shove the giggles and the smug right up yer arse! If I'm not gonna be executed then I'm damn sure not gonna sit here lettin' some nancy jackrabbit pontificate on how stupid I am and how untrained I must be because I happened to get caught! Soldiers get caught, dumbass! Sometimes that's the best case scenario, actin' like it isn't tells me you probably don't have the training Elune gave a pheasant!"

After a moment to catch his breath, and blink, he backed up a couple steps. "...Wait, Eonar? That holy champion shit was real?"

"Well, g-given that I'm from Quel'thalas, y-you're right," Cay says calmly, setting down their empty coffee mug and tipping their head to the side. "I- I do, however, have the training Belore gave a phoenix, and I - I rather think that suits me better. Now, as- as much as I'm enjoying your, uh..." They gesture at Tulford's bristling, then his face. "The shade of red you're turning, I- I do think you should answer Lady Shedwyn's questions. They're, uh- well, they're bit more important than, well..."

Caythaes coughs politely into their hand, blushing faintly. "They're more important than me condescending from- from my high perch again. I- I am sorry about that. It's- it's a bad habit I've been trying to break. Anyway."

"The holy champion thing is- is very real. I've- I've had to shoo her off a few times just- just because my proximity to Terry means that, well. She kind of just. Drifts into my space."

Shedwyn tamped down on the grinning, falling into a pout instead, even after Tulford's brain hiccup. "While I am incredibly eager to find out how much of the stupid nonsense he's gotten up to has been successfully mythologized, I really do want to know... Why would a trained and educated soldier try to kill him?" She was a master of the sad, confused puppy eyes, and was not afraid to break them out now. For bonus points, she rested one hand on her stomach. They were talking about her husband, the man she loved to distraction, the father of (most of) her children, and she could not fathom why someone who wasn't a paid assassin would be trying to kill him.

All of that was utter bullshit, of course; she could--and had--come up with a dozen reasons people might want to kill Terry in under 30 seconds.

Tulford, to his credit, did take a moment to actually process a few of the bombshells that just went off right in front of him. Long enough at least for the redness in his face to dial back a few shades. He was still angry, confused, and not sure whether or not to be scared, and being uncertain about that was more terrifying than just being terrified. It didn't help that Shedwyn drew attention back to her pregnant belly; if anything gave away his youth, it was how easy pulling at that heartstring was. He rallied beautifully, though.

"Because he's a fuckin' traitor, why else? Gave up bodies, ran off to join the deaders, went full red for years, finally got tossed in the clink like he deserved when he pissed off some mercs in Draenor. Fast-forward to now... none of that happened, far as the crown seems to care. A fuckin' turncoat coward betrays his family and friends and country and gets a ton of land and a foreign wife and a damn blood elf consort apparently. There's your damn myth."

Shedwyn's lips pursed as she made herself stop and think instead of getting angry at the racism or the enormous holes in this version of the "myth."

Leaving her one hand on her belly, she placed the other on the table and started counting things off. "First, yes, he was going to sell out the location of the graveyard, in return for…. what turned out to be empty promises. It's not my place to tell you exactly what those were, but I will say… I don't know how much you remember of that time period, but much of Gilneas--even those who escaped the Curse--was mad from grief. He was no exception, and he bears intense shame for that even now.

"Second, he did not join the rotters," the slur slipped off her tongue with the easy vitriol of long-born hatred, "He was kidnapped and tortured for years. We all know the stories of what they did to prisoners; this was worse. Use your imagination.

"Third, when he was put out on a leash, he did upset some mercs--my family and his brother. They caught him, and cut his leash. On what he thought was his deathbed, he pointed us to the place he was tortured, enabling us to destroy a particularly heinous laboratory located where the keep is now.

"Fourth, you're missing out on his time in the military, of which you have clearly heard stories, just without his name connected to them, or that you disbelieved because they were so shockingly outrageous. 'The holy champion shit' is an excellent example. He did everything he could to keep his name out of it, but debriefings are only so avoidable, so records were kept.

"That is what got the attention of the Crown. That is why he was one of those who was here to retake Gilneas. And why, in the aftermath, he was offered the opportunity to grab up as much land as possible, to keep it safe.

"Which brings us to fifth: the Crown cares a lot about his entire history. We are under close watch by the governments of both Stormwind and Gilneas."

For her last point, she finally allowed her anger to seep into her voice. "And of course, sixth, if you don't stop saying racist things about my friend, I will have to ask my children to leave the room."

"That means she's gonna fuck you up." Junior had been watching the whole scene play out in more or less silence, like he generally did, but much like his father, once he got invested in the show, he couldn't keep his enthusiasm to himself. And, unfortunately, his brand of enthusiasm was infectious in a room full of little boys. The younger twins cackled like gremlins, Graeme shot milk out his nose in pure surprise, and Toby blushed.

Shedwyn froze, then closed her eyes for just a second with a raw, unfiltered face that all but screamed 'god damn it, not again.' She only opened them again when she felt Ulfrich tugging at her sleeve. "Mm?"

"What's a consort, mum?"

"Oh-KAY I think it's time to take this outside WHO WANTS TO GO FLYING Shu-fen if you would please take them to go meet Scooter bless you you're a gem..."

Much like the spooky elf earlier, Tulford had almost forgotten about the pandaren attendant until she stepped away from the wall. She hadn't even been in shade or anything, she'd just gone all not-noticeable on him. The second Shedwyn said her name, she was there, and shushing the little chorus of combined protest and eagerness as she led the herd out the door.

Despite his very real predicament and the very touchy topics at play, Tulford almost burst out laughing anyway. (Caythaes was no help, they were still laughing once the kids had gone, and excused themself to the next room to finish getting it out.) It was all so fucking absurd! And he was pretty sure the one kid had done that on purpose; it'd cut the tension like a cleaver.

Right up til he looked back at Shedwyn, to find her staring straight through him, all pretenses completely dropped. Her eyes were glowing blue, unmistakably magical, and she looked ready to fucking eat him. In spite of himself, he wilted a little. "None of it sounded real. It still doesn't sound real. I think you're fuckin' with me, saying it is. That kind of shit doesn't happen to Gilneans."

"It was real, and it was horrible, and wonderful, and we barely got back in one piece. There are still things neither of us can talk about, even to each other. But it was all real."

Another tense silence followed. Then, "The Lighthound."

She slowly smiled, and leaned back a little. She was still staring, though, and there were too many teeth in her smile. "The one and only."

His brow furrowed, and he fidgeted with his bound hands again. "What was it?"

"It was him. He was desperate. They all were. He called out for help, to anyone or anything that would listen, and... Eonar owed him. I don't know what number you heard, but he carried five people out of the Blight clouds. It was classified--and instantly became a folk tale--because absolutely none of them showed a single sign of being Blighted."

Tulford scanned her face while she spoke, and for a while after she finished. Whatever he was looking for, he was increasingly distressed not to find. "I heard fifty."

"Only five. Five men who would have died in agony made it home."

"How-" He choked, swallowed a few breaths, and started again. "How does a slag like him get a favor from a fucking titan?"

She finally looked away, glancing down at her belly (where there were once a matched pair of holes in her torso), and huffed a little laugh. "Right place, right time. How much do you know about the Antorus campaign on Argus?"

More fidgeting. "Not much. I was only ever ground support here."

She peered at him, looking him up and down again as she did some very fast math, but let it pass. "Mm. The short version is, he answered her call, and they helped each other a few times throughout the campaign, establishing a... connection. She lives because of his actions. He lives because of hers."

Incredulous, Tulford asked, "Are you telling me they traded?"

"After a fashion. There was some back-and-forth. As I understand it, there is some mutual respect at this point, established when he agreed to be her champion during the Nazjatar campaign."

Not knowing what to say or do was fast becoming Tulford's baseline, and he didn't like it. It wasn't the normal kind of not knowing, either; not being sure whether a mission would go to plan or whether he'd get to go home for dinner was one thing. Being presented with answers he had no idea how to interpret, by someone he could not figure out whether to trust, and having no idea what the endgame was... That wasn't something he could have prepared for.

When he finally broke the silence again, he sounded even younger yet, and terribly lost. "What are you gonna do with me?"

She glanced at the door Terry had gone through earlier. "We haven't decided, yet. You seem to be a confused kid, but we'll have to do some background on you. However, as long as you're not some hired assassin or someone with a personal axe to grind, you're not in any danger from us."

After some uncomfortable throat-clearing to pretend he hadn't let his voice crack that way, Tulford gave her an evaluating look. "You're not actually a dipshit, are you."

"No more so than you."

A rude snort escaped him, and he shuffled with his bonds one more time. "Fine, that's fair." With that, he slid his hands right out of the ropes, letting them fall to the floor, then looked back up at her again.

After how calm she'd been each time he expected her to punch him in the face, it came as no surprise that she didn't really react aside from a slight nod. Acknowledgement? Approval? No telling. "Thank you for waiting for the children to be out of the room."

"Yeah, well." He rubbed at one wrist with a quiet grunt. "You already knew I didn't have any weapons. And you didn't slit my throat and dump me off the cliffs. So... Iunno. I wouldn't call what we've got trust, s'much. But I'm willing to at least believe you aren't gonna kill me now."

"Duzzat mean I kin come out now? Only I'm gettin' real sick o' sittin' 'ere all pruny an' I'd really like some clean pants."

Ah. Right. Terry'd been showering.

Shedwyn rolled her eyes. "I told you it was a mistake not to connect the bathroom to the master bedroom!"

"An' I told you there's nothin' wrong with 'avin' more'n one bathroom! Can I come out now or not? Are we done bein' murder-'appy idjits yet?"

"We're done being murder-happy idiots."

"Good. I'm fuckin' cold." With that, Lord Ambroce emerged from the bathroom, mercifully with a towel around his waist, and strode across the room to disappear through another doorway. As he passed the pair, Tulford once again blinking helplessly, he leaned over and pecked Dwyn's temple. "You owe me five gold."

Then he was gone, and Tulford was still blinking.

( @daily-writing-challenge @shedwyn @mekandawn )

#and so arrives terry #shedwyn #terwyn #caythaes #establishment #dwc

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lazlolullaby · 1 year

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late hatching, a Batman Beyond and Batfam concept

I think i made myself clear as mud in my last post that the Batfam as it stands now in the comics does not mesh with the DCAU timeline.

but that doesn't mean the batfam can't come to Terry.

Special thanks to this fic (slice of life where Bruce is younger, has the fam but can't go vigilante anymore so they hire Terry to babysit) https://archiveofourown.org/works/44548396/chapters/112054687

and this series. (Balances dark and light very well, even if the Batfam grow and protect Gotham, Terry still gets the cowl) https://archiveofourown.org/series/1710604

So. Here's Cake #3!!! Ya'll enjoy and if you make something i'd be happy to see it!

TL;DR: Cassandra steals a delayed Damian from the League of Assassins, reunites him with his elderly genetic donor, and decides to stick around. Dick decides that he should probably keep a closer eye on the manor. More people come out if the dark streets of Gotham, ready to fight to keep it safe.

Batman II gains Pranking Auntie Black Bat, Worried Uncles Grayson and Drake, Mob Parents Jason and Roy, the gossipy PIs Signal and Spoiler, and Murder Child Robin. Terry gets an existential crisis, Matt gets a some emotional and physical wounds, and Mary gets some inheritance money.

AKA: Beyond limited capes AU.

From the top, chronologically:

Cassandra lost her chance to train with Batman. He refused, after the Incident with Tim Drake and the Joker. Even though she was a trained fighter, he can't risk it. He can't risk anyone. He points her in the right direction for help and keeps tabs like he does.

Cassandra is adopted by Nightwing and becomes the Batgirl of Bludhaven, eventually Black Bat on her own, focusing on saving other children forced into a life of cloak and dagger.

(Jason Todd was never written into the DCAU shows. He and Tim Drake were condensed for reasons. But let's presume he was there the whole time. They were friends on the streets. He was late trying to help Tim find out what was in the locker. He remembers Robin later trying to help him before suddenly leaving. Overlooked by Batman, thus overlooked by the Joker, the League of Assassins, and heroics in general. But he survived. Saw all of the pain and anger and just decided to run his little piece of Gotham how he likes it. No starving kids. No heroes or villains. Absolutely no Jokerz. Roy Harper comes to break it up but then goes: hey I'm sorry but the Drug Lord just got me clean off drugs so I'm gonna marry him.) They are older gay mob grandpas with their daughter Lian.

Since the Joker is dead, Duke's parents are not affected by the Venom. He still has an interest in vigilantes. He was able to track what happened to Robin. Batman scares him off, but he's still determined to help. So like comics canon, Bruce points him to learning opportunities. He ends up becoming a Private Investigator, of Signal and Spoiler fame.

Batman saves Stephanie Brown from her shot at the cape. They also work closely with Barbara Gordon. Stephanie is also an investigative journalist and busts open several mob and villain rings with the help of Duke, Jason, and silent help from Batman.

Cadmus sees all of these new Robins keep getting denied left and right. Concerned that Batman was needed, they go ahead with Project Batman Beyond.

Bruce discovers this. He creates a false paper trail. A company was illegally creating clones/children of the rich for blood transfusions and organ transplants. And the occasional "long lost heir" con. It was easy enough to add Terry and Matt to the list before exposing them.

Bruce went over to the Mcginnis household with a lawyer and an NDA. Terry and Matt don't have a legal right to the Family Fortune, but they do have a small trust fund to be given when they're 18. (small is relative when you're rich.)

Terry grows up. He gets the job at Wayne Manor. (With Mary's blessing, of course.)

Terry tracks down Dick Grayson and they have a agreement about weekly emails. He never comes to Gotham. (Batman II, fighting Nightwing: PER MY LAST EMAIL-) Dick doesn't show up at the Manor at all. Not until Terry sees him scrubbing the Joker Graffiti off of the Batcave walls.

Now everything after this is post-ROTJ movie.

And then. Damian. The League of assassins has been trying to recreate Batman as well. But all of the clones consistently die around their 8th birthday. So the project was delayed by decades. They accepted a work around with the splicing tech. Damian wasn't originally related to Bruce and Talia. But they overwrote his DNA to truly make him the Heir. They were training him to take over the Batman mantle - he wasn't ready to do it yet, but then Terry as Batman II pops up. Damian is angry. Cassandra is able to sneak in and use that to smuggle him out to Gotham.

so now the Manor starts filling up with Dick, Cass, Damian, and occasionally Tim and Terry gets moved to a less hectic shift. He's bounced off of solo vigilante status and now has to contend with Cassandra and Damian following him around.

The official story is that the Cloning and corporate espionage happened and now Dick Grayson came back to Gotham to help his elderly father raise his clone and handle his affairs. He brought his security detail, Cassandra. Also they get Titus the emotional support dog for Damian.

Mary Mcginnis calls Bruce and renegotiates the terms of the NDA, since the cat's out of the bag. She sits Terry and Matt down and tells them that they're not genetically related to Warren. Terry. Does not take it well. Matt is confused and sad.

Damian hears about this and tries to kill Matt both as a "thing the League trained him to do" and "he's like me why does he get to be happy?" anger and jealousy over his life.

Batman II is seen wrangling a brightly colored child and demanding that he not stab his brother. Matt recognizes the wrangling and figures out who's under the cowl.

There are now officially two Robins. Pray you get the one without a sword.

(that's it it's just Terry adjusting from being a Single Child of Batman to being a Middle Child of the Batfam)

#batman beyond #batfam beyond au #terry mcginnis #damian wayne #cassandra cain #dick grayson #Duke Thomas #Stephanie Brown #jason todd #bruce wayne #lazlo's lulls #idk something about bruce wayne dying at 8 in the alley with his parents #i mean metaphorically the child dies and what's left builds himself into batman you know #anyway i feel like Damian would feel intense Emotions upon seeing Matt and Terry #them being normal and him being shaped into a weapon #but all of them gravitating to the cape anyway #the dynamic between Papa Jason and his favorite juvie child Terry has got to be funny too

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someone-always-cares · 10 months

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chapter 5, page 60

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[image description: an sac webcomic page. the shelf crashes onto schmidt, pinning them. her mask is now fully formed, aside from the growing horns, showing the eye holes surrounded by branching tendrils that match the ones on her shoulder and hands. markings that are easier to view in the close up of her, glaring directly at the viewer, the highlights in her eyes now more like her tendril shapes rather than the wiggly lines they were before. with one hand on the counter, lewis quickly vaults over the shelf and person trapped under it, all that is seen of them is the sparking hand reaching up at him. jade worriedly grimaces downwards at schmidt, one hand on the doorframe she's facing, the one they just tried a few pages ago. end id]

so i didnt finish this page due to stomach pain on monday so it wasnt done tuesday, so i thought, okay, well, lets get it finished on wednesday after i take my bro out for a birthday movie.

and then i got back, took a 20 minute nap so id have a little energy to draw comics! and then i woke up 5-6 hours later, at 3am. 3 alarms slept through (despite being a light sleeper) and lights still on. the 5 hours sleep each day took its toll i suppose, so i went back to sleep, so heres the comic today!!!

speaking of waits for comics! its time for the annual fucking off period! also known as "taking a break" like i do in december, buts lets be honest, i will not be taking a break. like always i will just be working on other things because i cant just not draw for too long.

hopefully this means i will be working on a buffer, finally. i will for sure be working on making chapter 1 book ready! if im very lucky i will get that sorted and ready before next febuary (got a couple large cons there) but thats a very generous estimate and assuming self funded and not kickstarter, but i can do that with some savings if i only get a small amount of books because chapter 1 isnt long. wish me luck.

so yes, this is the last update until january unless i end up making a holiday drawing who knows.

until then, im also going to try and upload more art to my art blogs (@galaxia-art on tumblr and galaxiaprince on instagram) and speaking of socials, shameless self promotion for my etsy because if youre looking to buy something from outside the uk then the last days for doing that and getting it before christmas is the 4th-7th december (depending on country) (or the 18th if you're in the uk). if you dont care when it arrives then all's good whenever!

anyway, thank you all so much for reading my comic, and i hope you all have a great rest of the year!

#sac #someone always cares #webcomic #webcomics #comics

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edzephyr · 1 year

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This is a post to fans, friends and colleagues alike. I am overjoyed that people appreciate my work. I’ve for years been trying to break through in an extremely difficult industry, and have been met with silence and setbacks, despite always being told I stood out, that I could ‘make it’, and holding to that faith others had/have in me. I developed ‘Kirk’, as a role, almost by accident - in response to becoming a fan of the original Trek and frustration at being pigeonholed in a certain appearance and character type, which is utterly unrecognisable in this guise. This was, and is, me breaking confinement. I’m also the sort of person who will aim to break barriers and do the impossible. Years ago a tutor had me play this very character in an improvised scene, and the performance (despite me being unfamiliar with the role) was met with attentive silence and the tutor saying to me "does your agent know you can do that? You can play that part". And, implicitly, a variety of other similar parts, that I knew were where my best expression resided. When the long hair went and I hit the gym, and I incidentally started to watch Star Trek, I realised the resemblance was also there and thought, well. Rather than sitting in my room waiting for the phone to ring, why not do something...maybe a little unconventional.

