#had to sit through an hour and a half long compliance presentation today

[darby-rowe]

thinking about uhhhhhhh HAVING SEX!!!!!!!!

[ubemango]

delicacies of the season (m)

part 3: days apart

note: hey!! What’s up!! first, I officially have named this series!! it’s right up there for ur viewing glory! ok anyway here’s something before I disappear for the next four weeks because I am drowning in school!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! also just a side thingie for this story: I’ve already established that oc isn’t on birth control but here I’m implying that they’re doing natural planning (i.e. fertility awareness where the person who menstruates keeps up with their cycle and thus only has sex when their cycles allows for it). PLEASE DO NOT DO THIS UNLESS YOU KNOW THE RISKS!!!!!!!! Oh Lord putting your impregnation chances up to God?! I couldn’t do it. But also this is fanfiction and nothing bad will happen to this couple so let’s all just... suspend disbelief for a second ok

PAIRING. taehyung/reader GENRE. romance, farmer au RATED. M WORD COUNT. 2.5k WARNINGS. kitchen sex, unprotected sex, dirty talk, a good ol’ creampie bc wot is the ubemango experience without one :/ SUMMARY. Taehyung missed you.

Auntie Gaeul comes over when the rooster crows to tell you to check out the passion fruits today. They’re ripe not because she’s seen them but because she just knows. Call it the Elder Instinct for Ripened Foods. You tell her you’ll give her half the harvest, and she swats at you before she leaves.

“Stop being so polite, I’m not that old,” she spits in jest. “And make some of that honey iced tea your grandma makes. If there’s extra, then I’ll have some.”

Taehyung would probably like some, too; he chugs down anything with passion fruit like he’s about to go into hibernation. And when you come back home from the fields with a basket-full perched heavy on your back, you resolve to make some tea right away to bring over to his house to see if he’s there. You haven’t seen him in five days—his cousin had the stomach flu, and his aunt needed the extra help with tending to the livestock. Being the eldest nephew (and the only one who can drive a motorcycle) had him obligated right from the get-go.

“Grandma! Can you show me where you put the honey jars, I can’t remember where they are. And can you help me peel these—um. You’re not Grandma,” you stop.

Taehyung looks up from where he’s perched on the stairs of your awning, flicking bits of strawberries to the ground for Danbi to eat. Your little puppy scrounges it up so fast she nearly falls over on her fluffy bum.

“I told her to go play bingo with the rest of the granny crew, someone’s betting chicken feet,” he says. You smile wide when he trods over to you for a short kiss, slipping the strap of the basket off your shoulder to put on his. The hand he keeps low on your back is as warm as the ten AM sun. “Hi. I missed you.”

“I was just gonna go see if you were home,” you say. He smells like the wind. Something you’d scrunch your nose at but he makes it work. “When d’you come back? How’s Daeshim now?”

“An hour ago. And he’s better. He ate up all your ice cream, only thing he could keep down.”

You frown. “Poor baby.”

“I know. You gonna clean these now?” He nods his head toward the water basin, carved rock he’d installed for you on your third anniversary.

“Yeah. Can you start? I’ll just wash up quick,” you offer. Suddenly you’re aware you’ve got an ugly shirt with oil stains and holes in random places—nothing Taehyung minds, but the occasion probably deserves better.

“Got it, boss,” Taehyung says. He slaps your ass before you run to the bathroom. A familiar signal of his intentions but he’s too polite to bring it up so quickly.

“Hey!”

“Hurry up,” he calls. As if you’re going to take another five days to get back to him but you get it. You missed him, too; a little more than you’d like to let on. Your grandma is great company but she watches her TV too loud and she hates when you’re not there to sit with her because she might need your help switching channels. It’s a miracle you didn’t jump Taehyung the second your eyes landed on him.

You change into whatever shirt you’ve tossed on the floor that looks semi-presentable. It’s too early for your sweat to reek like it does under the afternoon heat, but you spritz some perfume on your neck anyway. Just for upkeep, because you’d be lying if you said you weren’t anticipating sex, a sloppy makeout session at the least. Danbi’s too hyper to be left alone, plus your grandma likes making surprise visits at your house because she’s a forgetful woman.

By the time you’ve come back from scrubbing the dirt and dead ant bits caked under your nails, Taehyung’s a third of the way through the basket, tossing the clean passion fruit into a bucket Danbi is trying so hard to climb into. She yelps when her fat paws slip at the edges.

“Danbi! Mama’s gonna be mad if you get hurt. I’ll give you some later.”

“Go play with your toy,” you call out to her. “Danbi! Go!”

Her ears perk up at your command, and she pants and pants till she decides to go in the complete opposite direction of the ball and into the patch where all the potatoes are. She hasn’t hit her teething phase so you’re safe from her snuffing anything out with her mouth. It’s her fur you worry about. She’s such a nice shade of white amongst the semi-wet dirt, it almost hurts seeing her get soiled.

“Like a little cotton ball,” Taehyung says. He points to the bucket. “This good?”

You nod—it’s enough to have extra for Auntie Gaeul. “Yeah. Wanna carry it to the kitchen like a good man?”

“As if I’m not one already,” he snorts, grabbing the handle. “Danbi, come!”

This is how it always goes. Taehyung ogles from over your shoulder (usually he’s off to the side but he’s a lot clingier, not that you mind) while you do your business because you don’t trust him with a knife. Not since the time you’d tasked him with chopping garlic and he’d nearly sliced his palm open when he tried crushing them first.

And now you’ve got a new addition to the routine: Danbi sniffs around the dried leaves for the fire, sneezing when she breathes the ash in too hard. You hear her collar jiggle as she explores the earthenware stacked on the side. You made sure Taehyung left the door open because she gets antsy fast.

“Can I just say that I have a thing for seeing you use a knife,” Taehyung says, hands stroking your tummy because he’s got nothing better to do.

“You’re really bad at hiding how turned on you are.”

“Who said I was trying to hide?”

You laugh. “What are you trying to get at, mister?”

“I’m saying I missed you,” he says simply.

“So that’s why you kicked Grandma out the house,” you tease. Taehyung splutters in your ear.

“No! They really are betting chicken feet. What do you think I am?”

“Horny.”

“Ugh.”

You turn your focus back to the chopping board. Taehyung lets the sound of the knife smooth down the goop of the insides fill the space.

“...Are you mad if I am?” He whispers tentatively.

“Oh my god. It’s ten in the morning.”

“You think my dick cares?”

“You think I care?” you joke.

Taehyung gasps. Like his heart just shattered from your vitriol, but all you want is to finish cutting up these damn fruits before you’ll allow his hands to touch you. “Wow. You—? Okay, fine.”

“Wha—”

“I appreciate your hard work,” he coos. He wraps himself around you even tighter, traces a slow kiss on your neck. “Really. But don’t pretend you didn’t miss me too.”

“I never said I didn’t.”

“You’ve got a fucking mouth on you.”

And that gets you to shut up. Taehyung only swears when he wants you to stop talking. Not for the sake of real anger but to show you he’s got something brewing, and you’re here to take whatever it is he’s about to give you.

“I just wanted to be a good fiance and visit the one I love the most after five days because I missed them so much.”

His teeth catch the lobe of your ear. Biting down softly because he’s still aware you’ve got the knife in your hand, but you’ve lost all motor skills the second he started his little bit. You drop the handle slowly. At the last second you push all the shit you’ve laid out on the counter to the farthest corner. Something tells you this space is being defiled this morning.

“Good. Are you wet?”

“N-No.”

“Then we’ll have to do something about that, huh.”

You watch his hands glide up, and you’re half-expecting him to fondle you gently, the way he teases you when you think he’s taking it slow. But instead he goes right for the kill: using those long fingers to pinch right at your tits just to get you to gasp into the feeling. You roll your eyes shut, let your head fall back on his shoulder.

“You like that?”

“Mhm,” you whine.

“Take your shirt off for me.”

You’ve never exposed yourself to kitchen utensils and rice wine on the pantry shelves before but Taehyung makes you want it. He shows his appreciation for your compliance with another hard grope of his hands, this time with his mouth sucking on your neck too. Craving your skin like he’s been absolutely deprived. The calluses on his fingertips rub your nipples raw.

“You smell good,” he croons. “Come here.”

You nearly tip over from how fast he spins you around, but he catches you easy, tongue on yours in the next second. The desperate tug of his lips on yours, the smack of your spit when he pulls you in deeper, all the intricacies of needing someone else to save your own sanity—it culminates here, and now your ass is up on the cold of the counter, Taehyung pulling back from one last kiss to drag that same heat down your body.

“Please let me eat you out here, holy shit.” He tugs at your pants, slides your underwear down with it. Mouthing hungry at your mound because you haven’t answered him yet, so you just groan a quick please, yes and he doesn’t even look at you before he presses his tongue inside you.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, the guilt of ruining this space with your (embarrassingly) uncontrolled libido is raging. But you could care less with the way Taehyung swipes his tongue around your clit, gets you clawing at his hair for brief respite. You’ve most definitely exceeded wet boundaries. His chin practically shines.

And he knows it’s because of him. Not just from his mouth but the knowledge that he wants you trembling towards a heady orgasm, the kind that consumes you whole. His laving gets bolder with every stroke, every moan you try to keep stifled but it’s useless. “Taehyung. Oh my g-od, fuck—no d-don’t use your fingers, I’ll come.”

He laughs, adjusts your thighs so you’re not cramping. “Think you’ll tap out?”

“I wanna come on your dick,” you pants.

“Oh my god,” he groans. “You’re perfect. Oh my god. I’m so fucking hard. Can I come inside you?”

“Yes yes yes yes, just get inside me already.”

Taehyung’s foot gets caught on his pants when he shoves them off, nearly crashing face first into your pussy again. And he laughs and you snort and when he’s naked waist-down he kisses you again, a little slower this time, a breather for just a moment.

“I know it’s only been five days but I missed you. A lot.”

You trap his hips with locked ankles on his back. “I know.”

“It’s just—I had to shovel so much horse shit—”

“Oh don’t say that!” You bat at his chest.

Taehyung snickers. “Sorry. Ahh, I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“You can stick your dick inside me and we can go from there,” you suggest.

“I like the way you think, missus.”

It’s almost laughable when he sinks right in. No resistance, just the slick of your arousal and his spit, an unholy mixture for this thick sacrilege. Taehyung’s eyes stay locked on the sight.

“Fuck yeah. Oh baby…”

If it’s got him uttering curses this early in the round then you’re definitely worse off. You’ve got one profanity for every inch he’s claimed inside you, all lined up behind your teeth but you don’t have the brain capacity to get them out. He fucks you straight to incoherence.

Your delirium keeps you mum. Taehyung will make up for it. He slots his hand up the back of your thighs, hits deeper when you arch through the pleasure. “Holy fuck that’s so good,” you whine. “Taehyung—oh god.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just pants hard with every moan you’ll give him, and you watch the sweat glow on his collarbone, the thick of his neck. Places you claim with your mouth when you lean forward because it’s too hard to keep balance without his gravity.

Taehyung breaks when you bite. “Sh-it. Oh fuck you’re so hot. ‘M not gonna last, shit.”

“You’ll fuck me when you come?” you plead, hold his gaze. He’s just as gone as you are. “You’ll fuck your cum inside me?”

“Yeah baby. I’ll give it to you. So fuckin’ good.”

He never lets up. Just keeps that steady fucking, stiff with every drive into your slick till he adjusts your knees with one push. Pussy open to the angle that gets you begging for his thumb on your clit because it’s right there. You fall back on your hands, no steady grip because Taehyung’s faltering too.

“Oh—!” You flutter your eyes shut to pending ecstasy. “Tae—please—harder—right there right there don’t stop!”

“You gonna come for me?”

It’s a rhetorical question. You know he sees the way your chest collapses, the rub of your clit in quick gestures for your high. He’s got you right in his hand.

“Fuck—ohhh yes!”

“Ugh,” he whines. It’s nearly lost to the ringing in your ears, the clench of your pussy from his pounding. You cream him so good when the orgasm’s strong enough, pulsing hot, the rough intensity. And that’s not lost on him when he cries: “God your pussy’s so wet. Holy shit.”

Usually you’re spent by the time your vision’s cleared to the sight of Taehyung fucking you through it. But he’s promised you something, and you’re greedy for it.

“Come inside me,” you urge, guiding a hand through his hair, pulling hard at his nape. He keeps his eyes on his dick priming you for those final strokes.

“I’ll fucking come,” he snaps. “You ready? I’ll come so good for you baby. Come so fucking—good—!”

He stiffens with a shout, grinds his teeth, lets his orgasm splash inside with so much heat you mewl. And he keeps minimal movement, thrust for soft thrust because it’s too much with the squeezing you tease him with.

“I.” Taehyung clears his throat, panting to a stop. “I… wow.”

Your ass is rubbed raw against the counter. But you’ll risk it again to see the glint in his eye when he pulls out and watches his cum drip down your hole, onto the floor for you to clean when your legs aren’t jelly.

“Wow,” you repeat.

“Do… Am I… Am I ovulating?” He looks genuinely confused. “I don’t… I’ve never been that horny before.”

You snort. “Five days felt like forever, huh.”

Taehyung kisses you slow. “If it means we get to fuck like that again then I’m going to the city for a month.”

“Hey!” You pinch his arm, using his bicep to stand up, tiptoeing around the mess on the floor. “God. Help me clean up here, please. And where’s the dog?”

(Danbi sleeps peacefully in the wicker basket, head lolled on one of the passion fruits. You make sure to bring her over to Auntie Gaeul’s for extra snacks.)

[quiteanabyss]

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! Can you share your most memorable holidays with Kylo, Charlie and Sackler? Thank you

How would Kylo or Charlie handle Christmas in isolation with just you. - Anon

Merry Christmas!  I hope you’re having as lovely a day as is possible in the current circumstances!

Thank you for this Ask.  After some thought, I combined it with another, which I hope is okay for the both of you.

This features HC’s of a socially distanced Christmas with Kylo, some sweet Charlie and Henry, and ... the “Touch” series holiday special.

TW: The second story has a reference to an age gap, and the third contains some smut (because Sackler).

Kylo - A very social(ly distanced) Christmas

This is your third Christmas with Kylo.

Your first was spent with your family.  It had still been early days in your relationship, but in spite of some worries, they had easily welcomed him into the fold.  (Your parents were probably just glad you were finally dating someone.)

Your second was spent with his family, after many months spent encouraging him to reach out and reconcile with them like you knew he wanted to, but would never admit.  You had begged, bargained and blackmailed your boss for the time off over the holidays, and travelled all the way to the States with him to witness a family reunion that was twenty years in the making.  It was worth it.

Your third Christmas is different.  Thanks to the pandemic, travel to the States is out of the question.  Even driving a couple of hours up the road to see your parents is forbidden, thanks to the government’s last-minute decision the weekend before Christmas.  So the two of you are spending Christmas alone together.

But between phone calls and Zoom calls with family and friends, you don’t actually manage to have a minute to yourselves until the evening, once “dinner with the family” (a very strange setup using both of your laptops) is done, and the pans and dishes have been washed or abandoned in the sink to soak until either of you can be bothered to deal with them.

Even though it’s just been the two of you in the apartment all day, the space has been filled with voices and laughter of friends and loved ones almost the entire time.  Only now that the calls are done do you actually have space to appreciate the silence that falls between you as you flop down on the couch next to him, and he throws his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close.

“Thank fuck that’s over,” he grumbles eventually, his deep voice breaking the stillness of the room.  “And to think you were worried today was going to be too quiet.  Jesus, I’m exhausted.”

He enjoyed it, really.  You know this.  He knows you know this.  But he’ll never admit it.  And that’s okay.  You love your grumpy man just as he is.

“Poor baby,” you murmur, causing him to glare at you.  “You’re probably much too tired for one more present.”

"What present?” he asks, in a would-be casual voice.  Trying to sound as disinterested as possible.

Smiling, you toy with the top button on your blouse.  That gets his attention.  “You’ll have to unwrap it to find out,” you say.  “But that’s probably too much for you seeing as you’ve had such a hard day.”

But it turns out he isn’t at all as exhausted as he’d claimed.

And he loves his final present.

Charlie - A family Christmas

Charlie was upfront about it right from the start.  He and Henry were a package deal.  Love me, love my son.

That’s why it took so long for things to really get going between the two of you.  He didn’t want to introduce you to Henry, only to have you fade out of his life a few months later when you inevitably got fed up of the tedious responsibility of, effectively, parenting another woman’s kid.

The age gap didn’t help, either.  You were at a stage in your life where you should be figuring out what you want to do with your life, partying with friends, without a care in the world.  Not settling down with someone who has already quite thoroughly fucked his life up, and has the baggage to prove it.

It took you a good six months to convince him that you understood all his worries and concerns, and you simply didn’t care.  There were heated discussions, tears from both of you, and a breakup that lasted all of a week ... until Charlie finally came to his senses and realized that he could trust you.

So it means a lot that you’re finally here.  Your first Christmas together with Charlie and Henry.

You and Charlie are exhausted.  Henry woke you up at the ungodly hour of half past four to open his presents, and is showing no sign of flagging.  Meanwhile, the two of you are on your third cup of coffee each, and it isn’t even time to have lunch yet.  But Henry is having a great time with his new toys, and Charlie’s arm is warm and reassuring around you as you both stand in the doorway to the living room, looking at the mess of wrapping paper with a mixture of despair and amusement.

Charlie leans in, nuzzles his nose against the side of your face, before kissing your cheek.  “You still sure about this?” he asks, gesturing at the chaos before you both.  “This is what it’s like.”

“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life,” you tell him.  There’s more you want to say, but at that moment Henry calls for both of you, demanding you come and help him begin assembling one of his new Lego sets.  

You’ll tell Charlie later, you decide, as you settle down on the floor and pull the instructions out of the box.  You’ll tell him how happy you are.  How lucky you feel to have been invited into their lives.  

He and Henry are a package deal, and you love them both.

Sackler - July in Christmas

“Why the fuck is the apartment so warm?” you demand, when you arrive home after your shift on Christmas Eve.  Some jackass in a ten grand coat told you that you ruined Christmas for his entire family because the product his wife wanted was out of stock, so you might be feeling a little bit Grinchy this evening.

Adam doesn’t have a straight answer for you.  He also insists that you stay out of the living room, so after your shower he makes you eat dinner in the bedroom.  It’s all very suspicious.

“I feel like I’m a prisoner,” you comment, after he accompanies you to the bathroom in case you look in the living room.  “I didn’t do it, officer, I swear!” you call through the door, while you pee.  Then you brush your teeth, remove your contacts, and run through your skincare routine.  If you take much longer than usual, it’s just because you’re being thorough.  Not because you’re trying to annoy him.

You emerge from the bathroom a good fifteen minutes later, to find him still standing there, looking pissed off.  You give him a shit-eating grin.  He grabs you, turns you around, and pushes you against the wall.  “You’re under arrest for taking too long in the bathroom,” he says, his breath hot in your ear as he grinds against you.  “Spread ‘em.”

You sleep very well that night.

Christmas morning dawns.  Outside it’s snowing, but inside your apartment it feels hotter than the summer your family went to Vegas.  You wake up from a very pleasant dream to find that it was not, in fact, a dream.  Adam’s face is buried between your legs, his nose nudging at your clit as his tongue works its way inside you.  You curl your fingers in his hair, and he hums in response, sending a pleasant shockwave of shivers through you, but he only looks up once you’ve cum for the third time.  “I need you to stay in here for, like, one more hour,” he says, by way of a greeting.

“Is that why you woke me up like this?” you ask, covering your face with your hands.  “To ensure my compliance?”

“It’ll be worth it, I promise,” he says, rolling off the bed, and stretching.  “You’re going to love it.”

“Ugh,” you say.  And then you roll over, and go back to sleep.

When you wake up again, it’s because Adam is basically sitting on top of you.  “It’s ready,” he says.  “You just need to put this on first.”  And he hands you -

“A bikini?” you say, bewildered, when you unroll the bundle he handed you.  “What the - why?”  Then, you notice that he’s wearing what are possibly the ugliest pair of floral swimming shorts you’ve ever seen in your life.  “Seriously Adam, what the fuck is going on?  It’s Christmas Day, it’s blizzarding outside, and you’re handing me swimwear?”

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s a no-brainer.  “Put it on.”

Grumbling, you crawl out of bed, and get dressed as requested.  It fits, but coverage is minimal, and you guess that’ s probably the point.  He stares at you with a huge grin on his face the entire time, like the massive perv he is.  And as soon as you’re ready, he drags you out of the bedroom and down the hallway.

Outside of the living room, he pauses and turns to you.  “I know we’re not doing gifts this year because we’re trying to save money,” he says.  Which is true.  This apartment is too small for the two of you.  You’ve both mentioned that it would be nice to move somewhere with a second bedroom, although neither of you have yet mentioned why you feel that way.  “And I know we’re both kind of like fuck Christmas.  But you’ve been working so hard these past few months.  And I thought ... you deserve a holiday.  So, I did a thing.”

Without further ado, he opens the door into your living room, and pushes you inside.

Your mouth falls open.  The room has been transformed.  The sofa has been pushed back against the wall and the armchairs and coffee table have completely disappeared.  In their place are a couple of sunloungers with beach towels on them, a little table between them covered in your favourite drinks and snacks, and even a couple of mini palm trees in pots.

But most incredible of all ... there’s a freaking paddling pool, which looks big enough for the both of you to fit in it.

You know he’s looking at you, waiting for your reaction.  But you don’t know what to think, or do, or say.  So you just stand there like a moron, staring at the scene, and opening and closing your mouth like a fish.

“Is it ok?” he asks, eventually.  “You aren’t mad that I fucked up our living room, are you?”

All you can do is shake your head.

“Do you like it?”

You nod.  And because you can’t say anything, you throw your arms around his middle.  Hopefully that’s enough of an answer, because it’s all you can manage right now.

How the fuck did you manage to get so lucky?  Adam gets it.  He just gets you.  He’s the first person who’s ever bothered to take the time to try to figure you out, so he’s the first person you’ve ever begun to open up to.  And this right here?  Is the most thoughtful, ridiculous, best gift you’ve ever been given.

Adam wraps his arms around you too, and squeezes you so tightly you can feel your ribs creaking.  “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, and he begins to rock you gently as you start to cry big, fat, happy tears.  “You’re perfect, you know that?  And I really fucking love you.”

You’re not perfect.  Just like he’s not perfect, and this setup isn’t perfect.  (How the hell are you going to get all that water out of the pool when you’re done?)

But this moment is perfect.  

And god.  God.  You really fucking love him, too.

[cherrywished]

“how the hell did’ja get that!?” he’s panicking, hands awkwardly hovering by her cheekbones. “who did this? i’ll kick their asses! nobody comes after mammon’s girl and lives to tell about it!”

@imbern​

now , this was quite the situation to be in. isn't it , mi kyong ? coming back to the house of lamentation , covered in bruises , black eyes , and dried up blood. now now , what would precisely prompt you to engage in such a blood bath? recalling what seemed to be a couple of hours of ago at school , saying goodbye to both Beelzebub & Satan , they both had things to do. leaving you alone for a little bit to wander the halls , seemingly , no sign of Mammon whatsoever. which was a strange occurrence itself. still , it wasn't enough to make you as mad as you would later become. overhearing some students start to speak about the so-called future rulers of hell , a few names were being tossed around. such as Satan, Lucifer , and Asmo. the usual suspects , everything was completely normal. until , ≪̲ still , can't say I expect anything out of mammon. man is a total loser , only reason why he's still around is that they're all related . hahah !! ≫̲ . that was it , without any sort of warning nor verbal inclination , Mi Kyong completely decked an unsuspecting demon square in the jaw. the action alone is enough to attract a crowd , soon it was three demons against her lone self . though that wasn't necessarily the problem , handling herself as best as she could under the circumstances that devildom imposed on herself & her abilities. let's just say , the next half hour that followed was far too graphic to retell accurately.

it's only when the student council breaks up the fight , both Diavolo and Lucifer were present. both of them had suspected it was just lower demons whom gotten into an argument that got out of hand , however , seeing their human exchange student wasn't exactly what either of them had barged for. Lucifer watching closely and experiencing Mi Kyong slam another student to the ground. at the time , only pure anger oozed out of his system. though , thinking back on it , he was relatively impressed she managed to hold her own for that long. still that didn't stop him from removing her entirely from the altercation , and bringing her aside to hear what she had to say. ❛ you can say whatever you want , I'm not apologizing to those scum ! ❜ sticking her tongue out , not the correct thing to say in this situation. ≪̲ mi kyong , you are here as a guest to not only our school but our relam. it would be impudent , if you remembered such a fact , human. ≫̲ that's right , to everyone else , that's what you appeared to be . biting your tongue for the time being . ≪̲ now now , Lucifer. I'm sure Mi Kyong has a reason for what she did , you & I both know , she isn't the type to start this sort of thing without good reason. but. do not let this become a habit , am I clear ? ≫̲ nodding , a way to say her own compliance. neither Diavolo or Lucifer had anything else to say on the matter and told her to go straight home , lest she started anything else today.

opening the doors to the house , firstly , no one is there to greet her. feeling the buzz of her DDD go off , seeing all sorts of text messages from Levi, Satan, and Asmo. ≪̲ is it true you almost killed some normies lololol - levi ≫̲ / ≪̲ Lucifer was looking rather angry today , did something happened ? - satan ≫̲ / ≪̲ ohmygoodness I heard what happened !! let me look at your face later ! I could never imagine putting my face in harms way like that ! - asmo ≫̲ as much as their concerns warmed her own heart , it still didn't erase the initial anger that still coursed through her veins. looking at the hallway mirror , truly , you looked like hell. behind you , the entrance door swung open. looking behind your shoulder , it was mammon. the very man , who you put your life on the line for. ≪̲ what's this ?! my human waited for me to get home , didn't know you'd miss THE mammon that mu― hold on a second , is that blood ...? ≫̲ initial confusion soon shifting to complete rage . ≪̲ 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙙𝙞𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨? 𝙞’𝙡𝙡 𝙠𝙞𝙘𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙨! 𝙣𝙤𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙖𝙢𝙢𝙤𝙣’𝙨 𝙜𝙞𝙧𝙡 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙞𝙩! ≫̲ as grateful she is to hear his worries , mi kyong knows full well if she were to be honest what had occured the guilt would be too much for him to bear. additionally , he'd be a complete untolerable puppy afterwards.

❛ t-this ? oh , it's nothing !! really . . . nothing to worry about. ❜ actively avoiding any eye contact with him , moving to run away. his hands grip her face , bringing it closer to his as a result. ≪̲ cut the shit. what happened. ≫̲ gosh , when he puts it like that , ocean - like eyes are now downcasted. incapable of staring at those eyes of his for much longer. ❛ okay okay !! it was over you . . . some demons were mouthing off about how you were no good and stuff like that , which they're totally wrong about ! they've got no idea about all your good points at all !! you can't expect me to just sit by and listen to that can you ? ❜ shoulders drop , Mammon is taken aback by this news. unsure of what exactly to say to this , all he can do is stroke her cheek and look into her eyes. wishing to ask , why would you hurt yourself like this over someone like me. & look how much pain you're in , why , why over me ? oh , how you wish for him to understand the exact reason to why you'd put yourself in bodily harm. thinking back on it , wait a second , did he just call you Mammon’s girl ? no no , that wasn’t important. still , it gave you hope for the future. 

[thewhumperinwhite]

WKW: Presentable

Previous: Teaser 1 and Teaser 2.

Casually tagging @luminouswhump​, please enjoy some prince whump ~<3

TW for: Forced stripping, though it’s not sexualized; nonconsensual touching; noncon isn’t explicitly threatened but Andry worries about it; dissociation; amputation.

----

Andry is still upright. And Asher is alive, with the tacit understanding that he will remain so in the short term, pending Andry’s cooperation. That means the current situation is survivable. So Andry will survive.

By the time Andry is seated beside a washbasin in one of the guest suites, he is genuinely not certain how he arrived there. He remembers a string of images and sensations— twelve years of fencing lessons spinning away from him in a gout of blood; the sharp pain of scissors slicing carelessly through the shell of his left ear; Asher sitting stiffly on their mother’s bed, surrounded by soldiers in black armor— but cannot arrange them into any meaningful order.

The man who has brought him here seems to be Crane’s personal servant. He cannot be much older than Andry himself, though he is slightly larger; his skin is the light warm brown Andry understands is common among Leisevans, but his hair is a dull silver, and his eyes are an improbable bright gold. He has not told Andry his name. 

Crane’s servant gives the room a cursory examination, sets down a bucket of clean water and a set of clean clothes, locates a pile of drying cloths. Then he turns his faery eyes on Andry with the same thoughtful frown.

“What a mess,” the man mutters, in Leisevan.

There have been a variety of hands on Andry today. They have tangled in his hair, torn off the overshirt bearing his father’s colors, clamped a modified set of manacles marked with a strange rune over his severed wrist. They have been, to a one, rough and impersonal, and painful more than not. Whatever is coming now is... more intimate, in a way that makes Andry’s chest slightly tight, but ultimately only more of the same. Survivable.

Crane’s servant sighs, and then he drops to his knees in front of Andry and dips a cloth in the water bucket. Where Andry is seated, on a low stool beside the washbasin, the man is now looking up at him; Andry cannot pinpoint why that startles him the way it does.

Andry has not had access to a looking glass in over twenty-four hours, so he knows little except that his face and back are tacky with blood, his hair matted with it. The man frowns up into Andry’s face, and Andry stares numbly back, and then the man reaches up and presses the cloth to the cut at Andry’s hairline where the soldier’s armored fist struck him to the floor.

 Andry draws in a sharp breath before he can stop himself, and then tenses for the answering blow he knows must be coming— but the servant just hums mildly in response, and cups his other hand around Andry’s jaw to steady his head, still with that thoughtful frown on his face. The cloth stings against the cut, but the man does not dig it in, only wipes the blood from his forehead, his touch businesslike but not rough.

The man cleans the blood from Andry’s forehead and then his lips and chin, and when his warm hands work their way into Andry’s uneven, blood-matted hair, Andry feels his eyes slide shut and lets out a long breath without really meaning to.

When the cloth presses against Andry’s damaged ear, he holds on to the sharp sting of the soap against the cut and forces himself all the way back to awareness, and opens his eyes halfway to look at Crane’s servant, whose face is very close to his.

“What is your name?” Andry asks him, his voice coming out low and husky. 

The man pauses in his ministrations, meets Andry’s eyes with some suspicion. “It’s Thorne,” he says after a moment. Then he moves on to scrubbing blood from the side of Andry’s throat, eye contact lost. “And you’re Andry Fourshield, the Summer Prince.” He smirks, a shadow of Morden’s vicious grin, and Andry can’t hold back a small shiver. “Shall I address you as ‘Your Highness’?”

It’s obvious he expects Andry to straighten and demand respect. Andry drops his eyes humbly instead. “Just Andry, please,” he says quietly.

Thorne laughs quietly, squeezing the bloody rag over the bucket. “They didn’t tell me you were so modest, Your Highness,” he says, and then he pulls a delicate silver key from his pocket and unlocks the iron cover Crane has clamped over the stump of Andry’s wrist. 

Thorne looks down at Andry’s ruined sword arm with frank curiosity, loosely holding Andry’s wrists in his lap. The stump is largely closed over, a mass of scar tissue where a working hand used to be. Andry looks down at it too, ignoring the low buzzing that has begin in his ears.

Thorne lets out a low whistle. “Heron knows his shit,” he says— and he says it in Craetan, like he’s addressing it to Andry. He even looks up at Andry, interested for apparently the first time. “Does it even still hurt?”

Andry stares at him. What answer does the man expect?

“Better without the cover,” he says honestly. “The cold air helps.”

Thorne’s brief open expression slams shut like a castle drawbridge. Andry curses himself.

“I’m sure,” Thorne says flatly, dropping Andry’s hands. “Don’t get any ideas, those cuffs are going back on the second you’re presentable.” Thorne gets to his feet, and nods curtly at Andry. “Stand up.”

Andry looks at him, feeling like he’s failed a test without knowing the questions. But the moment has passed, now; he pulls himself up, unsteadily, using the washbasin for support. 

When Andry is upright, Thorne tosses him a wet cloth. “Alright, Your Highness. Strip down and clean yourself up.”

Andry stares at him, his ears ringing. “And—what, you’re just going to stand there and stare at me?”

Thorne snorts, unimpressed. “Yes.”

Andry frowns. “I have no reason to run. Your soldiers have filled this place to the rafters; where would I go?”

Thorne shakes his head, amused. “Nowhere, Your Highness. Because I’ll be watching you.”

Andry looks at him. The man is his own age, and handsome in a sharp-toothed, yellow-eyed way. Andry is far too tired to decide if this makes stripping in front of him better or worse. He—does not want to, either way. But, depending on this man’s rank, any goodwill he can earn with compliance is worth far more than the negligible chance of escape offered by one moment of reduced supervision in a castle full of enemy soldiers. And far more than any lingering self-respect he might still have, Andry reminds himself firmly. He tugs his undershirt off over his head.

Thorne eyes Andry’s bared chest with interest, but his expression is more curious than lascivious. Andry can see him taking note of the pattern of bruises along his side where a booted soldier kicked him when he was already on the floor, and the prominence of his ribcage after three weeks of siege rations. 

Andry is— annoyed at his own relief. It would be useful if Crane’s servant wanted him, he tells himself. He still turns his back when he tugs down his breeches.

Andry half-expects Thorne to ask about the scars across his back and leave him to reconcile his need to earn the man’s sympathy with his deep desire not to answer, but Thorne just watches him silently until he has wiped as much blood and grime from his body as he is likely to without a full soak in the washtub, and then tosses him the clean set of clothes without a word. That shouldn’t be a relief either, and he certainly shouldn’t feel grateful, but in his bone-deep exhaustion, Andry is willing to allow himself the easy out, this one last time.

[violetsmoak]

Pieces of April [4/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099044/chapters/50202530

Summary: On the anniversary of his death, Jason’s second life takes an abrupt new turn and he’s faced with a challenge that neither Batman nor the All-Caste prepared him for.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Warning(s): Past Jason/Isabel, kidfic, minor canon character death (pretty sure you can guess who, not either of our boys!), I’ll add more warnings/tags as I think of them.

Canon-Compliance: Takes place in between the two RHATO series, so after Roy and Kori and before Artemis and Bizarro.

Author’s Note: In which panicking Jason needs someone to help ground him...

First Chapter

________________________________________________________________

Jason only just makes it to the nearest bathroom and upchucks everything he’s consumed in the past five and a half hours.

He is left with only the same sweaty, stomach-warbling panic he remembers from the most frightening moments in his life.

Finding his mother’s limp body in a piss-stained back alley. Making a run from Batman and being unable to escape that heavy, gauntleted hand clamping down on his shoulder. The first time he jumped off Wayne Tower with only a reinforced grapple line to hold him up. The first time he got shot. The first time he watched Bruce break down in front of him.

His first and last moments looking at a too-wide smile and the gleam of a bloodied crowbar. A timer ticking down to zero.

It doesn’t make sense.

In the vast procession of frightening and dangerous screw-ups that litter his life, the news that he has a kid shouldn’t fill him with so much dread. But right now, he feels paralyzed and can’t even sort through his spinning thoughts long enough to figure out why.

Jason wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and stumbles out of the bathroom, ignoring wary looks sent his way by several hospital staff. His stomach is still flip-flopping, but he doesn’t think he’s doing to puke again, so now…he just needs to move.

Once he escapes the maternity ward, he has no idea where he’s supposed to do next. The largest part of himself wants to leave the hospital—and the situation—as fast as possible and not look back.

It’s what he does, isn’t it? Get into a jam, leave a trail of fire and debris, and then move on to the next job so as the avoid the consequences as long as possible.

But that’s just it, isn’t it? Can’t avoid consequences forever.

He planned an entire vengeful crusade around that premise and as for himself, he’s never been one to try to avoid what’s coming to him. It’s just usually when he throws himself headlong into complicated situations, he has a pretty accurate idea of what the outcome will look like.

Not this time, though.

This time, his wandering is as aimless as he thoughts, having no direction and no destination in mind. Doors and stairwells and different hospital wards pass him but he barely registers.

“I’ll be back with your daughter.”

Daughter.

This—now—a daughter—a baby: it’s too much. Too much information or implication or whatever it is blocking the part of his brain that thinks ahead. There’s just too much.

Sometimes when things get to be too much, you need to take a step back, chum.

Bruce’s voice echoes in his head somewhere, rising above the gibbering panic.

Most of the time you’ll have too little information to go on—but very occasionally, you’ll have too much. In either case, there are drawbacks, but you still take the same approach. Focus on one aspect at a time. Move through your process as slowly, methodically as possible. You must have all the facts before you can formulate a cohesive plan of attack.

Jason snorts, shaking his head and the thought away with it.

Because Bruce was clearly slow and methodical when the demon brat appeared on the scene. The way Jason’s heard, the kid shows up and the same night he’s living at the manor.

B’s biggest problem has always been how quick he is to go down the accidental-kid-acquisition route.

Which makes him about the last person Jason wants to be thinking about right now. Even just thinking about what his reaction would be if he found out about Jason’s situation makes his skin crawl. All he needs on top of things is judgement and disappointment the way only Batman can get just right, especially when it comes to Jason.

(Not least of all because Bruce was the one to make him sit through a painful and—what Jason believed, up until now, to be—completely unnecessary talk about safe sex back when Jason met his first girlfriend.)

Except.

As messed up as Bruce and his methods sometimes were, more often than not it’s those early lessons that kept Jason alive. Especially after he died.

So…okay.

Facts.

Isabel is dead.

That’s a fact.

Something solid, something he can deal with, as shitty as it feels to do so.

Jason knows how to deal with the dead—hell, he was the dead. It doesn’t get any closer than that. There’s a routine to it, expectations and procedure—

He can start with that.

Destination finally in mind, he sets off.

Hospitals are the same everywhere, really. If you look like you know where you’re going and walk with enough confidence in your stride, people don’t question you or your presence.

Jason finds the hospital mortuary with relative ease, orchestrates a distraction for the morgue attendant with the same, and heads inside. A cold chill creeps up his spine at the familiar, ever-present lingering stench of formaldehyde. He’s had nightmares of that smell ever since he woke up from his coma, and he doesn’t know why since he was stone-dead before he went anywhere near a morgue.

He snags the attendant’s discarded tablet on his way past the empty desk and scans down the list of names, teeth clenching when he recognizes what he’s looking for.

Maria Isabela Ardila, 25. Preliminary cause of death, contingent on full postmortem: pulmonary abruption.

So she hasn’t been autopsied yet, which means she’s not in a drawer. It’s only been about two hours…

Jason ducks into the adjacent lab, glancing at several gurneys with body bags on them. He doesn’t even need to check the identifying tags; only one of them contains a body of Isabel’s height and build.

He approaches the body bag slowly, is barely aware of his arm reaching out, of carefully unzipping it over her face.

And there she is.

Pale now, no more color in her cheeks, hair limp with dried sweat. Her jaw is slack, expression devoid of the light and spark that drew her to him in the first place.

He’ll never see it again.

Jason swallows.

It’s not like he was in love with her or anything, but it was a close thing—if given the chance, he might have one day felt for her the way he felt for Essence. The knowledge that he’s lost yet another potential human connection is another blow he wasn’t expecting today.  

“What the hell were you thinking?” he murmurs, fists balling.

He’s angry, but not at her for being dead. Well, okay, he is a little. Not completely because from what he understands, what killed her is something that could happen to anyone.

No, what he’s angry about is the fact she was pregnant and didn’t tell him. That she both kept and kept secret the fact she was having his kid, never gave him a chance to know about it or to try to convince her why it would be a bad idea.

And now she’s dead and if it hadn’t been for him—if he hadn’t met her—she’d still be alive right now.

The skin over his knuckles is pulled painfully tight now, and he forces himself to loosen his fist and shake it off. Slowly, he reaches out and lays his palm across Isabel’s forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “This is all my fault.”

He backs away, threading his fingers through his hair in an effort to keep himself from lashing out with fists.

This is so messed up. This is so…too much.

And sitting in the morgue is probably not helping.

He paces back and forth a minute longer, before digging into his pocket for his phone. It’s time to contact the one person who can usually knock him out of his own head.

Roy has gone through this. Hell, Jason watched him go through it, he was there when Jade told him that he was a father. Roy knows what it’s like to have something like this dropped on you out of the blue.

It takes longer than normal to get through, but Roy answers all the same.

“…Jaybird?”

He sounds rough, but not strained in the way Jason would associate with imminent explosions. He can only hope his own voice is a little stronger. It takes a bit, mouth opening and closing soundlessly as he tries to figure out what to say.

“I’m in a mess,” he manages. “And I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do.”

“Gotham style mess, or alien mess?” Roy asks warily.

“I…have a kid.”

There’s nothing but the sound of static for several breaths, and then, “…Say again?”

“A kid. A…baby, technically. She’s…I just…found out. An hour ago? Seems like longer—”

He’s pacing again.

“Whoa, hold on, slow the hell down, what do you mean you have a kid? How—?”

“Do I really need to paint a picture?” Jason hisses.

“Nah, I’m good—but shit, Jay, this is—whoa.” Pause. “Are you okay?”