It was always more than a cosplay; it was, deep down, proving, despite the lack of opportunity, that I could do something, in terms of performance, that is really very challenging; that many actors couldn’t do. To portray one of the most iconic characters of all time, in a way that some have said, is untouchable and impossible. OK - so I will perform the parody, the comedy for entertainment – Shatner himself does that! He (and I) lean into both; we’re performers, entertainers. And as many of you will know, what I do, underneath, isn’t based in parody, or imitation. This month, all going to plan, we will be releasing a short film/‘test’ footage in which I portray Kirk, in some way similar to how I would if I were employed to do the job, and it should demonstrate, that this does indeed, work. That it would be terrific to see. It will also hopefully serve, to the eyes of the keepers of the gates to success, as a demonstration of capability. It may not get me THE role (as I cannot mitigate all factors in play), but it may show to someone my qualities and fibre as an actor, for any given role - and I hope that someone gives me that chance.

In the meantime, I have of course taken myself as Kirk out everywhere I can. As much as this could read as a descent into madness, it has made me feel that somehow, I am in fact doing my job. I am doing what any performer hopes to do. To move, to entertain, to extend a positive and thoughtful influence on this chequered world. And it’s a role I’m very good in. Kirk’s optimism I empathize with; he is, if I do say so myself, not a bad fit to what I bring to the table as a persona and actor – and likewise, I have his shadows, so it’s not always easy. Kirk, however, doesn’t tend to give up; he would also be breaking the rules and trying to prove a point. And so, it has kept me going.

I do receive suggestions to attend more events – and thank you for making me aware of them. Beyond a few local and small ones, due to limited funds, I can only generally go further afield and/or attend the bigger cons in a professional capacity / when supported to attend. My primary work is as an actor/performer, and while I'd love not to need financing to provide the entertainment I do, and to go to lots more events and bring people joy, we don't yet live in a Trek post-scarcity society where basic needs are met and most people are able put their energy into what they do best without needing any return. It's a catch 22 as nothing else is funding my entertainment but my entertainment, and the core of the industry I work in is still playing hard to get. You might say it's another broken system, where talented people aren't given opportunity to work, opportunity that is often based on a number of random and esoteric factors that are very difficult to bring to bear. I and others have to waste beautiful moments to perform, that can be as enriching to others as personally fulfilling to the artist, in either finding other ways to survive, or not being able to afford to finance it otherwise. I guarantee, some of you will have enjoyed seeing my work or performance at some event or another that I wouldn't have made it to without support. We will never know the positive impact, for example, I could have had at an event I didn't appear at, as I had no professional capacity in which to attend and couldn’t afford it otherwise. It's heartbreaking to me that, for example, I'm thinking about another weekend and at least two events I could go to but can't; worrying about even the next tube fare as I had another month with barely any income; and grieving in advance the lost opportunities to be out and reaching people. The last thing I also want is to be stuck inside my London brick cell, for a variety of reasons. I suppose the whole situation I find myself in, away from the glamour of events and cons etc, feels like a point of shame. But I know people like what I do, and have been supportive, when they’ve known how to help; and always understood. Even Shatner, post Star Trek, was living in a caravan, despite having literally just played Kirk! Frankly, I’d love a motorhome (actually, it’s a mad dream to live in a converted bus and call it the ‘Starbus Enterprise’ but I digress...)

In general, be it for events, or in film/tv, or on stage; we all know, something enjoyed, wanted and valued needs support. I am very grateful for the support given to me by my friends and colleagues. The physical, moral and professional – I would ask that you continue to lend that support – and I’ll be there, being able to do more wonderful stuff for you all to enjoy.

LLAP 🖖 Ed

#star trek #captain kirk #james t kirk #jim kirk #james kirk

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ask-healthy-light · 1 year

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The weekend of GalaCon had officially come to an end, and people started to pack up everything they had bought or taken along to head out, but before that, I hurried over to the stage to speak with a voice actress, Flitterkriz, who would portray Poffertje, one of the mascots of PonyCon Holland; and I thanked her for entering the pack of drawings, before I asked her for an autograph and a picture.

After wishing her well and waving goodbye, I met up with my friends and went outside, where a crowd was gathering with their plushies to take a picture, which I tried to join for a while, but I could not find a suitable place, so I stepped away, met up with some friends, and went to the Beergarden; but we realised lots of other folks had gone here as well, so we had to wait before we could order.

Eventually, after playing Liar's Dice for a few rounds, I wished goodbye to Joel and Ember who were sitting nearby, and promised them we would meet again in just a couple of weeks, before we left the Schwaneninsel, and headed into town; and after a little while of walking, and a change of heart, we went into a small pizzeria, adjacent to the hotel of a few folks in the group, for pasta and pizza.

Though I tried to order in German for the group, it was a great relief and big surprise to know the owner could speak English fluently, and he happily took our orders; but sitting there with friends, minutes before this charming little restaurant closed, reminiscing over the Con while we waited for our food, was a special feeling I hold dear to my heart, yet which I struggle to describe properly.

Don't get me wrong, the entire weekend of GalaCon was a genuinely amazing experience, one I am glad to have participated in, and for which I have already decided to volunteer for next year; but being with friends, just having dinner and quietly talking about what we had done, is also wonderful, and it reassures me that even without conventions, we can spend time and make lovely memories together.

We paid for dinner, thanked the restaurant owner for hosting us, and left, where, after wishing the others a good evening before they headed somewhere else, there was some confusion between my friend and I over whither to go to return to our hotels; since we were close to Waiblingen main station, I headed there to reach my hotel, whereas my friend returned to the venue to take the bus from there.

Admittedly, as I headed to my hotel in the dark by myself, I was a bit afraid, especially due to my many bags I was taking along, as well as my messenger bag, on which a few buttons clicked with each step I took; but I safely made it to the hotel, where I greeted a group of folks, playing a game in the foyer as I went to my room, only to find Michael had left already, which was a strange feeling.

Heh… Coincidentally, as I'm writing this, "Fond Memories" by "Single Purpose" starts playing…

Fortunately, Michael had sent me a message via Discord before he left, wherein he kindly thanked me for taking up his offer for sharing a room during GalaCon, for if I had not asked, he admitted that he might have had to cancel the entire trip; and I politely replied when we were at the restaurant, thanking him for offering to be my roommate in the first place, as it was nice to finally meet him!

Had it not been for my surgery in July, we would have met at Pinkie's Chocolate Rain Party, about a month prior to GalaCon, but I know if I had not passed on the weekend at PCRP, I would not have had enough energy for this weekend; and I let him know I would keep an eye out for next year's GalaCon, so I can book a room, and apply as volunteer as well, as quickly possible, as I am very interested!

But back in my hotel room, as I had run out of funds, I spread out everything that I had purchased, and tried to figure out on what I had spent everything, as I was certain I had more funds; but soon after I started to count, I realised the obvious fact that many small amounts quickly add up, while big purchases increased this amount even more, which made me even more aware of everything I had…

Nevertheless, I packed up everything, showered, and went to bed. Only the journey home to go…

(Thanks for reading this bonus! I'll be writing more about GalaCon over the next few days, so keep an eye out if you're interested!)

Part 7/8

#bonus #mod speaks #events #conventions #galacon

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paypant · 1 year

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nat-20s · 3 years

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Part 8 of the wonderful! Au: the boys answer some questions! Up to you to decide if they actually clarify anything!

(also on AO3)

~*~

Martin: Hey everyone! I know what some of you are thinking right now: it's not Tuesday, why is this episode in my feed? I know significantly more of you are thinking: I don't consistently keep up with podcast releases, how much free time do you think I have, buddy? To answer your queries: this is a bonus episode! We're answering listener questions to clear the air and/or have fun. Also, I don't know, around 20 to 40 minutes a week, as that is the average amount of time per episode? Maybe during your commute? My husband's omnipotence has been gone for five years, we just have to guess at that sort of thing now.

Jon: For legal reasons, that last statement was a joke. In fact, to cover all of our bases, we do not guarantee that any of our responses are genuine.

Martin: Just because we say we'll answer things doesn't mean we'll answer truthfully. Though, honestly, I think we might make it more enjoyable if we do tell the truth. Like, I don't necessarily have a fun lie prepared for our first question from konspiracyking97: "What's their fuckin deal anyway?"

Jon: Is this referring to the oblique references we've made about being from a parallel reality and only ending up here as a consequence of ending one apocalypse and potentially starting another or the general premise of the show?

Martin: Oh, it's gotta be general premise, yeah?

Jon: In that case, I'm Jon, the other voice you're hearing is Martin, we're married, and we talk about things that are..nice? Good? Usually generally but occasionally rather specifically pleasant.

Martin: That pretty much covers it. It's not a complicated show. Uhh, next question comes from Shane: are either or both of you aliens? Nope!

Jon: Well..

Martin: No. We are 100% human people from Earth, we are under no definition extraterrestrial.

Jon: Eh..

Martin: Okay, first off, I know the tone of that 'eh' and "not fully human" is not synonymous with alien, so even if 100% is being a bit generous, we're still from the same planet as our listeners.

Jon:..

Jon: But. We sort of aren't though. Technically speaking.

Martin: No no no no no. I don't care if it's parallel, Earth is Earth is Earth, regardless of whatever nonsense metaphysics might be occurring.

Jon: So what you're saying is that if you got sucked through a portal and landed on an Earth where dinosaurs were still the predominant species, you wouldn't consider yourself to be an alien?

Martin: Nope!

Jon: I'm certain that they would consider you an alien. All of their mammals are probably shrew sized.

Martin: Sounds like a them problem.

Jon: Sounds like a-?! You know what, no, this will be an off the record debate, for now, I suppose I concede that the two Earths and our physiologies are similar enough that we might, maybe, not count as aliens.

Martin: Thank you. Anyway, our next question is from anonymous, and asks, "Is all of this an ARG?"

Jon: A whomst?

Martin: Alternate reality game. It's a method of storytelling that's interactive with audience, and usually has, I dunno, a certain suspension of disbelief to it where it pretends to be something actually happening in the real world until a dramatic reveal. A lot times it was used as a marketing gimmick, but others have done it just for fun. I can show you some examples after the show?

Jon: So it's in essence a more involved creepypasta?

Martin, delighted: Aw, babe, I'm never going to have a handle on what pop culture you are and aren't aware of, huh?

Jon: We were born within a year of each other, and I've told you that I was a deeply morbid teenager, you should probably be able to intuit some of things, love.

Martin: This coming from a man who has yet to see "It's a Wonderful Life", but has seen every film in the "Banjo Cannibals" franchise, including the Easter special. Jesus doesn't exist in the Banjo Cannibals universe, why does it have an Easter special?

Jon: The movies are rather shoddily translated from Russian, so I'm fairly certain the Easter component of that special was invented wholesale in the English version.

Martin: You say that like it answers more questions than it raises.

Jon: Yes, because it does. Oh, and to answer anonymous's question, no, this isn't an ARG. From my understanding of it, if it were, it'd be a poorly constructed one, as there's no real game element to any of this.

Martin: Hmm. Well, sometimes the game component is just trying to figure out what's going on with the story, or if there's any deeper content, and people are definitely doing that with this show.

Jon: That's not by design though. It's more a side effect of us having poor brain to mouth filters, I'd say.

Martin: Harsh, but fair. Oh, this next one is from Zac, no K, who asks, "Are you two actually even married?"

Jon, flat: We are, but it's under false names because this whole thing is an elaborate insurance scam.

Jon, incredulous: Yes, obviously, we're married. What did you hear in this podcast that would make you wonder otherwise, and how do we rectify it?

Martin: Clearly we need to up our quota for how "disgustingly in love" and "horrifically sappy" we are per episode. Which segues nicely into the next question from Gwen, "What's your favourite wonderful thing you've brought so far?" My answer: my husband. He's kind of my favourite in most things, you know?

Jon: Boooooo

Martin: Why, what's your favourite thing?

[Jon reluctantly sighs]

Jon, indulgent: being married.

Martin: A: serves you right for trying to pretend you're the less horrifically sappy and romantic one even though earlier today someone put a love note in the lunch they packed for me-

Jon:- Lies and slander! I have never, in my life, done that, even once.

Martin: Oh, sure, not even once. And you definitely don't reserve the lilac sticky notes specifically for my lunches because you know I like the colour.

Jon: I..I don't.. you're rather ruining my image here.

[Martin snorts]

Martin: Can't have the audience think that you are, on occasion, an incredibly doting husband-

Jon: -A title I would argue we both share-

Martin: - which is obviously why, even with it being your favourite thing you've brought, being married to me is just a small wonder-

Jon, audibly rolling his eyes: As I already explained-

[A Pause}

Jon: Actually, you're right-

Martin: Wait-

Jon:- I really should have brought it as a larger wonder-

Martin: Wait-

Jon: though I should warn you, I think I'd have far too much material for just one little segment-

Martin: No no no no no-

Jon:- In fact, I think I might have too much material for just one little episode-

Martin: Joo-oon-

Jon: I might have to do a whole series! Where would I even start? I mean I could talk about how every day I get to watch the early morning sun highlight your curls when I get up first, or hear you quietly humming and shuffling around the kitchen when you do, or I could talk about how the lunch notes only started in the first place as retaliation to the notes you would leave on the mirror for me to find, or how every time I get to see you at ease in a way that you aren't with anyone else, it takes my breath away, or I could talk about how cute I find the lines between your eyebrows that you only get when you're thinking something petty, but you know it's petty so you don't want to say anything-

Martin: Okay, okay, Christ, I give !up I surrender, and will cease my teasing on this particular topic.

Jon, probably making the :3 face: You don't have to stop. I mean, I could also discuss how very, very attractive I find your voice when it takes on a teasi-mmph!

[There's a pleased hum, then a pause.]

[The audio quality is slightly changed, as if the recording has been stopped and then started later]

Martin, giddy: Uh, heh, anyway, Eric asked what the least favourite thing we've brought was, and because of Jon's attempt to embarrass me live-

Jon, overlapping: It's definitely not live-

Martin:- on air, I'm gonna say it's my husband.

[Jon scoffs]

Jon : If the past few minutes are any sort of indication, I'm going to go ahead and saying that you are lying.

Martin, sighing contentedly: Maybe a bit, but how was I supposed to resist when your indigance gives you that adorable little nose scrunch? In reality, my least favourite thing was probably, um, mini golf? Which, I still don't think is inherently bad, definitely superior to regular golf, but when it's the only thing a next door two year old wants to do with you, the charm begins to wear off a bit.

Jon: Wow. A rather scathing review of a toddler.

Martin: Not so much a scathing review of a toddler as it's a scathing review of minigolf's inability to keep its appeal after the third time in the same week.

Jon: Mmm, the sound effects rather quickly go from part of the atmosphere to part of the irritation, don't they?

Martin: So what's your least favorite thing we've covered here?

Jon: Oh, love, I'm not going to pretend to have nearly enough memory of what we've covered so far to have a least favorite.

Martin: Really? Nothing that you regret or rescind?

Jon: Well, regret, certainly. It was one of the weeks where you went first, and your second item was mutual aid funds, and what they can do for marginalized communities, and I had to follow it with fucking Slapchop.

Martin, poorly suppressing laughter: In your defence, Slapchop, or whatever offbrand we have, is pretty useful, especially when either your scar or my arthritis is acting up.

Jon: I'm still not convinced you didn't somehow see my notes for the recording and decided you get revenge for the first year that we knew each other.

Martin, no longer suppressing his laughter: Yep, you got me! This marriage wasn't an act of insurance fraud, but it was a near decade long con to humiliate you on a podcast that about twenty people listen to. I'll draft up the divorce papers immediately, and then we can finally go our separate ways.

Jon: I'm glad you've at last admitted it. Such a weight off of my shoulders. Goodbye forever then.

Martin: Right.

Jon: Right.

[A beat.]

[There's a pfft from one of them, before both dissolve into giggles that lasts a good 30 seconds.]

Martin, slightly out of breath: I can't believe we're the kind of people that talk this much about speciality kitchen gadgets.

Jon: Sorry about that.

Martin: God, don't apologize. I'm, like, deliriously happy with our varying degrees of useful cooking ware filled life. If you had told 25 year old me that one day he'd be debating the merits of getting a tortilla press with his husband, he'd have wept, I tell you.

Jon: Funny, if you told 25 year old me the same thing, he would've said "You don't know the future,piss off" and then quietly have a bit of a panic at 3 am that night.

Martin: I bet you were insufferable in your mid-twenties.

Jon: First of all, who isn't, secondly, I was fresh out of Oxford, and third, I was insufferable in my late twenties, as you can attest to, and I'm insufferable now, as you can further attest to, so extrapolation would indicate that, yes, I was insufferable back then.

Martin: Probably a different kind of insufferable, though.

Jon: There are different kinds?

Martin: Of course! You used to be "prick boss" insufferable and now you're "smug in a way that I can't admit I find hot or it will go straight to your head" insufferable.

Jon, in the aforementioned smug tone: Oh, really?

Martin: See, see! Straight to your head.

Jon: Well straight is probably the wrong descriptor-

Martin: Oof, 4 out of 10 joke, babe.

Jon: That would be a far more convincing rating if you weren't grinning right now.

Martin: It's a genuine review, I'm just well known to be a sucker.

Jon: You and me both, darling.

Martin: Okay, if you're pulling out darling, you're clearly in too giddy of a mood to be focused on recording. Last question, from Jess, "You two mentioned meeting at work, but how did you actually end up together?" That's easy, Jon pulled me out of a hell dimension and then we went on the lam together to Scotland.

Jon: If that's not the way to tell a cute boy you like him, I don't know what is.

Martin: All right, that wraps up this bonus episode, and as the old saying goes, hiding from murderers in a cottage is more conducive to romance than suggesting you gouge out your eyes together.

Jon, cut off: Hey-!

#tma #jonmartin #jon sims #martin blackwood #post canon #wonderful! au #my fic

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cherienymphe · 4 years

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xoxo (Peter Parker x Reader)

WARNINGS: NON-CON, roofie use, Stark!Peter, snobby rich people, Peter’s an ass (I believe @opheliadawnwalker3 coined the term “baby Ransom”)

DNI IF THIS OFFENDS YOU

➥ {page breaks done by @whimsicalrogers}

summary: Peter Stark, the adopted son of the playboy philanthropist Tony Stark, has been a pain in your ass for years. Ever the womanizer, you always brushed off his flirtatious behavior as part of his personality, unaware of just how deeply his feelings ran.

You leaned against the bar with a grimace, nursing the strong drink in your hand as the annoying sound of high-pitched laughs and fake compliments drifted up from downstairs, swirling around you. You glanced over your shoulder to look down at the rest of the guests before rolling your eyes at this soiree that was nothing more than a pissing contest for the rich and snooty.

You truly hated being the daughter of a wealthy CEO more often than not. You’d grown up with the kind of lifestyle that more than half the world would never taste, ignorant to not only reality, but the true inner workings of the business that funded your lifestyle. It wasn’t until your junior year of high school when the rug was ripped out from underneath you, exposing the dark truth.