It’s the first time anyone’s out and out asked him. Drake sort of did, but that was buried under the guise of assessing if he was injured.

“Not really,” he admits. Then, “Isabel’s dead.”

“What? No—how is that related to—?”

“She’s the mother. Was the mother. She bled out delivering the…”

The baby.

His daughter.

“Shit.” Roy groans, exhaling harshly. And again, “Shit. Jay. I’m sorry, man. I know things didn’t work out, but…she was cool.”

“Yeah…” Jason swallows. “Roy, I have no fucking clue what I’m supposed to do.”

“No kidding. Okay. I hear ya buddy. First of all, take a breath. Or five hundred.” Somehow it’s less irksome being told to breathe by Roy than his replacement. “This is big. You’re allowed to freak out, but not so much where you lose your head, okay? And look at it this way, at least Isabel wasn’t an internationally renowned assassin that more often than not wanted to kill you.”

Jason coughs out an unexpected, manic chuckle at that.

“Where are you right now?”

“Hospital. Technically, the morgue.”

A pained exhale at that. “Isabel, right?”

“Right.”

“And the kid?”

“Up in the maternity ward still.” Jason pauses. “Drake’s keeping an eye on her.”

“Drake? As in Tim Drake?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, you’re the one who picked up the damn phone and sent him to babysit me.”

“Yeah, but that was before...”

“Before it turned out there was actual babysitting involved?”

“Right.”

Jason swallows back another wave of mounting hysteria.

“He’s as weirded out by this as I am, and I don’t know how long it’s going to be before he tattles to the Bat cavalry. Could really use someone in my corner on this one.”

“It sounds to me like you already do,” Roy points out, “at least in the short term.”

“Yeah, well, he’s never been in this situation, unless Wayne’s PR-team is a lot better at their jobs than I thought.”

Roy sighs heavily, in a way that immediately has Jason’s shoulders tense.

“You know I’d be there in a second if I could. But right now, I’m kinda…tied up.”

Jason frowns. “Literally or metaphorically?”

“Little bit of both?”

“Do you need me to—?”

“No! No, you have your own issues to deal with right now. The kind that trump mine, and your first instinct can’t be to leave Gotham in your rear-view instead of dealing with this.”

Why not? Jason wants to ask but doesn’t.

“Look, Jay…” Roy sighs, weary. “This sort of thing…there’s nothing I can tell you that to give you an easy answer here. Kids…every kid is different. It’s always different, so…you gotta go with your gut. Ain’t nothing anyone else can tell you to do. And as messed up as you are right now, it’s not about you. It’s about what’s best for her.”

Jason nods at this even though Roy can’t see him. Maybe if he focusses on that—distances himself from the situation, thinks about the baby like it belongs to someone else. Needs to think about it like some Crime Alley orphan he’s rescued and needs to take care of.

Temporarily.

Until he figures it all out.

“Listen, whatever you decide, I’m with you man. Ride or die, even if I’m not there right this second. Soon as I can, I’m there,” Roy goes on. “Until then, whatever you do, don’t try to go it alone. I know from experience trying to deal with a tiny human on your own is asking for trouble.”

Jason inhales slowly, scowling at the sharp smell in the air and forces an exhale. “So don’t run Drake off.”

“Or try to kill him.”

“Again.”

“Again.”

Jason glances back to Isabel’s body on the gurney, stares at the lifeless face that will never smile again. Thinks of the infant upstairs who may or may not look like her, but who is definitely his.

“I have to get back upstairs,” he says. “Got some decisions to make.”

And that’s putting it lightly…

He starts to hang up, but then Roy speaks again. “Hey, Jaybird?”

“Yeah?”

“Bouncing baby girl, that’s…” his best friend swallows so heavily it’s audible across the line. “That’s something.”

Jason knows he’s thinking about Lian.

“Yeah, man, it’s…it’s definitely something.”

________________________________________________________________

Hm, I think next chapter we'll check in with Tim's POV, just to switch things up...

Your feedback matters! I want to know what you think of my story, so feel free to leave kudos, a comment or as many of these emojis as you want and let me know how you feel!

❤️️ = I love this story! 😳 = this was hot! 💐 = thank you for sharing this 🍵 = tea spilled 🍬 = so sweet and fluffy! 🚔 = you’re under arrest! the writing’s too good! 😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER 😢 = you got me right in the feels

Next Chapter

[austinpanda]

Dad Letter 032121

21 March, 2021

Dear Dad--

Happy Sunday to you. I got the casino job! Well, I provisionally got the casino job! They’ve decided they’d like to “move forward,” and are now going to crawl up my butt with a microscope and make sure that I’m not someone with a shady past or nefarious intentions. I had to fill out a very long application to be a licensed gaming employee in the state, and I had to answer a question about whether I am a fugitive from justice! I will be fingerprinted at some point. I had to give a list of identifying scars and tattoos. I had to consult the internet to find my eye color because I don’t know what damn color my eyes are. (The internet indicated that my eyes are either blue, blue-gray, green, gray-green, blue-green, hazel, or gray, which I think is just about all of them.) I take it for granted that I may be working in the casino, or taking a break and sitting somewhere eating a sandwich, and someone might push a cart past me with a million dollars on it. Whenever that’s the case, I assume my employers will have real firm opinions about how money is handled, and security, and making sure the employees aren’t wanted felons, etc.

So I did okay on the phone interview, except for the question about Microsoft Excel, which is the industry standard for making spreadsheets. So I brushed up on Excel, to make sure I’d be able to answer the question if it came up again. He brought it up again, and I was able to answer the question correctly this time. This established that I am both conscientious and resourceful, dammit. They pointed out a few nice things about working there. Firstly, they have food events, where I can come and eat. Second, they have an enormous parking garage. This is mostly to benefit the customers, but it also means you won’t end a long day of work and have to remove a foot of snow from your car before you can go home. They also said that, if I was done working and it was snowing so hard that it wasn’t safe to go home, they could give me a room in the hotel for the night.

As I may have mentioned, this job is all about doing audits and other daily tasks to, I guess, make sure all the dollars are present and correct and law-abiding. I’m a compliance person! Assuming I sail through all the background stuff, I’ll help make sure the casino is in compliance with federal this and local that and state this and corporate that. They’ll train me. I predict several possible outcomes.

1. Within my first week, I have a heart attack while at work, causing me to fart loudly and repeatedly. It becomes known as Rick’s Fart Attack, and after recovering, I can never look anyone in the eye again, and I have to leave the company in shame. Also I’ll be unable to understand or remember anything they try to teach me. And they find out that I tried acid back in 1990.

2. I do okay, everyone is satisfied, I work there till I’m 70 and retire. No Nobel Prize for Compliance, but no fart attacks.

3. I do exceptionally well. I learn the stuff as quickly as they expect me to. I am able to achieve the accuracy they seek. They appreciate my pragmatism and my bourgeois sweaters. I become a valuable asset to them; they seem to like me. Next time my birthday comes around, at the cake cutting, no fewer than six people slip me folded pieces of paper saying they appreciate my work style, and my George Clooney salt and pepper hair, and would I like to visit the casino bar for a pre-coital alcoholic beverage, and then get a good hard auditing from Rick, the new compliance guy, just in case I’m interested.

I really don’t know what outcome I’m going to achieve here. Obviously, the work isn’t going to be too action-packed. It’s auditing, and I’m told to expect repetition. (That’s good; I take comfort in shit like that.) I just hope I don’t screw up anything I can’t fix, and they’re good at training, and that, in the end, I’ll have a workplace I don’t dread going to. I’ll like my coworkers, maybe make a new friend or two. I’ll make enough money that I can pay rent and not have to eat cat food.

I wonder how long it’s going to take them to figure out that I have no aptitude for either drinking or gambling, I make sports bets about as often as I fly in the space shuttle, and I have no idea at all how craps works. The last time I went into a casino, I got $20 in quarters from a cashier before I learned that none of the slot machines take quarters any more. They took money straight off your debit card! Then you carried a balance, and when you wanted to leave one slot machine, it would print a little ticket that you could feed into the next slot machine that kept track of your balance. I had to take all my quarters back to the cashier and explain that I was an idiot, and could you take all these stupid quarters back, pretty please? That was in the Snoqualmie Casino in Washington State. (Their motto: We don’t know how to pronounce your name, either, tough guy) I didn’t win shit, but Zach won about a hundred bucks.

I filled out all my paperwork, including the 30-page gaming application, and some similar online forms. I need to go back in to get my photo taken and to get fingerprinted, but they are going to wait until the background check is done, so I’m just in a holding pattern now. Making sure I can dress in business casual for five days in a row without repeating pants (I cannot! Must attempt to increase my rate of, you know, pants. Fortunately, Zach and I have the same waist size and he’s given me a couple of pairs of work slacks he no longer needs.) Also I keep waiting to throw up. I always experience my tension in my stomach. It seems to happen every time I’m nervous about something, so...any time, sweetheart. Perhaps my body is waiting for the morning of Day 1. I shall remain vigilant.

I have to say, I felt comfortable in the casino offices where I had my interviews and started the HR shit. Since it’s called the Hollywood Casino, the theme is movies, so all the walls have framed movie posters in them. I saw a poster for The Manchurian Candidate. The guy who interviewed me was named Rick, and was a doughy, bespectacled honky like myself. When I got the job at Penquis, and I went in for training, I was in a room with a dozen women and no other men. I’m fine with that in theory, but in practice, it leaves me feeling a bit like a stranger in a strange land. Everyone at the casino looked like me, in a way I found reassuring, whether younger, or older, or female. I just felt a bit more at home there. Hope that feeling lasts. Also this pays better than the Penquis job did.

Not sure what I’m going to do today. Because I’m about to start a new job, it should make my remaining hours at home more special, which usually results in me cleaning something that doesn’t get cleaned as often as it should, like the bathtub. Also, we keep getting overflown by bald eagles, and I’m determined to get a picture of one. This is going to end up being a lot more difficult than it was to photograph a hummingbird, even though the eagle is so much bigger and slower. Hummingbirds like to come to my hummingbird feeder and light for a few seconds, during which you can snap a few easy photographs. We’ve seen a dozen bald eagles, but they’re always flying past, on their way somewhere. Sometimes they’re being harassed by groups of other birds. I need an eagle to stop by for a visit and sit someplace, photogenically, for a minute before it leaves, so I can get a few pictures. Otherwise it’s just going to be a picture of a sky with a little black smudge in it. I’m leaving the camera by the living room window.

I think that having this new job, assuming I pass everything, is going to take a lot of my stress away. As is usual, a lot of my stress stems from the fact that I was never very good at making and holding onto money. But once I get a paycheck or two from the casino, I believe it will feel like I’ve finally completed moving to Maine. After living here for a year and a half, I think this will make the circle complete. I won’t just be here with all my stuff, but I’ll be financially self-sufficient again, not living off savings, a proper grownup again, for the first time in Maine. Perhaps this will enable me to spend a bit more time looking forward, and making plans. I’m already considering one plan: This job starts part time, but is expected to become full time, once things pick up from all the Covid bullshit. I’m not looking forward to 40 hour work weeks again, but once I’m doing that, I think I’d like to get a new car. I’ve never bought a brand new car. I think it’s time I did.

By the next time I write, I may have started working at the new job! Oh, I have already received one email from the company doing the background check asking me, “Do you also go by the following name, and/or is this you? Rick E. Weidmann.” So I guess they found you when doing my background check! I assured them that we were two different people, and they seemed satisfied with that.

All my love to you both!

[ncfan-1]

Professor Venomous vs. Roller Skates

If there is skating, there will be falling.

[Also on AO3]

As is likely obvious, I based this fic on this post that Ryann Shannon made to her Twitter. 

----------------------------

The list of demands had been Cosma’s idea. She occasionally had to mind her nieces for long periods of time and had found that small children responded better to having to do their chores if they were allowed to make certain demands after long enough periods of compliance. “Just be careful you spell out anything she’s not allowed to demand ahead of time. The little monsters get very unruly if they think you’ve been acting in bad faith.”

Spelling out all of the things Fink wasn’t allowed to demand had been easy—or so Professor Venomous over-confidently, he realized now, had thought. She wasn’t allowed to demand any of the foods she was allergic to, especially not shellfish (No matter how much she begged, especially considering they’d found out she was allergic to it the hard way). She wasn’t allowed to conduct an experiment in the lab unsupervised; it was going to be a few years before Fink had the kind of fine motor control that would suffer allowing her to handle some of the more delicate materials or equipment. And by no means were they ever going back to the zoo, not since that time one of the zookeepers had taken Fink for an escaped zoo animal and tried to shoot her with a tranq dart.

Venomous had instituted the list of demands a few months ago, and so far, all had gone well. If Fink did her chores, then every other weekend she was allowed to write her latest demand on the list pinned on the front of the fridge by some of the refrigerator magnets they’d picked up the last time they were in the airport. She never really demanded anything too outlandish or beyond his ability to provide. Some of it had been, dare he say it, fun. (Vandalizing that billboard in sight of P.O.I.N.T. Headquarters had been very fun.) But today?

“You… want to go roller skating,” Venomous said blankly.

Fink grinned, showing off a mouth full of big, sharp teeth. “Yes!” One of those teeth was loose, and she whistled a little when she talked.

Venomous looked at Fink. He looked at the list, then stared around the kitchen and living room of their condo, then back to Fink. “You don’t own any roller skates,” he pointed out. “And if I get you roller skates, you’ll just outgrow them in a few months.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to go buy roller skates, Boss!” Fink protested. She puffed out her cheeks, eyes narrowed slightly. “I said I wanted to go to the skating rink!”

The skating rink. Try as he might, Venomous couldn’t quite help but twitch a little at the thought of it. Not being able to let things go was, to a certain extent, just part of being a villain, but there were some things he’d probably do better to let go of. This particular thing would be easier to let go of if he simply stayed away from any and all roller skating establishments.

“I honestly don’t know where to find any skating rinks,” Venomous tried. And it was the truth. The local skating rink when he was growing up had moved to another location about ten years ago. Not being the kind of person who frequented  skating rinks, and not being the kind of villain who targeted them, Venomous had never bothered to find out where the new location was.

But Fink was not to be deterred by such a thing. “I got you covered, Boss!” She whipped out her phone, typed something on it and held it out to him, grinning. “See?”

Too late, Venomous remembered that Fink’s phone had a map app on it. She’d already taken the liberty of plotting their course; the skating rink was seven miles northwest of the condo, fifteen minutes by car in present traffic. That close, huh?

For a moment, Venomous considered telling her to think of something else to do today. He considered making up some story about why they couldn’t go to the skating rink, something involving an old arch-nemesis and a run-in with the cops. But Fink had gotten to the point where she could pretty much always tell when he was lying. Cosma’s horror stories about what her nieces did when they got “unruly” loomed in the back of his mind. And most importantly, there was the bright-eyed look of anticipation on Fink’s face…

“Alright,” he conceded. “Let’s be ready to go in half an hour.”

…that Venomous couldn’t quite bring himself to mar with disappointment. Heh, that probably had something to do with why he was a Level -7 and not a Level -10 or lower. Oh, well. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Around forty-five minutes later, Venomous was looking at the front of the skating rink through the car windshield, and already a sense of foreboding was building within him. He couldn’t really pinpoint the source. The sun was shining; what few clouds were in the sky were thin and white, rather than gray and stormy. Nothing about the building screamed “obvious trap for villains looking to go roller skating.” But still, he was getting the same feeling he’d gotten the last time he ordered a robot from Boxmore, right before the blasted thing had fallen apart after that first hit.

There weren’t as many cars in the parking lot as he had been afraid there would be. Less people meant less chances of a meddlesome hero deciding that a villainous bioengineer and his evil minion just weren’t allowed to do normal, non-villainous things in their free time. But the fact that there were less people here than he’d expected, on a weekend of all times, might be commentary on the quality of the rink itself.

And then there was the sign.

“Come on!” Fink ran out ahead of him, stopping by the black-tinted glass doors as Venomous walked at a more sedate pace behind her, staring up at the sign all the while.

‘STARDUST’ was spelled out in big, bold Plexiglas letters. The interior of the glass was coated in silvery-blue glitter which sparkled in the daytime sun. An image of a silver disco ball shimmered just below the sign.

Well, maybe it was just a holdover from the last location.

And maybe it wasn’t.

He’d been unable to hear it from outside, but once they walked inside the rink Venomous heard clearly the music blaring over the speakers. Upbeat synth-pop that he was pretty sure he’d heard over the radio or in a club sometime around twenty years ago, just a little too loud for comfort.

The next thing Venomous was struck by after he took in the music was how dark it was. The light levels would have been more appropriate for a night club where the goal was to never get too good of a look at the person you were dancing with. For a skating rink where the presence of small children was presumably not only expected but accepted, it seemed a bit… dim.

Then there were the lights over the rink itself.

It was easy to pick out the rink. Located in a massive depression in the center of the building, surrounded by guardrails (that were spaced so that an enterprising child—say about Fink’s size—could have crawled under the lowest rung, Venomous couldn’t help but notice) and accessible only by stair, it’s not like anyone could miss it. Situated at multiple points over the rink were colored spotlights that glowed dimly on the polished, gleaming wood floor. They shone the full range of the color spectrum, slowly shifting from one end to the other. And over the center of the rink, there dangled a gigantic disco ball, from which shot beams of silver light.

Disco. Venomous glared up at the disco ball. This place just had to be disco-themed.

“Boss?” Fink tugged on his hand and pointed impatiently at a desk off to the side of the rink, near a massive display rack full of sheets and safety equipment, and a row of lockers. “Check-in’s over there.”

“Alright, alright!” In spite of recent unpleasant revelations, he could still laugh. “It’s not like it’s going to grow legs and run away!”

Manning the check-in desk was a teenager who, to put it mildly, looked bored out of his skull. Boredom wasn’t on the list of things Venomous typically associated with a skating rink, but he supposed that if you came in here every day, it was bound to lose its novelty sooner or later. The teen was dressed in clothes that Venomous could only describe as a mash-up of a disco dance floor reject pile and 80s workout clothes. Sweatband and knee-high leg warmers and long, tasseled fringe and far too much polyester. Workplace uniform, Venomous supposed. Hoped.

“Welcome to Stardust Skating Sanctuary,” the teen intoned in what was honestly the most unenthusiastic tone of voice Venomous had heard since the last time he’d snuck into Gar’s bodega in disguise. Just like the cashier in the bodega, he was busy typing away on his phone, not even looking up. “How may I help you?”

“How much does it cost to rent out a pair of children’s skates?”

Without looking up, the teen pointed backwards at a sign behind him, which read “UNDER 12—10 TECHNOS. 12 OR OLDER—15 TECHNOS.” “Linda at the skates will help you get set up,” he droned, busily typing on his phone.

Without further ado, Fink headed over to the skates rack, where a woman with four eyes and six arms was waiting with a child’s foot measuring device. For a moment, Venomous considered being offended by the cashier’s visible disinterest in paying customers, but he decided to just drop it. If he had to dress like that for work every day, he’d be done with everything, too.

Venomous handed the teen his credit card and waited, staring around the rink. At the back on the left-hand side, there were a few arcade cabinets. A trio of preteens were hanging around them, two of them squaring off at a dance machine while the third looked on. At the center of the back there was a sign for the restrooms. On the right-hand side, there was a small food court with tables set up in front of it; the aroma of fresh pizza wafted over to the check-in desk. Venomous let out a quietly relieved breath. At least there’d be somewhere for him to sit and wait while Fink was skating.

“Sir?” When Venomous turned his attention back to the teen, the latter was frowning at Fink, who was still looking for skates her size while Linda helped. “If your daughter is under four feet tall, you must accompany her into the rink.”

“Fink’s not my daughter; she’s my minion,” Venomous replied automatically. Like that would help him now.

The teen opened and shut his mouth like a fish stranded on dry land. When he found his voice again, he fixed Venomous in a flat stare and told him, “If your minion is under four feet tall, you have to accompany her into the rink,” like he had already had to explain this to far too many people. “Otherwise, she can’t skate. House rules.”

He pointed off towards the rink. When Venomous saw what he was pointing at, it was all he could do not to slap his forehead in dismay.

Off by one of the stairways down into the rink, there was a cardboard cutout. The character was decked out in inline skates, helmet, knee and elbow pads, and the sort of one-piece exercise suit that should have died with the 80s. Totally without explanation, it was a badger. It was holding its right hand about four feet off the ground, and a sign next to it read, “Boris the Badger says you must be this tall to skate by yourself. If not, ask your parents to join you!”

Venomous’s gut reaction was to refuse. He knew he’d have to put on skates to go into the rink; by no means would they make him do that. Never again. Venomous didn’t like making a complete fool out of himself in public any more than the next person.

But he’d already promised Fink that she could skate. Going back on his word now would be setting one heck of a bad example for her. Villains could double-cross their enemies any day of the week; that wasn’t just acceptable, but expected (Though if your enemy happened to be powerful or influential, perhaps not the best idea). However, villains—especially very young and inexperienced ones—really shouldn’t get the impression that double-crossing their allies was a good idea, especially not over something so trivial. Villains, real villains who didn’t traffic in things like moral ambiguity, tended to have limited social circles. You needed to be careful about just what you did with your social capital.

Of course, the chances of Fink, young as she was, doing anything but scrunching her face up in confusion if he spoke to her about ‘social capital,’ were close to nil, but the principle stood. Venomous really did slap his forehead this time. “Alright,” he muttered. “One child and one adult.”

By the time Venomous made his way over to the fitting area for skates, Fink appeared to be almost done finding something that fit her. They were down to two pairs of skates.

One of which was inline.

“Not the inline,” he vetoed, before Fink could say anything. “They’re too difficult to balance on. You’ll fall.”

Fink’s red eyes opened wide in indignation. “I will not!”

“You’ve never worn skates before. The inline skates are too advanced for you. You’re not wearing them.”

Fink stuck her tongue out at him, but grabbed the quad skates and went to wait on a bench by the rink, back turned to him.

“Do you have men’s quad skates in a size 10?” Venomous asked Linda. “I’m not picky about the color.”

Linda nodded. “That shouldn’t be a problem. Oh, sir? Is your daughter—“

“She’s my minion, not my daughter.”

Linda glared at him with all four eyes. “If your minion is less than seven years old, she’ll have to wear a helmet. Is she less than seven years old?”

Venomous had designed Fink to have stronger bones than nearly anyone she would ever encounter; the only reason they weren’t stronger was because his research suggested that that could lead to… problems. The likelihood of Fink ever winding up with broken bones or a skull fracture was close to zero. However, her soft tissue and internal organs were no sturdier than the average, healthy human’s. Going out on the rink without a helmet could still end poorly for her.

He weighed all that against one very important caveat: Fink’s ears. The helmet didn’t have any holes, so Fink’s ears would be completely covered, and she wouldn’t be able to hear a thing. There was also a risk of damage to her ears if they were pressed flat against her head for too long.

“She’s older than seven,” Venomous lied, and decided they’d just have to take their chances. He could stop her from taking a serious fall without much difficulty.

Linda looked less than convinced, but rather than trying to argue the point, she held out a key on a hot pink spiral bracelet. “Here is the key to a locker, so you won’t have to leave your shoes or any of your valuables out in the open. Now, if you’ll come with me, I think we can find skates for you…”

A short while later, Venomous had his skates (hot pink, again) and went over to where Fink was waiting. Well, sulking would be a better word for it. She glowered up at him when he approached. “I could’ve done it,” Fink groused, crossing her arms over her chest.

“If you do alright with the quad skates and we ever come back here, I’ll let you try them then. For now, you need to start off with something more stable.”

To show just how little she thought of that, Fink made what was, honestly, an impressively grotesque face. Venomous had seen corpses still trapped in a death rictus that were more pleasant to look at than that.

He smiled slightly. “Keep it up. Your face might stick that way.”

Fink beamed, anger apparently forgotten. “You think so?”

“Anything’s possible.”

Since another rule was that skates were not to be worn outside of the rink itself, they took their skates down into said rink. There were about thirty people using it, a near-even mix of children and adults, but the rink was large enough that it was fairly easy to find a quiet spot to sit down and get their skates on.

These are stiff, Venomous thought to himself as he struggled to get his skates on and laced. Apparently this particular pair of skates hadn’t been worn that often. That seemed a bit unlikely, considering there had only been ten pairs of skates in his size to start with, but perhaps they were new.

A faint odor of sweat clung to the cool air here, accompanied by shoe leather and a very weak pine-scented air freshener. Venomous wasn’t entirely sure how that was even possible, but the music was even louder here than it had been up above, so loud that it was making his teeth chatter. He spared a concerned glance for Fink—her hearing was much keener than the average human’s, after all—but inexplicably, she seemed unbothered. I suppose I should have her ears examined the next time we go to the doctor’s, he thought wryly.

Most of the rink was lined with a guardrail that, Venomous supposed (and hoped it was strong enough to serve the purpose), was meant to aid fallen skaters in getting back up. The only place with a break in the guardrails, asides from the access points at the stairways, was almost directly across from where he and Fink were sitting.

Painted on the wall, there was a smiling tiger dressed much the same as ‘Boris’ upstairs. Off to its left, a large sign read:

TAMMY THE TIGER SAYS SAFETY ROCKS!

Tammy’s Safety Rules:

No shouting No fighting No pushing or shoving No biting or clawing No food or drinks on the rink No use of superpowers No duels to the death No weapons ESPECIALLY no ray guns No gum

Stardust Skating Sanctuary is designated neutral territory for heroes and villains, as well as assorted sidekicks, apprentices, minions, henchmen, and robotic servants. So everyone remember to get along and have fun!

Neutral territory? Well, at least that minimized the chances of some trigger-happy hero or their trigger-happy sidekick to take a potshot at them. Venomous tapped Fink’s shoulder and pointed out the sign. “Have you read the safety rules yet?”

When Fink got to the end of the sign, she made another face, though this one looked more like she’d swallowed a lemon than done an impression of a death rictus. “Oh, not that again! So we can’t mess with any heroes even if they’re hogging the rink?!”

“Not unless you want to get kicked out—and never let back in.” Venomous smiled thinly down at her. However, if a hero tries to hassle you, I’ll hardly be angry if you give them what they gave you, and twice again.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Boss, I will,” Fink assured him.

All too soon, the moment of truth arrived. Venomous got to his feet, slowly, very slowly, clutching the guardrail in a death grip. He put as much weight as possible on his feet, willing them not to roll out from under him. Suddenly, he was finding himself inundated with a flood of memories from earlier years, none of them entirely pleasant. Ever so slowly, he began to remove his hand from the rail.

Fink, on the other hand, pushed off of the wall with all the confidence of someone who had no doubt of her success. She whirled around on her skates, cackling like someone who was plotting to take the world hostage with a doomsday weapon (One day. One day). “What were you worried about? This is easy! See me—oof!”

Of course she had fallen over. Planted face-first onto the flood, to be precise. Whoever was in charge of things upstairs loved punishing people for overconfidence, especially if they were villains. But before Venomous could even try to make his way over to her, she was right back up again, undaunted, and rocketing around on the skates.

I wonder if she even knows how to brake. But still, he smiled a little. Now, to let go of the guardrail…

He took a few tentative strides forward on the skates, careful not to stray too far from the rail. The floor must have been waxed just that morning; Venomous could see his face reflected there all too clearly, furrowed brow and clenched jaw. It was entirely too slick for his liking; every time he moved forwards, it was like trying to walk down a sidewalk coated in ice without falling over.

Venomous bit back a frustrated growl and moved away from the rail. He could walk around in go-go boots all day without a problem; why should roller skates (quad skates, too, not inline) be any different?

His first thought, after a few hesitant strokes, was that this wasn’t so bad. Certainly, it was beer than the last time, though that was hardly an achievement to applaud. With only a few minor hiccups, he could keep his balance without much trouble—this rink was level, and that certainly helped. He wasn’t going very fast—not like Fink, who was currently racing (as much as her short legs allowed) around the rink, with the other skaters scooting out of her way. Going that fast wasn’t the name of the game. Staying upright was.

This… wasn’t so bad. It was never going to be good, per se, but it wasn’t so bad.

His ankles wobbled ominously.

History taught a lesson that still held true in present day: once his ankles began to wobble, it was all over. He was not going to regain control, was not miraculously going to find himself steady again. It was all downhill from here. Still, Venomous tried to steady himself. Tried to stop, in vain.

Why did the ground always rush up to meet him so quickly, so hard? Venomous knew how the laws of gravity and inertia worked; he had paid attention in high school science classes. Still, it didn’t seem quite fair that the landing should be so unforgiving. At least he had landed flat on his back instead of landing on his face or his leg.

“You okay?” Fink called from the other side of the rink.

Venomous waved a hand weakly in her general direction. The light above shone blue, then purple, then black. “I’m fine.” The music seemed even louder than before; he nearly had to shout to hear himself over it. “Just keep on doing what you’re doing.” The silver disco ball was just barely in his field of vision. He scowled up at it, as though it was responsible for his fall.

The skates were not going to beat him. If he had to wear them, he would master them. If he could bioengineer a person like Fink, he could roller skate. Small children could do it; it only stood to reason that he could, too.

The second fall came maybe three minutes after the first.

The third fall came around thirty seconds after the second. Thrusting his arm out in front of his face was the only thing that kept Venomous from face-planting right onto the gleaming floor. This time, he didn’t get up. He really couldn’t be bothered. He just stayed where he was, lying face-down on the floor, his bones vibrating roughly in time to the music.

Before he could spend too much time enjoying his new career as a man-shaped roadblock, Fink skated over to him. Venomous could feel her poke his back cautiously. “Boss? You okay?”

“I’m dying,” he moaned.

A few more pokes followed that, more insistent. “You’re not dying,” Fink retorted. She prodded between his shoulder blades with her fingertips. “You just fell over!”

“I’m dying,” he insisted, struggling to keep laughter out of his voice and instead adopt a suitably morose tone. “Avenge me, Fink.”

“On what?” She jabbed her finger into his back. “The floor?”

Fink began to poke his back incessantly, until maintaining the ruse would have just been completely ridiculous, and, not without some reluctance, Venomous sat back up. He brushed his hair out of his face and grimaced down at her. Fink regarded him with a deliberately neutral look on her face, before that neutral look broke into a grin and she began poking his chest, hard.

Venomous batted her hand away. “Alright! Have some mercy on your creator; I’ve never taken to this as well as you have.”

Fink mimed at poking him one last time, but pulled her hand away, that grin still affixed to her face. “Have you ever been here before, Boss?”

He shook his head. “Can’t say that I have.”

It wasn’t a lie. The local rink had only been in this location for around ten years, after all. He’d never set foot in this building before today. It was good that he didn’t have to lie to her. Fink would have been able to tell, and there were some things he wasn’t ready to explain to her. When she was older, perhaps, but not now, when she still possessed a child’s black-and-white understanding of the world.

Mercifully, Fink didn’t pick up on any evasion of his. She merely raised an eyebrow and asked, “So I guess you can’t skate that great, huh?”

“I’m afraid not.” Leave aside the fact that if you wanted to learn to roller skate, there were more places to do it than just the skating rink. You didn’t often see an adult learning to roller skate on a sidewalk; outside of sports competitions and skating rinks, you didn’t often see an adult roller skating, period.

Fink regarded him in silence for a moment, before breaking into another grin. “I can show you how!”

Venomous tilted his head downwards and stared dubiously at her. “Says the girl who’s been roller skating for all of fifteen minutes.”

“I can!” Fink insisted, putting her hands on her hips. “You’re always telling me we gotta try new things.  Just trust me.”

And she’d said it. There went the death knell of any chance Venomous had of just sitting this one out, clanging so loudly that suddenly the music didn’t seem so loud after all. It was not use that the ‘gotta try new things’ Fink referred to had much more to do with trying to get her to eat foods she was unfamiliar with than with anything else. With little to no confidence of his ability to stay upright, he got back to his feet. Oh, well. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. At least no one he knew happened to be at the rink today to watch him fail repeatedly.

Fink grabbed his hand in her own and set off down the length of the rink. “See?” She laughed. “It’s easy once you get the hang of it!”

It really wasn’t, but it was hardly going to hurt him to just let her have this. It wasn’t always the kid who needed to learn new things.

----------------------------------

Trying to guess how Professor Venomous and Fink would act on a “day off” was a little bit of a process. Venomous spent most of ‘We’re Captured’ in a state of deep irritation, and wasn’t exactly happy for most of ‘Villain’s Night Out’ either; his appearances in ‘Villain’s Night In’ and ‘Boxmore Infomercial’ were basically just cameos. How does he act when he isn’t irritated, when he isn’t around heroes or other villains, when it’s his “day off”, I asked myself. The answer: “…Like a dad. A dad who also happens to a villainous bioengineer.” Until we get more insight into his relationship with Fink, I stand by this.

As for Fink, I figure that she’s probably still rambunctious, but at least a bit better-behaved when she isn’t around people she hates.

[mx-requests-forum]

[Fulfilled] Teach Me (How to Love Again)

Prompt: ShowHyung - Hyunwoo is Jooheon’s dad + Hyungwon is Jooheon’s teacher 

Fulfilled by Moderator ReeLee~

Words: 1098 (so far~)

AO3 Link (For Easier Reading)

The teeth-grinding tones of the alarm clock blare through the dark room. Son Hyunwoo rolls over on his side, groaning at the movement as he blindly reaches out to slam his hand down onto the clock. He sighs, lying still for a moment to get his bearings.

The man looks over to the other side of the bed, its emptiness a silent jab to his heart.

He forces himself up, a groan slipping from his lips as he throws his legs over the side of the bed and pushes himself off the all-too-comfortable mattress. Chilled autumn air flows through the room from he cracked-open window, but it doesn’t bother him much. He’s always been naturally warmer blooded than most people. He pads his way over on bare feet towards the bathroom, and starts up the shower.

 He doesn’t take long in the shower or in getting dried off and dressed. That’s another thing he knows he has going for him, at least. He’s a human heater and he’s quick in the shower… It isn’t, much, granted, but at least it’s something.

He makes his way through the miniscule hallway to the kitchen, and opens the fridge with a frown. He isn’t too sure what he can make to signify the beginning of a bright day, but he has to think of something. Ever since the divorce, his son has suffered in more ways than one. With the absence of his mother, he hasn’t had a proper homecooked meal without his grandmother—Hyunwoo’s mother—present.

And, with everything that’s finally been settled, Hyunwoo just has to think of something to make his son. It’ll lift his spirits to no end if he does.

 An hour-and-a-half later, Hyunwoo finishes setting the meal on the table. He’s managed to make something pretty decent, he’s gotta say. The egg roll is cooked perfectly, the rice is just fluffy enough, and the broth is quite tasty. He even managed to not burn the toast, and to roll the gimbap pretty well. He smiles proudly at his work, and goes to awaken his son.

He wanders back down the hall towards Jooheon’s room, and peeks his head through the crack in the doorway. The room is dark, as it’s still early morning. Toys and papers litter the floor, and a pile of blankets lie motionless on the bed. Hyunwoo chuckles under his breath, and moves further into the room. He sits down on the bed as slowly as he can so as not to scare the boy.

“Jooheonney?” he asks softly, setting a gentle hand atop the now-exposed shoulder of his son. There’s a low hum of acknowledgment from the boy, and Hyunwoo can’t help but laugh again as he pulls the covers back more. “Jooheonney, it’s time to wake up.”

“Appa,” the boy whines, his eyes peeking open ever so slightly. His hair is all mushed around from sleeping, and his lips are set in the most adorable pout Hyunwoo has ever seen. “Appa, I don’t wanna get up. Can’t I stay with you today?”

“You don’t want that, Heonney,” Hyunwoo replies. “I’m going to be at work all day. You’d be bored out of your mind if you came with me.” He pauses, grasping his son’s arm to gently pull him up as he adds, “Besides, you have soccer practice today. You don’t want to miss that.”

“Soccer sucks,” Jooheon grumbles, wiping at his face with his hands. “I’m gonna drop it soon.” Hyunwoo’s heart drops at this, memories of the first time he’d taken his son to soccer practice flashing to the forefront of his mind. Jooheon had been so happy then, so delighted to have such a fun outlet for his energy. But, now, it seems that’s changed… as well as many other things.

“Come on, Jooheonney,” he says, not wanting to talk about it now, “breakfast is ready. Come eat so you can get ready.” Jooheon groans in protest, does as he’s told, anyhow. Hyunwoo smiles at his compliancy, and pats his son on his head before following him out the room.

 Jooheon shuffles through the apartment with his eyes only half-open, and sits down in a creaky chair at the cramped table. He stares at the food already set out, and has to stifle a sigh at the obvious overcompensation. Ever since the divorce, his father had been doing everything he could to make up for his mother running off with her personal trainer… At first, Jooheon had felt sorry for his father and had appreciated all this, but now it only reminds him of who isn’t with them anymore.

He leans forward and plucks up a bite of egg with his chopsticks, and pops it into his mouth. He ignores the bitter taste it leaves in his mouth after he swallows and takes a bite of rice. He knows it’s better to eat, not because he’s worried about being hungry later but because he knows his father will ask what’s wrong if he doesn’t.

 The two quickly eat, and Jooheon drags his feet to go get ready. Twenty minutes later, father and son are in the car.

Jooheon plays on his phone the entire ride to school, only looking up when Hyunwoo finally pulls up to the dreaded building. Hyunwoo wants to speak with his son, wants to hear him laugh like he used to, but he doesn’t know how to get that without coming off as annoying. He knows that’ll only exacerbate Jooheon’s sour mood, so he lets the boy keep to himself for the time being.

As Jooheon pulls his bag up off of the floorboard, Hyunwoo finally thinks of something he could possibly say.

“Remember I’ve got that meeting with your teacher today, so come meet me after your practice here, and I can drive us home.”

He can’t help but wince at the tired sigh this brings from his son, and Jooheon merely opens the door and steps out.

“Okay,” is all he says, and Hyunwoo is just glad he’s managed to get that much out of his son.

Hyunwoo frowns on the entire way to work, almost scowling at every traffic light he passes. He knows it’ll take some time to… adjust to all these changes, but he can’t help but notice the personality changes Jooheon has gone through since the divorce. He tells himself it’s just a phase similar to what every middle schooler goes through, that he’ll soon have his sweet Jooheonney back.

But, he finds it hard to shake the fear that Jooheon won’t ever grow out of it.

[crepeycrepeyspacewizard]

#12 “Take my jacket, it’s cold outside.”

[Prompt fill to continue this NonBinary Masc Hux pregnancy story - I Made Your Favourite. 3,829 words. Trigger for mpreg, alcohol, weight/food issues.]

It was all Mitaka’s fault.

Well, that probably wasn’t fair, but Hux was going to have to blame someone because accepting that he was being both irrational and a tad naive really wasn’t his style.

The problem had started a month ago, at that bloody conference. Hux had just given- in his not so humble opinion- the presentation of the day, if not the whole week. He’d secured £18 million in new business for the company and his proposals looked set to become the industry standard. He was riding high.

But he was also drenched in sweat. He, Phasma, and Mitaka had decided to take a well deserved coffee break, but it was too fucking hot outside to wear his suit jacket. So he’d just slung it over his shoulder like he had a million times before.

Except the posture pulled his shirt tight, and now there was more than his usual binder-smoothed lines on show. Kylo had bought him a new half length binder, and Hux had felt certain that he wasn’t showing yet, but…

Hux was staring wistfully into the confectionary cabinet while they stood in line at Costa when an overly familiar finger prodded at his middle.

“You might want to start laying off the donuts, boss. I know we said we’d fatten you up, but maybe go for a smoothie?” Mitaka said with a laugh, his finger still poking gently at what he thought was fat.

It had been like the floor dropping away. Hux had been fighting other people’s perceptions of his weight his entire life- always on the medically concerning side of skinny, always able to eat whatever he felt like but made to feel like it wasn’t enough. The flip side of the coin was no less unpleasant.

The doors had opened, changing the quality of the light, and he caught his reflection in the glass cabinet.

He looked like a man who’d let himself go. He hadn’t thought he was showing, and he wasn’t, not in the traditional baby bump sense yet but… there was a bulge there. Sitting just above his belt buckle. With his whip thin frame it looked like a beer belly.

Hux hadn’t really thought this through. He’d told the senior partner, Snoke, because he needed the time off for appointments but the old man didn’t give a fuck about anything other than his bottom line. He’d just griped about statutory leave until Hux had explained Kylo’s plan to be a stay-at-home dad.

For some reason Hux had assumed that would be it. A few appointments here and there, an extended leave of absence and then back at work. He’d entirely forgotten the whole blowing-up-to-the-size-of-a-house thing that came in the middle.

He was at the top of his game professionally and now his direct report thought he was letting himself go. Hux had no idea how to navigate this because he literally hadn’t considered it.

“Dopheld, what the fuck?!” Phasma hissed, breaking the silence Hux hadn’t even noticed was dragging out between them.

Mitaka was shaking slightly as if he’d finally realised exactly how inappropriate his actions had been. Or he was terrified by the fact that Hux was just staring blankly at him.

“Excuse me.” Hux said quickly. He hadn’t run away exactly, but he had left the coffee shop with his phone in his hand. It was easier to pretend to make a call than to face whatever the fuck that mess had been.

Fortunately there was a Starbucks just down the street, because of course there fucking was. Hux had taken himself there to calm down. And to get the food his body was clamouring for.