Now, you detested everything about this lifestyle. From the preferential treatment to the fancy parties, you hated everything that came with it. Despite the fact that you were an adult now, your father still had an iron grip on you no matter how much you pretended he didn’t. It was why instead of going on a humanitarian trip with some friends from college for winter break, you were back in the big apple, the upper east side to be exact, surrounded by a bunch of brownnosers.

“Another please,” you murmured, setting your empty glass down onto the bar.

The bartender was quick in giving you a refill, but before the glass met your lips, a finger slid in between to gently push it away. A sigh escaped you before you even turned your head, the familiar smell of his cologne reaching your nose.

“You’re always off by yourself at these little gatherings…”

You turned towards the voice, eyes meeting his dark ones as a playful smirk danced along his pink lips. His brown hair was neatly pushed away from his face, suit fitting him to perfection. He looked so put together and very much like a gentleman. Too bad that you knew better.

“Someone like me might take it as an invitation to approach you.”

You fully turned in your seat, leaning your elbow on the bar to gaze at him, unimpressed, cheek resting on your hand. He too was leaning on the bar, signaling for the bartender to get him a drink, already sliding into the seat in front of you. You could’ve protested, but he wouldn’t listen anyway.

Peter Stark was the bane of your existence. Adopted by the great Tony Stark when he was just a toddler, a big ordeal that made the papers apparently, the dark-haired male grew up in the same environment you did. The same circles. You went to the best schools together, often times having the same batch of friends. He always had the teachers and just about every other adult fooled, but everyone else knew better.

Peter’s charm was notorious. Those soft brown eyes and boyish good looks could have any girl swooning at his feet. He was so good that most girls didn’t even mind being one of the many. As long as they were a number, they didn’t care. Let them tell it, he had a way of making every single one of them feel special. You probably would’ve been one of them had you not seen his behavior firsthand all those years ago. How he’d tell one girl one thing and say something completely different to the next.

Peter’s constant flirtations with you and your absolute refusal to ever even entertain him had made your relationship…interesting. Could you even call yourselves friends? He flirted with you, and you rolled your eyes at his antics. That was the gist of it. His behavior had only gotten worse once you’d denounced this lifestyle the minute you left for college, a non-Ivy League college at that.

You remembered the surprise you felt that Peter had seemed to be genuinely upset with the 180 you’d done with your lifestyle. You had rolled your eyes as he’d called you all sorts of ‘wannabe’ this and ‘wannabe’ that, biting your tongue as he insulted your ‘low rate school’. Even now, after a little over 2 years, he still sneered whenever he brought up your new life.

“Color me shocked you even showed up today. Last I heard you were going to build houses for children,” he said, nursing his drink.

You smirked at him, fighting back a laugh.

“Last you heard? Keeping tabs on me, Stark?”

He returned your smirk, dark eyes trailing over you, gaze lingering on whatever skin your short dress exposed. You weren’t fazed by his conspicuous onceover, more than used to it.

“Of course. I have to make sure my best girl stays out of trouble,” he told you, leaning in.

You scoffed, looking away from him as you downed your drink.

“Your best girl,” you dryly repeated, standing. “Yeah, okay.”

Peter hurried to stand with you, whistling at the bartender as you walked away. It wasn’t long before you felt his arm being thrown over your shoulder as he pulled you against him. He waved an expensive bottle of champagne in your face as he walked down the hall with you.

“You may have switched up and hate me now-.”

“I’ve always hated you,” you deadpanned.

“…but you can’t deny that I know how to throw a party within a party,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard you. “Ned and I are having a little get together in the penthouse suite.”

He wasn’t wrong, and you sighed as you thought about how angry you’d been to be forced back home for the break instead of doing what you wanted to do. You could honestly use the distraction, at least for a little while until you had to be in your father’s presence again. You sighed again, and by the grin on Peter’s lips, you knew that he knew that he had you.

“Fine. Lead the way,” you said with a flourish.

His grin widened, and he pulled you closer as he took you to the elevator. You leaned against the mirrored wall once inside, staring at your reflection with a frown.

“You shouldn’t frown so much,” he said, pressing the button. “It’ll give you premature wrinkles.”

“Why are you so concerned with how I age?”

He unbuttoned his suit jacket, approaching you as he swung the bottle of champagne in his hand.

“I want you to age as gracefully as me when we get married,” he teased, pressing his free hand onto the wall beside your head.

You laughed, shaking your head.

“I’d never marry you, and you… Well, you’d never get married,” you said with a shrug, shaking your head.

His grin dimmed a bit as his eyes met yours.

“I’d marry you,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, head leaning back against the wall as he moved closer, pressing his forearm to the wall, face suddenly serious as he eyed you. It was his turn to sigh now, the sound heavy and drawn out.

“When…are you and I finally going to get together?” he slowly asked, voice low in the quiet elevator.

Your eyes widened just a tad, nose brushing his as he leaned in. Peter hadn’t asked you that for some time now. It was a recurring question of his that you always brushed off, and even though this time was no different, something in his voice made you blink. There was a yearning that had never been there before. Something new lingering in his eyes.

You laid your hand on his chest, pushing him away, and he let you.

“Seriously, Peter? You know the answer to that question,” you said.

He huffed, his grin returning as he shook your rejection off.

“You know I always have to ask…just in case you change your mind,” he replied, quickly scanning your frame.

The elevator dinged, and the doors parted behind him, the low hum of a small party reaching your ears.

“I’m never going to change my mind.”

Without a second glance, you brushed past him to exit the elevator.

“You need to start getting serious about your future, Y/N.”

You stared out of the tinted window, watching the city fly by as your father’s car weaved in and out of traffic. He was giving you yet another lecture on what he thought you should be doing with your future. After all, it wasn’t like you had already decided on a major and knew exactly what you wanted to do with your life, so you could understand his- oh. Wait… You had!

“Dad,” you sighed. “We’ve talked about this.”

“Humanities isn’t a real major,” he argued for the umpteenth time, tone laced with contempt.

You cut in before he could continue.

“First of all, it is. Second of all, it’s my minor-.”

“Oh, of course. How silly of me to forget that- what is it? International relations? That’s the major, right?”

You crossed your arms over your chest, shaking your head.

“You know, I’ll never understand you kids. So fickle with your goals-.”

“Dad, I’ve had the same plan since before I even went to college. You can’t call it fickle just because at 17 I told you I didn’t want to follow in your footsteps. I’ve known what I wanted since then. Its literally the opposite of fickle,” you huffed.

You heard him sigh.

“I don’t understand what happened here, Y/N. I really don’t. Ever since you were little, you wanted to follow in my footsteps-.”

“…and now I don’t. Things happen,” you told him. “I don’t want anything to do with this lifestyle.”

You’d told him this a hundred times. You were so tired of having the same discussion, and you knew that he was too.

“Why can’t you be more like Peter?”

You frowned, finally looking over at him. This was a new tactic. The older man had his eyes focused on the paper as he continued to speak.

“He’s following behind Tony swimmingly, a real successor in the making,” he praised.

You fought the urge to groan and sink down in your seat like a child. Never in your wildest dreams did you think your father would be comparing you to Peter Stark of all people.

“You’re comparing me to Peter now?” you scoffed.

The paper ruffled as he turned it, humming.

“I’m just noting that the two of you came up together, but you somehow deviated so far off track.”

“Well, since you love Peter so much, just pass the company onto him when the time comes. God knows he’ll appreciate it way more than I will,” you grumbled.

Your father hummed at that.

“I actually have hopes that, in some way, the company will be his one day,” he replied.

Your brows furrowed, confusion filling you as you fought to understand what he meant. Your father’s eyes finally met yours, a serious look on his face.

“Peter’s exactly the kind of man you should be considering when you finally get ready to get married.”

Shock poured over you like a bucket of ice water, his words having been the last thing you expected to hear. Marriage? Peter? You blinked a few times, fighting to clear your head enough to articulate what you were thinking.

“You…you can’t be serious…?”

He fixed you with a stern look.

“As a heart attack. What is there to oppose? Peter is young and handsome and well brought up. He’ll be taking over after Tony one day, and you really can’t do much better than that. Unless you’re aiming to be the next Meghan Markle, but no offense sweetheart, you don’t strike me as the type,” he elaborated.

You pressed your hand to your forehead as your mind spun.

“I’m not telling you to marry him or anything. I’d never go so far to participate in something as archaic as an arranged marriage. I’m just telling you to consider it. He’s a good match for you, and I’d like you to be open to it…”

You couldn’t begin to believe how sharply this morning had turned.

“It’s why you’ll be seeing a lot more of him over the break. Just keep it in mind when we meet with them,” he said.

He must have noted the confusion on your face because he continued.

“We’re meeting them for brunch. Tony wants to run his latest idea by me, and we figured it would give you and Peter more time to catch up,” he explained.

The car had finally stopped just as he finished, and you didn’t have time to process anything before you were being ushered out of the car. The brisk air whipped around you as you followed your father into the fancy restaurant.

Your father wanted you to marry Peter? The idea was so absurd that you actually considered the possibility that your father was playing a joke on you. You felt like you were having an out of body experience as you and your father sat down, you across from Peter. As always, he looked absolutely tickled to see you, while you simply returned his grin with a withering stare.

Brunch was a taxing affair. Tony Stark greeted you as politely as he always did before he and your father got right down to business. That left you and Peter with no one but each other to look at. You did your best to ignore the annoying brunette sitting across from you, barely speaking with him no matter how many times he tried to engage you in conversation.

You supposed that your behavior towards Peter was a bit unfair. After all, it wasn’t his fault that your father wanted you to marry him. Although, as you thought back to your conversation in the elevator the other day, you had to wonder if he knew, or at the very least, had some idea. And that was exactly what you asked him once you were alone.

Your father and Tony had gone back to Tony’s office in a hurry to remedy some oversight that had been missed. You’d been left with your father’s car and driver, and you eyed Peter, waiting for his answer, as you made your way outside.

“Not really, no.”

You slid into the backseat, thanking the driver before scooting as far away from Peter as possible as he joined you.

“Not really or no? Those are two different answers,” you told him.

A smirk danced along his lips as he leaned his head back, turning it ever so slightly to gaze at you out of the corner of his eye.

“I had an idea. The great Mr. Y/L/N never came outright and said it, but little things he’d say here and there started to add up,” he explained with a chuckle.

He apparently found this funny while you did not. You crossed your arms over your chest, anger bubbling within you at the thought of your father playing matchmaker behind your back. Peter reached for your hand, attempting to pull it away from your chest, but you jerked it away as soon as his fingers brushed yours. He sucked his teeth.

“Come on. Would marrying me really be so bad?”

You turned to fully face him, not a hint of humor on your face.

“Yes,” you answered, voice steady with conviction.

He simply rolled his eyes, lips twitching, and you shook your head with a scoff.

“Is your father in on this too? God, I bet Tony Stark is just eating this up,” you complained.

The tone of Peter’s chuckle gave you pause, and you eyed him as he grinned at you.

“Quite the opposite actually…”

You frowned, and God help you, because you found yourself…offended.

“He thinks I’m not good enough for you or something?” you questioned, raising an eyebrow at him.

You didn’t want to marry Peter, but you knew that you were more than good enough for a guy like him. The truth was that Peter wasn’t good enough for you. He shook his head, picking at a piece of lint on your shoulder as he hummed.

“No actually. In fact, he’d dare say that you are out of my league, and I’d be forced to agree,” he told you with a shrug. “He thinks you’re too much of a ‘wild card’.”

Now it was your turn to chuckle, nodding as you understood what that meant.

“I see. So he wants you to marry a meek and submissive little thing who will do everything you say and conform to the Stark image. Got it,” you replied with a smirk.

He returned it, finger trailing along your collarbone now as he eyed you.

“He thinks that you march to the beat of your own drum…and you do…,” he said, smirk growing as his gaze met yours. “…but I think I can handle you just fine.”

You slapped his hand away, disgust filling you just as the car stopped.

“We’re at your place. Get out,” you sneered, looking away from him.

“Care to join me? No one’s home…we’ll have the whole place to ourselves…”

You opted for ignoring him and the way his voice lowered, the hidden meaning in his question loud and clear. When some time passed, he finally sighed, and you heard the car door open. When it didn’t close, you turned to see Peter standing outside, one hand pressed onto the top of the car door while the other rested on the hood of the car as he leaned down.

A dark strand fell out of place and brushed along his forehead, dark eyes somehow darker as he trailed them over your tense form. His smirk slowly fell, and you blinked at the less than humorous expression on his face. You could count the number of times on one hand that you’d seen Peter so serious.

“You really shouldn’t try so hard to show your dislike for me…”

You frowned at him, and the corner of his mouth curved upwards just a tad.

“…someone might think you’re playing hard to get.”

Before you could process that, he’d closed the door. He didn’t go inside right away, instead opting for standing on the curb to watch your father’s car drive away.

When your father said that you’d be seeing a lot more of Peter over the break, you underestimated just how determined the old man was to get you and the Stark heir together. Every innocent gathering turned into a run-in with Tony and his wife, Pepper, and Peter. Whether it was brunch or dinner or a shopping trip. Hell, even an innocent day at the park had you coming face to face with who you now liked to refer to as ‘the pain in your ass’.

Had you known that this is what your winter break would entail, you would have fought tooth and nail with your father on it. You felt like this was such a waste of time, one big joke that you’d walked into and you were the punchline. You had no idea how much worse it could get.

You were currently in the hallway of the home that belonged to none other than the Starks. You were killing time by fleetingly looking at the artwork that was hung up on the dark walls, a half empty glass of some brown liquor in your hand. You could hear the voices of Tony, Pepper, and your father drifting to you from the lounge, and you rolled your eyes.

When your father had told you that you’d be joining them for dinner, you thought it’d be in their apartment in the city. Some place that you could easily escape if need be. You never would have agreed if you’d known you’d be in upstate New York hours later, conversing with them in one of their many secluded vacation houses. Dinner was long over, and you had no desire to be privy to anymore of their business talk. Peter had scurried off to only God knows where, and you couldn’t be bothered to care.

Perhaps you should have.

Your mood soured even further as you felt an arm slide over your shoulders to curl around your neck, pulling you back into a firm chest. Peter hummed, and you sighed. The story of your lives.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” he wondered, gesturing to the painting. “I picked it out. I thought it would brighten the place up a bit.”

You threw his arm off of you, and he chuckled.

“Don’t look so glum, Y/N. The grownups are knee deep into stock market talk, which means they won’t even think about us for another hour at the least…”

You looked to the ceiling as he slipped an arm around your waist, praying for some higher power to strike you down. Or him. You’d be happy either way.

“Surely we can find some way to keep ourselves occupied,” he murmured.

You turned to face him and turned your head again just in time for his lips to brush the skin of your cheek. You pushed yourself away from him with a frown, backing up until your back rested against the opposite wall.

“Whatever happened to MJ?” you suddenly asked him, a faint smile on your lips as you took a sip of your drink.

Peter smirked, leaning against the other wall as he stared you down, raising an eyebrow at you, dark suit hugging him nicely.

“Keeping tabs on me?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Hardly,” you snorted. “My father likes to bring up you and your personal life every chance he gets. Of course, now I know why. I was shocked to find out that you had a girl in your life who stuck around for more than two months.”

“She was too much like you,” he dismissively said. “She wanted to travel and see the world and make a difference. There’s only room for one girl like that in my life. Anything more, and things would start to get a little…dull.”

You hummed, pushing away from the wall to walk past him. Peter followed, and your mind spun.

“What exactly are you going to do when I finally meet a nice guy to get serious with? Surely, this behavior can’t go on forever, Peter,” you wondered.

He grabbed your elbow and gently pushed you into the wall. His other hand was beside your head, dark eyes narrowed and inquiring. You sharply inhaled, unintentionally breathing in the scent of him, and you blinked.

“What nice guy could you possibly meet at that sad excuse of a school you call-?”

“I don’t know how to break it to you that an Ivy League education isn’t exactly the picture of intelligence you think it is,” you sneered at him.

His own face grew taut as he glared at you, tilting his head to the side.

“Is that why you turned down your acceptance to Princeton? To prove some silly point?”

“For your information, Peter, I turned down my acceptance because I learned that the main reason I got in was because of my father.”

“So what? What is the point of our parents working their asses off for years if not to give us the opportunities they didn’t have growing up? When are you going to drop this holier-than-thou wannabe Mother Teresa act?”

“It’s not an act,” you spat, shoving him away from you. “This world? This way of life and everything that comes with it? I hate it. I despise everything about it. Its sickening that we live like we do while people down the street struggle to keep a roof over their heads. What is it to you, anyway?”

Peter ran his hand through his hair, huffing as he stared you down.

“You and me?” he started, gesturing between the two of you, his other hand on his hip. “We could’ve been unstoppable together. We were supposed to go to Princeton together. We were supposed to leave our mark on that campus together, create a legacy, and make a name for ourselves on our own, and instead I’m doing that by myself while you go off galivanting down south-.”

“Is that what this is about?” you demanded, incredulity filling your voice. “…some fantasy in your mind that we’d be some power couple who’d go on to take over after our fathers and rule the upper east side? Seriously? That’s a new one, even for you.”

Peter’s jaw clenched as he glared at you, nostrils flaring as he ran his eyes over you with the nastiest look you’d ever seen on his boyish face.

“You can run all you like…reinvent yourself all you want…”

His voice lowered as he approached you, and you stood your ground, glowering at him.

“…but you will never escape this life,” he threw at you, and you flinched at his harsh tone.

“That may be true…but I can still try,” you whispered.

The corner of his lips lifted into a mocking smirk.

“Try all you want. Hell, jump into a relationship with the next guy you have some anthropology project with for all I care. We both know that the only guy to give you the life you deserve…to give you what you need…”

He reached to fix a stray hair that had come out of place, smirk smug and eyes smugger.

“…is a guy like me.”

You stumbled away from him with a frown, arms folded over your chest.

“Screw you, Peter.”

You turned away from him to go find your father.

Peter had always been an annoying thorn in your side, but his behavior tonight had reached new heights. It amazed you, really, how far he was willing to go just to finally get you into bed. He had never had any problem being an asshole, but there was a shift in him tonight. His tone was harsher, words meaner, eyes just a tad bit icier than normal. In fact, it almost seemed like it wasn’t his usual cruel teasing.

When you finally neared the lounge, you frowned at the words that reached you.

“She’ll probably be a bit bitter about it at first, but I’m sure Y/N will grow to love it. This will be an amazing opportunity for her.”

You recognized your father’s voice, and you slowed just before finally entering, listening in.

“I was surprised to hear that she’s transferring, which is why I had never initially considered her for the internship. I was under the impression that she wouldn’t be here to do it.”

Your frown deepened at Tony Stark’s words, a sinking feeling in your gut, and although you wanted to hear more, something in you prevented you from staying still and doing so. You stepped into the lounge, greeting them all with a smile before resting your gaze on your father.

“I hate to cut the evening short, but I’m feeling a bit ill,” you lied.

Perhaps it wasn’t a complete lie. Peter’s harsh words didn’t exactly leave you feeling the best, but your father believed you anyway. The two of you said your goodbyes to the Starks, even Peter who had slithered his way into the foyer eventually. He’d sent you off with that stupid smirk on his face, and it took everything in you to resist the urge to roll your eyes.