He felt like he was being judged by the barista when he ordered the decaf cookies & cream frap and cheesecake muffin, but his cravings were what they were.

He hated cream but apparently the baby loved it, so he would have to endure. Trust Kylo to get him pregnant with a child that had bad taste. It would probably insist on wearing all black clothes and have mastered eyeliner before it could speak.

The image of a rockstar baby was absurd enough to make him smile to himself, and he relaxed slightly. He had half an hour before he had to be back at the conference, so he settled in a window seat and pulled out his phone. Phasma had sent him a ‘U ok?’ but he ignored it. Let Dopheld stew for a while.

GingerSnap: I’m not letting the baby have a mohawk KylOMG: I hadn’t even considered it but now I’m gonna have to make it happen GingerSnap: No KylOMG: Can’t talk, researching infant safe hair dyes. How do you feel about green? GingerSnap: It’d look like a fucking leprechaun KylOMG: Exactly GingerSnap: Dopheld thinks I need to ‘lay off the donuts’ KylOMG: [...typing…] GingerSnap: If you’re composing an anal sex joke you can sleep in the shed tonight KylOMG: Aw. No fun. What about ‘cream filling’ jokes? GingerSnap: Fuck off, I’m serious, what do I do? KylOMG: Eat a whole roast chicken in front of him, establish dominance. GingerSnap: Jeyzus Kylo KylOMG: Did I make you laugh? GingerSnap: Yeah KylOMG: Then my work here is done. We both know you’re healthy, & so is the baby- that’s all that matters right now. Don’t stress yourself, your body isn’t Pheld’s business.

Kylo had been right, and it had made Hux feel better. But he’d still put his suit jacket back on when he went back to the conference. Dopheld hadn’t been able to make eye contact with him, but Hux would still rather sweat than worry about what anyone else thought.

That had been a month ago. Now summer was in full swing and Hux wasn’t getting any thinner. Or any cooler.

The office at least was air conditioned and thanks to the combination of his height with his narrow frame most store bought suits had more than enough space to hide his progress.

And he was hiding, he admitted that now. He’d gotten used to not having conversations about his gender, and dealing with midwife appointments was exhausting enough. They’d been asked where the surrogate was at their first few check-ups until the staff at the centre got used to them.

He knew he’d have to face it all eventually, or take his leave early and deal with the office gossipmongers, and it looked like today might be the day to decide.

There might be lovely cool air con at the office, but the 18th century venue for the annual summer retreat was definitely lacking in that regard.

As much as Hux wanted to wear a suit the dress code was ‘casual’ and someone would be taking notes to ensure compliance with the mandatory fun. So he was wearing the coolest casual wear he owned, and it did nothing to hide his figure. Skinny jeans and soft shirt featuring Kylo’s band logo. They usually looked good on Hux but now he felt like a snake that had swallowed a beach ball. He was only 18 weeks too, it was ridiculous. The moment he stepped outside everyone would know.

“Take my jacket, it’s cold outside.”

Hux hadn’t even noticed Kylo was behind him until he spoke. He knew he’d been dithering just inside the lobby, watching his colleagues on the lawn with trepidation, but he must have been standing there for a long time for Kylo to have caught up to him. Kylo had only just got out of the shower when Hux left the room.

“I don’t think anyone’s going to believe that,” Hux said quietly, tugging restlessly at the hem of his t-shirt. He hated dressing casually in front of his coworkers at the best of times. It felt like taking his armour off. “It’s fucking 32 celsius in the shade, Kylo.”

“Then say you're worried about burning,” Kylo suggested instead. He let one thick fingertip run down Hux’ pale arm for emphasis. “Everyone will believe that.”

Hux chuckled nervously but took the offered jacket anyway. “I'm not ashamed you know.” He said after a moment.

“I know. You've spent every minute in our apartment in your pants. I get it- it's complicated.” Massive shoulders shifted in a shrug. “Whatever you want, it doesn’t bother me.”

Kylo’s clothes, like the man himself, were constructed on an entirely different scale. Hux felt instantly swamped in the mass of grey denim, but it smelled reassuringly of his husband, and half his anxiety melted away.

Beside him Kylo swallowed noisily.

“What?”

“I uh,” Kylo leaned in to whisper in his ear, “can I reserve a private viewing of you in just the jacket?”

A blush ran down Hux’ chest at the tone and took the last of his worries with it.

“You look fucking amazing,” the whisper continued, “but the thought of all that pale skin and ginger fuzz,” a huge hand settled on his abdomen, “and that belly- fucking majestic.”

Hux snorted. “Ridiculous.”

“We’ll see.”

As they crossed the lawn towards the set up for the evening’s entertainment, Hux noticed Thanisson running towards them with a worried expression.

“Excuse me, Mr Hux?” The intern said when he was still twenty feet away, “Sorry sir, but the performer for the evening has been delayed. Mr Snoke told me to borrow your husband instead.”

That at least was par for the course with Snoke. Not ‘ask to borrow’ or ‘ask your husband if he wouldn’t mind’ just ‘told’. Hux really wished Snoke would behave like a normal eighty year old man, and thus not have realised that his husband was lead singer of a triple platinum band.

There was a grand piano on the miniature stage and a gleam in Kylo’s eye.

“Fine,” Hux said, then thought better of it, “No swearing though.”

Kylo laughed and kissed his temple before following after Thanisson with long happy strides. A kiss was not an agreement. Hux really hoped Kylo wasn’t going to embarrass him.

At least the drinks on offer at the refreshment table were a choice of either Pimms, or virgin punch, so his alcohol free option wasn’t all that noticeable. Everyone’s glass was stuffed with the same fruit pieces and sad bits of wilted mint.

Hux looked around for somewhere to sit while he took a sip. He nearly bit his tongue in revulsion. Apparently the baby didn’t like mint. Fantastic.

Phasma was sitting cross legged on a picnic blanket just in front of the stage with a tablet in her hand and a pitcher of water by her knee.

Crossing the grass he surreptitiously dumped the drink on a table of similarly abandoned glassware. Maybe he was wrong to blame the baby and the punch was just disgusting.

“May I join you?”

She looked up and smiled vaguely. “Of course. No Kylo?”

He settled on the blanket with his legs crossed and Kylo’s jacket wrapped carefully around him. “Snoke stole him. Apparently the singer is delayed.”

“I’d bet you £20 Snoke didn’t book anyone,” She said, turning back to her tablet. “Why pay someone when you know the junior partner’s husband will take any excuse to get near a mic?”

“I really should defend my husband from that entirely accurate slander, but I fear a lie of that magnitude would make my jeans spontaneously combust.” Not that Hux would have mourned such an event. Now he was sitting on the ground they weren’t the most comfortable of clothes. He shifted slightly, trying to move the waistband into a position that didn’t aggravate the thin skin of his stomach.

He reached for the pitcher of water.

“I wouldn’t,” Phasma said without looking up. “That’s mostly vodka.” She reached into her bag and handed him an Evian instead.

He stared at her for a beat before he took it.

“It’s not of my business…” She began.

“Spot on.”

She took the hint.

“You can talk to me if you need to though.” She said then lapsed back into silence.

He wasn’t sure what had given him away, though as Kylo had pointed out he wasn’t all that subtle even before he’d found out he was pregnant himself. Phasma’s wife had had a baby last year, that’s why she was at this year’s retreat alone. Maybe she was just more used to seeing the signs.

Part of him really wished this was something other people didn’t keep finding out about before he could actually tell them. Though since he’d had no intention of telling anyone the wish seemed like a really stupid one.

The pitcher of vodka threatened to slosh when Mitaka clumsily joined them on the blanket.

Things had thawed between them since the conference incident, but he seemed to be constantly aware of everything that came out of his mouth. Hux felt a little bad about that, but not much. If it helped him keep his foot out of his mouth it was probably a benefit.

“Hi. Bloody hell it’s hot.” Dopheld gasped and looked around at the others spread out across the grass. He seemed to be counting.

“Rodinon and Datoo have taken their shirts off,” he eventually continued to Phasma like he was fishing for something.

“I don’t give a fuck what you wear Dopheld.” She said without looking up. “My parents are nudists, I promise you, even Snoke bollock naked wouldn’t be anything I haven’t seen before.”

Hux choked on his water. “Fucking hell.”

She gave a filthy laugh that made the people sitting nearby on the grass look up and shake their heads. Thank god Snoke was nowhere to be seen.

Sitting between them Dopheld seemed unable to undress all at once. Four buttons were unfastened. Then he paused for a gulp of ‘mostly vodka’. The shirt was untucked. Another drink. The rest of the buttons. More booze.

It took at least two minutes before Mitaka’s skin was exposed to the world.

Hux had been mildly envious of his tan for years until Dopheld had explained that half his family was from southern Spain. He still was a little jealous now- even if he could take his shirt off Hux would probably blind everyone in a half mile radius with his pasty skin.

He glanced enviously at Dopheld once he was settled and then frowned before he could stop himself.

Their eyes met for a second. “Problem?”

Hux shook his head. He never had been the best at spotting others. Without seeing the dark top surgery scars he never would have guessed.

“I’m just hoping you’ve got sunscreen on.”

Dopheld opened his mouth to reply but closed it when Phasma handed him a bottle of factor fifty.

“For fucks sake look after yourself,” she said with a sigh. “I only signed up to be two people’s mother.”

“I thought you only had one kid?” Mitaka asked obliviously while Hux said a quiet “Oh congrats.”

She nodded “End of November.”

The conversation was cut off by a smattering of applause that turned into something like a roll of thunder when the waiting audience realised that the unknown local performer had been replaced by Kylo Ren.

“Oh my god, I love the Knights of Ren!” Someone said in the crowd.

Another voice replied, “You know he’s married to Hux right?”

Hux couldn’t help his spine straightening at that.

Beside him Phasma threw her tablet onto the blanket and laughed. “You’re so fucking proud of him!”

“Of course I am!”

“You’re just pleased that everyone knows the skinny twink bagged himself a beefcake!”

Dopheld made a vaguely horrified sound as Hux swatted at her. “Piss off!”

The bench at the piano creaked alarmingly when Kylo sat down and drew everyone’s eyes back to the stage.

Hux had always thought he looked odd playing a keyboard. He was too large and the posture emphasised his shyly rolled shoulders and habit of folding in to make himself look smaller. At least the guitar made him sit up properly. Still, it didn’t make him any less gorgeous.

Kylo flashed him a small mischievous smile as the first notes rang out.

It was a song Hux had never even liked until Kylo had covered it during a technical outage at one of his gigs. Something had blown the speakers for everything but the main mic and Kylo had apparently thought it was ‘funny’ to start singing ‘Sound Of Silence’ acapella. Hux hadn’t found it funny. Hux had thought his spirit was literally going to leave his body.

Even now all these years later it still had the same effect. He could feel his body relaxing to an inhuman degree the instant Kylo opened his mouth.

“Hello darkness, my old friend, I’ve come to talk to you again...”

He could hear other people muttering ‘holy shit’ as the song built. Kylo hid a lot of his vocal talent under the guitars and it was unusual for everyone else to hear it like this. In some ways Hux felt privileged to hear it booming out of the shower every morning.

As he relaxed the weight of the jacket began to feel oppressive on his shoulders. All the tension and anxiety he’d felt for weeks seemed silly now.

Phasma already knew and she had enough clout in the company that people would take the lead from her reaction. Besides Snoke didn’t give a fuck and was still talking about making him a full partner in the next financial year.

“And no one dared disturb the sound of silence. Fools, I said, you do not know…”

Hux shivered and felt the butterflies that usually crawled up his spine at this point settle in his stomach instead. Or maybe that was the baby. He’d had the impression it was moving when Kylo sang before. He might just be imagining it but the sensation made up his mind.

He shrugged out of the jacket and folded it up neatly beside him.

Despite his brain telling him that there were giant flashing arrows pointing at his belly now, no one turned to look at him. Everyone was too busy gaping at Kylo belting out the end of the song.

Hux didn’t bother to join the standing ovation- Kylo already knew how he felt about his music and beside Hux was too busy rescuing the pitcher from Dopheld’s boots. His movement drew the eyes of his companions but before anyone could say anything Kylo was laughing into the mic and asking for the audience’s assistance with the next song.

There was more cheering as Kylo started Bohemian Rhapsody. He really didn’t have the right range for it, but there were few songs better guaranteed to get the audience singing along. Some groups didn’t bother to sit down again and the operatic section ended up turning into an enthusiastically sung argument between the accountants and half the design department.

By the end of the song Hux was laughing so hard he’d unconsciously put a hand on his belly for support. He was absolutely certain that the vague fluttering he could feel was the baby now even if he couldn’t sense it from the outside.

On stage Kylo started picking out the introduction to one of his ballads but mouthed a concerned ‘are you okay?’ in his direction.

Hux responded with a reassuring smile and pointed at his middle with his free hand, miming a wriggling movement with his fingers. Kylo grinned and turned back to the mic.

Slowly Hux became aware of eyes still on him. Both Phasma and Dopheld were staring at him. He watched in silence as their gaze ran over him again.

“Holy shit!” Phasma hissed, leaning right across Dopheld’s legs to get closer Hux. “Are you pregnant?!”

“Yes, Phasma, I am. I thought that’s why you warned me about the vodka?” The pitcher shifted again and Hux put a steadying hand on it. “‘Pheld, if you’re drinking this can you please start looking after it? Thanks.”

Phasma laughed in surprise. “Oh my god, no. I thought you’d quit drinking, you know because of the weight ga…” She stopped herself with a hand over her mouth when she saw the look on his face, “Jesus, I need to shut the fuck up. Sorry.”

Between them Mitaka looked like he was trying to complex equations in his head. “But…”

Hux nudged him. “You didn’t say anything to me, did you?”

“No, but…”

“Holy shit, I can’t believe this!” Phasma said again. Surging forward she climbed over Dopheld and enveloped Hux in an unexpected hug. “Congrats!”

“But…”

“I think you broke Dopheld.” Hux said with a laugh against her neck.

“Good, things’ll be quiet for a while.” She replied, then sat back. “Is this something you want to be out about? Like, do you want me to unsubtly drop it in the office gossip pool, or should I feign ignorance?”

Hux looked down at his bump. His hand was on it again. He hadn’t even noticed himself moving. Apparently without his suit he couldn’t keep his hands off it. Maybe that was how Kylo felt all the time. He snorted.

“I think I’m out about it. Though if you could very unsubtly remind people about the press policy that’d be great.”

Not that Kylo was really the sort of musician to get mentioned in the gossip magazines. Fortunately for them he was just the wrong side of metal to be interesting to most mainstream outlets. It was one less thing to worry about.

She nodded. “Don’t worry, people who don’t know any better don’t work here for long.”

They sat in companionable silence watching Kylo work through seven more songs before a man in an ill fitting tux appeared in the distance, running across the lawn at a sprint. He looked like a 70s lounge singer.

“Phasma, I do believe you owe me £20.” Hux said cheerfully while the crowd around them groaned in disappointment.

The man didn’t take over immediately, instead he lapsed into a heated argument with Thanisson, but Kylo left the stage anyway.

Hux grinned up at him from the blanket, enjoying the way Kylo’s hair fluttered around his shoulders with every long stride.

At first it looked like the people around them were going to approach Kylo, but then to distinctive noise of a fist connecting with a nose rang out behind him along with Thanisson’s indignant swearing, and everyone became much more interested in the immediate entertainment.

“Hey,” Kylo said quietly, collapsing onto the blanket next to Hux. The back of his hand grazed gently down Hux’ bump. “Is it still moving?”

Hux went to shake his head just as Kylo continued, “Oh great, I need a drink…” And grabbed the vodka.

“Kylo, no that’s…”

But it was already gone. Kylo made a gagging noise.

Hux sighed. “Jesus Christ, nevermind. Here, drink this water before you die.”

Beside them a lost sounding voice said, “But…”

Phasma patted Dopheld on the shoulder, “You’ll work it out eventually. Now come on, let’s go find Kylo more water.”

[il--dottore]

The Hand That Feeds (part 5)

When Marcos awoke, he was blind.  

He didn’t realize it at first, accustomed as he was to the pitch black of the cell between sessions. And besides, he hadn’t woken up as cleanly as usual; his head felt fuzzy, his tongue lay thick in his mouth. As consciousness returned to him his thoughts sharpened – how many hours of rest had he been granted? – but in those first few minutes it took him much longer than usual to realize he wasn’t the only one in the room.  

He lay flat on his back. His arms were at his sides, and the weight of the collar around his neck had vanished. The concrete beneath him had lost some of its chill; he’d been lying there for some time.  In the background, sounds. A breath. Quiet footsteps. The soft clink of metal on metal. He stared upward with wide eyes, straining for any hint of light. It was only dark when he was alone. So if he wasn’t alone - 

“Are you feeling refreshed?” The metallic scrape of a chair being dragged across the floor, stopping near Marcos’s head. Giovanni sank into it. It had only taken the medic and the drug to do their jobs perhaps three hours, but he knew Marcos had no guesses. Giovanni watched Marcos’s eyes flick around with increasing urgency. Seemed the lenses really worked.

He’d had them made specially, as the company apparently didn’t keep anything like them on hand. Black, opaque contact lenses that covered the iris and pupil, inserted by the medic while Marcos was under the drug. Light reactant. They darkened to an opacity under bright light, which was the case in the room’s lighting today. He maybe able to see superficially in dim lighting, but at the moment, Marcos had virtually no vision.

“I can’t see-“ the words were a hiss, tight with fear. Marcos jammed the heels of his hands against his eyes before blinking furiously, his head moving in little jerks. “Why can’t I see?”

“I wouldn’t touch them,” Giovanni warned. “Your chances of any recovery are quite low, but if you rub at them so soon after the procedure, they’ll be zero.” Wouldn’t want the lenses slipping around, giving themselves away.

“Wh-“ Marcos froze with his hands raised, his whole frame starting to tremble. Recovery? Procedure? “What did – what-“ More than any of the pain Giovanni had inflicted, this shook him. A horror crept over him. “What did you do?!”

“Why are you so upset? You must know by now what the room looks like, and what I look like.” The nonchalance and slight annoyance in Giovanni’s voice was an almost comic foil to the panic in Marcos’s. “You really only need your ears and your mouth. Now, do try not to rub at them anymore, because I’m beginning to feel your hands are unnecessary, too.”

Of course Giovanni had no plans to permanently disable Marcos; this room was only the beginning. But Marcos need not be aware of that, not yet.

Feeling suddenly and unbearably exposed, Marcos pushed himself upright and pulled his knees to his chest. He faced Giovanni, as near as he could tell, but his head kept turning as he attempted to locate the others in the room. The tremors continued unabated.

Giovanni watched him silently for a moment. Marcos’s head twitched to the side, turning his ear towards where he’d last heard Giovanni’s voice originate. The expression of utter despair, stricken incomprehension, was uncomfortably familiar to Giovanni and his eyes shifted over the top of Marcos’s head.

“Are you hungry?” Marcos seemed to be compliant enough for the moment. “Or would you rather pick up where we left off?”

For a moment, Marcos did not respond. The same thoughts presented themselves - thoughts of pride, and principles, and compromise. But they were translucent somehow. Less real than before. 

"I don't -" He bit his lip, wrapping his arms tighter around his legs. His words were barely audible. "I'd like food."

He shouldn’t have been surprised by the answer, but Giovanni found himself caught a little off guard. He hesitated—should he make it that simple?—before holding out his hand to receive the usual bowl of warm, flavorless oatmeal. But of course it should be simple; the time for orchestrated chaos and unpredictability was possibly over, and it was time now to take tentative steps forward.

Marcos could have a choice now. He would make him understand that. But Giovanni created and enforced every choice, in the end.

Marcos held unnaturally still when he heard the clink of the spoon on the bowl. Giovanni held the utensil out about an inch from Marcos’s face, waited until the younger man twitched at the silence and felt it at the corner of his mouth.

Marcos closed his eyes as he opened his mouth, a flush coloring his cheeks. The oatmeal was tasteless but thick, and his shame was tempered somewhat by the warmth, the slaking of a need that had been building for days. He shuddered, his hands curling into fists until the stabbing pain from his healing fingers was almost too much to bear.

Waiting until Marcos had gotten the first spoonful down without choking, Giovanni offered another, this time tapping the spoon on Marcos’s teeth through his half-open mouth. Marcos seemed to swallow the concoction without any thought to savor or taste it; not that Giovanni could blame him, but it was almost amusing to watch him force it down so quickly, breath coming heavier, and practically see the hesitation working behind Marcos’s forehead before he opened his mouth again. Giovanni let him sit there unattended until his mouth snapped shut again, eyes darting futilely, second-guessing.

“I want you to answer some questions,” Giovanni started, “unrelated to Midnight. You will answer them either way, however—you may choose between a reward for compliance,” he tapped the bowl with the spoon, “or punishment for noncompliance.”