The ride home was quiet. Your mind was too stuck on the snippet of conversation that you’d heard. You knew that it was about you, that much you had heard, but the talk about internships and transferring had you confused. Again, there was that sinking feeling in your gut, and it wouldn’t go away. You wanted to bring it up to your father, but he’d spent the entire next day in the office.

Your paranoia got the best of you though, and the next evening, you found yourself in his study, mind going a mile a minute as you poured over the papers you found. Shock coursed through you at every reveal, hands shaking and heart sinking in disbelief. That was how your father found you that night, perched in his desk chair, tearful eyes glaring up at him as he walked through the door. He sighed as soon as his eyes landed on the papers scattered all over his desk.

“Tell me this isn’t true,” you quietly pleaded.

You knew that it had to be, but you needed to hear him say it.

“You’ll be going to Princeton for your senior year. All of the paper work has been done and whatever needs to be transferred has been transferred,” he breathed, stepping into the room.

You shook your head in disbelief, tears spilling over. You were shocked to find yourself…shocked. You knew that your father didn’t approve of your new lifestyle and your plans for your future. You knew that it ran deep, and yet it had never occurred to you that he’d do something about it. You had foolishly thought that he’d let you make your own decisions.

This was the main reason you hated this world you were born into. The things that people could buy, could do, if they had enough money to do so scared you. It shouldn’t be allowed.

“…and the internship?”

You didn’t even care that you had revealed yourself to be eavesdropping last night. Your father stepped further into his study.

“You’ll be interning with Stark Industries immediately after graduation…”

You were out of his chair and stomping out of his office before he could even finish. He didn’t even call for you to come back, and why would he? His word was law. You both knew that this was going to happen, and you couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

The night air was cold, and you wished you’d grabbed a thicker coat before stepping outside. After all, the only thing you had on underneath was a flimsy dress. You’d had plans to meet up with some old friends from high school tonight after your talk with your father, but you had never imagined that the talk would reveal this.

A lot of people were out in the city. It was a Friday night, after all. There was some light snow falling, but you could hardly even see it because the tears had finally spilled over. You couldn’t remember a time where you were so angry that you’d cried. You were grateful to be in New York of all places, right now, because a girl crying on the sidewalk was the most normal thing someone would probably see.

You crossed the street to a less crowded sidewalk, still trying to wrap your head around what your father had done, when a sleek black limo slowed beside you. You wouldn’t have thought anything of it had the window not rolled down to reveal none other than Peter.

“Are you drunk?” was the first thing he asked you.

Fed up with this night and having no patience for Peter Stark and all of his glory, you sneered at him.

“No,” you snapped.

You huffed when the limo rolled slowly along the street in time with your steps. Peter called to you, but you ignored him. What was he even doing out, right now? It was a Friday night. Shouldn’t he be at someone’s party participating in at least 2 illegal activities?

You sped up when you heard his door slam shut, but you weren’t quick enough. His firm hands grabbed you and turned you to face him, shaking you just a little as he ran his eyes over you, gaze lingering on your tearful one.

“Hey…”

“Go away, Peter,” you said, fighting to get out of his grip.

His hold tightened, and he stepped closer.

“It’s late. Why are you out here on the street like this? What happened?”

You snatched one arm out of his hold and shoved yourself away from him.

“Did you know?”

His brows furrowed, frowning slightly at your question. His cheeks were red from the cold, giving him a cherubic aura that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Stark. Did you know that my father was getting me transferred to Princeton behind my back? That I’m supposed to be interning with your father as soon as I graduate?”

You registered the shock on his face, and he slowly shook his head, thrown by what you’d told him.

“No,” he softly said.

You crossed your arms over your chest, more tears falling.

“If I had known…I would’ve told you, Y/N.”

“Would you?” you scoffed.

His face hardened at your insinuation, and he shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Yeah, I would have. Look, I may hate this 180 that you’ve done with your life just as much as your father, but even I know that you’re going to do what you want anyway. You always have.”

He whispered the last part, and your gaze reluctantly met his. He pursed his lips, running his eyes over you as he reached for you.

“Where are you headed?” he wondered.

It hit you that you hadn’t really had a destination in mind. Your eyes widened, and you were sure that the panic and confusion was written all over your face. You shrugged, a few tears escaping.

“I…I don’t know,” you pathetically answered.

Peter softly sighed, pulling you towards the limo.

“Well, I was on my way to a party-.”

He cut himself off as you started to shake your head. You didn’t know where you wanted to go, but you knew that a party was not it. He pulled on your jacket, and you stumbled towards him in your heels.

“Hey,” he softly said when your eyes started to stray, and you looked at him. “I’ve got a couple of bottles of champagne in the limo, a full tank of gas, and a driver who’s getting paid by the minute. I’ll take you wherever you wanna go.”

You glanced away, thinking it over. You couldn’t stomach the thought of being near your father right now, and although Peter had shaken you last night, in the end, it was just him being his usual self. Your uneasiness from his words last night you wrote off to sensitivity and overthinking. You suddenly let out a humorless chuckle.

“You promise to get me really, really drunk?” you teased.

You were joking, but you honestly didn’t want to even remember your conversation with your father right now. That familiar smirk of his graced his lips as he threw an arm over your shoulder, guiding you towards the car.

“I promise to get you anything you want,” he purred.

The inside was warm, and you had almost forgotten how roomy limos could be. The L-shaped seating could easily fit 4 more people. True to Peter’s words, there was indeed two bottles of champagne on ice, and he reached for one as soon as the vehicle continued down the dark street.

You leaned your head against the window as he popped it open, getting you a glass. You felt defeated, and you were sure your face showed it as you took the offered drink from him.

“So what are you gonna do?”

You shook your head at Peter’s question.

“What can I do, Peter?” you quietly wondered with a shrug. “I mean… If my father is willing to go this far to get me where he wants me to be…? What’s stopping him from doing so again and again and again?”

Peter leaned back in his seat, eyeing you as you sipped on the bubbly alcohol.

“I’ll never be free of him,” you said, more to yourself than Peter. “God, he really is going to get everything he wants. Looks like I’ll be seeing you in 3 years at our engagement party, after all.”

Peter slid along the seat to get closer to you, rolling his eyes.

“Come on,” he dragged out. “Would marrying me really be so bad?”

You almost choked on your drink, and you incredulously eyed him.

“We’ve been over this before, and the answer is yes. That’s if we can even get you to walk down the aisle.”

Peter sighed, sitting his drink down.

“I would marry you,” he argued, looking at you.

“Come on, Peter. You’re just saying that!”

You took another sip, thankful for the liquid courage.

“It’s all a game to you. It always has been. The minute you finally get with me, it’ll be over. Hell…,” you said, thinking. “…maybe I should sleep with you so you’ll finally leave me alone.”

Peter laughed, resting his arm behind you on the back of the seat.

“If I had you, I’d never leave you alone,” he replied, voice soft.

“Yeah,” you barked a laugh. “Okay…”

“I’m serious,” he said, tone matching his words, and you fought to hold his intense gaze. “When are we finally going to get together?”

You glanced away.

“You’ve asked me this probably a hundred times, and the answer is always the same,” you murmured.

“When are we finally going to stop playing this game?”

Your eyes met his again, brows furrowed.

“I wasn’t aware that we were playing a game-.”

“I want you,” he whispered so quietly that you weren’t sure you heard him right. “You know that, Y/N. I’ve always wanted you.”

There was a frown on his face, and you swallowed.

“You want everyone,” you quietly replied, suddenly feeling very odd.

You scooted away from him just a tad, but he followed.

“When I have you, Y/N, I won’t treat you like those other girls,” he told you.

“Ha! How reassuring,” you sarcastically replied.

His hand rested on your arm, and you squirmed, head feeling a bit light.

“I’m serious,” he murmured, hand trailing upwards to brush along your shoulder before resting on your neck. “You’re my best girl…”

You blinked at him with a frown, and he tilted his head at you, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Why would I treat my best girl like the rest?”

You shook your head, moving away from him some more.

“Maybe…maybe I should just go home after all. I’m not feeling so good, right now,” you told him, alarmed at how slurred your words were.

You watched as Peter reached to take another sip of his drink.

“Yeah,” he calmly said, taking your drink from your trembling fingers and setting it aside. “That would probably be the Rohypnol.”

You slowly blinked at him, trying to clear the fuzz from your head as you processed his words. Did he just say…Rohypnol? As in…?

“Roofie is the common term, also known as the date-rape drug.”

Your mouth felt dry, and you felt like you weren’t sliding away from him fast enough.

“Peter, this…this is a joke, right? You’re kidding…?”

He snorted, and even without his confirmation, you knew that he wasn’t kidding. Your head had been spinning for minutes now.

“Come on, Y/N. When have you ever known me to be a huge comedian?”

You fell against the door as you tried the handle, but it was locked, and that was when you really started to panic.

“Y/N.”

You ignored Peter as he called your name, opting instead for hitting against the partition. You heard Peter heave a sigh from behind you before his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you back. Your movements were sluggish and futile, but you fought against him anyway. He pulled you down onto his lap as he leaned back into the seat.

“Peter…”

Your words died in your throat as his hands clasped around the back of your neck, pulling you down until his lips met yours. The kiss was hungry, Peter a man starved as he moaned into your mouth. He was panting when he pulled away, chest heaving before he kissed you again.

Your hands were pressed against his chest, trying in vain to push yourself away from him. You gasped against his lips, heart stuttering when he flipped you, your frame now between his and the seat. He settled against you easily, fitting perfectly in between your legs as his fingers danced over you.

The buttons of your coat flew as he yanked it open, and you shivered. Peter paid no mind, running his hands over your exposed skin before sliding them under your dress. You felt like you were barely hanging onto consciousness, not even realizing when Peter had started to drag your underwear down your legs until they were already to your ankles.

You feebly kicked against him, but he simply grabbed your legs, spreading them to settle in between them once more. You could feel him hot and hard through his pants, and more tears kissed your eyes. How on earth had you missed this? You cursed yourself for not taking his behavior more seriously. For not listening to yourself last night.

Confident that you could not fight him off, one of his hands worked between your legs while the other worked to release himself. He was right to be confident, because no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t get your arms to work right. You felt like you were underwater, weighed down by sand.

“Peter,” you quietly pleaded again, and he shushed you.

You squirmed beneath him as he pushed his fingers in and out of you, hating how easy it was because of how wet you were. He pressed his mouth against yours, forcing his tongue past your lips, and you trembled as you felt him line himself up with your entrance.

A high-pitched yelp left you as he filled you with one thrust. The moan that climbed out of his throat was low and long, and he cursed as you clenched around him. Your hand pressed against the back of the seat as he pulled back before snapping his hips into you again.

“You feel so good,” he groaned into your mouth.

One arm locked around your waist as he pulled you both into a sitting position, his throbbing cock still inside of you as he held you onto his lap. You pushed against him, but your arms buckled when he lifted his hips up into you.

You whimpered, falling against him, and both of his hands fell to grip your waist, tightly holding you as he fucked you. Your body couldn’t support itself, and you sagged against him, forehead pressing against his as your eyelashes fluttered. Your jacket was barely hanging onto you, and with one hand, he pulled it all the way off. He gripped the bottom of your sequined dress before bunching it around your hips.

You tried to push yourself up, push yourself off of him, but not only was his hold firm, your body was too under the influence of the drug he’d given you. You pathetically whimpered as you fell against him again, a sob caught in your chest. He pressed a sloppy kiss to your neck, the strap of your dress falling, and you shuddered.

He pulled you into another kiss, the taste of your salty tears seeping into your mouth. Your head was light, mind spinning with the pleasure being forced onto you. You pressed your hand against the seat, attempting to push yourself away again when Peter spun you both, your back connecting with the seat as he laid you down, his clothed hips slapping against yours. He moaned into your mouth as you fluttered around him, and with a start, you realized that despite your unwillingness, an orgasm was creeping up on you.

Both of his hands rested on your cheeks as he kissed you again and again. His dark hair was falling into his forehead, sweat coating the strands, and your skin fared no better. You squeezed your eyes shut as you felt your stomach clenching, shamed and disgust coursing through you.

“Look at me,” Peter quietly demanded.

You shook your head but yelped when one of his hands reached to pinch your nipple through your dress. You peeled your eyes open, tears blurring your vision, but your gaze met his all the same.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured just as you clenched around him with a choked moan.

Your climax triggered his own, and he pushed into you a few more times before falling against you with a groan. You were both sweating and panting, and you felt the flames of sleep licking at the corners of your vision.

There was so much that you wanted to say to Peter, to scream at him, but you couldn’t form the words. You could only lay there as he kissed you again before pulling out of you, leaning back against the seat as he fixed himself. Sleep was just in your grasp, but you were scared to close your eyes. Scared of the man you thought you knew.

He spread his arm over the back of the seat, the other pulling your dress down, that annoying playful smirk dancing along his lips.

“I think a winter wedding would look absolutely beautiful.”

tags: @bamposworld @mcudarklibrary @darkficreposter @xoxabs88xox @buckybarnesplumwhore @harryspet @coconutqueen21 @opheliadawnwalker3 @nickyl316h @captainchrisstan @sebabestianstan101 @villanellevi @lokislastlove @notyourtypicalrose @hurricanerin

#dark peter parker #Dark!Peter #dark fic #dark!peter x reader #dark!peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker

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marshmallowprotection · 3 years

Note

Hiya Kait! First of all! Love you and your work - you’re such a strong and comforting presence in the fandom and I genuinely feel like you have enriched my experience of mystic messenger as much as the game has itself (if that makes sense!!)

I have a question for you! Excuse me if I’m roundabout getting to the point (And I’m sorry if you have answered this before!) but it took me a genuinely embarrassing amount of time to make the connection between Rika and the name of her cult being “Mint Eye”. Like, hmmmmmm wonder who in her life had mint eyes? 🙃🙃

To be quite honest, Rika as an abuser makes me uncomfortable (in mainly the, confront yourself and your models/morals, ultimately good kind of uncomfortable) and so I haven’t read her dlc backstory and this might have been answered there but… why do you think she called it the Mint Eye? I understand she has a complicated love/hate relationship with V and even her own self, but i would love to hear your thoughts on what may have inspired her to name it this way.

IM also totally okay with any spoilers, should this have been revealed in any cannon story i haven’t read you may be familiar with.

Rika is a complicated character and love her or hate her, she's very crucial to the makeup of the game. So, this actually isn’t really that complicated of a question if we’re getting right down to it. The simplest way to explain this is that she is the one that came up with the name. She decided that she would use that to fuel the fire of the flames that had already been stroked, you know? If you don’t want to do the Behind Story, just know that Rika named the group that because that’s a callback to V. She’s always been obsessed with V.

She wants to be V. That’s the thing that you’ll learn the longer that you play the game and find content from her specifically. Her journal that comes with the box that you can buy from Cheritz also reveals a lot of that. She wants to become the sun. She wants to be V. She idealizes him and wishes to be in his place in comparison to her own. When she thinks of a paradise, no matter how far she has fallen, all she can think about is those eyes that she wanted to possess. If that makes any sense. The paradise she’s building is with that in mind.

However, Behind Spoilers:

Rika isn’t the mastermind of Mint Eye initially. You’ll learn that there was a girl in her orphanage that she was once friends with that pushes this into her hands as such. The reason Rika was adopted was because of this girl, and the reason we see Rika create Mint Eye with her bare hands almost singlehandedly is because of this woman named Mika. Mika, who believes that children need to suffer to be shown the truth light in this world. When Rika finds her again, she’s sick and with only a few years left to live. Rika winds up taking care of her, and you know the apartment? Yeah, that was given to Rika and V never asked a single thing about that apart from knowing that Rika went there to “work”.

Mika was the one living in the apartment. That was for her, and that’s why all of the Mint Eye papers are there. You could say that Mika had the idea at its base, but Rika brought it to life. Mika was sick and unable to move around much, and that’s why Rika was and had to be creating the legwork of the cult almost all by herself. I always imagine that the party money was swindled and conned by the RFA. Like, the RFA doesn’t know that, but Rika took the money and said “I will hand it out, don’t worry,” and in reality, Rika was taking the funds for Mint Eye, and only donating a small sum of it. Anything V donated as well would likely be given to ensure that the money amount was “high enough”.

A lot of that cult building stuff is my HC since Cheritz leaves us no choice but yeah, Rika was working with someone named Mika to build Mint Eye. But, Rika was the one tricking rich people and swindling them while Mika did whatever else in the background. That was a team effort here, but Mika dies sometime before the real foundation started to be built, so Rika continued to run with the cult. She put her entire soul into it and kept going and going further down the pit of madness. So, like, Rika is complicit, she had a partner, and there’s so much more to this stuff than meets the eye. Mika’s manipulation onto Rika’s already fragile psyche from her childhood trauma and very double-sided in terms of being toxic relationship with V did no help to this situation.

I guess long of the short of it, Rika worked with someone named Mika to start the idea of Mint Eye, but after that person died, Rika took the helm and made that cult her own, starting with the idea of the name and she went with the one thing that made sense to her. Mint Eye. Because she wishes that she had V’s mint eyes so that she was him, and that she could see the world as him instead of being Rika.

#anon #ask #mod kait #rika #please no discourse here #i don't wanna deal with that later lol

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wiypt-writes · 4 years

Text

Murder, He Wrote

Part 1

Co-written with @southerngracela

Summary: You’re sent by your asshole boss to do a review of a Celebrity Host Haunted Mansion, hosted by none-other than the arrogant, wild-eye browed actor Lucas Lee, but you’re worried you’ve missed the boat…that is, until at the last minute, an email arrives to say they can let you in on the last admission that night, which just happens to be Halloween… When you arrive, you’re actually kind of excited and intrigued…but it isn’t long until that excitement and intrigue give way to fear when you find yourself in a helpless situation.

Warnings: A creepy house, bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N: So this is a collaboration between myself and the wonderful @southerngracela for @jtargaryen18 ‘s Haunted House 2020 challenge…and will be a mini-series, with an as of yet undefined number of chapters.

Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

"Y/L/N," your dick editor poked his head into your office rather gruffly. "I'm gonna need that celebrity haunted mansion review on my desk by tomorrow morning. I want to run it ASAP.”

"I can't even get in, not even with a press pass, I've been trying for two weeks, Mick!” you looked at him, your mouth slightly open. You’d told him this countless times at morning briefings. You hadn't even heard back from the organizers about sneaking around the press pass issue and offering an exclusive on the joint, a small fact you kept Mick in the dark about.

"Make it happen." He said simply, before he turned and left.

You glared at his retreating form. What the fuck did he not understand about the situation? Mind you, what did he understand about anything? There was a reason everyone working for him called him Mick The Prick.