Marcos didn’t respond, but his silence was a lack of protest, and Giovanni knew how to read it. There were no expletives, nothing defiant in his expression. Just wariness and tension, awaiting the first question. He hadn’t yet decided whether to refuse.

“Do you know an Exterminator named Anders Madsen,” Giovanni started, nothing in his tone betraying the intensity with which he watched for Marcos’s reaction, “on a personal level?”

A pause. Marcos' eyes shifted as he searched the question for any tricks, any hidden meanings. Slower, his blind gaze drifted back towards where he'd last heard the click of the spoon. 

"No." True, technically. He'd never met the man. But it felt like an evasion, and despite himself his breath began to speed up, his fear only growing with the knowledge that Giovanni would be able to read his body language just as well as he could. "M-my brother does," he finally burst out, the admission bringing a feeling of relief that he had just enough awareness of to despise.

There was no indication of a lie in Marcos’s response, only apprehension; pass. Giovanni (ever a man of his word, if nothing else) spooned up another glob of oatmeal and tapped Marcos’s lip. Saw that it was all swallowed before he moved on.

“Your record shows that you’ve been outside the city unauthorized, after being registered as neutral. Was permanent defection your plan?”

After a tense, silent pause, “The only punishment you have to fear is punishment for refusing to answer, Marcos. It’s a simple question.”

Marcos shifted in place, warring anxieties plainly visible on his face. His lack of sight made him vulnerable and, paradoxically, lowered his other defenses too. Unable to see Giovanni's expressions, he did less to guard his own. "Not - not permanent-" His eyes flicked towards the corners of the room, with their imagined watchers. "I always c-came back-"

“Hm.” The portion this time was smaller, maybe only half a spoonful.

“I’m sure you’ve been interviewed about the details of these excursions. We’re just talking, Marcos, that’s all. Do you have friends in the Zones?” 

A nod from Marcos, almost immediate. "Vista, the - the people at Vista. Mou- Cass." Nothing wrong there. The outpost was sanctioned, and Mouse hadn't officially escaped the city, because she'd never officially been held there.

Giovanni stirred the quickly cooling concoction thoughtfully. Audibly. “And what about outside of the outpost? Have you ever met any killjoys?” He phrased it a bit carefully; it was going so well, and he wouldn’t want Marcos clamming up now, wouldn’t want that defiant streak rearing its head while they were inching towards progress. Giovanni saw Marcos lean forward just slightly, expectant. 

The spoon was still. "I..." Marcos offered no names, pulling back and hunching when the oatmeal was not forthcoming. It was either food or blows. He licked his lips nervously. "Not - not killjoys..." His fingers bent stiffly as he rubbed at his hands.

The younger man’s thoughts and emotions showed so plainly on his face that Giovanni almost found it funny. Perhaps at another time he would have, but he was weary of this room. It had been months since—since the last time an interrogation had stretched so long. Since the last time he’d gotten so finely attuned to a subject.

A short, still silence. “Are you lying to me, Marcos?”

Marcos sucked in his breath, freezing in place. His eyes were wide and unseeing. "Not killjoys," he whispered, "Not - they're not, they're just - they just live there -" 

Thoughts of Sugar and Shade presented themselves, and of Dannyboy, and the little kid who pretended to be a goblin over the radio. And of Perro. He didn't want them to have anything to do with this room. He didn't want anything from the desert to be trapped in here with him, because then it would belong to Giovanni too.

“I’m not very much interested in peaceful desert dwellers, or however you choose to think of them,” Giovanni’s voice projected boredom, dangerous dissatisfaction. The spoon clinked against the side of the bowl as he pretended to move it idly, the sound ringing harshly. It wasn’t time yet for pain; not with Marcos behaving so well, speaking so openly. But fear, too, was a kind of punishment. A higher sort, even, than physical blows. Which were still imminent. Fear had to be fed regularly.

“Isn’t there something interesting you’ve done outside the city? I’d much rather talk like this than get straight back to work.”

A moment of silence, full of tense energy rather than the stillness and purpose with which Marcos had made these decisions in previous sessions. He understood what the Exterimantor wanted - he was supposed to tell him about leaving through the sewers with their android guide, or about sneaking Mouse out through the body disposal, or about where Shade might live and what the members of his crew looked like. Or perhaps about Destroya and the other dieties - but that was probably shakier ground, with someone like Giovanni. The question was whether Marcos was willing to volunteer the information, and the answer wasn't as clear as it had been before. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, rocking back and forth slightly in a tight, staccato motion.

When he finally twitched his head in the negative, there was nothing resolute about his expression. He wrapped his arms around himself, eyes tight shut, his breath already coming quicker.

Giovanni released a near-silent breath and handed the tray off to a draculoid. The respite was ending; but it was Marcos’s right to end it. And his responsibility to accept the alternative.

Retreating to the counter, Giovanni immediately took up today’s instrument; a long, thin rod reminiscent of a bamboo cane. It was synthetic, of course, but the feel and flexibility were as good as the real thing. He circled back around slowly and pressed the rod flat against the back of Marcos’s neck.

“Back or hands?”

Marcos jumped when the cane touched his neck, motionless as Giovanni's words sank in. His erratic breathing hitched and then, paradoxically, began to even out. The unknown had lifted. He was being given a choice. 

His hands dropped back into his lap, out of the way, and as he released a breath, his shoulders straightened. Though still shaken by the occasional shiver, his posture was significantly more composed.

The cane lifted away from Marcos's neck, was raised back and over Giovanni's head. There was a pause, less than a second; Giovanni wasn't one for drama, but he did appreciate a tightly strung moment. The cane made a hollow whistling sound through the air before landing its mark square across Marcos's upper back with an ugly, somatic snap. 

Giovanni watched the skin slowly redden and then darken further, a long welt forming. Hadn't broken the skin. Perhaps the synthetic rod did require a bit more elbow. And besides, Marcos was being too good a sport about it. 

Wouldn't do anyone any good to drag in between. Giovanni raised the cane again. 

Marcos couldn't tell if the second blow had drawn blood, but he thought it probably had. It came with a sharper pain, a deeper slash of heat, and the tendons in his arms were tensed harshly as he tried to keep from flinching away or curling up. A thin exhale, not quite a whine, worked its way through clenched teeth.

Three. Giovanni suddenly remembered a public caning he’d seen in a small town in France after the bombs. Three strikes, and the crowd had murmured about the barbarity. Blood had run down the man’s back the way it was running down Marcos’s now. What little Giovanni could see of his face was starkly pallid. He knew Marcos wasn’t in a state to lose too much blood. Four would suffice.

At the fourth, Marcos hunched forward, curling his hands in his hair with a pained exclamation. His back was burning; between the fiery lacerations, he could feel the liquid movement of blood winding down to stain the pale fabric of his pants. Though his head swam, he didn’t bother shutting his eyes. It wouldn’t make any difference.  When Giovanni crossed the room once more to return the cane to its place, Marcos pressed his face against his knees, still pulled up to his chest. Every breath tugged at torn skin, every shift set muscles screaming. Maybe this would be the end of the session. God, but it hurt- if he could just stay here without moving, it would get better, right? Cuts scabbed over. So long as Giovanni didn’t want him to-

A soft thump pulled Giovanni’s attention away from the tool case. He glanced back to see Marcos had fallen over sideways and lay still. Fucking hell. Well, he supposed it would be impossible to continue for today. He’d reached an important milestone with Marcos, besides. Small successes.

But time was running out, and Giovanni could only hope that these small successes would culminate to something significant before—he closed his eyes for a moment, out of the view of his dracs, and suppressed an unbearable restlessness that rose in him. He must not let any outside pressure affect him. It was still too soon.

Giovanni lay the rod carefully into its depressed groove in the case and shut it. “We’re done for today,” he said quietly, and then turned to the draculoid nearest to him. “Arrange for a medic, he needs stitches in his back. After that, leave the ambience off.” Marcos may not have known it himself, but he’d done very well today. It seemed Giovanni preferred to reward him, after all, which almost disturbed him.

He left the light on, two of the four dracs hanging behind to wait for the medic. Giovanni had calls to make, requests to file, but all he could think about now was the burn of a cigarette in the fresh air.

[ciceroprofacto]

35 or 38 lams!!

38-“You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

35-“You heard me. Take. It. Off.

After the Battle of Monmouth, the boys blow off steam…and other types of blowing.  [EXPLICIT]

Camp teeters somewhere between vigilance and celebration, men still posted at their cannons in case one last round of shots tries us from across the hill where we’d driven the British.  There haven’t been explosions for hours now, but as proof that discipline in camp has tightened, no one tries to celebrate prematurely.

It’s too dark to continue a coordinated battle, but as we stand, Washington should feel confident for the morning.  With Cornwallis whispering in Clinton’s ear, stories of Brandywine and Whitemarsh, we’re all sure he’ll fall to the same hubris as Howe.  He’ll wait to make another attack, thinking his victory is assured.  And if their camp still remains come first light, we’ll be ready to finish this.

“-if he hadn’t occupied me all evening with planning our water distributions for tomorrow, I would’ve helped him draw up the formations.  He probably hasn’t drawn them himself- instead, I bet he’s still raving at Gilbert like the boy can do anything more than he can to see Lee’s punished for this.”

Hamilton had been sulking while I’d raged to him about Lee’s retreat from the field.  It seems, after my considerable goading, he’s finally joined me in my anger, but I’ve exhausted my supply of complaints about General Lee for today.

“I’m sure Gilbert’s returning his fury in equal measure,” I say, squeezing out the cloth we had been washing up with.  The sound of water hitting the basin momentarily drowns out the noise of crickets outside and the voices of the soldiers and the camp, fully awake.  “And, with this heat…cooling the men down will be just as important as removing musket balls and wrapping wounds.”

“It’s not that hot.”

He’s being petulant for having quit the field and I give him an unimpressed look, “Not now,” I agree, “but at midday, we were dropping like flies.  Nearly as fast as they were.  A hundred men died from heat.”

“Because they failed to judge their own limits.”

He must be joking.  I smirk at him, “You fainted…straight into my arms.  You call that judging your own limits?”

“When I felt myself fading, I knew exactly where to go.”

His tone is defensive, but too petty to be genuine- only for show.  I stop my hands wringing and sit back, grin at him fully, and see where he’s teasing- his usual deflection against embarrassment.  I take him where he’s opened it up for me to frisk him with wit, “You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

“But, swooning into your arms has made you so much sweeter to me today,” he says and grins back.  As if he doesn’t know why I’ve kept him closer…after the battle we had.

I swat at him with the washrag but he catches it and laughs. “Tell yourself whatever you need to,” I say.  “You fainted.”

He throws the back of his hand up to his head and rolls his eyes back, “Oh, Laurens,” he sighs, arcing dramatically backwards until he falls into our pallet in a heap.  “Help me- I’ve fallen off my horse and it’s hot.”

I stand from the stool I’d perched on to wash up, following him onto the blankets and wrapping an arm around his shoulders- to shove his face into the pallet.  Making light of the dangers this war presents to our lives has become a familiar game with him and one that I think we’ve learned to mutually indulge for our own benefit.  He injects humor into the idea of his own death, a subject that fails to elicit an acceptable response, a dull compliance that would have me furious with him if he expressed it.  And I pretend he’s sparked my temper before he can actually do so with his callousness, so that he can laugh at himself with the full understanding that he’s walking on thin ice.

He kicks a leg up and sweeps mine out from under me, effectively initiating.  And then we wrestle over the pallet for several minutes, knees and elbows knocking on soft spots, already bruised from a hard day’s battle.  We push at each other, grunting and laughing in turn until it hurts too much to ignore those aches and injuries and we make a mutual surrender, more honorable than awaiting a hard-won victory both of our bodies would regret.

After several long minutes of catching our breath, he says, “Remember when we were so impressed that General Arnold was shot and trapped under his horse and fought from the ground?”

I roll onto my side to look at him.  “Are you saying we’ve made ourselves as impressive as Arnold today?”  It’s a vainglorious implication, but I don’t imply I disagree.  When Alex doesn’t answer, just shrugs and stares up at the ceiling of our tent, I say, “When you were in Albany…I watched Joseph Reed fall off his horse, surrounded.  Cadwalder stood and defended him by the sword.  Seeing you trapped under your horse…”

He sits up on one elbow, “I’ve told you- I don’t need protecting.”

I imagine a world where he can read my mind- what a blessing and curse that might be.  “Still…” I say.  By the time I had made it to his side, he’d had three dead redcoats bleeding out on the ground where he’d fallen.  But, “I wanted to run to you and defend you. Give you the time to get up and fight.  I wanted you standing beside me.”

“Where I should be,” he says, smiling easily.  Like it’s devastatingly simple.  Though I know him- and I know what it means for him to align himself with anyone else, that sort of trust and vulnerability.  And he says it like it’s simple.

When my eyes shy away from him, he rolls over to tuck himself at my side and lifts my arm to place it around himself, shimmying until his back’s aligned to my chest.  It’s still too warm for this- the air humid and sticky.  But he’s open and hopeful and honest in this moment.  And God, I’ve always seen the difference between his lies and his truth, but should it really be this easy?  When did we become so weak to each other?

He talks about the battle and compares it to an epoch, dredges up our old stories and poems, the fantasies we’d shared to get through the winter of being ancient heroes or outlaws, in places more free than this.  Places where adventure required less paperwork.

He moves too much when he speaks, and I think he must know this, but with his body so firmly pressed into mine.  I wish he’d heed the effect that it’s having on me.  Just his presence so near is enough to keep my body keyed up, finely tuned to some emotional response just shy of the rush felt in battle, anticipation of the charge, something I can’t bring myself to act on without orders.

When he deliberately leans back into my lap, I push my hips forward against him, let my nose rest in his hair.

What am I doing? I think.

His hips press back more firmly and I know he must be aware of my predicament now, but he moves slightly against me as if to confirm it.  A discrete little dance that presses his arse into my lap just to test me.  I grab his hip and hold him there.  Playing with flame just to feel the singe.  “If you’re intentionally creating a problem, you should offer a solution…”

“…You’re flirting with me, Laurens,” he warns.

“Am I?”  I have been all day.  It’s painfully obvious, even to me.  Maybe it was the rage of the battle, the fury of Lee’s betrayal or the panic to see my friend in so much danger, but I had been shamelessly drawing myself to him, inviting him closer with words and allusions and touches that bordered on frantic.  We’ve had this discussion before, and I’ve been careful not to hurt him with words, tempting things I couldn’t promise.  But, there’s something to be said that he hadn’t stopped me- or complained of it until just now when my words have already transgressed propriety.

And I still am.  Tempting him.  I can see it, fully aware that my grin is teasing- bordering on salacious, I like the way it feels on my face.  Alex seems to war with himself, hesitant to hope even as he leans towards me and starts to mirror my own eagerness, voice barely above a whisper, “Do you…intend to?”

He’s warning me to stop and consider what I’m offering if I plan to turn him away again.  But…“Well, you’ve said I flirt with everyone, so if you chose to feel that what I said was an overture, really you’re doing so at your own discretion with full knowledge of my character.  You ask me, do I intend to flirt with you,” I smirk fully now, feel my teeth exposed, “I’d say you’re a clever man.  Figure it out.”

He stares, then seems to decide his answer.  “Take your pants off.”

So blunt, I baulk, “What?”

“You heard me.”

He tugs off his boots, and begins loosening his belt, and I feel compelled into motion just to keep up with him.  He unbuttons his shirt at the neck, unties his cravat and loosens his clothes for mobility, but undresses no further.  His eyes stay fixed on me, watching my hips shimmying out of my trousers.

I’m still half-hard from his wriggling, growing firmer under the scrutiny when he stares at my cock.  He moves to me as if he can’t help himself, going down to his knees and grabbing my bare thighs, spreading them without ceremony.  I don’t resist when he pulls me forward, laves the length of my cock with his tongue.  I gasp, feel myself stiffen more.

His eyes flick up to me, half-obscured under his lashes at this angle, he kisses the head wetly with an open mouth, alternating between sucking gently and letting his tongue glide along the tip and the notch below the head.

He takes the head into his mouth fully and sucks hard, and I swear without thinking.  My hips buck and he grabs them more firmly, nails digging into my skin.  I think to apologize, but he swallows more of me, pushes his head down, and when I touch his face, I feel the swell of my own cock in his cheek.

It’s surreal.  Too physical and impersonal.  The times we had helped each other with hands and hips, we had always been so…ourselves, talking and laughing, making crude jokes.  This…all I can hear in this is the wet sound of his throat, the words his tongue traces along the underside of my cock.  Beyond the pleasure, I’m reading every twitch of his brow, watching his eyes fall closed in concentration, sure that he’s mapping the flavor and texture of me for his own purposes.  It’s disastrously obvious he’s done this before.  This act reserved for whores.  He’s enjoying it more than he should.  I want to enjoy it too- to stop thinking completely, but I can’t.  I’m panting, breathing thin and forced, trying to quiet myself as the voices outside our tent seem so loud and intrusive.

The only person who’d have reason to disturb us would be Lafayette who’s interrupted such touches before without notice- then invited himself in to share our tent.  But, he’s still with the General.  He won’t disturb this.

Then Alexander pulls off entirely, drops his nose along my length, licks a wet stripe between my balls, and I don’t care about the voices at all.  His hand works my length.  I need to breathe, but I can’t- not quite.  I grab at the back of his head, so he sucks one of my balls into his mouth and I gasp.  He seems to be so far beyond himself, and as he rolls me over his tongue, he draws me further and further from myself.

I finally crack, “Ah…oh god, Alex…”

His eyes open, looking up at me with unrestrained mirth, laughing as he pulls back and touches my hand on his head.  I take that as permission and guide him back onto my cock, press him forward- but he beats me to it and pushes down at his own speed.  I plunge down his throat, torturously slow, and he pulls back, presses his head into my hands like a nuzzle- goes back down in another slow stroke.

This is the quietest he’s been all day.  Spent every conversation interrupting me and my ranting anger to interject his own opinions, but his mouth is thoroughly filled, throat making obscene noises as he swallows me too slow.  I push in, impatient.  He forgives it, moves with me and accommodates.

Easy, teasing slowness gives way to momentum and with a fluid move of his neck, we’re moving in tangent.  I relinquish my control to shift my hips in compliment to the bobbing motion of Alexander’s mouth.  Beside myself, I’m dangerously close to finishing and losing control of my breathing, all wanton sighs and muffled noises of pleasure- a quiet chorus of please and yes and Alex.

I watch his shoulder move and realize he’s palming the front of his breeches; he grabs his kerchief and opens the flap to touch himself.  Then, he’s groaning around my cock, breathing hotly over wet, sensitive skin. It’s all too much and when my friend sucks at me sharply, takes me even deeper, I practically sob, try not to moan aloud.  I move to push him off before I lose myself, but he persists, calms the twitching of my legs, squeezing the muscles of my thigh with one hand and groping at my arse with the other, pushing me forward and deeper into his throat, taking me with unbearable intent.  I jolt, clamp my eyes tightly shut and sob dryly, coming down his throat.

There’s no mess when I open my eyes, Alexander holding my cock up as it softens and licking at it until I’m sticky with only saliva.  He sits back on his feet, chest rising heavily as he catches his breath, and reaches over to grab my pants and hand them back.

He looks at me again, expression uncharacteristically nervous for a moment as he holds out my clothes.

I take them and stare back at him.  His lips are wet and look tender and soft.  A small drop of my release escaped his tongue and sits at the corner of his lip.

I wipe it away from his mouth with my finger.  The motion feels tender with him staring like this.  But he closes his eyes, and before I pull my hand away, he catches it, draws it back to his lips and pulls my finger into his mouth.  He licks it clean and lets go.  “Thank you…” he breathes, and I don’t think he means for wiping his mouth.

I almost dismiss it- ask why in the world he would be thanking me.  But, he looks too relieved to question it.  And, I consider, there’s not many people he might be able to do this with.

So, I smooth his hair and slide my fingers down his back, pulling him close so his face falls into my neck, breath humid and sticky on my skin.  We lie back, and I stroke his hair until he falls asleep.

It’s too warm to stay this close.

[eddiejpoplar]

2019 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1 Meets 1990 Corvette ZR1

The first time Teddy Roosevelt’s words, “Speak softly and carry a big stick,” occurred to me as I reviewed a car was while driving a 2009 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1. Now, after testing the new 2019 ZR1 on a couple of racetracks within the span of a few days, “Speak rudely and wield a really fat club” might be more appropriate.

After my first laps at the limit around Road Atlanta in the latest ZR1, the words of General Motors executive VP of global product development Mark Reuss, who was on hand, rang true. “Things haven’t changed at GM as far as stretching the technology envelope,” he said. “ZR1 has to set the upper limits of performance and be a technological beacon in chassis, design, and materials.”