There was also a reason he was being extra prickish to you. Earlier in the spring time of the year you’d run an article on Ransom Drysdale- the stuck up, trust fund asshole who had literally gotten away with murder. He’d confessed to murdering his grandfather’s house keeper, attempting to murder his grandfather and then, in a violent showdown with 2 police officers and a private detective present, he’d attempted to murder his grandfather’s nurse, Marta. And he would have succeeded, except the knife he’d used had been a stage prop. It was like some fucked up Murder, She Wrote plot, and when you’d interviewed the real life Jessica Fletcher (in this case the rather charming PI named Benoit Blanc who’d been a character to say the least) it got even more confusing. Ransom had hired Blanc in some elaborate scheme to frame Marta for Harlan’s death to do her out of the inheritance via the Slayer Rule. That had back fired spectacularly when she had unwittingly switched back the vials of medication Drysdale had tampered with, meaning Harlan had truly committed suicide.

The article was supposed to be done showing his side of the story, a way for him to set the record straight, but the more you’d dug and spoken to people surrounding the case, the more you were absolutely convinced of his guilt, not least because he’d been acquitted on the murder and attempted murder charges on technical grounds due to his confession being, allegedly, obtained under duress and without a brief being present. The only thing they’d managed to pin on him was the arson which had burnt the Chief Medical Examiner’s office to the ground, and when his brief had successfully argued mitigating circumstances- he wasn’t of sound mind given the shock surrounding him being cut from his grandfather’s will- he’d basically ended up being released on license.

It was a joke, and that was basically what your article had said. You’d written a scathing attack on how money could basically render you untouchable by the law, highlighting the failures of the Criminal Justice System. At the time, Mick the Prick had been delighted with it, publishing it under your suggested head line “Murder, He Wrote”- ha, go figure, and copies had flown off the shelves, the article online going viral.

And then money had talked once more, and the Drysdale’s had threatened to sue for defamation. That in itself was a joke, as you knew full well his mother, Linda, was only doing it to salvage her own reputation, the same reason she’d worked so hard to find a lawyer to get him off the charges despite the fact she knew full well he was guilty as sin. Mick The Prick had attempted to throw you under the bus spectacularly when the board had come looking for blood, but as editor the buck stopped with him, and he was given a formal warning whilst you were forced to publish a retraction and offer a written apology much to your utter chagrin.

Which was why he was now making your life as hard as possible, and your Investigative Journalism skills, that you’d honed over the last decade; from high school paper, college tribune and now your current employer, over the last 10 years or so since graduation were now being focussed on covering stories about housewives who found Jesus’ face in a slice of toast, or in this case a fucking Celebrity Host Halloween Haunted House review. Whereas you had dominated the first 2 pages once upon a time, you were now lucky if you made it further up than page 11.

With a groan you banged your head on your desk. Why had you not listened to your dad and become a damned teacher instead of a journalist. Dealing with snotty nosed brats would be easier than this.

By the end of your day, you were burning what felt like the midnight oil however it wasn't very late at all. Dark had settled in but it wasn't late by time. Just before you were to log off and leave for the night, a TV dinner and pint of mint chip waiting for you in your freezer (and probably a job search too seeing as you would no doubt be fired tomorrow morning for failing on your deadline) your email pinged on your desktop. You frowned at it, wondering who could possibly be emailing you this late but then you recognized the sender.

It was the reply you'd been waiting on from the organizers from the Celebrity Host Haunted House. Clicking the email open, your eyes scanned the message. The organizer was setting you up with a private tour, TONIGHT. "9 pm," you finished reading aloud, relief flooding your entire body. It meant a long assed, sleepless night whilst you wrote your article, but it was better than the looming threat of unemployment. Plus, on the upside, as it was a charity gig the organizer had pulled out the big guns and the blurb on the email told you that it was to feature none other than Lucas Lee, a once-upon-a-time famous A-List Movie star, who was possibly just as arrogant as Hugh Ransom Drysdale, but you had to give it to him, in the films you’d seen he was actually damned good, and also pretty hot so…every cloud.

Glancing at your clock, you had just enough time to clock out and grab a quick bite at a drive thru on your way. The location was nearly an hour outside the city so you needed to get gone and fast. A quick reply telling the organizer you were on your way was sent out and you grabbed your coat, pulling it on over your sweater dress and were gone.

It took a good hour like you'd estimated and that was with stopping for a quick meal, to reach the address your GPS brought you to. It was creepy even at its first glance so you could only hope this payed off. With a quick swig of your watered down and flat fountain drink, you grabbed your bag and phone, exiting your vehicle and locking it shut. The cool night air bit at your exposed cheeks and you were glad you'd worn your coat and tights.

As you stood, gazing at the dilapidated house you shivered, as though, ice had replaced you spine. The walkway leading up to house was cracked, blood red roses grew wildly in thick batches by the gate and the moonlight cast a ghoulish glow on the house. Vines formed a twisted maze upon the side of the of the house's walls which showed the black decay of neglect, in between which splotches of original paint hinted at the house’s former prosperity. Cobwebs covered the corners of the doors, tiny black spiders threading towards their prey and you gave another shudder, as far as first impressions went, yeah, it was fitting for a Halloween Haunted House tour.

Pulling out your phone, noticing you had no reception (of course you wouldn’t, wasn’t that the cliché?) you took a few photos to use in the article and then gave a little squeak as the door creaked open on its own. Arching your eyebrow slightly, in a manner very much like the man you were here to meet, you strode forward and into the house. Immediately a musty, dank odour crept into your nose. The house was deadly silent except for the intermittent creaks and moans typically associated with a property that age. Black and brown mold dotted the ceiling of the tall hallway you stood in and the windows that framed the door on either side were covered with grime and dirt meaning the calm moonlight struggled to penetrate the darkness in thin thread rays, the main source of light being the open doorway. Sharp shadows roamed around the room and as your eyes adjusted to the dim light you noticed that there was a bright white envelope almost perched on the wooden table to the side of the hall. It was the newest thing in the room, so was obviously there for you.

You crossed over, the heels of your suede boots clicking loudly out in the silence of the hallway, and gently reached out for the envelope. A single word- Start- was written on the front in cursive, looping scrawl, very fitting for a spooky note. Another detail you committed to memory for your write up. You slid your finger into the crook of the envelope and slid it open. Inside was a small, white card, containing a message written in the same writing.

To ensure that you don’t become tomorrow’s big news, In this envelope you’ll find the first of 6 clues Of your super sleuth skills you should be proud, So make sure that you read your answers out loud. As one by one they lead to your ultimate demise. Which may or may not be a scary surprise…

Okay, now you were interested. This wasn’t just a walk through some scary assed, supposedly haunted house where Lucas Lee was no doubt set to jump out at you in some ridiculous disguise. This was a scavenger hunt, and your natural inquisitiveness was piqued. 'This could be fun', you thought as you reached for the next card that was in the envelope, reading the first clue.

I’m tall when I’m young, and I’m short when I’m old. I also give heat but, not enough to prevent cold

You pondered for a second, heat was leading you to think of a fire, and they certainly grew shorter with time, well eventually when they burnt out…but then again, the longer they went the hotter they got, and they certainly prevented the cold. Scanning the hallway for anything that might fit the description, your eyes flicked up to the ceiling which held an elaborate, but tarnished candelabra style chandelier. And then it hit you. Tall when young, short when old.

“Candle…” you spoke “The answer is Candle…”

At that the door leading to the outside slammed shut behind you, and you gave an involuntary scream as the dominant source of light was sealed off. You spun round to look at it, and then your scream turned in to a laugh as you shook your head, for an Investigative Reporter you prided yourselves on steely nerves but so far that was twice this adventure had caught you off guard.

A closer look revealed the discoloration of the water, a brownish concoction as it swirled down the plug. There was an envelope on the side of the counter by the lantern and as you crossed towards it, a movement in your peripheral made you spin round only to see a lone mouse scuttling away across the dirty wooden floor. You placed your phone down, flash-light up causing it to light up an area of the Artex plaster ceiling, and picked up the envelope, tearing it open to find your next clue

Mr Jack-o-Lantern lights the night His eerie face is shining bright The ????? that shaped him lies around And holds your next clue safe and sound

“Oh come on…” you muttered, “That’ ones obvious. Knife, the answer is knife…” You picked up your phone and shone it around the various surfaces of the kitchen and your eyes honed in on a wooden knife block containing a solitary knife. You crossed the room towards it and as you closed in on it, you noticed that the handle of the knife was an ornate silver filigree. It was no ordinary kitchen knife and as you pulled it form the block you realised it was in fact a dagger, antique by the looks of things. The blade was curved slightly, reaching a sharp point, the silver tarnished. But the more you looked at it, the more you suddenly became horribly aware that it wasn’t merely a dullness of colour at all. It was blood.

“Dramatic…” you mumbled, and with a sigh you then realised there was no clue attached to it. Was this a distraction? A decoy? You were just about to stat ransacking drawers to find the actual knife you needed, when you glanced back at the block the dagger had been held in and noticed a flash of white peeking from underneath. Picking it up and moving it aside you smiled as you saw the same cursive writing, spelling out the word three. Seeing as you might as well play along, you used the dagger to slit the envelope open, tossing it back down on the counter as you read the next clue.

Many a Child on me they may play Any time be it night or day. My surface is hard, on it you can knock I have many keys, but can’t open a single lock…

“What has keys but doesn't open a lock?" You pondered aloud. Adjusting your cross-body strap, you sigh. Then the answer came to you, "a piano."

You fell silent, your mind racing to how the hell you were going to find a piano in this decrepit and yet enormous house. Then, your ears heard it. The subtle note from deep inside the house. It was a single key. But now that wasn't your concern, no, it wasn't the mice or the bugs or even the brown water. Your heart raced at the notion that someone was in fact in the house with you.

"Alright, Lee, you were always one for a flare of the dramatics, let's see what you've got."

Finally, to your left you heard the key loud and clear. It was in that room. Steeling yourself for a possible encounter, you carefully pushed the sliding door away from its hinge. Your booted feet traipsed across the brittle carpet, dust swirling in the air in front of your face. Cobwebs adorned many of the surfaces and there were dirty white sheets covering the various pieces of furniture in the room. Apart from, that is, the large ornate grand piano that sat in the middle of the room.

The stool in front of it suddenly jolted back and tilted toward you, making you scream at the gracious invitation by an as of yet invisible host.

With slow, deliberate steps you moved towards the piano, your eyes sweeping over the mahogany surface, searching for an envelope with the next clue, but there was none to be found. The surface of the piano was thick with dust and grime, but as you scanned over it you suddenly stopped. On one of the white keys the dust was disturbed, as if it had been wiped away and you instantly realised that had to be the key that your so far elusive host must have been playing. You paused, biting at the nail on your thumb of you right hand, before you reached out with your left and tapped the key. The melodic note rang around the room, clearly, echoing in the silence and for some reason you were taken back to a part of the article you had been thinking about earlier that day, and how Detective Blanc had told you that he had ‘played a key’ during the various family interviews ‘to make my point without interruption’. It didn’t pass you by how fitting that actually was at that moment but you didn’t have much time to reflect on it, as you heard a creak and a grinding noise and you spun to your left to see a panel in the wall sliding open. It made you jump slightly, but this time you didn’t scream.

“Well, in for a penny…” you muttered, crossing towards the small hatch. It was just wide enough for you to get your hand into, but you really didn’t want to. You grabbed your torch and shone it into the hole, finding nothing but the envelope so deciding it was safe you reached in and pulled it out.

Sometimes coloured, sometimes plain sometimes frosted, sometimes stain Be you short or thin, or fat or tall, this simple invention, lets you look right through a wall

You pondered for a moment, before the answer came to you. Fairly quickly you might add. Feeling a little smug you smiled and cleared your throat.

“Window. It’s a window.”

Usually, at that point, something happened to point your attention to the place you should be looking but this time, there was nothing. Instinctively you looked out of the one on the wall by the piano, but as you stared at nothing but the darkness outside you realised that was too obvious. Just then your ears picked up a sound you couldn’t quite figure out, but it was familiar all the same. And then it came to you, it was the familiar click and clack of a skateboard, the wheels gliding over the brittle old floor and you span round in the direction it was coming from to see a window you hadn’t noticed before, this one was an ornate, stained glass window which bore some kind of flower design that faced directly out into the hall.

He passed by slower than a flash but just enough to allow you to catch only a glimpse. You audibly gasped, your breath coming in a sharp intake of fright, because until then you had been alone on this chase. But it appeared you dramatic host had finally come out to play. He was merely a shadow, bulky in frame, tall and dressed all in black as he moved past but it was enough to puzzle you. You didn’t remember Lucas being that broad, or tall. With a frown you ran into the hall to catch him but saw nothing, and heard nothing, the only thing to indicate he had been there was a faint smell of the cedar and amber of what you assumed to be cologne.

You paced quickly down the hall in the direction the figure had gone but as you passed the stairwell the light flickered on, instantly attracting your attention. You’d only briefly noticed the ornate staircase before, but with the lack of light you certainly hadn’t noticed the writing on the wall, dripping in fresh paint. Swallowing, as you mouth suddenly felt dry with fear you stepped onto the first stair, and as soon as you did you were plunged into almost complete black. Letting out a shriek as, once again, he’d managed to get the drop on you, you shook your head and reached for your phone, taking another few steps up so you were level with the next clue which you read aloud.

“Tonight is not all fright and fear, a trick or treat is waiting near, the bedroom holds a sweet surprise, there solve the clue to claim your prize.” You bit your lip and looked up at the top of the stairs, wondering when someone was going to jump out at you. Taking a deep breath, you made your way up, cringing at each creak your feet caused on the old warped wood, but it didn’t sway your determination to make it to your destination.

Halfway up, a shadow flickered at the corner of your vision at the top on the landing and you froze, your mouth going dry once more. As you stood there, shining your light into the dark you caught the same scent from moments ago lingering in the air only this time it was stronger, far more powerful and you were able to denote even more of the notes within. Alongside the amber and cedar your heightened senses picked up deep, earthy, sandalwood notes with a hint of citrus in the background. And it was familiar for reasons beyond the fact you’d smelt it down stairs. But, as you’d surmised earlier, it was a cologne. Probably one worn by a few people you knew.

Yes that was it.

“Jesus Christ Y/N what has gotten into you?” You rolled your eyes and continued up the stairs, clearly your ‘Celebrity Host’ was once more nearby.

You cautiously got to the top of the stairs and glanced around. Nothing. So turning to your left you entered the first room you found on the hall. It was empty bar a creepy looking doll that had been separated from its head which lay about a foot to the right. As you looked around the room, the wind intensified outside, the rustling of the leaves and branches became louder, as did the creaking of the house…and then you gulped, as you realised it wasn’t just the house that was creaking. In the corner of the room, the little chair had begun to rock, slowly. Blowing out a breath and shaking your head, you looked around at the thin strips of wallpaper which showed little trucks. Crayon markings scrambled upon the wall where wallpaper used to stick but other than that there was nothing in there bar some pretty good theatrics. You had to hand it to Lee, the creepy feel was fantastic and you were going to give him one hell of a write up for this. You took a while longer to take in the detail, smiling to yourself before you closed the door and headed to the one over the hallway.

This room was a little lighter thanks to a lamp which stood on a nightstand. It wasn’t bright, by any means, but it was enough so that you could clearly see the bed in the middle of the room. And there, placed by the pillows was a thin box. On unsteady legs, you shuffled slowly towards the bed, the box before you making you quiver, your insides churning. A shaky hand tilted the lid open slowly, afraid something would pounce in a sneak attack. You shut your eyes ready to protect them in case a bat or bugs flew at you and when nothing happened, you opened them slowly and inspected the boxes contents. There was no envelope this time, just copy of a newspaper. Your newspaper. And you felt your blood run cold as you recognise the bold headline across the top. Murder, He Wrote: A twisted tale of Inheritance, Crime and Exoneration "Drysdale," you whispered in realization. But now, while you were well aware of what the article meant and who it was referring to, your brain shut down processing how on earth Lucas Lee and Ransom could possibly be connected. Your breathing deepened and you moved to pick up the article, but then the lid to the box caught your eye and you froze, for on the inside of the lid was another clue, only this one was a straight forward question which was spelled out using cut-out letters from the newspaper in question.

I’m light as a feather, yet the strongest person can’t hold me for five minutes. What am I?

You froze, for the answer was simple. Breath. And that was it, you needed to get out. You started to back away from the bed, but before you had so much as made it 3 steps you collided with something hard. A forceful arm across your front pinned you to a firm and broad chest that engulfed your frame while a cloth with a distinct smell and cool moisture covered your airways.

"Surprise" The voice in your ear, calm, deep and known, was all you heard before nothing consumed you.

*****

When Y/N went limp in his arms, Ransom laid her across the bed only leaving the room to hurriedly cover his tracks, blowing out candles and removing any trace of her that had been in the house. His time as his grandfather's research assistant gave him far more experience than it should have. When he returned to the bedroom she was still out cold but light as a feather as he carried her downstairs and out the back door to the awaiting SUV, smug that his plan had gone so well.

But then, didn’t everything for him? He was Ransom Drysdale, and he was fucking untouchable.

He drove away from the scene of his new crime towards the city, driving through the dead of night, on the beltway, and continued twenty minutes outside downtown Boston before pulling into the garage of a large red cedar and quartzite home. He killed the engine and closed the garage door, pulling Y/N from the seat she was slumped in when it was clear to do so.

He couldn't be seen, he wouldn't be seen. He carried her inside the spacious home, his boots tapping heavily against the dark marble floor of the kitchen and finally the lush carpeted staircase that wound down into the basement.

This is where he laid her, in the basement, on a bed, but not just any bed, the one that would now become hers. He adjusted the lighting in the space, low enough not to disturb her, but bright enough to give the room a glow so he could finish what he'd set out to do. In the shock of the struggle in the bedroom, she’d dropped her phone and he’d made sure to smash it long before he left the haunted house, making sure there'd be no device to track her. He'd already disposed of her car while she was playing his little game, every loose end as far as he could see was tied up.

And now she was all his.

He brushed the hair away from Y/N’s face where it had fallen over her eyes. With gloved hands he manoeuvred her undone, black woollen coat off her body, leaving her in the bottle green turtle neck sweater dress and thick tights she was wearing before he tossed it over the chair in the corner of the room and then undid the zips on her brown suede knee high boots. He dropped them to the floor, kicking them towards the same corner with the equal carelessness he’d shown her coat. With a final meticulous movement he rearranged her on the bed, so he’d appear more comfortable and just before he left the room, he wrapped the cool, metallic cuff around the ankle. It locked in place with a clink and with a final glance at her still unconscious form, he turned and exited the room, the door latching shut and with the snap of the deadbolt he locked her in.

*****

Your head pounded, your nose burned and your mouth felt dry with the faintest taste of something foul lingering as you swallowed. The light was low but still your eyes ached. You tried to decipher exactly what the hell had happened to you while you got your bearings. You tried to sit up but your body felt heavy, the soft bed you now realized you were lying on was not your own. Your breathing rapidly increased as you started to move in fear but a clink caused a screech to escape your throat. You felt the weight of the cuff around your ankle and a full panic set it.

Your night flashed quickly through your glutamate and adrenaline flooded brain

You remembered getting the email from the Haunted Mansion supposedly hosted by Lucas Lee. You had arrived and were sent on what you thought was a fun and exhilarating maze littered with clues and riddles and then you remembered the last piece of the puzzle. You gasped as you remembered how his breath felt hot on your skin and how his voice registered in your mind.

"Drysdale," you repeated the last word you had spoken in a shaky, frightful voice. "No."

Rage and fear collided in your chest as you screamed out the only thing you could think of, "HELP!" A strangled sound left your chest followed by another cry out for help, "Please, someone, HELP!"

The door to your room, now coming into focus around you, flew open and there he stood, smug smirk, raging ocean blue eyes, hair neatly in place, dismantling frame clothed in a black sweater and dark denim, heavy footfalls sounding against the thick carpet under his feet.

"Nice to see someone's awake," Ransom deadpanned.

You stared for a brief moment and screamed for help again, louder, and louder, and louder until you felt your voice crack and strain, your cords burning as the sound shattered away.

"Are you done?" He cocked his head to the side and folded his arms across his chest as he stood firm and tall in front of the bed.

"What the hell are you doing? Why am I here?" It hurt to speak but you had to ask.

“Because I want you here, Sweetheart.”

"I...I'm not, don't call me that," you spat defiantly as he moved closer, taking you in, his predatory eyes moving over your body. This was it, you were going to die all because some trust fund prick was a hurt baby about an article (that you forcibly apologized for) revealing the sick and sadistic truth about him, his family, money and the justice system.

"Are you gonna kill me?” You watched him carefully as he crossed the room towards you, trying to keep your voice calm so as not to betray the utter fear that was coursing through your veins at the fact you were trapped, fuck knows where, shackled to a bed with a murderer being your captor. “That's what this is about, right? My apology wasn't enough?"

"Your apology was forced bullshit.” He responded, his voice carried a hint of amusement, because of course, this was all a game to him. “You smeared my name, dragged my reputation though the mud and you expected an apology like that, half assed and full of more crap than your original hatchet piece, to be enough?" He was standing damn near over you now, a hand moving up your leg that was held by the cuff, your body frozen in a confused silent argument of fight or flight.

"You... Killed... Him." You grit out through clenched teeth, and his hand was on your throat before you finished your breath, squeezing just enough to make a point.

"No. I. Didn't." He lied and you had to hand it to him, a lesser person might have bought the garbage he was talking, because he was good at it. Lying must have been enough of a second nature for him that he actually believed everything he said himself. But then again, it wasn't actually a lie was it? Sure, he'd planned on indirectly killing Harlan and that plan had backfired and Harlan had actually slit his own throat. So at most he was indirectly responsible for his death, but none of that had stuck with the prosecution and so now here he was, a free man.

A struggled chuckle came from your tightened throat, "Jesus Christ, you actually believe your own bull shit don't you?"

"You've got a fucking mouth on you," he breathed as his body loomed ominously over the bed and your frame, tiny in comparison to his.

You swallowed, feeling the hard lump strain to pass his grip, "Not really, you just don't like hearing the truth."

His eyes bored into yours and you struggled for breath as his hand constricted around your neck whilst he squeezed a little harder "Oh shut up Y/N."

"Or what, Hugh?" You croaked.

A little flash of anger tore through his ocean blue eyes like lightning in a storm. His eyes bored into yours as you fought to swallow.

"Or I'll shut you up myself."

"Try me, you son of a...." You didn't expect his lips to cover yours but they did. Unexpectedly warm and soft, despite the painfully harsh kiss. You managed to pull away but his hand still gripped at your throat and you felt the fear constricting your chest. But you were damned if you were going to show him a shred of weakness.

“You’re an asshole, Hugh…” It was all you had, the only thing you could use in your arsenal given your situation. You still had your voice. And you’d noticed that for whatever reason he appeared to hate that name.

“Don’t... fucking call me that!” his voice rose to a loud, angry instruction, apoplectic rage seeping from him to you, and it was almost stifling.

“Or what? You'll kill me?” your voice rose in both volume and pitch as your desperation began to show. “We both know you're gonna do that once you've fulfilled whatever sick, twisted little fantasy this is. What are you waiting for, Hugh? Huh?”

Ransom scoffed, "Kill you, no, see I'm gonna teach you a lesson. One about how money and status get you anything you want.”

You frowned, as you looked into his icy blue eyes, utterly confused “Anything you want? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You'll see Princess” was the sole explanation you got as he knelt between your legs.

You stayed stock still as large and surprisingly gentle hands trailed your curves up the outside of your thighs to your hips. As he reached the hem of your sweater dress he paused as you wrapped your hands around his wrists.

"Don't" you squeezed, attempting to stop his wrists and close your legs.

“This will be much easier if you just play-along, sweetheart” he muttered as he pressed his lips to your neck. You let go of his wrists and raised your hands, laying them over the wool of his cable knit, palms flat against the plain of muscle as you attempted to push him off.

“I said no.” you tried to keep your voice stern, despite the fact you were fighting back the fear and sadness at the realization of his task was now at hand. His large hands smoothed over your dress, cupping your breasts and he let out a moan as you bit back the bile in your throat that was threatening to spill from your mouth. You pushed harder trying to force him off of you but it was of no use, his broad frame caged you in, engulfing you under him.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.” He ground out, his lips inches from your ear as he nipped at your skin. He was impressively strong and balanced, his weight even through his body as he kept his knees between your legs, a hand against your breast and the other stroking your sides and up your thigh. All the while, his lips sucked at your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point as you turned your head away, tears filling your eyes

"Please, stop," you managed. "Hugh, stop!"

“I told you not to call me that.” He growled against your skin and pulled back, his eyes blazing as they locked on to yours. In sheer desperation, you managed to wrench a free hand from between you and gave him a slap, nails biting at his skin. Instantly you knew you’d pissed him off. His nostrils flared, his jaw set and as his eyes filled with fire and rage.

And you knew then, you were in for it.

“Bitch…” he snarled as he raised his left hand to his face where you had struck him, and then both his hands grabbed yours, yanking your arms up, pinning them above your head. You bucked upwards, violently in an attempt to shake him off, but it was futile. He was far too strong. His grip on your wrists grew tighter and despite yourself you let out a small whimper of fear.

In one hand he had the ability to cuff both of your wrists and he did so while his other grabbed at your dress, shoving it further up your body, fingers curling over the waist of your tights and panties, a handful of the material fisted in his palm. They wouldn't slide down quick enough and you felt your body lift away from the mattress slightly as he ripped away the material, the snap burning your skin. You fought, boy did you fight. You had no control of your hands or arms as he had them easily pinned, but your legs and the rest of your body gave as good as they could. You thrashed from side to side all the time screaming your objections. You drew your knees up to your chest in an attempt to buck him off. You screamed protests, threw every insult you had at him, but it was no use. He was simply too strong.

He didn't even bother with his belt or button, he just unzipped the flies on his jeans, pulled his solid cock free and slid in. You were wetter than you expected to be, but it still burned with friction and ached from the thick stretch against your tight walls. It hurt, definitely hurt.

"You know you want this. I know you want this." He rasped as he pulled out before thrusting back in, his face twisted in a look that was halfway between being smug and satisfied. Just looking at him made you feel sick but for some reason you were unable to look away as he continued his slow assault, before he picked up the pace slightly, his groans of satisfaction filling the room as he bottomed out, balls deep and it was at that point you closed your eyes and tried to block out what he was doing to you. But try as you might to remain mentally detached from the situation, your body was anything but. And the more he moved in and out of you, the more you could feel your physical reactions. You were powerless to stop them and the heat between your legs and in between your belly was spiking with each thrust into you.

It felt good. And you knew it shouldn’t. So you fought it, but eventually, you couldn't fight it anymore, not with the way his thick cock filled you, velvety smooth skin sliding in and out of your defiant core. You didn't want to cum, but your body told your brain it was going to and Ransom nearly puffed his chest as he fucked you into your body's submission.

"You're gonna fucking cum, aren't you, Sweetheart? I can feel it," he ground out, chasing his own release. You remained silent, breathing heavily as your insides coiled and tightened. "Fucking tight ass pussy," he gritted. You refused to cry out, not wanting to give him anything you were able not to, and it took everything you had to remain silent. In desperation, to quell the cry that was rising from your throat, you bit your tongue, tasting the coppery taste of blood in your mouth as you came hard around his cock.

“Fuck, yeah…see…” Ransom’s hips began to move faster, and then with a sudden movement he pulled out of you, making you wince involuntarily at the sting. He shot his load all over your thighs, a growl bubbling from his throat, the warmth of his release trickling down your leg made you feel even more dirty than you already did.

“Not so fucking smart are we now, huh, miss Investigative Reporter…” his snap was snide, and childish, but you knew he couldn’t help himself. Your head remained defiantly in its position on the pillow, turned to the right, eyes focussed on a spot on the wall. “Look at me, bitch.”

When you didn’t do as he asked, he grabbed your chin bruisingly, making you wince as he pulled your face round so he could see you. You knew he would be able to see the tears on your face, and you hated that. Hated that he would see how much he’d hurt you, scared you even,

His hand let go of your face and you stared at him, swallowing, trying to gather your voice in your painfully dry throat.

"That's all you got? You're a fucking child, Drysdale. It's why you’re doing this." You said, your voice trembling and croaking from the fear and exertion of what he had just put you through and you shook your head. “You’re a fucking man child with mommy and daddy issues. A spoilt, little whiney brat who can’t bear to be told no.”

That struck a nerve, you could tell, as his jaw clenched tight and his fists clenched around the sheets by your side to the point they were shaking. He grabbed your chin once more with his right hand and pinned your face still, forcing your eyes to look back at his

“You'll be begging me to accept your apology.” He snarled, his face contorted in rage “You'll see who the whiney child is soon enough. I promise Princess, it's not me”

As you looked at him, you felt your anger starting to simmer. This fucking ass hole had just raped you, and he had the gall to be saying you were going to tell him that you were sorry. No chance in hell. You knew you were screwed, literally and figuratively. Whilst he had you captive behind a bolted door, shackled to a bed you had nowhere to go, he knew that you knew that too and you could see it in his face as a smug smirk flickered on his lips. Well fuck this, if you were going down it was with a fight. With a sudden movement, that caught him off guard you moved your head slightly as much as you could in his painful grip, and spat right in his face.

Ransom blinked, his anger morphing to shock, then back to fury once more as he released your face and with a flash of his hand he back handed you straight across the face. The blow to your right cheek snapped your head to the left, sucking the breath from your lungs and leaving you a little dazed.

“Fuck you.” He sneered as he rose to his feet, wiping his face. Silently he rearranged his pants, tucking his now soft cock back inside them, and swept from the room, locking the door behind him.

***** Ransom stormed up the steps to the kitchen of the house, slamming the top door behind him and bolting that one shut too. He was furious that little bitch had scratched him and no doubt marked his face. He strode over the marble tiles of the room and walked into the large hallway and across into the den. He made his way straight to the bar, poured himself a healthy measure of good scotch, slopping a little on the dark wooden counter, before he glanced up at the large mirrored surface of the bar behind the shelves.

He could make out three vivid red lines down his left cheek where she’d dug her nails into his flesh and his jaw clenched. His hair was out of place, his cheeks flushed and his normally cold eyes were blazing with anger. But as he stood there staring at his dishevelled reflection, he knew it wasn’t the fact she’d scratched or spat at him that was pissing him off so much. It was the fact she had persistently voiced a name he despised, one that was used to control those lower than him in his every-day life. One reserved for The Help, for outsiders. It reminded him of his family, of his mother and father, the two people in his life who should have loved him unconditionally but instead had him out of ‘duty’ and had taken every opportunity to pass him off into the care of others they could. It reminded him of Walt persistently telling him he was a no-one, that he would amount to nothing over than a trust-fund baby.

It reminded him of Harlan. The one person in that entire fucked up patriarchy that had shown him an ounce of care. But who had screwed him over in the end.

The anger that had been simmering inside him boiled over, the blood pumped into his ear and with an angry yell and an almost involuntary action Ransom hurled the glass tumbler straight at the wall where it smashed against the tasteful silver and white wallpaper, the 25 year old single malt trickling down the wall…just like the tears and trickled down Y/N’s cheeks as he’d forced her to look at him whilst he took what was his.

As she’d glared up at him he’d noticed a fierceness in her eyes that he was surprised to find had unnerved him a little, because she clearly wasn’t going to be as easy to break as he thought.

“Fuck it.” He mumbled to himself, grabbing the bottle from the bar before he turned and left the room, taking a large swig as he went, the burn in his throat going someway to settling his nerves.

This would work out, because he was Ransom fucking Drysdale, a man who always got what he wanted in the end, and she was going to be no exception.

**** Part 2

#murder he wrote #j's haunted house 2020 #dark ransom #dark ransom drysdale x reader #dark ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale #reader insert #chris evans #chris evans characters

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hermannsthumb · 3 years

Note

Town council Hermann vs Alien Conspiracy Newt please!!!

THIS WAS FUN!!! inspired both by this tweet and conversations abt a newt/herm AU of that tweet with @k-sci-janitor (who also thought of the funniest sign newt made in this fic, aka the cheekbones one, and what his tats should look like). this is long sorry :/ gets a little spicy towards the end but nothing worse than a high pg13/light M

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The evening of the weekly town council meeting, it pours like nothing else. Which Hermann figures is really quite appropriate. Loathe as he is to soak his trouser legs, trudge through the mud that used to be his front walk, and hold his umbrella for so long his arm aches (for the community center is a mere half-mile walk away that Hermann can't justify substituting with a bus), he can't imagine council meetings happening in any other sort of weather. In fact, they rarely tend to; their dreariness seems to be a necessity, part of the preparation, as if to put everyone in as miserable a mood as possible.

Hermann hates council meetings. He supposes he'd be more sympathetic towards the plights of his constituents—if one can call one's neighbors constituents—if he'd wanted the damned job in the first place. As it is, he feels a bit like he was conned into it. Hermann had been a lowly physics professor at the local community college, passionate about public education and funding for public education and all those proper sorts of things an educator ought to be concerned about, when he suddenly found himself seized with the idea of making a difference. So he ran for a head position on the council. And he won it. Only no one told him that the council deals a lot less with public education and a lot more with noise complaints, cul-de-sac bake sales, and raccoons in dustbins, which makes why he ran completely unopposed all the more obvious.

A fat raindrop explodes against the edge of Hermann's umbrella and splashes his glasses. Hermann grits his teeth and wipes them dry with the cuff of his sweater. Bloody meeting; bloody rain; Hermann just wants to go back home, and fix up a nice pot of herbal tea, and set a blanket in the dryer for ten minutes, and...

"Dr. Gottlieb! Hey, Dr. Gottlieb, wait—!"

A blur in an oversized yellow raincoat hurdles itself at Hermann from the stairs of the community center. Hermann considers pretending he is a different Dr. Gottlieb, one who certainly has no reason to know maniacs in raincoats, or maybe high-tailing it in the other direction. This is the other reason why Hermann loathes council meetings: Newton Geiszler.

The unfortunate thing is that Newton Geiszler was, at one point, a respectable academic type, and in fact one of Hermann's own colleagues at the community college. (Hermann only found this out after the fact—he does not make a habit of intermingling much with the biology department.) And Hermann does mean was. Around a year ago, Geiszler was asked to temporarily step down from his position after he suddenly and unexpectedly went off the deep end. He has not been asked to come back yet. And not without reason. "Dr. Geiszler," Hermann sighs. "I've asked you not to lurk about here like that. It's...unsettling."

"Sorry, man, sorry," Geiszler shouts. He stomps over and makes himself at home under Hermann's umbrella. Hermann's not sure how he's been managing to see anything, let alone Hermann approaching down the sidewalk: his glasses are completely fogged-up and rain-splattered. "Do you mind if—thanks, dude."

Geiszler flips his hood down. He’s short, only coming up to Hermann's nose, with stubble nearly overgrown to a full beard and a mess of wet brown hair. He shakes that hair now, like a dog, soaking Hermann in the process. Hermann growls. "I beg your pardon,” he says.

"Oops,” Geiszler says. “Sorry. Anyway, Dr. Gottlieb, I'm really glad I caught you, there are—there are some things I wanted to tell you about. Before the meeting. They're—hold on." He rummages around in the deep pockets of his raincoat and produces a damp notebook, which he begins to flip through frantically. "It's about—"

"I know what it's about," Hermann says. Geiszler fumbles to push his glasses back up his nose. "In fact, there are some things I need to speak with you about as well."

"You've seen them?" Geiszler says in a hushed tone.

Hermann scowls. "I certainly have.”

They first started cropping up in the forest around the little cabin Geiszler calls home. Then, like dandelions or bamboo, they spread fast and far—to the town commons, in the front lawn of the coffee shop Hermann frequents, in front of his house. Whenever Hermann dashes one down with his cane or hauls one off to a rubbish bin, two more only crop up in its place. It's annoying, frankly. As if Hermann doesn't have to deal with enough already.

3 ALIEN ABDUCTIONS IN ONE WEEK - WHEN IS THE COUNCIL GOING TO DO SOMETHING?, the new one sitting in front of the community center says.

It's better than last week's sign, Hermann supposes. THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE - AND HERMANN GOTTLIEB IS BLIND TO IT.

"You know you need a permit for those, Dr. Geiszler," Hermann says. "Or, at the very least, the council's permission. They're a public nuisance."

"My signs are a public nuisance?" Geiszler shouts. Hermann flinches back. Geiszler may be compact, but if he doesn't have the shrillest voice on the whole damned planet. "Open your eyes, dude! A dozen people went missing last month! The only public nuisance is whatever's coming from—" He bites his lip and jabs his finger at the sky, as if saying anything remotely akin to outer space would suddenly send fleets of UFOs pouring down from above. "And you're just letting them walk right fucking in."

“I thought they were flying in?" Hermann says. He raps Geiszler’s shin with the end of his cane. "Do get out of my way, Dr. Geiszler. The meeting starts in ten minutes, and you're welcome to air all of your grievances then."

Geiszler is silent as Hermann ducks around him and ascends the community center ramp. For a moment, Hermann thinks he may have won this small victory, and then he hears the wet slaps of Geiszler's rain boots against the pavement behind him. "Really funny," Newton says. "Real fucking funny, dude. I bet it'll be just as funny when they come for you next!"

Hermann unlocks the door. Geiszler waves a stack of black-and-white polaroids beneath his nose. "I took these last week," Geiszler says, and begins flipping through them as frantically as he had his notepad. Each one is blurry and indistinct, like Geiszler snapped them through a gauzy curtain with shaking hands. Hermann's not sure what he's meant to be looking at. "The day that waitress went missing from the bus stop. And two nights after that—your neighbor, the one who went outside to let his cat in and never came b—"

"Enough," Hermann says. He pushes the polaroids away, knocking two to the ground, and Geiszler scrambles to pick them up before they're ruined. "Dr. Geiszler, it is undoubtedly tragic that these people have—er—vanished, as they have, but continuously insisting extraterrestrials had something to do with it, and furthermore—" Geiszler opens his mouth as if to argue, but Hermann raises his voice and pushes on. "—furthermore, that I'm meant to do something about it, is completely—well, it's unhinged, frankly. I'm not law enforcement. Or the mayor. Or bloody—NASA. What do you want from me?"