Oh, and don’t forget the engine. Corvette engineers were not content with the kidney-flattening supercharged LT4 V-8 that kicks out 650 hp and 650 lb-ft of torque in the Z06. The new ZR1 has a supercharged LT5 V-8 spitting 755 horsepower at 6,300 rpm and 715 lb-ft at 4,400 rpm. Certified top speed is 212.49 mph, which came from a two-way average (215 mph/210 mph). Chevy restricts the ZR1 to a top speed of 215 mph to be within tire-safety standards. Base price for the coupe is $122,095 when you add the $2,100 gas guzzler tax. The convertible starts at $126,095. Hey, you only need one kidney, anyway.

Coming into turn 1, the car was beyond 150 mph,  still accelerating hard as I entered the brake zone. I pushed the stop pedal hard, and the ZR1 dutifully spit my eyeballs out of my head.

The ZR1 is a heavily track-focused performance car, but I did drive it for several hours on the road. Corvette critics will note nothing particularly different about the ZR1’s interior or controls compared to other C7-generation models, which is no surprise because this is the end of the platform’s life cycle. However, changes to the suspension and magnetic-ride shocks are noteworthy; they provide better ride quality and compliance over road imperfections, noticeable improvements compared to a Z06. That said, new C7 Z06s now receive the same shock programming as the ZR1.

Red and yellow cars with optional matching interior stitching and the manual transmission also get color-synchronized rev-match paddles.

In today’s domestic automaker landscape, it would be reasonable to wonder if there was any pushback from within GM about the merits of building a 755-hp street missile. But apparently not on Reuss’ watch. “The Corvette has always been about attainable high performance,” he said. “As far as the 755 horsepower, approval of something like the ZR1 starts and stops with me.”

Chevrolet says the ZR1 (with the $1,725 eight-speed automatic transmission) runs 0-60 mph in 2.85 seconds and from 0 to 100 mph in just 6.0 seconds. Launching the car from a standstill is not easy; you or the traction control will work overtime to keep wheelspin at bay all the way to 60, which doesn’t do much to help the time.

In other matters, the car has a half-inch-wider front rim size compared to the Z06, which helps the front end work better when combined with the 60 percent increase in overall downforce. Michelin Pilot Sport Cup 2 rubber is on duty, with 285/30-R19s up front and 335/25-R20s in the rear. The downforce improvement (the car produces a total of 950 pounds at top speed with the $2,995 ZTK/high-wing option) also comes with no increase in drag versus the Z06, Chevy says—a nice trick if you can do it.

“The Z06 cooling concerns on-track have been dealt with in the ZR1.”

According to Corvette executive chief engineer Tadge Juechter, in terms of performance goals for the new car, “The ZR1 has always meant top performance, no limits. When we ask the customer, ‘How much power do you want?’ they say, ‘How much can you give me?’ There were no hard requirements like a power number. We tried to extend all aspects as much as possible.” To his point about the definition of the ZR1, the model’s history was front and center in several of the engineering presentations held during the media launch.

“ZR-1” was originally a GM Regular Production Option code identifying a special performance package from 1970 to ’72; it was not originally recognized as a car-model identifier. Meanwhile, of course, many people refer to the 1990 model as the first Corvette ZR-1—The King of the Hill. Initial road tests of the latter created quite a stir almost 30 years ago, with performance far superior to other Corvettes from the late ’70s and early ’80s given that many of them were strangled by emissions regulations. Magazines even pitted the 1990 ZR-1 (375 hp at 6,200 rpm, 370 lb-ft at 4,500 rpm) head-to-head against machines such as the mighty Porsche 911 Turbo—and nobody laughed.

In 1991 the 911 Turbo’s base price was around $100,000. (There was no 1990 model-year Turbo.) The ZR-1 was a comparative bargain at $58,994, with the ZR-1 package accounting for $27,015 of that. People were happy to pay for the new capability, ripping from 0 to 60 mph in less than 5 seconds, which was supercar performance for the era. Credit was given to GM for working with the Mercury Marine Company and Lotus Engineering to help expand the technology envelope, creating the double-overhead-cam LT5 engine and a legend in the process. Lotus also helped with the car’s braking, steering, and adjustable ride control.

In 1990 I raced for the Morrison Motorsports team, the same outfit that set world speed endurance records with a stock 1990 ZR-1 and also campaigned two mostly stock ZR-1s in the 1991 Rolex 24 at Daytona and 12 Hours of Sebring. I drove one of those ZR-1s in both of those races, a car that is now in the Smithsonian collection in Washington, D.C. I also drove a ZR-1 street car back in 1990, and vivid memories are the noise, brutal acceleration, grip level, and stability. The whole package was astonishing for a production car, and the experience of driving that “red rocket” all those years ago is forever welded into my brain.

Now in 2018 I find myself sitting in another red 1990 ZR-1 at the Motorsports Park racetrack in Bowling Green, Kentucky. This pristine example, with just more than 6,000 miles on the odometer, was lent to us by the National Corvette Museum, which owns the track. Leaving pit lane in the old beast, I mused how much fun a 10/10ths hot lap might be. But then I imagined the look on museum curator Derek Moore’s face if his baby came back with chunks of rubber missing. So I took it easy, and the car ran flawlessly while little bursts of acceleration sparked memories of the first time I felt the LT5’s smooth, urgent power.

Then, once again, it was time to drive the 2019 ZR1 on a racetrack. At Road Atlanta three days earlier, the temperature reached almost 90 degrees. Although the car went ridiculously fast, lap records weren’t in the cards thanks to the heat sliming up the tarmac. But the temperature at Motorsports Park was now just 60 degrees.

The ZR1 did not disappoint. Coming into Turn 1, the car was beyond 150 mph, still accelerating hard as I entered the brake zone. I pushed the stop pedal hard, and the ZR1 dutifully spit my eyeballs out of my head. I recently tested a very capable GT4 race car and was impressed by its brakes; the ZR1 was equally impressive. The tires, aerodynamic downforce, and all-new Brembo carbon-ceramic stoppers combined for more than 1.7 g’s worth of deceleration (serious race car good). I made a mental note not to use the brakes this hard with a cement truck behind me out on public roads.

Over the course of several days, I tried both the automatic and seven-speed manual versions of the car; if I were to buy the ZR1 for track days, I would without question buy the automatic. Not only because it shifts quicker but also because I only weigh about 155 pounds; despite using the seat belt locking mechanism, I found myself moving around too much in the seat while on maximum attack due to the forces the ZR1 exerted all the way around Motorsports Park’s 24-turn, 3.2-mile track. In the automatic I can keep both hands on the wheel for a little extra support. It’s worth noting I had no issues at all with the seat holding me solid with normal or spirited street driving.

Corvette interiors have taken much criticism for years, but there’s something appealing about the old ZR-1’s KITT-style controls.

Meanwhile, the car’s E-ticket handling jolted Juechter’s words back to the top of my mind. “The ZR1 technology we’re most proud of is the front underwing and general aero of the car,” he said. “Also, the trackability. It is very easy to drop the suspension and adjust the rear wing, and off you go.” He also addressed the disappointment some people had with the Z06’s lack of cooling during track use: “The Z06 cooling concerns on-track have been dealt with in the ZR1.” To test his claim, I did a long run of almost 25 minutes at Road Atlanta in the blazing heat. My laps, at fast race pace, were all between 1 minute, 30.4 seconds and 1:31.7. Those were quite quick times for the conditions, and the car exhibited very little drop-off in performance.

You probably have read hyperbole, and then some, about road cars that sound unreal. In this case, though, I really have never heard a production car sound this much like a race car in both tone and volume. There is some engineering trickery in one of the mufflers, featuring a spring-loaded valve that burps open or stays closed based on driving style. Bring your earplugs, Mildred.

“Why on earth would anyone want a self-driving Corvette? That would be like having a self-kissing girlfriend.”

At the end of the day, I finally had time to try to rip off a really fast lap in a car equipped with the automatic. At the limit the ZR1 is very balanced; I could easily control both front and rear tire slide with throttle and steering quickly enough to maintain good momentum, never allowing the slide to reach a point where I lost time. When the lap time crackled through the track radio, it blared a new official lap record for a production car on OE tires for the Motorsports Park racetrack: 2:05.59. This time is several seconds quicker than any other production car has managed on the circuit since it opened in 2013.

Perhaps setting a new MSP benchmark was an appropriate way to send the C7 Corvette into the sunset, potentially truly marking the end of an era. A mid-engine Corvette is finally on the horizon, after all, though Reuss and Juechter predictably plead the fifth on any inquiries into the matter. Other creeping—sprinting?—trends such as autonomy could also play a role in the car’s future. “Who wants to sit in traffic for three hours paying attention to stopping and starting if the car can do it for them?” Reuss asked. But Juechter then followed mischievously with a quote from a Corvette customer: “Why on earth would anyone want a self-driving Corvette? That would be like having a self-kissing girlfriend.”

For now and the foreseeable future, then, custodians of performance like Reuss and Juechter plan to keep on facilitating street-legal rockets like the new ZR1. The first time an owner experiences the brutal shove in the back, they’re pretty much guaranteed to think they got a bargain. Teddy Roosevelt would be blown away.

2019 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1 Specifications

ON SALE Now PRICE $122,095 (base) ENGINE 6.2L supercharged OHV 16-valve V-8/755 hp @ 6,300 rpm, 715 lb-ft @ 4,400 rpm TRANSMISSION 7-speed manual, 8-speed automatic LAYOUT 2-door, 2-passenger, front-engine, RWD coupe EPA MILEAGE 15/22 mpg (city/hwy) L x W x H 179.8 x 77.4 x 48.5 in WHEELBASE 106.7 in WEIGHT 3,560 lb 0-60 MPH 2.85 sec (with automatic) TOP SPEED 215 mph (electronically limited)

The post 2019 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1 Meets 1990 Corvette ZR1 appeared first on Automobile Magazine.

from Performance Junk Blogger 6 https://ift.tt/2HZhV3G via IFTTT

[jesusvasser]

2019 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1 Meets 1990 Corvette ZR1

The first time Teddy Roosevelt’s words, “Speak softly and carry a big stick,” occurred to me as I reviewed a car was while driving a 2009 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1. Now, after testing the new 2019 ZR1 on a couple of racetracks within the span of a few days, “Speak rudely and wield a really fat club” might be more appropriate.

After my first laps at the limit around Road Atlanta in the latest ZR1, the words of General Motors executive VP of global product development Mark Reuss, who was on hand, rang true. “Things haven’t changed at GM as far as stretching the technology envelope,” he said. “ZR1 has to set the upper limits of performance and be a technological beacon in chassis, design, and materials.”

Oh, and don’t forget the engine. Corvette engineers were not content with the kidney-flattening supercharged LT4 V-8 that kicks out 650 hp and 650 lb-ft of torque in the Z06. The new ZR1 has a supercharged LT5 V-8 spitting 755 horsepower at 6,300 rpm and 715 lb-ft at 4,400 rpm. Certified top speed is 212.49 mph, which came from a two-way average (215 mph/210 mph). Chevy restricts the ZR1 to a top speed of 215 mph to be within tire-safety standards. Base price for the coupe is $122,095 when you add the $2,100 gas guzzler tax. The convertible starts at $126,095. Hey, you only need one kidney, anyway.

Coming into turn 1, the car was beyond 150 mph,  still accelerating hard as I entered the brake zone. I pushed the stop pedal hard, and the ZR1 dutifully spit my eyeballs out of my head.

The ZR1 is a heavily track-focused performance car, but I did drive it for several hours on the road. Corvette critics will note nothing particularly different about the ZR1’s interior or controls compared to other C7-generation models, which is no surprise because this is the end of the platform’s life cycle. However, changes to the suspension and magnetic-ride shocks are noteworthy; they provide better ride quality and compliance over road imperfections, noticeable improvements compared to a Z06. That said, new C7 Z06s now receive the same shock programming as the ZR1.

Red and yellow cars with optional matching interior stitching and the manual transmission also get color-synchronized rev-match paddles.

In today’s domestic automaker landscape, it would be reasonable to wonder if there was any pushback from within GM about the merits of building a 755-hp street missile. But apparently not on Reuss’ watch. “The Corvette has always been about attainable high performance,” he said. “As far as the 755 horsepower, approval of something like the ZR1 starts and stops with me.”

Chevrolet says the ZR1 (with the $1,725 eight-speed automatic transmission) runs 0-60 mph in 2.85 seconds and from 0 to 100 mph in just 6.0 seconds. Launching the car from a standstill is not easy; you or the traction control will work overtime to keep wheelspin at bay all the way to 60, which doesn’t do much to help the time.

In other matters, the car has a half-inch-wider front rim size compared to the Z06, which helps the front end work better when combined with the 60 percent increase in overall downforce. Michelin Pilot Sport Cup 2 rubber is on duty, with 285/30-R19s up front and 335/25-R20s in the rear. The downforce improvement (the car produces a total of 950 pounds at top speed with the $2,995 ZTK/high-wing option) also comes with no increase in drag versus the Z06, Chevy says—a nice trick if you can do it.

“The Z06 cooling concerns on-track have been dealt with in the ZR1.”

According to Corvette executive chief engineer Tadge Juechter, in terms of performance goals for the new car, “The ZR1 has always meant top performance, no limits. When we ask the customer, ‘How much power do you want?’ they say, ‘How much can you give me?’ There were no hard requirements like a power number. We tried to extend all aspects as much as possible.” To his point about the definition of the ZR1, the model’s history was front and center in several of the engineering presentations held during the media launch.

“ZR-1” was originally a GM Regular Production Option code identifying a special performance package from 1970 to ’72; it was not originally recognized as a car-model identifier. Meanwhile, of course, many people refer to the 1990 model as the first Corvette ZR-1—The King of the Hill. Initial road tests of the latter created quite a stir almost 30 years ago, with performance far superior to other Corvettes from the late ’70s and early ’80s given that many of them were strangled by emissions regulations. Magazines even pitted the 1990 ZR-1 (375 hp at 6,200 rpm, 370 lb-ft at 4,500 rpm) head-to-head against machines such as the mighty Porsche 911 Turbo—and nobody laughed.

In 1991 the 911 Turbo’s base price was around $100,000. (There was no 1990 model-year Turbo.) The ZR-1 was a comparative bargain at $58,994, with the ZR-1 package accounting for $27,015 of that. People were happy to pay for the new capability, ripping from 0 to 60 mph in less than 5 seconds, which was supercar performance for the era. Credit was given to GM for working with the Mercury Marine Company and Lotus Engineering to help expand the technology envelope, creating the double-overhead-cam LT5 engine and a legend in the process. Lotus also helped with the car’s braking, steering, and adjustable ride control.

In 1990 I raced for the Morrison Motorsports team, the same outfit that set world speed endurance records with a stock 1990 ZR-1 and also campaigned two mostly stock ZR-1s in the 1991 Rolex 24 at Daytona and 12 Hours of Sebring. I drove one of those ZR-1s in both of those races, a car that is now in the Smithsonian collection in Washington, D.C. I also drove a ZR-1 street car back in 1990, and vivid memories are the noise, brutal acceleration, grip level, and stability. The whole package was astonishing for a production car, and the experience of driving that “red rocket” all those years ago is forever welded into my brain.

Now in 2018 I find myself sitting in another red 1990 ZR-1 at the Motorsports Park racetrack in Bowling Green, Kentucky. This pristine example, with just more than 6,000 miles on the odometer, was lent to us by the National Corvette Museum, which owns the track. Leaving pit lane in the old beast, I mused how much fun a 10/10ths hot lap might be. But then I imagined the look on museum curator Derek Moore’s face if his baby came back with chunks of rubber missing. So I took it easy, and the car ran flawlessly while little bursts of acceleration sparked memories of the first time I felt the LT5’s smooth, urgent power.

Then, once again, it was time to drive the 2019 ZR1 on a racetrack. At Road Atlanta three days earlier, the temperature reached almost 90 degrees. Although the car went ridiculously fast, lap records weren’t in the cards thanks to the heat sliming up the tarmac. But the temperature at Motorsports Park was now just 60 degrees.

The ZR1 did not disappoint. Coming into Turn 1, the car was beyond 150 mph, still accelerating hard as I entered the brake zone. I pushed the stop pedal hard, and the ZR1 dutifully spit my eyeballs out of my head. I recently tested a very capable GT4 race car and was impressed by its brakes; the ZR1 was equally impressive. The tires, aerodynamic downforce, and all-new Brembo carbon-ceramic stoppers combined for more than 1.7 g’s worth of deceleration (serious race car good). I made a mental note not to use the brakes this hard with a cement truck behind me out on public roads.

Over the course of several days, I tried both the automatic and seven-speed manual versions of the car; if I were to buy the ZR1 for track days, I would without question buy the automatic. Not only because it shifts quicker but also because I only weigh about 155 pounds; despite using the seat belt locking mechanism, I found myself moving around too much in the seat while on maximum attack due to the forces the ZR1 exerted all the way around Motorsports Park’s 24-turn, 3.2-mile track. In the automatic I can keep both hands on the wheel for a little extra support. It’s worth noting I had no issues at all with the seat holding me solid with normal or spirited street driving.

Corvette interiors have taken much criticism for years, but there’s something appealing about the old ZR-1’s KITT-style controls.

Meanwhile, the car’s E-ticket handling jolted Juechter’s words back to the top of my mind. “The ZR1 technology we’re most proud of is the front underwing and general aero of the car,” he said. “Also, the trackability. It is very easy to drop the suspension and adjust the rear wing, and off you go.” He also addressed the disappointment some people had with the Z06’s lack of cooling during track use: “The Z06 cooling concerns on-track have been dealt with in the ZR1.” To test his claim, I did a long run of almost 25 minutes at Road Atlanta in the blazing heat. My laps, at fast race pace, were all between 1 minute, 30.4 seconds and 1:31.7. Those were quite quick times for the conditions, and the car exhibited very little drop-off in performance.

You probably have read hyperbole, and then some, about road cars that sound unreal. In this case, though, I really have never heard a production car sound this much like a race car in both tone and volume. There is some engineering trickery in one of the mufflers, featuring a spring-loaded valve that burps open or stays closed based on driving style. Bring your earplugs, Mildred.

“Why on earth would anyone want a self-driving Corvette? That would be like having a self-kissing girlfriend.”

At the end of the day, I finally had time to try to rip off a really fast lap in a car equipped with the automatic. At the limit the ZR1 is very balanced; I could easily control both front and rear tire slide with throttle and steering quickly enough to maintain good momentum, never allowing the slide to reach a point where I lost time. When the lap time crackled through the track radio, it blared a new official lap record for a production car on OE tires for the Motorsports Park racetrack: 2:05.59. This time is several seconds quicker than any other production car has managed on the circuit since it opened in 2013.

Perhaps setting a new MSP benchmark was an appropriate way to send the C7 Corvette into the sunset, potentially truly marking the end of an era. A mid-engine Corvette is finally on the horizon, after all, though Reuss and Juechter predictably plead the fifth on any inquiries into the matter. Other creeping—sprinting?—trends such as autonomy could also play a role in the car’s future. “Who wants to sit in traffic for three hours paying attention to stopping and starting if the car can do it for them?” Reuss asked. But Juechter then followed mischievously with a quote from a Corvette customer: “Why on earth would anyone want a self-driving Corvette? That would be like having a self-kissing girlfriend.”

For now and the foreseeable future, then, custodians of performance like Reuss and Juechter plan to keep on facilitating street-legal rockets like the new ZR1. The first time an owner experiences the brutal shove in the back, they’re pretty much guaranteed to think they got a bargain. Teddy Roosevelt would be blown away.

2019 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1 Specifications

ON SALE Now PRICE $122,095 (base) ENGINE 6.2L supercharged OHV 16-valve V-8/755 hp @ 6,300 rpm, 715 lb-ft @ 4,400 rpm TRANSMISSION 7-speed manual, 8-speed automatic LAYOUT 2-door, 2-passenger, front-engine, RWD coupe EPA MILEAGE 15/22 mpg (city/hwy) L x W x H 179.8 x 77.4 x 48.5 in WHEELBASE 106.7 in WEIGHT 3,560 lb 0-60 MPH 2.85 sec (with automatic) TOP SPEED 215 mph (electronically limited)

The post 2019 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1 Meets 1990 Corvette ZR1 appeared first on Automobile Magazine.

from Performance Junk WP Feed 4 https://ift.tt/2HZhV3G via IFTTT

[jonathanbelloblog]

2019 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1 Meets 1990 Corvette ZR1

The first time Teddy Roosevelt’s words, “Speak softly and carry a big stick,” occurred to me as I reviewed a car was while driving a 2009 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1. Now, after testing the new 2019 ZR1 on a couple of racetracks within the span of a few days, “Speak rudely and wield a really fat club” might be more appropriate.