Geiszler stares at him for a long time. He pockets his photographs. "They're gonna come for you," he says, ominously. "Just like they did for me."

The meeting goes off as expected, which is to say, badly. Hermann gets shouted at by nearly everyone in town, many of whom blame Hermann and his presumed negligence for the disappearances over the past year as well (blessedly, they don't also blame aliens), though many more of them blame him for more trivial things such as the broken water fountain in the commons or the library's slow wireless internet. Hermann can't decide which is worse.

As it is, when the clock strikes eight, he's more than ready to go home. "Right," he announces, standing up and making a show of tidying his meeting notes. They're already tidy: Hermann's notes are always meticulous. He continues—rather quickly, in case someone gets bold and attempts to interrupt him, "Thank you all very much for such a, er, productive meeting. I'll make sure to pass along everything you've said to the appropriate people. If there's nothing else..."

Geiszler jumps to his feet. A few people groan; Hermann has a feeling they're just about as sick of him as Hermann is. "Um, yeah, actually, I want to add something."

"No," Hermann says. “Dr. Geiszler, please, we can talk—”

"When we were outside," Geiszler continues anyway, raising his voice, "you asked me what I wanted you to do. Well, I just want you to listen to me! That's all! I have so much proof—so much I can show you—and you won't even—!"

"Proof?" Hermann says. "Your rubbish photographs?”

"It's not just the photographs! It's other stuff, too! Like—" Geiszler lets out a long, angry huff of air, and actually balls his fists up at his sides. Hermann has never seen him so incensed, not even when he accused Hermann of being an alien himself during a council meeting last summer. "Look, just come to my house and I'll fuckin' show you. Or are you that afraid of being—I don’t know, proven wrong?"

Part of Hermann is convinced that if he follows Geiszler out to his isolated cabin in the middle of the woods, it'll be the last thing he ever does. At the very least, he certainly has no desire to spend more time with Geiszler than he's already forced to. Yet—on the other hand—Hermann does not appreciate the challenge, nor does he appreciate being made to look like a fool by the man who chairs the local paranormal society. "Fine," he snaps, and Geiszler startles in obvious surprise. "Fine, you wretched little man. I’ll let you show me whatever proof you think you may have, so long as you take every single one of those signs down."

"Um," Geiszler squeaks. He clears his throat. "D—deal?"

Hermann seizes his cane and thrusts his chair back under his table roughly. "Well?" he says to the rest of the hall, none of whom have budged since Geiszler began shouting his head off. He scowls at the lot of them. "The meeting is over. You can leave."

It's Hermann's job to shut down the building each week, so he waits for the very last stragglers to toss out their paper water cups, shrug on their raincoats, and file outside before switching off the lights and locking up. He finds Geiszler lurking by a rather worse-for-wear green VW Beetle at the curb, the hood of his raincoat flipped back up over his hair. Hermann desperately hopes that the car isn't Geiszler’s. He is Hermann’s ride home tonight, after all. "I took the signs down," Geiszler says in a rush. "All of the ones around here, anyway. I'll have to do the rest tomorrow." He jerks his thumb at the backseat of the Beetle, where Hermann sees a haphazard pile of some of the 3 ALIEN ABDUCTIONS signs. His heart sinks. The X-Files bumper stickers should've been a dead giveaway, really.

"Thank you," Hermann sighs. "Well, let's get this over with."

"The heat is busted, so you might wanna leave your coat on," Geiszler says apologetically when Hermann manages to squish himself into the passenger's seat. The floor is a sea of empty Dunkin' Donuts cups, stacks of pulp science (or, if Hermann were to be less kind, pseudoscientific) magazines spanning back at least half a decade, and a pin-littered linen tote bag filled to the brim with boxed Annie's macaroni and cheese.

"Uh, sorry," Geiszler says. "I had to run some errands earlier. You can just—toss that in the back. Yeah."

The ride is short but bumpy, and though the removal of Geiszler's shopping bag offers Hermann more leg room, there is nothing that can make up for his tragically awful driving and his tragically awful CD collection. Hermann almost bolts from the car when they finally pull up at Geiszler's ivy-shrouded cabin, so relieved to have made it there in one piece that he's all but forgotten that he must now spend the rest of the evening with Geiszler, too. He remembers soon enough: another duo of aggressive signs have been pounded into Geiszler's mossy front path, TURN BACK NOW - ALIEN ABDUCTION ZONE, and a rather good sketch of Hermann beneath WHAT ARE THOSE CHEEKBONES HIDING? "That one's from the summer," Geiszler says sheepishly, kicking down the latter with the toe of his boot. "I keep forgetting to take it down. I don't still think you're an alien, by the way."

"Er, thank you," Hermann says. "I suppose?"

"They wouldn't be that obvious," Geiszler says, emphasizing the they with a meaningful glance up at the night sky.

"Of course not," Hermann says.

He's not quite sure what he expected Geiszler's house to look like. Some sort of—conspiracy nutter's den, perhaps, with aluminum foil hats and deconstructed radios and elaborate photoboards full of thumbtacks and red string. Or the interior of his car on a larger scale, with empty takeout containers and crumpled up papers on every surface. He's...sort of right. There's a noticeable lack of tinhats, but there are plenty of (modestly-sized) corkboards on the walls and multiple coffee cups peeking out of a recycling bin. The rest is merely precisely what Hermann would expect from an academic in his 30s: books, and mis-matching furniture, and a sink of dishes begging to be washed. It's...a bit disappointing, frankly. Though Hermann is rather impressed with the sleek telescope angled in front of the back slider door. Impressed, and envious. It's a very nice model.

"Make yourself at home," Geiszler says, unzipping his voluminous raincoat and tossing it, along with Hermann's, over the back of a worn armchair. He's wearing a pair of torn skinny jeans and a band t-shirt that reveals his heavily tattooed, and deceptively shapely, arms. Hermann tears his eyes away and forces himself to sit down at one end of Geiszler's couch. "I'm gonna make us some coffee. Do you want any sugar or non-dairy creamer?"

"No, thank you," Hermann says. "I don't drink coffee this late. It'll keep me up all night."

"Well, I hope so, that's kinda the plan,” Geiszler says. He rolls his eyes. “The aliens never come before at least midnight. Soy milk or almond milk?"

Hermann thinks, briefly and longingly, of his nice warm bed, the blanket he intended to toss in the dryer, and the herbal tea he won't be having after all. "Almond milk?" he hazards.

Geiszler stares at him in evident disgust. "Dude, I was kidding. You know how bad that shit is for the environment? It takes, like, a fuckin' thousand gallons of water or something like that for one carton of almond milk. It's insane. I mean, I guess it's still less water than what dairy needs, but there are plenty of better options."

"Oh," Hermann says. Hermann drinks skim milk. "I'm sorry. Er. Soy milk?"

As Geiszler fixes them mugs, Hermann begins to poke around some papers scattered across the coffee table. One is a list of names and dates, seemingly random, Hermann thinks, until he recognizes (scrawled in purple ink at the very bottom of the page) that of the gentleman who disappeared from his back porch just down Hermann's street. When he recognizes another—a teenager who worked as a barista at Hermann’s favorite coffee shop—he realizes it must be everyone who's vanished from town in the past year. Another paper has the same dates repeated, though not alongside any names—rather, bizarre little phrases like circling lights and that sound again. "You found my notes," Geiszler says cryptically, and then thrusts a mug out to Hermann.

Hermann takes the mug. A logo on the side tells Hermann it was from some academic conference in California ten years ago. "What are they supposed to mean?" he says.

Geiszler snorts. "Uh, I thought it was kind of obvious. Look—" He sits next to Hermann, far too close, and points at the column of numbers on the first page. "These are the dates when people have been reported missing," he says, and then scans his finger over to the second page, "and these are the dates when I've observed extraterrestrial—or at least, unexplainable—activity overhead. See how they match up almost perfectly?

"Mm," Hermann says. He does not. "So—if I am to understand you correctly—you believe that a, ah," he takes the page back from Geiszler, "a 'weird swoopy sound' from overhead had something to do with that poor young woman disappearing from a bus stop last week?”

"It wasn't just a weird noise!" Geiszler exclaims. "I showed you the pictures. I ran outside when I heard it, and thank fuck I had my camera, because I caught those lights just as they were leaving. And then what do I find out the next morning? There was another abduction, at almost the exact same time I saw the lights!"

"Ten miles from here," Hermann reminds him. "It would've had to have been a bloody fast ship."

"Yeah, no shit, Hermann," Geiszler says. "They're, like, fucking—mega-advanced lifeforms. They probably have the tech to vaporize the entire Earth if they wanted. Of course it was a fast ship.”

Geiszler is still sitting awfully close to Hermann. He runs very warm, unlike Hermann, warm enough to make Hermann warm too—like a scruffy, tattooed, freckled furnace. Yes, freckled, for Geiszler has the lightest dusting of freckles across his round chipmunk-like cheeks that Hermann finds inexplicably charming. He wonders if Geiszler would notice him loosen his collar a bit, perhaps take off his sweater. He really is getting quite warm. "So, I was saying," Geiszler continues, and though he speaks almost directly into Hermann's ear, he sounds as if he's a mile away from him. "Waitress at bus stop—weird lights over my cabin—waitress gone from bus stop. The proof is, like, undeniable!"

"Indeed," Hermann says.

He undoes the top button of his collar. He hasn't touched his coffee yet—he wonders if Geiszler even cares. The tattoo on Geiszler’s bicep, some sort of space tentacle monster, stares back at Hermann. "I'm telling you, man," Geiszler says, "this is no joke. They're taking people, maybe even for good."

They're gonna come for you, just like they did for me. When Geiszler began spouting nonsense about aliens last year, he was not booted from the biology department right away. Mostly everyone at the college, Hermann knows, tolerated his eccentricities on account of his admittedly brilliant mind and popularity among the students. The final straw came when Geiszler's extraterrestrial delusions (for what else could they be?) reached a new level: he showed up to campus in his pajamas one morning, raving that the aliens were not only zooming about over his house, but had actually abducted him the previous evening. "You seemed to fare alright, though, didn't you?" Hermann says. "When you were—ah—taken? They even dropped you back off in time for work. Quite courteous, I should think."

"That's—" Geiszler begins to shake his leg up and down, nervous energy radiating up his body and through Hermann's. He spills some of his coffee on the carpet. "That was—that was dumb. I got lucky. I think I was one of the first ones, you know? Because the disappearances didn't really get bad until, like, a month after that? I was in bed—and, and it wasn't like how it is in movies, I wasn't sucked up in a giant beam of light or anything like that, one minute I was there and then the next I wasn't, I was somewhere...else. And—uh. I don't really remember what they looked like. I tried to—sketch them out, but it was like trying to remember a dream, all the specific details about them just faded once it was over. But, um." He rubs the back of his neck, and Hermann is surprised to see him blushing. "Well, if I'm being honest, I think I kinda freaked them out."

Hermann can't help but snort. "You what?"

"I'm serious!" Geiszler shrieks. "I freaked them out. I was just really excited about it all. Like, dude, come on, I was abducted by aliens. How fucking cool is that? I just kept asking a bunch of questions, like, are you gonna probe me? are you gonna take me back to Mars or Jupiter or, like, I don't know, fucking Gallifrey? do you even understand what I'm saying, how do you communicate? and then the next thing I knew, I was landing on my ass in the school parking lot. They must've been observing me like I was observing them, like, they maybe knew I worked there? Anyway—" He shakes his head. "I tell you what, I'm real glad I decided to not just wear boxers like usual to bed that night. That would've been really embarrassing."

Bombarded with the sudden mental image of what Geiszler usually looks like in bed, Hermann (feeling rather warm again) tugs at his collar and clears his throat. He has certainly seen more than enough for the night, and if his mind is straying to something as prosaic as what does Dr. Geiszler look like half-naked?, it likely means it’s time for bed. "Er, right. Dr. Geiszler—"

"Just call me Newt, man," Geiszler says.

"Newton," Hermann concedes. It gives him a private little thrill. No one calls Newton Newton; it’s always either Newt or Dr. Geiszler. "Newton,” he says again, “this has been a very—illuminating—evening, but it's getting rather late, and I think you ought to drive me home before—"

And then Newton begins to take off his shirt.

Yes, a small part of Hermann's brain whispers traitorously, yes, yes, yes, even as Hermann recoils and stammers out, "Newton, what—?!"

"Oh, calm down, I'm not coming onto you," Newton says. He drops his t-shirt on the floor and jabs a thumb at his chest. His bare chest. "See, look. Proof."

Hermann's not sure what he's meant to be looking at. The giant Godzilla tattooed over Newton's pectorals? The flying saucer tattooed above Newton’s belly button? Newton’s nipple piercings? Hermann thinks he understands what an overheating computer feels like, an influx of too much information with processors unequipped to handle it. "I," he says. Newton’s belly button is not pierced. Hermann’s not sure why he thought it would be.

"Look at my chest, dude!" Newton says, tapping his skin insistently.

It takes Hermann a great deal of effort to pull his eyes away from the nipple piercings. In the dead center of Newton's chest, spaced perfectly between his pectorals and right over the nostrils of Godzilla, is a strange, almost luminescent glyph of a language Hermann can't begin to recognize. It's raised from Newton's skin, more like a brand than a tattoo. And...well, when Hermann says luminescent, he really means it. The squiggle seems to glow blue. "This was on me the next morning," Newton says. "I think they marked me. Like you'd tag a lab rat?”

Hermann can't help himself: he reaches out and touches the mark. "Strange," he murmurs. Compared to the heat of Newton’s body, the glyph is quite cool. Frigid, in fact, like metal, and yet as soft as the rest of his skin.

He's close enough to Newton to hear the hitch in his breath when they make contact, and as he traces his fingertips over the glyph, he can feel Newton's heart pounding beneath them. Strange, indeed; Newton has been such a thorn in his side for so many months, and yet all Hermann wants to do now is touch even more of him. He trails his hand lower, down to the flying saucer on Newton's soft abdomen. Newton inhales sharply. "Um," he says. "Should—should I put my shirt back on?"

"Do you want to?" Hermann says.

"Not really," Newton says.

He stares at Hermann, eyebrows knit together behind his glasses, like he can't seem to make sense of him. His confusion is very much warranted; Hermann can’t seem to make sense of himself right now, either. Then, to Hermann's supreme annoyance, the pieces seem to click into place in Newton's mind, and he grins. "Oh, duh," he says. "No wonder. You wanna fuck me, don't you? That’s why you’re so obsessed with me.”

That would certainly explain the strange warm feeling that comes over Hermann sometimes when he thinks about Newton in the dead of night that he has, up until this very moment, attributed to bouts of temporary insanity and/or a latent murderous desire. Nothing so dramatic as all that, then—just regular human biology. Urgh. How disgusting. And for Newton, of all people. “Obsessed with you?” Hermann sniffs, desperate to retain some element of propriety even while he begins to tug at Newton’s button fly. “Newton, you have spent thousands of dollars on yard signs just to invite me over for a coffee.”

“Uh, yeah, and it worked,” Newton says.

He curls his fingers in the front of Hermann's sweater, thumbing over one of the buttons.

“Even when I thought you were an alien,” Newton says, “I still kiiiiinda wanted to fuck you.”

Delusional or not, Newton looks terrifically good with a beard.

"Wait," Hermann gasps some time later. "Newton, stop a moment—"

Newton pulls away from him, frowning. He pushes his glasses back up on his nose. "What is it?" he says. "Did I hurt—?"

But Hermann pats at his shoulder frantically, pointing beyond him at the back slider and the dark of the forest beyond that. Newton cranes his neck around. "Only I'm sure I saw something. Lights, or…” Hermann feels a small twinge of embarrassment. The night is dead silent, and dead still. “Well, now I'm not sure."

“You probably imagined it," Newton says. He slips back down to press a kiss at Hermann's jaw. “It’s too early to be them.”

Not even ten yet. Newton kisses behind Hermann’s ear. It feels very nice. "Yes," Hermann agrees slowly, his eyelids flickering shut. He smooths his hand up and down Newton’s back. "Yes, I suppose you're right." Newton’s stories must have left him on edge. Which is of course ridiculous, because they’re all a load of rubbish—there may be extraterrestrials somewhere out there in the great wide universe, but they’re certainly not swooping down and plucking up hapless test subjects from Earth, let alone their small town, every other day. Hermann has much more important things to concern himself with right now, like how it feels when he threads his fingers in the soft strands of Newton’s hair, or the sound Newton makes when Hermann digs his nails into his skin, or how wonderful kissing Newton is...

And, unobserved by both of them, the three lights hovering above Newton's cabin blink away as quickly as they'd come.

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag

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lis-likes-fics · 3 years

Note

Hey! Can you please do where Lucille gets somehow injured and y/n takes care of her? Maybe it all leads to them making out and confessing love?

Pairing: Lucille Sharpe x Reader

Warning: Injuries

Author's Note: I was too lazy to go to my computer to post this, so enjoy the set up ig. Also, thank you for the request! I hope you enjoy. There are a couple lines inspired by an episode of Lucifer because I just watched it yesterday. Enjoy!

~~~

You always had your beliefs in ghosts. You also had your fair share of them. You met kind ones, sorrowful ones, malevolent ones. But most of them were full of pain and fear, and it pained you to see.

But never had you been in a house so full of haunted spirits that roamed the corridors of Allerdale Hall. They seemed to be some of the saddest spirits you had ever met. It took time at first for you to grow used to them, but the spirits slowly learned that you did not fear them. They grew used to you and you learned to live in the house with your dear friend, Lucille Sharpe.

The way you met Lucille had changed your life. You were a part of a rich family who cared only for wealth. You lived with an abusive mother and no father, he had died when you were young and it turned your mother's heart to ice. Lucille had met you only a few months before it happened. You had quickly grown close and were able to call her your friend.

You once asked about her family, if she had one. She had told you that she had been abandoned by her brother when he ran off with his wife, leaving her alone in an empty mansion. She had come in search of funds to keep her old family's home supported. You were able to convince your mother to lend her some money.

Lucille stood by you for quite a while in your home, she was living in your own mansion as a guest. In doing so, she got a front row seat in your home treatment and she was quick to oppose.

She questioned you, why did you live here in this hell hole? Why did you put up with such punishment? Your answer? It was the only place you had. But one night an accident happened while your mother was out. You had gotten word later that night that she had been killed in an accident with the carriage. The horses had been spooked while pulling the carriage and ran wild. It had caused the carriage to crash and it killed your mother and the driver.

The family fortune went to you as her heir. But you could not stay in that house any longer. Lucille offered to allow you a stay in her own home. It would be lonely without company, so she offered you hers and her, yours. You accepted her offer with a smile.

That was how you came to live in Allerdale Hall, also known as Crimson Peak.

You and Lucille only grew closer. But there was an aspect of the mansion you couldn't quite put to rest. The secrets of the house. Why were there so many ghosts, and why were they so terribly haunted?

You learned of the ghosts and how they died. You gathered the information as you approached the ghosts. They knew you didn't fear them, and they yearned to give you the answers you sought.

Lucille knew what you were doing after a while and tried to figure out what to do. If you knew the truth, you would leave her. This house was too big and too haunted to live here on her own - it was one of the real reasons she had come to you and your town. She didn't want to be alone in that house.

But the more she fought to figure out what to do, the more she realized something. Everyone in this house falls to ruins over time. Everyone finds out, one way or another, that this house brought only death.

Over her life, she was never bothered by the death of anyone except her brother. But then you showed up and showed her care and hope. You gave her this strange feeling. A feeling not even Thomas had given to her. She couldn't place it, though she felt it was obvious.

But she feared your death more than anything in the world. She could not lose you, she would not. So she did what she could to assure you lived.

"Y/N, it's time for you to go," Lucille told you once during tea. She had been acting strangely all day - all week even. She was distant, almost scared and sad.

You stared at her in shock and disbelief, before slowly sinking into fear.

"What? Why?" you asked quickly, a flurry of words escaping your mouth at once, "Did I do something wrong? Why do I have to go?"

Lucille winced at your questions. She didn't know why it was so hard to tell you to leave. She couldn't understand what was tethering you so tightly to her. "You've done nothing wrong… but I feel it is time for us to move on. You've been in this house for so long and… I fear it will not end well if you should stay."

"But why, Lucille? I don't want to go, I don't want to leave you," you told her, tears springing to your eyes as you pleaded with her, "Please, don't make me go."

You weren't budging. Lucille didn't want to, but the only way to get you to leave was to force you out. She would rather push you away than lose you to death.

"I know you have been snooping around the house. You have been invading in my privacy and secrets, and that is something I cannot allow. So it is time for you to leave." She stood and began walking off in the direction of the grand stairs.

You stood and followed her, "I'm sorry. I just… I was curious and it was wrong of me to invade. Please don't make me go. I'll do better."

You didn't want to leave her. She was so good to you and the alternative was to return home to your family who cared so little.

At the center of the stairs, she turned on you then. There were tears in her own eyes as she spoke, "Y/N, don't you see? You have to leave. You can't stay here. I know you've been trying to uncover the secrets in the house - I know you have already. So you know by now that this house brings nothing but darkness. Death. I can't risk losing you and in doing so, you must leave."

You shook your head, "I'm not leaving you, Lucille. Do not push me away, I can't lose the only friend I've had."

"But you must," she said, turning away from you, "it is not safe here and I will not put you in any more danger. You may not fear the ghosts, but you should fear me."

You knew what she had done, everything. The scams she created and executed with her brother. The murder of her mother and the poisoning of the other women her brother had married for the scam. How her brother had fallen in love with the last woman she had conned and left with her, abandoning his sister. He didn't want to leave her - he begged her to come with. But she refused.

Because of all of this, you knew you should have feared her, run away from her. But you could not. No matter what she had done, you couldn't leave her.

"I don't care what you've done, Lucille. No matter what, I will be here for you. That's what friends do. It's what I'm willing to do because I don't want to lose you."

"Y/N," she whispered, "Please, don't make this any harder than it has to be." She looked up at you, a deep frown set on her face and tears in her eyes.

You stood your ground, looking her deep in those chaotically beautiful eyes and shaking your head, "I'm not leaving you."

"Then I'll make you," she said, taking a step back to turn around. Your eyes widened as she lost her balance, unknowing that she had taken a step back at the edge of the stairs. You rushed over to help her before she fell backwards, but she had already gone tumbling down.

"Lucille!" you yelled as she rolled down. You rushed down to get her. She landed at the bottom of the stairs, unmoving on the floor as she was knocked unconscious.

You got to the bottom, your vision blurry with tears. "Lucille, wake up," you said, moving her head to your lap. You examined her quickly for any wounds as you panicked. "Lucille!"

It had been two days since the accident. Lucille was in the bed, still unconscious. You'd brought tea to her room like you had been since she fell down the stairs. You tended to her wounds - a broken arm and cuts and bruises all over her. She had a nasty gash on the side of her forehead from a hit. You were surprised she had made it through, but overwhelmingly relieved. You thought you lost her.

You read aloud next to Lucille's bed, it was her favorite book. As you read, she was slowly waking up, her eyes fluttering as she looked around the room. Your voice finally reached her as she made sense of your words. She interrupted as she spoke, speaking into the room that would have otherwise been silent, "That's my favorite."

You turned to her quickly, setting the book down as you offered a small smile. "I know, that's why I chose it."

She fought off a smile before going to sit up, groaning quickly as the pain caught up with her, her aching body protesting her movements.

"Hey, hey, hey. Careful," you eased her back into the bed, propping her up against some pillows, "You were very badly hurt. Your arm is broken and you've got a concussion."

She reached her hand up to her head, feeling the gash that you stitched up after the fall. She winced at the cut and you gave her a sad frown. "How are you feeling?"

She sighed, "Better… Thank you."

You nodded and sighed. There was a question that had been nagging at you since the argument, but you didn't want to bring that up. You were scared she would still make you leave.

Lucille seemed to notice this as she asked, "What is it?"

You sighed, thinking of how to ask. "Lucille…why do you think I should stay away from you?"

She looked down at her arm wrapped in a cast, sighing as she tried to find the words. "Y/N," she said hesitantly, "I have darkness in me."

You told her gently, taking one of her hands in yours, "Everyone has darkness in them."

She nodded a little, "Yes, but… mine is different. It's deeper. It makes me do bad things, terrible things. It makes me a bad person."

You gave her a soft smile and brought her hand to your lips, kissing it gently, "The darker the darkness, the brighter the light. And you, Lucille, are the brightest shine I have ever seen."

She watched you, searching you for any kind of lie. When she saw none in your eyes, she questioned, "Why are you saying these things?"

"Because they're true. I would never lie to you, Lucille. I can't. I…" you trailed off, not exactly knowing what you're going to say.

You sighed, looking back up at her. She asked, "You what?"

You shrugged, "I don't know."

She took her hand from your grasp and moved it to your face. You looked at her, into her eyes with a deep sigh. "You really believe I'm good."

You nodded, "It doesn't matter how much darkness you have, Lucille. Your heart is good."

She smiled at you, it was a smile that made your heart flutter. You glanced at her lips, unable to control yourself as you kissed her then. You immediately pulled back, covering your mouth with the back of your hand as you apologized profusely. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what-"

She stopped you before you could go on a tangent and kissed you again. You sunk into her, your eyes closing as you tasted her lips. It was the best you had ever felt.

You kissed her a little while longer before pulling back for air.

You breathed each other in as you stayed like that. She broke the silence, "Don't go."

You smiled, kissing her again, "I would never… I think…"

"What?" she asked, opening her eyes to look at you. You looked back at her and smiled gently again, "I think I've fallen in love with you."

Lucille smiled this time, unable to hold it back as she responded, "I think I've fallen in love with you, too."

You kissed her again, promising her that you would never leave.

#lucille sharpe x reader #lucille sharpe #crimson peak #crimson peak fanfiction #lucille sharpe fanfiction #fanfiction #request

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what-is-your-plan-today · 4 years

Text

Murder, He Wrote

Co-written with @southerngracela

Part 1

Warnings: A creepy house, bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Series Masterlist.

"Y/L/N," your dick editor poked his head into your office rather gruffly. "I'm gonna need that celebrity haunted mansion review on my desk by tomorrow morning. I want to run it ASAP.”

"Make it happen." He said simply, before he turned and left.

With a groan you banged your head on your desk. Why had you not listened to your dad and become a damned teacher instead of a journalist. Dealing with snotty nosed brats would be easier than this.

I’m tall when I’m young, and I’m short when I’m old. I also give heat but not enough to prevent cold

“Candle…” you spoke “The answer is Candle…”

Turning back round, you then spotted that the door at the end of the hall was open, and you could clearly make out a Jack-o-Lantern looking at you, the candle inside flickering. Its face was creepy, really creepy. The nose and eyes were harsh triangles and the grotesque, twisted smile it sported was constructed of sharp, jagged teeth. You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. You may have had no service, but the flashlight was working. Keeping the light held in front of you so you could watch your step on the cracked tiles of the hall, you made your way towards the lantern and found yourself in a large, run down kitchen. The lantern and your flash-light provided the only light in the room as the windows were all overshadowed by gnarly trees, their branches every so often scratching the glass as they swayed slightly in the wind outside. The only other sound to be heard was the drip, drip of the faucet in the porcelain Belfast sink. A closer look revealed the discoloration of the water, a brownish concoction as it swirled down the plug. There was an envelope on the side of the counter by the lantern and as you crossed towards it, a movement in your peripheral made you spin round only to see a lone mouse scuttling away across the dirty wooden floor. You placed your phone down, flash-light up causing it to light up an area of the Artex plaster ceiling, and picked up the envelope, tearing it open to find your next clue

Mr Jack-o-Lantern lights the night His eerie face is shining bright The ????? that shaped him lies around And holds your next clue safe and sound

Many a Child on me they may play Any time be it night or day. My surface is hard, on it you can knock I have many keys, but can’t open a single lock…

“What has keys but doesn't open a lock?" You pondered aloud. Adjusting your cross-body strap, you sigh. Then the answer came to you, "a piano."

"Alright, Lee, you were always one for a flare of the dramatics, let's see what you've got."

Step by step you followed the note that chimed every few steps and you found yourself beginning to wonder if it was a recording or if someone were really playing it, timing their play with the sound of your boots over the rotting floor. You wound your way through the narrow hall, ancient wall paper peeling from its tack, mastick and plaster falling away to reveal studs in places. Finally, to your left you heard the key loud and clear. It was in that room. Steeling yourself for a possible encounter, you carefully pushed the sliding door away from its hinge. Your booted feet traipsed across the brittle carpet, dust swirling in the air in front of your face. Cobwebs adorned many of the surfaces and there were dirty white sheets covering the various pieces of furniture in the room. Apart from, that is, the large ornate grand piano that sat in the middle of the room. The stool in front of it suddenly jolted back and tilted toward you, making you scream at the gracious invitation by an as of yet invisible host.

“Get a grip Y/N” you mumbled to yourself. You were surprised to find just how much this place was starting to set your nerves on edge. You took a deep breath, the pounding of blood in your ears began to quiet and you took a look around the room. There was no one in there with you, you were alone. With slow, deliberate steps you moved towards the piano, your eyes sweeping over the mahogany surface, searching for an envelope with the next clue, but there was none to be found. The surface of the piano was thick with dust and grime, but as you scanned over it you suddenly stopped. On one of the white keys the dust was disturbed, as if it had been wiped away and you instantly realised that had to be the key that your so far elusive host must have been playing. You paused, biting at the nail on your thumb of you right hand, before you reached out with your left and tapped the key. The melodic note rang around the room, clearly, echoing in the silence and for some reason you were taken back to a part of the article you had been thinking about earlier that day, and how Detective Blanc had told you that he had ‘played a key’ during the various family interviews ‘to make my point without interruption’. It didn’t pass you by how fitting that actually was at that moment but you didn’t have much time to reflect on it, as you heard a creak and a grinding noise and you spun to your left to see a panel in the wall sliding open. It made you jump slightly, but this time you didn’t scream.

Not for the first time, you had to admire the effort Lucas was going to here. It was clear he had a flare for the dramatic, anyone could see that from his films and interviews but this was pretty damned good. It was making you wonder how he was doing it. Was he somewhere watching, pressing buttons to enact the various parts of his show? Instinctively you glanced up, looking for a camera or something you were being monitored by but you found no evidence of anything. “Well, in for a penny…” you muttered, crossing towards the small hatch. It was just wide enough for you to get your hand into, but you really didn’t want to. You grabbed your torch and shone it into the hole, finding nothing but the envelope so deciding it was safe you reached in and pulled it out.

Sometimes coloured, sometimes plain sometimes frosted, sometimes stain Be you short or thin, or fat or tall, this simple invention, lets you look right through a wall

You pondered for a moment, before the answer came to you. Fairly quickly you might add. Feeling a little smug you smiled and cleared your throat “Window. It’s a window.”

“Tonight is not all fright and fear, a trick or treat is waiting near, the bedroom holds a sweet surprise, there solve the clue to claim your prize” you bit your lip and looked up at the top of the stairs, wondering when someone was going to jump out at you. Taking a deep breath, you made your way up, cringing at each creak your feet caused on the old warped wood, but it didn’t sway your determination to make it to your destination. Halfway up, a shadow flickered at the corner of your vision at the top on the landing and you froze, your mouth going dry once more. As you stood there, shining your light into the dark you caught the same scent from moments ago lingering in the air only this time it was stronger, far more powerful and you were able to denote even more of the notes within. Aalongside the amber and cedar your heightened senses picked up deep, earthy, sandalwood notes with a hint of citrus in the background. And it was familiar for reasons beyond the fact you’d smelt it down stairs. But, as you’d surmised earlier, it was a cologne. Probably one worn by a few people you knew.

Yes that was it.

“Jesus Christ Y/N what has gotten into you?” You rolled your eyes and continued up the stairs, clearly your ‘Celebrity Host’ was once more nearby. You cautiously got to the top of the stairs and glanced around. Nothing. So turning to your left you entered the first room you found on the hall. It was empty bar a creepy looking doll that had been separated from its head which lay about a foot to the right. As you looked around the room, the wind intensified outside, the rustling of the leaves and branches became louder, as did the creaking of the house…and then you gulped, as you realised it wasn’t just the house that was creaking. In the corner of the room, the little chair had begun to rock, slowly. Blowing out a breath and shaking your head, you looked around at the thin strips of wallpaper which showed little trucks. Crayon markings scrambled upon the wall where wallpaper used to stick but other than that there was nothing in there bar some pretty good theatrics. You had to hand it to Lee, the creepy feel was fantastic and you were going to give him one hell of a write up for this. You took a while longer to take in the detail, smiling to yourself before you closed the door and headed to the one over the hallway.

I’m light as a feather, yet the strongest person can’t hold me for five minutes. What am I?

You froze, for the answer was simple. Breath.

And that was it, you needed to get out. You started to back away from the bed, but before you had so much as made it 3 steps you collided with something hard. A forceful arm across your front pinned you to a firm and broad chest that engulfed your frame while a cloth with a distinct smell and cool moisture covered your airways.

"Surprise" The voice in your ear, calm, deep and known, was all you heard before nothing consumed you.

*****

But then, didn’t everything for him? He was Ransom Drysdale, and he was fucking untouchable.

And now she was all his.

*****

Your night flashed quickly through your glutamate and adrenaline flooded brain

"Drysdale," you repeated the last word you had spoken in a shaky, frightful voice. "No."

Rage and fear collided in your chest as you screamed out the only thing you could think of, "HELP!" A strangled sound left your chest followed by another cry out for help, "Please, someone, HELP!"

"Nice to see someone's awake," Ransom deadpanned.

You stared for a brief moment and screamed for help again, louder, and louder, and louder until you felt your voice crack and strain, your cords burning as the sound shattered away.

"Are you done?" He cocked his head to the side and folded his arms across his chest as he stood firm and tall in front of the bed.

"What the hell are you doing? Why am I here?" It hurt to speak but you had to ask.

“Because I want you here, Sweetheart.”

"You... Killed... Him." You grit out through clenched teeth, and his hand was on your throat before you finished your breath, squeezing just enough to make a point.

A struggled chuckle came from your tightened throat, "Jesus Christ, you actually believe your own bull shit don't you?"

"You've got a fucking mouth on you," he breathed as his body loomed ominously over the bed and your frame, tiny in comparison to his.

You swallowed, feeling the hard lump strain to pass his grip, "Not really, you just don't like hearing the truth."

His eyes bored into yours and you struggled for breath as his hand constricted around your neck whilst he squeezed a little harder "Oh shut up Y/N."

"Or what, Hugh?" You croaked.

A little flash of anger tore through his ocean blue eyes like lightning in a storm. His eyes bored into yours as you fought to swallow.

"Or I'll shut you up myself."

“Don’t... fucking call me that!” his voice rose to a loud, angry instruction, apoplectic rage seeping from him to you, and it was almost stifling.

Ransom scoffed, "Kill you, no, see I'm gonna teach you a lesson. One about how money and status get you anything you want.”

You frowned, as you looked into his icy blue eyes, utterly confused “Anything you want? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You'll see Princess” was the sole explanation you got as he knelt between your legs.

"Don't" you squeezed, attempting to stop his wrists and close your legs.

“I said no.” you tried to keep your voice stern, despite the fact you were fighting back the fear and sadness at the realization of his task was now at hand.

His large hands smoothed over your dress, cupping your breasts and he let out a moan as you bit back the bile in your throat that was threatening to spill from your mouth. You pushed harder trying to force him off of you but it was of no use, his broad frame caged you in, engulfing you under him.

"Please, stop," you managed. "Hugh, stop!"

And you knew then, you were in for it.

"You're gonna fucking cum, aren't you Princess? I can feel it," he ground out, chasing his own release. You remained silent, breathing heavily as your insides coiled and tightened. "Fucking tight ass pussy," he gritted. You refused to cry out, not wanting to give him anything you were able not to, and it took everything you had to remain silent. In desperation, to quell the cry that was rising from your throat, you bit your tongue, tasting the coppery taste of blood in your mouth as you came hard around his cock.

His hand let go of your face and you stared at him, swallowing, trying to gather your voice in your painfully dry throat.

“You'll be begging me to accept your apology.” He snarled, his face contorted in rage “You'll see who the whiney child is soon enough. I promise Princess, it's not me”

“Fuck you.” He sneered as he rose to his feet, wiping his face. Silently he rearranged his pants, tucking his now soft cock back inside them, and swept from the room, locking the door behind him.

He could make out 3 vivid red lines down his left cheek where she’d dug her nails into his flesh and his jaw clenched. His hair was out of place, his cheeks flushed and his normally cold eyes were blazing with anger. But as he stood there staring at his dishevelled reflection, he knew it wasn’t the fact she’d scratched or spat at him that was pissing him off so much. It was the fact she had persistently voiced a name he despised, one that was used to control those lower than him in his every-day life. One reserved for The Help, for outsiders. It reminded him of his family, of his mother and father, the two people in his life who should have loved him unconditionally but instead had him out of ‘duty’ and had taken every opportunity to pass him off into the care of others they could. It reminded him of Walt persistently telling him he was a no-one, that he would amount to nothing over than a trust-fund baby.

It reminded him of Harlan. The one person in that entire fucked up patriarchy that had shown him an ounce of care. But who had screwed him over in the end. The anger that had been simmering inside him boiled over, the blood pumped into his ear and with an angry yell and an almost involuntary action Ransom hurled the glass tumbler straight at the wall where it smashed against the tasteful silver and white wallpaper, the 25 year old single malt trickling down the wall…just like the tears and trickled down Y/N’s cheeks as he’d forced her to look at him whilst he took what was his.

As she’d glared up at him he’d noticed a fierceness in her eyes that he was surprised to find had unnerved him a little, because she clearly wasn’t going to be as easy to break as he thought.

“Fuck it.” He mumbled to himself, grabbing the bottle from the bar before he turned and left the room, taking a large swig as he went, the burn in his throat going someway to settling his nerves.

This would work out, because he was Ransom fucking Drysdale, a man who always got what he wanted in the end, and she was going to be no exception.

**** WIYPT Tag List:

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