After my first laps at the limit around Road Atlanta in the latest ZR1, the words of General Motors executive VP of global product development Mark Reuss, who was on hand, rang true. “Things haven’t changed at GM as far as stretching the technology envelope,” he said. “ZR1 has to set the upper limits of performance and be a technological beacon in chassis, design, and materials.”

Oh, and don’t forget the engine. Corvette engineers were not content with the kidney-flattening supercharged LT4 V-8 that kicks out 650 hp and 650 lb-ft of torque in the Z06. The new ZR1 has a supercharged LT5 V-8 spitting 755 horsepower at 6,300 rpm and 715 lb-ft at 4,400 rpm. Certified top speed is 212.49 mph, which came from a two-way average (215 mph/210 mph). Chevy restricts the ZR1 to a top speed of 215 mph to be within tire-safety standards. Base price for the coupe is $122,095 when you add the $2,100 gas guzzler tax. The convertible starts at $126,095. Hey, you only need one kidney, anyway.

Coming into turn 1, the car was beyond 150 mph,  still accelerating hard as I entered the brake zone. I pushed the stop pedal hard, and the ZR1 dutifully spit my eyeballs out of my head.

The ZR1 is a heavily track-focused performance car, but I did drive it for several hours on the road. Corvette critics will note nothing particularly different about the ZR1’s interior or controls compared to other C7-generation models, which is no surprise because this is the end of the platform’s life cycle. However, changes to the suspension and magnetic-ride shocks are noteworthy; they provide better ride quality and compliance over road imperfections, noticeable improvements compared to a Z06. That said, new C7 Z06s now receive the same shock programming as the ZR1.

Red and yellow cars with optional matching interior stitching and the manual transmission also get color-synchronized rev-match paddles.

In today’s domestic automaker landscape, it would be reasonable to wonder if there was any pushback from within GM about the merits of building a 755-hp street missile. But apparently not on Reuss’ watch. “The Corvette has always been about attainable high performance,” he said. “As far as the 755 horsepower, approval of something like the ZR1 starts and stops with me.”

Chevrolet says the ZR1 (with the $1,725 eight-speed automatic transmission) runs 0-60 mph in 2.85 seconds and from 0 to 100 mph in just 6.0 seconds. Launching the car from a standstill is not easy; you or the traction control will work overtime to keep wheelspin at bay all the way to 60, which doesn’t do much to help the time.

In other matters, the car has a half-inch-wider front rim size compared to the Z06, which helps the front end work better when combined with the 60 percent increase in overall downforce. Michelin Pilot Sport Cup 2 rubber is on duty, with 285/30-R19s up front and 335/25-R20s in the rear. The downforce improvement (the car produces a total of 950 pounds at top speed with the $2,995 ZTK/high-wing option) also comes with no increase in drag versus the Z06, Chevy says—a nice trick if you can do it.

“The Z06 cooling concerns on-track have been dealt with in the ZR1.”

According to Corvette executive chief engineer Tadge Juechter, in terms of performance goals for the new car, “The ZR1 has always meant top performance, no limits. When we ask the customer, ‘How much power do you want?’ they say, ‘How much can you give me?’ There were no hard requirements like a power number. We tried to extend all aspects as much as possible.” To his point about the definition of the ZR1, the model’s history was front and center in several of the engineering presentations held during the media launch.

“ZR-1” was originally a GM Regular Production Option code identifying a special performance package from 1970 to ’72; it was not originally recognized as a car-model identifier. Meanwhile, of course, many people refer to the 1990 model as the first Corvette ZR-1—The King of the Hill. Initial road tests of the latter created quite a stir almost 30 years ago, with performance far superior to other Corvettes from the late ’70s and early ’80s given that many of them were strangled by emissions regulations. Magazines even pitted the 1990 ZR-1 (375 hp at 6,200 rpm, 370 lb-ft at 4,500 rpm) head-to-head against machines such as the mighty Porsche 911 Turbo—and nobody laughed.

In 1991 the 911 Turbo’s base price was around $100,000. (There was no 1990 model-year Turbo.) The ZR-1 was a comparative bargain at $58,994, with the ZR-1 package accounting for $27,015 of that. People were happy to pay for the new capability, ripping from 0 to 60 mph in less than 5 seconds, which was supercar performance for the era. Credit was given to GM for working with the Mercury Marine Company and Lotus Engineering to help expand the technology envelope, creating the double-overhead-cam LT5 engine and a legend in the process. Lotus also helped with the car’s braking, steering, and adjustable ride control.

In 1990 I raced for the Morrison Motorsports team, the same outfit that set world speed endurance records with a stock 1990 ZR-1 and also campaigned two mostly stock ZR-1s in the 1991 Rolex 24 at Daytona and 12 Hours of Sebring. I drove one of those ZR-1s in both of those races, a car that is now in the Smithsonian collection in Washington, D.C. I also drove a ZR-1 street car back in 1990, and vivid memories are the noise, brutal acceleration, grip level, and stability. The whole package was astonishing for a production car, and the experience of driving that “red rocket” all those years ago is forever welded into my brain.

Now in 2018 I find myself sitting in another red 1990 ZR-1 at the Motorsports Park racetrack in Bowling Green, Kentucky. This pristine example, with just more than 6,000 miles on the odometer, was lent to us by the National Corvette Museum, which owns the track. Leaving pit lane in the old beast, I mused how much fun a 10/10ths hot lap might be. But then I imagined the look on museum curator Derek Moore’s face if his baby came back with chunks of rubber missing. So I took it easy, and the car ran flawlessly while little bursts of acceleration sparked memories of the first time I felt the LT5’s smooth, urgent power.

Then, once again, it was time to drive the 2019 ZR1 on a racetrack. At Road Atlanta three days earlier, the temperature reached almost 90 degrees. Although the car went ridiculously fast, lap records weren’t in the cards thanks to the heat sliming up the tarmac. But the temperature at Motorsports Park was now just 60 degrees.

The ZR1 did not disappoint. Coming into Turn 1, the car was beyond 150 mph, still accelerating hard as I entered the brake zone. I pushed the stop pedal hard, and the ZR1 dutifully spit my eyeballs out of my head. I recently tested a very capable GT4 race car and was impressed by its brakes; the ZR1 was equally impressive. The tires, aerodynamic downforce, and all-new Brembo carbon-ceramic stoppers combined for more than 1.7 g’s worth of deceleration (serious race car good). I made a mental note not to use the brakes this hard with a cement truck behind me out on public roads.

Over the course of several days, I tried both the automatic and seven-speed manual versions of the car; if I were to buy the ZR1 for track days, I would without question buy the automatic. Not only because it shifts quicker but also because I only weigh about 155 pounds; despite using the seat belt locking mechanism, I found myself moving around too much in the seat while on maximum attack due to the forces the ZR1 exerted all the way around Motorsports Park’s 24-turn, 3.2-mile track. In the automatic I can keep both hands on the wheel for a little extra support. It’s worth noting I had no issues at all with the seat holding me solid with normal or spirited street driving.

Corvette interiors have taken much criticism for years, but there’s something appealing about the old ZR-1’s KITT-style controls.

Meanwhile, the car’s E-ticket handling jolted Juechter’s words back to the top of my mind. “The ZR1 technology we’re most proud of is the front underwing and general aero of the car,” he said. “Also, the trackability. It is very easy to drop the suspension and adjust the rear wing, and off you go.” He also addressed the disappointment some people had with the Z06’s lack of cooling during track use: “The Z06 cooling concerns on-track have been dealt with in the ZR1.” To test his claim, I did a long run of almost 25 minutes at Road Atlanta in the blazing heat. My laps, at fast race pace, were all between 1 minute, 30.4 seconds and 1:31.7. Those were quite quick times for the conditions, and the car exhibited very little drop-off in performance.

You probably have read hyperbole, and then some, about road cars that sound unreal. In this case, though, I really have never heard a production car sound this much like a race car in both tone and volume. There is some engineering trickery in one of the mufflers, featuring a spring-loaded valve that burps open or stays closed based on driving style. Bring your earplugs, Mildred.

“Why on earth would anyone want a self-driving Corvette? That would be like having a self-kissing girlfriend.”

At the end of the day, I finally had time to try to rip off a really fast lap in a car equipped with the automatic. At the limit the ZR1 is very balanced; I could easily control both front and rear tire slide with throttle and steering quickly enough to maintain good momentum, never allowing the slide to reach a point where I lost time. When the lap time crackled through the track radio, it blared a new official lap record for a production car on OE tires for the Motorsports Park racetrack: 2:05.59. This time is several seconds quicker than any other production car has managed on the circuit since it opened in 2013.

Perhaps setting a new MSP benchmark was an appropriate way to send the C7 Corvette into the sunset, potentially truly marking the end of an era. A mid-engine Corvette is finally on the horizon, after all, though Reuss and Juechter predictably plead the fifth on any inquiries into the matter. Other creeping—sprinting?—trends such as autonomy could also play a role in the car’s future. “Who wants to sit in traffic for three hours paying attention to stopping and starting if the car can do it for them?” Reuss asked. But Juechter then followed mischievously with a quote from a Corvette customer: “Why on earth would anyone want a self-driving Corvette? That would be like having a self-kissing girlfriend.”

For now and the foreseeable future, then, custodians of performance like Reuss and Juechter plan to keep on facilitating street-legal rockets like the new ZR1. The first time an owner experiences the brutal shove in the back, they’re pretty much guaranteed to think they got a bargain. Teddy Roosevelt would be blown away.

2019 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1 Specifications

ON SALE Now PRICE $122,095 (base) ENGINE 6.2L supercharged OHV 16-valve V-8/755 hp @ 6,300 rpm, 715 lb-ft @ 4,400 rpm TRANSMISSION 7-speed manual, 8-speed automatic LAYOUT 2-door, 2-passenger, front-engine, RWD coupe EPA MILEAGE 15/22 mpg (city/hwy) L x W x H 179.8 x 77.4 x 48.5 in WHEELBASE 106.7 in WEIGHT 3,560 lb 0-60 MPH 2.85 sec (with automatic) TOP SPEED 215 mph (electronically limited)

The post 2019 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1 Meets 1990 Corvette ZR1 appeared first on Automobile Magazine.

from Performance Junk Blogger Feed 4 https://ift.tt/2JYusqh via IFTTT

[eddiejpoplar]

2019 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1 Meets 1990 Corvette ZR1

The first time Teddy Roosevelt’s words, “Speak softly and carry a big stick,” occurred to me as I reviewed a car was while driving a 2009 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1. Now, after testing the new 2019 ZR1 on a couple of racetracks within the span of a few days, “Speak rudely and wield a really fat club” might be more appropriate.

After my first laps at the limit around Road Atlanta in the latest ZR1, the words of General Motors executive VP of global product development Mark Reuss, who was on hand, rang true. “Things haven’t changed at GM as far as stretching the technology envelope,” he said. “ZR1 has to set the upper limits of performance and be a technological beacon in chassis, design, and materials.”

Oh, and don’t forget the engine. Corvette engineers were not content with the kidney-flattening supercharged LT4 V-8 that kicks out 650 hp and 650 lb-ft of torque in the Z06. The new ZR1 has a supercharged LT5 V-8 spitting 755 horsepower at 6,300 rpm and 715 lb-ft at 4,400 rpm. Certified top speed is 212.49 mph, which came from a two-way average (215 mph/210 mph). Chevy restricts the ZR1 to a top speed of 215 mph to be within tire-safety standards. Base price for the coupe is $122,095 when you add the $2,100 gas guzzler tax. The convertible starts at $126,095. Hey, you only need one kidney, anyway.

Coming into turn 1, the car was beyond 150 mph,  still accelerating hard as I entered the brake zone. I pushed the stop pedal hard, and the ZR1 dutifully spit my eyeballs out of my head.

The ZR1 is a heavily track-focused performance car, but I did drive it for several hours on the road. Corvette critics will note nothing particularly different about the ZR1’s interior or controls compared to other C7-generation models, which is no surprise because this is the end of the platform’s life cycle. However, changes to the suspension and magnetic-ride shocks are noteworthy; they provide better ride quality and compliance over road imperfections, noticeable improvements compared to a Z06. That said, new C7 Z06s now receive the same shock programming as the ZR1.

Red and yellow cars with optional matching interior stitching and the manual transmission also get color-synchronized rev-match paddles.

In today’s domestic automaker landscape, it would be reasonable to wonder if there was any pushback from within GM about the merits of building a 755-hp street missile. But apparently not on Reuss’ watch. “The Corvette has always been about attainable high performance,” he said. “As far as the 755 horsepower, approval of something like the ZR1 starts and stops with me.”

Chevrolet says the ZR1 (with the $1,725 eight-speed automatic transmission) runs 0-60 mph in 2.85 seconds and from 0 to 100 mph in just 6.0 seconds. Launching the car from a standstill is not easy; you or the traction control will work overtime to keep wheelspin at bay all the way to 60, which doesn’t do much to help the time.

In other matters, the car has a half-inch-wider front rim size compared to the Z06, which helps the front end work better when combined with the 60 percent increase in overall downforce. Michelin Pilot Sport Cup 2 rubber is on duty, with 285/30-R19s up front and 335/25-R20s in the rear. The downforce improvement (the car produces a total of 950 pounds at top speed with the $2,995 ZTK/high-wing option) also comes with no increase in drag versus the Z06, Chevy says—a nice trick if you can do it.

“The Z06 cooling concerns on-track have been dealt with in the ZR1.”

According to Corvette executive chief engineer Tadge Juechter, in terms of performance goals for the new car, “The ZR1 has always meant top performance, no limits. When we ask the customer, ‘How much power do you want?’ they say, ‘How much can you give me?’ There were no hard requirements like a power number. We tried to extend all aspects as much as possible.” To his point about the definition of the ZR1, the model’s history was front and center in several of the engineering presentations held during the media launch.

“ZR-1” was originally a GM Regular Production Option code identifying a special performance package from 1970 to ’72; it was not originally recognized as a car-model identifier. Meanwhile, of course, many people refer to the 1990 model as the first Corvette ZR-1—The King of the Hill. Initial road tests of the latter created quite a stir almost 30 years ago, with performance far superior to other Corvettes from the late ’70s and early ’80s given that many of them were strangled by emissions regulations. Magazines even pitted the 1990 ZR-1 (375 hp at 6,200 rpm, 370 lb-ft at 4,500 rpm) head-to-head against machines such as the mighty Porsche 911 Turbo—and nobody laughed.

In 1991 the 911 Turbo’s base price was around $100,000. (There was no 1990 model-year Turbo.) The ZR-1 was a comparative bargain at $58,994, with the ZR-1 package accounting for $27,015 of that. People were happy to pay for the new capability, ripping from 0 to 60 mph in less than 5 seconds, which was supercar performance for the era. Credit was given to GM for working with the Mercury Marine Company and Lotus Engineering to help expand the technology envelope, creating the double-overhead-cam LT5 engine and a legend in the process. Lotus also helped with the car’s braking, steering, and adjustable ride control.

In 1990 I raced for the Morrison Motorsports team, the same outfit that set world speed endurance records with a stock 1990 ZR-1 and also campaigned two mostly stock ZR-1s in the 1991 Rolex 24 at Daytona and 12 Hours of Sebring. I drove one of those ZR-1s in both of those races, a car that is now in the Smithsonian collection in Washington, D.C. I also drove a ZR-1 street car back in 1990, and vivid memories are the noise, brutal acceleration, grip level, and stability. The whole package was astonishing for a production car, and the experience of driving that “red rocket” all those years ago is forever welded into my brain.

Now in 2018 I find myself sitting in another red 1990 ZR-1 at the Motorsports Park racetrack in Bowling Green, Kentucky. This pristine example, with just more than 6,000 miles on the odometer, was lent to us by the National Corvette Museum, which owns the track. Leaving pit lane in the old beast, I mused how much fun a 10/10ths hot lap might be. But then I imagined the look on museum curator Derek Moore’s face if his baby came back with chunks of rubber missing. So I took it easy, and the car ran flawlessly while little bursts of acceleration sparked memories of the first time I felt the LT5’s smooth, urgent power.

Then, once again, it was time to drive the 2019 ZR1 on a racetrack. At Road Atlanta three days earlier, the temperature reached almost 90 degrees. Although the car went ridiculously fast, lap records weren’t in the cards thanks to the heat sliming up the tarmac. But the temperature at Motorsports Park was now just 60 degrees.

The ZR1 did not disappoint. Coming into Turn 1, the car was beyond 150 mph, still accelerating hard as I entered the brake zone. I pushed the stop pedal hard, and the ZR1 dutifully spit my eyeballs out of my head. I recently tested a very capable GT4 race car and was impressed by its brakes; the ZR1 was equally impressive. The tires, aerodynamic downforce, and all-new Brembo carbon-ceramic stoppers combined for more than 1.7 g’s worth of deceleration (serious race car good). I made a mental note not to use the brakes this hard with a cement truck behind me out on public roads.

Over the course of several days, I tried both the automatic and seven-speed manual versions of the car; if I were to buy the ZR1 for track days, I would without question buy the automatic. Not only because it shifts quicker but also because I only weigh about 155 pounds; despite using the seat belt locking mechanism, I found myself moving around too much in the seat while on maximum attack due to the forces the ZR1 exerted all the way around Motorsports Park’s 24-turn, 3.2-mile track. In the automatic I can keep both hands on the wheel for a little extra support. It’s worth noting I had no issues at all with the seat holding me solid with normal or spirited street driving.

Corvette interiors have taken much criticism for years, but there’s something appealing about the old ZR-1’s KITT-style controls.

Meanwhile, the car’s E-ticket handling jolted Juechter’s words back to the top of my mind. “The ZR1 technology we’re most proud of is the front underwing and general aero of the car,” he said. “Also, the trackability. It is very easy to drop the suspension and adjust the rear wing, and off you go.” He also addressed the disappointment some people had with the Z06’s lack of cooling during track use: “The Z06 cooling concerns on-track have been dealt with in the ZR1.” To test his claim, I did a long run of almost 25 minutes at Road Atlanta in the blazing heat. My laps, at fast race pace, were all between 1 minute, 30.4 seconds and 1:31.7. Those were quite quick times for the conditions, and the car exhibited very little drop-off in performance.

You probably have read hyperbole, and then some, about road cars that sound unreal. In this case, though, I really have never heard a production car sound this much like a race car in both tone and volume. There is some engineering trickery in one of the mufflers, featuring a spring-loaded valve that burps open or stays closed based on driving style. Bring your earplugs, Mildred.

“Why on earth would anyone want a self-driving Corvette? That would be like having a self-kissing girlfriend.”

At the end of the day, I finally had time to try to rip off a really fast lap in a car equipped with the automatic. At the limit the ZR1 is very balanced; I could easily control both front and rear tire slide with throttle and steering quickly enough to maintain good momentum, never allowing the slide to reach a point where I lost time. When the lap time crackled through the track radio, it blared a new official lap record for a production car on OE tires for the Motorsports Park racetrack: 2:05.59. This time is several seconds quicker than any other production car has managed on the circuit since it opened in 2013.

Perhaps setting a new MSP benchmark was an appropriate way to send the C7 Corvette into the sunset, potentially truly marking the end of an era. A mid-engine Corvette is finally on the horizon, after all, though Reuss and Juechter predictably plead the fifth on any inquiries into the matter. Other creeping—sprinting?—trends such as autonomy could also play a role in the car’s future. “Who wants to sit in traffic for three hours paying attention to stopping and starting if the car can do it for them?” Reuss asked. But Juechter then followed mischievously with a quote from a Corvette customer: “Why on earth would anyone want a self-driving Corvette? That would be like having a self-kissing girlfriend.”

For now and the foreseeable future, then, custodians of performance like Reuss and Juechter plan to keep on facilitating street-legal rockets like the new ZR1. The first time an owner experiences the brutal shove in the back, they’re pretty much guaranteed to think they got a bargain. Teddy Roosevelt would be blown away.

2019 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1 Specifications

ON SALE Now PRICE $122,095 (base) ENGINE 6.2L supercharged OHV 16-valve V-8/755 hp @ 6,300 rpm, 715 lb-ft @ 4,400 rpm TRANSMISSION 7-speed manual, 8-speed automatic LAYOUT 2-door, 2-passenger, front-engine, RWD coupe EPA MILEAGE 15/22 mpg (city/hwy) L x W x H 179.8 x 77.4 x 48.5 in WHEELBASE 106.7 in WEIGHT 3,560 lb 0-60 MPH 2.85 sec (with automatic) TOP SPEED 215 mph (electronically limited)

The post 2019 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1 Meets 1990 Corvette ZR1 appeared first on Automobile Magazine.

from Performance Junk Blogger 6 https://ift.tt/2JYusqh via IFTTT